cw: lots of head trauma/brain injury/recovery stuff.
Steve wakes up in the hospital with someone snoring loudly on his leg, mouth open, drool getting soaked up into the scratchy hospital blanket over him.
Steve just stares.
It’s… Freddie? No, that’s not right... Eddie! Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson, known delinquent and drug dealer… resting his head on Steve’s lap.
What the hell…?
Steve reaches up with a wobbly, IV-ridden hand to clumsily pat along his head, but instead of meeting messy hair, he meets a thick wad of bandages. He flinches when he hits an especially tender spot.
It’s not much but it’s enough to wake Eddie Munson up with a jolt, and a random jumble of words that sounded something like, “the dice have spoken!”, but Steve can’t be sure. Not with the sharp ringing still going off inside his skull.
“Steve? Steve! Oh thank fuck, Jesus H. Christ, you scared the ever loving shit out of me.” Eddie stood and grabbed at one of Steve’s shoulders, shaking him enough to elicit another wince.
“Oh, damn, sorry. I’m like a fucking bull in a china shop here, man. There’s way too much expensive, breakable shit here. I’m not used to it. I accidentally ripped your IV out the other day... Fuck. The nurses hate my guts.” Eddie chuckles, eyes wide and solely on Steve, talking like they were old friends or something.
But that can’t be right. Steve doesn’t remember saying more than two words to Eddie Munson during the entire time he knew he even existed, and even then it was just to discuss weed prices.
“For real though, talk to me Harrington, how you feelin’, hm? Loopy? Gonna yak again? Apparently they got you on the good stuff,” Eddie flicks a liquid filled bag hanging above Steve and shakes his head, “but they keep cutting you back. Dicks.”
Steve’s eyes try and follow Eddie’s erratic movements but his eyes ache the more he moves them. He blinks against the harsh fluorescents and tries to open his mouth. And thank God, Eddie Munson seems to take this as a sign and shut up.
“What happened?” Steve finally croaks.
One of Eddie’s brows jumps. “You don’t remember?”
Steve gives his head a small shake. Did Eddie hit him with his car or something? Is that why he’s sleeping at his bedside and talking to him like they’re buddies?
“You fell, Stevie.” Eddie makes a whistling noise and mimicks something falling with his hands, then makes a crashing sound when his hand lands on Steve’s bandaged head. “Like a coconut out of a tree. Landed right on that big ol’ melon of yours. There was blood everywhere. It scared the shit out of me and the kids. Especially when you wouldn’t wake up.”
Steve’s throat feels like sandpaper, but he manages to swallow, his throat clicking as he did, and gets out, “The kids?”
Eddie seems to notice, even before Steve can ask, and reaches for a water bottle with a straw already in it, and half chewed. Eddie’s own, no doubt. Against his better judgment, Steve accepts it when Eddie offers it to him. He was just so goddamn thirsty.
“Don’t worry, they’re all fine. They were just shaken up. I’ll radio the little gremlins and give ‘em the good news in a sec.” Eddie’s smile falters a little, seeming lost for words. Like he wants to say something, but can’t quite get it out.
Steve finishes swallowing his few, meager gulps of water before he asks, “What is it?”
“Don’t freak out—“ Eddie begins.
And, okay, that’s exactly the thing you tell someone before they freak the fuck out. Steve’s stomach is subject to a growing, sluggish panic. “What? Dude, tell me—“
“It’s your hair.” Eddie seems genuinely pained at having to deliver this crushing of a blow to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.
Steve can hear the beeping from the monitors he’s hooked up to begin to pick up speed as his heart begins racing. “My hair?”
“It’s okay! It’s okay, it’ll grow back! They just had to take a little bit off where the stitches went, you can hardest notice it—well, that’s a fucking lie, you could spot that landing strip from space—but I think if you part it to the other side it won’t look so… y’know.”
“No, dude, I don’t know.” Steve says, eyes wide, brows pinched.
“Like a drunk toddler took a pair of rusty kitchen shears to your mop.” Eddie says, huffing out a nervous sort of laugh.
Steve groans, half due to the bastardization that’s happened to his favorite feature, and half due to the migraine that’s looming on his horizon.
“You’re still pretty, Stevie, don’t worry.” Eddie grins, eyebrows raised, like he’s trying to be cute or something.
That weirdest part is, it’s kind of working.
Steve must have hit his head really, really hard.
The doctors eventually come in and perform all sorts of tests, and he tries his best to comply with them and jump through whatever hoops they make him jump through. He just wants to get the hell out of this hospital bed.
Unfortunately for him, Steve hadn’t exactly aced any of the tests.
In fact, he had failed most of them pretty fucking dismally. He couldn’t remember the date, who the president was, where he lived, couldn’t say the alphabet backwards… although, who the fuck can do that? He stands by that failing grade.
A couple of CAT scans later and it’s clear that Steve’s brain got smacked around a little more than they had originally thought.
Among a pile of other stuff, the thing that sticks out the most to Steve is his diagnosis of something called short term amnesia. They explain it like the past 2 to 3 years has just been wiped from his brain. The last clear thing he really remembers is getting the shit beat out of him by Billy, and then it all sort of gets jumbled. Fragmented. The doctors explain that this is pretty typical for head trauma patients.
He’s a head trauma patient, now.
It’s normal for memories of trauma to link, creating spiderwebs throughout your brain.
Which, that’s great. So when he gets beat up again, there’s always a chance his brain will try and erase his easy, happy years and revert back to a trauma default. Really helpful brain, thank you.
And the thing that sucks the most is that his years after the Billy beat down sound pretty great. Traumatizing, sure, but great. Once the Upside Down shit was locked up, with every scary nightmare fuel monster inside of it, life in Hawkins didn’t sound all that terrible.
He lived with Robin, who’s his best friend, (his ‘platonic soulmate’ even, as she explains it), he’s working a retail job, (also with Robin), and coaches the high school basketball team during the evenings. He’d even been talking with Hopper about joining the force.
Well, he was. Now he’s more or less useless, working full time at re-learning his life, along with a couple of fine motor skills that got glitchy after the fall.
And then there’s Eddie.
Eddie, who’s apparently also his best friend, only their soulmate link isn’t platonic at all.
The strange and weirdly exciting reality was that Steve Harrington had woken up from his 3-day medically induced coma with not only a full fledged relationship, but a boyfriend.
It’s a lot to digest, and part of him still doesn’t even know how to process it, but hearing the stories being told around him, seeing how Eddie is practically living in his and Robin’s two-bedroom apartment, and just… the way Eddie looks at him?
It’s with love—Steve can see it. Feel it. Eddie’s practically vibrating with it.
What’s even crazier is that when Steve looks at Eddie, he feels the exact same way.
It’s like looking at the stars. Steve’s heart skips a beat when those dark eyes of hit him, and Steve wants nothing more than to make Eddie smile—no, better than that, to make him laugh, just so he can watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob up and down and hear that manic, unhinged cackle. It’s downright delightful. Steve loves being in relationships like this, where it’s all consuming.
Steve may not have the memories of falling in love with Eddie, but he has all the feelings.
No one talks about it with Steve, of course. Maybe they think it’s going to be too heavy for him to process that he’s into dudes now, but Steve isn’t a big dumb baby. Sure, he’s got a pretty severe brain injury, and yeah, alright, it takes him a minute to remember people’s names sometimes, and he has a harder time controlling his emotions, but he isn’t a complete invalid. Only a little bit of one. He’s working on it, dammit.
And Eddie is so painfully, frustratingly patient with him. He never pushes. He’s clearly letting Steve retrieve his memories before he makes a move, because despite his whole outward appearance, Eddie Munson is a goddamn gentleman. He never so much as reaches for Steve’s hands, but Steve can tell by the way their pinkies graze when they watch movies late at night that he wants to.
Steve can tell by the way Eddie teases him, the way he’s there with him through his recovery, that he doesn’t ever make Steve feel stupid when he asks the same questions over and over again, when he cries at the drop of a hat or when he gets sort of confused about the lay out of his apartment—he doesn’t care about that of that.
Because he’s in love with Steve. It’s so painfully romantic, it brings a painful lump to Steve’s throat every time he thinks too much about it.
The two of them are driving to one of Steve’s therapy sessions, Eddie in the driver's seat, Steve in the passengers, listening to a low racket of some kind of heavy metal music. Eddie always keeps the volume low now, for Steve.
He’s just been so intensely good about everything that Steve needs to try and do something good for Eddie in return. He needs Eddie to know that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel that they’re both currently lost in.
“I’m sorry about this, y’know.” Steve says when they finally pull up the building that has ‘Brain Injury Recover Center’ written on the front. So all the boys and girls with scrambled eggs for brains know where to converge.
“Don’t worry about it, man. I work the evening shifts, remember? My days are free.” Eddie explains, and Steve wonders if he’s had to be told this bit of information a couple of times now. Sometimes it takes a few times before something sticks to his brain now. His short term memory is still majorly flighty. But no, Steve remembers that Eddie bartends at a local bowling alley most evenings. He’s gone a few times. Not to bowl, of course—too much hand eye coordination involved—but just to hang out with Eddie. He’s pretty decent at Ms. Pac-Man though.
Steve shakes his head. He knows his mind must have wandered because there’s been a lull where no one’s spoken. Eddie never seems to care about that though. “I don’t mean about the drive. I was talking about… y’know.”
“Wha’dy’mean?” Eddie mumbles as he backs into his parking space, hand on the back of Steve’s headrest.
Steve sighs and decides to just come out and say it: “I mean having your boyfriend forget everything about you and your relationship. I just… that must be really tough.”
Everything in Eddie Munson comes to a jarring halt, hand frozen over where he’s turned to ignition off.
It’s sort of unnerving—Eddie is always moving, fidgeting. Damn near bouncing off the walls. But now it’s like someone hit the poor guy with a freeze ray gun.
Steve chuckles softly as he reaches out and touches Eddie’s arm, giving him a playful jostle, to loosen him up a little, “it’s okay, Eddie. I know. You don’t have to keep going easy on me. I’m gay! Or, bi-sexual. Whatever.” Steve shrugs, “see? Not falling apart. I can handle being in love with another dude. You don’t need to keep babying me.”
The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a downturned smile that he seems to be trying to hide.
“I know, I know. Not just any dude.” Steve rolls his eyes, a smile still firmly on his face. He takes Eddie’s hand from the steering wheel, and Eddie seems to watch it go in a detached sort of awe. Steve wonders if Eddie’s proud of him for being so cool with it all. “In love with you.”
“Steve, I don’t think—
“Wait, just let me finish.” Steve asks, and Eddie blinks and works on closing his mouth. Knows it’s important to let Steve get his thoughts out quickly, lest they be lost to the giant black hole inside of his beat-up brain now. “I know that I don’t remember any of the important stuff with us. Our first date, or our first kiss or, y’know, any of our other first firsts. So maybe it feels like you’re cheating on the old Steve with me? But… Eddie, I know it’s crazy but even though my brain forgot all of the specifics; my heart didn’t. I look at you, and it’s all there. I’m still so into you, dude. I can feel it, even though I don’t remember how I got here. I’m in l—“
“Steve! Stevestevesteve wait, holy shit—!” Eddie’s eyes snap up from his intense stare at the place where their hands are linked. “Steve—”
“Yeah?” Steve prompts when Eddie doesn’t seem to be able to find the words. He runs his thumb gently over Eddie’s knuckles. It feels so nice to finally be able to hold his hand again. They fit together so well, and Steve wonders briefly if it’s some kind of muscle memory.
Eddie opens his mouth a few more times before he remembers how to make the words come out.
“Steve. Buddy. We’re… we’re not dating.”
Steve’s face falls, and he can feel a lump form in his throat, but he keeps a firm hold of Eddie’s warm hand in his own. “Yeah, I know, I know. We haven’t had any time to be a couple. And it’s probably been torture for you, man. You’re so busy taking care of me and making sure I don’t freak out over everything that you’ve clearly been neglecting your own hierarchy of needs.”
Eddie raises a brow.
Steve chuckles, “Shut up. It’s a therapy term.”
Eddie laughs in his throat. “Steve, you gotta slow down and listen to me.”
He turns his shoulders so that he’s fully facing Steve while he reaches his free hand over and tugs at one of his earlobes. “Got your hearing ears on?”
Steve rolls his eyes, but he nods just the same.
“We… we weren’t dating before your accident,” Eddie speaks slowly, his voice warm, gentle. “Hell, I didn’t even know you were, y’know, into dudes like that. Much less me.”
Something throbs dully behind Steve’s eyes. It’s the start of a migraine—the one that makes it hard to process much of anything. Steve squints, trying to make sense of what Eddie’s saying. “…you’re not my boyfriend?”
Eddie shakes his head very, very slowly. “No.”
Steve snatches his hand back like he’s only just now noticed how burning hot Eddie’s hand is.
He settles back in his seat, staring out the front window. The sounds from the outside world are muffled, and everything feels far away and sort of… Made up. Just like everything he’d imagined was going on between him and Eddie. Not real.
He feels painfully detached from reality. Unmoored. Maybe this was the disassociation thing the doctor mentioned might happen…
“Are you sure?” Steve asks, risking another glance over to Eddie, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him for a second.
“Pretty fuckin’ sure.” Eddie snorts.
“Oh, God. This is… I’m—sorry. I’m so stupid. Fuck, I gotta—“ Steve suddenly attacks the door handle with a clumsy fury that has his hand fumbling with the handle for way too long. Fucking busted up, bruised as fuck fucking brain-!
“Steve, it’s okay, dude,” Eddie says from behind Steve, but that’s easy for him to say; he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of his not-boyfriend, definitely-crush, possibly ex-friend—“Steve, wait!”
Steve flees the van on unsteady feet, not daring to look back.
Warning: like two more seconds of blood and then fluff and a bit of angst.
Summary: “Miss Bee, I think Mr. Harry needs help,” Niall said knowingly, teasingly, from his table where a little girl was helping Niall with the glitter that he wanted to add to his pumpkin. They both giggled conspiratorially. She snorted.
“I do not!” Harry glared at his friend then looked up at her with the most innocent, adorable face she had ever seen on a grown man. “Niall’s a tattle tale.”
“Miss Bee says there are no tattle tales in her class, Mr. Harry,” Tyler explained. “She said we have to think about if we need to tell her something first. There’s rules on the wall for it by the clock.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think Niall needed to tell on me,” Harry grumbled.
She was ready thirty-six minutes before Harry was supposed to show up. The anxiety she felt, even though he was there less than twenty-four hours prior, made her bouncy. Her knee was shaking as she sat on her sofa trying not to look at her phone for the twentieth time in the same minute to see that time was not moving any faster.
