wvffles

[wvffles]

every single school teacher should get paid $300,000 a year minimum and ICE agents should all die simultaneously in agony. this is my congressional budget plan

[wvffles]

Another beautiful story! Their history was so bittersweet and realistic. Really love how you portrayed their relationship 💙

thank you !! 💙💙 honestly the prompts definitely led the direction I wanted to go with this. I mean with the song, that gif and the red color scheme, how could I not write a romantic, sentimental exes to lovers? :') alex was 10000% responsible for this loll <33

That little warning made me laugh 😂 You did just fine, hun!! Honestly, your writing is amazing! I think I read in your last A/N that you’re new to writing, but to be honest, I see nothing but professionalism here, and I hope you continue providing us with these wonderful fics 🫶

thank you so much !!!😭🥺 i'll be honest i've been in such a slump lately (staring down my wips lmao) but this is literally so encouraging, you made my day fr <3 🫂 and it means a lot coming from you !! 💓 (your writing is amazing)

Not the raccoon from Over the Hedge 🤣🤣

vending machines will forever remind me of RJ 😂😩

Okay, I need to know more about this. What did the pig say to get a screwdriver in his hand? 😂 (And this is one of the reasons your writing is so good – the little details you put in really bring the story together. Chef’s kiss 😘)

😭😭 thank you !!! as for the guy, my hc is he made a sexist "joke" around the wrong (perfect) crowd :D (he kept that attitude as they were helping him and she was actually tempted to sedate him at one point so he’d shut up but yk, rules and stuff 😒)

This so heartbreaking, but I love the realism of it! 😭💙 Because even when you have an abundance of love for each other, real life can be straining on a relationship and if the communication isn’t on the right level, everyday stress can be a nail in the coffin 🥲 But they were both still young back then, and I truly think they can figure this out if they sat down and worked on a solution together that suits them both if they give each other a little grace and understanding ❤️‍🩹

exactly !! sometimes love just isn't enough, no matter how much you want it to be :( and yesss you get it <3 you live and you learn and with age comes wisdom, I believe in them making it work now for sure 🙂‍↕️🫶🏽

Awww! I love the HC you’ve established here that he’s always keeping these little things your readers give him ☺️🫶 (On a side note, I wonder what the voice memos entailed. “Blythe is–, uhm… refusing to stay in his bed and using his loud voice a lot” lmao 🤣)

i'm glad you caught that !! <3 i'm the same way lol, i'm sentimental I love the little things 🥰

and pretty much 😂 they started out simple, like "he looks good, vitals are stable, heartbeat is strong." and gradually got to "he's just as stubborn as you are when it comes to cherry cough syrup, jesus. also they might have to sedate him, he's been yelling for five minutes and is showing no signs of stopping." 🤣

This whole paragraph was so beautiful and so true! Life is short, and you have to hold on to every minute and spend it wisely 🥲

mhm :')🤍

That last line was perfection! I truly hope they can start a new chapter, where they finally grow together instead of apart 🥹🩷

thank you so much !! I was hoping it wasn't too cheesy lol 🫠

I'm glad you enjoyed !! and I appreciate the lovely feedback on both of my silly little stories :')💘

stained ᥫ᭡.

pairing: mark meachum x ex!reader

summary: it's already been a very long day, you're not sure if running into your ex is making it better or worse. (aka it turns out you might not be as over him as you thought)

tags/warnings: countdown season one spoilers, angst, language, hurt/comfort, fluff, exes to possibly lovers, hospital settings, medical talk, mentions of blood and violence, diverges from canon for the sake of plot, author still can't flirt but she's trying || 18+ only ⭑.ᐟ

word count: 2.6k 🥀

⭑.ᐟ notes: and another fic for @zepskies 5k event !! ♥️ this time I got a color prompt, gif check, and song!fic of her choosing for mark <3 (the song was actually new to me, this is what my angsty brain interpreted ❤️‍🩹) thanks for reading !! 🌹

‎♪ now playing; bridges burn — needtobreathe

mark masterlist ✎ᝰ. main masterlist

Despite all the advertisements, your redbull was in fact not giving you wings.

The fifth hour of your shift had you almost chugging an entire can, but it didn’t do much to ease your exhaustion. The blinding white beams on the ceiling certainly weren't helping with the ache behind your eyes either. You understand the logic of course, doesn't mean you have to like it. By now you thought you'd be used to it, spending almost the last decade of your life in buildings with the same nauseating lighting. Guess not.

At this point you're ready to fall face first into your bed and just hibernate, but duty always called.

Speaking of, there was suddenly a commotion at the entrance to the ER, the heavy doors slamming against the walls with a loud thud. You secure a fresh pair of blue gloves on before following after the paramedics and the charge nurse, catching the tail end of what was being described. "Object protruding from the side…major blood loss...federal agent…"

And just like that, your night got longer.

Most people think being an emergency room nurse is difficult, chaotic, stressful — all the blood, the intensity, the unpredictability.

And while they’re not wrong, some days you think the vending machine tries to be the hardest part of your day.

You can work with needles and blood and broken limbs no problem, but somehow you could never get the kit kat bar to fall from the corner of this godforsaken machine. B4. It better drop sooner rather than later before—

“You know I still don’t think hitting the machine’s gonna get you anything, besides a sore hand probably.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere, your frustrated quest for chocolate coming to a halt as you lift your head and look to your left, seeing none other than your ex.

Of course he’d catch you like this. Wrinkled burgundy scrubs, a semi loosened bun, eye bags the only accessory on your face and nearly busting into a vending machine like the damn raccoon from Over The Hedge. Meanwhile he looks like he’s headed to a photo shoot as the freaking model.

Nonetheless, you fully turn towards him and give him the best smile you could despite your fatigue, which honestly wasn't too hard when you were looking at him.

“Mark, hey. I don’t even— how are you? It’s been a while.” You stop in front of him, unsure if you should invade his space, but he doesn’t hesitate pulling you in.

Solid arms bring you flush against him, your own arms wrapping around his middle in a warm embrace. He rubs his hand up and down your back softly and you tuck your face in the crook of his neck, taking a moment to breathe him in as you both sway gently. It feels so comfortable, so safe.

Just the way you remember.

After a moment you pull away, catching the fond smile on his face before he clears his throat. "Yeah, it has. You uh, you look good. You work here?"

You grin slyly. "Nah I'm just practicing for halloween, getting the authentic experience you know? Costume feels better that way. Real stains and all, super hard to get out." He chuckles, playfully poking at your arm. "Very funny smartass, you know what I mean. Thought you were aiming for a different ward."

Your smile remains, but fades the slightest bit. "Yeah, slight change of plans.” He can see there’s more to it, but also notes the tension in your posture since he made the comment, so he doesn’t push any further. You clear your throat as casually as you can. “So what brings you to a hospital, you alright?” Your brows furrow, suddenly remembering where exactly you're running into him.

He decides not to unravel that thread completely, sticking with most of the truth. “Yeah no I’m fine, it’s my boss — he got attacked, was brought in a few hours ago. But the lady at the front desk won’t give us any information.” He sighs with frustration.

You bite your lip, not noticing how the action immediately draws his eyes to it. It was a nervous habit of yours, something you’d do anytime you felt anxious about something that wasn’t fully in your control — he remembers it all too well.

“Yeah that’s Betty, she gets pretty strict with the visitors.” You hum in contemplation. “Let me see what I can dig for you, I just need his name. Meet you back at the lobby for an update?” He resists the urge to hug you again, instead placing a hand on your shoulder — a grateful expression on his face. “Thanks sweetheart. His last name's Blythe.” You nod and smile softly, patting his chest twice before heading towards the doors requiring clearance, trying not to think of his eyes lingering on you as you walk away.

Lucky for him, you weren’t gone long. He darts up as soon as he peeps your figure coming across the corner, about ten minutes later. Amber looks at him, then at you, her eyes full of curiosity.

But there’s no time to question it as you walk up to them — to Mark. “It seems they’ve got him in stable condition. The knife didn’t pierce anything important, just caused a lot of ragged damage and blood loss, which was dealt with. He’s resting now, they should have a formal update for you within the next few hours they’re just monitoring him.”

They all let out sighs of relief, as if they were holding their breaths since the moment they got there. You don't blame them.

Mark thanks you sincerely, but you still notice the tick in his jaw, the way he's discreetly clenching his teeth. It was how he’d get when something was unsettling him, leaving him anxious, restless. So you tell him to give you his phone.

He hands it over with no hesitation, and Finau chuckles under his breath, the rest of the group being a little more subtle with their amusement. You save your number into it before handing it back to him. “You guys go do what you need to, I’ll give you a call with any updates on him, I'm still here for a while.”

He would kiss you right now if he could. It's seriously tempting. You always knew what he needed without him having to even say anything. Like you were in sync. He’s missed that — missed you.

The team thanks you before making their way out to their cars, Finau giving you a brief but warm hug of his own before heading out. Mark lingers behind. “Thank you, for uh, you know. I really appreciate it — appreciate you. And the team totally does too.”

You grin. “Always such a way with words Meachum.” He laughs gently, pulling something out of his jacket and handing it to you.

A kit kat bar.

“I’ll be back in a little while. Try not to break any machines, or more importantly your hand while I’m gone alright? Wouldn't want you to finish your shift as a patient.” He teases, making the smile on your face glow just a bit brighter.

“Copy that. You stay safe out there okay?” You’re still holding on to the hand that's giving you the chocolate, and he brings them both up to his lips, placing a brief kiss onto the back of yours, surprising you both. He did it before he could even think twice about it, a force of habit, that was something he’d always do to reassure you before he'd leave for work.

His cheeks tinge slightly with embarrassment, but despite your soft shock you’re still smiling at him. Deciding to ease his overthinking, you kiss his cheek in return. His shoulders relax (although his cheeks are now blushing furiously) and he laughs lightly. “Yes ma'am.”

There was so much you both wanted to say, but there were things that needed to get done. So for now you part ways, anticipating the next time you meet again.

The rest of your shift went by in an exhausting blur.

A couple of car accident victims, a kid who broke his arm riding a skateboard (or, falling off of one rather), two heart attack victims weirdly enough, and a fight that ended with a screwdriver jammed into a guy's hand (though based on his dickish attitude, you were certain he deserved it).

Despite all the chaos, your mind kept drifting back to Mark.

It had been great with him, an instant connection that transpired through the years. By the third year together, he'd practically been living with you at your cozy apartment. Things didn't start to change until you finished school and started your first year of residency, which was also the first year Mark started working on more important cases in his unit.

Your schedules would constantly separate you. A late night at work for you, an early day for him. An extended operation that kept him away for days, or hours worth of overtime spent at the hospital when you needed to cover. Your conversations became shorter, scarce even. Hardly any dinners spent together anymore, on top of the dates consistently being cancelled. You'd miss each other by the smallest difference, if you even managed to see each other at all.

And you were trying, when you noticed the decline. But it reached a boiling point when he missed your four year anniversary dinner, despite reminding him of the date months in advance, and reminding him again the week of. He promised he'd be there, no matter what.

But you were left sitting in a nice restaurant for hours, watching the staff get increasingly sympathetic. Countless of texts and an embarrassing amount of time later, you made it home. You didn't even bother taking off your makeup, or your beautiful red dress — a deep burgundy color made of the softest velvet material, molding perfectly to your every curve.

You just sat on your couch with a small pint of ice cream, heels long kicked off as you drown your sorrows in some good ol' rocky road, wondering how it got to this point. He didn't get home until almost midnight — the conversation that followed long overdue, but painful all the same.

"What I'm doing is important!"

"Oh and what I'm doing isn't?"

"That's not what I'm saying and you know that."

It was a battle of wills, both of you trying to get the other to see your point of view — to understand where you were coming from. But it wasn't about right and wrong, it was more about being pulled apart.

"Mark, It feels like I'm living with a ghost!"

"That's not fair, you're gone just as much as I am."

"But I'm trying—"

"And I'm not? I don't get to choose when people do bad things."

"Neither do I! But we do have a choice to show up for each other. I can't even remember the last time we had a decent conversation, or shared a dinner — I can't even think of the last time we went on a date. All I'm asking is you take us off the back burner, or else this isn't going to work anymore."

"Maybe it already isn't."

It had been agonizing to hear at the time, but he wasn't necessarily wrong. Neither of you were. You both simply became consumed by your work, leaving little to no room for your relationship. It wasn't malicious, only unfortunate. So you ended up parting ways.

Not due to a lack of love, but lack of time.

And as the years came and went, you could never forget him. The feel of his hands on your skin, the sound of his voice, the comfort of his presence. He'd left a stain on your heart that refused to go away.

Seeing him today was proof of that, it felt like when you'd first met. No worries, no conflicting schedules, no arguments — nothing besides the raw emotion that still seems to linger after all this time apart.

By the end of your shift, you were practically dead on your feet, clocking out after a long seventeen hours. (You had a few call outs to thank for that).

You did check in with Blythe's condition when you could, leaving Mark a few detailed and slightly awkward voice memos throughout the day. Ones he would keep for sure, unbeknownst to you.

After gathering your things, you start making your way to the parking lot outside. You were thinking of stopping by somewhere to pick up some food, but then the dreaded dilemma of sleep or eat came. If you ate first, you'd have to wait a little while before you sleep. But you're so tired. Then again, if you sleep without eating, you're gonna wake up feeling lightheaded, and off for hours.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice Mark was approaching you from slightly up ahead. "Sweetheart, you're gonna hurt yourself thinking that hard." You jump up in surprise, your free hand jumping to your chest to soothe the racing of your heart. "Shit, Mark give a girl a warning would ya?"

He hold his hands up, partly to help steady you as your brief spike of adrenaline starts to wear down and you sway gently on your aching feet for a moment. "Sorry. You alright?"

You hum softly. "Yeah no, all good. Just a bit worn out."

He nods gently. "You gonna be okay to drive? I can give you a ride home, no problem." He doesn't like the idea of you driving home so tired, it's dangerous. Especially with the way LA drivers act like they're on the set of Tokyo Drift all year round.

You bite your lip again, and this time his gaze lingers on your lips long enough for you to notice. So you slip one of your hands into his, gathering the courage to say what you want. At least, you try to. "I don't mean to push or like, assume anything but, I'm just wondering If um, maybe you'd like to stay over for a little bit? If you want to of course I mean we did just run in to each other, and it's not for anything like, suggestive I mean I'm tried anyway and I've just missed your company you know, it's not really a big deal though if you have other things—"

To halt your rambling he brings his hand up to cup your jaw, the words fizzling out on your tongue. And for a moment you both just, look at each other. You admire the soft lines of his face, the slight gleam in his eye, the affection radiating from him.

He regretted the way things had ended for so long — especially after his diagnosis. The harsh realization that time is truly never promised, only borrowed, so you have to make the most of it while you can. He also thinks of the case he's working, of what just happened to his boss, of the threat they're trying to stop. Life's too short.

With that in mind, he brings his other hand up, both hands now gently cradling your face. He looks back and forth between your eyes and your mouth, waiting for you to push back, to say no.

Instead you place your own hands on top of his forearms, a yearning in your eyes no amount of pleading could compare to.

So he closes the gap, bringing you close and molding his lips onto yours. You breathe him in, dropping your bag completely and wrapping your arms around his neck. He presses you against him, holding you steady. All the love, the compassion, the emotions both said and unspoken being poured into the kiss.

Eventually you have to pull back for air, but you don't stray far, leaning your forehead against his and closing your eyes.

You're not sure what's in store for you both, where things from here will lead, but you feel yourselves standing under the light of a few lessons learned.

And with that, maybe a new chapter can be written in an old story.

mark masterlist ✎ᝰ. main masterlist

⭑.ᐟ end notes: girl who's never had a red bull or a genuine romantic experience attempts to write about it, lmao. thanks for reading !! <3

[wvffles]

ahh thank you so much lovely !! 💗:')

Hahaha the “church elders” line got me 😂 Gave me “But Daddy I love Him” vibes lmao!

lollll 😭🤣

Not him purposely forgetting things before the tumor makes him forget things 🥲 The fact he’s keeping all her notes, tho 😭 Can we officially incorporate it in canon that he’s keeping all of her notes in a shoebox under his bed? This is so sweet! 🥹

literally, it's like he's foreshadowing his own fate :'))💔 and my hc for that is, he keeps them stashed in his car <3 (for sure in a little box or bag of sorts) in case he needs a quick pick me up or something during a hard time, idk. he's smitten for sure :p

This moment had me screaming!!! I wanted to turn them into Barbies, just so I can smush their heads together and make them kiss lmao!

lmfaoooo 😭 I don't blame you, he was being a scaredy cat 🙄😩

Honestly, that stalker had some bad luck picking a woman working at the precinct. I loved both men here, but especially Finau was so hilarious. You absolutely nailed him here! 😂👏

mhmm, hopefully he thinks twice about trying that again 🙂‍↔️🤚🏽 and thank you !! <33

Oh! Oh! Oh. He took the assignment after he almost kissed her? I for sure thought when he pulled back that he either already knew about the UC assignment and that’s why he didn’t make a move, or that he already had his diagnosis. But the fact that he practically fled into this assignment to keep distance is insane! He’s so infatuated with her 😭💕

yess exactly !! he had only recently been diagnosed before going uc, and he couldn't face anyyy of those feelings yet :')

Gaaaaah, my heart!! I love that he got her onto the task force because he couldn’t stand the idea of being away from her! Such a sweet ending! This was simply wonderful, lovely!!! 🥹🩷

he needed her with him fr 💕 (and away from Ron ofc) there will be a part two to this! hopefully sometime next week...still unsure of when exactly lol. thank you for reading !! 💖💖

side note; this was such a pleasant surprise!! I know I don't interact much i'm sorry, but you're one of my favorite blogs :') I love your universe/multiverse theme, your text colorings are always sooo pretty and I have a few of your series on my tbr list 😅 have a lovely day !!💞💞

sticky notes ✰

pairing: mark meachum x admin assistant!reader

summary: who knew leaving a bunch of notes around the precinct could save your life someday?

tags/warnings: mild countdown season one spoilers, language, fluff, some angst, hurt/comfort, protective mark, mutual pining, author doesn’t know how to flirt, no use of y/n, set a short time before 1x01 // 18+ only ⭑.ᐟ

word count: 2.6k...this was meant to be short...that's short, right? 😅 (it's the over explainer in me i'm sorry lmao)

song inspo; I could fall in love by Selena

✮.ᐟ notes: another story for @zepskies 5k celebration <3 thanks for letting me join again lovely 💗:) I was given a song!fic prompt for mark 💕

☻ side note; i’m still getting into the writing groove, sorry for any mistakes :’) 🫶🏽

ᯓ☆ masterlist

You were seriously regretting wearing these heels.

Usually they were the most agreeable in your rotation. Smooth black leather with a low pump, stylish enough to match with many of your outfits and comfortable enough to get you through the day — given how hectic they could get.

As an administrative assistant for the precinct, most days had you running around like a chicken with their head cut off. Answering phone calls, scheduling meetings, directing visitors, replying to emails, sending emails — there was always something for you to do.

With a sense of urgency, as Ron the snarky desk sergeant liked to remind you.

But all the stress was made worthwhile when Detective Mark Meachum was transferred into your district.

He noticed you immediately his first day, walking up to your desk with a charming smile on his face and the confidence of someone who owned both park place and the boardwalk in monopoly.

♪ I could lose my heart tonight If you don't turn and walk away ♪

And it was hard fighting off a blushing smile at his flirtations. Suddenly maintaining a professional composure had never been more difficult, but you’d managed somehow.

Rewarding him with nothing more than kind smiles and sincerity, it earned you his trust and affection overtime.

You also became his MVP, assisting him with anything from a simple search to scheduling important meetings — you’d helped him with countless cases as the year went on, only capturing his interest that much more.

After a while, you slowly began flirting back. Just a little harmless banter, nothing scandalous that the church elders needed to be made aware of. And it all began with the initial sticky note incident.

One of your responsibilities was making sure the systems were up to date everyday, and the easiest way to do that was to set them to update when the precinct was empty. Typically, the middle of the night after everyone left. When they got turned off, the system wouldn't be able to automatically update.

Around the start of his second month there, Mark still had the bad habit of turning his computer off at the end of the night for whatever reason. It frustrated you to no end, having to wait hours for it to fully update in the morning and getting a series of condescending reminders in the form of emails from superiors — besides the captain of course. He was always nice to you.

It put you behind schedule, also causing Ron to immediately berate you about it. Being the Captain’s nephew really got to his head most of the time.

So you wrote, Please don't (donut do not) shut your computer down before you go Meachum !! ☻ on a bright pink sticky note and left it on his desk one night. He’s left it on ever since.

From then on you began leaving sticky notes everywhere, reminders since apparently everybody thought it was solely on you to keep this place up and running.

Martha, if you’re not going to finish your tuna please remember to put it back in the fridge, it’s 102 degrees outside ♡

Ted, once again your meeting is at 8am, not 8pm .ᐟ.ᐟ Remember, they won't let you reschedule a third time :/

Captain, your wife dropped off lasagna and it’s in the refrigerator. ✿ (hidden behind jerry’s "fruitcake" — nobody will even go near it don't worry)

Ron stop parking in my spot !!! I have your mom’s number. (¬_¬")

By the third week of this everyone was used to your new habit, and they knew better than to argue with you, even Ron who knew his uncle had a soft spot for you. Though you suppose he ended up with the last laugh after your old beater car finally gave out a few months ago.

Your eye would still twitch when you walked past his car in what was normally your spot.

Mark found your new habit absolutely endearing. He’d even purposely forget certain things just so he’d get a mini reminder. And unbeknownst to you, he kept every single note.

♪ But if I take that chance right now Tomorrow will you want me still? ♪

But as much as you’d love to throw all caution to the wind, you were scared.

People always talked, and you’d heard rumors about the way he’d broken off his last engagement out of the blue a few years ago.

And a guy like that, gorgeous, smart, enchanting — no way he was ever left wanting. Right? He didn’t seem like the type to stay anyway, given what you knew.

Yet you would still let yourself yearn occasionally.

He’d given you a ride home once, a semi rare late night at the office for both of you. The conversation was easy, laughs and playful banter flowing continuously throughout the drive. You guys even ended up grabbing some tacos from the truck around the corner of your apartment, along with a big styrofoam cup of horchata to wash it down with. You had eaten carefully in his beloved Bronco — mindful of the lime juice and sauces, careful not to spinkle salt everywhere — talking and asking each other questions well into the night. Or, early morning you suppose.

What's your favorite color?

Which freeway do you find the most annoying?

What's your favorite coffee? Or tea, if that's more your thing

Did you always want to do what you do now?

It was almost one in the morning when he finally walked you to the metal gate in front of your complex, and for a moment you just stared into each other’s eyes. You could’ve sworn you saw him look down at your lips, could've sworn he had suddenly started to get closer, but he'd abruptly pulled himself back, clearing his throat and wishing you a good night.

Also telling you to text him when you’ve made it inside safely, of course.

You felt like a schoolgirl with a crush that night, a giddy smile plastered on your face as you got ready for bed.

But the next morning he was gone. No text, no note, no explanation. All the captain could tell you is it was some undercover assignment, and you wouldn’t be able to reach him at all.

That was nine months ago, and boy do you wish you could call him right now.

With your car completely out of commission and no time to look for a decent used one, you resorted to the handy dandy Metro systems. A bus to the subway, the dreaded subway, and a few blocks of walking to work. Most days were uneventful, but you always had to keep your guard up regardless. Especially on the Red Line.

You’d seen all kinds of things; urine in the elevators, public nudity, rats on the tracks, people who just wanted to argue with anybody they could antagonize, there was always something.

Unfortunately for you, today you encountered a creep with a staring problem, who had slowly moved from one end of the cab to the end where you were sitting in a one seater. It wasn’t anything too crazy…until he got off at the same stop and conveniently started walking in your direction, a good distance behind you. You had tried to throw him off, crossing the street back and forth a few times, even switching a street or two, but he copied every movement.

