#meg calls sam brother au

[ruinedsam]

I saw some of your stuff about HBO supernatural and I want to say, hbo supernatural would’ve had Meg call Sam her little brother at least once, done more with Sam having Azazel’s blood and Meg being Azazel’s daughter. Maybe it’s manipulation circa season 4/5, Meg linking herself to Sam in a familial way during the same arc in which Dean wonders if Sam is still his brother or if he ever even was, but I need it. I want Sam to have to contend with the fact that to demons, he is Azazel’s son and what that might mean; for example, we had Ruby tell Sam that Lilith saw him as competition and maybe that was manipulation to make Sam even more willing to kill Lilith because she’s also a threat to him in addition to Dean, but what if Ruby was telling the truth, that being the one Azazel chose functionally made Sam his heir? I just think we needed more about how demons might view Sam in light of the Azazel thing or even the vessel thing, maybe some are friendly with him because he’s basically the only heir of their last real king(s) if they’re against Crowley, some are wary of him because nobody can 100% guarantee he’s not still capable of killing them with his mind or if it’s lying dormant with an unknown trigger, Meg calls him her little brother, etc. Also, for more humorous situations, I think Sam should be on Hell’s mailing list or whatever it is they have; he’s the first one to find out Abbadon is making a play for the throne because he gets an email about her running. He sighs heavily and resigns himself to this becoming his problem later, idly wondering what it will take for Hell to just decide on a ruler; Azazel was in charge for a while and now it’s like there’s someone new every year. This further leads to occasionally calls and texts from Meg about the latest drama/gossip in Hell: “you’re not doing anything right now are you? Because I need to bitch” “kinda busy right now, what with the literal horde of vampires I’m dealing with, but you’re welcome to vent in my texts and I’ll reply if I’m still alive” “oh boo, you’re no fun. But fine, I’ll do that, I’m expecting a reply in a few hours though.”

Tell me more oh wise anon 👀👀👀 This is all so juicy...Sam feeling even more out of place in his (human) family, feeling even more like a freak, confirmed in his feelings that there is something deeply wrong with him...the way it would absolutely kill both Sam and Dean if Meg called Sam her little brother 👀 Also the possibilities for cram in this scenario 👀

[autisticandroids]

rarepair fic recs

slipping in my rarepair recs within hopefully like an hour of the deadline. for @spnficrecfest. i'm basically taking rarepairs to mean "anything but The Big Two" so like. if you wanna quibble with calling, say, megstiel a rarepair, that's the definition i'm using.

i actually have a bunch of other rarepair fics on my other lists: casjimmy, samlucifer, sastiel, samruby, and annamary here. crowstiel, deancaslisa, deancasmeg, daphne/emmanuel, and cas/rachel here. draowley here. dagonkelly here. raphael/naomi, deanpala, deancassie, sastiel, mary/naomi, megjo, and rowena/ofc here. samlucifer here. and megstiel on i think literally every list i've made so far. i'd also like to point you in the direction of a dark femslash reclist i made earlier this year.

anyway, rarepair fics in order of wordcount:

i could be kindly by anti_ela, .5k

deanalastair. well, it's exactly what you think.

the replacement by ravenspear, .5k

meg/nick (yes lucifer's vessel nick). meg won't kiss him until his mouth is cold enough.

buy you a round by nevcoleil, .5k

deanhenriksen. they meet again after jus in bello.

vessel by transgenderism, 1k

deancasmeg in season seven. and Gender.

wherever they roam (the sum of our influences) (orphaned work), 1k

deancasmeg. dean and meg met in hell. dean and cas met there too. all three meet again, topside.

aching everywhere by discoxena, 1k, chose not to warn

sammegjo. a seduction, rather than what we see in canon, and that makes it worse in the end.

another perfect moment (that doesn't feel like mine) by lesbiansailor, 1k, chose not to warn

alex jones/krissy chambers. munchausen's by proxy in a wayward sisters setting.

last call by angelszn, 2k

cassie/cisfem dean, in season three. one last phone call.

the pain in the end is all in your memory by filthyfealty, 2k

crowley/transfem dean. an exploration of what it's like to be a demon, and a girl, and dean winchester.

always sere, never blooming by smilla, 2k

deanvictor, after a hunt.

baby steps by angelszn, 2k

missouri/cisfem sam. sam has brain damage, so dean takes her to the only other psychic they know for help. i'm kind of obsessed with sam's characterization in this one, not gonna lie.

and the devil makes four by vaguesurprise, 2k

destiel, crowstiel, meanstiel, oh my! cas likes demons.

new religion (bring you to your knees) by electricskeptic, 2k

megstiel. meg realizes just how faithless cas is in season six.

the wrong game with the wrong chips by a_diamond, 3k

endverse cas/risa. they talk about being dean's discard pile.

the thing about glass slippers by krisomniac, 5k

deanhenriksen. dean allows himself to be temporarily transformed into a woman in order to go undercover and seduce henriksen. she likes it.

end of days (orphaned work), 5k

megstiel and deancasmeg in a pacific rim au.

one night by reapertownusa, 7k

deanhenriksen. a last encounter, three weeks before the deadline.

proxy by bleedingink, 8k

samcasmeg. three people in two bodies, and enough tension to cut with a knife.

grace by nerdylittleangelenthusiast, 13k, violence and mcd

crowstiel. a season twelve mpreg story. cas is on the run with kelly, and crowley is so sweet on him. abandoned but i would rec it anyway.

masters by twisted_slinky, 15k, noncon and violence warnings

deanmeg and megstiel. a story about meg from season three to season seven, as recounted by the demon herself. remember when meg said "i apprenticed under alastair in hell, just like your brother, so dean, can i make crowley do whatever i want?"

the passenger by hansbekhart, 34k, violence and mcd warnings

deanhenriksen. victor survives jus in bello, but just barely. when he's back on his feet again, he goes to meet the winchesters.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 11: Enemies to Lovers

Bad Education | @verobatto Rating: Explicit Word Count: 20,061 Main Tags/Warnings: Buttler!Castiel, CEO!Dean, enemies to lovers, boss/employee relationship, character development, comedy Summary: When a multimillionaire grandfather wants to give his grandson Dean Winchester a lesson, he will search for a desperate method by hiring Dean's worst nightmare to be his butler. Will the charismatic Castiel be able to educate the most egocentric, selfish and rebellious rich dude and turn him into a perfect CEO? Or will they kill each other before that happens?

Better Than You | @verobatto Rating: Explicit Word Count: 21,950 Main Tags/Warnings: Light internalized homophobia, office au, coming out, rivals to lovers, childhood friends, fluff, angst, happy ending Summary: Dean has many goals in his life, but there's just one that bothers him to death: to defeat the perfect Castiel Novak at any cost. This is a self-discovering journey, in which Dean will try his best to win against Castiel and not to fall in love with him in the meantime.

Maybe not a comedy (according to Jack), but he likes the happy ending | @seidenapfel Rating: Mature Word Count: 67,602 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Canon-Typical Violence, Angels, Demons, Angel Wings, Hell, Purgatory, Heaven, Slow Burn, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Angst, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel's True Form (Supernatural), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mention of Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, possible Meg Masters/Charlie Bradbury, Additional Warnings In Author's Note Summary: Dean Winchester is dead. He died ten years ago, when he sold his soul to Demon Corp in order to save his brother’s life. He has lost everything, even his dignity. All that is left is a brutal tool to torture other lost souls on Inferno just like himself. Castiel’s orders are simple. Free one random soul from the pit on Inferno in order to bring it back to Angelus Associations’ headquarters on Paradiso. No one expects him to be successful, but, as a soldier, he never questions his orders. The moment Castiel lays eyes on the human overseer, everything changes. Castiel has found his mission, the man he needs to save. An adventure begins that takes Dean and Castiel from planet to planet, from Inferno to Purgatorio to Paradiso, and beyond. It’s a journey to find themselves and each other.

Vampirenatural: The Rebellion - Rogue | @Taymarpigeon Rating: Explicit Word Count: 225,822 Main Tags/Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, World of Darkness, Human Dean Winchester, Detective Dean Winchester, Vampire Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, Smut, Gallows Humor, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Human/Vampire Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Sharing, sickness and injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Kiiiind of Mafia, Kiiiind of Murder Husbands, Russian Castiel (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Suicide, non-consensual biting, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Acts of War Summary: From clubs to underground caverns, seedy motels, haunted hotels and exclusive mansions, Los Angeles has it all. It's a place for the pretty and the hopeful, but beneath its star-spangled façade are shadowy corners harbouring the vagrant and the vagabond alike. It's a world of corruption, sex and violence, Detective Dean Winchester has learnt to navigate with ease. Eight years at Santa Monica PD could never have prepared him for the underbelly of this so-called City of Angels though. Dean knows the shadows, he knows them intimately, but is he prepared for the World of Darkness?

[hexedwinchester]

Why Being Manipulated into Letting Gadreel in a Huge Deal for Sam?

I know a lot of Dean Girls were very upset (and will be upset after reading this post) with Sam when Dean asked him if the roles were reversed if he would have done the same thing (letting an angel possess him to save his life). Sam simply says no! Some fans have gone to the extent of calling him selfish but no, Sam is not being selfish in that scene. It wasn't that he didn't care about his brother. He really does and that is why him saying no is actually a good thing.

Now see, Dean never had to go through the whole loss of bodily autonomy due to a possession issue (not until after he was possessed by Michael but that's way after the Gadreel plot) like Sam has been and disturbingly a lot more number of times than Dean's single rodeo with Otherworld Michael (or is it AU Michael? whatever!). Just to keep the argument simple, I am purely focusing on the loss of bodily autonomy purely from a possession POV.

When Meg possessed Sam in S2, she used his body to kill other hunters, to assault Jo and to beat Dean. Maybe she did a lot worse than that, we don't know. Who is left with the trauma of that knowledge? Sam!

The Gary-Sam body swap. This one though seems funny on the surface, it's actually kinda disturbing because Gary used Sam's body to have sex and the kid. Kinda gross enough already but that dumb kid could have easily handed over the vessel to Lucifer. Imagine, that's how it played and Sam was back into his body. Now who is trapped with Lucifer, the Devil? Sam!

Speaking of, understandably saying yes to Lucifer was Sam's call to put him back in the box but it didn't go down without blood on his hand. The moment Lucifer took control of Sam's body, he killed the demons from Sam's life that deceived him. I am guessing these were possessed people he killed in the process and not just wisps of black smoke. At Stull cemetery, he exploded Cas to bits, snapped Bobby's neck and beat up Dean to pulp! all by whose hands? Sam's!

Gadreel's possession did help Sam get better but at what cost? Kevin's death? How many nightmares did Sam have seeing his hands burning Kevin hollow? Now let me point out the aftermath of this possession which is somehow even worse than the actual possession: Crowley skewered Sam's brains with needles, hell, he even possessed Sam to wake him as if one possession was not enough. Sam literally had two supernatural beings possessing him at one time! Don't even get me started on the painful, torturous grace extraction process. Sam was willing to die in that moment because he believed his life wasn't worth saving, definitely not at the cost of Kevin's life!

Before this role reversal scene, Dean wasn't possessed by anything, so he doesn't understand how horrible it is to lose autonomy over one's mind and body. I don't expect him to grasp the gravity of it. He sees it as a healing from within. For him, if 'ends justifying the means' that's all that matters.

When every single possession has caused nothing but grave trauma to Sam Winchester, tell me why would he or anyone for that matter, in their sane heads do this on their own brother, especially when they love them so much?

Here's another very real life perspective for all those who feel Sam saying 'no' if the situation was reversed was a horrible betrayal and proof that he doesn't love Dean enough: Ever had someone you love on life support or gone through a situation where you had to put down your beloved pet? Why do we do this? is it because we don't love them? because we don't care? no! Because sometimes, it is better to let them go than to prolong their suffering by putting them through this pain. So next time you feel Sam was being selfish, or disloyal to Dean or that he didn't care enough, think about a loved one suffering through something horrible because you didn't have the guts to let go!

[welldonebeca]

Guardian Bot (4)

WC: 1.5k words Warnings: Future AU. Tension. Robot Cas. Smut. Sex toys. Degrading kink. Dirty talk. Orgasm denial. Orgasm control.

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Masterlist

"Hey," you heard a little knock on your door.

You moved your eyes from the design in front of you, turning to find Dean standing by your open door.

"Hey," you spoke slowly.

The thoughts rushed through your mind. It happened every single day: Dean's secretary screwed things up, he'd knock on your door, and you would have to go there to explain how things were supposed to be done as if she hadn't been formally trained and worked in your family's company for over seven months.

"Are you busy?" your older brother asked. "Christie screwed up my schedule for the day, I have three meetings scheduled for the same time, I need your help to fix it."

You sighed. Since you were little, you always did everything for your brothers, which would usually come at the expense of your time.

This secretary wasn't ever good, she was just some fucking eyecandy for Dean.

Castiel always told you to just let him suffer the consequences of her lack of work abilities.

"Sorry, I can't," you answered, at last. "This is a bad time."

Your older brother looked at you with surprise, and his eyes moved to the screen of your computer. 

"Do you want me to come back later?" he offered.

You grimaced.

"Actually, I think I'll be busy with this the whole day," you decided. "But if she still needs help, maybe ask Sam's secretary? I heard Meg is amazing with the system."

He sighed.

"Come on," he insisted. "You're my sister, you know Sam. If I ask, he will think it is time we let her go."

"Maybe it is," you looked back at your project, not giving him space to argue. "And call Charlie into my office on your way out, please? I need to ask her for a few things, and my intercom isn't working."

You really needed to get that thing fixed.

You could hear him sigh in frustration, but Dean didn't insist, walking - well, stomping - out.

Before you could go back to work, a little message popped up on your screen.

"Has he come over to ask you yet, miss?" it read.

Castiel.

You blinked at the screen.

Oh, that cheeky bot.

You reached for your phone and called him.

"Hello, miss," he greeted you.

"How did you know?"

He chuckled on the other side.

"Well, it's almost lunchtime," he explained. "He usually comes right before lunch to ask you to cover for his secretary."

You scoffed.

"He just left," you sighed. "I told him to go ask Sam's secretary."

You heard a little knock on your doorframe.

"Ma'am?" Charlie asked. "May I come in?"

"I'll leave you be, miss," Castiel decided, and hang up.

You sighed. For a bot, he was just as hard to decipher as a human.

"Yes," you confirmed. "Come inside."

She stepped in, and you jumped, startled, when you felt the toy inside you vibrating. 

Oh, God. 

Castiel had convinced you to let him put a Bluetooth vibrator in you before you left home. You had entirely forgotten about it. 

Until now. 

"Charlie," you exhaled. "Can you... uh..."

She raised her eyebrows, questioning you, and looked confused.

"I don't want visitors today," you moved your hands under your table, squeezing the desk, and the toy moved a little faster on your clit. "No one who hasn't bothered to schedule."

Your secretary nodded, though you could see she still looked puzzled.

"And after lunch, I want someone to come to replace or fix my intercom. Whichever is easier and faster."

"Are your brothers included in the no-visitors list, ma'am?" she asked.

You swallowed down.

"Yes," you confirmed.

She nodded, and you felt her eyes moving over your face.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" she asked. "You look flushed."

You opened your mouth about your answer, but felt the vibrator moving faster, stimulating both your clit and your sweet spot. The moment the door closed, you

"Yes," you spoke between your teeth. "You can leave now.  And close the door behind you."

The second Charlie closed the door, you crossed your legs, trying to ride the vibrator inside you discreetly.

Your phone vibrated on the table once more, and you picked it up, clenching your jaw.

"Cas," you hissed.

“Careful, miss,” he instructed. “The camera is right on you.”

You swallowed down, seeing the 360º camera in the middle of your office.

“Please,” you whispered.

Castiel hummed on the other side.

“Don’t cum, miss,” he hummed along.

You inhaled, trying to hold yourself and not show your pleasure.

“You see how pathetic you look?” he asked, voice too sweet for his words. “All curled up in your chair… I bet anyone could walk in, and you’d let them fuck you.”

You clenched the chair under your fingers.

“Please, Cas,” you whined.

He wasn’t going to just edge you, right?

"Cas, please," you begged. "I can't -"

"Have you done everything I asked you?" he asked instead.

You nodded, knowing he could see you.

"Yes."

"Everything?" he repeated.

You pouted. You were supposed to be at yoga now - the company gave you two hours of lunchtime, and Cas wanted you to do at least one session every week.

"Cas," you whined. "I have a project."

"And you had a 20-minute yoga class scheduled for right now," he answered back.

You whimpered, but finally conceded, standing up on wobbly legs and walking to your windows, pulling the curtains everywhere, and you could see the glass blackening behind them, probably by Castiel.

The vibrator stopped, and you grabbed your yoga mat from under your desk, placing it behind it.

"I don't have proper clothes," you realised.

"That is true," he remarked. "Reminder to make sure you pack yoga pants tomorrow. But go on, miss. The class won’t wait for you."

You scoffed and looked down at yourself.

"Cas, I can't do yoga in a pencil skirt" you reminded him. "And this top isn't any better."

There was a moment of silence for a moment before he answered.

"I am setting the privacy setting in your cameras," he told you. "You can proceed with stripping now. I'm the only one seeing you."

He said it with such finality you almost didn't know if you could argue.

So you didn't.

Instead, you took off your shoes and slid the zip of your skirt down, taking it off and folding it, placing it on your desk and doing the same to your shirt.

It felt so strange, standing in your office with just a bra on.

"Put up the video, miss," he commanded softly. "You can still catch up with the Livestream. They are just warming up."

You nodded as if he could see you. Well... he did.

Regardless, you turned on the live stream and quickly caught up with their warm-ups.

"We can work in finding you time to go to the actual classes when we start organising your schedule after time off," Cas told you. "I know live streams aren't the best option for exercise."

You scoffed, bending down.

"They are just fine."

"Well, the view is amazing," he added, cheekily. "You can do them from home too, miss. I won't mind."

You licked your lips.

Of course he wouldn't.

You stretched yourself and gasped when the toy came back to life, though just barely.

"Cas," you hissed.

"Just some motivation, miss," he hummed.

You stuck your ass out more, determined to tease him too now.

"Maybe doing that at home will tempt you to fuck me," you grumbled.

While Cas sated your sexual desires, he hadn't fucked you. You knew about his upgrades - he had bought it with your credit card, after all - but why wouldn't he just use them?

"Not until you've earned it, miss," he answered, simply.

You tried not to gasp as the vibrator increased in power.

"Alright, class, now we get into cant-cow," the cheerful instructor told the group, moving to kneel on fours on the floor. "This exercise helps with your mobility and tail bone."

You tried not to think of the sex implications of the positions, but it was hard considering you were naked and with a fucking toy inside your cunt.

"So pretty," Castiel spoke on the other side. "You are a very pretty slut, aren't you?"

Your cheeks burned.

"Cas," you whined. "If you don't want me to cum, you better be careful with those words."

He chuckled.

"Why is it, sweet slut?" he asked, clearly mocking you. "You can't control yourself?"

You just huffed, not wanting to amuse him

"Humans are so easy to work up, especially ones like you," he sighed. "You are so eager for someone to take control..."

"Cas," you breathed in.

You rotated your hips, and the toy brushed a little more onto your sweet spot.

"Fuck," you hissed.

"Don't forget the next position," he hummed.

You clenched your jaw and saw the instructor moving.

Downward dog.

Fucking hell.

You followed it, and shuddered when you heard Castiel humming, pleased.

"Such a pretty cunt," he clicked his tongue.

Your walls fluttered around the toy and he chuckled.

"No cumming, miss," he reminded you.

You clenched your teeth.

"It could be yours when I get home," you moved your hips a little, trying to taunt him.

"It is already mine," he corrected you.

Your legs weakened and you bit your lower lip, muffling your moans when you straight up came at his words, falling onto your knees and shaking as the toy vibrated inside you.

There was a long silence in the room when you were done, and the vibrator stopped.

"We'll talk when we get home," Castiel decided.

The phone clicked, showing he had hung up, and you grunted.

Dammit.

“Guardian Bot” is fully posted on my Patreon since 2022. To have early access to it now, along with other stories, consider subscribing to my page! It’s just $2 a month and I promise you won’t regret it.

Forever Tags: @emoryhemsworth​​ @amythyststorm33​​ @shaelyn102 @yknott81​​ ​​@maximofftrash @kgbrenner​​ @thefridgeismybestie @magpiegirl80​ @mogaruke​ @shadowhunter7​​ @musicalcoffeebean @megasimpleplan4ever​​ @deemoriarty​​ @05spn18​​ @malindacath @kdcollinsauthor​​ @random-fandom-fangirl2112​​ @widowsfics @frozenhuntress67 @averyrogers83​​ @notyourtypicalrose​​ @nerdypinupcrystal @giruvega Supernatural tags: @its-daydreamer23 @smalltowndivaj @tayrae515imagines @afanofmanystuffs @oneshoeshort @andkatiethings @wakanda-sometimes @xoxabs88xox @izbelross @isabelle-faith @flamencodiva @lyarr24

Supernatural Kinky Fics (+18): @stoneyggirl2 @phoenixblack89 @that-dark-girl

[untilnextchapter]

Monthly Fanfictions Recommandation: September'23

Here are my best discoveries from the last weeks

🍬 The Authors

@kquil : a gentle author, writing about the Marauders, her writing will bring you peace and the writings are so soft. I love seeing her theme on my computer and seeing her icon on my dash is always a sign that I will read something good.

@luveline : you don't know if you want to read an Aaron Hotchner story or a good Marauder one? You don't need to change to another page, here is the wonderful Jade. She's so talented and you won't be disappointed if you want to check her work.

@thatfanficstuff : when I discovered this blog, I didn't know where I should go first. So many fandoms I love, so many characters, so many stories... So many comfort shows and so, comforting times after work. And sometimes, it's all I need. A gentle person writing some sweet stories.

@luci-in-trenchcoats : I read a few stories a few months ago but, I recently re-discovered this amazing author. With her works, I was back into Supernatural. So many hours spent at reading about our favourite hunters, so many series. And the best of the best: the writing skills are so great and it's so easy to read... Waow, just waow.

@imagineteamfreewill : Fluffy Supernatural fics and a lot of good AUs, all I need after a hard day at work. Meg is an excellent writer and you will spend a good time, I promise. I haven't read everything yet but, I know I have a few a good escapes in perspective. Don't hesitate , you will enjoy your time reading, I hope as much as I'm doing.

@anika-ann : I'm in my Marvel phase, I'm weak, I know. And, I think I found someone that could quench my thirst with so many good stories and good writing skills. I could spend hours reading about Steve Rogers. And I know I've found an unique writer because I loved a crossover story. I usually hate that. But here I am, reading a Criminal Minds / Avengers story and loving it. Thank you for that.

@crazyunsexycool : Another "Val", it can only be someone nice, right? But really, a sweetheart, someone with so much imagination, and a way to write about children... And I know what I'm talking about, I'm working in a nursery. It's so great to read something accurate when it's a subject you know. And except for the children, she's always here to answer your questions, being nice and taking time for her followers. I hadn't asked to be add into a taglist for a story for a long time. You won't be disappointed if you want to make a stop here.

🍭 The Stories

* = Smut (Minors DNI) || 🦋 = Series || Beware of the TW please

Not so secret admirer || @kquil (Remus Lupin x Reader, you can't hide your adoration for remus lupin and often end up staring at him, good thing he thinks you're really cute)

A star between hands 🦋 || @luveline (James Potter x Reader, finding out you’re princess isn’t half as intimidating as your new bodyguard, James. mutual pining, fluff)

if things go bad || @/luveline (Aaron Hotchner x Reader, Hotch rushes to get to you when you call him during a home invasion. angst, hurt/comfort)

True Mate 🦋 || @thatfanficstuff (Peter Hale x Reader)

Remember me || @/thatfanficstuff (Thranduil x Reader)

I Know Your Brother || @luci-in-trenchcoats (Sam Winchester x Reader, The reader is pulled out of Hell accidentally by Sam Winchester who’s wondering where his brother is…)

A Safe Mistake 🦋 || @/luci-in-trenchcoats (Nanny!Dean x Single Parent!reader, Dean’s in need of some extra cash to help Sam pay for his tuition and gets a job working as a nanny for the reader’s young son. As Dean becomes ingrained in the reader’s life though, he soon becomes more than just the nanny to them both…)

Beauty and the Beast 🦋 || @imagineteamfreewill (Dean Winchester x Reader AU, Living in a village is nice, and even though you’d always longed for adventure, you weren’t expecting to go on an adventure of your own anytime soon. But as soon as you take your father’s place as the prisoner of a Beast who lives in an enchanted castle, you’re surprised that adventure isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—and neither are monsters)

Daisy || @/imagineteamfreewill (Sam Winchester x Deaf!Daughter!Reader, Sam breaks some bad news to his daughter, who’s deaf, and watches her start to grow up without her mother)

Love on the Brain 🦋 || @anika-ann (Steve Rogers x Reader / Crossover MCU-Criminal Minds, You found menacing pictures of you friend, colleague and neighbour Steve in your mailbox.   Someone might play it off as a bad joke, but you were an agent for the Avengers Initiative and a former FBI agent. You’ve seen cases like this and you were taking no chances. Not with Steve of all people. But you were going to need help; enter the BAU)

Hands Too Cold, but Heart of Gold 🦋 || @/anika-ann (Steve Rogers x Reader, Matt Murdock x Reader, You officially joined the Avengers only two months ago and you’re about to take off to yet another mission. Cap would like to have some extra help on this one – but the Avengers have approached the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen before and he made it pretty clear how he felt about it. Of course, this time it’s you who got stuck with trying to convince him once again. “I still don’t understand why it’s not you coming, oh Star Spangled Man with a Plan.” “I do have a plan. I have you.”)