There was the thought to look in a mirror, but she feared she would ruin her hair for adjusting it too much. Or her makeup for thinking maybe one more swipe of eyeshadow would make her look better. Instead, she continued practically vibrating out of her seat in hopes that somehow Harry would get there faster.
She ignored her texts from Louis and Eleanor, both nearly giggling through their messages about being safe and using protection. She read over the itinerary her sister sent for wedding planning and when she got too overwhelmed, she switched gears to her weekly lesson plan. By then, only a mere nine minutes had passed. With how much she was tapping her foot, she thought that her floor was going to get a matching hole like her ceiling.
It felt like she had never been on a date before, and this was the first one. Maybe it was just the first one that actually mattered. Evan took her on dates of course, and in the early stages of their relationship, they were filled with excitement. But not like this. Everything moved so quickly with Evan. Dates, flowers, moving in, home repairs, and many events. By the end of their relationship, dates were extravagant, but almost always more of an event than spending time with one another.
Maybe it was worth waiting the agonizing twenty-four minutes that she still had to wait before Harry arrived.
Her phone pinged beside her. Harry’s name popped up and she felt her heart leap into her throat. Honestly, if he cancelled, she was going to be devastated. But she would of course understand.
I’m itching to come pick you up, Bird. Any chance you’re ready early? I’m only five minutes away from your place.
The wave of relief that flooded her made her feel two hundred times lighter. She laughed quietly to herself. Yes! I’m ready, I don’t want you to rush, but that would be great!
I’ve been sitting in my car for ten minutes and I just thought I couldn’t wait any longer. You’re sure you don’t mind?
Her heart did a somersault in her chest, and she thought she might explode from how cute he was. 🥰 No not at all. I’ve been a bit restless myself looking forward to our lunch.
😅 Good. I’ll see you in a minute, Bird.
Now she wished she had looked at her hair and makeup one more time. She paced her living room and fiddled with the pictures on the wall making sure they looked straight. Her eyes darted to the hole in her ceiling that Harry and Niall said they would fix next weekend once they were assured it was fully dried. They even went to her attic and set up a fan after breakfast yesterday to ensure the moisture wouldn’t accumulate mold. It made her heart skip a beat again to know he was willing to come help her in the middle of the night.
The knock on her door was expected but still surprised her anyway. She hurried over to the door trying not to sound like she was waiting right by the door. Harry stood on the step, a vase and accompanying flower arrangement in his hand. “Hi,” he grinned. “Y’look stunning,” he said scanning her up and down.
She thought she was going to melt right there in the doorway. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He held out the vase. “M’sister told me that getting your date flowers is nice, but s’a lot of work t’find a vase and take care of them right before y’supposed t’go out,” he smiled sheepishly.
She took the vase, inhaling the scent of the various flowers as she did. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”
“I didn’t know what kind of flowers y’liked so I kinda got one of each,” he admitted shyly.
She grinned. “I love it,” she nodded.
“The ceiling’s okay?” He asked.
She nodded again. “But… let’s not worry about it. I want to enjoy our date,” she bit the inside of her lip as she settled the vase on the small table just inside the doorway.
Harry’s smile grew somehow. It was astonishing. She was pretty sure if a lighthouse failed, they could use him instead. He leaned forward, cupping the side of her face and kissing her on the opposite cheek. Just a quick gentle brush of his lips against her skin. It made her feel warm all over, and she knew her cheeks probably turned pinker than the blush she used. If they did, Harry didn’t comment. He released her quickly. “Let’s go then,” he said holding his hand out for her to take (which she did quickly and enjoyed the way he squeezed her hand once he held it). Harry was dressed in dark jeans, a soft blue button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked so good, smelled better than the flowers he gave her, and she seriously thought about asking him if they could just stay on her couch so she could stare at him.
Harry opened the passenger door for her, making her heart tumble over itself once more. He closed her in and headed to the driver’s side. “I thought we’d go a town or two over jus’ so y’don’t run into any kids… unless y’want that. More witnesses and whatnot,” he winked.
She smiled. “No, that’s okay. I’d rather… keep you to myself for now,” she looked at her lap.
He chuckled quietly. “Works for me.”
*
Harry was fucked. He was worried he was staring at her too much. But then he was worried he was trying to avoid looking at her too much and seemed disinterested. Which was not the case. Harry was almost certain no one could be more interested on a date than the pretty girl sitting across from him. She was looking over the menu, not a particularly fancy place, but there were cloth napkins. Gemma said that a cloth napkin always classed up the date a bit.
Her eyes roamed the menu, her lips pursed in concentration. Harry was enthralled. The way her lashes framed her eyes, the curve of her smile, the wrinkle of her nose when she saw something she didn’t like. “Have you been here before?” She asked.
He shook his head quickly, getting himself to stop staring. “I’ve ordered take out after a job not too far from here.”
She nodded. “It looks really good, thanks for picking. I promise I won’t talk about teaching the whole time, but sometimes I get decision fatigue. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it, but basically, I make a lot of decisions all day long—for a lot of people. Decisions I don’t even realize I’m making. Picking what to eat is so exhausting sometimes that I don’t even make dinner and just have snacks,” she admitted with a smile.
That worried Harry, of course. He wanted to make her dinner all the time and not let her worry about it. “What d’you like t’eat?” He asked.
She smiled. “Oh, I’m not too picky, really. The butternut squash ravioli sounds really good, and it comes with bread. I’ll probably get brussels sprouts too.”
Once more Harry forgot that he was supposed to uphold his end of the conversation. She made her lunch choice sound like an acceptance speech for an award. “Hey Bird?” He asked quietly.
“Hmm?” She looked up.
“Y’can talk ‘bout teaching as much as y’want. M’not gonna get sick of it,” he promised.
She ducked her gaze to the menu again and smiled sadly. “Oh,” she laughed softly. “Thank you,” appreciation dripping in her voice as she looked up at him with an almost confused gaze. “I’m afraid it’s a pretty big part of my life and conversation.”
“Good,” he shrugged one shoulder. “I like hearing about it,” he promised with a grin.
*
The conversation flowed very easily. They discussed favorites and movies. She offered some of her Brussels sprouts to Harry and he gave her a handful of his French fries when she said they looked really good. He chuckled when she dipped them into the cream sauce that surrounded her ravioli. “It’s good, you should try it.”
It was good. But he still found it funny.
They chatted about their families. Gemma and her baby, his mum, and her family, who were all thoroughly invested in planning this wedding for her sister. “She picked my other sister to be maid of honor, but I’m doing a lot of the work,” she sighed.
“How come?” He asked.
“Because I’m crafty,” she shrugged. “I get roped into making all the stuff for her bachelorette trip—that I’m not going on because it’s during the school year—and I don’t know. She has this vision for the wedding to have some elaborate archway and I stupidly volunteered to make it.”
He smiled. “Do y’have a picture of it?” He asked.
When she went on dates with Evan, phones were nearly a necessity. She didn’t mind, really. They helped keep the conversation going. She would look up things to talk about and show off pictures of her classroom. Not that Evan cared about her classroom. He used his phone to conduct business even while on their date. Check on the score of a game or the like. But it was a little astonishing that she realized she had nearly forgotten she owned a phone until Harry asked for a picture.
“Oh, yeah,” she pulled her phone from her purse and searched through the pictures of the wedding album she created for her sister. “She’s getting married in June, which is also kind of crazy with the end of the school year. But,” she sighed. “It is what it is.”
Harry looked at the archway. It was pretty. Didn’t seem particularly complicated. “What are y’worried about?” He asked.
“Well, building it.”
“Building it?” He repeated.
“Yes. Because purchasing it would be too easy,” she rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t complain. It’s not that bad, I’m just busy a lot of time and it’s going to be difficult because I need to get the right tools and—” she stopped. “I sound like an awful sister, don’t I?”
“No, not at all,” he shook his head. “S’a big endeavor t’do on your own. But… I have plenty of tools,” he assured her. “And I’ll help you,” he promised. “It’ll go a lot faster and smoother with two people.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. “Really?” She asked.
What the hell was her ex like that she didn’t feel like she could ask for help? “Yes, really,” he smiled. “S’easy m’sure.”
“Thank you,” she said so graciously, Harry thought his heart was going to melt onto the floor of the restaurant.
“At y’service Miss Bird,” he winked.
Their waiter came back to take their dishes, offered dessert which they declined. “Kitten, put your money away. S’useless here,” he shook his head putting his card into the check presenter. She blushed.
“You don’t have—”
“M’not having this discussion,” he shook his head. “S’no bother. M’happy y’wanted t’come out with me. I know you’re busy and m’taking up precious time on your weekend.”
She hadn’t thought about anything that usually plagued her mind when she was doing something enjoyable. She didn’t think about her lesson plans, the wedding, nor Christmas gifts she wanted to start buying. The only thing she could think about was how nice her time with Harry was when he looked so handsome and couldn’t stop staring at her. “I’d rather be here,” she assured him.
He smiled. “Good.”
*
Before they went into the restaurant, she recognized her surroundings and offered her two cents. “There’s a really good ice cream place nearby if you want to get dessert after,” she said. “Since it’s fall, they have this apple sundae special that’s super yummy.”
Harry put a hand on the small of her back as he ushered her back to his car. “Y’have room for ice cream?”
She nodded. “I always have room for ice cream,” she grinned.
He chuckled. “Ice cream it is.” They sat inside the little shop eating their ice creams. Hers, the small apple sundae she spoke about, and his, a cup of mint chocolate chip with hot fudge. “This is really good ice cream,” he nodded taking another spoonful. She ginned to herself, watching a drip of hot fudge get stuck to the bottom of his chin.
She bit her lip and grabbed a napkin between them. “May I?” She asked reaching out to his face. He smirked and she dabbed his skin.
He grabbed her hand when she was finished, made her drop the napkin to the table and he scooped her hand into his and smirked. “You look like a whole bouquet, Bird,” he scanned her again.
A puddle. She was certain her insides turned to mush, and she was no longer solid but liquid on the floor of the ice cream shop. She felt so warm she thought the heat she was producing would melt her sundae into the puddle of her organs on the floor.
“A bouquet?” She questioned.
“Prettiest bouquet I’ve ever seen.”
“I think I’m going to melt,” she whispered.
“Y’can’t melt when I haven’t even kissed y’yet,” he didn’t move his eyes from hers. A small gasp escaped her lips. “M’going t’melt as well,” he squeezed her hand. “Thought ‘bout kissing you yesterday. Well, ‘ve actually been thinking ‘bout kissing you since I met you,” he admitted with a smirk. “But y’really gave me a scare on the roof,” he reminded her.
The sight of her up there in the rain, not knowing what to do, terrified him. When he yelled, he didn’t think about her reaction—didn’t think it would send her over the edge of her home and nearly fall. Cradling her, no matter how briefly, felt like heaven. Despite the circumstances. Regardless of if it was raining and at one in the morning. Even though his heart felt like it was in his throat and his stomach twisted with worry.
All Harry wanted to do was wrap her up in his arms, a blanket, anything, and hold her for as long as possible.
“Will you be kissing me when you drive me home?” She asked.
“Would that be okay?” He squeezed her hand.
Would it be okay if the hottest man she’d ever seen kissed her? Yeah. She’d be okay. She nodded. “Very okay.”
*
She felt her hands nearly shake as she opened the door. Harry stood a few feet away; his hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced around the front of her house. “The door sticks a little,” she warned.
“I could look at that,” he offered.
She gave it a little shove and pushed inside. Harry watched the skirt of her dress flutter with the movement, and she stepped into the doorway. Harry helped her get her coat off and hung up on her coat rack. “Do you want—”
Harry grabbed her by the hips, then turned her so her back was against the wall adjacent to the door that he kicked shut. He put his hand behind her head protectively as he pushed her. Once safely against the wall, he brought one hand to her face, the other on her waist. He gazed at her, his nose almost touching hers. His breath smelled like mint chocolate chip ice cream and hot fudge.
She hoped she smelled like apples and not pasta or garlic. “M’pretty bouquet,” he hummed and brushed the back of his finger along her cheek. He wasn’t kidding about melting. And he still hadn’t kissed her yet. But was she breathing heavy? Panting? Like she had run a marathon? She thought she might lose her mind a little if he prolonged this. “This was the best date of m’life,” he brushed his thumb along her lower lip. “Can we have another?” He asked.
She nodded. “Please,” she breathed.
He grinned, nodded to himself happily. “M’gonna kiss you now, kitten. M’gonna make y’melt,” he promised.
“I’m sure,” her voice was hardly anything more than a whisper.
He smiled, leaned the final inch in, and covered her lips with his. She thought she was going to be embarrassed and moan but instead Harry beat her to it. And it was anything but embarrassing. She breathed out as he moved his mouth over hers, applying the most perfect amount of pressure.
An expert at fixing desks, a roof, and kissing. She should have known. His hand tangled in the back of her hair and brought her closer to him. His lips were soft and firm. A tantalizing, oxymoronic pressure that made her feel like her legs were going to give out. She grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt in each hand. He licked and nipped at her, deepening the kiss. The hand at her waist shifted south, rubbing her hip, her leg through the skirt of her dress.
Harry moaned again, pulled away and dropped his lips to her jaw and he kissed down toward her ear, moved to her throat and brushed his lips against her collarbone. “Mm,” he sighed. “So good, Bird. So, so good,” he whispered into her skin. “Can I?” He asked, his hands drifting further south.
“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly. “Anything you want.”
He chuckled quietly; the air tickled her skin as he did. Slowly, he dropped his hands to cup around the side of her thighs, still politely over her skirt. He groaned. “So pretty, m’pretty Bird,” he slowly lifted until she was off the floor, her legs wrapped around his waist. “Don’t want y’melting all over the floor,” he murmured into her neck.
She didn’t care that her skirt rode up her hips and her underwear was probably showing. She hoped she picked a cute pair; that Harry would like her even if she wore comfy underwear too. “Mmm,” her hands moved to his shoulders, the back of his neck pulling him closer and wishing he could sink deeper into his mouth, his body, everything. She pushed away from the wall, nearly grinding into him as she wrapped herself tightly around him. She moaned softly, Harry groaning again in response as he pushed her back against the wall, her leg hitting against the table inside the entry way. Immediately, her pretty flowers and vase toppled to the ground and shattered.
Harry pulled away and sighed. “S’what I get for trying t’make y’life easier,” he smirked, kissed her cheek. “I’ll clean it up.”
“I could give two fucks about that,” she told him, her lips only a breath away from his. “Keep kissing me,” she begged.
He laughed again, brushed his nose against hers, “M’at your service, Miss Bee,” he whispered before parting her lips with his again.
*
She felt like she was floating at work. The little ones were all very excited about Halloween, their sand-witch party and everything. She wasn’t on top of her game because all she could think about was the hot construction worker just a short walk away from her. Her eyes drifted to the window. She wouldn’t be able to see him of course, but just the thought of him got her melting all over again.