So by now you were scurrying as fast as you could to the precinct in these goddamn leather heels.

New rule, if you make it start carrying your heels in your bag and wear regular shoes on public transportation.

Your heart pounded in your chest the longer you rushed, checking behind you every few minutes and seeing the dude walking at a steady pace, still behind you.

You could feel your hands getting clammy, breaths suddenly coming out in shorter pants.

When the building finally comes into view, you notice Finau standing outside talking to someone in a familiar jean jacket. Mark.

You make a bee line straight towards them, borderline running at this point and slamming into him from behind. Your arms wrap around him tightly, still shaking, and he grabs one your quivering hands to turn you around gently, wrapping his arms around you slowly and bringing you to his front. “Well hey there stranger.”

You try to smile as you up at him, but he immediately knows something is wrong, your eyes were shining and you hadn’t stopped trembling. Both he and Finau immediately tense up, becoming more alert. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong sweetheart? I know you couldn’t have missed me this much.” He jokes softly, trying to ease your nerves. The look on your face was breaking his heart, he’s never seen you so spooked.

“Hi, sorry, there’s this guy who’s been following me the past few blocks, since I got off the subway. I’ve changed paths like three times already and he’s still behind me.” You explain, your voice small and cracking slightly. Both men immediately look up, locking eyes with a slightly disheveled, greasy looking man in a dark gray hoodie. He freezes where he’s at once he takes notice of the men next to you, and all it took was Finau taking a step forward for him to scramble and run in the opposite direction, almost tripping over his own feet.

You let out a sigh of relief, your breathing finally returning to normal the longer you stand in Mark's arms. You don't even realize you're still clutching onto his jacket, but Finau does. He smiles softly at the sight. "You alright kiddo?"

You scoff, mindlessly mumbling a low "Finau, you're not that much older." Your brain was still catching up to the fact that you weren’t in danger anymore.

"Still older." He sing songs, and you roll your eyes playfully. Once he had noticed how much Mark's absence was affecting you, he had taken it upon himself to look after you in his absence, a solid bond having been formed by now. You had even gone to dinner with his family a few times, Amina and the girls always so sweet to you, they had even written you a poem once. The girls, not Amina. Though she did give you the cutest messenger bag for christmas, and you've used it every day since.

He shares a look with Mark, nodding at him and humming softly at you. “I’ll see you guys inside.” And after a reassuring pat on your shoulder, he makes his way into the building.

You finally seem to realize you’re still latched on to Mark, so you jump back slightly and begin to smooth out his jacket. “Oh i’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

Mark was fighting a losing battle. Since the day he arrived he was smitten, with your kindness and wit, you had him wrapped around your finger without even knowing it. But given his recent diagnosis, he was hesitant to attempt anything.

♪ So I should keep this to myself And never let you know ♪

He already felt guilty enough for getting this close to you, this attached.

So when they offered him an undercover assignment the morning after he almost kissed you, he took it. Figured the distance would do you both good, but it really did only make his heart grow fonder.

He smiles softly at you now, taking your fussing hands from his chest and bringing them into his own. “I should be asking you that. You okay? No twisted ankles or anything?”

The solid warmth of his hands felt like chamomile tea, soothing your nerves with every brush of this thumb on your skin.

“I’m okay, only a little shaken. Just another day on the red line, right?” You joke weakly. His brows furrow, a confused frown making it’s way onto his beautiful face. “Since when do you take the metro?”

That question felt like a cold splash of water, the reminder of his absence hitting you full force. You hesitantly bring your hands back to yourself, picking on a small thread at the end of your sleeve to busy them instead. “About three months after you left, my car gave out. Had to call it wraps after the mechanic said it was a transmission issue, of all the things.” You mumble, exasperation coating almost every word.

He looks down for a moment, before taking a step forward. He then looks at you with a bashful expression. “I’m really sorry about that. I don’t have any excuses, I should’ve told you I was leavin’.”

You glance down at your twiddling hands, looking up after a beat. “Well, why didn’t you?” Your voice felt small. You were hesitant to even ask, it wasn’t like he owed you anything. Hell, he could have a whole other fiancé for all you knew. You were starting to regret the question, looking for a way to start backtracking before he places his hands on the sides of your arms to calm your spiraling thoughts.

"You would've made it impossible to leave."

Such a simple statement, but it could mean so many things. You just stare up at him, looking straight into pretty green eyes burnished with remorse.

But before you could analyze it further, a voice called out to you both. "Cap wants the three of us in his office, for some reason."

Mark nods at Finau, then turning to look at you for another moment. "Pin for later?" A slight office supply pun, even now.

You nod, smiling slightly. "Pinned."

You all make your way towards the captain's office, where he ushers you inside and tells you you're all being temporarily transferred to a special task force, specifics unknown to him.

You ask him if he's sure he's meant to include you and he sighs ruefully. "Yes, unfortunately you too sticky notes. Somehow this agent got intel of your organization skills and efficiency, needs you on the team a-s-a-p." He side eyes Mark for a second, before turning back to you with a lamentful smile. "Not sure how we'll manage, but I suppose you'll find out in a couple weeks or so. Hopefully less."

You exit his office in a slight daze, going to your desk to gather some belongings and anything you needed. You then meet Mark outside, where he's waiting to give you a ride. Finau would meet you both over at the federal building, taking his own ride.

Once inside, you turn to him before he can start the car. "Did you...say something? To this, agent guy? About me?"

He pretends to think for a moment, fighting off a smile. "I may have mentioned a way for him to keep this operation a bit more organized."

"Mark!"

He turns the car on, a cheeky smirk creeping on to his face. He takes a hand of yours into his, bringing it up and pressing a gentle peck to the back of it. "Couldn't leave you behind this time, sorry."

You start to smile, melting at his words.

"Also you've had to deal with Raggedy Ron on your own for the amount of time it takes a baby to be fucking born so, I got a lot of making up to do, starting with getting you away from him."

You burst into laughter, the sound making his own heart flutter softly.

You don't know what to expect (on multiple fronts) and you were slightly anxious, but you decided after spending so much time apart, you were just happy to be near Mark and his comforting presence again. And he decided he just wants as much time with you as he can get.

So with the windows rolled down and your spirits much better than they were when the morning started, you both make your way towards a brand new day in his little gray bronco.

Together.

♪ But I could fall in love ♪

✮.ᐟ end notes: slightly based on personal experiences with the metro like when I was around twelve and there was a topless lady on the red line arguing with a guy in a clown costume, lmao. anywho, thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed !!! <3

[wvffles]

damn i wish u guys could read this fic i haven't written and this fic i haven't finished writing and this fic i'm putting off outlining and this fic i outlined but haven't started and this fic i'll never write and this other fic i haven't written and this fic that exists only in vague impressions in my head that fall apart every time i try to commit them to the page and th

[wvffles]

this is so sweeet 🥺♥️♥️

Your pale gold wedding bands flashed under the bright overhead lights, a match to the thicker band on your husband’s left hand while he tested the heft and solidity of the Baby Trend Lil’ Sleeper Deluxe.

they’re married awwww 😭

oh i’ve missed these two <3 i’m so glad they’re getting some peace after everything they’ve gone through, both before they met and after ❤️‍🩹

while I don’t have kids myself, I do have nephews and yeah the baby shopping is something else for sure, it’s sweet she called in reinforcements I don’t blame her at all lolll 🤣

“Oh, God,” you laughed. “Babe, you know it’s going to be at least seven to eight years before our son’s ready for a mini dirt bike.”

and they’re having a boyyy, a mini beau 😭 emily’s probably super excited for her baby brother :’)

this was such a soft glimpse into their life after TMH, a really tender addition to their story 🤍

Sleeper Deluxe

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Reader 

Summary: You and Beau face a daunting aspect of pre-parenthood. 

AN: Surprise! Here’s another little drabble for the Take Me Home series, set a few years or so after Echoes (but with a cheeky nod back to A Crime of Passion). This time, we’re in for some fluff. And this also fulfills a Round 2 @jacklesversebingo square!

JVB Prompt: Too Many Beds

Posted on Patreon: 7/11/2025

Word Count: 900

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, and nothing but the fluff.

Catch up on TMH: ⤵️

❤️ Take Me Home Masterlist

You actually gasped when you stepped off the escalator. Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero” played on the overhead speakers for the second time in fifteen minutes, but that wasn’t why you were gaping.

Beau stopped short behind you as well. He blinked a few quick blinks, then his eyes widened at the sheer enormity of the inventory.

“Aw, ssshit,” fell from his lips before he could reign it in, earning him a sour look from a young mother and her two-year-old passing by with a huge, Home Depot-sized cart.

This Super Target truly was, well, super. It boasted a section for children that spanned an entire wing of the store, including several rows upon rows of baby bassinets. Beau’s hand came to rest at the small of your back. You rubbed your seven-month pregnant belly, already feeling a cramp coming on from the stormtrooper’s little tap dance inside.

“That it. I’m not gonna make it. Just roll me back to the checkout counter, or better yet, save yourself,” you dryly quipped.

Beau shot you an amused look. “Now, don’t think you’re getting out of this that easily. Where’s the kid gonna sleep? On the floor?”

“We’ll just create a nice nest of blankets for him, like a baby bird,” you joked. “Besides, knowing your son, he’s just going to break it with his baby Hulk-like strength. Unless we find a crib made out of titanium.”

Beau scoffed at you incredulously. “Are you ever gonna let me live that down?”

“You broke our bed, babe. Be proud of your accomplishments,” you said with a smirk.

The man pouted, but by the smirk threatening to break through, you both knew he was all too proud of that particular crime of passion. You snickered and leaned into his side. He couldn’t help but chuckle too, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

You and Beau ventured into the first aisle of baby beds cautiously. You pushed the cart for stability, even with Beau’s supportive hand. Your pale gold wedding bands flashed under the bright overhead lights, a match to the thicker band on your husband’s left hand while he tested the heft and solidity of the Baby Trend Lil’ Sleeper Deluxe. It looked entirely different from the Shooting Star Rocking Bassinet (with airflow mesh).

What the hell happened to plain solid wood and a nice soft cushion inside? he thought. Come to think of it, Emily’s bassinet had come inherited from one of Carla’s aunts. Now, his little girl was off to college. Beau would’ve been an empty nester, if you hadn’t graced him with a “round two” into fatherhood. Truth be told, he was a little daunted, but mostly excited to start this adventure with you.

“I don’t think I like gray,” you said, contemplating the Sleeper Deluxe.

“If it’s just the color you’re hung up on, then this should be easy,” Beau mused.

“Oh, a bedside sleeper! I’ve heard of this,” you said, quickly moving over to the white on the other side of the aisle. You glanced at the price—Jesus Christ—but your gaze scrolled down to the product description.

The Suteck Baby Bassinet offers a safe, cozy, and versatile sleeping solution for your newborn. With a sturdy steel-alloy frame, soft microfiber fabric, and a spacious high-density foam mattress, it provides comfort and support for infants up to 33 lbs. The 3-in-1 design allows it to function as a side-down bed, bedside sleeper, or stand-alone crib, with seven adjustable heights and an anti-reflux angle for added convenience…

Dear Lord, this thing went on for a whole other page. 3-in-1? Did that make it better than the other “1-in-1” models?

Then you saw another one that said 4-in-1. How many parts were there to a baby bed?

“I’m getting a headache,” you muttered.

“We’re only on the first aisle, sweetheart,” Beau pointed out, rather unhelpfully.

You heaved a sigh. “Okay, hold on.”

You fished out your cell phone from your purse and caved, calling the one person you said you wouldn’t need to call. The line rang only twice before it picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom. What kind of bassinet did you say to get again?”

“Ha! I told you so. Ain’t that easy, is it?”

You rolled your eyes and sent a long-suffering look to your husband. He just grinned and stroked your back, waiting for your mom to give you the answer. He didn’t mind. It would probably save you two a whole afternoon wandering through this damn Target.

“Ooh, hey, look at those!” he said, pointing over in excitement at some shiny, colorful toys.

You paused in your conversation with your mother and looked over. You smiled and shook your head. Your big man child was at it again.

“Oh, God,” you laughed. “Babe, you know it’s going to be at least seven to eight years before our son’s ready for a mini dirt bike.”

“Aw, come on,” Beau said. He grabbed the handlebars and pretended to rev the engine, making exaggerated vroom vroom sounds and everything.

“See, it’s even green. Goes along with your whole color wheel,” he added, swiping his hand in a wax off, Karate Kid motion.

You snorted. “Okay, we’ll pin that discussion for a later date. Let’s just focus on where he’s going to sleep, first.”

Beau conceded your point with a shrug and sigh. He rejoined your side and helped you push the cart down the aisle, but he still eyed the mini dirt bike over his shoulder.

I’ll be back for you, he thought. Don’t you worry.

AN: I've missed these two. 🥰 Maybe I'll go back and do a "fill in the blank" one-shot to see how these two made it to the altar lol.

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[wvffles]

ahh what an exciting notification !! 💙💙

the angstttt 🥺 oh my heart was aching for sure. from his time in solitary, to her icing him out like that and feeling scared? I felt so bad for them both 😩 (that damn warden -.- )

I like her sister, she’s funny 🤣 and i’m glad she spoke some clarity into her !! it really is all just a misunderstandingg 🥹

excited to see what’s next for them !! <333

You Think I Don't Want To Run To You?

Pairing: Mark Meachum x f!reader, Mark Meachum POV, Reader POV.

Summary: Mark finally gets to see you again, but it doesn't go quite the way he thought it would. This is the third fic in my Jailhouse Rock Series!

Tropes: Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Angst, Mutual Pining.

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: Mentions of Sex/ Sexual Innuendo, Mentions of Blood and Prison Fights, Cursing, Angst, um ANGST, Pain, Reader's sister saying everything that we all know, Reader trying not to be in love with a hot man in prison? Mark might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Mark, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Listen While You Read 🚨: Rewrite the Stars title of this fic taken from this song.

Jailhouse Rock Playlist 🚨

Main Masterlist

Jailhouse Rock Masterlist

A/N: Thank you so much everyone for all the love and support! So sorry that this chapter took me a little longer, but I will say that the angst does not disappoint.

Mark POV

The chains on Mark's hands jingled with each step he took down the concrete hallway, the dismal gray broken up by a flash of blue whenever a prisoner moved to the bars of their cell to shout something at his retreating figure. The curses and taunts rolled off his back with the smooth movement of his shoulders, each motion making the scratchy fabric of his prison uniform to rub and pull at the nape of his neck.  But Mark wasn't bothered.

Well, he wasn't bothered by their jeers. Sometimes it wasn't so much the sounds of the inmates as much as it was the smells. The lovely smells that seeped through the cracks in the cinderblock, the iron bars , and curdled outside in the heat of the mid-day sun. Thick and oppressive.

Fog dragging itself over the bay before the sun rose to paint the world in rays of golden light. The cloying feel of an eccentric aunt who enveloped you in a sweaty hug. A wool sweater in the middle of a sweltering summer.

Mark had spent his life in locker rooms.

In Middle School where the offensive smell of axe body spray wafted up in a cloud so thick it burned his eyes. In High School when he was more focused on finding his way into the girls locker room while trying to avoid the snap of a towel from Ernie Suggs, the quarterback that rode Mark's ass like he was a prized pony. When he was an Army Ranger and he spent those few free moments before deployment to clear his mind and ground himself and then after deployment to breathe a little easier with the people who were left. And of course his time on the force, snapping his own towel at a few of the cock-eyed rookies.

But none of that prepared him for this.

The smell reminded him of when he was in first grade and his mother took him to a traveling petting zoo that must have gotten lost in his hometown rather than planned a trip. Unfortunately, it had rained and Mark could still remember the moldy stench of barn animals to this day.

The inmates at Palmdale were given three 10-15 minute showers a week, but Mark knew for a fact several of the inmates refused the opportunity. His 'friend' Chen had stopped the week after he got brought in, told Mark that a few minutes under a spray of water wasn't worth his life, not when there were more than enough dangers that lurked at Palmdale.

Personally, Mark thought that standing in a cold or hot shower was worth his life, besides he didn't want to smell like a wet miniature pony all day like the rest of the inmates, not when he got to see you. Sure, he wanted you to think about him the rest of the day, but not be thinking about how he smelled. If he'd met you outside these walls he'd want you to remember the woodsy, but spicy scent of his shampoo at least the same way that he thought about the citrus and floral smell that wafted over him whenever you stood close to him.

He is grateful that he had those few moments with you when he didn't have to smell the inmates anymore. He was also grateful that you didn't smell like vanilla, that would have brought back the same slew of painful memories that he hid in the dark recesses of his mind. Shades in the mist of another woman, one who he still couldn't quite shake.

It had been two days since the prison yard fight and Mark was eager to see you again. He hadn't needed to see you after, not when the only thing that hurt were his knuckles where he split the thin skin  on the other inmate's face.

Mark had spent the past two days in solitary, but it was worth it, because not only had he gotten to lay Luis out, he'd done so much damage that the other inmate had to be taken to a hospital because his injuries were deemed "too severe" for the limited supplies that they had at the prison. And it meant that Luis wouldn't get time with you-

Mark felt his jaw clench down together when he remembered what Luis had said about you, could see the goon-like grin on his face before Mark had tackled him. But just as the anger came, self satisfaction slowly ebbed it away, because Mark would have sat in solitary for a hundred nights for knocking that ridiculous smirk off Luis' face if it meant that he kept Luis the hell away from you.

Of course sitting there did little to shut his mind off, something that he'd hoped that working undercover would help. Instead all it did was allow the thoughts he'd worked so hard to shut out come creeping back in. The sick spiral of images, memories, and things that the adrenaline kept out, came back in the still silence of his cell.

The Tumor.

Melinda.

Rachel.

His Family.

Like a fucked up broken record on repeat all day and night for two days, Mark spun around the deck with the memories of the past screeching along. He was eager to lose himself in the grunts, whispers, and death threats of his fellow inmates. Anything was better than what lurked in the silence.

But somewhere in all of it there were brief moments of reprieve. Mark didn't know how or when or even why, but in those moments where his brain didn't cycle through the freakshow that was his fucked up life, he'd see you.

Feel the gentle dab of a soft cloth against his skin, smell the mist of your perfume, see your bright smile, and hear the soothing cadence of your voice.

The sun finally breaking on the horizon to chase the darkness away, spreading it's light through the arching branches of well worn trees, and sending warmth over Mark's body.

It reminded him of the sunrises he used to watch in the back of his father's pick up in the summer, while the wind whipped though his hair and sent the dust scuttling over the dry cracked earth. Something that reminded him of the good things from home he remembered to block out the bad.

The sharp buzz of the alarm above the door in front of him rings, coupled with the brilliant flash of crimson light, and the guard behind shoves Mark forward into the free space. He was on his way to see you, and Mark was more than eager to comply with whatever the idiot prodding him with his plastic baton like a horny teenager wanted, if it meant getting to you faster.

Mark was still worried.

He didn't know what the Warden had said to you, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Not when it was the first time that Mark had seen you look anything less than happy. He'd lost you in the crowd when the guards pulled him off Luis and shoved him down in the dirt, but he couldn't shake the memory of the  look on your face, couldn't forget the way you cowered back against the fence with the Warden standing over you like a predator cornering it's prey.

Mark saw the glass windowed door of the clinic ahead of him and sent up a little prayer to someone, anyone, that it was you today and not the duct-taped Nike buffoon who never seemed to know what he was doing and usually did more harm than good.

He doesn't see you immediately when the Guard shoves him through the door. Mark's green eyes trace the desk covered in papers, the small cup of pens perched on the corner, and the book folded open with it's pages fanning out against the metal desk-top. It reminded him to bring up The Sun Also Rises. He'd finally cracked it open when sleep wouldn't come and found that it was an interesting read. Plus, if it meant finding something else to talk to you about for the few fleeting moments he was in the infirmary then so be it.

But Mark still doesn't see you.

An uncomfortable feeling tugs in the pit of his stomach, disappointment beginning to settle over him as he prepared to face Dr. Duct Tape.

Sometimes Mark thought it was amusing that the only problem he had about being in prison was not with the inmates but rather with the guy who probably went to clown college to earn his M.D.

"Where the hell is she? I have better things to do than sit here and babysit." The guard behind Mark mutters.

Mark takes a seat on bed, the paper beneath him crinkling with the movement of his body when he gets comfortable. "You got somewhere else to be? Some foot fetish convention or something?"

"Watch it Walker." The guard growls. "Or I'll give the doc another few things to patch up today."

The door behind him opens before Mark can make another snide remark, and he sees you. He isn't prepared for the wave of relief he feels at your appearance, the past two days in solitary fading away, replaced with the image of you.

But today you look different… Your hair isn't as glossy as it usually is, the dark circles under your eyes are deeper, and there's an odd way you're carrying yourself, shoulders raised a little higher, almost… defensive.

He flashes a signature smirk, thinking that maybe you've had a rough morning and he can be just what you need to cheer you up. "What's up Doc?"

It wasn’t the first time that he'd quoted the world famous bunny, the same question had earned him a soft snort and a small smile that quirked on the end of your lips more times than he could count, but not today.

You barely acknowledge his presence, in fact, your eyes remain on the clipboard raised in front of you like a shield. "You're here for stitch removal?"

Although it is a question, it comes across like a statement of fact.

Mark feels his smirk slip into a frown.

You cross the room, eyes trained on the clipboard not once looking up at him, and Mark suddenly feels as if a bucket of cold water has been dumped over his head. He'd never seen you like this before, not cold, never emotionless, but here you were actively avoiding his gaze each time he tried to catch your eye.

"I don't know, kinda think chicks dig the Frankenstein look." Mark says hesitantly to test the waters, but you don't laugh, don't even smile or acknowledge that you heard his joke.

He watches you pull the supplies from the cabinet, each movement mechanical, your shoulders still tensed. He doesn’t understand why you're acting this way, not when you always had a smile for him and not when each time you saw him you seemed to see through who he was, as if you knew the truth about why he was here, as if it was your little secret that you shared with him. A sinking feeling begins to move it's way through his chest, as if he's being dragged underwater.

For you to go completely cold like this was, well, Mark didn't like the feeling that had begun to twist in his gut, something that felt remarkably like disappointment and a little bit like a certain emotion he hadn't felt since everything exploded with Melinda.

It only confirmed the thing he'd known from day one, that he was in too deep with you.

But right now he doesn't care.

Why is she acting like this?

He thinks to himself as you move closer to him, not raising your gaze from the supplies in your hand before you put them on the table.

You still don’t meet his eye when you begin to gently probe along the wound you sutured a few days ago, actively focusing on the long cut that goes through his left eye.

"So what socks today?" Mark tries again. He watches the end of your lips twitch, brow furrowed as you continue to check for signs of infection.

"They're purple."

You don't offer him anything else, no fun anecdote about where you got them or who got them for you, nothing to prolong the conversation.

Mark's frown deepens and he shifts awkwardly, paper rustling once again beneath him. As soon as he moves, you flinch subconsciously.

His body goes cold. You'd never done that before, not ever, in fact now that Mark is thinking about it, you're standing further away from him, not as close as you were the other day. Your stance is defensive, standing on the balls of your feet as if prepared to run.

What's going on?

 "Um-" He clears his throat, eyes flicking to the guard who is flipping through an old issue of People Magazine bedside and not paying attention.

Mark whispers your name.

He didn't use it often, once or twice maybe, never felt the need to, but right now he needed to, because he's worried.

Your eyes flick to his for the first time since he came into the clinic, holding his gaze for a few moments, eyebrows pulled up in surprise, and something skitters across your irises, something that looks surprisingly like fear.

Mark was familiar with that emotion, had seen it countless times on the job, countless times reflected in the eyes of his comrades in the middle of a firefight, hell, he'd even seen it reflected in his own eyes those few times he stood in front of the mirror, fingers pressed against his temples to soothe the headache that never quite went away. But never from you, not when you were with him. If anything Mark often noticed how relaxed you were around him, open, softer. But not today.

Why is she afraid of me?

