Iprobablyshipit91 Fic Recs

tuesdays can go to hell

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it nonny ! ❤︎

summary: trapped in a time loop, dean is forced to relive his worst nightmare—watching you die, again and again. will he find a way to break free, or is he doomed to suffer forever?

warnings: death, gore, angst, friends to lovers, based off of the tuesday episode!, slight jealousy, idiots in love, dean's personal hell, sad but has a happy ending!

word count: 9.7k (idk how to even defend myself anymore)

The first thing Dean hears is the soft crackle of static, followed by the unmistakable opening chords of Nirvana’s “Come As You Are”.

His eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep, and he groans, squinting against the bright, unforgiving morning light that seeps through the motel blinds.

The music was pretty familiar, comforting, and somehow just right for the moment but he shifts to glance at the clock on the nightstand, blinking as his eyes struggle to focus.

It’s early, but the time catches him off guard. And It’s Tuesday.

Dean blinks a few times, his mind still foggy as he processes the day. Something feels a little off, but he can’t put his finger on it. He leans back against the pillow, rubbing his face with one hand as he tries to shake the sleepiness.

Meanwhile, you’re already up, moving around the room. You adjust your jacket, grab your stuff, and pour yourself a cup of coffee. You catch his confused look and raise an eyebrow, a smirk forming on your lips as you sip from your mug.

“You look like you’ve been run over by a truck,” you tease, your voice light and playful. “C’mon, it’s just Tuesday. You planning to sleep all day or are you gonna join the living?”

Dean grins, though it’s more of a lazy smile. “I’m alive, sweetheart. Just… took me a second to catch up with the day.” He pushes himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Alright, alright, I’m up. But if I’m gonna survive today, I need coffee.”

You hand him the mug in your hands, and he takes a long sip. “Mmm. Best part of waking up,” he mutters, giving you a look as he takes in the rest of the room. “You sure you’re not secretly a caffeine dealer?”

You laugh and shrug, not bothering to hide the amused grin on your face. “I don’t know, maybe I should start charging you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, shaking his head as he stands up, stretching his arms over his head. “You’ve got me hooked, sweetheart.”

With one last playful glance, he walks over to his duffle bag, preparing to get dressed for the day.

You’re already halfway to the door, your voice carrying over your shoulder. “Hurry up, Winchester. That diner’s not gonna wait for us.”

Dean chuckles softly to himself, grabbing his clothes. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t get all impatient on me now.”

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As the two of you step through the diner’s squeaky door, the bell above chimes loudly, announcing your arrival.

The familiar scent of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee immediately hits you, making your stomach growl in anticipation.

Dean glances around, eyes scanning the nearly empty diner, the soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space. The early morning light filters through the fogged windows, casting a warm glow on the checkered floors and faded booths.

He’s about to make a joke about the place when he spots a man at the bar, clearly struggling.

The guy’s hunched over the counter, his fingers tapping nervously on the wood as he stares at the menu, brows furrowed in confusion. He looks like he’s caught between wanting to make a decision and just giving up.

In front of him, a waitress in a bright yellow uniform stands with a pot of coffee in one hand, looking unamused. “Can’t stay unless you order something, Cal,” she says, her voice sharp but not unkind. She doesn’t budge, eyeing the man with an amused glint in her eye as if she’s seen this exact scene play out a hundred times. "You know the rules."

“Some coffee,” the man finally mutters, his voice a bit defeated as he nods to the waitress. You and Dean share a quick look, both of you amused by his indecision. But with that, you make your way to an empty booth, the worn seats creaking slightly as you slide in across from each other.

You let out a quiet sigh, feeling the weight of the morning start to settle in. Your eyes drift upward to the menu posted above the counter, the chalky letters barely legible under the dim lighting.

A small smirk plays on your lips as you nod toward the menu. “Hey, Tuesday. Pig ‘n a poke,” you say, your voice light, a hint of teasing beneath it.

Dean’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, his gaze following the motion of your finger as it points to the menu above. He scans the words slowly, his lips parting slightly. “What the hell’s that supposed to be?” he mutters under his breath. He glances back at you, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a playful grin.

“Just sounds like something you’d like, Dean,” you shrug nonchalantly, your voice light and teasing.

But before you can say anything else, the same waitress from earlier approaches, her bright yellow uniform standing out in the dim diner light.

She stops at your table, notepad in hand, her pen poised and ready to take your order. “Are you kids ready?” she asks, her voice casual.

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply with a nod, your voice warm and friendly as you meet the waitress’s gaze.

“I’ll have the special, side of bacon, and a coffee.” You flash her a quick smile, then glance at Dean, a mischievous gleam in your eye. “And he’ll have the exact same thing.”

The waitress jots down your order with quick, practiced movements, her pen scratching against the paper as she nods in acknowledgment. She lifts her eyes from the notepad, offering you both a smile that’s a little brighter than necessary for the early morning.

“You got it,” she says, her tone light but efficient, before turning on her heel and walking off, her footsteps echoing.

“Ordering for me now, sweetheart?” Dean’s voice is laced with that familiar teasing tone, and he shoots you a smirk that makes your stomach do a little flip.

You roll your eyes, half exasperated, half amused by his constant subtle flirting.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice light as you meet his playful gaze. “I know what you like, and—” You pause, tilting your head and pointing up to the menu sign above. “That’s exactly what you would order.”

Dean’s lips curve into a soft smile as he shakes his head, clearly entertained by your confidence. His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than usual, something unspoken flashing behind them. You knew him so well, better than anyone ever had, and you were right. He would’ve ordered exactly that, no questions asked.

But there was more to it than just your perfect read of him. A swell of warmth fills his chest at the thought of how deeply you understood him, and for a brief moment, he can’t help but just stare at you—really look at you.

Your beauty wasn’t just in the way you looked, it was in the way you moved, the way you carried yourself with that quiet confidence, and the way your eyes sparkled whenever you teased him.

It left him breathless, like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t quite grasp.

Dean swallowed hard, his heart skipping a beat. He was a goner.

Completely head over heels in love with you, but the thought of telling you… it terrified him.

No, he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk ruining what you had, the friendship he cherished more than anything.

What if you didn’t feel the same way? What if, in the end, he lost you completely?

Those doubts plagued his thoughts, gnawing at him constantly. They clung to him like a shadow, keeping him frozen in place, preventing him from taking a chance, preventing him from telling you how deeply he really felt. The fear of losing you was far worse than never knowing if you felt the same.

“Alright, I’ve got this,” you said, breaking Dean out of his thoughts as you pulled a crumpled newspaper clipping from your bag. You spread it out on the table in front of him. “Dexter Hasselback. He was passing through town last week when he disappeared.”

Dean tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning the text. “Last known location?”

You nodded, your finger tapping the paper. “His daughter said he was on his way to visit the Broward County Mystery Spot.”

You reached into your jacket pocket, pulling out a small pamphlet and handing it to him. Dean took it, unfolding the glossy paper with a slight frown. His eyes skimmed the words, then froze, his eyebrows arching as he read aloud, “‘Where the laws of physics have no meaning?’”

He glanced up at you, a look of confusion flickering across his face. You shrugged, just as confused. “No idea what that’s supposed to mean,” you admitted, a hint of a frown on your lips as you glanced at the pamphlet again.

Before you could continue, the waitress returned, her presence interrupting the moment. She gently placed your coffee in front of you, the scent of it rich and comforting.

You smiled at her, murmuring a quick thanks as she set Dean’s cup down in front of him.

But as she reached for the hot sauce sitting on her tray, her hand slipped, and the bottle fell with a sharp clatter. The cap popped off mid-air, and a fiery red stream of sauce splattered across the floor, splashing in all directions.

The waitress gasped, as she muttered "whoops. Crap. Sorry." She turned toward you and Dean and you awkwardly sent her a soft smile that it was fine.

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As you and Dean stepped out of the diner, the cool morning air hit your face, but your attention was still fixed on the newspaper clipping in your hands. You ran your eyes over it for what felt like the hundredth time, but your mind wasn’t fully on the words.

The golden retriever tied to the bike stand a few feet away yapped loudly, its bark echoing through the quiet street, but you barely registered it, too absorbed in the details of the case.

Dean, walking beside you, gave a quiet chuckle, his voice breaking through your thoughts. “You know, joints like this are only tourist traps, right?”

He gently took the clipping from your hands, sending you a teasing look before letting his eyes flick over the paper, clearly unimpressed. “I mean, balls rolling uphill, furniture nailed to the ceiling—sounds like a bad magic act. The only danger’s to your wallet.”

He rambled on, shaking his head, but you cut him off before he could say more. “Dean, I’m just saying, there are places in the world where holes literally open up and swallow people whole. The Bermuda Triangle, the Oregon Vortex—”

“Broward County Mystery Spot?” Dean interrupted with a raised eyebrow, his tone laced with sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes, irritated by his dismissal. “Well, sometimes these places are legit,” you shot back, trying to make him see that you weren’t just chasing shadows.

Dean’s chuckle faded, and his expression turned thoughtful, though his skepticism was still evident. “Alright, so if it is legit—and that’s a big ‘if’—what’s the lore? You got anything to back it up?”

“Well—” you began, but before you could finish your sentence, a blonde girl walked past, her shoulder brushing against Dean’s. The contact was accidental, but it was enough to make her pause, mumble an apology, and move on.

You both turned to watch her, and Dean’s eyes immediately slid over her form, an appreciative smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You couldn’t help but glare at the back of her head as she walked away, your stomach tightening in an unpleasant knot. The rush of jealousy hit you like a wave, sharp and sudden, a deep ache settling in your chest as you watched Dean check out another woman—just like that.

A bitter taste of frustration filled your mouth. You wanted to confess everything you’d been holding inside for so long. But the jealousy gnawed at you, a poison you couldn’t seem to shake off.

Every part of you wished more than anything to tell him how you truly felt, to stop pretending that it didn’t hurt when he looked at others like that. But you kept it all buried, just like always.

“The lore’s actually pretty freaking nuts,” you continued, determined to steer the conversation back to the hunt. You couldn’t let Dean’s skepticism cloud your focus just yet. “I mean, they say the magnetic fields at these spots are so strong, they can actually bend space-time. People who’ve visited? No one knows where they end up. It’s like they vanish into thin air.”

Dean chuckled under his breath, glancing at you as if you were indulging in some wild conspiracy. “Yeah, sounds a little X-Files to me,” he muttered, his eyes darting off as two guys across the street struggled with a piano.

The large, awkward instrument wouldn't fit through the narrow door of an apartment building, and you could hear one of the guys grunt in frustration.

“I told you it wouldn’t fit!” the first guy groaned, pushing against the heavy piano as if it would magically slide through the doorway.

“What do you want, a Pulitzer?” the second guy retorted, his voice edged with annoyance, sweat dripping down his face as he shoved the piano in vain.

Both you and Dean’s eyes narrowed at the sight, watching the whole debacle with a mix of confusion and mild disbelief. You shook your head slightly, refocusing your attention on Dean as the noise of the men’s arguments filled the space between you.

“All right, look,” you said, voice steady but determined, “I’m not saying this is some crazy phenomenon happening right now, but if it is… we’ve gotta check it out. See if we can do something about it.”

Dean sighed, but the determination in your voice didn’t go unnoticed. He shifted his weight, turning to face you with a resigned look. “All right, all right. We’ll go tonight, after they close. Get ourselves a nice, long look. You happy now, sweetheart?”

You nodded, finally feeling like you were getting somewhere. “I’ll take that as a yes,” you said with a small, satisfied grin, even as you noticed Dean’s reluctance.

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Later that night, the air in the mystery spot felt thick, charged with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The moment you and Dean walked inside, your eyes widened at the sight of the hallway.

The walls were painted in glowing green, swirling patterns that seemed to pulse in the dim light of your flashlight. It was disorienting, like stepping into some other world that didn’t make any sense at all.

The whole place was trippy, and you and Dean exchanged a look, a silent ‘what the hell’, before you both ventured deeper.

The strange feeling never left. The place was completely bizarre. As you and Dean walked around, your flashlights flickered over random objects that seemed more at home in a funhouse than a place you’d investigate.

But you kept going, trying to make sense of it all. It was a hunt, after all. Your eyes landed on an upside-down table nailed to the ceiling, and you blinked.

“What the hell?” you muttered, voice thick with disbelief, before you turned to look at Dean.

He was holding the EMF reader up, scanning for any sign of paranormal activity, but the machine was unresponsive. He shook his head slowly, frustration evident in his posture.

“Find anything?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean only sighed, the EMF reader basically dead in his hands. “Nope. Nothing. This place is a bust.”

Before you could say anything else, a voice sliced through the silence, sending both you and Dean into alert mode.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You both spun on your heels, guns raised in an instant. Flashlights blazed into the darkness, landing on a man standing just a few feet away, his shotgun pointed directly at your chest.

Your heart hammered in your ribcage, panic surging through your veins as the cold steel of your gun felt heavy in your trembling hand.

Dean’s jaw clenched, a low growl of anger radiating from him at the sight of the man’s weapon trained on you. The protective instinct in him flared, but he forced himself to remain calm, to keep the situation from spiraling out of control.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean said, his voice low and steady as he slowly lifted his pistol to the side, showing the man he wasn’t a threat.

But you didn’t lower yours. You couldn’t—your heart was racing too fast, the fear clawing at your insides. You kept your eyes trained on the man, praying he wouldn’t make a move.

“You robbing me?” the man snarled, his eyes wild with panic.

Dean was quick to respond. “Look, nobody’s robbing you. Calm down.”

You slowly, cautiously, began to lower your gun a little, trying to ease the tension, but the moment your hand shifted, the man’s gaze snapped back to you. His shotgun followed, cold and unyielding.

“Don’t move!” he barked, his voice frantic, trembling with fear.

“I’m just putting my gun down,” you whispered, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible, but the man’s eyes were wide, and there was a desperation in them that sent a chill down your spine.

You didn’t even get a chance to say another word.

The blast of the shotgun was deafening, the sharp, violent sound tearing through the air like a thousand crashing waves. You barely had time to register the pain before the world turned into a nightmare, an explosion of searing agony ripping through your chest.

The force of it slammed you backwards, and you crumpled to the floor, your body crashing to the ground brutally. Blood poured from your wound, pooling beneath you.

And time seemed to slow at that moment. Dean’s world tilted, spinning in a cruel blur. His entire body went cold, the air around him thickening, heavy with the weight of the impossible. His eyes locked onto you—his world—falling. The blood, crimson and hot, blossomed across the floor in a haunting bloom.

His breath caught in his throat, and everything around him blurred, fading into a void of suffocating silence. His heart shattered in that moment, a jagged, gut-wrenching crack that he could feel in every fiber of his being.

“Y/N?!” His voice broke, desperate and raw, like he was reaching out to you from miles away. His pulse raced, his body screamed at him to do something, anything. He scrambled to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as they hovered over you, not knowing how to fix this.

His fingers shook violently as he touched you, the warmth of your blood staining his hands. The reality of what was happening started to sink in, and it felt like the earth itself was collapsing beneath his feet.

No, no, no…

Your breath came in shallow, painful gasps, each one a struggle, as if your lungs were fighting against the inevitable.

The pain was excruciating, unbearable, but what truly shattered Dean was the sight of you—his world—so vulnerable, so fragile in his arms. You were slipping away, fading right before his eyes, and he was powerless to stop it.

His heart twisted, the ache inside him growing unbearable as he watched the life drain from you. His face crumpled and his hands clutched at you as if he was holding on to the last shred of a dream.

He was crumbling in front of you, and the devastation was written all over him, his eyes wide with terror, his body trembling as he fought to keep it together. But in the face of this, how could he?

“Sweetheart… please, don’t do this to me,” Dean’s voice was a ragged whisper, thick with desperation. His words were a prayer, a plea to the universe that he didn’t even believe in.

He was choking on his own emotions, his breath coming in sharp, frantic bursts as he reached for your face. He traced the lines of your cheek with trembling fingers, trying to comfort you, even as the terror of losing you consumed him.

“I’m right here, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice cracking with every word, every plea. He could barely hold himself together as the tears began to spill, hot and fast, blurring his vision. “You can’t… you can’t leave me. Not like this. Please… don’t leave me.”

But you didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The words hung in the air between you like an unsung song, and the silence was deafening. Your body was so still, so quiet.

Your chest no longer rose and fell with shallow breaths. It was as if time itself had stopped, and everything that had ever mattered to Dean had shattered in an instant.

You were gone.

The words didn’t make sense. Gone. How could you be gone? No. This couldn’t be real.

Dean’s entire world collapsed inward in that moment. His chest constricted painfully, and with trembling hands, he shook you, pleading for you to wake up.

“Y/N?!” His voice was a hoarse rasp, jagged with the agony of disbelief. He clung to you, trying to force you to come back, but the emptiness of your gaze told him everything he needed to know.

The world around him fell apart in an instant. His soul felt like it had been ripped from his body, leaving him hollow. The tears came, unstoppable.

He pulled you closer, hugging you against his chest, holding you like he could somehow make this all go away. Dean's body shook violently as sobs wracked through him, each one tearing him apart from the inside out.

The world felt like it was slipping through his fingers, his grip on reality loosening with each second.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking beyond recognition. The words were barely a whisper, but they held all the emotion, all the truth he had been too afraid to say. His heart shattered as he spoke them, the weight of everything unspoken crushing him beneath its intensity.

The tears streamed down his face as he rocked you in his arms like he could undo the damage, like he could somehow force reality to bend to his will.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring you back.

You were gone.

And Dean was left in the ruins of his heart, clinging to you in agony.

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Dean jolted awake with a sharp, ragged gasp, his heart thundering painfully in his chest. Sweat clung to his skin, his mind a jumbled mess of fragments and images, as if his body hadn’t quite caught up with reality.

A familiar tune filled the air, and his brows furrowed in confusion. The same song, Come As You Are, was playing, its melody sort of haunting and surreal.

His eyes snapped open, and he shot up, panic gripping his chest as he searched the room, his breathing shallow.

There you were, standing by the door, your jacket in hand, the soft light of the morning spilling over your figure like a gentle caress.

You turned towards him, raising an eyebrow as you adjusted your jacket, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “You look like you’ve been run over by a truck,” you teased, your voice light and effortlessly playful, like nothing was wrong. “C’mon, it’s just Tuesday. You planning to sleep all day or are you gonna join the living?”

Dean’s heart stopped dead in his chest. He felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. You were alive.

But he had just watched you die.

The images were so vivid, so real—the blood, the way your body had gone limp in his arms. The way the life had drained from your eyes, leaving him broken and empty. He could still hear your gasps, the soft, haunting whispers of your last breath.

He blinked rapidly, trying to shake the haunting memory from his mind. No, no. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It had to be some twisted nightmare.

His body was frozen in disbelief, his heart still lodged somewhere deep in his throat. He rubbed his eyes, his hands trembling as he tried to process the impossible.

“I’m—I’m up,” Dean managed, his voice rough and unsteady, the weight of his words sinking in like lead. His gaze flickered over to you, watching the way you moved, so alive, so here.

