Winchester Whiskey

She/Her | 22 | Aussie

[winchester-whiskey]

Do I try writing it myself?

[winchester-whiskey]

Who do I have to pay to write an ArthurTV x reader Legally Blonde au?? 👀😃

[nicemices]

"I asked ChatGPT" well I asked Rupert Giles and he sighed and took off his glasses and started cleaning them

[undressyouwithmyeyes]

Just a thought but Arthur and reader getting little couples tattoos (like a king and queen chess piece)…

Love your writing btw 🫶🫶🫶

CHECKMATE — ARTHUR FREDERICK ┊ ➶ ｡˚  °𖥔 ݁ ˖

notes: thought this was cute so here’s a little dabble also shld i post an arthurtv smut? feels like i haven’t written a smut in ages.

summary: while filming an ep for the bachandarthur podcast, isaac notices a new little tattoo on arthur’s arm.

masterlist | @emoriatv @smzyyx @bambilenny @livvytv @pookietv @thankyoulovely @buttlesbunnie @lenneyswhore @ghostwrittenbygrace @youdontknowmeyet2 @writer-jamie

“what’s that on your arm?” isaac asks, halfway through the podcast episode, voice casual. arthur glances down. hesitates. “oh..–uh.” he tugs his sleeve a little higher. clean ink. simple lines.

a chess king, just above his bicep.

isaac squints. “that’s new.”

“yeah,” arthur says, smiling at the desk. “got it recently.” there’s a beat. then isaac grins. “that feels… significant.”

arthur laughs, a small hint of nervousness in his voice. “does it?”

arthur picks up his phone and taps the screen twice without thinking, thumb moving on muscle memory.

the screen lights up. isaac leans over instinctively — and freezes.

because there it is.

two arms, side by side.

his king. someone else’s queen. matching. intentional. isaac looks up slowly. “arthur.” arthur’s ears go pink. “yeah.?” “you wanna explain that to the listeners?” arthur glances at the cameras. then at the lock screen again, softer now. ”not yet.”

isaac smiles, wide and knowing. “fair enough.” arthur locks the phone. clears his throat.

“anyway—moving on.”

but somewhere far from the studio, you’re probably doing your own thing, unaware that the softest boy on the internet just accidentally told the world he’s already lost the game.

king or not—

the queen’s already won.

[softbratxoxo]

Reblog this if it’s okay to DM you and shoot the friendship shot.

[yourlocalcringydaydreamer]

If I like but don’t reblog your fic, it’s cuz that’s how I save it for myself to read later. I promise I’ll reblog it when I have time to read it. (And if I still don’t reblog, it’s cuz it got lost in my likes, and trust me, I’m just as sad about it as you are)

[se7entyrell]

easy silence

(bradley bradshaw x reader)

When a car accident leaves you with custody of your three younger siblings, your world crumbles. Navigating your own grief, funeral arrangements, and the children depending on you - it feels like there's no way out. But if there's one thing Bradley Bradshaw knows about, it's loss. A new position brings him back to San Diego, and back into your life right when you need it most. (from this anon request)

warnings: parental death, angst, hurt/comfort, sad dad bradley, w/c: 10k

for my 1k follower celebration! thank you so much to everyone who's ever read and supported my fics <3

It’s been seven hours since your parents died. Seven hours since the truck collided with your dad’s Chevrolet, on a freeway just two miles from your childhood home. They had been going out for dinner, their first night alone since the twins had been born.

They were stopping off at The Hard Deck to drop a birthday present off for Maverick, neighbour and long-time friend, before heading across town to hit the new Thai place that had just opened up.

At least, that’s what the babysitter had told the cops.

Your mom had been coming to visit you in San Francisco just next weekend. Want some time with my biggest girl, she’d said. Especially since we haven’t been around much recently, what with Olivia and Molly.

But now they’re gone, and your entire childhood resides only in your memory.

Never again will you go to a concert with your dad, continually teasing about his teenage girl taste, and the fact that you’re pretty sure he likes Lana Del Rey more than you do. You’ll never have coffee with your mom, gossiping about distant family members who neither of you have seen in years.

In a single instant, life has become abstract - you’re not sure who you are without them. You’re not even sure you want to find out.

The traffic’s slowed down, now that it’s after midnight. You’ve been driving since you got the news, knuckles white as you grip the steering wheel.

One second you were applying lipstick, getting ready to head out for a date. You’d met the guy on Hinge, and it was unlikely to go anywhere, but you’d been trying to force yourself to get back in the game. It felt like all your friends were starting to settle down, find their person. You’ve not had much luck on that front. Three months here, six months there - it never went anywhere.

You weren’t committal enough. Too unwilling to change. You’d heard it all.

Now all you can think about is your horrifically inappropriate shade of lipstick, and the fact that you’re never going to see your mom again.

You think you might be sick.

*****

You had been an accident. And unfortunate, but indisputable fact. Sure, your parents loved each other - but they certainly weren't planning for a baby at eighteen.

Fresh out of high school, they’d made the best with what they had - a tiny house in the San Diego suburbs, all while scrambling to find jobs. It’s a decision that would forever intwine your lives with the Bradshaw family.

Living in the slightly better house at the end of the street, Nick and Carole Bradshaw were approximately a year ahead of your family. Eleven months earlier, they’d had Bradley, and while they were slightly older than your parents, they were very much all in the same boat.

You don’t have many memories of Nick. Dying just after Bradley’s fourth birthday, you were barely even three. The last time you’d seen him had been at Bradley’s party - you’d spent the entire last hour perched on his shoulders, giggling as he chased Bradley around the back garden.

He seemed like a good man. A good husband. A good father.

But life went on, and your parents stayed incredibly close with Carole. Eventually both of you moved to another neighbourhood in San Diego, beside Bradley’s godfather Maverick, and his wife and stepdaughter, Penny and Amelia.

Things were good.

You don’t remember exactly when you became aware of your parents trying for another baby. There had been vague references to getting a sibling throughout your childhood, but when nothing ever came to fruition, you just shrugged it off. Bradley didn’t have any siblings, and neither did you. You didn’t need siblings when you had each other.

Each day was spent in your backyard or the Bradshaw’s, playing make-believe until you were exhausted.

Even in the throes of puberty, where Bradley was finding his footing in high-school, while you were still in middle school, he’d always make time for you. Would never let his cooler, older friends make fun of you, or make you feel less than.

You’re sure he must have caught his own flack for it, but he didn't let you see it.

Your teenage years passed, and still no sibling. Eventually, words like ‘infertility’ and ‘IVF’ began to get thrown around. Suddenly, nights when your mom was inconsolable became far more understandable.

It seemed like you were meant to be a three-person family.

Finally, they got Adam. Born three months before your twenty-first birthday - the jokes had made themselves.

It had been the last round of IVF they were going to have. It was too taxing, emotionally and physically, to keep going. Especially when you were coming of an age where you might want your own kids in a few years. Your parents didn’t want your kids to have aunts and uncles their own age.

You loved Adam. You did. You do. It’s just always been quite difficult to bond with a kid twenty years your junior. You were across the country at college for all of his major milestones, barely seeing your parents, nevermind anyone else.

It was also at this point that you lost contact with Bradley.

He’d joined the Navy, hellbent on following in Nick Bradshaw’s footsteps after Carole’s death. You wrote occasionally, sent Christmas and birthday cards, but it was never like it used to be.

That had been enough for your parents. Your family complete, mom and dad content with a son and a daughter.

If the cards had fallen differently, Adam might have been your only sibling.

Against every single odd, your mother found out she was pregnant again on her forty-second birthday. After fifteen years of fertility treatments, they conceived naturally just two years after stopping trying.

Oh how funny the universe can be.

Shock had quickly multiplied when the first ultrasound scan showed twins. You wanted to be happy for them. Really, truly. Your parents were finally getting the big family they’d once dreamed of.

You just wished it didn’t feel like you were being replaced in your own home. Your childhood bedroom had been immediately converted to a nursery, like there was no longer a place for you.

You understood. After some tears, you came to the conclusion that if losing your bedroom in a city you didn't live in was the worst thing in your life, you should be grateful. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt a little.

Visits thinned, relegated to holidays and summers, even after college. You moved back to the West Coast, opting for San Fran over Diego, and life has been fine. A little boring, not so great on the dating end, but fine. When you’d hoped for a change, this had certainly not been what you were wanting.

At least the kids are okay. A brief reprieve amongst the chaos. You’ve been on the phone to Maverick - he and Penny are staying with them until you make it there.

“Bradley’s here too.”

There was a name you hadn’t heard for a while.

You're not even sure when you thought about him last.

The roads start to blur together, until finally you're on your street. You haven't been home since Christmas.

The door opens as you pull into the driveway. You half-thought the tears would come as soon as you saw the house, but everything seems dry.

Bradley steps out, making his way over to you. He pauses for a second, allowing you to make the decision, before you throw yourself into his arms. His hands settle on your waist, and you let out a small sob as you bury your face into the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” He murmurs, voice deeper than you remember. With all his deployments, the last time you saw him was Christmas a few years ago. His first after Carole had died.

Other than the occasional Instagram post, you have no idea what he’s up to these days. You hadn’t even known he was even living in San Diego again.

He looks good. Really good. Sporting a moustache that would look ridiculous on anybody else, he’s filled out in a way that makes your throat constrict slightly. The Navy has served him well.

“A-are the kids okay?”

“Penny and Mav put them to bed,” He replies. “The twins are fine, but uh… Adam was pretty upset. He knew something was going on from the babysitter - we wouldn’t have told him straight away otherwise, but things were so confused, and-”

“Thank you,” You whisper, pulling back. “For being there for them. I-I didn’t even know you were in town.”

“For the past few months. Moved into mom’s house.” He gestures at the near identical house next door.

It’s a horrible club to be joining. That of the dead parents. But the smallest, most selfish part of you is endlessly relieved that he knows how you feel. How he might be the only one who does.

“Was the drive okay?”

“Hm?” You murmur, distracted by the windows upstairs. So many memories flash through your mind - sneaking out to go to parties with Bradley at sixteen, sitting and stargazing with your dad on the 4th of July. Or that time Bradley fell trying to climb up, and had been in a cast all summer.

“The drive? You must be exhausted.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m okay,” You dismiss, making shaky steps into the house. It looks exactly as you remember it. Mav and Penny sit in the living room, faces grave. After Nick, and then Carole, you can tell they’re vastly unprepared to bury another set of friends.

“Oh, kid,” Maverick begins, wrapping you in a hug. “I’m sorry.”

Something about Maverick’s embrace, the way he cups your head against him reminds you painfully of your dad. “I-I don’t know what to do,” You cry. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Don’t worry about any of that right now,” Penny breathes, tears staining her own cheeks. “We’ll help you with whatever you need.”

A glass of water is pushed into your hand, a kiss pressed to your head, and you’re sat in the living room.

Chat is stilted, dancing around the obvious, and soon you begin to insist that they all head home, get some sleep. If it weren’t for the fact that they’re a maximum of fifty meters away at any given time, you’re not sure you would’ve been able to convince any of them to leave.

It’s only when you agree to Mav and Bradley coming over in the morning to help with arrangements, while Penny helps with the kids, that they filter out.

Soon, you’re alone, and the tears return in waves.

Choked sobs that had hidden themselves in the presence of others, now nearly bringing you to your knees.

This isn’t right.

Your dad should be on the couch, watching Cheers re-runs, while your mom knits and pretends that she isn’t watching (she always is).

The kids upstairs should have a real adult looking out for them. Not a girl, barely out of grad-school, who regularly forgoes breakfast because she can’t be bothered making it for herself.

You get very little sleep that night - wandering through to the kid’s rooms every hour or so to make sure they’re okay. Outside of the occasional babysitting gig as a teen, you have no idea what to do with anyone under the age of ten. You opt for the couch in your parent’s bedroom, rather than their bed.

Still unmade from the night before, you don’t think you can bring yourself to sleep in it just yet. It still smells of your mom’s shampoo, your dad’s aftershave.

It’s such a strange sensation, to be somewhere that should be so familiar. Instead, it’s like you’ve wandered into another universe, one where your parents are dead and nothing makes sense anymore.

*****

Adam’s forgotten about yesterday’s incidents by the time morning comes round. He prances into the bedroom, face dropping into a frown when he sees the bed empty.

“Hey, kid,” You murmur, opening your arms for a cuddle.

“Where’s Mommy?” He asks, chewing on one of his fingers as he allows you to pull him onto your lap.

You swallow, trying desperately to come up with a way to tell your four-year-old brother that both his parents are dead. “There was an accident yesterday, and Mommy and Daddy got really hurt.” A lump forms, and you pray that you can keep it together long enough to get through this. “The doctors weren’t able to help them, and they died.”

There’s a moment of quiet, as Adam considers your words. “They’re not here?”

“They’re not here,” You repeat quietly, a tear trickling down your cheek. “But I’m going to look after you and the girls, okay? And Aunt Penny and Uncle Mav. S’ okay to be sad.”

“Mommy’s not coming back?”

You shake your head, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “No, honey. I’m so sorry.” A whimper sounds from the nursery. The girls are waking up. “Why don’t you head downstairs, and I’ll grab Liv and Molly, and I’ll make you pancakes?”

Seemingly placated, Adam nods and heads downstairs, while you try and wrangle the twins. It’s a challenge, but you manage to get them into their highchairs, just as the door rings.

It’s Bradley, looking far too put-together for 6:45am. “I uh, saw that the curtains were open - figured you were up. How are you holding up?”

“I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet,” You admit, leading him to the kitchen. “Kind of just feels like I’m playing pretend.”

Bradley greets Adam with a wave, and drops a kiss to each of the girls’ heads. It feels so natural that a guilt tugs at your stomach. Bradley isn’t even family, and yet he feels far more familiar to these kids than you do.

“It’ll feel like that for a while,” He replies. “You want me to make breakfast?”

“Oh. I was just going to make pancakes.”

“Are you any better at cooking than you were as a teenager?” Bradley asks, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.

Despite everything you laugh, shaking your head with your lip between your teeth.

“Got it. I’ll cook then.”

“I think I can survive pancakes,” You protest.

“Okay, grieving lesson 101. Learn to accept help.” His voice is firm, and you find yourself nodding. “Mav’ll stop by later - he’s got all the lawyer’s numbers, and funeral planning. Believe me, last thing you want to be doing is thinking about catering right now. Let us handle the paperwork, and we’ll ask you about anything important, okay?”

“Thanks, Brad.”

You’re overwhelmed by their presence, their willingness to drop everything to be here. A comfortable silence falls, Adam chattering nonsense in the background as Bradley cooks.

“Bradley?” You ask.

“Yeah?”

“When does it start to get easier?”

He looks over at you, with a candour that makes your heart sink. “My mom? I think it took me about a year.”

“That’s a long time,” You whisper.

“I know.” He reaches out, almost tentatively, taking your hand. His thumb rubs circles onto your palm. “But you’ll get through it.”

“Can you maybe help with changing Adam’s insulin sensor? It needs done every two weeks, but he doesn’t like swapping them out.”

Bradley nods. “Yeah, of course. What do you need me to do?”

“Just chat to him, keep him distracted.”

You and Bradley make an excellent team. Bradley keeps him talking about baseball the entire time, allowing you to swap his sensor with relatively few tears.

It’s one of the only things you feel like you can manage. Ever since Adam got diagnosed last year, your parents made sure that everyone in the family was up-to-date on what to do, how to keep him safe. Everyone knows where the insulin and glucagon can be found, and how often his Libre sensor needs changed.

In an attempt to get you all out of the house, Bradley suggests a walk to the local park. He’s got Adam on his shoulders, and you push the twins.

It gets your mind off of everything for a little bit, and for that you're grateful.

You wonder what it looks like from the outside. If people assume that you’re married, had kids straight out of college. You suppose they must. You don’t hate the idea as much as you should.

*****

“I guess, what we’re saying is that you have options,” The lawyer says, sitting back in her chair. You, Maverick, Penny and Bradley are crowded into the cramped office. “You’re the legal guardian of the kids, but we understand that’s a lot for a twenty-five-year-old to deal with. As you’ve discussed already, Pete and Penelope would be willing to take them-”

“I’m going to keep them,” You interrupt. It’s been a decision that’s eaten away at you for the past week. It was never a question of adoption - you couldn’t ever do that to your own siblings. But after a particularly hard night, when Penny had offered it to you, a tiny part of yourself had wondered.

Wondered if it would be so bad, for them to grow up with two parents, who were far more capable and experienced than you are. Penny’s a far better mother than you could ever hope to be - maybe you’d be doing them a favour?

Maybe everybody would be better off if you weren’t in charge.

Then you’d stood in the nursery, after the twins had fallen asleep, with tears streaming down your face, and realised that you couldn’t give them up. Not for anything. You owed it to them, and your parents, to try.

Maverick nods approvingly. “We’ll be here for whatever you need, kid. Whenever you need it.”

“I’ve got a permanent position in San Diego now,” Bradley adds. “I’ll still have to ship out occasionally, but I’ll be here too.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent going over will logistics, funeral arrangements, and adoption papers. Something about health insurance means you need to formally adopt the kids, a process that’ll take a while.

But with Adam and his diabetes, it’s something that has to be done.

Slowly but surely, things seem to be becoming a little more manageable. Maverick and Penny explained any of the financial aspects you don't understand, while Bradley's hand stays firmly on your knee the entire meeting, tracing soothing patterns onto your skin.

*****

You don’t fall apart until the tenth. Two weeks, four days and three hours after your parents die. The funerals are over, the flowers are dying, and now there’s just grief. Raw, unfiltered grief that’s been pushed under your need to care for the kids.

But tonight, Adam has been asking questions you don’t know how to answer. Crying tears you don’t know how to soothe, sobs only ceasing when Bradley arrives after work.

You busy yourself with the girls, trying to soothe Liv’s sore throat while Molly does everything she can to avoid a bath - all while pretending that Adam’s rejection doesn’t bother you.

The fact that Bradley’s the sun, moon, and stars to him - and you’re just the poor mother substitute. The perpetual bad guy. The one who won’t let him see Mommy and Daddy.

You hold it together for approximately ten minutes after the twins go down. Standing in the kitchen, leaning against the island, a small sob escapes as you wrap your arms round your shoulders. Trying to ground yourself, stop your head from pounding so viciously.

It’s only when you hear Bradley’s footsteps padding down the stairs that you swallow, turning to the mountain of dishes piling up in the sink and busying yourself. He’s just spent the last hour comforting Adam. You don’t want him to feel responsible for you too.

“Is he asleep?” You ask, voice far thicker than you’d like.

“Yeah - took some convincing, but he’s out.”

“There’s some pasta in the fridge, if you want to take it for dinner,” You manage, back still pointedly turned.

“You don’t want me to stay?” You wish you could unhear the hurt in his voice, the fact that he’s the only reason you’ve survived the past few weeks, while you can’t even look him in the eye.

There’s nothing you want more than for him to stay. To let this unsteady rhythm you’ve both concocted continue for as long as its able. Until he decides to move on.

Because he will. The kindness he’s shown you is immeasurable, and you’ll never be able to thank him enough, and yet you know it must be finite. One day, he’ll meet a girl, fall in love, and you’ll go back to just childhood best friend.

“Is everything okay?”

You’ve been quiet for too long. Bradley’s perceptive. He always has been. A normally endearing trait, you surprise even yourself when a cry slips from your lips.

A dam shatters, and the sobs wrack your body.

Bradley’s across the room in seconds, pulling you into him. His arms circle your waist, strong and steady as he keeps you upright. Just like he’s been doing since the crash.

“I don't think I can do this,” You whisper, voice hoarse. “I can barely look after myself. Nev-nevermind them.”

"I know it's hard," He murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. "You're doing the hardest fucking thing in the world, kid. You've gotta give yourself some grace. They were your parents too."

"I-if I let myself feel it, I don't know where it'll end. I don't know if it'll end." Another cry bubbles up, and you bury your face in his shoulder. "I'm so scared, Bradley."

“Mav and Penny and I, we’re here for whatever you need, okay? Anything.”

You nod, trying to quell your tears. “Y-you’ve done so much already. I can’t ask you to do any more-”

“You aren’t,” He replies. “I’m offering. I love those kids, I love you all. I'd do anything for you.”

Your grip on him tightens just slightly, needing to ground yourself.

“Do you have the life insurance payout yet?”

