Looks Like We Made It

this is so sweet omg 🥰

crop top ~ bucky barnes x f!curvy reader

Bucky helps reader feel confident wearing a crop top on their date, reminding her that she’s beautiful just the way she is. A soft, supportive moment with a little bit of flirty chaos because… it’s Bucky. 🖤

masterlist faq

A/N: I should be going to sleep but you know what? you get a fic and I ruin my circadian rhythm. I love that top but you can imagine any you like!💞 you are beautiful and deserve to be wearing any crop tops you damn want!!!! No one should never make you feel like you are supposed to look a certain way in order to wear something.

warnings: curvy! reader, boyfriend! Bucky, reader is self-conscious and bucky reassures her.

minors dni. i am not responsible for what you choose to consume.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

“You sure I don’t look stupid?” you asked for the third time, fidgeting with the hem of the baby blue crop top. It was soft, ribbed, and paired perfectly with your favorite jeans—but it clung to your stomach in a way that made your skin crawl with nerves.

Bucky was standing behind you in the mirror, hands resting gently on your hips. “You look like you walked out of my dreams,” he murmured, voice warm against your neck.

You let out a nervous laugh and pulled the top down, trying in vain to make it longer. “You’re biased.”

“I’m observant,” he said, turning you gently by the shoulders to face him. He crouched slightly to meet your eyes, thumbs brushing the outside of your arms. “Baby, look at me.”

You did, hesitant and searching. He gave you that soft, steady gaze—the one that always made the world quiet for a second.

“You can wear whatever you want,” he said firmly. “You will look beautiful. That’s not up for debate.”

“You’re just saying that cause you’re my boyfriend”

“No,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m saying that because I love you. And I think you look like a goddess.”

You sighed and looked down at your stomach, poking the fabric. “I just…I feel so exposed like everyone can look at my stomach, everyone can see everything”

Bucky was quiet for a second, then he lifted his metal arm and turned it palm up, flexing the fingers slightly. “You know,” he said, “I used to hate when people stared at this.”

You blinked, glancing at the vibranium. “Bucky, that’s not—”

“I know it’s not the same,” he said quickly, “but the feeling… it’s close. Feeling like eyes are on you. Like people are forming opinions before they know you.” He paused, stroking your waist with his other hand. “But I started realizing something. This arm? It’s a part of me. And if someone wants to stare? Let ‘em. I’ll still sleep fine at night.”

You smiled, just a little. “Easy for you to say. You’re hot and mysterious and your arm is is cool like it can kill people and stuff. That’s powerful, these are just stomach rolls.”

Bucky blinked at you, then let out a soft laugh through his nose—not mocking, just surprised. “Sweetheart,” he said, leaning his forehead against yours, “did you just say my arm is cool because it can kill people?”

You shrugged, flustered. “I mean… yeah? It’s a weapon. People stare at you and probably think ‘wow, badass.’ People stare at me and think, ‘she should’ve worn something looser.’” You motioned vaguely at your stomach, the fabric hugging closer than you were used to. “These are just… rolls. Squishy. Uncool.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression a mix of heartbreak and fierce love. “That’s not what people think. And even if it was—who the hell cares?”

You didn’t answer, just crossed your arms, trying not to fold in on yourself.

“I know what it’s like to feel like you’re being watched,” he said gently. “I’ve felt it in my skin, in my spine. But if I spent my life dressing in a way that made everyone else more comfortable, I’d still be hiding under twenty layers of tactical gear.”

He took your hand and guided it to his chest. “This arm may be powerful, yeah. But you? You’re brave. You walk into rooms knowing what people might say, and you still show up. You still want to wear the damn crop top. That’s power, baby.”

You bit your lip.

“And those ‘uncool’ rolls?” he added, fingers brushing your sides. “They’re a part of you. They’re soft and warm and they’re where my hand fits when I hold you at night. So yeah, maybe this arm can kill people—but those rolls? They keep me alive.”

Your breath caught, and you smacked his chest lightly. “You’re such a sap.”

He grinned. “Only for you. Now come on, let’s go out. Let the world stare. You’re with the guy with the murder arm, remember?”

You laughed—really laughed this time—and reached for his hand.

“Okay. But if I chicken out halfway through dinner…”

“I’ll give you my hoodie,” he promised. “But I’m betting we won’t need it.”

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An Education in Malice — Part Five

Pairing: Vanserra!Reader x Azriel

Summary: With the sharp tongue of your notorious family, you are Azriel's most tantalizing challenge yet. It only takes one small meeting before you both realize that the line between hate and desire is dangerously thin.

Warnings: lots of bickering, some IC drama, underlying sexual tension, threats, forced proximity trope, brief mentions of abuse, the sickening sense of being vulnerable and being perceived, helion not being a snitch

Word Count: 8.9k

←Part Four | Series Masterlist | Part Six

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Azriel was many things.

It could take him years to list all of the attributes he held— characteristics that spanned between inherently good and inherently bad. Centuries of living had led him to creating so many different versions of himself, some more kind than others, some more wise. But none of them were weak. 

Since the day he’d been freed from that basement, hands charred and shaky, a newfound anger burning in his chest, Azriel spent every minute ensuring he wasn’t weak.

Yet, your voice persisted in his mind. 

You are weak. 

It wasn’t physical strength you were referring to. Which, perhaps, made the statement even worse. Because deep down Azriel was troubled by the fact that you maybe were right. Maybe he was weak. Somehow, someway, you had gotten under his skin— buried yourself somewhere deep and hidden. As much as he tried, he couldn't dig you out, couldn't stop your voice from echoing tirelessly in his mind.

A slave to your anger.

Azriel’s fists slammed into the training dummy. 

To your impulses.

He threw another punch.

to your High Lord.

A biting feeling nagged at his battered knuckles, at the ridged scars that marred them. 

You have always been weak.

Azriel let out a curse as a streak of pain painted his arm. 

This was an unusual form of training for him, the bare hands and hand-to-hand combat. Usually, he practiced with a sword, with his weapons, and it was often sparring with Cassian. But Azriel needed something more today— needed to feel the pain in his own hands, needed something to pull him back into his body, to tie him down from floating away in his thoughts that were plagued by you. 

His wings flared, shadows whipping around him in a frenzied dance as he remembered the look on your face, the fire in your eyes. He replayed it in his mind over and over, focused on the hurt he had sworn he glimpsed there, a flash of vulnerability that you quickly masked with your anger. He couldn't shake the image, couldn't forget the rawness of your voice as you hurled those words at him. He’d begun to think he imagined it, that he’d somehow convinced himself that you’d shown some semblance of care. 

Weak. 

His self control was weak. Maybe this he could admit. He’d been working on it these past two years, working on how to control his temper, on how to be more approachable to those who hadn’t known him for centuries prior. A part of him had done it instinctively around Elain, scared to spook her like a terrified fawn in a forest. And then he began working on it for himself– to prove, in some sense, that he was still capable of being someone perhaps more deserving of a mate. 

It wasn’t going all too successfully, but he was working on it. At least, he was trying to. But with you, Azriel had no control. There were only three emotions he felt with you, only three reactions that his mind registered: fight, flee, or fuck. It had become too difficult to separate them—

Azriel.

The voice echoed in his mind. He skillfully pushed it away. There was an emotion deep in his chest that didn’t belong to that group of three, one that burned hot, tasted vile and sour. He felt it whenever he thought of you. 

He threw another punch. 

Azriel. 

His name was spoken with a tone much deeper this time, much more firm. It shot him back into a prior memory, into one of him staring into angry violet eyes with an icy defiance. Once again, he pushed away the force in his mind. The space that the call had occupied was quickly replaced by you. 

Rhysand’s face was etched into his memory too, a disappointed and angry look of a newly made father. Azriel didn’t want to see it again, didn't want to bother pretending he felt sorry. 

So he struck again. And again.

“Azriel.”

The voice was louder.

This time, it wasn’t just in his mind. It was real, commanding, and filled with an authority that made his shadows tremble for a moment, skittering to hover above his heavy, black boots. 

Azriel paused, chest heaving, and looked up to see Rhysand and Cassian standing at the edge of the training ring. He gave no verbal greeting, opting to straighten his back and tuck his wings into the blades of his back. 

Rhysand raised a brow, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice. “I’ve been calling for you.”

Azriel only tossed a glance at Cassian before bringing a hand to wipe the sweat off his brow. Rhys sighed, a sound that was clipped in a sense of frustration. “We need to talk.”

Azriel looked at his hands, taking in the bloodied knuckles and the slight tremble in his fingers. His shadows slowly snaked around his forearms and he felt a tug deep within his chest. 

He cringed at the sensation, at the feeling that had grown to something so routine as of late. 

He assumed it was the nagging feeling of unfinished business, that he was restless and unsettled because, in any other case, he would’ve killed you, would’ve done something to keep you contained—but he couldn’t. He wasn’t allowed to. A beast wandering free and he was feral for you. Not that he’d ever admit it. Not even to his shadows. 

“I’m busy,” Azriel finally said, his voice cold and final. 

The tone of it felt so jarring that even Cassian’s eyes widened slightly in shock. From beside him, Rhysand’s jaw twitched. He stepped closer. 

“Well then. Finish what you're doing and meet me back in my office within the hour.”

Something burned beneath Azriel’s skin. “I’m not your dog,” he snapped.

Something shifted in the air and Azriel didn’t need to look over at his brothers to know he was pushing their patience— he could smell it, the offense that radiated off them. It should have made him sick, made him feel guilty if anything, but it didn't.

It was Cassian who replied first, a flaring anger as he stepped forward, wings extending with the movement. “Az,” he said sharply, a warning clear in his tone.

Azriel almost laughed to himself. Your voice rang in his mind again, loud and entirely too overwhelming. If he was a slave to Rhysand, what did that make Cassian? A better brother, maybe. An even better-trained dog, too.

Rhysand’s face flickered with indecision, as if he were struggling between what role he should assume—  that of the High Lord or that of a friend. Anger flashed in his violet eyes before he pushed it back. 

“No, you are not,” Rhysand said, “But you are my family and this court’s Spymaster. And I am calling on you in regard to those two positions you hold.”

A moment of silence passed and the thickness of it prickled at Cassian’s skin. He let out a scoff, focusing his gaze on Azriel as he shifted his weight on his feet. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Azriel glared at him.  “Nothing.”

Rhysand sighed. “Fine. You don’t want to leave this ring? I can work with that.” He beckoned Cassian to walk with him onto the ring, stepping closer to Azriel. “I’ve set up a meeting with Beron.”

Azriel’s head snapped up. “That is a bad idea.”

Rhysand raised his eyebrows. “You hid a prisoner from me and risked an entire alliance. I’m not asking for your approval.”

Azriel’s shadows wrapped coiled tighter against him. 

“So why are you telling me?” 

“Because you will need to be in attendance,” Rhysand replied. His tone left no room for argument. “And I expect you to be in control. Whatever issues you have with Y/N, you will not be repeating them again.”

Azriel cringed inwardly. His brother didn’t know the full extent of what had transpired. He only knew the story that Azriel had spun– one of you threatening to end the alliance if he didn’t help you with Renard, how he had claimed he couldn’t stand being around you anymore and ended it on his own terms. The beautifully and carefully constructed lie Azriel had fed him so easily that it concerned him. 

Cassian watched the tense exchange with a furrowed brow. It only took a few seconds before his restraint broke, and he let out a small growl in warning. “Cauldron, Az, are you itching for a fight?” he said, “I would’ve expected you to be ecstatic now that you're not forced to spend time with that pretentious bitch of a—”

“Shut the hell up,” Azriel snapped, his head whipping up to glare at Cassian. The force of his words made Cassian step back, the frown deepening on his face. His jaw tightened as he took a step forward, as if to ready himself to strike.

Azriel quickly checked himself and took a deep breath. “This has nothing to do with her,” he said, his voice strained but measured— controlled. “Of course I’m glad to be free of that gods-forsaken arrangement.” He sent a glance Rhysand’s way, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “It never should have been made.”

Cassian opened his mouth, his protest painted clear in his expression, but Rhysand clapped a hand on his shoulder, silencing him before he spoke. “Cass, I need a moment with Az.”

Cassian looked offended, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form words. “What—but—”

“Go,” Rhysand said firmly. Once again, his tone held no room for argument. Unlike Az, Cassian complied, but not without a head shake and a scoff.

Cassian grumbled under his breath, casting one last burning glance at Azriel before leaving the training ring. Az made a mental note that he’d have to fix that later, whatever small crack he’d just created between them. He wasn't too worried about it, but he needed to do it before the wound festered.

Once they were alone, Rhysand’s eyes bore into Azriel’s in a scrutinizing gaze. It was heavy, curious, and frustrated at the same time. It felt heavier than usual. “What is this really about?”

Azriel stared at him, shadows swirling around his hands. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Rhysand’s expression hardened. “Azriel. You have already kept too much from me. I have been graceful.”

A muscle tensed in the shadowsinger's jaw.

“And if I don’t say anything? What will you do then? Command me to be honest?” Azriel’s voice was sharp. While there was a clear challenge in his tone, Rhysand recognized something else in it, something that reeked of insecurity, of a male unsettled.

Rhys narrowed his eyes and his power crackled beneath his skin. “Careful.”

They stood locked in a silent standoff, both rigid in posture and face tightened in a stare. Azriel’s mind raced as he weighed his options, desperately searching for the best route to end the conversation. He settled on a half truth.

“Eris can be predictable. But Y/N is not. And now we have no read on her.”

Rhysand narrowed his eyes. “And whose fault is that?”

Azriel snarled, but Rhysand let out a small sigh that cut through the sound. “Let me worry about that alliance. Get yourself together.”

And then he began to walk away, a picture-perfect image of calm and control.

“When is the meeting with Beron?” Azriel called after him.

Rhysand stopped and shrugged, a faint, almost dismissive gesture. “Maybe in two days. Or two weeks. We will see. Either way—my sentiment still stands.”

Azriel knew Rhysand was right; he needed to get himself together. But the disaster within him, the tangled mess of emotions and unresolved conflict, was driving him more mad that usual. Your face, your words, haunted him still, and he wondered if he would ever find a way to fix the mess you had left in your wake.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You made your way around the library, navigating through the rows of meticulously organized shelves, each one filled with hundreds of beautifully bound books. The scent of aged parchment and faint traces of magic hung in the air and you were almost tempted to linger and explore.

You'd always craved a day in the Day Court's libraries, a time to read and run your fingers along a variety of books. It was just as beautiful as you'd imagined, and you told yourself you'd return another day and appreciate it properly.

But right now, your focus was on a different kind of discovery. Skillfully avoiding the watchful eyes of Helion’s skilled librarians and guards—each dressed casually yet elegantly, exuding an air of quiet power—you moved with purpose.

It only took you a few more minutes before you found the heavy door concealed within a niche, its ancient wood imposing against the backdrop of polished stone. With a mixture of excitement and caution, you pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit chamber tucked away from prying eyes. There were countless shelves laden with dusty volumes lining the walls of the chamber. Small tables and ornate couches were spread throughout the room with faint, glittering faelights that accompanied them.

You could only imagine the type of people Helion had housed here, the conversations that must have unfolded amidst the quiet elegance that the space seemed to hold. 

A smile tugged at your lips as you stepped inside. 

And then you stilled as a prickling sensation bit at the nape of your neck.

You whirled around, seizing Azriel’s arm and slamming him against the wall. Surprise flitted across his face, replaced swiftly by a calculating gaze as he reversed your maneuver with effortless grace, pinning you back against the cool stone instead. 

Before you could offer him a few choice words, a faint shimmer of light danced through the air. The large door through which you had entered shut with a heavy thud, the surface of it shimmering faintly, as if an invisible force sealed it shut.

"No, no, no," you muttered under your breath, pushing Azriel off with enough force to make him stumble. His eyes darted across the room as you pressed your palms against the door, trying to push it open again, but it remained resolutely closed. The air around you crackled with suppressed magic. 

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, his voice tinged with urgency.

"It's a containment spell,” you bit out, “We're trapped.”

Some time passed in tense silence as Azriel moved methodically around the room. Your gaze followed his every move, your jaw set in a tight line as you swallowed down the insults that were itching to be thrown at him.

“Can’t you make them do something useful?” you snapped, nodding towards the black smoke that buzzed around Azriel’s form. “Send them to get help or something?”

Azriel rolled his eyes and his shadows seemed to mimic the movement, circling his arms in a fit of annoyance.  “Thank you for that brilliant idea,” he said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “If you haven’t noticed, princess, they are shadows.”

He gestured to the sunlight flooding through the cracks of the grand door.  “They can’t go out in broad daylight. And from what I’ve observed about this library, there's a lot of that. We’re going to have to wait until sunset.”

Helion’s libraries were bathed in perpetual sunlight, with large, open windows that invited the sun's rays to flood the space. It casted a warm, golden glow over the towering shelves in a way that made the space seem dreamlike, made it seem holy. The sunlight wasn’t just a feature; it was a constant presence— the library was filled with sunlight every hour of the day that the sun was shining.

This particular room, however, was the exception. It was windowless, the only light filtering in through the cracks of the large charmed door. The room was designed to preserve the unique and delicate books within, shielding them from the harsh sunlight that could damage their pages. You had come here specifically for this reason, to find a particular book in this carefully protected area.

“Sunset?” you echoed incredulously. “It’s nine in the fucking morning, Shadowsinger. You’re telling me I have to wait until either Helion finds us or until your little shadow dogs can finally go out and play?”

Azriel raised an eyebrow, his mouth falling into a tight line.  “Well, maybe you should break into libraries at more reasonable hours of the day.”

You resisted the urge to pull a book from one of the many shelves and hurl it his way. “I wasn’t breaking in,” you retorted, crossing your arms. “You made this a break-in when you followed me and set off some strange alarms.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed and he took a step towards you. “I didn’t follow you, and I certainly didn’t set off any alarms. That was all you.”

“You didn’t follow me?” you scoffed. “Then what were you doing? Brooding from afar in hopes that I’d apologize for hurting your feelings?”

A flicker of irritation crossed his features. His jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with something close to anger. “H-hurting my feelings?” he said, his voice low, “You think you hurt my feelings?”

“Yes,” you replied, lifting your chin. “I think I bruised your ego by shoving the truth down your throat.”

“Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself, ” he sneered. Azriel turned on his heel and took one step away from you before he was spinning around, lifting an accusatory finger your way. “And I don’t brood. I was surveying the area for threats, which, if I recall correctly, is my job.”

“Yeah, in the Night Court,” you snapped back, “We’re in the Day Court, genius.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed with irritation. “The Day Court is our ally. That means ensuring their safety—and ours. If you weren’t wandering into places you don’t belong, I wouldn’t need to follow you.”

You let out a bitter laugh, stepping closer to him. “So you admit you were following me?”

Azriel stiffened as if he had barely registered the words he’d spoken. He blinked and then he strengthened himself, speaking to you in a voice that was steady and cold. “You’re a threat that needs to be monitored.”

Something burned in your chest. 

“Is that what you were doing every time you slept with me? Monitoring me?”

The words seemed to hit their intended target. For a moment, there was silence. Azriel’s expression hardened and he held your gaze for a beat too long before looking away.