The confusion twisted in his gut, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask the questions. Not yet.

You were already halfway to the door, your voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts. “Hurry up, Winchester. That diner’s not gonna wait for us.”

Dean’s heart thundered against his ribs, a mix of relief and terror knotting together inside him.

You were here. You were alive. But the image of you--bleeding out in his arms, wouldn’t leave him.

He couldn’t shake it, couldn’t erase it from his mind. He swallowed hard, trying to catch his breath, trying to steady himself.

You turned back, a knowing look in your eyes, and the soft glint of something unspoken passed between you two before you glanced away, your tone still playful, yet there was an undertone of something deeper.

Had you noticed? He couldn’t tell.

“Come on, Dean,” you coaxed, the easy familiarity of your voice pulling him back. “We’ve got breakfast to get to.”

Dean stared at you for a moment longer, his chest tight, his mind racing to catch up. With a shaky breath, he stood, forcing his legs to move. You were right—this was just Tuesday.

But as he followed you out of the room, the weight of the morning hung heavily on him. Everything felt off, as though reality was fraying at the edges, but for now, he had to trust that you were here. Alive.

And that, for some reason, was enough to keep him moving forward.

“You okay?” you asked gently, your voice soft as you studied Dean, noticing the subtle change in his demeanor. Something was off.

“Yeah…yeah,” Dean muttered, his voice distant, like he was still trying to shake off something heavy.

“Just… some dream,” he said, blinking rapidly as he rubbed his eyes, attempting to push away the lingering feeling of that strange nightmare that clung to him.

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"Drive safely now, Mr. Pickett." A man's voice cut through the oddly familiar little diner. Dean blinked again, noticing the Deja vu he was getting.

"Can't stay unless you order something, cal." The same waitress dressed in a yellow uniform stood infront of the guy trying to decide what to order. "You know the rules."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed as he glanced back, noting this exact thing happened yesterday. Almost to a T.

You and Dean sat at the same exact booth as the one in Dean's dream. You sigh before a small smirk plays on your lips as you nod toward the menu. “Hey, Tuesday. Pig ‘n a poke,” you say, your voice light, a hint of teasing beneath it.

Dean’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, his gaze following the motion of your finger as it points to the menu above. He scans the words slowly, his lips parting slightly. This feels oddly familiar.

"What's that supposed to be?" Dean questions, starting to feel uneasy with the way things are playing out exactly how they did in his dream.

“Just sounds like something you’d like, Dean,” you shrug nonchalantly, your voice light and teasing.

But before you can say anything else, the same waitress from earlier approaches. She stops at your table, notepad in hand, her pen poised and ready to take your order.

“Are you kids ready?” she asks, her voice casual.

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply with a nod, your voice warm and friendly as you meet the waitress’s gaze. “I’ll have the special, side of bacon, and a coffee.” You flash her a quick smile, then glance at Dean, a mischievous gleam in your eye. “And he’ll have the exact same thing.”

The waitress jots down your order with quick, practiced movements, her pen scratching against the paper as she nods in acknowledgment.

She lifts her eyes from the notepad, offering you both a smile that’s a little brighter than necessary for the early morning. “You got it,” she says, her tone light but efficient, before turning on her heel and walking off, her footsteps echoing.

Dean's stomach continues to churn at the exact event unfolding. This could just be Deja vu...could it? Dean swallows the lump in his throat as a slight awkward silence fills the air before you speak.

“Alright, I’ve got this,” you said, pulling the same crumpled newspaper clipping from your bag. You spread it out on the table in front of him. “Dexter Hasselback. He was passing through town last week when he disappeared.”

Dean stills at your exact words from the nightmare. His eyes flicker back and forth from the newspaper clipping, to the people around you in the diner, and then back to you. Noticing everything is exactly like his dream.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked softly, your voice carrying the weight of concern as you pulled Dean’s gaze back to you. Your brow furrowed, noticing the way he seemed distant, lost in thought. “You’ve been acting off.”

Dean blinked, as if he hadn’t quite realized you were speaking. He shifted his gaze back to you, his jaw tightening slightly. “You don’t…?” He trailed off, trying to find the right words, his brow furrowing deeper in confusion. “You don’t remember any of this?”

“Remember what?” You squinted, your concern growing as you tried to piece together what he was talking about. His words didn’t quite make sense.

“This,” Dean said, gesturing between the two of you and the diner around you. “Today. Like—like it’s happened before.”

“Do you mean like déjà vu?” you asked, still trying to wrap your head around it, watching as Dean’s eyes darted around the diner, his unease palpable.

“No, I mean like it’s really happened before.” Dean’s voice was low, almost shaky, as though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Yeah, like déjà vu, Dean,” you said, your voice soft, but the confusion was still evident in your tone.

“No, forget about déjà vu. I’m asking if it feels like—” He paused, trying to find the words, his eyes narrowing as he looked around again, his anxiety rising. “If it feels like we’re living yesterday all over again…”

You leaned forward slightly, a frown deepening on your face. “Dean, are you okay? We’ve never been here before…” you said gently, your voice laced with concern. His restlessness was growing, and it was starting to make you nervous.

Dean sighed, frustration settling over him. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as if he couldn’t explain what was happening inside his mind.

At that moment, the waitress arrived with your coffee, setting it down in front of you. “Coffee, black,” she said, her voice bright and cheerful.

You smiled at her, murmuring a soft “thanks” as she set Dean’s coffee down in front of him. But just as she reached for the bottle of hot sauce on her tray, her hand slipped, sending it tumbling toward the ground. Before it could crash, Dean’s hand shot out, catching it in a smooth, almost practiced motion.

“Thanks!” the waitress said with a surprised smile, clearly impressed by his reflexes.

Your eyes widened slightly at the quick reaction, but you couldn’t help but smile. “Nice reflexes, Winchester,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood, though the tension still hung between you two.

Dean gave a quick, distracted smile, but there was no hiding the haunted look in his eyes.

Something was very wrong, and whatever it was, he wasn't sure if he could shake it off.

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As you and Dean stepped out of the diner your attention was still fixed on the newspaper clipping in your hands. You ran your eyes over it for what felt like the hundredth time, but your mind wasn’t fully on the words.

The golden retriever tied to the bike stand a few feet away yapped loudly, its bark echoing through the quiet street, but you barely registered it, too absorbed in the details of the case.

Dean walked beside you, his mind racing as his gaze flicked back to the same golden retriever barking at you.

The same exact events, almost every single one—kept happening. His heart pounded, a sense of dread sinking deeper into his gut.

There was no way this was just déjà vu. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t some glitch in the matrix; it felt too real.

“Well—” you started, breaking the thick, uncomfortable silence that had settled between you two, but before you could finish, a blonde girl brushed past Dean. Her shoulder made brief, accidental contact with his, just enough to make her pause, mumble an apology, and move on without another word.

You both turned to watch her, and Dean’s eyes followed her, but not with the same intensity as before.

But this time, his attention shifted back to you, his gaze lingering on the faint frown tugging at the corner of your lips.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he did, it struck him. Were you…jealous?

“The lore’s actually pretty nuts,” you quickly picked up the conversation, eager to shake off the thoughts swirling in your head. “I mean, they say the magnetic fields at these spots are so strong, they can actually bend space-time. People who’ve visited? No one knows where they end up. It’s like they vanish into thin air.”

Dean’s brow furrowed slightly. You had said that yesterday. Or had you? The words were too familiar, too painfully similar to the conversation he’d had with you before. He could almost hear the echoes of the same sentences repeating in his mind.

“Dean, are you even listening?” you asked, your voice tinged with concern, noticing how distant he seemed.

You tried to keep the conversation going, but the weight of his unease pressed on. “Is this about the whole déjà vu thing?” you pressed, glancing sideways at him.

Dean blinked, trying to focus. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like I’m reliving almost the exact same moments,” he said, his voice tight with frustration.

And as if on cue, the same guys from the dream appeared in front of you.

“I told you it wouldn’t fit!” one of them groaned, pushing a heavy piano with all his might, as if trying to will it through the doorway. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his muscles straining with the effort.

“What do you want, a Pulitzer?” the second guy shot back, his voice laced with annoyance. The sight was almost surreal, like watching a bad rerun of the exact same scene.

You and Dean exchanged a look, eyes narrowing at the ridiculousness of the situation. But Dean didn’t seem to move, he stayed frozen, the sound of the men’s argument pulling him deeper into the feeling of déjà vu, like a door he couldn’t escape.

“Is it still happening?” you asked, your voice quiet, noticing the way Dean was staring, distant and unsettled. He only nodded in response.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice strained. “It’s like… look, we were at the Mystery Spot, and then—” His throat tightened, his words tripping over themselves as he tried to make sense of it. “And then… I woke up.”

His voice trailed off, and you tilted your head, noticing how his gaze wavered, as if trying to hold back something—something deeper.

You blinked, a slight catch in your breath. Was that… a tear?

The air between you thickened with the weight of unspoken things, and you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, “And then what?”

Dean swallowed hard, and for a brief moment, you could see the rawness in his eyes, the vulnerability that he didn’t often show. “I woke up, Y/N,” he repeated, his words breaking the silence. He didn’t elaborate, but the emptiness in his tone told you everything. The pain was still fresh.

You two kept walking in silence, but the tension between you was palpable. Then, with sudden urgency, Dean spoke up. “Wait a minute. The Mystery Spot. We’ve gotta check it out. Maybe it has something to do with this.”

You paused, looking at him skeptically. “Okay?” you asked, your voice laced with uncertainty. “We’ll go tonight after closing?”

Dean spun around to face you, halting both of you in your tracks. His eyes were wide, his urgency clear. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow, confusion and frustration swirling inside you. “Why not?”

Dean shifted uneasily, a forced smile pulling at his lips. “Uh…let’s just go now,” he said, almost too quickly, his voice strained. “Right now. Business hours… nice and crowded.”

Your brow furrowed even more. “My God, what the hell is wrong with you, Dean?” You couldn’t hide the irritation in your voice now, your hands resting firmly on your hips. Something was off. Something in his eyes told you that this was more than just a simple detour.

“Y/N…” he pleaded, his eyes softening with a desperation you didn’t fully understand.

You sighed, shaking your head in disbelief, but finally relented. “Okay, fine. We’ll go now,” you muttered, frustration laced in your tone as you walked past him and into the street.

Dean was only a few steps behind, but you didn’t realize how quickly things were about to unravel.

As you reached the crosswalk, a car sped by, and in an instant, you were struck. You flew backward, your body slamming into the pavement with a sickening thud.

Time seemed to freeze as Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach, the world around him going eerily still.

“Y/N!” he screamed, his voice filled with pure terror. His legs moved before his brain could even register, and he rushed to where you lay in a pool of your own blood on the concrete.

His breath hitched in his chest as he knelt down beside you, his hands shaking as he pulled you into his arms.

But when he looked down at you, his world stopped.

Your eyes were glossed over, and blood trickled from the corner of your mouth. Your body was limp in his arms, lifeless.

His heart shattered into a million pieces as he desperately pulled you closer.

You were gone.

Again.

──────────────────────

Dean woke up with a gasp, his heart thundering painfully in his chest. Sweat clung to his skin, and for a moment, he thought he was suffocating. His mind raced, trying to understand the dream, or was it a dream?

A familiar tune filled the air, its haunting melody wrapping around his thoughts like a chain. Come As You Are by Nirvana. The same damn song.

Dean shot up in panic, his breathing shallow and erratic, his eyes wide as he searched the room. The last time he’d woken up to that song, it had been the beginning of another hellish cycle. He’d hoped it was just a nightmare.

But no.

There you were, standing by the door, your jacket in hand, adjusting it as the soft morning light spilled across your figure. The room looked exactly the same—nothing had changed.

The exact same.

You turned toward him, an eyebrow arched in playful concern, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You look like you’ve been run over by a truck,” you teased, your voice light, effortlessly playful. As if nothing was wrong. “C’mon, it’s just Tuesday. You planning to sleep all day, or are you gonna join the living?”

Dean’s heart squeezed in his chest. Tuesday? Again?

A tremor ran through his body, and for a moment, his world tilted on its axis. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He felt… trapped.

His mind was swirling with confusion, his body heavy with exhaustion. The same damn Tuesday over and over again. The same damn morning, the same damn conversation, the same damn events.

His eyes flickered to the clock, then to the door.

You were already moving, oblivious to the torment flashing behind his eyes. Every time you walked through that door, he lost you.

Every single damn time. He couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard he tried.

He blinked hard, swallowing down the panic clawing up his throat. “I’m—I’m fine,” he stammered, forcing a breath through his chest. “I just—” His mind was so clouded with what felt like a thousand lives lived in the blink of an eye. He rubbed his face, trying to shake the feeling of déjà vu, but nothing felt real anymore.

You were already halfway to the door, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside him. “Hurry up, Winchester,” you called back over your shoulder, your voice light. “That diner’s not gonna wait for us.”

Dean blinked again. You were alive, and yet every single time, no matter how hard he tried to stop it, the outcome remained the same.

You died. Every single time.

──────────────────────

One time, you were laughing at something stupid Dean had said, your voice light and carefree as you took a bite of your food.

Then, in the next instant, your face turned red, your eyes wide with panic. You gasped for air, your hands clawing at your throat as the food lodged there.

Dean froze, his own breath caught in his chest as he scrambled to help you. His hands were shaking as he tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but it was no use. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and just like that, you were gone.

And then...It was Tuesday.

Again.

──────────────────────

Another time, it was a piano. You had been walking next to him, talking about the case.

Dean barely heard you, his mind a mess of frustration and confusion. But when the piano fell, seemingly out of nowhere, he turned in slow motion, his chest seizing with dread as it plummeted toward you.

He screamed your name, but it was too late.

The piano crashed down onto you, pinning you beneath its weight. Blood pooled around your head, and Dean’s knees buckled as he fell beside you. His hands trembled as he tried to lift the heavy instrument off your broken body, but it was impossible.

You were gone. Again.

Then, the song blared again.

──────────────────────

Time after time, the same scene played out. Getting shot at the mystery spot. A car accident. A falling shelf. Choking. Getting smashed by a piano. A malfunctioning electrical wire that shot sparks and ignited an explosion....Each time, you died in some random, unpreventable way.

It happened over and over again. And every time, it was the same gut-wrenching devastation.

Dean was always powerless.

He screamed your name, his voice raw, desperate, as if somehow that could stop the inevitable. His heart shattered all over again as he knelt beside you, cradling your lifeless body in his arms.

But It was like he was trapped in his own personal hell, forced to relive the same agony over and over.

The crushing weight of loss never lessened, and each death was a new wound, a deeper scar, shredding him to pieces.

──────────────────────

By the hundredth Tuesday, Dean was just… done.

He was tired of the same damn day playing over and over again. Tired of watching you die in every possible way, shot, choked, crushed, electrocuted. It was all random, all brutal, and it never got easier.

Every time he wanted to say something, wanted to tell you how he felt, wanted to kiss you, but damn it—but he couldn’t.

Not when you wouldn’t remember. Not when he’d lose you again in the next loop. It was like being stuck in a nightmare that never ended.

He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep watching you die over and over again and pretending like he was fine.

So when that damn song started blasting through the radio again, the one that used to be comforting but now just felt like torture—Dean lost it.

He glared at the radio, his patience snapping. Without thinking, he slammed his hand down on it, cutting off the music that had started to drive him crazy.

──────────────────────

Dean sat in the booth, his gaze hard and distant. He wasn’t paying attention to the endless chatter around him, his mind racing a mile a minute.

You were still trying to wrap your head around what he’d told you. “So, you’re caught in a time loop?” You asked, skepticism lacing your voice. The whole thing sounded insane, even for you.

“Eat your breakfast.” Dean’s tone was rough, his eyes briefly flicking over to you before turning back to whatever caught his attention in the diner.

You raised an eyebrow at his sharpness, confused. “What the hell is up with you?” you muttered under your breath, but he didn’t react. You sighed and rolled your eyes, shaking your head.

Dean, meanwhile, kept his eyes locked on the man in the suit who had been in the diner every damn day. The same guy who always showed up, always ordered the same thing, and always left at the exact same time. But this time, Dean had had enough.

Without another word, he slid out of the booth and followed the man, his frustration bubbling over.

“The hell, Dean?” You grumbled, quickly tossing cash on the table and shoving your wallet back into your jacket before darting after him. “Where are you going?”

Dean didn’t respond, and by the time you reached the door, he was already outside, chasing the guy down.

You didn’t even have to break your stride to catch up. Just as you were about to reach him, Dean shoved the suited man hard against a chain-link fence, the impact making the man grunt in surprise.

“Hey!” the man yelped, but Dean didn’t let up. His anger was clear, his jaw clenched tight as he kept the man pinned.

And then, you saw it. Dean’s eyes—dark and icy, full of raw fury. It sent a shiver rolling down your spine.

“I know who you are, you son of a bitch,” Dean growled, pushing harder into the man’s chest, making him wince. “Or should I say what you are?” He cocked his head, his voice low and menacing.

“Dean—” You started, trying to get his attention, but he didn’t budge.

“Oh my god, please don’t kill me!” The man stammered, sweat dotting his forehead.

“Dean, stop!” You reached out to grab his arm, but he didn’t move. He was focused, laser-focused on this guy.

“It took me a hell of a long time,” Dean muttered, his hand tightening around the man’s collar. “But I got it.”

The man’s eyes widened. “What?” His voice shook, but Dean just smirked in response.

“It’s your M.O.,” Dean continued, his words coming out slow, deliberate. “Going after pompous jerks, giving them their just desserts. Your kind loves that, huh?”

The man squirmed under Dean’s grip, fear flashing across his face. “Yeah, sure, okay. Just put the stake down,” he begged, his voice almost a whimper.

Dean’s hand clenched around the stake, and you finally noticed it—how tightly he was holding it, how dangerous this situation was.

“Dean, maybe you should—”

“No!” Dean snapped, his voice seething with rage. “There’s only one creature powerful enough to do what you’re doing. Making reality out of nothing, sticking people in time loops… You’d have to be a god. You’d have to be a trickster.”

“Mister, my name is Ed Coleman. My wife’s name is Amelia. I’ve got two kids! I sell ad space! For crying out loud, just let me go!” The man was practically crying now, but Dean wasn’t hearing it.

“Don’t lie to me!” Dean yelled, his grip tightening until the man was choking. “I know what you are! We’ve killed one of your kind before!”

Before you could say another word to try and calm Dean down, the man’s face morphed—changed entirely into a face you knew all too well.

“Actually, bucko,” the trickster’s voice was unmistakable, and Dean’s grip loosened slightly. “You didn’t.” The trickster grinned, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he looked between you and Dean.

Dean’s anger only deepened. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, pushing the trickster harder against the fence, his voice dropping to a dangerous level.

The trickster just smirked, unfazed. “You’re joking, right? You Winchesters tried to kill me last time. Why wouldn’t I do this?” He shrugged as if it was all just a game.

