Tbh I am just gonna blabber 😭 I’m pretty sure no one’s going to read it, but I just wanted to do it for my own sake. (I have an exam, but I’m doing this anyway. Why am I like this? 💀)
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I have realized something crazy! We never realize that something happening right now in our life is going to become a memory—something we'll remember for a long time. Memory doesn't mean it has to be extraordinary or something significant for us to remember.
We all know we remember random things. Suddenly, they just pop into our minds for no reason, and we’re transported back to those days.
Like when we were young, the early morning group study I did with my friends on a random Sunday morning, just because we could.
Or a random day in my school when I was four or five (I don’t even know why I remember that day).
Or a random ice cream I had one day when I was young.
Or the morning of a normal school day.
Or the time I was hiding in front of someone's house while playing hide and seek on our street.
Or the time when me, my brothers, and some of the kids in our street sat outside our house and my friend’s house up until early morning because of a silly fight. We were just sitting there to prove something. I don’t know what we were trying to prove though 💀
("My homies and I on that random night.")
Or the time I was playing Vice City with my brothers on our computer, taking turns.
The same goes for Temple Run or Bunny Run, but those were on our dad's phone. There are so many.
Or it could be something more like the funny (now) but rather traumatizing encounter I had with a dog. It kind of chased me through an entire street, and I ran like I was running for my life, up until I reached my mom. (I have so much dog lore, tbh😭, since I’ve always been afraid of dogs. My mom, being a doctor, advised me about the rabies virus I could get from a dog. I took it way too seriously.i love dogs and i am still a tiny bit scared of them 😂 But They are adorable!)
Or the time I built a huge building just with old books with my brothers (it was a ghost building, according to our lore).
Or the time one of my classmates spilled ink on my new dress.
To be honest, I don’t even remember how old I was during most of these moments.
So everything happening right now could be boring, exciting, sad, or just very random, but it can become a memory. Just a memory—a happy memory, a sad memory, or maybe a little bit of both, or just an insignificant memory. But that doesn’t seem insignificant to me right now. Maybe it’s because I was a kid, but those random memories bring me some kind of comfort. I wonder whether the random things happening in my life nowadays will bring me comfort in the future, too, or maybe it’s all because of childhood magic.
But one thing I know is that I live too much in the past. I think a lot of people do. We miss those good old days. I’m in college now, and I just want to be done with it and move on.
I often reminisce about those days with my friends and relatives with fondness, but I hate the present.
I ask myself whether I will miss these good old college days when I’m older.
I THINK I WILL.
To be honest,I KNOW I WILL.
The thing I mentioned about my present life—“Done with it, move on”—I realize how wrong I am about living my life. Longing for the past and waiting for the future while forgetting the present. The present is the only place I am actually present, but in my head, I live in the past or dream about the future and forget to live.
I AM FORGETTING TO LIVE !
So why I’ve been going in circles now is that I realized something. This realization actually came to me in February 2021 when I was in my last year of high school. It was close to ending, and I was probably reminiscing about that time too. And I wrote something that I stumbled upon today. I wrote it like I had some kind of epiphany, but I haven’t changed a bit.
Always longing for the past and regretting the past while not living in the present and just making terrible mistakes again and again. It’s like a cycle.
Everybody talks about this, but the problem is I don’t know how to get out of this cycle.
SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean is known for never forming attachments. Never doing more than a night, never leading on, just loving and leaving. It's better like that. Safer. But for you, he can't stop himself from coming back every time.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, kind of friends with benefits to lovers, angst, pining, Dean Winchester needs to talk about his feelings and get a hug, fluff, love confessions, light smut, light jealousy, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: I've wanted to do a fic like this for such a long time please enjoy it thank you✦
You always open the door.
Dean’s told you not to. He has these stupid code-words and questions you’re supposed to ask—riddles with strange answers like how do angels take their coffee, they don’t they prefer liquor, and does the king of hell like Tuesdays, yes, unless it’s his mother’s birthday—to make sure that it’s really him. Every time you open the door without asking them, he sighs and gives you a heavy look, refusing to cross the threshold until you play his little game.
“You gotta ask-“
“But I know it’s you-“
“Could not be me. Could be something wearing my face, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this-“
“I know we have.” You cross your arms over your chest. “And I told you. I know it’s you.”
Dean makes a face, like he wants to smile. He’s trying to fight it, to keep the upper hand in the argument, but he always caves. You smile at him, and hold a hand out.
“I could be a shifter.” He grunts, crossing his arms like he doesn’t trust himself not to take your hand. “Could be possessed. You been keepin’ the holy water like I-“
You toss it on his face, and giggle the way he barely even flinches.
Dean wipes his face, eyes shining on yours, and you know you’ve won.
Again.
For a game he insists you play, he’s quite bad at winning.
“Alright,” he smirks, slowly advancing through the door. “You’re gonna get it.”
You back away, smiling widely the whole time, and squeal as he chases you into your tiny apartment. There’s not much space for you to run—there’s barely enough space for Dean to fit—but you make do. He kicks the door closed and you retreat into the cluttered living room. You try to jump over the couch, but he catches you around the waist and you both fall into the cushion. When you wiggle a little for the show of it, Dean groans and hold you tighter against his chest.
He noses at your neck, kissing the soft skin under your jaw, and you keep giggling.
His presence does that to you. Makes you feel airy and foolish, the thrill of the coming days already buzzing over your skin, the joy in his return making you dizzy.
Because you’re never sure he’s going to return.
He’s told you that one day, he might not. That if that happens, you’re not allowed to look for him. If you’re lucky, he’ll just be dead.
“That’s lucky?” You’d asked, and he’d chuckled.
You’d been lying on his bare chest, his fingers mindlessly tracing your arm. You know about what he gets up to, when he’s not here. Know about the longer shadows in the world, know why the fifth time he was here—when you both realized that maybe this wasn’t the no-strings thing he’d claimed it had to be—he spent the whole weekend quizzing you about monsters and installing security in your apartment. You have a strange circle on the ceiling of every room that your friends call an interesting decoration choice. There’s dead man’s blood in your freezer, holy water in a flask near the door, and an iron poker in your living room, no fireplace to pair with it.
And you ask questions. So many questions. Dean says you’re worse than his brother sometimes, and you just kiss his nose because if he really found you annoying, he wouldn’t answer or bother to come back.
That night, you’d been asking about the worst thing he’d fought. He’d paused, then said God’s sister, and forbade you from asking follow-ups.
You’d ignored him. He couldn’t just say God’s sister then keep talking like that wasn’t fucking insane. It had only taken about two minutes to push him into saying the whole story. But when he’d finished, a long shadow had crossed his face. He’d held you a little closer, and given you the order to not look. You’d asked, because you always did.
And he’d entertained you, because he always does.
“Worse things than death, sweetheart.”
“Like what.”
“Y’know. Things.”
You’d given him a flat look. “Dean.”
He’d just smiled back, drawling your name, and you’d lowered yourself down over his face. Hovered an inch away, scanning over his smug, handsome face with narrowed eyes.
“Is there like, a Death two that you’re not telling me about?”
He’d snorted, running his hand through your hair. “Death two?”
You’d nodded, and he’d smiled up at you fondly.
“Nah. No death two.”
“Then what-“
“It’s- Nothin’ you wanna know about, baby, I promise-“
“Has it happened to you before?”
Dean had fallen silent. He’d let out a heavy breath, scanning over your face, and you’d dropped your brow over his.
“Please?” You’d whispered, and back then—almost a year ago, now—you still hadn’t understood why it was so important to know everything about him that you could.
You’d both been playing another one of his games. The one where he reminds you that this means nothing, and you act like that doesn’t split your soul in half. The one where Dean says that shit, then spends the whole weekend worshipping your body and treating it like it means everything, slowly stitching you back together. Then he leaves, and you promise him you won’t wait, and you both pretend to believe that you mean it.
You always wait. You always take everything he gives you. Collect every little fact and story and scar, and keep them in a special valve in your heart. A reserve, for the time that he’s gone. It acts as a fuel, keeping your love for him burning and alive, each little bit feeding into the others until you’re less spending the pieces like currency, and more adding water to the flow of a river. It sustains itself. It only grows and grows, sacred and gentle.
And you’re not sure if Dean feels the exact same. But he keeps coming back. He plays your games, letting you ask all your questions and collect your stories.
Dean had rubbed his mouth, looking at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and caved.
“There was this thing.” He’d said slowly, watching you so cautiously as he spoke. “Little while before we met. Whole shit with demons and Amara-“
“God’s sister.” You jump in quickly, because you want him to know you pay attention.
He’d smiled softly. “Yeah. Her. Well, she’d been shoved in a cage, and I was wearing the lock, and- It didn’t do good things to me. It messes with your head, makes you… Angry. Angry and violent. Turned Lucifer into the devil, made Cain kill his brother, made me… Something.” He’d swallowed, eyes dropping to your chest. “Got me killed. But it doesn’t let you just die. It brings you back. Makes you a demon.”
“And… Did you-“
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
He’d nodded, trying to smile, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. You’d climbed a little further over his body, and just hugged him tight.
The tension had eased from his chest, as he hugged you back. When you’d looked up, there was something shining on his face that you hadn’t named as tears, but still wiped away gently.
Dean had caught your hand, giving you a desperate, almost pleading look.
“You gotta promise.” He’d rasped. “If I walk out and don’t come back, you move on. ‘Cause if that shit happens again, and you find me- It ain’t me that you’d be finding, sweetheart.”
“Okay.” You’d whispered. “Promise.”
It had soothed him. He’d nodded, relaxed into the mattress, and pulled you down into a long kiss.
And there are some things you don’t ask about. That you don’t really want to know. The kind of thing the Mark turned him into, what hell was like, the specifics of those nightmares he gets, where he wakes up with his limbs flailing and a wild, almost inhuman glint in his eyes.
He doesn’t seem to believe you, when you tell him that you like him how he is. He lets out that sad, huffing laugh and mutters you don’t know me, baby, and you just roll your eyes, and remind him that you do.
You really do.
You know Dean so well, for a stranger who’d been drowning in a bottle of whiskey at the bar downtown, and offered you the night of your life. Who’d said one time, then showed up on your door a month later. Then two months after that. Then three weeks, then another three, the one month again.
Dean says he lies for a living. That it’s a big part of his job, and he’s pretty damn good at it.
So either he’s a lot worse at his job than he’s led you believe, or he’s just really bad at lying to you.
Because he reminds you that he might not come back, every single time he goes. Reminds you that this—waving a hand between your bodies, backing up a whole step like he’s trying to remind himself—is still just fun. That’s it.
You nod, and let him do his little dance and show.
Then, like always, you end up like this. Tangled in his arms on the couch, his mouth tracing over your skin. Sucking small bruises where the last ones had faded. Slipping his hand under your shirt and rubbing, re-mapping your body, grinning whenever he traces a spot he knows is sensitive, proud of himself like he hasn’t done this a million times before.
“Missed you,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth.
You twist, pressing your lips fully over his. He melts over you, cradling your face, wrapping an arm fully around your stomach. You smile against his mouth, opening when he swipes his tongue over your lips, humming happily as his hand splays possessively over your stomach.
“Missed you too.” You whisper back, and he makes a deep, almost purring sound from his chest.
You end up rolled over under him. He kisses you into the cushions, pulling off his flannel and almost ripping your shirt away, before letting his mouth wander down your body. You run your fingers through his hair—it’s gotten longer than you know he likes, you’ll cut it later—and moan as his mouth finds your nipple.
“Dean…”
“Missed you so fuckin’ much.” He mutters to himself, squeezing your hips and using his knee to nudge your thighs apart. “My pretty girl. Still fuckin’ wet for me, still fuckin’ perfect.”
You beam, and if you ask him about it later, he’ll say it’s just dirty talk. You’re not really his girl. You’re just fun.
But you’re not stupid. You mostly keep playing this game because it’s Dean’s, and it’s important to him, and you love him.
That was the first thing he told you not to do. There’s a long, long list of orders you’ve received from Dean—don’t open the door, don’t look for me, don’t pray to anyone but this specific angel, don’t mess with the safety measures—but this was at the top of the list.
“Don’t fall in love with me, sweetheart.” He’d said that first night. It had been teasing. You’d laughed, because he was just a handsome man at a bar. You weren’t there because you were looking to fall in love either.
“I’ll try.” You’d said back, and he’d smiled.
You really had tried.
The joke had turned into a warning. One that he gave over and over, after that visit where he started monster-proofing your place. You’d kept smiling, and telling him you’d try.
Every time he’d walked out the door, you’d reminded yourself that he might not come back. Every time he had come back, you’d repeated to yourself over and over—in the shower, sleeping next to him in ed, watching TV with his head in your lap—that you can’t fall in love with him.
He might never come back. He’ll never be able to love you back in a way that matters. He’ll never be able to give you a real life. He’s almost twice your age, he sleeps with a gun, he’s legally dead and a former FBI most wanted member, he’s been dead and tangled with demons and you still have to sit on the floor for twenty minutes to convince yourself to talk to your insurance company.
Dean’s a hero.
The hero doesn’t end up with the girl who’s barely ever left her village.
So you’d really tried. For your sake, you’d tried.
But he does this thing.
He leaves himself everywhere in your life. Hickeys on your neck that take a week to fade, a flannel he forgot on your bedroom floor, socks in the bathroom and half-eaten pie in the fridge. You downloaded songs he likes on your phone, because you spent a whole afternoon trying to convince each other to like your music. He made you a paper airplane that sits on the highest place of honor, the top of your fridge.
Once, after a long weekend where he’d fucked you on every surface of your apartment then lay on the floor counting fake stars with you until two in the morning, he’d tried to draw you.
He’d been drunk. You’d been laughing and moving the whole time, and for a man with such a steady hand, he’s not the best artist.
Your nose had been too small. Your lips had been too wide, and your hair had looked like pasta and your eyes had been crossed and he’d forgotten to give you ears. He’d groaned, and crumpled it up before crawling across the floor to lie in your lap.
“I don’t think of you like that.” He’d grumbled, nose grazing your inner thigh, and you’d laughed.
“I know, De.”
“You’re prettier, guess I just can’t draw.”
“No. You really can’t.” You’d leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. “I liked it anyway.”
He’d smiled—small, but for Dean that was practically beaming—and the tips of his ears had turned red as he hugged you tighter. A few drinks later, he’d passed out in your arms. You’d tried to draw him. Sketched with the pencil and paper left of the coffee table, then given up because his beauty didn’t seem willing to be captured in the paper.
So you’d taken a photo of him. Snorting below you, his cheeks smushed and mouth hanging open. Still unreasonably handsome.
In that single moment, all yours.
You’d smiled to yourself, and fallen asleep just that. With Dean all around you, hidden from the world on the floor of your apartment. He’d left in the morning. You’d kissed him, and made that same promise not to wait for him to come back.
But it had hit you, after a week of taking out your phone every few hours, and staring at the photo until your eyes were blurred with tears.
You always wait for him to return. You miss him so horribly when he leaves, it’s like part of you goes with him, and you’re just praying he’ll bring it back so you can feel alive again. So you can smile, and not worry about work politics or the asshole who lives down the hall and hits on you or friends who are always busy.
When Dean’s here, he’s the best thing in the world.
When he’s gone, he’s the best thing in the world, and the only thing you’re not allowed to have.
You’re not allowed to have him when he’s here either, though.
When he kisses you, or makes you breakfast, or pretends to watch TV while just staring at you the whole time. It’s a game you play alone.
Dean is yours, but you’re still not allowed to have him.
It’s not a fair game. You’re his, and he has you. You sit around waiting for him when he leaves, and pull him in every time he returns. There’s no amount of time that could pass, where you wouldn’t keep waiting for Dean, and it’s a rotten, torturous game.
He did warn you not to play it. He told you there was no winning.
But you keep playing. As hard a game as it is to lose, it’s a more fun game to play.
It’s easy to love Dean. So easy, you don’t know why you faked playing his game in the first place. He stopped warning you not to fall in love with him a while ago, but he seems to have his own game, where he lies to himself about you one day moving on without him.
“I got anyone to be worried about?” He asks at night, his arm tossed over your body, pinning you to the mattress.
You hum, playing with his fingers. “No.”
“No? Not even the- What’s his name, Hank?”
“Hank?”
“The asshole from your book club-“
“He’s not an asshole, De. He’s a nice man, and you know his name is Frank.”
“Hm.” Dean grunts, his hand closing over yours. “So not even Frank, huh?”
You sigh, twisting to look at him in the dark. Taking a deep breath, and scanning over his far too neutral expression. You wish he wouldn’t torture himself like this. You know it’s his game, but he doesn’t have to play it. He could just let you love him, even if it meant you spend the rest of your life staring at the door.
But he’s committed. He gives you a tight smile, and squeezes your hand.
“If he’s… Nice.” The words sound like they pain him. “And you like him. Y’know, you deserve the world, sweetheart-“
“Frank doesn’t have the world.”
Dean jaw twitches. “He could have it,” he mutters. “If he wants.”
His words are low. Low enough you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to hear.
And you reach out, cradling Dean’s jaw in your hands. He slumps into you with a sigh, dragging you a little closer. Holding you against his chest, face pressing into your hair, voice strained.
“You should. If you like him-“
“I do. He’s nice.” You swallow, leaning back to hold Dean’s hooded gaze. “But I like him Dean. Not like like. He’s nice.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “You said that already.”
“I mean it.”
“Uh huh.” He pauses. “I’m not nice.”
“Yes, you are.”
He laughs dryly. “Sweetheart, I got a grenade launcher in my trunk-“
“You got two grenade launchers in your trunk.” You press your knee up between his legs, and he hisses, rutting up against your thigh.
“Fuckin’- Woman-“
You giggle as he rolls you fully on your back, pinning your arms to the bed and looking down at you with a shine in his eyes. You smile freely up at him, because it’s so easy. Dean said don’t fall in love with me like it was a joke, but it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done in your life.
He crashes down, kissing you deep and fervently, until your laughter is replaced by soft moans, and your legs are spread in invitation on the bed. Dean pulls up, licking his lips, and stares at you with something close to awe.
You just keep smiling at him. It always seems to make him soften within a few moments.
And it does. Like clockwork, Dean shakes his head, sighs, and leans down to kiss you a little more gently.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he murmurs against your lips, letting go of one hand so he can cradle your neck, and you drag your fingers over his chest with a hum.
“I’m not worried about it.” You whisper. “You’d come back to me.”
He nods.
The tiniest nod. You don’t think he even knows he does it. There, all the same.
And you know. Neither of you are going to win your games.
But you’re both still so bad at playing them.
“Do you like like me?” Dean asks an hour or so later, when your legs are shaking and little Dean is twitching against your thigh from being slightly overworked—though he never complains.
“Do I like like you?”
“Uh- Yeah?”
You laugh. Force yourself to roll over, and crawl forwards to your rightful place on Dean’s chest.
“C’mon, it’s not that dumb a question-“
“It is a little.”
“Well, if you don’t like like Frank-“
“I don’t sleep with Frank.” I don’t wait for Frank like the Earth waiting to get back to the Sun. “I sleep with you.”
“Eh.” He smirks, squeezing your ass. “Not a lotta sleepin’ going on- Shit-“
You squeeze his still softening dick, and he moans, rutting into your hand. You almost giggle again, but it falls into a gasp when he sits up suddenly—keeping you against his chest but flipping you around so your head drops on his shoulders and your ass pressed on his cock—and drags his hand between your thighs.
“You’re good at helpin’ me win arguments, baby.” He drawls in your ear, and you whine.
”Dean-“
“Mouthy girl.” He drags his mouth over your throat, and you shake in his arms. “You know what you do me, sweetheart. Not real fair to tease, when you know I’m barely keeping up.”
You try to squirm, to get just a little bit of friction, and Dean lands a firm slap on your pussy. Your whole body jolts, nails sinking into his arm, and he chuckles.
“I know, I know.” He’s cooing, taunting, and it only makes you ache for him more. “I’ll give you anything you want, baby. Just gotta say please.”
You nod, and manage to babble out the words. You didn’t know you were capable of having so many orgasms, until you met Dean. You know he’s the only one who can do this. Reduce you to a drooling, cockdrunk mess, and still have you crawling back on your knees for more.
It would be nice, if that’s all he does to you.
But he also makes you feel wanted. Desired. Loved, even if he never says the word allowed. Even if the idea is all but forbidden.
But you still wait for him at the edge of the mattress, while he brushes his teeth. Shifting restlessly until he comes out of the bathroom, and smiles at you.
Dean crosses the room, and takes your face between his hands. Stares at you for a moment—always fondly, always like he’s not sure you’re real—then leans down to kiss you. Slow, like you have all the time in world.
Like he won’t be gone in the morning.
“I like like you.” You whisper, still a secret with no one else around to hear it.
Dean smiles. Squeezes his hold on the back of your neck.
“Thank you, baby.”
You nod, curling your fingers on the fabric of his shirt. If you get him to take it off, you’ll be able to hide it before he goes in the morning, and you can wear it until it stops smelling like him.
It might not even take tricking him. He’d just let you have it, if you asked. You know he doesn’t want to go either, but he has to. And he’s going to tell you again, not to wait for him. And you’re going to agree, and you’re both going to know it’s a lie.
He’ll walk out the door. Look back once, before forcing himself down the hall.
You’ll watch until he’s out of sight. Run to the window, to wave at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. Watch until the Impala is out of sight, too.
The world with get a little duller. A little more painful.
And then you’ll count down every second, until you see him again.
Dean had been a goner the first time he saw Her.
He remembers the moment clearly. How the world had slowed and he’d been sure he’d just been drinking too much, because he’d seen a lot of beautiful women but this one set off a bomb in his brain, wiping out everything but just the sight of Her. He remembers how She’d come up to him, and started talking with this voice that might’ve been made of every good song in the world. How She’d talked damn circles around him, and how She’d been young enough he felt a little like a perv, but then She’d said her name and it became the only thing he’d ever have to know again.
Dean remembers thanking Sammy for getting annoyed at Dean mark-induced anger, and telling him to go out and do something safe and productive. Thanking the Mark, for agreeing in the moment that drinking was a good thing to do. Thanking the vamp nest that had settled on the edge of the town, for bringing him here in the first place.
Remembers how She’d smiled in the light of the bar, how he’d tried to buy her a drink and she’d teased him about trying to get in Her pants, how they hadn’t even fully made it to the car before he’d been rubbing over Her underwear, and had barely been on the road for five minutes before She’d been taking him in her mouth.
But mostly, Dean remembers waking up the next morning, and feeling something dangerous blooming in his chest.
Peace.
He’d reached over the mattress, traced his thumb over Her cheek as she slept, and he’d felt like the world was more than just blood and loss and another day to get through that turned into a night to survive. The Mark hadn’t been burning in his blood and demanding more, more, more. He’d just been in this soft bed, with a pretty woman he’d spent the night giving good things to, watching the morning light shine over Her face.
Dean hadn’t wanted to get up. He hadn’t been able to make himself, because every time he shifted, She’d make this sad little sound and it echoed in his damn chest.
So he’d just stayed, until he could explain that he had to go. She was so perfect, She at least deserved to think he wasn’t running out after taking advantage of her.
But then he’d looked Her in the eyes, and asked if she wanted to get breakfast. And She’d smiled—it had too quickly became the sun for him, the center of everything, what moved him and offered him every bit of life—and he’d been more than gone.