You detach from him slightly, hands dropping to his forearms. “I used it to buy the house. There was still a lot of the mortgage to pay off. A-and I couldn’t afford the payments without it. The last thing they need is to be moved, on top of everything else-”

“Hey,” He interjects, voice soft. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, okay? You’re doing what you need to. Go run yourself a bath, try and relax for a bit.”

“I need to do the dishes, and make lunch for tomorrow-”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got it.” Your protests die on your lips. A bath does sound nice. “We can watch a movie or something, after you’re done.”

You wipe the last of your tears, and press a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

He’s going to make someone incredibly happy someday.

The thought leaps into your head unprompted, and you swallow it back. You don’t need more reminders of how temporary this is.

*****

The next day is even worse. Adam’s doing his best moody teenager impression, while Molly’s contracted Olivia’s cold.

Penny spends the afternoon, and makes things slightly more bearable, but her and Maverick have theatre tickets that night. She offered to cancel, but you’d insisted they go. They needed some normality too. It’s easy to forget that Mav and Penny have known your mom and dad since their twenties. They’re grieving almost as much as you are.

You barely make it to seven before your tears start too. It’s all you can do to dial Bradley’s number.

“Is everything okay?”

“I-I,” You stammer, hardly able to even get the words out. “I don’t know what to do. T-the girls are sick, and I can’t get any of them down, and I don’t know what I’m doing-”

“I’ll be over in a second.”

The phone cuts off, and true to his word, the bell goes in approximately half a minute. You’ve never been more grateful to see someone in your life. You’re sure you must look like a total mess, hair unbrushed and mascara dripping down your cheeks, but Bradley doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes Olivia from your arms and presses a kiss to your forehead. He greets Adam, who looks considerably happier to see Bradley than he was to see you, and whispers a couple of words into his ear.

You can’t make out what he says, but Adam immediately softens, before approaching you and offering a hug.

“Why don’t you get Adam, and I’ll get the girls?” Bradley offers, and you nod gratefully.

Whatever Bradley said worked wonders, and Adam’s far more amenable to bedtime than he was before.

It takes Bradley a little longer, and a lot more sniffling, but forty-five minutes he appears down the stairs, and all is quiet again. “Come on,” He murmurs softly. “You’re exhausted.”

“It’s only eight,” You reply, voice barely more than a whisper. “I haven’t made myself dinner yet.”

“Sounds like a night for pizza in bed then,” He replies.

And so, twenty minutes later, Bradley’s tipping the delivery guy, before clambering into bed with you. It’s the best meal you’ve had in your life, tucked into his side as some cheesy rom-com plays in the background.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Bradley asks, eyebrow raised.

“How are you so good with them? So natural? It feels like I make the wrong choice at every possible turn.”

He shrugs slightly, pulling you in closer. “It’s easy when they aren’t yours. I’m a novelty to them - if they were my kids, you’d be the exact same.”

You’re not sure you agree, but you nod, placated with his answer.

It doesn’t take long to drift off to sleep, still curled up against him. And the next morning when you wake up to a solid shape beside you, an arm draped across your waist, your heart soars.

*****

You know you're being unreasonable. Bradley's been the best thing that's ever happened to the kids - endlessly patient, full of energy, always down to play. He's shouldered things you wouldn't expect from a close relative, much less a distant family friend.

When there was a problem with the house insurance, Bradley spent three hours on the phone to agents, working out a plan that worked best for you.

Every Saturday, when another week passes and your parents slip further from your grasp, he turns up at 7pm on the dot, armed with casserole and ice cream. He takes Olivia from your arms, and soothes them all to bed with his stories and tales, allowing you the briefest moment of reprieve.

For the first month, he'd end each night holding you while you cried, pressing soft butterfly kisses to your forehead as he promised better things. Promised that things would get easier, that he'd be there for whatever you needed.

But it can't last forever. Made starkly obvious by the woman in the park today.

You’d been having a picnic, while Bradley was continuing Adam’s baseball education. From your perspective, it was just throwing a ball back and forth, but they’d both insisted there was considerable technique and skill to it. You’d taken the girls to go get ice-cream, and had come back to a woman chatting to Bradley, while Adam busied himself with a mitt. You couldn’t hear what was going on, but Bradley smiled, shook his head, and she went on her way.

Turning back round, he was immediately by your side to help with the ice-creams, hand reaching out to push a stray hair back from your face.

You understand the thought process. She saw an attractive guy, with a cute kid, and no ring. You'd have taken those odds with Bradley if you were her.

And when he turned her down, you had no idea what to think. The last thing you want to do is hold him back. Keep him from any kind of happiness.

Even if it killed you a little, you'd be thrilled for him. Even if it meant you became relegated to his past, meant only for occasional visits and cards at Christmas.

Maybe you'd find someone else too. Someone that liked kids, didn't mind some baggage. Maybe this ache in your chest won't last forever.

You can tell he knows something's up when he slips into bed wordlessly, clicking the light off as he goes. You've been lying on the edge for the past twenty minutes, cheek turned out to the window as you try and quell the awful guilt festering low in your stomach.

Bradley's freshly twenty-six. The last thing he wants is to be tied down to three kids. To you.

You're being selfish with him. And it breaks your heart.

But he's in your bed tonight, and maybe that's enough for now.

When you shuffle over towards the midline, far closer to him than you've ever dared before, he finally speaks. "You alright?"

"Can't sleep," Is all you can muster.

"C'mere," He murmurs, voice gravelly as he reaches out for you. You let him loop a hand round your wrist, pulling you across the bed until you're settled against his chest. It feels so terribly right that you want to bawl. Instead, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder and let out a shaky breath.

His arm is draped across your waist, and you're almost chest-to-chest. It's the closest you've been since childhood.

"Better?"

"Better."

*****

Bradley gets orders to deploy the following week. It’s only three months, hardly anything by Navy standards, but the idea of going that long without him makes you feel a little ill. You don’t remember the last time he spent the night in his own house. Each night you somehow manage to get closer, waking up fully intertwined as the kids throw themselves on top of you both.

The house feels too big without him, even with three children racing around.

You both made the decision not to bring the kids to base to say goodbye. After the year they’ve had, neither of you want to make a big deal of Bradley’s leaving. Instead, last night he came home armed with three build-a-bears, each one with a sound-bite of him singing.

American Pie, Adam’s favourite song, much to Bradley’s delight.

Shake It Off for Olivia.

And that godawful new Benson Boone song for Molly.

The idea of Bradley Bradshaw standing in build-a-bear, singing quietly into a little machine, just so the kids have something to remember him by, makes you want to sob. If Bradley Bradshaw’s out to ruin all men for you, he’s doing an excellent job.

Penny said her goodbyes to Bradley at the house, before Maverick drove you both out to base. Now, you’re standing on the tarmac, watching on as Bradley and Pete say their goodbyes. As soon as Maverick’s pulling back, he suddenly spots someone across the lot that he’s got to go say hello to. A squeeze of your shoulder as he passes, and you’re left with Bradley.

“You'll write?” He knows the answer, but when this is the last time he’s going to see you until November, he’d like the reassurance.

“Every day,” You murmur. “I-we’re really going to miss you, Brad.”

He reaches out, pulling you in for a tight hug. “I’m going to miss you too. But it’ll be over in a flash. Promise.”

You somehow can’t imagine that being true. “Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“When am I ever stupid?” He asks, smiling until he sees your expression. “Don’t answer that.”

Too quickly, it’s time for him to go. “See you soon, sweet girl.”

And then he’s gone.

Bradley wonders how you're getting on today. If Adam's talent show went well, or if the twins are still teething.

They'll be eighteen months by the time he gets back. Not much older, in the grand scheme of things, but he'll know.

At that age, consistency is everything. Adam's old enough to know Bradley, understand that he's going away for a little while - but Olivia and Molly? He might return a complete stranger.

Sitting in the barracks, head in his hands, he wonders if this is how his dad felt every time he left him and his mom behind.

He knows what Jake would say if he were here. Something snarky, probably. A comment about how they aren't even your kids, nevermind his. That Bradley Bradshaw must be the only bastard on earth who can land himself with diaper duties before first base.

He slips the picture out of his wallet. The one at the picnic. Nat had taken it, the five of you all crammed onto one blanket. Adam's clambering over Bradley's shoulders, and Olivia sits on his lap, reaching up for her brother. You've got Molly, smile wide as you watch the scene before you. Your eyes are on the kids, but his are very much on you.

A guilt festers in him, but he feels happier than he has in years. Ever since his mom died he’s felt totally aimless, drifting from one mission to another, little care as to whether he lived or died. Now, the idea of not going home to you all at the end of the day feels inconceivable.

It just makes him feel terrible that four people had to lose their parents for that to happen.

"Bradshaw," A voice greets, knocking him out of his trance. "How's it going?"

Seeing the picture clasped in Bradley's hand, Reuben steps forward to take a look. "Cute kids. This your first deployment since having them?"

They're not mine. They're my best friend's siblings, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with her, and I think it would kill me if I don't get to see those kids grow up.

"Uh, yeah. It is."

“Ah, first one’s always the hardest. But it’s so much better getting to go home at the end of it. I used to go home to an empty house after deployments-” Other than a visit to Penny and Maverick, that had been Bradley’s experience with deployments. “-and let me tell you - going home to your kids after a few months? Best feeling in the whole world. I cried the last time I saw my wife on the tarmac.”

Bradley imagines what life would be like if you were his wife. If, when he gets home, he’d be able to pull you close, and kiss you until your lips are pink and swollen, before heading home to the kids.

He wonders what your own kids would look like. His and yours. He doesn’t even know if you’d want that now, not with the three you’ve already got, but he doesn’t mind. As long as you’re happy, he’d be happy too. In whatever form, whatever capacity that turns out to be.

*****

The babysitter’s left, and the house is quiet. You’d managed to transfer your work to the San Diego offices, but unfortunately that means two days a week in the office. You’re still grateful that you can stay at home with the girls most of the time, but you’re starting to feel it. Balancing work and the kids, all while worrying about Bradley every day is taking a toll.

All three of them are sleeping, totally exhausted after Uncle Mav decided that they should go to a local theme park first thing, before the babysitter arrived. You’ve never used her before, so Mav and Penny offered to take them in the morning to make her day a little easier.

You’re going to grab some leftover pasta for dinner, when you frown. Adam’s insulin is missing.

Pulling out your phone, you shoot a quick text to the babysitter.

You: Hey, have you seen Adam’s insulin anywhere? Green and orange pens.

Andie: it had fallen out of the freezer, so i put it back!

Your heart sinks. Frozen insulin is unusable. You must have knocked it out of the fridge this morning before work. Andie wouldn’t have realised, and just put it back in.

That’s a thousand dollars of medication down the drain.

You have no idea how you’re supposed to pay for more, if insurance doesn’t cover it. Hands shaking, you dial the number. Maybe you can catch them before they finish up for the day.

You get a polite but tired-sounding woman on the phone, who is very apologetic, but firm about the fact that they can’t do anything. You can only afford base coverage, and that doesn’t have any stipulations for accidents.

After the car payments, and school, and insurance, you’re running low. Really low. It’s not something you’d ever admit to Bradley or Maverick, unless the kids were at risk.

Maybe you can sell something. Your mom’s engagement ring, your dad’s watch - there has to be something you can do.

The tears come anyway, and it isn’t until your phone rings that you realise what time it is.

You let out a quiet curse. This is Bradley's call night. The single video call he gets for this entire month. After tonight, he'll be stuck with e-mails until he's home.

Four weeks of not seeing his face. You’re not sure how you’re going to cope. Hastily wiping at your eyes, you accept the call, and move through to the kitchen.

“Hi, Brad,” You smile, desperately hoping the camera doesn't pick up your tear tracks.

He looks tired, but happy. His hair is cropped closer than you like, an unfortunate side effect of military duty. But he’s okay, and that’s what matters. You can’t help the feeling of dread that seems to fester in your stomach each time you think about Bradley being somewhere in the middle of the ocean, doing things he can’t tell you anything about.

“What’s wrong?” He’s frowning immediately, and you want to curse yourself. You should’ve made more of an effort to freshen up before getting on the call.

“I-it’s nothing, just a long day at work.”

“Kid, you look like you're about to sob. Please tell me what's going on.”

“I dropped Adam's insulin out of the fridge today - i-it must've been right after I left for work, and the babysitter thought it was meant to go in the freezer. A-and all of his insulin for the month is ruined.”

“Did you call the insurance company?”

“They won’t cover it,” You reply, voice weak. “We don’t pay enough to get replacements - all we get is the base coverage. But uh, it’s fine, I’ll work something out. He has enough for tonight.”

“I can send you the money-”

“No!” You interject immediately. “God, Bradley, you’ve done too much. It’s okay, I can work it out to tomorrow - go to the bank, see what they can do-”

“Sweetheart, I really don’t mind. I don’t want you to have to sell anything, or take out a loan or anything. The money’s just sitting there in my account, anyway. I’d always rather it went to the kids, or you.”

“My dad has a watch, that-”

Bradley’s face falls, as he shakes his head. “Please. I’m not letting you sell your parent’s things. Let me send you the money.”

“I just- I don’t really want to talk about it, is that okay? Can we talk about anything else?”

He nods, eyes still concerned. “Of course. You decided what you want to do for your birthday yet?”

You shake your head. “Just a quiet day, I think.”

“What if I told you I had some Stevie Nicks tickets with your name on them? It’s the day after your birthday, so not quite-”

“You didn’t,” You gasp. “How the hell did you get them from Japan?”

“I left very detailed instructions with Mav and Penny. I think the seats are terrible, but we’ll have fun. It’s in LA, so I’ve booked us into the Garland too, so we don’t have to worry about the drive back.” Sensing the question on your tongue, he continues. “I’ve already asked Mav. They’ll stay with the kids.”

“You’re insane,” You laugh, still wiping at your eyes slightly.

“In a good way, I hope?”

“The best.”

“I’m glad. We can plan it properly when I’m back. Maybe catch lunch in the city beforehand, go to the pier? Whatever you want, honey.”

“You’re going to make me cry again,” You mumble, dabbing at your eyes.

“As long as it’s happy tears.”

“The absolute happiest.”

*****

Just minutes after you hang up, a notification comes through on your phone.

Bank transfer: $1500 has been deposited into your account ending in XXXX, from Bradley Bradshaw.

07/07. 21:37.

Dear Bradley,

You shouldn’t have sent all that money, it’s far too much! You’ve done so much for us already, I can’t even begin to thank you the way you deserve. But since I figure you wouldn’t take kindly to me sending it back, thank you <3 I think Adam’s insulin should be about 1k, so I can send the rest back afterwards. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Missing you lots, and I’ve attached some pics of Adam’s last game - he insisted I send you some, so that you can see how he’s been practicing his throw! They lost, but it was a lot closer than it’s been recently. He attributes it all to you.

The girls are settling into daycare. I miss them during the day, but I really just couldn’t handle working from home and juggling them both at once. And the staff are so lovely - very hands-on, and they always come home with some kind of arts and crafts.

They’ve already decided that they want to go to the zoo when you’re back, plus a picnic. Sorry to start booking you in for social stuff before you’re even home.

Stay safe and thank you again x

07/08. 05:19.

Kid, I really truly don’t want to see that money back in my account. What’s the point of having it if you can’t use it for the people you love? Buy yourself something nice (and by that I mean by something for you, not for the kids).

Tell Adam he’ll be coming for the big leagues in no time, guy’s a pro! I think that calls for a new mitt when I get home. And I’m so glad Liv and Mol are doing well, I know you’d been worried about the time apart.

We’re about to go offline for a little while, but I’ll be in contact as soon as I’m able. Would you be able to send some more pictures? I have a few of the kids, but there’s only one with you. I don’t know, no worries if not - just missing all of your faces. There’s only so much of Reuben and Mickey that a man can take.

You’re doing so well, honey.

See you soon,

Bradley x

07/10. 18:03.

Hi Brad,

Hope you’re doing okay, and staying safe. As usual, we miss you loads. I got Adam’s insulin sorted, so we’re all good on that front. He says thank you, and I’ve attached a picture of the drawing he did of you both. You’re apparently on holiday in Paris - some not-so-subtle signals for after I get that promotion maybe?

Mav and Penny took the kids so that I could go to Nat’s birthday, which was really nice. They all send their love, and I sent a pic of everybody. I used most of the money left over for Adam’s baseball summer camp (I’m sorry! I know you said to use it on me, but you really should’ve known that was going to happen), but I did treat myself to a dress so you couldn’t be too annoyed. There should be a picture of that somewhere in the files too - I don’t know why I sent it really. Proof that I can spend money on myself? Anyway, feel free to discard.

Sent you a bundle - I didn’t really know what you wanted, so I thought too many was better than not enough. Please email as soon as you’re able - you know I worry.

Can’t wait to see you x

07/17. 03:58.

Hi honey,

That’s us just back to base - can’t tell you any more than that, but we’re all safe. Sorry for the stupid hour, but I wanted to reply before I went to bed.

The new dress looks beautiful. Really. Wish you’d spent more of the money on yourself, but I’ll take what I can get. Green is definitely your colour, though. I’m glad you had a nice time at Nat’s, and that the kids are still doing well.

I love Adam’s drawing, and it’ll get pride of place in my office back in San Diego. With the art and the baseball, I think we might have quite the ladies man on our hands in the future.

Can’t wait for these two weeks to be over, so I can come home to you all.

Love,

Bradley x

It’s the slowest two weeks of his life. Made bearable only by the photos you continue to send, he tries to have one on him at all times, slipped into his flight suit. More often than not, it’s the solo shot of you, in the floaty green summer dress that makes him feel dizzy each time he looks at it.

If Bradley Bradshaw were a smarter man, he’d realise that keeping your best friend in the crevice of your heart saved only for loves of your life is a very telling act. That you’re the first person he thinks about in the morning, and the last at night.

For the first time in his life, it’s not just Maverick and Penny waiting for him. As soon as Bradley’s feet are on the tarmac, he’s sifting through the crowds. Before he can even find you, a shape bursts forwards from the throngs of people, and Adam starts sprinting in his direction. Letting out a laugh, Bradley hoists his duffel bag higher, ready to catch him as he throws himself the final few feet.

“Bradley!” He exclaims, arms immediately wrapping around his neck.

“Hey, kiddo,” Bradley replies, arm tightening round the boy as he starts to move. “Long time no see.”

“We missed you.”

“I missed you too. Care to point me in the direction of your sister?”

Adam glances around, before offering a vague gesture to his left. Bradley follows his finger, and finally his gaze lands on you.

In the green dress.

Liv is balanced on your hip, Molly clinging to your leg. And when you smile at him, a lump forms in his throat.

He thinks he understands what Reuben was talking about now.

All of Bradley’s fears of the twins not recognising him evaporate when Molly smiles up at him, toothy and wide as he makes his way over. She takes some unsteady steps towards him, letting out a giggle when he scoops her into his arms.

Suddenly feeling left out, Olivia starts to reach out too.

“Let’s wait until Bradley puts the others down, okay-” You begin, but he shakes his head.

“Wait, hold on, I can make this work,” He murmurs, readjusting Adam and Molly as he takes Olivia, still somehow managing to find a way to hug you at the same time.

“Hi,” You breathe.

“Hi,” He replies, dropping a kiss to your forehead as he balances the three kids. Another second passes, and then Mav and Penny reach out to take the kids back, allowing you and Bradley a second alone.

“You’re okay?”

He nods, and then he’s hugging you again, far tighter than the one with the children. Your arms fasten round his neck, while his tighten round your waist, pulling you just off the ground as he holds you close. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too. Thank you for the money, Brad. You really saved us.”

“Don’t mention it,” He mumbles. “Really. I’d do anything for you guys.”

“Ready to go home?”

Home. Not his mom’s old house, but the one next door. The one he can’t ever imagine leaving. “More than anything, honey.”

*****

You muddle your way through dinner, having spent three months trying desperately to get better at cooking. While there’s a marked improvement, you’re not sure you’ll ever reach Bradley’s level. But the pasta was edible, and Bradley seemed to appreciate the effort.

Exhausted from welcoming Bradley back, the kids all go down relatively easy, and when Penny and Mav head back home, it’s just you and Bradley. You’ve worked your way through a bottle of wine, and are sitting far closer than you normally would.

Your feet are in his lap, his thumb stroking gently at his ankle.

“Listen, feel free to tell me if this is insane - but uh, I was thinking that maybe we should get married.”

You almost choke on your drink. “What?”

“I get really good health insurance with the Navy - i-if you wanted to, we could get married, and I could adopt the kids - and you wouldn’t have to worry about them.”

