The bunker is quiet, the kind of stillness that only settles when the world outside finally stops spinning for a night. Low lamplight glows from the library, golden and warm, and you follow it like a beacon. You know exactly where he is.
Dean’s sitting at the table, one of those old lore books open in front of him, fingers absently tracing a line of text he’s already read twice. You can see the slight crease in his brow, that faraway look in his eyes that says his mind is anywhere but the page.
You pad toward him on bare feet, slow and quiet, until you’re close enough to lean in.
Your arms slip around his broad shoulders from behind, and you feel him exhale—just a soft breath, like you released something held too long in his chest. You press a kiss to the stubble of his cheek, lingering there for a second longer than you have to.
Dean’s hand lifts to rest on your arm, warm and solid. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to brush his cheek into your kiss before he turns to look up at you.
His eyes find yours, soft and shining with that quiet kind of affection that says you’re home.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, low and gentle. Like a secret just for you. Like he’s been waiting all day to say it.
You smile, nose brushing his temple as you murmur, “Missed you.”
“Yeah?” His hand tightens on your arm, thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “Was just sittin’ here hopin’ you’d find me.”
“I always do,” you whisper, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek against his.
And for a moment, there’s nothing else in the world but that—your arms around him, the soft creak of old wood, and the way his voice wraps around you like a warm blanket.
His hand slides from your arm down to your fingers, lacing them gently before he tugs.
“C’mere, sweetheart.”
You don’t hesitate. You move around the chair and let him guide you, settling sideways across his lap, your legs draped over his and your arms instinctively circling his shoulders again. His hand finds your thigh, grounding and slow, and the other settles at the small of your back like he never wants to let go.
Dean leans back just a little, eyes searching your face like he’s memorizing every inch. “You okay?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your hip through the soft fabric of your tee.
“Yeah,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his. “Better now.”
He smiles, that soft little grin that barely pulls at his mouth but lights up his whole face. “Been sittin’ in here tryin’ to focus, but… kept thinkin’ about you.”
You laugh under your breath, brushing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I always know where to find you, you know.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, eyes still locked on yours. “Guess part of me’s always waitin’ for your footsteps. It’s like I breathe easier when you walk in.”
Your heart clenches, and you lean in to kiss him—just a soft press to his mouth, slow and unrushed. He kisses you back with the same tenderness, fingers tightening on your waist like he needs to feel every inch of you.
When you pull back, he exhales against your lips and murmurs, “God, you’re somethin’ else.”
You curl against his chest, letting the weight of the world melt away as he holds you. His chin rests on your head, and his hand strokes slow, lazy circles over your back.
No monsters tonight. No hunts, no danger, no noise.
Just the soft hush of the bunker’s library and Dean Winchester whispering sweet nothings into your hair like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.
You don’t realize you’ve started to drift until the pages of the open book blur behind your eyelids. Dean’s warmth, the rhythm of his hand on your back, the low hum of his voice when he mumbles something soft—all of it wraps around you like a lullaby.
You shift slightly in his lap, and he feels it immediately. His arm tightens around you, and he glances down, brushing his lips to your hair.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice a quiet murmur against your temple. “You fallin’ asleep on me, pretty girl?”
You hum, half-smiling as you tuck your face into the curve of his neck. “Mm… maybe a little.”
Dean chuckles under his breath, that sound deep in his chest, and it rumbles right through you. “Knew I was too damn comfy,” he teases softly. “You curled up on me like this, no wonder.”
He strokes your back one more time, then shifts—careful and gentle, like he doesn’t want to wake you fully. One arm hooks under your legs, the other steady around your shoulders.
You blink sleepily as he stands, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flannel, and you whisper, “You don’t have to carry me…”
Dean presses a kiss to your forehead, already walking you out of the library. “Yeah, I do,” he murmurs. “You think I’m gonna let my girl stumble to bed half-asleep when I’ve got arms made for this?”
You smile against his collarbone, heart fluttering. “Your girl, huh?”
He glances down at you, eyes soft and green and glowing even in the dim light of the hallway. “Damn right. Been mine since the first day you walked into my life.”
You don’t say anything—don’t have to. You just hold him tighter, letting yourself melt into him as he carries you down the hallway. Every step is steady, protective. Every breath from him is calm and sure.
He nudges open the bedroom door with his foot and brings you to the bed, sitting down with you still in his arms before gently laying you back against the pillows. You reach for him as he moves to pull away, and he catches your hand immediately.
“I’m not goin’ far, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Just grabbin’ the blanket.”
You watch him in the low light, the strong line of his shoulders, the way his expression softens as he pulls the blanket up and tucks it around you. He climbs in beside you a second later, sliding in close and wrapping his arm around your waist like he’s afraid the night might take you from him.
You settle into his chest, his heart steady against your cheek.
Dean breathes in slow, kisses the top of your head, and murmurs against your hair, “Sleep, pretty girl. I got you.”
And you do. Wrapped in his arms, held safe in the bunker and safer still in his love… you let go of the day and fall asleep with Dean beside you, exactly where you’re meant to be.
You wake slowly, drifting up from sleep like surfacing through warmth. The room is dim, lit only by the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp Dean must’ve left on. It’s quiet—no clanking pipes, no humming ventilation. Just the quiet, steady sound of breathing.
Dean’s breathing.
You’re wrapped in him—his arm heavy around your waist, legs tangled with yours, chest pressed to your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep. His hand is splayed just under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your bare skin, his thumb resting over your ribs like a promise.
You shift slightly, and he stirs.
A low, sleepy hum vibrates through his chest. He tightens his hold around you automatically, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His scruff grazes your skin, and you feel him breathe you in like he needs it just to stay grounded.
“Mm… what time is it?” you murmur, voice still scratchy from sleep.
