waynes-multiverse

[waynes-multiverse]

Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum, Uli Latukefu as Luke Finau, Elliot Knight as Keyonte Bell. COUNTDOWN (2025) | 1.06 – “A Needle or a Bullet”

[waynes-multiverse]

Tag List Reblog Pt. 2:

@hellsbratonthet @jassackles @periandernyx @hayah84 @mariarozasworld

@missverse @mystic-writings

@snowayumi @corruptedcruiser @gowanadrienne @mostlymarvelgirl @ladykitana90

@spxideyver @kamisobsessed @lovelywebber @lunaleah @ablondehoe

@stariou @apobangpo-0613 @thoughtfullyfurryangel @mariarozasworld @iprobablyshipit91

@mochminnie @maddie0101 @nuoctis @dreametcher @jollyhunter

@theblackcherries @kimxwinchester @linibambinii @pizzashite @mariaanna2000

@narniabusinessbitch @brinnalaine @lupinslibraries @prettysurethatsakidney @amelia-song-pond

@icefox8155 @ralilda @magic-sprinkled-daydreams

@pressedwater @little-diable @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @chloe-skywalker @mimiimmii

@pillowjj @the-light-of-earendil @wish-i-had-something-better

Time After Time – Chapter 17

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, back in the present, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, humor, pining & spiraling, a bit of angst and hurt, a thin line between enemies and lovers, plenty of childhood trauma to go 'round, FLUFF (and a bit of steaminess)

Word Count: 15.3k

Posted on Patreon June 25, 2025

A/N: Lotta ups and downs in this one, but we're doing a third version of "back to the past" in this one – not time travel, not flashbacks, but memory lane! 😝

✨ Chapter title inspired by The Maltese Falcon (1941)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of

New York didn’t do quiet. Didn’t even have it in its vocabulary.

No birdsong. No crickets chirping. No gentle breeze swaying through the trees. No serene bubbling brooks of water. No peaceful ocean waves.

The sound of a fucking garbage truck woke him up – the low hiss of hydraulics, screeching metal scraping against metal, and a guy cursing down the block. New York was just layers of noise stacked over heat, stacked over the smell of piss and old grease rising through the gutters like rot and rats.

Pale, gray light was bleeding in through the grimy basement window, warm and dull and already too bright. A fan in the corner hummed like it was ready to give up fighting the thick heat in the room, still hot with shared breaths and the lack of proper ventilation. Dust hung in the beams of sunlight like ghosts that hadn’t bothered to leave – like him.

But not you.

The realization hit slow like letting air escape through a tiny hole in a balloon. He knew it before even blinking his eyes open. Didn’t need to look to know you weren’t there anymore. Felt the cold instead of the warmth.

You were gone.

Ben’s chest tightened. His eyes snapped open, confirming his worst suspicions.

The entire night he hadn’t dared to close his eyes. He kept watch as you curled up in his arms and clung to his chest like you wanted to crawl between his ribs and hide there. And Ben would’ve let you and kept you safe forever.

But you didn’t want that, did you? Not really. Because you didn’t fucking trust him. Still.

And Ben? Well, apparently, he didn’t trust you either, or he wouldn’t have expected you to flee in a gut-punching vanishing act as soon as sleep won and he shut his goddamn eyes.

Houdini had fuckin’ nothing on you.

He’d feared this would happen. That you’d make good on your promise and slip away. That if he couldn’t thaw your heart in time, the ice would certainly reach your feet.

He sat up straight, the old couch springs creaking under his weight. The spot beside him was empty and cold. Blanket rumpled. Pillow still indented and smelling like you.

His hand raked through his dirty blond locks. His jaw clenched. His pulse was climbing higher and higher.

If you’d gone, he didn’t know where – or when.

Adrenaline rushed his blood without a destination and purpose yet – fight, flight, or just smash the nearest wall. But then he heard it.

Footsteps.

Light taps of sneakers down the concrete steps outside, paired with your key jingling before sliding into the lock.

A heartbeat later, there you were – strolling past the threshold in an oversized Bowie shirt and jean shorts, coffee cup in hand and paper bag under your arm.

No smile. No wave. No hello. Not even a glance.

You walked right past him into the kitchen without acknowledging him. Like he was a rat that had moved in uninvited, and you’d decided not to feed it till it’d left on its own.

Ben studied the tension in your shoulders for a minute before he spoke, voice raspy and dry and still laced with sleep. “You’re up early.”

“Went to get coffee.”

“Without tellin’ me?”

You exhaled a sigh, the paper bag rustling in your hands as you pulled out a chocolate croissant – your favorite.

“Didn’t know I had to ask permission,” you muttered.

Ben licked his lips and shifted on the couch, his feet hitting the creaking floorboards with a groan. It was too fucking early for this. “Didn’t mean it like that. You know that.”

“Do I?”

Your words were sharp, the glare you threw him over your shoulder even sharper.

Ben didn’t respond, just glanced at the coffee cup on the counter – only one. You weren’t exactly subtle when it came to sending messages. He understood that one loud and clear – get out.

He rose from the couch and stepped up behind you, still keeping a safety distance as not to spook you. But your muscles only tensed more the closer he got.

“Didn’t get me one, huh?” Ben tried to keep his voice light and calm. But it wasn’t anger he was trying to hide – it was fucking nerves.

“Nope.”

Ben deduced from that attitude that you were probably still a tiny bit mad at him. That a kiss and a night in his arms didn’t magically heal all wounds. He didn’t think it would, but hope was a bitch.

“Didn’t feel like getting it thrown at me this morning,” you added under your breath, sipping your coffee.

Alright, maybe you were still a lot mad.

“C’mon, that happened once,” Ben retorted, trying to laugh it off, but your lips didn’t even twitch.

Fuck, he’d missed that. Not just the look of you. The feel of you. That fire. That fight. The way your eyes lit up when you were mad, which was often, and the way your voice never backed down.

“No, it happened nine times, including Valentine’s Day when you poured it over my head,” you replied and turned around with a raised brow and fire in your eyes.

Yup, he remembered that one, alright. Had overheard you talking with Annie in the break room about your date later that night, and Annie telling you to “get that D.”

He didn’t always understand 21st century slang, but he’d understood that one. And sure, he could’ve fucking handled that better. Add it to the damn list.

Ben rubbed his aching jaw. “Think we’ve already established I was a fuckin’ prick.”

You cocked an eyebrow and crossed your arms. “And what? Now it’s time to move on and forget about it?”

“No,” Ben said quickly – cleverly – which seemed to take you by surprise. “I know it ain’t that easy. But you at least gotta give me a shot to try and fix it. Otherwise, what the fuck are we doin’ here?”

“I don’t know, okay?!” you snapped, throwing your arms up. “I don’t know what we’re doing here, and I don’t know what I’m doing here. Can you stop pushing so fucking hard? This is all weird, and you’re different, but you’re also not, and my head still fucking hurts like a tsunami rolled through it.”

You took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

“And when I woke up this morning, I wanted to get you coffee, okay? Even went to your favorite place on 12th because they still use Chock full o’ Nuts and not some ‘ethically sourced, fair trade, rainforest bullshit,’” you said, lowering your voice as you were mimicking him during that last part.

Ben tried not to fucking smile. Failed. You did know him well.

“I got halfway through your coffee order before remembering all the times you dumped it on me, so I didn’t get you one,” you said but were far from done. Ben could tell by the way you sucked more air into your lungs. “But then, I didn’t want to be petty ‘cause you got me cake, so I ordered you coffee. The barista and some douche in a suit behind me thought I was fucking crazy, okay? But I made it all the way back outside with two cups, but by the time I passed the bodega on Perry Street, I remembered the speech you gave at the Women’s March.”

“You and Annie wrote that for me,” Ben argued but already knew this wouldn’t end well for him.

“Yes! Because Vought begged us to after you told them you were gonna improvise it on the spot. But then you still went off script and butchered it,” you countered in upset. “You said Betty Grable won the war by putting on a bathing suit.”

“I’m sorry, but were you fuckin’ there?!”

“You also said making pot roast was a valuable skill for a woman,” you continued.

“Wasn’t wrong…”

“You said equality is ditching the pumpkin spice and learning how to field-strip a weapon,” you added.

Ben huffed a sigh. “Alright, obviously, I just said that shit to get under your skin. Worked like a charm, too. Shoulda seen yours and Barbie’s faces,” he said, chuckling. “So, what happened to that second coffee?”

You fixed him with a glare. “I drank it. All of it. And it was fucking strong. Felt like I drank one of those 5-Hour Energy shots. Now, my hands are trembling and my brain’s on fire and my body is going through the shakes like I’m a heroin addict on cold turkey. How can you fucking drink this shit every day?”

Ben snorted.

“This isn’t fucking funny!”

“‘S a little funny,” he mumbled, stifling a laugh. But when your glare turned murderous, he raised two placating hands. “Alright, how ‘bout you put down the cup and step away from the caffeine?”

“No, it’s calming me,” you said with another rushed sip.

Ben watched your hands tremble slightly around the coffee cup. Caffeine, frustration, leftover adrenaline – probably all of it. You were wound tight.

He didn’t blame you. Hell, most of what you were mad about, he’d given you the blueprints for.

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s a lotta ‘calming’ goin’ on here, sweetheart.” Ben took a step closer and gently snatched the cup from your hands, placing it down on the counter next to you. “Also usin’ a lotta words in the mornin’ before giving a man some caffeine to flush it down with.”

You scowled, chest still rising and falling too fast. And you had that look again – that I-haven’t-decided-if-I’m-gonna-deck-you-or-kiss-you look.

Ben braced both hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in, but you didn’t flinch away or even dare to move. He tilted his head slightly, green eyes fixed on you.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice lower and smoother now, “for someone who says they don’t know what they’re doin’, you got a real good memory for all the ways I fucked up.”

You scoffed. “You make it easy.”

“Maybe,” he said, a lazy smirk crawling across his lips. “But I never forgot the way you looked at me either when you weren’t mad. When you let me in.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You ever think about shutting the fuck up?”

Ben snorted an amused laugh. “You were a lot nicer in the past, you know?”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing,” you retorted.

He licked the smile on his lips, hand lifting before fingers brushed along your jawline. Soft. Slow. Testing.

“Lemme try somethin’,” he murmured. His fingers slid to the back of your neck, sure and careful. Muscle memory like he’d done this a hundred times before – because he fucking had. He dipped his head just slightly. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. You never did. Not really.

So he kissed you.

It started slow – real slow. No teeth. No heat. Just the press of his lips against yours – familiar, grounding, intimate. Long enough to make your knees shift and remind your body what it felt like to belong to something, even if your mind hadn’t decided what it meant yet.

You didn’t kiss him back at first. Didn’t push him away either. Just let him lead while the cogs in your head kept twirling like a ballerina on acid.

Your lips were still tense, your breath still caught somewhere in your throat – but Ben stayed with it. His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t in a hurry. He already knew every pressure point, every sigh, every place your defenses would crack if he was patient enough.

And at that first crack in your armor, he slipped inside before it could seal again.

He kissed you like he was trying to remind you of every damn thing you used to love about him. The softness under the edge. The steadiness in his hands. The way he used to touch you like he didn’t want to break you, even when the world told him he only knew how to smash things long before he’d even taken a first bite out of that poisoned apple.

Your hands hovered for a second. Then you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and kissed him back. Your response hit him like a gunshot through the ribs.

Your mouth opened just enough for his tongue to slip inside. His other hand claimed your waist, palm spreading over the curve of your hip.

Last night, he’d held you like something that might shatter. This time, a whole year of pretending he didn’t want you bled out through every movement of his. His muscles remembered what it felt like to have you, and they were done being polite about it.

He kissed you deep. Intentional.

And your body responded. Angled toward him like instinct kicked in faster than logic.

You tasted like coffee and sugar and whatever it was he’d been missing since the day you vanished. He savored it till it burned low in his gut and his blood roared. Every nerve lit up like he was twenty-three again and invincible.

Ben wanted more. Fuck, he wanted it all.

He wanted you on that couch. On top of him, under him, against the wall – anywhere he could get his hands on you and feel something that didn’t end in self-destruction.

But it wasn’t just want. It wasn’t just need. It was something wired into his goddamn spine – chemical and engineered.

The poison in his veins had always wanted what it couldn’t have. Craved control. Power. Submission. The need to take. To dominate. To fucking own.

But Ben had learned a long time ago what happened when he let that part run loose. He didn’t want to take from you. He never had.

Still, right now, feeling your skin burn and your pulse throb under his fingertips provoked a part of him that wanted to pin you to the counter and remind your body why it had loved him once. Keep you underneath him till every wound between you had been rewritten with sweat and skin and your name carved into his chest.

But instead, he kissed you slower. Dragged it out till your breath stuttered. Till your hand trembled against his chest because you were fighting against something, too. Probably the same thing he was, just in different packaging.

Ben pulled back and rested his forehead against yours, watching you for a moment. Everything about you – the fire, the fury, the fucking heart of you – was still there, burning under the surface. But your walls had lowered just enough to allow him to breathe next to you.

He forced his heart rate back down. Reigned himself in. Fought the goddamn urge to grip your thighs and lift you onto the fucking counter.

He looked into your eyes, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “That help?”

You nodded just the tiniest bit, swallowing. “Little… maybe.”

“Good.” He bit back a smirk. “You want me to leave?”

Your gaze drifted to the door, then back to him. You shook your head. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a drive.”

Ben lifted a brow in surprise. “Like a joyride?”

You scoffed a chuckle. “Trust me. There won’t be any joy.”

“Even better.” He smirked and watched you roll your eyes back.

“It’s a memory thing,” you shared and grabbed your nonsensical notebook from the nightstand. “Just have to check some things I wrote in here. See if it jogs anything.”

Ben bobbed his head, gave you a smirk – just a flicker of it. “You want company?”

You didn’t smile, but your voice came softer this time. “If you can behave.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “No promises, sweetheart.”

The summer morning was already too hot, the kind of heat that stuck to one’s skin before they even moved. Somewhere up the street, a fire hydrant had been cracked open – kids laughing, water spraying across the sidewalk, glittering in the sun like it had the right to be joyful.

You were not joyful.

“Where the fuck did I–” you muttered, pacing half a step in either direction, squinting up and down the block like your car might reveal itself if you stared hard enough.

Behind you, Ben leaned against the railing of your brownstone, arms crossed, watching you with thinly veiled amusement.

“Problem?” he asked, voice lazy like a sun-drunk cat. You wanted to spray him with fucking water.

“I know I parked here somewhere.”

He hummed. It was the most annoying sound on the fucking planet.

“Lemme ask you something,” Ben said. You didn’t turn but could hear the goddamn Cheshire Cat smirk in his words. “What color and model do you think your car is?”

“It’s a… red… Honda Civic,” you guessed.

Yeah, alright, you had no fucking clue. At this point, you were even doubting you had a car. You did have keys to a car, though.

You glanced at said keys in your hand. Your nose scrunched. “Wait… Toyota?”

Ben blew out a breath between his lips. “It’s a dark blue Prius. And it’s right there,” he said and pointed in front of you.

Huh. Right fucking there. Your beat-up and beloved 2004 Prius with the bumper barely still attached. You also recalled there was supposed to be a roll of Oreos hiding in the glovebox.

You rounded the car, but Ben beat you to the door handle.

You didn’t move, however. Not an inch. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Gonna drive,” he said like it was obvious.

“Uh, no you’re not.”

Ben squinted at you. “Why not?”

“Because it’s my fucking car.”

“So?”

“So,” you forced out with as much patience as possible, “when was the last time you even drove, huh?”

He pursed his lips and then shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno… ‘68, maybe? Vought gave me a driver at some point, so…”

“Yeah, you’re not driving,” you said and jerked the door open, sliding inside behind the wheel.

Ben got into the passenger side like a man mildly offended by the sheer existence of seatbelts. The car creaked when you turned on the engine, and the AC coughed to life as you pulled out onto the street.

Ben didn’t ask where you were going. Admittedly, he was masterful at pretending he didn’t care about shit. At least you thought he was pretending. You used to know when he played a role. Now you weren’t so sure anymore you could still tell.

He was different now. That much was fucking obvious.

Harder around the edges. Quieter. More shadows under his eyes and fewer sparks behind them. His silence in the car wasn’t passive – it was heavy. Thoughtful. Drowning.

Twenty-three-year-old Ben would’ve filled the car with jokes and questions and finger-drumming on the wheel. His elbow would’ve rested coolly on the opened window as his lips sucked on a cigarette.

This version of him, however, just stared out the window, jaw tight, muscles coiled like he was bracing for the next bad thing. This wasn’t the guy you knew – the guy you wanted to marry not even twenty-four hours ago.

“Why you starin’ at me like that?”

You blinked at Ben and swallowed, shaking your head. “I’m not.”

“Yeah? Coulda fooled me,” he muttered, raising a brow.

Your fingers tapped nervously on the wheel before you exhaled a sigh. “You’re quiet… and broody,” you noted, Ben’s gaze fixing on you. His green eyes twinkled like emeralds in the golden morning light. “Is that a constant thing now? You always gonna be grumpy and brooding?”

Ben’s mouth opened and then closed again. “What?”

You shrugged and focused back on the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Nothing, just… you used to talk more… back then, you know?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, his gaze drifting back out the window.

You breathed out another sigh. “So that’s a yes? You’re gonna talk less now? Like is it something I have to get used to, or are you just nervous?”

Ben snorted lightly. “‘M not nervous.”

“So this is standard? You’re not gonna fill silences anymore?”

“I think you’re doin’ a stellar job at it for me, sweetheart,” he quipped.

Another sigh passed your lips.

For the next hour of the drive, Ben sat in the passenger seat like he belonged there. Bow legs spread, arms crossed, shoulder nearly brushing yours in the too-tight front of your too-small car.

The man was massive and never sat like he owed space to anyone. You hated that you noticed it. That your body clocked every shift in his weight, every movement of his hands – hands that had held your waist last night like they still remembered what it felt like to touch you in a different lifetime.

Eighty years, you reminded yourself. He hadn’t touched you or kissed you or even talked to you in almost a century.

Six months in 1942 felt like an eternity. Eight decades, in comparison, seemed like an impossibility.

Even crazier, how the hell could he still want you after all this time?

As you glanced sideways, he was staring out the window again, squinting into the gray sprawl of South Jersey. His hair was still a little messy, and he looked too casual, too settled in this weird limbo between stranger and memory.

It was driving you nuts. Why wasn’t he freaking out like you? Why was he so fucking cool, calm, and collected?

The AC was blowing semi-cold air, and one of the vents was stuck at an angle that kept blasting Ben in the face. You didn’t fix it. He didn’t complain. And that little fact alone annoyed you more than it should have.

And why the hell did he still smell so good? You’d never noticed it before. You did now. There was still this distinct and familiar scent you recognized from ‘42, buried under a different aftershave and cologne. But there were still traces of him in it.

You wondered if there were other traces of his old self, too. Or did the similarities end right there?

The kisses still lingered on your lips like phantom pressure as well. As if your body hadn’t gotten the memo yet to stop craving something that had already happened. It had been good. Too fucking good. The kind of good that made you feel like you were already losing.

God, you didn’t want him to fucking win. What was he even winning? And did it mean you were automatically losing? Because it somehow felt like you were still winning something, too.

Why the fuck did he have to kiss you like that? And why the fuck was he even better at it now than he used to be?

He was already skilled at stealing your breath away back in ‘42. It wasn’t fucking fair he got even better at it. Back then, he made your head spin. Now, he made your head spin so much it detached from your body and floated through the air.

He wasn’t supposed to be fucking better. He was supposed to be older and meaner and out of practice – not this confusing hybrid of myth and man who made your knees soft even when your spine said run.

Focus, you told yourself. You had to stop thinking about it. But your brain kept circling back to one undeniable, painful, absolutely infuriating truth:

He was a better kisser now. Objectively. Technically. Emotionally. And that made you want to scream.

Your throat fucking tingled like you could still taste his tongue. The 1942 version had been all boyish hunger and soft hands. This one kissed like he’d spent the last eighty years figuring out exactly how to undo you with a sigh and a hand on your hip.

No, no, no! Stop!

You had to stop thinking about it. Had to stop thinking about his lips or his hands or how his voice was deeper and raspier or how his beard tickled and scratched in all the right ways.

You were spiraling. Nope. You were spiraling about spiraling, which was ten times worse.

Why were you freaking out? Were you actually doing this? Were you actually giving him a chance?

Did you still love him or were you just holding onto something lost?

“You always drive with your whole body like it’s a full-contact sport?” Ben teased, eyeing your death grip on ten and two.

You didn’t reply. Just rolled your shoulders and kept driving, reminding yourself to breathe every once in a while.

The tall city buildings had dropped away now. The landscape turned gray and flat – industrial stretches of Jersey sprawl, empty billboards and rusted chain link fencing.

Why were you bringing him here? Why had you invited him to come with you? Why hadn’t you told him to leave when he offered this morning?

Instead, you’d given into your urge for him to stay. You weren’t even sure if it was him you wanted. Maybe you were just clinging to a fantasy and afraid to let go.

He wasn’t the same. Not even close.

“So, you still listening to jazz?” you asked, causing him to raise another brow.

Small talk. Good choice. Yeah, why not make fucking small talk with the man who slept with you eighty years ago? That seemed perfectly fucking normal and ordinary.

“Uhm, sometimes, yeah,” Ben replied and was still looking at you weird.

“Huh.” You nodded, tongue poking the insides of your cheeks.

Ben snorted. “Not the answer you wanted to hear?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You shook your head casually – feigned casualness, that was.

Ben cocked an eyebrow, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “Were you hoping I wasn’t? Are you just going through a list of things you found annoying back then, hoping I stopped doin’ them?”

“No,” you replied too quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know. Figured I had to start somewhere. Might as well hope for good news.”

Ben chuckled in amusement, rubbing his lips with his fingers. “Well, sorry to disappoint you again, sweetheart. Still listenin’ to jazz on occasion.”

“Great. So more music that sounds like a cat dying in a basement,” you quipped.

“Was gonna say the same ‘bout your Riot Girl screechin’.” Ben grinned broadly, causing you to roll your eyes. “Anything else?”

You shook your head and passed the town sign of Ashbury, almost missing it as it was half-sunk into a ditch and choked by weeds and cigarette butts. Someone spray-painted over the bottom line, but you could still make out what it used to say: “A Good Place to Grow.”

What a fucking lie. It always had been.

Your hometown was the kind of place people left and never talked about again. You’d certainly done exactly that for the last few years.

You hadn’t been back here since you kidnapped your parents in the middle of the night and shipped them off to Alaska with a small detour through the Middle Ages. The trailer had been left to rot under salt-soaked skies and the weight of every bad decision that happened inside it. The idea of seeing it again made your skin itch.

Why had you told him that story? Why were you bringing him here? What were you trying to achieve?

You had to. It was as simple as that.

You had to see it and fill in the gaps. Remind yourself of who you were and what made you you. And maybe you were trying to show Ben, too.

He’d always been curious. Always asked questions about who you were and where you came from. About your childhood. About your friends. About your parents. And you never could tell him, no matter how much you wanted to share that part with him.

Ben had never seen you like this before.

It wasn’t a part of you that you ever truly shared with anyone. In fact, you couldn’t remember if you ever had before. There wasn’t a long line of boyfriends in the past you’d ever brought home to meet Mom and Dad.

The only one you could remember that had seen it all was your first boyfriend, and he’d lived three trailers down from you and grew up in the same shitty town.

This wasn’t Ben’s life, though. It never had been. He grew up with a fucking silver spoon and lived in mansions and penthouses all his life.

Memories then flooded your head like water through a cracked hull: the smell of stale cigarettes, the feel of mold in the corners of the mattress, the nights you pretended to sleep while screaming matches played like lullabies down the narrow hall.

Ben had seen your courage. Your defiance. Your wit. All the remnants of the walls you’d carefully crafted over three decades. But he’d never seen where you came from.

And what if he did now?

What if he looked at that trailer – your old life in dented aluminum and broken blinds – and saw it as proof that you were never good enough for the fantasy you’d built in 1942? What if he looked at you and saw pity? Saw the girl that used to hide her tears and her bruises and pretend the screams were someone else’s.

Moreover, why the fuck did you care what he’d think? You weren’t even sure you still loved this version of him. So why was it bothering you so much when you wanted to show him an old version of you?

Ben leaned against the window and looked out, whistling lowly. “Jesus fuck, that town’s a dump. Even the gas station looks fuckin’ depressed. Good place to get tetanus.”

Your throat closed, but you said nothing. Didn’t come to your hometown’s defenses and refrained from giving him a proper welcome.

“Ashbury,” he scoffed, chuckling at a rusted sign. “Fitting. Looks like a place that got buried under fuckin’ ash.”

Still, you didn’t respond.

Ben lifted a brow. “What? You’re not gonna say anything now? You wanted me to talk,” he reminded you of an earlier regret. “I mean, c’mon, you’re really not gonna make fun of this place? How d’you even find a shithole like this? Google ‘depression’ and scroll past the first five pages?”

“Surprised you know how googling works,” you commented dryly.

“Yeah, well, I picked up a few things over the last year,” he said casually. “Still don’t get the Internet, though.”

“Don’t worry. No one does,” you muttered, turning onto a dirt road, gravel crunching under your tires. Potholes were everywhere, and you slowed down on instinct.

Trailers started to line either side of the road, with sagged porches and American flags that had bleached to faded pinks and grays. Each home looked like it was held together by forced willpower and duct tape.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Ben sighed next to you and leaned back in his seat, still clearly entertained and oh-so oblivious. “Y’know, I’ve seen blown-out villages in France with more curb appeal. At least they had bakeries.”

Your stomach twisted. Your lips pursed. This had been a colossally bad idea, hadn’t it? You never should’ve brought him here. What had you been hoping to gain? A fucking bonding experience?

Closeness or closure?

“Man, and that trailer park?” Ben went on, pointing without thinking. “This place looks like the start of every unsolved murder doc–”

Ben suddenly stopped. He licked and bit his lips before his head turned slowly to you, eyes stern.

“This is where you fuckin’ grew up, isn’t it?” He stared at you, expecting you to reply, even though he knew the answer already.

You pulled into a faintly marked parking space, the yellow lines faded like an old bruise and overgrown with weeds in the cracked pavement. You turned off the engine and looked at him, forcing a bright smile.

“Welcome to my hometown.”

“Ah, fuck,” he cursed under his breath and scrubbed a palm down his freckled face. “Coulda told me before I shit all over it.”

You grinned, then shrugged. “Why? This was way funnier. ‘Sides, you’re not wrong. This town is the place where dreams come to die,” you agreed. “And now, I know what you really think, so you can’t charm me with fake flattery anymore.”

He looked out the windshield again, slower this time. More focused. Like maybe the broken siding and busted porch steps meant something now. You could feel him recalibrating.

And maybe that should’ve helped. But it didn’t. You hated every second of this.

You didn’t want to be more understood. You didn’t want to feel loved despite everything – by him or anyone else.

Maybe you came here with him as punishment. Either way, it was too fucking late now to take it back and pretend you’d never brought him here in the first place.

Because the damage was done. Because the whole drive, he’d been mocking your past without knowing it – and now he was trying to rearrange himself into someone who understood.

But he couldn’t.

“See that laundromat up ahead?” you asked and pointed out the window, waiting for his nod. “It’s also a tanning salon and a bond’s office. A lot of buildings have double duty here. That boarded-up convenience store is also a pawn shop and a pharmacy. Fun fact – the back door has a doggy door that can fit an eight-year-old.”

Ben lifted a brow. “And how do you know that?”

“Oh, because I used to break into this place,” you replied with feigned nonchalance. “My dad made me steal meds from the pharmacy. Because, you know, I could fit in there and I looked cute if the cops showed up. Would only get a slap on the wrist as a minor if I was caught. And I was a supe and healed fast. At least that’s what my dad told me. Sometimes, I broke into it by myself, though. To steal food or school supplies.”

You ended the conversation then by unbuckling your seatbelt and stepping out. Ben followed you with a confused stare, slamming the car door shut behind him.

A group of dirty kids rode their broken bikes up and down the street. Their parents sat in plastic lawn chairs and drank booze from paper bags, pretending their children didn’t see.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, and it made your heart stop.

You let out a bitter breath and forced a smile. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? It’s not a big deal.”

“You lyin’ for my benefit or your own?” Ben looked at you with infuriating patience, then gave a soft smile. “‘Cause if it’s the former, you got nothin’ to worry about.”

You scoffed a humorless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

“It is,” he replied, making your brow raise. “Not for the reasons you think, though.”

“Oh, and you know what I’m thinking now?” you challenged and crossed your arms.

“I do.” He chuckled. “It’s not that surprising, y’know? This place? Doesn’t change anything, either.”

“Change what?” Your grip around yourself tightened, brow furrowing more.

A smile rose on his lips. “How I feel ‘bout you.”

You brushed it off with a shrug. “I know.”

“Alright. Good.” He smirked like the devil. “So you can stop twitichin’ and fumblin’ and bein’ fuckin’ nervous ‘bout it. Felt like you were goin’ through withdrawals the whole ride here. Thought it was the caffeine. Guess not.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes. “Can you shut up?”

“Hey, you wanted me talkin’.” He shrugged his annoyingly broad shoulders.

“Yeah, well, clearly something I regret now. I take it back, okay?” you retorted.

Ben laughed, then gave you a smirk and stepped closer. “You regret anything else this morning?”

You pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Nope. Not sure. Did anything happen?”

“Right…” He gave you a deadpan stare.

You curled your lips, fighting against the weird pull in your stomach. “Maybe you should wait in the car. I just have to check something real quick. Won’t take long.”

“Nuh-uh.” He snorted a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re not backin’ out now. You dragged me all the way to fuckin’ Jersey. Least you could do is follow through.”

“Fine,” you sighed and marched ahead, shoulders tense.

The door to the trailer stuck halfway through opening like it had grown roots in the threshold. You shoved it harder with your shoulder. The frame creaked, then gave, groaning open on rusted hinges that sounded like they hadn’t been moved since you last blew through here.

You stepped inside, and Ben followed, quiet behind you, his boots crunching on something that used to be linoleum.

The trailer wasn’t large. Hell, it was barely bigger than your bathroom in your apartment in Manhattan. You could see everything from the “living room” – the kitchen’s cracked countertops, the long-dead ceiling fan, the hallway leading to the back bedroom, which only held an old, thin mattress and where the window never closed properly.

It was still all here – the skeleton of your childhood.

Ben didn’t say anything. He didn’t crack a joke. Just stood there and looked, hands on his hips, gaze sweeping over the scene like he was trying to absorb every detail without breaking it.

“So, clearly not gonna take a three-hour tour. More like three seconds.” You awkwardly cleared your throat. Your voice was too loud. It bounced strangely off the walls. “No grand pianos or oil paintings of old dead relatives who disapprove of your choices.”

“Already a bonus if you ask me,” Ben said and sent you a small smile.

You turned away with a swallow before you could witness his face change. You knew it was inevitable.

“My mom used to sit right here,” you said, gesturing toward a torn recliner that had collapsed inward like a rotted tooth. “She liked daytime soaps and hydrocodone. She was a nurse before the hospital fired her for stealing pills and a prescription pad.”

Your foot hit a loose beer can. It rattled away toward the hallway.

“What did your dad do?” Ben asked, and you sucked in a breath.

“He-, uh, he worked in a factory in town. It closed down a couple of years ago,” you said. “But even before that, he hurt his back lifting something wrong, I guess. They gave him pills for it. He was barely twenty, and he got addicted. Lost his job soon after. Never got another one, unless scamming people counts.”

Ben nodded with that same sternly knitted brow, which seemed to be part of his armor now. He gestured with his chin toward the bedroom. “You sleep back there?”

“Sometimes. When they weren’t home, which was most times,” you replied. “When they were home, I’d sleep on the couch outside.”

“Why not in here?” Ben’s eyes drifted to the couch next to him.

You pressed your lips into a tight line. “Trust me. Outside was better,” was all you said. “When it rained or it was winter, Mrs. Russo, two trailers down, would take me in, though. Her late husband was in the mob. At least, that’s how most of her stories started. She did make a mean lasagna, too. Probably gained five pounds in high school by eating too much carbs and melted cheese for weeks straight.”

Ben didn’t reply. Just watched you. Your heart fucking hammered against your ribs.

You busied yourself by strolling to the corner of the room and crouched by the small dining table, lifting the dusty lid of a battered cardboard box. Inside were fragments – pieces you’d never let anyone see.

Not until now.

“I never knew them sober, you know? Or normal,” you said. “I could guess what kind of people they were when they tried to be better, but I don’t actually know. They were like this before I was born. Everyone always says addiction changes people, but I don’t think they changed. I only ever got the aftermath. The fixed version that didn’t allow for change.”

You stole a glance at Ben over your shoulder. He was standing with his muscular arms crossed, staring at a photo stuck crookedly to the fridge with a tacky magnet – one of the only ones you’d left behind.

It showed the three of you. You were maybe five years old. It might have looked normal to the casual and untrained viewer, but all you could see were your mother’s red-rimmed eyes and your father holding a beer can out of frame.

“That your parents?”

You nodded and forced yourself to shrug. “Uh, yeah.”

“Why d’you bring me here?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. To even the score?” you offered and met his gaze. “I mean, you let me into your life in ‘42, right? Let me see everything – your home, your family, your routines. And I watched you. Dug through it. Judged. Lied.”

Maybe you were teaching yourself a lesson this time.

You sat back on your heels and pulled out a small photo album. The pages stuck together, but you opened it anyway. Inside were pictures from school – grainy, underexposed shots of science fairs and spelling bees, heated debates and math competitions.

No one ever came to those events. You took the bus home alone with a trophy in your backpack and no one to show it to.

Ben walked over slowly and sank down on the couch beside you. The cushions let out a puff of dust when he sat, but he didn’t flinch.

“Lotta trophies,” he noted. “You won all of these?”

“Duh. Didn’t steal everything,” you quipped and sent him a smile. He matched it. “‘Sides, participation trophies are for losers.”

Ben chuckled and took out a small, gold-plated trophy with a bent corner.

“Third grade,” you explained. “Built a working radio out of scrap. They gave me this and a coupon for a free pizza slice.”

“Was the pizza any good?”

You bit back a smile and arched an eyebrow. “In this town?”

“Right,” Ben chuckled, head bobbing. He turned the trophy in his hand like it was made of glass – something precious that didn’t deserve to hide away in a dusty box in an abandoned trailer.

You pulled out a handful more. The labels were faded. Some of the bases were chipped. But they were real. They were yours.

“If I didn’t win, it didn’t matter,” you said quietly. “Not that it made that much of a difference when I actually did win.”

“Never won a trophy before,” Ben said musingly. “Not even an Oscar.”

“That’s not true. You had that wrestling trophy,” you reminded him.

“Second place.”

“You got nominated for an Oscar,” you added.

Ben snorted a laugh. “Yeah, for a story about me growin’ up fake poor. Everything was fuckin’ fake about my life.” He let out a breath and found your eyes. “Except you.”

His eyes hadn’t changed since 1942. Still sharp. Still knowing. Still green, even when the world around him morphed to gray.

“This doesn’t scare me,” he said. “Not sure you were aiming for that, but it ain’t gonna work.”

You let out a disbelieving chuckle. “It should. I’m not who you remember either, you know? Yes, I know how to build a radio, but before that, I learned how to make a shiv from a toothbrush.”

Ben stifled a snort. “Yeah, I know. Kinda made me love you more, honestly.”

You frowned. “You keep saying you still love me, but you don’t even know who that person is.”

“I do know. I told you. I’ve always known,” he said all too causally. He then chuckled under his breath. “I mean, sure, guess you’re a little different now.”

You raised a brow at him, unsure if it was meant to be cruel. But when you glanced up, his mouth was drawn into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t mocking either.

“Core’s still there, y’know?” he continued. He leaned back slightly, eyes transfixed on the trophy in his hands. “You didn’t lie about who you were back then. You lied about other things, but not that. You were always a loud smartass with a lot of bite.”

“Thanks,” you grumbled.

“You’re welcome.” Ben smirked that lazy and boyish smile again. The one that melted your heart faster than the summer heat. Then he became quieter, rubbing his palms together between his thighs. “I didn’t fall in love with a memory if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Your brow scrunched, scoffing. “Worried? I’m not worried,” you deflected poorly. You wouldn’t win an Oscar, either.

“Clearly,” he entertained your delusion. “In any case, just sayin’, I didn’t naively romanticize shit about you for the last eighty years.”

“You sure?”

Ben snorted, nodding. “I’m sure I didn’t fall in love with you ‘cause you wore fuckin’ saddle shoes.”

“I never wore saddle shoes,” you countered like it was an important point. But your mind didn’t want to focus on all the other words that came out of his mouth and the meaning behind them.

Your heart, on the other hand, was twisting and screaming and fighting. But you couldn’t lead with your heart in this matter. The thing was fucking broken and confused. It didn’t know up from down anymore, and it certainly couldn’t distinguish the Ben in front of you from the Ben it had loved in the past.

“You know what I mean,” Ben said patiently.

God, how did that man have an abundance of patience all of a sudden? You once saw him throw a fit in a restaurant because his steak took too fucking long. But somehow, he managed to wait eighty goddamn years for you.

For you.

“Look, uhm,” Ben started, pursing his lips, “‘m not really used to all of that anymore.”

You lifted a brow in gentle curiosity. “Used to what?”

Ben exhaled a shaky breath, kept his gaze trained on his hands. “Talking to you. Opening up. Been a while, you know?”

You nodded in understanding. “I know.”

“And yeah, I guess I am grumpier now or broodier or whatever the fuck you said in the car,” he admitted and met your eyes. “Seen a lotta shit, y'know? Bound to make a man a little... salty. But I’m tryin’.”

You gave him another nod and a soft smile that accompanied it this time. “I know that, too.”

“Good.” He licked his lips and swallowed. His gaze made your heart pound in your throat. “The real question is – why did you bring me here?”

“I told you.” You shrugged it off.

“And hey, maybe it was the fuckin’ truth,” he said and raised his palms. “Or maybe you were just lyin’ to yourself again. But I think there’s more to it than just settlin’ a score. You don’t owe me shit. Not after this year, so why you really showin’ me all this now, hm?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, but your heart kept only screaming louder.

“Bullshit,” Ben said with a slow smile.

“Alright, since you’re the expert on all things me now, why do you think I brought you here?” you challenged.

Ben rose to it with a smirk. “‘Cause you still love me too, even when you’re not ready to admit it to yourself yet. You’re doin’ it because you couldn’t back then. And you wouldn’t do it now if you didn’t think I was still worth the effort.”

“Bold claim,” you replied with your best poker face. But he hit the nail pretty much on the head.

“And true.” He smirked the softest grin, removed every hard line as if they could scare you away.

You exhaled a sigh, chewing on your lip. “Why do you keep telling me you love me?”

He cocked a brow, slightly amused. “That a serious question now?”

“I just keep wondering why,” you elaborated. “I mean, you didn’t say it before. Not until the end. Now it feels like you’re using every opportunity you get.”

“Maybe ‘cause I am,” he admitted.

“But why?” you pressed on. “What’s your agenda?”

“My agenda?” Ben scoffed a humorless chuckle. “I’m not sayin’ it for some wicked, debauched reason. Not tryin’ to weasel my way into your panties with words.”

“You sure about that?”

He actually laughed. “Maybe a little. But I promise it’s not why I keep sayin’ it.”

Your brow raised higher, waiting.

His sigh was almost dramatic. “I regretted it,” he said then. “Not telling you sooner. Not sayin’ it every day, though I felt it before you even told me. That’s what I kept thinking about the most, you know? That maybe if I said it fucking sooner, you would’ve stayed.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” you said gently.

Ben looked at you. “How do you know? Maybe it would’ve. Maybe you would’ve been less fuckin’ scared that night. Maybe you wouldn’t have panicked.”

You nodded quietly. “Guess we’ll never know now, huh?”

“No, guess not,” he agreed.

You shifted closer on the floor, meeting his look of bewilderment when you’d made it all the way to his feet and straightened between his thighs. Your hands wound around his neck, pulling him closer. Your gaze flickered to his lips and back to the bemused gleam in his green eyes before you kissed him.

Soft. Slow. And then searing.

His hands found your waist on instinct and pulled you up to straddle his lap like you weighed nothing to him. You knew you didn’t. Those hands around you were invincible, and the power they held was unfathomable.

His restraint dwindled, too. He groaned into your mouth when you pressed closer, and his lips dared to leave yours and trail down your throat when you sighed in response.

Your toes curled in your sneakers when you felt the bulge in his jeans grow. You didn’t want to want him – not still, not after everything he’d done – but you couldn’t deny any longer that you did.

Still and probably always.

Because he’d been right last night when he said you’d already forgiven him once. All the shit you knew he’d still do in the future hadn’t mattered – and not because it hadn’t happened yet or because you thought you could change destiny.

You forgave him because you fell in love with him. Because you saw something neither time nor cruelty could ever take away again.

He drew away with labored breath, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. His lips were kiss-swollen. His eyes were wrecked.

“Can’t do this to me here,” he rasped, smile dancing on his lips.

“Why not?” You smirked challengingly. “Not good enough for the golden boy here?”

“Shut up.” He snorted and kissed you again. “Not good enough for you. And definitely not good enough for all the things I’ve planned.”

You bit back a smile. “So… back to the city and my pull-out couch?”

“Fuck no.” He laughed. “Back to my king size bed. Gonna need the space. Trust me.”

You swatted his arm, giggling. “You’re a fucking menace.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling low through his chest. “Yeah, but you like it, right? Pretty sure you did back then.”

“Maybe,” you admitted through playfully narrowed eyes. “Wanna get out of here now?”

“You got everything you came for?”

You let out a breath, glanced around the trailer, and nodded. “Yeah. Did you?”

His smile was softer than you expected. “Didn’t need anything. You up for a little detour, though?”