He and Sammy had cleared out the vamp nest. She’d gotten caught in the middle, Dean had gotten Her out—the Mark roaring louder than usual, and Dean not bothering to resist it at all—and he’d cleaned Her up after. Stayed an extra day to make sure She was on her feet.
Not for any selfish reasons. Like wanting to cling to the strange peace for a little longer. Like taking advantage of Her clearly growing attachment to him, and letting himself indulge the sweetest thing he’d. ever found before he ripped it out of his hands.
He’d explained everything, in the desperate hope that She’d help him leave. That She’d do what Cassie and Lisa had done, and told him they wanted nothing to do with that life.
But She’d just… Understood. Gotten all pouty and sad-eyed, when he’d dragged himself out the door. Smiled at him, and waved goodbye.
And Dean didn’t count himself a good man. He had blood on his hands and a lot of wounds that didn’t seem to bother to heal. Hell, back then he’d been bearing the damn Mark of Cain, been made of all his worse thoughts and urges. But he’d always thought he’d made up for it by not being a douchebag. Maybe he had a body count so large he lost track, and maybe he lied and tricked and fought dirty, but he respected food workers. He tipped. He never touched a lady unless She wanted it, and he never judged—most of—the shit he heard.
He also kept upfront about what he wanted. He’d given Her the usual speech, before they’d started stumbling out of the bar laughing like teenagers.
One night.
He could give Her everything she ever wanted, for one night.
She’d agreed. He’d made his don’t fall in love joke, but it had sounded flat to his ears.
Dean thinks he might’ve known, even then.
He certainly knows now.
“You remember what you said to me?” He asked last time, sitting at Her feet while she did something with string and his favorite flannel that made it look new again. “That first night?”
“What I said to you?” She’d frowned. “No? Am I supposed to?”
“Nah. Just wonderin’.” He’d turned his cheek, pressing it into Her knee.
She looked almost delicate, in this kind of light. Like a mist that was going to blow away with the wrong wind. A dream Dean might forget if he dared to wake up, a trick of the light that would vanish if he blinked. He could’ve been happy there for the rest of his damn life. At Her feet, watching her softer hands work, right where he could keep Her safe and adored for the rest of his sorry life.
She’d paused Her work on his flannel. Smiled down at him, running Her fingers through his hair. Dean had felt like a damn dog, and turned into the touch.
“What did I say?” She’d asked softly, and he should’ve guessed She would. She likes to know everything.
He still doesn’t understand, how She can know him and still open the door every time.
“Was it stupid?” She asked softly, and Dean had chuckled. She couldn’t be stupid if She tried.
“Nah.”
“Well, what-“
“You told me I had big shoulders.”
She’d stared at him for a second. Does that thing he loves, where She sorta blinks and gapes and flushes, like just a few words from his dumb mouth are capable of short-circuiting Her quick brain.
Dean had leaned up and cupped Her jaw to close her mouth. She’d swatted his hands away with a scowl, and he’d laughed.
“Fuck off, I did not say that-“
“Swear you did.” He’d kissed the back of Her hand, because it makes him feel more like a gentleman than the ass who just shows up and crashes in Her bed. “You just sat down and started objectifying me, was pretty freakin’ rude-“
“Shut up.” She’d said with a smile. “You love being my object.”
Dean had chuckled and pushed up into a kiss.
She had no damn idea.
And when She finally shoved him gently away, reminding Dean that She had to finish Her work on his flannel, he’d gone back to watching at Her feet. She stitched that thing up like it had never been worn in the first place. Even gotten those complex seams that used to make him declare a shirt as good as dead. Gave him new buttons, too. Like he deserved something so small and important.
Dean had wondered, as he watched Her. Wondered if he should start ripping up flannels, so he had a better excuse to come back. If maybe She’d like a life in the bunker, stitching flannels and talking to him forever, and if She’d ever forgive him for daring to think something so selfish.
He’d wondered if She knew. That She stitches him up like that flannel, every time She let him back into her arms.
And if Dean were a stronger, worse man, he’d just let himself take Her. Sweep Her fully of her feet with the love confession he’s been rehearsing in the shower and on longer drives, for damn near two years. The one that goes I can’t offer you money. Or a real house. Or healthcare, or children, or even really damn pets. I can’t promise you I’ll come home, every time I walk out the house, and I can’t promise there ain’t always gonna be a target on your back just for holding my hand.
But I can promise I’ll protect you. And love you. And take care of you until someone shoots off my hands, cause even if they shoot off my head I’m gonna figure out how to keep my body working to take care of you.
In his imagination, She’d make a face and whisper like a chicken?
And Dean would laugh, and smile at Her because he remembered how to, when She was around.
Yeah. A chicken, sweetheart. I’ll be your chicken. And I’ll damn try, all the time, to come back. I’ll try to give you everything you want that I got, and if I don’t got it, I’ll figure out a way to make it.
Please.
His confession always ended with please, because even in Dean’s fantasies he can’t work out a world where She says yes.
There are moments, where She looks at him for a long enough moment that the words work their way to his mouth. The sit on the tip of his tongue like a sour candy he needs to spit out. He almost says it, then chokes it back down.
There are a lot of moments, where he almost tells Her.
Sometimes it’s only nights like these, that stop him.
He had a nightmare again. It’s a reoccurring one, now.
She gets hurt. It started more abstract, but it’s narrowed down to one, horrible scenario.
Dean wakes up in Her apartment, and she’s gone. He calls Her name, tears the place up, tears the town up, and She’s still nowhere to be found.
Then he turns, and She’s there. And the world feels peaceful again. He runs towards Her, reaching to pull her back into his arms.
And She dies.
Dean touched Her, and she just… dies.
He woke up in a cold sweat, fighting the pillows and reaching for his gun. It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t real. Another three to calm down, after he looked at Her side of the bed and realized she wasn’t there.
Because he was in his room. At the bunker.
The place he’d worked so hard to keep Her away from.
But now he’s just lying here. Staring at the ceiling and holding the sheets on Her side of the bed. Trying to close his eyes, but it’s damn impossible when he does and just sees her lifeless body again.
He fumbles in the dark and grabs his wallet. Stares at Her drawing for an hour, then tries to lie back down again.
She’s fine. She has to be fine.
He closes his eyes by accident. Shoots right up, and makes for his pants and shoes.
“Where’re you going?” Sam asks when Dean storms past him, barely looking up from his book.
“Out.” Dean grunts, because it’s not worth even trying to lie to Sam anymore.
He’s not even that good at lying to himself.
Because he tries to protect Her from afar. He swears up and down that he won’t go back to Her, won’t keep stealing Her time and affection, won’t tempt himself with something he can never have. With a love he’s never going to be able to hold.
But he has to see Her. Now. Just to be sure that she’s safe.
So Dean goes.
It’s three in the morning, when you hear the knock. You wouldn’t have gotten up to answer it, if you hadn’t recognized it as Dean’s. He knocks the same way every time. Sometimes you mimic it on the table, to torture yourself with the idea of him being there.
And he pops up whenever he pops up. You’ve long stopped trying to track his appearances, but you know he doesn’t show up on your doorstep at the start of the week, and he doesn’t show up in the middle of the night.
It’s a Tuesday. It’s been Tuesday, for three hours.
You walk a little faster, rubbing your eyes and grabbing the baseball bat he insists you keep in the closet. If it is your Dean, he might be in danger. If it’s not, you’re about to bash someone’s brains in and sprint for the hills.
The knock repeats, a little louder than last time. You hear him call your name through the door, and it certainly sounds like Dean. When you lean up to look through the peephole, it looks like Dean.
He’s swaying in the hall, eyes glossy and a little bloodshot. There’s a strangely relaxed look on his face, and sighs heavily when you still don’t open the door, stumbling forward to drop his brow against the wood.
“I know you’re in there.” He mumbles, hand reaching up to trace the door. “Heard you walkin’ around. If you got someone in there, I can just sit on the couch or somethin’. Won’t even talk, just wanted to…”
He sighs heavily, and your chest aches. Your fingers move to the knob, begging you to just remove the barrier between you, but something’s twisting in your gut. You’ve never seen him act like this. Never seen him look so tired and desperate, and that doesn’t seem like a monster thing, but he had told you to be careful-
“I was thinkin’ about you.” He mumbles. “Missed you. Always missin’ you all the time, and- I dunno. Had a dream, it’s kinda fuckin’ stupid, but- Can you cough for me, baby? Need to hear that you’re alright, then I’ll go.” He looks up, almost staring at you through the peephole, and you swallow. Your hand closes around the doorknob, the opposite one slipping on the bat, and-
You wait a little too long to respond. Dean sighs heavily, taking a large step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. The step alone takes a second for him to recover from, his whole body swaying from the motion. You let the bat fall from your hand, because you need both hands to reach for him, but-
“Never mind.” He says, shaking his head. “’m gonna go. Sleep well, baby. Love you.”
You almost kick the door off its hinges, his words like ice water being doused over your head.
Love.
He said he- He said-
Dean’s face splits into a wide, boyish grin the moment he sees you. He says your name, barreling forward, and pulls you into his arms. He’s warm, holding onto you tight enough you’re being picked up off your feet. You hug him back, still dazed, the world moving too fast.
Love. He said love. He said-
He mumbles your name, pressing his face into your neck, and you brush your fingers through his hair lightly. He’s still made of muscle and soft strength, but something about it feels delicate. He’s not really saying anything, which isn’t Dean at all. He’s still swaying back and forth, and he smells like the same warm cologne and full, deep Dean smell he’s always had, but there’s also-
Liquor. He smells like whiskey and beer.
He’s drunk.
You sigh. The swaying and strangeness. For whatever reason, Dean’s just wasted, and he chose to come to you.
It’s not something you can allow yourself to read into right now. That can happen in the morning, when he’s safe and sobered up, and you can try to read his reaction to waking up in your apartment. For now you just guide him backwards inside—you try to pull away, but he makes a sound like a kicked puppy and holds you tighter—and slowly coax him out of his shoes and jacket.
“Did you drive here?” You ask softly as you work the jacket off his shoulders, and he nods.
“Mhm. You’re warm.”
You swallow. “Thank you. Dean, baby, you shouldn’t drive drunk-“
“‘M not drunk-“
“You really are-“
“Only had like- Five drinks. Four.” He leans back, scrunching his face a little too adorably. “How many are in the big pack thingys?”
“How many… Beers?”
He shrugs, fingers reaching up to play with your hair. “Uh huh. We can go count the bottles. I broke one when a freakin’ bird started shoutin’ at me, but the others. Got ‘em still.”
“You- Dean.“ You lean back, grabbing his face between your hands. He looks at you with a bright, hopeful adoration, and it only makes your chest ache more.
He says your name, leaning forward with a grin—a full, wide smile you’ve never seen on his face—and you take a deep breath.
“Did you drink them, then drive? Or drive, then-“
“I drove ‘em then drank.” He shrugs. “‘M not that stupid. Not tryin’ to die before I can see you.” He leans down, pressing his brow against yours. “You’re pretty.”
You flush. “Thank you. I- I didn’t think you were gonna, but- Shit-“ He presses further over you, making you stumble back slightly.
Some of Dean’s usual instinct seems to kick in as you fall. He wraps his arm tightly around your back, and pulls you up before falling to the couch, forcing you to straddle his lap.
He grins up at you, still open and joyful, and sinks into the cushions so easily.
“I ain’t drunk.”
You sigh. “Dean-“
“‘m not. You’re pretty.”
“You’ve said that twice now.”
“Doesn’t make it less true. You’re so hot, it’s freakin’ crazy.” He drops his face into your chest, like it’s physically paining him to look at you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart. I haven’t even been able to watch porn anymore ‘cause of you. ’S not the same.”
You flush, opening and closing your mouth in a pointless attempt to try and find a way to respond to that.
There really isn’t one. Not with the word love still ringing in your head like a church bell.
You settle for a soft. “Oh.”
Dean just hums, and when you gently guide his head back, his eyes are heavy and a little dopey. He’s still smiling at you, even as they droop. You run your fingers through his hair and he sighs happily.
“You’re okay.” He murmurs, almost to himself. It cleaves your heart in half.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” You smile softly. “You’re drunk.”
“Nah-“
“You had six beers, my love.” You let yourself call him that. If he said it, you can too, and he doesn’t even really seem to notice at all.
He just makes another like face and shakes his head. “No, I had the pack-“
“Yeah.” Your smile grows. “That’s six.”
“Hm.” He pauses, clearly thinking a little too hard about this. “Six. Siiiix. Sex.” He grins at you. “We should have sex-“
“No.” You place a hand flat on his chest, giving him a stern look. “You’re drunk, buddy. No sex.”
He pouts for a second, staring down at his shoes, then sighs. “Fine.”
You giggle at his complete dejection, tracing your hands over the planes of his chest. His breath starts to pick up, fingers squeezing on your hips, and it might be rude to tease him like this but it’s so fun. Especially when he leans a little bit up like he’s going to try and take you, but then manages to pull himself back and flops down sadly into the cushions.
“Can we have sex in the morning please?” He asks hopefully, and you hum.
“We’ll see.”
That just makes him pout more. “Why. If you don’t wanna, just tell me and I’ll be super cool about it-“
“You’re begging me right now,” you tease, and he makes a sour expression.
“‘M not begging.”
“You said please-“
“It’s bein’ polite. And,” he leans up, until his handsome, drunken face is only inches from yours. “I really wanna have sex with you.”
“I know.” You whisper, eyes wide on his.
And you shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t. He’s drunk, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, he might not mean any of this at all.
But-
“Why?” You say, so quiet you almost can’t hear it yourself.
He frowns. “Huh?”
“Why do you wanna have sex with me? We-“ You swallow. “We’ve done it a lot before. In almost all the positions.” You smile weakly. “You gotta be tired of me by now.”
Dean blinks at you. Like he doesn’t even understand what you’re saying. “Yeah, but… I love you.”
That’s what you wanted to hear. What you were fishing for.
It still knocks all the air out of your lungs when you hear it. In full, plainly like he can’t fathom that there would ever be another answer, hanging in the silence of your living room as you just stare at Dean’s open face.
He said it. He said it. You’re breathing too fast, your nails sinking into his shoulders like you can cling to the confession, like you’re trying to swallow it down before he can take it back.
But Dean just keeps blinking up at you, almost innocently adoring.
He’s so drunk.
This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean. About forcing yourself to smile and kiss him gently, before standing up and guiding him into the shower. Checking him for injuries before getting him changed. Brushing his teeth then herding him into bed.
Some foolish part of you thought you’d be able to go turn off the living room light while he waited. You don’t even get off the bed before Dean’s arms are around your waist, and you’re being yanked back down.
“Don’t go.” He mumbles against the back of your neck, and you sigh.
“Dean-“
“Please.”
You swallow, then nod. Curl fully back, rubbing his forearms around you until his breathing starts to steady, his body slowly going limp.
“Never want you to go.” He says suddenly, right before you think he’s about to fall asleep. His voice is raw and tired.
Tears sting at your eyes. “I’m still here, Dean. Right here.” You squeeze his arm, and he sighs.
“Yeah, but it’s gonna be gone.” He sighs. “Wish I could stay. Or take you with me, but… Can’t.”
“You could.” You whisper, twisting to watch him in the dark. “I- I’d go.”
He just stares at you for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I would.”
His throat bobs. For a second, there’s something new shining his eyes. It’s clearer than everything else. Burning right into you with his attention, his hands a little tighter on your body.
“I keep a drawing of you in my wallet.” He rasps, and your heart does a little skip.
“I have a folder of your photos on my phone. I- I show them to my friends.” You flush. “They think I made you up.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. He’s starting to sound like himself again. “Did you?”
“Make you up?” You whisper.
He nods.
“I don’t know. I- I hope not.”
“I hope I didn’t make you up either.” He traces his hand down your arm, never breaking your gaze.
You swallow. “I feel real.”
He hums. “That’s good. Would suck pretty bad if you weren’t.”
You laugh softly, and Dean watches you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever going to see. You smile at him. He leans a little closer.
“Sometimes I just stand outside.” He rasps. “If I got a night. I’ll drive up here and just… Sit in the fuckin’ parking lot.”
“I watched a documentary about you.” You offer. “It called you a crazy serial killer.”
His mouth twitches. “I am-“
“I left it a one-star review.” You raise your voice over his. “And I- I still opened the door.”
“You… You did.” He mutters. “Every single time.”
“Yeah. I did.”
For a second, you just stare at each other. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving. You don’t want it to.
“When you sit in the parking lot.” You say softly. “Why don’t you come inside?”
He chuckles, rolling onto his back. “Cause I’m gonna do something stupid. Like this, and sayin’ that I-“
He cuts himself off, hand curling on his chest. You push up on your elbows, hanging over him, and he stares at you with a clear helplessness.
Dean mutters your name, clearly begging you not to say it.
But he said it first. And you need to know. If you’re allowed to stop playing games now.
If you’re allowed to have him.
“You love me?” You finish for him, and Dean sighs.
“I- Don’t say that, sweetheart-“
“You said it-“
“I was drunk.” He mutters. He won’t look at you anymore. “I was drunk and talkin’ stupid and- Just don’t. Please.”
You swallow, your heart caught in your throat. You could swallow it, and hope you digest it this time. That it finally passes through you, and the game is done like that.
But you don’t want to.
Dean is looking at you like he expects you to kick him out. Like he’s bracing for you to spit venom and hit his chest and curse his name. He’s almost shrinking away from you, one hand clinging to your wrist even as he makes a face like his heart is already breaking.
You won’t let it. Not here. Not when him breaking would break you too.
So you lie down next to him. Move your hand to tangle in his, your shoulders pressed together, Dean’s breathing shallow as he turns to watch you in the dark.
You look at him, and smile. Let all your love for him shine in it, squeezing his hand once.
He holds yours tighter. Holds onto it for dear life.
Says your name, and this. This is begging. Maybe for you to stop, or go, or just do the simple thing and kick him out.
You won’t. Not now. When he’s there, and maybe yours, and- And-
You could have him.
In all his broken, drunken and exhausted beauty, you can have Dean.
“What would you say?” You murmur, and his lips press in a tight line.
“I- I dunno-“
“Can I tell you what I would say? If- If you’d ever asked?”
Dean swallows, but nods. You smile again. It’s so easy, when you’re looking at him.
“I’d tell you I love you.” You whisper. Dean’s grip tightens. “That I’ve been in love with you for- Pretty much the whole time. That I hate watching you leave, and I hate when you pretend like you don’t care if I’m dating, and I hate when you remind me that you might not come back, because I need you. I need you to come back. Every- Every time you go-“ You cut yourself off, your voice starting to ache. “Every time you leave me I hate you. But I love you so much it doesn’t matter. I- I like loving you so much more than I hate missing you. Dean, I-“
He says your name, words tight and choked, and you shake your head.
“I love you. I love you so, so much, I’m never gonna-“ You take long unsteady breath. “You just leave me here. And I wait. Because I love you.”
And Dean just stares at you. Holds your hand and stares at you, his face pale and flushed all at the same time.
“No.” He finally mutters. He still doesn’t let go of your hand. “Sweetheart, that’s- You love the idea of me, you don’t love the real thing-“
You snort dryly. “The real you?”
“Yeah.” He snaps, sitting up suddenly. “The real me. I’m not just some fuckin’- Sex guy who drops in, fucks you, then runs off to a day job. I kill people, baby. I got a body count bigger than any documentary is gonna tell you, I got people who hunt me down for what I’ve done, there ain’t anyone in my life because everyone who was there is fuckin’ dead, and I-“ He shakes his head, starting to pull back. “I’m not lettin’ that happen to you. No. No way in hell-“
“Why?” You demand, and your voice isn’t harsh or even that loud, but it cuts Dean off completely. “Why don’t you want it to happen to me?”
He makes a sour expression. “Because.”
“Because?”
“Yeah. ’S what I said-“
“Is it because you love me?”
Dean scowls. “That doesn’t matter-“
“It matters to me-“
“‘Cause you think you’re in love with me.” He spits. He’s still holding your hand. “And I’m tellin’ you, you’re not, so it doesn’t matter-“
“I am in love with you.” You sit up, making your voice firmer. Unwavering. “And I know you, Dean. I’m not just some girl who got the wrong idea about something, I know you. You’ve told me everything, even the ugly shit, and I kept opening the door.” You glare at him, and he freezes, staring at you with wide-eyes. “I sit with you after all your nightmares, I let you bring a gun into my house, I look you up on the news every day because I am terrified you’re going to die and come back all wrong or whatever, and I’m going have to figure out how to be strong enough not to open the door.”
Dean’s mouth falls a little bit open, and you glare at him, far from done.
“Because I would. I’d let you in with those creepy black eyes and I don’t even think I’d regret it. Because I love you.”
Dean makes a strangled sound, and you poke his chest.
“You show up covered in blood and talking crazy about angels and demons, you give me fuckin’ gun and booby trap my apartment and make me do codewords, and I let you in. I know who you are, Dean Winchester. I know exactly who you are.”
He catches your hand on his chest, expression fully broken, and pleads your name. You curl your fingers on his chest and hold his hand.
“You’re a good man.” Your voice turns soft, and he cringes like you hit him. “You’re a good man, Dean. I don’t love you because of the sex, even if the sex is great.” You laugh softly.
Dean looks like he tries to laugh, but it comes out more in a sound like a wounded animal. Silent tears are streaming down his face, and you sigh.
Reach up to wipe them away, and let Dean bow into your touch. His eyes are hooded, and trapped on yours.
You offer him a small smile.
“I love you because you make me happy.” You say. “I love you because you keep trying to protect me, even when it hurts you. I love you because when I tried to hit on you at a bar by saying you had big shoulders, you gave me pointers about how to pick other guys up, then asked if you could be the first I try them on. I love you because when I laughed, you apologized and started just talking to me. And we talked for so long, and you called me pretty, and I- I’d been called that before, but-“ You give him a sad smile, tears staining your own cheeks. “You didn’t want anything. You just- You just said it because you wanted me to know, and it felt good to be known.”
You shift toward, rising on your knees to press your brow to his.
“I like you.” You whisper. “Like like you. I like like knowing you. And I like like loving you. I- Never used those moves on anyone else.” You giggle softly, tears still falling. “They worked once really well. And I don’t want to try them again. I kind of really love what I have.”
Dean blinks at you slowly. His tongue darts over his lips, eyes flicking down to your own, breath still ragged. If he needs to kiss you, you’ll let him.
But instead, he just starts to cry.
Dean folds over you, body shaking, and cries. It starts muffled and restrained—like he’s still trying to shove it back down—but you rub his back and hold him close, and he slowly falls apart.
You move slowly, so that you’re lying against the headboard and Dean is in your lap. You keep him gently in your arms, kissing the top of his head every few moments and running your hands soothingly over his shoulders, his back, through his soft hair. Slowly, the choked sounds turn to heavy breaths, and he eases himself down.
His face presses into your stomach as his chest rises and falls. You wait, cradling the back of his neck and humming to yourself softly. Eventually Dean turns to look up at you, eyes still red, and lets out a heavy sigh.
“I- I do.” He says, voice rough, and you just smile.
“I know.”
He heaves, crawling a little up your body. “I mean it, baby, I do-“
“Dean.” You cup his face, and he freezes. “I know.”