Dean grunts softly, his lips brushing your skin. “Hell if I know,” he mumbles. “Too early for anything but this.”
You smile as you roll in his arms to face him. He adjusts without hesitation, pulling you even closer until your foreheads nearly touch. His eyes are barely open—green and heavy-lidded, his lashes still tangled from sleep.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispers, voice gravelly and low. “Mornin’.”
You tuck your hand under his jaw and kiss his cheek, just like last night, only slower now. Like you’ve got all the time in the world.
“Hey,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb over the edge of his stubble. “You sleep okay?”
“With you next to me?” He smirks, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Like a damn baby.”
You laugh softly, your nose bumping his. “You’re a sap in the mornings.”
Dean doesn’t even deny it. He leans in, lips brushing yours, lazy and unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything—just gives. Warmth. Affection. The quiet kind of love that doesn’t need words to be known.
When he finally pulls back, he stays close. “We don’t gotta get up yet,” he says, voice soft like a secret. “Just wanna hold you a little longer.”
You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Okay.”
So he does. His hand runs slow down your back, your legs stay tangled, and the world outside stays forgotten for a while longer.
Wrapped up in Dean, the bunker quiet and still, it’s just you and him in the glow of the morning—no sun, no noise, just love.
You shift a little closer, your hand cupping Dean’s cheek as your thumb traces the faint line of stubble along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed under your touch, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That look he gets when he’s letting himself feel safe. Letting himself be loved.
You lean in and press a kiss to his temple.
Then another, a little lower. His brow. His cheekbone. The tip of his nose. His other cheek. Each one light, slow, and full of everything in your chest.
“I love you,” you whisper, between kisses. “I love you so much, Dean.”
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tense or flinch, doesn’t shy away—but he doesn’t speak, either. You didn’t expect him to.
Dean’s always been more action than words. But you feel it in the way he exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy. In the way his hand slips up your back, fingers weaving into your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll lose the only good thing that’s ever felt real.
Your lips find his again, one more soft kiss to his mouth. Not asking, not taking. Just giving. Just being there.
His fingers press lightly against the back of your neck, holding you in place for a second longer as he kisses you back—deeper this time, still slow, but more certain. Like he needs you to feel it.
When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours again. Still silent.
But then he nudges his nose against yours, eyes locked on you, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re the most precious thing in the world.
He doesn’t say I love you.
But he doesn’t have to.
Because he’s looking at you like he’d burn down the world to keep you safe. Because his arms are wrapped around you like they’re built for it. Because the only thing he’s holding tighter than your body… is your heart.
And you know.
You’ve always known.
A/N: And with that, I bid you good night. Thanks for reading! 🥰
synopsis: a look into the history of theodore nott and his tumultuous relationship with his father and the devastating loss of his mother.
word count: uncharacteristically high, 3.3k
warnings: descriptions of violence, torture, death eater things, death.
Cantankerous Nott IV had not only been a handsome man in his youth, but an especially ambitious one. And although his beauty had wilted away as it so often did on a visage as cold as his, the ambition remained.
His courting of Bedelia Delacour had meant to be a frivolity, a way to amuse himself during the unbearable stretch of time in which he'd been building his campaign for Minister for Magic. She'd only meant to be a way to alleviate his tension, and to look pretty while doing so.
She had garnered a fair share of fame herself before catching the eye of a man as elusive as Cantankerous. Fresh out of the gilded marble cage of Beauxbatons, Bedelia had come to London in pursuit of her dream of being a famed actress in the Wizarding World, and her big break came when she embodied the role of Helga Hufflepuff in Aphelion, a play detailing the forbidden and, until recently, forgotten romance between Godric Gryffindor and Catalonia Slytherin. A breakout performer, Bedelia Delacour became a household name overnight and landed herself on the cover of Witch Weekly within the month. And above all else, she was favoured by Rita Skeeter.
Cantankerous Nott had already been a considerably older when he set his sights on Bedelia, but, as easily as a flower petal in torrential waters, she was swept away by ice chip eyes that seemed to warm for only her, and a sly smile that set her soul alight.
Being a relation to the Veela born, Bedelia had almost always been overlooked by suitors in favour of her more enchanting cousin. She had no Veela blood of her own, and although she had been beautiful, eyes would turn to glass as they passed over her.
But not Cantankerous. His notions for blood purity extended to even that of Veela, and to him, Bedelia far exceeded the beauty of Apolline Delacour, who had been stated to be the Jewel of Pyrenees.
Theodore had been, for lack of better words, an accident; an unintention, a misfortune.
Bedelia had only just reached the height of her stardom, and Cantankerous had been preparing to run for Minister one last time after his loss against Harold Minchum. It had looked promising, as Millicent Bagnold was relatively unknown, and had been said to be particularly flighty with her resolve.
To save face, Cantankerous insisted Bedelia step away from the stage. And Bedelia – young, scared, and malleable under a touch as iron as Cantankerous' – complied. It broke her heart to do it, and as quickly as she had shone, Bedelia Delacour's light died.
The first words spoken about the ordeal were by Rita Skeeter, who, although had been friends with Bedelia, knew that a story like this would cement her name as Queen of the Quills.
Skeeter had grown hardened and embittered by the disregard shown by her peers. Had she not been such an academically driven mind, had not such a way with words of intricately woven prose, Rita was certain she would've been a Slytherin.
She'd wanted to do good before. She'd wanted to make a difference, be on the front lines of this blood soaked war, wanted to tell stories that mattered. And had The Daily Prophet not been so eager to distract the masses from the horrors that waged right outside their windows, perhaps she would've been.
But they wanted distractions, and so the Queen of Quills was born: the gossip monger, the lyrical liar that was Rita Skeeter. And if she wasn't to be famed, she was sure as hell going to be notorious. She'd make her difference.