Your brow furrowed. “What did you have in mind?”

“Home,” was all he said and smiled.

“Stop there,” Ben said as you rolled through Philadelphia’s town center.

“It’s the middle of the street,” you argued, eyes watching passing pedestrians and playing children and busy shoppers.

You knew the street but barely recognized it anymore. It all had changed. Blink – and gone. Fucking entropy.

“Just pull over by the curb,” Ben instructed you.

You did, and Ben got out of the car first like a man on a mission. He squinted up and down the street while people ducked out of his way.

How did he do that? They didn’t even recognize him as Soldier Boy and still accommodated him like he was just a force of nature with a warning sign around his neck not to be messed with.

“You know that the mansion isn’t here, right?” you noted teasingly.

“I know that, smartass,” he huffed, narrowing his eyes more before they lit up. “Ah. There.” He pointed down the sidewalk, smirking. “That’s where you ran into me.”

You scrunched your nose, shaking your head. “Uh, no.”

“What d’you mean no?”

“Trust me. My memory’s fresher,” you said. “It was in front of the bakery. I remember the smell. Which means–” You squinted in the other direction, then pointed. “It was there.”

“Huh.” Ben stumped and tilted his head.

You groaned. “Ugh, it’s a Vought Mobile store now. How tragic,” you sighed and gestured to the store next to it. “And look, they turned the soda fountain into a fucking Vough-a-Burger.”

“To be fair, pretty sure soda fountains weren’t even a thing anymore in the ‘80s,” Ben retorted.

“Yeah, but c’mon. The whole street is awful. It used to be so pretty. Why the fuck would they do that? Why would they change everything? I mean, back then–”

Ben snorted in amusement.

“What?”

He smirked. “Careful, sweetheart. Startin’ to sound like me.”

“Alright, whatever, gramps,” you huffed, rolling your eyes back before noticing Ben’s brooding look. “Seriously, what does that face mean now?”

“What face? Didn’t know I was makin’ one,” Ben replied, stoic as ever.

“You are,” you insisted. “Your beard’s kinda screwing with my reading, though, so I can’t tell what it means anymore.”

Ben frowned now. You knew that for sure.

He smacked his lips and let out a sigh. “Was just thinkin’…” He paused and broke his gaze. “You get it.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just strolled back to the car and waited for you there to follow.

You knew that fucking move all too well from 1942. He’d done it every time he didn’t want to talk about something. It had been an infuriating habit back then, and it was still fucking infuriating now.

So far, the things that stayed the same were jazz and emotional constipation. Great.

Kindness – maybe? He’d been admittedly… sweet today. Yup, that tasted fucking weird on your tongue.

You also couldn’t trust it. You didn’t. That would be insane, right? You were not insane – he was. He might have been an awful actor, but he was a fucking good liar.

The walls would crack soon. You were sure of it. You’d bet fucking money on it.

Great. Now you were cheering for him to fucking fail. How sad was that? You didn’t want that either. So, what else was there?

The kiss was nice. So nice.

Fuck.

The mansion wasn’t as easy to find as you thought it would be. Memory was a fucking bitch sometimes.

Time was an even bigger cunt.

A lot had changed in the surrounding area, including some of the street names. New houses, office buildings, stores, malls, parks – it all felt foreign now.

You glanced at Ben. It had to be even weirder for him, but he seemed strangely at ease. Just stared out the window without a single twitch or scoff of disbelief. Like he’d gotten used to things never staying the same. Like one couldn’t truly count on anything.

In theory, you knew that. All the laws of physics pointed toward constant change. Your childhood did, too. In reality, however, you hadn’t been as much of a believer as you probably should’ve been.

And then, there it was – the mansion. Still looming and massive and intimidating. Still just as impressive.

But it was smaller somehow than you remembered. You’d seen these walls just yesterday in bright technicolor. Now they were faded and stained with rain and smoke and time.

It looked like a memory trying to erase itself.

The gates hadn’t been painted in decades, either. The wrought iron was flaking rust like dead skin, vines curling through its bars, creeping up like the house was trying to strangle whatever was left of its little dignity.

Ben hadn’t said a word since pulling up the long gravel drive. And you hadn’t said anything either. Hadn’t asked a single question, although a thousand were running through your mind.

You’d been pondering what to say since you started the car. You were still coming up with nothing useful.

You stepped out of the Prius and looked up at the windows, shielding your eyes from the slanting sunlight with your palm. Most of them were shuttered. The glass that wasn’t broken was warped by age. You could tell by the way the light had to bend differently to get through.

Ben came to stand next to you, arms folded, brow all stern creases and hard lines. His eyes were fixed on the building, jaw impossibly tight. You were surprised he didn’t crack a tooth.

“You sure about this? We don’t have to go in. We can just leave,” you suggested. Honestly, you weren’t even sure you wanted to go in and see the remnants of devastation waiting for you in there, either. The outside appearance already told you enough.

And maybe, that was how Ben truly felt on the inside, too – devastated by time.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen this place last?” you asked, although you weren’t sure Ben was even listening. He seemed lost in thought.

“Haven’t been here since ‘57 when my father died,” Ben replied.

Yup, you wouldn’t touch that topic with a ten-foot pole.

“Are we even allowed to be here? Who owns this place now?”

“It’s mine.”

He said it like he’d won something but wasn’t sure it was worth anything any longer – like your middle school trophies.

“Love what you’ve done with the place. Surprised you didn’t burn it down.”

Humor. Why? You were emotionally constipated too, weren’t you?

But it worked. He snorted a little, turned his head and smirked faintly at you.

You then strolled up the stone steps together, he pushed open the massive front door with more ease than you’d ever seen before, and the two of you were greeted by the foyer that was supposed to make it feel like home.

It didn’t anymore.

The marble tiles were covered with grime and dust. The chandeliers, once glittering with a thousand tiny crystals, sagged under cobwebs. The grand staircase still stood in the center, its banister carved by hand, was now dulled by decades without polish.

It felt like the walkthrough at the end of the Titanic movie. This place had waited for more than eighty years as well to tell its story.

Everything was frozen in the moment it sank, too.

You half-expected to hear Dottie’s voice echo down the hallway or the distant melody of Margaret playing the piano in the drawing room.

Naturally, it was the first place you stormed off to.

The piano was still there – right where it had always stood.

Now, it was covered in a yellowing drop cloth, keys silent, its once-polished wood now dulled and cracked, too. The bench was slightly askew, just like you used to leave it when you rushed out after practicing with Margaret. She always said you played like you were running away from something – fast, emotional, barely keeping your footing.

You reached for the cloth and pulled it back, dust exploding into the air like a cloud. You coughed, waving it away. Beneath it, the piano’s surface was still intact, though. Dry – not broken.

You sat and lifted the lid. You’d only done it two days ago, after all.

The keys were slightly warped, however. Some even stuck. Others gave no sound at all. But you still played a few slow and cautious notes and a broken melody wobbled through the room.

And Ben? He stood in the doorway and watched like he always had. Like nothing had changed at all.

“You owe Cyndi Lauper a fuckin’ apology, by the way,” Ben said teasingly.

You threw him a raised look over your shoulder. “Come on! I didn’t butcher it that badly.”

“No, you didn’t. Actually like yours better,” he said. “But I did storm her dressing room in ‘83 ‘cause of you.”

You gaped. “You didn’t.”

“Sure did. Scared the shit outta that poor girl,” Ben confirmed, chuckling. “She thought I was high.”

You grinned. “Were you?”

“Little bit.” He raised his hand and showed a small gap between his thumb and index finger, a boyishly charming smile hiding on his lips behind it. “You always rushed the bridge when you played that Chopin song, though.”

You laughed softly. “Yeah, your mom said it was emotional urgency. You said it was impatience.”

Ben gave a half-smile. “Wasn’t wrong.”

You let your fingers rest on the keys, not pressing but feeling.

“Feels like ghosts in here,” you noted quietly.

Ben looked around before his eyes landed on you and softened just slightly. “They’re not all bad ones.”

You closed the piano and made it back to the staircase, your fingers brushing the banister with each step you climbed.

At the top, you instantly turned left – to the guest bedroom. The first safe place you’d found here. A place where you could just breathe whenever you’d needed to.

It was still the same too, though the wallpaper had faded and cracked, and the mattress had sagged.

You strolled to your closet and opened the doors, but only found it empty inside. All that was left was a pale blue satin ribbon from one of your dresses, lying next to a dust bunny on the floor.

You picked it up and twirled it between your fingers, heart sinking a little more. Soon it would probably reach the bottom of the ocean. You were Jack in this story, after all.

As you passed Ben on your way out, he gently stopped you, hand curling around your wrist, then sliding lower till he cautiously interlaced them with yours. He kept his gaze fixed on your joined hands, then gave them one single squeeze and pulled away all of a sudden – like it didn’t feel quite right.

He placed his palm on the small of your back instead and nodded silently down the hall. You knew where he wanted you to go before he guided you there – his room.

The door creaked open, and your heart stopped.

The massive bed was still there, including the carved mahogany and twisted bedposts. The bookshelf between the windows was still filled with books. He hadn’t taken a single one with him when he left, it seemed – like none of them mattered any longer.

The vinyls next to the record player, the quilt his mother had sewn, the little carved eagle figurine on his nightstand that his grandfather on his mother’s side had made him and given to him as a boy – he’d left it all behind.

“Have you not been here since–” You didn’t finish. Didn’t have to. Ben understood.

“Uhm, no, I have,” he replied, voice all smoke that choked the lightness out of it. “Just… stayed in one of the guest bedrooms… after.”

You turned around to face him. Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, your gaze drifted to the bed.

You could still see it – the shape of the two of you all tangled in sheets and youthful laughs. You’d whispered about forever, but no one had mentioned any breaks in between.

Was this all still part of that grand forever plan?

“Maybe don’t look at it like a fuckin’ crime scene,” Ben quipped from the doorway and gave you a scrutinizing look.

You snorted a small laugh. “I’m not,” you assured him. “Just… remembering. Feels like yesterday.”

“Well, for you it was, right?”

“Yeah, it was,” you replied quietly and exhaled a breath you’d been holding in for too long. “You still remember what happened that morning?”

Ben chuckled. His gaze drifted to the bed, hand scratching his jaw. “Not exactly. But I could take a good guess.”

You threw him a raised look, but bit back the smile.

“Can you give me a minute here?”

You nodded and passed him on your way out, gently brushing his arm. “I’ll be downstairs.”

The mansion had always been full of corners – the kind you could vanish into without anyone noticing. You followed the back stairwell down past the pantry, through the narrow hall that once belonged to the people who’d actually kept this place alive.

The servants’ quarters had always been small and modest compared to the rest of the house. Somehow, it was still cleaner here, as if Florence had cast a spell that would keep it free of dust for the next century.

The wallpaper had yellowed, and the beds were stripped, but the doorframes still wore the grooves of where shoulders had passed thousands of times. You moved slowly past the rooms, your steps quiet on the broken floorboards. Dottie’s room was the second on the left.

Her narrow bed was still there. The quilt you’d once helped patch hung limp with dust, but intact. Her dresser stood crooked near the window, and beside the bed sat the little nightstand where she always kept–

Your eyes landed on the deck of cards.

They were still here. Fanned just slightly and still in their faded green paper box. Worn at the corners from a hundred hands of Gin Rummy. You’d spent hours here, sitting cross-legged on her bed, losing every other round while teaching her bad French and gossiping about everything under the sun.

You didn’t know what happened to her after you left. You didn’t know what happened to any of them, and you were too scared to ask.

You slipped the cards into your pocket and made your way to the kitchen. You could’ve sworn you still smelled rosemary and lemon, even though it was impossible. You knew it was just memory playing tricks on you.

You crossed the worn tile and ran your hand along the counter where Florence used to knead dough. The bookshelf by the stove still held her old, battered cookbooks. One of them, the blue one with the broken spine, was Florence’s own collection, handwritten and stuffed with clippings. Recipes from her mother. Her aunt. Even a few she’d stolen from the newspaper.

You pulled it off the shelf and opened the cover. You smiled at the doodle of a pie on the first page. You decided to take it with you as well. It deserved a better place than collecting dust and being forgotten in here.

By the time you circled around to the west wing, the sun was starting to sink lower. The light filtered orange through the warped windows, catching dust like snowflakes.

You found Ben in the study. Of course you did.

You didn’t announce yourself, just leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment.

Ben stood in the center of the room, arms crossed. His eyes were fixed on the empty leather chair. He looked... smaller in here. Still tall. Still broad. But younger somehow – like the walls were doing something to him. The shadow of that godawful man still seemed to tower over him after all these years.

The desk was still there – massive, sharp-edged, domineering. Papers scattered across the top like ghosts mid-task. There was something new in here as well – a giant oil portrait of Richard, right above the mantle of the fireplace.

If narcissism was a picture, it’d be this.

“Jesus fuck,” you muttered and creased your brow as you stepped inside. “When did he have that one made?”

Ben snorted and found your eyes. “‘52, I think. You like it?”

“Sure.” You nodded and threw him a look that made him laugh. “Only gives me the urge to light a match.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ben said and scoffed. “Always fuckin’ hated this room.”

Your fingers brushed his before intertwining them. He stared at it again and stiffened, like he wasn’t used to being comforted by anyone anymore. But eventually, his thumb caressed your knuckles, and he gave your hand a grateful squeeze.

“How did he die?” you asked quietly.

“Heart attack,” Ben said but didn’t look at you. His voice was devoid of any emotion. “Third one finally got him.”

“Probably all the red meat and the booze and the repressed anger,” you muttered, feeling that little pang of guilt coiling in your belly.

Ben arched an eyebrow at you. “Wasn’t that repressed.” His knuckles tapped the edge of the desk. “Didn’t even go to the funeral. Had some Vought assistant arrange it,” he added, halfway lost in memory. “Florence just called me outta the blue one day. Guess she didn’t know who else was left.”

You were quiet for a moment and just watched him. His shoulders seemed to gain more weight, the longer he was in here. Regret, mistakes, missed chances – it was all right there and added another crushing brick.

“I have to tell you something,” you said then, worrying your bottom lip. You gripped his hand a little tighter on reflex as his brow raised higher. “I almost killed your dad back then.”

Ben snorted a chuckle. “Yeah, you and a lot of other people.”

“No, I mean I made his heart stop,” you clarified.

His brow furrowed, but you couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing. “What d’you mean?”

You exhaled a deep breath. “Remember that awful dinner with your parents?”

“The one where my mother made a scene and almost stabbed him with a steak knife?”

You snorted a little. “Yeah, that one,” you confirmed. “You talked with your father in the study after.”

“Don’t remember that part,” he said, and you lifted a brow. “Honestly, don’t remember a lot of the shit he said in here. Not in detail. All boiled down to the same message, anyway.”

“Guess it did,” you breathed quietly. “But that night, what he said to you… it kinda made me angry, so I stopped his heart for a few seconds. He had that heart attack the next day.”

“Huh,” Ben hummed, the creases on his brow softening slightly. He then looked down at you. “Why didn’t you finish the job?”

“Ben!” You slapped his arm with a gasp.

He laughed – actually fucking laughed. “What? Woulda done me a favor. Might’ve actually changed somethin’.” He smirked, then glanced down at the book in your hand. “Is that Florence’s cookbook?”

“Yeah,” you replied, your fingers brushing over the cover. “You mind if I take it?”

He shook his head. “No one’s gonna miss it. Trust me,” he said, then squeezed your hand and motioned with his chin to the door. “Ready to finally leave this shithole?”

“Almost.”

There was one last place you wanted to see. You walked out the back door and into the long stretch of grass behind the mansion. The garden was long dead and overgrown, but the stone path that led to George’s work shed was still there.

You opened the door and were immediately hit with the familiar smell of sawdust and grease and rust. The light filtered in through the high window and the cracks in the wood.

The old blackboard was still there too, covered in half-faded chalk equations. You were sure they hadn’t been touched by human fingers in eight decades. It was strange that you’d only written some of them yesterday morning. Now, it looked like it happened a lifetime ago.

You ran your fingers over the edge of the worktable and found a now rusted pair of George’s wire cutters that you always used to borrow.

“I spent most of my days here,” you said quietly.

“I remember,” Ben said, still leaning in the doorway.

Finally, you turned around and met his eyes. The words sat on your tongue like a match waiting to be lit. “What happened after I left?”

Ben let out a deep sigh, shoulders slumping as if he’d been waiting for you to ask, and the answer had been weighing on him.

“Dottie actually did it,” he started, the lines on his face a little softer. “Moved to France after the war. Wrote me a letter once. She seemed fine. I never wrote back.”

A small smile twitched on your lips. You felt happy for her. At least, she fulfilled her dream. Maybe she got to live out her days in some quaint French village, married a nice guy she liked, and had some kids. You could live with that.

“The others?”

“Florence and George retired after my father passed. I got Frances a job in the city with another family after. She died in ‘71,” he replied.

Your heart weighed a little heavier. You knew it was impossible for any of them to still be alive. Hell, even Ben was technically supposed to be either dead or super old, breaking some world record.

You swallowed thickly. “And your mother?”

Ben was silent for a moment but didn’t break your gaze. He shrugged his shoulders then. “Don’t know.”

Your brow knitted. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean she left.”

You lifted your brows and blinked at him. “She left?”

“Yeah, in ‘46. Don’t know what happened to her after. I assume she’s probably dead now,” Ben replied with a casualness that felt cold. He rubbed his jaw. “My dad always said he knew where she went, but I don’t think he did. I always figured she took inspiration from you and just ditched him.”

That stung. And for the first time, it really sunk in how your leaving had affected him.

You were just gone. Here one minute and vanished into thin air in the next. He didn’t know what happened to you for decades. Always doubted himself and everything that was supposed to mean something, like it was carved in stone.

How would you have felt if he’d done that to you?

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, causing his brow to raise, but he didn’t offer anything else. “Wanna know what happened to her?”

Ben bit the insides of his cheeks. “Thought about it. Think it’s best not to. There isn’t an answer that’s gonna make it better.”

He was probably right. If she died happy without him, it’d break him just as much as finding out she died sad and alone. And truthfully, you didn’t want to know either, so you just nodded in understanding.

“What happened to you after?” you asked softly then.

“You already know what happened,” he replied simply.

You pressed your lips into a tight line. “Not really. I know what happened after the Compound V. Don’t know what happened before.”

“Is it important?”

“Kinda. I think so,” you responded.

Ben sighed and crossed his arms. “I came back. Not immediately, but eventually… when I ran outta money. Stayed gone the whole summer. Slept on Quentin’s couch in Philly,” he shared. “But I couldn’t find a job, so I came back with my tail tugged between my legs. Begged the old man for forgiveness and told him he was right. That I shoulda listened to him.”

“Ben–”

“Don’t,” he gritted warningly. You sucked in a breath. “Happened a long time ago. Doesn’t matter now.”

“Sure it does,” you insisted gently.

“He was a lot worse after. Didn’t really matter what I’d say or do. Didn’t matter if I was right or wrong,” he said with a humorless scoff. “My mother was worse, though. After I came back from the war – came back like this – she didn’t really look at me. Just said ‘You’re like him’ and walked away. My father told me not to come back, so I never saw her again after.”

“She was proud of you. You know that,” you tried to remind him, but he shook his head.

“No, she wasn’t. Not at the end,” he replied and sounded so sure of it that it broke your heart. “You done here?”

His words were final. Cold. Removed from anything that was supposed to tether him here.

You nodded silently and followed him back to the car.

“One more stop,” Ben said suddenly when you stopped at your first intersection. He hadn’t spoken since you left the estate in the rearview mirror. “Turn left.”

You switched the turn signal from right to left without question. You waited past a few more directional instructions before you finally dared to ask.

“Where are we going?”

“Somethin’ else I want you to see,” Ben said, and you couldn’t tell from his tone if it was a good or a bad thing. “Heads up, though – wasn’t exactly plannin’ on showing you this today. Figured by the rate it’s been goin’, it’d be at least another few months before I brought you here.”

“Then why are you now?”

He simply shrugged, fingers tapping on the plastic under the window. “We’re already here. Might as well.”

A few more minutes of silence passed before Ben told you to pull over in the middle of some suburban street. You couldn’t remember if you’d ever been here before. No memories sprang to mind as you looked around.

“Recognize it?” Ben knocked his knuckles against the window on his side, nodding toward a small blue house beyond it.

“Maybe… I think?” You narrowed your eyes at the home. The front door, the porch, the placement of the windows, and the smaller barn to the side – it all seemed eerily familiar. “Wait… Is that the house we were supposed to buy?”

“Yup,” Ben replied and popped the p. “And I did buy it.”

“What?!” Your head snapped toward him. “But you said–”

“Bought it a few months ago, not back then,” he clarified.

“It was still available?”

“No, a family lived there. They’re gone now,” he said.

Your brow raised. “Did you… kill them?”

“What?! No! Jesus fuck…” Ben looked downright offended, green eyes wide, brows drawing more together with every passing second. “I paid them a lotta money to get the fuck out.”

“Oh. Good.” You nodded quickly. “That’s… comforting.”

He bristled. “What, you really think I’d just waltz into some home and fuckin’ slaughter a whole family?”

“Happened before,” you muttered bitterly under your breath and averted your gaze to the floor. “You don’t have the best track record.”

His jaw locked, and as expected, he threw the car door open without another word, got out, and slammed it shut with a harsh thud.

You exhaled a deep breath before eventually following him up the porch steps and all the way into the foyer. With every footstep from the car to here, however, you had a gained a little more speed and a little more anger. By the time steam was coming out of your ears, you almost bumped straight into his solid back.

“You can’t be mad at me for saying the truth,” you fumed and watched him slowly spin around with a cocked brow. “You also can’t pretend it didn’t happen and that you aren’t that guy because you fucking were.”

Ben didn’t flinch. “You done?”

“No,” you said firmly. “Far from it, actually.”

“Alright,” he scoffed, rolled his eyes, turned, and walked.

Typical.

“If you walk away now, I’ll fucking leave,” you said. “It’s done.”

He stopped in the doorway. Didn’t turn, though. Not immediately. His hands balled into fists, one of which tapped against the wood next to his head before he glanced over his shoulder at you.

He clicked his tongue. “I’m not fucking pretending, alright?”

You stared at him. “That it? C’mon, you gotta do better than that.”

“Fuckin’ Christ, what the hell do you people fuckin’ want from me, huh?”

You sighed internally. Of course he’d get defensive.

“We people might want some goddamn accountability,” you argued. “I mean, do you even fucking care? Do you feel guilty?”

His jaw clenched, and his fists tightened so much his knuckles shone white.

“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he said after a beat. “Doesn’t matter how many times I apologize or to who. Doesn’t matter if I get punished or tortured or paid for my damn crimes ten times over. It’s never fuckin’ enough.”

“It does matter,” you countered. “Stop playing the victim.”

“You do know the fuckin’ government and Vought ordered most of that shit,” he argued.

“Please,” you scoffed. “You knew better. I know you did. You knew your father wasn’t right. You knew you shouldn’t have gone back there. You knew what Vought was doing – and the government. You knew you were hurting people. You just didn’t care. You never said no. You didn’t put up a fight. You didn’t resist a single fucking urge.”

Ben’s Adam’s apple bobbed once. “No, I didn’t,” he finally replied. The crinkles around his eyes were hard, though, the green almost poisonous. “Does that make it fuckin’ better now? That I knew and never did anything? That I didn’t give two shits about the world?”

Your throat closed, but you managed to shake your head and choke out a “no.”

Ben scoffed and crossed his arms. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

But something in his firm stance changed. Maybe it was his heart or just the fear of losing you when he noticed your feet shift and sway toward the door. Either way, the tension in his muscles subsided with his next breath out.

He carded a hand through his hair and rubbed it down his face. “It’s not gonna happen again, alright? None of that shit... All I can say. All I can do. If there’s more to it, tell me. I’ll add it to the fuckin’ list. Up to you if you wanna believe me or not.”

“I–…”

You stopped but didn’t close your mouth. You looked at him. You knew there wasn’t anything he could do. The damage was done. The only one who could change the past was ironically you.

And in a way, you’d caused it, too – not just him.

“I believe you,” you told him, and it felt like several bricks were falling off his shoulders at that moment.

“So… what now?” he asked after a minute had passed.

“Show me the house,” you said simply.

Ben’s brow quirked with the slightest remnants of confusion, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Been renovating it for the past few months,” Ben said as he led you into the living room, then the kitchen. “Added stuff I thought you’d like. You know… every time I was mean to you.”

You arched an eyebrow. “What, like penance?”

“Maybe,” he chuckled softly.

“Did you do it yourself?” You warily glanced around. As romantic as that would’ve been, you’d seen that man’s handiness in action.

“Nah.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Paid some people. Found a good contractor. Trust me. You don’t want me doin’ electrical work in here.”

You giggled. “Oh, I know. I really don’t.”

“Brought all the ideas, though,” he added, almost proud. “Actually thought hard about what you might like. Lemme tell you – you’re not easy to fuckin’ please.”

You furrowed your brow, bewildered. “I always told you I don’t need a lot.”

“Yeah, exactly,” he huffed. “You never fuckin’ want anything.”

“Well, anything I did want, you took away,” you muttered. “Unless you have a job at a university lined up for me in your back pocket.”

Ben pursed his lips, almost like he felt guilty. “Look, if that’s what you wanna do, I’m not gonna stand in your way again.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms. “You better not.”

He smiled in defeat, nodding. “Right.”

You sauntered a little closer to him, your fingers brushing the marble counter as you rounded the kitchen island. “So, what did you think I’d want? Bigger kitchen to cook you dinner?”

He chuckled in amusement, wagging a finger at you. “Not gonna fall for that one, sweetheart.” He grinned knowingly. “Most of your stuff is upstairs, actually.”

Ben then led the way through the house. The floors were all dark walnut, and the windows let in enough light for plants to flourish. It wasn’t too big, but it wasn’t too small, either.

It was perfect. You would’ve been happy here.

He’d tucked a small piano into a corner of the living room. It wasn’t grand like the one in the mansion, as if he somehow knew you’d prefer the middle ground. He’d also put up a telescope on the back porch and built a small garden behind the house. And the bookshelves even featured the odd physics textbook.

It seemed liked he’d truly thought of everything.

“Look up,” he said with a mischievous smile as you stepped into the master bedroom behind him.

You glanced at the ceiling and saw a skylight right above the bed. You could watch the stars till your eyes closed. You’d told him that once – that your dream was to fall asleep under the Milky Way every night. He never knew it was because you used to sleep outside when you were a child.

“You like it?”

You turned around and looked at him. You couldn’t help the smile as you nodded. “I do. It’s beautiful,” you replied. “The whole house is. Kinda the stuff that dreams are made of.”

Ben hummed and didn’t say anything more. Still unreadable. Still mildly closed off. Of course he was.

“Bathroom’s got a big tub, too,” he added with a clear of his throat. “Just like you wanted.”

“You remember that, huh?”

“I do.” He chuckled lightly. “Guess somethin’ about the image of you naked in a tub kinda stuck.”

You laughed, your cheeks radiating with heat. “Then it did what I wanted it to do,” you quipped, taking a step closer to him. “But, uhm… what does it mean? I mean, do you want me to live here with you or–”

“Look,” he cut in softly before you could spiral too far. “It’s yours. You can do what you want with it. Sell it, rent it out, live here – with or without me. All I’m sayin’ is, I’m not a condition you need to worry about. ‘M not part of the equation. Just wanted you to have it and keep a promise, alright?”

You took a deep breath in and out. That whole proposal was fucking insane, right? This whole day, this whole year, the last six months in an entirely different era – it was too much to digest for anyone.

“What if I want you to be in the equation?” you asked.

His brow shot up, eyes widening slightly. “Then I’ll be… a variable?”

“Alright, you’ll be a variable.” You gifted him a small smile and nodded. “Can I think about it, or is this a moving-in-tomorrow thing?”

“Take your time,” Ben said simply and then glanced out the window at the setting sun. “Gettin’ late. You wanna drive back now?”

You bit your lip, shuffling closer. A smirk drew the corners of your mouth slightly upward. Your hands slid slowly up his chest, green eyes following them as they draped around his neck before his gaze met yours. There was curiosity in his, soon overtaken by the same hunger you felt.

You wanted to be close to him again. You wanted things to go back to the way they were, almost forcing the broken shards back together without glue and with sheer willpower alone.

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice low, gentle, and yet a little mischievous. “That bed looks big enough. Room got a lot of space, too.”

Ben didn’t even bother replying. His eyes turned dark. He took his opening and just kissed you.

His mouth crashed into yours like something long overdue – no preamble, no hesitation, no carefulness this time. Just heat and teeth and years of wanting shoved into a single kiss.

You could barely take a breath before your back hit the dresser with a thunk that rattled the frame, but you didn’t care. Not when his hands were on your waist, gripping like he couldn’t get you close enough. Not when his mouth was trailing fire down your jaw, your neck, your chest, dragging a moan out of you that sounded more like surrender than anything else.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t sweet.

It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. No, it remembered it had it once and fucking reclaimed it.

His hands on your hips pulled you in like he was trying to fuse bone to bone, memory to muscle. He kissed you like it hurt – like it cost him everything not to lose control entirely.

And maybe it did.

Because the second your lips parted for him, the second your tongue tangled with his and your hands found the rough line of his jaw, something broke open in your heart, too.

He wasn’t the same guy you’d kissed yesterday, but somehow he still was.

Time meant nothing anymore. Not when your mouth already knew the shape of him. Not when your hands moved instinctively to the buttons of his shirt without a tremble like you’d done it before.

It still wasn’t the same.

This version of Ben was heavier. Broader. His body more solid. His soul more scarred. His kiss was rougher and his touch more desperate.

Everything was heat and hands and that low sound in his throat you had already missed after a single day.

Your hands ran down his chest as the last button gave way. He was so warm under your palms. Solid. Familiar. Still somehow yours, even when your fingers dove under his shirt, dragging across scorching hot skin and the new ridges of muscle you didn’t remember.

You barely registered him gripping your thighs until he lifted you, effortlessly setting you on the edge of the dresser. His massive hands were on your knees now and spanned across your thighs, pushing them apart. Your breath hitched. His lips claimed yours like he was drowning in you.

And maybe you were drowning, too.

Maybe this was the only way to stop thinking. Stop doubting. Stop spinning in a world that kept rewriting itself every time you tried to find your footing.

So, you wrapped your legs around him without thinking, and he groaned into your mouth, hips grinding with the kind of pressure that only came from too much lost time.

You kissed him like it could rewind something.

He kissed you like it could fucking save him.

You gasped against his lips as his beard scraped your jaw in a way that made your spine arch and your thoughts scatter. And just as your hands found his skin again, just as you tilted your hips against him and felt him press back with equal force–

“Dammit,” he cursed and broke away.

The word vibrated deep in your chest before you froze entirely. You didn’t even dare to take a breath.

Ben pulled back just slightly, his breath ragged, arms braced on either side of you like he needed the furniture to keep him upright. But his forehead still pressed against yours, only confusing you more.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, volume barely above a whisper, voice still raspy and laced with the last hints of heat stuck in your throat.

Ben swallowed thickly before meeting your eyes. “I have to tell you somethin’.”

You laughed a little, lifting a brow. “Can’t it wait?”

Ben sighed, half in frustration. “Wish it could. But–...”

He didn’t finish. Just turned and walked to the bed, slumping down on the edge of the mattress with a bone-deep groan.

“But?” you pressed.

“But you ain’t gonna like it. Might even make you hate me again,” he said and ran a hand through his hair. “I fucked up.”

Could you still call it growth when he told you a second before sleeping with you?

“Okay…” You nodded slowly and pursed your lips. “Gonna have to elaborate a little more on that one.”

Ben clicked his tongue, head bobbing. Then he met your eyes. “It’s about Edgar… and Vought. There's somethin' you should know.”

▶️ Chapter 18: Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry – JULY 27

Seriously, can we call this growth? lol What did you think of reader settling the score? Ben's still clearly navigating everything around him 😂

Coming Up:

The silence that followed sucked the air right out of his lungs.

“It’s not your fault,” you said with that same fucking softness in your eyes he knew so well.

He scoffed in disbelief. “Sure it is.”

You sat down on the bed next to him, knee brushing his. “You didn’t know what effect it would have. You couldn’t have. I mean, sure, maybe it was a little… stupid and… reckless, but it’s not on you.”

Ben huffed a dark laugh. “You say that now, but you haven’t even heard the full story yet.”

Your brow arched.

He cleared the thick lump in his throat. “After the Homelander thing, when you were in a coma… Edgar came to me. Visited me outside of your hospital room.”

Your head slowly turned to him, brows drawing tightly together.

Ben swallowed heavily. “Wanted to kill him right there,” he muttered bitterly. “But he said he knew how important you were to me. That I needed you close. Said he could make that happen. Offered me a deal.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, averting your eyes to the ceiling before they closed. “Please don’t tell me you took it.”

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

Time After Time – Chapter 17

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, back in the present, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, humor, pining & spiraling, a bit of angst and hurt, a thin line between enemies and lovers, plenty of childhood trauma to go 'round, FLUFF (and a bit of steaminess)

Word Count: 15.3k

Posted on Patreon June 25, 2025

A/N: Lotta ups and downs in this one, but we're doing a third version of "back to the past" in this one – not time travel, not flashbacks, but memory lane! 😝

✨ Chapter title inspired by The Maltese Falcon (1941)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of

New York didn’t do quiet. Didn’t even have it in its vocabulary.

No birdsong. No crickets chirping. No gentle breeze swaying through the trees. No serene bubbling brooks of water. No peaceful ocean waves.

The sound of a fucking garbage truck woke him up – the low hiss of hydraulics, screeching metal scraping against metal, and a guy cursing down the block. New York was just layers of noise stacked over heat, stacked over the smell of piss and old grease rising through the gutters like rot and rats.

Pale, gray light was bleeding in through the grimy basement window, warm and dull and already too bright. A fan in the corner hummed like it was ready to give up fighting the thick heat in the room, still hot with shared breaths and the lack of proper ventilation. Dust hung in the beams of sunlight like ghosts that hadn’t bothered to leave – like him.

But not you.

The realization hit slow like letting air escape through a tiny hole in a balloon. He knew it before even blinking his eyes open. Didn’t need to look to know you weren’t there anymore. Felt the cold instead of the warmth.

You were gone.

Ben’s chest tightened. His eyes snapped open, confirming his worst suspicions.

The entire night he hadn’t dared to close his eyes. He kept watch as you curled up in his arms and clung to his chest like you wanted to crawl between his ribs and hide there. And Ben would’ve let you and kept you safe forever.

But you didn’t want that, did you? Not really. Because you didn’t fucking trust him. Still.

And Ben? Well, apparently, he didn’t trust you either, or he wouldn’t have expected you to flee in a gut-punching vanishing act as soon as sleep won and he shut his goddamn eyes.

Houdini had fuckin’ nothing on you.

He’d feared this would happen. That you’d make good on your promise and slip away. That if he couldn’t thaw your heart in time, the ice would certainly reach your feet.

He sat up straight, the old couch springs creaking under his weight. The spot beside him was empty and cold. Blanket rumpled. Pillow still indented and smelling like you.

His hand raked through his dirty blond locks. His jaw clenched. His pulse was climbing higher and higher.

If you’d gone, he didn’t know where – or when.

Adrenaline rushed his blood without a destination and purpose yet – fight, flight, or just smash the nearest wall. But then he heard it.

Footsteps.

Light taps of sneakers down the concrete steps outside, paired with your key jingling before sliding into the lock.

A heartbeat later, there you were – strolling past the threshold in an oversized Bowie shirt and jean shorts, coffee cup in hand and paper bag under your arm.

No smile. No wave. No hello. Not even a glance.

You walked right past him into the kitchen without acknowledging him. Like he was a rat that had moved in uninvited, and you’d decided not to feed it till it’d left on its own.

Ben studied the tension in your shoulders for a minute before he spoke, voice raspy and dry and still laced with sleep. “You’re up early.”

“Went to get coffee.”

“Without tellin’ me?”

You exhaled a sigh, the paper bag rustling in your hands as you pulled out a chocolate croissant – your favorite.

“Didn’t know I had to ask permission,” you muttered.

Ben licked his lips and shifted on the couch, his feet hitting the creaking floorboards with a groan. It was too fucking early for this. “Didn’t mean it like that. You know that.”

“Do I?”

Your words were sharp, the glare you threw him over your shoulder even sharper.

Ben didn’t respond, just glanced at the coffee cup on the counter – only one. You weren’t exactly subtle when it came to sending messages. He understood that one loud and clear – get out.

He rose from the couch and stepped up behind you, still keeping a safety distance as not to spook you. But your muscles only tensed more the closer he got.

“Didn’t get me one, huh?” Ben tried to keep his voice light and calm. But it wasn’t anger he was trying to hide – it was fucking nerves.

“Nope.”

Ben deduced from that attitude that you were probably still a tiny bit mad at him. That a kiss and a night in his arms didn’t magically heal all wounds. He didn’t think it would, but hope was a bitch.

“Didn’t feel like getting it thrown at me this morning,” you added under your breath, sipping your coffee.

Alright, maybe you were still a lot mad.

“C’mon, that happened once,” Ben retorted, trying to laugh it off, but your lips didn’t even twitch.

Fuck, he’d missed that. Not just the look of you. The feel of you. That fire. That fight. The way your eyes lit up when you were mad, which was often, and the way your voice never backed down.

“No, it happened nine times, including Valentine’s Day when you poured it over my head,” you replied and turned around with a raised brow and fire in your eyes.

Yup, he remembered that one, alright. Had overheard you talking with Annie in the break room about your date later that night, and Annie telling you to “get that D.”

He didn’t always understand 21st century slang, but he’d understood that one. And sure, he could’ve fucking handled that better. Add it to the damn list.

Ben rubbed his aching jaw. “Think we’ve already established I was a fuckin’ prick.”

You cocked an eyebrow and crossed your arms. “And what? Now it’s time to move on and forget about it?”

“No,” Ben said quickly – cleverly – which seemed to take you by surprise. “I know it ain’t that easy. But you at least gotta give me a shot to try and fix it. Otherwise, what the fuck are we doin’ here?”

“I don’t know, okay?!” you snapped, throwing your arms up. “I don’t know what we’re doing here, and I don’t know what I’m doing here. Can you stop pushing so fucking hard? This is all weird, and you’re different, but you’re also not, and my head still fucking hurts like a tsunami rolled through it.”

You took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

“And when I woke up this morning, I wanted to get you coffee, okay? Even went to your favorite place on 12th because they still use Chock full o’ Nuts and not some ‘ethically sourced, fair trade, rainforest bullshit,’” you said, lowering your voice as you were mimicking him during that last part.

Ben tried not to fucking smile. Failed. You did know him well.

“I got halfway through your coffee order before remembering all the times you dumped it on me, so I didn’t get you one,” you said but were far from done. Ben could tell by the way you sucked more air into your lungs. “But then, I didn’t want to be petty ‘cause you got me cake, so I ordered you coffee. The barista and some douche in a suit behind me thought I was fucking crazy, okay? But I made it all the way back outside with two cups, but by the time I passed the bodega on Perry Street, I remembered the speech you gave at the Women’s March.”

“You and Annie wrote that for me,” Ben argued but already knew this wouldn’t end well for him.

“Yes! Because Vought begged us to after you told them you were gonna improvise it on the spot. But then you still went off script and butchered it,” you countered in upset. “You said Betty Grable won the war by putting on a bathing suit.”

“I’m sorry, but were you fuckin’ there?!”

“You also said making pot roast was a valuable skill for a woman,” you continued.

“Wasn’t wrong…”

“You said equality is ditching the pumpkin spice and learning how to field-strip a weapon,” you added.

Ben huffed a sigh. “Alright, obviously, I just said that shit to get under your skin. Worked like a charm, too. Shoulda seen yours and Barbie’s faces,” he said, chuckling. “So, what happened to that second coffee?”

You fixed him with a glare. “I drank it. All of it. And it was fucking strong. Felt like I drank one of those 5-Hour Energy shots. Now, my hands are trembling and my brain’s on fire and my body is going through the shakes like I’m a heroin addict on cold turkey. How can you fucking drink this shit every day?”

Ben snorted.

“This isn’t fucking funny!”

“‘S a little funny,” he mumbled, stifling a laugh. But when your glare turned murderous, he raised two placating hands. “Alright, how ‘bout you put down the cup and step away from the caffeine?”

“No, it’s calming me,” you said with another rushed sip.

Ben watched your hands tremble slightly around the coffee cup. Caffeine, frustration, leftover adrenaline – probably all of it. You were wound tight.

He didn’t blame you. Hell, most of what you were mad about, he’d given you the blueprints for.

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s a lotta ‘calming’ goin’ on here, sweetheart.” Ben took a step closer and gently snatched the cup from your hands, placing it down on the counter next to you. “Also usin’ a lotta words in the mornin’ before giving a man some caffeine to flush it down with.”

You scowled, chest still rising and falling too fast. And you had that look again – that I-haven’t-decided-if-I’m-gonna-deck-you-or-kiss-you look.

Ben braced both hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in, but you didn’t flinch away or even dare to move. He tilted his head slightly, green eyes fixed on you.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice lower and smoother now, “for someone who says they don’t know what they’re doin’, you got a real good memory for all the ways I fucked up.”

You scoffed. “You make it easy.”

“Maybe,” he said, a lazy smirk crawling across his lips. “But I never forgot the way you looked at me either when you weren’t mad. When you let me in.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You ever think about shutting the fuck up?”

Ben snorted an amused laugh. “You were a lot nicer in the past, you know?”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing,” you retorted.

He licked the smile on his lips, hand lifting before fingers brushed along your jawline. Soft. Slow. Testing.

“Lemme try somethin’,” he murmured. His fingers slid to the back of your neck, sure and careful. Muscle memory like he’d done this a hundred times before – because he fucking had. He dipped his head just slightly. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. You never did. Not really.

