Reading in Peace

Fanfic

[serratwords]

Shadows in the Rearview Mirror.

Author: Hello beautiful people, I hope you enjoy this second chapter. I got very excited making it, if you see any mistakes it's because English is not my first language and I rely on translation programs for the text. If anyone requires the Spanish version, let me know and I'll upload it separately.

Summary: Dean Winchester is fighting the hardest battle of his life: keeping silent about what he feels for his brother's woman

Chapter 1 here

+18

Chapter Two

The kiss at the dawn’s break wasn’t a solution; it was the missing spark.

For days, the atmosphere in the bunker grew thick, almost suffocating. Sam, with that quiet insight he sometimes developed when he spent too much time buried in books, began to notice the changes. They weren’t obvious at first: they were the sudden silences when he walked into the kitchen, the glances that awkwardly averted from each other a split second too soon, and above all, the way Dean had stopped looking him in the eye with the same ease as before.

“Have you two… been arguing about something?” Sam asked one afternoon, looking up from an old grimoire while she wiped down the table a little too vigorously.

Dean’s heart, as he stood by the radio console at the other end of the room, gave a violent lurch. He felt cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

She froze with the rag in her hand, her jaw tense, before forcing a smile too fragile to be believable.

“No, Sam. Everything’s fine. We’re just… tired. The hunts are taking their toll on us.”

Sam stared at her for a long time, analyzing every gesture, feeling deep in his gut that something didn’t add up, even though his mind refused to grasp the true magnitude of the betrayal. To Sam, his older brother was the unshakable pillar of the universe; it would never cross his mind that Dean could desire the one sacred thing he possessed.

But lies have short legs, and in the world of the Winchesters, secrets never die in silence.

That very night, fate decided to collect its debt. An emergency call on John Winchester’s old landline sent them straight on a lightning-fast hunt on the outskirts of Lawrence. A nest of vengeful spirits on an abandoned property.

It was the perfect plan to keep their distance—or so Dean thought when they got into the Impala. Sam was in the passenger seat, checking the map with a flashlight, while she sat in the back seat, silent, her gaze fixed on the back of Dean’s neck through the reflection in the rearview mirror.

Inside the old, abandoned house, the air smelled of dampness, decay, and ozone. The three of them entered with their shotguns raised, their flashlights sweeping the dark, dust-covered corners.

“Let’s split up,” Dean ordered in a hoarse voice, creating the distance he desperately needed. “Sam, check the basement. She and I will secure the upper floor.”

Sam hesitated for a second, but nodded and headed down the dark hallway toward the basement stairs.

As soon as the creak of Sam’s boots faded downward, Dean slammed the upstairs door shut and braced his back against the rotten wood. The shotgun trembled slightly in his hands. The tension that had built up over weeks erupted without warning.

She came over immediately, her dark eyes shining in the dim light, her breathing rapid.

“This is falling apart, Dean,” she whispered urgently, taking a step toward him. “Sam’s going to get suspicious. He already is. We have to—”

“What do you want us to do?” Dean interrupted her, his voice breaking, dropping the gun to the floor and losing the last shred of control he had left. “Pretend I didn’t see you? Pretend I’m not rotting inside every time you touch him? Tell me! Tell me how the hell we turn this shit off!” She didn’t back away. On the contrary, she closed the distance between them, reaching out to touch his chest, right where his heart was pounding wildly.

“It can’t be turned off,” she murmured with a courage that bordered on madness. “And you know it.”

Before Dean could answer, before he could kiss her again or push her away to save what little remained of his loyalty, a metallic crash echoed from the floor below. Sam’s stifled scream shattered the silence of the house like broken glass.

Dean felt his soul sink to his feet. Reality, raw and merciless, hit them like a ton of bricks.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, pulling away from her in desperation and lunging toward the door.

But as he ran down the stairs toward the dark basement, his heart in his throat and his hands ready to fire, Dean knew there was no turning back. They had crossed the threshold of doom, and the price of that forbidden love was about to be paid in blood.

The flashlight’s beam flickered off the damp stone walls of the basement, revealing a scene that made Dean’s blood run cold.

Sam was leaning against a support column, his jacket torn at the shoulder and a deep, bleeding wound running across his arm—inflicted by a rusty blade that the vengeful spirit had managed to wield. But what stopped Dean in his tracks, leaving him breathless, wasn’t his brother’s blood or the imminent danger.

It was the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from behind him.

She ran down the stairs, her face pale with panic. Seeing Sam wounded, her natural instinct drove her to rush forward to help him. But halfway down, with the basement light illuminating the scene, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Her eyes darted from Sam—bleeding, vulnerable, trusting them blindly—to Dean, who was staring at her desperately from the bottom of the stairs.

A chilling, brutal realization flashed across her face. The guilt, until that moment contained in whispers and stolen glances, transformed into something much sharper: pure terror. She realized with absolute clarity that the shadow into which they were falling was not just a moral betrayal; it was a deadly abyss that would devour all three of them, and that the next victim would not be her pride, but Sam’s life.

A shudder ran through her entire body. And, for the first time since all this had begun, she took a step back.

The sound of his boot against the wooden step echoed like a gunshot in the silence of the basement. He took another step back, away from Dean, putting a physical and irrevocable distance between them. His eyes, once filled with a dangerous urgency, were now filled with desperate fear and a line drawn in blood. No more.

“Sam!” she cried out, her voice trembling, finally kneeling beside her boyfriend, pressing her hands against the wound to stop the bleeding, but completely avoiding eye contact with Dean.

Dean stood frozen in the background, his heart shattered and his fists clenched so tightly they hurt. He watched as she tended to his brother with desperate efficiency, her body leaning entirely toward Sam, marking the invisible boundary that had just been erected between them.

There were no words. None were necessary.

The step back she had taken was a verdict. The fire that had consumed them for weeks was still burning, but now it was surrounded by walls of ice. They had crossed a line from which there was no turning back, and the pain of watching her care for her brother with that guilt gnawing at her from within was, for Dean, the deepest and quietest wound he would ever suffer.

.

The silence in the bunker had never felt as heavy as it did on those nights.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, a half-finished bottle of beer in his hands, staring blankly at the gray concrete wall. Through it, seeping through the ventilation ducts and the flimsy insulation of the underground rooms, the sound reached him like a constant, agonizing drip.

He could hear laughter from the next room. Low, almost imperceptible murmurs, followed by that light, knowing laughter she reserved only for Sam. To anyone else, it would be a tender scene—proof that his younger brother was finally finding a little peace amid the chaos of the world. But to Dean, every echo was a blade slowly turning in his chest.

And then, the sound would change. The sighs of intimacy floated through the dimly lit hallway, seeping through the closed door like a ruthless reminder of what would never be his.

Dean closed his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw until his muscles ached, trying to block out the sound. He cupped his ears, cursing silently that he couldn’t shut off his sense of hearing, that he was condemned to witness the happiness of others from the shadows. It was a cruel penance: to have the memory of her lips burning on his skin and, at the same time, to have to listen to another man claiming his rightful claim to love her in broad daylight.

The distance she had imposed in the basement of that abandoned house became an unwritten law inside the bunker. There were no more stolen glances in the library, no calculated brushes in the kitchen, no silent conversations in the dim light of midnight. She played her part with surgical precision: she smiled at Sam, tended to his scrapes with devoted tenderness, and avoided Dean with the discipline of someone trying to put out a wildfire with buckets of water.

For Dean, that cold, invisible wall was far worse than the danger of their previous secret. At least before there had been fire, there had been a spark, there had been mutual validation amid the guilt. Now all that remained was an icy void and the crushing certainty that she had chosen the right path—the only safe one.

But the mind of a broken hunter doesn’t know how to put itself on pause.

One early morning, when the weight of insomnia pushed him out of bed, Dean walked down the dark hallway looking for a beer in the kitchen. He moved slowly, barefoot, trying not to make a sound. As he passed Sam’s room, he stopped short.

The door was ajar by just a couple of centimeters, letting out a sliver of warm light and the murmur of a hushed conversation.

Dean froze, turned into a statue of flesh and blood trapped in his own perversion. He didn’t want to listen; he swore to himself he’d turn around and leave, but his feet refused to obey.

“What are you thinking about?” Sam’s voice sounded soft, hoarse from sleep, wrapped in that absolute intimacy that existed only between them.

A brief silence lingered before she replied with a barely perceptible sigh:

“Nothing, Sam. I’m just… tired. Go to sleep.”

A few seconds later, he heard the subtle sound of skin brushing against the sheets, a slow, rhythmic movement that gave way to a muffled, tender sigh. The definitive proof that they were together, that they shared the space, the skin, and the dreams that Dean had dared to steal for just one night.

Dean’s chest tightened so violently that he felt a real crack in his ribs. The air caught in his throat, burning like acid. He took a step back, staggering slightly, his eyes blazing with a furious, silent frustration.

He turned and fled in long strides toward his room, slamming the door shut with a dull thud that nearly woke the entire shelter. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his trembling hands, clenching his teeth so hard he tasted the metallic flavor of blood.

Sanity had won. Sam had won. She had returned to her rightful place. But Dean’s soul was bleeding out from within, condemned to hear the exact sound of his own condemnation every single day.

Thirty days.

Thirty days of avoiding each other in the bunker’s narrow hallways, of weighing every word in Sam’s presence, of looking away with a military discipline that was tearing both of them apart inside. She had kept her promise: she had clung to Sam with ironclad devotion, built an invisible wall of ice around Dean, and refused to give temptation even a single second more of oxygen.

For Dean, that month had felt like a slow-burning sentence. He’d tried to take refuge in the hunts, in the Impala’s engine, and in the silence of his room, but the echo of what they’d once brushed against remained intact, lurking in every dark corner.

Until the wall came crashing down.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Sam had gone into town to restock the first-aid kit and food supplies, leaving them alone at the hideout for a couple of hours.

Dean was in the armory, sitting at a workbench as he absentmindedly cleaned the barrel of a shotgun. The rhythmic, metallic sound was the only thing breaking the deathly silence of the bunker

.

He heard the footsteps before he saw her. Light, hesitant, approaching down the hallway. His heart gave a violent lurch, a sharp jolt against his ribs that took his breath away. He looked up slowly.

There she was, standing in the doorway. Her hair was loose, her face pale, and her eyes wide, weighed down by the unbearable burden of an entire month of failed resistance. There was no coldness in her posture; only absolute, trembling surrender.

Dean stood motionless, the shotgun and rag suspended in the air. Neither of them said a word for what seemed like long seconds. The air in the bunker grew thick, electric, charged with the static electricity of the forbidden.

She took a step forward. Then another, crossing the line she had drawn for herself in the basement of that abandoned house. Each step echoed definitively through the room.

She stopped just a couple of steps away. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, as if she were trying to hold onto the shards of her own self-control that were crumbling away at that very moment.

She looked him in the eyes with a mixture of desperation and pain that made Dean’s heart sink.

“I tried to do it,” she whispered, her voice breaking, a thread of sound that barely managed to cross the space between them. “I swear I tried every damn day. Not to look back. Not to look for you. To be what I’m supposed to be.” Dean slowly set the shotgun down on the table, his hands stiff, unable to tear his gaze away from her lips.

“You did the right thing,” he replied, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper in the dim light. “Sam...”

“Don’t say his name,” she interrupted him in a heart-wrenching tone, taking the final step that closed the distance between them completely. “Not this time.”

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with held-back tears, and let out the confession she’d been choking back for thirty endless days:

“I can’t do this anymore, Dean. I miss you.”

The words fell into the armory with the weight of a death sentence. There was no hesitation, no alibis, and no moral excuses that held any weight. The wall of ice evaporated in a second, devoured once again by the uncontrollable fire that they had both tried in vain to extinguish.

Dean let out a trembling sigh—a sound that had been stuck in his chest for a month—and before his mind could remind him of the consequences, he reached out, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her hard against his body, sealing the end of their truce with a hungry, desperate kiss.

The kiss had none of the caution of their first; it was a clash of urgency and pent-up hunger, the violent release of thirty days of forced abstinence. Dean pressed her against his body so tightly that it seemed as though he wanted to fuse her with his own ribs, as if by doing so he could erase the entire month of distance, the whispers in the next room, and the perpetual ghost of his brother.

She clung desperately to the lapels of his jacket, burying her fingers in the rough fabric, returning the kiss with the same ravenous hunger. The sound of their ragged breathing echoed off the metal walls and weapons in the armory, turning the sanctuary into the scene of utter betrayal. The hunters’ rules no longer mattered, nor did the blood oaths, nor the inevitable pain looming over them. In that dark corner of the bunker, the entire universe was reduced to the heat of their bodies and the echo of a truth they could no longer deny.

A sharp sound rang out in the bunker’s main hallway. The familiar echo of heavy boots on the concrete floor, followed by the clatter of keys falling onto the table by the entrance.

Sam.

Time seemed to shatter. She opened her eyes with a start, pulling away from Dean in a jolt, her face pale with utter terror, her breath caught in her throat.

The air left Dean’s lungs in a harsh hiss.

Through the doorway of the armory, his heart pounding against his ribs like a runaway hammer, Dean watched her stagger backward until she was hidden in the shadows of the corner. She pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to stifle a choked sob, her eyes flooded with a terror that paralyzed them both.

In the distance, down the main hallway, they heard Sam’s footsteps approaching calmly. The sound of his jacket brushing against the wall, a weary sigh, and then the creak of his bedroom door closing at the far end of the hallway.

Click. The latch. Sam was inside.

They’d been millimeters away from total disaster. The weight of the bullet they’d just dodged hung in the room, dense, suffocating, steeped in adrenaline so cold it burned.

She leaned against the metal bookshelf, her knees shaking so badly she could barely stand, and closed her eyes, letting a silent tear roll down her cheek. They’d bought themselves some time. They were still safe. The secret remained buried beneath the bunker’s concrete floor.

But Dean, his hands still trembling and his breath ragged, knew at that very moment that the Winchesters’ luck wouldn’t last forever. The fire was already too close to the gunpowder.

The silence in the armory remained thick, heavy with the echo of the danger they’d just narrowly avoided, when she—her voice still trembling with fear and guilt—broke the ice.

“Dean… it’s not just a choice,” she whispered, moving a little closer, searching for his eyes in the dim light with raw sincerity. “I don’t want to have to choose.”

Dean stood motionless. The echo of Sam’s door slamming at the end of the hallway still rang in his ears, but her words hit him with unexpected force. He stared at her, frowning, trying to process the weight of what she was implying.

She looked down for a second before meeting his gaze again, shedding any pretense.

“I love him. He gives me peace, he takes care of me, he’s the light in the midst of all this hell,” she confessed, a lump in her throat. “But I love you, Dean. I love the fire, I love what you awaken in me, I love this madness I can’t put out. I love you both. And I know it sounds impossible, I know it breaks all the rules… but I can’t tear either half of my heart away.—

For any other man, the idea would have been an unforgivable affront, a breeding ground for raging jealousy and possessiveness. But Dean Winchester was no ordinary man, and his mind—accustomed to bearing impossible burdens of guilt and living on the edge of the abyss—processed the revelation with a grueling slowness that soon gave way to an overwhelming truth.

Share?

He thought of Sam. He thought of the laughter in the next room, of the kisses in the daylight, of his brother’s rightful claim to her. And then he thought of the hell that was living without touching her, of the suffocation of the last thirty days, of the taste of her lips that had just rescued him from the brink of madness.

A bitter, almost resigned smile slowly spread across Dean’s lips. He ran a hand over his face, exhausted from fighting against his own nature, and took a step forward to close the distance.

“Share?” Dean repeated in a hoarse whisper, his voice a mix of danger and total surrender. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking for, sweetheart?”

She nodded slowly, swallowing hard, without looking away.

Dean gently cupped her chin, leaning in until their lips barely touched, knowing full well that he’d just made a pact with the devil. He’d accept the crumbs, he’d accept the shadow, he’d accept being his brother’s darkest secret—as long as he never had to spend another single day dying of thirst on the shore.

“To hell with the world, then,” Dean murmured against her mouth before kissing her again, sealing a clandestine agreement where guilt no longer mattered, and where the two brothers, without knowing it, shared the only woman capable of destroying them.

.

Midnight in the bunker isn’t just a time of day; it’s a physical state. A lawless territory where the lights in the hallways flicker lazily and the ghosts of the past come out to stretch their legs.

Dean walks in the dark toward the kitchen, his bare feet on the cold concrete, looking for a bottle of water to bring down the invisible fever throbbing in his temples. Tired of tossing and turning in a bed that feels too big and empty. As he rounds the corner of the main hallway, he senses her before he sees her. The subtle scent of her perfume mingling with the smell of old paper and metal in the shelter.

She’s there, leaning against the stone wall, shrouded in the dim light, her arms crossed over her chest as if trying to hold back her heartbeat. Hearing the soft sound of Dean’s footsteps, she pauses and looks up. In the total darkness, he can barely make out the outline of her silhouette and the intense gleam in her eyes, fixed on him.

There’s nowhere to run. Sam’s bedrooms are just a few meters away, on the other side of that same wall, but at this very moment, the outside world has vanished completely.

Dean stops halfway. His breathing grows heavier, a rhythm just a few inches away that sets the pace for a tension impossible to sustain for long. Without a word, closing the distance with a slow, deliberate movement, Dean steps forward until he’s standing right in front of her. The darkness swallows them, hiding their regrets, the hunters’ rules, and his brother’s name, which hovers like a silent reminder in the air.

She doesn’t back away. This time, there are no steps backward.

On the contrary, she reaches out a hand into the gloom and brushes his cheek with her fingertips—a warm, electric touch that burns hotter than any fire. Dean closes his eyes for a second, surrendering to the weight of the inevitable, before leaning in to kiss her lips in the darkness. It is a clandestine encounter, a silent pact born on the edge of the abyss. There are no promises of a future or happy endings in a world of monsters; only the urgency of two broken souls who, in the dead of night, decide to burn together.

When Dean pinned her against the wall, the air turned to embers. There was no room for the courtesy of doubt or the restraint of guilt. The silent pact to share pierced her skin with the force of an ancestral, voracious need. She exhaled a trembling sigh that was lost in Dean’s mouth—a broken sound he devoured immediately, absorbing every ounce of resistance until nothing remained of the prudent woman who looked after Sam on afternoons in the library.

Dean’s hands roamed her back with a rough desperation, clinging to the fabric, molding her body against his as if he intended to erase the dividing line between them, as if he wanted to merge into a single creature of flesh and sin. Every touch was a third-degree burn, a physical reminder that they were playing with pure fire.

She clung to his neck, digging her fingers into the nape of his neck, pulling him toward her with the same savage urgency. Her lips parted with feverish abandon, hungry for the contact denied to them in broad daylight. There was no tenderness there; there was hunger, a thirst built up over weeks of silences and forbidden glances that demanded to be quenched with a barrage of kisses and ragged breaths.

Dean’s pulse pounded in his temples. He felt the heat of her skin seeping through her clothes, burning his hands, setting his blood ablaze to the point where pain and pleasure became one and the same. It didn’t matter that his brother was sleeping on the other side of that very same concrete wall.

“When will you be mine?” Dean’s large hands traced her silhouette through her clothes.

“Soon,” she whispered.

The echo of that promise hung suspended in the thick air of the hallway, pulsing with the force of an ultimatum.

Dean felt the ground beneath his feet grow unstable. The word floated between them like a provocation and a condemnation, stoking an anxiety that burned in his gut. For a man accustomed to living on the edge, hunting monsters, and solving everything with gunfire, the wait was unbearable torture. He didn’t know how much longer his self-control—or hers—would hold out before the bomb exploded right before Sam’s eyes.

“Soon isn’t an answer, damn it,” Dean murmured against her skin, his voice rough, halfway between a plea and pent-up rage, while his fingers still held the tension of that touch. “What does ‘soon’ mean? Tomorrow? On the next hunt? Or when this finally destroys all three of us?”

She looked up in the dim light, her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of equally ragged breathing, holding his gaze with a courage that took Dean’s breath away. She knew that every second they spent there was a game of Russian roulette, but neither of the two broken souls burning in that darkness had the strength to take that final step back.

The darkness of the hallway seemed to close in on them, turning every second into a test of endurance.

“I can’t give you a date on the calendar, Dean,” she murmured in a whisper, though her hands sought out his face in the dim light, caressing his cheek with trembling desperation. “But I promise you the moment will come. Just… give me a little more time. You have to be patient.”

“Patience?” Dean blurted out with a bitter, dry laugh that barely touched his lips. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me? You’re asking me to be patient while I watch you sleep in the next room, while you touch him, while I burn alive every time you breathe my name in the darkness.”

The weight of her own demand fell on both their shoulders. They knew there was zero room for error. One false move, one glance too long in broad daylight, or one ill-timed noise in the early morning, and the fragile balance of the bunker would collapse, dragging them all to the bottom of the abyss.

She leaned in a little closer, brushing her lips against his in a silent promise—a last, desperate touch before reality forced them apart.

“Trust me,” she whispered against his mouth, before slipping stealthily down the dark hallway, leaving him alone with the echo of his racing heartbeat and the fire burning beneath his skin.

Dean stood motionless in the dim light for what seemed like long minutes, his fists clenched and his breathing heavy, knowing he had just accepted the worst kind of sentence: to wait in the shadows for the day when everything would explode

..

Night fell without warning—not with thunder or apocalyptic signs, but with the heavy silence of three in the morning. Sam slept soundly at the end of the hallway, exhausted after a week of tracking a nest of shape-shifters on the outskirts. In the bunker, nothing could be heard but the distant hum of the ventilation system and the relentless ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

Dean wasn’t in his bed. He’d been awake for hours, sitting on the edge of his mattress, staring into the darkness of his room, feeling his pulse racing in his temples. An almost imperceptible brush against his doorframe made him jump to his feet, his muscles taut as springs.

She was there.

He didn’t turn on the light. There was no need. In the dim light, her eyes shone with a feverish resolve, stripped of any trace of fear. Her hair was down, and she wore light clothing that ceased to matter the very moment she took that final step into the room and closed the door behind her with a soft, almost reverent click.

The distance they had maintained for months dissolved into thin air.

Dean welcomed her with silent desperation. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against his body so hard that her breath escaped in a broken sigh. This time it wasn’t a stolen kiss in a dark hallway or a secret truce; it was a collision of broken souls that had been dying of thirst on opposite shores for far too long.

“Are you sure?” Dean managed to murmur against her lips, his voice breaking with a terror that had nothing to do with the magnitude of the betrayal they were about to commit.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer, blending her breath with his with absolute certainty.

“There’s no turning back now, Dean,” she whispered against his lips, with a sweetness that burned hotter than fire. “I’m yours.”

The outside world ceased to exist. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, and she responded immediately, wrapping her legs around his waist, trapping him in a tight, desperate embrace.

The weight of her body against his ignited an immediate spark, turning the pent-up tension into a physical urgency impossible to contain. Dean pulled her close to his chest, seeking support from the wall as the outside world—the bunker, the rules, Sam’s presence on the other side of the hallways—faded away completely.

There was no room for tenderness or the subtleties of a romance that didn’t belong to them. Dean had spent too long dying for her, holding his breath every time he heard his brother’s voice on the other side of the wall, building up a dull rage and a desire so voracious that his patience had crumbled through his fingers.

His rough hands didn’t linger to caress; they tore and pulled her clothes aside just enough to force their way through, to end the ridiculous distance that had separated them for months. The contact was a sharp jolt, a burning friction of skin against skin that made a hoarse moan escape from both of them, muffled in the darkness of the room.

Dean pushed her against the edge of the mattress and thrust into her with a deep, relentless stroke, guided by a primal, savage instinct. It wasn’t peaceful love; it was a raging fire, a mutual punishment for the guilt they carried—and, at the same time, the only way they knew how to survive. Each thrust was a fierce demand, the echo of all those sleepless nights, of the whispers heard through the duct, of the pure poison of knowing they were traitors and not caring in the slightest.

She clung to his shoulders, digging her nails into his skin hard enough to leave scarlet marks, arching beneath his weight and receiving him with the same fury with which he devoured her. Their breathing turned into ragged gasps, a heavy sound that filled the room while the outside world—the bunker and Sam sleeping at the end of the hallway—ceased to matter entirely in the face of the blind fire that was consuming them to the bone.

.

.

Life in the bunker had become a subtle exercise in torture and survival. In the light of day, under the bright ceiling and the unspoken rules of coexistence, Sam remained the center of their shared world: they shared coffee in the kitchen, maps on the library table, and conversations about the next hunt. But beneath that surface of familiar normality, a high-voltage undercurrent ran—a dark secret that threatened to electrocute them at any moment.

That afternoon, Sam had gone out to check the cameras along the outer perimeter. The silence of the vast library was broken only by the rustling of pages and the distant hum of the floor lamp.

She was standing by the tallest shelves, looking for an old volume in the occult section. She was wearing a light, floral dress—a summery garment that broke the gray monotony of the shelter and which, in Dean’s eyes, was an unforgivable provocation. The hem fell just above her knees, revealing her legs.

Dean, who was sitting at the far end of the long table with a book he wasn’t even reading, felt his pulse quicken immediately. The furtive touches and fleeting kisses in the dark hallways were no longer enough; his pent-up hunger was a fever burning in his hands.

He rose with slow, deliberate steps, making no sound on the wooden and stone floor.

She was stretching her arms upward to reach a heavy book on the top shelf, which caused the fabric of her dress to tighten and ride up slightly along her thighs. She was completely distracted.

Dean didn’t say a single word. He reached up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and, with a quick, firm movement, lifted her slightly off the ground, pulling her back until she was hidden among the tall rows of shelves lined with leather and old paper, far from the front door.

She let out a small, stifled cry of surprise, but before she could say his name, Dean pressed her against the cold back of the bookshelves.

“You’re crazy if you think you can dress like that and walk right in front of me as if nothing’s wrong,” Dean murmured against her ear, his voice rough, trembling with unbridled urgency.

Without giving her time to respond, he crouched down with cat-like speed. He gripped her thighs with both hands, roughly pulling the fabric of her dress upward, and buried his lips in the soft skin of her inner thigh. A fiery, wet, desperate kiss that slowly trailed up her thigh, causing her to hold her breath and cling tightly to Dean’s shoulders, digging her fingers into his jacket to keep from collapsing.

“Make up an excuse—I want you in my bed tonight,” Dean said as he stood up.

The command hung in the air of the library, imbued with a rabid possessiveness that contrasted brutally with the dust of the ancient books and the solemn silence of the bunker. Dean sat up slowly, adjusting his jacket with mechanical gestures, while he looked at her with dark eyes, demanding her willing submission to this dangerous game.

Just a few minutes later, the echo of Sam’s footsteps reverberated down the main hallway. The younger brother was returning from checking the perimeter, opening the heavy door with a weary sigh and brushing the dust off his shoulders.

“All clear outside,” Sam announced, walking straight to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of cold water. “No strange movements within a five-kilometer radius.”

She stood by the shelves, her pulse still racing from Dean’s proximity, forcing herself to breathe normally before turning to Sam with a rehearsed but convincing smile.

“Thank goodness, because I think my head’s going to explode tonight,” she said, rubbing her temples with theatrical exhaustion, feigning utter fatigue. “I think all this reading and the air out here are taking their toll on me. I’m going to have a light dinner and lock myself in my room early to sleep. If anyone comes looking for me, don’t even wake me up.”

Sam turned with a look of genuine concern, stepping closer to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Are you sure? Do you want me to bring you something to eat or an aspirin?”

“No, don’t worry, Sammy. I just need some quiet and a full night’s sleep,” she replied, holding his gaze with the ease of someone who has deception etched into her very skin, before giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good night, both of you.”

Across the table, Dean stood with his arms crossed, watching the scene with a clenched jaw and an inner fire burning at full force. He watched as she walked slowly away toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms, leaving them behind.

The trap was set. The perfect alibi, made possible by Sam’s own blind trust.

Now all that remained was to wait for the lights in the bunker to go out completely and for the silence of the early morning to open the door to hell for them.

