summary: In Dick's defense, proposing is terrifying.
tags: Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, Panic, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Comedy, Vomiting, Dick Grayson Is Not Having A Good Time
a/n: I saw this in a TikTok post about funny engagement stories and immediately thought of Dick
You had your date at the Grand Canyon planned for several weeks. The two of you had been busy and stressed with work lately, so you were looking forward to spending a quiet weekend together even more than usual.
The only problem was that Dick had been acting incredibly nervous all morning.
When your alarm went off at seven, he was already gone. According to him, he hadn't been able to sleep all night. At four in the morning, he had apparently decided to do something productive and cleaned half the house instead (carefully enough not to wake you). Things only got stranger after that. At breakfast, he burned his scrambled eggs so badly that the smoke alarm almost went on. A few minutes later, he reached for the sugar and somehow managed to pour salt into his coffee instead. When you pointed it out, he stared at the mug for a solid five seconds before dumping the whole thing into the sink.
You had asked him more than once what was wrong. Each time, he'd smiled a little too quickly and blamed it on the weather.
"The weather?" you repeated as the two of you loaded your bags into the car.
"Yeah."
"Dick, it's sunny."
"Exactly."
You narrowed your eyes at him. He immediately looked away. That was suspicious.
Dick Grayson was many things, but subtle was not one of them.
For the first hour of the drive, he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, checked his phone every few minutes, and nearly missed two exits because he seemed completely lost in thought.
At one point, you caught him glancing at you. Then at the road. Then at you again.
You figured you wouldn't get a real answer out of him, so you let it go. Turning your head, you looked up at the bright blue sky above you. Only a few fluffy clouds drifted lazily across it. A small smile tugged at your lips.
"Look at the sky," you said.
Dick's head snapped up so fast you thought he might actually break his neck. "Oh God, what's wrong with the sky?!" he asked, panic flashing across his face.
You blinked. For a moment, you were too stunned to respond. "Dick," you said slowly, trying not to laugh, "there's nothing wrong with the sky."
His shoulders immediately sagged with relief. "Oh."
A beat passed.
"Wait, why would you think something was wrong with the sky?"
Yeah, the whole drive had been weird.
When you finally arrived, the view was magnificent. The walking trail was surprisingly quiet, with only a handful of people scattered along the route.
Dick, however, wasn't paying much attention to the scenery. His hand was clammy in yours the entire time. You had never seen someone sweat this much without actually exercising.
After about thirty minutes of walking, you emerged onto a beautiful overlook. Almost immediately, you noticed a couple standing near the edge. You stopped in your tracks and grabbed Dick's arm, pulling the distracted man to a halt.
"Look," you whispered. "I think he's proposing." At that exact moment, the guy dropped to one knee. The woman immediately covered her mouth as he pulled a ring box from his pocket.
Good thing you were standing far enough away not to disturb them. Still, you couldn't help leaning closer to Dick and whispering,
"Who the hell proposes at the Grand Canyon? I hate it."
Silence.
You frowned. That wasn't the reaction you expected.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched the color drain from Dick's face. Instantly. His expression shifted from nervous to absolutely horrified. A strange choking sound escaped his throat.
"Dick?"
His eyes were wide. Very wide.
"Dick?"
Without a word, he dropped your hand, spun around, and sprinted toward the nearest bush. A second later, the unmistakable sound of someone violently throwing up echoed across the overlook.
You stared.
The nearby squirrels probably stared too.
"...Holy shit."
Maybe the weather really was getting to him, you thought.
Completely unaware that a engagement ring was currently burning a hole in his pocket.
And With My Roots Above - Babylon The Great Bonus Chapter
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: Bobby finds a girl in the rain.✦
✦warnings/tags: canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, pining, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: me and bobby side by side fighting for princess, that's our baby fr. Takes place ten years before the series.✦
✦Chapter Title from I Believe In Magic by Halsey✦
Bobby was tired.
The case hadn’t been far from home, but it had been long. He and John had wasted a whole damn week chasing the wrong ghost, and nearly lost a few people because of it. John had insisted that it was the crazy girl that drowned herself. Classic Lady in White. Easy money.
Bobby hadn’t been so sure. Something has smelt off with the whole thing, starting with how mysterious the kid’s deaths were and ending with how bonkers the husband had seemed.
He’d been right. He’d known he was right when they’d gone for the wife’s ghost, and the little girl hadn’t turned up for school the next morning. They’d only stuck around because John said he needed another night to get drunk off his ass and find a hookup. Bobby had decided last minute to double check, off only that instinct John had said to ignore.
The girl hadn’t been there.
And just like Bobby had thought, he’d been right about the whole damn thing.
The dead lady had been protecting her kids from her husband. The sorry asshole had been lucky Bobby didn’t beat him to death. Then they’d made sure the kids had somewhere to go to, and took off.
John back to his sons, staying with some nice lady down in Kentucky. Bobby back home.
Alone.
It was pouring. He half considered just pulling the car over and waiting it out, but he needed some beer and a whole week on the sofa, doing jack shit. If Rufus called, he’d chuck the phone across the room. If someone needed something, they could wait.
Knowing John he’d probably only get three days before Sam and Dean were dumped on his doorstep again. John was lucky Bobby like them more than he liked Winchester himself. The boys were smart, if not strange. All kids were strange. Always saying shit he didn’t understand and breaking shit.
Sam broke half the things he touched. Dean broke the other half. But they were good boys. Dean was too old for eleven—helpful around the house and quiet, enjoyed being in the yard and watching cartoons—and Sam was good as long as Bobby didn’t let him poke around in the darker books.
Bobby didn’t know how John was so fine leaving them all the time. He worried about them when they were in his damn sight, and the weren’t even his blood.
Karen had wanted kids. Kids that would’ve been Bobby’ s blood.
He hoped he would’ve cared for them more than John cared for his.
But he was never going to know. It was him and the old creaking house, Rufus when he could stand Bobby’s shit, and the wind. Nothing more, nothing less, probably for the rest his life.
The house was too big for him half the time. Rufus always said he should move, but he couldn’t.
It felt like the opposite of a ghost. A body. All he had left of a normal life with Karen. More flesh than bone, holding Bobby down until he’d be buried under its foundation, and it could waste with him into nothing.
These days he wondered what would happen to it, if he never came back from a hunt. If he was with Rufus, the man would sell it. If he was with John, he probably wouldn’t think twice outside of who would watch the boys.
If it was just Bobby, he wasn’t sure anyone would notice he was gone until they came knocking. And no one ever came knocking.
Sometimes he daydreamed about just hanging up the gun and trying again. New wife. New kids. New life.
Then he looked at the walls. The flesh that rotted and peeled when he drank too much, which was always. He couldn’t drag anyone into that. He wouldn’t want to ruin some good life with his own whiny, grumpy crap. Better to just be alone, and hope that John dropped of the boys.
He needed to stop for gas, and maybe a coffee. It was coming down so heavy Bobby couldn’t see a foot in front of him, and if he nodded off on the wheel that would be the end of a too long and short, loud and painfully quiet life.
There was mud all over the gas station’s floor and half the shelves, low music playing over the speakers. The man behind the counter barely looked at him, when he checked out his shitty paper-cup coffee and bag of chocolate. He kept frowning out the window, his lips in a thin, pale line. Bobby had to clear his throat loudly, before he noticed him and took his cash.
He followed his gaze, while he counted the change. Through the rain he could only see a hunched overshadow on the curb.
“Dog?” He asked, and the man shook his head.
“Thief.”
Bobby blinked. That shadow couldn’t be over four feet standing straight. “Thief?”
“Kid came in.” The man grunted. “Tracked mud all over the floor. Touched damn near everything, then grabbed a fuckin’ lighter and walked outside.”
Bobby thought the man might be speaking tongues. Only way that story would make sense.
“You see where his parents went?”
“’S a girl. And nope, she came in alone. Thought she was a damn racoon at first. I shouted at ‘er and she hid behind all the shelves. Figure it’s better to wait for someone to claim ‘er than get too close. Maybe she’s one of those wild rabies kids you see on the news.”
Bobby grunted. He doubted that. She would’ve been foaming at the mouth and going for food, not a lighter.
The man handed him his change, and Bobby shuffled out the door. He was still forty five minutes from home, closer to the side of an hour. If he kept going, he’d make it before midnight, and could take a nice, long shower. He put down his coffee, tossed his chocolate in shotgun, and turned on the truck. It rumbled to life. His hands were already warmer than before.
But they wouldn’t move.
Wouldn’t drive.
He just kept thinking of that mud-kid and her lighter.
Alone, just like him.
He looked back at the parking lot. The shadow was gone, but that only made his gut twist. There hadn’t been another car or worried mom, shouting through the rain for her kid. And in this kinda storm, who knew how long it would take someone to find her. She’d looked so small, by the time they did she might be only a body in a ditch.
Bobby cursed under his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of that scared little girl in the basement. Of Karen, buried under the house, and how the last thing he’d seen of her was mud on her face.
Wasn’t his kid. Wasn’t his responsibility.
But son of a bitch, he couldn’t just leave the girl there to die.
Bobby clambered out of the truck, leaving it running. There was no one for miles, and if they wanted to steal that hunk of junk, they could have it. He went back to where the shadow had been, crouching down to look for any trace of where the girl had gone. For a long while there was nothing—everything washed together in grass and mud and water—but then, he saw it.
A little, hot pink lighter down the curb. Closer to the gutter.
Closer to the road.
There was no way the kid had run into the woods. And if she had, Bobby sure as shit wouldn’t be able to find her. He didn’t even have a name to call. He wandered down the road, scanning over the tree line and darker splotches of grass for any movement.
He almost missed her.
Bobby scanned right over the spot, and he only looked back because an owl’s screech ripped through the air. His head ripped back, and through the downpour there were two, golden eyes, looking right at him in the dark. Bobby wiped his face, almost sure he was seeing things. Then he looked down, and there it was.
A little black shadow, lit up only by a lightning strike. Thunder rolled, and the owl screeched again, taking off. If Bobby hadn’t been so sure it was there, he would’ve thought he was going crazy.
He ran over to the kid’s side as the white light faded, and kicked himself for almost driving away. She wasn’t in good shape. Barely bigger than a dog, shivering and ice-cold to touch. Hair plastered to her brow and neck, face scrunched tight with pain. Whoever she belonged to had put her in a tiny, ruffled dress that was stuck her like a thin, second skin. Her black tights were pulled down over her feet to replace the muddied, buckled shoes and tiny socks she’d moved over her hands like gloves.
She must’ve taken the lighter to keep warm, and dropped it when it didn’t work. The cold seemed to have caught her, and she’d hid in the bushes for shelter.
Bobby’s jaw clenched. He was going to have a talk with her parents, when he found them. No kid should ever be in this kind of spot, and any parent that put them there deserved a damn bullet to the head.
Bobby took off the flannel under his jacket and swaddled her. He expected her to thrash or scream at a stranger’s touch, but she just went limp.
For a horrible, long second he was sure he was too late. That she was already dead.
Then tiny, shaking fingers curled on the makeshift blanket, trying to pull it closer. Bobby let out a shaking breath.
She was alive.
Not fine.
But alive.
Bobby got her back to the car easy. She had to be about Sam’s age, maybe a little younger with her size, but she weighed half as much. He’d bring her to a doctor, before he found her family. Feed her, too. Maybe put her by a fire, and give her some extra clothing that wasn’t made of paper.
She didn’t move for the drive home, remaining curled into Bobby’s side. He grabbed a spare jacket from the truck, bearing the cold arms so she could have an extra blanket and didn’t need to deal with extra water. The first thing he did when he got home was start a fire. He dropped her in front of it, keeping her wrapped in the blankets while he ran a warm bath.
And the more Bobby looked at her, the more worried he became.
She hadn’t said a damn word. Hadn’t screamed bloody murder at a strange man putting her in his car, or even asked for her mom and dad. When she woke up, she stared at Bobby with eyes that almost seemed to glow like that owl’s, her little brow wrinkled tight.
Bobby gave her his name, and a hand to shake. She just blinked, and still didn’t move.
“Alright, uh-“ He cleared his throat, putting his hand back away. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Another blink. Silence.
“We’re just gonna clean you up, make sure you didn’t get sick out there, and keep you safe until I find your family and send you-“
The sound that escaped the girl wasn’t a cry or word. It was the feral, afraid noise of an animal. She scrambled back, staring at Bobby with the kind of fear he saw in monsters and prey before the lights went out.
It took him an hour to get her out from behind the couch. She seemed to like chocolate. He filed that away from later.
Then he realized he was thinking of a later, and paused.
This wasn’t his kid. He’d basically just fucking kidnapped her, and there wouldn’t be a later.
But he couldn’t just… send her back.
When he took of her clothing for the bath, she didn’t even fight. Bobby was some strange old ass, any kid in their right mind would’ve been scratching and biting—especially one that looked more animal than person—but she just let him. Went limp, the same way she had when he picked her up. And there were no burns or marks on her body, but her skin looked… clean.
Too clean.
Sam and Dean were covered in bumps and bruises just from being kids. Hell, last time they’d been here Bobby had to get extra band-aids because Sam kept running into damn table corners. But this girl had smooth, unblemished skin like a doll. It was horrible to look at. If Bobby wasn’t trying to keep it together for her sake, he might’ve been sick.
Then he washed the dirt out from under her nails, and found it.
The one mark.
A long, clean—almost surgical—cut down the kid’s palm. It was still red and scabbing, and she seemed to have been picking at it.
Bobby cleaned it, clenching his jaw when he dabbed the rubbing alcohol over the wound and the girl didn’t even flinch. This shit made Dean cry, and he was always trying to be tougher than he was tall.
“You think you can tell me who did this to you, kiddo?” Bobby muttered softly, nodding to the cut.
The girl just blinked at him with big, bright eyes.
Bobby had a feeling that if he ever got her to speak, it wasn’t going to be tonight. Her eyes were drooping. She’d had a long day, or night, or life.
She’d fallen asleep against him, on the couch. Bobby decided she couldn’t be more than seven. He wasn’t about to try and time-date her like a tree, but all cleaned up she still had round cheeks from baby-fat, and long hair that made him think it had never been fully cut.
Bobby had no idea how to properly clean her hair. He’d washed it best he could, and dried it too. He’d get a book in the morning, after he called Rufus to get his ass down here and help him.
Rufus was going to call him crazy. Bobby felt crazy, watching this strange child sleep in his bed as he set up camp on the floor. She started whining in her sleep, tossing and turning and hiding under the covers. Bobby checked her temperature with the back of his hand, and she immediately relaxed.
And God help him, he wasn’t sending her back to whoever did this to her.
He didn’t know what he’d done to earn her trust. He wasn’t going to question it, long as he worked to earn it.
Bobby vowed to himself in the dead of night, that he’d earn it.
He’d take care of her to his last breath, and—if he could help it—a long while after, too.
✦End note: OUR girldad✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 7✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: you meet dean's parents✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: i love a chapter that's just drama and smut and fluff✦
Dean had a whole plan.
He’d show up to the restaurant first. Alone, acting like everything was normal and ignoring Jess’ sharp glares. He’d hug Mom and Sammy, shake Dad’s hand, and act very normal and surprised when She showed up. He’d smirk and say it was nice to see Her again. Sammy would make some passing about Dean having a girlfriend now, and Dean would get to brag about how hot and cool she was, right to Her pretty, flushing face.
Sam would roll his eyes, and say—louder this time—that She had a boyfriend. Dean would tease Her about that too, grinning whenever she gave him that cute I’m going to strangle you, Winchester look. Dean would occupy the whole, long dinner with getting Her as antsy and bratty as he could. It would help him ignore Dad. Meant that, the moment the night was over, he’d be getting dragged back to the apartment to deal with Her.
He was worried he might’ve unleashed something on the world, by fucking Her. Maybe he’d gone too deep and hit some kind of magic girl button that turned them into sex monsters. He hadn’t been able to get out of bed until ten, yesterday, and that had only been because She had a class to go to.
“One more.” She’d whispered, sitting right on his chest. “Pleease-“
“Princess.” Dean had cut Her off with his best, sternest, I’m the boss look.
It didn’t have a very high success rate. He was getting worried it just made her more horny.
“You got class.” He’d squeezed Her hips, and she’d pouted at him like he was denying her water in the desert. “We’ve been goin’ all morning. You gotta eat, before I even think about round eight.”
She’d scoffed. “It would not be round eight-“
“Yeah. Would be.”
“You’re being dramatic-“
“Sweetheart.” Dean had given Her an amused look. “How many times have I made you cum?”
She’d flushed. She was a feral little succubus, but all Dean had to do was say cum or fuck or pussy and she’d turn back into an anxious, flustered puddle. Dean couldn’t tell if it was the hottest or cutest thing he’d ever seen.
“Give Little Dean thirty,” he’d murmured, pulling Her down for a slow, lazy kiss. “You’re gonna break him.”
Her nose had wrinkled, bumping against Dean’s. “They can’t break.”
“They can get squeezed out. Like an orange, baby. You’re milkin’ all my pulp-“
She’d whacked his chest, and Dean had laughed, rolling them over. He’d kissed Her into the mattress, and she’d gotten squirmy again. Looking up at Dean with fluttering lashes and parted lips, and goddamn him, better men had fallen to worse temptations.
At least this wasn’t a sin. She wasn’t a sin. Nothing that made Her look at Dean like that—like he was the sunrise and the sunset and the golden halos coming off streetlamps—could possibly be considered wrong. Dean was making his girl feel good. He rolled his cock through Her soft, tight heat, and She moaned, tossing her head back to expose her pretty, marked up neck.
Those were Dean’s bruises. His marks. She arched into his touch and clenched down on his dick and called his name as she came. She made the prettiest, high and breathy sounds, and only Dean pulled them out of her.
She smiled at him when they were done, and Dean could swear he had an angel below him. No one else could make such dirty things feel so pure.
“Last one.” He’d scolded Her after, and she giggled.
“Okay.”
Dean had raised his brows and chuckled. If he was putting money on it, they wouldn’t make it to the car before She was nosing around him again. Like an animal in heat.
He said as much to Her. She rolled Her eyes, and found a way to blame him.
“You’re too- You.” She’d sulked in the car.
“I’m too me? The hell does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“Baby, I swear I don’t got a clue.”
She’d made a sour face, and leaned against the window. Dean had sighed and reached over, slinging his arm around Her shoulders and tucking her back into his side.
“C’mon.” He’d kissed Her brow. “You know I’m not as smart as you, Princess. You gotta speak dummy for me-“
“You’re not dumb.” She’d slumped into his side, looking up at him with those impossible, bright eyes. “You’re just- You- You’re-“
“I’m?”
“Shut up-“
“Tell me what you mean-“
“I’m trying, but you keep- You keep being,” She’d whined, and Dean had blinked.
“I’m being?”
“Yeah.” She’d hidden Her face in his side. “It’s not fair.”
Dean had almost laughed. He still didn’t know what the hell that meant, but it had almost gotten them into round ten before he could park. She’d started giving him those eyes, and Dean had swallowed like a soldier being sent to the battlefield. At this rate, he was going to out of shooters by the end of the month.
He wasn’t sure if that was how it worked. He’d need to check, before he found out the bad way.
“When you get home, Princess.” He’d kissed Her furrowed brow, then her nose, then her angry little pout. “You can have whatever you want.”
She’d sighed dramatically, and Dean had smirked.
“It’s six hours, baby-“
“Too long.” She’d glared at him. Like it was his fault.
“Sorry.” He’d shrugged, a wide, dumb smile on his face. “I love you.”
“Hm.”
“C’mon.” Dean had kissed Her cheek. “Say it.”
She’d huffed, crawling closer to his side. Dean had smirked, and poked her sides. She’d jumped back with a shriek, but he’d caught her hand.
“Dean-“
“I love you.” He’d said again, squeezing her three times.
She’d sighed, giving him a pleading, hopeless, doe-like look. Dean had raised his brows.
“Baby, there’s no way you’re getting any cock until you behave-“
“I love you.” She’d grumbled, and Dean had smirked.
Maybe he was a little bit of a smug bastard about it. With the sight of Her, almost glowing in the sunlight, he didn’t think he could be blamed.
“Do you love me?’” She’d whispered.
Dean had snorted. “Jesus, woman.”
“I’m just- I’m asking-“
“I said it twice-“
“You didn’t say it back-“
“You didn’t say it back-“
“You won’t have sex with me!”
“In a public parking lot?” He’d given Her an incredulous look, and she’d scowled.
“No one’s around.”
Dean had laughed, and leaned over the seat. He’d kissed all over Her face, until she was nice and relaxed under him.
“Needy girl.” He’d teased, and God, she was hot when she glared at him. “I’m not gettin’ your pretty ass tossed in jail.”
“I’d live-“
“You’d hate it. They don’t let inmates have stuffed animals, and,” he’d kissed her lips, soft and swollen and all Dean’s. “You’re too sweet.”
“I am not sweet-“
“Yeah. You’re like pie, baby-“
“You think everything’s like pie-“
“I think all my favorite things are like pie.” Dean had corrected, brushing some hair from Her face.
He might’ve been a horrible man to leave Her like this. Panting and dazed, almost trembling under his hands. But if She missed her class, she’d get in a worse mood about that than Dean refusing to eat her out in the car.
“Am I your favorite?” She’d whispered, and Dean had smile.
“Course you are.” He’d kissed Her, and felt a million feet tall when she giggled. “My sweet, bossy girl.”
Somehow, he’d gotten Her out of the car after that. He’d waited until She vanished into the building—and maybe he’d been staring at Her ass, but no one could ever prove it—before pulling away. She still wasn’t confident, in what She wanted. But they were getting there. And Dean was having a hell of a time holding Her hand through it. He’d never understood boyfriends who just trailed after their girls like damn dogs. He still didn’t.
How the hell could they be acting like that, for anyone but Her?
She’d made him lunch. A pretty good sandwich, that Dean wolfed down between calls with his boss. He’d been doing some remote accounting work, just to prove he hadn’t ditched the job. He killed the afternoon driving around to some car shows and garages, looking for someone who might be willing to sell him something dirt-cheap. His pitch to his boss, to expand the business and justify him being out in California all the time. Her idea, and list of places, and specifically mapped routes for him to optimize his milage.
He followed Her guide to the T. She’d put effort into it, just for him. More effort than She put into some of her classes. More effort than She put into those papers she banged out in an hour, while Dean sat at Her feet and tried not to distract Her by staring.
She never got any less gorgeous. It didn’t matter if Her hair was a mess or her face was swollen with sleep. She was a goddess. The least Dean could do was worship.
Something he wouldn’t be allowed to do, around Sammy and Mom and Dad.
Dinner was going to suck.
Dean told Her the plan. She sighed, and dropped Her face into his shoulder.
“I can just not come,” She mumbled. “If it’s too much for you.”
“Nope. You’re coming, sweetheart.” He winked, kissing the back of Her hand. “At least twice, after we’re done.”
She shoved him, but smile. Dean felt a little lighter, than he had all day.
He knew they were going to love Her. Sammy already did, Mom had been obsessed with her for years—ever since Sam first came home talking about her, Mom had been ahead of Dean on understanding She was the best thing in the world—and Dad was going to go along with anything Mom told him to.
That’s what Dean was hanging onto. The thin, wired rope that was digging into his heart as it held it up. It was going to leave a red, angry mark, but at least everything wouldn’t drop into his stomach. Mom was going to love Her, so Dad would have to love Her. Dean didn’t matter, in this equation. He was just the asshole brother. Dad would give him shit, he’d take it, and none of it would even graze Her cheek.
But if Dad did try something, Dean would kill him.
She was too soft to deal with his tests. She had claws and teeth, She could take and deal swipes with a sneer, she could hold her ground with roots that Dad wouldn’t be able to tear up, but She was still so…
Her.
Kicking a kitten would get you bit, but you were still kicking a damn kitten. She shouldn’t have to be the strong, colder version of Her that Sam said existed in debate classes. The version that tipped Her chin off and looked like some untouchable, wrathful goddess. Dean thought that version Her was sexy. She didn’t need him to deal blows, when one sneer or glower would send a grown man to his knees.
But that just made Dean feel more important. When he’d get Her in his arms, and She’d turn into a bratty, giggling mess of nerves and smiles. He’d rip apart the Earth, to make sure She always felt safe enough to shed that exoskeleton at his side. Dean knew what Dad could say. What he could do. And it was one story for him to do it to Dean. Dean could deserve it sometimes.
She never deserved anything but love. Dean was on this planet to give it to Her. And as long as he was alive, it was all she was going to get.
“Is this good?” She poked Her head out of the bedroom, and Dean coughed, dropping his phone onto the carpet.
“Shit- Uh-“ Is this good. He almost laughed. “Jesus, Princess-“
“Is it too tight?” She frowned at the flared out skirt. “It’s too tight, isn’t it-“
“No- No.” Dean stretched out an arm. “’S not too tight. You look good.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just good?”
Dean snorted, beckoning his hand. “Just c’mere, smartass.”
She sighed, but shuffled between his legs. She was already flushing. Good.
“Son of a bitch.” Dean traced the curve of Her hips, her ass, her thighs. She shivered when his fingers brushed sensitive skin, and Dean chuckled.
“Deeaan…” She breathed out, and he hummed, dipping his fingers under Her dress.
“You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he muttered, and She shook her head.
“Just- I want to make a good impression-“
“Why?” Dean teased, resting his chin on Her stomach. “You plannin’ on sticking around?”
She gave him a flat look, but there was nothing really angry in Her eyes. There never was. Not at Dean.
“What did I say,” he said, softer this time.
She sighed. “I know, but-“
“Ah.” Dean squeezed Her ass. “What did I say.”
Her nose wrinkled. Dean smiled. He had all the time in the world.
“Come on, baby girl,” he cooed, rubbing the back of Her thighs “You remember. What did I tell you.”
“That- They’re going to like me.”
“Hm. Think I said somethin’ else.”
“Dean-“
He said Her name back, a little mocking in that way that always made Her putty. She sighed, looking at him like this was causing Her pain. Dean knew She didn’t like open praise. If they had more time, he’d fuck Her into taking it properly, because that seemed to be a failsafe way to get the fact that he loved Her—more than anything, more than the earth loved to chase the sun, more than the moon loved to chase the earth, more than dogs loved to run after cars and cat loved to make him sneeze—through Her loud, brilliant head.
“They’ll love me.” She finally said, and Dean grinned.
“Hell yeah, they will.” He tugged Her down for a slow, long kiss, speaking against her lips. “You’ve got this, Princess.”
She hummed, and stopped ripping out her hair trying to look perfect. Dean thought She already looked perfect. Apparently, he didn’t understand hair and makeup and shoes, and his opinion was no longer valid when she was getting dressed for anything.
“You say I look hot in everything.”
“You do look hot in everything-“
“No, I don’t-“
“You can’t see yourself, I can.” Dean grinned at Her, pulling her right against his chest. “You’d look hot in a trash bag.”
She rolled her eyes, lips pulled into an exasperated smile. Dean grabbed Her chin, forcing her gaze. It softens the moment their eyes met. Her eyes always seemed to shine. He was never going to stop being hypnotized by it.
“I love you,” he muttered. “Wait ten minutes, then follow me to the restaurant.”
She nodded, leaning up on Her toes. Her eyes dropped to his lips, and Dean chuckled. For someone who’d been dragging him back to bed this morning, She couldn’t even ask him for a damn kiss.
Dean gave it to Her. He’d give Her anything.
“I love you too.” She mumbled, and Dean smiled.
“I know.”
He had to rip himself away. The plan. They had to stick to the plan.
Stupid fucking plan, that fell apart the moment he pulled up in a rental, and Sam and Jess were already there.
“Where’s the Impala?” Sam frowned, and Dean grimaced.
Son of a bitch.
“Yeah, Dean?” Jess glared at him. “Weren’t you on a cross-country road trip?”
“I was.” He muttered, returning the scowl. “Baby’s feeling the heat from it. I got a rental so she could take a rest.”
Sam snorted. “You’re giving your car a rest?”
“Yep. You gotta cherish them, Sammy. Otherwise they slip outta your hands.”
“It’s a car-“
“I’m not talkin’ about the car.” Dean winked, Sam gave him a flat look, and Jess sighed.
“That’s gross, dude.”
“What? Loving a woman is gross?” He clicked his tongue, grinning at Jess. “You sure you wanna stay with him?”
Jess rolled her eyes, ignoring the question. Dean laughed, and dodged Sammy’s shove. The rental car was entirely forgotten, as they made their way into the restaurant. First crisis of the night, dealt with like he was playing Go Fish. Easy.
“Mom and Dad are running behind.” Sam told him as they sat down. “Said something about the hotel.”
“What, wrong room?”
“I dunno. Maybe one of those secret charges, you know Dad hates those.”
Dean chuckled. “Or they found something dirty and Mom’s trying to squeeze fifty bucks outta them.”
“She is good at that.” Sam sighed, giving Jess an apologetic look. “She’s going to ask you if you like thrifting, by the way. I think I forgot about that one.”
“No, you told me.” Jess smiled at him, and Sam ran a hand over his face.
“Yeah, but- There was something I forgot-“
“You tell her about the horses?”
“Yeah, and the sports shit-“
“What about shooting?”
“He told me everything.” Jess reached over the table, taking Sammy’s hand. “I’m fine, babe. Really. I’ve got this.”
Sam sighed, and Dean raised his brows.
“You can shoot?”
“God, no.” Her lip curled, and Sam sighed.
“Dad will be fine with it, though. You’re from California, he can’t expect-“
Jess cut Sam off with Her name, and Dean sat a little taller. Just hearing it was like hearing a whistle, telling him to stand at attention. He really was no better than a damn dog.
“She can’t shoot.” Dean said, and Sam gave him a strange look.
“How do you know.”
Shit. “Uh- I’m just- I’m guessing. You know, not the type.”
Jess snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Well, you’re right. She can’t.”
“So why’d you-“
“She can throw knives.” Jess shrugged. “Taught me how, a few years ago.”
Dean swallowed. Of course She could throw a knife. It was like She’d been designed by the freaking universe to be his dream woman.
“Where is she, anyway?” Jess drawled, her glare fixed on Dean.
He shrugged. “Why would I know? Sammy, you told her what time we were meeting?”
Sam nodding, looking down to his phone. Dean ignored Jess’ pointed glower. She wasn’t going to actually say anything. She’d promised Her, and that was the most sacred kind of oath you could make.
“I thought I did,” Sam muttered. “But- Maybe she got distracted again.”
“Again?” Dean smirked, and Sam sighed.
“She gets really into something and forgets to look at the time. I used to set alarms for her all the time, sometimes I’d just call her- I dunno. She’s been better about it lately, but… Shit happens.”
Dean hummed an agreement, grinning at his water glass. Jess was glaring hard enough he could feel it.
“Maybe she’s with her boyfriend,” she hissed, and Dean gave her an amused look.
“Boyfriend?”
“You know about her boyfriend, Dean.” Sam shot him a sharp look. “And you shouldn’t care anyway. You have a girlfriend.”
“I do.” Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “She’s fuckin’ awesome.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she is.” Sam kept tapping on his phone. Jess cleared her throat.
“Sam, maybe you should go call her. Make sure she’s still coming.”
“She’s coming, she’s just a little late-“
“Maybe that boyfriend’s distracting her.” Dean hummed, grinning at Jess.
Her glare was getting withering. If Dean didn’t know it came from a place of care—about Her and Sammy, definitely not him—he might’ve started cowering under the table.
“Samuel.” Jess’ words were short. Clipped and unwavering. “Go call her.”
Sam nodded, kissed Jess’ cheek, and wandered away from the table. Dean braced himself, shooting Jess a lazy grin. She couldn’t kill him. It would ruin the whole night.
“You were supposed to tell him-“
“Right now?” Dean snorted. “Are you freakin’ crazy?”
“He needs to know, Dean, it’s- I don’t like keeping secrets from him-“
“Yeah, which is exactly why she didn’t tell you-“
“No.” Jess raised a firm finger. “You don’t get to hide behind your girlfriend for this one.”
Dean scoffed. “I am not hiding behind my girlfriend-“
“Yes, you are-“
“I’m not.” He ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath. “Look. We’re gonna tell him, alright-“
“You said that three days ago-“
“Yeah, well, that was before I found out my freakin’ parents were coming to town.”
Jess scowled, but didn’t push back. Dean didn’t know what Sam had told her, about Mom and Dad. From the slightly guilty look on her face, it had to be enough.
“As soon as they’re gone.” Dean dropped his voice, leaning over the table. “We’ll tell him. Swear it. But if he finds out now, it’s gonna mess him up. Mom and Dad are gonna notice, and this,” he waved his hand around the table. “Is gonna turn into a shitshow. Alright?”
For a moment, Dean and Jess just glared at each other. Dean had to hand it Sammy. He didn’t pick a pushover.
“Fine.” Jess finally muttered. “But remember, if you don’t tell him the day after they leave-“
“You’re gonna tell him yourself.” Dean finished. “I’ve got this handled. Don’t worry about it.”
Jess huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t worry about it. How the fuck do I not worry about it, Dean, you’re fucking his best friend-“
“Dating. I’m dating his best friend.”
“And fucking her.”
Dean’s lips twitched. “She’s insatiable, Jess, ain’t my fault I give my girl what I want.”
Jess gagged, grabbing the table like she needed balance. She was fucking sitting down. Dean was about to mock her for it, when he heard a familiar, warm voice call his name. Jess’ eyes widened, fixed over his head. Dean took a deep breath.
Showtime.
He stood up slowly, throwing his shoulders back and putting a casual, easy smile on his face. He was barely on his feet before Mom was in his face, grabbing his cheeks and turning his around like he was eight and had been playing in the mud for too long again. He grunted, and behind him, Jess snorted.
“Oh, baby, you’re so big.” Mom beamed at him, pushing his head back to inspect his neck. “You haven’t shaved in a few days, do you have a razor? Do you need a razor? You can have your father’s, he’s not using it-“
“He ain’t gettin’ my razor, Mary.” Dad muttered, and Dean tensed.
He’d thought he’d been ready for it. Dad’s edged, cool gaze. The one Dean used to think he’d, one day, be able to read. That he’d look at it and realize that the whole time, there had always been a single ember of pride, that flickered whenever he looked at Dean.
If there was, he’d never learned to find it. And it certainly wasn’t there now.
“Son.” Dad grunted, and Dean nodded tightly.
“Sir.”
Dad hummed, scanning around the restaurant. Always scanning around everything. Looking for the flaw in where Sammy had brought them. The thing to complain about.
Dean was going to say this place was his idea. He didn’t care that it was Sammy’s, or that it was good. The second Dad asked why there were so many windows, Dean was taking the fall.
Mom hugged him tight. He hugged her back, and that was easier. The lady was crazy, but she was also Mom. The only thing Dean had never been able to forgive her for was loving Dad. Letting Dad be Dad. He’d never figured out how to hold that anger without it burning his hands.
Maybe he’d ask Her. His girl always knew how to do everything. She’d tell him what to be, and maybe it would be someone Dad was proud of. If Dad was going say he’d done good about anything, it was Her. She was the fucking best.
Dean sighed. “Ma, I’m the same size I was last time you saw me-“
“Hm.” She shook her head. “Are you sure?”
“He’s twenty-four, honey,” Dad drawled. “He can’t grow. Maybe he’s put on some weight.”
Mom titled her head, and Dean sighed. He might’ve put on a pound or two, but it was a lot of muscle from carrying Her around like the princess she was. If anything, he’d been doing nothing but cardio all week. He should’ve lost weight.
He couldn’t tell Mom that.
“Something’s different.” Mom muttered, crossing her arms.
Dean gave her a small grin. “You’re the one who said I’m not shaving.”
“You’re not.” Mom only looked more suspicious. “Why?”
Because She liked his stubble. She said She liked how pokey it was, because she was fucking bonkers, but Dean loved her more than breathing, so he was letting it grow a little. “I dunno. Wanted a change of pace.”
Mom didn’t look like she was buying it, but Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to be selling her. Aside from the beard, he really hadn’t changed anything. He was even wearing the same damn boots and jacket she’d seen him in last.
“Where’s Sam.” Dad asked, and Dean sighed.
“Out calling his friend-“
Mom jumped in with Her name. Dean stood taller again.
He needed to get a grip. She wasn’t even freaking here yet.
“Is she coming tonight? Do we finally get to meet her?”
“Yeah, uh- She’s just running a little behind.” Dean glanced back to Jess, who was watching them with a silent, unreadable expression.
He gave her a questioning look, and she grimaced, looking over to the bathroom hall Sam had vanished down. Ideally, Sammy would’ve been back in time to introduce his girlfriend. Dean had to do freaking everything.
“This is Jess, though,” he gestured behind him, and Mom’s gaze snapped to the table. “Sammy’s-“
“Girlfriend!” Mom almost shrieked, and Dean winced, looking apologetically at the tables next to them.
Dad sighed, and placed a hand on Mom’s back. “Mary. Don’t scare her.”
“I’m not scaring her, I’m just- It’s so lovely to meet you, dear.” Mom rushed around the table. Jess had gone a little pale.
“You- You too, ma’am-“
“Oh, Mary is fine. Stand up, let me look at you.”
Jess listened—smart chick—and Mom started to inspect her like a prize horse. Next to Dean, Dad sighed.
Dean tensed. He hadn’t realized Dad was there.
“Where the hell is your brother.” Dad grunted, and Dean shrugged.
“I dunno-“
“You should know, Dean. You’re the reason he’s alone in California.”
Dean swallowed, staring down at his shoes. “Dad…”
“Go find him.” Dad didn’t even look at him. “Before your mother sends his girl running.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad wandered over to Mom’s side, extending his hand to Jess. That was a good sign. When Dad didn’t like people, he wouldn’t even touch them. Dean jerked his head to the hallway, when Jess caught his eyes. She nodded, and mouthed come back fast. He’d try, but She and Sammy had been on the phone for a while. Maybe they were thinking of ditching him and Jess to fend for themselves.
“Sammy?” Dean called to the men’s bathroom. “You in here?”
“Dean?” Sam called back from a stall, and Dean frowned.
“Are you callin’ her on the toilet?”
Sam groaned. “Dude, no-“
“What the hell else am I supposed to think-“
“That I finished a few minutes ago and had to take a shit, Dean! Because that’s what happened!”
Dean rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever. Mom and Dad are here.”
Something clattered on the floor.
“Shit-“ A toilet flushed, and Sammy shoved the stall door open, still fumbling with his belt. “And you left Jess with them?”
“Dad told me to go find you, what, was I supposed to take her into the freakin’ bathroom-“
“You’re supposed to tell Dad no, Dean!”
Dean grunted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Easy for you to say.”
“Yeah, it is, because no is really easy to say-“
“Where is she?” Dean cut Sam off with Her name. He wasn’t in any mood for one of Sam’s morality lectures.
Sam sighed, running his hands up the water. “On her way. And I’m serious, man, you need to tell Dad no sometimes-“
“I do tell him no-“
“You really don’t-“
“You wanna argue with me, or go save your girl from Mom’s twenty questions game?”
Sam scowled, but dried his hands on his jeans and stomped past Dean to the door. Dean rolled his eyes, and followed after. At least She’d be here soon. And Dean might not be able to kiss Her, but just looking at his girl was always relaxing enough.
Mom and Dad seemed mostly focused on Sammy and Jess. They were the stars of the night. The golden son, the happy couple, the future Winchester. Dean was just table decoration. He swallowed most of his jokes—Mom was the only one who’d laugh at them anyway—and stuffed his face with fries, watching Jess get strung through the ringer. He’d feel worse about it, if she hadn’t been up his ass all week about telling Sammy.
“What’re you studying, honey?” Mom asked, leaning so far over the table Dean was worried she’d fall into her soup. “Sam told us you met in a science class, are you pre-med as well?”
“In a way.” Jess smiled, sweet and calm. “I’m on track for Nursing school.”
“Hm,” Dad raised his brows. “Not a lotta money in that. You gonna rely on Sam for the bills?”
Jess shook her head. “Sam and I split everything evenly.”
“And I’m happy to support her, Dad.” Sam added quickly. “It’s what you did, with Mom.”
“Your mother could’ve lived without me.”
“Romantic, John.”
“It’s the truth.” Dad gave Mom one of those rare, small smiles. The ones he reserved purely for Mary Winchester. That people never believed he was capable of, until they saw it themselves. “You would’ve fared just fine if my sorry ass never found you.”
Mom laughed softly. “I might’ve fared better.”
“Yeah? You would’ve married rich? Been happier?”
“I never would’ve been happier.” Mom smiled at Dad, placing her hand over his, and Dean gagged at Sam.
Mom definitely could’ve been happier. Sometimes, Dean wondered if Dad had love potioned her or something. It was the only logical explanation.
Although people might also wonder the same thing, when they saw Her with Dean. Son of a bitch, Dean didn’t know how he’d landed Her most days. She looked like She belonged in room with crystal chandeliers, wearing all lace and silk, having everyone bow whenever she so much as walked past. Dean was some idiot from Kansas with a lucky jawline. He must’ve made a deal with a devil he forgot about.
It was a thought he didn’t like. That one day he’d be sitting at a table just like this, and his own son would be wondering how the hell Dean landed Her. Christ, he hoped that his kids would look at them and know that She loved Dean because he was—at least always trying to be—a good man.
He wanted to be a good man. A better man than Dad. He checked his phone again, not sure what he was looking for. Probably a text from Her. He missed Her. He felt like a kid abandoned at the freaking airport, and this was his family. He hated to think of how pathetic he was going to be when She left him alone at parties.
And like Dad could read Dean’s mind—always knowing the exact damn thing that he was worrying about, that was going to set him on edge—he said Her name.
“I’m startin’ to think she ain’t real, Sam,” he said, taking a long drink.
Sam sighed. “She’s real, Dad-“
“You sure? For a real girl, I sure can’t see her.”
“She’s running late-“
“Dean’s met her.” Jess cut in, and everyone looked at him.
Son of a bitch. Dean glared at Jess, and she smirked with the gleam in her eyes of someone who was playing a game they couldn’t lose.
“You did?” Mom frowned. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I- Uh-“ Dean tried to chew faster. “Y’know- Uh-“
Dad sighed. “He’s not gonna tell you everything, Mary-“
“But he promised me he’d tell me if he ever met her.”
Dean choked on his fry. He’d forgotten about that. He’d just sort of seen Her, had the whole world narrow down, and realized the only name he was ever going to need to know was Her’s.
“You promised what, Dean?” Sammy snapped, and great. Now everyone was pissed at him.
“Well, we thought you’d end up with her.” Mom shrugged, before going red and grabbing Jess’ hand. “Of course, I’m thrilled he’s with you, honey, it’s just- We spent almost two years hearing about her-“
“No, it’s fine.” Jess gave her a small smile. “She’s my friend too. She’s the best, isn’t she, Dean.”
Dean grunted, glaring at his fries. Of course She was. But he was only supposed to have met Her once, so he couldn’t agree without Sammy making it a whole thing.
“I’m still doubtin’ she’s real,” Dad muttered, and Dean couldn’t help his disgruntled sound.
“She’s real, Dad. Trust me.”
Dad scoffed. “Really? Then where the hell is she? It ain’t polite to be so late.”
Dean’s phone buzzed. He snapped his mouth shut, and read her message under the table. Good timing. He’d been seconds from snapping at Dad that she was polite to a fault. She said thank you to Siri. Dean had to hold the door open, because if she did they’d spend hours just letting people go past them. It had taken Dean months to make her stop apologizing to people that bumped into her.
Even Her text was polite.
De.
Dean.
Dean, I’m lost.
Sam didn’t send me the address.
Dean can you please help me.
Dean’s lips twitched. Maybe the spamming wasn’t polite, but he liked it. Just like he liked how mouthy She got with him. She wasn’t afraid of spooking him off, because he’d proved he could take it. He texted Her the address, then added you want me to stand outside?
Her response was immediate.
No, thank you.
I’ll see you soon.
I love you.
Dean grinned, so wide it hurt his face. Love you too, Princess.
Little bubbles formed, and disappeared, and formed and disappeared. He could imagine Her, fidgeting in the car and flushing.
For good measure, he added Get here fast. I miss you.
The bubbles vanished. Dean smirked, and tucked his phone back in his jeans. If he hadn’t told her to move, they would’ve been waiting another half hour while she tried to flirt back. She was horrible at it. Dean loved Her so much.
“What’re you smiling at, Dean,” Dad said, brow knit in suspicion, and Dean shrugged.
“Charlie. Sent me a funny cat meme.”
“Oh!” Mom sat up. “How is she? She always seemed so nice-“
“You fuckin’ her?”
“John-“
“I know him, Mary,” Dad muttered, still eyeing Dean. “He doesn’t grin like that unless he’s got some girl on the side.”
Dean sighed. At least they were doing this now. Before She showed up. “Charlie’s gay, Dad. And I don’t have anyone on the side.”
“Yeah, he says he’s an honest man now.” Sam smirked at him, and Dean’s jaw tightened.
“Sammy,” he pushed the words through his teeth. “Shut the hell up.”
“Why, you don’t want Mom and Dad to know about your secret girlfriend?” Sam raised his brows, and Dean was going to kick his Bigfoot ass.
“Sam-“
“Secret girlfriend?” Mom looked like a fucking hawk. Dean was doomed. “You have a secret girlfriend?”
“Not a fuckin’ secret now,” Dean grunted, and Sam shrugged.
“That’s probably who he was texting.”
“Yeah,” Jess muttered. “I bet it was.”
Dean shot her a warning look—this was bad enough as it was—and she gave him a fuck off look.
“Dean, honey, why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend-“
“’Cause she’s a secret.” Dad was glowering so hard, Dean thought it might burn through him. “What’s wrong with her?”
Dean’s hands fisted. “Nothing’s wrong with her.” She’s perfect. “We’re just- We haven’t been together that long, we’re still working it out-“
“They’re long distance.” Sam said loudly. “And they’ve been together a while. He shares his location with her.”
“She worries about me.” I worry about her. “It’s not a big fuckin’ deal-“
“Yeah, it is, you just don’t want Mom and Dad to know-“
“I didn’t want you to know, bitch-“
“Hey.” Mom pointed at Dean, and he slumped back. “No name calling at dinner, Dean Winchester.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
“Hm,” she gave him a strange look. “You can apologize by telling me about your girlfriend.”
Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “Ain’t tonight supposed to be about Sammy and Jess-“
“It can be about two things.”
“Ma-“
Sam shouted Her name, and for a second, Dean thought he was going to throw up. He’d figured it out, how the hell did he figure it out-
“Hi, Sam.”
Oh.
Her musical, elegant voice floated from behind him, and Dean’s whole body relaxed. She was just here. Finally. Thank God.
Dean twisted around, and he got lucky. Mom and Dad were too busy staring at Her to notice his grip going white on the back of the seat, his face going slack, his eyes damn near bulging out of his head like a cartoon. If he was in Bugs Bunny, he was sure his heart would be pounding out of his chest. She was perfect. So fucking perfect. She was wearing the dress they’d talked about, and Dean wanted to rip it off Her with his teeth. Even in the fancy place Sammy had found for them, She stood out like the Mona Lisa in a garbage dump.
Mom shot out of her chair, and Dean understood what people meant when they said he had her smile. That was exactly how he smiled, when he saw his girl. Like he was a peasant, and the Queen had just offered him a glimpse of Her glory.
She looked like a scared deer, as Mom charged at Her. Dean gripped his chair tighter, fighting the instinct to rush to her side. Her eyes darted to his, and She smiled. Dean grinned back, shooting her a wink. She flushed, and he bit down his laugh.
Mom grabbed Her face, and she went ridged. Shit.
Dean shot to his feet, half a second before Sam did.
“Ma, don’t scare her-“
“Mom, just-“
Sam and Dean both cut themselves off. Dean tensed, as Sam gave him a strange look. Dad cleared his throat, still sitting down.
“Mary.”
“Hm?”
“What’d we say.”
Mom sighed, and took a step back, still smiling at Her. She smoothed Her dress, still smiling so nervously. That little wrinkle in Her brow was back. Dean wanted to soothe it, kiss Her, and remind her that everything was fine. They were really going to love Her. It was all going to be fine.
“Look at you.” Mom breathed, and Dean drummed his fingers on the chair. “Sam never mentioned how gorgeous you were.”
She smiled shyly, and Sam sighed.
“Yeah. ‘Cause that would’ve been weird.”
“It’s not weird to notice beauty, Samuel,” Jess teased, patting his arm. “I would’ve told them, if they asked.”
“That’s ‘cause she’s prettier than Sammy.” Dean said, before he could stop himself.
Sam shot him another look, and Jess just snorted. Dean was lucky again. Mom and Dad were too entranced by Her to notice their conversation.
“Oh, sit, sit.” Mom pulled out the chair next to Dean—and maybe he’d been sure it was empty, but no one had to worry about that—and guided Her to the table. “This is John, Sam’s father, and- Dean tells me you’ve met already-“
“Once or twice.” Dean smirked up at Her. “Hey, Princess.”
“Hi- De. Dean.” She corrected Herself with another pretty flush. Dean was worried She might give herself a fever. “Hi, Dean.”
“Hey.” He echoed. “Nice dress.”
She looked like She was going to stab him. It was pretty hot.
“Somethin’ hold you up, kid?” Dad asked Her, and Dean’s shoulders squared. He was already leaning forward, trying to block Her from Dad’s view.
This was going to be a long night.
“Sam forgot to send me the address.” She smiled apologetically. “But Jess sent it after. I’m really sorry I’m late, I should’ve asked her sooner-“
“Oh, it’s fine.” Mom was still smiling at Her like she was made of gold. Dean was worried he might be about to have his girlfriend poached. “So, you’re an artist? Sam’s said you’re an artist.”
“I’m trying to be.” She smiled, unfolding her napkin in her lap. Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“Ain’t a lot of money in that, either-“
“Which is why I’m a double major.” She said smoothly. “Art and Zoology. There are some academic jobs in Zoology that actually pay really well. Over 100K.”
Mom looked more in love with her every second. “Oh, Zoology? What made you want to do that?”
“I like animals.”
Dean snorted. That was an understatement. Dad gave him a look.
“You got something to say, son?”
“Nope. Nothing.” Dean grinned at Her. “You like animals?”
She raised Her chin, holding his teasing gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“What’s your favorite animal, sweetheart.”
Her scowl was more dangerous than anyone else’s. Dean had never been less worried about it. He could almost hear Her in his head, hissing you know perfectly well what my favorite animals are, Winchester.
“Sweetheart?” Mom echoed, and now Dean was worried.
Shit. He shouldn’t have sat next to Her. The sheer urge to make Her giggle and roll her eyes at him was too powerful. He couldn’t be trusted with it.
“Dean calls everyone sweetheart,” Jess said easily, and if Sam didn’t marry her, Dean was going to curb stomp him. “Last time we went to a diner, the waitress convinced herself they were getting married.”
Mom seemed satisfied with that answer, murmuring something about how he’d always been a charmer. He hadn’t. He’d just always been a cocky ass, which was probably why Dad and Sam weren’t buying it.
“I don’t go around calling other women sweetheart, Dean.” Dad gave him a stern look. “Not since I met your mother.”
“Yeah, I know-“
“You got a woman waiting at home. You should respect her.”
“Dad’s right.” Sam said, before Dean could even freakin’ defend himself. “I don’t flirt with other girls, dude.”
Dean wondered, if he ran fast enough into traffic, someone would hit him with their car and put him out of this misery.
He couldn’t. That would be leaving Her, trying to act cool and bored, but picking Her fingers bloody under the table. Making sure Dad couldn’t see, Dean reached over and grabbed Her hand. She blinked at him in his periphery, but he didn’t let himself turn his head. Too dangerous. He’d get blinded and start drooling like a dumbass.
“You don’t flirt ‘cause you don’t know how.” Dean shot at Sam, who scowled.
“Well, at least I’m loyal-“
“I’m loyal-“
“Really? Because it looks like you-“
“I said one fuckin’ word, it’s not like I’m trying to-“
She squeezed Dean’s hand three times. Tight. Grounding. He took a deep breath, cutting himself off, and swallowed.
“I love my girl.” Dean muttered, glaring at Sam, rubbing the back of Her hand under the table. “So shut up.”
A heavy silence settled over the table, and Dean kicked his own gut up to his throat. He always did this. He said the wrong shit, and everyone got annoyed. She was probably annoyed. If Dean had just kept his mouth shut, nothing would’ve happened, and he wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch tonight-
“You have a girlfriend?” She asked softly, and Dean looked at Her.
Another instinct he couldn’t avoid. Another stupid choice. It knocked him straight in the gut, every single time he saw Her. It was like She got more beautiful, absorbing the candlelight and flower arrangements, casting it all around like on of those crystal things. Dean couldn’t remember what they were called. She’d told him before. He’d ask Her again later.
“Yeah. I do.”
She hummed, and Dad cleared his throat.
“Your girl got a name, Dean?”
Dean sighed. Son of a bitch. “Yeah. She does.”
“You gonna share?”
“No.”
Dad gave him a sharp look, and Dean held it. He could whatever the hell he wanted, just to Dean. She’d given him a talk about lying well, after the phone call incident. Less was more. Dad wasn’t getting Her name. Not even a fake one.
“She lives in LA.” Sam said, unhelpfully, and Mom gasped.
“Really? Oh, honey, we should go visit her after this-“
“Ma, no.”
“Why not? If you love her, you must want her to be a part of your life, our lives-“
“She is a part of my life.” Dean squeezed Her hand three times. “You still can’t meet her.”
Mom made a displeased noise, looking back to Sam. “What else do you know about her, Samuel?”
Sam sighed, real dramatically for someone who was avoiding the Mom and Dad treatment at his own damn dinner. “That’s it. He’s been a jerk about it.”
Dean flipped him off, and Sam stuck out his tongue.
And this wasn’t as bad as Dean had worried about. For a bit, Mom’s focused honed in on Sam, it was all questions about that. What they were doing after graduation, what Jess’ family was like, what kind of childhood she’d had. Mom and Dad asked all the questions they’d expected. Horses, sports, shooting. Jess answered them smoothly. Dean wished she’d stop pushing them about the whole telling Sam thing. He missed just being able to like her.
“I taught Dean to shoot when he was eight.” Dad muttered proudly, and Dean exchanged a look with Sam.
Dad didn’t care that Dean had been a natural shot. Not in the sense that Dean had done something. All that pride, the ruffle of Dean’s hair when it had happened and the misty look in Dad’s eyes when he told the story, it never amounted to much when it mattered.
“Taught Sammy when he was twelve.” Dad frowned. “He was always softer.”
Dean sighed, and Sam glared at his plate. Sam was far from soft. He’d been practicing with the gun behind Dad’s back for years. Dean had helped him, whenever Dad had a poker night. The kid hadn’t been a natural, but he could do shit that Dean never bothered to learn. Sam was the one who’d asked to go on the hunting trips. Dean had gone because he was supposed to. Neither of them had managed to kill anything. The animals always felt like they were looking right at him, and he couldn’t stomach it.
That had paid off, when She’d found out Dean had gone hunting. He’d told Her that he hated it, and she’d ran her fingers through his hair with a soft smile. She’d looked at Dean like he was some hero. Christ, he was pretty sure she’d help him bury a body if he needed Her to, but killing an animal? She’d never look at him again.
“My parents never even let me see a gun.” Jess shrugged. “But,” she said Her name, and She froze. “She taught me how to throw knives.”
Mom gave Her a curious look. “Knives? That’s an interesting skill.”
“Maybe she was in the circus.” Dad said, disinterested, and Mom waved him off.
“Don’t listen to him. Unless- Were you in the circus?”
Sam sighed. “Mom-“
“What? Those people, the acrobats? They’re beautiful!”
“You’re calling her a carny, Ma.” Dean said, low and careful. “Just say she’s pretty.”
“Well, she is pretty, but I’m not calling her that-“
“It’s okay.” She smiled, spinning Her fork between her fingers. “My dad was actually a hunter himself. Or- His family was. He works on cars now.”
That got Dad’s attention. “Cars, huh?”
“Yep.” She took a large bite of Her dinner, and Dad grunted.
“He work in a shop?”
“He runs a yard.”
“And he taught you how to throw knives?”
“I taught me how to throw knives.” She shrugged. “Because I hated guns.”
Dad narrowed his eyes, and She smiled, bored and amused. This was the version of her Dean rarely saw. The one that made everyone respect Her so much, that Sam said had made her almost unapproachable by everyone else.
Dean had always understood that. Hell, he’d almost been scared to approach Her that first day. She was so beautiful it terrified him. With that icy glare and regal expression, She seemed untouchable.
Sam cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension at the table. “Have you told your Dad about your boyfriend, yet?”
She gave Sam a truly poisonous glare, and he winced. She was a whole lot scarier than Dean. He was surprised Sammy didn’t try to make a break for it.
“Boyfriend?” Mom latched onto it. Dean didn’t know what the hell Sam had expected. “Sam didn’t tell us you have a boyfriend.”
She laughed softly. Not the tiny, sweet giggle Dean usually heard. The siren-like, thinly coated wrath that meant someone—Sam—was in trouble later.
“That’s because he’s not supposed to know either.”
“Oh, fantastic.” Dad snorted. “Another secret partner.”
She shot Dad a look, and Dean cleared his throat.
“Ain’t our faults Sammy sticks his nose in everything.”
“I don’t-“
“Babe.” Jess gave him a dry smile. “You do.”
Sam scowled, glaring at his pasta. “They deserve it.”
“I know. But you do.” She kissed his cheek. “I think it’s endearing.”
“Yeah, because you’re nosy too.” She said to Jess, who shrugged.
“It’s not my fault you’re horrible at hiding your relationship.”
She looked right at Dean, after she said it. His brow knit, and he glanced at Mom. She hadn’t caught it. Another stroke of luck.
“Your boyfriend, is he near you?”
She nodded. “He’s here.”
Jess rolled her eyes. Dean wished he could kick her under the table without risking hitting Sam.
“She’s obsessed with him.” Sam muttered, and maybe Dean should kick him. “He baked her cupcakes, and she never shuts up about him-“
“I shut up about him! You just never stop asking-“
“Yeah, because I want, like, his name,” Sam said Her name with a flat look. “Instead you tell me about how hot he is for twenty minutes.”
She flushed, and Dean’s grip on his fork tightened. There was a sour taste, in the back of his mouth. His hands were itching to grab Her.
“If this guy isn’t a genius, I’m never trusting you again.”
“He is a genius-“
“Yeah? What does he do?”
“He’s a businessman and an engineer.” She snapped, and Dean’s lip curled. “And he can bake and cook. You can’t bake or cook.”
“More to a man than baking and cooking.” Dad muttered, and She shot him a glare.
“Well, he’s also strong. He can carry me with one arm, and he’s sweet and funny and- And he always brings me things, and he listens, and-” She looked back to Sam. “He’s amazing. I get to talk about him.”
Dean glowered at his plate. That sour feeling was seeping down, right into his lungs and heartbeat. Stupid fake version of him, being so cool and good to Her. Dean made her laugh. He brought her gifts, and memorized every word out of Her holy mouth. He could cook. He could bake. This guy wasn’t freakin’ better than Dean was. Dean was real. He could pick her up, if She wanted to be picked up. He had picked Her up. Before they’d come to dinner, Dean had wrapped an arm around Her stomach when she tried to get away from him, and hauled Her pretty ass back to bed. She’d been thrilled, because She loved Dean, not this fake son of a bitch-
“You okay, honey?” Mom said, reaching around Dean to touch his fisted hand.
He coughed, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m great.”
Jess said Her name, looking smugly at Dean. “Her boyfriend sounds cool, doesn’t he.”
Dean scowled. “Yeah. He sounds great.”
He sounded bitter. He sounded pathetic. She was just making him sound that great to throw Mom and Sammy off the scent. That wasn’t really what She wanted. She wanted Dean. She loved Dean. She loved Dean-
“He is great.” She bumped their knees under the table, looking down at Her plate. “He’s perfect.”
Dean watched Her lips worry, and the spikes that had been flaring around his heart relaxed. “Perfect, huh?”
“Mhm.”
Mom clapped her hands. “Oh, you should let us meet him-“
“She’s not our kid, Mary-“
“She’s a like a sister to me, Dad.” Sam’s voice was measured, but firm. Dad gave him an almost amused look, and he chuckled, looking back to his salad.
He just dropped it. He only ever did that for Sam.
“I’d love to meet him.” Mom continued, like nothing had even happened. “I’m sure we’d love him. Right, Sam? Look at how happy he makes her, you’re going to love him.”
Sam sighed, deflating slightly. “Yeah. I will.”
Jess was staring at Dean again. He took a long sip of his water, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. Like it was the most interesting thing in the damn world.
“Dean, what did you say your girlfriend does?”
“She’s studyin’ right now.” Dean set down his glass. “Nannies on the side, but once she graduated- Oof-“
She’d stomped on his foot, under the table, and Dean’s fist slammed near his glass.
“Son of a- What-“
“Hm?” She gave him an innocent smile, and Dean scowled.
He wanted to kiss that look off Her face. There was some hair falling in front of Her eyes that he could brush away first, that always got her-
“You’re dating a student, Dean?” Dad said, and Dean grimaced.
Oh. Shit.
“And she’s my age.” Sam said, and he was back on the getting punched list.
“She’s a year older than you.” Was all Dean had to defend himself.
“So she’s Jess’ age.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t dating Jess-“
“Thank God.” Jess muttered, and Dean scowled.
“I’m happy without you too, blondie-“
“Dean, don’t be a dick-“
“It’s okay.” Jess put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I think it means he likes me, if he’s being an ass.”
Mom and Dad laughed at that, and Dean slumped into his seat.
She reached a hand under the table, rubbing his knee gently. Dean glanced up, and found Her smiling at him with those pretty, bright eyes. Always shining like stars. Always reminding him that he was home.
“I’m a delight to date.” He muttered, low enough that only She’d hear.
She giggled, and for the first time that night, Dean saw Her relax. “I know, De.”
The laughter died down, but while they were all occupied, Dean grabbed Her hand under the table. He held onto it, even as the conversation moved on. Mom was back to interrogating Jess anyway. No one cared what Dean was doing.
Mom talked Dad into dessert, and Dean was thankful. He’d taken Her here once, for a date. They had really good pie, and the fancy ice cream that She loved-
“Dean, honey,” Mom said, and Dean’s head snapped up. “I think I forgot my perfume in the car, can you come help me get it?”
Dean nodded, moving to his feet, and Dad sighed.
“Dinner’s almost over. You smell good, sweetheart-“
“I want to smell better,” Mom snipped, running her fingers through Dad’s hair. “Would you rather I walk out alone?”
Dad scowled, and shot Dean a very stern be fast look. Dean would try. He’d sworn he wouldn’t leave Her alone with Dad, and now he was, and he was horrible, shitty boyfriend, and-
“You want pie, Dean?” She smiled at him, and Dean’s lips twitched.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Dean turned, and Mom was looking between them with a strange expression. He gave her a questioning look, and she smiled, slipping back into her Mom face.
“California has such good weather.” She said as they walked outside, and Dean hummed, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“It’s nice. Always a beach day, you know?”
“You’ve gone to the beach up here?”
“Few times. Once with Sammy, then with my girl.”
Dean smiled at the air. Last time he’d taken Her, she’d made him walk for three hours so they could find cool rocks and hermit crabs. The sun had set, making the sky all kinds of pinks and purples and golds. She’d looked like a mermaid, come up from the deepest parts of the ocean to hold Dean’s hand and make him carry all Her seashells. It was one of the best nights of his life.
Next to him, Mom hummed Her name. “She’s something, isn’t she.”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah. She is.”
“When did Sam introduce you?”
“’Bout two years ago. Little less.”
“You talk often?”
Dean shrugged. They’d reached the car, but Mom wasn’t unlocking it. She was just watching Dean.
“I mean-“ He scratched the back of his neck. “I see her when I see her, Ma-“
“She knows you like pie.”
“Everyone knows I like pie, that’s like me knowin’ she likes animals-“
“So you know she likes animals.”
“It was one of the first things she ever told me, ‘course I know it, everyone knows it- You know it, and all you did was have dinner with her-“
“Dean Adam Winchester.” Mom raised her chin, and Dean swallow. “Where’s your girlfriend.”
Dean sighed. Not this again. “Look, I can still have friends who are girls when I got a girlfriend-“
“Where is your girlfriend.” Mom repeated, and Dean winced.
“She’s- Uh- She’s in LA-“
“Where in LA-“
“I dunno-“
“Sam said you share your locations.”
“Yeah, but- I’m not lookin’ at my phone-“
“So look at your phone.” Mom nodded to his pants.
Shit. “I, uh- I’m pretty sure she’s just at her apartment, actually-“
“You should check. In case she’s not.”
Dean could not check. It would give the whole thing up. “Ma, I- I’m not- I’m not worried about it-“
“I know you’re not.” Mom said, holding Dean’s gaze. “You know where she is, don’t you. I raised you to respect women, Dean-“’
“I do respect her- I- Christ, she wouldn’t have looked at me twice if I didn’t-“
Mom laughed. “Oh, I believe that. She is something.”
Oh.
No.
“Ma…” Dean muttered, and Mom just raised her brows.
“You know where she is, don’t you, Dean. Because I know too.”
“It’s- Just- Hold on-“
“She’s in there, sitting next to Jessica and your father.” Mom nodded to the restaurant, and Dean bowed his head.
They hadn’t even lasted one dinner.
“How’d you know.” He muttered, and Mom laughed.
“I know you, honey.” She rubbed Dean’s arm gently. “I’m honestly a bit more shocked your brother hasn’t seen it. Doesn’t he talk to her every day?”
Dean laughed, a bit out of breath. “Yeah, he does.”
“And he hasn’t gone blind, since moving out here?”
“No. I think-“ Dean swallowed. “Think he just- He told me not to ask her out,” he muttered. “Forbade me, actually. Like he was her freakin’ father or something, but- I didn’t just ignore him, Mom. I didn’t. She just…”
He bit back the words he couldn’t even find. They stung, and there was already a burn behind his eyes. Mom sighed, giving him a sad smile.
“You love her a lot, don’t you.”
Dean nodded, gritting his teeth, and Mom hummed.
“I like her.”
“Yeah?” He rasped, and she nodded.
“I always hoped you’d find someone who liked your heart, honey.”
“Mom-“
“She loves you.” Mom said, and Dean’s lips twitched.
“I think I wanna- I don’t-“ He cleared his throat. “You ever look at dad and wonder how you ever woke up without him?”
Mom laughed. “All the time.”
And Dean still didn’t understand that. Dad was Dad. Dean had only dodged the harder conversation because She and Jess were there, and Dad didn’t like to air out laundry. When they said goodnight, Dean narrowly avoided his dragging them aside to fight by offering to walk Her to the car. She agreed with a tiny smile. If Sam thought anything of it, he was too busy trying to stop Mom from asking Jess about if they were going to get married.
But Dad glared at them the whole way out. Dean fisted and unfisted his hand at his side. He opened the door for Her, and she smiled up at him. That same, adoring smile that made Dean feel like he’d made the whole world in Her name.
He wished he could. Wouldn’t that be something. Her name, engraved under the earth and onto the roots of trees. Being sung in the deepest parts of the ocean, and embedded into the gates of Heaven. It still wouldn’t be enough. Dean could put his love for Her into the core of every star, and he’d still have to open doors and kiss Her nose and bring her books. Worship wasn’t a one and done type deal. Mom went to Church every day. Dean had his own alter to tend to, and it was bigger than any galaxy in that infinite night sky above them.
Dean could feel Dad’s stare. He ignored it, and walked after Her.
“My Mom adored you,” he murmured, once they were shrouded in shadows. “Think she might love you more than me, now.”
She laughed, shaking Her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. She, uh-“ He coughed, glancing over his shoulder. “She kinda picked up on us.”
She froze, looking slowly up at Dean. He gave Her a winning grin. She didn’t balk.
“On us what,” She hissed, and Dean sighed.
“Uh… Us. Us-ing.”
“Us-ing?”
“Bein’, y’know.” Dean tried his smile again. “Basically freakin’ soulmates.”
She softened a little, but that might just have been the panic. “Oh- Oh god-“
“It’s okay, Princess-“
“No, it’s not!” She was working Herself up, brow furrowed and lips pouted. “Your Dad- He doesn’t like me-“
“He liked you, he’s just-“
“And Sam- She’s going to tell Sam-“
“She promised she wouldn’t-“
“How did she know, I- I was so careful-“
“I know you were, baby, but she liked you-“
“Not enough!” She shrieked. “I- I had a whole plan, we were going to tell Sam, then- Then you were going to reintroduce me, and they- They’d like me more-“
“Princess-“
“Fuck, I should’ve worn something different. I- I- Should’ve- My hair, and- God, I wore the sex perfume-“
Dean blinked. “Sex perfume?”
She ignored him. “I- I’m a whore, they’re going to think I’m a whore-“
“Alright.” Dean grunted. “That’s enough.”
Dean wrapped an arm around Her waist and clamped a hand over her mouth. She looked up at him with blown out, confused eyes, and he gave Her a stern look.
“You are not a whore.” He muttered, running his thumb down Her nose. Her eyes fluttered, going a little more glazed. “They liked you a lot, I love you,” he kissed the space between Her eyes, and she sighed into his hand. “So much that it doesn’t freakin’ matter anyway.”
She made a displeased noise, glaring up at him, and Dean chuckled.
“I know, Princess. But no one shit talks my girl. Not even you.”
That worked a wonder. She melted into him, pressing Her face into his chest, and Dean swayed them slowly back and forth.
“Maybe next time don’t sell me like I’m Jesus.” He murmured when She’d finally relaxed.
She leaned back with an adorably confused expression. “What?”
“I’m a genius?” Dean laughed. “C’mon, sweetheart-“
“You are a genius.”
“Yeah, alright-“
“You are.” She snapped, and Dean raised his brows.
He said Her name carefully, and she shoved his chest.
“You are a genius, Dean. I’m not a liar.” She sounded more pissed than anything else, Dean’s lips twitched.
“Yeah, baby? You sure I didn’t scramble your brains this morning?”
She rolled Her eyes, and Dean ducked down to kiss her neck. She wove Her fingers through his hair, holding on even as she grumbled in his ear.
“You are-“
“I know.” Dean smiled against Her skin. “Bossy girl.”
She hummed, and Dean nipped at Her throat. They’d have to move soon. He’d take off first—couldn’t let Dad see the rental—and She’d follow. Once they were alone, Dean would show Her was kinda genius he really was.
The one that made Her cum over and over and over, until She was too boneless and cockdrunk to remember to overthink.
She grabbed Dean’s face, pulling it back slowly. Dean smiled at Her, and she let out a slow, long breath.
“They’re gonna come out soon, baby-“
“Do you wanna meet my dad?”
Dean’s jaw fell open, and She flushed.
“I just- I met your parents. And your mom knows, and my dad is coming for graduation, and-“
Dean kissed Her. Long and hard. It was always the best way to shut her up.
“Yeah,” he said, pressing another, softer kiss. “I’d love to, baby.”
She smiled, pushing up to chase Dean’s mouth, and he laughed. They stumbled back until She was pressed to the car. Dean deepened the kiss, and Her leg hiked on his hip. Her dress was riding up. Dean pressed closer, blocking Her inner thigh from anyone else’s view.
“You gonna oversell me again, Princess?” He rasped, when they finally pulled away.
She shook Her head, playing with the collar of his shirt. “That’s not possible.”
Dean shook his head, but damn him, he believed Her. Nothing She was saying could ever be wrong.
And Dean was going to spend the rest of his life, making sure no one ever questioned Her. She’d never say this is my husband and have people wonder how. Dean would live on his knees, if that’s where she asked him to stay.
But they got home, and She threw herself into Dean’s arms.
So he’d stay on his feet and at Her side, always. And all the way down.
✦Part 9✦
✦End note: dean when wife ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 7✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: you meet dean's parents✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: i love a chapter that's just drama and smut and fluff✦
Dean had a whole plan.
He’d show up to the restaurant first. Alone, acting like everything was normal and ignoring Jess’ sharp glares. He’d hug Mom and Sammy, shake Dad’s hand, and act very normal and surprised when She showed up. He’d smirk and say it was nice to see Her again. Sammy would make some passing about Dean having a girlfriend now, and Dean would get to brag about how hot and cool she was, right to Her pretty, flushing face.
Sam would roll his eyes, and say—louder this time—that She had a boyfriend. Dean would tease Her about that too, grinning whenever she gave him that cute I’m going to strangle you, Winchester look. Dean would occupy the whole, long dinner with getting Her as antsy and bratty as he could. It would help him ignore Dad. Meant that, the moment the night was over, he’d be getting dragged back to the apartment to deal with Her.
He was worried he might’ve unleashed something on the world, by fucking Her. Maybe he’d gone too deep and hit some kind of magic girl button that turned them into sex monsters. He hadn’t been able to get out of bed until ten, yesterday, and that had only been because She had a class to go to.
“One more.” She’d whispered, sitting right on his chest. “Pleease-“
“Princess.” Dean had cut Her off with his best, sternest, I’m the boss look.
It didn’t have a very high success rate. He was getting worried it just made her more horny.
“You got class.” He’d squeezed Her hips, and she’d pouted at him like he was denying her water in the desert. “We’ve been goin’ all morning. You gotta eat, before I even think about round eight.”
She’d scoffed. “It would not be round eight-“
“Yeah. Would be.”
“You’re being dramatic-“
“Sweetheart.” Dean had given Her an amused look. “How many times have I made you cum?”
She’d flushed. She was a feral little succubus, but all Dean had to do was say cum or fuck or pussy and she’d turn back into an anxious, flustered puddle. Dean couldn’t tell if it was the hottest or cutest thing he’d ever seen.
“Give Little Dean thirty,” he’d murmured, pulling Her down for a slow, lazy kiss. “You’re gonna break him.”
Her nose had wrinkled, bumping against Dean’s. “They can’t break.”
“They can get squeezed out. Like an orange, baby. You’re milkin’ all my pulp-“
She’d whacked his chest, and Dean had laughed, rolling them over. He’d kissed Her into the mattress, and she’d gotten squirmy again. Looking up at Dean with fluttering lashes and parted lips, and goddamn him, better men had fallen to worse temptations.
At least this wasn’t a sin. She wasn’t a sin. Nothing that made Her look at Dean like that—like he was the sunrise and the sunset and the golden halos coming off streetlamps—could possibly be considered wrong. Dean was making his girl feel good. He rolled his cock through Her soft, tight heat, and She moaned, tossing her head back to expose her pretty, marked up neck.
Those were Dean’s bruises. His marks. She arched into his touch and clenched down on his dick and called his name as she came. She made the prettiest, high and breathy sounds, and only Dean pulled them out of her.
She smiled at him when they were done, and Dean could swear he had an angel below him. No one else could make such dirty things feel so pure.
“Last one.” He’d scolded Her after, and she giggled.
“Okay.”
Dean had raised his brows and chuckled. If he was putting money on it, they wouldn’t make it to the car before She was nosing around him again. Like an animal in heat.
He said as much to Her. She rolled Her eyes, and found a way to blame him.
“You’re too- You.” She’d sulked in the car.
“I’m too me? The hell does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“Baby, I swear I don’t got a clue.”
She’d made a sour face, and leaned against the window. Dean had sighed and reached over, slinging his arm around Her shoulders and tucking her back into his side.
“C’mon.” He’d kissed Her brow. “You know I’m not as smart as you, Princess. You gotta speak dummy for me-“
“You’re not dumb.” She’d slumped into his side, looking up at him with those impossible, bright eyes. “You’re just- You- You’re-“
“I’m?”
“Shut up-“
“Tell me what you mean-“
“I’m trying, but you keep- You keep being,” She’d whined, and Dean had blinked.
“I’m being?”
“Yeah.” She’d hidden Her face in his side. “It’s not fair.”
Dean had almost laughed. He still didn’t know what the hell that meant, but it had almost gotten them into round ten before he could park. She’d started giving him those eyes, and Dean had swallowed like a soldier being sent to the battlefield. At this rate, he was going to out of shooters by the end of the month.
He wasn’t sure if that was how it worked. He’d need to check, before he found out the bad way.
“When you get home, Princess.” He’d kissed Her furrowed brow, then her nose, then her angry little pout. “You can have whatever you want.”
She’d sighed dramatically, and Dean had smirked.
“It’s six hours, baby-“
“Too long.” She’d glared at him. Like it was his fault.
“Sorry.” He’d shrugged, a wide, dumb smile on his face. “I love you.”
“Hm.”
“C’mon.” Dean had kissed Her cheek. “Say it.”
She’d huffed, crawling closer to his side. Dean had smirked, and poked her sides. She’d jumped back with a shriek, but he’d caught her hand.
“Dean-“
“I love you.” He’d said again, squeezing her three times.
She’d sighed, giving him a pleading, hopeless, doe-like look. Dean had raised his brows.
“Baby, there’s no way you’re getting any cock until you behave-“
“I love you.” She’d grumbled, and Dean had smirked.
Maybe he was a little bit of a smug bastard about it. With the sight of Her, almost glowing in the sunlight, he didn’t think he could be blamed.
“Do you love me?’” She’d whispered.
Dean had snorted. “Jesus, woman.”
“I’m just- I’m asking-“
“I said it twice-“
“You didn’t say it back-“
“You didn’t say it back-“
“You won’t have sex with me!”
“In a public parking lot?” He’d given Her an incredulous look, and she’d scowled.
“No one’s around.”
Dean had laughed, and leaned over the seat. He’d kissed all over Her face, until she was nice and relaxed under him.
“Needy girl.” He’d teased, and God, she was hot when she glared at him. “I’m not gettin’ your pretty ass tossed in jail.”
“I’d live-“
“You’d hate it. They don’t let inmates have stuffed animals, and,” he’d kissed her lips, soft and swollen and all Dean’s. “You’re too sweet.”
“I am not sweet-“
“Yeah. You’re like pie, baby-“
“You think everything’s like pie-“
“I think all my favorite things are like pie.” Dean had corrected, brushing some hair from Her face.
He might’ve been a horrible man to leave Her like this. Panting and dazed, almost trembling under his hands. But if She missed her class, she’d get in a worse mood about that than Dean refusing to eat her out in the car.
“Am I your favorite?” She’d whispered, and Dean had smile.
“Course you are.” He’d kissed Her, and felt a million feet tall when she giggled. “My sweet, bossy girl.”
Somehow, he’d gotten Her out of the car after that. He’d waited until She vanished into the building—and maybe he’d been staring at Her ass, but no one could ever prove it—before pulling away. She still wasn’t confident, in what She wanted. But they were getting there. And Dean was having a hell of a time holding Her hand through it. He’d never understood boyfriends who just trailed after their girls like damn dogs. He still didn’t.
How the hell could they be acting like that, for anyone but Her?
She’d made him lunch. A pretty good sandwich, that Dean wolfed down between calls with his boss. He’d been doing some remote accounting work, just to prove he hadn’t ditched the job. He killed the afternoon driving around to some car shows and garages, looking for someone who might be willing to sell him something dirt-cheap. His pitch to his boss, to expand the business and justify him being out in California all the time. Her idea, and list of places, and specifically mapped routes for him to optimize his milage.
He followed Her guide to the T. She’d put effort into it, just for him. More effort than She put into some of her classes. More effort than She put into those papers she banged out in an hour, while Dean sat at Her feet and tried not to distract Her by staring.
She never got any less gorgeous. It didn’t matter if Her hair was a mess or her face was swollen with sleep. She was a goddess. The least Dean could do was worship.
Something he wouldn’t be allowed to do, around Sammy and Mom and Dad.
Dinner was going to suck.
Dean told Her the plan. She sighed, and dropped Her face into his shoulder.
“I can just not come,” She mumbled. “If it’s too much for you.”
“Nope. You’re coming, sweetheart.” He winked, kissing the back of Her hand. “At least twice, after we’re done.”
She shoved him, but smile. Dean felt a little lighter, than he had all day.
He knew they were going to love Her. Sammy already did, Mom had been obsessed with her for years—ever since Sam first came home talking about her, Mom had been ahead of Dean on understanding She was the best thing in the world—and Dad was going to go along with anything Mom told him to.
That’s what Dean was hanging onto. The thin, wired rope that was digging into his heart as it held it up. It was going to leave a red, angry mark, but at least everything wouldn’t drop into his stomach. Mom was going to love Her, so Dad would have to love Her. Dean didn’t matter, in this equation. He was just the asshole brother. Dad would give him shit, he’d take it, and none of it would even graze Her cheek.
But if Dad did try something, Dean would kill him.
She was too soft to deal with his tests. She had claws and teeth, She could take and deal swipes with a sneer, she could hold her ground with roots that Dad wouldn’t be able to tear up, but She was still so…
Her.
Kicking a kitten would get you bit, but you were still kicking a damn kitten. She shouldn’t have to be the strong, colder version of Her that Sam said existed in debate classes. The version that tipped Her chin off and looked like some untouchable, wrathful goddess. Dean thought that version Her was sexy. She didn’t need him to deal blows, when one sneer or glower would send a grown man to his knees.
But that just made Dean feel more important. When he’d get Her in his arms, and She’d turn into a bratty, giggling mess of nerves and smiles. He’d rip apart the Earth, to make sure She always felt safe enough to shed that exoskeleton at his side. Dean knew what Dad could say. What he could do. And it was one story for him to do it to Dean. Dean could deserve it sometimes.
She never deserved anything but love. Dean was on this planet to give it to Her. And as long as he was alive, it was all she was going to get.
“Is this good?” She poked Her head out of the bedroom, and Dean coughed, dropping his phone onto the carpet.
“Shit- Uh-“ Is this good. He almost laughed. “Jesus, Princess-“
“Is it too tight?” She frowned at the flared out skirt. “It’s too tight, isn’t it-“
“No- No.” Dean stretched out an arm. “’S not too tight. You look good.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just good?”
Dean snorted, beckoning his hand. “Just c’mere, smartass.”
She sighed, but shuffled between his legs. She was already flushing. Good.
“Son of a bitch.” Dean traced the curve of Her hips, her ass, her thighs. She shivered when his fingers brushed sensitive skin, and Dean chuckled.
“Deeaan…” She breathed out, and he hummed, dipping his fingers under Her dress.
“You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he muttered, and She shook her head.
“Just- I want to make a good impression-“
“Why?” Dean teased, resting his chin on Her stomach. “You plannin’ on sticking around?”
She gave him a flat look, but there was nothing really angry in Her eyes. There never was. Not at Dean.
“What did I say,” he said, softer this time.
She sighed. “I know, but-“
“Ah.” Dean squeezed Her ass. “What did I say.”
Her nose wrinkled. Dean smiled. He had all the time in the world.
“Come on, baby girl,” he cooed, rubbing the back of Her thighs “You remember. What did I tell you.”
“That- They’re going to like me.”
“Hm. Think I said somethin’ else.”
“Dean-“
He said Her name back, a little mocking in that way that always made Her putty. She sighed, looking at him like this was causing Her pain. Dean knew She didn’t like open praise. If they had more time, he’d fuck Her into taking it properly, because that seemed to be a failsafe way to get the fact that he loved Her—more than anything, more than the earth loved to chase the sun, more than the moon loved to chase the earth, more than dogs loved to run after cars and cat loved to make him sneeze—through Her loud, brilliant head.
“They’ll love me.” She finally said, and Dean grinned.
“Hell yeah, they will.” He tugged Her down for a slow, long kiss, speaking against her lips. “You’ve got this, Princess.”