“Bradley…” You start, totally at a loss for words. “I-I can’t ask you to do that.”

“What if I want to?” He whispers, eyes earnest, and you can feel yourself welling up. It’s not how you imagined a proposal going, not by any stretch, but the tenderness in his voice makes your knees weak. It would be nice to not have to spend every month wondering if you’d be able to make the healthcare payments.

“Y-you’re sure?”

“Yeah. I am.”

Things move pretty quickly. Neither of you are sure when Bradley’s going to get deployed again, and he needs to have formally adopted the kids to get them put on his health insurance.

Adam is ecstatic with the news, and has already signed Bradley up to talk at career day about being a pilot. And the girls, while not quite at the speaking stage, adore him too. For the first time, you feel like you might be making the right choice.

It’s a tiny affair. Just you, Bradley, the kids, Maverick, Penny and Amelia. You’d agreed not to dress up, and Bradley had suggested your new green one. He’s wearing slacks and a shirt, hair bleached a little from the sun.

It takes everything in you to remember that this isn’t romantic. It’s a platonic wedding, happening only for the sake of the kids.

Something that becomes clear when it’s time to kiss the bride, and Bradley kisses your cheek. You’d been expecting it. Of course you had. The two of you aren’t together, and there’s no reason to believe that Bradley would choose a room with his family and the kids to make his first move.

But it reminds you of what today really is.

A duty. Nothing more.

You wait until Bradley’s distracted by the twins to sneak off to the bathroom, allowing a few tears to escape as you go.

This isn’t how it was meant to go.

For you or Bradley.

Bradley shouldn’t be caging himself in at twenty-six to three kids. This is your reality, but it doesn’t have to be his.

*****

The two of you settle into a rhythm in the house, cautious and a little awkward. It’s hard to think platonically about a man who you wake up next to every morning, who you raise children with. No matter how far apart you start the night, by morning there’s always a knee between your thighs, or his face pressed into your hair. Normally you can untangle yourself before Bradley wakes up. Makes things less weird for both of you.

He’s still your best friend, and you figure it’s probably a lot better than some of your friends who married for love.

So things move on, and while the grief is still very present across all your lives, Bradley alleviates it a little.

Right after Christmas, you get a wedding invitation from Jake, something Bradley had assumed he’d never see. Ever the eternal bachelor, it seems that he’s giving it up to settle down with his girlfriend, Bea.

With everybody now stationed in San Diego, you’ve spent a decent amount of time with them both. They’re a nice couple, they make a lot of sense.

And they’re disgustingly in love.

Like, more love than you could ever have expected Jake Seresin to be capable of showing.

Adam is Jake’s number one fan, and had been thrilled when they’d asked him to be the ring-bearer. Bradley had gotten a little huffy, put out at not always being his favourite anymore. He’d been pacified when Olivia had crawled onto his lap, wanting cuddles during The Lion King.

The wedding is beautiful. Standing in a new dress that Bradley had insisted you buy, after he had seen you hovering over it online one too many times, you feel pretty for the first time in months. His arm has been settled on the small of your back all night, and you’d teased him relentlessly for crying when Adam walked down the aisle.

You can’t help but feel like this is what Bradley deserves. Someone like Bea, whom he can love completely and openly. Not you, riddled with trauma and baggage that would make even the most experienced therapists wince.

He deserved a wedding like this. Not a court-house cheek kiss, full of adoption papers.

“What are you thinking?” Bradley murmurs, lacing his fingers through yours as you watch Jake and Bea have their first dance.

“I-I was just thinking about our wedding,” You reply, trying desperately to keep your voice steady.

“Yeah? What about it?”

“I don’t know, it’s stupid,” You dismiss, feeling the familiar prick of tears in your periphery. You won’t cry today. You won’t make Bradley feel worse than he probably already does.

Sensing the tone, Bradley drops it, pressing a quick kiss to the back of your knuckles. “Can’t believe Jake’s getting married. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I thought for sure Bob would get married first out of all of you guys - he’s been with Chloe for so long.”

“Did I tell you they were talking about getting married in London, to be near Chlo’s family? Would maybe be nice to make a holiday of it. Take the kids, do Scotland-”

He’s cut off by the DJ asking for couples to get up and join the Seresins. Bradley’s immediately on his feet, offering you his hand.

“Oh, Brad, I don’t know-”

He doesn’t reply, just laces his fingers through yours, and pulls you to the dancefloor. Holding you tightly against him, you rest your head on his shoulder as he starts to sway.

A Frank Sinatra ballad plays in the background, and you try and keep your attention focused solely on Bradley. This is a happy occasion. You shouldn’t be ruining it with all this over-thinking.

“You look really beautiful,” He murmurs, head dipped to speak directly into your ear.

“You don’t look half-bad yourself.”

“No, I mean. You look really beautiful. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

This feels like dangerous territory, and you swallow. “Brad-”

“I wish I could’ve given you something like this, like today.”

His words tip you over the edge, and a small sob escapes. Eyes widening, Bradley pulls back to look at you. A few of the nearest couples on the dancefloor also turn, concerned. “Oh, kid. I’m sorry- wait, fuck. Hold on.”

He’s leading you outside, pointedly ignoring any attention you’re both receiving. It’s colder than usual for San Diego, and he drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, thumb reaching out to wipe at your tears.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m sorry,” You cry, chest heaving as you try and regain control of yourself.

His arms are gripping yours, almost as if trying to keep you upright. “Don’t apologise, sweet girl. Was it talking about the wedding?”

“Y-you deserve better than this.”

“What?”

“You deserve a wedding like that. A wife like that. Not… whatever this is.”

Everything is pouring out. All the doubts of the past year, every insecurity, all the guilt about trapping Bradley. You don’t think you could bottle it up now if you tried.

“We’re holding you back.” Your voice is miserable, full of terror that he’ll agree. That he’ll leave, and you’ll be alone again. “That should be you in there. With someone that you love.”

“With you-” He begins, but you cut him off, another sob bubbling up.

“You don’t have to keep pretending, it’s okay.”

“Sweet girl, when I think about the rest of my life, all I can see is you. You, and the kids, and 23 Ridgemont Lane.”

The tears continue to trickle down your cheeks. “Bradley, you’re so young. What about if you meet someone, down the line-”

“That’s not going to happen-”

“You might want more, more than this - and I wouldn’t blame you-”

“Sweetheart, please let me talk for just once second-”

You’re spiralling. You know you are. But something about watching Jake and Bea in there makes you want to sob. That might not be in the cards for you, but you want it desperately for Bradley.

“I don’t want you to hate me one day.” The shake in your voice is borderline pathetic. It’s an admission. One you haven’t been sure you’re strong enough to make. That Bradley holds your heart in his hands, and he can do whatever he pleases with it.

“I could never hate you,” He whispers, reaching up to cup your cheeks. “God, kid, no. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You’re about to protest, when he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours. Your eyes flutter closed in surprise, hands resting on his chest.

He’s softer than you imagined, the slight scratch of his moustache the only friction.

It’s a kiss that knocks your world off its axis. One that you’re pretty sure would knock you off your feet were it not for Bradley’s arms holding you up - one curling at the nape of your neck, the other dropping to your hip, bring you closer, ever closer.

It’s a little uncoordinated, and it’s only when his nose bumps yours that you begin to realise that this is real.

You’re kissing Bradley, and he’s kissing you, and you’re not sure you ever want it to end.

He's smiling against your mouth, pressing you into the wall of the venue.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when he pulls back. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. “I love you,” He murmurs, nose brushing yours. “So much it kind of terrifies me.”

You let out an almost incredulous laugh. “I love you too.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, leaning in to kiss him again. “Can’t tell you how bad I’ve been feeling these last few months, thinking we were holding you back.

He’s shaking his head. “I'm right where I want to be, sweet girl. I want to be there for Adam starting elementary school, and for the twins starting to talk more. I want to fix up the basement, so that the kids have a playroom, and I want to build you one of those shed-things that give you a little peace and quiet after a long day.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?” You mumble, pressing butterfly kisses all over his face.

“I want to make sure the girls know that there’s no guy out there who will ever be good enough for them, and I want to teach Adam to play the guitar. Acoustic, not electric, for the sake of all our ears. But mostly, I really, really want to love you the way you deserve. I want to be a comfort during the bad times, and celebrate the good, and the rest of the time I just want to be near you.”

His arms are wrapped around you again, pulling you in tightly as you cry into his shoulder.

“What do you say?” He breathes. “Want to get married for real this time?”

How lucky you are to have Bradley Bradshaw in your life.

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[orchidsgrowfromthesoul]

me if reading fanfiction were illegal

[wendichester]

⋆˚⊱ the talk,

summary. dean, your boyfriend, gives you the talk.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. weird fluff

wordcount. 748

notes / warnings. mild language, mentions of supernatural violence, protective/jealous dean winchester, pop culture references, a tense confession scene, slight crack energy

You’re not really mad, per se. More like… Yeah, confused as hell.

Because your boyfriend just told you monsters are real—like, capital-M Monsters. Vampires, werewolves, demons, the whole horror movie roster. Except this isn’t a movie. You’re not on your couch, halfway through a sleepover marathon with a bowl of popcorn in your lap. You’re at your kitchen table, and Dean is sitting across from you looking like someone just kicked his puppy. Which is kind of hilarious considering he just confessed to stabbing a werewolf with a silver blade last week.

You haven’t said a word in maybe… five minutes.

Dean’s knee is bouncing. He keeps glancing toward the door like he’s expecting you to run for it.

“I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t want you to freak out,” he mutters, voice low. “It’s not exactly first date kinda stuff, y’know?”

You blink slowly. “…You said you were a mechanic.”

He flinches. “I can fix cars.”

“Dean.”

“Alright, part-time mechanic, full-time monster-hunter. Happy?”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. You should be more panicked. Any reasonable person would be. But the weird thing is—you’re not. Not really. Maybe it’s because Dean doesn’t feel dangerous to you. He feels safe. Has since the night you met him in that parking lot, laughing and talking you through your flat tire like he didn’t have somewhere better to be.

You’ve seen the way he handles a wrench. The way he walks you to your door. The way he keeps a loaded gun at yours and how he sometimes feels the need to sleep with a knife under his pillow.

You should’ve figured this out.

Dean's still talking, trying to explain himself.

“I just—look, I never wanted to lie to you, but this life? It’s dark. I didn’t want to drag you into it unless I had to. But the longer we were together, the more I felt like... you should know. You deserve to know. I promise you, Y/N, I'm not cheating on you. I just have a shitty day-job.”

You stare at him a moment. Really look at him. His hands are clasped together on the table, knuckles scraped. There's a little blood on the edge of his sleeve. His jaw’s tight, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a slap.

You tilt your head.

“So… when you said you’d kill Damon Salvatore if he ever tried anything with me,” you say slowly, “you meant that?”

Dean’s whole face twists. “What—of course I meant it! That dude’s a vampire. He eats people, baby. I don’t care how nice his car is.”

You blink. Then blink again.

And then, god help you, you start laughing. Not a little giggle—like, full-body, stomach-aching, shoulders-shaking laughter. Dean just stares at you, caught somewhere between horrified and offended.

“I’m serious!” he says, eyebrows yanking together. “That guy’s a psycho! He compels people and drinks his weight in blood! I don’t care how many redemption arcs he’s got or what moody indie soundtrack they put under his scenes—he so much as sniffs in your direction, he’s toast.”

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You were jealous of a fictional vampire.”

Dean scowls. “He’s not fictional to me.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, eyes sparkling. “Okay, hunter-boy. So what is fictional to you?”

He pauses. “Uh… Harry Potter, probably.”

“That explains so much.”

Dean’s still tense, like he’s not totally convinced you aren’t about to kick him out.

You reach across the table and cover his hand with yours.

“I’m not running,” you say softly. “I’m weirded out, yeah. I mean, you basically just told me Buffy was a documentary. But I’m not scared of you, Dean.”

His shoulders drop about two inches. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You’re still the guy who brings me diner pie and gets pissy when I leave the window cracked at night.”

“That’s because it’s not safe,” he mutters.

“Uh-huh. You know I’m just gonna make more vampire jokes now, right?”

Dean groans. “Great. I’ve created a monster.”

You grin, leaning across the table to kiss him—quick and sweet, your fingers curling around his wrist.

He kisses you back like he’s exhaling for the first time in days.

When you pull away, you squint at him.

“…You still haven’t explained why you carry holy water in your jacket pocket.”

“Emergency exorcisms,” he says, deadpan.

You nod slowly. “Cool. Cool. Totally normal boyfriend things.”

Dean smiles, wide and shameless. “Welcome to the family business, sweetheart.”

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[dearlizzies]

stayed up all night reading a fanfic n it turned out to be incomplete and it hasn’t been updated in 3 years

[oneecheri]

My thoughts on: –> Dean Winchester as a brother and a figurative eldest daughter

Dean Winchester is so eldest daughter coded. All the quiet pain he goes through, the way he turns his traumas into jokes, the way he is too flirty and charming because he needs external validation which he didn't get from his father, the way he tries to be a good sibling but turns into a parent, the way Sammy is like his first child, the way he tries so damn hard everyday yet get called overreacting, controlling, bossy and even aggressive and violent.

People who weren't forced to walk on eggshells and broken pieces of scattered love won't understand Dean's way of caring for Sam as a brother. They do fight, and yes, he gets violent from time to time, but Sam isn't quite innocent either. Dean does whatever he does physically, but I've observed Sam quietly judge Dean and even be embarrassed by him or completely dismiss him sometimes. He looks like he handles it just fine, but i think he craves praises and acknowledgement. He isn't bragging all the time about the things he did for Sam, but he expects some respect and love in return. Plus, the fact that he was a child when his family fell apart and he could remember everything; I think his trauma is overseen most of the time - which ironically makes him the epitome of an eldest daughter.

So yeah, i love you, Sammy, but Dean.

Dean, you are an unspoken truth, an agonising love trapped in a rusty cage, and I won't be watching the last episode! Love yall!

-> btw. i don't support physical nor mental violence, bullying or harassment. I know the different types of pain Sam went through as well. This is solely based on the family dynamics. I love them both.

[stargazedwinchester]

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `the wrong bitch, dean winchester ༘♡

summary: dean and his new girlfriend are constantly arguing. you've decided that's enough, and you want to "talk" to her directly. word count: 1144 pairing: dean winchester x reader now playing;｡･:*♫♪: the albatross - taylor swift warnings: brief mentions of verbal abuse & mental abuse notes: i've had this idea for months but decided to change it up since i just couldn't finish the other version lol. enjoy!!

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You can’t even walk down the hallway toward your bedroom without hearing Dean's girlfriends grating voice bellowing throughout the bunker.

Her voice cuts through like shattered glass, sharp and high pitched. Dean says something back, his tone low and hoarse, and she doesn’t let up. She never does.

You freeze outside of his door, listening to the fight. It’s always the same problem. She nit-picks, pushes every button that Dean has—which isn’t many. His temper arises, then fades into exhausted silence. Yet she still jabs and pushes her luck.

You walk straight past his room, not because you don’t care—you do, but because you might actually throttle the bitch across the room and pray that it’ll kill her.

-

Dean’s alone an hour later, slumped over a bottle of whiskey at the war room table, the bottle itself half empty as well as his glass. He doesn’t look up when you approach him, his eyes distant like he’s miles away from here.

You scoot the chair away from the table, sitting opposite him. You rest your forearms on the table, leaning toward him.

All you can do is watch him. You can see how truly tired he is. The shadows under his eyes, the slump in his shoulders. His eyes are dull and lifeless.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” he huffs, “…she makes me feel like I’m the bad guy. Like I’m the problem.”

“You’re not.”

“What if-”

“No.” You say sternly, glancing at his clouded green eyes. He doesn’t understand that none of this is his fault, not even dating her. How was he to know that she’s a cold-hearted, stone-faced, evil, conniving bitch?

“I’ve never seen you so beaten up, Dean,” you begin, “you’re so strong. So, so strong. What has she done to you?” You barely whisper; he looks at you with gentleness, but something is still off.

Dean shakes his head, taking another sip of his whiskey, wincing after it. But this time you’re sure it’s not the whiskey that burns.

“Every damn time I say something… she twists it. Makes me feel small. Stupid.”

Your heart clenches. You reach out and place your hand on his. A steady hand calming his.

“She made you feel wanted at the start, right? That’s the part that’s hard to let go. Not this.” You tell him. “You’ve got to be strong enough to rip the band-aid off. And I know you can, Dean. You don’t deserve this.”

“I don’t think I can.” His voice wobbles, his eyes now glossy like they’re about to pour.

“I know you can. You’re strong. It takes time, and that’s okay.”

Dean stares at you for a long moment. He breaks away when you push your chair out and leave the room.

-

You’re walking toward your room, as Dean swings his bedroom door open, accidentally shoving past you as you stop dead in your tracks. And there she is, standing in the doorway with her eyebrows furrowed so deep they look like they’re about to meld together. “You’re unbelievable!” She yells. “You can’t even handle a conversation without acting like a child!”

Dean’s already gone by this point. You glance up at her whilst she’s scowling down at you.

“What?” She snaps, her arms crossed over her chest. “Oh—let me guess. You’re here to lecture me about how ‘mean’ I’m being to your precious Dean.”

“You should be more careful how you talk to him,” you say evenly. She scoffs. “And you should listen to me even more-so.” You start, keeping your voice low.

“Now, I’m not Dean,” you hush, your eyes focused completely on her. “I don’t do patience. I don’t do second chances. I don’t let people walk all over the people I care abo—”

“You think I’m scared of you? Scared of some jealous little—”

“I’m not done talking.” You butt in, taking back your place. “I’ve watched you for quite some time. Seeing how you tear him down… piece by piece.” You continue, your voice sharp. “You think you’re better than everyone. But all you are is mean. Mean and pathetic and scared of anyone who sees through it.”

“Excuse me?” She snaps, her voice rising.

“You heard me,” you say. “You’re not special nor misunderstood. You like to have control and I’m telling you this from the bottom of my heart, if I even catch you looking—hell, breathing in the same direction as him, looking as if he’s beneath you… then the next time I see you? It won’t be just words.”

There’s a threatening silence. Her expression falters as your words sink in.

And for once, she says nothing.

You shift your glare toward the hallway, past her. You smirk at her slightly. “You’re messing with the wrong bitch.”

You turn and walk away without waiting for her to speak again. Even if Dean never finds out what you said, at least you’ll sleep better at night knowing that you did.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

omg I looooooooove Lucifer using Miss Girl to raise Death, you literally always come up with the best stuff. And the angssssstttttttt of Cas leaving her behind with Lucifer, chef’s kiss ugh YES

THANK YOU and she's so hot for that. A girlboss fr. 🩵🩵 and in Cas' defense i don't think it would've ended well if he DIDN'T leave her. She was already on the Death train. My boi had faith in Her (he knew she'd kick his ass if he let her hurt Sam and Dean)

[easytiger-xo]

someone you loved just died of mysterious causes and you look out your window..

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I'll Keep on Waiting - A Babylon the Great Bonus Chapter

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Someone needs to lock them in a room already.

Chapter title from Honeybee by Steam Powered Giraffe

Word Count: 1.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean watches you, and Jo shares some thoughts. Takes place after Chapter 19. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff

Read on A03!

“You’re starin’ again.”

Dean scowled, looking back to the pool table. “No, I-“

“Yeah, ya where.” Jo gave him an amused look, raising her brows. “I’d ask if you’re ever worried ‘bout her noticing, but she might be the most oblivious person on the fuckin’ planet. One time a guy asked for her number and she gave ‘em Bobby’s, cause she thought it was for huntin’.”

Dean grunted, and tried not to think too hard about it. Jo was likely exaggerating.

Although an unearned warmth still spread through his body, formed from the idea of some douchebag asking for Her number, and having to explain themselves when Bobby picked up the other line. 

At least those douchebags never had to do it to his face. That was a torture saved for Dean only, and he didn’t even get the brief high of believing that She’d chosen him. That, out of every guy at the roadhouse whose eyes raked over Her body and openly tried to move into Her orbit—to borrow just a little bit of Her light—She’d chosen him.

And She had chosen Dean. 

He had Her bed. And he got to drive Her around, and listen to Her talk whenever he wanted, and Her head rested on his shoulder when they watched a movie. He had Her back during hunts. He was allowed to hunt with Her, and that was maybe a bigger accomplishment than anything else. She didn’t need anyone to hunt with. She’d spin Her knife in her hands—the knife Dean gave Her, another way he got to have Her was Her, having him—and tear through a case like it was leaves and paper. But She wanted Dean there. 