His mouth twitches. You just smile in return. Dean grabs your hand, turning to press a kiss to your wrist. His eyes shine when you giggle, tension releasing from his shoulders.
He collapses over your body with a heavy sigh.
“I’m gonna feel like shit in the morning.” He grumbles, and you laugh.
“It’s six, De. Basically is the morning.”
“Great. I feel like shit now.”
“You could go to sleep. That might help.”
Dean hums skeptically. “Are you gonna sleep.”
“No.” The whole night still has you too wound up. “Not tired.”
“Hm.” He pushes up over you, elbows braced on either side of your head, pinning you to the mattress.
His nose bumps yours, and your eyes widen, hands flying to his chest.
“I could help with that.” He murmurs, and you swallow.
“Dean-“
“I got a clear head.” He kisses the corner of your mouth gently. “Swear. I’ll do the alphabet backwards if you wanna hear it, but if I’m bein’ honest I can’t do that front or back-“
You tug him down for a full, deep kiss. It’s slow. Lazy. His tongue traces your lips and you open with a soft moan, legs spreading as Dean’s mouth works you up quickly.
But still, you gently push him back. He goes easily, raising his brows, and you flush. Glance down to his shirt, where your fingers have started to play with the soft fabric.
“Are you…” Your eyes dart back up to his. “Are you gonna stay? In the morning?”
Dean nods, no uncertainty in his voice. “Yeah.“ He grabs your hands, pulling them up to kiss your knuckles. “I’m gonna stay until you kick me out, alright. Might come and go, but- You can come if you want. An if you don’t, I got a phone, and my brother’s phone, and a laptop that I can steal-“
“Dean-“
“Point is I’m yours.” He says quickly, sounding a little frustrated with himself. “I stay until you kick me out.”
“I won’t.” You say quickly, and Dean grins.
Truly, fully grins.
“Guess I’m gonna be here a long time, then.”
“Yeah. Guess you are.”
His grin impossibly widens, eyes darting down to your body. “And…”
You laugh. “We can have sex in the morning.”
Dean collapses back over you with a dramatic groan of relief. “Thank god. And- After that, too?”
You giggle, kissing the top of his head, and he curls further into your body. Looks at you like you’re more than an angel, his voice still teasing, but also just a little more.
Filled with affection, and hope, and love.
He’s yours to love.
“Yeah.” You say, and Dean beams. “We can do whatever you want.”
✦End note: thank you for reading i don't even have a joke for this one i really hope you liked it i hope it wasn't butt thank you.✦
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✦divider by @/cafekitsune✦
Summary: You both were bid to obey: for king and country, heart or duty. A familiar story, and a cruel verse. In the turn of one season, you would be wed to serve your royal house, but not to the man who guarded your heart.
AN: And we’re back! Happy Birthday, Dean Winchester!! 💛 Now, let’s see what happens with our two runaways… 😘
With your hand wrapped tightly in his left, he keeps his sword arm free in case he needs use of it. So far, he’s been able to lead you through the blind spots of the guards standing watch. A roll of thunder rumbles a warning above your heads.
Damn. Rain is coming, he thinks, but maybe it will be a help to this escape plan.
There are very few hours left in the night, and he means to make the most of it. He helps you onto your horse.
“We should go west, to the nearest port,” he says. “We have enough money to afford passage aboard a ship to the southern islands.”
You nod in agreement. “The warmer the better. But first—”
You latch onto his wrist while he tries to make sure your saddle is strapped correctly. You earn his gaze.
“We need to go into town,” you say.
Dean’s brows furrow in confusion.
“For what earthly reason do you want to go into town?”
A heavy knock on his chamber door wakes Father Robert out of a deep and reverent communion with his pillow. He eventually gets up at the insistence, groggy and grumbling, and makes his way to the knocking.
“I can appreciate being hungry,” he grouses, “but it’s too early for alms.”
He yanks the door open, but is shocked to find a knight of the king and the princess herself, both covered by dark hoods. The latter offers him a familiar smile.
“We are not beggars, sir,” you say.
“Not yet,” Dean adds wryly. “But we do need your help.”
“I, uh…wasn’t expecting so fine a visit,” the priest stammers. “Especially not on a night like this.”
A clap of thunder punctuates his point.
“Will you marry us?” Dean asks. There’s a note of urgency in him that the priest doesn’t miss.
“You?” he asks in disbelief, with a pointed finger lobbied at Dean, and then you.
“Yes, please,” you implore. “And quickly. We’re in a bit of a rush.”
“A rush? You mean you’re mid-flight. You’re meant to marry the Prince of Hallstein—”
“This morning,” you interrupt. “I will not be there.”
Father Robert’s brows gather together as he frowns. His eyes widen as he grasps the full gravity of your words. You mean to abandon your duty.
He strokes his beard, a nervous gesture, then levies a raised finger at you.
“The king—your father—will have my blasted head if I don’t report this!”
“Please. Will you help us?” Dean asks.
The priest is beside himself. There’s a kind of desperation between you and the knight; your hand is tightly entwined with his.
Father Robert sighs and focuses on you.
“Is this what you truly desire, Princess?”
Your smile brightens. “Eternally, yes.”
Dean’s lips tug upward, his hand reflexively squeezing yours.
Father Robert sees the truth before his eyes. He smiles and shakes his head.
Oh, to be young and incandescently foolish.
“Give me a minute. I’ll find a more official robe.”
The church is dark and empty, save for a few candles lit around the altar. Between the three of you, Father Robert is the finest dressed. His white and red robes are threaded with gold. Dean wears his armor, the clink of silver chainmail over green leather. You wear a plain gown with riding breeches underneath.
But what matters is the way Dean holds your hands in his while the priest performs the ceremony, reading in Latin first. Eventually he turns to Dean and instructs him to repeat his words.
“I pledge my love to you, to be given without restraint,” Dean echoes. He stares into your eyes. “What is mine is now yours. I'll care for you through illness and rejoice in your health. I lay my life in your keeping, and will do my utmost to protect yours. Should death ever separate us, I vow my love shall be undying.”
You try in vain to blink the sting out of your eyes, turning glassy with emotion.
You make the same promises and interlace your fingers with his. You want him to hear the sincerity in your voice, and see it in your eyes, as you did in his.
Man and wife.
The pronouncement stands.
When Dean kisses you for the first time as your lawful husband, it truly feels like a vow for all the ages.
After the intimate ceremony comes to a close, Father Robert writes the marriage certificate and notarizes it himself by melting some wax and pressing his garnet ring into the seal. He also offers you and Dean lodging for the night. You give Dean imploring eyes, but he reluctantly disappoints you.
“We can’t stay,” he says.
“A marriage should be properly…well, consummated, to be legally binding,” the priest reminds you.
Dean doesn’t bother to correct him, that this marriage has already been very well consummated. You are blushing far too much to answer either.
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Dean says, aiming a small, secret smirk your way. You tuck your cheek against his arm and let him lead you out of the church.
Before you and Dean return to the horses, still tied to a post near the church, he spots a jewelry shop. The owner is stirring inside, not quite ready to open.
Dean takes the pouch that has his money, now mixed in with the coins you were able to take with you. He leads you over to the shop and speaks to the owner. Within minutes, you two come out wearing matching bands of silver.
You smile at its shine on your left ring finger. It also fits fairly well.
“Are you sure we couldn’t just hide here tonight and leave when night falls again tomorrow?” you ask.
“Tomorrow is today,” Dean says. “Dawn will be upon us within the hour, and tonight, the streets will be overrun with your father’s men. My men. It’s too great a risk.”
“Do you really think it safe to go west, then? Aren’t there knights standing guard at the port?”
“Yes, but it’s a less dangerous risk than going south by horse.”
You contemplate the idea while you and Dean approach the horses.
“What if we go east?” you suggest. “There are more remote villages farther inland.”
Dean frowns. “East? The Blackwood lies in between.”
“Exactly. They would never expect us to disappear into the forest.”
“We will disappear. We’ll become something’s meal,” he says. “I’d rather not lose my wife on my first day of marriage.”
You smile in amusement at his grumpiness, but the sentiment warms your heart. Dean’s mouth twitches. He brings your hand up to his lips.
“Princess! Is that you? I wasn’t sure before, but now I recognize you!”
The shopkeeper who sold you the rings left her store to follow you across the street. You startle at the suddenness, and Dean’s hand falls to the hilt of his sword. He seizes her up, but the woman seems only curious and excited that she just served and met the princess.
“No,” Dean says sharply. “Be on your way.”
But already her voice has alerted a knight riding by on the dawn patrol of the city. He looks over into the alley and is surprised by what he finds.
“Sir Dean?” he asks. “Why is the princess outside the castle walls? Is the wedding not today?”
He looks young, and Dean realizes that he knows him.
“Well met, Jack. She just wanted to stretch her legs this morning, but we’re on our way back now,” he lies.
Jack doesn’t look as if he believes that flimsy excuse. His brows knit together with some suspicion. It only grows when he notices the ring on your finger, before you bury your hand under your cloak. He notes the flash of silver, and how it matches the ring Dean now wears.
“What’s going on here?” Jack says, more firmly. He draws his sword, forcing Dean to quickly help you onto your horse.
“Go!” Dean tells you, mounting his own horse before he draws his sword.
He engages Jack with a parry, forcing him back.
You’re reluctant to leave without Dean. Your worry for him overclouds your self-preservation.
But the clash of metal on metal only draws more knights to the alley, even after Dean cuts the strap of Jack’s saddle and kicks the man tumbling out of his stirrups.
“Go!” Dean shouts at you again. He covers you as you prod your horse into a gallop, fleeing the alley, the church, and the city.
Rain begins to fall, then pour, muddying the roads as you and Dean are forced to ride east. Your clothes stick to your frame and drown cold into your bones, but at least the weather provides some cover in your escape.
There’s no other way around it—you have to take the very roads that lead past the castle. Dean hopes that word of what you’ve done hasn’t yet reached its walls.
But as he rides over a sloping hill, he sees Sam riding toward him, along with Castiel, Knight Commander. At least they’ve come alone. Dean guides you and your horse behind him as Castiel approaches first, drawing his sword.
“Castiel?” you ask warily.
“You must come home, Princess,” he says. He frowns at Dean, who stands in his way, firm and unyielding.
“It’s too late,” you say. You pull out the marriage certificate from under your arm, where you’ve been trying to keep it dry. “We’ve been married by a priest under the eyes of Heaven.”
For the first time that you’ve ever seen, Castiel’s eyes widen in shock. Sam wears a similar expression as he stares at his brother, but it’s a little less disbelief, and more worry, with a shake of his head.
“Have you considered how this will affect your father?” Castiel asks you.
“He will be embarrassed and angry, as I’m sure the prince will be as well, but they’ll both survive it. Either way, my father will lose me,” you say. “At least this way, I will be free.”
“Will you?” Castiel counters. “After today, you both will be hunted all your lives.”
You share a look with Dean, tired, but resolute.
“So be it,” you say.
The rest of Castiel’s men are approaching. You can hear thundering hooves in the distance. Your horse shifts and whinnies, feeding off your nervous clenching.
“Please, Cas,” Dean says. He knows his friend doesn’t want to have to fight him, let alone kill him. Now, however, they both know that’s the only way you’ll be taken from him.
Castiel’s jaw clenches, a huff of frustration escaping him.
“Go,” he says sharply. “I will lead them in the wrong direction.”
His gaze turns to Sam briefly with a warning.
“Make your choice. Stay or go.”
Castiel then urges his horse forward, and soon into a gallop, to intercept his men.
Sam draws closer to Dean on his horse. The brothers clasp arms meaningfully.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would happen like this,” Dean says.
“I doubt there was a lot of thinking in it at all,” Sam says, with a note of exasperation. And yet, there’s understanding in his eyes. “One of us should stay behind for Mother.”
Dean frowns, hanging onto his arm tighter to prevent him from leaving.
“You don’t know what the king will do to you.”
“Castiel will vouch for me. We’ll tell Damian the truth,” he says, smiling at you a little. “The fair princess escaped my watch to elope with my brother. I was entirely unaware of their torrid affair.”
Dean rolls his eyes, fighting a smile.
“All that flowery talk. You should become a playwright,” he says.
“You mean when the king demotes me,” Sam retorts. But at his brother’s guilty frown, Sam urges him onward. “Go already. We’re wasting time out here in the open.”
“Sam,” Dean starts, though the rest of what he means to say fails him.
Sam nods in understanding. “Go, brother.”
To you, Sam crosses a fist across his chest and bows his head in respect. “Be well, Princess.”
“And you, Sam. Thank you,” you reply. Guilt is buried deep in your heart as well, even as Dean turns to you with a brief touch of reassurance.
“Let’s go,” he says.
You and Dean travel on paths away from the common road, meaning more difficult slopes and rocky terrain. He means to avoid the forest, but the only way around is to cross the common road. It’s a calculated risk.
When you and Dean get closer to the road, Dean motions at you to slow down with him. Prince Alastair’s carriages are there, marked by the navy banners of Hallstein soaked black by the rain. Your hood only protects you a little from the droplets weighing on your lashes, getting in your eyes.
Dean wordlessly guides you to stay close to him. You two are downwind, at the base of a slope that may just hide you from view until the carriages pass by. He’s counting on it, because if you try to turn back now, you could be spotted.
The prince’s knights flank either side of the road. You hear them talking as they come to a stop; one of the carriages rode over a stubborn rock and became dislodged. A few of the men work together to fix the wheel.
“Look at this shit,” one says, muttering in frustration. “What a god-damned waste of time this entire country has been.”
“The prince will have to travel to the edge of the world if he wants to find a woman willing to marry him now,” says another.
“And we’ll be forced to take him there.”
“Better he just put a ring on one of his whores and call her a lady.”
“I’ll appoint her myself.”
“You mean you’ll give her your great sword.”
“Hell, as many times as she can take it.”
The men laugh, disgusting you further. Clearly your betrothed is more of a dog than you knew, and his men aren’t much better. Dean gives you an apologetic look. You can tell by his face that he’d rather you not hear this. You merely shake your head. You’re too cold and tired and wet to care about bawdy talk. You just want to find a safe place to rest.
“The princess’s discernment does her credit,” says another knight. He hasn’t spoken before. His voice is more somber than the rest. “The Princess Serene was a bright, gentle girl, God rest her soul. Do you remember how high she wore her collars, how long her sleeves?”
When the other men remain quiet, he speaks again.
“To cover a multitude of sins,” he says. “It’s no wonder the child did not survive.”
“Careful, Gadreel. You speak dangerous words.”
You cover your mouth with one hand, both stunned and appalled. You know they must be talking of Alastair’s first wife. Just as you know, now in this moment, that you narrowly escaped being delivered into the hands of a monster.
You share a wary look with Dean. His jaw is clenched tight with strain, as his thoughts mirror yours. Though he takes pains to soften for your sake, taking your hand in his. He gives you a look of reassurance. You nod back, albeit shakily. His thumb brushes the back of your hand.
The wind begins to pick up. It carries a strange whistling through the rain, almost like a whisper.
Your horse whinnies nervously at the sound. You stroke his neck to calm him, but the damage is done. One of the knights stops and turns his head.
Dean stiffens. His hand tightens on the hilt of his sword, but he doesn’t move. He stares and waits, willing the man to lose interest and keep moving.
Instead, the knight glances down. He brows furrow. He tilts his head and frowns at you in recognition, and at Dean in his armor. The other knight seems to recognize the colors of your kingdom in the dark green leather.
“Hey!” he shouts.
“Shit,” Dean mutters. He squeezes your shoulder. “Go! This way.”
“Who is that?”
“I think it’s the princess!”
“The one who’s missing?”
“Yes, you idiot. Come on! This trip could be saved after all!”
They give chase, leaving you and Dean no choice but to retreat the way you came. The only shelter is the forest ahead, with its immense stretch of trees.
You and Dean dismount the horses right at the edge of those trees. He still looks at the forest ahead warily, but you venture in together, leading the animals in…
Until a flash of lightening overhead spooks one, triggering the other. You gasp when your horse breaks free of you. A stronger whisper calls to your ears, but you slip and fall into the mud before you can truly listen. Dean goes to you, his hand slipping from the reins.
The horses run off while he helps you up.
“Damn it,” he mutters, watching them go.
He hears the men cutting their way into the forest, hacking with their swords at tree limbs and any foliage in their path. You and Dean hurry further in to find shelter and a hiding place. It’s even darker here in the forest than the sky outside of it, making it hard to see the steps in front of you, especially with the rain pelting your faces.
Dean tripping on a raised tree root tumbles you as well. The two of you slide and roll off the path down a deep hill. You land painfully at the bottom, if at least on his chest. You both cough and pant for breath, though he holds you to him protectively.
“You all right?” he asks.
You nod, still trying to find your bearings. You help each other off the muddy ground. When you raise your head, you realize that there’s a shallow cave beneath the hill. It provides just enough cover for you and Dean to hide in and take a little shelter.
That’s when you hear the screams of men carried on the wind.
You gasp. Dean holds you tighter and draws his sword.
Eventually though, all becomes quiet, except for the battering of the rain upon the earth.
“What was that?” you whisper.
“Nothing good,” he replies.
Dean feels you shaking, either from cold or fear. He rests his sword against the sodden wall of the cave and guides you to sit with him. He brushes the wet and the mud from your cheeks and looks at you with sadness.
“Maybe you should go back,” he says.
You look over at him incredulously. “So that my father can annul our marriage and force me to wed that vile bastard?”
Dean hardens. “Of course not. Damian would never allow you to marry him if he knew the truth. We would explain…”
The tears welling up in your eyes make him pause, and weaken. He strokes your cheek with his thumb.
“Look at us. There’s no decent life with me, Princess,” he says.
“I’m no longer a princess,” you say, blinking rain and tears from your lashes. “I am your wife. Where you go, I will go. I just hope we can find a place that’s warmer…and drier.”
Dean sighs, finding a smile. If you can have courage, so can he. He takes your hand in both of his and brings it to his lips for a kiss, gentle and lingering.
“Okay. We’ll find it,” he says.
You rest your head against his chest, and he holds you until morning.
You wake to a gentle fluttering against your cheek. Your eyes slide open to sunlight through the branches of spring-green trees.
You find a white flower in your lap tinged with dusty pink. You would know its like anywhere. It’s an apple blossom, even though you see no orchard here. These trees are tall, intimidating oaks, with spindlier ones in between.
You soon realize there is a trail of white petals on the ground, beginning by your feet, and leading out to the trees beyond. You gently wake Dean by stirring his shoulder. He flinches and hums, blinking slow at the morning light. He clears his throat and gives you a once over to check on you.
“Are you all right?” he asks anyway.
“Dean, look,” you say, pointing ahead. You get up with difficulty. Your clothes are damp, yet stiff with mud, your muscles aching from riding and sleeping in such a position.
Dean follows suit in getting to his feet. He held onto his sword all night. He only sheathes it after he checks that the area is clear and safe. For now.
You’re already following the trail of blossoms. A few of them lie every foot or so on the mossy grass.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
You take his hand when he catches up to you.
You two follow this path for nearly an hour, as new blossoms flutter on a gentle breeze and seem to fall in your path, leading you somewhere. It’s strange and wholly unnatural, but you feel in your spirit that it’s right. You explain to him that you’ve always believed the stories your mother told you, of true life in the trees. You learned to sing to them the way she did, caring for their roots and seedlings.
Dean is more wary and skeptical, but he can’t deny what his eyes are seeing.
It’s nearly midday before the path stops. You and Dean are hungry, tired, and parched, but your eyes widen when you see it.
There’s a clearing beyond the trees, and you’re looking out to a vast lake where your horses are alive and well. They’re drinking their fill at the water bank, and your supplies are still attached to their saddles.
To the north, an apple orchard grows. Its petals fall on the breeze and tease your hair, your cheeks. Tears sting in your eyes; there are already apples growing there, which means there’s something to eat.
You and Dean pick a few off the nearest tree. He hopes that lake is full of fish. He’ll have to make some kind of fishing pole, or a javelin.
“You think the trees will let me break off a few old branches and make a fire?” he asks.
“Perhaps, if you ask nicely,” you tease.
Dean chuckles. He lets out a deep breath as he takes in the clearing. He thinks the trees might’ve protected you both last night. It would be the perfect cover if you and Dean found a way to stay here.
“This might just be a good place to build a home, don’t you think?” he says.
You smile in agreement.
That day, a simple shelter of branches and cloaks becomes a hut.
Dean has to risk going back into the city after those few days in hiding. You both need clothes, food, and more supplies. He’s able to reach the church under the cover of nightfall, and the priest is able to reach Sam with a missive.
Father Robert begins to send a messenger with provisions every other week to the edge of the forest. You and Dean are very grateful, especially when Sam braves the forest to find you both. He brings tools and seeds to cultivate a garden, something you take to as naturally as you did in the castle, and with more discipline than ever. Making sure you and your husband eat in the winter is an excellent motivator.
You don’t want to fail out here. Neither does Dean.
Neither of you speak of it, but it’s an ever-present, unspoken thread between you.
In a month, that hut becomes the beginnings of a cabin. The brothers work together on building it piece by piece. As long as you give back to the land with planted seeds and your voice, your neighbors don’t seem to mind you and Dean cutting a few limbs to build your home.
One season flows into the next, and the next, and another beside.
By the time January comes, Dean is securing the door hinge and planning to build another support beam. He’s just finished shoveling snow from outside the door. You’re roasting the large fish he caught over the fire, but the man soon comes to distract you with his wandering hands, after he pulls off his gloves.
You smile as he kisses your neck. You tilt your head to give him more room, sighing when his warm hand rubs the pregnant swell of your belly.
“How’re you feeling, my love?” he asks.
You hang onto his arm, your smile fading. “Concerned.”
His brows furrow. “Why?”
“I still wish one of my ladies could be here to help me when the child comes,” you confess.
You’ve had this conversation before. Dean sighs, stroking your belly.
“You don’t think I can handle it,” he says. You look at him over your shoulder in amusement.
“You aren’t exactly well-versed in delivering children,” you say, slightly teasing.
“What about my mother? She could help you,” he suggests.
You consider it, biting your lower lip. “Yes, I suppose that would be wiser. Although…”
“What?”
“Would that be a comfortable first meeting?” you say, a blush rising in your cheeks. “I have already cost you many things. I doubt she would want to venture into the Blackwood just to help me, even if it is to see you and her future grandchild.”
Dean frowns and gently turns you in his arms. “We’ve both made sacrifices.”
He squeezes your arms just enough to earn your gaze.
“And my mother isn’t as hard-hearted as you imagine,” he says. “The last time I spoke to her, she understood. Sam and I explained everything.”
You shake your head and smile a little. “And you believe that mends everything?”
You lay a hand on Dean’s chest.
“You could get a message to Father Robert,” you say. “Tell him to reach Sam. He can send a letter to Castiel, who can speak to Lady Margaret. And then—”
“That’s an incredibly risky game,” Dean says. “First of all, I would have to leave you here and go into town again. Even just picking up the supplies Father Robert brings us is dangerous.”
“Yes, but I think it’s necessary. It’s likely been more than nine months since—” you begin to say, but the rest of your words are cut off by a sharp pain in your lower belly. Your hand flies to the wall of the cabin for support, but Dean holds you steady. He frowns in worry and helps you over to the bed, curtained off along the far wall.
He can’t help but think that if you were still attended in a castle, you would’ve been on bed rest and given every comfort, not slaving over a roasting fish.