It was a miracle she could sleep after Harry left her. The smile on her sore lips—she hadn’t felt sore from kissing since… well… ever—her mind spun with hundreds of thoughts all about Harry. Not a single lesson nor a bridal shower game entered her brain last night. The only thing she could think about was Harry.
Good morning, Miss Bee
She woke up to the text as her alarm rang for six o’clock. The time stamp said that Harry had been up for at least an hour. Biting her lip, she texted back. Good morning ☀️
Sleep well? He asked almost instantly.
Her heart skipped a beat. Yes, you?
Hard falling asleep when yesterday was so nice 😍
Agreed 🥰 I gotta get ready. See you at recess, maybe? I’ll be wearing blue and a head or two taller than the little ones.
Can’t wait, bird.
However, now she couldn’t find him through the window, and she had a class to tend to. But her lips still felt sore, and she couldn’t help but smile as she focused on the kindergarteners in front of her. “Did we all have a good weekend?” She asked as they moved to the carpet for another installment of Charlotte’s Web.
“Miss Bee, I tolded my mom that I want to be a construction worker when I growed up.”
She giggled. “Told and grown, my love,” she reminded Kai sweetly. “Are you going to dress up like one on Wednesday for our party?”
He nodded. “Mr. Harry is bringing me a hat and a vest,” he explained.
“Is he now?” She smiled.
“Yes. I asked him at recess.”
“Hmm,” she hummed. “That’s very nice of him. Maybe we’ll have to write him a thank you note, yeah?”
But she also thought she could thank him in other ways.
The kindergarteners didn’t need to know about that though.
*
Harry was sitting in a chair much too small for him. He happily cut up paper, glued, and drew with children that she loved so much.
Niall and he were eating sandwiches that were also much too small for them, and they still had a few hours of grueling work to do once they left the party.
But they didn’t bat an eye at the situation. They looked like they were enjoying themselves even. Every so often Niall would get up in his ketchup costume and inspect something amiss around her room, catching Harry’s eye. There was a nod from Harry, a silent conversation taking place about the problems in her room that he seemed to be keeping on a mental to-do list.
One thing that she noticed, it was really nice to have a few extra sets of hands in her room for the day. With twenty students using scissors and glue it was bound to get a little crazy.
“Miss Bee, Mr. Niall put four triangles on his pumpkin!” Janie said in excitement.
“No way!” She gasped.
Not that she didn’t believe Kai, but Harry did bring little hard hats and vests (with an Under Construction logo on the back) for the five students that said they wanted to be construction workers. He stopped by her classroom yesterday after school let out and he had a box in his hands and a sheepish smile on his lips. “I didn’t want t’be empty handed for the kids that aren’t planning t’be in the construction business.”
She blinked back tears as she inspected the package of vests and accessories of a variety of jobs. “Harry,” she said softly. “This is too much. It must have cos—”
“Probably a tenth of what y’spend on them in one year, bird. Don’t worry ‘bout it. ‘Ve spent m’money on a lot worse than the future,” he assured her.
She dropped the box between their feet and threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. He chuckled as he pushed the box out of the way with his foot and lifted her gently as he squeezed her back.
“Miss Bee, I think Mr. Harry needs help,” Niall said knowingly, teasingly, from his table where a little girl was helping Niall with the glitter that he wanted to add to his pumpkin. They both giggled conspiratorially. She snorted.
“I do not!” Harry glared at his friend then looked up at her with the most innocent, adorable face she had ever seen on a grown man. “Niall’s a tattle tale.”
“Miss Bee says there are no tattle tales in her class, Mr. Harry,” Tyler explained. “She said we have to think about if we need to tell her something first. There’s rules on the wall for it by the clock.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think Niall needed to tell on me,” Harry grumbled.
“Miss Bee says it’s only a need if it’s a matter of safety.”
“This is not a matter of safety,” Harry muttered bitterly.
She giggled, which made his whole body feel warm and he wondered how on earth he could be so obsessed with someone’s laugh after just a few short weeks. It felt like a bad day if he didn’t hear it. “Miss Bee, can I have the broom?” Amara asked. She tugged on Miss Bee’s costume, a tulle green skirt, a matching headband with two wire pieces that had big M&M’s bouncing from side to side, and a green M&M shirt. The class giggled at her when she changed into it (put it over top of her leggings and white sweater dress.
“Of course, thank you for being so thoughtful to keep your space clean, Amara,” she praised so the others could hear and hopefully help with clean up when the sand-witch party was over.
She went to the side of the room where she kept the cleaning supplies in a cabinet closet. However, when she pulled the door open it fell right off the old hinges. She yelped as it hit her foot and face at the same time. Her free hand went to her nose instinctively, and she lost her grip of it with her other hand but still tried to stop it as it toppled toward the tables.
The little ones screamed a bit dramatically, but Niall and Harry jumped right into action, grabbing it before it hit anyone else or caused any (more) damage.
“Are you alright?” Harry asked quickly, putting a hand on her hip innocently enough and scanning her from head to toe.
“Ah,” she shook her head and moved her hand to find that naturally she had given herself a nosebleed. “Fuck,” she whispered so no one could hear but Harry.
“We can fix it!” The little ones that had on their hard hats were ready to go to work with Niall and Harry even though they were dressed as ketchup and mustard.
“Oh Miss Bee! You’re bleeding!” DJ was dressed as a doctor, a stethoscope at the ready thanks to Harry’s kind gift.
She winced. It felt like defeat showing weakness. “I’m alright, my love. I just need to use the restroom to clean myself up.”
“I can help too!” Brayden said. He was dressed as a nurse, with a mask on his face ready to help out as well.
Harry crouched to the future medical professionals. “I think Miss Bee jus’ needs minute t’herself,” he whispered. “When she comes out, I bet she’ll let you look her over so y’can give her a clean bill of health,” he winked.
They both nodded with understanding and headed back to their tables. Harry grabbed a few tissues and ushered her back toward the bathroom. He wanted to close the door for the sake of her privacy and he really wanted to tend to her the way he wanted to, but he was sure that would look very bad in front of twenty, nosy kindergarteners who loved their adorable teacher.
“Are you okay?” He asked softly as she washed the blood off her hands and face while trying to maintain composure in front of the guy that she had a massive crush on while dressed like an M&M and a nose pouring blood like a faucet.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered.
He snorted. “For what? M’dressed as mustard,” he reminded her.
She smiled and winced at the pain it cause in her face. She shook her head. “The door landed on my foot,” she said. Harry crouched to the floor immediately. He took her ballet flat off like a reverse Cinderella and he still made her feel like princess. He brushed his fingers over her skin, and she hissed.
“S’a little scraped. We’ll have t’bandage y’up with your doctor and nurse,” he said from the ground while smiling up at her so cutely. A dumb, triangular cone on his head for his costume.
She already knew she was already falling hard for him, but she was almost certain she was going to tell a man dressed as a mustard bottle that she loved him in a kindergarten bathroom while she was wearing an M&M headband. She smiled again, holding a wad of tissues to her nose.
“Did it break y’nose?” He asked standing back up and skimming his fingertips along her cheek and tilting his head to get a better look to see if he missed some initial bruising.
She shook her head. “No… I just… I get nose bleeds very easily. I breathe too hard, and I start bleeding,” she sighed. “Sorry, that’s gross.”
“S’not gross, Bird,” he chuckled. “Jus’ making sure you’re alright.”
“I’m good. Thanks for getting me a minute to myself. We should probably go save Niall.”
“Niall’s fine, m’sure,” he promised. “If y’need another minute, I can go back out there with him.”
She wondered what the worst that could happen if she got caught kissing him during school hours.
“Mr. Harry,” fortunately they were interrupted by Milo before she could test any hypothesis. “Is Miss Bee going to die?”
He chuckled. “No, lad. M’thinking she’ll make it. We’re gonna check in with Dr. DJ and Nurse Brayden though,” he nodded and ushered the little one back toward the classroom. “Mr. Niall, y’think our little crew can help us repair the door?” He asked brightly. There was a chorus of cheers while she bit her lip.
“Miss Bee,” Zara whispered as she entered the classroom again. Zara was dressed as a baseball player which she loved more than most of the costumes she saw that day for a lot of different reasons. “Do you think you’re going to marry Mr. Harry?”
She smirked. “Are you trying to spread rumors about me, my love?” She asked with a giggle.
“No,” she giggled and put her hand on her mouth. “But I think you and Mr. Harry make a really cute couple. Like Lady and the Tramp or Delores and Mariano.”
She laughed. “Well, Mr. Harry and I are just friends,” she didn’t want the little ones knowing any of her private business when they were as involved with Harry as they currently were around the playground.
Niall returned from the outside entrance carrying a screw gun, a box of screws and few other items. “Guys and gals,” she moved over to where the group of five waited patiently with Harry and she crouched to their level. “Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall are being really nice to show you how to fix this. You have to listen to them very carefully. We’re not going to argue over who hands screws to them or ignore them if they say to let go or ask you to move out of the way, correct?” She eyed them seriously all in turn, all while keeping a tissue pressed to her nose.
“Yes, Miss Bee,” they sang in unison.
“They’re all yours, boys,” she gestured while standing up. “A good crew if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Thanks Miss Bee,” Niall pulled the trigger on the screw gun twice and Harry winked at her.
“Miss Bee can Brayden and me look you over now?”
“Brayden and I, my love,” she said gently with a nod. “Let’s go sit on the carpet, yeah?”
Harry smiled as she passed by him again brushing his hand along her back quickly and not even looking at her as he turned his attention back to Niall and his lesson of screw gun safety.
*
The sand-witch party was a huge success. She was already thinking of ways to make it better for the following year. Part of her was sad that Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall would likely be at a new job site. She wondered how that would change the dynamic of the party. Or if she was reading into it too much since it was a party for kindergarteners.
But once she got going it was hard to stop. There were so many learning targets she got to roll into one fun event. There were fine motor skills like gluing and using scissors, there was shapes, and prior to ketchup and mustard’s arrival, they wrote three sentences about the future career they had chosen and why they wanted it.
Harry and Niall said their goodbyes, took their pumpkins and some leftover sand-witches. “Who thinks the hexagon tasted best?” Niall asked as he bit into another one at the door. The class giggled at him, and they all shouted out their favorites and making a lot of noise while they waited expectantly for their departure. “Oops, sorry Miss Bee,” he said sheepishly.
She shrugged and smiled. “Zip it, lock it,” she said a little louder than normal.
“Put it in your pocket!” Then it was silent.
“That’s wicked,” Harry said almost dreamily. Niall snorted and hit his hand against Harry’s chest.
“Take it easy,” Niall muttered under his breath as he passed him to head back outside.
“All my friends love to thank Mr. Harry and Mr. Niall for coming to our party and hanging out with us!”
“Thank you!” The choir of six-year-olds cheered.
“See you later alligators,” Harry winked at them and waved as he and Niall stepped outside the room.
“In a while crocodile!” They all shouted back excitedly.
"Bye Miss Bird!" He practically cooed. He hoped the kids didn't notice but even if they did, he was having trouble caring.
“You’re an absolute goner,” Niall snickered as they headed back toward their job site. “Obsessed. In love,” he continued pulling the red ketchup hat cone off his head.
Harry smiled. “Mm, that obvious, hmm?”
Niall chuckled. “Think she’s a bit smitten too,” he said. “No one in their right mind would have sided with you about me being a tattle tale if they didn’t like you that much,” he reminded him and flicked his cheek before running ahead toward the jobsite again.
“You’re acting like a kindergartener!” Harry shouted.
“I know you are but what am I!?”
*
The remainder of the day was a little rowdy. Fun, learning got done, but she was very excited for the day to be over and very excited that there was a professional development day without her sugary students following Halloween night.
“See you all Friday!” She said cheerfully as her students scattered toward the busses and cars in the lot for pick up. She stood at her post outside where she always did, waving and grinning at former students, coworkers, and even a few parents as they tried to sneak out before the fleet of busses.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry at the fence, waving from afar, to those that knew who he was as well. “Miss Bee,” Milo tugged on her skirt as they all got ready for dismissal. She crouched next to him and smiled happily.
“Yes, my love? What can I do for you?”
“My uncle is picking me up today,” he smiled excitedly.
“Oh yeah? Is he taking you trick or treating?”
He nodded excitedly, his little construction hat bobbling back and forth. “Do you want to meet him?” He asked shyly.
“Of course, Milo,” she grinned. “I have to tell him what a great reader you’re becoming and how good you are at line leading,” she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He took her hand and pulled her toward the exit. As they approached the end of the bus port, she had a better view of Harry. His coworkers booking it out before they got stuck behind busses but not him. She felt a smile twinge on her lips as she waved goodbye to other little ones that wanted her attention.
“Well, hello there.”
She nearly froze in her tracks. Her gaze snapped forward at the sound of his voice. Milo’s hand released hers and he launched himself forward at the man before her. “Careful of your shoes on my clothes, buddy,” he chuckled. “Funny seeing you here,” he ruffled Milo’s hair and winked at her.
“This is Miss Bee,” Milo introduced.
“Miss Bird, I thought,” he continued smiling at her. But it felt like she was watching a documentary of a safari. She felt like a gazelle completely at the disadvantage.
“Miss Bee is a nickname,” Milo explained.
She must have looked like a goldfish, her mouth opening and closing trying to find the words. A deer in headlights if there ever was one. “So you’re the famous Miss Bee,” he chuckled. Like it was a private joke that only he knew the punchline too.
For a moment, she forgot she was a teacher. A member of the town community with a reputation she needed to uphold. She wanted to run away. Or slap him across the face. Yank Milo out of his arms and take him home with her instead. There was no way she could let sweet, little Milo out trick-or-treating with the likes of his uncle. But instead, she mustered as much strength as she did when she wasn’t feeling well, when she was exhausted, or when her life outside the classroom was falling apart and she was expected to continue smiling in front of her little group of young minds. She plastered a smile on her face and pretended everything was fine as she finally spoke, “Evan.”
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The Hunter & The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader
Description: It’s all led up to this.
Warnings: Cannon violence, “daddy” used only(!) in the context of a joke, mentions of past abuse/ child abuse, angst, major cannon death, cannon divergence, things get so crazy we shift POV’s at least twice
Word Count: 9.8k
All Hell Breaks Loose
(Masterlist, Prev Chapter, Outfit)
The Impala rolls into the parking lot of “Sunnyside Diner,” standing out amongst the landscape of trees, tucked in off the side of the road—the only building and food option for miles.
“Don’t forget the extra onions this time, okay?” Dean says, forking over a couple of bills from his wallet.
“You’re kinda like our Sugar Daddy,” I remark, taking his money.
