SpicyFandomSoup

✨WELCOME TO SPICY FANDOM SOUP✨ Serving up a hearty mix of angst, fluff, smut and all the fandom flavors you crave. From Jeffrey Dean Morgan and his iconic characters like Negan, to the Supernatural cast and characters, and beyond that! This is your one stop pot for all things fanfiction.

[spicyfandomsoup]

✨SpicyFandomSoup’s Full Masterlist✨

Welcome to my masterlist! ✨

Here’s where you’ll find all my stories — organized and easy to explore, so you don’t have to dig through my chaos. Whether you’re here for fluff, angst, slow burns, or pure chaos, there’s something for everyone.

Thanks for reading, liking, reblogging, and sharing the love 💕

—————————————————————

Last updated - 14th April 2026

🧟‍♀️The walking dead

*violence, survival, and complicated men*

NEGAN

One shots

Series

OTHER CHARACTERS

Coming…

————

🔥Supernatural

*demons, road trips, and emotional damage*

DEAN

One Shots

Series

OTHER CHARACTERS

Coming…

————————————————

Feel free to send in requests or ideas anytime — I’m always open to new characters and inspiration.

🔔 Tag List

If you’re enjoying the chaos and want to be tagged in everything I post 👀

Just reply here or message me, and I’ll add you to my tag list 💖

[spicyfandomsoup]

The Devil You Carry

Chapter 1 - It Shouldn’t Matter

Chapter summary:

A new case pulls you, Sam, and Dean back out on the road — strange behaviour,

unexplained deaths, all the usual signs of something darker beneath the surface.

But it’s not the case that’s getting to you.

It’s everything else.

The quiet moments. The things left unsaid.

And the growing realisation that whatever you feel for Dean… isn’t going away.

👥 Characters:

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

Reader Insert (Y/N)

🔞Rating:

Teen and up.

⚠️ Warnings:

Alcohol consumption, mild language, emotional angst, jealousy, canon-typical themes

A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/88308176

—————————————————

There are different kinds of quiet in the bunker.

There’s the good kind — the kind that comes after a hunt, when everyone’s back, alive, patched up enough to pretend it doesn’t hurt anymore. When the silence feels earned. Safe, in a way that’s rare for a life like this.

And then there’s this kind.

The kind that stretches a little too far, that lingers just long enough to make you aware of it. The kind that leaves you sitting with your own thoughts and nowhere to put them.

Which is never a good idea.

You’re sat at the table with your laptop open in front of you, the screen glowing softly in the dim light. You’ve stopped reading at some point — you don’t remember when — and now your fingers just hover over the trackpad like you might start again if you try hard enough.

You don’t.

Instead, your attention drifts.

Not to Sam — though he’s there, a few seats down, head also buried in his own laptop, focused and steady like always. Predictable in the best way. Easy to be around, because you know exactly what you’re getting.

No.

Your attention drifts further than that.

Across the room.

To him.

Dean’s by the counter, beer in hand, back half turned. He hasn’t noticed you looking — or if he has, he’s choosing to ignore it. That’s the thing about him. He notices everything, always has.

Just… not always the things you wish he would.

You should look away.

You know you should.

But you don’t.

Because moments like this — the quiet ones, the in-between ones where nothing’s happening — they’re the hardest to deal with. There’s no hunt to focus on, no danger to distract you, no reason to keep your thoughts in check.

Nothing to hide behind.

So instead, you sit there and watch him — the way he tips his head back slightly when he drinks, the way his shoulders loosen just a fraction when he thinks no one’s paying attention. Small things. Stupid things.

The kind that shouldn’t matter.

And yet they do.

You’ve tried to pinpoint when it started, when it shifted from nothing into… whatever this is.

You can’t.

There wasn’t a moment. No big, obvious realisation. No line you crossed where suddenly everything felt different.

It was quieter than that.

A slow build you didn’t notice until it was already there.

Late nights at this table. Long drives where conversation came easy, or didn’t come at all but still felt comfortable. The way he always steps in front of you without thinking when things get rough. The way your name sounds different when he says it — sharper when he’s annoyed, softer when he’s worried.

You didn’t mean to let it happen.

You just… didn’t stop it.

You drag your eyes away, a little too late.

“Tell me we’ve got something.”

Your heart does something stupid at the sound of his voice, and you hate that it does — hate that it’s that easy, that automatic.

You blink, forcing your attention back to the screen like you’ve been working the whole time.

“I’m working on it,” you say, and it almost sounds convincing.

Almost.

There’s a beat before he responds.

“Yeah?”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

You can feel him there.

Too close.

Close enough that you know he can see your screen, can see you haven’t moved in a while, can probably tell exactly what you’ve been doing instead.

“’Cause it kinda looks like you’ve been staring at the same page for a solid half hour.”

You exhale quietly, finally glancing over your shoulder.

“I have not,” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly. “I’ve been reading.”

He leans on the back of your chair, the wood shifting faintly under his weight. Close enough that your shoulders tense without your permission, like your body reacts before your brain can catch up.

“Uh-huh.”

“Research,” you add, like that somehow makes it better.

“Right,” he says, not sounding convinced in the slightest. “And how’s that going for you?”

You turn back to the screen, shrugging like it doesn’t matter.

“Thrilling,” you mumble. “Honestly. Living the dream.”

There’s a quiet huff of a laugh behind you — soft, barely there — and it lands somewhere in your chest in a way you wish it didn’t.

You don’t let yourself sit in that feeling for too long.

You’ve learned not to — because if you do, it tends to spiral into something you can’t quite control, something that lingers long after it should’ve passed. It’s easier to ignore it, to push it down and focus on literally anything else.

Luckily, Sam gives you that out.

“There’s been a few reports in Ohio,” he says, pulling your attention away before your thoughts can drift back to where they were. “Couple of unexplained deaths. Witnesses mentioned some… weird behaviour beforehand.”

Dean straightens slightly behind you, and even though you’re not looking at him, you feel it — that shift in him when something clicks into place.

“Weird how?”

Sam types as he talks, eyes scanning the screen. “Erratic. Sudden aggression. One of them apparently attacked his own family out of nowhere.”

Your hand stills on the trackpad.

You already know where this is going, and part of you wishes — briefly — that you were wrong.

Dean says it anyway.

“Demon.”

Sam nods once. “Yeah. That was my thought.”

A pause settles over the room then. Not heavy, not uncomfortable — just understood. The kind of silence that comes when all three of you land on the same conclusion without needing to say much else.

You close your laptop, the soft click sounding louder than it should.

“Then I guess we’ve got something.”

Dean’s already halfway to his room by the time you finish speaking, like he’s been waiting for that confirmation.

“Alright,” he calls over his shoulder, “ten minutes. FBI mode.”

You push your chair back, grabbing your bag as you stand.

“Try five,” you shoot back. “Some of us don’t take half an hour to do a tie.”

He pauses just enough to glance back at you, pointing slightly.

“Hey. Presentation matters.”

You snort.

“Yeah, I’m sure the demons are very intimidated by your Windsor knot.”

Sam huffs a quiet laugh as he disappears down the hall, and Dean just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he heads into his room.

⸻

By the time you step out again, the bunker feels different.

Sharper. Focused. Like everything has shifted into place now there’s a job to do.

Your trousers sit snug, flaring slightly at the bottom, your shirt tucked neatly in — a couple of buttons undone at the top because you refuse to suffocate yourself for the sake of appearances — jacket fitted just right.

Simple. Clean. Professional enough.

You adjust your sleeve as you step into the main room—

And stop.

Dean’s already there.

Of course he is.

Tie straight. Jacket on. Everything exactly how it should be.

And for a moment — just a second — it hits you a little harder than it should.

Because it’s not just the suit.

It’s him in it.

The way it fits across his shoulders, the way he carries himself like he belongs in it even though you know he hates every second of playing dress-up. There’s something about it — something annoyingly attractive — and you hate that your brain even registers it.

You look away quickly, busying yourself with your jacket like you weren’t just staring.

“Wow,” he says, glancing over at you. “You clean up alright.”

You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction.

“Careful, Dean. Sounded almost like a compliment.”

He smirks faintly.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Sam walks in then, already straightening his own jacket.

“Alright,” he says, glancing between you both. “We’ve got about a two-hour drive. If we leave now, we can hit the scene before it’s too late.”

Dean grabs his keys, spinning them once around his finger.

“Let’s roll.”

⸻

The drive is easy.

It always is.

There’s something about being in the Impala that makes everything feel… steady. Like no matter what you’re driving toward, this part — this in-between — is always the same.

Sam runs through the details, glancing down at his notes as he talks.

“Latest victim was yesterday. Male, mid-thirties. No history of violence, no known enemies.”

“Until he snaps,” Dean mutters, eyes fixed on the road.

You lean forward slightly from the backseat.

“Same pattern as the others?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Sudden aggression, no warning. Witness said his eyes went—” he pauses briefly, glancing back at you, “—black.”

You sit back again, exhaling quietly.

“So we’re not dealing with something subtle.”

“If it’s jumping bodies,” you continue, thinking it through as you speak, “we need to figure out how long it’s staying in each host.”

“And how many we’re dealing with,” Sam adds.

Dean glances at him briefly. “Yeah. Last thing we need is walking into a damn nest.”

You sigh, leaning your head back slightly.

“Love that for us.”

Dean smirks.

“Hey. You signed up for this.”

You lean forward just enough to nudge the back of his seat lightly with your knee.

“I do not remember signing anything, actually.”

“That’s because you didn’t read the fine print,” he shoots back.

Sam chuckles softly beside him.

And just like that—

It feels normal again.

———

The Impala rolls to a stop just short of the house, gravel crunching lightly under the tyres.

Dean cuts the engine, but for a second, no one moves.

He glances up at the rear-view mirror instead, his expression shifting — not drastically, but enough. That familiar change into something sharper, more focused. Professional, in the way he always is when it matters.

“Alright,” he says, voice steady. “Game faces.”

You lean forward slightly from the backseat, catching his gaze in the mirror.

“Remind me,” you say, tone light but pointed, “are we taking this one seriously, or are you gonna flirt your way through it again?”

Sam snorts quietly beside him.

Dean doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t flirt,” he says, already reaching for his badge.

You raise a brow, unimpressed.

He glances back at you, just briefly.

“Focus.”

There’s something about the way he says it — not harsh, not annoyed, just… direct — that makes you hold his gaze for a second longer than you probably should.

Then you lean back again, giving him a small, almost mocking nod.

“Agent.”

That earns you the smallest flicker of a smirk before he looks away again.

The house looks like every other one on the street.

Nothing out of place.

Which, if anything, makes it worse.

Dean knocks, firm and practiced, and you hear movement inside almost immediately — slow, hesitant, uneven. Like whoever’s on the other side isn’t entirely sure they want to open the door.

When it does finally open, the woman standing there looks exhausted. Not just tired — worn down in a way that suggests sleep hasn’t come easy for a while.

“Can I help you?”

Sam steps forward smoothly, flashing his badge with that calm, reassuring ease he always seems to fall into.

“Ma’am, we’re with the FBI. We’d just like to ask you a few questions about what happened yesterday.”

She hesitates.

Her eyes move between the three of you, taking you in, assessing, unsure.

You soften your expression slightly, letting your tone shift just enough to take the edge off.

“We won’t take up too much of your time,” you add gently.

That seems to do it.

She steps back, opening the door wider.

Inside, the air feels… off.

Not strong.

Not enough that anyone else would notice.

But you do.

And Dean does too.

You don’t look at him, but you feel it — that subtle shift, that unspoken confirmation that passes between you both without needing words.

Sulphur.

Faint, but there.

She sits across from you, hands wrapped tightly around a mug that’s long since gone cold, like she’s forgotten it’s even there.

Sam does most of the talking — he always does in situations like this — his voice calm, measured.

“Can you walk us through what happened?”

Her grip tightens slightly.

“He just…” she shakes her head, like she’s still trying to make sense of it. “He wasn’t himself.”

Dean leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her carefully.

“How long was he acting like that?”

“A few hours, maybe,” she says. “It started small. He was… distracted. Agitated.”

You nod slightly, keeping your tone even.

“Did he say anything? About how he was feeling?”

She frowns, thinking.

“Just that something didn’t feel right. That he felt… wrong.”

Dean’s eyes flick briefly toward you.

You catch it this time.

You’re not sure why that matters.

But it does.

“And then,” she continues, her voice dropping slightly, “he said he could smell something.”

Sam leans forward just a fraction.

“What kind of smell?”

She swallows.

“Rotten eggs.”

Dean exhales quietly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’ll do it.”

You shoot him a quick look, and he lifts a shoulder in response, like — what?

He’s not wrong.

A few minutes later, you’re moving through the house.

Dean gestures toward the hallway.

“Bedroom’s down there.”

You nod.

“I’ll check it.”

Sam stays behind with the woman, asking a few more questions, and you head down the hall alone.

The door creaks slightly as you push it open.

Nothing immediately stands out.

Bed unmade. Clothes half folded. A life paused mid-motion.

Normal.

Too normal.

You step further in, scanning the room slowly, letting your eyes adjust—

Then pause.

There’s a mark on the wall near the doorframe.

Faint.

Barely noticeable unless you’re actually looking for something.

You crouch slightly, brushing your fingers just near it without quite touching.

The smell hits you stronger here.

Sulphur.

“Dean,” you call quietly.

Footsteps behind you almost immediately.

Close.

Always close.

“Yeah?”

You tilt your head slightly toward the mark.

“Here.”

He leans in beside you, closer than he needs to be, his shoulder just brushing yours as he looks.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That’s fresh.”

You straighten slowly.

“So it didn’t stay long.”

He nods.

“Which means it’s already moved on.”

You let out a quiet breath.

“Great.”

⸻

Back outside, the air feels easier to breathe.

You lean lightly against the Impala, arms folding loosely as Sam joins you, flipping through his notes.

“So,” he says, “pattern’s consistent. Possession, short-term control, then it jumps.”

Dean nods, glancing back at the house.

“Yeah. Question is—why here? Why these people?”

You shrug slightly.

“Could just be opportunity.”

Dean looks at you.

“Demons don’t usually do random.”

You tilt your head.

“Maybe this one’s bored.”

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Yeah. Lucky us.”

There’s a brief pause.

The three of you standing there, thinking it through, letting the pieces settle.

Then Dean claps his hands together once.

“Well. We’re not getting much more out of this tonight.”

You glance at him.

“So what, we call it?”

He shrugs.

“Regroup. Hit the next location in the morning.”

Sam nods.

“We can check the other victim’s place. Maybe hospital records.”

You push yourself off the car slightly, rolling your shoulders.

“And in the meantime?”

Dean looks at you.

There’s a small smirk there now — familiar, easy.

“Food. Drink. Preferably both.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there you don’t bother hiding.

“Of course.”

⸻

The bar is exactly what you expect.

Nothing special.

But not bad either.

Just… somewhere to sit, drink, and forget for a couple of hours.

Dean seems satisfied with it immediately, which probably says more than anything else.

A couple of drinks in, the tension from earlier starts to ease — not gone, but softer around the edges.

Manageable.

Dean leans back in his chair, bottle loose in his hand.

“So,” he says, glancing between you and Sam, “any bright ideas, or are we just winging it tomorrow?”

Sam exhales quietly.

“We’re not winging it.”

Dean raises a brow.

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

You tilt your head slightly, watching him.

“I thought your whole thing was winging it.”

He looks at you.

“That’s different.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “When I do it, it works.”

You snort, shaking your head.

“Right.”

Sam chuckles into his drink.

It’s easy.

That’s what gets you.

Sitting here like this, talking about nothing important, letting the noise of the bar fill the silence — it’s easy to forget everything else for a while.

Easy to pretend this is all it is.

Just this.

“Hey.”

Dean nudges your foot lightly under the table.

You look up.

He jerks his head toward the back.

Pool table.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“Don’t.”

He smirks.

“Don’t what?”

“You already look too confident.”

“That’s because I am.”

You lean back in your chair.

“I could take you.”

Sam nearly chokes on his drink.

Dean goes still for half a second, then—

“Oh, you are definitely gonna regret saying that.”

You don’t.

At first.

Because your first shot goes in clean.

You straighten slightly, trying not to look too pleased with yourself.

“Alright,” you say casually. “Not bad.”

Dean just watches you.

Amused.

“Mm.”

“Don’t,” you warn, pointing slightly at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you act like you’ve already won.”

Dean takes the cue from your hand with an ease that’s almost irritating, rolling his shoulders once before he leans over the table.

“Sweetheart,” he says, lining up his shot, “I don’t act.”

There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing, no need to line things up three times like you did. He just looks, decides, and takes the shot.

The crack of the balls is sharp enough to cut through the noise of the bar, and one of the striped balls drops neatly into the corner pocket.

You fold your arms, trying not to let how smug he looks get under your skin.

“Okay,” you say, watching him straighten. “That one doesn’t count.”

Dean glances at you, mouth already twitching.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I said so.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and amused, like he’s genuinely enjoying this more than he should.

“That,” he says, circling the table slowly, “is not how pool works.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty positive.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real heat in it. Not when Sam’s standing off to the side with that look on his face, halfway between entertained and fully expecting you to embarrass yourself.

You glance over at him.

“You could at least pretend to support me.”

Sam lifts his drink in one hand.

“I do support you.”

“That sounded fake.”

“It was a little fake,” he admits.

Dean grins.

“See? Even Sam knows when a game’s already over.”

You scoff.

“It’s not over.”

He meets your eyes as he leans down for another shot, the smirk still there, annoyingly steady.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped just low enough to make your stomach twist in a way you immediately resent, “it was over the second you challenged me.”

Then he sinks another ball.

Effortlessly.

You stare at the table for a second, then at him.

“I actually hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He says it without thinking, still focused on the next shot, and the words land a little too easily between you. Casual for him. Not casual for you.

You look away first.

That’s becoming a habit.

It only gets worse from there. Every time you think you’ve got an opening, Dean clears another shot. He barely even looks pleased with himself anymore, which is somehow more annoying than if he were openly gloating. Like he expects this. Like he knew from the second he picked up the cue exactly how this was going to end.

By the time you miss another shot badly enough that the cue ball kisses the side cushion and does absolutely nothing useful, even you can’t pretend this is going well.

Dean doesn’t bother hiding his reaction this time.

“Wow.”

You close your eyes for a second.

“Shut up.”

“That was rough.”

“Dean.”

“I’m just saying, if this hunting thing doesn’t work out, professional pool’s definitely off the table.”

You turn toward him, cue still in hand.

“Take your turn before I use this as a weapon.”

That only seems to amuse him more.

“There she is.”

You blink.

“What?”

“That attitude.” He steps closer, reaching for the cue. “Knew you had it in you.”

Your fingers loosen around the wood a second later than they should, and for the briefest moment his hand brushes yours as he takes it. It’s nothing. Barely anything.

Still, your pulse betrays you.

You hate that it does.

Sam, of course, notices everything.

“You two done?” he asks dryly from where he’s leaning against the wall. “Or should I come back later?”

Dean doesn’t even look at him.

“She started it.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, that is such crap.”

Sam raises his brows.

“So mature. Both of you.”

“Thank you,” Dean says.

“I wasn’t complimenting you.”

Dean sinks another ball.

You watch the easy line of his shoulders as he straightens, the casual confidence in the way he moves. There’s something unfair about how good he is at things like this. Like even when he’s relaxed, even when he’s messing around, there’s still that edge to him. That certainty. That quiet assurance that makes everything he does look easier than it probably is.

You try not to think too hard about why that gets to you.

It’s during his next turn that you notice her.

Not properly at first. Just someone near the bar, laughing at something one of the guys beside her says. Blonde, pretty, confident in the way women in bars always seem to be when they already know they’re being looked at. You wouldn’t have thought anything of it if Dean’s attention hadn’t shifted.

But it does.

Only slightly.

A glance, then another, just long enough to register interest.

And because you know him — because at this point you know the tiny shifts in him better than you probably should — you notice it immediately.

The way he straightens a little. The way his gaze lingers half a second longer when she looks back. The faint, almost unconscious change in his expression, like something in him has already decided there might be some fun to be had here.

It’s easy.

That’s the worst part.

He doesn’t have to try very hard. He never has.

And you know that. Of course you do. You’ve seen it before — in bars, in diners, in cheap motel hallways, in places where the job is over for the night and he lets himself slip into that version of Dean that’s all charm and smirks and low, easy confidence. It shouldn’t come as a surprise.

It doesn’t.

But that doesn’t stop something unpleasant from twisting low in your stomach anyway.

Not because he’s doing anything wrong. Not because he owes you anything. He doesn’t. You know that. You know all of that so well you could probably recite it to yourself in your sleep.

He’s Dean. This is what Dean does.

The problem isn’t him.

It’s you.

It’s the fact that no matter how many times you remind yourself this was never yours to feel possessive over, something in you still reacts anyway. Still goes tight and uncomfortable when his attention lands somewhere else. Still aches in that stupid, humiliating way you’d never admit out loud.

You look back at the table before you can dwell on it too long.

“Your shot,” Dean says, stepping aside.

You nod, moving forward.

“Try not to mess this one up,” he adds.

You glance at him sharply.

“Keep talking and see what happens.”

He grins, pleased with himself.

You line the shot up more carefully this time, mostly because you need something to focus on other than him. Other than the woman at the bar. Other than the fact you can already see the way this night’s probably going to go.

The ball goes in.

Finally.

Dean lets out a low whistle.

“Well, look at that.”

You straighten, trying not to look too satisfied.

“See? I’m improving.”

He tips his bottle toward you.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

You roll your eyes, but some of the sting has gone out of things now that you’ve got the shot. The game carries on, loose and easy and full of stupid comments you know you’ll remember later more clearly than you should.

By the time you all drift back toward the table, your cheeks are warm from drink and laughter and the slow buzz of the evening settling under your skin. Sam drops back into his seat first. Dean lingers at the bar for a second, waiting on another drink, and you tell yourself not to look.

You do anyway.

The woman’s there now, closer than before.

Talking to him.

Of course she is.

Of course he’s smiling.

It’s not even a particularly big smile, not one of the rare real ones that catches you off guard. Just that easy, practiced thing he wears when he wants to be liked. When he wants something. His head dips slightly so he can hear her better over the noise, and she laughs, touching his arm like she’s known him longer than five minutes.

You look away so quickly it almost makes your neck ache.

Sam notices.

You know he notices because Sam notices everything, especially where you’re concerned, and definitely when it comes to Dean. He doesn’t say anything straight away though. Just takes a sip of his drink and waits you out, which somehow makes it worse.

“You okay?” he asks after a minute, too casually.

You give a short laugh, though it doesn’t sound all that convincing even to your own ears.

“Why?”

“Maybe because you look like you’re thinking too hard.”

“I’m not.”

Sam gives you a look over the rim of his glass, one of those patient, unimpressed ones that says he’s not buying it for a second.

“You are.”

You pick at the label on your bottle, eyes fixed on your hands.

“It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t call you a liar. He doesn’t have to. The silence says enough on its own.

Across the room, Dean laughs again, and the sound carries more easily than it should.

You hate that you know the difference between that laugh and the others. Hate that some part of you hears it and immediately tries to figure out what kind of smile went with it.

“It’s stupid,” you say eventually, before you can stop yourself.

Sam stays quiet, letting you keep going if you want to.

You wish he wouldn’t.

Because now you’re halfway there.

“It’s just…” You exhale, jaw tightening briefly. “He can do whatever he wants. I know that. I’m not saying he can’t. It’s not like he owes me anything.”

“No one said he did.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

You take another sip of your drink even though you don’t really want it now, just to buy yourself a second.

“It just gets old,” you murmur.

Sam’s gaze softens a little.

“What does?”

You let out a quiet laugh that doesn’t feel much like one.

“Feeling like an idiot, mostly.”

Sam doesn’t answer straight away. He just watches you for a second, maybe deciding how much to push.

“You’re not an idiot.”

“It feels a lot like it.”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“Then maybe you should tell him.”

That gets your attention fast enough.

You look at him properly for the first time in a minute.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

You stare at him like the answer should be obvious.

“Because then I’d have to live with that.”