You stepped up beside them, unable to hold back anymore. “What about Hasselback? Huh? What’d you do to him?”

The trickster’s eyes flickered to you, then back to Dean. “That putz? He didn’t believe in wormholes, so I dropped him in one.” The trickster laughed, his expression wicked as he glanced between the two of you. “And then, you two showed up. I made you the second you hit town.”

“So, this is fun for you?” Dean’s voice was cold, his eyes narrowing. “Killing Y/N over and over again?”

The trickster raised an eyebrow, looking utterly unconcerned. “One? Yeah, it’s fun,” he smirked, “and two? This isn’t even about killing her. This joke? Is on you, Dean. Watching the woman you’re in love with die… every day… forever.”

Your heart stopped. The words hit like a ton of bricks. Dean didn’t confirm it, but his silence said everything.

You looked at him, your breath caught in your throat. Was it true? Was he really in love with you? Was this some sick game?

Dean’s face contorted into pure rage, and his fist clenched around the stake. “You son of a bitch,” he growled, his voice a deadly whisper.

“Tell me, how long will it take you to realize—” The trickster started, but Dean cut him off.

“I kill you, this all ends. Now.” Dean’s voice was like gravel, low and dangerous. He shoved the stake harder against the trickster’s stomach, a threat hanging in the air.

“Whoa, okay! Alright,” the trickster groaned, raising his hands. “Look, I was just playing around. Fine, fine, you’re out of it. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and it’ll be Wednesday. I swear.”

“Lying piece of shit,” Dean muttered under his breath, not buying it.

“If I am…” The trickster tilted his head, still smirking. “You know where to find me. I’ll be at the diner. Having pancakes.”

Dean shook his head, his jaw set tight. “No. It’s easier just to kill you.”

“Sorry, kiddo, can’t have that,” the trickster taunted, his eyes flicking to you. “Nice to see you alive and well, doll.”

Before you could even say anything or Dean could react, the trickster snapped his fingers.

──────────────────────

Dean’s eyes snapped open, but this time it wasn’t Nirvana blasting from the radio. It was Night Moves, that old classic, crackling through the speakers.

He jolted upright, blinking against the confusion as his eyes darted to the radio. Instead of reading ‘Tuesday,’ it flashed Wednesday. His heart skipped a beat.

He quickly scanned the room and there you were, in the kitchen, pouring yourself a cup of coffee, your back to him as you hummed along to the tune.

“You gonna sleep all day?” you teased, giggling to yourself as you set the pot down and took a sip from the mug.

Dean rubbed his face, still processing, but he couldn’t help but grin at you. “No Nirvana?” he asked, his voice sounding way too groggy for his liking.

You raised an eyebrow, looking at him over your mug. “Yeah, I know. This station sucks, but hey at least Night Moves is playing,” you laughed.

But Dean’s brain was running a hundred miles an hour.

Wednesday. It's Wednesday.

His heart fluttered with excitement and relief. He blinked, looking around again as if he expected everything to change, to make sense.

“Wait, hold on,” Dean muttered, his voice a little shaky. “What do you remember?” Slowly, he pushed himself up from the bed, rubbing his hand through his hair.

You looked at him over the rim of your cup, a bit confused by his urgency. “I remember you losing it yesterday, almost going insane, and then… running into the Trickster…” You trailed off, your voice faltering slightly as you remembered his words.

Dean’s stomach dropped. His mind clicked into place, memories of the Trickster’s taunting words rushing back to him.

He hadn’t thought about what you’d overheard until now, and suddenly, he found himself pushing. “What all do you remember? You know… what the Trickster said?” Dean’s voice was tight as he slowly made his way toward you, his throat tight with nerves.

You shifted uncomfortably, your cheeks turning an unexpected shade of red. “Oh, uh… nothing much, really,” you muttered, trying to brush it off.

But as you turned your head, hoping Dean wouldn’t notice, he was already right in front of you. He saw everything. Every tiny movement, every little change in your face.

Dean was too close now, his voice soft but firm. “I know you heard him, Y/N.” His eyes flickered over the side of your face, almost as if he could see right through you. Then, with a tenderness you hadn’t expected, his hand reached up to gently turn your face toward him, his finger barely grazing your skin.

Your breath caught in your throat at the touch. It felt so… intimate. So delicate. Your pulse was racing, and for a second, you wondered if he could feel it, too.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing heart. “Is it true?” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Dean’s own heart was pounding in his chest, the sound of it loud in his ears.

This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for, the moment he’d told himself he would seize after all those damn Tuesdays of watching you die over and over again.

And now, he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers.

You remembered. You were safe. And he wasn’t going to wait another second.

So he didn’t say a word. Instead, Dean cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing over your skin as he leaned in. Without hesitation, his lips met yours. The kiss was soft, gentle, but it hit you like a lightning bolt.

Every nerve in your body lit up, sparking with something you couldn’t quite explain, a warmth spreading through you that you hoped would never end.

The world around you seemed to disappear as you melted into the kiss. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him to be even closer than he already was.

Every inch of you seemed to hum with the connection, the warmth, the intensity. His lips were soft but insistent against yours, igniting something deep inside you that you never knew you were capable of feeling.

Dean’s hands were gentle as they cupped your face, his fingers trembling slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was finally happening.

The kiss deepened, and you couldn’t tell where your heartbeat ended and his began, but it felt like everything you’d been waiting for, everything you’d been holding back, was finally spilling out. As the kiss lingered, your lungs screamed for air, but you didn’t want to break it. You didn’t want this moment to end.

But eventually, you pulled back, both of you breathless, faces flushed, hearts pounding in unison. You didn’t move far—just enough to look up at him, your arms still wrapped around his neck, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Dean’s gaze softened, but there was a storm of emotions swirling in his eyes, ones you couldn’t quite name.

He swallowed hard, his voice low but steady. "I love you,” he confessed, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I’ve been in love with you for so damn long, and fuck, I’ve been terrified of losing you, terrified of not being able to say it, but now… after everything… I can’t keep it in anymore. I can’t pretend it didn't kill me watching you die over and over again. I just can’t…”

His breath hitched, and you could see the weight of his words pressing down on him. But it was the truth. And somehow, with the weight of it in the air between you, you felt the same truth flicker in your chest.

You smiled softly, your heart aching with the same confession you’d been holding inside for far too long. “I love you too, Dean,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure. “I always have.”

Dean’s expression softened, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His lips curled into a half-smile, a mixture of disbelief and pure relief flooding his face. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice low, rough around the edges.

You nodded, your chest swelling with the emotion that had been quietly building for so long. “Yeah,” you repeated, more confidently this time, as you pressed your forehead to his.

And Dean closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of everything lifting, but only slightly. He pulled you closer again, his hands running through your hair, gently tugging you back into another kiss.

But this time, it was different, softer, sweeter, filled with everything that had been left unsaid for so long.

And as you kissed him again, Dean knew, deep down, that nothing would ever be the same.

You weren’t stuck in a time loop anymore.

The future was unknown, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you, the one who held his heart in your hands, and the one who he'd never let go of again.

author’s note:

hi, nonny! I hope you like this one! I know it was a bit sad but figured the happy ending was worth it :)…I honestly had the idea pop into my head after watching that same episode the other week and thought it would be interesting to switch things up a bit. sorry for the wait! I had been working on this for a little bit and wanted to make it perfect :)

hope you guys enjoyed! ❤︎

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade @xo-zeze @kamisobsessed @megara0224 (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be taken off the list)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

© maddie0101 do not copy or repost my works without my permission

Soldier Boy - Series (3+ Parts)

His only exception - Masterlist 18+ only!

His second exception - Masterlist 18+ only!

The Arrangement Masterlist

Summary: in an AU where the Winchester family owns a multi-million dollar company, Dean’s in a bit of a pinch. Grandpa Samuel is threatening to cut him off if he doesn’t straighten out and stop getting into trouble. Instead of taking some responsibility, Dean comes up with an ingenious plan: find someone to pretend to be his girlfriend. You and Dean have never gotten along, but a fake relationship seems to be beneficial to you both… 

Part 1

Part 2 -  Sam disapproves of your little arrangement, and you and Dean have you ‘first date’

Part 3 -  Dean reflects on your first date, and makes plans. The second date goes a little better, and Dean finds out how good your acting skills really are.

Part 4 -  You spend the night at Dean’s place

Part 5 -  Dean struggles to deal with the rest of the morning, and then gets an unexpected call. The two of you go on a double date with Sam and Jess.

Part 6 -   Jess informs you about Dean’s past, and Sam teases Dean. After dinner, Dean brings you home to find someone unexpected waiting for you, and helps you deal with it.

Part 7 -  Dean meets your mother, and you go dress shopping with Jess.

Part 8 -  You and Dean head out to his hometown, where you finally get to meet Mary and John. The sleeping situation causes some minor problems.

Part 9 -  You and Dean have an interesting morning, but Sam interrupts. Later, you and Mary have a little heart to heart, and Dean says something surprising.

Part 10 - The gala finally arrives, and Dean is absolutely floored by your dress. An interaction with Samuel leaves Dean fuming, but you calm him down. Dean finally admits his feelings.

Part 11 -  Dean reflects on the evening, and the two of you have a talk

Part 12 - someone delivers some unexpected and unpleasant news, sending you running. Sam and Benny confront Dean, and the three of them go looking for you.  

Part 13 -  you head to the only safe place you can think of. A talk with your father gives you the courage to return to work, where Dean finds you immediately. But he’s not expecting your reaction. Charlie and Cas come to the rescue. 

Part 14 -  Dean tries to cope with your breakup, and then gets a surprise visit from Crowley. Your friends take you out to try and cheer you up, but eventually you head home alone, only to find someone waiting for you.

Part 15 -  You have an encounter with Mark, and Dean shows up just in time. The next morning, the two of you talk things out. Sam arrives with some news.

Part 16 (conclusion) -  Dean responds to Sam’s news. The two of you pay a visit to Samuel, who lashes out. Secrets are revealed and threats are made, leaving you reeling. You and Dean discuss the future.

Epilogue - A few months after the events of part 16. Sam and Jess’s wedding, a housewarming party, and revealing conversations.

Epiloge Part 2 - The Fourth of July finds you and the Winchester clan at the lake to celebrate the holiday. Jess shares some news and Dean surprises you with an important question.

Imagine...Catching Dean Off Guard

Pairing: Dean x reader

________________

Weiterlesen

Angel writes sins not tragedies ~ Angel’s Supernatural Writing.

Welcome to my new masterlist, angels! Let me guide you through:

Series: Stories that have three and more chapters, but keep in mind series can be found in the “Imagines” parts of this Masterlist too!

One/Two-Shots: It’s as simple as it seems, stories that consist of one or two parts of no specific length with some beingvery long and others normal-sized.

Imagines: We have a couple typical one-sentence gif-imagines here but the majority, 98%, are stories as long as one-shots and, as mentioned, a couple series are included too!

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Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines Pt. 1

Imagines Pt. 2

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Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Other Supernatural Characters:

Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Series & One-Shots

Imagines

~

Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Series

One/Two-Shots

Imagines

~

Series & One-Shots

Imagines

~

MARVEL Masterlist:

MARVEL Masterlist

~

Angel’s Imagines-Series:

Imagines-Series Masterlist

I hope you enjoy my writings and this is a much easier way to access my fics! If any links are not working please do let me know so I can fix it!

Masterlist!

WELCOME TO MY MASTERLIST! Here are my works linked in chronological order of posting date. If there is smut there is a tag with it. For series; there is usually smut worked into the parts but not necessarily in each part. Enjoy my fics and let me know what you think!

Wake Me Up 1 2 3 

Waiting For a Girl Like You 1 2 3

I Won’t Give Up (smut!)

Perdition 1 2 3 (smut!)

Longing 1 2

Hot Summer Nights (smut!)

Echoes of My Everything  (wing kink)

Young and Beautiful (smut!)

Rhiannon (smut!)

Sticky (smut!)

“It Is Fate Misnamed” Masterlist

Professor Novak Masterpage

Al Dente 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Not Anymore (smut) Casifer!

Mine Now (smut) Casifer!

Come Back (Alpha!Cas x Omega!Reader)

You’re Done (dom!Cas)

What Is and What Should Never Be (endverse!cas smut)

Best I Ever Had

Shooters Masterlist

Adele Series:

  Million Years Ago

  Can’t Let Go

Waiting For A Girl Like You 1 2

Something Funny? (Smut!)

Next to Me (Smut!)

What Goes Around Comes Around (smut!) Kink List #77

Round Two? (smut!) Kink List #13

Feel You (smut!)

Are You When Harry Met Sally’ing Me?

Day Off

She’s Like Texas

Going to California (smut!) Kink List #16

Snakes (smut!)

Open Arms (smut!)

Can’t You See 1 2 3 (smutty)

Wine Tasting (smut!)

Feel Like Makin’ Love

Sunburn (smut!)

Wish You Were Here (smut and angst, its a doozy)

Wish You Were Here; Prequel (I’m so sorry, smut and angst)

Wish You Were Here; Epilogue

A+ (smut!)

This Is My Jam (Au!Dean smut!)

Surprise (smut!)

Laundry Day (smut!)

“I know,” (smut!)

Can You Count To 10? (smut)

Two Is Better Than One (smutty threesome with Sam too!)

A Study in Tattoos Masterlist

Where Will It Lead Us? (smut!)

“It Is Fate Misnamed” Masterlist

Stay or Leave (smut and angst! ala me)

Silver Fox (smut!)

Cherry Pie (smut!)

Bad Moon Rising 1 2 3 4

Skyfall

Heaven’s Door

All That I Do 1 2 3 4

What Is and What Should Never Be (endverse!Dean smut)

Divine Grind (smut!)

Innocent

Tried

Terror in the Woods

Never Listen

Everything

Just Another Girl

Texas and Tennessee Series

Texas and Tennessee

Union- Pacific Line

Breathless Love

Other Side of Lonesome

TRUTH HURTS SERIES MASTER PAGE!

  Adele Series

    All I Ask

CoWritten by ilostmyshoe-79

Red 1 2 3 4 5

40 Days Masterlist

Take Your Time 1 2 3 4 (Smut)

Always the Sister 1 2 (Smut)

Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ (Smut!)

I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing (smut!) 

Photograph (smut and angst, another doozy!)

Gravity (be forewarned) Missing Scenes: Before

Can You Count to 10…12? (smut!)

Two Is Better Than One  (smutty threesome with Dean too!)

Beast of Burden (smut!) 

Snakes; Part 2 (smut!)

Al Dente 2  3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 

Art and Mummy Curses (smut!)

Not the Only One Part 1 Part2

Daddy Lessons 1 2

Flip Flops

 Adele Series

When We Were Young

Why Do You Love Me?

Sweet, Like Honey (smutty AU!Benny!)

Lady (smut!)

Trysts

Can’t Get Enough of Your Love (smut!)

Gadreel x Reader

Silver, Blue, and Gold (smut!)

Chuck x Reader

You Found Me (smut)

Fun Friend Fics

Whip Cream (TFW bakery!au)

Christmas in July Special fics!

Trim the Tree! (Dean x Reader)(smut!)

Gift Wrap (Sam x Reader)(smut!)

Mistletoe (Gabe x Reader)

Silent Night (Cas x Reader) (smut!) 

Random Drabble Fics

End of May (Charlie feels; implied Dean x Reader)

Elysha and Jess BAE Series

What A Catch

Bacon Pancakes

The Craving

Summary: Everyone is moving forward, only Dean is standing still. Sam leaves the bunker first, but when he fears to lose you as well, he knows he finally has to do something. Because, after all, all he really craves is you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language and smut, post S15, major angst, hurt, cheating, Reader x OMC (established), severe pining, jealousy, drinking, humor, idiots in love, friends to lovers, fluff

Word Count: 13.7k

Song Inspiration: The Craving (Jenna's Version) – twenty one pilots. Listen here! 🎶

Posten on Patreon March 1, 2025

A/N: Yay, finally this monster of a fic is here! There will be parts that hurt a lot, parts where you'll snort, parts where you might catch fire, and parts where you'll feel as fluffy as cotton candy. Hang in there 😉

Happy reading! 🩵

Main Masterlist || Dean Winchester Masterlist || Tag List

Dean’s not the jealous type. At least, he thinks he isn’t, considering he’s never really had opportunity to feel jealous before.

But then came you.

He knew he wanted to be with you – as in the one one – the minute Sam led you down the round, metal staircase after running into you during a hunt. Yup, it was instant. One of those “love at first sight” kinds of crap.

For quite some time, you’d been hunting on your own, but soon enough, you began to call the bunker your home and the brothers your family. And Dean would cockily smirk at you and throw flirtatious jokes your way all day long as if all he ever wanted was to simply get you for a drunk roll on the motel mattress and nothing more. But you crave more than a night of fun, not knowing he craves the same thing, too.

And it is more – more than a simple craving to kiss you, to touch you, or to fuck you. The craving wants to love you, to hold you, and to be with you endlessly, including all that other mushy, sappy shit that comes with it. And Dean’s not even sure it’s just all of that, either. Because all the craving ever screams is you. Nothing else.

You, you, you, you, you… 

You.

That’s all there is. And the more he has of you, the happier the craving is. The less he has of you… well, one gets the gist.

The craving is a feeling greater and stronger than the bloodlust he’s experienced during the Mark of Cain – not that he’s ever told anyone that out of fear of being called crazy. It is crazy.

Fucking crazy. 

Nonetheless, it’s true. The craving for you only grows stronger and more relentless every day, causes him to lose both appetite and sleep, and never leaves him in peace.

But for years, Dean’s never entertained the craving for too long. He’s never listened to his head, heart, or gut when either of those things urged him to ask you out. After all, you deserved better than him, deserved more than the darkness he could offer, deserved a life where you got everything you ever wanted and more.

He is sure, though, you don’t want him.

But then, finally, there was a dim, miniature, barely visible light at the end of his super dark tunnel full of horrors. Chuck was squashed, monsters were scarce, and retirement was on the near horizon.

Sam started bringing Eileen around more and going on dates and being all nauseously cute, while Dean watched Netflix, Disney+, Amazon Prime, and a whole lot of other subscription services Sam wasn’t happy about when he went through the household bills. The main takeaway, though, is: Dean was never bored.

Nope, not at all.

Besides, you were there, too. For some of it. At least for a while.

Not long after Sam’s “courting” began, his kid brother finally left the nest, and then only you and him remained.

“We’re kinda like full-on roommates now,” you’d said after Sam had grabbed his last box, and you had been entertaining Dean’s melancholic mood with whiskey in the kitchen.

Dean had only smiled into his glass. “We’ve been roommates for five years now.”

“Yeah, but we’re finally rid of Monica and Chandler. This is the Joey and Rachel era!” you announced with a slightly slurred speech and toasted to the occasion by drinking straight from the bottle.

Dean, of course, had found it fucking adorable and pressed his lips very hard against the rim of his glass upon his next sip, trying his best not to grab you and kiss you right then and there.