She'd been kind – as kind as she could be – to Bedelia in the article. To Cantankerous, she'd vilified him to filth. There were many people Cantankerous would come to blame for his third political defeat in the century – the thought of it being a fault of his own being unfathomable to him – but none quite so much as Rita Skeeter.
The scandal was the talk of the Wizarding World for weeks. They'd been right, The Daily Prophet: the people needed distractions, and they clung to this one like fang in flesh.
The politician, the young actress. Their names stuck to everyone's tongues more than protection spells.
The proposal had been more of a business transaction than anything else. They knew that the only way to protect their names, their families, their disintegrating reputations, was by holding it together with a band of bejeweled metal and some uttered vows of devotion. It seemed almost easy.
When the announcement was made – very publicly – the story changed. It became a secret love, a hidden romance. The novelty of scandal had worn off and Cantankerous and Bedelia faded from the public's mind once more, now nothing but an afterthought. New scandal came to replace the hole they left behind quickly enough: the Rosier and Sallow union, a prophecy foretelling the fall of the Dark Lord made by the descendant of famed oracle, Cassandra Trelawney. The anniversary of the death of Isaiah Moody, dredging ill-kept secrets to light with the flick of Rita Skeeter's quill.
There was very little doubt that Cantankerous Nott truly loved Bedelia Delacour in his own twisted way. But there was absolutely no doubt that he didn't also resent her and his son with every fiber of his being for having stolen his last chance of glory from him.
No one was certain how Bedelia felt about Cantankerous towards the end. She had been in the profession of pretense, after all, and, following her passing, although the general perception had been nothing but a loving and doting wife, the staff of the Nott household would tell of a different story.
Not only did Bedelia and Cantankerous keep to separate rooms, but to entirely different wings of Nott Manor. Every waking moment was spent with Theodore, whom she loved above all else.
It was not lost on Cantankerous, the way she would stiffen, hand twitching towards her wand when he would come too close to their son. The way her jaw would clench, her eyes darting to his exposed forearm and that disgusting, writhing stain of the Dark Mark.
It was the loathing that cracked his stone heart, however. When he would come home late, not with lipstick on his collar, but with blood spattering his skin and the adrenalised sneer of a battle won – and another Order member dead; it was the reproach on her tongue.
The most words she'd spoken to him in over a year, and they were sheer venom. Monster, murderer.
He hated that he craved her, craved to hear her voice, feel her touch; even if they were snarling, were clawing at him, hoping to make him hurt.
Many things could be said about Cantankerous, but he would never harm his wife, nor his child. No, a hand would not be laid upon them. Lessons were learned through an uttered curse and the piercing screams of the household staff. And although her voice and touch were desired, no matter how abhorrent, he was still a prideful man.
So prideful, in fact, that it was speculated that the death of Bedelia Nott was a direct result of the wounding of that pride.
She'd tried to leave him once, and never survived to try it again.
The war had been long over by then. Bedelia had withdrawn from Cantankerous entirely; no longer did she have any condemnations to lash him with or will to fight him. He was a ghost to her every bit as she was a ghost of herself.
For Theodore's sake, they sat together for every meal. Conversation, however, was stilted – Cantankerous attempting to coax a response, any response, out of Bedelia, only to be met with a blank stare and silence.
Theodore had grown to be six by then. Bedelia had schooled him in both French and English, and had introduced him to art and culture, ballet, music, theater. Unfortunately, any bond he endeavoured to forge with his father was often disregarded in favour of another attempt to goad a reaction from Bedelia, and so the pair were nothing more than strangers.
It had been when Theodore became seven that Cantankerous realised the only way to Bedelia was through their son. She'd snapped at him – the first words he'd heard her say in six months as she refused to even voice herself to Theodore when in Cantankerous' presence – when he'd suggested Theodore be sent to Durmstrang, and Theo – so taken by the first sign of interest in him from a man called father in only blood and name – had almost agreed.
The Nott family were unlike many others of the old blood and money on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Where the Malfoys and Mulcibers and such kept house elves in their employ, the Notts owned muggles. Loyal, obedient, shackled in an eternity of indenture to the family Nott.
Bedelia had awoken to the sounds of agony. It was a girl's screams, she had realised with a sigh of selfish relief. She didn't know what possessed her to check on Theodore, but a mother's instinct was seldom wrong, and impossible to ignore. To her horror, she found his bed cold.
Her heart had been in her throat as she approached Cantankerous' study, the blood roaring in her ears almost enough to drown out the sound of the pain-struck wails. Almost.
The girl stopped, and she heard a boy's sob. Her boy.
"Again," Cantankerous said, voice void of emotion, but brimming with command.
"Please," begged the child. He could barely make it through a word without stammering. "I don't want to do it again."
Something flashed in his father's eyes then, and his teeth bared in a snarl. "I said again."
The study doors fell to ash under Bedelia's wand as she stormed into the room with a fury paralleled only by the leveling of ancient empires.
She'd been no stranger to the cruelty Cantankerous could be known to administer, but what she saw made even her falter, halting her steps.
Cantankerous stood, scopic hands holding Theodore firm in his place. He stood, towering, glowering, menacing. Theo had shrunken into himself, eyes red, bloodshot. He shook uncontrollably, wracked with sobs and fear, trembling under his father's cold touch. In his little hand was Cantankerous' wand, shakily pointed at...
The girl couldn't have been much older than Theo himself. Bedelia recognized her vaguely; she was the daughter of one of the chefs in the kitchen.
"Maman," Theo choked out, tears falling profusely. "J'ai peur, maman."
I'm afraid.