The thought makes something tighten in his chest, makes him feel like he can't breathe. Mark's mind goes back to how you looked with the Warden, and he again wonders what the Warden said to you.

Was it because of the Warden or because she saw me beat in Luis' face?

It was a good question and Mark couldn't exactly tell you that he did that for you, because that would mean that he would have to tell you what Luis said to warrant Mark to turn his face into mince meat, and like hell he was gonna do that. Though, now Mark wanted to also tan the Warden's hide for whatever the fuck he'd said to you about him.

"Are you okay?" Mark asks you quietly.

You blink at him, once, twice, lips pressed into a tight line. You nod once.

Mark doesn't buy it for a second.

"This might sting." You say, hand trembling as you hold up a cloth with antiseptic preparing to clean the wound and remove the sutures.

Sure it might… but it doesn't compare to the ugly feeling that swirls in the pit of Mark's stomach the longer he sits there in the silence, the only sound the ruffle of pages from the magazine, and the feeling of your hands gently touching him. But instead of bringing the usual warmth and comfort, all it does is make the cold soak further into his bones and the uncomfortable emotion in the pit of his stomach drag him deeper under the waves.

And it's enough to make Mark wish that he'd spent the afternoon with the Nike-clad idiot rather than see the slight tremor in your hand, and the fear that flashes in your eyes whenever Mark looks at you.

Reader POV

"So I told her, ‘ma’am it doesn’t matter how many pictures you bring me of Zendaya, I'm a hairdresser, not a miracle worker.  If I figured out how make people look like Zendaya I wouldn't still be working in this shit-show, I’d at least have my own salon.” Your sister, Jackie, says with a roll of her eyes. “Then she yelled at me for five minutes about sensitivity and had to sit in awkward silence for the next twenty minutes because I wasn't done with her hair." She lets out a long sigh, resting one hand on her pregnant belly. "It's women like that, who make me really miss drinking."

"You do realize that in medical school the teachers all tried to haze us out of being doctors and told us to do something less stressful like being a hairdresser right?" You reply raising an eyebrow.

"They lied to you.”

"Figures."

You’d gone over to her large home just outside of L.A to watch the next episode of the Circle on Netflix while binge eating your sister's award winning blue ribbon Lasagna.

She'd gotten the cooking gene while you had been unlucky to receive the "burns even water" gene. Basically that meant that the one meal a week you had at her house was the only food that didn’t come out of a Styrofoam container. The good news was that your sister was teaching you how to cook, the bad news was that she still wouldn't let you anywhere near the stove or the oven without supervision like you were five years old with sticky fingers.

You set a dishtowel on fire one time and it's like you can't be trusted. She's got a memory like an elephant.

But despite the incredible meal she made, and the welcome drama from the show blasting on the tv, it still wasn't helping distract you from what had happened earlier with Walker in the clinic. The awkward silence, the way each time he tried to start a conversation you shut him down, and the feeling of his eyes on you with an emotion that looked surprisingly like worry flickering behind his familiar green eyes.

An uncomfortable feeling squeezes around your heart in a vice, and you take another long sip of wine.

For two days you had tossed and turned in bed unable to sleep and unable to stop thinking about what happened with Walker and what the Warden said to you while your counterpart, Zack, worked at the prison.

You’d tried all the usual things to distract yourself: reorganized your drawers, made a pilgrimage to your favorite used bookstore Inky's Inspirations, went to a series of thrift stores and bought clothes that probably couldn't fit in your closet, and when none of that had worked you had actually picked up a phone call from your mother and let her talk your ear off.

She was still harping on the fact that you were single and working at the prison, which didn’t help anything, and when you didn't give her the answers you wanted, she then tried to pump you for information about your dad. They'd divorced the year you got into medical school, but your father didn't use social media and the only connection your mother had to finding out what he was doing so she could judge him even further was through your sister and you.

But nothing helped clear the image of Walker beating the other inmate within an inch of his life. The way his green eyes went completely black, the way the spray of blood followed the arch of his fist- it haunted you. It was so different than the Walker you saw in the infirmary whenever he came to visit you. And all it did was make what the Warden said to you seem true.

"He doesn't give a shit about you, none of the prisoners do. It might be all smiles and jokes now, but the second the status quo changes, the exact moment there aren't any guards looking, and no one to stop him, well- I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream."

The words echoed through your head for two days, coupled with the images of the look on Walker's face when he beat the other inmate and it scared you. You were scared of Walker and being in the infirmary today with him hadn't helped. You’d seen his easy smile, heard the usual jokes, and all it did was solidify the idea in your head that Walker was playing you, was doing what he needed to get you on his side and then-

A cold feeling travels down the length of your spine when you think about what the Warden insinuated.

Your sister leans back against the couch, sipping at her seltzer as she watches you, eyes narrowed slightly. "Okay, what is up with you?"

"Huh?" You say looking up from her foot where it sits on your knee, a bottle of rum raisin nail polish in your hand

"You've painted that toe three times in the past minute, you've barely said a peep all night, you only had one plate of lasagna, and when Henry was trying to tell you about his day at school you started to look like dad whenever mom comes up in conversation."

"That's a low blow." You point the nail brush at her in accusation.

"Come on!" She kicks you with her unpainted foot. "Spit it out."

"I-" You sigh. "I had a meeting with the Warden the other day."

Jackie rolls her eyes and lets out an even heavier sigh. "Ugh, what did that douche canoe want?"

"He- he told me that I was giving the inmates too much leash and that I shouldn't be so nice to them when they don't care about me. That they're manipulating me and if the roles were reversed the inmates wouldn't hesitate to-" You trail off.

It wasn't hard to imagine what the Warden had been implying. You'd read the files on every single inmate you'd ever patched up, and it wasn't that you were naïve, it was that you wanted to assume the best of everyone. Because yes they were in Palmdale, but people could make mistakes, and judging them for their past actions seemed wrong, especially if they wanted to change.

Like Walker.

A little voice at the back of your mind whispers, the same little voice that you tried to block out because you knew that you had feelings for him and you were trying your best to bury them deep own where they would never see the light of day. 

"I swear that guy has been nothing, but trouble since you started working there." Jackie gives you a sympathetic look. "I hope that you didn't actually listen to him."

"Not at first." You put down the nail polish to grab your wine glass, swirling it once to watch the red liquid move in a fluid wave round and round. It made you think of the drain your love life seemed to be circling at the moment.

HA. What love life? The imaginary one that you made up in your head with Walker? Or the one that you made up in your head from the current morally gray character of the week from the book you were tearing through?

Your mother had emailed you ten online dating profiles within the past two days in an email that only contained the words 'Please try.' None of them had any appeal... the only man who held any appeal was currently doing time at Palmdale. A man with a nice smile, cute dimples, gorgeous green eyes and-

This is not helping anything.

"But?" Jackie presses.

You grab the nail polish again, moving the brush up and down to get more polish on it. "But then I saw Walker beat the shit out of another inmate in the yard and it scared me."

"He what!?" Your sister squeals, hitting you with the pillow she had at her side.

"Ow! What's wrong with you?" You hold up your free hand to block her next attack, trying not to spill nail polish all over her baby blue couch.

"You let me talk about my boring day and you saw Walker beat up someone!?"

"Yes?"

"Next time lead with that!"

"But it scared me-"

"Scared you? Why?" She looks confused.

"It was-" A flash of Walker's dark eyes flickers over your mind once more, bringing a wave of anxiety in it's wake. "I mean, he can flip the switch so quickly. It was like seeing the dark side of the moon. It was so different than-" You shudder. Every moment the two of you had spent together in the infirmary felt like a lie, a performance that he'd leaned into to get you on his side, and today when you'd seen him smile at you the same way and even say your name-

The memory of him saying it comes back, curling around the curve of your ear, with worry flashing in his eyes. You didn't understand why he was worried about you, not when it seemed that this whole time he'd been using you.

"You didn't see it. Didn't see the look in his eyes when he looked at me or how he was beating that guy, it was-"

"I'll bet it was hot." Your sister smirks at you.

"Jackie!"

"What?" She shrugs taking another long sip of her seltzer. "His eyes darkened is probably the most provocative statement in the history of literature for a reason."

I begged my mother for a brother, but no.

"Sometimes I wish that we were estranged." You groan.

"Oh please, we both know your life would be boring without me."

"Definitely quieter."

"You LOVE me." She hits you with the pillow again. "For the record, I don't think it's a bad thing if you throw yourself at the rugged man with the dark green eyes and sexy smile."

"You're a terrible influence." You sigh, but then you turn to look at her, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "Wait a minute how do you know what he looks like?"

"Because I might have looked up his public arrest record on David's computer." Your sister flashes a sheepish smile, dropping the name of her husband into the conversation.

He was out of town on business, and although many women would worry about things like cheating, Jackie didn't and neither did you, because David was perhaps one of the most whipped men that you'd ever met in your entire life and he was head over heels for the woman sitting beside you. It was everything that you wanted, and everything that you thought you'd ever have. Especially not when you spent more time fantasizing about a man behind bars than anyone actually obtainable.

"But I'll say this, not many people look good when they get arrested, but he made it look like a modeling ad. I cannot believe you get to spend time with him everyday." She says mournfully. "Life is unfair."

"Oh for the love of-"

"I can see it now." She sits up with stars in her eyes. "I bet it's like a Victorian romance novel. All those furtive glances, brushing fingertips, and sexual tension-"

"There is no sexual tension!" You snap.

It's a lie and you know it, but it was better to be swimming in Denile, than to lean into it. Especially not after everything that happened two days ago.

"Honestly, I think you're being selfish." Your sister continues while adjusting herself on the couch beside you, stretching her legs further in your lap.

"What?! How am I being selfish?"

"Because David is out of town until next week and I'm a horny pregnant person with no outlet."

"I'm sure that David has been calling you every night." You roll your eyes.

"It's not the same and you know it!" She kicks you again. "And you could be sneaking around the jail with a sexy man who is bad for all the right reasons and letting me live vicariously through you!"

"I hate you."

"No, you hate that I'm right." She smirks.

"You're not right!" You shout hitting her with your own pillow. "I'm a doctor, he's my patient! It's a HIPPA violation and-"

"I think the porn industry would disagree with you."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "Jackie. I can't-"

"Babe, it doesn't matter how many excuses you use, we both know that you've already been there more than once in your head."

Why does she always have to be right all the time? I'm the older sister! I'm the one who's supposed to have it together and- who am I kidding?

The memory of Walker beating the other inmate comes back, an uncomfortable weight settling across your shoulders.

Jackie senses it, watches the way your mouth turns down in a frown, and reaches out to touch your arm. "Maybe it's not what you think. Have you thought about asking Walker what happened?"

"No." You grumble. "I think that ship has sailed."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw him today and I-"

"Oh you idiot." She sighs. "You shut him out didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"And what did he do when you did?"

"He looked…" You remember the way that Walker seemed worried about you, and almost disappointed. Sometimes you'd thought that the flirty banter was just that, but when he'd said your name and your eyes met his, it didn't seem like it was a fantasy that only lived in your head, not when he was looking at you like he cared. And even though you'd been afraid of him, when he looked at you like that, something broke open and flooded the space inside your chest.

You'd wanted to tell him what was wrong, wanted to ask him what happened, wanted to cradle his still bruised knuckles between the two of you and gently hold ice to the ruined skin, but you couldn’t all you could see was the dark look in his eyes. "He looked a little worried and he asked me if I was okay."

You didn't want to admit that to your sister, because you knew that Jackie would only take it and run, but it was the truth, and she knew when you were lying.

She lets out a long groan of your name while pinching the bridge of her nose. "You should have tried to talk to him."

"It's not high school Jackie, it's a prison. There was a guard sitting there, what was I supposed to say?"

Like hell you were going to have that conversation with Walker in front of a prison guard, not to mention the camera that sits unblinking in the corner of the infirmary staring down at you at all hours of the day.

"I don't know, maybe tell the guard to get you something and whisper to Walker."

"But-"

"No buts! He was worried about you. It means that he cares!"

"He could just be faking it, trying to get me to-" It comes out half-heartedly, because you don't quite believe it, or rather you didn't want to believe it.

"Sweetie." She pulls you into her side, gently rubbing her hand over your back. "The Warden is an asshole, and I don't think you should listen to assholes. If you did, you never would have made it through medical school."

"True." You sigh, leaning into her shoulder. "There were quite a few."

"Mhmm, so maybe find a way to talk to Walker, because yeah he might be flirty, but with all the things that you've told me about him over the past few months, the conversations you've had, the fact that he's asking if you're okay, I mean… I think there's something there. Plus I kinda wanna see the look on mom's face when you bring him for Thanksgiving dinner once he gets out. And little future rocker here is gonna need crazy Uncle Walker." She giggles as she rubs a hand over her stomach with a soft smile.

"Shut up-"

"And Henry is gonna love having someone else to talk about dinosaurs with."

"I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself." You snort into her shoulder.

"No, I'm not. Now shut up and finish my toes, I want to enjoy this episode before Henry wakes up and makes us watch Land Before Time: The Mysterious Island."

"That's the best one." You say as you move away from her and resume painting her toes.

"Try watching it four times a day seven days in a row. I debated telling Henry that the tv was broken just so that I could have some peace and quiet."

"Mother of the year award goes to-"

"Shut up. When you and Walker have kids I will not be sympathetic."

You don't dignify her joke with a response aloud, but even you had to admit, maybe Jackie was right. Who cares what the Warden says. Maybe Mark did care about you. And it was enough to make the vice around your heart loosen and your mind begin to wander into the place where you kept Walker hidden, the place where 'what if?' wasn't a daydream, but was a reality.

A/N: Alright, it hurt me to do that to Mark, but maybe things are looking up? Or maybe things are just about to start spiraling? 😅

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, comments, and likes are not required, but are always welcome and appreciated! I really love hearing what y'all think and the comments really keep me going! ❤️ If you'd liked to be added to the taglist for this series please let me know :)

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @roseblue373 @angrydragon90

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@youroldfashioned @wonderland2022 @hellsbratonthet @moosewithabackstory @wvffles

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[wvffles]

mini countdown rant

spoilers for up to 1x11

can I just say, the one thing that’s been frustrating me about the show is the pacing, it’s so fast :/ (I miss 20-22 episode shows that had filler episodes because seriously i’m getting whiplash)

[with mark and amber] we went from vulnerability, bonding and hinting towards something more, to her being in a whole ass relationship with someone else and mark having one night stands, from the end of one episode to the start of the next one 🧍🏽‍♀️not to mention the overall like, petty behavior from both sides. sure it’s been 10 months for them, but not for us 🫠 also mark being the only one apologizing even though lowkey she should’ve too, and then her minimizing it even though he was trying to be sincere was not cool

+ the volcheck conclusion felt pretty anticlimactic idk

and oh my god with this new suspect, I hate the harming animals route so bad dude. like whyyy for what? the first few minutes of ep 11 threw me off, there was no need to show the up close shot of the deer dying like just leave it to context clues. and as soon as they put focus on that sweet dog I knew what was coming :/ (to be honest I skipped the very end, sped ahead to next week’s preview idc I couldn’t watch)

don’t get me wrong I like the characters and i’ve enjoyed watching the show. it’s just these last two episodes that made the fast pacing too noticeable to ignore, for me at least. curious to see how the rest of the season goes

[wvffles]

"You gotta hang in there. I… Yeah. Clearly."

Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum, Jessica Camacho as Amber Oliveras COUNTDOWN (2025) | 1.10 – “The Muzzle Pile”

[wvffles]

Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum COUNTDOWN (2025) | 1.10 – “The Muzzle Pile”

[wvffles]

The main difference between the weather being uncomfortably cold, and the weather being uncomfortably hot, is that the things you can do in the cold to warm yourself up (hot food/beverage, blankets, cuddles, nice clothes like sweaters, thick scarves and snazzy jackets, getting exercise) are very pleasant and very effective, and the things you can do in the heat to cool yourself down don't do shit.

[wvffles]

this was insaneeeee I love it sm 😭💗💗

(sam probably broke the heater too somehow tbh)

Don't Let This Pass

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends to lovers, humor, forced proximity, fluff, smut (oral f and m receiving, p in v sex,), light angst, love confessions

Summary/Warnings: Dean is your best friend, and nothing more, no matter how much you want that to be different.

But he's trying to tell you something. And when you get trapped together for a week, he finally gets the chance.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! I lost my goddamn mind.

Word Count: 17.7k

“Are you smelling this, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, wrinkling your nose as another blob of something drifts past your feet. “We’re standing next to each other, Dean.”

Dean points his flashlight up, enough for you to see his grin in the dark. “You remember when Sammy farted last month, then pretended it was my Baby leaking something?”

You snort, kicking away something strangely hard that you don’t want to think about. “Yeah?”

“Least this still isn’t that bad.”

You look up to give him a flat, amused look, and freeze. 

“Dean-“

“C’mon, he’s not here-“

“No, Dean, fuck-“

You grab out your gun, aim it right over his shoulder, and shoot. 

The last swamp monster thuds into the water, and Dean stares at you with wide eyes.

“Uh, how close was I to bein’ a swap snack?”

You shrug, giving him a small smile. “Don’t undervalue yourself, dude. You would have been swamp dinner.”

Dean snorts, wading through the water to your side, and rests his hand on your back. There’s no real reason for him to do that. You’re standing up just fine. No serious injuries. No panic. 

He’s just touching you. Casually. The way he always has, without thought, because he trusts you enough not to turn around and try to cut off his hand. 

And it’s always driven you out of your mind. 

Dean’s casually put his hand on your body since you met him. Since the first hunt, where he and Sam saved the helpless little vampire victim, and you tried to shoot them because you didn’t know that the people carrying machetes were the good guys. Dean had put his hand on your upper arm and lower back, helped you to your feet, and been the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. 

You can still feel where he touched you, all those years ago. It’s branded a level right under your skin, the lightening and fire sensation of a broad, rough hand being so gentle on your skin. And every time he’s touched you since, you’ve still been able to feel it. Sinking deeper and deeper, spreading and growing with every accidental brush of his hand and shoulder bump and time you’ve been pressed right against him on a hunt. It’s going to burn forever. You don’t want it to go out, even if it drives you out of your mind. 

Days the bunker is empty, and you lock the door to your room with your legs spread. Whenever he makes you—and Sam, but that’s not important—breakfast. If you’re watching a movie, and he puts his arm over your shoulder because he’s comfortable. Every time he whispers a joke in your ear, grins so wide when you laugh. Every fucking night you have to spend in the same room with him, pretending you don’t feel like you’re burning alive with a light that won’t flicker out. 

Most motels don’t offer three beds. So there are times where the couch fits Dean—never Sam, and you’re not allowed to sleep on the couch because they’re dumbasses who think they’re gentlemen—and times where you just have to suck it up and share. 

Sharing with Sam is fine. You can’t grind into the sheets as the fire sweeps into your core—Dean likes to walk out of the shower without a shirt, and he might hate you—because fucking Sam is right on the other side of the bed. 

When you share with Dean, it’s… different. 

You can’t fuck yourself then, either. But it becomes unbearable. Your body seems to ache, just to touch him. Sometimes the light will be angled just right through the window, and you’ll be able to watch the passing headlights of the cars drift over his pretty face. 

Because Dean’s face is still so fucking beautiful. It’s one of those few things you know will never change. 

But you don’t want anything to change. Change is the thing that leaves you alone, dead in the water, trying to use the stars to guide yourself when the sky is pitch black. You’ve never been good at it. When you joined hunting, it took months for you to fully adjust just to living in the bunker. 

Dean had gotten you through that. Made you comfortable. Taught you how to hold a gun, and throw a punch, and made you waffles when you’d finally managed to knock him on his ass. 

“I know you went easy on me,” you’d told him, spraying the whip cream on your plate, and he’d chuckled. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” you’d shrugged. “Next time you can go all out, and I’ll still win.”

Dean had grinned at you, and you’d felt that heat rising to your cheeks. It wasn’t fair how he could do that. How you’d gotten so good at being around him and not acting like just one word in your direction made you feel high. At this point it had just been a crush, on the big handsome man who saved your life. 

Even then, it had still felt like a massive, consuming type of crush. The kind like a tree, that wouldn’t stop rooting into your heart and growing. The kind that you’d known would get you in trouble, if you weren’t careful. 

“Sure you will.” Dean had reached for the whipped cream can, and you’d whacked his hand with it. “Hey, c’mon-“

“I’m not done.” You’d finished the pile with a little swirl, and passed him the can with a smile. 

He’d stared at you, then the whipped cream mountain. “You trying to drown yourself?”

“Maybe.” 

Dean had reached forward, taken some on his finger—ruining the artwork, but it had been Dean, so you were never mad—and dabbed it on your nose. He’d laughed at your glare, and you’d tried to bite his finger. 

It had just made him laugh harder. 

“You look cute.” He’d said, lookin back to his own waffle, and it had been like being shot up with fire. 

He thought you were cute. Dean thought you were cute. And he’d touched you again. And maybe if you’d asked him to, he could have kissed you and you could run your hand through his hair and taste the salt of his sweat, and he could show you how to do a few other moves, right here at the table, and- 

“You good?” He’d asked you, and he’d sounded concerned. Not starved for you, just worried. Like a friend would be. 

And you didn’t want anything to change. This was already better than you could have dared to ask for. 

So you’d smiled at him, and nodded. 

And nothing ever had to be different.

Friends. 

You were so fucking lucky just to be his friend. The one-night stands came and went, and you were still here, with Dean. You could take that. 

Take it, and use it to kindle all that heat in your body. Burn it and burn it until it was ash. 

Keep pretending that your hunger and fever for Dean would ever go out, when you know that this is forever. 

You’ve known it was love since you were in a diner, almost a year ago, and he made the waitress get you the children’s coloring mat, because it had crossword puzzles and you didn’t want to ask. 

“Don’t bother her, Dean

“I’m not bothering her, sweetheart, it’s asking her to carry freakin’ paper-“

“No, it’s stupid, I’ll get a newspaper-“

“We’ll get you a newspaper after.” He shrugged, giving you a shockingly serious look. “But it’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. We’re getting that kids mat.”

You’d flushed, and nodded. And you loved him. 

Love him. 

Now, even in the swamp monster mess, his touch and attention do the exact same thing to you. It’s going to drive you out of your mind, one day. But you don’t want to try and stop it. 

That would mean moving yourself away from Dean, where he couldn’t touch you. And it might not even do anything, but make you miss him. Make things change. 

So you’ll lean slightly into his touch—just in case—and smile at him in the dark. 

When he smiles back, it’s like the whole world lights up. 

And you never want that to change either. 

“You think we need to clean this shit up?” He nods around you, making a face as a fresh wave of swamp-stench drifts through the air, and you shake your head. 

“Can I suggest an alternate plan?”

Dean nods. “You know I love a backup, sweetheart.”

You flush again, bowing your head to make sure he won’t see. “I vote we just blow it up.”

“That’s a plan.” He bumps your shoulder, and you can hear the joy in his voice. “I’m team blow it up.” He pauses. “Can I-“

“Yeah.” You smile at your feet. “You can do the work.”

“Awesome.” He starts to walk towards the exit, and all you can do is follow him. “Then we’ll get all this shit off us.”

You hum an agreement, and try not to pick apart his happiness too much. It’s always good when Dean is happy, but you’ve developed a bad habit of trying to pinpoint why. If he gets excited when you buy him pie because you bought him pie, or it’s pie. If he grins at you when he sees you because he’s happy to see you, or just to see a friend. 

If he just wants to use his grenade launcher, or if he’s happy you gave him a reason to. 

It never gets you anywhere, to think of that. And no matter what conclusion you draw, it’s never going to change anything.  

But it’s still a fun way to torture yourself. Watching him with a smile as he blasts the old cabin, and the whole thing goes crashing down. Returning his thumbs up with a smile, and giving him a high five when he walks back to the car. 

“Another monster, ganked.” He puts the launcher back in the truck, and you hum. 

“And it’s a swamp monster. Big day for you.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, guess it is. Didn’t really think about that.”