So he kissed you.

It started slow – real slow. No teeth. No heat. Just the press of his lips against yours – familiar, grounding, intimate. Long enough to make your knees shift and remind your body what it felt like to belong to something, even if your mind hadn’t decided what it meant yet.

You didn’t kiss him back at first. Didn’t push him away either. Just let him lead while the cogs in your head kept twirling like a ballerina on acid.

Your lips were still tense, your breath still caught somewhere in your throat – but Ben stayed with it. His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t in a hurry. He already knew every pressure point, every sigh, every place your defenses would crack if he was patient enough.

And at that first crack in your armor, he slipped inside before it could seal again.

He kissed you like he was trying to remind you of every damn thing you used to love about him. The softness under the edge. The steadiness in his hands. The way he used to touch you like he didn’t want to break you, even when the world told him he only knew how to smash things long before he’d even taken a first bite out of that poisoned apple.

Your hands hovered for a second. Then you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and kissed him back. Your response hit him like a gunshot through the ribs.

Your mouth opened just enough for his tongue to slip inside. His other hand claimed your waist, palm spreading over the curve of your hip.

Last night, he’d held you like something that might shatter. This time, a whole year of pretending he didn’t want you bled out through every movement of his. His muscles remembered what it felt like to have you, and they were done being polite about it.

He kissed you deep. Intentional.

And your body responded. Angled toward him like instinct kicked in faster than logic.

You tasted like coffee and sugar and whatever it was he’d been missing since the day you vanished. He savored it till it burned low in his gut and his blood roared. Every nerve lit up like he was twenty-three again and invincible.

Ben wanted more. Fuck, he wanted it all.

He wanted you on that couch. On top of him, under him, against the wall – anywhere he could get his hands on you and feel something that didn’t end in self-destruction.

But it wasn’t just want. It wasn’t just need. It was something wired into his goddamn spine – chemical and engineered.

The poison in his veins had always wanted what it couldn’t have. Craved control. Power. Submission. The need to take. To dominate. To fucking own.

But Ben had learned a long time ago what happened when he let that part run loose. He didn’t want to take from you. He never had.

Still, right now, feeling your skin burn and your pulse throb under his fingertips provoked a part of him that wanted to pin you to the counter and remind your body why it had loved him once. Keep you underneath him till every wound between you had been rewritten with sweat and skin and your name carved into his chest.

But instead, he kissed you slower. Dragged it out till your breath stuttered. Till your hand trembled against his chest because you were fighting against something, too. Probably the same thing he was, just in different packaging.

Ben pulled back and rested his forehead against yours, watching you for a moment. Everything about you – the fire, the fury, the fucking heart of you – was still there, burning under the surface. But your walls had lowered just enough to allow him to breathe next to you.

He forced his heart rate back down. Reigned himself in. Fought the goddamn urge to grip your thighs and lift you onto the fucking counter.

He looked into your eyes, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “That help?”

You nodded just the tiniest bit, swallowing. “Little… maybe.”

“Good.” He bit back a smirk. “You want me to leave?”

Your gaze drifted to the door, then back to him. You shook your head. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a drive.”

Ben lifted a brow in surprise. “Like a joyride?”

You scoffed a chuckle. “Trust me. There won’t be any joy.”

“Even better.” He smirked and watched you roll your eyes back.

“It’s a memory thing,” you shared and grabbed your nonsensical notebook from the nightstand. “Just have to check some things I wrote in here. See if it jogs anything.”

Ben bobbed his head, gave you a smirk – just a flicker of it. “You want company?”

You didn’t smile, but your voice came softer this time. “If you can behave.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “No promises, sweetheart.”

The summer morning was already too hot, the kind of heat that stuck to one’s skin before they even moved. Somewhere up the street, a fire hydrant had been cracked open – kids laughing, water spraying across the sidewalk, glittering in the sun like it had the right to be joyful.

You were not joyful.

“Where the fuck did I–” you muttered, pacing half a step in either direction, squinting up and down the block like your car might reveal itself if you stared hard enough.

Behind you, Ben leaned against the railing of your brownstone, arms crossed, watching you with thinly veiled amusement.

“Problem?” he asked, voice lazy like a sun-drunk cat. You wanted to spray him with fucking water.

“I know I parked here somewhere.”

He hummed. It was the most annoying sound on the fucking planet.

“Lemme ask you something,” Ben said. You didn’t turn but could hear the goddamn Cheshire Cat smirk in his words. “What color and model do you think your car is?”

“It’s a… red… Honda Civic,” you guessed.

Yeah, alright, you had no fucking clue. At this point, you were even doubting you had a car. You did have keys to a car, though.

You glanced at said keys in your hand. Your nose scrunched. “Wait… Toyota?”

Ben blew out a breath between his lips. “It’s a dark blue Prius. And it’s right there,” he said and pointed in front of you.

Huh. Right fucking there. Your beat-up and beloved 2004 Prius with the bumper barely still attached. You also recalled there was supposed to be a roll of Oreos hiding in the glovebox.

You rounded the car, but Ben beat you to the door handle.

You didn’t move, however. Not an inch. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Gonna drive,” he said like it was obvious.

“Uh, no you’re not.”

Ben squinted at you. “Why not?”

“Because it’s my fucking car.”

“So?”

“So,” you forced out with as much patience as possible, “when was the last time you even drove, huh?”

He pursed his lips and then shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno… ‘68, maybe? Vought gave me a driver at some point, so…”

“Yeah, you’re not driving,” you said and jerked the door open, sliding inside behind the wheel.

Ben got into the passenger side like a man mildly offended by the sheer existence of seatbelts. The car creaked when you turned on the engine, and the AC coughed to life as you pulled out onto the street.

Ben didn’t ask where you were going. Admittedly, he was masterful at pretending he didn’t care about shit. At least you thought he was pretending. You used to know when he played a role. Now you weren’t so sure anymore you could still tell.

He was different now. That much was fucking obvious.

Harder around the edges. Quieter. More shadows under his eyes and fewer sparks behind them. His silence in the car wasn’t passive – it was heavy. Thoughtful. Drowning.

Twenty-three-year-old Ben would’ve filled the car with jokes and questions and finger-drumming on the wheel. His elbow would’ve rested coolly on the opened window as his lips sucked on a cigarette.

This version of him, however, just stared out the window, jaw tight, muscles coiled like he was bracing for the next bad thing. This wasn’t the guy you knew – the guy you wanted to marry not even twenty-four hours ago.

“Why you starin’ at me like that?”

You blinked at Ben and swallowed, shaking your head. “I’m not.”

“Yeah? Coulda fooled me,” he muttered, raising a brow.

Your fingers tapped nervously on the wheel before you exhaled a sigh. “You’re quiet… and broody,” you noted, Ben’s gaze fixing on you. His green eyes twinkled like emeralds in the golden morning light. “Is that a constant thing now? You always gonna be grumpy and brooding?”

Ben’s mouth opened and then closed again. “What?”

You shrugged and focused back on the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Nothing, just… you used to talk more… back then, you know?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, his gaze drifting back out the window.

You breathed out another sigh. “So that’s a yes? You’re gonna talk less now? Like is it something I have to get used to, or are you just nervous?”

Ben snorted lightly. “‘M not nervous.”

“So this is standard? You’re not gonna fill silences anymore?”

“I think you’re doin’ a stellar job at it for me, sweetheart,” he quipped.

Another sigh passed your lips.

For the next hour of the drive, Ben sat in the passenger seat like he belonged there. Bow legs spread, arms crossed, shoulder nearly brushing yours in the too-tight front of your too-small car.

The man was massive and never sat like he owed space to anyone. You hated that you noticed it. That your body clocked every shift in his weight, every movement of his hands – hands that had held your waist last night like they still remembered what it felt like to touch you in a different lifetime.

Eighty years, you reminded yourself. He hadn’t touched you or kissed you or even talked to you in almost a century.

Six months in 1942 felt like an eternity. Eight decades, in comparison, seemed like an impossibility.

Even crazier, how the hell could he still want you after all this time?

As you glanced sideways, he was staring out the window again, squinting into the gray sprawl of South Jersey. His hair was still a little messy, and he looked too casual, too settled in this weird limbo between stranger and memory.

It was driving you nuts. Why wasn’t he freaking out like you? Why was he so fucking cool, calm, and collected?

The AC was blowing semi-cold air, and one of the vents was stuck at an angle that kept blasting Ben in the face. You didn’t fix it. He didn’t complain. And that little fact alone annoyed you more than it should have.

And why the hell did he still smell so good? You’d never noticed it before. You did now. There was still this distinct and familiar scent you recognized from ‘42, buried under a different aftershave and cologne. But there were still traces of him in it.

You wondered if there were other traces of his old self, too. Or did the similarities end right there?

The kisses still lingered on your lips like phantom pressure as well. As if your body hadn’t gotten the memo yet to stop craving something that had already happened. It had been good. Too fucking good. The kind of good that made you feel like you were already losing.

God, you didn’t want him to fucking win. What was he even winning? And did it mean you were automatically losing? Because it somehow felt like you were still winning something, too.

Why the fuck did he have to kiss you like that? And why the fuck was he even better at it now than he used to be?

He was already skilled at stealing your breath away back in ‘42. It wasn’t fucking fair he got even better at it. Back then, he made your head spin. Now, he made your head spin so much it detached from your body and floated through the air.

He wasn’t supposed to be fucking better. He was supposed to be older and meaner and out of practice – not this confusing hybrid of myth and man who made your knees soft even when your spine said run.

Focus, you told yourself. You had to stop thinking about it. But your brain kept circling back to one undeniable, painful, absolutely infuriating truth:

He was a better kisser now. Objectively. Technically. Emotionally. And that made you want to scream.

Your throat fucking tingled like you could still taste his tongue. The 1942 version had been all boyish hunger and soft hands. This one kissed like he’d spent the last eighty years figuring out exactly how to undo you with a sigh and a hand on your hip.

No, no, no! Stop!

You had to stop thinking about it. Had to stop thinking about his lips or his hands or how his voice was deeper and raspier or how his beard tickled and scratched in all the right ways.

You were spiraling. Nope. You were spiraling about spiraling, which was ten times worse.

Why were you freaking out? Were you actually doing this? Were you actually giving him a chance?

Did you still love him or were you just holding onto something lost?

“You always drive with your whole body like it’s a full-contact sport?” Ben teased, eyeing your death grip on ten and two.

You didn’t reply. Just rolled your shoulders and kept driving, reminding yourself to breathe every once in a while.

The tall city buildings had dropped away now. The landscape turned gray and flat – industrial stretches of Jersey sprawl, empty billboards and rusted chain link fencing.

Why were you bringing him here? Why had you invited him to come with you? Why hadn’t you told him to leave when he offered this morning?

Instead, you’d given into your urge for him to stay. You weren’t even sure if it was him you wanted. Maybe you were just clinging to a fantasy and afraid to let go.

He wasn’t the same. Not even close.

“So, you still listening to jazz?” you asked, causing him to raise another brow.

Small talk. Good choice. Yeah, why not make fucking small talk with the man who slept with you eighty years ago? That seemed perfectly fucking normal and ordinary.

“Uhm, sometimes, yeah,” Ben replied and was still looking at you weird.

“Huh.” You nodded, tongue poking the insides of your cheeks.

Ben snorted. “Not the answer you wanted to hear?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You shook your head casually – feigned casualness, that was.

Ben cocked an eyebrow, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “Were you hoping I wasn’t? Are you just going through a list of things you found annoying back then, hoping I stopped doin’ them?”

“No,” you replied too quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know. Figured I had to start somewhere. Might as well hope for good news.”

Ben chuckled in amusement, rubbing his lips with his fingers. “Well, sorry to disappoint you again, sweetheart. Still listenin’ to jazz on occasion.”

“Great. So more music that sounds like a cat dying in a basement,” you quipped.

“Was gonna say the same ‘bout your Riot Girl screechin’.” Ben grinned broadly, causing you to roll your eyes. “Anything else?”

You shook your head and passed the town sign of Ashbury, almost missing it as it was half-sunk into a ditch and choked by weeds and cigarette butts. Someone spray-painted over the bottom line, but you could still make out what it used to say: “A Good Place to Grow.”

What a fucking lie. It always had been.

Your hometown was the kind of place people left and never talked about again. You’d certainly done exactly that for the last few years.

You hadn’t been back here since you kidnapped your parents in the middle of the night and shipped them off to Alaska with a small detour through the Middle Ages. The trailer had been left to rot under salt-soaked skies and the weight of every bad decision that happened inside it. The idea of seeing it again made your skin itch.

Why had you told him that story? Why were you bringing him here? What were you trying to achieve?

You had to. It was as simple as that.

You had to see it and fill in the gaps. Remind yourself of who you were and what made you you. And maybe you were trying to show Ben, too.

He’d always been curious. Always asked questions about who you were and where you came from. About your childhood. About your friends. About your parents. And you never could tell him, no matter how much you wanted to share that part with him.

Ben had never seen you like this before.

It wasn’t a part of you that you ever truly shared with anyone. In fact, you couldn’t remember if you ever had before. There wasn’t a long line of boyfriends in the past you’d ever brought home to meet Mom and Dad.

The only one you could remember that had seen it all was your first boyfriend, and he’d lived three trailers down from you and grew up in the same shitty town.

This wasn’t Ben’s life, though. It never had been. He grew up with a fucking silver spoon and lived in mansions and penthouses all his life.

Memories then flooded your head like water through a cracked hull: the smell of stale cigarettes, the feel of mold in the corners of the mattress, the nights you pretended to sleep while screaming matches played like lullabies down the narrow hall.

Ben had seen your courage. Your defiance. Your wit. All the remnants of the walls you’d carefully crafted over three decades. But he’d never seen where you came from.

And what if he did now?

What if he looked at that trailer – your old life in dented aluminum and broken blinds – and saw it as proof that you were never good enough for the fantasy you’d built in 1942? What if he looked at you and saw pity? Saw the girl that used to hide her tears and her bruises and pretend the screams were someone else’s.

Moreover, why the fuck did you care what he’d think? You weren’t even sure you still loved this version of him. So why was it bothering you so much when you wanted to show him an old version of you?

Ben leaned against the window and looked out, whistling lowly. “Jesus fuck, that town’s a dump. Even the gas station looks fuckin’ depressed. Good place to get tetanus.”

Your throat closed, but you said nothing. Didn’t come to your hometown’s defenses and refrained from giving him a proper welcome.

“Ashbury,” he scoffed, chuckling at a rusted sign. “Fitting. Looks like a place that got buried under fuckin’ ash.”

Still, you didn’t respond.

Ben lifted a brow. “What? You’re not gonna say anything now? You wanted me to talk,” he reminded you of an earlier regret. “I mean, c’mon, you’re really not gonna make fun of this place? How d’you even find a shithole like this? Google ‘depression’ and scroll past the first five pages?”

“Surprised you know how googling works,” you commented dryly.

“Yeah, well, I picked up a few things over the last year,” he said casually. “Still don’t get the Internet, though.”

“Don’t worry. No one does,” you muttered, turning onto a dirt road, gravel crunching under your tires. Potholes were everywhere, and you slowed down on instinct.

Trailers started to line either side of the road, with sagged porches and American flags that had bleached to faded pinks and grays. Each home looked like it was held together by forced willpower and duct tape.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Ben sighed next to you and leaned back in his seat, still clearly entertained and oh-so oblivious. “Y’know, I’ve seen blown-out villages in France with more curb appeal. At least they had bakeries.”

Your stomach twisted. Your lips pursed. This had been a colossally bad idea, hadn’t it? You never should’ve brought him here. What had you been hoping to gain? A fucking bonding experience?

Closeness or closure?

“Man, and that trailer park?” Ben went on, pointing without thinking. “This place looks like the start of every unsolved murder doc–”

Ben suddenly stopped. He licked and bit his lips before his head turned slowly to you, eyes stern.

“This is where you fuckin’ grew up, isn’t it?” He stared at you, expecting you to reply, even though he knew the answer already.

You pulled into a faintly marked parking space, the yellow lines faded like an old bruise and overgrown with weeds in the cracked pavement. You turned off the engine and looked at him, forcing a bright smile.

“Welcome to my hometown.”

“Ah, fuck,” he cursed under his breath and scrubbed a palm down his freckled face. “Coulda told me before I shit all over it.”

You grinned, then shrugged. “Why? This was way funnier. ‘Sides, you’re not wrong. This town is the place where dreams come to die,” you agreed. “And now, I know what you really think, so you can’t charm me with fake flattery anymore.”

He looked out the windshield again, slower this time. More focused. Like maybe the broken siding and busted porch steps meant something now. You could feel him recalibrating.

And maybe that should’ve helped. But it didn’t. You hated every second of this.

You didn’t want to be more understood. You didn’t want to feel loved despite everything – by him or anyone else.

Maybe you came here with him as punishment. Either way, it was too fucking late now to take it back and pretend you’d never brought him here in the first place.

Because the damage was done. Because the whole drive, he’d been mocking your past without knowing it – and now he was trying to rearrange himself into someone who understood.

But he couldn’t.

“See that laundromat up ahead?” you asked and pointed out the window, waiting for his nod. “It’s also a tanning salon and a bond’s office. A lot of buildings have double duty here. That boarded-up convenience store is also a pawn shop and a pharmacy. Fun fact – the back door has a doggy door that can fit an eight-year-old.”

Ben lifted a brow. “And how do you know that?”

“Oh, because I used to break into this place,” you replied with feigned nonchalance. “My dad made me steal meds from the pharmacy. Because, you know, I could fit in there and I looked cute if the cops showed up. Would only get a slap on the wrist as a minor if I was caught. And I was a supe and healed fast. At least that’s what my dad told me. Sometimes, I broke into it by myself, though. To steal food or school supplies.”

You ended the conversation then by unbuckling your seatbelt and stepping out. Ben followed you with a confused stare, slamming the car door shut behind him.

A group of dirty kids rode their broken bikes up and down the street. Their parents sat in plastic lawn chairs and drank booze from paper bags, pretending their children didn’t see.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, and it made your heart stop.

You let out a bitter breath and forced a smile. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? It’s not a big deal.”

“You lyin’ for my benefit or your own?” Ben looked at you with infuriating patience, then gave a soft smile. “‘Cause if it’s the former, you got nothin’ to worry about.”

You scoffed a humorless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

“It is,” he replied, making your brow raise. “Not for the reasons you think, though.”

“Oh, and you know what I’m thinking now?” you challenged and crossed your arms.

“I do.” He chuckled. “It’s not that surprising, y’know? This place? Doesn’t change anything, either.”

“Change what?” Your grip around yourself tightened, brow furrowing more.

A smile rose on his lips. “How I feel ‘bout you.”

You brushed it off with a shrug. “I know.”

“Alright. Good.” He smirked like the devil. “So you can stop twitichin’ and fumblin’ and bein’ fuckin’ nervous ‘bout it. Felt like you were goin’ through withdrawals the whole ride here. Thought it was the caffeine. Guess not.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes. “Can you shut up?”

“Hey, you wanted me talkin’.” He shrugged his annoyingly broad shoulders.

“Yeah, well, clearly something I regret now. I take it back, okay?” you retorted.

Ben laughed, then gave you a smirk and stepped closer. “You regret anything else this morning?”

You pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Nope. Not sure. Did anything happen?”

“Right…” He gave you a deadpan stare.

You curled your lips, fighting against the weird pull in your stomach. “Maybe you should wait in the car. I just have to check something real quick. Won’t take long.”

“Nuh-uh.” He snorted a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re not backin’ out now. You dragged me all the way to fuckin’ Jersey. Least you could do is follow through.”

“Fine,” you sighed and marched ahead, shoulders tense.

The door to the trailer stuck halfway through opening like it had grown roots in the threshold. You shoved it harder with your shoulder. The frame creaked, then gave, groaning open on rusted hinges that sounded like they hadn’t been moved since you last blew through here.

You stepped inside, and Ben followed, quiet behind you, his boots crunching on something that used to be linoleum.

The trailer wasn’t large. Hell, it was barely bigger than your bathroom in your apartment in Manhattan. You could see everything from the “living room” – the kitchen’s cracked countertops, the long-dead ceiling fan, the hallway leading to the back bedroom, which only held an old, thin mattress and where the window never closed properly.

It was still all here – the skeleton of your childhood.

Ben didn’t say anything. He didn’t crack a joke. Just stood there and looked, hands on his hips, gaze sweeping over the scene like he was trying to absorb every detail without breaking it.

“So, clearly not gonna take a three-hour tour. More like three seconds.” You awkwardly cleared your throat. Your voice was too loud. It bounced strangely off the walls. “No grand pianos or oil paintings of old dead relatives who disapprove of your choices.”

“Already a bonus if you ask me,” Ben said and sent you a small smile.

You turned away with a swallow before you could witness his face change. You knew it was inevitable.

“My mom used to sit right here,” you said, gesturing toward a torn recliner that had collapsed inward like a rotted tooth. “She liked daytime soaps and hydrocodone. She was a nurse before the hospital fired her for stealing pills and a prescription pad.”

Your foot hit a loose beer can. It rattled away toward the hallway.

“What did your dad do?” Ben asked, and you sucked in a breath.

“He-, uh, he worked in a factory in town. It closed down a couple of years ago,” you said. “But even before that, he hurt his back lifting something wrong, I guess. They gave him pills for it. He was barely twenty, and he got addicted. Lost his job soon after. Never got another one, unless scamming people counts.”

Ben nodded with that same sternly knitted brow, which seemed to be part of his armor now. He gestured with his chin toward the bedroom. “You sleep back there?”

“Sometimes. When they weren’t home, which was most times,” you replied. “When they were home, I’d sleep on the couch outside.”

“Why not in here?” Ben’s eyes drifted to the couch next to him.

You pressed your lips into a tight line. “Trust me. Outside was better,” was all you said. “When it rained or it was winter, Mrs. Russo, two trailers down, would take me in, though. Her late husband was in the mob. At least, that’s how most of her stories started. She did make a mean lasagna, too. Probably gained five pounds in high school by eating too much carbs and melted cheese for weeks straight.”

Ben didn’t reply. Just watched you. Your heart fucking hammered against your ribs.

You busied yourself by strolling to the corner of the room and crouched by the small dining table, lifting the dusty lid of a battered cardboard box. Inside were fragments – pieces you’d never let anyone see.

Not until now.

“I never knew them sober, you know? Or normal,” you said. “I could guess what kind of people they were when they tried to be better, but I don’t actually know. They were like this before I was born. Everyone always says addiction changes people, but I don’t think they changed. I only ever got the aftermath. The fixed version that didn’t allow for change.”

You stole a glance at Ben over your shoulder. He was standing with his muscular arms crossed, staring at a photo stuck crookedly to the fridge with a tacky magnet – one of the only ones you’d left behind.

It showed the three of you. You were maybe five years old. It might have looked normal to the casual and untrained viewer, but all you could see were your mother’s red-rimmed eyes and your father holding a beer can out of frame.

“That your parents?”

You nodded and forced yourself to shrug. “Uh, yeah.”

“Why d’you bring me here?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. To even the score?” you offered and met his gaze. “I mean, you let me into your life in ‘42, right? Let me see everything – your home, your family, your routines. And I watched you. Dug through it. Judged. Lied.”

Maybe you were teaching yourself a lesson this time.

You sat back on your heels and pulled out a small photo album. The pages stuck together, but you opened it anyway. Inside were pictures from school – grainy, underexposed shots of science fairs and spelling bees, heated debates and math competitions.

No one ever came to those events. You took the bus home alone with a trophy in your backpack and no one to show it to.

Ben walked over slowly and sank down on the couch beside you. The cushions let out a puff of dust when he sat, but he didn’t flinch.

“Lotta trophies,” he noted. “You won all of these?”

“Duh. Didn’t steal everything,” you quipped and sent him a smile. He matched it. “‘Sides, participation trophies are for losers.”

Ben chuckled and took out a small, gold-plated trophy with a bent corner.

“Third grade,” you explained. “Built a working radio out of scrap. They gave me this and a coupon for a free pizza slice.”

“Was the pizza any good?”

You bit back a smile and arched an eyebrow. “In this town?”

“Right,” Ben chuckled, head bobbing. He turned the trophy in his hand like it was made of glass – something precious that didn’t deserve to hide away in a dusty box in an abandoned trailer.

You pulled out a handful more. The labels were faded. Some of the bases were chipped. But they were real. They were yours.

“If I didn’t win, it didn’t matter,” you said quietly. “Not that it made that much of a difference when I actually did win.”

“Never won a trophy before,” Ben said musingly. “Not even an Oscar.”

“That’s not true. You had that wrestling trophy,” you reminded him.

“Second place.”

“You got nominated for an Oscar,” you added.

Ben snorted a laugh. “Yeah, for a story about me growin’ up fake poor. Everything was fuckin’ fake about my life.” He let out a breath and found your eyes. “Except you.”

His eyes hadn’t changed since 1942. Still sharp. Still knowing. Still green, even when the world around him morphed to gray.

“This doesn’t scare me,” he said. “Not sure you were aiming for that, but it ain’t gonna work.”

You let out a disbelieving chuckle. “It should. I’m not who you remember either, you know? Yes, I know how to build a radio, but before that, I learned how to make a shiv from a toothbrush.”

Ben stifled a snort. “Yeah, I know. Kinda made me love you more, honestly.”

You frowned. “You keep saying you still love me, but you don’t even know who that person is.”

“I do know. I told you. I’ve always known,” he said all too causally. He then chuckled under his breath. “I mean, sure, guess you’re a little different now.”

You raised a brow at him, unsure if it was meant to be cruel. But when you glanced up, his mouth was drawn into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t mocking either.

“Core’s still there, y’know?” he continued. He leaned back slightly, eyes transfixed on the trophy in his hands. “You didn’t lie about who you were back then. You lied about other things, but not that. You were always a loud smartass with a lot of bite.”

“Thanks,” you grumbled.

“You’re welcome.” Ben smirked that lazy and boyish smile again. The one that melted your heart faster than the summer heat. Then he became quieter, rubbing his palms together between his thighs. “I didn’t fall in love with a memory if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Your brow scrunched, scoffing. “Worried? I’m not worried,” you deflected poorly. You wouldn’t win an Oscar, either.

“Clearly,” he entertained your delusion. “In any case, just sayin’, I didn’t naively romanticize shit about you for the last eighty years.”

“You sure?”

Ben snorted, nodding. “I’m sure I didn’t fall in love with you ‘cause you wore fuckin’ saddle shoes.”

“I never wore saddle shoes,” you countered like it was an important point. But your mind didn’t want to focus on all the other words that came out of his mouth and the meaning behind them.

Your heart, on the other hand, was twisting and screaming and fighting. But you couldn’t lead with your heart in this matter. The thing was fucking broken and confused. It didn’t know up from down anymore, and it certainly couldn’t distinguish the Ben in front of you from the Ben it had loved in the past.

“You know what I mean,” Ben said patiently.

God, how did that man have an abundance of patience all of a sudden? You once saw him throw a fit in a restaurant because his steak took too fucking long. But somehow, he managed to wait eighty goddamn years for you.

For you.

“Look, uhm,” Ben started, pursing his lips, “‘m not really used to all of that anymore.”

You lifted a brow in gentle curiosity. “Used to what?”

Ben exhaled a shaky breath, kept his gaze trained on his hands. “Talking to you. Opening up. Been a while, you know?”

You nodded in understanding. “I know.”

“And yeah, I guess I am grumpier now or broodier or whatever the fuck you said in the car,” he admitted and met your eyes. “Seen a lotta shit, y'know? Bound to make a man a little... salty. But I’m tryin’.”

You gave him another nod and a soft smile that accompanied it this time. “I know that, too.”

“Good.” He licked his lips and swallowed. His gaze made your heart pound in your throat. “The real question is – why did you bring me here?”

“I told you.” You shrugged it off.

“And hey, maybe it was the fuckin’ truth,” he said and raised his palms. “Or maybe you were just lyin’ to yourself again. But I think there’s more to it than just settlin’ a score. You don’t owe me shit. Not after this year, so why you really showin’ me all this now, hm?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, but your heart kept only screaming louder.

“Bullshit,” Ben said with a slow smile.

“Alright, since you’re the expert on all things me now, why do you think I brought you here?” you challenged.

Ben rose to it with a smirk. “‘Cause you still love me too, even when you’re not ready to admit it to yourself yet. You’re doin’ it because you couldn’t back then. And you wouldn’t do it now if you didn’t think I was still worth the effort.”

“Bold claim,” you replied with your best poker face. But he hit the nail pretty much on the head.

“And true.” He smirked the softest grin, removed every hard line as if they could scare you away.

You exhaled a sigh, chewing on your lip. “Why do you keep telling me you love me?”

He cocked a brow, slightly amused. “That a serious question now?”

“I just keep wondering why,” you elaborated. “I mean, you didn’t say it before. Not until the end. Now it feels like you’re using every opportunity you get.”

“Maybe ‘cause I am,” he admitted.

“But why?” you pressed on. “What’s your agenda?”

“My agenda?” Ben scoffed a humorless chuckle. “I’m not sayin’ it for some wicked, debauched reason. Not tryin’ to weasel my way into your panties with words.”

“You sure about that?”

He actually laughed. “Maybe a little. But I promise it’s not why I keep sayin’ it.”

Your brow raised higher, waiting.

His sigh was almost dramatic. “I regretted it,” he said then. “Not telling you sooner. Not sayin’ it every day, though I felt it before you even told me. That’s what I kept thinking about the most, you know? That maybe if I said it fucking sooner, you would’ve stayed.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” you said gently.

Ben looked at you. “How do you know? Maybe it would’ve. Maybe you would’ve been less fuckin’ scared that night. Maybe you wouldn’t have panicked.”

You nodded quietly. “Guess we’ll never know now, huh?”

“No, guess not,” he agreed.

You shifted closer on the floor, meeting his look of bewilderment when you’d made it all the way to his feet and straightened between his thighs. Your hands wound around his neck, pulling him closer. Your gaze flickered to his lips and back to the bemused gleam in his green eyes before you kissed him.

Soft. Slow. And then searing.

His hands found your waist on instinct and pulled you up to straddle his lap like you weighed nothing to him. You knew you didn’t. Those hands around you were invincible, and the power they held was unfathomable.

His restraint dwindled, too. He groaned into your mouth when you pressed closer, and his lips dared to leave yours and trail down your throat when you sighed in response.

Your toes curled in your sneakers when you felt the bulge in his jeans grow. You didn’t want to want him – not still, not after everything he’d done – but you couldn’t deny any longer that you did.

Still and probably always.

Because he’d been right last night when he said you’d already forgiven him once. All the shit you knew he’d still do in the future hadn’t mattered – and not because it hadn’t happened yet or because you thought you could change destiny.

You forgave him because you fell in love with him. Because you saw something neither time nor cruelty could ever take away again.

He drew away with labored breath, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. His lips were kiss-swollen. His eyes were wrecked.

“Can’t do this to me here,” he rasped, smile dancing on his lips.

“Why not?” You smirked challengingly. “Not good enough for the golden boy here?”

“Shut up.” He snorted and kissed you again. “Not good enough for you. And definitely not good enough for all the things I’ve planned.”

You bit back a smile. “So… back to the city and my pull-out couch?”

“Fuck no.” He laughed. “Back to my king size bed. Gonna need the space. Trust me.”

You swatted his arm, giggling. “You’re a fucking menace.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling low through his chest. “Yeah, but you like it, right? Pretty sure you did back then.”

“Maybe,” you admitted through playfully narrowed eyes. “Wanna get out of here now?”

“You got everything you came for?”

You let out a breath, glanced around the trailer, and nodded. “Yeah. Did you?”

His smile was softer than you expected. “Didn’t need anything. You up for a little detour, though?”

Your brow furrowed. “What did you have in mind?”

“Home,” was all he said and smiled.

“Stop there,” Ben said as you rolled through Philadelphia’s town center.

“It’s the middle of the street,” you argued, eyes watching passing pedestrians and playing children and busy shoppers.

You knew the street but barely recognized it anymore. It all had changed. Blink – and gone. Fucking entropy.

“Just pull over by the curb,” Ben instructed you.

You did, and Ben got out of the car first like a man on a mission. He squinted up and down the street while people ducked out of his way.

How did he do that? They didn’t even recognize him as Soldier Boy and still accommodated him like he was just a force of nature with a warning sign around his neck not to be messed with.

“You know that the mansion isn’t here, right?” you noted teasingly.

“I know that, smartass,” he huffed, narrowing his eyes more before they lit up. “Ah. There.” He pointed down the sidewalk, smirking. “That’s where you ran into me.”

You scrunched your nose, shaking your head. “Uh, no.”

“What d’you mean no?”

“Trust me. My memory’s fresher,” you said. “It was in front of the bakery. I remember the smell. Which means–” You squinted in the other direction, then pointed. “It was there.”

“Huh.” Ben stumped and tilted his head.

You groaned. “Ugh, it’s a Vought Mobile store now. How tragic,” you sighed and gestured to the store next to it. “And look, they turned the soda fountain into a fucking Vough-a-Burger.”

“To be fair, pretty sure soda fountains weren’t even a thing anymore in the ‘80s,” Ben retorted.

“Yeah, but c’mon. The whole street is awful. It used to be so pretty. Why the fuck would they do that? Why would they change everything? I mean, back then–”

Ben snorted in amusement.

“What?”

He smirked. “Careful, sweetheart. Startin’ to sound like me.”

“Alright, whatever, gramps,” you huffed, rolling your eyes back before noticing Ben’s brooding look. “Seriously, what does that face mean now?”

“What face? Didn’t know I was makin’ one,” Ben replied, stoic as ever.

“You are,” you insisted. “Your beard’s kinda screwing with my reading, though, so I can’t tell what it means anymore.”

Ben frowned now. You knew that for sure.

He smacked his lips and let out a sigh. “Was just thinkin’…” He paused and broke his gaze. “You get it.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just strolled back to the car and waited for you there to follow.

You knew that fucking move all too well from 1942. He’d done it every time he didn’t want to talk about something. It had been an infuriating habit back then, and it was still fucking infuriating now.

So far, the things that stayed the same were jazz and emotional constipation. Great.

Kindness – maybe? He’d been admittedly… sweet today. Yup, that tasted fucking weird on your tongue.

You also couldn’t trust it. You didn’t. That would be insane, right? You were not insane – he was. He might have been an awful actor, but he was a fucking good liar.

The walls would crack soon. You were sure of it. You’d bet fucking money on it.

Great. Now you were cheering for him to fucking fail. How sad was that? You didn’t want that either. So, what else was there?

The kiss was nice. So nice.

Fuck.

The mansion wasn’t as easy to find as you thought it would be. Memory was a fucking bitch sometimes.

Time was an even bigger cunt.

A lot had changed in the surrounding area, including some of the street names. New houses, office buildings, stores, malls, parks – it all felt foreign now.

You glanced at Ben. It had to be even weirder for him, but he seemed strangely at ease. Just stared out the window without a single twitch or scoff of disbelief. Like he’d gotten used to things never staying the same. Like one couldn’t truly count on anything.

In theory, you knew that. All the laws of physics pointed toward constant change. Your childhood did, too. In reality, however, you hadn’t been as much of a believer as you probably should’ve been.

And then, there it was – the mansion. Still looming and massive and intimidating. Still just as impressive.

But it was smaller somehow than you remembered. You’d seen these walls just yesterday in bright technicolor. Now they were faded and stained with rain and smoke and time.

It looked like a memory trying to erase itself.

The gates hadn’t been painted in decades, either. The wrought iron was flaking rust like dead skin, vines curling through its bars, creeping up like the house was trying to strangle whatever was left of its little dignity.

Ben hadn’t said a word since pulling up the long gravel drive. And you hadn’t said anything either. Hadn’t asked a single question, although a thousand were running through your mind.

You’d been pondering what to say since you started the car. You were still coming up with nothing useful.

You stepped out of the Prius and looked up at the windows, shielding your eyes from the slanting sunlight with your palm. Most of them were shuttered. The glass that wasn’t broken was warped by age. You could tell by the way the light had to bend differently to get through.

Ben came to stand next to you, arms folded, brow all stern creases and hard lines. His eyes were fixed on the building, jaw impossibly tight. You were surprised he didn’t crack a tooth.

“You sure about this? We don’t have to go in. We can just leave,” you suggested. Honestly, you weren’t even sure you wanted to go in and see the remnants of devastation waiting for you in there, either. The outside appearance already told you enough.

And maybe, that was how Ben truly felt on the inside, too – devastated by time.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen this place last?” you asked, although you weren’t sure Ben was even listening. He seemed lost in thought.

“Haven’t been here since ‘57 when my father died,” Ben replied.

Yup, you wouldn’t touch that topic with a ten-foot pole.

“Are we even allowed to be here? Who owns this place now?”

“It’s mine.”

He said it like he’d won something but wasn’t sure it was worth anything any longer – like your middle school trophies.

“Love what you’ve done with the place. Surprised you didn’t burn it down.”

Humor. Why? You were emotionally constipated too, weren’t you?

But it worked. He snorted a little, turned his head and smirked faintly at you.

You then strolled up the stone steps together, he pushed open the massive front door with more ease than you’d ever seen before, and the two of you were greeted by the foyer that was supposed to make it feel like home.

It didn’t anymore.

The marble tiles were covered with grime and dust. The chandeliers, once glittering with a thousand tiny crystals, sagged under cobwebs. The grand staircase still stood in the center, its banister carved by hand, was now dulled by decades without polish.

It felt like the walkthrough at the end of the Titanic movie. This place had waited for more than eighty years as well to tell its story.

Everything was frozen in the moment it sank, too.

You half-expected to hear Dottie’s voice echo down the hallway or the distant melody of Margaret playing the piano in the drawing room.

Naturally, it was the first place you stormed off to.

The piano was still there – right where it had always stood.

Now, it was covered in a yellowing drop cloth, keys silent, its once-polished wood now dulled and cracked, too. The bench was slightly askew, just like you used to leave it when you rushed out after practicing with Margaret. She always said you played like you were running away from something – fast, emotional, barely keeping your footing.

You reached for the cloth and pulled it back, dust exploding into the air like a cloud. You coughed, waving it away. Beneath it, the piano’s surface was still intact, though. Dry – not broken.

You sat and lifted the lid. You’d only done it two days ago, after all.

The keys were slightly warped, however. Some even stuck. Others gave no sound at all. But you still played a few slow and cautious notes and a broken melody wobbled through the room.

And Ben? He stood in the doorway and watched like he always had. Like nothing had changed at all.

“You owe Cyndi Lauper a fuckin’ apology, by the way,” Ben said teasingly.

You threw him a raised look over your shoulder. “Come on! I didn’t butcher it that badly.”

“No, you didn’t. Actually like yours better,” he said. “But I did storm her dressing room in ‘83 ‘cause of you.”

You gaped. “You didn’t.”

“Sure did. Scared the shit outta that poor girl,” Ben confirmed, chuckling. “She thought I was high.”

You grinned. “Were you?”

“Little bit.” He raised his hand and showed a small gap between his thumb and index finger, a boyishly charming smile hiding on his lips behind it. “You always rushed the bridge when you played that Chopin song, though.”

You laughed softly. “Yeah, your mom said it was emotional urgency. You said it was impatience.”

Ben gave a half-smile. “Wasn’t wrong.”

You let your fingers rest on the keys, not pressing but feeling.

“Feels like ghosts in here,” you noted quietly.

Ben looked around before his eyes landed on you and softened just slightly. “They’re not all bad ones.”

You closed the piano and made it back to the staircase, your fingers brushing the banister with each step you climbed.

At the top, you instantly turned left – to the guest bedroom. The first safe place you’d found here. A place where you could just breathe whenever you’d needed to.

It was still the same too, though the wallpaper had faded and cracked, and the mattress had sagged.

You strolled to your closet and opened the doors, but only found it empty inside. All that was left was a pale blue satin ribbon from one of your dresses, lying next to a dust bunny on the floor.

You picked it up and twirled it between your fingers, heart sinking a little more. Soon it would probably reach the bottom of the ocean. You were Jack in this story, after all.

As you passed Ben on your way out, he gently stopped you, hand curling around your wrist, then sliding lower till he cautiously interlaced them with yours. He kept his gaze fixed on your joined hands, then gave them one single squeeze and pulled away all of a sudden – like it didn’t feel quite right.

He placed his palm on the small of your back instead and nodded silently down the hall. You knew where he wanted you to go before he guided you there – his room.

The door creaked open, and your heart stopped.

The massive bed was still there, including the carved mahogany and twisted bedposts. The bookshelf between the windows was still filled with books. He hadn’t taken a single one with him when he left, it seemed – like none of them mattered any longer.

The vinyls next to the record player, the quilt his mother had sewn, the little carved eagle figurine on his nightstand that his grandfather on his mother’s side had made him and given to him as a boy – he’d left it all behind.

“Have you not been here since–” You didn’t finish. Didn’t have to. Ben understood.

“Uhm, no, I have,” he replied, voice all smoke that choked the lightness out of it. “Just… stayed in one of the guest bedrooms… after.”

You turned around to face him. Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, your gaze drifted to the bed.

You could still see it – the shape of the two of you all tangled in sheets and youthful laughs. You’d whispered about forever, but no one had mentioned any breaks in between.

Was this all still part of that grand forever plan?

“Maybe don’t look at it like a fuckin’ crime scene,” Ben quipped from the doorway and gave you a scrutinizing look.

You snorted a small laugh. “I’m not,” you assured him. “Just… remembering. Feels like yesterday.”

“Well, for you it was, right?”

“Yeah, it was,” you replied quietly and exhaled a breath you’d been holding in for too long. “You still remember what happened that morning?”

Ben chuckled. His gaze drifted to the bed, hand scratching his jaw. “Not exactly. But I could take a good guess.”

You threw him a raised look, but bit back the smile.

“Can you give me a minute here?”