He chuckles, smirking devilishly. “I-“
“Dean,” Sam cuts him off firmly from the backseat. “If you make a ‘daddy’ joke, I will kick your seat the entire drive.”
His smile drops. “Well, just don’t forget ‘em, alright?”
“Dude, we’re the ones who’re gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions,” Sam grumbles, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he gets out of the car.
“Alright, brb,” I chirp, quickly pecking Dean’s cheek before joining Sam outside the car.
“Hey, see if they’ve got any pie,” Dean shouts out the window. “Bring me some pie!”
“Okay!” I yell back, waving at him.
“He’s not getting those onions,” Sam declares beside me.
“He’s going to know,” I point out, laughing as I open the door for him. “Then pout the whole time, and hold it against us for the next month.”
“You’re the one that kisses him,” he counters, getting in line, which luckily isn’t very long.
“That's what gum is for, and you're in the back seat anyway,” I reason, falling in line beside him.
The diner bustles with life, cutlery scraping together, footsteps pattering against the vinyl floor, waitresses walking around and taking orders.
The person in front of us moves off to the side, taking a seat at the island, hands folded in front of him. Sam steps forward, smiling politely at the waiter as they make small talk.
“So, what can I get for you?” the waiter asks, notepad raised.
“Can I have a—“
Black splotches dance across my vision, the floor suddenly closer than it was before. My cheek slams against the vinyl tiles, my teeth chattering together. Eyes barely open, I pick my head up but an inch off the ground, watching blood that is not mine pool across the floor, dripping down booths and counters. Head too heavy, my body gives out, collapsing finally into sweet darkness.
Slowly, I blink, blurred colors forming into solid shapes. The floor is cold and dirty, the whole room is. There’s a window on the far wall, covered up by a tarp and wooden planks.
The world rights itself as I push myself up to sit, my head pulsing like I got hit over the head with a printer. Geez.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I press my hand into the side of my forehead, squinting at the room around me. It looks like an old warehouse. How the hell did I get to a warehouse?
The diner. The blood.
What the hell happened?
So, despite the molten pain scattering across my head like a turning hourglass, I try to push myself to my feet. But immediately, I’m pulled right back down, tripping and landing hard on my knees.
“Fuck!” I grumble, looking down at my restraints. Thick metal cuffs surround my wrists, chaining me to a tall pillar.
“What th—“
This is starting to make less and less sense. Something spikes in my heart, screaming warnings. Iron. That’s why my head still hurts.
Emptiness.
Nothing flowing through my veins. Nothing to call on.
I exhale slowly, trying to make sense of this before I start screaming or erupt into anxious tears. Okay. Start from the beginning.
But then there’s metal scraping against metal; something heavy being pushed open. Then, footsteps pattering across the floor.
Wait.
Not footsteps.
No.
Boots scoffing across the floor. Heavy, lugging around. Dragging.
I feel the color leave my face, my body freezing, bones stiffening up as if hardening can lessen the inevitable blow.
The figure comes into view, turning the corner, shadows cast over his face. My vision seems to zero in, locking in on the impossible. He steps further into the dim lighting, standing just at the edge of darkness, smiling wickedly.
“…Dad?” I whisper, voice breaking pathetically.
“‘You miss me, kiddo?” he chuckles, words ringing in my head.
My hands shake in their confines, tears welling up in my eyes all by themselves. I shake my head, blink hard, try everything to right this wrong.
It’s not possible.
I have to be drugged—have to be hallucinating. Or maybe I’m dying. Or maybe I’ve finally died for good, and this is Hell. Or it’s a trick of the light. A trick, yes. Because he’s dead.
He died years ago. He got himself killed. We burned his body out to sea. He’s dead. Gone. That's what Dean had said too. Gone. He can’t hurt me because he’s gone. And yet he’s standing right there.
Real.
“Do you like my new toy?” Someone else asks. A different voice—a different person tucked into the corner.
I don’t dare turn my head away from him, worrying that looking away will make him come closer or make him angry.
But I hear the footsteps of that other person coming closer, coming out of the shadows.
I have questions on the tip of my tongue, but under his watchful eyes I feel small again. Three feet tall. A kid.
“I can taste your fear,” the other purrs, stepping into my line of sight. Roughly, he grabs at my jaw, forcing my head back, eyes on him. His eyes are pitch black, a demon. Great. But in every other way I don’t recognize this guy. He’s some innocent who got possessed.
“Look, I’ll make this real simple,” he continues, nails digging into my flesh until I react. “Big things are going down, ‘boss needs you outta the way. ‘Can’t have the guard dog messing up business.”
Guard dog.
There’s really only one person who referred to me as that.
The Yellow-Eyed Demon.
Eyes widening, I lunge forward, pushing against my restraints.
“You touch the Winchesters, and I swear to God I’ll scalp every one of you sons of bitches,” I spit, teeth barred like the dog they think I am.
The blood in the diner. It wasn’t mine. But maybe it was Sam’s. Or the innocent people eating there. Maybe they took Sam and Dean.
“Feisty,” he chuckles. “I like that in a woman.”
“Fuck you!”
“Don’t worry, they’ll have what’s coming to ‘em, and so will you,” he continues, grinning so wide it’s like his jaw might fall right off. Maybe it should. “‘Gave every hunter out there your location, well, except that boy toy of yours.”
Dean's alive then. That slip-up alone lifts some weight off my shoulders.
“Soon, they’ll all be here, lookin’ for you. It’ll be their first witch hunt in centuries. How nice,” he mocks playfully. “That is, if Dean doesn’t find you first.”
“Well, Dean isn’t coming. He isn’t an idiot,” I seethe. I don’t want him to come. Don’t want him to fall for this trap. Especially when he should be finding Sam instead.
“No?” he smiles, eyes dipping down my face, my neck, landing on my tits. “Fine pussy like yours? Mm, I know he’ll come runnin’.”
My skin crawls, and I’m sure if it could, it’d curl in on itself. I wish it would. But Dean has to assume Sam and I aren’t together, and he has to believe I can handle myself. His focus needs to be elsewhere.
“But just in case,” he continues. “Well…this is where my friend comes in.”
He forces my head to the side, eyes landing back on my Dad.
“What is he?” I mutter because the alternative is believing he is alive somehow.
Then, strangely, he seems to animate to life, responding only because he was spoken to.
“Aw, c’mon, you really don’t recognize your dear ol’ daddy?” My Dad, or not-Dad, says.
I stare at him harder like it’ll make him disappear or reveal a secret zipper. All the while, I hear Dean’s voice in my head:
“It was a nightmare, baby. He can’t hurt you. He’s gone.”
Yes, a nightmare. This could certainly be a nightmare.
“He’s dead,” I answer, Dean’s words overlapping with mine. It keeps me sane.
I wish Dean were here.
“Smart girl, ‘figured that one out quick,” the other man says. “You're right, he is dead. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”
My not-Dad takes two steps forward; naturally, I flinch, pulling back against the hand on my jaw.
I prove his point.
I’m sorry, Dean, I’m not as brave as I should be.
“Thought so,” the man smiles, letting my face go abruptly. He stands straight, backing up a couple of feet. “See, I know Dean will come, because you’re gonna give him a sign.”
“Like hell I am,” I scoff.
“Oh, trust me, you will,” he growls. “You just can’t help yourself. ‘Just like all those years ago.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your time before Kansas,” he smiles.
I stare at him, the cogs in my mind turning through the catalogue that is my memory.
The corn field? Is that what he means? Must be.
“I was a kid. I was playin’ around, and I messed up,” I reason, though I couldn’t tell you why I’m defending myself to a demon of all people—of all beings.
“Did you?” he challenges.
Did I? What kind of question was that? Of course I did. Why would I intentionally destroy a crop field?
“You’re a low-life demon, and you’re cryptic? Can you pick a goddamn struggle?” I spit.
“Oh, I’m really going to enjoy watching this,” he laughs. He steps all the way to the side, leaving nothing in the way of my not-Dad.
I don’t know what this thing is. I don’t know how it looks like him, but God does it look like him. His eyes hardened, pure hatred burning in his irises like they did every time he looked at me. It had become his constant state of being after Mom died.
He lugs forward, his movement stiff, unlike how he used to be. It’s more proof this isn’t him. I know it isn’t him. But my heart and body betray me, falling back to its childish ways.
I scramble back on my hands and feet, struggling against the chains around my wrists. He keeps coming. I back myself into the pillar, spine pressing deep into the solid structure.
My hands shake, rising up in defense as his fist comes down.
********
Frustration boils in his veins, his fists pressed to the hood of the Impala. If he didn’t care about the car so much, he probably would’ve engraved his fists into the metal.
The two people he cares most about disappear mere feet away from him, and the only goddamn hint he has is the sulfur he found at the diner. It’s a demon, great. But that means nothing when he doesn’t know where the hell you two are.
“This is it. All demonic signs and omens over the past month,” Bobby says, leaning over a map of America. Dean had called him right away, he didn’t know what else to do.
“Are you joking?” He scoffs, looking at the normal map, no markings on it to be found. “There’s nothing here.”
“Exactly,” Bobby reasons.
Dean shakes his head, there can’t be nothing.
“Well, come on, there’s gotta be something. What about the-the normal, low-level stuff? You know, exorcisms, that kind of thing.”
“That’s what I’m telling you: there’s nothing,” Bobby emphasizes. “It’s completely quiet.”
“Well, how the hell are we supposed to look for Sam and Y/N?” Dean retorts. “What, do we just close our eyes and point?”
********
Warmth spills down my nose, blood dripping onto the floor in fat drops. I don’t really feel his punches or kicks anymore.
Well, that’s a lie; I do.
Pain erupts across my ribs, my face, my stomach. I think my nose is broken. I can’t breathe except out of my mouth in gasping heaps, cheek pressed to the concrete. But, as I said, I don’t really feel the pain anymore because I’m not really there. I’m elsewhere.
I’m back at home, face pressed to the wooden floors, crying into the rug until my brother comes storming out of his room or into the house, jumping in front of me, taking the worst of his anger.
But my brother isn’t here. No one is coming to save me.
I can’t fight. Not because I don’t know how, not even because my wrists are confined. But because I just…can’t. Not against him.
My head cracks against the concrete, my vision twirling and spotting. I scream, the floor echoing it back to me, blood pooling from my mouth.
I think I’ll die here. I’ll die by my father's hand. I always figured it’d end that way.
Father.
Further.
“Enough!” The demon shouts.
My father, or not-father, stops. Spine straightening, he backs up.
The idea of him taking orders from anyone makes me laugh, pain burning along every nerve ending. My vision blurs, shapes returning to blurred colors. With every blink, it’s harder to open my eyes. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to sleep some. I’ll fall asleep and wake up next to Dean, he’ll hold me and say I’ve had another nightmare. He’ll say it’s not real because my Dad has been dead a long time. It’s just a bad dream. And bad dreams can end as long as you wake up.
There’s a shoe in front of my face, black and blurred. The demon kneels beside me, a key jingling against metal. The lock turns with a click, weight dropping from my wrists.
I feel it come back to me. There’s a hum in the back of my mind, not to be confused with the pounding along my skull. My veins feel full, energy thumping and sparking down my fingertips.
“Alright, again!” The demon shouts, stepping back, back, back.
I press my forehead to the ground, smiling in my blood. Mercy from a demon? Giving me a fair fight? I laugh again, teeth coated in red.
Pain explodes along my scalp, my hair abruptly pulled back, lifting my head off the floor. My laugh dies out quickly, replaced by rough breathing and a grumbled scream. The ground begins to shake wildly, vibrating the concrete around us.
Wait.
No, no, this is what he wanted. A sign. He wants me to lash out.
I try to wriggle out of his hold, nails biting into his hand. I try to reel myself in, calling back the power that’s escaped me, though I hadn’t known I let it go to begin with. I never do, not when it’s like this. I’m a live wire ready to snap, and that’s what he wants.
I try to hold it in me, forcing the energy to collapse and confine itself. I worry myself with making it small rather than trying to control and use the force to fight. I can’t do both. And I’d rather die than send Dean in the wrong direction, or worse, into a trap.
There’s laughter from the demon as my not-father slams my head into the concrete again. There’s a loud crack, my eyes rolling back into darkness.
Yet, energy explodes from me, pouring from every orifice, bright purple igniting the room in burning light. There are agonizing screams around me, clawing at my ears. Energy whips back, throwing itself out in every way. Wind whooshes around me, whispering a melody beneath the pleading terrors.
I curl into myself, squeezing my eyes shut, screaming until my throat burns and my vocal cords give out.
The ground stops rattling. My body goes still; everything is called back.
I pant into the floor, choking on blood and coughing through the pain in my chest. Still, I peek my eyes open, pushing myself up to my knees, holding my side like doing so would fix my ribs.
It’s quiet.
The warehouse is in shambles. Where the walls stood is nothing but rubble. The outside world surrounds me, and the flat concrete pad I made this place become. I stumble to my feet, eyes wide, whipping around.
There are bodies on the floor. My not-dad, and the demon—the body the demon was possessing. Dead. I killed them.
There’s a wide circle outside the rubble of the “warehouse” where trees used to be; it surrounded the place on all three sides, the fourth an empty road, but beyond that strip of asphalt the trees are gone too. They’re gone, wiped out in a perfect circle. It’s like a crop circle…
It’s like that time in the corn field.
I stammer back, tears welling up in my eyes at the destruction I caused. I killed two people, and how much wildlife?
I stare down at my hands, shaking. I caused this.
“There’s something wrong with your daughter.”
I am destruction. I wiped out the land.
I drag myself through the rubble, wiping the blood from my face. They’ll all know where I am. They’ll be coming for me.
Dean.
I have to warn him.
I make it to the empty road, turning back to see my damage from afar. It has to be around an acre, everything in it dead. Gone. Practically vaporized. If it wasn’t a perfect circle, if there wasn’t rubble on the ground, you might be able to think this was how the land has always been. But I know. I know I caused this.
The demon was right.
I just can’t help myself.
I’m still the little girl who ruins everything she touches.
I have to turn my back on the destruction; otherwise I’ll stand here forever and never get the chance to warn Dean. So, slowly, I walk down the empty, open road, following the asphalt. I don’t have my phone; I left it in the car with Dean. I was only going into the diner a couple hundred feet away from the car, and I was with Sam, so why would I have needed it?
I’m exhausted. And I’m not healing right. I don’t know why. Or it’s just slow. Either way, every other step I’m stumbling over my feet, the horizon tilting like a seesaw, blood flowing down my nose, dripping down my chin and neck to soak the simple white sundress I had picked out this morning. I can’t see right. I can’t breathe right; it's ragged through my mouth, lips cracked and dry, and my chest explodes in pain with every inhale and exhale.