And Bedelia could see why. The girl lay on the floor, pale, slicked in sweat. Her eyes were rolled back into her head, revealing only the whites – heavily marred by the ruptured, red blood vessels that snaked their way across them. She lay, twitching, gurgling on the blood of her torn vocal chords, her fingernails mutilated and bloody from clawing at the wooden floors. Her blood slowly filled the grooves as Bedelia watched, horrorstruck.
"Again."
Cantankerous had been speaking to Theodore when he said it, but his eyes were firmly on Bedelia.
"No," Theodore said. His rebellion was met with strong fingers digging into his shoulders, and his whimper of pain felt like a brand to Bedelia's heart.
Under his barbarous touch, Theo complied to his father's wishes as Bedelia found herself unable to move.
"Crucio," Theo whispered, and the night was alive once more with the sounds of agony, only this was no scream. The noise the young girl emitted was hard to describe, and even harder to hear.
They left that night. A well aimed stunning spell on the endless tormentor that was Cantankerous sounded almost too easy, but in all his years wed to Bedelia, Cantankerous never once thought she would ever raise her wand to him. Perhaps she wouldn't have before. For Theodore, however, she would; she did.
They took nothing with them when they disappeared into the night.
It took Cantankerous a month to find them.
The opals had sat on her dresser in their velvet case, awaiting her return. They watched her, almost in a mockery, when Corban Yaxley dragged her into her old room, the stagnant air riled by her agonised breath. They had belonged to Cantankerous' mother, and her mother before that. The necklace was not of a design that accommodated comfort, and the metal and stone never warmed no matter how long they sat upon flush skin. Bedelia had hated them, but she knew better than to make Cantankerous ask twice, especially now that young Theo was back under that accursed roof.
Her body had been found by Theodore.
When questioned by investigating authorities, Cantankerous played the part of griefstricken widow almost flawlessly. No one knew the cause of death; as the opals had been carefully removed from their lethal clutch around Bedelia's neck and been disposed of to be taken to a safe in Gringotts until the ordeal had blown over.
Speculation, under the deft quill of Rita Skeeter, detailed a secret affair and a vengeful lover, hexing the young Nott bride in the night for returning to her husband's side. Perhaps she'd fallen prey to a rare blood curse, as Bedelia was often known to be a delicate creature. Others who knew Cantankerous' true nature would say murder. And they wouldn't be wrong, although all anyone knew for certain was that it had been no accident, and there had been no mercy, for Bedelia Nott would be buried with a closed casket.
It had not been a part of Cantankerous' plan that the jewels would go missing, that the cursed necklace would land in the hands of Muggles. He had entrusted them to one of his staff on its secret voyage to Gringotts, along with several other priceless heirlooms to avoid suspicion. The conclusion that they got greedy, took a look, took something that wasn't theirs, was easy enough to draw up. But they had never returned and the Nott Opals had been lost.
It took nine years before Theodore Nott would lay his eyes upon the hexed jewels once more, surprisingly, in Hogsmeade.
He never forgot the look of them, never forgot the suspicion that there was more to them than decoration, that there was something odd about the fact they had not been on her body when it had been carted away to the morgue at St. Mungo's for further inspection. But the looming presence of his father – a glacial monolith with those storm swirled eyes – kept him quiet.
Cantankerous never had to confess for Theodore to know what he'd done. And that was the day Theodore Nott decided he hated his father.
It was the Hexing of Katie Bell that confirmed what Theodore already knew. He'd always known it was Cantankerous' doing, but he never really knew how; and when he saw her there, floating in the air, gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly, and the necklace, discarded, glinting in the snow, he knew. There was something wrong, something eerie... Katie Bell's hair had whipped at her as if by a fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression. Six feet above the ground, Katie had let out a terrible scream. The same torn scream of a young girl in anguish, a scream that tortured Theodore's every waking hour, scarred into his mind, still ringing in his ears. The same scream he'd heard from his mother, alerting him to her death.
And he knew. He knew that although Cantankerous Nott had survived wars and monstrous men, he would not survive the monster he'd made of Theodore.
It wasn't as if Theodore's hate of his father was unwarranted; far from it, for he had earned it with the blood of Bedelia, and later, with the blood of Althea.
And although he vowed to never visit his father in Azkaban after his arrest following his involvement in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, he did, just once. A confrontation, a moment of catharsis; though Theodore knew that all it would do would merely rip open Theodore's heart once more. His wounds had not healed, they never would. But he'd been almost okay. With Althea. And his father had taken that from him, too.
As a minor, he'd been staying with Narcissa and Draco Malfoy, and it was she who took him to see Cantankerous upon her visit to her husband. She'd appeared overjoyed, having believed Theo had finally worn down and conceded to her numerous attempts of reconciliation. He hadn't the heart to tell her he hadn't, for she'd been nothing but lovely to him.
Cantankerous' relief was short lived. Any fantastical notion that Theodore had changed his mind, decided to pay the hefty bail and whisper away the charges with a falsified alibi, dissipated.
Theodore was loathe to admit it, but although he wished he could be everything his mother was, it was his father he took after more. For when he spoke, with that soft, whispered calm, darkened by the tint of rage, he sounded like him. "I want you to tell me about these."
The opals he produced from his pocket did nothing to him; they wouldn't. The curse placed upon them could sniff out his lineage, and the deterrent to thievery saw no use in stopping his heart. If only it could discriminate between blood and name, too.
Cantankerous knew then, what Theodore had truly been asking of him. And the usually ever-so meticulous man unraveled. The Dementors had done their damage, and his son would be the killing blow. "Theodore, please-"
"Did you kill maman?"
There it was; the unspoken question given voice.
He needn't respond, for his face betrayed him. His jaw slackened, eyes darting to the cell beside him, cautious of eavesdroppers. But it was hard to hear quiet things in Azkaban; not with the pained howls and the roaring wind ripping through the echoing stone. He reached through rust-riddled bars, extending a hand to placate the subdued wrath of his son.