When you realized he wasn’t going to offer a verbal response, you let out a deep breath.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just leave me alone,” you growled through gritted teeth. “I’ve done nothing besides visit an open court. Helion has no problems with me being here. And now you’ve gone and trapped us because you’re an obsessive, paranoid, freak.”

He looked at you again, his eyes guarded and expression unreadable.

“This is not my fault. This is yours. Forgive me if I didn’t believe that you had innocent intentions.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course, the all-knowing Spymaster assumes I’m up to something sinister. Maybe I just wanted to read in peace.”

“Then why all the secrecy?” he shot back, “Why the need to sneak into restricted sections?”

You felt a surge of frustration flickering in you like a hot flame. You curled your hands into fists, grounding yourself as your nails bit into your palm. “Like I said, I just wanted to read in peace. You don’t know everything. You don’t know what I’m doing or why. So stop pretending you do.”

Azriel studied you for a long moment. 

“Okay,” He began as he took another step towards you, shadows flickering around him like agitated serpents. “Tell me exactly what you are doing here. What book are you looking to read?”

The shadows around him seemed to pulse. You held his gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny bearing down on you. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you glowered at him. 

“None of your business,” you said, your voice low, cold, and clipped. “Get off my back.”

“Not until I know you’re not up to something.”

“Paranoid bastard.”

“I have every right to be,” he said, “Especially with you.”

“You’re insufferable,” you shot back, feeling the heat of frustration rising within you — fast and unforgiving. It simmered at the edges of your skin.  “It must be so exhausting living in that tiresome head of yours.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he struggled to rein in his temper. “You have a habit of causing trouble. It’s my job to ensure that trouble doesn’t affect my people or our allies.”

“Your people,” You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. You pushed away the urge to make a further comment on his choice of words. “If you stopped treating me like an enemy, I wouldn’t feel the need to act like one. Everything that I am is what you have pushed me to be.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might actually strike you. But instead, he took a deep breath as a shadow of conflict passed over his features. Before the silence between you could stretch any longer, Azriel straightened, his mask of indifference slipping back into place. 

“Why not just tell me what you’re doing?” 

Because you didn’t owe him an explanation. The thought echoed resolutely in your mind. Beneath your defiance, a familiar, almost comforting, surge of resentment bubbled up—why should you justify your every move to him? He was nothing more than an obstacle, an irritating shadow that refused to fade.

So you said nothing, gave no reply. The silence stretched between you and each passing moment seemed to exacerbate his agitation. You observed the cracks in his usual unbothered, stoic facade— the clenching of his strangely battered fists, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He deserved to be unsettled, you thought bitterly. His mistrust was a reflection of his own insecurities, his duty an excuse to assert dominance over you. You refused to be cowed, not by him or anyone else.

“Silence. Beautiful,” he scoffed. Azriel turned away and you reveled in the momentary victory, savoring the small triumph of making him fall into a state of unease. 

He began to pace the room, muttering under his breath— you could hear it only slightly, a continuous complaint about everything from the sunlight filtering through the door to the layout of the library. You stared at him, noticing how his shadows mimicked his agitation, swirling around him in a frenzy. His wings twitched with every movement. 

His pacing became more frantic as he moved closer to the door, placing his hand on it as if trying to force it open. “This is ridiculous,” he growled. “We’re trapped here because of your secrecy. If you hadn’t been sneaking around—”

He paused mid-sentence, his movements halting abruptly. As if the weight of your gaze was tangible, he turned to look at you, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that almost made you twitch.  

“What?” Azriel snapped, a strain seizing his voice. Even his shadows seemed to jump at the sound of it.  “Do you finally have something to say, princess?”

You remained silent, meeting his gaze with a steady calmness that seemed to unsettle him further. After a long moment, you finally spoke, your voice cool and measured. “I just have a question.”

Azriel scowled. “And what would that be?”

You observed him closely, tracing every miniscule movement of his body. A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of your lips.

“What color collar would you like?”  You asked, raising an eyebrow as if to feign impatience. You leaned forward slightly. “You know, to go with all of your bitching and whining? I’m thinking a sapphire blue to coordinate with your gaudy jewelry.”

Your eyes flicked down to his siphons, and as if in response, the siphons glowed angrily. Underneath them, his fists clenched tightly, his whole body seeming to vibrate with anger. If Azriel wasn’t angry before, he was fuming now. The atmosphere crackled with animosity.

“Shut up,” Azriel said through clenched teeth. 

You tilted your head, a defiant glint in your eyes. “Why should I?”

With a sudden surge of aggression, Azriel stomped towards you, his footsteps echoing in the confined space. He came to an abrupt stop just a few paces away, visibly fighting to maintain his composure. His fists clenched at his sides, shadows swirling around him like black smoke as he took a deep breath.

“Until we’re out of this gods-forsaken room,” he said tightly, “Just shut your damned mouth and stay over here. I’ll stay on the other end, out of your way.”

You weighed your options for a moment. You gave him a nonchalant shrug. “Fine. Works for me.”

Azriel shot you a final piercing glare before turning away, his back rigid with tension. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You weren't sure how long had passed, but it had certainly been longer than an hour. 

The enchantment that bound you and Azriel to this room seemed to turn every minute into an eternity. You were suffocating. 

The weight of time pressed down on you as you scoured the shelves, determined not to let Azriel and this infuriating enchantment thwart your purpose. This restricted area of Helion's grand library was vast, filled with more books on folklore and legends than you had anticipated—and a rather peculiar assortment of erotic 'vampire' poetry that you tried your best to ignore.

Despite your persistence, you had yet to uncover any clue as to the whereabouts of what you sought. Each book you pulled from the shelves yielded nothing but disappointment.

You sighed, turning away from yet another shelf of books when your eyes caught sight of a one that stood out amidst the worn and weathered bindings. It was a slender volume with a vibrant red leather cover, contrasting sharply with the tattered browns around it. Without fully realizing your own actions, you reached out and delicately plucked the book from its place, cradling it in your hands.

The cover felt smooth and cool to the touch, the red leather soft against your fingertips. The title was written in an elegant, swirling golden cursive. It wasn't what you had been searching for—a book of love poems wasn't going to help you find the edge you sought—but something about it called to you nonetheless.

You landed on one particular page. The corners were marked with a dog-eared fold, a simple act that nearly drew a smile to your lips at the thought of Eris’s disdain for such casual treatment of books. He would have scoffed, made some remark about how it marred the delicate pages and diminished their value. 

Before the rift between him and Eris grew too wide, Lucien used to sneak into Eris’s room and borrow his books, delighting in folding the pages to mark his favorite passages. Eris would fume at the sight, scolding Lucien for disrespecting not only his belongings but the value of the books themselves. Lucien basked in the frustration and would laugh so hard— a bright, joyous sound that echoed through the halls until Beron wearied of it. 

Lucien stopped stealing those books soon after. He quickly learned that his place was not in his brother's room— it wasn’t even in his own home. 

You turned your attention back to the poem on the page before you, your heart skipping a beat as you recognized the title. Something as heavy as a stone settled in your stomach. 

Your mother was a lot of things. She was quiet at times, yes, but it was more pensive than it was shy. She was unbelievably brilliant, to a point where it pained you to think about it, to let yourself wonder how different her life could have been had she married someone other than your father. How different her life may have been if she never had any of you.

When you were younger, she fed you her fascination of books. Besides Eris and Lucien, your other brothers never took to it as much. They much preferred sparring in rings and finding ways to appease your father. While they lived off of the praise they received like good soldiers, you lived off of the stories your mother could tell you at night. 

It was during those quiet hours, after Beron had retired to his chambers and the River House grew still, that she would sit by your bedside and brush the hair from your face. She would whisper stories into the darkness, tales of far-off lands and brave heroes, of mythical creatures and forbidden romances. But there was one story she cherished above all others.

It was a short poem from the perspective of two lovers torn apart by war. They loved each other fiercely, but the cruel hands of fate kept them separated in life. So profound was their longing that they struck a bargain with Death himself, pledging their souls to be together for eternity in the afterlife. The poem spoke of their sacrifice, their undying devotion, and the bittersweet beauty of a love that transcended even death.

You loved it almost as much as your mother did. 

Love was real. This you knew. But it wasn’t for people in Autumn. It wasn’t for people who shared your blood. 

Your mother proved it. The way her eyes would glaze over as she recited the poem, the way she’d talk about a love that you knew was never referring to Beron. She longed for someone that wasn't your father, someone she could never be with. And Jesmindas death only solidified the fact that love wasn’t made for Vanserras. 

You still heard her screams at night, still held the image of Lucien’s blood curling sobs. 

Loving someone, as much as you craved it, was selfish. It was a death wish— not only for you, but for them as well.

You read the poem again and a heavy feeling itched itself into your heart— something like a dagger of melancholy, stirring emotions that made you feel small and weak. Your chest tightened and you gripped the book tightly, feeling a flicker of fire growing within your bones. 

Your mothers poem was here. In a book that was so clearly loved, so clearly worn. It felt almost sacred, imbued with a history of love and loss, cherished by someone who, like you, sought solace in its verses.

In this spell-protected sanctuary, amidst the hallowed halls of knowledge and ancient books, a realization hit you with a chilling clarity. You fought to regain composure, blinking away the tears that brimmed on your waterlines. 

A soft, feather-light sensation around your wrist startled you back to the present. You looked down at your hands, watching as Azriel’s shadows flitted around you.Their touch was so gentle, so tender that it made you itch. You snapped the book shut, shoving it back into the shelf with a loud thud. 

“If you don’t stop, I will pin you and your wings to the wall like a fucking decoration.”

Azriel let out a growl, but he refused to look your way. He didn’t have the energy needed in him to properly reciprocate the threat, didn’t quite care enough to be bothered by it. 

You let out an angry breath. “Can you please control your little creatures?”

Your hand swatted at the shadows that still circled your wrists relentlessly. 

“What are you talking about—”

Azriel’s words died in his throat as he looked at you. His body stiffened, and within seconds the shadows were dissipating from your wrists. They curled around his body, a single tendril wrapping around his ear.

Azriel’s face softened slightly, a crease forming between his furrowed eyebrows. He held your gaze for a moment. And then he was stoic once more— no trace that he had felt anything at all.

He said nothing and turned around sharply, a wave of agitation passing over his features as his shadows swirled around him. You frowned at the abrupt change in his demeanor and watched as he paced back and forth, his boots tapping softly against the library's polished floor. The repetitive movement was starting to get on your nerves and you opened your mouth, ready to make a biting comment to make him stop.  But you hesitated. Your mouth fell closed once more. 

Something felt deeply wrong. You couldn’t place your finger on it, couldn’t explain why you felt it deep in your chest, but something was wrong. 

Azriel’s shadows, usually dark and smooth like ink in water, appeared unsettled and disjointed. They moved with an unusual haste, swirling around him with an air of desperation. It wasn’t there— that seamless synchronization they usually held with him. 

His hands were clasped together, fingers flexing and fidgeting, marred by various cuts and bruises. He lingered near the sunlight that poured through the door in sharp lines across the floor. He seemed almost drawn to it, yet hesitant, like a moth wary of the flame.

Perhaps it was the troubled look on Azriel’s face, or the tenderness of his shadows, or the memory of your mother—  but something inside you settled. Whatever it was, the pointed edge in your voice melted into a more rounded, concerned tone. You threw a quick glance over your shoulder at the red leather-bound book you had clutched moments ago. 

"What's wrong with you?” 

Azriel’s eyes flicked towards the sunlight again, and you saw a wave of something you couldn’t quite place—fear, perhaps, or deep discomfort. His shadows recoiled slightly as if the light was pushing them back.

“Nothing,” he muttered, but the word rang hollow, lacking conviction.

“Bullshit,” you shot back, not unkindly. “You’re pacing like a caged animal.”

He stiffened at your words and his movements came to a halt.  

You knew what Azriel's past had been like, not fully, but enough.

Vanserras were talented in making it their business to know everyone else's, and you had made it your point to ensure you knew everything about one of your family's greatest enemies— the male standing before you now. You knew what his brothers did to him, even made pointed comments about it recently, ones you fully meant in the moment. But you had never thought deeply or long enough about it, never truly imagined a younger Azriel. Now, as you watched him pace back and forth, his wings tightly folded, his hands fidgeting near the sealed door and the sunlight, you couldn't help but see a different side of him.

Azriel had been confined to a basement, a place likely with little light and minimal freedom. Now, he was trapped here, in this room, with you. Your heart tugged with a mixture of empathy and unease, a wave of nausea rising in your throat. Before you fully comprehended what you were doing, you spoke.

“I suppose since we’re both here, I should thank you.”

Azriel spun around, caught off guard by the unexpected tone in your voice— one that was uncharacteristically gentle. His brows furrowed in suspicion as he stared at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Thank me?”

You nodded, swallowing back your pride as you continued, “Renard came back to Autumn. I don’t know what my father did to him after, but his story was that he’d fallen into bed with a female and got lost in the pleasure — drunken bender and all.”

Azriel’s expression remained guarded, but you detected a sweep of something in his face— a wave of release as his tension visibly faded— only slightly, but enough to where his wings shifted behind him, flaring out to occupy more space.

“So thank you,” you repeated, your eyes not leaving his. “I know it was Rhysand who influenced his mind, and I know it was you who asked him to do it.”

Azriel shrugged, a terse gesture that seemed to dismiss the weight of your gratitude. He looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You hummed and annoyance simmered beneath your attempt at gratitude. "Fine," you said curtly, turning away to inspect the nearby bookshelves. But after a few steps, you stopped yourself and pivoted back toward him. "Actually, no. Why didn’t you just kill him?”

Azriel’s eyes met yours as you continued. 

“Renard, I mean. You could have. Probably would’ve been easier. I assume it would’ve saved you a lecture from your owne-'' You stopped yourself, and within the same breath, corrected the word you spoke. “Rhysand.”

Azriel hung onto your hesitation, his brow raising in silent inquiry as he fixed you with a penetrating stare. He cocked his head at you. “Well, that could have gotten you killed, couldn’t it have?”

You blinked and your chest tightened.  “I wasn’t aware you cared if I lived or died.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t either,” Azriel said quietly. As the words left his mouth, he stiffened and took a deep breath.

“What I mean to say is,” he started, his voice now strained with a different tone.  “You’re no use to me if you’re dead. It would be hard to maintain an alliance with your brother if I got you killed.”

You snorted, a smile playing on your lips as you absorbed his words “Right.”

But the smile you wore wasn’t bitter. It was amused if anything, which seemed to ease Azriel’s mind enough to where he was saying your name in an attempt to gather your attention. You met his gaze.

“What are you really doing here?”

There was no use in hiding. You glanced at his shadows, noting their restlessness, and realized they might even help. You decided to tell him the truth. The air was still, the room still locked, but you no longer felt suffocated. Looking at him, at the hazel in his eyes, you began.

"Renard did tell us everything we needed to know," you said, your voice steady. "He doesn't know anything because Beron doesn't know anything. He's trying to find any information on how to get power. I just thought that if I could learn more about Koschei, I could figure out how to step forward."

Azriel watched you intently. Something burned in the hazel of his eyes.

You sighed, the weight of his gaze heavy on your shoulders. "I know Helion has a special interest in folklore and legends. And I know somewhere here is a very old, very special book that has the story and origins of that stupid death god."

You thought of Eris, of your mother, of how Autumn had been these past two weeks. Beron's temper had grown more volatile, his punishments more severe. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the flash of his cruelty, felt the sting of his whip. Your stress was a living thing now, coiling around your chest, making it hard to breathe. You were exhausted— so exhausted that you couldn’t muster the energy to be angry at Azriel as much as before, couldn’t find the effort to hide your vulnerability. 

You waited for him to say something dismissive. Instead, he simply said, "Okay.”

He glanced at his shadows. They darted out from him, spreading around the room like wisps of smoke seeking the smallest crevices. You frowned, watching as they probed the shelves and corners. 

“They’ll find it,” Azriel said. His tone was casual, but the burning in his eyes betrayed his focus. You held his gaze as it seared into you. You already knew that this look would be etched into your memory, that it would surface at times you wished it would not.

A clear hesitancy found its way onto your face through knitted brows. He was too quiet, too nice. It made you wary. 

“Unless you're eager to search hundreds of books one by one?” he added, raising a brow at your silence. “I’m happy to sit back and watch your unsuccessful search resume.”

You scowled. "No. This works."

Azriel gave a small nod and resumed his pacing, though this time, it seemed more purposeful.

You watched as the shadows flitted from shelf to shelf, their dark forms moving with an eerie grace— slipping into the gaps between books, brushing over spines, and teasing open pages.

Your mind wandered back to the poem you had read earlier, the love and sacrifice it spoke of. For some reason, your mind wandered to the shadowsinger that walked a mere few feet from you. As much as his cold exterior suggested otherwise, there were moments—fleeting, rare moments—where you saw a flicker of something more than just anger in his eyes. You wondered if Azriel understood such depths of emotion, if he had felt such love for Morrigan— if that was what blinded him into his deep loathing of you and your family.

The minutes ticked by, and you found yourself glancing at Azriel more frequently. The tension in his posture had eased, his wings now slightly unfurled as if he too felt some semblance of peace.

It was odd, being in this situation with him, and suddenly not feeling a burning, biting hatred at his presence. You were so used to that feeling of anger, that fierce, consuming rage that burned so hot it turned into desire. That you understood—the satisfaction that came with knowing he was hungry for you despite everything he hated about you. The push and pull, the electric tension, it had always defined your interactions.

You wanted to shred your skin because this female now, this emotional, open one, who was beginning to see Azriel as something more than a male to fuck and a dog to rile up, wasn't you. It made your skin crawl with a kind of vulnerability you had long since sworn off. 

You forced yourself to look away, to focus on the task at hand, but the unease lingered. The minutes stretched into an eternity before Azriel spoke again, breaking the heavy silence. 

You looked at him, noticing the shadows curling around his wrists. He was holding a book, its cover worn and ancient, and he lifted it slightly. "Here it is."

You quickly strode over, reaching for the book, but he lifted it out of your grasp. You clenched your jaw. "Give me the damned book."

He stared at you, his expression unreadable. "We can look at it together."

"Are you kidding me?" you snapped, "Are you seriously so afraid of me that you won't allow me to read a book in your presence?"

Azriel's eyes darkened slightly, but his voice remained calm. "You're not the only one seeking information about Koschei and his origins. We're on the same side about that—unless you've forgotten."

 “Fine,” you said, then added with a sarcastic edge, “I’m honestly surprised you can even read. You lack so many manners that I figured you were as slow as the rest of your kind.”

Azriel growled but handed you the book anyways, and a small smirk of satisfaction tugged at the edges of your lips. You took it from his grasp, fingers brushing against his. 

A strange jolt of something—recognition, perhaps—passed between you. You ignored it, focusing instead on the text before you.  You placed the book on a nearby table, feeling Azriel’s presence behind you, his shadows hovering around the pages. You resisted the urge to swat them away, recognizing that they were probably relaying the information to him. 

Time went by, and frustration began to mount as you found nothing new. “So he’s deathless, has no body, is powerful, confined to a lake, and has a thing for trapping females. We know all of this,” you muttered, snapping the book shut with such force that the shadows flinched. “He’s a powerful freak with a fetish for holding women captive.”