He’d already missed his fucking chance…

“Who’s Monica and who’s Chandler?” Dean had asked to distract himself from the craving.

“Duh, obviously Sam’s Monica. He’s a complete neat freak. And Eileen’s fucking funny,” you’d postulated. “This is what I mean, though! Both of us are sloths! We can finally let chaos reign!”

Welp, that hadn’t helped to lessen the craving at all. It had been downright whining then. His heart had only pounded louder, yearned more.

“What kinda mess were you thinking of, sweetheart?” Dean had flirtatiously and daringly asked – he still liked to test the water from time to time, although he knew the lake was frozen.

You had chided him with a partially amused look and then musingly sipped on the bottle. “Hmm, wanna throw wet paper towels against the wall?”

“Sure that’s a good idea? You know Sam’s coming by tomorrow morning to come pick up more boxes. I seriously think he’s taking the whole library with him,” Dean had joked.

“Even better! He’s gonna clean it up ‘cause he’s Monica!”

Drunk-you might have been evil in a mad but cute genius kind of way.

“No way!” Dean had scoffed it off, mostly to encourage you to carry on. He’d had feeling where this was heading.

“Oh, yeah? How much you wanna bet, Winchester?” You’d leaned forward with your elbows on the counter and a challenging look twinkling in your eyes.

And Dean had wanted nothing more than to bet a goddamn kiss. But he hadn’t been able to do that anymore, either. 

As Dean grinds his brain about all of this, he stares at the reason why from the dark corner booth of the bar. He watches you with a gigantic lump in his throat as you’re in someone else’s embrace, his grip white-knuckling around the tumbler of whiskey once more.

Dean’s greener than green eyes see it all. He sees the arms that tightly clasp your body from behind that aren’t his. He sees your laughs at jokes that he can’t hear. He sees the face nuzzling in your hair that he can’t feel. He sees the smiles you draw when kisses litter your neck, leaving fucking purple and blue permanent tattoos behind – and he can’t ink any of them.

Dean sees the fucking happiness shining in your eyes. He’s never seen you happier than this before. And not any of it is caused by him. Nope.

“Hey, you good?”

Sam slides back into the booth opposite him and draws Dean’s attention, finally steering the insatiable craving away from you. But Dean knows his little brother only asks because he’s worried about Dean’s declining state of mind, even though there is really no reason to. Sam’s exaggerating as per usual.

If Sam’s showing signs of concern, it’s only because he knows too damn well how catastrophically Dean has failed and ruined any future with you by not communicating his craving. And now all there’s left is sulking and regretting. Then some more sulking and regretting. And oh, uh, more sulking and regretting till he drops for good, which is hopefully soon, considering the slow pace his life is currently going right now – just an agonizing crawl to the goddamn finish line.

See? No need for worries. Dean’s absolutely and completely–

“Fine.” Dean scoffs the word into his drink, his eyes flickering back to you. You’re making out now. Great.

Your boyfriend’s hands drift to your asscheeks and palm them. Dean wants to drown in his whiskey.

But it’s good. It’s good you have someone. Someone who can give you everything. Everything you want. God knows Dean can’t give you that, can he? Not then. But now? Now he could, couldn’t he?

What’s he got going on right now that’s so dangerous?

The only things that can kill him these days are the greasy food, alcoholism, and sheer boredom. Cancer. ‘Cause that son of a bitch can get anyone. Maybe some freakish household accident – getting electrocuted by a faulty outlet, slipping in the shower, food poisoning, choking. Maybe even a fucking car runs him over when he’s simply crossing the street.

Well, now it just sounds like a list of things that angel-dick Gabriel would’ve done to him…

He’s already been through it all. What more could go wrong?

“Dean…” Sam’s giving him a pointed look that says, ‘I’ve known you all my life. Stop pretending and talk to me.’

But Dean doesn’t want to talk.

“‘M good,” he repeats and forces the tightest smile known to mankind. It not even closely reaches the soft crinkles around his green eyes.

“I just talked to Trey at the bar,” Sam says then and tugs his bottom lip between his teeth.

Dean wants to scoff at the name.

In fact, he’s tried his hardest to hate the guy, but it’s impossible. Trey’s charming and funny and kind. He’s also taller and broader and younger than the older Winchester, which only adds another painful thorn.

But the dude treats you with respect, holds open doors for you, and cares about your feelings and thoughts and dreams. He listens to you, consoles you when you’re sad, and comforts you when you’re lonely. He’s even tried to become friends with the brothers, knowing how much they mean to you. And most of all, he not only shows you how much he craves you, but he also tells you so every day.

Dean’s been there a few times when it happened. It was fucking sickening.

And sure, Dean could still worry that some civilian can’t take care of you and protect you the way he would, but the guy was a fucking Navy SEAL and a hunter of all things that go bump in the night. To top it all off, he’s now retired and owns a small carpentry in Michigan.

The dude’s fucking Jesus, and Dean knows he stands no chance. So, yeah, maybe he’s a little jealous of the guy.

He has everything Dean wants.

“There’s something you should know, Dean,” Sam continues when the older brother’s lost in his craving again and hasn’t said anything for a full minute.

“Hm, what?” Dean can tell by Sam’s tight expression and slightly furrowed brows that it’s not good. His heart is already constricting. It knows why.

It was almost a year ago, a few months after Chuck’s reign of playing Sims had ended, that Dean had finally gathered enough courage to ask you out (with a lot of pushing from Sam and Eileen). So, while you’d been out on a small, two-day-long ghost hunt on your own, Dean had prepared a whole speech in his head.

Hunts were not only rare these lonely days, but they were also kind of… meh. Mostly your friendly neighborhood Caspers. Since Sam had dipped out, Dean and you resorted to coin tosses, drawing straws and matches, and the occasional paper-rock-scissors.

Dean still sucks at it.

Which is why you went alone. And he wasn’t even worried, just grateful for some space to get his head straight. He’d surprise you with something… romantic when you got back. He wasn’t sure what yet.

But two days turned into three, four, five and six. You’d give him regular updates, assuring him you were safe, sane, and healthy. The hunt was done – you’d decided to take a quick vacation.

The scenery had been so inviting.

On day eight, he questioned if he should follow you. Maybe you’d been kidnapped and held against your will, and he’d been texting with your tormentor this whole time. He barely ever caught you on the phone, and if he did, it was only briefly and you were always out of breath.

Hiking. That had been your explanation.

Yes, Dean should’ve put two and two together at that point, but he just couldn’t see beyond his own craving. It left him blindsided, even though he knew damn well you hated walking through nature as much as he did.

On the evening of day eight, you then called and told him you were coming home. His heart had swelled in his chest at the word.

Dean was your home. That was all he had heard.

Late on day nine, you finally returned to the bunker. Dean had prepared a movie night in the cave – he’d picked your favorite, nothing fancy, just the way you like it. But by the end of it – when you’d lie snuggled against his side like you usually did with his arm wrapped around your middle – he’d tell you about the craving.

He’d tell you he was in love with you. That you were all he was ever thinking about. That he couldn’t get enough of you. That he craved you day and night. That he couldn’t stop.

“So, how was the hunt?” he’d asked as you both stood in the war room, and you’d placed your duffel bag down on the table. “And the vacation?”

Until then, Dean hadn’t really questioned it. He knows you like to catch a wave and ride it out. It’s one of the things he loves about you, always hoping you’ll drag him with you into the sunset at some point.

“I-, uh…” 

Dean had noted the subtle bite of your lower lip, the smile that was itching to break free underneath.

“I met someone,” you’d finally confessed.

Dean’s still sure those are the three most horrible words of the English language. Nothing has ever torn apart his heart more.

“Met someone, huh?” He had swallowed heavily but played it off with a teasing smile. “You’re not usually one for hook-ups…”

“I’m not,” you’d confirmed. The secretive smile that flashed across your lips almost killed him. “I-, uh, I think it might be more than that.”

“More, huh?”

“Yeah, more,” you’d said softly and bit your lip again. Your cheeks had been glowing. You’d been so fucking happy and yet tried to hide it from him to spare his feelings – not that you had a clue. You’d only known Dean hated change and strangers and abandonment.

“You, uh, wanna watch a movie with me?” he’d still tried. He’d been sure one night or one week with some stranger couldn’t trump what he had with you. If he said something now, maybe he could still turn it around.

“I’m honestly kinda beat. Raincheck?”

“Sure.” He’d nodded and forced a painful smile. Luckily, he knew how to hide his pain well. 

At first, Dean hoped the guy wouldn’t call you again. Sure, he’d hate to see you broken-hearted, but he’d be there to pick up the pieces. One by one. Dean could satiate your craving.

But perfect fucking Trey called you that same night. Asked if you got home safely. Oh, Dean wanted to be mad about it. How dare this fucker, right? But how?

‘Stop caring about the girl I pretended not to care about for fucking years?’ 

Yeah, no, there’s no excuse. Dean’s the fucker, really.

So, come next morning, Dean made sure all traces of his romantic plans were erased in the cave. You were none the wiser when you woke up.

Dean then resorted to waiting. And waiting and waiting and waiting. And he figured if he waited long enough, your relationship with fucking Steve Rogers would run its natural course. Something would happen. It was long distance after all and not that threatening.

Yet.

It started with rare, brief visits. You’d stay in Michigan or a hotel in Kansas City for a weekend every once in a while, and Dean’s craving could deal with the temporary separation from you, although it was far from happy.

Yeah, alright, it was being a suicidal dickhead. He even preferred you staying in Michigan over the idea of you fucking your brains out in the hot tub of some fancy hotel.

Well, shit, like he said: The craving was being a complete dick about it and clearly not taking it so well.

The expensive whiskey you got him for his 42nd birthday, though, always quieted it enough to pass out till Sunday evening when you’d return.

But a weekend slowly turned into a full week and then into a whole goddamn month. Now, you weren’t just fucking your brains out anymore but playing house. Somehow, that was even fucking worse. The craving protested and screamed inside of him, urging him to keep you close.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

You’d still call him every few days to check up on him, but hearing your voice only turned the craving more violent, more needy.

It was a whiny fucking bitch most days.

And now, well, you’re celebrating your first anniversary this fucking weekend. Your boyfriend has a whole goddamn romantic getaway planned. You’ve talked about it nonstop, looked forward to it for weeks.

Dean doesn’t know if he’s still waiting or if he’s given up. Feels a little like giving up.

His green eyes flick to you and Trey on the small dance floor of the dingy bar once again. Someone as breathtakingly beautiful as you is truly a juxtaposition in a place like this – in his life, really.

You have your arms locked tightly around your boyfriend’s neck, his hands enclose your hips as you sway to the rhythm of the live music. You laugh wholeheartedly and throw your head back. He runs his face through your hair and surely whispers something dirty into your ear the way your grasp tightens on him, too.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice snaps him out of his trance once more.

“Hmm, what?” Dean blinks at his little brother and sees the heartbreak shimmering in his hazel eyes. He knows it’s unavoidable by now.

“Look, uhm, Trey told me he was planing to propose to her this weekend.” Sam gets it out in one breath but then pauses. He watches his older brother closely as if Dean would break down at any second.

But Dean’s seen it coming for a while now. It’s been undeniable.

“He-, uh, he asked for our blessing.” Sam chuckles a little at the unnecessary gesture and scratches the mop of hair, but Dean can tell a part of his little brother feels honored at the consideration.

“You said no, right?!” Dean snaps too harshly, no control over the wild furrowing of his brow. The craving is taking over. It wants to fight. It wants to defend what’s his.

“Dean...” Sam frowns with a look that says the older Winchester was being ridiculous. “It’s not my place to give. That’s what I told him, too.”

“Good.” Dean huffs bitterly into his whiskey and empties the glass.

“I still told him we’d be happy for them, though,” Sam adds with reluctance and caution.

“Sam, c’mon, man!” Exasperatedly, Dean shakes his head. His glare is biting. “Bad day to play middle man! How about you’re on my side for once, huh? Pick your fucking battles, dude!”

“Dean, I’m always on your side,” Sam assures with that puppy dog look of his.

Dean scoffs at it. “Could’ve fooled me…”

But he knows Sam would give his soul to make this situation better for him. It’s just the alcohol and sadness talking. He has to let it out somewhere. Sam knows that, too.

“Maybe you should tell her,” his little brother suggests then, and Dean’s not even sure he’s heard him right because it’s so fucking insane.

“What, are you nuts?!”

“Just think about it,” Sam urges, nearly insists even. “Look, I know you’re scared she won’t feel the same way and reject you–“

“Duh.” Dean scoffs, wishing his tumbler would magically refill for this conversation.

“But if she says yes–,” Sam continues, “–you’ll lose her anyway. You know she won’t stay with you forever, right? I don’t think they’ll move into the bunker with you.”

And thank fucking God for that. Dean would probably hang himself in his room after three days of watching and hearing you honeymoon like newlyweds. Any chances Hell would take him back?

“Sam–“

“What d’you have to lose at this point, Dean?” Sam reiterates. This time, more forcefully. “This might be your last chance, man. You seriously wanna live with that regret for the rest of your life?”

Well, Dean isn’t planing on sticking around for that much longer anyway. He’s sure a monster will get him one of these days on those solo hunts if he upped the recklessness enough and got a little more careless. But obviously, he doesn’t tell his little brother that. Sam would only unnecessarily worry again.

Dean shakes his head once more, and it pains him to do so. “I-, I can’t, Sam. Can’t do it.”

“Dean–“

“I don’t wanna mess with her head, alright?” he finally says. His gaze drifts back to you; tears blur his vision and threaten to spill. “Look at her, man. She’s fucking happy. I don’t wanna ruin that for her.”

Sam lets out a deep sigh, his gaze flickering from you back to Dean. Then, he licks his lips, and Dean can tell his little brother just thought of a new argument to put forth. He really would’ve made a good lawyer.

“Listen, if that really messes with her head, then maybe she would’ve never been as happy with him to begin with,” Sam counters.

Admittedly, it’s a good theory. Dean almost buys it.

“Nah, it’s too late,” Dean brushes the sliver of hope away. He pulls out his wallet and slaps enough cash on the table to close his tab as he slides out of the booth. “I should go home.”

“Hey, are you guys leaving already?”

Suddenly, there you are, with a smile sparkling so bright Dean could confuse it for diamonds in the sky. His eyes then torturously follow your arm, down to your intertwined fingers and the tall man in tow behind you.

“Yeah, uh, kinda exhausted,” Dean says as casually as possible. He hopes you can’t see the torment in his heart.

“Oh, alright.” You nod, and Dean imagines even a hint of disappointment in your voice. The craving probably plays pretend to guard his heart.

You give him a hug goodbye and kiss his cheek. But your lips on his skin are only a quick fix for the craving. It wants more. It’s a beast that’s always ravenous and never satiated.

Leaving the bar hasn’t stopped Dean from drinking, however. He’s determined to drown his sorrows and continues to pour whiskey after whiskey, finding solace in his haze as he sulks and regrets at the kitchen island in the dark, empty bunker. He supposes he has to get used to that feeling – loneliness.

His mind’s still reeling, his skull functioning as a bathtub for cheap booze. He should probably switch to something more bubbly…

He snorts at his own joke, the sound echoing through the emptiness. Great, now he’s the weirdo hermit who laughs to himself.

Maybe Sam’s got a point. Maybe this is his last chance. There’s still a spark of hope – or so the craving believes.

And then, after two in the morning, you finally stagger home and tumble into the kitchen with a goofily drunk smile on your face that causes Dean’s breath to halt. His heart almost shoots out of his chest, wanting to jump straight into your warm embrace.

“Hey, you’re still up,” you say with a small yawn and round the corner to the island, grabbing yourself a glass of water by the sink. “Can’t sleep again, huh?”

It’s not unusual for you to find Dean roaming the bunker in the middle of the night like the ghosts he hunts. Most of the time, your strongest bonds were forged by the late-night, deep-talks you’d shared in here. You keep them close to your heart.

“Nah, not really,” Dean says casually and sips on his drink as if it were just a fluke – a one-time occurrence. But you know better than that.

“Is it about Sam?” you ask almost knowingly and watch Dean’s brow raise with his gaze.

Oh, that. He has completely forgotten about that – the whole reason they’ve gone out to celebrate tonight in the first place.

“Yeah, uh, was a lot tonight, y’know?” Dean deflects. He figures it’s at least a good excuse.

A soft smile spreads on your lips. “You’re gonna be an uncle, though. That’s gotta be exciting, right?”

You’re trying so hard to help him find the silver lining, to give him comfort and drag him out of his misery. But Dean’s sure he’s stuck at rock bottom.

“Yeah, ‘m happy for him,” Dean replies but doesn’t say more. Doesn’t say that he’s envious of his little brother, doesn’t say he craves the same thing, too.

“Dean,” you sigh his name and clasp his hand on the counter. Your touch burns his skin. The craving boils his blood. “I know you hate change, but it’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m sure it will, sweetheart,” Dean says but doesn’t mean it. He knows it’s not true. It won’t be okay without you. So, he forces a wry smile. It’s almost bitter. “Still got you, though, right?”

“Yeah, you got me,” you say softly and send him a smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes, however. Dean knows why.

“Thought you were spending the night out,” Dean notes then and disturbs the silence that has consumed the kitchen.

“Uh, Trey’s got an early flight,” you explain. “I’ll see him on the weekend, though. I suppose I’ll survive.”

Dean’s not sure he will, though, and doesn’t laugh at your joke.

At least, you barely ever bring your boyfriend around the bunker. You mostly spend the nights at a hotel whenever he comes to visit. Dean’s not entirely sure why. It might be the vibe he’s giving off when he’s near you two. You’ve had several talks with him about his attitude.

“Be nicer. Try a little harder to get along with him. I really like this guy,” you’d said. 

And Dean tried for your sake, even though he didn’t really mean it. Moreover, he got the strange sense that Trey knew Dean was harboring feelings for you and was nice enough not to rub it in, keeping his distance. Like Dean stated earlier: It was fucking impossible to hate the guy.

The dude was not nice enough to back off and let you go, though. Dean supposes that also means Trey is smarter than him, too. Awesome.

“You know, uhm…” You chew on your lip. Your heart begins to sting. “Trey asked me to move in with him. In… in Michigan.”

Dean’s silent for a beat. His ears are ringing as if a doctor had just told him he’s got prostate cancer and only a few months left to live. Honestly, it sounds more pleasant than this.

“Hmm,” Dean hums and takes a bigger gulp of his whiskey.

He refills once more, the glass and bottle only blurry shapes in his vision at this point. He ponders if there’s something stronger to numb his pain. Maybe it’s time to pick up a heroin addiction – die cool like Morrison and Cobain.

“Dean…”

You see the devastation on his face. You don’t want to hurt him, but you know him well enough to know that you do. What are you supposed to do, though? Sacrifice your whole happiness and future for his? Never expect to get anything in return? You couldn’t keep living like this.

“You’re my best friend. You know I’m not gonna leave you, right?”

“So, you’re staying?” His look is hopeful, and it kills you.

You swallow lightly. “Sure, yeah,” you say with a weak smile and shrug. “I’m not moving out tomorrow.”