She hummed, and stopped ripping out her hair trying to look perfect. Dean thought She already looked perfect. Apparently, he didn’t understand hair and makeup and shoes, and his opinion was no longer valid when she was getting dressed for anything.
“You say I look hot in everything.”
“You do look hot in everything-“
“No, I don’t-“
“You can’t see yourself, I can.” Dean grinned at Her, pulling her right against his chest. “You’d look hot in a trash bag.”
She rolled her eyes, lips pulled into an exasperated smile. Dean grabbed Her chin, forcing her gaze. It softens the moment their eyes met. Her eyes always seemed to shine. He was never going to stop being hypnotized by it.
“I love you,” he muttered. “Wait ten minutes, then follow me to the restaurant.”
She nodded, leaning up on Her toes. Her eyes dropped to his lips, and Dean chuckled. For someone who’d been dragging him back to bed this morning, She couldn’t even ask him for a damn kiss.
Dean gave it to Her. He’d give Her anything.
“I love you too.” She mumbled, and Dean smiled.
“I know.”
He had to rip himself away. The plan. They had to stick to the plan.
Stupid fucking plan, that fell apart the moment he pulled up in a rental, and Sam and Jess were already there.
“Where’s the Impala?” Sam frowned, and Dean grimaced.
Son of a bitch.
“Yeah, Dean?” Jess glared at him. “Weren’t you on a cross-country road trip?”
“I was.” He muttered, returning the scowl. “Baby’s feeling the heat from it. I got a rental so she could take a rest.”
Sam snorted. “You’re giving your car a rest?”
“Yep. You gotta cherish them, Sammy. Otherwise they slip outta your hands.”
“It’s a car-“
“I’m not talkin’ about the car.” Dean winked, Sam gave him a flat look, and Jess sighed.
“That’s gross, dude.”
“What? Loving a woman is gross?” He clicked his tongue, grinning at Jess. “You sure you wanna stay with him?”
Jess rolled her eyes, ignoring the question. Dean laughed, and dodged Sammy’s shove. The rental car was entirely forgotten, as they made their way into the restaurant. First crisis of the night, dealt with like he was playing Go Fish. Easy.
“Mom and Dad are running behind.” Sam told him as they sat down. “Said something about the hotel.”
“What, wrong room?”
“I dunno. Maybe one of those secret charges, you know Dad hates those.”
Dean chuckled. “Or they found something dirty and Mom’s trying to squeeze fifty bucks outta them.”
“She is good at that.” Sam sighed, giving Jess an apologetic look. “She’s going to ask you if you like thrifting, by the way. I think I forgot about that one.”
“No, you told me.” Jess smiled at him, and Sam ran a hand over his face.
“Yeah, but- There was something I forgot-“
“You tell her about the horses?”
“Yeah, and the sports shit-“
“What about shooting?”
“He told me everything.” Jess reached over the table, taking Sammy’s hand. “I’m fine, babe. Really. I’ve got this.”
Sam sighed, and Dean raised his brows.
“You can shoot?”
“God, no.” Her lip curled, and Sam sighed.
“Dad will be fine with it, though. You’re from California, he can’t expect-“
Jess cut Sam off with Her name, and Dean sat a little taller. Just hearing it was like hearing a whistle, telling him to stand at attention. He really was no better than a damn dog.
“She can’t shoot.” Dean said, and Sam gave him a strange look.
“How do you know.”
Shit. “Uh- I’m just- I’m guessing. You know, not the type.”
Jess snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Well, you’re right. She can’t.”
“So why’d you-“
“She can throw knives.” Jess shrugged. “Taught me how, a few years ago.”
Dean swallowed. Of course She could throw a knife. It was like She’d been designed by the freaking universe to be his dream woman.
“Where is she, anyway?” Jess drawled, her glare fixed on Dean.
He shrugged. “Why would I know? Sammy, you told her what time we were meeting?”
Sam nodding, looking down to his phone. Dean ignored Jess’ pointed glower. She wasn’t going to actually say anything. She’d promised Her, and that was the most sacred kind of oath you could make.
“I thought I did,” Sam muttered. “But- Maybe she got distracted again.”
“Again?” Dean smirked, and Sam sighed.
“She gets really into something and forgets to look at the time. I used to set alarms for her all the time, sometimes I’d just call her- I dunno. She’s been better about it lately, but… Shit happens.”
Dean hummed an agreement, grinning at his water glass. Jess was glaring hard enough he could feel it.
“Maybe she’s with her boyfriend,” she hissed, and Dean gave her an amused look.
“Boyfriend?”
“You know about her boyfriend, Dean.” Sam shot him a sharp look. “And you shouldn’t care anyway. You have a girlfriend.”
“I do.” Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “She’s fuckin’ awesome.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she is.” Sam kept tapping on his phone. Jess cleared her throat.
“Sam, maybe you should go call her. Make sure she’s still coming.”
“She’s coming, she’s just a little late-“
“Maybe that boyfriend’s distracting her.” Dean hummed, grinning at Jess.
Her glare was getting withering. If Dean didn’t know it came from a place of care—about Her and Sammy, definitely not him—he might’ve started cowering under the table.
“Samuel.” Jess’ words were short. Clipped and unwavering. “Go call her.”
Sam nodded, kissed Jess’ cheek, and wandered away from the table. Dean braced himself, shooting Jess a lazy grin. She couldn’t kill him. It would ruin the whole night.
“You were supposed to tell him-“
“Right now?” Dean snorted. “Are you freakin’ crazy?”
“He needs to know, Dean, it’s- I don’t like keeping secrets from him-“
“Yeah, which is exactly why she didn’t tell you-“
“No.” Jess raised a firm finger. “You don’t get to hide behind your girlfriend for this one.”
Dean scoffed. “I am not hiding behind my girlfriend-“
“Yes, you are-“
“I’m not.” He ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath. “Look. We’re gonna tell him, alright-“
“You said that three days ago-“
“Yeah, well, that was before I found out my freakin’ parents were coming to town.”
Jess scowled, but didn’t push back. Dean didn’t know what Sam had told her, about Mom and Dad. From the slightly guilty look on her face, it had to be enough.
“As soon as they’re gone.” Dean dropped his voice, leaning over the table. “We’ll tell him. Swear it. But if he finds out now, it’s gonna mess him up. Mom and Dad are gonna notice, and this,” he waved his hand around the table. “Is gonna turn into a shitshow. Alright?”
For a moment, Dean and Jess just glared at each other. Dean had to hand it Sammy. He didn’t pick a pushover.
“Fine.” Jess finally muttered. “But remember, if you don’t tell him the day after they leave-“
“You’re gonna tell him yourself.” Dean finished. “I’ve got this handled. Don’t worry about it.”
Jess huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t worry about it. How the fuck do I not worry about it, Dean, you’re fucking his best friend-“
“Dating. I’m dating his best friend.”
“And fucking her.”
Dean’s lips twitched. “She’s insatiable, Jess, ain’t my fault I give my girl what I want.”
Jess gagged, grabbing the table like she needed balance. She was fucking sitting down. Dean was about to mock her for it, when he heard a familiar, warm voice call his name. Jess’ eyes widened, fixed over his head. Dean took a deep breath.
Showtime.
He stood up slowly, throwing his shoulders back and putting a casual, easy smile on his face. He was barely on his feet before Mom was in his face, grabbing his cheeks and turning his around like he was eight and had been playing in the mud for too long again. He grunted, and behind him, Jess snorted.
“Oh, baby, you’re so big.” Mom beamed at him, pushing his head back to inspect his neck. “You haven’t shaved in a few days, do you have a razor? Do you need a razor? You can have your father’s, he’s not using it-“
“He ain’t gettin’ my razor, Mary.” Dad muttered, and Dean tensed.
He’d thought he’d been ready for it. Dad’s edged, cool gaze. The one Dean used to think he’d, one day, be able to read. That he’d look at it and realize that the whole time, there had always been a single ember of pride, that flickered whenever he looked at Dean.
If there was, he’d never learned to find it. And it certainly wasn’t there now.
“Son.” Dad grunted, and Dean nodded tightly.
“Sir.”
Dad hummed, scanning around the restaurant. Always scanning around everything. Looking for the flaw in where Sammy had brought them. The thing to complain about.
Dean was going to say this place was his idea. He didn’t care that it was Sammy’s, or that it was good. The second Dad asked why there were so many windows, Dean was taking the fall.
Mom hugged him tight. He hugged her back, and that was easier. The lady was crazy, but she was also Mom. The only thing Dean had never been able to forgive her for was loving Dad. Letting Dad be Dad. He’d never figured out how to hold that anger without it burning his hands.
Maybe he’d ask Her. His girl always knew how to do everything. She’d tell him what to be, and maybe it would be someone Dad was proud of. If Dad was going say he’d done good about anything, it was Her. She was the fucking best.
Dean sighed. “Ma, I’m the same size I was last time you saw me-“
“Hm.” She shook her head. “Are you sure?”
“He’s twenty-four, honey,” Dad drawled. “He can’t grow. Maybe he’s put on some weight.”
Mom titled her head, and Dean sighed. He might’ve put on a pound or two, but it was a lot of muscle from carrying Her around like the princess she was. If anything, he’d been doing nothing but cardio all week. He should’ve lost weight.
He couldn’t tell Mom that.
“Something’s different.” Mom muttered, crossing her arms.
Dean gave her a small grin. “You’re the one who said I’m not shaving.”
“You’re not.” Mom only looked more suspicious. “Why?”
Because She liked his stubble. She said She liked how pokey it was, because she was fucking bonkers, but Dean loved her more than breathing, so he was letting it grow a little. “I dunno. Wanted a change of pace.”
Mom didn’t look like she was buying it, but Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to be selling her. Aside from the beard, he really hadn’t changed anything. He was even wearing the same damn boots and jacket she’d seen him in last.
“Where’s Sam.” Dad asked, and Dean sighed.
“Out calling his friend-“
Mom jumped in with Her name. Dean stood taller again.
He needed to get a grip. She wasn’t even freaking here yet.
“Is she coming tonight? Do we finally get to meet her?”
“Yeah, uh- She’s just running a little behind.” Dean glanced back to Jess, who was watching them with a silent, unreadable expression.
He gave her a questioning look, and she grimaced, looking over to the bathroom hall Sam had vanished down. Ideally, Sammy would’ve been back in time to introduce his girlfriend. Dean had to do freaking everything.
“This is Jess, though,” he gestured behind him, and Mom’s gaze snapped to the table. “Sammy’s-“
“Girlfriend!” Mom almost shrieked, and Dean winced, looking apologetically at the tables next to them.
Dad sighed, and placed a hand on Mom’s back. “Mary. Don’t scare her.”
“I’m not scaring her, I’m just- It’s so lovely to meet you, dear.” Mom rushed around the table. Jess had gone a little pale.
“You- You too, ma’am-“
“Oh, Mary is fine. Stand up, let me look at you.”
Jess listened—smart chick—and Mom started to inspect her like a prize horse. Next to Dean, Dad sighed.
Dean tensed. He hadn’t realized Dad was there.
“Where the hell is your brother.” Dad grunted, and Dean shrugged.
“I dunno-“
“You should know, Dean. You’re the reason he’s alone in California.”
Dean swallowed, staring down at his shoes. “Dad…”
“Go find him.” Dad didn’t even look at him. “Before your mother sends his girl running.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad wandered over to Mom’s side, extending his hand to Jess. That was a good sign. When Dad didn’t like people, he wouldn’t even touch them. Dean jerked his head to the hallway, when Jess caught his eyes. She nodded, and mouthed come back fast. He’d try, but She and Sammy had been on the phone for a while. Maybe they were thinking of ditching him and Jess to fend for themselves.
“Sammy?” Dean called to the men’s bathroom. “You in here?”
“Dean?” Sam called back from a stall, and Dean frowned.
“Are you callin’ her on the toilet?”
Sam groaned. “Dude, no-“
“What the hell else am I supposed to think-“
“That I finished a few minutes ago and had to take a shit, Dean! Because that’s what happened!”
Dean rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever. Mom and Dad are here.”
Something clattered on the floor.
“Shit-“ A toilet flushed, and Sammy shoved the stall door open, still fumbling with his belt. “And you left Jess with them?”
“Dad told me to go find you, what, was I supposed to take her into the freakin’ bathroom-“
“You’re supposed to tell Dad no, Dean!”
Dean grunted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Easy for you to say.”
“Yeah, it is, because no is really easy to say-“
“Where is she?” Dean cut Sam off with Her name. He wasn’t in any mood for one of Sam’s morality lectures.
Sam sighed, running his hands up the water. “On her way. And I’m serious, man, you need to tell Dad no sometimes-“
“I do tell him no-“
“You really don’t-“
“You wanna argue with me, or go save your girl from Mom’s twenty questions game?”
Sam scowled, but dried his hands on his jeans and stomped past Dean to the door. Dean rolled his eyes, and followed after. At least She’d be here soon. And Dean might not be able to kiss Her, but just looking at his girl was always relaxing enough.
Mom and Dad seemed mostly focused on Sammy and Jess. They were the stars of the night. The golden son, the happy couple, the future Winchester. Dean was just table decoration. He swallowed most of his jokes—Mom was the only one who’d laugh at them anyway—and stuffed his face with fries, watching Jess get strung through the ringer. He’d feel worse about it, if she hadn’t been up his ass all week about telling Sammy.
“What’re you studying, honey?” Mom asked, leaning so far over the table Dean was worried she’d fall into her soup. “Sam told us you met in a science class, are you pre-med as well?”
“In a way.” Jess smiled, sweet and calm. “I’m on track for Nursing school.”
“Hm,” Dad raised his brows. “Not a lotta money in that. You gonna rely on Sam for the bills?”
Jess shook her head. “Sam and I split everything evenly.”
“And I’m happy to support her, Dad.” Sam added quickly. “It’s what you did, with Mom.”
“Your mother could’ve lived without me.”
“Romantic, John.”
“It’s the truth.” Dad gave Mom one of those rare, small smiles. The ones he reserved purely for Mary Winchester. That people never believed he was capable of, until they saw it themselves. “You would’ve fared just fine if my sorry ass never found you.”
Mom laughed softly. “I might’ve fared better.”
“Yeah? You would’ve married rich? Been happier?”
“I never would’ve been happier.” Mom smiled at Dad, placing her hand over his, and Dean gagged at Sam.
Mom definitely could’ve been happier. Sometimes, Dean wondered if Dad had love potioned her or something. It was the only logical explanation.
Although people might also wonder the same thing, when they saw Her with Dean. Son of a bitch, Dean didn’t know how he’d landed Her most days. She looked like She belonged in room with crystal chandeliers, wearing all lace and silk, having everyone bow whenever she so much as walked past. Dean was some idiot from Kansas with a lucky jawline. He must’ve made a deal with a devil he forgot about.
It was a thought he didn’t like. That one day he’d be sitting at a table just like this, and his own son would be wondering how the hell Dean landed Her. Christ, he hoped that his kids would look at them and know that She loved Dean because he was—at least always trying to be—a good man.
He wanted to be a good man. A better man than Dad. He checked his phone again, not sure what he was looking for. Probably a text from Her. He missed Her. He felt like a kid abandoned at the freaking airport, and this was his family. He hated to think of how pathetic he was going to be when She left him alone at parties.
And like Dad could read Dean’s mind—always knowing the exact damn thing that he was worrying about, that was going to set him on edge—he said Her name.
“I’m startin’ to think she ain’t real, Sam,” he said, taking a long drink.
Sam sighed. “She’s real, Dad-“
“You sure? For a real girl, I sure can’t see her.”
“She’s running late-“
“Dean’s met her.” Jess cut in, and everyone looked at him.
Son of a bitch. Dean glared at Jess, and she smirked with the gleam in her eyes of someone who was playing a game they couldn’t lose.
“You did?” Mom frowned. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I- Uh-“ Dean tried to chew faster. “Y’know- Uh-“
Dad sighed. “He’s not gonna tell you everything, Mary-“
“But he promised me he’d tell me if he ever met her.”
Dean choked on his fry. He’d forgotten about that. He’d just sort of seen Her, had the whole world narrow down, and realized the only name he was ever going to need to know was Her’s.
“You promised what, Dean?” Sammy snapped, and great. Now everyone was pissed at him.
“Well, we thought you’d end up with her.” Mom shrugged, before going red and grabbing Jess’ hand. “Of course, I’m thrilled he’s with you, honey, it’s just- We spent almost two years hearing about her-“
“No, it’s fine.” Jess gave her a small smile. “She’s my friend too. She’s the best, isn’t she, Dean.”
Dean grunted, glaring at his fries. Of course She was. But he was only supposed to have met Her once, so he couldn’t agree without Sammy making it a whole thing.
“I’m still doubtin’ she’s real,” Dad muttered, and Dean couldn’t help his disgruntled sound.
“She’s real, Dad. Trust me.”
Dad scoffed. “Really? Then where the hell is she? It ain’t polite to be so late.”
Dean’s phone buzzed. He snapped his mouth shut, and read her message under the table. Good timing. He’d been seconds from snapping at Dad that she was polite to a fault. She said thank you to Siri. Dean had to hold the door open, because if she did they’d spend hours just letting people go past them. It had taken Dean months to make her stop apologizing to people that bumped into her.
Even Her text was polite.
De.
Dean.
Dean, I’m lost.
Sam didn’t send me the address.
Dean can you please help me.
Dean’s lips twitched. Maybe the spamming wasn’t polite, but he liked it. Just like he liked how mouthy She got with him. She wasn’t afraid of spooking him off, because he’d proved he could take it. He texted Her the address, then added you want me to stand outside?
Her response was immediate.
No, thank you.
I’ll see you soon.
I love you.
Dean grinned, so wide it hurt his face. Love you too, Princess.
Little bubbles formed, and disappeared, and formed and disappeared. He could imagine Her, fidgeting in the car and flushing.
For good measure, he added Get here fast. I miss you.
The bubbles vanished. Dean smirked, and tucked his phone back in his jeans. If he hadn’t told her to move, they would’ve been waiting another half hour while she tried to flirt back. She was horrible at it. Dean loved Her so much.
“What’re you smiling at, Dean,” Dad said, brow knit in suspicion, and Dean shrugged.
“Charlie. Sent me a funny cat meme.”
“Oh!” Mom sat up. “How is she? She always seemed so nice-“
“You fuckin’ her?”
“John-“
“I know him, Mary,” Dad muttered, still eyeing Dean. “He doesn’t grin like that unless he’s got some girl on the side.”
Dean sighed. At least they were doing this now. Before She showed up. “Charlie’s gay, Dad. And I don’t have anyone on the side.”
“Yeah, he says he’s an honest man now.” Sam smirked at him, and Dean’s jaw tightened.
“Sammy,” he pushed the words through his teeth. “Shut the hell up.”
“Why, you don’t want Mom and Dad to know about your secret girlfriend?” Sam raised his brows, and Dean was going to kick his Bigfoot ass.
“Sam-“
“Secret girlfriend?” Mom looked like a fucking hawk. Dean was doomed. “You have a secret girlfriend?”
“Not a fuckin’ secret now,” Dean grunted, and Sam shrugged.
“That’s probably who he was texting.”
“Yeah,” Jess muttered. “I bet it was.”
Dean shot her a warning look—this was bad enough as it was—and she gave him a fuck off look.
“Dean, honey, why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend-“
“’Cause she’s a secret.” Dad was glowering so hard, Dean thought it might burn through him. “What’s wrong with her?”
Dean’s hands fisted. “Nothing’s wrong with her.” She’s perfect. “We’re just- We haven’t been together that long, we’re still working it out-“
“They’re long distance.” Sam said loudly. “And they’ve been together a while. He shares his location with her.”
“She worries about me.” I worry about her. “It’s not a big fuckin’ deal-“
“Yeah, it is, you just don’t want Mom and Dad to know-“
“I didn’t want you to know, bitch-“
“Hey.” Mom pointed at Dean, and he slumped back. “No name calling at dinner, Dean Winchester.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
“Hm,” she gave him a strange look. “You can apologize by telling me about your girlfriend.”
Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “Ain’t tonight supposed to be about Sammy and Jess-“
“It can be about two things.”
“Ma-“
Sam shouted Her name, and for a second, Dean thought he was going to throw up. He’d figured it out, how the hell did he figure it out-
“Hi, Sam.”
Oh.
Her musical, elegant voice floated from behind him, and Dean’s whole body relaxed. She was just here. Finally. Thank God.
Dean twisted around, and he got lucky. Mom and Dad were too busy staring at Her to notice his grip going white on the back of the seat, his face going slack, his eyes damn near bulging out of his head like a cartoon. If he was in Bugs Bunny, he was sure his heart would be pounding out of his chest. She was perfect. So fucking perfect. She was wearing the dress they’d talked about, and Dean wanted to rip it off Her with his teeth. Even in the fancy place Sammy had found for them, She stood out like the Mona Lisa in a garbage dump.
Mom shot out of her chair, and Dean understood what people meant when they said he had her smile. That was exactly how he smiled, when he saw his girl. Like he was a peasant, and the Queen had just offered him a glimpse of Her glory.
She looked like a scared deer, as Mom charged at Her. Dean gripped his chair tighter, fighting the instinct to rush to her side. Her eyes darted to his, and She smiled. Dean grinned back, shooting her a wink. She flushed, and he bit down his laugh.
Mom grabbed Her face, and she went ridged. Shit.
Dean shot to his feet, half a second before Sam did.
“Ma, don’t scare her-“
“Mom, just-“
Sam and Dean both cut themselves off. Dean tensed, as Sam gave him a strange look. Dad cleared his throat, still sitting down.
“Mary.”
“Hm?”
“What’d we say.”
Mom sighed, and took a step back, still smiling at Her. She smoothed Her dress, still smiling so nervously. That little wrinkle in Her brow was back. Dean wanted to soothe it, kiss Her, and remind her that everything was fine. They were really going to love Her. It was all going to be fine.
“Look at you.” Mom breathed, and Dean drummed his fingers on the chair. “Sam never mentioned how gorgeous you were.”
She smiled shyly, and Sam sighed.
“Yeah. ‘Cause that would’ve been weird.”
“It’s not weird to notice beauty, Samuel,” Jess teased, patting his arm. “I would’ve told them, if they asked.”
“That’s ‘cause she’s prettier than Sammy.” Dean said, before he could stop himself.
Sam shot him another look, and Jess just snorted. Dean was lucky again. Mom and Dad were too entranced by Her to notice their conversation.
“Oh, sit, sit.” Mom pulled out the chair next to Dean—and maybe he’d been sure it was empty, but no one had to worry about that—and guided Her to the table. “This is John, Sam’s father, and- Dean tells me you’ve met already-“
“Once or twice.” Dean smirked up at Her. “Hey, Princess.”
“Hi- De. Dean.” She corrected Herself with another pretty flush. Dean was worried She might give herself a fever. “Hi, Dean.”
“Hey.” He echoed. “Nice dress.”
She looked like She was going to stab him. It was pretty hot.
“Somethin’ hold you up, kid?” Dad asked Her, and Dean’s shoulders squared. He was already leaning forward, trying to block Her from Dad’s view.
This was going to be a long night.
“Sam forgot to send me the address.” She smiled apologetically. “But Jess sent it after. I’m really sorry I’m late, I should’ve asked her sooner-“
“Oh, it’s fine.” Mom was still smiling at Her like she was made of gold. Dean was worried he might be about to have his girlfriend poached. “So, you’re an artist? Sam’s said you’re an artist.”
“I’m trying to be.” She smiled, unfolding her napkin in her lap. Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“Ain’t a lot of money in that, either-“
“Which is why I’m a double major.” She said smoothly. “Art and Zoology. There are some academic jobs in Zoology that actually pay really well. Over 100K.”
Mom looked more in love with her every second. “Oh, Zoology? What made you want to do that?”
“I like animals.”
Dean snorted. That was an understatement. Dad gave him a look.
“You got something to say, son?”
“Nope. Nothing.” Dean grinned at Her. “You like animals?”
She raised Her chin, holding his teasing gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“What’s your favorite animal, sweetheart.”
Her scowl was more dangerous than anyone else’s. Dean had never been less worried about it. He could almost hear Her in his head, hissing you know perfectly well what my favorite animals are, Winchester.
“Sweetheart?” Mom echoed, and now Dean was worried.
Shit. He shouldn’t have sat next to Her. The sheer urge to make Her giggle and roll her eyes at him was too powerful. He couldn’t be trusted with it.
“Dean calls everyone sweetheart,” Jess said easily, and if Sam didn’t marry her, Dean was going to curb stomp him. “Last time we went to a diner, the waitress convinced herself they were getting married.”
Mom seemed satisfied with that answer, murmuring something about how he’d always been a charmer. He hadn’t. He’d just always been a cocky ass, which was probably why Dad and Sam weren’t buying it.
“I don’t go around calling other women sweetheart, Dean.” Dad gave him a stern look. “Not since I met your mother.”
“Yeah, I know-“
“You got a woman waiting at home. You should respect her.”
“Dad’s right.” Sam said, before Dean could even freakin’ defend himself. “I don’t flirt with other girls, dude.”
Dean wondered, if he ran fast enough into traffic, someone would hit him with their car and put him out of this misery.
He couldn’t. That would be leaving Her, trying to act cool and bored, but picking Her fingers bloody under the table. Making sure Dad couldn’t see, Dean reached over and grabbed Her hand. She blinked at him in his periphery, but he didn’t let himself turn his head. Too dangerous. He’d get blinded and start drooling like a dumbass.
“You don’t flirt ‘cause you don’t know how.” Dean shot at Sam, who scowled.
“Well, at least I’m loyal-“
“I’m loyal-“
“Really? Because it looks like you-“
“I said one fuckin’ word, it’s not like I’m trying to-“
She squeezed Dean’s hand three times. Tight. Grounding. He took a deep breath, cutting himself off, and swallowed.
“I love my girl.” Dean muttered, glaring at Sam, rubbing the back of Her hand under the table. “So shut up.”
A heavy silence settled over the table, and Dean kicked his own gut up to his throat. He always did this. He said the wrong shit, and everyone got annoyed. She was probably annoyed. If Dean had just kept his mouth shut, nothing would’ve happened, and he wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch tonight-
“You have a girlfriend?” She asked softly, and Dean looked at Her.
Another instinct he couldn’t avoid. Another stupid choice. It knocked him straight in the gut, every single time he saw Her. It was like She got more beautiful, absorbing the candlelight and flower arrangements, casting it all around like on of those crystal things. Dean couldn’t remember what they were called. She’d told him before. He’d ask Her again later.
“Yeah. I do.”
She hummed, and Dad cleared his throat.
“Your girl got a name, Dean?”
Dean sighed. Son of a bitch. “Yeah. She does.”
“You gonna share?”
“No.”
Dad gave him a sharp look, and Dean held it. He could whatever the hell he wanted, just to Dean. She’d given him a talk about lying well, after the phone call incident. Less was more. Dad wasn’t getting Her name. Not even a fake one.
“She lives in LA.” Sam said, unhelpfully, and Mom gasped.
“Really? Oh, honey, we should go visit her after this-“
“Ma, no.”
“Why not? If you love her, you must want her to be a part of your life, our lives-“
“She is a part of my life.” Dean squeezed Her hand three times. “You still can’t meet her.”
Mom made a displeased noise, looking back to Sam. “What else do you know about her, Samuel?”
Sam sighed, real dramatically for someone who was avoiding the Mom and Dad treatment at his own damn dinner. “That’s it. He’s been a jerk about it.”
Dean flipped him off, and Sam stuck out his tongue.
And this wasn’t as bad as Dean had worried about. For a bit, Mom’s focused honed in on Sam, it was all questions about that. What they were doing after graduation, what Jess’ family was like, what kind of childhood she’d had. Mom and Dad asked all the questions they’d expected. Horses, sports, shooting. Jess answered them smoothly. Dean wished she’d stop pushing them about the whole telling Sam thing. He missed just being able to like her.
“I taught Dean to shoot when he was eight.” Dad muttered proudly, and Dean exchanged a look with Sam.
Dad didn’t care that Dean had been a natural shot. Not in the sense that Dean had done something. All that pride, the ruffle of Dean’s hair when it had happened and the misty look in Dad’s eyes when he told the story, it never amounted to much when it mattered.
“Taught Sammy when he was twelve.” Dad frowned. “He was always softer.”
Dean sighed, and Sam glared at his plate. Sam was far from soft. He’d been practicing with the gun behind Dad’s back for years. Dean had helped him, whenever Dad had a poker night. The kid hadn’t been a natural, but he could do shit that Dean never bothered to learn. Sam was the one who’d asked to go on the hunting trips. Dean had gone because he was supposed to. Neither of them had managed to kill anything. The animals always felt like they were looking right at him, and he couldn’t stomach it.
That had paid off, when She’d found out Dean had gone hunting. He’d told Her that he hated it, and she’d ran her fingers through his hair with a soft smile. She’d looked at Dean like he was some hero. Christ, he was pretty sure she’d help him bury a body if he needed Her to, but killing an animal? She’d never look at him again.
“My parents never even let me see a gun.” Jess shrugged. “But,” she said Her name, and She froze. “She taught me how to throw knives.”
Mom gave Her a curious look. “Knives? That’s an interesting skill.”
“Maybe she was in the circus.” Dad said, disinterested, and Mom waved him off.
“Don’t listen to him. Unless- Were you in the circus?”
Sam sighed. “Mom-“
“What? Those people, the acrobats? They’re beautiful!”
“You’re calling her a carny, Ma.” Dean said, low and careful. “Just say she’s pretty.”
“Well, she is pretty, but I’m not calling her that-“
“It’s okay.” She smiled, spinning Her fork between her fingers. “My dad was actually a hunter himself. Or- His family was. He works on cars now.”
That got Dad’s attention. “Cars, huh?”
“Yep.” She took a large bite of Her dinner, and Dad grunted.
“He work in a shop?”
“He runs a yard.”
“And he taught you how to throw knives?”
“I taught me how to throw knives.” She shrugged. “Because I hated guns.”
Dad narrowed his eyes, and She smiled, bored and amused. This was the version of her Dean rarely saw. The one that made everyone respect Her so much, that Sam said had made her almost unapproachable by everyone else.
Dean had always understood that. Hell, he’d almost been scared to approach Her that first day. She was so beautiful it terrified him. With that icy glare and regal expression, She seemed untouchable.
Sam cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension at the table. “Have you told your Dad about your boyfriend, yet?”
She gave Sam a truly poisonous glare, and he winced. She was a whole lot scarier than Dean. He was surprised Sammy didn’t try to make a break for it.
“Boyfriend?” Mom latched onto it. Dean didn’t know what the hell Sam had expected. “Sam didn’t tell us you have a boyfriend.”
She laughed softly. Not the tiny, sweet giggle Dean usually heard. The siren-like, thinly coated wrath that meant someone—Sam—was in trouble later.
“That’s because he’s not supposed to know either.”
“Oh, fantastic.” Dad snorted. “Another secret partner.”
She shot Dad a look, and Dean cleared his throat.
“Ain’t our faults Sammy sticks his nose in everything.”
“I don’t-“
“Babe.” Jess gave him a dry smile. “You do.”
Sam scowled, glaring at his pasta. “They deserve it.”
“I know. But you do.” She kissed his cheek. “I think it’s endearing.”
“Yeah, because you’re nosy too.” She said to Jess, who shrugged.
“It’s not my fault you’re horrible at hiding your relationship.”
She looked right at Dean, after she said it. His brow knit, and he glanced at Mom. She hadn’t caught it. Another stroke of luck.
“Your boyfriend, is he near you?”
She nodded. “He’s here.”
Jess rolled her eyes. Dean wished he could kick her under the table without risking hitting Sam.
“She’s obsessed with him.” Sam muttered, and maybe Dean should kick him. “He baked her cupcakes, and she never shuts up about him-“
“I shut up about him! You just never stop asking-“
“Yeah, because I want, like, his name,” Sam said Her name with a flat look. “Instead you tell me about how hot he is for twenty minutes.”
She flushed, and Dean’s grip on his fork tightened. There was a sour taste, in the back of his mouth. His hands were itching to grab Her.
“If this guy isn’t a genius, I’m never trusting you again.”
“He is a genius-“
“Yeah? What does he do?”
“He’s a businessman and an engineer.” She snapped, and Dean’s lip curled. “And he can bake and cook. You can’t bake or cook.”
“More to a man than baking and cooking.” Dad muttered, and She shot him a glare.
“Well, he’s also strong. He can carry me with one arm, and he’s sweet and funny and- And he always brings me things, and he listens, and-” She looked back to Sam. “He’s amazing. I get to talk about him.”
Dean glowered at his plate. That sour feeling was seeping down, right into his lungs and heartbeat. Stupid fake version of him, being so cool and good to Her. Dean made her laugh. He brought her gifts, and memorized every word out of Her holy mouth. He could cook. He could bake. This guy wasn’t freakin’ better than Dean was. Dean was real. He could pick her up, if She wanted to be picked up. He had picked Her up. Before they’d come to dinner, Dean had wrapped an arm around Her stomach when she tried to get away from him, and hauled Her pretty ass back to bed. She’d been thrilled, because She loved Dean, not this fake son of a bitch-
“You okay, honey?” Mom said, reaching around Dean to touch his fisted hand.
He coughed, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m great.”
Jess said Her name, looking smugly at Dean. “Her boyfriend sounds cool, doesn’t he.”
Dean scowled. “Yeah. He sounds great.”
He sounded bitter. He sounded pathetic. She was just making him sound that great to throw Mom and Sammy off the scent. That wasn’t really what She wanted. She wanted Dean. She loved Dean. She loved Dean-
“He is great.” She bumped their knees under the table, looking down at Her plate. “He’s perfect.”
Dean watched Her lips worry, and the spikes that had been flaring around his heart relaxed. “Perfect, huh?”
“Mhm.”
Mom clapped her hands. “Oh, you should let us meet him-“
“She’s not our kid, Mary-“
“She’s a like a sister to me, Dad.” Sam’s voice was measured, but firm. Dad gave him an almost amused look, and he chuckled, looking back to his salad.
He just dropped it. He only ever did that for Sam.
“I’d love to meet him.” Mom continued, like nothing had even happened. “I’m sure we’d love him. Right, Sam? Look at how happy he makes her, you’re going to love him.”
Sam sighed, deflating slightly. “Yeah. I will.”
Jess was staring at Dean again. He took a long sip of his water, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. Like it was the most interesting thing in the damn world.
“Dean, what did you say your girlfriend does?”
“She’s studyin’ right now.” Dean set down his glass. “Nannies on the side, but once she graduated- Oof-“
She’d stomped on his foot, under the table, and Dean’s fist slammed near his glass.
“Son of a- What-“
“Hm?” She gave him an innocent smile, and Dean scowled.
He wanted to kiss that look off Her face. There was some hair falling in front of Her eyes that he could brush away first, that always got her-
“You’re dating a student, Dean?” Dad said, and Dean grimaced.
Oh. Shit.
“And she’s my age.” Sam said, and he was back on the getting punched list.
“She’s a year older than you.” Was all Dean had to defend himself.
“So she’s Jess’ age.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t dating Jess-“
“Thank God.” Jess muttered, and Dean scowled.
“I’m happy without you too, blondie-“
“Dean, don’t be a dick-“
“It’s okay.” Jess put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I think it means he likes me, if he’s being an ass.”
Mom and Dad laughed at that, and Dean slumped into his seat.
She reached a hand under the table, rubbing his knee gently. Dean glanced up, and found Her smiling at him with those pretty, bright eyes. Always shining like stars. Always reminding him that he was home.
“I’m a delight to date.” He muttered, low enough that only She’d hear.
She giggled, and for the first time that night, Dean saw Her relax. “I know, De.”
The laughter died down, but while they were all occupied, Dean grabbed Her hand under the table. He held onto it, even as the conversation moved on. Mom was back to interrogating Jess anyway. No one cared what Dean was doing.
Mom talked Dad into dessert, and Dean was thankful. He’d taken Her here once, for a date. They had really good pie, and the fancy ice cream that She loved-
“Dean, honey,” Mom said, and Dean’s head snapped up. “I think I forgot my perfume in the car, can you come help me get it?”
Dean nodded, moving to his feet, and Dad sighed.
“Dinner’s almost over. You smell good, sweetheart-“
“I want to smell better,” Mom snipped, running her fingers through Dad’s hair. “Would you rather I walk out alone?”
Dad scowled, and shot Dean a very stern be fast look. Dean would try. He’d sworn he wouldn’t leave Her alone with Dad, and now he was, and he was horrible, shitty boyfriend, and-
“You want pie, Dean?” She smiled at him, and Dean’s lips twitched.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Dean turned, and Mom was looking between them with a strange expression. He gave her a questioning look, and she smiled, slipping back into her Mom face.
“California has such good weather.” She said as they walked outside, and Dean hummed, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“It’s nice. Always a beach day, you know?”
“You’ve gone to the beach up here?”
“Few times. Once with Sammy, then with my girl.”
Dean smiled at the air. Last time he’d taken Her, she’d made him walk for three hours so they could find cool rocks and hermit crabs. The sun had set, making the sky all kinds of pinks and purples and golds. She’d looked like a mermaid, come up from the deepest parts of the ocean to hold Dean’s hand and make him carry all Her seashells. It was one of the best nights of his life.
Next to him, Mom hummed Her name. “She’s something, isn’t she.”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah. She is.”
“When did Sam introduce you?”
“’Bout two years ago. Little less.”
“You talk often?”
Dean shrugged. They’d reached the car, but Mom wasn’t unlocking it. She was just watching Dean.
“I mean-“ He scratched the back of his neck. “I see her when I see her, Ma-“
“She knows you like pie.”
“Everyone knows I like pie, that’s like me knowin’ she likes animals-“
“So you know she likes animals.”
“It was one of the first things she ever told me, ‘course I know it, everyone knows it- You know it, and all you did was have dinner with her-“
“Dean Adam Winchester.” Mom raised her chin, and Dean swallow. “Where’s your girlfriend.”
Dean sighed. Not this again. “Look, I can still have friends who are girls when I got a girlfriend-“
“Where is your girlfriend.” Mom repeated, and Dean winced.
“She’s- Uh- She’s in LA-“
“Where in LA-“
“I dunno-“
“Sam said you share your locations.”
“Yeah, but- I’m not lookin’ at my phone-“
“So look at your phone.” Mom nodded to his pants.
Shit. “I, uh- I’m pretty sure she’s just at her apartment, actually-“
“You should check. In case she’s not.”
Dean could not check. It would give the whole thing up. “Ma, I- I’m not- I’m not worried about it-“
“I know you’re not.” Mom said, holding Dean’s gaze. “You know where she is, don’t you. I raised you to respect women, Dean-“’
“I do respect her- I- Christ, she wouldn’t have looked at me twice if I didn’t-“
Mom laughed. “Oh, I believe that. She is something.”
Oh.
No.
“Ma…” Dean muttered, and Mom just raised her brows.
“You know where she is, don’t you, Dean. Because I know too.”
“It’s- Just- Hold on-“
“She’s in there, sitting next to Jessica and your father.” Mom nodded to the restaurant, and Dean bowed his head.
They hadn’t even lasted one dinner.
“How’d you know.” He muttered, and Mom laughed.
“I know you, honey.” She rubbed Dean’s arm gently. “I’m honestly a bit more shocked your brother hasn’t seen it. Doesn’t he talk to her every day?”
Dean laughed, a bit out of breath. “Yeah, he does.”
“And he hasn’t gone blind, since moving out here?”
“No. I think-“ Dean swallowed. “Think he just- He told me not to ask her out,” he muttered. “Forbade me, actually. Like he was her freakin’ father or something, but- I didn’t just ignore him, Mom. I didn’t. She just…”
He bit back the words he couldn’t even find. They stung, and there was already a burn behind his eyes. Mom sighed, giving him a sad smile.
“You love her a lot, don’t you.”
Dean nodded, gritting his teeth, and Mom hummed.
“I like her.”
“Yeah?” He rasped, and she nodded.
“I always hoped you’d find someone who liked your heart, honey.”
“Mom-“
“She loves you.” Mom said, and Dean’s lips twitched.
“I think I wanna- I don’t-“ He cleared his throat. “You ever look at dad and wonder how you ever woke up without him?”
Mom laughed. “All the time.”
And Dean still didn’t understand that. Dad was Dad. Dean had only dodged the harder conversation because She and Jess were there, and Dad didn’t like to air out laundry. When they said goodnight, Dean narrowly avoided his dragging them aside to fight by offering to walk Her to the car. She agreed with a tiny smile. If Sam thought anything of it, he was too busy trying to stop Mom from asking Jess about if they were going to get married.
But Dad glared at them the whole way out. Dean fisted and unfisted his hand at his side. He opened the door for Her, and she smiled up at him. That same, adoring smile that made Dean feel like he’d made the whole world in Her name.
He wished he could. Wouldn’t that be something. Her name, engraved under the earth and onto the roots of trees. Being sung in the deepest parts of the ocean, and embedded into the gates of Heaven. It still wouldn’t be enough. Dean could put his love for Her into the core of every star, and he’d still have to open doors and kiss Her nose and bring her books. Worship wasn’t a one and done type deal. Mom went to Church every day. Dean had his own alter to tend to, and it was bigger than any galaxy in that infinite night sky above them.
Dean could feel Dad’s stare. He ignored it, and walked after Her.
“My Mom adored you,” he murmured, once they were shrouded in shadows. “Think she might love you more than me, now.”
She laughed, shaking Her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. She, uh-“ He coughed, glancing over his shoulder. “She kinda picked up on us.”
She froze, looking slowly up at Dean. He gave Her a winning grin. She didn’t balk.
“On us what,” She hissed, and Dean sighed.
“Uh… Us. Us-ing.”
“Us-ing?”
“Bein’, y’know.” Dean tried his smile again. “Basically freakin’ soulmates.”
She softened a little, but that might just have been the panic. “Oh- Oh god-“
“It’s okay, Princess-“
“No, it’s not!” She was working Herself up, brow furrowed and lips pouted. “Your Dad- He doesn’t like me-“
“He liked you, he’s just-“
“And Sam- She’s going to tell Sam-“
“She promised she wouldn’t-“
“How did she know, I- I was so careful-“
“I know you were, baby, but she liked you-“
“Not enough!” She shrieked. “I- I had a whole plan, we were going to tell Sam, then- Then you were going to reintroduce me, and they- They’d like me more-“
“Princess-“
“Fuck, I should’ve worn something different. I- I- Should’ve- My hair, and- God, I wore the sex perfume-“
Dean blinked. “Sex perfume?”
She ignored him. “I- I’m a whore, they’re going to think I’m a whore-“
“Alright.” Dean grunted. “That’s enough.”
Dean wrapped an arm around Her waist and clamped a hand over her mouth. She looked up at him with blown out, confused eyes, and he gave Her a stern look.
“You are not a whore.” He muttered, running his thumb down Her nose. Her eyes fluttered, going a little more glazed. “They liked you a lot, I love you,” he kissed the space between Her eyes, and she sighed into his hand. “So much that it doesn’t freakin’ matter anyway.”
She made a displeased noise, glaring up at him, and Dean chuckled.
“I know, Princess. But no one shit talks my girl. Not even you.”
That worked a wonder. She melted into him, pressing Her face into his chest, and Dean swayed them slowly back and forth.
“Maybe next time don’t sell me like I’m Jesus.” He murmured when She’d finally relaxed.
She leaned back with an adorably confused expression. “What?”
“I’m a genius?” Dean laughed. “C’mon, sweetheart-“
“You are a genius.”
“Yeah, alright-“
“You are.” She snapped, and Dean raised his brows.
He said Her name carefully, and she shoved his chest.
“You are a genius, Dean. I’m not a liar.” She sounded more pissed than anything else, Dean’s lips twitched.
“Yeah, baby? You sure I didn’t scramble your brains this morning?”
She rolled Her eyes, and Dean ducked down to kiss her neck. She wove Her fingers through his hair, holding on even as she grumbled in his ear.
“You are-“
“I know.” Dean smiled against Her skin. “Bossy girl.”
She hummed, and Dean nipped at Her throat. They’d have to move soon. He’d take off first—couldn’t let Dad see the rental—and She’d follow. Once they were alone, Dean would show Her was kinda genius he really was.
The one that made Her cum over and over and over, until She was too boneless and cockdrunk to remember to overthink.
She grabbed Dean’s face, pulling it back slowly. Dean smiled at Her, and she let out a slow, long breath.
“They’re gonna come out soon, baby-“
“Do you wanna meet my dad?”
Dean’s jaw fell open, and She flushed.
“I just- I met your parents. And your mom knows, and my dad is coming for graduation, and-“
Dean kissed Her. Long and hard. It was always the best way to shut her up.
“Yeah,” he said, pressing another, softer kiss. “I’d love to, baby.”
She smiled, pushing up to chase Dean’s mouth, and he laughed. They stumbled back until She was pressed to the car. Dean deepened the kiss, and Her leg hiked on his hip. Her dress was riding up. Dean pressed closer, blocking Her inner thigh from anyone else’s view.
“You gonna oversell me again, Princess?” He rasped, when they finally pulled away.
She shook Her head, playing with the collar of his shirt. “That’s not possible.”
Dean shook his head, but damn him, he believed Her. Nothing She was saying could ever be wrong.
And Dean was going to spend the rest of his life, making sure no one ever questioned Her. She’d never say this is my husband and have people wonder how. Dean would live on his knees, if that’s where she asked him to stay.
But they got home, and She threw herself into Dean’s arms.
So he’d stay on his feet and at Her side, always. And all the way down.
✦Part 9✦
✦End note: dean when wife ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
(english is not my first language, requests are open)
This shit is so tortured poet coded. So I recommend listening to any song from the album while reading.
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You'd always thought you were going to marry Bruce Wayne.
Well, you and everyone else. But now, seeing him dance with Selina, a genuine smile on his lips, you felt as if you'd wasted your whole life being with the man you loved, but who didn't seem to love you back.
You and Bruce had been friends since before tragedy struck his family name, perhaps that's why it hurt so much to see that ring on Selina's finger. Because one thing was the pearl necklace, but quite another was Bruce giving her his mother's wedding ring.
The ring Thomas had given Martha... Martha, who would comment with a knowing smile on her face about how close you and Bruce were, and how you were like a daughter to her and Thomas, who, despite his wealth, always treated you with complete kindness when you went to Wayne Manor to play.
You weren't from the same social class as the wealthiest family in the city, but you'd always had an excellent education and been smart enough to get scholarships to schools that many people in your situation could only dream of attending.
Rich kids were cruel. The only one who was never mean to you was that dark-haired, blue-eyed boy. When grief and loss began to reign in Bruce's life, and he shut himself off from the rest of the world, you and he did nothing but cling to each other.
Today, so many years later, it seemed rather foolish that your life had revolved around this man, so captivated by that woman.
Selina Kyle, the woman who had captivated him from the first moment he saw her, the woman he had pursued from the very beginning, and the woman who was the object of all your envy.
Thinking about everything, it was foolish of you to have waited for him in the first place. After all, he fled Gotham for years, going to God knows where, without even sending a letter.
And even if you told yourself that you weren't expecting him, you were just lying to yourself, and it was ridiculously obvious, because the moment he returned, you were standing again at the gates of Wayne Manor with open arms, letting him back into your life, letting him break your heart again, and the pain in your chest as you drank a glass of champagne only proved that, in fact, he had broken your heart again, maybe this time forever.
You felt pathetic, but you couldn't miss your best friend's engagement party. No matter how much your heart ached or how humiliated you felt.
Because you actually believed he would ultimately choose you; you believed it, and so did every newspaper in Gotham.
Because even though many women passed through his life, you were the only one who stayed through the years, his faithful companion, always there for him, with soft hands, sweet words, and a kind smile.
Now you had to watch as another woman, in just a few years, took everything you had ever longed for. So now the Gotham newspapers had to change your name to hers, and you had to throw all your dreams in the trash.
And of course, not only that, because after all, you also had to give her your place. Because you had stupidly taken a place that never belonged to you, not really.
The role of his wife, after all, you had lived your entire life with him since the Prince of Gotham decided to return to his city to protect it in a bat suit.
You were the one who stayed up until dawn waiting for him, heart pounding, praying he would return to you alive. You were the one who tended to his wounds and the person he talked to about his nightmares. You are the woman his children call Mom.
But she will be Mrs. Wayne.
And no, of course it wasn't fair to you.
You had endured so much these past years, not just the sleepless nights and the madmen of Gotham.
You had survived the pain of losing your second son to the clown Bruce never had the guts to kill. You had watched your eldest son leave for another city, trying to escape his past. And you even stayed when Thalia came one day and casually announced that she had a child with him.
You didn't just stay with him despite all that; you raised that kid.
And now watching her dress sway to the music and seeing his eyes sparkle as they gazed at her, as if nothing else mattered in the room, brought back memories.
The school dance, when no one had asked you out and he, the boy every girl wanted to be with, approached you and asked you to dance.
He, your eternal dance partner, the man who always invited you as his date to the charity galas he attended and asked if you would do him the favor of dancing with him for a song, as if you weren't capable of giving him your whole life without expecting anything in return, as if you hadn't, in fact, given him your whole life, even though he never wanted it.
But now it seems you won't even be his dance partner anymore, and even that didn't matter at this point because he had never looked at you the way he looks at her now.
And maybe that was a good thing.
Maybe this was a sign from the universe that you should give up once and for all, that you shouldn't keep forcing it.
If after more than two decades he hasn't told you he loves you, what's the point of trying? Maybe it would have been better if you had accepted it sooner, before wasting your whole life and before he told you he was marrying "his greatest love".
And even though you'd had a few relationships over the years, none had been very long or very important. No man had ever been able to make you feel half the things Bruce did; you could never have such a deep connection with anyone else, but maybe he could.
After all, he was getting married, and what did you have? A house that would now belong to another woman, children who would legally be someone else's stepchildren, and a man for whom your heart had bled for years, who was now giving his heart to a woman who was your complete opposite.
It's time to have some dignity, if that's even possible, after spending so much time surrounded by people who have looked at you with disgust your whole life for a man who never even told you he loved you.
It's time to let go, time to accept that no matter how hopelessly in love you are with Bruce Wayne, he will never love you, much less the way you have loved him.
Would it be too cruel to leave without telling him where you're going? After all, maybe he wouldn't even notice you were gone. It's not like he was going to marry you, after all. You weren't needed at that wedding, which seemed designed solely to finally break your heart and kill all your hope.
Perhaps it's time to start something new and let go of everything once and for all, to stop trying and allow things to be the way they were always meant to be.
Him going his way, and you going yours.
Just friends. Best friends.
But for now, you would finish your drink and continue hiding in a corner of the grand ballroom while you, like everyone else in the room, watched the couple dancing in the middle of the room, oblivious to the rest of the world.
Perhaps in a few minutes, you would go out to get some fresh air and feel the rain on your skin as it mingled with your tears. This probably wouldn't be the last night you cried for Bruce Wayne, but it would be the last night you begged for his love.
Because after all, you are just a woman who loved him too much and was never noticed by him.
The woman behind the Dark Knight and the Prince of Gotham, the woman behind him, never beside him.
And that is the story of your life.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—★—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
Fuck smut, give me emotional angst over a situationship that ends with a broken heart. Because yearning for someone feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest. (I really NEED to stop having a crush with my friends).
Anyway, I came back after about two months because I was bored and missed my husband (Bruce) and I love writing angst. It's six am and I still haven't slept (I'm falling asleep).
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 5: Jenga
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Four✦
✦summary: something breaks✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: you guys don't understand how much i love writing losers✦
It hits you at the worst time. The realization.
Dean’s not just the hot roommate you’re in love with anymore.
He’s your best friend.
It’s terrifying. It somehow makes everything better and worse all at the same time. He’ll be in your life for a long, long time. You can’t imagine a world without him anymore, and you think whatever gap he left when he took your heart, he’s filled up so well your body might just stop working if you ever lose him.
It solidifies what you already knew. You can never tell him, because it might make him walk away.
But one day he’s going to find someone else. They’re going to get married. Maybe have babies. They’re going to build a part of his life that you’re allowed to witness, but never be a part of. It’s going to kill you, but you quickly decide that you’ll let it if you must. You’d rather have him then loose him.
And at least this way, you can try to move on.
And you really try to move on.
You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face.
“Alright.”
You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that.
“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”
You laugh weakly. Dean doesn’t even smile.
“Sure. Have fun.”
You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained.
“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”
It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing.
He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore.
You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went.
But only this night.
Because the pattern repeats.
You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment.
Far enough that he wants to meet Dean.
“You talk about him all the time.” Jake brings it up casually one night, and you fumble with your phone. It clatters to the floor, and Jake frowns at you like you’re crazy.
A tiny, unhelpful voice in the back of your head murmurs that Dean would never let you drop your phone. Every time something as small as a pencil slips from your hand, Dean catches it before it hits the ground. He’s caught you, when you stand on something you shouldn’t and stumble. That one time he talked you into ice skating you’d spent the whole day attached to his arm, and he’d never even let your knees hit the ice.
“You’re all wobbly.” He’d grinned at you after. “Like a baby deer or something.”
You’d stuck your tongue out at him. “I am not like a baby deer.”
“Or something.”
Dean had laughed when you’d hit his arm, side-stepped your next blow, and caught you when you stumbled forward.
He’d been all too close. Chest pressed against yours, strong hands on your waist and shoulder, lips barely a breath away. And maybe the night was just that cold, but he’d been warmer than a volcano. You’d been ready to jump. You’d been ready to say your prayers and close your eyes, to fall down into him and let his heat take you over-
Jake snaps your name, waving a hand in front of your face. You blink at him, and carve a smile onto your face.
“Sorry. You want to- To-“
“To meet Dean.” He grunts, and the smile is burning at your cheeks.
It might be a punishment. Your body eating itself to offer a reparation for your mind’s sins. If Jake sees the pain—dull and demanding behind your eyes—he doesn’t mention it.
And you wonder if he knows. If sometimes he hears how you muffle cries of Dean’s name into the pillows, chewing your lips to remind them that they can’t simply say what you want. Who you want. Soft sighs and cries of Dean are not helpful, or wanted. Your tongue should be cut off, for the way it always seems ready to snap at he’s supposed to ask you what’s wrong when you pout and curl into a ball on the couch.
You know that Jake can’t be blamed. He’s just a man.
It’s unfair, to compare him to a god.
“What’s up with you?” Dean asks that afternoon, and you have to ask him. You told Jake you would.
“Nothing.”
Oops.
Dean doesn’t look convinced. He crosses his arms over his chest, frowning down at you. “Nothing, huh.”
You try an easy smile. You’re certain you look psychotic.
“Sure doesn’t look like nothing-“
“Jake wants to meet you.”
You speak at the same time. Dean’s jaw hangs open. You snap your mouth shut.
The staring match lasts about two minutes before Dean clears his throat. You’re grateful. You had no will to speak first.
“Jake? That’s- New boytoy, right?”
“Boyfriend.” You mutter, the bitterness of the words leaking into your tone. “But- Yeah.”
“Hm.” Dean looks off to the side, huffing a low laugh. “And he’s gunning to meet me?”
“We live together.” He says I talk about you all the time. “He has to eventually.”
“Why.”
“Why?”
“Yeah. What’ve I got to do with your little- Thing.”
“You’re my roommate. And my friend.”
Dean makes a face like he’s smelt something funny. You sigh, sinking further into the couch cushions.
“You don’t have to-“
“No.” Dean grunts. “I will. But,” he points a stern finger at you. “I ain’t making him dinner.”
You smile. That’s not a deal you can complain about.
Dean only makes you dinner. You have no intention of sharing something so sacred with Jake.
Who’s fine. Perfectly fine. Just… Not Dean.
And that’s where it all falls apart.
Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices.
And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl.
“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.
“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”
You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up.
Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well.
“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”
“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”
“Really?”
“Mhm.”
Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name.
“Yeah?”
Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough.
“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”
“Why? We’re just-“
“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“
Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“
“He’s my friend-“
“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”
You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police.
He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”
You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out.
Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again.
But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone.
He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb.
He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.
“You okay?”
You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here.
And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with.
All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light.
“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light.
You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”
“Anytime.”
There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile.
Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away.
After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there.
You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know.
You’re not going to be able to move on.
✦Chapter Six✦
✦End note: chapter four remains my "bonding" chapter lmao✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 6✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: jess confronts you and dean ✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: we're back again! i love them✦
Dean’s shirt doesn’t feel long enough anymore. You clench the fabric between your hands and turn it in your fingers, trying to pull it down and apart all at once. Maybe you can shrink into it like a turtle, and Jess’ sharp gaze won’t burn through you like a cigarette on a leaf.
She’s looking at Dean like she wants to kill him. He’s got one hand reaching behind him to steady you, and another curled at his side. You reach out to grab his shoulder, and his shoulders relax slightly. He remains planted in front of you, though. Protecting your modesty.
You try and pull the shirt down further, and step fully behind his back. You’re not afraid of Jess. You’re more worried Dean’s going to work himself up into passing out, and you’re going to have to catch him.
“Jess,” Dean starts, squeezing your wrist tighter. Like he’s trying to make sure you don’t slip away. “This- It isn’t what it looks like-“
“Really?” Jess snaps, and you drop your face into Dean’s shoulder with a sigh.
You love the man. He can be a bit of a dumbass sometimes.
“This isn’t what it looks like?” Jess waves between you and Dean. “Is that really what you’re going with, Winchester? That this is just some misunderstanding?”
“I- uh-“
“You were on the phone with Sam three hours ago. You told him you were in Louisiana, this is not Louisiana-“
“I know that-“
“You told him your girlfriend knew where you were-“
“Hey, she does-“
“Ha!” Jess points at him with an almost manic grin. “Because your girlfriend is right here!”
Her finger turns to you, and Dean tenses. He steps right in front of you, grip tightening, and narrows his eyes.
“Don’t point at her.”
Jess blinks, and you squeeze his shoulder lightly.
“De, I’m okay-“
“No. You’re pissed at me, fine. Be pissed. But she did nothing wrong.”
“Nothing-“ Jess scoffs, though there’s something in the sound that’s been dulled from before. “You both have been lying to Sam for months. To me for months. For- For years!” Her eyes widen. “Sam introduced you almost two years ago, you- You’ve been fucking the whole time-“
“No!” You jump in, leaning over Dean. “It’s not like that, it’s- We haven’t been dating the whole time- It’s only- Dean-“
“Seven months.” Dean mutters. “Two weeks, four days.”
“Exactly- That’s not-“ You cut yourself off, giving him an amused look. “You know the days?”
“Course I know the days.”
“It’s- Dean, I don’t know the days-“
“You’re bad at time, ‘s why I set all those alarms.”
“No, you set the alarms because you forget things-“
“I never touched that app until you, baby.” Dean smirks, and you roll your eyes.
“You touched the app, don’t be dramatic-“
“Nope.” He squeezes your waist. You’re not even sure when his hand got there, but it makes you melt all the same. “Cross my heart. Never even knew what a timer was.”
“You- You knew-“
“Ask Charlie, she’ll tell you ‘bout my perfect internal clock.” He ducks down, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “’m like a pigeon, Princess.”
It’s difficult not to giggle and melt for him. You hold it together. “Pigeons have homing instincts. Not clocks.”
“Hm- Fine. I’m like an owl.”
“That’s- Time isn’t an owl thing either. Owls are wise, they like- Read books.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “Owls read books?”
“No, it’s- That’s the thing you see, in a cartoon, the owl reading the book.”
“Oh- Like that dork with the glasses in PBS.”
You nod, beaming up at him. “Yeah. Just like that.”
Dean grins, reaching up to cup your chin. Your smile widens, your face all hot under his hands, and he leans down, and-
“If you kiss in front of me, I’m going to vomit.”
Right. Jess.
She’s still glaring between you, but it’s with less fury than before. Like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle without the box, and realized halfway through she might be using the wrong pieces. Dean tucks you under his arm, his fingers tracing small shapes on your shoulder. At least he’s not trying to barricade you anymore. You like this better anyway. He’s the prettiest, softest, smartest set of armor in the world. You think he has more of a heartbeat than you do, sometimes. You know yours follows whatever rhythm his says is safe to beat.
“Look, we’ll- We can explain. Just-“ Dean sighs, dropping his face into your hair and taking a long, deep breath.
You smile nervously at Jess. She looks even more confused.
“Don’t tell Sammy.” Dean looks up again, his fingers splaying on your stomach. “Please.”
Jess glares between you. She crosses her arms and tilts her head, scanning you up and down like the answers she wants will be written all over your skin.
You’re sure, in a way, that they are. Dean was bold, for his it’s not what it looks like claim. You’re wearing his shirt and nothing else. He’s wearing his lazy night boxers, that are for when he’s too tired for pants. You’ve offered to help him wear his pants, if he’s cold. He always kisses your brow and mutters something about that being dangerous. You say it’s not dangerous, they’re pants. He says anything that’s got you touching me is dangerous, Princess. You remind him you touch him all the time. He grins—because he’s won the game you always lose, but he never gets any less proud of it—and murmurs exactly before ducking down for a kiss.
His lazy night boxers have little ducks on them. You bought them for him, because he reminds you of a duck. He tried to be offended by that, but he wears them all the time.
And they’re inside out. Like he’d shoved them on, because he had. And his hair is mussed up, and you’re holding his arm around your waist because there’s a pleasant, dull ache between your legs and you’ve never had to walk with it before. Dean’s boots are next to yours at the door. His jacket is tossed over the couch.
There’s nothing else this could be.
If Jess snaps that she’s going to tell Sam now, you’ll understand. You should’ve told him sooner. It’s your own fault, for not wanting the tiny, sacred blossom you’ve been growing with Dean to be touched by anything outside. You’ve been so worried it wasn’t going survive being in a real garden. That weeds would grow over it or winter would freeze it or the soil wouldn’t be rich enough.
But those were phantoms. Loud voices in your head that Dean was good at silencing.
And you should’ve told Sam.
“Jess-“
“Fine.” She cuts you off, looking up at the ceiling with a shake of her head. “But I want to hear him talk.”
She points at Dean, and you swallow. He can do this. He just has to not talk about how you just had sex, focus on the timeline, and it’ll be fine.
Dean swallows, pulling you tighter to his chest.
“I- Uh- Are you sure you don’t want her to talk- She talks real pretty, and-“
“I listen to her talk all the time.” Jess tips her chin up, eyes locked on Dean. “Think of it as in-law bonding.”
“In-law bonding?” Dean stands a little taller. “Oh, that’s awesome, did you and Sammy- Oof-“
You elbow him right in the gut, and he doubles over with a groan. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you rub his forearm while smiling at Jess.
“No ring,” you hiss, low enough for only Dean to hear.
He grunts, kissing the top of your throat. “Thanks, baby.”
You hum, and give Jess another winning smile. She just raises her brows, an unimpressed expression painted on her face.
And you realize, as you all settle on the couch, that right now Dean isn’t just Sam’s brother. He’s also the secret boyfriend Jess has been grinding you down into showing her. The one she’s wanted to gnash at and rip up, to see if he’s made of something she deems worthy enough.
For a second, you’re glad you didn’t tell Sam. Doing this with both of them might’ve actually killed Dean.
“Seven months.” Jess starts slowly, glaring between you.
Dean’s still holding your hand. Your thighs are pressed together. You made the careful call not to sit on his lap or lean any closer than you needed to.
“Yep.” Dean gives her that boyish, charming smile. It’s the one he uses on you, to get what he wants.
He’s been spoiled, by how much you love him. How easily you fold. Jess doesn’t even blink.
“How.”
“How, uh-“ Dean frowns. “How’s it been seven months?”
“How did it start, dumbass.”
“Oh. I- Um- I flew out to visit her. And- We went to the zoo and kissed. But she kissed me.” He adds quickly. You’re worried he’s going to cramp his hand, with how tight he’s holding yours. “I wasn’t gonna make a move, but- We got caught in the rain, and that makes girls romantic-“
“That makes girls romantic-“’
“Me. It makes me romantic.” Dean sits taller. A terrified soldier at attention. “I got really romantic, and- I wooed her into kissin’ me. Would’ve have happened if I wasn’t throwing off signals. And- Hormones, like an ant-“
“Pheromones.” You whisper, and Dean nods frantically.
“But- The ant-“
“That was right.” You offer him a small smile. “But I think you’re talking about bird dancing. Ant pheromones are for communication.”
“Oh. Cool.” Dean grins at you, then at Jess. “You see why I took her to the zoo? Little freakin’ nerd.”
“I am not a nerd-“
“Yes, you are.” Dean grabs your chin, squeezing it gently. “No pouting, sweetheart. Makes you too cute.”
Your nose wrinkles, and your face twists into a mock sneer. Dean laughs, and leans down to kiss you.
Jess hits him with a pillow. He squawks like a bird, twisting his back to shield you from more fluffy projectiles, and you giggle.
“I thought I told you not to talk?” Jess snaps at you—though with far less venom than she’s been using on Dean—and you give her an apologetic smile.
“Do you want me to leave the-“
“No.” Dean—his face pressed into your breasts, his arms around your stomach—sits back up. “No, you- You stay. I’ll behave, I’ll even-“ He sits on his hands, giving Jess a hopeful look. “See? No touching.”
“Hm.” Jess lets out a long breath. “Fine. Keep going. Zoo.”
“Right. Zoo.” Dean rocks on his hands, face scrunched as he thinks. He looks like a scolded toddler, trying to think of a way to explain why they ate the last cookie.
You’re a little worried that the harder he thinks, the more he’s going to talk himself out of telling very simple, easy truths.
“Why were you at the zoo?” Jess prompts tightly.
Dean frowns. “Cause she wanted to go to the zoo?”
“No, I- How did you end up at the zoo here. Like- Physically?”
“Oh.” Dean shrugs. “I drove.”
“From Chicago?”
“Yeah. I usually drive. I’ll, uh-“ He glances at you. “I take the I-90, then stick south-west, lotta backroads depending-“
“Dean, I don’t care about your route-“
“I know, I’m just- I get here in like three days, drivin’ real fast. And safe.” He adds quickly. “I drive safe, Princess. I’m the most law abiding guy out there.”
You shake your head, turning to hide your smile. Jess leans forward, still frowning.
“You drive for three days.” She says slowly. “Just to get to California.”
“I mean- Yeah.”
“Where’s your car right now?”
“Back in Chicago.” Dean shrugs. “Flew in, just this one time. Emergency.”
“Emergency?” Jess frowns, looking to you. “What- Are you okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. I- I’m okay.”
“What happened, I- Why didn’t you tell us-“
“I was- Um- I wanted to-“
“But you didn’t, you called Dean-“
“It was- I needed him.” You give her a pleading look. “You- I know you would’ve helped. I- I needed Dean.”
Jess’ frown deepens. She looks Dean up and down, and he sits taller. You know she’s trying to imagine what he has, that she and Sam don’t.
That would make him worth lying about.
Because she’s mad Dean lied to his brother. To her boyfriend.
But you also lied to her. And you’re her friend.
“He dropped everything.” You say softly, and Jess looks at you suspiciously.
You know you’re not supposed to talk. You’re going to anyway.
“I called him, I told him not to come, but- He asked if I needed him- He made me tell him I needed him- And I did, and he came. And I needed him. I love you,” you give her a soft smile. “You don’t call me when you need Sam.”
Jess’ nose twitches. Something in the lines of her face softens. “Sam and I have been together for three years.”
“I know.”
“I’ve known you for three years-“
“I know-“
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jess whispers, her eyes tired and pained. “If you asked me not to, I wouldn’t have told him. I mean- I would’ve been pissed about it, but-“
“You would’ve hated it.” You lean forward, holding onto Dean’s knee. “You would’ve thought about telling Sam all the time, I didn’t want to do that to you.”
Jess’ throat bobs. She laughs softly, glancing at Dean, then back to you. “He’s going to be pissed.”
“Yeah.” You sigh. “I know.”
“God, he- He literally promised Sam he wouldn’t do this.” Jess gives Dean a stern look, and you frown.
“Do what, date me?”
“Chase after you.” Jess shrugs. “Sam was real worried you were just another hookup-“
“She’s not.” Dean grabs your hand on his knee. “I haven’t slept around since we started talking. Couldn’t even get it up anymore, after I met her. Swear on my car.”
Jess snorts. “So what, you were just celibate for a year-“
“Yeah. I was.”
Dean holds Jess’ untrusting look. She looks between you again, features pinched slightly, and lets out a long, sharp breath.
“Jesus, Sam is going to-“
“Kill us.” Dean smirks. “He can try. He might got a few inches on me now, I but I don’t go down easy, Jess. I’m scrappy.”
“Scrappy?” You echo, smiling up at him, and he shrugs.
“I fight dirty. He pretends to bite your nose, then kisses it. “You know that.”
He tickles you side, and you smack him almost in the face. Dean laughs, wrapping his arm fully around your stomach and pulling you into his chest. You fall back into the couch cushions, half in his lap, and give Jess a nervous smile. She’s staring at you both like she’s seen a ghost. You can’t really blame her.
“We’re going to tell Sam.” You tell her. “I promise.”
Dean holds you back like a seatbelt, as you try to sit up. You twist to glare at him, and he’s got that charming, boyish smile. He leans up to kiss your shoulder, and you don’t understand how Jess manages to be immune to him. This whole mess could’ve been avoided, if you didn’t fold like a towel under his attention. Letting him shape you into where he needs you to be, absorbing up everything he gives you, even trying to get tossed over his shoulder, because those big hands on the back of your thighs make you so dizzy and stupid you might as well be high.
He drags his thumb in small circles, staring up at you adoringly, and you give in. You always give in.
Jess still doesn’t look wholly convinced, when you collapsed back against Dean’s chest. You wrap your arms around your stomach, trying to breathe through your nose. This will be fine. This will be fine.
“You’re happy.” Jess murmurs, and you try to push back your smile.
It’s not a question. Dean doesn’t let it be a question. Either you’re already happy, or Dean comes and makes you happy.
“Is he respectful?” She asks you, and Dean tenses.
“I’m a freakin’ gentleman-“
“I didn’t ask you, Winchester.” Jess shots him a daggered glare, and he slumps back into the cushions. Jess says your name. “Is he respectful?”
“Very.” You say quickly. “He’s chivalrous.”
You lean your head back to smile at him. He’s beaming so proudly, you’re worried his head is going to pop.
“Hm.” Jess’ nose twitches. “How long did he wait after that visit to ask you out.”
“A year. And- I called him. If that helps.”
Jess pauses. “How the hell did you get his number?”
“He left it for me?”
Jess’ gaze snaps to Dean, and he winces. The way he’s adjusting you in his arms, you could swear he’s hiding behind you.
“Dean-“
“Hey, I wasn’t allowed to ask for her number, so- No rules broken-“
“That’s not the point, he didn’t- It wasn’t about semantics-“
“I don’t know what that word means-“
“Yes, you do.” You cover Dean’s mouth, frowning at Jess. “And- Why wasn’t Dean allowed to ask for my number?”
Jess pales. Like she’s just realizing what she’s been saying—what she’s been implying—and that you have fucking ears.
No rules broken. He promised Sam he wouldn’t do this. Chase after you.
“Did Sam tell him not to?” You ask softly, and Jess sighs.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Maybe-“
“He did. But- He knows his brother, alright? And Dean-“ She gives him a look. “You’d never been serious about a relationship before-“
“I’m serious about this.” He mutters, fingers curling against your stomach. “And I’m not- That ain’t something that’s gonna change.”
“He flew on a plane for me.” You say softly, and Jess sighs.
“Yeah. I got that. But- He swore to Sam he wasn’t gonna try anything, then- You lied to his face-“
“It was new, Jess.” Dean’s voice is heavier than before. Cautious, his body almost rooted into yours. Like he’s worried Jess is going to try and rip you away. “If I told him we were talking, he woulda made me promise not to date her. If I told him we were dating, he would’ve told her all kinds of horror stories ‘bout me in high school and shit. That ain’t fair.”
Jess winces. “He- He does want you to be happy-“
“But he thinks she’s too good for me.”
“He’d never-“
“Yes, he would.” Dean sighs, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “And he’s right. But we’re not the one who makes the call.”
He and Jess stare at each other, and you shrink a little further back into Dean’s chest. You’re not too good for him. He’s too good for you. He’s too good for everyone. He’s like a perfect man they made in a factory, warm and thick and sweeter than every other sugary thin you love so much. You worry sometimes, that you get too greedy for him, but there’s no end to it. To him, and his soft, firm hands.
Sam almost stopped you from having him.
You should be furious about that. But every time a little anger sparks, it’s stomped out by a downpour that’s heavier. That fills up your chest and almost pushes out of your eyes.
If you hadn’t lied to Sam, you wouldn’t have Dean.
Jess says your name, and you blink away the threatening tears.
“Is it worth it?” She asks softly.
You nod without a single thought. Jess sighs.
“There are- Like so many other men-“
“So?”
She gives you a flat look. “I have friends! I could’ve set you up, if you were this desperate-“
“Hey.” Dean frowns. “I’m the whole package, kid-“
“I’m sure you are, banana pants-“
“They’re ducks-“
“Dean.” You give him a stern look, and he goes silent. You look back to Jo. “Don’t be mean to him. He’s sensitive.”
Dean scowls, grumbling under his breath. “No, I’m not-“
“Yes, you are.” You run your fingers through his hair—it’s getting long, and he’s going to try and make you cut it but maybe you’ll just tell him no—and smile. Dean grunts, dropping his face into your shoulder. His lips graze the crook of your neck.
Jess looks like she’s being torn in half.
“I love him.” You say, soft and quiet. “I- I’ve never- I don’t want anyone else.”
Dean smiles against your skin. Jess groans like she’s being tortured.
“Seven months?” She mutters, and you nod.
“We were calling at lot before that, but- He was just hitting on me-“
“Were you hitting on him back?”
“I, um- I think I was trying-“
“She’s bad at it.” Dean chuckles, propping his chin on your shoulder. “It’s fuckin’ adorable. Like watchin’ a baby bird trying to fly. Couldn’t even get outta the nest.”
You sigh, leaning your head back against his. “You’re bad at metaphors.”
“I’m amazing at everything.” He teases, and you snort, shaking your head.
“Mhm.”
“I am. Makes me a good housewife, if you got an opening.”
You roll your eyes, still smiling stupidly, and look back to Jess.
“He does my laundry. And cleans, and brings me things, and-“
“I carry her around-“
“I don’t ask you to do that-“
“Yeah, but I love doin’ it.” He kisses your cheek. “You ass goes right next to my face-“
“Okay!” Jess shouts, slumping back into her chair. “I get it, you’re- This is… Something.”
It’s more than something. It’s the best thing you’ve ever had in your life. The only thing you’ve ever been certain of, because the Earth shifts and the ground under your feet slips and Dean’s more unmovable than a mountain. Now doesn’t feel like the best time to tell Jess that.
“I love him.” You say instead. “He cooks for me.”
Jess’ eyes widen. “He cooks for you?” She looks to Dean. “You can’t cook!”
Dean frowns. “Who says I can’t cook? Sam?”
“I- When you come out to visit, he always tells me we have to go to restaurants-“
“Yeah, ‘cause I like tryin’ new food. I can cook.”
“And bake.” You say quickly, and Jess starts, like she’s just putting things together.
“Oh my god, he made the cupcakes.”
“I told you that-“
“Yeah, but I didn’t- That’s-“ she gapes at Dean. “You’ve been leaving all those hickeys, and- The chocolates-“
Dean tenses. “You, uh- You didn’t read the card, did you-“
“It’s in my room.” You murmur, and he lets out a sharp breath.
Jess shakes her head, frowning between you. “God, Sam’s going to- I won’t tell him.” She points at you and Dean, eyes narrowed. “Because I love you,” she ignores Dean all together. “And I think Sam likes having not murdered anyone. But you,” her gaze snaps to Dean. “Are going to call him right now and say that after Benny’s you’re driving up to California.”
Dean swallows. “That’s, uh- Long drive-“
“You’re not actually making it, genius.” Jess rolls her eyes. “I’m giving you a week to figure out what the hell you’re going to tell him, and then I’m telling him myself.”
You look back to Dean. He grimaces, but shrugs. It’s the best deal you’re going to get. You can even figure out an escape plan, in case Sam does try to kill him. Dean knows how to throw a punch—and less scrapy than brutally strong—but you don’t think he’ll stand a chance against Sam. Mostly because Sam will lunge to rip out his throat, and Dean will refuse to lay a single hand on his baby brother.
“Deal.” Dean grins at Jess. Her lips don’t even twitch.
“Good. Call him.”
“Uh- Now?”
“Yep.”
“I dunno, it’s late-“
“He’s awake.”
You pause. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Yep. I told him you had a book I wanted, and I was going to pick it up.” She grimaces. “Got caught in traffic. Thank fuck.”
Her gaze darts to your bare thighs, pulled to your chest and resting between Dean’s legs. You flush. You’re also glad she got caught in traffic.
“My, uh- My phone is in your room.” Dean squeezes your knee. “Baby, can you…”
You nod, and roll off Dean’s lap. He lingers for a second, brushing a kiss over your brow before dragging himself away. You smile like a fool, hugging yourself tighter. If you don’t, your heart it going to spill like honey all over the floor in front of Jess.
She’s still watching you suspiciously, when Dean goes to grab his phone. You clear your throat, face burning, and she sighs.
“You really love him?”
You nod, and almost apologize for it—it’s not your fault, how are you supposed to not love Dean, but you feel bad anyway—before Jess laughs.
“I told him.”
You blink. “You told Dean I love him?”
“No,” she snorts. “I told Sam. That this was going to happen.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again, and shake your head. You didn’t know this was going to happen. Dean had just appeared and suddenly the universe had shifted into better colors than you’d even see before. You’d been blind for so long, it had been like a firework hitting you square in the chest.
There was no way for Jess to know it was going to do that.
“What?”
Jess rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “When Dean came down that first time, I told him not to introduce you.”
Your lips pull tight. “Why- Why would you do that-“
“Because Sam loves him, but- He loves you too. And Dean- You know what he was like. Before.”
You swallow, shrinking into yourself. You know too well. You try not to think about it, because it puts a sour taste in your mouth. Vile thoughts and pictures flash through your head like bullets, demanding that you remember Dean’s experience. That he’s always going to have some other girl waiting for him in the corner of a bar, and if he gets tired of you, he just has to drop you on the floor and wave her over.
He’d never do that. Not to you. If for some horrible, horrible reason Dean ever does get sick of you—and no matter how much he reassures you he won’t, there’s always that tiny voice, because you’re sick of you all the time—he’d never hurt you over it. But there’s always that phantom. The smiles of girls when you go to bars. The fact that sometimes when you kiss him, you know he’s so good at it because he had practice.
When you were under him, he knew what to do because he’d done it countless times. And you’d just lain there, looking up at him like he was a god. Useless. If he wanted something warm to fuck, he could get a fleshlight instead. It would cry less, and he wouldn’t need to care for it after, and-
“Hey.” Jess touches your hand, and you swallow.
Tears had been burning at your eyes. You sniff, wiping your nose, and Jess flinches, face tight with guilt.
“I’m not- I didn’t think Dean would just try to sleep with you,” she says softly. “Sam did. I told him not to introduce you two because I thought it would end like this,” she nods to where Dean had disappeared through the door. “And he said the worst that happens is Dean tries to sleep with her, and I kill him.”
“He didn’t.” You mumble, staring at Jess’ hand. “I had to make him sleep with me. He kept trying to make it special, it was taking so fucking long.”
Jess laughs, and your lips tug up. She moves to sit next to you on the couch, and your knees bump.
“He’s good to me.” You whisper, dropping your head on her shoulder.
She sighs. “Yeah. I knew he would be.”
You smile at nothing, and Jess wraps her arm around your shoulders.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Mhm.” You count on your fingers. “Charlie- His roommate. All his coworkers. Benny, obviously-“
“Obviously.”
“Um- My friend Jo, but just because she caught us. And now you.”
Jess hums, frowning at the air. “Jo, she’s the one from your hometown?”
“Yeah.”
“Does your dad know?”
You snort, shaking you head. “De’s more afraid of him that he is of Sam.”
“Really? Your dad was so nice-“
“To you and Sam.” You give her a pointed look. “You aren’t fucking me.”
Jess laughs, and you pause. That was what you’d wanted to ask her about.
You lower your voice, even though the only other person who could hear is Dean.
“He’s really good at sex.” You whisper, and Jess’ eyes widen. “Is it a genetic thing? Is Sam good at it too?”
Jess’ face goes red. She clears her throat, and you study her carefully.
“I- Um-“ She shakes her head. “I mean, yes, but- He’s your first,” she says gently. “I mean, you don’t have a benchmark-“
“Oh. Hm.” You tilt your head. “How many times does Sam make you cum?”
Jess’ sighs, slumping into your side. “Like- two, usually.”
You nod. “Oh.”
“Oh?” She narrows her eyes. “What, Dean can’t be that good-“
You beam at her, and she scoffs.
“Whatever. At least mine can read.”
“Dean can read! He’s just- He likes to play stupid-“
“Play?” Jess grins at you. “Sam told me he almost got held back in fourth grade-“
“Because he couldn’t sit still. He was hyper, he needed to run around to focus-“
“Dean told me he can’t do calculus.”
“He doesn’t need to do calculous.” You grumble. “He’s a genius.”
Jess shakes her head, still smiling. “Wow. He must be really good at sex.”
You shove her arm. “Dean says Sam used to cry when their mom moved the rocks in the garden.”
“He liked them in order.” Jess says defensively. “You do the same thing-“
“I’m very annoying.”
“Sam’s not annoying-“
“I didn’t say he was.” You shrug. “Interesting, that you thought of it though-“
Jess pushes you, and you laugh.
“Sam can’t eat anything but butter noodles.”
“He’s- He doesn’t care about food, okay? His brain goes to other things.” She glares at you. “Dean eats like a racoon.”
You giggle, leaning back into her shoulder. “He told me he and Sam used to eat grass.”
Jess sighs. “Yeah, I know. I think mine ate it more.”
“At least he didn’t eat dog food.”
“That- He actually did that?”
“Yep.” You shake your head. “He says it was a dare.”
“He knows he doesn’t have to do those, right?”
“Nope. I’m worried Charlie’s going to call me one day and say he’s lost in the woods because she dared him to be or something.”
“You should put a tracker on him.”
You snort. “He’d find it.”
“I’d find what?” Dean reappears in the doorway, glaring at Jess. “You took my seat.”
Jess sticks out her tongue. “I was here first.”
“No you weren’t- I-“ He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
You giggle, as he shuffles over to the chair. You stretch out your legs, resting then in his lap, and he rubs your ankle with a small grin.
“What am I gonna find?”
“Nothing-“
“A tracker.” You answer, and Jess glares at you.
“Why would you tell him-“
“Because he’d find it.” You shrug, and Dean puffs out his chest.
“Hell yeah, I would.” He pauses. “Why’re you talkin’ about trackers.”
“Jess wants me to put one on you.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “I’m not a freakin’ dog-“
“She’s worried you’re going to get lost in the woods.” Jess says, and Dean glares at you.
“I- I’m not gonna get lost in the woods-“
“You would if Charlie dared you to.” You nudge his thigh with your foot, and he sighs.
“I know how to get outta the woods, Princess.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I’m like a pigeon.” He grins. “I’d phone home. Back to you.”