You glanced over your shoulder, a mocking smile on your lips.  “He’s basically an Illyrian without wings.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened as he stared at you. His eyes darkened for a moment, and then something flickered in them. He raised an eyebrow. “We should just offer you to Koschei. One day with you and he might be tempted to kill himself just to be free of it.”

Your eyes widened as a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. Despite sensing his expectation for your anger, you let out a laugh. Azriel blinked in surprise and his shadows stilled momentarily. He felt it again, that strange chill that ran down his back at the sound leaving your lips. His wings shuddered for a moment and he traced the movement of your mouth as it curled into a grin. 

"That was actually kind of funny, Shadowsinger," you remarked, meeting his gaze squarely. "Who knew you had a sense of humor under all of that self-loathing and impulsivity.”

Azriel glared at you, his expression carrying his usual intensity, but there was a subtle softening in his eyes. The sharp edge that usually accompanied his gaze seemed to dull slightly, hinting at a glimmer of amusement. Under the weight of his gaze, you turned your head back towards the book in front of you, finding a place for your eyes to settle that wasn’t his hazel ones. Still, the heat radiated off his body— he was too close, entirely too close.

Ignoring him, you glanced towards the door and noticed the sunlight had lessened. "I believe your little creatures are safe to wander," you remarked coolly, "I think you could do us both a favor and send them to get us the hell out of here."

Azriel let out a grumble, but you observed as shadows flitted across the floor and through the cracks. Relief washed over you at the thought of soon being free from this place, away from Azriel's unsettling presence.

Yet, you could still feel him staring at you. 

"Why go through all of this trouble?" His voice was steady, probing.  "Search for a book you weren't even sure had any answers? Without my shadows, you could have spent hours going through each shelf to find it."

You gritted your teeth. "Gods, do you always ask so many questions?"

"Humor me," he replied evenly.

"I think I've done a bit too much of that recently," you retorted, a hint of exasperation coloring your tone.

You sighed, feeling his intense stare burning into your back. Turning around completely to face him, you gripped against the table, trying to control the heat rising within you. Azriel’s eyes were already on you when you found the will to look at him. 

"You admitted it yourself a few weeks ago. You'd go to extreme lengths for your family, too.”

He raised his eyebrow slightly. “All of this effort for that cruel brother of yours?"

Your anger flared and you felt your body tense as the ember of your powers simmered beneath your skin. But as you glanced at Azriel, his gaze unexpectedly open, you recalled your last conversation with him, how angry you were at the realization that Eris deserved better, that no one would ever let him live down his past. But here, staring at Azriel, in a space that felt so intimate, maybe you could push a new perspective even harder, force a seed of understanding. 

Taking a breath to steady yourself, you decided to reach out beyond the walls of your blinding anger.

"The only difference between your brother and mine is that Eris won’t try to write off his actions as for the greater good. Sometimes bad things are just bad things. And we all have to do bad things to survive."

Azriel scanned your face, his gaze lingering so long that you immediately regretted saying anything. The feeling rose in your throat like bile and a simmering heat spread through your chest, a fire you almost wished would consume you. 

“I’m sorry,” Azriel finally said, “That you couldn’t find anything. That you wasted a day here.”

His tone was so soft that you were almost tempted to believe that he meant it— that he was being sincere. Your chest tightened. That reality was unlikely, and you quickly let your defenses kick in, looking away with a roll of your eyes. 

"Don’t mock me," you snapped.

Azriel's expression hardened as he frowned. "What?" 

Meeting his gaze angrily, you reiterated, "I said, don't mock me. Pretending to care is cruel, even for you."

You released your grip on the table and turned to walk past him, but he reached out, grabbing your hand firmly, pulling you to him. The touch sent a chill through your arm. 

“By the Cauldron, must you fight me on everything?” He said through clenched teeth. “Can’t you just let me say that I'm sorry?" 

You stared at him, taking in his troubled expression, the way his eyes seemed to hold a storm of conflicting emotions. Pulling your hand from his grasp, you rubbed the spot where his touch lingered, as if trying to erase his imprint on you.

"I'm just supposed to believe that you've suddenly had a change of heart?" 

Azriel ran a hand through his hair. "You are infuriating, you know that?" 

"Ah yes, a supposed genuine apology followed by insult. Hypocritical as usual, Shadowsinger." 

Exasperation flickered across Azriel's face. "If I wanted to insult you, princess, I'd do a much better job than calling you infuriating."

You held his stare, anger and suffocation swirling within you. Your hands curled into fists as Azriel's troubled gaze continued to burn into yours.

He followed the line of your neck as you swallowed, his eyes lingering on you in a way that felt too intense for the confined space. Perhaps it was the lack of his shadows, the absence of his usual watchful companions, but Azriel found himself moving closer to you despite your recoil.

"What is it about you that drives me insane?" he murmured his voice barely above a whisper.

Your brow furrowed in confusion and your stomach twisted into a knot.  "What are you talking about?"

"These past two weeks," he continued, his tone tinged with something raw and unguarded. "You have not left my mind. I hear your voice, calling me weak."

You scoffed and looked away. "So I have hurt your feelings. A bit pathetic, don't you think?" 

Azriel shook his head. "No. You didn't hurt my feelings, Y/N."

The sound of your name on his lips sent a shiver through your body and your chest tightened.  His gaze flickered down to your mouth briefly before meeting your eyes again. You found yourself unable to look away.

“You want Eris to be High Lord,” Azriel stated, “I will help you make that come to fruition.”

You stared at Azriel, momentarily stunned. His words hung in the air, mingling with the charged, suffocating atmosphere between you. The intensity of his gaze made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and yet there was a gleam of something else—it felt like hope, buried deep beneath layers of mistrust.

"Why? You hate Eris.”

"It is one cruel leader for another. But at least this way, it will benefit my home. And then I can be free of you and work to take down Koschei."

His words sunk in slowly. He can be free of you. You tried to read his expression. Azriel extended his hand towards you, palm upturned. 

"We seal this bargain," he said solemnly, his eyes searching yours. “No more sneaking around and I will help you. You get what you want.”

You hesitated. But something inside you—a desperate need for a way out of this predicament, a glimmer of hope for a future where Eris could be High Lord—compelled you to reach out. You placed your hand in his, feeling the warmth of his palm against yours.

As soon as your skin touched, a surge of energy coursed through you both— a burning sensation, starting from your intertwined hands and spreading outward. Azriel's eyes widened imperceptibly, and you sensed him searching for the hidden markings that sealed your pact. He found nothing on your exposed skin. 

You withdrew your hand slowly. There was a newfound weight to the air. You opened your mouth to speak when a burst of sunlight pierced through the dimness of the room. 

You took a large step back, gaze darting to the entrance of the room. Helion strode in with characteristic grace, his presence commanding the room effortlessly as tendrils of shadow snaked towards Azriel, winding their way up his body.

Helion's eyes swept over the scene before him. His expression gave away nothing as he observed you and Azriel. After a moment, he finally spoke. 

"Out of all the collectables in this room, I have to say seeing you two together is the rarest thing I've set my eyes on.”

You shot a quick glance at Azriel. You offered Helion a small smile. “Helion–”

Helion lifted a hand gently. "I'm not sure I want to know," he said. His gaze settled on you. "Have you done anything I need to be wary of?"

You shook your head firmly. "No."

"Then that's all I need," Helion replied casually, his attention now turning to Azriel. "Am I correct to assume Rhysand has no idea you're here?" 

You frowned, head turning to look at Azriel, who managed to meet your gaze briefly before looking back at the High Lord that stood before you. Azriel said nothing, opting to clench his jaw. 

“Alright.” Helion let out a small breath, pursing his lips in thought. "I'm known to keep a secret or two.”

He did, indeed. You knew this now more than ever.

You took advantage of Helion’s presence to observe him closely, taking in his chiseled features and the graceful stature in which he stood. Despite the reputation both you and Eris had garnered, Helion had always been fair to you, not quick to judge. You wondered now if that was due to something beyond an innate sense of empathy he held— if he had a sense of loyalty to you because of the blood that ran in your veins. 

"Let me escort you both out," Helion offered finally, breaking the silence that had settled between the three of you. Without waiting for a response, he turned towards the door. 

As you walked with him, you heard a faint shuffling behind you. From the corner of your eye, you glimpsed Azriel adjusting his posture, the tail end of his movement obscured as he tucked his wings further and clasped his hands behind his back. His shadows coiled around him more tightly than usual. He fell into line behind you. 

You felt a peculiar sensation in your chest. Instinctively, your hand rose to settle over the spot just above your heart. There was a subtle sensation of heat— a tingling warmth that lingered beneath your touch. 

You ignored it as Helion led you out of the library.  

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

enemies.... to enemies to with benefits.... now to tentative allies....dare i say.... friends?

this is a lil turning point for our two cunty losers bc now their bickering is less cruel and vile and its just teasing ugh my HEART

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @sarawritestories

Can I request headcannons of you surprise Papa IV on tour???

Absolutely you can, my dear!

Some hints at NSFW content. 18+, MDNI!

You had always loved watching Papa on stage, but knowing you couldn't accompany him on the full American leg of the Re-Imperatour was hard to swallow

Usually you were by his side day in day out, but you were needed in the Ministry now your position in the clergy has been elevated

When Sister Imperator gave you the green light to join him for a few dates though, you swore her to silence. This had to be a surprise.

You stood by the sound desk, watching on proudly just far enough away that he wouldn't spot you in the sea of adoring faces

You laughed, you cried, you sang along with him from your hiding place.

Halfway through his last song, you made your way backstage with the help of Jesus (Kevin) shielding you from running into anybody else.

"Wait here, maybe hide somewhere..." he smirks

You do. You hide behind the door to the large dressing room the band shared.

You hear him before you see him, his shoes clacking on the floor and when he enters the room, back to you, he notices absolutely nothing amiss.

In fact, it was Phantom who saw you first - and all he could do was jump up and down on the spot, clapping like an excited puppy dog.

"What are you doing, Phantom?" he asks, his brow furrowed.

Phantom points behind him excitedly, but he still doesn't turn around. The other ghouls do though, and Swiss makes a noise of surprise.

"I think he's pointing at me, amore..."

Copia stiffens, his head turning before he allows his body to. In the corner of his eye he sees you, and faster than you've ever seen him move, he clambers over furniture to reach you.

He trips over the couch in the middle of the room, but you say nothing. Better not to acknowledge it...

You practically jump into his arms, toppling the pair of you over. Copia was already unsteady enough on his feet, you may as well have rugby tackled him.

He made no move to get up from the floor, hugging you close to him.

"Tesoro, how?"

"His unholiness works in mysterious ways..."

The ghouls pile up on top of you both, wanting their fair share of affection.

"Get off, you oafs! Merda!"

Back at his hotel, he cannot keep his hands off you. His arms are wrapping around your waist the moment you stepped into the room.

"Do you even capire how much I have missed you, cara?" his voice is deep in your ear, sultry.

"Probably as much as I missed you, I'm sure," you flirt back.

You can feel how much he's missed you.

"We must make up for lost time, sì?"

Oh, and you do. Nevermind that he needed his rest for the next ritual tomorrow. He would just have to be exhausted, because there was absolutely NO WAY he wasn't spending ever second of tonight wrapped up in you.

this.

james potter who always wants you in his lap because you sitting next to him isn't close enough. james potter who lifts you onto his shoulders after he wins a Quidditch match. like he is so hyper that he jumps up and down, seemingly forgetting that you are holding onto his hair for dear life. james potter who bribes you with your favorite sweets when he needs help on homework. james potter who needs a cuddle break every five minutes when you're tutoring him. james potter who gives you piggyback rides when you're tired after a long night out. james potter who lets you win when you play-fight. oh who am i kidding, he would throw you over his shoulder and dance around before pinning you down and kissing every inch of your face delicately. james potter who would randomly tell you which piece to move when you’re playing chess against remus or sirius because he always wins against the three of you.

remus lupin. sirius black.

this awakened something in me, I —

Impressions on the Inside of Your Thigh

summary: Head Ranch Hand James "Bucky" Barnes has had a very, very long day. Only way to remedy it is to make you squeal.

pairings: Beefy!Cowboy!Bucky Barnes x F!RanchHand!Reader

warnings: good ol' fashioned grinding up against a wall, petnames and not-so-pet names (tottie means 'fast girl' in western), choking, hand job/fingering (f receiving), horny cowboy has long day and wants to play, making out, dirty talk

word count: 1.9k

a/n: thought y'all would like this little goodie before the holiday one of the things i'm thankful for is sebastian stan in a cowboy hat ;) this was literally birthed from a singular daydream while I was driving home from work the other day listening to Feathered Indians by Tyler Childers. Couldn't stop thinking about it so here we are. This is also the first smut I have EVER FUCKING WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED??? which is something I would have never imagined but the mind is a mysterious thing.

Please consider reblogging my work! Reblogging helps others to be able to enjoy mine and other writers' works! Help me help you help others and reblog <3

Read here on AO3!

divider by @firefly-graphics | gif by @lowkeysebastianstan

Remnants of dust snaked their way into your lungs, the scent of sweat and horse and earth mixing in the familiarity of one another. The kitchen lights flickered as the dishwasher hummed, a pot of homemade roast simmering softly on the stovetop.

There was nowhere else you would rather be than the bunkhouse. 

You’d be an idiot to admit you wanted to be anywhere else, honestly– especially while Head Ranch Hand James “Bucky” Barnes rutted you up against the weathered wooden walls, creaks and moans coming from both house and human. 

Your vice grip on his shoulders only drove him further, devouring you with his lips on your neck while his calloused hands groped you up and down like a desperate and dying blind man. Your shirt lay open without the help of its buttons, long gone since the minute he’d walked through the door and tore you open. They’d scattered about, under chairs and beds and across the kitchen. You only thought it was fair to trade your shirt for his, discarding it somewhere near the dinner table along with his signature white cowboy hat. 

Electricity coursed through you as your torso bared against his, godly large hands palming your breasts as your bra threatened to snap. His thighs, clad in dirtied denim and fitted leather, straddled you, nuzzling a hard knee in between your legs. You fought for your life as you mewled; friction unlocking your throat, allowing a carnal cry to escape. It echoed through the empty house. You squealed, from both the surprise of James’s hand bolting to cover your mouth and even more arousal as he moved his knee just right.

“Careful, now, chickadee,” he rasped into your ear, “Don’t want anyone to hear ya ‘n think you’re a fuckin’ tottie, now, do ya?” He jutted hard into you as the slur left his lips. Your body shook and you moaned behind his hand in response. He smirked, knowing he could hog-tie you and you’d still thank him. 

He didn’t kick down the bunkhouse door after a long day just to spoon you. 

“Yeah, you like that ya fuckin’ tottie, huh? Like it when I call ya what y’are?” His hand moved to your throat, calloused fingers wrapping around your windpipe. You gasped, fingernails digging further into his back and nodding. He could call you a flat-out whore and you wouldn’t even flinch. 

“Please, James,” you choked, feeling his grip tighten further. Your thighs clamped tighter around his, arousal soaking through your jeans as the friction dragged you through pain and pleasure wrapped up in one big coil waiting to snap in your stomach. 

“It’s Buck, chickadee,” he growled, scraping his stubble and lips across your cheek and meeting yours in a hungry kiss. It gripped you, all tongue and teeth and need, ravaging you like a mongrel dog. He bit down on your bottom lip, sucking in the tender flesh as another moan came from your chest. He chuckled, satisfied with your undoing. His free hand left its place from palming your tender breast, gathering your hands from his stone-carved chest and raising them above you, firmly holding them over you like a prized kill. You gaped at his act, jaw slack and lungs gasping for more oxygen– for more of him.

“Mine,” he claimed as he slammed your restrained wrists against the oak wood walls. You panted as your new necklace released your throat and shot to your core, greedily grabbing your denim-clad core hard. 

“Also, mine.” 

You didn’t dare look away from him, his brilliant baby blues demanding every drop of focus you could spare. Your head spun as he continued to roughly grope your core, fingers unashamedly teasing your clit through your clothing as they pinpointed the spot his knee had discovered earlier. Desperate for his lips you lunged for him, only to be firmly held against the wall with gripping restraint.

“What’s the matter, tottie? You don’t like me playin’ with my dinner?” he tsked, shaking his head with a devilish smirk spreading across his face. You whimpered in response, jutting your lip out in an attempt to dissuade him from your restraint against the wall. When that only turned his smirk upward, you batted your lashes as you bit down on your bottom lip and rolled it through your teeth.

“You can play with your food all you want,” you said, sultry honey dripping into your tone. As much as you loved being his prey, you knew he was starving. 

“But daddy’s gotta eat at some point.”

He became undone.

He grunted, pushing back into you as he seared your lips, his tongue jutting into yours as you both collided. He moaned as you took his lip between your teeth and bit down, marking him as he had done to you. His hands moved again, slipping between you and the wood behind and hooking underneath your ass, leaning you back and into his arms. Your ankles instinctively wrapped around his hips, holding on tightly as he turned back towards the kitchen. Your lips continued locked together as he clumsily navigated through the living room and into the kitchen, your feet hitting the edge of the kitchen table as he spun around.

Your core lit ablaze, the rope in your stomach knotting as he fell forward, spilling you onto the antique barn wood surface. Your knees creased the edge, calves hanging off the table as you laid with haloed hair and bruised lips, staring at him through lidded eyes. He took you in, chest heaving as his lust-blown pupils scanned you up and down. He licked his lips, almost drooling over the task set before him. 

“What are ya waitin’ for, cowboy?” you breathed, voice shaking in a horrible attempt to mask your desperation stemming from your throbbing clit. You wanted your jeans off and you wanted them off now.  

“Wanted t’admire ya before I ruined ya.”

In one swift motion, he bent over your core, kissing the denim barrier as he popped the button and unzipped your jeans, his mouth only leaving briefly as he slid them down and off of you, tossing them somewhere behind him. Your breath hitched as he returned to his place at your core, now only one thin wall separating him from his main course. His nose nudged your clit as he kissed the crease between your legs, fingers wandering every which way as he groped you. 

“Bucky, pl–please,” you pleaded, heart racing as you could feel the slick flood out of you. You grabbed the edges of the table, bracing yourself as his teeth skimmed the waistband and took the thin fabric between his lips. You knew what was to come. 

You relished it. 

He held tight to your hips, thumbs grazing the soft spots on each side that made you buck your hips as he tore upwards, fabric ripping away from your body and finally exposing you. He spat the shreds over his shoulder and instantly dropped to his knees– a sight you knew would haunt your dreams that night. 

Your dreams and your pussy.

His tongue took its first lap at your folds, a guttural groan erupting from his chest as he smacked his lips. The first taste was always the sweetest to him, a flavor he never grew sick of as he nudged deeper and licked your entrance. He drank you in with pride, sucking your swollen clit and smiling against you as you uttered the most heavenly sounds. The wines, the gasps– every sound you made was a symphony scoring his actions, egging him further into you as his tongue entered you. He swirled into you, spelling his name with deep strokes as he held down your hips. From above it was a scene of worship: him, kneeled over you like you were the last drink of water he’d ever have on earth; you, back arched with hands in your hair while mewls turned to moans, escaping you relentlessly. 