The hope deflates, his face drops, and his look turns crestfallen.

“I’ll stay as long as you need me, okay? It’s no problem, I promise,” you add comfortingly. You know he hates being alone. “I’m sure Trey and I can do long distance a little while longer. I mean, it worked fine so far. Don’t worry, alright?”

Dean hears you. He doesn’t want to drag you down, keep you from living your life. He supposes he has to set you free now.

“Look, I’ll be fine, alright?” he states and forces a cool, carefree, lazy smile with the utmost sincerity – as much as he can find at least. It might have been the worst lie he ever told, and he told a lot of lies over the decades. “If you wanna move out, you should. Don’t take my feelings into account.”

“Dean…”

Your heart stings. You can’t leave him like this. At the same time, you fight your own anger and push it down. If he really didn’t want you to leave, then why had he never done anything, said anything to make you stay? You’d waited years for him to see you, to take your hand, to love you and run toward the sunset with you. But he never did, not even when the big bads were all defeated and gone.

Instead, you watched him flirt with strange women in even stranger bars. You watched him lead them to his precious car with his hand on their backs (or their asses) and a wide, goofy, all-teeth grin on his punchable, freckled face. You watched him disappear for entire nights and return to the bunker, to the endless motels, in the mornings with his latest conquest’s marks on his skin.

A row of tattoos he’d gotten just for you that all read the same message: Fuck you.

And it fucking hurts every single time. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes, you thought you couldn’t take any more and would just grow numb to the pain. But you never did. It all mars your heart the same.

Some days, it felt like you were dying inside.

And then, after the hunting life slowed, you wanted to keep moving, explore what other wonders life had to offer aside from exterminating monsters and living underground. Sam felt the urge, too. So, you both set sail into the world – but Dean didn’t. He stood still at the docks.

“What’s going on with you?” You step closer, worry shimmering in your eyes. “I know it’s been hard on you since Sam’s moved out. But you’re the best guy I know. There’s great things out there for you, too. I just know it. Don’t give up hope now.”

Dean wants to scoff, cry, and laugh hysterically. He doesn’t look at you, just stares at the whiskey in his grasp.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words are out. Dean’s astonished they finally left his lips. He can’t quite believe it, even clasps his mouth with a hand and runs it across his face. It’s been his best guarded secret for so long. Someone should slap him. Where’s Sam when he needs him the most?

Dean downs the whiskey in his hand and looks up at you. He feels like he cursed you. You’re frozen in place, petrified by the spell he cast. But your lower lip and eyelids are quivering, so he supposes you’re still alive in there somewhere.

“Say something. Please... Anything,” he begs. He wants to drink more but fears you might think of him as a drunk, although he’s pretty sure you’re already aware. That train has left the station, so he might as well make its final destination his mouth.

On shaky legs, you grasp the edge of the counter for support. A “brace yourself, you might wanna sit down for this one” would’ve been greatly appreciated.

“I-, uh… I have to sit down,” you force the words out with a clear of your very dry fucking throat because you’re still rather speechless – and drunk.

Judging by the almost empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, so is Dean, it seems.

Dean heroically jumps from his seat to offer it to you but watches you simply lower to the cool tiles of the floor instead. You’d love nothing more than to lie there and curl in the fetal position right now.

Slowly, Dean crouches down and joins you, careful not to touch you, ignoring the craving’s persistent screams to do exactly that. His hands are shaking from holding back.

Your lips part and shut, your eyes are lost, your brows tremble as you try to understand and think of something to say. But your mind is overflowing. Your gaze stays fixed on the ground and the cracks in the grout between the old tiles.

“If this is some prank, Dean…”

You don’t really think he’s this cruel or moronic. You can always hope, though.

“It’s-, it’s not,” he assures you and tries not be offended. He knows you’re still processing. Besides, he may have overdone it with the pranks a little since Sam is gone. He's put that extra energy into you. “I’ve felt this way for a long time… Knew you were special the second I saw you… Knew I-… I loved you when we watched Shawshank Redemption together your first week here. Remember that? You quoted the whole movie. I guess, I-… I’ve been craving you since then.”

A fond smile flashes on his lips at the memory, but his jade green eyes flicker with insecurity.

You gasp for air and find your voice. “Why did you never say anything?”

“I-… I tried. Not hard enough, I guess.” He chuckles self-consciously, scratching the nape of his neck. But you don’t share his humor. “Last time I tried was when you told me you met–“

He stops himself from saying the name. His mouth twitches with a bitter taste. He doesn’t want to say the name you scream when you cum.

Oof, he wonders which of the many whiskeys was the one that has finally crossed the threshold to pathetic.

“I actually wanted to watch Shawshank Redemption with you that night when you came home, tell you then,” he continues, his tongue swiping over his chapped lips. It’s just his luck, isn’t it? He truly found out how unlucky he was once Chuck was gone. To think the guy actually protected him from some of it almost makes him scoff out loud. “But, uh…”

“I went to bed early,” you finish his thought.

He cocks a brow at you. A drop of resentment sneaks into his voice. “Did you, though? Your room’s right next to mine, sweetheart. I knew you were on the phone with–… I could hear you.”

You scoff darkly and stare straight into his eyes, and for the first time, Dean can see the real hurt in yours. Was he responsible for this?

“Yeah, trust me. I’ve been there,” you reply cynically.

Oh, Dean knows he has messed up.

“Why the fuck now, Dean? What’s changed, huh?” You rise from the floor and begin to frantically pace the kitchen. Dean follows you. “Is it because I told you I was leaving? What, you just decided now’s a good time?!”

“Look, uhm, Sam doesn’t want me to tell you this, but there’s something you should know, alright? I think you should know,” he insists but rubs a hand over his mouth. He knows he’s being selfish. He fucking knows he shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t tell you.

But he fucking wants you a lot more, cost what it will. He’d sell his goddamn soul all over again for you. The craving is not backing down now.

You look at him like he’s kidding. He must be. How could there be more?

“Your boyfriend’s gonna propose to you this weekend,” Dean tells you and slaps you right across the face with the news.

You think he might as well be joking and playing a prank on you again. His face is deadly serious, however, his green eyes dark, stern and unwavering. You can tell he hates the thought of it, the mere suggestion you could be someone else’s, and he’s probably stirred in that hatred all night. So, that’s what truly motivated his ship to leave the harbor.

“But–“ Dean pauses, considering his next words carefully, but his eyes remain fixed on you, drill into you. “But if there’s a chance you don’t want that, just a sliver… I-… I need to know, alright? I need to know if it could be me. I can’t let you go without knowing… without trying.”

You think you’re close to fainting. You feel lightheaded, dizzy. It’s too much. It’s all too fucking much.

“Are you fucking serious right now?! Why the fuck are you doing this to me? Why didn’t you say it earlier?” The tears of desperation sting your eyes as you shove at his chest. “Why didn’t you fucking move sooner?!”

It’s not a question as much as it is an accusation. Dean grabs your hands that still press against his chest and holds them still on his heart. His gaze locks with yours.

And then, Dean recognizes the familiar anger in your eyes. He knows it’s the craving. Not his, but yours.

For him.

“Do you love me?” he dares to ask. He might as well, considering this is the end and he’s putting all his cards on the table tonight. He knows he’ll lose you, so why not do it with a bang? Winchesters are known to go down swinging.

You fight for words. Your heart twists. “It’s too late,” you whisper, tears rolling down your hot cheeks freely.

“It’s not a no,” Dean says softly, his heart swelling a tiny bit more in his chest. It’s almost cute, like a little kid arguing about bedtime, asking for one more glass of water before he has to go down for good.

“It’s not a yes, either,” you counter quite spitefully. You can’t reward this behavior, can you? The man just took a wrecking ball to your life, to your current relationship, to your future – something you’ve carefully crafted and cared for and grown for close to a year.

A year.

And he thinks of this now? When you have one foot out the door? That’s when he fucking realizes?!

You’re furious and want to yell at him till you’re blue in the face. Mostly, though, you’re furious with yourself. Maybe you should’ve known, should’ve suspected. After all, you know him well. You know his insecurities and his deepest, darkest fantasies. What Sam has now, what you’re about to have – the apple pie life.

“So, it’s a… maybe?”

You want to sigh and pray heavenward. Is anyone listening to this? Hello?!

“Do you love him?”

This time, you sigh out loud. “You know I do.”

Your words are sharp, and you can tell that they sting. He flinches when you say them. But something weird tugs at you when you do.

“You love me, too?”

You’re silent for a moment. You don’t know if the truth makes it worse or better.

“I do,” you admit through more painful tears that blur your already hazy vision. His piercingly green eyes find you, and you note the soft, upward curve of his lips.

“You love me more?”

“Dean!”

Yeah, he was pushing it…

Pensively, his tongue swipes slowly over his upper lip before he tucks the lower one between his teeth. Then, he clicks his tongue when he’s thought of something to say, something to give him an advantage, anything.

You love him. There’s a chance.

“Look, it’s not too late, okay? If you wanna get out, just say the word,” Dean says. There’s urgency in the deep timbres of his voice. This is his last shot. He can’t keep watching from the window looking in as everyone eats dinner without him. He has to move.

“So, what? So I can live here with you and watch you hook up with strangers for eternity?” Frustratedly, you wipe the tears from your cheeks and look at him. You can tell your little comment caused a paper cut.

Bobbing his head, Dean rubs his lips with his fingers. He knows he deserves that snide comment. Those distractions from the craving certainly haven’t done him any favors.

“I get it. I screwed up. I came a little late to the party,” Dean admits. Tears threaten to drown the green in his eyes, but he fights to keep them behind the dam. He needs to get this out first. “But I’m here now. I’m yours. All yours. I’m not going anywhere,” he vows, and you believe him with your breaking heart. “I swear to you, to anyone who will fucking listen… I won’t screw this up again. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. You wanna get married? Have kids? I’d do it right now with you. You wanna go see the world? Go skydiving? Then knock me out and drag me onto a plane. Just tell me. I’d give you everything I have, sweetheart.”

His voice chokes on the last few words, barely pushing them out. His heart roars; his lungs wring for air. Every muscle, every vein, every nerve feels like its being electrocuted. Tenses, twists, and constricts under the pressure of the craving.

You’re speechless, your mouth agape. You look at him, stare. You see the desperation, the pain, the fear, the need, the love, the craving. But you can’t think of anything to say. You don’t know what to do, except wait for an ice age to come and freeze you both in time, so you get more time to think.

“I-I-… I should go. I’ll stay at a motel,” you manage to say, your voice trembling like the rest of your body. You can’t feel your legs, your hands, or your head. Most of all, you can’t feel your heart.

You don’t have to say yes or no. You don’t have to make a decision right now – wasted and sleep-deprived. You do the smart thing, the wise thing, the right thing.

But why does it feel so wrong and stupid then?

“You’re leaving?” Dean’s disbelief seeps into every syllable. He can’t understand. He figured this would fix it.

“I’m sorry.” The sniffled apology is quiet as you try to push past him. His skin brushes yours. A wildfire inflames inside of you that vaporizes all tears and fears.

Dean feels it, too.

All rational thought dissipates from his mind then. He grabs hold of your arm and spins you flush against his warm and inviting body. His lips collide with yours – hungry, wild, and fervent.

The craving wins.

You don’t fight it. You melt into the kiss, into him, into feeling instead of thinking. You lick the whiskey from his tongue, drink till you’re drunk on him, and Dean savors the minty Mojitos he’s watched you sip all night.

Your hands don’t find a place, neither can his. There’s too much to discover, new territory you’re both unfamiliar with but always wanted to see, feel, explore. So, he roams your soft curves and you his taut muscles. Squeezing, scratching, trailing.

Your fingers card and tug at the soft hair in the nape of his neck, lock tightly around him as you push yourself closer. He groans and sends vibrations through you.

Dean’s grip on your hips is bruising as he molds you to his frame. He really tries to achieve the impossible here. He won’t let go now. This is it, and with that thought, he cages you between his body and the kitchen island.

The two of you never dare to break the kiss, knowing that if you gave yourselves enough time to think, you’d stop this madness and come to your senses. Neither of you wants that. Not really. Not now.

The craving silenced everything else. It takes what it needs. It needs you. It needs him.

You’ve wanted this for so long – him and you, exactly like this. And now, it’s all so wrong but so fucking right, too.

You whimper into his mouth, your core flooding with desperate need when you feel his growing dick strain against his jeans and press between your legs. Your fingers work on autopilot as they unbutton his flannel and slide it over his broad shoulders.

Dean tosses your top over your head, and your legs wrap around his middle. He hoists you into his arms, and you fling his shirt somewhere when he’s on the move. Your bra follows, landing in the hallway, a trail of clothes marking the path of sin through the bunker.

You’re not sure the two of you will make it to a room, any room, as Dean stops and bumps you against walls, only to ravage more parts of your skin. He bites, he marks, and he grips your flesh so roughly you’re sure you’ll be more than blue in the morning. You know he wants to leave his impression on every inch of you. You don’t stop him because, God have mercy, you want that, too.

You feel him everywhere and still crave fucking more.

And Dean somehow still seems to make it to room 11 because when your eyes blink open the next time, you suddenly find yourself there. Of course it’s there. He needs your impressions to haunt him, too – your noises inside his four walls, your indentations in his mattress, your scent on his pillow, your arousal soaking his sheets.

He wants to lower you to his bed, to the memory foam, but your legs unravel around his waist, bare feet landing on the floor.

You can’t remember when you kicked off your shoes, but Dean isn’t wearing his boots anymore either and only one sock, so you figure they’re somewhere in the bunker with the rest of your lost items.

Your lips leave his but not him. They lick, suck, and bite down the scruffy column of his throat, his solid and freckled chest, all the way down his softly defined abs as you fall to your knees in front of him like he’s an altar you’re about to worship at.

Your fingers hastily unbuckle belt and lower zipper, pushing jeans to his ankles. You don’t bother long with his boxers, still strapped around his knees when you free him and wrap a hand around his throbbing cock as if to shield it from the sudden chill that creeps along your own skin. You don’t even manage a full pump before your lips seal around his red and swollen head. You swallow him whole.

You don’t wait. You don’t think. You give yourself fully to the craving.

It’s a greedy bitch.

A “shit” escapes him when you welcome him into your hot mouth till he hits the back of your throat, the first word that cuts through the moans and heavy breathing since this cataclysmic gluttony began.

You don’t pull back. You stay, hold on. Your tongue massages the thick vein. Your moans vibrate around him and send shivers up his spine, tighten his balls. Your mouth fills with saliva till it threatens to drool out. Your hand can’t even fully grasp his thickness, thumb out of reach from your other fingertips. You haven’t even noticed how big he truly is till tears sting your eyes, and you feel the aches in your jaw from trying to accommodate all of him. Luckily, the burning alcohol numbs some of it.

You both still and know there’s no fucking way back now when your eyes meet. There’s only forward and more.

A massive hand reaches to cradle your head, brushes your hair from your face, massages your jaw, and caresses your chin. Fuck. You drool more and press your thighs together while your pussy whines around nothing.

You slowly pull back, suck with hollowed cheeks and swirl around his tip and dip into his slit. He leaks precum onto your tongue, a tang of salt and sweetness and Dean.

You’re sucking his cock. You’re sucking Dean's cock. You’re fucking sucking Dean Winchester’s fucking cock.

“Fuck, that mouth…” Dean’s hips buck in rhythm with your bobbing head. The fist in your hair tightens, tugs harder, deliciously stings your scalp.

You want him to spill down your throat. You want to taste and drink and swallow all of him.

But Dean’s got other ideas. He raises you back to your feet with a strong grip of your upper arms. You barely catch a breath before he claims your swollen and soaking lips, kisses you truly, madly, deeply. He licks the taste of him from your tongue, his dick standing spit-wet and aching by your belly.

“Dean,” you whimper against his lips, thighs rubbing together. You can feel your arousal dripping down. You need friction, you need to get rid of your goddamn jeans and underwear, you need him.

“‘M take care of you,” he mumbles and nods like agreeing to a decision he just made, and you know he doesn’t just mean your climax or your craving. He means he’ll take care of you forever. That’s the promise he’s just made.

His fingers toy with your waistband and pull down your zipper. He pushes you back and leads you till you lie back onto the mattress, feet dangling over the edge. He shimmies you out of your confining denim, and then he’s on you, hovering above, kneeling between your spread legs.

Dean leaves you with one blazing kiss on your lips, but, fuck, those tits. He’s had dreams about them, day and night – about groping and squeezing and burying his entire face in them. He can’t resist and bites and tongues and sucks, and by the time his hands get to them, pinch and roll and tweak your stiff nipples, his mouth descends down your tummy.

Plush lips passing below your belly button is the imaginary line when he decides to deliver your sinfully throbbing clit from its misery and slides a hand inside your panties.

Ugh, fucking God, his large hand covers your entire cunt.

He could make you come with his fucking pinky alone by the sheer size and girth of his digits, you’re sure. You’ve observed their length and thickness over the years often enough, mostly from the backseat of Baby when he drives, always careful not to get caught in your shameful leering, always wondering what they’d feel like curling inside of you. And God, the things he does with those ten weapons while they linger on the steering wheel drive you insane with wanton need during most trips. Even short ones to the grocery store have become a solid method of torture for you.

And you know they could reach that spongey, sensitive spot inside of you oh-so easily. But it’s his middle and pointer finger that glide through your drenched folds first.

Dean hums against your skin, right by your hip bone. Oh God, he fucking hums and groans – deep and rich and desperate. Desperate for you.

He steals a glance at your face, your beautifully contorted face of glowing pleasure, and he flashes you an appreciative smile of surprise, like he hadn’t fucking anticipated you being so wet for him – so ready.

All you manage is barely a nod before your eyes roll back into your head. You don’t have the energy to argue about his weird insecurities right now. And yes, they are weird, considering how the guy looks, but it’s more than just the mesmerizingly green eyes that cause you to feel lost among tall pines, the faint and golden freckles that dance on his skin, twinkling from the tip of his nose down to soft dips and dents of his chest, or the way his smile carries you home like the beam of a lighthouse without fail each time you’re lost.

No, it’s the things you can’t (and he can’t) see in a mirror that award him the title of the greatest man who ever lived. It’s the kindness, it’s the sweetness, it’s the caring. It’s his heart of gold, his courage, and his warmth.

So, how come Dean can’t ever see any of that? You always could because you’ve loved him since he laughed through your Shawshank quotes that very first week.

And now… Fuck.

Not even the inebriated double-vision makes up for the amount of hands and fingers and mouths and tongues you feel on you. How does he do that? Are there six of them or just the two you see?

Your head is spinning. You don’t know up from down anymore; it’s all one blurry swirl. Is it sideways?

But you know where you are and you can count again when his tongue dives into your channel and his lips seal around your bundle of nerves and fucking suck hard.

A taste of your own medicine, you’re sure.

You cry out at the intensity and almost come right there, especially with his delighted chuckles against your center, but you actually come when two of those long, thick, admirable fingers spreads your tight walls. He manages three or four pumps maximum before you fall apart at his mercy.