I’m scared to use my powers, worried I’ll lash out again or straight up pass out if I conjure up a phone or teleport to a phone booth. So, I’ll walk.
I drag myself along, holding myself together on the side of the road. My eyes shut every two minutes, eyelids resting while my legs work on autopilot. Here, I exist between time, the sun beaming down on me, feeling harsher than it had this morning. And yet, Time is running out. Each second that passes is a moment where Sam could be in danger. The “big plan” mentioned was for him, I know it. That’s what this whole thing has been leading up to. It’s the final hours.
Something in my chest crunches with every step, a reminder of him—whatever he was. Dad or not, it might as well have been the real him. Sometimes I wonder if I was born from love at all, because I know my mom was full of it, but Dad? It’s hard to remember a time he was happy, that he had anything but hatred in his heart. So, maybe I was born from clashing constellations, or opposing eons clattering together into a supernova. Maybe I was always born to destroy. I'm so good at it.
I feel like I'm chasing an explanation, or time. I'm running from fear too, running from the hunters on my trail. Maybe the demon was lying, it doesn’t matter anymore because the sign I gave will have them running. I'm not in a position to fight. I don't even want to.
I don’t think I’ll make it to a payphone.
My vision is getting worse: the tilting is more often, the trees and road are a blur of green and black. I’m slowing down. I was too slow to begin with. Each stumble forward takes more energy than the last. I feel exhaustion taking place. I can feel my bones trying to tug me down.
It could be miles until I see a phone, or a town for that matter.
I won’t make it.
I stop on the side of the road, collapsing down into the grass, resting against a tree. The bark is rough against my head, the grass tickles my legs and hands. When this is all over, I’ll return to the Earth. What a beautiful thing. But for now, I still have a purpose that is different from destruction.
I focus the energy I have left into my hand, pushing against the volcano of pain in my mind, until it’s enough to conjure a phone. I flip it open, dialing Dean’s number like it’s a reflex. He always made sure we had each other's numbers memorized, even if we had to change them often on the road. Regardless, I'm glad for it now, because I can’t make out the individual numbers on the keypad.
I press the phone to my ear, the ringing tune almost like a lullaby to me in this state. I look out across the empty road splitting this forest, seeing the treeline begin once more. There’s two birds chirping up above me, conversing about something I wish I understood.
The phone picks up after the third ring, his voice filling my ears as the sun breaks through the canopy of leaves above me.
“Hello?” He grumbles. Guarded. Angry. Lost.
It doesn’t matter, it’s still him.
“Dean,” I sigh, feeling my shoulders drop and my spine slump.
“Y/N?” I can almost imagine his eyes widening, and the way he’s probably standing or sitting straighter now. “Y/N?! Where are you?! Are you okay? What the hell happened? Where did you go?”
He’s spewing questions faster than I can understand them, but I like hearing his voice.
“‘Don’t know where I am,” I mumble, finally letting my eyes shut, the sun's rays warm on my skin.
“Okay, okay, that’s okay, baby,” he says, calmer now, though I can tell he’s forcing it. He’s trying to control himself. “Just, uh, tell me what you see, yeah? I’ll come find you, ‘swear. Just gotta tell me what you see.”
I frown. I can hear his worry clear as day. I don’t like making him worry, and hate it even more when I make him sad.
“You have to find Sam,” I say instead. “He said they’ve got big plans.”
“Who’s ‘he’?”
“Find Sam,” I repeat.
“I will. I will, ‘promise,” he says, panting. Out of breath. “Please, Y/N, please just tell me where you are. I’ll come get you, and we’ll find Sam together, okay?”
He hasn’t used my name in a while. It’s usually “sweetheart,” “darling,” “angel,” or “baby.” Not usually my name. It’s how I know he’s scared, and the knowledge eats at my heart, tearing it apart. Can he hear my pain: my heavy breathing, and the nasal sound of my voice because of my messed-up nose?
I shake my head, even though I know he can’t see it.
“You’re not listenin’ to me,” I say, unfairly. “You have to find Sam. Focus on him. Only him.”
It’s quiet on the line, then:
“I’m not leavin’ you behind, you hear me?” Dean utters, voice firm and unwavering. It’s his ‘no arguing’ voice.
“You have to,” I beg.
“‘S not happening,” he snaps. “You don’t want me comin’, that’s fine, alright? I—I’ll send Bobby or, uh, or Adeline, or your brother if they’re closer. Alright? Just—just please tell me where you are.”
“‘S not safe,” I warn him. Maybe he’ll understand then, my beautiful stubborn man. “Not safe for me anymore. Not safe for you to be ‘round me either.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks. “Y/N, I don’t care what’s thrown at me. I’m not leaving you.”
I know he won’t, it’s why I…
“I love you,” I whisper, a tear rippling down my cheek, my chest filling up with warmth.
“Hey, hey, don’t say it like that,” he panics. “Don’t say it like it’s final.”
********
“Y/N?”
“Y/N?!”
“Y/N!”
The line is dead. You aren’t responding—haven’t for the last 30 seconds.
“Fuck!” he shouts, nearly slamming his phone into the ground. Instead, he holds the little device so tight his knuckles go white, hitting his fists into the steering wheel over and over again. “Fuck!”
He had you, for just a moment, and now you're gone again. Gone. Maybe hurt. Maybe dead.
You sounded weak over the phone, tired and small. He knows something happened to you, and it kills him that you wouldn’t tell him. Why couldn’t you just tell him where you were?
He’s breathing hard and quick. In all honesty, he hasn’t gotten a good breath in since he lost you both. There’s a fist tight around his lungs.
But he needs to find you. He needs to put aside his screaming anger and guilt to get you. He needs you.
He leans down and over, picking your bag up off the passenger floor. He didn’t want to go through your purse, it makes him feel dirty, but he needs your phone because he refuses to hang up on you even if you aren’t there anymore.
He flips open your phone, pulling Ash’s number up quickly. He answers after the first ring.
“Y/N?” he asks. “Hey, where are you? Dean’s lookin’ for you, thought you—“
“It’s me, Ash,” he cuts him off.
He was only on the phone with him a handful of minutes ago; the only information he had was a big secret, one that required him to go to the Roadhouse rather than just hear it over the phone. It’s where he was going until your call came through, and he pulled off to the side of the road immediately.
“Oh.”
“Look, can you track a number?”
Beep…Beep…Beep.
My body feels heavy, my eyelids worse. Every peek open is a blur of bright fluorescent lights and a weight that forces me back into darkness. Each breath takes too much effort too.
I twist my head to the side, though it’s more like a languid lull. My arms are above the white blanket I’m tucked beneath, an IV pressed into my forearm. I try to say something, but it comes out as a grumble.
I hate hospitals, and I hate the pain medication they give because I can’t think, my mind is all foggy and dull, my body is too heavy, and nothing is right.
I try to place the voice, rolling through a catalogue of people while my eyes adjust the blur into a person.
“Adeline,” I exhale finally.
She’s sitting by my bedside, hunched over in the plastic chair, her black hair a mess, her dark makeup smudged beneath her eyes. She’s completely disheveled.
“Hi,” she whispers, smiling just a little.
“You found me,” I mumble, trying to push myself to sit up, my arms weak.
“Of course I did,” she answers, helping me up and adjusting my pillow so I can sit up comfortably. “I’ll always find you.”
“…Are you mad?” I ask, trying to read her.
She scoffs, shaking her head. “Of course I am, but I’m too glad that you’re awake and alive to yell at you.”
I laugh softly, my ribs aching. My head lulls back, barely hitting the pillow, still feeling too heavy to be up like normal.
“…Dean called me, that’s how I found you,” she admits, hand finding mine, fingers brushing over my wrist, resting right on top of my pulse.
Oh, Dean.
“Got some guy named Ash to track your phone, told me I needed to go find you,” she continues, looking away. “He…um, he wanted to get you himself; I even called him out on it. But he said you were really freaked out and he had to trust your word.”
“You’re awfully calm,” I point out.
She shakes her head, meeting my eyes again. “Scared.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah…” she murmurs. “The closer I got to town, the more I heard about….”
I frown, guilt creeping up and scratching at my heart. Maybe that’s why she won’t say it.
“There’s fuckin’ hunters crawling all over,” she continues. “I thought they got you. ‘That you were gone.”
“I—“
“No, let me finish,” she cuts me off. “I wasn’t even the one that found you. Some lady driving by saw you on the side of the road. You barely had a pulse, so she brought you to the hospital. You’re lucky it wasn’t some fucking creep. She’s a nice lady.”
“You talked?”
“Well, she waited ‘round till someone was there for you. It was a good thing I checked hospitals. That’s how I found you,” she explains, eyes dropping to the blankets.
She feels guilty. That’s what this is. That’s why she’s saying it like that. She feels like she should’ve been the one to find me directly.
I squeeze her hand, trying to get her to look at me again. “‘M glad you’re here. You still found me, you know.”
“Don’t,” she shakes her head, grey eyes hardening. “I should’ve made you come with me all those months ago. If I did this wouldn’t have—“
“Don’t you blame yourself,” I cut her off. “This was not your fault. And you wouldn’t have ever been able to pull me away. I’m in this deep, Adeline.”
“I know you are,” she grumbles, jaw flexing. “I hate it.”
“Well…if it makes you feel any better, I’m hating it right about now too,” I admit, looking away from her. “I…I did it again…”
“What are you—“
“You know,” I cut her off, gaze snapping to hers. I watch her falter, lips parting in a quiet exhale.
Her shoulders slump. She’s not trying to be tough in front of me. “Yeah,” she admits, tired. “But we’ll figure it out, alright?”
“What’s there to figure out?” I counter, growing antsy. It’s like there’s a clawing in my chest, screaming at me to get up and run. If I don’t run now, I’ll be trapped forever. Already the walls are closing in.
“We’ll figure it out,” she repeats anyway, sternly. Firmly. No room for argument.
There's an undeniable weight hanging over us, waiting for the right moment to crash down. It’s every unspoken word over the last couple of months, the “what ifs,” the fear, horror, mortification, but mostly, it’s understanding. It’s hard to grasp it unless you’ve experienced it, but sometimes, you meet someone—you see someone, and it doesn’t matter what you say, it doesn’t matter how you see yourself, because all they see is you. You’re not a monster to them, nor are you put on a pedestal; you’re just the “you” they’ve always known. And that’s enough.
I can see it now in her, the way she looks at me with wide, glossy eyes somewhere between worried and accepting. I won’t change in her eyes. It doesn’t matter what happens; she’ll be there. That’s all. The knowledge crushes over my head before the heavy weight can, tears welling up in my eyes because this is more than kindness; this is love. Unconditional love. This is family.
I can see her trying to work over what to say, eyebrows pinching together, deciding between honesty and comfort or a snarky remark that will make me laugh and roll my eyes. But she doesn’t get the chance to choose at all, because her phone starts ringing sharply, her ringtone “Living Dead Girl” blaring through the silence.
Adeline sighs, taking her phone out of her pocket. She only takes a second to look at the name before grumbling:
“Fuckin’ 4th time he’s called me in the last 30 minutes.” She stands, flipping her phone open and pressing it to her ear before I get to ask “who.”
“Hello?” she snaps.
“…Yeah, yeah, she’s still okay—yes, I’m sure. Why the fuck would I say ‘yes’ if I wasn’t sure?”
I don’t know who she’s talking to, but her irritated state makes me laugh.
“Oh, you’re so lucky you’re—-Hey, hey, I did not start this—No, of course this isn’t the time, but—“
She huffs loudly through her nose, shaking her head. “You know what? I was gonna tell you all nicely, but noooo…Here!”
Adeline shuffles over to me, handing me her phone with enough conviction you’d think she’d be sentencing someone to life. I take her phone with a curious look, watching as she purses her lips and drops back into the chair, legs and arms crossing.
Almost cautiously, I bring the device to my ear, trying to hear for any tells on who she could’ve been beefing with.
“Um…hello?” I answer quietly.
I hear tires screech to a loud stop, his voice coming through in a panicked gasp.
“Y/N?”
Dean. My sweet Dean.
“Hi,” I repeat, feeling strangely bashful.
“Oh, God,” he gapes. “You’re—I thought you were—You scared the crap outta me.”
“…I’m so fricking sorry, I—“
“Hey, hey,” he cuts me off, voice firm. “You ain’t gotta apologize to me, okay? I’m—I’m just glad to hear your voice, alright? But I swear to God, if you try that ‘I’m not tellin’ you’ bullshit again, ‘m gonna put a tracking device in all your clothes.”
“That’s okay,” I laugh, shaking my head, smiling brightly as I accept his “threat.” Though I know he isn’t exactly bluffing either. Exaggerating? Likely.
“There she is,” he says softer, and I can almost see his eyes softening. “…You know, you can’t leave me again like that.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I answer.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”
The line goes quiet for a moment, except for the sound of his breathing. Nothing has ever sounded nicer.
But, once more, his voice comes through, saying: “Don’t go quiet on me. C’mon, I gotta hear you talk. ‘Just keep talkin’ to me, pretty girl.”
For a moment, my cheeks warm, and it feels like a normal day where he teases and flirts with me, nothing lurking around the corner. But, perhaps just as quickly, my mind reminds me that I don’t deserve the simple pleasure of feeling loved or needed. At least, not today.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit, solemnly, looking down at my lap. “I don’t have anything happy to say.”
“I don't need happy. ‘Just need you,” he answers without missing a beat. It makes me falter, my heart getting all twisty, actively contradicting every horrible reminder my mind can give. Because, for a brief moment, he has the power to push the bad away, leaving only him and me.
“Um…” I start, unhelpfully, my voice already giving way to a break. “I didn’t get a lot of information, but…the yellow-eyed demon is behind all of this if you haven’t figured that out already. He needed me outta the way, wanted hunters after me and wanted to give you a distraction. That’s why I didn’t want you to come.”
“I would’ve come anyway,” he says firmly, as if he needs me to believe him. As if he needs to prove himself.
“I know,” I admit. I had already worried about that. “…And yet, you listened.”
“Yeah, well, ‘figured I should to Ms. ‘I’m always right’,” he scoffs, clearly not wanting to agree with me. I can almost hear his eyes roll.
I laugh a little and shake my head even though he can’t see.
“Well, I’m glad you did,” I say quietly. As much as I love Dean, I’d never ask or want him to choose me over his brother. And right now, Sam is very, very important.
“I’m not,” he bites, though I know his anger isn’t directed at me but at himself. He’s so incredibly loyal and brave. I’m worried it’s going to get him killed one day.
“Why?”
“Because you’re hurt!” he snaps. “You’re barely alive in some hospital room, and I’m not there!”
“I’m very alive,” I correct.