He moved again, kissing your folds good luck as his hands migrated; one under you to your ass, the other to the top of your mound. His thumb pressed against your clit, bruised and puffy as all hell, before moving to make way for his mouth. Hot breath clouded over your slit as his index and middle fingers dipped in between your folds, slicking and swirling them, teasing your entrance as he played you like a fiddle. The whines, the whimpers– you didn’t care who heard you. 

All you cared about was the rope in your stomach knotting tighter and together, desperate for him to rip it apart. 

He slipped his digits into you, the two stretching your walls with the most pleasurable pain. Your eyes scrunched shut as your hand made a beeline for his hair, fistful of chocolate locks pulling at him like a bridled stallion. He groaned as you grabbed, the pulling making his cock stretch against his jeans. It only made his knuckles bottom out your hole, fingers hooking up into you and releasing a burst of pleasure. You writhed as he thrust faster, picking up speed and bottoming out repeatedly, thumb swirling over your clit harder, faster. Your grip left his locks and you ran your nails over his scalp, scratching his skin and grabbing the roots of his hair. 

Grunting as his hand thrust into you with each clap, his lips found their way around your clit once more, tongue swirling once more around the puffy bud. 

“Chickadee,” he growled. You lifted your head, smug baby blues meeting your gaze and dancing over your heated face. Heart pumping, banging against your rib cage, you gulped as he commanded the only word you’d been waiting to hear. 

“Come.”

In the same beat, he unleashed a wave of pleasure: one final thrust into you with knuckles against your entrance, his other hand bruising your ass with a vice grip, and, pursed, unbeatable lips sucking in your puffy clit to meet his tongue one last time. 

The knotted rope snapped, your back arching and a howl erupting from your chest; your jaw and muscles locked into an ‘O’, eyes rolling back to meet your brain. He stayed buried in you as you rode his hand out, drenching his hand completely with your come. As you come down, he removes his fingers, sliding them out painfully slow, relishing the final jerks of your climax. 

As you came down, breathless with ringing ears, he rose, moving to your side. Looking down at his work, a grin spilled across his face, lustful and proud. You stared back up at him, eyes shining as you reached for him. He obliged this time, bending down with your hands cupping his face and kissing him softly. He tasted like you– and he made sure you knew so by darting his tongue out and quickly swiping across your lips.

You giggled, sitting up and hopping off the table to face him. Looking at eachother for a moment, you reached to tuck a lock of chocolate behind his ear. He kissed your hand as you brought it back, scruff scratching your palm. 

“That’s my girl,” he praised. You smirked, your hands grazing his shoulders and down his chest, looking up at him through your lashes with the doe eyes you knew he couldn’t resist. 

“That’s me, cowboy,” you giggled, hands gliding down his waist and hooking onto the waistband of his jeans. 

“Now, how ‘bout some dessert?”

awwwwwww

You’re still my winner

Hi, I'm MJ! She/her, '03 baby, Aquarius—

MDNI

Navigation — Updated 9/27/24

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— Fanfiction

MARVEL

Bucky Barnes x Reader: Through Sea Mist and Shadows (Series) ONGOING

SUPERNATURAL

Dean Winchester x Reader: Anniversary (One-shot)

ARCANE

Silco x Reader: I Trust You (One-shot)

HOGWARTS LEGACY

Sebastian Sallow x Reader: Winter Warmth (Drabble)

Me seeing Barbie and Oppenheimer back to back

one of these nights - Dean Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3. masterlist.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader (vaguely post-s3) with some Sam Winchester & Reader.

Tags/Warnings: friends-to-lovers, Fluff then Angst then Smut, Sex on/in the Impala, implied/technical cheating, drinking, Reader is a Hunter.

Words: 20k.

Notes: a lovely little commission for the lovely lacilou on tumblr. this was my first shot at writing a dean-insert (as a hardcore samgirl), which was an absolute blast!! hope u enjoy!!

Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

All your life, you’d never been keen on cliques. But there’s a certain magic in rolling up to a small-town Massachusett dive with yours.

It’s a little funny, calling Sam and Dean your clique. You know that, yet it’s true. You breeze inside the bar like the most popular kids in school, slow-mo strutting down the hall in the movies. Even with them behind you, you can picture it in your head on film: Dean’s jacket swinging with his saunter, Sam’s hair falling in his face, your jewelry swishing at your neckline. Tonight is already a movie. The thud of your boots together makes this pleasant rhythm, parting the Friday night crowd around the three of you, and you lead the boys to the counter with a sense that today has been perfect. The hunt you’d just spent three weeks on had been tied up with the prettiest, cleanest bow. No casualties. No scrapes that couldn’t be fixed with some whiskey and a bandage. Dean is snickering at his joke, and you and Sam are pretending it’s not as funny as it actually is. Things are perfect-perfect.

Even with your two gigantoids as buffers, the bar you’d picked to commemorate a hunt well done is packed to the brim. You gather around the only empty stool at the bar to get the bartender’s attention, and as you wait, you manage to worm your wallet free from your pockets with only a little elbowing. After so long the boys have zero mind for personal space. It’s kind of cute.

“I’ll cover the tab tonight, boys. Call it an early Halloween present,” you beam, and over your shoulder Dean whistles.

“Damn,” he says, “you really are in a good mood.”

You turn your grin on Dean, wiggling your wallet at him so the coins inside rattle like a tambourine. “We’re celebrating! And you wanna know how I know?”

Another group of people squeezes through the crowd behind you, bumping Dean even further into your personal bubble. He tries to be subtle about it, gliding in like an air-hockey puck, but you can tell that he lets the momentum carry him a little further than it needs to. If you brought it up he’d just explain it away as a product of how damn loud it is in here, _____, you can’t fault a guy for having shit hearing! But you know it’s on purpose. Tonight is good for so many reasons, but the first is Dean being relaxed enough to do that. To walk that line with you.

“How do you know?” He asks below the roaring bar chatter. Dean does have shit hearing, since he’s spent so many years behind a pistol, so he tips his face toward your cheek to make out your voice. A wave of gasoline and aftershave floods your senses.

You share a conspiratory look with him, side-eyeing Sam and hiding your smirk behind your hand. “‘Kid told me he plans to have two beers instead of one.”

Dean lights up, because while teasing Sam is fun, it’s ten times funnier when you both gang up on him. “Two? Break out the balloons,” he snickers, and drops a hand on your back to lean past you. There, he drawls at his brother, “You sure you can handle partying with the big kids, Sam? Me and _____ are kind of professional post-hunt drinkers…”

You pump your fist in solidarity because, hell yeah, what a healthy coping mechanism. Over a decade of training has made you a master of the Winchester sense of humor, so just this kills Sam a little—he’s in a ridiculously good mood too, and you can tell because he’s being even more of a tight-ass than usual.

“Cut that ‘kid’ shit out and maybe I’ll throw in some jäger,” Sam grumbles. Or, he tries to, but he’s still smiling to himself.

Again, you share a look with Dean that goes over Sam’s head (metaphorically, of course). Two beers and some jäger in him could end in only one way: you and Dean dragging over two hundred pounds of giggly man-boy the three blocks to your motel. Dean makes a face like that’s the last way he wants to end tonight, but you know from experience that being carried home piss-drunk is way more fun than it sounds. For you, at least.

Last time, you’d been laughing too hard for either brother to keep you on your feet. It was great. Whenever you complained about something, one of your best friends in the whole world appeared to magic the problem away. You were laughing too hard to walk? Dean scooped you up and carried you all the way to the Impala. Your heels were murdering your ankles? Sam wiggled them off you, trailing behind you and Dean with them slung over his shoulder. You fell asleep to the soft jostle of Dean’s walk and the low timbre of his voice humming Folsom Prison Blues. Sometimes you still caught yourself singing it when you got ready for bed.

“Hold on—that table’s opening up. I’m gonna steal it for us,” Sam notices. He slaps Dean on the shoulder as he goes, “Order for me.” Realizing the troublemaker he’d just handed that responsibility to, Sam wheels back, and asks you instead. “Actually, _____, can you—?”

You raise a hand before he can finish. “The cheapest pale ale they have, I know. Now, go, before we’re forced to sit on the pavement outside all night.”

Sam gives you this trusting nod that’s just golden, because the second he’s gone you twist to Dean, your partner in crime, and squint in thought. “...So. You think he’ll hate the peach daiquiris or the malibu cocktails more?”

The smile that hasn’t left Dean’s face once since you walked in only grows. You feel the hand on your back loop around to your waist, squeezing you against his warm side in appraisal. “God,” he sighs, wistful, “you’re my brand of evil genius, you know that?”

You sputter out a laugh instead of something clever, because, well. When Sam is in a good mood, he digs his heels in and sasses back to everything you say. When Dean is in a good mood, he squeezes the bare skin where your jeans meet your shirt, carries you home, and gazes at you with big glittery eyes and rumbles, I hear the train a-comin', it's rolling 'round the bend…

Apparently, you do about the same thing on your good days too. Gliding into him with that same air-hockey puck subtlety, you squeeze him around the back, asking in your sweetest voice, “Can you go see how many songs are in the jukebox’s play queue for me? I wanna dance to—”

“I know what song you want to dance to,” Dean smugly finishes your thought, so certain of your preferences that your heart does a little jig. “You know what d—?”

“—yeah, I know what drink you want,” you finish for him, just like he had for you.

Dean’s face glitters with open fondness for just an instant, then disappears into the constant flux of people, leaving you to suck down the gasoline-aftershave-leather fog that follows him. You can still feel the friendly pinch he’d given your waist by the time your drinks arrive, the ache of it fading into your skin. The leftover adrenaline from your accomplished hunt was still pounding through your system, so the haze of Dean's affection layered on top has you skipping back to your table.

You can taste it mingling with the cigar smoke in the air—something’s different with Dean tonight. Him and you. Sam had noticed, too, because after he accepts his peach daiquiri with an unphased huff, he waits to speak until he’s safely hidden behind his laptop’s screen.

“That was a lot of touching up there,” he says, as if he’s talking about the weather.

You take the same tone, shrugging like he’s pointed out it’s gonna rain later. “S’ been a good week, Sammy.”

Any attempt to come across as tame is useless. You’re an open book. A part of you wishes you were less obvious, but Dean’s pinch still tingles in your side and the left side of your body is alive with phantom leather jacket sensations. Shit.

“Your hands are shaking.” His brows bounce once at you over the article he’s reading.

You have nothing smart to say at this, and instead choose to scoop up your own daiquiri and clink it against his. Distraction tactic. Sam cheerses with you, but doesn’t drink from his glass, clunking it down next to him and simmering with you in your crush-pumped silence. He gets this particular look on his face when it comes to you and Dean. It’s squinty, knowing, and not an inch different from when he was a little kid. You remember the cool girlfriend that your own older brother had had in high school, and what your relationship with her had looked like. She was awesome, and every day you prayed she never left. Sam has always had that same quiet hope in his eyes—please stick around forever and take care of my dumbass brother. I’ll pay you.

Many, many times, too many times to count, the swirling threads of your feelings and Dean’s had crossed, but not once had they ever knotted together permanently. He would swing into your life and then swing out. You would live in his for a little while, threads looping and weaving, but nothing ever came of it. Putting it into terms more complicated than that usually made your chest ache like a rail spike had been driven through it. Tonight is one of those nights where the ache feels good, where loving Dean is a special secret you can whisper behind your hand to anyone you want.

Words swim in your head. There is no easy way to explain to Dean’s kid brother that Dean is the best man in this room and this world, that he bleeds goodness like other men bleed mud, that he’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Sam would probably roll his eyes. You are rolling your eyes at yourself. But on the up-and-down rollercoaster of your relationship, these last few months have been the strongest climb to the top yet. Maybe that means you’re going to hit a big drop. You’re a hopeful person, though, so you can’t help but read Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror differently. This is it. He’s not looking at the lonely girls by the bar or the pretty ones on the dancefloor. His eyes are on you.

Blinking yourself out of your head, you putter out the lamest version of your buzzing thoughts.

“I get the feeling tonight’s different,” you say, talking into your glass and avoiding Sam’s laser-focused gaze. On instinct, you stare at the vague clump in the crowd where Dean should be. “All these months of…” you gesture broadly, “I think… something could happen.”

Sam pulls a face. “Ew.”

You kick him under the table. “Shut up,” you laugh, “I’m being serious, dude. Dean—”

…appears right beside you. In your mind’s eye, he emerges from the crowd bleeding with easy cheer, glistening gold at the edges in the bar light. “You rang?” he says. “Got your song going for you. Should be the next one.”

Dean slinks out of his jacket like a tomcat, all casual slyness, and hip-checks you when he slides into your half of the booth. It’s practical—he would have to squeeze, sitting by Sam. With you, Dean has all the room in the world to manspread his thigh against yours and toss his arm over the back of the seat behind you. The flesh of his arm never actually makes contact with the back of your neck, but it could. He survived off those little almosts.

Just as the three of you get settled into conversation, the last song dies out, swaying into the first bluesy chords of One of These Nights by the Eagles. The second that first brassy note plucks off the lead guitar, a match sparks in your chest. Dean spins to catch your eye, gleaming with excitement. The old urge to get up and conquer the dancefloor becomes irresistible. You can still feel your last case in your weary bones a bit, but there’s a certain grime to hunting that can only be scrubbed off by a good time. Dean knows this, too, so you’re led by the wrist out of the booth before the lyrics even start. He steals a sip of peach daiquiri and then you’re off for the open space between the tables. You’re laughing so hard your cheeks ache.

You’re chased by Sam’s playful shout. “Don’t have too much fun out there!”

The race to the lyrics is literal. You know there’s only a few seconds of interlude before they start, and Dean, after decades of being your one and only dance partner, knows precisely when they kick in. One of you decides that you must be in the middle of the sparse crowd the second Don Henley starts singing, and the other accepts this without question. You end up laughing, scrambling, and shoving a couple of people to get there, but god—the supporting piano lands and the bass struts and the lead guitar just stings. Like always. You break through into a clearing at the heart of the bar’s dancefloor, and for a second all you can see is Dean. He skids to a stop in his boots and laughs his ass off the whole time, stumbling inwards and making a mad dash to get your hands in his. His grin shines and his eyes crinkle with glee. The fire and anguish from your earlier hunt is gone. Now it’s just him, as you’ve always remembered him.

“One of these nights…” you laugh to each other. With your hands scooped in his, Dean starts funnily salsaing you back and forth with him to the beat, which instantly splits your sides. You’re laughing too hard to sing with him, “One of these crazy old nights…”

Through giggles, you dryly comment, “Excellent starting move.”

“Why thank you,” Dean replies.

You shift his salsa dancing around in a circle, then follow the spin all the way out, wing-span wide and only one hand tethered to Dean’s. With the ease of practice, he whirls you back in. Each move is unrehearsed and mostly random, but you and Dean have listened to this song in particular at least a hundred times, and danced to it just as much. Some beats of it you can’t help repeating from other nights spent dancing in bars. For example:

You’re wrapped in one of his arms, hand still held, while Dean’s other seamlessly lands on your waist on time with the next line. “We’re gonna find out, pretty mama,” he drawls with purpose, leaning in close enough to make your neck tickle, “what turns onnn your lights…”

He does this every time. Every time, it makes your chest tight with this shivery warmth you just can’t shake.

Dean used to be pretty shit at dancing, but after a hundred bars with a hundred names you’ve forgotten, it’s the one piece of him that you’ve pried loose from John’s influence. Sam isn’t looking and nobody knows who the two of you are. For once, Dean lets loose. He slides his hands down your arms and hooks your fingers in his, calloused and thick, rocking you back and forth with the rhythm. You think to yourself that Dean would make a great musician. He keeps time with ease, falling into a relaxed four-step (you’re pretty sure that’s what it’s called) and losing himself in the words. The swinging openness of it makes him look just gorgeous. Dean’s cheeks are rosy with exertion, the hollow of his throat shines with sweat, and he never looks away from you even once.

Every other day of hunting season, Dean… compartmentalizes. He takes the fever the two of you feel now and packs it down where nobody can find it. You see those feelings shake loose from their reigns every once in a while, but there’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over them out in the open: here, cupping your lower back and crooning lyrics.

“...been searchin’ for the daughter of the devil himself,” he murmurs, throwing you a playful eye-roll at the symbolism you’re both tired of living. “I’ve been searchin’ for an angel in white…”

You drop a wrist over Dean’s shoulder and he rocks in close, tilting back and forth on his feet. Together, you mumble along with Don Henley and sway in a cozy circle. You take the rare opportunity to relish how he feels pressed against you. Saying anything will spoil the magic, so you just let it wash over you, purposefully coasting away from the few rational thoughts your brain is producing.

It’s unfair that he feels the way he does—and you know Dean does, he’s told you and you’ve told him and it’s all been laid out before—and still strings you along like this. You know. You should be pissed at him every time you think about it. But it’s Dean, and having a piece of him you don’t see is better than having none of him at all.

“...One of these nightssss…”

The Eagles eventually seep into another band’s song, which you assume is your signal to quit. Your vision loses its luster and the glittering lights of the world dim back to normal. Dean will have his one lucky dance with you, then, since you’re a bunch of old people, you’ll retire to your table and shoot the breeze until someone calls it a night. That’s how this always goes.

You pull your cheek from where you’d laid it against his shirt. It takes you a bit to put your thoughts into words, so you’re slow to assume, “Wanna get back to our drinks?”

When you meet eyes, Dean’s are soft, and he smiles with this quiet pleasure roving all over his face. Dimly, you register that Burnin’ For You by Blue Oyster Cult is chiming through the bar now, but. He runs his hands down your arms—sort of planting you in place, like he wants to keep you here with him. Your whole body zings with millions of little electric pulses that pump into your head like a fog too thick to see through. More than anything, you want to stay too.

Around you, the dancefloor is alive with people. But Dean has a habit of making you feel cinematic, so you can almost see how the extras fizz into the background as the camera settles on you and him alone. The bar lights hang overhead, hazy and warm. Your soundtrack is lively and familiar. The moment hangs… neither of you wants to give it up.

“Yeah. Why don’t we, uh,” he clears his throat, “grab a few sips and then head back here, huh?”

Suspended in place by the pound of your own heart, you slide your palms off his chest and put on your slyest grin. “Dancing is way more fun when you’re tipsy.”

Dean slips on a smile of his own, then turns to lead the way out of the crowd. For just an instant you feel like you can’t get your feet off the floor, and you watch him go, head spinning. Deep down, you worried that you might’ve been pushing your enthusiasm to its limit thinking tonight was the night. For the last decade of your life, you’d been waiting on Dean. But something really is different now, because, true to his word, Dean snags a few sips of his drink with you and then you’re back out on the dance floor.

The next few songs fly by. Everything is Dean. The heavy thump of boots on the worn-smooth floor, the growing buzz of alcohol in your system. You’re at the center of his stage, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. If anybody but you came up and waved a hand in his face, you doubted Dean would even notice. You talk about your favorite albums and he laughs at every joke you make, giving you that big-eyed, pirate-smile Dean Winchester look that melts your insides. His eyes are on you.