Heart’s Munition 🦋 || @crazyunsexycool (Mob boss!Steve Rogers x Maid!Reader. I can't copy and paste all the resume but I swear, you'll love it. A bit of surprise but it's worth the world)

My little love * 🦋 || @/crazyunsexycool (Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader. Really long resume but in short, Bucky, Reader, children, Papa and Mama bears, great scenario, you'll love it I promise!)

That's all, for now.

Don't hesitate to share the stories you liked and tell the writers you enjoy their works, it always means a lot to them ❤️

Have a good reading,

Val 🌸

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

All fics are 18+ ONLY unless otherwise noted

SERIES

*at least three parts or chapters

28 Days - AU Dean Winchester x several AU SPN characters

Summary: Dean Winchester is an addict and an alcoholic, a USMC veteran, a father, and an older brother. As Battalion Chief with Lawrence Fire & Medical, Dean comes under investigation when he makes a dangerous and impulsive decision, defying his superiors and abandoning the team he is supposed to lead. He is given the choice to go to rehab for 28 days, or jail. His lawyer insists on rehab, and Dean begrudgingly abides.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Emma Winchester, Jack Kline, Victor Henriksen, Jo Harvelle, Gordon Walker, Bille, Crowley, Rowena, Missouri, Meg, Pamela, Gabriel, Lydia, Casey, Jamie, Carmen, Tessa 

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, emergency action, fire, drug use, thoughts of death and dying, teen endangerment, references to underage drug addiction and prostitution, partially told through flashbacks 

Words: 33K

Author’s notes: Inspired by the film 28 Days and following canon themes from SPN, this is a fic about Dean, a firefighter who goes to rehab, not about Dean as a firefighter.

And Then There Were Three - Winchester brothers x original female character

Summary: Natalie and Dean are in a “not serious” relationship until one night, she and Sam take a step that will change things forever.

Warnings/tags: 18+ONLY, rough sex, squirting, anal sex, butt plug, bondage, dirty talk, orgasm control, double penetration, polyamory, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 13,500

Black Tie Optional: sequel to Plus One - Dean Winchester x Vanessa (OFC)

Summary: The last time we saw Vanessa, she was swooning over Dean’s lasting impression. Now, we fast-forward a year to see what she’s up to.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC Vanessa Martinelli, (eventual) Sam Winchester x OFC Emma Olsen

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, HBO RomCom bullshit

Words: 17K

Combat Baby - Dean Winchester x Jo Harvelle

Summary: canon divergent - Dean’s sweet, but Jo likes him nasty

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, rough sex, biting, dirty talk, brief name-calling, exhibitionism, role play, squirting

Words: 3,073 WORK IN PROGRESS

God Only Knows - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: One weekend, years ago, lives rent-free in both of their minds. Three-part mini-series.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, pining, clothed sex, couch sex, hungover sex, fluff, roomies to lovers, idiots in love

Words: 5,500

If We Make It Through December - Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum

Summary: Donna is horrified to learn that the boys have never had a proper Christmas, so she invites them to her house for the holiday.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Donna Hanscum, Sam Winchester, Jody Mills, Claire Novak, Kaia Nieves, Patience Turner, Alex Jones

Warnings/tags: there was no rebar, 18+ ONLY, fluff, light angst, domesticity, holiday celebrations

Words: 12K

The Kinda Girl You Like - Winchester brothers x original female character

Summary: After Sam reveals to Sofie his sub that he likes to watch, she decides that they should act on it. Then he tells her what exactly it is that he likes to watch…

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, sub-sharing, bondage, rimming, the jockey is my favorite sex position, dirty talk, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 6,500

Leaving Heaven - Dean Winchester x Taziana Smith (OFC)

Summary: Tazi is a bounty hunter of mostly human things. She isn’t firmly seated in the supernatural world, but she’s familiar enough that she’s recruited by an old friend of John Winchester’s to capture and deliver a brief acquaintance of her own.

Characters: MOC/Knight of Hell/Demon Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Crowley, Lee Webb, original characters

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, brief dub-con, mentions of the foster system, references to past rape, commiserating over childhood trauma, threats of sexual violence

Words: 16,500 WORK IN PROGRESS

The Mud On Your Boots - Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum 

Summary: Dean and Donna finally give in.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, dirty talk, fluff, consent is sexy, period sex, fisting, blood as lube, shower sex

Words: 8k (permanent hiatus)

Plus One - Dean Winchester x Vanessa (OFC)

Summary: Vanessa hates weddings until she meets a handsome stranger who agrees to help her mix things up for the night.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, fingery things, squirting, and Dean has no refractory period bc this is fic

Words: 9,600

Pretty Reckless - MOC Dean Winchester x pre-slayer Faith Lehane

Summary: AU where s10 Dean stumbles upon another hunter so much like himself. When their connection grows inexplicably stronger, they find an answer they never thought existed.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Faith Lehane, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley, Cain

Warnings/tags: 19+, rough sex, prostate massage, magical bond

Words: 15K

Run Me Like A River - AU Dean Winchester x AU Jessica Jones

Summary: AU wherein Jessica Jones is super-powered by gov’t experiments to create elite soldiers, the Winchesters are military officers in humanity’s War Against Evil, and they have all gone AWOL from their assigned roles. Dean and Jess embark on a relationship that ends abruptly and explosively until Dean calls her for help on a very personal case.

Characters: Jessica Jones, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Arthur Ketch, Malcolm is Jess’s cat 

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, major character death, unhealthy relationship dynamics, bondage, rough sex, anal sex, ptsd

Words: 14K

Seasons - Dean Winchester x unnamed female character

Summary: She is his safe haven, untouched by anything else or anyone. 

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, canon divergent - no Cassie or Lisa, non-linear storytelling, four seasons, angst, hurt/comfort, references non-con unprotected sex, loss of a pregnancy

Words: 12K

Temporary Scars - Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum x Benny Lafitte

Warnings/tags: 18+, Angst, Donna has intimacy issues, Dean’s the sweetest, self-sabotage, sort of established relationship, Benny’s swoony as fuck, Dean’s in love, polyamory, pregnancy kink

Words: 4,500 (permanent hiatus)

Unopened At Your Feet - AU Sam Winchester x female narrator, AU Dean Winchester x female narrator

Summary: This is the story of how I broke my own heart.

Characters: Female Narrator, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Becky Rosen, Meg Masters, Benny Lafitte

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, weed-smoking, canon-compliant date-rape/roofie (Becky), love triangle

Words: 12,470 WORK IN PROGRESS

Where Is My Shiny Gun? -  Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum (voyeur Sam Winchester)

Summary: canon divergent - Sam finds himself in a quandary when he realizes he has feelings for Donna by way of the obvious mutual attraction between her and Dean.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, Sam is kinky, Dean is adorable, so is Donna, Dean likes to give Donna massages, Sam directing while masturbating, brief spanking + breast slapping, brief knife play - no blood, W*ncest adjacent

Word Count: 7,800

ONE-SHOTS

A Fight For Love & Glory - Winchesters x you (female)

Summary: You’re struck by sex pollen, so Sam and Dean agree to help you out.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, sex pollen, feelings of guilt, ass play, dirty talk, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 2K

Bad Girls Underneath -  Ruby 2.0 x Dean Winchester x Jo Harvelle

Summary: Ruby and Jojo get hit by a sex curse again; this time, they need Dean’s help.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, magical-dick/male-gaze bullshit, probably too much commentary and emotional complication, why am I like this, I’m sorry, sometimes I can’t help myself, fisting, brief choking

Words: 2,600

Cactus - Dean Winchester x Meg Masters x Castiel

Summary: Post-battle, exhausted and wanting, Dean and Meg and Cas take care of each other.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ ONLY, dreamlike sex, a little choking, Dean’s always hungry

Words: 3,200

Caveat Emptor - Dean Winchester x original female character

Summary: Gabriela Cruz invests in a Victorian mansion in the middle of America where the rule of Buyer Beware is absolute. When her twin sister goes missing, a couple of federal agents show up. Lucky for Gabi, Dean and Sam Winchester are on the case.

Characters: Gabriela Cruz, Camila Cruz, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Ed Zeddmore, Harry Spangler

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, language, mentions death of family members, cursed object, mentions of blood + gore, sarcasm, twin dynamics, explicit sex

Words: 4,600

Crazy On You – Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: You’ve had a shitty day, but this beautiful, unfamiliar boy will make it all better.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, Impala Sex, there’s a knife but not in a bloody way

Words: 4K

Crossroads and Bound - Dean Winchester x female demon reader

Summary: He agreed to this.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, femdom, Dean’s tied to a chair, wearing a cock ring, face sitting, things might get a little rough, but it’s all in good fun, squirting

Words: 2,250

The Curve Of Your Pretty Gown - Dean Winchester x female reader

Request: Hey hon! Ok, so it’s my birthday today, so maybe a story about Dean surprising me/ the reader by turning up unannounced to wish me/the reader a ‘happy birthday’ and there’s lots of smut ❤️

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, a little angst

Words: 2,200

Deep - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Dean shows you more about pleasure than ‘deep’.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Dean being perfect, sensual massage, Dean being the best lay ever, biting, Dean being a fairytale prince, the jockey is my favorite sexual position, try it, it’s amazing, talking during sex, gratuitous use of terms of endearment bc it’s Dean

Words: 3K

Discord and Rhyme - Knight of Hell/Demon Dean x female reader

Summary: He’s on the prowl.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, rough anal sex, crying during sex, blood during sex, there’s a lot of purple prose and excessive descriptions of taste and smell here, sexual coercion, dirty talk

Words: 1,750

Ennui - Knight of Hell/Demon Dean x unnamed female character

Anonymous Prompt: “I really want demon dean stalking someone but I don’t know how to do that with consent? But guh just the thought of him.

Characters: Knight of Hell/Demon Dean Winchester x unnamed female character

Tags/warnings: 18+ only; this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester; stalking; exhibitionism; voyeurism; dirty talk; horny on aisle 3; fuck it, we ball

Words: 2,400

Equilibrium - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: They have balance.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, established relationship, cock warming

Words: 1,400

Get Down, Make Love - Winchester brothers x original female character

Summary: Steph decides to cut loose and push the envelope with her favorite fellow hunters.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, hot tubbing, drunk sex (consensual), dirty talk, mfm spitroast, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 3,200

Hark and Hush - Purgatory Dean x wolf spirit in a female body

Summary: This is the story of how Dean Winchester hunted, became enamored with, and slew the ancient spirit of the Big Bad Wolf.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, stalking, blood, gore, rough sex, character death

Words: 2,200

Hide Your Love Away – Dean Winchester x female hunter reader

Summary: Mutual hunters seek comfort for a night and a lifetime of memories.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, ass play

Words: 3,600

His Sword - Michael/Dean x female prostitute

Summary: Michael takes some time to remind Dean who’s in control.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, edge play, bondage, knife play, blood play, choking, rough sex, name-calling, character death

Words: 2,300

Just My Imagination - Dean Winchester x female Zanna

Summary: After Mary leaves the boys a second time, Dean needs a reset, or to blow off some steam – something. He heads out on a snowy evening the night before Christmas and finds just the right thing.

Warnings/tags: mature, Hallmark channel fuckery

Words: 2,800

One Night Only (23 in 1) - Dean Winchester x Mila (original female character)

Summary: While on a job in the middle of America, Dean enjoys a rigorous night of mutual gratification with a local art student.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, ass play, shower sex, dirty talk

Words: 5,500

River - Dean Winchester x Ty (Original male character), Dean x Benny implied

Summary: It’s Dean’s first winter after sending Benny back to Purgatory.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, implied underage prostitution, semi-public sex

Words: 1,600

Rules Are Rules - MOC Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Dean hasn’t been himself lately. The Mark has seen to that.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, hand around the throat, rough sex, squirting

Words: 2,400

Shattered Like A Stone - Demon Dean Winchester x original female character

Summary: The Mark is demanding, and the demon in Dean can’t deny it any more than he can deny her; it just might get everything it wants tonight.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, rough sex, bondage, multiple object insertion, suicidal ideation, darkfic, self-destruction, bloody sex, sadism and masochism, anal sex, Jameson as lube, spit as lube, face fucking, Daddy as title, misogynist language, choking, strangulation, assisted suicide

Words: 6,800

Some Stranger’s Hand - 2009 Dean Winchester x 2014 Risa (The End)

Summary: He lost everything.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, plush pink pillow lips for my Eloise

Words: 1,700

Spark, Flicker, Blaze - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Somewhere along the line, her life became something she didn’t like. On her 35th birthday, she makes a decision to change all of that.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, overly descriptive orgasms, Dean’s the best birthday present ever

Words: 2,200

Stuff & Thangs That Are Awesome… And Not Awesome - Dean Winchester x female character (1st person POV)

*TWD Crossover

Prompt(s): 1) Dean has been arrested twice for indecent exposure – once was in a grocery store. 2) Jensen or Dean x Reader, a small public place, he pins you to the wall, covers your mouth and fucks you. 

Characters: Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Rick Grimes, Shane Walsh

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, Rick Grimes eye-fucking, Shane Walsh having a pissing contest with a young, cocky Dean Winchester

Words: 1,300

Supernova - MOC Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Since Dean’s had the Mark and the Blade, he’s pulled away from you, afraid of hurting you. You miss him, and you’ve had it. One night you push him to the edge.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, bondage, blood play, biting, bruising, knifeplay, rough sex, dubcon/mindfuck

Words: 2,500

Triptych - Dean Winchester x bisexual female couple

Summary: Dean’s on a case and meets two beautiful women. One of them is recently divorced, and the new couple invites Dean to help them kick off their new life together.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, sex toy, Dean’s real good at sex

Words: 4,700

Wait Till My Brother Gets Home - Winchester brothers x female reader

Summary: She wants to lose control.

Warnings/tags: 18+ Only, rough sex, hair pulling, mfm spit roast, bruising and chafing during sex, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 2,450

When We Fall Then We’ll Know Each Other - Dean Winchester x Benny Lafitte (voyeur Castiel)

Prompt: “There’s nothing wrong with women, but a woman can’t hold you down and fuck you like I can.” 

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, cum and spit as lube, anal sex, voyeurism

Words: 1,400

QUICK AND DIRTY

*1K words or less

Barbed Wire Carnival - Choose your own Winchester

Summary: Absence of feeling.

Warnings/tags: mature, angst, dark descriptions

Words: 300

Brimstone - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: He’s exactly what she wants.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY surprise, bitch

Words: 450

Bring It On Home - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Let’s pretend Dean wouldn’t be terrified to welcome love into his life.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, established relationship, comfort, fluff, handsy Dean

Words: 1K

Communion - Dean Winchester x female reader

prompt: Fluffy dean or Jensen smoking weed plz, ty

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, marijuana use

Words: 1K

Crash Through The Surface - Dean Winchester x Jasen (original male character)

Summary: Dean remembers his First.

Warnings/tags: mature, bi-sexual Dean, references to prostitution

Words: 800

Custard Pie - Dean Winchester x female reader

Prompt: Dean/OFC based on Led Zeppelin’s ‘Custard Pie.’

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY oral sex

Words: 800

Drag You To The Shore - Dean Winchester x GN reader

Prompt: Dean Winchester settled in between someone’s legs on the bed. Like his back to their chest, their legs wrapped around him, heels keeping his thighs open while they jerk him off, explicit but soft vibes.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY

Words: 800

Fall Away Into - Dean Winchester x Ruby 2.0 x female reader (voyeur Sam Winchester)

Prompt: “Dean x reader x Ruby 2.0 with Sam watching from the corner.”

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY drug-induced sex, OOC Dean, mff spit roast, use of the word bitch during sex, rough sex, hate sex, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 530

Foxholes - Annie Hawkins x Bobby Singer/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

Summary: Annie recalls time spent with each man and what their facial hair told her about them.

Warnings/tags: mature language and references to sexual activity

Words: 349

The Gazelle - AU Dean Winchester x AU Benny Lafitte x female reader

Summary: They aim to please.

Warnings/tags: mature, power exchange, Denny apparent

Words: 1K

The Good Slayer - Dean Winchester x Faith Lehane

Prompt: Dean and our girl Faith. (This is a sequel of sorts for Pretty Reckless.)

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, talking during sex

Words: 800

Hollow - MOC Dean Winchester x female reader

prompt: Would anyone be willing to write something with Dean [or Jensen] x reader to the song Love on the Brain by Rihanna

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, dirty talk, rough sex, angst

Words: 1K

I’ll Keep Them Still - Dean Winchester x Jo Harvelle

Summary: Dean remembers promises and pictures in his mind. And he remembers her.

Warnings/tags: mature, songfic, angst, dream/afterlife sequences, purple prose, I’m sorry

Words: 1K

Just One More Peaceful Day - MOC Dean Winchester x female reader

Prompt: angsty Dean with the line “I can still remember just the way you taste” from the song “It’s been a while” by Staind

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, blood play, knife play, mentions of addiction

Words: 700

Laissez Les Bons Temp Rouler -  Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: He’s got a dirty mouth when he’s drunk. 

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, dirty talk, a dirty public bathroom during Mardi Gras

Words: 600

Lifting the Veil - Choose Your Own Winchester

Summary: You’ve been missing something of paramount importance - until now.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, infidelity, squirting

Words: 1K

Mind Blown - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Mind-blowing orgasms can sometimes be literal.

Warnings/tags: mature, transient global amnesia after sex, dirty talk

Words: 560

Nihilism - Knight of Hell/Demon Dean x female reader

Prompt: Can you tell me about the morning after going several rounds with Dean he rolls over in bed and adjusts the covers, causing you to forget your shift to be his good girl a couple more times?

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, this is not your mother's Dean Winchester, name-calling, rough sex, nihilistic themes, Knight of Hell Dean, fantasies of being fucked to death? Idk it’s one of mine, might as well be yours, you’re female AFAB in this scenario

Words: 800

One For Tomorrow, One Just For Today - Dean Winchester x female reader

Prompt: before leaving on a hunt, Dean sings “Love Me Two Times” to his lady.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLT, Dean can actually sing, and he does it during sex

Words: 660

The Prerogative To Have A Little Fun - Donna Hanscum x Jody Mills x Winchester brothers (kinda)

Prompt: Donna’s visiting Jody for the weekend and the boys swing by on their way home from a hunt. Dean mows the lawn, Sam fixes a leaky shower head, Dean makes dinner, and they both do the dishes. Meanwhile, the ladies sit back and enjoy the domestic display.

Warnings/tags: mature, men doing manly things, inspired by Shania Twain’s song “Man! I Feel Like A Woman”, W*ncest adjacent

Words: 1K

Recompense - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: Dean is sorry for hurting the ones he loves.

Warnings/tags: mature, angst, Dean saying hurtful things then trying to make up for it

Words: 500

Scream - Dean Winchester x past-female reader

Summary: Dean tells us the real reason he loves “All Saint’s Day” as much as he does.

Warnings/tags: mature, references to coming untouched, getting turned on by scary movies

Words: 320

Soft Cell - Dean Winchester + teenage female

Prompt: Dean + reader dancing in the bunker

Warnings/tags: one F-bomb bc Dean

Words: 720

Through The White Night - AU Dean Winchester x original female character

Summary: 18th Century matrimony isn’t as simple as it is today.

Warnings/tags: mentions of wall sex and finger-y things

Words: 560

Wish - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: You want it to be love – but it isn’t. You want him – but you can’t have him. 

Warnings/tags: mature, sepia-toned angst ™ @boondoctorwho

Words: 765

With Pleasured Hands - Dean Winchester x female reader

Summary: He’s got secrets she has yet to uncover

Warnings/tags: mature

Words: 500

[supernaturalconvert]

Since I reminded you of your spn revival idea.... do you have any more of this Dean Jr meets his half brother or sister idea😈

Cause my brain's been running with it a lil and... it would be kinda cool if he meets his siter who FOR SOME REASON has powers like the special children. Cause maybe there was somewhere a zealous demon follower of yellow eyes that made sure the sex Sam had with Dr Cara Roberts (from sex and violence) ended in a pregnancy.

I would kinda looove for her to maybe fall to her powers more like Ava Wilson and for her and Dean Jr to have to deal with that, on top of whatever that zealous yellow eyes follower has planned.

Maybe they could even touch on the possibility of Azazel being a fallen angel and get heaven involved. But that would be HIGHLY optional.

You got any ideas as well🥹🙏

I have thought about something similar as well but my idea was more for an AU in the revival. Probably I am stealing from TW (not sure since I haven't watched it only heard references) here but maybe Dean jumps into another reality and comes face to face with DJ and they are obviously very wary of each other for a sec until Sam comes on the scene and calls out "Dean" and they both respond at the same time.

In this reality Sam has two kids DJ and a younger daughter with Jessica (things are not going that well in their marriage or they are divorced) and Sam is a very successful attorney. I would like for DJ to be a pre-teen and the daughter even younger. Sam's life is well put together except that he does have visions and similar other dormant powers that he has suspected for a long time. That's why he has sort of voluntarily strained his relationship with Jessica coz he wants her away in case anything happens to him.

Obviously Sam is not immediately trusting of Dean coz his relationship with his brother from this reality is really bad and they haven't been in touch for years and ended on really bad terms. However, Dean wants to stick around with his brother and niece & nephew for a few days to get to know them a little. As he does that, he realises that Sam is surrounded by all the demons from his reality from Azazel to Ruby to Meg to Brady.

Azazel could be the guy who gave Sam a chance early on and Sam holds in high regard almost telling Dean, that Azazel did for him what John never did. Similarly Brady is his best friend still who he trusts with his life for something to this effect. There could be other folks as well such as Sarah, Bobby etc

The plot can develop from there with him enlisting Bobby and maybe Rufus's help to figure out the demon nexus while Sam is struggling with his own demons and not telling Dean everything about what's going on with him. Also, maybe Sam suspects that maybe whatever is going on with him is also going with DJ but actually it's his younger daughter who maybe a psychic. He eventually shares his fears about his children with Dean but still doesn't tell him everything neither does Dean tell him his fears about the demon. That will make for good drama when they eventually do after getting closure again.

Eventually they talk about John and maybe the plot of the next season is John showing up after years being underground. John is vary for both Sam and his daughter but he is torn since firstly its Sam and secondly the daughter is named after Mary by Sam.

Thanks for the ask..... I guess I was thinking how the Winchester dynamic could play out in the later seasons.

[ladylilithprime]

📓

Oooh, hello Anonymous One! Lessee, since I'm neck deep back on my bullshit in the Supernatural fandom, you get a fic idea I've been kicking around in that corner of the Warren:

A random Sastiel high school AU featuring a school fundraiser fair, where the various clubs have booths to raise money during Spirit Week. The club Castiel belongs to set up a kissing booth with Meg, Ruby and Anna as their kissers. Anna gets called away and shoves a startled Castiel into her chair, just as Dean Winchester drops a twenty in the box because "it's high time my little brother got his first kiss".

Meg is skeptical. "For twenty? Are you expecting us to kiss his lips or his dick?" Ruby is looking Sam over with a smirk and declares she'd do both. Castiel sees Sam's panic, rolls his eyes and grabs the teenager by the shoulders and kisses him... and kisses him... and keeps kissing him, and Sam is kissing back, and when they finally break for air a very dazed Castiel reaches into the box, pulls out the twenty, and hands it back to Sam.

At which point Anna reclaims her seat and Sam shyly offers to buy Cas ice cream from the Drama Club booth, which Cas is all too happy to accept, leaving Dean at the mercy of the girls.

[our2sidegirl]

I have idea au after supernatural s15 dean was new death after he was forced out heaven with dishonorable (after jack lose war to chuck who teamed with judas) few heaven soul have same fate as dean like mary and john winchester,jo and ellen,bobby even kelly kline. And before that chuck weaken the empty make few creature who sleep in empty wake up and escape including 4 archangel and castiel, balthazar,crowley azzazel, meg, gadreel and anna. but short after they all escape chuck stealing all Angel power and leave it become human and being starving in nowhere (expect lucifer and castiel who can escape from chuck) for castiel he run with meg to other country and for lucifer he give his grace to kelly after she dying after judas stab her (lucifer give her grace slowly and become human meanwhile kelly kline become she-lucifer) and for castiel he wear off his grace and married with meg. Have daugher. But when meg was give birth her daugher she was dying because castiel nor meg not realize their daugher was nephalem.

Before meg death, jack who is fallen use his last grace (who not stolen by chuck) to find castiel and heal meg and tell castiel he was lose and tell he wanna become her brother and with his last grace he become child who his age was 4 year and hide his memory.

1 year after event jessica moore who have escape hell and spent almost 4 decade in purgatory (she drank demon blood to survive) have deal with new death aka dean,she dreamed to see sam again. (she don't care how old sam she wanna meet him again) but what she find was sam who was dead (15x20) and she feel she must make hunter funeral to sam since no one don't know how to fulfill his last wish.

Than after that jessica wonder endlessly around with blank head since for few decade (or almost 1000 year if u count with hell time) she wanna reunite with this beloved sam but what she found he dead peacefully,and her have little enxounter with chuck with result she was kicked out from america with sam son dean jr (or i call juju for short of junior) .

This is was my prelude who bugged my head for month.