Theo jerked back as if his very touch was poison, lip curling in disgust. He pocketed the opals once more, tucking them out of sight of a waiting Narcissa, and the weight of them in his pocket wore more so on his heart. "Your trial is tomorrow," he stated, fixing his tie. "I'll see you before the Wizengamot."
And so he did.
Hollowed out eyes, gaunted face; Cantankerous was a shadow of himself as he sought out the familiar visage of his son. And there he was, sat in the front row.
As they listed Cantankerous' many sins and judged him for them, Theodore rose. A hush befell the crowd.
He approached the bench. And from his pocket, he produced the string of opals.
Draco Malfoy's breath hitched, his own attendance having been a show of support for his own father, who had been next in line for the court proceedings. He recognized that necklace. Harry Potter, who would pass by a photograph of them on the front page of The Daily Prophet would recognize them, too. He'd seen them, years ago, in Borgin & Burkes, behind a glass case that implored him to not touch, for it had been responsible for the deaths of nineteen Muggles to date.
"For the death of Bedelia Delacour." The name sounded foreign on the young Nott's tongue; he'd refused to say it for a decade. As he dropped the necklace with a heavy thud before Alastor Moody, he turned.
The last words Cantankerous would hear his son say, and they were the ones that would seal his fate.
The doors shutting behind Theodore Nott was a thundercrack, and Cantankerous Nott IV recieved the Dementor's Kiss a week later.
Theodore did not mourn. He'd mourned all his life for one parent, and the other was less than deserving.
a collection of happenings, the little moments with chris evans. little to no plot, callbacks to previous parts, but many can be read individually. the slowest of slow burns. smut will be marked with an asterisk (*)
PART I — the night you met.
PART II — the surprise reunion.
PART III — the first non-date of many.
PART IV — the second non-date of many; (ft. seb and anthony).
PART V — chris comes home unexpectedly, awkward encounters ensue.
PART VI — the epic food fight of '20.
PART VII — after a power outage cuts the heating, body warmth is the highest currency in the evans household.
PART VIII — a drunken game of never have i ever leads to skinny dipping, and some late night confessions.
PART IX — you go to a burlesque club for your birthday; the first kiss (ft. wingmen anthony and sebastian).
PART X — post-kiss confrontation; you help chris learn lines for a romance film he's auditioning for. involves strawberries.
PART XI — you and chris attend a last minute vegas wedding of his close, personal friend (ft. mcu cast).
PART XII — an interview misinterpretation leads to awkwardness.
PART XIII — chris is hosting a charity event, and asks you to be his date when his initial date can't make it. (ft. scarlett, seb, and anthony).
PART XIV — on a celebratory trip to the hamptons, chris helps you out of an altercation at the bar (ft. seb and anthony).
PART XV — ocean eyes.
PART XVI — the three times chris comforted you, and the times you returned the favour.
PART XVII — you meet chris' family when you visit boston with him for a patriot's game. (ft. scott and the rest of the evans')
PART XVIII — you surprise chris in italy for his birthday.
PART XIX — you help chris get out of his prosthetic makeup one night when he comes home upset.
PART XX — you finally have enough (ft. anthony and seb)
PART XXI — you run into chris again when you pick up the rest of your things.
Summary: Falling asleep next to Ben. Just a short little drabble I thought about before bed. 🫶🏻
Warnings: None, pure fluff y’all
The sheets are warm, but his arms are warmer.
You’re tucked against his chest, your head rising and falling with every breath he takes. Ben’s heartbeat is slow now—steady—like the whole world’s finally let him rest. One big arm is locked around your waist, the other stretched out beneath your head, his palm curled loosely over your shoulder like he never wants to let go.
You shift slightly, and he tightens around you without even waking. Protective. Possessive. Like even asleep, his body knows it’s yours to keep safe.
You don’t need the blanket. Not when you’ve got Ben—solid and steady, his bare chest like a furnace, his arm a wall of muscle pinning you close. You’re small compared to him, cradled in his arms like you belong there, like the space between his bicep and his chest was carved out just for you.
You let out a soft breath, and his hand twitches, fingers brushing over your skin like a promise. His lips press into your hair a second later, slow and lazy.
“Mmph… you good?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, deep enough to rumble through your back.
“Yeah,” you whisper, barely more than a breath. “Just… feel safe.”
He grunts. A pleased sound. Pulls you in tighter.
“Damn right you do.”
And that’s it. No speeches, no grand declarations. Just Ben, wrapped around you like a fortress, strong arms holding you through the night like nothing in the world could ever touch you.
Summary: Anger talks loud; regret whispers after. Some words land harder than fists—and you wish you could take them back the second they hit.
Warnings: Angst, emotional conflict, raised voices, hurtful language, mention of John Winchester (negative), temporary relationship tension, guilt, apology/make-up, soft intimacy
The motel room door slammed behind you, your boots hitting the cheap carpet in quick strides as you dropped your duffel with a thud.
Dean was already standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You’re not coming on the next hunt.”
You didn’t even flinch. “Oh, great. Here we go. Should I sit down for this speech or is it gonna be the same greatest hits? Too dangerous, you’re too close to it, let big bad Dean take care of everything—”
“Damn right it’s too dangerous!” he snapped, stepping closer. “You were almost torn apart last time, and you think I’m just gonna sit back and let you go charging in again?”
You scoffed, brushing past him. “Thanks for the lecture, Dad.”
“Don’t—” His voice dropped into that low, warning register. “Don’t pull that crap with me. I’m serious. You’re staying out of this one.”
“Oh, I’m staying out of it? Wow. That’s cute. Let me guess, you gonna chain me to the bed next? Or just drag me back here by my hair when I disobey your oh-so-important orders?”
He stared at you, nostrils flaring. “This isn’t a joke.”