You swim your way through Double Vision by Foreigner, you on lead air-guitar and Dean supporting with some seriously impressive air-drums. Neither of you consider yourselves professional singers or anything, but there’s a moment in the chorus underneath all the noise where you swear you and Dean harmonize. All the rowdy guitar and drum-playing smooths into The Police’s Roxanne. Your face is immediately sizzling hot the second you hear the starting chords, since every time, without fail, Dean pulls out all the stops to dramatically croon the song to you. The last time it’d come on the radio, he’d chased you all over Bobby’s house, serenading you with a beer bottle microphone. He does it this time too. When you laugh and squirm away, he finds your wrists and guides you back into him, palms everywhere, making kissy faces and everything.

You suppress the urge to seek revenge and huff, “You don’t even know what this song is about, do you?”

Dean snorts, but his eye contact with you is purposeful. “Course’ I do. S’ about a guy who’s so into his girl that he doesn’t want to share her with anybody else.”

Instead of having an apt response for that, you internally shrivel up into a ball and lose any fire left in you. Dean, satisfied he’s shut you up, noses your ear and sings, “...Wouldn’t talk down to ya… I have t’ tell ya just how I feel, I won’t share you with another boy…”

The mushy impression he’s doing of Sting fails pretty quickly, so Dean softens into his own voice. For the millionth time tonight, you’ve found yourself with your arms around his neck and his face hovering around yours. If you mention it, Dean will drop everything and run. You know that. So you don’t sing that particular song with him. Allowing him to sing it to you is much sweeter, anyway, and the slower the music gets the closer you’re allowed to be.

And boy, every guy in the room must be aiming to get a slow dance with his girl, because soon the steady flow of rock n’ roll on the jukebox drizzles into Elvis and The Temptations. You joke about this to Dean, giving him a small out. Just in case.

“You hate mushy music,” you tell him, even if you both know that’s not exactly true.

Dean’s warm palms coast over your waist and you draw your nails across the flannel on his back, soaking each other up. A memory pierces your train of thought in a hot flash. You’d seen Dean dance with other girls like this, hands all over, seeking. But tonight they rest on your hips or hook through your belt loops without intention. Dean’s just here, and he wants you here too. For now, you’re his first choice for who he’s spending his time with tonight.

He doesn’t take the out you gave him.

“S’ not all bad,” Dean shrugs under your hands. “...I like this song.”

It’s Elvis’s Love Me, which effectively scrubs the dancefloor of any non-couples. Besides you and Dean, that is. This fact hangs in the air, supercharged, but neither of you mentions it. Dean draws you into him and you slide eagerly into his hold, your head under his chin. A few other pairs skip out onto the floor and take up space beside you. Soon, the molecule of space left between you and Dean disappears. You’re pretty sure if a few atoms went missing from the universe something crazy would happen, like a nuclear explosion, and that’s exactly what occurs in your belly. Dean sways with you like he’s in love with you, like it’s a secret everyone can see. If anyone in the bar glanced over at the two of you now, you know exactly what they’d think.

The best part of this was that Dean doesn’t end it after two dances, three dances, or four. You go all night like that, shittily waltzing to love songs and grooving along to faster ones. He had an opportunity to escape every time you took a trip to throw back your drinks. But if it crosses Dean’s mind at all, he never, ever takes it. One of you starts talking then neither of you can stop. Almost three hours later, you’re halfway through Just What I Needed and a street racing story that never fails to blow Dean’s mind, when your hundredth round of drinks runs dry. Since you’re both past tipsy now, it’s unanimously decided that there’s more work to be done.

“S’ a good night,” Dean tells you, beaming, “we can do another round, right?”

“Hell yeah,” you shrug, and raise your empty glass, “Here’s to alcohol poisoning, baby.”

“Yeah,” Dean echoes, almost slurring. “Baby.”

You take his empty glass, too, and Dean tips back toward your table to bother his brother. Both times you glance back Dean is following you with his eyes. It’s like hearing scratching in your attic and walking through cold spots for months, then suddenly seeing a full apparition right in your living room. Bobby claimed Dean had perfected the art of admiring you from afar, but you’d always figured he was exaggerating. Instead of chasing the ghost of one of his big-eyed stares, you actually see it first-hand—the big-eyed stare. Dean blinks prettily at you over his shoulder, then sways back toward Sam, unembarrassed and flushed a happy drinker’s red. In the flesh. Wow.

You’re so distracted you almost skip into two patrons, so you start watching where you’re going and add a few more drinks to your tab. While you’re waiting on them, you rock on your heels, brimming with buzzing energy. Years and years of buildup and something might finally happen. The prospect is so sweet that you giddily dance in place, bobbing to your own content music. The bartender gives you a funny, amused look and so do the people you squeeze past to reach him, but you ignore them all, scooping up your drinks and floating back to the table. Your grin is so bright that it makes your cheeks ache.

“Alright, gentlemen, I crossed two deserts to get these drinks, so you better—”

It’s just Sam at your table, looking sheepish.

You squint at him. Sheepish. Why is he sheepish? You set down your glass and Sam’s, then awkwardly release Dean’s beer from where it’d been trapped between your elbow and your ribs. The corner where Sam has shoved all your empty drinks has since expanded—there are at least five more new drinks there, completely outside the realm of anything you know Sam or Dean would order.

You stand. “Damn. Who ordered these?”

Sam stiffly brushed the hair from his face. “Um… a table in the corner sent em’ over. As a gift.”

“Free drinks? Really? That rocks,” you brighten.

Sam was avoiding the eyes of someone at said table, so you turn to intercept the stares and instantly feel the cloud nine you’re floating on drop out from under you.

“...Dean’s over there thanking them,” he clarified.

It’s a big group of women. Your reasonable-self could follow the logic: Dean and Sam were pretty, the women had noticed they were pretty, and then bought them drinks for being pretty. Your reasonable self would pull up a chair and toast to those women. The Winchester spell made everyone want to give them stuff for just being gorgeous and alive, and though you weren’t a Winchester, you reaped the rewards just as often. Sam’s puppy look paid the rent, and more than once Dean’s dazzling smile had won your way into concerts and r-rated movies. You should’ve been stoked.

If you were completely sober you’d probably put together that it was a bachelorette party, but all you see is your Dean, center stage among them and putting on a show. Even drunk he does a convincing performance of a “modeling agent” passing out his card. Cards. To all of them. The booth of girls giggle and lean closer, all swaying in the direction of Dean’s sly grin like snakes to a snake-charmer. A swath of mothy bitterness starts to eat holes into your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mourns. He says it with so much genuine remorse that you realize how crushed you must look—and wow, isn’t that an embarrassing cherry to top this sundae off. They’re just girls. It’s just talking. Still, Sam tells you, “I tried to stop him.”

“So have I,” you answer, bitterly.

The hours of dancing suddenly burn in your legs. You steady a hand on the table to slide into your seat, but there are so many glasses that it feels too full to occupy, and Sam noisily scuffling them out of your way doesn’t help your raw ears. Resigned, you shove into your side of the booth and tell yourself that you’re overreacting. Thanking people (a group of women) for sending over free drinks (because Dean’s too pretty for his own good) is perfectly normal (to non-jealous people, at least). Because you’re not at all a resentful person, you slide over the closest glass and choke it down.

Sam raises both brows. “Maybe you should slow down a bit. Unless you want one of us to carry you home—?”

You pull your glare away from the other side of the bar and focus it on the table, answering Sam’s question for him.

“Right,” he realizes, “I can go and—”

You’re already shaking your head. “Don’t. Let’s see how long it takes ‘im.”

As it turns out, drunk Dean is an incredibly social butterfly. For the first ten minutes he’s engrossed in his conversation, you aimlessly stir your drink and dodge Sam’s glances. Fifteen and you’re glued to your seat. Twenty and Dean still isn’t back, a handful of songs you know he’d kill to dance to coming and going. Past that you’re spaced out too far to care, and have failed to not let your mood be killed. The neon electricity that’d been pumping through your system all night is cold and lifeless. On top of that, you’re furious with yourself for staking all your hopes and feelings on a premise so stupid, for trusting Dean. Again. You know you’re drunker than you want to admit, but this nasty swirling bitterness burning in your stomach isn’t alcohol. You sigh into your half-finished drink. This was exactly what happened last time.

Since you’re already feeling sorry for yourself, you punish your naivety by stealing glances at Dean’s table. In the half an hour he’s been gone, he’s taken a seat at their booth, cozied up to the woman closest to him, and captivated each of them with a story. You can tell which one from across the bar. With five sets of happy eyes feasting on him, he puts on his best smolder and gestures suavely with his hands—recounting the time he heroically pulled some civilians from a burning building last year. You know he doesn’t tell them it was for a hunt. You wonder if he mentions you being there at all, or leaves out the part about you hauling him from the fire in the end.

Against your better judgment, you lift your eyes from the hole you’d bored into the table and stare at Dean’s profile until your vision blurs. Please, please just look at me again, you pray with all the faith you have left.

…It looks like you’ve misplaced it. Dean stays at their table for another insufferable ten minutes. After all, pushing you away has always come easier to him than dancing.

Ready for Love by Bad Company plays next. Your mind apparently has a bone to pick with you too, because just hearing the song drops you back into the motel room you and Dean had shared in Tulsa years ago. Jim—your father—had passed that summer, speared by the same thing you’d been hunting. Sam was at school. It’d just been Dean and whatever feeble parts of you that’d survived losing your dad. For weeks, you tortured yourself chasing his killer and tortured Dean as stress relief. You were truly rotten to him then. He should’ve left you in Tulsa, but he’d kept you standing and fed til’ the hunt was long over. He endured every fight you picked and every apathetic apology. Nothing could kill his instinct to nurture, not even your grief, and you came out of the ordeal with Dean’s warm hand brushing your hair from your face. You loved Sam, but you missed the days when he was at school sometimes. Only then could Dean open his stitches and let his inner sweetness bleed out. The night you killed the thing that’d taken your dad from you, Dean had carried you home, washed the blood from your hair, and sang that song until you were safe and half-asleep in his arms.

You’re strong, he’d told you. Stronger than me. Stronger than your dad. You’ll get through this, easy.

Paul Rodgers starts to sing. The woman closest to Dean snuggles in to ask him a question, brushing her nails down the back of his neck. He tilts his head toward hers to listen, and whatever she says makes him turn the blatant flirtiness in his grin to 100%. Her shiny dark hair rolls down her back in perfect spirals, and the swish of it around her neck as she stands from her chair, blushing giddily, brands behind your eyes. Dean stands too.

Your stomach drops. She wiggles her fingers for him to take, and Dean, the lottery winner, follows her onto the dancefloor.

That’s about when you should force yourself to stop watching. But you’ve never had the keenest sense of self-preservation, so you keep stealing glances until your stomach is in knots—until this very lucky girl wraps her arms around Dean’s neck and summons enough liquid courage to kiss him.

Dean kisses back.

You sit there until your throat burns with stifled tears. It doesn’t take long for you to notice Sam looking at you, and when you do your whole body instantly flares with dark embarrassment that writhes up your legs like snakes. You barely have to guess what he’ll do next. He stews on the pitiful sight of you alone on the other side of the bench for another beat, then shoves himself to his feet and slams his laptop shut—and it’s nice, having somebody go through all these motions of defending you, but you don’t need it from Sam. You don’t need it from anybody.

“Don’t,” you warn him. “Don’t. ‘Only make it worse.”

“I know what he’s doing,” Sam starts, lip curled in disbelief. He’s disappointed in his brother. “Dean’s—testing you. Seeing if you’ll stick around. But you’ve more than proved you will, even when he pulls this shit, so I don’t see why you’ve gotta—”

“He’s drunk and stupid,” you cut him off. “We both are. I’m gonna let it go, n’ so are you.”

Sam stills, one unsatisfied hand on the tabletop. “...If I just talk to him—”

“Fucking don’t,” you tell him, and wow, you’re a mean drunk all of a sudden, huh? Pressing your fingertips against your eyelids does nothing to make the world stop tilting. Wilting, you pull your hands from your face and try not to burst into tears. “Sorry. Sorry. M’ not upset with you. M’ not upset with anybody.” Pathetically, you beg, “C’n we just go home?”

Sam gives you an uneasy nod. “Sure thing. I’ll grab Dean and pay our tab.”

Well, shit. Miserable as you are, you did promise to pay for drinks. A night of fun celebratory drinks, to be exact, which had gone completely sideways instead. Great. Sam hastily packs up his bag like he can escape before you remember, but you send him off with a wad of your own bills so he doesn’t go broke feeling bad for you.

Since waiting for him and Dean out on the curb sounds stupid, you choke out, “Bathroom,” and go hide there to dust off your pride.

God, does a thin, shitty motel mattress sound gorgeous right now. On shaking fawn legs, you bruise your way out of the booth and through the crowd, silently hoping that a loose elbow from a rowdy passerby knocks you out cold. Unfortunately, you barrel into the women’s restroom still conscious. It’s mostly empty too, so you’re free to meet your reflection without courage.

When Dean had given his yes for your second dance, you’d imagined this moment. After dancing the night away, you’d complain about your aching heels and Dean would scoop you up, all gentleman-like. He’d joke and hum all the way home—and what a funny word that was, since the only thing in your life permanent enough to call home was him. You’d kiss him goodnight and Dean’s gaze would follow you all the way to the bathroom. And there, once the door was shut and you were alone, the magic of the night would glow in your reflection. You’d sink into your happy, exhausted feet. The heat of his fingertips would be all over your waist and neck and chin. Best of all, when you’d slink into bed and pull the covers up to your face, Dean’s stomach would slot against your back and he’d spill it all to you in a whisper. I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight, he’d say. I never could, sweetheart. Didn’t want to.

But the truth was that Dean could take his eyes off you so damn easily. These days it felt like you lost his attention the second you got it. Again and again you gave him these chances, and every time he wasted them. Tonight you had sworn something was going to be different, felt it ringing in your soul like a promise, and the second your back is turned he’s found a better dance partner. Was this a sign? Now, you glared at the mirror you’d chosen, feeling the familiar needles of self-loathing start to creep between your ribs. When was it going to happen? When were things going to change? Every time you’d hit this point in the past, Dean had cut those threads before they could tie. I’m not good for you, he’d say. He’d remind you of what had happened to Jess, which had always scared you straight—but that fear came with a finish line. Hunting wasn’t the end of the road for you. With you and Dean, there’d always been a vague idea of something “after,” something over the horizon too far away to see.

You’d held fast to that “after” for so long. Even on the third, fourth, or fiftieth round of Dean’s eyes landing on someone else, you took in a breath and reassured yourself of that “after.” After everything was over and there were no worlds left to save, Dean would look at you and never stop looking.

But this was the hundredth time you’d saved the world. The road to that horizon was endless, and you’d waited so, so fucking long.

Staring at your puffy eyes and spinning reflection in the low flickering light, a dull realization started to connect inside you. You couldn’t care anymore. You were so tired of waiting. One of these days, Dean was going to glance away and never look back. Maybe…

Maybe it would be better for you to pull away first.

The bathroom door banged inwards, startling you into a moment of sobriety. You were whirling around and palming the pistol handle in your waistband before you could think, only to relax. It was just Dean. In the women’s restroom. Fucking hell.

“Dean! What the hell are you—?”

“M’ savin’ our party,” Dean clarifies, and woah, he cannot hold his liquor like he used to. Without a hint of shyness, he saunters into your bubble and dares—fucking dares—to power on his doe-eyes. “Why’d’ya wanna go?” He pouts. Sam must’ve told him. “S’ not even midnight yet.”

“Jesus, you’re lucky s’ just me in here. Could’ve scared the pants off some poor girl,” you curse.

Everything after that is a tightrope act to keep hold of your restraint. Taking his elbow, you pluck the beer out of his hand and toss it into the nearest bin. Dean, of course, squawks in protest, but doesn’t fight when you push him into the narrow hall outside.

“Why on earth did you just stroll in? Just wait for me next time!”

“Maybe you were the girl whose pants I scared off,” Dean chuckles, sounding dizzy. He’s not steady enough to stand in place for too long.

Any other night you’d happily let him lean on you, but just seeing him makes your chest feel split open. The second he’s propped against one wall of the little hall, you’re on the other side, twisting around him and making a beeline for the exit. But Dean is still the guy you were on the dancefloor with an hour ago, so you’re not a step away before two big arms catch you around the middle. Giggling, Dean lassos you back in, and all at once he’s draped across your back with his cheek smushed into yours from behind. The happy little snickers seeping out of him rumble warmly through your back. You’re cozily squeezed around the middle with all the love in the world, and the worst part is that you revel in it. Dean sways a bit with you in his arms, big warm hands folding across your belly, and every stupid cell in your body melts into the contact. He’s only ever like this when he’s drunk.

“If you even get scared,” he hums into your ear, amused. “You’re s’ tough I dunno if you even can. And y’know what? I think…” he turns his lips into your cheek, his stubble rubbing the skin there just right, “I think you’re tough enough to get back out there with me n’ show em’ how it’s done.”

You should resist. You honestly should. But you’re drunk and hollowed out and lonely, so you compromise with yourself and stand dead still. You don’t touch him or lean into it. Yet you don’t squirm away, either.

At your silence, Dean wuffs out a breath down your neck and pouts into your shoulder. “C’monnn,” he urges, “dance with me more. Party! We’re celebratin’. N’ you’re such a great dancer, I wanna take you out there n’ brag ‘bout you. Everybody was lookin’ at us before. You and me. Didja notice that?”

“I did,” you swallow. “But I think m’ all partied out. I just wanna go home, kay? Sam’s out there waiting for us…”

Dean hears this and shifts his face into your neck, pretending to search for a comfortable place to rest his cheek when really he’s just nuzzling. “Boring. What? Pretty princess too tuckered out?” Dean teases. “I’ll tell the kid t’ walk back without us, he’ll be fine. C’mon. I’ll even say please.”

You remain silent. Anxious, Dean fills it. “Just a lil’ while longer, _____. Y’know I can only flirt with you when m’ like this.”

The ache in your chest hits a searing point, and the breath you’re holding breaks. He always, always has to hide.

You squirm out of Dean’s bubble. He makes a gentle attempt at fishing you back in, whining in the back of his throat, but you rip your hand free and peel around the corner before he can react. The mental picture of Dean left hurt and confused in your wake is satisfying, but you know it’s not a faithful image. Instead, he and his words chase you all the way to the curb outside. C’mon! Don’t be lame, ______! The yelling is embarrassing, but what really stings is how he does this in front of everyone. Sam. The bachelorette party, who make your skin crawl with mixed stares of jealousy and sympathy. The woman he kissed. And worst of all, everyone else in the bar, who only recognize you from the hours of slow-dancing you’d done with Dean.

You burst out into the chilly amber night, scrambling for any sense of backbone. A hot flash of unwelcome tears locks your throat shut. Like the unshakable hunter you’re supposed to be, you grit your teeth despite them and ignore Dean’s shouts.

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” he calls. The hurt in his voice surprises you. Dean’s voice is thready with genuine, mounting panic, flooding your brainpan with oily pleasure. Good. “Didn’t want this t’ go this way. We wer’ havin’ fun, weren’t we? M’ sorry. Come back inside. Whatever I did—”

You feel your resolve snap next, splitting apart like a guitar string under scissors.

Then you’re whirling toward him at collision speed, a mangled mess of snarling teeth and tear-caked cheeks. Yelling feels fucking great. You bare your fists, flying at him in a rage.

“Come on come on come on—you know what you did! You know! You have to know!”