So he had Her, more than anyone else could ever dream.

The only way he didn’t have Her was like that. What the guy Jo was talking about had wanted. Hell, what Dean wanted. All he had from Her there were two kisses that they still didn’t talk about.

And sometimes, when they were in the Impala in the dead of night, and it was only Her and Dean in the whole world, he wanted a third. To close that last distance, and brush his lips against Her’s without tears or pain, just so She knew. That if She wanted that part of Dean, he’d offer it up on a platter. He’d offer Her anything on a platter. His lungs if She needed extra breath, his heart if Her’s was ever failing her, and his fucking soul if She could find a use for it.

She was its use. Dean couldn’t think of a better plan for his soul than giving it all to Her. He had no damn clue how her soul-vision thingy worked, but if She wanted to see all of Dean’s desire—wanted to connect to him and never let go—he’d let Her. Dean would let Her do almost anything, whether or not it ended in him having Her like that.

Because She might not. Maybe, in another sick joke of Dean’s life, the one time he actually needed his well-trained charms and the face people liked to call pretty, they’d fail him. And he would’ve hit the end of the line, in getting Her more than he deserved.

He’d live with it. And if She ever turned around and changed Her mind, he’d be ready.

There was still a dread that bubbled in his stomach, though. That one day he’d look over, and he’d see Her smiling and fluttering Her lashes at someone else. Then She’d kiss them.

Dean had never actually seen Her kiss anyone else.

It wasn’t a first time he was interested in having. 

She should only kiss Dean. He knew, every time the thought crossed his head, that he had no right to have it. She was her own person, Dean couldn’t control Her if he tried, he was lucky She’d ever even looked at him at all, and then fucking stayed. She’d seen Dean to Hell and back, and he’d ruined it countless times because that was all he was good at, but She’d stayed, and he barely had a right to that.

Dean also knew that two kisses didn’t mean forever. 

But they’d been world-ending kisses. 

And he had an oath with himself.

If Dean ever got to have another kiss, he’d throw every bit of his fucking awe for Her into it. She’d be able to taste how much he wanted it. He’d would still be stinging on Her lips for months after they separated. He’d hold Her close enough that one of his ribs would move into Her body, and She’d always have the feeling of Dean around Her. Keeping Her safe and wanted, even when She walked away and found another man. Someone who wouldn’t know Her like Dean, but would deserve Her far more, and Dean would need to just fucking live with it.

Or She’d stay again.

She’d surprised him before, and She’d always had a talent for tilting Dean’s whole fucking universe off its axis, and re-coloring the world so it was brighter and more vibrant than before. 

So he had a second oath.

If Dean ever got more than just kisses, he’d ruin Her. All the passing bodies in motel rooms and on lonely nights were now just rehearsal, and She would be the show. And all of Her bodies would look like fucking middle school plays, before going to see…

“What’s the fanciest form of performance?” He asked Jo, and she frowned at him.

“Do I look like I’d know?”

“Just give it a shot, Jo.” Dean muttered, grabbing his beer off the table. “Best guess. Go.”

“I’m good.” Her grin was splitting her face. That wasn’t good. “But you know who’s gonna know?”

Shit. 

Jo called Her name, and She looked up from her table with a small frown.

“What?”

“What’s the fanciest form of performance?”

Her brow wrinkled slightly, but it was the thinking brow. With the pouting lips. Everything was fine. “It depends on what you mean, I guess? Like, orchestra would probably be symphonic. Theatre would be Broadway in America, but like- It’s West End in London, and China would be a pecking opera-“

“Why do you know that?” Sam’s voice was slightly bemused, and She shrugged. 

“Art history books are generally unchecked at public libraries, and I get bored.” She looked back to Jo. “Why?”

“Dean wanted to know.” Jo said, and then turned back to her shot like it was nothing. Like Dean wasn’t caught in Her attention like a moth, and he had to go closer, but he was supposed to finish the game of pool. 

But She looked so soft and bright, smiling at him. 

But if he forfeited to go sit at Her side, Jo would win.

He couldn’t let that happen. At least he had his answer.

If Dean ever got to fuck Her, he’d have Her falling apart on his cock and moaning his name and digging Her nails into the skin of his back. He’d make anyone else before him look like nothing, in comparison to his Broadway show. 

“Why do you want to know?” She asked, and Dean coughed.

“Curious.” He grunted, and She blinked at him, opening Her mouth, but then Sam muttered something that took Her attention. 

She and Sammy had been muttering things all day. That was what Dean had been staring at in the first place. And even though She gave Dean a small smile before looking away, She still looked away. 

They were probably doing nerd stuff. Last time Dean had been over there—passing Her a root beer and telling Sammy to use his legs if he wanted something—they’d had a fucking spreadsheet up. 

“What-“

“It’s for the seals,” She’d mumbled, scratching the same Enochian words over and over on a napkin. “There are supposed to be 600. We’re trying to work as many of them out as we can. And Jo and I-“ She’d cut herself off with a small frown, and before Dean could ask what was wrong, Sam had continued.

“I worked out a whole program.” He explained, gesturing to the laptop. “How likely Lilith is to break a seals, how much effort would go into each one, what should be a high priority to monitor. I was thinking we give it to Cas, when it’s done-“

Dean had snorted. “I don’t think the angels need your spreadsheet, Sammy-“

“Cas has said they’re having trouble knowing about the seals.” She’d hummed, rubbing Her palm as she spoke. “Something about forbidden or classified knowledge. And I think he’d like the spreadsheet. He’d find it practical.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that. Or how pretty She’d looked when she said it. So he’d nodded, and agreed, and run away before Sam could bitch about how Dean always sided with Her.

He didn’t. She was just awesome, and always made really good points, and Dean would give Her his life if he thought She’d take it. 

He just didn’t want to do a fucking spreadsheet. Maybe he could go over there and contribute nothing. Let them be nerds, and just stare at Her under the guise of listening to Her. Dean might even put something together they hadn’t thought of, and She’d smile at him, and he’d feel like he could wrestle whatever was higher than God and win-

“I think you should tell her.” Jo whispered behind him, and Dean nearly drove his cue stick into her eyeball.

“Jesus fucking- Son of a bitch, Jo, I could’ve fucking hurt you-“

“But you didn’t.” Jo shrugged. “You should tell her.”

Dean scowled. “Focus on the game.”

“She’d be more open to it then you think-“

“Shut up.”

“And,” Jo continued, grinning at him. “You guys would be so cute. You’re already cute. Now you could buy her a pina colada, and you could say for my girlfriend. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

That would be nice. 

A lot of that would be nice. 

Jo kept teasing, but all Dean could think about was how nice that would be. 

Kissing Her whenever he wanted. Carrying Her to bed when She was tired, and never having to fix his gaze over her head while he helped Her change. He could kick Sammy out of shotgun to talk to Her. Ignore everyone else to stare at Her. Pull Her fully in his lap in Bobby’s library—when Bobby wasn’t home, because he wasn’t looking to get murdered—and distract Her from all her books by kissing over Her neck. Humming low praise until She melted into him, and Dean got to roll Her over. Her body would be pinned between him and floor, and he’d make Her feel so fucking good.

Better than any sort of high-brow, glass pussy ass bitch could. Better than another hunter could. Dean would dedicate his whole fucking life to just making Her feel good. With his attention and care and carefully collected and worshipped knowledge of everything about Her. He’d watch Indiana Jones a million times and read all Her books so they could talk about them together. He’d learn all the words to Her favorite songs, then suck and kiss on Her neck while he made Her listen to his. After that would be lips and hands and fingers, his brow dropped to Her’s as he got a close as fucking possible, and loved Her until she sighed his name with a blissful, relaxed smile on Her gorgeous face.

And he’d hold Her the same in the night. Talk to Her the same in the day.

She’d just be allowed to see it more. Dean would be permitted to make Her feel it.

How much he wanted Her.

She glanced over at him. For no reason, She looked over to Dean, and smiled.

And really, at the end of it, Dean just wanted Her. 

End Note: One (1) conversation would fix so many of their problems fr.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[very-merry-birthday]

🍓 Nicknames 🍓

Summary: The story of you and Dean's relationship, told through nicknames.