Sam tips his head slightly.

“Or something good could happen.”

You shake your head straight away.

“Yeah. Or I could make it weird and ruin everything.”

Before he can answer, Dean returns, sliding back into his seat like nothing’s happened, drink in hand and that same easy energy still hanging off him. If he notices the abrupt silence at the table, he doesn’t say.

“What’d I miss?” he asks.

You’re the one who answers first, because you have to, because if Sam does there’s no telling what he’ll say.

“Nothing,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.

Dean glances between you and Sam.

“Uh-huh.”

Sam hides his mouth behind his drink.

Traitor.

A little while later, Dean disappears.

You don’t see the exact moment he leaves. Maybe that’s deliberate. Maybe you were trying not to watch too closely and missed it. Either way, one minute he’s there, leaning back in his chair with that loose, relaxed posture that only ever shows up when he’s off the clock, and the next—

he’s gone.

You don’t ask.

You already know.

And that knowledge settles heavier than it should.

By the time Sam nudges his empty glass away and looks at you, the room has taken on that softer blur that comes with drinking just enough to quiet your thoughts without actually getting rid of them.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

You nod, pushing yourself upright.

“Yeah.”

The floor shifts more than you expect when you stand.

Sam catches your elbow automatically.

“Easy.”

“I’m fine,” you mumble.

He gives you a look.

“Yeah. You always say that.”

The walk back to the motel is slower than it should be, mostly because you’re just unsteady enough to lean into Sam more than you mean to. He doesn’t comment on it, which you’re grateful for. He just adjusts, making sure you don’t trip over your own feet while the cold air helps clear some of the haze from your head.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Then Sam glances down at you and says, quieter this time, “I meant it, you know.”

You frown.

“What?”

“About telling him.”

You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half groan.

“Sam.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Absolutely not.”

He smiles a little at that, but it doesn’t last.

“You can’t just sit on this forever.”

“I can try.”

“That sounds healthy.”

You bump lightly into his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, and for a second it feels easier. Simpler. Until the motel sign comes into view and the night catches up with you again.

Back in the room, you sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the carpet like it might give you something better to think about.

It doesn’t.

But it’s easier than letting your mind circle back to Dean. To where he is. To what he’s probably doing.

Sam sets a bottle of water down beside you, nudging it into your line of sight.

“Drink.”

You glance at it, then up at him.

“I’m not dying.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

You huff quietly, but you take it anyway. The water’s warm and unpleasant enough that you grimace the second it hits your tongue.

“Ugh.”

Sam snorts.

“Yeah. Real five-star service.”

You set it back down, fingers lingering against the plastic for a second.

The room settles into a quieter kind of silence. Not uncomfortable. Just tired.

You can feel Sam watching you without making it obvious.

“You good?” he asks after a moment.

You nod automatically.

“Yeah.”

The word comes too quickly to mean much of anything, and you know from the look he gives you that he hears it too.

Of course he does.

Sam’s always been better at this than Dean — better at reading what people don’t say, better at noticing when something’s off. Dean notices too, sometimes. Just not in the same way.

You tug your other shoe off and let it drop to the floor.

You lean back on your hands and tip your head up toward the ceiling. It’s easier than looking at him. Easier than explaining something you barely want to admit to yourself, never mind out loud.

“I’m fine,” you say again, quieter this time.

Sam doesn’t push. Doesn’t call you out. But the silence that follows makes it obvious he doesn’t believe you, and the worst part is you don’t blame him.

Because even you know that isn’t really true.

———

You don’t remember lying down properly.

At some point you must have, because when you wake, light is creeping around the edges of the curtains and your head feels heavy in that dull, cotton-wool sort of way that makes everything take half a second longer to process.

Not awful.

Just slow.

You blink a couple of times and turn onto your side. Sam’s already up, sat at the small table with his laptop open and a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Morning,” he says without looking up.

You groan and drag a hand over your face.

“Don’t talk to me.”

Sam huffs a laugh.

“Rough night?”

You push yourself upright slowly.

“Shut up.”

“That bad, huh?”

You squint at him.

“I’m serious.”

He lifts one hand in surrender.

“Alright, alright.”

A knock sounds at the door a minute later. Short. Familiar.

Sam glances up.

“That’ll be him.”

Something in your chest tightens before you can stop it.

You hate that you still react like that.

Sam gets up and opens the door, and Dean walks in like he owns the place — which, honestly, he kind of does. He brings a different kind of energy with him, one that changes the room the second he steps inside.

He looks scruffier than usual.

Shirt wrinkled. Hair more of a mess than it normally is. Tie nowhere to be seen. There’s a faint smugness to him too, something satisfied sitting just beneath the surface like he hasn’t bothered to hide it.

Sam leans against the doorframe.

“Morning.”

Dean shrugs his jacket off and tosses it over the chair.

“Morning.”

Sam watches him for a second.

“Have fun?”

Dean pauses just long enough for the answer to be obvious before he even says it.

“Yeah,” he replies easily. “Yeah, I did.”

You look away before you can think too much about that. At the floor. At your hands. Anywhere but him.

Sam folds his arms.

“Oh yeah?”

Dean shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like it’s just another night.

“Barmaid was…” He considers it for a second, then smirks. “Enthusiastic.”

Sam snorts.

“That’s…great Dean”

Dean only smirks wider.

“Yeah.”

It shouldn’t matter.

That’s the thought that hits first, immediate and familiar, the one you always reach for when this happens. It shouldn’t matter, because this is Dean and this is what Dean does, and none of it has anything to do with you.

But that doesn’t stop the quiet sinking feeling in your stomach anyway. Doesn’t stop the stupid, unwanted images your brain tries to supply the second he says it. Doesn’t stop the sharp little sting of knowing he can say something like that so casually while you’re sitting right there trying not to let it show on your face.

Dean moves around the room like nothing’s changed, pulling a clean shirt from his bag, and maybe that’s what makes it worse.

How normal it is.

How easy.

You stand a little too quickly.

“Bathroom’s free?” you ask, not really looking at either of them.

Sam nods at once.

“Yeah.”

You grab your clothes and move before either of them can say anything else, brushing past Dean without meeting his eyes. You’re aware of him as you pass — the closeness of him, the smell of stale beer and aftershave and something that is just him — and you hate that even now your body notices.

The bathroom door closes behind you a little faster than necessary.

The mirror is unforgiving.

You stand there for a moment longer than you mean to, looking at yourself properly, like maybe if you stare long enough you’ll find some version of yourself that looks less affected by all of this.

You don’t.

You just look tired. Slightly worn around the edges. Annoyingly normal.

You turn the tap on and let the water run, more for the noise than anything else. Something to fill the silence before your thoughts get too loud.

Because they’re already heading there.

You lean your hands against the sink and stare down at it instead.

It shouldn’t matter.

That’s the thing you keep circling back to.

It shouldn’t matter what Dean does, or who he leaves with, or how naturally he slips into that version of himself like it’s second nature. You’ve seen it before — probably more times than you could count if you really tried. Different faces, same outcome.

You let out a slow breath, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the sink.

It’s not like he’s done anything wrong.

He hasn’t promised you anything. Hasn’t looked at you in a way that gives you the right to feel any of this. If anything, he’s been exactly the same as he’s always been.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Because you’re the one who changed.

Somewhere between hunts and late nights and long drives and all those small moments that felt harmless at the time, you let yourself start wanting something you were never going to get. Something that only ever existed because you let it. Because you kept feeding it every time he smiled at you, every time he said your name in that low, rough voice, every time he looked at you for half a second too long and you decided it meant more than it probably did.

Now you’re stuck with it.

And stuck with yourself for being stupid enough to let it happen in the first place.

You shake your head once, like it might dislodge the thought.

It doesn’t.

It never does.

———————————————

[spicyfandomsoup]

The Devil You Carry 🩷💔

Series summary:

Keeping your feelings for Dean Winchester a secret has always been easier than admitting the truth.

But after a hunt takes an unexpected turn, the cracks begin to show. The harder you fight to hold everything together, the more it feels like something is working against you—and some secrets aren’t yours to keep forever.

The truth has a way of finding its own voice.

✍️Authors note:

I hope you all enjoy this one! It’s only a short series—just 3 chapters—but they’re all quite long

I’ve really been enjoying dipping my toe into the world of Dean Winchester, and there will definitely be more Dean fics to come! As always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy this one. 🌶️

Chapter 1 - It Shouldn’t Matter

Chapter 2 - But It Does

Chapter 3 - And Now You Know

[spicyfandomsoup]

DEAN WINCHESTER SERIES

Emoji guide:

🩷 = fluff / sweet moments

💔 = angst / heartbreak

🌶️ = smut / spicy content

———————————————————

The Devil You Carry 🩷💔 - (ongoing)

Tumblr / A03

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles (x)

[unicorngirl2007]

i’m never getting over how beautiful this man is omgomgomgogmgogmgm OH MY GOD

[spicyfandomsoup]

Under Your Skin - Continued (part 2)

🔞Rating:

Mature (for language, sexual content)

⚠️Warnings:

Smut, strip club setting, language, canon-typical violence

A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/87011641

Use the A03 link if you would like to read it all in one go!

——————————————————

The walk back through the club felt strange after that booth.

Too quiet between you.

Not awkward exactly, but close enough that you could still feel the tension lingering there beneath everything else. Beneath the music, the conversations, the clink of glasses and low laughter filling the lounge around you.

You could still feel the warmth of Dean’s hand against your thigh if you thought about it too hard.

So you very intentionally did not think about it.

At least, you tried not to.

Dean walked beside you through the crowded floor with one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans while his eyes scanned the room automatically again, slipping back into hunter mode almost too easily. But every now and then you caught him glancing toward you before quickly looking away again like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Which honestly did absolutely nothing helpful for your own heartbeat.

You eventually spotted Sam near the far side of the club standing beside one of the support pillars, beer still in hand while he watched the crowd carefully.

His eyes lifted toward both of you as you approached.

Then immediately narrowed slightly.

Not suspicious.

More like he could tell something had happened.

Which, annoyingly, was probably true.

“You okay?” he asked quietly the second you reached him.

“Yeah,” you answered quickly.

Dean answered at almost exactly the same time.

“Fine.”

Sam blinked once.

Then slowly nodded.

“Right.”

You immediately changed the subject before he could push any further.

“There’s way more demons in here than we thought.”

That got his full attention instantly.

You quickly explained everything the demon had told you in the booth. Vince. The deals. The fact there were apparently demons scattered all throughout the club.

Sam’s expression darkened more and more the longer you spoke.

“So we can’t just start killing them one at a time,” he muttered once you’d finished. “There’s too many people in here.”

“And if one of them realises what’s happening,” Dean added grimly, “they’ll use civilians as shields.”

You folded your arms loosely around yourself before quickly dropping them again, trying not to slip back into that nervous habit.

“So what do we do?”

For a few seconds Sam stayed quiet, clearly thinking.

Then suddenly his eyes lifted slightly.

“The fire alarm.”

You frowned. “What?”

“If we trigger the fire alarm, everybody evacuates automatically.” Sam gestured lightly around the club. “Music cuts out, sprinklers come on, whole place clears fast.”

Dean immediately caught on.

“That gets the civilians out.”

Sam nodded. “Exactly.”

You glanced between both brothers. “Okay, but we still won’t know who the demons are.”

A slow smile spread across Sam’s face then.

And immediately you knew he’d thought of something concerning.

“What?” Dean asked cautiously.

“The sprinklers.”

Dean stared at him for a second.

Then his expression shifted.

“Oh.”

You blinked between them. “I’m sorry, am I missing something here?”

Sam leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice.

“If I can get into the maintenance room, I can bless the sprinkler system.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

“Oh.”

“Holy water raining down on every demon in the building,” Dean muttered, already sounding impressed. “That’s actually kinda genius.”

Sam gave a small shrug that very clearly said:

I know.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, though nerves still twisted hard beneath your ribs.

“This is either gonna work really well,” you muttered, “or horribly.”

“Probably both,” Dean admitted.

That felt honest enough to be reassuring somehow.

Sam glanced toward the back hallway of the club. “I’ll go deal with the sprinkler system.”

“You know where you’re going?” you asked.

“I saw the maintenance room earlier.”

Dean nodded once. “Alright. We’ll stay out here and keep an eye on things.”

Sam handed his beer off onto a nearby table before disappearing back through the crowd toward the rear hallway.

And just like that, suddenly it was quiet again between you and Dean.

Well.

As quiet as a crowded nightclub could be.

For a few seconds neither of you said anything.

You picked absently at the edge of one of your bracelets while Dean stared out toward the dance floor like it had suddenly become incredibly fascinating.

Then finally—

“So…” Dean cleared his throat slightly. “About what almost happened in the booth.”

Your stomach flipped instantly.

Of course he was bringing it up now.

You looked down briefly before forcing yourself to shrug lightly.

“Dean, it’s fine.”

His eyes flicked toward you immediately.

“We just got caught up in the moment,” you continued before he could say anything else. “There’s a lot going on tonight.”

The words sounded calmer coming out of your mouth than they felt inside your chest.

Because the truth was, you didn’t think that moment had felt accidental at all.

And judging by the look on Dean’s face, neither did he.

But before either of you could dig yourselves any deeper into that conversation, Sam reappeared through the crowd already heading back toward you both.

Dean looked almost relieved by the interruption.

“That was quick,” he said.

Sam shrugged lightly. “Pretty easy actually.”

“You’re worrying me with how excited you seem about this,” you muttered.

“C’mon,” Sam defended. “It’s a good plan.”

“It’s definitely a plan,” Dean corrected.

You glanced once around the crowded club again.

People laughing.

Drinking.

Talking.

Completely unaware that half the room was full of demons.

Your stomach tightened.

“So,” you asked quietly, “when do we do this?”

Dean followed your gaze around the club for a second before looking back toward you and Sam.

Then he gave one small nod.

“No time like the present.”

For one brief second, all three of you simply looked at each other.

No jokes.

No teasing.

Just silent understanding.

Alright.

This was happening.

Dean turned first, weaving through the crowd toward one of the fire alarm boxes mounted near the exit corridor. You and Sam followed several steps behind while trying not to draw attention to yourselves.

The music still pounded through the club.

People still laughed around their tables.

Glass still clinked behind the bar.

Everything still looked normal.

Dean stopped beside the alarm, glancing once around the room to make sure nobody was paying attention.

Then he lifted his elbow sharply and smashed the glass

The fire alarm screamed through the club so suddenly and violently that half the room jumped.

For one split second, nobody reacted.

Then chaos erupted.

The music cut out immediately, leaving behind only the shrill howl of the alarm and the sudden confused shouting of customers looking around in panic. A second later the sprinkler system burst to life overhead, cold water raining down across the entire club floor in heavy sheets.

People started screaming almost instantly.

Not demon screams.

Human screams.

Confused.

Panicked.

Chairs scraped violently across the floor while customers rushed toward the exits, drinks abandoned across tables as staff shouted over each other trying to direct people outside.

Cold water soaked through your hair within seconds, running down your neck and shoulders while your makeup immediately started threatening to smudge beneath the relentless spray. The corset clung uncomfortably to your skin almost immediately, stockings dripping while your heels slipped slightly against the soaked floor.

Beside you, Sam scanned the room sharply.

“Wait for it,” he muttered.

Then suddenly—

A completely different scream tore through the club.

Not fear.

Pain.

Near the centre of the dance floor, one of the men who’d been sitting at the bar suddenly doubled over violently, smoke curling faintly from his skin as he stumbled backward into one of the tables.

A woman near the stage shrieked furiously as steam hissed against her arms beneath the holy water spraying from above.

All around the club, more people stopped running.

Stopped pretending.

Black eyes flashed one after another throughout the room.

And just like that, the demons revealed themselves.

“Holy crap,” you breathed quietly.

A bartender slammed both palms against the counter with a furious snarl, black eyes blazing as smoke curled from her skin.

One of the dancers near the stage looked directly toward you.

Recognition crossed her face instantly.

“Well,” she hissed, voice twisting unnaturally beneath the alarm. “That makes a hell of a lot more sense.”

Your stomach tightened hard.

The dancer stalked slowly forward through the water, eyes pitch black now.

“I knew there was something off about you,” she sneered. “You were never just another pretty face Vince dragged in here.”

Dean stepped slightly in front of you automatically.

The dancer’s eyes flicked toward him and Sam.

“The Winchesters,” she spat. “You people really do ruin everything.”

Then the room exploded into violence.

A demon charged from the left side of the club so fast you barely had time to react before Dean slammed into him, both of them crashing hard across one of the nearby tables and sending glasses flying everywhere.

Sam grabbed one of the bar stools just as another demon lunged toward him and swung it hard across the thing’s face with a violent crack that sent it stumbling backward into the shelves behind the bar.

Bottles shattered everywhere.

You barely had time to process any of it before the dancer demon came straight for you.

Her hand closed around your arm hard enough to hurt before she threw you violently sideways.

Your shoulder slammed painfully into the edge of one of the tables before you hit the soaked floor hard enough for all the air to leave your lungs at once.

For one horrible second, you couldn’t breathe.

The alarm screamed overhead.

Water poured from the ceiling.

People shouted outside somewhere beyond the exits.

Then the demon was suddenly gone.

Dean buried the demon blade deep into her chest with a furious snarl. The demon’s eyes flashed brightly for half a second, a sharp orange pulse flickering beneath her skin before her body suddenly went limp.

Immediately he turned back toward you.

“You okay?”

You coughed hard once, finally managing to drag air back into your lungs.

“Yeah,” you managed breathlessly. “Think so.”

Dean crouched beside you quickly while another demon shoved through the tables behind him.

“Here.”

He pulled his gun from the back of his jeans and pressed it firmly into your hands.

“I’ll take the blade.”

Your fingers closed automatically around the familiar weight of the gun while Dean grabbed your arm and hauled you quickly back to your feet.

“Be careful,” he said sharply.

Then another demon charged straight toward both of you and suddenly there wasn’t time for anything else.

You fired almost instinctively.

The shot hit the demon square in the chest, sending it backward into one of the booths while Dean moved immediately past you, blade flashing as he drove it hard into another demon rushing toward Sam from behind.

Sam meanwhile had grabbed a broken bottle from the ruined bar and jammed it into a demon’s shoulder before throwing it bodily across the counter.

The entire club had become chaos.

Water poured endlessly from the ceiling.

Broken glass covered the floor.

Tables lay overturned everywhere.

And through all of it, demons kept coming.

One lunged toward you from near the stage and you fired again, the recoil jolting hard through your arms before Sam appeared beside you long enough to shove the demon backward and finish it with the demon blade Dean tossed briefly toward him. The demon convulsed sharply as the blade sank in, another brief orange flicker flashing beneath its skin before the body collapsed.

“Left!” Sam shouted suddenly.

You turned just in time to duck as another demon swung at you. Its arm clipped your shoulder painfully anyway before Dean grabbed the thing from behind and slammed it face-first into one of the support pillars hard enough to crack the wood.

A second later the blade drove into its back and the demon dropped instantly.

Another demon rushed Sam from the side.

Dean threw the blade toward him.

Sam caught it one-handed without even looking before driving it upward beneath the demon’s ribs. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes while the demon stiffened violently, orange light pulsing once beneath its skin before the body crumpled across the dance floor.

For several long minutes the fight just kept going.

Messy and exhausting.

Nothing about it felt graceful.

Your feet slipped twice on the soaked floor because of the heels. Your shoulder ached from where you’d hit the table earlier. Dean had blood running from a split cut near his eyebrow and Sam looked one hit away from collapsing entirely after getting thrown across the bar at one point hard enough to take half the liquor bottles down with him.

But slowly, one-by-one, the demons stopped getting back up.

The final one came charging toward Dean with a furious scream before you fired instinctively from across the room.

The shot staggered it just enough.

Dean buried the blade into its chest a second later. The demon’s body jerked once before collapsing heavily onto the soaked floor.

Then suddenly—

Silence.

Well.

Almost silence.

The alarm still screamed overhead while water continued pouring relentlessly from the sprinklers, but the fighting itself had stopped.

Every demon in the club lay motionless across the ruined lounge.

For several seconds none of you moved.

You stood breathing hard near the edge of the dance floor, soaked completely through now while your pulse hammered violently in your ears.

Dean bent forward slightly with his hands braced against his knees while trying to catch his breath.

Sam was sitting on the soaked floor beside the wrecked bar looking equally exhausted.

Slowly, Dean straightened again.

His eyes immediately found you.

“You hurt?”

You glanced briefly toward your shoulder before shrugging slightly. “Bruised, probably.”

Dean nodded once, still watching you carefully for another second before finally turning toward Sam.

“You alive over there?”

Sam let out a tired breathless laugh from the floor. “Ask me again in ten minutes.”

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you too.

Mostly from relief.

Sam eventually pushed himself slowly upright using the edge of the bar while Dean retrieved the demon blade from one of the bodies nearby.

A few seconds later, the fire alarm finally cut out.

The sudden silence felt almost eerie after so much noise.

One by one the sprinklers overhead slowed too before eventually stopping altogether, leaving only water dripping steadily from the ceiling and pooling across the ruined floor.

The club looked wrecked now.

Tables overturned.

Broken glass scattered everywhere.

Water dripping steadily from the ceiling onto the soaked dance floor below.

Your hair was completely soaked now, damp strands sticking against your cheeks and neck while your corset clung heavily to your skin beneath your jacket. Mascara had smudged faintly beneath your eyes and your legs felt freezing beneath the soaked stockings.

The adrenaline was starting to wear off just enough now for exhaustion to creep in around the edges.

Your shoulder ached.

Your feet hurt.

And the cold from the sprinkler water had settled so deeply into your skin that another shiver ran through you before you could stop it.

Dean noticed immediately, though before he could say anything, something suddenly clicked in your head.

You looked slowly around the ruined lounge.

The bar.

The stage.

The bodies.

Your stomach tightened sharply.

“Where’s Vince?”

Both brothers looked toward you immediately.

You frowned harder, scanning the club again.

“He wasn’t down here.”

Sam straightened slightly beside the bar. “You sure?”

You nodded slowly. “I never saw him during the fight.”

Dean’s expression darkened almost instantly.

“He either got out,” Sam muttered.

“Or…” Your eyes slowly lifted toward the balcony overlooking the club floor.

Toward the office.

Your stomach dropped.

“The office.”

Without waiting any longer, you immediately started moving toward the staircase.

Dean followed right behind you. “Hey—”

“He’s up there,” you said quickly. “I know he is.”

Water dripped steadily from your hair as you climbed the stairs, heels clicking softly against the wood now that the club had fallen eerily quiet.

By the time you reached the upper hallway, your pulse had started hammering again.

The office door sat slightly ajar near the end of the corridor.

Dean immediately moved slightly ahead of you.

“I’ll go first.”

You nodded once, stepping back enough to let him move in front while Sam came up behind both of you.

Dean pushed the door open slowly.

The office inside was dimly lit, quieter than the chaos downstairs had been. Papers were scattered across the desk, one lamp still glowing faintly near the back wall while rainwater dripped steadily from somewhere outside the cracked open window.

At first glance, the room looked empty.

Then slowly—

The chair behind the desk turned around.

Vince sat there calmly, one ankle resting over his knee like he’d simply been waiting for you all to arrive.

His suit jacket was gone now, sleeves rolled slightly while his dark eyes settled directly on you first.

And he smiled.

“Well,” he said smoothly, “I knew there was something special about you.”

Every muscle in your body tightened.

Beside you, Dean’s grip shifted slightly on the demon blade before, without Vince noticing, the handle briefly pressed against your palm instead.

Quick.

Subtle.

Your fingers closed around it automatically at your side.

Vince’s eyes flicked lazily toward both brothers.

“And the Winchesters too.” He sighed dramatically. “Should’ve known this night was gonna end badly the second you idiots walked through my doors.”

“Cute operation you had going,” Dean muttered coldly.

Vince smirked faintly. “It was profitable.”

Sam stepped further into the office carefully, eyes scanning the room automatically.

“What happened to the girls?”

Vince looked back toward him with almost bored amusement.

“Which ones?”

“The ones that disappeared,” Sam pressed sharply.