You nodded and passed him on your way out, gently brushing his arm. “I’ll be downstairs.”

The mansion had always been full of corners – the kind you could vanish into without anyone noticing. You followed the back stairwell down past the pantry, through the narrow hall that once belonged to the people who’d actually kept this place alive.

The servants’ quarters had always been small and modest compared to the rest of the house. Somehow, it was still cleaner here, as if Florence had cast a spell that would keep it free of dust for the next century.

The wallpaper had yellowed, and the beds were stripped, but the doorframes still wore the grooves of where shoulders had passed thousands of times. You moved slowly past the rooms, your steps quiet on the broken floorboards. Dottie’s room was the second on the left.

Her narrow bed was still there. The quilt you’d once helped patch hung limp with dust, but intact. Her dresser stood crooked near the window, and beside the bed sat the little nightstand where she always kept–

Your eyes landed on the deck of cards.

They were still here. Fanned just slightly and still in their faded green paper box. Worn at the corners from a hundred hands of Gin Rummy. You’d spent hours here, sitting cross-legged on her bed, losing every other round while teaching her bad French and gossiping about everything under the sun.

You didn’t know what happened to her after you left. You didn’t know what happened to any of them, and you were too scared to ask.

You slipped the cards into your pocket and made your way to the kitchen. You could’ve sworn you still smelled rosemary and lemon, even though it was impossible. You knew it was just memory playing tricks on you.

You crossed the worn tile and ran your hand along the counter where Florence used to knead dough. The bookshelf by the stove still held her old, battered cookbooks. One of them, the blue one with the broken spine, was Florence’s own collection, handwritten and stuffed with clippings. Recipes from her mother. Her aunt. Even a few she’d stolen from the newspaper.

You pulled it off the shelf and opened the cover. You smiled at the doodle of a pie on the first page. You decided to take it with you as well. It deserved a better place than collecting dust and being forgotten in here.

By the time you circled around to the west wing, the sun was starting to sink lower. The light filtered orange through the warped windows, catching dust like snowflakes.

You found Ben in the study. Of course you did.

You didn’t announce yourself, just leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment.

Ben stood in the center of the room, arms crossed. His eyes were fixed on the empty leather chair. He looked... smaller in here. Still tall. Still broad. But younger somehow – like the walls were doing something to him. The shadow of that godawful man still seemed to tower over him after all these years.

The desk was still there – massive, sharp-edged, domineering. Papers scattered across the top like ghosts mid-task. There was something new in here as well – a giant oil portrait of Richard, right above the mantle of the fireplace.

If narcissism was a picture, it’d be this.

“Jesus fuck,” you muttered and creased your brow as you stepped inside. “When did he have that one made?”

Ben snorted and found your eyes. “‘52, I think. You like it?”

“Sure.” You nodded and threw him a look that made him laugh. “Only gives me the urge to light a match.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ben said and scoffed. “Always fuckin’ hated this room.”

Your fingers brushed his before intertwining them. He stared at it again and stiffened, like he wasn’t used to being comforted by anyone anymore. But eventually, his thumb caressed your knuckles, and he gave your hand a grateful squeeze.

“How did he die?” you asked quietly.

“Heart attack,” Ben said but didn’t look at you. His voice was devoid of any emotion. “Third one finally got him.”

“Probably all the red meat and the booze and the repressed anger,” you muttered, feeling that little pang of guilt coiling in your belly.

Ben arched an eyebrow at you. “Wasn’t that repressed.” His knuckles tapped the edge of the desk. “Didn’t even go to the funeral. Had some Vought assistant arrange it,” he added, halfway lost in memory. “Florence just called me outta the blue one day. Guess she didn’t know who else was left.”

You were quiet for a moment and just watched him. His shoulders seemed to gain more weight, the longer he was in here. Regret, mistakes, missed chances – it was all right there and added another crushing brick.

“I have to tell you something,” you said then, worrying your bottom lip. You gripped his hand a little tighter on reflex as his brow raised higher. “I almost killed your dad back then.”

Ben snorted a chuckle. “Yeah, you and a lot of other people.”

“No, I mean I made his heart stop,” you clarified.

His brow furrowed, but you couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing. “What d’you mean?”

You exhaled a deep breath. “Remember that awful dinner with your parents?”

“The one where my mother made a scene and almost stabbed him with a steak knife?”

You snorted a little. “Yeah, that one,” you confirmed. “You talked with your father in the study after.”

“Don’t remember that part,” he said, and you lifted a brow. “Honestly, don’t remember a lot of the shit he said in here. Not in detail. All boiled down to the same message, anyway.”

“Guess it did,” you breathed quietly. “But that night, what he said to you… it kinda made me angry, so I stopped his heart for a few seconds. He had that heart attack the next day.”

“Huh,” Ben hummed, the creases on his brow softening slightly. He then looked down at you. “Why didn’t you finish the job?”

“Ben!” You slapped his arm with a gasp.

He laughed – actually fucking laughed. “What? Woulda done me a favor. Might’ve actually changed somethin’.” He smirked, then glanced down at the book in your hand. “Is that Florence’s cookbook?”

“Yeah,” you replied, your fingers brushing over the cover. “You mind if I take it?”

He shook his head. “No one’s gonna miss it. Trust me,” he said, then squeezed your hand and motioned with his chin to the door. “Ready to finally leave this shithole?”

“Almost.”

There was one last place you wanted to see. You walked out the back door and into the long stretch of grass behind the mansion. The garden was long dead and overgrown, but the stone path that led to George’s work shed was still there.

You opened the door and were immediately hit with the familiar smell of sawdust and grease and rust. The light filtered in through the high window and the cracks in the wood.

The old blackboard was still there too, covered in half-faded chalk equations. You were sure they hadn’t been touched by human fingers in eight decades. It was strange that you’d only written some of them yesterday morning. Now, it looked like it happened a lifetime ago.

You ran your fingers over the edge of the worktable and found a now rusted pair of George’s wire cutters that you always used to borrow.

“I spent most of my days here,” you said quietly.

“I remember,” Ben said, still leaning in the doorway.

Finally, you turned around and met his eyes. The words sat on your tongue like a match waiting to be lit. “What happened after I left?”

Ben let out a deep sigh, shoulders slumping as if he’d been waiting for you to ask, and the answer had been weighing on him.

“Dottie actually did it,” he started, the lines on his face a little softer. “Moved to France after the war. Wrote me a letter once. She seemed fine. I never wrote back.”

A small smile twitched on your lips. You felt happy for her. At least, she fulfilled her dream. Maybe she got to live out her days in some quaint French village, married a nice guy she liked, and had some kids. You could live with that.

“The others?”

“Florence and George retired after my father passed. I got Frances a job in the city with another family after. She died in ‘71,” he replied.

Your heart weighed a little heavier. You knew it was impossible for any of them to still be alive. Hell, even Ben was technically supposed to be either dead or super old, breaking some world record.

You swallowed thickly. “And your mother?”

Ben was silent for a moment but didn’t break your gaze. He shrugged his shoulders then. “Don’t know.”

Your brow knitted. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean she left.”

You lifted your brows and blinked at him. “She left?”

“Yeah, in ‘46. Don’t know what happened to her after. I assume she’s probably dead now,” Ben replied with a casualness that felt cold. He rubbed his jaw. “My dad always said he knew where she went, but I don’t think he did. I always figured she took inspiration from you and just ditched him.”

That stung. And for the first time, it really sunk in how your leaving had affected him.

You were just gone. Here one minute and vanished into thin air in the next. He didn’t know what happened to you for decades. Always doubted himself and everything that was supposed to mean something, like it was carved in stone.

How would you have felt if he’d done that to you?

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, causing his brow to raise, but he didn’t offer anything else. “Wanna know what happened to her?”

Ben bit the insides of his cheeks. “Thought about it. Think it’s best not to. There isn’t an answer that’s gonna make it better.”

He was probably right. If she died happy without him, it’d break him just as much as finding out she died sad and alone. And truthfully, you didn’t want to know either, so you just nodded in understanding.

“What happened to you after?” you asked softly then.

“You already know what happened,” he replied simply.

You pressed your lips into a tight line. “Not really. I know what happened after the Compound V. Don’t know what happened before.”

“Is it important?”

“Kinda. I think so,” you responded.

Ben sighed and crossed his arms. “I came back. Not immediately, but eventually… when I ran outta money. Stayed gone the whole summer. Slept on Quentin’s couch in Philly,” he shared. “But I couldn’t find a job, so I came back with my tail tugged between my legs. Begged the old man for forgiveness and told him he was right. That I shoulda listened to him.”

“Ben–”

“Don’t,” he gritted warningly. You sucked in a breath. “Happened a long time ago. Doesn’t matter now.”

“Sure it does,” you insisted gently.

“He was a lot worse after. Didn’t really matter what I’d say or do. Didn’t matter if I was right or wrong,” he said with a humorless scoff. “My mother was worse, though. After I came back from the war – came back like this – she didn’t really look at me. Just said ‘You’re like him’ and walked away. My father told me not to come back, so I never saw her again after.”

“She was proud of you. You know that,” you tried to remind him, but he shook his head.

“No, she wasn’t. Not at the end,” he replied and sounded so sure of it that it broke your heart. “You done here?”

His words were final. Cold. Removed from anything that was supposed to tether him here.

You nodded silently and followed him back to the car.

“One more stop,” Ben said suddenly when you stopped at your first intersection. He hadn’t spoken since you left the estate in the rearview mirror. “Turn left.”

You switched the turn signal from right to left without question. You waited past a few more directional instructions before you finally dared to ask.

“Where are we going?”

“Somethin’ else I want you to see,” Ben said, and you couldn’t tell from his tone if it was a good or a bad thing. “Heads up, though – wasn’t exactly plannin’ on showing you this today. Figured by the rate it’s been goin’, it’d be at least another few months before I brought you here.”

“Then why are you now?”

He simply shrugged, fingers tapping on the plastic under the window. “We’re already here. Might as well.”

A few more minutes of silence passed before Ben told you to pull over in the middle of some suburban street. You couldn’t remember if you’d ever been here before. No memories sprang to mind as you looked around.

“Recognize it?” Ben knocked his knuckles against the window on his side, nodding toward a small blue house beyond it.

“Maybe… I think?” You narrowed your eyes at the home. The front door, the porch, the placement of the windows, and the smaller barn to the side – it all seemed eerily familiar. “Wait… Is that the house we were supposed to buy?”

“Yup,” Ben replied and popped the p. “And I did buy it.”

“What?!” Your head snapped toward him. “But you said–”

“Bought it a few months ago, not back then,” he clarified.

“It was still available?”

“No, a family lived there. They’re gone now,” he said.

Your brow raised. “Did you… kill them?”

“What?! No! Jesus fuck…” Ben looked downright offended, green eyes wide, brows drawing more together with every passing second. “I paid them a lotta money to get the fuck out.”

“Oh. Good.” You nodded quickly. “That’s… comforting.”

He bristled. “What, you really think I’d just waltz into some home and fuckin’ slaughter a whole family?”

“Happened before,” you muttered bitterly under your breath and averted your gaze to the floor. “You don’t have the best track record.”

His jaw locked, and as expected, he threw the car door open without another word, got out, and slammed it shut with a harsh thud.

You exhaled a deep breath before eventually following him up the porch steps and all the way into the foyer. With every footstep from the car to here, however, you had a gained a little more speed and a little more anger. By the time steam was coming out of your ears, you almost bumped straight into his solid back.

“You can’t be mad at me for saying the truth,” you fumed and watched him slowly spin around with a cocked brow. “You also can’t pretend it didn’t happen and that you aren’t that guy because you fucking were.”

Ben didn’t flinch. “You done?”

“No,” you said firmly. “Far from it, actually.”

“Alright,” he scoffed, rolled his eyes, turned, and walked.

Typical.

“If you walk away now, I’ll fucking leave,” you said. “It’s done.”

He stopped in the doorway. Didn’t turn, though. Not immediately. His hands balled into fists, one of which tapped against the wood next to his head before he glanced over his shoulder at you.

He clicked his tongue. “I’m not fucking pretending, alright?”

You stared at him. “That it? C’mon, you gotta do better than that.”

“Fuckin’ Christ, what the hell do you people fuckin’ want from me, huh?”

You sighed internally. Of course he’d get defensive.

“We people might want some goddamn accountability,” you argued. “I mean, do you even fucking care? Do you feel guilty?”

His jaw clenched, and his fists tightened so much his knuckles shone white.

“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he said after a beat. “Doesn’t matter how many times I apologize or to who. Doesn’t matter if I get punished or tortured or paid for my damn crimes ten times over. It’s never fuckin’ enough.”

“It does matter,” you countered. “Stop playing the victim.”

“You do know the fuckin’ government and Vought ordered most of that shit,” he argued.

“Please,” you scoffed. “You knew better. I know you did. You knew your father wasn’t right. You knew you shouldn’t have gone back there. You knew what Vought was doing – and the government. You knew you were hurting people. You just didn’t care. You never said no. You didn’t put up a fight. You didn’t resist a single fucking urge.”

Ben’s Adam’s apple bobbed once. “No, I didn’t,” he finally replied. The crinkles around his eyes were hard, though, the green almost poisonous. “Does that make it fuckin’ better now? That I knew and never did anything? That I didn’t give two shits about the world?”

Your throat closed, but you managed to shake your head and choke out a “no.”

Ben scoffed and crossed his arms. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

But something in his firm stance changed. Maybe it was his heart or just the fear of losing you when he noticed your feet shift and sway toward the door. Either way, the tension in his muscles subsided with his next breath out.

He carded a hand through his hair and rubbed it down his face. “It’s not gonna happen again, alright? None of that shit... All I can say. All I can do. If there’s more to it, tell me. I’ll add it to the fuckin’ list. Up to you if you wanna believe me or not.”

“I–…”

You stopped but didn’t close your mouth. You looked at him. You knew there wasn’t anything he could do. The damage was done. The only one who could change the past was ironically you.

And in a way, you’d caused it, too – not just him.

“I believe you,” you told him, and it felt like several bricks were falling off his shoulders at that moment.

“So… what now?” he asked after a minute had passed.

“Show me the house,” you said simply.

Ben’s brow quirked with the slightest remnants of confusion, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Been renovating it for the past few months,” Ben said as he led you into the living room, then the kitchen. “Added stuff I thought you’d like. You know… every time I was mean to you.”

You arched an eyebrow. “What, like penance?”

“Maybe,” he chuckled softly.

“Did you do it yourself?” You warily glanced around. As romantic as that would’ve been, you’d seen that man’s handiness in action.

“Nah.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Paid some people. Found a good contractor. Trust me. You don’t want me doin’ electrical work in here.”

You giggled. “Oh, I know. I really don’t.”

“Brought all the ideas, though,” he added, almost proud. “Actually thought hard about what you might like. Lemme tell you – you’re not easy to fuckin’ please.”

You furrowed your brow, bewildered. “I always told you I don’t need a lot.”

“Yeah, exactly,” he huffed. “You never fuckin’ want anything.”

“Well, anything I did want, you took away,” you muttered. “Unless you have a job at a university lined up for me in your back pocket.”

Ben pursed his lips, almost like he felt guilty. “Look, if that’s what you wanna do, I’m not gonna stand in your way again.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms. “You better not.”

He smiled in defeat, nodding. “Right.”

You sauntered a little closer to him, your fingers brushing the marble counter as you rounded the kitchen island. “So, what did you think I’d want? Bigger kitchen to cook you dinner?”

He chuckled in amusement, wagging a finger at you. “Not gonna fall for that one, sweetheart.” He grinned knowingly. “Most of your stuff is upstairs, actually.”

Ben then led the way through the house. The floors were all dark walnut, and the windows let in enough light for plants to flourish. It wasn’t too big, but it wasn’t too small, either.

It was perfect. You would’ve been happy here.

He’d tucked a small piano into a corner of the living room. It wasn’t grand like the one in the mansion, as if he somehow knew you’d prefer the middle ground. He’d also put up a telescope on the back porch and built a small garden behind the house. And the bookshelves even featured the odd physics textbook.

It seemed liked he’d truly thought of everything.

“Look up,” he said with a mischievous smile as you stepped into the master bedroom behind him.

You glanced at the ceiling and saw a skylight right above the bed. You could watch the stars till your eyes closed. You’d told him that once – that your dream was to fall asleep under the Milky Way every night. He never knew it was because you used to sleep outside when you were a child.

“You like it?”

You turned around and looked at him. You couldn’t help the smile as you nodded. “I do. It’s beautiful,” you replied. “The whole house is. Kinda the stuff that dreams are made of.”

Ben hummed and didn’t say anything more. Still unreadable. Still mildly closed off. Of course he was.

“Bathroom’s got a big tub, too,” he added with a clear of his throat. “Just like you wanted.”

“You remember that, huh?”

“I do.” He chuckled lightly. “Guess somethin’ about the image of you naked in a tub kinda stuck.”

You laughed, your cheeks radiating with heat. “Then it did what I wanted it to do,” you quipped, taking a step closer to him. “But, uhm… what does it mean? I mean, do you want me to live here with you or–”

“Look,” he cut in softly before you could spiral too far. “It’s yours. You can do what you want with it. Sell it, rent it out, live here – with or without me. All I’m sayin’ is, I’m not a condition you need to worry about. ‘M not part of the equation. Just wanted you to have it and keep a promise, alright?”

You took a deep breath in and out. That whole proposal was fucking insane, right? This whole day, this whole year, the last six months in an entirely different era – it was too much to digest for anyone.

“What if I want you to be in the equation?” you asked.

His brow shot up, eyes widening slightly. “Then I’ll be… a variable?”

“Alright, you’ll be a variable.” You gifted him a small smile and nodded. “Can I think about it, or is this a moving-in-tomorrow thing?”

“Take your time,” Ben said simply and then glanced out the window at the setting sun. “Gettin’ late. You wanna drive back now?”

You bit your lip, shuffling closer. A smirk drew the corners of your mouth slightly upward. Your hands slid slowly up his chest, green eyes following them as they draped around his neck before his gaze met yours. There was curiosity in his, soon overtaken by the same hunger you felt.

You wanted to be close to him again. You wanted things to go back to the way they were, almost forcing the broken shards back together without glue and with sheer willpower alone.

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice low, gentle, and yet a little mischievous. “That bed looks big enough. Room got a lot of space, too.”

Ben didn’t even bother replying. His eyes turned dark. He took his opening and just kissed you.

His mouth crashed into yours like something long overdue – no preamble, no hesitation, no carefulness this time. Just heat and teeth and years of wanting shoved into a single kiss.

You could barely take a breath before your back hit the dresser with a thunk that rattled the frame, but you didn’t care. Not when his hands were on your waist, gripping like he couldn’t get you close enough. Not when his mouth was trailing fire down your jaw, your neck, your chest, dragging a moan out of you that sounded more like surrender than anything else.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t sweet.

It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. No, it remembered it had it once and fucking reclaimed it.

His hands on your hips pulled you in like he was trying to fuse bone to bone, memory to muscle. He kissed you like it hurt – like it cost him everything not to lose control entirely.

And maybe it did.

Because the second your lips parted for him, the second your tongue tangled with his and your hands found the rough line of his jaw, something broke open in your heart, too.

He wasn’t the same guy you’d kissed yesterday, but somehow he still was.

Time meant nothing anymore. Not when your mouth already knew the shape of him. Not when your hands moved instinctively to the buttons of his shirt without a tremble like you’d done it before.

It still wasn’t the same.

This version of Ben was heavier. Broader. His body more solid. His soul more scarred. His kiss was rougher and his touch more desperate.

Everything was heat and hands and that low sound in his throat you had already missed after a single day.

Your hands ran down his chest as the last button gave way. He was so warm under your palms. Solid. Familiar. Still somehow yours, even when your fingers dove under his shirt, dragging across scorching hot skin and the new ridges of muscle you didn’t remember.

You barely registered him gripping your thighs until he lifted you, effortlessly setting you on the edge of the dresser. His massive hands were on your knees now and spanned across your thighs, pushing them apart. Your breath hitched. His lips claimed yours like he was drowning in you.

And maybe you were drowning, too.

Maybe this was the only way to stop thinking. Stop doubting. Stop spinning in a world that kept rewriting itself every time you tried to find your footing.

So, you wrapped your legs around him without thinking, and he groaned into your mouth, hips grinding with the kind of pressure that only came from too much lost time.

You kissed him like it could rewind something.

He kissed you like it could fucking save him.

You gasped against his lips as his beard scraped your jaw in a way that made your spine arch and your thoughts scatter. And just as your hands found his skin again, just as you tilted your hips against him and felt him press back with equal force–

“Dammit,” he cursed and broke away.

The word vibrated deep in your chest before you froze entirely. You didn’t even dare to take a breath.

Ben pulled back just slightly, his breath ragged, arms braced on either side of you like he needed the furniture to keep him upright. But his forehead still pressed against yours, only confusing you more.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, volume barely above a whisper, voice still raspy and laced with the last hints of heat stuck in your throat.

Ben swallowed thickly before meeting your eyes. “I have to tell you somethin’.”

You laughed a little, lifting a brow. “Can’t it wait?”

Ben sighed, half in frustration. “Wish it could. But–...”

He didn’t finish. Just turned and walked to the bed, slumping down on the edge of the mattress with a bone-deep groan.

“But?” you pressed.

“But you ain’t gonna like it. Might even make you hate me again,” he said and ran a hand through his hair. “I fucked up.”

Could you still call it growth when he told you a second before sleeping with you?

“Okay…” You nodded slowly and pursed your lips. “Gonna have to elaborate a little more on that one.”

Ben clicked his tongue, head bobbing. Then he met your eyes. “It’s about Edgar… and Vought. There's somethin' you should know.”

▶️ Chapter 18: Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry – JULY 27

Seriously, can we call this growth? lol What did you think of reader settling the score? Ben's still clearly navigating everything around him 😂

Coming Up:

The silence that followed sucked the air right out of his lungs.

“It’s not your fault,” you said with that same fucking softness in your eyes he knew so well.

He scoffed in disbelief. “Sure it is.”

You sat down on the bed next to him, knee brushing his. “You didn’t know what effect it would have. You couldn’t have. I mean, sure, maybe it was a little… stupid and… reckless, but it’s not on you.”

Ben huffed a dark laugh. “You say that now, but you haven’t even heard the full story yet.”

Your brow arched.

He cleared the thick lump in his throat. “After the Homelander thing, when you were in a coma… Edgar came to me. Visited me outside of your hospital room.”

Your head slowly turned to him, brows drawing tightly together.

Ben swallowed heavily. “Wanted to kill him right there,” he muttered bitterly. “But he said he knew how important you were to me. That I needed you close. Said he could make that happen. Offered me a deal.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, averting your eyes to the ceiling before they closed. “Please don’t tell me you took it.”

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

[waynes-multiverse]

Memory lane is not over, but I can’t promise you’ll like where the road ends 😅🙈

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 2

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, tiny bit of angst, fluff, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜), drinking & everything that comes with a crazy night out

Word Count: 5.3k

Posted on Patreon April 9, 2025

A/N: Welcome back! June did us dirty, and I'm still catching up on everything, so expect a post dump with all your sweet comments coming in soon. But without further ado, here's some fluffy, drunk-in-love reunion and glimpses into their past 😉

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 2: Old Haunts

“Wow, I haven’t been in here forever,” you say as Dean leads you into Bobby’s Junkyard – Lawrence’s go-to diner for young and old alike.

Dean and you used to come here almost every day for burgers and milkshakes during your youth. The warm, nostalgic hum of the place instantly wraps around you like an old, favorite sweater you’d found under your twin bed.

But it’s also where you told Dean you were going to New York – whether he liked it or not. Considering this, you find it quite odd he’d bring you here first.

It surely isn’t the best memory for you, but judging by his happy grin, you know he clearly isn’t thinking about that night. He’s remembering all the good times you’ve had here, all the laughs and conversations, and you can’t help but recall them, too.

“Figured,” Dean says and casually rests a palm on the small of your back, guiding you to your old booth.

The red vinyl seats creak with familiarity as you settle in across from him, painfully aware how much time has passed since you last sat in that same spot. His green eyes even still hold the same warmth that always made you feel like home.

You honestly can’t quite believe he remembers all of this. After everything that happened between you two, you’d been dead sure he’d incinerated every memory he ever had of you. You wouldn’t even have blamed him if that had been the case.

“What are you doing?” Dean tuts and quirks a brow at the laminated menu in your hands.

“Seeing what I can order. I have a friend from Barre class who got me onto this whole Paleo diet thing,” you say mindlessly as your eyes skim the options before the menu is snatched from your grasp. “Hey!”

“None of that fancy New York shit here,” Dean says and tosses the menu on the unoccupied table behind him. He eyes you with a scrutinizing look. “Don’t insult our tradition.”

“Dean…” You sigh and roll your eyes, hearing his amused chuckle at your protest. “Do you know how long it’s been since I ate that much fat and sugar?”

Dean grins lazily. “I’m guessin’ too fucking long, sweetheart. You’re gonna commit to memory lane or not? Sin a little with me, huh?”

“Fine,” you relent, smiling. Who could say no to that? Your gaze then wanders up when your waiter comes to your table, your smile and eyes widening with both surprise and delight. “Oh my God, Benny?!”

“Well, if it isn’t Lawrence’s lost daughter,” Benny greets you with a broad grin. “Look at you, chère! Only gotten prettier in the last ten years.”

“Oh, stop!” Giggling, you shake your head and get up to hug him before settling back into your seat. “How have you been? I can’t believe you still work here,” you say before realizing how incredibly condescending that sounds, quickly correcting course. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. No offense.”

Amused, Dean snorts at your blunder. “Smooth.”

Luckily, Benny only barks a loud laugh and doesn’t take your comment to heart. “Still the same spitfire, I see.”

“You know, Benny actually bought this place from Bobby three years ago,” Dean tells you, sending his friend a smile full of pride.

Your heart stings a little again, as if someone was rubbing salt into an old wound. Dean, Benny and Cas had all been best friends, and for as long as you’d dated Dean, you’d always been hanging out with them and the girls, too. You’d all been friends once, but after the break-up, you felt booted out of the group – not that they’d ever officially declared a ban, but you knew where their alliances lay.

Moreover, you didn’t think you deserved them after leaving like you did.

When your first book was published, you didn’t even invite them to the launch party, fearing they wouldn’t show up anyway. Truthfully, you’d cried all night because you would’ve wanted no one rather there than your friends – and Dean. It’s the night you realized you’d be on your own from then on out.

“Wow! That’s awesome! Congrats, Benny,” you say with a genuine smile. It seems like everyone in your hometown is doing well and has found their place. But what about you? You can’t help but feel more lost than ever before.

What do you have to show for yourself? Three bestsellers? Great! What else? An empty apartment? Expensive wine? Do you even have friends you actually like? And Hemingway doesn’t count. Most days, you’re not even sure he likes you all that much, either. And what about dating? Your last long-term relationship ended four years ago. Your dating prospects have been more than lousy since.

“My, thank you. Old man didn’t have any kids, you know? And like you gracefully pointed out, chère, I have been working here for a long ass time,” Benny says with a teasing grin.

“Alright, I’m sorry, okay?” You laugh bashfully, your cheeks rosier than the glow of a ripe peach. “But hey, I’ve heard you’re doing well in the dating department, too. You and Donna? I’m so happy for you guys! Great choice, man. I always thought Andrea was a bitch.”

Dean and Benny both burst into laughter at your blunt honesty. You’ve always been a bit of a shit-starter in the group. A lot of bar fights at Rocky’s began with your words: “Oh, yeah? Wanna say that again to my friends over there? They’re gonna beat you the fuck up, buddy!”

“Now, where did you hear that, chère?” Benny asks puckishly, his eyes drifting to Dean opposite you.

“Oh, uh, actually Charlie told me. You know word travels fast in a small town. She’s been keeping me in the loop over the years,” you tell him and notice Dean straighten at that information in the corner of your eye.

“Shoulda known. That girl can’t keep anything to herself.” Benny chuckles, shaking his head. “What about you, huh? Still seeing that NHL player?”

“Oh God, no!” You snort at the reminder, vividly shaking your head. “No, we broke up a long time ago. Thankfully.”

“Well, good. His team sucked,” Benny quips. “So, what can I get you guys? The usual?”

“Yup.” Dean nods and snips a finger at you with a click of his tongue. “With extra bacon, cheese, and fries for her. Oh, and, uh, add another slice of pie as well.”

“I hate you,” you reply with a playful glare at Dean, but your cheeks are hurting from smiling too goddamn much. For the first time in a decade, you start to feel like you again. It feels like home – in the best possible way.

“Do you really?” Dean returns with an awfully flirtatious and bold smirk.

“Alright, usual with extra junk coming right up,” Benny cuts into the heated moment and clears his throat. “Hey, uh, Dean? You have a minute to look at my truck out back again? For some reason, the damn thing wouldn’t properly start this morning. Givin’ me a lotta trouble…”

Dean purses his lips and folds his hands on the table, and you can tell by the look the two men share, their silent conversation surely isn’t about the car. It’s about you, Benny probably wanting to warn his friend about the dangers of hanging out with an ex. And a small part of you wholeheartedly agrees with him.

It’s only been two hours since you’ve entered Dean’s orbit, but all those feelings you’ve kept buried underneath the surface begin to dig themselves out of their grave. You can’t help but wonder if Dean feels them coming alive, too.

Maybe there’s still something there, an old spark that could grow into a flame – or a wildfire that burns everything down.

You won’t know until you dare to find out.

“Uh, kinda have taken the day off and catching up here. Just call Garth at the shop to check it out,” Dean tells him with a polite ‘fuck off’ smile.

Benny gives a reluctant nod and forms the same defiant expression on his face. “Alright, brother. Your choice.” With a defeated sigh, he then beelines for the kitchen.

“So, Charlie’s been giving you updates, huh?” is the first thing Dean asks when Benny’s out of earshot, causing you to wonder what his curiosity is truly about. Why does he care? After your harsh goodbyes, you didn’t think he ever wanted to hear from you again.

“Yeah, she’s been sending me very detailed newsletters over the years.” You chuckle lightly and try to deflect. “I honestly think she could be a writer by the colorful language she uses.”

“Huh, yeah, she’s-, uh, she’s hoot,” Dean says with a tight smile, scratching the back of his neck. “So, uh, what d’she say about me?”

“Oh, uh…” You stump a little at his direct approach but decide to go with honesty. “She-, uh, she actually never mentions you. And I don’t really… ask, you know?”

“Right, yeah, no… That makes sense,” Dean replies and awkwardly clears his throat. Is he actually hurt by that or relieved? You can’t really tell but find his reaction odd, nonetheless.

And then, until your food arrives, the two of you stick to small talk about Benny and his plans for the diner, catch up about Bobby, and talk a little more about the Winchester clan – John’s health issues and Sam’s blooming law practice in Palo Alto.

“Fuck me,” you moan with a mouthful once you’ve taken the first bite of your burger and instantly wash it down with a big gulp of strawberry milkshake. “God, this is so good! I honestly forgot how fucking awesome this tastes.” You then notice Dean’s enchanted stare and arch a brow, giggling. “What?”

Dean shakes his head out of his stupor, swallowing. “Uh, nothing. Just happy you’re finally enjoying food again and eating a real meal instead of all that big city crap, sweetheart. What the fuck is a Paleo anyway?”

You snort a laugh. “Bunch of big city bullshit, I guess.”

“Hm. Exactly what I thought.” Dean’s lips rise to a pleased grin at your response. “And what about that bar thingy, huh? You becoming a lawyer like Sammy now, too?”

“No.” You laugh again. “It’s this new workout trend. Kinda a mix of yoga, Pilates, and ballet.”

“Fancy,” Dean teases with a mock posh expression. “You wearing a tutu for this?”

You lean forward with a bit of a daring look in your eyes. “No, actually, it’s more like a black, skin-tight bodysuit kind of thing,” you explain casually and watch his Adam’s apple bob in triumph.

“Uh-huh, think I get the picture…” Dean mutters and stuffs his dry mouth with a bite of burger, but you notice how his eyes escape down your frame.

“So, did you ever read any of my books?” you ask after a small pause but hide your genuine curiosity behind casualness.

For years, you’ve wondered if he ever had and recognized himself in your words. The stories in your books are echoes of your shared past, and while it isn’t exactly obvious to a stranger, Dean would probably recognize himself on every page.

Dean, on the other hand, seems a bit taken aback, suddenly squirming in his seat, his green eyes looking everywhere near you but never directly at you. “Uh, no, actually. Sorry,” he replies and occupies his lips briefly with a sip of milkshake. “Always wanted to, you know? Just never got around to it. Life kinda got busy after you left. You know, with the business and my dad…”

A part of you feels relieved. How embarrassing would this reunion between you two have been, otherwise? But another, bigger part of you is mad he never bothered. For the first few months after your move to the city, you’d always hoped he’d come for you, fight for you, but he never did. Maybe if he’d read what you had to say, he would’ve.

“Dean, it’s fine. You don’t have to give me an excuse. I don’t care either way. Was just curious, you know?” You shrug your disappointment off with nonchalance and hope he doesn’t see right through it. “They’re just a bunch of fictional crap, anyways. Still surprised they even became bestsellers in the first place.”

Dean’s brow furrows, and you know by the quirk of his lips that he’s seconds away from trying to cheer you up and convince you of the opposite. You know because he’s always done that whenever you’ve put yourself down in the past, only now you don’t feel he has any right to, his sheer attempt even angering you more.

“What, no, c’mon! Your writing has always been amazing! I’m not surprised someone else saw that you’re phenomenal, too. I always told you you’d make it,” Dean showers you with flattery, but it’s hard to believe at this moment. “I’m sure your next book will be a bestseller, too. You’re unstoppable, sweetheart.”

You purse your lips, your gaze musingly fixed on the two leftover fries on your plate before you meet his eyes. “How would you know, huh? You didn’t even read the first three,” you snip and watch his tongue poke the inside of his cheeks as he takes in your comment.

But there’s really no reason for animosity after ten years. Does it really matter what your ex from high school thinks?

“Look, uhm, I’m sorry. Maybe this was a bad idea. I should probably go now, spend some time with my mom…” you say and rise from your seat, opting to take the high road. You put down enough money to cover both your orders and include a generous tip for Benny. “Thanks for indulging me, though. It was nice catching up with you again, Dean. Take care, alright?”

Sure, you could have said lot of things. The two of could’ve even screamed your lungs out at each other. You never felt like you’d gotten the infamous closure. You’re not even sure you understand fully why you broke up in the first place. It all imploded so quickly back then. But why would you want to know now? What good could it do? The past remains the past. Opening old wounds and fighting ancient battles seems like a useless waste of time.

“Y/N, wait! Don’t go!” Dean’s hand grasps your wrist and pulls you back before your feet reach the exit. You meet his gaze, his hand loosening its grip and drifting to your palm, your fingers brushing before he lets go entirely. “Look, uh, I’m sorry.”

You smile a little, your features softening. “What exactly are you sorry for?”

“Well, uhm…” Dean scratches the back of his head. “Not exactly sure, quite frankly, but I know something I said upset you. Guess that hasn’t changed either.” He chuckles self-consciously.

“No, uh, you didn’t upset me, Dean,” you lie and offer him a soft smile that’s supposed to hide your true feelings. “Just remembered why this isn’t a good idea, you know?”

“Alright, hold on, okay? Maybe you’re right, but at least gimme one last shot to prove you wrong, sweetheart. What d’you say?” Dean’s smile is so charming and inviting it seems like an impossibility to deny him anything.

Matching his smile, you cave with a little sigh. “Go ahead. Shoot your shot, Winchester.”

“Okay, stay here. Don’t you dare move.” Dean grins victoriously and rushes past you to the far end of the diner, and it suddenly dawns on you what his plan is.

On cue, the diner fills with music from Bobby’s old jukebox, playing a song Dean just picked. You recognize it immediately and send him a raised look, partially amused by his choice as Can’t Fight this Feeling starts.

“Really? REO?”

“C’mon, it’s our song,” Dean argues goofily and joins you again in a few strides.

“Yeah, and like I told you back then a million times, I refuse to accept that,” you retort, laughing.

“Welp, don’t care,” Dean quips. He then holds out his palm, smirking. “Will you do me the honor and accept this dance, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You chortle but hesitantly agree to his offer, placing your hand in his before he pulls you flush against his body in one suave motion. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back while yours lands on his shoulder, feeling the dips of his muscles under your pads.

“It’s the song that played the first time I asked you to dance during our junior prom. Remember that?” Dean’s eyes find yours as you get lost in his embrace.

Goddammit, you’ve missed those arms around you. They make you feel safe and loved. They always have, and now you’re sure they always will.

“‘Course I do. My mom forced me to go to get outta the house. I so didn’t wanna be there. Not even Charlie and Meg got me out of my mood,” you recall.

“Yup, and then came me.” Dean chuckles warmly, feeling the vibrations against his chest. “I’d had my eye on you the second Cas brought Meg and her friends around, including her hot and smart friend. But you were pretty damn unapproachable, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say your reputation as a heartbreaker preceded you, Winchester,” you sass.

“You were definitely a hard one to win over.” Dean laughs a little at the memory. “But when I saw you sitting there on the bleachers of the gym, reading goddamn Kafka of all things, I thought I try again, even when Benny and Cas told me to give up because you clearly ain’t interested.”

“And you did come over and surprised me by quoting a line from the book I was reading. Still remember which book it was?” you challenge him.

“Yeah, The Trial,” Dean shoots like a pistol. “Kinda made me like you more. Still remember the quote, too. ‘I like to make use of what I know.’”

You laugh, your cheeks warming. “Yes, exactly! And then you proceeded to tell me you were a great dancer and had to make use of it.”

“Worked like a charm, didn’t it?” Dean grins down at you.

“It did.” Your eyes stay connected as you sway to the music and follow Dean’s lead, aware you’re being watched by a few diner customers now. But Dean doesn’t seem to care, so neither do you and just enjoy the moment. “Still remember what happened by the end of the song?”

You kissed him, and he grinned right through it.

“Yeah,” Dean smiles softly, “Changed my whole life, sweetheart.”

You mirror his expression as your heart swells. “Yeah, mine too.”

And you can feel it then, in the air around you two – you’re catapulted right back to the moment where you fell in love. Your heart is beating exceptionally fast, and you know his is, too.

“So, uh, you’re curious what’s next on the list?” Dean interrupts the electric silence, clearing his throat before twirling you around and catching you again with a playful smile.

“Uh, I didn’t know there’d be more,” you reply and can’t help breathing in his scent as he holds you close. That one hasn’t changed either. It’s still full of pine, leather, and motor oil, but it’s even more unique and indescribable than that.

“Of course there’s more,” Dean states as if it were obvious he’d want to spend more time with you. Where will it lead, though? What’s his agenda here? He can’t possibly think this is a normal thing to do with an ex-girlfriend, who someone hasn’t seen in over a decade. “C’mon, you didn’t really think memory lane ends here, right? This is just us fueling up before the trip even starts. Didn’t want to get you drunk without ensuring you had some nice, greasy padding in your stomach.”

“You wanna get me drunk, huh?” Laughingly, you lift a brow. “So, what’s the next stop on memory lane? You takin’ me back to Rocky’s?”

Dean grins broadly. “Oh no, way better, sweetheart.”

“Fine,” you agree once more, unable to cut the invisible string that ties you to him. “But if we’re gonna do this, I have to change outta those clothes first.”

“Now, we’re talking. Can’t wait to see you outta that pantsuit,” Dean teases, smirking.

You scoff in amusement. “It’s just slacks and a blouse. This hardly passes as a suit.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Dean retorts playfully and holds open the diner door for you like a gentleman.

Dean leans against his car with crossed arms as you walk – or run – out of your mom’s house again, meeting him on the small cobblestone path that leads up to the porch.

“That was quick,” Dean notes. “Didn’t even think you could change that fast. Surely never were ready this quick when we were still dating.”

“Yeah, well, trust me, wasn’t quick enough,” you huff. No kid should hear those sounds coming out of their mother’s bedroom.

Dean’s lips rise to a grin at the realization. “Ah. And how is Connie these days?”

“Busy,” you reply and add bitterly, “With Mr. Edlund.”

Dean’s brow knits, the smirk turning to a frown of disgust. “Our high school English teacher?”

“That’s the one,” you reply in sing-song.

Dean snorts a laugh. “Guess Connie hasn’t changed a bit, huh?”

“Nope, she hasn’t,” you murmur, smacking your lips. “Probably the only person I’ve always wanted to change. Funny how that works.”

“C’mon, she ain’t so bad. I know you love her,” Dean says, gently nudging your shoulder.

“No, I do,” you admit and look at him. “I’m here, right?”

“Yeah, you are,” Dean says softly before the boyish smile reappears on his freckle-dusted face, eyeing your choice of outfit – your old jeans overalls. “Can’t believe you put on the fucking overalls.”

“Hey! I loved them, okay? ‘Sides, you said I had to commit to memory lane, so consider me committing to denim. Even wearing my old flannel, so I match with you,” you reply slyly, pinching a bit of fabric on your arm between your fingers.

“Oh, you mean my old flannel?” Dean cocks a brow, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Huh, I guess. Forgot about that...”

You feign innocence as you steal a glimpse at it. Of course you’ve known it used to be his. You certainly haven’t picked it out by accident. Going through your old closet in your childhood bedroom, you’d come to the conclusion you wanted to see where this little adventure with the former love of your life would lead.

“Also not wearing a bra, by the way. You know, for old time sake,” you add with a cheeky wink and slide into the passenger seat, reminding Dean of your past aversion of unnecessary clothing items.

You figure it can’t hurt, and by the amount of time it takes him to climb into Baby after you, it certainly hasn’t.

“Mini golf?” You lift an eyebrow as you step out of the Impala and onto the familiar pavement of the parking lot.

The course sits right next to the arcade and the bowling alley. You’ve spent countless hours here with your friends, including a few heated make-out sessions with your green-eyed companion on that very parking lot.