You blink at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you an odd smile you don’t really understand. “Guess I was worrying about other shit.”

“Other-“

“C’mon.” He raises his voice over yours, grabbing your arms and starting to herd you towards the passenger’s seat. “We gotta get you back to the motel. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

“Me?” You frown at him. “You’ll get one too, Winchester-“

“Nah. I don’t catch colds.”

You snort as he closes the door behind you. You wait for him to get behind the wheel before you’re leaning forward, raising your brows. 

“Everyone gets colds, Dean.”

“Not me.” He winks at you, turning on the engine. “I run hot, baby.”

Jesus. 

That’s like being doused in gasoline and struck with a match. It is freezing outside—swamp monsters somehow ended up in Montana—and you are drenched in something worse than water, but all you can feel is the wired heat under your skin, as you play that over and over in your head. 

It’s just another moment, that means nothing to Dean and everything to you. 

But there are so many of them. They make up the tapestry of Dean, that lines your ribs. Remind you over and over that you love him, and every bit of his happiness—whether you’re the direct cause or not—is a rare, priceless gift he gives to so few people.

Dean does love you. 

As a best friend. 

You really can pretend that’s enough, just as long as it never has to change. 

Dean opens the door to the motel room for you, with a wide, smug grin. “You want first shower?”

“Sure, but-“ You flick a chuck of Swamp Monster off his shoulder with a pointed look. “I think you need it more.”

“I’ve been covered in worse.” He shrugs. “You go, I gotta call Sammy and give him the update.”

“Dean, he’s on vacation, don’t bother him-“

“He can pick up the damn phone at the beach.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Eileen won’t care. Go shower, sweetheart.”

You sigh, but give in. Once Dean decides something like that—you aren’t holding your pee for the rest of the drive, they will find a diner that serves Sam’s stupid rabbit food, this place does have a broken heater and Dean’s going to goddamn fix it—there’s no talking him out of it. 

And the shower is nice. Warm. The motel shampoo actually smells like something for once—flowers, nice, sweet flowers—and they water is loud enough that, if you lean against the wall and let your hand wander between your legs, Dean won’t be able to hear it. 

He never hears it. He doesn’t know that you’d get on your knees for him, if he ever asked. That you’d sleep in his bed and hold him through every nightmare, if he let you. 

Dean doesn’t know that you have to bite your tongue to swallow moans, as you think of his hands so easily on your body, and the deep sound of his voice as he said baby, and his eyes, shining on yours. You’ve pictured them above you too many times. Glinting and blown out, as he unravels you below him. Or under you, fluttering and squeezing tight as you ride him. And he’d buck his hips up into you, driving deeper and deeper, and when you moan his name he’d drag you down into a kiss, and all this heat would finally burst into a firework-

You shake, tossing your head back as your release hits. It’s a small one. You’re too tired to do anything properly, and even angling your clit under the water didn’t do as much as you wanted it to. You don’t manage to swallow the squeak of Dean, but the water is still running. You barely heard it. ‘

And as you walk out of the bathroom, Dean’s still on the phone. 

You’re in the clear. 

He scans over you with a tight frown, and you raise your brows. He just shakes his head, pointing to the phone, and you nod, shuffling over to the bed.

“Listen, uh- Sammy. Sam.” Dean shoots you another look. “I gotta go, man, shower is open- No, I’m not gonna- Sam.” His voice lowers to a hiss, and you smile to yourself. That’s the shut your face voice. Sam’s probably trying to convince him to do something. “No, I ain’t calling you after, bitch, I don’t- Fucking Christ. Yeah. I know.”

He hangs up, and you glance at him, having settled on your bed with a book.

“Not saying bye?”

“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dean grumbles, moving to his feet. 

“What did he do-“

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well,” you wrinkle your nose, leaning forward. “Now I am worried.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s not a big thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Or, you could tell me now.”

“I, uh- gotta shower.” He makes for the bathroom, and you raise your voice after him. 

“Dean-“

“Tomorrow!” He calls over his shoulder, and closes the door behind him. 

You sigh, looking back to your book. It’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t keep big secrets, not from you. If it was something for you to be worried about, he’d probably have told you already, to try and convince you to lay low at the bunker while he and Sam handled it. Your bet is on another hunt, that Sam’s trying to send you on. 

Nothing big. 

Just more time you get to spend, only you and Dean. 

Dean mutters your name from the doorway, and when you look up, your breath hitches in your throat. 

There’s steam, billowing out of the bathroom and casting in a halo-like light. His hair is damp and spikey and soft looking, his bare chest looking almost golden—you don’t know how he tans, when you all live in a fucking basement—and water running over his muscles. And you’ve dreamed about pressing your face into his pecs, or scratching at his abs while he kisses you, or kissing over that V before he grabs your hair and pulls you back and stuffs your mouth with- 

You cough, and force your attention back to your book. You can’t look at him too long, or you’ll do something really stupid like beg him to fuck you stupid. 

“Yeah, Dean?” Your voice isn’t steady, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I, uh-“ Dean coughs, and you risk a glance up to see him scratching the back of his neck. “You know we ganked those gross assholes real fast. Thought we’d be here longer. And Sam says there’s a story coming, tomorrow, so we’re gonna have to hit the road in the morning.”

“Storm? What storm?” You frown at him, and he gives you an oddly sheepish grin.

“Snow-storm. Supposed to be bordering on a blizzard or something. ‘Less we wanna be stuck here for least a week, we should haul ass soon.”

“Oh.” A week stuck in a motel with Dean doesn’t sound that bad. It would be torture, but the kind of torture that you’d get a thrill out of. The kind that could fuel a lot of dreams for months to come. 

Or everything could get fucked up. He’d get sick of you. You’d moan his name in your sleep. Too many things could change, if you were stuck together. 

It’s best if you go in the morning. 

“I, um-“ You bite on your inner cheek, watching him carefully. “Is that was you were talking to Sam about?”

Dean blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “That’s what we talking about, sweetheart. The storm.”

You narrow your eyes at him—he’s being weird, and you don’t believe him—but Dean only clears his throat and gives you another grin.

“And since we gotta go in the morning, I was ho- Uh, wondering. If you’d wanna get a drink.”

You frown at him again. “We have beers in the fridge, Dean.”

“Yeah. We do.” He mutters, throat bobbing, and you’ve never seen him like this. Looking at the floor a lot. Not walking around with a puffed-out chest and mastered, cowboy swagger. Like he knows how pretty he is, and he’s using it as a shield. Trying to flash bright enough that people won’t see anything but that smooth voice and boyish, charming grin.

You’ve been allowed to see beneath it. Because he’s your friend. Because he’s not trying to impress or trick you. Not trying to sell himself to you, even though you’re kind of already his. He doesn’t care if he gets your love or affection. Some part of you always wonders if he knows he already has it, and that’s why you get to know Dean, the perfect, sweet, broken but strong man, instead of Dean, the sex-god and hunter legend. 

And you don’t want to go out drinking with him. You love him. But if you have to watch him flirt with someone else the whole night, you’re going to go find another swamp monster and let it eat you.

You don’t get to open your mouth and tell him that, before he’s continuing on. 

“There’s kinda this bar I’ve been dying to check out, since we pulled into down.” His gaze feels like it’s buzzing over your skin. “And we should celebrate. So. Drinks.”

“Drinks.” You repeat, tilting your head at him. He gives you a crooked half-grin and nod, and you pull your lip between your teeth. 

He’s being so fucking weird.

“You can go yourself, Dean-“

“No.” He shakes his head, standing up a little taller. “You saved my life tonight. I’m getting you a drink.”

“You’ve saved my life more. And I never buy you a drink.”

“That’s different.” He dismisses you quickly, and you frown.

“How-“

“C’mon,” he drawls your name, his tone almost challenging. “One drink.”

Fuck. 

He’s got you. He must know he’s got you, otherwise he wouldn’t have pushed it. All he has to do is poke you, and you cave. Give a mumbled nod and agreement, and trying not to burn from within at his happy grin. 

And you don’t know if he’s happy because you said yes to getting drinks, or because he’s getting drinks. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He’s still happy. 

It’s a quick drive, from the motel to the bar. And it’s nice, but not the kind of place you think Dean would be dying to see. It’s just like all other bars you’ve seen, in every corner and county of America. Posters on the walls, dartboards and pool tables, and jukebox that really should be out of commission by now, and dirty, chipping wood tables. The drinks are strong, but no stronger than any other drinks. They’ve got pretty good maraschino cherries, and the bartender doesn’t seem to judge you when you ask for them—which is a plus—but there’s also a gaggle of girls in cowboy hats at the other end of the bar, and you know how this night is going to end. 

Or you thought you did.

But they’ve been giggling and shooting looks at Dean all night, and he hasn’t so much as turned around. 

“What else do you have on your list?” You ask him, playing with the stem of a cherry, and he frowns at you.

“My list.”

“Your bucket list.”

“I don’t have a bucket-“

“Don’t lie to me, Winchester.” You kick his shin lightly, with a small grin. “It’s not befitting of a lady.”

He snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m not the one being questioned.” 

“Oh, I’m bein’ questioned?” He grins, leaning a little closer, and he smells like pine trees. You never should have gotten him that body wash, but you’d also found out he hadn’t been using body wash, and you couldn’t just let that slide. “What’re the charges, sweetheart?”

You shrug. “Lying about your bucket list.”

He opens his mouth, and you give him a flat look. 

“I saw it, Dean. You keep it at the bottom of your bag.”

“You-“ He shakes his head. “Why the hell were you looking in my bag?”

You flush, staring down at the cherry stem. The knot won’t stick. “You said I could use your shirt. When mine got vamp blood on it.”

“Right.” He gives you an odd look. “Y’know, I never got that shirt back.”

“Sorry. Forgot.”

You didn’t forget. You keep it in your drawer and sleep in it when you haven’t seen him in a few days. He doesn’t need to know that. 

Dean shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s whatever. I got other shirts.” He gives you a small grin. “You remember what else was on that list?”

“Um,” you wrinkle your nose at the air, biting on your lower lip. “Meet Burt Reynolds, save his life. Give Baby guns. Try an Oreo pizza.” You swallow, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on your hands. “Have the sex.” You can’t look at him. Not right now. “Dean, I’m pretty sure you’ve had sex before.”

“Yeah. But this is, uh-“ He coughs. “Special sex.”

That makes you look at him. He’s picking at the label of his beer, a deep frown on his face. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with you.

“Well,” you mumble, tugging on your cherry stem. “I think you’ve got three options, if you want to go for that one.”

He glances at you, brow drawn. “What?”

“The cowgirls behind you.” You’re going to rip the stem in half. “I think they’d be down to have the sex with you.”

It’s meant to come out as a joke, but you mostly sound bitter. It’s sour on your tongue, because you hate being jealous. It’s not Dean’s fault he doesn’t see you like that. And you can’t place any claim over him, or even blame the cowgirls for taking him away from you. If you saw Dean in a bar, you’d do the exact same thing. And maybe then he’d give you the lazy, hungry smirk he always gives everyone else. If you could just be a pretty face. 

There’s a hollow, vile sneer in the back of your head that reminds you he might not even think you’re pretty, and that’s why you never stood a chance. You’ll drink it away, when he leaves you at the bar.

But he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t even look at them. 

He just keeps watching you. 

“Nah.” He shrugs, and you blink at him. 

“Nah?”

“I got better things to do, sweetheart.” 

You stare at him. “Like?”

Dean just grins at you, and that’s not fair. It’s making you feel molten and important, and he doesn’t even mean it like that. 

“Alright.” You let out a soft laugh, and that sounds bitter too. “Who even are you?”

“I dunno, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “You tell me.”

“I- I’m-“ You take a sharp drink of your own, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “So you’re not going to flirt with them.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not going to flirt with the dudes watching you.”

You snort. “There are no dudes watching me-“

“Yeah.” His tone has changed. Gotten firmer. Deeper. “There always are.”

“Dean.” 

“It’s true. You just never freakin’ see it.”

“What, and you do?”

His jaw tics. “Yeah. I do. Beard and flannel, 2  o’clock.”

You look before you can stop yourself, and he’s right. Over your shoulder is a broad, bearded man, wearing a green flannel and looking right at you. He winks, when you meet his gaze, and you swallow. 

“I, um-“ You look back to Dean, who looks oddly annoyed for having pointed the guy out to you. “That’s different.”

Dean let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

“It is. I don’t do… that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah-“

“So what do I do, sweetheart?”

He’s staring at you, something behind his voice that sounds like it’s important. It’s written all over his face, as well. He still hasn’t looked at the cowgirls. You’re not sure what the fuck is happening.

“I don’t know, Dean.” You murmur, wrapping the stem around your finger like a ring. “What do you do?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. And when you look back up at him, that strange expression has returned. You wait. You’d wait forever. 

And you don’t want to say the wrong thing and fuck this—whatever the hell this is, because he’s never looked at you like that before, but it feels like you’re being turned into starlight—up.

“We, uh-“ He cuts himself off with a frown. “You and me. We’ve known each other a while.”

You’ve felt like you’ve known him your whole fucking life. You felt like that almost the first time you saw him. Sort of like you’d looked at him, and known that this always ends with you falling in love. 

Another thing he doesn’t need to know. 

So you just nod. 

“Right.” He glares at the bottle, like it’s personally responsible for something bad happening to him. “And we’ve been through some shit together. I mean, mostly me. Causing you problems-“

“You don’t cause me problems.” You say before you can stop yourself, and he chuckles.

“I know. You always say that. But, uh- I got news for you, sweetheart. I cause you a lot of problems. And,” he raises his voice before you can protest again. “You never give up on me. Shit, I might of given up on me, but you didn’t. You’re always- No matter how shit this gets, it feels alright long as I got you.”

He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to know what that means. When you stare at him back, he just clears his throat. 

“You mean a lot to me.” He mutters. “You- Your trust means a lot. More than anyone.”

“Oh- okay.” You feel kind of dizzy. “Cool.”

He swallows. “Yeah. And I know I do go home with other chicks, uh, I- It’s not. It never means anything. They know that. And a lot of them have been in…” His ears go slightly red, his voice dropping lower. “Situations. And that ain’t for to them, or- Yeah. And I always go back in the morning.”

You’re lost. “What?”

He sighs. “I always head back to you, sweetheart.”

“I know, Dean, we live together-“

“No- I mean, yeah, but-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re kinda the best friend I’ve ever had,” he grunts your name, and you sit a little taller. “I don’t tell you that enough. And I was- Uh, I’ve been thinking- A lot.”

You’re going to chew through your tongue. “About?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and you wait. 

Dean takes a deep breath, his gaze darting over your shoulder, and he shakes his head. 

“Nothing, sweetheart. Never mind.”

You frown. This doesn’t feel like a never mind. “Dean-“

“You want some help with that?” He nods to your cherry stem, giving you a bright grin. “I can do it with my tongue.”

His tongue. He can do things with his tongue. And it’s flicking out over his lips, and he’s grinning at you, and you’re the best friend he’s ever had. 

Friend.

Best friend.

“I’m okay.” You mumble, fiddling with the stem and dropping it in your glass. “Thank you, though.”

His jaw twitches again, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. The cowgirls seen to have wandered off to another corner of the bar. The music is playing quietly in the background, and it’s not a bad song, but it feels like nail scratching your ears. You just don’t want to hear anything right now, other than what Dean decided not to tell you. 

You know he wasn’t building up to the fucking cherry stem. But if you ask, that would be pushing it. And it might not be something you want to hear. 

So you let it go, and give Dean a small smile as you stand up.

He frowns. “Where’re you-“

“Bathroom.” You shrug. “Be right back.”

Dean’s hand flexes, like he’s going to try and reach for you. But he doesn’t. So you walk away. 

But you smile at him, because you’re pathetic. Smile and squeeze his bicep. 

You’d like to run your hand through his hair. 

That’s not a friend thing. 

The bathroom of the bar is just what you’d expect. Flickering lights, cheap looking stalls, a toilet seat that you’re careful to wipe down, because you really don’t want to round all of this off with an infection. 

It hasn’t been the most shit week. You got the monster. Hung out with Dean. Broke your own heart over it, almost every second, but that’s nothing you haven’t been doing for years. And maybe he’s not going to tell you whatever the hell he was building up to, but maybe it’s another thing that’s just not about you. Dean’s being weird because he and Sam are fighting about something stupid. Dean had sounded tense on the phone, earlier. 

So it’s not about you. Tomorrow, Sam will probably call you bitching about Dean, and ask you to talk some sense into him. Sam seems to be under the impression that you’re the only person in the world that Dean listens to without question, but you’ve been in multiple situations where that proved not to be true. The time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone, when you asked him to borrow the car to go into the city—which is something he lets Sam do all the time—the kitchen indecent, when he wouldn’t let you help him figure out how to bake a cake for your birthday, the other time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone- 

“You should totally go talk to him!” A girl’s voice cuts through the air, and you freeze. 

You’d sort of forgotten other people could, hypothetically, use the bathroom. 

“No, it’s okay. There are plenty of hot guys in the world, right?” Second voice. Different girl. 

“Not hot like that.” The first girl says again. “I mean. He looks like he fell right out of the fucking sky. That’s once in a lifetime hotness.”

Dean. They’re talking about Dean.

Fuck.

You should make your presence known. You should just cough, or say yeah, he’s hot, but he’s got a weird penis. Which would just be possessive—which you’re not doing, you’re not—and a straight up lie. You’ve heard the reviews, from girls in the morning. You’ve heard the sounds, when he used to get separate rooms just to rail women in. Sam would put in headphones with a sigh, and you’d try to pretend it wasn’t happening until you’d heard screams of Dean, and you’d decided to find whatever bar was closest and had the highest cut off.

These girls could be the ones screaming, tonight. 

Unless you embraced the jealousy thing, and told them he has a weird penis-

“Yeah, he’s hot, but the woman he was with,” the second girl sighs, and you freeze. Too late to make yourself known. “I think she’s like his girlfriend or something.”

You gape at nothing, and third girl pipes up. 

“No, actually, I agree with that. Don’t talk to him, he’s got a girlfriend.”

“Are you kidding me?” The first girl scoffs. “That was not his girlfriend.”

You scowl. She didn’t have to say it like that. She’s right, but she might not have been, and She didn’t have to be rude about it-

“Why not?” 

“Because if that’s your boyfriend, you don’t leave him alone in a bar.”

The other two girls make sounds of disagreement, and that shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does. 

“No,” the third one says. “Maybe he’s just like, a loyal guy. And she trusts him.”

“Please,” girl two laughs. “Men who look like that aren’t loyal.”

That almost makes you stand up. Dean’s loyal. Arguably, it’s his worst quality, because it’s nearly given both you and Sam multiple aneurysms. You manage only to curl your fists, though. And the second girl continues. 

“Like yes, she was really pretty too. And they looked to be having a serious conversation-“

“Which isn’t what people just hooking up do-“

“I know that. But like, he wasn’t touching her. Maybe they were sitting really closer together, and he ordered her those cherries before she asked-“

“That was really cute-“

“Yeah, but, maybe they’re just like friends!”

“Kaylee.” The third girl says, voice flat. “Did you see how he looked at her?”

“No. You’re the one who pretended to go the jukebox.”

“Well, it was like a puppy dog face. He love loves her.”

You feel like you’re being shot. The girls don’t stop talking. 

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah, just pretend to walk past them later. It’s super obvious.”

They leave a few minutes after that. And you have to remember how to move your legs, but a lot of things are crashing around in your brain. You’re pretty. You and Dean look cute together. 

Dean looks at you like he loves you. 

It feels like you’re floating, when you make your way back to the bar. Dean’s fidgeting with his sleeves, mostly staring at his bottle, and when you tap his shoulder, he looks up at you with a frown. 

It quickly turns into a grin. And he holds up your folded cherry stem with a proud grin, puffing out his chest. 

“Did it while you were gone. In one shot, by the way. You can, uh- Keep it? I dunno. Didn’t think past doin’ it, I guess.”

You give him a softer smile, and tuck the cherry stem into your pants. “I’ll keep it. Thank you.”

“Course.” He shrugs, glancing around the mostly empty bar. 

The cowgirls are watching you. 

Dean’s hand is resting on your wrist. You’re not sure if he knows he’s doing it, but it’s warm and electric over your whole body.  

And when you scan over his face, there’s nothing on it that screams he loves you. That’s just Dean’s face. Maybe the third girl just had too much to drink, or is rooting for him to be in love with you, which is very sweet but overall useless to you-

“You wanna head back?” Dean squeezes your wrist, giving you another easy, causal grin. “We should get our three hours, before we beat the storm.”

You sigh, giving him a tight smile. “It’s eight hours.”

“Yeah, if you’re a health nerd.”

“Dean-“

“It’ll be six hours, if we go now.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, and he just grins back. It really is the same grin he’s always given you. But you hear the cowgirls giggling, when you pass them. They’re probably reading into Dean’s hand, on your back, way too much. You know you have.

But reading too deep into things is what you’re best at. 

And now that they’ve mentioned how Dean looks at you, it’s impossible stop. 

You’re picking it apart, for the rest of the night. For the entirety of the drive, as you analyze every shift in his face, when he glances your way. How he smirks at you, when he opens your door with a dramatic, sweeping gesture. How he laughs when you roll your eyes, and the face he makes when you mumble that you’re getting changed. Then the face when you come back, and he looks up from the TV. 

“Dean.” You lean over the back of the couch, making your voice as firm as possible. “Six hours. You promised.”

He groans, but turns off the TV, and flicks your nose. “After all I do for you, sweetheart, you’re gonna make me sleep?”

“Yep.” He’s so close. You can see every handsome feature of his face. “Go to bed, Dean.”

He grunts and his gaze is trapped right on yours. His eyes are so fucking green, and they’re shining on yours. His breath is warm on your face, and in the cold of the night, it’s impossible to ignore. How all the heat is coming from Dean. You could move. Just an inch. Press your lips against his, and see what it does. Maybe he’d pull you over the couch and into his lap, kiss you until he’s all that you can feel. Until you’re burning alive, but he’s burning with you.

Or it could change everything. And you’d lose your best friend. 

You pull back. And don’t look at Dean again, as you go to bed. You need to stop torturing yourself. You’ll do it enough on the car ride tomorrow. 

Dean’s true to his word. He goes to the bathroom, takes another shower, then gets into bed right after you. Enough for six hours, even if he’s up first. 

He doesn’t wake you up, as he gets ready to go. Packing his bag, then yours, then the remaining supplies. You mostly just drift in and out, listening to him shuffle around the room, pause, then move again. At one point, after you hadn’t shifted around in a while, his hand rests on your brow. And because he thinks you’re just sleeping, you nuzzle into it. 

He lingers. 

Fingers trace over your face. Your cheeks and nose and eyebrows, then up into your hair. 

He sighs, and moves away, and there’s another thing to over think. He could be disappointed in you. Annoyed with you. Tired of you. Just tired overall, and that was a yawn. But Dean doesn’t really yawn.

He also doesn’t just touch people’s faces. 

But- 

“Son of a bitch?”

Your eyes shoot open, and you sit up in a second, reaching for your gun. No one seems to be in danger. Dean’s glaring out the window. 

You rub your eyes, pushing up to your knees. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

“Come look.” He mutters, and you shuffle to your feet, peering out the window.

“Oh.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Yep.”

You didn’t beat the storm. 

The storm beat you. The world is all gray and white, falling snow and sheets of white over the whole world. 

So you’re trapped in the motel. With Dean

———

“We did try to leave early.” Dean grunts into the phone and you sigh, holding your knees to your chest on the bed.

It took five hours for the storm to clear enough that Dean could call Sam. Another hour for Sam to pick up, because he is on vacation. 

And you’re not sure how you’re going to survive this. 

Not the storm. The storm will be easy. You’re what Dean’s called paranoid—but is proving itself to just be prepared—and there’s no possible way you’re going to run out of food. The water is still running, as it electricity. The heater did break again, but Dean’s spent the last two hours on his knees, trying to fix it.