[serratwords]

Tonight there’s an update for chapter two of Shadows in the Rearview Mirror.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I’m loving writing it. Dean is starting to lose control

[serratwords]

Broken light, bitter love.

Summary: Castiel and Meg find their brief sanctuary before the inevitable end.

Meg pressed her hands against the wound on Castiel’s side as the golden light of his grace, now broken and uncontrolled, burned the skin of her demonic hands. Despite the unbearable pain of feeling celestial fire consuming her, she did not pull away. In that nursing home, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and the constant hum of muted televisions, the entire universe seemed reduced to that small room and the impossible distance between a shattered angel and a factionless demon.

The touch that burns:Castiel lay on the white sheets, his gaze lost in the shadows of the ceiling. Whenever visions of Hell and Purgatory collapsed inside his mind, only Meg’s firm grip managed to anchor him to reality.

"You're burning me, Clarence," she murmured with a crooked smile, tears of actual pain threatening to fall as her fingers molded to the angel's jaw line. "But I guess you've always had terrible taste in nurses."

A moment of clarity: Castiel turned his head slowly. For a second, the fog of his madness cleared, and his deep, infinite blue eyes locked onto hers. He recognized the pain on Meg’s face—not just from the physical burn, but from the abyss they both shared.

The bitter kiss: With neither the rules of Heaven nor the orders of Hell weighing on their shoulders, Castiel leaned forward. It was an awkwardly human kiss, desperate and heavy with a tragic love: the dying light of a celestial being taking refuge in the darkness of a creature of Hell.

When they pulled apart, Meg rested her forehead against his, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She knew that the Hellhounds or Naomi’s angels wouldn't take long to find them, and that for a demon and a fallen angel, there was no "happily ever after."

"You're an idiot, Clarence," Meg whispered, her voice cracking as she stroked his cheek with a burned hand. "A beautiful idiot of the Lord."

Castiel blinked, and the clarity began to fade from his eyes, sinking once more into the chaos of his mind. Yet, his hand did not let go of Meg’s all night long.

.

.

Meg pressed her hands against the wound in Castiel's side as the golden light of his grace, now broken and out of control, burned the skin of her demonic hands. Despite the unbearable pain of feeling celestial fire consuming her, she didn't pull away. In that nursing home, surrounded by the smell of rain, antiseptic, and the constant hum of playing televisions, the entire universe seemed reduced to that small room and the impossible distance between a destroyed angel and a demon without a side.

He didn't move; he lay on the white sheets with his gaze lost in the shadows of the ceiling, muttering fragments of prophecies, poems, and ancient prayers in a language no mortal would ever understand. Whenever the visions of Hell and Purgatory collapsed inside his mind, only Meg's firm grip managed to anchor him.

She sighed, gently running the damp sponge across his cheek. There was something deeply cruel about seeing a warrior of Heaven reduced to this, a hollow shell filled with celestial noise.

"Come on, Clarence," Meg whispered, resting her hand against his with a crooked smile, as tears of genuine pain threatened to fall from the burn. "Come back for a second. I miss my stiff angel. Though I suppose you've always had terrible taste in nurses."

Suddenly, the endless muttering in Castiel's throat stopped dead. The silence in the room became absolute. Castiel blinked slowly, and his blue eyes—cleared of the fog of madness and charged with a devastating intensity—focused directly on hers.

"Meg."

The tone was not that of a lost patient, but the deep, resonant voice she remembered. Meg froze.

"Clarence... are you in there?"

"For a moment. Only a moment," he said, breathing with difficulty, as if holding control of his own mind demanded a monumental effort. His hand, firm and warm, covered hers, gently trapping it. "I know what you're doing for me. I know the danger you're in."

Meg tried to let out a sarcastic laugh to hide the lump in her throat, but her voice failed her.

"Don't get used to it, angel. I'm just taking care of my investment."

Castiel didn't smile. He sat up slowly, closing the distance between them. With a almost sacred slowness, he raised his other hand and brushed Meg's cheekbone with his knuckles. A touch so soft it seemed impossible coming from a being capable of destroying mountains.

"You are a demon," he whispered, searching every feature of her face as if trying to memorize it before the shadows covered his mind again. "And I am an angel of the Lord. We are supposed to be the beginning and the end of each other's destruction."

"Screw Heaven and Hell, Castiel," she whispered, leaning closer, unable to look away. "Neither of us fits in there anyway."

"I know," Castiel replied.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't a divine act or a celestial miracle; it was a desperate collision of two broken creatures, an awkwardly human kiss, the dying light of a heavenly being taking refuge in the darkness of a creature from Hell. Meg choked back a groan against his lips, feeling the searing heat of Castiel's grace enfold her. It was a fire that should have purged her, but instead, it comforted her. She gripped the lapels of his trench coat tightly, fearing that if she let go, he would fade away.

The kiss tasted of anguish, of borrowed time, and of the tragic certainty that fate would never allow them to stay together. She knew Hell's hounds or Naomi's angels wouldn't take long to find them, and that for a demon and a fallen angel, there was no such thing as "happily ever after."

When Castiel pulled back just a few millimeters, their foreheads remained rested together. The angel's pulse was racing, his breathing ragged.

"I will be gone again soon," he said, his voice breaking, feeling the murmurs in his head starting to swell once more. "The fog... it's coming back."

"It doesn't matter," Meg said, pressing her cheek against his, closing her eyes to hold back the tears. "You beautiful idiot of the Lord. I found you once in the shadows. I'll do it again."

Castiel's gaze began to unfocus. The golden light behind his pupils flickered and went dark. His grip on Meg's hand loosened, and his lips returned to muttering the names of extinct stars and meaningless numbers. Sanity was gone. But Meg stayed right there, lacing her fingers with his in the dark, knowing that for a brief moment, the angel and the demon had found their own paradise.

[serratwords]

Shadows in the Rearview Mirror

Summary: Dean Winchester is fighting the hardest battle of his life: keeping silent about what he feels for his brother's woman

Shadows in the Rearview Mirror

The Impala's engine growls with a familiarity that churns Dean's insides. Through the rearview mirror, he sees them. There they are, in the backseat of the safehouse or squeezed into the cab after a long hunt, sharing a silence that tastes like broken glass to Dean. She takes Sam's hand. A simple, earthly, everyday gesture.

For Dean, it's a blade slowly twisting in his diaphragm.

He grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. He instantly looks away, fixing his eyes on the empty Nebraska highway, but the damage is already done. The image burns into his retina like a magnesium flash. Sam. His little brother. The kid he promised to protect from everything in this godforsaken world. And now, the owner of the only thing Dean silently longs for, with no right to ask for it, without even being able to name it.

She is everything that shouldn't matter: the weakness, the distraction, the weak link in a life dedicated to survival. But for Dean, she has become the air burning his lungs.

.

.

When the light finally goes out and the Men of Letters bunker plunges into a sepulchral silence, Dean retreats to his room. He bolts the door, as if that could keep out the ghosts that stalk him even when he's awake. He throws himself onto the bed without taking off his boots, staring at the concrete ceiling.

He closes his eyes. And then, it begins.

The real world fades away, and Dean's mind takes control, weaving the only reality where he is allowed to be happy.

In his first dream, they are in a forgotten cabin in the middle of an Oregon forest. There are no monsters, no ancient magic books, no distress calls on his dad's emergency line. It's raining hard outside, drumming against the windowpanes. She is standing by the fireplace, wearing an oversized flannel shirt and holding a steaming mug of coffee. When Dean approaches her, she doesn't back away; she turns, smiles with that complicity that in the waking world belongs to Sam, and drops the mug to wrap her arms around his neck. Here is ours, she whispers in his ear as the firelight illuminates her face. Just us.

The scene changes, capricious and feverish.

A warmer version appears, golden in the sun of a dusty Texas highway. The two of them are alone in the Impala, windows rolled down, Classic Rock cranked to maximum volume. She is in the passenger seat, arm resting on the window, the wind ruffling her hair. At a stop in the middle of nowhere, under the starry desert sky, she sits on the hood of the car, laughing at a silly joke Dean just told. He pulls her by the waist, brings her close until he feels the heat of her body against his, and kisses her with contained desperation, knowing that in this parallel universe, there is no brother to betray.

It's always the same. Time period, place, or circumstances don't matter. In Dean's dreams, she is never Sam's. In Dean's dreams, she is always, irrevocably, his.

.

.

A blast of cold air cuts through the room when his mind's invisible alarm goes off. Dean's eyes snap open. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving violently, and cold sweat trails down his temple.

He sits up abruptly on the bed, hands trembling. He reaches his fingers toward the empty space beside him, searching for the trace of a warmth he knows has never been there. The room is dark, silent, and freezing.

Through the concrete walls, far away, he hears a muffled laugh coming from his brother's room.

Dean runs his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes in frustration, feeling the crushing weight of guilt and loneliness. He gets up, walks to the bathroom, and splashes cold water on his face. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he sees the relentless hunter, the loyal soldier, the broken man who would give his entire soul for a single second of truth that fate has denied him.

He turns off the light, knowing perfectly well that the moment he closes his eyes again, the cycle will start over.

.

.

The exact moment Dean crossed that invisible line is something he prefers to keep buried under layers of denial, alcohol, and last-minute missions. There was no single day on the calendar he could point to as the beginning of the end, but rather a slow, painful accumulation of small moments that crawled under his skin before he could stop them.

It wasn't out of envy for Sam, nor from some dark whim or twisted desire to rip something away from his younger brother. In fact, at first, Dean did the exact opposite: he treated her with distance, with that half-rough, protective attitude he reserved for any civilian who crossed his path and ran the risk of being dragged into the world of monsters. He saw her as Sam's chance at a "normal life," that clean, bright future he knew he could never attain.

But living together in the bunker is a trial by fire for any facade.

It started with almost imperceptible details that piled up in Dean's memory: Late-night kitchen talks: While Sam slept off a heavy hunt, she and Dean would sit in silence drinking cheap coffee or half-flat beer. It was there Dean discovered that she didn't just listen to the nonsense he spouted, but understood the cynical humor he used to armor himself against pain.

Shared vulnerability: In a world where everyone lies to survive, she had a disarming frankness. Dean watched her tend to Sam's wounds with infinite tenderness, but he also caught her looking Dean in the eye and perfectly reading the exhaustion he tried to hide behind an arrogant smile.

The instinct of mutual protection: In a couple of life-or-death close calls, Dean saw her fight tooth and nail, not just for herself, but watching his back too. In a hunter's mind, knowing someone is willing to pull a trigger to save you creates a bond bordering on devotion.

The breaking point happened one night when the three of them were in the library of the sanctuary. Sam had fallen asleep over ancient history books, exhausted. She got up to grab a blanket and, as she passed Dean, tripped slightly on a table leg. Dean caught her by the elbow out of sheer reflex.

The contact lasted barely three seconds. She stayed very close to him, looked him in the eye, smiled with a knowing familiarity, and whispered a "thanks, Dean" before stepping away to cover Sam.

In that exact instant, as he watched her walk back toward his brother, Dean's chest tightened with unusual violence. He didn't feel the warmth of kindness; he felt frozen terror and a stab of jealousy so sharp it cut off his breath. He understood, with a crushing clarity repulsive to his own morals, that he no longer looked at her as Sam's girlfriend. He looked at her as the biggest, most forbidden longing of his life.

Ever since that night, Dean's punishment was complete: every time he saw her smile at his brother, every time Sam's hand intertwined with hers, Dean had to bite down inside, remind himself who he was, and carry the weight of a silent love he knew would burn his soul to the end of his days.

.

.

The bunker was silent, submerged in that dead hour when even the neon lights of the main hallway seemed to flicker with exhaustion. Sam had gone out to scavenge supplies in a nearby town, leaving the two of them alone in the vastness of the underground shelter.

Dean was in the kitchen, pouring coffee that had been reheating for hours, when she walked in. She was wearing one of Sam's worn-out hoodies, hair pulled up in a messy bun, rubbing her eyes. She looked tired, vulnerable, and, to Dean's misfortune, painfully real.

—There's no hot water in my bathroom, again —she said, her voice raspy from sleep, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean turned slowly, steaming coffee mug in hand. He watched her. Every day spent under the same roof, the image of her intertwining hands with Sam had become a daily torture, a constant reminder of his own damnation. But in that moment, in the quiet of the night, with Sam miles away, Dean's mask slipped.

—I'll check the boiler in the morning —he said, his voice sounding harsher than intended.

She nodded and walked toward the coffee maker, passing right by him. The air charged with static electricity. A simple brush of shoulders in a narrow hallway used to be ignored, but right then, it felt like a physical impact.

She paused a second too long, searching his gaze, maybe to thank him, maybe just out of plain courtesy. They locked into a standstill.

Dean's heart slammed against his ribs with treacherous violence. The real world, full of responsibilities and loyalties, vanished. In his mind, occupied by feverish dreams, little brother didn't exist, blood oaths didn't exist. There was only him and the woman who had captured his soul without even trying.

He set the coffee mug down on the counter with a sharp motion, not caring that the liquid splashed.

He moved on pure instinct. He closed the distance between them in a single step, catching her arm to stop her. She spun around, startled, eyes wide, the question dying on her lips.

Dean didn't give her time to think. He didn't ask permission. He leaned in with weeks of contained desperation and pressed his lips against hers.

It was a stolen kiss, a violent rupture of the reality Dean inhabited. It wasn't gentle. It was a silent cry of frustration, a desperate attempt to snatch a forbidden truth for a single moment. For an eternal second, his senses were flooded with the scent of her soap and the taste of his own guilt.

She stood completely still in shock. Time seemed to stop, a breath in which Dean allowed himself the madness of believing that, in another life, he could have been the man kissing her instead of the man guarding her.

Then, the crash of reality returned.

She let out a small gasp of astonishment and pulled away violently, bumping against the counter. Her eyes were filled with confusion and fear, reflecting the chaos Dean had just unleashed. She brought a hand to her lips, as if trying to erase the trace of what had just happened.

Dean stood frozen where he was, hand outstretched in the air, chest heaving. The silence following the kiss was deafening. Guilt struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. He had crossed the final line. He had betrayed his brother's sacred trust, and he knew there was no turning back.

He lowered his gaze, unable to hold her eyes, shame burning his face.

—Dean... —she whispered, voice broken, incredulous.

He raised a hand to stop her, knowing any excuse would only make things worse.

—Go to sleep —he said, his voice shattered.

She looked at him for one more second, a second where the balance of her heart seemed to dangerously tip, but the "Sam's Girlfriend" sign prevailed. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the kitchen, the sound of her hurried footsteps echoing through the bunker.

Dean stood alone, the taste of forbidden love on his lips. He knew she wouldn't tell Sam. She would keep the secret out of loyalty, discomfort, or fear of tearing the Winchester brothers apart from the inside.

But that silence would, from now on, be the cruelest weapon Dean carried, a silent shadow in the rearview mirror of his life, knowing he had stolen a moment that would cost him everything.

.

.

The weight of the unsaid settled in the bunker like an uninvited guest that never left. Three days had passed since the night in the kitchen. Three days of calculated silences, avoiding each other in the hallways, and measuring every word in front of Sam.

But the human body is a terrible traitor, incapable of sustaining a lie of that magnitude when both parties share the same enclosed space.

That afternoon, the three of them were at the large library table. Sam was thumbing through old Men of Letters journals, looking for clues about a shapeshifter nest in Kansas, while devouring a sandwich. She sat across from him, flipping through a tome of ancient maps, distractedly taking notes on a notepad.

Dean, as he usually did to keep his distance, stood by the bookshelves in the back, supposedly cleaning a grenade launcher, though he'd been staring at the exact same spring for ten minutes without touching it.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration.

—This makes no sense —Sam muttered, rubbing his eyes—. The sightings in Wichita don't match up with the attack dates. Hey, could you help me find the 1982 ledger we left in the archive? —Sam asked his girlfriend, standing up and stretching his arms.

She nodded slowly. —Sure.

Sam took a couple of steps toward the archive hallway before stopping and looking sideways at his brother.

—Dean, let us know if you find anything on those maps on the table.

—Yeah, go ahead —Dean replied without looking up from the weapon, making a titanic effort to sound indifferent.

As soon as Sam's footsteps faded down the hall and the archive door clicked shut in the back, the air in the library shifted completely. The tension built over seventy-two hours erupted all at once.

She stayed standing by the table. She didn't turn to Dean right away, but set her pencil down on the paper with a firm movement. She took a deep breath, as if gathering courage, and finally turned her head to look at him.

Their gazes clashed across the large room with the force of a physical impact.

There was no confusion in her eyes this time. The dazed surprise of the kiss night was gone. What filled her gaze was a dangerous mix of reproach, contained tension, and an undeniable spark igniting that same urgency in Dean's chest. It was one of those killing glances, burning from the inside out and stripping away any facade of self-control.

Dean dropped the spring onto the workbench with a sharp clank. The metal echoed in the library's silence.

He didn't say a single word. His dark eyes locked onto hers with voracious intensity, devouring every feature of her face, reminding him of the exact taste of her lips and the echo of the secret they now shared. It was silent communication, a brutal language where both knew perfectly well what the other was thinking: that the bunker was getting too small, guilt was an unbearable burden, and the distance they tried to maintain was a total lie.

She took a step toward the table, chin slightly lifted, holding his gaze without blinking. The challenge in her eyes said: And now what, Dean?

Dean clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ached. He stepped forward, shortening the space between the shelves and the table, feeling the floor beneath his feet catch fire again.

Before he could close the distance entirely, the sound from the hallway shook them hard: the archive door swung open and Sam's voice echoed from afar, asking if they'd found the map.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks, pinned to the spot, heart hammering against his ribs like a hydraulic press. She stepped back immediately, picking up her pencil with slightly trembling hands and pretending to browse the book right as Sam rounded the bookshelf corner with a couple of folders under his arm.

Sam didn't notice a thing. He didn't see the trail of fire that had just crossed the room.

But when Dean looked back up at her, he saw her cheeks still flushed and her lips curved in a tight line. The secret was no longer just a silent weight; it had turned into a time bomb with a lit fuse, fueled by every crossing of glances in the refuge's darkness.

.

.

It was a cruel and subtle irony, a punishment custom-made for him.

Every time Sam hugged her naturally, every time he kissed her forehead passing by, or gave her that open, carefree smile only she could pull from him, Dean's world twisted. To anyone else, those were pure affection, proof his little brother finally had a sliver of happiness amid so much blood and road. But to Dean, each gesture acted like a bucket of ice water dumped straight onto the embers of his own desire.

The fire inside didn't die out peacefully; it died a painful death.

Each display of love between them was a physical, lacerating reminder of his own betrayal. It forced him to step back, swallow hard, and bite the inside of his cheek until tasting the metallic tang of blood while pretending to look away. He's my brother, he repeated like a desperate prayer every time he saw Sam's hand intertwined with hers. He's Sam.

He felt like he was turning into a monster, one of those hunting in the dark, feeding on what didn't belong to him. Guilt consumed him as much as longing. With every caress Sam gave her, Dean felt part of his soul turn to ash, suffocated by the decency he still had left and unyielding loyalty to his blood.

And yet, try as that fire might to kill him from the inside, all it took was for Sam to leave the room, for her to look at him sideways for a single second with the echo of the secret still on her lips, and the ashes flared back to life with unbearable violence. A lost war from the start, where every victory of his brother was Dean's slow, silent defeat.

.

.

The bunker's routine had a methodical cruelty, but nothing compared to the moment the main garage door opened and the rumbling Impala announced the two of them were back from an errand.

That night, Dean was in the kitchen cleaning a gun, trying to keep his mind occupied with cold metal and gun oil. He heard footsteps in the hallway, keys dropping on the entryway table, and muffled laughs. Light, complicit laughs—the kind that only exist when two people completely belong to each other and the rest of the world fades away.

He looked up just in time to see them walk in.

Sam had her on his arm, a carefree smile lighting up his face. She was playing along with a joke Sam must've told her on the drive, cheeks flushed from the night chill. And then, without warning, Sam pulled her to a halt mid-hallway, grabbed her waist, and kissed her.

It wasn't a quick greeting kiss. It was a tender, prolonged kiss born of absolute trust and the certainty that they had all the time in the world.

For Dean, the room's air instantly turned to blades.

The world seemed to halt, reducing to the dull sound of that contact. Sam's lips on hers. The same mouth, the same skin, the same gestures Dean had tasted in the dark, laden with forbidden desperation, now claimed with total right, with the legitimacy of clean love exposed to daylight.

Dean felt his stomach sink into an icy abyss, followed by a searing wave of heat scorching his temples. He gripped the gun's handle so hard his fingers ached.

Looking away would have been the sensible, right thing to do—the only defense mechanism left. But his eyes refused to obey. He stood frozen, watching every detail as if performing self-imposed penance: how she sighed against his brother's lips, how she lifted a hand to tangle in Sam's hair, surrendering to him with the exact naturalness Dean dreamed she'd surrender to him.

Someone else's kisses. The kisses of the man Dean had sworn to protect with his own life.

A spike of jealousy so violent and corrosive ripped through his chest he had to bite hard on his lower lip to keep from growling. His soul hurt, his ribs hurt, his damn pride hurt. He felt slowly suffocated, forced to witness living proof of his own defeat.

When Sam finally pulled back, wearing a goofy smile and breathing slightly heavy, she lowered her gaze. Her eyes wandered down the hall until they bumped into Dean's.

The air between the three instantly tensed. Sam didn't notice, too busy taking off his jacket, but she did. In her eyes, beneath the reflection of Sam's kisses, crossed a flash of guilt, a trace of warning, and—to Dean's absolute terror—a shadow of recognition. She knew exactly what Dean was feeling, because she carried it burning inside herself too.

Dean swallowed hard, forced his muscles to relax, and abruptly looked away, letting the gun drop onto the table with a dry metallic clatter.

He stood up without a word, passing right by them without daring to look at either, and fled to the dark sanctuary of his room, bolting the door behind him, running from lips that would never fully belong to him, yet had permanently moved into his nightmares.

.

.

Fleeing to his room did no good; the bunker's concrete walls only amplified the echo of kisses that weren't his. Choked by the claustrophobia of a shelter turned into his own cell, Dean did the only thing he knew to do when pain threatened to shatter his ribs: he got into the Impala and drove away.

The '67's engine roared, cutting through the Kansas dawn. He drove aimlessly, devouring miles of wet asphalt under a cold drizzle, windows rolled down so the wind would slap his face and numb his thoughts. But neither speed nor Classic Rock at full blast could erase the image of her in Sam's arms.

He needed to shut off his brain. He needed, for a damn night, to stop feeling like he was rotting from the inside out.

He ended up in a dive roadside bar, where neon flickered lazily, smelling of cheap beer and stale tobacco, and nobody asked awkward questions. He sat at the bar and ordered bourbon. One shot, two, three, back-to-back, burning his throat with welcome fury.

Beside him, a woman watched him with an easy smile. She had dark blonde hair, tired nightlife eyes, and a worn denim jacket. She fit the scenery perfectly: a temporary distraction, an anonymous face amid the fog.

—Buy you a drink, or prefer drowning all by yourself? —she asked him in a raspy voice, resting her elbow on the bar and leaning in close enough for her cheap perfume to float in the air.

Dean stared at her. He saw a chance to escape, to fracture the mental loop destroying him. He forced one of his classic charming smiles, that seductive hunter mask that usually worked to perfection.

—You just saved my life, sweetheart —he replied, ordering another glass for her—. Drinks are on me.

That night, Dean let himself be dragged down by noise, alcohol, and a stranger's arms. They ended up in a cheap motel on the outskirts of town. The sheets smelled of industrial detergent, and the mattress squeaked with every movement.

She was warm, willing, and demanded nothing more than what the night could offer. Dean clung to her in desperation. He kissed her hard, traced her skin, sought the heat in her body to freeze the memories haunting him. On the surface, everything worked: her hands on his back, whispers in the dark, the flawless simulation of intimacy.

Player at its peak, right when the woman's eyes closed under his touch, Dean snapped his open in the motel room's darkness.

Highway light flickered through torn curtains. And for a fraction of a second, when he blinked, the face beneath his shifted. In the dim light, he thought he saw her eyes, the exact curve of her lips, the way her hair fell across the pillow.

An icy chill ran down his spine. His chest seized with suffocating guilt.

He pulled away abruptly, breath hitching, leaving the woman plunged in confusion. He sat on the edge of the bed, running trembling hands over his face, feeling pathetic, dirty, and deeply defeated.

He had sought love—or at least refuge—elsewhere, believing any body could erase the thorn stuck in him. But the painful truth hit him like a punch to the stomach: he could sleep with a thousand women, run to the other end of the country, drown in alcohol until blacking out... but his soul, for better or worse, no longer belonged to him. It was inextricably bound to the one woman he couldn't touch.

.

.

The Kansas highway stretched beneath gray dawn light as the Impala finally crossed the bunker gates. Dean's eyes were bloodshot, hands still rigid on the wheel, body heavy from alcohol and insomnia. Every mile driven trying to escape had been a useless reminder of a crushing truth: no matter how far he drove, he always ended up returning to the same hell.

He pushed open the heavy shelter door and slipped inside quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible. But the bunker had rules of its own, and secrets never stay fully hidden in the gloom.

She was there, sitting at the large kitchen table with a mug of cold coffee between her hands. She hadn't slept. The trail of the previous night showed clearly on her face: the same tension, the broken vigil, the unbearable weight of what both kept unsaid.

When Dean crossed the threshold, she looked up. Their gazes met in the empty hallway. There was nowhere left to run, no alibis to invent, no stranger's arms to act as anesthesia.

She slowly stood up. She took a step toward him, breaking the distance imposed for days. Dean stopped, holding his breath, feeling the floor beneath his feet tremble again.

—This is going to destroy us —she whispered, voice breaking, mere inches away, where the scent of coffee and her skin's warmth wrapped around him once more—. You, me... and Sam.

Dean stared at her. He saw his own guilt mirrored in her eyes, but also the undeniable spark neither could extinguish. He knew as well as she did that this world was built on tragedies, that Winchesters had no right to happy endings, and loving someone in their life was always a death or loss sentence.

And yet, for the first time, Dean didn't give a damn about hunter logic.

He reached out a trembling hand, fingers brushing her cheek, feeling her eyes close at the contact, surrendering to the only place they both wanted to be all along.

There was no traditional happy ending for them. In the Supernatural universe, happiness is always paid for in blood, and Sam's pain is a wound branded into Dean's soul. But amidst the ruins, the danger, and the guilt that would devour them alive, Dean leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn't a stolen kiss this time. It was absolute surrender. A silent pact that if they were going to burn in the fires of hell, at least they'd do it together.

Resumen: Dean Winchester libra la batalla más difícil de su vida: callar lo que siente por la mujer de su hermano

Sombras en el Retrovisor

El motor del Impala ronca con una familiaridad que a Dean le revuelve las entrañas. A través del espejo retrovisor, los ve. Ahí están, en el asiento trasero del refugio o apretados en la cabina después de una cacería larga, compartiendo un silencio que a Dean le sabe a cristal roto. Ella le toma la mano a Sam. Un gesto simple, terrenal, cotidiano.

Para Dean, es una cuchilla girando lentamente en el diafragma.

Apreta el volante con tanta fuerza que los nudillos se le ponen blancos. Aparta la mirada de inmediato, clavando los ojos en la carretera vacía de Nebraska, pero el daño ya está hecho. La imagen se le queda grabada en la retina como un fogonazo de magnesio. Sam. Su hermano pequeño. El chico al que prometió proteger de todo en este maldito mundo. Y ahora, el dueño de lo único que Dean anhela en silencio, sin derecho a pedirlo, sin poder siquiera nombrarlo.

Ella es todo lo que no debería importar: la debilidad, la distracción, el eslabón flojo en una vida dedicada a la supervivencia. Pero para Dean, se ha convertido en el aire que le quema los pulmones.

.

.