“It’s happening,” you tell him. “I felt this pain earlier this morning.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It went away quickly, so I thought nothing of it. Dean,” you say, catching your breath. “I need help.”
He nods in agreement. “You should come with me. I don’t want to leave you here by yourself.”
“You know I can’t ride, and I’ll be too slow by foot,” you say, shaking your head. “Just go quickly.”
Dean’s lips press together in worry, but he knows you’re right. “If I’m not back by morning—”
You pause his mouth with a press of your fingers over his lips.
“You will come back to me. I have faith in you, my love,” you say. A smile graces your lips. “Just be quick about it.”
He smiles a little. Taking ahold of your wrist, he kisses your fingers.
“As you wish.”
Dean covers himself in a cloak and rides out of the forest, heading into town. It takes him hours to get there, and another still for his letter to reach Sam at the Winchester estate. It’s delicate work, and only a young messenger under the priest’s care is ever trusted with letters or deliveries.
Dean has seen more than he thought he would of his brother since beginning a new life, but he was only able to see his mother once, within the safety of the church. He was able to reassure her that he was well. Then he apologized, seeing rare tears in her eyes.
But in the end, she held a hand to his cheek and asked him…
“Dean, is this truly what you want?”
He covers her hand where it rests. He looks down on her with glassy eyes.
“After Dad died, she was the only thing I ever wanted.”
Mary’s face slowly becomes one of understanding. She nods.
“Then you’ve made the right choice,” she says.
As Dean was told, King Damian was understandably outraged. The embarrassment before the Prince of Hallstein, of course, was immense. But more than that, Dean knows he broke the king’s trust in the worst way possible.
Sam was only lucky that Castiel, Ben, and many of the other knights implored the king for leniency on his behalf. While the king didn’t have any evidence of Sam’s wrongdoing, he still felt he could no longer trust a Winchester.
Sam was sent home, retired early of his knighthood. He’d long ago accepted Dean’s apologies, even if it did take him some time to find genuine forgiveness in his heart. By now, Sam has found his footing by helping their mother run the Winchester estate, becoming the head of the household. He’s even started courting the local baker’s daughter, Eileen.
However, the contents of Dean’s latest letter would force him to leave his post once again. He rides for the castle and tells the guard at the gate that he has a message for the Knight Commander. An ordinary messenger, even one from the church, wouldn’t be permitted at the castle gate, but the guards know Sam. They’re willing to send for Castiel.
“To what do I owe this visit?” Castiel later says, when he comes out to the gate to greet Sam.
“I have a missive for you,” Sam says, and he impresses the importance of it with only his eyes. Castiel is perceptive enough to recognize it. He takes the letter from Sam and quickly scans it. Within that letter is a second one, and a third. Castiel opens those too.
What he reads changes the nature of his face, making his suspicion fall into understanding.
He glances up at Sam. “Wait here.”
Sam waits.
Meanwhile, Castiel hurries back inside the castle to find another demoted soul—your lady-in-waiting, Margaret. Had you been wed to the prince, she would’ve traveled with you to Hallstein. Instead, she was displaced from her position and reallocated to assist the Chatelaine instead.
Part of Margaret still holds a fair bit of resentment toward you, but that slowly begins to fade the more she reads your letter for her. Castiel stands with her in the hall outside the kitchens while she reads. What starts with your heartfelt apologies for the way you left, and how that may have caused her pain, ends with an earnest plea for her help.
Her face slackens with sympathy. She sighs, looking up at Castiel.
“How far along is she?” Margaret asks.
“Likely she will give birth soon,” Castiel says. “She’s already experiencing pains.”
“Contractions,” she corrects. She herself has helped deliver all four of her sister’s children. “Where is she?”
“Sam will take you,” The Knight Commander says grimly. “Let’s hope she can manage until then.”
That afternoon, Castiel breaks his oaths again. He calls for a horse and sees to it that Lady Margaret visits her “cousin.” She and Sam should reach the church where Dean waits before nightfall. From there, they will depart for the Blackwood.
Within the castle walls, all is quiet once the torches are lit. Castiel walks his final patrol before the night’s watch takes over. He ends his path in the garden, where King Damian sits on the bench beneath a wilting tree. He comes here often, and even takes his meals here. Once, Castiel had to gently remind him to retire to bed before he fell asleep here.
“My King,” Castiel says quietly, announcing his presence.
Damian startles slightly, but when he sees it’s only Castiel, he relaxes.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening, Sire,” Castiel replies. He glances up at the dying tree, following the path of the king’s gaze.
“No matter how many times the gardeners tend to it, it will not thrive,” Damian says dully. “It’s as if it’s lost its will to live.”
Castiel’s blue eyes hold thinly veiled sympathy, but he doesn’t know what to say. There’s very little he can offer.
“Perhaps this country didn’t need a god-damned armada,” Damian says. “Not at the cost of its heart.”
“Its heart isn’t gone, Your Majesty,” Castiel says.
Damian’s gaze becomes sharp, turning to the knight with suspicion. Castiel hands him the letter he read and resealed.
“This was left at the gate. We don’t know who sent it,” he lies. But the contents of the letter are the truth.
Damian frowns as he opens it, but his eyes blink wide with shock. He recognizes your handwriting, simple and elegant.
You are safe. You are happy. You are sorry, but also not sorry enough to regret your choice. You hope he’s well.
And he will soon have a grandchild.
That alone will keep his hunched form sitting in the garden like a living statue. He stays there for hours afterword, rereading your words over and over until his eyes glaze over.
An early sun begins to pry between the cracks in the cabin’s wooden beams, hitting you in the eyes. You shut them tight as you lay sweating, struggling in the bed, doing your best to breathe.
Your water broke a few hours after Dean left yesterday. Ever since then, the pain slowly began to mount in short bursts, sharp and nearly overwhelming. But the minutes seem to pass by quicker in between them now.
Dean still hasn’t returned. You’re alone, and you’re scared to be alone.
“Where are you,” you whisper.
A wind rises outside, the trees groaning. Can they hear your struggle? Do they sympathize with your pain?
Your bedside candle marks the hours, and another two and a quarter pass before you hear hoof falls in the distance. The cabin door creaks and swings open, and the smell of musk and horse and sweat greets you, along with your husband calling your name urgently.
He comes to you, takes your hand and kisses you, swiping your sweaty hair away from your forehead while you weep in relief.
But he’s not your only visitor. Sam guides not only Lady Margaret, but Mary Winchester into the cabin as well. You’re well and truly shocked to see all of them.
Sam greets you with a smile, as does Mary. When Sam told her what was happening, she wasn’t content to wait at home. She rode to the church to meet her sons before they departed.
“Hello, Princess. At last, we meet,” she greets you with a respectful nod. You can only nod back shakily.
“Y-Yes, at last,” you reply. Your gaze falls from her blue eyes, the sting of guilt and embarrassment in yours. “Forgive me, I’m in a state…”
Mary is hesitant, but still gentle in the way she takes your free hand not intertwined with her son’s. Her face is kind.
“No forgiveness is needed,” she says, with a deeper meaning that doesn’t escape you. “You’re my daughter-in-law. My family.”
New tears sting hotly in your eyes, traveling down your cheeks. You manage to whisper your thanks.
Not to be outdone or forgotten, Margaret’s plump size nearly nudges Dean out of the way as she tearfully kisses your cheek. She rests a hand on your swollen belly.
“How much time passes between contractions?” she asks.
“Minutes. Not very long,” you say, just barely getting the words out before another spasm hits you deep inside. You cringe and grit your teeth as Mary encourages you to breathe through it. A sob escapes your lips at the intensity. Dean’s heart clenches at the sight of your pain, knowing he can do nothing. He presses his lips to your temple.
Margaret orders both Sam and Dean out of the room, but Dean is reluctant to leave your side.
“I’m staying,” he tells her, wiping the tears from your cheeks.
Margaret harrumphs. “It’s wholly improper for you to see her in such a state. It cannot be done!”
“By now he has seen me in every improper way imaginable,” you snap. “It only makes sense for him to stay at my side, does it not?”
Mary doesn’t quite hide a smile behind a curled hand.
Sam snorts, running a hand through his hair to disguise it. Dean purses his lips, but not even he can hold back his smile in the face of Margaret’s startled face.
Sam does leave the cabin for your modesty’s sake, but your husband stays at your side. While Mary and Margaret guide you through the night, Dean holds your hand, murmuring encouragements and soothing things in your ear. Half of them you don’t hear, and the other half are unintelligible even to him, but it’s the timbre of his voice that washes over you, as it always does. Despite your lingering fear and pain, that rich baritone of gravel and hearth makes you feel safe.
Within the hour, your son is in your arms, wailing as he tests his voice in a new world.
The bed is a bloody mess, as are your inner thighs. You’re covered in sweat, as is Dean, but your child is clean as he can be after Margaret has gently washed him. She and Mary begin to clean you as well with a wet rag and a bowl of warm water.
Eventually you’re able to soothe the child, and he nurses at your breast for a while.
“Well done, my love,” Dean says quietly, his voice laden with emotion.
You smile back at him tearfully. It’s one of the few times in your life where you truly feel as if you’ve accomplished something worthwhile. The first was learning how to channel your embroidery talents into mending Dean’s clothes, as well as your own. Then, there was learning to skin and cook a rabbit, and how to debone a fish and not burn it on the fire after. Of course, there was planting seeds in your new garden—fruits and vegetables and herbs for the fall harvest. All were the hard-won efforts of helping Dean build your home, from the outside and the in.
Now you know you can bring a life into the world. It’s a powerful feeling, yet also terrifying. You’re now wholly responsible for this life. But today more than ever, you know you won’t be alone in raising him.
After your son finishes his first meal, Margaret helps you regain some modesty with changing your clothes, the bedsheets, and a fresh blanket. Sam is finally welcomed back into the room. He lays a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder where he sits reclined beside you. Dean smiles, his eyes suspiciously shining. He grabs his brother’s arm in a companionable silence.
“What will you name him?” Mary asks.
You and Dean share a look, one of agreement. You’ve been deliberating over this for months.
“Samuel,” you say, giving your brother-in-law a smile. “We want to name him for his uncle. Without his help, this little one might not have been born.”
Sam smiles in wonder. His eyes turn the shade of sea-washed glass.
“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m honored.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t grow into it,” Dean teases. He gestures at his younger brother’s height, which nearly has him bumping his head on the cabin ceiling.
You laugh, blinking slow as you fail to resist a yawn. “I’m sure he will.”
Dean kisses the side of your head.
“But for now, sleep,” he says.
Yes, you agree, letting him carefully take the baby from your arms. You think you deserve a short rest.
And when you wake, the rest of life begins.
"This is true love. You think this happens every day?" ✨
AN: What do you think of Dean and reader's great escape (and their elopement)?
They've certainly made the most of going "into the woods" (*cue Sondheim*). But will it be far enough to stay hidden?
Next Time (for the last time):
Castiel greets Damian and bows his head in respect. The king sits on the bench. His robes are a royal blue, threaded with emerald and gold—the colors of his house. His crown similarly holds the weight of emeralds and opals. He feels the burden on his neck.
Still, he turns to Castiel with a question that has been weighing on his mind.
“What should happen if you actually found Dean Winchester?” Damian asks.
Castiel’s brows draw together slightly. “Sire?”
“Would you kill him, if I so ordered it?” Damian asks, raising a brow. “Would you relieve his very head from his shoulders for stealing away my daughter?”
It takes Castiel a moment, but he bows his head in respect.
“My sword is bound to your word, my King,” he says. And yet, he dares to meet Damian’s stare directly. “But how would your daughter look upon you afterward? Can you live with what you will see in her eyes?”
Damian’s jaw clenches.
“Do you know anything of the child?” he asks. His grandchild.
“I’m afraid I do not,” Castiel says. “Only what was in her letter to you.”
Damian looks into Castiel’s eyes, and truly marvels. He wonders when the man learned to lie so well.
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Summary: You both were bid to obey: for king and country, heart or duty. A familiar story, and a cruel verse. In the turn of one season, you would be wed to serve your royal house, but not to the man who guarded your heart.
AN: Wow, I was blown away by the responses on Part 1, you guys. 🥹🙏🏽 Thank you so much. I really hope you enjoy the twists and turns in this chapter. 😏
Word Count: 7.6K
Posted on Patreon: Jan. 2, 2026
Tags & Warnings: (18+) Royal/Medieval AU, arranged marriage, angst, mutual pining, not all princes are charming, smut, virgin reader, romantic feels, small cliffhanger
⚔️ Series Masterlist
Part 2: Shades of Weary Night
Dean bows his head before his king, crossing a fist over his chest.
His armor clinks as he straightens. They are in Damian’s study, a large room taken up by shelves upon shelves of books lining the walls. You often spent time here as well when you were a child. You sat at your father’s feet and pretended to read alongside him, though what kept your interest was the illustrations.
As you grew older, your curiosity grew for the contents of the books themselves, not just their pictures. Or so you’ve told Dean.
“Your Majesty sent for me?”
“Yes, Dean. Come in.”
Damian beckons him over to where he sits at his desk.
“As you know, my daughter will be wed by the end of the month. Prince Alastair means to make haste for Hallstein, so they will depart the next morning. He wishes to honeymoon in his home.”
Dean’s jaw clenches, though he attempts to contain his reaction at the thought of that man’s hands on you.
“Castiel has requested that you and your brother stay here. Sir Benjamin and a handful of men would accompany my daughter to Hallstein in your stead,” Damian says.
“Are Sam and I being censured?” Dean asks with a frown. He would have a hard time believing it. Castiel may be Knight Commander, but like Ben, their friendship spans nearly a decade.
“No. Castiel simply thinks that you and your brother are invaluable assets, better utilized here at home,” Damian says. He sighs heavily. “As a king, I am inclined to agree. As a father, I am conflicted. I would have better peace of mind knowing my daughter is safe. I trust Sam, and I trust you, Dean, as I trusted your father.”
Against his will, Dean is reminded of Alastair’s slithering words.
“It would ease my mind a great deal knowing you are just outside the door, should anything transpire…”
“I can’t speak for my brother, but maybe it’s better that I stay,” Dean says, before he can think better of it.
Damian looks up at him in surprise.
“If that is your inclination, I will allow it,” he says, inclining his head. He becomes thoughtful, an idea seeming to grow in his mind. “Let us say your brother remains here and continues to serve me. If you were to accompany my daughter to the north, know that I would see to it that your estate is well cared for, including your mother.”
Dean’s brows raise marginally. “How so?”
“With generous funding, of course,” Damian says with a smile. “I imagine the Winchester coffers are far from empty, but if you were to indulge me in this, they will soon be overflowing. I will ensure it is so for generations.”
Dean’s mind spins with fractals of indecision. The choice laid out before him is heavy, pressing on him from what feels like all angles. Damian notices his difficulty, though Dean wonders how much he truly sees.
“That’s too generous, Your Majesty,” Dean says at last.
“It would come at no great cost to me. On the contrary, it would allow me to honor your father once more,” says the king. But he has a shrewd eye, and he sees that Dean still struggles. “Think on it well. I will give you until the day of the wedding to decide.”
Dean shakes his head. “That is too gracious as well.”
“And in this instance, it is entirely selfish,” Damian says. His spark of humor reminds Dean of you. It makes him smile in return.
“Thank you, Sire.”
At supper time, Dean finds the Knight Commander slurping his stew by the fire in the mess hall. Dean sits across from him and steals his roll of bread for himself, ripping a large chunk with his teeth. His friend gives a customary, if unsurprised frown.
“Yes, by all means, help yourself,” Castiel says wryly.
“Why would you tell the king to keep me and Sam here after the wedding?” Dean says. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Castiel says, though with a suspect pause. “Not yet, at least.”
Dean frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, the king may be fooled, but I’m not. You’re not as emotionless as you think you are.”
“I never claimed to be…” Dean sighs, rubbing his chin in irritation. “What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’m your friend,” Castiel says, meeting his gaze. “And as your friend, I will tell you what the others can’t, aside from maybe your brother.”
Dean raises a brow. “Which is?”
“That you are on a knife’s edge. One wrong step, and it will lead to your ruin.”
“What in hell are you talking about?”
Castiel heaves a breath. He pauses to clear his palette with a hefty sip of ale.
“Let her go, Dean,” he says, not unkindly. “For both your sakes.”
“Maybe he’s right,” Sam says that night. He stokes the fire in their lodgings, while Dean sharpens his sword. He now likes to imagine the prince’s head as the whet stone.
“The princess relies on me—on us,” Dean says. “How do you think she feels, about to be taken away from her home to a country she’s never seen, with a man she barely knows?”
Sam levels him with his gaze, imploring him to think logically. “Dean, one day she’ll be his queen. By the time that day comes, she’ll have learned his country and its ways. She’s likely known this would happen her whole life.”
“Knowing is one thing. Living it is another.” Dean pauses, breathing deep. “I swore to protect her. So did you, by the way.”
“I know, and I’m concerned for her too,” Sam says, as he comes over to lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Ben will protect her. I know it feels selfish, but even the king agrees it’s better for us to remain here. At least this way, we stay together, and we stay near Mother. She barely sees you as it is.”
Dean nods, but he can’t ignore the deeper pit forming in his stomach.
In the morning, Dean returns for his watch. The hours tick by until mid-morning. It’s strange that you still haven’t come out of your chambers to start the day. By now your father has probably breakfasted by himself. Then again, you haven’t taken many of your meals with him since the prince arrived.
Margaret is the one who eventually opens your chamber door, to his surprise. She sighs in exasperation.
“The princess requests a word with you,” she says.
He raises a brow. “Won’t she come out?”
“I’m afraid you must come in,” she says, with a flat note of disapproval in her voice. She’s known Dean since he was a child, and she knew his father well too, but even so. A knight is still a man underneath.
Dean is even more surprised when she stays in the hall, motioning for him to enter your chambers. He walks in, shutting the door behind him.
He finds you standing there by your vanity, waiting. Your dress is violet twined with delicate gold roses. Those colors always remind him of another time, soon to be another life.
Your jewelry rests untouched on the counter. Your hair is only loosely braided, not yet worked into an intricate style of Margaret’s making. And yet, he finds you just as beautiful this way, if not more so; simpler, more natural, if with tears in your eyes. The sight makes his chest tighten and his eyes soften.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
You withdraw your arm when he reflexively tries to comfort you.
“You made a vow to my father that you would protect me, be at my side,” you say. “You’ve forsaken that vow.”
His brows furrow at the accusation.
“I’ve done no such thing.”
You wipe a tear from your cheek and cross your arms.
“Then what is this I hear that you will not be boarding the ship to Hallstein?” you ask.
Dean sobers with understanding. You heard.
You heard before he could tell you himself.
“I’m sorry, Princess. I can’t come with you. I have responsibilities here,” he explains, trying to be gentle.
You stare back at him expectantly. “What responsibilities?”
Dean hesitates, his mouth opening and closing. He could’ve said many things. You know full well that he is the master of his family’s estate, that he has a mother and a brother and many others who rely on him here. Somehow, none of it escapes his lips. It would feel like an excuse.
“Is there someone in your heart that keeps you here?” you ask, quieter and contemplative. Then you pause. Your eyes hold a rare vulnerability, not quite meeting his. “…Yes, I would imagine so. No doubt you are courting someone.”
Dean sighs. With what time in the day would I have to court another woman? He can’t help but wonder. Watching over one is tiring enough.
But he hesitates, not knowing what version of the truth he can give you.
“My brother,” he says.
“Excuse me?” you blink. “Your brother?”
Dean frowns, then scoffs and shakes his head.
“No, not…not like that.” He hazards stepping closer to you. Slowly, you raise your head and meet his gaze.
“My mother and brother remain here, and I’m bid the same by your father. I do as my king commands,” he says. “I must see to my family’s estate, and their wellbeing.”
He doesn’t speak of your father’s offer. The half-truth is acidic on his tongue, but for once he has to protect himself from the way your gaze strips him bare. It means he has to watch the way your face falls, somber and hurt, though you try not to show it.
“Yes, I suppose we are all bound by duty to king and country. Civility and friendship are but secondary,” you say.
Dean’s shoulders deflate with his sigh. He allows himself to speak your name, to implore you, and try to make you understand. But you cross your arms to hold yourself, taking a small step away from his hand of would-be comfort. Again, you turn your head away. He still hears the tears in your voice.
“Go on, Sir. You may return to your post.”
“Princess…”
You force yourself to keep your red, stinging eyes on the wallpaper, the small blue and yellow panes, and the roses dying on your vanity table. The smell of them linger faintly in the air like a memory; a gentle press of a gloved hand against your cheek.
Eventually, you hear the heavy trod of Dean’s boots carry him out of your chambers.
You endeavor to spend more time with your betrothed before the wedding. Meals and afternoon tea are spent together, sometimes in the garden when Alastair is agreeable to it.
Dean stands guard while Lady Margaret chaperones every meeting, even one as simple as a horseback ride in the Eastern Valley. Alastair has his own guards, including his cousin Ramiel in the entourage.
You all take care to avoid the Blackwood while Alastair allows you to fill the silences, not altogether comfortable. Whenever you ask questions about his home, about Hallstein, all you can imagine is a barren land of ice and snow, too cold for growing things, too far from everything you know.
Your horse slows and pauses at the top of a grassy slope. You become more reserved as you stare out across the valley, with its slow rolling hills ambling toward the horizon. Alastair stops his horse beside you.
“Are you well, Princess?” he asks.
You return to yourself, giving him a polite nod. “Yes. Do I look unwell?”
“Introspective, perhaps,” he says. “I realize you must have much on your mind. It is no small thing to leave your homeland.”
Your smile is merely a token of civility; it doesn’t reach your eyes.
“Thank you for your graciousness,” you say, “but my father has not arranged this union lightly. I trust and respect his decision, just as I believe this enterprise will strengthen both our houses.”
Alastair’s lips tug upward. “An enterprise, my lady?”
“That’s what it is, is it not?” you reply. “A royal marriage by its nature is a political exchange. In this case, an armada for a bride. Reliable trade routes for an heir.”
Alastair regards you with a thoughtful tilt of his head.
“That is true. I cannot discount it. My first marriage was borne of a similar alliance. However,” he says, taking up your hand in his to press a gentleman’s kiss across the back of it. “We must allow the possibility for fondness, mutual respect, and whatever else may come of our union. There is potential here, my lady.”
You give your best attempt at a more sincere smile.
“Indeed, my lord,” you say.
Looking out ahead, you note the sun falling past mid-afternoon.
“It may be best to return and prepare for supper,” you suggest.
He nods and releases your hand from his foreign touch. You both begin to turn back, along with the rest of your party. Try as you might, you can’t stop your attention from wandering to your guard. Dean meets your gaze, but for once, his expression tells you nothing.
You turn from him and ride on.
Alastair hands off his reins to a stable boy after he dismounts from his horse. His cousin does the same and draws closer, watching you trade polite words with another servant as you take up a brush for your horse.
“In addition to gardening and politics, their princess tends to her own beast,” Ramiel quietly remarks. “How odd.”
Alastair chuckles, withdrawing two cigars from inside his riding coat. The two men leave the stables and smoke together in the courtyard, where its vast cobblestone steps lead up to the castle.
“She’s a trifle simple, I will grant, but more intelligent than I expected,” Alastair says.
