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msmarvelouswinchester · 4 years

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Lost Years

Summary - After spending five years in LA, Dean comes back to Lawrence and meets up with his bestfriend or rather his then bestfriend. Y/N isn't exactly happy on seeing Dean either. Will he be able to fix his strained relationship with her?

Pairing - Rockstar!Dean Winchester x Y/N

Warning - Cheesy fluff, angst, mentions of unrequited love, mentions of divorce, parents separation, drinking, bad dates, kissing, unprotected sex 18+ (wrap it before you tap it), p in v smut, oral sex (fem receiving), sex in the Impala.

WC - 5.3k+ (....oops)

Square filled - Angst ( @girl-next-door-writes ) and “Why the fuck would you laugh at that?” ( @anyfandomgoesbingo )

A/N - This is my submission to @downanddirtydean's 500 followers writing challenge (Congratulations again, Lyd). Prompt is in bold.

This is an AU. Flashbacks are in Italics.

Beta'd by @miss-nerd95 (Thank you so much, hon) and thank you to @whatareyousearchingfordean for giving this a read and leaving some valuable comments❤️

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

“Fuckin’ brilliant!” A weary exclamation left the woman's mouth as she read the text displayed on the device's screen in her hand.

There was a very significant reason why she didn't believe in blind dates, but Jo had been stubborn and insistent. And with Valentine's Day approaching, Y/N didn't want to spend the day in her pjs, crying over The Notebook again. So she had agreed to give a chance to Jo’s friend, or to be more precise, her friend's cousin. His name was Gabriel, and from what she had heard from her mutual friend circle, he seemed to be a decent guy.

But now all she wanted was to go back in time and change her decision to give into Jo’s request, because looking at the empty chair in front of her, she regretted allowing her friend to even try to interfere in her love life.

She signaled the waiter to bring over her check after downing the entire glass of wine. The restaurant was quite busy tonight. It was packed with people on this fine Saturday evening - from lovestruck couples to families with crying kids, Y/N found herself feeling quite lonely as she had stupidly waited on her date to show up for such a long time. Heat crept up her neck in embarrassment when the waiter showed up, the latter’s eyes filled with sympathy as Y/N paid the price of her drink.

Within no time, she was out of the restaurant.

Glancing down at her green dress, she swore under her breath. She tried to book a cab to return to the comfort of her home when her eyes caught the glowing signboard of The Roadhouse right around the corner of the street. The only thing she could think of was to get black-out drunk now. Y/N, still in her high heels, trudged down the path to Ellen’s bar.

Dressed up all for nothing. Rolling her eyes at herself, she went inside the establishment, heading straight towards the counter and taking a seat there. Like any other weekend nights, the place was stuffed. Y/N let her eyes trail over the many patrons of the dingy bar, landing finally on the middle-aged brunette who ran the place

“Ellen!” She called out to the woman.

“Hey, honey,” she approached Y/N, all the while glaring daggers at the drunk she had just previously been arguing with, “A bit overdressed for this place, don't ya think?”

“Your daughter is officially fired from matchmaking services,” Y/N sighed.

“Boy troubles, huh? What can I get ya, hon?” Sympathy was evident in Ellen’s eyes as she spoke. Y/N was as much of a daughter to her as Jo was. The girl had been through so much heartbreak, all Ellen wanted was to see a smile on her face.

“The usual,” Y/N gave a sad smile.

“Rough night indeed, huh?” She raised an eyebrow. The woman in question shrugged defeatedly. Ellen patted her arm in comfort before she left her to arrange for her drink, leaving Y/N to wallow in self-pity.

She thought back to when her life had taken such a traumatic turn. All her friends were either getting engaged, married, or popping out kids. But not Y/n... she was in her late twenties now, and she couldn't even find herself an eligible man.

Ellen pushed the glass towards her. Sighing, she picked it up as she admired the liquid in it. She drank slowly, every sip creating a burning sensation at the back of her throat. Fingers still wrapped around the glassware, she set it down, looking around the bar. The place was filled with mad chatters and howling laughs along with the music blasting from the stereo placed on the deck inside the room, a stark contrast to how lonely she felt. She signaled Ellen for another round, who nodded before giving her that sad understanding smile Y/N was now starting to hate. Frowning, she dropped her head and exhaled.

“Sweetheart, where did that pretty smile for yours go?” Y/N was quickly pulled out from her daze by a very familiar voice; a voice she hadn't heard in a few years. It couldn't be him, he was supposed to be in LA!

“Ella?” The term of endearment brought back dozens of memories, some good and some bad, but all were about him - the freckled face teenage boy with dirty blonde hair and eyes as green as the forest in the summertime she had once fallen for. It brought up the painful memory of their first meet which she had tried to forget so hard.

She remembered the day of their first drama practice when Dean had grudgingly walked into the room. He had reluctantly agreed to play the Prince in the Cinderella act after Cas who was supposed to be the Prince had accidentally ended up with a broken leg. He didn’t know her name, so he had called her ‘Ella’ to get her attention which was the start of their epic friendship.

Y/N didn't dare to turn around to look at him, after all, he wasn't the scrawny teenager from Lawrence anymore. He was now the lead singer and guitarist of a popular rock band with a fancy name and songs that were in the top ten of Billboard music charts. Yes, she did keep up with his rising fame, sometimes even listening to one of his songs before she was once again reminded of the heartbreak he had caused.

“You can't even look at me.” His voice was barely a whisper but loud enough for her to hear as he slid into the stool beside her.

Gathering enough courage, she raised her head. “Dean.” His name rolled off her tongue so easily, but her heart ached for the past. Dean cracked a smile at her as his emerald eyes did not leave hers once. It was as if he was memorizing every tiny detail of her face and if anyone would've asked him, he would've replied that he was.

Y/N hadn't changed much over the years he had spent in LA. She was still the same girl he had first met in school and the last time he had seen her at their graduation. She was a shy girl but they had clicked instantly. Growing up, she was his best friend, his person, his escape.

“Dean Winchester has walked into my bar. Must be my lucky day!” Ellen’s voice thundered across the room, grabbing the attention of a few intoxicated people. “How's LA treating you, boy?”

“Ellen! It's awesome to see you again.” A grin broke out on Dean's face as he jumped out of his seat and pulled the lady into a bear hug. “LA’s pretty okay. It is as good as the industry can be.”

“Heard some of your songs, I knew you had the talent,” Ellen said, jabbing her finger into his chest to prove her point. “Now what can I get ya? On the house.”

“A beer will be just fine. Don't want to show up to the Winchester house drunk!” He chuckled.

“Alright, coming right up. Y/N, honey, you want another round or a glass of water?” The lady asked.

“I'll be leaving in a few. Glass of water it is, El.” She replied but was then interrupted by Dean.

“One drink, with me. It's on me, Ella.” There it was again, that fucking name. A few years ago, that name would have made her cheeks heat up but now, it just made her blood boil. She clenched her hand into fists, tears pricking at her eyes as she swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Do not call me that.” She hissed, surprising Dean. Y/N turned towards the man, finally taking a good look at him. He had changed a lot, had become more handsome but LA had not modified his clothing style because he was still wearing his signature flannel and jeans accompanied by a jacket. She wondered how many girls had stopped him for a picture or an autograph on his way back to Lawrence, jealousy seeping into her. She hated the way he still had that effect on her.

“Y/N-” She knew what he was going to say. ‘I am sorry’, but she wasn't ready to forgive him now, if ever.

“No. Don't.” She stopped him mid-sentence, hands digging into her purse as she pulled out the money for her drinks, dropping them on the counter.

“El, I am going home.” Ellen, who was silently watching their whole exchange, nodded her head before asking, “Want me to call a cab for you?”

“No. I'm going to crash at your place. I need to have a word with Jo.” Y/N said since it was near impossible for her to walk back to her house, considering she was quite tipsy and still in heels, but she also didn't want to wait until the woman called a cab with Dean Winchester anywhere nearby. After getting her belongings, she got out of the barstool and left the place on wobbly legs. Her feet would no doubt be screaming in pain the next day.

Stepping out, she inhaled deeply, letting a few tears fall as the cool air hit her face. After their graduation, Y/N had sworn she would try her best to forget the older Winchester. She wasn't quite successful in her aim, because many times she would come across his gorgeous face on the cover of a magazine or his song would be playing on the radio, striking up old memories of their time spent together in high school.

Still lost in her thoughts, she took a step forward, only to misjudge the cobblestone path and end up losing her balance. She braced herself for the impending fall but was saved by a pair of strong hands wrapped around her waist.

“Watch your step, sweetheart,” Dean said, letting her down gently. “Lemme see, did you hurt your ankle?” He went down on his knees in front of her, pulling a low gasp out of her as he examined her feet.

“Were you following me?” Y/N gritted out those words.

“No.” He shook his head but she clearly saw through the lie.

“I’m fine. You can go now.” She said, her eyes looking everywhere but the man.

“Come on, don't be so stubborn. Get in the car, I'll drop you off at your house or Jo’s place if you want.” He said looking up, trying to catch her eyes but she was adamant about not giving him that satisfaction. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, lips quivering before she answered.

“Leave me alone.” She muttered, a tear running down her cheek. All that preparation for not breaking down in front of Dean and her body still betrayed her. The man got up. Y/N noticed that he was now wearing a cap, probably to hide from any bystander who might recognize him.

“Y/N/N, I-” Dean was at a loss of words. He hated seeing her so heartbroken and he loathed himself for being the cause of it. He tried to reach out and hold her hand but she recoiled back, making him wince. “Please, Ella.”

“Stop calling me that, Winchester. How many times do I have to repeat that?” Her voice came out as a little whine, making Dean chuckle. He missed it - her tone, the timbre, the intensity in her pitch, and the words it said, which used to be his voice of reason; he missed his best friend. “Why the fuck would you laugh at that? I am not doing stand up comedy out here.” Y/N was still the strong-headed girl he adored.

“You'll probably hurt yourself if you walk in those heels again with how tipsy you are right now. Get in the car, I know you missed cruising around the town in Baby because she missed you for sure.” And that thankfully got the exact reaction out of her that he had anticipated. She finally looked right at him, her face lit up at the pretense of seeing the beloved black car again.

“I thought she was in LA with you.” Y/N said and then it dawned on her, “Did you drive across the States?”

“Damn right I did!” He beamed in reply like he had won a trophy, his heart swelling with happiness when he saw the smile forming on her face mixed with awe and surprise. He still had to go a long way to get her back, but he had to take baby steps. At least he managed to make her smile. “So? Want to go out, just like the old times?”

The smile instantly disappeared from Y/N’s lips and Dean knew he fucked up right then. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned the good ol’ days. “Sweetheart, I'm sorry-”

“Just drop me off at Jo’s. That's it.” She said, lowering her gaze. He waved her over to the direction where his car was parked. Y/N started to walk along as Dean wordlessly followed her.

Y/N felt a wave of nausea hit her. She didn't do well in social gatherings and this was her graduation ceremony. One wrong step, one wrong word, or a wardrobe malfunction, and the day could turn into a disaster in an instant.

“Honey, you're gonna be excellent out there! We're all very proud of you.” Mary said while hugging Y/N tightly as they both waited on the former's older son to come downstairs who was running late, as usual. She had grown incredibly close to the Winchester family over the years. They were her rock, especially Dean who was there with her at every step as she went through the separation of her parents.

“Are you and John going to join my parents at the ceremony? Someone needs to stop them before they end up killing each other.” She grimaced.

“Isn't this going to be the first time they are together in one single room, since their….you know-” Sam asked as he came out of the kitchen, a green smoothie in his hands. Dean might have been her best friend, her confidante, but Sam was the little brother she never thought she needed.

“First get that green drink outta my sight, I already feel like I'm gonna throw up. Second, you can speak about the divorce. It's not taboo and it was a long time coming. Everyone knew that.” Y/N reluctantly said. The separation of her parents might have been foreseeable but, nevertheless, it still hurt her to see her parents walkout in two separate ways once the divorce was finalized. The house had become much quieter these days which she was thankful for but she also felt the evident absence of her father.

“Mom and Dad will definitely be there!” Dean announced loudly as he came down the stairs. “Come on let's go. Don't wanna be late for our own graduation ceremony!” She could always count on him to make her day better.

“I should have told you.”

“W-what?” Y/N asked dumbfoundedly as Dean’s gruff voice broke her out of the reverie and pulled her back to reality. A minute passed when she noticed even if his hands were on the steering, he wasn't driving anymore.

“This-” she looked out of the window, “this isn't Jo’s place.”

“No, this is our place,” Dean said.

“Dean.” This was the last place she wanted to be at, let alone be here with Dean. It had taken every ounce of her strength to not run back to this place over the past few years whenever she missed her best friend, only to realize that he had left her in the dust on his path to fame and didn't care about her as much as she used to think. Too many memories were attached to this particular place.

“I missed this, Y/N.” He said, killing the engine and slowly opening the door on his side. Y/N understood what he was trying to do and her mind screamed at her in protest to not follow him but her heart told her to follow the man it belonged to.

Dean finally stepped out of the car and walked over to the closed door on her side. She opened the door herself before he could and stepped out as well with a huff. The place was the same as it ever was. “I haven't been here since graduation.” She blurted out.

“I should have told you,” Dean said as they started to walk to their spot. Y/N chose to remain quiet. “Ella, please say somethin’.”

“I am not your Ella anymore, Dean. Stop calling me that.” She said but this time it wasn't a whine, instead, she yelled it out. She was sick and tired of yearning for the man who had broken her heart several years ago and now she was scared that he was gonna leave her once again.

“You'll always be my Ella.” He said.

“The Prince didn't lie to Cinderella and leave her behind but you- it hurts me to remember how close we were then. You left me without even a simple goodbye, so no, I am not your Ella anymore.” She flinched when he reached out for her.

He had stopped walking now and so had she. Dean moved closer to her before standing exactly in front of her. His hands lightly traced her jaw as she looked up at him. She looked just as enchanting under the moonlight as he remembered. He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs gently caressed her cheeks. She had given up fighting herself now, driven only by instinct. All the walls that she had put up came crumbling down with one touch of his.

“Why do you think I didn't say goodbye to you?” Dean whispered.

“Maybe all the years that we spent together meant nothing to you.” Her voice was like a melody to his ears but the words broke his heart even further.

“Because it was too damn hard. When RC Records called me up three days before graduation, you were the first person I wanted to tell, but I couldn't, ‘cause if I did, I wouldn't have made it to where I am right now.” He said, not a trace of mirth on his face.

“I wouldn't have held you back.” It was simple. Y/N always wanted to stay in Lawrence and look over her mother's bakery shop, and that's what she ended up doing. She now owned the shop and her business was thriving. Dean had wanted to become a singer ever since he was ten when he was forced to play the Prince, opposite to Y/N’s lead. He had found his passion and she had always encouraged it, even when John had strongly protested against him choosing music as his major. “You know I always supported you.”

“I know that, but thinking about not seeing you every day made me not want to go. I kept imagining you upset and that's why I didn't have it in me to tell you about my break.” He said. Y/N grabbed his hands pushing them away from her face.

“You ended up making me sad anyway. So why the fuck are you back?” She was enraged.

“Ella-” Dean tried to come closer but she stepped back, “I came to see my family.”

“Then why are you wasting your time here with me?”

“Because you're the most important person in my life and every day I spent away from you, you were the only person on my mind.” Dean smiled.

“What?”

“You were the first thought when I woke up and the last thought when I went to sleep.” He said and pulled her close when she finally stopped fighting. “I love you, Y/N Y/L/N. I know I am late and probably missed my chance, but five years in LA have taught me to take the risks. I love you, Ella.”

“I can't-” Dean’s smile felt but he quickly recovered.

“I-I understand.” He let out a dry chuckle, “You got a man back at home waiting for you. He sure is one lucky bastard.”

“No. You do not fucking understand! You are just so in your head, it's just-” She flailed her arms around in utter frustration. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to move on? I have been on so many dates but no man was ever enough for me, all because of your sorry ass! The Graduation Day - I knew you always thought of me as your best friend, so I had decided to ask you out myself,”

“Y/N-”

“No, let me finish. You have to fucking listen about how much pain you put me through these five years! The next day, I went to your house only to hear from your parents that you were on your way to LA. I fucking hate you!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I fucking hate how much I still love you, Dean!”

His eyes widened in surprise as he kept opening and closing his mouth like a damn fish. He was unable to form a coherent sentence and so he cupped Y/N’s cheeks in his big, warm hands once more, but now he dipped down, tilting his face and pulling her in for a kiss. His teeth grazed her bottom lips, making her moan into his mouth. She could feel the blood rush to her cheeks as she found herself completely enamored by him. Her hands snuck to the back of his neck as she steadied herself. Her knees buckled under his hypnotic touch as he slipped his tongue into her mouth, her whole body tingled and toes curled up as his tongue explored every inch of her mouth.

“De,” Y/N tried to catch her breath when Dean finally let go of her lips, already missing the feel of her on him.

His hands traveled down her body, making her gasp aloud at the feel. He lowered his mouth as he started to leave a trail of kisses along her jaw and down her neck. “Dean, please. Don't.” Her three short words made him stop.

“Alright.” He gulped.

“I don't want to get my heart broken again, Winchester, I don't think I can survive it again.” Y/N knew he would return to LA within a week, and so she didn't want to take this any further. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, right?”

“I won't. I am not going back.” Y/N looked at him, surprise evident in her eyes, “I don't care about my career anymore. Five years without you was like living in hell and my bandmates are probably so tired of hearing how much I missed you. I will write my songs from here in Lawrence if it means that I'll be closer to you.”

“You would do that for me?” She asked sincerely.

“I would. I was a stupid kid back then but now I have realized that nothing's more important to me than you. I don't want to lose my Ella ever again.” He said, “I'm sorry for taking so long to understand that. There is no way-” His words were cut off as Y/N captured his lips with her own. The sudden kiss caught him off guard but he quickly pulled himself together to kiss her back. “Shit, Y/N-” he gasped when he felt his dick twitch. He picked her up in quick motion and went towards the car. Y/N giggled when her back lightly collided with Baby’s door. Dean dropped his head, nipping at the pulse point on her neck.

“Dean-” She moaned, which was better than any music he had ever made as his hands slipped under her dress, his fingers hovering over her soaked panties. Her thighs clenched in anticipation.

“You have no idea how long I dreamt of having you. You're soaked, sweetheart. ” He huskily said, his fingers hooking on the waistband of her cotton panties. “Tell me to stop and I will, in a heartbeat. No questions.”

“N-no. Don't stop.” Y/N cooed. Dean dragged down her panties which pooled at her feet. He picked it up and stuffed it into his pocket. Thankfully, there was no one around but the thrill of being out in the open with Dean got her even more hot and bothered. Her hands grasped onto his biceps tightly so that she wouldn't topple over when Dean slipped a finger into her tight pussy. Her mouth fell open, her head dropping on his shoulder as he started pumping slowly, every drag of his finger pushing her closer to the edge.

Dean felt his pants tighten as he heard the sweet moan of his name leave her lips. Her raspy voice was one he could hear all day long, her heavy pants tickling his skin. With one hand he unbuckled his belt, trying to relieve himself a little, but when a cry of pleasure left her lips as he slipped in another finger, he hoped that he wouldn't cream his pants like a freaking teenage boy.

Y/N felt the coil in her stomach tighten as she inched towards her climax. Dean quickened his pace, curling his fingers inside her and brushing her g-spot, each time eliciting a low moan out of her. “Dean….” She couldn't form any coherent words other than chanting his name over and over again and a moment later, the coil snapped as she felt herself coming undone. He delicately pulled his fingers out of her, which were covered in her juice. Dean reached behind her, yanking the door open as he nudged her to go in. She readily obliged and slid into the seat with shaky legs. He climbed into the backseat after her, closing the door behind him.

Her dress had ridden up her thigh, exposing her glistening pussy. Dean’s eyes darkened at the sight before him as he swiftly pulled his shirt over his head, discarding it somewhere in the front. He pushed her dress further up. She raised her hands as he successfully got her out of the garment and unhooked her bra. Y/N moved further back into the seat, her back resting against the door on the other side as Dean started to leave kisses down her body.

“Have you ever thought about this? ‘Cause I did, every freaking day.” Dean asked, kissing the valley between her breasts, the rumble of his voice sending shivers down her spine.

“E-every time I touched myself, I thought of you.” She said, gasping out loud at every word when his mouth found her breasts and started to suck on the soft skin, flicking a nipple with his tongue and twirling the other within his fingers.

“Oh-” Dean raised his head to look at her before he moved south, “Did you think about me between your legs just like this-” He said as he left kisses along her thigh, his stubble creating soft burns on her skin in its wake that she would definitely remember. He finally stopped at her nether regions, his hot breath fanning against her throbbing pussy. “Did you think about me tasting you like this?”

Y/N threw her head back in pleasure when his mouth latched onto her sensitive bundle of nerves, his tongue flicking at her aching nub. Her hands traveled down to his head, her fingers getting tangled up in his soft hair and pulled at the strands, making him groan.

“Fuck-” She exclaimed as Dean hungrily devoured her, his tongue repeatedly assaulting her sensitive pussy, sucking needily on her bundle of nerves. Y/N threw her head back in pleasure as she felt the coil in your stomach tighten before a wave of pleasure washed over her. “Shit!” She gasped as Dean’s tongue lapped her juices hungrily.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you taste so good.” He panted before he unbuttoned his pants pushing them down along with his boxers, freeing his erection sprung from his confines. “Son of a bitch, I don’t have-” Y/N sensed his uneasiness.

“I’m on the pill.” She smirked as she stared at his toned body.

“Well, I’m clean.” She reached out to touch his stomach, hands then traveling down to his length. Dean dropped his head, biting down on his lips, “Y/N-” He pushed her hands away, smirking as he ran his hand along his hardened cock, giving it a few strokes, the tip beaded with precum. He looked at Y/N once and lined himself with her dripping entrance when she gave him a nod to go ahead.

His swollen tip teasingly nudged at her opening before he pushed himself into her.

“Shit Y/N-” Dean grunted, simultaneously as Y/N hissed out at the painful sensation at the beginning as he pushed himself into her, letting her adjust around his size before she told him to move. He circled his hips as he slowly pulled out, leaving only the tip of his engorged cock inside her, before pushing back in again, deeper than before.

“Holy fuck-” Y/N moaned out when he quickened his pace, hitting her g-spot repeatedly with every thrust as they both inched towards their release. Dean kissed her as he continued to thrust deep into her, their breathing growing erratic, the windows of the chevy fogged up and the car filled with their groans and moans as they both chased their release. She hooked her arms at the small of his back as he started to nibble at her sweet spot. His hand moved south, his thumb rubbing circles on her clit which further edged her.

“Shit De!” Y/N cried out loud as her walls fluttered around his pulsating length when she felt herself coming undone. Dean’s thrusts became sloppy as he grunted into the crook of her neck before he spilled into her with one cry of her name, painting her walls with his seed. He dropped his head, trying to catch his breath before he gently pulled out.

“Fuck sweetheart.” Dean panted, beads of sweat lining his forehead as they both laid in each other’s arms, basking in the post-coital bliss. “Was this better than your fantasies? ‘Cause, ‘twas surely better than mine.” Dean smirked, reaching out to grab a piece of cloth to clean themselves up. “We should have done this sooner.”

“If only you hadn't been such a coward.” Y/n teased with a giggle.

“Your dumbass could have called me up. I wasted five years being one, terrified to hear how much you hate me.” He grumbled, cleaning up the mess on the seat. Honestly, she could have but she didn't ‘cause she was scared to hear the truth as well; that Dean had truly left her.

“So, you’re sayin’ we’re both a couple of dumbasses.” Y/N chuckled, putting on her bra.

“Your words, not mine.” Dean gave her a sly smirk. “The Winchester household will be so delighted, once they know I finally got my head out of my ass and looked at the beautiful woman right in front of me.” He was right in every sense. The Winchesters, all of them had always believed that those two would end up together. Everyone saw how in love they were except Y/N and Dean.

“Isn't it too early for the introduce-the-girlfriend-to-the-family thing?” She asked which got an eye roll out of the man. “Panties?”

“I don't have them.” Dean sneakily raised his hands.

“I saw you stuff them into your pocket.” He grabbed her dress from the front seat, throwing it at her.

“Put this on, or preferably, just don't.” He gave her a boyish smile, getting a raised eyebrow in reply, “Oh I'm not done with you. Gotta make up for the lost years, sweetheart.” Dean's eyes darkened at the thought as Y/N gulped, knowing she wouldn't be able to walk properly for weeks.

Feedback is highly appreciated!

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youalexturnermeon · 4 years

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Chasing the Past Pt. 1(Johnny Lawrence x Reader)

Request by Anon: Could I please get a Johnny Lawrence imagine where he and the reader (who is daniels sister) are secretly dating. Maybe like an old flame back in the 80s and now they reconnected?

A/N: Soo, I decided to split this int two parts since I think nobody wants to read 56746 trillion words in one go on here. This is set about 7 years after Karate Kid and Y/N and Johnny hooked up again. Please let me know if you’re up to part 2

Warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, drugs and sex, reader is of age

Wordcount: 1709

It felt odd to be back again. After all it has been more than five years ago since you set foot onto the Los Angeles’ ground for more than just Christmas or a weekend since you moved to New York. Your mom and Daniel stayed in LA and it looked like a forever solution for them, but unlike your family you were never bound to California. And yet after going to college in New York City and working there for two years the tables have turned and you lost your job. And since New York was a pricy city you had no other way than moving back to your family for a few months before you found another job. You could either stay with your slightly neurotic mom or with your over-protective brother. And although the decision was tough at first because you love both of them as much as they went on your nerves, you decided to stay at Daniel’s last minute. After all, only two years separated you and you had a lot in common.

“What are you doing tonight, (Y/N)?” Daniel asked you as you unpacked the last bit of your suitcase “Because I thought, since it’s your first day back home, we could maybe go out for Sushi.”

“Oh Danny” you sighed and laughed “Are you still not over your Karate and Japan obsession?”

Even with you being the long grown-up younger sibling you still loved to mock your brother. He stuck his tongue out and gave you a light shove.

“Fuck you!”

You shoved him back and then he shoved you again, going back and forth like 10-year olds until eventually you both got tired of it and started laughing.

“No seriously, do you have any plans or – “

“Probably going to a party on the beach, like the old times, catch up with some old friends, Linda asked me. I’m actually leaving in about an hour. We can go tomorrow” you answered casually und started picking out a suitable outfit, you never knew who you could be running in from the past.

“I never understood what you all had with the parties on the beach. They’re lame” “Just because you got your ass kicked during a beach party ‘cause you just couldn’t stand not being the centre of attention for once and simply had to play a noble hero, doesn’t mean the parties are lame” “And just because you had the biggest crush on Lawrence since that day doesn’t mean I was wrong for protecting Ali”

Daniel tried to mock you; but you could hear how hurt he was still, thinking back of his teenage years filled with rivalry and heartbreak. You tried to hide a laugh, if he’d also knew that you and Johnny Lawrence hooked up a couple of weeks before you went to college, he’d probably just kill himself out of pity.

“Still hurts, huh, Danny?” you voiced immediately, and he just shrugged it off.