Cuando la luz finalmente se apaga y el búnker de los hombres de letras se sumerge en un silencio sepulcral, Dean se retira a su habitación. Cierra la puerta con pestillo, como si eso pudiera mantener fuera los fantasmas que lo acechan incluso despierto. Se tira en la cama sin quitarse las botas, mirando el techo de concreto.

Cierra los ojos. Y entonces, empieza.

El mundo real se desvanece y la mente de Dean toma el control, tejiendo la única realidad donde se le permite ser feliz.

En su primer sueño, están en una cabaña olvidada en medio de un bosque en Oregón. No hay monstruos, no hay libros de magia antigua, no hay llamadas de auxilio en la línea de emergencia de su padre. Llueve con fuerza afuera, golpeteando los cristales. Ella está de pie junto a la chimenea, con una camisa de franela que le queda grande y una taza de café humeante entre las manos. Cuando Dean se le acerca, ella no retrocede; se gira, sonríe con esa complicidad que en el mundo despierto le pertenece a Sam, y deja caer la taza para rodearle el cuello con los brazos. Aquí es nuestra, le susurra al oído mientras la luz del fuego ilumina su rostro. Solo nosotros.

El escenario cambia, caprichoso y febril.

Aparece una versión más cálida, dorada por el sol de una carretera polvorienta en Texas. Van los dos solos en el Impala, con las ventanillas bajadas y el volumen de Classic Rock al máximo. Ella va en el asiento del copiloto, con el brazo apoyado en la ventanilla, el viento revuelta su cabello. En una parada en medio de la nada, bajo el cielo estrellado del desierto, ella se sienta en el capó del coche, riendo de una tontería que Dean acaba de decir. Él la toma de la cintura, la acerca hasta sentir el calor de su cuerpo contra el suyo, y la besa con una desesperación contenida, sabiendo que en ese universo paralelo, no existe un hermano al que traicionar.

Siempre es igual. No importa la época, el lugar o las circunstancias. En los sueños de Dean, ella nunca es de Sam. En los sueños de Dean, ella siempre, irremediablemente, es suya.

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Una ráfaga de aire frío cruza la habitación cuando la alarma invisible de su mente se dispara. Dean abre los ojos de golpe. Su respiración es agitada, el pecho le sube y baja con violencia, y el sudor frío le recorre la sien.

Se incorpora de un salto en la cama, con las manos temblorosas. Extiende los dedos hacia el espacio vacío a su lado, buscando el rastro de un calor que sabe que jamás ha estado ahí. La habitación está oscura, silenciosa y helada.

A través de las paredes de concreto, muy a lo lejos, escucha una risa ahogada que proviene de la habitación de su hermano.

Dean se pasa las manos por la cara, frotándose los ojos con frustración, sintiendo el peso aplastante de la culpa y la soledad. Se levanta, camina hacia el baño y se salpica agua fría en la cara. Al mirar su reflejo en el espejo, ve al cazador implacable, al soldado fiel, al hombre roto que daría su alma entera por un solo segundo de verdad que el destino le ha negado.

Apaga la luz, sabiendo perfectamente que, en cuanto vuelva a cerrar los ojos, el ciclo volverá a empezar.

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El momento exacto en el que Dean cruzó esa línea invisible es algo que él mismo prefiere mantener enterrado bajo capas de negación, alcohol y misiones de última hora. No hubo un solo día en el calendario que pudiera señalar como el principio del fin, sino una lenta y dolorosa acumulación de pequeños momentos que se le metieron bajo la piel sin que pudiera evitarlo.

No fue por envidia a Sam, ni por un capricho oscuro o el deseo retorcido de arrebatarle algo a su hermano menor. De hecho, al principio, Dean hizo exactamente lo contrario: la trató con distancia, con esa actitud medio áspera y protectora que reservaba para cualquier civil que se cruzara en su camino y corriera el peligro de ser arrastrado al mundo de los monstruos. La veía como la oportunidad de Sam para tener una "vida normal", ese futuro limpio y luminoso que él sabía que jamás podría alcanzar.

Pero la convivencia en el búnker es una prueba de fuego para cualquier fachada.

Empezó con detalles casi imperceptibles que se acumularon en la memoria de Dean: Las charlas nocturnas en la cocina: Mientras Sam dormía tras una cacería pesada, ella y Dean se quedaban en silencio tomando café barato o una cerveza a medio gas. Fue ahí donde Dean descubrió que ella no solo escuchaba las tonterías que él decía, sino que entendía el humor cínico con el que se blindaba del dolor.

La vulnerabilidad compartida: En un mundo donde todo el mundo miente para sobrevivir, ella tenía una franqueza desconcertante. Dean la vio curarle las heridas a Sam con una ternura infinita, pero también la vio mirar a Dean a los ojos y leer perfectamente el agotamiento que él intentaba ocultar tras una sonrisa arrogante.

El instinto de protección mutua: En un par de situaciones límite de vida o muerte, Dean la vio pelear con uñas y dientes, no solo por ella, sino cuidándole la espalda a él. En la mente de un cazador, saber que alguien está dispuesto a disparar para salvarte crea un vínculo que raya en la devoción.

El punto de quiebre ocurrió una noche en la que los tres estaban en la biblioteca del refugio. Sam se había quedado dormido sobre los libros de historia antigua, agotado. Ella se levantó para buscar una cobija y, al pasar junto a Dean, tropezó levemente con la pata de una mesa. Dean la sostuvo del codo por pura reacción refleja.

El contacto duró apenas tres segundos. Ella se quedó muy cerca de él, lo miró a los ojos, le sonrió con una familiaridad cómplice y le susurró un "gracias, Dean" antes de alejarse para cubrir a Sam.

En ese exacto instante, mientras la veía caminar de regreso hacia su hermano, el pecho de Dean se apretó con una violencia inusitada. No sintió el calor de la amabilidad; sintió un terror helado y una punzada de celos tan agudos que le cortaron la respiración. Comprendió, con una claridad aplastante y repulsiva para su propia moral, que ya no la miraba como la novia de Sam. La miraba como el anhelo más grande y prohibido de su propia vida.

Desde esa noche, el castigo de Dean fue completo: cada vez que la veía sonreírle a su hermano, cada vez que la mano de Sam se entrelazaba con la suya, Dean tenía que morderse por dentro, recordarse a sí mismo quién era, y cargar con el peso de un amor silencioso que sabía que iba a quemarle el alma hasta el final de sus días.

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El búnker estaba en silencio, sumergido en esa hora muerta en la que incluso las luces de neón del pasillo principal parecían parpadear con cansancio. Sam había salido a buscar provisiones a un pueblo cercano, dejándolos a ellos dos solos en la inmensidad del refugio subterráneo.

Dean estaba en la cocina, vertiendo café que había estado recalentándose durante horas, cuando ella entró. Vestía una de las sudaderas gastadas de Sam, el cabello recogido en un moño desordenado, frotándose los ojos. Se veía cansada, vulnerable y, para desgracia de Dean, dolorosamente real.

—No hay agua caliente en mi baño, otra vez —dijo ella, con la voz ronca por el sueño, apoyándose en el marco de la puerta.

Dean se giró lentamente, con la taza de café humeante en la mano. La observó. Cada día que pasaba bajo el mismo techo, la imagen de ella entrelazando la mano con Sam se había vuelto una tortura cotidiana, un recordatorio constante de su propia condena. Pero en ese momento, en la quietud de la noche, con Sam a kilómetros de distancia, la máscara de Dean resbaló.

—Voy a revisar la caldera por la mañana —dijo él, su voz sonando más áspera de lo que pretendía.

Ella asintió y caminó hacia la cafetera, pasando junto a él. El aire se cargó de electricidad estática. Un simple roce de hombros en un pasillo estrecho solía ser ignorado, pero en ese instante, se sintió como un impacto físico.

Ella se detuvo un segundo demasiado, buscando la mirada de él, tal vez para agradecerle, tal vez solo por simple cortesía. Se encontraron en un punto muerto.

El corazón de Dean golpeó sus costillas con una violencia traicionera. El mundo real, lleno de responsabilidades y lealtades, se desvaneció. En su mente, ocupado por sus sueños febriles, no existía el hermano pequeño, no existía el juramento de sangre. Solo estaba él y la mujer que había capturado su alma sin siquiera intentarlo.

Soltó la taza de café en la encimera con un movimiento brusco, sin importarle que el líquido salpicara.

Se movió por puro instinto. Acortó la distancia entre los dos en un solo paso, cerrando la mano en su brazo para detenerla. Ella se giró, sorprendida, los ojos muy abiertos, la pregunta muriendo en sus labios.

Dean no le dio tiempo a pensar. No le pidió permiso. Se inclinó con una desesperación contenida durante semanas y presionó sus labios contra los de ella.

Fue un beso robado, una ruptura violenta de la realidad en la que Dean habitaba. No fue suave. Fue un grito silencioso de frustración, un intento desesperado de arrancar una verdad prohibida por un solo momento. Durante un segundo eterno, sus sentidos fueron anegados por el olor a jabón de ella y el sabor de su propia culpa.

Ella se quedó completamente inmóvil por la sorpresa. El tiempo pareció detenerse, un suspiro en el que Dean se permitió la locura de creer que, en otra vida, él podría haber sido el hombre que la besaba y no el hombre que la protegía.

Luego, el choque de la realidad regresó.

Ella soltó un pequeño gemido de asombro y se apartó de golpe, chocando contra la encimera. Sus ojos estaban llenos de confusión y miedo, reflejando el caos que Dean acababa de desatar. Se llevó una mano a los labios, como si intentara borrar el rastro de lo que acababa de suceder.

Dean se quedó congelado donde estaba, con la mano extendida en el aire, el pecho agitado. El silencio que siguió al beso fue ensordecedor. La culpa lo golpeó con la fuerza de un mazo. Había cruzado la línea final. Había traicionado la confianza sagrada de su hermano, y sabía que no había vuelta atrás.

Bajó la mirada, incapaz de sostener los ojos de ella, la vergüenza quemándole el rostro.

—Dean... —susurró ella, con una voz rota, incrédula.

Él levantó la mano para detenerla, sabiendo que cualquier excusa solo empeoraría las cosas.

—Vete a dormir —dijo él, su voz hecha añicos.

Ella lo miró durante un segundo más, un segundo en el que la balanza de su corazón pareció inclinarse peligrosamente, pero el letrero de "Novia de Sam" prevaleció. Sin decir otra palabra, se dio la vuelta y salió de la cocina, el sonido de sus pasos apresurados resonando por el búnker.

Dean se quedó solo, con el sabor de un amor prohibido en los labios. Sabía que ella no le diría nada a Sam. Guardaría el secreto por lealtad, por incomodidad, o por miedo a destruir a los hermanos Winchester desde dentro.

Pero ese silencio sería, a partir de ahora, el arma más cruel que Dean cargaría, una sombra silenciosa en el retrovisor de su vida, sabiendo que había robado un momento que le costaría todo.

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El peso de o que no se dice se instaló en el búnker como un invitado invisible que nunca se iba. Habían pasado tres días desde la noche en la cocina. Tres días de silencios calculados, de evitarse en los pasillos y de medir cada palabra frente a Sam.

Pero el cuerpo humano es un traidor pésimo, incapaz de sostener una mentira de ese calibre cuando los dos involucrados comparten el mismo espacio cerrado.

Esa tarde, los tres estaban en la amplia mesa de la biblioteca. Sam revisaba unos viejos diarios de los hombres de letras, buscando pistas sobre un nido de cambiaformas en Kansas, mientras devoraba un emparedado. Ella estaba sentada frente a él, hojeando un tomo con mapas antiguos, tomando notas distraídamente en un bloc de papel.

Dean, como solía hacerlo para mantener las distancias, estaba de pie junto a las estanterías del fondo, supuestamente limpiando un lanzagranadas, aunque llevaba al menos diez minutos mirando el mismo resorte sin tocarlo.

Sam se pasó una mano por el cabello, suspirando con frustración.

—Esto no tiene ningún sentido —murmuró Sam, frotándose los ojos—. Los avistamientos en Wichita no coinciden con las fechas de los ataques. Voy a buscar el tomo de 1982 que dejamos en el archivo. ¿Me ayudas a buscarlo, por favor? —le pidió Sam a su novia, levantándose y estirando los brazos.

Ella asintió despacio. —Claro.

Sam dio un par de pasos hacia el pasillo del archivo antes de detenerse y mirar de reojo a su hermano.

—Dean, avísanos si encuentras algo en esos mapas de la mesa.

—Sí, claro. Adelántense —respondió Dean sin levantar la vista del arma, haciendo un esfuerzo titánico por sonar indiferente.

En cuanto los pasos de Sam se perdieron por el pasillo y la puerta del archivo se cerró al fondo, el aire de la biblioteca cambió por completo. La tensión acumulada durante setenta y dos horas estalló de golpe.

Ella se quedó de pie junto a la mesa. No se giró de inmediato hacia Dean, pero dejó el lápiz sobre el papel con un movimiento firme. Respiró hondo, como si reuniera valor, y finalmente giró la cabeza para mirarlo.

Sus miradas chocaron en el espacio de la gran sala con la fuerza de un impacto físico.

No había confusión en los ojos de ella esta vez. Ya no estaba la sorpresa aturdida de la noche del beso. Lo que había en su mirada era una mezcla peligrosa de reproche, tensión contenida y una chispa innegable que encendía la misma urgencia en el pecho de Dean. Era una de esas miradas que matan, de las que queman por dentro y desarman cualquier fachada de autocontrol.

Dean dejó caer el resorte sobre la mesa de trabajo con un golpe seco. El metal resonó en el silencio de la biblioteca.

No dijo una sola palabra. Sus ojos oscuros se clavaron en ella con una intensidad voraz, devorando cada facción de su rostro, recordándole el sabor exacto de sus labios y el eco del secreto que ahora compartían. Era una comunicación silenciosa, un lenguaje brutal donde ambos sabían perfectamente lo que el otro estaba pensando: que el búnker se les estaba quedando demasiado pequeño, que la culpa era una carga insoportable, y que la distancia que intentaban mantener entre ellos era una absoluta mentira.

Ella dio un paso hacia la mesa, con el mentón ligeramente en alto, sosteniéndole la mirada sin parpadear. El desafío en sus ojos decía: ¿Y ahora qué, Dean?

Dean apretó la mandíbula tanto que sintió los dientes dolerle. Dio un paso al frente, acortando el espacio entre las estanterías y la mesa, sintiendo que el suelo bajo sus pies volvía a arder.

Antes de que pudiera cerrar la distancia por completo, el sonido del pasillo los sacudió de golpe: la puerta del archivo se abrió y la voz de Sam resonó a lo lejos, preguntando si habían encontrado el mapa.

Dean se detuvo en seco, clavado en el suelo, con el corazón golpeándole las costillas como un martillo hidráulico. Ella dio un paso atrás de inmediato, tomando el lápiz con manos ligeramente temblorosas y fingiendo hojear el libro justo en el momento en que Sam doblaba la esquina de la estantería con un par de carpetas bajo el brazo.

Sam no notó nada. No vio el rastro de fuego que acababa de cruzar la habitación.

Pero cuando Dean volvió a levantar la vista hacia ella, vio que las mejillas de ella seguían encendidas y sus labios se curvaban en una línea tensa. El secreto ya no era solo un peso silencioso; se había convertido en una bomba de tiempo con la mecha encendida, alimentada por cada cruce de miradas en la oscuridad del refugio.

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Era una ironía cruel y sutil, una condena diseñada específicamente para él.

Cada vez que Sam la abrazaba con naturalidad, cada vez que le besaba la frente al pasar o le dedicaba esa sonrisa abierta y despreocupada que solo ella lograba arrancarle, el mundo de Dean se retorcía. Para cualquiera, esas eran muestras de afecto puro, la prueba de que su hermano menor al fin tenía un resquicio de felicidad en medio de tanta sangre y carretera. Pero para Dean, cada uno de esos gestos funcionaba como un balde de agua helada arrojado directamente sobre las brasas de su propio deseo.

El fuego dentro de él no se apagaba por paz; moría a golpes.

Cada muestra de amor entre ellos era un recordatorio físico y lacerante de su propia traición. Lo obligaba a retroceder, a tragar saliva, a morderse el interior de la mejilla hasta probar el sabor metálico de la sangre mientras fingía mirar hacia otro lado. Es mi hermano, se repetía como un rezo desesperado cada vez que veía la mano de Sam entrelazada con la de ella. Es Sam.

Sentía que se estaba convirtiendo en un monstruo, de esos que cazaban en la oscuridad, alimentándose de lo que no le pertenecía. La culpa lo carcomía tanto como el anhelo. Con cada caricia que Sam le daba, Dean sentía que una parte de su alma se convertía en ceniza, asfixiada por la decencia que aún le quedaba y por la lealtad inquebrantable hacia su sangre.

Y, sin embargo, por más que ese fuego intentara matarlo por dentro, bastaba con que Sam saliera de la habitación, con que ella lo mirara de reojo un solo segundo con el eco del secreto todavía en los labios, para que las cenizas volvieran a encenderse con una violencia insoportable. Una guerra perdida de antemano, donde cada victoria de su hermano era la derrota lenta y silenciosa de Dean.

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La rutina del búnker tenía una crueldad metódica, pero nada se comparaba con el momento en que la puerta principal del garaje se abría y el retumbe del Impala anunciaba que los dos habían vuelto de una diligencia.

Esa noche, Dean estaba en la cocina limpiando una pistola, intentando mantener la mente ocupada en el metal frío y el aceite de armas. Escuchó las pisadas en el pasillo, el sonido de las llaves cayendo sobre la mesa de la entrada y risas ahogadas. Unas risas ligeras, cómplices, de esas que solo existen cuando dos personas se pertenecen por completo y el resto del mundo desaparece.

Levantó la vista justo a tiempo para verlos entrar.

Sam la traía del brazo, con una sonrisa despreocupada iluminándole el rostro. Ella rejugaba con una broma que Sam debió haberle contado en el camino, con las mejillas sonrojadas por el frío de la noche. Y entonces, sin previo aviso, Sam la detuvo a mitad del pasillo, la tomó de la cintura y la besó.

No fue un beso rápido de saludo. Fue un beso tierno, prolongado, de esos que nacen de la confianza absoluta y de la certeza de que tienen todo el tiempo del mundo.

Para Dean, el aire de la habitación se convirtió de inmediato en cuchillas.

El mundo pareció detenerse, reduciéndose al sonido sordo de ese contacto. Los labios de Sam sobre los de ella. La misma boca, la misma piel, los mismos gestos que Dean había probado en la oscuridad, cargados de una desesperación prohibida, ahora eran reclamados con total derecho, con la legitimidad de un amor limpio y expuesto a la luz del día.

Dean sintió que el estómago se le hundía en un abismo helado, seguido por una ola de calor abrasador que le quemaba las sienes. Apretó la empuñadura de la pistola con tanta fuerza que los dedos le dolieron.

Apartar la mirada habría sido lo prudente, lo correcto, el único mecanismo de defensa que le quedaba. Pero sus ojos se negaron a obedecerle. Se quedó allí, inmóvil, observando cada detalle como si se tratara de una penitencia autoimpuesta: la forma en que ella suspiraba contra los labios de su hermano, cómo levantaba una mano para enredarla en el cabello de Sam, rindiéndose a él con la misma naturalidad con la que Dean soñaba que se rendiría con él.

Eran los besos de alguien más. Los besos del hombre al que Dean había jurado proteger con su propia vida.

Una punzada de celos tan violenta y corrosiva le atravesó el pecho que tuvo que morderse con fuerza el labio inferior para no soltar un gruñido. Le dolía el alma, le dolían las costillas, le dolía el maldito orgullo. Sentía que lo estaban asfixiando lentamente, obligándolo a presenciar la prueba viviente de su propia derrota.

Cuando finalmente Sam se apartó, con una sonrisa boba y la respiración un poco agitada, ella bajó la mirada. Sus ojos vagaron por el pasillo hasta tropezarse con los de Dean.

El aire entre los tres se tensó al instante. Sam no se dio cuenta, demasiado ocupado quitándose la chamarra, pero ella sí. En los ojos de ella, bajo el reflejo de los besos de Sam, cruzó un destello de culpa, un rastro de advertencia y, para terror absoluto de Dean, una sombra de reconocimiento. Ella sabía exactamente lo que Dean estaba sintiendo, porque ella misma lo llevaba ardiendo por dentro.

Dean tragó saliva con dificultad, obligó a sus músculos a relajarse y apartó abruptamente la vista, dejando caer el arma sobre la mesa con un seco repiqueteo de metal.

Se levantó sin decir una palabra, pasando junto a ellos sin atreverse a mirar a ninguno de los dos, y se fugó hacia el oscuro refugio de su habitación, cerrando la puerta con pestillo, huyendo de unos labios que nunca le pertenecerían del todo, pero que ya se habían instalado para siempre en sus pesadillas.

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La huida a su habitación no sirvió de nada; las paredes de concreto del búnker solo amplificaban el eco de los besos que no eran suyos. Ahogado por la claustrofobia de un refugio que se había convertido en su propia celda, Dean hizo lo único que sabía hacer cuando el dolor amenazaba con destrozarle las costillas: subió al Impala y huyó.

El motor del 67 rugió cortando la madrugada de Kansas. Condujo sin rumbo fijo, devorando kilómetros de asfalto mojado bajo una llovizna fría, con la ventanilla bajada para que el viento le golpeara la cara y le adormeciera los pensamientos. Pero ni la velocidad ni el rock clásico a todo volumen lograban borrar la imagen de ella en los brazos de Sam.

Necesitaba apagar el cerebro. Necesitaba, por una maldita noche, dejar de sentir que se estaba pudriendo por dentro.

Terminó en un bar de carretera de mala muerte, de esos donde el neón parpadea con pereza, huele a cerveza barata y a tabaco viejo, y nadie hace preguntas incómodas. Se sentó en la barra y pidió bourbon. Un trago, dos, tres, seguidos, quemándole la garganta con una furia bien recibida.

A su lado, una mujer lo observaba con una sonrisa fácil. Tenía el cabello rubio oscuro, los ojos cansados de la vida nocturna y una cazadora de mezclilla gastada. Encajaba perfectamente en el paisaje: una distracción temporal, un rostro anónimo en medio de la neblina.

—¿Te invito a un trago o prefieres ahogarte tú solo? —le preguntó ella con voz ronca, apoyando el codo en la barra y acercándose lo suficiente para que su perfume barato flotara en el aire.

Dean la miró fijamente. Vio la oportunidad de escapar, de fracturar el ciclo mental que lo estaba destrozando. Forzó una de sus típicas sonrisas encantadoras, esa máscara de cazador seductor que solía funcionar a la perfección.

—Acabas de salvarme la vida, dulzura —respondió él, pidiendo otro vaso para ella—. Invito yo.

Esa noche, Dean se dejó arrastrar por el ruido, por el alcohol y por los brazos de una desconocida. Terminaron en un motel de medio pelo a las afueras del pueblo. Las sábanas olían a detergente industrial y el colchón crujía con cada movimiento.

Ella era cálida, estaba dispuesta y no exigía nada más que lo que la noche podía ofrecer. Dean se aferró a ella con desesperación. La besó con fuerza, recorrió su piel, buscó en su cuerpo el calor que necesitaba para congelar los recuerdos que lo perseguían. Todo en la superficie funcionaba: las manos de ella en herida abierta, los susurros en la oscuridad, la simulación perfecta de la intimidad.

Pero en el momento álgido, justo cuando los ojos de la mujer se cerraban bajo su toque, Dean abrió los suyos en la oscuridad de la habitación del motel.

La luz de la carretera parpadeaba a través de las cortinas rotas. Y, por una fracción de segundo, al parpadear, el rostro bajo el suyo cambió. En la penumbra, creyó ver los ojos de ella, la curva exacta de sus labios, la forma en que su cabello caía sobre la almohada.

Un escalofrío helado le recorrió la columna. El pecho se le contrajo con una culpa asfixiante.

Se apartó de golpe, con la respiración entrecortada, dejando a la mujer sumida en la confusión. Se sentó en la orilla de la cama, pasándose las manos temblorosas por el rostro, sintiéndose patético, sucio y profundamente derrotado.

Había buscado amor —o al menos un refugio— en otro lugar, creyendo que cualquier cuerpo serviría para borrar la espina que llevaba clavada. Pero la dolorosa verdad lo golpeó con la fuerza de un golpe en el estómago: podía acostarse con mil mujeres, podía huir a la otra punta del país, podía ahogarse en alcohol hasta perder el conocimiento... pero su alma, para bien o para mal, ya nie le pertenecía. Estaba irremediablemente atada a la única mujer que no podía tocar.

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La carretera de Kansas se extiende bajo la luz grisácea del amanecer cuando el Impala finalmente cruza los portones del búnker. Dean tiene los ojos inyectados en sangre, las manos aún rígidas sobre el volante y el cuerpo pesado por el alcohol y el insomnio. Cada kilómetro recorrido intentando escapar ha sido un recordatorio inútil de una verdad aplastante: no importa qué tan lejos conduzca, siempre termina regresando al mismo infierno.

Abre la puerta pesada del refugio y entra en silencio, intentando hacer el menor ruido posible. Pero el búnker tiene reglas propias, y los secretos nunca se quedan del todo escondidos en la penumbra.

Ella está allí, sentada en la gran mesa de la cocina con una taza de café frío entre las manos. No ha dormido. El rastro de la noche anterior se lee claramente en su rostro: la misma tensión, la misma vigilia rota, el peso insoportable de lo que ambos están callando.

Cuando Dean cruza el umbral, ella levanta la vista. Sus miradas se encuentran en el pasillo vacío. Ya no hay a dónde huir, ni coartadas que inventar, ni brazos de desconocidas que sirvan de anestesia.

Ella se pone de pie despacio. Da un paso hacia él, rompiendo la distancia que se han impuesto durante días. Dean se detiene, conteniendo la respiración, sintiendo que el suelo bajo sus pies vuelve a temblor.

—Esto nos va a destruir —susurra ella, con la voz quebrada, a apenas unos centímetros de distancia, donde el olor a café y el calor de su piel vuelven a envolverlo por completo—. A ti, a mí... y a Sam.

Dean la mira fijamente. Ve el reflejo de su propia culpa en los ojos de ella, pero también ve la chispa innegable que ninguno de los dos puede apagar. Sabe tan bien como ella que este mundo está construido sobre tragedias, que los Winchester no tienen derecho a finales felices, y que amar a alguien en su vida siempre es una sentencia de muerte o de pérdida.

Y, sin embargo, por primera vez, a Dean le importa una mierda la lógica de los cazadores.

Extiende una mano temblorosa, con los dedos rozando la mejilla de ella, sintiendo cómo los ojos de ella se cierran al contacto, rindiéndose al único lugar donde ambos han querido estar todo este tiempo.

No hay un final feliz tradicional para ellos. En el universo de Supernatural, la felicidad siempre se paga con sangre, y el dolor de Sam es una herida que Dean lleva grabada en el alma. Pero en medio de las ruinas, del peligro y de la culpa que los devorará vivos, Dean se inclina y la besa.

No es un beso robado esta vez. Es una rendición absoluta. Un pacto silencioso de que, si van a quemarse en el fuego del infierno, al menos lo harán juntos.

A:No me podía sacar esta idea de la cabeza. Dean enamorado de la novia de Sam, es tan cruel no ser correspondido. Espero les guste.

A:I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Dean in love with Sam's girlfriend—it's so cruel to have unrequited love. Hope you like it.

[serratwords]

El Bar

Resumen: Finges estar en una cita con el mejor amigo de tu papá para darle celos a tu ex en el bar. Entonces él le dice al bartender "le preguntaré a mi esposa que quiere tomar"

Personaje: Beau Arlen

Beau se apoya contra la madera de la barra con una tranquilidad pasmosa, moviéndose con esa seguridad y magnetismo que solo te dan los años. Sin dudarlo un segundo, desliza una mano grande y cálida por tu espalda baja, atrayéndote hacia su costado. El contacto es firme, protector... y lo suficientemente posesivo como para que tu ex, que los observa desde la mesa de la esquina, casi se atragante con su propia bebida.