“Certainly more so than the last one,” Ramiel says. He taps a bit of ash on the ground, heedless of where it falls. “Doubtless, more beautiful. The Heavens delivered you a blessing in disguise, dispatching that pale wretch.”
“It seems so,” Alastair nods. His first wife had been a disappointment, in more ways than one. Though his lips soon raise into a smirk around his cigar. “Let us hope this one is less fragile.”
Ramiel huffs in amusement. He knows very well how his cousin enjoys his games.
The wedding preparations have been in full swing ever since the betrothal agreement was signed. Now, mere weeks before the event, the entire castle is in a frenzy.
You’ve been fitted for your dress no less than six times, along with additional undergarments for the wedding night. The maids have gossiped loud enough for you to overhear certain things that make your cheeks flush, but you’ve heard them before.
All your life you’ve been told that there are things only a mother should tell her daughter before her wedding night, but your mother died before she could impart that particular pearl of wisdom.
Yet you’ve always had an inquisitive mind. And in late nights, you’ve made discoveries with curious hands on your own body, learning yourself, and what might give you pleasure.
However, it begins to scare you when you think of trying to give that kind of pleasure to a man, especially one such as Prince Alastair. He seems kind enough, but there’s something in his eyes that you don’t yet trust.
You know he’s trying to charm you. You only wonder how much of that charm actually lies underneath. You wonder if that man will change once you step off his ship and set foot on his lands.
It would have been a mercy if your father had given you to another man when you were younger; as a girl of fifteen or sixteen, you would have seen it as an adventure. You likely would have been too doe eyed to worry about your husband’s character, or if his words were true.
And now, you know Dean will not be there with you. Sam will remain here as well. Sir Ben is a good man, and a worthy knight, but he isn’t the friend you know. He isn’t the man who makes you feel safe. It isn’t his voice you crave to hear.
As it is, you and Dean haven’t spoken since that morning in your chambers. You can barely bring yourself to look at him. Your throat tightens, your heart tears, and your eyes sting.
It’s mortifying.
And as the days turn to longer nights, it becomes a deep, clawing pain. It becomes harder to sleep, difficult to enjoy the taste of food. A candied pear could turn to sand in your mouth, and you would be hard-pressed to know the difference.
Slowly, you begin to realize what your body means to tell you.
You just have no idea how to rectify it.
The night before the wedding, it comes to you.
You’ve been bathed and perfumed, your hair dried and brushed, your teeth whitened. You’ve rehearsed every step of what’s to come, from the ceremony to the feast, to what comes after. It all would fill you with dread, if but for your plan.
That night, you wait.
You allow your ladies to undress you for bed, and you even share a snack with them before you feign excitement for tomorrow and tell them you should retire to sleep. They leave you, all twittering smiles and well-intentioned encouragements.
By now, Sam has taken over for Sir Ben in standing watch outside your door.
Good.
You find a satchel that you’ve already packed with your riding clothes and shoes. They’re your least formal and most functional clothing, and they will also provide you at least something of an excuse if you’re out too late.
You change into one of your simpler dresses. It’s an old favorite of yours in an earthy green that reminds you of familiar, watchful eyes. You pair it with flat, comfortable shoes. You then braid and pin up your hair, and afterward find a warm, black wool winter cape, even though it’s already March. You need it mainly to help hide your face in the night.
You open your chamber door a crack. It alerts Sam, who turns over his shoulder to frown down at you.
“Are you well, Princess?”
You meet his gaze, and you release a steadying breath.
“No.”
Dean stays up longer than he means to with a mug of ale. He neither tastes it nor enjoys it as he stares into the fireplace. The embers are dying, and he gets up to stoke them, until the flames crackle with contained chaos. His mind is like that fire.
He sighs, knowing he’s unlikely to find rest tonight.
Suddenly, the chamber door unlocks, setting Dean on edge. He leaves his mug on the mantle and reaches for his sword, propped near the fireplace. He’s surprised to find Sam opening the door.
“What’re you doing here?” Dean asks, leaving his sword where it rests. “Who guards the…”
The answer to his own question appears, in the form of you stepping through his door wearing a black hooded cloak to hide your face. He recognizes you, even before you pull back your hood to reveal yourself.
Dean’s mouth drops open. “What in hell—Sam?”
“She was adamant about speaking with you,” Sam says tiredly.
If Dean had to guess, you wore his brother down. It would bring an amused smile to his face, if this weren’t so wildly inappropriate.
“Have you lost your mind?” Dean says as you approach him. Your eyes hold a quiet resolve. Still, he insists, “It’s the night before your wedding. You can’t be here—”
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” you calmly reply. “And before I go anywhere else, I must speak with you.”
Dean presses his lips together. He shares an exasperated look with Sam, whose mouth twitches at a smile.
“I’ll go back to my post to avoid suspicion. Just bring her back before dawn,” he says, though somewhat reluctantly. He isn’t sure he should leave you here, but it would be worse to leave your door unattended and risk suspicion.
When the door shuts behind Sam, you’re left with Dean, who crosses his arms and shakes his head.
“If anyone knew you were here—”
“I know. I have been drilled about my own modesty since I was born, Dean. I know what this would look like,” you say testily. But you take a breath, intending to try a gentler approach as your steps bring you closer to him.
“You told me that my father bid you to remain here, but I spoke to him. I know he gave you until tomorrow to decide what you will do, if you will stay, or if you will come with me,” you say. “Have you made that decision?”
Dean sighs, tired and on the edge of exasperation.
“I thought we already talked about this,” he says.
You frown at him. “Yes, but you lied to me, Dean.”
The sting of that shame has him averting his gaze.
“Some time has passed,” you say. “I wanted to know if it had changed your mind, or if you were actually serious about the promise you made to me after my mother died.”
Conviction burns in your eyes, along with emotion. Dean sees it there when he stares back at you, his mouth falling open as he loses his words.
You bring him back to the day he earned his knighthood, sworn into the royal order.
It was just a few weeks after your mother’s death. He found you sitting by yourself in the garden, plucking at the grass with idle fingers.
He came wanting to share his good news, but you wiped a tear away as he drew closer. He knew you were still hurting. He didn’t like the thought of you sitting there on your own with your pain. So he went and sat beside you on the stone bench…
“I’ve just become a knight, you know. My father chose me to serve your watch too. That means you’ll never be alone.”
He takes your hand then. He hesitates, but the urge to impress you, to comfort you, makes him brave enough to press a kiss to the back of your hand.
You watch him with tearful eyes, your mouth parted with soft awe.
“Do you promise?” you ask.
Conviction is easy to have, for you. It lies in his eyes, even when he smiles.
“Yes, Princess, I swear.”
Dean rubs at his face in agitation. Something crossed between a grunt and a growl escapes his mouth. He takes purposeful steps away from you and leans his arm above the fireplace. He stares into its flames rather than at you as he thinks.
You watch him, both curious and a little wary. That familiar scowl of his is back, creasing his forehead. Eventually, he looks over at you in a way that claims your breath.
“What is this, a test?” he says.
You recover yourself a little, raising your chin.
“I want to know if that promise was that of a child, or of a man.”
Dean blinks incredulously, then chuckles to himself. Slowly, he crosses the narrow distance between you. His steps are measured, and soon he stands too close, yet not close enough. His face is within reach of your hand, if you dared. You steal a breath as you endeavor to stand your ground.
“Fine,” he says. “If you so desire, Princess, I’ll board that damn ship and sail to that frost-bitten country, or down to the ass-end of Hell itself. I will go with you. I will follow you for the rest of your days.”
And if he’s meant to watch you from a distance for the rest of his days, then so be it. Something in his chest cracks, his brows furrowing at the thought.
“Are you certain?” you press. “That promise was not only that of a knight, but a friend. If I’m merely a burden to you, then you might as well stay here. You won’t have to see my face or hear me pester you again.”
“I’m certain I will never escape your voice. I’ve started to anticipate it, even in my sleep,” Dean rumbles. He also takes your chin between his fingers, making sure you hear him well. “But you’re not, and have never been, a burden to me.”
Your voice is a spell he can’t break. What he doesn’t realize, is that his eyes have the same power over you.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know my voice was so grating,” you say, even through a hesitant, tearful smile. “You will come with me?”
“I will come with you,” he nods. For better or worse.
Your eyes slowly dip, to the bow of his lips. “Then I should point out, the most chivalrous vows are sealed with a kiss.”
His jaw clenches. His gaze falls to your pretty mouth as well.
“That’s the one thing you can’t ask of me,” he says gruffly.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t count on myself to stop at your lips.”
He earns your soft intake of breath. He smiles a little, raising a hand to stroke your cheek. Both of you revel in the feeling of it, if for different reasons. For you, it’s a wonder to have his calloused fingers brushing your skin, devoid of a leather glove in between. For him, it’s the feeling of your softness, your trust in him.
He leans in just close enough, kissing that cheek and feeling its blushing warmth on his lips.
“Have you been told about what happens on your wedding night?” he asks, because he can’t help himself. He lingers near your ear, his nose brushing the shell of it.
A small shudder runs down your spine, but one of pleasure. A different kind of warmth pulses between your legs. Your fingers involuntarily tangle in the front of his tunic. He holds you in return, gently by your arms. That’s all his self-restraint will allow.
“I have pieced it together, yes,” you say.
He smirks. “Hmm. I’m not sure you have.”
“I know that I don’t want to bear that man’s children,” you retort. Your voice is more insistent, a sliver of steel and desperation all at once in your eyes when you pull back to meet his. You cling to his arms in return, for once finding the warmth of his skin underneath the fabric. “Dean, I loathe the very thought of him touching me. And if I leave my home, I don’t want it to be for his control.”
Dean falls silent, even if his mind is not. He holds you a fraction tighter at the thought of Alastair. Touching you. Claiming you. Dean doesn’t know how he’ll live to watch you become that man’s wife.
But as your words sink in, another flash of warning prickles down the back of Dean’s neck.
“What are you saying then? What would you have me do?” he asks with difficulty.
“Well,” you say, hesitating. This is your true plan—your heart laid bare. “You say you will follow me, that you will stay with me, even though it means leaving our families behind. Even now, the way that you look at me, and touch me…does it mean that you care for me, as me? Not as your princess, and more than merely your friend.”
Tentatively your hand moves to rest against his chest, over his heart. For a moment, Dean can only stare at that gentle hand. His resolve crumbles a little more as he sighs.
“I think you know damn well that it does,” he says.
The admission costs him. His stomach twists painfully at the truth, knowing that come dawn, he will need to let you go. You aren’t his to keep.
Your smile doesn’t consider that fact. Happier tears sting in your eyes, but he brushes them away with his thumb. You lean your cheek into his palm. Dean’s heart beats in conflict with his good sense.
“But there’s no world where this ends well, Princess,” he says. “Your father has signed an agreement with the king of Hallstein. I can’t allow you to break that. Not for this. Not for me. We would need to run. And once we start, we could never stop.”
You take hold of his hand that cradles your cheek.
“I know what I’m asking, and you are right. It is too much. Too selfish,” you say. “I also know there’s much I haven’t seen or lived beyond these walls. But my father is still strong. This country will survive without me or Alastair’s ships. If I must bury my family name, I will leave it behind. If there is anything I can’t do, I will learn it for you. Only…I know I have always had much to learn.”
Your face falls with self-deprecation. You know you have lived a sheltered life. But there’s no judgment in Dean’s eyes when he gently raises your chin, and your face back up to him.
“You shouldn’t be willing to make that kind of sacrifice,” he says.
“Not for you, you mean? And why shouldn’t I, when you have always guarded my heart?” you say firmly, despite tears that trail down your cheeks. “Dean, surely you know that I love you. With everything that I am, I love you.”
He winces, though not out of pain. He bows his forehead to rest against yours.
“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly. You stroke his cheek this time, brushing his chin with your thumb.
You smile. “That isn’t for you to decide.”
He pulls back and meets your gaze. He searches yours. For what, you don’t know, but he seems to find it in an instant.
He bows his head, and ever slowly closes the last shred of distance between you. When his lips touch yours, it feels like a sin you were always meant to commit. His mouth is soft and gentle, but only at first.
His second kiss lingers, a heady rush of warmth blooming in your chest as he holds you.
His third kiss claims you.
You inhale a bit sharply in surprise, because it’s no longer chaste. When his tongue brushes your lower lip and begs entrance, you can’t help but open to him. A wanton moan escapes you almost without you realizing. It’s frustration and yearning, succumbing to a craving neither one of you had dared to name or voice. It’s a pure kind of passion, laced with lust and love.
He pulls you into him by your waist, and when his arms envelop you, your cloak loosens from your shoulders. You cling to his arms, feeling the strength in him.
His fingers sink into your hair where you have it braided and pinned up. You reach up and pull out a couple of the pins so that it’s easier for him to unravel it all—for him to wrap the strands around his fingers and touch them to his lips. Never has he seen your hair unbound.
Now it’s his right, and you’re giving it to him. He leads you to the chaise by the fire and sits on the edge, so he can lure you down after him, settling you in his lap.
He catches the flicker of firelight between the curtain strands of your hair, but he’s more preoccupied with holding you close, laying soft, reverent kisses down your chest, lingering between your breasts, just at the neckline of your dress. Your fingers sweep through his hair lovingly, but there’s a maiden’s shyness in your smile as you gaze down at him.
He squeezes your hips over fine fabric, wanting to feel your skin under his hands instead. But he hesitates. He still can’t believe you came to find him here. You’re full of stubbornness and fire, and apparently, with love. He just can’t help but wonder if this is right.
He can’t take you here on a small, inadequate cushion. His bed would only be marginally better. He can’t imagine you on his thin mattress, his gray sheets. What must all that seem like, compared to what you’re used to?
“This isn’t a place for you, my love,” Dean says, more gravely than he means to.
You frame his face with your hands, earning his gaze.
“If I’m really your love, then wherever you are is my place as well,” you say, tilting your head as you test him. “Am I your love?”
He moves your hand down to rest over his heart.
“You’ve lived here since the day you tossed an apple at my head and broke my damn rib.”
Your embarrassed laughter deepens his smile.
“So yes, this thing is yours,” he says, as his heart thrums under your palm. “Always.”
Your eyes soften. Your thumb brushes over his skin where the neckline of his tunic ends. You’ve often imagined what his strong form might look like underneath.
“Then make me yours,” you say. “Because you are mine. I choose you, and no one else. I will always choose you.”
It’s a vow without legality, without propriety, pomp, or circumstance, without finery or dowry. But in your heart, you know it’s the truth. You know this is all that ever mattered, and all that ever would.
Dean gathers you up, carrying you with him when he stands. You yelp and cling to his neck, but you giggle as he makes strides to his room. He’s so tall, you have to duck your head along with him in the entryway. He lets you down on your feet, just at the edge of his bed. It’s smaller than you expected with its navy quilts, but you’re soon distracted by the way his hands move you, turning you in his arms until his chest meets your back.
His lips meet the juncture between your neck and shoulder, a tender graze of teeth making you shudder, breathing his name.
Dean holds you from behind, his hand moving up to squeeze your breast through your dress. With the other hand, he begins to unlace you. You hold onto his arm and try to ignore the way your legs shake.
He threads your fingers with his. “I knew there was beauty in every inch of you. I just never thought I’d get to see it.”
The timbre of his voice washes over you like a warm caress. His fingers are deft and careful, tracing down your spine, guiding your layers down until they slip from your body and pool to the floor. You’ve known this man since you were both children, but there’s a new kind of trust forming here when you slowly turn, allowing him to see all of you.
He drinks in your body with eyes of molten green, twin peridots in dwindling candlelight. His hands caress your bare shoulders, your arms, the sides of your breasts, and the sensitive buds hardening in the cooler air. You suck in a small breath, making his lips twitch upward.
“Beautiful,” he repeats. His hands map every soft curve down to your hips, squeezing there. Your face burns with blushing, even as your skin tingles pleasantly under his touch.
Your fingers once again latch onto his tunic, wanting to feel him in turn. You help him untuck it from his pants and raise it over his head. The laces of his breeches come next, unveiling the rest of him to your gaze—planes of male muscle honed by years of training. But the sight of his manhood, erect and straining, is a wonder to you. Your fingers trail down his chest and stomach.
You pause, glancing up at him. “Can I touch you?”
He grasps your arms, trying to be supportive and not desperately urging.
“I like your curiosity,” he teases, but there’s an unmistakable fire in his eyes that encourages you onward. Your light exploration soon blossoms into a soft grip around his length.
Dean hisses an inward breath, almost startling you. But he nods, brushing your arms tenderly with his thumbs. You feel more emboldened to continue.
He knows you don’t mean to tease him, but when your thumb tentatively, curiously brushes the beads of arousal escaping the sensitive head of his cock, he bites his lower lip in thinly kept restraint. A groan still escapes, harsher breaths and growing need as you begin to stroke him, from base to tip.
His grip on your arms steadily becomes more enticing. You feel the tempered strength in his hands, gentle for you as they glide up to cup your cheeks.
He kisses you slow and deep, his tongue again begging entrance past your lips. You open up to him with a soft moan, your hands moving to rest against his bare chest. You feel the warm tip of his shaft against your belly. A tremble of nerves laces down your spine, your nails grazing his chest on reflex. His hands glide down to the small of your back and press your body flush against him. He feels the tremble in you.
He pulls away just enough to ask, “Are you afraid?”
“A little,” you smile. “But I want you to touch me. Make me feel fire under my skin, and stars inside me.”
His eyes meet yours, and you see a small flash of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected you to say such a thing. You do feel brazen, but also bold enough to entice him, raising up on your toes for a kiss. He accepts you with greedy lips and roaming hands gripping the flesh your hips. Passion mounts into a full flame as he guides you down to his bed. He covers you with his body, with his scent of musk and cedarwood, with his open-mouthed kisses and his skillful touch.
His calloused hands explore you, kneading your breast, rolling the nipple under his thumb, while his lips and tongue lavish the other with attention. He earns your gasps, your moans, your hips beginning to writhe against his. He knows enough of pleasure to see that yours is genuine, and that makes him burn more ravenously for you.
His right hand travels lower and ventures between your legs; he wants to know if you are just as desiring for him. He finds slick arousal between the folds of your cunt, and rouses another moan from your lips as his fingers brush the source of your pleasure, that hidden bud above your entrance. He thrums it to life in languid strokes, until it swells under his fingertips. Your hips roll against his hand on reflex.
“Dean,” you gasp, latching onto his arms. He leans up to kiss you, swallowing your small cry as his fingers enter your slick channel. He presses in until he meets resistance.
“Are you ready for me, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice deeper and slightly rougher. “There might be a little pain, but only briefly.”
“Have you done this many times before?” you ask in a panting breath. You quirk a brow as you wonder how he knows so much.
Dean smirks, but with you, he must be more honest than he’s been with fellow knights at the local taverns, and even with Sam.
“A few, but not many,” he says, caressing your cheek. “You’re the one who matters.”
You try not to be jealous at the thought of him bedding other women, but his kiss at least assuages your frown. He rubs your legs, drawing them higher and guiding them to brace around his waist. He settles in the cradle between your thighs; he can feel the alluring heat of you, welcoming him inside.
He meets your gaze, and though nerves still trill inside your belly, there’s a need coiling there, a warm throb deep within.
You nod and squeeze his arms.
“Slowly, please,” you whisper.
Dean takes your hand and presses a kiss of reassurance into your palm.
“Don’t worry,” he grins. “You’ll enjoy yourself, I promise.”
Behind that bit of boyish cockiness, there’s a sliver of nerves as well. He wants to do well for you, to bring you pleasure and be worthy of your choice.
He takes himself in hand, and inch by inch, his cock pushes into you in small strokes, until he’s broken past your barrier and seated deep inside. You wince at the sharp sting, but mixed in is pleasure indeed—a delicious fire brimming to life. Your mouth falls open in an almost soundless cry.
Dean continues to build a rolling rhythm, gritting his teeth as he braces himself above you. He buries his face into your neck as he takes you smooth and deep. He wills himself to stave off his own release until he feels yours, waiting for you.
“How do you feel?” he asks roughly near your ear. Your breathing is shallow, your breasts brushing his chest with every inhale.
“On the edge,” you manage to speak. “Of…something. It. It’s just all so much…what if I can’t do what you need me to?”
Dean smiles and trails kisses up your neck, across your jaw line, and finally claiming your lips once more. “Relax, my love. You’re thinking too much.”
He takes your hand and slides it down your body, down where he’s joined to you. Except he guides your fingers to roll over that swollen bud above your entrance. When he begins to move again, his cock brushes a more sensitive place within you, making you gasp, and writhe, and crave more. A whimper catches in your throat.
You’ve explored these sensations before with your own fingers, but you didn’t know how much better it would feel with him inside you. Before long, your lower muscles are tightening, your thighs quivering as that crest of pleasure bursts, shattering you along with it. Your back arches as Dean holds you to him, swallowing your cries with a ragged kiss.
His own end isn’t far behind; he’s held on long enough that the impact of your release triggers his own. A spine-tingling, overwhelming feeling compels his rutting thrusts. A snap of his hips, a grunt falling from his lips, and he spills hot inside you.
The warmth and foreign feeling of it coating your inner walls causes a shiver to run down your spine, but it’s not unpleasant. You blush down to your neck, even as you both try to regain your breath. Dean brushes sweaty strands of your hair from your forehead, kissing your temple.
“Feel good?” he asks.
You nod breezily, stroking his sweat-slick back. You’re afraid your nails raked his skin rather hard.
“Very, I think. Well done,” you tease, smiling up at him through your lashes.
Dean chuckles. “Thank you. You did very, very well.”
He bows his head to kiss you, slow and earnest. But all too soon, he withdraws from you and gets up from the bed. You’re left with an ache between your legs, and yet, you can’t help but smile and cover yourself with his quilts.
He leaves only to find a rag and some water to cleanse. By the time he returns, you’re halfway to dozing off. The segmented candle at his bedside flickers, alerting him to the fact that an hour has passed since Sam brought you here. His eyes widen, and he draws you back into waking with a warm hand on your cheek.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he says, with an urgency that rouses you. “As much as I want you to rest, we can’t stay here. Dawn breaks in just a few hours.”
You sit up in realization. In the morning, your ladies would be coming to your chambers to rouse you in preparation for a wedding you won’t be attending. Your father will be furious.
More than furious, he might just have Dean’s head.
You begin to rush out of bed. You take the time to clean up along with him, blushing all the while, after which you get dressed with haste. He helps you with the laces of your gown.
Then he writes a letter of apology to leave for Sam. Dean’s heart is heavy for it, but he knows he doesn’t have time to go to his brother and explain, or even to say goodbye. Sam will likely try to talk him out of this, but Dean’s mind is already set. And, the more deniability Sam has for the king, the better.
“I brought some traveling clothes,” you say.
Dean follows you curiously back out into the common room, where you left your bag along with your cloak. You show him the spare dresses and undergarments, your hairbrush, a necklace that belonged to your mother, and some gold and silver pieces you were able to collect from your father’s study.
“Were you already planning to run away?” Dean asks in disbelief.
“I wanted to know for sure if you would have me or not,” you reply sheepishly. “If it didn’t go all to hell, I wanted to be prepared.”
Dean softens with a laugh. He takes your blush-warmed face in his hands, and he kisses you soundly.