“Just be careful later, okay? I can also pick you up if you want to.” “I’m not 15 anymore, you don’t have to pick me up. You can also just come with me.” “Nah” Daniel shook his head, “I never liked your friends”

“Your loss, it’s never too late to deal with your past” you joked. When your brother left the room, you put on a tight crop top, slipped in your jean shorts and tied a sweater around your hips in case it got cold. You thought, you looked great – you were ready to go.

____

At first, it felt even weirder to be included in your old friend group that it was being back in L.A. But with the alcohol flowing and joints passing and dancing and talking and goofing around it became more and more natural. You weren’t teenagers anymore; you were all young adults and yet if felt like being 16 all over again. Reconnecting felt great. Maybe after all these years of you telling yourself that you didn’t need California and all the people belonging there, convincing yourself that not one cell in your body longed after the warm climate and carelessness, you finally understood that it was a big lie you told yourself. You missed Reseda and you missed all your friends. With all the sentiment finally catching up after five years of chasing you plus the booze and the exhaustion, you had to take a moment for yourself. You took a short walk along the beach and stood there with your feet being caressed by the waves. You drunkenly smiled to yourself, you could finally be happy again.

“(Y/N) fucking LaRusso!”, you suddenly heard a familiar voice behind you which immediately pulled you right out of your thoughts, “Am I dreaming or is that really the girl that broke my heart?”

You didn’t even have the chance to turn around, you were promptly spun around by strong muscular arms and landed in a tight and warm embrace. A natural laugh echoed through the night. You inhaled the familiar scent of the person with the even more familiar voice and when you looked up you saw this face that could’ve been an angel’s if it wasn’t for the bright blue eyes filled with all the mischief in the world. He looked older than the last time you have seen him, his face was more edged than five years ago; and you might’ve been imagining it; but he also got a little taller.

“Johnny!” you shrieked and wrapped your arms even tighter around him “What are you doing here?”

“A little birdie told me the better LaRusso in back in town and I decided to go and see for myself. Since I couldn’t get a hold of you in over five years. It seems like you have been avoiding me at all costs, no letters, no calls, no visits. And it was successful until now.”

He let go of you and stepped back to get a better look at you. You, too, have changed a lot but now you were the hottest girl in town for Johnny.

“Now you can’t escape me”

“To be honest, I have been avoiding everybody since I moved to New York. I didn’t think Johnny Lawrence had a heart in the first place and especially not one to break it” you said; and you bluntly took his hand and started dragging him back to the gathering where everybody still was drinking and dancing “Let’s go have a drink and catch up”

“What do you mean, you didn’t know if I had a heart and that you broke it” he laughed and devotedly let himself being hauled behind you. He would let you do anything to him, right now. He missed you and never wanted this moment to end.

“At first, the little LaRusso seduces me, gives me some kind of victory over the shit LaRusso, gifts me the best month of my life with the best sex of my life and without a word disappears to the other side of the country. This shattered my little heart into pieces”

“Fuck off, Johnny Lawrence” you grinned “As if this somehow tickled you in any sense. Let’s just get drunk and forget about it”

Johnny was hurt you didn’t believe him because for once he did not lie about this. You leaving, really left him all broken for a few weeks and he still loved to remember the time you spent together. But since this was ancient history now, he was okay with just getting drunk with you.

“Hey guys, look what the cat dragged in” you loudly exclaimed when you and Johnny, still holding your hand, arrived in midst of all the partying people “Johnny fucking Lawrence! Can you fucking believe this???”

“That Johnny Lawrence you were crushing on since you first saw him kicking your brother’s ass?” Linda, your oldest friend from high school, the one who took you to that party, asked sarcastically whilst handing you and Johnny red cups filled with booze. You excitedly nodded.

“Yeah, I was the one who told him that the less famous (Y/N) LaRusso is back”

“No way!” you shrieked and threw your lightly drunken self on Linda, hugging her “Thank you!”

“Jesus, I didn’t know, (Y/N) would be that happy to see me” Johnny whispered to Linda when you let go of her and shifted your attention to other friends wanting to know about you and the infamous Johnny Lawrence who still seemed to be a star amongst all although everyone finished high school years ago.

“To be honest, I thought she’d jump on my throat just like her big brother if she sees me here”

“Don’t worry, I got her drunk enough before you arrived” Linda said.

“Thank you!” Johnny mouthed; he was the happiest he had been in years. He took a deep breath and spun you around, so for the second time today you laded directly in his embrace which now turned into a dance. And to be fair, the night couldn’t get any better for you either. Johnny and you laughed and talked and drank and danced, getting closer and closer to each other with every song. And the rest of the night turned into a big wonderful blur.

___

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was your terribly aching head. You didn’t even open your eyes yet and you already knew how terrible of a hangover that would be. You tried not to move but even the slightest motion that involved nothing more than breathing shot a bullet of pain right to your brain. Finally, when you dared to slightly open your eyes you realized that your head was resting on a muscular chest, softly falling and rising. You were not alone and were not in your bed and especially not in Daniel’s apartment. Curiously you lifted the covers that were lazily thrown over two bodies and a silent “FUCK” escaped your lips. You were completely naked and the athletic man on whose chest you were resting was too bare ass naked.

“Fuck!” you whispered again; and you would’ve had laughed if you knew that it wouldn’t cause you any pain and blurry glimpses of the night came suddenly back to you.

Click for Part 2

#johnny lawrence #johnny lawrence x reader #johnny lawrence imagine #johnny lawrence fluff #daniel larusso #karate kid #karate kid imagine #karate kid fluff #william zabka #ralph macchio #cobra kai #cobra kai imagine

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ladyfloriographist · 3 years

Text

Descent of Man

[Image source]

Pairing: Commander Joseph Lawrence (The Handmaid’s Tale (TV)) x femme!Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS, Canon-Divergence, Non-Canon, Post Season 3, Repression, Oppression, Dystopic Future, Dystopian Themes, Older Man/Younger Woman, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mentions of Death, Traditional Gender Roles, Religious Extremism

XXXX

“Straighten your back, dear. Don’t slouch.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your red leather suitcase as you walk up the concrete path that leads to Commander Joseph Lawrence’s front door. Nerves in your legs tingle back to life. The drive from the Red Center was long, and Aunt Lydia had counselled you to mind your patience when you’d grown restless. But now, as you make your way to the crescent-shaped steps, you can’t help but hope for even one minute more in the van.

The overcast sky looms grey and ominous overhead.

“Remember, the Commander is a very powerful man.” Aunt Lydia’s cane clacks on the concrete alongside your footsteps. “He is very well respected, Ofjoseph. This is quite the opportunity for you.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

The old Victorian becomes grander and more imposing with every step you take towards it. Your gaze lifts higher and higher: first floor, second storey, then dormers and a tower that let light into what must be the attic. Stonework and Roman arches over the windows and doors signal the age of the house—it has to be at least one hundred years old.

“He has suffered great losses recently, as you well know.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.” She had recited the story over and over—and made sure you could tell it back to her, too. Your and Aunt Lydia’s footsteps fall into stride along the concrete path, fast approaching the stairs up to the house.

“His dear Wife, Mrs Eleanor Lawrence—may God protect and keep her—and then his Handmaid, too.” The Aunt tuts. “Oh, that wretched girl. I’d had such hopes, Ofjoseph—but you won’t disappoint me so, will you, dear?”

“No, Aunt Lydia.” The knot in your gut tightens.

“No, good girl.” Aunt Lydia modestly raises her brown skirts to ascend the concrete steps with grace. “Posture,” she says pointedly, brow arched, looking back at you with an appraising, approving glance before she knocks on the large black front door.

Just before you bow your head to look to the concrete beneath your feet, your eye is caught by something to the right, attached to the burnt-orange bricks that make up the gloriously antiquated home.

It’s a black wooden plaque, with three golden numerals in the centre framed by a golden ovoid ring.

132

You glance down quickly. You should not even be making an attempt to read, whether it be letters or numbers or anything. If Aunt Lydia saw recognition register on your face, she’d march you straight back to the van to return you to the Red Center for the swift removal of one of your fingers.

Leniency, for your first offence.

“The Commander has been very gracious in accepting you, Ofjoseph. You have a privileged place here.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia. Praise be.”

“Mm,” Aunt Lydia hums in righteous agreement. “Praise be.”

…But still, it strikes you as unusual, as you stare at the grey concrete, that such a plaque should even exist, now. Such decorative tiles are relics from the time before Gilead—forbidden, now, and what’s more, utterly useless. How could such an inscribed plate remain intact when there are no more street signs to direct your way let alone numbered houses?

The front door swings open, shocking you out of your thoughts.

“Blessed day. Come in, Aunt Lydia.”

A female voice. Younger? Deferential.

A Martha: one of the two you’d been told to expect here.

“Blessed day, Sienna, thank you,” Aunt Lydia replies pleasantly. “Come along, Ofjoseph,” she says promptly, without a look back at you as she steps inside.

The interior of the Commander’s house greets you like, once, a warm hug might have done. Off the foyer is two sitting rooms, and they seem dark, but not sinister inside. The walls are papered with cranberry-red brocade and muted-toned, aging florals, or else—painted with rich, deep hues of colour. Dark-stained wood pocket doors with etched glass inserts lead to one sitting room and an archway with a stained-glass transom at the top leads to another. The heavy, patterned curtains inside make the sitting rooms feel cosy and private—even, dare you think, warm. Full and ornate bookshelves, rugs of paisley and Persian patterns, and an abundance of leather seating furnish the cluttered rooms.

“This way, please,” offers the Martha named Sienna, gesturing through the open pocket doors.

You follow Aunt Lydia, your eyes struggling to adequately absorb every detail of the room. Lamps on side tables, artworks from many different Schools arranged effortlessly on the walls, chests, sculptures, a chandelier, a fireplace.

Cushions and blankets strewn over the leather couches. Stacks of books lazing on armchairs.

An old, freestanding record player in one corner.

Knowledge, art, and music all reside here.

The house is lived in. Still. Even now.

“Can I getcha a tea, some coffee, Aunt Lydia?” comes a man’s voice from the far end of the room.

Before you can think better of it, your gaze snaps to the sound of his voice—relaxed, even casual in tone. He stands just inside another arched opening, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. A generous head of ghost-white hair tops his head. He has thick grey brows and a white beard peppered with silver and grey. Thin-framed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He wears a waistcoat, and a buttoned vest with a scarf tied like a cravat, in an ascot knot.

It’s the first you’ve seen a man of Gilead not dressed in a black suit and black tie.

“Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia smiles, with only a slight waver in her voice. “Blessed day, Sir.” Your raised wings catch in her periphery and she glances at you with beady eyes.

You drop your head immediately, quickly and quietly pretending like you’d been studying the many colours in the Persian rug beneath your brown boots.

The Commander’s gaze flicks to you—not that you see it—before he looks back at the Aunt. “Hi, yeah,” he says, “blessed, good morning.” He calls down the hallway, “Sienna?”

You shift on your feet, tightening your grip on your own gloved hands where they rest in front of you. The Commander’s casual, informal, incorrect greeting stirs a sense of unease in your stomach. Was he merely distracted or… wilfully disrespectful? Could you even think such a thing, about a man like him?

Beside you, Aunt Lydia bristles, drawing in a sharp, quiet gasp. But she settles herself quickly.

“Sienna!?” calls the Commander again, louder this time before turning back to his guests.

Well, his one guest, who brought with her the newest member of his household.

“’d you say coffee, Aunt Lydia? I think Beth made scones.”

“Ah…” the Aunt hesitates, gathering herself in a way you’ve rarely seen her need to do. “Oh my. Tea would be a delight, Commander,” she recovers. “No need to waste your delicacies on me!”

“Hm,” Commander Lawrence huffs a mirthless laugh in response to Aunt Lydia’s self-deprecating smile, and the resulting silence is broken by a set of hurried footsteps that quickly enter the room.

“You called for me, Commander?”

The young Martha, her rich brown eyes wide, a sheen of sweat making her warm-brown skin glow, her voice slightly breathless.

“Auhm, yeah,” says Commander Lawrence, swivelling to address her. “Tea, please, Sienna—and bring three cups, would ya? Some of Beth’s scones, too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Three cups?

“Thanks.”

“Three?”

Aunt Lydia’s incredulous voice cuts through the room like a warm knife in soft butter. It’s so abrupt, so much shriller than you are used to that your gaze flicks upwards.

The Aunt’s round, wrinkled face is dropped in an expression of pure shock. The room is silent, even Sienna’s retreating footsteps have ceased, as the three of you look between each other—stunned in the face of this blatant and brazen flouting of Gilead-sanctioned decorum.

It seems, as tested as Aunt Lydia has been since arriving at the Commander’s house, that this act of hospitality extended to you, a Handmaid, is the extent of what she can handle.

For the first time since meeting him, you spot a hint of a smile flicker across Commander Lawrence’s face, as elusive as the passing of a shadow, or a ghost. “Three, Lydia,” he says quietly, with a self-assured confidence that dares her to question him further—especially since he refused to use her title.

The air is thick with tension. You hold your breath.

Aunt Lydia’s lower lip quivers as she searches for words. Her brow creases, her small eyes flitting between his as she holds the Commander’s gaze.

You hear her suck in a breath before she speaks again.

“Th-hank you, Commander Lawrence.” Aunt Lydia swallows. “Praise be, you are most generous, Sir.”

Everything breathes again. Footsteps recede down the hall once more, the walls themselves sigh with relief. For a moment you almost think you hear birdsong outside—but that’s next to impossible, over all the radio chatter.

“Welcome,” the Commander replies, lazily omitting words in his speech once more. His tone is breezily self-assured once again, but his dark eyes have hardened into a cold stare. He turns his gaze on you. “Sit.”

You look to the floor so quickly there’s a twinge in your neck, and you drop into the nearest seat. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Under His Eye, Sir.”

“Alright,” the Commander cringes at your nervous rambling. “No problem, just, yeah. Siddown.”

You clasp your gloved hands together in your lap, your eyes fixed on the tiny balls of lint that have gathered near the seams. Everything about this man, from his clothes, to his manner, to his home, is contrary to what you’d been told to expect.

“Please,” says the Commander to Aunt Lydia, gesturing and offering for her to take a seat also. He walks around one of the armchairs, picks up a stack of three books and unceremoniously drops them on top of the existing stack on a nearby side table so he can sit down, too.

Aunt Lydia, frazzled and just barely recovering from the disrespect afforded her by the Commander, uneasily sits down on one of the brown leather couches. She sits like she’s perching on it, not quite setting down all her weight, on an angle to take up only the smallest possible amount of space.

She clears her throat. “Commander,” she forces a smile, shifting to face him, “it is my great hope that Ofjoseph will bring some,” she pauses, anxiously looking around at the many artworks and stacks of books that decorate the room, “stability, to your household, Sir. By His Hand.”

“Thanks,” says Commander Lawrence. “’ppreciate it.”

“I…” Aunt Lydia stammers again, stumbling over the Commander’s audacious disregard for social custom. It’s unorthodox—or rather, much worse—it’s a deliberate, transparent, shameless violation of his role as a Commander in the Republic of Gilead.

Lost for words, Aunt Lydia merely nods her head in deference. Her fingers flex around the gilded handle of her cane.

The Commander hums to clear his throat as Sienna brings a laden tray into the room. One teapot, three teacups, a plate of scones, and one small ramekin of butter.

The Martha sets it all down on the coffee table and the porcelain rattles softly in the stifling silence.

“Thanks, Sienna,” says Commander Lawrence, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea as the younger Martha leaves the room. “Hey, uh,” he sits back in his armchair, cup and saucer in hand, “you.”

You feel his eyes on you. This is how he chooses to address you? To draw your attention to him? ‘You’?

The stillness in the room is expectant, now. You tell yourself to lift your head.

“Ofjoseph?” Aunt Lydia prompts you.

Commander Lawrence speaks over the top of her. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s nothing hard or soft in his stare, nothing warm or cold in the way he regards you. He merely sees you—his eyes observing, his lips in a line that neither smiles nor frowns.

He’s a wall, but built to defend or protect, you can’t read right now.

“My last Handmaid was a bit of a rabble-rouser,” he says easily, his voice nonchalant, “so I'm gonna say to you the same thing I said to her, ‘kay?”

You swallow, absorbing his candour. Aunt Lydia had told you never to speak of the last Ofjoseph, even if it was asked of you. But this particular question posed by the Commander requires more than a passive response. You get the sense that a number of conversations with him will be like this, and so you steel yourself to speak with a clear voice. “Yes, Commander.”

He keeps his gaze locked with yours, and brings his steaming teacup to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes trained on yours, and you resist the urge to shrink and shrivel into yourself.

The Commander swallows and sets his cup onto the saucer. It clinks, and after letting the small sound land for beat he says lowly, “You’re not gonna be any trouble, are you?”

Your breath catches, your voice stalling in your throat. Staring at him heats your blood, makes your palms perspire in your gloves. The man is dignified; he holds himself almost regally wherever he sits or stands. Is it the power he holds that makes him handsome, or is innate attraction purling in the pit of your gut?

…What will the Ceremony be like with him?

“No, Sir,” you say, your voice so soft it cracks. You gulp and collect yourself. Timidity does not seem to be a quality Commander Lawrence respects—another lesson you’d ardently learned only to be proven useless in his house. With more confidence, but not too much, particularly for Aunt Lydia’s benefit, you say, “Praise be to you, Commander, and may He make me truly worthy.”

You can feel Aunt Lydia’s presence lift with pride. You can see the smile spread across her face without needing to look at her, and can hear her words in your head without her needing to speak them.

‘Very good, dear,’ comes the Aunt’s voice in your mind.

The Commander looks you over, stoic as ever. “Ya,” is all he says in reply.

“Ofjoseph is one of our most promising Handmaids, Commander, allow me to assure you,” Aunt Lydia chimes in, now, finally, feeling on equal footing again. “Since the horrendous tragedies that your household has withstood, we thought it right and just that you be unburdened in at least this regard, Sir.”

“Unburdened?” the Commander replies flatly, his stalwart gaze now fixed on the Aunt.

You’re not sure whether you can look away from him. Does he wish for your eyes to remain on him? Does he expect you to look at him and from him at your own discretion? Would he like you to use your own judgement?

Regardless, it is clear that the decision of the Red Center Aunts to provide a pious, docile new Handmaid as consolation for his wife’s death is—at the very best—unappreciated by the Commander.

But whether or not Commander Lawrence appreciates the gesture and the gift that the Aunts have made you into is, ultimately, not your concern. Your first and last and only priority is that you fall pregnant with Commander Lawrence’s child as soon as humanly possible—or it’s the Colonies for you.

However, you being his sixth Handmaid, the Commander needs you to fall pregnant with his child just as quickly—given, especially, the sudden exodus of most of Gilead’s children seemingly overnight.

“Forgive me, Commander,” Aunt Lydia frowns, her eyes softening apologetically. “I only meant—”

“’s fine,” he interrupts, setting his cup and saucer back on the tray. “Tea’s gone cold, anyway,” the Commander stands from his seat and straightens his waistcoat, clearing his throat. “You can find your way out, Aunt Lydia?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Aunt Lydia assures him, mirroring his movement and standing from the sofa, somewhat uneasily on her injured leg. On instinct, you rise to your feet too.

“Til next time,” the Commander says, his voice laced with sarcastic fondness, as he strolls from the room and into what must be his private study. He doesn’t spare you a single backwards glance as he pulls another set of pocket doors closed behind him.

Silence settles over the sitting room like night.

Just like that, the visit concludes, and the realisation washes over you.

You’re not leaving with Aunt Lydia, when she goes, which she’s sure to do in just a moment.

This is it. The transaction is complete.

Your place is here. This house is now your home.

“I’ll be back the day after the Ceremony, dear,” Aunt Lydia says, leaning on her cane to stand. “In about, oh!” she pauses, looks at you with bright eyes, “seven days! Oh, sacred number. Blessings, Ofjoseph. May God bring forth His miracle.”

You muster a smile for her. Despite how this woman screamed at you, berated you, withheld your food and your sleep and denigrated your sense of self until you believed you were worth nothing more than being impregnated and delivering a healthy baby, her absence from your daily routine will be an adjustment.

You say, “Under His Eye, Aunt Lydia.”

She cups your cheek. “Under His Eye, dear.”

The Aunt makes her way to the door, met by Sienna and the second Martha, Beth, who stand in the foyer to see her off. The front door closes behind Aunt Lydia, and as soon as the latch locks it’s as if a dark, heavy storm cloud lifts from the house.

The Marthas sigh and relax, chattering eagerly and bickering animatedly about tonight’s dinner and even complaining about the Commander’s fussiness as they strut down the hallway to the kitchen. From the other side of the house, you hear a flare of music go up: some kind of Big Band era song, with trumpets and tubas and horns playing vivace—lively and fast.

The sun peeks out from behind the shroud of overcast sky, lighting up the sitting rooms with the glow of mid-afternoon.

You take a breath.

This old house feels alive.

#commander joseph lawrence #joseph lawrence #commander joseph lawrence x reader #commander joseph lawrence x you #joseph lawrence x reader #joseph lawrence x you #the handmaid's tale #g writes

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hope-to-hell · 3 years

Text

Waking. Helmut Zemo x Reader. Smut, boots, face stepping, degradation, mention of human furniture, labia clamps, fingering. The line about not minding that it hurts is taken from the excellent film Lawrence of Arabia. Zemo is an asshole, but he’s also an excellent fuck. It’s just that once in a while all the other broken parts of him rise to the surface.

Okay, we’re gonna go dirty and we’re gonna go mean. We’ll start with Zemo’s boot on your face, grinding diamond-tread prints into your flesh; long after the marks are gone you’ll feel the echo of them when you smile or cry or give him your yes Sir with the conviction he demands. He’s an asshole, and he’s cruel, but goddamn if he doesn’t do it for you.

There’s this thing he does when he sees you— really sees you— when he has you mewling and clenching and showing him the dirty nasty side of you that’s always been hidden under layers of soft and demure and good girls don’t do this— there’s this thing that he does, and it cuts like glass. Or maybe like obsidian, razor sharp, parting you cell by cell til he holds your secrets in a bloody fist. He smiles a little and it’s neither kind nor nice; it’s a coldly calculated satisfaction and the knowledge that he could do absolutely anything to you.

I don’t even have to tie you down, do I? But I will anyway, because I know how much you love it. I know how you love pretending you don’t want it, that big bad Zemo is here to steal your virtue. I wonder, should I clip your labia open? Wrap those chains around your thighs and look at all your wet little secrets.

And he does, because he is a bastard, and because however much the clips hurt going on, taking them off is going to be a bitch. He does because like this he can press between your shoulder blades and drive you to your knees; he can say crawl for me and you will, feeling the cool slide of chain against your thighs with every movement and the pinching tug as your body moves the chains which move the clips which makes you whine.

This is Zemo the asshole with dust still on his boots; he is dark and dangerous despite the Turkish delight wrapped in twists of paper in his coat pockets; he is cruel when he lets the candle flame lick at his skin and grins because he doesn’t mind the pain.

The physical is meaningless, darling. Once you’ve lost everything, you are free to act as you wish.

What’s that line? The trick is not minding that it hurts. Hell, he probably studied Lawrence and all his cleverness, all his guile.

Maybe the physical is meaningless to him, but if he could just get on with it that would be nice. No. I think I like you on the ground, like this, open. Helpless. Your wet little cunt shivering because it so very badly needs me to fill it up. Bastard. Asshole. All the many names you call him and still he shows no mercy. He twists his fingers into your open cunt with an oh you dirty little thing; if you’re wet and wriggling on the ground for him it’s because he made you this way. He found your limits and now he toes the line so closely; he says oh you pretty little bird, pretty little thing, pretty little, pretty little—

He drops the smirk a moment to watch you come with his face wide open; in boldness you dare to glance back and here he is, your Zemo; he watches with the wonder of the first time because as jaded as he wants to be, he still feels everything all at once and far too much. He cannot close himself off and so he rips himself wide open; he makes a pretty little oh at the clench of you around his fingers.

Are you disappointed, darling? Do you wish I’d made you ride my boot? If you could go back an hour, would you lie prostrate on the floor before my chair and hold perfectly still as I kicked my feet up on your back? No, I don’t believe so. You still would push until I pushed you back, until I held you down with my boot on your cheek. Little creature, you’re low for me but I don’t believe you’re low enough.

He’s playing with your cunt again, breath warm against your skin, resting his forehead for a moment on the meat of your ass. His voice rolls forward til it fetches up against your ear; he says if I kept you here you’d let me. And you would, you would, you would. But now it’s time to take away the clamps; he strokes calluses fingers through your folds and stops where your flesh throbs and pulses gently under metal. This is going to hurt.

It hurts with the sudden sharp bite of blood rushing back, soaking into bruised and tired flesh with a ferocity that makes you gasp. If you weren’t already on the ground I’d worry you might fall.

Why does it hurt so much?

Waking always hurts. But tell me. Do you mind?

#daniel brühl #helmut zemo #helmut zemo fic #helmut zemo smut #baron zemo #baron zemo fic #baron zemo smut #my fic #baron zemo x you #baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x you #helmut zemo x reader #mcu #mcu fic #mcu smut

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penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years

Text

So We Refuse To Take it Tragically

A/N: I’ve just accepted my fate is to be obsessed with this man, so here’s yet another Obi-Wan fic. There will be a second part to this, and I’m thinking a mini series of in-between moments. I won’t give spoilers, but this is NOT my normal type of fic, but he’s an exception to every rule in my book, apparently. Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv for being my beta on this, I don’t know where this would be without you!

Thank you also to @beskars for her post here that birthed this. Always blessing us with fuel for the thirst.

And to the one I know IRL that found my tumblr, one I will refer to as Top Voice, this is your final warning to gtfo before feasting your eyes on unprecedented filth and sap.

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force sensitive! Fem Reader (no Y/N)

Warnings: SMUT!!! Cumeating, hair pulling, Comfort Sex, ANGST!! (It has a happy ending later, I promise, but it starts after ROTS, so it’s par for the course) If you’re gonna write not-particularly-pertinent-to-plot-porn, might as well make it unnecessarily detailed, right? As usual, too many feelings for porn, More warnings will be in the tags to prevent spoilers

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

Tatooine is no place for a baby.

There are no soft surfaces, nor comforts, nor surplus of anything. It’s desolate and deprived and oppressive, but you watch as Obi-Wan shields the child from its harsh, sand-pelting winds with his whole body, despite the fact the child fits in the space between his wrist and elbow. It’s overzealous, but you don’t say anything of it.

The past two days have ripped away nearly everything he held dear, insisting on devastating every tender place. Nothing sacred has been left untouched.

He broke the code long before he met you, and you know part of why his love for you came so easily, why he had no qualms with breaking his vows, was because he’d long since loved the man that became his family in every way that matters.

Love and Light so tightly knit together the fabric of his being one could not be separated from the other.

And you could take on the entire Force with your two fists for how it had rewarded him for it with Hate and Darkness coming from someone so close it shattered something foundational in Obi-Wan.

Yet even now, there isn’t Darkness surrounding his signature. There’s brokenness and his ever-present equilibrium has been replaced by jagged shards. But despite it all, those rugged pieces still reflect light erratically in their shine.