You met his gaze, your voice laced in venom and hurt. “No, it’s not. But you don’t get to decide what I do. You don’t own me.”
“You think this is about owning you?” he barked, pacing now, hands clenching at his sides. “You think I wanna control you? I’m trying to keep you alive, for god’s sake!”
“And what, you’re the only one allowed to put your life on the line?” You folded your arms, chin up. “Sorry if I don’t wanna sit on the sidelines while you get torn up again. Sorry if I actually give a damn.”
He stalked toward you then, furious. “You’re not going.”
You didn’t back down. “Like hell I’m not.”
“Like hell you are!”
The words echoed between the two of you, the tension so thick it nearly buzzed in the air.
You looked at him, breathing hard.
He took a step forward, voice dropping an octave. “You’re not going. That’s an order.”
Your jaw clenched. You stared at him like he’d just slapped you.
“Oh,” you said with a humorless laugh. “An order? Really? Wow. You even hear yourself right now?”
“I’m serious,” he said again, quieter but firmer. “I can’t—I won’t let you walk into something like that. End of story.”
Something in you snapped.
“Right. Of course not. God forbid I make a decision without your stamp of approval,” you said, voice sharp. “Sound familiar?”
Dean’s brow furrowed, confused for half a second before you dropped the line.
“Well, congratulations. You’re just like your father.”
The silence that followed was like the world tipping off its axis.
Dean’s expression didn’t shift right away, but you saw it. That flicker. That punch to the gut you’d just delivered.
And your heart dropped into your stomach.
“Dean…” you said softly, the sarcasm stripped clean from your voice.
He blinked, jaw ticking, eyes suddenly not quite meeting yours.
“No,” you breathed, stepping closer. “No, baby, I didn’t mean that.”
He swallowed hard, and the way he looked at you then—like he’d been blindsided—cut deeper than any scream could’ve.
“I’m sorry.” You reached for him, hands cupping his face. “Dean. I didn’t mean it. That was low. That was—God, I’m so sorry.”
His eyes closed as your thumbs brushed over the stubble on his cheeks. “I just… I was scared,” you whispered. “You say I almost got torn apart? I watched it happen to you. I felt it. And I hate being left behind just as much as you hate the idea of me getting hurt.”
His hands slowly came to rest over yours, cradling your wrists. “I didn’t mean to come down on you like that,” he rasped. “It’s not an order. I just… when it comes to you, I lose my grip. You get hurt and I—I can’t breathe.”
You stepped even closer, foreheads brushing, your voice cracking. “I’m not trying to be reckless. But I’m not a liability either. I’m with you, not beneath you.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I know, sweetheart.”
You kissed him then—soft, aching, like it was the only way to say everything neither of you had words for. His hands settled around your waist, and you let your fingers thread into his hair, holding his face as if anchoring both of you.
When the kiss broke, you stayed close, his breath mingling with yours.
“You’re not him,” you whispered. “Not even close.”
He nodded, just once, before pressing another kiss to your lips.
“I don’t care what happens out there,” you whispered against his mouth. “We don’t go in divided.”
He pressed his lips to yours again. “Together,” he murmured. “Always.”
Summary: Dean’s taking care of his Baby, and you take care of yours.. 😏
Warnings: Sexual tension, smut, Rated R, taking care of Dean, oral receiving, overstimulation, no use of y/n. Proceed with caution. 18+
The sun was high and merciless, casting golden light across the bunker’s driveway. You stood just outside the garage, leaned against the doorframe with your arms crossed, pretending to sip your iced coffee—but you hadn’t taken a drink in at least five minutes.
Not when Dean was out there, shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips, bent over Baby with a sponge in one hand and a bucket at his feet. His movements were methodical, focused. The kind of care he usually reserved for a hunt, or for you.
Water clung to his skin, rivulets snaking down his chest and soaking the waistband of his jeans. A single drop slid from his temple, tracing his jaw before it disappeared into the scruff on his throat. And the way his arms flexed as he scrubbed the hood?
Yeah. You were sweating and it wasn’t from the heat.
You bit your lip, watching the muscles in his back shift, every line of him on full display under the afternoon sun. It was honestly rude.
You turned, sauntered back inside just long enough to grab one of the cold beers from the fridge, then stepped out again—this time with purpose.
Dean didn’t hear you right away, too busy rinsing off the soap with a low whistle under his breath. But when you crossed to his side and held out the beer, his eyes flicked over with that lazy, sun-warmed smirk.
“Well hey there, sweetheart. You tryin’ to steal my heart with a cold one?”
“Think you could use a break,” you said sweetly, handing it over. “You’re starting to glisten.”
He chuckled, twisting the cap off and taking a long pull. “Glisten, huh?”
“Mmhmm.” Your eyes trailed down his body, not bothering to be subtle. “Or maybe sweat like a sinner in church.”
Dean gave a slow, smug look in your direction. “And what’s that make you, starin’ like that?”
“Thirsty,” you replied, licking your lips, voice low.
And then—without giving him a second to reply—you dropped to your knees right there, beside the Impala’s tire, resting your hands lightly on his thighs.
Dean froze. The bottle hovered mid-air.
“…Sweetheart?”
You looked up at him through your lashes, playful and wicked all at once. “Figured I’d help you cool down.”
He blinked, then glanced around the mostly-empty garage lot like he couldn’t believe his luck. “You’re serious?”
Your hands slid higher, fingers teasing at the button of his jeans. “I don’t joke when I’m this turned on.”
Dean let out a slow, wrecked breath—one that came from somewhere deep in his gut—and leaned back against the Impala with a crooked smile. “Remind me to wash Baby more often…”
Dean’s hand tightened around the neck of the beer bottle, knuckles flexing as he stared down at you like you were a mirage. The sun was beating down, his jeans clinging to his hips from the water, his skin slick and hot, and now—this.