“Hell yeah! We haven’t played in forever. We used to come here all the time,” Dean says, chuckling, and rounds his way to the trunk, pulling out three six-packs of beer cans.

“Oh no, Dean… We’re not doing Shotgun Mini Golf,” you warn playfully once you realize his plans. “We’re way too old for this!”

“Nonsense,” Dean says and grins at you, leading you toward the entrance.

The sun hangs low in the sky, its golden rays spilling over the miniature course. The humid Kansas air clings to your skin, thick with the chirps of cicadas and the occasional clink of a ball against plastic as you position yourself in front of the first hole with your neon pink putter.

“You think you’ve still got it, sweetheart?” Dean teases with a big grin, performing his usual trash talk. “I think you’re gonna be very wasted by the time we reach the last hole.”

“Oh, you’re on, Winchester.” You grin back slyly and swing your putter with practiced ease, the ball rolling steadily across the green and sinking into the hole with a soft plunk.

“Well, shit…” Dean whistles lowly and seems to realize his chances aren’t as great as he initially surmised.

“Your turn,” you sing triumphantly as you shoulder past him and watch his next move with interest.

Dean, undeterred, steps up to his shot. He lines up the ball, takes a deep breath, and swings – but the ball veers off course, clanging against the edge of a ramp and skidding toward the side. After three strokes total, he finally gets the ball into the hole. He exhales a defeated sigh, scratching the nape of his neck.

You let out a soft laugh, loving the sight of your ex already off his game. “Enjoy!” With a wide smirk, you hold out a can of beer for him at eye level.

Dean grabs it and digs out an Army knife from his pocket, puncturing a small hole near the bottom of the can. A hiss escapes before he covers the hole with his thumb and pops open the top. And then, you watch him in amusement as he tries to keep up with the rushing stream of golden liquid, chugging the whole can as beer trickles down his chin and arms, thoroughly soiling his flannel and jeans.

“Shit!” Dean coughs as he gulps down the last drops of beer, shaking his wet and sticky hands after discarding the empty can in the nearest trash bin. “Alright, maybe this was a bad idea. Been a while since I’ve done this.”

You laugh wholeheartedly. “Uh-uh, no backsies, Losechester.”

Dean snorts at the old nickname. “Alright, sweetheart, your funeral.”

But for the next three holes, it surely was Dean’s own eulogy before your luck seemed to turn, and you lost the following four rounds. By hole twelve, both of you were toe to toe and notably drunk, tumbling over obstacles and double-visioning holes and balls.

“Call it even?” Dean asks breathlessly, resting palms on his thighs after shotgunning the last beer.

The nausea bubbling in your stomach agrees with him, and you give him a tight-lipped nod, taking his steadying hand when he supportively offers it to you. How have the two of you ever managed to finish the whole course when you were younger? It seems like an impossibility now, and maybe the thought even extends to your relationship.

You can’t just get an old thing back, can you? It’ll never be the same.

The last traces of daylight are swallowed by the dark Kansas sky, dotted with a thousand twinkling stars above as the two of you stumble out onto the parking lot, your laughter ringing out into the quiet summer night.

“I can’t believe we did this again,” you say between bursts of giggles, one hand clutching his arm as if you might collapse into him at any second.

Dean’s arm slings around your waist when you almost fall, steadying you a little more, his hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear. You laugh even harder, pressing your palm on his solid chest for balance. He feels warm against you, and although everything feels fuzzy, the old magnetic pull is undeniable.

Your glassy gazes lock, and he softly tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek a little too long. His touch and closeness send shivers up and down your spine, soon reaching that sweet spot between your thighs.

“So, what now? Is this where we call it a night?” you ask innocently, your eyes drifting down to the plump, pink flesh of his lips that cause an urge within you to sink your teeth into them. Is he still a great kisser?

You’ve surely never encountered the same magic with anyone else after him.

Dean does what you can’t and bites down on his bottom lip, his eyes musingly swerving around. “No, c’mon! It’s barely after nine! I’ve got more stops on my list.”

Your lips rise to a smirk, your heart expanding in your ribcage and almost squeezing through. “Do you now?”

“Hell, yeah! I haven’t seen you in ten years. I’m not letting you go that easy again, sweetheart,” Dean replies, not noticing the drunken honesty in his words at first, but once he does, he subtly clears his throat and takes a step back from you. “How about some fuel, huh?” He gestures to a food truck across the parking lot.

“I could eat again,” you agree but wonder what his hesitancy is about. The old him would’ve already taken his shot and kissed you. He surely had plenty of opportunities tonight, always backing out at the last second.

Does he not want this, too? And if not, why is he doing all of this and dragging you down memory lane in the first place? He certainly doesn’t seem to want the night to end, either.

With your plastered mind racing, you and Dean then settle down at the picnic table on the lot with some tacos and two pops. The night feels expansive, the parking lot stretching out into nothingness, a sea of concrete and empty space under the lights of buzzing streetlamps.

“So, how are things with your mom, really? And don’t serve me the bullshit version you give strangers,” Dean says, breaking the silence after the first few bites.

“Uh, you know, same, honestly. Like I said, Connie hasn’t changed much,” you reply, offering him a smile. Whenever you’d grown frustrated with your mother back then, you’d always confided in Dean, but he hasn’t been around for a while now.

“She ever finally tell you who your dad is?”

You laugh a little, shaking your head. “Uh, no, I guess not. A few months ago, she said she thinks he’s either from Puerto Rico or Guatemala. She’s not sure, but she remembers my father speaking Spanish.”

“Huh.” Dean’s brows raise slightly. “What happened to you being 13% Cherokee?”

“Yeah, more like a 100% lie,” you retort, chuckling. “Remember when she told me she thinks I’m half-Asian but couldn’t remember which part of Asia exactly?”

“Yeah.” Dean laughs softly, nodding. “You could do one of those DNA tests, though, right? I heard they’re a thing now.”

“I guess, but I don’t really care enough to do that, you know? I mean, I’ve lived thirty years without a father. Don’t see why I’d need one now,” you say, fingers playing with your taco shell. “Besides, judging by Connie’s type, I’m not sure I wanna know. What if he’s nuts like her, and I end up taking care of two crazy parents?”

“Guess that’s a possibility,” Dean replies, chuckling.

“And the rest is, you know, typical Connie shit,” you explain with a half-hearted shrug. “Remember when she told me to give you more blowjobs to avoid getting pregnant?”

Dean laughs loudly at the memory, wiping the tears brimming in his green eyes with his fingers. “Classic Connie... She also gave me a pack of condoms the first night I was staying over. We even got breakfast in bed in the morning.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say. Your childhood home doesn’t resemble Casa Erotica,” you remark wryly. “She keeps sending me these really weird articles about sexual liberation, too. Even got a book about Kama Sutra for Christmas.”

“Well, I don’t remember you needing help in that department,” Dean accidentally comments and instantly bites his tongue, his wide eyes finding yours.

You laugh lightly, your cheeks blushing. “Well, uh, thank you. Neither did I. And you don’t even know what new tricks I’ve learned over the last decade,” you quip flirtatiously, watching his jaw grind at your suggestion. You casually crumple your empty wrapping paper into a ball and look at him expectantly. “So, what’s next on our list?”

“Right, uhm…” Dean breaks from his stupor, clearing his throat. He wipes his hands with a napkin before rubbing them on his jeans. “Well, there’s really only one more spot I wanna take you to.”

“Alright, lead the way.” You smile, feeling the butterflies in your belly soaring high to the stars above.

▶️ Chapter 3: Old Sparks – JULY 16

The heat is turning up as the night progresses, and if you're thinking, "Hmm, Dean seems a little sus," you're probably right 😜

Get ready for more heat & angst next week!  

Coming Up:

The nightly summer air is cool and crisp as the two of you settle into a comfortable and easy silence on the hood of the car, facing the horizon. For a heartbeat, you just breathe and enjoy the view, side by side. When you steal a glance at the backseat, Dean catches you and chuckles softly.

“What?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “I guess I just know where your mind went now. We’ve had some good times here, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you agree quietly, but it’s not the reaction he’s hoped for.

“You guess so?” Dean cocks his brow at you and playfully nudges you with his shoulder, seeing the faint hints of tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. “Alright, what’s going on with you?”

“I told you. ‘M just tired,” you lie once more.

“Hmm,” Dean hums, not believing you even for a second. Ten years might have passed and both of you changed slightly, but he still knows you too well – better than anyone on this planet. What a fucking heartbreaking thing to realize. “C’mon, talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Not in the mood to talk, Dean. Just leave it be,” you reply and keep your focus on the twinkling town lights, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Have you ruined your life by leaving ten years ago?

“Alright, how about I start, huh?” You only offer him a careless shrug as a response, and Dean exhales a small sigh. He swallows thickly, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. “I lied to you earlier… in the diner,” he starts, and you meet his eyes with a tilt of your head then.

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

Probably because I read this instantly after Kiss the Sky, but it took me a while to clock that this is a different reader, but I love how the storylines about his tumor being fake connected in a way!! 😁

“You done being depressed over the fact you’re not dying?”

Strong start 🤣 Probably why I thought it was still our rookie!reader till I got here:

“Why are you even here? I dumped you, remember?”

Pretty much where my head exploded lmao. And speaking of Rookie – Captain Anderson wouldn’t happen to be a little Easter egg, would it? 😉

Do You No Good

Summary: Mark is still reeling from some life changing news when you find him in the shower one morning...

A/N: Written for @zepskies 5K follower challenge where this gif was the prompt for this drabble!

You poked your head into the bathroom, Mark still standing under the shower nearly forty minutes after it’d been turned on. Enough was enough. You stormed inside and ripped open the curtain, water dripping down Mark’s lowered head.

“You done being depressed over the fact you’re not dying?” He sighed, eyes closed. “Mark, you put away the guy's brother for murder. The doctor fucking with you was not your fault.”

“Why are you even here? I dumped you, remember?”

“I recall. Funny how you did that the same day you found out about your since debunked tumor.” You turned off the ice cold water, Mark shivering. You grabbed the towel from the bar, wrapping it over his shoulders. He stepped out, standing there while you put another towel around his waist. “I’m sure those two events had nothing to do with each other, right? Takes a real genius to fit those two puzzle pieces together.”

“I’m no good for-“

“I understand why you did it. Don’t get me wrong, you'll have to grovel for the next decade but we’ll get through it.”

“How did you even find out anyway?” he asked quietly.

“Captain Anderson called me. So,” you said, drying him off, Mark allowing you to do so. You grabbed some sweats and a hoodie from the chair, handing them to him. “Are you going to stand there in silence or say something like, sorry for dumping you two weeks before the wedding and making you think I slept with your sister?”

“Thank you for being here,” he said quietly, pulling you into a hug. “And I’m sorry.”

“You can make it up to me for the next fifty years,” you mumbled into him, Mark bringing you in closer. “I’ll forgive you someday but for now, I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Me too, sweetie.”

[waynes-multiverse]

Save your gasps for the big one, love 😂🩵

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 2

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, tiny bit of angst, fluff, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜), drinking & everything that comes with a crazy night out

Word Count: 5.3k

Posted on Patreon April 9, 2025

A/N: Welcome back! June did us dirty, and I'm still catching up on everything, so expect a post dump with all your sweet comments coming in soon. But without further ado, here's some fluffy, drunk-in-love reunion and glimpses into their past 😉

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 2: Old Haunts

“Wow, I haven’t been in here forever,” you say as Dean leads you into Bobby’s Junkyard – Lawrence’s go-to diner for young and old alike.

Dean and you used to come here almost every day for burgers and milkshakes during your youth. The warm, nostalgic hum of the place instantly wraps around you like an old, favorite sweater you’d found under your twin bed.

But it’s also where you told Dean you were going to New York – whether he liked it or not. Considering this, you find it quite odd he’d bring you here first.

It surely isn’t the best memory for you, but judging by his happy grin, you know he clearly isn’t thinking about that night. He’s remembering all the good times you’ve had here, all the laughs and conversations, and you can’t help but recall them, too.

“Figured,” Dean says and casually rests a palm on the small of your back, guiding you to your old booth.

The red vinyl seats creak with familiarity as you settle in across from him, painfully aware how much time has passed since you last sat in that same spot. His green eyes even still hold the same warmth that always made you feel like home.

You honestly can’t quite believe he remembers all of this. After everything that happened between you two, you’d been dead sure he’d incinerated every memory he ever had of you. You wouldn’t even have blamed him if that had been the case.

“What are you doing?” Dean tuts and quirks a brow at the laminated menu in your hands.

“Seeing what I can order. I have a friend from Barre class who got me onto this whole Paleo diet thing,” you say mindlessly as your eyes skim the options before the menu is snatched from your grasp. “Hey!”

“None of that fancy New York shit here,” Dean says and tosses the menu on the unoccupied table behind him. He eyes you with a scrutinizing look. “Don’t insult our tradition.”

“Dean…” You sigh and roll your eyes, hearing his amused chuckle at your protest. “Do you know how long it’s been since I ate that much fat and sugar?”

Dean grins lazily. “I’m guessin’ too fucking long, sweetheart. You’re gonna commit to memory lane or not? Sin a little with me, huh?”

“Fine,” you relent, smiling. Who could say no to that? Your gaze then wanders up when your waiter comes to your table, your smile and eyes widening with both surprise and delight. “Oh my God, Benny?!”

“Well, if it isn’t Lawrence’s lost daughter,” Benny greets you with a broad grin. “Look at you, chère! Only gotten prettier in the last ten years.”

“Oh, stop!” Giggling, you shake your head and get up to hug him before settling back into your seat. “How have you been? I can’t believe you still work here,” you say before realizing how incredibly condescending that sounds, quickly correcting course. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. No offense.”

Amused, Dean snorts at your blunder. “Smooth.”

Luckily, Benny only barks a loud laugh and doesn’t take your comment to heart. “Still the same spitfire, I see.”

“You know, Benny actually bought this place from Bobby three years ago,” Dean tells you, sending his friend a smile full of pride.

Your heart stings a little again, as if someone was rubbing salt into an old wound. Dean, Benny and Cas had all been best friends, and for as long as you’d dated Dean, you’d always been hanging out with them and the girls, too. You’d all been friends once, but after the break-up, you felt booted out of the group – not that they’d ever officially declared a ban, but you knew where their alliances lay.

Moreover, you didn’t think you deserved them after leaving like you did.

When your first book was published, you didn’t even invite them to the launch party, fearing they wouldn’t show up anyway. Truthfully, you’d cried all night because you would’ve wanted no one rather there than your friends – and Dean. It’s the night you realized you’d be on your own from then on out.

“Wow! That’s awesome! Congrats, Benny,” you say with a genuine smile. It seems like everyone in your hometown is doing well and has found their place. But what about you? You can’t help but feel more lost than ever before.

What do you have to show for yourself? Three bestsellers? Great! What else? An empty apartment? Expensive wine? Do you even have friends you actually like? And Hemingway doesn’t count. Most days, you’re not even sure he likes you all that much, either. And what about dating? Your last long-term relationship ended four years ago. Your dating prospects have been more than lousy since.

“My, thank you. Old man didn’t have any kids, you know? And like you gracefully pointed out, chère, I have been working here for a long ass time,” Benny says with a teasing grin.

“Alright, I’m sorry, okay?” You laugh bashfully, your cheeks rosier than the glow of a ripe peach. “But hey, I’ve heard you’re doing well in the dating department, too. You and Donna? I’m so happy for you guys! Great choice, man. I always thought Andrea was a bitch.”

Dean and Benny both burst into laughter at your blunt honesty. You’ve always been a bit of a shit-starter in the group. A lot of bar fights at Rocky’s began with your words: “Oh, yeah? Wanna say that again to my friends over there? They’re gonna beat you the fuck up, buddy!”

“Now, where did you hear that, chère?” Benny asks puckishly, his eyes drifting to Dean opposite you.

“Oh, uh, actually Charlie told me. You know word travels fast in a small town. She’s been keeping me in the loop over the years,” you tell him and notice Dean straighten at that information in the corner of your eye.

“Shoulda known. That girl can’t keep anything to herself.” Benny chuckles, shaking his head. “What about you, huh? Still seeing that NHL player?”

“Oh God, no!” You snort at the reminder, vividly shaking your head. “No, we broke up a long time ago. Thankfully.”

“Well, good. His team sucked,” Benny quips. “So, what can I get you guys? The usual?”

“Yup.” Dean nods and snips a finger at you with a click of his tongue. “With extra bacon, cheese, and fries for her. Oh, and, uh, add another slice of pie as well.”

“I hate you,” you reply with a playful glare at Dean, but your cheeks are hurting from smiling too goddamn much. For the first time in a decade, you start to feel like you again. It feels like home – in the best possible way.

“Do you really?” Dean returns with an awfully flirtatious and bold smirk.

“Alright, usual with extra junk coming right up,” Benny cuts into the heated moment and clears his throat. “Hey, uh, Dean? You have a minute to look at my truck out back again? For some reason, the damn thing wouldn’t properly start this morning. Givin’ me a lotta trouble…”

Dean purses his lips and folds his hands on the table, and you can tell by the look the two men share, their silent conversation surely isn’t about the car. It’s about you, Benny probably wanting to warn his friend about the dangers of hanging out with an ex. And a small part of you wholeheartedly agrees with him.

It’s only been two hours since you’ve entered Dean’s orbit, but all those feelings you’ve kept buried underneath the surface begin to dig themselves out of their grave. You can’t help but wonder if Dean feels them coming alive, too.

Maybe there’s still something there, an old spark that could grow into a flame – or a wildfire that burns everything down.

You won’t know until you dare to find out.

“Uh, kinda have taken the day off and catching up here. Just call Garth at the shop to check it out,” Dean tells him with a polite ‘fuck off’ smile.

Benny gives a reluctant nod and forms the same defiant expression on his face. “Alright, brother. Your choice.” With a defeated sigh, he then beelines for the kitchen.

“So, Charlie’s been giving you updates, huh?” is the first thing Dean asks when Benny’s out of earshot, causing you to wonder what his curiosity is truly about. Why does he care? After your harsh goodbyes, you didn’t think he ever wanted to hear from you again.

“Yeah, she’s been sending me very detailed newsletters over the years.” You chuckle lightly and try to deflect. “I honestly think she could be a writer by the colorful language she uses.”

“Huh, yeah, she’s-, uh, she’s hoot,” Dean says with a tight smile, scratching the back of his neck. “So, uh, what d’she say about me?”

“Oh, uh…” You stump a little at his direct approach but decide to go with honesty. “She-, uh, she actually never mentions you. And I don’t really… ask, you know?”

“Right, yeah, no… That makes sense,” Dean replies and awkwardly clears his throat. Is he actually hurt by that or relieved? You can’t really tell but find his reaction odd, nonetheless.

And then, until your food arrives, the two of you stick to small talk about Benny and his plans for the diner, catch up about Bobby, and talk a little more about the Winchester clan – John’s health issues and Sam’s blooming law practice in Palo Alto.

“Fuck me,” you moan with a mouthful once you’ve taken the first bite of your burger and instantly wash it down with a big gulp of strawberry milkshake. “God, this is so good! I honestly forgot how fucking awesome this tastes.” You then notice Dean’s enchanted stare and arch a brow, giggling. “What?”

Dean shakes his head out of his stupor, swallowing. “Uh, nothing. Just happy you’re finally enjoying food again and eating a real meal instead of all that big city crap, sweetheart. What the fuck is a Paleo anyway?”

You snort a laugh. “Bunch of big city bullshit, I guess.”

“Hm. Exactly what I thought.” Dean’s lips rise to a pleased grin at your response. “And what about that bar thingy, huh? You becoming a lawyer like Sammy now, too?”

“No.” You laugh again. “It’s this new workout trend. Kinda a mix of yoga, Pilates, and ballet.”

“Fancy,” Dean teases with a mock posh expression. “You wearing a tutu for this?”

You lean forward with a bit of a daring look in your eyes. “No, actually, it’s more like a black, skin-tight bodysuit kind of thing,” you explain casually and watch his Adam’s apple bob in triumph.

“Uh-huh, think I get the picture…” Dean mutters and stuffs his dry mouth with a bite of burger, but you notice how his eyes escape down your frame.

“So, did you ever read any of my books?” you ask after a small pause but hide your genuine curiosity behind casualness.

For years, you’ve wondered if he ever had and recognized himself in your words. The stories in your books are echoes of your shared past, and while it isn’t exactly obvious to a stranger, Dean would probably recognize himself on every page.

Dean, on the other hand, seems a bit taken aback, suddenly squirming in his seat, his green eyes looking everywhere near you but never directly at you. “Uh, no, actually. Sorry,” he replies and occupies his lips briefly with a sip of milkshake. “Always wanted to, you know? Just never got around to it. Life kinda got busy after you left. You know, with the business and my dad…”

A part of you feels relieved. How embarrassing would this reunion between you two have been, otherwise? But another, bigger part of you is mad he never bothered. For the first few months after your move to the city, you’d always hoped he’d come for you, fight for you, but he never did. Maybe if he’d read what you had to say, he would’ve.

“Dean, it’s fine. You don’t have to give me an excuse. I don’t care either way. Was just curious, you know?” You shrug your disappointment off with nonchalance and hope he doesn’t see right through it. “They’re just a bunch of fictional crap, anyways. Still surprised they even became bestsellers in the first place.”

Dean’s brow furrows, and you know by the quirk of his lips that he’s seconds away from trying to cheer you up and convince you of the opposite. You know because he’s always done that whenever you’ve put yourself down in the past, only now you don’t feel he has any right to, his sheer attempt even angering you more.

“What, no, c’mon! Your writing has always been amazing! I’m not surprised someone else saw that you’re phenomenal, too. I always told you you’d make it,” Dean showers you with flattery, but it’s hard to believe at this moment. “I’m sure your next book will be a bestseller, too. You’re unstoppable, sweetheart.”

You purse your lips, your gaze musingly fixed on the two leftover fries on your plate before you meet his eyes. “How would you know, huh? You didn’t even read the first three,” you snip and watch his tongue poke the inside of his cheeks as he takes in your comment.

But there’s really no reason for animosity after ten years. Does it really matter what your ex from high school thinks?

“Look, uhm, I’m sorry. Maybe this was a bad idea. I should probably go now, spend some time with my mom…” you say and rise from your seat, opting to take the high road. You put down enough money to cover both your orders and include a generous tip for Benny. “Thanks for indulging me, though. It was nice catching up with you again, Dean. Take care, alright?”

Sure, you could have said lot of things. The two of could’ve even screamed your lungs out at each other. You never felt like you’d gotten the infamous closure. You’re not even sure you understand fully why you broke up in the first place. It all imploded so quickly back then. But why would you want to know now? What good could it do? The past remains the past. Opening old wounds and fighting ancient battles seems like a useless waste of time.

“Y/N, wait! Don’t go!” Dean’s hand grasps your wrist and pulls you back before your feet reach the exit. You meet his gaze, his hand loosening its grip and drifting to your palm, your fingers brushing before he lets go entirely. “Look, uh, I’m sorry.”

You smile a little, your features softening. “What exactly are you sorry for?”

“Well, uhm…” Dean scratches the back of his head. “Not exactly sure, quite frankly, but I know something I said upset you. Guess that hasn’t changed either.” He chuckles self-consciously.

“No, uh, you didn’t upset me, Dean,” you lie and offer him a soft smile that’s supposed to hide your true feelings. “Just remembered why this isn’t a good idea, you know?”

“Alright, hold on, okay? Maybe you’re right, but at least gimme one last shot to prove you wrong, sweetheart. What d’you say?” Dean’s smile is so charming and inviting it seems like an impossibility to deny him anything.

Matching his smile, you cave with a little sigh. “Go ahead. Shoot your shot, Winchester.”

“Okay, stay here. Don’t you dare move.” Dean grins victoriously and rushes past you to the far end of the diner, and it suddenly dawns on you what his plan is.

On cue, the diner fills with music from Bobby’s old jukebox, playing a song Dean just picked. You recognize it immediately and send him a raised look, partially amused by his choice as Can’t Fight this Feeling starts.

“Really? REO?”

“C’mon, it’s our song,” Dean argues goofily and joins you again in a few strides.

“Yeah, and like I told you back then a million times, I refuse to accept that,” you retort, laughing.

“Welp, don’t care,” Dean quips. He then holds out his palm, smirking. “Will you do me the honor and accept this dance, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You chortle but hesitantly agree to his offer, placing your hand in his before he pulls you flush against his body in one suave motion. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back while yours lands on his shoulder, feeling the dips of his muscles under your pads.

“It’s the song that played the first time I asked you to dance during our junior prom. Remember that?” Dean’s eyes find yours as you get lost in his embrace.

Goddammit, you’ve missed those arms around you. They make you feel safe and loved. They always have, and now you’re sure they always will.

“‘Course I do. My mom forced me to go to get outta the house. I so didn’t wanna be there. Not even Charlie and Meg got me out of my mood,” you recall.

“Yup, and then came me.” Dean chuckles warmly, feeling the vibrations against his chest. “I’d had my eye on you the second Cas brought Meg and her friends around, including her hot and smart friend. But you were pretty damn unapproachable, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say your reputation as a heartbreaker preceded you, Winchester,” you sass.

“You were definitely a hard one to win over.” Dean laughs a little at the memory. “But when I saw you sitting there on the bleachers of the gym, reading goddamn Kafka of all things, I thought I try again, even when Benny and Cas told me to give up because you clearly ain’t interested.”

“And you did come over and surprised me by quoting a line from the book I was reading. Still remember which book it was?” you challenge him.

“Yeah, The Trial,” Dean shoots like a pistol. “Kinda made me like you more. Still remember the quote, too. ‘I like to make use of what I know.’”

You laugh, your cheeks warming. “Yes, exactly! And then you proceeded to tell me you were a great dancer and had to make use of it.”

“Worked like a charm, didn’t it?” Dean grins down at you.

“It did.” Your eyes stay connected as you sway to the music and follow Dean’s lead, aware you’re being watched by a few diner customers now. But Dean doesn’t seem to care, so neither do you and just enjoy the moment. “Still remember what happened by the end of the song?”

You kissed him, and he grinned right through it.

“Yeah,” Dean smiles softly, “Changed my whole life, sweetheart.”

You mirror his expression as your heart swells. “Yeah, mine too.”

And you can feel it then, in the air around you two – you’re catapulted right back to the moment where you fell in love. Your heart is beating exceptionally fast, and you know his is, too.

“So, uh, you’re curious what’s next on the list?” Dean interrupts the electric silence, clearing his throat before twirling you around and catching you again with a playful smile.

“Uh, I didn’t know there’d be more,” you reply and can’t help breathing in his scent as he holds you close. That one hasn’t changed either. It’s still full of pine, leather, and motor oil, but it’s even more unique and indescribable than that.

“Of course there’s more,” Dean states as if it were obvious he’d want to spend more time with you. Where will it lead, though? What’s his agenda here? He can’t possibly think this is a normal thing to do with an ex-girlfriend, who someone hasn’t seen in over a decade. “C’mon, you didn’t really think memory lane ends here, right? This is just us fueling up before the trip even starts. Didn’t want to get you drunk without ensuring you had some nice, greasy padding in your stomach.”

“You wanna get me drunk, huh?” Laughingly, you lift a brow. “So, what’s the next stop on memory lane? You takin’ me back to Rocky’s?”

Dean grins broadly. “Oh no, way better, sweetheart.”

“Fine,” you agree once more, unable to cut the invisible string that ties you to him. “But if we’re gonna do this, I have to change outta those clothes first.”

“Now, we’re talking. Can’t wait to see you outta that pantsuit,” Dean teases, smirking.

You scoff in amusement. “It’s just slacks and a blouse. This hardly passes as a suit.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Dean retorts playfully and holds open the diner door for you like a gentleman.

Dean leans against his car with crossed arms as you walk – or run – out of your mom’s house again, meeting him on the small cobblestone path that leads up to the porch.

“That was quick,” Dean notes. “Didn’t even think you could change that fast. Surely never were ready this quick when we were still dating.”

“Yeah, well, trust me, wasn’t quick enough,” you huff. No kid should hear those sounds coming out of their mother’s bedroom.

Dean’s lips rise to a grin at the realization. “Ah. And how is Connie these days?”

“Busy,” you reply and add bitterly, “With Mr. Edlund.”

Dean’s brow knits, the smirk turning to a frown of disgust. “Our high school English teacher?”

“That’s the one,” you reply in sing-song.

Dean snorts a laugh. “Guess Connie hasn’t changed a bit, huh?”

“Nope, she hasn’t,” you murmur, smacking your lips. “Probably the only person I’ve always wanted to change. Funny how that works.”

“C’mon, she ain’t so bad. I know you love her,” Dean says, gently nudging your shoulder.

“No, I do,” you admit and look at him. “I’m here, right?”

“Yeah, you are,” Dean says softly before the boyish smile reappears on his freckle-dusted face, eyeing your choice of outfit – your old jeans overalls. “Can’t believe you put on the fucking overalls.”

“Hey! I loved them, okay? ‘Sides, you said I had to commit to memory lane, so consider me committing to denim. Even wearing my old flannel, so I match with you,” you reply slyly, pinching a bit of fabric on your arm between your fingers.

“Oh, you mean my old flannel?” Dean cocks a brow, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Huh, I guess. Forgot about that...”

You feign innocence as you steal a glimpse at it. Of course you’ve known it used to be his. You certainly haven’t picked it out by accident. Going through your old closet in your childhood bedroom, you’d come to the conclusion you wanted to see where this little adventure with the former love of your life would lead.

“Also not wearing a bra, by the way. You know, for old time sake,” you add with a cheeky wink and slide into the passenger seat, reminding Dean of your past aversion of unnecessary clothing items.

You figure it can’t hurt, and by the amount of time it takes him to climb into Baby after you, it certainly hasn’t.

“Mini golf?” You lift an eyebrow as you step out of the Impala and onto the familiar pavement of the parking lot.

The course sits right next to the arcade and the bowling alley. You’ve spent countless hours here with your friends, including a few heated make-out sessions with your green-eyed companion on that very parking lot.

“Hell yeah! We haven’t played in forever. We used to come here all the time,” Dean says, chuckling, and rounds his way to the trunk, pulling out three six-packs of beer cans.

“Oh no, Dean… We’re not doing Shotgun Mini Golf,” you warn playfully once you realize his plans. “We’re way too old for this!”

“Nonsense,” Dean says and grins at you, leading you toward the entrance.

The sun hangs low in the sky, its golden rays spilling over the miniature course. The humid Kansas air clings to your skin, thick with the chirps of cicadas and the occasional clink of a ball against plastic as you position yourself in front of the first hole with your neon pink putter.

“You think you’ve still got it, sweetheart?” Dean teases with a big grin, performing his usual trash talk. “I think you’re gonna be very wasted by the time we reach the last hole.”

“Oh, you’re on, Winchester.” You grin back slyly and swing your putter with practiced ease, the ball rolling steadily across the green and sinking into the hole with a soft plunk.

“Well, shit…” Dean whistles lowly and seems to realize his chances aren’t as great as he initially surmised.

“Your turn,” you sing triumphantly as you shoulder past him and watch his next move with interest.

Dean, undeterred, steps up to his shot. He lines up the ball, takes a deep breath, and swings – but the ball veers off course, clanging against the edge of a ramp and skidding toward the side. After three strokes total, he finally gets the ball into the hole. He exhales a defeated sigh, scratching the nape of his neck.

You let out a soft laugh, loving the sight of your ex already off his game. “Enjoy!” With a wide smirk, you hold out a can of beer for him at eye level.

Dean grabs it and digs out an Army knife from his pocket, puncturing a small hole near the bottom of the can. A hiss escapes before he covers the hole with his thumb and pops open the top. And then, you watch him in amusement as he tries to keep up with the rushing stream of golden liquid, chugging the whole can as beer trickles down his chin and arms, thoroughly soiling his flannel and jeans.

“Shit!” Dean coughs as he gulps down the last drops of beer, shaking his wet and sticky hands after discarding the empty can in the nearest trash bin. “Alright, maybe this was a bad idea. Been a while since I’ve done this.”

You laugh wholeheartedly. “Uh-uh, no backsies, Losechester.”

Dean snorts at the old nickname. “Alright, sweetheart, your funeral.”

But for the next three holes, it surely was Dean’s own eulogy before your luck seemed to turn, and you lost the following four rounds. By hole twelve, both of you were toe to toe and notably drunk, tumbling over obstacles and double-visioning holes and balls.

“Call it even?” Dean asks breathlessly, resting palms on his thighs after shotgunning the last beer.

The nausea bubbling in your stomach agrees with him, and you give him a tight-lipped nod, taking his steadying hand when he supportively offers it to you. How have the two of you ever managed to finish the whole course when you were younger? It seems like an impossibility now, and maybe the thought even extends to your relationship.

You can’t just get an old thing back, can you? It’ll never be the same.

The last traces of daylight are swallowed by the dark Kansas sky, dotted with a thousand twinkling stars above as the two of you stumble out onto the parking lot, your laughter ringing out into the quiet summer night.

“I can’t believe we did this again,” you say between bursts of giggles, one hand clutching his arm as if you might collapse into him at any second.

Dean’s arm slings around your waist when you almost fall, steadying you a little more, his hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear. You laugh even harder, pressing your palm on his solid chest for balance. He feels warm against you, and although everything feels fuzzy, the old magnetic pull is undeniable.

Your glassy gazes lock, and he softly tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek a little too long. His touch and closeness send shivers up and down your spine, soon reaching that sweet spot between your thighs.

“So, what now? Is this where we call it a night?” you ask innocently, your eyes drifting down to the plump, pink flesh of his lips that cause an urge within you to sink your teeth into them. Is he still a great kisser?

You’ve surely never encountered the same magic with anyone else after him.

Dean does what you can’t and bites down on his bottom lip, his eyes musingly swerving around. “No, c’mon! It’s barely after nine! I’ve got more stops on my list.”

Your lips rise to a smirk, your heart expanding in your ribcage and almost squeezing through. “Do you now?”

“Hell, yeah! I haven’t seen you in ten years. I’m not letting you go that easy again, sweetheart,” Dean replies, not noticing the drunken honesty in his words at first, but once he does, he subtly clears his throat and takes a step back from you. “How about some fuel, huh?” He gestures to a food truck across the parking lot.

“I could eat again,” you agree but wonder what his hesitancy is about. The old him would’ve already taken his shot and kissed you. He surely had plenty of opportunities tonight, always backing out at the last second.

Does he not want this, too? And if not, why is he doing all of this and dragging you down memory lane in the first place? He certainly doesn’t seem to want the night to end, either.

With your plastered mind racing, you and Dean then settle down at the picnic table on the lot with some tacos and two pops. The night feels expansive, the parking lot stretching out into nothingness, a sea of concrete and empty space under the lights of buzzing streetlamps.

“So, how are things with your mom, really? And don’t serve me the bullshit version you give strangers,” Dean says, breaking the silence after the first few bites.

“Uh, you know, same, honestly. Like I said, Connie hasn’t changed much,” you reply, offering him a smile. Whenever you’d grown frustrated with your mother back then, you’d always confided in Dean, but he hasn’t been around for a while now.

“She ever finally tell you who your dad is?”

You laugh a little, shaking your head. “Uh, no, I guess not. A few months ago, she said she thinks he’s either from Puerto Rico or Guatemala. She’s not sure, but she remembers my father speaking Spanish.”

“Huh.” Dean’s brows raise slightly. “What happened to you being 13% Cherokee?”

“Yeah, more like a 100% lie,” you retort, chuckling. “Remember when she told me she thinks I’m half-Asian but couldn’t remember which part of Asia exactly?”

“Yeah.” Dean laughs softly, nodding. “You could do one of those DNA tests, though, right? I heard they’re a thing now.”

“I guess, but I don’t really care enough to do that, you know? I mean, I’ve lived thirty years without a father. Don’t see why I’d need one now,” you say, fingers playing with your taco shell. “Besides, judging by Connie’s type, I’m not sure I wanna know. What if he’s nuts like her, and I end up taking care of two crazy parents?”

“Guess that’s a possibility,” Dean replies, chuckling.

“And the rest is, you know, typical Connie shit,” you explain with a half-hearted shrug. “Remember when she told me to give you more blowjobs to avoid getting pregnant?”

Dean laughs loudly at the memory, wiping the tears brimming in his green eyes with his fingers. “Classic Connie... She also gave me a pack of condoms the first night I was staying over. We even got breakfast in bed in the morning.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say. Your childhood home doesn’t resemble Casa Erotica,” you remark wryly. “She keeps sending me these really weird articles about sexual liberation, too. Even got a book about Kama Sutra for Christmas.”

“Well, I don’t remember you needing help in that department,” Dean accidentally comments and instantly bites his tongue, his wide eyes finding yours.

You laugh lightly, your cheeks blushing. “Well, uh, thank you. Neither did I. And you don’t even know what new tricks I’ve learned over the last decade,” you quip flirtatiously, watching his jaw grind at your suggestion. You casually crumple your empty wrapping paper into a ball and look at him expectantly. “So, what’s next on our list?”

“Right, uhm…” Dean breaks from his stupor, clearing his throat. He wipes his hands with a napkin before rubbing them on his jeans. “Well, there’s really only one more spot I wanna take you to.”

“Alright, lead the way.” You smile, feeling the butterflies in your belly soaring high to the stars above.

▶️ Chapter 3: Old Sparks – JULY 16

The heat is turning up as the night progresses, and if you're thinking, "Hmm, Dean seems a little sus," you're probably right 😜

Get ready for more heat & angst next week!  

Coming Up:

The nightly summer air is cool and crisp as the two of you settle into a comfortable and easy silence on the hood of the car, facing the horizon. For a heartbeat, you just breathe and enjoy the view, side by side. When you steal a glance at the backseat, Dean catches you and chuckles softly.

“What?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “I guess I just know where your mind went now. We’ve had some good times here, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you agree quietly, but it’s not the reaction he’s hoped for.

“You guess so?” Dean cocks his brow at you and playfully nudges you with his shoulder, seeing the faint hints of tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. “Alright, what’s going on with you?”

“I told you. ‘M just tired,” you lie once more.

“Hmm,” Dean hums, not believing you even for a second. Ten years might have passed and both of you changed slightly, but he still knows you too well – better than anyone on this planet. What a fucking heartbreaking thing to realize. “C’mon, talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Not in the mood to talk, Dean. Just leave it be,” you reply and keep your focus on the twinkling town lights, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Have you ruined your life by leaving ten years ago?

“Alright, how about I start, huh?” You only offer him a careless shrug as a response, and Dean exhales a small sigh. He swallows thickly, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. “I lied to you earlier… in the diner,” he starts, and you meet his eyes with a tilt of your head then.

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

I love that we're diving into the UC world here! Probably my favorite part in any crime show and this certainly didn't disappoint either!! 🤓

The whole premise of reader working as a UC in Mark's clinic was genius! I instantly knew there was something wrong with that fucking doctor, and I was praying hard it affected Mark somehow and would miraculously save (it did! yay! 😂)

But the whole execution was flawless!!

“Well maybe someday you’ll be able to figure out how to get tumors out of people’s heads without it killing them,” he said, putting his card away. You stared at him, Mark closing his eyes. “Sorry. Just uh…long day.”

Oh, poor baby! It's definitely been a long day if he pulls a Nolan and blabs it all out to the first person who listens 😅💙

But ooof, picked the wrong person to reveal this to, buddy! (Or maybe the right one 😏)

And yet…your gut was telling you something different. Patient privacy was a fine line while doing undercover work and technically you were in a morally gray area.

Love how we're reasoning our actions here 🤣 But hey, I'm all for snooping! Go dig up Mark's file and let's see what's up... 👀

“Officer Terry Bridges. Three cops all with the same set of scans. How do you explain that?”

Wow! That doctor surely thought he could take out half the LAPD, huh? I wonder why he was targeting all those cops. I'm guessing it's probably related to some case all of them worked on together. But still, this doctor is a bit nuts for thinking he'll get away with giving people fake cancer. What if someone would've done an autopsy?? 🙈

“Meachum is set to testify in court against this guy. Meachum’s sent a number of guys in this gang to jail. We know for a fact The Gray Skulls are trying to level up. You don’t need to gun down a cop when you got a doctor that will nudge him along.”

Yup, like I thought! You weaved that whole story together so cleverly. I honestly wish the show would use that to save Mark, but I'm afraid his tumor is the real deal. Still, how many bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolates do you want for saving Mark, Michelle? 🥹💝💐

I loved how she shot down her former TO and crushed every argument of his. It seems he trained her well and it came back to bite him in the ass 😝 But God, that Garrison was such a huge bag of dicks... Not liking someone is one thing, but actively not helping them and risking their death is cruel (and pretty sure illegal, especially for a police officer). I'm glad she didn't listen to him and showed him what a real cop looks like 💪

But Mark's so lucky to have reader being relentless in her pursuit and digging deeper, even if she could've been demoted or worse if she'd been wrong (and even if Mark doesn't see it this way yet lol). Can't fake those kinds of instincts, tho. She chose the right job 💙

“Why would I lie? If I were playing you, I would broken in and killed you in your sleep,” you said, shoving him off and picking up your bag. “Just get a second opinion, Meachum.”

I love her, your honor! Loved how she blurted out the news, too. And even though this was a bit of a quick and weird official introduction with half a strip tease and guns involved, I already enjoyed their banter. They're gonna get along great 😆💕

You slowed when you came up to your house, an old, very well taken care of, Ford Bronco parked in your driveway. A figure was sitting in the chair on the small front porch area you occasionally had a morning coffee.