He picks up your leg, kissing the inside of your ankle. You roll your eyes, your smile ditzy and gaze locked onto his. You’re glad Jess is next to you. Your shirt is riding enough up that Dean can see right between your legs, and you’re still not wearing underwear.
His gaze flashes with hunger when he sees it. A smirk pulls at his lips, and he rubs your calf in smooth, firm circles when he lowers your leg. You flush, trying not to squirm. It’s torture, knowing what he could do to you if he got you alone. It’s worse than when you were just imaging. You can picture those pretty, smug lips kissing up your inner thighs, over the sensitive skin around your core, before finding where you’re throbbing for him and-
“Call Sam.” Jess snaps, nodding to the phone in Dean’s hand. “Now.”
Dean sighs, slumping down in his chair. He taps on his phone, still rubbing your ankle, and you bite down a happy sigh.
The phone rings. You and Jess watch Dean carefully, but he doesn’t seem that nervous. He just rolls his neck, tipping his head back against the chair while he waits.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice cuts through the air. Dean’s grip tightens on your ankle.
“Hey, Sammy. You got some time?”
“Yeah, uh-“ Sam clears his throat. “It’s pretty late, but- Jess is out. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Jess is out?” Dean ignores the question. “Where’d she go?”
Jess glares at him, and he just smirks at the ceiling. You sigh, giving her an apologetic look. Dean, in all his glory and kindness, can still be a fucking butt.
Sam says your name. “Something about her having a book? I dunno, she seemed pissed about something.”
Jess cringes. You squeeze her hand.
“Huh.” Dean drawls, looking at you and Jess under his lashes. “Wonder what.”
You kick him, and he smirks, pinning your foot against his stomach.
“I don’t know, it was just- She was acting weird all evening. I’ll ask her when she gets home or something.” Sam sighs through the speaker. “Why are you calling me, Dean. It must be what, 1am there?”
“Yeah, uh- Just wanted to tell you the plan.”
“The plan? You don’t make plans.”
Dean frowns. “Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t. I call you and suddenly you’re on the road doing something-“
“Yeah, ‘cause I planned to be-“ Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Whatever, you wanna hear the plan or not?”
“Maybe. Does it involve me meeting your fake girl friend?”
“Yes, smartass. It does."
Sam goes silent for a moment. Dean picks up his head, frowning at you, and you give him a nervous look. He squeezes your foot three times, working his own jaw.
“Really?” Sam finally says, and Dean sighs.
“Yeah, really.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” Dean glares at the phone. “You’ve been up my ass for months about this, and I’m givin’ in and suddenly it’s why?”
“Yeah, Dean, because I’ve been- Well, I’m not saying up your ass-“
“You’ve been rooting around in there like she was just gonna fall out-“
“Don’t be gross, dude-“
“I’m just tellin’ the truth-“
“You’re being a jerk.” Sam snaps. “So that I won’t ask more questions.”
Dean sighs, and you hide your smile. He likes to pretend to hate it when people know him too well. He gets all fake grumpy, when you predict him.
You’re never going to tell him how adorably predictable he actually is. You pretend to give him restaurants to chose from, but you know what he’ll pick the moment you see it. He always holds your hand, and always gets all puppy-dog excited over pie, and when you say what should we watch you’re already looking for his answer before he says it.
Dean’s a good, smart, handsome man, and he’s simple in the way that math is simple. There’s only ever one answer, and if you know it well enough there’s not that much work to do. It can take time to know him well. But it’s time well spent.
And Sam’s the only person in the world who has Dean figured out as well as you do. You’re still a little shocked Jess is the one who figured it out from a phone call. You’ve been worried that Dean would slip up in the way only Dean could, and Sam would sink his teeth into it and cut the case wide open.
The way he’s very close to doing right now.
“Look, Sammy-“
“Don’t do that.” Sam snaps over Dean. “I’m not a kid, Dean. You’re being weird.”
“I’m not bein’ weird-“
“You’re calling me at one in the morning, about meeting your fake girlfriend-“
“She’s not-“ Dean groans, and it echoes in your chest a little. “She’s not fake, alright? And you’re not gonna be meeting her.”
“You just said-“
“I said it involves that. Not that it was gonna happen.”
“Dean, you can’t just- You have to tell me what the fuck you mean, you know I hate surprises-“
“Well,” Dean’s voice drops under his breath. “There’s no other good freakin’ way to do this.”
“What?”
“I said it ain’t a surprise, Sammy.” He raises his voice again, giving you and Jess a tired look. “I’m tellin’ you, right now. After Benny’s, I’m heading over to you, and we’ll- We’ll work something out, alright? I want you to know.”
“Hm.” Sam still sounds doubtful. “Why.”
“’Cause.” Dean snaps. Sam scoffs.
“That’s not a good reason, Dean-“
“Well, it’s the one you’re gonna get. You can go all CIA on my ass after, alright? I’m there in one week, whether you like it or not.”
Sam sighs. “Dude, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Dean frowns. “Why the hell not? I visit you all the time.”
Jess tenses, mouth falling open. She looks frantic all of a sudden, leaning forward.
“Mom and Dad are coming out.” Sam mutters, and Jess swears, slumping back down.
“I forgot.” She whispers to you, but you barely hear it.
You’re too busy looking at Dean.
He’s pale in the face and red in the ears. His jaw is tight, a vein in his brow ticking. You mouth his name, pressing your foot into his stomach gently. He squeezes you three times, but there’s a hollow gleam in his eyes.
You don’t have to. You mouth, but Dean shakes his head.
Something in his gaze steels. He clears his throat, and his voice is rougher than before.
“Good. Family reunion.”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I’m an adult. So is Dad. And-” He sighs, looking purely at you. “Was gonna have to introduce her eventually.”
“I know, but- Maybe not now-“
“Nope. Now. Next week. Lookin’ forward to it.”
“Dean-“
“”s late. Night, Sammy.”
Dean hangs up the phone, and you sigh. Jess doesn’t try to stop you, when you detangle yourself and make your way over to his side. You wrap your hands lightly around his neck, your fingers brushing on the hair at his nape. His eyes flutter closed. You give him a small smile.
“I forgot they were coming, Dean.” Jess mutters from behind you. “I would’ve told you to wait a week, I’m sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You answer for him, watching his brow knit tight. “We’ll figure it out.”
You will. You have to tell Sam eventually, and if you keep waiting, it puts Jess at risk of his anger too. It’s one thing for her to give you a week deadline before you tell him. It’s another for this to turn into a secret she has to keep too.
Jess leaves soon after, hugging you and mumbling another apology. You’re not as worried about it as she seems to be. It’s not going to be easy, but Dean’s stronger than people give him credit for. He lived under John’s roof for years. He’ll survive one dinner, and then he’ll come home, and he can tell you everything that happened and you can kiss all over his face and make him feel better.
He’s still in the chair, when you walk back into the living room. You smile softly, walking between his legs. He grabs your waist without opening his eyes, his voice low and under his breath.
“I’m alright, sweetheart-“
“I know.” You murmur, combing your fingers through his hair. “I didn’t think you weren’t.”
Dean looks at you under lidded eyes. You keep you smile even, and he lets out a long sigh.
“He wasn’t that bad.”
“Okay.”
“He wasn’t-“
“I said okay.”
Dean grunts, shifting to lean forwards. His face presses into your stomach, his hands dragging down to hug you around your ass. You keep petting his head, humming to yourself as you wait.
“I don’t want ‘im near you.” Dean mutters finally, and you sigh.
“I thought you said he wasn’t that bad?”
Dean pinches the back of your thigh, and you squeal.
“Dean-“
“You always gonna get this mouthy after I fuck you?”
His drawl is low. Deep. It rolls through your body like thunder and heats your cheeks, a burning ache pooling between your thighs. You narrow your eyes.
“Nice try.”
He sighs, and presses his face back into your stomach. “Wasn’t tryin’ anything.”
His thick fingers trail up the back of your thigh, leaving excited, lingering goosebumps in their wake. You swallow your little squeak, but can’t stop the tug of his hair.
“Dean.”
“Hm?” He kisses under your breast, and you let out a slow breath.
“You- You can’t just-“
“Yeah, I can.” He mouths higher, tongue flicking over your nipple through your shirt. You lean over him, nails scratching at his scalp.
“I- I wanna talk about it-“
“Nothin’ to talk about.”
“But-“
“They’re not meetin’ you.” Dean mutters, dark and low. “Maybe Mom, after Sammy. But- He’s not getting close.”
“I’ll have to meet him eventually-“
“Yeah. But not now.”
“De.” You tug him back, and he lets you. Even as he grabs a handful of your ass.
His eyes are hooded. Exhausted in the way only Dean can be, where you think he must be loading his shoulders with invisible bricks and still trying to carry you as well. You want to carry him.
“It’s okay if it was bad.” You say softly. He works his jaw, and you lean down, letting your noses bump. “I don’t care.”
That makes his lips twitch. “You don’t care?”
Your eyes widen. “No, I- I care, I just- It doesn’t- I don’t love you less-“
Dean grabs the back of your neck, and pulls you down into a long, deep kiss. You hum, melting over his chest. Suddenly you’re straddling his thigh and pushing him back down into the chair cushions. He holds you steady, running his fingers through your hair and smiling against your lips.
“I know, Princess.” He leans back, kissing you softly between every word. “You just get real cute when you freak out.”
You grunt, grabbing at the collar of his shirt. “You’re such a butt-“
“I’m your butt.” He smacks your ass lightly and you squeak, pushing further into his thigh. “And you’re mine.”
That ignites an almost feverish heat through your body. You have something teasing about you being his butt, but Dean squeezes your ass again and drags you down for another kiss, and you’re getting a little dizzy.
“Dean,” you breathe out, and he chuckles.
“Thought you wanted to talk about it, baby?”
“I- I do-“
“You do what?” He starts trailing open mouth kisses down your neck. Your hips are rolling weakly, seeking any kind of pressure and relief against his leg.
“I wanna talk-“
“We are talkin’-“
“No, I- I wanna-“
“You wanna help me.” Dean murmurs, kissing up to your ear. “I know, Princess. My sweet girl.”
He shoves his knee up, right as you grind down again. You whimper, pressing your face against the side of his head.
“You are helping. Just like this.” He turns, kissing your cheek, then your slack, panting mouth.
You try to shake your head. “You- You don’t- When I need help-“
“Everyone’s different.” Dean mutters. “This, you-“ He squeezes your waist. “All I need.”
And God, you believe him. Dean grabs your jaw and kisses you like a starved man. His tongue pushes its way between your lips, his grip tight enough that you could slip out of you tried, but it’s a silent order not to. This is where Dean wants you. Where he can feel you.
“You’re so soft, Princess.” He murmurs, and you hum against his lips. “So damn needy, too. If people saw this, they’d think I hadn’t touched you in months.”
You make a disgruntled noise, hips rolling mindlessly down onto his thigh. He didn’t touch you for months. You’re making up for lost time, if anything.
“No one else makes you feel like this, do they?” Dean’s voice drops to a growl, his fingers digging into your hips and ass. “No one else gets to see my baby, so fuckin’ desperate.”
You shake your head, grinding down faster and faster. Your thighs are starting to falter and ache. That new, hot pressure is building in your abdomen, and you scratch at Dean’s shoulders, trying to pull them to move faster. His bulge is pressing through his sweatpants, right against your inner thigh. When you roll your hips just right, the head of his cock hits your drooling pussy, and you see stain when you move away.
“Say it,” Dean mutters, and when your eyes flick up, he’s watching you like he’s never seen anything better in his life. “Say who’s makin’ you feel good, sweetheart. Who’s making my good girl so fuckin’ messy-“
“You.” You breathe out, looking at him with pleading eyes. “You, Dean- Deaaaan-“
Your words fall of in a moan, as you’re rewarded with a sharp, harsh kiss. Dean’s grip on you tightens, enough that if you weren’t left with handprints before, you’re certainly going to have them now. You pant out his name in short gasps, as he guides your hips against his crotch. He moans, low and rough in your year. It sparks more and more heat between your thighs.
His kisses are sloppy and harsh. His teeth scrape, as he sucks on your neck, leaving another mark you’re not going to want to hide the morning.
“That’s it, Princess,” he mutters between kisses, and your back arches, your eyes glazed and vision swimming with pleasure. “C’mon, gimme what I want.”
You whimper, pulling at his hair. He just moans louder, pinning you against his crotch as he ruts up against your pussy.
“So soft, baby, so fuckin’ good for me- Come on-“
“De- Dean-“ Your vision is going white. His hand dips under your shirt, thick fingers dragging up your sides, and it sends hot, perfect shivers through your already sensitive body. “Dean- I- I’m-“
“I know.” He growls, biting right under your jaw. “Easy fuckin’ girl, barely even did anything and you’re gonna cum all over me-“
“Dean-“ You gasp, face burning. You’re almost blubbering. You have no fucking idea how he does this to you, every time. “Please-“
“Now, baby, show me what I’m doin’ to you, show me how good it feels-“
You obey without even thinking about it. Even if you wanted to hold on longer, your body wouldn’t have let you. It follows Dean’s thick, demanding words, and shatters under his hands. You spasm, grinding weakly down against his twitching cock. Your head rolls, your mouth hanging open as you babble out his name, sudden tears of pleasure streaming down your cheeks.
Dean leans back, keeping his hold steady on you as he pulls his cock out of his sweats. You lick your lips at the sight of it, big and angry and so hard. Dean groans your name, dropping your brows together and pumping himself with rough, smacking strokes. Your fingers twitch to touch him. You might be drooling at the sight of him, chest heaving and gaze searing into you.
He moans your name, as he cums. It splatters a little over your shirt and hands, and you don’t expect it to be so hot.
Curiosity gets the better of you. Dean’s catching his breath, massaging your sides and watching you closely, and you take the quiet second to test a theory.
You like Dean’s cum off your fingers, and hum in surprise. It’s salty, and earthy, and you don’t hate it. You gather a little more on your thumb, and suck on that too.
Dean makes a deep, feral sound, and you jump in surprise as he smashes his mouth against yours.
“My girl,” he grunts, tugging on your hair to deepen the angle. “Jesus, you got no idea what you do to me.”
And you might have some insecurities, but you have an idea. If the fact that he’s kissing you like this isn’t enough, the way he carries you back to bed, helps you change, and tucks you into his chest is.
“I love you,” you whisper, watching him in the dark.
He smiles, and leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Love you too, Princess.”
You hum, and in the background your phone buzzes. You don’t bother to look at it right now. Dean’s right here, and warm, and yours. He holds you tight and kisses your nose before he knocks out, the rumble of his chest like white noise. You trace his features with your eyes for a while, before passing out yourself.
When you wake up, there’s golden sunlight coming through the curtains. It makes Dean look like he has a halo, and the crook of his nose makes him seem like a Greek god. You smile to yourself, just watching him for a while. When you roll over to check your phone, Dean grumbles and drags you back against his chest. You giggle, his lips grazing your neck. At least he doesn’t drool. Then he’d entirely just be a massive, slobbering dog.
You’d love him anyway.
There’s only one notification from last night. A text from Sam.
Hey, my family’s in town next week. You wanna come to dinner with us? My mom really wants to meet you.
Dean will be there. I promise he won’t be weird.
Please. It’ll help Jess.
Fuck.
Oh-
Fuck.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes, and you really can’t say no, and-
“Just tell ‘im yes.” Dean mutters in your ear, and you blink.
“You said you didn’t want me near your dad-“
“He won’t be near you.” Dean mutters. “Knew Sammy was gonna want you to meet ‘em. Not happenin’ when I ain’t there.”
You sigh. “De, are you-“
“’m sure.” He yawns, pressing his face back into your shoulder. “You and Jess, one night. Killin’ two bird with one stone, y’know.”
You frown. “What?”
Dean snores in response, and you sigh. He’s like a fucking bulldozer.
You text Sam that you’ll go. You don’t have much of a choice.
Meeting the parents. Not that big a deal, when they don’t even know you’re dating Dean. You’re just the third wheel friend. They’ll be paying more attention to Jess, and Dean will be there, and it’ll be fine.
Oh. You squeeze your eyes shut, because oh. You have another problem. On that will wait for morning, but still has to happen.
You need to tell your dad about Dean.
✦Part 8✦
✦End note: dean when wife ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 4: Bigger Moons
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Three✦
✦summary: dean changes✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: he's a loverboy folks✦
He stopped sleeping around.
And maybe he’s just hiding it better than before, but you choose to believe that he isn’t. That he’s home every night because he wants to spend time with you, rather than a girl he’s going to kick out in the morning.
You were friends before. You’d become friends the day he helped you move in and he made a stupid joke that you laughed at. He’d grinned so widely it made your gut flutter, and then asked what kind of movies you liked. You’d told him, and made a tradition out of watching at least one movie, every Friday night.
It was a holy night, Friday night. Even when you’d been forcing yourself into painful shapes to fit in others arms, and he’d been pulling women through the door without a glance in your direction, you’d both still honored movie night. You’d curl up under a blanket together, and switch back and forth between who chose what. Dean would hold the popcorn in his lap, and you’d allow yourself close enough to get drunk on his leather and spice smell, to absorb the feeling of his shoulder bumping yours and let it all carry you through the week.
Sometimes you’d yell at the screen together. Sometimes you’d both get quiet, genuinely entranced by the film. But you always ended up with your thighs pressed together under that blanket. Always talk after, for about an hour, before something would shift and you’d both just stare. The dark wasn’t dark enough to hide how handsome he was. The warmth of the blanket became nothing compared to the heat of your face. The heat in your stomach. The haze of the TV made you feel like you were back in that misty dream, and Dean-
He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed.
And he never does that. You know he never will.
But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change.
One night, the movie finishes, and you talk.
And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave.
“What’s your favorite animal?”
You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”
“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”
“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”
You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze.
“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”
You stare at him for a second. “Me?”
“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”
“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”
“On a favorite color?”
“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”
Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”
You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“
“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”
“I owe you-“
“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”
You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know.
“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.
“I hate cats.”
“What?” You sit up. “Why?”
He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”
“So?”
“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”
You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”
He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”
“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”
He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm.
“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”
“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.
“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”
“No.”
“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“
“Make a better one.”
He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles.
“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.
“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”
“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”
You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush.
He has no idea.
“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask, trying to earn some distance.
Dean shrugs. “Ducks.”
You giggle, and he just watches you with vague amusement.
“You like ducks?”
“Like that little waddle line shit they do. ‘S cute.”
“Awww-“
“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” You mime crossing your heart, a massive grin on your face. “Except Charlie- Dean-“
He starts to tickle your foot, and you shriek. You manage to wiggle away, but he’s faster, and suddenly you’re pinned to the ground.
Below him. His body pressed all over yours, his breathing ragged and eyes blown out.
It must just be the drink and the adrenaline.
For him.
For you, there that ache between your thighs that’s only going to build.
“No ducklings.” He mutters, eyes inches over yours.
You smile. “Ducklings?”
He sighs, dropping his face into your chest. Near your tits.
The drink. The drink.
His lips graze the swell of your breasts. You don’t know how you bite down your moan.
“There the ones that go in a line.” He grumbles, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Okay. No ducklings.”
You shake on it. Dean climbs off of you, and you wish he’d come back the moment he’s gone.
That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence.
“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.
“Reading and eating?”
He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”
“A… Book?”
That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”
“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”
Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”
Again. He’s not joking.
So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation.
You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.
“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”
You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying.
A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode.
Right next to him on the couch. Just like movie night.
And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch.
Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares.
You didn’t know he had nightmares.
“It’s nothing special.” He mutters, staring up at the ceiling like it’s all stars. “Just mines, my friends going AWOL, getting locked up. Been getting a new one, where-“ He cuts himself off, scowling at the air. “Never mind.”
“Dean.” You say softly. “That’s not nothing.”
“Nothing worse than my buddies get.”
“That’s- Most people don’t get any nightmares like that.”
“Well, comes with the territory.”
“The territory?”
He’s silent for a long moment, and you’re ready to let this go. Dean doesn’t tell you things until he’s ready, and you know him better than to try and pry it out of him. That just makes him close up tighter. So you wait, humming to yourself softly as he makes his choice, and-
Dean moves suddenly. Pulling something from around his neck before shoving it into your hands. You blink at him, then the cool, thin chain.
Dog tags.
“What-“
“My Mom’s family.” He mutters, and you go completely still. “They were all kinds of crazy. Doomsday preppers, conspiracy theorists. Grandpa taught me how to shoot when I was five, and Dad wasn’t much better.” He laughed, humorless and tired. “Used to talk about me needing to be man enough. And Mom- I love her, don’t get me wrong. But she loved Dad. And when I floated joining the Marine’s like he had- Christ, it was the only time the old man looked proud of me. He thought it was a good idea. Mom liked that we were getting along. Ended up serving four years before I got a discharge. Honorable.” He says quickly, as if that’s what you’d be worried about. “Had an accident. Put me in a coma for a week. They thought I was a goner, but I got lucky. Got out, too.” He chuckles. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Dean…” You sit up, looking down at him with an open, gentle expression. He snorts, turning his face away.
“Don’t do that. I don’t need pity-“
“It’s not pity-“
“Looks like it from here.” He snaps, and you swallow.
You grab his fist, tight on his chest, and slowly uncurl his fingers. He stares back at you, silent and ridged. And when you twine your fingers together, he doesn’t pull away.
This isn’t something you should be doing, but it’s too late to pull away. And when he squeezes your hand, you don’t think you’d ever want to again.
“You never told me that.” You murmur, and he sighs, sitting up.
He’s silent for a moment, staring at your tangled hands. His thumb swipes over the back of yours, jaw working as before he speaks.
“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”
You swallow, watching him closely. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid.
Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized.
If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.
How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep.
But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid.
You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”
He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction.
The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life.
“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back.
You mean it. Almost.
There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know.
But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t.
So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world.
✦Chapter Five✦
✦End note: chapter four remains my "bonding" chapter lmao✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 3: Many Green Things
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter One✦
✦summary: you and dean spar.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, action, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: a sweet lil one. charlie i'm obsessed with you✦
Charlie picks you up from your next hookup. You’d begged her to. It had been worse than the last one. Now that Dean’s name slipped from your lips once, it doesn’t seem to want to stay in.
“Did you do it again?” She asks after ten minutes of silence, and you nod. “I’m still on team talk to Dean you know-“
“No.”
“It wouldn’t go as bad as you think-“
“Yes, it would.”
Charlie says your name sternly. “Look, I know Dean better than anyone-“
“So you should understand why I’m not going to talk to him.” You shoot her a venomous look. “He doesn’t see me like that.”
She—unhelpfully—snorts. “God, you two dumbasses are made for each other.”
“Hey-“
“I wish I could make you into voodoo dolls.” She ignores you. “And then smush you together. Make you scissor. Like Barbies.”
“You wish you could make me a Barbie?”
“No. I wish I could make you scissor like Barbies. Keep up.”
You snort, feeling a little lighter. “I think Dean would take offense to being called a Barbie.”
“He’s a walking ken doll, he’s not allowed to take offence to it.”
You laugh, and it’s not the pained laugh from before. It’s real, and you lean into Charlie’s side. When you ask if you can get coffee instead of going home, she immediately agrees. You spend the rest of the morning telling her about work, and the little boy who somehow managed to accidentally eat a whole crayon. She snorts and starts talking about how you and Dean would make the cutest babies. You kick her in the shin so hard it leaves a mark, and she starts laughing too hard to hear your apology.
And you feel better. You feel so much better, until you get home.
Dean’s on the couch. Whatever girl he had is gone, and he looks you up and down with a strange focus in his eyes. Like he’s trying to surgically pick you apart to examine an organ you’re not sure you have.
“You’re home late.”
“It’s only ten-“
“You’re usually home by eight.” He mutters, looking back to the TV. “Hot date?”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, yeah. We got coffee after.”
Dean’s brows pinch. His hand fists, on the back of the couch, and you watch the motion with an almost masochistic fascination. He probably wishes you’d told him. He could’ve kept his girl around longer, and it feels like that fist is blowing right into your chest, pummeling your weak little heart into a bruised, faintly beating mess that still only knows his name.
“Where’d he take you?”
You want to fuck him.
Fuck with him.
Goddamnit.
“Georgie’s.” You mutter, kicking of your shoes.
Dean grunts. “Place near you school, isn’t it.”
“Mhm.”
“You tell him you work there?”
“No.”
“Good. Not safe, in case he’s a creep.”
You roll your eyes. “I don’t think she needs to stalk me.”
Dean turns the deepest shade of red you’ve ever seen, his eyes going so comically wide you wish you were faster with your phone. Charlie would love a picture of this.
“She?” He gapes. “I- I mean, that’s cool, but I- Didn’t know- Good for you-“
“I got coffee with Charlie, dumbass.” You give him a bored smile, and Dean gapes, goes red, then rolls his eyes.
“God forbid a man be supportive.” He grumbles, and you giggle.
You imagine the way his shoulders relax when you laugh. But it’s real when you sit down next to him, and he tenses. He doesn’t like you this close.
But when you scoot to the side, he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You can’t read it. You’re afraid to try.
“You got any work to do?”
You shake your head. “I made the lesson plan yesterday.”
“Alphabet?”
“Numbers.” You smile to yourself, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s a special day. If they beat their counting record, they get a cookie.”
Dean perks up. “Is that offer on the table?”
You snort. “Not for grown men who can already count.”
“I ain’t good at it-“
“You don’t get my kindergartener’s cookies, Dean.”
He pouts. “But I’m gonna improve my counting for you, sweetheart.”
“And I’ll be very proud of you.” You reach over, patting the top of his head.
His hair is so soft. Why is his hair so soft.
“And I’ll get a cookie?” He gives you a puppy like, pleading look.
You flush, and pull away. “If you help me bake them, you can have one,” you point a stern finger. “Cookie.”
Dean grins, sticking out his hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
And this is the part you hate the most. How close he feels right now. How far away he’s going to feel when you end up in another bed next weekend. How his charm can’t just turn off with you, since he’s not trying to fuck you. How you adore him so much that you keep holding every other man up to his light, to see if they outshine him.
None of them ever do.
But you both keep messing around, where the other can’t see. Doing this strange dance that feels less and less like a competition, and more like a boxing match. You’re so certain you’re going to falter first.
“Look at you.” A man coos into your ear, on a mattress that’s too stiff in a room that smells like thick cologne. “Sweet girl, say my name for me-“
“Deaeeean.” Your moan is loud and shameless. The man falters for a second, then just grunts and starts up again.
Skin slaps against skin. You dig your nails into the sheets and squeeze your eyes shut, pretending it’s his body over yours, his lips dragging up your spine, Dean’s low voice in your ear and his cock splitting you open over and over like a toy.
You don’t look the man in the eyes after. You look at Dean the next day and wonder if he can ever smell it on you. The sheer, angry longing that’s either going to eat you alive, or worm it’s way into his heart.
“How was your night?” You ask, because you hate yourself.
And you want to know if it’s ripping him up too. If he’s being torn apart by this animal you both created, or if it’s just a shadow with spikes you’re trying to box alone.
“Fine,” he grunts. “You know. Did some shit. Dishes. Laundry. Did yours too. Your welcome.”
You blink at him. It looks like he has a halo in the morning light. “You- You did my laundry?”
“Mhm.”
“Why?”
“I dunno, I was doing stuff.” He waves you off. “Not a big deal.”
And you peer at him. You tilt your head and squint at where he’s sprawled on the couch, and find an extra muss to his hair and bags under his eyes.
You make him coffee without him asking. He takes the mug when you offer it, frowning between you and milky, sweet drink. He says he likes it black. You know better. He likes sweet things.
And you make yourself sick with it. The image of a sweet girl folded beneath him last night. You push it off and offer him a small smile. He returns it in a second.
“Rough night?” You ask softly.
He chuckles. “Yeah. Could say that.”
“That girl fall through?”
And you don’t want to know, but you need to, and this is an addiction. You’re cutting yourself over and over again, just hoping this time it won’t hurt-
“No.” Dean’s looking at you strangely. When you raise your brows, he coughs and turns away.
“So what-“
“I- Uh-“ He clears his throat, running a hand over his face. “We just weren’t into the same things.”
You pause. “Like- What? Choking or whatever?”
“Yeah.” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Or whatever.”
You almost ask what he is into. At this point you might as well just be cutting out your heart and offering it to him as a prize. He’s won. He’s going to win this fucked up game, because it kills you to play and he doesn’t even care to know it exists.
Then you push your way through the door one morning, and find that Dean’s girl from last night-
She’s still there. Sitting at the counter drinking coffee, wearing his shirt.
“Oh, hi.” She blinks at you slowly. “Um- Dean?!”
“Yeah?” He pokes his head out from the bathroom, damp hair stuck to his brow.
His eyes find yours. They’re strangely blank. You give him a weak smile, and his nostrils flare, his mouth twitching down.
“You’re back.” He grunts. “You take the bus?”
You toss your shoes onto the mat. “I walked.”
“You walked-“
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
Dean works his jaw, still staring at you. The girl clears her throat.
“Sorry, who are you?”
You open your mouth, but Dean beats you to the punch.
“She’s my roommate.” He mutters. His eyes tear away from yours, onto the girl. He looks her up and down, something sour in his expression that she seems to miss.
“Hm.” She gives you a look of distain that makes you feel small. “I didn’t know you lived with a girl.”
“Wasn’t something you need to know.” He runs a hand over his face, looking down to his watch. “Shit- You eaten yet?”
You and the girl both say no at the same time. She looks like she wants to murder you. You want to run back outside, but your legs are rooted in place, so you just pray the floor will open up and swallow you whole.
“I haven’t eaten yet, Deanie.” She looks back to Dean, lashes fluttering. “And you really worked up my appetite.”
There it is again. The sickness. You already drank too much, and you can barely remember last night, and you’re going to scream at the floor while all your love spills out with your bile-
“There’s a cafe down the block.” Dean shrugs. “Stop there on your way out. They got good muffins.”
The girl blinks in confusion, opening her mouth, and Dean slams the bathroom door closed. Leaving you stuck with this woman in his shirt, in your home, shattering the small sanctuary you’d built up, the last thread that maybe Dean thought about you enough to keep his nights shielded from your eyes.
There’s really no reason why he would. He has no idea, that your love for him runs so deep you suddenly can’t stand to be wearing the socks the guy from last night lent you. They feel wrong on your feet. Like bricks, pulling you down, down, down.
You walk past the furious girl, not meeting her eyes. When you hear Dean out in the hall, saying something to her in a hushed voice, you slip out of your room and into the shower without a glance in their directions. You don’t vomit. You do scrub your skin so hard it burns.
And you can’t keep up the charade of just fucking around. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, when you just spend every night picturing Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s body. When every voice is blocked out in favor of imagining Dean’s. You’re not built for whatever corner you’ve backed yourself into. It’s going to eat you alive from the inside.
When you get out of the shower, the girl is gone. Dean’s still in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. You sit at the counter, and try not to feel too aware of the space she’d been in. Try not to wonder if he’s feeling her absence, the same way you look around the clubs and bars, glance up and down every strange hallway and street, and hope that maybe he’ll appear out of thin air and catch you when you’re not even falling at all.
Not falling in a way he can see, at least.
But you are. Further and further, the wind gone from your lungs, your heart beat still drumming that same song. Dean, Dean, Dean.
Not yours, not yours, not yours.
“You want pepper?” He cuts through your thoughts, and you look up at him with a frown.
“What?”
“I made eggs.” He’s not looking at you. His ears are red. “I, uh- I kinda already salted them, but- You always take them with salt. I can start over. If you don’t like it.”
You blink at him. Shake your head slowly.
He cooked for you.
The space where the other girl used to be suddenly doesn’t feel like anything at all.
“Salt is good.” You whisper, and he looks over his shoulder.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” You smile at him. His mouth twitches up, and something foolish and unbreakable soars in your chest. “I’m sure.”'
✦Chapter Four✦
✦End note: i hope you guys are enjoying this so far! they're so dramatic about each other (my faveorite dynamic)✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
The silent race to outcare each other is so freaking wierd. Charlie’s right about the voodoo dolls thing, since A & B are too dumb to C what’s going on
😒
Anyway, I’m kicking my feet to this idiot in love situation.
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 65 - Chapter 67✦
✦summary: dean tries to keep everyone together✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: i've been so excited for this one. enjoy!✦
✦Chapter Title from ain't it fun by paramore✦
There was no one to handle it but Dean.
It was worse than with Dad. When that happened, there had been no one to tell that didn’t immediately know. The occasional phone call still came in the years after, where they’d have to break the news that John Winchester had been dead since 2005, but they got less and less frequent, and Dean didn’t think about it all that much.
He didn’t know if he should feel guilty, that this was harder.
That was going to be something to worry about, after it was handled.
Bobby had a house. Bills and additional property and contacts that would need to be redirected to Rufus. Bobby had a girlfriend and Claire and roots in the town. Dad had been all but a phantom that haunted motel rooms and long, dark roads.
In a way, Dad was the same as he’d been in life. Dean still looked at shadows and thought they were Dad shaped. He still heard Dad’s voice telling him to man up or stay awake or look out for Sammy. But he’d been hearing that his whole life. Dad had been bold print in the margins since Dean was allowed to be on his own.
Some part of Dean had always expected Dad to end up as ashes. The man drank like it kept him alive and hunted like it didn’t matter if the ghost got the better of him.
But Bobby had always been careful.
Bobby had people who needed him, and he acted like it. He had acted like it, right up until the very end.
Take care of yourself. He’d told Dean. Because that will be taking care of her.
As Dean had burned the body—before Norah had gotten the jump on them, and shoved them into fantasy dreamland—he hadn’t been able to stop wondering. If Bobby hadn’t been so worried about Her peace of mind, would they have been able to fix it. Would there have been time.
It wasn’t a thought he was going to share with anyone except, maybe, Sammy. She certainly didn’t need to hear it. Dean knew better.
She already looked like she was made of fractured glass. Like the slightest prod was going to send Her jagged and shattered, all over the floor.
He was worried about Her.
There was nothing else for him to be.
Dean hadn’t seen that kind of glint in Her eyes in a long, long time. With the whole Purgatory mess, it had been all broken voices and tears. With Lucifer it had been determination and a flaring, dangerous fire. Against Lilith had been restrained light and caution.
This had been a sharp, unyielding, nuclear kind of power. An explosive, building supernova that was just as cold as it was hot. Her beauty had become elegant like a glacier, and the room had been folding into her like melting ice. Her voice had echoed like a choir in a church. Dean would’ve been turned on, if he didn’t feel sick about it all.
Bobby, and the dream, and Norah. The Leviathans and God and all of it, everything fucking sucked, and all he’d been able to do was stand there like an asshole and hold her when she’d nosed up to him like a wet, feral animal looking for shelter.
On the drive back, Jo had tried to keep Her distracted. Dean was the best with a truck, so he’d taken the wheel while they curled up in the back. Everyone but Cas—who’d been mumbling riddles to himself for the past hour—had knocked out.
Or he thought they had.
He’d felt a weight around his leg, and looked down to find Her arms wrapped around his calf, her chin resting on his knee. Dean had murmured Her name, and she’d simply pressed her face into his thigh. His fingers had tangled in Her hair, and she’d hugged him tighter. There had been no tears. She hadn’t shaken or screamed or even shifted around.
She’d just held onto Dean, and breathed.
It was worse than the breakdowns. He was practiced with those. They always broke something deep in the chambers of his heart to see, but he’d learned how to stop them from hurting her.
But when he and Jo switched for the rest of the ride, and he’d held Her in his lap and taken her beautiful face between his hands, she’d looked at him like she wasn’t sure he was real. Her eyes had been glassy. Her lips had been parted, but more like she didn’t remember how to use enough strength to close them. Like she thought that if She did, she’d swallow something she didn’t want to digest.
Dean had kissed Her brow, and held her tight. She’d been stiller than a statue, her breath warm and fingers cold.
It was terrifying.
And he wanted to give all his energy to it. To just find somewhere quiet and safe to let Her unravel with the grief. He’d be there for it. He wouldn’t let Her go, even if she started to thrash against him. Even if She tried to drown herself in the storm, Dean would use everything he had to keep her above the water. If not because he loved Her—because he needed Her, because if this destroyed her Dean wasn’t going to be able to stop himself from staying at Her side and coating his hands in blood, all just to see her maybe smile again—because he’d promised Bobby.
But Dean also had to handle it. He couldn’t hide Her away from every part that hurt, because he had a feeling She’d gnaw off any chains and bite anyone who tried to tug her back to Earth. Dean just had to let Her hover in the air and keep Her from flying away.
And he had to do that while handling it. So he held Her tight—waiting until She knocked out—and got started on the hardest part.
Sammy picked up after five rings.
As far as he knew, nothing was wrong.
“Hey, Dean.” The kids voice crackled through the speak casually. Dean could taste bile. “You guys close?”
“Still a few hours.” Dean muttered. “We hit some bumps.”
“Shit, just like- Traffic?”
Dean let out a heavy breath through his nose, combing his fingers through Her hair. It was soft. Soothing enough to help him get the words out.
“Uh- Yeah. Just- Can you do me a solid?”
“What kind of solid? Because if it’s anything gross, no. I’m not waiting in the car so you can get laid, Dean, you have your own room, just like- Lock the door and don’t tell-“
“It’s not that.” Dean snapped. He didn’t want to hear Bobby’s name. Not while Sam was saying it like he was alive. “It’s- I need you to make sure Claire’s out, before we get back.”
“Just Claire? I don’t know, dude, that sure sounds like you want the house cleared for sex-“
“Sam. I’m fucking serious, okay? Claire can’t be up when we get back.”
“Alright, whatever.” Dean could hear the eyeroll, but then Sam paused.
And Dean looked up to the roof of the van, because he knew what was coming. But there was no one for him to pray to, that could stop it.
“Is everything okay?” Sam asked, softer than before. “You sound weird.”
No. It’s not alright. Nothing’s alright. “Just- Make sure Claire ain’t there.”
“Dean, you’re freaking me out-“
“Please.” He was going to crush the phone, between shaking fingers. “Sammy, I just- I need you to listen, alright? I can’t- It’s not something you wanna hear right now.”
And Sam did listen. With a tight voice and frown Dean could here, Sam promised to make sure Claire would be down when they pulled into the drive.
Dean could swear, when he carried Her out of the van, that the house already knew. The wood looked like it had rotted, in the four days they’d been gone. The grass had browned, and all the scrap metal in the yard had rusted. Dean shoved open the door, and the hall was cold. The colors were all greyed out. Every footstep echoed and creaked, like it knew that the very foundation of the world was slipping from under their feet.
“Dean, what’s-“
“Shh.” He shot Sam a glare.
She stirred in his arms, pressing Her face further into Dean’s neck with a weak little sound. Sam’s eyes widened, and he held his hands up in surrender. No waking Her up.
This was going to be impossible to do, if She woke up.
Dean tucked Her into bed carefully. He’d practically swaddled Her, but he didn’t want to come back to scratch marks on her arms and face or hands wrapped around her throat. Indy flapped onto the bed with a sad, whining sound. The dragon nosed and her face, then looked up at Dean with big golden eyes. He could swear they were watering. Her ears were flattened back and her tail was drooped.
Maybe she could smell it on Her. The pain.
“Look out for her, okay?” Dean scratched behind Indy’s ear, glancing to check that the Lady was still burrowed in the laundry.
Her injury looked a little better. Dean would have to check on it later.
“I gotta do something.” He told Indy, who looked at him like she understood. “Hold down the fort.”
Indy nosed his hand, urrping once before curling right into Her side. She was in good hands.
Talons.
Whatever. Nothing really mattered right now.
Dean thinks he blacked out. He remembered going down the stairs, each one feeling like it was a mountain slope away from the last, and there were iron cuffs around his ankles. He remembered getting into the kitchen, and seeing Jody and Sammy waiting for him. He remembered speaking. He remembered his voice breaking a few times, and Sam’s face slowly getting more and more pale, and Jody looking at him like she already somehow knew.
He might remember Jody telling him that Bobby hadn’t called after they got Her. That Bobby always called.
And maybe Sammy asked to see Bobby’s bottle, and Dean had to explain that She wouldn’t let go of it.
He wasn’t sure. It was all just a blur of a lump in his throat, time standing so still he thought every word was pouring out of him like mud, and trying to keep himself together. All he was certain of was that the kitchen felt enormous, and that his gaze had kept wandering back to Bobby’s mug on the counter.
Empty and cold ceramics, which was always going to be waiting for the right hands to pick it up.
That was going to be waiting forever.
“We need to be thinkin’ about Claire.” Jody muttered, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “And the house. Lucky I made ‘im put together a proper will, after she got out of hell.”
Dean grunted, and vaguely remembered that Jody had done this before. With her husband and son. It must be why her voice was so steady, even if something in her eyes looked like it was wobbling on the edge of a trip wire.
“She’ll wanna stay with us.” Dean heard his voice, a million miles away. “And- You remember who he left the house to-“
Jody said Her name.
Dean didn’t know what he’d expected. His brain felt a little numb right now.
“All the money, too. Gold, buried out near the waterfall.”
Sammy blinked. “Bobby has gold?”
“Some rich asshole he saved in the 80s. Insisted on paying him.” Jody sighed. “Always kept it as backup. Just in case.”
Dean’s lips twitched. He could almost see Bobby rolling his eyes and grumbling about how he’d been careful. No use tellin’ people you got gold. That’s when they all try to steal it.
“We’ll leave it there for now.” He grunted. “Other shit to do. I ain’t even told you about the Sandman.”
“The- You guys found a Sandman-“
“He found us, and- Don’t geek out, Sammy, it ain’t a happy story-“
“I’m not geeking out, I’m just- I’m curious. Those are supposed to be extinct, I once-“
And Sam cut himself off. His mouth pressed in a tight line, and he bowed his head, fixing his gaze on the table.
Dean’s fist curled. “Sammy-“
“Bobby.” Sam muttered, his face pinched tight. “I once got in a- In a debate about it with Bobby.”
And Dean didn’t have anything to say to that. What the hell could he possibly joke or respond with that would make it better?
Nothing was going to make it better.
Everything was feeling like a very dark pit that stretched too far out of Dean’s hands. It wasn’t the type of one that he could pummel down with fist or fill up with beer. It pushed into Her, into Sammy, into everything.
The table was clear, because Jody had been here all weekend. But she wouldn’t be coming around as much. Sam wasn’t going to clean it, the kid had always had very specific, random things that “needed” to be clean, and tables weren’t one of them. She wouldn’t either. Dean didn’t think She’d ever cleaned in her life.
It would have to be him. He was going to have to ferry them across this chasm, and hope they pulled him with them to shore when they docked.
They would. They’d never been good about much, but Dean knew they’d never been able to abandon each other. He just had to be the glue instead of the gun.
Bobby would’ve said he’d always been better at that. That Dad got him all wrong, trying to stich him into the weapon.
Dean didn’t want to think about how that still hurt more. Bigger things. He didn’t have time to worry about being a monster right now.
He gave Sammy and Jody the rundown of the Sandman situation. One second they’d been head back on I-90 and the next he’d be some Robin Hood type asshole who needed to save a princess. He hadn’t questioned it—Sam gave a quick, weakly enthusiastic explanation about how djinns and sandmen were closely related in terms of monster biology or whatever, so they could do a lot of the same memory smudging shit—and when Bobby had found him in the tavern and pointed Her out as the one he had to save, he’d been a goner all over again
He didn’t tell Sam and Jody that part. That in the bending light of the tavern, She’d looked like some kind of fairy. Shiny hair and bright eyes, all the room folding into Her and Dean’s heart doing a little stumble and trip as he got hit with euphoria like a bullet from a rifle. She’d been beautiful there. She was beautiful everywhere, but he’d tried to hit on Her, and she’d been so mean, and he’d felt so drunk he almost fell to his knees.
Sam and Jody could know that they’d traveled South and met up with Jo and Cas. They could know about avoiding the royal guards and how she’d been betrothed or whatever. He answered all of Sammy’s questions, about how he’d known he had a baby brother, but could only ever remember that he was sick and had to stay home. Bobby hadn’t seemed to know they were in a dream until that very end. They had been sharing the fantasy, and no, Dean didn’t have any damn clue how that was possible.
But he still kept small parts to himself. Kissing Her under the stars, having her drooling on his sleeve while they road on horseback, making her giggle in the grass watching Her hike her dress up to wade through marshes and grass, then getting a boner from the flash of Her legs. Like some pervert.
He didn’t tell them about how She’d screamed and cried and begged not to leave, at the end. That wasn’t Dean’s story to tell.
And he was going to keep every part of Her that he had, secret and safe and tucked to his chest. Even if arrows split his back and spine, they’d never take Her away. Dean had felt that more than anything, in the dream. He felt it now, too.
He felt it always.
“What do we do now?” Sam asked when Dean was done.
His jaw clenched. There was only one thing to do.
“We take care of it.” He muttered. “And we make sure those sons of bitches pay.”
Jody sighed, leaning over table. “Dean-“
“They killed Bobby.”
“And he would’ve wanted you to get out after.” She said gently. “Not run in head first without a helmet and die too-“
Dean cut her off with a shake of his head. “They won’t kill me.”
Jody frowned, and Sam blinked.
“Why wouldn’t they? I mean, yeah, you’re a good hunter, but they’re murder friendly, Dean. They eat people, and you’re like-“ Sam wrinkled his nose, waving a hand. “All pie and meat.”
“Oh, I’d be freakin’ delicious, that ain’t the problem-“
“Don’t say delicious, dude-“
“But.” Dean cut the kid off with firm words. “They want something. And they’re the ones who said I’m a part of their big evil plan, so now we got confirmation they have a big, evil plan, and we can’t let them win.”
“Dean.” Jody gave him a stern look. “You’re the one who’s been saying it doesn’t have to be you that fixes this. There are other hunters who will want revenge for Bobby, they can do it-“
Dean hissed Her name, leaning over the table. Sam and Jody didn’t understand. No one had ever quiet understood Her like Dean.
Except Bobby.
So now, just Dean.
“She’s going after them.”
Sam’s face fell with worry. “Well- We could stop her-“
“Sam.”
“No, Dean we can’t just- We should be taking some time, regrouping, and she might- You know she’ll hurt herself-“
“And we’re either there to patch her up,” Dean muttered. “Or we’re here, braiding hair and worrying our asses off. I don’t know about you, Sammy, but I’m gonna be there.”
Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. Squeezed his eyes shut like his head hurt, and let out a sharp breath. “Dude-“
“Dean?”
Her voice was soft, but it made them all fall silent. Dean swallowed at the pale expressions on Jody and Sammy’s faces. He turned with an arm outstretched, trying to beckon Her closer.
She blinked at him from the doorway, and the world froze and scratched like a vinyl disc.
Dean had never been afraid of Her. He still wasn’t now. Under… this, he knew that his whiny, mouthy and sweet girl was just in pain. Just needed someone to hold Her, because she was dreadful and gorgeous like all the stars, but always flopped like a ragdoll in Dean’s arms.
But son of a bitch.
She looked… terrifying.
There was something pouring out of Her. It was electric, and it buzzed through the air. Dean’s hair stood on end, and he could taste Her apples and sugar like it was being shoved down his throat. Every breath he took felt sharp and humid, like the air had been purified and turned into a steam. The floor seemed to rumble under their feet, shaking like it simply knew something great was there. Every color was more vibrant, but it waxed and shifted like it was molten. Like even the dull, golden-brown of the wood and washed out blue of the kitchen backsplash were alive.
Her pupils weren’t pure Silver, but there was a dulled glow to them, like the moon out in day time. Her skin seemed to be luminated, almost emitting it’s own light. Her hair floated with a static electricity that wasn’t there. The dullness of the house was polished.
There were raw, red marks on her wrist, and they were almost neon bright.
Dean shot to his feet, and pried Her fingers away from making them worse. Her brow dropped against his chest, and he wrapped an arm around Her shoulder and neck, keeping her steady.
“You weren’t there.” She whispered, fingers curling into Dean’s shirt. “I- I woke up and- You- You weren’t there-“
“I know.” Dean kissed the top of Her head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“I- I thought-“
“I know.”
Dean didn’t bother taking Her back to bed. He sat back down at the table, holding Her like a koala to his chest. She hid Her face in the crook of his neck, and he rubbed her spine until her breathing steadied, and she fell back asleep. Jody and Sam knew better than to comment about it. Jo brought them a blanket, although Dean was pretty sure it was really just for Her.
“The rainbow is becoming permanent.” Cas commented an hour later, and Dean sighed.
“Sure, buddy.”
He really wished he understood what that meant.
Dean got them back to bed around three in the morning. He didn’t bother trying to move until she was up, and he could get Her into the shower. She tried to turn the water into a boil. Dean turned it back down, and she just huffed, but didn’t argue.
He left Her there to break the news to Claire. He thinks he blacked out for that, too. Between the worry about the kid taking it bad and the worry about coming back to find Her burning herself under the water, he wasn’t sure how he got a single coherent sentence out of his mouth.
Claire took it better than he thought she would. Her eyes got all faraway and watery, and her face fell into a dumpy, wrinkled frown that Dean recognized too well—the kind of frown he did, when he was trying to fight off tears and stay strong—but when he was done, she didn’t yell at him or take of into the yard like he’d worried.
“Did it hurt?” She whispered, and Dean swallowed.
“No. It was quick.”
And it didn’t matter if that was true or not. It was the only thing Claire needed to hear.
“Am I-“ She swallowed, hair falling over her face as she stared at her hands. “Are you going to send me back to my grandma now?”
Dean blinked. “Jesus, no-“
“Do I have to go to school today?”
Claire still wasn’t looking him in the eyes. Dean sighed, and shook his head. When he stood up and opened his arms, Claire glared at him. He flexed his hands, giving her a bored look.
“I don’t need a hug-“
“C’mon, kid. I’m letting you skip school.”
And her lips pressed too tightly. She squinted. Still trying not to cry.
She barreled right into Dean’s arms, and he wouldn’t tell her later that he knew the stains on his shirt were tears. She’d get all mad and try to run away.
Dean wasn’t going to let that happen.
That was another thing to work out, though. They made a plan that afternoon—Jody was right, that they should be regrouping, but God himself would shred up the Bride contract if he could see the demanding glint Her eyes—that She, Dean, and Sammy would go to check on Frank. Norah had been headed to him, following the Leviathans. It couldn’t be a good sign, and less was always more with the paranoid asshole. Jo and Cas would stay behind and hold down the fort. Answer calls. Do research.
Play Bobby.
None of them said it. Dean sure as shit thought it.
If they were hunting Leviathans, they couldn’t take a fourteen year old on the road.
“Fifteen.” Claire grumbled while She, Sam, and Dean packed in the study. “I’m fifteen-“
“Ain’t old enough to drive.” Dean shot her a glare. “We’ll figure out somewhere to stash you, then come back after we’re done.”
“Stash me? I’m not a handgun, I’m a person, and I’m a good hunter-“ Claire whined Her name. “Tell him I’m a good hunter-“
“You are a good hunter.” She murmured, not looking up from Her book.
The Book. That creepy Magdalene book. She’d been reading it since breakfast. Dean just counted it as a win that She ate breakfast, even if he’d had to pin her to his chest and hold the muffin to her lips until she bit it.
“But you’re not allowed to come with us.”
Claire’s mouth fell open, and she protested with Her name. Dean sighed, giving her a glare.
“You heard her. You’re not going on the all-American murder road trip-“
“Sam gets to go-“
“I’m… An adult?” Sam frowned, and Claire stuck out her tongue.
“Are you?”
Sam recoiled like she’d stung him, and Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.
“Claire, it’s not like we’re just dumping you in a freakin’ motel with some nuns. You’re just gonna stick with Jody until we get back-“
“I don’t want to stay with Jody, I want to stay with you-“
“You can’t stay with us, you got school-“
“Fuck school!”
“Claire-“
“I don’t want to go to school, it doesn’t matter, none of this matters! I just- I can help, let me help-“
She put down Her book, looking up at Claire with a tired, heavy expression. They all froze. Even Sammy, who’s just been pouting and stuffing his bag with all the books he could carry. Claire opened her mouth, then closed it, and looked at Dean like he was supposed to do something about this.
Claire bowed her head, as She crossed the room. She stopped right in front of her, cleared Her throat, and waited for the kid to look back up. Claire did slowly. They stared at each other for a second, and Sammy coughed nervously, giving Dean a should we do something look. Dean shook his head. Neither of them being interrupted was ever a good idea.
She opened Her arms, and—same as with Dean, maybe faster—Claire went into them. Dean drummed his fingers on the edge of his chair, watching them carefully. She was stroking Claire’s hair, and muttering something he couldn’t make out. He leaned forward a little, trying to hear, but they pulled apart. Claire’s eyes were glassy and brimming with tears again. She had a small, tired smile on Her face, and that little wrinkle in her brow.
“We’ll come pick you up soon.” She muttered, brushing away the hair stuck to Claire’s brow. “And you can text Dean if you need anything. Pinky promise.”
Dean felt an odd lump in his throat, as She held up her little finger. Claire locked it together immediately, and nodded before tackling Her back into a hug.
And Dean looked at a long shadow, because for a second it looked like Bobby. He would’ve loved to see this. He would’ve been all rough and soft about it, and nodded at Dean like he understood. That both their girls were good.
But it was just a trick of the light.
Bobby was never going to see this at all.
“You threw me under the bus.” He muttered after Claire went to pack her bags, holding out a hand for Her to return to his side.
Something to the right of his heart bloomed with pride, when She took it without a second of hesitation.
“You’re better at answering the phone than I am.” She murmured, standing between Dean’s legs. Her eyes were fixed on his hand, and she fidgeted with his fingers like they were damn toys. Dean let Her. His free hand found it’s way to the back of Her thigh, rubbing slowly and keeping her steady.
“You always text me back.”
“That’s because you’re you, Dean.” Sam muttered, shooting him a sour glare. “I get left on read unless I call.”
Dean rolled his eyes, ready to snap something back, but she tugged on his hand. He looked back up to find Her eyes glassy and tired, and his lips pulled down. She’d slept last night, but it hadn’t been restful. He might have to shove Sammy in the back, so he could wrap Her in his jacket and make sure she knocked out on the drive.
“You’ll answer her texts, right?”
Dean nodded, and pulled the back of Her hand to his lips. She swayed slightly, and he slowly moved to his feet, pressing Her back while keeping her on her feet.
“Of course, baby.” He murmured, kissing the little wrinkle between her brow. “Don’t worry about it.”
He knew She would. He knew She’d even known his answer, when she asked—she wouldn’t have told Claire that, if she thought Dean would drop the ball—but she still needed to hear it. Dean was willing to say it, over and over and over. He’d say anything for Her, right now. Anything to make it hurt just a little less.
They got in the car around sunset. Jody had taken a grumpy but cooperative Claire an hour ago, and Jo and Cas had everything they needed. Indy would be staying back, if only because it was always a risk taking her out in public, let alone keeping her in a motel. The Lady was still injured, and She refused to leave her behind.
So now Dean was stuffed in the car with his girl, his grumbling baby brother—who wasn’t happy about being moved to the back bench, even if it was more space for his stupid sasquatch legs—a lion cub that was shedding all over the damn leather, and Bobby’s soul in a bottle.
Dean was able to talk Her into putting that last thing in the bag, but then She demanded they keep the bag out of the trunk. Dean asked if She was worried he’d suffocate or something. She got all nervous and small and mumbled that she just needed to be able to check. That he was still there. Dean felt like an asshole. He let Her put the bag with Sammy, and whacked the kid upside the head at every gas station when he whined about having to show it to her again.
Eventually, she passed out. Dean guided Her body to fully lay down, Her face in his lap and her body covered in his jacket. He pet the top of Her head and hummed along to the music, praying to nothing that the road got longer.
This wasn’t easy. Nothing about it was easy. But driving had always made Dean feel suspended in time, like nothing was actually going to happen that could scar them in a way that mattered. He’d almost lost that feeling when they got knocked by that semi after finding Dad. He’d found it again through the years, with Her. When She’d smile at him in the low light of the highway, and the car would feel like a shield. He could tell Sammy anything in here. He could whisper that he loved Her, and know she was too long passed out to hear it.
She’d pressed Her cheek into Dean’s stomach. When he ran his fingers through Her hair, she hummed and snuggled closer.
Dean booped the tip of Her nose. She wrinkled it and turned her face to hide it in his crotch. He chuckled, and smiled at the road.
At least she was out comfortably. Dean’s eyes were burning and drooping, but She was safe and fast asleep.
The Lady clambered over Her shoulders, and settled on Dean’s thigh. It’s little face rested on the top of Her head, and Dean sighed.
“You know, I ain’t a car seat.”
The Lady blinked up at him, and he swallowed.
“You’re kinda heavy. Gonna make my legs fall asleep, and- Ow-“
He’d tried to move the thing off, but she’d sunk her little claws through his jeans. It fucking stung.
“Son of a-“ He glowered between her and the road. “You’re real lucky you got insurance, you know that?”
The insurance made a little humming sound against Dean’s crotch, and Her fingers pressed right against his balls. He swore under his breath, tipping his head back with a grunt.
If anything, it kept him awake.
“You up, Sammy?” He asked when it was more morning than night, the sky pitch black, the radio was only jazz, and the other cars on the highway were all trucks.
“Mhm.” Sam sighed. “Can’t sleep. Why, what’s-“
“Can’t remember the exit.”
“Uh…” Sam leaned over the bench, squinting at the road and rubbing his eyes. “Nineteen.”
Dean grunted, and flipped on his blinker. Good thing he asked. He’d almost missed it.
“Dean?” Sam cleared his throat. “Do you- What do you think we even do? After the Leviathans?”
And Dean looked back in the rearview mirror to read Sammy’s face, even if he already understood the question. What do we do wasn’t what Sam’s frown and distant gaze said.
How do we do the job, without Bobby.
Dean didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure how they’d done the job this long.
“We’ll figure it out.” He muttered, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Go to sleep, Sammy.”
Sam sighed, but nodded and lay back down on the bench. Dean glanced down at Her, still knocked out and peaceful in his lap.
He knew what he wanted. He knew what Bobby would want. Jody had said Bobby had a will. That most everything was left to Her. If She didn’t want to live in a house rotted with the memory of her father, Dean would sell it for more than it was worth and build Her a new one. Somewhere that would be a permanent car, without the driving part. A trailer that couldn’t move.
A house. Dean was thinking of a house.
A home.
It wasn’t something to bring up now. Dean knew her better than that. They stopped at a motel the next night—they weren’t that far out from Frank’s, but Dean could barely keep his eyes open, Sammy was pinching his brow again, and She shouldn’t be driving when that crazed glint was still lining her every expression—and Dean considered it a miracle he even got Her into a proper bed.
He knew this cycle too well now. It came and went like the moon. Pulled him and eased him like the tides. He knew when She was being dragged out and he had to dig his heels into the sand. He knew when She was safe and he could tease her without worrying.
This was some of the worst he’d ever seen, but he’d also be a little worried if it wasn’t.
Not that he wasn’t worried. His hands kept itching and his gut kept aching that there was barely anything he could do about any of this. He couldn’t pull Bobby out of hell like Cas had done with him. He couldn’t overcharge Her with Purgatory souls and make a blast that would bring Bobby back like it had Jo. Everything was right in front of him, unspooling string and fabric that was stretching it’s seems. Gears that were getting jammed and pipes that needed repair. Dean knew what to do with his hands, to keep everything together.
But he wasn’t magic. He was just a man who knew Her the way anyone knows something they love. He had Her memorized like a favorite song. She wouldn’t go get herself something to eat, so Dean found some chocolate and fruit, then fed it to her in small bites. She kept Bobby on the dresser—awkward, whenever Dean would kiss Her cheek, because the worried he was going to get shot didn’t fade with the fact that Bobby was in a damn bottle—and Dean kept an eye on it like she asked, even if he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t just going to grow legs and fuck off.
She had the book open again, instead of sleeping. Dean was exhausted. There was no way he way going down without Her in bed next to him.
“Sweetheart-“
“One more page.” She mumbled. Dean frowned. Her lower lip was swollen and stained with red and-
She’d been chewing on it again.
He sighed, and knelt down in front of Her. He gently grabbed Her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Her eyes flicked up, bloodshot and glossy. Her lips parted, as they stared at each other. Dean gave Her a small smile, and she let out a slow breath over his palm.
“Hi, Princess.”
Her throat bobbed. She didn’t answer, and Dean could see the tears pushing further against Her eyes. He swiped his thumb over the chapped, broken skin of Her lips. She made a tiny, weak sobbing sound, falling forward into the touch.
“Bedtime?”
She only answered with a broken, choked noise of pain. Something split, in Dean’s heartstrings. It reverberated through his whole body, stabbing and hot and angry and made purely from love.
He’d seen Her in pain before, and it only ever got worse. It made the whole world feel like it was sick. Everything was flipped in a way it wasn’t supposed to be. Inverted and carved up to expose ugly meat and bone. Flowers and color withered, when She was upset.
Dean wanted to make something hurt, over it. He wanted to drag everything that dare make his girl weep. She was all the stars and rivers and trees in bloom and flowing magma at the center of the earth. Hurting Her should be a crime against the universe itself, and Dean was furious, and he’d rip himself to shreds to give Her his heart if she needed an extra to take the ease off her broken one.
But She’d never ask him for that. She’d never wanted or needed more than Dean, she’d told him. She needed him.
Just him.
Not some wizard who could wave his hands and turn a root beer bottle into a man.
Just Dean.
“Come on.” He murmured, slowly pulling Her book from her hands.
She didn’t fight him. She just trembled and dug Her nails in to Dean’s neck when he carried her to bed. Like She was worried he was going to turn to mist and light under her hands. He never would. Not if he could help it.
He could only keep Her where he could reach, and make sure she didn’t run again.
It was a miracle, that She hadn’t ran off to Asia by now.
But if She tried, this time, she was taking Dean with Her.
She was crying so hard that Dean could only hold Her under the covers and make sure she was breathing. Eventually She knocked herself out again, but the shaking didn’t stop. Tiny sniffles still broke through the room. The Lady jumped up on the bed, waddling and hopping over to snuggle between Dean and Her faces. The thing’s tail whacked him in the face, and he grunted.
“Fuckin’-“ He shot it a glare. “She was mine first.”
The Lady stretched, and pushed a paw right into Dean’s face. He stopped bothering to fight it.
Sam pretended not to see Her crying in Dean’s arms. He didn’t complain about the sounds, because the kid could be annoying, but he wasn’t stupid. And Dean knew it was hurting him too. Sammy just never cried about shit. He got quite, like he was right now.
Dean had a pressure, pushing down at the top of his chest. It wanted him to break, but he wouldn’t. His family needed him.
And he wasn’t going to fail.
Nov. 15 – 2011
Princess,
We’re going to get out. Whether you like it or not.
It’s what Bobby would’ve wanted. It’s what you need. I know you’re a natural at hunting, baby, and I’m not gonna lie and say it ain’t sexy, but you know what’s sexier? You being alive. And happy. We can still find you people to stab. I can set you lose on our asshole neighbors like a dog
That came out wrong. I don’t think you’re a dog.
I’d pay good money to watch you fuck some blonde suburban bitch up for being rude. But as an autonomous woman.
I love you.
I just needed to tell you again. I know you don’t know, but some part of you has gotta know, and if you’re reading this than you’ve seen me write it a thousand times but I need you to hear it again. I need you to really fucking know it, because this is going to suck. We’re going to do this, and it’s going to suck so bad, and then we’re done. And I’ll still love you, when there’s no life or death. I’ll love you when you don’t need me as much anymore. I’ll love you when we’re old and I got wrinkly hands and gray hair, and we only eat pudding and sit in chairs all day. I’ll love you when we’re fighting and I’ll love you when it’s hard because of something normal, and I’ll love you when you go. I’ll love you so much I’ll be right behind you, because son of a bitch, baby, when you drop I’m not gonna be far behind.
I don’t even know if you can drop. Maybe part of the whole deal is that you’re immortal, and I’m gonna be a sack of bones while you barely look a day over thirty. If that’s the case, I don’t care about a hunter’s funeral. I wanna be your sack of bones. If you ever take a second husband, please introduce them to my bone sack. I want you to be happy, but I’d also like to know who’s fucking my wife.
In this scenario, you’re my wife.
I’ve been thinking about buying a ring. And I know we haven’t even said I love you or whatever, but I have. Like. So many freakin’ times. I’d go back and count but I don’t think I can get that high. And if I’m not marrying you, I ain’t marrying anyone. If I was braver, I would’ve bought a ring when we were kids running around malls and golf courses.
I remember the first time you held me hand. It was awesome. I never wanted to let go.
I won’t.
I was going to ask Bobby soon. And thats wat i was gonna tell him. that id never let go.
seems like he already kinda knew. think hes always known.
asshole.
i swear im gonna make him proud, sweetheart. ill take care of you, just how he wanted. because he wanted you to be happy.
and i promise. were gonna be happy again.
i think im gonna give these to you after we take out the leviathans. yeah. we’ll wrap it up, sammy and jo and cas can go get wasted, and ill give you the letters. if youre hitting this point youve been reading for a while. hopefully there aint many left to go.
youve read it a lot. im gonna say it again.
i love you. always. all the time.
yours,
DAW
Frank’s place was destroyed.
Dean pulled up to the yard, and knew before he even put the car in park. They weren’t going to find him here. They’d be lucky if they even found remains.
The whole place was dripping in Leviathan tar. The fence had been flattened and ripped up in the grass. The door had been ripped off it’s hinges and turned into a hunking pile of metal in the dirt. Dean almost gagged at the sulfur and dead fish and bile smell in the air. Frank lived in an open, windy plain of land. Most of the goo had sank into the earth, blackened and dead and shriveled and burned.
It wasn’t enough to get rid of that fucking smell.
“Shit.” Sammy muttered, scanning over the ruins. “I mean, guys, is it even worth us trying to go inside, or like-“
“I’m going.” She said.
Sam sighed Her name. “All we might find are wires- Or worse-“
“Then you can stay in the car.”
“I- I’m not going to stay in the car-“
“Okay.”
She started to the trailer, and Sam shot Dean an are you going to stop this? look. Dean gave him a you try and talk her out of it shrug, and jogged after Her.
“Princess, you should- I dunno, put on freakin’ gloves or something-“
“I don’t need gloves.” She didn’t stop, but slowed Her pace enough to let Dean catch her. “Is Sam coming?”
“Uh-“ Dean glanced back, and sure enough, Sam was trudging after them with a scowl. “Yeah.”
She made a strange face, at that. Dean blinked—he’d thought She wanted Sammy to come, but that made it seem like she wanted to shove him in the back seat and turn on the child lock—but it was just another damn thing they didn’t have time for. They walked through the hole that used to be Frank’s door, and Dean nearly threw up.
“Son of a bitch.” He gagged on the air, doubling over to grab his knees. “Did they have a freakin’ orgy or something?”
“I don’t think they sexually reproduce.”
“I know, I was just- Shit-“
He’d made the mistake of trying to look up, and gagged again. He had to keep his eyes shut and breathe through his mouth. It was fucking awful.
They hadn’t found Frank’s body.
They’d found a gutted trailer and broken up bones. Leviathan ooze had seeped into the couch cushions and over the floor, leaving deteriorated spots that looked like they’d been doused with acid. Blood was dripping from the walls and ceiling, but there were also drag paths through the markings, like they Levithan’s had dragged their fingers through it. All the bones had been hollowed out. For the marrow.
Poor Frank. Poor Dean, for having to feel bad for someone that would’ve been pissed about it. He hoped that, at least in the final moments, Frank had felt vindicated that there were, in fact, monsters out to get him.
She hummed, rubbing Dean’s back. Dean would think She wasn’t bothered at all, if that light and electricity wasn’t filling up the tight, already overheated space.
“Oh my god.” Sam said from behind them. “This is- Worse than I thought-“
Sammy gagged too. Dean glanced back, giving the kid a tight smile.
“I think they fuckin’ fileted him, dude-“
“Holy shit, don’t say that! Now I’m just- Gross-“
Sam groaned, and Dean would laugh if he didn’t think he’d throw up. She ran Her hand up his spine and squeezed the back of his next, combing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.
“De, I think- Hm.” She paused, voice dropping. “Yeah, I see his laptop. I’m gonna grab it, maybe we can try to get something off of it.”
“Good thinkin’ baby.” He grunted. “Sammy and I, we’re gonna just-“
“Car.” Sam muttered, and Dean nodded.
“Yep. Uh- Unless- I can stay with you-“
“It’s just a computer.”
“Thank Christ.” Dean muttered under his breath.
He found the strength to stand up and kiss Her cheek, before stumbling out into the yard. The air felt clean, compared to that. Sammy shuffled back to the car, muttering about another headache. Dean needed to check on him. On the hallucinations. If the kid needed to be benched, they’d make do. He’d rather Sam didn’t go crazy and start doing nuthouse shit like shooting at mirrors.
Dean lingered to make sure She got out safe. About two minutes passed before he kicked himself for leaving Her at all, took a deep breath—he’d hold it, grab Her, and carry her out—and She reappeared with the laptop under her arm.
“Lots of wires.” She muttered, tucking Herself under Dean’s arm.
He just grunted, and kissed the top of Her head. She was fine. He still didn’t want to let Her out of his sight again. He swore to God, if She got kidnapped one more time, he was going to put Her on a fucking leash.
In a consensual way.
Maybe he’d just feed Her a tracker chip instead.
They took the laptop and found another motel. She sat on the bed, petting the Lady while Sam and Dean took the table. They—She—had cleared it of the magic death goo, and Sammy was tapping away at it, trying to see if there was anything to recover. Dean bugged him and tried to make him go faster, which earned him a lot of flat glares, but sometimes Her lips would twitch. And that was all he was trying to do anyway.
When they weren’t actively working, She’d get that far away, deadly glint in Her eyes. The one that told Dean something was about to explode. Distraction worked best, but trying to feel Her up felt wrong for a lot of reasons—the least of which was Sammy in the damn room and Bobby’s bottle on the dresser—so he was resorting to jokes and acting like an idiot just to make her think about anything else.
He felt like a bumbling jester, bouncing back and forth on his feet for just the chance of a smile. He’d shoved a crossword puzzle under Her nose earlier, and made maybe his worst jokes ever while she did it.
“Seventeen down.” She’d mumbled, the pencil already chewed to hell between Her swollen lips. “Say I don’t think that’s true, politely. Ten.”
“Fucking idiot.” Dean had suggested, and she’d sighed.
“Too many letters.”
“Dumbass. With six s’s.”
Sam had rolled his eyes and huffed like he was in physical pain. Dean had been about to flip him off, before She’d grabbed his arm, and pulled it over Her shoulder. There had been a pretty, delicate smile ghosting Her lips. She’d snuggled into Dean’s side, and hidden Her face in his torso.
“I don’t think it’s Dumbasssss.” She’d mumbled, and Dean had chuckled.
“Are you sure? I think you should at least-“
She’d covered his mouth with a hand and wide eyes. Dean had blinked, furrowing his brow, and She’d smiled. It wasn’t Her unrestrained, universe moving one.
But it was still Her smile. And it made Dean feel like he could part oceans with his hands.
She’d leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to Dean’s lips. He’d grabbed Her waist in a daze, trying to remember how to move well enough to pull her back.
“You’re a genius.” She mumbled, and Dean had made an undignified noise. She was pretty. So very fucking pretty, and warm under his hand.
Sam had snorted and dramatically gagged. Dean had flipped him off and folded over Her, peering at what she’d been scribbling on the paper.
Are you sure.
Huh.
Dean hated these puzzles, but he loved Her. And She loved them, and if they made Her think he was smart, they couldn’t be all that bad.
She was still wrapping it up, with the Lady in her lap nosing Her hand. Her brow was furrowed, but in concentration and not pain. That was something he could—very easily—live with.
“Shit.” Sam muttered, and Dean frowned.
“What’s-“
“It’s all gone.”
All of it. Sammy had finally gotten the damn laptop working, only to find the whole thing wiped. Dean poked around a little extra, and found some hints that it might’ve been offloaded. If they’d just wanted it destroyed, Frank hadn’t put anything online. It had been all hard drives. If they weren’t after something, the Leviathans would’ve just smashed the whole thing.
“But what could they have wanted, he was a- A nutjob with hacking skills-“
“He had all our info, Sammy.” Dean muttered. “Everything that Frank helped us hide, after the hive downloaded our brains.”
“And everything Frank knew.” She said from the bed. “About their plan. And- He’d been poking around, maybe there are some things that-“
“The Leviathans didn’t have yet.” Sam finished, eyes going wide. “That’s- Oh, that’s really bad.”
No fucking shit.
They needed to get that hard drive back.
“Dick Roman’s main offices are in Chicago.” She mumbled over dinner, and Dean’s grip on his fork tightened.
“Princess-“
“I’ll be fine.”
Dean worked his jaw, glaring down at his takeout General Tso’s Chicken. The last time She said she’d be fine, she’d gotten kidnapped again.
She scooted Her chair closer, and Dean glanced up with a sigh. She was pouting. It was always annoyingly effective.
“I’m not gonna stop you from going.” He muttered, and She shrugged passively.
“Okay.”
She stared at Dean’s hand, braced on his thigh. He sighed, and flipped it palm up. She wove their fingers together, and dropped Her brow onto his shoulder. He kissed the top of Her head, and offered a bite of chicken.
It was so simple, Dean was allowed to forget for a second. Where they were. What they were doing, and why. But it was only for a second.
Only ever for a second.
“He’s mostly just a smug asshole.” She told Sam, both of them sitting on the couch while Dean finished his pie. “Arrogant. He seemed very sure that I was going to agree to their proposal.”
“Their… What?”
She sighed. “Dick had like- A whole offer thing. Apparently whatever they’re doing, they need me for it.” She paused. “Well, me or Dean.”
“Dean? Why the hell would they need Dean?”
Dean frowned. “Hey.”
“I mean- Sorry,” Sam shot him a half apologetic look. “But- You’re just like- A dude-“
“You’re just a dude!”
“I’m Lucifer’s vessel.”
“I’m Michael’s vessel-“
“I had superpowers-“
“Yeah, well, you don’t anymore, bitch-“
“Dean.” She shot him a look, and he scowled, glaring back to his pie.
“He started it.” He grumbled, and She just rolled her eyes and stood up.
Her arms ended up around Dean’s shoulders, while he finished his pie. Sammy had to stay over there on the couch, alone like a loser. Dean got a cool, hot girlfriend with soft hair and hands. She wiped some apple filling of his chin, and Dean got to eat it off Her thumb and watch her flush. Sam could keep his smug She sided with me bitchface. Dean had won.
“Their offer was… Interesting.” She told Sam, letting Dean guide her around the table and into his lap. “Dick- He said we had a common enemy. That working together would help, um-“ She shot Dean a nervous look. “Help keep me away from God.”
His hand flexed over Her stomach. She held his forearm around Her like a seatbelt, and he just grunted, pressing a kiss to Her shoulder. Creepy fucking asshole, wasn’t going to get anywhere near his girl.
“Would you have considered it?” Sammy said cautiously. “If- You know.”
And She went very still, in Dean’s arms. Not locked up or flighty. Just… Still.
“Does it matter?”
She and Sammy didn’t seem to think it did.
Sam’s head was hurting again. Dean overhead him groaning in the bathroom, and slid him some of the good stuff he’d taken from Bobby’s medicine cabinet, left over from his wheelchair days.
“Dean, I can’t-“
“He’s not gonna use it.” Dean muttered. “C’mon, Sammy. It’s what he would’ve wanted.”
Dean would argue against himself that what Bobby would’ve wanted was Her and Sammy far away from hunting forever. The bottle on the dresser certainly glowed and shifted every time they talked about the Leviathans like it disapproved.
He caught Her staring at it, after a hushed conversation with Sam. She was hold a lose paper, tight and wrinkled between Her fingers. Dean walked up behind Her, pulling her back into his chest.
“Can we put ‘im in the cat bed with the Lady?” He murmured. “I don’t want him watching me sleep. Don’t think he’s gonna wanna see it either. You know I snore.”
She laughed, but it was more of a painless breath.
And like it always had, everything came in waves.
Sammy had gone out, muttering something about it being loud. Dean made him promise to call if he wasn’t coming back, or text if he ended up knocked out in the Impala. He couldn’t being to understand whatever was going on in the kid’s head, but it couldn’t be easy. If he needed to sleep away from Dean’s snoring and Her one in the morning reading, that was what he had to do.
But they didn’t get to the one in the morning reading part.
She’d been fine, most of the day. Not good, but not sobbing. Not falling apart. She’d laughed a few times, watched some history channel with Sammy—fucking dorks—and finished Her crossword puzzle. Dean knew it hadn’t been fixed. This wasn’t something that was going to be fixable.
The gravity of it had just come so fast. He been ready for it, but it still knocked him at his feet.
It started with Her mumbling about calling Sam. Making him come back, like he wasn’t six foot whatever and build like a nerdy tree.
“He’ll be fine, sweetheart. He took his gun.”
“But- What if there’s a monster-“
“He’s Lucifer’s vessel, he’ll manage.”
Her brow furrowed in worry. “I’m serious, Dean, he only brought one gun, and- No silver, or bleach- Or- What about his ID, if he has a breakdown about his soul-“
“He ain’t gonna have a breakdown about his soul.”
“But what if he does-“
“Then he calls me.” Dean took Her face between his hands, keeping his voice low and gentle. “And I tell them my brother is crazy and gave me the slip.”
Her brow only furrowed tighter, and She opened her mouth to babble something else about turning Sammy into a leash kid.
Dean kissed Her, slow and soft. He wasn’t gunning for anything. She just needed not to talk for a second. As much as Dean would be down to hear and rebuke all Her crazy conclusions and worried, she’d just be working herself up.
He adored Her more than anything else. Sometimes, for Her own sake, she needed to be shut up.
It worked. She melted into him, relaxing slightly as he ran his thumb down Her nose. That earned him a soft, cute little hum. Her eyes fluttered and his lips twitched.
“We’re alright, Princess.” He muttered. “Everything’s alright.”
And for another half hour, it was. Dean showered, and got her to finish the pier crust on his plate. He came out and got dressed, fed the cat, and managed to pry Her book out of her hands long enough to coax her into the bathroom. But then he’d made the mistake of leaving her alone, just to check on the Lady’s makeshift litterbox.
Dean should’ve fucking known better by now, than to leave Her alone.
He heard Her sobs first. Muffled by the door and falling water, but not nearly quiet. His whole body reacted to the sound, like a bird sensing a storm. He pushed into the bathroom and found Her curled against the wall of the shower, the water beating down onto Her face. It was scrunched with tears and silent screams. She’d pulled Her knees into her chest, like she was trying to be small.
She didn’t even react to Dean’s presence. Not until he ripped off his shirt and sweats and climbed in with her.
“Baby.” He muttered, using his back to shield her from the falling water. “Fuck- You coulda asked me to stay-“
She shook Her head, but grabbed his wrists like he was the last thing she had to hold onto. Dean sighed and kissed Her hairline, gently guiding her up to her feet. She was shaking too much to stand alone. And the water burned his back, but he’d be okay.
He wasn’t going to leave.
Dean moved Her in front of him, and slowly figured out how to wash Her hair. There were a lot more steps, than with his, but he’d also been studying Her for eleven years. He’d figured it out. Running soaps and smooth products through thick locks, kissing Her neck and letting her lean wherever she needed while he worked. She seemed to like it, when he dragged his fingers over her scalp. It made Her almost purr, her frantic gasps slowly easing to ragged breathes, her sobs turning into tiny, broken whimpers.
“You wanna stay here for a moment?” He murmured when they were done, and She just turned around and hugged him.
She was still crying. Dean could feel the pound of Her heart under her ribs, as he let his hands drag over her back. He swayed them back and forth, humming one of those stupid guitar songs She and Bobby had loved. It made Her cry harder again, but she held him tight. It seemed to, in a strange way help.
By the time Dean got Her out of the shower, she was all out of tears. She mostly, really, just looked so, so tired.
He got Her into his largest, most comfortable flannel. She burrowed her face into the sleeves, curling up on the bed while Dean did the nighttime rounds. Doors and windows, lights and salt lines.
“Dean.”
He looked over from the demon ward to find Her sitting on her knees. The flannel was unbuttoned. He had a full view of her tits and pussy, and with the shy, flustered expression on Her face, she wanted him to.
Dean muttered Her name, and her lips wobbled.
“What’re you-“
“Please.” Her voice cracked. “Just- I- I don’t want to think about it. Please.”
Dean swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut. Something was fucking testing him.
But he wasn’t going to give in.
She wasn’t giving him Doe Eyes. She didn’t really want it. She just wanted to forget, and God, Dean wished he could make Her. But not like this.
Never like this.
Dean crossed the room slowly, taking a deep breath through his nose. He pulled the flannel around Her, tugging her forward into a kiss. And he moved every bit of love he had into it. It was like trying to push the whole ocean through a single door. It’s never enough space, but it’s still a flood. She made a gorgeous sound, and let Dean guide her down to the mattress. He traced his tongue over Her lips, nipping on them softly before rolling onto his side, and taking her with him. He wrapped his arms fully around Her, but didn’t push any further. No wandering hands. No knee between her thigh.
Just another kiss, before he tucked Her face into the crook of his neck.
She tensed, when she realized.
“But-“
“I wanna.” He rasped, squeezing Her waist. “Believe me, Princess, I always wanna.”
“So- So do it-“
“No.”
She twisted, trying to squirm out of his arms. Dean held Her tighter. If She got on top of him or started yelling or crying, he’d give in. He couldn’t give in.
“Dean-“
“I can’t.”
“But- You- You said I just have to ask-“ She started to shake again, and Dean swallowed.
“I know. I just-“
“You promised-“
He flipped them over. Put Her under him, and clenched his jaw at the sight. Damp hair around Her like a halo. Pretty eyes fluttering, tear-stained cheeks, puffy lips. He’d always wanted to make Her cry during sex.
This hadn’t been what he meant.
He muttered Her name. She sniffled, and he sighed.
“Look at me.” He grabbed Her jaw, and said her name again. “Baby, you gotta- There you go.” He sighed, when their eyes finally met. “Good girl.”
She just blinked at him. There was nothing deadly in Her bright eyes right now. Just a mist like a ghost, and a pain he could feel in his chest.
And what he wanted to say was that he loved Her. That he wasn’t going to fuck Her because he loved her, and she deserved better than that. But now wasn’t the time. If he told Her while she was cracking under his hands like this, she’d only ever think he’d said it to distract her. She’d never believe he meant it, with every goddamn thing he had.
“Ask me in the morning, baby.” He whispered, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “Ask me and I’ll fuck you twice. But not now. You gotta rest.”
Her throat bobbed, and She nodded. Dean sighed, and rolled back over. He took Her with him. He’d take Her everywhere, if he was allowed.
And he wasn’t going to let go.
“All the way down.” He whispered against Her skin. “Right?”
She rolled over, and buried Her face in his chest. He pressed his face into Her hair, and took a deep breath. Apples and flowers and lingering vanilla.
With him all the time.
She didn’t ask him in the morning. Dean hadn’t thought she would. He’d been worried that he’d get the silent treatment for telling her no, but if anything she was more touchy. Her hands wrapped around his forearm and stayed there through the morning. Sam got kicked to the back again, so she could hold his hand in Her lap. The lady kept trying to bite his fingers, and Dean sighed, but let her. She looked kinda cute doing it, anyway.
Chicago was packed with traffic, but it gave them extra time to talk.
For Her and Sam to talk, and Dean to listen.