You. On your knees. Looking up at him with that spark in your eyes that never failed to knock the wind out of him.
Dean’s breath caught when your nails lightly grazed over the damp denim between his legs. He let his head fall back with a low groan, the bottle dangling from his hand.
“Jesus…”
“Nope,” you teased, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip, right where his jeans dipped low. “Just me.”
Dean hissed through his teeth, hips shifting ever so slightly toward your mouth. “You’re dangerous, y’know that?”
You glanced up at him again, eyes locked with his. “Then stop me.”
He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Not even if his life depended on it.
Instead, he exhaled hard and set the bottle on Baby’s roof with a thunk, both hands coming down to tangle in your hair as your kisses got lower, slower, maddeningly patient.
“God, sweetheart…” he rasped, voice all gravel and need. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“You’ll die happy.”
You let your hands slide up, undoing the button on his jeans like you had all the time in the world, then tugging the zipper down, slow and deliberate. You pressed your mouth to the skin just above the waistband, soft, open-mouthed kisses that made his thighs tense under your touch.
And when you finally pulled him free, when your hand wrapped around his cock and you leaned in, Dean’s head thunked softly back against the car.
“Fuuuuck.”
The heat, the sun, the glint of sweat still on his chest—everything felt electric as you kissed his tip once, soft and slow. Not even taking him in yet, just tasting, teasing, letting him feel every ounce of restraint you still had.
He looked down at you, pupils blown wide, chest rising with each unsteady breath. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”
You smiled, your breath hot against his skin. “That’s the plan.”
You didn’t give him a warning. Just wrapped your lips around him, slow and warm and steady, your tongue tracing the underside of his shaft like you already knew every inch by heart.
Dean choked out a low curse and immediately grabbed hold of the car’s roof with one hand, the other staying buried in your hair like he needed that anchor to keep from floating off the ground.
“Oh—shit, baby…”
His voice cracked somewhere between pleasure and disbelief, already breathless. The kind of sound that made you feel powerful, needed, like your name was echoing in every corner of his body.
You set a rhythm—slow, steady, intentional—like you wanted him to feel every pass of your tongue, every flick, every tight pull of your lips around him. Your hands held him gently but firmly at the base, not letting him thrust, not letting him take. This was yours.
“God, you feel so good…” he groaned, chest heaving, sweat trickling down his neck. “Sweetheart… I’m—fuck.”
You hummed around him, eyes flicking up just in time to catch the way his lashes fluttered, the way his mouth parted, and then—there it was. That soft, broken moan. The one he couldn’t control. The one he only gave you.
His hips jerked the tiniest bit, and you squeezed your lips around him gently, letting go with a quiet pop before licking slowly up the length of his cock—just to make him whimper.
“Y’alright there, Winchester?” you murmured, breath hot against him.
He let out a laugh that was half a gasp, voice wrecked. “You’re… evil.”
“Mmhmm,” you purred. “And you love it.”
Dean’s hand tightened in your hair, the muscles in his thighs twitching beneath your touch. “Too much,” he admitted. “Way too much.”
And then you took him again—this time deeper, slower, holding him at the back of your throat just long enough to make his knees buckle.
“Oh God, sweetheart—”
He was panting now, torn between gripping the car and your hair, his stomach tensing under the pressure, his voice unraveling in your name and little broken sounds you didn’t think he even realized he was making.
“Baby, baby, baby—fuck—I’m not gonna last, not like this—”
You didn’t ease up. If anything, you tightened your grip on him, your pace steady but still gentle, coaxing, loving. Letting him fall apart under your mouth.
And when he finally came—his hips giving one last, helpless buck, your name torn from his throat like a prayer—you didn’t stop.
Even as Dean’s hips stuttered and his grip loosened in your hair, even as he groaned your name like he thought he was done—you stayed right there, swallowing everything he had to give. Lips wrapped around him, tongue teasing the tip and underside of his cock, slow and deliberate.
Dean cursed, breath hitching hard. “Oh—Jesus, baby, wait—”
You pulled back just slightly, just enough to speak—your voice a sultry whisper against his flushed skin. “Mm-mm. Not done with you yet.”
His hand fumbled at the roof of the car like he needed something solid, something to keep him upright. “Holy fuck.”
You smiled, devilish and sweet, then dragged your tongue up the sensitive underside of his cock again, slow enough to make his knees tremble. His thighs were already tense, his stomach jumping with every flick of your tongue over the tip of his dick. And when you hollowed your cheeks and took him deep once more?
Dean gasped—a wrecked, desperate sound—and his knees gave just a little.
“Baby, please, I—I can’t—“
You hummed, vibrations shooting straight through him, and the hand in your hair tightened again—this time more like a lifeline than control.
He was a mess now. Breath ragged. Muscles trembling. The kind of overwhelmed that made his voice break when he tried to say your name and could barely get it out.
“I’m—fuck, sweetheart, it’s too much—too good—”
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as his head fell back against Baby, lips parted, skin burning from head to toe. You kept your rhythm—soft but unyielding, dragging every single second of overstimulation out of him until his thighs quaked and his voice cracked into a broken moan.
“Baby, I’m gonna—God, I’m gonna cum again—”
You didn’t stop. You didn’t dare. You kept your hands steady, your pace just enough to push him straight over that edge a second time.
And when it hit—when his entire body shuddered and his knees finally gave out—you caught him. Hands sliding up to hold his hips, grounding him as he collapsed half-limp against Baby, gasping like he’d just been hit by lightning.
He whimpered, hand still tangled in your hair, body spent, wrecked, twitching with every aftershock.
You kissed the inside of his thigh as you finally pulled off of him, slow and gentle now. Soothing. Worshipful.