It’s a loss and betrayal that spans many different planes: on one level, there’s nowhere you look in the galaxy beyond just the two of you that isn’t marked by the Empire’s rise in power, marking the end of the Republic he fought for and the fall of the Jedi, his community, comrades, and only home he’d ever known. And on another level, you’ve seen the weight of war and worse in Obi-Wan’s eyes, but nothing, nothing like this.

The pain is panoramic, but it’s also profoundly personal.

Even still, his attention isn’t on himself, but on the fussy bundle in his arms.

You wonder: is it the galaxy that doesn’t allow this man time to heal? Or is it his own choice to throw himself into the need of others so he has a tangible reason to avoid his own torments?

When he places the baby into the arms of the young couple, you know the times ahead will give the answer to that.

Because there aren't the cries of the past few nights to wake either of you, there’s silence.

You long to fill it, to try to bridge this insurmountable void with something, anything you could say. But you know it’s bigger than you. So, so much bigger than you.

Monumental obstacles and tremendous loss find themselves standing in the threshold of an abandoned hut smaller than your flat was on Coruscant.

“Well… it’s not much to look at, certainly. But the moisture vaporator seems to be in repairable condition, and we’re just far enough from town to avoid any curious neighbors. What do you think?” He turns to you, and his eyes, dark circles under and all, turn sharp in their assessment of your response.

“I told you. I’m going wherever you are so long as you’ll let me.” Your voice is gentle but adamant as you remind him.

He walks up from the living room to the threshold of the kitchen where you are, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. “Be that as it may, I’m asking your input on where we’re going, or living, as your happiness means a great deal to me.”

There’s still no smile, but it’s the brightest his energy has felt since the last time you saw him before he came to your door in Coruscant days ago, whispering a rushed, heartfelt farewell, which you quickly countered with an emphatic, unshakable, “I’m coming with you.”

You look up at him, gliding your hand across his cheek into the hair at the nape of his neck. There’s Darkness at the door of his soul that he’s fighting off every moment, and he has the audacity to speak of your happiness.

You don’t dare bring up his. It’s irony, at best.

So you smile, timid, knowing the gesture in itself might be blasphemous to the tone, but genuine all the same. “We can make a life here. I know we can.”

He scans your eyes, looking to find the authenticity in your statement. “Are you certain?”

He’s not asking about the hut anymore. Or, at least, not just the hut.

“Obi-Wan, I never had any delusion that any life I had with you would be easy. I thought I’d only ever be getting you in secret, sparse moments. Although I’d never, ever wish for it to be under the circumstances that it is, having you like this is better than I ever hoped.”

There’s silence as he processes your words, then a wry twist of his features. “How I wish that your expectations needn’t be so low.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” You incline your head, trying to find the words to convey what you mean.

“Nothing any person or any planet anywhere has to offer me holds a candle to what I’ve found in you, nor will it ever. I’d never trade unshakable wholeness for the transience of materialistic happiness.”

You know this has to resound with him. Is it not within the core set of values he was taught to forsake comfort in any avenue for something far greater?

His eyes flick between yours, gauging, and you can feel him reaching out to feel at your signature to solidify the truth.

If you knew him any less, you might be insulted at his questioning of your trustworthiness. But it’s not you he doesn’t trust. It’s something good willingly giving itself to him that causes his wariness.

The Force can have your middle finger along with your fists.

Then he’s relaxing into you, letting out an exhale that seems heavy with more than just air, and burying his nose in your hair for his next inhale.

****

By the end of the day, you’ve gathered enough supplies for basic necessities and to start on the repairs of the hut. You both snarf down a ration bar before shortly thereafter clearing the blown-in sand off what must have been the bed of the home. It’s a half circle indenture in the wall, and it has a dip obviously made for a mattress or cushion of some sort, but as all that’s available are the blankets bought in town today, you set to fluffing them to some semblance of comfort.

Fatigue pulls you into it far sooner than the suns setting. Last night was your first night without Luke, spent in a room you rented in town. Today was spent traveling to and from the hut, discussing details on what needs to be done, and you? You are absolutely exhausted. You can only imagine what he must feel like.

Obi-Wan secures the lock on the door before sitting on the side of the bed, looking off into nothing for a long, long moment.

You push up to your side, placing a hand on his back. “Obi…”

His shoulder nudges toward your hand, but he cuts you off. “It’s going to get quite cold when the suns set, and since the stove isn’t properly ventilating yet, we’re going to have to work with body heat.”

“I’ll try to mask my reluctance,” you retort.

He turns his face to you then, and just a smidge of humor sweeps across his eyes before he sheds his cloak, followed by everything else until only his pants remain. You’ve long since stripped down to your own sleeping comfort level, so before he can fold his cloak along with the rest of his discarded clothing, you take it and cover yourself with it.

He shakes his head a little at you once he’s done, settling down next to you, throwing the covers over both of you.

“Tell me what you need.” You’re face to face with him, but his expression is unreadable.

“I… I don’t know.” He considers you as if you held the answer to the question you just asked him.

“What about want, then? What do you want, Obi-Wan?” You wish he didn’t have his shields perpetually raised these days. It’d be so much easier to just read his energy.

His hand reaches up so he can stroke your cheek with his thumb. “You’re tired, darling. Rest.”

Ah, there it is. If the answer to the question of desire is him counter offering his own response with the fact you’re tired…

“So are you. But you still want.” You press your body fully against his, dropping your voice down to a whisper. “And so do I.”

You won’t push anymore than that, letting him take or leave the invitation. For you, it’s not even a question. It’s been four months since you last saw him. Since you’d last felt his touch.

You’d spent the last few nights in each other’s arms, but between Luke's shrill cries and the deafening devastation of the events of the days prior, it’d been just that: sleep. Or, what tousled, disturbed counterfeit the circumstance offered you both.

For him, though, there’s an abysmal weariness that digs far beyond lack of sleep, and you don’t dare infringe upon him in any way.

But there’s still a longing present, and even without his Force signature to guide you into his feelings, he can’t hide his eyes.

You watch the moment he makes a decision solidify across his countenance right before he presses his lips against yours. You sigh into it, letting the draw of his skin on yours pull you into orbit.

Because that’s exactly what happens. It’s a kiss for a kiss’ sake, for flavor and fervency and the fullness of each other, but it quickly gains its own momentum when his tongue parts your lips truly.

It’s an acute absence. Not having his energy surrounding you with his shields so far up. But it also gives sharp attention to the press of skin against skin, makes it an anchor and an outlet for all that is still too tender to even acknowledge.

You find grip in his hair, purposefully running your hands the opposite of the way he combs it as he takes your face in both hands and pulls you into him all the more.

When you both need to breathe, he only moves so far away that his lips still brush against yours on every exhale. “I..” he starts, then stops.

The hand still in his hair rakes through it gently, scratching your fingertips against his scalp as you wait for him to complete his thought.

“Let me taste you,” he says at last. You know it's a question from the way he stills, waiting for permission, but it’s phrased as nothing like it.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a rhetorical quest…”

“Oh, hush.” He’s already nudging you over onto your back, situating his body over yours, claiming your lips again. You allow yourself to sink into it, cherishing his weight over you, his hand roaming your ribcage, before pulling back to speak.

“I’m sorry, are you now getting on to me for my sass? Because… oh!”

He finds a nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt, pinching softly with a small tug.

“By all means, continue. I was most intrigued.” His smirk is back, but it fixes you with a tinge of worry when it again proves to be a smile only skin deep.

You place two fingers just shy of his forehead, but he catches your wrist in an almost painful clasp. The alarm casted by his expression quickly is washed away by a carefully constructed impassiveness, and your heart sinks.

He has to see it, because he bows his head in apology. “Not tonight.”

And before you have any room to respond, he’s shifting himself down as he lifts your shirt up, placing a single taunting, wet kiss on each nipple before moving even further down, nipping at the skin right below your belly button.

He’s distracting you from what he’s not allowing you access to, and you know it, and you let him anyway. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Distraction from the barrage of the mind. If that’s what he needs, that’s what you’ll give.

As he toys with the hem of your underthings, and you lift your hips to assist their removal, you realize it’s exactly what you need too.

Except he apparently isn’t planning to remove your underwear at all. With a casual flick of his hand, your legs are parted and held like that with a no-nonsense sprout of Force energy. Then he’s simply pulling the cloth to the side and brings his mouth torturously closer, but stops just before contact.

You push up to your elbows to tell him you can’t take much of those teasing breaths he’s taking, blowing hot air against sensitive nerve endings. But when you hear his breath stutter as he just looks, unhurried in admiration, you decide against it, even as you flush at the undivided attention. Sprawling his palms out over your inner thighs, he dips down to press his mouth between his fingers, sucking not-so-gently into the soft skin, sending the flesh into tremors before he’s even really done anything to you.

He says your name as he opens you up with his fingers, parting your folds so everything is bared to his view. You start to squirm, the exposure starting to feel a little too heady, and you’re starting to appeal with the beginning of his name when he leans forward, straight away connecting his lips to your clit. You try to thrust up into it as some shameful noise leaves you, but there’s only so much movement you have with your legs still pinned.

He loves to tease, so you don’t expect him to retract the energy that constricted your legs at the first resistance. Instead, he slides his hands under your ass, pulling you on to his tongue and lets you push your hips into him unchecked.

He hums at your enthusiasm, the reverberation sending your hands into his hair again, which gifts you with even more noises from him.

It doesn’t take long at all, and you’re coming undone on his tongue, biting into your forearm to dampen your cry.

He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder, signaling your tender surrender. He obeys, looking up at you from between your thighs, absolutely besotted, eyes shining a shade brighter than before.

Then. Obi-Wan Kenobi keeps his eyes on yours before dipping his head and tilting his jaw, running his beard right where you’re still open and vulnerable, abrasion grating in a way you know you’ll be feeling all day tomorrow.

He licks his lips as he moves back up to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on him.

He goes easily when you gesture for him to lie on his back so you can straddle him, carefully avoiding any contact where he’s throbbing for you. His hands fall right to your waist, stroking gently as he waits for you to initiate.

You focus your study on the section of his hair that’s fallen in his face, twirling a finger in it, happy to have anywhere to look but his eyes.

He’d normally at least be in your mind by now, and even though you understand it, well, the drought of it is as appropriate for the planet as anything.

You remember too late to raise your own shields against any accidentally too-loud thoughts, as Obi-Wan cups his hand on your chin, forcing your gaze to his, saying your name quietly in calling.

“You have to know, it isn’t anything to do with…”

You interrupt him. “No. No. I won’t have you addressing my insecurities of all things in light of…”

“Please listen, love. I need you to know, it hasn’t anything to do with the love I have for you. That hasn’t changed and never will. I think I need… “ He pauses, solemn in thought. “Time,” he finishes finally.

You knew this already in the pit of your stomach, but hearing him say it, hearing him affirm that it isn’t you insufficiency… you hate that you needed it as much as you did.

And if he needs time? That’s what you’ll give. But he also has a want, evidenced by the brush of him against you when you scoot yourself down his torso.

You take the hem of his pants with you when you continue down, ridding him of them and his shorts. But when you wrap your hand around him and begin to lower your mouth, he grips your chin again, shaking his head.

“I can’t… please, just.” It’s always an anomaly when he’s at a loss for words, usually ever-so articulate.

A gasp chokes out of you when you feel the phantom of his mind. Not in full, no. With barriers, and it’s projected out, not at all the same sensation to being within it.

It’s desperation. For how long it’s been, for how drained he feels, how he’s not sure how long this will last, and how much he yearns to be inside you.

There’s not even a second of debate in your mind as you take your position on his lap again, lifting your hips, intention apparent. He takes his cock in hand, holding steady so you can start to seat yourself onto the thick push of him.

The hitch in his breath is your only warning before he seizes the undersides of your thighs, halting you from taking him any further.

His eyes are tightly shut, and you know from watching him before that his facial expression is an attempt at borderline meditation, except it’s several long seconds before he achieves anything resembling calm.

It’s as good a time as any to push his hands off you and squirm around to take him a little deeper. You plan on rubbing your victory in, but your smirk is wiped away with a whine at the elation. Instead of stopping you again, he almost imperceptibly thrusts up, and it’s your turn to falter, slamming your hands into his chest, nails digging in, working against your weight trying to pull you down onto him.

It goes on like that, until you’re both bordering on hysteria before you’ve even fully taken him. You can’t figure out if it’s a worse torment to keep delaying or continuing.

Obi-Wan seems to have come to his own conclusion to that, as he finally opens his eyes, locking them with yours as he places his palms flat on the tops of your thighs and pushes down until your skin is flush with his.

You pull a hand up, biting on your fist, trying to stifle the exclamation in your throat.

He pulls it away, voice ragged as he speaks. “I want to hear you, little one. We needn’t hide anymore.”

It’s a dimensional statement. For one, no one is around for miles, a stark contrast to your quarters on Coruscant where you at least attempted to be considerate of your too-near neighbors when it came to noise. For another, it’s the irony of being in hiding from the Empire, but being allowed to be open in your relationship with each other finally.

And the deepest irony is that you both have your barriers up so firmly right now all you can concentrate on is bared skin.

Oh, but what a beautiful spanse of bared skin he is. Freckled and almost luminously pale, bending and curving with the strength of the form underneath.

He sits up slowly, generating a breathless plea from both of you at the new angle. A search of your eyes asks you a question, and you’re nodding, kissing him with the full brunt of your craving.

You slide up and then down again just as he drives up, and you’ve found your rhythm, just like that.

His hands push you onto him every time you pull up, and his tongue laves your breasts, sucking and biting along your collarbone, as you rake your nails down his chest, over the backs of his shoulders, his scalp, anything you can touch.

It’s enough to send him into a chorus of groans, shoving himself hard up into you.

He doesn’t even speak it aloud, just projects the apologetic warning that he’s on the edge.

When his thumb finds your clit, everything in you goes tense despite the relief. You clench around him, hard, and he instantly moves his hands to your shoulder blades pulling you flush against him as he lets out an unrestrained sound against your breasts.

You push his thumb away from where it’s stilled against you, replacing it with your own. His fingers twitch in their bruising grip, and you can feel him throbbing inside you.

You stay like that for a moment, just letting him ride out his bliss, whispering sweet affirmations into his hair.

When he looks up at you again, his eyes are glassed over. You wonder if it’s ecstasy that is the cause, or something from the bedrock boiling to the surface.

He doesn’t give you a chance to elaborate, flipping you over on to your back. The moment he withdraws, you can feel the mess dripping down your inner thighs.

It takes everything in you to not come at the sight alone as Obi-Wan dips further down your body, parting you and lapping his tongue right where you’re weeping evidence of desire.

You know you have to be making a mess of his face and beard, but he certainly doesn’t seem to mind, indulging on his own spill infused with yours.

When he adds two fingers in you and curls them strategically, searing heat shoots through your lower stomach as you arch against his mouth, his name a high whisper with absolutely no suppression, echoing across the empty stone walls of the home.

He leaves a final tender kiss against you before lying down next to you, pulling you into his arms, and you pull him into yours right back when your limbs remember how to function.

His head drops against yours, and his eyes flutter shut, taking a deep inhale, like he’s trying to fill his lungs with more than just oxygen.

Nothing is fine, and the world is crumbling. But right now, as the suns finally leave the house in dark, as you clasp each other in tight embrace, as sleep pulls you under, you can pretend it’s fine. If only for a moment.

*******

There’s a flash of feeling that startles you awake and into the disorientation that comes from waking in a new place. The sensation worsens when you feel the reverberations of the equivalent of a slammed door in the Force.

You sit up quickly and look over to Obi-Wan, who sits on the side of the bed, head in his hands, fingers brutal in their grip.

You move toward him, and he turns around at the sound. “Go back to sleep, darling. it’s nothing.”

When you fix him with a gaze that essentially translates “bantha fodder,” he just lies back down, pulling your back into his chest, and you doubt the fact you can’t see his face like this is a mistake.

The rhythm of his breathing betrays the fact he is nowhere near sleep, but you find yourself fading off soon again anyway.

****

When you wake in the morning, you’re alone in the bed, which is no surprise. He’s not one to lounge, and if the height of the suns peaking through the window has anything to say, he’s already been up for a while.

His cloak is still tangled in the blankets, though, and you wrap yourself in it, padding outside after doing something about your morning breath.

The hut is situated on a cliff, overlooking a barren valley. The suns glare with their unrelenting eyes of heat even so early in the day, and you stare back as best you can without squinting, daring them to do their worst. They know nothing of the misery that’s already visited this home. They have no hope of competing.

You find Obi-Wan cross-legged near the edge of the cliff. Cross-legged and levitating.

Of course, you know he can do things like this. It’s just such a different thing to see him doing it . You’ve never had a proper morning with him like this, seeing his routine. He was always up before the sun, you with him, gathering moments and soaking them in before he had to leave again.

He looks almost peaceful now, not at rest, but peaceful.

How?

How does he still have so much trust in the Force?

A more lighthearted thought emerges through the grim train, as you notice he’s opted to not put his tunic back on yet.

It doesn’t matter out here, you suppose, there isn’t any other living being for miles around. For that matter, you wonder why he even left the pants.

His voice damn near startles you, not even opening his eyes to address you.

“Although that may be the case, there are some locations more bearable to get sunburn than others.”

You blush at being caught, and gently ensure your thoughts aren’t accidentally projected again, but he doesn’t give you much time to dwell on it.

“Join me?”

As he opens his eyes and descends the couple inches down back onto the ground, you feel your heart do the same. He’s taught you little things, here and there, and you’ve enjoyed it, learning to tap into that constant humming you never had the tools to channel before.

But now?

What interest do you have with The Force that failed the man who served it without fail? You could burn it down for the atrocities it’s committed even in negligence against the man you love.

But there’s been enough burning.

Obi-Wan won’t speak of what transpired on Mustafar, but you’ve caught glimpses. Last night wasn’t the first night you’ve had him back, and it wasn’t the first you’d woken to a severe troubling in his aura.

You’re still not sure if Luke is a fussy baby or simply a very responsive one, as it seemed Obi-Wan was already awake before Luke started crying.

It was only mere seconds before his shields came slamming down, firmly in place, every time.

You can’t tell if he’s trying to shelter you from his feelings or blockade them away from himself.

Maybe both.

But those seconds? They’re long enough. For just a flash of a charred, severed body. Of hateful, pleading, golden eyes.

There’s been enough burning.

“I can’t ever be a Jedi, Obi.”

“That’s not what I’m asking of you.”

He knows your criticisms as well as your compliments over the Jedi. You’ve both discussed it at great length many times, always over a firm understanding and respect, but you’ve never really had long enough to have a conclusion. But you’re not going to push now, not with the fall of it all still so close behind him.

“I should think our relationship itself is testimony that I don’t inherently agree or adhere to all Jedi teachings.”

You drop your eyes, trying to ignore the sweat starting to trickle down your skin from the relentless heat. “I thought maybe you were with me in spite of your better judgement.”

His brow furrows. “At first, that’s what I may have thought too, but it made itself clear that although what transpired between us was forbidden by the Code…” he trails off for a moment, almost hesitant. “...the way Light was and is exemplified any time I have you in my arms presented a solidified case that not always is the Jedi way synonymous with the will of the Force.”

He says it wholeheartedly, but you can tell it pains him. It’s easy to never speak ill of the dead, either of individuals or groups. To glorify and wipe away any transgressions to ensure their memory sparkles as you grieve it.

The harder thing is to grieve everything, both the good you lost and the bad you experienced from the same source.

And there’s another level there. Something that has him patting the spot beside him and giving a heartbreakingly forced smile.

Even through it all, wariness of aspects of his own religion included, he seeks unity with the Force without reservation or resentment.

You don’t fight him anymore.

The war is over, but the battle has just begun, and so help you Maker, you’re going to fight for him to have the chance to heal.

So you sit, mimicking his position.

When he smiles again, it’s much smaller but not at all fake.

“First, clear your mind.”

*****

The days are afflicted with an underlying gloom, full of work that busies the hands but leaves the mind to wander, which wasn’t at all a luxurious thing.

But the nights are filled with unclaimed time, time in an abundance you never had with each other before.

Sometimes it’s shot with silence from the weight of the day, reveling in the presence of another as you work together on the supper dishes.

Or sometimes there’s almost an excitement, despite the labor ahead, of the plans for the place that’s now your home.

“Wouldn’t we have to have some sort of larger equipment to hoist that over the cliff edge?” You wonder aloud to Obi-Wan, speaking of the replacement unit for finally getting some very basic temperature control for the hut. “The way around back is too rough and would scratch it up, and I, for one, wouldn’t want to try pushing it up manu…”

You stop at his smirk he’s trying to hide with tilting his tea cup higher over his lips.

“...Or there’s a Jedi solution to this problem that requires neither, and you’re just letting me ramble on anyway.” You punctuate the end of your statement by tossing a pillow his direction, which just stops. Midair.

There’s so much legend surrounding Jedi, you haven’t really been sure what’s factual and what’s fairytale.

You certainly knew of some of his abilities, but he didn’t tend to elaborate on details of his missions before, and you never argued, knowing it was a liability for you to have that kind of information if anyone ever found out what you meant to Obi-Wan.

He chuckles, not even trying to look a little guilty.

Once you remember to shut your mouth, you get back to planning. “And that same principle just applies to objects of any size?”

He nods. “Same principle, just more concentration required.”

You tuck your feet under you on your chair as you think on that for a second. You’ll have to ask him to teach you that one next. Mediation alone could get rather dull.

“So, for instance, if a great amount of concentration is being spent Force-lifting an object up the cliff, it would leave a Jedi vulnerable to, say… projectiles thrown?” You throw another pillow at him, which just as easily halts next to the other, gravity defiant.

He could have lowered the first one by now. You raise a brow at the knowledge he’s putting on a show for you.

“You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.”

More often than not, the time of the evenings are spent loving and lounging in sheets, savoring the difference of unhurried lovemaking, with no heart-wrenching farewell on the horizon.

But every time you gently ask to reach his mind, he pushes the request and your hand away.

*******

Obi-Wan’s visits to see Luke are met with a level of hostility. The man, Owen, seems wary of him, doing everything he can to cut the visit short as you and the woman, Beru, if you remember correctly, look silently to each other for some relief in the tension.

They already likely know his actual name, but you’re careful to only address Obi as “Ben” here, along with everywhere else that isn’t your hut. It’s precautionary, but if it’s for the sake of protecting Luke and Obi-Wan himself, you’ll do it without any further questions.

But Luke seems to be doing well, and that is ultimately what matters most. It’s hard to believe how quickly he’s grown in the mere weeks that you’ve been here.

The boy might be by far Obi-Wan’s greatest purpose being on this planet, but it’s not his only.

Master Yoda had given him Jedi texts, yes, but also another task for his time here.

You’re thankful to talk about either, as it seems to be one of the few things he’ll open up to you about as it pertains to himself.

But when he goes to meditate alone, calling for his mentor, his father in every right of the term, he comes back more empty than he left.

When you look at him with a too-knowing look, too infiltrating for his comfort, he easily slides into a quip.

“My old master, it seems, won’t appear unless on his own terms. I’m not sure what else I expected, honestly.”

******

You also learn that the man does not cook. Not that you consider yourself an expert, but at the very minimum, you know how to use spices, which on Tatooine come as hot as their weather.

“Is it a Jedi thing to have tasteless food, or is that just you?” You tease as he dices some sort of root at your direction while you sift through the cabinet.

His eyes are full of mischief when he’s quiet for a moment before speaking up. “I would argue there’s concrete evidence that I’m quite happy to indulge in the pleasures of taste.”

You can’t help your blush as his very pointed look.

Dinner is long forgotten after that, but the night is delectable all the same.

*****

Something has shifted in your own Force signature. Something you can’t put your finger on.

It doesn’t seem harmful or threatening in essence, but it makes you wary in a way that makes your skin itch with more than the dryness.

You try not to think much of it. After all, there’s plenty to do between tending to the vaporator, hunting, fending off the Sand People, and your learning to wield the Force.

After rumors of Tusken raiders being nearby, you ask Obi-Wan to teach you combat. This would be starting long before he normally would teach someone, he explained, but he does it anyway. It’s not exactly using the Force at first, having to start with how to even move your body in the event of attack, slowly enhancing those skills with the Force as you become more confident in them.

You look forward to it more than any other task. It gives you a strength you haven’t had before, and it’s a whole different level of connection to the Force when you trust it physically, not just in your mind.

It’s also another level of trust with Obi-Wan, knowing he’d never hurt you even as he enters the role of a potential threat, guiding you through how to handle it.

So you don’t know why today your stomach won’t agree to the way you want your body to move. You push through it anyway, despite Obi-Wan’s concerned questioning.

You lose your lunch into the rocks, and you really wish he wouldn’t pick you up to take you back into the hut, because the shift of what’s up and what’s down doesn’t help at all.

And you wish he wouldn’t dote over you the rest of the day, as if you didn’t feel useless enough already, as if the illness didn’t leave as quickly as it came.

You make a mental note to ensure you don’t let yourself become dehydrated again to that point.

*****

The trips into town are kept to a minimum, trying to keep curiosity away from the new couple. Also, there wasn’t much to do except barter and spend credits, something you both tried not to do a great deal of.

Obi-Wan was sent off with enough Republic credits to get you started here, but it was hit or miss if the vendors took them that day, and he also didn’t want to spend too much at once.

Nothing was more suspicious than surplus here.

The woman you brought the limited produce available from seemed… different this trip.

Obi-Wan was a couple of stalls down from you, negotiating with a man who had obviously jacked up the price on the items needed. Poor man didn’t know what he was in for.

You turned your attention back on to the woman in front of you, and tried to decipher what was different this time and why it felt so familiar.

As you pointed to a basket of hubba gourds, inquiring of the price, she gave you one that you knew for a fact was higher than last time.

You counter offered the same price as last time you were here, and she firmly stated her price again. Ready to stand your ground, you go to state your price again, she puts her hand to her belly, bringing her skirt in around, revealing a small bump.

“Can’t afford your low-ball offers with this one on the way, understand?”

The sky suddenly falls around you in thunderous clamor as the physical realm around you moves on, unaffected and unreachable. Almost mechanically, you place the credits she asked for on the table, not even capable of addressing the obvious manipulation.

Understanding drenches you in its brutal weight as you realize the source why she felt so different this time.

Your hands shake in their clasp on the basket as you pull yourself into a side alley, heaving your breakfast up.

Because you recognize the same difference in her is the exact same one that has changed your Force signature.

It’s because there’s a flickering light of another being’s Force signature within you.

Tagged as requested: @maybege

#obi-wan #obi wan kenobi #Obi-Wan Kenobi #obi-wan X reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan x you #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi wan x you #obi wan kenobi x you #Obi-Wan fanfic #tw: violence #tw: pregnancy #tw: trauma #obi-wan x reader #obi wan x oc

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demetriandelibinaryboyfriends · 3 years

Note

Do you think that Hawk going violet will happen in a big emotional time? Like he's feeling like he's still a Cobra and gets confused and wants to leave Miyagi-fang (?) but something happens and he realizes that he's not a Cobra.

YESSSS this would be great!!!