“The building is huge.” Sammy muttered, frowning at his laptop. “I mean, look at this, the campus is almost a square mile-“
“It’s not all offices.” She muttered. “Dick Roman ran tech and a business park. Some of that is like- Dominos Pizza.”
Dean hummed, rubbing his thumb over Her knuckles. He could go for some pizza.
Probably not the top priority.
“My point is that it’s going to be impossible to find the hard drive.” Sam sighed Her name. “And that’s if it’s here. How do we know it’s even here-“
“This is their lair, and they’re arrogant assholes.” She shrugged. “There’s no way it’s not here.”
“Well, how do we find it-“
“I don’t know, I’m sure Frank had something for this- What if- Gimme.”
She twisted over the bench, stretching out her hand and beckoning with Her fingers. Sam stared at Her like she was crazy. Dean tried not to snort.
“Gimme?”
“I have an idea, Samuel-“
“Then tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“No-“
“No-“
“Just- Give me the fucking laptop-“
She tried to jump over the bench to grab it. Sam sank back into his seat, kicking up his legs and whining like a child. Dean sighed and grabbed the back of Her thigh, pulling her back into her seat. He got a glare and a press of Her thighs together that he pretended not to notice.
“Sammy. Give her the laptop.”
“Dean-“
“Sam.”
Dean mocked his tone, and Sam scowled, before grumbling and begrudgingly handing over the computer. She beamed as She took it, and Dean got a kiss on the cheek.
Again. He was winning.
She hunched over the computer, tapping so fast Her fingers were a blur. Dean leaned over, trying to get a good read of the screen, but Sammy grabbed him by the hair and forced his gaze back onto the road. Dean grunted, ready to turn and smack the shit out of the little bastard, but she stopped him with a hand on his knee.
“What do you know?”
“Uh… Nothing?” He frowned. Weird question. “I mean like- Car shit. And- uhhh… Tools?” He glanced over, to check if that was the right answer. She was still frowning at the screen. Probably not. “Music? I know music. And- Uh- You know I ain’t bad in the kitchen-“
“No, I- I mean I do know.” She sighed. Dean tried not to burst with pride. She knew. “But that’s Bobby’s password hint.”
Oh. That was smart. “What’d you mean, is it like- What does Dean know?”
“No.” She angled the laptop of him and a nosy, leering Sam to see.
On the screen, it just said Dean knows.
And Dean frowned. Did he? No he didn’t. He knew jack fucking shit, let alone Bobby’s email password. If it was a question about engines, or wires, or- Maybe what Zeppelin songs had the most complicated riffs or what Kurt Vonnegut books were the best or what Peter Jackson had been doing in a Lord of the Rings scene and how it compared to the book, then he’d have it aced. But Dean doubted it was any of that, or a whole recipe for the best Lasagna. And that was all he knew.
Well, that and everything about Her.
Ah. Shit.
“Put in your birthday.” He muttered, and She blinked.
“My- What do you mean my birthday-“
“May 4th, 1982-“
“I know my birthday, Dean. I’m asking why.”
He sighed, and squeezed Her hand three times. “Just- Try it, alright? It’s gonna work.”
And it did. He didn’t have to look to check. Her grip tightened on his hand, and he knew.
She passed the laptop back to Sam, and Dean pulled Her right into his side, wrapping his arm over her shoulder. She leaned closer, resting Her brow against his shoulder. Dean pressed a kiss to Her brow. He couldn’t make it better, and it was going to hurt for a long, long time.
At least they had something. Frank had some automated email sent to Bobby after his place got sacked, and there was some kind of encryption over his data that acted as a tracker. Sammy had explained it. Dean didn’t really listen. Wasn’t that important. What mattered was that Frank had a hack into the software of wherever they’d downloaded his stuff, that let them poke around the desktop, even get into the camera. They’d passed it off to some redhead who hummed ABBA songs while she worked. She wasn’t a Leviathan. Just some girl on the wrong side, willingly or not.
“Do you think you can find her, Princess?”
She nodded. Dean didn’t doubt Her for a second.
The redhead lived in a tiny apartment a few miles from the building. Her building was tall, and played horrible elevator music. An old lady got in with them, and Dean tried to offer a smile, but it just made her look more afraid. He couldn’t blame her. He and Sammy weren’t exactly relaxing presences—especially not with a bunch of Leviathan bombs in their hands and bags—and She was holding the Lady and leaking power again.
Dean squeezed Her hand. She squeezed back three times, leaning into his chest.
He didn’t believe Her.
She’d tried to get Sam to stay in the car again, and made a strange face when he refused. She’d refused to leave the Lady, even when Dean pointed out that if there was a Leviathan with their redhead, it would be safer to not have the thing under her arm. When they got to the apartment, She spun the Blade in the hand and started combing through the rooms like it was some kind of scavenger hunt. Sam gave Dean a worried look, and he just grimaced.
“Princess.” He called, following her into the bedroom. “We looking for something?”
She shrugged, not looking away from from the redhead’s bookshelf.
“None of these books are real.” She muttered, and Dean snorted.
“Yeah, baby, they’re fantasy and Dungeons and Dragons.”
“Hm.” Her eyes narrowed, fingers lingering on the spine of a book labelled Spells and Necromancy. Dean sighed, and slung an arm around Her waist.
“C’mon.” He kissed Her neck, slowly pulling her away. “You can steal from this chick after we get her help.”
“I’m not stealing-“
“You were gonna take that book-“
“I- I was going to look at it-“
“Uh huh.” Dean nipped at Her earlobe. “That’s my little klepto.”
She made a frustrated, whiny sound, and Dean started making out with the soft spot of the base of Her throat. She sighed, soft and sweet, turning Her face for Dean to claim her lips.
There was a slamming, then clattering sound from the living room, and Dean groaned. They couldn’t even have a half-nice thing.
“Stay back, you- You ugly freak!” A woman’s voice shrieked. “I have a sword!”
“Hey, woah- Woah-“ Sammy shouted Her name. “Dean!”
Dean groaned, rolling his eyes as he pulled out his gun. She’d already rolled out of his arms and sprinted out. It was just the redhead, and she’d looked about one-thirty soaking wet. Sammy was a tank, he could ram her like a bull or whatever, the kid was just being a fucking baby.
And just as he thought, Dean found a scene that was more comedic than anything else. Sammy was cowering on the couch, rubbing his arm like he’d been shot. She had the redhead pinned against the door with a hand on her throat and Her knife against the poor girl’s gut. The redhead was pale and gripping a plastic sword like a lifeline.
“Oh- Oh my god- Please don’t kill me, I’ll keep my mouth shut, I’m so good at keeping secrets- Just ask my mom, I kept the secret about her and the pool boy forever and- Me telling you doesn’t count-“
“Shut up.” She snapped, and the redhead snapped her jaw shut. “Who are you?”
The redhead was silent. She narrowed Her eyes, and Dean sighed.
“Answer me.”
“But- you- You said to shut up-“ The redhead whimpered under her glower. “Charlie! Charlie- My name is Charlie- But it’s- I can change it if you want-“
“Princess.” Dean cut in, stuffing his gun back into his jeans. “Put her down.”
She glared at him. “She attacked Sam-“
“I’m fine.” Sam mumbled. “Just- Got surprised.”
Dean gave Her a pointed look, nodding to Charlie. She scowled, but took a step back.
And Charlie had fight in her. Very stupid fight, but still. Lot of moxie. She raised her plastic sword, ready to knock Her on the head, and Dean caught it with a single hand. He ripped it away, snapped it over his knee, and tossed aside the pieces.
“Hey, that was a collectable-“
“Tough shit.” Dean pointed to the couch. “Sit.”
Charlie looked between them, her back pressed to the wall. Her eyes darted to Sammy, and Dean glanced back to see the kid waving nervously. It just seemed to scare Charlie more.
“Jesus freakin’- We won’t hurt you, alright? You know about the Leviathans?” He paused. She might not be up to date on technical names. “The ugly freaks?”
Charlie nodded, and Dean ran a hand over his face. That was somewhere to start. Charlie had seen the whole bleach and borax thing, so Dean emptied one of the bombs and poured it over all of them. His hand, Charlie’s hand, one of Her fingers—it was all She was willing to offer—and Sammy’s head. Charlie didn’t seem to trust them, but she was at least curious. And that got her to listen to Dean’s whole rundown. Monsters are real. We hunt them. Those were monsters. We’re working on the hunt. You need to help us. He’d got it down to a mark, and hell, if he hadn’t learned how to hold the audience’s attention. He threw in a few jokes. Sammy rolled his eyes, but Charlie seemed to appreciate them.
She did shoot Her nervous looks every few seconds. But Dean was never going to be the most captivating thing in the room when She was right next to him.
“So- Okay.” Charlie held up her hands, like she was trying to physically deflect the words. “That’s- Alright. Real. Monsters are real.” She paused. “What about like- Demons? Or angels? Or- Santa Clause? Is Santa real? Why didn’t he get me my own arcade to live in, I was such a nice kid, and I wrote a really good letter.”
“Well, uh-“ Dean cleared his throat. “Probably because he ain’t real. But all that other shit is.”
Charlie’s eyes widened. “Even the angels?”
“Especially the angels.” She grumbled, rubbing the Lady’s ears. “Buttheads.”
“Angels are buttheads?”
“Most of them, yeah.” Dean shrugged. “We know one that’s pretty great, but he’s also a little werido. Angel rain man.”
“Angels have rain man-“
“Look, we can give you the whole encyclopedia later, alright? But right now, you gotta tell us everything you know about Dick Roman and that hard drive you were working on.”
“Oh. I can do that.” Charlie glanced at Her again, then raised her hand. “Can I ask one more question?”
Dean sighed, and nodded. He didn’t think it would’ve mattered if he said no.
“What’s up with the cat? Is it like- A magic cat? A secret person? Does it turn into a dragon?”
She sat up a little taller. “It’s a Babylonian Lion Cub.”
“A- Holy shit, that’s so cool. Can I pet her?”
“You can try, but she doesn’t like strangers.” She frowned down at the Lady. “But she’s relaxed here. Which is good. And- Just be careful, she’s never bitten me and she doesn’t really scratch, but Sam has a theory she’s got a pack mentality-“
“I don’t have that theory.” Sam frowned. “You have that theory.”
“Yeah, but you gave me the idea-“
Dean muttered Her name, and squeezed her knee. If he’d let her keep talking about animals, they would’ve been here past midnight. She wrinkled Her nose, but leaned into his side. He grinned—which wasn’t very commanding of him, but he didn’t care—and turned back to Charlie.
“You’ve seen what’s on that drive, haven’t you? You know there are things out there. And we,” he gestured over Her and Sammy. “Need to know what you’ve got.”
“What I’ve… Got?” Charlie laughed nervously. “I mean- It can’t be things you don’t already know, right? You guys are the- The Ghostbusters-“
“Don’t call us the Ghostbusters.” Sam muttered, and She hummed an agreement.
“We’re the Monsterfuckers.”
“No, we’re-“ Sam sat up tall, and Dean choked on his laugh. “We are not the monsterfuckers, I am not calling us that.”
She frowned. “But it’s apt-“
“It really isn’t-“
“Monsterfucker- It doesn’t mean what you’re thinking, baby.” Dean kissed the side of Her head, and it was horrible having to bite back his laughter. She was so adorable, and sincere, and Sam was lucky they were on a case or he’d be rolling on the floor. “Means we’re- You know. Fucking them. Not like that.” He added, when Her brow wrinkled tighter. “Like-“ He nodded, tapping Her thigh.
Her eyes widened, and there was that pretty fucking flush. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” He laughed. He wanted to kiss Her again.
Charlie coughed loudly. Shit.
She was sitting back in her chair, arms crossed and head tilted as she scanned over them. Sam started talking about how they needed to know everything she knew, because the Leviathans were newer monsters. Charlie hummed, and kept eyeing them like she was trying to put together. Finally, she sighed and rolled her neck, foot bouncing against the floor.
“I mean- I did- I have your hard drive, right? I broke into it- Which was hard, by the way, your friend must’ve worked for like- The freakin’ KGB- And all that was on it was crazy shit! Like- So much crazy shit!”
“But what was on it-“
“Crazy shit like what-“
“I don’t remember all of it!” She stuck her tongue out at Sam, who immediately shrank back. “I mean, they have dig sites and- And a bunch of satellites that are tracking stars that aren’t located on the NASA website, I’ll tell you that much. And- Oh, the have like- Stations? I don’t know, creepy little houses, all over the globe. There’s one in Brazil, and one in Kansas, one in San Francisco-“
“Vortex points.” She muttered, grabbing Dean’s wrist. “De, those are-“
“I know.” He muttered, watching Charlie carefully. “You see anyone else with them? Someone advising, workin’ with- Even getting killed? Maybe some assholes with long teeth or wings? Big bald dude in a suit- Or a British dickhead wearing all black-“
“That!” Charlie’s eyes widened. “I’ve seen a British guy! Well, there’s no audio, so I don’t know if he was British, but he looked British. He had like- One of those British faces. There was a woman with him! Does that matter?”
She shot Dean a look, and he sighed, running a hand over his face. “Yeah. What kinda lady? Redhead, or-“
“Blonde. She was blonde, and really pale. The camera kept picking up her eyes being all… Sparkly.” Charlie looked between them with an open, curious expression. “Is she like- A super evil vampire villain.”
“No.” She leaned forward, eyes locked onto Charlie. “That woman’s name is Eve. Did you read anything about Eve.”
“Um…” Charlie squinted at the air. “Yes? There was a file, I think? That your guy had put together, and- It was labeled Eve. He had a bunch of her locations tracked, and- That video. Of her and the British man. Does he have a name?”
“Yeah. Crowley.” She gave Dean a worried look. “If they’re all working together…”
“Can’t be something good.”
“I know, but- What common ground would they have?”
Dean shrugged. “They all hate God? I mean- We hate God, but- They did offer for us to jump in on the ground floor of whatever evil startup they’ve got going on.”
She hummed, and Charlie raised her hand.
“In the video.” She said nervously. “They kept talking about a tablet?”
Dean blinked. “What, like those big phone things?”
“No, um-“
“It’s an ancient type of book, Dean.” Sammy sighed, giving Charlie a curious expression. “Did they say what kind of tablet?”
She shook her head. “Not they just- They were talking about looking for it, and how they had to find it, and- I don’t know. I kind of freaked out right after that and shut the computer off.” She winced. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She muttered, rubbing the scar on Her palm. “That… It helps.”
And She turned to fully face Dean on the couch. Son of a bitch. He squeezed his eyes shut. Looking at Her always made it harder.
“No.”
“I-“ She huffed, leaning closer. She smelled so good. “I didn’t even say anything, Winchester-“
“Yeah but I know what you’re gonna say, Princess-“
“No, you don’t. I-“
“You wanna go in and get that drive yourself.” He fixed Her with a flat glare, fisting his hand against his thigh. Her pretty glaring and blindingly gorgeous features weren’t going to get her out of this one. “And I’m saying hell no. I’m ain’t letting that happen.”
She scowled. “I can kill them, I’d be fine-“
“You slept an hour last night, you couldn’t kill Sam-“
“Yes, I could-“
“Please don’t.” Sam mumbled, and Charlie cleared her throat.
“I could help.” She said, looking mostly at Her. “I’ve always wanted to be like- One of those action heroes. Just- Please don’t let me die?”
And they all fell silent. She was still again, twisting the skin of Her own wrists. Dean could see nails digging into and scratching at Her skin, and he sighed. He took Her hand, squeezed it three times, and gave Charlie a tight smile.
“We’ll try.”
It was meant to come out like a joke. From the look on Charlie’s face, she seemed to understand that it wasn’t.
But Dean would give the girl this. She was ballsy. She didn’t back down, even as She and Sam ran her through a plan to go in, get the drive, and get out. Dean gave her some extra self-defense tips—which wouldn’t do much against the Leviathans, but it was better than sending her armed with an iPod and some spunk—and she was a natural. No amount of their brooding and grumbling and caution seemed to get her down, either. Dean thought Claire would like her.
She was the same brand of goddamn nosy.
“So what’s like- Your deal?” Charlie asked, spinning in the chair of the van.
Sammy was trying to get the building’s cams online, and Dean was hovering over his shoulder so they could map escape routes. The van was nice. He’d laughed when She found it, because was pretty sure there was someone out there filing a police report about their stolen car right now. But he hadn’t pushed it. The Lady had gone for a nap, so She was sitting across from Charlie, reading while Sam and Dean worked.
Trying to read. Charlie didn’t seem all that interested in letting that happen.
“Our deal?” She echoed back, and Charlie nodded.
“What’s going on with you. And macho and macho over there.” She tipped her head to Sam and Dean, and Dean decided to pretend he couldn’t hear or notice.
He wanted to hear Her answers.
“I- Um- I don’t know what that means-“
“I mean what’s the deal.” Charlie shrugged, popping a Cheeto in to her mouth. Dean didn’t even know where she’d gotten Cheetos. “Like, what’s going on with you guys? How long have you known each other? Do you work together all the time, or is this like- A team up? Am I sitting with the Avengers of monsterfucking? Where’s your angel rain man?”
She stared at Charlie, holding Her book in her lap. For a moment, Dean worried Charlie had broken Her, and he was going to have to boot her back online.
“Cas is in South Dakota.” She finally mumbled, and Charlie raised her brows.
“The angel’s name is Cas?”
“Castiel. It’s a nickname.”
“Oooh.” Charlie nodded slowly. “Why is he in South Dakota?”
“That’s where our house is?”
“So you live together.”
“Um- Yeah.” She pulled Her knees higher to her chest, and Charlie tilted her head.
“Is it like- An in-law situation?”
“A… What?”
“You and Han Solo.” Charlie nodded to Dean, and he pretended to be very busy with some wires. “You’re married, right?”
She coughed loudly, and Dean risked a glance to see Her flushed and sputtering. “I- We- We’re- That’s-“
Charlie frowned. “You’re not together?”
“No!” She sat up frantically, Her book falling off her lap. Dean smirked, and looked back to the wires. “I mean- We are. Um- Together. Like that. We just- We’re just dating.”
For now. Dean didn’t think that would be helpful to say aloud, but all he could think was for now.
“Oh.” Charlie blinked. “Sorry, you- You just act married. And you’re wearing a ring.”
“It’s- Well-“ She sank back into Her chair. “We’ve know each other a long time.”
“How long?”
“Eleven years?”
“Eleven-“ Charlie gaped. “You’ve been dating eleven years and he hasn’t married you-“
“No, it’s- We’ve only been dating for- Um- Like four months?”
Next to Dean, Sam snorted. Dean whacked him upside the head.
“Okay…” Charlie swang her legs, looking Her up and down. “It took him ten years to ask you out?”
She flushed, and Dean scowled. He wasn’t a big fan of that, either.
“It’s complicated.” She mumbled, and Dean could feel her glance in his direction. “I- um- I’ll tell you later.”
Dean wished She wouldn’t. He needed to hear all Her thoughts about that now, so he could know if he had to do anything about them. But Charlie took that, and moved on.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
She sighed. “My dad died.”
“Oh. Shit.” Charlie winced. “Um- Sorry, that’s on me, I shouldn’t have asked-“
“It’s okay.” She muttered. She’d curled into a little ball in Her chair. Dean wanted to go scoop Her up and curl over her, moving all his heat into Her body until she unraveled, and could breakdown safely in his arms.
“Is that- That’s why you all looked so weird.” Charlie said slowly. “When I asked not to die.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.” She shrugged. “God doesn’t seem to care about you that much.”
Charlie’s mouth fell open. “God?”
“Um- Yeah.”
Dean sighed, and exchanged a here we go look with Sammy. He might need to have a talk with Her about not dropping the God bomb when they were on a schedule. Now there was no way Charlie was going until she’d gotten the breakdown.
“I’m his Bride.” She paused. “God’s.”
“God.” Charlie repeated. “Like- God God?”
“Um- Yeah.”
“It’s- Did you like- Date him?”
“Nope. It’s just- Well, it was kind of a Eugenics thing, but also- More than that. I don’t know.” She sighed. “A lot of it is still really unclear.”
Charlie swallowed. “Is he at least cute?”
Dean tensed. Sam shot him an amused look.
“No.” She snorted. “He looks like a rat. And not in a hot way.”
“No man every looks like a rat in a hot way.” Charlie muttered. “And what, he just expects you to marry him while he’s ugly?”
She laughed. It was a beautiful sound. Dean’s shoulders relaxed.
“What happens if you say no?” Charlie asked, and She shrugged.
“I can’t say no.”
“But-“ Charlie jerked her head at Dean. “If I can see it, I think God mighta picked up some vibes-“
“Yeah. He’s aware.”
“And?”
“Not a fan. But I’m also not actually going to marry him, so it’s none of his business.”
“Alright. That’s cool.” Charlie paused. “But- You said you can’t say no?”
“I can’t.”
“But you won’t marry him.”
“Yep.”
“Yeah, you really lost me.”
She laughed softly, rubbing Her calves. “Well, he has to wait for my consent to marry me. And I’m never going to give it, so we won’t get married. But,” She said firmly, and Charlie closed her mouth. “He’s not going to propose to anyone else, because that’s not how it works. For some fucking reason, it’s me or bust.”
Hell yeah it was.
That was another thing that wouldn’t be helpful to say.
“Why?” Charlie said, brow pinched. “I mean- I get it. But he’s God, can’t he just… Make a wife who wants him?”
She shrugged. “According to him, he did. But there’s only one me. It’s nontransferable.”
“What, are you like a god?”
Dean would say yes. Cas and Sammy and Jo would too. As would the fairies and all the angels and probably Death himself.
“No. But I do have like- Powers.”
“Oooo.” Charlie leaned forward. “What kind of powers?” She was on the edge of her seat. Dean was worried she’d fall, but he couldn’t fault her either.
If he met Her now, he’d probably be worse.
He’d probably neglect the whole case to try and flirt with Her. Sammy would have to drag him by the neck away from Her, and he’d end up elbowing his way back just to look at Her again. If he got lucky and She spoke to him, Dean would’ve never left Her side. Sammy would have to go on without him. His place was there, on his knees with his face in Her stomach.
“Um… Normal powers?” She said, and Dean rolled his eyes. She probably wouldn’t appreciate him jumping in and saying that she could see souls, raise the dead, and walk through Heaven like it was her house. That She’d opened Purgatory and overpowered Lucifer and Michael and had the respect of Death.
He still wanted to. Charlie should understand that she was in the presence of the most awesome and sexy and bossy and cool woman in history.
“Normal powers?” Charlie echoed. “Like a witch?”
“Yeah. But also- Other stuff.” She sighed. “There’s- Well, there’s always new stuff. One time I put an angel in a jar.”
Dean snorted, and Sammy ran a hand over his face. Never mind when she’d raised Death. That was the shit she thought was important to tell.
“You’re very cool.” Charlie told Her, and she flushed.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” Charlie paused, lowering her voice. “And you’re sleeping with him?”
She jabbed a thumb at Dean, and Sam choked on a laugh. Dean shot him a glare, his face heated and fists curled. He was cool too. He was nothing compared to Her, but no one was anything compared to her, and Dean was the only son of a bitch who she’d ever looked at and wanted something from. He was Her fucking soulmate-
“He’s my Dean.”
She sounded confused. Like there was nothing else for him to be. Dean puffed out his chest, grinning like a douchebag while Sam rolled his eyes. Charlie sighed.
“Right. He is pretty, but- Does he have like a really big dick?”
“I think so-“
“Princess.” Dean cut in quickly as Sam gagged on nothing. “Can you c’mere and look at this?”
She nodded, rolling Her chair over to his side. Dean realized he didn’t actually have anything for her to look at—he just really hadn’t wanted Charlie to get the breakdown of his dick size—and pointed to Sammy’s cameras for approval. Over Her head, he could see Charlie watching them with amusement, shoving more Cheetos in her face. Dean gave her a tight smile as he went to check on the lady, and she kicked her feet with a grin.
“How’d you pull that?” She asked, nodding to where She was peering at Sam’s computers.
Dean grunted. He had no idea. “I dunno. I’ve been told I’m cute.”
“Yeah, but she’s-“ Charlie wiggled her brows, then offered up her fist. “Good work.”
Dean looked between Charlie’s grin and her hand, his eyes narrowed. She gave him a pointed look, nodding to her hand, then sighed and dropped it.
“I’m saying good job. Stop looking at me like you’re going to murder me.”
“I wasn’t-“ Dean sighed. He might’ve been. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Charlie hummed. “Does she have a sister?”
“Yeah, but she’s freakin’ crazy. And we crippled her last week.”
“You what-“
“Told you. Crazy.”
Charlie shook her head. “Crazy enough you crippled her?”
“I didn’t touch her.” Dean shrugged, and said her name. “All her. But trust me, the bitch earned it.”
“How?”
“She stopped her from getting eaten by Dick. Norah repaid the favor by kidnapping us and putting us in a magic coma.”
“Shit.” Charlie whistled. “Not cool.”
“Really not cool.” Dean grumbled. “One time she lured me into a zombie house and tried to kill me.”
“Did it work?”
Dean snorted. “Almost. God teleported me away.”
“Oh. Of course.” Charlie paused, spinning her chair back and forth. “So God’s just like- Chill with you fucking his wife?”
“She’s not his wife.”
“Right, but- He thinks she’s his wife. And he’s just what, sitting in the cuck chair and watching?”
Dean wasn’t sure if he should laugh or vomit. He’d had that same thought himself, he’d just never said it aloud. He settled for giving Charlie an exasperated look, and was met with a full grin.
“We close the door.” He said, and Charlie laughed.
“What, God can’t open a door?”
“I dunno.” Dean sighed Her name. “She says he doesn’t go into our room, so- Guess not.”
Charlie hummed, nodding slowly. “Do you think God considers you a rival?”
Dean didn’t want to think about that. He had. And he would keep thinking it. But he didn’t like it. “I always picture him throwin’ darts at my face.” He muttered, and Charlie snorted.
“You good with your gun?”
“Been shooting since I was six.”
“Dope.” She offered up a Cheeto. “We should print God’s face out and shoot it, after this is done.”
“We got no clue what he looks like-“
“Then we can draw a rat, who cares. What’s he gonna do about it?”
And Dean laughed. Really, fully laughed.
He decided he liked Charlie.
He really hoped she didn’t die.
It was going to be simple. In and out. Charlie just had to go into the building—which she had a badge for, easy enough—go up to Dick’s office, get the hard drive, and get out to the van. Then they’d book it, and everything would be in the clear.
“How do I walk?” She asked over the comms, and Dean sighed.
“However you normally walk.”
“But- What if they notice?”
Sam frowned. “Notice… How you normally walk?”
“I don’t know how I normally walk, I can’t remember- Oh my god-“
“Just- I don’t know.” Sam gave Her and Dean a hopeless look. “Try to remember?”
“Pretend they’re all naked.” Dean suggested. “That’s what the Muppets say.”
“Fucking-“ She rolled Her eyes, and snatched the walkie out of Dean’s hand. “Charlie, ignore them.”
“Oh- Okay.” Charlie looked up at the ceiling as she rode in the elevator, shifting on her feet. “What do I do if someone tries to talk to me?”
“Talk to them back.” She shrugged. “Then make up a reason to walk away, and walk away.”
“I can’t remember how to walk-“
“Yes. You can.”
The elevator dinged, and Charlie closed her eyes. Dean tapped his foot, giving Her a worried look. If Charlie couldn’t do this, they had to get her out now-
“I can.” Charlie muttered to herself. “I can.”
She stepped off the elevator, and walked down the hall. Dean raised his brows, looking over to Her, and She gave him a smug grin.
“Told you.” She said into the walkie, before sticking Her tongue out at Sam and Dean. “I should’ve been an acting coach.”
Dean snorted, and Sammy just gave Her a flat look.
“You should’ve been an actress.”
“You’ve got the face for it.” Dean bumped Her foot with his, and She flushed. Parted lips. Hitched breath.
Sam pretended to vomit.
Charlie made it through the halls easily. She got all the way to Dick’s executive little chamber before there was the security guard hiccup, and Dean had to walk her through flirting. She asked for Her to do it, and Sam started laughing.
“I- I can flirt-“
“No, you really can’t-“
“Yes, I can-“
“You know why Dean took eleven years to ask you out?” Sammy grinned. “Because he didn’t think you liked him, because you can’t flirt.”
“Sam.” Dean grunted. Her pout had come back.
“That’s not- Dean, tell him that’s not true-“
“Sweetheart.” Dean sighed. “Don’t make me do that.”
Her mouth fell open, hurt brimming in Her eyes, and Dean chuckled.
“Jesus, baby, it doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does!” She whined. “I- I can flirt!” She looked between Sam and Dean desperately. “I can- I- I have a boyfriend-“
“Who thinks you can’t flirt.” Sam muttered, and Dean shot him a glare.
“Dean-“
“I think you’re adorable.” He offered quickly, patting Her thigh. “And I love you- Your inability to flirt-“
“I can flirt-“
“You used to call me a cowboy.”
“You love cowboys-“
“Yeah, but- You’d say it all mean.” Dean grinned. “Don’t get me wrong, I was into it, but- Baby, you can’t flirt.”
She huffed, crossing Her arms over her chest. Charlie cleared her throat over the walkie.
“Guys? Are you there.”
Dean sighed, and took over the flirting. She kept pouting and glaring at him the whole time. Dean was worried She was about to cry. He leaned over once Charlie was in the clear, lowering his voice to something soft.
“Princess-“
“Shut up.” She kicked his knee, and Dean sighed.
He leaned down, and kissed Her cheek. She grunted, sinking further in Her seat, but turned her face to offer him a little more. Dean laughed softly, and kissed the corner of Her mouth. He wanted to say he loved Her. That would calm Her down. He’d already almost slipped up and said it anyway.
“You’re my whole world.” He offered instead. “You’re my favorite. You’re everything to me-“
She shoved his face away with a flat hand, before standing up and climbing right into his lap. Dean chuckled, wrapping his arms around Her lower back.
“Keep saying nice things.” She grumbled against his chest, and he hummed.
“Bossy girl.”
He got another cute grunt. Sam wrinkled his nose, and kept talking Charlie through getting the right files off Dick’s computer.
And they got it. Charlie got it. They just had to get her out, and they’d be in the clear.
They almost were in the clear.
Then Dick Roman’s voice came over the speakers, and Dean’s blood went cold.
“Charlie! I thought I gave you the week off!”
She’d gone ridged. Dean could feel her heartbeat, picking up under his fingers. He muttered Her name, locking his arms. If She got up, he was worried she’d go running in there, and then getting out was gonna be real hard.
“You did!” Charlie chipped nervously. “I just- Forgot my coffee mug! You know how it is, doesn’t taste the same unless it’s coming out of the dragon mouth.”
On the screen, Dick stared at her. Charlie coughed, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“My- My mug is dragon.”
Dick blinked. His face flipped back to that terrifying smile. All bone-white teeth.
“Amazing! Did you already get your… Dragon mug?”
“N- No sir. I was going right now-“
“Really? It looked like you were leaving.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. Charlie blinked at him hopelessly, and Sam swore under his breath.
“Dean, we need to- Shit.”
Sammy had turned to look at Her. And Dean hadn’t been moving for a reason.
Everything had shifted. From the air in the van, to just the ground under their feet. At it was all bending and bleeding out from Her.
It wasn’t just that power, falling out of Her like a volcano finally being allowed to explode. It was like the sun had been unveiled. Everything fell into it’s orbit. It spun through and offered light to it’s universe, and only demanded that everything move in it’s wake.
She was burning without burning. Her skin was hot under Dean’s hands, but it didn’t blister his skin. Her pupils had gone a blinding Silver—fixed on Dick on the screen, her expression hateful and furious—but Dean could look right at them and never have to blink. The air in the van hummed with an electricity that made his hairs stand on end, and the dull gunmetal gray of the walls had started to spark like diamonds. Blooming vines crept out from the hanging lamp, which had flickered and flickered until it was just a tiny, floating fairy light. Dean could swear the ground was shaking. The computers were glitching, and going static, and there was a loud hum echoing through the air. It was a deep and high sound all at once. It was singing something he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be able to hear.
The screen went black. Everything in the world became technicolor. Sammy was shielding his eyes, and outside, thunder rolled.
The sky had been clear.
Dean could’ve fucking sworn that the sky was clear.
The camera blinked back to life, but the quality had changed. It wasn’t like they were watching security footage.
It was like they were looking right into the room, through a tiny box. Dean squinted. It was almost like he could just… Reach right through and grab Charlie.
Keeping one arm around Her waist, he moved to his feet. The ground rumbled. The screen flickered, running with a sepia, fuzzy kind of static.
Like an old TV.
Like Bobby’s old TV.
She was still so still in Dean’s arms. Her eyes were brilliant, but unseeing. At least not the first few feet in front of Her.
The screen flickered again. The ground shook, and—over the comms and right in Dean’s ears—people started to scream.
Around Charlie and Dick, glass was shattering. Windows bursting open, some shards falling like rain and others turning to white birds that took off with a screech. Charlie stumbled, looking around in panic. Dick glared up at the ceiling, lip curling. The ground shook again, and roots pushed out from under the polished, tiled floors.
Dean dug his fingers into Her hips. He wasn’t holding Her upright anymore. She was floating off the ground. He was the only thing keeping Her down.
Through the window-screen, Charlie shrieked for help. A geyser broke through the ground a few feet away, water shooting out and falling like rain. Dean leaned down, trying to look for a way to get her out, and felt hot drops splashing on his hand.
It was a window.
Lighting cracked, and Dick’s head whipped to where it struck the ground.
“I know you’re there!” He shouted to the air, spinning in a circle. “Come on out, honey! We don’t fear you!”
Dean thought, from his voice, that maybe he did. Dean would fear Her, if he was on the receiving end of whatever kind of ethereal, world ending wrath was pouring out of Her. Dick shouted that musical, ancient word—Her name in Enochian—up to the sky, and another bolt struck.
He was distracted.
Dean took the chance.
Charlie yelped, when Dean reached through the screen and grabbed the neck of her shirt. She thrashed, but Dean dug his fingers and yanked. The screen expanded to fit her, and they all stumbled back as she tumbled into the van. Charlie crashed at an odd angle against the table.
Dick’s head shot up.
The worst snarl Dean had ever heard ripped from his lips, and he lunged at the window.
Dean shoved Her behind him.
Something flared so bright, he had to close his eyes.
When he opened them, Dick wasn’t hanging over him with a bad breath and venomous bite. The van was still made of diamonds, but everything had stopped growing. The ground had stopped shaking. Rain pounded on the roof, but there was no more lightning. The screens had gone black once more.
She’d collapses against Dean’s chest.
A pasty, open hand with an expensive wrist watch was lying on the floor, spurting black goo instead of blood.
Son of a bitch.
Dean grabbed the keys from where Sammy was still pressed against the wall—knocked out, but fine—and run to the drivers seat. He settled Her into the shotgun seat as he turned on the car, and kept a hand on her thigh as they booked it out. They were lucky the van still moved, and he felt less bad about stealing it than before. The real owner was going to get a diamond jackpot. Dean just got a hard drive and severed hand.
He didn’t stop until they got back to the Impala, Charlie was knocked out too, so he had to carry all of them into the seats, get the Lady, and hit the highway. They had everything they needed. All that was left was putting space between them and the Leviathans.
Dean drove through the evening, into the night. He stopped for gas and water, then hit the road again. They could check the drive when they got back to the house. He already had a pretty solid idea of what the next steps were anyway. Whatever that tablet thing Eve and Crowley had been working to get, it had been worth Frank trying to track down. Which meant they needed to get it first, before the Legion of Doom kickstarted their evil plan.
He hoped Frank had written down addresses. If it was coordinates, they might have to send Cas out, and he’d come back with a rock that said interesting things instead of the tablet. Dean would try and send Her for supervision, but if he was getting a say in it, She shouldn’t be doing anything but resting.
But She liked to ignore his loving, careful suggestions.
She woke before the rest of them.
Dean felt a pull on his arm, and looked down to find Her blinking up at him with pretty, tired eyes.
“Did we-“
“Yeah.”
“And-“
“She’s alright.”
He nodded to the backseat, where Charlie was snoring against the window. Dean had wrapped up her arm at a gas station. He was worried she’d broken it, but they’d take care of it more when they got home. Worst came to worse, Cas could heal it.
She relaxed a little at that, but there was still the little furrow between her brows. Dean didn’t need powers to know what She was thinking. He’d been fluent in Her face for a very long time.
“You didn’t kill him.” He muttered, covering her hand with his. “But you got his hand.”
She swallowed, and nodded.
“You didn’t kill anyone else, either-“
“We don’t know that.” She whispered, and Dean sighed.
“It’s not your fault-“
“Dean.” Her voice broke, and Dean bit the inside of his cheek. “I- I miss him.”
Dean said Her name softly, wrapping his arm over her shoulders. Her face was scrunched all tight, and tears were already falling.
“I- I miss him- I- Don’t- I can’t-“
She cracked.
Her face pressed back into Dean’s side, and he sighed. He flipped on his turn signal, and pulled to the side of the road to give Her his full attention. She molded right into his arms, hugging his neck tight. Dean rubbed Her back and kissed Her hairline, and rocking them back and forth.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He murmured. The iron lump was back in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
And one day, She was going to cry like this for the last time. Dean was going to make sure of it. He’d do anything, to give Her a world where she didn’t have to be in pain.
He could swear the Sky grew brighter over his head. Dean rested his hand on the back of Her neck, keeping it carefully hidden in his neck.
If God really loved Her, he’d stop floating around up there and get his goddamn hands dirty. But the asshole had never had to live in the mud.
Dean had been born here. He’d reshape it all with blood and dirt under his nails, to make it a home for Her.
If She was going to shake the Earth and break something, Dean was going to keep steady. He would be the only ground that didn’t move. He’d be the thing that kept Her on the Earth.
He’d promised Bobby.
It wasn’t a promise he was going to break.
✦End note: Charlie i love you, you've never done anything wrong ever, if you'd been here twenty chapters ago you wouldn't have let divorce era happened.
✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3
A moment of silence for week 3 of Bobby being D worded. RIP Bobby, it should have been John. Again.
Princess loves dean fine, but her having a happy nap with a face full of nuts made me howl. But to each their own!
There’s something so melancholy of watching the characters fall to the same inevitable conclusions they faced in the source material. Like Dean’s desire for peace and a home is so heavy, especially when people are dying off.
You know after you write that “Sam just never cried,” i’m thinking back and i feel like i really do remember Dean crying more. Yikes. Everyone needs TLC.
Everytime we see these letters I am filled with anxiety over a suspicion that when Princess finally reads them it will be with the belief that Dean is dead.
Dean asking to be in the chair as a bag of bones is so far of topic😭😭 he really just writes whatever.
“In a consentual way—feed her a tracker” pick a struggle Adam
Justice for Sam. He’s being bullied.
Nevermind.💀
Redhead? “That’s a surprise tool that can help us later!”
‘I can change it if you want”. My girl is easy. Just like Dean
“Monsterfuckers” i gasped. Is my girl not spending enough time on the internet or did she translate it from enochian. Straight to Jail. 💀💀
“ I think so” I need Charlie and Jo to get in a room together and torture Dean by asking Princess inappropriate questions.
“He really hoped she didn’t die.” Sentences like this…
I like the portal power. Pretty neat
And yes. If God really wanted to do something, he could’ve
contents; suguru geto x gn!reader. canon au, cult era suguru. reader’s ct gives them wings; they’re forcefully tended to during their molting season. sappy hurt/comfort. non-sexual nudity & intimacy. intense devotion as is mandatory when writing this guy. subtle D/s dynamic if you squint. wc; 2.6k
commissioned by @loverducky !! thank you again for commissioning me ….<3 chirping at u fondly
When autumn comes to the coasts of Kagoshima, Geto-sama's followers know to steer clear of you.
To be more precise, they know to steer clear of you even more than they usually do. No matter the time of year or colour of leaves that oversee the temple grounds, interacting with you is a risk not worth taking. You are, after all, Geto-sama's self-proclaimed deity: god of a god. He certainly treats you like one. As goes without saying, they're expected to follow suit. Meaning bowed heads and quiet prayers, a brief greeting if any, nothing but the utmost respect whenever they're graced with your presence, fickle as you are. You've taken to walking up the mountain trails when you bore of the quiet, and his followers all know not to approach without reason.
After all, were Geto-sama to see them…
It wouldn't end well.
However, in times such as these, their leader is not the sole threat to bear in mind. Because you, for reasons unknown to them, grow prickly with the shift from August to September— your forgiving demeanor replaced with something far more human. Ill-tempered, gloomy, and curt. Wearing much too many layers for the stifling heat yet to settle.
(There are whispers, on occasion. Speculation.
But above all lessons Geto-sama teaches, the one he highlights most is for them not to think too deeply about anything.)
Whatever the reason, the rule is as follows, non-spoken but loud in its gravity: do not disturb Geto-sama's angel when autumn approaches.
With a glass of sake held at his lips, Geto sits by a set of parted sliding doors and watches his garden; raking his eyes over the autumn foliage, sunset-red trees and the sway of their branches, shimmering under gloating sunshine. It looks much like a war-torn battlefield, blood pooling down the cobblestone steps. The camellias he planted last year have begun to swell, scarlet knots weighing down their bushes.
He drinks slowly. The liquor is smooth as it slides down his throat, a rich, earthy taste spreading over his tongue. High quality, heady in flavour. Well-chosen. The bottle was a gift from a kouhai he drinks with all too seldom these days, all the more reason to savour each drop. The slow sips he allows himself provide gentle respite in the humid weather, cooling his wetted skin. Geto isn't a lightweight by any means, so there's no chance of him losing his bearings over a single glass.
It's a moment's indulgence— nothing more.
Clink. After a moment, he puts it down and rises to his feet. Lengthy robes drag across the tatami mats like pitch-black snakes, his steps echoing faintly in the still room. Enough, he thinks. He's given you enough time to collect yourself. Making his way to where you've stowed away, the faux monk crouches down to whisper in a sweet voice:
"Won't you come out and join me, my love?"
"Go away."
… He sighs, a worn smile at his lips.
The other residents of his temple couldn't know why your mood shifts so violently with the passing of the seasons, but Geto does. Geto knows why you hide your body under thick clothes and seek shelter in dark, secluded spaces. Much like this one; half-endeared and half-exasperated, he stares at the ball curled up in his closet, knees to their chest and facing the wall. Geto is all too familiar with this song and dance. Because of that, he knows to be patient.
"I can make it better," he promises, coaxing. Staying right where he is. "I can make it go away."
"… No, you can't."
A huff tugs at his lips. So juvenile today. But he can't blame you when you're under this much stress. If anything, it makes his desire to tend to you burn hotter, his body language softening, the visage of an animal approaching its injured cub. Geto would kill to hold you.
So— after yet another moment's contemplation— that's exactly what he does.
(Patience isn't always the answer, after all. Gentle is his default state with you, but sometimes you need firm hands, a body that knows how to put yours in its place. You need him to know what you need most, and he's consistently delighted to deliver.)
Your body locks up. Mouth breaking around a scowl, squirming fruitlessly against his chest, legs twitching with what he knows is the urge to plant a foot between his ribs. But you don't. His good little bird. Only hissing against his jugular, venomously: "Suguru."
"I know, I know," he croons, keeping a steady palm between your shoulder-blades as he wrangles you into his arms. It weighs you down against his frame. "Your husband is being so brutish. Bear with him for a moment, my dear."
Even through the grumbling, you make little resistance to stop his stride. Out the door and through the quiet halls of the temple, past a lone follower— his curious gaze met with a sharp, silent stare— and down a set of creaky stairs tucked away in a corner by the southernmost exit.
Autumn means many things to Geto. It's the mending of a rotting wound, brittle skin knitting itself over bone; it's the season where peace comes to him the easiest and sticks with him the longest, where breathing air into his lungs feels like an afterthought. It's a season of self-reflection and sanma. It's molting season for his poor, darling angel, who's smile usually flickers so brightly. Your cursed technique alters your body more than the average sorcerer: it gave you wings on your seventh birthday, monochrome in colour, flecked with silken feathers and supported by a sturdy bone structure. Now, after a long, tepid summer, they're finally ready to be shed and regrown. Though you haven't told him outright, he can tell your skin itches more than usual today— that the sluggish reproduction of your feathers is taking a tremendous toll on your body.
So he brings you to the bath in the basement of his temple, left unattended by anyone but him and you on nights where you have little choice but to stay over. It's romantic, if nothing else. Secluded. No windows to let in grating light.
Right now, he thinks it may be just what you need.
You're set down on the ground while Geto turns on the tap, adjusting the temperature of the water before letting it stream out and sluggishly fill the large tub. The beginnings of steam waft bashfully towards the ceiling. When he cranes his neck to face you, your gaze flickers away.
No more of that shyness. Not with him.
Tender hands approach, beginning to undress you. Despite the onslaught of discomfort, you make no move to reject his advances; he can only assume you tuckered yourself out too much wriggling in his arms before. You've draped yourself in satin robes, large enough for the fabric to pool onto the floor, made to cover every inch of your body, including the wings you're so hesitant to show him. They're your pride and joy: Geto suspects it stems not only for their reliability in combat, but a bioligical instinct you have to show their pattern off to your lover, much like a bird vying for courtship. The fact that you allow him to tend to them, brush through them in the mornings, is a point of great satisfaction for him.
(To be denied that right when you need it most…
He'd be lying if he said it didn't grate him.)
Once both yours and his robes are laying in a pile on the floor, he wraps his arms around your waist. "In we go, angel."
You're given little warning before he picks you up again, careful not to ruffle your feathers as he steps into the half-full tub. Hot water laps at his ankles, his knees, reaching to his midriff once he's seated himself. Blissful, he thinks, warm lips ghosting the tender patch of skin between your neck and shoulder. Even though you may not agree at the moment. When he looks down from this vantage point he can clearly see the sorry state of your wings, more than half of your old feathers missing, waxy pinfeathers growing in their stead. The ones that still remain are visibly worn, little shine to them at all— as if they'd been caught in a dreadful storm.
Molting seasons are rough on you. Your energy drains far easier, your mood dips with more frequency, and your cursed energy tends to scatter under pressure, making it difficult for you to aid him in any missions. Lethargic and moody is what he's come to expect. It's unlike you, but Geto doesn't mind. Helping you through this is his priviliege, his alone. No one else should be cooking you meals rich in protein or slipping vitamin supplements into your palm every morning, hovering near like a hawk to make sure you swallow each one. No one should be here with you, hot water cupping your bodies, his wet palms brushing gingerly against your sore shoulders and stiff back, in the quiet of a dark room made to soothe weary souls into slumber. Chest to chest, your face tucked into the pocket of his neck, heartbeats sticking together like hot wax on parchment. This is for him and you. No other.
Quiet ripples stir the surface of the water. Once you've gone limp in his arms he runs a cautious thumb down the span of your left wing, admiring its weight, the patterns on the tattered feathers that have yet to be replaced. Spades upon spades. Blacks and grays flecked with white. It reminds him much of a cloudy, violent sky. They may be beautiful, but he knows better than anyone how viscious these wings of yours are to your opponents; in battle you may as well be a falcon yourself, missing no more than a beak to rip their throats out with.
And you're letting him hold them as if they were decorations. There's a level of sacriliege to this Geto wishes he wasn't addicted to, didn't want to run his mouth under.
"… Feels digusting," you whisper, breaking through the silence. You sound defeated in a way that tugs at his conscience. "I hate it."
"I know," he croons. "But it'll pass. They'll grow back."
"Yeah, but it takes forever." Your pitiful whine lifts his lips; it's good that you're able to complain to him like this. The bath must be working its magic, soothing your itchy skin and satisfying your need for something like a warm nest. Geto seamlessly summons one of his helper curses, a horror-show writhing under clusters of flowers, and has its limbs dissolve under the water. Bubbles begin to froth on its surface, smelling lightly of osmanthus. "Why does my cursed technique have to be so realistic?"
"I think your technique is perfect just the way it is," he counters, half-teasing. No less truthful. "And you know all good things come at a price."
"Don't preach to me right now, Geto-sama."
Silent laughter buds beneath his tongue, eyes crinkled like ginkgo-leaves. "Heard, heard."
To get something, you have to give something of equal value— you may find it pretentious, but it's a simple truth of the world you live in. The molting you go through is the perfect example. Each time is just as discomforting the last, but it's only through that process that you can replace the feathers that won't do you any good. They fall out without fanfare, are replaced by waxy, scraggly pinfeathers, and eventually become just as silky as before.
The world is cruel for asking so much of you. But there's a beauty to that balance, he thinks. Birth / Death / Rebirth. The continuance of it.
"… They're no less beautiful like this," he worships. "Just more vulnerable. More sensitive."
It makes them more lethal than ever, really.
"… Liar."
A long, silent beat. Geto's lips fall into a thin line. His hand drifts from your wings, steers upwards, settles at your nape. When he squeezes down— not harsh, but not so soft you couldn't feel it— you go stiff, a gasp at your tongue. Then your body slackens. He rubs his thumb against the tender patch of skin, as if praising an animal that just did a trick.
"I don't lie to you," he whispers, deceptively sweet. Quiet voice loud at your ear. "Do I?"
"… No," comes your feeble response.
For now, it's enough. He knows not to be too firm when you're like this. Mercifully, his hand falls, busying itself with gently caressing your featherless patches, both silent apology and further reprimand. The water rocks around your bodies. "They're beautiful,” he repeats, insistent. ”If you weren't this sensitive, I'd make you say it back to me."
"… Please don't."
Quiet laughter. His eyes flicker with mischief. "Not today," he promises. Another time. When you're more receptive to it. He can't wait to see your lips tremble around the words.
(Cruel that he is.)
A soft yelp breaks his reverie, your body jolting forward, squirming under his fingers. He's quick to retract his hand. "S-Suguru. Not the pinfeathers."
"… Forgive me, my love." Quietly, he directs his attention to the plumage that's still there, delicately petting down your wetted feathers. "Is that better?"
"… Mm…"
They're more sensitive than usual, yielding pliantly to his care. Twitching when he gently scratches at a sturdy spot, as if letting you know they want more attention, something like a breathy moan pooling below your tongue— all the instruction he needs. Your wings need pampering more than ever. You do, even though it takes so much out of you to admit it. Your body and mind. If only he could reach into your soul and preen the feathers there too.
"Once they've grown back," he says, lips at your temple, "I'll preen them for you. Every one."
You don’t respond. But you seem to melt further into him, letting the innermost marrow of your bones turn brittle against his ribs, underneath the warm, soothing water. He tucks you closer, resting his chin on the top of your head. This is your favorite hiding spot; this, and nothing else. No cupboards or closets could compare.
"These longs months will pass before you know it. You'll have a beautiful coating just in time for winter, my angel."
"… Wish it wouldn't take so long." Your voice tickles his skin. "But… thank you."
A quiet, tender kiss. His pulse flickers against it.
"I'll find a lot of curses for you," you whisper. "Once my wings work again. I promise."
"Don't worry about that now." His voice sits at a gentle lull, the reprimand in them as loving as the rest of him— his heart pushing at its seams. You're too good to him, too giving. "Don't worry about anything. You can be weak with me."
(You should know that by now. That your weakness alone doesn't repulse him. That seeing you like this every year doesn't change his feelings for you in the slightest. Admiration, adoration, and acceptance. He accepts all of you: scraggly pinfeathers, a talon at his throat. There's no need for you to prove what he already knows. That you're capable, and that you need love just as much as anyone else. The fact that the rest of the world can't see something so simple is proof enough that it's cursed. That his followers, confused as they are by something so mundane as a shift in mood, couldn't possibly be the same as he or you.
If he's the only one that understands you, that means no one else deserves to. He's lived by that vow since his third year of high school.)
Your wings twitch against his fingertips. Autumn will fade, and your feathers regrow.
summary: what is the best place to find a fake wife for the fire lord other than the brothel?
warnings: brothel setting, fem!reader, zuko has issues, reader also has issues, emotional damage, slowburn, fake relationship/marriage setup, power imbalance vibes (but we fix it later), sokka being sokka, debt situation, implied sex work setting (non-graphic), angst, atla spoilers;
word count: 4,3k
author notes: whew! here we go gaang. i’m very curious to know your opinions on this chapter. i couldn’t help myself so i added a lil bit of zukka. also, there are some easter eggs in the fic :D hope you enjoy!
“I have heard you keep… very good secrets around here,” Sokka whispers, one hand lifted near his mouth as though that somehow made him quieter. His eyes dart around the room suspiciously, checking corners and shadowed halls for any eavesdroppers.
No one was there.
The mistress merely raises a brow at him, entirely unimpressed. Sat lazily in her chair, she takes a slow drag from her pipe before blowing the smoke straight into Sokka’s face, making him cough.
“This place indeed is very private,” the woman replies, her voice roughened by years of smoke and age. “Private enough for the Fire Lord himself to visit and enjoy the company of one, or perhaps several, of my girls.”
Sokka’s eyes widen immediately. His gaze snaps between the woman and Zuko, who stood near the doorway wrapped in a long black cloak. The hood concealed most of his face, though not enough to truly hide him.
“How could you even tell?” Sokka blurts out in disbelief.
“The scar is rather difficult to miss,” the woman sighs.
“Oh.” Sokka shrugs. “Right. Forgot about that.”
Behind him, Zuko lets out a deeply offended sound.
“I told you this was not enough!” Zuko snaps sharply, glaring at his friend while tugging irritably at the dark fabric around his shoulders.
“Hey, it matches your outfit, alright?” Sokka defends himself quickly. He gestures between the cloak and his own belongings as if making a brilliant point. “Just like my bag matches my belt.”
Zuko stares at him silently, already regretting allowing Sokka anywhere near this plan.
The mistress clears her throat loudly, cutting through the argument.
“How may I help the Fire Lord?” she asks, now directing her full attention towards Zuko alone.
For a moment, Zuko says nothing.
His jaw instantly tightened beneath the shadows of the hood. He had faced armies, faced his father,and the worst of all — faced Azula. Yet somehow this felt worse. Because lying to his uncle was so unfair… he knew his uncle would be happy either way with any decision in the end. Yet, he still felt guilty for not being able to make at least one of his wishes come true. He didn’t want for Iroh to die with a heavy heart.
Still, he forces himself to step closer to the desk, then he takes a deep breath before speaking.
“I need to find a woman to be my wife,” he says finally.
The words sound absurd the moment they leave his mouth.
The mistress blinks once... twice.
Her pipe slips from her fingers and hits the wooden table with a loud clatter. For several long seconds, she simply stares at him as though she expects him to laugh and admit it was some sort of joke.
But Zuko’s expression never changes.
And the woman’s surprised expression slowly fades into skepticism as she straightens in her chair.
“You came to a brothel,” she says carefully, “to search for a wife?”
Even Sokka winces slightly at how ridiculous it sounded aloud.
Zuko feels heat crawl up the back of his neck beneath his collar as he nods once.
“When you say it like that, it sounds strange,” he agrees.
“Because it is strange,” the woman replies without hesitation. Her sharp eyes narrow as she studies him more carefully now, suspicion mixing with curiosity. “Most men come here seeking pleasure, not marriage.”
“I am not looking for love,” Zuko says quickly, almost too quickly.
The woman hums softly, leaning back again. She watches him the same way one might observe a wounded animal deciding whether or not to bite.
“I am certain many noble women across the nations would gladly marry the Fire Lord,” she continues. “You could choose any daughter from any wealthy family and have a wedding arranged before sunrise tomorrow.”
“I know.” Zuko exhales heavily through his nose before closing his eyes for a brief moment. “That is exactly the problem.”
His voice lowers quieter after that. Less defensive — more tired.
“I do not want to promise devotion I cannot give,” he admits. “I do not have time to become someone’s proper husband. I barely manage to rule my own nation correctly some days.”
The woman’s skeptical expression softens slightly, though not entirely.
“And yet you are still searching for a wife.”
Zuko’s gaze drops towards the wooden floorboards.
“It is important to my uncle,” he says quietly. “He wishes to see me settled before…”
The sentence dies in his throat unfinished and a sudden understanding flickers briefly across the mistress’s face.
Still, she remains cautious.
“So,” she says slowly, “you want a woman willing to stand beside you, wear royal robes, smile for the court… while knowing the marriage itself is not real.”
Zuko nods once again.
“Yes.”
The mistress studies him for a long moment after that. Not with judgment anymore, but disbelief, as though she still could not decide whether the Fire Lord standing before her was foolish or painfully sincere.
“That is strangely noble of you, My Lord,” she says at last.
“Are you saying that so he will not feel guilty before giving you money?” Sokka interrupts suddenly.
The woman turns towards him with such a deadly glare that Sokka instantly raises both hands in surrender.
“What kind of woman are you searching for?” the mistress asks, ignoring him completely.
Zuko pauses. Truthfully, he had not thought that far ahead.
Mai had been the only woman truly present in his life before this. He had loved her once, in his own difficult way, but they had never understood one another fully. Half their conversations had ended in silence or frustration.
“Appearance does not matter,” Zuko says after a long pause. “I only need someone who will listen to me… and understand me.”
Sokka gasps loudly beside him, visibly emotional.
“Oh, Zuko,” he says dramatically while clutching his chest. “But I am right here.”
He throws himself forward for an embrace, only for Zuko to plant an annoyed palm directly against his face before he can get close.
The mistress watches the two silently before shaking her head with faint amusement and a hint of doubt. Rising from her chair, she gestures towards the narrow hallway deeper within the building.
“My Lord, I will bring you our finest women,” she says calmly, not fully believing he actually means his words, “come with me.”
Before Zuko can protest, a dull thud echoes somewhere in the back of the establishment.
All three of them immediately turn towards the noise only to realize nothing was there.
“Are there… you know, ghosts here?” Sokka asks under his breath while nervously scanning the shadows around them.
“None that I know of. Only rats,” the mistress replies dismissively. “They are always finding their way inside. Ignore it.”
Zuko gives a small nod before stepping past Sokka and following after the woman. The wooden floor creaks beneath his boots as he steps towards the hallway.
“Wait here,” he tells Sokka over his shoulder just before vanishing around the corner.
“Are you leaving me alone in here with rats? The possible Ghosts!?” Sokka asks scared, while looking around, but Zuko is long gone.
***
The room she brought him into was dimly lit by dozens of candles, their warm glow dancing against the deep red walls and golden details carved into the architecture. Expensive silks draped elegantly from the ceiling, and the scent of incense lingered faintly in the air. Every part of the room spoke of luxury and exclusivity.
This was clearly reserved for the wealthiest clients.
Or, perhaps, for the Fire Lord himself.
Yet despite the comfort surrounding him, Zuko felt restless.
His fingers tapped quietly against the arm of the cushioned seat beneath him before stopping abruptly. He exhales slowly through his nose, shoulders tense.
He disliked this.
He disliked sitting here, waiting to choose a woman as if he was selecting fine jewelry from a merchant’s stall. He had clearly asked for someone easy to speak to, someone capable of understanding him, yet the mistress had looked at him with obvious disbelief the moment he claimed appearance did not matter.
She had agreed politely enough.
But Zuko was not foolish.
A woman like her, one who had spent years surrounded by men and their desires, clearly did not believe him. In her eyes, men always wanted beauty first. Everything else came after.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the sliding door opening softly behind him.
“Forgive my late arrival, My Lord.”
The voice was warm and gentle.
Zuko turns with a slight frown, only to see a woman around his age bowing respectfully near the doorway.
You were dressed in flowing white robes that hugged your figure, the silk expensive enough to shimmer beneath the candlelight. Red fire lilies had been embroidered along the hem of your sleeves and near the bottom of your robes, their crimson threads standing out against the fabric. Your hair had been pinned up carefully, with a flower pin, exposing the elegant line of your neck, while your nails were painted a dark shade of red.
Zuko studies you quietly for a moment.
By your appearance alone, he could already tell you were likely one of the women the mistress had proudly spoken of earlier.
“Did the mistress send you?” he asks at last.
“Yes, My Lord,” you reply before bowing once more.
Zuko sighs quietly and lowers his gaze.
His reaction does not escape your attention.
Silence settles briefly between the two of you, heavy yet strangely calm. Then you lift your eyes towards him carefully.
“Is something troubling you, My Lord?” you ask hesitantly, noticing the shift in his expression, as you make small steps towards him.
Zuko offers a faint smile, though it does not feel real.
“Everything is troubling me,” he admits with another tired sigh. “The council. My generals. My advisors. Everyone is constantly telling me what I should do.”
You remain quiet for a moment before speaking again.
“If I may ask…” your voice softens further, “what is it that you wish to do?”
The question makes him still completely.
Zuko’s lips press into a thin line as his gaze slowly lifts back on you, unreadable confusion flickering across his face.
What did he want?
The question felt so simple, ordinary.
And yet… he could not remember the last time anyone had asked him that. Or anything that is.
All his life had been spent serving others. First his father’s demands, then his nation’s expectations, then the burden of restoring balance after the war that his nation started. People had always decided his path for him long before he could even think to choose it himself.
Nobody had asked whether he wanted to become Fire Lord.
It had simply become necessary for peace — for the world.
Nobody had asked whether he was strong enough to carry the shame left behind by his father’s actions. Nobody had cared how deeply his mother’s disappearance wounded him, nor how much Azula’s madness haunted him still.
Even now, sitting in this place, he was not here because he desired marriage. He was here because of Iroh. Because every time he looked at his uncle, guilt coiled painfully tighter inside his chest.
If he refused this final wish…He knew he would regret it forever.
The realization leaves him staring at you silently, almost startled by the emotions rising inside him from such a small question.
“My Lord?” you ask gently once more.
Another pause follows.
Then finally—
“I…” Zuko exhales shakily. “I do not know.”
The confession comes quieter than he intended.
“I never really considered that what I want matters,” he continues after a moment. “People have always decided those things for me.”
The words leave him before he can stop himself.
You look at him differently after that. Not with fear, nor admiration reserved for royalty, but with something softer and somewhat understanding.
Carefully, you lower yourself onto the other seat beside him.
“If I may speak honestly, My Lord…”
Your voice wavers slightly.
“I think what you are doing is honorable. Choosing the happiness of others before your own is something very few people can truly do.”
Zuko’s eyes shift towards you again.
“I think,” you continue carefully, fingers tightening slightly against your robes, “that perhaps you have sacrificed so much for everyone around you that choosing something for yourself now feels selfish.”
Your gaze lowers briefly.
“But I do not believe it is.”
There is something painfully personal hidden beneath your words. As if you understood the feeling far too well yourself and you your words weren’t shallow.
Perhaps you, too, had spent your life placing the desires of others before your own. Perhaps that was how someone like you ended up in a place like this — serving, smiling, listening, while quietly abandoning every want of your own along the way.
Zuko simply stares at you. For once, he feels understood.
Not as the Fire Lord.
Not as Ozai’s son.
Just… understood.
The silence between you becomes strangely comforting.
Then suddenly—
The door slams open harshly.
“What are you doing here, you insolent girl?” the mistress’ sharp voice cuts through the room immediately.
Your body jerks violently at the sound. Startled, you quickly turn your head towards the entrance just as the older woman storms inside, fury written clearly across her face.
You instinctively get up and step back, but she reaches you quickly. The mistress grabs your arm harshly before beginning to pull you towards the exit.
Zuko moves before he can fully think.
He rises abruptly from the cushions, crossing the room in only a few steps before catching your wrist firmly.
The mistress turns to him in surprise.
“Wait.”
His voice comes sharper than expected. His fingers remain wrapped around your arm protectively.
“What are you doing, My Lord?” the old woman asks, confusion and disbelief mixing together. “You cannot possibly be interested in her,.”
She gestures towards you dismissively, making you look down.
“I summoned the finest women in this house. Women even nobles compete for. She is nowhere near what I prepared for you—”
“I do not care about those things,” Zuko interrupts firmly. “I already told you that.”
The mistress lets out a humorless laugh.
“My Lord, I know men,” she says while narrowing her eyes. “I have watched them all my life. I know how ruthless and insatiable they become.”
“You do not know me,” Zuko replies immediately.
The mistress tightens her grip around your arm before offering Zuko a strained smile. One clearly meant to remain polite despite the irritation hidden beneath it.
“You are simply overwhelmed,” she says carefully. “This girl only got in your head. Allow me to present the others I prepared instead.”
You lower your gaze immediately, remaining silent as her fingers pull more insistently at your arm.
Zuko’s hold loosens slightly.
Not because he truly wished to let go… but because uncertainty suddenly settled heavily inside his chest.
Perhaps the mistress was right.
He barely knew you.
You had only spoken for a few moments, yet somehow your words had reached places inside him most people never managed to touch.
The mistress begins leading you towards the doorway.
You stumble slightly before regaining your balance, the silk of your robes brushing softly against the wooden floor. Then, just before disappearing beyond the sliding doors, you turn your head towards him one final time.
Your eyes meet his.
The look on your face is calm, yet there is something quietly wounded hidden beneath it. Not surprise. Not anger.
Just… disappointment.
As though you had allowed yourself to hope for something, only for it to vanish moments later.
Something twists painfully inside Zuko’s chest. His lips part slightly, the urge to stop you rising suddenly in his throat, but the doors slide shut before he can say anything at all.
Silence settles around him again.
And for the first time since entering this place, Zuko feels as though he has made a mistake.
***
The room feels colder afterwards.
Or perhaps emptier.
Zuko sits stiffly against the cushions, one elbow resting against the carved arm of the chair while his fingers press absently against his temple. Candlelight flickers across the gold details decorating the walls, while soft music drifts faintly from somewhere deeper within the establishment.
Then the doors slide open once more.
The mistress enters first, followed by five women.
Each one was strikingly beautiful.
Their robes shimmered with expensive silk and fine embroidery, colors rich enough to rival royal garments. Gold jewelry rested elegantly against their necks and wrists, delicate chains glimmering beneath the candlelight. Their hair had been arranged carefully, adorned with jeweled pins and fragrant flowers, while subtle makeup highlighted their features perfectly.
Every movement they made appeared graceful and refined.
Exactly what someone would expect beside the Fire Lord.
The women spread themselves carefully throughout the room, some pouring tea while others smiled softly towards him. One begins turning slowly before him, allowing the silk layers of her robes to fan beautifully, showing her figure. Another kneels elegantly nearby, adjusting a golden bracelet against her wrist as though making certain he noticed it.
Zuko watches all of it in complete silence.
He should have been impressed.
Instead, he only feels tired.
At one point, his gaze drifts absentmindedly towards the doorway where you had disappeared earlier. Without meaning to, he begins comparing them to you.
The realization unsettles him immediately as he finds himself comparing those women to you.
You had worn no heavy jewelry. No complicated hairstyle. No bright gemstones or elaborate perfumes. Your beauty alone was enough. Your robes had been exquisite yes, but simple compared to these women. And yet somehow… your presence lingered in his mind far more strongly than theirs.
One of the women settles beside him gracefully, offering him a sweet smile.
“Fire Lord Zuko,” she says softly, fingers brushing delicately along the sleeve of his robes. “These garments must be worth a fortune. The craftsmanship alone is extraordinary.”
Zuko glances down briefly at the dark fabric before giving a small nod.
“The royal tailors work very hard,” he replies politely.
“How many tailors serve within the palace?” she asks curiously. “I heard even the servants there wear finer silks than nobles from other nations.”
Before Zuko can answer properly, another woman speaks eagerly from across the room.
“The Fire Nation palace must be enormous,” she sighs dreamily. “I cannot even imagine living surrounded by such luxury every day.”
A third woman leans forward slightly.
“Do you truly possess treasure vaults beneath the palace?” she asks with visible interest. “I once heard the royal family keeps enough gold hidden away to feed entire kingdom.”
The women laugh softly among themselves.
Zuko forces a polite expression onto his face, though discomfort slowly tightens in his chest.
Every question sounded the same.
The palace. Wealth. Status. Luxury.
None of them looked at him as though he were simply a man sitting before them. Only the Fire Lord. Only the crown resting invisibly upon his head.
One woman begins speaking excitedly about royal ceremonies while another asks about banquets held within the palace halls.
Zuko barely hears any of it.
Instead, his thoughts drift unwillingly back towards you.
Back to the way your voice had shaken slightly while speaking to him.
Back to the understanding in your eyes.
Back to the simple question you had asked him.
What is it that you wish to do?
No one else here had asked him anything remotely close to that.
One of the women laughs softly beside him, touching his arm lightly to regain his attention.
“My Lord?”
Zuko blinks faintly, pulled from his thoughts.
For the first time that evening, he realizes he does not wish to remain in this room at all.
“Call the mistress,” Zuko says simply as he rises from the cushions.
The women pause immediately.
One lowers the cup she had been holding while another exchanges a confused glance with the others. The soft laughter filling the room dies almost instantly, leaving only the quiet crackling of candle flames behind.
Zuko remains standing near the center of the room, shoulders tense beneath his dark robes. His expression is unreadable once more, though exhaustion lingers clearly behind his eyes.
One of the women bows quickly before slipping outside to obey his command.
The silence afterwards feels unbearably long.
Zuko exhales quietly and turns his gaze towards the flickering candles lining the walls. He had tried. Spirits knew he truly tried to convince himself this was reasonable. Easier.
Yet every conversation left him feeling emptier than before.
His mind kept drifting back towards you no matter how hard he attempted to focus on the women standing before him now.
The mistress arrives only moments later.
The moment she steps inside, a pleased smile already rests upon her face. Her sharp eyes briefly sweep across the room, taking in the elegantly dressed women surrounding the Fire Lord. Clearly, she believed the evening had finally gone as expected.
That Zuko had simply needed time to remember what men truly desired.
And that he had long since forgotten about you.
But the smile falters almost immediately the moment her gaze lands properly on him.
Zuko looked neither entertained nor impressed.
He looked tired.
His face remained blank, though there was a heaviness lingering that caused the mistress’ confidence to slowly waver.
“My Lord?” she asks carefully now, the certainty from before no longer present in her voice.
“I would like to speak with the girl from earlier again.”
The room erupts in gasps and whispers from the women, while the mistress goes still. For a brief moment, genuine disbelief crosses her face.
“…her?” she repeats slowly.
“Yes.”
The answer comes immediately this time.
The mistress studies him carefully, as though still attempting to understand whether this was merely stubbornness or something else entirely.
“My Lord,” she says cautiously, “surely one of these women would suit your needs far better. They are accomplished, elegant, admired even among nobility—”
“I know.”
Zuko’s voice remains calm, but firmer now.
“They are all very beautiful.” His gaze briefly flickers towards the women gathered around the room before returning to the mistress. “But none of them have spoken to me as though I were a person.”
The words cause several uncomfortable glances to spread through the room.
The mistress narrows her eyes slightly.
“And that girl did?”
Zuko grows quiet for a moment.
His thoughts return unwillingly to the look in your eyes when you were dragged from the room. That small, wounded expression he could not seem to forget.
“…Yes,” he answers softly.
Something shifts in the mistress’ expression then.
Not agreement, but understanding.
The mistress remains silent for a long moment, her sharp gaze lingering carefully on Zuko’s face as though searching for hesitation. And she finds none.
Still, her lips press together slightly before she finally speaks again.
“My Lord… that girl is not exactly free to leave this establishment whenever she pleases.”
Zuko’s brows furrow faintly.
“What do you mean?”
The mistress folds her hands neatly before her robes.
“She owes this house a rather significant debt,” she explains carefully. “Food, clothing, training, accommodations… the amount spent over the years was not small.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “And unlike these women, she does not bring nearly enough profit to repay it quickly.”
His gaze lowers briefly towards the wooden floorboards.
Of course there was a reason.
Someone like you — quiet, thoughtful, strangely sincere — never truly belonged in a place like this. Yet perhaps belonging had never mattered. Perhaps you had simply never been given another choice.
Zuko slowly lifts his eyes again.
“Money will not be a problem,” he says calmly.
“My Lord…”
“I will repay whatever debt she owes,” Zuko continues. “In full.”
A quiet murmur spreads among the women still gathered around the room, though Zuko pays them no attention.
The mistress studies him carefully now, disbelief slowly replacing her earlier confidence.
“You would spend such an amount for a girl you spoke with only once?” she asks cautiously.
Zuko falls quiet.
Truthfully… he did not fully understand it himself.
Maybe it was because you had spoken to him without fear. Maybe because you didn’t see his wealth only, but his feelings too. Or maybe it was because, after years of being surrounded by demands and expectations, your words had felt painfully honest.
Whatever the reason was, he could not force himself to ignore it.
“Yes,” he answers at last.
The mistress exhales slowly, almost amused despite herself.
“You truly are a strange man, Fire Lord Zuko.”
He says nothing in return.
After another long pause, the mistress finally inclines her head slightly.
“…Very well.”
She turns towards the doorway before stopping once more.
“But before making such arrangements official,” she says carefully, “perhaps you should speak with her properly first.”
“That is exactly what I want,” Zuko replies immediately.
“I do not wish to force her into this,” he explains more quietly. “Bring her back. I would like to speak with her again… and ask whether she would even want to be part of my plan.”
Something unreadable flickers across the older woman’s face then, but she gives a slow nod.
“As you wish, My Lord.”
The mistress leaves the room soon after, the women following quietly behind her until Zuko is finally left alone once more.
Silence settles around him again, softer this time.
Zuko lowers himself back against the cushions slowly, his gaze drifting towards the flickering candlelight dancing against the walls.
Usually, he ignored what he wanted. Usually, he buried those feelings beneath duty, responsibility, and the endless expectations resting upon him.
But this time…
This time, he thinks he would rather listen to himself.
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 64 - Chapter 66✦
✦summary: bobby tries to save you✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: i love this kind of chapter so much you guys don't even understand. Enjoy!✦
✦Chapter Title from bury a friend by billie eilish✦
The stars aren’t as bright as they’re supposed to be.
You stand on the balcony, squinting up at the sky and counting constellations. You know each one like scars mapped on a lover’s body. You could draw them with your eyes closed, and find your way back home in the darkest of nights by following the silver-gold light. None of them seem to be missing, and your lips tug down. Something isn’t right. You just can’t figure out what.
“You should be sleepin’, your majesty.”
You sigh, and don’t bother to turn around. Bobby knows better than to think that will be enough to move you, anyways.
“I’m watching the stars. I’ll go to bed soon.”
“That’s what you said last night.” Metal armor clinks behind you, as he walks to your side. “And the night before that.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I’m tired. It’s been a long week-“
“Only gonna get longer.”
Bobby’s words are low. Cautious. You both know there are ears everywhere, and the cold howl of the night wind isn’t loud enough to deafen them. Nothing he says is of any danger, but it is still a risk to speak of it at all. You’re supposed to be pretending to be happy, although you don’t know why your father tells you to bother.
You think you’ve played your role too well. To the point that the only ones who know that the glassy-eyed doll is a mask are Bobby, and the indifferent stars.
“We leave at dawn.” Bobby murmurs, and you close your eyes tight.
“Please, do not remind me.”
“You think you convince me you forgot?”
“No, but- I’ve been trying all night.”
“You coulda been sleeping.”
“I can’t.” Your fingers curl on the marble railing. “I’ll wake up, and morning with be here.”
Bobby lets out a slow breath, and a gloved hand rests on your upper back. Rubbing gently, as if he’s soothing a baby.
“Mornin’ is gonna come anyway, kiddo.” He says gently. “You know that.”
“I know.” You whisper.
Tears burn behind your eyes. They’re useless, but they persist all the same. They’ll flow before dawn comes. Before you’re wrapped in laces and silks like a fine gift, and sent off on the road to the Emperor.
You’ve never met him. You’d asked once—when you were very small and didn’t really understand what being a Bride meant—and been told that it didn’t concern you. That one day you’d learn to love him, regardless of his appearance.
Once you’d asked what would happen if he was truly hideous. Your mother had said that for men of power, every face was a beautiful one. No matter the crook of a nose or thinness of lips, the Emperor would always be considered the most handsome man in all the land.
Now, you think he must be a beast. There’s no other reason for them to hide his face from you. You’re being sent off like a lamb, to be fattened with children and kept like a prize on the self.
You know what the people whisper about you. That your head is made of vapor, and the Emperor wanted the most beautiful little doll in the world to hang off his arm. You’ve asked Bobby countless times how he could’ve possibly known you’d grow up to have good features, when he’d signed the betrothal when you were a child. Bobby made a face and told you that sometimes, seeing a girl as a child is all the man needs. At least he’s waited until you’re of age to sweep you off to his palace. You’ve heard too many stories about princess’ who aren’t quite as lucky.
But they didn’t have Bobby.
Bobby, who’d been your assigned knight since you can remember. Since you were a toddler that bruised her knees too often and had to be locked in her room for talking back. A little girl who held the fate of the kingdom in her tiny hands that could barely wrap around the doorknob, but always found a way to slip out and roll in the flowers and mud. Bobby had been your father’s favored warrior before you. It made sense, that he’d be assigned to guard the royal family’s prize foal from her own harm.
You don’t think your father expected him to do anything but watch you. Keep you out of trouble, and away from the public’s eye when you got… Hysterical.
That’s what the court doctors call you. It’s the castle’s most closely guarded secret. Bobby’s primary job—in your father’s eyes—is that no blades or arrows ever cut through your royal clothing and break priceless skin, and that no one ever knows that the one most likely to that a weapon to the kingdom’s diamond is you.
Just as long as you’ve had Bobby, you’ve been in pain. There’s been a massive, leaking void of darkness that spans wider than the sky, and that you know half as well. When you were six you got in trouble for telling your aunt in front of the whole court that she reminded you of your mother’s pregnant bile, before sobbing in a little ball because you didn’t understand why no one else agreed. When you were seven, you used to bite your wrists to gnaw off ropes that no one else could see. When you were eight years old and bled the first time, you screamed so loud that you woke the horses and wouldn’t be consoled until Bobby told you that you weren’t going to be sold to the sky. When you were nine they closed off the royal gardens, because you’d get in a state where everything was impossibly dark, every color became blinding neon, and the only way for you to be consoled was to sit among the flowers and birds.
Bobby would sit with you. He taught you how to name the flowers by what other’s called them, and recognize the crows on their calls and flight patterns. He taught you to read. To fight. To sneak in shadows and count and do every single thing that a Bride would never need, but a Queen would.
When you were fourteen, you got hysterical because your father was going to invade a neighboring kingdom, but the wind told you that it would be changing soon with the tides, and a storm would wash the troops to shores made of blood. You’d been locked in your room again, to steave off your ridiculous dreams.
You’d had a migraine for three days, during the episode. Bobby sat with you on the balcony, and showed you after that you’d simply been noticing a storm pattern in the clouds.
“Wouldn’t have been a problem, if the King listened to the damn general and waited for the next moon. ‘S storm season. A peasant with a pack of chickens coulda told him that.”
“Or he could’ve waited a week and followed the storm.” You’d murmured, staring at your bloodied hands. “It would’ve destroyed their own reserves and taken them by surprise.”
The blood was only wine that the castle nurses had brought you for nerves. You’d spilt it all over your dress, though you couldn’t remember why. Something about not wanting to drink. There’s a flash of lightning through your skull and down your spine, and you’re not on a balcony but in a bar. A boy smirks at you, and you wrap your lips around a straw. The drink is strawberry red, not blood red. The boy mocks you. You hate him and missed him so much it hurts. He laughs. Your heart stumbles and sings.
“They coulda done that.” Bobby had muttered, and you’d been back on the balcony once more. “Shit. That would’ve been… Shit.”
That night, Bobby had told you that you’d be a good Queen, if allowed it.
But you won’t be. You’ll be a perfect, placid and empty-eyed Bride. A wife and mother with a mouth that doesn’t move expect when puppetted, who will make children… somehow.
Bobby still hasn’t told you that part. Whenever you’ve asked, he’d gone red and muttered something about hopin’ you never had to do that.
But you will.
When the morning comes—no matter how much you wish the night would linger, it will come—you will be put in a carriage with an escort, clothing, and Bobby, and sent of your beast of a husband.
You’ll get through it. You always have.
There is a dull fear in the back of your mind that the Emperor will learn he has a madwoman for a Bride, and have you slaughtered for your tears. Maybe if you waste all of them tonight, he will never see a single one.
Or he will see them, and not care. Your body is young, and all the pain only lines the nerves and heartbeats that he cannot see or care about. Your face has never been scarred. The only place on your body that holds a blemish is your hand, though you can’t remember why.
And there’s a dark, cold chamber, and dozens of people who you hate and fear. There’s a knife being dragged over your palm, and you scream but it doesn’t matter.
And there’s the long road and the rain and the safe man that’s green like the trees. He puts you in a warm car and takes you to a warm home and gives you warm clothing. He speaks and you don’t doubt his words. You sleep well.
Your head hurts. The stars are too dull. And something, just under the surface of everything, feels so very, very wrong.
“I hope morning doesn’t come.” You whisper. The tears are slipping down your cheeks. “I hope I die here, tonight.”
Bobby lets out a long, heavy breath. His hand stills on your back, his voice dropping to something low and choked.
“I know,” he mutters. “But I’m real set on you makin’ it a lot longer than this.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be.”
“Too bad you ain’t my boss, kiddo.”
Your lips twitch, and your knees shake. Bobby grabs your arm.
“Inside.” He says softly. “I’ve got you. We’re gonna be alright.”
You don’t believe him, but you let him drag you to bed anyway. He’ll stand guard at the doors and lock all the windows so that you don’t make good on your promise. He’d long removed all sharp combs and long curtains from your bedsheets, and if you just need someone to sit with and read, he’ll be there. Just like if you demand that he let you spar until morning, he’ll sneak you down to the training pit.
There’s no greater relief, that him being allowed to come with you.
The night crawls slowly. As if it’s trying to last forever. The stars don’t get brighter, but you smell cinnamon on the wind, and it soothes you. The trees, when morning comes, are greener than before.
They match Bobby. Tall and unmoving, in the blowing wind. They’ll keep you safe from storms on your travels. Bobby will keep you safe everywhere else.
Carriage rides have always been dreadfully boring, but this one makes you want to slice your damn chest open just to have the puzzle of stitching yourself back up.
“I’m going to jump out the window.”
“Don’t.” Bobby drawls, not even sparing you a glance. “Gonna knock your head.”
“I have a thick skull-“
Bobby snorts. “No, you fuckin’ don’t.”
“I do.” You protest, slumping lower in your seat. “Remember when you dropped me on my head?”
“That never happened.”
“Yes, it did-“
“I’d remember if I dropped you on your head-“
“I was on Indiana, and she bucked and I fell and hit my head on the tree root-“
“Ah.” Bobby’s lips twitch. “That’s how you ended up like this.”
You roll your eyes and kick him. He chuckles, barely even flinching.
“I’m like this because you dropped me-“
“If we’re keepin’ tally, it was the horses fault-“
“You put me on the horse.”
“And now you’re a perfect rider. I think I did good.” He gives you a sideways look. “And if I did drop ya on your head-“
“You did-“
“I think it made you smarter.” Bobby continues like he can’t hear you. “Sure as shit made you mouthier. Ain’t you heard it’s rude to talk back to your elders?”
“You’re not that old-“
“I’m old enough. Get older every time you sass me.”
“And who taught me to sass you?”
“Worst mistake of my life.” Bobby grumbles, even with a smile on his face. “Shoulda drowned you in the river.”
You stick out your tongue. He laughs again.
At least you’re finding ways to entertain yourself. You’re lucky the Emperor’s sent escort couldn’t fit in your carriage. You’d have to play pretty and stupid the whole time, and probably would end up jumping out the door.