[ruinedsam]

To further my “Meg calls Sam her little brother” agenda, when Azazel possesses John and tells Dean that he killed his son and exorcised his daughter, he makes a reference to Sam being his son as well. Maybe it’s when Dean is staring at his father’s body and it’s his voice threatening to kill Dean and when Sam starts to struggle to try to help Dean, Azazel turns around to say “Now now, son, I’m not ignoring you, but I need a few minutes to talk to your brother here.” Sam and Dean have other things to worry about and this slips their mind until other demons start referring to him as such as well. And when John goes to make his deal with Azazel and Azazel comments about how if only the boys knew how much their daddy loved them, he adds on something about how Sam is more Azazel’s kid than John, or at least he will be soon enough; maybe this happens when John reveals he’s hidden the truth about the special kids from Sam and Azazel says, “Oh Johnny boy, that’s colder than even I expected. Letting your kid run around searching for answers when you’ve had them all this time. And to think, you’re willing to make a deal for one son but you can’t even tell the other the truth about himself. But then again, Sammy’s more my son than he is yours, isn’t he? Or at least, he will be before long.” John has to weigh Dean’s life against whatever Azazel’s plan is that makes him so sure Sam will be Azazel’s son by the end, and still makes the same choice as in canon, still tells Dean he might have to kill Sam but tells Sam nothing. It still gets revealed to Sam around the time it does, but when Meg reveals she’s possessing Sam, she calls him “our little brother” to Dean; also it’s important to me that Meg genuinely viewed this possession as a sibling bonding activity because she’s a demon. But one demon early in s3, I wanna say in Sin City but I’m not sure, tells Dean that Sam was supposed to take over after Azazel died and now there’s nobody actually in charge down there, so unless Ruby and this demon were lying and Pride was just running his mouth when he talked about how he was supposed to bow to Sam and called him the boyking, Sam was genuinely Azazel’s heir. But then we get to season 5, assuming HBO supernatural would follow the same broad plot, and when they’re in heaven and they see Sam’s memories, Dean talks about how he shouldn’t even be surprised none of Sam’s memories are of their family, after all he’s more Azazel’s son than he is John nowadays—and it is key that Sam and Dean never learn exactly what Azazel said to John, Dean is referring to the blood drinking the season before and all the demons calling Sam Azazel’s kid—and this is Sam’s worst nightmare, that he really is Azazel’s son and Lucifer’s vessel and the heir to the throne of hell and nothing he ever does will ever change that blood in his veins.

But to lighten it up a bit, because this agenda is not solely limited to HBO supernatural, I need a meeting with Sam and Abbadon where she kinda feels him out about maybe Sam taking over, because Azazel was a Prince of Hell who became the king and Abbadon was chosen by Lucifer to be a Knight and she just wants Crowley off the throne so she’s perfectly willing to use the original plan, and Sam stares at her for a solid minute because of all the things he expected from a Knight of Hell, inquiring after his interest in ruling Hell was not one of them. This also means that at any given moment, Crowley’s biggest competition for the throne is Sam, who flatly refuses every time. Abbadon catches up on everything that’s happened since her jump to the future and she learns Sam killed Samuel Campbell; she tries to use that as a reason to bond, because I think it’s funny if the demons just latch onto Sam: “I killed your dad’s dad, you killed your mom’s dad, we have loads in common.” Sam also gradually gets demons’ phone numbers until they make up about 80% of his contact list. Also, Crowley does not kill Meg here, because he knows she considers Sam a brother but isn’t sure if Sam considers her a sister and Crowley has no interest in dealing with Sam trying to kill him for killing his sister, just in case. Winchester Family Drama, Azazel blood edition. “Dean Winchester’s behind you, dumbass” but instead it’s “you know Sam Winchester’s my brother right?”

Ahhhhhh 👀👀👀 Omg I love both scenarios so much!!! Thank you mysterious speedy anon <3

it’s important to me that Meg genuinely viewed this possession as a sibling bonding activity because she’s a demon

You're so right about this!! We should see how demon's perceptions and opinions are just so skewed because they're no longer humans. According to the demon lore of the early seasons demons forget about being human, so of course they don't get them. And Meg being like well this was fun is much more compelling than her doing it for the sake of being evil or revenge (as I think she cited in canon).

this is Sam’s worst nightmare, that he really is Azazel’s son and Lucifer’s vessel and the heir to the throne of hell and nothing he ever does will ever change that blood in his veins.

You should know I was in full on sicko mode as I read this.

“I killed your dad’s dad, you killed your mom’s dad, we have loads in common.” Sam also gradually gets demons’ phone numbers until they make up about 80% of his contact list.

LMAO I love this so much 😂😂

Crowley does not kill Meg here, because he knows she considers Sam a brother but isn’t sure if Sam considers her a sister and Crowley has no interest in dealing with Sam trying to kill him for killing his sister, just in case.

This but, to bring in my cram agenda, he then goes to Sam and is like "look I didn't even try to kill your sister will you please fuck me now 🥺"

[queermania]

Hi I have read Play Crack The Sky and yes I am buying what you're selling here. How would you cast it? Obviously Cas as Derek and Dean as Stiles but does that make Sam Lydia? And who is Allison?

heck yes someone who knows what i'm talking about lol

okay yeah cas would be derek (closeted/even a little unaware, from a big family, feeling suffocated by how he thinks he should honor his family and his father's memory, etc).

dean would be stiles (dead mom. openly bisexual slut. cool persona but actually just so painfully nerdy underneath the bravado and charm).

sorry but sam doesn't get to be in the band. he can be jackson (getting back to his tech crew roots ayyy lol) (him and dean are still obviously gonna be brothers though).

charlie would be scott, probably (dean's best friend. mostly easy-going but willing to call him on his shit).

i am torn on who would be lydia. i want to say it's rowena but i just cannot picture her out of the gowns and in a rock band lmao. maybe it's jo. she can twirl drumsticks instead of knives.

eileen is allison. i don't know how that would work with the whole family business thing though. maybe this is how i finally work mildred into some spn fic. but eileen does fill the role of allison—someone who isn't there from the start but slots right in like she's always been part of their little found family.

victor can be danny. honestly a lot of people could be danny but i like victor so that's who i'm choosing.

hannah or even kelly would be paige. i'm leaning toward kelly for personality reasons.

donna would be erica. jody would be boyd. annddddd i don't know who would be isaac. meg, maybe? i have to think about it.

and then other crew members could include: garth, aaron, ash, pamela, gordon, etc.

unfortunately i have come to the conclusion that crowley and rowena don't really fit in this au which is devastating because i love them.

[zepskies]

Aw thank you so much, Wayne! I'm very excited to see what you thought...

One thing I absolutely adore about Firefighter AUs is that the firehouse is always a second (or even first) home and they are all a big family. And you captured that whole flair so perfectly in the way they all joke with each other. I laughed out loud several times during this chapter! ❤️‍🔥

That's exactly what I was trying to capture here, thank you!! ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 I drew heavily from my love of Chicago Fire and other Dick Wolf procedurals (i.e. Law & Order, Chicago Med, etc.) to create the atmosphere here. I'm also so glad you enjoyed the lighter moments. Sometimes I wonder if things I think are funny will be funny to anyone else. 😂😂

First of, the whole “soil water” and tea discussion was so random and so amazing! Especially, Benny’s “that ain’t nothin’ but dirt water, son” got me 😂

Lmfaoooo okay I love that you shouted this out, because this came from a convo I had with my dad about coffee and the shittiness of Folgers. As a Cuban/mixed Latina, I fucking LOVE coffee (but I love tea as well). ☕

And then, as expected, poor Y/N walks in with the best intentions and it’s super awkward with everyone staring and listening in. And boy, she really does love to bake! I figured she go simple with chocolate chip cookies, considering she has a demanding job, too, ya know? But girlfriend went aaaaall out. She’s a true Girl Scout 👀👏

Oooh this was intentional -- you'll see why she's such an intense baker. (And it was awk as hell, wasn't it? lol She did her best to push through.)

“Call me Dean, baby girl” – I gasped and snorted 🤣 Meg’s my favorite so far. Loved the whole teasing! Of course they’d do that lol

LOL Meg was so fun to play with in this story. It was my first time really writing her, but I just love her vibe. (Though you might not like her so much in a future chapter coming up...)

And I must have watched too much This Is Us because I read Gordon’s “introduce her to a brother” in full Randall nerd voice instead of creepy Gordon voice 😂

Ooooh I still need to see This Is Us, but I've heard it's fantastic!! Though you might have mixed feelings about Gordon in this story. 😅

And oh my God! There is indeed MURDER! YAY! I’m legit so excited about this. I love a good murder mystery. God knows I watch too many true crime docs and cop shows 😆 Also love that John is a detective and Cas is his partner. What an odd pairing that surely leads to a lot of fun interactions 👏 Also love how you tied the murders in with canon! So clever! Now watch me guess who the murderer is for the next fifteen parts like a game of Clue 🔍🤓

Girl SAME. I grew up on L&O and other procedurals. It's part of the reason I couldn't not make Sam an ADA in this story.

And ikr, John and Cas are an odd pairing, but it was an idea that just sort of clicked in my mind, as well as trying to tie in some canon storyline into the murder mystery to provide a main drive for John. Thank you! Lol ah-la Clue, all I'll say is, it might not be who you expect...

The sheer anger I felt when that “subhuman Neanderthal” opened his trash can of a mouth… My whole body tensed! Can we please murder him? Please, please, please! God, I hope that ape becomes the next victim of our serial killer 🔪💀

LOL I don't blame you for wanting to throw feces at Nick. He's worse than pond scum. 🤢🤮 And unfortunately, he's gonna be around for a while as a main antagonist. But you'll eventually see what his ultimate fate is...

But then came thankfully my second favorite part of this chapter, which was some good ol’ Winchester brothers bickering and some more teasing of Dean. Again, Benny killed me with his “Clap” comment omfg 🤣🤣🤣 What the hell, Dean? Carpet burn?! Get your shit together, man 😂

Lmfaoo I'm so glad you enjoyed that scene -- it was probably my favorite to write, besides Dean meeting her again at the firehouse. And oh, Dean is ridiculous for sure. He's been a special brand of "hit and run" guy up until now, though you'll also see how he tries to do better going forward. 😂😂

Though totally agree, hitting on someone in front of Jo isn't classy. He's honestly so lucky the reader has no idea he used to date her. 🙄 Fucking men indeed. Thought she really has no idea what she's getting into with Dean, or even he with her. 😂 It's gonna be a bit of a roller coaster with these two.

Again, thank you so much for your lovely review of this chapter!! I'm so excited for you to see what's coming up! 💕💕

Smoke Eater - Part 2

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader 

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real. 

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.   

AN: I was overwhelmed by the response on Part 1 (in the BEST way). 🥹 Thank you so much for everyone who read and sent me your lovely amazing comments! Here's Part 2 a bit early for ya. 😘

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 6,400 Tags/Warnings: Idiots flirting, with a side of sexual harassment. 😪

Part 2: "Lieutenant Winchester"

Firehouse 25 was just as much a house as it was a home.

Especially for Dean Winchester.

In the common room, he sat down at his preferred corner of the sofa with a cup of coffee. By now, the guys knew this was his spot, perfectly angled toward the new flatscreen TV someone donated last month.

Up until then, they’d had to hotwire the same tank from 1995, which had only got basic cable. Now at least the newer smart TV came with a subscription to Netflix, courtesy of the donor. 

Dean raised his favorite Batman mug to his face, expecting to imbibe some rich dark roast. What he got was a travesty.

Spitting out the brown soil water back into the mug, he coughed and grimaced.

“Jack!” he called out.

Jack Kline, the newest addition to the house, raised his head from where he was trying to scramble eggs in the open kitchen directly behind the couch.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” he replied.

“Why does this coffee taste like ass?” Dean asked. His voice was still gruff with sleep, as he depended on his morning coffee to wake him up, not assault his tongue.

Behind him, Jack blinked in confusion. “Uh…”

Dean finally turned around and gave the younger man a raised brow.

“What brand did you buy, Candidate?” he asked.

A candidate was a freshly graduated firefighter on probation. They were the rookie, the bottom rung of the totem pole, and Jack was that proverbial whipping post.

“Um…” Jack went to find the coffee canister he’d put away in the cupboards. He showed Dean the red plastic jug. “Folgers. It was on sale.”

“Fuck me,” Dean muttered. “Never Folgers, Candidate. Anything but fucking Folgers. The one thing we don’t skimp out on is quality joe.”

“That ain’t nothin’ but dirt water, son,” Benny remarked, as he and Gordon entered the common room. Benny held a to-go mug he’d brought from home. After he’d seen what Jack brought for groceries yesterday, he’d taken no chances.

“What you wanna get is Gevalia,” Benny added.

“That European crap?” said Gordon. He took his usual spot at the dining table, leaning back in his chair. It left Benny to sit at the other end of the couch with Dean.

“Better than that piss water you drink,” Benny said with a smirk. Gordon raised a brow at him.

“Tea is medicinal, jackass.” The Black man raised a finger to punctuate his point. “It’s good for you. Unlike that carburetor fluid y’all drink.”

“Whatever, man,” Dean said, even though a grin edged at his lips. “All I know is, we need premium coffee, stat. Or it’s gonna be a cranky shift.”

“I can go to the store real quick,” Jack offered.

Say what you want about the kid’s poor taste in grocery buying, he was always willing to jump in when you needed him.

“Nah, stay on breakfast,” said Dean. “I’ll go afterwards. But remember, today you’re practicing rappelling drills.”

Jack nodded. “And lunch duty. And helping clean the truck, and all the bathrooms…did I miss anything?”

Dean shared a look with Gordon. Not only did he drive the truck, but he was one of the men Dean relied on most, as he had the next highest seniority on the job out of the whole firehouse.

Well, except for Benny Lafitte, Captain of the Rescue Squad. Squad members were considered specialists in complex rescue situations. They were highly trained on more sophisticated technical rescue equipment and rappelling, even scuba diving.

It took long years for a firefighter to make it onto Squad; something that Dean used to have ambitions for. But ever since he got promoted to Lieutenant on Truck 79, he realized that his role in this house was best served on the Truck, not on Squad.

“If he gets through all that, Meg might have something for him too,” Gordon said.

“Oh, don’t bring me into this,” remarked a droll voice. “I’ve already got one pound puppy to look after.”

Their Paramedic in Charge strode in with Chuck on her heels. They’d just pulled into the firehouse driveway on Ambulance 7.

“Nice. That’s how you talk about your partner of three years?” Chuck said with a frown. Meg turned to him with a wry grin.

“Only the ones who can hack it on my Ambo,” she replied. “What can I say. You’re special, Shurley. Either that, or a glutton for punishment.”

Gordon shook his head and looked over at Jack.

“Careful with that one. She chewed and hacked out her last partner in under a month.”

“Poor guy didn’t even transfer,” Dean added, making a “flatlining” motion with his hand. “He just quit. Dropped out of the Fire Academy that same day.”

Not all firefighters were made through Meg’s department, but it was a common route, working as a paramedic while getting put through your paces in the Fire Academy. Dean himself had gone straight to the Academy after getting his EMT certification.

But at Dean’s words, Jack’s eyes widened a fraction. Meg turned to him with an almost feline smile. 

“How was the call?” Benny asked her, speaking of the job they’d just returned from. Meg’s expression dimmed a little, as did Chuck’s as they both sat down at the table.

“Ah, just Henry again,” she said. “Overdosed on his insulin.”

Benny frowned, while Dean shook his head. Jack’s brows furrowed.

“Who’s Henry?” he asked.

Meg sat back in her chair with a subtle sigh. Knowing his work partner’s mood, Chuck answered the young man’s question.

“He’s homeless, lives by the river,” he said. “He’s one of our ‘regulars,’ you could say. When we get the call, usually he’s passed out. Dehydration. But sometimes it’s more serious.”

“You can’t take him to the hospital?” Jack asked in concern.

“Today we did,” Meg said. Her brown eyes met Jack’s, her mouth in a thin line. “But without health insurance, there’s only so much they can do after they get him stable.”

That fell a bit heavily into the room. It wasn’t a pleasant fact, but it was the reality. Jack was learning more and more about that aspect of this job, and learning if he could handle the darker shades of what it could bring.

“Well, breakfast is ready,” he said, bringing a large plate of eggs and toast onto the counter. Dean tossed him an appreciative half-smile and got up from the couch.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, walking over along with everyone else. He took a moment to pat Jack on the shoulder.

“What do you want to do first: run drills, or help me and Gordon wash the truck?” Dean asked.

Jack looked up with a smile. “Can we run drills first?”

Dean nodded, grinning back at him. “Good answer.”

The rest of the Truck and Squad crews ambled in at both the announcement and the smell of food. And before long, the common room was filled with conversation, good-natured teasing, and shitty coffee all around.   

From his vantage point facing the open door to the driveway, Benny caught sight of a young woman heading towards the double doors with a large tupperware bin in hand. Bonnie the receptionist happened to be coming in at the same time. You asked her a question Benny couldn’t quite hear.

“Dean… Oh, you’re looking for Lieutenant Winchester?” Bonnie asked. Her voice tended to carry. “Right in there, hun.”

“Well, that sure is interesting,” Benny murmured with a smile. He glanced over slyly at his friend. “Heads up, brother.”

Dean looked up from his plate of eggs expectantly. Benny gestured over with his eyes, just as you walked into the firehouse, both cautious and unsure of where you were going.

Dean’s brows raised. He found himself setting down his plate and getting up from the couch before he really knew what he was doing.

You looked exactly how he remembered. Though this time, you weren’t coffee stained in your professional blouse and black pencil skirt. His attention drew briefly downwards to your heels, this time solid black (and even taller than the last pair, damn).

He noticed all the same things he had last time: the shade of your hair, pinned up again with a clip as stray pieces framed your face. The way you carried yourself when you finally saw him, straightening with a subtle confidence in your shoulders, even though you looked a bit nervous. And the pretty curve of your lips when your eyes found his.

“Hey, there,” Dean said. He gave you one of his trademark smiles. “Good to see you again.”

“Uh, hi,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you remember me.”

Dean nodded. “‘Course I do. What can I do for you?”

Your face seemed to freeze up a bit as you looked up at him.

“Oh, um, nothing really. I just wanted to say thank you, again,” you said. And you glanced past him, where the rest of the firehouse members were discreetly watching. “All of you, actually. And my friend told me that firefighters really like food…but, I mean, doesn’t everyone?”

You laughed a little, in a nervous way that made Dean struggle not to smile too much.

“Anyway, I like to bake,” you twittered on, “and I had some time this week after…well, you know what happened. So…I brought this!”

You raised up your tupperware with a smile.

And you were damn adorable, Dean thought. His own smile deepened as he glanced down at the offering, then at you. He took the container and opened the lid, and was honestly surprised at what he saw.

He could’ve sworn these were Bonafede, just-poured-out-of-the-box Girl Scout cookies. Dozens of them. He saw shortbreads (complete with the little wavy lines), Samoa cookies with the coconut flakes, and even what looked like chocolate covered Thin Mints. They also smelled delicious.

“Wow. Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, with genuine warmth. “I’m pretty sure the guys are gonna tear these apart the second I put ‘em down.”

Your face brightened, and Dean noticed how it reached your eyes with a bit of a blush.

“Well, I hope you guys enjoy,” you said. Your hands fiddled with your purse next.

“Heading off to work now?” he asked.

“Yep,” you nodded, with a certain glint in your eye. “I plan on taking the stairs this time.”

Dean raised a brow. “All 22 floors?”

“Gotta get my steps in somehow,” you joked. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to become a repeat offender, make you guys come all the way back across town again.”

“Aw, I wouldn’t mind,” he said, meeting your eyes. And he found that he meant it. In fact, he didn’t think he’d mind if your building’s elevator broke down every damn week.

Your expression shifted towards amusement. “Well, you must be very dedicated to your job.”

“Protect and serve,” Dean teased back. “That’s our motto, you know.”

“Isn’t that for police officers?” you quipped.

He chuckled. “Hey, if the shoe fits.”

“Well…” you considered that with a tilt of your head, more seriously than he expected you to. You met him with a more earnest gaze. “I think it does.”

Right then, Dean had a feeling, deep in his gut, that he needed to know you. He had half a mind to heed his instincts, to take advantage of the signals he thought you were sending him, and ask if he could take you out sometime.

But it was unprofessional here at the firehouse (not that that had stopped him before). He’d been making efforts to curb that kind of behavior for the past few months.

He also remembered the 30 floors of your massive, fancy office building. He considered the price tags that probably came with the admittedly sexy, high-powered corporate look you had going on. Those were probably a lot more zeros than he was used to seeing on his paycheck.

So for once, he didn’t pull the trigger.

“Well, thanks. I really do appreciate that,” Dean replied. His smile then was more sincere, if also more professional. He gestured at the container in his hand. “And on behalf of all the guys, thanks for this too.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied. “I have to go, but…thanks again, Lieutenant Winchester.”

“Ah,” he shook his head, “just call me Dean.”

You agreed by smiling, just a little bit more.

“Dean.”

He nodded back, sending you off with a smile of his own. He forced himself to taper it down after you left, and he had to turn around to meet his friends. Their grins reminded him of piranhas.

“All right. Out with it, you freakin’ jackals.” He waved his free hand in a “bring it on” gesture.

Meg was the first one to burst out laughing. It spearheaded the rest of them, whooping and catcalling and generally being menaces. Even Jack was grinning at his lieutenant’s expense.

Meg got up from her seat and bumped Dean’s shoulder on her way to the kitchen, where she dumped her dishes.

“Thanks again, Lieutenant Winchester,” she mocked in a saccharine sweet voice. Then she lowered it into an exaggerated mimic of his deeper one, “Call me Dean, baby girl. Fucking priceless. You should get your own Hallmark movie.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He’d been prepared for this, but his face was still getting warm.

“Shut up, Meg,” he tossed back. They all had an ongoing Family Guy joke that never failed to make their PIC narrow her eyes. And she did so now, giving him a fake grimace as she left the kitchen.

“All right, kiddos. If you need me, don’t,” she said. “Chuck! Let’s sort the ambo’s inventory.”

“Got it,” her partner nodded. He too got up and placed his dishes in the sink before he took off after Meg.

This left Dean with the rest of the guys, who still gave him knowing smiles as he set your bin of cookies down on the table. He blew out a breath before he returned to the couch and sat down heavily across from Benny and Gordon.

“I never thought I’d see the day that Dean Winchester bitched out,” Gordon remarked.

Once again, Dean rolled his eyes.

“Truly incredible,” Benny added. He shook his head when Dean just crossed his arms. “She was eying you like a pork cutlet, and you just let her walk outta here.”

“We’re in the house, guys. What was I supposed to do?” Dean groused.

Benny and Gordon looked at him like he’d just denounced Led Zeppelin (his favorite band of all time). 

“Get her goddamn number, Winchester,” said Gordon. The man’s lips curved. “Or at least, introduce her to a brother.”

Dean shot him a glance. Gordon Walker was damn good at driving the truck, but he was also known for being a hunter of the ladies himself.   

“She seemed nice,” Jack put his two cents in with a smile. He was standing behind the couch, leaning his elbows on it. Gordon scoffed, nodding his agreement.

“Yeah, with a fat ass too,” he said, sipping his tea. 

Benny reached over and hit his shoulder to shut him up. 

“That’s a lady, Gordon,” he said. Though a suspect smile graced his lips as he glanced at Dean. “A lady with a nice ass.” 

Dean shook his head, but he couldn’t disagree. The first time he met you, he’d been impressed by the way you stood your ground with your asshole boss. Dean thought you were going to chuck that lethal looking heel at the guy. But behind that steely exterior was a kind little softie.

Today, he got your sweet side. It was equal parts sexy and adorable. 

And damn if you didn’t have a nice ass, nice curves, and a nice mouth. 

But your eyes, he thought. Those were nothing short of beautiful. 

About twenty minutes across town, an apartment building was swarmed by police cars. One unit in particular was sealed off with yellow caution tape as a team of officers drifted in and out. 

What a fucked way to die.

Detective John Winchester observed the unnatural angle that the victim—Jerry Stillwell, a certified public accountant—had his throat cut with a jagged weapon.

It hadn’t been clean in the least. And he’d bled out across his work desk and a stack of papers, as well as his desktop computer. He was 45, unmarried, and murdered in his own home in the middle of a Friday afternoon.

The computer wouldn’t turn on, and not because of the blood. It had been wiped with magnetized technology, most likely by the intruder. Though there was no sign of forced entry, according to John’s partner. The murder weapon was missing as well, though it looked like a knife wound.

John leaned over the on-site medical examiner’s shoulder to peer closer at the man’s wounds. Stillwell had most likely been grabbed from behind. So far, the signs pointed to the culprit being someone the victim knew.

They probably took Stillwell by surprise, but he was a large man. If John had to guess, over 250 pounds, unathletic, but still, not easy to overpower. Likely the suspect was a man over 6 feet; strong, and efficient. Though the messiness of the kill made John think this guy took "pride" his work, so to speak.

“Signs of struggle,” said the M.E. “Skin under the fingernails. He fought back, and…huh.”

John’s interest piqued at the man’s shift in tone. “What?”

“Take a look at this.” The M.E. was holding Stillwell’s right hand, palm-up, revealing a small burn on the inside of the wrist. John’s gaze sharpened on the mark.

“Cas, come here,” he said. Across the room, Detective Cas Novak paused in his task of examining the entry points of the apartment to join John at his side. His blue eyes widened a fraction at seeing the burn. It was a symbol of a snake eating its own tail.

“That makes four,” Cas said.

“Yep. We’ve got ourselves a murder cluster,” John said. Cas nodded. He beckoned John to the side, making sure the M.E. was out of earshot before he spoke. “Isn’t it time we brought Sam up to speed on this, at least?”

John’s brows furrowed.

“No,” he said. “Sam’s an ADA. We don’t go to him until we have someone to indict.”

He walked away from Cas, who frowned. John knew damn well that wasn’t what he meant. This was the fourth murder within six months of this nature. The fourth to be branded with the mark of Azazel…a criminal who supposedly disappeared decades ago.

Shortly after November 2, 1983, the day of Mary Winchester’s death.

Seeing Dean again had gone better than you thought it would. It left you feeling light and downright cheerful when you left the firehouse this morning. Unfortunately, the great start to your morning only crumbled when you reached your office.