Like I’m imagining Hawk feeling pretty conflicted because it’s been several weeks and STILL no one in the dojo really seems to like or trust him aside from Demetri and Miguel. Like even Mitch and Bert are wary of him, having seen firsthand how far under Kreese’s influence he ended up falling--and perhaps they’re a little jealous too, since he got to stay in Cobra Kai while they were both booted out. Johnny is glad to have Hawk back in his class, but he still can’t help but be a little angry with him for choosing Kreese over him initially--he knows HE’S the one who toughened Hawk up, not Kreese, and he can’t help but remember how readily Hawk dismissed him at first.

Maybe word gets out about Hawk trashing the Miyagi-Do dojo the previous summer--perhaps Miguel confides in Sam about it, and Sam, in a moment of hotheaded weakness, storms out into the dojo courtyard and confronts Hawk. I dunno if she would be mean enough to yell at him in front of everyone, but people almost certainly overhear regardless--and when it gets back to Daniel, ohhh boy. Hawk and Daniel were warming up to one another, and Daniel was even trying to help Hawk through some of his anger issues--but once he finds out that Hawk stole Mr. Miyagi’s medal of honor, all bets are off. (At least for now--Daniel has a way of coming around. But Hawk sure as hell doesn’t know that.)

After the whispers about what Hawk did the previous summer start spreading around the dojo, people avoid him even more. People look at him like he’s even more of a monster. Daniel doesn’t interact with him any more than is absolutely necessary. Hawk apologizes, of course--tries to channel as much emotion into it as he can so people know it’s genuine. But no one seems to believe him, and he can’t help but be confused about what else he’s supposed to do. Apologies for him have always been a one-and-done deal, and he’s not sure why everyone else isn’t accepting it like Demetri was. He doesn’t know what else to do to communicate he’s serious.

Demetri and Miguel both vouch for him, of course. Demetri especially--he’s used to getting across what Eli’s trying to communicate, attuned from years of practically being Eli’s voice. Demetri never wants to leave Hawk’s side, standing centimeters apart from him at karate practice and swinging a protective arm around him to squeeze his shoulder whenever people shoot Hawk suspicious looks. Despite his friends’ efforts, Hawk is miserable--he feels like he’s under the worst kind of microscope, and no matter what he does, no one is going to trust him.

He feels guilty about it, but he finds himself longing for his Cobra Kai days. How he was respected, feared, celebrated for his strength and his fighting skills and his ruthlessness. Now, it feels like everyone flinches at them--even Miguel and Demetri, on occasion. He just isn’t admired--just isn’t appreciated--like he used to be, no matter how much Demetri tries to reassure him. “I know they’ll trust you eventually. It’ll just take time!”

Hawk isn’t sure they’re ever going to trust him.

Sometimes he wonders if he should go back to Cobra Kai, regain the fame and the prowess and the fear of everyone who dared to cross him. He’d take Miguel and Demetri, of course--he can’t bear to be pitted against either of them ever again. But a bit of intensive training on the side for both of them, and he’s sure they could make it in Kreese’s Cobra Kai. They’re both incredibly skilled fighters, and the thought of the three of them becoming the three most intimidating fighters in the Valley is oddly cathartic to Hawk. The three most pathetic losers in the school, risen to great heights to be terrifying warriors who people were scared to so much as breathe wrong around. Demetri will come, Hawk is sure--Demetri would follow him anywhere, as long as he gets Hawk’s word that Hawk will never turn on him again. And Miguel...well, it might take some convincing to get him to leave the LaRusso girl, but if Demetri comes, Miguel will surely want to be with his two best friends more than his annoying girlfriend.

Hawk is walking home one day from karate training (a training that Demetri never showed up to--a bit odd, but Hawk figures he must have just called out because he had a lot of AP homework), thinking about how best to try and loop Miguel and Demetri into extra training, when his phone rings. He picks up, and it’s Miguel--panicked, hyperventilating, voice cracking like he’s been crying, rushing words out through raspy breaths. He’s hard to understand, talking fast with his voice choked with sobs, but Hawk makes out something about “Demetri” and “an ambush near the park.”

Hawk is at the location in minutes, sprinting there at top speed despite running never being his forte (Demetri was always the faster one between them). Demetri is lying motionless on the cement, passed out with his flannel slowly soaking through with blood. Hawk runs to him in a hysteria, screaming and crying and begging for him to be okay.

While Miguel calls an ambulance, Hawk is frantically looking over Demetri, trying to figure out where all that blood is coming from. No amount of punches and kicks could draw out that amount of blood. Then he lifts up Demetri’s shirt, and lets out a strangled whimper.

The Cobras are fighting with knives now, apparently. And someone--probably Kyler--carved “COBRA KAI NEVER DIES” across Demetri’s back.

And Hawk can’t stop crying because he knows this is his fault. There’s only one reason the Cobras would target Demetri--he was the reason for their latest deserter, and they knew that.

Or maybe he had simply been someone from a rival dojo in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe the Cobras were just those kinds of people.

Because it was never strength and power that Kreese cared about--it was war. Using dojo rivalries as an excuse to get away with hurting people because he enjoyed it. Because them being on the “opposite side” made it seem justified, somewhere in his twisted mind.

The doctors have to practically drag Eli out of Demetri’s hospital room. Luckily they’re able to at least reassure Eli that Demetri is going to be okay--it’s the only way to get him to leave. There are more knife wounds that he didn’t see at first, but they didn’t hit anything vital--thank god. Demetri’s lost a fair bit of blood, but he’ll be all right.

The text scrawled across his back most likely won’t scar, if Demetri cares for the wound properly. And that’s enough for Eli--he knows how meticulous Demetri is. He’ll get through it.

Still, the red stains on Demetri’s shirt and the dark cuts slicing through his skin are seared in Eli’s mind as he drives home. When he gets in the shower that night, he thinks of the words carved into Demetri’s back and his lips curl up in a snarl. He grabs a bottle of bleach, emptying the entire contents onto his limp scarlet hair.

Hawk bleaches and bleaches until the shower is a mess and the entire bathroom smells of cleaning products and every trace of the distinctive Cobra Kai red is completely annihilated. Cobra Kai never dies? Bullshit--they’re dead to him.

His eyes trail to a bottle of hair dye on the top shelf of the shower rack, and he grins. He’s been toying with the idea for a while now, but now...he’s never been more certain in his life. With the red gone, and Cobra Kai truly behind him...it’s time.

When Demetri wakes up in the hospital the next day. The first thing he sees is a jagged purple shape clouding his vision--hair, he realizes. “Who are you?” he mumbles.

“Come on, Deme, how many people do you know with a goddamn mohawk?” a familiar voice says.

His eyes focus to find Eli smirking at him, hair up in deep violet spikes. His hand feels warm, and he looks down to see Eli’s holding it.

Demetri hopes his blush isn’t too visible.

“Holy shit, dude.” Demetri can’t help but grin. “You look great. Why the change?”

“After seeing what they did to you, I couldn’t...do a Cobra Kai color anymore.” Eli bites his lip. “And it just reminded me of all the awful stuff I did there, too. But uh...you know how Sensei LaRusso is always talking about balance?” Demetri just nods.

“I guess I thought I needed something like that. Like I want to be cool and intimidating and kick ass, like Sensei Lawrence and Miguel. But I also want to be all...I dunno...rational and wise and moral and shit, like you and Sensei LaRusso. And Eagle Fang’s got the red thing, and Miyagi-Do’s got the blue thing, so I was like...maybe I should mix them? For balance?”

“Ohhhhh!” And here comes Demetri’s shit-eating grin. Hawk isn’t sure why he expected any different. “You think I’m ‘rational and wise and moral and shit,’ Eli? I thought you thought I was a ‘lame nerd!’”

Eli just rolls his eyes. “God, shut up. You can be both.”

“Also, are you going to stop holding my hand?”

“No.”

Demetri just snickers and leans back, enjoying the sensation of Eli’s fingers between his.

“I was thinking about leaving, you know,” Eli admits quietly, after a beat.

Demetri sits up, staring at him in shock. “What?”

“I didn’t feel like I belonged,” he explained. “I didn’t feel like anyone wanted me there, after everything I’d done. No one but you believed me when I said sorry. I thought maybe I’d be happy if I went back to Cobra Kai, took you and Miguel with me so I wouldn’t have to fight you and we could all become strong together without...without everyone looking at me like I was evil. But now? I never want anything to do with those assholes ever again. Not after they hurt you like that.”

Demetri looks at Eli so softly that Eli thinks he might melt. Then Demetri breaks out in another huge smirk. “Awww, you were going to try and bring me back to your evil karate cult with you? How thoughtful of you!”

“Oh my god, shut up. Yes, I think you would’ve been good enough to survive in there. Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Also, are you still holding my hand?”

“Maybe I am. Mind your business.”

When Demetri takes said hand and uses it to yank Eli forward and kiss him full on the mouth, Eli isn’t about to complain.

When they pull apart, Demetri is a spluttering mess, quickly apologizing and insisting he wasn’t thinking. Eli just laughs, and pulls him forward by the neck so their foreheads are pressed together. “God, I’ve wanted that for so long, Demetri. Don’t you dare apologize for it.”

A short pause. “I know it’s been hard for you,” Demetri adds quietly. “At the dojo. But you have to believe me when I say they’ll come around. I know you’re a good person, Miguel knows, and everyone else will realize it too. It’s just going to take some time. But you’ll figure out how to make it up to them. I believe in you.”

“Okay.” Hawk closes his eyes and exhales slowly, letting himself relax. “As long as I’m with you, it’ll be fine.”

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siremasterlawrence · 2 years

Text

A Court Room Dance Off

Part 1

That giant bubble but decadently gloss over with light popping in color at me showcasing in tight lycra.

He is so amazing to see fitting him perfectly his muscles to perfection and then taking the mask in hand from me.

He feels a tingle sensation with my hand on his shoulder rubbing his hand and he places the mask on his nose bridge.

I swat his ass hard knowing I own yet one more sexy superhero under my whimsical power.

I kiss his lips slowly pinning his muscle body to the wall and his body swelling under me it’s amazing.

He took my scent into his nose letting it swell in to his nostrils tunnel making him feel high.

“Yes Master Lawrence, I am at the courts he has arrived.” Dick speaks in to the mic.

“Cause a distraction during the proceeding to get his attention.” I instruct.

“I’m on it Master” Dick says sweetly.

“As reward you can kill the Bat brats.” I tell him.

“Transfer your fortune.” He replies.

“At your feet of course.” He adds.

Dick Grayson clicks off the microphone in a state of bliss, opens a panel in his gloves and flicks a switch.

He flips out of the back on to the scene as the court explodes in insanity and he throws estim sticks.

Matt makes a run for it racing out of the room in a high speed chase as Dick climbs the wall.

Dick dashes down kicking Matt in the face who falters and the two go at it fist to fist.

A power of two Martial Arts titans duking it out for control but in the end Matt escaped in to the shadow.

He disrobes his clothes revealing his other identity The Daredevil only seething Dick with more anger.

“The Devil of Hells Kitchen huh?”

“Former by wonder”

“I thought you were a hero”

“I am one, seeing the light now as you can tell.”

“You think you are so nobody Matt, yeah! I know who you are obviously and so does.”

“Who is….what the…how did you….a dart?…Uuuuuuggggghhhhh!”

Part 2

Hours later a cold night on the roof top of a random home in Queens, New York Matt Murdock wakes up with a whopping painful headache. He comes to seeing Spider-Man watching over him he remembers his mission from Nightwing.

“What’s up horn head?” Spider-man throws him a question.

“I need your help with a mission.” Matt lies without a sweat.

“I’ll be happy to help but I need details.” Pete says.

“Of course! Follow me if you dare”

“Wait! You are acting suspiciously” Peter stops.

“I am loner web face” he add

“Hold on” Peter starts to yell before Matt in style dives in to the empty alley way.

“He barely speaks and moves but decides at this moment.” Peter quips doing the same in quick fashion.

“As I was saying if you would just…my spider senses are tingling…you led me in to a trap.”

Peter shouts in time to see a roof collapse over the alley way.

Peters body is on high alert vibrating every inch of his bones and nerves through to his soul snapping his soul in to two. Visibly he is losing himself in a state of panic.

“Welcome to your new life Peter Parker my mind is free, I remember winning your case in another life and I shall unshackle your mind as well.” Matt goes on creepily.

Matt clicks on a remote signaling the panels to activate buzzing out of control exposing this empty cold white room. He places it on the table letting his gaze settle on television screen.

The screen starts to go static shade till I am appearing on the screen for both to see I am in control. Peter backs up trying to react but his senses are going haywire instead of fear or warning he is turn on.

“Ooooohhhhhhhh God! Why am I so hard?”

“Because your body is at peace, your mind is relinquishing and you are succumbing Master Lawrence”

“Oh yes, Praise Master Lawrence”

The end

#Hypnoland #Hypno Submission

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fingergunsbidean · 4 years

Text

A Journey in Bisexuality

Word Count: 4.3k Pairings: Dean/Castiel (main), Dean/OMC, Dean/Lee, Dean/Garth Warnings: Underage feelings for Harrison Ford, internalized homophobia, mentions of homophobia but no homophobic actions are done towards Dean, drunken kissing, NSFW elements but no smut, alcoholism implied, and mentions of John Winchester’s A+ parenting, but no actual interactions with him. Summary: A character study of Dean and his journey with discovering and accepting his bisexuality.

Note: I was NEVER actually planning on posting this. I’m NOT a fic writer lol. I actually wrote this as a self paragraph in a 1x1 ten months ago, but I thought we could all use some Dean going to therapy and healing after that finale, so here we are.

Dean is fourteen when he starts looking at Harrison Ford differently. It’s not just him, it’s all his favorites, but right now it’s all about Harrison Ford.

His dad is on a hunt in the next town over, leaving Sam and Dean in some cheap motel. For once, he’s not itching to join him, because the local cable is having an all day Harrison Ford marathon, starting with Star Wars and ending with Indiana Jones.

He’s always admired the guy. He’s good looking, knows how to handle a gun, wears an awesome hat, and always wins the hot girl in the end.

The thing is that Dean always wanted to be him, and as he watches Indi somersault out of the way of an oncoming boulder, he still does, but there’s something more there tonight that he hasn’t noticed in the past.

His cheeks feel flushed and there’s heat tickling underneath his skin. At first, he thinks he’s getting a fever or something and moves over to the other bed, just in case he’s contagious.

The space does nothing to help Dean though, and his pink cheeks grow bright red when Indiana kisses Willie in Temple of Doom. As the music swells, and he lowly says the words “primitive sexual practices,” Dean finds that he’s picturing himself in Willie’s place, with Harrison Ford looming over him and dipping down to kiss him deeply.

The realization of what he’s doing crashes into him, leaving him a little sick to his stomach as he snatches the remote and turns the TV off abruptly. He swallows roughly to chase away the sick feeling and gives Sam a feigned apologetic look.

“I–uh–think I’m gettin’ sick or something. I’m going to bed,” He says. But hours after the lights are turned off and he’s buried under the covers, he’s still wide awake.

⚤ ⚤ ⚤ ⚤

Dean is seventeen, and this is the longest they’ve stayed in one place since he watched their house in Lawrence disappear from the backseat in the Impala.

When their dad took on a pretty big case in Florida, he left the Sam and Dean with Bobby, and then…just kind of left them there. It’s been three months. At first he was pissed. He’s old enough to go on hunts with his dad. He’s been on plenty, while Sam was safely hidden away in a motel.

“You gotta watch over Sammy,” John said, like he always does when Dean asks to go.

It felt like a shitty excuse at the time, but now he can’t imagine being away from his little brother this long, and while he’ll never admit it, he’s glad he left them with Bobby.

For the first time, Dean actually knows the names of the other kids in his class. He has decent grades, and he’s even considering trying out for the baseball team.

Sammy seems happy too. Dean has seen the poor kid get ripped away from school after school, trying to keep his sobs quiet in the backseat as their dad drove away from yet another town. He hates himself for thinking of it, but when he sees how settled Sam is at Bobby’s, he hopes their dad doesn’t come back.

And maybe he’s happy too, and he tries not to feel guilty, but it’s not like his dad will ever know. Whenever he shows up for them, Dean will follow with a “yes, sir,” like he always does.

Until then, he just lets himself be a normal seventeen year old for once. He even found a group of friends and everything, a few guys from his gym class. There’s Matt, Jordan, and Aaron with the too blue eyes, or at least that’s what he calls him in his head. As if he’d ever have the nerve to call him that aloud.

Thoughts about boys creep up on him like itch, dull at first but the more he ignores it the more insistent it becomes. When he first noticed these…feelings, he told himself, “It’s a celebrity crush, it’s fine. Everyone gets those.” But then it grew into, “It’s just some stranger in a diner, it’s fine. You’ll never see him again,” and now it’s, “It’s just your good looking friend, it’s fine.”

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

It’s not fine, but Dean pushes it down and pretends it’s not there. Besides, he hasn’t stopped noticing girls. If anything, he’s notices them more. As long as that’s the case, there’s no reason to act on these feelings or even acknowledge them.

His dad doesn’t want a whole lot from him. He wants him to protect Sam and be a good hunter, but Dean sure as hell knows what he doesn’t want for him, and that’s being with another guy like that, especially when he’s still attracted to girls. He’s seen the way his dad looks at gay guys, heard the comments he makes under his breath, and there’s no way that’s the kind of life he wants for his sons.

So, every time Aaron gives him the kind of smile that makes his chest warm or he finds himself staring too long, he reminds himself of all the reasons why this can’t be a thing. And just because Dean is thinking things he shouldn’t be, doesn’t mean Aaron is too.

He needs that reminder right now as the four of them are packed together in a crowded movie theater, seeing Scream. At some point, Aaron scooted closer to Dean’s side, pressing their shoulders together.

The screams from the crowd sound like a dull roar in his ears when Aaron’s pinky brushes against his, and he holds his breath as he slowly tangles them together, until they’re practically holding pinkies.

He should rip his hand away, he even stiffens as he prepares himself to, but then his shoulders sag as he leans further into the touch. He doesn’t want to pull away. His eyes burn as he stares fixedly at the screen with how badly he doesn’t want to pull away.

They stay like that for the rest of the movie, sneaking glances at each other, but keeping the touch to just their shoulders and pinkies. When the credits roll, Dean finally pulls away, stretching as he stands to try and come off as casual as possible.

They toss their popcorn in the trash and talk about the movie as they head out of the theater. Matt and Jordan give them a quick pat on the shoulders before heading off, and before Dean can go searching for Bobby’s truck in the parking lot, Aaron grabs his elbow to keep him from leaving.

“Dean?” His blue eyes flicker from Dean’s face to the ground nervously, “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime. Like without Matt and Jordan.”

Dean feels his throat close as he struggles to get air in his lungs, worried that his popcorn might come back up. He doesn’t know why he’s acting like this. There’s nothing wrong with hanging out just the two of them, but from the way Aaron’s blushing he has a feeling it’s more than that.

“You mean like…” He trails off, unsure if he can even say it, but Aaron beats him to it.

“Like a date, yeah. I don’t know if you–if you’re–well, I thought I’d try, at least,” He gives a nervous look as he braves meeting Dean’s gaze.

His first instinct is to be furious, to fly off the handle at him for even daring to assume that Dean isn’t anything but straight, to tell him he doesn’t swing that way and storm off, maybe even get a punch in, but he’s frozen.

Despite all his promises to himself that he wouldn’t ever acknowledge this thing that follows him around, he starts entertaining the idea of letting himself have this. His dad is on the other side of the country, he’ll never find out. Nobody has to know if they keep it to themselves. He can just try it this once to get it out of his system and then stick to girls.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean chokes out before he even fully gives himself permission to, and he knows he needs to leave now before he chickens out, “I gotta go. Uh–I’ll call you.” Aaron lets out a huge, relieved breath before giving Dean one of those grins that make his insides squirm with delight, and he smiles back, giving him a playful wink before walking away.

He spends the drive back to Bobby’s going between panic and excitement, planning out potential date ideas but also rehearsing ways to turn Aaron down. As he pulls into the Salvage yard and sees the Impala, he realizes it’s all for nothing and feels strangely numb. It’s time for the next hunt, and he knows with absolute certainty that he’ll never see Aaron again. It’s for the best, he tells himself.

Who was he fucking kidding anyway?

⚤ ⚤ ⚤ ⚤

Dean is twenty-one and drunk on the beach. His vision is a little fuzzy, and when he looks up at the sheer amount of stars in the pitch black sky, he feels dizzy, causing him to stumble into the body beside him.

“Watch it, brother. You don’t wanna eat sand,” A husky voice laughs as he grips Dean’s shoulders with strong hands to steady him.

Lee can’t fill the hole that Sam left when he went off to Stanford, but having him around helps him feel a little less like he’s suffocating. John swung by Texhoma in hopes to recruit his old buddy for a hunt, but got his son instead. Dean and John were glad for the turn of events for different reasons. His dad admired how strong of a fighter Lee was, his training precise enough for John’s Marine standards.

Dean just admired him, in general. He’s having a hell of a time ignoring it when his dad is always there. Maybe, it’s just his paranoia talking, but it feels like he’s watching Dean too closely, noting how he acts around Lee. Which is what inspires their first escape from John Winchester in a slew of rowdy drunken activities.

After he caught them wasted in a middle of a hunt, they started being more discreet about it, so while John was dead asleep in his motel room, the two of them snuck off to a bar and then stumbled their way to the closest beach.

Lee’s hands on his shoulders make him feel both grounded but also like he’s teetering over the edge of a cliff. The moon illuminates his face from where it’s hovering near Dean’s, his blue eyes boring into his.

In his drunken state, he forgets what they were talking about, or if they were even talking at all, and all those walls he’s been building around himself for the past decade feel flimsy, like the slightest nudge will knock them all down.

Dean’s gaze flickers wildly over his face before landing on a piece of hair that fell over his eyes. “You have sand in your hair,” He drunkenly giggles and lifts a hand to pull the sand out before tucking the errant hair behind Lee’s ear. Instead of dropping his hand like he planned to, he cups his friends cheek instead, his thumb absently brushing over his soft skin.

“Dean,” Lee breathes, low and rough, and it sends a tingle down his spine.

“Hey,” He answers, because it feels like the right the thing to say in the moment, or maybe he just doesn’t know what the hell to say when they’re standing this close and he wants nothing more than to just close the remaining distance, give into this want that’s been burning in his chest for years.

Something like recognition shows in Lee’s eyes before he clasps the back of Dean’s neck and draws him down to seal their lips together in a tentative kiss. It’s more gentle and hesitant than his actual first kiss, but it makes his entire body practically sing.

He hears a desperate noise over the sound of the waves, and he thinks it might’ve come for him, but he doesn’t care. He can beat himself up for that later, but for now, he sighs against Lee’s lips and deepens the kiss, letting himself have this.

⚤ ⚤ ⚤ ⚤

Lee is the longest relationship he’s ever had, which is pretty sad, considering it lasts for about a month. But in that month, they find creative ways to sneak around his dad and even get caught up in some kind of wild orgy with triplets.

It all crashes and burns when a case in Arizona goes horribly, horribly wrong, and Lee can’t just move past it. He quits hunting and leaves Dean to go back home, giving him one last lingering kiss before he drives away.

With hardly anything more than a dismissive grunt, John leaves shortly after, deciding Dean is finally old enough to hunt on his own, and that they’ll cover more ground to find whatever killed mom if they split up. The fact that his dad trusts him to do this on his own should be enough to fill him with pride, but it feels more like punishment, and for the first time in his life, he’s completely alone.

A week after Lee and his dad left, he’s sitting in the parked Impala, dialing Sam’s number.

“Heya, Sammy,” He greets his brother, trying to keep his voice as nonchalant and cheerful as possible.

They talk about Sam’s homework and friends, and Dean tells him about some interesting hunts, leaving out the most recent one. He doesn’t tell him about dad leaving, but Lee is on the tip of his tongue. Part of him wants to tell Sam–to get this weight off his shoulders, for one more person to know, so it doesn’t feel like some big fever dream.

“Sam,” He starts, his tone suddenly serious. “I’m…” He stops. He’s what? He’s not gay, but he obviously ain’t straight either. But who says he has to label himself right this second though? He can just tell him about Lee. “I…” He tries again, but the words just don’t come.

That time he agreed to go on a date with Aaron, he told himself it’d be a one time thing to get it out of his system, and while this wasn’t Aaron, that’s what Lee can be. A one time thing. Something that Sam doesn’t need to know about.

“I gotta go. Take care of yourself, okay?”

⚤ ⚤ ⚤ ⚤

Dean is thirty and fucking grateful for it. It’s 2009, and not 2014. He still has time to fix this. When he whips around and sees Cas standing there on the empty street, there’s a look on his face that Dean can only describe as tenderness, and that makes him believe he really can fix this.

“That’s pretty nice timing, Cas,” Dean breathes shakily, overwhelmed by the sheer relief that this Cas is his Cas, not the version he left in 2014.

“We had an appointment,” Cas replies, and there’s so much warmth in his gravely voice that Dean wants to chase it and hold it close to his chest.

He feels his face do something that’s probably too open and too fond, but he doesn’t do anything to mask it. Instead, he firmly rests a hand on the angel’s shoulder and looks him straight in the eye before saying, “Don’t ever change.”

Dean wouldn’t say Cas has much variety in his facial expressions, so the hint of a smile he gets in return feels huge. It reaches his eyes more than his lips, and something about that makes it more genuine.

This isn’t the first time Dean felt something after prolonged eye contact with the guy, far from it, but it’s usually a shock of heat or desire–this is something else entirely. He just wants to find more ways to earn looks like this, which seems impossible with the apocalypse around the corner, but he wants to try.

It’s been nearly a decade since he told himself he wouldn’t let himself act on feelings for another man, but shit has changed. His dad is dead, and that’s not enough to erase the shame that still washes over him any time he accidentally checks out another dude, but John Winchester is not an excuse anymore.

The world is ending, isn’t this the best time to say fuck it and try?

⚤ ⚤ ⚤ ⚤

Dean is thirty-two, and he’s very naked, and very sticky. He curses himself under his breath for not taking the time to clean up before passing out, but he must’ve worn himself out.

For a second he forgets where he is or who he was with the night before, but when he cracks an eye open, he sees peeling yellow wallpaper from the ugly ass motel room he’s been staying in. He blindly reaches a hand out behind him and makes contact with an equally naked and sticky body.

“Hey, watch the hand,” A very familiar voice laughs from behind him, causing Dean to whip around in surprise, wincing at the soreness that follows.

“Garth?” He asks wearily.

“Yeah, who else? We didn’t even drink last night, don’t pull the forgotten one night stand act with me, Dean Winchester,” Garth chastises him gently, propping himself up on his elbow as he smiles down at him.

Dean blinks a few times to try and wake himself up, and when he’s feeling a little less disoriented, the night before comes back to him–and, oh yeah, he remembers it. Who would’ve thought a little guy like Garth could be such a firecracker in bed? Maybe, he somehow sensed that about him, and that’s why he was so eager to find out.

In the short time he’s known Garth, he wouldn’t say he’s had many dirty thoughts about him. He didn’t have many thoughts about anyone these days, not since Cas…Dean quickly ends that train of thought there. The nightmares are enough.