It’s been exhausting, since you left. Just smiling and giggling at everything they say about you and your birthing hips like you don’t want to fucking punch them in the face. You’ve got a strong arm, too. Bobby taught you how to swing, and that’s how he lost a few teeth.
“Look at her.” One of them had crowed in their native language, completely unaware that you spoke it fluently. “Such bright eyes. He will love them.”
Bright eyes. You’re so bright. Bright little thing. Wings and screaming and white and red and black eyes and wings with teeth and ooze that smiles. Bright. You’re so bright.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bobby mutters, concern furrowed in his brow.
You nod tightly. Bobby says your name in a low warning, and you wave him off.
You humph like a child and glare out the window, arms folded across your chest. Bobby sighs, and repeats your name. You don’t answer, so he says it again.
“You’re actin’ like a child.”
“I am a child-“
“No, you ain’t. Look at me.”
You do, with a glower. He raises his brows.
“We’re gonna be alright.” He says sternly, and you scoff.
“Yeah, okay-“
“We are.” He’s not reminding you. He’s telling. “You got that? You and me, we’re gonna be okay.”
You swallow.
It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. Tears burn at your eyes and everything you’ve worked for is slipping through your fingers. Daddy, I’ve made a huge mistake. It’s going to be okay.
“I don’t want to do this.” You say softly. There’s a lump, getting caught in your throat. “I- I don’t. I’m not going to be good at it, and I- I’m already tired, and my face hurts from smiling, and I don’t want to do this-“
“I know.” Bobby grabs your hand, his smile soft.
You’re the only one who ever sees him smile like that. You’re the only one who he ever bothers smiling for at all.
“We’re gonna be okay.” He murmurs, holding your gaze.
And you swallow. Bobby says it. So you believe it, and nod.
You stop for the night at an inn. The Emperor’s escorts whine about it being below their station, but Bobby sneers that if they want to go to the luxury one and put a target on their backs, they’re more than damn welcome. They whimper like dogs, but fall in line. Most people do, under Bobby’s firm glare.
You don’t even bother protesting. This is your dream and nightmare all at once.
You get to wear a looser dress, and take off your corset. Bobby gives you boots that would suit a common girl, and they don’t pinch and suffocate your feet. The food is stringy and the bar is loud, but you’ve never been in a room without people staring and whispering, so it’s a beautiful change. You’re allowed to speak freely, and eat with your fingers, all for the sake of fitting in. The Emperor’s escorts retired to bed the moment you got your rooms—whining about sickness and vulgarity and commoners and your country being made of mud—so you’re allowed to be whatever you want, and nobody’s going to look at you like you’re made of something wrong.
The staring starts again, though. During dinner. Eyes find you through the bar, and the server lingers with a sharp, wandering gaze over your body. The attention itches. It sits under your skin like boiling water, making you restless. Your foot bounces under the table, and you pick at your fingers until he walks away.
He circles back three times, always looking you up and down.
You grab Bobby’s arm when he passes the fourth time, keeping your voice low.
“That man is staring at me. Do you think he knows-“
“No.” Bobby grunts, eyeing the server with a tight frown. “Ain’t no way for him to know. He’s just bein’ a creep.”
“A- What do you mean, a creep-“
“He’s got other shit he wants from you.” Bobby mutters under his breath. His tone is sour, his opposite hand dropping to land on the hilt of his sword. “Don’t go anywhere alone, kiddo. You’re still…”
He just sighs, brows furrowed in a tight expression, and you want to know what you still are. Right now you’re no one. That’s the beauty of it. It’s not remarkable for a village girl to be wearing boots or have cream smeared over her cheek. You can see several real girls across the bar, being even louder than you are.
Maybe you should up the act. The server is onto you—because Bobby says he’s not, but Bobby also does this annoying thing where he tries not to worry you—because you’re still acting like a princess.
“Stay here.” Bobby grunts, fingers flexing against his sword.
You frown. “Where are you-“
“Gotta check on somethin’. I’ll be back soon. Don’t move.”
Bobby fixes you with a firm glare, and you huff.
“I wasn’t going to-“
“Sure. Keep that knife of ya.” He points the carving blade on the table. “And if somethin’ gets messy-“
“Go for the eyes and groin.” You grin.
“Right.” Bobby nods in tight approval, then sighs. “Don’t. Move.”
And you aren’t going to. He’s making such a big deal out of you not moving, but you didn’t have any plans to do anything but sit here and stuff your face with these puffy pie things until you were dragged off to bed.
Although the server is staring again. He brought another man out to join him, and they’re whispering. Another man—taller and broader—is staring at you from across the bar.
You’re not blending in enough.
The other girls are drinking. Mead sloshes over their large mugs and sparkles in their eyes. You’re sure your eyes are dull. Sparkly like blown glass and not a lit flame. You’ve never drank before. You’ve never been allowed to, and… Another reason.
There’s another reason you don’t drink.
You can’t remember it.
“Shirley temple?”
“You got a problem with it.”
Pain laces through the back of your skull. You turn around, peering through the crowd for the people speaking over everyone else, in words you don’t understand. One of them sounded just like you.
But there’s no one. Just the men, staring as you sway in the center of the room.
You weren’t supposed to move.
Oops.
You’re just getting a drink. It will be nice and fast, and Bobby won’t even know that you so much as shifted in your seat. You lean over the bar, your feet getting a little off the ground, and wait for the sleek-haired woman behind the counter to notice you. She does quickly. Everyone seems to, with sharp eyes and smirks. You’re going to have to swallow this drink like a wild barbarian, if you want to convince them that you’re just another girl.
The glass is bigger than you thought it would be. The drink inside is amber gold, and the smell makes you feel a little sick. You trace your fingers over the raised edges of the glass, breathing through your nose. Just drink it. Drink it. Pick it up and fucking drink it-
“Never seen someone lose a staring contest against beer before.” A man’s voice drawls.
It’s deep and lazy, smug in a way that only a man can be. From the corner of your eye, you can see someone leaning against the bar at your side. You scowl, not looking away from your glass.
“I am not looking for company.”
“Sorry, Princess. Free bar, I stand where I want.”
Princess.
He knows.
Your head whips over, your eyes wide and mouth hanging open. You stood up for five seconds and got discovered, and Bobby’s going to kill you-
And you were going to say something. Threaten the man with the carving knife, hidden in the folds of your skirt. Maybe just punch him, or aim a swift kick at his crotch. Bobby’s said that makes men go down every single time.
But you lose your voice, when you see him.
He’s beautiful. The whole world seems to flip and spin for a moment—knocking the air from your lungs before filling it right back up—because this man is so pretty, it overloads your brain and makes the world burst with all kinds of colors. There’s something Golden that rolls off of him like light from a candle. You swear the bar gets quieter and the background gets fuzzier, because all you want to see and hear is him. Him and his amused expression and pretty lips and crooked nose.
Your mother taught you that features like that weren’t comely. You’d spent long nights sketching out what your monster of a husband might look like, and in almost everyone you’d given him a crooked nose.
But your mother had been wrong. On this man, it’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen.
A surprised expression, and a boy leaning over a desk with his hand planted flat on the surface. You crash over him like a storm, and he stares at you the whole time with an awestruck smirk. He offers his hand. You take is, and swear you feel the world shift.
Princess.
Why do you call me that?
It suits you.
The pain flashes, then ebbs to a dull ache as he man smiles. You stand a little taller.
“Hello.”
“Hey.” His smile widens. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
That might be a riddle. “The same thing as you, I suppose.”
The man snorts. “Oh, I doubt that. I’m here on secret business, sweetheart.” He winks, and it makes your stomach do fuzzy things. “Super secret business.”
“Super secrete business?” You snort despite yourself. “Yeah. Sure.”
The man blinks, looking almost offended. “I am.”
“Mhm.”
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Come on, don’t I look like I could be up to something real important?”
The man sweeps a hand over his own body, and you look him up and down. He’s tall. Broad. Muscled but lean, with thick arms and strong looking legs. His hands are huge and calloused, and something in you wants to just reach out and weave your fingers together.
His hands are bleeding. He’d picked up the glass and cut through the woman with it, but he’d sliced his palm right open. You won’t be removed from him. You can’t be, no matter if you’re fighting or not, because you have to be sure he’s okay. If he’s not okay, the world is going to feel it.
“You look like trouble.” You breathe out, eyes shooting back up to his.
They shine on yours, and there’s something under them. Something deeper than the ocean. You want to drown in it.
The man puffs out his chest. His smile really is dangerous. It makes you want to smile back.
“Maybe I am trouble. You don’t know what important stuff I’m here for.”
You laugh softly. “Really.”
“Yep. You know,” he leans forward, and you press your lips in a thin line.
You can’t breathe too deeply. He smells like cinnamon and grass, and it’s intoxicating.
“I’m not supposed to be telling anyone.” He whispers. “But if you promise to keep it a secret, I’ll tell you.”
And God, you want to know. You want him to keep talking and never move away. There’s a warmth to is gravity. Like you could fall down, down, down into him and be wrapped in something safe.
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” You squeeze the words out, and the man snorts.
“Hate to break it to you, Princess, but you’re already doing that.”
You fix him with a glare, but it only seems to make him smile wider.
“Anyone ever told you that you’re cute when you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You look mad-“
“I’m perfectly level-headed.” You snap, and he chuckles.
“Sure, sweetheart.”
Your heart does a strange little skip. “I am-“
“Uh huh.” He mocks your tone from before. He’s so close you can count the freckles over his cheeks. They glow a little like stars.
“I have to go.” You mumble. If you stay any longer, you feel like this man might make you do something stupid.
He always makes you act stupid, Kiddo. Bobby’s voice hisses in your ear, and you don’t know how he can know that. You’ve never met him before.
“Wait- Just-“
The man grabs your forearm, and it’s like being struck by lightning. For a second, everything is too clear and bright. You’re rooted in place, staring at each other as you eyes feel like something is being peeled away from them.
He’s so Golden.
“Can I tell you my name?” The man rasps. “So I’m not a stranger, and we can keep talking?”
You nod. You shouldn’t have. You couldn’t help it. And he offers you a tiny smile after, that somehow makes it all feel worth it.
“Dean.” He squeezes your arm lightly. Three times. “Dean Winchester.”
Again, you nod. Your tongue is being turned to something gooey with the rest of your body.
“Uh- You gonna tell me your name?” He prompts, and you swallow. You really shouldn’t. Bobby will kill you.
It slips from your lips in a breath. You think it’s something magnetic in Dean, that pulls it out of you. But he smiles again. You think you’d tell him anything he wants to hear.
“Can I tell you my secret,” Dean drawls your name, and you’ve never heard anyone say it like that. Like it’s the name of a god.
You nod, and Dean leans forward. His hold on you is light, his thumb drawing circles on your skin. You’ve never wanted to be so close to someone before. You’d blame it on the drink, but it’s sitting fully in it’s glass on the bar.
“I’m here on top secret state business.” He whispers, breath warm over your lips. “You know the doe princess?”
You blink. “The what?”
“Our royal majesty.” Dean smirks. “Her holiness the doll.” He pauses at your confused expression. “Jesus, did your parents not give you any political education?”
“I have political education.” You snap.
Dean gives you an amused expression. “And you don’t know our own princess?”
Oh. Oh. Fuck.
“I- I, um- I’ve never- No one’s ever called her that before-“
“People call her that all the time.” Dean snorts. “That’s what she looks and acts like. I mean, from what I’ve heard through the vines. Never seen her. Never been that lucky, if everyone’s telling the truth.”
“The truth?” You echo nervously, and Dean nods.
“She supposed to be the most beautiful woman in a million years. ‘S why the Emperor wants her. And,” he shrugs pridefully. “I used to believe those rumors, but now… Don’t know if everyone’s got that fact right. They haven’t seen you yet.”
You flush, but keep your head from getting to clouded. You’re will not be a fool for some random man in a bar. “What do you want with the Princess?” You ask cautiously.
Dean laughs. “Don’t worry ‘bout that, sweetheart. Just know I got word she’s going to be passing on the road tomorrow. On her way to the Emperor. And if you want to stick around, well.” His smile grows. “I’m about to make a fortune.”
Something seizes in your chest. A blur fully clouds your gaze, Dean the only Golden, focused thing remaining. He’s talking about you. About kidnapping you. And you’re sure he won’t be able to—he’s probably all just cocky talk and pretty looks, although you also think that and something to the right of your heart howls—but if he finds out that you’re you, he could just drag you away right now.
So you do the only thing you can think of.
You pour your glass of mead over his head, and run.
You didn’t tell Bobby about Dean. He found you up in the room, already very angry that you didn’t stay put—the one thing he asked you to do, he reminds you three times—so telling him that you also ran into someone who might try to kidnap you doesn’t feel like the wisest move.
“Can’t let you out of my sight for a damn moment.” Bobby grumbles in the morning. “Tell you to do one fuckin’ thing, and you start wandering like a damn cow.”
You frown at your hands, folded over your lap. “Cows don’t wander. They’re cattle animals.”
“You were wanderin’ around a pasture.”
“The bar?”
“Whatever.” He glares out the window. “Just- Stick with me, alright?”
You hum, trying to offer him a small, reassuring smile. “I always do.”
Bobby’s lips twitch, but that’s all you get. He’s still mad.
You sigh, and look back at your fingers. You’ve been tracing over the spot on your arm where Dean touched you last night. There’s still a faint buzzing under your skin, like your body is trying to absorb the feeling in. If you squint, you swear you can see a stain of Gold as well.
His attempt won’t succeed. Bobby wouldn’t let it, and he’d scouted the road ahead. At worst, Dean gets his hands on one of the stuffy nobles “guiding” you to the Emperor, and a good ransom prize.
You don’t understand why you want him to have that ransom prize. He’d called you pretty, but people say that all the time.
Maybe it’s because you believed it. You’ve never believed anyone else.
“How long is the trip again?” You ask softly, and Bobby sigh.
“Ain’t gonna be much longer, kiddo. Hold on.”
You frown at that. You have every map memorized, and from the castle just to the empire’s borders should be at least a fortnight of travel. You’ve been on the road for a day and a half, and you stopped to rest the night.
“How-“
“You still got that knife?” Bobby cuts you off, and there’s a strange, faraway look in his eyes. You know it from when your father makes bad choices for Bobby to clean up, or when there are guests at the castle and Bobby has to keep you safe from them.
Or them safe from you. After the Tooth Incident when you were twelve, he’s been on strict orders not to let the Princess’ hysteria be taken out on others. But this isn’t the Tooth Incident. The only company you’re truly going to have for the month is Bobby himself.
“No, I- I left it in the bar.”
Bobby’s jaw tics, and you smile, pulling over the folds of your skirt.
“But I took this.”
You hold up the sharp, ornamental dagger you’d swiped off the wall of the tavern. It had look ceremonial, but you’d be able to make it work. And you liked all the embedded jewels, it made it prettier and gave it extra weight. It was perfect.
Bobby snorts, shaking his head. “You steal that?”
“No. I found it.”
“Found it…”
“On a wall.” You shrug, spinning the knife in your hands.
You’re not sure where you learned to do that. Something crushes at the base of your skull. But there’s blood all over your hands, and splatters on the floor that fall around your skirts and pants. You’re never messy. You’re too good for that.
“Jesus.” Bobby sighs your name, running a hand over his face. “Just- Keep it close.”
You hum. You were planning to. If the Emperor ever got handsy with you, you could pull it out and drive it into his mouth.
The road continues on. It’s bumpy and boring, and every time you think that it seems to get longer. For a second, you think about squeezing your eyes shut and just hoping you’ll arrive. Then you look out the window, and swear that you’ve passed that same rock five times already. The clouds in the sky have hit a static. The sun moves an inch a minute, but if you point it out to Bobby you’re sure it will just be some symptom of the hysteria. Some god is messing with you. It’s working. You’re going to be on this road forever.
And just as you think that—like a cog being inserted into a machine—everything clicks and starts to move fast. Far, far too fast.
There are shouts from the carriage ahead of yours, and you look to Bobby in alarm, but he just sighs.
“Be careful.” He mutters, slipping out the door when the horses come to a stop.
You pull your knees to your chest and peer out the window. It’s not a very princess like thing to do, but the noble escorts seem too preoccupied with the fallen tree in the road. They’re shouting at the carriage men, knights, and Bobby to move it. You consider telling them that it’s a great sequoia, likely weigh hundreds on thousands of pounds, and has roots still fixed in the ground, but that’s not a very princessy thing to know.
Christ, it’s going to be so exhausting pretending you don’t know anything for the rest of your life. You might as well just cut out your tongue now.
You should call for Bobby. You’re thinking about being silent too much. It’s squeezing your throat and making your breathing short, because what if you can’t do it, what if the Emperor finds you out, what if there are binds around your wrists in future and everything you’re supposed to be, you overgrow and ruin and fail-
The door opens, and your mouth falls open.
“Hey, Princess.” Dean grins up at you. “Nice dress.”
He’s even prettier in the sunlight. Even more Golden. It’s not a helpful thought to have, when he’s about to kidnap you. You should be reaching for your knife. This is what it’s for. But you’re frozen, and when you think about hurting him that strange feeling to the right of your heart howls again.
His face is bloodied. His eyes are closed, and you fold over him with cold panic rushing through your body. Someone pries you away and tells you to go. You linger on the edges and cry into the phone, because you can’t until you’re sure he’s okay.
“Sorry about this.” Dean says, and before you can say anything, he’s grabbing you by the waist and pulling you out of the carriage.
You yelp, mostly in surprise, and everyone finally notices. There are shouts from the noblemen and guards, as Dean rushes to one of the horses. He tosses you up onto the saddle as the knights charge, the jumps up right after. He’s wrapped around you, your back to his chest, and you shouldn’t want to melt back into his strength and heat. He lashes the reigns, and the horse—already freed from the carriage—rears back, then starts to the forest.
You twist, trying to claw out of his grip as the wind snaps you in to reality. You’re being kidnapped. Like a fucking idiot.
Bobby, just out of view, is rushing after you. But he’s old, and no match for a horse. You scream for him, the words carried off in the wind.
The trees close around your vision, and the last thing you see is Bobby’s eyes locked onto yours, his shout of your name lost into the woods.
Dean rides for hours, before he finally stops near a river. You didn’t make the hours easy on him. Once your senses came back to you—although not fully, which is deeply annoying, he’s just a man—you started to bite him.
“Son of a-“ Dean had covered your mouth with a hand, his voice rough and surprised in your ear. “Are you fucking biting me?”
You tried to bite his palm, too. He pulled your head back against his shoulder, his lips brushing over your ear as he hissed.
“I’m doing you a favor, sweetheart. Try to behave.”
You licked his hand. His skin had been salty, and he’s groaned like that was worse than the biting.
“For a princess, you’re sure acting like a barn animal.”
You’d driven your elbow back into his gut, and he’d groaned, doubling over your body.
The weight had been strangely comforting. Like a heavy, cinnamon scented blanket. You’d tried not to think about it. When you’d tried to claw at his arms around you, Dean had gathered both your hands in on of his and held onto them with the reigns. He hadn’t let go of your mouth, and something molten had started in your core.
Pain had stabbed behind your eye. Lying against cool leather, warmth all around you. Strong fingers slipped chocolate into your mouth. You try to bite them, and he laughs. It’s a deep, rumbling sound, and you want to crawl into his chest.
Dean is dangerous. You’d been right the first time. He makes you fuzzy and stupid. When he finally slows to that stop, his grip around your waist makes you feel like you’re made of feathers. His knees bump yours, as he dismounts the horse. His lips brush near your throat, and you get dizzy.
But you’re stronger than this. You don’t earn the title the hysterical princess by just fucking around.
The moment Dean’s grip slips, you twist, slam your knee up into his gut, and yank out your knife.
“Jesus fuckin’- Woah-“
He’s stronger than you, but you’re faster. You tackle him to the grass and drive the dagger down to his chest. Dean shouts and grabs your wrists, stopping the hit by an inch. He shouldn’t have been able to.
Something foolish in you is glad he did, even as you keep trying to press the blade down.
“Are you freaking crazy?” He shouts, rolling you onto your back in the grass. “Stop trying to fight me, I’m not your enemy-“
Dean grunts as you plant your feet on his chest and push back up. He topples back into the grass, flat on his stomach, and you dart over him. Straddling his back and keeping your feet on his wrists to top him from moving. You’re panting, unable to speak as you try to just knock him out, but something won’t let you. The world is caught back in that static loop. Dean’s Gold gets brighter and brighter, and you try to drive the dagger down into his neck but your fingers fumble and buzz and suddenly your hands are raised to move again. There’s an iridescent feeling that screaming through your whole body. It’s almost leaking into the world, stopping you from attacking him properly, and what the fuck is wrong with you-
Arms wrap around you from behind, and you shriek, flailing in the air as you’re pulled off of Dean’s body. You won’t die like this, you won’t-
“Hey- Hey- Jesus, Kiddo, calm down.”
Bobby drops you onto the grass a few feet away, and you freeze.
Bobby.
He’s here. He’s not attacking Dean. He’s helping Dean up and brushing the dirt off his shoulder with an amused look.
“Thought you’d be able to handle a girl, Dean.”
Dean scowls, shooting you a glare. “You didn’t say she was- Like that.”
“Like what?” You snap, trying to scramble back to your feet. “What am I like-“
“Nothing, Princess.”
“No, say it, what kind of mouthy little brat do you think I am-“
“The kind that likes being tossed around- Ow-“
Bobby smacks Dean upside the head, and he whines.
“Come on, she started it-“
“And you better watch it.” Bobby grunts.
Dean grumbles, rubbing the hurt and glaring at you. And they know each other. They must know each other.
“Bobby.” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “What the fuck is going on.”
“Ooo.” Dean mutters under his mouth. “She’s bossy.”
“Fuck you.”
Dean’s lips twitch, but he just raises his brows. Bobby sighs, looking between you, and shakes his head.
“Be nice. We got a long road.”
“Long road?” You spit. “I’m not going on any road with him-“
“Yes. You are.” Bobby grunts, giving you a stern look. “Because he’s the one who’s gonna help us get you out.”
You pause. “Out?”
“Somewhere safe. Alexandria. Away from the Emperor.”
You swallow. And you hear water. Water and Sunlight that warms but doesn’t burn. You sit on a dock with your head against his knee, and his fingers in your hair. You want to stay there forever. You can never have anything forever.
“Sorry, Princess.” Dean mutters. “You’re stuck with me.”
You wish that felt worse than it did. You wish you could sneer that you won’t trust him, and you’d rather take your risk with the Emperor. But Bobby says to. And if he’s done what you think—faked a kidnapping to get you away—you can’t fail him.
“Fine.” You point at Dean, holding Bobby’s stare. “But I’m not riding with him. He didn’t let me talk.”
“You tried to bite me-“
“Grow up-“
Bobby snaps your name, and you roll your eyes, sticking your tongue out at Dean. He glares right back. It makes you feel warm and dizzy again, but you ignore it.
By the time this is over, you’re going to be very good at ignoring Dean.
It’s impossible to ignore Dean.
It’s not just that he won’t shut his mouth, or that you can’t pretend not to hear from Bobby’s horse, because apparently Bobby doesn’t care about your requests and made you ride with Dean anyway. It’s not just that his breath is warm on your ear and his arms are thick and oddly safe around you. It’s all the annoying, confusing things he makes you feel.
You’ve never felt them before, when anyone had been near you. Maybe it’s just because no one’s ever been this near you except Bobby, and Dean’s a stranger.
But he doesn’t feel like a stranger.
Somehow, you feel like you know everything about him. Your body relaxes into him like it already trusts him. You can snap at him like you’ve been sparring for a hundred years. His Gold seems to seep onto your fingers, and you fidget with them like you’re really trying to keep it there.
You can’t ignore him. He’s everywhere. It’s impossibly annoying. You’re more than just a vapid, ditzy princess being swept off her feet. You could’ve killed him if Bobby hadn’t stopped you, and no amount of Dean’s dumb handsomeness and strength can take that away from you.
Riding on horseback for hours is impossibly boring. Too keep yourself from getting to lost in Dean’s everything, you spend the time making sure he knows he has no power over you.
He said you were cute when you were mad. He’s adorable when he’s pissed off.
“How did you meet Bobby?”
“We were in the army.” He mutters. His voice rumbles in his chest. You try not to think about that, either.
“The army?” You tease. “Ooo. Big strong soldier boy.”
“I’m not a boy, sweetheart.”
“But you think you’re big and strong?”
He grunts. “Carried you around, didn’t I?”
“Hm.” You huff, wrinkling your nose. “I let you.”
He fixes you with an incredulous look that you can feel pricking over your next. “You let me, huh?”
“Yep.” You raise your chin.
It makes your head fall back against his shoulder. He’s got thick shoulders, and the crook of his neck feels safe.
You press your face into it, your breathing ragged and tears streaming down your face. He kisses your brow and pets your head. Pries your face away and runs his thumb down your nose until you’re okay.
He tells you you’re okay. You believe him.
“I’m letting you carry me right now.” You snap, ignoring the pain rushing your head.
“Yeah, alright, Princess.” He chuckles. “How’d you figure that?”
“Because.”
“Hm. Specific.”
“I could kick your ass-“
“I’m sure you think that.” He teases, reaching up to move some hair caught in your mouth.
You flush against your will. Dean leans down to brush his lips against your ear, and a warm shiver rushes your spine.
“I’d love to see you try, though. Gonna be fun to watch you squirm, when you lose.”
Your breath hitches. You hit his leg, and he just laughs.
He won that one. You’re persistent.
“Remember when I almost killed you?”
Dean sighs. “Don’t think I’m ever gonna forget it. You look hot on top, sweetheart.”
He wins again. It’s deeply unfair that he can do that. Just say things and make you feel things. You’d like to stab him about it, but Bobby specifically told you not to, and you’re trying to behave.
“You’re a lot less violent in my lap.” Dean teases in your ear, and you think you might evaporate into just glowing steam. “You like sitting still?”
“You like being a butt?”
He snorts, and you huff.
“I’m being cooperative.”
“Uh huh. You’re just oozing diplomacy, Princess.”
“Stop calling me that-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“Did Bobby raise you to be this bossy?” He drawls. “Or is it just a royalty thing?”
“I’m not bossy.”
“You are. You’re acting an awful lot like you’re in charge, for girl that’s got no idea where the hell we’re going-“
“We’re going to the Southern docks.” You say plainly, twisting to give him a glare. “You’re probably going to drop me on a ship and send me to the other Continent, because there’s no way the Emperor will find me there. And the Southern docks are far enough from his territory that he can’t invade them without cause. Far from the Castle, too. You’re probably hoping that we’ll beat them there, before word reaches anyone that I’ve been kidnapped.”
Dean blinks at you. He glances up to Bobby—riding a few yards away—and clears his throat.
“Did, uh- Bobby tell you that, or-“
“We’re riding South.” You shrug, not bothering to hide your smugness. “We’ve been riding South since you grabbed me. And if you and Bobby were working together the whole time, I’m assuming he slaughtered most of the escort party so that the Castle wouldn’t realize anything was wrong until the Emperor showed up demanding to know where his bride was. So we have extra time.”
Dean’s throat bobs. His face is a little red.
“Uh- Yeah.”
You narrow your eyes. “You did kill the escort party, right?”
Dean smiles sheepishly, and your jaw tightens.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re real smart, Princess-“
“Bobby!” You shout, twisting back around. “I need to talk to you!”
Bobby sighs, and waves for you to pull off to the side. You need to stop for food anyway.
You can feels Dean’s curious gaze, as you spend twenty minutes chewing Bobby out for not executing a proper escape plan. You even point out that he could’ve just maimed the guards to buy a little extra time, but now your father probably knows that Bobby’s trying to help you escape, and there are going to be people everywhere looking for you. Bobby takes your anger with a tired expression, and you know he’d be snapping back if he didn’t know you were right.
When you’re done, you stomp over to a rock and start eating the pound cake Bobby saved for you with a scowl, staring at your muddied shoes. They warm. You hope that—if Dean and Bobby didn’t fuck it and you’re still able to get out—you can keep them.
“She always that violent?” Dean mutters to Bobby a few feet away, and you scowl.
You are not violent. You’re about to snap that at him, when Bobby just sighs your name, his back turned away. You’re not supposed to hear.
“She’s… Well trained. And smart.”
“Yeah, I got that she’s smart, but I’ve never seen a lady ordering us around to slaughter a whole party before-“
“That’s ‘cause she ain’t a lady. She’s- Somethin’ else. Always has been.” Bobby sighs again. “And she’s right. We fucked up.”
You smirk at your feet. You know you’re right. It’s just always nice to hear.
There’s a soft whinny from in front of you, and you look up to find Dean’s sleek, black mare poking at your hands. She’s the one that he’d taken from the carriage, but Bobby also chose those horses. You wouldn’t be surprised if he snuck Dean’s in, with how well he seemed to be commanding her.
You offer her some of the cake, and she dips her head, eating it from your palm. You reach up and pet her nose. She pushes in to the touch, and you smile.
“Huh.”
You can feel Dean’s presence behind you. You don’t grace him with a look back. “Huh?”
“She doesn’t like most people.” He mutters. “My brother once tried to feed her, and she damn near bit his nose off.”
That makes you look back. You don’t know why. You just have to know everything about Dean that you can.
“You have a brother?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t elaborate, moving to squat at your side. “You always a horse whisperer?”
You shrug, looking back to the satisfied mare. “Animals like me.”
Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah. I bet they do.”
“What does that mean-“
“We got a plan.” Dean says, ignoring your glare completely. “You want to approve it, your majesty?”
You narrow your eyes at him. He just keeps grinning, and you take a deep breath through your nose, bowing your head for him to continue.
“I got an associate.” He says. “Little west of the river. She’s good at sneaking around, she can make sure we get you on that ship without anyone poking their head in our business.”
You hum, watching him carefully. “An associate.”
“That’s what I said, Princess.”
“What kind of associate.”
“A friend.” He shrugs. “Co-worker.”
For some reason, that makes you relax.
Girls smiling at him. Your knees pressed together under the table as he ignores them, and you feel like the biggest thing in the universe.
“So a fellow criminal.” Your brow wrinkles, and Dean sighs.
“No. I mean an associate.”
“You said co-worker.”
“Yeah, I did-“
“You’re a criminal.”
“I’m a mercenary-“
“You kidnapped me.”
“I mean- I wouldn’t call it kidnapping-“
“You took me out of my carriage.” You fix him with a pointed look. “Put me on a horse, and rode away. Against my will.”
Dean gives you an exasperated, almost amused look. “Wasn’t that against your will.” He grumbles, and you kick his shin.
“I bit you-“
“Can’t help that you act like an animal, sweetheart-“
“I do not-“ You cut yourself off, taking a deep breath through your nose. You’re in control. “Kidnapping for hire is a crime, Dean Winchester.” You snap. “You are, by definition, a criminal.”
Dean holds you gaze for a second, shoots his horse a disbelieving look—as if you’re the impossible one—and laughs under his breath.
“You know, everything I’ve heard about you told me you’d be real quiet and nice.”
Your nails dig into your palms, as something squeezes in your chest. It feels like the universe rattling. Dean’s looking at you, looking too close, and you’re terrified he might be able to see the everything and nothing inside you perfectly clear.
You’re good, Princess. Everything about you is good.
You shake it off. You don’t know where all these thoughts are coming from, piercing through your head like fogged up remnants of dreams. But they’re louder than the world. And you can feel them, feel them like they’re being painted over you, like they’re scars engraved into your body to remind you of something you were never supposed to forget.
And right as you think it, you could swear the world gets a little loud.
Like it knew that you thought it was too quiet.
You look away from Dean, and back to his horse. Your voice gets softer, and you’re too tired to try and make it cut through him like a knife.
“Nobody knows anything about me.” You murmur. “Not really.”
Dean’s silent for a moment.
You wish you didn’t miss the voice. Didn’t look over to check that he was still there, because for some reason there’s an aching pain over your skin that is going to blister if Dean isn’t there.
“Bobby told me you’d surprise me.” He mutters, and he says the words like they hurt.
You sigh, a smile ghosting over your lips. “Bobby doesn’t count.”
And he doesn’t. He knows you the same way the flowers and birds in your garden did. The same way the walls of the castle that you used to paint on did. He’s always been there, silent and resolved to protect you from a falling sky you’d been trying to touch and rip open since you were old enough to reach for it. He’s a constant. A controlled variable. You could never surprise him if you tried.
You look down to where he’s settled against his own horse, eating some jerky. When you meet his eyes, he looks away, trying to pretend he hadn’t been eyeing you and Dean. Checking to make sure you didn’t rip into each other. But you know him just as well, and you smile.
He doesn’t need to worry about you getting hurt. You have him. And he’s always there to drag you back down, even when no one else is.
Dean’s horse is named Baby. She likes you, better than him. He seems pretty mad about it. You smile to yourself every time he huffs and glares at her, like she’s actively betraying him by preferring you.
“I told you animals liked me.” You hum, and he grunts.
You don’t get a real response. Just the grunt.
You giggle to yourself, and it earns you a strange look.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Dean shrugs, his shoulders oddly squared. “Just- You got a nice laugh.”
That makes you oddly suspicious. You gotten compliments on your face and voice and smile before, but never your laugh. And this isn’t one of the mocking compliments Dean does, where he teases about how you yelp like a bunny when Baby jumps over a log or look like you belong in the flowers when you stop to eat one afternoon. He sounds like he means it. Like he just really likes your laugh.
And you believe all his compliments. He says them so simply, as if it’s a fact that you’re too pretty to fall face first in the mud.
It’s starting to annoy you. You shouldn’t believe him. People only compliment you when they want something from you, but you can’t figure out what the fuck Dean could possibly be trying to get.
You don’t need to get me anything, baby. A phantom of his voice drawls in your ear. For a second, you look at your hands and they’re bathed in Gold. The Sky seems a little closer than before. You give me you. That’s enough.
“Shut up!” You shout at the wind.
Dean clears his throat from behind you. “I, uh- I didn’t say anything.”
“No, not- Not you.”
“Uh- Bobby didn’t say anything-“
“I know.” You snap. Dean’s silent for a second, then mutters your name.
“Were you talking to the horse?”
There’s real concern in his voice. It makes you want to wrap yourself around his chest and punch him right in his handsome face.
“No.”
“Then who-“
“Shut up.”
Dean pauses. “Me?”
“Yep.”
He sighs. The heat of his breath on your neck makes you shiver. “Bossy.”
You flush, but don’t answer. You’ve gotten better at that. At pretending his strength all around you isn’t effecting you at all. It’s been five days on the road to Dean’s associate now, and you’ve gotten very good at acting like you don’t even think about Dean. He never needs to know whether or not you do. He certainly hasn’t noticed himself.
Bobby has. But Bobby notices everything, and he’s smart enough not to bring it up with you. Not directly. You don’t even know how you’d defend yourself, if he did.
“You and Dean gettin’ on better.” Is all he says instead.
You nod, washing your hands in the running water. Dean’s somewhere downstream, trying to catch a fish because you told him you didn’t think he could.
“We’re adults. We can get along.”
Bobby snorts, and you shoot him a glare.
“What? We are adults-“
“You’re idjits.” He says plainly. “That boy was pullin’ your pigtails three days ago. I was gettin’ worried you were gonna stab ‘im.”
You sniff, turning up your nose. “We’ve grown.”
“I can tell.”
You grumble, glaring at the rushing water in the river. This conversation doesn’t feel productive.
“Where’d you find him, anyway?” You try to turn the conversation onto Bobby.
He’s always been good at seeing right through you, when you do that.
“Bettin’ he told you already, didn’t he.”
“Maybe.” You mutter. “He could’ve been lying.”
“But you don’t think he was.”
“Bobby-“
“I found in him the army gutters. Skinny thing with a brother he could carry with an arm. Smarter than he looked. Survivor. Knew his father, and the man wasn’t worth much, but he-“ Bobby nods to Dean, glaring at the water like it’s offended him. “Is.”
And you can’t help but agree with that. Dean seems worth more than you think you can name.
So maybe, yes, you think about Dean.
But it’s more than that.
It’s like you’re memorizing him. Like you’re relearning a language you’d used to have as a native tongue.
Dean always brushes his hand over his sword, before he does anything. Like he’s reminding himself that it’s still there. He does the same thing with you, looking over his shoulder if you’re following him through an inn door like he thinks you might vanish. He likes to touch things the same way—as if checking that they’re real—every time he passes them. A hand on Baby’s flank, on his sack after he closes it, on the center of you back as if he’s trying to make sure you’re steady.
He prefers meat in the taverns, and drinks less when you join him for the meal. He smiles at everyone like he’s winning something, but smiles at you like he’s already won. He hums to himself while he rides or ties notes, and he can’t really hold a tune or a beat, but he’s got a nice voice. He fidgets with the cuffs of his sleeves a lot. He keeps his sword clean, even when it hasn’t been used the whole day. He’s got a silver band on his wrist that he refuses to take off, and when you ask about it, he frowns at the air like there’s something there neither of you can really see
“Someone I love gave it to me.” He mutters. “I, uh- I just never take it off.”
Some part of you thinks that you used to have something like that yourself, although besides Bobby, you’ve never had someone who loves you.
And you try not to think about it. Being someone Dean would love. Who he’d give things to and care for. Who he’d smile at—although he does smile at you, and it rings a bell like a church in your head, and he never smiles at Bobby like that—and touch for more than a lingering second.
“Where’d you get your necklace?” He nods to your throat, and you blink.
There’s a light weight around your neck, and you so sure it wasn’t there a moment ago. It’s got a leather cord and small, strange and pointy amulet. You take it and turn it between your fingers.
It doesn’t prick your hand. It’s supposed to prick your hand.
Something is strangling itself in your gut. You chew on your lower lip, your skin prickling as you hold the amulet tighter.
“My… My-“ You shake your head. There’s a pressure in your chest and under your skin, but you don’t have a name for it. You don’t have enough of a name for anything.
“Your?” Dean prompts, and you take a deep breath, twisting the skin on your finger.
“Bobby gave it to me.”
“Oh.” Dean gives you a strange look. “Cool.”
You nod. Dean offers you some fruit, and you take it with a tiny smile.
Things like that have been happening a lot around him. He asks you a question you should know the answer to. You don’t, but suddenly there’s one in your hands.
That, or he knows the answer for you.
“Got you a book.” He mutters, tossing it to you over the table.
It’s been nine days, now. You’d stopped bickering after Bobby threatened to drown himself in a lake, and have reached a comfortable—if strained—understanding.
You pick up the book and turn it over. “How did you know I could read?”
Dean paused, and you don’t think it occurred to him that you couldn’t.
“Uh… I dunno. You just seemed like the type?”
“The type.”
He shrugs. “Yeah. Y’know.”
You shake your head, giving him a prompting look, and he sighs.
“You know-“
“I don’t.”
Dean works his jaw, looks up like he’s praying, and sighs.
“Smart.” He grumbles. “You’re real smart, Princess. Don’t look at me like you didn’t know that.”
And you did. You just like hearing it from him.
The next day, he brings you to a book cart in the village. Bobby left you together while he got food, with promises not to murder each other. You barely even want to strangle him anymore. He’s getting you books.
“Son of a bitch, how are you even still walking?”
You poke your head at him over the stack in your arms, a smile tugging at your lips. He looks truly bemused, as if your carrying bricks.
“They’re not that heavy, Winchester.”
“Uh huh.” He mutters. “Show off.”
You giggle, and when he offers to carry some himself, you can’t even tell him no.
“Think Bobby’s been givin’ you steroids or something.” He grumbles as you walk to the small town square.
“What are steroids?”
Dean pauses, frowning at the air. “Uh… Not sure. Just sounded right.”
You hum. He’s right, it did. And something in your brain demands that you listen to that, but the sun gets warmer. Dean rolls up his sleeves, and suddenly everything inside you is gooey. You hike up your skirt on the steps, and Dean coughs loudly.
For a second, you just stare at each other.
When Bobby comes back, calling your name, you rip your gaze away with a flush, and Dean makes a strangled sound like a kicked dog.
“Got enough for the road.” Bobby says, mostly to you. “We keep on our path, there’s a cave that’ll let us start a fire without a problem. Keep us safe through the night.”
You nod, poking through the bag. “And the storm.”
Dean scoffs. “There isn’t a storm-“
“She’s right, son.” Bobby points up to the horizon, where dark clouds are starting to gather. “Thunder’s gonna be hittin’ us by nightfall.”
Dean makes a face, and you stick your tongue out at him.
Although you’d said and the storm as a joke. Then, there were clouds.
That strange feeling starts up again. It’s getting harder to ignore.
“What’s this one?” Dean asks that night, leaning over you while Bobby feeds the fire.
You hold up the cover for him to read, not taking your eyes off the words.
Trying not to. Dean makes an adorable, scrunched face, and it’s impossible not to look at.
“Sandman? What, like the song?”
You laugh softly. “No, the monster.”
“Monster? Monsters ain’t…”
Dean trails off, frowning at the air. You tilt your head at him, and he sighs.
“I dunno. Was gonna say something, and it just…” He shakes himself. “Never mind. What’s up with the Sandman?”
“I can’t remember.” You glance back to the pages. All the words keep floating off, like they want you not to read them. “I just- I remember knowing that they were legends, but also thinking that they were… Real?”
“Real?” Dean echoes. “Why’d you say it like that.”
“Because I can’t remember if they were real or not. I think they were. I was- I was so sure that they were, that they- Did something. Something with- A door and… Sand.”
Dean snorts, and you kick his ankle.
“I’m serious-“
“I know.” He grins down at you, petting the top of your head. “That’s what makes you so cute.”
Your flush is immediately. Your lips part, and your breath hitches. Dean tenses over you. His hand fists in your hair, and too many things hit you at once.
Dean, standing over you just like this. Your face pressed into his thigh, before he sinks down and pulls you into his arms. Your face in his thigh as he lies down and pets your head, and tears running down your cheeks and so much pain and guilt and Dean, always Dean, all the way down-
Bobby calls your name, and the feeling is ripped away. You give Dean a nervous smile, and he lets go of your hair with a mumbling apology.
You sit with Bobby at the fire. He wanted something from you, but it passed in a blur, and you were mostly thinking of Dean the whole time.
Dean and something else.
Those same tears. Dean’s arms around you as you screamed and sobbed, a bottle in your hands, and a fading of green from the whole world-
“You eat dinner?”
You nod, watching the flames crackle. You’re a little cold, from the wind and the storm.
The fire gets warmer.
You grab the amulet around your neck and squeeze it tightly.
“Surprised you still got that thing.” Bobby chuckles, and you turn in surprise.
“What?”
“That amulet. Got it for you when you were a kid.” He smiles fondly at the fire. “Your hands were so fuckin’ small, you could barely hold it.”
You swallow. You don’t remember at all.
But then, there it is. A faded echo trying to worm its way between your thoughts. It’s black and white, almost hollow. Like a press of a photo onto waterlogged paper.
“You’d hold it tight, just like that.” Bobby nods to your hands, tight around the pendant charm. “When you were tryin’ to talk to someone you didn’t like.” He gives you an amused look. “You not like me, kiddo?”
“No, I- I just-“ You let the charm go. Your hands don’t hurt. That’s not what you used it for. “Never mind.”
Bobby grunts, giving you a long look. “You feelin’ alright?”
“Yeah, I- I just- I’m worried.” You say the words softly. They sound a million miles away. “About this.”
“This?”
“The plan.” You breathe. “What if- What if it’s not the right thing? What if I should just… Go back. Or stay here, or- I don’t know.”
The world feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. And not for the first time this week, you feel like something is wrong. Like something is so, so wrong. So wrong it’s never going to be right again. You’re doing something you’re not supposed to do, or your breathing air you’re not going to give back. You’re screaming until your voice is horse at an indifferent sky.
But the stars aren’t bright enough.
And you can’t see anything green.
“What if this isn’t the right thing?” You whisper weakly, pulling your knees up to your chest. You need to be small. You’re trying to be small, but you can’t remember why. You’re no bigger than your body. That feels wrong, too.
“What- What if I’m not the right thing.” The words come out choked. You’re starting to feel sick. “What if I’m not the right thing, Bobby, what if I- I I’m not worth this, what if you get hurt-“
“I ain’t gonna get hurt-“
“But what if you do. What if something happened and I can’t- I can’t- What if I’m not the right thing-“
Bobby pulls you into his arms, right as you start to sob. He’s concrete. Rubbing your upper back in gentle circles, murmuring soothing words until you fall asleep. When you wake up, the world is green again, but the sky is closer. And you’re certain.
Something must be wrong.
Bobby likes to leave you and Dean together like dogs he’s trying to force into the same pack. You don’t know why he bothers, when you’ve been getting on so well the past week. But every time you look at Dean and think you’d like to just be alone with him, suddenly you’re near a town and Bobby is saying something about more food.
It’s strange. So much of this is so, so strange.
It’s getting hotter, the further South you get. Your clothing is make for the more chilling winters of the North and cold winds that have plagued the castle your whole life. There’s a fountain in the center of the town, and not that many people around. You hike up your skirt, and wade into the water, sinking down until it’s covering your breasts. Dean coughs loudly from the edge of the fountain. You look over to find him staring up at the Sun, the column of his neck oddly red.
He must be warm too.
“What’re you doing.”
“It’s hot.”
“So we find someone sellin’ water, or we buy you a fan-“
“But this is free.” You cross your legs, reaching out to tug on the leg of his pants. “Come on. Get in.”
Dean snorts, looking at you under oddly hooded eyes. “Nice try. I know what this is.”
You blink a him, titling your head. “What this is?”
“It’s a freakin’ test.” He hisses. “Well, I ain’t gonna fall for it, Princess. I’m a gentleman.”
That makes you giggle. “No, you’re not.”
“I- Well- I could be-“
“Just get in the water, De.” You hold up a hand, offering a soft smile. “You’ll feel better.”
Dean stares at you, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Long enough that you’re about to ask if there’s something wrong with him. If he needs you to get doctor. But he rolls his shoulders, furrows his brow, and grabs your hand with a grunt.
“Think this is stupid.”
“No, you don’t.” You smile at him, as he climbs into the water next to you.
Dean just makes a low, satisfied sound from his chest as he sits at your side, and you flush. It’s your victory. For some reason, it feels like you’re not the one winning.
“So now what?” He gives you an incredulous look. “We just freakin’ sit here?”
You shrug, tracing your fingers through the water. “Feels better, right?”
“Maybe.”
You beam. “That’s a yes.”
“You’re strange.”
“I know.”
There’s only silence for a moment. Silence, and—flowing on the wind in the distance—bird song and bells.
“People told you that you’re strange before?” Dean asks, too causally.
You shrug, and he pushes a little more. Scoots closer in the water.
“You never seemed that strange to me.”
That makes you laugh. “Liar.”
“Not a lie. You were always perfectly normal.”
You give him an unimpressed look, and his smile is splitting his face. Whatever annoyance about the fountain has vanished. He’s sitting close enough to you that your knees are bumping. And under the water, his skin is warm.
“I swear, first thing I thought when I saw you at the bar, look at her. Most normal girl alive.”
“Okay.” You snort, shaking your head, but can’t stop yourself from asking, “What did you actually think?”
And something shifts on Dean’s face. The Golden tone of him seems to glow, like it’s trying to push out of his body, into you. You swallow, lips parting under the intensity of his gaze. Something to the right of your heart pulls. Dean’s lips twitch, and his voice drops to a familiar, low tone of promise.
“I thought that I’d seen you a million times before.” He murmurs. “And that I was never gonna get sick of seeing you again.”
Goddamn him. Goddamn what he does to you, and how that makes you feel all bubbly and stupid. “You’d never seen me before-“
“I know. But I felt like I had.”
You snort, cheeks burning as you roll your eyes. “Does that line work on all the ladies you pick up?”
“Wouldn’t know.” His hand lands on your ankle, under the water. Like he’s afraid you’re going to slip away with an invisible tide. “Never used it.”
A tiny sound leaves your throat against your will.
You’re on the couch. He’s across from you, rubbing your calves as you read something, trying to bother you and grinning shamelessly whenever you glare at him. And you give in, eventually. You always give in for him, although you’re not sure he knows it.
“That’s so dumb.” You breathe, and Dean laughs.
“I know. But it’s working, isn’t it.”
“No, it’s not-“
“Yeah. It is.” He winks.
You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re so full of shit-“
“No, I’m not.” He raises one hand, sticking out his little finger. “Pinky promise.”
Pinky promise. You’re glaring at each other in a dark hallway, and you say that, and he looks at you like you’re insane but does it anyway. You both always been insane anyway. The gesture just locks you together, so you’re never too insane without the other for too long.
You lock your pinkies together, and swear you get a little electric zap. Bobby gets back soon after, and doesn’t even blink at you’re wet clothing. You know he knows what you do. You’d figured he’d at least be surprised by Dean, but you were painfully wrong. That night, you lie flat on your back and stare at the dull stars. They’ve been making it hard to sleep. Every time night falls, you swear they’re getting closer. Soon they’re going to fill up that pit in the world, and drag you all under.
Bobby comes over and talks to you until he knocks out. You know he was trying to get you down first, the way he always had. But he is an old man. He gets tired faster, and you’re restless.
“Can’t sleep?” Dean mutters, and you feel him lowering onto the grass at your side. “Too hot?”
You mumble. Your eyes are suddenly heavy. Everything smells like cinnamon, and the rapid, anxious tension in all your bones is staring to ease.
“Me neither.”
You turn to look at him, and find that he’s already watching you. The whole world gets brighter. He’s beautiful, under the stars.
“Why not?” You whisper, and his shakes his head.
His lips press in a thin line. His eyes dart down to your lips.
“Just… Felt wrong.”
You nod, and for a long moment, you just watch each other. Dean’s brow furrows, and you wonder if he’s been feeling it too. This pull, whenever you’re close to him. This sense that if you just grabbed onto him properly, you’d never bother to let go.
“Can I-“
“Can you sleep here?” You blurt, your face immediately burning with shame. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- Forget, what did you- What were you gonna say-“
“Hey,” Dean reaches over, and drags his thumb down the bridge of your nose. “Breathe.”
You nod, shaking in a sharp gasp, and Dean’s lips twitch.
There’s too much to name it. To have just one image. It’s more of an overwhelming wave of everything, like all the universe bursting into existence at one. There’s a path ahead of and behind you. You’ve been on it your whole life, and the arm around your waist catches you every time you stumble and fall. Your knees are open and bleeding. The sickness will spill all over him. He’s still going to carry you anyway.
“I was gonna ask the same thing.” Dean says with a soft smile. And you can’t help yourself for letting out an almost shaky sob of relief.
“Oh. Good.”
And it is. Dean pulls you into his arms like he’s slotting a piece into a puzzle. You press your face into his chest, and breathe. The world still feels unsteady.
Dean is Golden, and something in you tells you that it makes everything alright.
“What was the first thing you thought about me?” He mutters, right before you pass out.
You smile. “That I liked your nose.”
“My nose-“
“Mhm. ‘S pretty.”
“Pretty.” Dean grumbles, like you’re being insane. Then he pauses and mutters, “Really?”
“Yeah.” You yawn. It’s been a long set of weeks. No sleep has been restful, but something tells you this will be. “You smell good, too.”
“Huh.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Thanks, baby.”
You make a muffled sound, and Dean chuckles, squeezing your arm three times. That means something important.
Before you pass out, you almost remember what.
Dean’s associate seems just fine labeling herself as a criminal.
“We’re fuckin’ mercenaries?” She says with a frown, looking between you and Dean after you bring up the subject. “We’re guns for hire, dumbass, of course we’re criminals.”
You laugh, and she grins proudly. “I like her more than you.”
“Whatever.” Dean mutters. His hand has been finding a spot on your lower back lately. Just like he’s been sleeping at your side every night. You haven’t been able to complain. “We gonna actually give these assholes the slip, or just stand around like idiots.”
“You’re the only one standing around, Dean.” Bobby calls from across the hut. “Rest of us have been ready to go.”
Dean makes a sour face, and you smile. You want to reach up and pull it down. You think you’d be allowed to. He’d probably smile at you after.
Testing the waters, you just poke his cheek. He looks down at you with a confused expression, and you smile.
He smiles back. You feel a million feet tall.
“Y’all are gross.” Dean’s co-criminal mutters, and he sticks out his tongue.
“You’re just jealous my girl is prettier than all of yours.”
You flush. My girl.
My pretty good. My good girl. That’s my sweet girl, my baby girl, my girl. Baby. Easy, baby. Look at you baby, and easy baby, and I love you, I love you baby, and sunsets and night skies and beaches and kiss that suspend time until you’re not sure where you are, but you know you’re here, and easy baby-
“Fuck you, Winchester.” Dean’s co-criminal rolls her eyes. “You just got there first.”
Dean snorts, and his grip on your waist tightens.
His co-criminal—and friend, but more like sister—is named Jo. She’s made of blue eyes, and something in her voice that flows like water.
Blue on your hands, clinging to it as everything melts into the Earth. Screaming at the sky and clinging to a body. Screaming at the sky and clinging to a body, over and over and over again, and the sky watches but does nothing, and there’s something you love spilled all over your hands-
“You alright, kiddo?” Bobby claps your shoulder, and you start.
“I- I’m-“ You nod weakly, looking up at his concerned expression.
There’s something missing. Something Dean and Jo have, that he doesn’t.
There’s nothing green.
You grab the amulet. It still doesn’t hurt.
“I’m okay.” You whisper, and Bobby grunts.
He believes you. But you look back to Dean and Jo, and they don’t.
Jo has her own friend. A man who was a warrior, and lost his mind a little, but knows more than anyone else. Bobby and Dean trust it, so you do to.
“So you’re a princess, huh?” Jo asks that night, while you eat the dinner Dean proudly made and presented.
“Um- Yeah.” You swallow, and shrug. “I guess.”
“She ain’t like the stories, Jo.” Dean says through a mouthful. “She’s meaner than you when ‘he wansa be-“
“De.” You tap his chin, giving him a stern look.
He swallows his food, and reaches up to wipe a little bit of sauce from your cheek. You flush, and look back to your bowl.
“Huh.” Jo mutters, and Dean shoots her a glare.
“Don’t start-“
“I ain’t startin’. I just-“ She shakes her head. “Never mind. You look happy, ‘s- Annoying. And nice.”
And she’s Dean’s friend, but she looks at you when she says it. And you smile, because for some reason that matters.
“You’re welcome.” She adds, and you laugh.
Dean scowls. “You didn’t do anything-“
“I don’t know. Feels like I did.”
You stay up late with her that night, going through all the books on her hut’s shelf and talking about—if you could’ve been born in another life—what life you’d want.
Jo was raised in the gutters like Dean. She knew him and his secret brother, and their fathers worked together. She was brought up in shoes that he used to wear, and they looked better on me.
“No they didn’t.” Dean grumbles, his head resting on your shoulder.
You don’t know when that started either, but you have your hand twined into his and resting in your lap. His lips graze the bare skin of your shoulder, and you want him closer. You always want him closer.
“They did.” Jo tells you, and you giggle.
Dean grumbles, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Traitor.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
You hum, and squeeze his hand three times.
It matters so much. You can’t remember why.
You tell Jo everything about growing up as the Bride. Tell her things you haven’t even told Dean. But Jo just feels… Right to tell.
Dean listens silently. You can feel him bristling with every story about getting manners whipped into you and hands wandering your body for inspections. By the time you’re done, he’s holding onto you so tight you think he’s trying to latch. To permanently become a shield of armor.
“We should go back.” He grunts later that night. “So I can kill them.”
You sigh, but shake your head. Pain slices behind your eye.
Blood. So much blood. On the floor and covering your hands as you pry the window open. More blood, and you screaming, and screaming, and screaming.
“No.” You breathe. “I think… I think it’s better here.”
Dean grunts, and gives you a strange look. You stare right back.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” He rasps, and you nod.
You don’t know why he bothers asking anymore. You like that he does.
He pulls off his shirt and crawls into bed at your side. His chest is a broad expanse of freckles. You know every single one like the stars. And when you look at night sky through the window, you know. Dean is a million times brighter than it’s ever been.
And the stars are shifting, to match him and all his glorious, beautiful strength.
Dean kisses you for the first time, and it feels like you’ve been here before.
You’re stopped near hot springs for the night. He tangles your fingers together and pulls you through the dark until you reach the steaming pools. You shed down to your undergarments. He takes off everything, but he’s always had less shame about that than you.
Always.
This feels like it’s been always. You feel like you’re losing your mind.
Nightmares. So many nightmares where everything green is being pried from your hands, and you have to mark it with nails to keep it. Even then, there’s still a body. And you scream, but the pain is never ending and you can’t find a way to limit the scream that’s echoing through your very everything. You are everything. It’s still not enough.
You’ve been waking up in the dead of night and staring at Bobby. Grabbing the amulet around your neck and counting everything that’s real. Dean’s Gold. Jo’s Blue.
Nothing from Bobby.
And so many pieces are missing, and the world feels like it’s been flattened and painted in dust, but Dean is still real.
So you shuffle behind him into the water, your face pressed into his back. He pulls you between his legs in the water and kisses the side of your head like it’s a reflex.
More than a reflex. An instinct. Something in him that’s in you. That sings and pulls you back together, every single time. He kisses your brow because there are spots on you that are just there for Dean to kiss. You wrap around him because there are places he’s made that just exist to carry you.
And you’re still you, without him. But you never like it. You’ve never liked it.
You’ve been alone. You don’t ever want to be again.
“Answer for an answer.” Dean says softly, and you hum, tracing over the scars on his shoulders. “Are you gonna miss it?”
“It?”
“You know. Having shit.” He sighs. “Being rich.”
And you almost laugh. “No. I’ll be fine.”
“Princess, everything out there’s got teeth-“
“I’ve got teeth.”
You pretend to bite his nose, and he chuckles, kissing the space right above your lips.
“And me.” He mutters. “You’ve got me.”
You smile. “I know. So I’ll be fine.”
He grunts, and presses his face into the crook of your neck. You hold him tighter. It’s never tight enough.
“Did you ever hear the- The rumors about me?” You breathe, and Dean smiles against your skin.
“What, that you’re crazy?”
You nod nervously, and he shrugs, leaning back with a light in his eyes.
“Yeah. I did.”
“Oh.” You flush. “And- What do you think?”
“Think of what? You bein’ crazy?”
“Yeah-“
“Of course you’re crazy.” He presses his brow against yours, and your lips fall into a pout.
“No, I’m not-“
“Baby, you were crying at a chopped up worm this morning. You’ve tried to stab, like- So many people. Jo had to spend an hour listening to you explain why she put the packs in the wrong order on the horses.”
“It was going to slow them down-“
“We coulda been slowed down. Wouldn’t have killed us.” He bumps your noses softly. “Would’ve been more time together, before Bobby noticed me feeling you up and shot me.”
You can’t laugh at that. It’s just a permanent pain in your body, and you can see it echoed on Dean’s face after he says it.
“You’re coming with me, right?” You say softly, running your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. “On the boat.”
Dean grins. “They couldn’t drag me away.”
Then he kisses you, like it’s the only thing he could possibly do. You think it was. You might’ve sobbed, if he didn’t soon.
His lips against yours move perfectly, and it makes everything clearer. Dean’s here. Your Dean, holding you by the waist and kissing you breathless. You dig your nails into his shoulders, and press further forward, the heat getting dizzying. Dean squeezes your ass, and you can feel something hard poking against your core.
And you’re crying. You don’t know why, but the clearer everything gets, the more it hurts. It’s not just flashes anymore.
There’s an open wound in your stomach, and it’s pouring all over the floor. Dean holds you tight and stops it from knocking you out, but he can’t stop you from shaking and sobbing. He pets your head and speaks in a strained voice.
You think he might be feeling it too.
“My girl.” He mumbles, kissing right under your jaw. “I know. I know.”
You don’t think either of you actually do. But Dean holds on, and when the fog clears, he kisses you one more time. Softer. Like he’s trying to remember that he still can.
“You’re okay, Princess. Get some sleep.”
You do. And you don’t dream, you never have, but you think he’s been there. Every single time.
Jo’s friend is an electric blue, and a little insane.
Cas looks you up and down, tells you that the world is going to need you to bloom, then tells Dean that he shouldn’t listen to anything but his heart. Dean snorts, and claps him on the back. They’ve met before, and he says that Cas used to be normal before the accident.
“What accident?”
“I- Uh- Don’t really remember.” He frowns. “There was like- A freakin’ door or something. I was pretty pissed at him over some stupid stuff he did, but then he did something, and- I hadn’t even been that mad to start. But he did it. And now…”
He shrugs, and you frown. You’d ask more if Cas wasn’t circling Bobby with a strange, deep frown.
“You are not you.” Cas murmurs. “But you are. And that… Should not be possible.”
“I’ve been me my whole life, boy.” Bobby grumbles, looking back to you and Dean. “We need to keep movin’, dragging our feet is only gonna let the guards catch up with us.”
You nod, and offer him a small smile before going with Dean back to Baby. Bobby squeezes your arm softly, letting out a slow sigh.
He’s been tired, lately. You feel bad for not spending more time with him, but he’s the one who puts you on Dean’s horse. You eat dinner with him every night.
And whenever you get close to him, that painful hollow in your chest expands. Like it’s trying to grab him, but already shaking because it knows it’s going to fail.
“Have you noticed anything wrong with Bobby?” You ask Dean on the road, watching his horse up ahead.
Dean grunts. “He’s been quiet.”
“I know, which- It’s not like him.” You grab Dean’s wrist, leaning back to give him a stern look. “You should stop letting him take the late watch.”
“But I take the late watch so I can sit with you-“
“You sit with me all the time, Bobby needs sleep.” You pout, dropping your head on his shoulder. “Please?”
Dean lets out a long, heavy breath, but you can see the affectionate amusement shining in his eyes. Brighter than the stars, and only for you.
“Fine, you Majesty.” He leans down, kissing the space between your eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”
You hum happily, snugging back into his chest.
And there’s something screaming inside of you. It’s covered in layers of sand and silk, and it’s telling you that something is wrong and right, but-
Nothing happens. The sky doesn’t fall. The stars remain in the pattern of Dean’s freckles, and the earth and life before you remains brighter than the cold, indifferent sky.
Dean splays a hand over your stomach, and you fall asleep in his arms. When you wake up, dawn is breaking over the tree line.
When you wake up, it’s because you can feel that something is wrong.
It shakes under the ground and pulls at the edges of the world. You rub your eyes, trying to look for a source of it, but it’s like thinking through syrup.
“Dean.” You mumble, blinking away the sleep. “Dean- Something-“
There’s a loud cracking sound, and a whip darts out from the woods, slamming into Baby’s flank.
Dean shouts, grabbing you tight as she rears up. He’s strong, and keeps you both upright, but the sound spooked the other horses. Jo and Cas aren’t as lucky, and topple to the ground. Bobby dismounts, drawing his sword and flagging Dean to block Jo and Cas. Everything is moving in a cutting blur. More like you’re watching chopped up flashes of a battle, than the real thing. There’s a thick feeling over your mouth—a muzzle—when you try to scream.
And you try to scream. Something horrible is about to happen—an echo of a feeling, rattling around that place in your chest—so you scream and scream and scream.
Royal Guards jump out of the woods, all of them fixated on you. Bobby shouts something that you can only half hear at Dean—get her out hissing like a phantom on the wind—and Dean’s grip tightens around your body.
A warehouse. Bobby picking up a sword, and Dean pulling you away. He vanishes in a swarm of black tar. You leave him behind.
You’re not leaving Bobby. You slip out of his grip, land on the path, and pull out your dagger.
The guard’s eyes widen, as the princess they were supposed to re-kidnap flies at the with a knife and slices right into their necks. The first few don’t really fight back out of shock. The rest of them quickly realize you might be more of a problem than they were lead to believe, and start aiming arrows at you back.
Bobby and Dean roar for you at the same time, and logically, you know you won’t survive arrow fire. But something scratching under your skin tells you that it’ll be fine.
So you face the archers head on, Jo tackles you to the ground.
“Stop bein’ fucking stupid.” She hisses in your ear, and you scream like a feral animal.
Because if you’re not there, then the blades are going to bite. They’re going to bite Bobby, and they’re poisonous, and he won’t be okay, he won’t be okay, he’s not okay-
Someone throws Jo off of you, and grabs your ankle. Jo shouts your name as your dragged through the mud, but you don’t need her help. You can see Bobby a few feet away, fighting the guards.
He’s not okay. Rainfall and thunder and green slipping through your hands. Pressing light trying to take him, and more strength than you’ve ever had before as you hold on until you think you’re going to pass out. He’s not okay. Nothing’s okay.
This scream is louder than any of the ones before it.
It pushes through the wind, and you can hear it pressing right up into that closer and closer sky.
Everything freezes.
And you can see the battle rushing faster. Bobby starts to push back against the guards. Jo and Dean blink as the soldiers they’re fighting falter, but take it to their advantage. The guard on your ankle suddenly drops it, and it hits the ground at an odd angle. There’s a crack and a rush of pain that almost blinds you.
Almost. Because you can see behind your eyes.
And all the guard simply just… Turned to sand.
You’re crying, when the battle finishes. It’s not even from the pain in your ankle, but rather that hollow in your chest. It’s overtaking you. Becoming loud and unignorable. Dean rushes to your side, dropping to his knees and pulling you into his lap. He shouts to Bobby and Jo that you broke your ankle, and you shake your head, tugging at his sleeves.
“I- I’m okay-“
“You always say that.” He mutters, wiping away the hair stuck to your brow. “You hurt your ankle, baby. That’s not something you’re gonna walk off.”
Strong arms around your waist, making sure you stay steady. Lips on your brow and whispers and giggles, despite the darkness closing over the edges of the world. What if you’d be better without me. What if I don’t care.
“De.” You whisper, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Something’s wrong.”
Dean’s throat bobs. He looks up to where Bobby is fumbling with the medicine sack, and sighs.
“Yeah. I know.”
Dean’s been refusing to leave your side. You’re grateful for it. You think that without him, you might’ve slipped into your own thoughts and drowned. Bobby took Jo and Cas to town, to get some herbs for your ankle. Dean wrapped you in the only blanket you had, and settled you between his legs on a softer patch of grass.
“You’re gonna be alright, Princess.” He murmurs, rubbing his hand up and down your spine. “We’re gonna be alright.”
“I know.” You press your face into his side. “’S just my ankle.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but it’s always something with you.”
“No, it’s not-“
“Yeah, it is.”
“I’m not injured most of the time-“
Dean says your name flatly, and you whack his leg.
“Jesus- Who raised you so violent-“
“Bobby.” You stick out your tongue. “And I am not that injured.”
“Your ankle is broken.”
“I could walk on it.”
“You try that, and I’m tying you up.”
You flush, and try not to wiggle too much at that. At the heat, that rushes between your legs.
Slow, lazy nights where the world is ending, but it’s just you and Dean. Motel bedrooms and fluorescent lit hallways and his body caged over yours. Feel it. You always feel him.
“It’s happening again, isn’t it.”
You blink up at him, and find his brow furrowed in concern. “What?”
“You’ve been looking real far away.” Dean drags his thumb over your cheekbone, then down the bridge of your nose. “Like you’re seeing something I can’t.”
“I- I don’t-“
“It’s not bad.” He gives you a sad smile. “You know I like you crazy.”
“I’m not crazy-“
“Yeah, we’re not doin’ this one again.”
Dean reclines back, pulling you up his chest like as ragdoll. Until you’re flopped over him and your fasces are inches away, his hands resting easily on your hips and ass.
“You’re fucking bonkers, sweetheart.” He whispers. “And I’m into it.”
You roll your eyes, even as you start to feel like you might just melt. “You’re such a kiss ass-“
“You’ve got an ass worth kissing.” He squeezes his hands, and you squeak, wiggling above him.
Dean laughs. It rumbles in his chest, and makes you whimper into his neck.
“I hate you.” You whine, and he snorts, kissing the side of your head.
“I know.”
There’s a slight pause. Your heart itches in your throat until it bursts like vomit.
“I don’t hate you.” You whisper. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Dean hums. “I don’t know about the best, baby, Sammy and Jo are pretty awesome-“
“No.” You sit up, planting your hands flat on his chest. Glaring down at him, because he has to understand. “You’re my favorite.”
He raises his brows. “Because I fuck you?”
“Dean-”
He laughs, and rolls you under him. Your ankle doesn’t hurt anymore. For a moment, nothing really does.
And after kissing and sucking all over your neck, Dean asks you to tell him what you’ve been seeing. What’s going on, so you can work it out together.
You promise him you will. But part of you already knows, and you’re trying not to think about it.
Sammy.
You shouldn’t know who that is, but you do. Book and late night and whispering jokes that make Dean roll his eyes, because he thinks he’s outnumbered and he is but Sam says he likes it like that. Sam says this, and Sam says that, and you say this and that, and Dean listens every time because you’re freaky little nerd, but he likes seeing you in what he calls ‘the enrichment pen’. It’s just the motel table. Sometimes he has to turn out the light, or neither of you go to bed.
Dean knocks out before everyone gets back. You trace his face while he snores, running your fingers down the crook of his nose.
You’ve think you’ve been here before. Too many times.
But it’s not the same, when he’s here with you.
You wonder if he’s dreaming of you. You know that you’ve been dreaming of him.
And when Bobby gets back and sighs at Dean, but smiles at you, you’re not sure you want to wake up.
You’re a day away from the ships, and you ask to ride with Bobby. You don’t want to be right, but you need to be sure.
Dean kissed you, before he mounted Baby and took the lead. Bobby grunted when Dean almost bowed to him, and you bit back your giggle.
“He’s afraid of you.”
“He should be. I’ll stab him if he tries something.”
You roll your eyes. “You say that every time, but you never do it.”
“I’ve been feelin’ generous. C’mon, kiddo. Up in the saddle.”
You mount Bobby’s horse, and stare blankly at the air. Bobby does always say that he’ll go after Dean if he tries something with you. He says it in the same dry, joking manner that he did before.
I’ll shoot him.
Shoot. Not stab.
The hollow in your chest is so big you think it’s going to press out of you and consume the whole world. That everything will just be crushed between your fingers, because if you’re being tormented by this phantom of pain—of weight and emptiness all at once, of long shadows and looking a phone number to make a call that no one’s ever going to pick up—everything else needs to be too.
“He loves you.” Bobby mutters, and you’re suddenly further down the path.
Something’s been trying to slow down your escape to the docks. The road gets longer, but the wind picks up and pushes you fast.
Your head hurts. Your back aches. You don’t know what to do.
“Bobby-“
“I know this ain’t something you wanna talk about with me.” He grumbles. “But I’m tellin’ you. Don’t be stupid.”
You frown. “I’m not stupid-“
“You can be. I’d know, you got all that stupid from me.”
That makes you laugh softly, even as tears prick behind your eyes.
The stars are so dull. If you reached up to the sky, you think you could rip it open.
“Remember when I was a kid?” You whisper, words choked and tight. “And I used to make you promise me every night before bed? That I was going to wake up?”
“Yeah. I do.”
That’s all you get. You press your lips in a tight, thin line and drop your face into Bobby’s shoulder. Your head hurts, and night wind and starlight and warm mugs and the only safe place in the world is going to be a shell-
“One time.” He says suddenly, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “I forgot and you walked outta the room cryin’.”
“You tried to let me play poker.” You whisper, the words small and broken. “I- I was so bad at it.”
Bobby chuckles. “You kept gigglin’ over everything.”
“Dean- Dean says I still do that.”
“I believe ‘im. I’ve seen you and the kid’s games. Sam don’t even let you play anymore, do he?”
You shake your head. Your words come out in sobs that Bobby doesn’t seem to notice.
He can’t. He’s in a loop. He’s just following the script you’re pressing onto him. Letting you walk down the path again, because you want to torture yourself with the view.
“It’s just Dean. Having two hands.”
Bobby snorts, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
“He said he wants to try and teach me for real.” You whisper. “When we were up at the cabin in February.”
“Did he.” Bobby chuckles. “You askin’ my permission or something?”
“No, I- I just-“
“Hey. I’m teasin’, kiddo. Whatever makes you happy, I’m never gonna be angry ‘bout it.”
“I- I know.” You can barely speak anymore. Every word hurts, and the tears are burning down your cheeks. “Thank you. For- For being-“
You can’t finish the sentence. If you do, everything becomes too real. And it’s already too real, and not real enough.
He’s not real. None of this is real.
There’s a storm, gathering on the horizon, and you know.
It’s easier than it should be, to get to the ship. Cas helps you slip through the port town with ease, but every time there’s a flash of Royal Guards and soldiers, they vanish into sand the moment your eyes meet. The wind picks them up and scatters them.
The storm clouds get darker. You hold onto Bobby tight.
“We made it.” Dean says, looking at the massive ship—all sails and bows and shining wood—docked at the port. “Holy shit.”
You hum, but don’t answer. Because you fucking know.
You think Cas knows, too. He keeps looking at you strangely, and talking about how the dunes are closing in and how they still haven’t made a cage that can hold the world.
“You’re waking up.” He said last night, watching you from across the fire. “Are you going to take us with you?”
“Of course I am.” You’d whispered, watching Bobby’s sleeping form on the grass. “I- Can I-“
“No. The dream vanishes in the morning.”
You’d shaken your head, a lump forming in your throat. “But- I can do anything-“
“He does not grow.” Cas said your name, sympathetic and heavy. “It would be a shell.”
“A shell can carry a soul-“
“He would be stomped out. I am…” Cas had sighed, his electric blue fizzing through the air. “I am deeply sorry. I can carry him, when we drown.”
You hadn’t answered. You didn’t want to.
Some part of you, between tears and infinite pain, had been foolishly clinging to delusion. Turning away from the overwhelming evidence, pretending you’d never done this dance before. That you didn’t know exactly how it always ended.
But the storm clouds gather. And the more you try to grab them and push them away, the faster they come.
Dean, Jo, and Cas get onto the boat, but you can’t move. You just stay there on the docks, Dean watching you worriedly from the railing of the ship. He calls your name.
“Give ‘er a minute!” Bobby calls back, and Dean’s frown only deepens.
He still doesn’t understand. He will soon.
“You gotta go.” Bobby says, giving you a sad smile. “This is gonna take you where you need to be.”
You bite your cheek. “We’ll wake up.” You whisper, and Bobby sighs.
“Yeah, kiddo. You’ll wake up.”
He’s not the full illusion anymore. You’d poured yourself over the world too much, and he knows too. Maybe even better than Cas, Bobby knows. Because he’s just another figment of this world. And as your memories and pain seep from the Silver into this fractured reality, he gets to see it all.
He’s not real.
He looks it. He could be real, if you could just pretend a little better. You choke on the air, tears pouring down your cheeks. You hug Bobby, and he’s warm. He could be real.
“I- I don’t want to-“
“I know.” Bobby hugs you back, and you’re small again.
Just eight years old, and alone, and afraid. There’s only one person that’s there, and he’s always going to be there, and you never let yourself consider that he wouldn’t be.
Out there, he’s not.
“You need to go.” Bobby says your name softly. You shake your head.
“No- I- I don’t- I don’t want to go.” Your voice breaks. “I don’t want to go back, I don’t want to be there- You- You’re not going- You won’t be-“
You can’t finish the sentence. It’s unfathomable. The words don’t even make sense in your head.
You won’t be alive.
“I don’t want to.” It’s barely a breath. You can’t manage more. “I don’t want you to- I don’t- I don’t want to go, please don’t make me go-“
Bobby murmurs your name, pulling your face back. He kisses your forehead, and your crying so hard you think you might pass out. You hope you do. Then maybe this can all start over, and everything will be okay again.
“I know. I know.” He sighs, giving you a sad, heavy smile. “But you have to.”
“No- I- I don’t want to-“
“It’s gonna be okay. You’re strong. You’ll be alright-“
“But you- You’re not- You won’t be there.” You grab his wrists, holding on as tight as you can. “I need you to be there, daddy, I don’t- I don’t know what to do-“
“Yeah. You do.” Tears are streaming down his face. He ignores them, to wipe away yours. “It’ll be okay. You’re going to be okay.”
You won’t be.
You know he’s not real, but you can’t understand how he doesn’t get it. He’s won’t be there. Nothing will be okay.
And the more it hurts, the faster the storm comes.
“No.” You whisper. “No- I- I won’t- I won’t- I don’t want to wake up- No-“
Dean shouts for you from the ship. Bobby tries to pick you up and carry you to him, but you scream and thrash.
You won’t wake up. You’ll stay here, you’ll live in this illusion because Dean is here, your Dean is here so everything will be fine. He’s right, he’s been right, you should’ve given it up sooner and none of this would’ve happened. If you weren’t so fucking stupid and wrong and sick you would’ve listened, but you didn’t. Now everything is wrong and it’s your fault.
But you could keep everyone here. You could just fall for Dean again and again, and Bobby would be right there, and the world can burn itself for all you fucking care. Dean wanted you to abandon it. You’re ready to.
But you’re always too slow. And you’re never strong enough, until it’s too late.
And you scream until your voice gives out. You scream until the world is screaming back. The sky closes in—dark and cracking with thunder—and you try to shove it away, but you’ve never been good at fixing things.
You just break and infect them, over and over. The world is flooded with light. With Silver, harsh light. The sky is bright, and it’s not God that’s has the world by it’s throat.
It’s you. And you want to let it go, but if you do, Bobby slips through your fingers like sand. You hold on tighter. The light gets brighter, and the water pours. It fills up your lungs, but you keep screaming. Bobby washes away with everything else.
And you wake up.
You eyes shoot open, and you feel everything and nothing all at once.
If you were thinking steadily, you’d be taking careful notes and making a plan. You, Jo, Dean, and Cas are tied up in the back of the van. They’re all waking up with low groans, but you’re already wide-eyed and alert.
Bobby’s body is gone. The bottle with his soul is still tight in your hands, your body curled around it to keep you safe. There’s sand pooled around your body, slowly dissolving. And a bored looking man that it comes from, sitting far too close to Dean.
Sandman.
If you were thinking, you’d worry about all the notes you and Sam made about them. Eileen ran into one last month, and you’d driven out to help her. They’d been purgatory convicts, and Sam’s guess for why had been that they tended to team up with any human that offered them free reign over their victims. The one you’d hunted had been rather sadistic. You’d killed it the normal way, with dreamcatchers and traps and onyx knives.
But you’re not thinking at all.
You’re the exhaustion of the worn road, passing under the van as it drives. You’re the anger of the van itself, being pushed to it’s fastest speed for hours on end. Your every passing tree and blade of grass and worm and bird, all always so furious that a world that used to be theirs has been cut down. Reduced to small patches of forest so that everything else could be doused in thundering tar.
And that fury makes the Silver burn. It makes you burn. There’s anger through the world, that every bit of life that used to be theirs is gone forever. In every coral reef and grotto and woodlands and swamp and desert and beautiful place that’s been torn to ruins.
And you are the world. You’re everything. You don’t need to do this the smart way. You don’t care to.
The ropes fall from you body, because they have no desire to die trying to bind you. You give Bobby’s bottle to a groggy Dean, because he’s the only one you trust to protect it. His Gold will be untouchable, as long as you’re still burning. Bobby’s green soul in the bottle will be safe from God’s hands, because you won’t fail again.
The Sandman’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to beg for his life.
The Silver pushes into him, and his own sand crushes down. He suffocates on it, as you crush it down, down, down. It doesn’t scatter to the wind. You don’t have that much mercy right now. You keep pressing, until it’s smaller and smaller and smaller, then nothing at all.
Dean says your name, but you just raise your hand and turn to the driver’s seat.
To Norah, who somehow thought this was going to work out in her favor.
You don’t know where she got a sandman. You don’t really care.
She gapes at you when you grab her throat, and pick her right up out of the seat. Dean and Jo shout and scramble to grab the wheel, but the truck and you have an understanding. The Silver flows through all it’s cogs and gears and offers it more life, and it keeps everything you love from crashing. Other cars feel your blessing as you barrel down the road, and make sure to stay out of your way.
You slam Norah back against the wall, your lips curled in a sneer. Then you do it again. And again. She sold you to them, she helped them take you in the first place, she’s one of the reasons Bobby is dead, dead, dead.
There’s a sickening cracking sound. It’s not enough. The Silver pours out, and it raises boils on her perfect, doll-like skin. You hate her. You can’t kill her, but you can hurt her, and that’s more than enough.
“After everything I did for you.” You hiss, spitting in her ugly, vapid face. “You have the fucking nerve to kidnap me?”
“I- I didn’t-“
“Don’t. Lie.”
Norah whimpers. You raise your chin, the Silver radiating from you clearly. You hope she sees it. All the power she always wanted from you.
You hope she feels how much it all always fucking hurts.
“Where were you taking us.”
“I- I wasn’t-“
You slam her back, making sure her head bangs the wall first. “Try again.”
Norah coughs, her eyes wide with a feral kind of fear that bleeds from her. That you can scent like a hound dog, watching her soul curl into her body.
“That ugly hermit.” She croaks. “The werido who’d been working with you.”
Your eyes narrow. “Why.”
“That’s where they were. I- I tracked them there.”
Them. The Leviathans.
“You were going to bring us back to them.” You mutter, and you wish it didn’t still hurt.
That nothing you ever could’ve done would’ve been right. That she was always going to try and hurt you, until you snapped just like this and made sure she couldn’t anymore.
“I was going to win.” She spits. She’s a lot stupider than you thought. “You’ve never deserved it, all of this, and they would’ve seen that I beat you, that I was the one who should’ve been-“
You don’t bother to hurt her again. It’s barely a breath for you, to knock her out. She goes limp, eyes drooping and head lolling.
You stare at her body in your hands.
Dean rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“I’m fine.”
He knows you’re not. You don’t know why you bothered to lie. But when you open the back of the van and toss Norah out on the road, Dean wraps his arm around your waist and presses his face into the crook of your neck. And maybe you lied because it gives you permission to break.
God flashes in warning over your head. Your knees give out.
Dean tells Jo to get you home, and holds you between his lap as you cradle Bobby’s bottle. You remember Dean burned the body, because it’s what he would’ve wanted.
Would’ve.
You tremble, and Dean holds you closer. Bobby’s green glows under the brown plastic, and you wonder if he can hear you. You hope he knows. How much you love him.
Dick said you had a common enemy, in God. God, who will rip Bobby away from you the moment you take him out of the bottle. And you did have a common enemy. Maybe, if Dick had been more careful, you would’ve come around. But he wasn’t. So now you have two enemies. And whatever they can do to God, you can do it better.
It’s a shame that they won’t be around to see it.
Because you’re going to rip every single one to piece with your bare fucking hands.
✦End note: I thought this chapter was going to be like 5k longer, because i had a bunch more slow burn planned. but these two fucking LOSERS fell in love again without my permission.
✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3 - Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!) - Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)
I had to pick this up and put it down several times because it’s really sad.its not sad but it made me sad
I cheered like a fan watching an actor from the original series do their cameo in the reboot when Dean showed up. As if this isn’t his story lol—lowkey he’s supporting cast.
The poor horse! Princess biting and scratching Dean must be such a nightmare to carry.
Always a moment for John Winchester hate
L-bomb but it doesn’t even matter because so much is going on.
I cried again.
I swear ai had other thoughts but it was kinda hard to write down anything coherent over weak 2 of crying over my emotional support fic
summary: you take care of a drunken Zuko only for him to make a startling confession
You’re just about to apply a soothing mud mask to start off a relaxing evening alone when a harsh pounding at the door has you freezing in your tracks. You set the bowl aside with an annoyed huff at the disturbance as you quickly throw on your robe. You weren’t exactly expecting company, and you had been looking forward to a peaceful night to yourself after a long day at the beach.