Vince leaned back comfortably in his chair.

“Some made deals.”

“And the others?” you asked quietly.

Vince’s eyes slid slowly back toward you.

For one horrible second, you thought he might actually enjoy answering.

“They got curious,” he said simply. “Started asking questions. Started noticing things they shouldn’t.”

Your stomach turned.

“So you killed them.”

Vince gave a small shrug.

“They became inconvenient.”

Dean’s jaw tightened violently beside you.

“You son of a bitch.”

Vince ignored him completely, still watching you instead.

“Real shame, honestly.” His eyes moved slowly over your soaked corset and stockings. “You actually fit in pretty well here.”

Your expression hardened immediately.

Dean took a step forward—

And Vince flicked his hand lazily through the air.

The force hit both brothers instantly.

Dean and Sam slammed violently backward into the wall hard enough to rattle the shelves beside them.

You jumped instinctively toward them—

But suddenly couldn’t move.

Your entire body locked in place.

Cold panic flooded your chest immediately.

Vince stood slowly from behind the desk.

“You know,” he said conversationally while walking toward you, “I almost believed the act.”

Dean struggled furiously against whatever invisible force held him against the wall.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarled.

Vince smiled slightly.

His eyes flicked briefly toward Dean. “Calm down Dean. It's just some friendly conversation going on here.”

Your stomach flipped painfully despite the situation.

Vince stopped directly in front of you.

Too close.

“You would’ve done very well here, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “Pretty girl. Little innocent underneath all that attitude.” His head tilted slightly. “Men love that.”

Disgust crawled beneath your skin.

Then Vince reached up like he intended to touch your face.

You immediately pulled your head away sharply.

“Go to hell,” you snapped.

His smile widened slightly.

Dean shoved violently against the invisible hold again.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked calmly while circling slowly around you. “You hunters spend your whole lives miserable. Bleeding for people who’d never do the same for you.”

Sam’s jaw tightened hard against the wall.

“You think you’re helping people?” Vince continued. “Most of them would sell their souls tomorrow if it meant getting what they wanted.”

He stopped in front of you again.

“And honestly?” His eyes dragged slowly over you again. “You clearly already know how to play the part.”

Your stomach twisted.

“You could’ve made a fortune in this place.”

Dean snapped.

“You say one more thing —”

“What?” Vince laughed softly. “Truth bothering you, Winchester?”

Silence stretched for one horrible second.

Then slowly, carefully, you forced your expression to soften slightly.

Vince noticed immediately.

Curiosity flickered across his face.

“What if…” you started quietly, “what if I did want something?”

Dean’s head snapped toward you instantly.

Your eyes stayed locked on Vince’s.

“What if I wanted…” You swallowed carefully. “A normal life.”

Vince’s expression sharpened immediately.

“A house,” you continued quietly. “Somewhere quiet. White picket fence. Apple pie life.”

The demon smiled slowly.

“I can give you that.”

Your pulse hammered painfully hard.

“What if I wanted all of it?”

“You can have all of it,” Vince promised smoothly. “All you have to do is say yes.”

You let your gaze lower slightly, pretending to think.

Then finally—

“Okay,” you whispered softly. “Let’s make a deal.”

Behind Vince, Dean looked ready to completely lose his mind.

Vince stepped closer immediately, smile widening.

“Now that,” he murmured approvingly, “is more like it. A hunter making a deal.” He shook his head slightly. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Your fingers tightened subtly around the hidden blade at your side.

“So what now?” you asked quietly.

Vince’s eyes flicked briefly toward your mouth.

“To seal a deal,” he said softly, “all it takes is a kiss.”

Your stomach turned.

But you forced yourself to lean in slightly anyway.

Closer.

Closer.

Vince smiled.

Then in one sharp movement, you drove the demon blade straight into his stomach.

Vince’s eyes widened violently.

The invisible hold instantly released.

Dean and Sam stumbled free from the wall while Vince staggered backward toward the desk, staring down at the blade buried deep in his chest.

You stepped closer before he could recover.

“No deal.”

A sharp orange pulse flickered beneath Vince’s skin.

Then his body collapsed heavily onto the office floor.

Silence filled the room immediately afterward.

Dean stared at you for half a second.

Then a breathless laugh escaped Dean somewhere behind you.

“That,” he muttered, “was kinda awesome.”

Your pulse still hammered wildly beneath your ribs while adrenaline slowly started crashing out of your system all over again.

Then another violent shiver ran through you.

Only now, standing still again, did you realise how freezing you actually were.

Your soaked corset clung heavily to your skin while water dripped steadily from your hair onto the office floor.

Dean noticed immediately.

“You cold?”

You let out a small breathless laugh. “Yeah. Freezing.” You glanced down briefly at yourself. “Don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not exactly wearing a lot of layers.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh beneath his breath before immediately shrugging out of his jacket.

“Here.”

He stepped closer carefully and held it open for you.

You slipped your arms through automatically, the warmth still trapped faintly inside the leather making your chest ache unexpectedly.

“Thanks,” you muttered softly while pulling it tighter around yourself.

Dean’s eyes lingered on you for one quiet second too long before Sam cleared his throat lightly behind both of you.

“So,” Sam said, glancing toward Vince’s body, “The cops are gonna have some questions about this place.”

Dean finally dragged his attention away from you.

“Then we should probably get outta here.”

Honestly?

That sounded like the best idea you’d heard all night.

——

The three of you made your way quickly out of the club, stepping over broken glass and overturned chairs while water still dripped steadily from the ceiling behind you.

Dean stayed close beside you the entire way out.

Close enough that every now and then his hand brushed lightly against your back or your arm while guiding you around debris scattered across the floor.

The cold night air hit immediately the second you stepped outside.

You instinctively pulled Dean’s jacket tighter around yourself as another shiver ran through you, the dark canvas material hanging heavily from your shoulders and almost swallowing you whole. The sleeves covered half your hands and the collar still smelled faintly like him beneath the rainwater and smoke from the club.

The parking lot sat mostly empty now apart from flashing lights further down the street where people had gathered after evacuating the club. Nobody paid much attention to the three of you slipping quietly toward the Impala.

Honestly, after the night you’d had, the sight of the car felt weirdly comforting.

Dean unlocked it and climbed into the drivers seat first with a tired groan.

“I’m too old for this crap,” he muttered.

Sam snorted softly. “You’re thirty-five.”

“Exactly.”

A small laugh escaped you as you slid into the backseat.

The warmth inside the car hit you almost immediately, along with the familiar smell of old leather, gasoline and Dean’s cologne lingering faintly through the Impala.

Safe.

For the first time all night, your body started relaxing slightly.

Dean started the engine while Sam leaned his head back against the seat with his eyes closed already looking half asleep.

Nobody spoke much during the drive back.

Mostly because all three of you looked exhausted.

Water still dampened Dean’s hair slightly while one hand rested loosely against the steering wheel, the split cut near his eyebrow more noticeable now beneath the passing streetlights.

Every now and then his eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror.

Toward you.

You kept pretending not to notice.

Outside, the streets blurred quietly past while exhaustion settled heavier into your bones with every minute.

By the time Dean finally pulled into the motel parking lot, you genuinely weren’t sure your body had the energy for another hunt anytime soon.

The three of you climbed out slowly.

Sam stretched once with a grimace. “I’m definitely gonna feel that tomorrow.”

“You say that after every hunt,” Dean muttered while locking the Impala.

“Because every hunt feels like getting hit by a truck.”

You smiled faintly, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself again as the cold air hit your damp skin.

The three of you headed upstairs toward the motel rooms, footsteps echoing softly against the concrete walkway.

Your room was further down from theirs, separated by several doors, but neither of them peeled away toward their own room straight away.

Of course they didn’t.

Even after years of hunting together, both Winchesters still made sure you got inside safely first.

“I think I’m just gonna shower and crash,” you admitted quietly. “It’s been a really long day.”

Sam nodded immediately. “Probably a good idea.”

Dean stayed quieter beside him, eyes settling on you again for a second longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded once.

“Yeah I’m good, just tired.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

Because exhaustion wasn’t the only thing still replaying in your head.

The booth.

His hands on you.

How close you’d come to kissing him.

You pushed the thoughts away quickly.

“Well,” Sam said after a second, shoving his hands into his pockets, “try not to join any more demon strip clubs tomorrow.”

You laughed tiredly. “I’ll try my best.”

“Night. Y/N”

“Night, Sam.”

For a second Dean still didn’t move.

Then finally he nodded once toward your door.

“Lock it behind you.”

Something warm twisted quietly in your chest at that.

“I will.”

You unlocked the room before glancing back toward them one last time.

Dean’s eyes were still on you.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night.”

You stepped inside your motel room a second later before shutting and locking the door behind you.

Through the curtains, you caught one brief glimpse of the brothers finally turning and heading back toward their own room further down the walkway.

Then the motel room fell quiet around you.

For a few seconds, you just stayed there leaning against the motel room door, listening to the quiet hum of the old air conditioner.

The silence felt strange after everything that had happened tonight.

Slowly, you looked down at the oversized jacket still wrapped around you.

Dean’s jacket.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the collar before, without really thinking about it, you lifted it closer to your face and breathed in softly.

Rainwater.

Smoke.

Dean.

Your eyes closed for a brief second.

God.

You could still picture the way he’d looked at you in that booth.

The way his hand had felt against your thigh.

The way his eyes had dropped to your lips.

How close he’d come to kissing you.

A warmth spread low in your stomach despite the exhaustion dragging heavily through your body.

Eventually you forced yourself to move away from the door before you could spiral too deeply into thinking about him.

You crossed the small motel room and switched on the bedside lamp, soft yellow light filling the room instantly before you sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath you while you finally slipped your heels off with a relieved sigh.

Honestly, your feet were killing you.

You bent forward slightly, rubbing one hand tiredly down your face while your damp curls fell around you.

What a ridiculous day.

This morning you’d been sitting in a motel room researching a case.

Now you were sitting half-soaked in a black corset after spending hours walking around a demon-run strip club pretending to be confident while men stared at you all night.

Including Dean.

Especially Dean.

Your stomach flipped again annoyingly at the memory.

You eventually pushed yourself upright again before heading toward the bathroom to finally start getting cleaned up.

The harsh motel bathroom light flicked on overhead while you stared at yourself in the mirror for a second.

Smudged mascara.

Damp hair.

Flushed cheeks.

You barely looked like yourself anymore.

You had just reached for the sink when suddenly—

Knock knock.

You froze.

Another knock sounded through the motel room.

Your brows furrowed slightly.

Who the hell—

Carefully, you stepped back out of the bathroom and crossed the room quietly in your bare feet, stockings still damp against the carpet.

The knock came again.

You reached the door before slowly going up onto your toes to look through the peephole.

And immediately your stomach flipped.

Dean.

You unlocked the door quickly before pulling it open.

Dean stood there beneath the dim motel lights, one hand shoved into his pocket while damp strands of hair still curled faintly at his forehead from earlier.

His eyes lifted immediately to yours.

“Dean?” you asked softly. “You okay?”

For a second he just looked at you.

Then finally he nodded once.

“Yeah.” His voice came out lower than usual somehow. “Can I come in?”

You stepped aside immediately.

“Yeah. Course.”

Dean moved past you into the room while you shut the door softly behind him.

When you turned back around, he was already looking at you again.

More specifically—

At the jacket still hanging from your shoulders.

A faint smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, “that coat actually kinda suits you.”

You glanced down at it before smiling slightly yourself.

“Thanks.” Your fingers curled lightly around the collar again. “I kinda like it. I might have to borrow it more often.”

Dean huffed a soft laugh.

“It’s like five sizes too big for you.”

His eyes lingered on you for another second longer than necessary.

Then the smile faded slightly into something quieter.

More serious.

Your pulse started picking up immediately.

“Dean…” you said softly. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment he didn’t answer.

He just looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Then finally he took one slow step closer.

“I tried going back to the room,” he admitted quietly. “Tried sitting there and acting like tonight didn’t happen.”

Another step.

“But ever since I saw you walk out into that club…” His eyes moved slowly over you again, softer this time. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

Your breath caught slightly in your throat.

You didn’t interrupt him.

Couldn’t.

Dean kept moving toward you slowly until you had to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him properly.

“Then we were in that booth together…” His voice had gone quieter now. Rougher somehow. “And you looked at me like that and—”

He stopped himself briefly, jaw tightening slightly.

Your heart was beating so hard now you were genuinely worried he might be able to hear it.

“I just…” Dean exhaled softly through his nose before shaking his head once. “I needed to come see you.”

You stared up at him completely speechless.

Slowly, carefully, Dean reached both hands out toward you.

Your breath caught harder when his hands slipped beneath the oversized coat and settled gently against your waist over the corset.

Warm.

Careful.

Your eyes dropped briefly toward his arms around you before slowly lifting back to his face.

Dean’s gaze searched yours carefully.

“You want me to stop,” he said quietly, “you tell me and I’ll head back to the room with Sam.”

His thumbs brushed lightly against your waist.

“But if you don’t want that…”

Your stomach flipped violently.

Without taking your eyes off his, you slowly lifted both hands and rested them against his biceps before stepping just slightly closer into him.

"I want this."

The words barely leave your mouth before something in Dean’s expression shifts.

For a second, everything else disappears — the hunt, the motel room. The constant noise in both of your lives.

There’s only him.

The way his green eyes darken as he looks down at you.

He doesn't move immediately.

He just searches your face, looking for hesitation. Looking for fear. Looking for any sign that you’re going to change your mind.

But you don't.

Your fingers tighten slightly around his arms, grounding yourself against him.

"Okay," Dean breathes out, his voice rougher than before.

Then, he leans in.

The first brush of his lips is tentative, like he’s still giving you a chance to stop.

It’s so gentle compared to everything that happened earlier.

His mouth is warm and soft, moving against yours slowly enough to make your knees feel weak.

He keeps one hand firmly against your waist, his thumb brushing over the fabric of his jacket still hanging from your shoulders. His other hand comes up to cup the side of your neck.

His callused fingertips graze your jawline, sending a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold motel room.

You lean into the touch, your eyes fluttering shut as the reality of it crashes over you.

This is Dean. This is actually happening.

You kiss him back, all the feelings you’ve buried for years finally spilling out.

You feel the moment his control snaps.

The careful pressure changes immediately, deepening as he tilts his head to kiss you properly.

A low sound leaves his throat, almost like a relieved groan, and you feel it against your lips.

He pulls you closer, until there’s no space left between your bodies.

The heat radiating from his body seeps through your damp clothes immediately, warming you properly for the first time all night.

You can smell him—gun oil, leather, the familiar smell of whiskey, and the distinctive, musky scent that is just Dean.

It’s intoxicating, flooding your senses and making your head spin. Your hands slide up from his arms, sliding over his broad shoulders, fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

The kiss changes after that.

Slower for a second, but somehow more desperate too.

Like neither of you want to stop now that it’s finally happening.

He kisses you like he’s wanted this for years, and you kiss him back just as hard.

The rough scrape of stubble against your skin makes you gasp softly into his mouth.

He takes advantage of the small sound, his tongue slipping into your mouth and brushing against yours.

The taste of him is electric, warm and inviting, you arch your back instinctively, needing to be closer.

The movement presses your hips against his, and you can feel the hard lines of his body, the evidence of his desire impossible to ignore even through his jacket.

Dean breaks the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, resting his forehead against yours.

Both of you are breathing hard, the air in the room suddenly feeling too warm.

"God," he mutters, his voice wrecked.

He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, his hand still cradles the back of your head, his thumb stroking softly behind your ear.

"I've been... I've wanted to do that for so long. You have no idea."

You let out a shaky laugh, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs.

"Me too."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes roaming over your face like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment. The usual guarded mask he wears is gone, stripped away by the adrenaline from the night and the weight of his confession.

What’s left is raw, unfiltered intensity.

"You were drivin' me crazy tonight," he admits, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Walkin' around in that... that getup. I thought I was gonna lose my mind."

Heat floods your cheeks and you glance down, suddenly shy despite the heat still burning through you. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders.

“I was just trying to play the part. I felt ridiculous."

"Hey."

He ducks his head slightly, catching your gaze again, his expression turning serious.

"You didn't look ridiculous. You looked...” he lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Incredible. Too incredible. I nearly got my ass handed to me by a demon because I was too busy staring at your legs instead of watching the damn door."

The admission makes you smile despite yourself, warmth spreading through your chest almost instantly.

It’s stupid how much relief you feel hearing that.

Knowing he wants you just as badly.

"Well," you say softly, trying to ignore the way his eyes keep drifting over to you. "You seemed to handle yourself pretty well, regardless."

"Yeah, well. Lucky, I guess." His gaze drops to your lips, then lower, to where the jacket hangs open, revealing the black corset beneath.

The hunger in his eyes flares again, hotter this time, and something twists low in your stomach.

His hands move, sliding from your waist down to your hips. His grip is strong, possessive but still careful, like he’s handling something fragile.

He pulls you toward him again, stepping backwards until his legs hit the edge of the mattress. Then he sits down heavily, bringing you with him.

You end up standing between his parted knees, the height difference evening out slightly. It forces you to look down at him, a new perspective that feels surprisingly powerful.

Dean looks up at you, his hands settling back on your waist, his thumbs rubbing small circles against the fabric of the jacket.

"You nervous?" he asks quietly.

He knows you too well. He can probably feel the slight tremor in your hands where they rest on his shoulders. The way your breathing hitches every time he looks at you like that.

"A little," you admit honestly, not seeing the point in lying to him now. "I just... I never thought this would happen. I don't want to mess it up."

Dean’s expression softens immediately.

He reaches up, tucking a still-damp strand of hair behind your ear.

"You won't. We won't. We're just..." He pauses for a second, searching for the right words. "We're just figuring it out. Same as everything else."

He leans forward then, pressing a kiss to the center of your chest over the lacing of the corset. The heat of his mouth soaks through the material, making your breath catch in your throat, as your fingers tangle in his hair.

"Can I take this off?" he asks, his fingers tracing the lapel of his jacket.

Your heart stutters.

The jacket has felt like a shield ever since you left the club. Hiding the lingerie. Hiding the bruises already starting to form. Hiding how vulnerable you really feel standing here in front of him.

But taking it off means letting him see all of you.

Not just your body.

Everything else too.

Slowly, you nod.

"Yes."

Dean doesn't rush.

He grips the edges of the heavy jacket carefully sliding it down your shoulders. The cool motel air immediately hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms.

He catches the jacket before it reaches the floor, tossing it carelessly onto the nearby chair, before looking back at you straight away.

His gaze sweeps over you slowly, taking in the black corset, the lace at the tops of your stockings, the exposed skin between them.

He just looks at you for a second.

Really looks at you.

His eyes darken slightly, and for a moment he doesn’t say anything at all.

"Jesus," he breathes out quietly, the word barely audible.

He reaches toward you slowly, his hand hovering for a second before finally touching your skin. His palm settles against your waist, his thumb brushing lightly over the curve of your ribs just below the corset.

He leans forward then, pressing a kiss just above your navel. His lips are warm against your skin. His breath hot enough to send a wave of heat roll through you.

His hands roam up your sides, tracing the lines of the corset, like he's trying to memorise every inch of you.

He presses another kiss higher, then another, working his way up the center of your torso.

You stand frozen, your fingers threading through his short hair. The contrast between his rough hands and the softness of him mouth makes your head spin.

He takes his time with you, completely unhurried.

When he reaches the swell of your breasts above the corset line, he pauses.

He looks up at you, his eyes locking onto yours, like he’s checking one more time that this is okay.

It’s such a Dean thing to do.

Protective. Respectful. Even when he’s very clearly struggling to keep himself together.

You nod, your breathing already starting to quicken.

He ducks his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your cleavage. The rough scrape of his stubble against your skin makes you shiver, the contrast between that and the softness of his mouth almost too much.

One of his hands slides around to your back, his fingers searching for the laces of the corset.

"This thing is complicated," he mutters against your skin, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

"It's a hook and eye closure in the back," you explain, your voice sounding breathless to your own ears. "And laces over that."

Dean lets out a quiet sound that’s somewhere between determination and frustration.

"Right. Hold on."

He pulls away slightly to focus properly, his forehead furrowing in concentration as he tries to work out the corset.

You can’t help watching him for a second.

The low motel light catches across his face softly, bringing out the freckles scattered over his nose and the shadows of his eyelashes against his cheeks.

He looks so serious about it all that it nearly makes your chests ache.

Like fighting monsters would genuinely be easier for him than figuring out your underwear.

The thought makes you laugh, the sound breaking some of the tension still hanging between you.

Dean glances up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You laughin' at my skills, sweetheart?"

"Just admiring the focus," you tease.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep talkin'."

With a one final tug, the corset finally loosens. The tight pressure around your ribs disappears instantly, and you take a proper breath for the first time in hours.

Dean helps you slide the corset down your body and it falls to the floor leaving you standing there in just the black panties and stockings, your upper body completely bare.

The air feels cooler, but the heat in Dean’s gaze is enough to keep you warm.

He just looks at you.

His eyes tracing the lines of your shoulders, the curve of your neck, the weight of your breasts.

He looks at you like he doesn’t know where to touch first, but he can’t help himself.

"Come here," he says roughly, reaching for you.

You step closer, straddling his thighs as he sits on the edge of the bed. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you down onto his lap. The position brings your chest flush against his face.

He doesn't waste a second.

He presses his face between your breasts, his breath hot and ragged, his hands splayed across your back, holding you tight against him.

"Dean," you whisper, your head falling back as his hands begin to explore your skin.

He responds turning his head, taking one of your nipples into his mouth. The sensation is sharp, a jolt of pleasure goes straight to your core.

His tongue swirls around the hardened peak, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin gently before he sucks hard.

You cry out, your fingers tightening in his hair, holding him to you. The feeling is overwhelming, the mix of suction and heat and the rough scrape of his beard driving you crazy.

He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention, his hand coming up to cup the breast he just left, his thumb rolling over the wet, sensitive nipple.

Your hips jerk involuntarily, grinding down against his lap. You can feel him, hard and straining against his jeans, beneath you.

The friction sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, making you wet and aching. You rock your hips again, seeking more pressure, more contact.

Dean groans against your skin, the vibration humming through your chest as he pulls back slightly, looking up at you with dark, dilated eyes.

His lips are red and wet, his breathing heavy.

"You keep doing that," he warns, his voice a low growl, "and I'm not gonna be responsible for what happens next."

"I know," you breathe out, staring down at him. You feel powerful, desired, and alive. "I'm counting on it."

He curses under his breath, a short, sharp sound that makes your stomach flip.

Suddenly, he stands up, scooping you up in his arms as if you weigh nothing.

You let out a small squeak of surprise, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He holds you easily, his hands under your thighs.

He lays you down gently against the cheap, floral duvet, the mattress dipping under his weight as he follows you down.

He settles between your legs, propping himself up on his elbows so he doesn't crush you, his weight resting on his forearms.

He looks down at you, his expression softer now, but no less intense. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek.

"You sure?" he asks quietly.

"Once we go there, I can't... I can't go back to just bein' your buddy. It's not in me."

You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips, feeling the tension humming through him.

"I don't want you to be my buddy, Dean. I haven't wanted that for a long time."

He lets out a long breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second.

When he looks at you again, whatever uncertainty was there is gone.

"Good," he says simply.

He lowers his head, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss.

This time, there’s no hesitation and there’s nothing careful about it.

You kiss him back just as hard, your hands fumbling with the hem of his t-shirt.

You need to feel his skin, need to know he’s real, that this isn't some fever dream brought on by exhaustion and adrenaline.

He seems to read your mind.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grab the back of his shirt and yank it over his head in one smooth motion. He tosses it to the floor, and then he’s back, his bare chest pressing against yours.

The contact is electric.

Skin on skin.

The hair on his chest is coarse against your sensitive breasts, his skin hot and radiating heat. You run your hands over his shoulders, down his arms, feeling the muscles shift under your palms. He feels solid, strong and unbreakable.

You trace the anti-possession tattoo on his chest, the black ink stark against his flushed skin. It’s a reminder of who he is, of the life he leads, but in this moment, it just makes him more yours.