A sus 46 años, el mejor amigo de tu padre sabe exactamente lo que hace. Te saca bastante ventaja en experiencia, y eso se nota en la media sonrisa perezosa que curva sus labios. Baja la mirada hacia ti, y sus ojos brillan con una mezcla de diversión cómplice y una intensidad que te toma por sorpresa, haciéndote olvidar por un segundo de quién se trata.

—Entonces, cariño... —dice, con esa voz grave y ligeramente áspera que lo caracteriza, modulando el tono para sonar increíblemente íntimo y devoto frente al bartender—. ¿Qué va a tomar mi hermosa esposa esta noche? ¿Quieres lo de siempre o te apetece probar algo diferente?

Su pulgar acaricia distraídamente la curva de tu cintura, jugando el papel a la perfección. Tal vez demasiado bien. Aprovechando la fachada de marido enamorado, se inclina un poco más hacia ti, rozando tu sien con su respiración, y murmura un secreto solo para tus oídos:

—No mires ahora, pero creo que a ese idiota se le acaba de reventar una vena en el cuello —suelta una risa baja, un sonido ronco que te vibra en el pecho y te pone la piel de gallina—. Pide lo que quieras, preciosa, la cuenta corre por mi cargo. Pero arrímate un poco más, tienes que ayudarme a que este anillo imaginario se vea convincente.

Te pegas un poco más a su costado, sintiendo el calor de su cuerpo a través de la tela de su camisa y el roce firme de su mano en tu cintura. Siguiendo su juego, dejas escapar una risa suave y finges acomodarle la solapa del saco con una familiaridad exagerada, asegurándote de que tu ex, sentado a unos metros, tenga la vista perfecta de la escena.

—No seas exagerado, Beau —murmuras con dulzura, manteniendo el tono juguetón que requiere la farsa—. Aunque... un trago fuerte sí que necesito para aguantar esta noche. Pídeme un gin tonic, por favor, mi amor.

Le sonríes con picardía, disfrutando de cómo el apodo se desliza de tus labios con total naturalidad, sabiendo el efecto que eso debe estar causando en la mesa de al lado.

Beau suelta otra risa corta y ronca ante tu respuesta, claramente divertido por lo rápido que le has tomado la palabra. Su mirada se oscurece un instante, destilando una aprobación silenciosa que se siente extrañamente real.

—Hecho —le dice al bartender con voz firme, señala primero tu vaso y luego pide algo clásico para él—. Dos gin tonics, bien cargados. Y ponlo en mi cuenta.

El barman asiente y se aleja para preparar los tragos. En cuanto el espacio entre ustedes se despeja un poco, Beau se inclina apenas unos milímetros más, sin apartar esa mano cálida y firme de tu cintura. Sus ojos grises o avellanos —fijos en los tuyos con una intensidad que te desarma— estudian tu expresión con una mezcla de diversión y algo más difícil de leer.

—«Mi amor»... —repite su voz en un susurro bajo, casi una provocación hecha a medida para que solo tú la escuches—. Cuidado, preciosa, que los juegos de actuación a veces se salen de control si uno se toma el papel muy en serio. Dime una cosa... ¿crees que con esto tu ex ya aprendió la lección, o vas a necesitar que te bese de verdad para convencerlo?

El brillo de desafío en tus ojos es todo lo que Beau necesita. La broma deja de serlo en el preciso instante en que su expresión se transforma, pasando de la diversión cómplice a una concentración absoluta y peligrosa.

—Como ordenes, preciosa —murmura con esa voz grave que te acaricia el centro del pecho.

Antes de que puedas parpadear, su mano libre sube con una lentitud deliberada, atrapando la nuca con dedos firmes y seguros, y atrayéndote hacia él sin dejar espacio para la duda. No hay vacilación, ni rastro de la torpeza que podría tener alguien más joven; hay una experiencia abrumadora y una determinación que te roba el aliento.

Cuando sus labios finalmente encuentran los tuyos, el choque es cálido, experto y absolutamente imponente. Su boca se mueve sobre la tuya con una autoridad natural que te desarma por completo, sabiendo exactamente cómo inclinar el rostro para profundizar el beso. No es un roce fingido para la galería; es una caricia profunda, posesiva y tan perfectamente ejecutada que, por un segundo, el bar entero con su ruido, sus luces tenues y la presencia de tu ex desaparece por completo.

Su aliento sabe a whisky y tabaco limpio, y el peso de su cuerpo contra el tuyo te ancla a la barra con una intensidad que te hace olvidar que todo esto comenzó como una farsa.

Cuando finalmente se separa, la distancia que pone entre ustedes es apenas de unos centímetros. Su respiración es un poco más agitada, y sus ojos oscuros te examinan con una voracidad contenida, mientras su pulgar traza un leve y lento recorrido sobre tu labio inferior.

—Vaya... —suelta una risa ronca, con la voz notablemente más áspera, mientras baja la mirada hacia tu boca antes de volver a encontrarse con tus ojos—. Creo que nos pasamos de la raya con la actuación. ¿O me vas a decir que eso también fue para el público de la esquina?

—Eso estuvo muy bien—

Beau suelta una exhalación corta, una mezcla de risa y sorpresa, mientras la comisura de sus labios se curva en una sonrisa torcida. Su mano sigue apoyada en tu nuca, con el pulgar rozando distraídamente la piel sensible justo debajo de tu cabello, como si le costara trabajo decidirse a soltarte.

Gira levemente la cabeza, solo lo suficiente para echar un vistazo de reojo hacia la mesa del fondo.

—Si nos quedamos un minuto más mirando en esa dirección, creo que tu ex va a terminar volcando la mesa o saliendo corriendo del local —comenta en un murmullo ronco, volviendo a centrar toda su atención en ti con una intensidad que te quema—. Aunque, viendo cómo reaccionaste... empiezo a dudar de quién le estaba dando un susto a quién.

En ese momento, el bartender regresa y deposita los dos vasos de gin tonic sobre la barra, mirándolos a ambos con una ceja ligeramente alzada, claramente impresionado por la química entre "el matrimonio".

Beau paga con un movimiento fluido de tarjeta, sin apartar la otra mano de tu cintura, recuperando el personaje con una naturalidad pasmosa pero dejando que el roce entre ustedes se sienta más pesado, más real que antes.

Toma su vaso, choca levemente el borde con el tuyo y te dedica una mirada cargada de un retorcido y divertido desafío:

—A tu salud, preciosa. Y dime... ahora que el show principal terminó, ¿qué se supone que hagamos con el resto de la noche? ¿O me vas a decir que el plan era solo venir a tomar un trago?

El hielo en tu vaso tintinea suavemente mientras das un sorbo largo al gin tonic, intentando en vano calmar el fuego repentino que se te ha instalado en la boca del estómago. Sus palabras se quedan flotando en el aire del bar, cargadas de una doble intención que ya no se puede ignorar.

Beau te conoce desde que eras una niña. Para tu padre es el hermano que nunca tuvo, el hombre de confianza que cenaba en su casa los domingos y al que estabas acostumbrada a ver con una sonrisa relajada y la cercanía de la familia. Pero para ti, durante años, ese trasfondo ha sido el secreto mejor guardado de vosotras noches más solitarias; el rostro que invocabas en la oscuridad cuando tu imaginación cruzaba los límites de lo prohibido.

Y ahora, de pie frente a ti con la camisa levemente desabotonada del cuello y esa mirada de depredador paciente, te está dando la llave de la puerta trasera.

Dejas el vaso sobre la barra con un golpe seco que apenas emite sonido entre el bullicio del lugar. Alzas el rostro para sostenerle la mirada, sin importarte que la cortina de humo de la mentira se haya desvanecido por completo, revelando algo mucho más peligroso y real.

—¿El resto de la noche? —repites, dejando que tu voz suene más baja, más cerca de una provocación directa que de una pregunta inocente—. Depende de qué tan dispuesto estés a arriesgar la amistad con mi papá, Beau.

La mandíbula del hombre se tensa imperceptiblemente. El destello en sus ojos oscuros se vuelve hambriento, directo, como si hubiera estado esperando que cruzaras esa línea exacta desde el primer segundo en que pusiste un pie en el bar. Su mano se desliza desde tu cintura para aferrar con firmeza la cadera, acercándote tanto que ya no hay aire entre sus cuerpos.

—Tu padre cree que sigo siendo el tío sensato que te llevaba a los partidos cuando tenías diez años —murmura sobre tus labios, su aliento cálido cargado de advertencia y de una promesa sucia—. Pero se equivocó de cálculo al dejarte venir sola conmigo a un bar con poca luz.

Te sostiene con la fuerza justa, haciéndote sentir pequeña y a la vez completamente dominada por su presencia.

—El coche está a dos cuadras y mi departamento está completamente vacío —continúa, su pulgar trazando un círculo lento y posesivo a través de la tela de tu ropa—. ¿Quieres seguir jugando a la parejita feliz para darle celos a un idiota que no te merece... o vas a tener el valor de abrir esa puerta de una vez, preciosa?

Tomas tu bolso y caminas a la salida, moviendo las caderas lentamente para que Beau te observe, él sale detrás de ti.

El sonido de tus tacones contra el suelo del bar marca un ritmo deliberado, lento y magnético. Sabes exactamente el efecto que causas; sientes su mirada pesada, casi táctil, recorriendo cada línea de tu silueta mientras avanzas hacia la salida. La puerta se abre con un leve chirrido y el aire fresco de la noche te golpea el rostro, disipando el calor del local, pero no la tensión que se respira entre ustedes.

Apenas cruzas el umbral, una mano grande y firme se cierra con suavidad sobre la curva de tu brazo, deteniendo tus pasos en la penumbra de la acera.

Beau está ahí, cerrando la puerta tras de sí con el hombro, con la respiración un punto más acelerada y los ojos fijos en los tuyos con una intensidad que quema. La fachada de amigos, de conocidos, de lazos familiares... todo ha quedado completamente atrás, enterrado bajo el peso de lo inevitable.

—Vas muy rápido, preciosa... o tal vez soy yo que ya no tengo paciencia —murmura su voz ronca, apenas a un suspiro de distancia, mientras su mano se desliza por tu antebrazo hasta entrelazar sus dedos con los tuyos con una posesividad absoluta.

Te guía sin vacilar hacia la oscuridad del callejón donde está aparcado su coche, con la certeza de un hombre que sabe exactamente lo que quiere y que no piensa dejarte escapar.

—Beau —un gemido sale de tus labios, apenas se abre la puerta del departamento y te estampa contra la pared.

El pestillo de la puerta apenas da la vuelta antes de que la madera se cierre de golpe detrás de ustedes, tragándose los ruidos de la calle. No hay tiempo para luces, ni para palabras cordiales, ni para disimular la urgencia que lleva hirviendo desde el bar.

Beau te empuja con una autoridad imponente pero medida, haciendo que tu espalda choque contra la pared fría del recibidor. El impacto te saca el aire, pero antes de que puedas recuperarlo, él ya está encima de ti, ocupando todo tu espacio. Su peso te ancla, cubriéndote por completo con el calor de su cuerpo.

—Tu papá me mataría si supiera lo que estoy haciendo ahora mismo... —ronca su voz contra tu cuello, áspera y cargada de una oscura diversión que se apaga de inmediato al sentirte temblar bajo sus manos—. Pero la verdad es que me importa una mierda.

Al escuchar su nombre caer de tus labios en un gemido roto, la última reserva de paciencia que le quedaba se rompe. Su mano grande se enreda con desesperación en tu cabello, tirando de ti hacia atrás con la fuerza justa para obligarte a inclinar el cuello, dejándote completamente a su merced. La otra mano se clava en tu cintura, apretando la carne a través de la ropa con una posesividad que te arrebata los sentidos.

Su boca cae sobre tu piel con hambre, devorándote el cuello en un rastro de besos húmedos, firmes y deliberados que te hacen arquear la espalda de inmediato. Sus dientes rozan la sensibilidad de tu pulso, haciendo que otro suspiro entrecortado y tembloroso vuelva a escaparse de tu garganta, repitiendo su nombre como una letanía que él absorbe con un gruñido gutural de aprobación.

—Dímelo otra vez... —te exige contra tu piel, su respiración caliente quemándote la clavícula antes de volver a buscar tus labios con una voracidad que te deja sin anclaje, obligándote a aferrarte a las solapas de su saco para no derrumbarte.

—Beau —tu voz está suplicando más caricias—, te necesito.

Esas palabras — te necesito — caen como gasolina sobre un fuego que ya era imposible de contener. La última barrera de control que le quedaba a Beau se desvanece por completo.

Su respuesta es inmediata y abrumadora. Deja escapar un gruñido bajo contra tu boca antes de volver a reclamar tus labios en un beso hambriento, profundo y desesperado, borrando cualquier rastro de duda o vacilación. Ya no es solo el amigo sensato de tu padre jugando con fuego; es un hombre entregado por completo a la tentación que lleva años guardando en silencio.

Sus manos se mueven con una urgencia experta, recorriendo las curvas de tu cuerpo con una firmeza que te hace perder el suelo, levantándote con una facilidad pasmosa para que tus piernas se enrosquen instintivamente alrededor de su cintura. Te aprieta con fuerza contra la pared, sin romper el contacto ni un segundo, mientras te lleva a tientas hacia la oscuridad del pasillo, devorando cada suspiro y cada gemido que se escapa de tus labios entre la penumbra del departamento.

El calor entre ambos es denso, casi sofocante, avivado por la prisa y la adrenalina que llevan arrastrando desde el bar. Con los brazos de Beau sosteniéndote con una fuerza inquebrantable y tus piernas aferradas a su cintura, te guía a tientas hasta la habitación.

La oscuridad de la estancia apenas se rompe con la tenue luz de la calle que se cuela por la ventana, dibujando las sombras de sus hombros anchos y la tensión de su mandíbula. Al llegar al borde de la cama, te deja caer con suavidad, pero su cuerpo no se aparta ni un solo centímetro; te inmoviliza bajo el peso del suyo, cubriéndote por completo.

Sus manos grandes y expertas se deslizan con una seguridad abrumadora, recorriendo cada línea de tu cuerpo con una mezcla de reverencia y urgencia. Cada toque suyo parece encender una chispa nueva, arrancándote suspiros entrecortados que él absorbe con besos hambrientos, profundos y desesperados que te dejan sin aliento.

La paciencia de los años de silencio se ha convertido en una voracidad insaciable, y en esa penumbra, con el aroma a whisky y su colonia mezclados en el aire, lo único que importa es la forma en que su piel quema contra la tuya, borrando por completo cualquier rastro del mundo exterior.

—Eres una maldita obra de arte, preciosa.

El elogio cae como un susurro áspero y reverente directamente contra tu piel, cargado de una devoción tan intensa que te estremece de arriba abajo. No hay prisa vacía en sus movimientos; cada caricia es deliberada, marcando un ritmo denso y febril donde el mundo exterior, tu padre y los años de distancia desaparecen por completo.

Bajo la penumbra de la habitación, su mirada se detiene en ti con una voracidad contenida, brillando con la certeza de que ya no hay vuelta atrás. Sus manos se mueven con una seguridad absoluta, guiándote a través de cada segundo de esa entrega hasta que los suspiros y las palabras se funden en un solo eco en la oscuridad.

El tiempo parece perder toda lógica en la penumbra de la habitación, marcado únicamente por el ritmo de la respiración compartida y el eco sordo de sus latidos contra los tuyos.

Cuando la intensidad finalmente cede, dejando paso a un silencio denso y cálido, Beau no se aparta. Al contrario, se acomoda a tu lado, envolviéndote por completo con la amplitud de sus hombros y trayéndote contra su pecho de un movimiento firme pero delicado. Su brazo queda firmemente cruzado sobre tu cintura, pegándote a él como si temiera que, al despertar, todo fuera parte de la misma fantasía que cultivó durante años.

Sientes la vibración de su pecho cuando exhala un suspiro profundo, hondo, como si por fin se permitiera soltar un peso que llevaba cargando demasiado tiempo. Su otra mano sube con lentitud para apartar los mechones de cabello sudoroso que se te han pegado a la frente, trazando una caricia suave, casi protectora, en tu mejilla.

Baja la cabeza en la oscuridad y deposita un beso lento y persistente en tu sien, justo donde la piel aún te quema.

—Mañana tu padre probablemente nos invite a cenar como si nada... —su voz sale ronca, con una sonrisa ligera y socarrona escondida en las palabras, aunque sus dedos se cierran un poco más firme sobre tu piel—. Y te juro que no sé cómo diablos voy a mirarlo a los ojos sin empezar a reír. Pero, maldita sea, preciosa... valió cada segundo de infierno.

The Bar

Summary: You pretend to be on a date with your dad's best friend to make your ex jealous at the bar. Then he tells the bartender, "I'll ask my wife what she'd like to drink."

Character: Beau Arlen

Beau leans against the wooden bar with an effortless ease, moving with the confidence and magnetism that only years can bring. Without a second hesitation, he slides a large, warm hand down your lower back, pulling you flush against his side. The contact is firm, protective... and possessive enough that your ex, watching you from the corner table, nearly chokes on his own drink.

At forty-six, your father's best friend knows exactly what he is doing. He has a distinct advantage in experience over you, and it shows in the lazy, crooked smile playing on his lips. He looks down at you, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of playful mischief and an intensity that catches you off guard, making you forget for a second who he actually is.

—So, darling... —he says, his voice deep and slightly raspy, modulating his tone to sound incredibly intimate and devoted for the bartender's benefit—. What is my gorgeous wife having tonight? The usual, or are you feeling like trying something different?

His thumb idly strokes the curve of your waist, playing the part to absolute perfection. Perhaps too well. Leaning into the façade of a doting husband, he bends in a little closer, his breath brushing against your temple as he murmurs a secret just for your ears:

—Don't look now, but I think a vein just popped in that idiot's neck— he lets out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrates against your chest and gives you goosebumps—. Order whatever you want, gorgeous, it's on my tab. But lean in a little closer; you have to help me make this imaginary ring look convincing.

You press a bit closer to his side, feeling the warmth of his body through his shirt and the firm press of his hand at your waist. Playing along, you let out a soft laugh and playfully adjust the lapel of his jacket with exaggerated familiarity, making sure your ex, sitting a few feet away, has a clear view of the scene.

—Don't be dramatic, Beau —you murmur sweetly, keeping the playful tone the charade demands—. Though... I definitely need a strong drink to get through tonight. Get me a gin and tonic, please, my love.

You flash a mischievous smile, savoring how effortlessly the endearment slips from your lips, knowing the exact effect it must be having at the table next to you.

Beau lets out another short, gravelly laugh at your response, clearly amused by how quickly you've embraced the role. His gaze darkens for a second, radiating a silent approval that feels strangely real.

—Done —he tells the bartender in a firm voice, gesturing first to your glass and then ordering something classic for himself—. Two gin and tonics, make them strong. And put it on my tab.

The bartender nods and steps away to fix the drinks. The moment the space between you clears slightly, Beau leans in a few millimeters closer, never removing that warm, firm hand from your waist. His hazel or gray eyes—fixed on yours with a disarming intensity—study your expression, blending amusement with something much harder to read.

—«My love»... —he repeats in a low whisper, almost a provocation tailored exclusively for you—. Careful, gorgeous, acting games sometimes spiral out of hand when you take the role too seriously. Tell me something... do you think your ex learned his lesson, or are you going to need me to actually kiss you to convince him?

The flash of defiance in your eyes is all Beau needs. The joke evaporates the instant his expression shifts, transforming from playful complicity into absolute, dangerous focus.

—As you wish, gorgeous —he murmurs with that deep voice that strokes the center of your chest.

Before you can blink, his free hand rises with deliberate slowness, fingers sliding firmly and securely into the nape of your neck, drawing you in without a shred of hesitation. There is no awkwardness, no trace of clumsiness; just overwhelming experience and a determination that steals your breath.

When his lips finally meet yours, the collision is warm, expert, and utterly commanding. His mouth moves over yours with a natural authority that completely disarms you, knowing precisely how to angle his face to deepen the kiss. This isn't a fake brush for the gallery; it's a deep, possessive caress, executed so perfectly that for a single second, the entire bar—with its noise, dim lights, and the presence of your ex—vanishes completely.

His breath tastes of whiskey and clean tobacco, and the weight of his body against yours anchors you to the bar with an intensity that makes you forget this all started as a sham.

When he finally pulls back, the distance between you is barely a few inches. His breathing is slightly heavier, and his dark eyes scan you with a restrained voraciousness while his thumb traces a slow, light path across your lower lip.

—Well... —he lets out a raspy chuckle, his voice noticeably rougher as he drops his gaze to your mouth before meeting your eyes again—. I think we went a bit overboard with the acting. Or are you going to tell me that was for the benefit of the corner table too?

—That was really good—

Beau lets out a short breath, half-laughter and half-surprise, as the corner of his mouth quirks into a twisted smile. His hand remains on the back of your neck, his thumb idly brushing the sensitive skin right beneath your hair, as if he finds it hard to let go.

He tilts his head just enough to glance back toward the table in the back.

—If we stay here staring in that direction for another minute, I think your ex is either going to flip the table or sprint right out the door —he murmurs in a raspy whisper, snapping his full attention back to you with burning intensity—. Though, seeing how you reacted... I'm starting to wonder who was scaring whom.

At that moment, the bartender returns and sets the two glasses of gin and tonic on the bar, raising a single eyebrow at the two of you, clearly impressed by the chemistry between the "married couple."

Beau pays with a smooth flick of his card, never loosening his other hand from your waist, slipping back into character with astonishing naturalness while letting the friction between you feel heavier, more real than before.

He picks up his glass, lightly taps the rim against yours, and gives you a look loaded with a twisted, playful challenge:

—To your health, gorgeous. And tell me... now that the main show is over, what are we supposed to do with the rest of the night? Or are you going to tell me the plan was just to grab a drink?

The ice in your glass clinks softly as you take a long sip of your gin and tonic, trying in vain to cool the sudden fire pooling in the pit of your stomach. His words linger in the air of the bar, heavy with a double meaning that can no longer be ignored.

Beau has known you since you were a child. To your father, he is the brother he never had, the trusted confidant who used to have dinner at your house every Sunday, a man you were used to seeing with a relaxed smile and easy family familiarity. But for you, all these years, that background has been the best-kept secret of your loneliest nights—the face you conjured in the dark whenever your imagination crossed forbidden boundaries.

And now, standing right in front of you with his collar slightly unbuttoned and that patient predator's gaze, he is handing you the key to the back door.

You set your glass down on the bar with a dull thud that barely registers above the ambient noise of the place. You lift your chin to meet his gaze, no longer caring that the smoke screen of the lie has burned away entirely, revealing something far more dangerous and real.

—The rest of the night? —you repeat, letting your voice drop lower, closer to a direct provocation than an innocent question—. That depends on how willing you are to risk your friendship with my dad, Beau.

His jaw tightens imperceptibly. The flash in his dark eyes turns hungry, direct, as if he had been waiting for you to cross that exact line from the very second you walked into the bar. His hand slides from your waist to grip your hip firmly, pulling you so close that not a shred of air remains between your bodies.

—Your dad thinks I'm still the sensible uncle who used to take you to games when you were ten —he murmurs against your lips, his warm breath heavy with warning and a dirty promise—. But he miscalculated when he let you come out alone with me to a dim-lit bar.

He holds you with just enough force, making you feel small yet entirely dominated by his presence.

—The car is two blocks away and my apartment is completely empty —he continues, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle through your clothes—. Do you want to keep playing happy little couple to make some idiot who doesn't deserve you jealous... or do you actually have the nerve to open that door for real, gorgeous?

You grab your purse and walk toward the exit, swaying your hips slowly so Beau can watch you. He follows right behind you.

The sound of your heels against the bar floor strikes a deliberate, slow, and magnetic rhythm. You know the exact effect you're causing; you feel his heavy, almost tangible gaze tracing every line of your silhouette as you head for the door. It swings open with a faint squeak, and the cool night air hits your face, clearing the indoor heat but doing nothing to cool the tension humming between you.

The moment you cross the threshold, a large, firm hand wraps gently around the curve of your arm, halting your steps in the dimness of the sidewalk.

Beau is right there, pushing the door shut behind him with his shoulder, his breathing a notch faster and his eyes locked onto yours with burning intensity. The facade of friends, acquaintances, and family ties—it's all completely behind you now, buried beneath the weight of the inevitable.

—You're moving too fast, gorgeous... or maybe I'm the one who's run out of patience —his raspy voice murmurs just a breath away, as his hand slides down your forearm to interlace his fingers with yours in absolute possessiveness.

Without hesitation, he guides you into the dark alley where his car is parked, with the certainty of a man who knows exactly what he wants and has no intention of letting you escape.

—Beau —a moan slips past your lips the second the apartment door swings open and he slams you against the wall.

The latch barely clicks into place before the wood slams shut behind you, swallowing the noises of the street. There is no time for lights, no time for polite words, no pretending away the urgency that has been boiling since the bar.

Beau shoves you back with overwhelming yet measured authority, making your back collide against the cold wall of the entryway. The impact knocks the wind out of you, but before you can catch your breath, he is already pressing into you, occupying every inch of your space. His weight anchors you, blanketing you completely with his body heat.

—Your dad would kill me if he knew what I was doing right now... —his voice rasps against your neck, rough and laced with dark amusement that vanishes instantly the moment he feels you shiver beneath his hands—. But the truth is, I don't give a damn.

Hearing his name tumble from your lips in a broken whimper shatters the last reservation of patience he had left. His large hand tangles desperately in your hair, yuging your head back just enough to force your neck arched and exposed, leaving you entirely at his mercy. His other hand clamps onto your waist, squeezing your flesh through your clothes with a possessiveness that robs you of your senses.

His mouth drops hungrily onto your skin, devouring your neck in a trail of wet, firm, deliberate kisses that immediately make your arch your back. His teeth graze the sensitive pulse point of your throat, drawing another shaky, breathless sigh from your lips as you repeat his name like an incantation—one he swallows with a guttural growl of approval.

—Say it again... —he demands against your skin, his hot breath scorching your collarbone before he crashes back against your lips with a voracity that leaves you unmoored, forcing you to grip the lapels of his jacket so you don't collapse.

—Beau —your voice is practically begging for more caresses—, I need you.

Those words—I need you—drop like gasoline onto a fire that was already impossible to contain. The last barrier of control Beau had left vanishes entirely.

His response is immediate and overwhelming. He lets out a low growl against your mouth before reclaiming your lips in a hungry, deep, desperate kiss, erasing every last trace of doubt or hesitation. He isn't just your father's sensible friend playing with fire anymore; he's a man surrendering completely to the temptation he's kept bottled up in silence for years.

His hands move with expert urgency, tracing the curves of your body with a firmness that makes you lose your footing, lifting you with astonishing ease so your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. He presses you hard against the wall, never breaking contact for a single second as he carries you blindly into the dark hallway, devouring every sigh and whimper slipping from your lips in the apartment's dimness.

The heat between you is dense, almost suffocating, fueled by the rush and adrenaline carried over from the bar. With Beau's arms holding you with unbreakable strength and your legs locked around his waist, he guides you blindly toward the bedroom.

The darkness of the room is barely pierced by the faint street light filtering through the window, sketching the broad lines of his shoulders and the tight tension of his jaw. Reaching the edge of the bed, he lets you down softly, but his body doesn't part from yours by even a fraction of an inch; he pins you beneath his weight, blanketing you completely.

His large, expert hands glide with overwhelming certainty, charting every line of your body with a mix of reverence and urgency. Every touch of his seems to spark a brand-new fire, wrung-out gasps tearing from your throat that he swallows with hungry, deep, breathless kisses.

Years of quiet patience have boiled over into insatiable voracity, and in that dim room, with the scent of whiskey and his cologne thick in the air, nothing matters except the way his skin burns against yours, wiping away every single trace of the outside world.