Dean could barely lift his head, eyes glassy, jaw slack, still trying to remember how to breathe.
“Y—you…” He swallowed thickly. “You’re evil. Holy shit, you’re…”
You climbed to your feet, brushing your lips across his cheek. “Still think I was just bringing you a beer?”
Dean let out a hoarse, breathless laugh, wrapping an arm around your waist and burying his face in your neck.
“Next time I wash Baby, I’m doin’ it fully clothed. In a locked garage.”
A/N: Thank you for the request, Anon! I looooved this idea, really resonated with me. I hope you like my take on it. <3
It’s sometime after two when the clock finally breaks you.
You’ve tried everything. Blankets tossed off, then pulled back on. Warm milk, one sip too many. That little stretch Sam once showed you. Even laying still and breathing slow like Dean told you—“fake it ‘til it happens, sweetheart”—but it’s useless. Your body is heavy with exhaustion, but your brain just won’t let go. Every tick of the second hand sounds louder than the last.
So you’re back at the kitchen table again, forehead resting in your palms, eyes burning. And then it happens—just a quiet little huff, a trembling breath—and then tears.
You don’t even mean to cry. You’re just so damn tired.
You don’t hear him at first. Not until the creak of a floorboard gives him away, followed by the unmistakable soft pad of bare feet. You look up just as Dean’s frame fills the kitchen doorway, hair a mess, T-shirt wrinkled, brows furrowed in that worried way he gets when he sees you like this.
His voice is low, rough with sleep.
“Hey. You okay, baby?”
You sniffle, wiping your face fast, but it’s pointless. Your voice cracks anyway.
“I just… can’t sleep. I feel like I’m going crazy.”
Dean crosses the space to you without hesitation. One hand brushes your shoulder, then finds your jaw, coaxing your chin up so he can see your face. His touch is warm, grounding.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you should’ve woke me.”
“I didn’t wanna bug you,” you whisper. “You work so hard. You were out cold.”
His thumb strokes beneath your eye, catching a tear before it slips too far.
“You’re never bugging me,” he says softly. “Especially not when you need me.”
He drops a kiss to your temple—slow, lingering—then crouches so he’s eye-level, hands on your thighs.
“C’mere,” he says, nodding toward the living room. “We’re gonna fix this.”
You blink. “How?”
Dean just smirks a little, like he knows something you don’t.
“Just trust me.”
You end up curled on the bed, a blanket around your shoulders, tucked between Dean’s thighs with your back to his chest. One of his arms wraps under yours, splayed across your belly, and the other rests around your shoulders, fingers tracing lazy patterns across your skin. You feel small like this, safe. His heart beats slow and steady against your spine.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs into your hair. “That’s it… yeah, just like that.”
You don’t even realize when your tears stop, or when the clock’s ticking fades into the background. All you know is the rise and fall of his chest behind you, the weight of his body keeping you grounded, the way his voice hums against your ear when he talks low and quiet.
“You’re not alone, baby. You never are,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
And eventually… you believe him.
Your body eases. Your breath slows.
And this time, when your eyes drift shut… sleep comes.
Summary: Dean being the perfect gentleman that he is. 🩷
Warnings: None! Enjoy the fluff!
You hadn’t expected it to feel like this.
Dean calls it “not a big deal” while he’s driving, one hand on the wheel, other resting lazy at the top of your thigh like he’s done it a hundred times. But it feels like more than that. Not a hunt. Not a hurried bite between cases. Just… dinner.
With him.
A date, even if neither of you will say the word out loud.
“You’re overthinkin’,” he says when he catches you staring out the window too hard. “It’s burgers, sweetheart. Not a proposal.”
“Easy for you,” you murmur, but you let your fingers lace with his where they rest on your leg.
The diner glows warm and gold when you pull up. One of those old places with cracked vinyl seats and neon that’s a little too bright for how late it is. He opens your door without thinking like always, and you feel that soft twist in your chest you pretend not to notice.
Inside smells like fry oil and coffee and something sweet.
He walks just behind you, hand low at your back, warm and steady like he’s guiding you through a crowd even though there isn’t one.
Booth. Of course.
You slide in first. He follows, close, his knee brushing yours under the table. The waitress comes. He orders like he’s feeding you more than himself. You don’t correct him.
You talk about stupid things.
A hunt that went sideways. A motel with suspicious stains. The time Sam tried to cook and nearly burned the place down. You laugh more than you mean to. You relax more than you’d planned.
And for a while, it’s just… normal.
You don’t even realize you’ve dropped the fork until it clatters against the floor.
It’s such a stupid little sound—too sharp, too loud against the low hum of the diner, plates and glasses clinking softly around you, neon buzzing somewhere above your heads.
“Dammit,” you mutter, already leaning forward, table legs scraping softly as you bend down to get it.
You don’t see him move.
His hand slides over the hard corner of the table, palm braced there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like your safety lives somewhere deep in his bones.
You tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing the tiled floor as you pick up the fork. When you rise back up, your gaze catches on his hand.
Still there.
Still protecting.
And he doesn’t even look at it.
He looks at you.
“Got it?” he asks, like you weren’t just inches away from cracking your skull open in his head.
You set the fork down slowly, heartbeat a little louder than the diner should allow.
“You’re… always like that?” you ask quietly.
He shrugs, but it’s not casual.
“It’s not a thing,” he says, but his eyes give him away. Soft. Watchful. Open in a way that hurts if you stare too long.
Your foot bumps his under the table.
On purpose.
His hand finally slides back to his lap.
Later, in the Impala, the world feels different.
He drives slower.
You sit closer.
And when you rest your head against his shoulder at a red light, he doesn’t move.
His hand comes up again, not to block anything this time, just to curl around the side of your head, gentle and sure.
Like if the world ever tried to hurt you, it would have to go through him first.