He kisses you again, his hand sliding down your side, over your hip, to the band of your panties.

He pauses there. His fingers toying with the lace, teasing the sensitive skin of your lower belly. You arch your hips up, a silent plea for him to keep going.

Dean takes the hint.

He kisses a trail down your neck, over your collarbone, between your breasts, down the center of your stomach. He takes his time, worshiping every inch of skin he passes.

When he reaches the waistband of your panties, he hooks his fingers in the lace and looks up at you.

He slides the panties down your legs slowly, his palms grazing the skin of your thighs, the back of your knees, your calves.

He pulls them off completely and tosses them aside, leaving you bare except for the stockings.

He moves back up the bed, positioning himself between your legs again. He pushes your thighs gently apart, settling his shoulders between them.

The position is intimate. Exposing. And you feel a fresh wave of shyness wash over you.

You instinctively move to close your legs, but Dean stops you with a firm hand on your inner thigh.

"Hey," he says softly, looking up at you from between your legs. "Don't hide from me. Let me see you."

He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he leans down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

The sensation is soft.

He kisses the other thigh, working his way higher with each press of his lips.

The anticipation builds to become almost unbearable.

You’re wet and ready, aching for his touch, your heart pounding a franticly against your ribs.

When his mouth finally reaches the apex of your thighs, you gasp, your head falling back against the pillows.

He doesn't dive in immediately.

He takes a moment to just breathe you in, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin, and then he flattens his tongue and licks a long, slow stripe up your center.

The feeling is intense, a hot, wet friction that lights up every nerve ending.

You cry out, your hands flying to his head, your fingers gripping his hair tight.

Dean doesn't stop. He uses his hands to hold your hips steady as he begins to explore you with his mouth.

He’s skilled, focused, using a combination of broad, flat licks and precise, flicking movements of his tongue that drive you wild.

He finds your clit quickly, circling it with a pressure that borders on too much but feels absolutely perfect.

Your hips buck off the bed, seeking more friction, and he groans against you, the sound adding to the sensory overload.

"Dean," you gasp, your voice breaking. "Please... don't stop."

He doubles down, his movements becoming more insistent.

He slides one hand from your hip, his fingers tracing your entrance before slowly pushing inside.

You stretch around him, the feeling of fullness exquisite. He curls his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

He sucks on your clit at the same time, pumping his fingers in and out, and the dual stimulation sends you spiraling toward the edge faster than you thought possible.

The tension coils in your belly, tight and hot, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Dean," you moan, your body trembling. "I'm... I'm close."

He hums against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your system.

He doesn't let up, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to push you higher.

You look down the length of your body and see him there, his head buried between your thighs, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, looking completely lost in you.

It’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen.

That visual, combined with the relentless rhythm of his touch, is what finally undoes you.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming.

You cry out his name, your back arching off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets.

Your inner muscles clench around his fingers, pulsing rhythmically as the pleasure rips through you.

Dean works you through it, slowing his movements but not stopping until he feels your body start to relax. He presses soft, gentle kisses to your inner thighs as you come down, your chest heaving, your body humming with aftershocks.

When he finally moves back up the bed, his face is flushed, his lips slick and swollen.

He looks incredibly proud of himself.

He leans down to kiss you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, a tangy, intimate flavor that makes your head spin.

"Good?" he asks, a smirk playing on his lips.

You let out a breathless laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for another kiss.

"Incredible," you murmur against his mouth. "But I think you're wearing too many clothes."

Dean groans, burying his face in your neck. "I was hoping you'd say that."

He pushes off the bed to stand, his movements urgent now. He kicks his boots off, unlacing them with impressive speed and shoving them to the side. Then, his hands go to his belt. The metal buckle clinks as he undoes it, the sound loud in the quiet room. He unbuttons his jeans and slides the zipper down, pushing the denim down his legs along with his boxers.

He steps out of them, kicking them away, and stands before you completely naked.

You stare at him, taking in the sight.

He’s beautiful—all hard muscle and scars, a map of his life etched into his skin.

He’s fully erect, thick and hard, resting against his stomach.

He crawls back onto the bed, hovering over you.

He braces himself on his arms, looking down at you with a look of pure adoration mixed with a burning hunger.

"You sure you're ready?" he asks, his voice rough.

You reach up, wrapping your hand around his length.

He hisses in a breath, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. You stroke him slowly, feeling the weight and heat of him in your hand.

"I'm ready," you say, pulling him down for a kiss. "I want you. All of you."

He kisses you hard, one hand reaching between your bodies to line himself up.

You spread your legs wider, inviting him in.

He pushes forward slowly, the head of his cock breaching your entrance. The stretch is intense, a sweet ache that makes your breath hitch.

He pauses, giving you a moment to adjust, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back.

"Okay?" he grits out.

"Yes," you breathe out, lifting your hips to meet him. "Keep going."

He pushes in deeper, inch by slow inch, filling you completely.

When he’s finally fully seated inside you, he stops, resting his forehead against yours.

You feel incredibly full, stretched to the limit in the best possible way.

The sensation of being connected to him like this, of having him inside you, is overwhelming.

He starts to move then, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in. The pace is slow, deliberate, allowing you to feel every ridge and vein. You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper.

"You feel so good," he groans, burying his face in your neck. "Better than I imagined. And I imagined this a lot."

You smile against his temple, your hands roaming over his back, feeling the muscles ripple under your skin as he moves.

"Show me," you whisper. "Show me what you imagined."

The control snaps.

Dean’s hips snap forward, his pace picking up speed.

He thrusts into you harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. It’s raw and primal, the last of the barriers between you shattering with every movement.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving together in a rhythm. The friction builds again, a slow burn that starts in your hips and spreads outward.

You can feel another orgasm building, deeper and more intense than the first.

Dean reaches down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again. He rubs tight, circles in time with his thrusts, pushing you higher.

"Come for me, baby," he murmurs against your ear, his voice wrecked. "Let go. I've got you."

His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers and the deep, steady thrust of his cock, send you flying over the edge.

Your orgasm tears through you, a blinding white light that obliterates everything else.

You cry out, your body convulsing around him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Dean groans, his rhythm faltering as your muscles clench around him. He thrusts deep, one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he finds his own release.

He collapses against you, his weight heavy and solid, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

You lie there like that for a long time, tangled together in the aftermath, the only sounds in the room your ragged breathing and the hum of the air conditioner.

The sweat cools on your skin, but you don't feel cold anymore.

You feel warm, safe, and utterly content.

Eventually, Dean shifts his weight, rolling onto his side but keeping an arm draped heavily over your waist, pulling you close against him. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, the gesture tender and sleepy.

"You okay?" he mumbles, his eyes already drifting shut.

You curl into him, resting your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

It’s the most reassuring sound in the world.

"More than okay," you whisper back.

He tightens his arm around you, a small smile curving his lips. "Good."

Silence settles over the room again, but it’s not empty anymore. It’s full of everything that just happened, everything that was said and everything that wasn't.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of Dean’s arm around you, and realize that for the first time in years, the future doesn't look scary.

It looks like this.

It looks like him.

You lie there together quietly for a while afterward, tangled up beneath the motel sheets while the old air conditioner hummed softly in the background.

Dean’s arm stays heavy around your waist, his fingers absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin while you rest against his chest listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Outside, rain taps softly against the motel windows.

Everything feels warm.

Safe.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

Then eventually, unable to help yourself, you tilt your head slightly to look up at him.

“So…” you murmur sleepily. “Guess this means we’re probably past the whole buddy phase now.”

Dean lets out a quiet laugh above you, the sound rougher from exhaustion.

“Pretty sure we crossed that line hours ago.”

Heat immediately creeps into your face.

You hide your face against his chest. “Also can we please never talk about that outfit again?”

Dean’s chest rumbles faintly beneath your cheek.

“Absolutely not.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“I’m serious.”

“I spent half the night trying not to lose my damn mind lookin’ at you.”

Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard all over again.

You shake your head against him. “Cant say I noticed…you hid it pretty well.” you say with a hint of sarcasm.

Dean snorts quietly.

“Yeah, because Sam was two seconds away from physically restraining me every time you walked past.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

Then the room settles quieter again.

Softer.

Your fingers drift absently against his chest for a second before you speak again, this time quieter.

“You know…” You hesitate briefly. “I was kinda worried this might make things weird.”

Dean shifts slightly beside you.

Just enough that you can properly look up at him now.

His expression softens a little when he looks down at you.

“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “there was nothin’ normal about us before this.”

Your chest aches in the best possible way.

Dean studies your face for another second before one corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“And honestly?” he adds. “After tonight, there’s no way in hell I’m lettin’ you go.”

Your heart stutters painfully hard against your ribs.

You smile a little shyly despite yourself.

“Good.”

Dean’s eyes soften again at that.

Then he leans down and presses one slow kiss against your forehead before pulling you back against his chest properly.

His arm tightens around your waist.

Holding you there.

Like he plans on keeping you.

And honestly?

You think maybe you’d let him.

——————————————————

If you enjoyed this and want to be tagged in ALL Dean fics, let me know!

[spicyfandomsoup]

Under Your Skin - Part 1

Summary:

A routine case involving missing women leads you and the Winchesters into a club hiding far more than cheap drinks and bad music.

Going undercover means getting closer to the case than you expected — and much closer to Dean Winchester than either of you are prepared for.

Between dangerous secrets, lingering looks, late-night motel rooms and tension that’s been building for years, one hunt starts changing everything.

👥Characters:

Dean Winchester x Reader,

Sam Winchester

🔞Rating:

Mature (for language, sexual content)

⚠️Warnings:

Smut, strip club setting, language, canon-typical violence

✍️Authors Note:

Well… here it is.

My very first Dean Winchester fic!

I originally thought this was going to be something not too long and fun and then somehow it turned into nearly 20k words and had to be split into 2 parts because apparently I physically cannot write short fics 🙈sorry bout’ that

I’ve honestly loved writing this so much though. Dean has such a specific voice and vibe to get right, especially when trying to make it feel like an actual episode of Supernatural, so I really hope I managed to do him justice.

A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/87011641

Use the A03 link if you would like to read it all in one go!

————————————————————

The motel room was growing darker by the minute, the last of the evening light slipping through the narrow gap in the curtains while the neon sign outside flickered faintly against the window. Somewhere beyond the walls, tires hissed across damp pavement and a car door slammed shut before fading back into the low hum of distant traffic.

Inside the room, everything felt warm and familiar in the way motel rooms somehow had started to after years of hunting.

Not because they were nice. Most of them weren’t.

But because somewhere along the line, cramped rooms, flickering lamps and badly patterned carpets had become normal. Safe, almost.

Classic rock played quietly from Dean’s phone on the bed, low enough to blend into the atmosphere rather than overtake it. Empty coffee cups, scattered notes and takeaway wrappers had gradually spread themselves across nearly every available surface as the evening wore on.

You sat opposite Sam at the small round table beneath the window, your laptop open in front of you while Sam worked steadily across from you, occasionally clicking between articles with the intense concentration he always got whenever he slipped fully into research mode.

Meanwhile Dean sat on the edge of the nearest bed, one knee bouncing slightly while he cleaned one of his guns with practiced ease, the weapon broken down neatly across a towel beside him.

And unfortunately for you, that was exactly the problem.

Your attention drifted toward him again before you could stop it.

Honestly, it was embarrassing at this point.

You’d known Dean Winchester for years. Long enough that this stupid crush should have faded naturally somewhere along the line. Long enough that you should’ve become immune to him after endless hunts, late-night drives and cramped motel rooms.

Instead, somehow, it had only gotten worse.

Because even now, after everything, you still caught yourself watching him whenever he wasn’t paying attention. Watching the way his hands moved while he worked. Watching the slight crease between his brows when he concentrated. Watching the sleeves of his faded grey t-shirt pushed up his forearms while warm motel light caught the sharp edge of his jaw.

God.

The man was literally cleaning a gun.

That should not have been attractive.

And yet there you sat, staring so long that the article open on your laptop had stopped registering entirely.

“Earth to Y/N.”

You blinked quickly, your attention snapping back toward Sam.

He was watching you over the top of his laptop now, one eyebrow raised slightly in amusement.

Heat crept immediately into your face.

“What?” you asked, trying for innocence.

Sam leaned back slightly in his chair. “You’ve been reading the same paragraph for like five minutes.”

Your eyes darted toward your screen.

Right.

You cleared your throat softly. “Maybe it’s a really interesting paragraph.”

“Yeah?”

You narrowed your eyes at him instantly.

“Because from where I’m sitting,” Sam continued casually, “it looked a lot like you were focused on something else.”

He tipped his head subtly toward Dean.

Your stomach flipped immediately.

Oh my God.

You looked away so fast it probably made you look guiltier.

Before you could even think of a response, Dean glanced up from the gun in his hands.

“What you saying?”

“Nothing,” you answered immediately.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Why do I feel like I just walked into something?”

“You didn’t,” Sam said easily, already looking back down at his laptop. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dean looked between the two of you suspiciously for another second before pointing vaguely with the cleaning cloth in his hand.

“You’re both shady as hell.”

“We learned from the best,” Sam replied without missing a beat.

Dean looked almost offended by that. “Wow.”

You smiled despite yourself, relaxing back slightly in your chair while Dean muttered something under his breath about betrayal and returned to reassembling the gun.

This was normal.

Comfortably, dangerously normal.

And honestly, that was probably part of the issue.

Somewhere over the years, the three of you had slipped into this rhythm together so naturally that you barely even noticed it anymore. Long drives in the Impala. Research spread across motel tables. Fast food dinners at ridiculous hours of the night. Dean complaining about terrible coffee while Sam attempted to keep everybody remotely organised.

You couldn’t really remember when the Winchesters had stopped feeling like people from your past and started feeling more like home.

Your dad had hunted with John Winchester occasionally when you were younger. Not constantly, but enough that you’d crossed paths with the boys more than once growing up.

Back then Dean had already seemed larger than life to you.

Loud. Cocky. Charming in the effortless way teenage boys somehow managed to be without even trying. You remembered sitting awkwardly at diner booths while Dean flirted shamelessly with waitresses and Sam looked permanently embarrassed by him from across the table.

You also remembered thinking Dean Winchester was the prettiest boy you’d ever seen the first time he’d smiled directly at you.

Unfortunately, that part had never changed either.

Then your parents died during a hunt when you were nineteen, and for a while after that, your life became little more than grief and survival and anger.

You hunted alone because you didn’t know what else to do with yourself.

You didn’t see Sam or Dean again until years later during a case in Nebraska.

You still remembered Dean staring at you across a motel parking lot like he genuinely couldn’t believe it was you standing there.

Then, without hesitation, he’d crossed the parking lot and wrapped you in a hug so tight your feet nearly left the ground.

After that, somehow, the three of you had just… stayed connected.

Not constantly. Sometimes months passed between hunts. Sometimes you worked alone.

But eventually your phone would ring, or Dean would show up outside your motel room with that familiar grin, and suddenly you were hunting together again like no time had passed at all.

And somewhere during all of those years, your harmless teenage crush on Dean Winchester had turned into something significantly more dangerous.

Not that anybody knew that.

At least, you hoped not.

Especially not when Dean was sitting ten feet away looking unfairly attractive while casually cleaning weapons.

“Alright,” Sam said suddenly, breaking through your thoughts again.

You straightened slightly.

Sam turned his laptop around toward both of you. “So get this.”

Dean immediately shifted gears, setting the gun down beside him. “Please tell me you found something because if I have to read one more badly designed local news website tonight, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“You’re already halfway there,” you muttered.

Dean pointed at you without looking away from Sam. “Rude.”

Sam ignored both of you. “Three women missing in the last two months. All connected to the same club.”

Your brows furrowed. “Connected how?”

“They all worked there.”

Dean leaned forward slightly now, elbows resting on his knees. “What kind of club?”

Sam’s expression shifted just enough for you to know neither of you were going to love the answer.

“It’s called The Velvet Room.”

Dean groaned instantly. “Okay, nope. Hate that already.”

“It’s a burlesque club,” Sam continued. “Pretty upscale by the looks of it. Live performances downstairs, private parties upstairs.”

You had already started typing the name into your laptop before he’d even finished speaking.

Photos immediately filled the screen.

Dark lighting. Velvet furniture. Women in elaborate corsets posed beneath spotlights.

“Huh,” you murmured quietly.

Dean noticed instantly. “What does huh mean?”

“Nothing.”

“That sounded like something.”

Sam clicked onto another article. “The missing women all started working there recently. One disappeared after only six days.”

Your attention sharpened immediately.

“No signs of forced entry,” Sam continued. “No footage of them leaving. They’re just gone.”

Dean frowned slightly now, the joking tone fading from his voice. “Bodies?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing.”

“That’s comforting.”

You continued scrolling slowly through pictures of the club, studying them carefully. “Could be some kind of seduction thing.”

Dean glanced over. “Meaning?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged slightly. “Something using attraction maybe. Obsession. Some kind of lure.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Would make sense in a place like that.”

Dean leaned back slightly, thinking it over. “Okay, so we go down there, see if we can get some answers.”

You looked up immediately. “You can’t seriously think you’re just gonna wander into a place like that and start questioning people without it looking obvious as hell something’s going on, Dean.”

Dean frowned. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a burlesque club, not a police station.” You gestured vaguely toward the screen. “People go there to drink and stare at pretty women, not get interrogated by two FBI rejects.”

Sam snorted into his coffee.

“You know I’m right.”

Dean opened his mouth.

Then paused.

Because unfortunately, you absolutely were right.

He sighed dramatically, leaning back against the headboard. “Alright then.” He spread his hands slightly. “You got any bright ideas?”

Silence settled briefly across the room.

You glanced between both brothers before slowly shutting your laptop.

“There’s one pretty obvious option.”

Dean looked over immediately, suspicion already written across his face. “Why do I hate the sound of that?”

You ignored him.

“If the victims all worked there,” you said carefully, “then maybe someone should go undercover there.”

Sam looked thoughtful almost immediately.

Dean looked horrified.

“No.”

You frowned immediately. “You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you’re gonna say.”

“No, you don’t.”

Dean sat back properly now, already shaking his head before you’d even continued. “Absolutely not.”

“Dean—”

“You are not working in some creepy monster burlesque club.”

You folded your arms. “I said undercover.”

“You think that makes it better?”

Sam looked between both of you carefully, clearly trying not to smile yet.

You turned toward him instead. “Tell him it makes sense.”

Dean pointed at Sam immediately. “Don’t you dare.”

Sam sighed softly, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “I mean… she does have a point.”

Dean stared at his brother in disbelief.

“Wow. Incredible. Betrayed in my own motel room.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered.

“I’m being logical.”

“You’re being weird.”

That slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean blinked. “Weird?”

“Yes, weird.” You frowned at him. “You act like I’m suggesting joining the circus permanently. I’d literally just be getting close enough to ask questions.”

Dean laughed once, but there wasn’t much humour in it. “Yeah? And what exactly do you think working at a place like that involves?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because annoyingly, you knew exactly what he meant.

And judging by the look on Dean’s face, he knew you knew too.

“I can handle myself,” you said finally, quieter this time.

Dean’s expression shifted slightly at that.

Not softer exactly.

Just less argumentative.

“I know you can,” he said immediately.

And somehow that was worse.

Because there wasn’t even hesitation there. No doubt.

Just concern. Real concern.

You looked away first.

—————————————————

By the time the next morning rolled around, the argument still hadn’t really been settled.

Dean had continued complaining about the idea for at least another hour the night before, though by the end of it even he seemed to realise there weren’t many better options. Sam had mostly stayed neutral, occasionally throwing in practical points whenever Dean became too dramatic about the whole thing, which only seemed to irritate him more.

You’d eventually escaped to your own motel room somewhere around one in the morning with Dean still muttering under his breath about “terrible plans” and “absolutely not.”

And yet somehow, despite all of that, here you were.

Standing outside The Velvet Room just after midday with your sunglasses perched on top of your head and your stomach twisting itself into knots.

The club looked completely different during the day.

Less glamorous.

Less intimidating somehow.

The giant neon sign above the entrance was switched off, the dark windows reflecting the cloudy afternoon sky back at you while faint music pulsed somewhere deep inside the building.

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder before glancing down at yourself for what had to be the tenth time already.

You’d tried to dress the part.

At least enough that they wouldn’t laugh you straight back out the door.

The dark jeans you wore were tighter than anything you’d usually choose, tucked into heeled boots instead of your normal trainers. Your top dipped lower than you were used to too, enough cleavage showing to feel unfamiliar and distracting every time you looked down.

You already hated it a little.

Not because you thought you looked bad.

Honestly, that was probably the problem.

The entire outfit made you feel far too noticeable.

And after years of trying very hard not to draw attention to yourself, it left you deeply uncomfortable.

You could practically hear Dean’s voice in your head already.

Absolutely not.

You sighed softly before pushing the thought away and heading inside.

The interior of the club was dim even during the day, though without the nighttime crowds it felt strangely empty. Staff moved around preparing tables and cleaning floors while music drifted lazily from speakers overhead.

A woman behind the bar looked up as you approached.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

“I’m actually here about work,” you replied carefully.

The woman’s eyes flicked over you once before she jerked her head toward the back of the club.

“Talk to Vince.”

You followed the direction she pointed toward until you spotted a man near the stage speaking to another employee.

And immediately disliked him.

He looked to be somewhere in his forties maybe, slick dark hair combed too neatly back from his face and an expensive-looking shirt stretched across his stomach. Even from across the room you could feel the kind of greasy confidence rolling off him.

The second his eyes landed on you, his expression shifted immediately.

Well.

That was unpleasantly predictable.

“Can I help you, sweetheart?” he asked, looking you up and down without even trying to hide it.

You forced yourself not to grimace.

“I heard you might be hiring.”

His smile widened slightly.

“Maybe.” His eyes drifted downward briefly before returning to your face. “You got experience?”

“A little.”

Not technically a lie.

You’d spent enough years hustling pool sharks and flirting information out of suspects during hunts to fake confidence when necessary.

Vince stepped closer. “What kinda work you done before?”

You shrugged one shoulder casually, forcing yourself to relax. “Bars mostly. Some dancing.”

The lie came easier than expected.

Mostly because you knew exactly what kind of answer he wanted.

His eyes lingered far too long again before he finally smiled.

“Well, hell.” He spread his hands slightly. “I think we can probably find a place for you here.”

That was… easier than it should’ve been.

You forced a small smile back.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, definitely.” He gestured toward the hallway near the back of the club. “C’mon. I’ll show you around.”

You followed him through the club, resisting the urge to look too interested in anything around you. The deeper into the building you went, the darker everything became. Hallways lit by dim lighting. Doors marked PRIVATE. Music vibrating faintly through the walls from hidden speakers overhead.

“So how long you been dancing?” Vince asked casually as he walked.

“Not long.”

“Well, don’t worry.” He grinned sideways at you. “Girls here’ll take good care of you.”

Something about the way he said it made your skin crawl.

He eventually stopped outside a large dressing room and pushed the door open.

The atmosphere inside hit you instantly.

Laughter. Music. Hairspray lingering in the air. Makeup scattered across brightly lit mirrors while women moved around the room getting ready for later shifts.

A few heads turned toward the doorway as you entered behind Vince.

“Ladies,” Vince announced smoothly, “this is Raven. She’ll be starting tonight.”

A blonde woman sitting cross-legged on one of the counters grinned immediately. “Fresh meat?”

You almost snorted.

Vince pointed at her. “Tasha, be nice.”

“No promises.”

The room laughed lightly.

Vince turned back toward you then, his hand brushing briefly against your lower back as he guided you further inside.

You resisted the urge to recoil.

“These girls’ll look after you,” he said. “You need anything, you ask.”

Then he smiled again.

That same greasy smile.

“We take care of our own here.”

The second he finally disappeared back out the door, the atmosphere in the room relaxed almost immediately.

“Ignore Vince,” another girl said instantly from near the mirrors. “He thinks he’s way hotter than he actually is.”

The room burst into agreement.

You smiled slightly despite yourself.

“Raven?” A blonde lady repeated slowly.