You scream his name as your frame shakes, and he kisses your pulsing center softly as if to soothe your aches. But as his heavy erection presses against the inside of your thigh, you know you want more.

The craving never stops.

Heaving chest meeting his, his glistening lips lower upon yours, and your tongue tastes what his did just seconds ago. He hovers above, his nose nudging your cheek forcing your eyes to open, encountering an insecure glint in his gaze.

“You sure about this?” His voice is so quiet, so raspy, the words are almost inaudible as if he doesn’t want to say them at all because he’s afraid of the answer.

Luckily, so are you.

In the darkest, most isolated depths of your mind, there’s still someone else. A guy you claim to love, and yet, you’ve tied his hands with ropes, muzzled him with duct tape, locked him in a dungeon, and somehow found your way into Dean’s bed. Your best friend and roommate Dean.

Yeah, no, there’s no excuse, no justification. But there’s no way back, either. What’s done is done. You’ve already done unspeakable things to each other – all of them rule-breaking. Sucking his cock? Fully your idea! God knows Dean surely didn’t fall dick-first into your mouth.

No, you want this. And moreover, you need to see it through.

Life isn’t just black and white, is it? It’s not a straight road. There’s sharp curves, and hunters are known to ignore the odd dangerous bend symbol.

So you kiss him deep and hard, because your answer would’ve been a shallow and soft uncertainty. You don’t know if it’s right, you assume it’s not, but you follow the craving and cave to its needs.

It needs Dean. Not anyone else. Dean. Not Dean Martin or James Dean, no. Dean Winchester.

Your hand snakes between heated and damp bodies and wraps around the forbidden fruit, lets his cockhead catch at your more-than-ready entrance.

Is it really all Eve’s fault? Probably. Now, though, it’s very much on Adam.

Dean pushes in.

Well, they call it a sin for a reason. The craving clearly doesn’t give a fuck, though.

When his tip taps your cervix, you gasp. Your pussy clenches around him, he groans into your neck, and you moan at that little jitter that runs through his body.

He kisses a path down to your tits as he slowly pulls out to his dickhead and thrusts back into you. Fuck. And well, from there on out, it all blends into a foggy whirl of limbs, bodily fluids, and an obscene soundtrack.

It all comes slowly back, however, when you wake in the morning. You feel the remnants of a wild night, the sheer soreness between your thighs, instantly.

You remember it started slow and tender when your eyes finally flutter open barely a few hours later, just at the break of dawn. It started with good, ol’ missionary – the ‘getting to know each other’ phase. You both learned what made the other tick, while his cock moved pleasantly inside of you like calm ocean waves, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears.

When you carefully slide out under his arm for a simple pee break, panic begins to creep in, recalling how you eventually rolled him onto his back and rode him like his goddamn name was Larry. Shit.

And Dean loved it. His freckled face and the huge grin, staring up at you in awe, is branded into your mind. There’s no way to unsee it now.

As you collect clothes strewn throughout the bunker like they are scavenger hunt items, you remember how things took a turn for the worse then – or for the better, depending one’s perspective on the subject, you suppose.

Eventually, you found your way onto all fours, Dean giving his goddamn everything behind you, pounding relentlessly into you with a bruising grip on your flesh.

Your fingers subconsciously touch your hips, your eyes follow and see bruises there. You hurry into the bathroom, glimpse at the mirror, and immediately see more. They’re everywhere – your throat, your collarbone, your tits, your waist, hips, arms, and thighs. Oh shit, even your ass got some.

There’s no way of hiding a sin this big.

You came five times. You fucking remember that. Never happened with anyone before, either.

Fucking asshole…

With a sobering (but heavily hungover) mind, your anger at your roommate returns. Why did he have to do it this way? Why put you in this awful position in the first place? Did he have to wait till you both were close to blackout drunk and an almost engagement to someone else?

No discussion of anything. No feelings. No future. No plans. No protection. No checking in. No responsibility. No sobriety. No brains.

Naturally, all of this was a decision made by two completely sane people. Why would you do any of that? Talking is overrated. No, this clusterfuck was obviously the best choice.

Shit, shit, shit…

Beating hearts in their purest form. That was there.

You remember how he looked at you, both spent, lying next to each other with your heads by the foot of the bed, feet resting where pillows go. No clue where they went.

His smile was so warm and happy, fingers still caressing skin and never losing touch. You gazed and smiled at each other like idiots till your eyes closed, knowing without words that this was forever now.

Dean still wakes up alone that morning.

Oh, his goddamn brain is buzzing. Without opening his eyes, Dean twists his face into the darkness of his mattress, hands searching for the pillow underneath his head.

Wait… Where is his fucking pillow?

His brow furrows slightly, his head pounding louder as if to try to rattle him awake and alert him to something. If he could only remember what that something is…

The only reason he’s somewhat awake is because his own snore woke him up after he almost choked on his damn spit. God, what a night. He probably should make a mental note to drink less. Those hangovers aren’t getting easier to handle with progressing age.

Little goosebumps spread on his skin when a soft, cool breeze hits the exposed parts of his body. Something is odd, though. Why is it so damn cold? And why is his blanket only barely covering his bottom half?

And why the fuck is he naked? He’s not usually a birthday suit sleeper. A purple nightgown, a shirt and boxers, maybe even a pair of sweats, sure, but he only ever sleeps naked when he’s had se–

Shit!

Dean jolts up in bed, pupils wide and head swirling. He stretches his heavy and tired eyes with strain, forcing them to stay open. Jesus, he feels like a truck ran over him, only realizing then that said truck carried your goddamn license plates.

Shaking his head vigorously, he tries to find his orientation. He almost thinks he’s in a different room before realizing he’s slept upside down in his own bed. He rolls onto his back and sits up, blinking his eyes awake a little further.

The whole night comes crashing back to him then, but he starts to doubt the realness of it all when he can’t find you next to him. There’s just an empty spot.

Looking for evidence, he scans the room. He only finds some of his own clothes strewn across the floor, but none of yours till he feels something tangled around his ankle. Are those his boxers?

Nope! That’s your underwear. How did it get– Never mind. There are more important things to figure out now. First and foremost, where the hell are you?

With a groan, he swings his legs off the bed, bare feet landing on the cold ground. He runs a palm through his hair and rubs his face, even patting his own cheeks to wake up more. His head is fucking killing him. But it’s not the only thing aching.

Lifting the sheet slightly from his lap, he takes a quick peek. Oh, poor guy’s been certainly through a lot last night. Is that a bruise? How did that ha– Nope, never mind that, either. He’s surprised at his own stamina, though. A guy his age? Drunk? He mentally pats himself on the back for it, although he knows the craving did most of the work for him.

Nonetheless, his pride is quickly overshadowed by your absence.

His hand grabs his watch on the nightstand. Almost noon.

Well, your French leave makes a little more sense now. You probably had to pee. His own bladder feels goddamn full, the bottle of whiskey finally finding its exit again. His stomach is growling, too. Maybe you were hungry? Dean knows you practically wake up starving every morning and are unbearable till he stuffs that first stripe of bacon into your mouth.

However, he notices the eerie quiet of the bunker. There’s no smell of awaiting breakfast in the kitchen wafting down the long hallways. There are no sounds of clattering dishes, clinking cutlery, a running shower, or the flush of a toilet.

Silence.

And if you really got up for a bathroom and food break, why are your jeans gone? He knows he took them off in this room and not anywhere else. A perfectly fine and fresh flannel is hung over the chair by his small desk.

Not to complain, but wouldn’t it have been easier if you’d just thrown that one on instead of forcing yourself back into something skin-tight?

Dean’s not a complete idiot, however. He knows those aren’t good signs, and his chest starts to constrict, squeezing the air from his lungs. His mind races, green and red eyes flickering around desperately for answers.

You wouldn’t leave like that, would you? Not after–

“I love you,” Dean whispered, his forehead resting against yours when he spilled into you, your walls still gripping him tight.

“I love you, too,” you replied and could barely finish your answer before his lips claimed yours again.    

No, you wouldn’t do that. It’s not the version of you he knows like the back of his hand. That’s not his best friend.

But then, his stomach overflows with guilt, the hows and whys of the night seeping into every corner of his mind and settling in his bones.

Fuck.

Oh, there had to have been another way, right? He shouldn’t have done what he did, shouldn’t have given into the craving so recklessly. He knew it was wrong. Everything was wrong. This was never supposed to happen this way.

It was supposed to be magical and memorable. The start of something great.

It still was for Dean, although your disappearance makes him unsure. Maybe it wasn’t all that magical for you.

Dean kissed you, which was a forgivable offense. And sure, you kissed him back. But was either of you in the right state of mind? Probably not.

And Dean knows he should’ve stopped it all there, should’ve slowed down, looked at you, and talked to you about it. About next steps, futures, plans. None of that happened.

Last night, after his confession, he could see you needed time to think, a night to sleep it over, gather your bearings with a sober mind. But Dean was scared of letting go. What would he have done if you hadn’t come back? But he didn’t listen to the warning.

The craving didn’t want to risk losing you and clearly didn’t give a damn about consequences.

But Dean does. He cares a fucking lot. And moreover, now he has to live with the damn consequences of its actions and not the stupid craving.

Right now, it’s achingly empty. Dean knows it means you’re not around.

Still, he rises from the bed and starts to pad down the hallways of the bunker in search of you. He needs to talk to you, find you, do whatever it takes to fix this mess. He wants to call you, but his phone is missing, too.

It happens sometimes. Usually, either you or Sam call him to find it, but no one’s here anymore. He’s all alone and realizes then that he’ll probably die this way – slipping pathetically in the bathroom with a disturbing alcohol level in his blood, his phone out of reach, lost somewhere between couch cushions. You or Sam will probably stumble upon his corpse weeks, maybe months later, and only find the flesh rotting from his bones.

Yup, he’s sure that’s it. Lovely end to a shitty life.

With a deep sigh stuck in his throat, Dean follows the path of destruction, a trail of lost clothing items leading him toward the kitchen before he picks up your bra from the floor.

He stops in his tracks when he hears the heavy thud of the garage door. His heart sings in relief. Food run! You probably went to fetch breakfast. Yeah, that must be it.

“Dean? Y/N?”

Sam.

Dean’s shoulders slump, the hopeful smile on his face faltering. He rubs his mouth with his fingers, his mind spinning. Not a minute later, Sam rounds the corner and meets him in front of the kitchen.

“Dean?” Sam then freezes and instantly squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head exasperatedly. “Dude! Why are you naked?!”

“Oh.” Dean blushes with a slight fluster, but his usual shameless grin is missing. He’s too fucking depressed for a witty response. “Hang on.”

Even Sam notices the tension and somber atmosphere when he hears Dean plodding back to his room, but he chalks it off to last night’s news. He slowly opens his hazel eyes and takes a quick scan of the kitchen.

Empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, flannel on the floor, boots in the hallway.

But wait… Is that one of your shoes?

Dean then comes back in a pair of gray sweats and a black henley, still carrying your bra in his hand as if it would help him find you like a dowsing rod.

“Rough night?” Sam quirks a brow at his older brother, a small smile of amusement on his face. It’s not the first time he found Dean like this, after all.

“Good night. Rough morning,” the older Winchester replies soberly.

“Dude, what happened? When did you have time to meet a hook-up after I drove you home last night?” Sam creases his brow, but the sinking feeling in his gut already confirms it. He knows those are your shoes, just like he knows that’s your bra in his brother’s hand. Sam’s been your laundry buddy for close to five years.

“I-I… I slept with her, Sam,” Dean confesses and claps his mouth like he’s done the last time he’s confessed something. He expects it to go about the same.

But Sam surprises him with calmness. “Yeah, I-I figured,” he admits, nodding, and takes another glimpse down the hall behind Dean. “Where is she? Still sleeping? Did she break up with Trey?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes. Leave it to Sam to dive right into the uncomfortableness. Solely mentioning the name burns a hole into his heart. What if you went back to him?

“No, uh, I don’t know where she is. I just woke up,” Dean says slowly and licks his chapped lips. “I-… I think she left. For good. I think she-… you know.”

Dean swallows the thick lump in his dry throat, while Sam sits with the information for a minute.

“Dean, why–“ Sam shakes his head, collecting his thoughts. “Why didn’t you guys just talk? I mean, what happened?”

“Oh, yeah, great idea, Sammy!” Dean scoffs with a voice full of bark. “You think I haven’t thought about that? Does anything about this look planned to you? I mean, hell! You’re the one who told me to use my last chance and tell her in the first place!”

“I didn’t mean this,” Sam counters, exasperated. “I meant, use your mouth, idiot, not your–“ He frowns when he notices the rising smirk on his older brother’s face. “Dude, don’t even say it.”

“Fine.” Dean rolls his eyes a little and sighs. “Look, I need to find her and talk to her. Can you call my cell? I lost it somewhere.”

“Dude, again?”

“Just-… Would you call?” Dean massages his aching temples.

“You know, my worst nightmare is finding you dead down here one day, just rotting away,” Sam mutters wryly as he makes the call.

“Yeah, you and me both,” is all Dean says.

His ears then pick up the faint buzzing noises of his phone, only growing louder as the brothers follow it all the way to the library. His cell rests neatly on the wooden table, but he knows he hasn’t put it there.

Besides, underneath it is a folded piece of yellow, legal-pad paper that smells like you.

Dean grabs both phone and letter, his eyes fixing on the only two words there. The corners of his mouth quirk to a faint smile, but it’s sad in nature. He’s only laughing to cope with the loss of you. His black soul is rejoicing – it’s been right all along. Hallelujah!

I’m sorry.

You’re sorry. But Dean doesn’t know for what exactly. For sleeping with him? For telling him you loved him? For leaving?

Or is it all of the above?

“What does it say?” Sam’s voice keeps him from jumping straight into a spiral of sorrow.

“That she left,” Dean replies and crumples the paper in his hand, tossing it on the floor.

He tries calling you, but there’s no answer. And even when Sam tries, you don’t pick up.

“Voicemail again,” Sam says after his third try and clears his throat with lacking subtleness. “She-, uh, she probably forgot to charge it again.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it…” Dean pats his little brother’s shoulder as he saunters past him.

“Dean, where are you going?”

“Look, I just wanna be alone right now,” Dean says, his voice laden with emotion he tries to hold back. “I’ve got a raging headache, I smell like a liquor store…”

“Yeah, uh, sure.” Sam nods with understanding. He knows Dean’s shutting down now. “Can I do anything?”

“Yeah, leave,” Dean huffs bitterly, the door to his room slamming shut soon after.

The bunker is cold and dark when you trudge down the metal steps.

There’s just blackness, not a light on except for a small table lamp in the library. Your gaze lands on the giant table, both phone and your note gone. You know he must’ve found it by now; you assumed he would’ve.

Still, your heart cracks at the thought.

You should’ve been clearer with your message. But there was no time, and your head had been spinning. Now, though, the craving’s gone.

There’s finally clarity.

It replaces the feverish longing. It tells you exactly what your heart needs – Dean. Not in a carnal, all-consuming way but in the purest form of love. He’s the air you breathe.

You find the door of his room ajar, but it’s dark inside, too – and empty. You’ve checked the garage, though, and saw Baby parked in her usual spot, so you know its green-eyed owner can’t be far.

And of all places he could’ve been – the shooting range to take his anger out, the kitchen to eat his feelings, or the cave to drown his sorrows – you find him in your room.

He sits on the freezing floor by the foot of your bed like a sad pile of forgotten laundry. When his gaze lifts to you in the doorframe, his brow furrows a tiny bit as if not sure he’s seeing a ghost.

“Hey,” you say softly, your voice close to a croak, but Dean averts his eyes as if seeing you pains him. And, well, that pains you.

“You-, uh, you forgot something?” He clears his throat to clear his feelings and seem casual. You don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling with that mask – again, sadly sitting on the floor in your room – but it sure ain’t you.

“Yeah, you,” you reply, a faint smile curving your lips. You step closer and kneel down in front of him, cupping his confused face in your palms as you brush your lips tentatively against his.

“I-… I don’t understand,” Dean says, the surprise still visible in the wrinkles of his brow when you pull back an inch. “Look, if you’ve changed your mind again–“

“No, Dean…” You shake your head and kiss the creases on his forehead. “I never changed my mind, okay? I meant what I said last night. I love you.”

His mouth is agape for a heartbeat, knitted brow ironing out with realization. “So, you’re staying?”

“Yeah. It's you. No contest.” You smile softly, the happiness in your veins almost forcing you to beam, but your other half doesn’t seem to be quite there yet.

“Then why did you leave?”

With a heavy sigh, you slump back against the footboard, taking a seat next to him. “I know. I’m sorry. I panicked when I woke up,” you explain. “I just-… I had to end it, you know?”

Dean’s brow raises with understanding. Oh.

“You broke up with him?”

You nod, swallowing. It hasn’t exactly been a fun day for you, either.

“I went to his hotel, but he’d already checked out. So, I went to the airport, but his flight was gone too,” you tell him. “I wanted to call you, but I forgot to charge my phone. My battery was dead.”

Dammit. Of course Sam was right.

“And, uhm, that’s when I bought a ticket and flew there.”

“You flew to Michigan?!”

Well, of all the scenarios that swirled around his head the past twenty-four hours, this hadn’t exactly been one of them. Sure, he’d buy you going after your boyfriend to be with him, but to break up with him?

“Wouldn’t a text done it?”

“Dean!” Gasping, you slap his arm scoldingly. “I know you don’t mean that. Look, I had to, okay? The guy wanted to propose to me, the least I could do is be honest and face him. I didn’t want to start something… new without ending it first, you know? Not that any of this was good, to begin with…”

Dean lifts a brow, pursing his lips. “So, last night wasn’t… good?”

You fix him with a glare. “Not the point, dude!” You shake your head at him. “Look, last night was–… You were–… It was–“

“Magical?” Dean offers with a small, puckish smile.

“Sure,” you relent, smiling internally at his childishness. Or is it cute? “I just meant it wasn’t ideal.”

“Yeah, uhm, I know. I’m sorry. Really. I am,” Dean says and meets your eyes. “So, did you tell him? About… you know?”

You exhale a long sigh. “Well, I didn’t want to. Not because I’m a coward and didn’t want to face the consequences, I just figured I was already cutting a wound. No need to pour salt into it, right?”

“Makes sense,” Dean agrees quietly.

“Yeah, well, that plan kinda went out the window thanks to your artwork on my neck,” you mutter a bit reproachfully, but a small smile still flashes on your lips. You know damn well he made it a point last night to mark you.

“Right, yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, too,” he says and clears his throat, but it’s the apology he doesn’t really mean. He’s not even a little bit sorry about that. The only thing he feels sorry for is making you go through all of that.

“Please, like you mean that.” You snort, giggling. Dean clicks his tongue, his cheeks reddening guiltily. “Anyways, that whole thing then led to a five-hour break-up talk.”

“Five hours?!” Dean wildly furrows his brow. “What’s taking so long? I mean, you tell them you don’t love them, and you leave.”