Dude!!! Istg I have a similar scene in part 2 of ATS 😂😂😂

And I finally know what you meant with the whiskey bottle, too (and he paid for the good stuff lol)! Plus, the Taylor Swift lyrics?? I think our angsty Swiftie brains finally connected and became one once Mark showed up on our screens 🤣💙🩵

Live footage of us plotting murder and heartbreak with Taylor’s voice whispering into our ears:

“I’m glad you’re-” He pulled you into a fierce hug, his whole body shaking. It hurt with how hard he was holding you but you didn’t say that to him.

I was bawling during this moment between them! You can just feel all that stress and tension and hurt peeling away from him 🥺❤️‍🩹

“The medicines you were on at the dosages you were taking can cause side effects. The next few days are going to hurt as your body withdrawals from them.”

“Days of this?” he winced, trying to breathe through it.

Yup! I clocked that, too! The show is focusing hard on Mark taking pills and the whole story with Olivera’s addiction definitely made me think that they’re going the direction of Mark becoming addicted to his pain meds eventually 👀

Last thing he needs, truly 😩

“Because you’re a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about himself and is now faced with dealing with the fact he won’t actually be dead this time next year.

So true, honestly! What a mind fuck, especially for him, considering he wasn’t dealing well with this 🙈 (Does Mark sometimes give you S3 Dean vibes as well?? Lol)

“I left med school because my brother jumped off a bridge.” Mark was still, silent, the air heavy. “Do you know what Huntington’s is?”

I love all your background stories you give readers. It makes them such dimensional characters and not just some space fillers 👏 (And I’m wondering if you have a medical background besides finance because this is the second time one of your readers comes with a medical background and you always describe these scenes so realistically 🤓)

“I see why you wear the cute little scrubs. Detracts from the sailor mouth,” he said, scratching the side of his head.

Oh, but we love a girl with a sailor mouth 😂💙

“Trust me, a troublemaker like you is exactly the kind of person this team wants.” You leaned back in your seat, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You aren’t going to make me beg, are you?”

Gaaaah!! I’d love for her to join the team 😍

“Why are you taking care of me?” he asked. “I literally shoved a gun in your face last night.”

And now you can shove your other gun into her face 😏

I see myself out lol…

“They’re fuckin’ see through?” he said to himself, voice three octaves higher minimum. At least he’d forget about the earsplitting headache he had for thirty seconds. “You know this is cruel and unusual punishment if we don’t hookup eventually. Check the Geneva convention, it’s in there.”

God, he’s such a lovable idiot 😂💙

This was perfection, Michelle! Reader was such a badass in this, the plot was excellent as always with you, and the solution to Mark’s little cancer problem was brilliant. You have such a great way of hooking me into the story and delivering twists and turns that have me biting my nails off! I think we watch too many crime shows, but oh well… 😜

I would love to see more of them, even though I know you’re already writing Phantom Pains. But come on, they’re too good to pass up on! 😇😍 (Pretty please?)

KISS THE SKY

Summary: The reader is working her first undercover job when infamous LAPD Detective Mark Meachum shows up right in front of her. But she doesn't like coincidences and takes matters into her own hands to get to the truth, no matter the consequences...

Pairing: Mark Meachum x Detective!reader

Word Count: 5,300ish

Warnings: Countdown S1 spoilers, language, angst, life threatening medical diagnosis, suicide references (minor characters), smutty teasing, smidge of violence, Mark dealing with a lot/being a cutie

A/N: Welcome to my first full on Mark Meachum fic! This was written for @zepskies 5K Follower Celebration and was inspired by this color palette!

“Hi,” said a quiet voice. You glanced up from the front desk, alarm shooting through. You’d be eternally grateful that it was not only late so the office lights were dim but that the man in front of you was busy looking down, pulling out his wallet.

Why the fuck was Detective Mark Meachum at a fucking neurologists? You kept your composure, quickly taking his insurance card, Meachum not seeming to recognize you. Not that you expected him to. You’d only met him once during a citywide manhunt back when you were a rookie on patrol. He told you to canvas The Hills, you said yes sir to the incredibly handsome man, and then you hadn’t seen him in five years. 

Fuck, you’d been begging to go UC for six months and you were not about to fuck up your case over the notorious menace of the LAPD that was Mark Meachum.

“Are you new?” he asked tiredly. You put a smile on your face when you saw the weariness of his. 

“I started last week. I’m a resident shadowing Dr. Slatter but the receptionist had to leave early and it’s quiet today so I offered to cover. Figure it’s good to know the whole job in and out, you know?” 

“Sounds like you’ll be a good doctor someday,” he said quietly, a sliver of a genuine smile on his face as you handed back his card. “$25?”

“Uh, yes that’s your co-pay,” you said, Mark holding out a credit card. You swiped it, seeing from his history he’d been coming there for the past nine months, coming in every two weeks the past two months. That wasn’t good. Whatever was up with him was getting worse.

“Well maybe someday you’ll be able to figure out how to get tumors out of people’s heads without it killing them,” he said, putting his card away. You stared at him, Mark closing his eyes. “Sorry. Just uh…long day.”

Something clicked in your head, your breath hitching. Could he…Mark heard it, his eyes snapping open. Fuck, fuck. Recover before he noticed.

“Maybe someday I will Mr. Meachum,” you said. “Drive safe.”

“Have a good night,” he said, leaving the office out the front door. You stared after him, a flurry of thoughts rushing across your mind. You didn’t like the idea of coincidences and Mark Meachum being at this practice in particular was too big of one. 

You had to get back to the station and start researching. Tonight. 

“All the patients gone?” asked Dr. Slatter, walking out from the back. You hummed, hoping he got the fuck out of there so you could leave..

“I think all the staff are too. I didn’t realize we did appointments this late.” He shrugged. 

“That guy is law enforcement, doesn’t work a normal schedule. I fit him in when I can.” You nodded, Dr. Slatter leaning against the desk. “That’ll be important for you to learn. The clock doesn’t stop. Patients will call with worries, concerns, at all hours. Especially in this field.”

“What does Mr. Meachum have?” you asked. 

“Stage 4 glioblastoma. Tumor the size of a large peanut. Guy has probably six months, maybe three of decent quality of life. Depressive tendencies. We should keep an eye on him.”

“That really sucks,” you said quietly, Dr. Slatter humming. 

“Well, I have a reservation I’m late for. You heading out?”

“I was going to stay a bit late. I know I screwed up some of the medical coding when we were busy earlier and I want to get it fixed before I head out.” 

“Remember to lock up,” he said, giving you a wave before he was gone. You spent fifteen minutes doing actual work before you went into the patient files. It was easy enough to find Mark’s file and scans. Dr. Slatter if anything was underselling it. The images alone were jarring and Mark’s dosage of the medications he was on had just been upgraded again tonight. 

And yet…your gut was telling you something different. Patient privacy was a fine line while doing undercover work and technically you were in a morally gray area. You’d agreed to limit your searches on patients on a need to know basis, strictly to maintain your cover while you investigated the doctor.

But you needed to know if your instincts were right which meant accessing all of the files.

You stuck a thumb drive in the side of the computer and ten minutes later, you’d erased the history of the download and were in your car. The station was a twenty minute drive away and it gave you an excuse to check for a tail. You swung through a drive through, whistling as you drove, checking your rear view mirror a few times. The coast was clear but still, you parked in the garage of the apartment building across the street and snuck down to the underground tunnel, crossing under the street to get into the station.

“Well if it ain’t the rookie,” said your former training officer as you entered the bullpen. “Been two weeks and you miss me already?”

“Sergeant Garrison, you know I can’t get enough of you,” you said, plopping down in the empty chair next to his desk. He frowned, narrowing his eyes. 

“Don’t you have your own desk downstairs?”

“I need information. You worked with Mark Meachum back in the day right?” He scoffed. 

“We were P1’s together. Guy fucks up cases for the rest of us but that’s not news to anyone. Why ya asking?” 

“I saw him at my UC job. I need to know if he’s got enemies.” Garrison stared at you, sighing deeply. “What, you’re not going to give me the scoop?”

“Aren’t you supposed to do your own investigating?” You batted your eyes. “Y/N.”

“Remember that time I saved your life…” you trailed off, Garrison rolling his eyes. “Please? I could use another set of eyes before I head back under in the morning. I’ll let you and Jennifer stay at my parents cabin in Aspen again…”

“You’re bribing me and it’s working.” You plopped the bag of chicken nuggets on the desk with a grin.

“Meet me in conference room C in five.”

Three AM

“Holy…” you said to yourself, smacking Garrison’s arm. He popped his head up from where he’d fallen asleep, paper stuck to his face. “Look at this!”

“Oh god, I thought it was only a nightmare that I was still at work,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. You smacked him again, turning your laptop towards him. “What’s got you so hot and bothered?”

“This is Mark Meachum’s MRI scans,” you said, Garrison resting his chin in his hand. “Look at this.”

You clicked open another file, Garrison tilting his head. “You opened the same file, genius.”

“No. I didn’t.” He perked up, pulling the computer closer, reading the name on the top of the second set of scans. “Mark Meachum and former detective Linda Prisen have the exact same MRI scans and I mean exact. Same growth, same size, same pictures at the exact same durations. In what world does that happen?”

“Someone saved over Meachum’s file?” he asked tiredly. You sighed, taking the computer back. “Y/L/N, it’s an admin error.”

“Once is an admin error. Twice?” you said, hitting another file, Garrison staring at the screen. “Officer Terry Bridges. Three cops all with the same set of scans. How do you explain that?”

Garrison’s eyes darted around the screen for a long moment before finally finding yours. “First things first, separate your facts and theory. The smart thing to do would be to wait, gather information, build this into your investigation.”

“He thinks he’s dying,” you said quietly, Garrison sighing. “Garrison, I looked into Meachum and he’s had run ins with The Gray Skulls before. I don’t think he’s actually sick. I have to tell him.”

“You don’t know that he isn’t.” You rolled your eyes, gesturing to the computer. “Devils advocate here. He has headaches according to this file, right?”

“Yes but the meds he’s on are strong and the dosage has been ramping up. Those are strong medications to help with things like migraines, vertigo. If you pump that crap into someone that doesn’t need it at a high enough dosage, there are side effects,” you said. “Next argument.”

“Meachum went to the doctor of his own accord. How’d Slatter drug him before he started writing prescriptions for him then?” 

“Easy,” you said, cocking your head. “Meachum took a hit to the head by a murder suspect who coincidentally happens to be part of The Gray Skulls. It was probably an average concussion which made the initial headaches real. He was referred to Dr. Slatter, you know, a trusted doctor regularly used by the department, who then probably oh so kindly suggested an MRI to check the concussion and bob’s your uncle. Meachum gets a magic MRI showing he has a tumor in his head.”

“You realize how batshit crazy that sounds right?” asked Garrison. “It’s a stupid crazy chain of events that Dr. Slatter had no idea would happen.”

“Dr. Slatter knew it would happen because he knew the murder suspect because, again, that damn suspect is part of The Gray Skulls which, oh, I’m investigating Dr. Slatter as being part of,” you said, hitting Mark’s arrest records, showing him arresting a member of the gang just the day before Dr. Slatter’s file on him started. “Meachum is set to testify in court against this guy. Meachum’s sent a number of guys in this gang to jail. We know for a fact The Gray Skulls are trying to level up. You don’t need to gun down a cop when you got a doctor that will nudge him along.”

“Y/N-” You stood up, hands on your hips.

“Prisen? Bridges? Both made arrests against The Gray Skulls and both were set to testify before…” You inhaled sharply, Garrison softening his face. “Prisen killed herself with pills and Bridges disappeared off the face of the planet after a supposed last hurrah hiking trip. Dr. Slatter put them both on an antidepressant not long before they…he already dropped the seed tonight that Mark was depressed which I sure as shit don’t believe. The guy is fucked up but he’s not there. I guarantee Slatter is going to give Mark pills he doesn’t needs soon and nudge him along. I’m not letting that man kill himself when he’s got another forty years left in him. Fuck my case. I’ll get the doctor on this shit if I have to.”

Garrison leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He bit his bottom lip, releasing it slowly.

“What if Mark Meachum is actually dying and you fuck up your case for nothing?”

“Then I’ll deal with the fallout.”

“They might demote you, put you back on patrol the rest of your career, shit they might fire you. Why do you care so much about this guy anyway? Most of the people he’s worked with can’t stand him.”

“He deserves protection, just like the rest of us.” Garrison tilted his head, sizing you up. “What?”

“This sudden devotion to Mark Meachum wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with your brother?” You narrowed your eyes, fighting back the way your heart raced.

“I have three brothers. Be a little more specific.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe Kyle?” You clenched your fists, Garrison sighing. “You’re letting personal conflict impact your case. In fact, you are so damn close to this thing, I should report you, get you taken off it.”

You gathered up your computer and files, shoving them in your backpack. “Rookie, you know I’m right.”

“It is Detective Y/L/N,” you snapped, Garrison stiffening in his chair. “You’re right, I have an extra investment in making sure Mark Meachum is not in the same position as Kyle. The investment that I said I’d have every other person’s back on the job no matter what. Same investment you’re supposed to have.”

You put your backpack on and started to leave, Garrison swiveling out of his chair and rushing around the table. “Okay, okay. I’m being a dick cause the guy is a bit reckless and endangers others. But why throw your case away over it? Odds are Meachum won’t do something drastic. Just work your case and-”

“Garrison.” You stared up at him, his tired eyes full of worry. Not for Meachum but you. “My case is not worth a man’s life. If this were any other cop, would this even be a discussion?”

“You don’t know that he doesn’t have cancer! You are not allowed to disclose undercover cases to those without a need to know. I’m not even supposed to know and yet you dragged me into it. I-”

You held up a hand, putting a smile on your face. “I just remembered. You and Meachum were rookies together. You just don’t like the guy, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“He’ll fuck up your case,” he said quietly. “He did it on a big bank robbery case when we were your age and slapped the guy with a stupid assault and battery charge. Screwed up months of work all so he could arrest the guy himself. He’s done it over and over again and doesn’t give a shit about his fellow officers so no, I do not feel a sense of loyalty to him.”

“Well, it sounds like Meahcum’s the kind of guy I thought you were.”

“He’s a fucking menace-”

“Our job is to protect people,” you shot back.

“Not that motherfucker.” You blinked at him, shaking your head.

“Goodbye Garrison. Don’t feel the need to contact me outside of work ever again,” you said, leaving with a pep in your step.

Did you know for sure Meachum wasn’t sick? Nope. Would your case explode if you told Meachum and he tipped off Dr. Slatter? A million times over. Would you get kicked back down to patrol forever? Probably.

Still, you didn’t hesitate for one second to look up Mark Meachum’s address and head straight over. 

You sucked down a cup of coffee on Mark’s front porch while hitting his Ring doorbell incessantly. It dinged, your gaze drifting to it for a split second.

“Drunk girl, it is four in the fucking morning,” a tired grumble came from the device. “Wrong fuckin’ house.”

“Mark Meachum, I don’t think so,” you said, leaning over the camera. 

“Wait, you’re the doctor intern thing at Dr. Slatter’s,” he said. There was a shuffling and you saw a light turn on in the house. He opened the front door, raising his eyebrows. “Weren’t you wearing those lilac scrubs yesterday?”

“I’m impressed you know what that color is,” you said, brushing past him inside, his hand immediately catching your bicep. “Detective Y/N Y/L/N. Narcotics.”

The door slammed shut behind you, Mark narrowing his eyes. You flicked your eyes up to his bedhead. It made him look like an angry hedgehog and you couldn’t help but smirk at it.

“Leave the bag on the ground and then you can get on your knees, hands on your head.”

“You didn’t even buy me dinner first,” you said, Mark reaching behind himself, pulling a gun out of the waistband of his sweatpants. You set the bag down and stepped back against the front door, holding your hands up. “My badge is in the front left pocket.”

“Never said I didn’t believe you were a cop,” he said, keeping the gun by his side. “If you’re worried I’m going to blow your cover, you should have gone through department channels instead of coming to my fucking house in the middle of the night.”

“That’s not why I came here,” you said, Mark tilting his chin towards you. You lifted up your scrubs, giving him a view of your very skin colored bra and the fact you had no weapon or wires on you.

“Jesus fuck, I didn’t ask for a strip tease. I want you to explain yourself, weirdo.” You flipped him off, taking a step towards the bag. His hand moved so fast you didn’t catch it. You landed flat on your back, Meachum on top of you as you tried to get some air back in your lungs. The cold barrel of his gun wound it’s way under your jaw, the spike of fear and adrenaline not helping the whole not breathing thing. “Let me explain something, Detective Y/L/N. You’re not following protocols which makes me very suspect of you. Now, a friend of mine just died and I am extremely paranoid at the moment so I would start talking and fast.”

“I don’t think you have cancer,” you blurted out. His eyes flared wide, first in shock, then anger. He grabbed the collar of your scrubs, lifting you straight up to your feet as he stood. You felt like a ragdoll when he pushed you back against a wall, the gun in his hands pressed hard against your forehead. His eyes were practically black, body so close to yours you couldn’t effectively fight him, not when he was so much stronger.

“Because I should trust you, some fuckin’ rookie detective playing doctor. Get the fuck out of my house before I find out who your captain is and get you drop kicked to the graveyard shift for the next decade.”

“Why would I lie? If I were playing you, I would broken in and killed you in your sleep,” you said, shoving him off and picking up your bag. “Just get a second opinion, Meachum.”

You stormed out of there, wondering why the hell you gave up medical school to be dealing with this crap in the first place.

You were exhausted by the time you were getting home the following night. You hadn’t gotten any sleep before heading back UC and were ordered to report in after your shift at Dr. Slatter’s. Which, shocker to no one, turned into you being yelled at for two hours by the Captain, your direct supervisor and that snitch Garrison. Apparently Gary had strong feelings about Mark Meachum and “didn’t want to see you get hurt” and bullshit bullshit bullshit. You might have believed that before in the heat of the moment it came out that Meachum had arrested a guy Garrison was after which would have gotten him the tap to become detective himself.

Telling Garrison he was a lazy investigator when it came to real crime, didn’t have the balls or instinct to be a detective, and there was a reason so many of his former trainees had surpassed him career-wise probably hadn’t helped your case.

But you’d swear on your life you saw the rest of them smirk in agreeance for a split second. 

For now you were off the Slatter case and would be finding out in the morning what the verdict was regarding your fate. Until then though, you were going to pound back a sleeve of mint Oreos, raid your liquor cabinet and then sleep like a rock.

You slowed when you came up to your house, an old, very well taken care of, Ford Bronco parked in your driveway. A figure was sitting in the chair on the small front porch area you occasionally had a morning coffee. You carefully pulled in beside it, the figure not looking up. Five seconds later you were walking around the cars, backpack slung over your shoulder, gun tucked in the back of your periwinkle scrubs.

“Purple your favorite color or some shit?” asked Meachum quietly, barely glancing up at you.

“More of an indigo girl. Best of both worlds,” you said, a brown paper bag by his feet. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

He stood up slowly, nudging the bag with his foot closer to you. “Asked around. Heard you like Johnny Walker Blue.”

“While I appreciate you blowing your paycheck on what appears to be three gigantic bottles of the stuff, why? Last we talked I got the impression you weren’t my biggest fan.”

He shivered in the night air but it wasn’t from the cool. His head dropped, shoulders raising with a deep inhale. The next breath came quicker, Mark’s fingers gripping into the denim over his thighs. 

“Did you get a second opinion, Mark?” you asked softly. He nodded, the breaths coming faster and faster. You watched him carefully, waiting to see if he’d put a stopper back on the bottle that was about to bubble over or finally let it pop. “What did the other doctor say?”

“Scan showed nothing,” he whispered, darting his eyes upwards. His green eyes were red rimmed from the remnants of what you’d imagine was a happy but very confused breakdown in that Bronco not long ago. For the moment, despite the shake to his voice, they were dry. “You were right.”

“I’m glad you’re-” He pulled you into a fierce hug, his whole body shaking. It hurt with how hard he was holding you but you didn’t say that to him. You reached your arm around him as best you could, patting the top of his head as he buried it in your shoulder. “Mark, is there someone I could call for you? I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“I’m always alone,” he mumbled. You closed your eyes, hugging him back, his large body trying to burrow into yours. You felt it the moment he felt self-conscious, trying to tug back but you just held him, Mark only fighting it a millisecond before he was relaxing. “Why’d you tell me you didn’t think I was sick?”

“All part of my grand plan to get some free booze.” He let out a dry laugh, his whole body moving with it. “I’m serious. I was running low and thought this was easier than dealing with the store.”

“You’re so weird,” he chuckled, straightening up, closing his eyes, wincing in pain.

“Did you stop taking the medicines you were on?” He nodded, pressing his hands to his temple, as if applying pressure would relieve the white hot searing across his skull. “The medicines you were on at the dosages you were taking can cause side effects. The next few days are going to hurt as your body withdrawals from them.”

“Days of this?” he winced, trying to breathe through it. “Do me a favor and bash my skull in.”

“After I just got my ass reamed out for telling you? No way, Meachum. I figure you owe me at least twenty more years of life for all the shit headed my direction. Come on,” you dragged him inside, getting him settled at the kitchen table. You set an orange gatorade down in front of him. “Drink that while I make you something to eat because I seriously doubt you remembered to eat today.”

“...How’d you know that?” he asked, chugging the bottle half down in one go, his eyes still shut. You dimmed the lights overhead, Mark slowly peeling his eyes open. 

“Because you’re a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about himself and is now faced with dealing with the fact he won’t actually be dead this time next year. I don’t think hitting your macros was on your radar today, bud.”

You set a loaf of bread down in front of him that was borderline stale but he wolfed it down, alternating between his drink and that as you whipped up food on the stove. Ten minutes later you put a plate of three eggs with tomato, onions and peppers down and a stack of three pancakes in front of him. He ate as fast as you could get syrup and butter out of the fridge, Mark already finishing by the time you popped a pancake in your mouth.

“Drink more water,” you said, putting a glass down, Mark chugging it too. 

“You got any advil? Tylenol?”

“Sure. I got some Midol too if you get crampy.” He paused setting his drink down, giving you a look. You grinned, chewing on another pancake. “I suggest you don’t take anything and focus on staying hydrated and fed the next few days. Stay in a dark room, sleep when you can, take hot showers. Ride it out.”

“...How do you know this shit?” he asked.

“Because I went to med school. Dropped out one semester shy of graduation for the very lucrative career of an LAPD detective which I’m probably getting demoted tomorrow. I make really awesome life decisions if you couldn’t tell,” you said, sitting down across from him, Mark smiling to himself. “It’s not a bad idea to get the advice of an actual doctor-”

“No more doctors,” he said. You nodded, Mark finally pushing the empty plate away, letting out a huff of air as his stomach probably yelled at him for stuffing himself so fast. “So you’re telling me I got you in trouble I take it?”

“It’s hard to believe, I know, but a lot of people in the LAPD don’t like you for some reason,” you grinned, Mark smirking. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Why risk your case for me? I wasn’t actually dying, only thought I was.” You looked down, biting the inside of your cheek. “Whatever the reason was, I owe you-”

“I left med school because my brother jumped off a bridge.” Mark was still, silent, the air heavy. “Do you know what Huntington’s is?”

“That neuro disease with no cure that kills you.” You nodded, Mark sighing. “Your brother had the gene.”

“When I was in med school, my oldest brother worked at a genome lab. Me and my three brothers did it over Christmas, thought it’d be fun to see our ethnicity make up and shit. Maybe give it to our parents for shits and giggles. But results came back and turns out the baby, Kyle, he’s got the Huntington gene. Kyle was a freshman in med school and knew exactly what it does to you. He struggled with the pressure of school and he’d just gone through a bad breakup. We never even got the chance to talk to our parents. Kyle just…decided it was too much and jumped off a bridge that night.”

“Y/N, I’m so-”

“An intern at the lab got the lab results mixed up with another Kyle. My brother Kyle? He wasn’t sick. I’ve never blamed that intern. Kyle made a stupid choice based on a mistake.” You stared at Mark, his green eyes boring into yours. “Do you understand now, Mark? Why I told you?”

“No stupid choices over here. Ever,” he said, holding up his hands.

“Smart man. Kyle regrets that choice every day and I’m not dealing with two of you,” you said, Mark’s eyebrow raising. 

“Kyle’s…alive?” 

“Us Y/L/N’s are a hard headed bunch. Fucker broke both legs and was back in med school a year later,” you said, Mark blinking rapidly. “I never said it was a tall bridge.”

“Surprised you’re not a lawyer with a mouth like that.”

“That’ll be my next career after I get canned from this one,” you said, Mark eyeing you up and down. “Careful, Meachum. Last man that looked at me like that wound up tied to my headboard and your body can’t cash the check your eyes are delivering right now.”

“I see why you wear the cute little scrubs. Detracts from the sailor mouth,” he said, scratching the side of his head. “And while we will circle back to this wonderful idea involving a headboard you have, I have an idea to help both of us out. My head’s already killing me and I have to work tomorrow-”

“No way. Two hours from now I wouldn’t even trust you to operate a microwave let alone carry a gun.”

“I know which is why we need to call my boss. I’m on a task force right now and this is not the kind of job you can call in a sick day for.” You raised an eyebrow, Mark pulling out his phone. “You sub in for me on this, Blythe will pull whatever strings he has to in order to make sure you not only keep your job but stay on as a detective. We got a deal?”

“A task force? I get I did you a favor but I’ve only been a cop for-”

“Trust me, a troublemaker like you is exactly the kind of person this team wants.” You leaned back in your seat, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You aren’t going to make me beg, are you?”

“...You owe me another bottle of booze,” you said, standing up with a groan. He was about to argue but you held up a hand. “The booze is for the fact I’m a good person who doesn’t feel comfortable sending you home alone to deal with this shit and you’re going to end up crashing on my couch for the next several days I suspect.”

“I can repay you in other ways when I’m feeling better-” You put a hand over his mouth, shushing him. His eyes were a mix of teasing and masking the current egg scramble that was his head at the moment.

“Just call your boss, Meachum.” You patted his head and slipped past him, ready to take a quick shower and change before checking on him again. He caught your hand before you could leave though, your head turning back over your shoulder. He parted his lips, a vulnerability in his face again. “I’ll be ten minutes, okay?”

“Why are you taking care of me?” he asked. “I literally shoved a gun in your face last night.”

“I was going to be a doctor at one point. Taking care of people is just something I do.” He frowned, not quite believing that. You threw your head back, closing your eyes. “My job is to protect and serve and that includes you.”

“Bullshit. Why would you go out of your way to feed me and-” You spun your wrist around, grabbing his hand instead. Mark watched you push his hand back down to the table. “I’m not some fuckin’ wounded animal.”

“Actually, you are,” you said, leaning down in his face, Mark scowling. “You need a friend right now and you showed up on my porch all on your own. Sorry to disappoint but I actually give a shit about my friends and that means making sure they don’t make stupid fuckin’ choices or get close to even feeling like stupid choices are an option. Am I clear?”

He stared at you, nodding once. You turned around, Mark clearing his throat. “So just curious, how often do you turn your other friends on cause that was strangely hot.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you shot back, ripping off your scrub top on the way down the hall. 

“You’re torturing me on purpose. That’s what you’re doing. You realize this is the second time in less than a day you’ve shown me your bra.” You turned around and kicked off your your scrub pants, shrugging your shoulders as his eyes drank your body in. “I’m going through drug withdrawls over here and you’re trying to kill me.”

“Sounds like a you problem, Meachum,” you said, going back down the hall, giving him a view of your backside. “This is my house and I’ll wear whatever I want in it.”

“They’re fuckin’ see through?” he said to himself, voice three octaves higher minimum. At least he’d forget about the earsplitting headache he had for thirty seconds. “You know this is cruel and unusual punishment if we don’t hookup eventually. Check the Geneva convention, it’s in there.”

“Call your damn boss and then get your ass on the couch, Meachum,” you said. “Or else you ain’t seeing shit from me ever again.”

You didn’t turn around but you didn’t miss the way the chair scrapped behind you as Mark practically dove onto the couch.

A/N: Well there's my first truly official Mark Meachum fic! Please let me know what you thought!

[waynes-multiverse]

It’s one of my favorites too!! (11 still holds first place, tho 😂🩵)

First off, I felt the emotional exhaustion from Ben coming off him in waves in that opening scene. But they've gotten so sweet together, the way she comforts him, teases him back into his old self.

I’m glad you did! I wanted to show how much his father’s sheer presence affects him both mentally and physically. All that pressure and abuse takes a toll on him 🥲

When Ben saw that it was Margaret playing the piano, the way she welcomes him home, seeming more like her normal self (in large part thanks to the reader), I basically melted into a puddle of warm fuzzy feels. 🥹

It’s one of my favorite parts because it’s so precious that he gets to see his mom like this again 😭

That dinner scene though -- that's also one of my favorites so far, not only because reader finally has to meet Richard (and verbally sets him back on his heels more than once with her smarts and wittiness! 💪🏽), but because Margaret finally regains her inner steel and snaps back at him when he starts in on Ben again. Love that so much for her! 💗💗

The women really took over and derailed dinner!! And Ben and Richard just sit there and wonder what the hell happened. Fuck the patriarchy!! 😂

Even though it's not enough to stop Richard from tearing into Ben even more after dinner about marrying Grace, his version of living up to the family name, manipulating and berating him until Ben doesn't know what else to say -- that sad achy feeling you get for Ben just breaks my heart. 🥺

I felt that scene was so important to show that even with Margaret finally standing up for her son, Richard is relentless and will use every opportunity to manipulate his son for his own gain 😔

Again though, I love not only how reader tries to comfort him and remind him that he's not a "waste of space," but also the timing of reader's love confession. I know she didn't mean to say it right then, but it was really perfect -- it seemed to be exactly what Ben needed to hear to snap him out of that dark cloud his father put him under. 💗

Considering her own background, it really triggered something for her in that moment. It’s probably the start of their whole slightly toxic “us vs. them” mindset. They’re both unloved kids in a way and finally found that love and support in each other. Reader subconsciously felt Ben needed to hear that because that’s probably what she would’ve needed, too 💙

And Ben pretty much realizes in that moment for good that he doesn’t need his father or anything else. Only her (we already know where that leads tho 😅)

And of course, that was some of the hottest, most romantic smut I've ever read from you! ❤️‍🔥🥵❤️‍🔥 I very much get what you said in your AN about going through a time of being tired of smut writing because it feels repetitive. (Been there.) But I think you're right on about how you make it feel new, just like you did in this chapter -- by making it about the character development, the evolution of the relationship, the connection and the emotions behind it all. 💕

I already started loving it a little more with their first kiss and that little office scene, but this is definitely where I found my love for writing smut again lol. Now I’m fully living it again 😂✌️

On that note, the biggest standout for me is how you wrote Ben in that whole scene. The way he talked her through it all just felt so utterly in character for this young Ben and how long he's waited to be with her, with all that romantic charm that feels so rooted in the time period:

Ben was a challenge in this! Mostly because he was almost too soft and fluffy in the last few parts, but he’s still the playboy we remember from the beginning, so finally giving him what he wanted the most brought out the hunter in him again 😏❤️‍🔥

Secondly, I also tried to keep it time appropriate (the research I did on dirty talk and practices during that time was a bit overkill 😂), but I also wanted it to feel different from what future SB would do and yet keep things that are purely him 🤓

(Also I'm sorry this review is shorter than usual. Going through my latest health stuff/recovery has been a process. 😭 But you know how much I love this story!! 💛🩵)

No worries, Alex! I just really hope you’re doing better now 🩵🥺 (You can tell by my long response time that it’s been a few tough months here as well. Going through a bit of a burn out but trying to fight my way out of it again ❤️‍🩹)

Here’s another hug:

Time After Time – Chapter 8

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 & smut (yes, we're going fully there), reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, fluff and feels, sexism/feminism, angst, the final end of the (first) slow burn

Word Count: 9.3k

Posted on Patreon April 18, 2025

A/N: Daddy Dearest is finally showing up, a feminist revolution is happening, and our couple seals the deal. Yup, 4.4k of this one is smut. Don't blame me – it was all Ben and his filthy mouth. Guess that's what happens when you let that man wait six weeks. Good luck, loves! You may need tissues for various reasons during this 😜 ✨ Chapter title comes from Gone with the Wind (1939)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 8: Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give a Damn

The sky was gray with the weight of an almost-spring storm, clouds stretching low over the sprawl of the estate like a woolen blanket ready to suffocate the light. The mansion, with its high windows and columns stained faintly with soot, loomed behind him, but Ben ignored it. He didn’t even drop his suitcase inside.

His coat was slung over one shoulder, his hat clutched in his hand. Mud squelched underfoot as he crossed the back lawn, past the dormant rose beds and skeletal hedges, toward the old groundskeeper’s shed near the tree line, where George told him he’d find you.

He just needed to see you.

The door creaked as he opened it, and you turned sharply from the blackboard, where the chalk still lingered in your hand, equations spiraling behind you like maps of another universe.

“Ben?”

Your voice stopped his heart for a beat. Then it kicked back up, wild and alive. He barely managed a breath before he crossed the floor in two long strides, swept you into his arms, and kissed you like it was the first and last time all at once. You melted into it, your fingers curling into his coat, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him – his warmth, his heartbeat.

When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breath shaky.

“I missed you,” he said, quiet and raw like you were his lifeline. His fingers caressed your cheek, brushing a bit of chalk dust from your skin. “I’m happy you’re still here.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, your smile soft and real in a way it hadn’t been for days. Your heart pounded furiously in his presence. “Happy you’re home.”

He pulled you close again, his arms tightening like he didn’t want to let go. “We came back a day early. My father was... in rare form.”

You could see it in his faintly freckled face then – the gray sheen over his usually sparkling emerald eyes like November fog, the way his jaw had set itself like stone. He even looked like he’d lost about ten pounds from stress alone. Two weeks with that man would do that to anyone, but Ben had been walking that gauntlet his whole life.

“What happened?” you asked softly, carding your fingers gently through his hair.

Ben smacked his lips, almost in defeat. “He embarrassed me,” he replied with a short laugh that had no humor in it. His voice was bitter, but beneath it, was something more wounded. “Told the board upgrading the furnaces was a pointless waste of money. Called me a dreamer. In front of everyone.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him head-on, your expression sharp with fire. “Well, he’s wrong. Upgrading those furnaces is the smartest thing he could do right now. It’s basic efficiency math.”

Ben looked at you, surprised at the blazing flames in your eyes. Then, with a crooked grin, he teased, “You wanna be the one who tells him that?”

You shrugged. “Sure, I’ll happily calculate it out for him if he’s having trouble understanding. Honestly, I’m way smarter than your father.”

Ben laughed – an actual laugh this time – and shook his head, his fingers brushing your jaw affectionately. “Are you crazy? I was kidding.”

“So was I,” you lied smoothly, with a mischievous little tilt of your head, just enough to make him wonder if you actually meant it.

Ben glanced behind you then, at the mess of symbols and curves on the chalkboard. “What is all that?” he asked, brow furrowing in curiosity. “That doesn’t look like anything from my physics textbooks.”

“As if you’ve ever actually opened one,” you quipped in an attempt to deflect. You moved a bit to block his view, feeling a pang of panic in your chest, but you still played it cool, pretending like the board wasn’t covered in time-loop projections and multiverse theory. “Just something I’ve been working on. Helps me think.”

He eyed you with amused suspicion. “Right. Thinking.”

“It’s private,” you added with a smirk, drawing his attention back to your face.

“Well, come inside, will you? It’s still freezing out here.” He slipped his coat from his shoulder and wrapped it around you, brushing your hair back from your cheek. “I don’t want you turning into an icicle.”

You followed him out of the shed and toward the back steps of the mansion. As your boots hit the porch, a faint melody drifted through the door – soft, elegant, almost hesitant.

Ben paused, confusion spreading across his face. “Is that… the piano?”

You just smiled. You knew what he was thinking – if you were here, who was playing?

Inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around you. You stepped into the hallway outside the drawing room, where the grand Steinway stood like a forgotten relic – except it wasn’t forgotten now.

Ben’s mother sat poised at the keys, her fingers dancing over them with delicate grace. The melody was one of those half-remembered lullabies that felt like home.

Ben stood frozen. He hadn’t seen her like this in years.

“She’s been practicing again,” you said softly. “I asked her to teach me Chopin. Florence said it was her favorite to play.”

“Yeah, it was.” Ben nodded, entranced.

“We started talking,” you added. “She even took me to a tea room two weeks ago. I think it made her happy.”

“You went to a tea room?” He cocked a brow at you, an amused glint in the forest green of his eyes, faint traces of cinnamon freckles stretching with the hint of a smile.

“Yes, believe it or not.”

“Not.” Ben grinned teasingly. “Did you wear shoes?”

“Yes, of course I wore shoes!” You snorted, catching Margaret’s attention.

His mother looked up then, catching sight of her son. “Ben! Oh, sweetie, you’re home!”

Sweetie. You had not expected that nickname, but your heart swelled when you watched Ben’s face light up, strong brow twitching with specks of disbelief.

Margaret stood then and crossed the room with a composed kind of warmth, arms outstretched. She embraced him gently, then stepped back and cupped his cheeks, giving him a once-over like a mother appraising both her son and the state he’d returned in.

Then, with a glance past him toward you, her expression shifted. “I like her,” she said, voice low but meaningful. “You’ve got good taste… for once.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, just patted his cheek and turned back toward the piano with a small, knowing smile.

You stifled a snort. You’d grown very fond of Margaret Brooks in those last two weeks.

Ben blinked, still processing, and turned slowly to look at you. “What did you do to her?”

You smiled, laughing lightly at his bemusement. “Nothing. I just listened.”

“I think you might be magic, sweetheart,” he said, looking at you with something close to gratitude and awe.

If he only knew how right he was – in a way.

And between the music still lingering in the air of his childhood home and his mother’s sly approval, Ben felt something tighten in his chest then.

In the best way.

For six weeks of staying here, you had successfully avoided Ben’s father. But that lucky streak seemed to come to its bitter end at dinner tonight.

Tonight, the marvelous table was set with four plates: Ben, his mother, his father, and you – stuck right in the middle of the most awkward family dinner from Hell.

You sat at Ben’s left, your hands folded neatly in your lap, trying to ignore the gleam of polished silver forks (Three! And you had no idea which one to use first!) and the way the chair back dug sharply between your shoulder blades as the tension in the room built like storm pressure behind old glass.

Ben, on the other hand, looked calm enough, but you’d caught the slight twitch in his jaw when his father entered the room – black-suited, silver-templed, and cutting through the air like a Bowie knife.

Richard Brooks – steel magnate and professional tyrant from a long line of goddamn tyrants – sat down at the head of the table, only acknowledging you with a disapproving glance.

And yes, naturally, he was a Dick.

“I remember you mentioned a girl from school staying here.” The patriarch of the steel empire carved into his roast with casual violence, sipping his wine like it was penance, a pair of almond-shaped, glacier blue eyes zeroing in on his son. “Didn’t think you meant still staying here.”

You managed a polite smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Brooks.”

He gave a short nod that might’ve been a grunt, reaching for the wine glass before saying, “Likewise.”

Ben’s mother – composed in a deep jade green dress that complimented the glint in her eye – broke the tension with a dry, almost teasing, “She’s been keeping me company. And sane.”

You glanced at her in grateful surprise, but she didn’t look at you. Her gaze was squarely on her husband, almost daring him to challenge her.

Oh fuck. You had a feeling that dinner would derail soon enough. You still remembered how your own mother always looked when she wanted to pick a fight with your father. You could see that same desire in Mrs. Brooks tonight.

Richard’s eyes flicked to you as cutting as a scalpel. “Rosemary Hall, was it?”

You smiled, knowing your alibi by heart. “Yes, sir. We, uh, crossed paths with Ben’s group at Choate once or twice. We’ve stayed in touch.”

“Mmm.” He sounded unconvinced, like he already had a list of questions and was working through them in his mind. “And what is it you do, exactly?”

You gave an innocent shrug of your shoulders. “A little of everything. Read a lot. Try to keep busy.”

Mr. Brooks leaned back with a hum, wine glass in hand. “You read. Anything useful?”

Ben’s hand tensed slightly on the table. You felt it even without looking.

“I enjoy nonfiction,” you said smoothly. “Science, history, math when I’m in the mood. Nothing too impressive.”

“Science and math?” Richard scoffed like you’d said you moonlighted as a prizefighter. “Isn’t that a bit… optimistic for a girl?”

You met his stare with even calm. “I don’t think intelligence has ever been strictly gendered. Just how it’s been credited.”

Ben actually choked on his wine this time, coughing into his napkin. Richard ignored him.

“So, I assume you’ve been enjoying your stay here,” Ben’s father continued his interrogation, eyes narrowing slightly, sizing you up.

“It’s a beautiful house,” you said simply.

“Lot of history here. Good steel money.” His eyes locked on you again. “You know anything about steel?”

You smiled, your inner Puck cutting his leash. “Only what I’ve read.”

“Ah. Reading.” He said it like the word offended him.

“She reads a lot,” Ben added carefully. “She’s sharp.”

“Is that so?” Richard raised an eyebrow. “Tell me then,” he prompted, folding his hands like a man settling in for a test he already thought you’d fail. “What would you do to improve output at a steel mill running short on coal?”

Ben looked ready to leap across the table and strangle his father. He tried to interject, “Dad, this isn’t–”

“It’s alright,” you said quietly, placing a hand calmly on Ben’s forearm, eyes still on his father. “I’d retrofit the furnaces to burn at a higher temperature with less fuel, introduce more efficient airflow systems, and probably look into restructuring the shift rotations to reduce downtime between batches. But that’s just common sense.”

Margaret paused mid-pour of her wine, looking like she had to swallow a laugh. Ben slowly turned toward you, jaw slightly dropping an inch.

Richard didn’t blink. “Not something they typically cover in finishing school.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said slyly. “I didn’t finish.”

That earned a brief, surprised snort from Ben – quickly smothered.

Richard, clearly irritated now, muttered, “Sounds like a textbook answer. No real-world experience, though.”

You opened your mouth to argue your next crushing point, but Ben’s mother cut in smoothly, sipping her wine with the elegance of someone who had just stopped giving a fuck.