Dean skids to a stop. By the street lamp light, he’s still golden as ever, looking soft and beaten. His expression crumples. His visible pain feels good for one glorious breath, then it all shatters as you realize what taboo you’ve brushed up against—and why. Over a few girls. Over a little talking. Some dancing. A silly tipsy kiss. You know everything gets heavier when you’re drunk, but god, this burden weighs more than the fucking sky sometimes. You’re so tired of carrying it. You want an out.

He drags a calloused hand down his face. “...I was just messing around, talking to them… dancing with her. Needlin’ you.”

“Well,” your breath rattles unprettily between words. “I’m needled. Are you fucking happy? Are you? Does it—does it—” you have to talk through harsh, sudden sobs, “—do you like playing with my feelings? Hanging that bone over my head, over and over and over again, just to rip it away?”

You don’t get to see how your desperation lands on Dean, since it’s then that Sam comes between you. “It’s okay,” he soothes, “you’re okay—just—” and lays your jacket over your back.

Then, Sam gets his hands on your arms to steer you the opposite way. You thrash away from him and his brother, furious. But you’re coherent enough to know that this is a bad time to wield the contempt you’ve kept stored. Roiling with fresh horror, you stifle your sobs into your sleeve and dart fast out of the parking lot, toward your motel.

“That didn’t involve you, Sam,” Dean barks over your shoulder, but it comes out more feeble than he intends. Your words were so much so suddenly that it sounds like he’s been shocked sober. Hoarsely, Dean pleads, “_____, wait. Hold on a second. Think about this—!”

…And you’re thrown back in. Supercharged with all the ferocity of a whirlwind, you twist around again. Sam’s already intercepting you, hands up and calm, but after years and years of second chances, you’re sick of waiting for something that’s never going to happen. You love Dean. It aches in your chest and bleeds out your ears, chewing away at your survival instincts.

You’d been right. Something was going to change tonight.

“You have no fucking idea how much I’ve thought about it,” you snarl. “Every day I think about it! Every night! So, no, I’m done thinking and—an’ watching and—”

The tank of crazed energy you’re running on immediately saps. Your voice cuts off with it, so you’re forced to gasp for breath and broil in your bone-deep exhaustion. Though this isn’t the first time the boys have seen you this hurt, they stand frozen on coltish legs, wide-eyed. Your effect on them lands hard: Sam’s mouth is drawn into a firm guilty line, and Dean, who usually fills whole continents with his authority, shrinks miserably into his jacket until his hands are lost in the sleeves. Finally, he takes me seriously.

You give Sam a look. Shell-shocked and unsure, Sam shuffles aside to face his back to you both.

With no one between you, it’s clear in Dean’s eyes that there’s another element to this for him. He’d known this was coming. Having his brother as a barrier was just one more way Dean had softened the blow. Between the awful, sinking guilt seeping out of him at the seams, there was resignation too. On one of those slow nights in your motel in Tulsa, he’d told you himself.

Everyone leaves, Dean had shrugged. Sam. My dad. Some day, you’ll leave too. And I won’t even blame you.

Back then, you’d laid your cheek against Dean’s sweat-tacky arm, the two of you trying to stay cool on a boiling Oklahoma night. You’d wondered to yourself how anyone could do that to the man you loved. Dean’s instinct was to give, to point both fans in that boiling room at you instead of him. How could anyone look at all the things he’d sacrificed and not give the same in return?

Well, you’d smiled at him, I’m not moving an inch, cowboy. You’re stuck with me.

Now, after years and years of sacrificing to no end, you knew that Dean’s prediction had come true. He had been waiting for the other boot to drop for so long that he’d already decided what it would sound like. A part of you wanted to cling to him and the promise you’d made him until your nails bled. But that dead limb was the one that’d been killing you, and tonight was the final proof you needed to amputate it.

You had to leave.

“I love you so much, Dean,” you hiccuped. “But I can’t wait for you anymore.”

You knew you were breaking a promise, no matter how good your intentions were. For that, you weren’t going to allow yourself an easy exit. Instead of whipping around and running for it like you wanted to, you let the slow, ugly acceptance in Dean’s silhouette brand your memory.

Statue-still, all Dean could manage was a tight nod.

He just stared and stared at you, gutted and appalled. You waited for him to say something, to fight this even a little, to make any of this easier on you both. Hating him wouldn’t be so impossible if he screamed you off the street or started throwing your stuff in the gutter. Instead Dean just hung there, frozen in that heart-stopping moment where the blade sinks in to the hilt.

Wielding that knife, you turned on your heel and left.

_

By the time you’ve frozen your ass off getting to your motel room, you’ve lost much of your steam. All the anger has washed out of you in one surging flush of misery. You get to the door almost gagging on your own tears, and pathetically slump down on the curb when you realize Sam has your room key.

Sam, who’s two blocks back helping Dean get home.

The cement stings your legs through your jeans. Betrayal throbs through your whole body, and unable to go anywhere, its barbs turn inward. You try to scrape up any backbone leftover from your tantrum, which is about as easy as splitting atoms. Since that didn’t work, you try to fold in on yourself for some warmth instead, and shiver stupidly on the sidewalk. A pair of late-night road-trippers give you sad stares as they pass. The soft heat of their room as they shuffle inside gushes out onto the stoop, calling your name.

Suddenly, the seething need to be as far from here as possible disappears. You want Sam to get back with Dean. You wish this night could’ve gone any other way, so the three of you could fumble into your room and straight into warm, cozy beds, too lazy to change into pajamas or to kiss goodnight like usual. Sam would check the salt lines and Dean would shuck off his jacket. With the last of your strength, you’d stretch a hand out from under your comforter and Sam would do the same to squeeze yours over the beds’ gap. Goodnight, Sam. G’night. Dean, close enough to kiss in your bed, would tilt you toward him by a gentle hand on your shoulder. He’d smush a kiss into your temple. Night, he’d hum. Together you’d snuggle down into your blankets and crash, content. If this was any other night. Maybe it still could be. Maybe you’d been overthinking this.

You’d had so much to drink. It was you who’d created these imaginary stakes for Dean to follow, and you who wigged out, blew up on him, snarling in his face and breaking a promise in the same breath. No matter how much you wanted it, you had no claim on him. If Dean wanted to dance with more than one person on a night meant to be fun for him… If he… wanted to kiss someone else…

Two tall shadows appear at the end of the parking lot. It’s too late to stand up and look put together, so you pull your knees to your chest and make an attempt at silencing your sobs. You press your lips together, watching Sam help a sniffling Dean across the lot and toward your room. Dean doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t tell you he’s sorry, he doesn’t pick you up off the pavement, and he doesn’t tell you that he loves you even though you both know it. It makes all of your lashing anger bubble up to the surface again, and you sit with it until long after the boys are inside.

These feelings feel petulant at first, then simmer into righteous ones. The hunt had robbed you of so much—your parents, your normalcy, your childhood, and more than once, the love of your life. There was no reason it had to take Dean from you this way, too. Those sticky-sweet nights in boiling Tulsa could be every night for you and him.

You could still taste him, and the syrup of old blues songs on his lip. You’d told him back then, you’re stuck with me, cowboy, and Dean had believed you, really believed you, because he’d rolled sideways in your bed and touched his fingers to your chin. Just the rough tips of them, burning hot. There’d been this irresistible magic in his eyes, like he was learning it was possible to break his own rules as long as he kept them later. His breath was sweet with ice cream when he kissed you. Just one kiss had him shakily sighing through his nose, and with his same trembling hand, he’d cupped your face—in the weird sort of way Dean did affection, the slope of his palm around your jaw and his thumb turning up your chin. It’d felt so special, like a promise to hold out. You’d savored each one with your nails tickling the nape of his neck, your dose of love potion refilled. The two of you had passed out curled nose to nose, Dean’s grin hidden in your pillow.

You could be living every night like you’d lived that one. But there was one barrier in the middle of that road: Dean. I’m not good for you, he’d say, even if you’d never had enough of him to tell.

After years and years of holding out and dosing on your love potion, it occurred to you, pathetically curled up outside a random motel room, that Dean would never be with you. Even if the monsters had been hunted and the world had been saved, he just didn’t have it in him to believe in something so good. Deep down, you’d known this. You were a naive optimist hoping for a different future, but the truth was that Dean hated himself too much to see that future too.

Slowly, you unfurled your hands on your knees, staring at them without taking anything in. All you could feel was the uncomfortable, surging ache in your chest, which choked your throat shut and burned stinging tears around the curves of your nose. The last few hours felt weirdly layered in your memory, like film cells from different strips laid over each other. This had been going on for so long that it’d officially crossed into deja vu. Years and years of moments just like these pressed upon you in the ringing silence of the parking lot. But you could only hold up the sky for so long, and tonight your grip had finally slipped. You were sure of it: if these circular, pathetic dives for an answer were the only thing in your future, it’d kill you. It had been killing you.

What else could you do but leave?

The question itself felt rash, but you were struggling to breathe past your tears and you wanted out—away from the constant want, away from Dean. He could bang whatever girls he stumbled upon, so why couldn’t you do whatever the hell you wanted, too? What the fuck was stopping you? Freedom—from years and years and years of that ugly stirring weight you’d once loved—was only a bus ride and one boosted car away. It’d be easy.

The door creaked open behind you. You held your breath at the sound of footsteps, praying it wasn’t who you wanted to see.

“Come on inside. Don’t like you being out here by yourself,” Sam called.

The breath you let go of didn’t make you any more relieved. It hadn’t felt good to yell at him, either. You opened your mouth to respond, but a thought slammed on top of you with all the malice of a blow to the head. The next words out of your mouth could be some of the last you ever speak to him for a long time. Instead, you scuffed your running tears on your sleeve one last time, then hauled yourself onto your feet.

The plan was to dart past him fast enough to avoid the look you were sure Sam was giving you, but it fell on the whole lot bright as stadium lights. You made the stupid mistake of catching eyes with him, and the intensity there was enough to root you to the spot. You froze. Sam’s face was solemn, but when he finally got a good look at you it shifted into calm, haunted understanding, since you weren’t the only one who’d cried on a curb like this. He knew exactly what leaving looked like.

After a pregnant pause, Sam stole a glance into the safe darkness of your motel room. Whatever he saw inside bolstered his nerve, and before you could argue he’d swiped his coat and stepped out into the cold with you. Here we go, you braced yourself.

“...I need to punch something,” you confessed, just to have something to say.

Sam stopped awkwardly hovering around the sidewalk to spread his arms wide, and how he had the energy to smile, you had no clue. “I’m open,” he offered, only half-joking.

You sputtered out a laugh. It trailed off where you couldn’t follow it, and unfortunately, neither could he, leaving you both shivering side-by-side in silence. You started to stutter out something intelligent, but the open sympathy in his eyes took all the nuance out of you. Renewed tears squeezed down your face. Instantly, he was there, a big warm hand coming down to rub your shivering back.

“I know you already know this, but it’s worth saying,” Sam murmured. “Everybody leaves him. It’s all he’s used to.” (...I know, you breathed between sobs). “Dean doesn’t… hang these other girls in front of you because he’s, y’know. Trying to play with your feelings. He’s scared. It’s wrong, but it’s his messed-up way of testing if you’ll stick around.”

You want to listen. Sam’s tone makes this all sound reasonable and easy, but that bitter crawling thing eating away at your conscience reminds you, Of course it’s his brother out here trying to fix this. Of course he can’t pick up his own mess.

“It sucks. Trust me, I’ve taken a good chunk of it myself,” Sam chuckled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “I dunno what it is that makes em’ think he deserves it, but… he’s so used to everyone leaving that he rushes to push em’ away first.”

Swallowing around the bitter taste in your mouth, you tell him, “Well. I think it worked.”

That weighs on Sam for longer than you expect, strangling the lot with a heavy silence. Compelled to fill it, you wrap your arms around yourself and spit out your confession.

“I-I think I,” you managed. “I think I gotta go, Sammy.”

As soon as you say it, the reality of your decision hits you. This isn’t a light move to make. Leaving wouldn’t just shred things between you and Dean, but your friendship with Sam, too—it would mean turning all of your memories with them into kindling. In all your time on the Winchester family road trip, you’d seen all sorts of people take up the space in the back of the Impala. Psychics. Some angels and some demons. Good, good friends. Alive or dead, they all got off at their own stop eventually. You’d been riding in the backseat for so long, not once had you thought there’d be a stop for you, too. But here it was; Dean had hit the breaks himself, and Sam was readying himself to open the door for you.

You thought of the girl you’d been when you’d first met them. She’d still had room in her for friendship bracelets and brown sugar, for mystery novels that never ended, always chasing the next adventure. At the end of all this, that’s what Dean was: your next grand adventure.

Being hunter-born had put you in the strange middle-ground between sheltered and grotesquely exposed; you’d seen how purple and putrid a corpse could get before you were fifteen, but were more than acquaintances with a sum total of five people at the same age. Dean was your worldly opposite. He’d find the towns you landed in like you were his homing beacon, fresh out of the thick of it with a fantastical story to match. He’d hang half-out of your bedroom window, fierce-eyed, and singing, and you’d roll right out of the monotony of your life and into the magic of his. You’d mention him to friends in high school like a made-up boyfriend—Dean lives out of town, but he swears he’s gonna visit next month—because even you weren’t sure he was real. He was this untethered cowboy you’d somehow lassoed in, swinging into your life with all the colors and life of the wild west. Not so much a knight in shining armor, but. Dean, your Dean.

You would miss that. You would always miss him.

Sam tamped down his panic. “Are—are you sure?” He turned you by your shoulder to look at him, and Jesus, those kicked-puppy eyes should be considered a weapon of war. “You don’t wanna talk to Dean about this…?”

You were already shaking your head. “For the hundredth time?”

Sam pressed his lips together. You knew he thought this was a cowardly, drunken decision, but in the middle of it all, you felt like you’d earned the right to be cowardly and stupid. The last decade of your life had been wasted being reasonable. When Dean kicked you out of your motel room to share it with a stranger, you found another place to crash without complaint. When he’d told you he loved you, you gave him the space he asked for, neither of you sure how to handle something so big so young. You waited. When you sat him down and spilled your guts about the future you wanted him in, you’d respected his answer. I’m not good for you had translated to I’m not ready yet. You waited. When Dean was ready for other girls, though, Julie, Ava, Cassie—you started to press back. Since then, your feelings had become the ugly “it” that lingered in every room you shared with Dean. Every argument you’d ever had orbited around it somehow, along with every relationship. Spats turned into arguments, and arguments became second chances and third chances. It really had been the hundredth time Dean had played with you like this.

And even if he’d had nothing to do with it, it was killing you anyway. Being around him, good or bad, had sapped your adventurer’s spirit.

Sam goes still, conflicted. “This is your life. You know that I of all people understand that. But… but just… please. Please just give it one more shot. A month. Or a few weeks, if you need it. Please.”

“You think I’m overreacting,” you assumed, swallowing against the drying film of alcohol on your teeth.

“No, no, I think you’re drunk,” Sam answered, instead, and as blunt as it was it still came out soft. “And tired. But you’re not overreacting, ______. Dean’s done this and worse a dozen times before,” he sighed. Realizing that wasn’t exactly convincing, Sam scrambled for a foothold. “...He really does love you. Just needs to see reason.”

Reason, he says, like that had anything to do with this. Sam starts to clam up, desperate to glue the situation back together.

You feel the need to explain, “...Me leavin’ would have nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Sam said, thickly. “But I’m pretty sure it’d break my heart if you did, so I can’t imagine what it’d do to him.”

At that, you couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of the door to your motel room. It waited over your shoulder with all the gravity of a neutron star, dragging you to face it and wonder at the man on the other side. Knowing Dean, he might’ve managed to kick off his shoes before crashing into bed. Knowing the love of your life, he’d probably roll onto his back and sink like a rock, the hard lines of his face softened by sleep. His was probably puffy from crying. After long nights out, there’d be times when he’d accidentally wake you up by slipping under the covers. Dean would curse and hush apologies, clumsily pawing in next to you, but the intrusion was always welcome. You remembered him always having to pat around for your face in the dark, just so he knew where to place his goodnight kiss. Sometimes he’d miss on purpose and playfully pinch your cheek or lay a gross, sloppy kiss on your eye, which never failed to make you squirm away giggling. Good night, pretty girl. What would it do to him, to watch you go?

Your chest flared with ugly guilt. You weren’t sure. But you knew what would happen if you stayed, and Dean, in the long run, would be proud of you for looking out for yourself for once. He’d always said you put yourself last too often.

You imagined him asleep on the other side of that door, muffling his tears into his pillow, and the last of your hope and optimism just shatters. Swallowing your own cowardice, you steel yourself. “I’m sorry,” you tell Sam.

Sam laid a hand on your back. “Look at me a minute.”

Somehow, you did. Seeing Sam’s devastation hurts even more than you thought it would, but nothing compares to knowing that you’ll be leaving him behind. “C’mon,” he steps off the curb and toward the street, trying and failing to smile. “Let’s walk to the gas station or somethin’.”

You shook your head, heaving for breath, and confessed: “I really gotta go, Sammy. At least for a little while.”

Sam set his jaw. He teetered back toward you, thinking fast, and padded down his pockets for his wallet. “Okay. Okay. I know. But, but make a deal with me—let’s take a walk, get you sober. Then when you have some food in your system, you’ll tell me if—i-if this is still what you want. Kay?”

“Sam,” you grimaced.

“Please,” he begged, full-voiced, then snapped his mouth shut. When Sam was sure he could keep his feelings in check, he held up his wallet. “My treat. C’mon.”

Without hesitating, Sam started walking backward to the nearest corner store. Just the thought of eating made you nauseous, but not only did Sam have the keys to your room, but he’d also taken his stubbornness with him on this walk too. Thawing yourself off the stoop, you took one last look at your door and started after Sam. You knew that he was going to use this time to rally, to convince you, and that it would definitely work—so you steeled yourself. Sam couldn’t win. You had to leave.

It was just one dance. One kiss. You knew that. But you were stupid, drunk, in love, and weighed down by years of Dean’s reminder: I’m not good for you.

You hate that he’d been right.

_

Dean woke up sometime after dawn, but his body was so thoroughly glued to the mattress that he didn’t physically move for at least another hour. Even his routine where am I panic set in later than usual, and Dean was sluggish to answer it:

He was in a motel. That rarely changed. This time it was in… Springfield? Right? Yeah—they’d had fun little town postcards at the front desk, Dean remembered. _____ had studied them while Sam had got them the room, making that funny little hum sound she did when she thought something was quaint. It’d taken Sam only a minute to get their key, and Dean managed to fill that whole minute with nothing but spiraling. She loves kitschy crap like that. Maybe I should swipe one for her. Start a collection or something, make all this back-and-forth driving fun for her. She’s been so patient with us lately, deserves somethin’ to perk her up. Would she like it? Or was that too weird?

Dean groaned at himself—not only was he dealing with a hangover for the record books, but a heavy dose of embarrassment too. God. That woman. Nobody twisted him up like she could.

He kicked at the blankets, wiggling backward onto her side of the bed where the sheets were nice and cold. Usually the two of them cooked under the covers together, but she must’ve been hanging off the other end of the bed to leave so much cool space between them. He reached around with a foot. Nothing.