Warnings: Mentions of sex but not quite smut

~~~

🍓 Sweetheart -

The first time Dean met you, that's what he'd called you. It felt like butter, a smooth luxury, dripping off his lips.

You parents had briefly known John, so when the Winchesters shuffled into town, you were their first point of safety.

Dean had walked in one day, his younger brother in tow, all swagger and confidence. He'd watched as you hopped off the counter, offering him a mug of coffee, trying to resist the temptation to let his eyes drop down your body. He was trying to be respectful, as respectful as he could be.

"Sure, I'll take some, sweetheart."

Your breath had hitched in your throat as he spoke, the name sending ripples through you.

You'd spent the rest of the day barely speaking. Sam had taken the lead with whatever hunt the two men were working on, so that just left you and the older Winchester listening. The whole time you'd caught small glances at each other, missed eye contact, the occasional brush of fingers when handing him another cup of coffee.

Only the next day had you realized Dean calls every girl he meets sweetheart.

🍓 Kid -

You hated the nickname. You were barely any younger than Sam, but Dean still insisted on calling you it.

The first time you'd gone on a hunt together, you'd come prepared. Dean was cautious at first, but by the time you'd shown them your skills with a knife, he had no choice but to let you swing along.

This wasn't your first hunt, not by a long shot, with your own parents training you to keep your wills about you long before the Winchesters came into your life.

You'd beheaded the vampire before Dean had even seen it coming at you, wiping your face with the back of your hand ready for the next one.

"Nice work, kid." Dean had said to you, the nickname hitting you like a ton of bricks.

Of course, he was the only one who could make you feel like a child even when you were able to wield a knife better than anyone he'd ever seen.

You'd raised it to Sam later in the day, asking if he'd ever used the nickname on him.

"Kid? No but he's called me worse. Why does it bother you so much?"

"It's patronising, it's like he doesn't see me as capable."

"Oh he sees you as capable alright." Sam chuckled to himself, "He's been on at me for weeks about bringing you along on a hunt."

You were taken aback, "No, no he said he didn't want me coming?"

"That's news to me, honestly I think he's just trying to mess with your head."

🍓 Darling -

Dean hadn't called you sweetheart in months, the kid nickname firmly sticking. No matter what you'd done, that's what he'd called you, keeping his distance. Even his glances had slowed, you no longer caught him looking at you in the rearview, no longer brushed fingers with him over coffee.

A month after you'd moved into the bunker, you and Dean were up late together, both hunched over books, the early hours beginning to break on a long night.

That's when it had hit you, and you went running off looking for a book you'd remembered reading once before, only returning once you'd found the page you were after. You'd placed the book on the table, Dean leaning over you, your bodies practically touching.

"It's a Musca. That's what that glue they keep finding is all about."

"Well damn, I think you just about cracked the case, darling."

As soon as he'd said it he knew he couldn't undo it, the word hanging in the air above you both. He'd waited for a moment, his body pressed against yours, heat emanating off of him. He wet his lips as he allowed himself to take another look at you, from this angle he towered over you, clearly being able to see down your shirt, looking at the contours of your chest covered in a thin bra.

Then he'd coughed back to reality, leaning past you to pick up the book and stepping back again.

"Right, I guess I'll give Sam a call then, thanks kid."

🍓 Gorgeous-

You'd come stumbling back in after a heavy night of drinking, you and Sam only just able to keep Dean's limp body supported between the two of you. You were able to drag him to the room and lay him on his bed before Sam had run off, needing to vomit the beers back up.

Deans eyes has opened tentatively, smiling as he saw your face.

"You come t' take care of me?" He slurred out, reaching out to touch your hand. "I'm sick."

"No, Dean, go to sleep, you're just drunk." You wanted to pull away, go back to your own room, wait for your inevitable hangover, but you let him hold your hand as he closed his eyes again, feeling your warmth. He pulled you into him closer, and you found yourself sat on the bed next to him.

"Don't go-" Dean murmured into your side, breathing gently.

"I'm not going Dean, I'm right here." You let your thumb rub against the skin of his hand, trying to comfort him.

"Don't go, gorgeous." He drifted into a drunken sleep.

🍓 Baby -

He never mentioned the gorgeous incident to you, and you were so drunk you barely even remembered it yourself. All you knew is that for the next few weeks he seemed cagey.

He didn't speak to you much, keeping to himself wherever possible. But you still caught him looking, more blatantly than he ever had before. When you were reaching up to a high shelf in the kitchen, there he was taking a glance at your exposed midriff. When you'd lean over to pull the duffle bag off the floor, he'd be behind you taking a look at your ass. Even on long drives you'd find his eyes trailing down your legs, a small smile revealing itself at the corner of his lips.

But then something shifted. Sam was the first one to notice it.

The three of you were just finishing up a hunt, the stifling motel room in the rearview as Dean drove, his cassettes the soundtrack to your freedom.

"I'm glad to be outta there." Dean had said, turning up the music.

"Me too, can we all agree that we need two rooms whenever we next get a motel." You'd wound down the window, letting the cool air hit you.

"'Course, baby." Dean leant his hand out, brushing your knee only slightly as a sign of agreement.

There was a beat in the car as you all watched his hand retract, unable to work out what had just happened. The music played on, the crappy speakers sounding a million miles away.

"Did- did you just call her baby?" Sam pitched up from the back seat. You wanted the air to swallow you, awkwardness overwhelming you. If this had just been you and Dean you'd have ignored it, blinked and pretended it had never happened. But Sam had seen, and he wasn't going to let it go.

Dean coughed, clearing his throat as he worked through what he was trying to say next. "I call the car baby, Sam, it's not a big deal."

🍓 Princess -

The nickname had hung in the air between you for three days. Three long days of thinking about his fingers brushing against your knee, of how the words had fallen out of his mouth so easily. Three silent days of you and Dean ignoring each other, no tentative glances, no secret looks.

On the third day Dean had come to you with a proposal.

He'd knocked on your bedroom door late at night, quietly enough that if you were sleeping he could pretend he hadn't even tried. But you weren't sleeping. Right as he had made up his mind to walk away you opened it, surprised to see him on the other side.

You invited him in, making small talk as you got him to sit on your bed. That's when he'd told you his idea.

"Sex. Pure, no strings attached, sex."

That's how you'd found yourself up against the wall, his hands on your waist, his mouth against your jaw, leaving heavy kisses. He'd pulled your shirt up, taking a step back to admire you.

"You're fucking gorgeous."

He came back to your room every night that week, both of you acting like it would be the last time but knowing it wouldn't be. He let his mouth explore every part of you, taking pleasure in making you moan his name.

"Louder for me, princess, let me hear you."

🍓 Y/N -

'Just sex' turned out to be harder than expected, his lingering looks at you complicating the days, the cuddling after complicating the nights.

You didn't mention it to each other during daylight, it was your own secret you kept even from yourselves. But each night he'd be there, and you'd let him in, both of you needy for more.

Then you were back in a motel on a hunt with Sam, and you knew it had to stop. Nowhere to go in such close quarters. Nowhere to spill your secrets.

You could tell he was pent up, spending every day watching you and not being able to do anything about it. You were too, but tried not to let it show.

And then you were in the middle of a hunt, and Dean was the furthest thing from your mind, your training kicking in, your only thoughts on the task at hand. The demon seemed to come out of nowhere, shoving you hard as your head hit the wall, knocking you down. The air thinned, your mind going dark as you heard the commotion in the other room, and then Dean was there. And he was holding your head. And he was shouting to Sam for help, looking at you with desperate eyes.

The next day he had sat on your bed in the motel, handing you a glass of water. Your fingers had brushed against each other, and memories of the first time you'd met had filled your mind.

"Y/N." He'd said. He never called you by your name, you could tell he was trying to work up the courage to say something important. "I can't stand the idea of loosing you. I can't even stand the idea of not being around you. This thing we've got going on- it's good don't get me wrong- it's fucking incredible in fact- it's just... I want more. I want you, all of you. Completely and all the time."

🍓 Honey -

You walked into the bunker, pushing another six-pack in the fridge for later. Deans strong arms came up behind you, enveloping you in a firm hug, his face burrowed in the crook of your neck, soft kisses across your skin trailing along the line of hickeys from the night before. He lifted you off the ground slightly for a moment, and you laughed loudly, swatting his arm to put you back down.

Sam looked up from the table and rolled his eyes; it was a familiar sight he was now used to, though it had taken some months to become accustomed to it.

Dean did as you said, putting your feet firmly back on the floor and spinning you around to face him. He kissed your forehead, a grin across his face as you motioned for him to kiss your lips instead.

"I love you." You'd said as he kissed you, the words falling out of your mouth as they had a hundred times by now.

"I love you too, honey."

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 18 - You Can Start to Make It Better

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Return of the swaggy Monster of the Week cases.

Chapter Title from Hey Jude by The Beatles

Word Count: 17.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You go home, and try to get back into a rhythm. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 17 - Chapter 19

Read on A03!

You have rules.

If you’re going to love Dean, you have to have rules.

To keep yourself sane, and to keep Dean safe.

To ensure that your priority can be making sure Dean stays alive. You can never, ever fail him again, because now that you have him, it will take a biblical tragedy to make you lose him again.

So you have rules.

The first rule comes before the drive home. You stay the night in Texas, but neither of you really sleep. For Dean, it’s so the stiches can set, and for you, it’s so you can feel Dean’s arms around you and hear his heartbeat near your ear, his hand splayed gently over your stomach to monitor the stitches. Then, before the dawn has even fully broken the sky, you go.

Together.

Dean asked you not to run, so now you means you and Dean, together.

He goes to pick you up some non-bloodstained clothing—you’d slept in his shirt, and you’d both silently agreed not to talk about it—as you get the coffee, and when you start to change he takes a tall, rigid stance facing the door. It’s almost adorable, how he’s fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket and glowering at the walls. Like he’s somehow trying to preserve your modesty.

“We’re taking my car.” Dean mutters, and you freeze with one leg in the sweatpants.

“Dean, I’m not just leaving the Firebird.“

“Yeah, you are.”

“You gave me that car-“

“I’ll send Sammy back for it.” He snaps. “He’ll bus down and drive it back up, and you’ll stay with me.”

You roll your eyes, standing up straight as you finish with the sweats. “You never let Sam drive Baby, why is my car different-“

“Because.” Dean grunts, shooting you a glare as you shuffle over to his side. “I am not letting you drive back to Sioux Falls by yourself after you just got fucking shot, Princess. We’re leaving the Firebird.”

“You can be really dramatic, Deano, you know that?”

His lips twitch slightly. “It’s not dramatic to make sure you don’t bleed out somewhere in Oklahoma, Princess.”

“See, you sound dramatic-“

“And you’re not driving yourself home. Give it up.”

You pout up at him, putting on your best, innocent, sweet expression. “But my car, De. Please-“

“I don’t give a shit about your car.” He grumbles, and that breaks you in a second.

You could see the clench of his jaw and fists, hear the resolve in his voice, and this wasn’t a fight you were going to win. If Dean is valuing you over the car, you’d lost before the conversation even started.

It wasn’t like you really cared either way. If it were up to you, you’d climb onto Dean’s body and never be peeled away from him again.

“What about your car?” You hum, just to selfishly press a little further, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“If that’s what it’s gonna take to get your ass back home, we’ll take the freakin’ Firebird instead. But,” he narrows his eyes at you. “I’m driving, and you’re resting, and that’s it.”

You stare at him, and it creeps right up to the edge of your tongue. You love him. So much. Desperately and eternally, because he cares. More than anyone. All the time. You’ve seen him almost shoot people for looking at the Impala wrong, he’s willing to leave it in fucking Texas for you, and you can see how serious he is in his Gold—solid and burning in his body—and you love him-

“Dean, you don’t need to-“

“I do.” He grumbles, starting to herd you out the door. “I’ll carry you home on fucking foot, if I have to. You’re more important-“

“Than a car?!” 

Dean shoots you a glare, you offer him a soft, teasing smile, and he sighs. “And you’ve got the nerve to call me dramatic.”

“Bold words from the man who just said he’d carry me home on foot.” You hum, and Dean finally grins.

Wide and pretty and unrestrained, staring at you in the breaching light of the morning that’s somehow less golden than he is, and here. Alive.

Not yours, but with you. 

And you love him. 

“I missed you, Princess.” He mutters, and it’s a good thing you’re already half-pressed into his side. Otherwise, you would’ve fallen over.

“I missed you too,” you whisper, and Dean’s grin is beautiful, and there’s the first rule.

This can’t be about you. He’s too pretty and magnetic and Golden, and you love him, but if you’re going to keep loving him it can’t be about you.

“We can take Baby.” You mumble. “I- That was nice, though.”

“No problem.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, and you could swear there was a slight redness to his cheeks before he looked away. “I, uh- Yeah. C’mon.”

Dean half carries you to the car, because he’s an amazing idiot who really seems to think that if he takes his hand off your body for a second, you’ll vanish into thin air.

You understand the sentiment. It’s the same reason that, when you stop for gas after a few hours and he tells you to stay in the car, you shake your head and start to open the door.

“What are you-“

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, I told you to stay-“

“You’re not the boss of me.” You mutter, twisting to glare at him when his arm crosses your chest, pinning you to the seat. “I want a shitty gas station donut, Winchester. Let me go.”

He doesn’t move. “I’ll get you one, sweetheart, just stay-“

“Listen to me.” You snap, leaning forward with a scowl. “If you don’t let me out, I am going to break out, stab you, and sit on you while I eat my donut.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly, and a small smirk creeps onto his face. “Bossy, Princess.”

“Dean Winchester-“

“Chill out,” he drawls your name, his arm moving back and leaving an almost whining depression where he’d been touching you before. “I’m not looking to get stabbed today, you can get your own freakin’ donut.”

You smile at him in triumph, Dean snorts and shakes his head, and you really don’t give a fuck about the donut. You care about Dean, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, muttering low jokes in your ear as you wait in the shockingly long line, and grinning at you like there’s nobody else in the world.

Dean plays his music too loud in the car on the drive back, trying to get you to sing along and pouting whenever you refuse.

“You know, this isn’t very nice,” he grumbles after the fifth attempt. “I just came back from the dead, Princess, the least you could do is sing for me.”

You shoot him glare, the Silver whining in your body at the reminder. “The I was dead card isn’t going to work on me, Deano. I don’t think it’s funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” He shrugs. “C’mon. I think I’m making it work.”

“You’re not.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach, and Dean drops it like that.

You don’t know if he gets it. The toll his death took on you. And you’re going to do everything in your power to ensure he never knows—that’s just another burden you don’t want him to carry—but there are things you can’t keep him from seeing. 

How you get quiet whenever he mentions it, because the numb feeling of nothing, Dean’s gone so there’s nothing, washes back over your body. The fact that you know you don’t look healthy, because even with the Silver humming once more in your body, you still have bruises from malnutrition and rashes on your wrists from where Ketch tied you up. There’s a gaunt quality to your skin that wasn’t there when he last saw you, and you might not be trying to force the Silver down anymore, but the habit of picking your skin raw is too deeply ingrained to go away.

You have gotten better at the healing, over the past four months. But the weakness from being held captive hasn’t faded away, and it means that you’re too tired to do most anything but rest, and talk to Dean.

You can always talk to Dean. 

He’s keeping his voice softer than usual. Almost gentle, as your eyelids start to droop, and his word fade in and out of your head.

“I’m gonna pull over.” He mutters after another few hours. “Check your stitches.”

You hum, and don’t bother to do anything but wait for Dean to park the car and move so he’s kneeling on the grass before you, then let him maneuver your body, so your stomach is under the flashlight in his mouth.

All your effort goes into trying not to moan, when his fingers brush over your skin. Warm and broad and calloused, so careful when they touch you, like you’re something that could possibly be broken.

You don’t care if the Sky sees this. If it hates it, or doesn’t care because Dean’s keeping you safe and alive. 

You’re for Dean. Nothing and no one else. He’s the one who sits you up carefully and presses a kiss to your brow, before making you drink water and settling you upright once more. Dean is the only person in the universe who, when he scoots back into the driver’s seat and slings his arm around your shoulders, you’d ever even consider leaning into.

Sleep comes easy and peaceful, on Dean’s shoulder, the music humming softly in the background and the Silver flowing softly through the world as Dean drives you home.

It’s twilight, when he wakes you up. Everything is cast in deep shades of blue, and the shadows have grown a little longer in the night, but there’s no pain or fear in your body at all.

It’s all still technicolor. 

Dean’s still here.

And you’re curled right into his side, and you can hear his heartbeat, and everything is okay.

“You wanna go right to bed?” He mutters in your ear, and you blink up at him as sleep lingers over your brain.

“Huh?”

Dean huffs a soft laugh, looking at you with an odd gentleness you don’t understand, but are going to cling to for the rest of your life.

“De, I-“ You cut yourself off with a yawn, burrowing yourself a little further into his side because he’s warm and alive and you’re too tired to stop yourself. “What’s happening?”

“We’re back at Bobby’s, Princess.” Dean watches you carefully, his voice still so strongly low and soft. “And Sammy told me they’d wait up, if you wanted, but if you wanna go to bed, we can sleep in your room, or the room I’ve been using. If you, uh, if you want me in the bed, obviously. We can separate and I can take the couch if you want my room-“

You shake your head, moving your hand to press over Dean’s mouth. 

He blinks at you, and you only stare at him through a slight daze.

“Slow down, Deano, you’re talking so fast.” Your voice sounds whiny to your own ears, but Dean doesn’t really look like he cares, and you’re so tired. “‘M tired, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Dean grabs your hand and slowly lowers it down, his eyes dancing with a soft light. “You’re tired, sweetheart?”

You nod, dropping your head to his shoulder, and he lets out a low chuckle that rolls through your body. 

“Alright, you’re doing bed then.”

You frown against his body. “What’s doing bed mean.”

“Means you’re acting like you’re freakin’ drunk, ba- Princess.” Dean starts to shift you around until you might be in his lap—the world is all blurry color and Dean, so you can’t really tell—and sighs in your ear. “So Sam and Bobby will just have to wait till morning.”

“Sam and Bobby. Where are-” Your words die as you lean back, and Dean’s face is right there. A breath from yours, and pretty, and there’s so much life in his eyes—all beautiful and so focused on you—that you almost burst into tears.

“Wait, shit-“ Dean grabs your face with one hand, the other keeping you steady by your waist, and that’s enough. Your eyes start to sting, and a weak noise leaves your chest as the Silver pours out into the world.

You’re the easy wind outside the car, the gentle comfort of the Impala—warm and filled with love from Dean’s care—and the soft hope of a lightbulb outside, covered in moths and flickering but still holding out to draw something else into its light. 

You’re not Dean, but you’re curled right against him, and when your eyes flick down to your hands they’re covered in gold, and Dean-

“Fuck, Princess, don’t cry- It’s- I didn’t mean to- Oof-“

You tackle your body fully into his, somehow finding force without movement, and Dean’s arms wrap tight around you in half a second as you sob.

“You died.” Your hands fist against his shirt, and there’s too much dizzy, sleepy fog over your brain for you to do anything else but sob and hold onto Dean. “You- you were gone, and you died, and I couldn’t- I tried but I couldn’t- And you- You were in Hell, and I didn’t-“

You cut yourself off with another strangled sound, and Dean’s hand starts to stroke through your hair.

“I know. But I’m good now.” he mutters in your ear, and it’s soothing. Like a lullaby that’s a little more. A promise. “I know, Princess I do, but you’re okay. We’re gonna get you to bed, sweetheart, you’re real tired and it’s- It’s okay.”

Dean pries you off his chest as you continue to sniffle, his thumb presses to the bridge of your nose, and it’s like a spell. 

The Silver eases back into your body, and you’re out. 

When you wake up, sunlight is filtering through the room. Your room.

You’re back in your own room.

It hasn’t really changed. Bobby seems to have cleaned up all your notes from the floor, and the sheets are fresh and changed, but everything else is as you left it, save for a slight coat of dust.

And Dean.

The last time you’d slept in this room, Dean had been at your side, but he’s not here now.

The only thing that keeps the Silver from bursting out of your body and ripping through the world to find him is the Gold. Bright and strong and covering your whole room, imprinted on the mattress and all across your clothing, a soft lining of it on the door knob and over the carpet. 

Dean is alive. The Spiderweb is soft and iridescent in your body, so he’s still alive, and he’d been here because only Dean is Golden like that.

It wasn’t just a cruel nightmare or trick of your mind, that he’d come to get you, and-

Oh, fuck.

You’re not tired now, but god, you had been when you got home, and you’d fallen apart from nothing at all. Fragile and uncontrolled and sobbing into Dean’s arms when he was the one who fucking died.

And he’d held you, but you’d been far too close. If he hadn’t somehow eased you to sleep, you probably mumbled that you loved him, in your exhaustion. And he had so many other things to worry about, all far more important than you. Dean shouldn’t be responsible for soothing you whenever you lose your fucking mind-

But he had. Because he was amazing, and Dean, and has always had you  when you lost your fucking mind.

You love him.

Second rule.

You can’t overindulge yourself.

If Dean volunteers to care for you, you’ll take it because you’ll never have enough will to not. But you can never ask for more, when he already gives so much. If you ask for more and he gives it, that won’t be love. It will be selfishness, and greed, and the monster in you hoarding him like the gold he is because you love him, and nothing should ever touch him again. 

Instead you’ll be his beast. Snarling and marching in front of him and taking whatever scraps he throws to you. If Dean asks to keep sleeping in your bed, there’s no world where you say no. If he wants to carry you around and stitches up your wounds and hug you in his lap, you’ll keep pressing your face to his shoulder and drowning yourself in his Gold until he either shoves you away, or you start to infect him and you have to put yourself down.

Castiel said you’d already infected him. That you’d embedded yourself in him.

He’d seemed fine. There were all those new parts of the Gold, and the way that the rivers of Silver were glowing and secured through his body, but if that was what Castiel had been talking about, Dean didn’t seem to be fighting it or rejecting it from his soul. 

That could be part of the no overindulging. What you’d planted in Dean seems to have grown roots, and there was no taking that back, but it ends there. With the only exception of saving his life, the Silver will never touch him again. Especially with how little control over it you still have.

When you see Castiel again, you’ll have to ask him what he knows about souls. He’s the first other not-person you’ve met who ca see them. 