—You're a damn work of art, gorgeous.

The praise drops like a rough, reverent whisper directly against your skin, charged with a devotion so fierce it makes you shiver from head to toe. There is no empty rush in his movements; every caress is deliberate, marking a heavy, feverish rhythm where the outside world, your father, and the years of distance melt away entirely.

In the shadows of the bedroom, his gaze holds yours with contained voracity, glowing with the certainty that there is no turning back. His hands move with absolute assurance, guiding you through every second of that surrender until sighs and words blur into a single echo in the dark.

Time loses all meaning in the shadows of the bedroom, measured only by the rhythm of shared breathing and the dull echo of his heartbeat against yours.

When the intensity finally ebbs, giving way to a dense, warm silence, Beau doesn't pull away. Instead, he settles beside you, wrapping you completely in the expanse of his shoulders and pulling you flush against his chest with a firm yet gentle motion. His arm remains securely locked over your waist, holding you tight as if afraid that waking up might mean it was all part of the same fantasy he spent years cultivating.

You feel the vibration of his chest as he exhales a deep, heavy sigh, as though he's finally letting go of a weight he carried for far too long. His other hand slowly reaches up to brush away the sweaty strands of hair stuck to your forehead, tracing a soft, almost protective caress across your cheek.

He dips his head in the dark, planting a slow, lingering kiss right on your temple where your skin still burns.

—Tomorrow your dad will probably invite us over for dinner like nothing happened... —his voice comes out raspy, a light, teasing smile hidden behind the words, though his fingers tighten just a bit firmer against your skin—. And I swear I have no idea how the hell I'm going to look him in the eye without laughing. But damn it, gorgeous... it was worth every second of hell.

[serratwords]

Se puso de pie, ajustándose la chaqueta de cuero, mirandote por última vez, mientras ella se ponía al lado de Sam y le tomaba la mano de forma instintiva. Dean dio media vuelta y caminó hacia el Impala en la oscuridad de la noche, guardando para siempre en el rincón más sagrado de su memoria los días en que, aunque fuera en un sueño, habías sido suya

He rose to his feet, pulling his leather jacket straight, taking one final look at you as she moved beside Sam and instinctively grabbed his hand. Dean turned on his heel and walked toward the Impala through the pitch-black night, locking away in the most sacred corner of his memory the days when, if only in a dream, you belonged to him.

I'm loving the versions where Dean falls in love with his brother's girlfriend.

[serratwords]

​Y lo peor para Dean era despertar de ese sueño justo cuando el motor del Impala rugía de fondo, solo para abrir los ojos en la penumbra del motel y verte acurrucada contra el pecho de Sam.

And the absolute worst for Dean was waking from that dream right as the Impala’s engine revved in the background, only to open his eyes in the motel room's gloom and see you snuggled against Sam's chest.

[serratwords]

El Bar

Resumen: Finges estar en una cita con el mejor amigo de tu papá para darle celos a tu ex en el bar. Entonces él le dice al bartender "le preguntaré a mi esposa que quiere tomar"

Personaje: Beau Arlen

Beau se apoya contra la madera de la barra con una tranquilidad pasmosa, moviéndose con esa seguridad y magnetismo que solo te dan los años. Sin dudarlo un segundo, desliza una mano grande y cálida por tu espalda baja, atrayéndote hacia su costado. El contacto es firme, protector... y lo suficientemente posesivo como para que tu ex, que los observa desde la mesa de la esquina, casi se atragante con su propia bebida.

A sus 46 años, el mejor amigo de tu padre sabe exactamente lo que hace. Te saca bastante ventaja en experiencia, y eso se nota en la media sonrisa perezosa que curva sus labios. Baja la mirada hacia ti, y sus ojos brillan con una mezcla de diversión cómplice y una intensidad que te toma por sorpresa, haciéndote olvidar por un segundo de quién se trata.

—Entonces, cariño... —dice, con esa voz grave y ligeramente áspera que lo caracteriza, modulando el tono para sonar increíblemente íntimo y devoto frente al bartender—. ¿Qué va a tomar mi hermosa esposa esta noche? ¿Quieres lo de siempre o te apetece probar algo diferente?

Su pulgar acaricia distraídamente la curva de tu cintura, jugando el papel a la perfección. Tal vez demasiado bien. Aprovechando la fachada de marido enamorado, se inclina un poco más hacia ti, rozando tu sien con su respiración, y murmura un secreto solo para tus oídos:

—No mires ahora, pero creo que a ese idiota se le acaba de reventar una vena en el cuello —suelta una risa baja, un sonido ronco que te vibra en el pecho y te pone la piel de gallina—. Pide lo que quieras, preciosa, la cuenta corre por mi cargo. Pero arrímate un poco más, tienes que ayudarme a que este anillo imaginario se vea convincente.

Te pegas un poco más a su costado, sintiendo el calor de su cuerpo a través de la tela de su camisa y el roce firme de su mano en tu cintura. Siguiendo su juego, dejas escapar una risa suave y finges acomodarle la solapa del saco con una familiaridad exagerada, asegurándote de que tu ex, sentado a unos metros, tenga la vista perfecta de la escena.

—No seas exagerado, Beau —murmuras con dulzura, manteniendo el tono juguetón que requiere la farsa—. Aunque... un trago fuerte sí que necesito para aguantar esta noche. Pídeme un gin tonic, por favor, mi amor.

Le sonríes con picardía, disfrutando de cómo el apodo se desliza de tus labios con total naturalidad, sabiendo el efecto que eso debe estar causando en la mesa de al lado.

Beau suelta otra risa corta y ronca ante tu respuesta, claramente divertido por lo rápido que le has tomado la palabra. Su mirada se oscurece un instante, destilando una aprobación silenciosa que se siente extrañamente real.

—Hecho —le dice al bartender con voz firme, señala primero tu vaso y luego pide algo clásico para él—. Dos gin tonics, bien cargados. Y ponlo en mi cuenta.

El barman asiente y se aleja para preparar los tragos. En cuanto el espacio entre ustedes se despeja un poco, Beau se inclina apenas unos milímetros más, sin apartar esa mano cálida y firme de tu cintura. Sus ojos grises o avellanos —fijos en los tuyos con una intensidad que te desarma— estudian tu expresión con una mezcla de diversión y algo más difícil de leer.

—«Mi amor»... —repite su voz en un susurro bajo, casi una provocación hecha a medida para que solo tú la escuches—. Cuidado, preciosa, que los juegos de actuación a veces se salen de control si uno se toma el papel muy en serio. Dime una cosa... ¿crees que con esto tu ex ya aprendió la lección, o vas a necesitar que te bese de verdad para convencerlo?

El brillo de desafío en tus ojos es todo lo que Beau necesita. La broma deja de serlo en el preciso instante en que su expresión se transforma, pasando de la diversión cómplice a una concentración absoluta y peligrosa.

—Como ordenes, preciosa —murmura con esa voz grave que te acaricia el centro del pecho.

Antes de que puedas parpadear, su mano libre sube con una lentitud deliberada, atrapando la nuca con dedos firmes y seguros, y atrayéndote hacia él sin dejar espacio para la duda. No hay vacilación, ni rastro de la torpeza que podría tener alguien más joven; hay una experiencia abrumadora y una determinación que te roba el aliento.

Cuando sus labios finalmente encuentran los tuyos, el choque es cálido, experto y absolutamente imponente. Su boca se mueve sobre la tuya con una autoridad natural que te desarma por completo, sabiendo exactamente cómo inclinar el rostro para profundizar el beso. No es un roce fingido para la galería; es una caricia profunda, posesiva y tan perfectamente ejecutada que, por un segundo, el bar entero con su ruido, sus luces tenues y la presencia de tu ex desaparece por completo.

Su aliento sabe a whisky y tabaco limpio, y el peso de su cuerpo contra el tuyo te ancla a la barra con una intensidad que te hace olvidar que todo esto comenzó como una farsa.

Cuando finalmente se separa, la distancia que pone entre ustedes es apenas de unos centímetros. Su respiración es un poco más agitada, y sus ojos oscuros te examinan con una voracidad contenida, mientras su pulgar traza un leve y lento recorrido sobre tu labio inferior.

—Vaya... —suelta una risa ronca, con la voz notablemente más áspera, mientras baja la mirada hacia tu boca antes de volver a encontrarse con tus ojos—. Creo que nos pasamos de la raya con la actuación. ¿O me vas a decir que eso también fue para el público de la esquina?

—Eso estuvo muy bien—

Beau suelta una exhalación corta, una mezcla de risa y sorpresa, mientras la comisura de sus labios se curva en una sonrisa torcida. Su mano sigue apoyada en tu nuca, con el pulgar rozando distraídamente la piel sensible justo debajo de tu cabello, como si le costara trabajo decidirse a soltarte.

Gira levemente la cabeza, solo lo suficiente para echar un vistazo de reojo hacia la mesa del fondo.

—Si nos quedamos un minuto más mirando en esa dirección, creo que tu ex va a terminar volcando la mesa o saliendo corriendo del local —comenta en un murmullo ronco, volviendo a centrar toda su atención en ti con una intensidad que te quema—. Aunque, viendo cómo reaccionaste... empiezo a dudar de quién le estaba dando un susto a quién.

En ese momento, el bartender regresa y deposita los dos vasos de gin tonic sobre la barra, mirándolos a ambos con una ceja ligeramente alzada, claramente impresionado por la química entre "el matrimonio".

Beau paga con un movimiento fluido de tarjeta, sin apartar la otra mano de tu cintura, recuperando el personaje con una naturalidad pasmosa pero dejando que el roce entre ustedes se sienta más pesado, más real que antes.

Toma su vaso, choca levemente el borde con el tuyo y te dedica una mirada cargada de un retorcido y divertido desafío:

—A tu salud, preciosa. Y dime... ahora que el show principal terminó, ¿qué se supone que hagamos con el resto de la noche? ¿O me vas a decir que el plan era solo venir a tomar un trago?

El hielo en tu vaso tintinea suavemente mientras das un sorbo largo al gin tonic, intentando en vano calmar el fuego repentino que se te ha instalado en la boca del estómago. Sus palabras se quedan flotando en el aire del bar, cargadas de una doble intención que ya no se puede ignorar.

Beau te conoce desde que eras una niña. Para tu padre es el hermano que nunca tuvo, el hombre de confianza que cenaba en su casa los domingos y al que estabas acostumbrada a ver con una sonrisa relajada y la cercanía de la familia. Pero para ti, durante años, ese trasfondo ha sido el secreto mejor guardado de vosotras noches más solitarias; el rostro que invocabas en la oscuridad cuando tu imaginación cruzaba los límites de lo prohibido.

Y ahora, de pie frente a ti con la camisa levemente desabotonada del cuello y esa mirada de depredador paciente, te está dando la llave de la puerta trasera.

Dejas el vaso sobre la barra con un golpe seco que apenas emite sonido entre el bullicio del lugar. Alzas el rostro para sostenerle la mirada, sin importarte que la cortina de humo de la mentira se haya desvanecido por completo, revelando algo mucho más peligroso y real.

—¿El resto de la noche? —repites, dejando que tu voz suene más baja, más cerca de una provocación directa que de una pregunta inocente—. Depende de qué tan dispuesto estés a arriesgar la amistad con mi papá, Beau.

La mandíbula del hombre se tensa imperceptiblemente. El destello en sus ojos oscuros se vuelve hambriento, directo, como si hubiera estado esperando que cruzaras esa línea exacta desde el primer segundo en que pusiste un pie en el bar. Su mano se desliza desde tu cintura para aferrar con firmeza la cadera, acercándote tanto que ya no hay aire entre sus cuerpos.

—Tu padre cree que sigo siendo el tío sensato que te llevaba a los partidos cuando tenías diez años —murmura sobre tus labios, su aliento cálido cargado de advertencia y de una promesa sucia—. Pero se equivocó de cálculo al dejarte venir sola conmigo a un bar con poca luz.

Te sostiene con la fuerza justa, haciéndote sentir pequeña y a la vez completamente dominada por su presencia.

—El coche está a dos cuadras y mi departamento está completamente vacío —continúa, su pulgar trazando un círculo lento y posesivo a través de la tela de tu ropa—. ¿Quieres seguir jugando a la parejita feliz para darle celos a un idiota que no te merece... o vas a tener el valor de abrir esa puerta de una vez, preciosa?

Tomas tu bolso y caminas a la salida, moviendo las caderas lentamente para que Beau te observe, él sale detrás de ti.

El sonido de tus tacones contra el suelo del bar marca un ritmo deliberado, lento y magnético. Sabes exactamente el efecto que causas; sientes su mirada pesada, casi táctil, recorriendo cada línea de tu silueta mientras avanzas hacia la salida. La puerta se abre con un leve chirrido y el aire fresco de la noche te golpea el rostro, disipando el calor del local, pero no la tensión que se respira entre ustedes.

Apenas cruzas el umbral, una mano grande y firme se cierra con suavidad sobre la curva de tu brazo, deteniendo tus pasos en la penumbra de la acera.

Beau está ahí, cerrando la puerta tras de sí con el hombro, con la respiración un punto más acelerada y los ojos fijos en los tuyos con una intensidad que quema. La fachada de amigos, de conocidos, de lazos familiares... todo ha quedado completamente atrás, enterrado bajo el peso de lo inevitable.

—Vas muy rápido, preciosa... o tal vez soy yo que ya no tengo paciencia —murmura su voz ronca, apenas a un suspiro de distancia, mientras su mano se desliza por tu antebrazo hasta entrelazar sus dedos con los tuyos con una posesividad absoluta.

Te guía sin vacilar hacia la oscuridad del callejón donde está aparcado su coche, con la certeza de un hombre que sabe exactamente lo que quiere y que no piensa dejarte escapar.

—Beau —un gemido sale de tus labios, apenas se abre la puerta del departamento y te estampa contra la pared.

El pestillo de la puerta apenas da la vuelta antes de que la madera se cierre de golpe detrás de ustedes, tragándose los ruidos de la calle. No hay tiempo para luces, ni para palabras cordiales, ni para disimular la urgencia que lleva hirviendo desde el bar.

Beau te empuja con una autoridad imponente pero medida, haciendo que tu espalda choque contra la pared fría del recibidor. El impacto te saca el aire, pero antes de que puedas recuperarlo, él ya está encima de ti, ocupando todo tu espacio. Su peso te ancla, cubriéndote por completo con el calor de su cuerpo.

—Tu papá me mataría si supiera lo que estoy haciendo ahora mismo... —ronca su voz contra tu cuello, áspera y cargada de una oscura diversión que se apaga de inmediato al sentirte temblar bajo sus manos—. Pero la verdad es que me importa una mierda.

Al escuchar su nombre caer de tus labios en un gemido roto, la última reserva de paciencia que le quedaba se rompe. Su mano grande se enreda con desesperación en tu cabello, tirando de ti hacia atrás con la fuerza justa para obligarte a inclinar el cuello, dejándote completamente a su merced. La otra mano se clava en tu cintura, apretando la carne a través de la ropa con una posesividad que te arrebata los sentidos.

Su boca cae sobre tu piel con hambre, devorándote el cuello en un rastro de besos húmedos, firmes y deliberados que te hacen arquear la espalda de inmediato. Sus dientes rozan la sensibilidad de tu pulso, haciendo que otro suspiro entrecortado y tembloroso vuelva a escaparse de tu garganta, repitiendo su nombre como una letanía que él absorbe con un gruñido gutural de aprobación.

—Dímelo otra vez... —te exige contra tu piel, su respiración caliente quemándote la clavícula antes de volver a buscar tus labios con una voracidad que te deja sin anclaje, obligándote a aferrarte a las solapas de su saco para no derrumbarte.

—Beau —tu voz está suplicando más caricias—, te necesito.

Esas palabras — te necesito — caen como gasolina sobre un fuego que ya era imposible de contener. La última barrera de control que le quedaba a Beau se desvanece por completo.

Su respuesta es inmediata y abrumadora. Deja escapar un gruñido bajo contra tu boca antes de volver a reclamar tus labios en un beso hambriento, profundo y desesperado, borrando cualquier rastro de duda o vacilación. Ya no es solo el amigo sensato de tu padre jugando con fuego; es un hombre entregado por completo a la tentación que lleva años guardando en silencio.

Sus manos se mueven con una urgencia experta, recorriendo las curvas de tu cuerpo con una firmeza que te hace perder el suelo, levantándote con una facilidad pasmosa para que tus piernas se enrosquen instintivamente alrededor de su cintura. Te aprieta con fuerza contra la pared, sin romper el contacto ni un segundo, mientras te lleva a tientas hacia la oscuridad del pasillo, devorando cada suspiro y cada gemido que se escapa de tus labios entre la penumbra del departamento.

El calor entre ambos es denso, casi sofocante, avivado por la prisa y la adrenalina que llevan arrastrando desde el bar. Con los brazos de Beau sosteniéndote con una fuerza inquebrantable y tus piernas aferradas a su cintura, te guía a tientas hasta la habitación.

La oscuridad de la estancia apenas se rompe con la tenue luz de la calle que se cuela por la ventana, dibujando las sombras de sus hombros anchos y la tensión de su mandíbula. Al llegar al borde de la cama, te deja caer con suavidad, pero su cuerpo no se aparta ni un solo centímetro; te inmoviliza bajo el peso del suyo, cubriéndote por completo.

Sus manos grandes y expertas se deslizan con una seguridad abrumadora, recorriendo cada línea de tu cuerpo con una mezcla de reverencia y urgencia. Cada toque suyo parece encender una chispa nueva, arrancándote suspiros entrecortados que él absorbe con besos hambrientos, profundos y desesperados que te dejan sin aliento.

La paciencia de los años de silencio se ha convertido en una voracidad insaciable, y en esa penumbra, con el aroma a whisky y su colonia mezclados en el aire, lo único que importa es la forma en que su piel quema contra la tuya, borrando por completo cualquier rastro del mundo exterior.

—Eres una maldita obra de arte, preciosa.

El elogio cae como un susurro áspero y reverente directamente contra tu piel, cargado de una devoción tan intensa que te estremece de arriba abajo. No hay prisa vacía en sus movimientos; cada caricia es deliberada, marcando un ritmo denso y febril donde el mundo exterior, tu padre y los años de distancia desaparecen por completo.

Bajo la penumbra de la habitación, su mirada se detiene en ti con una voracidad contenida, brillando con la certeza de que ya no hay vuelta atrás. Sus manos se mueven con una seguridad absoluta, guiándote a través de cada segundo de esa entrega hasta que los suspiros y las palabras se funden en un solo eco en la oscuridad.

El tiempo parece perder toda lógica en la penumbra de la habitación, marcado únicamente por el ritmo de la respiración compartida y el eco sordo de sus latidos contra los tuyos.

Cuando la intensidad finalmente cede, dejando paso a un silencio denso y cálido, Beau no se aparta. Al contrario, se acomoda a tu lado, envolviéndote por completo con la amplitud de sus hombros y trayéndote contra su pecho de un movimiento firme pero delicado. Su brazo queda firmemente cruzado sobre tu cintura, pegándote a él como si temiera que, al despertar, todo fuera parte de la misma fantasía que cultivó durante años.

Sientes la vibración de su pecho cuando exhala un suspiro profundo, hondo, como si por fin se permitiera soltar un peso que llevaba cargando demasiado tiempo. Su otra mano sube con lentitud para apartar los mechones de cabello sudoroso que se te han pegado a la frente, trazando una caricia suave, casi protectora, en tu mejilla.

Baja la cabeza en la oscuridad y deposita un beso lento y persistente en tu sien, justo donde la piel aún te quema.

—Mañana tu padre probablemente nos invite a cenar como si nada... —su voz sale ronca, con una sonrisa ligera y socarrona escondida en las palabras, aunque sus dedos se cierran un poco más firme sobre tu piel—. Y te juro que no sé cómo diablos voy a mirarlo a los ojos sin empezar a reír. Pero, maldita sea, preciosa... valió cada segundo de infierno.

The Bar

Summary: You pretend to be on a date with your dad's best friend to make your ex jealous at the bar. Then he tells the bartender, "I'll ask my wife what she'd like to drink."

Character: Beau Arlen

Beau leans against the wooden bar with an effortless ease, moving with the confidence and magnetism that only years can bring. Without a second hesitation, he slides a large, warm hand down your lower back, pulling you flush against his side. The contact is firm, protective... and possessive enough that your ex, watching you from the corner table, nearly chokes on his own drink.

At forty-six, your father's best friend knows exactly what he is doing. He has a distinct advantage in experience over you, and it shows in the lazy, crooked smile playing on his lips. He looks down at you, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of playful mischief and an intensity that catches you off guard, making you forget for a second who he actually is.

—So, darling... —he says, his voice deep and slightly raspy, modulating his tone to sound incredibly intimate and devoted for the bartender's benefit—. What is my gorgeous wife having tonight? The usual, or are you feeling like trying something different?

His thumb idly strokes the curve of your waist, playing the part to absolute perfection. Perhaps too well. Leaning into the façade of a doting husband, he bends in a little closer, his breath brushing against your temple as he murmurs a secret just for your ears:

—Don't look now, but I think a vein just popped in that idiot's neck— he lets out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrates against your chest and gives you goosebumps—. Order whatever you want, gorgeous, it's on my tab. But lean in a little closer; you have to help me make this imaginary ring look convincing.

You press a bit closer to his side, feeling the warmth of his body through his shirt and the firm press of his hand at your waist. Playing along, you let out a soft laugh and playfully adjust the lapel of his jacket with exaggerated familiarity, making sure your ex, sitting a few feet away, has a clear view of the scene.

—Don't be dramatic, Beau —you murmur sweetly, keeping the playful tone the charade demands—. Though... I definitely need a strong drink to get through tonight. Get me a gin and tonic, please, my love.

You flash a mischievous smile, savoring how effortlessly the endearment slips from your lips, knowing the exact effect it must be having at the table next to you.

Beau lets out another short, gravelly laugh at your response, clearly amused by how quickly you've embraced the role. His gaze darkens for a second, radiating a silent approval that feels strangely real.

—Done —he tells the bartender in a firm voice, gesturing first to your glass and then ordering something classic for himself—. Two gin and tonics, make them strong. And put it on my tab.

The bartender nods and steps away to fix the drinks. The moment the space between you clears slightly, Beau leans in a few millimeters closer, never removing that warm, firm hand from your waist. His hazel or gray eyes—fixed on yours with a disarming intensity—study your expression, blending amusement with something much harder to read.

—«My love»... —he repeats in a low whisper, almost a provocation tailored exclusively for you—. Careful, gorgeous, acting games sometimes spiral out of hand when you take the role too seriously. Tell me something... do you think your ex learned his lesson, or are you going to need me to actually kiss you to convince him?

The flash of defiance in your eyes is all Beau needs. The joke evaporates the instant his expression shifts, transforming from playful complicity into absolute, dangerous focus.

—As you wish, gorgeous —he murmurs with that deep voice that strokes the center of your chest.

Before you can blink, his free hand rises with deliberate slowness, fingers sliding firmly and securely into the nape of your neck, drawing you in without a shred of hesitation. There is no awkwardness, no trace of clumsiness; just overwhelming experience and a determination that steals your breath.

When his lips finally meet yours, the collision is warm, expert, and utterly commanding. His mouth moves over yours with a natural authority that completely disarms you, knowing precisely how to angle his face to deepen the kiss. This isn't a fake brush for the gallery; it's a deep, possessive caress, executed so perfectly that for a single second, the entire bar—with its noise, dim lights, and the presence of your ex—vanishes completely.

His breath tastes of whiskey and clean tobacco, and the weight of his body against yours anchors you to the bar with an intensity that makes you forget this all started as a sham.

When he finally pulls back, the distance between you is barely a few inches. His breathing is slightly heavier, and his dark eyes scan you with a restrained voraciousness while his thumb traces a slow, light path across your lower lip.

—Well... —he lets out a raspy chuckle, his voice noticeably rougher as he drops his gaze to your mouth before meeting your eyes again—. I think we went a bit overboard with the acting. Or are you going to tell me that was for the benefit of the corner table too?

—That was really good—

Beau lets out a short breath, half-laughter and half-surprise, as the corner of his mouth quirks into a twisted smile. His hand remains on the back of your neck, his thumb idly brushing the sensitive skin right beneath your hair, as if he finds it hard to let go.

He tilts his head just enough to glance back toward the table in the back.

—If we stay here staring in that direction for another minute, I think your ex is either going to flip the table or sprint right out the door —he murmurs in a raspy whisper, snapping his full attention back to you with burning intensity—. Though, seeing how you reacted... I'm starting to wonder who was scaring whom.

At that moment, the bartender returns and sets the two glasses of gin and tonic on the bar, raising a single eyebrow at the two of you, clearly impressed by the chemistry between the "married couple."

Beau pays with a smooth flick of his card, never loosening his other hand from your waist, slipping back into character with astonishing naturalness while letting the friction between you feel heavier, more real than before.

He picks up his glass, lightly taps the rim against yours, and gives you a look loaded with a twisted, playful challenge:

—To your health, gorgeous. And tell me... now that the main show is over, what are we supposed to do with the rest of the night? Or are you going to tell me the plan was just to grab a drink?

The ice in your glass clinks softly as you take a long sip of your gin and tonic, trying in vain to cool the sudden fire pooling in the pit of your stomach. His words linger in the air of the bar, heavy with a double meaning that can no longer be ignored.

Beau has known you since you were a child. To your father, he is the brother he never had, the trusted confidant who used to have dinner at your house every Sunday, a man you were used to seeing with a relaxed smile and easy family familiarity. But for you, all these years, that background has been the best-kept secret of your loneliest nights—the face you conjured in the dark whenever your imagination crossed forbidden boundaries.

And now, standing right in front of you with his collar slightly unbuttoned and that patient predator's gaze, he is handing you the key to the back door.

You set your glass down on the bar with a dull thud that barely registers above the ambient noise of the place. You lift your chin to meet his gaze, no longer caring that the smoke screen of the lie has burned away entirely, revealing something far more dangerous and real.

—The rest of the night? —you repeat, letting your voice drop lower, closer to a direct provocation than an innocent question—. That depends on how willing you are to risk your friendship with my dad, Beau.

His jaw tightens imperceptibly. The flash in his dark eyes turns hungry, direct, as if he had been waiting for you to cross that exact line from the very second you walked into the bar. His hand slides from your waist to grip your hip firmly, pulling you so close that not a shred of air remains between your bodies.

—Your dad thinks I'm still the sensible uncle who used to take you to games when you were ten —he murmurs against your lips, his warm breath heavy with warning and a dirty promise—. But he miscalculated when he let you come out alone with me to a dim-lit bar.

He holds you with just enough force, making you feel small yet entirely dominated by his presence.

—The car is two blocks away and my apartment is completely empty —he continues, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle through your clothes—. Do you want to keep playing happy little couple to make some idiot who doesn't deserve you jealous... or do you actually have the nerve to open that door for real, gorgeous?

You grab your purse and walk toward the exit, swaying your hips slowly so Beau can watch you. He follows right behind you.

The sound of your heels against the bar floor strikes a deliberate, slow, and magnetic rhythm. You know the exact effect you're causing; you feel his heavy, almost tangible gaze tracing every line of your silhouette as you head for the door. It swings open with a faint squeak, and the cool night air hits your face, clearing the indoor heat but doing nothing to cool the tension humming between you.

The moment you cross the threshold, a large, firm hand wraps gently around the curve of your arm, halting your steps in the dimness of the sidewalk.

Beau is right there, pushing the door shut behind him with his shoulder, his breathing a notch faster and his eyes locked onto yours with burning intensity. The facade of friends, acquaintances, and family ties—it's all completely behind you now, buried beneath the weight of the inevitable.

—You're moving too fast, gorgeous... or maybe I'm the one who's run out of patience —his raspy voice murmurs just a breath away, as his hand slides down your forearm to interlace his fingers with yours in absolute possessiveness.