Most of his tools are both for cars, and in the car. 

He’s improvised. 

And he’d given you this big, boyish and proud grin, when he’d realized he could use the wire hooks without being electrocuted. And that’s why you’re not going to survive this. 

You’re trapped with Dean. And his smiles and voice and body and general everything. It’s one room—two if you count the bathroom—and it’s just you and Dean. No buffer to stop you from saying something stupid, like how you love him. No distractions, because the electricity is working but this motel only has cable, and that’s down. Just you and Dean.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Dean mutters under his breath, shooting you an odd look.

You mouth what back at him. 

He rolls his eyes, and mouths back Sam, before speaking aloud. “Yeah, I know how waitin’ out storms works, Sam, I freakin’ taught you- We ain’t gonna run out of water, this isn’t a drought, we can drink the snow- I’m not drinking it right now.”

You giggle, and Dean gives you a flat look. You only shrug in return, and that eye roll is for you, but you don’t really care. At least it’s for you.

“No.” Dean turns back to the heater, his voice having dropped. “I ain’t doing that. No- Sam. Shut your face or I’m calling Eileen and telling her she’s got a funeral to attend. Not mine-“

Dean groans, running a hand over his face, and you climb out of the bed. The blankets have to stay wrapped around you—it’s fucking freezing—but you can still help. You kneel down at his side, holding out your hand and nodding to the hanger. Dean frowns at you and shakes his head, and you flex your fingers, giving him a pointed look. 

He pulls the phone away, covering the speaker—Sam’s voice muffled through his hand—and grunts, “I got it, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”

“Dean.” You sigh, just grabbing it out of his hand. He doesn’t fight you, just staring as you shift on your knees. “Finish your phone call.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then sighs, and nods. He squeezes your shoulder, as he moves to his feet, and you watch him walk to the other side of the room. 

You’ve been studying his face all morning. The cowgirl’s words haven’t stopped replaying. He looks at you like he loves you.

But you really don’t think he does. 

He’d given you tight smiles all morning, until you’d finished sorting the supplies and decided that you’d easily survive this without eating each other. 

“If we don’t have enough,” he’d said, hanging over your shoulder. “I want you to eat me.”

You’d sighed, and whacked his thigh. Better not think about how firm it had been. How if you turned your head, you would have been at perfect eye level with his bulge. And it had been freezing, but that was the kind of heat that was going to kill you just as much as it made you come alive. Now, trapped in a motel during a blizzard, was not the time to test the waters of how much Dean would want you. You’d rather turn to ice than have to spend a whole week, awkwardly pretending you hadn’t come onto Dean and gotten rejected.   

“I’m not going to eat you, Dean.” You’d muttered, and he’d shaken his head. 

“I’m telling you to eat me, sweetheart.” He’d dropped at your side, and you’d focused on your sorting. If you looked at Dean, you’d stare and try to figure out if he loved you. “It’s my last wish. You not gonna honor a dying man’s last wish.”

“No.”

“That’s pretty damn rude-“

“You’re not dying.” You’d looked at him, because you’re weak. No promise you ever made yourself about Dean lasted more than about twenty minutes, because most of them were don’t look at him or don’t talk to him, and actually committing to that would mean more change. 

He hadn’t been looking at you like he loved you. 

It had just been the same way he always looks at you. Open, handsome, with a small grin and light in his eyes. 

That’s just his stupid, pretty face. And it had been hard to keep pretending to be annoyed with him, when this was the first real smile he’d given you all morning. 

“We’ve got enough.” You mumbled, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “I- I won’t need to eat you.”

“Awesome.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d swallowed, and nodded. 

That was just another expression he always made. It didn’t mean anything. 

He is scowling at the air, now that he’s focused on his phone call. He hasn’t looked at you like that, ever. But you also haven’t been saying anything to piss him off. 

It’s very rare, that you actually do piss Dean off. 

But you’re his best friend, so that can’t mean much. 

You have to drag your gaze back to the heater. You’re going to drive yourself out of your mind, before you even hit day five. 

Dean keeps talking, and it sounds like a serious conversation—serious enough that you’re not allowed to hear it, which you’re trying and failing not to read into, but it can just be another way to fucking torture yourself—when you hear the rattling buzz from the heater that means it’s working.

You turn to Dean with a wide grin, sitting up straight and making a ta da gesture to your work, and he grins at you again. Gives you a thumbs up, even his brows remain furrowed at whatever Sam is saying.

“Sam.” He grunts, walking towards you. “I’m going.”

There’s a sound of protest from the other end of the line, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing again. 

“I know how rationing works, Sam, I taught you that shit, too- No, we’re not fuckin’ talking about that- Bye.”

Dean hangs up, Sam’s voice dying mid-sentence, and you give him a curious look.

“Not talking about what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mutters your name, crouching down at your side and scanning over the heater. “Nice work.”

That shouldn’t make you flush as much as it does. But Dean’s really close, and he’s praising you, and suddenly the room has spiked from freezing cold to almost insufferably hot. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, and Dean just shrugs, clapping you on the shoulder. The way he would a friend.

“No problem. So.” He scans around the room, and his brow pinches together the moment he’s not looking at you. 

He’s thinking. That’s all it means. 

“We got food, water, heat, shelter.” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Overall we’re not half fucked.”

“Only a quarter.” 

Dean snorts, and his brows un-pinch as he looks at you.

Which still probably means nothing. 

“What do you think that quarter fucked is, sweetheart?”

Him. Being trapped with him. Already starting to spiral about what everything he does and says means, if this is going to make things change, if he’s going to get sick of you, if he does look at you different. You really can’t tell anymore. You might have already gone mad, or the heat is just getting to your brain. 

Making you hallucinate how close he is. How his attention on you is undivided, how his thumb is rubbing small circles where it’s still resting on your shoulder. 

That’s your quarter fucked. 

But you also know what Dean’s is, so you say that instead. 

“No TV.” You give him a mock pout, and he lets out a dramatic groan. 

“It’s not funny, sweetheart-“

“Yeah, it is.” 

“You’re saying that now, but what are you gonna do when you get sick of talking to me?”

You frown at him. “I won’t get sick of talking to you.”

He scoffs. “Sure-“

“I’m serious, Dean.” You lean forward, which is a mistake. He steadies you with a hand on your knee. He’s still like a furnace. You’re going to catch his heat and melt into nothing. “I won’t get sick of you. Are-“ You swallow. You shouldn’t ask it. “Will you-“

“No.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “But I still miss TV.”

You give him a small smile, a weightlifting off your chest. “It’s been like, twelve hours.”

“Fifteen.”

You laugh at his grumpy face, and his lips twitch.

“We’ll find something to do, Dean.” You cup his face as you move to your feet. He might have leaned into your touch. Another thing to pretend not to think about. “I promise.”

———

“Checkmate.”

Dean groans, leaning over the board with a glare. “No, that’s- Son of a bitch.” He looks up at you with wide eyes. “I fuckin’ had it, sweetheart, what the hell.”

You shrug, starting to reset the pieces. “You never had it, Mr. Winchester. You’re a fool and your knowledge of the gentleman’s game is weak.”

He snorts. “I think you’re just cheating.”

“Maybe.” You grin at him. “But if I am, you haven’t caught me.”

“So you have been-“

“Do you have proof?”

Dean sighs, and grumbles, “No.”

You hum. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Or until you admit it.”

“I’ve never admitted anything. In my life.”

Dean raises his brows. “Half an hour ago, you told me you used to sing lyrics to classical music.”

You flush, and throw a pawn at his face. “That was a secret-“

“I haven’t told anyone! I’m just sayin’ back to you what you said to me-“

“Well, you used to name your toy cars after different cartoon characters-“

“Hey.” Dean wields the pawn at you like a knife, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t bring She-Ra the Pontiac into this.”

He glares at you, you glare right back, and there’s only a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing. 

This has been most of the last two days. You’d raided the entire room, to see exactly what type of amenities were provided, and found mostly paper, meaning that you and Dean spent most of last night playing drawing games. He drew genuinely the worst tiger you’ve ever seen, and you drew a snake so worm-like he spent twenty minutes laughing on the ground. This morning—before you got up—he went outside during a brief lull in the storm, grabbed your playing cards from the trunk of Baby, and raided the lobby for board games. 

He beat you at two-person poker, twice. You won gin rummy, and cribbage, so he insisted on a third poker round. You know he just wanted it to win again. But you love him—and his stupid, dopey grin whenever he does something well—so you let him have it. And he did win. But you kicked his ass in Candyland. 

Dean said this one was a kid’s game, so it didn’t count.

You’d pulled out the chess, after that.

This is your fifth win in a row. And you’re not cheating. 

But Dean is adorable when he’s grumpy. And just for now, you’re giving up on trying not to look at him too long. You won’t mess up, because this is already such a fragile situation. You’re on a high alert to not do anything too obviously in love with him. And already spent all of last night with the sheets tangled between your legs, looping over and over how Dean had made you dinner. Stared at you when you’d come out of the bathroom in a towel and coughed. Talked to you until two in the morning, because for once neither of you had anywhere to be in the morning.

In a very, very strange way, this feels like a vacation. A precarious one, where you’ve sealed over half the things you want to say to him—I love you, Dean, I want you, I spent that whole shower thinking about what it would feel like if you were with me, on your knees or behind me or anything, I’d take anything—and allowed yourself to look at him to keep it together. To keep him from noticing.

It would be suspicious, if you didn’t look at him. And it’s quelling that unending heat, in your body. 

You’re going to get through this. Walk out the other side, with only good memories, and nothing changed. 

You’re probably going to be trying to figure out how Dean looks at you forever, but that’s only hurting you, so it’s fine.

It’s all just fine.

“No more chess.” Dean grumbles, grabbing a rook out of your hands and bumping it on your nose. You blink at him kind of stupidly. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go back to cards.”

You take the rook back, poking it into his chest. “Why, so you can win poker?”

He shrugs with a grin, and you sigh. 

“How about war? No skill. Just luck.”

Dean frowns. “I got shit luck, sweetheart.”

“And I don’t?”

“Better than mine.” He mutters under his breath, and you frown. 

There’s something heavy to his tone that you don’t understand. But before you can try and find the words to ask him about it, he’s moving on. 

“One poker game, just to level out the field. C’mon. I’ll make you lunch?”

“And- Do I not get lunch if I say no?”

“No, but this doesn’t work if you keep bringin’ reason into it, sweetheart.”

“Sorry.” You pick at your nails, giving him a small smile, and he sighs. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart. But if we play war, I’m shuffling.”

You nod, giving him a wider smile, and his jaw twitches. It’s been doing that a lot, today. You spent most of breakfast staring at it, trying to figure out what it meant. Probably just that he’s tense, from the stress of the situation. Even though it started last night. And overall, the situation hasn’t been all that stressful. 

Again. Trying not to think about it. 

“Deal.” You hold out your hand, and Dean shakes it. His hand fits perfectly, in yours. It always has. You’ve had a lot of fantasies about just Dean’s hands, alone.

And it’s impossible not to stare, as he shuffles. His fingers have always moved so deliberately, with such exact, measured movements, and they’re big and thick and rough, and when you passed him the cards, he’d touch your forearm and you felt like you were going to fly out of your skin- 

“Ready?” Dean nods to the pile of cards in front of you, and you blink. 

Right. 

The game.

“Ready.” You mutter, sounding breathier than you meant to, but you’d also worked yourself into a small frenzy, thinking about his hands. His smirk isn’t helping. 

You really don’t think he knows, exactly what he does to you. 

But if he does, this is downright cruel. 

“Alright,” he drawls your name, picking up his own deck with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. “Let’s skirmish.”

You laugh—it’s stupid, but you always laugh—and Dean’s grin widens.

It’s not clear if he’s smiling because you laughed, or just he got a laugh. 

You really have to stop picking yourself apart like this. 

The first few flips run by, and soon you’re not even counting down to flip anymore. You and Dean have gotten somehow merged your game brains, and you’re flipping in perfect sync. You’re winning most of them. Dean hasn’t seemed to notice yet. 

“Would you rather be attacked by a duck, or a hippo.”

You blink at him, flipping over another card. “What kind of question is that, obviously-“

“Wait.” He grins at you. “The duck has a gun, and the hippo is a baby.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head at the air. “Does the duck know how to use the gun?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, and is the hippos mom around?”

Dean frowns. “Why does that matter.”

“Mothers are incredibly aggressive when their babies are threatened, Dean. A grown mom hippo kill me.”

“Huh. Well, we don’t want that.” His brow furrows, and you try not to let that make you feel too gooey. “Let’s call it that the mom hippo is around, but far enough that she won’t know if you’re careful.”

“Careful? The hippo is attacking me-“

“So you gotta kill it.”

You gape at him. “I’m not killing a baby hippo, Dean.”

“Fair.” He nods, flipping over a nod. “So you’re going Gun Duck.”

“Do I get a gun?”

“If you can take his.”

“I can do that.” You watch him grab the cards he won. He’s rolled up his sleeves, so you can see his forearms. It’s distracting. “What would you choose?”

“Gun Duck.” Dean shrugs. “I think I could take that mama hippo, though.”

You snort. “No, you couldn’t.”

He gives you a mock look of offense. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought the Devil-“

“Hippos kill 500 people a year, Dean.”

He scoffs. “So?”

“So there are about 180 plane crashes a year.” You give him pointed a look and he gulps, going a little pale. 

“Good point. No hippos.”

You hum, pulling more of your own cards forward. “Would you rather live on the moon, or underwater?”

Dean pauses, thinking about it as you both flip. “The moon. Space would be pretty awesome. Can I guess your answer?”

You nod, a little desperate to know what he thinks you’re going to say, and he grins at you.

“Underwater.”

You keep your face perfectly neutral. “Why?”

“Because you think space is scary.”

“The bottom of the ocean is scarier.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t live at the bottom of the ocean.” He gives you a look like that’s obvious, and sighs when you just stare at him. “I think you’d be like, a lady of the lake or whatever.”

“A-“ You blink at him. “Like in King Arthur?”

“Yeah.” He grins at you, wide and toothy. “I’d be a pretty awesome King, right. I’d get to sit at the round table.”

“Sure,” you return his grin, setting out three cards. “What are your stances on tithes and feudalism?”

“Uh.” He makes his tight, adorable thinking expression—the one where he’s really trying, but doesn’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about—and you want to kiss him all over his stupid face. “Anti?”

You hum and nod, and he raises his brows.

“Was that right?”

“I don’t know, you’re the King.”

“Yeah, but you’re my- Lady advisor.”

You snort. “Lady Advisor?”

“The- Guinevere lady-“

“That was Arthur’s wife.” You say, and it’s really hard to sound causal about that. “And she cheated on him with his best friend.”

Dean recoils slightly, shaking his head. “Okay, so you ain’t that.”

You give him a cautious look. “Do I have to be something, in your fantasy land?”

“Course you do, sweetheart.” He says that like it’s obvious, too. “It ain’t a fantasy land if you’re not there.”

You flush, and Dean sits a little taller, clearing his throat. You don’t know if he meant it like that. He probably didn’t. But now he’s not looking you in the eyes, and he probably thinks he’s leading you on—even if he doesn’t know he doesn’t need to put you on a leash or offer you a reward, you’d follow him to the end of the earth no matter what—and things are going to change-

“I’m the Lady of the Lake.” You mumble, folding a card between your finger and giving him a small smile. “Of course I’m in your fantasy.”

He coughs, but grins at you, and he’s ears are red again.  

Don’t think too much into it. 

“Awesome.”

———

It’s only been three days.

You’re falling into a far too comfortable pattern. 

Dean makes you breakfast, you do lunch, he does dinner. You play card games and talk, Dean goes out to check that nobody’s stolen Baby—it doesn’t matter how many times you tell him that won’t happen, he has to do it anyway—and you make him hot chocolate for when he gets back. You spent most of today talking about superheroes, Dean hanging your paper stars on the ceiling because he’s perfect, and you don’t know how you were ever supposed to not fall in love with him.

“Can I have the purple?” You ask, and he passes the marker to you with a small grin.

“I still don’t understand why you these in the car, sweetheart.”

“For organizing. Duh.”

“Right. Duh.” He chuckles, nudging your side with his foot, and you squeak. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He laughs above you, and he kind of looks like a God. Big and strong and handsome, so far above you, so untouchable, but offering you more with his joy than you can understand. 

Because you haven’t seen Dean this happy in years. He’s fully relaxed, he’s not scanning around every few seconds to check that everyone is safe, and he’s still sleeping with his gun under his pillow—that’s never going to change—but when you woke him up this morning, you didn’t end up with the barrel in your face.

It’s probably because there are no threats. 

It’s getting harder and harder to think it’s not about you.

“Can you pass me my book?”

“Sure.” He shuffles away, and your body seems to want to follow him, which isn’t fair. “What, you gonna use the pages to make more stars?”

“Don’t joke about that.” You mutter, frowning at the star in your hands. “I just want to use this one as a bookmark.”

Dean just hums, and the book is passed into your hands as he sits at your side. “You, uh- Liking it?”

You angle your head to see him, and he’d grabbed a beer while he was getting your book. He’s picking at the label again. His jaw is ticking. 

You really don’t know how to ask him what that’s about. 

“The book.” He adds—after you’re quiet for a beat too long—giving you a sheepish grin. “How are you liking the book.”

“Oh. It’s- Good. I’ve always wanted to read it, and I- yeah.” He’s sitting too close. It’s making you short circuit. 

Dean just nods, turning the bottle in his hands. “So it’s on your bucket list?”

He gives you a half-grin, and that makes you almost go limp. He’s smiling at you like it’s a secret. Like it’s something only you get to know about, even if it was because you accidentally snooped. 

You smile back. It always makes his grin wider, and his shoulders relax, and that could be about you-

No. 

You’re not doing that. 

“Maybe.” You shrug, and he raises his brows.

“You gonna tell me what else is on there?”

You sit up, holding his gaze. Your knees are bumping together. You could swear his eyes widen slightly. 

“The sex.” You whisper, and he groans, shaking his head and looking back to his bottle with a tight smile as you giggle. 

“Bet you’re proud of that one.”

“I am.” You poke his thigh, lying back down as his nostrils flare, and he gives you an odd look.

“You should write one.” He says suddenly. “We got a shit ton of paper. Sammy says they’re good for you to do. Reckon with your own mortality or something.”

You snort, fiddling with one of the stars. “Like you’ve ever reckoned with your mortality-“

“I’m serious,” he says, and when you look back up, he’s staring right into you. “It’s useful. Sammy’s usually out of his freakin’ mind, with that therapy bullshit, but-“ He sighs, tipping his head back to rest against the bed. “It’s not half bad.”

He glares at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying, and you take a risk. It won’t change anything. You’ve comforted him before, and he’s comforted you, so this won’t change anything.

“Dean.” You murmur, resting your hand on his thigh. “I believe you, I just- I don’t want that many things.”

“Everyone wants things.” He mutters, and you shake your head. 

“Not me.”

He finally looks at you, and that strange expression has returned. His eyes lock onto yours, and there seems to be a heaviness to him that you’ve never really seen before. You smile at him gently, and his lips only twitch. He’s looked at you like this before, as well. In the dead of night, when he woke up shouting and you were the only one who heard. 

But you’ve never seen it in the light before. 

And it’s the way he always looks at you, but more. His eyes are softer, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’ll hurt himself. There are deep lines on his face that you want to trace with your fingers, and his lips are in a tight line you want to pry open with your tongue. 

“Nothin’ you want, huh.” his voice is deeper than only a moment before, almost a little hoarse.

You sigh, your eyes darting to your hand, still resting against him. “Nothing I can have.” 

He gives you a curious look. “What, going back to civilian life?”

“No. Never.” You bite on your inner cheek, playing with the fabric of his jeans. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester. Sorry.”

He lets out a low laugh, leaning back once more. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I think I’ll live.”

———

Dean taps on the top of your head, and you look up to find him grinning down at you, holding your book. 

“What-“

“I read it.” He stands a little taller, seeming to puff out his chest. “You were right, sweetheart, it’s pretty good.”

“It’s- The book?” You blink at him. “You read the book?”

“All of it. Except the acknowledgments.”

“Yeah, you don’t really have to read the acknowledgments-“ You shake your head, chewing on your tongue. “Why did you read the book.”

“I dunno. You,” he gently bops your head with the book. “Fell asleep early. And you didn’t stop reading it yesterday, so- I dunno. Wanted to see what the big deal was.”

You nod, watching him carefully. “And you liked it?”

“Sure.” He pauses. “Did you like it?”

“Yes.” You whisper, and you’re not sure why this is hitting you in the chest so hard. It’s just a book.

But he read it for you. 

And he’s been looking at you all week. Laughing with you. Not pushing you away or shutting you out when the conversations get too serious. Acting like you’re the only two people in the word, which is what it feels like. 

It’s just you and Dean. In this room, and—even though you know that it’s not true, that he’ll probably turn around and walk right into another bed when you’re free—in the whole fucking universe. 

It’s really impossible to think that none of this is about you, now. It probably isn’t, but playing pretend is getting easier and easier. You’re not getting sick of him. He’s not getting sick of you. 

And if you never had to leave, you might ask him. If he’s happy here with you, or just happy here. If he thinks he looks at you differently, if there was any truth to what the cowgirls said. 

If he really was never going to go home with them. 

What the hell he was going to tell you, at the bar.

If he can feel how humid it is, here. How outside, the storm is still raging, but in here your skin is hot and sweaty because Dean’s been pulling your legs over his lap when you’re on the couch. And the steam keeps following him out of the shower and into your dreams. 

Last night you had to take an emergency shower, because you’d had a fucking wet dream. It had been all hands and lips, everywhere over your body at once. Soft on sensitive skin and rough on your neck and tits and between your legs. You’ll woken up with your hair stuck to your brow, and your hips grinding into the mattress. Chasing release in nothing, until you’d scrambled into the bathroom, turned on the water, and finished where he wouldn’t hear you. 

Couldn’t hear you. 

Didn’t hear you. 

Dean couldn’t have heard you. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at you right now. He’s been trying to let you down gently, instead of sitting right next to you. Waiting for your attention. Pressing his thigh into yours. 

Best friend. 

He’s comfortable with you because you’re his best friend. And you’re getting really, really bad at remembering that. 

But he’s really not making it easy. 

“You- Uh-“ He clears his throat. “You ever think about how Sammy’s doing?”

“Like- Emotionally?”

“No, like-“ Dean lets out a slow breath, watching you so carefully it feels like he’s pulling you apart. “With this life he’s got goin’ for himself. Less hunting, more time with the missus. Thinking about that white picket fence, payin’ taxes, apple pie shit. You ever think about that?” 

You swallow, and speak slowly. This sort of feels like a warzone. You don’t want to misstep. 

“Sometimes.” With you. “I- I mean, I have the dream.”

“The dream?”

You nod, and he frowns.

“I thought you didn’t want things.” 

“I don’t want things I can have.” You correct, and Dean raises his brows.

“It’s a dream, sweetheart. Doesn’t gotta be something you can have, think that’s the whole freakin’ point.” He pauses. “I’ve told you about my dreams.”

Fuck. 

“I- Don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your hands, but Dean’s gaze keeps searing over your skin. “It’s dumb.”

“Nah. You’re never dumb.”

Fuck. “Dean-“

“You don’t have to tell me.” He mutters, something oddly edged in his tone. “But I’m here. If you wanna-“

“I’d like it.” You cut him off softly, and he stills at your side. “What Sam’s doing. I mean- Not exactly that. But we- I would kind of want both, I think. Keep helping, even if it’s mostly research. Having something good, my way.” 

You give Dean a small, nervous smile, and his mouth is hanging open. He’s closer than he was, only a second ago. You could lean forward and bump your noses together, if you tried. 

And you want to. 

But Dean’s just staring at you, and your knees are starting to feel weak, despite sitting down. 

“Why isn’t that something you can have?” Dean’s voice is so low you can almost feel it in your chest, and he only seems to be getting closer. 