You immediately felt heat creep into your face.

“…What?”

“Honey,” another girl laughed softly, “that is absolutely not your real name.”

You tried for confidence and failed almost immediately. “I just figured maybe using my actual name in this kinda place wasn’t the best idea.”

“Smart girl,” the brunette nodded approvingly.

“Still dramatic though,” the blonde teased.

“I panicked!”

That made the room laugh.

And weirdly, just like that, some of your nerves eased slightly.

The girls were… normal.

Funny.

Friendly.

Not at all what you’d expected.

“You nervous?” a brunette asked gently while rummaging through makeup bags beside one of the mirrors.

“A little.”

“That’s normal,” she assured you. “First night’s terrifying.”

“Oh good,” you deadpanned softly. “That’s reassuring.”

She laughed.

“You’ll be fine. Honestly half the job is just pretending you’re confident even when you wanna throw up.”

That, at least, sounded familiar.

You settled carefully onto the empty chair beside her while the conversation around the room carried on easily.

“You really worked bars before?” Tasha asked curiously.

“Yeah, a few.”

“You got a boyfriend?” another girl asked.

You nearly choked on absolutely nothing.

“No.”

“Good.” Tasha nodded approvingly. “Men are exhausting.”

“That might be the smartest thing anybody’s said all day,” you muttered.

The girls laughed again.

And honestly?

You found yourself relaxing far more than you expected.

You chatted easily with them while they got ready, letting the conversation flow naturally instead of interrogating them outright. Every now and then you slipped small questions into the conversation casually enough not to sound suspicious.

“You guys ever get freaked out working here?” you asked carefully at one point. “I mean… with everything that happened?”

The room quieted slightly.

The brunette glanced toward you through the mirror. “The missing girls?”

You nodded.

Nobody answered immediately.

Finally Tasha shrugged one shoulder slightly. “People talk about it for a while whenever it happens. Then management hires somebody new and everything kinda… moves on.”

That made your stomach tighten slightly.

“What do the bosses say?”

Another girl snorted softly. “Basically nothing.”

“Seriously?”

“Pretty much.” Tasha shrugged again. “They tell us police are handling it and not to worry.”

“Which is reassuring,” somebody muttered sarcastically.

You leaned back slightly in your chair. “And nobody thinks that’s strange?”

“Oh, it is,” the brunette replied immediately. “But what are we supposed to do?”

Fair point.

You hesitated before speaking again. “Is there’s no gossip or anything? Nobody suspects something weird’s going on?”

The girls exchanged glances.

Then Tasha lowered her voice slightly.

“There’s definitely weird shit around here.”

Your attention sharpened instantly.

“Like what?”

“Mostly upstairs.”

“Private party rooms,” another girl added quietly. “The owners are really weird about people going up there unless they’re invited.”

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Before you could ask anything else, the brunette suddenly frowned at you.

“Wait.” Her eyes dropped to your clothes. “What are you wearing tonight?”

You looked down at yourself. “Uh…”

“Oh honey, no.”

The whole room immediately dissolved into overlapping reactions.

“You can’t go out there in jeans.”

“She’ll die.”

“Vince’ll lose his mind.”

You laughed nervously. “I didn’t exactly bring a wardrobe.”

Tasha hopped down from the counter immediately. “Don’t worry. We got you.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

It was already too late.

Within seconds multiple girls were pulling open bags and drawers, tossing outfit options across the room while debating what would suit you best.

“Oh my God, this one.”

“No, the black one.”

“The lace corset!”

“Definitely the corset.”

You were beginning to feel slightly overwhelmed.

“I really don’t need—”

“You absolutely do,” the brunette interrupted firmly. “Sit down.”

And somehow, before you fully realised what was happening, you found yourself being pulled toward one of the mirrors while makeup products appeared in front of you from seemingly nowhere.

“You don’t wear much makeup, do you?” the brunette asked gently while studying your face.

“Uh… concealer sometimes?”

The entire room looked horrified.

“Oh honey.”

You laughed despite yourself.

And honestly?

For a little while, it actually felt… nice.

Normal almost.

The girls chatted around you while fixing your makeup and curling sections of your hair, complaining about customers and relationships and bad music choices while you slowly relaxed into the atmosphere around them.

Until eventually you excused yourself to find the bathroom.

The hallway outside felt significantly quieter after the noise of the dressing room.

You followed the signs toward the bathrooms before slowing slightly.

There it was.

Sulphur.

Faint.

But unmistakable.

Every muscle in your body immediately tightened.

Your eyes flicked further down the corridor where dim lighting disappeared around another corner.

Then voices.

Male voices.

You moved quietly forward, every instinct sharpening immediately.

One of the doors further ahead sat slightly ajar, muffled conversation drifting through the gap.

“…need replacements before Friday.”

Vince.

You slowed carefully beside the doorway.

Another man spoke this time, voice rougher. “We’re running low already.”

“We’ll get more.”

Your stomach tightened.

“How?”

Vince laughed softly. “Same way we always do. Plenty of desperate girls out there willing to sign anything if you promise enough money.”

Your pulse started hammering.

Deals.

“…just gotta keep the clients happy,” the second man muttered.

Then movement.

You shifted instinctively toward the wall as Vince moved closer to the doorway.

And for half a second, through the narrow opening—

Black eyes flashed.

Your breath caught sharply in your throat.

Shit.

You stumbled backward before you could stop yourself, your heel catching slightly against the carpet.

Silence.

Complete silence from inside the room.

Oh God.

You turned immediately, forcing yourself not to run as you hurried back down the hallway toward the dressing room, pulse hammering violently in your chest.

You pushed through the dressing room door a little too quickly.

Several girls looked up instantly.

“You okay?” the brunette asked immediately.

You forced yourself to breathe normally.

“Yeah,” you answered quickly. “Fine.”

God, your heart was racing.

Tasha walked over holding something black in her hands.

“Well,” she said with a grin, “good news. We found your outfit.”

And then she held it up.

Your stomach dropped slightly.

Black lace.

Corset.

Stockings.

High heels.

Tiny.

Very tiny.

“Oh my God,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

The girls burst into laughter.

“Honestly?” She pointed between the outfit and you. “With the whole Raven thing, this actually fits.”

Another girl snorted. “Yeah, she accidentally committed to a full aesthetic, and you’re gonna look incredible.”

You weren’t entirely convinced.

——

The dressing room had grown significantly louder over the last couple of hours.

Music pulsed faintly through the walls now from the club outside while the room itself buzzed with overlapping conversations, hairdryers, laughter and perfume thick enough to almost taste in the air. Girls moved constantly between mirrors and lockers in various stages of getting ready, the atmosphere shifting more and more as the night crowd slowly started arriving outside.

And somehow, somewhere between the makeup and hairspray and teasing conversations, you’d stopped feeling quite so terrified.

At least… until now.

Because now you were standing alone in front of one of the mirrors after everybody else had filtered out toward the club floor, staring at your reflection while your stomach twisted itself into knots.

The black corset hugged tightly around your waist and ribs, pushing your chest up far more than you were used to while delicate lace traced against your skin. Stockings disappeared beneath the straps at your thighs and the heels made your legs look longer than they actually were.

Your hair barely even looked like your hair anymore.

Soft curls framed your face instead of the usual rushed brushing job you gave it every morning, and your makeup was darker than anything you’d ever normally wear. Smoky eyes. Dark lashes. Glossed lips.

For one brief second, standing there alone beneath the dressing room lights, you thought maybe you actually looked…

Sexy.

The thought hit you unexpectedly.

And then reality immediately followed it.

Because you weren’t just standing safely in front of a mirror.

You were about to walk out into a room full of strangers looking like this.

A room full of men.

Men who were going to stare.

Men who expected you to want them staring.

Suddenly the corset felt tighter.

Your arms instinctively crossed lightly over your stomach as nerves twisted sharply through your chest again.

This wasn’t you.

You didn’t dress like this.

You barely even wore makeup most days beyond concealer when you looked too tired after hunts.

The idea of walking around with this much skin exposed honestly made you want to crawl back into your normal clothes immediately.

Your phone buzzed against the counter beside you.

Dean:

where are you?

Then another message underneath from Sam.

Sam:

We’re here. Bar near the stage.

You stared at the messages for a second before typing quickly back.

be out in a minute. get me something strong to drink.

The typing bubble appeared from Dean almost immediately.

Dean:

that nervous huh?

You rolled your eyes despite yourself and shoved the phone face down against the counter before he could send anything else.

A soft knock sounded against the open dressing room door.

You glanced up to see the brunette from earlier leaning around the frame, already fully dressed for the floor in glittering dark green.

“You coming, Raven?”

God.

You still couldn’t believe that was your fake name now.

You forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just… mentally preparing myself.”

She laughed softly. “lemmie guess, you're already thinking of your escape plan”

“That obvious?”

“A little.”

You sighed dramatically, earning another laugh from her.

Then her expression softened slightly.

“Hey.” She stepped further into the room. “You really do look amazing.”

Your eyes dropped briefly toward yourself again before immediately flicking away.

“Thanks.”

“You’ll be okay.”

You hoped she was right.

Together, the two of you stepped out into the hallway.

The deeper into the club you walked, the louder everything became. Music vibrated faintly through the walls while voices and laughter drifted through the corridors ahead.

Halfway down the hall, you spotted Vince stepping out from one of the private offices further ahead, shutting the door behind himself.

His eyes landed on you instantly.

And unfortunately, his entire face lit up.

“There she is,” he said smoothly, looking you up and down without even pretending not to. “The beautiful Raven.”

You forced yourself not to visibly recoil.

“You’re gonna stop hearts out there tonight, girl.”

You smiled politely despite the discomfort crawling beneath your skin. “Thanks.”

Vince grinned wider. “Now get out there and make me lots of money.”

The brunette beside you laughed lightly while Vince disappeared back down the corridor.

The second he was gone, your smile faded.

God, you hated that man.

“You okay?” the brunette asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

Lie.

But before she could question it further, the two of you reached the entrance to the main lounge area.

And suddenly everything became real.

The music hit you first.

Then the lights.

Then the people.

The club floor had transformed completely since earlier that afternoon. Red and gold lighting spilled across crowded tables while music pulsed heavily through hidden speakers overhead. Women moved gracefully between customers carrying drinks while laughter and conversation blended into the atmosphere around you.

Your stomach tightened immediately.

The brunette beside you squeezed your arm gently before disappearing toward another section of the club, leaving you standing alone near the entrance.

For one horrible second, panic threatened to climb straight up your throat.

Your arms folded instinctively across your stomach again.

You could still turn around.

You could still walk back into the dressing room, change into your normal clothes and tell the boys this was a terrible idea.

But then your mind flashed briefly back to the missing girls.

To the dressing room earlier that afternoon.

To Tasha and the others laughing around the mirrors completely unaware they were working for actual demons.

You couldn’t walk away.

Not now.

Not when there were still girls here who could disappear next.

You closed your eyes briefly and forced yourself to breathe.

Then slowly, carefully, you lowered your arms back to your sides.

Fake it.

That’s all this was.

Fake confidence.

Fake flirting.

Fake ease.

You could do fake.

When you finally started walking further into the club, you forced yourself to keep your posture relaxed even as nerves twisted violently inside your stomach.

Almost immediately you felt eyes on you.

Men looked openly as you passed.

Your skin prickled under the attention.

You kept moving anyway.

Don’t react.

Don’t shrink.

Don’t look uncomfortable.

You scanned the crowded room carefully until finally—

There.

Near the bar.

Sam and Dean stood side by side near the back corner of the lounge, drinks in hand while they quietly surveyed the room.

You started toward them immediately.

The closer you got, the more your nerves returned.

Because somehow, ridiculously, seeing Dean suddenly felt scarier than walking through the club itself.

You stopped beside them with a small smile.

“Hey guys,” you said, trying for casual. “Sorry I’m late out.”

Both brothers turned toward you almost simultaneously.

Sam smiled first.

Warm. Respectful. Quick.

His eyes flicked over you once before immediately returning to your face.

“You look great,” he said kindly.

Then there was Dean.

Who said absolutely nothing.

His mouth parted slightly as his eyes moved over you slowly, almost like his brain genuinely hadn’t caught up yet.

You suddenly became painfully aware of every inch of exposed skin.

“Dean,” Sam said lightly after a second, clearly trying to snap his brother back into reality. “She looks nice, doesn’t she?”

Dean blinked once.

Then finally looked back up at your face.

“You look…” He cleared his throat slightly. “Wow.”

Heat rushed immediately into your cheeks.

You tucked a curl behind your ear awkwardly. “Thanks.”

Dean was still staring a little.

Not in the gross way the men around the club had been staring.

Worse somehow.

Because Dean looked genuinely affected.

Like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

And honestly?

That made your own stomach flip violently.

Before the silence could become any more awkward, you cleared your throat again quickly.

“So,” you said, forcing yourself back into work mode, “did either of you get me that drink? Because I’m definitely gonna need it to warm myself up.”

Sam immediately handed over a shot glass from the bar beside him.

You didn’t even ask what it was before throwing it back.

The burn hit instantly.

“Oh my God,” you coughed slightly.

Dean finally huffed out a quiet laugh.

“There she is.”

You shot him a look.

“Shut up.”

Sam smiled into his beer.

You grabbed the second shot before anybody could stop you and knocked that back too, earning a slightly concerned look from Sam.

“Easy there.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mmhm.”

You leaned lightly against the edge of the bar, lowering your voice slightly. “So. Either of you seen or heard anything dodgy yet?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing concrete. Upstairs is definitely heavily guarded though.”

“And Vince is a demon,” you muttered quietly.

Both brothers looked at you immediately.

“What?” Dean asked sharply.

You quickly explained what you’d overheard earlier that afternoon, including the black eyes.

Dean’s jaw tightened instantly.

“Knew there was something off about this place.”

“There’s another one too,” you added quietly. “Didn’t see him properly.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. That’s good. We’ve got confirmation at least.”

While Sam continued talking through possibilities, Dean stayed unusually quiet beside him.

You could still feel him looking at you occasionally.

Every single time he did, it made your pulse stumble stupidly in your chest.

Eventually, after another shot and several deep breaths worth of liquid courage, you straightened slightly.

“Well,” you said, “I should probably actually look like I’m working.”

Your stomach twisted again immediately after saying it.

Sam nodded. “Probably a good idea.”

You glanced between both brothers. “Regroup in like… an hour?”

“Sounds good,” Sam agreed.

You pushed yourself away from the bar carefully before forcing another smile onto your face.

“Wish me luck.”

Then you turned and disappeared back into the crowd before either of them could answer.

You’d barely made it a few steps when Sam’s voice drifted after you from behind.

“Dude,” he muttered under his breath. “Why are you being so weird? You barely said a word.”

Dean replied something too quietly for you to make out properly over the music.

But whatever he said made Sam laugh softly under his breath as you continued deeper into the club floor.

——

The first twenty minutes were honestly awful.

Not because anybody was outright rude.

That almost would’ve been easier.

Instead, it was the attention.

The constant awareness of eyes following you while you moved through the lounge. Men glancing up from drinks and conversations as you passed. Some subtle. Some very much not subtle.

You kept reminding yourself not to fold your arms over your stomach again.

Confidence.

You had to look confident.

The first drink had definitely helped with that a little.

The second one helped more.

By the third, the tight knot of panic sitting beneath your ribs had loosened enough that you could at least walk through the club without feeling like every step looked awkward.

Not comfortable exactly.

You still felt painfully aware of the amount of skin exposed every time somebody looked too long.

But you were starting to settle into the role a little more now.

Fake confidence was still confidence from the outside.

And honestly, most people were too distracted by the performance to notice the difference anyway.

You kept moving slowly through the lounge area, forcing yourself to stay observant beneath the flirting and smiling.

A couple arguing quietly near the back booths.

A man in an expensive suit slipping money into a waitress’s hand.

Two women laughing together near the stage while one of the dancers spun around a pole under crimson lighting.

Every now and then you caught fragments of conversations.

Nothing useful yet.

Mostly drunk businessmen and sleazy comments.

Still, you kept listening.

A waitress passed you carrying a tray of drinks and gave you a quick smile.

“You settling in okay?”

“So far,” you answered honestly.

“It gets easier after the first hour.”

You hoped she was right.

Another customer stopped you not long after, offering to buy you a drink.

Then another.

Apparently “Raven” was doing surprisingly well for her first night.

By the time nearly an hour had passed, warmth had settled lightly through your chest from the alcohol buzzing faintly through your system. Not drunk. Not even close.

But enough that your shoulders had started relaxing slightly.

Enough that you’d stopped thinking quite so hard about the corset every five seconds.

Enough that smiling didn’t feel quite so forced anymore.

You’d just finished talking your way out of an incredibly awkward conversation with a middle-aged man named Gary when another voice called toward you from one of the curved booths near the back of the lounge.

“Well hey there, sweetheart.”

You turned automatically.

Two men sat at the booth beneath dim red lighting, both already several drinks deep by the look of them.

One dark-haired.

One bald.

Both staring.

The dark-haired one grinned and gestured toward the empty space beside them.

“You new?”

You forced another easy smile onto your face and approached the table carefully.

“Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” the bald man laughed. “Haven’t seen you around before.”

You rested one hand lightly against the edge of the booth. “First night.”

“Well damn.” The dark-haired guy looked you over slowly. “Lucky us.”

You ignored the comment smoothly.

“You boys enjoying your night?”

“Think it just got better.”

Okay.

Gross.

You kept smiling anyway.

The dark-haired man leaned back against the booth. “So what’s your name, sweetheart?”

There was still something deeply surreal about saying it out loud.

“Raven.”

The bald guy smirked immediately. “Raven, huh?”

You forced yourself not to react.

“What? You don’t like it?”

“No, I like it.” He grinned lazily. “Sounds mysterious.”

If only he knew.

The dark-haired man pulled a folded twenty from his pocket and held it loosely between his fingers.

“You dance, Raven?”

Your stomach tightened slightly.

You kept your smile in place.

“Sometimes.”

He held the money out slightly. “C’mon. Give us a spin.”

You hesitated for maybe half a second too long before taking the money carefully from his hand.

And honestly?

You hated how normal that gesture suddenly felt already.

The music pulsed steadily through the room around you while you gave them an easy smile and turned lightly beneath the glow of the red lighting, trying very hard not to think too deeply about how exposed you felt doing this.

The men laughed approvingly.

The bald guy whistled softly.

You ignored that too.

Then the dark-haired man leaned slightly closer.

“How much for a private dance?”

Your pulse stumbled.

There it was.

The thing you’d been dreading all evening.

You tried not to visibly tense.

Because realistically, saying no would probably look strange.

You swallowed carefully before forcing another smile.

“Depends who’s asking.”

The man grinned wider immediately.

“You got a room for that kinda thing here?”

“I’m still learning the ropes.”

“Well,” he said smoothly, standing slowly from the booth, “guess I can help with that.”

Every instinct in your body screamed at you to leave.

But he was watching you too carefully now.

So instead, you let him guide you toward one of the quieter curtained booths lining the side of the lounge.

Not fully private.

But private enough.

The lighting inside was darker, softer somehow. Music still drifted through the curtains while the man settled himself back against the seat, looking up at you expectantly.

You forced yourself to breathe slowly.

Fake confidence.

That’s all this was.

The man rested one arm lazily along the back of the booth. “You look nervous, Raven. You don't have to be, I'll look after you”

“That’s what I'm counting on.”

He smiled at that. “Cute.”

You ignored the strange twist in your stomach and carefully lowered yourself onto the edge of his knee, trying very hard not to think too much about what you were actually doing.

The alcohol buzzing lightly through your system helped.

Barely.

The man’s hands settled against your waist while you forced yourself to stay relaxed, one hand resting lightly against his shoulder for balance.

“So,” he said casually, “where’d Vince find you?”

“Lucky coincidence.”

“Mhm.”

You shifted slightly, trying to look comfortable while your brain stayed sharply alert beneath the act.

“You come here often?” you asked lightly.

He laughed softly. “That your version of flirting?”

“Maybe.”

“Cute and funny.”

You smiled faintly despite yourself.

Then his grip against your waist tightened slightly.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes moving slowly over your face, “you seem smarter than most girls Vince brings in.”

Every alarm bell in your head immediately started screaming.

Your expression stayed calm.

“That a compliment?”

“Maybe.”

He leaned back slightly, studying you more carefully now.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this anyway?”

You forced a small shrug. “Guess everybody wants something.”

That seemed to interest him immediately.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“That look.” He smirked lazily. “People only end up in places like this for two reasons. They’re desperate… or they’re greedy.”

“And what if I’m both?”

The demon laughed softly beneath you.

“Now that,” he murmured, “is the right attitude.”

You shifted slightly again, trying to appear playful rather than calculating.

“So what?” you asked lightly. “You gonna offer me some life-changing opportunity now?”

“You joke,” he said smoothly, “but you’d be surprised what people around here can offer.”

Your pulse slowed slightly.

There it was.

You tilted your head just enough to look curious.

“Like what?”

“Money. Security. Better life.” He shrugged casually. “Whatever people want badly enough.”

Your hand tightened slightly against his shoulder.

“What, like sugar daddy rich?” you teased lightly.

The demon laughed quietly.

“Something like that.”

Then his eyes flashed black beneath the dim red lighting.

Your entire body went rigid for half a second.

You forced yourself to recover immediately.

“Okay wow,” you laughed softly, trying desperately to sound amused instead of terrified. “Those contacts are insane.”

The demon smiled slowly.

“Those aren’t contacts.”

Your stomach dropped.

This time, you deliberately let some uncertainty slip into your expression. Let yourself look a little nervous beneath the dim red lighting.

“What do you mean?”

His hand moved lazily against your waist again.

“I mean,” he said calmly, “I could give you anything you’ve ever wanted, Raven.”

Ice slid slowly through your chest.

The deal.

You swallowed carefully.

“I… don’t know what I’d even want.”

“That’s the fun part.” He smiled slightly. “Everybody wants something eventually.”

You stayed quiet this time, forcing yourself to look uncertain rather than terrified.

The demon studied you for another second before continuing.

“Money. Fame. Confidence.” He shrugged slightly. “A different life.”

Your pulse hammered harder.

“That sounds a little too good to be true.”

“Usually is.”

You hesitated briefly before lowering your voice slightly.

“I saw Vince’s eyes do that earlier too.”

Something flickered across the demon’s face then.

Amusement.

“Yeah?”

You nodded once.

The demon leaned back slightly.

“There’s a lot of us here, sweetheart.”

Cold crept down your spine.

“A lot?”

“You won’t know what we are unless you know what to look for.”

Your stomach tightened sharply.

“So Vince is your boss or something?”

The demon laughed softly.

“Business partner, you could say.”

He gestured lazily around the crowded club beyond the curtain.

“People come here wanting things. We just make dreams happen.”

Your pulse stumbled hard.

You forced yourself to stay calm.

“Is that what happened to those girls that worked here before?”

The demon looked back at you calmly.

“They made deals.”

“But…” You frowned slightly, forcing uncertainty into your voice. “People said they vanished. Like nobody ever saw them again.”

The demon smiled faintly.

“They got what they wanted.”

Your throat tightened.

“And after that?”

The demon’s black eyes flashed briefly again beneath the dim red lighting.

“They moved on.”

Every instinct in your body screamed at you to get out of the booth immediately.

But somehow you kept your expression steady.

“You make it sound kinda permanent.”

The demon smirked slightly.

“Once you get everything you ever wanted, why would you stay someplace like this?”

The song eventually ended not long after.

Thank God.

You stood carefully from his lap while the demon reached for his wallet again, slipping several folded bills into your hand this time.

“For your time.”

Your fingers closed automatically around the money.

“Thanks.”

The demon leaned back against the booth, still watching you carefully.

“You think about my offer, Raven. But it's our little secret”

You forced another smile before slipping back out through the curtain and into the crowded lounge again, your pulse still racing hard enough to make your chest ache.

Okay.

Now you had something real.

And somehow you needed to find Sam and Dean without looking suspicious while pretending your entire nervous system hadn’t just completely imploded.

You forced yourself not to rush.

That was the hardest part.