“Yeah, well, you weren’t. Someone hurt you, and I wasn’t there to—“
“Dean,” I cut him off. He could not be blaming himself. I won’t allow it. There’s genuinely nothing he could’ve done to stop it or help when he was god knows how many miles away.
He exhales gruffly, huffing through his nose. I can only imagine how his throat would bob roughly right about now, and he’d drag a hand down his face or jaw.
“It was…” I continue, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t have been possible.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks cautiously, and I can almost hear the way his spine straightens, sitting taller.
“My Dad,” I exhale shakily. “There was a demon there; he was using my dad to—He wanted—I couldn’t fight back. H-he was like some sort of puppet, and I know he’s supposed to be dead and it wasn’t him but…Dean, it was him.”
I can feel Adeline’s eyes burning into the side of my face. But he’s silent on the line, making me wish I could actually see his face to try and guess what he’s thinking. Instead, I get silence. Momentary silence, because my hands are trembling and the words are spilling past my lips like the tears peaking out from the corner of my eyes.
“He—“ I choke through my words, the memory playing behind my eyes. I can see his fist coming down on me. I can feel the phantom pain bloom across my skin. I can see his eyes, dark, teetering on a kind of exhausted anger. I could feel it in every hit, the burning in his veins—the hatred. The disgust, perhaps.
I was a kid again. I never wanted to be that again.
“I—I never meant to hurt anyone. I didn’t mean—“ He deserves to know what kind of monster he’s in love with. Maybe he shouldn’t love me at all, regardless of how much I want him to. I see their still bodies on the floor, unmoving, nearly charred.
“Hey, hey,” he says softly. “You didn’t do anythin’ wrong, alright? Y’were just protectin’ yourself.”
I shake my head. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t get it.
“No, no, Dean, I killed everything,” I correct, wiping harshly at my cheeks, teeth clenching together tightly.
“You remember when you told me ‘bout the first time your dad hit you?” he asks suddenly.
“Yes,” I answer simply, trying to muffle my sniffling. Of course I do. Besides Adeline and my brother, who had been there, he was the first person to learn the full truth.
“‘N you said it was ‘necessary’ cause you were falling into some defense mechanism?” he continues. “This is just like that, yeah? You were scared, and hurt, so you reacted. Nothin’ wrong with that.”
Once more, I wish I could see his face, because maybe it’d allow me to see his thought process. How is he excusing what I did? How could he see it like that? Is he just coping?
“Dean,” I cry, as if saying his name would suddenly make him understand or see what I’m seeing. Why won’t he get it? “I killed so many trees, and who knows what animals were living there or around. And I destroyed a whole building! I-it wasn’t just self-defense, I-I’m a—“
“A monster?” he finishes for me. I can almost hear the mockery on his tongue as he shifts in his seat. “That what you want me to believe? ‘Wanna convince me the same girl who loves with her whole goddamn heart and tries so hard to see the good in people is evil? Or the girl who feeds raccoons even if they have ‘nough food, just cause they’re ’cute?’ ‘N what about the girl who has stopped every time she saw a hurt bird just so she could heal its wing to give it a second chance? ‘She evil? ‘Cause if she’s a monster than I’m the fuckin’ devil.”
My trembling lips part, each bitter word hitting me in the chest with an echo. It takes my shaky breath away, eyes widening. He’s being mean, and yet, I can see what he’s seeing. What he’s always seen.
“Listen to me,” he mutters sternly. “What you can’t control doesn't make you a monster. Not you. I’ll spend the rest of m’life convincing you of that, if that’s what you need. ‘Cause I don’t give a crap about some building, or a demon, and I think the forest can forgive you for a couple trees.”
I laugh, pathetically, wiping away and sniffling through my tears. I don’t know how he can be so loyal, or good, or how he can blindly believe in me like this. But it makes my heart pulse and weep with uncontained love bubbling over.
“I wish you were here,” I mumble, voice breaking at the end.
He sighs loudly. “‘Don’t know how badly I wanna be.”
“D-do you have a lead on Sam?” I ask, swallowing down the leftovers of my breakdown. Sam had to be the focus.
“Yeah, yeah, some weird crap happened, but Bobby figured enough out. ‘Think we know where he is,” Dean reveals, solemnly.
“Good,” I nod. “That’s good.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Look, I…I don’t wanna upset you more, but you should know.”
My heart drops.
“The Roadhouse is gone,” Dean explains. “Burnt to the ground. Ash knew something big, ‘paid the price for it.”
“Is Ash…?”
“Yeah.”
Oh, God. My heart twists, breath staggering. Ash may have been really peculiar, but he was so helpful and kind. He didn’t deserve to get stuck in the middle of all this mess, let alone die because of it. Oh, God.
“And Ellen?”
“We don’t know.”
I don’t know if that’s worse. But it leaves room for hope. She could still be alive. Maybe she got out before the fire even started, maybe she got far away from the place, and that’s why they couldn’t find her.
I try to fight around the tightness in my throat, having to believe in something positive.
“You…you said Bobby had a lead, where are you two headed?” I ask, finally.
“Cold Oak, South Dakota,” Dean answers.
I nod. “Okay. Okay, I’ll be there. I’ll meet you.”
“Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he warns. “You’re hurt. You need to sit this one out.”
“I’m better,” I reason. I’m healing just fine. I’m tired, sure, I feel achy, and I know I’m not at 100%, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“I—“
“I’ll be there,” I repeat firmly, unwilling to let him argue. Everything over the past two years has been leading to whatever this is; there’s no other choice but to be there, and I don’t want to be anywhere else, let alone a hospital, while people I care about run into the unknown. Absolutely not. “I love you. Okay, bye.”
I hang up quickly, eliminating any and all chances of arguing. I let the phone plop down to my lap, busying myself with removing the IV from my arm.
“Leave that alone,” Adeline says, swatting my hand away.
I look at her. For a moment, I kind of forgot she was here.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” she adds, eyes a little wild with desperation, and yet her face is set in stone, unmoving.
I guess there will be some arguing.
“Adeline, they’re my family. I’m not letting them run into danger alone!” I counter, though I do stop bothering the IV because there’s something strangely freaky about the way it looks like there’s a huge hole in your arm even when it’s only a little mark. As I said, I don’t like hospitals.
“Well, you’re my family, and I’m not letting you get yourself killed! You almost died!” She yells, chest rising and falling quickly.
“I didn’t!” I argue.
“You could’ve!” Adeline shouts. “You barely had a fucking pulse when they brought you in. How many times do you have to be at death's door to give this life up?!”
“I am this life! Adeline, I’m a monster! I’m—“
Admittedly, the word I had become so accustomed to no longer felt right. It’s Dean’s fault. He got into my mind with his harsh sincerity, breaking down my preconceived notions. I don’t know if I believe him when he says I didn't do anything wrong, because it feels wrong. I feel dirty. But it was to protect myself from further pain; maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Still, I had no control, so I can only wonder how much longer it will be until I lose control when it’s not needed and I hurt the people I care about. So, maybe in some way I am a monster, or there’s some monster cowering in my blood, teeth barred like a scared dog, ready to snap when someone gets too close.
“You aren’t!”
“Well what if I am?!”
“You aren’t!” She bellows, throat rubbed raw. “And you don’t need to save people or have some kind of penance to prove that you aren’t!”
Oh.
My shoulders lose any lingering tension, my face dropping right along with it.
Oh.
I feel my chest caving in, ribs collapsing onto my heart and lungs like a roof made of sticks, and just like picking up sticks, I fumble for an answer. There’s an ache there in my heart, a void that’s been there for a long time, pried open by the components of my DNA. But now, it feels hard to sustain when two people who know me the best are convinced I’m nothing like what that void says I am. It’s filling up, slowly.
Still, penance or not, they’re my family.
“I need to be there,” I repeat, softer this time. “They’ll need me.”
Her heaving chest slows, grey eyes checking mine. Her dark eyebrows pinch together, shoulders deflating just so. She sees through me, maybe even past my intentions. Regardless, she finds my hand again, squeezing gently.
“Then I’ll be there too.”
Wind whips against my face, blowing my hair behind me. We’ve been driving for hours, and being on a motorcycle for a long period of time is significantly different from a car. But I can ignore the ache in my thighs, butt, and back because my mind is elsewhere, worrying over things I cannot control.
We got on the road as soon as we could, ignoring the doctors as I changed into Adeline’s spare clothes: a tank top, shorts, and a flannel. It wasn’t an exact fit, but again, I couldn’t care less. The trees blurred past us, the loud rumble of the engine in our ears.
The only update we got since we left was ten minutes ago from Dean, who texted that they just got there. It only made me feel worse, my stomach twisting in nauseating knots, because we’re still too many minutes out, and the longer I don’t know what’s happening, the easier I can assume it’s all gone wrong. I’m pretty sure we’ve broken every traffic law ever made; Adeline’s motorcycle pushed to the limits with the speedometer all the way to the left. We’re going as fast as we can, and it’s not enough.
After what must be too long, we finally come to a stop, dirt and dust kicking up from beneath the wheels. She kills the engine, letting the motorcycle lean to its side beside the empty Impala and Bobby’s old truck. At least they’re still here, though I don’t know if that’s good or not.
I hop off immediately, tossing the spare helmet to the ground, rain drizzling down.
“You know how to shoot?” I ask Adeline as she takes off her own helmet, black hair cascading down her back.
“No,” she answers like the mere thought is absurd.
“That’s fine,” I say, producing a machete in my hand. “Here, take this. We need to go.”
“And you need to breathe,” she counters, accepting the weapon and quickly following after me as I head down the dirt hill in front of the vehicles.
We haven’t done anything, and yet my chest is rising and falling quickly as if preparing itself for a blow. My skin crawls, cicadas chirp in the distance, something feels wrong.
“I’ll breathe later,” I say absentmindedly.
I hear her boots thudding just behind me; it’s the only noise I can focus on as I continue to barrel forward.
“That’s not how that works,” she remarks.
Wind and rain pelts down on us, the ground growing slippery; my flannel sticks to my shoulders uncomfortably. Does the Earth know something is wrong, too? Is it mourning?
Then, in the very distance are figures, darkened by the night and the lack of light. My body registers the sight before my brain does. I take off running.
Slowly, I can make out Bobby standing there in one of his usual baseball hats, and a couple of feet away from him are two other figures, both on the ground, one holding the other. My heart drops out of my body, tumbling to the grass, replaced by fear that spikes through my veins. I push my legs harder, grassy land blurring by. It’s not enough.
I fold over the space between them and me, collapsing time into something movable. In a blink I’m by Bobby’s side, skidding to a hasty stop.
For one long moment, I can’t make sense of the scene in front of me. Dean is cradling his brother, rocking him slowly back and forth, sobbing over his motionless body, blood seeping through his shirt, soaking him in red.
I’m too late.
I stumble forward, collapsing to my knees beside them, the wet Earth cold against my bare legs.
“Sam?” I mumble, fresh tears welling up in my eyes, blurring my view of them. He’s still. So very still.
Dean looks up, his eyes red, his face wet with tears and rain. He looks at me with a silent plea in his eyes, lost. He looks completely lost.
“No, no, no,” I cry, shaking my head, hands hovering over his body, not knowing where to touch or if I should touch at all.
Not Sam. God, not him.
Rage curdles in my throat. I want to scream. It claws at my chest, begging for release.
He doesn’t look so big in his brother's arms like this. He looks like a kid again. For a long moment, I only see him as a child. The same kid who’d borrowed books from me for a long period of time, always feeling the need to explain it took him so long because we didn’t see each other often right before trying to discuss the book with me. Or the shaggy-haired kid who’d call just to ask me a question about school, knowing that I’ve already taken the class and would actually know an answer or two.
Oh, Sammy.
I can still remember the day he was officially taller than me. Dean had written a letter complaining about it in secret, but it did no justice to seeing him in person, ridiculously tall and lanky but still the sweet boy I’d always known.
A sob rips through my trembling lips, eyes jumping around his pale face.
“Sam, please,” I beg. But of course he doesn’t answer. It makes no sense. He was alive this morning. He was just alive.
I brush the wet hair off his forehead like it still matters, my hands shaking. He was always so good, he cared so much, and he was so smart. I knew he’d get his dream one day. He deserves to be a lawyer. He deserves to be here.
“Y/N,” Dean croaks through his own unashamed crying.
I look at him again, seeing only pain in his eyes.
“Please,” he begs, eyes wide.
I can’t. I am powerless where it matters most. That void in my heart opens wide, arms extended to swallow me whole.
Still, I nod, head moving up and down like a bobble head, sniffling.
“C’mon, c’mon, let’s get him inside,” I murmur, slowly rising to my feet.
He nods. He needs directions now, something he can follow. He’s good at listening. He’s good at following orders. He needs orders.
Thunder cracks loudly above us, lightning striking in the distance. He staggers to his feet, struggling to hold his brother's dead weight.
“What are you doing?” Adeline and Bobby ask at the same time. I don’t know when she finally caught up, but I don’t care. They look at each other as their words overlap; he gives her a weird look, but moves to help Dean, who seethes and groans, wanting to bear it on his own.
“I’m going to fix it,” I say, voice breaking.
She grabs my arm harshly, head tilting to catch my eyes. “You can’t,” she mutters.
I shake my head. She’s right.
“I’ll try.”
********
I stare at his body, lifeless on the wooden table. No matter how much I look, it doesn’t make sense. Just this morning he was complaining about the bad jokes we were making. Now, he’s pale and lifeless on a table, shirt soaked in blood and rain.
I wish he were here to complain again. I want him to lecture us about something, I don’t care what. Anything.
Dean hasn’t left his side, and I hadn’t asked him to. We worked around him. I lit candles around the room; I drew a pentacle around the table, enclosing Sam inside.
“Alright, I’m done,” Adeline announces, holding a canister of salt. She’s unamused, worried, but she did what I said anyway.
“Are you sure you got everything?” I ask, eyes wide. “And I mean everything.”
“Yes, I did, I swear. That Bobby dude even double-checked it,” she answers. “But I don’t see the point in all this.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I brush her off. It’s unkind, I know, but I don’t really care to explain logistics at the moment.
Her eyes burn into the back of my skull as I step inside the pentacle. It needs to be intact because if this goes right, then I need to ensure it’s just Sam’s soul coming back, not a spirit or a demon. That’s also what the salt is for.
I can do this. Scratch that. I have to do this.
“Dean,” I say softly. His eyes snap to mine, hurt written all over him. It crushes my heart all over again. “I need you to step back a little bit, okay?”
He doesn’t want to. I can see it in his eyes, and in the way his shoulders are hunched forward in an attempt to protect himself. Still, he must believe in my abilities enough to listen, because he does back off, though he doesn’t go far, staying on the very edge of the pentacle.
I need his hope to be enough for both of us. I need this to work, for his sake more than anyone’s. And, yes, it’s selfish. But if I can destroy without blinking, then I should be able to bring life just the same.