The thing with Garth just kind of happened, between the goodbye hugs, and the comments about how good he smells, the little smiles he keeps sending Dean’s way, he figured why the hell not?

He wasn’t disappointed with his choice either. Garth was surprisingly strong and confident, which are all things Dean likes in his partners. He just wouldn’t usually go for someone he sees so often–makes things awkward.

“I remember,” He gives a quiet laugh before clearing his throat awkwardly, looking from Garth’s bare chest to the sheets. “Look, Garth, I–uh–I’m not really looking for a relationship or anything,” He begins, and it feels so overused and rehearsed.

He hates having this talk, which is why he usually sticks to waitresses or women, and the occasional man that he won’t ever see again. He doesn’t want to shoot Garth down, but after Cas–he just thought things would be different by now. He thought they would be different now, but that hope died when he pulled Cas’s soaking trench coat out of the water.

He doesn’t know what he kind of response he expects, but it’s definitely not for him to throw his head back with a loud laugh. “Oh, Dean, I should’ve known you’d be this funny the morning after. Look at you, trying to give me the it’s not you, it’s me talk. We’re fine, buddy. Just two guys looking for a night of fun,” He shakes his head and gives Dean’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Dean feels his entire body sag in relief, and now that, that awkwardness is out of the way, he feels his body react to Garth’s close proximity, the memory of the night before has him ready to go all over again.

Resting a hand on the hunter’s naked hip, he leans in until their noses brush, “In that case, round two?” He asks, his voice practically a quiet purr.

“Round two,” Garth agrees before pulling him in for a heated kiss.

⚤ ⚤ ⚤ ⚤

“I don’t know. I guess that was the first time I did something like that without feeling guilty after. I didn’t really even think about the fact that he was a dude that time,” Dean recounts, picking at a stray thread on his jeans.

He’s forty-one and the world is still turning. Chuck is gone, Jack and Eileen are back, Cas is human, Sam is okay, and everything should be fine. But it turns out that peace on earth doesn’t erase decades worth of repression and trauma.

It took storming out of a few therapist’s office before he found the right one. Dr. Williams, or Charlotte, is pretty nice, so far. She listens to all his stories that would sound absolutely insane to an outsider, and hardly bats an eye.

Usually, they talk about Hell or Michael, but somehow the subject shifted to his history with men today, starting with him telling her about the ring he got Cas for Christmas. The one he almost didn’t give him–the ring that isn’t an engagement ring despite the looks Sam keeps giving him, but hopefully isn’t just a friendship ring either.

“And how do you feel now? With Castiel? Do you still feel ashamed of your feelings or sexuality?” She asks calmly as she looks up at him over her notebook.

Dean grimaces at that word–sexuality. He’s had so many years to accept the fact that he isn’t straight, that he likes men too, that he more than likes a particular man specifically.

Still, he can’t get himself to say the actual word, not even in his own head. His old man has been dead for thirteen years, and it still feels like he’s looming over his shoulder whenever he even considers it.

Sometimes, he wishes he told him when he accidentally wished him back into existence, but he’s glad he didn’t. Of all the people who deserve to hear it first, it’s not his dad. The fact that he even thinks that, tells him these sessions are doing something.

“Sometimes…yeah,” Dean mutters and nervously licks his lower lip, “I know my family won’t care. Hell, they probably already know, but I don’t know. I just can’t shake it, I guess.”

“You don’t have to come out,” Charlotte tells him, and her voice isn’t too gentle like some of the other Therapist’s were, but it’s not too matter-of-fact either, which is why he likes her so much.

“Not with an official statement, at least. You should do what you’re comfortable with. Like, next time you watch Star Wars, instead of keeping all those thoughts about Harrison Ford to yourself, say them aloud.”

Dean merely raises a brow in response, he’s pretty sure nobody wants to hear what he has to say about Harrison Ford. He’s come up with way too many jerking off fantasies to that guy. Most of his thoughts are something along the lines of, “I’d sell my soul to fuck Harrison Ford.”

Charlotte seems to catch on quick and lets out an amused snort, “The safe for work version.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure there is a safe for work version,” Dean points out and waggles his brows suggestively before dropping the act and sagging a little in his seat, his face going blank in thought.

“I know that uh–that being bisexual is okay,” He stammers out and rubs the back of his neck as it prickles with nerves, “Which is what I am, I mean, bisexual. I’m just trying to believe that it is.”

It’s the first time he actually said it, and it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as he thought it would be. He still feels sick with anxiety, and like he wants to drink an entire bottle of whiskey when he gets home, but the fact that he did it at all lifts a huge weight from his shoulders.

Charlotte gives him an impressed nod and jots down a few notes, “Well, that’s a good start.”

⚤ ⚤ ⚤ ⚤

After his session, he comes home and gives some flimsy excuse about his whereabouts before pouring himself a drink. Cas isn’t in the kitchen or his room, but it doesn’t take Dean long to track him down.

The new human spends a lot of time in the same spot these days. Shrugging on a coat, he brings his glass outside and walks to the little area Cas so carefully turned into his garden.

Dean doesn’t announce his presence, just watches from a safe distance as Cas mutters quietly to his plants. The sun occasionally glints off the silver ring on his middle finger, and it brings a fond smile to his lips.

After everything they’ve been through, after losing him so many times, Dean can’t believe he’s really here. It’s not perfect, Cas is struggling with his new humanity, and the distance between them hasn’t been fixed, but it’s still good.

And Dean loves him.

“I’m in love with Cas,” He mentally tells himself, another thing that he’s known for ages but has been too damn scared to actually put into words. It’s just as nerve-wracking as his confession to Charlotte earlier, but it still brings him peace.

He doesn’t know when he’ll tell Cas, or if he ever will, but right now he’s okay just telling himself. He’s okay just standing here and watching him garden. It’s more than he thought he’d ever have.

#destiel #destiel fic #dean winchester #spn #supernatural #dean is bi #mine

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anders-hawke · 3 years

Text

une nouvelle vie, chapter 1

AO3 | @frogsmulder

A round of knocks sounds on the door. It’s far too late to have a visitor; Lily must be so exhausted as to be delusional. But then, another round of knocks. Perhaps not a delusion after all.

“Lily, I know that you are in there. Please... Perhaps you fear my confession, but I feel that—that I owe you as much honesty as you have gifted me, and that I owe complete honesty to myself.” Selden? “When I let you assume that I was no longer in love with you, it was a farce. My feelings never lessened, not once. Since I’ve known you, my amorous tendencies concerning you have only ever increased, despite the periods of time during which I fervently wished that I could think of you with pure hatred, or with no feeling at all. I love you, and I only wish you could see how happy we would be if you were able to step outside of yourself for a mere moment.”

Lily blinks, and she’s startled to find tears cascading across her face onto the bedding. The chloral sits untouched on the bedside table.

Selden continues: “I cannot offer you a yacht. I cannot offer you a house for every season. I cannot offer you the jewels and dresses a lady’s heart desires. But I can offer you food when you are hungry, and a fire when you are cold. I can give you a shoulder to dry your tears upon when you are melancholy, and I can relieve you of your monetary burdens. I will care for you when you fall sick, and I will give you gifts on your birthday. I would grow old with you by my side, Lily. Please, let me in...”

She stifles a sob into her pillow as she tries to collect herself, eventually scooping the scattered shards of her self into something resembling the person Lily once knew herself to be. The mental action completed, she rises from bed and forgoes any form of redressing as she silently makes her way to the door. She is still trembling, sure her eyes are rimmed with pink, the same color as her nose; she inhales deeply and unlocks the door before opening it. And there stands Lawrence Selden, hair mussed and clothing askew—obvious signs that he was the recipient of a midnight revelation that sent him racing here.

“Lily,” escapes his lips as softly as the wind sighed across the grounds of Bellomont so long ago.

And then, as if he cannot bear to be physically apart from her any longer, he steps forward and pulls her into his embrace. Lily finds herself enveloped by his familiar scent and submits to the immediate craving to meld her body with his. She wraps her arms around him, and this time she is unsurprised to find herself sobbing into Selden’s chest, clutching at him as if she has been lost at sea and he is her buoy in the water—at once keeping her afloat as well as marking her nearness to the safeties of land. They stay entwined as such for a lingering stretch of time, Lily aware in some small portion of her mind that Selden is holding her just as close.

When they finally part, tears spent, he slides his hands from her back and skull—respectively—to cup her pinkened cheeks. “Marry me,” he says, his offer now in no uncertain terms. Yet, still, Lily hesitates; she gazes into his eyes and finds that his, too, are rimmed with pink from tears. “Think on it. We shall stay here for the remaining hours of the night.”

She nods in a stupor and follows him back to her bedroom, though in her eyes it can hardly be considered such. There is no room for modesty between them tonight; Selden undresses to his underclothes and joins Lily in her small bed, curling himself around her like they are spoons in a silverware drawer. She clasps his hand in hers against her stomach, shifting so that she is surrounded completely by the warmth of his body on one side underneath the flimsy blanket. With his steady breaths puffing against her hair and the knowledge of his presence permeating her mind, Lily finds her eyes drooping for the first time in weeks.

—

While no apologies are given for their behavior the previous night, neither has the mood wholly continued into the light of day. They dress separately and Selden treats her to a hearty breakfast, unabashedly gazing at her the entire time. After they are fed, they walk the streets aimlessly. “Have you come to a conclusion, then?” he asks, the sun now high in the Spring sky.

They come to a stop in the shade of a tree, a rare sight in the bustling city. Lily sighs heavily, averting her gaze from his. “No,” she says, offering him the truth.

“Why not?”

She looks around them at the steady flow of people going about their days, unbothered by troubles such as hers. “It would feel like betraying my mother and father. Of course, my father is the one who drained our finances before passing, so I suppose it is more that I would be loath to disobey my mother’s last wishes.” Lily meets his steady gaze. “No matter how much I may wish to.”

Selden nods slowly, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. “Did it ever occur to you that you do not owe your life to your parents?” He lets her digest his words as he leads her to sit with him on a nearby bench. “As in, you are not your mother, and certainly not your father. Do you not deserve to—to take charge of your life as you see fit rather than as others see fit?” Lily opens her mouth to respond but finds that she has no answer. Selden sighs heavily. “I should think that this conversation would be more apt in my flat. Come.”

She recovers enough to say, “You are ever so persistent, my dearest Lawrence,” as she loops her arm through his. It is more than she has ever dared to give him before, and she knows that he understands what she means by the way he looks over at her, their gazes meeting.

The walk to Benedick gives Lily time to think over all of Selden’s words, but there is still a small part of her that lies paralyzed and terrified: once she takes this leap, she can never turn back. She looks up when she sees the familiar arch and revels in the smile that slips easily onto her lips.

“It seems that we are back where we started this fateful journey,” she comments, chancing a glance at him.

Selden nods. “That we are.” The corner of his mouth lifts up. “Tea?”

Lily’s smile blooms into one that shows her teeth and she nods. “Tea with you sounds wonderful.”

—

His tea is not as strong as she is used to, but it warms her heart all the same, and tastes as it did that day in September. It is familiar and safe, Lily decides, as Selden’s presence is. “What is holding you back?” he asks, no longer disguising his love showing in his eyes.

“I am afraid. Once I take this step forward, there is no way to turn back. And this path that I have been slowly but surely walking down for the majority of my years is the one I have known the longest. I hardly remember the times of my childhood when monetary issues did not make themselves known. In this position, I must give up so much—none of it concrete—and it is... nothing short of terrifying. I would liken it to standing at the edge of a cliff; there is a ladder to climb down to a river below, but I have been traveling on the sanded highland for years on end. The river is what I have come to need, but it would mean forsaking everything that I have ever known, even if that has been done to me previously, if not entirely. My mother would want me to forsake the river, even if the action sentences me to death.”

Selden cups her cheek and turns her face to his, his own open and earnest. His other hand takes custody of the opposite cheek. “But what do you want?”

Lily gazes at him, her answer rapidly crystallizing in her mind as she regards his face: his earnest eyes, the shape of his nose, his Cupid’s bow leading down to his kissable lips... And then she has her answer; she kisses him, holding her lips against his until he tentatively responds. It is short and relatively chaste; she presses her forehead against Selden’s own when it is over, placing her hands over his on her cheeks.

“You,” she whispers, tendrils of ecstasy slowly but surely worming their way through her body, filling every nook and cranny. “What I want is you.”

“Then you will marry me?”

“On one condition.” Selden holds his breath. “Assist me in recalling why I have made the decision to do so however many times is necessary, in whatever fashion that assistance should need to be.”

He lets out a tearful laugh and strokes her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “I shall do that for you, my dearest Lily. Let us enjoy the rest of the day how we see fit; any troubles can wait for tomorrow.”

#it's THE fix-it fic from me guys #<333 #house of mirth #fanfiction #mine

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sammysmaddy · 4 years

Text

You (Sam x Reader)*

Summary: Sam has been watching you for quite some time now and one night he gets his opportunity to have you.

Characters: Stalker!Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader (AU, Sam and Dean don't know each other)

Rating: 18+

Chapter Warnings: Angst, stalking, dub con at the very least, non con beginning, p in v, protected sex (kind of) :), crying, oral (fem. receiving), talk of rape, implied attempted date rape (not from Sam), hand job ish, blowjob ish, rough sex, breeding kink ish, hair pulling. I think that's it.

W/C: Well over 10,000 :) I got carried away in the story lol.

A/N: Inspired by 'You' because I love crazy psycho people and it makes me more than happy to pretend that Sam could be like that too. Let me know if you want this to be a series ;)

Masterlist

Sam's POV

You looked so pretty on your date tonight. Your date is an arrogant, cocky son of a bitch, and I know you see it. I don't know what you find attractive about him, he doesn't care about you or how you're feeling- he only cares what you look like. You're just arm candy for his selfish need to be seen by everyone and you seem to be paying no attention to that fact. He ignores you when you talk, he looks down your shirt at your cleavage every time you turn your head, and he only talks about himself. Yet, most likely knowing all of this, you find him fascinating. You stay quiet when he speaks, you laugh at his half-assed jokes, you let him talk about you like you're not even there. When his friend came to talk from a few tables over, you let him degrade you. You let him talk about how perfect your body is, how compliant you are, and you smiled as he did so. But, you still didn't seem to mind. You blushed and took his disgusting words as a compliment. Maybe you're hoping that he'll be able to satisfy you at the end of the night or maybe the only thing that's keeping you sane are his green eyes. He doesn't even truly recognize how beautiful you are.

But I do. You, Y/N, I knew it was you ever since the first time we met. It was that small coffee shop in the middle of the city, so far from your house that I had a hard time tracking you down. After watching you, I realized that you don't even like coffee. You only like it when it's pumped full of sugar and completely diluted into almost zero caffeine. I purposefully bumped into you to get your attention and you apologized to me. Too bad you were in a hurry that day, I would have loved to get to know you right off the bat. I could have drank my coffee and you could have drank your sugar concoction and we could have talked until the store closed. I would have found out what interests you, what your hobbies were, what your family was like, and maybe in a few months, you would have invited me to meet them.

You weren't like all of the other girls. You're shy and you're sweet and you're too scared to tell the waiter when your order comes out wrong, you are the definition of perfect. You don't like overstepping boundaries or oversharing details about yourself because you're too scared that people might find you annoying, but you are just the opposite. You're everything I've ever wanted. Your head holds beautiful locks of hair, your nose crinkles when you smile, your eyes shut when you laugh too hard, and the best part is that you don't even have to try. Even when you don't wear makeup or focus on your appearance, you are just as breathtaking. You are intoxicating, you are the essence of beauty, you are meant for me- and for the fucked up fact of the day, you don't even know who I am.

You don't even know that I've been protecting you for the past six months, watching over you at home to make sure you don't choke on your food or accidentally hurt yourself. You don't know that I follow you to the store and through the parking lot to make sure nobody takes advantage of you. You don't know that I watch you every time you choose a random douchebag from the bar to take home or how I see that you can make any man come undone in less than three minutes. You don't know how much I envy them or how much I wished that you made those faces for me.

But they always let you down, don't they? It's like you don't love yourself, it's like you want to be used by all of those men. You never choose the right one and every time you're close to release, they beat you to the punch. I know the face you make when you come undone around your fingers and they rarely ever get the pleasure of seeing it for themselves. Then they leave you a mess that you have to sort out for yourself. I would never do that to you, Y/N. I would never leave you unsatisfied, I would leave you begging for more- I know it. I would be as gentle or as rough as you'd like, I'd find every sweet spot that made your back arch, taste how sweet you are, I'd know just how long to fuck you before you wanted to stop, I would make sure that you came before I did, I'd fill you perfectly. But maybe you wouldn't want that. Maybe, you'd want to use me- and I'd let you. I'd let you use me however your big heart desired, I'd let you ride me until the sun came up, I'd let you leave marks all over my body and claim me to let everyone know that I'm yours, I would embrace whatever kinks or fantasies you'd be too scared to share with anybody else, Hell- I'd let you tie me up and blindfold me if it meant I could feel you cum around my cock.

And maybe it's not even the sex that would make you satisfied. Maybe it would be the way I treated you. I would value you more than anything, I already do, I would make sure you fed yourself properly, I would kiss you goodnight and make sure the thermostat was on the perfect temperature. I would go with you to the stores, help you cook dinner, schedule your doctor's appointments for you. I'd make sure your coffee had the perfect amount of sugar in it, I'd always let you choose where we ate if we chose to go out, I'd let you show me off to all of your friends- treat me how all of those other men treat you. When it comes to you, Y/N, it doesn't matter what I want. It's all about you. It's been all about you since the first time I saw you.

The only flaw I can seem to find is the men you choose, but you're too sweet to turn them down- maybe, it isn't your fault. Maybe you don't actually like them. Maybe you see one good quality in them and try your best to focus on it, maybe you hope that they can bend and shape into what you want them to be. If only you knew how willing I would be to change for you. And don't get me wrong, I have problems too, Y/N. I can't seem to talk to you. I can't even get you to notice me. At first, I tried almost every day. I'd get to your doorstep and my hand would raise itself to knock, but then I would get scared. I didn't think it through properly and even when I did- I still couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't just show up at your door like that, I had to make sure when we met again that it would be perfect. But the time never came and it never felt right. That and, the more time went on the more my anxieties rose, and that caused problems within itself. What if I wasn't your type? What if you didn't like my jokes or the way I laughed? What if you thought I was too tall or I didn't have enough muscles? But the truth is if I didn't get the courage to actually talk to you- I wouldn't ever get the answers to those questions.

So I watched. Waited for the perfect time that never seem to come. You were laughing at that asshole's jokes like he was some sort of comedian. He wasn't. He was just some low life from Lawrence, Kansas, he wasn't good enough for you. Dean Winchester, he happened to be the most mysterious one yet. It was hard for me to find information about him, but not impossible. His father was a drunk, meaning he still had some emotional trauma- he could easily hurt you. He drove a beat-up Chevrolet Impala that screamed I'm a dick, but you found it fascinating. You don't even know anything about cars, why did you lie to him? He's been on national headlines more than once, sometimes even for murder, but those cases mysteriously went away. You wouldn't know any of this. You don't do your research. You should know who you're really with. But, luckily, you have me. I'll do all the nitty-gritty dirty work just for you. I'll make sure he doesn't hurt you, I'll make sure you're safe.

The end of the night was imminent as you stood up from your table. Dean stood up with you, leaving his chair untucked while you tucked yours under the table. Classic dick move. He gave you a cocky smirk, placing his hand out for you to take- and you did. You followed him into the parking lot and got in his car. I love you, but sometimes I wish you knew better. I started my own car's engine, opting to leave the lights off, as I trailed a few cars behind you. He was a reckless driver, swerving like a drunk and causing chaos, but I bet you found it funny. I bet you found him wild and daring, maybe that's your type. I could easily be that.

I was beginning to lose you, I didn't want to get a ticket for speeding and having my headlights off, but the streets looked more and more familiar. He was taking you to your house. It hurt my heart how sporadically you allowed random men into your house, but I got my kicks with everlasting memories from those nights- the thought was almost enough to give me an erection. He didn't know the backroads to your house, but I did. I beat you, parking across the street and turning my car off- hopefully, you thought I lived there by now. Then I heard the low rumble of his shitty car pulling up to your house and then you kissed him in the front seat. Were you really going to take him right there? Nope. He opened his door, awkwardly shuffling to reach yours before you could do it yourself, and then he opened your car door- the only gentlemanly thing he's done all night. You thanked him, patting down your jeans as if they were dirty. You shyly swiped your hair behind your ear, you were nervous. Why were you nervous? This was a weekly thing for you. Did you realize how bad of a guy he was?

I quickly put my beanie on, hoping that I would be less noticeable- but I'm a giant, hopefully, you're too tipsy to notice me. I had to be on my guard if you were nervous, so I stepped out of my car. I walked around the back, making sure I had my knife in my pocket and tried to watch you as inconspicuously as possible. You led him up the front porch, turning around before you reached the door. You gave him a warm smile and he placed a hand on the wood just above your head. His head lowered, placing a kiss on your lips so harshly that you fell back into the door. I got worried about him hurting you, but then you placed a hand on his chest. You pushed against him, lightly, knowing you- you probably didn't want to let him down. You shook your head and his head lowered again, forcing himself onto you as you squirmed underneath him.

This is why I'm here for you. This is why I'll always protect you, even if you don't know I'm doing it. My fight or flight mode activated and I pretended to walk down the street. I tried my best not to look as he shook the locked doorknob with his hand, trying to force himself in. I knew he wasn't good for you, Y/N. You're lucky that I'm here to save you. I reached the bottom of your steps, still on the public sidewalk, and pretended to notice what was happening. I could hear you whimpering, suffocated by his kiss. He was disgusting.

"Hey, man. I think she said stop," I yelled at him, but he didn't stop. I frowned, looking at how he was attacking you with his mouth. Cautiously, I took three steps up- so close to you and him. "Back off," I said, reaching the top step and yanked his shoulder.

He turned around, chest puffed but he was small compared to me. Your eyes widened, your lips a beautiful color of rose, and I barely heard him talking to me as I looked at you. So close I could almost taste you. "Mind your fucking business," He said, pushing at my shoulders and snapping me out of my trance- God, you are so powerful.

"Are you okay?" I asked you, ignoring his small hands that were just pushing against my frame. Your eyes stayed widened as you nodded your head up and down, but I knew better. He was going to hurt you, you were not okay.

"She's fucking fine, man. Get the fuck out of here," He grit through white teeth- almost as white as mine.

I tilted my head towards him and he raised his eyebrows at me, then the anger took over. I couldn't stop myself even if I wanted to- and I didn't. My hand came up from lying lazily by my side and my fist collided with his cheek. I heard you gasp at the same time as the collision, it felt so good to hear you after all this time. He stumbled back, ready to full-on fight me, but you stepped in between us. You are so strong. He almost hit you, but he stopped himself just in time. He's lucky, if he would have laid his hands on you like that- he was going to be a dead man. Your hands smoothed down his chest, trying to calm him down. Why were you helping him? Your heart is just too big. Then, you turned around and faced me. You were breathtaking, even more so this close. I hadn't been this close to you since the coffee shop way back when. Your lips were perfectly plump and your eyes twinkled in the dim porch lighting. You were made for me.

"What's your name?" You asked me, nervously chewing on your bottom lip. Your eyes stayed wide and I fell in love with them on the spot.

"I- I'm Sam," I told you, stuttering just like I thought I would when I finally introduced myself to you, and you nodded your head cautiously.

"Well, Sam," You said and it was hard to pay attention to the rest of your sentence. My name sounded heavenly rolling off your tongue. "We are just, um, we're role-playing." You told me with question in your voice. I watched your throat as you swallowed anxiously. Huh, should have known you had those kinds of fantasies. "Right, Dean?" You asked, turning towards him and I watched as his eyebrows furrowed.

"What?" He asked in return, rubbing at the fresh fist mark on his face. "You know what? I've had a lovely night. Thank you, sweetheart, but I ought to get going." He gave you a fake smile, patting your shoulder in a friendly way, and shoving his way past me down the steps. I watched him as he got in his car and quickly drove away, then I turned to look at you. You were still nervous. He was gone, hopefully, you'd feel safe now.

"Thank you," You muttered quietly, giving me a soft smile. Your cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of crimson and I smiled back at you.

"I can stay around. You know, make sure he's gone for sure," I told you and you immediately shook your head 'no'. Oh, Y/N, I'm not the bad guy. Stop looking at me like you're so scared.

"I'm okay. Thank you anyways," You told me, reaching into your pocket and digging out your house key. Your eyes strayed away from mine, even before you turned around to unlock the front door.

"I, uh, I really don't mind. I just want to make sure you're safe," I pressed on as you unlocked the door. You didn't open it though, you turned around to look at me.

"Sam, really. I'm okay. You can go home now." You said with haste in your tone. I tilted my head and furrowed my eyebrows, what was so important that you couldn't talk to me for a few minutes? You turned around, opening your front door, and let yourself inside. You were getting away.

"Y/N, really, I can make sure he doesn't come back," I said, now haste was in my tone, as I stopped you from closing the door on me.

You pushed against my hand before you stopped, realizing that I was much stronger than you. It wasn't meant to scare you, but you looked like you had just seen a ghost. Your face grew pale as you looked at me, tears welling in your eyes as they stared into mine. Why were you so upset? Maybe you didn't find me attractive- I really hope that wasn't the case. I pushed the door open lightly and you stood there in all your glory, but you fiddled with your fingers nervously. I watched as the tears ran down your cheeks, wondering what the hell happened to you that made you so upset. But I was here to help. Like I said earlier, I'm always going to be here to help you. I slowly stepped into your house to show you that I'm not a threat and wrapped my arms around you. I felt you tremble in my grip and you didn't hug me back. Was I making you upset? I hadn't done anything to you, maybe it was Dean. Maybe you lied to me so that I didn't know what he was about to do to you. You can trust me, I hope you know that.

"Please, stop," You whimpered in a small voice and I pulled back immediately, your wish is my command Y/N. My hands smoothed down your arms, holding your hands as I looked down at you to see what was wrong. You jerked your hands out of mine and took a step back. I took a step forward. I had to make sure you were okay. "I need you to leave, please." You told me, sniffling your way through the sentence. I don't understand. I just saved you and you want me to leave? You took another step back and I took another one forward. "Please, Sam. You're scaring me." You told me, so vulnerable and honest, but you still used the word please.

"I'm sorry. I just- I needed to know you were going to be okay," I admitted to you, hoping that you would calm down- but you didn't. You chewed on your bottom lip anxiously, almost hard enough to draw blood. Did I do something wrong? Why were you being like this? "Why are you still scared?" I asked you, brushing the hair out of your face and you winced.

"I- I don't know," You told me, grabbing my hand lightly and pushing it down my side. You were so warm, I can't want to feel you everywhere. But I couldn't get past your last comment. You were lying. Why would you lie to me?

"Why are you lying?" I asked you and you shook your head in defiance.

"I- I'm not. I promise," You replied, your shaking breath told me otherwise.