“Because there’s no one I can do that with.” You say, before you can think about it, and Dean’s jaw twitches. 

He’s so fucking close. You can really smell that pine tree wash. Your heartbeat is in your ears, along with a strange rattle that’s bouncing around your skull with every heated thought—his hand wandering up your leg and between your thighs, his body covering yourself, his lips wherever the hell he wants them, as long as it’s on your skin—and most of your brain is just a haze of Dean. 

But you can’t move first. Things can’t change, when this inevitably ends. 

The rattling sound is getting too loud to just be the hunger, bouncing around your ribs.

“The heater is making noise again.” You whisper, and Dean licks his lips, his voice still low and hoarse. 

“It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “You fixed it.”

That is not a good enough reason for it to be fine, no matter how confident and smooth Dean says it. Even if it ignites in your lower gut, and spreads humid between your thighs. “But-“

“You want dinner?”

You frown. “It’s my night-“

“It’s fine.” He moves to his feet suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh- Pasta. And those frozen meatballs, we haven’t used them yet.”

“At least let me help.” You try to stand up, but Dean just blocks you, shaking his head. “Dean-“

“I got it, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t argue with him after that. Not because he’s right—he’s not—but because you’ve forgotten how to walk. Or talk. Or do anything at all. 

Baby.

Dean called you baby. 

———

He doesn’t do it again. Not for the rest of the night, or in the morning. The next day is mostly spent making up a new card game, that’s mostly based on you and Dean yelling at each other, and trying to steal cards. At one point he tackles you, starting a mock wrestling match, and it’s like being tossed into a wildfire. You giggle too much. Give in too fast. 

Dean stands abruptly, and goes to the bathroom for twenty minutes after that. 

You don’t think that’s about you. Not when he immediately drags you to your feet and announces that he’s ready to learn how Zodiac signs work. If he was pissed at you—if something had changed—he wouldn’t be talking to you at all. But he doesn’t move from your side for the rest of the day.  

So the heat doesn’t die. 

Not until you crawl into bed, and the heater stops rattling.

Stops all together. 

And everything starts to freeze. 

For the first hour, you try to just bundle yourself as tight as you can, burrowing yourself in the blankets and curling up in a ball. But the temperature drops faster and faster, and these are motel sheets. Thinner than they should be, a little itchy, and not made to withstand the cold of a blizzard. Your fingertips start to go numb, and you can feel the cold almost in your bones, until you have to clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering. 

Dean’s snoring soundly, in his own bed. You don’t even think he’s realized how cold it’s gotten. 

But the man runs like a furnace. A warm, big furnace that could wrap around you, and make you warm, so fucking warm- 

You sit up, and stare at him in the dark. Just as handsome as always, with all the panes of his face cast in sharp long shadows that only make him more beautiful. You could easily lose yourself kissing along his jawline or running your finger through his hair. Sitting in his lap and pressing your face into his chest, just feeling him until the whole world is lighter.

And this isn’t about that. 

It can’t be. You roll out of bed—keeping the blankets wrapped around you—and this isn’t about how you’re in love with Dean. If it becomes that, you’ll spiral into what every single brush of his skin and breath means. You’ll stare at him all night instead of sleeping, and he’ll notice, and you’ll ruin everything. 

So it’s just about heat. 

You nudge his arm, and drop your voice to a loud whisper. “Dean.”

He grunts, and you sigh, poking him again. 

“Dean.” 

He rolls over, making a low sound like your name, and his hand rests over yours as his eyes flutter. He looks so comfortable. Peaceful. At complete ease, in a way you’ve almost never seen. 

It’s so fucking selfish to wake him up, just for you. 

But another chill runs through your body, and you don’t have another choice. 

“Dean.” You shove him gently, and he makes an adorable grumbling sound, slowly opening his eyes. 

“What- What’s’a matter.” He frowns around the dark, then up at you. His hand over yours tugs you a little closer.

It doesn’t mean anything. 

“I’m cold.” You whisper, he frowns, and this was stupid. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I just- I’ll go back to bed-“

“Wait, just-“ Dean pulls you back with a small yelp, and his hand rests over your brow. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re freezing.”

“I- I know.”

“Well, we gotta-“ He cuts himself off, scanning over you carefully as his nostrils flare. 

You just stare at him back, and whatever he can see on your face, it’s what he wants.

Dean gives you a tight nod, and throws open his blanket. “C’mere.”

“No- It’s okay- I’ll be fine-“

“You’re already not fine-“

“But you don’t have to-“Dean grunts your name, and it’s a good thing he can’t see the flush of your cheeks. “Get in the fuckin’ bed. Please.”

Please.

He did say please.

You crawl onto the mattress, and before you can build any sort of safety barrier between your bodies, Dean’s pulling you right into his chest. And that’s enough to make the heat spike and return, stronger than before. But then he bows his head so his lips brush over your hairline, and his hands dive just under your shirt to rub your skin, and his legs tangled with yours until all you can feel is Dean. 

Hot. 

So fucking hot, you’re worried you’re going to evaporate and turn into nothing but steam. 

“Relax.” He mutters, deep and right in your ear, and you almost go limp in his arms. “There you go. Warmer?”

You hum—speaking feels like a taller order right now—nodding against his shoulder, and Dean lets out a slow breath. 

“Good. Go to sleep, sweetheart, I’ll fix it for you in the morning.”

He’ll fix it. For you. Dean will fix it for you. 

That’s about you. 

And he’s fixing it now. But not in the way he probably thinks. 

You’re warm, but you can’t fall asleep. Also you can think about his Dean’s fingers, brushing over your spine and spending smaller, pleasurable shivers through your body. His knee is pressed far too close to the painful ache between your legs. His breath his fanning over your brow, and he’s wrapped an arm around you to pin you right against him. Every inch of your body feels alight, just in his presence. The heat between your legs is almost painful, and when you rub your thighs together, you can feel your arousal.

You’ve never been hotter in your life. You’re on fucking fire, trapped in Dean’s everything, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to do anything but memorize him. The way his body shifts, how it feels to be swimming in him, and the feel of his strength keeping you so tight. 

You can hear his heartbeat.

It’s faster than you thought it would be. 

And when you wiggle in his arms a little, trying to get more comfortable, his fingers curl on your back and he holds you tighter. 

“Don’t move.” He almost growls in your ear, and you swallow.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he grunts, the sound vibrating through your whole body. “My leg is falling asleep.”

He moves you without another word, but the friction just makes you hornier. And now his lips are pressed against your neck, making your core molten and forcing a soft, high sound from your throat. 

Dean tenses around you, immediately pulling away and readjusting you again, but you don’t get the chance to over think it. 

Because you feel it, first. 

His erect cock, pressed right over your pussy. 

You lean back to stare at him, your mouth hanging open, and Dean looks at you like he’s looking at the sun. His jaw is clenches, his features blown out with hunger, and his fingers on your spine have started a soft, slow dance that makes you arch into his touch. 

His eyes flick down to your lips, and then expression he gives you is almost pleading. His thumb traces over the shape of your lower lip as you try to remember how to speak, or move, or do anything. 

Then he mutters your name, dropping his brow against yours, and you grind fully into his knee. 

“God, fuckin’-“ Dean groans, his lips so close you can almost feel them. “Tell me I can, baby. Please. Let me- Fuck-“

You can’t remember how to speak. 

But Dean’s knee pressed right against your clit, and it jumpstarts your memory of how to move.

You grab his face, and slam your lips over his. He responds in a second, flipping you flat on your back and dropping his hips, keeping you pinned beneath him. He’s rough, hot and wet and desperate, with grabbing your jaw and angling it back, using his tongue and lips and teeth until you’re slack in his hands. 

He pulls back suddenly, examining you for a second before starting to kiss on your neck. Sucking small spots that feel like flares, sparking through your body and making you squirm with a desperation for more. 

“Dean-“ You gasp, tugging at his hair as you try to spread your legs. “I- I need- Dean-“

“I know.” He growls against you, his teeth grazing over a soft spot, and you arch off the bed with a high whine. His free hand finds its way between your legs, cupping your pussy over your clothing, and you gasp, wiggling until his palm is pressed against your clit. “Heard you callin’ for me last night, baby. Christ, you have no goddamn idea how much I- Fuck-“

You start to grind into him, and Dean rises over you, something like awe written all over his face. 

“That bad, huh.” He mutters, and you nod weakly. “You want me? Gonna let me warm you up?”

You don’t know why he’s doing this. Don’t know what it will bring in the morning. 

All you know right now is that Dean’s pulled your pants down, and is teasing your slit over your underwear with two broad fingers. That he’s above you, and looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

So you nod, letting your brain turn into only a fog of Dean and good, so fucking good.

And Dean grins. 

A sharp, almost predatory grin that makes your breath hitch in your throat, and your hips jolt as he flicks your clit. He gives you a deep, heavy kiss, pressing his tongue between your lips and down your throat, all while circling his thumb right around your clit, and you’re melted within seconds. 

“Can you say it?” He drawls, his lips still brushing right over yours, and you just blink at him through the daze. “Say it, baby. Tell me what you want.”

He rests his thumb right over your clit, his fingers playing with the wet spot on your panties, and you just manage to whine out what he wants to hear. 

“Touch me.” You gasp, and he chuckles, giving you a soft, rewarding kiss. 

“Good girl.” He hums, and you don’t even have time to register how that makes your moan before Dean’s moving. 

Your shirt gets pulled over your head, as he kisses down your neck and over your shoulders. Dean makes a small stop at your tits, taking one in his hand to palm and knead, the other being almost attacked by his mouth. Licking and sucking and kissing everywhere he can reach, before pulling your nipple between his teeth. He groans as you shiver and writhe below him, switching his attentions until you’re flushed and tugging at his hair, silently pleading for more.

He hums, kissing over the curve of your breast before continuing down. Under the covers where you can’t see him, making every single touch even more electric. Your eyes close as he gently works over your stomach abdomen, gasp when he nips at your inner thigh, and fist the sheets as you try to guess where he’s going to be next. 

Dean kisses your clit softly, over your panties, and he squeezes your ass as he slowly pulls your hips off the mattress. 

You hold your breath, when you feel the cool air hit your dripping cunt. 

And Dean doesn’t move right away. 

His breath is warm over your pussy, his stubble brushing sensitive skin as he kisses your thigh, but he’s not touching you. All you’re getting is his hands on your ass, the phantom feelings when he’d been before, and it’s starting to make you go cold again. He could not like what he sees. You might have pushed this—whatever the hell this is—too far, and he’s going to come up and tell you this was a mistake- 

Dean licks a rough stripe up your pussy, and you almost fly off the bed. His arm plants over your lower stomach, pinning you to the bed as he swirls his tongue around your clit, and pinches your ass gently. You flop back down with a deep breath, shooting a hand under the covers to tug at his hair—unsure if you’re trying to move him away or urge him on—and Dean moans against your pussy as he starts to eat you out like a man starved. Sucking your clit and rapidly flicking his tongue until you’re panting, before starting to lick your pussy as a feverish speed. 

You never know where he’s going to be next, and it’s driving you out of your mind. It doesn’t take long for you to feel that coil in your gut tightening, set to snap any second, and Dean seems to know that. His hand on your ass rolls and squeezes as he tongue fucks and licks you, his arms holding you firm against his mouth. Every yank of his hair only makes him groan, and the sound vibrates in your pussy, making your eyes roll back in your head. 

“Dean.” Your voice is high, almost whiny, and Dean hums. “Please, I- I’m going to-“

He presses his tongue flat over your clit, shoves two fingers into your pussy, starting to pump them at a brutal, rapid pace, and your mouth falls open as the heat flood through you. You see white, your thighs clenching around Dean’s head and toes curling as he eats you out through the orgasm. 

Dean gently pries your legs away, as you float back down, and presses an almost mockingly sweet kiss over your clit—making you shudder in his hands, and earning you a second one—before shuffling up your body. 

You stare at him, as he reappears from under the covers. His chin is shining with the wetness from your pussy, and you take a ragged breath as he wipes it with his thumb, and hold your gaze as he sucks it clean. 

“I-“ You take another breath, almost grabbing at the air to try and get him up, with you. “Dean, Dean-“

He crashes up, angling his lips over yours for a sloppy, open-mouth kiss, and you moan, tangling your fingers in his hair. You can taste yourself, on his tongue, and just like that you need more. 

You need to taste him. 

Dean pulls away first, resting his brow against yours with a wide grin. 

“Hi.” He mutters, and there’s something soft in his voice you didn’t expect. “Anyone ever told you how good you taste, sweetheart?”

You flush, fingers curling on the nape of his neck. “No.”

He hums, giving you another soft kiss on the nose. “Well, you do. Taste like fuckin’ heaven, make so many pretty sounds.” He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and grins when you squeak. “So sensitive, baby. Even better than I imagined.” 

You blink at him, your sex-addled brain not really able to understand what he meant by that, so you just say the only thing you can think of. 

“You’re really good at that.”

He gives you a look that’s awfully close to pride, and kisses up your neck, stopping to whisper in your ear. 

“Easy when I got such a pretty fuckin’ pussy to worship.”

You take a sharp breath, and Dean trades it with his own, almost pushing his tongue fully down your throat. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to mark you, or maybe just fuse you together. 

You really wouldn’t mind that. 

But you have something else to do first. 

“Dean,” you whisper, and he pulls back with a tight expression. 

“What’s-“

“I wanna put it in my mouth.”

You say it fast, before you can lose confidence. Dean stares at you for a long beat after, his eyes dark and jaw clenched, and you suck on your lower lip, trying not to focus on how his cock is pressed against you. It feels thick. Big. You need it. 

“Please.” You add, and Dean’s eyes flash, his voice hoarse. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to-“

“I want to.” You manage to push up on your elbows, and Dean swallows. “Please, Dean, I- I want it so bad-“

He slams you back down into the bed with a kiss, and you grab his face between your hands. You want to feel him. Have this passion branded into you, until you can feel it forever. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing a softer kiss to the side of your mouth. “You wanna suck my cock, baby?”

You nod, and Dean hums, leaning back to give you an almost strict look, after. 

“I’m not comin’ in your mouth. If I finish, it’s in you.” He pauses, then adds. “Long as that’s- I don’t wanna make it something you gotta give me, just like- Head would be awesome-“

You rise up to meet him this time, hooking your arm fully around his neck and cutting him off with another kiss. 

“I’m on the pill.” You say, nipping at his lower lip. “And I- I’d like you to- Do that.”

Dean looks like he just won the lottery. You even get one last kiss, before he’s flipping you over and helping you settle between his legs. He is big. Mostly thick, but still big. And pretty.

You want to choke on him. 

Dean smirks at you as he lazily strokes himself. “Like what you’re looking at, sweetheart?”

Somehow, that gives you whatever little jump you needed to move. You roll your eyes, swat his hand away, and take him into your mouth in one, quick movement. Dean grabs your hair with a grunt, as his cock bumps against the back of your throat, and you take what you can’t fit in your free hand. It’s easy to set a pace, rubbing his cock as your tongue swirls and you suck him off like he’s candy. He’s heavy and perfect on your tongue, and even moan of your name only makes you speed up. You hum around him, grinding your hips into the sheets, and Dean makes the most animalistic sound you’ve ever heard. 

His hips jerk, making you gag, and he tries to pull back. 

You squeeze his leg, and go faster. Faster. He’s twitching in your mouth and saying your name like a prayer, and- 

Dean yanks you off with a grunt, and you giggle as he drags you up his chest, glaring at you with a lustful, dark expression. 

“You think this is funny, baby?” He mutters, and you smile at him, nodding. 

His lips twitch, and he reaches up to grab one of your breasts, smirking when your breath catches in your throat. 

“You want to fuck you?”

“Yes.” You whisper, and Dean hums. 

“Gonna be a good girl for me?”

You nod, and Dean’s hand trails between your thighs, slowly circling your clit until you’re grinding on his abs, nails digging into his chest. 

“Felt how tight you were.” He says under his breath. “But you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart. Think you can take it?”

A whine leaves you, and Dean chuckles, the sound rolling through your cunt.

“Yeah. You can take it.”

He picks you up, and your mouth falls open as you’re driven slowly down onto his cock. The stretch burns, but it’s so good. Dean lets out a deep moan as he bottoms out, and he doesn’t waste any time. He guides you up and down, helping you bounce on his dick, and you try to roll to meet him but you’re alight, high on the feeling of him dragging every needy spot inside of you, gasping whenever he slams you down and you feel fuller than even in your life. Dean slams up to meet you, every time, and you arch in his hands, starting to set your own, desperate pace of grinding on his dick.

Dean groans, and he looks at you under hooded eyes, hands starting to roam and grope anywhere they can find. You roll your hips and he grabs your throat, hissing when you clench around him. Dean starts to jackhammer up into you, and you whimper as he hits impossibly deep, squeezing hard. He sits up, taking your breast back into his mouth, and you yank on his hair, trying to warn him that you’re close. You can’t remeber how to do anything but whimper his name, though, and he somehow understands. 

Dean sucks on your neck as he starts to tap on your clit, and you go slack in his arms, trying to fight it off. 

“Come on,” He growls, pressing down hard as he slams up. “Give it to me baby, fucking cum on my cock-“

You gasp, as your orgasm crashes into you. Stars dance behind your eyes as white-hot pleasure washes through your body, and Dean gives you one last, bruising kiss as he groans your name with his own release. It paints inside of you and sends you over the edge one last, shivering time, and you whine as he stills inside of you. 

And this doesn’t feel real. 

It’s the type of heat that feels like steam. Like a drug. As if, when Dean kisses your brow and pulls out, it could only be a dream. 

You’re too fucked out to think about it. You can only let Dean move you around—clean up, bathroom, back to bed—in a trace like state, before you’re tucked back into his chest. In his bed. 

Warm. 

You drift easily off into sleep with your body spent, and you’re so easily, happily, perfectly warm.

———

The world is slow, when you open your eyes. There’s a deep comfort you haven’t felt in a while, a comfortable warmth settled in your body—not wired, not goin to burn you, but just peaceful—and you take a deep breath, settling into the covers. 

Dean groans, and his lips brush over your ears. He shifts behind you, tugging a little tighter against his chest. 

You still. 

His chest. His arm, wrapped over your stomach. Because you slept with him. 

You fucking slept with him.

And he’s still here, in the morning. Still holding onto you. When you roll over, his features are relaxed, and his mouth is hanging open as he snores. His chest rumbles with each breath, and his fingers trail over your waist in his sleep, and you slept with him. 

You can’t stay here. In his arms. You don’t want to sit in it too long, let yourself get too high on the smell and feel of him around you, then have him wake up. Stare at you, then jump away. Tell you this was just a casual thing, you’d just been stuck together too long, and this doesn’t change that you’re just friends. You’ll have to pinch yourself, to stop from crying. And then the car ride back will suck, and Sam will come home and notice things are weird, and you’ll have to stop yourself from crying again.

It’s easier, if you just pretend nothing happened. Nothing will actually change. Your heart will remain in its fragile shape—made like glass, so fucking easy for Dean to shatter—and Dean won’t have to go to the trouble of rejecting you. 

So you, very slowly shift your way out of his arms. It takes longer than you thought it would. Dean keeps pulling you back, and grumbling in his sleep, and at one point his morning wood ends up pressed right against your bare ass, and you have to take about fifty deep breaths. 

But you manage. With a lot of help from the sheets, stuffed into his arms as you move away, you get out of the bed. 

Take a shower. Wrap yourself in blankets and layers, because the heater is still broken. Make coffee. 

Drift through the early morning, trying to think about anything but the thing. If you think about it, you’ll start crying all by yourself. 

And when you look out the door, it’s a small blessing. 

You won’t have to think about this at all. The storm has stopped. Someone cleared the roads, last night. 

You and Dean can leave. 

Dean groans your name, a few hours later, when he wakes up. Shoots upright with his gun, when he realizes you’re not in bed with him. 

“Over here.” You say, rubbing your hands against the quickly cooling coffee, and Dean grunts. 

His eyes still aren’t in total focus. He’s rubbing his face, his hair spiky and the sheets pooling around his lap. You have to stare at your coffee mug, because now all you can think about is how those abs had felt flexing under your fingers, how  his chest had looked above you, heaving as you sucked his cock- 

“What’re doin’ over there?” He mutters your name, and the heat isn’t need anymore. It’s prickling. Sore. You just want to leave this behind. To give him the out he’s probably looking for, and not think about how it’s not you. Dean doesn’t regret sex with you.

He just doesn’t want to do any sex that leads to expectations in the morning.

“It’s safe to drive.” You mutter, glaring at a carving of a flower Dean did on the table. It’s making you think about his hands. On your tits, holding your neck, inside of you. Focus. “Heater’s broken. We should probably go.”

Dean stares at you. You can feel it. And when you look up, there’s an expression you’ve never seen before. You don’t even know how to read it. His face is tight, but his brows are relaxed, and his mouth is open. It’s not even there long enough for you to analyze it. Dean just shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, and stands up. 

You flush, biting your lip and looking back to the table. His cock is hanging between his legs, and you can still taste him, still feel him when you shift in the chair, and it’s going to maybe haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Right.” Dean mutters—not seeming to notice how you’re squirming in the chair—and you can see him pulling on his boxers in your periphery. “We should. I’ll start packing-“

“I already did everything.” You tilt your head to the couch, where you’d hauled the bags. “You just- Have the keys. And I need your help carrying them.”

He snorts, voice dry. “What, you gonna take off with the money?”

You frown at him. “We don’t have any money.”

“It’s- Never mind.” Dean shuffles to the bathroom. “Gonna take a leak. Get dressed. Then we’ll leave.”

You don’t know why he’s saying it like that. He wanted to leave. He wanted to beat the storm in the first place. And this has been perfect, this feeling of peace with him you haven’t known in years, but if you were still stuck here that would have to change. He wouldn’t have this clean, neat out. 

But it feels like he’s pissed at you. You’re not trying to talk to him, but he’s not trying to talk to you. Dean almost stomps out of the bathroom, grabs the bags, and hauls them outside without a glance in your direction. While you go to the front to turn in your key, he walks a pace behind you. When you grab a blanket from the trunk and slide into shotgun, he doesn’t tease you about being cold. 

Dean glances at you, his jaw ticks, and he starts the engine. It warms up quickly, but you can’t really feel it. Your fingers are still numb. Your heart feels like it’s going too fast and too slow, all at once. 

There’s only that hot, uncomfortable prickling sensation, and pure fucking cold.

Dean’s not moving at all. Not driving away, and leaving this all in the dust. He’s just drumming on the wheel, glaring out the windshield, and pressing his lips tight together.

He’s going to tell you no anyway. You did so much to avoid it, to get out before the change could sink and stick, but he’s just going to do it here-

“I just-“ He takes a long breath, and you swallow. “Before we go, you gotta tell me, sweetheart. Are we locking it?”

“Are we-“ You blink at him. “What.”

“Locking it.” He grunts, giving you firm, almost heavy look. “This. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Oh. 

You don’t want to lock it. You don’t want to trap it and push it down, because it’s just going to bubble up and you’re going to explode. 

But you don’t want things to change. 

“If that’s what you want.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low, dry laugh. 

“Yeah. Alright.”

It doesn’t sound alright. He sounds pissed, and tired, and he’s still not looking at you, but he usually looks at you all the time. Maybe he’s never going to look at you again, maybe your friendship is going to melt away with the storm if you don’t-

“Is that what you want?”

You speak before you can think. But it gets Dean to look at you. 

Stare at you. 

With that same strange expression from before. Seeing it closer, for longer—his breathing heavier than it should be, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled—it looks almost broken. 

Almost as cold as you feel. 

And you shouldn’t speak again. You should just let it go. Speaking it will change everything, without any way to stop it. The water will run, and you’ll either be smoothed out and locked into the riverbed, or you’ll be swept away with the current. 

But everything has already changed. Dean’s never not looked at you for so long. You’ve never felt this hot discomfort around him. 

So you take the leap. 