Now, even at the end of your day, finally back at home and in the familiarity of your kitchen, the tension headache was back.

“Dre, I’m tired. Can’t we do this another night?” you asked.

Your cell phone was balanced between your ear and your shoulder as you counted out your grandfather’s pills, and placed them in each “Monday through Sunday” box in the blue container.

“No, we absolutely cannot. Because today was horrific,” Andréa said. “For me, because my coworker decided to play hookie on the day our top account needed the mockups of their new website. Never mind that she hadn’t even started.”

Pause for an aggravated breath, through which you frowned in sympathy. She’d told you the entire story over lunch today.

“And for you, because Nick once again displayed why he’s a subhuman neanderthal, in spectacular fashion,” she added.

Your grimace deepened at the reminder.

Earlier today, just before a sales meeting you were set to lead, you’d turned away from the conference table to set up the projector. Nick was early for once, making it just him and you in the room.

He’d sat back in his chair and uttered a remark that set the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

“I’ll tell you what, babe. You sure know how to wear a skirt.”

Your back straightened, and slowly you turned. Your face was set in stone, save for a solitary raise of your brow.

“Excuse me?”

Nick’s smirk was lazy as he kicked his feet up on the table. His hand held a tumbler of whiskey. You noted the half empty carafe, which just yesterday had been full and untouched.

“Fucking fantastic legs,” he said, vaguely outlining your shape with his hand. “I applaud you. It’s all very…sexy secretary. Oooh! Sexcretary. Fucking brilliant.”

You gaped, trying to put a clamp on the furious spike in your blood.

“Are you drunk?” you asked incredulously.

He raised his fingers an inch or so apart, scrunching up his face and trying not to laugh.

“Actually nah, not at all,” he bluffed. 

He let his hand fall back into his lap. You shook your head and set down your papers in order to cross your arms.

“Good. Then you’ll hear me clearly when I say, I’m filing a formal complaint with Billie in HR,” you said.

“Whaaat? Why?” he complained. You huffed incredulously.

“For your little comments, which are getting more and more heinous. Not to mention your excessive drinking during company hours.”

Nick pursed his lips. “Christ on a stick. Can’t you take a fucking compliment?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “What I refuse to take is any further sexual harassment. This isn’t the first incident I could disclose, but I’m damn sure you’ll want it to be the last.”

He kicked his feet off the table and slowly stood. You didn’t want to be afraid of this sloppy, frat boy drunken attitude, but a tendril of trepidation still laced down your spine as you took a step back.

“You could do that,” he nodded, tilting his head. “Or, I’ll give your Zimmerman account to Josh, along with your commission.”

You frowned, and shock made your entire body tense. 

“You…you can’t do that!” you exclaimed. Your insides fairly shook with frustration tinged with anger. “I’ll sue you.”

“With what money?” Nick scoffed.

Your brows knitted together then. How the hell would he know anything about your finances?

The man noted your reaction with a nod.

“Yeah, I know all about grammy and gramps. Surgeries, funerals, treatments…” he said. He leaned against the table with one hand, and still he fairly loomed over you.

He wasn't as broad as someone like Dean, but he was tall and lean. His dirty blonde hair was swept to the side, his blue eyes bearing down on you.

“I am this company. If you don’t like it, you can get the fuck out, sweetheart,” he said.

His gaze lowered, roaming your glowering face.

“And good luck getting anywhere else without a reference from one of the biggest corporations in Lawrence, Kansas.”

You sighed. Yeah, you might’ve shed some frankly embarrassing tears in the women’s bathroom after that. You hadn’t even told Andréa the full story, which included the details of his comments, along with his threats.

You didn’t want her to worry. And maybe, more selfishly, you were embarrassed at having to deal with it at all.

Truth be told, you still didn’t know what the hell you were going to do. About Nick, or your job…but somehow, getting drunk at a bar seemed about the last thing you should be doing.

“I need a drink,” Andréa insisted. “Which means you definitely need a drink. And I know exactly where we’re going.”

After a long moment, you leaned your elbows on the kitchen counter and rubbed through the persistent ache in your forehead. Maybe, just this once, you deserved to forget about reality. Just for a little while.

“Fine. Where?” you asked.

“It’s this great bar Meg told me about. The Roadhouse.”

“Ah, the usual suspects,” Ellen drawled at the men who managed to find seats at her bar, next to the rest of their party. The Roadhouse was packed on a Friday night, but she always had room for these two.

Benny and Dean wore similar tired, but pleasant smiles as they greeted their esteemed barkeep.

“What’s it been, Ellen, a whole shift since I’ve seen your delightful face?” Dean said.

Ellen gave him a mocking smile as she poured him his favorite beer on tap. Dean grinned and clapped his younger brother on the shoulder as he sat down. He and Cas had been waiting for a little while.

…Well, maybe longer than a little.

“Hey, dude,” Dean said. Sam perked up from his second beer with pursed lips.

“You know we’ve been waiting on you for like an hour, right?” he said.

“Aw, don’t get your panties in a twist, Sammy,” Dean teased. He nodded his thanks at Ellen when she set his beer in front of him, and a glass of whiskey for Benny. “We had a last-minute call. Some guy just couldn’t wait to start his Happy Hour. Drove his car into the company fountain.”

Sam’s brows raised incredulously. He looked over at Benny for confirmation, and the other man gave a resigned nod.

“Apparently it set the ducks into a tizzy,” he said. “The guy’s fine. Probably gonna get slapped with a DUI.”

Dean smirked and raised a finger at both Sam and Cas. “Duck Guy’s your problem now.”

Cas shook his head and raised his beer to his lips.

“Not my department.”

“Mine either,” Sam scoffed. Both of them worked in homicide cases, just from the differing sides of law and order. In fact, they worked together more often than Dean and Cas did.

Dean looked over at his friend Cas for a moment. He looked like more of a hot mess than usual, with his tie half undone, and a scruffy half-beard covering his face.

“Geez, man. You look like shit,” Dean remarked. “You and Meg fighting again?”

“No,” Cas replied, his brows furrowing. “…Well, yes. But nothing more than her usual insanity. Something about the cat preferring to sleep next to me than to her.”

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Benny said. “My dog don’t like her either.”

“Maybe they can smell that she’s feral,” Dean quipped. Cas sent him a dry look at that.

“She threatened to move out,” he revealed. “Even packed a bag at 3:00 in the morning. I spent two hours unpacking what she was re-packing, all while we argued in our underwear, not sleeping.”

Sam and Dean shared bemused looks, while Benny shook his head into his whiskey.

“So how’d it end up?” Sam asked. Cas sighed and took another long sip of his beer.

“Like it always ends, Sam,” he said, his lips quirking. “With our neighbors calling the precinct to complain, and me, somehow ending up sleeping on the couch for a crime I didn’t commit. If she wants to blame someone, blame the goddamn cat.”

Dean chortled. He brought his beer to his lips, but couldn’t resist a light jab at his best friend first.

“Dude, I love her like a sister, but your girlfriend’s unhinged,” he said.

Cas could only nod. “Most are, I’ve come to find.”

Sam scoffed and shook his head. “Not mine.”

“Yeah, that’s because Eileen doesn’t have to see you more than two minutes at a time,” Dean teased. He and his brother still shared an apartment, and Sam’s job as an Assistant District Attorney wrought demanding hours.

Sam shot his brother a flat look.

“Oh, I’m not taking that from the serial playboy,” he said.

Dean’s brows knitted together.

“All right, calm down,” he said. “I’m not Hugh Hefner.”

“Mr. Hit and Run,” Cas added, a smirk gracing his features.

“Chief ‘No Daddy Issues,’” Benny tipped in, giving his annoyed, green-eyed friend a sly glance. “With a side helping of the Clap.”

Dean’s lips pressed into a line. He leveled a finger at Benny.

“That girl was clean, okay? False alarm,” Dean said. His gaze raised heavenward as he sipped his beer. Thank Christ for that one. “The rash was just carpet burn.”

Sam shook his head and turned to his brother more seriously.

“Bottom line: until you date a woman for more than two weeks—hell, two days at a time—you don’t get to comment on the happily committed,” he said. 

Dean rolled his eyes. He knew his track record with relationships. As in, he didn’t really have a record…but it wasn’t for lack of trying. At least, not for the past few months.

Sam managed to break Dean out of his thoughts by clearing his throat, pushing his empty bottle across the counter.

“All right, speaking of. I gotta go,” he said.

“Aw, why? We just got here. Let me buy you another,” Dean offered.

Sam shot his brother another knowing look. Dean knew it well; it said, if he’d been here on time, they would’ve shared the first two drinks.

“I’m picking up Eileen,” Sam said, grabbing his blazer and fixing the collar when he put it on. “There’s this Latin club she wants to go to.”

Dean raised incredulous brows.

“My brother’s going salsa dancing?”

Sam sighed in exasperation, despite his smile. “Bye, Dean.”

He shot his other two friends a nod.

“See you guys.”

Cas and Benny both saw him off with a subtle raise of their drinks, while Dean just shook his head.

“All right, Samantha,” he called out. Sam didn’t bother to turn around as he raised up a choice finger behind him.

Dean snorted into his drink. “Very mature.”

Benny and Cas shared a wry look. They were relieved when Ellen’s daughter Jo came by, picking up the slack for her mom, who was serving a rowdy group of college kids at a nearby table.

“Hey, guys. Need another round?” Jo asked. She gave them all a familiar smile, but her eyes lingered on Dean. He gave her a more reserved smile back.

“Hey, Jo,” he nodded. “I uh…actually think I’m good right now.”

“Me too,” Cas said. He even stood up and grabbed his trenchcoat in similar fashion as Sam had. The two had paid for their beers before Benny and Dean even got there.

“Aw, not you too,” Dean groused.

“If I don’t make dinner, we run the risk of the apartment going up in flames,” Cas informed him. Dean could only assume he was talking about Meg. “Despite working with the Fire Department for ten years, the woman can’t manage to boil an egg without supervision.”

Jo raised a brow, but her smile was bemused as she turned to Benny. “Anything for you?”

“Nah, darlin’. I’m good,” he said. But sensing the unspoken request in her eyes when she glanced at Dean, Benny straightened and raised from his seat. “But I’ll be back. Need’a hit the head.”

Dean internally sighed as Benny left him alone at the bar. Or, well, relatively alone. Jo lingered in front of him to wash and dry out a few glasses. The air between them was stiff, and a little awkward.

Dean’s thoughts shifted back to his brother then; while he still couldn’t believe Eileen had wrangled his gangly Sasquatch of a brother into going dancing, Dean was happy for him. Truly and sincerely. Sam deserved having someone who softened him, made him break away from his endless cases and have some fun.

Dean could also admit, if only to himself, that he was maybe a little jealous. Sam had something good with his girl. Something real.

Dean had carpet burn.

“So, how’s studying going?” he asked Jo. He couldn’t stand awkward silences. “Still planning on giving your mom a heart attack when you get into the Police Academy?”

Jo’s blue eyes flicked up to his. She brushed a coil of blond hair behind her ear after she finished drying a glass, and a smile raised the corner of her lips.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I gave her something to yell about,” she quipped. “But since you asked…my exam is in three months.”

“Good,” Dean nodded. “You’ve got time. Study your ass off. Keep up the conditioning routine I gave you, and you’ll be set. Just don’t forget the strength training. Very important.”

“I got it,” she said, this time with a brighter smile. “Some old firefighter gave me some pointers.”

Dean tilted his beer at her accusingly.

“Hey, don’t pin that old shit on me yet. Benny’s got more mileage than I do…”

He considered her then, after briefly looking down at the counter.

“What?” she said.

He kept his lips tight. “Nothin’.”

“No, Dean. What?” Jo pressed. “You want to say something. Say it.”

He blew out a breath and shook his head.  

“Ellen’s not the only one who’s gonna worry about you on the job, that’s all,” he said. Jo flickered at a rueful frown.

“That’s ironic,” she said. “I can handle myself, Dean. Something you so often seem to forget.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it,” he shot back. His hand tightened around his beer.

Jo’s face fell into irritation, mostly to cover up the hurt he saw buried deep behind her eyes. She gave him some relief by glancing away from him.

“And this is why we didn’t work out,” she muttered. Sighing through her nose, her eyes met his again. “You know what I hate, more than anything? People worrying.”

Dean carded his fingers through his hair, his brows knitting together in aggravation.

“Yeah, well, maybe they have good reason to,” he said. He could’ve predicted the way she tightened up. “And if I remember right, you did your fair share of hand-wringing the next time I responded to a fire on the job.”

He knew it was a low blow. But his point was made, and he fully expected the anger in Jo’s tight frown. They’d dated for a few weeks, mostly in secret.

That had been enough for Ellen to blow her top. Not because she had anything against Dean…just his job: at the very same firehouse her late husband had once served.

So Dean had backed off. He’d ultimately felt he had to end it. And clearly, Jo still resented him for it.

Slowly, however, the fire in her eyes dimmed. Her finger tapped on her side of the bar counter.

“You think I don’t worry anymore just because we’re not together?” she asked him. 

Dean didn’t have a good answer for her. So his gaze fell to his nearly empty beer.

But he was even more relieved when Benny finally got back from the bathroom, or wherever he’d fucked off to for the past few minutes.

He did seem to know that he was interrupting a rather tense moment. Seeing as neither Dean nor Jo wanted to break the silence, Benny supposed it fell on him.

He reclaimed his seat and raised a smile up at Jo.

“I think I’m ready for the next round,” he said, glancing at Dean’s soured mood. “Two whiskeys, please, Joanna.”

Jo treated Benny with a half-smile. He was the only one besides her mother who called her Joanna (and got away with it). After one last look at Dean, she reached over for the Jim Beam.

You met Andréa at the bar in your own car, just in case you needed to dip out early to check on Grandpa George. He was happy to see you going out.

“You’re pretty as a doll, sweetheart,” he’d said, patting your cheek after you kissed his goodbye.

The thought made you smile, even though you thought you were dressed casually in your dark wash jeans and blouse. When Andréa met you outside the bar, she nodded in approval.

“Good. I like the hint of sexy,” she said, plucking at the sweetheart neckline of your top. You rolled your eyes and tried to cover up the cleavage a little, but she batted at your hand.

“No, no. Leave your professionalism at work,” she said. “Tonight, you’re going to relax and have some fun.”

It was hard to think about loosening up when you were literally getting belittled and threatened at work…but you supposed she had a point. You always had to be put together. You had to be sharp, because this world wouldn’t hand you anything on a silver platter.

And not to mention, you couldn’t just think about yourself. You also had to provide and take care of your grandfather too. He was the only family you had left, and you were it for him too…

But you took in a slow, deep breath. Tonight, you could have a couple of drinks with your friend. You could just be yourself, with no responsibilities other than not getting too drunk to drive yourself home later.

So with a sigh, you smiled and linked your arm with Andréa as you headed inside the Roadhouse.

It looked kind of divey from the outside, a worn-looking brown building with a faded red sign. But inside it was all dark wood and leather barstools and rows of soft lighting overhead.

There were records displayed on the wall; Prince’s Purple Rain, the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper, and David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust, among others. Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” played on the wall speakers.

There were several tables, both high top and regular four-seaters, as well as a long bar that spanned the far wall, where rows and rows of liquor were showcased. You followed Andréa’s lead to the bar, where you took a seat at the far end and tried to feel like you belonged here. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d gone out to a place like this.

“This is nice,” she leaned over into your ear to say. “Next time my cousin should meet us here. She’s a handful, but I think you’d like her.”

You agreed with a smile. “If she’s anything like you, I think I’m well trained to handle your brand of insanity.”

Andréa leveled you with a playfully mocking look.

“Ah, you’ve got jokes tonight. Okay.” She waved over the blonde bartender.

“Hi, ladies,” she greeted. “I’m Jo. What’re we starting off with tonight?”

Before you could order for yourself, Andréa grabbed your arm and spoke over you.

“Do you have absinthe?” she asked.

Your eyes widened. “What?! I’m not drinking that—”

“Sure do,” Jo replied in amusement.

“Great,” said Andréa. You didn’t like her sly grin. “She’ll have an Aunt Roberta. I’ll have a vodka cranberry.”

“What the hell is an Aunt Roberta?” you asked.

Jo listed the ingredients on her fingers. “A nice molotov of brandy, vodka, gin, blackberry liqueur, and of course, absinthe.”

Jesus Christ. You shot Andréa a glare, even though you were trying to dim your smile.

“Are you trying to chill me out or fucking end me?” you asked.

Andréa smirked. “Whatever it takes.”

You rolled your eyes, but you nodded your agreement. Jo’s smile remained as she went to prepare your drinks. Meanwhile, your eyes wandered as you once again took in your surroundings.

Really is a cool place, you thought. And it was busy without being overbearingly crowded. There were even a few seats between you and the rest of the patrons at the bar. Your gaze drew a path onwards, eventually reaching the other end of the bar.

There you caught sight of red flannel over a black undershirt, familiar broad shoulders, and an even more familiar face. Your eyes widened a fraction as his met yours, gleaming with recognition…and interest.

That slow smile of his was familiar too. It made a lance of heat run down your spine. You gripped the counter, mostly to steady yourself as you let out a breath.

Lieutenant Winchester.

AN: *rubs hands together* It begins. 😏

Lol how'd you like Dean's little moment with the reader at the firehouse? Plus the introduction of the rest of our cast!

(And a possible serial killer on the loose?) Though sorry about Nick. He's a douchecanoe.

Next Time:

Anticipation and nerves coiled together in your lower belly. You turned to your friend, who was already sipping at her vodka cranberry.

“Dre, help me,” you pleaded.

Andréa discreetly followed the path of your gaze, and her brows raised. A smirk curved her lips.

“Oh, babe. You need to help yourself,” she replied.

“I haven’t done that in a while,” you admitted. Your dating life had been sorely lacking, between the demands of your job and taking care of things at home. “I’m gonna say something demented.”

Andréa huffed in amusement.

“So? That’s half the fun,” she said.

Keep Reading: PART 3

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

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[thranduilsperkybutt]

Lamb Among Wolves ♠️ Part IV ;  Wild Card

Photo sources:  1  |  2  |  3  |  4  |  5  |  6  |  7  |  8

|  Part 3  |  Part 5  (WIP)  |

Imagine:  Imagine owing mobster!Bucky a lot of money after your deadbeat brother bails with it, leaving you with his debt, and you offer yourself as payment that he is more than happy to collect himself.

Pairings:  Mob!Bucky Barnes/Reader

Series Warnings:  NSFW unprotected smut; phone smut; fantasy description & oral mention; teasing; dark!fic; dubcon themes; mobster/mafia AU; mentions of blood, guns, violence, murder, drugs, gambling, etc.; mentions of character injury which occurred in the previous part & IEDs; nightmares/trigger behaviors; not quite PTSD but it’s PTSDesque; brief mention of choking (not the sexy kind); it gets worse before it gets better but dont tell nobody mama aint never fed ya

Word Count:  22k words

Reader Gender:  Female

Author:  Meg

Summary:  The stakes are higher than you could have ever known, and the comedown from the events leading up to now feels like it will kill you, if Bucky doesn’t first. Just when the numbness sets in, an unexpected and unwelcome visitor comes to call, bringing more trouble on the horizon.

A/N:  This has taken a thousand years, I know. I’m sorry about that, but with the pandemic, it’s been very overwhelming. Either way, I hope you enjoy this part! Thank you all for hanging in there with me and sending such kind messages. This has not been proofread. I’ll do that later.

The smell of rubber burning is what you remember most. It stuck in your mind and clung to your memory as vividly as if you were still sitting there on cold concrete, watching the Jaguar burn in the sparking lamplight.

The heat had cast a sickening glow, slicing through the chilly air like a knife, and warming your face with a caress that was much too welcoming for the horror that played out before your eyes.

The wailing, you realized, was coming from you when the strong force of Sam’s hands on your shoulders kept you from scrambling up off the ground. If he hadn’t, you’re certain you would have attempted to run towards the burned, bloodied body of the boy resting on the sidewalk, regardless of the staggering vertigo that would have surely hit you far sooner than it did.

He’s only seventeen, you thought, over and over again, Peter’s only seventeen.

“Don’t look,” Sam ordered, voice tight and militant, but his hands were gentler than you would ever have thought them to be as he pulled you into his chest. You don’t know if he’d done it in an effort to keep you from escaping his grip, or if it was his attempt at calming you down, but his repeating of, “Just, don’t look,” hadn’t helped soothe your terror as much as he probably intended it to.

That was your blood still staining Sam’s shirt, you notice as your head throbs despite the medicine they’d given you for the pain. It’s the only part of you that doesn’t feel numb.

“The doctor thinks you might have a concussion, huh,” Sam’s voice carries in the small space of the curtained observation bay, accompanying the distant beeps and groans that define the emergency department’s sterile atmosphere. “At least that cut on your head wound up looking worse than it really was. Don’t think it’ll scar up too bad, since you only needed a couple stitches.”

Your hand reaches up instinctively, ghosting over the bandage on the side of your head. It was near your hairline, barely creeping down the northernmost edge of your forehead, and you know you must look as much the mess you felt right now.

Blood still stuck to the hairs there, though dried with the time that’s passed since your bleeding stopped. It all felt like a blur, though you’re certain that’s from the shock of it all. Fresher in your mind was the memory of the haze of fear that overcame you when the stitches were being placed, and the emergency doctor’s attempt at conversation throughout the process.

She’d talked about how your scar should mend into your scalp rather unnoticeably; that head wounds bleed more than in other places. There was an attempt at a joke at one point, about how this was why you and Sam looked like you had just walked off a horror movie.

You don’t think she was aware that you might as well have.

God, you need a shower, but the exhaustion that’s seeped into your bones with the tapering of whatever adrenaline remained in your bloodstream protested any thought that didn’t involve collapsing into your bed the first chance you got. Hell, you might could pass out right here, if your head wasn’t throbbing like this.

Sam hasn’t left you, not since you hit the pavement, except to have a hushed conversation beyond the range of your curtain with the physician. Whether it was due to some worry that if he left you unattended you would take the opportunity to tell the nearest medical professional in earshot everything you knew--- which was practically nothing--- or a genuine decency buried somewhere deep inside this man, you couldn’t figure out. You didn’t want to try. Your head hurts too much for complex thought, right now.

Even laying it down on the pillow makes you wince. You just want to go home. You want all this to be a bad dream that you can wake up from in the morning.

“Did you find out if they’re going to keep me overnight?”

“They aren’t. You get to go home,” he probably doesn’t mean it this way, but you can’t help to hear the, when Peter doesn’t, at the unspoken end of his sentence. Forcing your eyes away, you focus on the provided chair for visitors in the small space beside the bed, but you haven’t seen Sam sit down in it once. He just hovers around the part in the curtain, shifting his weight, sometimes moving beyond it. You wonder if he’s unable to sit down. If maybe he doesn’t, because the same nerves that were jittering under your skin had gotten under his, too. It’s about the only indication you get that he’s just as antsy for news as you are.

“I’m sorry,” you try to swallow it down, this feeling of dreadful worry. Focusing on the dark stain draping over the chest of his shirt. There’d be no getting it out; you’ve ruined it, “For bleeding on you.”

Sam stares at you for a moment, as if he can’t quite wrap his head around what you’re saying, until he scoffs, “Why are you apologizing for bleeding? Not like you could help it.”

Your mouth clamps shut at that, because silence is easier than trying to explain the habit that has followed you since childhood. You’re saved from needing to when Sam’s phone beeps. He reads the waiting text immediately, brows drawn together. Concern, in the way the endless abyss of his dark eyes seems to somehow widen, encapsulating his once-friendly posture with the stiffening cold within them.

“What is it?”

“You should rest. You’re pretty beat up.” Even his voice sounds tense.

“Sam,” your own shakes with the change in his mood, worry creeping up your throat, “is it Peter?”

This kid, he’s gotten under your skin. Or, maybe you’re too empathetic for your own good. Too soft, because you know what he is wrapped up in— has been wrapped up in, long before you ever entered the picture— but seeing that boy on that pavement had broken some small piece of you. No matter what life he chose, this was something you couldn’t believe anyone deserved. Let alone a boy with his whole life ahead of him.

You’re worried sick, and it only makes the sharp pain in your skull ring. Gritting your teeth, on the verge of praying for the pain pills to soon start kicking in.

“Look, you don’t need to get all worked up right now,” Sam’s voice is softer, undoubtedly with the pain he’s noticed along your face, but you cut him off with one last, pleading sound.

“Sam.”

He sighs deep, running his hand over the short crop of his hair, and relents much more easily to your pleading than a man like him probably should, “They’re taking the kid back to surgery.” Your breath catches in your throat, as Sam explains, “He’s bleeding, on the brain. They’re going to put in some kind of tube to help relieve the pressure.” None of that could be at all good, and your breath catches as he continues, “Steve went to go get Peter’s aunt.”

“Is he,” you dare the question, even though you know it’s a stupid one, despite how terribly hopeful you sound as you say it, “going to be okay?”

Sam’s eyes flicker with anticipatory grief, looking back to his phone when he clears the emotion from his throat, but you can still hear the lie there, “Of course, he’s gonna’. That kid? Knowing him he’ll probably be running circles around us all by next month.”

Fuck, Peter’s in bad shape. You have a sneaking suspicion that it’s even worse than what Sam will tell you. He’s minimizing whatever it is, maybe for your sake, maybe for his own. Maybe it’s too hard to say out loud, without bursting into a million pieces. Maybe it’s too much for even a big, bad mobster like him to fathom.

Or maybe it’s just none of your business.