Every instinct in your body wanted to immediately find Sam and Dean, drag them somewhere private and tell them everything before another girl in this place ended up signing her soul away to a damn demon.

But you couldn’t suddenly start acting nervous now.

Not when the demon was probably still watching.

Not when he’d already taken interest in you.

So instead, you kept moving through the club at the same slow pace as before, forcing yourself to smile when customers looked your way and pretending your heart wasn’t still hammering violently beneath your ribs.

The music felt louder now somehow.

The lights harsher.

Every face in the room suddenly looked suspicious.

There’s a lot of us here, sweetheart.

The words wouldn’t leave your head.

You scanned the crowd carefully while making your way back toward the bar area, pulse still uncomfortably fast beneath your skin.

And then finally—

Dean.

Relief hit you instantly.

He stood leaning casually against the bar near the far end of the lounge, one elbow resting against the polished counter while he spoke to the bartender. The woman behind the bar was smiling at something he’d said, clearly entertained already.

Of course she was.

Even in the middle of a demon-infested burlesque club, Dean Winchester was still flirting.

You found yourself almost smiling despite everything.

You moved toward the bar carefully, slipping into the empty space beside him just as the bartender walked past again.

“Whiskey please,” you said smoothly.

The bartender nodded before turning away.

Beside you, Dean glanced over casually.

“So,” he started easily, “you get anyth—”

“Sorry,” you interrupted lightly, looking at him properly for the first time like you’d never seen him before in your life. “Do I know you?”

Dean blinked.

For half a second he looked genuinely confused.

Then your eyes flicked subtly toward the bartender.

Understanding immediately crossed his face.

Right.

Strangers.

Dean recovered quickly enough.

“Well, no.” he said smoothly, turning slightly toward you, “but maybe we could change that.”

You nearly rolled your eyes.

Even undercover he couldn’t help himself.

“Mm.” You accepted the drink the bartender slid toward you before taking a sip. “Depends.”

“On?”

You leaned slightly closer.

“How generous you’re planning to be.”

The bartender snorted softly behind the counter.

Dean glanced toward her before looking back at you, and despite the situation, you could see the tiniest flicker of amusement in his eyes now.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, trying very hard to sound smooth despite the fact he still looked slightly affected by your outfit. “I’m always generous.”

God.

Why was that attractive?

The bartender laughed quietly. “Careful with Raven,” she warned Dean while drying one of the glasses. “She’s making half the men in here lose their minds tonight.”

Heat crept instantly into your face.

Dean looked almost painfully pleased by that information.

“That so?”

You immediately cut in before he could get too smug.

“How about a private dance?” you asked lightly.

Dean choked slightly on absolutely nothing.

The bartender burst into laughter.

You kept your expression perfectly innocent while Dean stared at you for half a second like his brain had temporarily disconnected.

Then he cleared his throat quickly.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Sure.”

Smooth, Winchester.

Very smooth.

The bartender grinned while shaking her head. “Have fun.”

You slid off the stool before Dean could embarrass himself further and held your hand out toward him.

For one brief second he hesitated.

Then his fingers slipped into yours.

Warm.

Your stomach flipped stupidly.

You ignored that immediately and led him through the crowded lounge toward the quieter curtained booths lining the far wall.

The same kind the demon had taken you into earlier.

That thought alone made your stomach tighten again.

Once inside the booth, you let the curtain fall closed behind you before turning back toward Dean.

He sat down slowly against the booth seat while looking around the small enclosed space, though his attention didn’t stay there long. Within seconds his eyes had drifted back toward you again, lingering just enough to make heat creep up the back of your neck.

The lighting inside the booth somehow made everything feel closer than it actually was. Softer. Warmer. The heavy bass from the music outside pulsed faintly through the walls while red light spilled across the small space around you both.

You suddenly felt painfully aware of the fact you were standing in front of Dean Winchester dressed like this.

Dean leaned back slightly against the seat before finally speaking.

“Raven?” he repeated slowly.

You sighed, already knowing exactly where this was going. “I had to think of something quickly.”

“And that's what you landed on?”

“It sounded believable for a place like this.”

Dean snorted softly. “Sounds like a bad porno name.”

You shot him a look despite the smile threatening at the corner of your mouth. “Well excuse me for not preparing my fake stripper identity ahead of time.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him, though it faded quickly when his eyes moved over you again.

Slowly this time.

Not teasing anymore.

“Well,” he said more quietly, “the outfit definitely commits to the theme.”

Heat spread instantly into your cheeks. You glanced down at yourself briefly before shrugging one shoulder slightly.

“It’s not really me though, is it?” you admitted. “I’ve never really seen this side of me before.”

Dean’s expression softened almost immediately.

“No,” he said honestly. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t look good.”

Your stomach flipped hard enough to make you look away for a second.

“Pretty sure half the guys in this place are currently obsessed with you,” he continued, though there was something tighter underneath his voice now.

You huffed a quiet breath. “Trust me, I noticed.”

Dean leaned back slightly, rubbing his thumb briefly against the side of his glass. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Didn’t exactly enjoy watching that.”

Something warm twisted painfully through your chest at that, though before you could think too hard about it, movement passed outside the curtain.

Both of you looked up immediately as a shadow slowed near the booth.

Shit.

Without really thinking about it, you crossed the small space between you and perched sideways onto Dean’s thigh.

The reaction was instant.

Dean went completely still beneath you.

Your arm slipped naturally over his shoulder as you leaned closer, trying to make the position look believable from outside the booth.

“Just in case somebody looks in,” you whispered quickly. “It’s gotta seem real.”

Dean swallowed once before nodding slightly. “Right,” he answered quietly. “Yeah.”

One of his hands settled awkwardly against your waist while the other stayed beside him for a moment like he genuinely wasn’t sure where he was supposed to put it.

You tried very hard not to focus on how warm he felt beneath you.

Or the fact you could smell whiskey and Dean’s cologne this close.

Or how easily your body seemed to fit against his.

You glanced once toward the curtain before lowering your voice.

“I found one of them.”

Dean’s attention sharpened immediately. “A demon?”

You nodded.

Then quietly, carefully, you explained everything.

The private booth.

The deal.

The black eyes.

Vince.

The missing girls.

Dean’s expression darkened more and more the longer you spoke.

“So the whole place is basically a recruitment centre,” he muttered quietly once you’d finished.

“That’s what I think.” You nodded slightly. “They find girls who are desperate enough to want something badly, then offer them deals.”

Dean’s jaw tightened hard at that.

“And the girls that disappear?”

“He said they moved on,” you answered quietly. “But I don’t think they really had much choice in it.”

For a few seconds Dean didn’t say anything at all.

He just sat there thinking, the muscle in his jaw tightening slightly while the music thudded faintly outside the booth.

“There’s apparently loads of them here,” you continued more quietly. “He said I wouldn’t know who they were unless I knew what to look for.”

Dean nodded once, still listening while you continued explaining every detail you could remember from the conversation.

At least, you thought he was listening.

Until you felt his fingers move slightly against your thigh.

The movement was small.

Absent-minded almost.

Just the faintest motion of his thumb against the bare skin above your stocking.

But it was enough.

Your thoughts stumbled completely for a second.

You looked down automatically toward where his hand rested against your leg before slowly lifting your eyes back toward him.

Dean’s attention had drifted again.

Not entirely.

But enough.

His eyes lowered briefly before returning to your face, and suddenly you became painfully aware of how close the two of you actually were.

“Dean,” you said quietly.

No response.

Your pulse sped up hard inside your chest.

“Dean,” you repeated softer this time. “Are you even listening to me?”

His eyes lifted fully back to yours then, though his hand still hadn’t moved from your thigh.

“Sorry,” he muttered quietly after a second. “Got distracted.”

Warmth spread instantly through your entire body.

The atmosphere inside the booth shifted almost painfully after that.

Neither of you moved away.

The music outside seemed quieter somehow, muffled beneath the sound of your own heartbeat while Dean continued looking at you in that same way that had been driving you insane all night.

You glanced down briefly, suddenly too aware of everything all at once.

The warmth of his hand against your skin.

The way your body rested against his.

How close his face was to yours.

Your fingers found the zip of his jacket, mostly because you suddenly needed something to do with your hands before your nerves completely betrayed you.

Dean’s eyes followed the movement instantly.

Slowly, without really thinking about it, your fingers drifted higher from the zip of his jacket, trailing lightly over his stomach before moving up his chest until your palm rested flat against him.

Warm.

Solid.

Steady beneath your hand.

Dean’s breathing had gone quieter somehow.

His eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth.

Your pulse hammered violently beneath your ribs.

You could feel yourself leaning in slightly before you even realised you were doing it, and this time Dean leaned toward you too, slow enough that it almost didn’t feel real.

His hand tightened faintly against your thigh.

Not stopping you.

Just holding on.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Dean…” you whispered softly.

Neither of you looked away.

For one horrible, wonderful second, it genuinely felt like it was finally about to happen. Like after years of wanting him, years of wondering whether he could ever possibly look at you the same way, you were finally about to get the thing you’d secretly wanted all along.

Then suddenly—

The curtain jerked open.

“Oh shit, sorry,” one of the dancers blurted immediately from the entrance. “Somebody told me this booth was free.”

Both of you jumped apart slightly.

Your face burned violently as the girl’s eyes flicked between you and Dean before a knowing grin slowly spread across her face.

“Well,” she said lightly, “clearly not.”

The curtain fell shut again almost immediately.

Silence settled heavily inside the booth.

You quickly climbed off Dean’s lap, smoothing your hands down your corset and stockings as though somehow that would steady your racing heartbeat or brush away what had almost happened between you.

Dean stood almost immediately too, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck while avoiding looking directly at you for a second.

The atmosphere between you had changed now.

Or maybe it had always been there underneath everything else and neither of you had acknowledged it until tonight.

Honestly, that thought felt more terrifying than the demons.

Because for one dangerous moment in that booth, you had forgotten completely about the case. Forgotten where you were. Forgotten everything except the warmth of Dean’s hand on your thigh and the way he’d looked at you like he wanted to kiss you just as badly as you wanted him to.

Dean cleared his throat softly after a moment.

“We should probably go find Sam.”

You swallowed carefully before nodding once.

“Yeah,” you answered quietly. “Probably.”

——————————————————

Continue to part 2

[spicyfandomsoup]

DEAN WINCHESTER ONE SHOTS

Emoji Guide:

🩷 = fluff / sweet moments

💔 = angst / heartbreak

🌶️ = smut / spicy content

—————————————————

Under Your Skin 🩷🌶️

A routine hunt involving missing women leads you and the Winchesters somewhere dangerous… and far too close to Dean Winchester.

(This is a one shot, but it was so long I had to split it into 2 parts as tumblr wouldn’t let me post it in one go. If you would like to read the full fic, use the AO3 link)

Part 1 Part 2 / AO3

[spicyfandomsoup]

The Cell Between Us - Epilogue

Chapter summary:

Five years later, the life they fought so hard for has finally taken shape. What once felt impossible now feels rooted, real, and quietly full — not perfect, but deeply, unmistakably theirs.

👥 Characters:

Negan (TWD – prison era)

Reader Insert (Y/N)

Others: their daughter

🔞Rating:

Teen and up.

⚠️ Warnings:

None

✍️Authors note:

SURPRISE MOTHERF*****S 😭😅

You really thought chapter 30 was the end huh?

Here’s a little epilogue to properly finish off The Cell Between Us because apparently I’m emotionally incapable of letting these two go without one last moment.

BUT don’t get too comfortable because after this it really is over I swear.

A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/86602541

—————————————————

(Five Years Later)

Five years.

Five whole years since the truck.

Since the blood.

Since the gate opening just enough.

Alexandria looks different now.

Stronger walls. Taller crops. More laughter.

Children’s laughter.

Your daughter’s laughter.

It rings across the courtyard before you even see her — bright and fearless and entirely unaware of the world that existed before she did.

You stand on the porch with one hand resting absentmindedly against the gentle curve of your stomach.

Round again.

Not as big as last time.

But obvious enough.

Five months along.

Negan nearly fainted when you told him.

Again.

You watch him now in the yard.

Your daughter has him by the hand — dragging him somewhere with absolute authority.

“Daddy, c’mon! You’re too slow!”

“Hey now,” he protests dramatically. “I am a former athlete, I’ll have you know.”

“You’re old!” she fires back.

You choke on a laugh.

He clutches his chest like she’s mortally wounded him.

“Old?! That’s it. No more piggyback rides for you.”

She gasps, scandalized.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Wanna bet?”

She shrieks when he scoops her up anyway, swinging her onto his shoulders like she weighs nothing at all.

And maybe she doesn’t.

He walks across the yard with her perched high, her little hands tangled in his hair.

His hands — the same hands that once wrapped barbed wire and held a bat — now steady her ankles carefully so she doesn’t slip.

She leans forward, whispering something into his ear.

He pretends to gasp again.

“No way.”

“Yes way!”

He looks toward the house — toward you — with mock seriousness.

“Your mother is gonna kill me.”

You cross your arms.

“I can hear you, you know.”

He grins like the devil never touched him.

“That’s why I said it loud.”

Your daughter wriggles to get down, then runs toward you at full speed.

You brace yourself.

She crashes into your legs and wraps her arms around you carefully — careful of your stomach.

She always is.

“How’s the baby today?” she asks, pressing her ear to your belly.

You glance at Negan.

He softens instantly.

“Good,” you tell her. “Kicking a lot.”

“Like me?”

“Exactly like you.”

She beams.

Negan walks up behind her and crouches down, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Told you,” he says proudly. “Strong genes.”

“From Mama,” she insists.

He squints at her.

“Excuse me?”

She giggles and bolts away again.

Negan watches her run toward the garden — where she’s absolutely not supposed to pick strawberries before they’re washed.

He exhales slowly.

Then his eyes flick to your stomach.

He steps closer.

Carefully.

Like he still can’t quite believe this is his life.

“How you feelin’?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing just under your ribs.

“Good,” you answer honestly. “Tired sometimes.”

He frowns immediately.

“You restin’ enough?”

“Yes.”

“Drinkin’ water?”

“Yes.”

“Eat—”

“Yes, Negan.”

He huffs.

“You act like I’m unreasonable.”

“You are unreasonable.”

He smiles.

Then his hand spreads over your belly.

Gentle.

Reverent.

He leans down.

“Alright,” he murmurs to your stomach. “You listen to your mama, you hear me? Don’t go causin’ trouble in there.”

You laugh softly.

“She can’t hear you yet.”

“Oh she can absolutely hear me.”

“She?”

He grins.

“I’ve got a hunch.”

You roll your eyes.

“Again?”

“I was right the first time.”

“Pure coincidence.”

“Gift,” he corrects.

You study him for a moment.

There are lines around his eyes now.

Silver threaded through his hair.

He carries himself differently.

Not softer.

But steadier.

He doesn’t scan every corner like he used to.

Doesn’t walk like he’s waiting for someone to challenge him.

He walks like he belongs here.

Because he does.

You reach up and touch his face.

“You’re happy,” you say quietly.

He looks at you like that’s the simplest question in the world.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

No hesitation.

No joke.

Just truth.

Across the yard, your daughter trips over her own feet and falls into the grass.

For a split second your heart stops.

But she pops up laughing.

Negan is already halfway to her.

Not panicked.

Not aggressive.

Just… there.

He kneels in front of her, brushing grass off her knees.

“You good?”

“I’m good!”

She throws her arms around his neck.

“I love you, Daddy.”

He still goes still when she says it.

Still swallows like it hits somewhere deep.

“I love you too, kid,” he replies, voice thick in a way he pretends isn’t.

She pulls back and studies his face seriously.

“Are you gonna teach me to swing the bat when I’m big?”

Your breath catches.

Negan’s expression flickers — just slightly.

Then he smiles.

“Nope.”

She blinks.

“Why?”

“Because,” he says gently, brushing her hair back, “you’re gonna grow up in a world where you don’t need one.”

She considers this.

Then nods like that makes perfect sense.

“Okay.”

She runs off again.

Negan stands slowly.

Looks at you across the yard.

And you see it.

The understanding.

The full circle.

He walks back over.

Slips an arm around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“We did alright,” he murmurs.

You lean back into him.

“Yeah,” you agree softly.

“We did.”

The sun dips lower.

Golden light stretching across the houses.

Your daughter chases fireflies near the fence.

Negan’s hand rests over yours on your stomach.

Inside, the baby kicks.

Strong.

Alive.

Safe.

He feels it.

Smiles.

“See?” he says quietly. “Told you. Strong genes.”

You laugh.

And for a moment — standing there in the yard, your child laughing in the grass, another growing beneath your hands, the man you love steady at your back —

The world doesn’t feel like something you survived.

It feels like something you built.

And this time —

It’s yours.

——————————————————

Want to be added to my tag list? Let me know.

@neganswoman @nancymcl @negans-dirty-girl @morganlolitta @kentonanamispurplesocks @mloo

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles | January 24, 2023 [ x | x ]  

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles | Rome, Italy, August 28 2022  [x]

[spicyfandomsoup]

The Cell Between Us - Chapter 30

Chapter summary:

More than a year after everything nearly fell apart, life in Alexandria has settled into something quieter, warmer, and unmistakably theirs. What was once only fought for in fear now feels real enough to live in — fully, gently, and without looking over their shoulders.

👥 Characters:

Negan (TWD – prison era)

Reader Insert (Y/N)

Others: Nora, Carol

🔞Rating:

Teen and up.

⚠️ Warnings:

None

✍️Authors note:

Can’t believe this is the end of this series!

I’ve loved writing it so much and I want to say thank you to everyone who has read, messaged, liked, reblogged. It means a lot.

But I’ve got more to come, so keep an eye out.

A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/85762616

——————————————————

It has been one year and three months.

One year and three months since he thought you were dead in the passenger seat of that truck.

Since Alexandria’s gates opened just enough.

Since Siddiq dragged you back from the dark.

Since you stood in that church shaking and begged a room full of people to let you stay.

To let you both stay.

They didn’t say yes immediately.

They didn’t forgive.

But they let you try.

And that was enough.

——

This morning you wake up slowly.

Not to sirens.

Not to shouting.

Not to fear.

Just to sunlight.

It spills across the bedroom in long golden stripes, warm against your closed eyelids. The house is quiet in that comfortable way — distant footsteps outside, the faint creak of floorboards settling, someone laughing somewhere down the street.

You breathe in.

And nothing hurts.

Not like it used to.

There are scars — pale lines at your wrists where rope once burned you raw. A thin, silvered mark low at your side that pulls faintly when you twist too fast. A ghost ache in your ribs when the weather turns.

But they are reminders now.

Not wounds.

The deeper healing took longer.

For months after you came back, you startled at raised voices. Flinched at slammed doors. Woke in the night convinced you were back in that chair.

Negan never complained about the sleepless nights.

He’d just pull you closer.

Murmur something low and steady until your breathing matched his.

You learned how to be here again.

How to walk the streets without feeling like everyone was staring.

How to sit at the long tables and eat without tension knotting your shoulders.

The community took time.

But slowly — awkwardly — it softened.

You worked in the gardens again.

You fixed fences.

You laughed with Nora in the kitchens.

Michonne started asking your opinion instead of just giving instructions.

Daryl stopped looking at Negan like he might put an arrow through him on principle.

It isn’t perfect.

It never will be.

But it’s real.

And it’s yours.

——

You shift in bed and stretch lazily.

You’ve been sleeping in more lately.

Not out of sadness.

Not out of exhaustion.

Just… because you can.

The mattress dips slightly as you roll onto your side.

The other side of the bed is cool.

He’s already up.

You smile faintly to yourself.

Of course he is.

Probably outside already. Probably arguing with someone about fence repairs. Or dramatically over-explaining something simple just to hear himself talk.

You push yourself upright slowly.

There’s a dull heaviness low in your body — not painful, just there — and you rest your palm absently over your middle for a second before swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

The floorboards are cool beneath your feet.

You stand carefully, stretching your arms above your head. The cotton sleep shirt rides up slightly and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You look… healthy.

Strong.

There’s colour in your cheeks now. Light in your eyes.

Not the hollowed version of yourself from a year ago.

You step toward the wardrobe and pull open the doors.

Your fingers brush over fabric before settling on your favourite pair of soft cotton dungarees — worn in all the right places, comfortable in a way that feels like home.

You step into them slowly, adjusting the straps over your shoulders.

You don’t rush anymore.

There’s no reason to.

You pull your hair back loosely, wash your face, and head toward the kitchen.

Halfway down the hallway, the smell hits you.

Coffee.

Bread.

Something sweet.

Your stomach responds instantly.

You didn’t think you were hungry.

Now you are.

Ravenous.

“Fantastic,” you mutter under your breath as you step into the kitchen.

It’s quiet — just morning light and the faint clink of someone washing up in the neighbouring house.

You move to the counter and grab a slice of bread, then another.

Then you hesitate.

Open the cupboard.

Pause.

Frown.

Why does nothing look right?

You shut it.

Open the next one.

There.

Jam.

You spread it generously, take a bite — and close your eyes for a second.

Perfect.

You lean against the counter, chewing slowly, looking out the window at Alexandria waking up.

Children running past with sticks. Someone hauling a bucket toward the well. Two people arguing lightly about whose turn it is to patrol.

Life.

You take another bite.

Then another.

By the time you finish the first slice, you’re already reaching for the second.

“You planning on leaving any for the rest of us?”

You glance up to see Nora leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

“Unlikely,” you reply around a mouthful.

She laughs.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Morning.”

She watches you for a moment, amused.

“Someone’s been enjoying their lie ins lately haven’t they!”

“I think I’ve earned it,” you shrug.

“Mm.”

She steps into the kitchen and pours herself coffee.

“You feeling alright?” she asks casually.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… hungry.”

She snorts lightly. “That’s not new! You’ve been hungry for like the past 5 months.”

You shoot her a look. “True. But I work in the garden all day too. That’s gotta count for something ”

“Uh-huh.” She replies, unconvinced.

You finish your second slice of bread, wipe your hands on a cloth, and reach for an apple.

“Save some energy,” Nora calls after you as you head for the door. “It’s gonna be hot.”

“I’ll be fine.”

And you mean it.

——

You step back out into the warmth, apple in one hand, tools in the other.

The sun is already high enough to press heat into your shoulders, the air thick and slightly clammy in that late-summer way that promises a storm later but not yet. The gravel crunches beneath your boots as you make your way toward the garden beds.

This.

This is what saved you.

Coming back to the soil. Back to something that grows instead of destroys. Back to something that needs patience instead of violence.

You kneel beside the rows automatically, fingers brushing through leaves, checking moisture levels, pulling a stubborn weed free with a practiced tug.

You’ve loved returning to this.

Loved waking up and knowing your job is to grow strawberries instead of survive gunfire.

Long gone are the days when your mornings consisted of balancing a metal tray and walking down to that cell.

You can still picture it — the echo of your footsteps on concrete. The way you’d slide the food through the bars. The way he’d look at you like you were the only person who saw him as something other than a monster.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Now he walks these same streets in daylight.

Now he sleeps in your bed.

Now he kisses you goodbye in the mornings instead of leaning against prison bars.

Life is strange.

Life is cruel.

Life is sometimes unbelievably kind.

You work steadily for a couple of hours.

The sun climbs higher. Sweat gathers at the base of your neck and slides down your spine. You pause to wipe your brow with the back of your hand, taking a long drink from the water bottle you brought out with you.

The strawberries are thriving this year.

Bright, glossy red against deep green leaves.

You crouch lower, inspecting a cluster — and one in particular catches your eye.

Large.

Perfect.

Almost glowing.

You glance around like you’re committing a crime.

Then you pluck it free.

“Don’t judge me,” you mutter to the plant before taking a bite.

It’s sweet immediately — warm from the sun, juice running slightly over your fingers.

You close your eyes for half a second.

Worth it.

“Baby, you’re meant to let the produce make it to the table before you eat it.”

The voice behind you makes your heart leap in that way it still does, even now.

You don’t even turn fully before you’re smiling.

You straighten slowly and look over your shoulder.

Negan is walking toward you, sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching in his hair. He’s carrying a hammer in one hand like he’s just stepped away from some repair job.