"Y/N, you don't have to be scared of me," I said, realizing exactly where I fucked up. Your name. You never told me it and here I was acting like I knew you, I was getting ahead of myself. "I, uh, you're my neighbor. That's how I know your name." I tried to cover myself, chuckling nervously, but you shook your head again. Shit, I really fucked up.

"No, you're not," You told me, your voice almost cracking as fresh tears continued to spill down your face.

"Okay, but my grandparents-" I began to reexplain myself.

"No, they don't," You cut me off and I tilted my head at you, how would you know? "I- I know you've been following me." You bit your lip and my heart dropped into my stomach. Fuck, maybe you do pay attention to your surroundings.

"I can explain-" I told you, but you made a run for it. Your feet took you surprisingly fast up the stairs and I felt my heart beat out of my chest. I didn't know what else to do, you were going to call the cops on me- get me arrested, I couldn't let that happen. I ran after you, but you reached your bedroom door and slammed it in my face. I shook the door handle, knowing it was most likely already locked, and began to curse at myself. "Please, Y/N! Just let me in, I promise I can explain everything to you!" I yelled, desperately shaking the door as I heard you sobbing on the other side.

"Sam, just go. I- I won't call the cops if you leave. I promise, Sam. I promise." You told me in between choked sobs and my heart broke for you.

This was not how I imagined meeting you again would go. As much as you sounded like you believed the words coming out of your mouth, I couldn't take that chance. I didn't have any other plan but to speak to you and I was not going to go to jail for wanting to have a conversation. I dug in my pocket for my lock-pick, which I always kept in case someone was hurting you or you were in trouble. Little did I know I would be using it to let myself in your room. I wasn't really sure how to use it, so I fiddled it around a bit- knowing you could hear my desperation. Then the lock clicked and I silently applauded myself, opening the door to see you sitting on your window ledge. You looked back at me as I ran towards you and you jumped. You're lucky my long legs reached you before you fell and hurt yourself. I pulled you up, collapsing backward as I held you in my arms. You were silently crying, not bothering to break away from my grip and it felt good to feel your heart beating against my chest. It wasn't exactly ideal, but it didn't bother me as much as I thought it would. You were perfect no matter how much you feared me.

"It's okay, Y/N. I just want to talk," I said in a quiet voice, stroking your wet hair strands out of your face. You shivered in my grip, turning your head away from my hand and I frowned. Why are you so difficult? Why can't you just let me love you?

"Are you going to hurt me?" You asked in a soft tone, still looking forward like you didn't want to look at me.

"No, of course not. Why would I hurt you?" I asked in return and you didn't reply for a good ten seconds.

"I'm sorry," You told me and I almost let myself fall for it. You attacked too quickly, shoving your elbow into my ribs as you scrambled to get up. You began to run towards the door, but I grabbed your ankle and you fell on the floor. It didn't have to be this way, Y/N, you just had to make it painful. "Please, Sam," You choked out as I sat on my knees, pulling you closer to me by your ankle. You turned yourself around, propping yourself on your elbows, and looked at me with glossy eyes. I used your thighs to pull you closer to my lap, letting them linger there when I got you where I wanted you. "Sam, let's just- let's talk, okay?" You asked me frantically and I didn't understand why your tone changed so drastically until I looked down.

"Oh, sorry," I told you as I realized how uncomfortable it might be for you to be so intimately close with me. You pulled your thighs off of mine and sat across from me, holding onto your knees for dear life. "Just promise you won't run from me, okay?" I asked you and you nodded your head slowly. Finally, now we can actually talk. "I- I have had a, um, a liking for you for-"

"Six months," You muttered, burying your head in your knees. Were you really that smart or was I really that dumb? Why didn't you do anything?

"You knew?" I asked in confusion and you nodded your head. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I did. They didn't believe me," You sniffled and I frowned. It made me upset that you went to the police before you decided to have a conversation with me. I hadn't even done anything to you and you tried to get me put in jail?

"You what?" I seethed through my teeth, feeling my blood boil. I didn't mean to get angry with you, but everything was falling apart too quick and it was the only way I could tell you I was upset. Your body shivered with my sharp words, but you didn't say anything. "Y/N, tell me exactly what you told the police," I told you, starting to panic. What if you told Dean and Dean was on his way to the station now? I needed to know. I reached across, meaning to be light-handed but it didn't exactly work out that way as I shook your arms so that you would look at me. "Tell me."

"I just- I was scared," You told me, finally looking up and showing me the fear I unintentionally instilled in you. "I didn't tell them anything, I just told them I was scared." You trembled, sounding like you were telling the truth for a change. Maybe you were just saying that so I would leave you alone. Not going to happen. You betrayed me. But still, I never meant to hurt you, that was my fault. We all have our faults, Y/N, and mine is growing in my boxers because of how close we are. You drive me crazy.

"It's okay, Y/N. It's going to be okay," I told you, pushing your hair behind your back and you stayed still. My thumbs wiped the tears off of your cheeks, only for your eyes to produce more. You're so sad, but you're still just as beautiful as ever. I couldn't help myself, holding your face in my hands brought an excitement in me that I couldn't contain as I smashed my lips onto yours. To my surprise, you didn't move. You didn't pull back or fight me, you just sat there and let me kiss you. Your lips were so soft, I just wished they kissed me back. "Just let me make you feel better."

"Please, Sam I-" You began to say, but I put my index finger over your lips. You were going to say everything I didn't hear and I want for the both of us to enjoy this as much as possible.

"It's okay, Y/N. You don't have to do anything, just let me love you." I told you, not waiting for your reply as I pressed my lips onto yours. Your mouth parted slowly, I suspect to protest, but it gave me the perfect access to shove my tongue inside of you. You tasted like sweet wine and chapstick as I explored every inch of your mouth, you were so much warmer than I expected. You didn't move your lips but that's okay, I'll do all the work for you. My hands travel from your cheeks and down to your neck, pulling you in closer to me. You were already close, but I couldn't help but feel like I needed you closer.

You whimpered into my mouth but I pretended that it was a moan as I trailed my lips down your cheek. They reached your neck, sucking in hard enough to leave a mark but not hard enough to hurt you, and I couldn't help but imagine- if your neck tasted this good, then how would your pussy taste? My erection was growing stronger, itching to get out of its confines as I continued to kiss your neck. I heard you choke yet again another sob, but I knew you wanted me- or else you wouldn't let me do this to you. You let me pull you closer, straddling your hips around my waist as I became drunk on the kisses that I was giving you. Your legs tightened around my waist and your arms lazily landed around my shoulders- surely you wouldn't do that if you didn't want me.

It gave me even more confidence, my hands reached up to cup your perfect breasts through your simple blue shirt. You always looked good in blue. Your breasts were the perfect handful for me, soft and warm skin that I couldn't wait to suck on. I couldn't help but groan into your neck as I imagined all of the things that I wanted to do to you. But, as I was kissing you, you pushed on my chest. You were light-handed, almost like you didn't want to hurt me, and you looked into my eyes.

"I thought you just wanted to talk," You said, lowering your head to look down at the predicament you got yourself in. My hands supported your lower back, making sure that you didn't fall backward and hurt yourself. It felt so good to have you this close to me, and maybe you knew I had been watching you, but you probably didn't know how much I dreamt this day would come. "Sam, are you listening?" You asked me and I realized that I wasn't. I was too busy looking at your body on top of mine, relishing the weight I felt as you sat on top of me, but maybe you know just what I like. Maybe you know I love it when you say my name, you seem to say it a lot.

"What's wrong?" I asked you as I continued to watch the tears stream down your face, but you shook your head as if nothing was wrong.

"I'm not sober. Don't you want me when I'm sober?" You asked me and I almost took a few seconds to think about it- but then I realized that you just didn't want to be with me. I worked too damn hard for too damn long for you to slip away from me, we're so close, you should just enjoy the time we have together.

"You only had two glasses of wine, Y/N," I told you, and you bit your bottom lip, knowing that I was right- you were definitely sober. I almost got angry again, it upsets me deeply when you lie to me, but then I looked at your lip. I always loved it when you would bite your lip, you're lucky you're so beautiful, or else I would be very unhappy that you weren't telling the truth. "What's wrong?" I asked again, why was I not good enough for you?

"Sam, I'm sure you're a great guy..." Here comes the 'but', "...but maybe I'm not the right girl for you. You deserve someone who loves you just the same, and I'm sorry, I just don't." You told me, trying your best to let me down easy. I'll admit, it hurt to hear those words come out of your mouth, it hurt to hear things that I didn't want to hear. Here comes my 'but'... but I still love you no matter what. I just wish I never gave you the opportunity to speak up in the first place. I won't make that mistake again.

"I don't want to hurt you, Y/N, but you know I can't just leave. You know how long I've been waiting to have you all to myself," I told you honestly, hoping that you would understand where I was coming from. You nodded your head, fresh tears spilling down your rosy cheeks, and I gave you a soft smile. I knew you didn't want this, Hell, I didn't want this- I never wanted it to be so one-sided, but I tried my best to get past that. You being so compliant just shows me how much you were made for me. You couldn't even let me down even after knowing that I've been watching you for quite some time. You're so sweet that it makes the butterflies in my stomach go crazy. "I want you to enjoy this too." I told you and you stayed silent, which is fine- I am going to lose it if you tell me that you don't want me again. "Can you walk over to your bed with me?" I asked and it took you a few seconds before you nodded your head.

I helped you stand up, holding tightly onto your hand to make sure you didn't escape- but not tight enough to the point where you might think it was to hurt you. You faced me at the edge of your beautifully made bed, another thing I loved about you was how nice you kept your room, and you looked up to me for instruction. Your eyes are wide and glossy, but they're not spilling tears anymore. I hope it's because you want this and not because your tear well is empty, but it doesn't really matter to me anymore because I am finally going to have you. I dipped down to kiss your cheek and you didn't even flinch, maybe I'm growing on you. My hands landed tightly on your waist, picking you up and setting you on the bed. Now you're eye level with me and I take this perfect opportunity to kiss you again. My fingers travel up your body and lock themselves into your hair, pulling your face closer to mine and I wrap my lips onto yours. Just as soft, a little less salty as earlier, and becoming plumper as I suck on them.

You surprise me when your hands land on my waist and it sends a jolt of electricity through my body before I realize you're trying to push me away. It's okay, Y/N, I'll push through to you. I grab your wrists, I'll admit a little too harshly for my liking, and push them to your sides while I continue to devour your lips. I push my hips closer to yours, pressing against your clothed core, and you whimper into my mouth. You sound just as divine as I thought you would. I pull at the bottom of your shirt and naturally you fight me, but sooner or later you will realize that I will get what I want. Lifting your shirt above your head, I try my best not to look up at your face because I don't want to see the hurt in your eyes. I'm not hurting you. I'm making you feel better. I am making up for all of those shitty guys who could never satisfy you the way that you deserve to be satisfied.

Your shirt hits the floor and my mouth waters at the sight of your slightly clothed chest. I reach around your back to unclasp the simple black bra that you always wear on the nights that you take men home, I wonder why you fought Dean tonight- but I push that to the back of my mind as the fabric falls down your arms and reveals your perfect breasts. You're sobbing again, I can hear it, but all my mind can focus on is the fact that- right here, right now, you are all mine and nobody can take that away from me, not even you. I tried to be nice, I tried the talking thing, you cried and cried, but then I realized that you'd never give yourself to me like that. I'm not your usual guy, I don't go to bars or try to charm you by getting you drunk, I don't try to charm you by talking about myself- I've barely even talked to you at all, maybe I'm not your type. That's okay, it's just one night, Y/N. You owe me that much.

My hands find your breasts, cupping them until I feel your nipples harden against my palms. They're almost rock solid when I go to pinch them and the surrounding skin is prickled with goosebumps, I can feel myself growing harder in my jeans.

"Wait, Sam," You told me just before I lowered my face into your chest. I pulled back to look at you and you bit your lip again- it's like you know exactly how to get me going. "You've been watching me for a long time now, right?" You asked me, nervousness in your shaking breath. I nodded my head, hoping that you were becoming more willing to share yourself with me- it is definitely the best way to have you, but not my only choice if I had to. "So, you know I use condoms, then. I, uh, I don't like birth control because it-"

"Because it makes you cry too much," I cut you off before you can fully explain it. You frown at me and I tilt my head in return, I was just saving you time because I knew it would have taken you a while to explain.

"Sam, you're a freak, I hope you know that," You mutter under your breath and it's almost enough to make me knock you out, but I'll give you another try. I'm not a freak... I just love you a little more than I should. "Condoms are in-"

"Bottom drawer, left side," I finish your sentence, see how well I know you? Don't you see how much I care for you? You nod your head and you get goosebumps all over your body again, your nipples like delicate flowers blooming in the springtime.

All right, we're definitely getting somewhere. By you telling me this- caring about how I take you, shows me that maybe just maybe you want me too. I leave you there, trusting you not to run anymore, and I make my way to your nightstand. The bottom drawer encases well over a hundred rubbers, all different sizes, even different flavors which is interesting because you don't let them in your mouth. I pick a random one up, hoping that maybe it will fit, but then again I don't really care. You're lying back on the bed, arms covering your chest, and looking back at me. You are so effortlessly beautiful, so pretty when you're not trying to fight me off. I walk back to the edge of the bed and you don't pick your head up to look at me, but it's okay. I'll take what I can get- at least you're not crying anymore.

I climb on, the weight of my body into the soft mattress making you fall a little bit closer to me. It's like you knew I was going to move your arms as you lay them at your side, fully exposing your bare chest to me. I give you a small smile and you roll your eyes at me in return, you're lucky I find it cute when you do that. As much as I want to stare at you like this for eternity, the twitching member in my pants tells me that I should get you even more undressed. You lay there, almost lifeless, as I thumb your jeans open. I undo the zipper, taking my time with it as I hook my fingers into the waistband. You don't help me or lift your hips when I start to pull down, which is fine, you're perfect just the way you are. Then, your jeans hit the floor and your panties are the only thing in the way from me seeing all of you. You look beautiful like this and I waste no time taking my own shirt off.

When I turn around to throw my shirt on the ground I feel your hands on my stomach. They're small and warm as they smooth along the dips of my muscles and I turn back to look at you. My eyebrows furrow in confusion and when you smile at me all of my concerns melt away. You move around, which makes my heart beat out of my chest, and you end up on your knees in front of me. For a change of pace, I don't know what to do when your hands pull my head closer to you and you place your lips on mine. When I kiss you back and rest my hands on the sides of your neck, your fingers leave my hair and land comfortably on my sides. It feels so good to have you kiss me back, you're nipping at my bottom lip with your teeth and swirling your tongue inside of me. Months I waited for this to happen and it's even more surreal than I thought it would be. You know what you're doing and it's evident by the way you lead my lips back and forth with your own. I knew you were perfect when I chose you. Then you pull back and my lips chase yours.

"Am I the freak now?" You ask me, your eyes soft. I shake my head 'no' and I feel your delicate fingers trail down my v-line to the top of my jeans. I look down as they unsecured the button, blinking a few times to make sure I wasn't having a hallucination, and I hear you giggle softly. "Why didn't you just ask for my number, Sam? I mean, I'm flattered, really- I just wish it didn't happen like this." You told me and I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out, and you continued to talk for me. "You're handsome, you're tall, you seem like you have a lot of problems. If you really knew me then you would realize that you're my exact type. Why didn't you just talk to me?" You asked, looking into my eyes as you roughly pushed my jeans down. I was stunned, was this real life? You were just crying, refusing to kiss me back, and now you're trying to tell me that I should have asked for your number? "I'm assuming you're the reason that the creepy cashier ended up on the five o'clock news? He was beaten up pretty badly, Sam. You didn't have to do that for me." You told me and I still couldn't find the right words, that was months ago. He was going to hurt you, I heard him talk about it with his friends, I saved you. But you knew it was me? I should be the one asking why you didn't come up to me when you figured that one out, why you didn't thank me as soon as it happened. "Would that have happened to me too?"

"No, of course not. I'd never hurt you, Y/N," I told you, cupping your cheek and you rolled your eyes again, swatting my hand away.

"You didn't think that raping me would be painful? Or leave me scarred for life?" You scoffed and I shook my head in protest.

"No, I didn't want to hurt you like that, but you kept fighting, and- No, I'm not like that," I sighed, trying my best to come up with a reasonable explanation for you.

"But, you are like that, Sam," You counteracted me and I frowned. I was hoping you'd never see me that way, all I wanted was to show you how much I loved you.

"But, I didn't have to be that way. I mean, look at where we are-" I began to reexplain myself again, but you shook your head immediately.

"Don't you dare act like I asked for this. Don't do it. I'm making this better for me, not for you." You cut me off and I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. Is that really the way you see me? Is that the only reason you kissed me back and pushed my jeans down my thighs? "Don't look so sad. Take what you want and go." You told me, bitterness in your voice as you shoved your hand in my boxers. I couldn't help but let out a throaty groan when your soft hand wrapped around me, pumping me even though I was already fully hard for you. You never did this with anyone else, though. You always let them prepare themselves, I couldn't help but feel like I was special. I kissed you hard as you continued to twist me in all directions, masking my moans in your mouth as I could already feel myself getting close- but I wasn't going to cum, not yet. This was all about you.

I pushed you back lightly, following you with my mouth as your back hit the soft mattress. Your hand worked wonders as my lips trailed down your neck, sucking in your wonderful scent and even tasting the bitterness of your perfume. My hand reached your wrist, pulling you out of my boxers, and I rested it by your side. I kicked my jeans down my legs and onto the floor as I climbed off the bed. Pulling you by your thighs, I heard you gasp as I dragged you down to the edge of the bed. My hands worked hastily, guiding your black panties down your legs in one swift move and purposefully throwing them on top of my jeans- so I could keep them for memory's sake.

Then I looked back down at your naked body, your slick glistening in the dim lighting as I licked my lips. You were perfectly wet for me and I couldn't wait any longer to dive into your heat. My knees hit the carpet as I wrapped my hands around your thighs, holding you down and placing my tongue on you. Your back arched, your hands found their place in my hair, and small moans left your mouth as I drank all of the sweetness from your body. You tasted so much better than I could ever have imagined and your whimpers sounded heavenly, especially after knowing that I was causing them. Your clit was easy to find and I wrapped my lips around it, causing you to lift your thighs but I held them down for easier access. The sounds coming from your mouth combined with the noises coming from latching onto you was a deadly combination and motivated me even further to continue to try and burst the coil that I knew was growing in your stomach.

In all of my time watching those men take you, very few had the pleasure of tasting you- and when they did, they would go on for a minute or so before becoming selfish and getting ahead of themselves. Sex isn't a one-sided thing and I understand that, I want you to feel just as good as I will later on. I won't leave until I rip an orgasm from your body and I know you're getting close. I'm alternating from sucking and kitten licks on your sensitive sweet spot and you have yet to cease from moaning underneath me. Your moans are almost enough to make me come undone inside of my boxers, you sound so perfect. But maybe they just aren't as good as I am. Maybe I only need a minute to have you cumming in my mouth because your hands in my hair are gripping tighter, your thighs are getting harder to hold down, and you're screaming yes. You taste sweeter and more natural than honey and my mouth is making obscene noises as I try my best to coerce your first orgasm. I let go of your thighs, opting to hold onto your hips, and they wrap around my head. Your legs push me deeper into your core and it's getting harder to breathe but I don't care. My nose is just above your heat, my chin is deliciously soaked in you, and your legs are starting to shake against my ears.

Soon enough, you're screaming profanities and coming undone under my influence, but I won't stop until I work you through it. Your breathing is unsteady as you spill fresh juices onto my tongue and your hands attempt to push me away. Lapping up all of your climax and letting my taste buds soak in how good you taste, you begin to whine uncomfortably. I figure it's time to stop, so I flatten my tongue and start at your core- leading up until I feel you shudder underneath me when I hit your bundle of nerves. Your legs relax as I pull my face up, wiping my chin off on my forearm, and I smile- knowing that I'm going to smell like you by the time I leave.

"See, this isn't all about me, Y/N," I smirk, a little cockier than usual, and you give me a small and out-of-breath smile. "When was the last time you came because of a guy?" I asked you and you shrugged your shoulders.

"I- um, maybe a few months ago," You said breathlessly, your smile never fading from your lips.

"Four months ago. An asshole named Rich, but it was only because you were watching a sex scene on your TV, wasn't it?" I asked you, hovering over you and placing a kiss on your lips. You didn't care that you had just came in my mouth nor that I answered your question better than you did, you kissed me back hungrily and wrapped your hands around my neck. You even trailed my lips as I lifted up, whining when they disconnected, and I knew there was no way you didn't want me. You could put on a front and say that you didn't ask for it, and I might have believed you, but, ultimately, I would have known you were lying.

Your hands pushed against my chest and I stumbled a few feet back. I looked at you in confusion and you gave me an innocent smile as you climbed off of the bed. "You know I don't do this, right?" You asked, lowering onto your knees at my feet. I couldn't help but feel nervous when your hand wrapped around me, I've never seen you do this with anyone before. "Hm?" You asked again and I felt my breath hitch in my throat as you stroked my cock in your hands.

"I- I know," I told you, gulping eagerly, and watching as you wrapped your lips around me. A guttural moan escaped my throat at the sensation of your warm tongue circling around my tip, sucking lightly, and collecting all of the precum I produced just for you. I don't know what changed or made you decide to do this, but I didn't mind. I didn't even think about the possibility of feeling your lips wrapped around me- I never saw you do it with anyone else and I didn't get my hopes up. So, now, I'm here and you're sucking me down and I feel completely ill-prepared. It almost made me feel pathetic when I felt my climax bubbling too quickly and you had only been working me for thirty seconds, but with another fifteen I would be spilling into your mouth- I couldn't let that happen.

My hands entangled in your hair and pulled you off, your lips making a loud pop as they disconnect from my length. You gave me a shit-eating grin when I helped you stand up, knowing exactly how good you were. Maybe you never sucked their dicks because you didn't want them to cum before they got the chance to please you.

"You know what you didn't learn about me, Sammy?" You asked in a tone so close to a whisper as you grabbed me in your hand again. You gave me a nickname, don't think I take that lightly. My eyes looked down and back up into yours- which seemed so innocent and young it was hard to believe that your body count was so high. "I don't cum because they're not rough enough." You told me, hinting at your devious fantasies, making my urge to fuck your brains out ten times stronger. "Are you going to be able to help me with that or are you too eager already?" You asked with a cocky smirk, twisting your hand around me faster. The best part was knowing that you were taunting me on purpose- you wanted all of the power, you didn't want me to get the chance because you know the effects that you have on me. You wanted for me to cum in your hand, show you that I'm just like the rest of them. I know you, Y/N, and I'm not going to let you down no matter how low you think of me.

My head dipped down, ghosting your lips and taunting you like you were taunting me before I grabbed your arms and spun you around. You squealed when I pressed a firm hand on your back, keeping you down as I got prepared to make you wish you didn't ask for it rough. Then, I gave you no warning as I guided myself to your entrance, slamming myself fully into you.

"You forgot the condom," You whined as my legs hit the back of your thighs. If I ever wanted a chance to do this again, I knew I had to listen to you, so I pulled out. Reaching over you, I grabbed the foil on your bed and quickly ripped into the package. My big ass fingers had a hard time unrolling the lubricated rubber and putting it around my painfully hard cock. Just before I put it all the way on, I made sure to clip the end with my fingernails- leaving a small hole that you wouldn't be able to see me make anyways. "Thank you." You told me and I smiled, knowing you wouldn't be able to tell a difference anyway. If this one time happened to get you pregnant, it would be a blessing- there'd be no way for you to escape me.

Then, I decided to try again. I held myself in my hand, not particularly fond of the residue the condom left and nudged the tip of my cock at your entrance. I grabbed onto your hips and pulled you back on to me, only to slam into you which pushed you forward. You were so much tighter than I expected, so much warmer around me, and you sounded so good when you gasped. I took no time waiting to pull out and slam back into you again, the noise of the bed creaking mixing perfectly with your loud whimpers. Your cunt squeezed around my cock as I quickly found the perfect pace to fuck you at. I would be fully inside of you for less than a second before I would pull out and do it all again. One hand stayed on your hip while the other grabbed the back of your head, pulling your chest off of the bed and making your back arch. This position felt so much better and I knew that the new angle was sure to make the tip of my cock hit your g-spot with every thrust by the way you were moaning. You were whispering fuck under your breath every time my hips hit your ass, gripping the soft comforter under you for support.

I fucked into you fast and hard, just like you said you liked, and I silently thanked myself for jogging every day. My stamina was unmatched and I was able to keep the pace that had you screaming for more. I was surprised with myself for not cumming the second I entered you, but I needed for you to cum again before I did. The hand that rested on your hip moved to your clit, making your legs shake underneath me. You were close, you were screaming that you were close, and it all sounded like music to my ears. Your cunt dangerously clenched around me every time I pulled out like you were trying to milk me, but I knew it wasn't on purpose. I knew you were clenching around me because your climax was coming much faster than you could have imagined, it was just your body naturally responding to mine and I knew, now more than ever, that God made you for me.

Your palms grasped onto the blanket, making your knuckles turn white, as your body jolted forward with every thrust. "Fuck, Sam!" You screamed and I bent over to kiss at your neck, humming into you as I tried not to cum at the sound of my name leaving your lips. Your hand came down, pushing my fingers harder onto your clit and you moaned loudly as you came undone for the second time. Your legs were shaking erratically as you pulled my hand away from your core, squeezing my fingers tightly as you practically cried around me. You were holding my hand and it was sweaty, but it felt so good to hold you like this. I kept the pace up, fucking you hard throughout the entirety of your orgasm, using your sweet cries as inspiration for my own that was coming sooner than later. Pulling my lips away from your neck, I let go of your hair and grasped onto your hips again. I was grunting, moaning, and groaning as I fucked you faster than before. It wasn't hard to chase my release as your body collapsed onto the bed and I stilled in your cunt, fully inside of you as I felt my climax leave my body. Panting for breath, I stayed inside of you until my orgasm washed over me and I could barely see straight or hear your whimpers.

When I pulled out, I quickly took the condom off and got rid of the evidence, hoping to god that you wouldn't notice that my cum was slowly leaking out of your cunt- hopefully, you'd think it was your own. You rolled onto your back, panting, giving me a tired smile, and cupped your breasts because I assumed it was just comfortable. I hovered over you, placing one last kiss on your lips before I turned around and began to dress myself. Pulling my boxers up, I watched as you propped yourself on your elbows and you frowned at me.

"You're leaving?" You asked me and it made me stop in my tracks, isn't that what you wanted? You never let anyone else stay, even the guy that ended up making you cum, so why were you asking? "You decided you're going to stalk me for six months, give me the best sex of my life, and then leave?" You asked again, light laughter leaving your lips.

"You- you want me to stay?" I asked, uneasiness in my voice, as I prayed that you would say yes.

"If you promise not to murder me in my sleep, I'll even cook you breakfast," You said with a small smile plastered on your face.