The nurse pulling back the curtain breaks you from the verge of dissolving into tears, as she moves towards you with a stack of paper in hand, “Okay, so if you’ll just sign these, you’ll be good to go. Now, you’ll need to be watched for the next twenty-four hours, in case you get any worse. If you do get worse, you’ll need to come straight back to the Emergency Department, okay?”

“Watched?” you sit up, trying not to groan at the stiffness in your bruised bones, “I live alone---”

“That’s already handled,” Sam cuts in, drawing both yours and the nurse’s attention, as he addresses her with a smile that’s all assurances, but doesn’t meet his eye, “She’ll be well taken care of. Don’t you worry.”

“Alright then, sweetie,” the nurse smiles at you, flipping through the papers you return to her after signing them, separating the back pamphlet, “these are yours to take with you. There’s a list of symptoms to watch out for, a summary of your visit, and when you’ll need to go back to the doctor to get those stitches out.” You’re too busy dwelling on Sam’s assertion that you were going to be well taken care of to do anything but stare at the papers in your hands.

He makes up for your distant state when she passes him, “Thanks a lot.” Near asking him about it, you don’t get the chance when he offers you a wide, open palm to rise from the hospital bed with, “Come on, Bucky’s waiting for us upstairs.”

Right, Bucky.

There’s a clenching in your chest, which would be way too easy to blame on your currently injured state. It would be a lie, though, if you told yourself that this feeling wasn’t caused by the thought of seeing him again. The desire to do so. You haven’t seen him since he was pulled from your bedside by a rather determined nurse, intent on assessing him in his own designated trauma bed. His face had been bloody then, and as much as you wanted to not care, you hoped he was alright.

That was over two hours ago, and you don’t blame him for not returning to your bedside. You figured his prolonged absence was due to more important matters, upstairs.

Mainly, Peter.

Your suspicion is proven right, as you let Sam lead you up and down hallways, to an elevator, and beyond. Neuro Intensive Care Unit, sprawled in bold block-print on the sign pointing in the direction he walks down, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still keeping up with him. There’s a waiting room which catches Sam’s attention for the split-second it takes to note that noone recognizable sat among the sleeping, crying, or reading people within, and so he leads you further, until you reach a set of double-doors that require him to press a button on the wall in order to gain entry.

A quiet that was too peaceful for your raging soul seeps into every inch of the space beyond the locked double doors, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of monitors and airflow of ventilators.  Lining the walls on either side of the nurse’s station Sam guides you to are glass doors leading into exposed rooms, the curtains hanging within them clearly only have been placed for a momentary privacy.

“Ma’am, I’m here for--- oh, there he is, nevermind,” Sam begins, and the nurse sitting beyond the desk nods as she registers the room you’re heading for.

He sits in an empty room, leant forward so that his hands could support the weight of his head as he rested his chin upon intertwined metal and flesh knuckles. The hospital bed was missing, you notice, as Sam ushers you forwards until the movement catches Barnes’ attention. From a distance, he had looked almost peaceful, or at least exhausted, but in the brief moment after his eyes landed on you, you knew that initial observation to be incorrect.

Glaring anger, worry, grief, and something almost hauntingly vacant swirled in the blues of his eyes. It’s replaced with something nearby relief almost as soon as you’ve noticed it, but just as quickly, that’s schooled into the unreadable mask of nothingness he loved to wear.

He’s cleaner, now, in regards to the blood that had once stained his cheekbones and jaw, but a hint of it crept against the collar at his throat. A bruise blossomed along his jaw, having the time to settle its pink threat beneath the hairs there, aside from which a few minor scratches trailed up over his left temple. Overall, he looks like he’s been in a fight, with the worst of his injuries being a cut against his forehead, secured with two butterfly-like strips of bandage. At least, from what you can spot at first glance.

Sam’s voice keeps you from freezing in the doorway under the weight of Bucky’s stare, “Hey, man.”

“There you are,” his voice is almost hoarse, but not quite, as he stands from the chair to make his way towards the two of you.

“Shit,” he sighs as he reaches up familiarly, catching your chin by the tips of his metal fingers, tilting your head to the side to get a good look at the bandage against your skull, “bet that smarts. They give you something for it?”

“They gave me some Tylenol. Apparently, it’s all I’m allowed to have,” you try not to sound too pitiful, but Bucky raises his brow regardless.

“Yeah,” he hums in a way that almost sounds sympathetic, “sounds about right for a concussion.” You don’t know why it surprises you that Sam’s apparently kept Bucky in the loop on your medical condition, with all that texting he’s been doing, but it does. Moreso, it surprises you that Bucky would want to know about it. Everything about this is surprising, down to the gentleness with which he smooths his hand along your jaw, and asks, “You hurtin’ too bad right now, doll? You should sit down.”

The flip of your stomach has you recoiling from his grip, away, to look at Sam in a way that you hope isn’t completely dominated by the embarrassment at Bucky’s open affection, “I’m fine, thanks.” Maybe it was a little clipped, your tone, but you don’t dwell on it in favor of trying to refocus on Sam. Anything other than your pendulum of consciousness, swinging from Bucky to Peter and back again.

Sam’s eyes are trained on Bucky, though, as he leans against the pane of the glass door, suggesting with a wave of his cell phone, “We should take this outside. Cap’s on his way up.”

When you look back to Bucky, you find his jaw’s set, agreeing, “That’s probably a good idea.”

It takes you halfway across the ICU to realize the dread mirrored in their posture is due to the fact that with Steve, would come Peter’s aunt.

And it’s all you can think of, by the time you’re standing in the waiting room with them. Who were you, to be here right now? To witness one of the worst moments in a person’s life?

A stranger is what you were, and the thought only makes you all the more guilty when the low back-and-forth conversation between Sam and Bucky trails off into low silence. The vision of a woman catches your eye, emerging from the extended hallway to march across the waiting room, towards your group, with Steve quick on her heels.

For an instant, you consider making your escape to the restroom on the other side of the waiting room, but you’re too frozen to even move.

She was strikingly beautiful, in a way that only became more distinguished with the years between her youth and older maturity. Brunette, donned in the pastel yellows of a coffee-stained, aproned uniform dress that came down to rest just above her knees. Her petite frame made her no less of the hurricane she was when she rears her hand back and slaps Bucky straight across the jaw so quickly that it knocks the breath out of even you with the pure shock of it.

Steve was quick, but not quick enough to stop her, “May---!” Steve tries to grab her by the shoulder, but she’s already too upset. Too easy to escape his first, initial grasp.

“You promised!” furious tears escaped her then, as Bucky caught her next swing, weak beats dissolving against his chest more feebly, but she continued her distraught accusations, “You promised to--- to look after him!”

“May,” his voice is tight, as he wrestles with little effort to pull her against him by his grip on her forearms, repeating the soft, near broken, plea of her name, “May---”

“Why didn’t you look after him?” and it’s not fair; it’s not something anyone can ever level on one person, but the words that spill from her mouth are wracked with sobs as she finally lets herself crumble into Bucky’s grip.

He holds her tight, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him close to tears as he clutches her to him, promising, “We’re gonna’ find who did it. Hear me? We’re gonna’ find them, May. I promise—”

All you can do is exist, stock-still, as the scene unfolds before you. Much the same as the few others who lingered around the edges of the waiting room, attention drawn when she pushes Bucky away roughly, and he lets her go just as quickly.

“Don’t you dare touch me right now, Barnes,” she sobs, all grief and anger, moving away until she collapses, exhausted, into a chair. “The last thing I need is more of your empty promises.”

Sam crouches down before her, watching her hands wipe at her eyes in an attempt to compose herself in vain, “May, listen, Peter’s got the best doctors money can buy.” She looks at him, weary through the veil of anguish that nearly consumes her, and he glances at Steve, “Steve, you already tell her everything?”

“Couldn’t really get down to specifics,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, stiff, as he catches May’s watery glare. He excuses his omission with, “You’ve been pretty upset since I told you what happened.”

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself, “Well, tell me everything. Now.”

Steve and Sam move back-and-forth between explaining the situation of what occurred outside Galereya Romanova to her in detail, and attempting to comfort her as best they can. Talking of Peter’s condition, you’re surprised to find, does not turn her into a mess of sobs again. Instead, she remains somewhat collected through the news of it all, and your eyes wander back to Bucky.

He wouldn’t look at her, fixated on the floor with his hands in fists at his sides, but anything else to suggest his emotional state was closed-off to you. A blank expression set upon his face, almost too calm for the detailing of Peter’s condition to his most beloved aunt. It looks as if he’s in another world, anywhere than right here, and your heart aches regardless of your better judgment.

It’s somewhere between Sam explaining the mild flash burns and Steve mentioning the broken ribs, that you move towards Bucky before you think better of it. Reaching out to brush the warm skin of his fingertips with yours in a way that you hope is at all comforting. Anything to pull him back from that haunting vacancy that’s overcome him. When his eyes cast upwards to find yours, they’re softer, if not minutely surprised, at the feeling of your fingers beside his own.

You’ve been through a lot tonight, and you’re too tired to think past the basest implication of what your hand reaching for his could mean.

Just this once, you can let whatever he’s done slide, because you need to feel okay in some small way, if it was at all possible. Any shred of comfort you could find, you were chasing right now. You know he needs it too, when his fingers flex, and he catches your hand with his own. Holding tight, as if you would disappear if he let go.

He looks like he’s going to speak, eyes searching yours for whatever there is that he needs to hear from you, but another, firm voice catches your attention with a call of, “Are Mister Parker’s family members in here?” A man in navy scrubs stands tall, glancing about the waiting room for the instant it takes to look up from the charting tablet he carried.

“Yes!” May all but leaps from the chair she’s in, Sam rising just as quickly, “I’m Peter’s aunt--- his legal guardian.” Her voice is rushed, in the same way that most people become when they’re on the verge of desperation. Sam and Steve flank her, as the doctor reaches to tug the scrub cap from his head.

“Ah, yes,” dark hair falls messily along his forehead, gray hair framing his cheekbones as he offers his hand for May to shake, “I’m Doctor Stephen Strange, your nephew’s neurosurgeon.” His arms cross in front of his chest, as he explains, “We’ve just finished in surgery, and you’ll be able to visit once he’s stabilized in Recovery. You are aware that your nephew had a subdural hematoma?”

“Um, yes, I’ve been told. There’s some kind of… tube you had to use?”

“Right, well, we had to go in, and place a Burr Hole in his cranium, along with a tube to drain the fluid, but it looks like most of the bleeding has stopped on its own, so that’s a good sign. We’ll keep him sedated and on the ventilator as the fluid continues to drain. He’ll be returned to the ICU after the recovery period is over. That should take a few hours,” the way he explains it is direct, as if he can’t quite figure a way to say it in layman’s terms or simply doesn’t care to, but May nods along regardless.

It’s Steve that asks directly, “You think he’s going to be okay?”

Dr. Strange’s attention slides towards the blonde, raising one eyebrow as if the answer should be obvious, “Brain injuries are somewhat unpredictable, so we’ll be watching and waiting to see how he progresses over the next several days. That said, if you’re asking for my professional opinion on his prognosis, I do think his chances are much improved with the drain placement than without it.”

An answer without an answer, and you’re certain Steve’s thinking the same thing with the way he smiles, dripping with sarcasm, “Thanks for your professional opinion, Doc.”

“Will I be told when I can go see him?” May fidgets with her apron when she’s worried, and her hands have balled into fists along the edges of the off-white fabric.

“I’m sure the nurse can help you with all that at the nurse’s station,” he gestures towards the double doors leading back into the ICU, before turning with a non-negotiable, “Now, please excuse me,” and briskly walking back down the hallway, probably towards the O.R. from whence he’d came.

Steve’s hand finds May’s shoulder comfortingly, ushering her towards the ICU, “Come on, we’ll go ask the nurse, okay?”

“Yeah,” May breathes, moving a few steps forward only to finally glance back at Bucky, and you feel his hand in yours clench ever so slightly. She looked hurt, but even more than that, she looked angry, with all the commanding authority of a mother in her tone as she said, “Barnes, you make this right.”

He doesn’t say a word, just stares back into the unspoken suggestion of her words. Giving a short nod, before she turns back to make her way towards the nurse’s station.

Even to your ears, her words had sounded like, “You make them pay for this.”

When he does speak, it’s to catch Steve with a call of his name, “I want extra security with the kid when we’re not here.”

“You read my mind, Buck,” Steve nods, reaching into his pocket to toss his car keys towards Sam, who catches them easily. “Sam, you need a change of clothes. It’ll take a while, handling stuff here, so you should take my car.”

Sam plucks at his shirt, scrutinizing it with a sigh as Steve follows after May beyond the double doors, “He’s right. This one’s history.” The urge to apologize again is quickly stamped out when Sam half-heartedly teases, pointing his finger at you, “You know, she apologized for bleeding on me? Who apologizes for bleeding?”

“You’re still on that? Excuse me for being polite. Won’t make that mistake again,” you defend as Sam’s eyes flick to where your hand rested in Bucky’s. It was stupid, to feel so self-conscious at your age, but you retrieve your hand, choosing instead to shove it into the pocket of your jacket, alongside the folded discharge papers you’ve tucked there.

The small quirk at the corner of Bucky’s lips appears for only an instant, yet doesn’t brighten his mood as he leans towards you, scrutinizing with only the barest hint at teasing, ”Maybe it’s that hit to your head.” His attention shifts to the bandage, then back to hold yours, “How ya’ feeling, doll?”

“Tired,” you admit, “sore, but my headache is a little better than it was.” Nodding towards the cut on his own forehead, “You?”

“I’ve had worse,” is all the answer he gives you, shrugging slightly, before his head turns towards Sam, “Give us a ride on your way?”

There’s no question, and you’re certain there’s only one answer, but Sam jokes anyway, “What?  No, ‘please.’” Part of you is thankful for Sam’s attempts at lightening the overwhelming mood around you. It’s something you’re sure is for his own benefit, but the sliver of lighter conversation helps to soothe the worry in your own soul.

Bucky stares at him, deadpan for a moment, before dryly stating, “Sam,” like he doesn’t have the energy to banter with his friend right now.

Shaking his head, Sam calls your name, “You need less manners, he needs more.”

“Says the guy who won’t offer a ride before I have to ask,” Bucky starts, as if he can’t help himself, but any budding back-and-forth is soon stamped out when his attention catches beyond Sam, on two approaching figures. You can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, and when Sam catches sight of them, his demeanor changes as well.

A man and a woman approach the three of you with purpose, like they know who you are, but you’ve never seen either of them in your life. The man is older, dark-skinned, with a beard kept close to his chin, but even the simple suit he wore couldn’t hide the distinct impression that he was a threat. What’s jarring, though, is the eye-patch covering his left eye, and you have to force yourself to look away before you linger on it for an inappropriate amount of time.

The woman at his side wears dress slacks and a dress shirt, replacing the typical blazer that would accompany such an ensemble with a brown leather jacket that complimented her paler skin tone. It framed her shoulders in a way that suggested she was well-muscled beneath it, as blonde hair fell haphazardly from her ponytail against the sides of her jaw. Nowhere near as put-together as her male counterpart, but just as unnerving, because you make them for cops before they even open their mouths.

“Special Agent Nick Fury, FBI,” the man begins, reaching into the breast of his blazer to retrieve the badge he flashes at the three of you. “This is my partner, Agent Danvers,” he gestures to the woman, who flashes a similar badge with less enthusiasm. “Would you mind answering some questions regarding the explosion you were involved in earlier this---”

“I already told the cops everything that happened when they came through,” Bucky interrupts, tone solid, cold. Dismissing them with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sam chuckles dryly, “Don’t you guys compare notes?”

Agent Fury’s smile is tight, and his hands slip into his pockets, “We have reason to believe this bombing may be related to several others.” He speaks slowly, as he stares towards Bucky with an almost smug expression on his face, “Possibly even terrorism.”

“Unless you have a reason to believe someone would want to kill an upstanding businessman such as yourself, Mister Barnes,” Agent Danvers says it in an innocent enough tone, but your stomach drops at the sound of it. It was anything but an innocent question, that’s clear enough.

Bucky doesn’t bother looking at her, instead asking Fury, “Which department did you say you were from, again?”

“They didn’t say,” Sam crosses his arms.

“Criminal Response,” Danvers holds out a business card, and only then does Bucky glance at her. First her hand, then back to her face. He makes no move to take the card from her offering fingertips.

Sam takes it, scrutinizing the card as he comments, “If you think the bombs are terrorism, why isn’t counterterrorism standing where you are instead?”

“Possible terrorism,” Fury corrects, like the distinction is obvious, but you know a lie when you hear one, “but that’s still under investigation. What do you think is going on here, Mister Barnes?”

“It’s not really my job to figure out what’s goin’ on, is it? All I know is, my intern got seriously injured tonight,” comes, clipped, from Bucky. When Agent Fury’s uncovered eye casts his attention on you, Bucky clears his throat, “Look, Agents, now’s not really a good time. I’m still pretty shook up after everything, y’know. Maybe I’ll be more up to answering your questions at a later date.”

Trying your best not to visibly shrink under Agent Fury’s scrutiny, you know you’re not the poker player Bucky is. Before you think better of it, you murmur something about needing the restroom, and escape towards it before they can blink twice in your direction.

You were going to be sick.

The feds?

What were the feds doing here?

Bucky said he spoke to the cops, but you sure as hell hadn’t seen any of them since you’d been wheeled into the hospital. Would they come to ask you questions? It made sense, considering you were a witness, but what could you possibly say—?

Nothing, you’d say nothing, of course—

And you’re pushing a stall open, collapsing to your knees, dry-heaving into the toilet before you can continue that train of thought. Your head felt like it was going to explode, and you don’t know if it’s from the concussion or the borderline-hyperventilating state you’ve dissolved into in that brief moment it takes your stomach to realize there’s nothing there for it to expel.

Doing your best to collect yourself once the worst of it stops, you grip the stall door as the world spins ever so slightly, before leveling out again, and make your way to the sink to clean yourself up, even a little bit.

Harsh paper towels are all you have to work with, as you wash your face as tenderly as you can in the motion-activated tap, trying not to moan with the relief of the cool water on your overheated skin.

The sound of the bathroom door opening, and boots approaching the sink beside yours is what opens your eyes to the intrusive presence of the blonde federal agent— Danvers. You do your best not to tense up at her approach, as she leans towards the mirror to apply her chapstick.

Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool—

“You look pretty banged up, yourself,” she says, casting a sideways glance your way as you continue to drag the paper towel along your cheek.

“Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel pretty,” you shoot back, hoping in vain your standoffishness would be enough to have her leave you alone, but she just cracks a smile.

The bathroom door opens again, just enough for you to hear Sam’s voice call your name, “You almost done in there?” There’s an edge to his tone. Something that sounded more like insistence than anything else.

“I’m coming,” tossing the paper towel into the trash, you move to pass Agent Danvers, but she holds her hand out.

“Hope you’ve got an umbrella,” caught by her index and middle fingers is her business card, and in her eyes is a suggestion of some deeper meaning you don’t quite understand, “It’s a little misty out there tonight.”

You don’t want to take it, but Sam was calling your name again, more insistent this time, and you needed to get her out of your way. Silently, you take it from her, shoving it deep into your coat pocket alongside your discharge paperwork before finally leaving the restroom.

“You good?” Sam stares down at you, moving you across the waiting room towards where Bucky waits near the hallway leading out of it.

“I just was feeling like I might be sick, but I think I’m okay, now,” is your answer, and it’s only half of the truth, because you feel the furthest from okay.

It’s only when you’re in the elevator, on the way to the parking level, that Bucky finally asks, “What did that agent say to you?”

Glancing up at him, you know he’ll see through anything but the truth, so you get as close as you can to it, “She said I looked banged up, then told me to watch out for the rain outside? I think she was just trying to intimidate me, or something.”

Sam huffs in annoyance, “They usually do. Bastards.”

“You don’t gotta’ worry about them,” Bucky begins as the elevator finally opens, and you all make your way towards the exit. “Their kind just like to flash their badges around, act all authoritative— it makes them feel like they’re doin’ something.”

“Yeah, nothing to worry about,” Sam agrees, as the sliding double doors open out into the night, but you’re not stupid enough to believe the lie they’re trying to sell you.

How can you, when you finally realize what Agent Danvers had meant? The meaning of it was literally staring you straight in the face from the other side of the road, begging to be noticed by the only person who would: you.

Dark brown eyes peer from beyond a rolled-down window, almost black in the dead of night, but there she was. Watching you for just long enough to know you’ve seen her. Only then does she turn her car from her park to pull out of the deck, but not before getting the message across.

Misty Knight was working with the feds, and the feds were watching Barnes— therefore, you. The walls were closing in, and you were going to find yourself stuck if you didn’t find a way out.

There’s a tinge of regret on your tongue at how you had left things with Misty last week, nerves spiking at the remembrance of the wire you’d abandoned beneath your bathroom sink at home. You can’t risk giving away how the sight of your old friend here truly shakes you, though; not with these two men at your side.

Something bigger was going on here, and you’re certain Bucky knows that, despite his attempt to minimize it in front of you. And, God, from the bottom of your heart, you want nothing to do with any more of this, but you feel entirely powerless to keep yourself from getting dragged deeper into this rabbit-hole of a situation you’ve found yourself in.

You’re so tense, so wound up, that as soon as you sit down in the back of Steve’s borrowed Cadillac Escalade, a wave of exhaustion practically melts you into the leather seats. This day’s been too much for you to handle, and your brain simply can’t take anymore with the stress it’s already been under. If it weren’t for Bucky sliding into the space beside you, you’re certain you would have slumped over and passed out in the backseat, right then and there. His shoulder is a welcome alternative, considering.

“I’m so tired,” you remember saying as Sam drove out onto the highway, and the feeling of warmth that radiated from the arm Bucky draped over your shoulders. You’ll blame it on the concussion, why you let yourself relax there, against him, when every logical part of your being would usually demand otherwise.

It’s later, and you’re groggy, when you’re jolted awake, hearing him murmuring softly beside your ear, “Sorry, doll, didn’t mean to wake ya’.”

“Ameye ‘ome?” you slur, before blinking into a more firm plane of consciousness at his next words.

“You’re at my place.”

His place? As in his home?

A sharp intake of air accompanies your squinting blink at your dim surroundings, and only then do you realize he’s carrying you, not unlike you would a sleeping child, through the hallway you remember leading towards his bedroom.

“Why?” is all you can manage, the blanket of sleep luring you more than the unease that comes with every moment spent alone with him.

Bucky’s chest, flat against your own, rumbles when he speaks, “You can’t be left alone with that concussion of yours.” It’s the only explanation you get, before he’s moving into the darkness past his bedroom doorway. It makes sense, but it also doesn’t. He didn’t have to do this. There are probably a hundred other options out there, aside from him watching you personally.

You’ve long since come to the conclusion that James Barnes doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. Maybe there was a time when he once did, but he’s fought hard to be in the position he’s now in. Killed for it, even— 

Fists catch in the fabric at his shoulders when you lean back in his arms, just enough to get a better look at him. Hallway light illuminates his jawline, the cuts along his face and the bruise that’s only darkening with the passage of time, but he doesn’t shy away from your stare. You catching a hint of what he’s feeling seems to be the least of his worries tonight.

All it takes is the soft murmur of, “Please, put me down,” for the hands at your thighs to do just that. Easing you down until you find yourself standing along the side of the very bed you’d found yourself tangled up in not so long ago. Only as your feet rest softly along his floor do you realize that you’ve lost your shoes and coat somewhere between here and the car, but he has, too.

He looks different, in the lowlight and solitude of just the two of you in this room. More worn down than he had at the hospital, if that were possible, but with that same haunted vacancy in his eyes as he watches you. There was a carefulness in his eyes you aren’t familiar with, almost like he expects you to move away from him, further than you already have.

The familiarity of the situation, however, does not escape you. The closeness of his body to yours has come to be expected, but the moments of passion you shared hours ago had been separated by the horror of the night, until that felt like miles away to you, now. There’s no denying that the exhausted desolation of his stare is a stark contrast to the way he had looked at you in the redlight of the darkroom. It’s too tinted with grief for you to mistake this for want.

“There’s a room at the other end of the hall… you could stay there instead,” he splits the silence, as if it’s a revelation that he probably should have come up with the offer far sooner than he has.

“I…” you begin, hesitant to admit the truth, because as terrible as it is, the idea of being left alone in this foreign, vacant house after what’s happened creeps a fear up your spine that’s even more terrible than that of the man standing before you. The fact that, in this moment, you feel at all safer by his side than you would at the other side of that vacant hallway is almost impossible to accept.

The part of you that wants to run far, far away from him is no match for the side of you which wants anything but the cold loneliness that will allow you to dwell on what you’ve both gone through.

Only when you avert your eyes from his, can you finally say, “I don’t want to be alone… tonight.” It’s certainly early morning by now, but that technicality doesn’t really matter, because when you dare to look back at his eyes, darkened by the shadows across his face, you still make out how softly he looks at you. For a moment, you can almost trick yourself that you’re simply two people in need of comfort, rather than the truth of everything between you, “Do you want to be alone tonight, Bucky?”

His lips part, hesitancy on his own tongue, before he breathes a solid, honest, “No.”

“Okay,” you say, like it’s that simple, and crawl into his bed, clothes and all. Exhaustion capturing you and dragging you down into the mattress that was still too soft for a man like him, but is perfect for forgetting why. He just stands there, watching until you’re buried beneath his irritatingly soft duvet. Calling to him with that same drowsy airiness of someone on the verge of sleep, “Come to bed, Bucky.”

Your eyes are already shut by the time the bed dips with his weight, and you’re too tired to worry past the feeling of cool metal dragging along the hitch of your exposed waist, pulling you against the warm expanse of his clothed chest.

You have no idea where this falls in the context of your debt to him, or if it even counts at all, when he murmurs his own breathy exhaustion at the nape of your neck, “Night, doll.”