“I- I don’t want it.” You whisper, and his jaw ticks. “I want it to be more. I want to go back to bed, and I want to wake up next to you, and I want you to pee with the door open and make up stupid games together and order me cherries- Everything else we’ve always done but you kiss me after. Like- I cut out paper stars and give them to you and you kiss me, and you take a shower, and I kiss you, and you keep making me breakfast but now it’s just me-“

“It’s always just you.” Dean grunts, and you blink. 

“What?”

“Breakfast.” He mutters, still staring at you. “I don’t really make Sam breakfast.”

Oh. “Oh.”

Your voice is barely a breath, and Dean chuckles. 

“Yeah, and, uh-“ He clears his throat, his ears going red again. “You’re the sex. The one I’ve kinda- Since I freakin’ met you, I- Yeah. So, guess I got two bucket lists this week.”

He gives you a small, crooked grin, and it’s like a spark in your chest. Warm. Bright. 

Maybe guiding you to something really, really good. 

“You know the bar we went to?” You say carefully, just because you have to be sure. “The girls who tried to flirt with you?”

“Not really.” Dean shrugs, and that just makes the spark start to catch fire. “What about them?”

“In the bathroom, I heard them talking, and-“ You give him a tight, nervous smile. “They thought you were my boyfriend. Because of how you look at me. Like you- As if you love me.”

You expect him to dismiss it. To say he has feelings you, but avoid the L word. To awkwardly tell you he just wants to keep having sex, and the cowgirls were just drunk. 

But he doesn’t. 

Dean just grins at you. 

The exact way he always has. 

“Y’know, Sammy says I do that.” He twists to fully face you, his fingers still drumming on the wheel. “Said it was obvious. So obvious I needed to man up and tell you out loud. But you never acted like you could see it, so I guessed he was just being a bitch. But I guess that’s kinda the only face I make, when I’m looking at you. Guess I can’t blame you for that one.”

He gives you a smaller grin, raising his brow, and you breathing heavy through your nose. 

Obvious. 

It’s been obvious. 

And he’s- He’s not say-

“Dean.” You whisper, leaning forward until your hand is braced on his knee. “Do you-“

“Yeah.” His voice is low, but not like it’s secret. Like he’s telling you something so critically important, it has to be said slow and deep, just to make sure you understand. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Dean’s jaw twitches, and his eyes flick down to your lips. “Can I kiss you, then? Whenever I want?”

You nod, and Dean crashes forward. It’s slow, this time. With music in your chest and a high feeling in your head, as Dean pulls you closer and hold your face like it’s something priceless. There’s no rush, to try and imprint yourself upon each other. You’re already molded into him, and he’s already branded all over you. 

And things have changed. 

But you’re never going to go back. 

End Note: Thank god for that snowstorm. I choose to believe Sam summoned it to trap them together.

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[wvffles]

sooooo good <333

𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙨

MOC!Dean/Girlfriend!Reader SMUT ;)

He’s on edge. Angry.

You can see it in the way he carries himself, the brutality he leaves behind on hunts. He’s become a perfect monster, and while you know John would be proud of his ruthlessness, you can’t bring yourself to be anything but worried.

You climb into the Impala after ridding a town of a small colony of ghouls. It was a brutal fight, and even if the hunt went about as well as any monster quest can go, you're covered in black tar, formaldehyde, and what might be half-digested body parts. And sweat from the humidity of hurricane season. You'd have preferred a hunt further north or west from the swamplands, maybe even both, but Dean's a machine seeking the soonest kill. You haven't been back to the bunker in two weeks.

Sam is back at home, pretending he's not chasing a cure for the Mark of Cain, or a lead on where the bastard himself is. It's just the two of you, which would normally mean sing-alongs and air guitar solos. Burger stands and Dean sneaking sips of your Diet Coke. And sex. Lots and lots of loud sex without the looming threat of Sam in the next room or the shower or wherever else he might walk in on you.

You don't speak. You pick at the edge of your black nail polish on your thumb, where it's already chipped and peeling away. The rain lashes against the windows, the wipers squeaking against the glass. They need to be changed out, along with fresh oil, but Dean's been distracted. That's why Baby's less clean than usual. You try to tidy up, but Dean's constantly on the move.

He barely sleeps. He drinks more than he eats, but at least beer has enough calories to keep him from losing too much weight. You try to get him to have a sandwich every now and again, but he's so far away.

Right now, he's covered in blood. It's coating his hands, his face, his stubbled jaw. There's monster goo on his boots, and it's probably being tracked into the car after him.

"You okay?" you ask.

He grunts.

"Dean, can we pretend to be normal people for two seconds and talk to each other? Couples do that."

"Nothing to talk about."

Not the way he mangled Abaddon's body after brutally killing her. Or the way he's dropped bodies left and right. No, Dean doesn't want to talk about that. You can see the cuts on his knuckles healing from last week, after he'd punched a man's face in and cut himself on the guy's teeth. Why? Because he'd whistled at you outside of the bar.

You were scared Dean might kill him. He would've, if you hadn't stopped him. For a good minute as you stood between him and a bloodied drunk lump, you couldn't recognize him. His eyes were black, like a fucking shark.

He sighs, rubbing his temple. "I can hear you thinking from here."

"Just... worried about you."

He scoffs. "I'm golden, baby. Just fuckin peachy."

"Is that how we're gonna do this? Pretending? Because it's not working, De. Not anymore."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I just want to know you're still..." Your voice cracks. Dammit. The tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes now, streaking paths in the blood and graveyard dirt on your face.

Dean hates it when you cry. It makes him soften immediately. His voice lowers, affectionate, gentle. Ready to make everything okay again, just to see you smile.

"I'm right here," he says. "Not going anywhere."

He drives you back to your motel, and you mourn the loss of him in the shower with you as you wash your hair. You're not used to showering without him. Ever since you got together, he's been begging to crash your showers, and now he's just... absent. Sitting at the table cleaning his gun.

When you emerge, clad in one of his flannels—red and black checkered, his favorite—and a lacy pair of panties, he doesn't blink. Just ruffles your hair absently and shuts the bathroom door behind him.

And he stays, for an abnormally long time. You approach the door carefully, knocking on it gently. "De? Baby?"

He doesn't answer. You try the knob, and it swings open.

He's in the shower. You can see his silhouette through the curtain, bracing himself against the wall. You realize he's crying.

"Dean?"

He sniffs. "Yeah. Just give me a second. I'll be out soon."

"Are you okay?"

His voice comes out so, so small. "No."

You pull back the curtain and look at him, your hand gentle on his cheek. "Come on, baby. The water's getting cold."

He nods. He climbs out of the tub and wraps a towel around his waist, scratching at his stubbled jaw. His eyes are rimmed with red, and his hands are bruised and scraped, but they're so gentle on your face.

He stares.

"What?" you ask, your cheeks hot. "You're staring at me."

"You're beautiful," he whispers.

You blush deeper.

"Sometimes, I get so... angry." He whispers the words like he's ashamed of them. He hates himself for saying it. "I'm in this blind rage, and all I want to do is break things. Hurt things."

You're afraid to ask, but you do anyway. "Me?"

"Never you," he says fiercely. "Never you. I'd never hurt you, baby."

"I know." You frame his cheeks with your palms, smoothing your thumbs across the bones. "You're good. That's what you are, Dean. Goodness incarnate."

"How can you say that?" he whispers.

"Because I know it."

"But..." He bites his lip, rolling it between his teeth. A line appears between his eyebrows, deep and frustrated. "But you don't know what it's like. This thing is evil." He jabs at the mark on his arm. "It makes me feel like I've got all this pent-up rage. And hunting helps, or at least it did at first, but now I'm so wound up that nothing feels real, and if I stay still for too long, I want to destroy everything. I got this pain inside me. Or maybe it's a hunger. It lives..."

You stop him. "Show me where it hurts, Dean."

He taps his chest, right above his heart. You press a kiss against his anti-possession tattoo, then lower, over his broken knuckles, then just above his heart along the corded muscle where he's got a nasty scar.

He flexes and unflexes his fingers. His cock twitches against the towel.

"Baby," he warns.

"Hm?" You reach over the towel, running along his hardening shaft.

"We can't," he says. "I don't trust myself to be gentle with you."

"So don't."

He chuckles darkly. "It's not that simple."

"How come?"

"Because I'm unstable. I could burn you, baby. And I don't wanna come close."

"I'm not going anywhere," you say. "You're a good man. The man I love? He's a good man. I want your rough edges, your anger, your darkness. Just as much as I want your joy and laughter and the best years we have together. I want you, Dean. All you are. All you'll be."

He kisses you hard. As hard as he can without knocking his teeth against yours. He inhales sharply as your mouths intertwine, his tongue pushing past your lips and devouring you. You tug the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. His cock presses into your stomach as he wraps his arms around you and holds you tight.

He pulls back, gasping. "Baby—"

"Let me make it better," you ask, your voice low and seductive. "You showed me where it hurts. I'll heal you. You say it's too loud in your mind? Use me to make it quiet."

He's fighting his desire. The war wages in his mind. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," you say firmly. "Use me, baby. Until the noise stops."

His towel hits the floor. Then you're hitting the bed hard enough to bounce lightly. The springs creak as he climbs on top of you, kissing your throat, licking your collarbones. He unbuttons the flannel one at a time, deftly working the clasps until your bare breasts are on display for him. He kisses one, then the other, tracing your nipples with his tongue before he frames one with his mouth and sucks deep. Hard. Just enough teeth to send a delicious sting down your spine and to your cunt.

The shirt falls away, and then your panties are gone too, and he's between your thighs, running his fingers through your folds and circling your clit with his thumb. You moan, desperately shaking, your muscles tightening as your core becomes nuclear heat. 

"Dean," you whimper. "Dean, this is about you—"

He raises an eyebrow. "You think I don't want this? Baby, I could die between these thighs of yours and call myself a happy man."

He licks a thick stripe up your pussy, gathering moisture from your slit as he makes his way to your clit. A slow circle, a tease. He sucks your clit between his lips, and your hips buck, grinding against his stubbled jaw. It almost hurts, just close enough to sting like electricity. You hope it scratches you up a little, scraping away at the soft skin of your inner thighs. You want Dean to leave his mark, like you're a territory.

He spreads your legs a little wider, pulling your thighs over his muscular shoulders. He devours your cunt like it's his last meal on death row, sucking and twisting and pulling at you in every spot he's memorized. He eats until he can barely breathe, suffocating himself against you, and when he comes up for air, his chin slippery, he shoves two fingers into your pussy. You squeeze him, gasping as he fucks you with his hand, grinning wickedly at your reaction. Then he's back between your legs, kissing and suckling, while he fingerfucks you. He scissors his index and middle fingers, twisting to reach that special, gummy spot that makes you explode. And then you do, coming hard and loud, gushing against him.

"Open," he barks.

You do. He shoves his fingers into your mouth, deep, and you diligently suck them clean. 

You know his eating you out was preparation, because he flips you on your stomach, pushing a pillow under the cradle of your hips before he hauls your ass in the air. His cock presses between your legs, catching moisture as he circles your center with the angry red tip of his length. He pushes in, just barely, and when you whine, he sheathes himself in a punishing thrust.

It hurts a little. Dean's always been big and girthy, and his size was definitely an adjustment when you first slept together. He splits you open on his cock, and you feel him all the way to your cervix as he pushes your face into the mattress and pile drives you into oblivion. Your toes curl as he buries one hand in your hair, pulling as he braces his other the headboard for leverage. Every thrust is bruising, his hips smacking into yours, your ass up as you become putty in his hands. He's a sculptor molding you from clay, pounding into your cunt without apology. 

But it feels so good. He's so big and you're so full, feeling him everywhere, from the crown of your head where his hand rests to the tips of your toes to the bottom of your spine. Your pleasure is a pinball reverberating through your body, and you're clutching the blankets for purchase, your cunt tightening as you get closer and closer to the edge.

He smacks your ass. You like being spanked, even if Dean normally prefers to be gentler with you. It makes you gush around him, and he does it again, a little harder. "Come on, baby. Come for me. Gotta feel you come on my cock. You can do it. Fuckin come."

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, and then you do. You fucking squirt as he manhandles you, ordering you to come as he practically splits you in half. You ache everywhere, even after the relief of your orgasm. It's greedy, how much you want him. You'll never be satiated as long as you're in love with Dean Winchester. You love and want him more every single day. 

"Gonna paint your little pussy. So fuckin tight. Squeezing me just right. Gonna fill you up until you're spilling out the sides. Make sure when you're sore tomorrow, you remember who you belong to."

He yanks your hair again, for emphasis. "Say it."

"I'm yours. I'm yours, Dean—"

"I want you to come again," he barks. "I know you've got it in you. Give me one more baby. Want you to come with me."

"I can't."

He flips you over, his pace barely broken. His fingers find your clit, stroking you just right. "That's it. Come on, baby. One more. Come for me."

You come so hard it hurts, but he's there to catch you. He spills inside of you, his spend dripping out of you as he pulls his cock out of your sore pussy. Then, he kisses your forehead, so sweet and soft. He comes back from the bathroom a moment later with a warm towel, wiping away the evidence of your shared releases. Then he grabs you some clean panties, dresses you in that same flannel. When he climbs into bed beside you, back in his boxers, you're half-asleep, spent. He pulls you into his arms, smoothing your sweaty hair off your forehead.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

You nod.

"I wasn't too rough?"

You laugh lightly. "It was incredible, baby. I'm alright. A little sore, but I like it rough." You like being fucked stupid. You feel safe with him, safe enough to let him dominate you. It's exhilarating and freeing. Being loved is being seen. 

He raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"I like everything with you." You touch his face, stroking his full bottom lip. "How's it feel?"

"Better," he whispers. "It's quiet now."

"Good."

"I need you, baby," he says. "To remind me where I am. Who I am. To light up the dark and pull me out of it."

"I'm right here," you promise. "Always."

He sighs, a shaky breath. His lips slide to your palm, kissing you gently there. "When this is over, I'm gonna marry the shit out of you."

"Is that a question?"

"It's a promise," Dean corrects you, so fierce. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

And as you fall asleep in his arms, you dream of babies with his eyes, and wrinkles, and a world where the two of you can relax in the world you've saved. It's been a beautiful fight, and it'll be a beautiful life. 

[wvffles]

ahh thank you so much !! 💗 it was so much fun working with all the prompts, it felt like I was completing a puzzle <33 (also pretty sure i've always felt better with guidelines lmao)

Ahhhh the color scheme came out so pretty!! 😍😍 But omg exes to "possibly" lovers?? Oh God you're gonna break my heart here, aren't you? 😭

thank you lovely !!! ♥️:')

honestly I was just trying to keep u on your toess lol :p

lol I felt this in my soul. My job has me waking up at what feels like the crack of dawn and my body is never ready 🙃 (Not to say my job is anywhere as demanding as a medical professional lol)

still very valid! 🥲 (i've been waking up for work at 3am for almost a year now and I still wake up tired lmao)

also I do feel like teachers fall into that realm of pressure at least, if that makes sense. (especially these days 😕)

OMG are we in 1x03/4??? Is this Drew?

loll I was thinking about it! I went back and forth, but ultimately I felt like with the pressure of the situation with blythe and the bomb threats, he wouldn't chicken out of a reconnection <3 (higher stakes and all)

omg not Over the Hedge! haha that movie was so funny - I remember it from my childhood. Also pobresita reader, feeling all grungy while this man stays looking fine even with a massive brain tumor 🫠🫠

it's one of my favorites lol, anytime I see a vending machine I think of RJ 🤣 and right! lucky for her he's just as smitten and thinks she's super pretty all the time 🥰

Ughhhh my heartstrings are already pulling. Their breakup must've been amicable if this is how they're greeting each other. I'm so curious why they split 💔 They're already so cute the way they're bantering lol

yeahh despite what led up to it their breakup wasn't a messy one, they still loved each other too much for that 🥲

and i'm so glad you liked their banter !! I struggle a bit with dialogue lol 😅

Also I love the "biting the lip gets his attention" trope. I melt for it every time 🫠 And really clever that she's the one who gets him the update on Blythe instead of Amber having the connection.

me too !!<3 also I wanted to figure out a way to incorporate the gif :p

since they did end up losing contact, I figured it was a good way to weasel her into his path, ah huevo lmao

Ayyyyy my heart hurts for her. 😭 And their argument and the reason why they broke up was so understandable. Both of them were like ships passing in the night, their schedules just not compatible at the time. But it also tracks that Mark didn't really try that much to salvage things, even though he claimed he was trying. It honestly didn't seem like it 😒

exactly :') and you're right! he got too consumed in both his work and his own head, hid behind the whole she'll be better off excuse :/ (which looking back now I probably should've hinted at better lmao my bad 😫)

Ok, I understand these heat of the moment words, but come back and apologize! Fight for her, you idiot!! 😫

mhmm, fue un cobarde :((

lmao I know you write from experience on this one 😆

these drivers I swearrrrrrrr 🤣

I so hope Mark reaches out to her again when the case is over, or even before then. He really needs someone in his corner, and I have a feeling reader being a nurse would definitely be willing to be that person for him ❤️

you get it 🫶🏽🙂‍↕️

Thanks again for diving back into the Summer Challenge for another prompt!! This one was so lovely to read 🥰

It has been such a fun event, thank you for letting me participate three times lolll <33 i'm really glad you liked it 🥹♥️♥️

side note; I do love how it turned out, but i'm not used to seeing so much red loll, I know it's one of your favorites though so I tired making it as nice as possible :]❤️

stained ᥫ᭡.

pairing: mark meachum x ex!reader

summary: it's already been a very long day, you're not sure if running into your ex is making it better or worse. (aka it turns out you might not be as over him as you thought)

tags/warnings: countdown season one spoilers, angst, language, hurt/comfort, fluff, exes to possibly lovers, hospital settings, medical talk, mentions of blood and violence, diverges from canon for the sake of plot, author still can't flirt but she's trying || 18+ only ⭑.ᐟ

word count: 2.6k 🥀

⭑.ᐟ notes: and another fic for @zepskies 5k event !! ♥️ this time I got a color prompt, gif check, and song!fic of her choosing for mark <3 (the song was actually new to me, this is what my angsty brain interpreted ❤️‍🩹) thanks for reading !! 🌹

‎♪ now playing; bridges burn — needtobreathe

mark masterlist ✎ᝰ. main masterlist

Despite all the advertisements, your redbull was in fact not giving you wings.

The fifth hour of your shift had you almost chugging an entire can, but it didn’t do much to ease your exhaustion. The blinding white beams on the ceiling certainly weren't helping with the ache behind your eyes either. You understand the logic of course, doesn't mean you have to like it. By now you thought you'd be used to it, spending almost the last decade of your life in buildings with the same nauseating lighting. Guess not.

At this point you're ready to fall face first into your bed and just hibernate, but duty always called.

Speaking of, there was suddenly a commotion at the entrance to the ER, the heavy doors slamming against the walls with a loud thud. You secure a fresh pair of blue gloves on before following after the paramedics and the charge nurse, catching the tail end of what was being described. "Object protruding from the side…major blood loss...federal agent…"

And just like that, your night got longer.

Most people think being an emergency room nurse is difficult, chaotic, stressful — all the blood, the intensity, the unpredictability.

And while they’re not wrong, some days you think the vending machine tries to be the hardest part of your day.

You can work with needles and blood and broken limbs no problem, but somehow you could never get the kit kat bar to fall from the corner of this godforsaken machine. B4. It better drop sooner rather than later before—

“You know I still don’t think hitting the machine’s gonna get you anything, besides a sore hand probably.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere, your frustrated quest for chocolate coming to a halt as you lift your head and look to your left, seeing none other than your ex.

Of course he’d catch you like this. Wrinkled burgundy scrubs, a semi loosened bun, eye bags the only accessory on your face and nearly busting into a vending machine like the damn raccoon from Over The Hedge. Meanwhile he looks like he’s headed to a photo shoot as the freaking model.

Nonetheless, you fully turn towards him and give him the best smile you could despite your fatigue, which honestly wasn't too hard when you were looking at him.

“Mark, hey. I don’t even— how are you? It’s been a while.” You stop in front of him, unsure if you should invade his space, but he doesn’t hesitate pulling you in.

Solid arms bring you flush against him, your own arms wrapping around his middle in a warm embrace. He rubs his hand up and down your back softly and you tuck your face in the crook of his neck, taking a moment to breathe him in as you both sway gently. It feels so comfortable, so safe.

Just the way you remember.

After a moment you pull away, catching the fond smile on his face before he clears his throat. "Yeah, it has. You uh, you look good. You work here?"

You grin slyly. "Nah I'm just practicing for halloween, getting the authentic experience you know? Costume feels better that way. Real stains and all, super hard to get out." He chuckles, playfully poking at your arm. "Very funny smartass, you know what I mean. Thought you were aiming for a different ward."

Your smile remains, but fades the slightest bit. "Yeah, slight change of plans.” He can see there’s more to it, but also notes the tension in your posture since he made the comment, so he doesn’t push any further. You clear your throat as casually as you can. “So what brings you to a hospital, you alright?” Your brows furrow, suddenly remembering where exactly you're running into him.

He decides not to unravel that thread completely, sticking with most of the truth. “Yeah no I’m fine, it’s my boss — he got attacked, was brought in a few hours ago. But the lady at the front desk won’t give us any information.” He sighs with frustration.

You bite your lip, not noticing how the action immediately draws his eyes to it. It was a nervous habit of yours, something you’d do anytime you felt anxious about something that wasn’t fully in your control — he remembers it all too well.

“Yeah that’s Betty, she gets pretty strict with the visitors.” You hum in contemplation. “Let me see what I can dig for you, I just need his name. Meet you back at the lobby for an update?” He resists the urge to hug you again, instead placing a hand on your shoulder — a grateful expression on his face. “Thanks sweetheart. His last name's Blythe.” You nod and smile softly, patting his chest twice before heading towards the doors requiring clearance, trying not to think of his eyes lingering on you as you walk away.

Lucky for him, you weren’t gone long. He darts up as soon as he peeps your figure coming across the corner, about ten minutes later. Amber looks at him, then at you, her eyes full of curiosity.

But there’s no time to question it as you walk up to them — to Mark. “It seems they’ve got him in stable condition. The knife didn’t pierce anything important, just caused a lot of ragged damage and blood loss, which was dealt with. He’s resting now, they should have a formal update for you within the next few hours they’re just monitoring him.”

They all let out sighs of relief, as if they were holding their breaths since the moment they got there. You don't blame them.

Mark thanks you sincerely, but you still notice the tick in his jaw, the way he's discreetly clenching his teeth. It was how he’d get when something was unsettling him, leaving him anxious, restless. So you tell him to give you his phone.

He hands it over with no hesitation, and Finau chuckles under his breath, the rest of the group being a little more subtle with their amusement. You save your number into it before handing it back to him. “You guys go do what you need to, I’ll give you a call with any updates on him, I'm still here for a while.”

He would kiss you right now if he could. It's seriously tempting. You always knew what he needed without him having to even say anything. Like you were in sync. He’s missed that — missed you.

The team thanks you before making their way out to their cars, Finau giving you a brief but warm hug of his own before heading out. Mark lingers behind. “Thank you, for uh, you know. I really appreciate it — appreciate you. And the team totally does too.”

You grin. “Always such a way with words Meachum.” He laughs gently, pulling something out of his jacket and handing it to you.

A kit kat bar.

“I’ll be back in a little while. Try not to break any machines, or more importantly your hand while I’m gone alright? Wouldn't want you to finish your shift as a patient.” He teases, making the smile on your face glow just a bit brighter.

“Copy that. You stay safe out there okay?” You’re still holding on to the hand that's giving you the chocolate, and he brings them both up to his lips, placing a brief kiss onto the back of yours, surprising you both. He did it before he could even think twice about it, a force of habit, that was something he’d always do to reassure you before he'd leave for work.

His cheeks tinge slightly with embarrassment, but despite your soft shock you’re still smiling at him. Deciding to ease his overthinking, you kiss his cheek in return. His shoulders relax (although his cheeks are now blushing furiously) and he laughs lightly. “Yes ma'am.”