I lift Sam’s shirt just high enough to rest above the wound, mumbling an apology that he can’t hear. He was stabbed in the back, the blade went clear through. I want to find who did this to him. I want to crush them.
I bring my trembling hands down onto his skin, one palm covering his bloody wound, and the other over his heart.
I inhale and exhale, letting my eyes close slowly as energy pours from my palms. It’s cold and dark in my mind's eye. Desolate. But I fall into familiar motions, stitching skin and blood vessels together until sweat beads on my forehead and my head aches.
Thunder rumbles outside, shaking the old wooden building we’re in.
I follow the emptiness, letting it lead me deeper into complete darkness. Energy prickles in the air like static electricity, tickling my skin and thickening the air. In my mind's eye, my fingertips brush completely coldness, the hairs on my arms standing up. I dip my hand into the strange feeling, this alternative energy akin to ice water. My eyes shoot open, a harsh chill spilling through my veins, running up my spine.
The flames of the candle wiggle, moving rapidly against the sudden breeze that sweeps through the room.
I push further, putting my whole arm into this ice water, all the way up to my elbow until I feel a spark of warmth. My eyes burn as if I’m staring right into the face of the sun, the sudden breeze brushing my hair around.
The room shakes, quaking beneath my feet. I call the warm energy forward, seeking it out like a lighthouse. I scoop that far-away energy even as I feel the tell-tale sign of blood dripping down my nose, warmth pooling from either nostril.
Adeline shifts around the room, catching Bobby’s worried eye and Dean, who seems more focused than frightened or worried. She moves until she gets a clear view of you, head tilting to catch your eyes. Your eyes are rolled back completely, the purple she expected gone, the whites of your eyes on display. You're mumbling something in Latin beneath your breath, a spell or something older she’s never heard before. Blood pools from your nose, pouring over your lips and chin, and yet you keep speaking, mumbling something unrecognizable. You look remarkably terrifying.
I pull that energy forth, dragging it out of the cold depths of that river. With a whoosh, the candles in the room extinguish, gentle smoke wafting above them. I keep tugging it, dragging it up into the darkness, bringing light. Heat licks at my fingertips, burning down my skin in agony I can take because I am bringing the energy home.
Energy explodes from around me, igniting the room in blinding purple light. But it stretches out further. As quick as the wind, it expands outside the old building, stretching further and further in a ring of perfect energy, the Earth shaking violently.
I flinch away from Sam, stumbling back from his body, hands raised as if I had actually been burnt, but my fingertips are untouched. My vision blurs, little stars dancing around. Then, Sam suddenly sits straight up, heaving and choking, chest rising and falling quickly, brown eyes rapidly shooting across the room.
Someone is shouting. The room shifts, tilting on its axis. The floor crashes closer.
I wrote this since I've been craving a little sad story about how reader slowly figuring out what her lover has been up to.
“Just get off my back!”
“You literally left me in the rain for her!”
It wasn’t always like this, the shouting and fighting. It all started because of her. That godforsaken woman, she joined my husband’s branch just a few months ago. I was happy at first when I heard there was another employee, ecstatic even. My husband has been looking for a new assistant at work for a while now, and I would have applied, but they don’t allow spouses or partners to join the company. It sucked, but I tried not to think about it too much. One day, he came in the door with a huge smile on his face. He picked me up and spun me around like he had won the lottery. “What’s got you so chipper?” I ask, happy but confused. “They have finally found me an assistant! I can come home sooner now!” he exclaimed, full of joy. God…if only I knew how many nights he would’ve missed dinner because of this…
After that day, he kept his promise. That pathetic white lie—I can only imagine how foolish I must’ve looked. He was coming home earlier, and we were able to spend more time together. Eating, sleeping, making love. We had it all. But one day it all stopped; almost like a hiccup in time, he started coming home later. He came back more exhausted and drained. He stopped talking about work; our conversations that used to last hours can now barely hold out for more than 5 minutes. It’s always a mumble or groan. Everything became distant; even in the most intimate moments, it felt far away. And I couldn’t figure out why; I thought maybe he was just having a hard time at work, maybe that assistant of his wasn’t doing her job.
He left his lunch at home today, and why not be the best wife I am and personally give it to him? I put on my best outfit and headed out the door, but when I got in the car, my stomach churned. My whole body felt like it was spinning, like my gut was trying to tell me something. Hmm, must have been the breakfast I had...
Honestly? Tim should’ve seen this coming. No—really—he should have. The warnings weren’t subtle. He’d been told, more than once, to steer clear of the seedier parts of Gotham, especially since he didn’t exactly stack up to his predecessors when it came down to hand-to-hand combat. And with both Batman and Nightwing out of the city, that meant there was no safety net to catch Tim if he messed up.
He knew that.
And still, he went anyway.
Because following orders? That’s never been Tim’s strong suit.
Given his track record, it really isn't much surprise when you consider that he had been sneaking out since the age of nine years old, chasing shadows through alleyways just to catch a blurry photo of Batman and Robin in action. Not that his parents ever noticed. They were always gone—business trips, social functions, extended “research retreats” that stretched into months—all the above. It was to the point where Tim had spent most of his childhood learning how to take care of himself because, frankly, no one else was going to. He dressed himself, fed himself, got himself to school and back, kept the house from falling apart—all while pretending he was just another normal kid. He wasn’t. Not really.
That independence? It wasn’t just a trait—it was armor. The kind you build when you grow up knowing you can’t count on anyone to be there when things fall apart. So of course he ignored Batman’s orders. Of course he patrolled the city on his own. He’d been handling things alone for as long as he could remember.
And for the most part, it had worked out fine.
Until tonight.
While Tim was making his usual rounds throughout the city, a group of large, not-so-friendly looking guys wound up getting the drop on him after he'd just made it about halfway through Old Gotham. Tim had taken a moment to stop in the middle of a lone street. In his defense? It only happened because he got distracted while checking his utility belt.
For a band aid.
Yes you read correctly.
A band aid.
Before you judge, he'd actually gotten a cut on his arm midway through patrol. It wasn’t serious—just a shallow nick—but still, it made sense to at least try to keep dirt and grime out of it. In theory.
That’s why he was currently standing in full Boy Wonder gear, struggling to peel the backing off a Hello Kitty bandage.
Sure, it looked ridiculous, but infection wasn’t exactly part of the mission brief.
What wasn't in his plan, however, was the danger flying directly underneath his radar and sneaking up on him from all sides. Tim didn’t notice the men approaching until their low, mocking laughter finally caught his ears.
“Well, would ya lookie here, boys?” one of them drawled, dressed in the kind of cliché goon uniform you'd expect from someone working under a second-rate crime boss. “Looks like this little birdie flew the nest a bit too early.”
The edge in his voice made it clear: they weren’t here without ill intent.
Tim arched an eyebrow, slowly widening his stance and slipping the half-unwrapped Hello Kitty bandage into a pocket. No sudden movements—yet. But his posture had shifted: balanced, ready.
“You look lost, kid,” another chimed in. “Where’s the Bat? Huh? Don’t tell me he left you out here all on your own?”
The forced bravado in their voices made Tim want to roll his eyes. The whole “tough guy” act felt like something out of a low-budget crime drama. Still, he knew better than to get cocky. Just because he didn’t take them seriously didn’t mean the situation wasn’t serious. Especially if these guys actually suspected that Batman really was out of the picture.
In true Dick Grayson fashion, Tim tried to talk his way out of danger while quietly forming a plan of attack. Simultaneously Tim scolds himself mentally for making such a rookie mistake that got him landed in this mess in the first place.
Granted he still was a rookie….but that's besides the point!
Robin wasn’t just Batman’s shadow—he was a symbol in his own right. Tim knew this. So getting caught off guard, especially without the Dark Knight watching his back, was definitely a lesson he would be learning the hard way it seems. He should’ve known the target on his back wasn’t just front and center—when the threat comes from all sides, there’s no dodging the bullseye.
"Don’t you guys have, like, a jewelry store to rob or something? Why waste your time picking a fight with little ol’ me?"
He wore a grin, but there was no joy behind it. Still, the act served its purpose—if he stayed calm, maybe they’d think Batman was just around the corner instead of halfway across the globe.
One of the thugs sneered. "Didn’t you learn nothin’ from what happened to the last Boy Wonder? You must really want to go out with a bang. I’m sure the boss would be more than happy to—"
THWACK!
Tim cut him off mid-threat with a precise jab to the gut using his bo staff. Before the man could recover, Tim swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, curling onto his side with a groan, clutching his stomach.
The others stared, momentarily frozen.
"I’m not exactly a grammar expert," Tim said, twirling the staff, "but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to use a double negative." The men growled and started closing in, clearly not happy with him. But of course Tim just kept on talking.
"Also, word of advice? Maybe don’t lecture people on topics you clearly don’t understand. Could come back to bite you."
He gave a casual shrug. "But what do I know? I’m just a kid."
Enraged, they lunge for him—grabbing, swinging, shouting. Their frustration builds with every miss as Tim stays just out of reach, spinning and striking with his bo staff, trading blows as fists fly. But the momentum shifts the moment he backs into a dead-end alley. He throws a quick glance around, scanning for an escape route.
Mistake.
A hard punch slams into his jaw—bare knuckles, full force. The world jerks sideways as Tim staggers back, staff raised in a blind block. It's ripped from his hands before he can reset his footing.
"You little fuckin’ shithead,” growls one of them. “I oughta break your hands for that.”
Tim scrambles for his grapple gun, fumbling with the grip as he aims at the rooftop above. He fires—and for a second, he’s airborne.
Too late.
Thick hands clamp around his ankle and the back of his knee. He’s yanked down hard, the grapple slipping from his grasp as gravity takes over. His body hits the asphalt with a sickening crack, his head bouncing off the concrete. The impact rattles his brain, pain blooming sharp and immediate.
He groans, trying to push himself up—
A boot slams down into his back, crushing him to the ground like a bug.
“Not so graceful now, are ya?” the man sneers, laughter erupting around him.
Tim’s heart thunders in his chest. Okay. Maybe he’s not as good as he thought. But what do they expect from him?
Batman barely trains him any, if at all.
It’s always:
“I’m busy right now, Tim.”
“Stick to your solo drills, Tim.”
“We’ll go over it later, Tim.”
“Maybe tomorrow, Ja—Tim.”
Spoiler alert: Tomorrow never came.
And when their training did happen? Sparring sessions rarely lasted more than thirty, maybe forty minutes—before Bruce called it off. As if his mind were elsewhere. As if something—or someone—was pulling him away from the task of teaching Tim even the most basic techniques, the kind that could mean everything in a fight gone wrong.
To Tim, it felt like Bruce was running from something. And maybe he was. After all, Tim had a way of reminding him—consciously or not—of what he’d lost. So really, what else could be expected of him when his combat skills were still lagging behind in this world of vigilantism?
The man's boot pressed harder into Tim’s back, forcing a sharp cry from his lips as he squirmed beneath the weight, desperate to shake him off. It was pointless. He simply wasn’t strong enough.
With a low chuckle, the man seized Tim’s wrist and hauled him up, leaving his boots to barely skim the ground. A thick finger jabbed into his ribs, and Tim recoiled instinctively at the sharp discomfort while they all chuckled at the sight. His head spun terribly, vision flickering in and out as the voices around him continued in casual conversation, as if this were just another ordinary Thursday night.
Tim’s thoughts fought through the haze, calculating. While they were distracted by their own smug amusement, he slipped his free hand down to his utility belt and retrieved a Batarang, keeping it hidden tight against his thigh. He waited—silent, steady—then struck fast, slamming the weapon down onto the man’s wrist. The grip around his own wrist released instantly as the man cried out in pain and Tim dropped hard to the ground, dazed but free.
His mind was a jumbled mess, thoughts scattered and fuzzy, yet his hand found its way to the smoke pellets in another pocket of his belt. A wave of relief hit him when he finally grabbed them, and he wasted no time in tossing them just as the men lunged to grab him. The thick clouds of smoke exploded, swallowing everything in their path, blurring their vision and giving him a moment’s edge.
Tim grunted, pulling himself to his feet, then surged through the confusion, darting out of the alley. The men weren't far behind, their footsteps pounding the pavement, driven by a mix of desperation to escape the smoke and a twisted determination to capture him for their employer.
He stumbled and very nearly tripped over his own feet, barely catching himself, but there was no time to slow down. His head throbbed, pain pulsing in through his skull, and the warm, sticky trickle of blood down his neck was enough to tell him that his head injury was more severe than he'd initially thought, though he couldn’t focus long enough to assess it properly. The men’s shouts echoed behind him, curses and threats lost in the chase as they tore after him through the winding backstreets.
Tim pushed harder, heart racing, but the farther he ran, the more foreign everything felt. The winding maze of alleyways and side streets blurred into unfamiliar territory. He’d never ventured this far into Park Row before. Even during his countless patrols with Batman, this part of the city had always been a mystery.
Now, it was becoming a dangerous one.
So, let's review.
Tim was now being hunted—chased down by a gang of pissed-off men. His bo staff? Missing. Grapple gun? Gone. And his utility belt? Carried only what he could fit—meaning not nearly enough.
He was so very fucked right now.
Utterly, totally, royally fucked. I mean how much more fucked can one be at this point?
Tim curses himself for being such a moron, making such amateur mistakes especially after he runs himself right into another dead end alleyway.
He spun, hoping—grasping—for even the faintest chance to escape another way. No dice. They were already there, blocking the only way out.
“End of the line, kiddo, you're coming with us,” one sneered, while another made a show of cracking his knuckles. “Either I beat your ass now, or I beat it on the way. Your call.”
Tim was too frantic, too consumed by the need to escape, to hear a word they were saying. His mind raced with useless thoughts. Nothing helpful enough to aid him in his escape, just brick walls and bodies closing.
Two of the goons seized his arms, locking him in place while a third cocks a fist back, ready to bring it right back down.
Tim shut his eyes tight, bracing for the hit.
The impact never came.
Instead—gunfire.
Loud, rapid, merciless.
Screams rang out. Bodies collapsing to the floor accented by fleshy ‘thuds’ against rough pavement. The hands gripping his arms slackened, not fully letting go, but trembling in their grip. Tim opened his eyes, just a sliver at first, still half expecting to be struck in the face.
The man who had been about to punch him was on the ground, writhing, blood pouring from his leg and shoulder. The others were down too—limp, sprawled across the cold concrete in unnatural positions. Still.
Too still.
They were absolutely dead.
They had to be. There was no way they weren’t.
"Well, what’d we have here?"
The voice was smooth and cold, almost amused behind the modulator.
Everything went still. The air itself seemed to freeze.