You’re staying at Zuko’s beach house on Ember Island for a summer getaway with your friends, and you’ve enjoyed being able to catch up on each other’s lives and reminiscence on the days of your adolescence. Though you appreciate spending time with the group after being apart for so long you felt you needed space to recharge, so you declined their invitations to go out for the night and chose to stay home. Suki, Katara, and Aang were out enjoying a night swim while Sokka, Toph, and Zuko decided to explore the city. You didn’t expect anyone to be home for hours which is why you’re surprised to hear someone at the door.
Holding your robe closed with one hand as you open the door with the other, you prepare to scold the trespasser only to be met with the sight of a barely coherent Zuko propped upright between Sokka and Toph. The water tribe boy’s features are apologetic as he allows the Fire Lord to lean against him for balance, though Toph appears completely unbothered by the situation.
“Look, buddy, we’re back at the beach house,” Sokka tells him with a careful nudge, prompting Zuko to lift his head in confusion. Though clearly inebriated, he manages to make out your figure in the doorway and immediately lights up excitement.
“You found y/n!” He cheers, nearly toppling over as he tries to reach for you. Thankfully, Sokka and Toph manage to catch him before he falls flat on his face.
“Hi, Zuko,” you coo with a sympathetic smile that immediately fades as you turn your reproachful stare towards Sokka. “What did you do?”
“Nothing illegal,” Toph answers in their defense only to receive a glare from her accomplice.
“He had a bit too much to drink at the tavern, and he kept insisting on coming to see you.”
You don’t give an immediate reply, instead choosing to mull over his words as you look from him to Zuko. You realize then that you’ve never actually seen him drunk before. As Fire Lord he took great pride in keeping his composure and maintaining his image as a responsible leader, but being on vacation with your closest friends must have coaxed him into letting his guard down.
“Give him to me,” you finally respond with a resigned sigh, accepting the fact that your night of relaxation will have to be saved for another time. Sokka and Toph are careful as they maneuver Zuko into your hold, helping him drape his arm around your shoulders as you hold onto him by the waist.
“So uh, do you need any help? Because we were thinking of joining the rest of the group for that night swim—”
“Go,” you tell him with an amused roll of your eyes, “I’ve got it from here.”
You watch with a quiet laugh as he quickly bounds off towards the beach with Toph in tow, leaving you on your own to take care of Zuko. You manage to balance your combined weights on one foot as you use the other to shut the door. His head lulls to the side at your movements, his hot breath fanning against your neck as he struggles to keep his eyes open, and you try not to let this distract you from the task at hand.
“Alright, Zuko, I’m going to need your help getting you to your room,” you inform him softly, giving his waist a gentle squeeze to ensure he remains awake. “Can you do that for me?”
He hiccups, letting out a laugh before he responds, “I’d do anything for you, y/n— anything at all! You deserve nice things, and I-I can do those nice things. I’m really nice now.”
You try not to encourage his behavior, but you can’t help the giggle that escapes you at his change in demeanor. It’s certainly a stark contrast to his normally broody personality, and you enjoy getting to see the more playful side of him shine through. Compared to your days as teenagers he’s definitely learned to lighten up, but he still tends to convey his humorous nature more sparsely in comparison to the rest of the group. You like to think he’s most comfortable sharing that side of himself with you, but you try not to dwell on the fact in order to avoid setting yourself up for disappointment.
You don’t remember when exactly you first realized you had a crush on Zuko or how your feelings had transitioned from platonic to romantic, but for years you’ve harbored your affection for him under the guise of friendship. There hadn’t been time for romance during the war, and when he became Fire Lord he resumed his relationship with Mai, thus effectively destroying any chance of you ending up together. Even though they’d been broken up for years now, you’d long since accepted that it was never going to happen, and you wouldn’t jeopardize your friendship over a silly childhood infatuation that was clearly unrequited, so you told absolutely no one and swore yourself to secrecy.
You manage to get Zuko into bed, though not without difficulty, and assist him in removing his shoes so he can lay comfortably on the mattress. Though he’s now in the perfect condition to sleep off the alcohol, he simply sits propped against the pillows with his hands resting upon his stomach as he watches you move about the room. You open his window to allow fresh air to waft through and bring a bucket to his bedside in case he grows nauseous. You do everything in your power to make him content in his drunken state, and this doesn’t go without notice.
“I’m going to get you some water,” you inform him quietly only for his hand to immediately shoot out and grab onto your wrist, effectively keeping you in place.
“Don’t go,” he nearly begs, the emotion in his voice catching you off guard. “I want— I need you here.”
“It’ll only take a second—“
“Later,” he insists with a dramatic shake of his head. “That’s not impor-important… Need you. I only need you.”
His words hit your stomach like a gut punch, your heart lurching in your chest and your face heating from the drunken tenderness of his request. He has no idea how much of an effect he has on you, and even in his inebriated state you catch yourself yearning for him to return your affection. Things could be so much easier for you if you simply told him how you felt, but your fear held you back. You firmly remind yourself that you’re just friends, and he’s only seeking the comfort of a companion to help him deal with the intoxication.
“Okay,” you finally relent through a trembling breath, thankful he’s in no state to pick up on your nervous tells as you seat yourself beside him on the mattress. His head immediately falls to rest upon your shoulder, and you allow yourself the privilege of wrapping an arm around his shoulders as you’ve done so many times before.
“Thank you,” he sighs in relief, allowing his eyes to shut in hopes of stopping the spinning sensation he’s felt since returning to the beach house.
You sit in a comfortable silence for some time, neither of you daring to speak as you enjoy the quiet period of rest. Your fingers find their way towards the back of his head, and you absently begin to rake through his long strands of hair in the way you know he likes. These stolen moments are what allow you to ease the longing ache in your chest every time you’re around him, and you’re grateful he’s never seemed to mind your displays of affection. You let him believe they’re platonic for his sake and for your own sanity. It’s better this way, you think.
“You smell good,” Zuko blurts suddenly, effectively rupturing the silence. “Did you know you smell good?”
An amused huff escapes your nose as you glance over at him. “I didn’t know that, but thank you.”
“You’re just so good… you’re a good person, and I want you to know that you’re a good person. The best person!”
“I think that’s the alcohol talking,” you jest playfully, causing him to shake his head vehemently in protest.
“It’s the truth talking,” he argues passionately despite slurring his words in the process. “You’re so nice and funny and pretty. You’re like… you’re the prettiest girl.”
“Zuko,” you gently try to interrupt. Your heart is hammering in your chest and you can feel the blood rushing towards your ears as you try to stop his drunken rambling. You know he means well and can hardly comprehend what he’s saying right now, but you don’t think you can handle him spewing compliments at you when he doesn’t understand just how deeply it affects you.
“I wish you knew how much I like you,” he sighs, causing you to stiffen in place beside him. You don’t dare look at him or speak, simply holding your breath as you wait for him to continue. “You’re so good for me… I think about you even when you’re not around. I miss you all the time… do you know what that’s like?”
“Yeah,” you admit in quiet defeat, clearing your throat to ease the knot that had formed and pensively looking out towards the window. “Yeah, I do.”
You feel him relax against you, his steady breathing filling the air as he finally passes out from exhaustion. You let out a sigh as you carefully maneuver yourself out of bed and allow him to fall back against the mattress. You make sure to position him on his side and leave the bucket nearby before you set off to fetch him a pitcher of water.
You have no idea what to make of his drunken confession. He’d called you pretty, insisted that he needed you, even confessed to having feelings for you, but did it really mean anything? You don’t want to trust the words of an inebriated man, but you can’t deny the nervous fluttering in your stomach as you replay the moment over again in your mind. You so desperately want him to return your affection, but you know by morning he’ll have no recollection of your conversation and everything will return to normal. You can do nothing but settle into your own room and hope you can avoid ever having to talk about this night.
You manage to get some sleep in spite of your inability to quell your racing thoughts, and when morning arrives you make no mention of the conversation that had occurred when your friends ask about last night. They inform you they’re going to the local marketplace in search of groceries for breakfast, and you volunteer to stay behind to keep an eye on Zuko. You two have always been close, so no one suspects anything of your offer as they bid you goodbye and assure you of a quick return.
You enjoy the silence of the morning as you sip your tea and watch the waves crash on the shore from the window. A soft thud breaks you from your contemplative state, and you glance towards Zuko’s bedroom where a groan drifts through the sliding doors.
“Y/n…?” He calls hoarsely, and you wince at the sound of dry heaving that follows. Setting your cup aside, you quickly make your way into his room and find him hunched over the bucket you left behind. Rushing to his side, you help him pull the hair from his face and fashion it into a loose bun with your own hair tie.
“I’m here,” you assure him with a careful smile as you rub soothing circles into his back. You try not to pay too close attention to the feel of his muscles beneath your palm or the fact that he’d managed to remove his shirt in the night.
“I feel horrible,” he complains with a groan as he leans back against the bed frame. “Never let me go drinking with Toph ever again.”
“You found that out the hard way, huh?” You tease him with a gentle laugh as you reach for the pitcher of water and pass it into his grasp. “Drink water, you’ll feel better.”
You watch him begin to take greedy gulps from the pitcher, droplets of water dribbling past his chin and down the expanse of his chest. You look away flustered and silently curse the spirits for putting you in such a precarious situation. Every time you think you have your feelings under control Zuko unknowingly finds a way to push you over the edge.
“I hope I wasn’t too much trouble last night,” he apologizes after drinking the last of the water. “I made such a fool of myself.”
“Don’t beat yourself up too much. I mean, you definitely were nowhere near as bad as Sokka on cactus juice,” you humor him with a giggle, earning a wry smile from the Fire Lord in return.
“That makes me feel a little better,” he admits softly, carefully wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before allowing his head to fall against the edge of the mattress. “Spirits…”
“What is it?”
You tilt your head curiously when his features turn solemn. His eyes shut close as he releases a slow breath, and after a beat passes he allows them to open so he may turn to face you. His golden irises shine with an emotion you’ve never seen him convey before, and it has your breath catching in your throat as you struggle to maintain eye contact.
“I know what I said last night,” he professes timidly, causing your heart to nearly leap out of your chest with anguish. Your face starts to burn and you want nothing more than to find a way out of this conversation, but with the rest of the group gone you know there’s no chance at escape.
“Oh… right. That,” you breathe shakily. Your gaze trails to the floor as you prepare yourself for the inevitable rejection. If you can survive a lightning strike from Azula, then you can survive Zuko taking back everything he’d side while drunk. At least, that’s what you try to tell yourself. “Listen, it’s not a big deal-“
“It is to me,” he interrupts you with a faint frown. You startle when his fingertips touch the skin of your cheek and gently guide your face back towards him. You hope he can’t feel how warm to the touch you are or hear the rapid beating of your heart. “I’d never want to put our friendship in jeopardy or make you uncomfortable.”
“Zuko, it’s fine-“ you try to interrupt only for him to grow frustrated.
“No, y/n, you need to hear what I have to say,” he demands firmly, and finally you fall quiet. He sighs, not meaning to snap at you but desperate to get the words out. “I… I meant what I said.”
“What?”
A faint blush dusts his face as he nervously grasps the back of his neck and offers you a meek smile. “I know I wasn’t exactly myself last night, and though I wish I could have conveyed my thoughts when I was in a better state of mind, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t telling the truth.”
“So you…. You do like me?” you murmur softly, your stomach fluttering with nerves as you try to process his confession. You can’t believe what you’re hearing, and a part of you thinks you must be dreaming, but the feel of his hand reaching for your own proves otherwise.
“I have for a while now,” he assures you sheepishly, “I guess I just needed some liquid courage to tell you. This doesn’t have to change anything between us if you don’t want it to, and I understand if you don’t feel the same-“
“I like you too,” you interrupt, wincing with embarrassment at your abruptness. He lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s the reassurance you need to continue. “I never wanted to tell you in case you didn’t feel the same, but then you called me pretty and I kind of lost any sense of rational thinking…”
“You are pretty,” he affirms with a tender smile, taking your hand in his own and lifting your knuckles to his lips for a kiss. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to take you to dinner tonight so I may ask to court you the right way.”
“I’d love nothing more,” you nearly swoon, enjoying the feel of his lips against your skin and the satisfaction that comes from knowing the boy you’ve loved since childhood returns your affections.
Summary: The announcement came on a Tuesday, when the leaves turned the color of fire and you were reading and the tea had gone cold.
You married the Fire Lord on a Thursday in autumn. You wore fire lilies in your hair. Neither of you wanted it. Neither of you said so.
What followed was not a love story, not at first. It was two people in the same building, running a nation between them, learning the shape of each other's silences. It was a lamp left on in a corridor at an hour when the palace should have been dark. It was tea refilled without being asked. It was the slow, painstaking work of two people who had forgotten how to want things, remembering.
She carries a fire that burns white and a secret that could undo everything. He carries the weight of a nation and the particular loneliness of someone who has never been seen clearly.
This is the story of what happens when they finally look.
PAIRING: firelord!zuko x firelady!reader
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Chapter One: The Shape of Duty
The announcement came on a Tuesday.
You remember this because Tuesdays were yours — the one morning in the week when the correspondence could wait, when your father's study was occupied with his military reviews and your mother was engaged with her social calls, and the house ran on its own quiet momentum without requiring anything of you. You had been reading. The window was open. There was tea cooling at your elbow that you had forgotten about, as you always forgot about tea when a book had you properly.
The messenger wore palace livery.
He was very young, and he held the scroll with both hands as though it were fragile, as though the weight of what it contained might somehow crack the seal prematurely if he wasn't careful. You watched him cross the garden from your window. You watched your mother intercept him at the door. You watched the precise moment she read it — the way her posture changed, not loosening but elevating, her spine finding an extra inch of height she had not possessed a moment before.
You turned back to your book.
You did not read another word for the rest of the day.
The Fire Nation had been at peace for three years.
This was, depending on who you asked, either a remarkable achievement or a fragile fiction. Fire Lord Zuko — young, scarred, the son of the man who had nearly broken the world — had spent those three years dismantling a century of empire with the particular grimness of someone who understood that the work would likely outlast him. Reparations. Withdrawals. Treaties written and rewritten until the language no longer tasted of conquest.
The nations were watching. The nations were always watching.
And the Fire Lord, his advisors had apparently decided, needed a wife.
Not for love. Love was a luxury that twenty-three-year-old Fire Lords engaged in their private hours, if they had private hours, which by all accounts he did not. What was needed was a symbol. A living demonstration of continuity — that the new Fire Nation was not a repudiation of everything that had come before, but a refinement of it. Old nobility. Old blood. The kind of name that the remaining hardliners could accept without feeling that the ground had shifted too entirely beneath their feet.
Your family had old blood in abundance.
Your father had served under Ozai's generals, which was the kind of history that required very careful management in the new political order. He had survived the transition by being useful — his knowledge of the former territories, his connections, his talent for keeping his mouth shut in rooms where keeping your mouth shut was the only coin worth spending. He had emerged from the war intact. More than intact.
And now his daughter would marry the Fire Lord, and the last of the accounting would be settled.
You understood all of this. You had been educated for exactly this kind of understanding, fluent in the language of what was not said, of what was implied by an invitation and what was demanded by one. You set your book down on Tuesday afternoon and you sat for a long while with your hands folded in your lap, and you thought about what your life was about to become, and then you got up and went to dinner because there was nothing else to be done.
Your mother said: You should be grateful.
Your father said nothing. He didn't need to.
The dragon arrived six days before the wedding.
This was not, technically, part of any formal arrangement. No one had planned it. The dragon — young, enormous, the color of banked embers with eyes like cooling lava — had been a gift from the fire sages, a blessing on the union, a symbol of the old pacts between dragonkind and the Fire Nation that the new Fire Lord was apparently keen to restore. It had been transported to the palace with considerable effort and considerable anxiety on the part of everyone involved, and it had been housed in the eastern courtyard, and it had spent the first two days ignoring every person who came near it with the lordly indifference of a creature that has never been required to care about anyone's feelings.
On the third day, you went to look at it.
You weren't sure why. You had no particular business in the eastern courtyard. You had been walking — the restless, purposeless walking that had taken over your days since the announcement, this inability to be still that was itself a kind of stillness, because you went nowhere and arrived nowhere and the walking resolved nothing. The eastern courtyard was simply where your feet took you.
The dragon looked at you.
You looked at the dragon.
It was, you thought, an extraordinarily large animal. The scale of it was difficult to process — the way it occupied space not just physically but conceptually, the way the air around it felt different, charged with something ancient and not entirely safe.
It lowered its head.
Not in deference, exactly. More like examination. Like it was deciding something.
You stood very still, which was perhaps instinct and perhaps something else, some older knowledge that your body carried without your mind's permission.
The dragon exhaled. A long, slow breath that was not quite fire and not quite smoke but something between the two, warm against your face, smelling of ash and deep places.
Then it pressed the flat of its enormous snout against your chest.
The force of it should have knocked you back. It didn't. You stood there with your hand raised, and without thinking about it you pressed your palm to the ridge of bone above its eye, and the dragon made a sound so low you felt it in your teeth more than heard it, and the handlers who had been watching from a careful distance looked at each other with the expression of people who have just witnessed something they do not have the vocabulary to explain.
You named her Yennefer, because you were reading that book and because you could.
No one asked your opinion on the name. You gave it anyway.
The night before the wedding, your mother came to your room.
You were sitting at your vanity. Your hair had already been dressed — partially, the pins set but the final arrangement left for the morning, the fire lilies waiting in a shallow dish of water on the table beside you, their petals the precise orange-red of a flame that has found good fuel. Your reflection watched you from the mirror. You had been watching it back for some time, this arrangement of features that was yours, that had always been yours, that tomorrow would belong to a different category of person entirely.
Your mother sat on the edge of the bed. She folded her hands in her lap.
You have been given an extraordinary opportunity, she said. Do not mistake difficulty for disaster.
You said: Yes, Mother.
The Fire Lord is not a cruel man. A pause. He is, however, a complicated one. You will need to be patient.
Yes, Mother.
You will need to be useful. Her voice did not change register, did not harden or soften, remained at the same perfectly calibrated temperature it always occupied. Not merely decorative. Not merely present. He will need someone capable of managing the nation's interior affairs while he attends to the exterior. Your education has prepared you for this. Do not waste it trying to be something else.
I understand.
She looked at you in the mirror for a moment. Something moved behind her eyes — not quite regret, not quite tenderness, something more ambivalent than either.
Your fire has always been unusual, she said finally. Keep it controlled tomorrow. There will be dignitaries present who do not know you, and first impressions in politics are the only impressions that count.
She meant the white.
You had known since you were seven years old that your fire was wrong. Not weak — never weak, it burned hotter than anything your tutors had produced in thirty years of teaching, hotter than your father's, hotter than anyone's you had ever encountered. But it was white. White-gold at its edges, white-silver at its heart, nothing like the orange-red of proper Fire Nation flame, nothing like anything you had ever found described in any text. Your tutors had called it a mutation. Your father had called it a liability. Your mother had called it unusual and left the subject there, in that particular conversational location where things were placed that could not be addressed without becoming dangerous.
You had spent fifteen years learning to contain it. To call up the orange when it was required and keep the white behind your sternum, a coal banked so deep it barely flickered.
I will be careful, you said.
Your mother stood. She smoothed her robes. She did not touch you — not your hair, not your shoulder, not even a brush of her fingers as she passed. At the door she paused.
This is the best possible outcome for this family, she said. Remember that.
She left.
You looked at your reflection for a long time after she was gone. The fire lilies sat in their dish of water, petals open, utterly unaware of what they were about to be asked to mean.
The best possible outcome, you thought.
You had stopped expecting good outcomes some years ago. Best possible was a different calculation entirely.
The morning was bright in the way that Fire Nation mornings in the capital were bright — aggressively, almost belligerently so, as though the sun had a personal investment in your discomfort. You had not slept well. This was not unusual. You had not slept well in a long time, years probably, though you had never examined the timeline closely enough to be certain. Sleep was something that came to you eventually, reluctantly, when your body overrode your mind by sheer exhaustion, generally well past the hour when sensible people were unconscious and usually not long before dawn, which meant that dawn was your enemy in a way that you had never bothered to explain to anyone because it seemed beside the point.
The attendants came at first light.
You sat in the chair and let them work. This was its own form of discipline — the ability to be an object, to inhabit your body from some slight distance while hands moved through your hair and arranged the pins and pressed the final folds of your robes into their proper alignment. The wedding garments were extraordinary and you felt nothing about them. Deep red silk the color of official ceremony, gold accents that caught the light with every movement, the kind of garment that had been made for a body with a specific symbolic function rather than a life. You wore it with the same expression you wore everything — composed, attentive, exactly present enough to perform the required function.
The fire lilies went in last.
You watched in the mirror as the chief attendant threaded them into the structure of your topknot, working them around the ornamental pins so that they framed the crown piece, five blossoms arranged with the careful asymmetry of something that was meant to look artless. They were real, not silk. The petals were slightly waxy, slightly fragrant, the orange-red of them startlingly vivid against the dark of your hair.
You had read about them once. Fire lilies. They bloomed after burning. They needed the heat of a fire to crack the seed casing — could not germinate any other way — and so they were always the first color in the gray aftermath of destruction, this improbable brightness rising from ash. The Fire Nation had adopted them as an emblem of resilience somewhere in the early period of the empire, when resilience had meant something considerably less elegant than it did now.
You looked at them in the mirror.
Bloom after burning, you thought, and the thought had no particular feeling attached to it. It was simply information, filed and noted and assigned to no category of significance.
The attendants finished. One of them said something about how beautiful you looked. You thanked her.
Your father found you before the procession.
This was deliberate. He had timed it — you could tell by the way he appeared at exactly the moment when you were alone, when the attendants had been dismissed and the corridor was quiet, when there was no one to witness and no performance required of either of you.
He was in full military dress. He looked older than you remembered, which was strange because you had seen him three days ago, but grief or something like grief will do that to a face, will find the places where age has been waiting politely and invite it to sit down.
Not grief for you. You did not make that mistake.
There are things you will need to understand about your position, he said, before you make any decisions about how to occupy it.
I am listening.
You are being given access to the highest seat of power in the Fire Nation. He said it the way he said everything — directly, without apology, the tone of a man who has made peace with the ugliness of the world by deciding that acknowledging it is a form of honesty. Do not confuse access with influence. Do not confuse proximity with trust. You will smile, and you will manage whatever domestic responsibilities he gives you, and you will not insert yourself into matters of state unless you are explicitly invited to do so, because a young Fire Lord who feels managed by his wife is a far more dangerous position for this family than a young Fire Lord who merely ignores her.
I understand.
You are not there to be his partner. Something in his expression — not quite contempt, not quite instruction, something that lived in the narrow space between them. You are there to be useful enough to keep and unobtrusive enough not to regret. These are not the same thing, and you will do well not to confuse them.
You said: Is there anything else?
He looked at you for a moment with the particular expression he had always reserved for you — not unkind, not kind, the expression of a man examining a tool that has performed adequately and wondering whether it will continue to do so.
Don't embarrass us, he said.
He walked away.
You stood in the corridor for thirty seconds. Then you straightened your robes, adjusted the pin of a fire lily that had shifted slightly, and walked to take your place in the procession.
Don't embarrass us.
The thing about having very low expectations, you had found, was that they required very little to meet. You had been not-embarrassing your family for twenty-three years. You were quite good at it by now.
The ceremony was in the great hall of the palace.
This was the first time you had been inside the palace proper, though you had stood at its gates twice in the last week for preparatory meetings with the protocol officials who had briefed you on the sequence of events with the thoroughness of people terrified of deviation. You had memorized everything they told you. You had asked no questions. You had been, as you generally were in rooms full of people whose primary concern was your compliance, entirely agreeable.
The great hall was vast.
You had known it would be vast. You had read descriptions, seen paintings, understood the dimensions intellectually. Understanding the dimensions of a space and standing inside it are different kinds of knowing, and you stood at the entrance to the great hall and absorbed the scale of it — the eternal flames in their great braziers, the high ceiling vanishing into shadow, the assembled dignitaries in their finest clothes occupying the tiered seating on either side, all of them turning to look at you, all of them deciding something about you in the first two seconds of looking — and you felt nothing about any of it except a faint, distant recognition that this was the shape of the rest of your life.
You walked.
You kept your eyes forward. This was both protocol and self-preservation — there were too many faces and too many expressions and if you let yourself look at any of them specifically you risked the particular catastrophe of actually being somewhere rather than simply moving through it. Forward was safer. Forward was the altar and the fire and the waiting figure in ceremonial robes who would be your husband by the time the sun had moved another hand's-width across the sky.
You looked at him for the first time properly at ten paces.
He was taller than you had expected from the official portraits, which tended to flatten things. Lean rather than broad, with the posture of someone who had been trained to hold himself as a statement rather than an apology. His ceremonial robes were elaborate and he wore them with the expression of a man who has long since made peace with elaborate robes as a professional hazard. The scar on the left side of his face caught the light from the nearest brazier and you saw him see you see it — that small involuntary tensing, the waiting for a reaction.
You gave him none.
His eyes were gold. This was not surprising — Fire Nation nobility, of course — but the particular quality of them was unexpected. They were watchful. Not cold, not calculating, but watchful in the way of someone who has learned to read rooms very quickly and is rarely wrong about what he reads.
He was reading you now.
You let him.
At the altar you took your position and the ceremony began, and the Fire Sages spoke in the formal register of official language that had not changed in two hundred years, and you repeated what you were told to repeat in a voice that was steady and clear and carried across the hall without difficulty because you had been educated to project your voice and old habits survived most things. He repeated his portion with the same steadiness. He did not look away from you during the formal vows, and you did not look away from him, and somewhere in that sustained eye contact there was something that was not quite communication but was the precondition for it — the mutual acknowledgment that you were both here, both present, both in full understanding of exactly what this was.
You thought, briefly: He didn't want this either.
The thought arrived without judgment, without even particular sympathy. It was simply observation, filed under relevant information, stored for later consideration.
The ring was placed. The formal words concluded. The great hall erupted into the coordinated sound of official celebration, which is its own distinct phenomenon — not quite spontaneous, not quite performative, the sound of people who have been told to celebrate and have decided to do so with something approaching sincerity.
Fire Lord Zuko placed his hand formally at the small of your back for the first official photograph, the minimum required contact, and you stood beside him in the perfect arrangement of a political union that had just been made irrevocable, and you smiled for the assembled dignitaries and the cameras, and the fire lilies in your hair stayed bright and still.
Best possible outcome, you thought.
The hall was very loud.
The banquet lasted four hours.
You sat at the high table. You ate what was placed before you. You spoke to the dignitaries who addressed you with the correct mixture of warmth and appropriate reserve, you laughed at the correct moments, you asked the questions that demonstrated interest without requiring investment. You had been doing this version of social performance for so many years that it occupied a different part of you than the part that was watching — the social machinery ran independently, smoothly, while the rest of you sat somewhere behind your sternum and observed.
He sat beside you. This was protocol. Beside you but not close — a formal distance, the exact spacing that ceremony demanded, close enough to present the image of a united front and far enough to require no actual intimacy.
He spoke to you twice during the four hours.
Once to ask if you needed your wine glass refilled, which was the kind of question that was not really a question, the conversational equivalent of clearing your throat. You said yes, and he gestured to the attendant, and that was the end of it.
The second time was near the end of the banquet, when a particularly enthusiastic diplomat from the Earth Kingdom had been holding your attention for seven minutes with an account of the trade reforms that was both accurate and profoundly tedious. You had been listening with your eyes and your face while the rest of you was elsewhere entirely, and without particular preamble you felt the Fire Lord lean slightly toward you — not touching, but close enough that you could hear him at low volume beneath the noise of the hall.
He's going to talk about the eastern grain quota next, he said. It takes eleven minutes.
You looked at him.
His expression was entirely neutral. But there was something in his eyes — a very faint quality of dry commiseration, as though he had been trapped by the same diplomat at some earlier event and was offering this information as a form of survival intelligence.
You felt, briefly, the ghost of an expression that in different circumstances might have become a smile.
I'll manage, you said.
He inclined his head slightly and returned to his own conversation.
The diplomat talked for nine minutes about the eastern grain quota. You counted.
Afterward — after the toasts and the formal photographs and the receiving line that required you to stand for ninety minutes accepting congratulations from people whose names you had studied in preparation and whose faces you matched to them with the particular mechanical efficiency of someone who has learned to perform interest they do not feel — afterward they showed you to your rooms.
Your rooms.
Not a shared chamber. Not even a suite with connecting doors. A full wing of apartments on the western side of the palace, with three rooms and a private bath and a balcony that faced the garden and shelves that had been stocked with books — someone had done research, or made guesses, and the guesses were not entirely wrong, which was the most unexpected thing about the entire day.
You stood in the center of the main room for a long moment.
The attendants who had brought you waited. You thanked them and said you would manage the rest yourself, and they withdrew, and you were alone for the first time since the morning, alone in the first space that was going to be yours for the foreseeable future, alone in the quiet that was its own specific quality after four hours of banquet noise.
You sat down on the edge of the bed.
You sat there for quite some time.
You did not cry, because there was nothing to cry about — this was the thought that arrived and it was correct as far as it went, which was to say it was correct as a factual matter and entirely wrong about everything else, but you did not examine the gap between those two things. You sat on the edge of the bed in your wedding robes in your new rooms in the palace of the Fire Nation and you thought about nothing very carefully, and eventually you took the pins out of your hair one by one and set them on the vanity table, and took the fire lilies out last and held them in your palm.
They were wilting slightly. The heat of the hall.
You set them in a glass of water on the window ledge. Whether they would recover you didn't know.
You changed out of your robes.
You found the books on the shelves and ran your finger along the spines without reading them, just the physical comfort of that gesture, the familiar texture of books.
You did not sleep until nearly dawn.
This is how the days went.
Dawn came, and you did not greet it. Dawn was for the Fire Lord and his morning forms, for the sound of training that came faintly through the palace walls if the wind was right, for the world that organized itself around fire and momentum and the principle that each day should begin with intention. You knew this. You respected it, in the abstract, the same way you respected all systems that worked well for other people.
You slept through it.
You rose, generally, in the hour before the midday bells, which in the first weeks caused a consternation among the household staff that resolved itself when they understood that late rising was simply your schedule and not a symptom of illness or distress. Mornings at the palace had a precise choreography, and you inserted yourself into it at an angle that did not disrupt the existing pattern — your breakfast was left covered in the small dining room adjacent to your apartments, and by the time you appeared to eat it the formal morning routines of the palace were already concluded and the day had moved into its working hours.
You had not seen the Fire Lord.
This was by design, though not by discussion. There had been no conversation about schedules, no formal agreement about how to organize the practical architecture of a shared household that intended to remain unshared. It had simply arranged itself, the way things arrange themselves when two people are sufficiently motivated to avoid each other without the awkwardness of saying so.
He was in his offices by the time you appeared. You were in yours by mid-morning — the suite of rooms on the east side of the administrative wing that had been assigned to the Fire Lady, which was a title you wore with the same expression you had worn your wedding robes, correct and perfectly fitted and belonging to someone you were playing at being. The work itself was genuine. The domestic affairs of the Fire Nation were substantial, varied, and had been managed with variable quality for the past three years by a rotating cast of advisors who were relieved, you suspected, to hand the responsibility to someone with actual organizational capacity.
You had organizational capacity in abundance. It was perhaps the one thing you had been given without conditions.
The work was real and it helped.
The first weeks were orientation — reading, mostly. Reports and records and the accumulated backlog of administrative decisions that had been deferred awaiting a Fire Lady who would presumably have opinions about cultural programs, palace staffing, the coordination of the domestic initiatives that sat adjacent to the Fire Lord's foreign policy work. You read everything with the concentrated attention of someone who has decided that mastery is the only acceptable relationship with any subject, taking notes in the margins in the small, dense script that your old tutors had found alarming in a child and that had never become less so.
At the end of the first week, you wrote three memos.
The first addressed the supply chain issues in the palace kitchen that had been quietly creating waste for two years. The second proposed a restructuring of the domestic staff schedules that would reduce hours and increase efficiency simultaneously. The third was about the state of the archive in the eastern library, which was a genuine crisis that seemed to have been ignored out of a collective decision not to think about it.
You sent them to the relevant administrators.
Two of them implemented your suggestions within the week. The third invited you to three meetings about the archive, which you attended and at which you sat at the end of the table and said what needed to be said and watched it be written down.
The Fire Lord signed your supply chain proposal. He did not comment on it. His signature was on the bottom of the page when it came back through the administrative channels, firm and slightly angular, the calligraphy of someone who had learned correct form and held it without flourish. You looked at it and thought: he read it. This seemed, in those first weeks, to be more than sufficient.
You passed each other in the corridors.
This happened with the regularity of a system — not daily, because your schedules had different epicenters, but often enough to constitute a pattern. The long corridor that ran between the administrative wing and the residential quarters. The antechamber of the formal meeting rooms. Once, memorably, the palace library at a late hour that neither of you had apparently expected the other to occupy, where you had both stopped in the doorway and regarded each other across the room with the particular expression of people who have been surprised into honesty and don't know what to do with it.
I didn't know you used this room, he said.
I didn't know you did, you said.
A pause of several seconds.
I'll come back later, he said.
Please don't, you said, and the words came out with a flatness that was not intended as rude — you simply meant that you did not require the library to yourself, that his presence was not an intrusion, that the negotiated separateness of your arrangement did not require either of you to vacate rooms on the other's behalf. There's enough space.
He considered this for a moment. Then he went to the east wall, where the historical records were shelved, and you went to your usual corner, and you spent two hours in the same room without speaking and the silence was not uncomfortable in the particular way that silences between people who have nothing to say to each other are not uncomfortable — blank and spacious rather than fraught.
When you left, you said: Good night.
He said: Good night.
This was, by some margin, the longest interaction you had had since the wedding.
You signed documents together.
This was the one unavoidable intimacy of the arrangement — there were papers that required both signatures, things that fell under joint purview, items that the legal and ceremonial structure of the Fire Nation's government had determined must be endorsed by the Fire Lord and Fire Lady in conjunction. Twice a week, an aide came to your office with a sheaf of papers, and twice a week you signed them, and once a week there was a brief joint session where the matters that could not be reduced to paperwork required some minimal discussion.
He was direct in those sessions. This you had noted immediately and found, in some quiet way, easier to manage than its alternative would have been. He said what he thought. He asked clear questions. He did not talk around things or deploy the particular evasiveness of men who have decided that women in administrative positions are scenery. When you gave your opinion — and you did, because silence in those sessions was not useful silence — he listened with the focused attention of someone who is actually processing what he hears rather than waiting for the pause in which to say what he already intended to say.
You had worked with men who listened. They were rarer than they should have been.
Once, three weeks in, he disagreed with you.
It was about the allocation of resources to a rural resettlement initiative — you had proposed a reallocation that he thought moved too fast, that risked destabilizing communities that were still finding equilibrium. He said so clearly and gave his reasoning. You said yours. It was a genuine disagreement and it lasted four minutes and at the end of it he had shifted his position slightly and you had shifted yours and the result was better than either of your starting points had been.
He looked at you afterward with an expression you didn't have the vocabulary for yet.
Good, he said. Just that word.
You thought about it on the way back to your office. You were uncertain whether you had been complimented or assessed or both and whether the distinction mattered.
It probably didn't matter.
You filed it anyway.
Three months in, Yennefer was moved to the palace's outer grounds.
This had been a negotiation with the relevant officials that you had conducted entirely on your own, because the dragon was yours in whatever sense a dragon could be said to belong to anyone, and because the arrangements in the eastern courtyard were inadequate in ways that the officials had been aware of and had not addressed due to a collective uncertainty about whose responsibility they were. You made clear whose responsibility they were. The dragon was relocated. New facilities were commissioned. You visited every other day, in the afternoon, which was the hour when Yennefer was most alert and least inclined to make her feelings about bureaucracy known through property damage.
The Fire Lord saw you with her once.
You were in the middle of — it was difficult to explain what you were in the middle of, exactly. Yennefer had a habit, when she was in a particular mood, of pressing her head against you with a force that was not quite aggressive and not quite affectionate but existed somewhere between the two, and you had developed a corresponding habit of bracing for it and pressing back, a kind of wordless negotiation that both of you seemed to find satisfying. You were in the middle of this when you registered that you were being watched.
The Fire Lord was standing at the edge of the courtyard.
He was not trying to be unobtrusive. He was simply watching with the open, undisguised attention of someone who has encountered something unexpected and has not yet decided what to make of it.
You straightened. Yennefer huffed warm breath at the back of your neck, annoyed at the interruption.
She doesn't usually do that, he said.
She does with me.
A pause.
I noticed. He was still looking at Yennefer with an expression that might, in different circumstances, have been called wistful. When I was young, I was told — my uncle told me — that dragons choose. That there's no pattern to it, no logic, it's not about bloodline or power or anything that can be taught. They simply choose, or they don't.
That seems right, you said.
My great-grandfather was the last Fire Lord to have a dragon. Before the genocide. He said genocide without flinching, with the particular directness of someone who has decided that naming things accurately is the first requirement of addressing them. I've been trying to restore the bond. It's been — slow.
Yennefer is stubborn, you said. She'll come around when she decides to, and not before.
Something moved across his face. Yes, he said. That seems to be the pattern.
He looked at you then, briefly, before he looked away again, and you had the distinct and strange sensation of being seen — not examined, not assessed, but simply seen, as though the word pattern had been doing more work than dragons.
You did not think about it afterward.
You chose not to.
The lamp appeared in the fourth month.
You had developed, by then, a habit of late walks — late being the hours between midnight and the fourth bell, when the palace was as quiet as a building full of guards and staff and one insomniac Fire Lord and one insomniac Fire Lady could reasonably get. You walked the long corridors, and you read sometimes while walking, which your tutors would have found horrifying and which you found worked perfectly well, and you thought about whatever needed thinking about. Your work. The archive restoration project, which had become genuinely interesting in the way that organizational problems become interesting when they're large enough to function as puzzles. The reports you needed to read. The things you needed not to think about, which did not diminish through avoidance but remained at a reliable low roar in some back room of yourself you had learned to keep the door closed on.
The corridor outside the library was dark on your first late walk, and on your second, and on your third.
On your fourth it had a lamp.
Not a new lamp — it had always been there, an ornamental piece in a wall niche that you had assumed was decorative. It was lit now. A low, warm light, not bright enough to be officially illuminating anything, exactly bright enough to make the corridor navigable for someone moving through it at an hour when the household lights were extinguished.
You stopped and looked at it.
There was no note. No explanation. No indication that it had been lit for any specific purpose.
You went to the library and came back two hours later and it was still lit, which meant it had been lit for you and not merely forgotten, which was not the same as nothing, which you did not — chose not to — assign significance to.
In the morning the corridor lamp was out again.
The next night it was lit.
This continued.
You never mentioned it to him. He never mentioned it to you. It existed in that particular category of things that were acknowledged between you only by their presence, a vocabulary of small gestures that accumulated without comment.
Once you passed him in the corridor near the lamp — you coming from the library, him coming from wherever he came from at those hours, the two of you approaching from opposite ends of the passage and meeting in the warm circle of that low light. You both stopped. You were slightly surprised and he was slightly surprised and neither of you said anything immediately, and in the moment before either of you spoke there was something in the quality of the air that you also chose not to name.
Working late? he said.
Archive research, you said. The cataloguing system before the second consolidation was — it's complicated.
Everything before the second consolidation is complicated.
Yes.
A pause.
Good night, he said.
Good night.
You walked past each other in the lit corridor and continued in your respective directions, and that was all, and you chose to let it be all, and you did.
Six months in, you understood the shape of the arrangement.
The arrangement was: a nation that functioned well. Two people who occupied the same building and did not know each other's middle name. Work that was real and sometimes interesting and gave the days a structure that held even when nothing else did. A lamp in a corridor at night. A dragon in the eastern grounds who was learning, slowly, to tolerate the presence of the Fire Lord if you were standing next to him.
It was not happiness.
You had no particular framework for happiness by this point — it had been so long since you had organized your expectations around it that you had lost the habit of looking for it. What you had instead was days. Days with shapes. The memos and the archive and the late walks and the books and the twice-weekly document sessions where he said what he meant and you said what you meant and things got decided.
Adequate, you thought, on the good days.
On the other days you did not think about it.
The summons was not a summons.
That was the thing about it. A summons would have had weight, would have announced itself, would have had the dignity of asking something of you. What arrived was a folded note, brought by an aide on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday morning, hand-written in that firm, angular calligraphy you had learned to recognize.
Leaving tomorrow for the Earth Kingdom. Mission with my team. Expect two, possibly three weeks. The eastern administrative review can go to Minister Hana in my absence. You have authority to manage anything that requires immediate attention.
— Z
Two sentences that were information and one sentence that was instruction. That was the entirety of it.
You read it three times.
The aide was waiting.
Thank you, you said. Your voice was the same as it always was — even, clear, entirely correct.
The aide bowed and left.
You set the note on your desk.
You sat for a long moment looking at it.
Six months. Six months of this arrangement, of the corridors and the documents and the lamp and the sessions where he said what he meant and you said what you meant, and you had been — you had been constructing something here, you realized, something you did not have a name for, something that was not quite trust and not quite comfort but was composed of the same materials, built in the same incremental way, one small piece at a time.
Leaving tomorrow.
He was not asking. He had not thought to ask, or if he had thought to ask he had decided that two sentences in a folded note was sufficient, that you were sufficiently a colleague and insufficiently a person for the distinction to matter.
You have authority to manage anything that requires immediate attention.
The work. That was what he had considered. The work, and Minister Hana, and the eastern administrative review. These were the things he had thought to mention, the things that, when he had thought about his departure, had seemed important to address.
You.
You had not been on that list.
You looked at the note for a long time. The anger arrived slowly, which was its nature — you were not someone who burned quickly, you had never been someone who burned quickly, your fire did not rage it concentrated, it distilled, it burned hotter and more steadily the longer it was sustained, and you were very steady now, reading this note, this two-sentence note, and feeling something that was not quite betrayal because betrayal required a relationship that had been promised, and you had not been promised anything.
But something.
You set the note down carefully.
You sent a message to the eastern grounds.
Prepare Yennefer for travel, you wrote. Full harness. Tomorrow morning, early.
You were not, as it happened, a morning person.
For this, you thought, you could make an exception.
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 63 - Chapter 65✦
✦summary: the leviathans make a move.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: this is the part where i remind you that every time i say "trust me" i'm so serious like everything else has been training this is where we lock in guys please.✦
✦Chapter Title from Helena by My Chemical Romance✦
Dean figured out a way to kill them, and you’re pretty proud of him.
“This part comes out, sends the whole thing going kaboom.” He shows you the makeshift bomb, all pins and needles and cloth and glass, combined with the disgusting amount of cleaning product Jody bought in bulk from Costco. “Explodes all over them like a Molotov. Should do the trick, long as we got it in one hand and a gun in the other. If you aim for their neck, means they’re gonna feel it there the worst, but I’m tryin’ to target the explosion so that we can shoot and knock their heads clean off-“
“Gross.” Sam calls from across the room.
Dean flips him off. “Don’t see you contributing, book boy.”
“I tried to, then you told me I was doing everything wrong, remember?”
“You were doing everything wrong.”
“I was doing exactly what you told me to-“
“And I had to repeat myself, ten freakin’ times-“
They keep going back and forth. You’re mostly paying attention to Dean’s hands.
You’ve been mostly paying attention to Dean’s hands. A lot of explanations about pressure and timing and triggers have been lost on you, because you keep just staring at Dean’s hands.
They’re a little covered in grease and motor-oil. He’d wiped them on his jeans before he sat down, but that just means there’s still residue left over, and now you’re glancing at the marks on his pants. Near his crotch.
You should be listening to his lecture. He’s almost giddy over it, like a toddler showing you his favorite toy truck or hand-made snowflake. But the bouncy, boyish charm on Dean just means his face lights up, and his shoulders relax, and you fall just a little more in love with him, over and over again.
He’s never prettier than when he’s happy, and he’s pretty all the time. It’s not the state of him—sweaty and dirty from hours digging in the scrap yard and testing the bombs with water—but the way he holds himself. Tall and proud, his grin unrestrained and his Gold shining through his eyes. You think you could get lost in the world, just staring at him. Hell knows you almost have.
Dean keeps talking, and his voice rolls over you like a summer breeze. You’re floating in it, in him and his happiness. He says something about borax and you hum, watching the way his lips form the word.
They’re the same lips that had pressed all over your stomach and breasts last night. The same thick, rough hands that had caressed and squeezed your hips and thighs. You smile at him like a ditzy, foolish damsel. Dean pretends to bite your nose, booping your knuckles with the bomb.
“You’re not listening to me, Princess-“
“I am!” You sit up, flushing at being caught. “I’m right here, how could I not be listening?”
“Alright.” Dean snorts, giving you a disbelieving look. “What’s the last thing I said.”
“That I wasn’t listening to you.”
“You- That doesn’t count-“
“It counts-“
“There’s no fuckin’ way that counts-“
“Sam?” You call, not breaking Dean’s gaze.
He doesn’t even look over his shoulder as Sam sighs. He wiggles his brows, ducking down to nip at your lower lip, and you shove him back.
“Dean’s right.” Sam mutters, turning a page of his book.
“Ha!”
Dean laughs, and your head shoots up, eyes narrowing. “You fucking traitor-“
“He’s my brother.” Sam says your name flatly.
You scoff. “I’m your friend- Dean-“
Dean tackles you, tossing his makeshift bomb onto the rug. You squeal, and grab his shirt for balance. Your legs wrap around his waist as he pins you to the couch, and he grabs your jaw, tipping it gently back. Dean grins, free and wide, before kissing all over your face while you squirm.
You’re already breathing embarrassingly fast, closing your eyes to try and get lost in the feeling. You run your fingers through his hair and sigh softly, slowly going limp under his hands.
Feel it. He tells you all the time. And you’ve been trying.
It helps, to see how happy Dean is. How happy he’s been, the past few weeks. There had been a lull in cases that you would’ve flagged as suspicious, if Dean hadn’t been there to distract you. You still think it’s suspicious. You’re just too distracted lately to stay up every single night and look into exactly why.
Dean made you tell Frank, to keep your mind off it. He says you’ve already been too busy, interrogating Chad the Leviathan and trying to make sense of your strange dreams.
Chad isn’t very helpful. He mostly just tries to turn into Dean to mock you, but Dean’s always there with you and douses him with cleaner when he starts to hit a nerve. You’ve managed not to explode at the sight of two Dean’s so far, but it helps that your Dean is always there. Reminding you who’s real. There are a few close calls when you go downstairs to grab something, find a blackened, tar-like goo saying your name in Dean’s voice. You grab the amulet and count what’s real. Dean holds you tight for a while after, and you fall asleep in his arms.
After those incidents, you spend a few days on the dreams. Rowena’s trying to track down another Oracle, but she’s not having much luck. You haven’t heard from her all week. Eileen’s still under the radar with the Leviathan’s, but she’s been sending you anything she finds. A contact in North Africa found some tombs that confirm the Amazon’s stories, all in paintings and faded writing.
The painting was of Lilith and Eve. And you’d never known what Lilith looked like before her vessels, but the picture made it seem beautiful. Eve looked the same as you know her.
And then there was you, placed above them in the painting like a sword over their head, had been like a pasted image from the mirror.
Jo’s been trying to look into contacting the Amazon’s again—you have some questions—but they seem to have gone off the radar.
So it’s all been books, and phone calls, and spells, and this. You and Dean, tangled together without letting go.
He hasn’t let it go. The way you’d brushed off Chad’s declaration of his… Care.
“What do I want.” He’d muttered to you last night, two fingers shoved in your mouth and his knee against your core.
You’d blinked at him under tear stained lashes. His lips had twitched, and he’d leaned down to kiss the corner of your lips before pulling his fingers away with a pop.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He’d whispered against your lips. “What do I want?”
It had taken you a minute. You’d been a puddle beneath him, and it had taken Dean splaying his hand on your tummy—pinning you fully to the mattress below him, forcing your drooling pussy onto the pressure of his knee—for you to babble out an answer.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yes, you do.”
Dean had kissed you cheek and pressed his knee closer. You’d whined, tossing your head back, and he hadn’t relented.
He never did. Not here.
Everyone’s always going on about how much control you have over him, but the second you need it he’s got willpower like titanium.
“Please.” You’d pulled at his chest, giving him your best pout.“I- I really don’t-“
“You do.” Dean had said, lazy and amused. He’d dragged your tears of frustration over your cheeks like a claiming mark. “You just don’t wanna say it, do you?”
You’d flushed, shrinking back into the mattress. Dean had propped his knee higher, grabbing you knee and shoving it down. No hiding, he told you lately. Not from me.
If you were ever in your right mind like this—and you’re not—you’d tell him that you couldn’t hide from him if you tried. If he called for you, you’d always poke your head out to make sure he meant it. If he didn’t, you’d crawl closer until you were at his feet, just to make sure he was still thinking about you at all.
Instead you always just keen and shy further back. Dean always laughs, and a heat pools in your core.
“Say it, Princess.”
His voice hadn’t left room for argument. You’d gaped like fish. You’re not sure how he ever finds you attractive during sex—you spend the whole time flushing and staring and making dazed, stupid faces—but Dean’s expression softens, and that look crosses over his face. The one he always gives you, when he’s got you in this position.
You’re completely at his mercy, and Dean smiles like you’re blessing him with your presence. You’re always too lost in the heat to fully remember it after, but the memory lingers in vapors. You cling to it, when a night gets dark and he’s out on a hunt with Sam.
Last night, he’d gotten that look again while you’d been staring at him. He’d leaned down and kissed you, slow and sweet. You’d hummed happily, and Dean had smiled against your lips.
“You know what you’ve gotta say.” He’d teased, squeezing the back of your neck. “And y’know, good girls talk for me.”
You’d broken. Your hips had rolled as a sob of frustration left your lips, and Dean had just kept you painfully still.
“What do I want-“
“Me.” You’d pushed the words out, the words more of a plea than an answer. “You- You want me-“
Dean had muffled you with another, deeper and messier kiss. You’d moaned into it, and gone completely pliant as he pushed your knees back and fucked you until you saw stars.
He’s been doing it a lot, lately. Sex stuff, with you. You thought he might get bored of it after a while, considering you have minimal experience and he’s a walking, breathing god. He must tire of a new toy once he’s beat it in. That’s how God had put it to you. That you’d tire of him, and Dean’s more worthy of fervor and zealous devotion than you’ve ever been.
But he’s also good. So good. Better than you.
And he doesn’t tire. If anything, he just becomes more and more insatiable. You’d think you were dosing him with salt-water, the way he only seems to get more and more thirsty for you. You still don’t quiet know how to handle it. You’re not sure you’ll ever learn.
You’d still like to try. To keep trying. For Dean.
“Told you,” he mutters in your ear on the couch, kissing the soft spot on your neck. “You never listen to me, Princess. It’s pretty freakin’ rude.”
“I- I listen to you.” Your protest is breathy and weak. “Remember trivia? I listened to you then-“
“’Cause I’m the only one who knows about cooking.”
“But I listened-“
“Mmh.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t count.”
You shove his chest. “That counts. And you- You-“ You’re sputtering, trying to find a good and recent example. There aren’t many.
Dean rising over you, his elbows braced on either side of your head. He’s smirking, all amused and smug, and your legs spread without thought. He’s a cheater. There’s no way for you to think properly like this, and it’s not fair.
“You never listen to me talk about cases!” You point an accusing finger in his face, and the man has the gall to snort.
“All I do is listen to you talk about cases.” He grabs your hand, pressing the back of it to his lips. “What were we talkin’ about last night?”
Last night. The messy vision of Dean sliding in and out of you, fingers pressed into your hips, warm, wet lips wrapped around your nipples, and-
Dean laughs. “Jesus, baby, I was talking about before the shower-“
“Shut up.” You hit his chest, and he just keeps laughing.
“You’re bein’ pretty bossy for someone who’s looking at me like she wants me to-“
You cover his mouth with both hands and frantic eyes. Dean keeps laughing, kissing your palms before grabbing your waist and flipping your over, so you’re sitting in his lap. He drags your hands gently away, still smiling at you.
“You remember what I told you?” He asks softly, and you swallow.
“I- I… Um-“
“Next time we got a case, it better be something that lays golden eggs.” He says, easy and soft. “Then you told me there are special kinds of geese. Magic geese. And I asked where we’d get one, and you said-“
“It’s luck.” You breathe. “Always luck. That’s how it works, they-“
“They gotta find you.”
Dean pulls you down slowly. The kiss is slow and long. His tongue dances over yours, and you melt forward into him.
“You called me goose.” You whisper against his lips.
He chuckles. “I was callin’ you lucky.”
“I’m not-“
“Yeah.” He barely lets the words get out of your mouth. “You are.”
And Dean smiles against your lips. He’s been smiling a lot, lately. Even when you keep making out and Sam sprays him with a bottle, Dean just smiles and laughs.
It’s more beautiful than all the Heavens, Dean’s joy. You’d like to bottle just a small bit it for safe keeping, and put it on an alter. His Gold lasts longer on your fingers. Your smiles hurt your face, at the end of most days.
And you’re trying not to let yourself believe it. That this could soon be over. Even when you test Dean’s bomb on Chad and it works perfectly—Leviathan good sizzling on the floor and his body scraped into three duffle bags and dumped in a river—you’re still so careful about hope.
You’ve learned that it’s something that’s fragile and clawed, all at once. That feeling that maybe there’s an out. That light at the end that flickers and screams. It’s brittle and easy to break, but it fuels you better than a wildfire. It covers itself in metal made of fury and devastation. It demands to be heard, all while being so, so small.
And you want it. You want to hope, that soon you can wake up and not worry that Dean’s smile will fade. You want to stomp on John’s grave until flowers grow, and hide from God under strong arms that have always refused to let you go.
He still watches you. You hope, despite everything, that one day you’ll be able to make him stop. It’s against all odds. But that’s just what Dean does to you. He makes you believe in things, even when he doesn’t fully believe them himself. You’d kiss off his every bruise and scar, if they weren’t what made him so beautiful. What made him your Dean.
You’ll settle for being there for the rest of time. Until they fade, and you never let him be branded with anything more.
“Dean and I had a little talk.” Bobby tells you that night, sitting on the porch.
It’s Mid-November. The wind bites and chills, but neither of you have ever cared. You’ve both always liked the stars.
“Bobby-“
“I didn’t shoot ‘im.”
You give him a flat look. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Bobbby snorts, shaking his head. His lips twitch, and he plays up the exasperation in his voice. “Who the hell taught you to talk back this much?”
You laugh softly, turning your mug between your hands. “You told me when I was ten that if I thought someone could make me bleed, I should make them cry first.”
“That don’t sound like me.”
“Your memory is going, old man.”
“Careful.” Bobby mutters, but you can see the smile ghosting over his features. “I still own this fuckin’ house.”
“Yeah, but you won’t kick me out.” You shrug, pushing your knees up. “You’d miss me too much.”
Bobby sighs. His smile doesn’t waver for a second. “Y’know, I could make Dean take his own room.”
He says it casually. Bored. You sit up, almost spilling tea all over your hands.
“No, wait-“
Bobby laughs at your panicked expression. You scowl and slump back down, glaring at the water sloshing in your mug.
“That wasn’t funny, he’d listen to you-“
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“He’s terrified of you, he’d do anything you asked-“
“Yeah, but that fear ain’t trumpin’ you, kiddo.”
You blink in confusion, but Bobby just sighs and keeps talking.
“Our talk went good. We got an understandin’, and- Y’know. My stamp of approval or whatever was never gonna stop ‘im anyway.”
“What?” You’re lost. This is a conversation you only have a single thread of, and it feels like there’s a lot more that’s supposed to be woven in together.
Bobby just smiles at you. As if you’re already supposed to know.
“You know what I’ve always wanted for you?”
You shake your head, worried to speak. Bobby sighs, looking back up to the sky.
“I can give you a hint. It ain’t hunting.”
You tense. “Bobby-“
“I’m not sayin’ about what I know you’re gonna do.” He says, firm and tight. “’Cause I know you. I know that you gotta do this, and I’m able to map why, but- Shit, it’s a map I know too damn well. Map we all know too well.”
He gives you a pointed look. You shake your head, twisting the rings on your fingers.
“This- This is different, Bobby-“
“I know.” Something you can’t read flashes over Bobby’s face. It’s tired. Solid and tough, but worn down like rock chipped jagged under weather. “But sometimes… Sometimes I wonder if there’s not a single road out there that leads to the end. And I think that when we find it, don’t matter how many bumps or tolls or whatever. We gotta take it.”
“Bobby-“
“No one can do this forever.” He murmurs, frowning at the sky. “You either hop off, or hit the end of the line.”
You don’t respond. You chew on your lower lip and scratch lightly at your own hands. The Silver isn’t stirring or demanding. It never had right here, with Bobby. Where you’re hidden from God’s view by the awning, but you still get to see the stars.
There are always so many stars.
“Remember when I was nine?” You whisper. “And I’d make you promise me I’d wake up, every night before bed.”
“Yeah.” Bobby chuckles. “One time I forgot and you came downstairs two hours later cryin’. Rufus and I had the boys from the bar over for poker, they didn’t know I had a kid, they thought I was babysittin’.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I remember that, you tried to let me play poker and I was- I was so bad at it.”
“You kept gigglin’ over everything.”
“Dean says I still do that.”
“I believe ‘im. I’ve seen you and the kid’s games. Sam don’t even let you play anymore, do he?”
“Apparently it’s just Dean having two hands.”
Bobby snorts, and you smile broadly down at your tea.
“He said he wants to try and teach me for real.” You say, soft and careful. “When we were up at the cabin in February.”
“Did he.”
You shrug, and he chuckles.
“You askin’ my permission or something?”
“No, I- I just-“
“Hey.” Bobby nudges your foot through the piled blankets. “I’m teasin’, kiddo. Whatever makes you happy, I’m never gonna be angry ‘bout it.”
You swallow, tears burning behind your eyes. You bow your head until hair curtains your face, and rub your cheek with the side of your hand.
“He- He does make me happy.” You whisper. I love him.
“Yeah.” Bobby reaches over, rubbing your shoulders in firm circle. “I know.”
You lean into his side. Your voice is starting to shake. You can’t even understand why, but Bobby is steady. He’s always been steady.
“Dean- He keeps asking me to- To go and just- Just be-“
You can’t stutter out the words. Bobby sighs heavily, keeping his voice low. So even the wind can’t hear.
“You want to?”
And you nod. It doesn’t take a thought. There’s nothing in the universe that sounds as good. You couldn’t want something more if you tried. But you also have years of wanting good things and watching them burn to ash then crumble through your fingers. You’ve never been a flame that’s just kept in a hearth, because there’s always something you have to burn in retribution. Something that gets poked until you’re raging, and you do rage. You rage, and rage, and rage until there’s only you left on charred, cleaned ground. Then Dean bundles you up, and keeps that angry, Silver fury inside you glowing. And it doesn’t hurt anymore. Until it does, and you repeat the life cycle like Phoenix trapped in a cage.
There’s the burn of tears on your cheek. Bobby wipes them with his thumb, and offers you his sleeve to blow your nose. Your lips wobble to stop loud sobs, but they still push out in choked sounds.
“I- I just- What if I’m not- What if I don’t know how.”
Bobby pauses before he answers. “How? How to be what, happy?”
You nod and Bobby lets out a soft, amused laugh.
“Kiddo, no one knows how to be happy. People who say they do are sellin’ something, and what do we tell them?”
“Shove it up your ass.” You sniffle, and Bobby hums proudly.
“That’s right.”
“But- What- What about- What about when I’m supposed to be happy and I’m not- De- Dean doesn’t- he shouldn’t have to deal with that-“
“Dean’s a big boy.”
“But-“
“He knows what he’s doin’.” Bobby says your name, stern but warm. “He ain’t signing up blind. That boy got open eyes and one damn thing he wants, he ain’t gonna be pussyin’ out just because you get scared. And don’t know if you noticed, sweetheart, but you’re always scared.”
You wrinkle your nose. “No, I’m not-“
“Yeah. You are.” Bobby pulls you back, forcing you to meet his gaze. He raises his brows, voice dropping to something softer. “He left yet?”
And there’s nothing you can do but shake your head. Bobby grunts, satisfied with your answer.
“And you want that kinda-“
“Yeah. I- I do.”
Bobby gives you a pointed look, then kisses the top of your head. You lean back into his side, and you feel eight years old again. You always do, when he’s right there. Like every monster in the shadows and pair of eyes in the walls wouldn’t stand a chance. It didn’t matter what they were made of. Nobody was stronger than your dad.
You both watch the stars, for a while. They get bright in winter. You hope they stay that bright for a long, long time.
Bobby goes inside when Jody calls him for something. You’d teased him about that earlier, and he’d just rolled his eyes and grumbled with red ears. He likes her a lot. You think she likes him too, and that’s enough.
You hope Bobby gets the same kind of explosion of color from Jody that you get, whenever you find Dean. He deserves it more than anymore.
And you’re still trying to convince yourself that you deserve Dean. You’ve spent years trying to swim through the feeling—that pure, potent love that fills your lungs like oxygen and sweeps you over like the ocean—and you’re learning to not fight the current. You love Dean. It’s as natural as the world turning, only it doesn’t come in seasons or daylight. That’s a love that’s dependent on something else, that can possibly wax or wane like tide, that thaws or thicken when time gets short and dark. But you never love Dean any less when he’s not there. You never run away from the love itself, and you only ever scratch at your skin when you’re not submerged in it completely, trying to peel away a layer to find a thin, hidden coating of Gold.
Your love for Dean is more like the spaces between the stars. It’s bigger than you can understand. It only grows and grows. There’s no end, or center, or bottom. It’s just love, love, love, all the way down. You don’t think you’re ever going to wholly grasp it between your hands, but you don’t want to. You want it to be bigger than you. It means that you can never hold it and crush it. The world goes technicolor when smiles sleepily at you, and the Spiderweb explodes like fireworks when he reaches out from the bed, like he’s trying to reel you in.
He doesn’t have to. You’ve never been able to do anything but fall down, down, down into him, whether he’s dragging you or not.
“You didn’t have to wait up.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair.
He makes a grumbly sound, twisting to press his lips into your palm. “Wasn’t waitin’. Couldn’t sleep. Ain’t even that freakin’ late-“
“It’s two am, De.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Your cheeks ache from smiling. “You said that.”
“’s true.” Thick arms wrap around your thigh. “Get in bed.”
You sigh. You can’t sleep either, but you’d just wanted to see him. You always want to see him.
“I’m taking the Lady out to the birds-“
“Do it in the mornin’.”
“There will be people in the morning, she can’t go to the park when there’s people.”
Dean grunts, face wrinkling in dissatisfaction. You smile, kneeling down until your faces are level.
“I’ll be back before dawn.” You kiss his brow, and he pushes forward. Bumping your noses and stealing a clumsy, slow kiss on your lips.
He yawns into it, and you giggle.
“You better be.” He grumbles, and you lock your pinkies together.
“Promise.”
You pull the kitten gently from her favorite spot, behind Indy’s nest. The dragon blinks at you blearily, and you run your finger down her snout. You’d bring her too, but she’s rowdy. She scares all the birds off, and this is the Lady’s favorite part of the week.
You’ve been calling the kitten the Lady, because Dean’s been calling her that. He said it was because she was all fancy like you. You rolled your eyes and said you weren’t fancy, and he kissed your cheek and said you were a beautiful, blind idiot. You shoved him. He picked you up and tossed you onto the bed, and whatever you’d been made at him about evaporated quickly as he prowled over you.
“Lady’s a title.” He’d shrugged. “I’m makin’ her nobility.”
“She’s a cat.” You’d breathed.
It was hard to think with him over you. Borderline impossible, when he’d pinned your hands over your head. You weren’t sure how he’d been talking so causally. You’d been about to scream.
“Lion.” Dean had corrected, teasing and smug.
You’d tried to knee him in the gut. He’d grabbed your thigh and shoved it back down, forcing your legs apart. Dean had clicked his tongue, eyes shining as he scolded you. You weren’t sure how you’d kept breathing.
“It’s like Lady and the Tramp.” He’d trailed lightly over your inner thigh. Your breath had hitched, your brain mostly goo. “You like that better?”
“Yes.” You’d breathed. You weren’t even sure what you were agreeing to.
And now the kitten was Lady. It could’ve been worse. She was pretty and mouthy, always yowling for attention then scrambling away when you went to pet her. Dean said she was like you.
“She’s not-“
“She is.” He’d laughed. “But it’s okay, Princess. Help me love her.”
He’d kissed you and squeezed your ass, then gone to make a sandwich. You’d stood there, useless and swaying in the middle of the living room for five minutes.
Love.
He can’t have meant it like that. The words must have slipped out—it doesn’t count, it doesn’t count—and even if they’d been everything, there’s nothing God can do about it. That’s not the rule. You can’t say it, but that has nothing to do with Dean. You glare at the Sky and demand that he understand that.
God only sparkles in return. It sends a chill, right through your bones.
But Dean can say whatever he wants. God must know that if he was taken from you, the world would wish you’d let the Levithan’s had their way. Death from starvation is painful and slow. Death from overdose is sudden and burning. You could do both. You could hold everything hostage, until Dean was returned to you. Whatever war the angels were fighting would have to wait, and whatever deal Crowley’s brokered with Eve wouldn’t matter, because every soul would be trapped and crushed under your shaking hands. They wouldn’t be calm until Dean held them again. The world wouldn’t know peace until he ran his thumb down your nose, and the Silver let itself fall back into place.
Even now, it’s oddly strained. Bubbling and pulling as you sit on a bench in the part, watching the Lady run around. She’s been getting more confident. Dean says it’s your fault, and you roll your eyes and hide your flush in his arm.
The night is oddly quiet. It makes you pause, and look up. And he isn’t there. It’s only that crawling, wrong feeling up your spine that sparks the Silver, and an empty, wide sky.
Your blood goes cold. You shoot to your feet and whistle. The Lady darts out of the shadows, scrambling over her own feet before rubbing against your ankles. You duck down, pick her up, and kiss between her ears.
“Something’s off.” You mutter. The Lady blinks at you with wide, blue eyes, and you sigh. “I know, we’ll come back tomorrow, but-“
“Oh, darling.” A cold voice drawls from behind you. “You won’t be here tomorrow.”
Your spine locks, and the Silver presses up against your veins and fingertips. You tuck the Lady further into your chest, and turn with a slow, deep breath.
“You’re being pretty aspirational.” You say lazily, holding the Leviathan’s pitch-black, empty eyes. “Nothing’s managed to kill me yet.”
The Leviathan snorts. “We aren’t fools enough to kill you. That would be the kind of foolishness only mites and bugs liked demons would bother to attempt. No.” His lips—all chapped and coated in spit—curve in a smirk. “We have bigger plans for you, Whore.”
You take a heavy breath through your nose, and raise your chin. It doesn’t matter how wrong these things make you feel—how your very bones echo and rattle with wrong—you can’t stumble and falter here. Leviathan’s don’t look at you like other monsters. They look at you like they feel the same kind of vicarial, polar displacement. As if they have that same thing in their teeth, that whatever you’re both made of—you something bright and ever-blooming like a weed, them blackened and foul tar—it’s equally demanding. It shouldn’t touch.
And you can kill them. They can’t kill you.
“I’ve been part of plans before.” You say cooly, shifting the Lady to be held in one arm. “It never works out in anyone’s favor.”
The Leviathan laughs. It’s how you imagine skeletons laugh at the moon.
“I would say the angel got what he wanted. The door opened.”
You tense, just in your feet. Your voice stays level. “And who got the souls?”
The Leviathan’s smile splits his face. As if it’s carved. “You bite more than we were told.”
“I tend to be more than anyone expects.” You say flatly. You’ve got a hand over your knife in your jacket. There’s no way this ends without a fight. “You want to tell me what you want, or just skip to the part where I kill you”
“I’ve already told you.” The Leviathan shrugs casually, but you can see it. It’s sticky, ugly goo twisting away from you in it’s form. “All we want is you.”
“Aw, romantic.”
“It will be easier, if you come without a fight.”
“Oh, well if it’s easier.”
You pull out your knife, spinning it in your hands. You hold the Leviathan’s gaze with a challenge. It sighs, and shakes it’s head.
“We thought you might not cooperate.” He says. Five more of them materialize from the shadows, and you swallow the bile in your throat. “But the boss wants to meet you. And he doesn’t take no for an answer.”
Two Leviathans launch at you at once. You duck and roll, holding Lady tight to your chest. One appears above you, when you come up on your knees. You drive your knife right into it’s groin, letting the Silver flow like a riptide through your hands.
It’s scream is a horrible, echoing sound like an avalanche in a cave. You twist the blade, and your Silver seems to be pushing into it. Rushing over it’s viper-like, parasitic true-body and washing it. Almost like you’re dousing it in molten light. It’s not the exact same way you’d killed that other Leviathan.
But it works. And what works, works. You pull out the knife, elbowing the Leviathan back. It falls with a thud, writhing in the grass. You flip your knife and cut it through the arm of the next Leviathan reaching for you. The cut blisters with flowers, and the Leviathan shrieks, pulling at it’s own arm.
The first Leviathan and another shake their arms. The same arm where you cut the screaming one.
Interesting.
You slash another one, trying to run behind you. It trips, but manages to scrape it’s claws down your side.
It might be the worst pain you’ve ever felt. A shocked scream—sounding far away and broken—rips from your lip, and you stumble as your vision dances with spots. It’s like someone shot you with lava and permafrost all at once. Your throat is almost too tight to breathe.
The Lady slips from your hands, when you reach up to grab at your throat and try and pull the feeling out. Your eyes widen—the pain fading fast as the Silver flows over it like a tonic and the adrenaline kicks higher—but you don’t get the chance to grab her again before another Leviathan is barreling at you. It tackles you to the ground, bearing it’s teeth and aiming at your throat. You thrash and shove, but it drops its full weight with a howling sneer.
Then it grabs your wrists, and the Silver explodes.
For a second, you’re the tension of the frozen grass, unsure if spring will ever come again. The wear of the woodchips, scattered over itself and wishing to be whole. You’re the birds hiding in the trees—not daring to sing because even they know something is wrong—and you’re the pavement of the parking lot. Certain that all it is ever made to do is be worn down. Terrified that it’s right, and will never amount to anything more.
And you’re all the roots, under the ground. Every single tree, connecting into the other and knowing a song that doesn’t have words, but had been hummed in the margins since before there were even stars. It’s a song you’ve known since before you knew things. It’s something you feel in the rush of blood to your head, and through every bit of the Silver, infinite and undying in your body.
It over takes the Leviathan. Everything blackened and wrong in it just fades to Silver, and the song gets just a little bit louder.
You crash back into yourself, and your hands scramble in the grass for your knife. You’re already braced for another attack, and you grab the body of the Leviathan over you to use like a shield.
It crumbles into flower petals and crystal clear water than sparkles in the moonlight. You sputter as the water hits your face, and raise your knife against nothing.
Nothing’s attacking you. You shoot up, and swallow.
There had been six of them. You’d killed the one over you, and the one you’d stabbed. Flowers are blooming out of it’s mouth, its eyes turned from pits of nothing to chrysalis that—after only a few moments—burst with a million, strange little jewel-birds.
There’s a third one, down on the ground. It’s black tar is seeping and burning at the grass like blood, pouring right out of where it’s body’s throat had been ripped open. You didn’t do that.
The Lady did. And the first Levithan is holding her tiny body by it’s scruff, watching you with a smug expression.
“Come with us.” He drawls. “Or I kill the Babylon Cub.”
Fuck. You move to your feet slowly, brushing off the grass. She’s curled into a little ball, eyes screwed shut and body limp. In the dead quiet—not even the wind daring to blow—you can hear tiny mewls of pain.
Dean’s going to kill you.
“You have to promise to let her go.” You say, forcing yourself to stand on even feet. “That means no going back and eating her. No bites. Nothing.”
The Leviathan scoffs, but you raise your chin before he can speak.
“I’ll go easy. You need me to go easy.”
That gives it pause. It knows it does. And if it can’t make this promise, there’s nothing to stop you from just saying fuck it and killing the last three of them too.
“Fine.” It hisses, and you smile.
The Leviathan drops Lady on the ground, and you wince. She blinks at you, and you tip your head to the side. She scrambles off under a bench, while the Leviathans approach you. You let out a relieved breath. Dean will be able to find her. She’ll be okay.
They flank you, the first one stopping in front of you with a cold smile. You return it. Bobby might’ve been right. You fear a lot of things.
You don’t fear them. Not the way they want you to.
“Remember.” You look between them, letting the Silver leak out of you. They aren’t allowed to forget what you are. “If you hurt the lion, I’ll know. And, well- Ask your friends what I’ll do.”
Two of them wince, but the first just tips his head. He says your name slowly. There’s a kind of twisted awe, in his silky and chilling voice.
“You are… A marvel to see in person.”
“Hm.” You look him up and down. “And you’re… ugly.”
He laughs, taking something another Leviathan passes into his hands. “You may call me Edgar, if it’s easier for you. I’ll be your escort today.”
“Fun.” You mutter, and Edgar hums. It’s just as awful as his laugh.
“It is, isn’t it? Drink.”
He holds up a flask. You cross your arms over your chest, pressing your lips tight. Edgar sighs.
“We are taking precautions. Drink.”
“What is it.”
“Styx iron.”
You blink. You weren’t expecting an honest answer.
“Styx iron isn’t real.” You say tightly.
Edgar laughs. You really wish he’d stop doing that. It makes it hard to keep the Silver in check.
“Oh, darling.” He pushes the drink forward, until it’s pressed right against your mouth. “You know better than to say that. Not to us.”
He tips the flask up with a prompting look. You swallow, and think about resisting. But then he tips his head, and you see it.
The other two Leviathans step into your vision. They’re wearing Sam and Dean’s faces.
Your mouth falls open, maybe to scream, maybe to gasp for air. It doesn’t really matter, because Edgar presses the flask forward and you choke on the metallic, ashen taste.
“What the fuck-“ You cough, wiping your mouth. “That- Shit-“
“Foul-mouthed.” Edgar purrs, reaching up to wipe some spit from your lips. “Interesting.”
You scowl at him, and try to let the Silver out. Just enough to hurt him.
But you can’t. It’s like you hit a barrier, tall and rigid. The grass blooms under your feet, turning green and lush in the cold of November. But the Silver can’t quite reach out the Edgar.
“A barrier.” He purrs. “Just against us. You could break it, of course, but-“ His gaze rakes over your figure. “You’re not quite strong enough yet. Not against something God made himself.”
Your eyes widen, and Edgar covers your mouth before you can speak or spit.
“We’ll answer your questions. Just… come.”
He grabs your wrist, and starts to drag you forward. The Silver roars like a caged animal, slamming against the barrier with everything it has, but you’re tired and weak. As they drag you over the woodchips to the parking lot, they turn to twisted roots. The pavement cracks and blooms. They shove you in a van, and you press yourself against the edge of the wall.
Fake Sam and Fake Dean sit right across from you, and you know it’s a tactic. Meant to throw you off, and weaken you further.
Knowing has never helped before, though.
And it works. You take shallow breaths and scratch at your own skin, trying to keep the Silver from just bursting through the seams and shredding everything but what you need it to. You wouldn’t hurt the Leviathans, but you would rip everyone else on the highway to pieces. If they escape your blast, they’d get caught in the pile up of wreckage and debris. You can’t lose control. Not here. Not now.
But you look up, and you see Dean.
Not your Dean. No Gold. No anything except for that sea of curling black venom. His smile is twisted strangely on his face, eyes so empty the sockets must be hollow, and a pallid quality to his skin where your Dean always glows. He radiates cold. Your Dean would be warm. He purrs your name, offering you some licorice. You curl into a tiny ball, grabbing his amulet and squeezing it tight.
The edges dig into your palms, and you count what’s real.
Not the sallow-faced, hateful thing wearing Dean’s face in front of you. You know he’s not real, and you still have your Dean stained all over your fingers, and it helps. You know the Sam isn’t you Sam either—no purple, hair too tangled and ragged, face too neutral and unaffected—and that’s a little more of reality in your hands.
The bump of the road is real. You’re real, because you pick at your nails until they bleed, and the red is the brightest thing in the van. You’re not being drugged or tricked about who you are, because you remember. You can list out everything you did yesterday, you still feel the heat of Dean’s hand in yours, and if you grab a phone you’ll be able to dial Bobbys number. You’re not back in the cage, too, because you know where you are. There you’d been under an illusion. Here the world presses between your shoulder blades under you can barely stand.
“Up.” Edgar hisses when the van is parked, and you shoot him a glare.
“My back hurts.”
“The boss isn’t patient-“
“Then this can be a learning experience.”
Edgar glowers. You stick your tongue out at him, and slide slowly out of the van. The ground under your feet is real. The empty night sky is real too, even if you only see it for a second.
And the Spiderweb is throbbing and pounding like something is trying to drag it. Something just to the right of your heart. That’s another way to know this is real. In the cage, you’d never been able to feel it until you broke from the mirage.
You’re lead through thick, metal double-doors into a warehouse. It’s loud, but not busy. Machines clanking and a lot of rustling coming from the aisles. Sometimes you see a flit of a shadow and get a chill up your spine. They’re out there. Just avoiding you.
“Are you going to package and sell me?” You ask lazily. Edgar chuckles.
“No. We have no use for money.”
Under the words, you hear we need you. You’re not here to be fucked with, they just have to—for honestly understandable reasons—have you weak and confused. You’ve always taken care of that first part yourself. They’re doing a pretty damn good job on the second,.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the boss.”
“Dick Roman?”
Edgar misses half a step, shooting you a daggered look. “How’d you know that.”
You shrug. “I have friends in low places.”
His mouth turns slightly down, and you smirk. One point, you.
There’s another set of doors—smaller and made of thick glass—that you’re taken through, then a lot of twisting, carpeted hallways. They’re trying to make sure you get lost, but you’re not that stupid. Counting lefts and rights is pointless. The Silver is pouring out of you—in overflow, with no way to shove itself into the Leviathans—and it leaves cracked, crystallized ground in it’s wake.
Edgar notices, and frowns. He gives you a cold look. You smile back. You couldn’t stop it if you wanted.
Edgar scowls, and turns back forward. Another point, you.
Finally, you’re put in an office. It’s nice. Nicer than the rest of the building, with a plush couch and polished desk. There are photos on the wall of disconnected maps and pictures. The lamps are made of simple cloth, but the cabinets are glass and show off bottles of whiskey. You squint at it, while you wait, Edgar standing silent guard behind you. Dean would say those drinks are expensive, you think. But you’d also never seen him have those brands, even when he’s using a stolen card and celebrating.
Drinks are drinks. He tells you all the time, lips tracing the shell of your ear. Top shelf tastes good because it’s up there.
You ask him if he’s ever tried it. He smirks, and kissing your nose.
I got my top shelf drink right here.
You roll your eyes and flush, just like you do with all his dramatic confessions and flirting. It’s so stupid, how well that always works on you. Like Dean’s got some kind of secret code for turning you into a useless, gooey mess.
Even now—sitting tall and twisting the skin on your wrists—you mostly just think about missing him. He’s going to be furious with you. You very much did not come back before morning. You might be lucky if he doesn’t tie you to the bed for the next month.
That doesn’t sound so bad. The most annoying part of the Spiderweb seems to tell you, pooling in your lower stomach. You stamp it down. Now isn’t the time.
The door opens behind you. You don’t turn. That’s how you’d lose the first advantage.
A prideful, loud voice says your name, and you don’t even blink.
“Look at you!” The owner of the voice slinks into your vision, standing next to your seat and leaning against the desk. “Wow, you’re even brighter than I expected, and I’ve spent- Well- Longer than I want to admit picturing it. But- Look at you.”
He repeats it, like he really can’t believe his eyes. You almost roll yours. You get it. You’ve gotten it. You’re bright. It really can’t be that special.
“Shame they shoved you into this… Human body. I wonder what you’d look like, if they let you out.” The man laughs again. You keep setting and breaking new records for worst sound ever today. “Probably something ugly, like us. But hey, it’s all in the eye of the beholder. And you,” two fingers wrap around your chin. “Are something to behold.”
You swallow. His touch is wrong. So wrong it makes the Silver fizzle and press into itself, flashing like a burnt nerve.
“Eyes on me, darling.” He coos. “I’ve been waiting a million years to see those eyes.”
You squeeze them shut, breathing heavily through your nose. You let his hand guide your face up. He waits without a word. Like he knows you’ll cave eventually.
And you go. Then, out of curiosity more than anything else, you open your eyes.
The man before you isn’t that tall—at least not compared to the moving mountains you’re used to living with—but he’s thin and wearing a pressed suit that Sam would probably be able to mark as expensive, and Dean would call douchebag prep-ware.
And the Levithan inside him is huge.
It presses up at the body, like it can barely stand to be in such a small form. Where the others are all empty and sunken, it’s filled with teeth that seem to turn over and bite every single second. It eats itself. You can see little spurts of goo and sickening sinew where it rips itself apart. It grows back just as fast. Like a bacteria.
You’d gag, if you hadn’t been braced for it. And even with that, there’s still a taste of bile in the back of your throat. He smiles at you. You keep your face stone neutral, not even allowing an uneven breath.
“Hello, you… Thing.” He flicks your nose with his thumb. You don’t offer the satisfaction of a blink. “Aren’t you everything everyone’s ever wanted.”
You huff a real, dry laugh at that. You’re not even something you’ve wanted.
“I think you might have been dreaming too small.”
His lips curl. It’s like watching the nightmare feel joy. “Trust me. We’ve been dreaming bigger than you can even comprehend.”
He lets go of your chin, leaning back against his desk and sticking out his hand.
“Dick Roman. Lovely to finally meet you.”
You don’t even look down. “Finally? I didn’t know we were waiting.”
“Oh, we’ve always been waiting for you.” He flexes his fingers. “We’re going to do great work together, trust me.”
You hum, and fold your hands tight in your lap. Dick glances down, sighs, and pulls his arm back.
“Just so you know.” He drawls, watching you with an almost bored amusement. “This whole little thing you’ve got isn’t going to spook me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“Yes, you do.” He grins. It’s all bone-white teeth, and the ones in his body mimic the motion.
It sends a slithering chill up your spine.
“We’ve been… prepped on you. Briefed, if you will.”
You snort. “What, did you get a little folder on my personality and favorite foods-“
“We did, actually.” Dick sticks his hand out to the side. “We had a whole meeting about it, too. Five meetings. You took up my Tuesdays for a whole month.”
That makes you fall silent. Edgar hands Dick a thick manilla folder, and you don’t want to know what’s inside it. Dick flips it open, grinning between the pages.
He starts with your name. It’s wrong, falling from his lips.
“Now, the actual government was rather useless in helping us. I put on this face, put on this name, and all they could tell me was where you were born and that you’d been missing for twenty-one years. They had a lot of questions for me too, about what I wanted with you. One idiot even tried to sell me another girl that looks like you. Or he thought looked like you. But we both know.” He winks, sifting through the papers. “There’s nothing else in the world like you, darling.”
You swallow, nails digging into your palms.
“I ate him.” Dick adds lazily, waving a hand. “Don’t you worry about that. And he tasted disgusting, but I still did it. For goodwill.”
“You have no idea what earns my good will-“
“I know everything about you.”