As your brain starts to fully kick back into its normal gear—devoid of weeks without sleep and months of being plagued by Dean’s voice on the wind—it hits you that you really need to talk to Castiel again. He’s a fucking angel. Angels are real, and one had saved Dean, and all the Hell dreams were real too, which has to mean something, but you don’t know what, and Castiel hadn’t seemed to know what either, but he was an angel, so he has to know something-

One thing at a time. 

Too much is happening, and you’ll get through it—you always do—but you still had to go one thing at a time.

And you’re home.

You shuffle out of the bedroom on silent feet, and you can hear them before you can see them.

“I still don’t know why I have to go to Texas.” Sam’s voice mutters from the kitchen. “You’re the one who made her leave her car there-“

“She’d been bleeding out, Sammy, I wasn’t gonna just let her fucking drive-“

“But-“

“Sam.” Bobby’s voice grunts, and you can hear the exhaustion in it. You can’t really tell if the gnawing feeling in your gut is guilt of relief. “I’m with Dean on this one.”

“Thank you, Bobby-“

“Not cause you made the right call, ya’ idjit.” Bobby snaps, and you can very easily picture Dean’s dejected puppy look. “If you’d used your fuckin’ brain, you wouldn’t have taken off the moment Cas found her, and one of us coulda driven it back behind you.”

“But, uh, I still did the right thing with the stitches and driving-“

“Stop fishin’ for compliments. You’re lucky I don’t shoot you for only callin’ us two hours before you got back.”

“I was busy,” Dean mutters, Sam snorts, and you finally turn into the kitchen. 

Dean sees you first, but Bobby’s close behind, and once they’re both staring at you, Sam follows their gaze with wide eyes.

“Hi.” You mumble, keeping one hand on the doorframe to steady yourself. “I- uh- sorry.”

It’s all you can think of to say.

And it turns out it’s all you need, because the words hang in the air for a fraction of a second before Bobby’s marching across the room and you’re pulled into a long firm hug.

You hug him back without a thought, and his grip tightens. You can almost feel all of Bobby’s anger and stress and relief pressing into your body, and you’ve been a really shitty daughter but he’s still hugging you, and there’s no urge to let go.

It’s the same way he’d hug you when you were a kid. When you’d make the house go haywire, then curl into a corner and cry for hours. The hug that meant, even though you’d made a huge mess for him to clean up, Bobby was just glad you hadn’t killed yourself in the process. 

And you hadn’t.

But when Bobby speaks, his voice is still gruff.

“Don’t ever fuckin’ do that to me again, kiddo.” He mutters, low enough for only you to hear, and he knows you don’t need to hear the rest of the lecture. About how you damn near killed him, and he doesn’t need to lose you and Dean, so next time you should just come home. You can feel it all in his hug, and that’s enough.

“I won’t.” You whisper, squeezing him a little tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bobby pulls back, scanning over you with a tight frown. “You gonna tell us what had you off the face of the damn earth and needin’ stitches?”

You nod, rubbing your wrists as you speak. “I will later.” You lean around Bobby to see Sam still gaping at you from his chair. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam pushes out of his chair without another word, and Bobby barely side-steps him before you’re in another death-gripping hug, Sam almost crushing you into his body.

“Did you get bigger?” You mutter into his chest, and Sam snorts.

“I’ve had a weird seven months.” 

“Ah.” You lean back, and Sam stares down at you, but doesn’t let go. “Same.”

He swallows, and something flashes over his face that you don’t understand. “I, um- I’m sorry I didn’t look for you. Dean was gone, and I knew you’d take it worse than anyone, and you were kind of all I had left of him, so I really should’ve tried harder-“

“Sam.” You offer him a soft smile. “It’s okay. I didn’t make myself an easy person to find.”

He nods, taking a slow step back, and Dean clears his throat.

“Can I have a hug too, Princess?”

You give him a flat look. “I’ve hugged you three times already.”

“Yeah, but I also drove you home, I think that’s earning me another one-“

“I’m not running a hug-based economy, Winchester, they’re fucking free-“

Dean almost crashes into you, and you hadn’t realized how different Dean hugging you really was until you felt them all back-to-back. 

Sam and Bobby had been firm, and almost strangling, but they hadn’t been trying to move you into their body. They hadn’t rested their chin on the top of your head, or moved your face to press into their necks, and you hadn’t tilted your head to try and hear their heartbeats. 

Sam and Bobby had stepped back, after the socially allotted amount of time.

Even after Sam lets out a very loud cough, Dean still squeezes you one last time, and keeps his hand between your shoulder blades as he moves away.

That wasn’t overindulging. Dean had hugged you, and you’d only responded to the pace he’d set. You’d sunken a little further down, down, down into Dean because he’d given you to chance, and you’d curled your fingers at the nape of his neck because the situation called for it.

Still, you have to set another two rules.

Third, you can’t let it show on your face, where Sam and Bobby and anyone else who knows where to look can see. When Dean keeps talking—and he’s right next you, and you love him, and he’s so pretty—you can’t just stare at him with a stupid smile and soft, adoring eyes. It has to be business as usual, no matter what, where you love Dean and it’s kept locked in the Spiderweb.

Fourth, you can’t let it affect work. At all. You have to fucking pay attention as they fill you in on the seals, heaven and Lilith, some guy named Chuck wrote those books, and a girl named Anna who’s now a missing angel.

“Oh, wait, get this.” Sam leans forward, his eyes wide on yours. “Where’s the Blade and your book, there’s-“

You cut Sam off with a long sigh. “I lost them.” 

“You- How?”

“Hunters.” You mutter, twisting the skin on your finger, and Dean’s eyes narrow.

“You got a clue where they are, Princess?”

“Yes.”

Dean opens his mouth to push it, but Sam cuts him off before he gets the chance.

“Well, alright, Dean says you can write in the language too-“

You frown. “What language?”

“Cas and Uriel called it Enochian.” Dean mutters, running his hand over his face. “Angel language.”

“Angel what?”

“You heard him, kiddo.” Bobby shrugs at you, and you must still be clouded with sleep, because there’s no fucking way-

“I speak angel?”

“Yeah, but,” Sam sighs, frowning at the air. “We don’t know why, so if you’ve got something-“

You shake your head. “I’m not an angel, Sam, if that’s where you’re-“

“It’s not. Anna was a secret angel, and that was worked out in a month.” Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s gotten really long, but—and he’ll never get to hear this—it suits him. “It’s just better than nothing, right? Did you find anything new on, you know…”

You huff a soft laugh as Sam trails off. “Yeah, I know. And sort of. It’s- I was sort of visiting a bunch of witches-“

Dean pushed off the counter with wide eyes. “You were what-“

“Calm down, Deano.” You give him a firm look, and he scowls, but shuts his mouth. “None of them hurt me. They all treated me like I was some sort of royalty. It was really fucking weird.”

Dean frowns, opening his mouth to say something that’s likely going to be adorable and unhelpful, but Bobby beats him to the punch.

“They give you anythin’ to go off of? If they were treatin’ you like that, they had to know somethin’-“

You shake your head with a long sigh. “They didn’t have a fucking clue either. One older one, like really old, said the name for what I was is lost, but-“ Your eyes widen. “Fuck.”

“What-“

You shake your head, and Sam cuts himself off as you stare ahead into nothing and rub your wrists, letting your brain turn over the chance. It’s lining up, and it’s less than a gamble and more of a risk, but there’s no fucking way it’s that easy-

Dean says your name in a low, careful voice. “What are you thinking?”

“You remember how I thought the soulweapons were solemn oath weapons? And you told me that solemn oath means soul?” You run your thumb against your palm, and Dean nods. “I thought that was just, you know, whoever wrote it being weird or something. But if it really is a different language-“

“It is.” Sam mumbles, and you sigh. 

“Okay, but that means I’ve been translating in my head for some fucking reason, and what if I’ve been mistranslating other words like that?”

Sam frowns. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve been makin’ them literal.” Bobby grunts, giving you a small smile and nod, and you stand a little taller. “You thinkin’ of another word you need worked out?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “Are you guys still kind of fighting with Castiel, or is he going to take a, uh, prayer?”

“He’ll take it if we say we’ve got something interesting. He’s nosy.” Dean starts to guide you to the table. “He’s kinda like a cat. Comes and goes. You’ll like him.”

You give Dean a sweet smile, biting down the words that you already met him, and he did seem a little like a cat. It’s not a lie. It’s an omission.

And that’s bad within itself, but at least until you see Castiel again—and he gets real fucking specific about what the angels have been waiting for means—you’ll have to keep omitting. 

Even if Dean pulls out a chair and helps you into your seat, and the Silver twists because there’s still some muss in his hair from sleep, and he’s still touching you, and you love him.

“I can walk myself, you know.” You raise your brows at him, and he shrugs, dropping in the seat between you and Sam.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Princess.”

“We both know you won’t-“

“Sammy, can we have some paper?” Sam passes Dean a sheet from his notebook, and it’s slid in front of you with a pen.

You blink at Dean, and he sighs, grabbing the pen and moving it into your hands.

“Write down what you want Cas to look at.” He mutters, tapping the paper. “So when we call him, we’ve got something to show him.”

“Oh.” You whisper, glancing down to the paper. “Right. Smart.”

You could swear Dean sits a little taller, his face breaking out in an even wider grin, and the rest of breakfast slides by fast. You do some loose, more pointless catchup about the past months—Sam found some new books he can show you, Bobby’s being a butthead and won’t tell you if he’s been dating, and Dean won’t stop reminding Sam that he needs to get moving to Texas soon—and for long, beautiful seconds, it’s hard to remember that you were gone at all.

But there’s evidence. Proof only you can see that you’ve change. That you’ve all changed.

Dean’s soul is still Golden, even if parts of it are to clearly new and molten from being mended, and Bobby’s soul is still green—although a little more worn, which is going to keep eating at your stomach—but Sam is…

Different. 

There’s more red, even when you give him a quick glance. It’s like blood seeping over his softer tissue and bone, and there’s certainly far less blue to his purple than before. It looks a little like an infection. It’s raw and malignant the same way the Darkness was, and the Silver doesn’t like it. It’s still setting off and keening to spread out over you in an almost chemical reaction. To burst and bubble and flow until all the red is gone, because it’s wrong.

You can’t really think of a good way to mention that to Sam. You’ve never told someone that their soul looks infected before. 

A problem for a later.

Because right now, as you finish up with the word—it takes longer than you’d like, but you’ve never tried to write in Enochian, and it takes an odd amount of effort to separate it in your brain—and you take the time to look at their souls fully, you see it.

Bobby’s soul is firm and pact, like the soil of the ground. Unwavering and firm, but not cold like stone. 

But Sam and Dean aren’t anything you’ve ever seen.

You’d noticed it, when Dean found you, but you’d been tired and chalked it up to exhaustion. Yet you’ve slept, and you’re looking with the intent of seeing, and they’re not anything.

Or they’re everything.

You can’t really tell.

But whatever they’re made of, it’s the same. It’s all light and shadow, shifting and turning like a star inside of them, and almost pure looking. Like it’s raw, but still made from something old. 

You can’t stare. If you stare, they’ll ask questions that you don’t have an answer for. Whatever it is, they’ve been made of it their whole lives, so it’s not another change.

And the changes all fit themselves—except for Sam’s, you’re a little worried about him—but they also still fit each other. You can see that too. How Sam’s soul is running with wisps of Bobby’s green, deeper coatings of gold that look a little like stitches over the redness, and a thin layer of silver that’s flowing through and off of him without leaving any scratches. The marks of silver are on Bobby as well, although a little brighter and further into the muscle of his soul, and then Dean-

Embedded.

You’re embedded in Dean. The rivers of silver as refracting with rainbow and have been almost buried in the Gold, and that’s what Castiel meant.

You don’t get to ask him about it when he arrives.

The introduction is quick. Dean says your name, Castiel—Cas is quicker, and suits him a little better—gives you a short nod, and you both stare at each other for a long second as Dean keeps talking. 

“We just need you to take a look at it.” He taps the paper, and Cas’ eyes flick away from yours, down to the paper.

“That is it?”

You nod, glancing down to the words. Word. When you’ve focused on writing it in Enochian, it’s obviously one word, no matter how it keeps shifting off the paper into four. “I, uh, I might have been giving it a literal translation, because nobody ever actually taught me what I was writing. I didn’t even know I was writing in a different language.”

“Enochian is… very old and complex.” Cas mutters, moving to frown down at the paper. “I do recognize this word, but I’m afraid I don’t know what it means.”

Dean frowns. “How can you not know what it means, it’s your freakin’ magic language-“

“Do you know every word in the English dictionary, Dean?” Cas gives him a bored, pointed look, and you have to cover your mouth to hide your giggle.

“No.” He grumbles, shooting you a glare. “And you’re supposed to be on my side, Princess.“

“I am.” You shrug. “But that was funny.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and Cas keeps staring down at the paper.

"There are some things I will have to check before I give you an answer." Cas turns to look at you, his words slow and cautious. "But I warn you, what I find may not be what you wish to hear."

"As long as it's something." You mutter, leaning back in your chair. "I really don't give a fuck what."

It's a few more minutes where Cas lingers in the kitchen, talking about some new seal Lilith is trying to break, and telling you that—wherever he has to look for the direct translation of your word—it may take him a few weeks to do it undetected.

"Won't the angels want us to figure it out?" Sam asks, frowning down at your paper. "I mean, you told Dean that not even you guys really know-"

"None of my siblings within my rank know." Cas corrects, shaking his head. "It is not information that has been deemed necessary. Our only orders are to keep out of it.”

"Then what's got you suddenly all in on helping her?" Dean raises his brows, and Cas shrugs.

"I am... curious. My brothers and sisters are dying, and if this is what I think it may be-“ Cas sighs. “I am willing to bend things. For this alone. And as long as we are careful, and the seal is dealt with-"

"Your big bosses won't be all pissed.” Dean finishes, running a hand over his face. "I dunno, Cas, that douchebag at Chuck's didn't seem too flexible about things."

"Aw." You give Dean a soft, teasing smile before Cas has to respond. "You're worried about him getting in trouble."

Dean scowls. "Yeah, because they'll freakin' smite him or something, Princess. Then maybe try to get you too-"

"They cannot smite her.” Cas shrugs. “They’ve been very clear about that. It would not be effective.” 

You swallow, but Dean relaxes. That opens up a million more questions, but Dean lets out a slow breath and presses his knee further into yours, and you almost say it again. 

And you know that there has to be a last rule. 

It’s most important of all. 

You can never say it aloud. 

It won’t bring Dean anything but more danger. More grief. Everything is only growing more and more complicated, and telling Dean you love him will only be cruel to you both. Telling someone else will force them to keep your secret, and that’s selfish. 

It will have to live in your head. Where only you can hear. Not even the mirror can know, because the Sky might be listening, and you never want it to touch Dean. 

You love him. 

You’re going to have to find a way to tell yourself that in more silence, because it’s not helpful to repeat. You’re aware. It’s a given. You love Dean.

And you don’t know how you convince him to go without you for the seal case. It’s a lot of promises of phone calls and check-ins, plus the fact that Ruby’s going to be there, and Sam is—rightfully—under the impression that you’ll kill the moment you see her.

“She left me at the gas station. She’s the reason I didn’t get to Dean on time.” You hiss to Sam—Dean, Cas, and Bobby wrapping up in the kitchen—and he sighs.

“She got kicked out of her vessel by Lilith.” He mutters your name, and you scoff. 

You don’t believe him. 

More accurately, you don’t believe what Ruby’s told him. 

But it’s still the right call to sit out the seal case. The angels are still hunting you. Cas is likely risking a fair amount by looking into the Enochian, and it’s better not to draw attention while things are still so fragile. You lie low at Bobby’s for a few days while Sam gets the Firebird, and you keep to your rules. Dean sleeps in your bed, but you only hold him when he holds you first. He hovers at your side like your stitches may rip open if you breathe wrong, and you keep your glances at him measured and controlled, your flush under complete control.

When Jo calls you with a case—bunch of deaths at an opera house, sounding like a lich—you agree to it in a second.

It doesn’t matter how the Silver howls at the idea of leaving Dean’s side. It can’t affect work, and you miss Jo, so even as Dean glowers at you when you hang up, you’re going to go on that hunt.

“I can’t just sit here, De.” You mutter before he can even open his mouth. “Cas said it could take a week, and if the angels are looking for me I shouldn’t be doing the seals-“

“You safer here.” He cuts you off with a grunt. “There are wards, and Bobby can watch you-“

“I don’t need watching. And you don’t get to fucking bench me-“

“I’m not- Son of a bitch.” Dean lets out a long breath, leaning forward and holding your gaze. “Just come with us. I really don’t give a shit if you kill Ruby, I’m all for it, but you just got back-“

“Dean.” You sigh, keeping your tone soft. “I’m not leaving. You and Sam will work the seal, and I’ll be with Jo the whole time.”

“But-“

“She asked me to help. I’m going to. And,” you give him a pointed look. “You can’t stop me. You can either go with Sam, or come on this case with me, but you’re not keeping me here.”

“Bossy.” Dean mutters, and you’ve won.

You want to lean forward and kiss him—at least on the cheek as a thanks—but that would be overindulging. 

Sam’s back by that night, and when the morning comes, you split up once more.

“Call me if it goes south.” Dean mutters your name as you stand in front of the Impala, Sam already in the passenger’s seat.

“It won’t. I know what I’m doing, Winchester-“

“Yeah, I know, just-“ He sighs. “You heading out to New York?”

“Boston.” You correct. “Citizen’s Opera House. We’ll be fine, and you guys can join us if you finish first.”

Dean gives a tight nod and, right before he turns to climb into the Impala, he whips around and pulls you right back into a crushing hug.

You hug him back without a thought, and it’s not breaking a rule. He hugged you. 

“Come with us.” He mutters in your ear. “Fuck the angels and Ruby, it’s safer together-“

“Not for this, De.” You force yourself to peel back, giving him a soft, sad smile. “And I’ll be with Jo. She’ll have a gun.”

Dean’s mouth twitches slightly. You’ll take it.

He presses a kiss to your brow before he takes off, and you really are a monster. A dragon. Taking every bit of Gold Dean gives you and only craving more. You can’t let it show on your face, but he’s driving away, and you want him to turn around. 

He looks back. You see him glancing in the rearview mirror, and it’s all you can do to keep the Silver in your body as he vanishes down the road.

He’ll be fine. Sam won’t let him get hurt, won’t let him be taken away from you, even if Ruby’s there. And you did miss Jo—grinning at you from the motel sidewalk as you pull into the parking lot—but this might have been a mistake.

Because more than anyone, you want to tell Jo. 

The biggest point of the case—at least to you—is to mimic some normalcy. Sam and Dean are trying to stop Lilith from something to do with flowers blooming at night, and if you can’t be with them, you can’t just do nothing. And lich are easy—up until the very end—so most of the case can just be you and Jo talking, like nothing in the world is wrong at all.

“It’s like a scavenger hunt.” You tell her over breakfast, flipping through the evidence she’s already found. “It’ll have a bunch of artifacts it’s tethered its lifeforce to, and once we burn all of those, we find the lich and burn it.”

Jo frowns. “Will it be easy to tell? If it’s a magic corpse?”

“It can illusion itself.” You shrug. “But it’ll just be an illusion, so-“ You pause, glancing down at Jo’s eggs. “I’ll tell you later.”

She grimaces. “It’s gonna be real freakin’ gross, isn’t it.”

“I think it’ll be better if I don’t answer that.”

“Great.” Jo sighs, poking at her plate with her fork. “Ya know, I didn’t think Dean was gonna just let you go off alone.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say nothin’-“

“Yeah, but I know where you’re going with it.”

“What?” Jo gives you a mockingly innocent smile. “That you two should save us all and start suckin’ face- Shit!”

You laugh as she barely manages to doge one of your apple slices, aim right at her head. 

“Fuckin’- I just did my hair-“

“Well I warned you.” You stick out your tongue, a wide grin still splitting your face. “I told you to shut up, and you didn’t.”

“You just don’t want to hear the truth-“

“Because it’s not the truth.”

“God, you’re fuckin’ stupid for the smartest person I know.”

You scowl. “Hey-“

Jo cuts you off with raised brows. “How many times Dean called you, since you guys split up?”

You flush, and do the smart and mature thing.

Ignore her.

But it still scratches at your tongue. You want to tell Jo. To lean forward and whisper that you love Dean, like it’s not something complicated. Like you’re just two girls in your twenties, eating greasy diner food and gossiping about crushes and other pointless, normal things.

You’re not, though. The very next thing you do is grab your knife and a set of matches, then get in the car to go kill a magic corpse. 

The first day really is just a scavenger hunt.

“This place is freakin’ fancy,” Jo mutters in your ear, adjusting the black cap on her head, and you hum in agreement.

“Just act like you belong.” You whisper, scanning over the lobby. “We’re new staff. I’m in hair and makeup, you do sound.”

“I don’t know how to do sound-“

“You don’t have to know.” You shrug. “We just need as much backstage access as we can get.”

“Right. Smart.”

You shoot her a grin. “I know.”

Jo scoffs. “Shut up. How are we gonna know what’s one of those life-objects?”

“The normal effort is a lot of cutting your hand and seeing if the object eats your blood-“

“Eats your blood-“

“But.” You raise your brows, and Jo sighs. 

“You’ve got something else, don’t you.”

“Nope.” You give her a wide grin. “You’ve got me. And the life force is just a faded and split form of their souls. So…”

You spread your arms, and Jo just stares at you. “So what?”

“I can see souls, Jo.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right.” She gives you a grimacing smile. “I kinda forgot. Lot been happenin’ this year.”

“Yeah. That’s fair.” You let out a long sigh, rubbing your palm as you scan around the lobby. “Ready?”

Jo nods, and for such a fancy place, it’s shockingly easy to lie your way into a fake job. 

“I didn’t know we had new people.” The small, pretty girl—sitting at the front desk with a bow in her hair—smiles between you and Jo, and you’ve never seen someone’s teeth be so white. “They never tell me anything, though, so don’t worry about it.”

“They didn’t tell us much either,” you give her an innocent nervous smile, glancing back to Jo over your shoulder. “Do you know where we’re supposed to go?”

The girl waves her hand. “Just walk into the stage. If someone yells at you, tell them to actually tell Lacy things instead of just expecting her to deal.” She pauses. “I’m Lacy, by the way.”

“I guessed that.” You glance to the doors. “Just walk inside?”

“Yeah, um, wait-“ Lacy slides two badges across the desk. “Take these, and uh, be careful. We’ve been having a lot of accidents.”

You blink like you have no clue what she’s talking about, passing Jo one of the badges. “Accidents?”

“There’s been a lot of crew deaths, right?” Jo jumps in with a perfect, fake-worried expression. “Is it gonna be affectin’ the jobs?”

She’s gotten really good at this.

You’re proud.

Lacy shakes her head. “No, bosses say it’s business as usual. Just really bad luck.”

Bad luck doesn’t usually end up making corpses look like they’ve been dead five years. 

Lacy doesn’t need to worry about that.

“Jesus fuckin’ Mary.” Jo’s eyes widen as you step into the house, the stage large and shining ahead of you, rows of red velvet seats around you. “Can we actually just work here? For real?”

You snort. “After we kill the undead wizard, sure.” 

“Right.” She gives you a teasing look. “You think Dean would wanna work mechanics, so you can stay together-“

“I’m going to push you off the balcony.” You say in a flat tone, marching up towards the stage, and Jo laughs before running after you.

“That’s fuckin’ rude!”

“I’m not listening!” You call over your shoulder, not bothering to hide your smile, and push yourself up onto the stage. “There’s nothing in here, by the way.”

“What’d you-“

“No souls.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Jo climbs up to your side, frowning around the house. “You know, I can play a mean triangle. Maybe they’d take me. Or- Dean told me you can sing, we can run away with the circus-“

“This is the literal opposite of a circus.” You mutter, turning to scan over the stage. “And Dean’s never heard me sing.”