Without hesitation, he guides you into the dark alley where his car is parked, with the certainty of a man who knows exactly what he wants and has no intention of letting you escape.

—Beau —a moan slips past your lips the second the apartment door swings open and he slams you against the wall.

The latch barely clicks into place before the wood slams shut behind you, swallowing the noises of the street. There is no time for lights, no time for polite words, no pretending away the urgency that has been boiling since the bar.

Beau shoves you back with overwhelming yet measured authority, making your back collide against the cold wall of the entryway. The impact knocks the wind out of you, but before you can catch your breath, he is already pressing into you, occupying every inch of your space. His weight anchors you, blanketing you completely with his body heat.

—Your dad would kill me if he knew what I was doing right now... —his voice rasps against your neck, rough and laced with dark amusement that vanishes instantly the moment he feels you shiver beneath his hands—. But the truth is, I don't give a damn.

Hearing his name tumble from your lips in a broken whimper shatters the last reservation of patience he had left. His large hand tangles desperately in your hair, yuging your head back just enough to force your neck arched and exposed, leaving you entirely at his mercy. His other hand clamps onto your waist, squeezing your flesh through your clothes with a possessiveness that robs you of your senses.

His mouth drops hungrily onto your skin, devouring your neck in a trail of wet, firm, deliberate kisses that immediately make your arch your back. His teeth graze the sensitive pulse point of your throat, drawing another shaky, breathless sigh from your lips as you repeat his name like an incantation—one he swallows with a guttural growl of approval.

—Say it again... —he demands against your skin, his hot breath scorching your collarbone before he crashes back against your lips with a voracity that leaves you unmoored, forcing you to grip the lapels of his jacket so you don't collapse.

—Beau —your voice is practically begging for more caresses—, I need you.

Those words—I need you—drop like gasoline onto a fire that was already impossible to contain. The last barrier of control Beau had left vanishes entirely.

His response is immediate and overwhelming. He lets out a low growl against your mouth before reclaiming your lips in a hungry, deep, desperate kiss, erasing every last trace of doubt or hesitation. He isn't just your father's sensible friend playing with fire anymore; he's a man surrendering completely to the temptation he's kept bottled up in silence for years.

His hands move with expert urgency, tracing the curves of your body with a firmness that makes you lose your footing, lifting you with astonishing ease so your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. He presses you hard against the wall, never breaking contact for a single second as he carries you blindly into the dark hallway, devouring every sigh and whimper slipping from your lips in the apartment's dimness.

The heat between you is dense, almost suffocating, fueled by the rush and adrenaline carried over from the bar. With Beau's arms holding you with unbreakable strength and your legs locked around his waist, he guides you blindly toward the bedroom.

The darkness of the room is barely pierced by the faint street light filtering through the window, sketching the broad lines of his shoulders and the tight tension of his jaw. Reaching the edge of the bed, he lets you down softly, but his body doesn't part from yours by even a fraction of an inch; he pins you beneath his weight, blanketing you completely.

His large, expert hands glide with overwhelming certainty, charting every line of your body with a mix of reverence and urgency. Every touch of his seems to spark a brand-new fire, wrung-out gasps tearing from your throat that he swallows with hungry, deep, breathless kisses.

Years of quiet patience have boiled over into insatiable voracity, and in that dim room, with the scent of whiskey and his cologne thick in the air, nothing matters except the way his skin burns against yours, wiping away every single trace of the outside world.

—You're a damn work of art, gorgeous.

The praise drops like a rough, reverent whisper directly against your skin, charged with a devotion so fierce it makes you shiver from head to toe. There is no empty rush in his movements; every caress is deliberate, marking a heavy, feverish rhythm where the outside world, your father, and the years of distance melt away entirely.

In the shadows of the bedroom, his gaze holds yours with contained voracity, glowing with the certainty that there is no turning back. His hands move with absolute assurance, guiding you through every second of that surrender until sighs and words blur into a single echo in the dark.

Time loses all meaning in the shadows of the bedroom, measured only by the rhythm of shared breathing and the dull echo of his heartbeat against yours.

When the intensity finally ebbs, giving way to a dense, warm silence, Beau doesn't pull away. Instead, he settles beside you, wrapping you completely in the expanse of his shoulders and pulling you flush against his chest with a firm yet gentle motion. His arm remains securely locked over your waist, holding you tight as if afraid that waking up might mean it was all part of the same fantasy he spent years cultivating.

You feel the vibration of his chest as he exhales a deep, heavy sigh, as though he's finally letting go of a weight he carried for far too long. His other hand slowly reaches up to brush away the sweaty strands of hair stuck to your forehead, tracing a soft, almost protective caress across your cheek.

He dips his head in the dark, planting a slow, lingering kiss right on your temple where your skin still burns.

—Tomorrow your dad will probably invite us over for dinner like nothing happened... —his voice comes out raspy, a light, teasing smile hidden behind the words, though his fingers tighten just a bit firmer against your skin—. And I swear I have no idea how the hell I'm going to look him in the eye without laughing. But damn it, gorgeous... it was worth every second of hell.

[serratwords]

Registros de un cazador.

Resumen: Sam Winchester ha perdido la memoria y ha olvidado por completo la relación amorosa contigo. Un año sin recuerdos de tí.  Pero los pasajes en su diario le darán la pista sobre quién eres. 

DÍA 1

Sam contemplaba la página amarillenta de su libreta, pasando la yema del dedo sobre su propia letra: “Me pateó en la boca del estómago y se quedó arrestada”. Una sonrisa amarga se le dibujó en los labios. Sí, esa era la Jennifer que le acababa de gritar en la cara hacía unas horas.

Pero al cerrar los ojos, otra imagen de Iowa lo golpeó de golpe, un eco de memoria que la amnesia no había logrado borrar por completo.

Se acordó de la mañana siguiente a su primera noche. El sol entrando por la ventana sucia de aquel motel de Iowa. Jennifer caminando descalza, llevando puesta una de las camisas de franela de Sam. Le quedaba tan enorme que parecía una niña jugando a disfrazarse; había tenido que doblar las mangas como seis veces para que sus manos pudieran salir, y el dobladillo le arrastraba casi hasta las rodillas. Se veía tan dócil, tan tierna, tan pequeña... Una calidez en el pecho que Sam no sabía cómo manejar lo inundó en el recuerdo. Esa era la chica que se acurrucaba en su cuello y dejaba que él la cuidara.

Abrió los ojos y la realidad lo abofeteó.

Al otro lado del cuarto, Jennifer se estaba terminando de abrochar una chamarra de mezclilla que le entalla perfectamente. No había mangas dobladas. No había timidez. Su postura era recta, sus movimientos decididos, emanando una feminidad imponente y una seguridad que parecía un muro de concreto. Ya no era la niña que se escondía en su ropa; era una mujer que caminaba como si el mundo le perteneciera.

Sam tragó saliva, sintiendo un nudo en la garganta. La contradicción lo estaba volviendo loco.

—¿Qué? —le lanzó Jennifer de golpe, al notar que él la miraba fijamente desde la mesa. Su tono era seco, de cazadora a cazador—. ¿Tengo algo en la cara o vas a seguir jugando al detective silencioso?

Sam bajó la mirada a la libreta, apretándole entre sus manos.

—Estaba leyendo esto —dijo, con la voz un poco baja, enseñándole la nota de la patada en el estómago—. Y... me acordé de algo más de Iowa. De ti usando mis camisas. Te quedaban gigantescas, Jen. Tenías que doblar las mangas un montón de veces.

Jennifer se congeló a mitad de camino hacia la puerta. El uso de su apodo, "Jen", viniendo de él, dolió. Y el recuerdo de las camisas grandes la golpeó directo en el centro de su orgullo. Por un microsegundo, sus ojos se suavizaron, y la chica tierna de Iowa se asomó a través de sus pestañas. Pero se obligó a parpadear, tragándose el nudo de nostalgia.

Se cruzó de brazos, clavándole una mirada fría pero cargada de un significado que Sam aún no alcanzaba a comprender.

—La gente cambia, Winchester. Sobre todo cuando se da cuenta de que la ropa de los demás ya no le queda. Aprendí a usar mi propia talla.

Dio la vuelta y abrió la puerta, dejando a Sam con la pregunta atorada en el pecho, mirando la libreta y dándose cuenta de que la distancia entre la chica que dobla las mangas y la mujer que acababa de salir era un abismo que él mismo, sin saberlo, había cavado.

NOTA DE MARGEN: Al margen de una página llena de símbolos rituales y notas sobre la entidad, Sam encuentra una anotación rápida, escrita con prisa, como si la hubiera apuntado mientras ella no lo veía: 

 “El caso del pueblo no es una bruja como Dean y yo habíamos pensado en un principio. Es una entidad mucho más vieja, algo que se alimenta de la culpa. La chica, Genevieve, lo descubrió antes que nadie traduciendo un texto en latín que a mí me habría tomado tres días descifrar. Me cuesta admitirlo después de lo que pasó en la comisaría, pero es una cazadora jodidamente capaz. Es inteligente. Muy inteligente. Dean ya le ofreció la mitad de nuestras cervezas." 

"Nota para el mapa: Genevieve dice que la entidad ataca siguiendo las líneas de la antigua vía del tren. Tiene razón. Moverse con ella en el campo es fácil; no tengo que explicarle los planes dos veces porque ella ya va tres pasos adelante de mí. Nota mental: Dejar de llamarla 'la enviada de Bobby'. Su nombre es Genevieve. Le gusta el café ridículamente cargado." 

"El plan falló. La entidad nos acorraló en el sótano de la iglesia. Dean estaba inconsciente y yo me quedé sin munición ritual. Pensé que estábamos listos. Pero Jen (así le dice Dean, creo que yo también empezaré a usarlo) no se achicó. Usó el soplete y los símbolos que memorizó para sellar la puerta en nuestra cara. Nos salvó el pellejo a los tres. Mañana cerramos este cabo suelto, pero de algo estoy seguro: no quiero volver a cazar en Iowa si ella no está cubriéndome la espalda."

Si les interesa saber cómo sigue la historia de Sam y Jennifer, déjenmelo saber en los comentarios. Es un relato que escribí hace tiempo y me encantaría compartir más.

Records of a Hunter

Summary: Sam Winchester has lost his memory and completely forgotten his romantic relationship with you. A year without any memories of you. But the entries in his diary will give him a clue as to who you are.

DAY 1 Sam stared at the yellowed page of his notebook, running his fingertip over his own handwriting: “She kicked me in the pit of my stomach and was arrested.” A bitter smile touched his lips. Yes, that was the Jennifer who had just screamed in his face a few hours earlier.

But as he closed his eyes, another image of Iowa struck him, an echo of memory that amnesia hadn't completely erased.

He remembered the morning after their first night together. The sun streaming through the dirty window of that Iowa motel. Jennifer walking barefoot, wearing one of Sam's flannel shirts. It was so oversized on her that she looked like a little girl playing dress-up; She'd had to roll down her sleeves about six times so her hands could get out, and the hem dragged almost to her knees. She looked so docile, so tender, so small… A warmth in his chest that Sam didn't know how to handle flooded him in the memory. That was the girl who snuggled against his neck and let him take care of her.

He opened his eyes and reality slapped him in the face. On the other side of the room, Jennifer was finishing buttoning a denim jacket that fit her perfectly. There were no rolled-up sleeves. No shyness. Her posture was upright, her movements decisive, emanating an imposing femininity and a confidence that felt like a concrete wall. She was no longer the girl hiding in her clothes; she was a woman who walked as if the world belonged to her.

Sam swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. The contradiction was driving him crazy.

"What?" “Is there something on my face, or are you going to keep playing silent detective?” Jennifer blurted out, noticing him staring at her from the table. Her tone was sharp, hunter to hunter.

Sam looked down at his notebook, clutching it tightly.

“I was reading this,” he said, his voice a little low, showing her the note about the kick in the stomach. “And… I remembered something else from Iowa. You wearing my shirts. They were huge on you, Jen. You had to roll up the sleeves a bunch of times.”

Jennifer froze halfway to the door. The use of her nickname, “Jen,” ​​coming from him stung. And the memory of the oversized shirts hit her right in the center of her pride. For a split second, her eyes softened, and the sweet girl from Iowa peeked through her lashes. But she forced herself to blink, swallowing the knot of nostalgia.

She crossed her arms, fixing him with a cold stare, heavy with a meaning Sam couldn't yet grasp.

"People change, Winchester. Especially when they realize other people's clothes no longer fit. I learned to wear my own size." She turned and opened the door, leaving Sam with the question lodged in his chest, staring at his notebook and realizing that the distance between the girl who rolls up her sleeves and the woman who had just stepped out was an abyss he himself, unknowingly, had dug.

MARGIN NOTE: In the margin of a page filled with ritual symbols and notes about the entity, Sam finds a quick, hastily written note, as if jotted down while she wasn't looking:

“The town case isn't a witch like Dean and I originally thought. It's a much older entity, something that feeds on guilt. The girl, Genevieve, figured it out before anyone else by translating a Latin text that would have taken me three days to decipher. It's hard for me to admit it after what happened at the precinct, but she's a damn good hunter. She's smart. Very smart. Dean already offered her half of our beers.”

"Note for the map: Genevieve says the entity attacks along the lines of the old railroad tracks. She's right. Moving around with her in the field is easy; I don't have to explain the plans twice because she's already three steps ahead of me. Mental note: Stop calling her 'Bobby's envoy.' Her name is Genevieve. She likes her coffee ridiculously strong."

"The plan backfired. The entity cornered us in the church basement. Dean was unconscious, and I ran out of ritual ammunition. I thought we were done for. But Jen (that's what Dean calls her; I think I'll start using it too) didn't back down. She used the blowtorch and the symbols she'd memorized to seal the door right in front of us. She saved all three of our skins. We'll tie up this loose end tomorrow, but one thing's for sure: I don't want to go hunting in Iowa again if she's not watching my back."

If you're interested in what happens next in Sam and Jennifer's story, let me know in the comments. It's a story I wrote a while ago, and I'd love to share more.

[unicornlover729161]

𝐷𝑎𝑑𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑛…

masterlist | my AO3 account | more of „supernatural“

Dbf!Dean who holds onto your thigh underneath the dinner table, letting his thumb brush over all your sensitive spots and moving his hand height and higher, all while your dad sits right across from you two.

Dbf!Dean who pushes himself up behind you while you do the dishes after dinner, your dad outside cleaning the grill. You can feel his growing hard on and his firm muscles thru his clothes, making the wetness just pool between your legs.

Dbf!Dean who presses down at the bulge that forms in your tummy whenever he pushes deep enough into you. He just loves seeing you whine about how big he is but how you can definitely handle every inch of him.

Dbf!Dean who likes fucking you while he’s got you in a headlock, making you unable to move from the overstimulation he’s putting you in. While you love being so close to him I to just getting way too much for you body to handle, but you wanted it didn’t you?

Dbf!Dean who tells you he’s so proud of you whenever you show him how good you did in on a test for college. And go of course rewards you with burying his head between your legs for hours on end.

Dbf!Dean who slaps or pinches your ass whenever you walk by him and no ones looking, at the family barbecue or when he and your dad watch football on weekends and you’re so nice to bring them another beer. Right here beside your dad but he’s focused on the game so he won’t notice.

Dbf!Dean who pushes his fingers into your mouth whenever you start whining about literally anything during sex, or not during sex.

Guys I swear I do NOT have any issues with my dad

taglist: @needjoekeery @jason-vs-crowbar r @iloveneilperry @eidbcgduiajxbsu @rubyrubydoo09 @romydolly

[serratwords]

​"Your parents force you to attend the wedding of one of their friends. When you look the groom in the eyes, you realize he is the man you had an affair with a few weeks ago.

Idea from tiktok

It had been a month since I last saw those blue eyes, the last time I felt the weight of his gaze on me in the privacy of his bachelor apartment. A month in which I had convinced myself that this man, impeccably groomed and twenty-five years older than me, was just a summer mistake, a forbidden and wonderful experience that wouldn't happen again.

​My parents, completely oblivious to the whirlwind brewing inside me, had dragged me to the city cathedral for the wedding of their friend's friend, a certain "Mr. Winchester," a construction tycoon who, they said, was marrying a younger woman.

​"You'll look gorgeous, darling," my mother had told me as she adjusted my navy blue cocktail dress, a sober and elegant design. "Your father wants to make a good impression."

​The cathedral was packed. The scent of lilies and incense mingled with the murmur of elite guests. I walked behind my parents down the center aisle, my gaze lost among the crowd of unfamiliar faces.

​Upon reaching the front rows, my view cleared. There he was. Standing next to the altar, dressed in a dark gray wedding suit that fit him to perfection, his golden hair neatly styled and his beard trimmed. But it wasn't the elegance of the suit or the formality of the moment that paralyzed my heart.

​It was his gaze. His intense, deep blue eyes, which had looked at me with so much desire a few weeks ago, were fixed on me.

​A chill ran down my spine. I stopped dead in my tracks, the world around me fading away. The ceremony, the priest, the bride waiting by his side... everything became irrelevant. It was just him and me.

​The smile that formed on his lips wasn't that of a man about to get married. It was a slow, knowing smile, a silent promise that ignited a spark of desire and terror in my stomach.

​—Elena, darling, are you okay? —my mother whispered, gently tugging my arm.

​—Yes, mom. I'm fine —I managed to articulate, my voice barely audible over the murmur of the guests—. Just... I tripped.

​I forced a smile and kept walking, feeling the burn of his gaze on the back of my neck. I sat in the assigned chair, my heart hammering in my chest. I had thought my biggest problem at this wedding would be boredom. Now, I realized my biggest problem was just a few feet away at the altar, about to say "I do" to another woman while I burned with desire for him.

​The reception was a display of opulence: floral arrangements that cost more than my car, a soft jazz orchestra playing, and waiters serving champagne in cut-crystal glasses. My parents, fascinated by the atmosphere, had left me alone for a few moments to go greet some old acquaintances.

​I was standing near the bar, holding a glass of champagne I hadn't tasted, when I felt a presence next to me. The unmistakable scent of his cologne —sandalwood and citrus, a blend that gave me a chill— enveloped me before I could react.

​—Excuse me, miss —a deep voice said, with a hint of irony that made me tremble.

​I turned around. It was him. Up close, in the dark suit with his intense gaze, he was even more dangerous. He had left his new bride (where was she? I didn't want to know) chatting with a group of guests.

​—Mr. Winchester —I said, trying to maintain my composure—. Congratulations.

​He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. His cold, calculating blue eyes locked onto mine.

​—Elena. What a... delicious surprise.

​—I don't think this is the time or the place —I said, anxiously looking around.

​—For me, it's always the time —he whispered, stepping closer. The heat of his body enveloped me—. You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment. A month, Elena. A whole month where I haven't stopped thinking about you.

​—You just got married.

​—A minor detail. My heart... and my body belong elsewhere. To you.

​The brush of his shoulder against mine as he leaned in slightly was electric. The air between us grew dense, charged with a tension that threatened to overflow at any moment.

​—May I have this dance? —he asked in a whisper, extending his hand.

​—I can't. People will see us.

​—Let them see us. I couldn't care less. —His eyes darkened, his voice dropping lower—. Dance with me, Elena. Or I swear I'll kidnap you and take you straight to the bridal suite right now.

​I couldn't refuse. His large, warm hand grasped mine. He led me to the dance floor, where the orchestra was playing a slow waltz.

​As he pulled me in, his body pressed against mine with a familiarity that made me lose my breath. His hand traced my back, coming to rest on my waist. The brush of his suit fabric against my light dress was a brutal contrast to the softness of his skin that I remembered.

​—You look stunning —he murmured against my ear—. That dress... looks wonderful on you. Though I'd rather see you without it.

​—Shut up —I said, feeling my cheeks burn.

​He chuckled softly. He pulled me tighter, spinning us to the rhythm of the music. His thighs brushed against mine, sending waves of heat through my body.

​—You have no idea how much it turns me on to have you here, dancing with me, while my wife watches us from across the room. It's a... perverted thrill.

​—You're a monster.

​—Maybe. But I'm your monster. And you belong to me, Elena. Don't forget it.

​The end of the waltz came both too soon and too late. I pulled away from him, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. He looked at me with an intensity that promised me more... much more, before rejoining his wife.

​I headed to the restroom, trembling, trying to catch my breath and regain my sanity. The night promised to be long, and Mr. Winchester, now my host and my "family friend," was determined to play with me, to burn me with his desire until nothing of me was left.

​I took refuge in the women's restroom, a sanctuary of marble and golden mirrors, desperately trying to catch my breath. My reflection showed a girl in a perfectly pressed navy blue dress, hair pulled back, and an intense flush on her cheeks that makeup couldn't hide.

​I splashed cold water on my face, the freezing liquid doing little to cool the fire burning inside me. His words, his touch, the way he had looked at me... it all swirled into a mass of contradictory sensations. Desire, guilt, fear, a perverse thrill that robbed me of clear thought.

​I left the restroom and headed to the hotel terrace, seeking fresh air and a moment of solitude. The night was starry, a soft breeze caressing my skin. I leaned against the railing, looking at the city lights spreading out below.

​—Hiding, Elena?

​His voice startled me. I turned. He was standing in the terrace's dim light, the dark suit blending into the night.

​—I'm not hiding —I said, trying to sound cold—. I just... needed a break.

​—From the party? Or from me? —he chuckled.

​—Both —I admitted, lowering my gaze.

​He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between us. The scent of sandalwood and citrus wrapped around me again.

​—I can't stop thinking about you, Elena. —His voice was a raspy whisper, loaded with an intensity that made me tremble—. Your body, your skin, the way you moved beneath me.

​—Stop —I said, feeling my cheeks burn.

​—You're married.

​—That's just a technical detail. —His blue eyes, locked onto mine, shone with a silent promise—. My heart belongs to you. And my body does too, whenever you want to claim it.

​—And your wife?

​—What about her? She's my wife. You... you are my mistress, my desire, my obsession.

​—You're a terrible man, Mr. Winchester.

​—Call me Dean. At least when we're alone. —He took another step closer. The heat radiating from his body sent a jolt of electricity across my skin—. I want you so much, Elena. Right here, right now, on this terrace, under the stars.

​—You can't —I said, though my barely audible voice betrayed my lack of conviction—. There are people inside. They'll see us.

​—Let them see us. I couldn't care less. —His large, warm hand gripped my waist, pulling me hard against him—. I swear I'll kidnap you and take you straight to the bridal suite right now.

​—You're insane.

​—Maybe. But I'm your insane. And you belong to me, Elena. Don't forget it.

​The brush of his thigh against mine was electric. The air between us grew dense, heavy with guilt and a desire no social formality could extinguish. His eyes, fixed on mine, shone with an intensity promising more... much more.

​—Kiss me —I whispered, unable to help myself.

​He didn't need to be told twice. His lips met mine with an urgency that left me breathless. A deep, passionate kiss that erased everything else around me. The world vanished. It was just him and me.

​—Let's go —he said, pulling back with difficulty—. Right now.

​—We can't. My parents...

​—To hell with your parents. —His voice was a raspy whisper, full of desire and a frightening, thrilling determination—. I want you. Now. In my bed.

​He took my hand and led me through the garden, far from the prying eyes of the guests. My parents... the wedding... the wife... everything became irrelevant. Only he mattered. Dean. The man who was now my host and my lover. And who was ready to burn me with his desire until nothing was left.

​Dean's firm, burning hand dragged me through the shadows of the garden, away from the music and laughter floating from the ballroom. His steps were fast, resolute, almost aggressive. I could barely keep up, tripping over my heels and the hem of my navy blue dress.

​—Dean, wait —I whispered, trying to control my ragged breathing.

​He didn't stop. He only tightened his grip on my hand. The night air, cool and scented with blooming jasmine, struck my face—a brutal contrast to the fire Dean was igniting inside me.

​We reached the side of the hotel, a service door hidden behind thick ivy. Dean pulled a key from his pocket, slid it into the lock, and turned it with a sharp click.

​The door swung open, revealing a dark, silent hallway. He shoved me inside and locked the door behind us, plunging us into total darkness.

​—Dean —I said, my voice trembling slightly from fear and anticipation.

​—Quiet —he whispered, his voice raspy and loaded with an intensity that made me shudder.

​I felt his body press against mine in the dark. His hot, ragged breath brushed my neck. The scent of his cologne —sandalwood and citrus— enveloped me, intoxicating.

​His large, rough hands slid down my arms, stopping at my shoulders. With a smooth yet firm motion, he slipped the straps of my dress down, leaving my bare shoulders exposed to the cool air.

​—You look gorgeous, Elena —he murmured, his lips kissing the sensitive skin of my neck—. Though I'd rather see you without it.

​A smothered moan escaped my lips. His words, dripping with raw eroticism, made me burn.

​His hands continued their descent, stroking my waist, my hips, resting on the curve of my lower back. The friction of his suit fabric against my bare skin was a brutal contrast, an electric jolt sending waves of heat through my body.

​—You have no idea how much it turns me on to have you here, all alone, Elena —he whispered, his voice a rough murmur against my ear—. In your cocktail dress, so innocent, so desirable... while my wife waits out there, completely oblivious.

​—Dean, please —I whispered, my voice barely a sound.

​—Please? Please what, Elena? For me to stop? —he chuckled, a dark, perverted sound—. Or for me to keep going?

​I couldn't answer. My body was betraying me, answering his touch with uncontrollable desire.

​He pulled back slightly, his blue eyes gleaming in the dark with a promise of more... much more.

​—Take off the dress —he ordered, his voice low and authoritative.

​—I can't —I said, though my shaking voice gave away my lack of will.

​—Of course you can. And if you don't, I will. And I don't think you'll like how I do it.

​His eyes, locked on mine, shone with a silent promise that terrified and excited me in equal measure. Slowly, with trembling fingers, I slid down the zipper of my dress. The metallic sound echoed in the silence of the room.

​The dress pooled at my feet, leaving me in black lace lingerie. Dean let out a guttural sigh.

​—Stunning —he muttered, his eyes roaming over my body with an intensity that made me feel entirely bare under his gaze.

​He stepped closer, his body pinning mine against the cold wall. The friction of his hot skin against mine was an electric shock.

​His lips claimed mine with a breath-stealing urgency. A deep, passionate kiss that wiped out everything else. The world dissolved. It was just him and me.

​His large, warm hands caressed my thighs, my hips, my waist. Every touch, every stroke, lit another spark of contained desire. The air between us grew thick, heavy with the weight of guilt and a longing no social rule could break.

​—Dean —I groaned, my body arching toward him.

​—I want you, Elena —he murmured, his lips trailing down my jawline—. Right now. In my bed.

​He swept me up in his arms and carried me across the room toward a large, luxurious bed. Mr. Winchester, my host, my family friend, was ready to play with me, to burn me with his desire until nothing was left of me. And I... I didn't want him to stop.

​The vast bed of the bridal suite seemed to swallow us in the dim light. Dean laid me down on the sheets with deliberate slowness, his weight covering me instantly, cutting off any trace of air and reason. His tie was already loose, clumsily undone, and the top button of his shirt was open, revealing the firm skin of his chest and the sheen of cool sweat that betrayed the contained urgency of the entire evening.

​—Look at me —he commanded in a husky whisper against my lips, before devouring them again with a hungry possessiveness.

​His large hands—rough from the years but expert at stripping away sanity—traced every inch of my skin with a feverish desperation. The black lace of my underwear vanished beneath the push of his fingers, unable to withstand the barrier of fabric. Every brush of his skin against mine was incandescent friction; the heat of our bodies melted together in an accelerated rhythm of broken breaths and choked gasps.

​—You're mine, Elena —he growled close to my ear, his voice turning into a raspy echo that made me violently arch my back against the mattress.

​The proximity of the wedding, the artificial luxury of the hall just on the other side of the door, the guilt and the danger of being caught only fanned the flames. It was an act of absolute transgression. His hips pressed firmly against mine, seeking absolute contact, measuring each other in a slow, deliberate sway charged with an electric tension that threatened to break us from the inside out.