Huh. He hoped the gut rush of shittiness seeing her side empty was from whatever he’d been drinking last night, not something serious he was forgetting. Since getting up was so, so much uglier than being smushed comfortably in bed, Dean closed his eyes and thought. Counted back. The three of you had just wrapped up for a hunt… gone out for drinks to celebrate… and past that things start to fuzz. There might’a been a screaming match. Dean really wants to lean toward no, but he distinctly remembers being inside while Sam comforted you outside and sort of hating that. It was definitely Dean’s fault. But still, he remembered bitterly stuffing his face in his pillow hearing the soft lilt of your voice through the door—he should’ve been the one to fix things.

He would. Today. Dean laid in bed for a little while longer, but the guilt clawing around in his gut was making it impossible to do anything but overthink. How’d he fuck things over this time, huh? As sucky as it was, his best shot was to get the story from Sam, then figure out where to go from there. With how patient you’d been with him when he’d snapped his collarbone in Illinois, Dean was willing to grovel for forgiveness. This wasn’t the first time he’d hurt your feelings being coarse, but… c’mon. This was you. The only person who knew Dean better was Sam, and his forgiveness was the price of family. Yours was untethered, free, and lovingly given, so Dean tried to cool his mounting panic. You’d talk it out. You’d forgive him, because Dean was stupid lucky to have such a fucking saint in his life.

You loved him, Dean reminded himself, and forced himself to sit up.

The second he’s up and looking at everything, he’s pinched by this sense of wrongness. His duffle’s where he left it at the foot of the bed, the salt lines are clean and uninterrupted, but it’s like everything’s been moved an inch to the left. The pinch turns into a pang. Dean trudges out of bed, suspended in the limbo between his bedside and the open bathroom door. Something is wrong.

Some of your things have been moved, Dean rationalizes. You must be out grabbing breakfast. On stiff legs, Dean moves into the bathroom because, obviously, that’s where your shit would be if he’s not seeing it. Ignoring the bile that rises in him the second he’s moving, Dean purposefully avoids the mirror and hangs in the doorway. All three of you occupied the motels you lived in like you were ready to bolt any second, so there isn’t exactly any toiletries to take note of or clothes to notice… Until Dean circles back to his duffle at the foot of the bed. There’s a set of clothes thrown on top that he hasn’t seen since high school—some ratty sweats, holey winter socks, and two or three tees and shirts lost to time. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that they used to belong to him, and just as long to connect them back to you.

These, Dean realized, were your most prized war trophies. Over the years you’d borrowed so many clothes from them that you’d probably modeled the entire Winchester closet. At first just the sleep shirts, but that graduated into tees for casual days and layers to add in wintertime.

By junior year, the half you’d pilfered from Sam was all too big to wear practically. That left Dean’s half, which you essentially lived in. A few of his shirts in particular had become main stays, so Dean had neglected to ask for them back and you’d comfortably forgotten to return them. You had a thing about wearing them around his flings, too, which Dean figured was your cute girl-way of reminding them who’d still be there when they were gone. True to form, they’d always left and you’d always stayed. Dean liked things that way, too.

A real pang of panic rang in his chest. Were you so pissed at him that you’d returned everything you’d borrowed? Or was this something worse?

His panic finds its legs. Not only had your pilfered clothes been returned, but Dean couldn’t find your travel bag. If his duffle is thrown at the end of the bed, and Sam’s is zipped up on the table, then yours had to be in the Impala. It had to be. He picks through the backseat and then graduates to tearing apart the trunk, both of which are void of your things. Your phone isn’t plugged into the wall. Your shoes aren’t by the door. Even the pistol you’d duck-taped under the coffee table was gone, along with the knife behind the headboard. Dean still can’t find your bag. Maybe it’s out in the open and I missed it, he tells himself, but the bathroom and the dressers and under the beds and the front lobby carry no sign of your stuff. Of you ever being there.

His last resort is that you have to be with Sam, who usually goes for a run this early—Sam, who walks in alone, twenty minutes into Dean’s full-body meltdown.

He should assume that you left. Logically, that is what missing keys, phones, toothbrushes and wallets mean, but this is Dean Winchester.

Instead, he assumes: “______’s been taken.”

Right away, Sam deflates. Which is impressive, since he walked in looking pretty wilted already. There are dark smears of purple under his eyes, which are puffy from crying. But that’s not exactly the reaction you want from your brother when you share this kind of thing with him, so the lack of response just spurs Dean into tearing their room apart even more, stone-faced.

“...Dean,” Sam manages.

Dean starts ripping the drawers out of the dresser, like finding one of your socks will be proof that you’re still here.

“She was fucking taken, Sam,” his throat feels tight. “I woke up and all of her shit was packed up and gone—somebody good had to do this, s’mbody who knows what the hell they’re doing, cause’ they knew to make it look like she’d left on her own. May—maybe she went out by herself after we went to sleep? N’ that’s how they took er’?”

His hands are shaking, fighting to get the next drawer off its track. Looking at Sam will just make him fucking implode, so he ignores him, shredding through the room inch by inch. The wheel on the dresser’s track snaps so hard that Sam flinches where Dean can’t see. Somehow, the urge to find expands into something an inch more logical, and he rolls seamlessly into escape mode, tossing his duffle on his bed and shoving the returned clothes inside. In a never-slowing storm, Dean flies around the room and hunts down what isn’t already ready to go in their bags. The adrenaline was starting to cut into his nausea, and the two mixed uncomfortably inside him, each knowing in their own way that something was terribly wrong.

After a long silence, Sam collapses onto the end of his bed and confesses in a small voice, “She left a couple’a hours ago, Dean. On her own.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Dean snorted.

Something patted Dean’s shoulder, and it was a miracle that anything in his bubble didn’t immediately dissolve into molten lava; reining himself in, he turned. Sam was holding a letter.

He shrugged, swallowing thickly. “She said she, uh, needed some time. Not forever, just… time. Wrote you this.”

Dean hung in place. Too quickly, he recovered, and managed the gentleness to take the letter from Sam instead of yanking it away. There was no envelope. Just your tri-fold notebook paper and the bubbly curve of your handwriting on both sides. In the clean white space at the top of the page, you’d written Dean’s name. If he flipped it over and opened it, there would be more bubbly letters strung together in words. Words Dean didn’t have the strength for, right now.

It was easier, much easier, to succumb to the sudden slosh of sickness in him and follow his hangover into the bathroom.

After he empties his stomach and Sam gets some water into him, the crazed packing continues. Your letter goes straight into Dean’s duffle, unread, because Sam asks him what he’s doing, and Dean curtly interrupts him, “What else? We’re gonna go find her.”

Sam avoids his eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Reasonably, Dean knew that Sam had helped you. He’d felt it, seeing him walk in late, seeing him pass off the letter. But it only starts to press on him now, with the alcohol sickness becoming a different kind of sickness within him, the full weight of what exactly Sam has done.

“You fucking didn’t,” Dean snarls. “Tell me you didn’t.”

There’s a flicker of rebellion on Sam’s face, but he subdues it for Dean’s sake. He shrugs, “...She wanted to leave.”

The nearest lamp on the bedside table shatters against the wall with a fierce pop. Dean’s close to tears, he’s so upset, sucking down anguished breaths. This is his worst nightmare. It roars off him all at once, and Sam, the nearest target, takes the brunt of it.

“How could you do this to me? How could you do that to her? She—she can’t survive on her own—!” he lies to himself, “—she needs us—and-and I need her! Why would you just let her walk away? What the fuck, Sam?”

“What was I supposed to do? Handcuff her to the radiator?!” Sam snaps, spreading his arms wide, “It’s her life!”

“With us!” Dean roars. His throat grates with acid and tears.

“With whoever the hell she wants! You should’ve—” Sam argues. He realizes how fruitless all the yelling is, especially with tears smeared in the creases of Dean’s face. “...I can’t speak for her. Read the damn letter.”

“No,” Dean grates. He gets his duffle over his shoulder, his whole body coiling with betrayal. “Get your shit and get in the fucking car. We’re finding her. Where’d you drop her off?”

Of course, Sam refuses to answer. He gives Dean this quiet, desperate look neither of them is good at processing. Dean’s not exactly in the mood to process much of anything, nevermind this, nevermind the mountain of shit he’s messed up between last night and today.

He snarls. “Where, Sam?”

Sam still doesn’t answer. His stubbornness forces an old ugliness out of Dean that he’ll regret later, but, what’s one more thing for the pile, right?

“What?” Dean whips on his brother. “You give that little of a shit about her? You pick up brunch and a smoothie after you left her to fuckin’ rot?” Baring his teeth, he spits, “She’s not running off to Stanford, kid. This is different and you know it.”

The blow lands so hard that Sam bristles, but if you left a couple of hours ago, then he’s had plenty of time to brace himself for the grave Dean had planned to dig himself. After a long, treacherous silence, Sam finds an answer:

“Train station,” Sam’s lip curls. “But she made sure I drove off before I could see if she even walked in. She’s just like you n’ me, so she’s probably two states over by now—”

Dean slams the front door before he can finish.

-

It takes Dean four miserable hours to chase the specific bus you’d taken over the border to Connecticut, two days to pinpoint the lousy 83’ Mercury Capri you’d bought, in cash, from a dentist in New Hartford, and another to find it trunk-first in the Connecticut river, stripped entirely of your things. Sam fights him all the way to Brooklyn, which turns out to be a last-ditch distraction tactic. Dean had figured you’d head somewhere busy to shake them, but instead, you’d turned West, to Tulsa.

At the end of the week he finds you waitressing in a little dive just outside town. It’s a long chase, by their standards. As anguished as Dean felt, he couldn’t help nursing a warped sense of pride: his girl was good. Lesser hunters would’ve never caught up with you.

The Impala coasted along the buckling sidewalk framing the lot and stilled, idling on anxious wheels. Dean left sometime after Sam fell asleep. A whole week of non-stop pursuit had almost burned the spirit out of him. Sam’s moral needling never stopped, not until the silence burning up between them was as light as a slab of concrete. Twice now Dean was tempted to cut and leave without him, but the dark swimming part of Dean’s mind knew he deserved the constant backlash. She doesn’t want to see you, Sam had spit once, she needs time.

But the thing was that you’d never needed time before. The only time you’d needed in the past was the minutes it took for you to say, you’ve hurt my feelings, Dean, and the time it took for him to drop into your lap and bemoan his apologies until you were in stitches. He’d clutch your pantleg in his fists and fake-sob, Oh, baby, I’ll never forgive myself fer hurtin’ you! There was a familiar dance to it. At first, you’d stifle your smile and shove at him, all tough n’ girly-like. Dean would hunt down your nearest ticklish spot until your anger was a funny thing you’d both forgotten about, then sink into an apology he really meant. It worked every time and you knew it worked every time, but. Dean would drop his head into your lap and the first thing he’d feel was your hand on his back, keeping him there.

You’d never needed time before. You’d never needed space, because Dean was your space, with no room for anyone else to squirm in between.

It’s been days, man, Sam had said, endlessly. Just read her letter. Just read it.

He’d tried. More than once, he’d steeled himself enough to find it at the bottom of his bag and open it up, but beyond those steps was a whole new hell. He gets three words in and is immediately split open like a deer carcass in the sun. I’m sorry, Dean. Just that is enough to make him carefully re-fold the letter back on its seams.

There, in the parking lot of your bar in Tulsa, Dean finally finds the endurance to shovel past that first line. Originally, his plan isn’t really a plan at all—he’ll swing inside, convince you to come home, get some dinner in you and give “making things right” his best shot. But those are just ideas with no ground to stand on beyond what Sam has told him. And what Sam has told him sounds like, l-like horseshit, something Dean would hunt one of your shitty ex-boyfriends down for. To him, it sounds like something irreparable. That feeling is starting to find its roots.

By the flaxen street light, he spreads the thin notebook paper out on his thigh, careful not to smudge the hurried pen with his fingers. He reads it once and only once, unable to stomach any more.

The Impala pulls out of the lot and slinks back to their motel.

-

The next day, Dean loads his brother into the Impala, picks a direction, and drives.

His instincts settle back onto their monotonous track, and within a week he and Sam are cutting down vamps in Montana. Only once does Sam ask about what happened, and Dean only shuts him down once for the two of them to return to the Winchester default: not talking about it. Sam clearly wants to, squirming with unspoken questions when they find your spare boots kicked under Baby’s front seat or dodge hunters who’d ask around for you. Dean feels like ripping out his own entrails every time Sam itches to bring you up, but draws blood from his lip instead. When Sam’s out of resolve and Dean’s alone, he presses his face into the shirts you’d borrowed, soaked all the way through with your perfume, choking down tears that don’t do nothin’ for nobody. Especially Dean, who hasn’t cried in front of anyone but you since he was nine.

It’s like he’s lost a limb, left only with the phantom grasping feel of it. Dean definitely copes like a man who’s lost a leg. Sam leaves the issue alone, for the most part, trying to trick himself into being content with you being where you want to be. Meanwhile, Dean’s flask graduates from his duffle to his jacket. Hunting stops being a distraction and gradually opens up into a dangerous sinkhole.

The following weeks reek with deja vu. Silences stretched, gaps in their routine yawned wider, every inch of their never-ending road trip scrubbed raw with impressions of you. Dean must’ve checked the rear-view a thousand times, running on that same old instinct to steal looks at you in the backseat. The whole universe had been kicked off its axis by the aftermath, causing a run of bad luck worthy of a horror movie. Dean’s gun started jamming inexplicably; they’re caught by cops in Indiana and have to circle back two weeks later for the car, which is stripped of everything they’ve got; he almost loses Sam getting their arsenal back from an evidence lockup in Fort Wayne. Scrubbing his brother’s caked blood out of the steering wheel one afternoon, Dean knows that it’s more than luck he’s lost.

When you were stressed or feeling stuck, you’d lay out all their weapons on the bedspread—reminding Dean not to plop his ass down without looking first—and clean them each meticulously. The way you did it sort of reminded him of sewing. You’d count under your breath, so versed in the steps you’d created that you didn’t even have to watch your hands. Sometimes this ritual collided with the nights you polished up your poker skills together, and if Dean listened between hands, there was your counting. Four. Take off the slide. Five. Scrub the frame. If Dean’s pistol landed in the pile, you’d forget you were winning altogether and sink into deeper focus, pretty brows furrowed and your lips in a soft line. Dean’s gun never jammed if you’d been the one to clean it.

You were stealthier, more unassuming, with the kind of easy smile that policemen looking for fugitives glossed over. The cops in Indiana would’ve glossed over you, too. You were the third support beam that kept them sturdy—with you at Dean’s six, he and Sam would’ve smuggled back the arsenal with no problem. And even if there’d been trouble… well. This was you. Lose-a-car-in-the-river-on-purpose you, who Dean could always rely on to back his play.

When Sam has to drive him home from the bar one night, Dean slurs, Everythin’. Everythin’ goes to shit without ‘er.

Those thoughts crept up on him again and again, preying on him in low moments. He buried them under everything close enough to grab, keep the salt lines clean, call Jody, fix the car, but everything thrown on top of his memories of you swayed and shuddered, demanding to be dug up. Dean knew that he’d betrayed you. Already that was unforgivable, but by hurting you he’d broken a blood oath as old as your friendship. At fifteen Dean had sworn to protect you, only to turn around now and wound you so viciously that you couldn’t even bring yourself to say goodbye to him. Not in person. Not in the letter.

It was the one detail his heart couldn’t stop fixating on, no matter how deep Dean buried you. He knew you better than anyone, and you never said goodbye unless things were truly over.

He’d heard you sob it into Sam’s shoulder before he left for school. When the hellhounds came for him in New Harmony, you’d resisted, clutching Dean’s jacket in both hands and weeping instead, “I’ll see you.”

You’d never said goodbye to him.

This turns into a notion, then a stupid idea, then a plan that Dean rolls around in the bottom of his glass, considering. He could get that goodbye from you. He could knock on your window like he’d done when you were kids, say his piece, and then let the grass eat his boots as he waits for you to truly finish this.

He could get that goodbye from you. It’d kill him, but Dean wasn’t sure he could go on without it.

-

Five minutes into his drive to DeLancey’s Pub and Bar, the slimy dive you waitressed in around the dicier ends of Tulsa, Dean realizes that he’s not even sure if you’re working tonight.

The drive was long—long enough to swerve Dean’s confidence in every single direction possible, until the revving toughness he’d gathered had swan-dived into gut-clenching fear. Two hours ago he’d been combing through articles for a case. Something had compelled him into the car, something bone-deep and inescapable, and if Dean was being truthful with himself it had everything to do with the strange adrenaline he got just being in the same state as you. Twice, he swore he’d seen your face among the officers at the station and blending into the diner crowd at breakfast. He knew that you were a whole town away and intent on not seeing him, but. Dean could sense the divide between you like the childhood home he’d never known. It was a distance he could close and map in his sleep, and after another night jolting out of a nightmare and into a bed empty of you, Dean was exhausted. He missed you so much he was sick, choking back mouthfuls of guilt just thinking of you. He missed you so much that the drive to you could’ve been measured in inches, and the walk to the Impala was even smaller, calling to him.

Waking up, he’d sensed it. Tonight was gonna be different.

Things had started off strong. The second Dean had turned the key and pointed the Impala toward Tulsa, his hands on the wheel were sure as all hell. I’m gonna tell her all my cruddy fuckin’ feelings and get all this cruddy fuckin’ honesty out of the way, then either we make up or she gives me the boot. Simple as that. Nothin’ to it. That was as far as his planning went, since that’s as far as Dean could handle thinking into your future. By the time Dean was off the highway his plan had started eating itself, circling constantly back to your letter to him. But he was already halfway there, then over halfway, and giving up became an increasingly spineless option.

Along the way, I’m gonna give it to her straight, slowly, bloodily evolved into, I’m bringing her the fuck home.

Dean’s propelled himself forward so hard just to get here, so the Impala’s still rolling into park when he clambers out and onto the gravel. His heart is pounding like thunder in his ears but it’s nothing compares to the screaming silence that stands between where the Impala’s sitting and where you must be. DeLancey’s is the only kind of place Dean could picture you working; somewhere low and unglamorous, like any other bar you and Dean had skulked around in your twenties. You lived for skeevy places like this, the shabbier the better, and privately Dean had always thought you were too pretty to exist in places like those. But he’d seen you under neon beer lights so often that you’d sort of claimed it for yourself, this strange brand of cigar-smoke beauty that made Dean’s ears warm.

He thinks of that image and can’t help but need himself to be there, to be with you like he always has, and that’s what gets him across the gravel and through the door.

Either this is a hunter’s bar or the place is packed full of demons, because the second Dean bangs inside, making a few heads jerk up with the noise of it, those heads immediately swivel to whisper to each other. What’s that Winchester boy doing here? Anyone who knows you knows there’s only one answer. The bartender looks up from the drink he was making. The host awkwardly shrinks behind her podium, freezing like everyone else in the room. For just an instant he has the whole saloon itching toward their pistols, and Dean lives off the warped satisfaction he gets from that until the kitchen door swings open for a huge tray of drinks.