He wishes he had time to treat you as you deserve, with an entire night of leisure and lovemaking. Hell, make it seven nights. He wants to truly make you his wife, and let there be no question of where you belong than at his side.
But he can’t. Not yet at least.
Dean committed the most selfish act imaginable. He claimed you for himself.
Now, he has to find a way to keep you safe.
AN: 😘💛 How'd you like that zesty turn of events? Probably to no one's surprise, Alastair is a POS. But reader and Dean are about to make their sweet escape. It just might not be like Westley and Buttercup's ride off into the sunset...
Next Time:
You and Dean flee for the stables.
With your hand in his, he keeps his sword arm free in case he needs use of it. So far, he’s been able to lead you through the blind spots of the guards standing watch. A roll of thunder rumbles a warning above your heads.
Damn. Rain is coming, he thinks, but maybe it will be a help to this escape plan.
There are very few hours left in the night, and he means to make the most of it. He helps you onto your horse.
“We should go west, to the nearest port,” he says. “We have enough money to afford passage aboard a ship to the southern islands.”
You nod in agreement. “The warmer the better. But first—”
You latch onto his wrist while he tries to make sure your saddle is strapped correctly. You earn his gaze.
“We need to go into town,” you say.
Dean’s brows furrow in confusion.
“For what earthly reason do you want to go into town?”
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“Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high...”
Pairing: Knight!Dean Winchester x Princess!Reader
Summary: You both were bid to obey: for king and country, heart or duty. A familiar story, and a cruel verse. In the turn of one season, you would be wed to serve your royal house, but not to the man who guarded your heart.
AN: Here we go! This is my first time writing a Medieval AU for SPN, so please let me know what you think in the reblogs or comments if it’s your jam. 💛
Requested by the lovely Liane ( @chevroletdean ), this story is partially inspired by my love of The Princess Bride and Lord of the Rings. Read on for some more AU Sam and Dean, along with a few other fun canon character cameos! 💖 (Quote above is from the original novel by William Goldman, The Princess Bride.)
You have a very odd habit of singing to the trees.
Here in the courtyard of a vast garden orchard you help cultivate, you are surrounded on all far corners by castle walls. This is your favorite place, or so you’ve told him.
At least here, green hedges form thick curtains, and vines crawl up the brick as if with hands outstretched toward the sun. Life succeeds against the stone.
You smile, amused when you see the usual furrow of Dean’s brow dipping just a little more in curiosity.
“Why do you always look so dour?” you ask.
Dean would like to refute that accusation, but his indignance only deepens his frown. His gloved hands rest on his belt, his armor clinking with the movement. He stands at an appropriate distance, but also close enough to maintain a watchful eye, ever at your service. His sword is a familiar weight resting against his left hip.
Margaret, your Lady-in-Waiting, is also at your service; she lies dozing on the bench. The old maid never lasts long there, or in a comfortable chair, or even in an uncomfortable one.
You even gave her your shawl as a blanket, then went back to trimming and watering various plants that needed your attention, especially the roses. They’re white and blushing pink in the winter. In the spring, they will mature to a deeper red, glittering like rubies in the sunlight. And in the summer, they dim to reflect the warmer sunset, as if painted orange-gold.
Dean has never understood how they change their colors in each season. Your mother planted them years ago with seeds she brought from her homeland, a smaller rural country from the east that benefits from this country’s trade, as well as its protection.
You now raise the roses as your own. He watches you dote on them, gently examining the healthy bunches while avoiding thorns. Then you harvest a few stems for your chambers.
Your occasional humming turns into song, a sweet melody that laces your path between the more barren trees in the orchard.
“You do know they can’t hear you,” Dean says.
“Yule is almost here,” you say, touching the weathered trunk of an apple tree. “We have to wake the trees and lift their spirits from the cold. That way the harvest will be plentiful in the spring. Haven’t I told you this every year?”
His mouth twitches, his brows easing. “It’s possible I’ve forgotten. You say many things at once, often without stopping to breathe. It’s impressive.”
Your eyes flick dryly in his direction, but there’s no true ire in it. You rarely hold his impertinence against him. He imagines it’s difficult for you to take him seriously at times. When he first met you, Dean could barely hold a sword, let alone bear the weight of his armor. Meanwhile, you were a girl who would rather climb these trees than practice embroidery or penmanship.
“At least I am not a living statue, one who somehow always appears at my back,” you toss over your shoulder. You aim to move a ladder over to the tree so that you can pick a few apples—the last ones clinging to vestiges of autumn. Soon the cold will consume them.
Dean moves to your side and takes the ladder from you, giving you a somewhat chiding look. He maneuvers it himself where you would have it positioned.
“Here. Some help from the living statue,” he remarks, offering his hand.
A small smile plays on your lips. You graciously slip your hand into his, and he helps you up the ladder. He holds it steady when a strong, chilly wind courses through the garden. It stirs your hair and the skirts of your dress, along with what’s left of the trees.
“It’s getting cold,” he says, and you aren’t dressed for it. “We should head inside, Princess.”
“A simple chill won’t kill me,” you tease. You’re focused on the task of filling your basket with apples. Another lies on the ground with your roses.
Dean restrains a sigh.
“I swear, stubbornness must be a womanly virtue,” he mutters.
You pause, your ear perked. “What was that?”
He’s soon saved from answering. Gabriel, one of your father’s messengers, enters the garden.
“Princess,” he greets you with a nod, though he casts a sideways glance at the dozing Margaret. “We are soon to receive a lord of Hallstein. News has traveled ahead of his ship that the crown prince is now a widower, in search of a new bride.”
Dean’s mood dims. Hallstein is a neighboring country to the north—remote, but powerful.
In that moment, your countenance changes as well. Your true emotions bury themselves under a grim understanding of what’s to come.
Your heart is like this garden, with high, impenetrable hedges, embedded with hidden thorns. But with those thorns, the roses bloom.
Dean thinks of you like that, even on gray winter days such as these.
That afternoon, your father, King Damian, informs you of your fate over supper. You will wed Alastair, the prince of Hallstein.
The match brings the aid of their legendary ships, and the added strength of their armada, led by Alastair himself, will help secure trade routes for your country in the vast sea to the southwest, down to the warmer islands where certain spices, wine, fruits, and vegetables are more plentiful. Consequently, their richness also makes them attractive to pirates, an added obstacle to reliable trade.
You understand all of this, and yet, words have turned to ash in your mouth. You barely taste the Cornish hen sitting on your plate, or the roasted vegetables, fresh bread, aged cheeses, fruits, candied dates, and other luxuries spread across the dining table.
“Has Prince Alastair won many wars with this armada?” you ask.
Your father pauses from carving the meat on his plate to glance up at you. He quirks a brow.
“Hallstein has not needed to go to war since before King Reinard took the throne,” he says.
Reinard III, Prince Alastair’s father, you mentally note.
“Is King Reinard young or old then?” you ask.
Damian shakes his head. “Frankly, I don’t remember him well. By now I suppose his beard would be gray, a man in his sixties.”
You nod. “That likely means his son is older than I. Perhaps a great deal older. We may struggle to find common interests. Do you think it would be a suitable match, in that case?”
You sip a glass of wine and meet your father’s gaze. His lips twitch, but his expression remains wry.
“I shouldn’t need to remind you that you are now twenty years old, well over marrying age,” he says. “If not for the prince’s recent loss, this arrangement could not have been so easily made.”
You nod slowly. “How then did his wife die?”
Damian pauses with his own wine at his lips. “In childbirth.”
You frown. “And the child?”
“A tragedy for all,” the king replied, indulging in his drink.
You remain quiet then. Your mother also died young.
“The fault is mine,” Damian says, rousing you from your thoughts. He seems to be weighed by memories of his own. His dark eyes are lost to them, even when they raise to meet you again. “I shouldn’t have waited so long to make another arrangement for you.”
There comes the reminder that you had been promised once before, since you were six years old. Your first betrothed was a young prince from the south. He died on a sailing expedition eight years ago. You never met him, nor have you ever met the Prince of Hallstein.
You unconsciously glance over, finding Dean standing guard at the door with one of your father’s men. His eyes briefly meet yours.
“Well, once all the legalities are signed and the dowry agreed upon, Prince Alastair will come for you himself,” Damian says, reclaiming your attention. “Travel by sea from his country will take a month, at least. If all goes as planned, he should arrive by early spring.”
Come to claim me, you think. Your fork pushes at a cold pile of herb roasted potatoes.
“And with a stroke of your pen, so dictates my life,” you say.
Damian shakes his head, an incredulous huff shaking his chest.
“This is news to you, Princess?” he says wryly. “You have been tutored in every subject befitting a young woman of your station, all for one purpose—”
“To marry,” you interrupt. “To be agreeable company, and to produce an heir for a man I will not meet until I wed him. I wonder if a merchant’s wife serves so fine a purpose.”
At least she shares in her husband’s business, you muse.
Your father sighs. “Do you disdain to become a queen one day? Or I suppose you would rather become a merchant’s wife. You would rather struggle for every godforsaken meal of your life, for the very roof above your head?”
You sigh and set down your cutlery. You understand his point, but he is also missing yours.
“Perhaps there is nobility in struggle,” you say. “More so than in reciting poetry.”
Damian almost laughs this time, somehow both fond of you, and exasperated.
“Oh, I have indulged you too much, haven’t I? I should have listened to your tutor when she said you should only be allowed to read religious texts.”
You smile, only slightly.
He knows that look on your face, better than you realize. His amusement fades.
“I admit that I’ve been selfish,” he says. “I suppose after your mother’s death, it was…difficult to part with you.”
You understand that as well.
Your mother had suffered from a wasting sickness that took her slowly, over the course of a year. It robbed her of energy and appetite, and turned the white of her eyes yellow and bleary. In the end, her body seemed to be merely a shallow vessel. It was a mercy that death took her in her sleep.
As a nine-year-old child, that picture had sunk deeply into your mind. It was difficult to remember her as the woman she had been before, her eyes and her voice so full of life when she told you stories from her homeland. When her hands guided yours in planting apple seeds. When she sang with you in the garden, stepping on the mossy ground with bare feet.
“You look so much like her now,” Damian remarks. He looks upon you with pride, and the love that is, at times, difficult for him to show. “You are a woman grown. So it is time to do your duty for this house.”
Your smile fades, along with your softness.
“I understand, Father.”
You manage to hold in your tears until leaving the dining room. You can’t help that Dean will see them. Knights of the royal order are bid to follow their charge; you are his.
In times like these, you wish your mother were alive to guide you.
“There is still daylight left,” you say, wiping at your cheeks. You don’t turn to him until you believe your face is dry. “I would like to go to the stables.”
Dean’s expression is stoic as ever, but it doesn’t seem so to you. You see warmth, the note of caring in his eyes.
“As you wish,” he says.
That day long ago is still vivid in his memory.
Dean is fourteen years old, still apprenticing with his father for his knighthood.
His brother Sam is ten, old enough to join them for a riding lesson. He only fell off once, but Dean still had to help him out of the mud and back onto the horse, an old reliable named Rusty.
They return to the stables together, dirty and shoving each other for the closest stall to lead their horses to.
“Boys.”
Their father’s censuring voice stops their horseplay. Dean straightens first, properly chastened. He pets his black mare’s snout when she noses at his shoulder.
“Remember that animals feed off your temperament,” John says. “If you’re excitable, they’re liable to become so as well. The stable isn’t a place to excite a horse.”
“Yes, sir,” the boys say, almost in unison. Sam stands straighter to try and match his older brother’s height, but his mess of brown hair only comes up to Dean’s shoulder.
A slight smile tugs at John’s lips. “All right. See that your horses are fed and groomed. And make sure your saddles are clean and put away.”
With another chorus of yes, sir, the boys take to their tasks. John will do the same for his own horse. He means to show his sons that no matter your age or rank, there are certain things a man should care for himself: his armor, his horse, and his family.
Maybe not in that order, he thinks.
But he’s forced to hand the reins of his horse to a stable hand when Lady Margaret approaches him with urgency.
“Good day, my lady,” John nods, though he frowns at the harried look on the woman’s face.
“Sir John, I apologize. I know today is your day of rest, but we have a problem,” she says, in a lowered voice.
“What’s the matter?”
“The princess is missing.”
John’s brows draw together in surprise. “What?”
“She escaped Sir Charles’ watch this morning—”
He huffs. “Why is that not surprising?”
The king may have a fondness for Charles’s poetry, but John thinks the man too easily distracted by his own daydreaming.
“And no one has seen her since,” Margaret says, in thinly veiled worry.
John accompanies her at once to speak with the Knight Commander. Before he leaves, he tells Dean to bring his brother home after they’ve finished their chores in the stables. Ever the responsible young man, Dean nods in assurance, but he still watches his father leave curiously.
“Were they talking about the princess?” Sam asks.
“They’re looking for her,” Dean says, but he goes back to brushing his horse. He doesn’t know why they’re all worked up about a girl who probably couldn’t manage to leave the castle, even if she tried. There are knights posted at every door and gate.
“I’ve never seen the princess,” Sam says. He comes around to Dean’s side of the stall and busies himself with a stick he finds on the dusty floor. “What do you think she’s like?”
Dean shrugs. He’s never seen her either, and he doesn’t really care to. In his experience, limited though it’s been, girls tend to be quiet and shy, and don’t seem to know much beyond their embroidery. They’re pretty to look at, like a dainty pastry, except you don’t find anything nice like chocolate or cream inside. Just shy giggles and strange glances.
“I heard she likes horses too,” Sam says. He points to a white mare dappled with gray over in the corner stall. “I think that one’s hers.”
“Why don’t you hop on,” Dean teases. “If you ride side-saddle, you can be princess for day.”
Sam’s lips purse, and he whacks his brother’s shin with a thin branch he finds on the dusty stable floor. Dean hisses in pain, retaliating with a shove of Sam’s shoulder and an attempt to take the offending weapon from his hand.
It all devolves into a brotherly brawl that has Dean chasing Sam out of the stable and tackling him into the dirt. Sam puts up a good fight, nearly gaining the upper hand when one of his clumsy fists manages to connect with Dean’s nose, but he’s older, bigger, and still strong enough to pin Sam down.
“Easy, little brother,” Dean laughs. “Do you yield?”
Sam struggles like a salmon in a bear’s mouth.
“Never!”
“Okay. Just remember, you brought this on yourself,” Dean says. He lets a big wad of spit percolate in his mouth, positioning it to fall right on his little brother’s face—
Until a rock hits him right on the back of his head.
“Ow!”
Except it isn’t a rock at all, just an unripe apple that tumbles into the dirt beside them.
“What in hell?” Dean says. But his words are cut off by another fruit projectile hitting him in the cheek, making him clutch his face with a pained cry.
Sam erupts into cackles of laughter. He stops when he hears a lighter giggle echoing him.
Both he and Dean look up in bewilderment to find you, a girl, sitting on the branch of an apple tree. You can’t be much older than Sam, but you wear a fine violet gown laced with gold. Your stocking-covered feet swing beneath you. Dean notices your shoes on the ground. They match your dress, violet and gold. He’s never seen you before, but you must be the daughter of some noble lord.
“Who are you?” he asks, getting off his brother so he can protect his head again if need be. Sam joins him in standing after dusting himself off, looking up at you curiously.
“Someone who doesn’t like bullies,” you retort.
Sam smiles triumphantly at Dean, who just rolls his eyes and rubs at the back of his sore head.
“How’d you get up there, anyway?” Dean asks.
“Oh, I flew, of course! With my invisible wings,” you say. Your voice drips with sarcasm, but your giggle betrays you. You’re laughing at him again.
Dean’s face begins to warm in a blush, even with his left cheek still stinging.
“How long have you been up there?” Sam asks.
“I don’t know. A while, I suppose,” you say. “My legs are starting to hurt.”
You slowly get up, using the tree trunk as an anchor. But Dean hears the branch beginning to creak. He quickly draws closer to the tree.
“Be careful, I think it’s—”
You try to climb up higher to the next branch, but you gasp as your foot doesn’t quite find purchase. Your nails scrape the bark as you lose your balance and wind up falling into a shaky seat on the branch. The impact, however, is just enough to crack the wood. The fear of it has you swinging your arms to try and grab onto something, but finding nothing, you slip backward out of the tree with a shrill screech.
Dean manages to reach you before you hit the ground. He means to catch you, but what actually transpires is a tangle of limbs on the ground, and a suspect crack that has you gasping for a different reason—not for your own pain, but for Dean’s broken rib.
Not that he understands what that agony means. All he knows is that it’s almost impossible to breathe as he cringes in pain.
You fret over him with reflexive tears and gentle hands on his chest.
“I’m so sorry! Are you all right?” you cry.
“Obviously he’s not!” Sam says. There’s panic in his voice too, but he soon runs for help while you stay with Dean.
All he registers beyond the pain is your hands holding his so carefully, your tearful apologies, over and over. Apparently you could lob an apple at his head, but you drew the line at maiming him. His vision blurs between the shade of your hair and what the sun looks like filtering between the tree’s spring-white blossoms.
His father comes eventually, along with a score of knights and Lady Margaret. She drags you away from him and reprimands you all the while for your behavior, so unbecoming of a lady.
Dean realizes it then. Those soft hands holding his had been those of a princess.
The next time Dean sees you is in the Halls of Healing.
Several times, he’s been told by both his mother and the healer to lie very still. There isn’t much they can do for him, but because he doesn’t seem to be bleeding internally, he should be all right after a few weeks. He can’t ride a horse, however, so he won’t be allowed to go home for a while either.
Sam has come to visit him every day. They play simple card games to pass the time. Twice, Sam has managed to sneak an apple tart from the kitchen for him.
Their father visits in the afternoon, after his watch is done. He brings supper, and they mostly sit in a companionable silence while they eat.
When his mother Mary visits, she stays with him all day, fussing over him. Dean pretends to be annoyed by it, but secretly he craves the comforting touch on his cheek, and her warm voice never fails to soothe him.
She reads to him in the evening before he goes to sleep. She indulges him with his favorite stories—of how Sir Gawain was tested in his courage by the Green Knight; of King Arthur and his quests; of Beowulf who slayed the monster, Grendel, and the king’s final battle with the dragon, who wrathfully defended his hoard of gold.
You come with Dean’s father to visit on the third day, accompanied by Lady Margaret.
“The princess would like to offer blessings to the infirm,” Margaret tells the healer. Though privately she says to you, “Do not touch, or get too close.”
Dean spots you out of the corner of his eye. You have a bottle of holy oil in your hand, and you go to each person in the hall and offer them a kind word.
While John and Margaret speak with the healer about those who should be better quarantined, you finally approach Dean’s cot. You offer him a small smile, still tinged with apology.
“Does it hurt terribly?” you ask.
He gives you a smile in return. “Not really.”
He tries to sit up higher in bed, stifling a cringe of pain when it jostles his tender ribs. He hides his pain from you the best he can.
Your gaze falls. “Even so, I’m very sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Dean says, ducking his head to find your eyes. “Really. You don’t have to keep apologizing.”
You chance looking up at him again, perhaps with some nervousness. You take some of your holy oil and paint a simple cross on the back of his hand, where it rests on his chest. You speak a blessing over him, as is tradition.
He doesn’t dare try to hold your hand, but he holds your gaze instead.
“Thank you, Princess,” he says.
You smile at him, the kind that makes his face warm inexplicably. Then you turn to rejoin your Lady.
Dean wonders if he imagined the brief, warm touch on his arm.
Now, ten years later, Dean watches you stare out across a field blanketed by an emerald sea. Its blades of grass are gently tossed by the wind, along with your hair.
Your skin is numb. That wind dries your tears, but you’re still reluctant to turn back to him. It is a cruel thing that he should be the one who always sees you at your worst, you think.
“Am I selfish for not wanting to leave my home?” you ask. “It is a fate my mother survived, so why not I?”
“It may not be forever,” Dean says, after a moment. “You can come back and visit your father.”
“The distance from Hallstein is over a month away by ship,” you remind him. “I would be lucky to return once a year.”
The wind urges you forward, closer to the forest that borders your kingdom on the east side. That dense line of trees looks darker now that the day has become overcast, dimming to orange and violet shades in the evening. There’s something about the forest’s vastness that fascinates you. You’ve often wondered what it would be like to venture in, a natural maze, a wild garden tended by no one.
“Princess,” Dean calls a warning.
Over the years, this forest has become the bane of the kingdom. Civilians, merchants, even knights have reported hearing unearthly sounds, seeing strange movement in the trees. Travelers have even disappeared on the road. They call it the Blackwood.
The longer your gaze focuses on the dappled light flickering between the trees, you think you begin to see a curling vine. A shadowed shape. There’s a whisper on the wind, growing stronger. It drowns out all other voices…
Until Dean grabs your wrist. His touch is a firebrand, and his brows are firmly knitted when he asks, “What are you doing?”
You blink as you turn to him, half an apology on your tongue. When you turn back to the forest ahead, whatever you thought you saw is merely shadow and wood.
Yule and Christmas both fall at the end of December, and are therefore celebrated one after the other in your kingdom. Ordinarily, this is your favorite time of year.
Already you can smell mulled wine and spices on the air as the castle bustles with preparations that will continue late into the evening, along with the excited chatter of the maids as they discuss the decorations. Even Lady Margaret has a certain spring in her step.
You can’t bring yourself to match their cheer, however. The spark dimmed all too quickly when you realized this would likely be the last Yuletide you would celebrate in your home.
Dean notices as he escorts you to your chambers. There he hands off his duties to Sir Benjamin, who serves your evening watch.
You turn to Dean and ask, “Would you mind coming a little earlier in the morning, so we can go out to ride again at dawn?”
He smiles slightly, indulging you with a nod.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you,” you say, with a small smile of your own. Yet it doesn’t reach your eyes.
You then bid both men a goodnight. After you retire to your chambers, Benjamin gives Dean a knowing look. They’ve been friends since the start of their apprenticeships, and they know each other well.
“She has the touch of melancholy,” Ben says.
“Wouldn’t you?” Dean replies. “Everything she knows is about to change.”
Dean later shares dinner with Sam in their shared lodgings within the castle. Knights are given rooms in the West Tower of the castle. For the brothers, it’s a home of convenience.
Their father died just four years ago. Traditionally, that would leave the Winchester estate to Dean, as the eldest son. On paper, it’s his to inherit. However, he’s had to leave much of the day-to-day running of it to Sam and their mother, Mary.
For her, the responsibility is nothing new. John’s duty as your day guard had occupied most of his days, as it now occupies Dean’s. Sam and Ben alternate on your evening watch, which allows Sam more time to help Mary with the estate.
Dean is unable to see home as much as he would like, but he’s grateful for evenings like these shared with his brother, before Sam leaves in the morning. He will spend the rest of December at home, while Dean will remain here into the new year.
By now, Dean has bathed and stripped his armor, but he still feels its weight. Or maybe it’s a different sort of burden he feels, weighing on his chest rather than his shoulders. Sam notices, casting his brother a glance as he sips some ale.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Sam says.
“I’m fine,” Dean replies. “Just tired.”
“Tired, or coming to terms?” Sam counters.
It earns Dean’s furrowed brows. “With what?”
“With the fact that things will soon be different, for her and for you,” Sam says. His eyes are knowing, but not unkind.
Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t want to acknowledge everything his brother is implying, so he settles on stating the obvious.
“She has her duty, and we have ours.”
Even on Yule, a crisp twenty-first of December, Dean must serve his watch.