Dick holds your gaze, smug and bored. He wipes the spit from your lips—you almost bite his fingers off, but hold yourself back by a string—and reads aloud.
“Temperamental. Violent. Prone to emotional explosions. Always with one of those Winchester boys.” Dick smirks at you. “We talked to whoever we could find. Monsters, hunters, they all said the same thing. If you’re alone, you’re a force. If you’ve got the tall one, with the broken little soul-“
“Sam.” Edgar mutters, and Dick snaps his fingers.
“Right. Sam. If you’ve got Sam, you’re a danger. But if you’ve got the other one, Dean.” Dick’s eyes seem to swallow the light. You want to rip out his tongue. “Well, if you’re with him, everyone seems to be under the impression they’d be better off shooting themselves in the face.”
He laughs. You don’t allow yourself to react, and his face falls in a second.
“Please. You’re holding back with me, I can tell. I want you to bite, I want you to fight. This will be a very boring relationship if you don’t.”
You don’t answer. Dick tosses the folder down and leers, eyes narrowing on yours.
“I know what you are.” He hisses. “We have always known what you are. You are bigger than the apocalypse, you are bigger than the sky. And if you don’t play with us, it’s going to hurt our feelings a lot.”
At that, you tilt your head. You watch him for a while, weighing your options carefully before you speak.
“You want me to play with you?”
Dick smirks. “More than anything.”
“There are thousands of you. You can play among yourselves.”
“Oh, but that gets boring. We’ve had no one else to match us for so long. Millenia in Purgatory, with only those annoying little… Sperms of monsters running around. Then we get out and it’s still all humans and demons. The angels won’t come down for us to toss around like last time. It’s just you.”
Just you. “I’m that special?” You breathe, trying to keep yourself mocking.
If it works, Dick doesn’t seem fazed.
“You have no clue.”
You narrow your eyes, scanning over his malformed, cancerous insides. He’s not trying to hurt you, just mess with you. All they’ve been trying to do is mess with you.
“What do you want?”
Dick rising back up, the causal smugness returning to his voice. “As you know, we all have out birthrights in this world. We just wish to claim ours.”
“Your birthright.” You echo. Dick nods.
You really wish that, for once, someone would just say what the fuck they meant. “Which is?”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that yet.” He laughs.
“I’m a little worried about it now.”
“Don’t be. I mean, it’s nothing you don’t know.”
“I feel like I don’t know much.”
“You know this.” Dick winks at you. “Our research shows you love stories. You know how they all end?”
You shake your hand, giving him a questioning look. He laughs, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“Sometimes you humans write happily ever after and call it a lovely day. But we both know there’s more. Empires fall. Kings die. The world turns, and then all these little human pigs get wiped out when the next asteroid hits. We are the catalyst. The ending, for all of it. The beautiful finale, before,” he shrugs. “Lights out.”
The Silver is banging against your ribs, like it can’t even stand to hear the words. And you’d had guesses—estimates that all amounted to something like this—but the admission still rattles your bones. The end. Not like Lucifer and his craving for different. Just… Nothing.
A dead world. Everything leaking and eroding at itself, even the shell of what’s left disintegrating into ash that piles up, then blows away on still winds.
Your head pounds. Something feels like it’s trying to split out of your back. You don’t know how you keep it together—with a tight grip on your wrists and fingers tracing over stains of Gold—but you hold Dick’s gaze, and speak slowly.
“Do you know about the big crunch?”
Dick laughs, and shakes his head. “No. Enlighten me.”
“It’s an astrophysics theory.” You say, watching him carefully. “One day, the universe will reverse it’s expansion. Everything will crush back down.”
“Crunch.” Dick smirks, and shrug.
“Yep.”
“That is us. The fruit of God’s labor, the reversal. Thank you, we can use that as a tagline-“
“But.” You raise your voice, letting a bored smile dance over your lips. “The pressure of the collapse reverses itself. There’s another big bang. Everything starts over. And even after all that death…”
You trail off, because you don’t need to finish the sentence. You know Dick understands. There’s a painted, hateful anger on his face because of it.
“We don’t want death.” He sneers. “We want nothing.”
“But there’s almost something.”
“There won’t be, after us-“
“You won’t succeed.”
The room goes quiet. Dick’s nostrils flare, and you smile.
“I don’t fear you.” You whisper. “You can’t kill me in a way that matters. And I think we both know. What I am.”
And you have no fucking clue what you are. But, holding Dick’s gaze and twisting a ring on your finger, you hope he does. And you hope that it’s enough.
“We don’t want you to fear us.” He says slowly. “We want you to work with us.”
“Why would I possibly do that.”
“You’d be a great ally-“
“Allyships require mutual benefit.” You lean back in your chair. “You have nothing I want.”
Dick laughs at that, shaking his head. “Oh, we have everything you want. We’d leave a tiny corner of the universe, just for you and that foul little human mutt you love.”
“What?” You cross your arms, letting your sneer turn cold. “Paradise?”
Dick shakes his head, smirk widening. “Better. Peace.”
“Please-“
“Think about it.” He purrs. “Somewhere nice and quiet. Somewhere God can never hurt you again.”
And your heart stumbles
“God?” You breathe.
Dick hums, black eyes gleaming. Like he knows he’s got you on the hook.
“Why would you help me.” You breathe, and he waves you off.
“You’re not our enemy. As much as his power reflects in you, there’s also something… Darker. Something more, that we fine soothing. And you, yourself.” He laughs to himself, pinching your cheek. “Well, who couldn’t fall for a beauty like that?”
You stare at him. He leans down, slapping your cheek lightly.
“So, what do you say?”
And something in you—something selfish and angry and sick—wants to say yes. A world with no God. With just everyone you love. With just you and Dean, and no pain ever again.
No God.
But then you blink. And the monochrome vision turns dull, because you think of other colors.
No life, for you to feel in the good and the bad. No people to laugh at in bars while Dean holds your hands. No movies to watch with Cas and no trouble to cause with Jo. No new books. No new music.
No stars.
“No.” You breathe.
Dick recoils. “You should think about it more-“
“No.” You say, stronger. More certain. “I won’t.”
Dick glares at you for a moment. And inside him, you can see it. That poison, bubbling in fury.
“Fine.” He spits, the smile that splits his face chilling and cold. “Let me sweeten the pot.”
He snaps his fingers, and you blink. If they did as much “research” as they claim, they should know that bribery doesn’t really work on you, unless it’s Dean holding the bait. And that’s only going to work if it’s the real Dean, not one of their molded, faded copies.
Then the doors swing open, and this time you turn.
You’re tired of being shocked with a feeling like ice water. You’re worried that soon, your bones are just going to freeze and snap right off.
Lillian and Norah smirk at you from the center of the room. The real Lillian and Norah, with their ugly and washed out souls that sometimes play as a palette in your nightmares. You shoot to your feet, reaching for a knife that isn’t there. You left it on the ground in the park, with the Lady. Like an idiot.
“What are you doing here.” You ask, unable to hide the frantic worry in your voice.
Lillian smirks and opens her mouth. Dick claps his hands, drowning out whatever she’d been planning to say.
“As I’m sure you’ve know, smarty pants, they’ve been working with us!”
You’d known that. It doesn’t answer your question.
“They’ve been helping us fix what you broke,” Norah sneers. Her voice is even more haunted than you remember. “They’ve been so much more helpful. They’re going to take care of you, and put me back in my place.”
“We won’t need you anymore.” Lillian says, her nose wrinkling. As if speaking to you is below her. “You can finally be tossed out on the curb, with all the other trash.”
You shake your head, swallowing on a lump in your throat. “No, you- You don’t understand-“
“We understand perfectly.” Norah snaps. “We always have. You’re the one that has to ruin everything.”
And it’s not the words, that are a blow to your chest. It’s the fear. For them. For how smug and set in to this they are. They don’t understand, and somehow that must really be your fault. You took the scalpel, so they wouldn’t be able to see true forms. They can’t know how ugly these things are. How purely fucking wrong.
“Norah, whatever they’ve told you they’ll do, they’re lying-“
“Oh, please. You shouldn’t even care, I’m taking your little burden of perfection off your hands. You can go live in a hut with your hunters, I will be God’s bride-“
“That’s not how it works-“
“Always so selfish.” Lillian mocks, rolling her eyes. “You can’t have both, you rat-“
“I don’t want both, but- I have spent years trying to get rid of being the Bride-“
“Then I guess I’m just better than you.” Norah purrs.
Dick smirks at you. He’d moved to stand behind them, holding each one by a shoulder. “You hear that, darling, they’re better than you.”
You glare at him, your voice cold and empty. “Let them go.”
“And why would I do that?” He laughs. “They’ve been so eager for us. All of them have. Given their bodies to us for use however we want. Found us places to feed and shown us some truly… Interesting things.” He smirks, grabbing Norah’s chin. “This one… She hates you.”
“They mean nothing to me-“
“Shhh.” Dick shakes his head. “Listen. It’s important.”
Norah’s eyes gleam, as Dick taps her cheek. They don’t understand.
“She loathes you.” Dick drawls on. “So completely, it shocked me when I first felt it. Her own sister, the plague of her existence. The anger she felt, when they retried the ritual on her and it didn’t work? She’s sure they were wrong. That someone in the universe made a mistake, and it was always meant to be her.”
He clicks his tongue, giving her an almost pitying look.
“Too bad, isn’t it. That after your mother had you, God barely paid any mind to his supposedly chosen family at all. If he heard this ones name, he’d think you were sneezing.”
Norah blinks, the shadow of shock crossing her doll-like features.
“Excuse me-“
“And this one.” Dick moves onto Lillian, crude smile widening. “Oh, she blames you for everything. I understand why, though. Her precious baby boy, he made a mistake. No one even cared until they cut into your hand and it worked. No one would’ve ever cared, if it hadn’t been you. Charlotte’s little freak who talked to birds and whined about the colors being wrong. The crybaby brat, the supposed perfect bride for God. She thought it would be her, when she was younger. Her heart almost stopped, when they thought it might be her soft little sister. Then for it to be her whiny little spawn… Horrible.”
You look directly at Lillian, speaking as if Dick isn’t there. He doesn’t matter. You’re tired, of fighting about something you’d never been able to chose or control.
“I didn’t want it. Any of it.”
“But you got it.” Lillian sneers. “You took everything we’ve been working for, over thousands of years, and you just… Stole it. You killed Holden for it-“
“I didn’t kill him! I was eight, I was scared, I told my mom that something hurt because it did, and none of you even cared until you- You decided I was a slaughter lamb-“
Norah cuts you off with a high laugh. “Slaughter lamb? You were chosen, to bring our glory, to bring paradise, to wed God-“
“I don’t want to wed him!” You scream. “I don’t want him anywhere near me, I- I just want to be fucking left alone!”
Your words hang in the air. Norah and Lillian’s surprise fades quickly into anger, but Dick pipes back up before either of them can sneer anything more.
“Wow.” He whistles. “That’s all rather dramatic, isn’t it. I supposed we’ve always had the advantage of no family, at least-“ He waves a hand. “Not like this. We have our mother, of course, but she’s always understood-“
“Dick.” You say, tone void of anything but exhaustion. “Just- Do it.”
“Do it?” He chuckles, leaning back so he’s holding both Lillian and Norah by their necks. “Oh, darling. It’s not that easy. You have to chose.”
And there it is. The stone, already sinking deep into your gut, carving itself further. Lillian and Norah go taut, and it hurts to watch them work out what you’d already realized the moment they walked in.
They’re not the winners. They’re the sacrifices.
“Which one do you hate more.” Dick drawls, tracing his spider-like fingers over Norah’s cheek. “You have to tell me, or I’ll just assume it’s both.”
It starts. The pleas. You can’t really hear them. Every sound is like it’s coming from deep underwater, everything in your vision swimming and spinning as you hold Dick’s self-satisfied, triumphant gaze. The blur has kicked in. You’re not yourself, but you’re not the world either. You’re just hovering. Suspended. Shouts of your name rattling around your skull, claims of things you’d laugh at under any other circumstance slicing through you like jagged shards of glass.
That they’re sorry. That they were wrong, and they should’ve seen it sooner. All the ways they can help you, all the ways they can make it up to you. Money and power and a million more things you don’t want. A million more words they don’t mean at all.
You squeeze your eyes shut, hugging yourself tight.
Norah’s young. She can change, and that one- That really is your fault. You left. You cast a shadow over her, and you let your sickness ripple through the whole family. She’d probably just be a normal, creepy teenager if you weren’t you.
“Lillian.”
You don’t hear yourself say it. Your body doesn’t even hear the sounds that come after. The screams and sickening bone cracks and tearing flesh. You open your eyes to make sure they’re not just killing Norah too, and your brain can’t even hold onto the sight.
Flesh and fat hanging off the clean cabinets. So much blood the carpet might be permanently red, and chucks of hair and organs hanging out of unhinged jaws.
Norah passes out. You can’t blame her. She’s never seen real evil before, and it can be hard to stomach.
“Think about it.” Dick tells you, wiping his mouth with a smirk. “Our offer is indefinite, but our patience isn’t.”
You just stare at Norah. Passed out on the floor, in the sinew and blood.
“Let her go. Fully.” You rip you gaze up. Your voice shakes, but doesn’t drop. “And I will. I promise.”
You twist Dean’s ring on your finger. Dick scans over you, then bows his head.
“Deal.”
They pick Norah up, and say they’ll track her so you can make sure she’s still alive whenever you want. You nod, and sink to the floor, holding your knees tight to your chest. Dick offers you a shower. You’d rather swim in the blood, than be naked anywhere near them.
And you will think about it. You just thought about it, as they were closing the door.
The answer is no. You’re good.
They’ll be lucky, you decide, if you get out and leave no death in your wake. For the day.
Dick will wish he’d stayed buried in Purgatory, by the time you’re done.
Everyone kept looking at Dean like he was overreacting. He decided that, if anything, he was vastly underreacting.
A proper reaction would be putting out a presidential alert and going on national news. Screw the fact that everyone thought he was a dead serial killer. They’d get over it, once they understood the gravity of the situation.
She was missing. And it was the whole world’s fucking problem.
How was it supposed to keep spinning, when She wasn’t there. Dean didn’t feel like it was. The ground wasn’t under his feet, and everything hung suspended in the air every single second. No breeze to wash it away or time to let it fade. Words carved into his skin, and thoughts circled in his head ten times before he let them go.
Sam said he was panicking. Dean shot him a dirty look.
“Of course I’m fucking panicking, we don’t know where the hell she is, she could’ve gotten kidnapped again-“
“I know, Dean, I know. But panicking isn’t going to help-“
“Who would’ve kidnapped her.” Dean muttered under his breath, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Her family wouldn’t be that stupid twice. Eve might’ve, but- She can hold her own against Eve. And Crowley. Maybe together- You put Excalibur in the trunk?” He shook his head before Sam could answer. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll just kill them with my hands. How do we get into Hell to kill them-“
“We don’t. Dude, you need to take a deep breath-“
“I’ll take a deep breath when she’s home.”
Dean spat out the words, and Sam sighed.
“You’re going to kill the wheel.” Sam muttered, looking back to his phone.
Dean ignored him. He was white-knuckling it, but he had to. He was holding onto anything he could, as the world slipped through his fingers.
If Crowley and Eve took her, Dean was going to carve them up himself, then open a one-way road from Heaven to Hell so the angels could finish the job for him. If it was her family, he wasn’t going to be as cooperative as last time. No dancing around trying not to tip the boat and drown Her. He’d make her feel better when they got home.
After he’d blown up that creepy fucking mansion, and everyone in it.
“Eileen hasn’t heard anything.” Sam said, still looking at his phone. “But she’s going to call Rowena. Hopefully she’ll… Pick up this time.”
Dean grunted. They’d been calling everyone, the moment they realized she was gone. Rowena hadn’t answered, Rufus was getting his own contacts, and Bobby had been leaned over his desk all day, calling every hunter in the phone book. Even Cas had gone outside to ask the birds.
“She is made of grace and shines like Heaven’s light coming down. The blanket won’t hold, Dean. She’ll be fine.”
Cas had given him a reassuring smile. And Dean was sure that would’ve been helpful, if She was here to tell him what the hell it meant.
He wasn’t doing a repeat of last time, where he just waited for someone else to find his girl like an idiot.
She’d had the Thing—She’d been calling it the Lady, and Dean did aloud, but he woke up with a face of lion fur and decided it was a thing—when she left. They’d gone out to give the Thing air. If She’d told Dean exactly where, he’d been too tired to hear it. He was kicking himself for that now, if he had a single fucking brain cell he would’ve been paying attention, but at least he knew her last location couldn’t be far.
He’d sicced Indy out on Her. The dragon was flying high over them, leading the way to wherever the hell She’d gone. If Dean was lucky, he’d just find her in the woods, enchanted by some mushrooms and giving him a heart attack. She’d giggle at his worried face and tease him about calling the cavalry when she hadn’t even left the city. Dean would let her, because the lead claws digging into his heart would’ve eased. He’d kiss Her and carry her back to the car. She’d lean Her head on his shoulder, and he’d keep her there for a month.
But he’d really never been that fucking lucky.
Indy landed in the center of the park, flapping her wings and eerping loudly. Dean sprinted over the grass, looking around for any kind of clue. They’d gotten lucky, there was no one around. Broad daylight, but the park was dead empty. It was probably something to do with the smell-
The smell.
“Dean!” Sam called, waving from near some big, flowering bush. “You should see this!”
Indy darted forward, faster than Dean by a damn mile. She dove into the bush, and Dean walked over to Sam’s side, then nearly vomited.
“Son of a- Bitch-“
He gagged on the air. This kind of thing rarely got him anymore, but this was straight out of a horror movie.
Three, marred and ripped open bodies were strewn on the grass, all of them covered in thick, black ink. One had been bitten and clawed at, another had a cut like someone had been slicing open a turkey, and the third was barely even a body anymore. It was disconnected limbs that were grown into the earth like roots and flowers blooming out of an open mouth and eye sockets and exposed organs. The cut body had similar flowers coming out of it’s cut. Both were pale, something shining and translucent as the sunlight hit.
Silver. There was something hard in them when Dean kicked the corpses, and they were lined with Silver.
Sam muttered Her name, and Dean grunted. There was no one else who could waste three Leviathans. Not like this.
“They took her.” His voice sounded far away. He crouched down to poke one of the bodies with his gun, like it would offer some extra evidence. He hoped its death had fucking hurt. “They fucking took her.”
“Maybe she’s hiding.” Sam didn’t sound like he was convincing himself. “Or- She got injured-“
“Sammy. Shut up.”
Sam mumbled an apology. Dean barely even fucking heard it. Indy was whining from her bush, so he stood up and went to push aside the leaves. His heart moved back into his throat. Indy was hunched down to the ground, her wings tucked over the Thing. They were both curled up tight. The Thing was shivering, not even making a sound, and Dean cursed under his breath. If he’d let that damn cub die, She never would’ve fucking forgiven him.
“Sam, get a blanket.”
Wisely, Sam knew better than to ask questions and push things right now. He grabbed Dean, watched nervously as he wrapped the Thing up in a swaddle, and cleared his throat as they made their way back to the car.
“So, don’t go running back as soon as I say this, but I think one of the Leviathans is still alive.”
Dean looked over his shoulder. “The one that got fucked up by the Lady.”
He rocked the kitten, and Sam nodded.
“He was moving, kind of making little sounds. We should grab him before he heals, I just didn’t want you to-“
“Get in the car and wait.”
Dean shoved the Thing into Sam’s arms and stomped around the back of the Impala. He grabbed Excalibur from the trunk and made back for the Leviathans. This was what he’d brought the blade for. Sam could grumble all he wanted. There wasn’t any time to waste.
It wasn’t that hard to get the Leviathan back. They tossed it in the trunk and sped back to Bobby’s, Sam calling ahead to the basement and one of Dean’s bomb’s ready. He was glad he’d finished those yesterday. He was about to use every single one.
“She hurt?” Bobby asked when they got inside, nodding to the Lady.
Dean shook his head. “Scared. She’ll be fine.”
Bobby nodded, then said Her name carefully. They’d all been saying it pretty carefully, around Dean.
“Leviathans.” Dean grunted.
Bobby’s lips pressed in a thin line, and he gave a tight nod. From the table, a pale Claire cleared her throat.
“But- I thought she could kill Leviathans? Why didn’t she just kill them?”
Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. The Lady was still in his arms, still small and scared, and he had a few gambles.
“She killed two.” He muttered. “Must’ve had a good reason to stop fighting the rest of them. Probably trying to save something.”
“But- Now she’s gone-“
“We’ll find her.”
Dean said it like an oath, but it was deeper than that. He would find Her. It wasn’t up for debate. Either Dean found Her, or he started burning the world until someone showed him where to look.
“Can you watch the Lady for me, kid?” He passed the Thing into Claire’s arms, and she nodded, rocking it awkwardly back and forth.
“I, um- I don’t have to like- Give her cat medicine, right?”
Dean chuckled. It was tired and low, but it still rumbled in his chest. “No. Just watch her.”
Claire nodded, and Dean let out a slight breath. That was one thing managed. She’d want Claire not to worry about Her. Dean wanted Claire not to worry about anything to do with hunting and monsters. He wanted none of them to worry about it, but if someone had to, he could take the fall of it being him.
He sent Sammy back to the park with Jo and Cas. They were looking for any hints of where they’d taken Her, while Dean and Bobby dealt the son of a bitch in the basement. Dean hoped the asshole knew he was, in many, many ways, already fucking dead.
“Look at who it is.” The Leviathan sneered, head rolling as he watched Bobby and Dean come down the stairs. “Her daddies.”
Dean recoiled, and Bobby let out a heavy breath. “Don’t say that shit, or I’ll send the dragon down here to finish the job.”
“I fear no dragon-“
“You should.” Dean said casually, standing over the bench. “She’s attached to the cat you messed up, and I’m pretty sure she understands what vengeance is.”
“Please. No beast stands against us-“
“Big fuckin’ words.” Bobby drawled. “From someone who already got their balls ripped up by a skittish fuckin’ kitten.”
The Leviathan sneered. “I made a sacrifice, so that we could have the whore. I will be rewarded, when I am found.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath, buddy.” Dean turned around, letting a bored smirk play over his face. “You ain’t gonna be found.”
The next two hours were long. Dean wasn’t sure he was in his own head for most of them. There were a lot of teeth that he pried out—without getting his hand bit, he wasn’t sure how—and a lot of housecleaner being poured down throats and over open wounds. The screams echoed off the wall, but Dean didn’t hear them. His brain had formed a single, tight tunnel to the other side of this. To the light, that he needed to get back to.
Everything else was just fucking white noise and blockages, stopping Dean from getting back to Her side.
“Let’s try again.” He kept two fingers pinched on the Leviathan’s nose, Bobby holding the laundry detergent over the Leviathan’s mouth. “Where’d they take her.””
“Fuck-“ The Leviathan gurgled, trying to spit in Dean’s face.
He dodged it with ease. Bobby had made him put on thick, gardening gloves. It was a good call.
“Fuck you-“
“Again.”
Bobby poured the detergent. The Leviathan screamed, and Dean pinched its nose tighter, forcing it to swallow every single bit.
“Listen to me, you son of a bitch.” He lowered his voice, leaning down to hiss in the Leviathan’s ear. “I can do this all fucking night if I have to. I got nothing to lose, a bulk supply of Tide, and a missing girl. So either you start hauling your weight and help me find her, or you’re getting a nice cocktail for the rest of your short, sorry life.”
The Levithan panted, spitting up the rest of the detergent like a baby gurgling acid.
“You’ll never find her.” It sneered. “She’s ours-“
“Oof.” Dean clicked his tongue. “Wrong answer. Again.”
Bobby poured it more. Dean had never been more grateful for him. As much as he loved Sammy, the kid would’ve been trying to do this in a less violent way. Dean didn’t have time or patience for that, and Bobby didn’t seem to either.
“I’d start talkin’ to us.” He drawled, switching out the buckets while Dean worked on another tooth. “We got time, but we ain’t patient.”
“I’m not telling you where we’re keeping her-“
“You will.” Bobby said grimly. “Trust me. We don’t give up.”
And they didn’t. Not until the Levithan started sputtering, and caved like a straw roof.
“You don’t understand.” It shook it’s head, seeming almost frantic. “We need her, the boss needs her, if I give her up I’m giving all of us up, I can’t give all of us up. I’ll be as good as dead.”
And Dean laughed, letting go of the Levithan’s face. It was a loud, cold sound he barely recognized from himself. Bobby’s lips twitched. He knew what the nervously laughing Levithan didn’t.
“Sorry, Buddy.” Dean smirked, picking up Excalibur from the wall. “You already are.”
He swung. The Levithan’s head rolled across the floor, fully and completely dead. Bobby pulled off his gloves with a heavy sigh. Dean stood there for a moment longer, watching the black goo spittle out of the neck like a waterfall.
“They took her to the boss?” Bobby asked.
Dean just nodded, and started slightly when Bobby clapped him on the back.
“We’ll find her, son. I promise.”
And more than when anyone else had said it, Dean believed him. Bobby had always been the only one who understood. He’d said those words the same way Dean had to Claire. There wasn’t another option but finding Her. Because a world where they didn’t, it wasn’t a world at all.
Sam, Jo, and Cas got back with some mildly helpful updates. The woodchips at the park had turned into roots, and the grass was overflowing with a whole lot of flowers for winter. They’d followed a path of honeysuckle to the parking lot, then a path of bursting diamonds and crystals down a few streets over before they’d turned onto a dirt road, and it had turned back to honeysuckle.
“We could’ve kept going.” Sam said, showing Dean a picture from his phone. “But we wanted to grab you first. We think it might be a breadcrumb situation.”
Dean grunted, examining the photo. That was the exact type of smart shit She’d pull.
“I gotta make a call.”
Frank picked up in five rings. “The hell do you want, Dean, ain’t I doing enough for you already-“
Dean said Her name. Frank had always liked Her best. “She’s missing.”
Frank was silent for a moment. Then Dean heard a heavy sigh.
“Didn’t she already go missing a few months ago?”
Dean scowled. “Yeah. Different missing, this time.”
“You don’t have a tracker on her?”
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. Frank didn’t need to know that. “Look, I just need you to check traffic cameras for me, and- Maybe look into something else, too.”
“Fine. For her. But,” Frank’s tone dropped to something stern. “When you get her back, you put that girl on a leash. Kidnapped twice in a year, that’s ridiculous.”
Dean decided that Frank didn’t need to know it was actually the fourth time this year. If he felt like joking about it—and he really fucking didn’t—he’d say they should get Her a punch card.
Frank looked into the cams, and the trail she’d left them vanished after about ten miles. There was no knowing why. Dean had a bet that it was just the Leviathans cleaning up, though, because Frank sent them footage of streets a few miles over that were covered in the same kind of paths.
“They must’ve been driving in circles.” Sam sounded almost impressed. “So we couldn’t follow.”
“That’s fuckin’ annoying.” Jo muttered, and Dean gave a tight nod.
That’s what he’d been guessing they’d do. They needed a clearer lead than just breadcrumbs, and they didn’t have time to chase routes the Levithan’s had probably trapped.
“Frank’s looking, but I’ve got him on something else, too.”
Jo looked up from the footage. “Something else? The hell could possibly be important-“
Dean said Her name, scrolling through his phone for the right contact. “The Levithan said they needed her for something. Not needed her out of the way. Just needed her.”
“Huh.” Sam frowned. “Maybe that’s why they had her family holding onto her-“
“It’s a hundred percent why. And the sooner we know what they want with her, the easier it’ll be to keep them from getting it.” Dean found the number he’d been looking for. “Frank’ll figure that out for us, then call me. Sammy, get the devil’s trap ready.”
Sam and Jo exchanged a worried look. Dean pretended not to see it. Maybe he was being shorter and colder than usual. He couldn’t bring himself to care at all.
It was easier to call Crowley on the phone, than summon him.
“Dean, what a surprising pleasure to hear from you-“
“Get your ass over here. Now.”
There was a whoosh, and Crowley appeared a few feet away, a lazy smirk all over his smug face.
“Usually I’d want you to ask nicer than that, but you know. I have a soft spot for you lot.” He looked around the room, brows raising. “Interesting. Where’s the beauty to your beast, Dean?”
Dean ignored the question. He wasn’t in a banter and swipe mood. He hung up the call and glared at Crowley, making his words short and clear.
“Where the hell are the Leviathans.”
“Hm? The Leviathans?” Crowley laughed. “Why in hell’s deepest pits would I know-“
“We know you’re working with Eve, Crowley.” Sam sighed. “Which means you’re against the Leviathan’s like we are. And their bases- That’s the kind of thing you’d track.”
Crowley hummed, scanning slowly around the room. “Flattering, that you think I’m that informed and connected, but-“
“I ain’t gonna recommend lyin’ to us right now.” Bobby said. “We don’t got the time for it.”
“You don’t? I thought you loved sparring. A fun little dance, we go back and forth, I insult you, you tease me. A little bit of foreplay, before the fun- Jesus.”
Crowley cut himself off, as Dean grabbed his gun and aimed it straight at the douchebag’s stupid face.
“Tell me where the Leviathan’s are.” Dean hissed. “Or I blow your brains out.”
Crowley raised his brows. “Well. Isn’t someone having a bit of a temper tantrum-“
Dean clicked the safety off. Crowley held his hands up in surrender.
“Alright. Touchy without your Princess here, aren’t you.”
“You have no fucking idea.” Dean growled. “Talk. Now.”
“Hm. But you won’t kill me.”
“You wanna bet-“
“As you’ve made it clear you know,” Crowley smirked. “I do have a bit of a… working flirtation with Eve. I’m the one who’s been keeping her and my demons off your back. So you can handle the little Leviathan disaster.”
“Or you could’ve been fucking helping us-“
“You’re big boys. You’re doing just fine on your own. But.” Crowley shrugged. “You pull that trigger, squirrel, Eve comes out of the woodworks. Hell goes into a civil war. No one on your side to call the shots. And when someone a lot less compromising and generous than me takes over, you’re going to be crying yourself to sleep every night with regret that I’m not there.”
Dean scoffed, but Sam placed a light hand on his shoulder.
“He’s right, Dean.” He muttered. “We need him alive.”
Dean’s grip tightened on his gun. He had those demon killing bullets She’d made him so long ago. One press of his finger, and Crowley would just be a body on the floor, and-
“Son of a bitch.”
He dropped the gun, and punched the wall. Sam flinched slightly, but he wasn’t the one with bloody knuckles. He could grow the hell up.
“Dean-“
“What the hell do you want?” Dean snapped at Crowley, ignoring Bobby’s warning words. “My fuckin’ soul? You can have it-“
“Dean.” Bobby barked, louder this time. “You ain’t sellin’ your soul again, boy, you made her a promise-“
“Promises won’t mean shit if we don’t get her back.” Dean spat. “She can be pissed at me, she can shout, at least she’ll be here to do it-“
“No. Real noble of you, you fuckin’ idjit, but if we’re selling a soul, it won’t be yours.”
“What, it’ll be yours-“
“Better than yours.” Bobby said, solemn and dead serious.
Dean gaped. “No. No fucking way-“
“I ain’t askin’, boy-“
“Well, I’m not letting you-“
“Try and stop me-“
“Excuse me.” Crowley cut in, looking between them with his hands in his jacket, pure amusement written all over his face. “As flattering as this is, making me feel like the prettiest girl at the dance, I don’t want either of your souls.”
Dean blinked, and Bobby scowled.
“What, our souls aren’t good enough for you, your majesty-“
Crowley drawled Her name, giving them a pointed look. “Do you have any idea what she’d do to me, if she knew I had a contract for your souls? I’d have to go into witness protection. Hell would have to shelter in place like a bloody nuke was going to hit. Not worth it. Not even for you two.”
Dean couldn’t argue with that. He’d been prepared for Her wrath at him selling his own soul, mainly because he knew they’d get it back just fine. Because a nuke would hit Hell. She’d probably nuke it twice, just to be certain he was free.
He’d never know what the hell he’d done to earn that kind of divine wrath, dedicated purely to protecting him. He liked to think it was because he loved Her so greatly, so well.
Because he knew that he’d do the same if She ever got taken by God. He was about to do the same, right now.
“What’re you willin’ to bargain for.” Jo asked carefully, arms crossed over her chest. “If you ain’t looking for a soul.”
“Hm…” Crowley smirked, pausing dramatically.
Dean knew he already knew exactly what he wanted. He was just playing it up, with time they didn’t have.
“Crowley, I swear to Christ-“
“Don’t swear, Dean. It’s unbecoming.” Crowley titled his head. “Do you have any apples?”
Sam frowned. “Apples? Yeah, I think we have some in the kitchen-“
“Not those kind of apples.” Crowley didn’t look away from Dean. “Special apples. Rare ones. That only grow from… Certain trees.”
Everyone else looked lost. Dean wished he was too.
But he understood Crowley perfectly. And if he wasn’t about to punch the wall again—and probably break his hand, which She’d be pretty pissed about when they found her—he’d push for what the hell Crowley wanted with those apples.
It was something to worry about later, though.
A small, easy price to pay, to get Her home.
“I got one.” He muttered, and Crowley beamed.
“Well, then. I think we’re in business.”
Dean went upstairs quickly. He grabbed Her iridescent apple out of his sock drawer, and ran back downstairs. Held it up for Crowley to see, and raised his brows.
“Where is she.”
“Throw me the apple and I’ll tell you.”
“Ah. You tell me first.”
Crowley sighed. “I’m in the Devil’s Trap, where in hell am I supposed to go-“
“Tell. Me.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, but gave in. “There’s a warehouse, down in Detroit. The big boss, Dick Roman, he was seen by some of my demons going in and out. That enough for you?”
Dean grunted. “Address.”
Crowley sighed, but rattled off a street name and number. He held out his hand. Dean tossed him the apple, and rubbed his foot on the Devil’s trap. Crowley beamed, examining the shiny fruit.
“Pretty.” He mused. “See you soon, boys.”
He vanished with another woosh, and Dean didn’t bother to dwell on it. They had other work to do.
They’d take a random van from Bobby’s junkyard. It was unidentifiable. Safe. Sammy would watch Claire at him—as much as the kid protested, She’d kill Dean if he let him into the field with his soul in bad condition, and Dean couldn’t be taking those kinds of risks right now—and Cas and Jo would come with Bobby and Dean.
“You can stay behind.” Dean muttered to Bobby, loading up as many Leviathan bombs as they could carry. “You know I’m not coming back without her.”
“Yep. So I’m comin’ to make sure you don’t get yourself fuckin’ killed in the process.”
“I won’t-“
“You know what we’re dancing with, Dean.” Bobby muttered. “More numbers is safer. We’ll get her faster.”
Dean sighed. He knew better than to argue. He’d already had to fight with Sammy about the same thing, and now both he and Claire were all pissed.
“I want to help-“
“You can help by staying home.” Dean shot Claire a stern look. “And making sure Sam doesn’t go bonkers.”
“But what if he does go bonkers.” Claire crossed her arms, wearing an expression that was eerily similar to Her Dean Winchester, I’ll kick your ass face. Right down to the angry little nose wrinkle and glower. “I’m not a trained therapist or psych ward doctor, I won’t know what to do-“
“Then you call me. And I talk to him.”
“What if you don’t pick up the phone.”
“I’ll pick up the phone.”
“But what if you don’t-“
“Claire.” He grabbed her shoulder, narrowing his eyes. “I will.”
Claire scowled, and for a second, Dean thought she was going to stomp inside.
Instead she hugged him. Tight. Dean froze for a second, arms hanging awkwardly at his side. She felt smaller than she looked. Like a damn toddler.
“Don’t die.” She mumbled, and he swallowed.
“Trust me.” He said Her name softly, hugging Claire back. Tight. So she didn’t think he was looking to let go. “She’ll kill me if I do.”
Claire laughed, and they just stood like that for a moment.
Dean tried to think of the last time Dad had gone on a hunt, when he’d still been a kid. He tried to think of if he’d ever hugged him before he left. He wasn’t sure he had. Even when he’d been half Claire’s height and unable to spell, Dad would just pat his head and tell him to be good and stay with Sammy until he got home.
He hugged Claire tighter. Dad had, at least, always come back. Dean wouldn’t fail to do the same.
It was a long, mostly quiet drive. The stereo didn’t have a cassette player, so Dean had to listen to the top forty hits station Jo put on. He could barely hear it anyway, and what he did he tried not to hate. She’d like it, if She was here. Dean would let Her listen to it all she wanted, on the drive home.
They’d left at the break of down. When they got to the warehouse, it was sunset, and the building looked like an ominous block of concrete, absorbing all the lingering light and turning it into shadow.
“Take as many bombs as you can carry.” Dean muttered, loading his shotgun. “Cas, you’re with me. Bobby and Jo-“
“We’ll sweep.” Bobby grunted, glaring at the building. “Keep your walkie on, check in every ten. No goin’ blackout.”
Dean nodded, and tossed the bomb bag to Jo. “You find her first, I’ll send Cas over-“
“No. You’re keepin’ Cas with you.”
Dean blinked. “He’ll help you get her out-“
“And you’ll be left with a gun in the nest.” Jo snapped. “Who you think they’re gonna go after, if they realize the girl they need is jumpin’ ship?”
“I’ll be fine-“
“You’ll be bait. And she’ll run right back in.”
Dean tried to argue—if She tried that, they should stop Her—but Bobby cut him off.
“Jo’s right. You’re gonna be what they’re gunnin’ for, the moment they realize we’re here. Cas?”
“Bobby.” Cas said plainly, not looking up from the coloring book he’d been doing the whole ride.
“You don’t let Dean out of your sight, you hear me?”
“Okay.” Cas looked up, fixing Dean with a stare.
Dean sighed. “You don’t have to do that, buddy, he meant figuratively- Like you stay near me-“
“I didn’t mean figuratively.” Bobby muttered.
Cas stared harder. This was going to be an interesting recuse mission.
They split up. Jo and Bobby stared running the outside, updating Dean and Cas on all the exits they could find while they swept the hallways, and looked for Her.
“Would be nice if they had a floor map.” Dean muttered, glaring at the barren walls. “Think this place isn’t up to fire code without one.”
“They hate the fire, Dean. They had no reason to follow it’s code.”
“It’s a law. Like- Here are the rules to stop a fire.”
“Ah.” Cas titled his head at the air. “Fire has the greatest distain for the earth.”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah. Sure.”
“It does. They are always yelling for attention.”
“I would’ve thought fire had the biggest rival in water.”
“No. Fire and water are great friends.”
“Right. ‘Course they are- Shit.”
Dean threw his arm out, slamming Cas quickly back against the wall before they could turn a corner. There was a lady in a pencil skirt, coming out of a door. Dean couldn’t be certain, but he was willing to gamble that every damn person in this building but them was a Leviathan.”
“Dean-“
“Shh.” He covered Cas’ mouth, gripping Excalibur tight as he leaned back around the corner.
The woman was gone. He let out a sharp breath of relief.
“Alright, let’s keep moving-“
There was a snarl from his side.
Shit.
The woman slammed into him, and Dean angled Excalibur up right in time for it drive into her stomach. She screamed, twitching and gushing black goo from the wound. Some of it landed on Dean’s shoe, before he tossed her body off the blade. He kicked it off frantically, heard another snarl, and looked up to find a second Leviathan storming down the hall with his jaw unhinged.
Dean tried to push up off the wall, raising Excalibur to hold his ground. But Cas was faster. He stepped between Dean and Leviathan, raised one hand, and smited the Leviathan’s face clean off. Dean winced at the blinding light, but let out a shaky, nervous laugh.
“That was pretty fucking close.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Cas shrugged. “I am not allowed to let you die.”
Dean blinked. Then nodded. Whatever got them through this faster.
They kept wandering, running into the odd Leviathan but taking care of it fast. Jo and Bobby on the radio said they had some exits cleared. They just had to pray they found her before someone found the bodies, and sounded the alarm.
After about ten minutes, they stumbled into an office room. It was the most disgusting thing Dean had ever seen, covered in blood and guts. Like a person had fucking exploded. But rising over the stench of death and fluid was something else. Something sweet.
Apples.
“Cas-“
“She was here.” He murmured, staring at a corner of the floor that—unlike everything around it—was perfectly clean. “Not long ago. Her shadow hasn’t faded.”
Dean grunted, flipping Excalibur’s hilt. “She’s still in the building.”
“Yes. And-“ He looked around through the air, like a dog scenting for food. “The stars. They sing that way.”
Cas pointed out the window. To the fire escape. And Dean saw it. Two handprints on the bloody glass.
He ran over and lifted the window, looking out the space below. He didn’t see Her. Cas could be wrong about this one. She could already be somewhere in the freaking woods, with Leviathan’s hunting her.
The walkie crackled to life, Bobby’s voice ripping through the air. “Dean, we got a problem.”
Dean grabbed his walkie. “Tell me about it, I think she got herself out already-“
“No. Can’t be. The ground is swarmin’ with Leviathan’s they’ve blocked us in. Think they know we’re here.”
Dean froze. He squinted at the ground, and swallowed. He didn’t know how the hell he’d missed them. There, in the shadows of the tree line, were hundreds of them.
Pitch black, bottomless eyes and white teeth. Smiling. Staring right at him.
Dean slammed the window down and stumbled back. “Bobby, get out right now.”
“We had to go inside, Dean.” Jo’s voice came over. “They started coming out of the woods and shit, and the building, it’s almost fuckin’ empty.”
“Cas and I have been cleaning through them.” He muttered, looking around the room. “We found where she was, but- You think she got out? And that’s what they were chasing-“
“Maybe-“
“She’s still here.” Cas said loudly, frowning up at the ceiling. “I hear the wings, Dean. Beating to break free.”
Dean sighed, leaning back into the walkie. “Cas thinks she’s still here. Could be…”
He trailed off with a frown, and Bobby crackled through the walkie.
“They probably did somethin’ to her. To her powers. She might’ve been tryin’ to mess with them until she could get ‘em back.”
Dean nodded slowly. That did sound like her. “So what, she’s lying low somewhere inside while they comb the woods?”
“Worth lookin’. We’re trapped anyway.”
Dean looked out the window. They still hadn’t moved, and a chill slithered over his body.
“Alright.” He muttered. “Cas and I will follow his angel-hound nose. Stay on the radio.”
Cas didn’t wait for him to say over before he was pointing at the sky.
“The rivers flow North.” He said plainly, and Dean grunted.
“Lead the way, man.”
If Cas never got his sanity back—or even if he did and decided he didn’t want to go back to angel-ing—he was going to have a good career in tracking. They went up some concrete stairs and down a few twisting hallways before Cas stopped in front of a supply closet.
Dean looked between him and the door, and cleared his throat. “Is this-“
“The earth does not want to be split open.” Cas said, in his half-wise, half-bananas voice. “She waits for the right comet.”
“Uh… Okay.”
Dean assumed he was the comet. He could be the comet. He knocked on the door gently, keeping his voice low and soft.
“Princess?”
No answer. He glanced at Cas.
“Are you-“
“The walls are breathing.” Cas nodded. Dean sighed.
“Yeah. They’re- Whatever.” He knocked on the door again, raising his voice. Maybe She just hadn’t heard him. “Sweetheart, it’s me. Uh- Dean.” He cleared his throat, looking over his shoulder. “Your Dean. We’re here to recuse you. Feel kinda stupid about it now, but- Can you open the door.”
Still nothing. Something was pulling, just to the right of his heart. Cas was right, She was in there. She just wouldn’t open the door.
He pressed himself right against it, clearing his throat. “Is there something I can say? So you know it’s really me? ‘Cause I can wait, but we’re kind of on the clock. And I’m worried you might stab me if I open the door.”
Silence. Dean swallowed.
“Alright. I’m just- I’m gonna wait here.” He squatted down on the floor, jerking his head for Cas to do the same. “Cas is here too.” He jerked his head at the door, and hissed, “say something.”
Cas frowned. “Something.”
“Jesus fucking- Come on, dude-“
The door creaked. Dean’s head shot up.
She looked between him and Cas with heavy, pretty eyes. Her hands and feet were covered in blood, Her gorgeous features sunken from exhaustion, but she was intact.
“You came for me.” She whispered, and Dean scrambled onto his knees.
“Of course we did, sweetheart- Shit-“ He tripped a little, trying to get onto his feet too fast.
He settled for grabbing the back of Her thighs and resting his chin on her abdomen. She blinked down at him, running bloodied fingers through his hair. Dean didn’t care at all.
“They hurt you?” He rasped, red already lining his vision.
She shook Her head, still looking down at him with soft awe.
Dean let out a slow breath, and pressed his face into Her stomach. She was warm. In one piece.
He hadn’t lost her at all.
“Come on.” He grabbed Her hand, moving up to his feet. “They’ve got us blocked in, but if we run to the van we can just bulldoze them- Cas, go tell Bobby and Jo-“
“I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”
“That was before we found her, go-“
“Dean.” She grabbed his forearm, and his attention snapped over.
“What, baby, are you okay-“
“They drugged me.” She whispered. “Something so I can’t hurt them, and- They said I could break through it but I’m worried about just- Exploding like that-“
“So you don’t. I got some bombs, you can use those. Then we get you out, and I’ll take care of you while comes down-“
“No, but- I can’t fight them at all.” She swallows. “I can’t even, like- Punch them. And it’s- It’s making me weaker, trying to push against it. I can’t… Do anything.”
Dean worked his jaw. That would make this harder. They’d manage.
“I’ve got you.” He muttered, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Any injuries I gotta know about?”
She shook Her head, and he gave her a quick scan.
“Cas-“
“There are no new canyons.”
She scowled, giving Dean a glare. “You didn’t believe me?”
He shrugged. “Would you have believed me?”
She huffed, nose getting all cute and wrinkled. Dean kissed it with a grin, and She melted a little into his side with another grumble. Dean grabbed Her chin and tipped it up.
“Eyes.” He muttered, when she kept looked off to the side.
Slowly, She looked at him. Dean smiled, and Her lips parted.
“You and me.” He dropped his brow over her’s. “All the way down.”
She nodded. Her breathing was uneven, Her knees wobbling, but that was why She had Dean. He’d get them out of this.
“All the way down.” She echoed.
Dean hummed in approval, and pressed a quick kiss to Her lips. She responded immediately, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and he realized Her wrists were bleeding.
Scratch marks. She’d done it to Herself.
And Dean wondered what they hell they’d been doing to Her all day. He’d press about it later. Now they had to move.
It started smooth. Too smooth. They got down three levels with nothing but empty halls, and ran into Bobby on the fourth floor. They’d found the empty security roomed, and worked out that Jo could run ahead to get the van, using the emergency exit to sneak past the Levithan’s view. They’d parked it close enough to the warehouse that she’d be okay, and if this was going to work they’d need to book it fast.
“Kiddo, you think you can run?”
She nodded, clearly still lost in Her head and dazed. Dean had noticed bruises on Her knees, somewhere upstairs.
“They drugged her.” He muttered. “She’s out of it.”
Bobby nodded tightly. “Then we better move now.”
And they got all the way down to the warehouse. They could see the doors. Only a handful of yards from freedom.
“Look at this.” A strangely joyful, mocking voice echoed from behind them. “And here I thought you made us a promise.”
Dean turned slowly, and found a thin, lanky man smiling at them from only a few feet away. He was wearing a clean suit, and had one of those smiles Dean always wanted to punch off a face.
“Dick Roman.” Bobby said, and the man—Leviathan—grinned.
“Bobby Singer. You do do your research. Fascinating. I’m impressed.”
Bobby snorted. “You shouldn’t be. I ain’t that impressive.”
“Oh, but you are. I mean, raising the Whore couldn’t have been an easy task. We thank you for your service.”
“I live for praise.” Bobby raised his gun. Dean held Her tighter to his side. “Now back your nasty ass up before I turn you into ugly fuckin’ paste.”
Dick just laughed, pulling out his own gun. “What, because you think I’m going to take your daughter? I don’t actually need her anymore, now that you’ve delivered me him.”
And he looked at Dean. With a crude smirk and eyes that made Dean feel like he was looking over the cliffs of hell, into the nothingness below.
“Hello, Dean Winchester.”
Bobby blinked. ‘The hell do you want him for-“
“Ah.” Dick held up a hand. “That’s none of your concern. Of course, I will need the Whore back later, but she’ll come happily when I have her boytoy. I’ll even keep our offer on the table, darling.” He smiled at Her. “Just think of this as… Speeding up negotiations.”
Dean took a step back, pulling Her with him. “You’re not getting anywhere near her,” he spat, and Dick just laughed.
“There’s that charm I’ve heard all about! I can’t wait to study it, I hear it wins you big prizes.”
“You ain’t touchin’ either of them-“
“Oh, Bobby.” Dick’s smile split his face. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice.”
Dean heard something rattle behind him, and he didn’t think. He curled himself over Her, knowing it was a Leviathan. Knowing he was probably going to be dragged away. But for whatever reason, he was what they wanted now. At least Bobby would be able to grab Her and keep her safe.
But claw never sank into his back. There was just another, feral sound, and a crashing bang that rattled the shelves. Dean looked back to see Cas, slamming four Leviathan’s against shelves with his bare hands. His face was twisted in fury. One grabbed his arm, and he smited it again.
She lurched a little forward, in Dean’s arms.
“Angels can’t smite Leviathans.” She breathed, and Dean blinked.
“Cas can.”
She shook Her head, brow drawing tight, then screamed suddenly. Dean barely held onto Her as she whipped around in panic.
Behind them, Dick was aiming a gun straight at Dean’s shoulder. He fired. She shoved him behind Her, and Dean’s roar of Her name pounded in his head. It matched Bobby’s like a horrible chorus of pure, raw fucking fear.
The bullet crumpled against her, and fell to the floor like a dime. Right. She was bulletproof.
Dick gaped, the hissed like an eel. He tossed the gun off the to side and rolled up his sleeves, storming right for them. Dean wrapped his arms around Her stomach, trying to pull Her back behind him.
“Let me go- Dean-“
“Are you fucking crazy, I’m not letting you go-“
“I- Bobby!”
Her scream was louder than Dean’s and Bobby’s combined, as Bobby slammed into Dick’s side. The whole world seemed to respond to it, the ground shaking under their feet.
Dick roared in anger, his jaw unhinging. Her elbow drove into Dean’s jaw, and suddenly She was out of his arms. He shouted Her name, shaking off the pain and sprinting after Her.
She couldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t, the drug wouldn’t let Her, she’d said it herself.
But She could get in front of Bobby. And Dick couldn’t seem to hurt Her.
“Move.” He spat Her name. She lifted Her chin.
“Make me.”
“You- You are very annoying-“
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”
Dick’s lip curled. His eyes darted to Dean, and he lunged to the side. Dean froze, and—in almost slow motion—his eyes flicked up.
To the bomb Bobby had chucked, right at Dick’s head.
It exploded, and Dick’s scream was like nails on chalk and a dying pig all at once. Dean wiped the chemical taste from his mouth, the soap stinging his eyes, and felt Excalibur being pulled from his hands.
“Take her.” Bobby grunted. “Go. Now.”
Her eyes widened. “No, I’m staying-“
“Dean.”
Bobby gave him a strange look. It was tired. Almost pleading. And Dean understood.
He ducked down and scooped Her up, bridal style. She shouted and hit his shoulders, but he didn’t let go.
“Sorry, Princess.” He muttered, kissing Her forehead.
“Dean- Dean- Bobby-“ She was twisting in his arms, trying to climb over his shoulders as he made for the exit. “Bobby-“
“He’s got Excalibur. He’s gonna be alright.”
And Dean wished he believed it, when he said it. He wished he could just drop Her in the van with Jo—where She’d be safe—and run back to help. But the moment he let go of Her, she’d follow. And he’d made a promise he was never going to break.
Gunshots sounded from the warehouse. She screamed, and Dean held Her tighter, kissing over her hairline. Leviathans were starting to pour out of the woods and into the building. A heavy, boulder-like lump formed in Dean’s throat.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed Her hair, rubbing his hand on her back. “I’m sorry, baby, I know-“
She’d curled into his chest, just shaking and crying. Jo cleared her throat.
“Dean-“
“Don’t drive.”
“They’re comin’ out-“
“I know, just- Give them a second-“
Something cracked like lighting, and the world went white. Dean threw himself fully over Her, squeezing his eyes shut as a heatwave blasted through the van.
“Drive!” Bobby’s voice ripped through the ringing. “Now!”
Bobby’s voice. Dean opened his eyes, and Bobby and Cas were in the middle of the van, covered in laundry detergent.
“How-“
“Just fuckin’ go!”
Jo hit it, and they ripped out of the parking lot. Snarls sounded from behind then, but they didn’t look back.
She scrambled out of Dean’s arms and almost tackled Bobby with a hug. He grunted, but hugged her back tight. She was still crying. Dean was going to be in the doghouse tonight, but he didn’t really mind.
Bobby looked at him over Her head, and nodded. He’d done well.
Once they were sure they were in the clear, they had the full debrief. She was asleep for most of it, passing out on Bobby’s shoulder before they were even fully out of the city. But Dean didn’t miss the whispers before Her eyes closed, that she shouldn’t be mad at Dean. He’d only done what Bobby told him to.
She’d crawled over to Dean for a few seconds, resting Her head on his chest. Mumbled an apology for elbowing him. He’d laughed softly, and kissed the corner of Her mouth.
“It’s alright, Princess. Least I got a cool new bruise to show my girlfriend.”
She’d made an adorable grumbly noise, and Bobby had called her back.
They ran down everything in ten minutes. Levithan’s had something they wanted Her and Dean for. Bobby muttered that he’d chopped up the Leviathans on Cas before he could get to Dick, and even then Excalibur had only really injured them. Dean had frowned, because he’d definitely killed half a dozen with it only an hour earlier. They added it to the list of mysteries, along with why Cas was an angel who could smite Leviathans.
Bobby had lost Excalibur in the fight, when they’d had to hunker down and make the Borax nuke. Dean couldn’t even bring himself to be pissed.
“At least you got out alive.” He said.
Bobby sighed, and looked at Her with a strange shadow over his face. He didn’t answer. They fell into silence for a few, long hours after that.
After they crossed into Indiana, they had to stop for gas. Jo took Her and Cas into the gas station while Dean moved to the driver’s seat. The sun was starting to flood the horizon, and golden light was leaking through the trees.
Bobby had been quiet since they got out of Michigan. Dean turned down the music, clearing his throat.
“Thanks. For telling her to be pissed at me.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “She would’ve freakin’ killed me, I thought I was gonna be gutted like a fish.”
Bobby rolled his eyes. “She ain’t gonna gut you, boy. She might get mad, but she loves your ass too damn much.”
“That’s- She’s-“
“Don’t. I’m too tired to hear that shit.”
Dean worked his jaw, letting out a heavy breath through his nose. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and frowned. Bobby was slumped in his seat, and—in the rising light—oddly pale.
“You feeling alright?”
Bobby grunted. That wasn’t an answer.
“Bobby-“
“Don’t make a big deal out of it, Dean. ‘M fine.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make a big deal out of what.”
“Nothing.”
“Bobby, I swear to God-“
Dean’s words died in his throat as Bobby reached up a shaking hand and pulled down his jacket. His t-shirt had been ripped to shreds. The cloth was plastered to his skin, right over the black, infected Leviathan bite.
“Son of a bitch-“
“I said don’t make a big deal-“
“Make a big deal?” Dean hissed, scrambling to his feet. “Bobby, you fucking idiot, why didn’t you tell us the moment you got here-“
“Nothin’ could’ve been done.” He grumbled. “Just wanted to live my last few hours in peace, didn’t know that was a crime.”
Dean shook his head. Everything in his vision was awfully sharp. And he’d expect himself to panic, but there was nothing but focus. A titanic weight on his shoulders and chest that made it hard to breathe, and a tunneled view of getting it off.
This couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it. There was no world where it did, because Dean wouldn’t fucking let it, so there was no need to panic.
“These aren’t going to be your last few hours.” Dean snapped, pulling off his jacket. He’d wrap the arm. Make a tourniquet. That was a start.“We’re- We’ll think of something-“
“Dean.”
Bobby grabbed his hand, but the hold was slack. His palms were clammy.
“Don’t. I’m alright.”
Dean’s mouth fell open, his words dropping to a hiss. “You’re fucking- You’re bitten-“
“It ain’t a zombie bite, calm down-“
“You’re dying-“
“I’m already fuckin’ dead-“ Bobby groaned. His hand slipped down, like he couldn’t even hold it up.
No.
“Don’t say that shit. We’re going to get you to the hospital-“
Bobby snorted. “The hell are they gonna do for me?”
“Fine, Rowena-“
“She ain’t gonna be fast enough.”
Dean shook his head. He might be about to break his own jaw, as he hissed Her name. Bobby grabbed the collar of Dean’s shirt, his eyes narrowing as his breath became ragged.
The world was starting to get blurry. “Bobby, I- I can’t just let you- You asshole, you’re not supposed to just give up-“
“I ain’t giving up.” Bobby muttered. “I’m knowing when it’s my time-“
“Shut the hell up.” Dean’s throat was too tight. He almost couldn’t speak. “No. You- You’re not allowed.”
Bobby chuckled. It was barely a breath. “Alright. You take that up with the Reaper.”
Dean wanted to laugh and punch him and scream. They weren’t doing this. They weren’t. He didn’t need to cry, there was no reason to, Bobby would be fine-
“Soulmates.” Bobby murmured. Dena had never heard his voice so quiet. “I’ll tell you, I really coulda guessed that one myself.”
“Bobby-“
“Really wish I’d let you meet ‘er when you were kids. Woulda been harder, but then… Better.”
“Bobby-“
“Take care of yourself.” Bobby gave him a stern look. It had no power behind it. Dean felt sick.
“Thought you’d want me to take care of her.”
Bobby’s lips twitched. “I know I don’t gotta ask for that. But if you-“ He coughed. Dean could see veins near his neck, turning pure black. “You let yourself go under what she’s gonna, neither of you are gonna keep your heads up. She’ll need you.” Bobby let out a ragged breath. “Don’t let ‘er go.”
And Bobby’s eyes closed. And the panic hit.
Dean pulled him down on the bench, and started every single fucking first-aide shit he’d ever learned. CPR, spinals, pouring rubbing alcohol on the wound. Getting Bobby onto the floor of van and dousing cold water on his face. Anything that would help.
Nothing did. Bobby’s breath only got more shallow. He might’ve been crying. He knew he was shouting. There wasn’t really anything in his head but prayers to a God he knew didn’t care, and Her voice.
Her scream.
“Bobby?!”
She moved past Dean. He tried to pull her back—he wouldn’t want her to see it—but she shoved him, pulling Bobby’s limp body up into her hands.
“What- Fuck.” Jo swallowed. “What the hell-“
“Leviathan bite.” Dean muttered, moving to his feet. “Cas, c’mere now.”
Cas moved. Dean didn’t need to ask. His hand glowed, and he placed it on Bobby’s brow. There was a hitched breath. Then nothing.
“What the hell-“
“There are hands.” Cas breathed. “And they’re… Bigger than mine. They want him.”
Dean felt his chest split right open. “But-“
“There’s nothing I can do, Dean. I- I tried, but- The hands-“
She screamed again. And Dean realized it wasn’t in English. The words seemed to ripple through the air, leaving it humming with electricity.
She was screaming in Enochian.
She was screaming at God.
And when there was nothing, She started to plead.
“Bobby, please, please don’t go.” She was curled over him. Her body was shaking. “Please stay, I need you to stay, please don’t go, Bobby, please.”
Nothing. The morning light was turning Silver. Where the sky had been clear before, gunmetal clouds were forming like a barrier.
“Dad-“ Her voice broke. “Don’t- Dad, I don’t want you to leave me. Please don’t leave me, I don’t want to do this without you. Dad please, please, I- I can’t do this without you.”
Thunder cracked. She screamed again, and rain started to fall. Bobby still didn’t move. Her voice was small, every work choked.
“Daddy, please don’t go, please- I don’t know, I don’t know how, I can’t- please, Daddy, I can’t, don’t leave, please don’t leave, I can’t if you leave, please-”
There was no more light. It was like a thick veil had been pulled over the world, and the only thing left in the fog was them.
Her.
Crying over Bobby’s body, and holding onto him with glowing hands.
And Dean froze from trying to pull her away. All of them froze. Time itself seemed to crawl to a stop.
A final, weak breath rattled from Bobby’s chest, and the whole world shook. Above them, there was a thin, white pressure that seemed to be pushing down, like watching the sun from under water.
The crowd of clouds thickened.
And still sobbing, She grabbed Bobby’s hands and started to pull. The same way he remembered her trying to pull Jo. The same way she had pulled Michael and Lucifer, straight out of Sammy and Adam.
Only this time, green light poured out of Bobby’s hands and over Her’s, and it didn't stop. She was screaming like it hurt. Dean lurched forward to grab Her, but Cas grabbed his arm held him back.
“Bo- Bottle-“ She rasped. “I- I need- I need a bottle-“
Jo moved before Dean could. She poured out root beer onto the pavement and passed the plastic bottle into Her hands.
She pushed the green light inside. Closed the cap and crumbled back against the seats, holding it tight to Her chest.
The worst, most broken sob Dean had ever heard fell from Her lips. She trembled, curling into a protective ball around the bottle. Dean shoved Cas off and fell to his knees at Her side. He folded over Her, blocking Bobby’s body from her view.
“I- I couldn’t- I tried but I couldn’t- He wouldn’t let me-“
“I know.” Dean kissed Her head, tears burning down his own cheeks. “I know, baby, I- I know.”
She didn’t seem to be able to get another word out. The thunder roared, and Dean held Her tight.
He wasn’t going to move for a long, long time
✦End note: i have. nothing to say in my defense. im just begging you guys to trust atp lmao. if it makes you feel better this chapter took me an extra hour to write bc i kept crying and needing to take breaks. so. we're in this together.
✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3 - Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!) - Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)
Actually its a miracle these two can pull off any plans like this.
The montage of everything shes going through now is making me reflect—like its a shitty situation, that can only get worse and Dean is happy because its still relatively ok? Princess is not mad enough at God.
Oh no. “Dean’s been smiling a lot”. Happiness is supposed to last— but around here that’s a major flag. (I’m trying to interpret the author’s not positively).
Tap dancing on Johnny’s grave? Ayyyeee💃🕺🪩
What is a walk in the park without a little kidnapping and aggravated assault?
Oh shit. Here go the crappy relatives. What a day yall. What a day.
Someone help Dean.
“Daddies”? Hey! That’s craaazy.💀
Frank id not wrong.
I missed Crowley Lowkey. His flamboyant, fruity way of talking just brings a sort of je ne sais quoi to the place.
Dean saying he might deserve her wrath because he loves her is a victory of conscience that cannot go unpraised. I love to see character growth 😭👏👏
John Winchester is a Bitch. Parents should be nice yo their kids.
HOLY SHIT. I’m just like Dean, I forgot she was bulletproof.
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 63 - Chapter 65✦
✦summary: the leviathans make a move.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: this is the part where i remind you that every time i say "trust me" i'm so serious like everything else has been training this is where we lock in guys please.✦
✦Chapter Title from Helena by My Chemical Romance✦
Dean figured out a way to kill them, and you’re pretty proud of him.
“This part comes out, sends the whole thing going kaboom.” He shows you the makeshift bomb, all pins and needles and cloth and glass, combined with the disgusting amount of cleaning product Jody bought in bulk from Costco. “Explodes all over them like a Molotov. Should do the trick, long as we got it in one hand and a gun in the other. If you aim for their neck, means they’re gonna feel it there the worst, but I’m tryin’ to target the explosion so that we can shoot and knock their heads clean off-“
“Gross.” Sam calls from across the room.
Dean flips him off. “Don’t see you contributing, book boy.”
“I tried to, then you told me I was doing everything wrong, remember?”
“You were doing everything wrong.”
“I was doing exactly what you told me to-“
“And I had to repeat myself, ten freakin’ times-“
They keep going back and forth. You’re mostly paying attention to Dean’s hands.
You’ve been mostly paying attention to Dean’s hands. A lot of explanations about pressure and timing and triggers have been lost on you, because you keep just staring at Dean’s hands.
They’re a little covered in grease and motor-oil. He’d wiped them on his jeans before he sat down, but that just means there’s still residue left over, and now you’re glancing at the marks on his pants. Near his crotch.
You should be listening to his lecture. He’s almost giddy over it, like a toddler showing you his favorite toy truck or hand-made snowflake. But the bouncy, boyish charm on Dean just means his face lights up, and his shoulders relax, and you fall just a little more in love with him, over and over again.
He’s never prettier than when he’s happy, and he’s pretty all the time. It’s not the state of him—sweaty and dirty from hours digging in the scrap yard and testing the bombs with water—but the way he holds himself. Tall and proud, his grin unrestrained and his Gold shining through his eyes. You think you could get lost in the world, just staring at him. Hell knows you almost have.
Dean keeps talking, and his voice rolls over you like a summer breeze. You’re floating in it, in him and his happiness. He says something about borax and you hum, watching the way his lips form the word.
They’re the same lips that had pressed all over your stomach and breasts last night. The same thick, rough hands that had caressed and squeezed your hips and thighs. You smile at him like a ditzy, foolish damsel. Dean pretends to bite your nose, booping your knuckles with the bomb.
“You’re not listening to me, Princess-“
“I am!” You sit up, flushing at being caught. “I’m right here, how could I not be listening?”
“Alright.” Dean snorts, giving you a disbelieving look. “What’s the last thing I said.”
“That I wasn’t listening to you.”
“You- That doesn’t count-“
“It counts-“
“There’s no fuckin’ way that counts-“
“Sam?” You call, not breaking Dean’s gaze.
He doesn’t even look over his shoulder as Sam sighs. He wiggles his brows, ducking down to nip at your lower lip, and you shove him back.
“Dean’s right.” Sam mutters, turning a page of his book.
“Ha!”
Dean laughs, and your head shoots up, eyes narrowing. “You fucking traitor-“
“He’s my brother.” Sam says your name flatly.
You scoff. “I’m your friend- Dean-“
Dean tackles you, tossing his makeshift bomb onto the rug. You squeal, and grab his shirt for balance. Your legs wrap around his waist as he pins you to the couch, and he grabs your jaw, tipping it gently back. Dean grins, free and wide, before kissing all over your face while you squirm.
You’re already breathing embarrassingly fast, closing your eyes to try and get lost in the feeling. You run your fingers through his hair and sigh softly, slowly going limp under his hands.
Feel it. He tells you all the time. And you’ve been trying.
It helps, to see how happy Dean is. How happy he’s been, the past few weeks. There had been a lull in cases that you would’ve flagged as suspicious, if Dean hadn’t been there to distract you. You still think it’s suspicious. You’re just too distracted lately to stay up every single night and look into exactly why.
Dean made you tell Frank, to keep your mind off it. He says you’ve already been too busy, interrogating Chad the Leviathan and trying to make sense of your strange dreams.
Chad isn’t very helpful. He mostly just tries to turn into Dean to mock you, but Dean’s always there with you and douses him with cleaner when he starts to hit a nerve. You’ve managed not to explode at the sight of two Dean’s so far, but it helps that your Dean is always there. Reminding you who’s real. There are a few close calls when you go downstairs to grab something, find a blackened, tar-like goo saying your name in Dean’s voice. You grab the amulet and count what’s real. Dean holds you tight for a while after, and you fall asleep in his arms.
After those incidents, you spend a few days on the dreams. Rowena’s trying to track down another Oracle, but she’s not having much luck. You haven’t heard from her all week. Eileen’s still under the radar with the Leviathan’s, but she’s been sending you anything she finds. A contact in North Africa found some tombs that confirm the Amazon’s stories, all in paintings and faded writing.
The painting was of Lilith and Eve. And you’d never known what Lilith looked like before her vessels, but the picture made it seem beautiful. Eve looked the same as you know her.
And then there was you, placed above them in the painting like a sword over their head, had been like a pasted image from the mirror.
Jo’s been trying to look into contacting the Amazon’s again—you have some questions—but they seem to have gone off the radar.
So it’s all been books, and phone calls, and spells, and this. You and Dean, tangled together without letting go.
He hasn’t let it go. The way you’d brushed off Chad’s declaration of his… Care.
“What do I want.” He’d muttered to you last night, two fingers shoved in your mouth and his knee against your core.
You’d blinked at him under tear stained lashes. His lips had twitched, and he’d leaned down to kiss the corner of your lips before pulling his fingers away with a pop.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He’d whispered against your lips. “What do I want?”
It had taken you a minute. You’d been a puddle beneath him, and it had taken Dean splaying his hand on your tummy—pinning you fully to the mattress below him, forcing your drooling pussy onto the pressure of his knee—for you to babble out an answer.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yes, you do.”
Dean had kissed you cheek and pressed his knee closer. You’d whined, tossing your head back, and he hadn’t relented.
He never did. Not here.
Everyone’s always going on about how much control you have over him, but the second you need it he’s got willpower like titanium.
“Please.” You’d pulled at his chest, giving him your best pout.“I- I really don’t-“
“You do.” Dean had said, lazy and amused. He’d dragged your tears of frustration over your cheeks like a claiming mark. “You just don’t wanna say it, do you?”
You’d flushed, shrinking back into the mattress. Dean had propped his knee higher, grabbing you knee and shoving it down. No hiding, he told you lately. Not from me.
If you were ever in your right mind like this—and you’re not—you’d tell him that you couldn’t hide from him if you tried. If he called for you, you’d always poke your head out to make sure he meant it. If he didn’t, you’d crawl closer until you were at his feet, just to make sure he was still thinking about you at all.
Instead you always just keen and shy further back. Dean always laughs, and a heat pools in your core.
“Say it, Princess.”
His voice hadn’t left room for argument. You’d gaped like fish. You’re not sure how he ever finds you attractive during sex—you spend the whole time flushing and staring and making dazed, stupid faces—but Dean’s expression softens, and that look crosses over his face. The one he always gives you, when he’s got you in this position.
You’re completely at his mercy, and Dean smiles like you’re blessing him with your presence. You’re always too lost in the heat to fully remember it after, but the memory lingers in vapors. You cling to it, when a night gets dark and he’s out on a hunt with Sam.
Last night, he’d gotten that look again while you’d been staring at him. He’d leaned down and kissed you, slow and sweet. You’d hummed happily, and Dean had smiled against your lips.
“You know what you’ve gotta say.” He’d teased, squeezing the back of your neck. “And y’know, good girls talk for me.”
You’d broken. Your hips had rolled as a sob of frustration left your lips, and Dean had just kept you painfully still.
“What do I want-“
“Me.” You’d pushed the words out, the words more of a plea than an answer. “You- You want me-“
Dean had muffled you with another, deeper and messier kiss. You’d moaned into it, and gone completely pliant as he pushed your knees back and fucked you until you saw stars.
He’s been doing it a lot, lately. Sex stuff, with you. You thought he might get bored of it after a while, considering you have minimal experience and he’s a walking, breathing god. He must tire of a new toy once he’s beat it in. That’s how God had put it to you. That you’d tire of him, and Dean’s more worthy of fervor and zealous devotion than you’ve ever been.
But he’s also good. So good. Better than you.
And he doesn’t tire. If anything, he just becomes more and more insatiable. You’d think you were dosing him with salt-water, the way he only seems to get more and more thirsty for you. You still don’t quiet know how to handle it. You’re not sure you’ll ever learn.
You’d still like to try. To keep trying. For Dean.
“Told you,” he mutters in your ear on the couch, kissing the soft spot on your neck. “You never listen to me, Princess. It’s pretty freakin’ rude.”
“I- I listen to you.” Your protest is breathy and weak. “Remember trivia? I listened to you then-“
“’Cause I’m the only one who knows about cooking.”
“But I listened-“
“Mmh.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t count.”
You shove his chest. “That counts. And you- You-“ You’re sputtering, trying to find a good and recent example. There aren’t many.
Dean rising over you, his elbows braced on either side of your head. He’s smirking, all amused and smug, and your legs spread without thought. He’s a cheater. There’s no way for you to think properly like this, and it’s not fair.
“You never listen to me talk about cases!” You point an accusing finger in his face, and the man has the gall to snort.
“All I do is listen to you talk about cases.” He grabs your hand, pressing the back of it to his lips. “What were we talkin’ about last night?”
Last night. The messy vision of Dean sliding in and out of you, fingers pressed into your hips, warm, wet lips wrapped around your nipples, and-
Dean laughs. “Jesus, baby, I was talking about before the shower-“
“Shut up.” You hit his chest, and he just keeps laughing.
“You’re bein’ pretty bossy for someone who’s looking at me like she wants me to-“
You cover his mouth with both hands and frantic eyes. Dean keeps laughing, kissing your palms before grabbing your waist and flipping your over, so you’re sitting in his lap. He drags your hands gently away, still smiling at you.
“You remember what I told you?” He asks softly, and you swallow.
“I- I… Um-“
“Next time we got a case, it better be something that lays golden eggs.” He says, easy and soft. “Then you told me there are special kinds of geese. Magic geese. And I asked where we’d get one, and you said-“
“It’s luck.” You breathe. “Always luck. That’s how it works, they-“
“They gotta find you.”
Dean pulls you down slowly. The kiss is slow and long. His tongue dances over yours, and you melt forward into him.
“You called me goose.” You whisper against his lips.
He chuckles. “I was callin’ you lucky.”
“I’m not-“
“Yeah.” He barely lets the words get out of your mouth. “You are.”
And Dean smiles against your lips. He’s been smiling a lot, lately. Even when you keep making out and Sam sprays him with a bottle, Dean just smiles and laughs.
It’s more beautiful than all the Heavens, Dean’s joy. You’d like to bottle just a small bit it for safe keeping, and put it on an alter. His Gold lasts longer on your fingers. Your smiles hurt your face, at the end of most days.
And you’re trying not to let yourself believe it. That this could soon be over. Even when you test Dean’s bomb on Chad and it works perfectly—Leviathan good sizzling on the floor and his body scraped into three duffle bags and dumped in a river—you’re still so careful about hope.
You’ve learned that it’s something that’s fragile and clawed, all at once. That feeling that maybe there’s an out. That light at the end that flickers and screams. It’s brittle and easy to break, but it fuels you better than a wildfire. It covers itself in metal made of fury and devastation. It demands to be heard, all while being so, so small.
And you want it. You want to hope, that soon you can wake up and not worry that Dean’s smile will fade. You want to stomp on John’s grave until flowers grow, and hide from God under strong arms that have always refused to let you go.
He still watches you. You hope, despite everything, that one day you’ll be able to make him stop. It’s against all odds. But that’s just what Dean does to you. He makes you believe in things, even when he doesn’t fully believe them himself. You’d kiss off his every bruise and scar, if they weren’t what made him so beautiful. What made him your Dean.
You’ll settle for being there for the rest of time. Until they fade, and you never let him be branded with anything more.
“Dean and I had a little talk.” Bobby tells you that night, sitting on the porch.
It’s Mid-November. The wind bites and chills, but neither of you have ever cared. You’ve both always liked the stars.
“Bobby-“
“I didn’t shoot ‘im.”
You give him a flat look. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Bobbby snorts, shaking his head. His lips twitch, and he plays up the exasperation in his voice. “Who the hell taught you to talk back this much?”
You laugh softly, turning your mug between your hands. “You told me when I was ten that if I thought someone could make me bleed, I should make them cry first.”
“That don’t sound like me.”
“Your memory is going, old man.”
“Careful.” Bobby mutters, but you can see the smile ghosting over his features. “I still own this fuckin’ house.”
“Yeah, but you won’t kick me out.” You shrug, pushing your knees up. “You’d miss me too much.”
Bobby sighs. His smile doesn’t waver for a second. “Y’know, I could make Dean take his own room.”
He says it casually. Bored. You sit up, almost spilling tea all over your hands.
“No, wait-“
Bobby laughs at your panicked expression. You scowl and slump back down, glaring at the water sloshing in your mug.
“That wasn’t funny, he’d listen to you-“
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“He’s terrified of you, he’d do anything you asked-“
“Yeah, but that fear ain’t trumpin’ you, kiddo.”
You blink in confusion, but Bobby just sighs and keeps talking.
“Our talk went good. We got an understandin’, and- Y’know. My stamp of approval or whatever was never gonna stop ‘im anyway.”
“What?” You’re lost. This is a conversation you only have a single thread of, and it feels like there’s a lot more that’s supposed to be woven in together.
Bobby just smiles at you. As if you’re already supposed to know.
“You know what I’ve always wanted for you?”
You shake your head, worried to speak. Bobby sighs, looking back up to the sky.
“I can give you a hint. It ain’t hunting.”
You tense. “Bobby-“
“I’m not sayin’ about what I know you’re gonna do.” He says, firm and tight. “’Cause I know you. I know that you gotta do this, and I’m able to map why, but- Shit, it’s a map I know too damn well. Map we all know too well.”
He gives you a pointed look. You shake your head, twisting the rings on your fingers.
“This- This is different, Bobby-“
“I know.” Something you can’t read flashes over Bobby’s face. It’s tired. Solid and tough, but worn down like rock chipped jagged under weather. “But sometimes… Sometimes I wonder if there’s not a single road out there that leads to the end. And I think that when we find it, don’t matter how many bumps or tolls or whatever. We gotta take it.”
“Bobby-“
“No one can do this forever.” He murmurs, frowning at the sky. “You either hop off, or hit the end of the line.”
You don’t respond. You chew on your lower lip and scratch lightly at your own hands. The Silver isn’t stirring or demanding. It never had right here, with Bobby. Where you’re hidden from God’s view by the awning, but you still get to see the stars.
There are always so many stars.
“Remember when I was nine?” You whisper. “And I’d make you promise me I’d wake up, every night before bed.”
“Yeah.” Bobby chuckles. “One time I forgot and you came downstairs two hours later cryin’. Rufus and I had the boys from the bar over for poker, they didn’t know I had a kid, they thought I was babysittin’.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I remember that, you tried to let me play poker and I was- I was so bad at it.”
“You kept gigglin’ over everything.”
“Dean says I still do that.”
“I believe ‘im. I’ve seen you and the kid’s games. Sam don’t even let you play anymore, do he?”
“Apparently it’s just Dean having two hands.”
Bobby snorts, and you smile broadly down at your tea.
“He said he wants to try and teach me for real.” You say, soft and careful. “When we were up at the cabin in February.”
“Did he.”
You shrug, and he chuckles.
“You askin’ my permission or something?”
“No, I- I just-“
“Hey.” Bobby nudges your foot through the piled blankets. “I’m teasin’, kiddo. Whatever makes you happy, I’m never gonna be angry ‘bout it.”
You swallow, tears burning behind your eyes. You bow your head until hair curtains your face, and rub your cheek with the side of your hand.
“He- He does make me happy.” You whisper. I love him.
“Yeah.” Bobby reaches over, rubbing your shoulders in firm circle. “I know.”
You lean into his side. Your voice is starting to shake. You can’t even understand why, but Bobby is steady. He’s always been steady.
“Dean- He keeps asking me to- To go and just- Just be-“
You can’t stutter out the words. Bobby sighs heavily, keeping his voice low. So even the wind can’t hear.
“You want to?”
And you nod. It doesn’t take a thought. There’s nothing in the universe that sounds as good. You couldn’t want something more if you tried. But you also have years of wanting good things and watching them burn to ash then crumble through your fingers. You’ve never been a flame that’s just kept in a hearth, because there’s always something you have to burn in retribution. Something that gets poked until you’re raging, and you do rage. You rage, and rage, and rage until there’s only you left on charred, cleaned ground. Then Dean bundles you up, and keeps that angry, Silver fury inside you glowing. And it doesn’t hurt anymore. Until it does, and you repeat the life cycle like Phoenix trapped in a cage.
There’s the burn of tears on your cheek. Bobby wipes them with his thumb, and offers you his sleeve to blow your nose. Your lips wobble to stop loud sobs, but they still push out in choked sounds.
“I- I just- What if I’m not- What if I don’t know how.”
Bobby pauses before he answers. “How? How to be what, happy?”
You nod and Bobby lets out a soft, amused laugh.
“Kiddo, no one knows how to be happy. People who say they do are sellin’ something, and what do we tell them?”
“Shove it up your ass.” You sniffle, and Bobby hums proudly.
“That’s right.”
“But- What- What about- What about when I’m supposed to be happy and I’m not- De- Dean doesn’t- he shouldn’t have to deal with that-“
“Dean’s a big boy.”
“But-“
“He knows what he’s doin’.” Bobby says your name, stern but warm. “He ain’t signing up blind. That boy got open eyes and one damn thing he wants, he ain’t gonna be pussyin’ out just because you get scared. And don’t know if you noticed, sweetheart, but you’re always scared.”
You wrinkle your nose. “No, I’m not-“
“Yeah. You are.” Bobby pulls you back, forcing you to meet his gaze. He raises his brows, voice dropping to something softer. “He left yet?”
And there’s nothing you can do but shake your head. Bobby grunts, satisfied with your answer.
“And you want that kinda-“
“Yeah. I- I do.”
Bobby gives you a pointed look, then kisses the top of your head. You lean back into his side, and you feel eight years old again. You always do, when he’s right there. Like every monster in the shadows and pair of eyes in the walls wouldn’t stand a chance. It didn’t matter what they were made of. Nobody was stronger than your dad.
You both watch the stars, for a while. They get bright in winter. You hope they stay that bright for a long, long time.
Bobby goes inside when Jody calls him for something. You’d teased him about that earlier, and he’d just rolled his eyes and grumbled with red ears. He likes her a lot. You think she likes him too, and that’s enough.
You hope Bobby gets the same kind of explosion of color from Jody that you get, whenever you find Dean. He deserves it more than anymore.
And you’re still trying to convince yourself that you deserve Dean. You’ve spent years trying to swim through the feeling—that pure, potent love that fills your lungs like oxygen and sweeps you over like the ocean—and you’re learning to not fight the current. You love Dean. It’s as natural as the world turning, only it doesn’t come in seasons or daylight. That’s a love that’s dependent on something else, that can possibly wax or wane like tide, that thaws or thicken when time gets short and dark. But you never love Dean any less when he’s not there. You never run away from the love itself, and you only ever scratch at your skin when you’re not submerged in it completely, trying to peel away a layer to find a thin, hidden coating of Gold.
Your love for Dean is more like the spaces between the stars. It’s bigger than you can understand. It only grows and grows. There’s no end, or center, or bottom. It’s just love, love, love, all the way down. You don’t think you’re ever going to wholly grasp it between your hands, but you don’t want to. You want it to be bigger than you. It means that you can never hold it and crush it. The world goes technicolor when smiles sleepily at you, and the Spiderweb explodes like fireworks when he reaches out from the bed, like he’s trying to reel you in.
He doesn’t have to. You’ve never been able to do anything but fall down, down, down into him, whether he’s dragging you or not.
“You didn’t have to wait up.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair.
He makes a grumbly sound, twisting to press his lips into your palm. “Wasn’t waitin’. Couldn’t sleep. Ain’t even that freakin’ late-“
“It’s two am, De.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Your cheeks ache from smiling. “You said that.”
“’s true.” Thick arms wrap around your thigh. “Get in bed.”
You sigh. You can’t sleep either, but you’d just wanted to see him. You always want to see him.
“I’m taking the Lady out to the birds-“
“Do it in the mornin’.”
“There will be people in the morning, she can’t go to the park when there’s people.”
Dean grunts, face wrinkling in dissatisfaction. You smile, kneeling down until your faces are level.