​—Dean... please —I groaned, my fingers digging hard into the fabric of his jacket and his shoulders, seeking an anchor while the whole world seemed to dissolve into raw pleasure.

​He tilted his face, blazing a trail of burning kisses down the curve of my neck, stopping at the exact spot where my pulse raced wildly before biting into the skin with just the right measure of pain and ecstasy. His pace grew denser, relentless, driven by the urgency of a man claiming the forbidden.

​We moved as one in the shadows, entirely given over to the friction of our bodies, the sound of the sheets twisting beneath our hands, and the broken whispers lost in the dark. Every thrust was a mix of defiance and surrender, a fire consuming the last shreds of decency until we were left breathless, suspended on the edge of the abyss, burning under the same dark sky that remained completely unaware of what we had just destroyed.

​The silence of the bridal suite was left behind when we turned the knob of the service door once more. The hallway air was cool, almost indifferent to the chaos we had just unleashed in the dark. We straightened our clothing with still-shivering hands and quick gestures; I smoothed out the hem of my navy blue dress and adjusted the straps over my shoulders, while Dean re-buttoned his shirt and straightened the vest of his suit with astonishing coldness, as if the last few minutes had never happened.

​—You go first —he murmured, a shadow of amusement in his gaze and absolute authority in his tone—. I'll take the side hallway. See you inside.

​I nodded mutely, unable to speak, and slipped back into the reception ballroom through a side door.

​The contrast was a harsh blow to the senses. Jazz music still drifted through the room, guests' laughter echoed over crystal glassware, and the warm glow of hanging chandeliers lit up the opulent banquet. I blended into the crowd with my heart still pounding in my ears, trying to regain a composure I knew no longer belonged to me.

​A few moments later, I saw him appear from the far end of the room. Dean walked with the sober elegance demanded by his role as host, smiling courteously to the guests who greeted him along the way. His new wife was at his side, holding his arm with a naturalness that sent a freezing pang to my stomach. As he crossed the distance between the two rooms, his blue gaze flickered toward me for a single instant amid the sea of people. It was a quick flash, invisible to everyone else, but enough to remind me of the weight of the secret we now shared, sealed under the same roof and behind everyone's backs.

[twd-officerfriendly-blog]

jealousy pt. 2 || sam winchester x reader

warnings: smut, fighting, 18+, nsfw

note: part two of a two part series

—————————————————————————

“I upset you once and you decide to sleep with my brother?!”

“Sam, it’s not like that—“

—————

“Surely he’s not upset, right? I mean, he probably got a little action with the chick coming back this late,” Dean laughs, trying to reassure himself that his younger brother wouldn’t be too upset with the situation that he had just walked in on.

You stand next to Dean, a flood of emotions sloshing through you all at once. You only realized what you had truly done after Sam abruptly slammed the door shut. You felt guilty and ashamed, but at the same time, was it really that bad? Sam just got back from a date with a woman he was obviously interested in. So why did he care and why did you care? Satisfaction slowly fought with the guilt and embarrassment of the situation.

“I mean, he was on a date. Sam and I aren’t anything. You both know that,” you say in reassurance to Dean. Was it really an issue?

“Fuck. I’m so stupid,” Dean mutters, his fingers now pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

A pit forms in your stomach at Dean’s words. Did he really regret what he had done or was it his guilty conscience of his younger brother clouding his mind.

“I’m gonna go check on Sam,” you say, motioning to the door. “This was a mistake.”

Dean’s head whips toward you at your choice of words.

“You think this was a mistake?” A look of confusion on his face now. “A mistake? Seriously?” You look at him in silence as the frustration continues to build up.

“Dean,” you whisper, voice shaky. Things are really fucked up now and it’s your fault.

“No. I see the way you look at me. The way you dress, the way you act, the way you talk to me. Then something finally happens and now it’s a mistake? You were so about it,” Dean’s voice was raising the more he spoke.

“It was a mistake, Dean, and you know it,” you say before slipping out of the door to find Sam, leaving Dean to sulk in his frustration. God, what’re you doing?

You shut the door behind you, your eyes scanning the area outside of the motel for Sam. Your heart is racing and the cool air is stinging your throat. Your eyes land on Sam leaned against the Impala, his head down. He’s looking at the ground, not moving an inch. He’s just still like a statue. You decide to make your way toward him, your legs feeling heavy as you move them.

“Sam,” is all that you can say.

“I thought I told you not to talk to me,” he says, his voice shaky yet stern.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, not knowing what else to say. Why are you apologizing? He’s the one that went on a date with another woman. Matter of fact, you two aren’t anything at all. You’re friends. Hunting partners.

“You’re sorry?” Sam laughs, finally breaking eye contact with the ground to look up at you. “Really? Is that all you are?” Ouch. The way he said the last sentence hurt. Anger starts to build up inside of you again, the alcohol adding to the fire.

“Excuse me?” Now you laugh, tears coming to your eyes. “Why are you so upset?” You’re full of anger at this point. He doesn’t get the right to be pissed at you.

“Why am I upset?” He yells, voice deep. His fist makes contact with the hood of the Impala. You jump at his actions. He’s never showed his anger like this. “Why the hell do you think I’m upset? I just walked in on my brother and you practically fucking.” His eyes are so full of anger now.

“Why the hell are you so upset about it, Sam? You act like we’re together—like we’re something. We’re not. You were on a date with Sarah, for fucks sake,” you yell back, the anger reaching your hands and causing them to shake.

“It was for the case and you know that,” Sam says, voice now deep and low.

“Okay, Sam. I seen the way you two looked at each other. You were so eager to see her again. It’s been hours since your date began,” you continue to yell.

Sam’s jaw is clenched hard. “It was for the case. I got the provenances and more information about the families tied to it. You think I hooked up with her? I’m not Dean,” he says.

“Whatever. It’s a quarter past one and you’re telling me you didn’t go back to her house—sweet talk her? Maybe take her to bed? Please,” you scoff. “You had your fun and I had mine. I’m done arguing with you over this stupid shit.”

“I didn’t! You, on the other hand, took the perfect opportunity to just crawl all over Dean. I should’ve known,” he yells, turning to face away from you. His back is to you.

“So what? I can do what I want. You’re just so fucked up about this, aren’t you? Why, Sam? Tell me why,” you yell. For once in this argument, he’s quiet. You wait impatiently for an answer and receive nothing. “I’m going back inside. I’m not arguing with you anymore about this. It’s pointless.” You give up in frustration, turning to walk back into the room.

“Stop!” Sam yells, turning around quickly. You turn to look at him, his chest rising up and down quickly now. “Get in the fucking car.”

Your face scrunches into an irritated look. “No.”

“I said get in the car,” he growls, his finger pointing to the Impala. “Please. We need to talk. Privately.”

You stare at him trying to read his facial expressions. They’re fighting between softening and tensing. You sigh and walk to the passenger side door, opening it, sitting down, and slamming the door shut. Sorry, Dean. Sam opens the door and sits in the drivers seat before starting the Impala. Right now, neither of you really cared what Dean would think about taking his precious baby. Sam pulled out of the motel parking lot, staying silent and staring at the road ahead of him. For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sat in silence, taking in the crisp night with faint 80s rock playing through the speakers.

“What do we need to talk about?” You decide to break the silence.

“About you. About what I walked in on earlier,” he says, not breaking his gaze from the highway.

You scoff, also staring at the highway in front of you. “Are you serious? You know, why don’t you just tell me why you’re so upset? I thought that’s what this was about. Are you mad that I was hooking up with your brother and not you?” You push.

Sam’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel and he takes a deep, agitated breath.

“I am,” he says and you feel your heart sink.

You turn your head to look at him, his eyes still locked onto the road.

“Why?” You mutter out, urging him to get to the point. You knew some of the point, but you wanted him to say it.

“You know why. Don’t you see the way that I look at you? I want to tell you so many things but I can’t. I couldn’t. I mean, fuck, I didn’t want to ruin anything between us and Dean, too. But it looks like you did that part for me,” he says, taking a quick glance at you. Ouch. A nice pain to the chest.

“Sam, I can’t wait around forever. I seen it and noticed it. You never said anything and every time you started to act any way to me, you tried to push yourself away. Why would I want that?” You state, feeling a little bit guilty. It was the truth, though.

“I told you. For my protection and yours, too,” he says.

“For my protection?” You laugh sarcastically. “Right. Dean obviously didn’t care. Why should I? I mean, it was going pretty good before someone interrupted.”

Sam grips the steering wheel tighter, practically slamming on the breaks to pull over to the side of the road. He threw the car in park before turning to look at you.

“Enough already. Fuck,” Sam yells, his hands running through his hair stressfully. You say nothing, staring at him blankly. “Can’t you see what you do to me? I’m a fucking mess around you. I can’t focus when you’re too close to me. I can’t focus when you’re wearing your more revealing outfits. I can’t fucking focus when you’re around because you’re all I think about and I fucking hate it.”

Your heartbeat picks up in your chest, your face and your body filling with warmth. He said it.

“Sam—“ you whisper before he cuts you off.

“I upset you once and you decide to sleep with my brother!?” He yells, his anger releasing.

“Sam, it’s not like that—,” you blurt before he cuts you off.

“You wanna know how I spent my date? What I was doing? I was thinking about you the whole fucking time. Every time I looked at her, it was you looking back at me. I couldn’t keep my mind off of you. It should’ve been you instead of her. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I kept wondering about what you were doing. Hell, I couldn’t even sleep in the same bed as you last night without my mind wandering. You see what you’re fucking doing to me? I can’t even go on a date without you clouding my mind and fucking me up,” Sam erupted, his words finally spilling out of him.

You sit in silence, amused at what he’s releasing. The yearning in his tone and in his words—God, it was so needy and hot.

“And then I walk in on my brother doing what I should’ve been doing. Fuck, it pissed me off. You don’t understand what you do to me—how you make me feel. I knew it was wrong to go on that date. It should’ve been me, not him,” Sam continues, lost in his frustration.

Your breathing has picked up and your heart was practically beating out of your chest now. He’s right. It should’ve been him instead of Dean.

“I was only with Dean because I was jealous of you going out with her,” you say, his eyes locking to yours. “I was so jealous, Sam. And you’re right…it should’ve been you instead of him.”

Sam’s eyes relax and his head tilts to the side a bit, yearning for more.

“I think about you more than I’d like to admit. I tried not to, for my sake,” your voice lowers.

Sam’s expression changed. It was one that you had never seen before. His eyes were more relaxed but there was this look in them. You can’t explain it, but it’s not angry. He sat in silence with his still heavy breathing filling the car with Def Leppard’s song Love Bites softly playing through the speakers.

“It should’ve been you, Sam. Not him,” you break, hoping to cut the silence.

Instead of saying anything, Sam scoots closer to you. His face was full of yearning, his hand slowly raising to touch your cheek.

“I know,” he whispers, tilting his head to lean into you.

His lips meet yours as he begins to slowly kiss you. Your chest feels like it could explode and you feel unspeakable things from your stomach down. An eruption of feelings ignite inside of you and your lust takes over. You’ve been needing this for so long. Itching to put out his slow burn game he’s had going on all this time. The intensity of his kiss picks up, now hungry for your touch and the relief of sensation that was burning inside of him. He kissed you like he couldn’t get enough. Fuck, it felt so good, too.

You move your body on top of his, still deep in his hunger for you. You bring your hands to rest one on his jawbone, the other on his collarbone and shoulder. His hands find your waist, pushing your hips down so that you’re now sitting on his hard cock that’s trying to bust through his jeans. He lets out a quiet groan as you make contact with him, sending a fluttering sensation straight to your pussy. His hands start to push your hips back and forth, motioning for your movement on him. You follow, slowly grinding on him as his breath hitches, breaking away from the kiss. He leans his head back, his eyes closing as his mouth opens to let his needy breaths escape. You seize the moment, attaching your lips to his neck. Your tongue swirls on his skin before you lightly bite it, then kissing it. His hands move from your waist, now to your back to pull you closer to him. You trail wet, sloppy kisses up to his ear. He grows impatient underneath you, his hips buckling ever so slightly at his growing need for you—his need to feel you. You nibble at his ear, sucking on it just a little bit. He lets out another groan, his fingers digging into your side.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this,” you whisper in his ear, following with a tug of his ear with your teeth.

His hands grip your sides again, pushing you back off of him. You look down at him, his eyes scanning your body, mouth parted as he grabs the bottom of your shirt. He pulls it up over your head, revealing the black lace bra hugging your chest. His eyes land on the fabric and then back to your eyes. You follow his actions, pulling his shirt up his body as he leans forward slightly so it can come off of him. You look over his toned chest and abs, your need for him now growing.

“In the back. Now,” he says breathlessly.

You waste no time climbing off of him and over the seat to the back. Sam climbs over next, his body now hovering over yours.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he says before leaning down to kiss the skin peaking out of your bra.

His free hand reaches behind your back as you arch it slightly so he has room to unclasp your bra. Once he has it unclasped, he slips it off of your shoulders and throws it in the front. His mouth finds one of your breasts, his tongue swirling around your nipple and sucking as his hand squeezes the other. You moan quietly, watching his every move. He kisses up your chest, his lips meeting yours again. You want him so bad that it’s physically hurting. His hand is sliding down your torso, finding its way to the buttons of your jeans to unbutton them. Fuck, you need his touch so bad. You help him, pulling your jeans down a bit so that he can have easier access. You wrap your arms around his neck, hungrily pulling him in deeper to the hot and messy kiss. You bite his lip, causing his kissing to get more aggressive. His hand slides over the outside of your panties, gently rubbing. The pleasure overwhelms you, your back arching, begging for more of him.

“Sam,” you moan, closing your eyes.

“What, baby?” He whispers, his lips finding your neck now.

His hand moves to the top of your panties, inching its way into them. His fingers slide down to find your entrance, sliding in for a quick second before they slide back up to your clit, slippery with your wetness. His fingers rub gentle circles on your clit, making you moan at his touch.

“You’re so wet for me, baby,” he laughs, his breath in your ear sending chills down your body.

“Sam, please,” you moan, the pleasure turning to pain because you need him so bad.

His fingers slide back down, inserting them in and out of you, then back up to your clit.

“Shh,” he shushes you, leaning up to watch what he’s doing.

His eyes are glued to his actions as if he’s in a trance at the sight in front of him. Watching him watch himself please you is so fucking hot. You can’t stand it. You need him so fucking bad. His eyes trail up your body, meeting yours once again. You need him so bad that you could cry. His other hand slips off your panties, not stopping his movements of his other hand. He yanks your jeans and panties down the rest of the way, dropping them in the floorboard. He could cry at the sight of your naked body under him. The way that his fingers felt inside of your warm pussy, watching you squirm as they slid in and out of you.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he shakes his head, pulling away from you.

The moment his hand left hour body, your clit started to ache. You couldn’t wait any longer, either. He unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them down and off of him, and then his boxers next. His hard cock sprung up, hitting his lower stomach. His hand, still wet with your juices, slowly began to stroke his veiny cock. You bit your lip, trying to hide your satisfaction at his size. He pushes your legs apart, leaning back down into a passionate kiss as his cock rubbed between your folds. Fuck, it felt so good. He groaned while he continued to slide it up and down your pussy, coating him in your warm wetness. You reach your hand down, grabbing his dick to guide him to your entrance, earning another whimper from him. He needed you so bad. Your other hand tangled in his hair, gently tugging at it. He slowly slid into you, stretching you as he inserted himself. You let out a loud moan in pleasure as he filled you out. He groaned through his clenched teeth as he began to slowly thrust in and out.

“Let me know if it hurts, baby,” he whispered, starting a steady pace.

You nod your head, letting it fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you. He felt so fucking good inside of you. He was so big, his cock hitting your uterus with every deep thrust. You let out more moans, wrapping your legs around his waist. He grunts, pleasure overtaking him as his head falls to rest in the crook of your neck. Your fingers dug into his back as he picked up his pace. Holy shit.

“You feel so fucking good,” he grunts, his hand gripping on your waist hard.

You moan his name, your back arching to get more of him. You’re so close to him that you’re chest to chest, feeling nearly every part of him as he fills you with the pleasure that you’ve been missing. He lifts his head so that he’s now looking at you. His hand leaves your waist to grab your face, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes meet his, staring deep into them as he fucks you oh so good. His thumb slips into your mouth and you suck on it, your tongue swirling around it. He moans, slipping it out to put his lips to yours, still keeping his pace. He feels so good that you’re moaning into his mouth and he’s eating every bit of it up.

Soon, he pulls away from you, sitting upright, still inside of you. He pulls out of you, his cock dripping with your juices. He motions for you to get up.

“Get up and turn around,” he demands, guiding you to where he wants you.

You put your arms on the top of the backseat, chest to the back of the seat with your knees digging into the seat, slightly spread. You stare out of the back glass, unaware of what’s behind you. The moonlight is lighting up the environment outside, watching your fantasies come to life. You feel Sam’s chest brush against your back, his lips leaving kisses along one of your shoulders. He guides his cock into you, groaning as you wrap around him. You moan out in pleasure, throwing your head back to rest on his shoulder. His hand grabs a fist full of your hair, holding your head in place against his shoulder so that he can see just how good he’s making you feel. This position feels even better than the first, his cock hitting just the right spot as he slammed into you. Fuck, it felt even better. Your legs began to shake as he thrusted in and out of you. The pleasure was so overwhelming that tears were coming to your eyes. Sam moaned, his teeth biting at your ear while his hand reached around to find your throbbing clit. He rubbed circles, intensifying the pleasure that was rushing through you. God, he was making you feel so fucking good.

“Oh fuck, Sam,” you moaned, head still pulled back to his shoulder as he watched your expressions, his hot, heaving breath hitting the side of your face.

“My name sounds so good coming out of your pretty little mouth,” he murmured, not breaking his gaze or his pace.

With every thrust, you felt yourself grow closer to an orgasm. He was groaning in so much pleasure from how good you felt around him, the sounds that you were making, how bad you were wanting him.

“Sam, I think I’m gonna—“ you moan, the pleasure intensifying as he picks up his pace, his hand still rubbing circles on your clit.

“Let it out, baby,” he grunts, holding it back himself.

Just as you were about to cum, he pulls himself out of you. You could almost cry. You were right there.

“Sam,” you whine, the release coming to a harsh halt inside of you.

“I wanna look at you when I make you cum for me,” he whispers, his hands moving your waist to prompt you to turn to face him.

His statement made your stomach flutter. You never seen Sam as the dominant type, but damn he was. You turn around to sit on the seat, his body hovering over you. You scoot down a little bit so that he can get a good angle to fuck you at. He lowers himself and his hands put your legs over his shoulders. He scoots up a bit, your knees practically to your shoulders now, stretching muscles in your hamstrings that haven’t been properly stretched in quite awhile. He pushes himself into you, the pleasure beginning again. One of his hands gripped your shin thrown over his shoulder while the other helped to keep him propped up on the seat. He thrusted into you, his fast pace picking up once again. He still hit the right spot, hit cock pushing so deep inside of you. The release that came to a halt just a few minutes ago was building back up with every pump, building quicker as you watched his twisted facial expressions of pleasure. His eyes never left your face. He wanted to watch you explode all over him. He needed to see it, knowing it would be even better than in the dreams that he had.

He thrusted deep and hard, his sweat gleaming off of his skin in the pale moonlight.

“Sam—“ you moaned.

“Let it out, baby,” he groaned, sure not to take his eyes off of you. “I’m begging.”

You felt the pleasure build up to its highest point, a sweet flood of emotions hitting you all at once as you came all over Sam’s cock. A loud moan escaped your mouth, your head throwing back from the amount of pleasure that exploded inside of you, your legs starting to violently shake. Sam continued to thrust, letting you ride out the high that you were on. You were starting to see stars, your stomach in knots now.

“Oh fuck,” Sam moans, his head falling back as he picked up his pace, not far behind you at this point.

Before you knew it, Sam was pulling out of you and a warm substance was hitting your stomach, dripping down to your pussy. He was moaning so loud, his voice deep as he let it all out. Fuck, he was so hot. His hands held himself up on either side of you, his head resting on your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath.

“Holy shit,” he said breathlessly.

———

After cleaning up the mess the two of you had made, you sat next to Sam while your head rested on his shoulder.

“I better not ever see him touch you again,” Sam says, his hand running through your hair.

“Trust me. After that, he won’t,” you laugh.

“Good. He’s going to kill us after he finds out what happened in here.”

[kissthigh]

How It's Done ୨ৎ

Summary: Your first-ever solo hunt with Dean doesn’t go as planned when the ‘creature’ you’re hunting is actually Soldier Boy. The plan changes and goes wrong quickly. ♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, solider boy x dean x user, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, u pee urself, dean cucking (?) + slightly submissive (?), pussy + face slapping, spit, intox, strip club, drugs, swearing, pet names (sweeheart, doll, whore, bitch), consent mentioned, threats, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert. wc: 6.1k | no idea what possessed me to do this. enjoy……. Posting older!bf oneshot later tooooo yay!!

“So, why… are we drivin’ this far away?” Dean asks, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

“Reports say… there’s some… man, tormenting people, ruining neighbourhoods, disturbing residents at their homes…” You ramble on, flipping through the small pages of your notebook, squinting in the dark Impala.

“Sounds like the son of a bitch is just havin’ a bad day,” Dean responds, glancing over at your notes. “Doesn’t seem like our type of… deal,” he shrugs, using one hand to rub his jaw.

“Well, reports say… he might have superpowers, or some sort,” you shake your head, flipping through more pages. “Super strength, doing damage to things you shouldn’t be doing damage to,” you explain, glancing over at Dean.

He sighs and keeps his eyes on the road, carefully steering Baby through the winding roads in the night. He glances over at you again, reaching over to lightly tap a page, his ring glinting in the moonlight.

“What’s that about?” Dean asks, glancing over and then back at the road.

You scoff. “It says if we were to find him… he’d be at a strip club, probably.”

“Now we’re talking,” he smiles, tapping the steering wheel excitedly. “Super strength, watchin’ ladies strip… doesn’t sound like he’s doin’ much wrong,” Dean shrugs, and he leans on the gas a bit more.

“Yeah… except he’s tormenting people, and being a complete dick, Dean,” you shoot back, but he still has a shit-eating grin on his face, suddenly eager to get to small town. “It says he’s dangerous, calls himself ‘Soldier Boy’.”

“The song?” he asks, looking over at you, and you immediately roll your eyes.

“No… no, ‘Soldier Boy’, like… a soldier?” you glare at Dean, and he’s smirking, purposely making you frustrated with him. What’s new.

“I say we hit the strip clubs,” Dean declares.

The black Impala winds down the long roads, taking the two of you deeper into the small town, and Dean takes those damn glances at you; constant eyes finding your thighs, and he’s glad Sam is off somewhere, probably doing something with Ruby, and doesn’t have him in his ear, telling him how wrong it is to find you attractive. 

You had joined in the little trio when you were old enough to—Bobby’s your father, and trusts you with the Winchester boys more than he’d like to admit. And with your passion for hunting, and how damn well you do it, it would almost be blasphemy for them to ignore your skills.

It left you in an odd place: between Sam and Dean. Dean was always flirting with you, even when he’d bring home some blonde bimbo from the bar, shooing you and Sam out of the motel until he was finished. And Sam was Ruby now, occupied beyond belief, doing suspicious things behind the scenes that broke some brotherly bond you couldn’t understand. 

And now here you are, doing a case alone, with Dean Winchester. The first one ever.

Baby rolls to a stop, parking along a curb, bright neon lights casting a constant glow onto the car. The sign is bright and loud, and Dean smirks at the name: Lustful Lounge.

Dean is out of the Impala before you, and you’re scrambling behind him, quickly joining his side. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, only to flash the fake FBI badge at the bouncers, and he nudges you to do the same.

Mister and Misses Smith for tonight, completely unrelated. Very, very believable, Dean.

“This is a job, I hope you remember that,” you mumble to him as you walk down the long hallway, with a red tinge to the lighting, and you hear the loud music growing louder.

“Yeah… a job with strippers,” he nudges you again, smiling and fake-smoothing out his hair, before dipping into the small entrance.

There are several stages scattered around; women on poles move, swaying their hips and shaking their breasts, skimpy outfits bejewelled in rhinestones, and it reeks of marijuana, the smell coming from the back, away from the regular customers. Dean looks like a kid in a candy store, and so does Soldier Boy.

He’s lounging in one of the chairs in the VIP section, a blonde woman doing a solo dance for him, and he’s smoking a joint, nodding. Her hips twist, and her long legs bend, and he’s not even bothering to throw cash, merely observing and taking it in for himself.

“Dean,” you nudge him with your elbow when you notice his eyes straying away, focusing on the exotic dancers instead of the task at hand: operation find Soldier Boy, and get him out of there.

You lightly take hold of his hand and groan in frustration, taking him deeper into the strip club, and a VIP sign flashes. Bingo.

Another two flashes of your badges grant you access into the room, and two bouncers hold the odd beaded drapes that hide it, and your eyes widen the minute you see him: Soldier Boy.

You look at Dean and then Soldier Boy: sharp green eyes, the same sculpted nose, soft lips, a smirk that they both have on while looking at the same woman—Soldier Boy’s hair is longer than Dean's, and he’s bigger than him too, and your lips part in awe. Maybe it’s the light playing tricks on you, morphing Soldier Boy’s face. It can’t be.

Dean hasn’t even noticed.

“Who ordered this whore?” Soldier Boy suddenly calls out, his finger pointing directly towards you. “And… her fuckin’ cuck of a boyfriend, too,” he laughs, barely noticing the stark similarities the two have. But Dean does.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean curses the minute his eyes find Soldier Boy, and it’s like he’s staring in a damn mirror, if the mirror ages you about twenty years. “This son of a bitch stole my face!”

You’re too in shock to notice Dean taking steps towards the man lounging on the couch, and he glares at Dean, eyes narrowing at the younger version of himself. He blows a plume of smoke out of his mouth, but purposely towards his twin's face.

“You stole my face, kid,” Soldier Boy retorts, tilting his head to the side. “Been here for hundreds of fuckin’ years, America’s greatest. Ain’t copying some washed-up pussy, and his slut that’s too much of a bitch to come over here.”

Soldier Boy makes that sound that sounds like nails on a chalkboard–it’s like he’s calling a cat over, a gross kissy noise with his lips, and he’s calling you over with a wave of his hand, and you slowly begin to walk over. You feel like you’re more surprised than Dean is.

“No… no, I have been here for just as long as you have,” Dean retorts, pointing at the man lounging, and Soldier Boy laughs. “You’re just some old shapeshifting fucker.”

“Shapeshifting?” Soldier Boy howls, shaking his head. “Is this some fantasy, role-play kinky shit between the two of you?” he uses his blunt to gesture between your bodies. “It’s fuckin’ disgustin’, and you’re not even strippin’ for me,” he calls directly to you.

“What? I’m not a stripper–” you quickly say and shake your head, but Soldier Boy interrupts.

“With that fuckin’ body? A god damn shame you’re not,” he scoffs, and Dean, well, agrees.

“I’ve told her this,” Dean chimes in, nudging you a little and Soldier Boy narrows his eyes. 

“How much you payin’ her?” Soldier Boy suddenly asks, gazing between the two of you. “Prostitutes around here don’t usually look that fuckable.”

Soldier Boy eyes you more closely, and it’s weird—not even because of how filthy he’s being, but because of how closely he resembles Dean, who is currently red in the face from anger, or embarrassment. 

“I’m not a prostitute, I’m…” you mumble, fishing out your fake FBI card, and he immediately snatches it. 

“Ah, a liar and a whore, Miss… Smith,” Soldier Boy mumbles, his eyes raking over the fake name and shitty photo. “Lookin’ like a real doll in the photo though,” he grins, handing back the ID with two fingers, and you snatch it and shove it in the pocket of your jacket.