There was so much you both wanted to say, but there were things that needed to get done. So for now you part ways, anticipating the next time you meet again.

The rest of your shift went by in an exhausting blur.

A couple of car accident victims, a kid who broke his arm riding a skateboard (or, falling off of one rather), two heart attack victims weirdly enough, and a fight that ended with a screwdriver jammed into a guy's hand (though based on his dickish attitude, you were certain he deserved it).

Despite all the chaos, your mind kept drifting back to Mark.

It had been great with him, an instant connection that transpired through the years. By the third year together, he'd practically been living with you at your cozy apartment. Things didn't start to change until you finished school and started your first year of residency, which was also the first year Mark started working on more important cases in his unit.

Your schedules would constantly separate you. A late night at work for you, an early day for him. An extended operation that kept him away for days, or hours worth of overtime spent at the hospital when you needed to cover. Your conversations became shorter, scarce even. Hardly any dinners spent together anymore, on top of the dates consistently being cancelled. You'd miss each other by the smallest difference, if you even managed to see each other at all.

And you were trying, when you noticed the decline. But it reached a boiling point when he missed your four year anniversary dinner, despite reminding him of the date months in advance, and reminding him again the week of. He promised he'd be there, no matter what.

But you were left sitting in a nice restaurant for hours, watching the staff get increasingly sympathetic. Countless of texts and an embarrassing amount of time later, you made it home. You didn't even bother taking off your makeup, or your beautiful red dress — a deep burgundy color made of the softest velvet material, molding perfectly to your every curve.

You just sat on your couch with a small pint of ice cream, heels long kicked off as you drown your sorrows in some good ol' rocky road, wondering how it got to this point. He didn't get home until almost midnight — the conversation that followed long overdue, but painful all the same.

"What I'm doing is important!"

"Oh and what I'm doing isn't?"

"That's not what I'm saying and you know that."

It was a battle of wills, both of you trying to get the other to see your point of view — to understand where you were coming from. But it wasn't about right and wrong, it was more about being pulled apart.

"Mark, It feels like I'm living with a ghost!"

"That's not fair, you're gone just as much as I am."

"But I'm trying—"

"And I'm not? I don't get to choose when people do bad things."

"Neither do I! But we do have a choice to show up for each other. I can't even remember the last time we had a decent conversation, or shared a dinner — I can't even think of the last time we went on a date. All I'm asking is you take us off the back burner, or else this isn't going to work anymore."

"Maybe it already isn't."

It had been agonizing to hear at the time, but he wasn't necessarily wrong. Neither of you were. You both simply became consumed by your work, leaving little to no room for your relationship. It wasn't malicious, only unfortunate. So you ended up parting ways.

Not due to a lack of love, but lack of time.

And as the years came and went, you could never forget him. The feel of his hands on your skin, the sound of his voice, the comfort of his presence. He'd left a stain on your heart that refused to go away.

Seeing him today was proof of that, it felt like when you'd first met. No worries, no conflicting schedules, no arguments — nothing besides the raw emotion that still seems to linger after all this time apart.

By the end of your shift, you were practically dead on your feet, clocking out after a long seventeen hours. (You had a few call outs to thank for that).

You did check in with Blythe's condition when you could, leaving Mark a few detailed and slightly awkward voice memos throughout the day. Ones he would keep for sure, unbeknownst to you.

After gathering your things, you start making your way to the parking lot outside. You were thinking of stopping by somewhere to pick up some food, but then the dreaded dilemma of sleep or eat came. If you ate first, you'd have to wait a little while before you sleep. But you're so tired. Then again, if you sleep without eating, you're gonna wake up feeling lightheaded, and off for hours.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice Mark was approaching you from slightly up ahead. "Sweetheart, you're gonna hurt yourself thinking that hard." You jump up in surprise, your free hand jumping to your chest to soothe the racing of your heart. "Shit, Mark give a girl a warning would ya?"

He hold his hands up, partly to help steady you as your brief spike of adrenaline starts to wear down and you sway gently on your aching feet for a moment. "Sorry. You alright?"

You hum softly. "Yeah no, all good. Just a bit worn out."

He nods gently. "You gonna be okay to drive? I can give you a ride home, no problem." He doesn't like the idea of you driving home so tired, it's dangerous. Especially with the way LA drivers act like they're on the set of Tokyo Drift all year round.

You bite your lip again, and this time his gaze lingers on your lips long enough for you to notice. So you slip one of your hands into his, gathering the courage to say what you want. At least, you try to. "I don't mean to push or like, assume anything but, I'm just wondering If um, maybe you'd like to stay over for a little bit? If you want to of course I mean we did just run in to each other, and it's not for anything like, suggestive I mean I'm tried anyway and I've just missed your company you know, it's not really a big deal though if you have other things—"

To halt your rambling he brings his hand up to cup your jaw, the words fizzling out on your tongue. And for a moment you both just, look at each other. You admire the soft lines of his face, the slight gleam in his eye, the affection radiating from him.

He regretted the way things had ended for so long — especially after his diagnosis. The harsh realization that time is truly never promised, only borrowed, so you have to make the most of it while you can. He also thinks of the case he's working, of what just happened to his boss, of the threat they're trying to stop. Life's too short.

With that in mind, he brings his other hand up, both hands now gently cradling your face. He looks back and forth between your eyes and your mouth, waiting for you to push back, to say no.

Instead you place your own hands on top of his forearms, a yearning in your eyes no amount of pleading could compare to.

So he closes the gap, bringing you close and molding his lips onto yours. You breathe him in, dropping your bag completely and wrapping your arms around his neck. He presses you against him, holding you steady. All the love, the compassion, the emotions both said and unspoken being poured into the kiss.

Eventually you have to pull back for air, but you don't stray far, leaning your forehead against his and closing your eyes.

You're not sure what's in store for you both, where things from here will lead, but you feel yourselves standing under the light of a few lessons learned.

And with that, maybe a new chapter can be written in an old story.

mark masterlist ✎ᝰ. main masterlist

⭑.ᐟ end notes: girl who's never had a red bull or a genuine romantic experience attempts to write about it, lmao. thanks for reading !! <3

[wvffles]

just some laughing Dean to brighten up your day ;)

[wvffles]

1x6 | 1x10

[wvffles]

stained ᥫ᭡.

pairing: mark meachum x ex!reader

summary: it's already been a very long day, you're not sure if running into your ex is making it better or worse. (aka it turns out you might not be as over him as you thought)

tags/warnings: countdown season one spoilers, angst, language, hurt/comfort, fluff, exes to possibly lovers, hospital settings, medical talk, mentions of blood and violence, diverges from canon for the sake of plot, author still can't flirt but she's trying || 18+ only ⭑.ᐟ

word count: 2.6k 🥀

⭑.ᐟ notes: and another fic for @zepskies 5k event !! ♥️ this time I got a color prompt, gif check, and song!fic of her choosing for mark <3 (the song was actually new to me, this is what my angsty brain interpreted ❤️‍🩹) thanks for reading !! 🌹

‎♪ now playing; bridges burn — needtobreathe

mark masterlist ✎ᝰ. main masterlist

Despite all the advertisements, your redbull was in fact not giving you wings.

The fifth hour of your shift had you almost chugging an entire can, but it didn’t do much to ease your exhaustion. The blinding white beams on the ceiling certainly weren't helping with the ache behind your eyes either. You understand the logic of course, doesn't mean you have to like it. By now you thought you'd be used to it, spending almost the last decade of your life in buildings with the same nauseating lighting. Guess not.

At this point you're ready to fall face first into your bed and just hibernate, but duty always called.

Speaking of, there was suddenly a commotion at the entrance to the ER, the heavy doors slamming against the walls with a loud thud. You secure a fresh pair of blue gloves on before following after the paramedics and the charge nurse, catching the tail end of what was being described. "Object protruding from the side…major blood loss...federal agent…"

And just like that, your night got longer.

Most people think being an emergency room nurse is difficult, chaotic, stressful — all the blood, the intensity, the unpredictability.

And while they’re not wrong, some days you think the vending machine tries to be the hardest part of your day.

You can work with needles and blood and broken limbs no problem, but somehow you could never get the kit kat bar to fall from the corner of this godforsaken machine. B4. It better drop sooner rather than later before—

“You know I still don’t think hitting the machine’s gonna get you anything, besides a sore hand probably.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere, your frustrated quest for chocolate coming to a halt as you lift your head and look to your left, seeing none other than your ex.

Of course he’d catch you like this. Wrinkled burgundy scrubs, a semi loosened bun, eye bags the only accessory on your face and nearly busting into a vending machine like the damn raccoon from Over The Hedge. Meanwhile he looks like he’s headed to a photo shoot as the freaking model.

Nonetheless, you fully turn towards him and give him the best smile you could despite your fatigue, which honestly wasn't too hard when you were looking at him.

“Mark, hey. I don’t even— how are you? It’s been a while.” You stop in front of him, unsure if you should invade his space, but he doesn’t hesitate pulling you in.

Solid arms bring you flush against him, your own arms wrapping around his middle in a warm embrace. He rubs his hand up and down your back softly and you tuck your face in the crook of his neck, taking a moment to breathe him in as you both sway gently. It feels so comfortable, so safe.

Just the way you remember.

After a moment you pull away, catching the fond smile on his face before he clears his throat. "Yeah, it has. You uh, you look good. You work here?"

You grin slyly. "Nah I'm just practicing for halloween, getting the authentic experience you know? Costume feels better that way. Real stains and all, super hard to get out." He chuckles, playfully poking at your arm. "Very funny smartass, you know what I mean. Thought you were aiming for a different ward."

Your smile remains, but fades the slightest bit. "Yeah, slight change of plans.” He can see there’s more to it, but also notes the tension in your posture since he made the comment, so he doesn’t push any further. You clear your throat as casually as you can. “So what brings you to a hospital, you alright?” Your brows furrow, suddenly remembering where exactly you're running into him.

He decides not to unravel that thread completely, sticking with most of the truth. “Yeah no I’m fine, it’s my boss — he got attacked, was brought in a few hours ago. But the lady at the front desk won’t give us any information.” He sighs with frustration.

You bite your lip, not noticing how the action immediately draws his eyes to it. It was a nervous habit of yours, something you’d do anytime you felt anxious about something that wasn’t fully in your control — he remembers it all too well.

“Yeah that’s Betty, she gets pretty strict with the visitors.” You hum in contemplation. “Let me see what I can dig for you, I just need his name. Meet you back at the lobby for an update?” He resists the urge to hug you again, instead placing a hand on your shoulder — a grateful expression on his face. “Thanks sweetheart. His last name's Blythe.” You nod and smile softly, patting his chest twice before heading towards the doors requiring clearance, trying not to think of his eyes lingering on you as you walk away.

Lucky for him, you weren’t gone long. He darts up as soon as he peeps your figure coming across the corner, about ten minutes later. Amber looks at him, then at you, her eyes full of curiosity.

But there’s no time to question it as you walk up to them — to Mark. “It seems they’ve got him in stable condition. The knife didn’t pierce anything important, just caused a lot of ragged damage and blood loss, which was dealt with. He’s resting now, they should have a formal update for you within the next few hours they’re just monitoring him.”

They all let out sighs of relief, as if they were holding their breaths since the moment they got there. You don't blame them.

Mark thanks you sincerely, but you still notice the tick in his jaw, the way he's discreetly clenching his teeth. It was how he’d get when something was unsettling him, leaving him anxious, restless. So you tell him to give you his phone.

He hands it over with no hesitation, and Finau chuckles under his breath, the rest of the group being a little more subtle with their amusement. You save your number into it before handing it back to him. “You guys go do what you need to, I’ll give you a call with any updates on him, I'm still here for a while.”

He would kiss you right now if he could. It's seriously tempting. You always knew what he needed without him having to even say anything. Like you were in sync. He’s missed that — missed you.

The team thanks you before making their way out to their cars, Finau giving you a brief but warm hug of his own before heading out. Mark lingers behind. “Thank you, for uh, you know. I really appreciate it — appreciate you. And the team totally does too.”

You grin. “Always such a way with words Meachum.” He laughs gently, pulling something out of his jacket and handing it to you.

A kit kat bar.

“I’ll be back in a little while. Try not to break any machines, or more importantly your hand while I’m gone alright? Wouldn't want you to finish your shift as a patient.” He teases, making the smile on your face glow just a bit brighter.

“Copy that. You stay safe out there okay?” You’re still holding on to the hand that's giving you the chocolate, and he brings them both up to his lips, placing a brief kiss onto the back of yours, surprising you both. He did it before he could even think twice about it, a force of habit, that was something he’d always do to reassure you before he'd leave for work.

His cheeks tinge slightly with embarrassment, but despite your soft shock you’re still smiling at him. Deciding to ease his overthinking, you kiss his cheek in return. His shoulders relax (although his cheeks are now blushing furiously) and he laughs lightly. “Yes ma'am.”

There was so much you both wanted to say, but there were things that needed to get done. So for now you part ways, anticipating the next time you meet again.

The rest of your shift went by in an exhausting blur.

A couple of car accident victims, a kid who broke his arm riding a skateboard (or, falling off of one rather), two heart attack victims weirdly enough, and a fight that ended with a screwdriver jammed into a guy's hand (though based on his dickish attitude, you were certain he deserved it).

Despite all the chaos, your mind kept drifting back to Mark.

It had been great with him, an instant connection that transpired through the years. By the third year together, he'd practically been living with you at your cozy apartment. Things didn't start to change until you finished school and started your first year of residency, which was also the first year Mark started working on more important cases in his unit.

Your schedules would constantly separate you. A late night at work for you, an early day for him. An extended operation that kept him away for days, or hours worth of overtime spent at the hospital when you needed to cover. Your conversations became shorter, scarce even. Hardly any dinners spent together anymore, on top of the dates consistently being cancelled. You'd miss each other by the smallest difference, if you even managed to see each other at all.

And you were trying, when you noticed the decline. But it reached a boiling point when he missed your four year anniversary dinner, despite reminding him of the date months in advance, and reminding him again the week of. He promised he'd be there, no matter what.

But you were left sitting in a nice restaurant for hours, watching the staff get increasingly sympathetic. Countless of texts and an embarrassing amount of time later, you made it home. You didn't even bother taking off your makeup, or your beautiful red dress — a deep burgundy color made of the softest velvet material, molding perfectly to your every curve.

You just sat on your couch with a small pint of ice cream, heels long kicked off as you drown your sorrows in some good ol' rocky road, wondering how it got to this point. He didn't get home until almost midnight — the conversation that followed long overdue, but painful all the same.

"What I'm doing is important!"

"Oh and what I'm doing isn't?"

"That's not what I'm saying and you know that."

It was a battle of wills, both of you trying to get the other to see your point of view — to understand where you were coming from. But it wasn't about right and wrong, it was more about being pulled apart.

"Mark, It feels like I'm living with a ghost!"

"That's not fair, you're gone just as much as I am."

"But I'm trying—"

"And I'm not? I don't get to choose when people do bad things."

"Neither do I! But we do have a choice to show up for each other. I can't even remember the last time we had a decent conversation, or shared a dinner — I can't even think of the last time we went on a date. All I'm asking is you take us off the back burner, or else this isn't going to work anymore."

"Maybe it already isn't."

It had been agonizing to hear at the time, but he wasn't necessarily wrong. Neither of you were. You both simply became consumed by your work, leaving little to no room for your relationship. It wasn't malicious, only unfortunate. So you ended up parting ways.

Not due to a lack of love, but lack of time.

And as the years came and went, you could never forget him. The feel of his hands on your skin, the sound of his voice, the comfort of his presence. He'd left a stain on your heart that refused to go away.

Seeing him today was proof of that, it felt like when you'd first met. No worries, no conflicting schedules, no arguments — nothing besides the raw emotion that still seems to linger after all this time apart.

By the end of your shift, you were practically dead on your feet, clocking out after a long seventeen hours. (You had a few call outs to thank for that).

You did check in with Blythe's condition when you could, leaving Mark a few detailed and slightly awkward voice memos throughout the day. Ones he would keep for sure, unbeknownst to you.

After gathering your things, you start making your way to the parking lot outside. You were thinking of stopping by somewhere to pick up some food, but then the dreaded dilemma of sleep or eat came. If you ate first, you'd have to wait a little while before you sleep. But you're so tired. Then again, if you sleep without eating, you're gonna wake up feeling lightheaded, and off for hours.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice Mark was approaching you from slightly up ahead. "Sweetheart, you're gonna hurt yourself thinking that hard." You jump up in surprise, your free hand jumping to your chest to soothe the racing of your heart. "Shit, Mark give a girl a warning would ya?"

He hold his hands up, partly to help steady you as your brief spike of adrenaline starts to wear down and you sway gently on your aching feet for a moment. "Sorry. You alright?"

You hum softly. "Yeah no, all good. Just a bit worn out."

He nods gently. "You gonna be okay to drive? I can give you a ride home, no problem." He doesn't like the idea of you driving home so tired, it's dangerous. Especially with the way LA drivers act like they're on the set of Tokyo Drift all year round.

You bite your lip again, and this time his gaze lingers on your lips long enough for you to notice. So you slip one of your hands into his, gathering the courage to say what you want. At least, you try to. "I don't mean to push or like, assume anything but, I'm just wondering If um, maybe you'd like to stay over for a little bit? If you want to of course I mean we did just run in to each other, and it's not for anything like, suggestive I mean I'm tried anyway and I've just missed your company you know, it's not really a big deal though if you have other things—"

To halt your rambling he brings his hand up to cup your jaw, the words fizzling out on your tongue. And for a moment you both just, look at each other. You admire the soft lines of his face, the slight gleam in his eye, the affection radiating from him.

He regretted the way things had ended for so long — especially after his diagnosis. The harsh realization that time is truly never promised, only borrowed, so you have to make the most of it while you can. He also thinks of the case he's working, of what just happened to his boss, of the threat they're trying to stop. Life's too short.

With that in mind, he brings his other hand up, both hands now gently cradling your face. He looks back and forth between your eyes and your mouth, waiting for you to push back, to say no.

Instead you place your own hands on top of his forearms, a yearning in your eyes no amount of pleading could compare to.

So he closes the gap, bringing you close and molding his lips onto yours. You breathe him in, dropping your bag completely and wrapping your arms around his neck. He presses you against him, holding you steady. All the love, the compassion, the emotions both said and unspoken being poured into the kiss.

Eventually you have to pull back for air, but you don't stray far, leaning your forehead against his and closing your eyes.

You're not sure what's in store for you both, where things from here will lead, but you feel yourselves standing under the light of a few lessons learned.

And with that, maybe a new chapter can be written in an old story.

mark masterlist ✎ᝰ. main masterlist

⭑.ᐟ end notes: girl who's never had a red bull or a genuine romantic experience attempts to write about it, lmao. thanks for reading !! <3

[wvffles]

awwwwwww 😭🥹💙💙

thank you so much lovely !!! 🥹🩵 I really appreciate you, no matter what’s goin on or how hard life is life-ing, you always bring a smile to my face 🤍🫂

Sam opened the door and made that long trek upstairs to the second floor. He found your unit through muscle-memory alone: 14B. His knuckles rapped on the chipped green paint, hesitating a breadth of a second when his more logical brain reminded him, it’s not too late.

period !!!!😭 you go comfort her right neowww ahi pobresita :’) I also appreciate that he called ahead lmao, I feel like blindsiding her again wouldn’t have been the move 😅

He couldn’t leave you again. Not before he tried to fix what he left bleeding and broken.

not before?? Sam don’t make me bring out a clown doll, do not leave that poor girl again 😫

I like how she stood as firm as she could, and it broke my heart how she was basically trying to tuck in to herself, like providing herself with the comfort she craves from him, ay Samuel por favorrrrrr 😭🥺

“But you left me,” you said, incredulous and angry still. “You brought me here, and you left me…s-scared and alone.”

deadasssssss 😔

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said, “from me. From everything else. I should’ve…done better. I should’ve ended this before it started.”

que no entiende ??? stubborn stubborn man, she loves youuuuu 🫠

You led him through the front door, letting your chance at recovery back in.

sooooo sweet, I love this line so much 🫶🏽

this reunion was so tender, I hope he gets it through his thick skull that she wants him, she wants him in her life, wants them to make it work just stop running away sammyyyyy :’)

you broke and mended my angsty heart lol, thank you again my friend !! :’)💙🩵

RECOVERY

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Summary: He didn’t deserve your forgiveness, but maybe he could help heal the part of you he left broken.

AN: Here’s the much requested sequel to Relapse. It's a little birthday present for my friend, @wvffles! Thanks so much for being you, Jules! I hope you have a wonderful day because you deserve this and so much more!! 💙✨💙

Word Count: 700

Warnings: Angst, implied PTSD and trauma, hurt/comfort

Yeah, he was fucking weak.

His shadow weighed heavy and long across the stoop of your apartment building. He’d already called you, told you he was coming.

If there was one thing that could be said of him, it was that he wasn’t a coward. But right now, he felt like one.

Sam opened the door and made that long trek upstairs to the second floor. He found your unit through muscle-memory alone: 14B. His knuckles rapped on the chipped green paint, hesitating a breadth of a second when his more logical brain reminded him, it’s not too late.

But when you opened that door. When he took in the familiar contours of your face, the eyes that used to smile for him before your lips did, now turned guarded and angry—he knew it was too late.

He couldn’t leave you again. Not before he tried to fix what he left bleeding and broken.

“Hey,” he said, barely recognizing the rasp of his own voice. You stood there, somehow both soft and defensive as your arms crossed over your tank top and an old gray flannel. The curves of your hips were draped by soft wool pajama pants and fuzzy blue slippers. He smiled slightly at the sight.

You hesitated, trying to find your words.

“I honestly…didn’t think you’d come.”

Sam caught your gaze, earnest with his hazel ones.

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t know,” you said, squeezing yourself tighter, as if you’d gotten yourself into the habit of holding yourself together. “What would that accomplish?”

He sighed, imploring you with your name. You shook your head.

“I just…I think about that night, and it still doesn’t make any sense,” you said. Every word began to shake as the memory of blood and laughter and teeth raked through your mind, tore at your skin and left you feeling flayed all over again. You clung to the door frame, just to steady yourself.

“I managed to live through a nightmare,” you said, in a small voice, quiet and raw. “The only thought I had left in my head was the hope that you’d find me. And you did. You saved me.”

You struggled on taking in another breath. The tears that stung like acid in your eyes finally brimmed over, a shaking hand held to your mouth.

Sam's eyes burned too. His insides shredded with every hitch of your voice. He was compelled to reach for you, but you took a warning step back. Your eyes met his.

“But you left me,” you said, incredulous and angry still. “You brought me here, and you left me…s-scared and alone.”

Sam’s internal war came to an impossible crescendo. It pounded in his ears, until it was suddenly silent. Clarity.

He couldn’t help but step into your space and gather you into his arms. You hesitated, a second where he thought you might push him away.

You grabbed onto his red flannel instead, in a desperate grip. You buried your face into his chest and shook with the force of your sobs.

“I’m still afraid,” you said, a broken admission. An unspoken plea.

Sam held you tighter with desperation of his own.

“I’m so sorry.”

Words he whispered into your hair, tangled in the strands along with his fingers, dedicated with his lips pressed to your temple.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said, “from me. From everything else. I should’ve…done better. I should’ve ended this before it started.”

You pulled away then, just enough to find his watery eyes with yours. Your lips trembled, but you shook your head in a soft denial.

He didn’t entirely know what it meant. He didn’t expect to be forgiven. He just needed you to understand…

Sam held your face tenderly, reverently, and he caught you in a kiss. Your eyes slid shut with a sigh, the tears slipping from your lashes, down your cheeks. You held onto him just as tightly, not willing to let go this time.

The silent demand of his lips against yours was a familiar roadmap, and it meant many things.

I’m sorry.

I’m here.

I love you.

You led him through the front door, letting your chance at recovery back in. 

AN: Short but angsty sweet! 💙

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