Hefting it over one shoulder, you slip easily out from behind the bar and pass the drinks over to a table of hunters. There’s a resonating shock that sizzles through Dean’s system, seeing you. It’s the strange pleasure of confirmation, of knowing that you’re real, that you’re someone he can lay eyes on instead of a slow-fading memory. In your element, you’re… Dean swallows. You’re still you. One of the hunters says something to you, and you snap back in a way that has them all roaring with laughter. All doubt left Dean’s body, and standing there, he’s winded by the single-minded purpose that got him there in the first place. He’s getting you home.

At full tilt, Dean bee-lines for you.

The harsh sound of boot steps makes you glance up, and with it the chatter of the hunters dies away. Your expression doesn’t shift from your usual calm, arrow-eyed look, empty of anger or loneliness or happiness. Just calm, like you knew he’d find you, you’re just surprised it took him this long. You take a cool step away from the table to stand at your full height, and an old shivery warmth flutters down his spine. Yeah. There was his girl, tough as a fuckin’ tank.

“Dean,” you murmured, a greeting.

He wants to murmur your name with the same sweetness. He wants to scoop his arm around your waist like he used to and shove his face in your neck like he used to, spilling his guts in ways he’d only spilled to you. He wants to do this the easy way, but that’s not exactly his default.

Dean swings in, snapping, “Get outside. I’m telling you something whether you like it or not, n’ don’t think I won’t drag you if I have to.”

Your brows fly up your forehead. “Wow.”

Right along with you, the hunters with the front-row seats to the scene Dean’s making bristle in tandem. Some of the guys at the bar twist around on their stools to throw Dean barbed looks, and really, he shouldn’t have underestimated your ability to assemble so many minions like this, since he and Sam had been your minions from day one. The guy closest to Dean makes a big show of scraping his chair back and growling, which Dean pities him for. Get in line, pal.

“That’s my friend you’re talkin’ to, chisel chest. If you know what’s good for you, I’d get the fuck outta’ here,” says Asshole #1 of 4, and the threat hasn’t even landed before you’re neatly cutting through him, “—mind your damn business, Tommy, he has just as much a right to be here as anyone else.”

At your request the other hunters simmer down, and, ignoring Dean, you scoop up your empty tray and deliver it to the bar. All the energy he’d rationed in the car starts to seep out of him, since. Well. Still, after all this time, you didn’t hesitate to bare your teeth for him. With the wind successfully taken out of Dean’s sails, he tries not to twitch in place as you round’ the bar, brush past him and gesture for him to follow you out a side exit.

Your silence terrifies the hell out of him, so adding the hanging quiet of the parking lot to the equation makes Dean’s nerves crawl. He hadn’t realized how loud it’d been in there until you were isolated outside, the rowdy Friday night chatter softened behind the door. Swaying next to you on legs he’s forgotten how to use, a dart of something mean and cold hits Dean in the chest. On the other side of the door, where the lights are dim but warm and the air sings with the tang of alcohol, Don Henley floats into the first lyrics of One of These Nights.

Even now, your magic sways over him. Across from him on the gravel, you stuff your hands under your arms and huff a strand of hair out of your face, glowing gold by the creamy moonlight. If this was any other night of the year that the two of you had fallen out of a bar together, Dean would ask you to dance with him right here by the dumpsters. You’d say yes. He knew you would’ve said yes, then.

“You worried me sick,” is the first thing Dean manages to say. “Wakin’ up, finding you gone—I thought someone had fuckin’ took you, y’know that?”

This is apparently the wrong thing to say, because the coolness in your expression coasts straight into bitterness. Regardless, Dean rolls right past it and right into nervous, emotional ranting.

“I know what I did. I know I don’t deserve shit for it,” he chokes out, “but you could’ve at least said goodbye t’ me! I deserved to know you’d be safe! If you couldn’t… If I was hurtin’ you too much, and if I wasn’t listenin’, you had every right to get the fuck out of there and make your own life somewhere else. But after—after bein’ with me for so, so damn long, so long I don’t even remember how we met, you couldn’t even say goodbye? Nothing? I just have to live with the fact that I don’t even ‘member the last time we fuckin’ talked to each other? Don’t even get to see my best fuckin’ friend one last time?”

“No,” you scowled. “No, you fuckin’ don’t. Because we’ve never been just friends, Dean, and even if you knew that you still played with my feelings. Why the hell would I even want to look at you again? Why do you deserve that?”

Dean flinched. He sputtered on his answer, of course, because he’d never been able to keep his head straight around you. Not now, not ever. “...I guess I don’t. But, um… I know this doesn’t mean much anymore, but…” He closed his hand into a fist, like it was possible to draw in raw courage from the air. “You’re right. We’ve never really been… just plain friends, and—”

“We’ve said I love you,” you scoffed, “We’ve kissed! We’ve spent four whole years on the road together, with nobody but each other, and even years after that you still can’t even admit it to my face! Can’t even say it!”

Dean’s hands are shaking, and in a rush he says, “Yeah? And you wanna know why? Cause’ the second I do, the second it’s out of my mouth, you’re dead. You hear me? A target drops on your back so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Honest to God, you start laughing, the scary hunter’s laugh that only bled out of you in the thick of a chase. “I’m already dead!” You budge him with your fists, almost pushing him back a foot, “We’re both already dead! None of that bullshit matters! Wouldn’t you rather we use the fucking time we’ve got instead of sitting around with our thumbs up our asses? Dean, come on!”

“Of course I do!” He roars. You’re close enough to grab, so he does, ripping you toward him by the wrists, “That’s all I’ve wanted!” He sucks down the cool night air and the little breaths puffing out of you, panting, “You’re all I’ve fucking wanted. Since the last time we were here. Since way before then. But the minute—the second they know that, Hell or—o-or whoever’s after us now, they’re gonna take advantage of that.”

The look on your face is frozen still with mute shock. Choking down another dose of guilt, Dean drops your wrists and suppresses the urge to pull you back in, to squeeze you against him, to kiss you stupid like he’d done years ago.

“Don’t think for one second that I don’t want you,” Dean rasped. “But I’d rather have you livin’ than be with you dead, you get me?”

You closed your eyes. Tears squeezed down your face, rolling around the curve of your cheeks. You grit, “I’m sick of having this argument, Dean.”

Then, the pull to reach out for you grew too great, and Dean couldn’t help but cup one side of your neck. He swallowed, thickly. “I know, baby girl.”

Starved for contact, you dug your nails into the material of his sleeve and did your best to speak. “If I go back with you,” you rattled out. “If I go back w’ you, sittin’ with this is gonna kill me. Can’t wait anymore. Can’t sit in the damn car while you run off with other people. I have t’ go. I love you, but I gotta go.”

Dean was sick of having this argument too. After years and years of it weighing on the two of you like a black hole, of this same old story returning every so often to throw a fresh gap between you both, Dean had hit his limit. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do to keep you living and happy. But this pressure on his heart was heavier than the damn sky, and now more than ever he wanted to let it go. Find another way. Choose you.

He overspills.

“I love you too,” Dean gushed, and from there, poured the rest of his heart out onto the wet asphalt. “Love you so much it makes me damn sick. Makes me all stupid and mushy on the inside, which is probably half the reason I’ve made it this far. Having you gone has just made it worse—the road’s too quiet and the backseat’s always cold, like everything else’s sick too. S’ made me realize that I—I-I can’t do this without you. Everythin’. Livin’ like this. I tried for your sake, I honestly did, but god, baby, I need you home. I need you to come home.”

“Dean—”

“Let me finish!” Dean barked, and the sloping misery on your face paused. “I know why you left. Shit, I’d leave too if the one person I… if that one person kept treating me the way I was treatin’ you. Fuck, _____, if this was some other guy? Doing this to you? I’d kill him. Acid bath, hit him with my car, something. I’d kill him. And I’d—”

Dean stops himself, realizing the spiral he’s throwing himself down. “You’re everything t’ me,” he gasped. “So get in the damn car and just come home.”

In the thousand-foot-drop-silence that follows, the only sound capable of puncturing the space between the two of you is, as always, One of These Nights. Inside DeLancey’s, there are a few couples swinging along to the beat, but all of the real fever is out here, thundering in Dean’s chest. There’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over his feelings out in the open: here, as the Eagles sing your signature song. Dean’s eyes are only on you.

“C’mon, _____,” he pleads, one last time. Again, he’s compelled by something beyond himself, and with nothing left to lose he starts to sing, smiling without feeling. “Oooh,” Dean croons, “loneliness will blind you, in between th’ wrong and th’ right…”

Here it is. You drag in a breath with all the weight of the world on it, and Dean knows what will follow. The goodbye.

Despite yourself, an amused little smile presses through the seams of your composure. You sober yourself. “... Things are gonna have to change, Dean.”

He’s not sure what that means. But it sounds good, and there’s still an optimist swirling around in him somewhere. “Yeah. Of-of course, anything. We can talk about it more, but… I’m willing to put you before anything. I should’ve put you before anything, before.”

You nod. “...Okay. Lemme go tell the other girls on shift.”

That’s good. That’s good, Dean realizes, and without meaning to he beams, blinking hard. You’re coming back with him. That’s what that means, right? Relief rushes through him so fast that he almost faints. Not so prepared to trust it, Dean’s eyes roam across your face for hesitation or displeasure or anger—and some of it’s there. There are still things to fix, still changes to be made, but. On top of all that is beautiful, sweet-tasting relief that Dean feels like collapsing under. You’re coming home.

“Just like that?” Dean asks, and he really shouldn’t be grinning, not until he’s sure and you’ve said it, but he can’t help it.

The tears still beading in your eyes slip into the pressed line of your lips, where a guarded smile is growing. You start nodding and then you don’t stop nodding, sobbing in earnest, and since it hasn’t screwed him over yet Dean follows his instinct to scoop you into a deep hug. You’re a little chilly and you smell a bit like pub food, making Dean’s heart squeeze with nostalgia. God, he fucking missed his girl. You grope around his back for something to cling to and fist both hands in his jacket til’ your fingers ache, and Dean explodes with gratefulness so pure he sways in place with you, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. You’re here and you’re alive and you don’t fucking hate him. Dean would take that and this stilted happiness over anything.

“This is all I wanted, D,” you hiccup. “You never say it, n’ I-I just need to hear it, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to us.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for,” Dean soothes, but you interrupt him.

“I was too much of an idiot to say goodbye,” you shook your head, smooshing your face into his jacket. “Too scared,” you confessed, and your voice was even scratchy from crying. “I didn’t want it to be over for real. Didn’t wanna close that door forever.”

Dean sloped his palm down your hair, your back, your arm, soaking you in every way he could. “M’ glad you didn’t. I’m sorry I pushed you to any of this, darlin’. I’m sorry too.”

You peel yourself off him just far enough to flash him a wolfish, tear-streaked grin. “Oh, I know you are. Are you ready to be makin’ it up to me for the rest of your life, Winchester?”

Dean makes the mistake of indulging your taunts with a chuckle, which puts this light in your eyes that he never wants to let go of. You swish in real close to his face, threatening with a big, 1000-watt smile, “Pucker up, cowboy, because you’ve got a lot of ass-kissing to do.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, wetting his lips. His belly warmed at the nickname. “So come here, ass.”

It’s not often that Dean has the pleasure of making you so flustered your face steams. He never gets to see it this close, either, so he leans further in to put it all to memory, which just makes your cheeks hotter. Your eyes dart across his face, wild and nervous. Dean’s smile sinks into a nasty smirk because, there you are, tough as nails and melting into your shoes at the thought of kissing him. It’s a lucky thing you’re so distracted. Maybe if you weren’t you’d notice how Dean’s hands are trembling, how his mouth’s watering. His whole nervous system flips when you reign him in by a fist in his collar, and he’s pretty sure his soul levitates out of his body when you kiss him.

One kiss turns into two, then three. Your lips are smooth with vanilla chapstick, and it only takes a minute for it to be all over Dean’s face—his mouth most of all, but the corners of his lips and his chin, too. You’ve always been the sweet one, but something about finally being subject to it melts the iron ball of anxiety in his gut. He kisses back like it’s his damn job, pouring his confession, his apologies into you, cupping your face, dimpling your cheeks with his thumbs. You’re softer than he remembers, and the fact that he could be forgetting anything at all about the last night you spent in Tulsa together makes him starved to remember this.

By some twist of fate, Bad Company’s Ready For Love plays next on the cue inside. With you cozy in his arms, his body works on muscle memory, and soon you’re swaying back and forth as you kiss, dipping in close for sweet pecks of each other.

“I love you,” he thinks he hears you say.

Playfully, Dean budges your nose with his and sing-songs, “Can’t hear you!”

“I said,” you took in a big breath, “I LOVE YOU TOO, asshole.”

Dean dissolves into chuckles, which are happily interrupted by more insistent kisses. You’re almost ten whole feet from where you started, and scooping up your hand, Dean starts the trek backward to where the Impala is parked. It’s your home as much as it’s his, so you barely need him to take the lead to find it among the other cars.

“Hm,” you say, “Maybe the girls will just figure out for themselves why I’m gone, yeah?”

“They’ll survive without you,” Dean shrugs. “You got other people who need you.”

“Need me,” you say, just rolling the unfamiliar words around in your mouth. Dean feels another pang of guilt; he could’ve sworn he’d told you that more, could’ve sworn he showed his love to you every day. Another thing to change.

“Yeah, need you,” Dean mutters, and he doesn’t mean to expose the desire rolling around in his belly, but there it is. He wants to take it back as soon as it leaves his mouth, but the second you get a taste of it, you’re hooked. A beat later he’s being pushed up against the driver’s door of the car and kissed stupid, warm and wet and so much of what he remembers. Fantasizes about.

In the next kiss a gentle hand grabs at the clasp to his belt buckle. Instantly, Dean pulls back to speak.

“Sweet pea,” he manages, trying so hard to be reasonable and good and everything that you deserve. You laugh at the nickname, which eases his mind a bit. “...You sure you don’t wanna wait? I think I got other things to prove t’ you, first.”

You draw him into a deep, lingering siren’s kiss that leaves his knees threatening to lock and his common sense threatening to bend.

“Can’t wait any longer,” your eyes burn like cigarettes, all heat. Quietly, you ask him, “Prove to me I’m your favorite. That m’ the only girl you’re looking at.”

There’s the underlying desperation to your voice that goes beyond just wanting to have sex with him. This is confirmation of something to you, something you need to hear, to feel. So Dean guides you into the backseat and proves it to you.

This is not at all where he expected this night to go, and he’s grateful that he’d lost the opportunity to overthink himself into his grave. There’s no room for Dean to worry if he was really good enough for you, if he deserved this, because these things are proven to him too. You slot so perfectly into his lap that he knows the moment you’re out of it he’ll be battered with homesickness. For long breaths there’s no kissing at all, just Dean nuzzling his face into your neck and committing each second to memory. When you do kiss him it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, this grand, surging happiness that ripples through him head-to-toe. Each kiss has a new kind of gentleness, and before either one of you starts to strip Dean knows that you want more than what he’s about to give you—you want him, and that feeling is an old comfort.

Knowing your famous attitude, Dean would’ve bet money on you taking control, but for whatever reason you step back and let him make the first move. Again, it tells him that this is his chance to tell you something, to make it clear that he wants you and he’s going to show it. So he does. Your fingers in his hair are all the invitation he needs.

Dean scrapes his palms up your back as you kiss, soaking up every naked inch of skin he’s allowed. You’re making all these soft little noises that make the pressure in his jeans unbearable, so with the next drag of his hands he’s intent on seeing what you’ll feel like naked in his lap. When your uniform is nothing but a memory and your throat’s slick with hickeys, you try out a new way of teasing him, murmuring in that caramel voice how long you’ve wanted to feel him inside you. After that he doesn’t even care about being fully naked—but you clearly do. He puts your roaming hands on his belt. I want you to do this part, I want it to be you who opens me up. You kiss him so intensely that Dean doesn’t even remember when or how his belt comes off. Or his shirt, or his jeans, or his boots, gulping down your love potion by the gallon.

All he knows is pretty girl, his pretty girl, and swaths of hot sweat-tacky skin on top of him. You hesitate to close that final gap between you once the condom’s on, so Dean whispers whiskey-warm assurances in your ear as he cups the curve of your ass and slides you onto him. The moan that presses out of you pours right into your next kiss, then the next, and the next. It takes everything in him to start slow; Dean gives you two deep, fulfilling grinds across his lap. The rippling squeeze of you around him is too good to be real. You press your lips into his, then his nosebridge, his forehead, urging him on, and that’s all Dean needs to let go. He cups the dip of your back, shoves his face in your neck and just loses it.

Dean rocks you across his lap at a vicious, pounding tempo, giving you his all. The whole time his head bumps against the height of the seat, craning to watch the perfect little shifts in your expression. You’ve got your eyes squeezed shut and your lips parted. His lap is slick with you, making the grind, the chase, the rush to the finish come faster and faster. He could’ve gotten off on the sounds you were making alone. They turn into full-on squeals when Dean slides his fingers between your legs, and a flush of I love you I love you I love you bursts out of him when the hot silk wrapped around him clamps even tighter. You cum almost sobbing his name, and Dean coos you through it, his thighs cramping with effort. But it’s all worth it—you’ve always been worth it.

He finishes with your hands combing through his sweat-damp hair, echoing back to him the three words he’d been chanting the entire time.

-

It’s a few hours before dawn when you land in Sam and Dean’s motel a town over. Dean had wanted to get back earlier, intent on having you back as soon as possible, but it’d taken a bit to pack your stuff into the Impala and drive home. You’d commented on being hungry on the way back too, which ended with Dean pouring an entire gas station’s worth of snacks into your lap at three in the morning.

By then it’d gotten too cold out to be comfortable, so it was tempting to succumb to sleep in front of the Impala’s heaters. But robbing yourself of any time with Dean wasn’t an option, so you pushed through, feet aching after an eight-hour shift and body glowing with Dean’s affection. You nibbled on twinkies in the passenger’s seat, happy that he was happy. He kept the radio off to hear you, but hummed when the conversation peacefully faded. I can hear the train a’ comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend…

Sam was waiting for you on the stoop outside the room when you pulled up, and did an impressively poor job at containing himself. He’d gotten his arms around you before your door was fully shut, and when you were back on your feet his brother took up your other side. Together, you herded each other into the cozy darkness of the motel. Someone said something about unpacking your things; but all three of you were tired, so that thought was saved for tomorrow.

Dean tossed his jacket on the back of a chair. Sam rearranged the salt lines on the window sills with a careful hand. You fumbled into the first pajamas you could find (aka, the hoodies in Dean’s duffle that rightfully belonged to you), and crash straight into bed, too lazy to kiss goodnight like usual. When the lights were off and the boys were down too, you stretched a hand out from under your comforter and reached across the bed’s gap.

“Goodnight, Sam,” you told him, wiggling your fingers.

His whole hand engulfed yours in a warm, I missed you squeeze, and then he was rolling onto his stomach and sinking like a rock into sleep.

When you twisted onto your other side, Dean was already there, propped up on an elbow. His broad hand on your shoulder smoothed across your belly to pull you into him. Once you were close enough to kiss, he disregarded your cheek and your forehead entirely, dipping in for a real kiss that tingled all the way down to your toes.

“G’night,” Dean whispered.

Welling with too much emotion to put into words, you willed it all into a simple and loving, “Goodnight, cowboy.”

Together, you snuggled down into your blankets and crashed, content.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss

Baby please...

K.Flay / High Enough