The smell of smoke and spice lingers in the air from roasted meats. The women wear holly in their hair, and families and lovers alike indulge in games and feasting in the dining hall. Many of the knights who live in the castle are given leave to be with their families and friends there, trading stories and laughter, well-wishing and gifts, cinnamon apple tarts and kisses.
Dean lost you in the fray for a few minutes, but he soon finds you after one of your maids points him in the direction of the courtyard. He grabs two mugs of wassails, as well as the fur cape you left inside. He ventures out and finds you in the garden. There you sit on the cold bench and sing a soft kind of melody, the one your mother sang when you were a child.
“Do you mean to wake the trees with a lullaby?” he asks.
A smile flickers at your lips. “I meant it to lift their spirits as well as my own, but I doubt I’ve succeeded.”
He brings you a cup of wassails. “This will warm you.”
His hand brushes yours, and he feels the coldness of your skin. He hesitates just slightly before he holds your hand around the cup, setting down his own. He frowns and sits beside you on the bench.
“How long have you been here? You’re ice-cold,” he says.
“I suppose I have sat here too long,” you acknowledge.
He would like to tease you into a smile, but your unusually dour face discourages him.
“Here,” he says instead. He guides you to your feet and wraps your fur cape around your shoulders. “You could have at least worn this. Please be more sensible, for your own sake.”
“Excuse me?” you frown up at him, even as you take the offered coat. “I’m not a child.”
“I know that. Yet you insist on sitting alone in your melancholy,” he replies, before he could think better of it.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” you snap. “I am sorry that I cannot be cheerful and sensible at all hours of the day. I am sorry if I cannot bring myself to care if I become ill. Maybe in my absent-minded, selfish heart, that will delay the world for a while.”
You drink the wassails he brought you, all in one long gulp. The spiced alcohol goes straight to your head in a heady rush. You suck in a few breaths, and only then do you realize how immature you sound.
Dean’s brows are raised, but he doesn’t censure you again, like you expect. He gives you a nod of respect and busies his hands with retrieving his leather gloves from his pocket and putting them back on, now that yours are warm enough.
“The apology is mine,” he says. “It’s not my place to reprimand you.”
Your heart weakens further. You contemplate your empty cup, tapping a nail on the side.
“The signed letter of agreement arrived from Hallstein this morning,” you reveal. “It’s done. The prince will come for me.”
Dean processes that with new understanding. Before, the arrangement was still an idea. Now it is confirmed.
“My ladies are brimming with excitement, already talking of the wedding preparations. A new life, they say I will have,” you say with a chuckle, despite the tears brimming in your eyes. “I don’t know why it causes me such dread. The man could be perfectly agreeable. Or, he could have a terrible wheeze when he laughs. Or have a disgusting vice, like pipe smoking or gambling.”
“He could have a terribly receding hairline,” Dean adds.
You snort in amusement. “And a furry headpiece to cover it, like Lord Marvin. I do think he had some poor animal skinned for it.”
“I’ve always wondered if it has fleas. He really should invest in a decent wig,” Dean smirks.
He makes you laugh. Laugh through the beginnings of tears.
Dean can’t help treat you gently, his gloved hand reaching up to hold your cheek. Your eyes flick up to him in surprise. He collects your tears with a swipe of his thumb, leather against soft skin. You hold his hand afterward, allowing it to fall gently entwined between you.
“Do you know, I think you may be my only true friend in the world,” you say.
Dean finds that hard to believe. “You are beloved, Princess—by everyone in this place, and in this country.”
“But do they know me?” you counter. You shake your head at the thought. “If I am beloved, it’s only the idea of me. I am beginning to wonder what a royal is in this world, if but a symbol. And what does that symbol truly represent?”
“Hope,” Dean says, after a moment. “And security. Your family makes the people feel safe.”
“Well,” you say, your lips forming a small, but more genuine smile. Your eyes hold a familiar teasing spark. “Then I suppose you are my prince.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say. His brows furrow and his mouth falls open in surprise, along with his hand away from yours.
You hold your laughter behind your hand at that look on his face. You get up to leave him behind in the cold, and in the wake of you.
“Please forgive my teasing. It’s just that your expressions do amuse me, Sir Dean,” you say, still with a certain smile on your face. “Come, let’s venture inside before you become a block of ice there. I doubt your brother will want to thaw you when he returns.”
Dean huffs, shaking his head in annoyance.
You really are a vexing woman.
The day you meet your betrothed goes better than you expected.
The Prince of Hallstein is handsome, you suppose. His frame is tall and lithe, his features angular and distinct, his hair a dark brown, his eyes a lighter blue. There are already marks of distinguished gray in his well-kept beard.
His eyes follow you while you give him a formal greeting, a curtsy that used to strain your neck and back when you were young. Now it feels second nature.
“It’s my honor to meet you, Princess,” Alastair says. “I’ve traveled far to meet you, and the anticipation has only built each day.”
“Then I do hope it’s not a disappointment,” you say.
He bows and kisses the back of your hand, lingering there as he stares up into your eyes.
“On the contrary. You are a rare beauty to behold,” he says. His smile seems genuine, making you smile in return.
Dean stands behind and to the left of you, as always. His face remains stoic, hiding the deeper shadows underneath.
When King Damian volunteers you to host a tour of the castle, Alastair is polite and interested to accompany you. He allows you to explain each room you show him, as well as each bit of history and point of interest in the tapestries and artwork on the walls. He occasionally interjects with a question or two, which allows you to continue explaining what makes this place your home.
“That way is the kitchen,” you point down to the halls that already smell lovely and sweet. “Oh, they must be making pies for this evening. That smells like strawberry and rhubarb, one of Sir Dean’s favorites.”
You give him a smile over your shoulder. Dean keeps his more reserved, noticing how Alastair watches your exchange.
“What is your favorite cuisine, Princess?” Alastair asks.
“Hmm, I’m partial to roast chicken, but I have a weakness for apple tarts. The apples produced in the orchard are lovely.”
“You have orchards here, in the castle?”
“Oh, yes. My mother and I planted them together when I was a child,” you reply. “Now the garden is almost overrun.”
“Then I should like to see it,” Alastair says.
You blink in surprise. “Really?”
“Indeed, I would.”
You never thought the prince would be interested in your garden.
“Well, all right then,” you reply.
You lead the way, with the prince keeping hold of your arm in his.
Dean follows behind.
You and Alastair take a moment to sit beneath your favorite tree, eating a pair of apples with afternoon tea. When he compliments the garden and asks who tends to it, you admit that you help the gardeners almost every day.
“They are a marvel to me. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to grow fruits such as these in Hallstein,” Alastair says. “It snows for most of the year.”
Your attitude deflates. “Oh, really? Does very much grow there?”
“Trees, yes. Potatoes and other necessities, I suppose, but not much else of delight, I’m afraid. The rest we acquire through trade,” he says. “You may not have need to tend a garden, but you will be comfortable in my home. I will see that you have warmer clothes made.”
You fall quiet. You set down your tea, half-finished.
As if sensing your change of mood, Alastair turns to you with a smile.
“Is there anything else I should see of your country?” he asks. “Perhaps another favorite place of yours?”
You’re grateful for the fresh air as the carriage ventures out of the castle bounds and into town. You were beginning to feel stifled.
For once, you’re also grateful to be alone with Margaret. You don’t need to hold yourself so rigidly.
You glance out the window, and there you find Dean and his men on horseback, riding on either side of your carriage. You can’t help but admire your guard. His armor gleams in the sunlight, and there’s a casual, controlled power in the way he rides. In the steady line of his broad shoulders.
It’s the same when he stands or moves; he’s at ease, but he is also ready—to draw his sword, to act. He was well-trained by his father, but you also believe that Dean was born to become what he is. A natural warrior.
He glances your way and gives you a nod, with a slight upward tug of the lips. You smile, holding his gaze for a moment. Then you sit back in your seat. Margaret glances at you curiously.
“What is so amusing as to warrant that expression?” she asks.
“I just love coming to the city,” you reply.
“Why? For cheap trinkets, the crowded streets, or the influx of criminals?”
You laugh. How she exaggerates. “I admire it for what it is, the reality of life.”
“Your life is just as real as theirs,” she points out. “Pain is pain. Joy is joy. The only difference is how you perceive them.”
Your mirth fades. Perhaps there’s some truth in that.
Suddenly the carriage feels stifling as well. You open the small hatch that separates you from the coachman, and you ask him to stop.
“What are you doing?” Margaret asks.
“I need some fresh air,” you reply.
“The air is no fresher out there than it is in here.”
“Come on,” you encourage as the footman opens the door. “After riding so long it’ll be good to stretch our legs.”
“My legs have no need for stretching,” she quips, and is quite content to stay in the carriage where she won’t have to endure the dust and grime of the common road, as well as common people.
Dean dismounts his horse and offers you his hand after the footman helps you out, even as he frowns.
“I wouldn’t recommend stepping out here, Princess. We could soon be overrun,” he whispers to you.
The prince’s carriage behind yours also stops. Alastair wears a look of wary confusion as he steps out to meet you.
“Are we meant to stop here?” he asks. He takes in the storefronts and vendors peddling their wares.
“Yes!” you say. “I would like to show you the city, and this is the largest road where most commerce takes place.”
The prince grimaces in distaste when a nearby fishmonger shouts his way after chopping the head of a tuna. “Fresh fish!”
It doesn’t smell particularly fresh.
“I see,” Alastair remarks.
“Stay close, Princess. Let’s keep moving,” Dean warns. They are drawing spectators, curious eyes recognizing the green and gold banners of the royal carriages. They begin to recognize you as well, excited chatter and spectators stopping in the streets to catch a glimpse of you.
Dean’s left hand rests on the hilt of his sword as he steps in front you, his right hand on his belt. Against his advice, you linger to greet the crowd. It’s not just your attempt to be kind; if this is one of the last times you will get to visit these streets, you want to connect with your people. You want to know them, and you want to be more than a living symbol.
Dean shares warning looks with his men. It’s not often that you’re close enough for the people to touch, and that can inspire undue boldness.
When an excited woman reaches for your arm, Dean steps in between with a censuring word. He and his men try to form a kind of perimeter around you and the prince, but the people begin to crowd them, pushing and shoving to try and speak to you, wishing you well, asking for blessings, or gold, or more salacious things.
In the confusion, you shuffle too close to the horses. Dean hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you toward him when one of the stallions spooks, nearly trampling you.
“Stay close,” he says firmly. “Back to the carriage.”
For once, you concede his point without argument. You nod and try to follow his guiding hand, but he soon becomes distracted when a man tries to break past him and grab the gold chain right off your wrist.
His jaw clenching, Dean rears back his armor-plated elbow into the man’s face.
You lose Dean’s steady grip on your shoulder, as well as your path as you try to find some breathing room from the crowd closing in. The road beneath your feet is dusty and uneven cobblestone. Your heel finds a narrow crack, and a gasp escapes you when you lose your balance.
A man dressed in a dingy brown robe helps you after you stumble, nearly falling in the dirt. You look up and meet a gruff face.
“Get back!” Dean shouts. He and his men continue to push against the teeming crowd.
By the time Dean turns back to find you and make sure you’re all right, he realizes you’re no longer at his side. His eyes widen.
“Princess?”
He calls out to you several times, but he doesn’t find you in the mobbing street or in the carriage with Margaret. The woman rails with worry, but Dean calms her down, promising that he’ll find you.
He mounts his horse again, and his next orders are sharp and exacting for his men.
He commands Jack, a young knight newly entered into the royal order, to blow the horn of warning. The sound carries loudly in the streets. Dean draws his sword and spurs his horse onward through the dispersing crowd.
“Where is the princess?” he shouts. “Speak! The longer it takes, the more severe the punishment will be. That’s a promise.”
Dean’s horse stamps as impatiently, and almost as agitated, as his rider. Her black coat shines in the afternoon light.
Alastair watches the knight from the open window of his carriage, considering and calculating.
Dean oversees his men checking every house, shop, and vendor cart along the busy road, but no one can give a straight answer as to the whereabouts of the princess.
The sun begins to bow toward the horizon, marking Dean’s frustration and growing worry underneath. His chest is tight with failure. How the hell could he have lost you? You were at his side. He had you in his hands…
A young member of the clergy dressed in a humble gray robe steps forward to approach Dean’s horse.
“Apologies, Sir Knight,” he greets, but he beckons Dean to bend closer and receive a quiet message.
“The princess is safe,” he whispers. “She awaits you at the church. Will you follow me?”
Dean’s firm expression lessens slightly in relief. He nods and urges his horse onward.
He finds you, of all things, having tea and shortbread with the friar of the local church. Dean strides in through the large double doors. His boots fall heavy on the tile floor while shards of color—cobalt, red, and gold—hit his back through the stretch of stained-glass windows.
The sanctuary is quiet, with rows of empty wooden pews and wax candles lit along the wall. The smell of incense and smoke linger in the air.
All Dean cares about is the way you sit there peacefully in the first row, sipping from a simple cup. The picture you form is an instant relief, abating the tightness in his chest. But it’s also a little maddening.
You smile at the sight of him.
“Dean! Oh, there you are. You look tired. Here, would you like some tea? Or some cookies. I know you like shortbread—”
“No,” Dean snaps. “I told you to stay by my side.”
You blink up at him in surprise, your smile fading. “I know, I’m sorry. I was struggling in the crowd, but Father Robert found me and helped me.”
After a moment, Dean relents, turning to the other man with a grateful nod.
“Thank you,” Dean says.
Father Robert nods in respect, absently stroking his beard. “It’s no trouble.”
Dean arches a brow though, noticing the other man’s simple brown robes that are still dusty from the road.
“You’re a priest? You’re dressed like a friar.”
Father Robert glances down at his humble clothes and shrugs.
“It’s more comfortable. Easier to get around too.”
Dean tilts his head at that, not really knowing what to make of it. Any priest he’s ever met has been all too happy to remind others of how much closer to God he is, judging by the fine fabric of his robes.
Dean turns to you and more gently offers his hand. You accept, allowing him to help you stand.
You give the clergyman a polite bow of your head.
“Thank you again for your help. You’ve been a gracious host.”
“Think nothing of it, Princess.”
You grace a sincere smile on him. “On the contrary. I shall think quite a lot of it.”
You allow Dean to lead you out of the church. You linger close to his side and wrap your hand around his arm. He holds your hand there, even as he opens the door for you.
Father Robert watches you and the knight with a slight smile crossing his lips.
Once you return to the castle, safely behind its walls and arrived at your chamber door, Dean stiffly bids you goodnight. You hesitate at the door, your fingers poised on the brass knob.
“I’m sorry for not heeding your warnings in the city,” you say softly, “and for not following your directions well enough. I know your duty is to protect me, and I made it more difficult for you to do so.”
His eyes linger on your contrite face, the downturn of your lips. He sighs, letting some of the tension fade from his shoulders. His lingering anger isn’t aimed at you, but at himself.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he says. “It was…ungentlemanly at best. Impertinent at worst.”
He earns your gaze, where he meets you directly.
“Forgive me,” he says.
Only he could say it in a way that demands without demanding. You smile in amusement, but with a warmer note underneath.
“If we were to tally your impertinences, I dare say it would become a novel,” you remark.
He smirks. “At least it would be a novel worth reading.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
With that, he hands off his watch to Ben, who approaches in the hall. Dean is on his way to his lodging in the West Tower when he’s stopped by Prince Alastair.
“Do you have a moment, Sir?” he asks.
Dean is exhausted, starving, covered in dust and grime from the road. The last thing he needs is to be derailed by the prince, who didn’t lift so much as a finger to help his men find you. Dean supposes that sort of chivalry would be too much for a powdered lord.
“How can I be of service?” he says.
Alastair gathers his hands behind his back as he joins Dean more fully in the hall.
“May I ask how long you’ve served as the princess’s guard?”
“Four years,” Dean admits.
Alastair nods. “And your brother shares her night’s watch rotation with Sir Benjamin, doesn’t he?”
“That’s right,” Dean says. Though his brows draw together. “Are you curious about my family, Prince Alastair?”
“I simply want to know the men who protect my future wife,” says the prince. There’s a thoughtful gleam in his eye. “Your father was also a knight, was he not?”
“Yes. He served the princess before me,” Dean replies. Four years ago, his father suffered an attack on his heart. The healers presumed stress to be the cause, as well as the toll of running the family estate while committing to his duty to the Crown.
A man can only serve on two fronts for so long, as one of them said. Dean had nearly served him a blow for it, if not for Sam holding him back.
“For how long?” Alastair asks, disrupting Dean from his thoughts.
“Since she was born,” he replies curtly.
“Ah, so it is a generational profession.”
Dean considers that for a moment. “I suppose it is.”
Alastair briefly smiles. “I’m sure you’re quite fond of her then. You watch over her well.”
Dean hesitates. In those seconds, the prince reads more than words. He reads exactly what he’s suspected throughout the day, and it displeases him. Not that he shows it.
“It’s my duty, Your Highness,” Dean replies.
“Of course.” Alastair nods. And he calculates.
“In that case,” he says, “I do hope you will be joining us in in Hallstein. Your conduct was most impressive this afternoon.”
Dean’s brows furrow slightly. He wouldn’t say that what happened today was a glowing testament to his skills. You slipped out of his grasp much too easily. If it weren’t for the clergymen, you might’ve been trampled by the crowd, or worse. He has to wonder what the prince is getting at.
“It will be as my king commands,” Dean says.
“I understand,” says Alastair. He steps in closer, and his voice lowers a touch.
“On our wedding day, I should like you to stand watch in the evening as well. It would ease my mind a great deal knowing you are just outside the door, should anything transpire,” he says. A slight smile tugs at his thin lips. “Well, anything outside of her marital duties. Do not take all sounds for distress.”
The only reaction that escapes is a tick of Dean’s jaw.
“It will be as my king commands,” he repeats. This time, there lies an undercurrent of steel.
“Yes. Perhaps I will speak with your king,” Alastair says.
Dean finds a way to hold his tongue, and gives the prince a brief nod instead. Alastair’s smile has a touch of winding, like a serpent. He then retires to his guest chambers.
Dean remains in the hall.
Finally, when all is silent, he forces his feet to move. As he goes, his leather gloves cinch tightly into fists.
AN: 😬 cue the Law and Order bell lol. What do we think about Sir Dean and his friendship with the princess? Needless to say, both of them are going to have a very important choice to make, even if their futures seem to be laid out before them here.
Next Time:
The king becomes thoughtful, an idea growing in his mind. “Let us say your brother remains here and continues to serve me. If you were to accompany my daughter to the north, know that I would see to it that your estate is well cared for, including your mother.”
Dean’s brows raise marginally. “How so?”
“With generous funding, of course,” Damian says with a smile. “I imagine the Winchester coffers are far from empty, but if you were to indulge me in this, they will soon be overflowing. I will ensure it is so for generations.”
Dean’s mind spins with fractals of indecision. The choice laid out before him is heavy, pressing on him from what feels like all angles. Damian notices his difficulty, though Dean wonders how much he truly sees.
“That’s too generous, Your Majesty,” Dean says at last.
“It would come at no great cost to me. On the contrary, it would allow me to honor your father once more,” says the king. But he has a shrewd eye, and he sees that Dean still struggles. “Think on it well. I will give you until the day of the wedding to decide.”
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XANDERAINA + oversleeping for work with your partner
pairing: xander van hayes x reina aune (oc)
rating: m
a/n: reina, like one of the canon raina sprites, has albinism. but aside from her appearance, no other aspect of oculocutaneous (skin + eyes) albinism is acknowledged in raina. i myself only found out about the poor visual acuity that can't be corrected, photophobia, nystagmus and other eye-related conditions after accidentally falling down a rabbit hole from my yt rec'd. features barely acknowledged in other rc characters with albinism like amen, or misinformed as in somnus (haven't played hot so i can't speak for vanora). can't expect shit from remy, but pwa having red eyes is a myth (it's caused due to lighting conditions; they usually range from grey to bluish to even violet-hued). both lack of research & picking and choosing which aspects of a disability to 'use' for its perceived aesthetics and discarding all else to not consider and portray is a disappointing side to take. i've researched, talked to pwa, and considered to the best of my ability what differences daily life would involve for them. there's not much to see in this fic as it's from his pov but with reference to all future fics, if anything is still inaccurate or insensitive or could be done better, lmk <3
tags: @rc-catalog
🎧 ethel cain - tongue | ao3
The whole room is held in the sway of the sun when he wakes.
Every cornered tile of the floor lured, walls glazed in guileless light, a hand smoothening the dark, crumpled comforter to coffee-brown. Melting honey under his eyelids.
A low, unintelligible sound escapes his mouth as his eyelids fight the urge to fall back into what was possibly the best sleep of his life, before he wrenches them open with sullen reluctance. His mind is blissfully, bafflingly vacant for a few empty seconds, dust motes raining slow under his sleep-heavy gaze, before memory slams headfirst into him, collapsing all misplaced peace. He's scoffing slightly, even before his mouth curls into an entirely too pleased grin, even as his bare arm rises off his stomach to snuff it out.
They'd stayed up late enough to only huddle under the covers—her scoffing with full pretension as he pulled her into him, tangling their legs, trapping their bodies—when the first blots of muted blue threatened the inky dark. He'd fallen asleep watching dawn-blue climb over the pale light of her hair, listening until she was humming in response to his words that were more breath than meaning. Roused only once, out of all the usual restless chops in his sleep, when she was still close enough to count every murmur of her eyelashes, cheek smushed against his bicep. Pink blushing on her cheeks, gold fanning over his arm. She must've shuffled away in sleep to curl up at the very edge of the bed, nose burrowed into the comforter she'd pilfered overnight, all but for one measly calf of his it stayed loyal to.
Propping himself up on his forearm, Xander twists his torso, leaning over the sleeping figure. His fingers trail the curving strands of dove-white splitting up the face of one Reina Aune, following it down the shadowy hollow of her neck.
He watches the bare hints of her face the puffy comforter gives up, five years falling away in this proximity. Long, thin, snowy lashes curling up, a straight nose offset by a bump, the origin of which he'd have to needle out of her, a tiny scar almost perfectly cradled by her Cupid's bow. He toys with the idea of poking her until that serious, sea-eyed gaze would settle to scowl at him, but opts on getting his own head back into his body before attempting anything else. Rolling off the bed in one smooth motion, steps soundless as he picked off his side of evidence of last night from the floor, he heads for the shower.
It's a testament to how thoroughly last night (or she. Mostly she) had knocked every last thought and responsibility out of his head, had damn near literally knocked both of them out against the doorframe in her rush to get him into his bedroom, totalled everything really, besides that moment and the ravine to her next heady gasp, that it takes the odd sight of sun-drenched tiles under his feet, so wholly different from the harsh overhead lighting that greeted him for his everyday early morning training, to quietly hint at the fact that morning might be a little bit of a stretch now, and naturally what follows is that he's inexcusably late for work.
Well.
Whatever. Probably for the best, considering what greeted him in the mirror.
The hair that he'd never had any particular trouble with, demanding nothing more than a casual rake through to be deemed presentable enough, now pointed in ten different directions, pulled apart by her willful hands, shoving him down to exactly where she needed him, wrenching so hard the sting radiated for a few mindless seconds. His eyes are shining, mouth swollen, a slash of deep red over his bottom lip, from where she'd bite down, again and again for every time he refused to move through the night. His body is kissed by red and violet, violent, teeth marks next to his navel shooting a dizzy aftershock.