#sam winchester #supernatural #fanfic #oneshot #jared padalecki

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cherry3point14 · 4 years

Text

The Wrong Winchester - One Year Later

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Sam x Eileen Warnings: Cavity protection required. Word Count: 12,304. (WHY) Summary: One year after the fiasco that was Fourth of July, you’re back in Kansas and back at the Winchesters. This time with their other son. A/N: A sequel for the trope fluff fest that was The Wrong Winchester. Somehow this is fluffier and more trope-y! Listen, I didn’t say it was good, just that it exists. Happy 4th July my bitches! (*sobs in the corner* this was supposed to be a timestamp)

Ao3 if you prefer.

June has been cool this year, more so than normal, but then the heat of July hits like clockwork. Even though you enjoy airplanes, and the AC they provide, you’ve done the drive because Dean hates flying. It’s not even a compromise because the detour your journey takes means that it’s Thursday evening by the time you arrive in Lawrence. Sam and Eileen got there mid-morning. You’re hoping that the Winchesters are so distracted getting to know her that you can slip in like an old piece of furniture, unnoticed and ignored.

It’s when he turns the corner onto their street, and the family home looms in the distance, that it hits you. You’re here, again, and you’re doing this, again. And nobody would ever believe it but this is considerably worse because this time you love the guy sitting next to you.

Not that you’ve told him that yet. It’s been a slow year.

Loving Dean does complicate things though. It means that you care what the Winchesters think of you. Last year, pretending, was a walk in the park in comparison. You knew Sam was fake breaking up with you after you left. You could have cheated on Sam in front of him and it wouldn’t have mattered because it was all, well, fake.

Although you did kind of cheat on Sam in front of him. Boy, did you hope Sam hadn’t told them about that.

Now, the house you’re pulling up at makes your toes curl inside your shoes while hurried excuses start pouring out. “You’re positive you don’t want to stay in a hotel? Take the pressure off your mom having to entertain us and Sam and Eileen. That’s a lot of guests.” You nod to yourself convincingly while you stare at the front door.

He smiles at you like you’re adorable, which you don’t appreciate. “If you’re looking to make her hate you, then yeah, go ahead and tell my Mom you’re taking her firstborn to a hotel for the weekend.”

You huff and pout your lips so he knows exactly how frustrated you are, “I know you’re right, doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

“When are you ever?” He counters, smirking as he gets out of the car. You follow suit although you’re convinced that as your foot hits the stone driveway you can hear the ticking of a countdown. One small step for you, one giant leap to your doom.

Dean grabs your case and his duffel from the trunk, settling one on top of the other so that he has a free hand to wrap around your waist. It’s probably a picturesque image, him walking you to the house like that. You’re not sure if he’s being nice or making sure you don’t run away. Dean’s a smart man so it’s probably a little of both.

His hand reaches to open the door but even after the long drive from Chicago, your reactions are lightning-fast. You pull his arm back to stop him and answer the silent look on his dumb face, “shut up. We should knock.”

“Did you give Sammy this much trouble last year?”

His joke drags a smile out of you, not a laugh but a smile. He’s been trying to calm you down the whole journey. You don’t get nervous often, so seeing you this anxious has both worried and amused him. He’s settled for being supportive, he’s done everything he can to take your mind off of this moment. He told you exaggerated fake facts about Kansas to stop you complaining that the entire state was too damn hot. He distracted you with questions about the case you’re working on when you panicked about exactly how Sam had explained everything all those months ago. And most importantly he fed you. A few hours out he’d pulled into a drive-through and minutes later you’d found yourself pulled over on a random stretch of highway, legs crossed, and a brown paper bag in your lap. He’d wiped sauce from the corner of your mouth and watched you wolf down cheese fries.

Dean knew how to keep you happy for the hours you’ve spent in Baby. But now that you’re finally standing at the threshold he, apparently, thinks it’s time to throw you to the wolves, which he does, literally.

In one swift movement, the door is open before you can rap your knuckles against it and he uses his arm—the one that’s around your waist—to guide you inside. Except guiding you inside is more like a gentle push, which means you trip your way into the Winchester family home while Dean remains safely on the porch.

“What the f-?” The end of your sentence never makes it past your lips, thankfully, considering the gathering in the living room as you turn your head.

Sam and Eileen are sitting opposite Mary and John, all of them holding a drink, clearly mid-conversation. They all stop. Four pairs of eyes are now trained on you. Even after a too-long second has passed none of them move as if your presence has frozen them in time. A perpetual state of being horrified by your existence.

“Dean!?” You don’t exactly shout but there’s a worried twang to your voice and still, none of them move. In fact, Sam doesn’t even attempt to help, which is a betrayal you won’t allow to pass unpunished or forgotten.

That’s for another day. Right now you’re about thirty seconds away from your first actual panic attack in years.

Dean slips in behind you, eventually. Even walking in with the bags he’s more graceful than you had been stumbling in. Not that you compliment him on that. You’re too preoccupied because you might have broken the Winchesters.

“Honey!” Mary beams with happiness at the sight of her eldest son and jumps up from her seat like a mannequin come to life. Whatever spell had been cast breaks so quickly that it might not have happened at all. Every single person takes a breath again and Mary walks over, wine forgotten on the coffee table, to hug Dean the way you’d seen her do a year ago.

“Mom!” He hugs her back, wrapping her up in his arms and lifting her from the floor an inch or two. You want to say he’s the cutest thing ever with that childlike smile on his face.

That’s what you want to say.

Unfortunately, the innocence doesn’t last as his expression morphs into a cocky smirk with a waving hand in your direction once he lets his mother go. “You remember Y/N, right?”

Is he freaking kidding?

Mary’s face steels, as if Dean had never entered the room. Your best friend and his girlfriend, who you know pretty well at this point, remain safely in their seats. And your boyfriend, your goddamn boyfriend who you love and trust, is standing there at an arm's length like this is an early fireworks display. The fuses have been lit and he is waiting for the explosives to go off.

The only person in the room who dares to make eye contact with you—outside of the matriarch—is John freaking Winchester. And he has the audacity to smile sweetly at you. Or as sweetly as John Winchester is capable of.

“Of course I remember Y/N.” Mary’s words are friendly but her tone does not mirror the sentiment. She taps her chin with one extended finger, thinking, “you were on Sam’s arm last year, if I remember rightly.”

You were going to murder Sam and thanks to your job you’d get away with it too. “I’m so sorry Mary, Sam told me he explained. It was all a misunderstanding, I was only…”

“Only jumping around between my boys? Or was the misunderstanding when we welcomed you into our home and you lied to us?”

You may have met your match. You could never admit this to the district attorney's office but Mary has found a way to silence you with a stare. Your lips snap shut without a good answer for her. You feel like a child being chastised for making a mess.

In fairness you had made a mess last year, however, you cleaned it up afterward.

Your eyes dart to the still-open front door before you rummage up an answer. “I don’t think jumping between them is very fair, Sam and I weren’t a real thing. I mean we’re still besties, even if he won’t call us that, but we were pretending. Which is still wrong but I defy any of you to say no to him when he does that dopey puppy face of his. Anyway I know he told you it was his idea, because it was, and I made sure he told you that because I don’t want you thinking that I came up with it and…”

“Great, you got her stuck in a loop, Mom.” Dean grumbles with a roll of his eyes.

“What?” You interrupt your own rambling to frown at him.

That’s when it happens. Mary breaks out into a grin so similar to Dean's that it’s frightening. If Sam got his smile from his mother then Dean inherited her devious smirk.

“It was your idea.” She answers your seemingly caring boyfriend.

You’re confused, as you should be. Hours. Days. Weeks of dreading this moment and this weekend. None of this makes any sense.

“I hate to sound like a broken record but, what?”

Mary turns her brightness on you, in the distance, John barks out a laugh and cracks his hand against his thigh as if this all went completely as planned.

“I’m sorry Y/N. We were only playing. It’s great to see you again.”

Then she hugs you, stiff as you may be from the complicated mix of annoyance and residual fear that you’re feeling. Her arms around you exude motherly warmth, something you’re unfamiliar with, until your muscles relax in her grip.

Over Mary’s shoulder, Dean is pressing his lips together to stop himself laughing and then finally your brain catches up. That bastard set you up. He sold you down the river. Still mid-hug you silently mouth to him, “I’m going to kill you.”

That sends Dean over the edge and a deep belly laugh escapes him. He doesn’t even attempt to apologize. He’s too caught up in how funny he thinks he is.

“So, you were all in on this? You too Sammy?” You splay your hand across your chest now that Mary has released you.

Mary links her arm with yours and leans in as if she didn’t rob you of ten years of your life, “if it helps Eileen told us we were being mean.”

You smile at Eileen, your now very good friend, as you take a seat next to her, “at least someone has my back.”

She shrugs nonchalantly, “well, Sam’s girlfriends need to stick together.”

And just like that. The final knife in your back sets them all off howling with laughter again. This was obviously going to be a long weekend.

It's not even day one, that starts tomorrow. It's been a few hours at best and you're already in bed and staring a hole in the ceiling. Ordinarily, you might be questioning why there is a suspicious rectangle that is whiter than the rest. As if the patch of paint had seen less light than the rest of the room like a poster had been there or something.

“You gotta tell me.”

You scoff. He has done nothing to earn any answers from you so far. Looking after you during the journey must have been an act to lull you into a false sense of security because he jumped ship as soon as you arrived. Winchesters are a tight-knit bunch.

“Come on, please?”

It sucks that you love this idiot, it sucks that you haven’t told him, it’s even worse that you cannot resist him. You roll over to his whining voice and prop yourself up on your elbow. It was foolish to ever hope for a good night's sleep when he’s amped up to be in his childhood home again. You can’t say that you remember him being like this last year but, then again, last year you were avoiding him since you were pretending to date his brother. “Oh my god, if I tell you will you let me sleep already?”

Dean nods, using a finger to draw a cross over his chest. Even in the dark, you can see the crinkles of his eyes deepen playfully, “cross my heart. I’ll even help you get off to sleep, by way of apology.” His fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear to hint at his meaning, under his oversized Zeppelin shirt you’re sleeping in.

“Nice try Benedict Arnold, I haven’t forgotten what you did to me.”

He knows by the tone of your voice he won’t get anywhere right now, although it’s nothing to do with his betrayal. You’re still obsessed with somehow clawing back any semblance of a good impression. Sex in his childhood bed doesn’t strike you as the correct way to go about that. He doesn’t tease and try to change your mind with filthy words he knows you love. You think maybe Dean knows tonight isn't the night either. Maybe that’s why he’s asking questions instead.

His hand slides up over your waist and settles comfortingly around your middle—almost as if he knows he has some groveling to do. He asks again hoping to get one of the things he wants; answers. “C’mon. Just tell me. I’ll tell you mine.”

You haven’t spoken much about last year with Dean and you were absolutely fine with that. Last Fourth of July wasn’t exactly a Kodak moment for you. It almost cost you Sam and as much as you love Dean, Sam’s friendship is one of the very foundations of your adult life. Sure last year was the kind of thing you’ve joked about, but the nitty-gritty details had stayed where they should, in the past.

However, being back here, albeit in the next room over to the one you’d previously occupied, has apparently opened the topic up for conversation.

“Fine. You really want to know?”

“With all my heart.”

“God, you’re lucky you’re cute. At the airport. Okay?”

His smile widens until you can see his teeth shine. “You’re joking?”

You bury your face in the pillow, only coming up for air when necessary despite the way he pokes your sides to make you squirm. “No, I’m not joking. I wasn’t sleepy getting off the plane. I was trying to figure out if there was a way for me to make out with my fake boyfriend's hot older brother.”

“You were too good for your fake boyfriend anyway.” He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, “too good for me too.”

He shouldn’t be allowed to catch you off guard like that, it’s against the rules. Yet he does it all the time. The sweetest secrets whispered in your ear while you’re brushing your teeth or watching a movie. As if he needs to tell you as soon as the thought pops into his head. And it’s not fair because he deserved some silent treatment or something. You know he’ll be back to his tricks tomorrow, so he should pay tonight. But now instead of being annoyed at him, your lips are following his while you realize you were never really mad in the first place.

His wandering hand moves to wrap around your neck, his fingers are lost in your hair and his thumb traces over your jaw. This is the classic Dean trick. He thinks he’s so smooth and that one day he’ll manage to keep you attached to his mouth forever if he holds you there, just right.

As much as you want to appease him, it never lasts. Eventually, you always need air in your pesky, needy lungs. Tonight though it ends with your hand on his chest nudging him off of you. “No way. You owe me yours. Come on, when did you start like-liking me?” You finish the question in a sarcastically childish voice.

Dean is nothing if not fair, sometimes, and he would never break a promise. He leans back a little and adopts what you have dubbed his ‘thinking face’. It may be nighttime but you’d recognize that furrowed brow anywhere.

“When I found you in my bedroom.” He finally answers.

It takes a whole second to remember. “Really? You mean when I was trying to find the bathroom?”

“Yeah, I mean a guy comes back to his room and finds a pretty girl...”

It’s your turn to frown, “wait. Correct me if I’m wrong but you’re saying that your ‘moment’ was when you found me in your room, in my pajamas, with bed head and a full bladder?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You were all cute an’ twitchy when I caught you, then suddenly you’re all fired up and telling me off for making fun of you. You were a little spitfire.”

You drop your forehead to his chest and let out a laugh. Trust Dean to like you because you busted his balls.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, “good enough answer?”

You yawn, happily, and shimmy down into bed proper. “It was your game De. The question is are you happy with yours?”

He settles down next to you, close enough to hear the deep, “mm hmm” in his throat.

Almost everything is different this year but one fact remains the same. You can take the running gear from Sam but you can’t stop Sam from going running.

He has emergency running shoes in his closet.

The new part is that you’re up as early as he is. You’re sitting on the sofa with your laptop propped up on your knees, with yet another witness statement that you were sure was made up. It was too perfect and a jury would never buy it.

By the time Sam, the sweat machine, returns you’re typing a passive-aggressive email to that effect.

“You had any coffee yet?” He asks with two mugs in his hands, passing one to you.

You take the mug without looking up from the screen and swallow a scalding sip, which you only half notice burns your tongue. “Obviously not. Your mom is in there and she still scares me.”

He laughs but doesn’t question it. He doesn’t need to. Dean may have dealt with you on the long drive and whenever he was in town but Sam deals with you every day. He has been privy to almost every one of your breakdowns in the last month. June felt longer than thirty days.

Sam sits down next to you and starts watching the news channel you’d been ignoring. It takes a minute but eventually, he grabs the remote to pause the screen, “ah, there’s my favorite celebrity lawyer.”

You don't need to look up to know that you are on the TV.

“I won’t be anyone’s lawyer if I don’t figure out why my client insists on lying to me and getting people to lie on his behalf.” Your fingers get dangerously close to pounding the plastic keyboard into smithereens. “Hasn’t he heard of attorney-client privilege?”

“Okay. I think you need a little break from that.” He says prying the laptop from you and closing it on the coffee table, so you can’t see the screen anymore.

You want to be mad at him but, of course, you can’t. You look up at him and his soft smile that’s all kinds of sympathetic to the workload you’ve been bearing of late. If you weren’t being driven insane by the biggest case of your career then maybe you’d be a little more rational when it came to this weekend.

Although, that’s unlikely. You were always going to go crazy about this particular get together.

“I swear sometimes I think he’s actually stupid. I’m trying to help him. Why did he even think he could escape arrest in the third most populated city in America?” You shuffle yourself so that you’re sitting sideways and facing him. Despite your insults about your client, the question is earnest.

“Probably figured it’s the only way he’d get to hire you.”

You roll your eyes, “sure, that’s why I’m co-counsel to fucking New York’s finest Marcus Delaney, who he trusts like a fucking brother.”

Sam widens his eyes at you in warning but you catch on too late; his mother is in the next room. You both hold your breath waiting for a reaction. When nothing happens you relax and he answers the least important part of your statement, “technically you’re a New York native too.”

“Objection, relevance?”

“Well, you mentioned…”

“Nah-uh. Enough about me. You took my laptop away so now we have to talk about you.” You smirk into your cup.

Sam knows where this is going. He told you his news two entire weeks ago, it worked like a charm and was also the biggest mistake of his life. Because two weeks ago Sam invited you to his office for lunch and told you over takeout that he was getting married.

He wanted to tell you because you’re his best friend. He’d told you before Dean and sworn you to secrecy until he’d called his brother later that day. Both of you knew the news was coming anyway, so it wasn’t really a race. Sam had been wringing his hands over how to ask the love of his life for weeks before he did it. You only found out about the ‘yes’ before Dean, because Sam had been trying to calm you down after another ‘4th of July freak-out’.

Sam had forgotten what happens if a seven-year-old gets their hands on too much sugar. Or, to be more precise, what happens when he gives a big, juicy, sensitive piece of information to you. Now he can't get you to shut up about it.

He sighs. He’s still facing the TV even though your eyes are on him. “I should have let you keep working, shouldn’t I?”

“Too late for that, Sammy. Have you decided when you’re telling everyone yet?”

He shifts to side-eye you, “oh, yeah. I was thinking, how about never?”

“You can’t bring your devoted fiance home for the weekend and not tell them!” You’re keeping your voice low but it’s insistent all the same.

“Ok. What about at the airport?”

“We’re dropping you back to the airport.”

“Right, before that then.”

You laugh, “why did you even come this weekend if you’re going to chicken out?”

“I’m not going to chicken out but, would it be so bad if I did? I brought you last year to avoid my Mom's crazy and now… I mean this will be like Defcon two.”

You wonder, briefly, what triggers Defcon one. Considering how quickly Mary had asked you if you were pregnant last year, you’d wager it’d be grandchildren.

In the pause where you both sip your morning caffeine again, neither of you notice the slight creak. The kind of creak where a door begins to open but never does.

“All I’m saying is, getting married is an amazing thing. It’s time to share the happy news. Hell, I’ll go wake Dean and we can do it now.”

“That’s easily the worst idea you’ve ever had. And I’m including the outfit you wore to the first office Christmas party.”

He’s walking right into your trap. “I dusted that number off for your brother over Christmas, you know.”

“Oh god. I don’t need to know about you and-and him-and a sexy Santa's helper costume.” He actually gets up, sweeps his mug with him, and sours his face.

“You brought it up, Sammy!” You're grinning all wide and evil, calling after him.

He pauses with his back leaning against the kitchen door, at the same time that Eileen walks in. “I hate you.”

You look up at her and sigh, “you see the way he talks to me when you’re not around?”

This is not the first time Eileen has been caught in the middle of you two, so she laughs and promises, “I’ll talk to him about that.”

Sometimes Dean likes to yank your chain and sometimes you like to yank his. It’s what makes you kind of perfect for each other, any bruised egos or pouting lips are part of the game you play. An excellent example is the way he’d betrayed you already this weekend. You weren’t mad, well, maybe a little, but in the end, you forgave him because it’s him.

In all the jokes there’s one thing that Dean knows not to play around with, one thing that he wouldn’t dare mess with.

Winchester. Family. Baseball.

You had agreed to wear his dumb spare jersey the same as you’d done for Sam. Like Eileen was doing for Sam this year. Although you had to admit her shorts are a little more family-friendly.

You’d even made a sign. A big piece of poster board, some markers, glitter, and stickers that you had gone to Target to buy special. It said GO TEAM DEAN! With a heart to dot the exclamation point. The sign was a surprise. When you’d shown him before leaving for the game he’d called you a dork and smiled so wide you worried his face might break.

You were ready for the game because you were safe. The worst thing that you expect is the comments when you turn up with a ‘1’ on your shirt this year instead of a ‘2’. You’ve already dealt with this from Mary and John but you weren’t so blind to forget about the rest of the family.

Charlie laughs at you when she notices, straight away, and threateningly asks for the story later. Bobby simply says, “switched teams, huh?” Before walking off. Granted he doesn’t seem to judge you, merely stating the observation like an interesting factoid. And Gabe starts, “lookie here when do I-” but smartly stops. He’s too tongue in cheek to be offensive but the look on Deans’ face might have something to do with his change of heart.

All of that you could handle. Par for the course. You had been ready for it because—can’t stress this enough—you were safe. Today was going to be a fun day of cheering on your boyfriend at his weird family baseball game.

You’re so sure of yourself that you even helped Mary pack drinks and snacks, with Eileen as a buffer, because you knew you’d get to enjoy said food. As a spectator.

When John does his ‘gather round me for I am John Winchester’ bit to pick the teams you’re choosing your spot in the stands. A little area in the front row for you, Mary and Eileen where you’re putting the food. You don’t join said gathering because that’s how not relevant it was to your life. You’d find out the teams when they’re playing and you’re only fifteen feet away from them all. You can hear them barking out names fine.

Dean picks Micheal. Sam makes a comment like ‘big surprise’. Bickering ensues until John gets them to focus up.

You could write this stuff in your sleep. You don’t want to call them predictable, considering this was only your second year here, but sometimes the truth is right there in front of you. And the truth is Winchester family baseball is going exactly how you expect.

Actually it’s the one thing that is going how you expect this weekend. Frankly, you needed that, some stability. Something you could rely on.

“Y/N”

Time slows down. In your head, you can hear that siren noise from Kill Bill and the world is suddenly devoid of color, except one. A red light flashes over your vision, as you turn in comically slow motion to find out which one of those idiots betrayed you.

Dean. Of course. The goddamn one you’re in love with.

He has the absolute gall to wave at you from where he’s standing. Smiling like, well, like it’s Fourth of July weekend and he innocently picked his girlfriend to play a game with him. That’s what it must look like to his family anyway.

To you? You feel like Lady Macbeth. Disappointed and betrayed by your significant other who can't do his one job. You’re not even asking him to kill the King of Scotland, all he had to do was not say your name.

Before you have an opportunity to write yourself out of this tragedy, he’s waving you over and your legs start walking. Apparently your body listens to him more than it listens to your own brain. Was nothing sacred anymore?

“There’s my girl.”

Those words would normally make you weak at the knees. Unfortunately for Dean, when it comes to baseball, you’re not melting that easy.

When you reach him you smile until you’re close enough to mutter dangerously, “I’m going to make you disappear and it'll look like an accident.”

You notice people dispersing which means your amazing boyfriend waited to call you till last. Not only did he screw you over but he made you the embarrassing last pick.

He leans in to kiss you and breathes against you, “you know you love playing with me.”

God, you do. You love playing with this dick, who apparently hates you, as well as his dick. Not baseball granted but other games.

“‘Sides,” he continues in your silence, “you don’t want to let all that practice go to waste.”

“All that practice? Practice?” You pull your head back, unable to resist showing him how offended you are, “you mean the time you forced me to go to the batting cages?”

He crosses his hands at your back and pulls you to him until your thighs are pressed against his. Were it not for his jeans then it would be incredibly inappropriate for a family baseball game. Actually, with the jeans, it might still be inappropriate.

“I seem to remember someone enjoying my arms wrapped around her while I taught her how to hit. I also seem to remember that someone forgot all about me in a damn second once she could do it on her own.”

“It was very stress relieving, I kept pretending the ball was the dummy who took me to the batting cages.”

A laugh rumbles through him, his body is so close to yours that you feel it in your stomach.

“Come on, this will be fun. You need more fun.”

You poke a finger into his chest, an inch above the collar of his jersey, “don't pretend you're doing me a favor. if I remember the rules, I don’t have a choice. But don’t you worry, I won’t forget this.”

He grins in that ‘brighter than the sun’ Dean way, “I know baby. I know.”

You’d made it home four times, an impressive three more than last year. None of them were from hitting a home run or anything preposterous. You do hit the ball almost every time though. You still couldn’t catch, throw or run--all three skills are apparently super essential in baseball. You can connect the bat with the ball though. Everyone seems pretty impressed every time it happens, if only they knew how impressed you were every time you manage it.

Your lack of skills aside, when Dean wins, he leans you over his arm and kisses you rightly. As if it’s V-J day and he single-handedly stopped WWII. Eileen sneaks up on Sam, from where she’d been watching in the stands. Although your ASL is not perfect, you’re at least 80% sure that her hand's sign “sucks to be you,” as she walks to him. You might love her a little more than you did ten minutes ago and Sam laughs a little harder too.

Dean chooses a steakhouse. The place is all wood paneling and soft lighting. The ambiance reminds you of your first real date in Chicago, although there will probably be less sticky fingers. From the ribs, obviously.

Mary and John drive ahead and they’re waiting outside when you all arrive. You’ve told Eileen to be prepared, told her to have her wits about her, promised her you’ll jump in if necessary. She’d told you not to worry.

Oh, you hate to see it happen.

As soon as you’re inside you volunteer to sit next to John, it’s the smallest kindness you can do for your friend. She should sit between the safety of Sam and Dean for what is to come.

It starts as you expect and it’s strange being on the other side of the interrogation. Nobody gives a flying crap about what drink or food you order but Eileen? She gets the same treatment you had last year. Silence and an entire table waiting to hear what she has to say. She’s the shiny, new thing everyone is interested in. You’re both glad and sorry. Glad the heat is taken off of you and sorry that it’s Eileen bearing the brunt of it.

Although—and it’s not your imagination—they are a hell of a lot easier on her than John had been on you. It presumably helps that Eileen is a Librarian. Her stories are all child reading groups and teaching elderly people how to use email in the computer room. Even you find yourself a bit smitten and you already knew her.

You’re trying not to focus on her too much though. Let her charm Mary and John, she doesn’t need another face watching her while she talks. Instead, you concentrate on your appetizer, one of those deep-fried onion things you’re sharing with Dean. The unspoken agreement is if you eat smelly food then you do it together.

He shakes his head, making eye contact with you as he takes a particularly over the top bite, when you’re pulled back into the main conversation.

“Y/N, where did you spend Christmas last year?”

“I’m sorry?” You ask somewhat dazed by being called on so soon.

Mary smiles kindly, “Eileen mentioned her parent's cabin, which I know is where they spent Christmas. I realized I had no idea where you spent the holidays?”

“Sure. I-erm, I stayed in Chicago.” Dean's hand under the table surprises you when you feel the weight of him on your knee.

“Oh, funnily enough, I remember Dean saying he was in Chicago too and I thought to myself how strange that was with Sam being gone.”

Everyone laughs at her joke, even your boyfriend while he moves his hand up your thigh.

“Didn’t want to head to New York and see your parents?” She continues her line of inquiry.

You have no idea where she’s going with it, why you’re the one in the hot seat, or why Dean is driving you crazy with his thumb rubbing those incessant circles in your skin. You answer anyway.

“N-No. They go to Europe every other Christmas so they’ll be home this year.”

Mary takes a bite of whatever-the-hell is on her plate. “The boys are coming to us this year too, I guess we’ll have to get better about syncing these things up, huh?”

His hand alone wouldn’t normally drive you as crazy as it is right now. He’s only tapping a slow, teasing rhythm into your thigh for crying out loud. But it’s been a few days and before that a few weeks, and you’d been resolved to not sully this wholesome family weekend. So, your breath is just a touch shorter than normal when he squeezes, and you can only hide it by talking.

“Yeah, yeah. I guess we will.” You agree easily.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your parents, yours too Eileen. Do you think we’ll be meeting yours before Christmas Y/N? Any other big events coming up?”

Were you not focusing on the heat of his hand under your skirt then you might be suspicious of the way she asks that. As it is Dean chooses then to wink at you because he thinks it's hilarious how preoccupied you are.

“Erm, Thanksgiving?”

“Right, right. Thanksgiving.” She smirks like she has a secret.