You frown slightly and deadpan, “Right, forgot you’re the relationship expert. Have you ever actually broken up with someone?”

Well… Cassie broke it off with him. Lisa, too. But to be fair, both of those break-ups combined didn’t last more than ten minutes – tops.

“Thought so.” You smirk winningly.

“Alright, congrats. You’re a saint,” Dean huffs jokingly.

“Hardly,” you scoff and find his gaze. “Dean, I still cheated. That’s not a good thing.”

“No, I know. But–“

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you, right?”

Stumped, Dean arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, of course not. Wait, is that something you’re actually worried about? That I would think that?”

You meekly shrug your shoulders, playing with your fingers in your lap. “Well, yeah…”

Dean wets his lips for a brief moment of contemplation before his palm cups the back of your head and pulls you to him for a searing kiss. It’s deep and soft and hungry all the same. Most of all, it’s pure. It feels like the first kiss that isn’t controlled by the craving.

It’s just love now.

“I love you,” Dean says breathlessly as soon as he draws back from your lips, offering you one of his charming smiles full of mischief. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I know, alright? Don’t you worry about that.”

You nod and claim his lips again.

“So, uh, what d’you say? Wanna hit Vegas tomorrow? Stop by a chapel?” Dean suggests, causing your brow to raise significantly.

“Oh, you were actually serious about that?”

Dean chuckles. Yeah, he wouldn’t have necessarily believed him either, but it’s still true. He’s not even a little bit afraid of the commitment. In fact, he craves it.

“Yeah, I was. Meant every word I said,” he confirms with a big grin. “You wanna get married? We’ll do it. Hell, anything you want, just tell me, and I make it happen, sweetheart.”

“Huh… Anything?” A tiny smirk curves your lips.

Dean sighs playfully and rolls his eyes. “Jesus, stepped right into that one, didn’t I? So, you wanna get married? What is it? Atlantic City? You know that place is a shithole, right? Even Jersey thinks so…”

“No, Dean, nothing like that.” You laugh, shaking your head with pink cheeks. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure I wanna get married.”

Dean nods, rubbing his chin with his fingers. “Okay, just figured you’d-, you know, since…”

“No, I mean, I would’ve said yes.”

“Huh.” Dean scratches the back of his head a little too anxiously. “Gotta say, kinda hard not to take it the wrong way here.”

You stifle a chuckle. “I promise it’s not that. I’d marry you in a heartbeat, okay? I’m just telling you it’s not a priority. You wanna get married tomorrow, we’ll get married. What d’you want? Elvis? You know they do weddings without him there too, right? I heard they even have a drive-through chapel. We could get married in the Impala.”

Dean blinks at you for a minute before he shakes his head clear. “Okay, first of all, love that idea. Second… you know, maybe you’re right. Let’s slow down a little. I don’t wanna go on a first date with my wife.”

You laugh, nodding. “Kinda my point.”

“Alright, what d’you wanna do, huh? We could look for a place topside, like Sammy and Eileen,” Dean proposes, but you wrinkle your nose.

“I don’t wanna leave the bunker,” you state. “Do you know how much rent we’d pay for a place this size topside?”

Dean chuckles a little. “We could downsize, you know? I mean, it’s just the two of us.”

“Yeah, but where would we play hall ball? Do I need to remind you this place has a bowling alley and a shooting range? I can’t downsize. I’m used to luxury now.”

A deep laugh rumbles through Dean’s chest at that, remembering only more reasons why he loves you – why you’re the one. “Alright, we’ll stay, princess.”

“Look, all I want is to be with you and have fun adventures. We’re pretty good at that, you know?” you tell him with a teasing smile, seeing Dean nod in agreement. “So… how serious were you about me knocking you out and dragging you on a plane?”

Groaning, Dean throws his head back, pounding it softly against the wooden bed frame. “Oh, c’mon! You sure I can’t just knock you up? We do have enough rooms for a couple of ‘em…”

You snort a laugh at his theatrical reaction. “A, I’m sure. And B, how’s that slowing down, huh? Besides, I already booked the tickets. Our plane leaves tomorrow at eight. Pack your bathing suit ‘cause we’re going to Hawaii.”

Slinging your arms around his shoulders, you peck his scruffy cheek, while Dean rubs a palm across his face, but he can hardly hide the smile underneath it, although his heart is fluttering quite nervously.

“Okay, let’s do it, I guess. Better call Sam for a strong spell to knock me out, though.” Dean laughs a little.

“How about we just go to the pharmacy before we pull out the hex bags, huh?” you suggest gently, smiling in amusement. Only a Winchester would propose such a ridiculous thing. “And you also have me by your side, okay? I think it’s about time Dean Winchester joins the mile high club, don’t you?”

Dean purses his lips but can’t stop the smirk from splitting his cheeks. “Well, speaking of–“ He cradles your head and leans closer, gently pushing you down till your back touches the floor and your giggles fill the room. “You left a hickey on my dick. How about I repay the favor?”

Without another word, his lips find yours, and you cave to craving once more. Dean hopes he can satiate it for the rest of his life.

Quite a ride, but we got to our HEA 😜💕 Let me know all your precious thoughts. Feedback is very appreciated!

I've already written a follow-up one-shot for these two and may have been thinking of a Hawaii-themed miniseries (after all, the Winchesters never hunted in that state, so there surely might be something supernatural there 😉)

🚀 Join Patreon for more stories & read ahead on current series

Tag List Pt. 1:

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You Call It Madness But I Call It Love

Pairing: Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Tropes: Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn

Song Inspiration For The Series: You Call It Madness But I Call It Love By Russ Columbo

Series Playlist (Spotify)🥀

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters fluctuate between past and present, beginning in 1934. SPOILERS FOR THE BOYS S3

Chapter 1: You Shouldn't Have Answered the Door

Chapter 2: Late Night Visitor

Chapter 3: Summer Has to End Someday

Chapter 4: It's My Party and I'll Eat Cake If I Want To

Chapter 5: The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Chapter 6: Batter Up

Chapter 7: Are We Old Friends Or Old Enemies?

Chapter 8: Jealousy Doesn't Look Good On Anybody Except...

Chapter 9: Wedding Bells or Gong of Destruction?

Chapter 10: How Did It End Up Like This?

Chapter 11: I Can't Think With You Yelling At Me!

Chapter 12: My Heart Is Beating For You Constantly

Chapter 13: You Made A Plaything Out of Romance

Chapter 14: You're All I'm Dreaming Of

Chapter 15: What Do You Know About Love?

Chapter 16: Please Come Back To Me

Chapter 17: How Could I Ever Forget?

Chapter 18: First Impressions Are Often Correct

Chapter 19: I Know Who You Are

Chapter 20: You Were There

Chapter 21: Try To Understand

Chapter 22: I May Be Right Or I May Be Crazy

Chapter 23: Extreme Makeover Backyard Edition

Chapter 24: What The Past Held

Chapter 25: Are Family Reunions Always This Awkward?

Chapter 26: I Hate You, I Love You

Chapter 27: Take Me Back To The Beginning

Epilogue: True Love Is Hard To Find

Last Updated: 10/08/2024 (Series Complete)

One Shots:

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?: All you wanted was for Ben to have a nice Thanksgiving, but when your daughter brings her new boyfriend over, all hell brakes loose!

[Extras]

Chapter 7.5: The Only Escape (Unused)

Happy Halloween! (Takes Place After Main Series)

If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know :)

Taglist:

@roseblue373 @anundyingfidelity @cheynovak @cassiecasluciluce @muhahaha303

@deans-spinster-witch @kayleighmeister @demodemo909 @fruitfacess @bobbobbobinogs

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(Photos on mood board from Pinterest)

Time After Time – Chapter 1

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, angst, Soldier Boy being an insufferable ass, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), post S3 alternate ending, enemies to lovers & slow burn, set partially in 1942

Word Count: 6.0k

Posted on Patreon March 1, 2025

A/N: Weeee, so excited to finally share the first part of this series with all of you! From mortal enemies to classic romance, crazy and angsty time travel theories, and a glimpse behind the green suit (in both ways), we're gonna have a lot of fun with this one 😉💕

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 1: Of All the Gin Joints...

“Move, or I’ll move you.”

Annoyed, you huffed a sigh and lifted your feet off the coffee table, shifting a few inches to the right, so Soldier Boy could pass by with a deep grumble. You rolled your eyes back slightly when he plopped down next to you on the worn, old couch in the office of the Flatiron Building.

“A ‘please’ wouldn’t hurt you every once in a while,” you muttered with a glare at the supe.

“Disagree,” he huffed.

When Butcher and his team tracked you down and recruited you almost a year ago, you surely hadn’t signed up to spend your days with a fossil from the past century. All they had wanted you to do was find the weapon that could destroy Homelander. That weapon turned out to be Soldier Boy.

And you had found him, freed the man from forty years of Russian torture without receiving so much as a ‘thank you,’ and helped the team take down Homelander, who was currently powerless and safely locked up in a CIA black site. Now, you were still here – as was Soldier Boy.

To your dismay, he wasn’t just the most powerful supe on the planet, especially after his own son’s steep fall from grace, but he was also the biggest motherfucking asshole that ever walked the earth.

Soldier Boy was obnoxious, loud, rude, sexist, racist, lazy, arrogant, selfish, cruel, deceitful, complacent, vindictive, inconsiderate, paranoid, ruthless and unsympathetic. Honestly, you’d need a whole dictionary just to get through every single character trait you hated about that man.

This morning he’d been particularly belligerent as soon as he had set foot inside the office and Hughie bumped into him, causing Soldier Boy to spill his iced latte. To be fair, the guy had just been standing in the doorway like a moron for a full three minutes – he’d stared at you the whole time, probably thinking of new ways to torture you.

Today marked your 30th birthday of all things, so it was only natural your over six-feet playground tormentor would be present for the occasion.

“Led Zeppelin, huh?” he noted with an arched brow, eyeing your choice of outfit. You mostly wore band shirts from tours you’d been to from your time traveling adventures.

“Yeah, I got it for my twenty-fifth birthday. I went to Zeppelin’s first tour in 1969. Only wear it on special occasions,” you told him with a smile.

In some rare moments, it was actually possible to have a normal fucking conversation with him. You hoped it was one of those. Aside from his grumpiness in the morning, maybe he’d decided to give you a break on your birthday.

“Oh, yeah, right…” He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Happy fucking birthday, I guess.”

“That is so sweet of you, thank you,” you replied wryly.

He knew what you were doing. His smile rose – and then morphed into a provocative smirk. “So, thirty, huh? How’s that feminist bullshit working out for your biological clock, sweetheart?”

“Don’t kill him,” Annie reminded you of the office mantra with calm in her voice as she sat behind you at her desk, causing Soldier Boy to snort a laugh.

“Isn’t it time for your nap, gramps? You’re sundowning,” you retorted instead with a teasing smile.

You took his taunts lightheartedly. After all, you didn’t think you’d have to worry in that department – much like him. For some reason, you didn’t age… a lot. At least, it was slower than the average supe and human. You figured it might have to do with dropping in and out of wormholes. You had aged just fine as a kid but it progressively began to slow around your sixteenth birthday – the first time you’d traveled through time and jumped to Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged show in New York of December 1993.

You remembered your parents had been fighting behind the broken and yellowing partition slider of a trailer you had called your home. You’d lain on the pull-out bed with your headphones on and a Walkmen, trying to drown out their screaming. You listened to that record and wished you could be there – and then you were.

You’d found your ruby slippers.

To this day, you still got ID’ed at every bar, club, and liquor store alike. Soldier Boy had never been carded. He’d once claimed it was because he was famous, to which you’d almost spat out your drink and told him the wrinkles didn’t lie. Least to say, that little joke hadn’t flown well with the supe.

“You know, doll, if you ever need that tension to disappear from your shoulders, I’m right here.” Soldier Boy smirked cockily at you and spread his legs a little further apart. Not a day passed by when he didn’t hit on you either – or anything with tits, really. “Just say the word, and I fuck it right outta you. I do like ‘em older, you know, so I don’t give shit. But if you wanna get cracking on this baby thing, we better fuck on this couch right now.”

“Please don’t,” Hughie pleaded in a high-pitched sigh, glued in his spot next to Annie.

“No, thanks,” you scoffed and scrunched your nose in disgust. “You’re a fucking pig.”

“Hey, c’mon, I know you want to,” replied Soldier Boy without an ounce of self-reflection, his smirk only widening as his hand crawled up your thigh. “Bet you’ve been waiting for a big dick like mine, haven’t you?”

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” You slapped his fingers away, huffing in frustration.

Not even your kindergarten bully had been this fucking annoying – and that kid threw a dodge ball at your face and broke your nose.

Fortunately, while your own powers were on the fritz, you still had some superhuman strength. Sure, not as much as Soldier Boy, but if he shoved, you could at least push back enough for him to leave you alone.

For, like, five seconds.

Soldier Boy laughed loudly at your rejection. “I do like ‘em feisty,” he murmured with a sultry voice, invading your space even more as he shifted closer on the couch. Lion king on the prowl. “You know, you’d be less useless if you spread your legs every once in a while.”

Jumping up from your seat, you rounded the table to bring space between you and face him properly. It was always smarter when he was in your view at all times and you could watch his brazen hands with an eagle eye – the same hands that currently began to roll a blunt on the coffee table.

“Hey, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be frozen solid in a box in Russia,” you bit.

“Well, we’d like to think we would’ve found him eventually, love,” Butcher threw in from across the room, the sly grin on his face telling you he was enjoying the show.

“See?” Soldier Boy sneered complacently. “Fucking useless.”

“You’re fucking useless!” you yelled, anger surging through every inch of your body. “No one fucking likes you! You don’t have friends, you don’t have family, and everyone in this room fucking despises you – just like your old team!”

Slowly, he rose from his spot on the couch, nostrils flaring, his sheer height imposing as he towered over you like the Empire State. A part of you was glad there was still a piece of furniture between you – even though that wouldn’t stop him in the slightest.

“You take that fucking back,” he snarled, one hand balling into a fist by his side while the other pointed a warning finger at you.

However, you stood your ground, crossing your arms in front of your chest, a challenging look in your eyes but a subtle swallow in your throat. “No,” you said defiantly and bristled. “I’ll drop you into the fucking Jurassic era where you belong, fossil. Watch you become a T-Rex’s fucking chew toy.”

Soldier Boy’s grin boldly widened, green eyes shimmering daringly. “Do. It.”

“Oy, simmer down, kids,” Butcher assuaged but didn’t even bother to glance up from the newspaper in his hands. Instead, the Brit leaned back in his chair and threw his legs up on the desk, settling into a more comfortable position.

Soldier Boy threw him a dismissive look, annoyed at the interruption, before his attention turned back to you with a spiteful sneer. “You know, if I were you, I would’ve used those powers properly. I would’ve gone back and fucking killed baby Hitler or some shit.”

You scoffed a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, not surprising you would’ve killed a fucking baby,” you retorted dryly.

“See, this is why you’re a fucking failure,” he taunted and stepped closer, his face only inches away from yours now. You could feel his hot breath against your skin. “Those powers were clearly wasted on you, doll. Women are too fucking soft.”

You snorted, shaking your head. You didn’t even know why you still argued with that asshole. He’d never change. And you sure as hell couldn’t say shit like:

What d’you know? You’ve never seen a war zone from the inside, you fucking bigoted coward. 

“I’m not soft,” you insisted instead, narrowing your eyes to a glare.

“Prove it.”

“I wouldn’t hesitate to go back in time and fucking kill you!”

At this point, you wouldn’t. You really wouldn’t fucking mind at all.

However, Soldier Boy only laughed in your face like you were the bug about to hit his shield. “Oh, you can certainly try, sweetheart. But you can’t, can ya? ‘Cause you’re fucking broken. Like I said, useless,” he reiterated harshly, his sneer widening when his hand reached out and clasped your chin between his fingers. “Don’t worry. I’ll find some good use for you. Especially for that mouth.”

Furiously, you thwarted his advances once more. “I said don’t fucking touch me!”

“Yo, Soldier Boy, c’mon! Leave her alone now,” MM warned, finally getting fed up too. He usually avoided the supe to the best of his abilities, only snapping every once in a while when the asshole took it too far.

This time, MM only got involved because Hughie kept sending him frantic looks of panic during your heated exchange, probably worried you’d antagonize the supe so much he’d detonate the whole building.

“Mind your own fucking business, punk,” Soldier Boy dismissed the intervention, his venomous eyes still fixed on you.

The anger was storming through your body and closing your throat with a tight chokehold. You could barely breathe as your chest heaved and your ears rang. It was always worse when you got angry. Unfortunately for you, Soldier Boy had a way of pushing your buttons and setting off your triggers.

Your superpowers had the ability to control and bend time – or at least they used to. You had mostly used it to stop the clock and get an extension on your homework deadlines. But technically, you could also travel through time.

Once you had found out how that worked, well, you quickly became addicted. You went to concerts of bands that didn’t tour anymore, you’d shamelessly make money on Wall Street and placed bets on football games, and sometimes, you even ate dessert twice.

It was all about the little things.

But that all stopped when you accidentally cast yourself into the Middle Ages and almost got burned at the stake for witchcraft. For some reason, your powers wouldn’t work until the last second – you figured extreme distress had been a factor.

When you closed your eyes at night, you could still feel the scorching heat underneath your bare soles and smell the smoke reaching your nose and lungs.

Afterward, you didn’t want to use your powers any longer – not that you could. PTSD was a real bitch sometimes.

You had lived quietly and alone in a cabin near Montréal for years. After your parents found out they couldn’t make money off of you, they kicked you to the curb. And when you knocked on Vought’s doors, asking for help, they told you not to use your abilities – before they tried to kill you. That was the moment you’d realized you might be more powerful than you’d initially surmised. Until then, you had only used your powers for your pleasure and the occasional personal gain.

So, maybe, Soldier Boy was right when he said you had never used your gift wisely.

After your flight from Vought, you lived under a fake name and took up online college classes in physics and history to understand your abilities better and avoid grave mistakes.

And boy, time travel was a fucking bitch.

Years of study could be summarized to this, however: If you even so much so as killed the wrong fly in 1783, the whole world could go extinct.

Or in Vought’s terms: If you accidentally fucked up history, it might fuck with their business and money.

That was the reason why they had been trying to get rid of you for the longest time – until Butcher showed up on your doorstep. You had no idea how the Brit could’ve found you or even known about your powers in the first place. After your escape, Vought had kept your existence quiet. They knew if the wrong people found you, it would end direly for them.

Wrong people like William Butcher.

At first, he wanted you to go back in time and, in his words, “kill the chubby, little cape cunt.” Needless to say, you had declined. Even if Homelander was the worst creature to ever walk this earth, excluding his sperm donor, you wouldn’t kill a baby. You wouldn’t kill anything or anyone, really.

If anything, you could be classified as a bit of hedonist – or “a fucking hippie,” as Soldier Boy once had put it. Which, granted, was probably a trait you both shared. Although, Soldier Boy took the whole fucking cake and ate it, too. At least all you ever did was steal a tiny slice every once in a while.