You’re walking before Jo can push it further, because every single mention of Dean is going to make you want to tell her, and you can’t let this distract you from the job.

Lich cases really are easy, when you know what you’re doing. The first thing you find is a delicate, old hand mirror in a dressing room—crawling and twisting with faded gray tendrils—and Jo throws it against the wall before you can stop her.

“That do it?”

You poke one of the shards with your foot, and let out a long sigh. “Yeah. Somehow it did.”

“Awesome.” Jo grins at you, turning around the room with her gun in hand. “Now we fight?”

“There are going to be like, two or three more you know.”

“Three?” Jo gapes at you, and you snort. 

“Yep. Nothing else in here, though.” You start back towards the door, poking your head out the hall to check for other staff. “Jo?”

She sighs from behind you. “No more smashin’?”

You give her an apologetic look. “It’s kind of loud. And we can’t draw attention, or people will split us up.”

“But it’s fun, and it works-“

“You sound like Dean.”

“From you, I’m takin’ that as a compliment.”

You flush again, but you walked into that one.

You’re walking into most of these. The day passes quickly, and you manage to destroy another two artifacts—a comb and a fountain pen—before the building closes. There are no deaths when you leave for the night, but you really wish a stakeout was a plausible option, because most of the night is filled with Jo teasing about Dean.

Most of the whole next day is filled with teasing about Dean. You find a fancy gun with lifeforce, and Jo says you should give it to Dean. It doesn’t help that you would, if it didn’t need to be destroyed to kill the lich. It’s the exact type of gun Dean would like.

It wears off around the afternoon, though. Every single sweep of a room, you find another artifact, and it’s starting to drive you and Jo up the wall.

“You said three,” she grumbles as you drag another mirror into what you’ve deemed the destruction room. “This is more than three.”

You shrug, stepping back so Jo can smash, because she was right. It does work. “Yeah, well, this asshole must be strong.”

“How are we even gonna know when we’re done?”

“I’ll be able to see it, because all its lifeforce will be back inside its body.”

“So I don’t have to do the gross thing?”

You shake your head. “Once the objects are destroyed, you can’t do the gross thing.”

She frowns at you. “Which was?”

“Touching it.” You sigh, wiping your hands on your pants. “You’ll be able to. You know. Feel the deadness, right now.”

Jo wrinkles her nose. “But after?”

“It’ll make you the deadness.”

“Oh.” Jo blinks. “Fun.”

You hum, and move on to the next sweep. 

It doesn’t take all the artifacts being destroyed to work out who the lich is, though. Jo works it out herself by day three.

“Who even wears a monocle anymore.” You mutter, chucking this one at the wall yourself, and Jo tilts her head.

“I’ve seen an old guy doin’ it. The one who waves his hands, while the orchestra’s rehearsin’.”

You frown. “The conductor?”

“Yeah, him.” She pauses, staring into the air for a long second before speaking with slow, careful words. “That was his dressin’ room. And I ain’t seen that monocle on his face before. You don’t think-“

“If you think.” You shrug. “I’m on board. Be careful of the conductor.”

Jo grins, and you’re really proud of her. She’s got this whole case under control, to the point that she barely even needs you at all. She figures out that—as you keep looking everywhere, finding less and less with each sweep—it’s likely that there’s an instrument you won’t be able to get until the orchestras rehearsing again, and that you’ll have to be ready to fight the moment it goes down.

The lich hasn’t been killing since you showed up, though. It’s probably worked out that you’re not just new staff. Figuring out that it’s the conductor puts you back on even ground.

Jo figuring out that it’s the conductor.

You hadn’t even looked at the name on the dressing room, because Dean had texted you, and you’d gotten distracted.

You let yourself off the hook for that one, though. It wasn’t your love for Dean messing with your focus. It was the fact that he’d been blowing up your phone with how he was gonna fucking shoot Ruby in the face.

“I think you should.” You tell him over the phone that night, and he laughs through the speaker.

“I’m this freakin’ close, Princess. I’m serious. She’s a fucking bitch-“

“Do you want me to tell you not to?” You grin into the night air, leaning against the outside of the diner. “Because that would be lying, De, and lying is a sin-“

He snorts. “You were just telling me about how you spent the whole day committing property damage-“

“Which is a crime. Not a sin.”

“So you’re a criminal?”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Nah, I wanna hear you admit it-“

“You’re gonna be waiting a long fucking time, Winchester.”

“Alright. I got patience.” You can hear his smile over the phone, and your fingers are still painted in his Gold. It’s going to drive you insane. “Oh, and text me the address of the motel you’re staying at. Me and Sammy are wrapping this up.”

You sigh, ignoring how the Silver start to riot at the very idea of Dean, here, holding you all day and through the night, and why did you suggest splitting up in the first place, you haven’t slept well all week, and all you do is dream of him anyway-

“Dean, you don’t have to-“

“I know. But I’m gonna. And if you don’t text me, I’ll make Sammy do his computer magic to track you down.”

You sigh. You know he’s not lying, and that makes all of this harder. “You’re being dramatic again.”

Dean pauses, muttering something you can’t make out, but raising his voice before you can ask what. “C’mon. Do it for Jo, least she’ll be happy to see me-“”

“I’ll be happy to see you, De.” You cut him off with a frown at the air. “But the seal was all the way in Kentucky-“

“And I love driving.”

“I know, but-“

“Please,” Dean mutters, and that’s it.

He wants to. It’s not indulging if he wants to.

“Sam and Dean are coming to help.” You tell Jo as you slide back into the booth, and her grin is shit-eating.

“Aw, he wants to see you,” she hums when you hang up, and you flip her off without a word.

It’s not effective. 

“You guys are so cute, runnin’ around after each other, and callin’ every night-“

“I got shot.” You mutter, tracing your fingers over your stomach. You haven’t tried to fully heal it with the Silver. At this point, it would be pointless anyway. “He calls to make sure I’m not dead.”

“Cause he loves-“

“Jo.” You shoot her a glare over the table, and she scoffs.

“Why don’t you think he loves you?”

“I don’t want to talk about this-“

“I do! He at least wants you!” She sighs, leaning forward and holding your gaze. “You’re supposed to be smart, you know. Whenever people ask me about you, they ask you know the smart girl that-“

Jo cuts herself off with a sudden, strange expression, and you narrow your eyes. “That what.”

“I don’t remember.” She mumbles lamely.

“Joanna-“

“You don’t wanna hear it.”

“Well now I have to-“

“That Dean Winchester’s obsessed with!” She blurts, giving you an apologetic expression, and the whole world stops for a second. 

Obsessed with. And you’re embedded in him. And he’d apologized, on his knees, and put you to bed and let you crawl all over him and had never wanted you to leave-

“You were kinda all he talked about, before you got back.” Jo sighs. “I’m kinda shocked you ain’t together, after all that. I mean, everyone’s seen it, and if they ain’t seen it, they’ve heard about how you damn near died tryin’ to save him, and how he’s always smilin’ more when you’re at the roadhouse with him.”

“Jo.” You whisper, and the Spiderweb feels like it’s crashing down, down, down all while building and pulsing with light. “Please don’t. I- Everything is so complicated, and I-“

You can’t say it aloud.

And Jo only gives you a soft smile, reaching across the table and holding your hand. She’s such a pretty, soft blue, when you look over at her. Smooth and gentle like water, but still running and turning faster than any other soul you’ve ever seen. 

“I know.” She mutters, and you feel a little like a child. “I just need you to know, cause, God, I ain’t gonna be able to handle another year of y’all starin’ at each other like lost puppies. You’re happier together, and he drove to freakin’ Texas for you, then begged you to come home.”

You sigh. “I shouldn’t have told you about that-“

“But ya did. And if a guy did that for me, I’d marry him.”

“I-“

“I’m not sayin’ you marry him now. I’m just saying thinkin’ he don’t at least want you is insane. But,” she leans back, shrugging and giving you a small smile. “We can talk about somethin’ else now. How’d you get shot, anyway?”

You pause, giving Jo a careful look. She’s really just moved on that fast, her brows raised as she takes a bite of her burger, and you let out a long sigh. “You can’t tell Dean.”

“Ooo, it’s a secret-“

“It’s not a secret, I just don’t want him to-“

“Worry?”

You flush, glaring down at your plate. “Shut up.”

“I’m teasin’.” Jo says your name, giving you a firm look. “When have I ever told one of your secrets?”

That’s a fair point. She hasn’t. And the Spiderweb is still raw in your body as the world grows more and more vibrant, so maybe your judgement is clouded, but maybe it’s just Jo. And you sort of trust her more than anyone in the world. 

And you tell her everything. Studying witchcraft, and trying to look for ways to bring back Dean. How ever has been Silver since he died but it’s all still so painful and hard to control, and Ketch and Davis chasing you then holding you captive. The books—you need to ask them how that panned out, actually—and Enochian and the months on the road.

You leave out the Spiderweb and the Sky and Cas’ visit, for the same reason you won’t tell Dean you love him. That’s not their problems. You won’t make things more complicated than they already are.

But you do mention seeing Dean in Hell, mostly because you have to tell someone.

“Like- In Hell?”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “And I, uh- I don’t think it was a dream thing. It was really realistic, and I saw-“

“You still don’t want him to know about this, right?”

You frown at her. “Yeah, wh-“

“Cause I can see Dean right now.”

Jo nods over your shoulder, you twist in your booth, and she right.

Dean’s standing at the door, his hands in his pockets as he scans over the diner, and when his eyes land on yours, a wide, bright grin splits his whole face.

You love him.

You’re going to fucking kill him. 

“We’ll finish later,” Jo whispers, and you give her a small nod right as Dean stops at your table. 

He’s so fucking pretty, grinning at you as he drops into at your side without a word, forcing you to scoot back so he doesn’t end up half on your lap, and looping his arm around the back of the booth like this is the most casual thing in the world. 

“What are two girls like you doing in a place like this, huh?”

“Dean.” You keep your voice firm, forcing yourself to ignore how he’s pressed his thigh right to yours without a thought. “You’re supposed to be in Kentucky.”

“Sammy’s got it. Rather be here anyway.” He shrugs like as if it’s nothing, already eyeing your fries because he’s a perfect idiot. “You ladies doin’ like a girls night or something?”

“We’re huntin’.” Jo says, crossing her arms and raising her chin, and you slide your plate over to Dean without a word.

He winks at you before he takes one.

You’re going to explode.

“I heard, kid. You know, extra hands never hurt-“

You snort. “Dean. What do you want.”

“Why do I have to want something.” His eyes flick right to yours, and he’s Golden, and you swallow. “Can’t I just be here-“

“What about Kentucky?” Jo pipes in, and Dean sighs.

“I already said Sam’s got it. What are we hunting?”

“We’re not hunting anything-“

“Lich.” 

You shoot Jo a glare, and she just shrugs. 

“We get to smash things,” she tells Dean, and he raises his brows.

“I can smash things, Princess.”

“Yeah, I know you can, De. Jo, if it’s just the instrument-“

“Then the lich is going to reveal itself.” She gives you a pointed look. “And the more people we have for that, the better.”

“Awesome.” Dean takes another fry, settling somehow further into the booth. Into you. “I’ll tell Sammy to call Bobby when he’s done, and we can gank this lich thingy.”

“Cool. But,” Jo shoots you a grin, and you’re going to kill her. “It’s funny you mentioned it, Dean, but we do have a girl’s night. You agree not to be a big whinin’ bitch about it, you can stay in our motel room.”

Dean pauses, glances over to you in a silent question, and death isn’t a firm enough fate for Jo. You’re going to leave her in a room with Bobby after you ask him about historical figures he thinks were secretly hunters or monsters.

You shouldn’t have trained her so well. It’s coming back to bite you in the fucking ass.

There’s nothing you can do but give Dean a small smile and nod—because he’s asking permission, but you split open the world if it meant not having to go another night without him on the other side of the bed—and mouth I hate you at Jo across the table. 

She only laughs, and you’re not going to kill her.

The rest of the night is going to kill you first.

Because you can’t stop seeing it, now that Jo has said something. Dean doesn’t ever just press into people like this, or offer anyone else fries with raised brows. And he fucking pouts when you say no, then grins when you roll your eyes and snatch the fry from his hand. Whenever Jo’s talking he’s listening, but you can’t stop staring at him from the corner of your eyes, and he glances over at you so often. And he helps you out of the booth, and pays the bill—you’ve never seen him volunteer to pay a bill, not unless he was trying to make a dramatic point—and walks you to your car like you don’t have a fucking knife in your jacket.

The jacket that’s always been yours, but he held onto when he didn’t even know if he’d see you again. And the knife he gave you, because he was worried about you.

His hand stays on your lower back with every step.

This isn’t good. 

Not when you can really never say it aloud.

Dean trails you back to the motel in the Impala, and while Jo had been exaggerating about girl’s night, you do have… rituals. 

There aren’t a lot of other girl hunters. And you love the men you’ve surrounded yourself with, but the one most secure in his masculinity is Rufus, and it’s still not pseudo-sleepover-secure. 

Because that’s a better description for this. Neither you nor Jo got real, stupid, fun sleepovers growing up, so it’s become a habit whenever you have a hunt together. A stupid game, or more stupid series of truth or dare—Dean is a banned truth topic for you, and get the most people to leave the bar is a banned dare topic for Jo after the fire incident—with snacks and a movie and-

“I am not doing a fuckin’ face mask.” Dean snaps at you, and you raise your brows as Jo snickers.

“You said you wouldn’t be a little bitch, Winchester.”

“I said whining bitch-“

“You’re still being a bitch.”

Dean scowls, eyeing the plastic in your hand like it’s a bomb set to go off. “What’s it even going to help with, my skin is fine-“

“Yeah, but it’s not-“ You glance down, having already forgotten which mask you chose. “Poreless.”

“I- I fuckin’ need my pores-“

“It’ll make you pretty, Dean.” Jo calls from her bed, and he flips her off. 

You sigh. “Not helpful, Jo.”

“Sorry, mom.”

Dean snorts, and you whack his arm.

“Whose side are you on, Winchester?”

He shrugs. “Whichever side gets me out of that mask, Princess.” 

“What if I say please?”

“Uh,” Dean sighs. “Maybe.”

“What if I say please,” you pout at him slightly, making your smile impossibly sweet. “And I promise not to stab you when you try to check my stitches later?”

“I wasn’t gonna-“ Dean cuts himself off at your pointed look, running a hand over his face. “Fine. But I get to actually check them, too.”

“Deal.” You lock your pinky with his quickly, shoving the mask into his hands before he can take it back. “Go wash your face.”

Dean doesn’t move. He only stares at you, and Spiderweb might as well be made of the Sun in your body, and your pinkies are still locked. His skin is rough, and warm, and feels right against yours, and he can’t look at you like that, or you’ll-

Jo coughs, and you pull yourself back together. 

“C’mon.” You fold your fingers fully through Dean’s and pull him after you into the motel bathroom. 

You sit on the sink for a better, and it’s a good excuse to touch him, as you smooth out the lines of the mask on his face. Taking more time than you need, with more careful fingers than necessary, because you just want to touch him a little longer. 

“Be honest.” He mutters as you move around his eyes, continuing after you hum an agreement. “I look stupid.”

“That’s not a question, De-“

“So I do look stupid-“

“You look very handsome.” You let your fingers trail down to his cheeks. “Stoic. Debonair and heroesque-“

“Alright, alright. I get it.”

“Everyone looks stupid in a face mask.” You mumble, pressing the sheet onto his brow. “You’re still working it pretty well.”

Dean gives you an odd look. “You’ll look good.”

It’s a good thing you didn’t bother with the full overhead light. Dean doesn’t need to see how your flush is spreading down your neck. “Thanks.”

He just shrugs, and the silence stretches on without tension as you try to focus on the mask, you’re touching him because of the mask, not to trace his sharp jawline and slightly crooked nose-

“Dad would kill me if he saw me now.” Dean chuckles suddenly, and your hands still on his face. 

“Because you’re with me?”

Dean shakes his head. “One of the reasons, yeah. Mostly cause I let Sammy talk me into ditching him for a girl.”

You frown at him. “Sam told you to go?”

“Apparently I was driving him insane.” Dean mutters. “He said he had it, and I should, uh, just freaking go to her.”

“Her?”

“You.”

You swallow, and he’s so close. You’re brushing over his lips as you keep holding his face, and the liquid of his mask is sticky, but you don’t really care. 

“Is my face supposed to be tingling?” He mutters, and pulls a soft giggle from your throat.

“Yep. That means it’s working.”

Dean frowns, but lets you keep touching him. And he does look handsome with the mask. It’s insane, and unfair, and even when you finish up, he doesn’t move away.

Neither of you are trying to move away.

And things are always complicated. They’ve always been complicated, but when he’s gotten the chance, Dean’s always stayed, and you can’t tell him that, but you have to tell him something-

“I’m really glad you’re alive.” You whisper, and he beams at you.

Full and happy and so fucking Dean—handsome and Golden and not yours, but still making the Spiderweb catch light and throw it around your body until you’re a little dizzy—and nothing about this is easy, but it still feels it. Dean is here, so pain is somehow foreign. 

You’re suddenly a little afraid of what you’d do to keep him safe, and away from the Sky, out of the angel’s reach.

“Yeah. I- I’m glad you’re alive, too.” He blinks, frowning into the air. “I mean- I’m glad we’re both alive. Uh, together.”

You smile at him, and in the low light of the bathroom, it’s a little like he has a halo.

You still don’t know what his soul is made of. You don’t really care. 

It’s still Dean all the same.

“All the way down.” You take a careful step back, but you’re cruel to yourself, so you let your hand fall back into his. 

It’s his gravity.

You’re never going to be able to pull away.

And if you could, you’d never able to bring yourself to try.

Because he grins, and says it back with a squeeze of your hand. 

“All the way down.”

And you know. It doesn’t matter what Cas comes back saying you are, or what heaven or hell wants from you. You know what you are. 

Dean’s.

You’ll be damnation or salvation or a whore or a monster for him. You’ll be wrathful god if that’s what it comes to. But you’ll be his.

All the way down.

——————

She’d fallen asleep on Dean’s chest. 

At some point during the movie She started to lean into him, and Dean could never be strong enough to push Her away. When Her eyes had started to flutter shut and Her face had angled in his body, he’d pulled her a little closer. When she’d let out a small, soft sigh, he’d been certain that the world could crumble and collapse around them, but he would just stay right fucking here.

Jo had been giving Dean smug, pointed looks when Her arms had wrapped around his stomach. And when he’d carefully moved his hand to brush a little hair from Her face, he’d kept his words to Jo low.

He didn’t want to wake Her up. Not when She was sleeping this well.

“Don’t say a freakin’ word.”

Jo had let out a soft laugh, her gaze never moving from the chick flick on the TV. “I ain’t said nothin’.”

“If you tell Bobby, he’ll-“

“Like Bobby don’t already know.” Jo had scoffed. “He’s old, not blind and stupid.”

Dean had swallowed—Bobby couldn’t know, nobody really knew—but kept going. “Fine, but if you tell Sam about anything tonight-“

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep all the girly stuff you did to myself.” 

“Okay-“

“But I am gonna tell him about this.” 

Jo had waved a loose hand to Her and Dean—their bodies now fully curled together, Her breathing even and steady, one of Dean’s hand stroking carefully through Her hair—and Dean’s jaw had clenched.

The only thing that has kept him from yelling at Jo was Her. She’d stirred slightly as he tensed, and he couldn’t disturb Her. 

And, selfishly, he couldn’t ruin this for himself.

This was the part of being Her shadow that he’d always wanted, but never dared to ask for. The part that was softer, and bloodless, and gave Her even more. Where he got to hold Her and touch her like no one else, and She was safe as long as Dean was at her side. The part that could maybe lead to his hands on bare, soft skin, to Dean being allowed to kiss a little more than Her brow when he could get away with it. 

He didn’t know how to earn that. Hell, he hadn’t even earned this. He could never fucking earn it. She’d told him that She was what they hunted, but that was fucking insane because nobody in their right mind could want to hurt Her. It would take more than a monster to grab something rare and beautiful and destroy it, rather than orbit around it and follow it all the way to the edge of the earth, then down. Dean was the one who’d barely become better than a demon, but the very last fucking thing separating him from the black-eyed sons of bitches was that he still had things to defend. 

No matter how Sammy was driving him insane with the Ruby bullshit, Dean still defended him because that was what he did. Sam was still a kid, and he was smart as shit but he could never handle all the blood and guts the same way Dean was crafted for them. It was the same way She fit so well into Dean, but She could never been made for the mud and darkness. Dean was Her shadow to keep as much of that from Her hands as he could. 

She’d chosen to be here, with Dean. To come home and forgive him for things She shouldn’t ever have to know about, and the angels could forget all their fucking plans, because if She told Dean she wanted Lilith to open the seals and to let the world burn, he’d let it fall apart without a single fucking question.

And She wouldn’t do that. She was made of too many good things, and full of too much light to want the world to be ash. It wouldn’t be any place for Her, so Dean wouldn’t let it happen. 

This was the place for Her.

At Dean’s side, where he could watch over Her and silently crave more until She decided he’d earned it. Because it would never matter what Dean had done until She said it was too far, then the last piece of him that Alistair hadn’t carved into would become the very ash he was trying to save Her from.

“You call her Princess, don’t you.” Alistair sneered, and Dean didn’t respond, only staring at the different weapons before him. “Answer me, boy.”

He hadn’t. It was one of the last lines Dean had for himself. He’d rip himself and a million other souls apart, but he’d never let Alistair touch on the fucking idea of Her or Sammy. It was his last apology to them. The last way he had to protect them, when—if they saw him now—he’d beg them to drive Ruby’s knife right into his ribs to save themselves.

His silence always ended with a little extra torment. Dean could live—or die—with that. It was what he deserved.

“I’ve warned ya.” Alistair hissed Her name in his ear after. “She’d got a special spot on my rack, when I drag her down here. I might not be supposed to hurt her, but I ain’t ever cared ‘bout the rules before. Nothing gonna fuckin’ stop me anyway.”

Dean had tensed, and Alistair had laughed in his ear.

“You think you’re gonna save her? That she’d want you to save her? Be your Princess’s shining white knight and sweep her away into the sunset? Here’s a new lesson for you, Dean. Nothin’ can save her, and if I’m bein’ honest, she might be better off down here, with me. I’m not man of god, and maybe,” Alistair’s breath had been hot over Dean’s face as he’d been yanked up by his hair. “That’s exactly what she fuckin’ needs. Maybe she’ll beg me to hurt her. I’ve heard what a little masochist that one is.”

Dean jolted awake in a cold sweat, the sound of Alistair’s laughter still echoing around his skull. It was just another nightmare. She was still right at his side. His hand was touching the bare skin of Her arm, and when he dared to draw small circles with his thumb, She hummed and let out a soft sound Dean would like to hear for the rest of his life. 

Cas needed to hurry up on that translation. The sooner they had better idea of what She was, the sooner Dean could handle those certain nightmares better. 

They’d never go away.

But at least he’d be able to wake up, look at Her, and know nothing would touch Her. That Lilith couldn’t grab Her and use her against them, and the angels might not want Her around, but they could never hurt Her, and She was—as long as he used all the sharper and bloodied parts of himself right—safe at Dean’s side. 

Or across the room from him, or in his car, or holding his hand and pulling him into the fanciest fucking building he’d ever seen. Wherever he could see Her, and orbit around Her. 

Maybe crash down to his knees before Her, because that had worked real well in his favor last time, and there was really no other proper response to Her when she looked like that.

She really was a fucking Princess. This dress was worse than the one last year. Silk, falling over Her body like it was made for Her—most of the world was—and showing Dean too much for him to properly, but still not enough to satiate him, because was a greedy son of a bitch.

He didn’t have a goddamn clue where She’d gotten such fancy outfits on such a short notice, but he knew his tie wasn’t strangling at his throat because She’d carefully adjusted it before they left the motel. Standing only a long breath away, every bit of Her blinding and beautiful as she chewed at Her lower lip, going over the plan one last time.