He could still smell her on his fingers as he raised the toothbrush to his mouth.
She'd backed him against the door the second the deadbolt slid home, mouth seeking his, metal digging into his hip. Prepared, maybe, for retaliation, but not for the sheer force of it, the insistence of his body coming down on her, sending her staggering back into a distortion of a dance they'd once shared, his feet between hers, orchestra of siphoned breaths, his shadowed walls the mutely sighing audience. Waiting, wanting for her to trip up and lose, so that he could pull her up and into him. She never did. He'd expected as much.
Paying no mind to the frenzied frustration with which she'd been trying to yank his shirt off, and equally unbothered by the buttons of her top dancing off his hand as he snapped it open, the haze blew over softly when his shin hit the edge of his bed. He pulled away abruptly, a dull ache resounding.
Reina blinked, dazed, rising above water, eyes shaking rapidly when they catch onto his. Standing there in a faded black bra and washed jeans low on her hips, standing close enough to get drunk off his body heat alone, without his hands touching and teasing and taking… Her eyes narrowed sharply. Xander's smirk widened.
Palm flat against his bare chest, she shoved him back experimentally, brow creasing when he fell back onto the bed readily, catching himself on his hands. A frown that didn't cease when his ankles bent behind hers, nudging her forward between the cage of his legs. His hands banded around her hips, greedy and helpless, transfixed by the sight of his fingers too hot even to himself, stark against her bare stomach. He heard himself whisper in a low, luring tone. ‘So? What now?’
Eyes drawn to the faint mole beside her navel his fingertips were just barely grazing, he continued talking. ‘Mm, Reina, don't tell me you were too overcome to plan ahead…’
He tilted his head up, forcing her burning, warring gaze down on him, catching the forceful swallow of her throat, as his fingers dipped under the waistband of her jeans, pulling back and snapping the thin material of her underwear against her skin, savouring her minute jolt.
He couldn't help the ease of his smile. To know him well enough to sense any illusion of acquiescence was only burying her deeper, but still helpless to how. And isn't that why she was still here?
‘-never not taking it, or else you wouldn't have ended up here in the first pla- ah!’
His low laugh was cut short by his own hiss as she climbed onto his lap, neither aiding nor easing the mounting pressure tugging low at his abdomen. Only for his body to go limp in relief, leash knotted around those cool fingers roving over his shoulders. He liked her solidness, the feral tenacity with which she sought her weight against him, the heedless spill of her breasts out of that low bra, to grope and to bruise. He liked how she touched him like she already owned him, sliding her palms down his chest with that same immovable will he’s been chafing at for years now, with no hesitation, as if she'd mapped out the contours of his body in her mind so many times all that was left was for her hands to follow.
But oh, then she'd pause. Look up through her lashes, meet his eyes, watch his reaction. Only for him to level a slow, half-lidded smirk at her, through the blood rush thundering in his ear, making a languid, magnanimous gesture. ‘Don't hold back on my account. Go on, sweetheart. I know you can touch me harder than that.’
Her hips had rolled harshly, punishingly against him for that, whether in response or reward, his groan that shot up couldn't say. As her hand slid up his neck, palm clamping so tight over his mouth, it tugged his head back with the sheer pressure of her hold, she muffled her own whimper by sucking a mean mark into the base of his throat. He'd bit the fingers held over his mouth because he could.
Tongue hot as it trailed higher up his neck, Reina shook free of the hard grip he'd been clenching into her hair, and leaned forward her entire body weight over him, forcing him back down, flat.
Xander had taken the chance to shift his knee between her legs, watching for the flush lining her cheeks, sweat blooming at her temples as her hips rocked slowly against him, biting harshly at her lip to keep quiet. When her panting broke words, she fell forward, her hands curving around his jaw only almost tenderly, pale hair veiling them and blurring the edges of light so all that he saw and knew was Reina, Reina, Reina. Her nail caught the edge of his scar, winding over his eye and cheek, tracing, trailing, decidedly possessive. Marking the last moment either of them had their senses about them.
Hovering above him with half-lidded eyes and kiss-bruised lips, Reina gazed at him a moment with a curiously inscrutable expression. And then leaned down, tilting his head, forcing his jaw open, to spit clean onto his tongue. He'd lost the last of his coherent thoughts after that.
It was impulse after impulse then, Xander muses, as he fiddles with the shower knobs. All the images he'd hoarded over five years, strung together to light a hazy appetite. The strip of bare skin peeking from under her blouse, from how low she (and he, while the honesty lasts) liked her jeans on her hips, rising to hint at how soft her stomach would be, how easy to put his teeth to. Sunlight rousing through his office window to clasp her thighs, long legs crossed loosely, ankles tapping restlessly. She'd had to hold back her gaze at the gala, when the chandeliers were glaring at each other like a prism nightmare, which served a double purpose from watching the line of her neck, the silver-lit trail down her cleavage, to feeling her skin heat helplessly as he'd pushed for closer, more.
The real thing which unfurled on his tongue so much sweeter, with so much more savour: the skin of her inner thigh so sensitive, his fingers trailing up had made her jerk so sharply, he'd had to hold them open with a bruising grip to angle his mouth, thigh trembling and jerking violently in his grasp. The muscles of her stomach tensing, contracting, breathing for his barest touch. The vivid, wet flush over her chest, rising up her neck, ear, higher, higher. Taking him so well, eyes glazed and eyelids slipping, lips swollen and mouth slack, neck arching back into the pillow. Such a welcome change from her usual tense features.
His hand around her jaw, thumb cutting into her incisor, his fingers slick with spit as the other dug into her hip, chasing a clutched gasp for every hard drive of his hips. Feeling her leg kick out. Savoring every time he got her so good a loud, startled moan loosed free. Discovering what made Reina tick went to his head in a way nothing else but she did. He could barely remember what he'd been babbling into her ear, stoppered by a groan or a grunt he couldn't rein in, only that he couldn't stop, control abandoning him so terrifyingly, dizzyingly, deliciously.
Xander hisses when the hot stream of water unfurls from the showerhead and rushes down to meet his back. The deep scratches she'd raked in last night radiate a pleasurable sting, as he closes his eyes and leans forward to rest his forehead against the wall.
She'd been clawing at his back, features folded into an expression he'd never seen before but now served as a great incentive—teeth clutching at her lower lip to hold back a frustrated growl, eyes so sweetly sulky and threatening every time they met his, as if still holding out hope they could sway him to her will.
Ignoring his own gnawing need to just fucking move, Xander had paced himself agonizingly slow, leaning over her with his sweat-raked hair falling into his eyes, shallow thrusts that served no purpose beyond torment for either of them, only to follow it up with a bout of quick, sharp rutting that left her gasping, quiet ah-ah-ahs, nails piercing the back of his neck, eyes fluttering up and then rolling back entirely.
He'd grabbed her jaw then, tilting her head back down, forcing her dazed eyes to his, making a disapproving little noise from the back of his throat. ‘I thought I'd asked you to keep your eyes on me, doll.’
Reina smiled dimly, a glint in her eye through the damp strands pinned to her face by sweat. ‘Then do something.’
He matched it for a moment, a gentle smirk as his hand trailed up her knee, then smacking her thigh hard, giving no reprieve as he brought his hips down deeper, talking through her strangled noise. ‘That feel good?’
She hesitated for a second. Before curling her hands over the nape of his neck and pulling him closer. ‘You feel good,’ she mumbled drunkenly.
A current up his spine, and then he was leaning down, slotting his mouth so sloppily against hers it was more spit than real kissing.
Xander could hardly remember the last time he slept with somebody, odd scrappy flashes from an unmemorable gala, the gleaming smile the woman he'd shared a dance with had thrown him by the end of the night, to the unsurveilled corner they'd landed up in. Someone who'd been just as eager to wipe his existence along with the evidence, cold rushing in as the harsh buzz of her zipper cut through the night with finality.
That'd been a lifetime ago; the person who'd emerged out of the wildlands with an eye forfeited for a fate in the air, with a saviour sunken in unfathomably murky depths was someone who would scrape the edges of the mold he'd once built himself into raw.
Another body turned to far too much trouble for its worth. (Moreover, he'd been a little preoccupied with a different kind of bodies.) Not when he could deal with it himself, without the messy ordeal unpredictability brought like a lit match to his fuse. Neatly allocated to the shower, so that he could move onto other matters. With the occasional… help. It snuck up on him, when he'd never particularly balanced a certain image in his head before. Long, slender fingers, clenched tight in anxiety, curled around a glass, the firmness of their grip… He let himself go until the image of her hands were superimposed over his, squeezing with exactly the pressure he liked, and only that modestly far, not missing whatever pile of problems picturing her wet and naked and gazing up at him would unleash on his head. (He wouldn't say he was afraid.)
Deeming the steam fogging his eyes as more than enough to put off work anymore, he shuts off the water, tucking a towel around his hips as he sought out his usual ensemble of a black shirt and cargo pants.
Buckling the belt he'd found looped over the arm of his desk chair, he strides back to his living room to hopefully be greeted by the sight of the uniform jacket he'd overlooked the first time. It's quiet as ever, even the sunlight unobtrusive as it washes over the plain dark edges of the furniture with warmth. A sight natural enough to pass by without notice, but for the minute disruptions his eyes seek out like a compulsion. A glass out by the sink, joined by another. The bar stool off its mark by a few inches. The messenger bag nestled into a black trenchcoat strewn by the door.
The woman still dead asleep in his room.
Five years, he thinks, marveling at the time eaten up in a flash, as he bends to pick it off the floor. Disappearing so blamelessly, nothing but natural to let her sleep in on a weekday. To imagine a time where he didn't know the feel of her skin, the taste of her gasping, even if only yesterday, seemed like a walking into a world where something familiar was misplaced and misconstructed, buildings plucked out of streets and screwed into others, an off kilter city.
Reina… he'd been thinking of her for so long. Was it unconscious wanting all this time?
The more he submerges into thought, the more unreal it seems to grow, fleeing from his hands like the end of a dream. He wants to touch her again. Over and over, until he had her memorized, until he could get whatever he wanted out of her. His hands to know before his mind could catch up.
He's always been a quick study, but especially when what was doled out to him if he did good was the promise of her desperate keening. Not that she'd demurred either, shoving him down to where she needed him, guiding him when she was too pent up to tease, fingers hard on his head, yanking harshly with no regard when she was close, gasping and squirming.
He knows enough, sure, but he wants to learn more, do better. See what could make her twinge, longer, harder, faster. If she'd be louder. He's never once been content with mediocrity, and he's not about to start now, not when there's such a prize to it.
With all this whirling lazily in his head, the prospect of sitting at his desk and going through those damn reports while she was lazing around in his shirt, on his bed, when the alternative is sliding his shirt down lower on her shoulder and seeing how fast he could have her making that noise again—carelessly tossing the towel he'd been running through his hair over the back of a chair, he drops himself down on the side of the bed—is insanity.
His pretty, pretty Reina. Angelic, with the sun combing through her hair.
He traces the slant of sunlight through her hair with the barest touch, contemplating waking her. It would be so easy to slide his hand under the blanket, slide his hand up her thigh. His fingers twitch, already mapping the softness of her skin, how much pressure he'd have to dip into the bruises his teeth kissed for her to hiss out a noise, and higher still for her head thrown back.
Surprising himself (a little? surprising himself in how it doesn't surprise him), he does none of that. Only studies her for a slow minute.
Reina has slept under his eye so unthinkingly only once before. (The car ride with her head leaning against the window frame, wind tangling in her hair as she dozed, cap slung low over her face to block the sunlight doesn't count when she'd pushed herself as far from him as possible.) In the half-light of the bunker, curled up with her arm against her face, claiming the bed across the one she'd tossed him in. On the rare occasions the agony let up enough for him to attempt at consciousness, he'd blinked his good eye open and watched the light play over her hair. Thought of her, wild animal eyes. Warning… luring… He remembered thinking nonsensically he should be careful as the pain swiftly pulled him under.
She'd always slept facing him, as if she could still keep watch with her eyes closed, mind so far away he couldn't guess at it. Had it been weeks? Months? Farther than that, he didn't want to guess. He was either dozing or biting out nonsense through the undulating pain, but she still looked at him like a spectre. She didn't seem very impressed, but she watched him anyway.
Xander smoothens a thumb over the ghost of a tense furrow between her brows, and watches her back.
Reina has always been classified under unfinished business in his head, mind circling, striving for a way in or out. Pulling at him endlessly, obsessively. A spool from which the more he tugged at, the more aware he was of the lack, the gap. She refused to leave his mind, and even he himself couldn't tell what the hell he wanted out of her, only more, again. Closer.
A realization which is a little more difficult to toss to the back of his head when it is quite literally staring him in the face, that no matter where she goes or what shatters between their feet, he's not capable of letting her go.
Nothing seems enough. Even now, having had her in some tangible way, proof of possession painted stark over her body needing only one firm tug of his hand to unveil, something inside him keeps twitching, pacing. Watching her sleep so peacefully, he has the urge to knock his teeth into hers and pull her under all over again.
‘Reina, Reina…’ he calls softly, hand dipping to brush her cheekbone. ‘What do you think you're doing to me?’
His mouth curls at the lack of response. ‘Still so sleepy…’
He leans down, mindless, thoughtful, brushing his lips lightly over the soft skin at her ear where baby hairs curled. She doesn't stir an inch. Jerking aside the comforter none too lightly, he reimburses with a chaste kiss dropped to her collarbone. No response. His finger hooks into the neckline of his shirt, tugging low, lower, until the softly bruised swell of her chest comes to view. His lips ghost over the erratic red marks let slip, gently dragging the tip of his tongue along. A hand slides into his damp hair, and he muffles a smile against her skin.
Pulling back slightly, he reaches for a kiss smugly, murmuring, ‘Woke you right up, hmm?’ to a sleep-mussed Reina, whose first order of business was to stretch languorous as a cat, tipping her head back at the last moment, and leaving his face mushing against her neck. She's warmer than ever, freshly delivered from a cocoon of blankets, and his eyes slip shut as he nuzzles into the sweet curve lazily, hazy under her scent.
Before he could be tempted down a very different path for his afternoon to take (and by virtue tempt her down), he draws away to his original seat, narrowing his eyes at her playfully, mock-affronted. ‘What, no kiss? I'll have to work harder to impress an expert like you, huh?’
Reina doesn't bother replying, concerned with languidly pulling herself up instead. His shirt slides down her shoulder as she sits up, muffling an incoming yawn with the back of her hand, and accepting her glasses from his hand with the other. A dusky violet bruise stars the pale edge of her shoulder, from when she'd slammed her arm against the doorframe in the dark, too busy shoving him back in to remember warning. She slips on her glasses, and patting down errant strands on her head, a wispy white wildfire through the sun, squints at him through the thin silver frame. And her first words are: ‘Why are you dressed?’
Predictably, his first response is to burst out laughing.
She scowls, rolling her eyes, surely the only superpower he's seen manifest in her, looking like she was already regretting waking up. ‘You know what I meant-’
‘Yeah, yeah. Duty calls. Reports to go through. If you'd expected breakfast in bed, then sorry to disappoint, darling.’ A familiar smirk lightens his features. ‘Although I’m sure I can think of something you'd like…’
His tongue peeks out to wet the cut on his lower lip, watching her eyes track the movement, looking like she was contemplating splitting it open again. A beat, and then he waves a hand carelessly, kicking them both out of their reverie. ‘I’ll drop you off, and we can get whatever you like on the way. My treat.’
Whatever else he isn't sure of, this he knows: she's not going to just simply agree so easily. But he wasn't exactly expecting the mirthless, almost cruel smile that touches her mouth faintly, before dying to a grim line.
‘Eager to get me out of your house, aren't you? Finally worrying about that bullet in your head?’ Her voice lacks all the venom the question hoards, drawn out quiet and soft by the morning.
Her inexperienced taunt takes a second to land. His mouth twists sharply when it does, the untouched bliss of the morning shot through by the conflicting whirlwind of emotions the Lang incident always dredged up. An outcome he should've foreseen, a man he shouldn't have written off, or himself he shouldn't have overaccounted his genius for. He'd run every possible thread frayed, ripped into every scenario and possibility in the days that followed, trying to reconstruct it into something that made sense, to touch base again—what he always did. Running everything front to back, back to side, shaping a loop to slip through. Except this time…
Irritated at being reminded of his colossal fuckup, much less by the woman who lost him both his business and herself, he tamps it down slow, slowly. Levels his temper enough to scoff at her, rolling his eyes. ‘Oh, come on, Reina. You can't still be mad about that when I’m being so sweet. What about how I’m making it up to you, hmm?’
‘Waffles for half a decade of blackmailing might be a bit of a loss on my side.’ She rolls her eyes, then sighs quietly, shoulders slumping as the fight seeps out of her quick as rain. Lowering her eyes to the creased sheets, she thumbs an old cut on her hand absently. ‘I just want to go back to sleep.’
Xander pauses (shame. He would've loved to needle her at a worn diner booth), watching her a moment, before brushing a quick kiss over the wrist he lifts and drops in a single breath. ‘Sure. It's well deserved rest after yesterday.’ He continues, ‘There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry. Heat it up, though I believe it's my responsibility to mention if you try setting my kitchen on fire, there's a good chance of you meeting the same fate.’
‘I'll make sure to remember that,’ she replies drily.
He makes no move to get up. Maybe even leans in slightly. ‘Now aren't you honoured? Spending the night and morning with me, in my bed, personally fed by me… not many can brag about that, you know.’
‘I don't think that's what personally- many?’ Her nose wrinkles. Suddenly much more awake, she throws him a nasty once over. ‘Pick a better lie.’
‘You never know,’ he replies sweetly.
She falls quiet, eyes unfocusing behind those glasses. Oddly alluring, somehow…
Knee-deep into scheming how to get her into them while she's out of everything else (his office desk of some use finally?), he jerks imperceptibly when he feels her calf drag slowly against the side of his thigh. Higher… just enough pause for his mouth to ready into a slow smirk as her foot is shoved firmly into his chest.
Reina leans back against the headboard, fingers raking through the tangles in her hair, eyes fixed, as she presses down harder, dragging slowly, firmly over his abdomen, lower… before shifting to lay gently side by side against his hip.
Xander catches it in motion, hand curling deliberately loose around her ankle, thumb stroking the jut of bone. He drawls slowly, ‘You're winning, Reina.’
He looks up, hand gliding over her calf, the junction between her knee, that tendon… Her thigh tenses as his hand slides higher, pausing close and far, searing into her skin, meeting her eye. ‘Isn't that what you like hearing?’
He tilts his head. She matches it, brow quirking ever so slightly in challenge.
He could push her leg up so easily. So easily. One move. Push her leg up to her chest and bury his face between her legs, make her cry out, keen, yank on his hair, lose herself. He could hear that strangled little whimper again. His fingertips dig into giving flesh… and he rises abruptly to his feet.
Reina almost snaps her head from how sharply she cants it to his side, eyes following him like a whip. His palm is on her neck before she could speak, savouring the frantic pickup of her pulse as it curves slowly around her jaw, tilting her head up. She goes, not yielding, but willing, so smoothly and completely in tune with his body, his stomach drops slightly in sheer pleasure. Her lips part, he knows to bite into his thumb if not for the pressure he was holding her face so carefully with, so preciously... A beat. And then she yelps, pulling back from his hand sharply as he ruffles the hair she'd been painstakingly smoothening from the moment she'd woken up roughly.
With the cadence of her scathing swearing in an unfamiliar language a background hum to the lacing of his boots, he manages to actually make it out the door for work.
Swinging his keys around his finger, he calls out a ‘Don't miss me too much’ as goodbye as the door slams shut.
The sun lands an immediate, direct assault on his eyes as he traces the usual path to his car. But there's no consolation to sell himself in his head today, for the hours bleeding drop by drop in that dump of an office, no need for it. He wants to see her again already. Be with her. The day will drift by then.
Summary: You both were bid to obey: for king and country, heart or duty. A familiar story, and a cruel verse. In the turn of one season, you would be wed to serve your royal house, but not to the man who guarded your heart.
AN: Oh, I'm excited about this one! Requested by the lovely Liane - @chevroletdean - over on Patreon, this is of course a Royal AU. ⚔️ 💖 It's loosely based on my love for The Princess Bride and The Lord of the Rings — and I rewatched both while I was writing this!
Series Tags & Warnings: (18+) Royal/Medieval AU, friends to lovers, protective Dean, arranged marriage, smut, fantasy elements
Canon characters featured: Sam and Dean, John and Mary, Castiel, Benny (as "Ben/Benjamin"), Alastair, Jack, Gabriel, and Bobby Singer (as "Father Robert")
♬.ᐟ Listen while you read:
᯽ Classic: Lord of the Rings Ambience: “Aragorn & Arwen”
🜲 Nostalgic: “Storybook Love” by Mark Knopfler (from The Princess Bride)
⟡ Modern: “imagine” by Ben Platt
Chapters:
᯽ Part 1 - Omens in the Afternoon
Read now on Patreon! ⟡ Coming to Tumblr: Jan. 11
᯽ Part 2 - Shades of Weary Night
Read on Patreon: Jan. 2 ⟡ Coming to Tumblr: Jan. 18
᯽ Part 3 - A Sudden Dawn
Read on Patreon: Jan. 9 ⟡ Coming to Tumblr: Jan. 25
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The War Is Almost Over… but Our Struggle to Rebuild Has Just Begun.
Every day here in Gaza feels like a year carved into our chests. The war isn’t like it was in the early days—the sky is quieter, the air carries less smoke, and the nights hold fewer explosions. But the pain… it still lives under the rubble, inside our memories, and in the empty spaces where our loved ones once stood.
I’m writing this today not because the war has completely ended, but because for the first time in a long while, it feels like the horizon is opening a little. A small space where we can breathe, gather ourselves, and try to rebuild what’s left of our lives.
Yet every step forward feels like walking on wounded memories, and every stone from our destroyed home whispers stories we never got to finish.
We lived through nights so heavy we thought morning would never come. We lost things that can never be replaced—homes, dreams, pieces of our hearts.
But we are still here… holding on, trying, fighting to stay standing despite everything.
And in the middle of this long road… there is a house. A house that once carried laughter, warmth, noise, and life.
Today, all that remains is an image holding a memory—and rubble longing for the people who once lived inside.
Today, we are trying to rebuild—not just the walls of a house, but an entire life that was shattered.
We are trying to create a new beginning, to live with dignity again, to give our family a sense of safety that we’ve been missing for so long.
We’re not writing this to mourn what was lost, but to ask for a chance to start again.
We ask for your support because rebuilding after a war is not something one person can do alone—it is a human effort, a shared act of compassion.
We need you.
We need your hearts.
We need your help to stand again.
My name is Abedmajed Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with what remains of my once large and loving family.
Because Gaza has no working banking system, we use my brother U.S. Stripe account to safely process donations for our family. Nothing is hidden — every dollar goes where it should. We are ready to show proof of anything, at any time.
Every contribution—no matter how small—makes a difference.
It becomes part of our story, part of rebuilding a home, part of reviving a life that nearly faded.
The war may be almost over… but our journey back to life begins now.
🌿✨
Thank you to every soul who still feels our pain, and to everyone who reaches out a hand to help us rise again.