And he’s smirking.

“There’s my beautiful wife.”

The word still hits you.

Wife.

You laugh softly, shaking your head as he closes the distance between you.

You never imagined your wedding day would involve borrowed chairs and a cake slightly lopsided from Nora’s determination.

You never imagined walking down a makeshift aisle in a white dress that used to be someone’s curtain.

But you did.

Gabriel stood at the front, hands clasped, voice steady as he married you beneath a sky that threatened rain but held off.

The blacksmith forged your rings from salvaged metal — simple bands, slightly uneven, but strong.

You picked wildflowers yourself for your bouquet.

Negan had cried.

He denies it.

But he had.

You blink back to the present as he reaches you.

He eyes the half-eaten strawberry in your hand.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, amused. “Absolutely feral.”

“It looked too good to resist,” you reply, holding it up slightly.

He leans in close, eyes locking with yours — and instead of taking the fruit from your hand, he bends and bites the other half directly from your fingers.

His teeth graze lightly over your skin.

Your breath catches.

You pop the remaining bit into your mouth quickly before he can steal more.

He hums approvingly.

“Mmm,” he says, licking a trace of juice from his thumb. “Sweet.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“Almost as sweet and tasty as you.”

You roll your eyes immediately but can’t stop the flush rising in your cheeks.

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says smoothly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, “you married me anyway.”

You lean into him without thinking.

His arm slides around your waist automatically — protective, grounding, warm.

Then his hands drift lower.

They settle flat against the curve of your stomach.

Round.

Noticeable.

Impossible to miss now.

He rests his chin lightly against the top of your head.

“So,” he murmurs. “How’s my baby girl been treatin’ mama this mornin’?”

There it is.

You pull back just enough to look up at him.

“You keep saying that,” you say, amused. “We don’t even know it’s a girl yet.”

He grins.

“I know,” he replies. “But I’ve got a hunch.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yeah,” he nods, completely serious in a way that makes it worse. “She’s stubborn already. Kicks like she’s got somethin’ to prove.”

You laugh softly.

“That could be either of us.”

He pretends to consider it.

“…fair.”

His thumbs rub absentminded circles over your belly, careful, reverent.

The first time he felt the baby kick, he’d gone completely silent.

Eyes wide.

Like he’d just been handed something fragile and infinite at the same time.

Now he talks to your stomach daily.

Threatens it with dad jokes.

Promises it the world.

You place your hand over his.

“She’s been fine,” you say gently. “Or he. Whoever.”

Negan squints playfully.

“She,” he insists.

You shake your head fondly.

He steps back slightly and gives you a slow once-over.

“You been out here long?”

“A couple hours.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“A couple hours?” he repeats. “In this heat?”

“I’m fine.”

He looks unconvinced.

“You drinkin’ enough?”

“Yes.”

“You eat?”

“Yes.”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“Actual food. Not just garden theft.”

You huff.

“I had bread. And jam. And an apple.”

“And?”

“…and maybe two strawberries.”

He gasps dramatically.

“Scandalous behavior from the mother of my child.”

You shove him lightly.

He catches your hand before it drops and kisses your knuckles.

“You’re adorable in those dungarees, by the way,” he adds casually.

You look down at yourself.

“They’re about the only thing I look half decent in right now.”

He immediately frowns.

“Excuse me?”

You gesture vaguely to your stomach.

“I’m huge.”

“You are not huge,” he says firmly. “You are buildin’ a human. That’s metal as hell.”

You snort.

He steps closer again, hands settling at your hips.

“You look beautiful,” he says quieter now. “All the time. Especially like this.”

You soften.

“You’re biased.”

“Damn right I am.”

A comfortable silence settles between you.

The garden hums with bees. The sun warms your shoulders. Somewhere in the distance, someone is hammering metal.

Life.

Normal, fragile, beautiful life.

Negan presses one more lingering kiss to your temple.

“Alright,” he sighs. “I gotta get back before Aaron starts thinkin’ I skipped out.”

“You absolutely did skip out.”

“Details,” he waves dismissively.

He points at you lightly.

“You — water. Shade if you get dizzy. And if you even think about liftin’ somethin’ heavier than that little shovel—”

“I won’t,” you interrupt, smiling.

He studies you a moment longer like he’s memorizing the sight of you standing there in the sun.

Then he leans in and kisses you properly this time.

Slow.

Soft.

Certain.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips — casual, easy now.

Not terrifying like the first time.

Just true.

“I love you too,” you reply without hesitation.

He smirks lightly.

“Good.”

And then he steps back, gives your stomach one final affectionate pat.

“Be good to your mama,” he tells it seriously.

You laugh as he walks away.

And for a moment, standing there in the heat with strawberry juice on your fingers and the future growing quietly beneath your palms—

You realize this is it.

This is the life you begged for.

And somehow—

You got it.

——

The heat lingers longer than you expect.

By mid-afternoon the garden has shifted from pleasant warmth to something heavier — thick, golden light pressing against your shoulders. You’ve finished weeding the lower beds, tied up the tomatoes, checked the irrigation barrels twice.

Now you pause.

Just for a minute.

You straighten slowly, one hand instinctively bracing at the small of your back. The weight of your stomach pulls forward in a way that isn’t painful — just insistent. Present.

You stretch carefully, lifting your arms above your head, rolling your shoulders back. The baby shifts in response — a slow, lazy nudge.

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmur under your breath. “I know. It’s hot.”

You lift your water bottle, take a long drink, and let your gaze wander.

Alexandria looks different in the afternoon light.

Children are running between houses. Someone is hanging laundry. Aaron is arguing about fence panels again. The air smells faintly of cut grass and wood smoke.

And there — across the yard — Negan.

Sleeves rolled up. Sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. Laughing at something someone said. Hammer resting against his shoulder like it belongs there.

Your chest softens.

There was a time when he stood in shadow.

Now he stands in sunlight.

You watch him for a long moment, something warm blooming behind your ribs. He glances up like he feels your stare and catches your eye. His mouth curves. Subtle. Private.

You look away first, smiling.

And then your gaze shifts further.

Toward the building.

Toward the steps.

Toward the door.

The cell block.

Your breath slows.

You hadn’t meant to look at it.

Hadn’t thought about it in weeks, maybe months.

But now the sight of it tugs at something inside you.

Not fear.

Not pain.

Something quieter.

You don’t think about it long.

You just start walking.

Down the gravel path. Across the yard. Down the few concrete steps that lead to the heavy door.

You hesitate there for half a second.

Then you pull it open.

The air inside is cooler. Still.

It smells faintly of dust and old concrete and something you can’t name.

Your footsteps echo softly.

For a moment, it’s almost like nothing changed.

Like if you turned the corner, you’d see him sitting there — leaning back against the wall, boots propped up, waiting for you with that maddening smirk.

You move closer.

The cell door stands slightly ajar.

Of course it does.

No one’s been down here in a long time.

You push it gently.

It creaks open.

Empty.

The cot is still there.

The thin mattress.

The scratch marks on the wall.

You step inside slowly.

You can almost hear it.

The clink of a metal tray.

The shuffle of cards.

His voice teasing, “You sure you know how to play this game?”

You lower yourself onto the edge of the cot carefully, one hand bracing your belly as you sit.

It dips slightly beneath you.

You take a breath.

Then another.

You remember fainting down here once — heat, dizziness, the world going black.

You remember waking up to him — worried, sharp, unexpectedly gentle.

You remember the first time you laughed down here.

The first time you told him something real.

The first time you realized you weren’t afraid of him.

You look down at your hands resting over your stomach.

“Funny,” you murmur softly.

The baby shifts again.

Much different to now.

A year ago, you were sitting in this same room, playing cards, blushing because you admitted you’d never slept with anyone.

Now you’re carrying his child.

Life is absurd.

Life is beautiful.

You’re so caught in the quiet that you don’t hear the footsteps until they’re almost at the door.

“I thought I saw you come down here.”

You turn your head.

Carol stands just outside the cell, one eyebrow slightly raised, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of her trousers.

“What you doing?”

You smile faintly.

“Just… reminiscing.”

Carol steps inside slowly. Not intruding. Just sharing the space.

She looks around the cell, taking it in with that steady, perceptive gaze of hers.

“Not the warmest place to get sentimental,” she says lightly.

You let out a soft breath.

“I know. I just… I haven’t been down here since everything.”

Carol nods once.

“Understandable.”

You run your hand absently over the thin mattress.

“I used to come down here every day,” you say quietly. “With his food.”

Carol hums softly.

“I remember.”

“At first I thought I was just being helpful,” you continue. “Just doing a job. But it turned into… more than that.”

Carol studies you.

“You don’t regret it.”

It’s not a question.

You shake your head slowly.

“No.”

You glance around the small space.

“It’s strange. I’m not grateful he was in a cell. I’m sure he wouldn’t say thank you for the experience.”

Carol snorts quietly.

“Probably not.”

“But…” you continue, fingers resting protectively over your stomach, “if he hadn’t been down here… if I hadn’t sat on that stool every day… we wouldn’t be where we are now.”

Carol’s gaze drops to your belly.

Her expression softens — just slightly.

“You went through hell for that man,” she says quietly.

You meet her eyes.

“We went through hell,” you correct gently.

Carol nods at that.

There’s a long pause.

Not uncomfortable.

Just honest.

“You scared me,” she admits after a moment.

You blink.

“When you left.”

Your throat tightens slightly.

“I know.”

Carol shifts her weight.

“I thought you were throwing everything away. I thought he was dragging you down with him.”

You swallow.

“And now?”

Carol looks at you.

Really looks at you.

At the peace in your shoulders. The steadiness in your voice. The hand resting unconsciously over your stomach.

“Now,” she says carefully, “I think you chose something most people are too afraid to.”

You tilt your head.

“What’s that?”

“Happiness.”

The word lands softly between you.

You hadn’t thought of it that way.

Carol steps closer, glancing once more around the cell.

“This place…” she says, voice distant for a moment. “It held a lot of anger. A lot of pain.”

She looks back at you.

“But it also held the start of something neither of you expected.”

You smile faintly.

“Yeah.”

She gestures gently toward the door.

“C’mon. Let’s not sit in ghosts too long.”

You nod.

Slowly push yourself to your feet.

Carol’s hand hovers near your elbow instinctively, ready if you wobble.

You don’t.

You’re steady.

“You ever think about how weird it all is?” you ask as you both step out into the corridor.

Carol smirks slightly.

“Constantly.”

You glance back once at the open cell.

“Guess sometimes the worst places lead you somewhere good.”

Carol studies you thoughtfully.

“Sometimes,” she says, “they just show you who someone really is.”

You step out into the late afternoon sun.

The warmth feels different now.

Brighter.

Carol bumps your shoulder lightly.

“Let’s get outta here before you start crying and I have to pretend I didn’t see it.”

You laugh.

“You’re terrible.”

“Mm.”

She nods toward the houses.

“C’mon. Dinner soon. And if Negan finds you down there alone, he’s gonna assume something dramatic happened.”

You roll your eyes fondly.

“He would.”

Carol glances at your stomach one last time.

“You’re doing good,” she says quietly.

It’s simple.

But it means something.

You smile.

“So are we.”

And together, you walk back up the steps — leaving the cell open behind you, not as a prison anymore.

Just a memory.

A beginning.

——

The house settles differently at night.

Alexandria always quiets slowly — voices fading one by one, lanterns dimmed, footsteps thinning until the streets hum instead of buzz. The day’s heat lingers in the walls, but the air through the open window carries just enough cool to make it comfortable.

You’re curled up on the sofa when Negan finally comes in.

Boots thud softly by the door. He doesn’t say anything at first — just pauses there like he always does, taking a second to look at you.

You feel it before you see him.

“Y’know,” he says finally, voice warm and smug, “there are worse sights to come home to.”

You glance over, smiling. “Oh? And here I thought you’d be disappointed I didn’t wait up with a cocktail.”

He snorts as he crosses the room. “Apocalypse bartending has really gone downhill.”

He drops down beside you with a soft groan, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the cushions. One arm drapes along the back of the sofa automatically — like it’s muscle memory now.

You shift closer without thinking.

Your head finds his shoulder. His hand slides down, settling over your stomach with a familiarity that still makes your chest warm every time.

“You eat?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Enough?”

“Yes.”

He hums, unconvinced.

“I swear,” you mutter, “if you ask me that one more time, I’m gonna start lying just to mess with you.”

His fingers flex gently against your belly.

“Careful,” he says. “I’ll start supervising your meals.”

You tilt your head back to look at him. “You already do.”

“Damn right,” he replies. “I take my job very seriously.”

You laugh quietly, the sound soft in the dim room.

He shifts slightly, angling his body toward you. One knee brushes yours. His thumb starts tracing slow, absent-minded circles through the fabric of your dungarees.

Comfortable.

Safe.

You sigh contentedly.

“Carol caught me in the cell earlier,” you say after a moment.

His eyebrow lifts instantly.

“…the cell.”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t pull his hand away, but his thumb stills slightly.

“And?” he asks carefully.

You shrug. “Just… sat for a bit. Thought about things.”

He exhales slowly, then huffs a small laugh. “Never thought I’d hear my wife say she was hangin’ out in my old prison like it was a coffee shop.”

You grin. “You’re welcome.”

He glances down at your stomach, then back at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “Just… felt like closing a door.”

He nods once.

“I get that.”

Silence settles again — not empty, just shared.

After a few minutes, his hand shifts.

Then freezes.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“…hold up.”

You feel it too — a firm, unmistakable roll beneath your skin.

You smile immediately.

“There,” you murmur.

His breath catches — just barely, but you notice.

“Baby girl,” he says softly, leaning forward, palm flattening over the spot. “You feel that?”

The movement comes again — stronger this time.

His face splits into a grin so wide it almost hurts to look at.

“There she is,” he laughs under his breath. “You got somethin’ you wanna say, huh?”

You shake your head fondly.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m talkin’ to my kid,” he replies seriously. “This is important bonding.”

He lowers himself further, resting his cheek against your stomach.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and affectionate.

“Hey,” he murmurs toward your belly. “Listen up, kid. You keep kickin’ your mama like that and I’m gonna ground you before you’re even born.”

Another kick.

He scoffs. “Oh, we’re feisty.”

You laugh, tears prickling unexpectedly at the corners of your eyes.

“You’re gonna be an amazing dad,” you say quietly.

He stills.

Lifts his head.

Looks at you like the words mean more than you know.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah,” you reply without hesitation. “I know so.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“For a long time,” he admits, voice lower now, “I didn’t think I deserved this. Any of it.”

You cup his face gently.

“But you’re here,” you say. “You chose better. You keep choosing better.”

He leans into your touch.

“Guess I had good motivation,” he smirks softly.

You roll your eyes, but your thumb brushes under his eye anyway.

“Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s get comfortable.”

He helps you shift carefully, rearranging cushions, pulling a blanket over both of you without being asked. You settle against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you.

Outside, the crickets start up.

Inside, his breathing slows beneath your ear.

“This is nice,” he murmurs.

“It really is.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “You happy?”

You don’t need to think about it.

“Yes.”

His arm tightens around you just a little.

“Good,” he says. “Because I plan on keepin’ it that way.”

You smile, eyes drifting closed.

Between the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, and the life growing quietly beneath your hands —

The world finally feels still.

And for the first time in a long time…

You let yourself rest.

———————————

You wake before him.

It’s still early — that in-between hour where the sky is pale blue and the sun hasn’t quite decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet.

For a moment you just lie there.

Listening.

His breathing is slow and deep behind you, one arm heavy over your waist, his hand curved protectively over your stomach even in sleep. Like even unconscious, he knows exactly where he belongs.

You shift slightly.

He grumbles.

“…don’t you dare,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You smile softly. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Uh-huh.”

His fingers tighten briefly around you, then relax again.

Outside, Alexandria is still quiet. A bird calls somewhere. A gate creaks faintly in the distance. The world stretching awake.

You stare at the ceiling for a second, then at the thin crack of light slipping through the curtains.

One year and three months ago you stood in a church, bleeding through bandages, begging people to let you stay.

You remember how small you felt.

How terrified.

How unsure of everything except him.

Now?

Now you feel steady.

Not because the world got safer.

But because you built something inside it.

You carefully turn in his arms to face him.

His hair is a mess. His face relaxed in a way he never lets it be when he’s awake. The hard edges softened. The lines at the corners of his eyes not pulled tight with tension.

He looks younger like this.

You reach up and brush your fingers lightly over his jaw.

His eyes crack open immediately.

“Y’starin’ at me?” he asks sleepily.

“Maybe.”

He squints at you.

“You look suspiciously sentimental.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Like you’re about to say somethin’ that makes me emotional and I’m not prepared for that at this hour.”

You laugh quietly.

“I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby.”

You roll your eyes fondly.

“I was thinking about that day. In the truck.”

His expression shifts — not dark, just deeper.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He studies you carefully. “Why?”

You glance down at where his hand rests on your stomach.

“Because if you’d panicked a second longer… if you hadn’t driven back… if Rick hadn’t opened the gate…”

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“I’m not,” you reassure him. “I’m just… grateful.”

The word settles between you.

Grateful.

For walls.

For stubborn doctors.

For second chances.

For the fact that he didn’t let you go.

Negan exhales slowly.

“I don’t think about it,” he admits. “Because if I do, I start thinkin’ about what almost happened. And I don’t like that version of the story.”

You nod.

“I know.”

You take his hand gently and press it more firmly over the curve of your stomach.

“This is the version we got.”

A long pause.

The baby shifts — a soft roll under your skin.

Negan’s eyes widen slightly, even though he’s felt it a hundred times now.

“See?” he murmurs to your belly. “You always showin’ up for dramatic timing.”

You smile.

He props himself up slightly on one elbow and looks at you.

“You scared?” he asks quietly.

“Of what?”

“All of it.”

You consider it.

The baby.

The future.

The responsibility.

The world they’re bringing her into.

“A little,” you admit.

He nods once.

“Me too.”

Another pause.

“But,” he continues, softer now, “she’s not growin’ up in chaos.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“Nope,” he says firmly. “She’s growin’ up in a place with walls. And gardens. And people who care. And a mama who fought like hell to build it.”

Your throat tightens slightly.

“And a dad who?” you prompt.

He smirks faintly.

“A dad who is gonna embarrass her relentlessly.”

You snort.

“Accurate.”

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

You hum in response.

“You remember what you said in that church?”

You blink.

“Some of it.”

“You said you didn’t wanna just survive.”

You nod slowly.

He gestures around the room lazily.

“You ain’t survivin’ anymore.”

You look around too.

The familiar walls. The sunlight creeping stronger now. The soft sheets. The quiet hum of a community waking up outside.

No fear.

No running.

No cages.

Just morning.

“I know,” you whisper.

He brushes his thumb over your cheek gently.

“You built this,” he says. “You fought for it. You bled for it.”

“And you drove like a maniac for it,” you remind him.

He grins.

“Damn right I did.”

You lean forward and kiss him — slow and certain. Not desperate. Not afraid.

Just sure.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“What do you think she’s gonna be like?” you ask quietly.

He thinks for a moment.

“Stubborn,” he says immediately.

You nod. “Definitely.”

“Strong.”

“Hopefully.”

“And loud.”

You laugh.

“God help us.”

He smiles — softer than you’ve ever seen him.

“She’s gonna know she’s wanted,” he says.

That one lands deeper.

You press your hand over his.

“She already is.”

Outside, the sun finally breaks fully over Alexandria’s walls.

Light floods the room in warm gold.

Negan glances toward the window.

“Guess we should get up,” he sighs reluctantly.

“In a minute,” you say.

He settles back down immediately without argument.

Your hand rests over your stomach.

His hand rests over yours.

Three heartbeats.

Yours.

His.

And the tiny, steady one between them.

You close your eyes and breathe in the morning air.

A year ago you were begging to stay.

Now you belong.

And this time—

You’re not leaving.

————————————————————

Read the Epilogue now

————————————————————

Want to be added to my tag list? Let me know.

@neganswoman @nancymcl @negans-dirty-girl @morganlolitta @kentonanamispurplesocks @mloo

[pedrospascaled]

THAT IS HALLOWEEN | DAY 14: Favorite Villain ➛ Negan Smith | The Walking Dead & Dead City

[spicyfandomsoup]

“It’s just a fictional character”

Oh yeah? Explain why he’s now affecting my emotional wellbeing then.

[spicyfandomsoup]

The Cell Between Us - Chapter 29

Chapter summary:

You wake to pain, relief, and the full weight of everything that almost happened. As recovery begins and hard truths are finally spoken out loud, the future still hangs in the balance — but for the first time, it doesn’t feel entirely closed off.

👥 Characters:

Negan (TWD – prison era)

Reader Insert (Y/N)

Others: Saddiq, Rick

🔞Rating:

Mature audiences.

⚠️ Warnings:

Injury / recovery

Medical trauma references

Emotional distress

References to kidnapping and violence

Community rejection / hostility

A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/85344651

———————————————————

You wake like you’re being dragged up through thick water.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

It’s sudden—violent in the way your body immediately reminds you of everything it went through.

Pain hits first.

Not just one pain, not a single, clean ache you can point to and name.

It’s everywhere.

A deep throb in your skull that pulses behind your eyes. A sharp, tender burn at your side that makes your breath catch before you’ve even fully taken one. Your wrists feel raw and tight like the skin has been sanded down. Your ankles ache the same way—rope memory still written into you. Your ribs feel bruised when you try to inhale, and your throat is dry enough to sting.

Your eyelids flutter.

The world is blurry, washed in soft light and pale shapes.

A bed.

A ceiling.

A faint smell—cleaner than anything you’ve smelled in days. Antiseptic and soap and cloth that’s actually been washed.

Your brain tries to catch up.

Where—

Your head turns slightly and the movement makes you wince, a low sound escaping you before you can swallow it down.

And then you see him.

Right there.

So close his knee is pressed against the side of the bed.

Negan.

He’s slumped forward in the chair like he’s been folded in half, arms braced on the mattress, one hand wrapped around yours—fingers loose but stubborn, like even in sleep he wouldn’t risk letting go. His head is down, hair falling into his face. His jaw is shadowed with stubble. There are dark smudges under his eyes like he hasn’t slept properly in a week.

He looks… wrecked.

He also looks like home.

Your throat tightens.

“Negan…” you whisper, voice cracked to pieces.

It barely makes a sound.

But it’s enough.

His head snaps up like he’s been shot.

For a second he just stares at you—eyes wide, glassy, disbelieving. Like his brain refuses to believe it’s real.

Then he’s moving so fast the chair scrapes the floor.

“Hey—hey, hey—” His voice breaks instantly, rough and shaking. His hand tightens around yours like he’s anchoring himself. “You’re—Jesus—sweetheart, you’re awake.”

Your mouth parts.

You try to smile, but the movement pulls at your cheek, your ribs, everything, and your face twists with pain before you can help it.

Negan’s expression changes immediately—terror and softness colliding.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he says quickly, one hand hovering near you like he wants to touch you everywhere at once and is scared of hurting you. “Don’t try to sit up. Don’t try to be a tough girl right now, alright?”

You take a careful breath, trying to find your voice through the ache.

“I…” Your throat scratches. “Where…?”

“Infirmary,” he says, and the single word comes out like it cost him something. He leans closer, eyes scanning your face like he’s checking you’re still here. “Alexandria.”

The memory hits you in fragments—gunfire, the truck, his voice begging you to stay awake, the dark rolling in.

You swallow hard.

“And you…?”

“I’m right here,” he says, immediate, fierce. “Been right here.”

You blink slowly, your eyes burning.

“How long…?”

Negan’s jaw flexes, and for a second he looks away like he can’t bear the answer.

“Couple days,” he mutters, then corrects himself with a sharp exhale, like the truth is worse. “Three.”

Your chest tightens.

Three days.

Your hand twitches in his, a weak squeeze.

He notices like it’s a miracle.

“You scared the shit outta me,” he says, and the words come out too honest, too raw. “You—” He swallows hard, throat bobbing. “You died.”

Your stomach drops.

Negan shakes his head quickly, as if he can shake the image out of his mind.