“There might be multiple instruments.” She’d said, glancing over her shoulder to Jo, who was working on balancing  in her heels. “Once I find what they are, we have to move fast. Smash them, burn them, whatever you need to do. Then the conductor will be in raw form, and if I can see him, I’ll give you the all clear to burn him. Dean, we have to take separate cars-“

Dean had scowled. “No-“

“We’re about to burn a man alive at a public event.” She’d said with a flat voice. “Once we finish, we have to book it. And I am not making Sam take the bus again. Finally,” Her fingers had stilled on Dean’s chest, Her voice dropping to a soft, firm tone. “Don’t let it touch you. It’ll turn you into a puppet corpse.”

Jo had gaped at Her. “A what-“

“Puppet corpse.” She’d sighed. “It’ll kill you then use your body like a puppet.”

“Oh. Gross.”

Dean had cleared his throat. “Can we go back to the car thing-“

“No.” She’d turned on Her heels, tangled Her hand in Dean’s, and pulled him out the door.

And Alistair hadn’t been wrong that Dean wasn’t a white knight, but he was still Her’s. She was brilliant, and as long as it wasn’t putting Her in direct danger, Dean would do whatever the hell She asked. If She needed an army, he’d been a million fucking soldiers. If She needed a guard, he’d turn into a shield.

If She needed him to stand off to the side of a stage while a lady sang in loud, high sounds and She frowned the orchestra, he’d do that. 

He was even allowed to keep his hand on Her lower back. 

“De.” She whispered, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket, and he glanced down to see Her attention fully fixed on the area below them. “It’s the harp.”

Dean followed Her gaze to the instrument. “You sure?”

She nodded, and Jo’s voice crackled in their ears. “Is there only one?”

“Yeah.” She whispered, scanning slowly over the area once more. “But- Shit, there are so many people here, Dean we’ve gotta-“

Dean nodded. “Jo, you’re in the sound booth thing, right?”

“Uh huh. I think I’m actually gettin’ the hang of this, too.” Jo hummed Her name. “Turns out I can do sound. You want me to steal more earpieces before we go?”

A small smile tugged at Her lips, and She gave Dean an amused look as she spoke. “We’ve already stolen three, and we’re about to totally ruin their performance. I think that’s enough.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jo paused. “Were you tryin’ to talk to me, Dean?”

She giggled, eyes dancing with amusement, and Dean couldn’t really be that annoyed if this was making Her so happy. “Yeah, I’m thinking you can cut all the sound to the audience, we can run out, get it done in the confusion, then get out.”

“That’s good,” She muttered with a nod, and Dean stood a little taller. “Maybe- Jo, can you just amplify the speakers? If you get them loud enough it’ll start a feedback loop, and we’ll get a good-“

“Cover?” Jo finished Her sentence, and Dean could hear the grin in the girl’s voice. “On it. You want a countdown?”

“One second.” She turned to Dean with a firm, determined look. “Go for the harp. I’ll take care of the conductor.”

There was no fucking way Dean was letting Her do the more dangerous thing. That was supposed to be what he was here for-

“And before you argue, if it’s not the conductor, I’ll be able to see who it is. You won’t.”

Son of a bitch, that was a good point. And She had that shining, fluttering look in Her eyes as Dean just glared at Her, the one where she knew She’d already won. “Princess-“

“Please, De.” 

God fucking damnit. “Fine.”

She gave him a wide, sweet smile, and raised Her hand to her ear. “Ready, Jo. Turn it up.”

“Alright.” Jo hummed, and Dean’s fingers started to curl onto the bare skin of Her back. “Three.”

Dean didn’t like this. Something was tight in his gut, and She’d hunted these things before and been just fine alone—with Dean or Jo there to help Her—but this felt wrong-

“Two-“

He muttered Her name, and She gave him a smile, and it was only making him feel sick because something was off about this-

“Go.”

A loud, screeching noise echoed through the theatre, people started shouting as it pierced into their skulls, and Dean had to force himself not to grab Her and hold her to his chest until it all just passed. 

None of this would pass unless he did his job.

Smash the harp. All Dean had to do was smash the fucking harp. Break it into pieces so She could burn this lich asshole.

Dean could break something. He really was good at breaking things, and breaking something for Her might be the easiest job he’d ever had.

He ran into the pit, shoving his way through the orchestra and ignoring people shouts of protest. His ears felt like they were going to fucking bleed, but he’d felt worse, so Dean pushed through it. 

The harp was heavier than Dean had thought it would be, when he reached it.

It still broke easy.

Dean threw his whole body against it, the instrument fell to the floor, and when the first piece of wood snapped off, all hell broke loose. 

People were screaming and running around—that had been a given, the rich idiots probably thought they were under attack—but over all of it, Dean could hear Her, shouting his name.

He turned right in time to see the conductor running right towards him, hands outstretched, and fuck-

Dean dodged as She screamed, and started to fumble in his pockets for his lighter, where was his fucking lighter, he was tripping over abandoned trumpets and seats as the conductor continued to swing at him, and where the fuck was his lighter-

There was another scream of his name, and Dean looked up to see the conductor only fucking inches away, and that couldn’t be good, but right before slightly shriveled hands closed around Dean’s face, the man stumbled back and screeched.

Loud, and echoing through the theater, his whole body writhing, seeming to flicker and wither and-

“Son of a bitch.” Dean muttered as the lich’s illusion fully faded, his body a sticky, browned and boned corpse. “You’re one ugly asshole.”

The lich only screeched again, and as it fell to its knees, Dean looked up to find Her standing on the edge of the stage.

Dean had only seen Her use her thing once, when Lilith had attacked them. And that had only been a primal, feral scream ripping through Her body as Lilith released him with a cruel laugh.

This was different. 

There was no proper way to describe it, but She didn’t look like a human. Or a monster. Or a demon, or angel, or witch.

She looked like Her, turned up to a goddamn million. Everything closer to Her body was more colorful. Her hair was impossibly shinier, and Her skin seemed to be glowing, and Her eyes were fucking bright. 

Her pupils weren’t black anymore. They were silver. 

Dean had never seen anything more terrifyingly beautiful in his life. And when the lich turned to slime at their feet—sinking back into the floor and vanishing like there had never been anything at all—whatever had been amplifying Her seemed to collect back into Her body, her eyes focused right on Dean’s.

He almost fell to his knees again. This was the siren or goddess he’d been silently worshipping since he met Her. This was the royal, ethereal woman he wanted to serve for the rest of with worthless life. And it was just Her, but it was all of Her, and Dean wanted fucking all of Her-

He didn’t see it until it was too late. 

The woman behind Her. 

Not a woman. The illusion of a small young woman—white-teethed with a bow in her hair—vanished the moment the lich grabbed Her around the wrist.

There were two. 

There were fucking two, and Dean wasn’t goddamn fast enough.

The only reason he could hear his roar over the blood in his ears was because it echoed around the theater. And She wasn’t even fucking fighting the thing, She’d gone slack and pale, and Dean was sprinting over the abandoned instruments to get to Her, yanking his gun from his jacket and aiming it right at the ugly bitch’s fucking face.

The shots didn’t kill it, but the lich released Her and stumbled back, falling right on the floor as Jo sprinted out from the backstage.

Jo’s lighter dropped, and the lich died with a scream.

But the fire didn’t slow or die. It only spread across the stage, and Dean was going to have to add arson to his rap sheet again, but he really didn’t fucking care.

All that mattered was Her, pallid and backed into the wall, rubbing at her wrists like she’d been branded.

Dean wasn’t sure if the whole corpse puppet thing was contagious.

That was another thing he really didn’t fucking care about.

“Hey,” Dean muttered Her name as he grabbed her face between his hands, forcing Her slightly glazed eyes onto his. “You’re gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay-“

“It touched me.” She cut him off with a whisper, and Dean’s grip tightened. “Dean, it touched me-“

“I know.” He grunted. “I know, Princess, but it’s- we’ll fix it.”

She shook Her head, still scratching at Her wrists and Dean did the only thing he could think of. He stroked his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until her breathing was relaxed, and she’d slumped forward into his arms.

“Dean?” Jo called from behind them. “I- uh, we should go before the building burns down.”

Dean nodded an acknowledgment, but She wouldn’t be able to run. She was too pale, shaking in his arms and starting to draw blood with Her nails- 

He knocked Her hand away, She made a whining noise, and this was not allowed to be it. He was not fucking losing Her like this, he’d call another fucking demon deal or trap a million fucking angels until they performed a miracle, or-

Cas. He needed to call Cas. 

But first, he had to get Her out before the building killed all three of them. 

Dean pressed a quick kiss to Her brow, and hauled Her up bridal-style into his arms, and the moment Jo was at his side he was moving. Out the back into the cold air of an alley, down the streets until they were at the Impala and the Firebird. 

“Here’s the plan.” He grunted, raising up to face a pale-faced Jo on the sidewalk. “You’re taking her car. Drive for forty minutes west, then stop at the first motel you see. Call Sam on the drive, tell him what happened.”

Jo nodded, catching Her keys with shaking hands. “What about- Dean, I’m- We thought there was one-“

“Jo.” He snapped. “Just fucking go.”

“Is she gonna be okay-“

“Yes. Go.”

Dean’s short, firm words got Jo to move, but he didn’t have a fucking clue if She was going to be okay. She wasn’t turning into a corpse, but She was still colorless and silent, and Dean was praying to Cas the whole fucking ride but they didn’t have a goddamn timeline on this, it might already be over-

It couldn’t be over. Dean had only just gotten Her back, and he’d meant it.

He wasn’t losing Her.

She’d know how to fix this. She knew everything, and She was a genius, so if Dean could get Her to speak, he’d do whatever she said needed to be done to fix this.

Jo met them right where she was supposed to, and Dean gave short orders for her to just keep fucking praying to Cas until he showed up. 

“C’mon.” He muttered Her name, moving her to the edge of the bed and kneeling down, keeping his thumb running down her nose and scanning over Her slack face. “I need you to talk to me, I don’t have a fucking clue how to do this, Princess, I- I fucking need you, c’mon-“

Something was wrapping around Dean’s lungs. He wouldn’t fucking lose Her. Not like this. It was all his head could loop around because fuck, this would kill Jo, and he’d never be able to look at Bobby again, and he would’ve gotten Her back for barely a week just to prove Alistair right.

She was better anywhere without Dean. He’d do anything for Her, but anything wasn’t enough, and She’d survived all those months without him, but the moment he’d gotten back he’d killed Her, he’d fucking broken the one that had always seemed permanent, and he was a vile piece of shit from lower than the mud, and Dad should’ve killed him. Instead of threatening and hurting Her, Dad should’ve pressed a barrel to Dean’s head and shot him. It would’ve saved everyone a whole lot of grief if Dad had gotten some fucking clarity and killed Dean instead, or just let him die in that goddamn hospital-

“Dean.” She whispered, blinding eyes finally focusing on his. “You need to go.”

He stared at Her. “What.”

“Before it hits. I- I can’t feel it, but once it kicks in-“

“You’re going to be fine.” He snapped. This wasn’t a conversation he was going to have, because it wouldn’t matter when She was fine, and they were driving back to Bobby’s like nothing had happened at all. “Cas is coming, and I’ll grab whatever we need to slow this down-“

“There’s no slowing it down.” She gave him a small smile, and Dean’s heart might be trying to claw its way out of his throat. “It’ll be better to burn me. So nothing finds my body.”

“Shut up.” He grunted, his hands tightening on Her thighs. She wasn’t moving away, and maybe if he held tight enough, that would keep Her together. “We’ll fix this, there’s always a way to fix this-“

“Not here, De. I- I’m-“ She started to rub Her wrists, letting out a slow breath. “I could do it myself, but I can’t even feel it, I’d have to feel it to know what to fix-“

“Then maybe you’re fine-“

“I don’t want to risk it.” She mumbled. “Please go.”

“No.”

“Dean-“

“I’m staying right fucking here.” He hissed, rising up on his knees to look Her in the eyes. “And that’s it. You try to kick me out and I’ll come right back in, Princess, I did not spend so goddamn long waiting for you only to lose you-“

“You can’t lose me.” She whispered. “You’ve never been able to lose me. I-“ 

She swallowed, Her eyes starting to go glossy, and Dean wouldn’t let the sting in his own take over. There was nothing to mourn about, because She was going to be fine-

“I’m here.” She pressed Her hand to his chest, and he wasn’t breathing. “All the way down.”

Dean stared at Her. 

He didn’t have enough words for Her beauty. He never had. He’d never been good at words, or saying the right thing, or knowing when to stop or how to keep something. And he’d let the world use him and beat him however it wanted—crawl right back onto Alistair’s rack or pick up only torture instrument until he was a demon—if he got to break that last pattern. Dean could replace words with actions, replace saying the right thing with doing the right thing, and replace knowing when to stop with going until his soul gave out. 

He couldn’t replace Her. Keeping Her was the only option, if She’d have him.

But losing Her to something other than Her own will was simply not on the goddamn table.

Dean had prayed before. Since the angels had showed up, he’d been praying to Cas a lot. 

But he’d never prayed to God. 

And it was all he could do now. This wouldn’t be it. Nothing holy or good owed Dean any favors, but the fucking universe owed Her. It couldn’t let Her go, because She was too good for all of it, and Dean needed Her.

She was the universe. She was bigger and brighter than God, and wherever the hell that asshole was—if he was even real at all—he better be fucking listening because Dean needed Her, and maybe She was God and he just needed to pray and worship Her instead.

The thought moved through Dean’s whole body. He needed to tend to Her. That was what he could see. What he could know. What he’d always known. 

He rose slowly, never breaking Her gaze. Giving Her time to move away as he inched closer, cupping one hand on Her face and bracing the other on the mattress, stopping where if he spoke, Dean’s lips would brush Her’s.

There was no mistaking what he was daring to attempt. No way for Her to miss it, and be caught off guard. A long, strained moment where Dean gave Her the chance to shove him away and curse his name back to Hell, and at least then he’d know. That he’d always be in Her orbit, but to Her, Dean was just another thing, trying to sit in Her light. 

But She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were wide on his, yet She wasn’t looking away. Her fingers were curled on his shirt, and Her breath was heavy from her nostrils.

He licked his lips because he couldn’t fucking help himself, and She flushed, Her breath hitching, and Her mouth falling slightly open.

There it was.

Dean crashed down, and kissed Her.

And he’d never been good with words.

But this didn’t need any.

It was all movement and feeling. Her lips fit even better against Dean’s than he’d ever been able to imagine, and every single bit of desperation he threw into Her, she threw right fucking back. Dean bit at Her lower lip and She moaned, right down his fucking throat as She opened further for him, but when Dean got to press his tongue into Her mouth and have more, She pulled it between Her teeth and swallowed Dean’s groan with the best sound he’d ever fucking heard escaping from her throat. 

She tasted like coffee and sugar and that fucking fruit, Dean could taste the fruit and he was going to get addicted, but there were worse fucking vices to have. At least this one had Her wrapping an arm around his neck and tugging at his shirt to get him closer, She wanted Dean closer and he’d have to be fucking insane to deny Her.

When he pushed deeper, moving Her down to lie flat on Her back and never fucking breaking the kiss, She let him. She let Dean have fucking all of it. He got to overtake Her quickly, and She was responding to all his silents pleas for more and shivering under his touch when he grabbed Her waist and trailed his fingers down, down, down, to the bare skin of Her thighs-

“Dean.” She gasped against him, arching slightly off the mattress, and if God didn’t take his prayer, Dean would put all his torture skills to some good fucking use until the son of a bitch promised to never let anything hurt Her again. 

Until then he’d keep Her caged safely between the mattress and his body, devouring every single sound he was learning so fast to pull from Her body with only his mouth. They were all somehow better than last, and Dean had never felt this fucking high from just a kiss-

A foreign noise breached through Dean’s skull, and he sat up in half a second, pulling Her with him and burying Her tight into his chest. Anything that wasn’t Her or Dean was a fucking threat and-

It was Jo. When Dean twisted around with a deadly glower it was just Jo, and maybe he’d gotten a little too intense about that. 

But She was still in danger. The lich had still touched Her.

“Dean." She shoved at his chest, Her words muffled in his body, and he loosened his grip until She could twist against him.

But She stayed against him. Small victories.

“How, uh-“ She swallowed, and Dean glanced down to see Her rubbing at her wrists. “How long have you been there?”

“Few minutes.” Jo mumbled, staring at the floor, and Dean realized the girl’s whole face was red. “I’m sorry, I just- I didn’t stop it cause I was happy for you, but then I realized it was just gonna keep goin’, and, uh, sorry-“

“Jo.” Dean muttered. “What-“

“Cas is here.” Jo gave Dean a nervous look. “I prayed to him.” 

Dean sat a little taller. She would be fine. “Tell him to get his angel-ass in here and fix her-“

“There is nothing to fix.” Cas was very suddenly in the room, and Jo squeaked in surprise.

“Fuckin’ Christ-“

“My apologies.” Cas said with a small, grimacing frown. “You told me to wait until I was summoned, and Dean did just say to get my ass in here. My ass can’t be here without the rest of me, so-“

“Cas.” Dean gave him a flat look. “Focus. What’d you mean there’s nothing to fix-“

Cas said Her name slowly. “She is in perfect health.”

She frowned. “But the lich-“

“You are not in danger of any lich infection.” Cas shrugged. “It is not possible for your kind to succumb to any sort of preternatural disease, curse, or weapon. At most you will have felt a little sick, but it will have already passed.”

“My-“ She cut Herself off, setting up tall and straight, and Dean caught it. 

What Cas had implied. .

“My kind?” She whispered, Her eyes wide. “Did you- You figured out what I am?”

Cas sighed, and nodded. “I cannot offer a full explanation- The word you gave me is ancient. Uncommon. I would not call it taboo, but it is mostly lost with purpose.”

Dean frowned. “You mean on purpose?”

“No, Dean. With purpose. It has been deemed better for mortals to know as little as possible. Even we are not fully able to comprehend it.”

“Cas.” She muttered, rubbing Her thumb over her palm. “Please just say it.”

Cas let out a long breath. “You are the Magdalene.” He said Her name, watching her carefully as he continued. “They are the oldest and rarest breed of witch, although witch is a… crude term. You are made of the magic witches learn to harness.”

She swallowed, Her voice impossibly soft. “I- I’m a Magdalene.”

“No. You are the Magdalene.”

“Cas.” Dean grunted. “What the hell are you talking about.”

Cas sighed, still not moving from his place beside a wide-eyed Jo. “There is nothing in heaven’s record or knowledge about where Magdalene’s come from. They simply… are. Impossibly rare, and powerful. Dangerous. There is maybe one born every five hundred years, with the rare exception of two existing at once around the end of what your historians call the Common Era.” Cas said Her name again, and Dean was a little worried She wasn’t breathing. “You are the most powerful one recorded.”

“Oh.” She mumbled. “Cool. I- Doesn’t that probably mean whatever, um, Magdalene comes after me will be more powerful?”

Cas shook his head. “Heaven has monitored Magdalene’s since Lilith-“

Dean went rigid. “Lilith? What the hell does that bitch have to do with-“

“She’s a Magdalene, isn’t she.” Her words were still soft, Her attention still trained on Cas. “She said she was like me. That I was her descendent.”

Cas gave Her a grimacing, apologetic nod. “It is a biological trait, yes. There are complexities to it I do not think you’ll care to understand, but before Lilith was a demon, she was the first Magdalene. She had daughters, and they had daughters, and-“

“It led to me.” She muttered, and Cas nodded.

“The birth of a Magdalene has always heralded danger. Change. Lilith brought on demons, Avva, a goat-keeper in Sumar, brought on writing and calendars, and a consort in ancient China name Fu Hau introduced witchcraft to non-natural born-“

Dean sighed. “Man, we’re not here for a history lesson-“

“I am getting to my point, Dean.” Cas’ voice remained flat, his attention returning to Her. “The most powerful Magdalene’s before you were Cleopatra VII Thea Philopato, who brought about the Roman Empire, and Mary-“

“Magdalene.” She finished, Her eyes widening. “Is it- If it’s that old, how can it be named after her?”

“It isn’t.” Cas shrugged. “Magdala was the home of Lilith, as a human. It is simply what you would call coincidence.”

“Cas.” Dean grunted. “The point.”

Cas sighed. “Mary brought on the invention of the human religion, Christianity, which has been… impactful. Both her soul, and that of Cleopatra’s, had a sliver of the Magdalene power.”

Jo frowned, her voice small as she jumped in. “A sliver? How much is in a sliver?”

“My best estimate would be 2.159%.” Cas said. “Although I do not think Dean would want a math lesson on top of my history.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and She let out a soft laugh, even as Her nails started to dig into Dean’s skin.

Better than it being Her own.

“Cas?” She said carefully, and they were already looking at each other like there was a silent conversation Dean and Jo weren’t allowed to be a part of. 

Cas said Her name, bowing his head slightly, and She swallowed.

“How much of my soul is… Magdalene.”

“Half.” Cas muttered, giving Her an apologetic look, and She was going to draw blood. “And from what I have found, that should not be possible.”

“Oh.” She was almost fully curling into Dean’s body. He chanced one arm snaking around Her side, and She held it there.

Small, horrible victories. 

“It is likely why you were able to walk into Hell.” Cas said, looking only at Her, and Dean froze.

“What’d you mean, walk into Hell.” He hissed, looking between Her and Cas. “You’ve never been to Hell, Princess, and nobody just walks in-“

“I- I know, De, just-“ She shot Cas a glare. “You have horrible timing.”

Cas frowned. “I will- is that something to improve?”

“Yes. We’ll talk about it later.” She sighed, giving Dean a careful, soft expression that made something in him balk.

She couldn’t have walked into Hell. Something would’ve grabbed Her, Alistair would’ve known and seen Her and hurt Her, and Dean felt like a million fucking bricks were being pressed down onto his chest. 

“I sort of,” She took a deep, long breath, and whatever it was, Dean kind of didn’t want to hear it. “Could see you, sometimes. In Hell.”

“See me.” He grunted, and She nodded. “When.”

“Every night.” She whispered. “I was- I saw Cas saving you. That’s how he knows.”

She wasn’t lying. 

And there wasn’t a place low enough for Dean in the universe. She’d seen everything. And he’d be able to just beat himself and ignore the bruises if it hands only been his torture, but She’d seen parts of what he’d done. The souls he’d ripped and broken, and there had to be something worse than Hell, for things like Dean. 

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled, and She wasn’t pulling away. 

Dean didn’t know why She wasn’t pulling away. This was the reason. More than an out, a neon sign begging Her to take the exit door, yet She was still here.

He’d never understand Her. She wasn’t caving under any of this, just looking back to Cas and staying pressed to Dean, and She knew, She’s known, how has She known and not fucking left-

“What now?” She asked, and Dean had to focus.

It wasn’t about him, now. If he was going to keep doing the shadow thing right, it was about Her.

“You will need to be careful.” Cas said slowly. “There is more, that I was not able to access, and once it is known that you have reunited with the Winchester’s, precautions may be taken.”

“What-“

“I am not able to say, but mostly because I do not know. I have already lingered too long. Jo. Dean,” Cas gave them both nods, then said Her name with the same movement. “We will talk later.”

She blinked, something flashing over Her face that Dean didn’t understand, and Cas vanished. 

None of them spoke. There was nothing to say. Too much had changed from the morning, and it was all so fucking complicated, and God, Dean really fucking hated that word.

But She was still in Dean’s arms. A hand over his on Her stomach, that fucking fruit smell invading his sense as She leaned slightly further into his body. Into Dean.

So as long as he could manage, Dean wasn’t going to let Her go.

End Note: The emotional whiplash Dean just went through... someone get him like a blanket or something. (Also 300k words to kiss. They're insane)

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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OH MY GOD IT FINALLY HAPPENED!!!!