“I’ll be back before dawn.” You kiss his brow, and he pushes forward. Bumping your noses and stealing a clumsy, slow kiss on your lips.
He yawns into it, and you giggle.
“You better be.” He grumbles, and you lock your pinkies together.
“Promise.”
You pull the kitten gently from her favorite spot, behind Indy’s nest. The dragon blinks at you blearily, and you run your finger down her snout. You’d bring her too, but she’s rowdy. She scares all the birds off, and this is the Lady’s favorite part of the week.
You’ve been calling the kitten the Lady, because Dean’s been calling her that. He said it was because she was all fancy like you. You rolled your eyes and said you weren’t fancy, and he kissed your cheek and said you were a beautiful, blind idiot. You shoved him. He picked you up and tossed you onto the bed, and whatever you’d been made at him about evaporated quickly as he prowled over you.
“Lady’s a title.” He’d shrugged. “I’m makin’ her nobility.”
“She’s a cat.” You’d breathed.
It was hard to think with him over you. Borderline impossible, when he’d pinned your hands over your head. You weren’t sure how he’d been talking so causally. You’d been about to scream.
“Lion.” Dean had corrected, teasing and smug.
You’d tried to knee him in the gut. He’d grabbed your thigh and shoved it back down, forcing your legs apart. Dean had clicked his tongue, eyes shining as he scolded you. You weren’t sure how you’d kept breathing.
“It’s like Lady and the Tramp.” He’d trailed lightly over your inner thigh. Your breath had hitched, your brain mostly goo. “You like that better?”
“Yes.” You’d breathed. You weren’t even sure what you were agreeing to.
And now the kitten was Lady. It could’ve been worse. She was pretty and mouthy, always yowling for attention then scrambling away when you went to pet her. Dean said she was like you.
“She’s not-“
“She is.” He’d laughed. “But it’s okay, Princess. Help me love her.”
He’d kissed you and squeezed your ass, then gone to make a sandwich. You’d stood there, useless and swaying in the middle of the living room for five minutes.
Love.
He can’t have meant it like that. The words must have slipped out—it doesn’t count, it doesn’t count—and even if they’d been everything, there’s nothing God can do about it. That’s not the rule. You can’t say it, but that has nothing to do with Dean. You glare at the Sky and demand that he understand that.
God only sparkles in return. It sends a chill, right through your bones.
But Dean can say whatever he wants. God must know that if he was taken from you, the world would wish you’d let the Levithan’s had their way. Death from starvation is painful and slow. Death from overdose is sudden and burning. You could do both. You could hold everything hostage, until Dean was returned to you. Whatever war the angels were fighting would have to wait, and whatever deal Crowley’s brokered with Eve wouldn’t matter, because every soul would be trapped and crushed under your shaking hands. They wouldn’t be calm until Dean held them again. The world wouldn’t know peace until he ran his thumb down your nose, and the Silver let itself fall back into place.
Even now, it’s oddly strained. Bubbling and pulling as you sit on a bench in the part, watching the Lady run around. She’s been getting more confident. Dean says it’s your fault, and you roll your eyes and hide your flush in his arm.
The night is oddly quiet. It makes you pause, and look up. And he isn’t there. It’s only that crawling, wrong feeling up your spine that sparks the Silver, and an empty, wide sky.
Your blood goes cold. You shoot to your feet and whistle. The Lady darts out of the shadows, scrambling over her own feet before rubbing against your ankles. You duck down, pick her up, and kiss between her ears.
“Something’s off.” You mutter. The Lady blinks at you with wide, blue eyes, and you sigh. “I know, we’ll come back tomorrow, but-“
“Oh, darling.” A cold voice drawls from behind you. “You won’t be here tomorrow.”
Your spine locks, and the Silver presses up against your veins and fingertips. You tuck the Lady further into your chest, and turn with a slow, deep breath.
“You’re being pretty aspirational.” You say lazily, holding the Leviathan’s pitch-black, empty eyes. “Nothing’s managed to kill me yet.”
The Leviathan snorts. “We aren’t fools enough to kill you. That would be the kind of foolishness only mites and bugs liked demons would bother to attempt. No.” His lips—all chapped and coated in spit—curve in a smirk. “We have bigger plans for you, Whore.”
You take a heavy breath through your nose, and raise your chin. It doesn’t matter how wrong these things make you feel—how your very bones echo and rattle with wrong—you can’t stumble and falter here. Leviathan’s don’t look at you like other monsters. They look at you like they feel the same kind of vicarial, polar displacement. As if they have that same thing in their teeth, that whatever you’re both made of—you something bright and ever-blooming like a weed, them blackened and foul tar—it’s equally demanding. It shouldn’t touch.
And you can kill them. They can’t kill you.
“I’ve been part of plans before.” You say cooly, shifting the Lady to be held in one arm. “It never works out in anyone’s favor.”
The Leviathan laughs. It’s how you imagine skeletons laugh at the moon.
“I would say the angel got what he wanted. The door opened.”
You tense, just in your feet. Your voice stays level. “And who got the souls?”
The Leviathan’s smile splits his face. As if it’s carved. “You bite more than we were told.”
“I tend to be more than anyone expects.” You say flatly. You’ve got a hand over your knife in your jacket. There’s no way this ends without a fight. “You want to tell me what you want, or just skip to the part where I kill you”
“I’ve already told you.” The Leviathan shrugs casually, but you can see it. It’s sticky, ugly goo twisting away from you in it’s form. “All we want is you.”
“Aw, romantic.”
“It will be easier, if you come without a fight.”
“Oh, well if it’s easier.”
You pull out your knife, spinning it in your hands. You hold the Leviathan’s gaze with a challenge. It sighs, and shakes it’s head.
“We thought you might not cooperate.” He says. Five more of them materialize from the shadows, and you swallow the bile in your throat. “But the boss wants to meet you. And he doesn’t take no for an answer.”
Two Leviathans launch at you at once. You duck and roll, holding Lady tight to your chest. One appears above you, when you come up on your knees. You drive your knife right into it’s groin, letting the Silver flow like a riptide through your hands.
It’s scream is a horrible, echoing sound like an avalanche in a cave. You twist the blade, and your Silver seems to be pushing into it. Rushing over it’s viper-like, parasitic true-body and washing it. Almost like you’re dousing it in molten light. It’s not the exact same way you’d killed that other Leviathan.
But it works. And what works, works. You pull out the knife, elbowing the Leviathan back. It falls with a thud, writhing in the grass. You flip your knife and cut it through the arm of the next Leviathan reaching for you. The cut blisters with flowers, and the Leviathan shrieks, pulling at it’s own arm.
The first Leviathan and another shake their arms. The same arm where you cut the screaming one.
Interesting.
You slash another one, trying to run behind you. It trips, but manages to scrape it’s claws down your side.
It might be the worst pain you’ve ever felt. A shocked scream—sounding far away and broken—rips from your lip, and you stumble as your vision dances with spots. It’s like someone shot you with lava and permafrost all at once. Your throat is almost too tight to breathe.
The Lady slips from your hands, when you reach up to grab at your throat and try and pull the feeling out. Your eyes widen—the pain fading fast as the Silver flows over it like a tonic and the adrenaline kicks higher—but you don’t get the chance to grab her again before another Leviathan is barreling at you. It tackles you to the ground, bearing it’s teeth and aiming at your throat. You thrash and shove, but it drops its full weight with a howling sneer.
Then it grabs your wrists, and the Silver explodes.
For a second, you’re the tension of the frozen grass, unsure if spring will ever come again. The wear of the woodchips, scattered over itself and wishing to be whole. You’re the birds hiding in the trees—not daring to sing because even they know something is wrong—and you’re the pavement of the parking lot. Certain that all it is ever made to do is be worn down. Terrified that it’s right, and will never amount to anything more.
And you’re all the roots, under the ground. Every single tree, connecting into the other and knowing a song that doesn’t have words, but had been hummed in the margins since before there were even stars. It’s a song you’ve known since before you knew things. It’s something you feel in the rush of blood to your head, and through every bit of the Silver, infinite and undying in your body.
It over takes the Leviathan. Everything blackened and wrong in it just fades to Silver, and the song gets just a little bit louder.
You crash back into yourself, and your hands scramble in the grass for your knife. You’re already braced for another attack, and you grab the body of the Leviathan over you to use like a shield.
It crumbles into flower petals and crystal clear water than sparkles in the moonlight. You sputter as the water hits your face, and raise your knife against nothing.
Nothing’s attacking you. You shoot up, and swallow.
There had been six of them. You’d killed the one over you, and the one you’d stabbed. Flowers are blooming out of it’s mouth, its eyes turned from pits of nothing to chrysalis that—after only a few moments—burst with a million, strange little jewel-birds.
There’s a third one, down on the ground. It’s black tar is seeping and burning at the grass like blood, pouring right out of where it’s body’s throat had been ripped open. You didn’t do that.
The Lady did. And the first Levithan is holding her tiny body by it’s scruff, watching you with a smug expression.
“Come with us.” He drawls. “Or I kill the Babylon Cub.”
Fuck. You move to your feet slowly, brushing off the grass. She’s curled into a little ball, eyes screwed shut and body limp. In the dead quiet—not even the wind daring to blow—you can hear tiny mewls of pain.
Dean’s going to kill you.
“You have to promise to let her go.” You say, forcing yourself to stand on even feet. “That means no going back and eating her. No bites. Nothing.”
The Leviathan scoffs, but you raise your chin before he can speak.
“I’ll go easy. You need me to go easy.”
That gives it pause. It knows it does. And if it can’t make this promise, there’s nothing to stop you from just saying fuck it and killing the last three of them too.
“Fine.” It hisses, and you smile.
The Leviathan drops Lady on the ground, and you wince. She blinks at you, and you tip your head to the side. She scrambles off under a bench, while the Leviathans approach you. You let out a relieved breath. Dean will be able to find her. She’ll be okay.
They flank you, the first one stopping in front of you with a cold smile. You return it. Bobby might’ve been right. You fear a lot of things.
You don’t fear them. Not the way they want you to.
“Remember.” You look between them, letting the Silver leak out of you. They aren’t allowed to forget what you are. “If you hurt the lion, I’ll know. And, well- Ask your friends what I’ll do.”
Two of them wince, but the first just tips his head. He says your name slowly. There’s a kind of twisted awe, in his silky and chilling voice.
“You are… A marvel to see in person.”
“Hm.” You look him up and down. “And you’re… ugly.”
He laughs, taking something another Leviathan passes into his hands. “You may call me Edgar, if it’s easier for you. I’ll be your escort today.”
“Fun.” You mutter, and Edgar hums. It’s just as awful as his laugh.
“It is, isn’t it? Drink.”
He holds up a flask. You cross your arms over your chest, pressing your lips tight. Edgar sighs.
“We are taking precautions. Drink.”
“What is it.”
“Styx iron.”
You blink. You weren’t expecting an honest answer.
“Styx iron isn’t real.” You say tightly.
Edgar laughs. You really wish he’d stop doing that. It makes it hard to keep the Silver in check.
“Oh, darling.” He pushes the drink forward, until it’s pressed right against your mouth. “You know better than to say that. Not to us.”
He tips the flask up with a prompting look. You swallow, and think about resisting. But then he tips his head, and you see it.
The other two Leviathans step into your vision. They’re wearing Sam and Dean’s faces.
Your mouth falls open, maybe to scream, maybe to gasp for air. It doesn’t really matter, because Edgar presses the flask forward and you choke on the metallic, ashen taste.
“What the fuck-“ You cough, wiping your mouth. “That- Shit-“
“Foul-mouthed.” Edgar purrs, reaching up to wipe some spit from your lips. “Interesting.”
You scowl at him, and try to let the Silver out. Just enough to hurt him.
But you can’t. It’s like you hit a barrier, tall and rigid. The grass blooms under your feet, turning green and lush in the cold of November. But the Silver can’t quite reach out the Edgar.
“A barrier.” He purrs. “Just against us. You could break it, of course, but-“ His gaze rakes over your figure. “You’re not quite strong enough yet. Not against something God made himself.”
Your eyes widen, and Edgar covers your mouth before you can speak or spit.
“We’ll answer your questions. Just… come.”
He grabs your wrist, and starts to drag you forward. The Silver roars like a caged animal, slamming against the barrier with everything it has, but you’re tired and weak. As they drag you over the woodchips to the parking lot, they turn to twisted roots. The pavement cracks and blooms. They shove you in a van, and you press yourself against the edge of the wall.
Fake Sam and Fake Dean sit right across from you, and you know it’s a tactic. Meant to throw you off, and weaken you further.
Knowing has never helped before, though.
And it works. You take shallow breaths and scratch at your own skin, trying to keep the Silver from just bursting through the seams and shredding everything but what you need it to. You wouldn’t hurt the Leviathans, but you would rip everyone else on the highway to pieces. If they escape your blast, they’d get caught in the pile up of wreckage and debris. You can’t lose control. Not here. Not now.
But you look up, and you see Dean.
Not your Dean. No Gold. No anything except for that sea of curling black venom. His smile is twisted strangely on his face, eyes so empty the sockets must be hollow, and a pallid quality to his skin where your Dean always glows. He radiates cold. Your Dean would be warm. He purrs your name, offering you some licorice. You curl into a tiny ball, grabbing his amulet and squeezing it tight.
The edges dig into your palms, and you count what’s real.
Not the sallow-faced, hateful thing wearing Dean’s face in front of you. You know he’s not real, and you still have your Dean stained all over your fingers, and it helps. You know the Sam isn’t you Sam either—no purple, hair too tangled and ragged, face too neutral and unaffected—and that’s a little more of reality in your hands.
The bump of the road is real. You’re real, because you pick at your nails until they bleed, and the red is the brightest thing in the van. You’re not being drugged or tricked about who you are, because you remember. You can list out everything you did yesterday, you still feel the heat of Dean’s hand in yours, and if you grab a phone you’ll be able to dial Bobbys number. You’re not back in the cage, too, because you know where you are. There you’d been under an illusion. Here the world presses between your shoulder blades under you can barely stand.
“Up.” Edgar hisses when the van is parked, and you shoot him a glare.
“My back hurts.”
“The boss isn’t patient-“
“Then this can be a learning experience.”
Edgar glowers. You stick your tongue out at him, and slide slowly out of the van. The ground under your feet is real. The empty night sky is real too, even if you only see it for a second.
And the Spiderweb is throbbing and pounding like something is trying to drag it. Something just to the right of your heart. That’s another way to know this is real. In the cage, you’d never been able to feel it until you broke from the mirage.
You’re lead through thick, metal double-doors into a warehouse. It’s loud, but not busy. Machines clanking and a lot of rustling coming from the aisles. Sometimes you see a flit of a shadow and get a chill up your spine. They’re out there. Just avoiding you.
“Are you going to package and sell me?” You ask lazily. Edgar chuckles.
“No. We have no use for money.”
Under the words, you hear we need you. You’re not here to be fucked with, they just have to—for honestly understandable reasons—have you weak and confused. You’ve always taken care of that first part yourself. They’re doing a pretty damn good job on the second,.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the boss.”
“Dick Roman?”
Edgar misses half a step, shooting you a daggered look. “How’d you know that.”
You shrug. “I have friends in low places.”
His mouth turns slightly down, and you smirk. One point, you.
There’s another set of doors—smaller and made of thick glass—that you’re taken through, then a lot of twisting, carpeted hallways. They’re trying to make sure you get lost, but you’re not that stupid. Counting lefts and rights is pointless. The Silver is pouring out of you—in overflow, with no way to shove itself into the Leviathans—and it leaves cracked, crystallized ground in it’s wake.
Edgar notices, and frowns. He gives you a cold look. You smile back. You couldn’t stop it if you wanted.
Edgar scowls, and turns back forward. Another point, you.
Finally, you’re put in an office. It’s nice. Nicer than the rest of the building, with a plush couch and polished desk. There are photos on the wall of disconnected maps and pictures. The lamps are made of simple cloth, but the cabinets are glass and show off bottles of whiskey. You squint at it, while you wait, Edgar standing silent guard behind you. Dean would say those drinks are expensive, you think. But you’d also never seen him have those brands, even when he’s using a stolen card and celebrating.
Drinks are drinks. He tells you all the time, lips tracing the shell of your ear. Top shelf tastes good because it’s up there.
You ask him if he’s ever tried it. He smirks, and kissing your nose.
I got my top shelf drink right here.
You roll your eyes and flush, just like you do with all his dramatic confessions and flirting. It’s so stupid, how well that always works on you. Like Dean’s got some kind of secret code for turning you into a useless, gooey mess.
Even now—sitting tall and twisting the skin on your wrists—you mostly just think about missing him. He’s going to be furious with you. You very much did not come back before morning. You might be lucky if he doesn’t tie you to the bed for the next month.
That doesn’t sound so bad. The most annoying part of the Spiderweb seems to tell you, pooling in your lower stomach. You stamp it down. Now isn’t the time.
The door opens behind you. You don’t turn. That’s how you’d lose the first advantage.
A prideful, loud voice says your name, and you don’t even blink.
“Look at you!” The owner of the voice slinks into your vision, standing next to your seat and leaning against the desk. “Wow, you’re even brighter than I expected, and I’ve spent- Well- Longer than I want to admit picturing it. But- Look at you.”
He repeats it, like he really can’t believe his eyes. You almost roll yours. You get it. You’ve gotten it. You’re bright. It really can’t be that special.
“Shame they shoved you into this… Human body. I wonder what you’d look like, if they let you out.” The man laughs again. You keep setting and breaking new records for worst sound ever today. “Probably something ugly, like us. But hey, it’s all in the eye of the beholder. And you,” two fingers wrap around your chin. “Are something to behold.”
You swallow. His touch is wrong. So wrong it makes the Silver fizzle and press into itself, flashing like a burnt nerve.
“Eyes on me, darling.” He coos. “I’ve been waiting a million years to see those eyes.”
You squeeze them shut, breathing heavily through your nose. You let his hand guide your face up. He waits without a word. Like he knows you’ll cave eventually.
And you go. Then, out of curiosity more than anything else, you open your eyes.
The man before you isn’t that tall—at least not compared to the moving mountains you’re used to living with—but he’s thin and wearing a pressed suit that Sam would probably be able to mark as expensive, and Dean would call douchebag prep-ware.
And the Levithan inside him is huge.
It presses up at the body, like it can barely stand to be in such a small form. Where the others are all empty and sunken, it’s filled with teeth that seem to turn over and bite every single second. It eats itself. You can see little spurts of goo and sickening sinew where it rips itself apart. It grows back just as fast. Like a bacteria.
You’d gag, if you hadn’t been braced for it. And even with that, there’s still a taste of bile in the back of your throat. He smiles at you. You keep your face stone neutral, not even allowing an uneven breath.
“Hello, you… Thing.” He flicks your nose with his thumb. You don’t offer the satisfaction of a blink. “Aren’t you everything everyone’s ever wanted.”
You huff a real, dry laugh at that. You’re not even something you’ve wanted.
“I think you might have been dreaming too small.”
His lips curl. It’s like watching the nightmare feel joy. “Trust me. We’ve been dreaming bigger than you can even comprehend.”
He lets go of your chin, leaning back against his desk and sticking out his hand.
“Dick Roman. Lovely to finally meet you.”
You don’t even look down. “Finally? I didn’t know we were waiting.”
“Oh, we’ve always been waiting for you.” He flexes his fingers. “We’re going to do great work together, trust me.”
You hum, and fold your hands tight in your lap. Dick glances down, sighs, and pulls his arm back.
“Just so you know.” He drawls, watching you with an almost bored amusement. “This whole little thing you’ve got isn’t going to spook me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“Yes, you do.” He grins. It’s all bone-white teeth, and the ones in his body mimic the motion.
It sends a slithering chill up your spine.
“We’ve been… prepped on you. Briefed, if you will.”
You snort. “What, did you get a little folder on my personality and favorite foods-“
“We did, actually.” Dick sticks his hand out to the side. “We had a whole meeting about it, too. Five meetings. You took up my Tuesdays for a whole month.”
That makes you fall silent. Edgar hands Dick a thick manilla folder, and you don’t want to know what’s inside it. Dick flips it open, grinning between the pages.
He starts with your name. It’s wrong, falling from his lips.
“Now, the actual government was rather useless in helping us. I put on this face, put on this name, and all they could tell me was where you were born and that you’d been missing for twenty-one years. They had a lot of questions for me too, about what I wanted with you. One idiot even tried to sell me another girl that looks like you. Or he thought looked like you. But we both know.” He winks, sifting through the papers. “There’s nothing else in the world like you, darling.”
You swallow, nails digging into your palms.
“I ate him.” Dick adds lazily, waving a hand. “Don’t you worry about that. And he tasted disgusting, but I still did it. For goodwill.”
“You have no idea what earns my good will-“
“I know everything about you.”
Dick holds your gaze, smug and bored. He wipes the spit from your lips—you almost bite his fingers off, but hold yourself back by a string—and reads aloud.
“Temperamental. Violent. Prone to emotional explosions. Always with one of those Winchester boys.” Dick smirks at you. “We talked to whoever we could find. Monsters, hunters, they all said the same thing. If you’re alone, you’re a force. If you’ve got the tall one, with the broken little soul-“
“Sam.” Edgar mutters, and Dick snaps his fingers.
“Right. Sam. If you’ve got Sam, you’re a danger. But if you’ve got the other one, Dean.” Dick’s eyes seem to swallow the light. You want to rip out his tongue. “Well, if you’re with him, everyone seems to be under the impression they’d be better off shooting themselves in the face.”
He laughs. You don’t allow yourself to react, and his face falls in a second.
“Please. You’re holding back with me, I can tell. I want you to bite, I want you to fight. This will be a very boring relationship if you don’t.”
You don’t answer. Dick tosses the folder down and leers, eyes narrowing on yours.
“I know what you are.” He hisses. “We have always known what you are. You are bigger than the apocalypse, you are bigger than the sky. And if you don’t play with us, it’s going to hurt our feelings a lot.”
At that, you tilt your head. You watch him for a while, weighing your options carefully before you speak.
“You want me to play with you?”
Dick smirks. “More than anything.”
“There are thousands of you. You can play among yourselves.”
“Oh, but that gets boring. We’ve had no one else to match us for so long. Millenia in Purgatory, with only those annoying little… Sperms of monsters running around. Then we get out and it’s still all humans and demons. The angels won’t come down for us to toss around like last time. It’s just you.”
Just you. “I’m that special?” You breathe, trying to keep yourself mocking.
If it works, Dick doesn’t seem fazed.
“You have no clue.”
You narrow your eyes, scanning over his malformed, cancerous insides. He’s not trying to hurt you, just mess with you. All they’ve been trying to do is mess with you.
“What do you want?”
Dick rising back up, the causal smugness returning to his voice. “As you know, we all have out birthrights in this world. We just wish to claim ours.”
“Your birthright.” You echo. Dick nods.
You really wish that, for once, someone would just say what the fuck they meant. “Which is?”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that yet.” He laughs.
“I’m a little worried about it now.”
“Don’t be. I mean, it’s nothing you don’t know.”
“I feel like I don’t know much.”
“You know this.” Dick winks at you. “Our research shows you love stories. You know how they all end?”
You shake your hand, giving him a questioning look. He laughs, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“Sometimes you humans write happily ever after and call it a lovely day. But we both know there’s more. Empires fall. Kings die. The world turns, and then all these little human pigs get wiped out when the next asteroid hits. We are the catalyst. The ending, for all of it. The beautiful finale, before,” he shrugs. “Lights out.”
The Silver is banging against your ribs, like it can’t even stand to hear the words. And you’d had guesses—estimates that all amounted to something like this—but the admission still rattles your bones. The end. Not like Lucifer and his craving for different. Just… Nothing.
A dead world. Everything leaking and eroding at itself, even the shell of what’s left disintegrating into ash that piles up, then blows away on still winds.
Your head pounds. Something feels like it’s trying to split out of your back. You don’t know how you keep it together—with a tight grip on your wrists and fingers tracing over stains of Gold—but you hold Dick’s gaze, and speak slowly.
“Do you know about the big crunch?”
Dick laughs, and shakes his head. “No. Enlighten me.”
“It’s an astrophysics theory.” You say, watching him carefully. “One day, the universe will reverse it’s expansion. Everything will crush back down.”
“Crunch.” Dick smirks, and shrug.
“Yep.”
“That is us. The fruit of God’s labor, the reversal. Thank you, we can use that as a tagline-“
“But.” You raise your voice, letting a bored smile dance over your lips. “The pressure of the collapse reverses itself. There’s another big bang. Everything starts over. And even after all that death…”
You trail off, because you don’t need to finish the sentence. You know Dick understands. There’s a painted, hateful anger on his face because of it.
“We don’t want death.” He sneers. “We want nothing.”
“But there’s almost something.”
“There won’t be, after us-“
“You won’t succeed.”
The room goes quiet. Dick’s nostrils flare, and you smile.
“I don’t fear you.” You whisper. “You can’t kill me in a way that matters. And I think we both know. What I am.”
And you have no fucking clue what you are. But, holding Dick’s gaze and twisting a ring on your finger, you hope he does. And you hope that it’s enough.
“We don’t want you to fear us.” He says slowly. “We want you to work with us.”
“Why would I possibly do that.”
“You’d be a great ally-“
“Allyships require mutual benefit.” You lean back in your chair. “You have nothing I want.”
Dick laughs at that, shaking his head. “Oh, we have everything you want. We’d leave a tiny corner of the universe, just for you and that foul little human mutt you love.”
“What?” You cross your arms, letting your sneer turn cold. “Paradise?”
Dick shakes his head, smirk widening. “Better. Peace.”
“Please-“
“Think about it.” He purrs. “Somewhere nice and quiet. Somewhere God can never hurt you again.”
And your heart stumbles
“God?” You breathe.
Dick hums, black eyes gleaming. Like he knows he’s got you on the hook.
“Why would you help me.” You breathe, and he waves you off.
“You’re not our enemy. As much as his power reflects in you, there’s also something… Darker. Something more, that we fine soothing. And you, yourself.” He laughs to himself, pinching your cheek. “Well, who couldn’t fall for a beauty like that?”
You stare at him. He leans down, slapping your cheek lightly.
“So, what do you say?”
And something in you—something selfish and angry and sick—wants to say yes. A world with no God. With just everyone you love. With just you and Dean, and no pain ever again.
No God.
But then you blink. And the monochrome vision turns dull, because you think of other colors.
No life, for you to feel in the good and the bad. No people to laugh at in bars while Dean holds your hands. No movies to watch with Cas and no trouble to cause with Jo. No new books. No new music.
No stars.
“No.” You breathe.
Dick recoils. “You should think about it more-“
“No.” You say, stronger. More certain. “I won’t.”
Dick glares at you for a moment. And inside him, you can see it. That poison, bubbling in fury.
“Fine.” He spits, the smile that splits his face chilling and cold. “Let me sweeten the pot.”
He snaps his fingers, and you blink. If they did as much “research” as they claim, they should know that bribery doesn’t really work on you, unless it’s Dean holding the bait. And that’s only going to work if it’s the real Dean, not one of their molded, faded copies.
Then the doors swing open, and this time you turn.
You’re tired of being shocked with a feeling like ice water. You’re worried that soon, your bones are just going to freeze and snap right off.
Lillian and Norah smirk at you from the center of the room. The real Lillian and Norah, with their ugly and washed out souls that sometimes play as a palette in your nightmares. You shoot to your feet, reaching for a knife that isn’t there. You left it on the ground in the park, with the Lady. Like an idiot.
“What are you doing here.” You ask, unable to hide the frantic worry in your voice.
Lillian smirks and opens her mouth. Dick claps his hands, drowning out whatever she’d been planning to say.
“As I’m sure you’ve know, smarty pants, they’ve been working with us!”
You’d known that. It doesn’t answer your question.
“They’ve been helping us fix what you broke,” Norah sneers. Her voice is even more haunted than you remember. “They’ve been so much more helpful. They’re going to take care of you, and put me back in my place.”
“We won’t need you anymore.” Lillian says, her nose wrinkling. As if speaking to you is below her. “You can finally be tossed out on the curb, with all the other trash.”
You shake your head, swallowing on a lump in your throat. “No, you- You don’t understand-“
“We understand perfectly.” Norah snaps. “We always have. You’re the one that has to ruin everything.”
And it’s not the words, that are a blow to your chest. It’s the fear. For them. For how smug and set in to this they are. They don’t understand, and somehow that must really be your fault. You took the scalpel, so they wouldn’t be able to see true forms. They can’t know how ugly these things are. How purely fucking wrong.
“Norah, whatever they’ve told you they’ll do, they’re lying-“
“Oh, please. You shouldn’t even care, I’m taking your little burden of perfection off your hands. You can go live in a hut with your hunters, I will be God’s bride-“
“That’s not how it works-“
“Always so selfish.” Lillian mocks, rolling her eyes. “You can’t have both, you rat-“
“I don’t want both, but- I have spent years trying to get rid of being the Bride-“
“Then I guess I’m just better than you.” Norah purrs.
Dick smirks at you. He’d moved to stand behind them, holding each one by a shoulder. “You hear that, darling, they’re better than you.”
You glare at him, your voice cold and empty. “Let them go.”
“And why would I do that?” He laughs. “They’ve been so eager for us. All of them have. Given their bodies to us for use however we want. Found us places to feed and shown us some truly… Interesting things.” He smirks, grabbing Norah’s chin. “This one… She hates you.”
“They mean nothing to me-“
“Shhh.” Dick shakes his head. “Listen. It’s important.”
Norah’s eyes gleam, as Dick taps her cheek. They don’t understand.
“She loathes you.” Dick drawls on. “So completely, it shocked me when I first felt it. Her own sister, the plague of her existence. The anger she felt, when they retried the ritual on her and it didn’t work? She’s sure they were wrong. That someone in the universe made a mistake, and it was always meant to be her.”
He clicks his tongue, giving her an almost pitying look.
“Too bad, isn’t it. That after your mother had you, God barely paid any mind to his supposedly chosen family at all. If he heard this ones name, he’d think you were sneezing.”
Norah blinks, the shadow of shock crossing her doll-like features.
“Excuse me-“
“And this one.” Dick moves onto Lillian, crude smile widening. “Oh, she blames you for everything. I understand why, though. Her precious baby boy, he made a mistake. No one even cared until they cut into your hand and it worked. No one would’ve ever cared, if it hadn’t been you. Charlotte’s little freak who talked to birds and whined about the colors being wrong. The crybaby brat, the supposed perfect bride for God. She thought it would be her, when she was younger. Her heart almost stopped, when they thought it might be her soft little sister. Then for it to be her whiny little spawn… Horrible.”
You look directly at Lillian, speaking as if Dick isn’t there. He doesn’t matter. You’re tired, of fighting about something you’d never been able to chose or control.
“I didn’t want it. Any of it.”
“But you got it.” Lillian sneers. “You took everything we’ve been working for, over thousands of years, and you just… Stole it. You killed Holden for it-“
“I didn’t kill him! I was eight, I was scared, I told my mom that something hurt because it did, and none of you even cared until you- You decided I was a slaughter lamb-“
Norah cuts you off with a high laugh. “Slaughter lamb? You were chosen, to bring our glory, to bring paradise, to wed God-“
“I don’t want to wed him!” You scream. “I don’t want him anywhere near me, I- I just want to be fucking left alone!”
Your words hang in the air. Norah and Lillian’s surprise fades quickly into anger, but Dick pipes back up before either of them can sneer anything more.
“Wow.” He whistles. “That’s all rather dramatic, isn’t it. I supposed we’ve always had the advantage of no family, at least-“ He waves a hand. “Not like this. We have our mother, of course, but she’s always understood-“
“Dick.” You say, tone void of anything but exhaustion. “Just- Do it.”
“Do it?” He chuckles, leaning back so he’s holding both Lillian and Norah by their necks. “Oh, darling. It’s not that easy. You have to chose.”
And there it is. The stone, already sinking deep into your gut, carving itself further. Lillian and Norah go taut, and it hurts to watch them work out what you’d already realized the moment they walked in.
They’re not the winners. They’re the sacrifices.
“Which one do you hate more.” Dick drawls, tracing his spider-like fingers over Norah’s cheek. “You have to tell me, or I’ll just assume it’s both.”
It starts. The pleas. You can’t really hear them. Every sound is like it’s coming from deep underwater, everything in your vision swimming and spinning as you hold Dick’s self-satisfied, triumphant gaze. The blur has kicked in. You’re not yourself, but you’re not the world either. You’re just hovering. Suspended. Shouts of your name rattling around your skull, claims of things you’d laugh at under any other circumstance slicing through you like jagged shards of glass.
That they’re sorry. That they were wrong, and they should’ve seen it sooner. All the ways they can help you, all the ways they can make it up to you. Money and power and a million more things you don’t want. A million more words they don’t mean at all.
You squeeze your eyes shut, hugging yourself tight.
Norah’s young. She can change, and that one- That really is your fault. You left. You cast a shadow over her, and you let your sickness ripple through the whole family. She’d probably just be a normal, creepy teenager if you weren’t you.
“Lillian.”
You don’t hear yourself say it. Your body doesn’t even hear the sounds that come after. The screams and sickening bone cracks and tearing flesh. You open your eyes to make sure they’re not just killing Norah too, and your brain can’t even hold onto the sight.
Flesh and fat hanging off the clean cabinets. So much blood the carpet might be permanently red, and chucks of hair and organs hanging out of unhinged jaws.
Norah passes out. You can’t blame her. She’s never seen real evil before, and it can be hard to stomach.
“Think about it.” Dick tells you, wiping his mouth with a smirk. “Our offer is indefinite, but our patience isn’t.”
You just stare at Norah. Passed out on the floor, in the sinew and blood.
“Let her go. Fully.” You rip you gaze up. Your voice shakes, but doesn’t drop. “And I will. I promise.”
You twist Dean’s ring on your finger. Dick scans over you, then bows his head.
“Deal.”
They pick Norah up, and say they’ll track her so you can make sure she’s still alive whenever you want. You nod, and sink to the floor, holding your knees tight to your chest. Dick offers you a shower. You’d rather swim in the blood, than be naked anywhere near them.
And you will think about it. You just thought about it, as they were closing the door.
The answer is no. You’re good.
They’ll be lucky, you decide, if you get out and leave no death in your wake. For the day.
Dick will wish he’d stayed buried in Purgatory, by the time you’re done.
Everyone kept looking at Dean like he was overreacting. He decided that, if anything, he was vastly underreacting.
A proper reaction would be putting out a presidential alert and going on national news. Screw the fact that everyone thought he was a dead serial killer. They’d get over it, once they understood the gravity of the situation.
She was missing. And it was the whole world’s fucking problem.
How was it supposed to keep spinning, when She wasn’t there. Dean didn’t feel like it was. The ground wasn’t under his feet, and everything hung suspended in the air every single second. No breeze to wash it away or time to let it fade. Words carved into his skin, and thoughts circled in his head ten times before he let them go.
Sam said he was panicking. Dean shot him a dirty look.
“Of course I’m fucking panicking, we don’t know where the hell she is, she could’ve gotten kidnapped again-“
“I know, Dean, I know. But panicking isn’t going to help-“
“Who would’ve kidnapped her.” Dean muttered under his breath, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Her family wouldn’t be that stupid twice. Eve might’ve, but- She can hold her own against Eve. And Crowley. Maybe together- You put Excalibur in the trunk?” He shook his head before Sam could answer. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll just kill them with my hands. How do we get into Hell to kill them-“
“We don’t. Dude, you need to take a deep breath-“
“I’ll take a deep breath when she’s home.”
Dean spat out the words, and Sam sighed.
“You’re going to kill the wheel.” Sam muttered, looking back to his phone.
Dean ignored him. He was white-knuckling it, but he had to. He was holding onto anything he could, as the world slipped through his fingers.
If Crowley and Eve took her, Dean was going to carve them up himself, then open a one-way road from Heaven to Hell so the angels could finish the job for him. If it was her family, he wasn’t going to be as cooperative as last time. No dancing around trying not to tip the boat and drown Her. He’d make her feel better when they got home.
After he’d blown up that creepy fucking mansion, and everyone in it.
“Eileen hasn’t heard anything.” Sam said, still looking at his phone. “But she’s going to call Rowena. Hopefully she’ll… Pick up this time.”
Dean grunted. They’d been calling everyone, the moment they realized she was gone. Rowena hadn’t answered, Rufus was getting his own contacts, and Bobby had been leaned over his desk all day, calling every hunter in the phone book. Even Cas had gone outside to ask the birds.
“She is made of grace and shines like Heaven’s light coming down. The blanket won’t hold, Dean. She’ll be fine.”
Cas had given him a reassuring smile. And Dean was sure that would’ve been helpful, if She was here to tell him what the hell it meant.
He wasn’t doing a repeat of last time, where he just waited for someone else to find his girl like an idiot.
She’d had the Thing—She’d been calling it the Lady, and Dean did aloud, but he woke up with a face of lion fur and decided it was a thing—when she left. They’d gone out to give the Thing air. If She’d told Dean exactly where, he’d been too tired to hear it. He was kicking himself for that now, if he had a single fucking brain cell he would’ve been paying attention, but at least he knew her last location couldn’t be far.
He’d sicced Indy out on Her. The dragon was flying high over them, leading the way to wherever the hell She’d gone. If Dean was lucky, he’d just find her in the woods, enchanted by some mushrooms and giving him a heart attack. She’d giggle at his worried face and tease him about calling the cavalry when she hadn’t even left the city. Dean would let her, because the lead claws digging into his heart would’ve eased. He’d kiss Her and carry her back to the car. She’d lean Her head on his shoulder, and he’d keep her there for a month.
But he’d really never been that fucking lucky.
Indy landed in the center of the park, flapping her wings and eerping loudly. Dean sprinted over the grass, looking around for any kind of clue. They’d gotten lucky, there was no one around. Broad daylight, but the park was dead empty. It was probably something to do with the smell-
The smell.
“Dean!” Sam called, waving from near some big, flowering bush. “You should see this!”
Indy darted forward, faster than Dean by a damn mile. She dove into the bush, and Dean walked over to Sam’s side, then nearly vomited.
“Son of a- Bitch-“
He gagged on the air. This kind of thing rarely got him anymore, but this was straight out of a horror movie.
Three, marred and ripped open bodies were strewn on the grass, all of them covered in thick, black ink. One had been bitten and clawed at, another had a cut like someone had been slicing open a turkey, and the third was barely even a body anymore. It was disconnected limbs that were grown into the earth like roots and flowers blooming out of an open mouth and eye sockets and exposed organs. The cut body had similar flowers coming out of it’s cut. Both were pale, something shining and translucent as the sunlight hit.
Silver. There was something hard in them when Dean kicked the corpses, and they were lined with Silver.
Sam muttered Her name, and Dean grunted. There was no one else who could waste three Leviathans. Not like this.
“They took her.” His voice sounded far away. He crouched down to poke one of the bodies with his gun, like it would offer some extra evidence. He hoped its death had fucking hurt. “They fucking took her.”
“Maybe she’s hiding.” Sam didn’t sound like he was convincing himself. “Or- She got injured-“
“Sammy. Shut up.”
Sam mumbled an apology. Dean barely even fucking heard it. Indy was whining from her bush, so he stood up and went to push aside the leaves. His heart moved back into his throat. Indy was hunched down to the ground, her wings tucked over the Thing. They were both curled up tight. The Thing was shivering, not even making a sound, and Dean cursed under his breath. If he’d let that damn cub die, She never would’ve fucking forgiven him.
“Sam, get a blanket.”
Wisely, Sam knew better than to ask questions and push things right now. He grabbed Dean, watched nervously as he wrapped the Thing up in a swaddle, and cleared his throat as they made their way back to the car.
“So, don’t go running back as soon as I say this, but I think one of the Leviathans is still alive.”
Dean looked over his shoulder. “The one that got fucked up by the Lady.”
He rocked the kitten, and Sam nodded.
“He was moving, kind of making little sounds. We should grab him before he heals, I just didn’t want you to-“
“Get in the car and wait.”
Dean shoved the Thing into Sam’s arms and stomped around the back of the Impala. He grabbed Excalibur from the trunk and made back for the Leviathans. This was what he’d brought the blade for. Sam could grumble all he wanted. There wasn’t any time to waste.
It wasn’t that hard to get the Leviathan back. They tossed it in the trunk and sped back to Bobby’s, Sam calling ahead to the basement and one of Dean’s bomb’s ready. He was glad he’d finished those yesterday. He was about to use every single one.
“She hurt?” Bobby asked when they got inside, nodding to the Lady.
Dean shook his head. “Scared. She’ll be fine.”
Bobby nodded, then said Her name carefully. They’d all been saying it pretty carefully, around Dean.
“Leviathans.” Dean grunted.
Bobby’s lips pressed in a thin line, and he gave a tight nod. From the table, a pale Claire cleared her throat.
“But- I thought she could kill Leviathans? Why didn’t she just kill them?”
Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. The Lady was still in his arms, still small and scared, and he had a few gambles.
“She killed two.” He muttered. “Must’ve had a good reason to stop fighting the rest of them. Probably trying to save something.”
“But- Now she’s gone-“
“We’ll find her.”
Dean said it like an oath, but it was deeper than that. He would find Her. It wasn’t up for debate. Either Dean found Her, or he started burning the world until someone showed him where to look.
“Can you watch the Lady for me, kid?” He passed the Thing into Claire’s arms, and she nodded, rocking it awkwardly back and forth.
“I, um- I don’t have to like- Give her cat medicine, right?”
Dean chuckled. It was tired and low, but it still rumbled in his chest. “No. Just watch her.”
Claire nodded, and Dean let out a slight breath. That was one thing managed. She’d want Claire not to worry about Her. Dean wanted Claire not to worry about anything to do with hunting and monsters. He wanted none of them to worry about it, but if someone had to, he could take the fall of it being him.
He sent Sammy back to the park with Jo and Cas. They were looking for any hints of where they’d taken Her, while Dean and Bobby dealt the son of a bitch in the basement. Dean hoped the asshole knew he was, in many, many ways, already fucking dead.
“Look at who it is.” The Leviathan sneered, head rolling as he watched Bobby and Dean come down the stairs. “Her daddies.”
Dean recoiled, and Bobby let out a heavy breath. “Don’t say that shit, or I’ll send the dragon down here to finish the job.”
“I fear no dragon-“
“You should.” Dean said casually, standing over the bench. “She’s attached to the cat you messed up, and I’m pretty sure she understands what vengeance is.”
“Please. No beast stands against us-“
“Big fuckin’ words.” Bobby drawled. “From someone who already got their balls ripped up by a skittish fuckin’ kitten.”
The Leviathan sneered. “I made a sacrifice, so that we could have the whore. I will be rewarded, when I am found.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath, buddy.” Dean turned around, letting a bored smirk play over his face. “You ain’t gonna be found.”
The next two hours were long. Dean wasn’t sure he was in his own head for most of them. There were a lot of teeth that he pried out—without getting his hand bit, he wasn’t sure how—and a lot of housecleaner being poured down throats and over open wounds. The screams echoed off the wall, but Dean didn’t hear them. His brain had formed a single, tight tunnel to the other side of this. To the light, that he needed to get back to.
Everything else was just fucking white noise and blockages, stopping Dean from getting back to Her side.
“Let’s try again.” He kept two fingers pinched on the Leviathan’s nose, Bobby holding the laundry detergent over the Leviathan’s mouth. “Where’d they take her.””
“Fuck-“ The Leviathan gurgled, trying to spit in Dean’s face.
He dodged it with ease. Bobby had made him put on thick, gardening gloves. It was a good call.
“Fuck you-“
“Again.”
Bobby poured the detergent. The Leviathan screamed, and Dean pinched its nose tighter, forcing it to swallow every single bit.
“Listen to me, you son of a bitch.” He lowered his voice, leaning down to hiss in the Leviathan’s ear. “I can do this all fucking night if I have to. I got nothing to lose, a bulk supply of Tide, and a missing girl. So either you start hauling your weight and help me find her, or you’re getting a nice cocktail for the rest of your short, sorry life.”
The Levithan panted, spitting up the rest of the detergent like a baby gurgling acid.
“You’ll never find her.” It sneered. “She’s ours-“
“Oof.” Dean clicked his tongue. “Wrong answer. Again.”
Bobby poured it more. Dean had never been more grateful for him. As much as he loved Sammy, the kid would’ve been trying to do this in a less violent way. Dean didn’t have time or patience for that, and Bobby didn’t seem to either.
“I’d start talkin’ to us.” He drawled, switching out the buckets while Dean worked on another tooth. “We got time, but we ain’t patient.”
“I’m not telling you where we’re keeping her-“
“You will.” Bobby said grimly. “Trust me. We don’t give up.”
And they didn’t. Not until the Levithan started sputtering, and caved like a straw roof.
“You don’t understand.” It shook it’s head, seeming almost frantic. “We need her, the boss needs her, if I give her up I’m giving all of us up, I can’t give all of us up. I’ll be as good as dead.”
And Dean laughed, letting go of the Levithan’s face. It was a loud, cold sound he barely recognized from himself. Bobby’s lips twitched. He knew what the nervously laughing Levithan didn’t.
“Sorry, Buddy.” Dean smirked, picking up Excalibur from the wall. “You already are.”
He swung. The Levithan’s head rolled across the floor, fully and completely dead. Bobby pulled off his gloves with a heavy sigh. Dean stood there for a moment longer, watching the black goo spittle out of the neck like a waterfall.
“They took her to the boss?” Bobby asked.
Dean just nodded, and started slightly when Bobby clapped him on the back.
“We’ll find her, son. I promise.”
And more than when anyone else had said it, Dean believed him. Bobby had always been the only one who understood. He’d said those words the same way Dean had to Claire. There wasn’t another option but finding Her. Because a world where they didn’t, it wasn’t a world at all.
Sam, Jo, and Cas got back with some mildly helpful updates. The woodchips at the park had turned into roots, and the grass was overflowing with a whole lot of flowers for winter. They’d followed a path of honeysuckle to the parking lot, then a path of bursting diamonds and crystals down a few streets over before they’d turned onto a dirt road, and it had turned back to honeysuckle.
“We could’ve kept going.” Sam said, showing Dean a picture from his phone. “But we wanted to grab you first. We think it might be a breadcrumb situation.”
Dean grunted, examining the photo. That was the exact type of smart shit She’d pull.
“I gotta make a call.”
Frank picked up in five rings. “The hell do you want, Dean, ain’t I doing enough for you already-“
Dean said Her name. Frank had always liked Her best. “She’s missing.”
Frank was silent for a moment. Then Dean heard a heavy sigh.
“Didn’t she already go missing a few months ago?”
Dean scowled. “Yeah. Different missing, this time.”
“You don’t have a tracker on her?”
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. Frank didn’t need to know that. “Look, I just need you to check traffic cameras for me, and- Maybe look into something else, too.”
“Fine. For her. But,” Frank’s tone dropped to something stern. “When you get her back, you put that girl on a leash. Kidnapped twice in a year, that’s ridiculous.”
Dean decided that Frank didn’t need to know it was actually the fourth time this year. If he felt like joking about it—and he really fucking didn’t—he’d say they should get Her a punch card.
Frank looked into the cams, and the trail she’d left them vanished after about ten miles. There was no knowing why. Dean had a bet that it was just the Leviathans cleaning up, though, because Frank sent them footage of streets a few miles over that were covered in the same kind of paths.
“They must’ve been driving in circles.” Sam sounded almost impressed. “So we couldn’t follow.”
“That’s fuckin’ annoying.” Jo muttered, and Dean gave a tight nod.
That’s what he’d been guessing they’d do. They needed a clearer lead than just breadcrumbs, and they didn’t have time to chase routes the Levithan’s had probably trapped.
“Frank’s looking, but I’ve got him on something else, too.”
Jo looked up from the footage. “Something else? The hell could possibly be important-“
Dean said Her name, scrolling through his phone for the right contact. “The Levithan said they needed her for something. Not needed her out of the way. Just needed her.”
“Huh.” Sam frowned. “Maybe that’s why they had her family holding onto her-“
“It’s a hundred percent why. And the sooner we know what they want with her, the easier it’ll be to keep them from getting it.” Dean found the number he’d been looking for. “Frank’ll figure that out for us, then call me. Sammy, get the devil’s trap ready.”
Sam and Jo exchanged a worried look. Dean pretended not to see it. Maybe he was being shorter and colder than usual. He couldn’t bring himself to care at all.
It was easier to call Crowley on the phone, than summon him.
“Dean, what a surprising pleasure to hear from you-“
“Get your ass over here. Now.”
There was a whoosh, and Crowley appeared a few feet away, a lazy smirk all over his smug face.
“Usually I’d want you to ask nicer than that, but you know. I have a soft spot for you lot.” He looked around the room, brows raising. “Interesting. Where’s the beauty to your beast, Dean?”
Dean ignored the question. He wasn’t in a banter and swipe mood. He hung up the call and glared at Crowley, making his words short and clear.
“Where the hell are the Leviathans.”
“Hm? The Leviathans?” Crowley laughed. “Why in hell’s deepest pits would I know-“
“We know you’re working with Eve, Crowley.” Sam sighed. “Which means you’re against the Leviathan’s like we are. And their bases- That’s the kind of thing you’d track.”
Crowley hummed, scanning slowly around the room. “Flattering, that you think I’m that informed and connected, but-“
“I ain’t gonna recommend lyin’ to us right now.” Bobby said. “We don’t got the time for it.”
“You don’t? I thought you loved sparring. A fun little dance, we go back and forth, I insult you, you tease me. A little bit of foreplay, before the fun- Jesus.”
Crowley cut himself off, as Dean grabbed his gun and aimed it straight at the douchebag’s stupid face.
“Tell me where the Leviathan’s are.” Dean hissed. “Or I blow your brains out.”
Crowley raised his brows. “Well. Isn’t someone having a bit of a temper tantrum-“
Dean clicked the safety off. Crowley held his hands up in surrender.
“Alright. Touchy without your Princess here, aren’t you.”
“You have no fucking idea.” Dean growled. “Talk. Now.”
“Hm. But you won’t kill me.”
“You wanna bet-“
“As you’ve made it clear you know,” Crowley smirked. “I do have a bit of a… working flirtation with Eve. I’m the one who’s been keeping her and my demons off your back. So you can handle the little Leviathan disaster.”
“Or you could’ve been fucking helping us-“
“You’re big boys. You’re doing just fine on your own. But.” Crowley shrugged. “You pull that trigger, squirrel, Eve comes out of the woodworks. Hell goes into a civil war. No one on your side to call the shots. And when someone a lot less compromising and generous than me takes over, you’re going to be crying yourself to sleep every night with regret that I’m not there.”
Dean scoffed, but Sam placed a light hand on his shoulder.
“He’s right, Dean.” He muttered. “We need him alive.”
Dean’s grip tightened on his gun. He had those demon killing bullets She’d made him so long ago. One press of his finger, and Crowley would just be a body on the floor, and-
“Son of a bitch.”
He dropped the gun, and punched the wall. Sam flinched slightly, but he wasn’t the one with bloody knuckles. He could grow the hell up.
“Dean-“
“What the hell do you want?” Dean snapped at Crowley, ignoring Bobby’s warning words. “My fuckin’ soul? You can have it-“
“Dean.” Bobby barked, louder this time. “You ain’t sellin’ your soul again, boy, you made her a promise-“
“Promises won’t mean shit if we don’t get her back.” Dean spat. “She can be pissed at me, she can shout, at least she’ll be here to do it-“
“No. Real noble of you, you fuckin’ idjit, but if we’re selling a soul, it won’t be yours.”
“What, it’ll be yours-“
“Better than yours.” Bobby said, solemn and dead serious.
Dean gaped. “No. No fucking way-“
“I ain’t askin’, boy-“
“Well, I’m not letting you-“
“Try and stop me-“
“Excuse me.” Crowley cut in, looking between them with his hands in his jacket, pure amusement written all over his face. “As flattering as this is, making me feel like the prettiest girl at the dance, I don’t want either of your souls.”
Dean blinked, and Bobby scowled.
“What, our souls aren’t good enough for you, your majesty-“
Crowley drawled Her name, giving them a pointed look. “Do you have any idea what she’d do to me, if she knew I had a contract for your souls? I’d have to go into witness protection. Hell would have to shelter in place like a bloody nuke was going to hit. Not worth it. Not even for you two.”
Dean couldn’t argue with that. He’d been prepared for Her wrath at him selling his own soul, mainly because he knew they’d get it back just fine. Because a nuke would hit Hell. She’d probably nuke it twice, just to be certain he was free.
He’d never know what the hell he’d done to earn that kind of divine wrath, dedicated purely to protecting him. He liked to think it was because he loved Her so greatly, so well.
Because he knew that he’d do the same if She ever got taken by God. He was about to do the same, right now.
“What’re you willin’ to bargain for.” Jo asked carefully, arms crossed over her chest. “If you ain’t looking for a soul.”
“Hm…” Crowley smirked, pausing dramatically.
Dean knew he already knew exactly what he wanted. He was just playing it up, with time they didn’t have.
“Crowley, I swear to Christ-“
“Don’t swear, Dean. It’s unbecoming.” Crowley titled his head. “Do you have any apples?”
Sam frowned. “Apples? Yeah, I think we have some in the kitchen-“
“Not those kind of apples.” Crowley didn’t look away from Dean. “Special apples. Rare ones. That only grow from… Certain trees.”
Everyone else looked lost. Dean wished he was too.
But he understood Crowley perfectly. And if he wasn’t about to punch the wall again—and probably break his hand, which She’d be pretty pissed about when they found her—he’d push for what the hell Crowley wanted with those apples.
It was something to worry about later, though.
A small, easy price to pay, to get Her home.
“I got one.” He muttered, and Crowley beamed.
“Well, then. I think we’re in business.”
Dean went upstairs quickly. He grabbed Her iridescent apple out of his sock drawer, and ran back downstairs. Held it up for Crowley to see, and raised his brows.
“Where is she.”
“Throw me the apple and I’ll tell you.”
“Ah. You tell me first.”
Crowley sighed. “I’m in the Devil’s Trap, where in hell am I supposed to go-“
“Tell. Me.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, but gave in. “There’s a warehouse, down in Detroit. The big boss, Dick Roman, he was seen by some of my demons going in and out. That enough for you?”
Dean grunted. “Address.”
Crowley sighed, but rattled off a street name and number. He held out his hand. Dean tossed him the apple, and rubbed his foot on the Devil’s trap. Crowley beamed, examining the shiny fruit.
“Pretty.” He mused. “See you soon, boys.”
He vanished with another woosh, and Dean didn’t bother to dwell on it. They had other work to do.
They’d take a random van from Bobby’s junkyard. It was unidentifiable. Safe. Sammy would watch Claire at him—as much as the kid protested, She’d kill Dean if he let him into the field with his soul in bad condition, and Dean couldn’t be taking those kinds of risks right now—and Cas and Jo would come with Bobby and Dean.
“You can stay behind.” Dean muttered to Bobby, loading up as many Leviathan bombs as they could carry. “You know I’m not coming back without her.”
“Yep. So I’m comin’ to make sure you don’t get yourself fuckin’ killed in the process.”
“I won’t-“
“You know what we’re dancing with, Dean.” Bobby muttered. “More numbers is safer. We’ll get her faster.”
Dean sighed. He knew better than to argue. He’d already had to fight with Sammy about the same thing, and now both he and Claire were all pissed.
“I want to help-“
“You can help by staying home.” Dean shot Claire a stern look. “And making sure Sam doesn’t go bonkers.”
“But what if he does go bonkers.” Claire crossed her arms, wearing an expression that was eerily similar to Her Dean Winchester, I’ll kick your ass face. Right down to the angry little nose wrinkle and glower. “I’m not a trained therapist or psych ward doctor, I won’t know what to do-“
“Then you call me. And I talk to him.”
“What if you don’t pick up the phone.”
“I’ll pick up the phone.”
“But what if you don’t-“
“Claire.” He grabbed her shoulder, narrowing his eyes. “I will.”
Claire scowled, and for a second, Dean thought she was going to stomp inside.
Instead she hugged him. Tight. Dean froze for a second, arms hanging awkwardly at his side. She felt smaller than she looked. Like a damn toddler.
“Don’t die.” She mumbled, and he swallowed.
“Trust me.” He said Her name softly, hugging Claire back. Tight. So she didn’t think he was looking to let go. “She’ll kill me if I do.”
Claire laughed, and they just stood like that for a moment.
Dean tried to think of the last time Dad had gone on a hunt, when he’d still been a kid. He tried to think of if he’d ever hugged him before he left. He wasn’t sure he had. Even when he’d been half Claire’s height and unable to spell, Dad would just pat his head and tell him to be good and stay with Sammy until he got home.
He hugged Claire tighter. Dad had, at least, always come back. Dean wouldn’t fail to do the same.
It was a long, mostly quiet drive. The stereo didn’t have a cassette player, so Dean had to listen to the top forty hits station Jo put on. He could barely hear it anyway, and what he did he tried not to hate. She’d like it, if She was here. Dean would let Her listen to it all she wanted, on the drive home.
They’d left at the break of down. When they got to the warehouse, it was sunset, and the building looked like an ominous block of concrete, absorbing all the lingering light and turning it into shadow.
“Take as many bombs as you can carry.” Dean muttered, loading his shotgun. “Cas, you’re with me. Bobby and Jo-“
“We’ll sweep.” Bobby grunted, glaring at the building. “Keep your walkie on, check in every ten. No goin’ blackout.”
Dean nodded, and tossed the bomb bag to Jo. “You find her first, I’ll send Cas over-“
“No. You’re keepin’ Cas with you.”
Dean blinked. “He’ll help you get her out-“
“And you’ll be left with a gun in the nest.” Jo snapped. “Who you think they’re gonna go after, if they realize the girl they need is jumpin’ ship?”
“I’ll be fine-“
“You’ll be bait. And she’ll run right back in.”
Dean tried to argue—if She tried that, they should stop Her—but Bobby cut him off.
“Jo’s right. You’re gonna be what they’re gunnin’ for, the moment they realize we’re here. Cas?”
“Bobby.” Cas said plainly, not looking up from the coloring book he’d been doing the whole ride.
“You don’t let Dean out of your sight, you hear me?”
“Okay.” Cas looked up, fixing Dean with a stare.
Dean sighed. “You don’t have to do that, buddy, he meant figuratively- Like you stay near me-“
“I didn’t mean figuratively.” Bobby muttered.
Cas stared harder. This was going to be an interesting recuse mission.
They split up. Jo and Bobby stared running the outside, updating Dean and Cas on all the exits they could find while they swept the hallways, and looked for Her.
“Would be nice if they had a floor map.” Dean muttered, glaring at the barren walls. “Think this place isn’t up to fire code without one.”
“They hate the fire, Dean. They had no reason to follow it’s code.”
“It’s a law. Like- Here are the rules to stop a fire.”
“Ah.” Cas titled his head at the air. “Fire has the greatest distain for the earth.”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah. Sure.”
“It does. They are always yelling for attention.”
“I would’ve thought fire had the biggest rival in water.”
“No. Fire and water are great friends.”
“Right. ‘Course they are- Shit.”
Dean threw his arm out, slamming Cas quickly back against the wall before they could turn a corner. There was a lady in a pencil skirt, coming out of a door. Dean couldn’t be certain, but he was willing to gamble that every damn person in this building but them was a Leviathan.”
“Dean-“
“Shh.” He covered Cas’ mouth, gripping Excalibur tight as he leaned back around the corner.
The woman was gone. He let out a sharp breath of relief.
“Alright, let’s keep moving-“
There was a snarl from his side.
Shit.
The woman slammed into him, and Dean angled Excalibur up right in time for it drive into her stomach. She screamed, twitching and gushing black goo from the wound. Some of it landed on Dean’s shoe, before he tossed her body off the blade. He kicked it off frantically, heard another snarl, and looked up to find a second Leviathan storming down the hall with his jaw unhinged.
Dean tried to push up off the wall, raising Excalibur to hold his ground. But Cas was faster. He stepped between Dean and Leviathan, raised one hand, and smited the Leviathan’s face clean off. Dean winced at the blinding light, but let out a shaky, nervous laugh.
“That was pretty fucking close.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Cas shrugged. “I am not allowed to let you die.”
Dean blinked. Then nodded. Whatever got them through this faster.
They kept wandering, running into the odd Leviathan but taking care of it fast. Jo and Bobby on the radio said they had some exits cleared. They just had to pray they found her before someone found the bodies, and sounded the alarm.
After about ten minutes, they stumbled into an office room. It was the most disgusting thing Dean had ever seen, covered in blood and guts. Like a person had fucking exploded. But rising over the stench of death and fluid was something else. Something sweet.
Apples.
“Cas-“
“She was here.” He murmured, staring at a corner of the floor that—unlike everything around it—was perfectly clean. “Not long ago. Her shadow hasn’t faded.”
Dean grunted, flipping Excalibur’s hilt. “She’s still in the building.”
“Yes. And-“ He looked around through the air, like a dog scenting for food. “The stars. They sing that way.”
Cas pointed out the window. To the fire escape. And Dean saw it. Two handprints on the bloody glass.
He ran over and lifted the window, looking out the space below. He didn’t see Her. Cas could be wrong about this one. She could already be somewhere in the freaking woods, with Leviathan’s hunting her.
The walkie crackled to life, Bobby’s voice ripping through the air. “Dean, we got a problem.”
Dean grabbed his walkie. “Tell me about it, I think she got herself out already-“
“No. Can’t be. The ground is swarmin’ with Leviathan’s they’ve blocked us in. Think they know we’re here.”
Dean froze. He squinted at the ground, and swallowed. He didn’t know how the hell he’d missed them. There, in the shadows of the tree line, were hundreds of them.
Pitch black, bottomless eyes and white teeth. Smiling. Staring right at him.
Dean slammed the window down and stumbled back. “Bobby, get out right now.”
“We had to go inside, Dean.” Jo’s voice came over. “They started coming out of the woods and shit, and the building, it’s almost fuckin’ empty.”
“Cas and I have been cleaning through them.” He muttered, looking around the room. “We found where she was, but- You think she got out? And that’s what they were chasing-“
“Maybe-“
“She’s still here.” Cas said loudly, frowning up at the ceiling. “I hear the wings, Dean. Beating to break free.”
Dean sighed, leaning back into the walkie. “Cas thinks she’s still here. Could be…”
He trailed off with a frown, and Bobby crackled through the walkie.
“They probably did somethin’ to her. To her powers. She might’ve been tryin’ to mess with them until she could get ‘em back.”
Dean nodded slowly. That did sound like her. “So what, she’s lying low somewhere inside while they comb the woods?”
“Worth lookin’. We’re trapped anyway.”
Dean looked out the window. They still hadn’t moved, and a chill slithered over his body.
“Alright.” He muttered. “Cas and I will follow his angel-hound nose. Stay on the radio.”
Cas didn’t wait for him to say over before he was pointing at the sky.
“The rivers flow North.” He said plainly, and Dean grunted.
“Lead the way, man.”
If Cas never got his sanity back—or even if he did and decided he didn’t want to go back to angel-ing—he was going to have a good career in tracking. They went up some concrete stairs and down a few twisting hallways before Cas stopped in front of a supply closet.
Dean looked between him and the door, and cleared his throat. “Is this-“
“The earth does not want to be split open.” Cas said, in his half-wise, half-bananas voice. “She waits for the right comet.”
“Uh… Okay.”
Dean assumed he was the comet. He could be the comet. He knocked on the door gently, keeping his voice low and soft.
“Princess?”
No answer. He glanced at Cas.
“Are you-“
“The walls are breathing.” Cas nodded. Dean sighed.
“Yeah. They’re- Whatever.” He knocked on the door again, raising his voice. Maybe She just hadn’t heard him. “Sweetheart, it’s me. Uh- Dean.” He cleared his throat, looking over his shoulder. “Your Dean. We’re here to recuse you. Feel kinda stupid about it now, but- Can you open the door.”
Still nothing. Something was pulling, just to the right of his heart. Cas was right, She was in there. She just wouldn’t open the door.
He pressed himself right against it, clearing his throat. “Is there something I can say? So you know it’s really me? ‘Cause I can wait, but we’re kind of on the clock. And I’m worried you might stab me if I open the door.”
Silence. Dean swallowed.
“Alright. I’m just- I’m gonna wait here.” He squatted down on the floor, jerking his head for Cas to do the same. “Cas is here too.” He jerked his head at the door, and hissed, “say something.”
Cas frowned. “Something.”
“Jesus fucking- Come on, dude-“
The door creaked. Dean’s head shot up.
She looked between him and Cas with heavy, pretty eyes. Her hands and feet were covered in blood, Her gorgeous features sunken from exhaustion, but she was intact.
“You came for me.” She whispered, and Dean scrambled onto his knees.
“Of course we did, sweetheart- Shit-“ He tripped a little, trying to get onto his feet too fast.
He settled for grabbing the back of Her thighs and resting his chin on her abdomen. She blinked down at him, running bloodied fingers through his hair. Dean didn’t care at all.
“They hurt you?” He rasped, red already lining his vision.
She shook Her head, still looking down at him with soft awe.
Dean let out a slow breath, and pressed his face into Her stomach. She was warm. In one piece.
He hadn’t lost her at all.
“Come on.” He grabbed Her hand, moving up to his feet. “They’ve got us blocked in, but if we run to the van we can just bulldoze them- Cas, go tell Bobby and Jo-“
“I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”
“That was before we found her, go-“
“Dean.” She grabbed his forearm, and his attention snapped over.
“What, baby, are you okay-“
“They drugged me.” She whispered. “Something so I can’t hurt them, and- They said I could break through it but I’m worried about just- Exploding like that-“
“So you don’t. I got some bombs, you can use those. Then we get you out, and I’ll take care of you while comes down-“
“No, but- I can’t fight them at all.” She swallows. “I can’t even, like- Punch them. And it’s- It’s making me weaker, trying to push against it. I can’t… Do anything.”
Dean worked his jaw. That would make this harder. They’d manage.
“I’ve got you.” He muttered, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Any injuries I gotta know about?”
She shook Her head, and he gave her a quick scan.
“Cas-“
“There are no new canyons.”
She scowled, giving Dean a glare. “You didn’t believe me?”
He shrugged. “Would you have believed me?”
She huffed, nose getting all cute and wrinkled. Dean kissed it with a grin, and She melted a little into his side with another grumble. Dean grabbed Her chin and tipped it up.
“Eyes.” He muttered, when she kept looked off to the side.
Slowly, She looked at him. Dean smiled, and Her lips parted.
“You and me.” He dropped his brow over her’s. “All the way down.”
She nodded. Her breathing was uneven, Her knees wobbling, but that was why She had Dean. He’d get them out of this.
“All the way down.” She echoed.
Dean hummed in approval, and pressed a quick kiss to Her lips. She responded immediately, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and he realized Her wrists were bleeding.
Scratch marks. She’d done it to Herself.
And Dean wondered what they hell they’d been doing to Her all day. He’d press about it later. Now they had to move.
It started smooth. Too smooth. They got down three levels with nothing but empty halls, and ran into Bobby on the fourth floor. They’d found the empty security roomed, and worked out that Jo could run ahead to get the van, using the emergency exit to sneak past the Levithan’s view. They’d parked it close enough to the warehouse that she’d be okay, and if this was going to work they’d need to book it fast.
“Kiddo, you think you can run?”
She nodded, clearly still lost in Her head and dazed. Dean had noticed bruises on Her knees, somewhere upstairs.
“They drugged her.” He muttered. “She’s out of it.”
Bobby nodded tightly. “Then we better move now.”
And they got all the way down to the warehouse. They could see the doors. Only a handful of yards from freedom.
“Look at this.” A strangely joyful, mocking voice echoed from behind them. “And here I thought you made us a promise.”
Dean turned slowly, and found a thin, lanky man smiling at them from only a few feet away. He was wearing a clean suit, and had one of those smiles Dean always wanted to punch off a face.
“Dick Roman.” Bobby said, and the man—Leviathan—grinned.
“Bobby Singer. You do do your research. Fascinating. I’m impressed.”
Bobby snorted. “You shouldn’t be. I ain’t that impressive.”
“Oh, but you are. I mean, raising the Whore couldn’t have been an easy task. We thank you for your service.”
“I live for praise.” Bobby raised his gun. Dean held Her tighter to his side. “Now back your nasty ass up before I turn you into ugly fuckin’ paste.”
Dick just laughed, pulling out his own gun. “What, because you think I’m going to take your daughter? I don’t actually need her anymore, now that you’ve delivered me him.”
And he looked at Dean. With a crude smirk and eyes that made Dean feel like he was looking over the cliffs of hell, into the nothingness below.
“Hello, Dean Winchester.”
Bobby blinked. ‘The hell do you want him for-“
“Ah.” Dick held up a hand. “That’s none of your concern. Of course, I will need the Whore back later, but she’ll come happily when I have her boytoy. I’ll even keep our offer on the table, darling.” He smiled at Her. “Just think of this as… Speeding up negotiations.”
Dean took a step back, pulling Her with him. “You’re not getting anywhere near her,” he spat, and Dick just laughed.
“There’s that charm I’ve heard all about! I can’t wait to study it, I hear it wins you big prizes.”
“You ain’t touchin’ either of them-“
“Oh, Bobby.” Dick’s smile split his face. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice.”
Dean heard something rattle behind him, and he didn’t think. He curled himself over Her, knowing it was a Leviathan. Knowing he was probably going to be dragged away. But for whatever reason, he was what they wanted now. At least Bobby would be able to grab Her and keep her safe.
But claw never sank into his back. There was just another, feral sound, and a crashing bang that rattled the shelves. Dean looked back to see Cas, slamming four Leviathan’s against shelves with his bare hands. His face was twisted in fury. One grabbed his arm, and he smited it again.
She lurched a little forward, in Dean’s arms.
“Angels can’t smite Leviathans.” She breathed, and Dean blinked.
“Cas can.”
She shook Her head, brow drawing tight, then screamed suddenly. Dean barely held onto Her as she whipped around in panic.
Behind them, Dick was aiming a gun straight at Dean’s shoulder. He fired. She shoved him behind Her, and Dean’s roar of Her name pounded in his head. It matched Bobby’s like a horrible chorus of pure, raw fucking fear.
The bullet crumpled against her, and fell to the floor like a dime. Right. She was bulletproof.
Dick gaped, the hissed like an eel. He tossed the gun off the to side and rolled up his sleeves, storming right for them. Dean wrapped his arms around Her stomach, trying to pull Her back behind him.
“Let me go- Dean-“
“Are you fucking crazy, I’m not letting you go-“
“I- Bobby!”
Her scream was louder than Dean’s and Bobby’s combined, as Bobby slammed into Dick’s side. The whole world seemed to respond to it, the ground shaking under their feet.
Dick roared in anger, his jaw unhinging. Her elbow drove into Dean’s jaw, and suddenly She was out of his arms. He shouted Her name, shaking off the pain and sprinting after Her.
She couldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t, the drug wouldn’t let Her, she’d said it herself.
But She could get in front of Bobby. And Dick couldn’t seem to hurt Her.
“Move.” He spat Her name. She lifted Her chin.
“Make me.”
“You- You are very annoying-“
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”
Dick’s lip curled. His eyes darted to Dean, and he lunged to the side. Dean froze, and—in almost slow motion—his eyes flicked up.
To the bomb Bobby had chucked, right at Dick’s head.
It exploded, and Dick’s scream was like nails on chalk and a dying pig all at once. Dean wiped the chemical taste from his mouth, the soap stinging his eyes, and felt Excalibur being pulled from his hands.
“Take her.” Bobby grunted. “Go. Now.”
Her eyes widened. “No, I’m staying-“
“Dean.”
Bobby gave him a strange look. It was tired. Almost pleading. And Dean understood.
He ducked down and scooped Her up, bridal style. She shouted and hit his shoulders, but he didn’t let go.
“Sorry, Princess.” He muttered, kissing Her forehead.
“Dean- Dean- Bobby-“ She was twisting in his arms, trying to climb over his shoulders as he made for the exit. “Bobby-“
“He’s got Excalibur. He’s gonna be alright.”
And Dean wished he believed it, when he said it. He wished he could just drop Her in the van with Jo—where She’d be safe—and run back to help. But the moment he let go of Her, she’d follow. And he’d made a promise he was never going to break.
Gunshots sounded from the warehouse. She screamed, and Dean held Her tighter, kissing over her hairline. Leviathans were starting to pour out of the woods and into the building. A heavy, boulder-like lump formed in Dean’s throat.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed Her hair, rubbing his hand on her back. “I’m sorry, baby, I know-“
She’d curled into his chest, just shaking and crying. Jo cleared her throat.
“Dean-“
“Don’t drive.”
“They’re comin’ out-“
“I know, just- Give them a second-“
Something cracked like lighting, and the world went white. Dean threw himself fully over Her, squeezing his eyes shut as a heatwave blasted through the van.
“Drive!” Bobby’s voice ripped through the ringing. “Now!”
Bobby’s voice. Dean opened his eyes, and Bobby and Cas were in the middle of the van, covered in laundry detergent.
“How-“
“Just fuckin’ go!”
Jo hit it, and they ripped out of the parking lot. Snarls sounded from behind then, but they didn’t look back.
She scrambled out of Dean’s arms and almost tackled Bobby with a hug. He grunted, but hugged her back tight. She was still crying. Dean was going to be in the doghouse tonight, but he didn’t really mind.
Bobby looked at him over Her head, and nodded. He’d done well.
Once they were sure they were in the clear, they had the full debrief. She was asleep for most of it, passing out on Bobby’s shoulder before they were even fully out of the city. But Dean didn’t miss the whispers before Her eyes closed, that she shouldn’t be mad at Dean. He’d only done what Bobby told him to.
She’d crawled over to Dean for a few seconds, resting Her head on his chest. Mumbled an apology for elbowing him. He’d laughed softly, and kissed the corner of Her mouth.
“It’s alright, Princess. Least I got a cool new bruise to show my girlfriend.”
She’d made an adorable grumbly noise, and Bobby had called her back.
They ran down everything in ten minutes. Levithan’s had something they wanted Her and Dean for. Bobby muttered that he’d chopped up the Leviathans on Cas before he could get to Dick, and even then Excalibur had only really injured them. Dean had frowned, because he’d definitely killed half a dozen with it only an hour earlier. They added it to the list of mysteries, along with why Cas was an angel who could smite Leviathans.
Bobby had lost Excalibur in the fight, when they’d had to hunker down and make the Borax nuke. Dean couldn’t even bring himself to be pissed.
“At least you got out alive.” He said.
Bobby sighed, and looked at Her with a strange shadow over his face. He didn’t answer. They fell into silence for a few, long hours after that.
After they crossed into Indiana, they had to stop for gas. Jo took Her and Cas into the gas station while Dean moved to the driver’s seat. The sun was starting to flood the horizon, and golden light was leaking through the trees.
Bobby had been quiet since they got out of Michigan. Dean turned down the music, clearing his throat.
“Thanks. For telling her to be pissed at me.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “She would’ve freakin’ killed me, I thought I was gonna be gutted like a fish.”
Bobby rolled his eyes. “She ain’t gonna gut you, boy. She might get mad, but she loves your ass too damn much.”
“That’s- She’s-“
“Don’t. I’m too tired to hear that shit.”
Dean worked his jaw, letting out a heavy breath through his nose. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and frowned. Bobby was slumped in his seat, and—in the rising light—oddly pale.
“You feeling alright?”
Bobby grunted. That wasn’t an answer.
“Bobby-“
“Don’t make a big deal out of it, Dean. ‘M fine.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make a big deal out of what.”
“Nothing.”
“Bobby, I swear to God-“
Dean’s words died in his throat as Bobby reached up a shaking hand and pulled down his jacket. His t-shirt had been ripped to shreds. The cloth was plastered to his skin, right over the black, infected Leviathan bite.
“Son of a bitch-“
“I said don’t make a big deal-“
“Make a big deal?” Dean hissed, scrambling to his feet. “Bobby, you fucking idiot, why didn’t you tell us the moment you got here-“
“Nothin’ could’ve been done.” He grumbled. “Just wanted to live my last few hours in peace, didn’t know that was a crime.”
Dean shook his head. Everything in his vision was awfully sharp. And he’d expect himself to panic, but there was nothing but focus. A titanic weight on his shoulders and chest that made it hard to breathe, and a tunneled view of getting it off.
This couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it. There was no world where it did, because Dean wouldn’t fucking let it, so there was no need to panic.
“These aren’t going to be your last few hours.” Dean snapped, pulling off his jacket. He’d wrap the arm. Make a tourniquet. That was a start.“We’re- We’ll think of something-“
“Dean.”
Bobby grabbed his hand, but the hold was slack. His palms were clammy.
“Don’t. I’m alright.”
Dean’s mouth fell open, his words dropping to a hiss. “You’re fucking- You’re bitten-“
“It ain’t a zombie bite, calm down-“
“You’re dying-“
“I’m already fuckin’ dead-“ Bobby groaned. His hand slipped down, like he couldn’t even hold it up.
No.
“Don’t say that shit. We’re going to get you to the hospital-“
Bobby snorted. “The hell are they gonna do for me?”
“Fine, Rowena-“
“She ain’t gonna be fast enough.”
Dean shook his head. He might be about to break his own jaw, as he hissed Her name. Bobby grabbed the collar of Dean’s shirt, his eyes narrowing as his breath became ragged.
The world was starting to get blurry. “Bobby, I- I can’t just let you- You asshole, you’re not supposed to just give up-“
“I ain’t giving up.” Bobby muttered. “I’m knowing when it’s my time-“
“Shut the hell up.” Dean’s throat was too tight. He almost couldn’t speak. “No. You- You’re not allowed.”
Bobby chuckled. It was barely a breath. “Alright. You take that up with the Reaper.”
Dean wanted to laugh and punch him and scream. They weren’t doing this. They weren’t. He didn’t need to cry, there was no reason to, Bobby would be fine-
“Soulmates.” Bobby murmured. Dena had never heard his voice so quiet. “I’ll tell you, I really coulda guessed that one myself.”
“Bobby-“
“Really wish I’d let you meet ‘er when you were kids. Woulda been harder, but then… Better.”
“Bobby-“
“Take care of yourself.” Bobby gave him a stern look. It had no power behind it. Dean felt sick.
“Thought you’d want me to take care of her.”
Bobby’s lips twitched. “I know I don’t gotta ask for that. But if you-“ He coughed. Dean could see veins near his neck, turning pure black. “You let yourself go under what she’s gonna, neither of you are gonna keep your heads up. She’ll need you.” Bobby let out a ragged breath. “Don’t let ‘er go.”
And Bobby’s eyes closed. And the panic hit.
Dean pulled him down on the bench, and started every single fucking first-aide shit he’d ever learned. CPR, spinals, pouring rubbing alcohol on the wound. Getting Bobby onto the floor of van and dousing cold water on his face. Anything that would help.
Nothing did. Bobby’s breath only got more shallow. He might’ve been crying. He knew he was shouting. There wasn’t really anything in his head but prayers to a God he knew didn’t care, and Her voice.
Her scream.
“Bobby?!”
She moved past Dean. He tried to pull her back—he wouldn’t want her to see it—but she shoved him, pulling Bobby’s limp body up into her hands.
“What- Fuck.” Jo swallowed. “What the hell-“
“Leviathan bite.” Dean muttered, moving to his feet. “Cas, c’mere now.”
Cas moved. Dean didn’t need to ask. His hand glowed, and he placed it on Bobby’s brow. There was a hitched breath. Then nothing.
“What the hell-“
“There are hands.” Cas breathed. “And they’re… Bigger than mine. They want him.”
Dean felt his chest split right open. “But-“
“There’s nothing I can do, Dean. I- I tried, but- The hands-“
She screamed again. And Dean realized it wasn’t in English. The words seemed to ripple through the air, leaving it humming with electricity.
She was screaming in Enochian.
She was screaming at God.
And when there was nothing, She started to plead.
“Bobby, please, please don’t go.” She was curled over him. Her body was shaking. “Please stay, I need you to stay, please don’t go, Bobby, please.”
Nothing. The morning light was turning Silver. Where the sky had been clear before, gunmetal clouds were forming like a barrier.
“Dad-“ Her voice broke. “Don’t- Dad, I don’t want you to leave me. Please don’t leave me, I don’t want to do this without you. Dad please, please, I- I can’t do this without you.”
Thunder cracked. She screamed again, and rain started to fall. Bobby still didn’t move. Her voice was small, every work choked.
“Daddy, please don’t go, please- I don’t know, I don’t know how, I can’t- please, Daddy, I can’t, don’t leave, please don’t leave, I can’t if you leave, please-”
There was no more light. It was like a thick veil had been pulled over the world, and the only thing left in the fog was them.
Her.
Crying over Bobby’s body, and holding onto him with glowing hands.
And Dean froze from trying to pull her away. All of them froze. Time itself seemed to crawl to a stop.
A final, weak breath rattled from Bobby’s chest, and the whole world shook. Above them, there was a thin, white pressure that seemed to be pushing down, like watching the sun from under water.
The crowd of clouds thickened.
And still sobbing, She grabbed Bobby’s hands and started to pull. The same way he remembered her trying to pull Jo. The same way she had pulled Michael and Lucifer, straight out of Sammy and Adam.
Only this time, green light poured out of Bobby’s hands and over Her’s, and it didn't stop. She was screaming like it hurt. Dean lurched forward to grab Her, but Cas grabbed his arm held him back.
“Bo- Bottle-“ She rasped. “I- I need- I need a bottle-“
Jo moved before Dean could. She poured out root beer onto the pavement and passed the plastic bottle into Her hands.
She pushed the green light inside. Closed the cap and crumbled back against the seats, holding it tight to Her chest.
The worst, most broken sob Dean had ever heard fell from Her lips. She trembled, curling into a protective ball around the bottle. Dean shoved Cas off and fell to his knees at Her side. He folded over Her, blocking Bobby’s body from her view.
“I- I couldn’t- I tried but I couldn’t- He wouldn’t let me-“
“I know.” Dean kissed Her head, tears burning down his own cheeks. “I know, baby, I- I know.”
She didn’t seem to be able to get another word out. The thunder roared, and Dean held Her tight.
He wasn’t going to move for a long, long time
✦End note: i have. nothing to say in my defense. im just begging you guys to trust atp lmao. if it makes you feel better this chapter took me an extra hour to write bc i kept crying and needing to take breaks. so. we're in this together.
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Actually its a miracle these two can pull off any plans like this.
The montage of everything shes going through now is making me reflect—like its a shitty situation, that can only get worse and Dean is happy because its still relatively ok? Princess is not mad enough at God.
Oh no. “Dean’s been smiling a lot”. Happiness is supposed to last— but around here that’s a major flag. (I’m trying to interpret the author’s not positively).
Tap dancing on Johnny’s grave? Ayyyeee💃🕺🪩
What is a walk in the park without a little kidnapping and aggravated assault?
Oh shit. Here go the crappy relatives. What a day yall. What a day.
Someone help Dean.
“Daddies”? Hey! That’s craaazy.💀
Frank id not wrong.
I missed Crowley Lowkey. His flamboyant, fruity way of talking just brings a sort of je ne sais quoi to the place.
Dean saying he might deserve her wrath because he loves her is a victory of conscience that cannot go unpraised. I love to see character growth 😭👏👏
John Winchester is a Bitch. Parents should be nice yo their kids.
HOLY SHIT. I’m just like Dean, I forgot she was bulletproof.