In the end, you had never asked for these powers. You were just trying to make the best out of a bad situation.

But when Butcher then asked you if you could at least “hop back” to retrieve the weapon that had neutralized Soldier Boy in 1984, you finally told him you were essentially useless.

A part of you wanted to help, though. While you had closed yourself off from the rest of the world, you had still followed the news. You knew it had gotten bad out there. You could see Homelander spinning out of control and threatening to burn the world. You knew soon enough your house would burn, too.

You knew the monster needed to be stopped.

So, you offered Billy Butcher the only thing you could – a glimpse into the past, so he could find the weapon in the present.

And you did. You saw how Soldier Boy’s own team had despised him so much they handed him off to the Russians during an ambush in Nicaragua – but they hadn’t killed him.

The diabolical smirk on Butcher’s face had scared you. You knew he’d realized in that moment that you could be valuable after all. So, naturally, he threatened to give up your location to Vought if you didn’t join his team.

And well, here you were.

You’d traveled to Russia, you’d freed Soldier Boy, and you’d defeated Homelander. But even after the job was done, you stuck around.

Hughie, Annie, MM, Frenchie, Kimiko, and even Butcher – they had all sort of become your friends. And they protected you, even though Vought had sworn they were done hunting you. No one trusted Stan Edgar, and you knew he would probably still rather have you buried six-feet-deep if he ever got the chance.

So it was nice to know the whole team stood behind you. Well, all but one.

Part of the deal with Edgar had been a request to keep Soldier Boy away from Vought’s business. The guy was smart enough to know he wanted nothing to do with the ticking time bomb, either.

“And what are we supposed to do with that wanker, huh?” Butcher had asked as all of you stood in a very breezy office at Vought Tower – which had still been under heavy construction after the fallout.

“Let him play hero, keep an eye on him, and I’m sure we’ll have no issues, Mr. Butcher.” Edgar had smiled cunningly, his eyes flickering to you. 

Afterward, you had decided to pack up like Maeve and finally live your life. You’d even applied as a physics professor at a small college. But then Soldier Boy made his own request: Either you’d stay, or he’d walk. And if he had walked, your deal with Edgar would’ve fallen through.

Soldier Boy was a bully. In fact, he could teach master classes in it. You didn’t think there was one good bone in his body. So far, you could count the times the guy had actually been nice to you on one hand – two fingers to be exact.

The first time had been the very first night you’d spent together in that rundown motel after he’d killed Crimson Countess. You took over the nightshift of babysitting while Hughie and Butcher took a snooze in the adjoining room. That night, Soldier Boy had shown you a glimpse of a human being.

“Well, currently, there are two working theories on time travel: The closed loop theory and the alternate timelines theory,” you’d explained after he had asked you how actual time travel worked. Most people gave up after a minute, but he had still been in it after five.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Well, lemme see…” Musingly, you had pursed your lips and thought for a moment. “Terminator came out in ‘83, right? You’ve seen it?”

His lips had slowly risen to a smile. “Yeah… Actually one of the last fucking movies I watched before the fucking Reds got me.”

“Right.” You’d nodded. “Still remember what happened?”

He’d scoffed and rolled his eyes a little. “I’m not that old…”

“Well, it’s been forty years since you’ve seen it…”

“Schwarzenegger comes from the future to kill that blonde chick,” he’d summarized with a cocky smirk that should’ve proven to you he wasn’t demented.

“Yeah, remember the soldier who came back to save her, too?”

“Oh. Yeah, that guy…” His nose had scrunched slightly. Of course he’d be rooting for the killing machine. “What about that fucking wimp?”

“The Terminator was supposed to kill Sarah because her yet-unborn son would defeat the robots in the future, but the soldier who came back to save her is actually the baby’s father.” There had been no way you could’ve explained it any simpler than that. “So, the Terminator actually created the circumstance, which made him go back in the first place. That’s a closed loop. Does that make sense?”

He’d nodded slowly, his brow creasing heavily in concentration. “Yeah, I think it fucking does…”

For hours, he’d asked you questions about your powers, and when he was through all of that, he even asked you about your life, what you did for work, and how you ended up here. And you’d figured he was trying to schmooze up to you to use you for his gain – or maybe he’d just been coming down from all the drugs he’d taken that day.

Either way, after what you’d seen the Russians do to him, you could understand why someone like him might want to turn back time and get a redo. The unpleasant images, the inhumane torture he’d endured, actually caused you to have sympathy for the supe.

For a second.

When you’d tried bringing it up and be his friend, he had quickly shot you down. He’d been an even bigger dick since then, as if the sheer thought of someone seeing his weaknesses scared him.

Yes, a little, gray mouse like you apparently fucking terrified the biggest and strongest elephant in this world.

Honestly, you didn’t know why the supe had insisted on your presence. Maybe he just needed the perfect victim to antagonize as he passed the time. Sometimes, you did feel like the new Black Noir of Payback.

There’d only been one other incident where he’d shown something remotely resembling kindness:

He’d complimented you.

A real, sweet compliment – and he’d actually meant it – and he hadn’t hit on you in the same breath.

One night, a few weeks ago, Annie and Frenchie had dragged everyone of you to a karaoke bar to “decompress.” Even Soldier Boy tagged along and seemed in somewhat good spirits all night – there’d been no heinous taunting, only the usual flirtatious teasing.

One of those flirtatious attempts had been a dare for you to sing.

“Oh, c’mon! One song,” he’d begged and shifted closer to you on the small leather sofa in the corner of the bar. “How about something from the fucking 80s? Like Cyndi Lauper! I’m sure you’d like that, huh?”

“What, you want me to sing ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’? Really? You?” You’d arched a brow at him.

He’d chuckled, and it’d been a sweet sound instead of a mocking one. “Hey, look, I’m all about the girls having some fucking fun,” he’d said coolly before a lick of his lips turned him a bit more serious, mysterious even. “How about something a little slower… Time After Time!” He’d grinned proudly and raised his expensive whiskey glass to your cheap beer. “That’s fucking perfect for you!”

And then you actually went on stage and sung. You weren’t a bad singer, either, but you were by far no Mariah. However, you could see Soldier Boy watching you intently the whole time with that strange look he sometimes carried whenever he was staring at you – something he did quite often.

In fact, he’d stared at you pretty intensely when he’d first walked out of his cryo-chamber, too. It gave you the creeps the same way that naked homeless man had once done in a subway after 1 AM. And then, he had fucking detonated, which had freaked you out so much you’d accidentally disappeared back to New York with a five minute time difference forward – the only time you’d actually managed to travel into the future.

But after your performance, Soldier Boy had passed you on your way down from the stage and intercepted you by placing a tentative hand on your arm.

“You have a really beautiful voice,” he’d said and even gifted you a small but genuine smile.

“Thank you.”

Sweetly, you’d even mirrored his smile after no other insults or advances followed. You’d been practically baffled. As you had glanced at him more carefully, though, you’d noticed something gleaming in his eyes, almost melancholic. You’d supposed after 104 years, he had probably been experiencing a ton of déjà vu.

“You okay there, gramps?” you’d checked with a bit of a teasing smile, and maybe that’d been your mistake.

“‘M fucking fine,” he’d huffed. He’d suddenly turned cold again, the hard lines on his freckled face crestfallen. He’d spun around, marched out of the bar, and ditched you there on the spot. 

So, that was what you had done for the past few months – babysit Soldier Boy and keep the bomb from exploding. Which brought you back to this exact moment:

“What the fuck is wrong with you, huh? Seriously!” you snapped, feeling the fury overtaking you. “What the fuck happened in your life to turn you into such a miserable, toxic, overbearing, narcissistic, insufferable piece of shit?!”

“Insufferable?” He scoffed as if your words didn’t affect him, but you could see it was starting to get to him. “You’re the one who’s fucking insufferable, doll. Probably because you haven’t been fucked in a while by a real man.”

Exasperatedly, you gripped your temples. “Oh, it all trickles down to that, doesn’t it?” you deadpanned. “You sound like a fucking broken record, gramps!”

“Oh, you wanna fucking jump on me badly right now, don’t you?” he gritted through his pearly-white teeth, a challenging smirk playing on his plush lips as he leaned closer, his face only inches away from yours now.

“Please, it’s not gonna fucking make me like you more. Your dick’s not a magic eraser,” you bit sharply, your voice low and poisonous. “God knows you fucked your last girlfriend for years, and she still fucking hated you.”

Growling, he bristled, his jaw ticking. Mentioning Crimson Countess always hit a nerve. You knew as much.

“You’re just a drug-addicted loser with daddy issues. Nothing more, nothing less,” you nonetheless continued bitterly. “No one likes you! And believe me, asshole, I fucking hate you!”

As you looked up at him, you could tell he was close to exploding. Kimiko even desperately tugged on your arm to drag you out of the blast zone – not that it would’ve mattered.

“Butcher…”

Hughie’s panicked voice and wide eyes reached the Brit, who finally got out of his chair and slammed the paper on the desk.

“Oy, you two! Fucking stop it!”

And somehow, that had miraculously seemed to work. Soldier Boy managed to snap out of his temper tantrum, his breathing steadying, his smirk reappearing.

His lips twitched as he dipped his head and whispered into your ear, “You’re not fucking worth it.”

His thick fingers trailed up your hips before he grabbed your waist and pushed you closer to his body. You tried to shove him away, but this time he used his full strength on you to keep you caged.

“Get off of me!”

“Butcher!”

“Oy! What did I fucking tell you lot?!”

Kimiko tried to pull you away harder, but that only made Soldier Boy chuckle more.

“I said stop it! Get the fuck off of me!” you yelled louder, and he finally let go with a cunning laugh.

“Alright, you’ve had your bloody fun, mate. Why don’t you take a bit of a time-out now, huh?” It was the most Butcher could do as far as an intervention went. Everyone in the room knew Soldier Boy couldn’t be stopped.

“Fine,” the supe relented with a roll of his green eyes, but then his gaze landed back on you.

You hated to admit that he had gotten to you, but it was hard to deny when your whole body was trembling and tears stung your eyes.

“Fucking Christ on a cross, are you actually gonna fucking cry now?” Soldier Boy snorted condescendingly.

“Fuck you. Leave me alone,” you snapped with what little strength you had left and wiped the burning tears out of your eyes.

“Exactly why I said you’re fucking useless. This is the problem with women. Can’t even take a goddamn joke,” he ranted. The more he got to you, the more pleasure he took out of it. You could see it by the vicious twinkle in his eyes. “You keep talking how everyone hates me, but what about you, huh? You’ve got fucking no one, too. Your own fucking parents didn’t want you, and I don’t see an army of men lining up to take care of you, either.”

“Shut up!”

“Wanna know why? ‘Cause you’re a broken, useless, stupid, weak–“

“Stop it!”

But he didn’t. You couldn’t even hear the words properly anymore as they strung together into one explosion of abuse. Your vision blurred, and the ringing in your ears only got stronger.

“C’mon, fucking show me what you can do! Prove to me you’re not fucking useless! Do it!”

“I said fucking stop it!” you screamed loudly till he fell silent.

And then, poof. You were gone.

Soldier Boy blinked at the suddenly empty space before him. Knitting his brow, he shrugged your disappearance off only a second later and plopped down on the couch with an exhaustive groan.

“Fucking finally… Took her long enough,” he commented dryly and stretched out on the small two-seater, sighing blissfully.

“This isn’t fucking funny,” Hughie threw in, the anxious expression on his face only causing Soldier Boy to roll his eyes once more.

“Relax, squirt, she’ll be back,” the supe quipped, snickering. “Probably.”

“Y/N’s got PTSD, okay? She can’t control it,” Hughie argued, placing his hands on his hips in upset, his gaze scolding. “You know, you’d think you of all people would be a little more sympathetic to that.”

Soldier Boy’s eyes glowered darkly. “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t have that shit. I told you.”

“You know, kid’s right,” Butcher chimed in, catching the ancient supe’s attention. “I’d be a little more worried if I were you.”

“Why? Not my fucking problem. And like I said, she’ll be fine,” he reiterated with a careless grumble.

“I’m sure you’re right, mate,” Butcher replied with a conniving smirk and a casualness that made the supe wary. “Let’s just hope our little Y/N doesn’t take your advice to heart about the proper use of her abilities. But if I were bloody you, I’d hope old-me watches me back.”

Soldier Boy snorted a laugh of amusement. “Oh, I’d like to see her try,” he replied arrogantly and stretched his spine with a yawn. “Well, anyways, I’m taking my fucking nap now. Just wake me when she gets back. I’m not fucking finished with her yet…”

Hughie and the others hurried around Butcher’s desk, their voices only whispers as not to disturb the grumpy supe, and the Brit knew by the worried looks on his team’s faces that he’d have to deal with this bloody problem now.

“Butcher, what are we gonna do?” Hughie asked, eyes still wide and kind heart surely beating a marathon on his sleeve.

“Yeah, how are we gonna get her back?” Annie agreed, calmer than her boyfriend, questioningly folding her arms and arching a brow.

“Mon dieu, what if she changes the timeline, Butcher? I don’t want to wake up speaking German,” Frenchie threw in.

“And I don’t want fucking slavery back,” MM added.

“Oy, calm down,” Butcher spoke with placating hands. “Y/N’s a smart girl. She knows more about this shite than anyone of you. I’m sure she’ll fucking figure it out.”

“What if she doesn’t, Butcher?” Annie pressed.

“Well, then, let’s hope worst she does is kill the snoring cunt over there.” Butcher smirked devilishly and gestured to Soldier Boy fast asleep on the couch as if he were hoping for that outcome. “God knows I’d be bloody fine with it.”

It took less than a second, a blink of an eye, but you felt it immediately, knew instantly what had happened as gravity itself stretched out its tentacles and wound them around your limbs, tearing and tugging until you ripped at the seams and atoms spilled out of you.

There was a stark drop in temperature – that was the first thing you’d noticed. Goosebumps formed within a beat on the bare skin of your arms, the biting cold making you not only shiver but fear for your life.

Please don’t be the Pleistocene... Death by saber-tooth? No, thank you.

But to your relief, you heard a strange, but familiar set of sounds around you – animated chatter, chiming bells and closing doors, and the occasional low rumble of a car. Your heart was pounding a furious and relentless rhythm in your ribcage as your eyes fluttered open and warily scanned your strange surroundings.

You’d landed on a street, your feet safely planted on a sidewalk. Glistening white snow covered the pavement in a thick veil, the sky a dull gray blanket above. Icicles hung from lampposts with patriotic banners flying in the chill, proclaiming messages to buy war bonds and save scrap metal.

Huh…

Powdered flakes swirled around you as a streetcar clattered past you on a cobbled street, the sound muffled by the snow. Storefronts and shops lined both sides of the road, shoppers bustling by you in coats, hats, and scarves. Your brow furrowed softly at the row of parked, snow-covered cars that looked a tad… old.

Oh no…

You had definitely traveled back a smidge, but luckily not as far as the Middle Ages again. Judging by the moderately busy street, you assumed you were at least still in New York City. A paperboy was shouting loudly further down, but you couldn’t understand him from the distance. The only word that was plastered everywhere was war.

World War I or World War II, maybe?

Wherever – or whenever – you were, you couldn’t get stuck here. Your short-lived fascination with your new environment was then quickly replaced by a rising panic in your throat.

You had to get home somehow.

Squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as you could, you tried to wish yourself back – unfortunately, you didn’t possess your pair of ruby slippers anymore that you could simply click. The more you tried and failed, the more anxious you became, and you knew a full-on panic attack was just waiting for you around the corner.

“Whoa! Hey, careful…”

With your hands on your knees, you bumped backwards into a man, your lungs constricting so much they barely let any air pass. You spun around, eyes wide and body trembling as a set of hands landed gently on your shoulders and waist for support.

“Miss? Are you alright?”

What little breath you had got caught in your throat as you stared into an all-too familiar set of outlandishly green eyes.

Soldier Boy.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

It was a reflex at this point to slap his hands away and keep them as far from your body as possible. Of course the guy couldn’t leave you alone in any era.

Admittedly, he was hardly recognizable, though. While he was just as tall as his 21st century counterpart, he wasn’t as broad. Instead of the signature green outfit, he wore a long, black wool coat over a three-piece suit and a checkered flat cap. His hair was maybe an inch shorter, his beard replaced by a clean-shaven face. And while Soldier Boy surely didn’t look a 104, he didn’t look as young as the guy in front of you either. No furious lines from decades of anger management issues decorated his freckle-dusted face yet.

Maybe your reaction was ill-advised, considering the power he wielded. You figured any past version of the supe was even more ruthless than the current one you’d gotten to know. Moreover, you didn’t have the advantage of being spared because you had saved him from an ice box.

To your surprise, however, there was no detection of malice or offense on his features. To the contrary, he seemed strangely taken aback by your aggressive response, his hands swiftly shooting back as if your very skin was made out of scorching coals. They raised in surrender.

Surrender. 

Well, that was new. He had never, ever, ever done that before. Did you land in some alternate timeline where Soldier Boy was a nice guy?

“I-I’m so sorry, miss. Please forgive me… I was just checking if you were okay,” he stammered and forced a reassuring smile, his hands still held high in good faith.

“Just stay away from me. Leave me alone, okay?”

You backed farther away from him, your eyes desperately flickering around for an exit. Your voice jittered in sync with your body before you bolted down the street and sought shelter in a dark and quiet alley.

“Miss! Wait!” he called after you, his hands picking something up in the snow that you’d dropped during your flight. “You’ve lost your–”

His brow furrowed as he twisted the thin, rectangular device in his hand, his thumb wiping bits of melting snowflakes off the sleek, black glass. As he glanced more closely at it, it lit up brightly and vibrated in his hold. He startled at the unexpected tremble, almost dropping it into a pool of mud by his shoes. Fuddled, his gaze lifted down the busy street in search of you.

“What the hell…”

▶️ Chapter 2: Is This the 40s? – APRIL 4

I think his curiosity is piqued lol... What did you think of his 1942 version vs. the, uhm, less nice future dickbag? 👀

Coming Up:

Ready to fend him off, you were surprised to find his grip wasn’t strong by any means. It was barely a brush before he dropped his hand again and looked at you remorsefully.

“I’m sorry! I just-… Please let me help you,” he reiterated with imploring green eyes. “Look, you clearly seem lost. Just tell me where you live, and I can get you home safely, okay? C’mon, you can’t do this to me.” He tried to loosen you up with a charming smile and a puppy dog look. “If you leave like this, I’m going to be up all night, worrying you’ve died of hypothermia out here.”

And my God, he seemed sincere! No wonder he had gotten attention from women like a goddamn bunny in a petting zoo.

Musingly, you then chewed on your lower lip and assessed the man in front of you. The people who strolled by you threw you the occasional weird looks – you’d chosen a bad day to wear a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and ripped jeans.

Admittedly, you could use a little help here. Maybe if you were being careful with the timeline – and him – you could risk it.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

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