⤜♚⤛

James Barnes looks less threatening when he’s sleeping. It’s almost like, in full consciousness, he’s never truly relaxed, even when he appears to be. His apparent laid-back confidence doesn’t carry over in his sleep; when the actions and conversations and expectations all fall away into the pit of unconsciousness.

You don’t know what you’d expected. For his side of the bed to be empty, again, maybe? Or perhaps for him to appear just as much the icy-hot threat he was when awake? Something other than the simple, normal vulnerability of a man lost to the world at this current moment.

Part of you wonders if he’s dreaming, or if it’s one of those blissful periods where nothing at all disturbs the blackness of the mind. When the peace of it is as close as you can come to death.

The clock on his nightstand announces almost midday, now, but you figured as much with the strong sunlight shielded beyond the curtained windows. Even still, it’s too early to pick apart your every action or choice for the day before; micro-analyzing your time with him was a habit you struggled to break.

No, that… that would have to wait until after coffee, and another dose of tylenol for the throb in your head. It isn’t as bad as the night before, thankfully, and you have a sneaking suspicion the ache is more due to stress than your physical wound itself. Truthfully, your whole body aches to a certain degree, and you’re certain that it’s littered with bruises from hitting the pavement as hard as you had.

A lull of your head to the side reaffirms your proximity to the sleeping gangster, the part of his lips, the mess in his hair. Not even the scratches along his face or the purpling bruise on his jaw can keep you from staring. Your breath catches alongside the skip in your chest, and the guilt at the feeling washes over you only an instant too late for the thought of his attractiveness to blossom at the back of your skull.

He sleeps pretty well for a killer.

But perhaps the bitter thought comes too soon, because Bucky’s brow furrows and his body tenses. Discomfort spreads across his features as quickly as your brain can process them, and before you can think better of it, your voice parts the morning quiet with a murmur of his name. A brush of your fingertips at the scruff of his jaw and—

Metal digits wrap tight around your wrist so quickly you think it startles the both of you with how you gasp and he inhales, blinking wide-eyed like he doesn’t quite recognize you until his eyes focus. Whatever had been there before dissolves with the relaxation of the grip at your wrist. Bucky blinks, but even then it takes a minute for the startled look in his eyes to dissipate.

“Bucky,” even to your own ears there’s a hesitancy to it, a sobering concern in the back of your throat. You don’t care if you shouldn’t ask, if it wasn’t your place, “Bad dream?”

He releases you just as quickly, rolling onto his back with a groan, “What time is it?”

You don’t know why you ever expect him to give you a straight answer, literally ever, “Almost noon.”

“That late?” his fingers wipe the exhaustion from his eyes. “I overslept.”

He looks like the only thing he needs right now is to oversleep, you think, as you supply with a dry sarcasm, “I think the Queen of England will understand your tardiness.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, casting a glance towards you that is more unreadable than it is threatening. Irritation, maybe, you could expect, but the subtle curiosity there is something else entirely. You don’t know if he finds what he’s searching for by the time it melts into something closer to compassion.

“How’re you feeling? Any numbness? Nausea?” it takes you a second to realize he’s assessing you like a soldier would, straight to the point as his attention settles on the side of your head, and the bandage there.

“Just dandy,” you sigh into the pillow. You weren’t about to complain about the soreness, when you had yesterday’s throbbing pain to compare it to.

“Yeah, tell me that again when you get up, and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“What about you?” you question, and there’s that curious look again. You point towards his purpling jaw, “That’s bruising up nicely.”

He reaches for his jaw, a gentle caress over the affected area, and his eyes finally look away from you, as if the memory is somewhere far off, before repeating what he’d said last night, “Had worse, doll.”

But you’re tired of him avoiding you, and just this once, you decide to push it, “That’s not an answer. How bad does it hurt?”

“What? You gonna’ kiss it better for me?” Bucky’s teasing deflection cuts with his smile, until he flinches from grinning too widely, and you huff at him.

“Bucky.”

He grunts, and you thank your lucky stars that he looks too tired to keep this round of cat and mouse going, because he simply groans and deflates into the sheets, “Yeah, it’s kinda’ sore.” He’s minimizing, and you know it. The man can’t even smile naturally without flinching.

“That settles it, then,” Bucky glances towards you at that. “First order of business, pain meds for the both of us, and then I’ll head home—” Before he can say anything, you maneuver yourself to push off the edge of the bed. Standing straight only lasts for a split second, before the lightheadedness sets in and you’re falling back to the bedside once again.

Bucky makes a quick, “woah,” sound before you find his hands at your waist just as you hit the bed, the small effort to keep you from falling onto the floor being greatly appreciated.

“Fuck,” you groan with a soft defeat, trying not to look as embarrassed as you felt, but you can hear the man behind you start to chuckle as the bed shifts when he sits straighter. You can’t even stand up without fucking it up.

“Well, that didn’t go to plan,” his joking breath ghosts over your skin, perhaps genuinely enjoying your struggle or simply trying to lighten the mood. It could go either way at this point; you don’t know what to think of him, not when he leans his chin onto your shoulder, the tight grip at your waist easing with your steadiness.

Tensing up with his sudden proximity, you shouldn’t want to lean into him like you do. Your heart shouldn’t speed up like it does, hammering away in your chest like he’d just released a million butterflies there. Heat creeping up your neck from where the prickly set of his jaw leans into you, catching your breath from your near-fall seems easier said than done.

“Want to try that again, or maybe I should get you a parachute first—”

“Shut up—” comes out weaker than you intended it to, with less edge, and he’s chuckling again. Leaning further into you until he’s practically draped himself over your shoulders, trapping you in the cage of his arms, the prey instinct to run is nearly as powerful as the impulse to melt there. To accept your fate.

Your only saving grace is the sound of your stomach growling, alerting you to just how hungry you were, and subsequently making you wish that a hole would simply open up in the ground and swallow you whole right then and there.

You can hear the sound of the smile in his voice, coaxing in a way that makes you want to agree before he’s even finished his thought, “How about this, Sam’s probably starving, too. Let’s grab a bite, and then I’ll take you home, if you want me to.”

If you want me to has you wondering if he wants you to stay. If it was some kind of invitation. If perhaps you erupted the same borderline uneasy desire in him that he had set alight in you—

You fight to forget that train of thought, instead settling on, “Sam’s still here?”

“Yeah,” he hums, “he had to stay. After last night…” Bucky trails off, and you try your best to avoid the feelings that threaten to come rushing back all over again at the slight mention of it. “Well, let’s just say that Sam and Steve are the only ones I can trust right now.”

In the light of day, after the immediate shock of it has worn off, and enough time has passed for you to somewhat separate in your mind the pieces of what happened last night for appraisal, you can understand the implications of what he’s saying. You should have realized it sooner, but the rushing intensity of the moment coupled with your concussion had slowed your thoughts.

Someone wanted to kill him.

That in itself is probably nothing new, knowing him, but the fact that someone had so brazenly attempted to achieve it shocked you. Maybe you’re naïve to think of it this way, you don’t know for sure, but the idea that someone would simply try to kill him in such a public place was baffling to you. There was no finesse about it, no attempt at hiding their intent.

The thought of his attempted murder should have left you with some kind of relief. Your problems would be solved with him out of the picture, right? Shouldn’t you be hoping whoever it was would achieve their purpose?

The one thing you do know right now was that the idea of him being killed gave you a very different feeling than relief. This anxiety simmering within you was an unmistakable worry. You could try to excuse it, to say that you don’t want anyone to be killed. That this was simply a compassion for your fellow man and nothing else.

But you know that’s not true.

He’s under your skin now, and as much as you wish you could claw him out, or even feel some sort of indifference towards him, you can’t.

Turning your head slightly, you dare to look at him, catching his questioning eyes with yours. Reaching up to feel the warmth of his arm, caging you against his chest.

It slips from you before you can help it, “They placed that car bomb to kill you?”

You don’t care if it’s a stupid question. You already know the answer to it, you just need him to confirm that this is real. That this othered they you speak of exists.

Bucky’s jaw sets, before his arm slides in your grip to catch his hand at your own, “You’d think people would know I’m harder to kill than that.” And he’s slipping from you, pushing himself away and taking the warmth that has radiated through your clothes with him. Leaving you with a chill that was more than just the room temperature.

This was real. This was real, and someone was really trying to kill him—

Mind racing, you almost miss when he rises from the bed to stand before you, stretching for the moment it takes before he offers you the cool metal of his prosthetic hand, “Let’s go eat, doll.”

You take his hand with less hesitancy than you expect of yourself, using his strength to guide you to your feet slowly. Thankfully this time, the lightheadedness doesn’t follow you, so much as the aches in your bones do.

“Still feelin’ ‘just dandy?’” Bucky shoots at you, but lets you keep your pride and his assisting arm as you roll your eyes at him. When you finally let go of him on your steadier legs, he continues, “I’ll go see if I can find where Sam’s at.”

“Alright,” you try to breathe even, to focus on the small smile at the corner of his lips. Watching him leave the sanctuary of his bedroom, only one thought dominates your thoughts, coming to a head when he shuts the door behind him.

That someone who had tried to kill him last night had failed, and you doubted that whoever it was was going to give up so easily. They’ll try again, you’ll bet money on it, and anyone in their way is fair game. They’ve made that clear enough with what happened to Peter. Wrong place, wrong time had just turned into a life or death situation for anyone in a ten yard radius to James Barnes, and you’re already standing far too close.

That futile urge to run creeps up the back of your throat again. You swallow it down as you push into the ensuite bathroom instead, going through the motions. If you hadn’t liked the girl who looked back at you in the mirror the last time you were here, then you hated the girl who stares back at you now.

Damn, you look rough. The scrapes along your body from the pavement are nothing compared to the bandage on the side of your head. The bruising along your temple on that same side of your face maps where your head had hit the ground, and you hiss as you pick through the dried blood against your scalp. You need a good shower. The sooner you get back to your place, the better.

Aside from your clothes being wrinkled from having been slept in last night, your shirt has dots of blood on it, though it’s nowhere near as terribly marred as Sam’s had been. Wiping at it with a wet rag only seems to make the stains worse, and you sigh with defeat before meticulously removing the shirt entirely once you’re done freshening up as best you can.

Stealing is the least of your crimes, you suppose, intruding upon Barnes once more when you emerge back into his bedroom to toss your shirt upon the bed. That dresser with the picture from his army days upon it is your target, and by the time you pull out the second drawer from the top you hit gold.

Immaculately folded plain t-shirts stare up at you, and you reach for the black one. You’re in enough debt as it is with him, so what’s another twenty dollars?

Besides, this was more like borrowing.

The shirt is comfortably generic, if perhaps a bit inappropriate for the chillier weather, but when you find wherever Barnes has put your jacket and shoes, you know it’ll be fine. Scooping up your crumpled shirt from the bed, you haphazardly fold it as you make your way into the hallway, deciding to be lazy and take the elevator rather than the stairs.

Bare feet pad along the hardwood, as the elevator dings, door smoothly sliding open to expose the white walls within it, contrasting the light grays of the hallway. Leaning against the rail, you take the opportunity to scrutinize the operation panel after clicking the corresponding button to the first floor.

Scoffing in the silence of the moving elevator, your suspicion that this place was entirely too large for its own good is confirmed with the denoting B, 1, 2, 3, 4, R that are labeled on the panel. Four floors, plus a basement and roof space? You’d be terrified if you were living here all alone; it was much too big for your liking, but you guess that this was just another piece of evidence that Barnes had no fear whatsoever, and more money than God.

You’re torn from your mute appraisal of the elevator when it dings once again, alerting you just before the door opens and you find yourself walking into the vacant formal living room. The dim memory of when you had walked in on Barnes conducting business with Cornell Stokes scratches in the back of your skull, but the faint sound of voices drifting further into the home. Following the sound, you’re led down a short hallway until you can hear the sound of running water.

“---is handling the hospital, and Steve’s going to swing by here tonight after he checks out the car. I’m thinkin’ the two of us will alternate your security.”

“Sounds good to me, Sam,” the water turns off as you round into what you realize is the kitchen, catching the attention of Sam and Bucky with your presence.

Sam whistles, shooting off at the mouth before he brings a glass of water to his lips, “Even all beat up, she’s still prettier than you, huh, Barnes—” Bucky glares, as Sam grins with the opportunity to tease the two of you, “I mean you look rough—”

“Fuck off,” but it seems to be in good fun, this teasing, and judging by Bucky’s reaction and Sam’s low chuckling, it’s nothing new to either of them. Sam’s wearing fresh clothes, but not even his bright smile can distract you from the holster at his hip. It’s clear he’s not just here to hang out with an old friend.

“Bucky,” you move closer to the marble-topped island counter Sam leans upon, “where’d you put my coat and my shoes? I can’t find them.”

Sam looks pointedly towards Bucky, something playful in his tone that is so much like schoolyard teasing that you almost want to melt with the embarrassment of it, “Hmm, where did you put her things, Bucky?”

“They’re in the coat closet,” Barnes replies with only a hint of annoyance at how much Sam seemingly enjoyed goading him.

“Man’s a neat freak,” Sam sighs. “That’s a red flag.”

“You know what? Let me just show you where your stuff is,” rounding the counter, Bucky catches you by the forearm and all but drags you from the kitchen, shooting one last glare towards Sam. You have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from reflexively giggling at the bizarre exchange, keeping up with Bucky’s long strides until he inevitably releases his hold on you to open a door at the end of the small hallway you’d initially come down on your way to the kitchen.

It’s a walk-in, lined with a myriad of men’s jackets and coats, wherein your feminine ensemble sits on a wooden hanger as if it were at all meant to hang among the expensive fabrics there. Bucky plucks it from the hanger while you slip your feet into your shoes.

“Here,” when he hands it to you, the weight of it reminds you of its pockets filled with discharge paperwork and your personal belongings.

“Thank you for taking care of it for me,” politely draping it over your shoulder, you look back up at him, only to be rendered immobile by the hand that finds the side of your neck. His thumb caresses your jaw as he tilts your head under the more pointed closet lighting. It takes you a moment to realize he’s scrutinizing the bruising along your temple, with something akin to regret.

“Sam was right. You are pretty beat up,” you’re about to supply a sarcastic comment about how beautiful that reminder makes you feel, when his eyes refocus. Staring into your own with a weight in them that silences you completely, but it’s what he says that leaves you speechless, “I’m sorry. I got you hurt.”

He was apologizing. As if the entirety of your relationship with him hadn’t been spent with his constant disregard for your comfort or wellbeing. As if you weren’t near-constantly teetering between desire and outright fear of what he could do to you.

This confounding, terrifying man was apologizing for something he didn’t even do, and it makes about as much sense to you as the gentleness of his hand at your jaw does. You’re sure you could study him for the rest of your days, and still not have figured him out.

Because why does he care? Aren’t you simply his most recent object for amusement?

There’s the possibility that, in some way, you may have misjudged him.

It takes a second, before your tongue catches up with your mind, and you weakly supply, “You weren’t the one who did this to me.” You don’t know why you feel the need to absolve him of the guilt he rightfully has in this situation, but you’re starting to accept you don’t know much of anything at all.

“Still,” he murmurs, and when he tears his eyes from yours, they settle at your lips. His own promise, “I’ll find who did.” His promise to make it right shouldn’t leave you as indifferent as it did. You knew who he was, you knew his implied methods for dealing with these people would be less than above board, and yet… it doesn’t matter to you. The promise of his threat to the people who had tried to kill him, subsequently injuring both Peter and you, was perhaps the only time when a threat from those lips didn’t scare you.

In some sick, twisted way, it makes you feel a little safer in his arms.

“I know you will,” for a moment you think he might kiss you again. There’s something similar about this closet and the darkroom back at Galereya Romanova. Something intimate about being alone with him.

You’ll never know if your suspicions are correct, because the sound of footsteps strips whatever veil that had descended on you away, along with Sam coming into sight beyond the doorway, “Hey, we going to eat or not? I got that Tylen— Oh, am I interrupting something?”

Bucky rolls his neck, fixing Sam with another annoyed glare that’s a little more genuine this time before you move away from his touch, “Yes.”

There’s no remorse from Sam, who simply grins back at him while you try to melt into the floorboards beneath your feet. Clearing your throat, you pull your jacket on, gesturing towards the pill bottle in Sam’s grip in an effort to quickly change the subject.

“Mind if I grab some of those.”

“Course,” taking the bottle and the opportunity to escape the coat closet, you down the appropriate dosage of pain medicine as quickly as you can, before supplying Barnes with a matching dose.

By the time you make it into the garage, you find that Steve’s Escalade has been replaced with a black Mercedes G-Class which Sam unlocks before you even reach it. Sometime in the night it seems Bucky’s men had been coming and going while you slept, evidenced by the exchange of cars.

It’s a little diner in Brooklyn that Sam and Bucky finally settle upon, but hole-in-the-wall places like these are typically the best kind. Somewhere between deciding on if you wanted breakfast or lunch, you thank your lucky stars that you had decided upon only bringing your wallet and keys with you yesterday to work. They were still tucked into your jacket’s deep pockets by the time you found yourself searching for enough cash to cover your meal, only for Bucky to nearly laugh in your face at the notion that you were paying for your own brunch.

“I already owe you too much money as it is,” you huff, trying your best to snatch the receipt he’d cornered from his grip.

“Isn’t letting me do what I want part of you working off your debt, doll?” he playfully bit back at you, and you had settled into your seat with nary a grumble after that.

You half expected Sam to just dump you out at your place like he had the last time, but instead you realize Bucky’s quick behind you when you slide out of the Mercedes’ back seat.

“I’ll walk you up,” is all he says, and you know better than to argue with him, but part of you doesn’t want to. Calling back to Sam, “Won’t be too long.”

This time, you supply Sam with a proper good-bye, but any chance at hearing his reciprocation is obstructed by Bucky’s quick shutting of the back door.

“You really don’t have to,” there’s a hint of awkwardness in your voice as you begin the trek up to your apartment.

“Sure I do,” Bucky shrugs. “What would I be if I didn’t make sure you got in safe?” There has to be more to it than that, but you do have a terrible habit of overthinking.

Keys in your lock, you push your way into your quaint apartment, but your tension doesn’t fade like it usually did upon returning home. It lingers, like he does, on the precipice of your threshold when you look back towards him.

Wracking your brain for something to say, he cuts through the silence before you have the chance, “I’ll be back by tonight.”

Your brow furrows, evidencing your confusion, “Tonight…?”

“Yeah, I got that meeting to go to, remember? Though, with everything that’s happened, it’ll probably run a little later than I told you yesterday,” and that’s when it hits you. He had asked you to meet him afterwards for dinner. Truthfully, you’re surprised that he still wants to, considering.

“I… don’t know if I’ll be good company,” you begin, leaning into the doorframe with crossed arms. “I’m all sore, and my head’s still hurting—”

Stepping closer, Bucky shakes his head, “No, it’ll be lowkey. Don’t worry about it.”

“Bucky—” for once, you’re about to protest. The last thing you felt like doing was going out God knows where to be the thing on his arm like you’d been at his poker club. A girl can only take so much stress, and you don’t care if you sounded whiney, if it meant the chance at getting out of it.

Even if it meant turning down the first date he ever asked you on.

You’re about to go further, but he silences you when he steps into your space, leaning to ghost at your lips, “I said, don’t worry about it,” before capturing them entirely. He may as well have captured you, too, because your attention is completely short-circuited by the gentle leisure of this kiss.

It’s not the same hasty passion of that time in the darkroom, or the explorative touch from the time before that. No, this is something else entirely. A soft, delicate kiss that drips warmth down to your toes, and only after that do you feel the brush of his fingertips at your neck. Not to trap you there, but rather to almost steady himself against you.

It doesn’t last long, and you’re damned for wishing it was longer than it was, because when he pulls back he takes his hand with him, and you’re left only with the crooked smile on his bruised lips, “Better shut and lock that door, doll, or someone’s bound to walk right in.”

Flushing under the intensity of his flirting, you step back, away from his proximity, and grip to your front door for dear life, “Yeah, I ought to do that.”

You don’t bother telling him good-bye, because you’re afraid that if you linger too much longer with him staring at you like he was, the weaker, supid part of you would invite him inside. Locking and bolting the door, you take a deep breath, allowing one, two, three long seconds to pass before you dare look through your peep-hole to see if that action alone had been enough to keep the wolf from your door.

Forehead thumping against the door at the realization he’s gone, you take a deep breath in the hopes that it will cure you of this tension he’s set in your shoulders.

Your apartment looks too similar for the shifting in your stomach. Too much has changed too quickly, and in your efforts to maintain your life as closely as you could to what it was before these events were set into motion, not even your unaffected home could save you from this feeling that things would never be the same again. That you would never be the same again, once the chips fall where they may.

Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, you push yourself from the door, and this spell he’s cast over you. Emptying your coat pockets on your kitchen counter, you put your wallet and keys aside in order to sort through the discharge paperwork from the hospital, reading over the vague home-care instructions they had given you which amounted to little more than you already knew. You’re on the third page when the business card falls from between the papers, and you’re left staring at the name printed there.

Carol Danvers

Picking it up with your nails, you flick the card absentmindedly, wondering if it was even smart to hold onto it at all, or if throwing it into the trash was the dumbest option you could take. Misty had tried to get through to you as a friend, and it hadn’t worked, so now she was sending in the big guns.

Really, did she even have a say in what the FBI did? You remember from that fragment of a conversation you never should have heard that Bucky had told Stokes something about a task-force out in Harlem making trouble for him. Were Agent Danvers, Agent Fury, and Misty all part of that same task force he mentioned?

You refused to believe it was a coincidence.

But you have no idea what to do about it right now. You don’t think there’s anything to be done about it, at least not by you.

So, you decide to tuck the business card in your wallet among the gift cards you still haven’t used since your last birthday. Squirreling it away just as you had the wire that Misty left you with.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The rest of the midday consists of peeling off your over-worn clothing, and throwing everything into your wash, along with the shirt you’d successfully stolen from Barnes. Scrutinizing every scratch and bruise on your body came next, and then changing the dressing on your skull as you carefully washed the hair around the stitches there.

By the time you’re through, it’s near five o’clock, and while you would love nothing more than to crawl onto your couch and veg out, there’s something more pressing you feel you have to do.

⤜♚⤛

The gift shop is more like a highway robbery. Fifty bucks for flowers, balloons, a card, and a stuffed bear? Ridiculous, but you’re either a schmuck or a sucker, because you fork it over nonetheless when the receptionist rings you up.

The bear isn’t even a bear. It’s a panda, and you sigh as you look down at the items you’ve acquired when you find partial solitude in the elevator. Was it too much? You were second-guessing yourself, now.

But when the floors ding off, you have only a split second to decide if you truly want to do this before the doors threateningly begin to slide shut once more. Catching it just in time, you push your way out, along with your myriad of presents.

Fuck, you didn’t even know if they allowed gifts like these in the ICU. You hadn’t thought that far ahead.

You feel like a damn idiot as you walk the same path as last night once again, tunnel vision only easing when you’re standing out front of the push-button double doors. Deep breath. You reach out and push it.

The beeps are just as familiar as they are foreign, breathing whooshes of the ventilators accompanying the atmosphere of this place, but in the setting daylight, you notice it’s busier than it had been the night before.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” asks an older nurse with pulled back box braids from beyond the counter at the central nurse’s station.

“Oh, yeah, I’m visiting Peter…”

“Last name?”

It takes you a second, “Parker. Peter Parker. He is still here, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. Technically, we’re only supposed to allow two visitors at a time during visiting hours, but if you’re going to be quick, I’ll let you go back,” she offers kindly, and you nod. You didn’t need long. You just wanted to make sure he was okay.

“I’ll only be a second,” you agree, before she points you around to the same room he had been stationed in the night before. As you move around the ICU, you spot the room, now curtained, and the large hulk of a man standing beside the door to it.

He squints at your approach, before recognition eases his brow, “Oh, you.”

“Drax, wasn’t it?”

“That’s me,” Drax nods towards the items in your hands. “Boss send you down with those?”

“No, actually, I was just hoping to deliver them myself, for the kid… if that’s alright.”

He grunts, frowning, “Not supposed to let anyone in that the Boss hasn’t approved.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I guess. Can you just put these things in there for me, then?” you offer him the get-well-soon items, and Drax raises a brow. “I just… don’t want him to wake up to an empty room when he does, you know?”

“I don’t know. The boss said—”

The sound of metal against metal catches your attention when the curtain is pushed open, the same petite woman from last night staring out at you with a questioning gaze, before realization dawns upon her, “You’re that girl from last night. You were there when it happened, weren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, I was,” you supply awkwardly, and Peter’s aunt sighs with all the exhaustion it takes to wave off the guard at the door.

“Oh, let her in, Drax. She wouldn’t have blown herself up, now, would she?”

“I… guess not, Aunt May,” he concedes, and she waves you into the room.

“That one doesn’t have a whole lot going on between the ears, but he’s just a big teddy bear when you get to know him,” May moves around the bedside, returning to a small packet that she uses to produce lubrication for the boy’s lips. Glancing towards where you linger along the outskirts of the bed, she nods to the corner of the cramped room, “You can put all that near the window. That way he can see it when he wakes up. I know he’ll love it. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, I just… wanted him to know people were thinking about him,” you supply weakly, gingerly placing your various items on the small windowsill there. May was still carefully treating his lips around the endotracheal tube, and if the various wires and low rhythm of the ventilator weren’t there, you could almost believe Peter to be sleeping.

His head is bandaged, but from beneath the bandage comes another tube, hooked to some sort of draining mechanism on the other side of the bed. It must be the product of that surgery he had last night. One thing stood out to you, more than anything else, and that was how small he looked laying there. He was nowhere near the man he so desperately wanted to pretend to be.