Tim’s heart lurched forward because there, standing in the center of the downed men, gun in hand, was the Red Hood—Crime Alley’s most infamous ghost story made real. A name whispered with fear. A man who’d been carving a bloody reputation into Gotham’s underbelly since late last year.
Tim had half a mind to throw a jab at the two men who now looked seconds away from wetting themselves—especially considering they'd tried to kill him not long ago. And now? They couldn’t even pretend they could defend themselves. Still, something told him now wasn’t the time or place for jokes.
Red Hood didn’t waste a second. He stepped forward, instantly drawing everyone’s attention again. There was purpose in the way he moved—deliberate, focused. It felt like he was on a mission, and maybe he was. Who could say?
But his gaze landed heavily on Robin. On Tim.
It lingered.
Hood’s posture stiffened as he came close enough for Tim to make out more details in the helmet than he cared to. Something about the moment unsettled him. The way Hood looked at him—it wasn’t long, but it felt too precise, like he’d recognized something.
Creepy.
Then, as if a switch had flipped, Hood moved. One moment he was frozen, the next he was pulling the trigger—twice. The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed in the alley, blood splattering everywhere, a few warm droplets even hitting Tim. The two men crumpled lifeless to the ground, their weight no longer anchoring Tim in place.
Before he could process any of it, Red Hood was closing the gap, grabbing him by the back of his cape and hauling him out of the alley.
Tim staggered to keep up, being dragged more than led. From the tense set of Hood’s shoulders to the angry, audible breathing his helmet couldn’t quite muffle, Tim could tell—he was furious.
Whether that rage was aimed at Tim or not... he couldn’t determine for sure though he doesn't have to dwell on it for too much longer.
Tim’s boots screech across the pavement, heels digging in with everything he has—but it’s useless. Red Hood drags him like he's used to hauling around dead weight, one hand clamped around the back of his cape in a grip that feels more like a chokehold than a restraint. Every time Tim resists, he's met with a violent, spine-jarring yank that jerks him forward like a puppet on a string.
“Let go—!” Tim snaps, breath ragged. “What are you doing?!”
No answer. Not even a glance.
Just the harsh sound of footsteps as Hood deliberately hauls him down the deserted street. The lamps overhead flicker like dying candles, casting broken shadows across the cracked asphalt. The silence around them feels suffocating—no traffic, no sirens, nothing. Just the scrape of Tim’s boots and the unrelenting pull of a man who clearly doesn’t care how cruel he's being.
Then—without warning—Hood stops.
A heartbeat later, Tim’s body is yanked forward with such excessive force and thrown to the ground like trash. His knees slam down first, bone meeting concrete, hands splaying out as he tumbles—no time to catch himself before falling over on his side. He skids on raw skin, shoulder slamming the ground, cape tangling beneath him.
“What the hell is your problem?!” he spits after regaining his composure, whipping around—
And freezes.
There’s a gun in his face.
Close enough he can see the scratches on the barrel. Close enough he can hear the creak of Hood’s glove as his finger tightens on the trigger. Red Hood doesn’t say a word, nor does Tim dare to blink. Hood just stands there, silent, motionless, gun leveled with clinical precision.
Tim’s breath catches. His anger drains in an instant, replaced by a cold, coiled dread.
contains: teasing, praising, oral (fem rec), restraints, cliff hanger. (please let me know if I missed anything)
WC: 2.6k
**************
Felix
The cuffs I previously grabbed are forgotten, as I worship your body, leaving nicks and kisses in my wake. I snake my arm across your body keeping you pinned to the bed. The marks turning into a pretty pink and purple paint your skin, I make a mental note of how your body squirms when I press my fingers into the sensitive bruises. I angle myself so I’m face to face with your bare core, blowing on your swollen clit. You moan, squirming your body to the sensation, I quickly pin your body down with my palm, tracing delicate circles on your stomach with my fingertips. You're overly sensitive, and I can feel your body zing with pleasure as my hands roam your sides.
I could fuck you for days if I could. The feeling of your tight folds molding around me is something I will remember till the day I die.
“Stop squirming,” I order, your back arches off the bed, a reaction I catch. “Do you like it when I order you around?” A small whimper is all you respond with. A chuckle leaves my lips, and I can’t help but smirk.
I have an idea.
I lean off of you and your head whips up to look at me. I can see the pout on your face at the loss of heat, so before I walk away from you to get the next toy, I lean down and press a feather-light kiss on your lips. I groan when I pull away from you, your lips are so soft, so perfect against mine. I make my movements quickly as I grab the velvet blindfold and my chain necklace. It’s one of my favorites for many reasons.
I walk back over to you, your body sprawled out on my bed, such a beautiful sight. I lean over to you to gently wrap the blindfold around you. I then go back to my previous position, straddling your sides and hovering over you. I stay there momentarily, admiring the slight glint of sweat coating your skin, how your chest rises and falls with each heavy breath you take, and how your hands are still above your head, acting as if they are chained, but they aren’t.
“You can move your hands, Angel.” Even though your eyes are covered, I can see the curious look on your face. Suddenly, you are brave enough to let one hand slip down and feel around the bed sheets. Your hands find their way up my arms and feel out my shoulders. Your soft hands trace every muscle of my upper body. With one sense taken away from you, all your other senses are on high alert, making you feel every movement and touch one hundred times more intense.
The feel of your soft hands makes my eyes flutter. All I want to do is be at your complete mercy, but tonight, you're at mine.
I dip my head down to place gentle kisses across your bare chest, your hands start to grip my shoulders reacting to the sudden feeling of my tongue circling your hardened nipple and the cold chain making contact with your heated skin.
“Felix” you whimper
I crane my head up, watching yours roll back against the pillow. Your hands have made their way into my hair, pulling at my roots. It makes me groan.
I dip my head back down and continue kissing your body, my chain leaving a cold trail across your skin. I can see the goosebumps form over your body.
I’m only kissing you, but the way your body reacts to every little thing I do makes my cock twitch with need.
I don’t think I’ve ever craved anyone this much, cummed this much, or entertained the idea of someone this much, but with you I could be everything and anything. I could be your prince charming or your villain if I chose, and you would be all but willing.
I lift myself from your body and take the chain in my hands, wrapping it around my fist. “This is how we are going to play” Slowly I lower the chain to rub against your wet nipple, you flinch at the cold contact and your body squirms at the foreign feeling. “Every time you flinch” I trace the chain down further down your body, “or whimper, or even squirm” I can see the goosebumps on your skin as I venture to your heated core, the metal still cold. “Is a minute longer without my touch”.
As i finish the rules of my little game, your lips pout and I can hear you whimper in protest. I press the metal to the mound of your pussy, just above your clit and your folds, making your whole body shake with anticipation.
“What were the rules Angel?”
“No whimpering, no moving” you repeat.
“Good girl”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the next morning.
You
Heat, I feel heat everywhere on my body, in my body, heat surrounds me. My eyes slowly lift and the small cast of the run breaks into the velvet room. Right, the room. I guess after last night I passed out.
I moan as I feel that same heat slick my folds. I try to grab hold of whatever heat is making my body buzz with pleasure, but my hands are cuffed above my head. A much louder moan is dragged out of my as I feel that same heat re-enter me. “Ahh, I guess sleeping beauty if finally up” I look down, and low and beloh Felix pokes his head up from under the covers and rest his chin on the lower half of my belly. My chest rises and falls with uneven breaths as the heat I felt moments ago settles down.
“I didn’t want to wake you” he says in the sweetest voice possible.
“So you decided to eat me out?” I laugh.
“I wanted breakfast” he rolls his eyes playfully, and I chuckle with him. The mention of food makes my mouth water, and soon my belly grumbles with the idea of a hefty breakfast.
“Looks like I’m not the only one,” he murmured, his lips grazing my belly before he pushed himself up and sauntered over to the two giant doors in the corner of the room. As he opened them, a tantalizing display of identical white shirts lined the shelves, with drawers full of unworn garments waiting patiently inside. He selected a shirt and a pair of plain white panties, tossing them onto the bed with a playful grin.
“Put these on and meet me in the kitchen. I’ll whip up something delicious for you,” he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he winked at me. That’s when I noticed he was wearing nothing but his snug grey sweatpants, perfectly accentuating his defined chest and leaving me breathless. When did he wake up?
I buttoned up the white shirt and slid on the panties he had provided, why does he have this? Does he do this often, often enough to keep backups? How often does he bring girls to his place?
Questions run ramped through my head as I make my way out of the door of teh velvet room and follow the sound of bustling pans and soft music. There I see Felix humming along to some music as he cooks eggs on the stove. He dance along to the music that plays in the bathroom and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me, warming my chest with something unfamiliar.
“You look like your having fun” I break him out of his little groov and he looks up to scan my naked legs.
“And you look absolutely edible,” he teases, his eyes dancing with mischief. It’s true; I’m wearing very little. The white button-up shirt drapes over me, falling to the middle of my thighs, while the barely-there cotton panties do little to conceal the aftermath of Felix’s earlier tantalization.
But the heated moment dwindles as my stomach lets out a soft growl, reminding me of my hunger. “Come on and eat,” he urges, his voice smooth as he gestures to the counter.
I take my seat at the marble counter, anticipation simmering as Felix places a plate full of sizzling eggs and crispy bacon in front of me. I can’t help but hum in delight as I dig into the delicious spread. “You like it?” he asks, sliding in close beside me, his warmth radiating as he adds a piece of toast to my plate.
“It’s amazing,” I reply, words muffled as I savor every bite. A light laugh escapes us, and we share a comfortable silence, letting the food and chemistry between us speak for itself.
“So,” I break the stillness, a sly smile playing on my lips, “last night—”
“Was the best night ever,” he interrupts, his gaze steady and intense. Heat rushes to my cheeks at his words, and I can’t help but recall just how incredible last night truly was, making my thighs instinctively press together. But I remind myself to stay focused; I know nothing about this mysterious man, and I have so many questions lingering in the air between us.
“Can i ask you something?” I tip toe around my words, as he waits patiently to continue. “How many women do you bring to that room?” I should be asking more important questions that that, I should be asking why he has a closet full of these shirts or a drawer full of panites? I should ask why he has that room or what happens when I leave him today? Will I see him again? Will this become a distant memory?
He stays silent for a moment. And then he get up from his stool, takes my plate and walk over to the sink. He turns on the water to rinse off the dishes and starts to speak, “I can’t tell you how many women I’ve shown that room to” he sets the plates down and turns around to look me in the eye, he leans against the counter of the sink and crosses his arms, “but I can tell you I’ve only ever let 3 women sleep the night in that room” he tilts his head as I think over his words, “and if your wondering about the closet full of shirts and the drawer full of panites, its because I’m a very particular man, and my…sensual activities are also extremely particular” he explains but it only has me questioning more.
I bite my lip as I think, but his stare catches me off guard. I remember his words from last night “The only person that can bite this lip is me, don’t damage something so precious.” I release my lip, and its like he’s been holding a breath. I watch him relax back into the counter, and even more questions arize.
Suddenly, the air becomes much thicker than before. The time has come for the awkward morning goodbye. Reality is like a heavy anvil crashing down onto me. Even though he could say last night was the best night of his life, that's all it was—a night, a single night shared in a moment of heat….a hookup.
“I guess it’s time for me to go,” I say as I get up. Thank you so much for breakfast. I’ll grab my clothes.” Quickly, I turn around to the couch from last night, where my dress and shoes are neatly folded on the cushions.
~~~~~~~
Shit shit. I’ve never done this before, how do I make her stay. I’ve never wanted a girl to stay here before, so how do you tell her not to go?
I pace around the living room,, thinking of ways to stopfrom leaving, but nothing comes to mind, not. Nothingd change the fact that we are both complete strangers with no strings attached.
My chest aches at the thought of not seeing her eyes one more time, not being able to kiss her petal like lips, how the hell do I get her to stay…unless.
The click of her heels becomes louder and louder until I see her fiddling with her purse, her hair a shivel array of messy strands that make her look irresistible. “Okay I think I have everything” she announces, starting to make her way to me front door.
“Oh?” Panic ignites in my chest as I realize what’s at stake.
“Yup, I guess this is it, then,” she shrugs, but there’s an unguarded vulnerability in her eyes, a flicker of hesitation that stirs something deep within me.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I say, my voice low and earnest as I reach out, my fingertips barely grazing the space between us. Please, please don’t leave me like this.
Her brow furrows, curiosity mixing with confusion as she waits for me to unveil my thoughts. “I told you I’m a particular man, but you—there’s something intoxicating about you. It’s pulling me in,” I confess, struggling to explain this whirlwind of emotions that feel both exhilarating and terrifying. My usual detachment falters under the weight of her presence; the thought of her walking away sends a surge of longing that crashes through me. “Just… please, don’t go.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, filled with intrigue but also caution. “What exactly do you suggest I do?” she challenges, her voice steady yet laced with tension. She’s sharp, and I know there’s no way she’d just stay without demanding the truth. I can sense the flood of questions swirling behind her gaze, yet I’m bound by secrets that tighten my throat.
“You could become my submissive,” I propose, the words spilling from my lips like silk, and my heart races at the surprise that washes over her features.
“Your what!” She exclaims, eyes wide with disbelief and something akin to excitement.
“It’s not what you think,” I reassure her, stepping slightly closer, feeling the magnetic pull between us grow stronger. “It could work in both directions. When you asked about the women in that room, I didn’t share the whole story. I’m particular, yes, but something is differnt here… I know you can feel it too.”
I can see the cogs turning in her mind, a mix of intrigue and apprehension. “So, you’re like a real-life Christian Grey, then?” she asks cautiously, a hint of mischief dancing in her voice.
I chuckle softly, a grin creeping onto my face. “If that’s how you want to label me.” I step forward, closing the distance, but she flinches slightly, retreating just enough to remind me of the boundaries we tread. “But it’s still me.”
“I know,” she breathes, her voice thick with uncertainty, her gaze darting around the room, as if searching for solid ground in this dizzying willingness to explore. “It’s just… I still don’t know you fully, and now you’re asking me to stay and be your submissive—or switch, or whatever…” She exhales sharply, her cheeks flushed, as if the very idea sends a thrill through her. “I don’t know.”
With every word, the air thickens between us, charged with an intoxicating blend of fear, curiosity, and desire.
“It's a lot, I understand. Just think about it.” I smile. " Text me if you change your mind or if you have any questions.” I hold out my hand for her phone. Please, I can’t let you go.
Reluctantly, you pull out your phone and let me enter my number. After that, I walk you to the door and out, where the elevator still is. You walk in silently and turn to press the button.
Before the door closes, you whisper under your breath, “Goodbye Felix”
“Goodbye Angel…for now.”
*****************
A/N: this isn't important by any means, but I'm posting this on my birthday☺ !!!