“Oh, for crying out, Richard! She’s smarter than half the men you’ve got working in your mills,” Margaret huffed, breaking her silence with a sharpened edge in her voice. “Maybe if you listened to people who weren’t trying to kiss your Oxfords, you’d save a fortune running those mills.”

Ben let out a short, shocked laugh before quickly covering it with a cough. His father looked like he’d been slapped with a linen napkin – too composed to lose his temper, but clearly rattled.

You, on the other hand, stared down at your plate, half-terrified and half-impressed, trying to decide if you’d just become part of the problem or part of the revolution.

Vive les femmes?

“Honestly, I think she’s brilliant. Much more interesting than that uptight Du Pont girl,” his mother quipped, her voice deceptively light.

Richard turned toward her, jaw clenched. “Grace was–”

“A snake in a silk blouse,” Margaret said flatly, cutting her husband right off. “We saw her at a tea room two weeks ago. She looked like she’d swallowed a lemon when she realized who I was sitting with.”

Ben shot you a glance, brow furrowed. You hadn’t exactly had time to mention that little tidbit yet.

However, Richard’s expression darkened. “We had plans with her family–”

“Well, they’ll survive,” Margaret snapped. “Just like we will. Unless you’ve somehow tied our entire legacy to a debutante with no charm and less spine.”

Holy shit. You’d unleashed a dragon from the dungeon, hadn’t you?

Ben’s eyebrows hit his hairline, while you tried your damnedest not to make eye contact with anyone.

“I don’t need to remind you,” Richard said tightly, “how much damage your son did with that stunt. Publicly humiliating the Du Ponts–”

Ben cleared his throat, clearly regretting every decision in his life that had led to this moment. His knife paused mid-cut. It didn’t fall on the plate with a clatter, but it may as well have.

“Grace and I were a bad match. I told you that.”

“You didn’t tell me anything. You just embarrassed her. Publicly. And in turn, humiliated me,” his father snapped. “What do you think the Du Ponts think of this family now? Do you have any idea how much business I’ve done with them over the last twenty years?”

Ben’s voice was tight. “That’s not a reason to marry someone.”

Richard finally looked up. “It is when you’re in this family.”

Silence spread across the table like a spilled drink. You could feel Ben bristle beside you, his hand flexing slightly against his napkin. You wanted to reach out, hold his hand, comfort him, but you knew showing any affection toward him right now in front of his father would hurt more than it would help.

“Maybe if you’d focused more on the business instead of chasing after schoolgirls,” his father’s blue eyes flickered sharply to you, “you wouldn’t have spent the last two weeks making a fool of yourself in front of the board.”

“Richard,” Margaret warned sharply.

“No, no,” her husband went on, holding up a finger to his wife and turning back to his son. “You let a good opportunity slip through your fingers. Grace was respectable. She had breeding. Her father understood the importance of building strong alliances. And instead, you’re off playing house with–”

“That’s enough, Richard,” Margaret cut in. She placed her wine glass down gently, but when she looked up, her face had none of its usual softness. Her voice didn’t shake. It fucking rang.

Richard turned, mildly surprised by the newfound edge in his wife. His jaw locked tight. “You’re enjoying this.”

Margaret took a sip of her wine, calmly meeting his glare, and then – she fucking smirked. “I’m finally starting to, yes.”

You stared down at your plate again, doing your best not to appear like you were about to vanish into the wallpaper. Ben, beside you, looked like he was watching a tennis match and had no idea which side he was supposed to root for.

“Margaret–”

She met his gaze dead-on. “Don’t you Margaret me, Richard. I’m not some ghost you can order in and out of a room when it suits you. I think I’ve held my tongue long enough. I’m done pretending I don’t have an opinion. I’ve spent the better part of two decades being managed. I’m not doing it anymore.”

Richard’s face had gone a strange shade of gray. “Don’t start with this–”

“I’m already started,” she cut in again. “You push and push and never ask yourself why your son’s miserable or why your house is a tomb. I’m tired of it. I’ve been tired of it. Our son is a grown man. You don’t own him. And you sure as hell don’t own me.”

Margaret sat back and crossed her arms. Richard stared, something cold flashing in his eyes. But he said nothing. Not a word. The dining room went deathly still.

“Now,” she said casually then, as if she hadn’t just hijacked dinner, lifting her wine glass, calm as a summer storm after it had come and gone. “Pass the potatoes.”

Ben did automatically, blinking at his mother like she’d just grown wings.

You stared down at your plate, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. Margaret caught your eye across the table and gave you the smallest, most deliberate wink.

Richard stabbed at his roast with renewed bitterness. He chewed slowly, as if the meal had lost its flavor.

But the balance in the room had shifted. Subtle. Permanent.

It was close to ten when you snuck out of the servants’ quarters and back to your room after your nightly hang out with Dottie. For the last two weeks, you’d been playing Gin Rummy together, chatting and giggling, while you taught her a bit of French.

She’d told you she wanted to live and work in France, travel the world a little. How could you not support that?

Besides, it was nice to have an actual friend in this time period.

As you passed through the hallway that led by the study, you froze and halted your breath, hearing the voices of father and son. You didn’t want to eavesdrop, but Richard Brooks’ authoritatively booming tone was hard to ignore.

“Would you stop with this furnace nonsense? You’re chasing goddamn pipe dreams, boy, and you’ve already embarrassed me and yourself enough for one week,” Richard grunted as you carefully leaned against the wall of the hallway, disappearing into the shadows of a potted plant.

Ben’s voice came cool, but tight. “It’s not nonsense. It works. We’ve been running the numbers.”

“We?”

There was a beat.

“She just listens,” Ben said quickly. “Talks things out with me.”

After a pause, there came a darkly amused scoff. Condescending. “Christ on a cross, you think your little romantic dreams make you stronger? You think this girl will somehow make you a man? She’s not going to help you, son. She’ll only drag you down. You think your little fantasy is going to lead anywhere? You think she’ll respect you for your weakness?”

Your heart pounded furiously in your ribcage, wanting to leap in there and choke the living hell out of that man. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm, your hands clenched into fists by your sides, trying to hold yourself back.

“You’re going to marry Grace Du Pont. End of discussion,” his father declared firmly. Whiskey was poured. A cigar was being lit. “Look, if you’re attached to your little plaything so badly, keep her on the side. You keep your fling quiet, where no one can see, you understand me, son? Just like I’ve always done. Or have you learned nothing from me? You don’t see me flaunting my affairs into your mother’s face, do you?”

Ben’s voice came out weak. Fragile. “I-… I won’t-… No, I won’t do that to her. I care about her. She’s not just some–”

“You think you’re fucking better than me?” his father cut in, tongue sharp as a machete. “You’re fucking weak, Benjamin. You’ve always been weak. You’re nothing without this family, boy. You’re nothing without my name, without the power, without the money. And I’ve given you all of it. Don’t you goddamn forget that.”

“I can’t do this, not for you, not for business,” Ben’s voice cracked with frustration. “This isn’t the life I want.”

Richard slammed a fist onto the desk, the sound loud enough to make you flinch. “Benjamin, I’m warning you! You’re going to do your duty. This is what’s best for you. What’s best for this family. Just look at me and your mother. You think she was some great catch?” he huffed bitterly. “Look where it got us. I’m trying to save you from the same goddamn mistakes I made. Maybe then you won’t be as disappointed as I am that your son turned out to be as dumb and weak as a blade of grass.”

That manipulative fucking a–

You clenched your jaw so tightly it almost shattered. And then, your inner Puck took over the wheel. Just for a few seconds.

You hit Pause on the remote control. Not on the world, not on the house, not on the men in the study. No, you only paused one little withering, black, rotten but still beating organ. Not long – only till one… two… three… four–

“Dad? Are you alright?”

Play.

A tear slipped down your cheek, body trembling. Would you actually have done it? Would you have killed someone? Even someone as cruel and awful as Ben’s father?

They’d be better off without him, though, wouldn’t they? You’d do this family and probably the whole world a favor by getting rid of him. But you could hear the worry, the concern, the fear in Ben’s voice. Even if it wasn’t strong, just barely there, just for a fraction of a second – you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

“‘M fine.” A grunt. A clear of a throat. “Now get out of my sight. I don’t have any use for you. You’ve already disappointed me enough this week.”

A moment passed before you held your breath, hearing Ben’s footsteps shuffle away. As the study door closed, you stood there for a few beats, unsure whether to go to him or leave him be. Before you could make up your mind, he rounded the corner and suddenly appeared in front of you.

Ben halted, stunned for a second before his brows drew into tight little Vs. His jaw ticked once, teeth grinding, shoulders tense as he stared at you.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly. Carefully.

“Are you always eavesdropping on private conversations that don’t concern you?”

So he was defensive. Fair enough, you thought.

“Ben–”

He blew right past you without another word, but you quickly trailed after him, catching his wrist. He spun halfway toward you, brow raised, gaze unamused.

“What?” he snapped “Look, whatever you wanna say, save it for another day. I don’t wanna hear it right–”

“I love you.”

And then, time stopped on its own for once. Like God herself had clicked the button on top of her stopwatch.

No flick of your wrist. No whispered thought. Just a heartbeat too loud, a silence too deep.

The world itself held its breath and leaned in to listen, freezing out of respect for your widely open heart. The hum of everything around you dulled, dimmed, as if your powers sensed your panic and intervened, offering you this one impossible second to exist in the aftermath of what you’d just confessed.

What the fuck had you done? You hadn’t exactly planned on blurting out those three little but hugely impactful words. They just broke loose like a wild animal that had been caged against its will.

You had never meant to say them at all. Not to him. Not here.

And Ben didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

For a second, you weren’t sure if you hadn’t accidentally hit the Pause button, after all. But something in his forest green eyes flickered like a candlelight in the breeze – a stutter in the armor.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just exhaled slowly. That big, proud chest rising and falling like it was taking him real effort to stay composed.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Your voice was shaking, quiet. You swallowed. “I just wanted you to know.”

And then Ben finally looked at you.

The crinkles around his eyes, the tensely furrowed brow – it all vanished, softened just for you.

You looked at him – at the guy you shouldn’t trust, shouldn’t fall for, shouldn’t love. And your heart was tearing itself in half trying to hold onto both versions of him.

The one standing in front of you. And the one you’d seen in nightmares.

And still.

Still.

You loved him.

It was like falling off a building you’d already jumped from – the moment your feet left the edge and there was no turning back.

Slowly, reverently, Ben lifted a hand and touched your face. His thumb brushed your cheek like he was checking to see if you were real – like he wasn’t quite sure this wasn’t a daydream where you’d be gone again by morning.

He closed the space between you in a single step, cupping your neck in both hands, almost afraid time could run out and he’d miss his chance.

His mouth crashed against yours.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was raw and full of everything he hadn’t said – all the longing, all the fury, all the years he’d swallowed down like bitter medicine. His hands trembled against your skin, and you kissed him back as if the moment had been waiting for you both.

The universe had cracked open and poured you two together. With force. With purpose.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathless.

A soft chuckle, laced around the edges with disbelief, escaped with a breath out. “You know, I always thought that if you ever said those words, it’d be after I rescued you from a burning building or carried you out of enemy fire. Not-, you know, the hallway after my father calls me a waste of space.”

You smiled a little at his joke while your heart sank at the message it tried to cover. Your hands slid up his chest and around his neck, fingers playing with soft strands of hair, nails scraping along skin.

“You’re not weak, you know?” you said, Ben’s eyes snapping to you, widening for a mere second. His brow twitched with a crinkle of disbelief. “You’re not stupid. You're strong... and kind... and smart. You’re a good man. And I love you exactly for who you are.”

Ben exhaled sharply, emerald eyes staying on you. His mouth pressed into a tight, pained line. And for a moment, he just looked at you like he was trying to memorize the way you said those words.

Your heart was thrashing in your chest, your stomach dropping somewhere below the floorboards, but you offered him the barest of smiles. “And yeah, maybe I like to keep you on your toes a little.”

“You really do.” He huffed a laugh, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “God, you do.”

His lips met yours – no hesitation, no space, no breath. Just fire. His large hands gripped your waist, dragged you against him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like the sound of your confession had set him off like a match to gasoline.

No teasing. No build-up. Just raw, unfiltered need.

You moaned into his mouth as he backed you into the wall, lips devouring, tongue sweeping in like he couldn’t get enough – like he never had and never would.

His hands were everywhere, sliding up your sides, curling around your hips, tugging you closer like he couldn’t stand another inch of space between you. He was rough and reverent all at once, palms mapping flesh like a man starving for it. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers tangling in his hair, heart slamming against your ribs.

His kiss was all tongue and teeth, sucking at your bottom lip like he wanted to ruin you. Ben then broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. You smiled, dizzy and aching.

You searched his eyes, your voice barely a whisper, wrecked and breathless. “You think-, uhm, you think I can stay in your bedroom tonight?”

Ben stared at you for half a second, then smiled – crooked, hungry, and so full of something deeper it made your stomach flip. He looked at you like he’d dreamt those words a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d love that, sweetheart.”

Then he reached down, interlacing his fingers with yours – steady, sure. Without another word, he led you toward his room. No rush. No hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of a man who’d been waiting for this moment since the second he met you.

Ben’s hand stayed in yours as he led you through the quiet house. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. Every brush of his thumb over your knuckles said enough.

The rest of the mansion was asleep. But your pulse? Wild and awake.

Ben led you into his room like a secret he’d been aching to keep. The door shut behind you with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have, your hand slipping out of his.

Suddenly, the silence felt heavier, almost sacred. The dim light from the moon outside cut across the floorboards, and the faint scent of tobacco and cedar hung in the air. This was his space – messy, masculine, lived-in.

A lamp flickered to life – soft, amber light pooling low from a desk near the far wall. Books, worn paperbacks with bent corners, were stacked unevenly on the nightstand. Jazz records lined the shelf above a modest phonograph. The dark green quilt on his bed looked like something his mother might’ve sewn years ago and he never had the heart to throw it out.

It was the first time you saw his edges dulled.

You stood near the door, heart a riot in your chest. You’d kissed him. You’d told him the one truth you hadn’t barely dared to say to yourself until tonight. You let out a slow breath and turned toward the bookshelf like it might anchor you. Your fingers skimmed the spines.

Ben leaned back against the door for a beat, watching you in the low light. Then he smiled. Not the cocky smirk he wore like a jacket most days. This one was slow, knowing, edged with a kind of quiet wonder.

“Snooping for secrets already? You walk in here and start looking at my bookshelf like you’re trying to read me.”

“Maybe I am,” you said cheekily, glancing at him over your shoulder. But your smile was nervous, your fingers twisting together, fidgeting. He noticed.

Ben pushed off the door and crossed the room slowly, his steps careful across the creaking floorboards. He came to stand behind you. Not touching, not pushing – just close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back. But you felt the shift in the air, like he was circling, waiting, watching.

His voice, when he spoke again, was low and warm as bourbon in your ear. “You know, you don’t have to be nervous.”

Easier said than done.

“I know.” You huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe I’m still hoping you’ll talk me out of it.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” An amused smile grazed his lips. “That’s not really my specialty.”

You swallowed as he stepped even closer, eyes locked on yours. There was a heat in his gaze now, something molten and dangerous. He stopped just short of touching you again, like he was giving you one last chance to walk away.

But you didn’t.

You turned to face him fully, seeing the slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he didn’t want to scare you with too much charm. He closed the final gap and cupped your cheek, thumb tracing the soft curve beneath your eye.

“Gotta say, that was probably one of the wildest dinners I’ve ever experienced in this house,” Ben joked lightly, trying to calm your jittering nerves a little. “You sure all you did was listen to my mother?”

A grin spread on your face, teeth tugging at your lower lip. “I might have asked one or two thought-provoking questions…”

Ben chuckled, the sound warm and deep in his chest. “Yeah, you’re good at that.”

“I’m sorry I kind of riled up your mother and derailed dinner,” you said but could hardly hide the smile.

“Don’t be,” Ben said with a small laugh, but then his face turned more serious, palm warm against your cheek. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. What he said in the study. You’re not just some girl to me. You know that, right?”

You nodded. You believed him. Even now, with your pulse racing and your skin burning, you believed him.

And then Ben kissed you like he meant to ruin you for anyone else. Slow at first – just lips and breath and the lazy drag of time stretching between your bodies. But then he coaxed your mouth open with a low groan, hands sliding down your back to anchor you to him. You gasped into the kiss as his hips pressed flush to yours.

“You been holding out on me, you know that?” His lips grazed your cheek, the line of your jaw, down to your throat. “All that time pretending you didn’t want this.”

“I didn’t,” you said, breath hitching. “I mean, I did. But I was trying not to.”

His mouth brushed your collarbone, all smug and sin. “Yeah, I noticed. But here’s the thing – now that you’re here? In my room? Saying things like you love me? You might’ve just started something you can’t walk away from.”

He kissed you slowly – more tender than before. His hands moved like he was memorizing you. Your ribs, your spine, the dip of your hips. He wanted to learn you by heart. And every place he touched made you feel more grounded, more here.

“But you know, you don’t have to,” he said softly then, seriously. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. I meant it when I said you could stay. Just stay.”

“I know.” You nodded, swallowing. “But I want to. There’s just something I want you to know first.”

You looked up at him, your breath shaking, and leaned in close – so close your lips brushed against the shell of his ear as you stretched on tiptoes. And then you whispered the most personal thing about you.

Your real name.

The syllables tasted both foreign and familiar on your tongue. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of trust. Of meaning. Of everything you hadn’t said before.

His lips curved into that crooked, brazen smile – the one he always used when he didn’t want you to know what he truly felt.

“Yeah, that suits you a lot better than the other,” he said, lips ghosting over yours. “Secret’s safe with me, sweetheart.”

You smiled shyly. “You’re not gonna ask more questions?”

“No.” He shook his head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and murmured, “I don’t care where you came from or why you don’t talk about it. I just care that you’re here. With me.”

All that tension you’d been carrying for weeks cracked open between you like lightning splitting the sky. And then, his mouth was on yours again, hungrier this time, no hesitation. Just heat. Just want. A coaxing, intoxicating rhythm, like he was trying to draw every last ounce of hesitation from your body and replace it with pleasure.

Your bodies fitted together with maddening ease. You kissed him back just as fiercely, arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his shirt like you’d fall if you let go. He whispered your name between kisses like it was an oath he meant to keep. He was tasting it, memorizing it, falling into it.

And when his lips found your neck, trailing heat along your skin, your knees nearly buckled.

“Let me take care of you,” he muttered, mouth brushing just under your ear. His hands grazed your arms, then trailed to your back, fingertips featherlight along your spine until they found the zipper. He leaned in, lips near your ear. “Turn around for me.”

You did, heart thudding wildly as your back faced him. You felt his body press behind you, firm and hot and steady. His hands slid over your sides, settling on your waist. Then came the kiss to your shoulder. Another at the base of your neck.

Once. Twice.

You felt the agonizingly slow tug of your zipper like he was unwrapping something rare, revealing just enough to make your skin prickle with heat. His knuckles skimmed down your spine, and you gasped when his mouth followed, kissing between your shoulder blades, then your lower back.

He wasn’t rushing. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying the wait. Every kiss he pressed to your spine loosened you more, drove you crazy with need.

“Christ,” he rasped behind you. “You have no idea what you do to me. You know, I’ve imagined this… What you’d look like in here. What you’d sound like.” His voice roughened as he spoke, “I want to take my time. Want to hear you gasp when I touch you just right. Want to see your face when you fall apart.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The dress slipped past your hips, pooling at your feet in a soft whisper. You didn’t move to step out of it yet. You couldn’t. You felt too seen. Too bare. And yet, his hands were still gentle – one smoothing up your arm, the other tracing your waist.

Ben didn’t pull away. No, he pressed closer, one hand splayed low on your stomach, the other gently cupping your jaw to turn your face back toward his.

“You’re beautiful,” he said against your cheek. “But that’s not why I want you.”

He turned you slowly to face him again, gaze roaming your figure, half-lidded and devout, as if he was seeing you for the first time, and you were made of something breakable.

“I want you because you’re smart. Sharp. Trouble.” He smirked against your lips, teasing, coaxing, tempting.

He kissed you then. Deeper now, fuller. The kind of kiss that made the world blur around you. The heat curled between you two like a flame, your hands impatiently fumbling at his belt like you were already ablaze.

But Ben stilled them, gently catching your wrists.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispered, one brow arched in amusement. “Don’t rush. I’m not some boy fumbling in the dark. And you’re not some quick thing I’m gonna forget. This goes how I want it to go, and I want you to feel everything.”

You swallowed thickly. Jesus fucking Christ, you’d signed your own death warrant by coming into this room, hadn’t you?

It wasn’t like you’d never suspected how this would go. Oh no, it had always been more than a sneaking suspicion. You’d caught his older counterpart in enough compromising positions with even more questionable people. You’d heard the stories, both from young and old. About coat check rooms and closets and God knows what else.

No, you knew what you were getting into. Sort of. The real thing was still wilder, bolder, more thrilling than you’d ever imagined.

His thick, long fingers brushed your cheek, then your throat, then down between your heaving breasts. He smirked, looking down at you. “Me first.”

And then, the hand on your back unclasped your brassiere with an easy flick of his wrist, the straps sliding off your shoulders and down your arms, soft cotton and lace falling away. His tongue licked the smile off his lips, his green eyes fixed on your tits like they were something sacred he was about to worship.

“Christ, look at you.” He grinned, brushing his knuckles under them like he was testing gravity itself. “I should send a goddamn thank-you letter to the stars for you. What else you keepin’ from me, sweetheart?”

He dragged his thumb across your nipple, eyes darkening. He leaned in then, kissed the swell of the other one, smirk deepening as you shivered and whimpered.

“Ben–” You held in a moan as he hummed against your throat. “I’m close to internally combusting.”

And God, you were soaking wet. It was almost embarrassing since he had barely touched you at any of the spots that usually did it for you. No one had ever made you feel this way.

Your plea made him chuckle warmly against your lips, just hovering, not giving in. “I like you impatient.”

“Ben–”

Your protest was cut off by one searing kiss. His eyes roamed you, deliberate and dark with hunger – worship and want, equal parts sin and salvation.

“You want me to be gentle?” he asked before his voice dipped, gravel and smoke. “Or you want it rough? Let me ruin you a little?”

“Fuck,” was the answer you breathed out.

He grinned, wicked and wrecked. “Thought so.”

This time, you claimed his lips, needy and close to starving. “I want you,” you said breathlessly. “However you want me.”

That was all it took.

Ben guided you backward till you sat on the bed, your palms feeling the soft sheets underneath.

And then he fucking knelt.

Right between your legs, spreading them inch by inch as warm, large hands trailed up your thighs, squeezing taut flesh as they went. He kissed your knee, then the soft skin above it. Then another, higher still.

“Want you to know something,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy smile creeping across his face. His eyes met yours, your hands carding through his hair, eager to get him where you needed him most.

He was slow poison through and through.

“I’ve dreamed about this. Wondered if you’d ever let me touch you like that. Taste you,” he continued, voice like silk and sin.

His palm climbed up to your waist, higher and higher till it grabbed a handful of your tit. Squeezed. Groped. You gasped, legs shaking underneath his grip as calloused fingers rubbed and pinched your pebbled nipple between them.

You let your head fall back, lips parting, breath stuttering, hair like spilled ink on the mattress. You waved your white flag. This was your swan song.

“I’ve imagined unzipping that dress with my bare teeth.” Ben kissed the hollow of your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your underwear. You could feel the smugness on his lips. “Sliding my hands over every inch of you until you stopped pretending you didn’t want it just as bad.”

His fingers tightened slightly at your waist, like he was grounding himself, keeping his control on a leash.

“I wanted to ruin you since the second I saw you,” he breathed. “With my hands. My mouth. My cock. All of it. I wanted you soaked and begging.”

You sucked in a breath, unbearable tension curling tight beneath your skin.

“Waited to hear you breathe like this,” he whispered, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. “To feel you tremble when I touch you.” His lips brushed the inside of your thigh. “To make you mine in every way a man can possibly want. I want to know how you sound when you break for me.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter. But it fucking did.

His hands wandered beneath the last bit of lace and silk you were still wearing, worshiping the lines and curves of your thighs like they were sacred text and he was a man long denied prayer.

He slid your underwear down with infuriating gentleness.

“You’re soaked, sweetheart… and I haven’t even kissed you there yet.” Then he paused just long enough to look up at you again, eyes dark with want, but still asking.

When you nodded, he grinned like the devil.

“Good girl.”

And then he was fucking on you.

Time blurred. You lost sense of everything except the press of his sinful lips, the drag of his massive hands, the rhythm he built and broke and built again until your whole body trembled beneath him. He made you fall apart slowly, then all at once, like he’d known exactly how to unravel you from the start.

And Ben goddamn watched you. Every flicker of your reaction. Every shiver. Every breath. He adjusted to you, read you like a language only he understood.

And when your hips began to rise into his mouth, when the tension wound so tight it felt like your whole body might snap from the pleasure of it – he never fucking let up. He held you there, devoured you, groaned like he was drunk on the taste of you.

“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on,” he said, mouth wet and warm against your clit.

The high hit like a wave, dragged from you slow and hard and deep until you were gasping, boneless, shattered. You reached for him blindly, fingers digging into his arms, his scalp, thighs clenching on his shoulders.

“God, look at you,” he said, crawling back up your body, his mouth slick with proof of your surrender. “You’re fucking perfect.”

His lips sought yours, tasting you like he hadn’t already just had everything. Your hands found his chest, the ridges of muscle underneath his shirt, pulling him in with a desperation that surprised even you.

Ben caught your hand and kissed your wrist, then your palm. “You still want this?” he asked, voice hoarse, his restraint visibly fraying.

You bit your lip, nodding helplessly, and he smiled as he kissed your fingers, then brought your hand down to rest against the bulge in his pants.

He was thick and firm and aching for you.

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly for a beat before you witnessed the wrecked look on his faintly freckled face.

“Feel that?” he asked softly, voice warm and rough and trembling at the edges. “That’s what you do to me.”

Then, he stood up, his gaze locked on yours, and he began undressing in front of you.

Slow.

Confident.

Every movement deliberate.

You watched him unbutton his shirt like he knew the effect each flick of fabric was having on you until it slid off his broad shoulders and onto the floor.

Then came the belt.

He undid the buckle with the kind of composure that made your throat dry. Like he wanted you to feel every beat of anticipation between each soft clink that echoed off the walls. His pants followed, unhurried all the same till he finally kicked them off.

And then he stood bare and beautiful in the flickering lamplight, lean muscle and heat and a low, knowing smile that made your stomach flip. There was something timeless about him in that moment. Like something carved from firelight and dark earth. A god pretending to be a man.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Ben said, stepping closer again, a smile of amusement playing on his lips. “You’re staring, sweetheart.”

“Uh-huh.”

Yeah, your brain had gone on vacation at this point.

His cock was long and thick and pulsing, head red and leaking, waiting to wrap itself in you and erupt.

“Still nervous?”

But you shook your head, giving him a soft smile as you found his green eyes. “No, I want you. Want you inside of me.”

Ben leaned in, catching your lips for a kiss, his gaze darkening, hand tangling in your hair at the back of your head. “Yeah? Want more? Want me stretchin’ you wide, sweet girl?”

“Ben, please…” Your words were half a plea, half a prayer.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He shushed you gently. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you,” he said, kneeling back on the bed, crawling over you again like a promise, pressing you into the mattress as he kissed his way up your body.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “Tell me when it’s not enough.”

You exhaled a strangled breath, a quiet plea caught in the back of your throat, and his mouth curled into a smile against your stomach.

“You wanted me to learn something? Well, I’m going to learn you,” he rasped, kissing higher, past your ribs, past your tits, past your collarbone. “Every sound, every shiver. I’ll know what makes you cry out and what makes you beg, sweetheart.”

His nose dragged along your throat, and then his mouth claimed yours with a bruising force. You felt his throbbing length press against your stomach, between your thighs, hot and heavy and unashamedly ready. He groaned into the kiss, hungry and feral.

Your hands reached for him without thought, fingers skimming the soft lines of his chest, the hard edge of his jaw. He nudged your thighs apart gently with his knee, lips dragging across your neck, your shoulder, the slope of your breast.

And then, with that same careful, aching control, he pushed into you.

The air left your lungs in a single, broken gasp of his name.

Pressure. Stretch. Fullness.

Ben groaned, low in his throat, forehead pressing against yours as he bottomed out. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, and maybe he was.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed into your shoulder, sharp teeth grazing your neck. “God, you feel so good. So goddamn tight. So wet for me.”

And then he began to move.

Slow. Deep. Unforgiving in the best way. He thrust into you like he knew what you needed before you could say it, hips rolling with a confidence that left your toes curling and your brain short-circuiting.

And yet he still teased – still whispered things that made your cheeks burn and your thighs shake. “You like that, sweetheart?” he murmured against your ear. “Still think I’d wait this long, want you this badly, if this was just some fling?”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You barely managed to shake your head as you arched into him, legs wrapped around his waist, chasing the edge he kept just barely out of reach. Every gasp, every helpless little cry pulled from your throat was an answer.

Your body opened to him like you were made to fit around him, like you’d been waiting for this exact moment your whole life and everything before had just been a poor imitation of what it meant to be filled like this – held like this.

“Ben,” you gasped, nails raking down his back.

He hissed, pace stuttering for a moment – like you’d hit a nerve he hadn’t expected.

He fucked you harder then. A little rougher. Just enough to make the headboard creak and the bed shudder beneath you. And still, his mouth stayed on yours – kissing you through every moan, every cry, every stammer of breath.

His kisses were just as hard as the snap of his hips – needy, grateful, desperate. He moved inside you, dragged his cock through your walls like he was chasing salvation.

It was all teeth and tongue now, urgent and primal, like he’d waited long enough and couldn’t stand another second of holding back.

“Just like that,” he groaned against your lips. “That’s it. You’re doing so good, baby.”

His thrusts slowed only just enough for you to breathe, hand finding yours on the bed, threading his fingers between yours like it was instinct.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he husked, eyes locking with yours. “Taking me like you were made for it.”

“Fuck–” Your breath stuttered when he adjusted the angle slightly, only driving deeper into you. “Feel so good…”

“Yeah? Feel that stretch? That heat? That fullness?” He smirked devilishly against your jaw, but his voice was just as wrecked and ruined as yours. “All you, sweetheart. That’s what you do to me.”

His words melted something inside you, dissolved that last flicker of resistance, that echo of fear still whispering in the corners of your mind. You arched into him, mouth catching his in a kiss that was more desperation than grace.

He chuckled against your lips. “That’s it. Give it to me. Everything you’ve been holding back.”

You were too far gone to reply, seeing the pearly gates of Heaven, Saint Peter, Jesus, and fucking God herself.

“Want you to remember this,” he whispered, deep voice rough and broken. “Every time you close your eyes. I want you to remember how I make you feel. How I take care of you. How no one else even comes close.”

Something inside you broke then and you fell apart.

You shuddered around him with a cry you couldn’t hold back, stars bursting behind your eyelids as everything snapped apart and came back together in the shape of his name.

“Shit–”

Ben cursed low and dark at the feel of you tightening around him, grinding deep as his rhythm fell apart, muttering your name, your real name, like a prayer. Hips stuttered, a desperate, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he followed you into the fire, spilling hot and heavy into you.

The world went quiet after that.

Just the two of you. Tangled together, sweat-slick and panting, your hearts thudding in sync. You felt the weight of him settling over you. Not crushing. Not heavy. Just perfect.

Full.

Slowly, Ben lifted his head, brushing his nose against yours. His eyes were still dark, but softer now. His fingers brushed your damp hair back from your face, caressed your cheeks with a tenderness that didn’t match the way he’d just wrecked you – like a man who could build and break with equal skill.

He kissed the top of your head – steady, worshipful, possessive as if he knew he owned every part of you now. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiled breathlessly. “More than okay.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not done with you yet.” He smirked that lazy, crooked smile again. “I meant it,” he said then, pulling back just enough to look at you. “All of it. I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers drifting up into his hair. “Me neither,” you whispered and placed a chaste kiss to his lips.

Something flickered behind his green eyes. Wonder. Hunger. A softness you’d never seen in anyone before, let alone someone like him.

Ben didn’t move right away. Just stayed there – still inside you, still wrapped around you, like you were something holy he hadn’t quite figured out how to pray to yet.

When he finally eased out of you carefully, you hissed softly at the sensitivity. He murmured something apologetic against your skin, kissing the hollow of your throat before pulling you into his chest.

You could still feel the echo of his mouth between your legs, the stretch of his cock, the hum of it throbbing inside you like a secret he branded into your bones.

Ben wrapped his arms around you and kissed your temple, sighing and tucking you closer. “You better get used to this room, sweetheart. There’s no chance in Hell, I’m letting you sleep down the hall anymore.”

That earned him a breathy laugh from you. “No?”

“Nope,” he said, entirely too smug. “I’ve waited too damn long. I’m going to ruin you – nicely. Thoroughly. Respectfully.”

You snorted, and he grinned against your hair.

But God help you because he surely made good on that promise all through the night.

▶️ Chapter 9: As Time Goes By

I honestly have to say I was so happy he finally got what he wanted. He really has been waiting for this since Chapter 1 😂 I hope you guys enjoyed this! For a while, I had a phase again where I really hated writing smut, but there's just something so pure about two characters exploring one another for the first time that makes it a lot more fun ❤️‍🔥

Only two more chapters in 1942. Get ready, loves!

Coming Up:

“You know, we’ve got plans, you and me,” Ben said suddenly.

“What kind of plans?” you asked, brow raised, shifting a little to look up at him.

“I said I’d figure out a way out of that hellhole for both of us. I still mean it,” Ben said, deep voice untypically hesitant like he was testing the idea out loud for the first time. “I’ve been looking at houses.”

You sat up a little, your heart pounding like a demolition hammer, throat dry. “You-, uh, you have?”

Ben nodded and smiled. “There’s one I keep going back to. Found it last week, and I don’t know… Feels right. I think you’d like it. Needs some work, though. A lot of work, actually… The porch steps need replacing, the roof’s a mess, and the windows rattle like a haunted saloon.”

“So perfect, then.”

“Perfect,” he echoed.

You were speechless. You’d never suspected he’d been dreaming behind your back. But you wanted to answer. God, you wanted to say yes and kiss him senseless and let the night carry you straight into forever. But reality tugged like a thread at the edge of your dress.

The part of you that lived in spreadsheets and time travel formulas wanted to tell him that buying a house with a girl who could theoretically be ripped out of this timeline at any moment was probably not a sound financial decision.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

Same! Can’t believe it’s been 1.5 months, but here we are 😂🩵

No, no, no! Talk to him! He’ll understand! Just don’t walk out because his parents are back. 

Pfff communication is not their strong suit 😂

Okay, on the one hand, I get it. Staying indefinitely and not revealing she’s a supe from the future isn’t a great option, especially since that doesn’t even seem possible right now. But hurting him isn’t great either. Now I’m worried/wondering…does she leave and that drives Ben to join the Vought Trial? Or does she being a supe give him the confidence (or spite or feel the need to keep up) to go and participate? Is she a factor in creating the monster she fears in the future???

I think the problem reader mostly has, is that there are too many options with too many possible outcomes. Poor girl will fry her brilliant brain at some point lol

Oh, so many questions! Since you’re already ahead, I know I already answered some of them, but loops are definitely a tricky thing 😉

I’m starting to think Ben would have been better off being raised by wolves. 

Lmfao agreed!!! 🤣🤣

Yup, that foundation has always been there and with his father back in town, I fear Dottie’s right and Ben will find it harder to be his truer, kinder self and instead fall into playing the role his father forces on him.

Absolutely! He’s caught in a bad cycle and his father’s influence is something he’ll always have a hard time getting away from, but we’ll see if reader already corrupted him enough to rebel 😇

Ugh, I feel for him during his whole rant. Yeah, he’s drunk and angry but ultimately he’s just scared of being left alone with that father of his again. I’ve been struggling to come up with but I think it’s clicked for me that he just has NO support in his life and he’s so desperate to cling to it with Y/N now that he’s gotten a taste.. Everything is a quid pro quo situation. No one just…is there for him. I think that’s part of why her gift to him last part broke his brain a bit because it was done out of care and nothing more.

Yup, exactly ❤️‍🩹 Poor boy just finally found something that is just his and he’s trying to hold on tight 🥲

Before reader, he really didn’t have anyone and she’s the first person that has shown genuine interest and care in what he thinks, feels and wants. Now that he has it, he can’t imagine life without it…

Oh man, that whole conversation with his mother…she’s lost all hope for Ben while the reader’s has been found. This was so so so good!

I really wanted to show her hopelessness and situation too. She’s been suppressed for so long that she thinks there’s nothing she can do anymore to stop her husband or save her son. But we already know it won’t stay that way and Margaret finds her warrior spirit again 😉

Time After Time – Chapter 7

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, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, freely invented historical gossip, major angst alert & a bit of fluff

Word Count: 10.5k

Posted on Patreon April 11, 2025

A/N: Three angsty converstions in this one, three women, and one very upset Ben! Plus, a deep dive into Mrs. Brooks! If ya can't tell by the word count again, I clearly loved writing this part 😂🫶 ✨ Chapter title comes from The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 7: Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

It had been an agonizing hour of pacing, second-guessing, and questioning everything that had led you here – to this strange, impossible life you had stumbled into.

A huge fucking pile of steaming hot shit, basically.

You hadn’t been able to sit still since Ben’s parents returned, your thoughts racing in a thousand different directions. Each time your footsteps neared the door of the guest bedroom, they became anxiously quiet and soft, however, not wanting to alert anyone to your presence. Every moment in this mansion felt like a misstep, a mistake you couldn’t undo.

The knot in your stomach twisted tighter.

You should’ve left a long time ago, but you had gotten too comfortable here – too cozy and snuggly with Ben, like he was your goddamn security blanket. But you cared about him and cared about what would happen to him, so the last thing you wanted at this point was to cause any more trouble for him, especially with his father.

So, you decided to leave.

You started throwing a few outfits from your closet onto the bed, only wanting to take the most necessary items before realizing you didn’t even own a bag big enough to stuff it in. But you had your magical remote control back, so your plan was to hit pause on the whole fucking mansion, grab a suitcase from somewhere, sneak out, and maybe rob a bank for some pocket change on your way out of dodge.

Yup, good plan.

But what about Ben? Were you leaving him behind, too?

Realistically, you knew it was the smartest choice. As wonderful, otherworldly, and addicting as that newfound, blooming feeling in your heart was, you knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere but into turmoil. This relationship didn’t have a future.

Period.

Either you’d lie to him for the rest of both your lives – however long that would be – or you’d hurt him. There was no other option.

Could you tell him? Could he handle the truth? Vought didn’t even exist yet. Right now, the Nazis were working on Compound V. To Ben, people gaining superpowers would be an alien concept.

‘Hey, uh, by the way, I have superpowers that let me control time, and I’m also from the future, and we don’t actually like each other there. And oh, yeah, you’re still alive in 2023 because some crazy Nazi geneticist will inject you with this serum that turns you into an invincible asshole.’

Nope, you couldn’t imagine that conversation going over well. He’d be either incredibly mad or not believe you at all. Then what?

Fuck.

With fingers trembling, you moved toward the window, glancing out at the muddy street, knowing the path to your escape lay beyond the mansion’s high gates. You were in a mess of your own making – a mess that had to end before you caused any more disruptions. His father was back, and that in itself was a disaster waiting to happen.

It had all been doomed from the start.

But then, just as you were about to gather your courage to finally get the fuck out of here, a knock at the door startled you from your thoughts and broke the tension in the air. Cautiously, you approached it, hand hovering on the knob as you braced yourself for the inevitable.

However, as you twisted it and opened the door a crack, your eyebrows shot up in surprise as you spied your visitor. It wasn’t Ben, his father, or even his mother.

“Dottie?” Your brow furrowed in confusion before you noticed the silver tray with a plate of food and a cup of tea in her hands.

“I brought you something to eat,” she said as she stood in the doorway, her expression one of tentative curiosity. You quickly wiped your palms against your skirt, standing a little straighter as she entered and set the tray down on your nightstand.

“Did Florence or Frances send you?” you asked warily. You knew you weren’t her favorite person, but she shook her head.

“No, just figured you were hungry since you’re missing dinner. I didn’t think Florence wants you starving up here,” she replied, her lips curling into something between a smirk and a sigh. “You dodged a bullet there, by the way. Family dinner is a bit… tense tonight. Lots of awkward silences and judgmental glares. Not that it’s something new per se…”

You were close to a migraine the way you strained your brow, blinking at the young maid in bemusement and shaking your head. “Thank you, uhm… I honestly didn’t think you cared about me… or even liked me,” you noted with an uncertain smile.

Dottie eyed you with a hint of mischief and approval in her gaze, a secretive smirk playing on her lips. “You’re not like the other girls who have come and gone through here. They fall over themselves trying to impress Ben, you know? But you don’t play that game. It’s… refreshing. You’ve got some fire in you. I respect that.”

“Fire?” You cocked an eyebrow, sitting down on the edge of the bed to nibble on your food. You were almost too nervous to eat with your ever-knotted stomach.

Dottie gifted you a warm smile. “Yeah, I’ve heard how you talk to him. I also overheard what you said that night about me at dinner. You stood up for me. Just wanted to repay the favor.”

Your lips hiked a smile. “You’re welcome. And thank you… again.”

Your head bobbed, your fingers playing with a piece of bread roll. You were unsure if you should be flattered you were considered special or uncomfortable with the apparently long list of girls that had waltzed through this house.

Dottie seemed to notice your unease and plopped down on the mattress next to you. “Anyway, I thought you might need someone to talk to. We all like you, you know? The whole house. Especially George. He thinks you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met. You’re different.” She shrugged and sent you another encouraging smile.