“In the truck,” he says, voice low and cracking at the edges. “You went still and you weren’t breathin’ and—” He stops. His eyes go wet. He presses his forehead briefly to the edge of the mattress like he has to ground himself. “I got you here. Siddiq said there wasn’t a pulse.”

Your eyes widen, horror creeping through you despite how weak you feel.

“No…”

Negan looks back up at you, desperate for you to understand what he’s saying.

“They got it back,” he says quickly. “He got it back. He did compressions and—fuck—” He laughs once, broken and shaking, like the sound is the only thing he can do instead of falling apart. “I thought I was watchin’ it happen all over again.”

Lucille.

You don’t even need him to say her name.

It’s in his face.

In the way his voice trembles on certain words like they’re sharp enough to cut.

Your fingers shift, trying to lift, trying to reach him.

It’s clumsy. Weak.

Negan catches your hand before you can struggle.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and the word is softer than you’ve ever heard from him. “You don’t gotta do a damn thing. Just… just stay.”

You blink hard, tears pooling without permission.

“Hey,” you whisper, throat tight. “You… came.”

Negan’s eyes flash. Like you’ve said something ridiculous.

“Of course I came,” he snaps, and it’s not anger—it’s offense. Like the universe itself should be embarrassed for making you doubt it. “There wasn’t a world where I didn’t.”

Your lips part, the smallest smile trying to form despite the ache.

“Took your time,” you rasp.

Negan makes a face—half glare, half something that looks like relief because you’re you again, still capable of being a brat through pain.

“Yeah?” he says, leaning closer, voice dropping into that familiar, rough tease. “Next time you get kidnapped, sweetheart, I’ll just teleport. My bad.”

You let out a laugh that turns into a wince halfway through, and Negan immediately looks guilty.

“Shit—sorry,” he mutters, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles like he can undo the hurt. “Don’t laugh. Don’t—” He pauses, staring at you like he still can’t believe you’re awake. “Just… talk to me. Please.”

You swallow.

Your eyes roam over him—his bruised jaw, the dried blood you can still see beneath his fingernails, the exhaustion in his posture.

“You look like hell,” you whisper.

Negan huffs. “Well, you should see the other guys.”

A beat.

Then his expression falters, and his voice drops lower, stripped bare.

“I can’t do that again,” he whispers. “I can’t… I can’t lose you.”

Your heart squeezes painfully.

“Negan…”

He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours like he’s about to confess something he’s been choking on.

“I’ve been sittin’ here for three days,” he says, voice rough. “Watchin’ you breathe. Countin’ it like a fuckin’ prayer. And I kept thinkin’—if you don’t wake up, if I don’t hear your voice again, I’m…” He swallows hard. “I’m done.”

You can’t move much, but you turn your face toward him, as close as you can manage.

“You’re not done,” you whisper.

Negan’s jaw trembles.

He stares at you for a long moment like he’s memorising you, like he needs to burn you into his brain so he never loses you again.

And then he says it.

Quiet.

Unsteady.

Like it scares him to put it into the air.

“I love you.”

Your breath catches.

The room feels like it holds still.

Negan looks at you like he’s bracing for impact, like he doesn’t know what you’ll do with it.

“I should’ve said it before,” he whispers, voice breaking. “But I— I didn’t wanna—” He shakes his head like the reason doesn’t matter. “I love you. And I don’t give a shit if it’s too late or if it’s messy or if you’re mad at me for takin’ too long, I just— I needed you to know.”

Your eyes sting.

Your throat tightens so hard it hurts more than any bruise.

“I’m not mad,” you whisper, tears slipping free. “I’m… I’m here.”

Negan’s eyes shine, and his hand tightens around yours like he’s holding on with everything he has.

You swallow hard, voice shaking.

“I love you too.”

Negan’s face crumples—relief and agony colliding.

He leans in like he can’t help it, like he’s pulled by gravity.

His mouth finds yours.

It’s careful at first—like he’s terrified of hurting you.

Then it deepens, the kiss turning into something desperate but reverent, like he’s worshipping the fact you’re alive enough to kiss back.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours for the briefest moment, breathing hard.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

You close your eyes, letting yourself feel him there, solid and warm and real.

Then your side throbs hard enough to drag you back into your body with a sharp reminder.

You hiss quietly.

Negan stiffens instantly. “Okay. Nope. No more movin’. No more romance. Doctor time.”

He lifts his head, gaze flicking to the doorway like he’s about to start yelling.

“Negan—” you start, but he’s already halfway up.

“I’m gettin’ Siddiq,” he says, voice firm. Then, softer: “I’m gettin’ you checked. Don’t argue with me.”

You try to give him a look that says bossy bastard but it probably comes out more like tired wounded idiot.

Negan points at you anyway like you’re a threat to yourself.

“You stay right there. Don’t you go disappearin’ on me again.”

He’s out the door before you can reply.

You lie back, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the ache.

Your body feels like a map of what happened.

Every mark a memory.

But beneath it—beneath the pain and fog and weakness—there’s something else.

Safety.

Walls.

A bed.

Negan’s hand on yours.

You hear footsteps, voices, the quiet bustle of the infirmary. Someone laughs somewhere down the hall. It feels wrong that the world can keep moving after what you went through.

Then the door opens again.

Siddiq steps in first, looking tired, serious, professional. Negan follows close behind him like a shadow with teeth.

Siddiq’s eyes land on you.

“You’re awake,” he says, and it’s not warmth, but it’s not cruelty either. It’s relief wrapped in caution. “Good.”

Negan crosses to your side immediately, but he stays back enough to let Siddiq work.

Siddiq checks your pulse, your breathing, shines a light briefly in your eyes, presses fingers gently along your jaw and neck, asks you to squeeze his hands.

You try, weakly.

He nods, making small sounds like he’s filing it away.

“Headache?” he asks.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Nausea?”

“A little.”

“Dizzy when you move?”

“Yes.”

Siddiq glances at Negan once—sharp, warning.

Negan raises his hands slightly. “I didn’t make her do shit.”

You almost smile.

Siddiq checks your bandages, gently lifting the edge and pressing around the wound. You flinch.

Negan’s whole body tenses.

Siddiq is calm. “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t stop. He’s careful. Efficient.

“It’s healing,” he says finally. “Slowly. You’ve got bruising and swelling, but the bleeding stayed controlled. Fever’s down. The antibiotics are doing their job.”

You blink, trying to hold onto his words.

“So… I’m…?”

“Alive,” Siddiq says bluntly.

Negan lets out a shaky breath like he’s been holding it for days.

Siddiq continues, more measured.

“It’s going to be a long recovery,” he says. “You’ve got concussion symptoms. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re weak because your body has been running on empty and then got hit with trauma on top of it. You need rest. You need fluids. You need food. And you need to stop trying to be a hero.”

Negan huffs under his breath. “Tell her, doc.”

You muster the smallest glare. “Shut up.”

Negan’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile but he’s afraid to.

Siddiq looks between you and Negan like he can’t decide if you’re ridiculous or tragically human.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, and the sentence lands heavy because it’s the first time anyone has said it like they mean it. “But you’re not fine yet. Understand?”

You nod slowly.

Siddiq gives one last check, then steps back.

“I’ll come back later,” he says. Then, to Negan, more pointed: “She needs calm. No stress. No arguments in here.”

Negan’s jaw tightens. “Tell that to Rick.”

Siddiq’s face tightens like he already regrets what’s coming.

As if summoned by the name—

Footsteps.

A familiar weight in the doorway.

Rick.

He steps in like he owns the air. Like he’s carrying the community on his back. His eyes flick to you first—assessing, relieved despite himself—then land on Negan.

Hard.

Negan’s body goes still beside you.

Rick keeps his voice measured. “I heard you were awake.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

Rick nods once, as if that’s the only part of this conversation he wanted.

His gaze shifts. “How do you feel?”

You almost laugh, but your side throbs and it kills the urge.

“Like I got hit by a truck,” you say hoarsely. “And then got hit by another truck.”

Rick’s mouth tightens—maybe amusement, maybe sympathy. It’s hard to tell with Rick.

“It’ll get easier.”

Then his expression sobers.

“But we gotta talk. You know why I’m here,” he says.

Your stomach sinks.

Negan’s hand finds yours again—quiet, steady, not asking permission. You let him.

Rick looks at the two of you like you’re a problem he doesn’t want to solve.

“You let him out,” Rick says.

You don’t flinch.

“Yes.”

Rick’s eyes sharpen. “Why.”

You swallow, throat dry.

“Because I couldn’t watch it anymore,” you say quietly.

Rick’s brow furrows.

You force yourself to keep going.

“I know what he did,” you say, and your voice shakes but you don’t stop. “I know what he was. I’m not excusing any of it. But… I started taking him food. I thought it was just being useful. I thought it was… the right thing.”

Rick says nothing.

So you continue, voice growing steadier because the truth is the only thing you’ve got.

“And then he talked,” you whisper. “And he didn’t—he didn’t talk like the monster everyone told me about. He talked like a person. Like someone who’d been broken and hated himself for it.”

Negan’s grip tightens around your hand.

You glance at him once, quick.

Then back to Rick.

“And everyone here hated me for even standing near his cell,” you say. “They looked at me like I was… tainted. Like I’d done something wrong by listening. And I just—” You inhale carefully through the pain. “I didn’t want to live like that. I didn’t want to be here and feel alone.”

Rick’s face softens by the smallest fraction.

You press on.

“So I let him out,” you say. “Because I wanted to leave. I wanted to live. Not just survive in a place where I felt like a ghost.”

Rick stares at you for a long time.

Then his gaze slides to Negan.

Negan doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t posture.

He just stands there, a silent wall beside your bed, eyes hard and exhausted and protective.

Rick exhales.

“I understand why you did it,” he says slowly, and the words surprise you enough that your eyes widen. “I don’t like it. But I understand.”

Your throat tightens.

Then Rick’s expression hardens again, because understanding isn’t permission.

“The community doesn’t,” he says.

A cold dread spreads through you.

Rick continues, blunt because that’s who he is.

“They’re angry. They’re scared. They’re not going to accept him here.”

Your hand clenches in Negan’s.

Rick looks back at you.

“And they’re not going to accept you bringing him back.”

You swallow. “Rick—”

“When you’re healed enough,” he says, voice firm, “you both leave. For good.”

The words land like a punch.

Your breath catches.

Negan’s hand tightens around yours like a warning, like he’s holding himself back from saying something that will get him shot.

You stare at Rick, trying to make your brain work through the pain.

“Where are we supposed to go?” you whisper.

Rick’s expression doesn’t change.

“That’s not my problem,” he says, and the words sound cruel only because the world is cruel. “I’m responsible for these people.”

Your eyes sting.

You don’t argue.

Because you can’t.

Rick holds your gaze a moment longer—maybe regret, maybe resolve—then turns and leaves.

The door clicks shut.

Silence rushes in behind it.

You stare at the ceiling, blinking hard.

Negan doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “We’ll figure it out.”

Your voice comes out small. “I don’t want to go.”

Negan’s thumb strokes over your knuckles, slow and grounding.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is soft in a way that hurts. “I know, sweetheart.”

Days pass after that.

Blurry ones.

Half-sleep, half-wake.

Siddiq brings you water and food and checks your fever. Your body slowly learns how to exist again. You sit up for longer. You stand for a few seconds. You shuffle to the edge of the bed with Negan hovering like a guard dog, scowling at the world like it personally threatened you.

People come by.

Some with pity.

Some with suspicion.

Some don’t look at you at all.

Negan never leaves.

He sleeps in the chair, head tipped back, waking at every sound. He brings you water himself. He helps you wash your face. He adjusts your blanket with hands that shake like he still doesn’t trust the world to not take you.

And you think.

A lot.

About Rick’s words.

About the gates.

About the unknown.

About how safety feels like something you can taste now that it’s about to be ripped away again.

About how you can’t have one half of your heart without the other.

Eventually, the decision forms in you like bone knitting back together.

Painful.

Necessary.

You need to try.

One morning, you tell Negan you need to get up.

“No,” he says instantly.

You blink at him. “Negan.”

He stands from the chair like his body is wired to panic. “Absolutely the hell not. You’re still weak. You still—”

“Negan,” you repeat, firmer.

His jaw clenches. “Sweetheart—”

“You’re going to help me up,” you say, voice quiet but unmistakably a command now. “Now.”

Negan stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.

Then he exhales, defeated.

“You’re bossy,” he mutters.

“Yep.”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe you, then steps in carefully, sliding one arm around your back, the other bracing you under your elbow.

“Easy,” he murmurs, as if the word is a prayer.

You grit your teeth and push yourself up.

The room tilts immediately.

Pain flares at your side, sharp enough that a sound catches in your throat.

Negan tightens his hold, keeping you steady.

“See?” he mutters. “This is why I said no.”

“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes squeezed closed.

Negan’s mouth twitches.

He helps you take a step.

Then another.

Your legs tremble, but they hold.

You breathe through it.

“I need to see Rick,” you whisper.

Negan stills. “Why.”

“Because I’m not leaving without trying,” you say.

Negan’s jaw works, anger and fear colliding.

He wants to protect you from stress. From rejection. From the community that hates him.

But he also knows you.

And he knows there’s no stopping you once you decide.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But you lean on me, you hear? You even think about playin’ tough and I’m carryin’ you.”

You manage a weak smirk. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

He walks you outside.

The sun is out, bright enough to make your eyes water. The air is cool and clean and smells like trees and soil and safety.

It almost makes you angry, how normal it feels.

Your head throbs softly, but you close your eyes and inhale anyway.

You let yourself feel the air in your lungs, real and unchained.

Negan stays close, his arm firm around you.

You find Rick near the meeting area, talking to someone quietly. He looks up as you approach and his face tightens instantly.

“What are you doing up?” he demands.

You swallow, steadying yourself.

“Calling a meeting,” you say.

Rick’s brow furrows. “No.”

“Rick,” you say, and your voice is tired but clear. “Please.”

He studies you for a long moment—your bruises, your slow stance, the way you lean into Negan because you have to.

“You shouldn’t—” he starts.

“I know,” you interrupt gently. “But I need to.”

Rick exhales, frustrated.

Then, finally: “Fine.”

Relief hits you so hard you nearly sag.

He calls it.

People gather in the church.

Not happily.

Not eagerly.

But they come, drawn by curiosity, by anger, by the fact that you nearly died and somehow walked back into their home anyway.

You sit at first, because standing hurts.

Then you see the way they look at Negan.

The way their bodies tense.

The way their hands hover near weapons.

The way they look at you like you’re either naive or traitorous.

Something settles inside you.

You stand.

Negan moves instantly, helping you up, one arm braced behind you like a support beam.

He whispers, close to your ear, “You sure?”

You nod once.

Your legs shake.

Your side burns.

You step forward anyway.

The church is full.

Faces you know.

Faces that once felt like community.

Now feel like a jury.

Rick stands to the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Daryl is somewhere back and to the left—watching. Michonne near Rick, calm but alert.

Negan stays near you, a half-step behind—present but not trying to dominate the space.

You take a breath.

It hurts.

You do it anyway.

“Thank you for coming,” you begin, voice rough but steady.

A few people shift. A scoff from somewhere. Someone mutters something under their breath.

You let it happen.

You keep going.

“I know you don’t want to be here,” you say. “And I know you probably don’t want to listen to me.”

You swallow, eyes sweeping the room.

“I also know I look like…” You gesture weakly down at yourself, your bandages, bruises. “Like a warning label.”

A few people look away.

Some don’t.

You breathe again, careful.

“But I’m standing here anyway because I have to say this. And because I’m not good at… pretending things didn’t happen.”

Your voice shakes, but you don’t stop.

“The last few weeks have been hell,” you say quietly. “And I know that’s not unique. I know every single person in this room has lived through hell. We’re living the apocalypse. Loss is normal. Pain is normal. Fear is normal.”

Your gaze catches on a few faces—eyes hard, tired, haunted.

“And I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me,” you continue. “I’m asking you to hear me.”

You pause, letting the room settle.

“I agreed to take food down to Negan’s cell,” you say. “Because I wanted to be helpful. Because I thought it was the kind of thing that mattered—small decency when the world has none.”

A ripple goes through the room at his name.

Negan stays still behind you.

You keep your eyes forward.

“I’d heard the stories,” you say. “I’d heard what he did. What he took. Who he killed. And I’m not standing here to excuse it.”

You let that land.

“I’m not going to insult you by pretending it wasn’t real. It was. It was horrible. And it hurt people in this community. It hurt all of you.”

The room is silent now.

Sharp.

Listening despite themselves.

You swallow.

“But I also need to say this,” you continue, voice shaking: “We’ve all done terrible things to survive. All of us.”

Some faces twitch—anger, denial, guilt.

You push through it.

“Maybe not the same things,” you say quickly, because you won’t let them twist your words. “Not the same scale. Not the same choices. But we’ve all crossed lines we never thought we would cross before the world ended. Because the world ended. And it made monsters out of people who weren’t born that way.”

You glance down briefly, then back up.

“And when I started taking him food…” Your throat tightens. “I expected a monster. I expected… cruelty.”

You reminding yourself not to cry is a losing battle.

“Instead,” you whisper, “I found a person.”

A scoff from somewhere.

You turn your eyes toward it, not angry—just tired.

“I know how that sounds,” you say softly. “I do. But it’s the truth.”

You inhale, chest aching.

“He talked,” you say. “He listened. He was… honest in a way I didn’t expect. And I started to realise something that scared the hell out of me.”

You pause.

“That there was more to him than the version you all froze in time,” you say. “And there was more to me than being the person who was supposed to hate him on command.”

A murmur.

A couple heads turn.

“And when people started hating me for even walking near that cell,” you say, voice cracking now, “I started feeling like this place—this community—had rules about who you’re allowed to be. And who you’re allowed to care about.”

Tears burn behind your eyes.

You blink hard.

“I didn’t leave because I wanted to betray you,” you whisper. “I left because I didn’t feel like I belonged anymore.”

Your voice wobbles.

Negan’s hand touches your back briefly—steadying, grounding.

You keep going.

“I let him out,” you say. “And we left. We didn’t plan to come back.”

You lift your chin.

“We were gone. We were surviving. We were trying to build something… quiet.”

Your breath catches with memory.

“And then I was taken,” you say, and the room shifts—because they’ve seen your bruises, but hearing it out loud is different. “Because of him. Because of who he used to be.”

You let the bitterness hit the air.

“And he came for me,” you say, voice trembling, louder now. “He walked for days. He bled for it. He killed for it. He didn’t stop. Not once.”

You look at them—really look.

“And he brought me back here,” you say. “To you. To the same people who would’ve rather never seen his face again—because he knew you had a doctor. He knew you had walls. He knew you could save me.”

Your voice breaks.

“And you did.”

You swallow hard, tears finally slipping free.

“So I’m standing here,” you say, wiping at your cheek with a trembling hand, “to say thank you. For saving my life.”

A beat.

“And I’m standing here to ask you… to let us stay.”

The room tightens.

You keep your eyes on them, even as your legs shake.

“I know you don’t want him here,” you say. “I know you don’t trust him. I know you don’t forgive him.”

You glance down, then back up.

“But I’m not asking you to forgive him overnight,” you whisper. “I’m asking you to see what I’ve seen. I’m asking you to let him prove who he is now—not who he was.”

Your breath comes shaky.

“I’m not sorry for falling in love with him,” you say, voice cracking on love like it hurts to admit it in front of all these eyes. “And I’m not asking you to choose between your pain and mine. I’m asking you to choose a future where pain doesn’t get to make every decision for us forever.”

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second as your side throbs, then open them again.

“We want to live,” you whisper. “Not hide. Not run. Not survive from one disaster to the next. We want to help. We want to be useful. We want… a chance.”

Your tears fall now—quiet, unstoppable.

“And if you can’t give us forgiveness,” you say, voice shaking, “then give us… community. Give us rules. Give us work. Give us whatever you give anyone else who wants to be better than they were yesterday.”

A heavy silence.

You can feel eyes on you like weight.

You swallow hard, pushing through the pain.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please just… think about it.”

Your shoulders sag as the effort catches up.

Negan steps forward instinctively, arm wrapping around you, holding you upright when your body threatens to fold.

He presses his forehead briefly to your temple—steadying.

Then, to your surprise, he speaks.

His voice is rough, controlled, not loud—but it carries.

“I ain’t gonna stand here and ask you to forgive me,” he says. “Because I know damn well what I did.”

The room is still.

Negan’s eyes sweep over them, sharp and unflinching.

“And I ain’t gonna pretend I deserve your kindness,” he continues. “I don’t.”

A beat.

“But I’m not that man anymore,” he says, and his voice tightens like it hurts to say. “You don’t gotta believe it. You don’t gotta like me. Hell, you can hate me ‘til the day you die.”

His arm tightens around you.

“I’m here for her,” he says simply. “That’s it. That’s all. I’m here because she’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and if you send us out there again, I’ll still keep her safe. I’ll still do it.”

He swallows hard, jaw flexing.

“But she shouldn’t have to beg for a home,” he says, and there’s something raw in the sentence that makes your chest ache. “Not after what she went through. Not after she came back here and still looked at you like you were worth askin’.”

A few people shift.

Not softened.

But moved.

Even if they hate it.

Negan exhales, gaze locking back onto the crowd.

“So yeah,” he finishes, voice low. “Think about it.”

He looks down at you then, quieter, meant only for you.

“You did good,” he murmurs.

Your throat tightens.

You can’t even answer.

You just nod, tears still falling.

Rick steps forward, face tight with conflict.

He doesn’t speak immediately.

He just looks at you.

Then at Negan.

Then at the room full of his people.

Finally, he says, “We’ll talk about it.”

It isn’t yes.

But it isn’t no.

And the fact he doesn’t say no right now feels like a crack of light.

The meeting breaks slowly.

People file out in clusters, whispering, glancing back. Some avoid looking at you at all. Some look at you with something that might be pity. Some with anger. Some with confusion.

You don’t know what it means.

You only know you can’t stand anymore.

Negan gets you out.

His arm stays tight around you as he guides you slowly down the church steps and back toward the infirmary, your body shaking with exhaustion.

The air outside is bright again.

Too bright.

You squint, breathing carefully.

When you’re far enough away that no one can hear, your voice finally slips out.

“Was that… too much?” you whisper.

Negan snorts softly, but it isn’t mocking.

“No,” he says. “That was you.”

Your throat tightens.

You swallow, pain and emotion mixing together.

“What if they still say no?” you whisper.

Negan looks down at you, eyes hard and soft at the same time.

“Then we leave,” he says simply. “But we leave together.”

You blink hard.

Negan leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your hair—careful of your injuries, careful of everything.

“You ain’t alone anymore,” he murmurs. “You hear me?”

You nod, tears slipping again.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Negan’s grip tightens just slightly.

“Good,” he says. “Because I meant what I said.”

You glance up at him, voice trembling.

“About… loving me?”

Negan’s mouth twitches.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That too.”

You manage a weak smile through the ache.

“Good,” you whisper back. “Because… I meant it too.”

Negan’s eyes soften.

He presses his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.

Then he guides you forward again—slow, steady—back toward the bed, back toward healing, back toward whatever comes next.

And somewhere behind you, in the church filled with people who once saw Negan as only a monster, the idea of something different hangs in the air.

Not acceptance.

Not yet.

But possibility.

And for now—

For now, you’ll take that.

—————————————

Read Chapter 30 now

—————————————

Want to be added to my tag list? Let me know.

@neganswoman @nancymcl @negans-dirty-girl @morganlolitta @kentonanamispurplesocks @mloo

[spicyfandomsoup]

The end is near…

I hate to break it to you but after tomorrow’s chapter of The Cell Between Us…..there’s only ONE chapter left! 🥲

Honestly feeling kinda emotional about it because I’ve spent so long with these characters now, and I’m really gonna miss writing cell Negan!

The end is officially near and I fear none of us are emotionally ready!

I wanna know what everyone’s favourite moment/chapter/scene has been so far!

Could be:

~ a line of dialogue

~ a specific chapter

~ a Negan moment

~ Angst

~ Tension

~ something soft

~ literally anything!

Reminisce a little with me