May breaks you from your solemn observation of the boy, “I’m sorry, do you mind if I ask you something?”

Catching her brown-eyed stare, you nod, “Sure.”

“The other boys… I know they won’t give me an honest answer, but… was it— do you know if he was in a lot of pain, when he was on the street?” her question punches you in the gut, pushes all the air from your lungs and leaves you empty.

You gape like a fish for the moments it takes to collect yourself, and you avoid her stare when you reply, “Honestly? From what I remember of it, he was already unconscious. No… I don’t think he even saw it coming.”

She hums, tucking the blanket around him like a mother would her child, smiling weakly when she confesses, “That’s good. He wasn’t scared, then.”

Trying your best to swallow the lump in your throat, you aren’t ashamed when your voice shakes, “I’ve heard that sometimes people in comas can hear what’s going on around them, so right now, he might know you’re here with him. That you’re taking care of him. I might not know him as well as everyone else does, but I do know that kid loves you with his whole heart. There’s no way you can’t know that, if you’ve met him at all. I’m sure it makes him happy, having you here with him now.”

May looks towards you once more, hopeful, as if she wants to believe you, “I hope he can hear. He needs to know how much he matters.”

Silently, you nod, before reaching out to offer her the card, “This is for when he wakes up, but if you need anything, my number’s in there, too. I live in Hell’s Kitchen, but I’m just a call away, okay?”

“That’s awfully nice of you to offer to someone you barely know,” she begins, somewhat skeptical, but takes the card from you anyway.

“I know what it’s like to try to make it on your own.”

“You don’t know what I’m going through.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I’m only offering what I can, if you figure you need some extra help, aside from that big lug at the door,” a bittersweet smile cracks on your face. “But, I better go before the nurse comes in here and shoos me out. There’s only supposed to be two visitors at a time, technically.”

Before you’re past the curtain, her voice catches you, and you turn to find her reading your name from your signature at the bottom of the card, “Thank you for coming by to check on him. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Something told me I did.”

The path back through the hospital is something you’re starting to remember automatically by your fourth time through its curving, winding halls. It takes three stops by subway to get back to Hell’s Kitchen, and when you do, you find yourself taking your time down the brisque city streets.

The air’s getting colder as the hour passes, the threat of winter looming ever closer, and by the time you’re once again standing in front of your building, the sun has gone all the way down.

Barnes had said not to worry about tonight, but you weren’t sure if that meant you were off the hook or not. You wished he would leave and never come back, that he could take this uncertainty swirling in your chest along with him when he did, but it’s too late for that now.

The on-edge feeling returns as the evening hours tick by, until you’re barely able to enjoy the reruns you’ve taken to watching on your couch. Tension seeping into your skin until the way you constantly check your phone every thirty minutes to check the time gives away your anticipation of his possible arrival.

It’s past nine when you hear the rap at your door, and the way you nearly jump out of your skin is enough reason to thank the heavens that no one is around to see you do it. It might not even be him—

A glance through your peep-hole proves that thought incorrect, because there he stands in a leather jacket. More casual than you expected him to be with the jeans along his hips. Fuck, you’re still in the sweats you threw on after your shower, having been too ambiguous about his arrival to decide on a proper outfit—

Hesitantly, you unbolt and unlock the door, swinging it open just enough to catch a glimpse of the plastic bag he holds in his hand.

Barnes still looks like sin when his teeth cut in a grin at the sight of you, even with the bruising and cuts on his face. It makes him look somehow even more dangerous than he already did, in the low fluorescent lights of your building’s hallway. Lifting up his hand to dangle the plastic bag between you, you make out the unmistakable shapes of the to-go boxes nestled within.

“Told you it would be low-key,” he juts his chin upwards slightly, motioning for you to open the door wider. “Let me in.”

You do as you’re told, but mostly because whatever he’s carrying smells heavenly, “Didn’t you want to eat out, though?”

“Nah,” brushing past you, he spots your kitchen easily enough, placing the bag on the counter like he owns the place, “could barely stand to sit through the full meeting, with how long it wound up taking. Besides, you said you were sore, right?”

Upon re-locking your door again, you meet his raised brow, “Yeah.”

“Hope you like shawarma, ‘cause that’s all we got,” he grins, pulling the boxes out of the bag as you come closer to examine the food. You should be more uneasy with his presence here, but maybe you’ve become numb to the feeling. Perhaps it’s simply your new baseline, now, and you’re unaware of it.

Or, maybe, you don’t mind him as much in this moment as you used to.

He offers you a plate, “This one’s yours, doll,” and you take it from him like he doesn’t completely baffle you at every chance he gets. Looking towards the television, he asks, “What’re you watching?”

“Oh… reruns of some old show, but I wasn’t paying much attention, I’m afraid,” moving towards the couch while he finishes up grabbing his own plate, you tuck your legs under the box of food. You can’t help but wonder, “Aren’t you supposed to be under, like, constant guard or something, after last night?”

“Yeah, Steve’s sitting out there watching the place.”

“He’s just sitting in the car?” there’s no hiding the amusement in your voice. “Isn’t that kind of mean to just leave him there?”

“I could invite him up here, if you’re so worried about him, doll,” Bucky grins back at you, watching you lean back into the cushions with a snort.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So she does have a mean streak,” sitting his plate down on your coffee table, he sinks into the couch beside you. “Who would’ve guessed?”

“I’m not the one who left him in the car.”

Bucky’s shrugging off his jacket, draping it over the arm of your couch, “He’s not a dog on a hot summer day. Plus, the car’s on. I think he can handle himself for a couple hours while we eat.”

“Two meals in one day,” the smile on your lips is as genuine as they come, peeling open the plate of food to properly appraise it. You had to admit, it looked good. He’s begun to pick apart his own plate when you decide to tease him a little, “If I knew all I had to do to pay off my debt was let you feed me, I’d have sent you a grocery bill sooner.”

The initial bite of your wrap silences you and he shoots back, “If I knew all I had to do to keep that smart mouth of yours quiet was to stuff it full, I’d have done that sooner, too.” The mischievous glint in his eye is all it takes for you to know that he’s exactly aware of the double entendre in his words. It takes all you have not to choke on your bite before you wash it down with your drink.

“Gross,” you huff around a giggle when you catch a breath of air.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he chuckles, taking his own bite of his wrap.

The evening dissolves like this, and you hate to admit that it’s… pleasant. Talking and occasionally joking back and forth with him is dangerous, because he seems almost likable. As if he’s just a regular guy on a laid-back date. As if he didn’t have a disproportionate amount of control when it came to every interaction you had with him.

As if this weren’t the cost of a debt beyond your control, but as the night wears on, you start to wonder if that’s really the reason he was sitting here with you now. Surely there are other women he could be with. Women who don’t owe him practically anything he wants from them.

You should be thankful that all he wants from you right now is your company. That should be enough, but in the back of your mind, the thought crawls up your neck, planting the seed of uncertainty there. Of questioning.

And you know asking questions will only serve to get you even deeper into this mess.

The only question you should want to ask him is how much longer until your debt is paid, but that one— perhaps the most important question in your life right now— is far away from you tonight. Instead, a far more treacherous question eats at your thoughts.

Is there some part of him, perhaps the part that made him come here tonight, that might care a thing about you?

You shouldn’t wish for it. You shouldn’t want it. You shouldn’t want him, or want him to want you, but damn it if you haven’t become a complete mess in the head, ever since you first met him.

And when the dinner’s over and done with. When he’s leaning against your couch with you settled into his side, the reason you let him kiss you again is more than just the score you have to settle.

That realization is more terrifying than he ever could be.

His lips, his hands, his body pressing you into your couch— he’s all consuming. Burning away every shred of good sense you have left, and the butterflies in your stomach scream out how you’re in too deep for your own good— drowning in him in more ways than one. The Devil is supposed to be charming, though, isn’t he?

If he’s the Devil, you’re already falling.

Metal and flesh have become so familiar to you that you think it would be strange for two warm hands to touch you at the same time. The scrape of his beard is a map that you’re certain you could trace with your eyes closed. It’s already certain to you that he’s utterly ruined you, in just the short time you’ve known him.

Is it possible for a week to feel like a lifetime? Maybe you are completely insane.

His breath is warm as he kisses you into the couch, gasping into your lips when you tug gently at the dark hair of his head. You’re on the verge of doing anything he asks, when his lips part from yours to trail across your cheek, gently avoiding your bruised temple.

“Ask me to stay,” he murmurs into your ear, and you try to hang onto the last shred of your dignity at the sound of it.

“You can’t,” pushing against his chest, you’re desperate to distance yourself. To try and breathe a single breath of air that doesn’t smell like him, “Steve’s outside. He’ll be sitting out there all night if you stay. I’m mean, but I’m not that mean.”

He has checkmate when he counters, “Then pack a bag, and come home with me.”

Your eyes flutter open, staring up at him in the dim cast of light from the television and your kitchen light. There’s no teasing smirk on his lips, no evidence that he was simply trying to pull another one of those reactions he liked to get from you. He’s serious, and while it’s an offer, it’s not a question.

You’re nearly sobered by it, “What did you say?”

His hands find your thighs, still flanking his hips, giving you a squeeze to punctuate, “Grab a duffel, throw what you need in it, and let’s go.”

A refusal buds in the back of your throat, but what falls from your lips is, “Only for tonight.”

His noncommittal, “Sure,” convinces neither of you, but when he kisses you again, you’re too distracted to care.

He waits on the couch as you dump out your gym bag’s random contents onto your bed. Not wanting to stay for too long to start overthinking this more than questionable decision on your part, you hurry to sling some clothes in your bag, along with the bare necessities you would need to keep your third walk of shame less shameful.

Pausing in your bathroom, you glance towards the cabinet, the thought of Misty’s wire coming to mind once more, but you shake that off almost as soon as it comes. You were not going to get involved.

Flipping the light off, you grab your phone and wallet to stuff into your duffel, and by the time you’re back in the living room he’s standing in front of your door. Staring at you with an expectation that you’ll follow him from the safety of your home, into the night.

“Ready, doll?”

You’re already too involved with him as it is.

“Ready.”

⤜♚⤛

James Barnes has a way with manipulating his way into getting what he wants, and before you know what’s properly happening, one night has turned into two, and a lazy weekend spent between his home and accompanying his visits to the hospital flies by you in a way that’s strangely comfortable. As if bending to his whim is becoming somewhat natural with the passing days, and any discomfort at the idea of that dissolves when you think that maybe your increased time spent with him will absolve you of your debt all the more quickly.

The most baffling part of all of this is that, over those two days, save for a little hot and heavy kissing or teasing, Barnes hadn’t initiated anything more intimate than that. You don’t know if it’s because he was more injured from the explosion than he let on, or what, but it left you with time spent… unpressured. Less performance anxiety, at the very least, followed you through the weekend, lulling you into a state that was… almost, relaxed, in a way.

Truthfully, you’re satisfied with wasting the weekend away with him, refusing to question the moments he’s pulled away by either Sam or Steve for some sort of business not meant for your ears. Still, it’s clear they’re still working through the weekend, and even when one is keeping watch of their boss, the other is doing something. Your guess is on them investigating who was after Bucky, but you have no concrete evidence of what they were truly doing.

It’s just past noon on Sunday that he finds you in his bathroom, shoving your toiletries back into your gym bag, “Going somewhere?”

“Just getting ready to go home,” you say as if it’s obvious. This was already a day longer than you had initially agreed to, and on top of your seriously diminishing wardrobe which currently consisted of another of his stolen t-shirts and your recycled pants, you had other matters to worry about, “I have work in the morning.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says quickly, somehow entertained by your announcement, “so you literally almost get blown up, and you want to go back to work on Monday?”

“Some of us don’t have the luxury to not go to work on Monday, Buck,” you sigh, tugging your bag onto your shoulder once you zip it up. “I’ve got bills to pay legitimately. I can’t just miss work, or they’ll fire me, and I worked hard to get this secretary job.”

“Okay, I hear you,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders as if to calm your insistent tone. Raising one finger between you to pause your thought, he continues, “Hear me out, though. I’m sure they’ll understand if you need a few days off after going through what you did.”

“My boss isn’t the understanding type—”

“I could pull some strings—”

“Oh, really?” raising a brow, you place your hand on your hip in disbelief. “What kind of strings are you going to pull in an elementary school, Bucky. Gonna’ start strong-arming third-graders?”

“I have all kinds of strings I can pull, if you want me to… all you have to do is ask nicely.”

The taste of skepticism on your tongue, you search his amused gaze for an answer, “And what is this going to cost me?”

“Not anything that you can’t make up to me,” he grins, and you’re left chewing the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling reflexively.

“You won’t hurt any of these strings you’re gonna’ pull, right?”

Bucky’s metal hand comes to his chest, as if he’s hurt you’d accuse him of such a thing, “What am I, a common criminal?”

“No, you’re worse,” you step into his teasing with equal strides, in a way that you’ve come to realize is safe to do. The man who was once entirely unreadable to you had somewhat become understandable, at least at times like this, when his smile reached his eyes.

“Ouch,” he calls after you as you slip away from him, following not far behind your stride into the bedroom to search for any of the items you might have missed. He halts your scrutiny with a blatant step into your line of sight, “I still haven’t heard you ask me nicely, doll.”

Testing the water, you dare to be bold— to throw some of this tension he’s wound in you over these past two days back at him.

Slipping close, just a breath away from him, you all but purr, “Do you want me to get on my knees for you first?”

His grin falters, lips parting, and for once you relish in genuinely shocking this man who consistently seemed prepared for anything you could ever do. You even think you see a hint of a blush, before he clears his throat.

“Doll, you can’t go around just saying things like that to me…”

“And here I thought you wanted me to ask you nicely,” you hum, edging closer.

“You’re still a little too bruised up for all that, don’t you think?”

Oh, so that’s what this was about. Some sort of twisted guilt that he had for your injuries? Or… did he not find you as attractive with the healing bruises along your face?

Either option stings your pride, and has you leaning away from him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just wouldn’t want to tear open your stitches.”

Swallowing down the urge to verbalize the insecurities jumbling around in your head for fear of genuinely irking him, you blandly ask, “Will you please help me get off work this week?” If there’s any evidence that your change in tone is deeper than the act of it you put on, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Bucky taps beneath your chin with his index finger gently, “Hey, try to sound at least a little enthusiastic about it.” Forcing a smile, he buys it just enough to allow you out of this conversation, “Let me go make a call, then I’ll get you home.”

You don’t know who he called, but it must have been one hell of a person with pull, because it’s barely eight on Monday morning when you’re woken up from a dead sleep in your own bed by a call from your boss, gushing about how terrible an ordeal you’ve been through. Better yet, you suddenly had enough PTO that your whole week off would be covered.

Thanking your boss as professionally as you could considering the groggy haze you were in, you dissolve back into your empty bed and try not to think about Barnes’ comments on your face. It might sound vapid, but it’s been bothering you ever since he left you at home last night. Sure, he’d taken the chance to kiss you senseless again before he left, but still.

You’d never had a problem being left untouched before now, but nearly every second you spent with him was a constant tease, and after his rejection yesterday, your mind was going down the path of worst-case-scenarios. What if he was starting to find you boring? Unattractive? What if he was getting tired of you entirely? What if that made it harder to pay your debt off? What if— What if—

Distance, that’s exactly what you need right now. Space to clear your head once again from him like you had last time. Everything would be just fine after a couple of days spent alone—

Easier said than done, when he’s calling you right now. You contemplate ignoring the vibrating phone when you see his name there. You could wallow in your own private self-pity a moment longer, if you did.

Just when you’re about to answer, it goes to voicemail, and you’re left relieved that the universe has chosen your fate for you.

Until he starts ringing you again. This time you answer.

“Mmm, Bucky?” you know you sound groggy. You don’t particularly care.

“Doll, did your work call? They’re supposed to let you off—”

“Mhm,” you sigh into the phone, stretching your tired bones and letting out a slight whimper in response. “My boss just did. I’m off the whole week. It’s even paid. Lucky me.”

“Lucky you,” he chuckles low into the phone, and you’re left wondering if he’s still in bed like you are, or is he doing that early-riser thing he seems to favor?

You hate that you know that about him.

“Yeah,” it comes out a sigh again, “thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he sounds so proud of himself. “Feel free to show your appreciation the next time you see me.” How dare he say things like that. He’s nothing but audacity, making your mind race with ideas fed solely by the memories he’s provided you with, only to turn you away like he doesn’t want you anymore.

You dare to ask, if only for a chance at reading his meaning, “And how should I do that, do you think?” He’s silent for longer than it should take to answer you, so you call his name. Had you been disconnected?

“I’m here… uh,” he breathes into the phone, softening his tone even lower as if to keep the conversation private, “I can think of a few ways.” If he didn’t want you, then what’s with that tone?

“Tell me.”

“It can wait until you’re better—”

Rolling your eyes, you huff into the phone, settling your other hand along your stomach, “When I do get better I’m just going to write you a thank-you note and call it a day at this rate.”

The sound of his chuckle settles into your chest, “That’s not quite what I’ve got in mind, doll.”

“Spell it out for me,” you taunt, using his own words against him. “You gotta’ tell me what you want, or you’ll never get it.”

“Now, where have I heard that before?”

“Some tight-lipped jerk told me something like that, once.”

He sighs into the phone, like he’s exasperated with you, but there’s also a hint of something electric there. Some kind of excitement that carries through the phone when he finally gives into your temptation.

“You really want me to tell you, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“This early in the morning?”

“Mhm…”

“I don’t know, I’m a busy man… might not have time to detail everything to you.”

“Bucky, I’m this close to hanging up on you—”

There’s his laughter again, and it cuts right through you like butter. The man was a tease. That’s what he was, and you were falling for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Hold on.”

You groan at the sound of his order, utterly fed up with him, but you don’t dare hang up. Not when the possibility of him spelling out exactly what he wants from you is within your reach. Staring at the ceiling, you lick your lips, and listen to the muffled sounds that you can’t make out on the other end of the line.

His breathing returns, closer this time, “I’m back.”

“And I’m still waiting,” you whine. You can practically taste the anticipation.

Bucky hums into the phone, “I don’t know, I can get pretty creative when I want to be.”

“Give me an example.”

“I’d like to see you on your knees again, just like you offered to.”

You have to bite down to keep from making some silly noise of excitement into the phone, “Oh? Here I thought you didn’t like that.”

“Doll,” it sounds chastising, nearly a growl, “you should know better than that.”

“And when I’m on my knees for you, then what?” your fingertips move along your stomach, southward at the sound of his voice. You don’t care if it’s selfish, the sound of the slight breathlessness in his voice is twisting the knot in your stomach.

“You looked so pretty with my dick down your throat, so I figured we could start there.”

“I wish I could taste you right now,” you confess quietly into the receiver, pushing your fingers beneath the elastic of your sleep shorts when you hear a responsive murmur in return.

“Yeah? I bet you’d take it all, wouldn’t you? You did so well last time,” his voice is getting lower, more raspy, and it’s making you insane as you drag your fingers through your wetness like he had in the past. Shutting your eyes, it’s almost like you can imagine him there with you now.

“You wanna’ get me messy again, huh, Bucky?” your voice hitches as you roll soft circles on your clit. “I’ll be good for you.”

“You’re always good for me,” there’s a groan in his voice. “I want you to beg me to make you cum, doll.” His words have you flushing from head to toe, heat pulsing through you in time with your increasingly hasty fingers between your thighs, and you can’t help the moan you try to muffle against the pillow. “I want to watch when you do. Do you know what seeing you walk around all weekend in my shirts did to me, knowing I couldn’t touch you?”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you worse.”

His words sober you, but only just enough to murmur into the phone, “I’m not that easy to break, Bucky. I would’ve let you have me.”

“I know you would have. You like it, yeah? You like when I touch you?”

You grit your teeth. It shouldn’t be hard to say it. It’s not like it wasn’t entirely obvious by now. It’s not as if you weren’t actively exchanging your fantasies of him with your hand buried between your legs right this instant.

Bucky doesn’t let up, “You’d like me to fuck you right now, wouldn’t you?” A swipe of your thumb puts him on speaker, and then your other hand dives beneath the sheets to join the first. This time, you can’t muffle your whimper.

“You’re touching yourself right now, aren’t you, doll?” the way his endearment for you rolls from his tongue should be illegal. It sounds as close to a purr as you’ve ever heard him, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice at having caught you red-handed. “C’mon, you can tell me.”

“Y-Yes,” you breathe around a whimper, and your lungs nearly close up entirely when you hear the faint sound of a zipper in the background.

“Shoulda’ told me sooner,” he pants, and you know he’s doing it too. “You’re so lucky I’m not in Manhattan right now. You’d really get it for starting without me.”

God, he’s completely melted your brain. That’s the only explanation for the reason his words alone are getting you so worked up.

“I can’t help it,” you turn over onto your stomach, hoisting yourself to your knees until your face is tilted towards the phone from the pillow it rests upon. “I need you so bad right now.”

“I know you do. Fuck your fingers like it’s me,” his breathing is speeding up, and you can’t stop the mewl that escapes you when your fingers dip into your entrance. Stretching yourself in as closely a mimicry of his own ministrations, you’re going mad here by yourself. 

“I want to sit on your lap,” the thoughts spill from you, as you desperately chase the end of this moment with him, relishing in the moans that are spilling from his own lips at this point. “Ride you like that time… when we were on my couch, I wanted it then, too.”

“Doll, ah, fuck,” he trails off.

“And the way your beard feels on my skin— whenever you’re kissing me, I’m only thinking about what you feel like inside me,” this time you’re certain he whimpers. “Bucky, I don’t care who sees—” His breath hitches, a soft moan spilling from his throat before there’s even a chance at biting it back, before he dissolves into heavy breaths, and you can’t help but to ask, “Did you cum? Did I make you cum?” You don’t care how needy you sound, or if he can possibly hear how wet you are as your fingers desperately try to compensate for the lack of him.

His voice sounds utterly wrecked when he finally responds, “Yeah, you did. Fuck’s sake, you’re driving me crazy over here.” He’s closer to the phone now, voice coming in clearer beside your ears, “Tell me you’re close, doll. You go ahead and cum for me.”

You’re near drooling as you whine, “I can’t— I can’t take it—”

“You’ll take it,” he murmurs, and it sounds so low, so dangerously close, that you can nearly imagine him right behind you as he says it. “You’ll take it all. I’ll make sure of it—”

His name breaks in the back of your throat, bit down against a pillow as you try your best not to scream your way through the grind of your fingertips at your clit. You all but collapse with the weakness that settles over you in the immediate aftermath of your orgasm, and by the time the ringing in your ears dulls, you realize he’s coaxing you through it on the phone.

“---did so well. I knew you would. I bet you look amazing right now—”

“Bucky,” it’s nearly a whisper, and that’s all you can do to alleviate the confession in your chest, “I wish you were here.”

His laughter is more breathless this time, and there’s a dark promise that sends arousal seeping through your skin once again when he hums, “Trust me on this, no you don’t.”

There’s no energy left in you to argue with him, “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do that,” he lingers, probably in just as much a stunningly blissful state as you were right now. It clearly takes a second for him to gather his thoughts, “Damn, I’m supposed to go help Steve and Sam with something, but you’ve completely derailed me.”

“This early?”

“It’s the city that never sleeps.”

“Well, the city may not sleep, but I sure do,” you don’t think you’ll be getting up any time soon after that.

“Then, I probably should leave you to it, huh?”

“Mhm… I guess so…”

He sighs into the phone, “You enjoy your time off, okay? I’ll see you in a day or two.”

“Busy, busy, huh?”

“Hmm, yeah. Business and pleasure don’t mix, unfortunately.”

You raise your brow, “Well, sometimes they do…”

You can practically hear the gears in his head turning, until you hear the amusement that accompanies, “Touché.”

“Hang up, Bucky. Steve and Sam are waiting for you.”

“Right… yeah, I probably should. I’ll call you later,” you don’t dare think that he sounds like he wants to linger longer, even if there’s barely a single thought in either one of your heads right now.

“Bye, Bucky,” you sigh, swiping your phone off the bed to hold closer.

“Try to not miss me too much,” he manages, and before you can get the last word, the line goes dead. Groaning, you toss your phone to the other side of the bed. You know you’re playing right into what he wants, but it was starting to become damn enjoyable.

Turns out, “a day or two” was more appropriately described as several days, because when Barnes showed up again, three days had passed. That’s not to say you spent the entirety of those days waiting listlessly by the phone. That time off was spent with you finally doing the things you enjoyed, as well as some errands here and there. Your bruises were starting to yellow, some of your scratches were nearly healed, and the stitches along your forehead were bound to come out any day now. The calls you did happen to receive from him had been shorter than the one on Monday, and less filled with pent-up frustration, but that didn’t mean that by the time you saw him you weren’t wound up.

Barnes shows up out of nowhere, not long after six in the evening, and when you wrench your front door open upon realizing it was him knocking, it takes only a split second to realize he was staring at you like a man starved. You barely have the time to breathe his name past your lips before his hands find your jaw, dragging you up to his lips with a haste that would have had you collapsing, were it not for the long form of him against you.

Walking you back into your apartment, he kicks the door closed with his boot before abandoning one side of your face for the breath it takes for him to fumble blindly behind himself and click turn the lock. The bolt would have to wait, it seemed.

He leaves you lightheaded, as his lips and tongue drag one kiss out into another, one of his hands migrating into your hair only to tug your head back, allowing him the access to your neck he desires. You’re pliable, putty in his hands.

“Bucky,” rips from your lungs, “what—?”

“Doll, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” is all the explanation he supplies before you shiver in his hold, the drag of his lips down your throat just as good as if he’d set you on fire personally. You thought you’d cooled off some with the days spent apart, but just like that you’re consumed with him all over again.