“Listen,” Dean mumbles, leaning a bit closer to his doppelganger. “We just wanna know what the fuck is goin’ on, okay? If this is some trickster shit, or whatever the hell,” he murmurs, and Soldier Boy is staring at Dean like he’s speaking another language.

“Jesus Christ, this really is some kinky shit,” Soldier Boy barks, reaching over to grab you by the hip. “He payin’ you? He a cuck?” he asks, eyebrows raised, and he casually hooks his arm around your thigh, drawing you to the edge of the leather chair.

“Yes,” you say softly, nodding and gazing down at the man, and you can feel the look on Dean’s face without looking. “We…are… we are looking for a third,” you grin, and Soldier Boy looks at Dean. You’re trying not to laugh. “She fuckin’ with me?” he asks, and Dean looks at you–you shoot him a death glare, and he does that face, that stupid shit-eating grin, though it’s mixed with dread.

“No,” Dean says through the forced smile. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Soldier Boy keeps his arm hooked around your thigh, and you mentally curse for deciding to wear a short skirt instead of the usual jeans you stick with. He taps his thumb against your bare leg and looks up at you, his jaw clenching.

“Your fantasy is to fuck a guy that looks like your… boyfriend, in front of your boyfriend?” Soldier Boy drawls, bringing his joint to his lips. “That’s fucked… some real slut shit you’re on,” he shakes his head, looking at Dean.

You roll your eyes, and Dean looks like he wants to kill himself; he’s just staring at Soldier Boy and the firm grip he has on your thigh, the awkward position that puts him eye-level with your stomach. He grits his teeth and sighs.

“So, are you gonna… have sex with my girlfriend or what?” Dean speaks up, his words coming out harsh, like he’s forcing them out of his mouth–he is; he wants no part of this.

“‘Course I am,” Soldier Boy shrugs, sliding his hand out from your thigh to firmly pat your ass. “Would’ve fucked her even if she really was just an FBI agent anyway,” he mumbles, gripping the back of your thigh.

You awkwardly squirm on your feet, trying to ignore the woman who is still half-naked, dancing on the pole before the three of you, the bright, neon lights in your eyes, and Soldier Boy is standing on his feet, sighing heavily.

“We’re parked just outside,” you chime in, and Soldier Boy casually wraps his arm around your waist, looking down at you.

“You got some fuckin’ nerve, doin’ this to a fool like him,” he drawls, nodding towards Dean, who is glaring at you and the overly large version of himself. “Can’t blame you though… looks like he wouldn’t know how to fuck a woman if she came with a manual.”

“We look the same,” Dean immediately shoots, his eyebrows furrowed.

You bite your lip, trying your hardest not to laugh at this interaction–Dean is oddly less concerned than you thought. He’s more so convinced that this is some trickster bullshit, and this entire situation has been planned perfectly, just to get the three of you alone, and then he can finally strike and kill the juiced-up man. He doesn’t believe for a second this is a hundred-year-old superhero who just so happened to steal his face, and slap on some facial hair, and maybe fifty pounds of muscle.

The three of you slowly leave the club, and Soldier Boy nods to the few bouncers who seem to have let the criminal off the hook–probably paid them off with the wads of cash he took from the fucking bank. You had read it in the report: rabid man running through the streets, shouting profanities and threatening to do worse. And now his arm is hooked around your waist, heading towards the impala.

Soldier Boy nudges his broad shoulders into the back of Baby, and you sit in the passenger’s seat, your eyes on the road. Dean looks in the rearview mirror, still trying to shake the feeling of having his long-lost twin in the back, who is around twenty years older than he is. He sighs and turns the key to the ignition.

“We doin’ this at a motel? Or do one of you sick fucks wanna do this in your bed?” Soldier Boy chimes, leaning forward, his eyes gazing at the curve of your neck. “Wouldn’t mind either, just wanna make your girlfriend know what it’s like to be fucked by a real man, you know?”

“Motel,” you say softly, nodding, and Soldier Boy clicks his tongue.

“Thought you’d be more of a degenerate,” he shrugs, looking out of the car windows. “Almost feel bad for this kid–he’s gonna watch me defile you,” he says it so plainly, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“You’re not gonna–” Dean grits his teeth, and he has to stop himself from blowing up the entire plan.

“Oh, yes I am,” Soldier Boy taunts, nodding. “Gonna force you to watch me fuck her brains out–-doll, what’s your favourite position?” he then switches his attention to you, and you blank.

“She likes missionary, all the romance shit,” Dean plays into it, and you furrow your eyebrows, glaring at him.

“I ain’t do the romance shit, but I can put your legs behind your head,” Soldier Boy shrugs, his head tilting to the side slightly. “You flexible?”

“She is,” Dean speaks up for you, glancing in the rearview mirror, and Soldier Boy is smiling, nodding.

“Is some other kinky shit?” he asks, looking at the side of your face. “He does all the talkin’, and you sit here like a sex doll?”

“No,” you cut in, shooting the criminal a glare, and he lifts his hands in defence.

Silence fills the Impala, a brief break, and you swallow hard, trying to act like this scenario is normal. Somehow, fighting vampires and ghouls makes more sense than having a hundred-year-old soldier in the back, with the face of Dean Winchester, with the sex drive of an animal in heat. 

“So, Soldier Boy,” Dean starts, swiping his tongue over his lips. “Where did you come from?”

“Why does that matter?” he asks, leaning back into the seats. “Never gonna see me again after this; you don’t need to know lick about me, or whatever else the fuck you two freaks need to know,” he shoots, his eyes noticing the flickering red motel sign.

You glance at Dean, who is already looking at you, realizing this was a lot harder than you initially had thought. Most vampires and demons, whatever the hell you stumble upon, have thousands of years of lore written down in books and on the internet, and you’ve never come across a gem like this, one that seems to be aware of the fact he’s being hunted, but still taking offers to fuck random women. You swallow hard when Baby rolls into the parking lot.

The three of you head into the motel room, and Soldier Boy makes it a point to slap your ass the second all of you are in the small room, and Dean is seething at the constant remarks–if only Dean knew that he sounds the same sometimes, but usually a bit less… filthy.

Soldier Boy sits on the bed, while you and Dean sit on the two small chairs. His brows are forever furrowed, and his arms are crossed, head cocked to the side, realizing this might not be exactly what he expected: a hookup with a girl, while his twin watches. He clenches his jaw.

“We’re just… gonna set some… boundaries first,” you lightly explain and nod, and Dean lifts his hand, half-covering his mouth, trying not to laugh. “To… make it safe.”

“Safe? Is there some fuckin’ waiver I gotta sign before fuckin’ you?” he asks, those green eyes looking into yours, and you swallow hard, shaking your head. “Usually I pay for the slut, and she shuts the fuck up. Nothin’ about a god damn waiver or rules, or safety.”

Dean rolls his eyes and leans back in the chair, his legs parting, and Soldier Boy turns his head, gazing at him. He narrows his eyes at the young version of himself, all while he lifts his hand, waving for you to come over. You look to Dean, who is reciprocating the stare-off, and you stand to your feet, walking towards the Supe.

“Isn’t this better?” Soldier Boy asks, and it’s only after he’s pulled you onto his thigh, forcing you to sit on the thick muscle. “Easier to listen when I have a plaything just waitin’ on my lap, you know? You wouldn't,” he grins and looks at Dean.

The sight has Dean’s fists clenching; you’re sitting on this grown man’s lap, his hand wrapped around your waist, a hand against your stomach, holding you up straight, the other hand slyly sliding down to inch up your skirt. It’s barely noticeable, but Dean notices, and he can’t say a word. This is a part of the plan, yeah?

“Soldier Boy…” Dean mumbles through that fake smile, but he’s interrupted.

“Ben, you can call me that too,” he shrugs lazily, keeping you on his thigh, and you oddly adjust your hips, looking up at the motel ceiling. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the firm limb between your legs, and how it doesn’t feel… like the worst thing in the world.

“Okay, Ben,” Dean starts again sarcastically, hastily rolling his eyes, looking at you and then the larger version of himself. “Can’t be beatin’ around the bush, you have to tell us some stuff before I let you… you know,” he mumbles, gesturing with his hands.

“You sure?” Ben asks, raising his eyebrows. “This bitch is already drippin’ all over my fuckin’ thigh; it doesn’t seem like she needs to know anythin’ else,” he shoots, shaking his head.

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head too. “What? No—”

Dean grimaces and looks down at Ben’s thigh and then up your body; the way your chest is heaving, the flush creeping up your neck, the sweat brimming at your hairline. His forehead wrinkles in disgust, and he realizes this man might not be entirely lying.

It’s not computing properly, the arousal you’re currently feeling; the odd ache between your thighs, the way your back is arching lightly, your thighs squeezing around Ben’s, and Dean is disgusted, completely caught off guard by the interaction, and the turn it’s taking.

“What are you doing to her?” Dean asks, his head tilting to the side, and his sharp eyes are looking at you. “Stop whatever the hell you’re doing!”

“Calm down, kid,” Ben shakes his head, licking his lips. “Not doin’ a thing, she’s just a whore,” he hisses, and you don’t even defend yourself–it’s overwhelming, the sudden lust clouding your head, and your eyes are growing heavy.

“You’re clearly doing something to her!” Dean says, standing on his feet, and Ben lifts his hand, shaking his head.

“Wasn’t this the deal? I fuck her guts, and you watch?” he drawls, raising his eyebrows, his large hand gliding down your waist and to your thigh. “Can even teach you a few things; you probably need it, don’t you?”

“I do not need some son of a bitch to teach me how to fuck women–I do it plenty, and the last thing I need is to watch her get fucked,” he groans out, his hand rubbing over his jaw. “We will leave you alone, never come back–just give her back,” he commands, like it’s an exchange, and not your body.

Ben stares at Dean, thinking. “No.”

“No?” Dean asks, a stitch forming between his brows. 

“No,” he says smoothly, adjusting you on his thigh. “What do you think, doll?” He then adds, turning to glance at you.

“No…” You mumble and shake your head, and Dean’s eyes widen at your response, and he turns his head to look at the motel door and then you.

“What the fuck do you mean no!?” he practically shouts, huffing and sitting down in the seat. “This was not the plan–this is not a part of any god damn plan,” Dean rambles on, scratching his neck.

“A plan?” Ben asks, his hand sliding up your thigh casually, sliding right between them, lightly cupping your core. “What plan did you and… him have, huh?” he murmurs, turning to press his nose against your cheek.

Your head lazily tips back on Ben’s shoulder, and Dean furrows his eyebrows, quickly putting two and two together; his hand is up your skirt, and out of his eyesight. There’s only one thing that could be happening right now, and he’s in disbelief.

“Just watch,” Ben tells Dean, and you feel that large, warm palm lightly curl, and you whimper. “See? This how you touch a lady, none of that bullshit I know you do,” he curses, eyes narrowed.

Dean swallows hard and watches, unaware of what to do right now; you’re clearly enjoying yourself, and Ben is too, and he’s not sure what the tank of a man would do if he tried to leave, or better yet, intervene. He looks away.

“You ever make a girl nut?” Ben asks Dean, and he’s lightly rubbing two fingers right through your underwear, focused on your clit. “Or you jus’ leave her the second you do?” he asks, that cocky grin curled into his lips.

“What?” Dean asks, trying to ignore the soft noises slipping out of your mouth and how utterly good you feel right now.

“Look at her,” Ben says, nodding towards you. “Absolutely fucked right now, and I’m just rubbin’ her through her fuckin’ panties. Women are sluts in that way, and you wouldn’t have a  fuckin’ clue about it,” he shoots.

Dean’s eyes drift towards you; the way you’re panting softly, squirming against Ben’s thigh, quietly whining and biting your lip, helpless hands trying to pull down your skirt. He clenches his jaw and looks back to Ben–the whole twin thing is still throwing him the fuck off.

“She’s not even in her right mind,” Dean says, pointing to how out of it you are; practically drooling, your head slumped back, lightly grinding into Ben’s hand now.

“Yeah, cause of me,” he rolls his eyes, snorting. 

It is cause of him, and there are two reasons behind it; one of them being the sick and twisted Soldier Boy he is; telling you to take a sip of a drink back at the strip club, and you, trying to be the compliant and obedient thing you are, took it, and didn’t know what he had slipped in it. And the second reason being him; charming and good with his hands. The combination is making a filthy situation, and you’re unfortunately basking in the attention. 

“Now,” Ben starts, lightly slapping your core. “You’re gonna watch me pound her from the chair,” he grins, and Dean listens to you whimper, your eyes fluttering at the light sting between your thighs.

The room is quiet, and Dean sits there, watching the way Ben manipulates your body; carefully lifting you, placing you down onto the motel bed and onto your back. The reports were definitely right; super strength, easily moving you around, like you’re the plaything and doll he speaks about.

“Actually,” Ben starts, gazing down at you. “Better look over here, c’mere, son,” he taunts, and Dean shakes his head.

“Nope,” he refuses, shaking his head again, looking up at the ceiling.

Ben rolls his eyes and sighs, gazing down at your body; your dress hiked up your thighs, your hair fanned out against the bed, your eyes heavy and your lips parted. There’s an unfortunate part about this whole thing, and it’s that you don’t… hate it. 

You’ve always had that silly crush on Dean, and it made you seethe when he’d bring back bimbos from bars and hunts, and you had to sit and listen, sometimes watch when he’d try to stealthily fuck the girls while you slept on the bed over. It’s his turn, and it’s with his damn twin.

Ben carefully slides his hands up your bare thighs, watching you squirm and writhe against the mattress, and Dean can hear the light fuss from you; the whimpers, the tiny whines.

“Missin’ out,” Ben drawls, his large hands parting your legs instead. “Real fuckin’ beauty right here, and I doubt you even fuck her properly,” he calls out.

Dean rolls his eyes, and Ben is cupping you again, watching your head tip back. He clicks his tongue in disappointment, glancing over his shoulder at the awkward male in the room.

“C’mon, what do you do to the poor thing?” Ben asks, lightly slapping your core again. “Gonna probably fuckin’ cum from just this shit—you neglectin’ her?”

“Nobody is being neglected, idiot,” Dean shoots, gazing at the scene before him. “She’s not even my girlfriend!”

Ben howls at the confession, and he looks back down at you, his free hand sliding down to grab your face, aggressively pinching your cheeks.

“So, you’re a lyin’ bitch?” He asks, eyes narrowing. “Could’ve just waited on the corner, probably would’ve taken you home regardless. Instead you gotta make up some bullshit lies—the fuck is wrong with you?”

You whine and shake your head, and he shuts you up by spitting onto your face. The saliva is warm as it drips down between your eyebrows, gliding down the slope of your nose. He grins at the look on your face, looking back over at Dean.

“What is she then, huh?” Ben asks, still holding your cheeks, listening to you whine. “A sister? Oh, you’re real fucked if this is your sister,” he laughs, snorting.

Ben looks back to you and lets go of your cheeks, his hand lightly slapping your face, and you moan at the feeling, your hips lifting. He smirks at how needy you are, but he’s more concerned with the lack of care you’ve apparently received. You’re the neediest thing he’s seen.

A strong hand slides down your body, and his fingers don’t pull down your underwear; no, they rip it off, a loud sound in the motel room and Dean’s eyes widen. There’s the strength of a supe, and it’s being used to rip off your underwear.

“What the fuck—“ Dean says, standing on his feet, and he walks over, and Ben doesn’t seem to have an issue.

“Real man you are, only comin’ over here when you know you get a look at her pussy,” Ben laughs, a hand sliding down to part your legs more, his thick fingers lightly spreading your folds. “C’mon, take a look.”

Dean’s eyes bulge out of his head at the sight; you flopped on the bed, underwear on the floor, your eyes closed, lips parted, looking like you’re in ecstasy, and now, he’s seeing you bare—completely bare. Not just when he accidentally walked in on you changing, but spread open.

“See? Fuckin’ wetter than hell,” Ben laughs, examining between your thighs, licking his lips. “Look at it… leakin’, never seen anythin’ like this,” he shakes his head, turning to Dean.

Dean hesitantly looks, and he swallows hard. Despite his demeanour and the filthy remarks he makes, he’s gentle; you’ve seen the sex before, watched how soft he was with the women, the tender caresses, the sweetness that overtakes the dirty words that he says when he’s just trying to seduce the women. This is completely out of his ballpark, and he’s not sure how to process it. 

“Dean,” you mumble, your eyes finding his, and his lips part the words that leave your mouth. His name, not Ben’s.

“Dumb bitch is callin’ for the guy who isn’t fuckin’ her,” Ben scoffs, and he slaps the side of your face again, and you whimper, biting your lip.

Ben reaches down, and he’s unbuckling his leather belt, the soft noise clinking in the motel, and Dean’s eyebrow furrows when he notices what’s happening. He looks to Dean, ticking his head.

“What? That much of a pussy? Can’t look at another man’s cock without gettin’ shy?” Ben asks, working on his own pants, his eyes looking back to you. “Ain’t gay, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he grins, and Dean is taken aback by the guts on this guy.

Ben’s hands slowly pull down his pants, and he’s resting his knee on the bed, his two hands now finding your thighs, spreading you open more, getting a better angle while he nudges his between your legs. He groans the second he runs his cock through your folds, and he looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

“Jesus Christ, she’s fuckin’ wet,” Ben hisses, his head tipping back a little, and Dean can feel his body growing warm the longer he stares at you. “She a virgin?”

Dean doesn’t respond; he merely watches, and Ben isn’t bothering with waiting for an answer. He pushes in and watches your eyes immediately squeeze shut, your back arching off the bed, and he laughs, shaking his head.

“Fuckin’ Hell,” Ben groans, burying himself as deep as he can go, breathing out. “Clenchin’ around me like a god damn dream, and you never fuckin’ hit this? God,” he laughs in disbelief, speaking to Dean, who is in disbelief. 

Ben stares down at you, watching your body rock with each thrust; your eyes fluttering and your mouth agape, drool trickling down the side of it, spit finding its way out of your lips. He curses, holding your hips as he ruts into you, listening to the mewls.

“Put your fingers in her mouth,” Ben commands Dean, nodding towards you. “Shut her up, don’t gotta be hearin’ that shit the whole time,” he mutters.

Dean hesitates, but he does it, as if he’s being held at gumpoint. He shifts closer to the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the sound of skin on skin, the slapping of Ben’s hips snapping against yours, and the way your body moves with each thrust, the way you’re so blissed out. 

Dean slides his two fingers past your lips, and your eyes roll back the second you realize that it’s his, and not Ben’s. You can feel the silver ring by your lips, the rough digits on your tongue, the way he’s lightly gagging you, and his eyes darken the minute he realizes how good this actually feels.

“See? Just an obedient whore,” Ben hums, confusing the relentless movement of his hips, a rough movement. “Can’t believe you had this thing walkin’ around, didn’t even try to do anythin’.”

Dean grits his teeth and deepens his fingers down your throat, listening to the soft of you gagging, the soft choking on his fingers. His lips twitch, and he can feel himself hardening in his jeans, and he glances down, ashamed of himself.

It’s a dream for you; eyes opening to see the same faces looming over you; those familiar green eyes, soft lips parted, and you close your eyes, basking in the feeling instead of resisting it. Whatever drug he has in you has you on cloud nine, and all you can do is suck on Dean’s fingers and take Ben’s cock

“Press on her stomach,” Ben then nods to Dean, and  Dean glances down at the way your shirt rides up, that sliver of skin showing. “They love that shit—force her to feel my cock,” he continues, his one hand holding beneath your knee, the other one lightly slapping your other thigh.

Dean’s getting off on it now, too, and he slowly pulls his fingers out of your mouth, pressing his palm to your lower stomach, applying the pressure that Ben asks, and he nods.

“Push hard,” Ben commands, and Dean is taking orders like it’s his job. “Make her piss herself,” he mumbles, and Dean’s eyes widen, hesitantly looking down at you.

You squirm around, moaning now that your mouth is free; the sounds slip out, and Dean can feel himself getting harder at how drawn out there, how much you’re enjoying this. His eyes glance to you, and he lightly presses harder, awkwardly leaning over. Ben doesn’t seem to care.

“Atta girl,” Ben mumbles, his head tipping back when he feels you clenching harder, focusing on taking him, and holding in your piss now. “Keep pressin’, kid,” he tells Dean, and his eyebrows furrow at the awkward submissive position he’s put in.

Dean rubs the heel of his palm lightly against your lower abdomen, pushing down harder, and he can oddly feel himself enjoying this too; the way you wince and whine, how hard you’re trying to keep yourself composed, all while being focused on too many things at once.

“Gonna piss on my cock, doll?” Ben taunts, cocking his head to the side. “How’s this poor son of a bitch ever gonna see you the same again, huh? Hold it for him, not for me,” he shakes his head, and your head tips back instead, shaking it. 

Dean won’t see you the same again, especially because you are pissing yourself, softly crying as you feel it streaming down, onto the bed and right in the midst of it all. Ben chuckles and doesn’t even bother stopping, just landing a cold slap against your face. Dean’s eyes widen.

“Dumb bitch,” Ben grunts, his hand lightly swatting away Dean’s, and he pushes his fist down instead, and you groan, eyes squeezing shut. “Really embarrassin’ yourself, yeah? Pissin’ all over yourself, and now you gotta sit in the car with him afterwards.”

Dean breathes heavier, his hand sliding down to press against the front of his jeans, subtly adjusting himself. And Ben finishes, a loud groan in the motel room, and he watches the way your body tenses up, your toes curling, fingers grasping at the bed sheets, and he’s filling you up, not even bothering to pull out.

“Never pull out,” Ben tells Dean like it’s casual advice. “Make ‘em take your seed, wastin’ it is for boys, not men, bet you use a condom,” he teases, still groaning and hunched over your body, holding your hips now, pressing his fingers into you.

Dean is silent and just watching, feeling him awkwardly leak into his boxers at the sight of you; your body all limp and flush, panting heavily, your eyes closed, absolutely drunk and dumbed out. Ben isn’t thrusting anymore, just keeping himself pressed between your thighs, keeping himself stuffed in there. 

“She’s feelin’ it all right now,” Ben groans out, staring down at your blissed-out face. “Girls ever tell you that? That you make ‘em feel full, or do they just ask if you’ve finished yet?” he presses, and Dean is wondering why Ben is so set on humiliating him, too.

“She looks…” Dean mumbles, hovering over you, his hand lightly finding your forehead. 

“Fuckin’ hot,” Ben cuts in and nods, licking his lips again. “Feels fuckin’ hot too, tightest pussy I’ve felt in a while–you sure she’s not a virgin?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head.

You whine quietly as the boys bicker over top of you, discussing whether or not your virginity was just taken in front of Dean by his god damn twin. You whine and tip your head back again, your chest puffing out.

“Poor thing, she's never been fucked by a real man,” Ben clicks his tongue, and Dean registers the word: supe. “Really irresponsible of you, you know that? Jus’ filled her guts with more cum than you’ll ever produce in your life,” he laughs, referencing the odd amount of semen this man can produce–it’s for reproduction to carry on these godly genes, and it’s inside of you, stretching and filling you out. 

Dean is slightly realizing the gravity of the situation; you, being fucked by the thing they were hunting. If it were a vampire, or any other god damn creature, he would’ve shot and killed the thing by now, and burned its bones, but Ben’s human-like similarities, and… well, the charm, made him forget that you were being plowed by some superhuman, with superhuman abilities.

Neither are sure how you’ll explain this to Sam, not at all. And Dean gulps when Ben looks at him, gesturing to your limp body.

“Now show me what I taught you,” Ben grins. “Or I’ll snap your fuckin’ neck.” 

[sacr1ficialang3l]

⋆✶ ˚｡⋆ Demolition Lovers.

SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k

WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.

Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.

He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake. 

But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him. 

The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words. 

But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.

It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation. 

He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.

Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid. 

The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.

You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.

He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back. 

Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only. 

His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.

He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top. 

“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”

“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”

Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.

That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.

“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”

“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”

“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”

“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”

“No, you may not.”

You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?

“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”

Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head. 

“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”

You’re such a fucking idiot. 

How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.” 

God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.

“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease. 

Just once, just one time.

I need you so bad, it’s killing me.

Please.

“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”

Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke. 

“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”

“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”

Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”

“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile. 

He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you. 

“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He didn’t get it the second time either. 

Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable. 

Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets. 

But Dean missed every time.

You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind. 

Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all. 

Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.

He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.

But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.

Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side. 

Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.

No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you. 

It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.

He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.

At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.

All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him. 

Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98. 

Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.

That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident. 

You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him. 

Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble. 

It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.

Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.

You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911. 

His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you. 

You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment. 

At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him. 

“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.

“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”

“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”

“You do? Woah, news to me.”

“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”

You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.

“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this. 

“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”

A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”

The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.

“What?”

“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”

A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud. 

You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”

No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine. 

“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy. 

There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”

His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining. 

All of his defenses started to crack. 

“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.” 

You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting. 

“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”

“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”

He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose. 

“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”

Well, he knows now. 

He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human. 

You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”

This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.  

He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.

He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.

“I wish you’d put them out on me.”

The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then. 

Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true. 

If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.

But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia. 

You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break. 

He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head. 

“You’re the prettiest, De.”

Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time. 

He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.

But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra. 

Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.

He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction. 

There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden. 

Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.

But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven. 

He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake. 

Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened. 

“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”

“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall. 

You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt. 

“What are you working on, anyway?”

He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions. 

“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more. 

The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station. 

If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates. 

Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.

A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.

Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.

Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.

“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”

Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed. 

“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”

Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go. 

“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”

Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?

This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit. 

“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”

For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted. 

His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you. 

There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.

“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years. 

“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”

You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen. 

He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak. 

“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.” 

Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.” 

His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled. 

"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”

Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable. 

This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.

Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene. 

With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head. 

Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.

There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place. 

He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.

That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.

“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight. 

“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.” 

“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.

You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink. 

He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires. 

He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands. 

He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened. 

His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible. 

He’s doomed, even more than before. 

Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything. 

Oh, what have you done?

It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting. 

He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize. 

The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.

Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you. 

He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all. 

Just to what extent do you want him?

At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around. 

Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa. 

Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand. 

Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin. 

So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes. 

Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list. 

If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him. 

If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.

If only you could love him, the way he loves you.

That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked. 

But then, incident four happened. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean was struggling with his necktie. 

He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping. 

He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it. 

But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week. 

Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror. 

“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”

He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.

He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in. 

“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen. 

“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”

You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late. 

You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him. 

“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie. 

“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”

You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”

He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now. 

Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.

You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart. 

“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. 

“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less. 

It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now. 

You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil. 

“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”

Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left. 

If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to. 

“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”

You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes. 

“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine. 

He whispered your name, pained. 

“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”

Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look. 

Dean was just as lost. 

But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes. 

He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you. 

He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth. 

“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

 And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time. 

He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever. 

If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.

With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed. 

His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot. 

He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth. 

The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.

The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges. 

He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat. 

“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”

“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”

“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.” 

With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago. 

“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” 

“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”

His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his. 

“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.” 

“Why are you doing this to me?”

His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness. 

“Why do you think?” 

He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again. 

“Because you want me dead?”

You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time. 

“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.

In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close. 

“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”

He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences. 

But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide. 

You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage. 

“How do you love me?” 

He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”

“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”

Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.

“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.” 

Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together. 

“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”

Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters. 

“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.” 

Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming. 

“What changed your mind?”

You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him. 

“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”

He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.

“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”

“How?”

It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving. 

“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?” 

Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out. 

So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.

Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.

“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”

“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”

The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss. 

“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”

Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”

“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”

He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”

“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”

Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”

You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay. 

“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”

You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”

“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”

“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”

“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”

“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”

“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”

“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”

Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his. 

“You’re really obsessed with that.”

Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”

Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you. 

“That’s it.” 

With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.

Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue. 

Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon. 

Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long. 

Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore. 

The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.

NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.

my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!

anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @rafeskitty @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles @fratbrochrisgf @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @mfstargrll @stars4birdie @cccayliexx @madslxz @spaghettiwoes @crumpledroses @madyyyslovs<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!!