You stand up suddenly, needing to get away from your teasing boyfriend, “sorry. I’m going to go use the restroom.”

“Hurry back.” Dean’s mocking tone follows you.

Were his parents not at the table you'd tell him to go to hell.

Saturday morning comes faster than you expected. You did have a jump on the long weekend because you’d all taken a day off work this year but Saturday still seemed to have jumped from a cupboard to surprise you.

You wake up as you often do when you share Dean’s bed. One of you, today it’s him, has the other one, you, in what can only be described as an inescapable hold. He’s got one arm wrapped around you, fingers hanging loose over your stomach where you’re laying on your side. His other arm is encroaching on your pillow to surround you and his head is curled in your neck. His breath is slow and hot over your skin. You never imagined that you’d enjoy waking up like this, so incredibly close to someone. And then you met Dean. Sometimes you wrap him up in your sleep, your fingers in his hair, and one leg thrown over his. Either way one always claims the other and you wouldn’t want anything different.

Except at this very second.

Dean is a light sleeper. A bit of a contradictory trait for someone who likes to sleep as much as he does—yours is not to question why—but you never want to willingly wake him if you can avoid it. You’re more than happy to let sleeping Dean’s lie. When you don’t need the bathroom that is.

Even though this isn’t your first time trying you still give it your best shot to slip out without disturbing him.

You think you’re getting there. You’ve managed to roll onto your back for an easier way out, his face is now smashed into his pillow instead of your back, you’ve slipped down the bed a little to get away from his hand on your pillow. It’s only that arm across you that you need to get free from. Today is the day that you’ll finally manage to pee without waking him up. The trick, you think, is not to touch him. You’ve been burned before by trying to lift his arm off of you when you only need to slip out from under it.

“Come on, five more minutes.” He mumbles, fingers come to life to hold you tighter and you swear you see his lip curl because you’ve failed to sneak away again.

“I need to pee.” Who says romance is dead?

He huffs, you’ve hit on what he deems an acceptable reason to let go of you. Barely.

Not that he eases up. You have to wiggle from his hold which makes you crack your first smile of the day. Despite your need to hurry you bend over him and press a kiss to his cheek. “How about I get some coffee while I’m up, see if I can get you to forgive me?”

“You can try.” He mutters in his half-sleep state.

The house is quiet when you leave the bathroom, ridiculously quiet for how full of people it will be later. The calm tricks you into feeling invincible, where nobody else exists save for you and the man you left in bed.

“Morning Y/N.” Mary is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and not doing much else.

“Oh my god!” You recoil with your whole body, arms bent into your chest like you’re trying to stave off a heart attack. You can be a little dramatic at times but the way she’s sitting in silence, illuminated only by the early morning light from the backyard, almost gives the illusion of her appearing out of thin air. “Sorry, Mary. I must be easy to scare first thing in the morning.”

A slow smile spreads over her face, “no I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I like a few minutes of peace before the boys are up is all.”

You grab two mugs, a pretty clear indication you plan to take coffee back to Dean, but before you can fill both she makes you an offer you can’t refuse. “You and I both know he is already back to sleep, he’ll keep for a few minutes. Sit with me.”

Dean's empty mug, your excuse to leave, gets left on the counter with most of your hopes and dreams. The only thing you try to cling to is that Mary wants to carry on sitting in silence, only, together.

“Y/N, we haven’t had a chance to talk, just you and me. Not since last year.”

Or maybe, just maybe, she’d been waiting for you all along.

“I guess we haven’t. I-eh, I really did mean what I said when I got here Mary. I’m sorry about everything.”

“I’m not trying to rake you over the coals here, and I’m not looking for another apology. I know what my sons think of me, Sam thinks I’m crazy. You were being a good friend.” She shrugs like it's that simple.

It’s kind of ridiculous how quickly you relax, and how quickly you start spilling your guts, “The lying though. I don’t feel good about that.”

Mary is quick. She leans over the table and wraps her hand around yours, “I don’t remember that much lying. I could tell you loved Sam last year and if that’s like a brother, I’m still glad he has you.”

She’s right. You do love Sam like a brother, the one you never had. He’s been more your family than your own. The first family you’d chose and only real family you had, which is why you’d been so scared at first. It’s why you’d been so quick to run from Dean at the risk of losing Sam. Hell, sometimes you wonder if it’s one of the many reasons you love Dean—because he’s the only other person on the planet who loves Sam as much as you do.

Your fingers twitch under her hand, unsure of the loving way she holds you. Unsure if you deserve it or why she offers it so easily. Whatever the answer is, she has your guard down.

“What about Dean?” It’s a loaded question. You need someone else to see what’s there before you can admit it to him. You're looking for confidence because you are unsure of his feelings. Who better to judge than his own mother?

She squeezes enough to tell you that you’re looking down at your coffee instead of looking at her, before she pulls back to lift her mug to her lips again. “That’s obvious Y/N.” She almost sounds bored at such an easy question, ”I knew I was right all along.”

"Right about what?”

Not even a pause. If she was indeed waiting for you this morning then she was waiting for you to ask this question.

“That you are going to be a Winchester someday.”

“No-I, no…” You trail off to nothing and it’s not because of the way Mary is still grinning despite your protests. It’s not her raised eyebrows over the rim of her cup. It’s not even the little hum like noise she lets out in affirmation that yes, you would wear the big 'W' as your last name.

It’s that you can see it. You’ve had a year of long-distance with Dean; scheduled weekends and facetime dates. You’ve been itching to tell him how you feel but terrified of scaring him away, scared of moving too quickly with the guy you don’t see enough, scared he doesn’t feel the same. And yet in the back of your mind, the vision is forming, pushing its way to the front without permission. Dean on one knee. You in a white dress. The moment you both say ‘I do’.

Is this what becoming a hopeless romantic feels like? Or were you always this much of a total sap?

“Don’t worry, I know.” She reiterates again.

Mary has a reputation, she’s pushy enough, so you assume that’s what this is. You assume she’s making a premonition, not looking for confirmation of something she thinks she already knows. So, you look to escape what you think is the awkwardness that you can’t answer.

“I’m going to get Dean his coffee or-or we’ll never get him out of bed.”

She nods you to leave but disagrees with your evaluation, “I think you underestimate how much my son loves fireworks.”

You smile wide, remembering how his face lit up in the dark the year before, “You’re right. Still, I should go get him up.”

Then you pour more coffee, including Deans, and run. If anyone else caught wind of this conversation they would never believe you were a defense lawyer, let alone the lawyer who’s been plastered over the news defending a celebrity on a murder case.

Dean has, predictably, gone back to sleep since you left. Although the light sleeper that he is, he is roused by the door opening and the smell of coffee.

“Baby?”

That’s all it takes to make you forget the conversation with Mary ever happened. You can’t help but laugh at his sleepy voice as you slip in next to him, careful not to spill anything while he fidgets awake, “who else would wake you up like this?”

He rubs at his eyes, “oh, y’know, my other girlfriend.”

“You’ll have to introduce us one day, we can compare notes.”

You’re still not used to the Winchester’s if you’re being completely honest. To you, barbecue has always been a type of food, and not necessarily one your parents approved of. It was never a place, a home. That’s what today is. Saturday afternoon and the sun is high, there's a faint twang of country music coming from somewhere. Not loud enough to hear the lyrics but loud enough to identify the genre, loud enough to wish you were wearing a cowboy hat. Everyone has a beer or a burger, or both. And it’s not all dopey eyed niceties. There are teenagers, Claire and Alex, hating everyone from the other end of the yard. Occasionally there’s a “screw you” or a “you idjit” shouted from the many random conversations happening. But it’s still somehow perfect in the imperfections. It’s cozy and homely. It’s a family. Love.

It would be easy to feel overwhelmed and convince yourself that you don’t belong. It’s lucky that you have your boyfriend. And since he has disappeared on you, Sam and Eileen. Although she is doing a much better job than you at fitting in.

“She’s going to make me look bad,” you tell Sam while you both watch Eileen animatedly tell Uncle Bobby something that makes him howl. Even his stoic expressions are hidden behind his beard but Eileen is a stand-up comedian, apparently

“That’s not hard is it?” He teases.

“That might hurt if you hadn’t picked me to bring last year, to protect her from all this.” You use the neck of your bottle to draw a circle in the air around the whole motley crew of his family.

Before you register his movement he has an arm around your shoulders, you’re expecting a headlock so you’re pleasantly surprised when he pulls you into a side hug. “That’s the first time you’ve joked about it since… since last year. I’m glad. Everyone else is over it, you’re the only one hanging on Y/N/N.”

You don’t want to choke up in the middle of their backyard but sometimes Sam’s big brother moments hit you like that. “I never said I was very good at letting things go.”

He huffs. “You’re too tough sometimes. That’s why I picked you to help me.” He sucks in a slow breath, “you have to get out of your head... and maybe stop being so annoying.”

You shove him back so he can’t lean on you but now you’re out of his hold he’s looking down at you with those damn puppy dog eyes. He hasn’t asked for something which means he’s trying to use them to make you feel better. You hadn’t realized you’d needed to feel better, was your face sad enough to warrant a Sam pep talk

“I’m fine,” you wave away his concern. “Have you decided yet?”

“And there I was hoping you’d forget.”

“Is Eileen happy to let you forget?” You counter him with an expectant look. “She wants to tell them but she’s happy to let me make the decision since it’s my family.” He says in a pointed, not pointed way.

You shake your head, “she’s going too easy on you. Good thing you have me to put you in line.”

“I thought I was the line?” It takes you a beat, you’re actually surprised he remembered you saying that to John.

“No, that was what I had to say when I was being paid to make you look good.” His face turns somber, “I never paid you.”

“Tomayto, tomahto Sammy.” You finish the beer in your hand, “you know I’m not pushing you, right? If you don’t do it, there’s always Christmas, or send a save the date.”

He shoves at you this time and the air returns to its normal lightness. “I know. You only want me to put on my big boy pants.”

“I could care less about your pants. I want you to take the heat off me, obviously.” You hold up your bottle to him, “I’m out. You need another one?”

He chuckles, ducks his head, and looks at his fiance again. “Yeah, dutch courage might help.”

“Dare to dream.” You sympathize, patting him on his shoulder.

Sam might tell them today, he might not. You wouldn’t judge him either way. He knows you aren’t judging him. You’re nudging him, not so gently. You’re being for him what he is for you. A good friend. Sam has a tendency to drag his heels sometimes and his relationship with Eileen is one of the few things you’ve seen him jump into wholeheartedly. He is, after all, engaged in under a year. You’re beyond pleased because you’ve never seen him so happy, all you want is for Sam’s family to enjoy seeing that too. If you elbow him in the right direction it’s only because you know he’ll regret it down the road.

Besides, it’s not like Mary can scare Eileen away. She already said yes.

So, Dutch courage it is. You don’t condone drinking to excess in front of his parents but a few more beers wouldn’t hurt. They’d only loosen his lips.

The cooler is by the door to the kitchen, for easy refills whether that’s ice or beer. It’s out of the way. Most people stay close to the grill or their seat if they have managed to command one.

You assume your trip will be short and sweet. There’s no one else standing by the plastic box, which means no awkward cooler small talk to get trapped in. It’s half-empty but there are enough bottles that you won’t have to top it up even taking one for you and Sam. Then you stand up with a bottle in each hand, about to turn tail when at the edge of your peripheral you register Dean and Mary in the kitchen.

The window to the kitchen is wide and open and you should walk away. You almost walk away. Then Mary speaks and you can hear them so clearly that you have no choice. You duck down and sit precariously on top of the cooler.

“I know I’m not supposed to rush you but Dean, honey, I can’t stand it any longer. When are you going to announce it? I’m dying!”

Your interest is piqued. Unfortunately. It’s wrong, completely and utterly. Dean should be allowed his secrets whatever they are. Still, it’s not your fault that he chose to have this conversation, with his mother, in the kitchen. Where anyone could walk in or overhear them.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Although to be fair Dean doesn’t sound like a willing participant in this conversation, so maybe he doesn’t have a secret you have to worry about.

You don’t dare get up and peak through the glass since they sound quite close, but you hear Mary sigh.

“I heard her talking to Sam about it. How she wants to tell everyone and-and if it was up to her she’d have told us all already.”

The sound of the fridge opening and closing before he answers. “Still not following, Mom?”

“The proposal Dean. You asked her to marry you. She all but admitted it to me this morning and I’m so, so happy for you. I did think you’d talk to me first but… When am I getting my big announcement so we can celebrate?”

You suck in a breath and hope that it didn’t make a sound. If you can hear them it stands to reason they might hear you. Neither of them seems to. Or they’re distracted. Dean is silent for a too long beat, Mary is clearly confused, and she’s thrown you under the bus along with her, for good measure.

“You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t know what you think you heard…”

A pit forms in the bottom of your stomach at his tone, how against the idea he sounds. It’s fine, you try convincing yourself, he’s defending Sam’s secret.

“Don’t lie to me, Dean. I know you and your brother think I’m nuts but I want you both to be happy. That's all.”

There’s a part of you that knows you should stop this. Come to Dean's rescue and clarify. You could fix this in thirty seconds or less. That’s what you would do if you weren’t stuck like your feet are made of cement.

“You've gotta cool it with that, ok? Y/N is just a girl I’m dating, that’s it, and I don’t want her getting the wrong idea. You breathing down her neck won’t help anything.”

You have to remind yourself that you’d wanted to know his secret. But maybe you’d only wanted to know because you hoped, assumed, that he felt the same as you.

You’d never actually expected a proposal. Not for years. You’d have been happy with not getting one ever as long as you got Dean. He was your prize, not some ring. But his tone says you don’t have him in any way that you want, you’re just a girl he’s dating. Just a date. He didn’t even say girlfriend. He didn’t even say he likes you.

“Oh, well. I’m sorry. I must have had my wires crossed. I’ll leave it alone.” Mary sounds deflated and disappointed. About a tenth of the hurt you’re spiraling into.

She also sounds like her footsteps are getting closer.

You need to move this time. Because the only thing worse than hearing this conversation is one of them knowing you’d heard this conversation.

The beers get left on the decking next to the cooler you’re still balancing your weight on. You stay low, curled over, as you take long steps along the side of the house. Your immediate plan is to get out of the way while Mary re-enters the backyard but it’s a mere thirty seconds before Dean comes striding out after her. He looks around, maybe for you, maybe for anyone else, it doesn’t really seem like it matters.

You’ve been worrying if Dean loves you, if you would scare him off by telling him you do. You’d never considered that he’s not anywhere close to that. He might never be.

Your mistake had been to immediately take solace in his room. It’s so his. It smells like him, every single thing reminds you of him. It’s the inanimate object version of going to cry in his arms.

It only made everything so much worse.

Though Dean’s room doesn’t contain a small library like Sam’s, there’s still a desk and a padded desk chair. The desk is covered in random things; a picture of him and Sam while Sam graduates Stanford, some sunglasses and amongst other things a small model car. A model of the impala that you’d toyed with while you were sneaking in some emails last night. He’d told you his dad gave it to him as a kid because his obsession with the car had begun early. However currently the chair is not where it is supposed to be. It’s wedged under his door handle because neither brother has a lock on their door.

You’ve spread out since you’ve been here. Your laptop is in the only free spot on his desk, your case is open on the floor where you’ve been living from it for two days now. Not to mention your things everywhere, a mascara here, or a lipstick there. At home, you only manage to stay any semblance of tidy because everything has its place but this is Dean’s space. It’s not even his, it’s his teenage space, somewhere he outgrew but visits every once in a while. Not even he completely fits in here anymore.

The point is you clearly don’t belong. Not even an inch. Dean liked you but that was it. As painful as it is to admit that’s not enough anymore. You’ve outgrown dates and sex, well, you’ve outgrown only having those things. For the first time in your life, you want the next step and Dean doesn’t. That’s the risk you take when you care about someone, getting hurt is always a possibility.

The only problem is you promised yourself no more pretending. Last year was enough for a lifetime. So, you can’t skip back downstairs and pretend you hadn’t heard what you did. You can’t sit next to him and watch fireworks and not be heartbroken.

“Y/N? Sweetheart?” There’s a knock at the door that spooks the makeup you’d been collecting out of your hands. You don’t answer him instead, you scramble for the things you’ve dropped and scoop them up faster.

He twists the doorknob and you carry on your task because the chair will protect you.

Then the door starts moving. You expect to hear resistance after a second but the room is filled with the squeak of plastic wheels.

You’d forgotten that the damn chair is on wheels.

The makeup is dropped again, spilling out over the floor once more as you fall to your ass and slide across the carpet. You’d never managed anything close to a slide in baseball, never ever needed to learn one. Now you perfect it in all of two feet. Your feet plant either side of the chair and your hands wrap around the seat pushing it back until the door closes again. This was a mistake, the chair is only making it harder to push back, you should have moved it and shoved yourself against the door, it’s just too late for a redo.

“Hey, hey. Open the door.” It’s hard to tell if he’s angry, he mostly sounds urgent.

Your heart is pounding out of your chest, still, it’s impossible to find the words to answer him. You don’t want to say something you’ll regret, or can’t take back, even if you’re hurt. In your silence, he keeps pushing, literally and figuratively.

He twists the handle again but this time there’s a little weight on his side. The weight pushes against the chair and by extension you. It’s not his full weight, he’s bigger than you though so even his half weight is starting to force you backward. You scramble to gain some traction, planting your feet better, shoving some more. The carpet gives you some friction but not enough to help against the force of Dean Winchester. You keep moving.

After a minute things are about a hundred miles south of ridiculous. You love ridiculous, when you’re not trying to run away that is.

Dean is one foot in the room, thick fingers wrapped around the door and his head pushed in looking at you. There’s a confused knot in his forehead while he takes in exactly what he’s forced his way to look at.

You straddling the bottom part of his desk chair, shoved against the door, and looking up at him wildly.

“Really, sweetheart?” He asks with a mix of frustration in his eyes and a curl on his lips, “what the hell?”

That’s enough to snap you out of it and jump up from the floor. Your hands smooth over the wrinkles in your jeans as if nothing happened. “Hi, Dean. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

You may be hurting, sure, but if your parents taught you anything it’s how to cover any emotion with pragmatic denial.

He steps all the way into the room now without you in the way. “Someone else? Comin’ into my room, looking for you?”

“Could have been anyone,” you shrug. Careful to keep your voice steady and neutral while you go back to collecting your twice dropped makeup from the floor. “Wouldn’t want any of your cousins to wander in here.”

“Right. Because they’re leaving the yard while there’s food on the grill, come on it’s like-”

“I heard what you said to your Mom.” The last thing you wanted to say makes it to the tip of your tongue anyway, as you dispense the collected make up into your case like a dump truck.

He parts those lips of his, which means he’s worried about something and then he smiles. He smiles at you while you’re doing everything not to cry.

There’s a quiver in your voice despite yourself, “it’s fine I get it. I wish you’d told me yourself but I can’t do anything about that. And I know I shouldn’t have been listening in and I’m sorry. Can you give me a few minutes to get sorted please?”

Dean cocks his head, takes a step closer to you, and then stops when you grimace, “what?”

“You said you-that we-I’m not expecting anything but I thought I was more than ‘just another girl’ you’re dating.” You shake your head, trying to stop those tears now you’ve said it out loud. Feeling your vision blur and wobble anyway. “Like I said it’s fine. I’m getting out of here though. I found a flight home, there’s no point in you driving me home eleven hours when it’s four to St Louis.”

Not to mention the fact that you couldn’t stand to sit in the car with him that long while you’re feeling like this.

“Woah, Woah, Woah baby.” He doesn’t pause this time. He doesn’t care about your frown as he approaches you, he’s more concerned about fixing whatever you have gotten in your head. He’s on you in an instant. One warm hand on your shoulders and one at your chin, lifting your face to his and taking in all your sadness. You hate that he’s making you stare into his eyes like this. Those green, soulful eyes had been one of the first things you noticed on his beautiful dumb face and now this feels like a goodbye. Of course, it's not a goodbye. He’s trying to tell you just by looking at you that you’re a goddamn idiot. “Have you met my mom? Remember when she asked if you were pregnant when you’d been dating Sam like a month?”

“Fake dating. Why does everyone forget I was fake dating him?”

He chuckles, “‘course. Faking. Well, you heard her, right? She thinks we’re the ones getting hitched. Imagine if I’d thrown fuel on the fire and told her that you’re my girl, I love you and that you’re it for me.”

There’s a big, huge lump in your throat stopping you breathing. Too gigantic to swallow down. Tears still want to rain over your face, again, but you refuse to be the girl that cries because her boyfriend, who she loves, finally told her what she’s been waiting to hear.

Wait, you need to say something back.

“I love you too.”

His smile is slow and lazy but it’s perfectly timed with how gently his body leans in to kiss you. His shoulders drop while you’re sighing into his mouth like every romantic comedy heroine. His hands still on your shoulders relax their hold a little and you realize, he might have been doubting how you felt too.

“That’s good to know.” He breathes. “But see if I’d have told my mom all that, with the whole family here, she’d have us shotgun married before I got the chance to actually ask you.”

Your eyes widen, “no. You’re not?”

“Nah, planning on knocking those socks off when I do. Fair warning though, that’s coming.”

A strangled laugh comes out of you because you are, and have always been, the stupidest person alive. Dean loves you. He loves you and you love him. And why have you waited so long to say it?

“Move in with me?” It seems like the next best thing to every sweet thing he just said. It��s not enough but for once you’re happy to be second best in a conversation. You’ve been thinking about it long enough, hating the distance and the weekends you’ve spent apart. It’s so obvious that you should have worked it out months ago.

“What?” He gives you the pleasure of seeing his goofy confused face while your finger traces the curve of his bottom lip. In case you ever forget.

“Move in with me. Move to Chicago to be with me. Benny can manage in St. Louis and you can open a second location... or be chief of police or a fireman or just eat deep dish all the day long, whatever you want. Be with me in Chicago? Everyday? Sam’s there too. How can you be his best man from three hundred miles away?”

Another kiss and a bigger grin that comes from his chest, not even you expected it to be this easy. Which is more of that stupidity because with Dean it’s always easy. You can only imagine how rosy your cheeks are as he answers, “you had me at pizza.”

You get to the foot of the stairs when Sam pops out of the living room. You’ve schooled your beaming grin into something more subdued because you don’t want to draw focus but Sam’s probably still just waiting for his beer. He tilts his head down and asks, “you good?”

Before you can tell him that you have never been better, Dean saunters down the steps behind you without any concern for drawing attention. “Sammy, how many times have I told you, you can’t have her back. She’s mine now.”

Sam purses his lips at his brother, which is still funny to you, and you press a hand to his chest to distract him from their brother games. “We’re all good Sam, I’ll fill you in later. The important thing is are you ready to go? Weekend is nearly over.”

He smiles at you, “couldn’t do it without my legal eagle.”

Finally, he gets it. “Legal eagles for life, Sam.”

“You two are a pair of dorks.” Dean slumps an arm over both of your shoulders, “I can’t believe I love a dork even dorkier than my dork brother.”

If Sam notices any difference or the massive L-word Dean dropped, he keeps his reaction in check. Besides he’s engrossed in something else, he kind of has something huge to announce to his whole family right now. Something you’ve been dying to witness since he told you.

You turn in Dean’s arm to threaten him, “he can still drop you and make me best man, you know that, right?”

Dean feigns anger, “he would never.”

“Keep talking pretty boy and see how fast I’m planning the bachelor party.”

“She thinks I’m pretty.” Dean turns his head to smile at Sam and involve him in your sparring match, you know since best man is his decision, but Sam is now bitch facing the pair of you.

He doesn’t say anything, just swings an arm out towards the kitchen and beyond that the backyard. An annoyed invitation to join him and his fiance for the big moment you’ve all been waiting for.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on De. Let’s go let Sammy-boo and Leney-bear be as disgusting as we are.”

You’re already in the kitchen when Sam shouts after you, “I told you not to call us that!”

“Eileen said she didn’t mind!”

Weirdly, the party in the backyard is exactly how you left it and yet you feel like everything changed, for the better, in the last twenty minutes.

Eileen sees all three of you step out of the house and senses that its time. Or Sam had already told her it was before he went looking for you. Either way, she walks over to Sam who magically ends up in the middle of the yard.

You can feel the excitement buzzing from Dean where he’s standing next to you, you bet he’s feeling that from you too.

“Hey everyone, I kind of have an announcement,” Sam calls out.

Most of them look around but nobody moves and he hasn’t captured everyone's attention in the way John does at the baseball game. For some reason that line from Highlander pops into your head, there can only be one. It’s a concerted effort not to snort at your own joke.

John is, however, one of the people that heard Sam so he hollers, “cut it out, Sammy’s got something to say.”

That’ll do it. The music shuts off and everyone gathers in a circle around Sam and Eileen. You notice then that Eileen’s ring has appeared back on her finger. You know she had it on a necklace until this announcement but the sleight of hand to make it happen is impressive.

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll keep this short and sweet because I know you’re all waiting on more food but while we had everyone here we thought we should tell you all.”

Somehow, you hear Mary’s heart stop from twenty feet away.

“As most of you know Eileen and I met just over a year ago,” a few people who haven't been briefed share looks since he’d been ‘dating’ you last year. “And well, I’ve never been happier or more in love with someone in my life. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and a few weeks ago I got my act together and asked her to marry me.”

Eileen holds up her hand then, beaming, ‘and I said yes!”

They had to have rehearsed that on the flight.

Chaos ensues. Everyone claps and cheers and people try to move in to congratulate them. Above all of that Mary screams like she’s being murdered. She rushes forward letting every thought in her head fall out of her mouth, “But I thought Dean and Y/N… so you’re telling me it was you all along? Oh Sammy, sweetie, I am so, so happy for you. Oh god, I’m so proud of you.” She wraps her arms around him and crushes him. “And I’m so happy you’re going to be part of the family!” She lets go of her son to give Eileen the same bruising hug.

“Well done, son.” John claps Sam on the back with, you think, the faintest hint of proud tears in his eyes.

Dean wraps his arm around you then like he'd been unable to do it until everything with Sam was ok. You lean into his chest and whisper only loud enough for him, "he's going to be so excited about you being in the city with us."

"You think?"

"I know it. Granted not as excited as me."

He rests his chin on the top of your head, slotting you into him like a puzzle piece.

In the background, it goes on and on until everyone has said something to the happy couple. Even Bobby gets this choked noise caught in his throat. The whole display is actually very touching.

When they finish the mayhem John proposes a toast in which everyone raises their drinks. Then the drinking and eating continue, with much more vigor than before. The whole thing goes from a Fourth of July celebration to a party. The music is a little more upbeat, the hard liquor is brought out early and the hum of everyone feels excited.

Sam—who has been hugged, pinched and shoved playfully enough to last him till the end of days—wanders over to you and Dean with his fiance in tow. “Are you happy now?” He directs the question at you specifically.

You reach up to grab his face with both hands and jiggle his head while you baby-talk to him, “my little Sammy, I’m so proud of you.”

Dean and Eileen both laugh and it's one of those perfect moments you only expect to see in the movies. You realize then that with these three people around you could actually look forward to the Fourth of July with the Winchesters for years to come.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer

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