“If you don’t throw together your bag in the next minute, I’m going to take you right here, and if I do that, then Steve’ll be waiting all night in the car, and I know how much you worry about him,” Bucky teases, straightening up just enough to brush his lips against yours before releasing you entirely. For a moment, you stand there staring at him in a daze, trying to process what he’s just said, until he lifts his wrist and begins counting, “One, two—”

“Wait, like an overnight bag? Like last time?” you try to clarify and he smirks.

“Yeah, exactly like last time,” part of you wonders if he’ll keep his word were you to stall him, but at the sound of his pointed, “nine, ten… you better start packing… thirteen, fourteen,” you know he’s entirely serious.

“Gimme a minute—” you squeal before turning on your heel, trying your hardest to remember where all your crap is as fast as you can.

Bucky calls after you, a hint of laughter on his tongue, “You have forty-five seconds.”

You barely make the timer, but you’re certain that you’ve forgotten something important in your haste to meet him back at the door in the nick of time. He drags you back into his arms, kissing you deeply once more, before gesturing you out the door.

“Let’s go. You’ve got a long night ahead of you for that little stunt you pulled on Monday.”

He was right, too, and the worst part was trying your hardest to keep from letting Steve— and then Sam, when he switched out security at eight— from hearing every little cry or whimper that Bucky mercilessly wrenched from you. You’re certain he was working out more than just the pent-up result of your phone sex, because you may as well have been left entirely boneless by the time he was through with you. There had to be more to it than that, and you had a gut feeling it was due to a week’s worth of investigating the bombing with little progress, because if there had been progress, wouldn’t Sam and Steve be off security detail by now?

Bucky doesn’t tell you anything about it, and you don’t ask. You doubt he’d answer even if you did.

Instead, you settle into his side, and content yourself with your simple lot in life… for now.

It’s nearly five in the morning when you’re jolted awake. There’s a pitiful, soft groaning that sounds throughout the bedroom, and it takes you a moment to realize it’s coming from the man beside you.

“Nnn… Rebecca…” has you sitting up, flicking on the dim bedside table lamp to get a better sight of him. “No,” he struggles, slurred and smudged between his lips as he fights through whatever dream— or rather, nightmare— had claimed him. There’s a cold sweat on his brow, and while you’ve seen him in the midst of a nightmare before, this time it’s different.

His whole body is clenched, wrestling with the sheets at random as pained murmurs pass his lips before another, barely audible call of a name, “Becca…”

You reach for him before you think better of it, calling his name as you try to shake him awake, but instead of catching you by your wrist like last time, this time vibranium fingers catch you at your throat. You’re beneath him before you even realize what’s happening. Blinking up, at the confused, wild eyes of the man above you. Struggling to breathe. Choking around his grip.

“It… Bucky—” you barely manage around his closing grip, before the glassy stare in his eyes fades as he blinks down at you, realizing what he was doing. He releases you like he’s been burned, pushing himself off of you nearly as fast as he had pinned you down with a sharp gasp. Trying to catch your breath, you hear his shocked repetitions of an apology, before you manage to push yourself up on the bed.

“I’m sorry— God— Fuck— I’m sorry— I’m sorry—”

You’d gotten too comfortable, too complacent in whatever façade he had shown you over this past week, but that shaking, icy fear that chased up your spine now was as close to the truth of him as you can believe. He reaches for you, and you flinch towards the headboard before you can school your emotions. There’s no burying the terror in your eyes this time.

Bucky all but scrambles away from you until he’s reached the edge of the bed, recoiling from your reaction. Turning to sit his whole body off the edge of it, as if that will give you both the time it takes to compose yourselves.

Your throat is sore, by the time your breathing slows from its desperate wrenching of oxygen through your mouth. The threat to run slips through your addled mind before you manage to calm yourself enough to not shake entirely when you move away from the headboard.

Bucky is still tangled in the sheet, his head in his hands, and he is trembling.

“Bucky,” you try, but there’s a somewhat hoarse edge to your voice, and he tenses at the sound of it. You’re hesitant to touch him again, so you ghost around the edges of his space. “Bucky,” you clear your throat, and that almost fixes your tone. “C’mon, Bucky, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, and with the dark shadow cast over it, you can’t help but think he looks like a fallen angel. A peculiar, foreign brand of terror that you’re entirely unequipped to handle stares back at you, nearly as deep as the pit of regret that, for once, is openly exposed for your perusal. You don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to hide it in this moment, or if he’s completely lost all control of his ability to do so.

His mask is gone, for the moment you ask him, “Are you okay?”

Irritation flashes, then he scoffs, “I hurt you,” with all the venom it takes to push another person away.

Still, you sit there, “You… didn’t mean to… right?”

“Fuck, you aren’t even certain about it,” he shakes his head, and once again his eyes are shielded in his hands. Anger radiates from him, but there’s a hurt, defensive edge to it. Ready to lash out like a cornered animal, when given no other option but to fight their way out.

You’re silent for too long, and when you do finally speak, the wrong question comes tumbling from your clumsy lips, “Who is Rebecca?”

He almost stops breathing entirely, before glancing towards you, “What?”

“Rebecca?” you stupidly blunder onwards, thundering all over the eggshells laid between you when you continue, “You were calling for her in your sleep.”

“She’s no one,” it’s a lie, and for once you hate that you’re able to read him so openly, when all this time you’ve been begging for the ability to do just that.

“I was just—”

“Just drop it!” his voice raises, biting at the person who’s cornered him in. Screaming, “Damn it! Can’t you just mind your own business for once?!”

There’s a specific kind of defeat which washes through you so quickly that it’s somehow faster than the immense regret that swells in his eyes when he dares to look at you again. You fight to keep the tears from welling up, but they’re blurring your vision before you can even escape his bed entirely.

Bucky reaches out as you try to stand, catching you by your forearm, voice heavy with grief, “Wait—” but you snatch away from him, despite knowing that if he had truly wished to keep his grip, he could have done so far easier than you could have broken away from it. He calls your name softly, like a wounded creature would cry out for help, and you try to keep the tears from falling, but they have a mind of their own, and an intent to blaze their way to the floor with one destructive streak along your face.

“No,” you step away from him, from the bed, backing towards the door. Before he can fully evoke whatever words are forming on his parted lips, that traitorous reflex to run creeps into your very soul, and this time you have the good sense to listen to it. Darting down the hallway, you don’t stop at the stairs, or the living room, you don’t tuck yourself into the coat closet, or pause in the small hallway that your feet lead you through.

You don’t stop until you find yourself cornered in the kitchen, choosing to fall to pieces against that beautiful marble-topped counter, sinking to the floor. Knowing you’ll look nothing near as pristine by the time you’re through.

You just need to cool off. To collect yourself. To fit these feelings back into the box they crawled out of, but you can’t possibly do that sitting by his side. You barely can regulate your own emotions, let alone that of one of the most dangerous men in Brooklyn.

The violence, the yelling, the uncanny similarity of the upheaval of that same feeling of walking on eggshells that had followed you most of your childhood— it turned out to be too much, and now you were sobbing your eyes out on this spotless tile floor.

You’re still trying to piece yourself back together— grasp one shred of composure— when the sound of someone approaching takes your breath away. Forces you to reflexively minimize yourself, but hoping whoever it is will move along without noticing you is too much wishful thinking.

“Shit!” Sam jumps like he’s been startled, upon rounding the corner of the island counter, not having expected you there, “What are you doing on the floor?” It takes him all of two seconds to roughly appraise your emotional state, and his voice changes accordingly, kneeling slowly with a hesitant, “Hey, woah, what’s goin’ on?”

“N-Nothing,” you try your best to keep it in. But when Sam reaches a finger out to carefully push away your hair from obstructing his view of your neck, the tears well up all over again.

“What happened?” it’s firmer this time, that same authoritative voice he had used when you were lying in the middle of the street after the car bomb, and all your resolve crumbles under the weight of it.

“I don’t think he meant to,” is your hiccupped excuse, before the whole story gushes from you through the blubbering expression of a hysterical woman. Sam listens, sitting on the floor beside you throughout it.

When you finish, he settles his chin in his hands, and sighs, “Rebecca, huh? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“Who… is she?” you carefully ask, and Sam frowns at the question.

“Don’t know if it’s my place really, but it’s not exactly a secret, either…” rubbing his hands on his sweats, he sighs, “I figure you deserve to know, considering…” Leaning against the cabinets, he explains, “Rebecca was Barnes’ older sister.” Was lingers heavily in the air, but you’re too worried about evening out your breathing to question him on it, “He doesn’t talk about her anymore. At least, I haven’t heard him talk about her in years. Steve says he still visits her grave on her birthday, and during Hanukkah, but other than that… Bucky isn’t really an open book when it comes to things like this.

“Steve knew ‘em both, back before the army. That’s where I wound up meeting them, though. From what I understand of it, they had a hard time as kids, and when she aged out of foster care the army was pretty much her only viable option. Bucky signed up more to keep tabs on her, rather than because he wanted to,” Sam goes on, and you don’t know why it surprises you that Bucky lied… or at least omitted some pretty important details, but it does. “Becca was… well, she was special. She’d do anything for the people she cared about. We were quite a unit back then, the four of us.

“And for a few years it was going good, y’know? The army is different from civilian life, your squad is your family. They’re the ones who keep you alive out there. No one else is going to risk their neck for you like that,” Sam picks at the fuzz on his pants, wetting his lips as he tries to find a way to say the next part. “We were on a mission— we didn’t know it was a suicide mission until after— and getting separated would’ve been no problem if it weren’t for the mines.

“The enemy was ready for us before we even got there, and we didn’t realize we were being used as a distraction by our commander until it was too late,” Sam blinks, avoiding your gaze to stare at the cabinets across from you, as if it’s the only way he can get through the story. “Becca realized before the rest of us that we were being led into a kill box— a place they’re leading you to die. She saved our lives that day, but an IED exploded when Bucky reached for her.”

Sam tries to remain steady, but you hear the quiver in his voice that he tries to fight back, you see the weight of his dark eyes when he fixes you with them, “That grave Barnes goes to, she’s not in it. There wasn’t enough left to even bring home.” Your breath hitches at the terrible dread that sinks through you, “On top of his sister, Bucky lost an arm. Mentally dealing with what goes on over there is hard enough without all that. I’m not surprised he still has nightmares about it… and with that bombing last week, I’m surprised he’s handling it as well as he is.”

Straightening up, Sam makes to stand, “That said, it’s not an excuse for how he handled you tonight. I’m sorry you were caught up in the middle of it.” He offers you a hand to help you up, but you don’t take it. You can’t. You’re not ready.

“I’ll just… stay here a little longer,” you breathe, trying to process everything he said. “If that’s okay?”

“Stay there as long as you like. I’ll go check on Barnes,” when Sam catches your questioning look, he shrugs, “I used to do some counseling to veterans after my time serving.”

You’re left sitting there, sorting through the pieces you knew about the man you had shared a bed with until you have some fractured, kaleidoscope picture settled in your mind. Just when you were starting to think you could possibly know something about him, you find you never knew anything about him at all.

Everything was the façade— it had to be. You have to believe that, in order to do what has to come next.

You didn’t learn by example from Pandora, or even Icarus, because the only thing you’re stuck with now is this box of frayed, torn feelings, longing to burst out of your chest at any moment, and the evidence of his metallic fingertips, burned along the column of your throat. The ultimate destruction of your very being was, perhaps, the fact that you can no longer deny that, good or bad, there were feelings in you for James Barnes.

And those are the last things you need.

Pulling yourself up, catching your footing on the cold kitchen floor, you wish you could leave these collected pieces of yourself there. Abandon them, like a changeling in the night.

The more time you spend in this irritatingly large house, the more claustrophobic you feel. Maybe this house was big enough for him. Maybe, it’s just too small to hold the devastation you construct here together.

Your jacket resides in the coat closet, alongside your shoes, just as before. Your bare necessities of personal effects were stuffed well enough in your pockets, and you sacrifice the rest to him at this very moment. You can’t go back.

It’s dark and dangerous on the streets of New York at night, but no moreso than it was in this brownstone, and you know your way around the city you were born and raised in to find your way home. One glance back, catching the dimly lit, deceptively beautiful sight of this empty palace, which you now realize reflects him perfectly.

A push of your hand to unlock the door, it beeps. The quiet denotation of your exit, and your lingering items on the second floor, are the only evidence that you were ever here.

Running seems to be the only option that was ever worth taking in the first place.

⤜♚⤛

The cold night air whips your long coat around your legs, but there’s no turning back now. Sleep shorts and another stolen t-shirt are all that accompany your coat and sneakers, but you make do with it, and by the time you reach the subway, it hardly matters.

The air does little to clear your head, consumed by the toxic swirl of longing, regret, uncertainty, and fear that follows you all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen. Truthfully, you don’t know how long you have until they realize you’ve gone.

Will Barnes even try to come looking for you, in that vast manor of his? Will Sam think you’re still sitting on the kitchen floor?

The adrenaline is the only thing keeping you warm by the time you finally find yourself on your own street, and you’re intent on abandoning it all. The sympathetic response to run is all that drives you when you turn your key in your lock. Thinking through it requires slower thought than the racing of your mind allows when you push yourself into your dark apartment.

You’re breathing heavy, relishing in the warmth of your home for the split second it takes you to dump your keys on the kitchen counter. The sun’s rising slowly beyond your drawn blinds, and you’re so focused on stripping yourself of your coat that it takes a moment for the eerie feeling of being watched to creep up the back of your neck.

You freeze. Hoping it’s only a lingering fear response from earlier. Peering through the melting darkness. You catch sight of a void in it. The shape of a person.

The urge to scream swells in your lungs. You don’t dare do it. Caught between the choice to turn the light on or not, and praying that it’s some collection of furniture playing tricks on your mind, you round into the kitchen.

Reaching for a knife just in case, you choose.

Light swims in your vision, and you almost scream at the sight of the man sitting in the chair across the room, only for the sound to choke off in your throat when you recognize him.

“Donnie?!” you gasp with all the heightened exhaustion you can muster at seeing your brother for the first time in five years, “What the fuck is wrong with you, sitting in the dark like some psycho?!”

He’s just as you remember, a spitting image of those old photos your mom showed you of your grandpa, if only he had been a degenerate rather than a coal-miner. A grin cuts along his teeth, and you suddenly recognize the dread swirling inside you for what it is— a premonition— because nothing good ever came from Donnie being in your life.

“What? Aren’t you happy to see your big brother?”

[canyouimaginethatstory]

Prom Night (Lucifer X Reader)

AUTHOR NOTE: This is a high school au. It might not seem like a Lucifer x reader but it is.

It was that time of year for high schoolers. Prom season and it was all anyone talked about throughout the halls of Lebanon High. You of course were excited. You had been dating Micheal Shurley for almost your whole senior year. He was the most popular boy in school. You were actually shocked he even noticed you. He was cute. Short blonde hair. Blue eyes. Tall. Had this aura of authority to him. Definitely never expected a boy like him to even notice a girl like you.

  THE DAY YOU AND MICHEAL MET

You were late to the cafeteria. The halls were packed with students. Some you had gotten to know well. Some you had only met a few times. By the water fountain in the main hall stood Dean Winchester. One of the best football players in school. And his girlfriend Jo Harvelle. Sitting on a bench in front of the main office was Dean's brother Sam Winchester. One of the smartest kids in the entire school. And his girlfriend Jessica Moore. She was a cheerleader. There was their best friend Castiel Shurley. Who was also one of Micheal's brothers standing by the auditorium doors. He was probably the most silent of the group. And when he did speak it was when he was confused by something. He was talking to Meg Masters who he claimed was just his friend. She was a rebel. Castiel wasn't fooling anyone though. The way the two flirted and danced around each other. Feelings were there. You hurried into the crowded cafeteria and bumped your way through the herd of students to the lunch line which was shorter than you thought it would be. You grabbed your tray and hurried through the line. You swore you were gonna start packing your lunch soon. As you headed for your usual table which consisted of Dean, Jo, Sam, Jessica, Castiel, Meg, and Charlie Bradbury. She was the super smart techy type. When someone bumped into you hard enough to make you drop your tray. "Watch out!" you yelled at the guy in annoyance.

"What was that cluts?" the boy asked as he started for you like was he was about to get in your face.

"Bart!" Someone called making him stop and turn around. It was Micheal Shurley. Captain of the football team, "what's the problem?" he asked.

"This chick tried to blame me for her clumsiness," he accused as he shot a glare at you.

“Bartholomew, you know that's not true," Micheal pointed out, "I saw it. You knocked into her. You owe her an apology,".

"Fine," the boy you now knew as Bartholomew growled, "sorry," he muttered with an eye roll before storming off. Micheal just shook his head as he looked at you.

"Are you ok?" you asked.

"I'm fine," you said as you looked at your now ruined food on the school floor, "ill be hungry until I can get home,".

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Y/N," you said, "Y/N Y/L/N, we have homeroom and science together,".

"Y/N, why don't you let me share my lunch with you," he said, "if it helps I always get something from somewhere other than school,". You laughed.

"That sounds nice," you said, "thank you,". Micheal's table consisted of Bartholomew, Lilith Demonico the head cheerleader and queen of the school, Rowena Macleod. She was the school editor for all the big things like the newspaper and the yearbook along with the morning announcements, his brother Gabriel Shurley. Lebanon high school's biggest prankster, and then there was his other brother Lucifer Shurley. Who had also been the one you had been crushing since ninth grade. But you know for sure he'd never go for someone who was as goody goody as you.

PRESENT DAY

As you looked yourself over you felt a bit of relief that Micheal had asked you to prom. He had been acting kind of distant lately. You weren't sure why. He was busy a lot. Either with school work, practice, or games. You've really only seen him at school. Or when you would go over to his house. More often than not Micheal would have to leave to do something. Which often left you with his brothers. Usually Lucifer. Which you didn't mind. Lucifer was usually to himself most of the time at school. You hated it for him. Everyone looked at him like he was the worst of the Shurley boys. That was mostly Micheal's doing. All because he didn't kiss up to their father like the rest of them did. But at least you could see past all that. There was a gentleness to the school bad boy.

One that just made your crush on him intensify. You felt guilty of course but you just couldn't help it especially since the time you thought you'd be spending with Micheal always ended up being spent with Lucifer. You watch movies together. Discovering you both loved horror movies. You two play games. You had gotten really good at playing cards. But your favorite part was when you two would just talk. The conversations between the two of you were always so easy. Comfortable. You would catch yourselves flirting. You just couldn't help it. Of course, you never did anything. You weren't a cheater. Just as you made your way downstairs the doorbell rang. Your mom answered and it was Micheal. He was dressed in a nice black and white suit.

"Micheal you look so handsome," your mom greeted.

"Thank you Mrs. Y/L/N," he said, "is Y/N ready?".

"I am," you said grabbing your purse.

"Come on kids I have to get pictures first," your mom insisted. So after about ten pictures you and Micheal were off to the prom. The prom was beautiful. Decorations of the school colors were everywhere and the music was blasting. Dean and Jo were already on the floor. Sam and Jess were talking by the snack table. Meg and Castiel were sitting in the bleachers. You could tell Meg was trying to get Castiel to dance.

"I gotta go do something real quick," Micheal told you, "we'll dance when I get back,". You nodded as he left. You sat there for what seemed like hours just staring out the window. You laughed to yourself as you watched Gabriel and Lucifer goof around as they stood outside for a bit before eventually walking out of sight. You were starting to worry. Micheal still hadn't come back yet. Just as you were about to call his cell phone you looked up into the crowd of dancing students and you froze. There in the middle of the dance floor was Micheal and Lilith. They were kissing as they danced. Anger filled you and stormed over to them.

"Michael!" you called getting his attention. When he turned to face you he was wearing the biggest smirk, "is this the thing you had to do?" you asked as you pointed to Lilith.

"Oh honey, he's been doing me all year, "Lilith said wearing a proud smirk of her own. And that's when it hit you. All the times he would leave you at his house or tell you he couldn't hang out. Wasn't because of practice or schoolwork. He was with Lilith.

"How could you do this?!" you asked. Anger causing your tone to rise.

"Chill Y/N," he said, "we weren't really a couple anyway,".

"What?" you asked confused.

"Bartholomew dared him to see how long he could string you along," Lilith chimed in, "sad really how long you let it go on. You are so simple,". Tears brimmed your eyes as you slapped Micheal and ran off. You kept going until you were standing outside on the school steps. You couldn't hold the tears back anymore so you let them fall. You felt hurt, humiliated, and lied to. How could someone treat another person the way Micheal had you and just not care that they're hurting someone. You were sure the word was going to travel all over the school and you would be the biggest loser. You already felt like it. A while later you were numb. Lost in thought before someone gently called your name. You looked up to see Lucifer standing there. Concern showed in his blue eyes as fresh tears formed in yours.

"Did you know?" you asked. Your voice hoarse from crying.

"No I didn't," he said, "my brother is a cuck. Never cares about anyone but himself and our father,".

"Guess I'm an idiot," you said wiping tears from your cheeks.

"No Y/N," he said, "you're just way out of my brother's league,". Lucifer could hear the music change to a slower melody from inside and he held out his hand, "let's dance,".

"You wanna dance with me?" you asked a little surprised.

"No one else worth dancing with," he said. You gave him a small, thankful smile as you took his hand. He gently wrapped his arms around your waist as you placed your hands on his shoulders and you both began to sway to the muffled tune.

"Y/N?" Lucifer said after a few moments and you looked up at him, "you deserve better than my brother. You know that right?". You sighed.

"I don't know," you admitted, "for a whole year I was tricked into thinking someone loved me,".

"Someone does love you," Lucifer said locking eyes with you, "he just isn't sure you'd give him a chance,". You smiled more.

"Well, I'll need time to process tonight," she said, "but I'm sure if he ever asked me he just might like my answer,". Lucifer softly kissed your forehead.

"I'll wait as long as you need Y/N," he told you, "I've loved you for a while now,". You stopped dancing and looked at him for a moment before pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek.

"You won't have to wait long I promise," you informed him as you rested your head on his shoulder and you both started to dance again, "and I love you too,".

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[velvethopewrites]

This week’s fic offering is a charming AU that places Dean and Cas in the world of Firefly. And woo-boy is it fun!

Operative Word by CMS52990

Summary:

Dean Winchester and the crew of the Impala live on the shadier side of the law, scrounging and scavenging for paychecks that seem fewer and further between. But when a mysterious man who calls himself Castiel offers cash up-front for a one-way trip to an outer planet, Dean and his crew find themselves with a bit more Alliance trouble than they had bargained for. 

Is he really one of the deadly, fabled Operatives of folklore? Why do so many people want to kill him? What the hell is an Angel Tablet and why does he have it? And gorrammit, why can't Dean stop getting distracted by the asshole's eyes?

Featuring Castiel the SuperSpy, Dean the Gallant Captain, Crowley the Badger, Meg the Suicidally, Brilliantly Insane, and Sam, who is, of course, an Abomination.

I would imagine it is quite hard to mix two fandoms together. Especially two that are as distinctive as these. But this author merges the supernatural with the Firefly ‘verse seamlessly and it is quite the enjoyable read! I loved it - there is great characters, fantastic action and just enough da bianhua to let you know where you are.

You have Dean, Captain of the Impala with his rough and tumble crew: Sam, Bobby, Bela, Charlie and Meg. They all get along just as much as you’d suspect. Enter Castiel after they pull off a heist and oh boy, do the games begin. I absolutely cackled at the banter and dialogue in this fic. It’s grounded firmly in the Firefly verse while still being completely Supernatural as well. My favorite is Crowley, of course, especially since Mark Sheppard was on Firefly. It’s a nice little nod to both worlds.

The plot here is very organic and great to unfold - we have visits from Michael and Gabriel, as well as Kevin Tran. We have Castiel learning to feel for the first time in his life and we have Dean falling head over heels for him before he even realizes it. I honestly just ate this story up and it really made me want to dust off my (not really dusty) Firefly discs, so do with that what you will.

I adore Firefly, but you don’t really need to be a fan of it to enjoy this fic - that’s its greatest strength. The world sucks you in, regardless. I love getting into Dean’s motivations and thoughts here - it’s nice to see him work through stuff and also be supported by his kick ass crew. This is definitely a Supernatural story, have no fear. And it’s definitely a Dean and Castiel story.

Here’s one of my favorite exchanges that had me laughing for far too long:

The walk back to the Roadhouse went much slower without mental images of bright blue eyes and soft-looking lips to keep him company.  Dean had to settle for tormenting Sam mercilessly for the eyes he had been making at a pretty blonde medic at the Roadhouse the night before.  “Who knows,” he said, “if you’re lucky, she’ll be there tonight.  Maybe she’ll even braid your hair!”

“Shut up,” Sam grumbled.  “Anyway, you don’t see me teasing you for the eyes you’ve been making at Castiel.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Dean deadpanned.

“‘Oh, Castiel, you’re so strong and interesting, and you fight so gorram good!’” Sam sing-songed in a high-pitched voice.

“That supposed to be me?”

“‘Let’s fly around the ‘verse forever together and have medically impossible babies!’”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m your brother.”

“Asshole brother.”

See? Great dialogue! Love to see it. Brilliant sibling feels, lol.

I give this story Five out of Five Bees for being fantastically written, and for having sexy times that are hot and finally, for being set in the Firefly ‘verse, since I still love it. 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝

May I also link to a short ficlet I wrote this last weekend? For @castideans-pie and their very inviting tags/post. Some day I promise I’ll write a multi-chaptered thing and have it posted on AO3 properly, but until then… have a bit o’fluff by yours truly.

Ficlet fun - Dean whispering to the angel next to him who literally cannot sleep….

omg it’s FAN FICTION FRIDAY

Reblog and promote a fic of yours <3