Cheeks blushing, you swallowed thickly and met her gaze. “So, things are tense downstairs?”

“Oh, yeah. The old man is furious because Grace’s father called him in upset, saying his daughter had been crying all night because of what Benjamin did to her,” Dottie told you and rolled her eyes back, scoffing. “All fake, of course. Charlotte, the maid of the Du Pont’s, said she was completely fine and consoling herself with one of the Kennedy boys when they were visiting in Cape Cod.”

“Whoa, hold on…” You vividly shook your spinning head and held up a hand, blinking at Dottie’s waterfall of information. “Du Pont? As in the chemical industry empire?”

“That’s the one,” Dottie sang in bitter nonchalance, a bit of judgment swinging in her voice. She clearly wasn’t a fan of the people she worked for – the elite families that not only excluded people like her and you but also disregarded you as human beings altogether.

“And you guys talk among each other? I mean, the staff?”

Dottie snorted a laugh, heavily nodding. “Yes, we gossip a lot. These people always think they’re better than us, but they got more shit on them than you can find in a pigsty.”

You weren’t as shocked by the revelation as you probably should’ve been. In this house, the gossip was as much a part of the walls as the portraits and velvet curtains.

“And Grace got with a Kennedy?” you asked, not resisting the curiosity bubbling inside of you and seeing Dottie nod. “Which one?”

“I think it was the oldest – Jack,” she replied.

You gaped at her. “John F. Kennedy?!”

Dottie giggled at your reaction. “Yes, I believe so. Do you know him, too?”

Innocently, you pursed your lips and shook your head. “No, no, not all. Just heard of him, you know?”

Jesus fuck, Kennedy might have gotten around as much as Soldier Boy. And if those rumors of The Legend were true, did Soldier Boy kill the future president for personal reasons?

Now you understood why the Kennedy assassination had attracted so many conspiracy theories. Well, you could check, theoretically, and see for yourself…

Nope. Don’t open that Pandora’s box!

“Look,” Dottie said after a pause, chewing softly on her lower lip in thought, “I’m sorry if I’ve been a little cold toward you. It’s not personal. I just don’t like the way Ben’s been acting recently. It’s... complicated.”

Your brows drew together as you watched the young woman next to you. “Complicated?”

She let out a dry laugh. “Honestly, complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it. You don’t know the half of it. You’re not the only one who feels out of place here, you know?”

“What d’you mean?”

Dottie leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a quieter, more intimate tone. “Ben’s a good guy, but he’s got a bit of a soft spot for… the wrong things. Florence talks about him like he’s still that little boy who needs his daddy’s approval. I know how it happened, you know – how he ended up with Grace? It wasn’t his idea. It was his father’s. And you know what? Grace wasn’t exactly an unwilling participant in that either. She begged her father to arrange the engagement.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected. You’d known about Grace, but you’d never heard the full story. “She begged?”

Dottie’s lips twisted into something halfway between a grimace and a smile. “Yeah, she begged,” she confirmed, hazel eyes glinting with a mixture of bitterness and amusement. “She thought she could change his mind, get him to fall for her. They had a fling, sure, but she knew Ben didn’t want her like that. They had a big argument about it a few days before. She stormed off, screaming he’d regret it.”

The weight of Dottie’s words pressed down on you, but before you could respond, she carried on.

“His father then announced the engagement at one of his parties here before even telling Ben about it. I mean, he didn’t even ask,” Dottie shared in exasperation. “Ben couldn’t stand it, so he rebelled in the only way he knew how. He found me, we got drunk and pissed off and then ended up in a closet together,” she said matter-of-factly, her tone flat and almost casual, but you could hear the bitter undertones of a scorned woman. “Ben had always been nice to me, you know? We’d gotten along, so when he came to me that night, I thought it was different. But he started ignoring me after. Couldn’t look at me – like I didn’t even exist... So yeah, I guess you could say I’m a little mad at him.”

You hesitated, studying Dottie’s face, looking for any hint of malice. But there was none – just brutal honesty. And you knew what this was by now. Just like Florence on your first day here, Dottie was warning you before you stepped off the ledge and fell.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dottie said when you still sat in silence, “I’m not trying to paint him as a bad guy. I’m telling you because I care, alright? I just think you should know what’s going on around here. Ben’s got his demons, and his family is a nightmare. He can’t escape what his father’s set up for him. He’s got a leash on Ben, and the pressure’s never going to let up.”

Her words cut through the haze of your thoughts like a sharp blade. You nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. You’d seen bits of that pressure already.

“No, I get it. I appreciate it, Dottie. Thank you,” you said softly. “But Ben’s not like his father. At least, he doesn’t have to be.”

Dottie shrugged, as if the truth was somewhere in between. “Maybe. But Mr. Brooks got a tight grip on him. The kind of grip that can make anyone do things they don’t want to. Even Ben.”

A pang of sympathy reminded you of Florence’s story once more – and all the other cruel acts you’d witnessed in your dreams. Were you blind or just foolish for believing he could change the path he was on?

“Ben’s not as immune to his father as he pretends to be. He’s not as strong as he thinks. Don’t get it twisted. His father’s got his claws in him,” Dottie emphasized. “You’re not the first distraction Ben’s found. Just-… be careful, alright? You don’t know what you’re getting into, but if you’re going to be a part of it–,” she paused, her eyes flicking back to your scattered clothes all over the bed, “–you better be sure about it.”

“Thank you, Dottie.” You nodded with a heavy lump in your throat.

She gently clasped your hand on the bed in a comforting manner and then sent you a kind smile, pulling out a deck of cards from the pockets of her apron. “How about we distract you for a little while, huh? You know how to play Gin Rummy?”

Your lips rose to a smile. “I haven’t played before, but I’m willing to learn.”

Dottie giggled, shuffling the cards in her hands. “Alright, how about I teach you the rules if you tell me about college?”

“Deal.” You grinned.

The clock read past midnight, the only sound coming from the shuffle of cards and the occasional giggles and whispered stories between you and Dottie. The minutes stretched on as you tried to forget what was happening downstairs, Dottie’s words of warning still running on a loop through your mind.

It couldn’t be a good sign that two people in this house have warned you now, could it? Shouldn’t you listen at some point?

An abrupt knock at the door ripped the two of you from your game and disrupted the fragile peace, Dottie’s eyes widening in panic. You both knew who it was.

“Shit,” Dottie muttered and hurried to gather the cards from the bed, stuffing them back into her apron. She hid in a blind corner of the room as you moved to answer the door, not opening it more than a crack.

“Hey,” you said softly and feigned an innocent smile as you met Ben’s gaze, noticing immediately he wasn’t alright. His usually shining emerald eyes carried a glaze, his smile turning lopsided as he took you in with a leer, but the distinct smell of whiskey that clung to him like a second skin was the dead giveaway.

“You’re still awake. I was hoping you’d be. Came to check up on you, sweetheart.” He smirked with shaky pupils.

Before you could stop him, he stumbled forward into the room on unsteady legs and fell straight into your arms. His large hands found purchase on your hips, dragging you closer against his body. He captured your lips, eager, hungry, and with a sloppiness that told you he had a few glasses too many.

You were close to pushing him away, hands already softly pressing against his chest before noticing Dottie trying to sneak past him, so you deepened the kiss instead, your arms winding around his neck, causing a groan to rumble through him. But on her last step, the door creaked on its hinges, and Dottie froze as Ben’s head snapped up.

Glassy eyes wide, he warily turned to the young maid, brow wrinkling into more creases than a crumpled letter. “Dottie? The fuck are you doing here?”

You placed your hand on his arm, forcing him to look at you and ground him at the same time. “She-, uh, she brought me dinner. Florence sent her. She didn’t want me to starve. You know how she gets about food,” you deflected with a giggle.

“Right.” Ben nodded, eyes flickering back and forth between Dottie and you.

“And you know, I guess I got a little nervous, so she’s been keeping me company. We’ve been playing cards,” you added with a reassuring smile, already anticipating his next question as you watched the cogs in his head turn.

“Oh.” Ben licked his lips for a moment and then looked at Dottie. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dottie said, sending you a quick look of gratefulness.

“And, uhm, Dottie?” Upon Ben’s call, Dottie halted in the doorway, shoulders tense on her way to freedom. “I’m sorry…” he said, surprising you both as you shared a raised look with the maid. “About what-, uhm… what happened, you know?”

“It’s-, uh, it’s okay,” she replied, eyes flicking toward you, clearly unsure of how to respond. You gave a slight shake of your head, and she subtly cleared her throat. “I mean, it’s not okay… but I-, I forgive you.”

You gave her a quick thumbs up, and as Ben looked over his shoulder at you, brow knitted in suspicion, Dottie quickly fled down the hall and closed the door behind her.

Yeah, you might’ve been coaching her a little in those last few hours on how to deal with assholes like him in the future (which you realized was super ironic). But if you couldn’t save yourself from that man’s charm, at least you could save the rest of your gender.

“Didn’t know you and Dottie were friends,” Ben noted, turning his full attention to you now.

“Oh, uhm, it’s a new thing,” you said quickly, and it wasn’t even a lie. You gave a shrug of your shoulders. “I like her.”

“Yeah? What’s she been whispering into your ear, huh?” His voice was rough, his fingers gentle as they brushed along your cheek.

“She didn’t say anything, okay?”

Ben’s lips curled, clearly not believing you. “You know, I didn’t mean to… hurt her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt those people.”

“Heard that one before,” you muttered, scoffing under your breath. You averted your eyes to the floor, the motion causing Ben’s hand to drop from your face.

“What?” There was no anger in his voice, only confusion.

You shook your head, forcing yourself to look at him. “‘Cause you’re not a bad guy, right?” you said a little louder, feeling the drops of venom like castor oil on your tongue.

And Ben picked up on it, his brows drawing together, facial muscles twitching as he tried to solve what triggered the change in mood. What happened between now and the moment you’d shared in the drawing room only a few hours ago?

You knew you were being indecisive. You knew you were being unfair. But you couldn’t let go of that feeling. That tiny, tingling thing that kept gnawing at every bit inside of you. The feeling that kept screaming at you that something was amiss. It was there – right there.

And you still couldn’t fucking grasp it.

Ben contemplated, then smacked his lips, taking a step closer to you and ironing out his brow a little. “No, I-… Well, I’m no Boy Scout, but you know me.”

Your mouth opened and closed, lips trembling. You didn’t know how to respond. He was both right and wrong. But it all sounded too fucking familiar. It was that maddening feeling of déjà vu all over again.

One long stride of bow legs, and Ben was only mere inches away from you, warm palms cupping your cheeks like you were a precious gift, rough thumbs stroking along your cheekbones, and hot breath tickling your skin like a whispered breeze in summer heat. You melted in his grasp in a matter of seconds like an ice cube on hot asphalt.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out earlier,” he said, deep voice only a low murmur against the shell of your ear as he tucked a strand of hair behind it, careful like you could break in his hold. “Just hadn’t exactly broken the news yet that you’re staying here, y’know?”

“Ben–” You sighed, trying to clear the fog from your mind with a shake of your head.

“But I did now, okay?” he cut through that first brick in your wall of defense. The tip of his nose dragged against yours, coaxing. “I want you here, alright?” His lips ghosted over yours, a faint brush, barely there but enough to make you feel the heat crawling into your lower belly. “Had kind of a rough night. Thought you could make me feel better.”

He claimed your lips with a bruising force before he’d even breathed out his last word. The scent of expensive whiskey and nicotine enveloped you and clouded your mind. He smelled like he drank a liquor store and smoked a pack, but you couldn’t resist the pull – the desire, the chemistry. Your head was floating, but doubt still kept your feet tethered to the ground.

“Ben, don’t,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady, but it wavered despite your efforts. “Not like this. You’re drunk.”

“Don’t give a damn. Maybe I need to be drunk to feel something real for once. I need this. Need you,” he muttered, words slurred, voice rough.

He leaned in then, plump lips sinfully trailing down the column of your throat. The world seemed to stop spinning on its axis, your heart racing in your chest as he slid his hand to the back of your neck, tugging you closer.

For a moment, you gave in and almost let yourself go, forgetting every drop of worry and fear that plagued your mind. His hands moved to your waist, grip tightening as he pushed you flush against his blazing body. But the blinking red alarm inside of you reminded you of the lines you didn’t want to cross.

“Ben…” Your hands pushed against his chest, gentle but firm.

He stopped then, breathing ragged and confusion gleaming in the lush green of his eyes. His gaze drifted to your face, lingering there, as if searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. “I want you. Don’t you want me too, hm?”

The air thickened around you, sharp and overwhelming, threatening to suffocate you as you wrung for words. His thumb traced over your bottom lip, heavy against the soft, pink flesh. His pull was magnetic, his need evident.

“I don’t wanna be just another distraction for you,” you said quietly, voice shaking slightly, heart hammering in your throat. You tried to sound firm, but the way his eyes held you made your breath hitch.

Ben stepped back, hurt flashing across his freckled face like you’d just knocked the wind right out of him. His presence felt too large in the room, his emotions pressing down on you.

“A distraction?” His eyes hardened, his expression twisting with frustration and something darker. “That what you think you are? What Dottie told you? She’s been filling your head with this shit, hasn’t she?”

You flinched at the mention of Dottie’s name, not wanting to drag her into your mess. You hesitated with a thick swallow, tension creeping into your shoulders. “It’s not about her.”

“Damn right, it isn’t,” Ben huffed, shaking his head. And then, his eyes landed on the bed – on your clothes spread out, half-packed. He froze, demeanor shifting immediately, color draining from his face. “What the hell is going on here? Are you fucking leaving me?” The baritone voice was suddenly sharp now, carrying an edge that cut through the haze of his drunkenness.

“I don’t wanna cause more trouble for you,” you confessed quietly, panic rising in your chest.

“So that’s it? Just like that? You’re just gonna fucking walk out on me?” His voice was jagged with emotion, gripping a handful of his hair in disbelief.

“No, but I-… I don’t belong here, okay?” you argued, your tone laced with desperation. What else could you say?

“Dammit, you think I don’t fucking know that?” His jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, there was an unsettling silence between you two. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck Dottie told you, but this-… this isn’t some game to me. You think I do this with everyone? That I’m using you because I’m bored? That I’m just some spoiled rich kid who gets whatever I want?” He stared at you, disappointment, incredulity, and betrayal swimming in his eyes.

You shook your head, your heart thumping painfully in your ribcage. “I didn’t say that. But Ben... I don’t know what I am to you… what this is.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He scoffed bitterly, running a hand through the disheveled, dirty blond locks. “I’ve told you things… things I’ve never told anyone before. I’ve let you into parts of my life that I don’t show anyone else.”

“I know. I just–”

But Ben cut you off, his frustration spilling over. “I’ve been nothing but honest with you. And this is how you repay me? By fucking running away? You’re not walking out on me. Not like this.”

Your heart stuttered, the words cutting deep and tightening your chest, aware he was right in a way, knowing he’d put himself on the line for you – more than you’d ever expected him to. But you couldn’t ignore the doubts that rose inside you.

“I’m scared, okay?” you admitted, your voice only a whisper, and it made his eyes soften slightly. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Ben shook his head, huffing a humorless laugh, almost amused. “Oh, you think I can’t be trusted? That I haven’t given you enough reason to?” He stepped closer, his look pointed. “Kinda ironic, don’t you think? I don’t even know your real name. I don’t know a fucking thing about you, and yet, here you are, accusing me of being dishonest. You really think I’ve been fucking lying to you?"

You didn't respond. Silence.

"If you want to walk away, then go. But don’t you dare tell me you’re just a distraction. That’s insulting. I’ve been nothing but honest with you. I’ve given you everything I can, and you think I’m just trying to fuck around?”

You stood there, speechless, caught between the weight of his words and the fear that still clawed at your heart. Ben stepped closer again, his features softening just slightly, as if trying to calm the storm inside both of you. The promise of something more, something different with him, tore at the part of you that had been holding back.

“How do you know I’m the right person for you? You don’t even know what you want. And you’re right, you know? You don’t know me. Not in the way it matters. Not in the way you should,” you said, barely above a trembling whisper, the tears pricking your eyes.

“Then tell me,” he demanded, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Tell me who you are. Tell me your real name. Anything, really.”

Your breath caught in your throat, head shaking. “I can’t. I never meant to keep things from you, but I can’t tell you either. I’m sorry.”

Ben rubbed his mouth with his fingers, head bobbing in thought. “Look, maybe I haven’t made my intentions clear enough with you, but I care about you. I don’t know everything, but I know that I want you. I want this. All of it. The whole damn mess, alright?”

The raw emotion in his voice made you falter, but you couldn’t let yourself be swayed. You looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be telling the truth. That there was something worth fighting for here. The vulnerability in his green eyes made your knees weak, cracking both his armor and your walls.

Ben stared at you for a long moment, the hurt, confusion, and anger warring on his face. Then, without warning, he took a step toward you, closing the space between you two for good, and you swore you could even feel his wildly beating heart in his chest. He searched your face for something, a connection to hold onto, his hands slightly outstretched like he was reaching for you.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be.” The words stung as they left you, the first tear slipping down your cheek.

Ben’s resolve crumbled then and there. He pulled you into his embrace, softly kissing the top of your head as you sobbed into his chest. And then he just held you like this for a moment. You’d never felt fucking safer while your heart was breaking.

“Hey, look at me.” Gently, he lifted your chin, wiping your wet cheeks with his thumbs. “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t want to change things?” He held your gaze, eyes intense as the weight of his words hung between you. “I can’t just walk away from everything, but I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying to figure this all out, but you have to let me.”

“How?” Your voice cracked, the fear of getting too close, of falling too hard threatening to crush you.

Ben cupped your cheeks, the kiss on your temple an oath. “I’ll make it work, okay? I don’t know what else to say, but I promise I will. I’ll find a way out of all this... for both of us. But I need you here. I need you with me. I can’t do this alone. I don’t wanna go back to that life without you in it. I just need you to trust me, okay? I need you to believe in me.”

You could see it then, clear as day – he was afraid of losing you, the desperation brimming in the green seas of his eyes. You were his lifeline, the last thing that held his head above water and kept him from drowning in his father.

“I swear I’ll take you with me, wherever that it is. I’ll take care of you. I’ll fight for you. I’ll protect you. All I need is a little more time. Can you give that to me? Can you do that?”

The heaviness of a decision almost decimated you, but for the first time since you’d entered his world, the fear of losing him was stronger than the fear of staying.

You nodded, hesitantly at first before it became stronger – certain. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll stay.”

The space between you evaporated then as he closed the gap, pressing his lips to yours with a force that left you breathless. His mouth was desperate, clinging to the assurance that you were still here. Still with him.

The kiss wasn’t just a kiss – it was everything. It was apology and regret. It was yearning. It was fear.

Ben was kissing you like he never wanted to lose you again, as if each second was a prayer that you’d stay. He pulled you even closer, his hands threading through your hair, his body so tightly against yours like he was trying to make sure you were real. To make sure he hadn’t just imagined this moment.

You melted into him, your hands gripping his shirt, your heart beating faster than it had in days, weeks, months, maybe years. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, as if he was trying to tell you everything in the language of touch, in the frantic meeting of lips and breath – everything he could never say out loud.

You felt the warmth of his skin, the blazing heat of him, and you realized you both were clinging to the fragile thread that held you together, afraid to let go.

When he pulled back, both of you panting, there was a quiet between you that spoke louder than any words ever could. His eyes searched yours, his thumb caressing your cheek, forehead resting against yours.

Ben licked his lips, still holding onto you as he shut his eyes for a beat, his chest still rising and falling with the remnants of the kiss. “Look, uhm, I hate doing this to you right now, but my father wants me to leave with him for two weeks,” he told you, voice heavy with exhaustion before a dark scoff escaped him. “Wants to show me how business is really done.”

You cupped his cheeks softly, looking up at him. “Don’t let him get to you, okay? You’re smarter than him.”

Ben’s lips twitched with a small smile, nodding like he understood. “My mother’s staying here with you, but don’t worry about it. I doubt she’ll bother you. She doesn’t really care about anything. I told them you’re a friend from school, so just go with that.”

“What school did you go to?”

“Choate. It’s in Connecticut,” Ben replied, a hint of amusement in his smile, noticing how carefully you were solidifying your alibi. “But it’s an all-boys school. You would’ve gone to Rosemary Hall.”

You grimaced. “So, total sausage fest, huh?”

Ben snorted a loud laugh, throwing his head back. “Oh, you have no idea, sweetheart.” He chuckled and pulled you against his chest, resting his chin on top of your head. “You know, sometimes I wonder what school taught you all those words.”

You giggled, burying your face into his dress shirt. “Oh, college taught me those. You would know if you’d gone.”

“Ouch.” A deep and amused laugh rumbled through his chest.

“Didn’t John Kennedy attend Choate as well?”

Ben’s head tilted slightly. You could feel the movement atop of yours. “How do you know Jack?” He inched back slightly, peering down at you with a raised look. “Something you wanna tell me, sweetheart?”

You snorted into his chest, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that, I swear. I just heard of him.”

“Oh, so it was just me you were immune to, huh?” Ben retorted, but you recognized the playfulness in his voice. It was your favorite side of him.

“Guess so,” you teased, giggling.

“Well, thank fucking God you didn’t sleep with him,” Ben muttered as he tightened his arms around you. “I hate that guy. Total fucking pussy.”

“Didn’t he graduate Harvard?” you muttered, feeling Ben’s jaw grind on top of your head. Yeah, you weren’t doing JFK any favors now.

“Well, he didn’t make it into the Army. I can tell you that much,” Ben blew right past your point, making you stifle a chuckle. “Heard he got a placement in the Navy, though.”

“Huh. Kinda sexy,” you quipped. Teasing. “He’ll probably learn a lot of sailor talk.”

Ben’s lips pursed in amusement as he looked down at you and was met with your grin. “Yeah, also probably gonna be a real sausage fest on that boat.”

You let out a crippling laugh, burying yourself in his chest as he joined you. Of course he’d only learn the things you didn’t want him to learn.

Ben’s fingers then snuck under your chin, lifting your lips to meet his. The kiss was soft, gentle – a goodbye. “You’re gonna be okay here?”

You nodded reassuringly. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be here when you come back.”

Ben didn’t say anything, but his Adam’s apple bobbed with a thick swallow, eyes gleaming with a mixture of relief and gratitude before he pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was a tender, almost reverent gesture, and it made your heart swell.

Exhaling a long breath, he let go of you and turned to leave, his shoulders slumping more with every step he took toward the life he didn’t want. He paused at the door, his hand on the knob, and for a moment, he seemed smaller, more fragile, like the weight of everything he’d been holding in was finally starting to break him.

“I’ll never stop fighting for you,” he said with conviction as he looked at you one last time, raspy voice laden with words he couldn’t say. A promise. “Never.”

And deep down, you knew then that no matter how hard things would get over the next decades, you’d never let go, either.

The door closed for the last time that night, and then, Ben was gone.

The mansion felt quieter the next morning, Ben having left with his father for DC before the break of dawn. After getting dressed properly for breakfast for once, you descended the grand staircase, your footsteps quiet on the polished wooden floors.

You spied Margaret Brooks, Ben’s mother, sitting in the sunroom, but before entering, you decided to make a quick pit stop in the kitchen, where the faint murmurs of the staff seeped through the door.

As you stepped inside, the three women were busy at their tasks. Florence was bent over a pot on the stove, her movements brisk and efficient. Dottie was humming to herself as she arranged flowers on the counter. Frances, a bit more weathered and stern, was dusting the shelves, her eyes darting disapprovingly at Dottie, who had a tendency to daydream more than work.

“Good morning, ladies,” you said softly, your voice low enough not to carry too far.

“No breakfast in the kitchen, young lady,” Florence reminded you swiftly, which you countered with a knowing smile.

“Don’t worry, Florence. I’ll be outta your hair in a minute,” you said, making Dottie snort a giggle. “Just-… Before I go in there, can you guys give me the down-low on Mrs. Brooks?”

“The down-low?” Frances cocked a brow at you.

“Yes, the details,” you corrected. Half of your vocabulary was practically useless in 1942. “What’s her deal? Why is she so… withdrawn?”

After Dottie’s revelation last night, you thought you might as well make use of the love for gossip in this house.

Florence didn’t look up from the stove, her hands moving quickly with purpose. “She’s always been quiet,” she replied, her voice neutral but not unkind. “But over the years... well, she shut herself off. Hard to blame her. Her husband isn’t a good man, not to her or to Benjamin.”

Dottie, who had been nervously twisting the flower stems in her hands, let out a little sigh. “Yeah, Mr. Brooks is awful. He treats her like she doesn’t matter. And now she’s kind of… well, I think she just gave up. You know, stopped trying.”

Frances, who had been listening intently, fixed Dottie with a sharp look. “Not everything is so simple, Dottie. Mrs. Brooks has always been a lady – always. She’s tried for years, but the man she married–” She sighed, her voice dropping. “It broke her. And now she watches the boy becoming just like him. It’s no wonder she retreats.”

You could feel the undercurrent of sadness in the house, a grief that wasn’t just tied to the past but to the present, too.

“I see,” you said quietly, your mind racing as you thought of what you could do. You glanced at the three women. “Well, I think I’ll go see if I can say hi to Mrs. Brooks this morning. She must be lonely.”

Florence gave you a distracted nod, her attention still on her cooking. Dottie shot you a hopeful look, while Frances simply grunted in acknowledgment, not sure how much help you’d be.

You sauntered into the sunroom, the air cool inside and the glass panes still thick with the chill of winter. Outside, patches of snow clung stubbornly to the ground, a few spots melting into sluggish pools. However, along the edges of the garden, the first hint of spring dared to show – croci pushing up through the soil, small and defiant against the lingering cold as they waited for the thaw.

It only reminded you of how long you’d already been here. It felt like an entirely different life at this point. Had Ben been serious last night? And what did it even all mean?

He said a lot, but you weren’t sure your head woke up any clearer this morning.

The future was an unknown, and you weren’t used to that feeling.

As you entered, Mrs. Brooks sat at the small round table by the window, her face drawn, her green eyes distant as she stared into the steam rising from her cup of tea. She didn’t seem to notice you at first, and when she finally lifted her gaze, it was with a quiet recognition.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brooks,” you said, smiling softly. “I’m not sure if your son has mentioned me. I’m a friend from school. Benjamin’s been kind enough to let me stay here for a while.”

“Oh, I believe he mentioned something like that, yes,” she said in a soft, tired voice, her lips curling just slightly at the corners. “You’ll have to excuse me. I wasn’t listening to everything last night. I was quite exhausted after the long travel, and that boy never knows when to stop.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Ben does have a way of going on, doesn’t he?” You smiled gently at her words and sat down across from her. “Ben did tell me a little bit about all your wonderful tea parties, though. He said you liked going to tea rooms as well. What are they like? I have to admit I’ve never been to one myself.”

At the mere mention, Mrs. Brooks’ posture seemed to shift ever so slightly. Her eyes sparkled, and you saw something like life stir behind them, as if your words had opened a door she hadn’t realized was there.

“Oh, tea rooms,” she repeated, her voice soft and reflective. “I used to love them. So charming. So civilized, you know? A proper place to spend the afternoon with a good cup of tea. I haven’t been to one in ages, not since...”

She trailed off, her gaze becoming distant again, but then something changed – her eyes brightened just a little, like a light flickering on.

“You’ve never been?” she asked, her tone a mixture of surprise and mild disbelief. You shook your head. “Oh, my dear, it’s almost a must for a young lady to experience. A proper tea room, with all the delicate china and the soft music in the background – it’s simply marvelous.” She sat up straighter in her chair then, the flicker of a genuine smile appearing on her lips. “I should take you, shouldn’t I? There’s one in the city I adored. It’s been years since I’ve gone, but I’m sure it’s just as lovely as it was. Would you like to go? This afternoon, perhaps?”

You couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope inside of you, seeing that flicker of light in her. “I’d love that. Thank you, Mrs. Brooks,” you said with a warm smile.

“How wonderful! Then it’s settled. We’ll go!” She clasped her hands together with joy. “Do you have something to wear? I could call my seamstress, Ms. Vivian, for you.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. Benjamin already did that,” you replied, hoping for dear life you didn’t have to endure another makeover. You were already sacrificing yourself like a lamb for slaughter by agreeing to this.

“Well, good.” She nodded and sipped on her tea, muttering, “Seems like I’ve done something right with that boy, after all…”

Well, judging by that statement, you were surely in for an interesting afternoon.

The soft tinkling of porcelain cups and quiet chatter filled the air of the elegant, well-lit tea room as Margaret Brooks looked across the table at you, her plump lips curling into a rare smile. She had almost forgotten how much she enjoyed these outings – the delicate atmosphere of the tea room, the soft hum of conversation. She had imagined, for so many years, that one day she would have a daughter to share these moments with.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t come to pass.

Instead, you sat across from her, eager eyes wide as you took in the ambiance. Mrs. Brooks noticed the nervousness in your posture, the way you clutched your teacup a little too tightly and stared at the other girls, feeling utterly out of place.

“Isn’t it charming?” Mrs. Brooks said, her voice light, almost affectionate. “I’ve been coming here for years. There’s something about the smell of the Earl Grey and the clink of silver spoons that makes you forget the world outside. You’ll grow to love it, I’m sure.”

You gave a nervous nod, your lips curving upward in an awkward imitation of a smile. “I’m not really used to places like this.”

You hesitated, glancing around the room at the white-gloved waitstaff and the carefully arranged plates of scones and finger sandwiches, wondering how many distractions Ben had found here and hoping you wouldn’t run into any of them. You could certainly feel the occasional looks and quiet whispers directed at you.

Mrs. Brooks chuckled softly, her gaze warm as she met your eyes. “One gets used to it. It's like breathing. I’ve been doing this for years, and there's nothing wrong with forgetting the world in here, just for a moment.” She leaned in slightly, her tone dropping conspiratorially. “Don’t be nervous, Cindy. It’s only tea and gossip, and we all need a little of both.”

Something in Mrs. Brooks’ tone calmed you slightly. It was as though she was slowly pulling you into her orbit – offering more than just a tea outing, but a sense of belonging, of understanding.

“Look over there,” Mrs. Brooks continued, gesturing subtly with her gloved hand, clearly eager to share more. “Do you see that woman sitting by the window? That’s Mrs. Berwick. She’s very fond of trying to climb the social ladder, always inserting herself into the right circles. Her husband’s a banker, but don’t let that fool you – he’s a dreadful bore."

You snorted a laugh and leaned in, intrigued despite yourself. You couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. Mrs. Brooks had a certain warmth now that softened her more formal edges.

“And there,” she carried on, “that’s Mrs. Hadley. She’s got more money than God, but she’s also got a tongue that can cut glass. No one dares to cross her, but I’ve never cared much for her. She’s the type who never forgets a slight.”

“Seems like they all have their… quirks,” you noted, amused, remembering Dottie’s words.

“Quirks,” Mrs. Brooks repeated with a smile. “Yes, one might call them that.” Her eyes twinkled as she leaned in closer to you, lowering her voice. “But there’s one thing they all have in common: They love to gossip. It’s their favorite pastime. And I’m sure,” she added, giving you a knowing look, “they’ll be more than eager to talk about you.” You stiffened, but Mrs. Brooks, oblivious to your discomfort, sipped her tea and continued. “Don’t mind them. They’re all still talking about Benjamin, I’m sure. The whole lot of them think they have some sort of claim on him. But they don’t, do they?”

At her little wink, your heart almost dropped to the sparkling marble floor. Did she know? But you figured it was easy to suspect if she knew her son even a little.

“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Brooks! I haven’t seen you here in ages.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you recognized the familiar voice. You’d heard it once before, even if it had been louder and more upset than now.

Grace.

Mrs. Brooks’ expression flickered momentarily before settling into something more controlled. “Grace, dear,” she said with a polite smile, turning her head toward the speaker. Her tone was cool, masking any warmth. “You’re looking well.”

Your stomach dropped when you saw the woman standing at the table: tall, blonde, impeccably dressed in a way that screamed money and status – poised and perfect. By now, you’d heard plenty about Ben’s destined fiancée, but seeing her in person was another matter.

Her blonde hair was sculpted into a flawless wave. She wore an elegant dress with the subtle sheen of luxury and a sharp gaze that seemed to take in every detail of you with calculating precision.

Grace gave a sly smile, icy blue eyes flickering to you. “I couldn’t resist coming by. I simply had to see Benjamin’s current project.” She tilted her head slightly, a deliberate gesture, and leaned down to examine you like you were a specimen under a microscope. “Interesting choice.”

Did that bitch just call you a fucking project?!

You didn’t flinch under her scrutiny, however. You’d been dealing with bitches like that your whole life. The only tragedy about this was that you couldn’t rant about her to your friends – the hot blonde, the gay redhead, and the mute Asian chick.

Fuck. Why the hell couldn’t you remember their names? You swore they were on the tip of your tongue. Was it Andy, Mabel, and Kim? No, that sounded wrong. Dammit!

“I think I’ve seen you before, right? And you are?” Grace asked, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness as she looked at you.

“Cindy,” you replied with a slight edge.

“Ah, Cindy,” Grace repeated, like she was tasting the name. “Such a... simple name. How quaint.” She smiled then, a thin, shark-like smirk, and you were blood in the water. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you out and about. Benjamin has always been so... difficult to predict. But I suppose you already know that, don’t you?”

Unbothered by her baiting, you took a casual sip of tea. “Oh, I know exactly who he is, Grace. Better than you.”

Grace’s smile tightened. “How refreshing,” she said, then looked over at Mrs. Brooks. “I do hope Benjamin’s settled down by now. I hear he’s been a bit of a... free spirit lately. He always had a rebellious streak. He gets bored rather quickly.”

Mrs. Brooks stiffened slightly, but she recovered quickly, placing her teacup down with a slight clink. “My son is a grown man, dear. He’ll make his own decisions, as he always does.”

“Of course,” Grace replied smoothly, though there was a clear, sharp edge to her words.

“‘Sides, aren’t you a bit of a free spirit as well?” you quipped with an innocent smirk. “I heard about you and Jack Kennedy in Cape Cod. How’s that going?”

“Oh, you are seeing Jack?” Margaret chimed in with delight, but you could tell her smile was as taunting as yours was.

Grace’s face fell abruptly. “Yes, it’s… going,” she replied quickly, subtly clearing her throat. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twisting into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she leaned in, her tone almost too sweet. “I imagine you must be enjoying the novelty of being with someone like Benjamin. Here you are, in the lap of luxury. It’s a bit of a thrill, isn’t it, darling? But you know, I should warn you – Ben isn’t exactly the most reliable partner. I do hope, for your sake, you’re not just a phase.”

You were about to slap her harder than she’d slapped Ben at that diner. Would it matter to history if you choked her right now?

You forced a tight-lipped smile as you ground your teeth. “Thank you for the warning, but I’m not here to judge him for his past.”

If anything, you were judging him for his future.

“Well, that’s nice,” Grace pressed through her teeth, her polite mask finally crumbling. “But you don’t get it, do you? You’re just the latest distraction, darling. Someone to amuse himself with, and as soon as this little rebellion ends, he’ll come crawling back to someone who knows the rules, and you’ll be just another notch in his belt.”

Jesus fucking Christ, why did he always have to date the biggest bitch in the room? And you’d once thought Crimson Countess was a piece of work.

But you grew up in a trailer park in fucking Jersey. If a girl like Grace thought she could scare you off with a few words, she had another thing coming.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” You looked at her challengingly, not an ounce of fear in your voice. “Here’s the thing – Ben’s not a puppet for his father. He makes his own choices. You’re not his future, Grace. You’re the past. Trust me on that one.”

Grace’s eyes blazed with a venomous glare. “Well, we’ll see how long this lasts, darling. I do hope you won’t make a fool out of yourself.”

You were about to open your mouth again before Mrs. Brooks cut in, her tone suddenly sharp, a protective edge in her voice. “Enough, Grace. We all know about Benjamin’s history. You’ve made your point, and it’s getting tiresome.”

Grace’s eyes fixed on Ben’s mother, a muscle twitching in her jaw. She clearly hadn’t expected that. “Well, it’s so lovely to see you two getting along. I mustn’t take up too much of your time, Mrs. Brooks. It was nice running into you both. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

With that, Grace stormed off, her heels clicking on the sparkling marble. You exhaled a slow breath, slumping back into your chair. But as you glanced at Mrs. Brooks, you saw the faintest glimmer of approval in her eyes.

“You handled her beautifully, dear,” Ben’s mother said, her tone soft but genuine. “Don’t let women like her make you question yourself. They thrive on making others doubt their worth, but you’ve got something she doesn’t – confidence and a damn backbone.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brooks,” you said, your heart swelling with gratitude. “That woman really knows how to lay it on thick, doesn’t she?”

Mrs. Brooks rolled her eyes in exhaustion. “She’s always been like that. Charming when it suits her and venomous when she feels threatened. I’m almost glad Benjamin’s been so awful to her. God knows I couldn’t have endured another dinner with that girl in my house.”

You snorted under your breath, chuckling.

“You know, I was just like you when I first arrived here – someone who didn’t quite fit in.” Margaret leaned back in her chair with a faint smile, the faraway look in her eyes sharpening, a subtle sadness creeping into her voice. “Before I met Benjamin’s father, I came from humble beginnings, you know? My parents were good, hardworking people. We didn’t have much money – just a small house in the lower part of town. My father was a carpenter, working long hours, and my mother would sew clothes for other people, often staying up well past midnight, just to make sure we had enough to get by. But there was a beauty in that simplicity. I used to take walks through the alleys, admiring the flowers growing between the cracks in the sidewalks. We didn't have wealth, but we had love, you know? And we had each other.”

You listened intently, your heart breaking a bit for her, knowing that wasn’t what she had now with her own family.

“I remember,” she continued, a slight smile tugging at her lips, “how we’d all gather in the kitchen at night. It was small, but it was ours. My mother would hum while she worked, and my father would tell me stories about how he built his first house with his own two hands. He was proud of that. And I was proud of him.”

You couldn’t help but notice the way Mrs. Brooks’ voice softened when she spoke about her parents. There was a sadness there, a longing for something simple and real that had been lost somewhere along the way.

“I can’t imagine you like that. It sounds so different from who you are now,” you said softly.

Mrs. Brooks gave a gentle laugh, her gaze growing even more distant. “I was just a girl back then. I had no idea what awaited me. But when I met Richard, everything changed.” She paused, her voice darkening slightly as she pushed away the memories of her childhood, like the warmth they brought was something she couldn’t bear to hold on to for too long. “He was everything I’d never known. He was wealthy, educated, and had the kind of connections that I could only dream of. He swept me off my feet. He promised me a life of comfort, luxury, and security. And I thought, ‘This is it. This is everything I’ve been working for.’”

Your brow furrowed. “But it wasn’t?”

Mrs. Brooks shook her head slowly, the distant melancholy returning to her features. “At first, it was. But over time, I realized something. The life Richard offered me was a gilded cage. It wasn’t freedom – it was control. I was expected to fit in, to play the part. When I married him, I entered a world where every inch of my life was dictated by money, status, and image. It’s strange how quickly you can forget yourself when you're surrounded by wealth. People like this–,” she gestured with a faint nod around the room, “–don’t care about character. They care about who you know, where you’ve been, and what you wear. And even then, it’s never enough. You always have to be more.” She leaned forward then, her expression softening as she saw you swallowing thickly. “I know it sounds harsh, dear, but it’s the truth. High society is an illusion. People want you to smile, to wear the right clothes, to speak in a certain way, but it’s all just a performance. Your soul gets lost in it.”

“So, you never wanted this life?” you asked quietly, your heart breaking for her.

“I didn’t know what I was getting into. These women here, they’re not your friends,” she replied, her fingers curling around her tea cup. “They’re rivals. Each one of them trying to prove they are the best at being the most perfect version of a woman they can be. It’s exhausting. And no matter how hard I tried, I never truly fit in.”

“You said Benjamin was different when he was young,” you said gently, wanting to know more. “How was he before everything changed?”

Mrs. Brooks’ eyes softened, and for a moment, you could see the mother she had been – a woman who adored her son, who once had hope for his future.

“Benjamin was always sensitive,” Mrs. Brooks said, her voice full of tenderness. “He was a sweet little boy who loved to ask questions about the world. He was curious about everything. He’d sit with me for hours, just asking me how things worked, why things were the way they were. And he had this soft smile that would light up a room. I’ll never forget how he used to look at me, with such trust in his eyes. He would bring me flowers and tell me stories from his little world, and I would see the softness in him, the kind of softness a mother always hopes for in a child. People always said he was a ‘dreamer,’ and I thought he would always stay that way. I loved that about him. But Richard didn’t. Richard thought it was a weakness.”

Mrs. Brooks’ voice cracked slightly, as if the memories were too painful to recount. She looked down at her cup.

“Richard did everything he could to ‘toughen him up.’ He took him hunting, made him go to boarding school at an early age, sending him far away from me,” she continued, her voice drowning in sadness. “He wanted to shape Benjamin into something he could control. He had a vision for his son – one where Benjamin was a carbon copy of him. Strong. Cold. Ruthless. My husband’s world is one of steel, and his love is just as hard. My sweet boy never stood a chance.”

Your heart sank. “And Ben – he didn’t want that?”

“No,” Mrs. Brooks said, a slight bitterness creeping into her tone. “Benjamin didn’t want any of it. But he was young, and he couldn’t fight his father. So slowly, he started to change. He stopped asking questions. He stopped dreaming. And one by one, the things that made him unique faded away. I watched my son slip away from me, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

You wanted to reach out to comfort her, but you felt helpless. How could you fix this? Could you fix him?

“I’m so sorry,” you said softly. “I had no idea.”

Mrs. Brooks gave you a wistful smile. “It’s not your fault, dear. You’re not here to save him. You can’t save him, not from himself. But you might be able to remind him of who he was before the world changed him. I think that’s why I like you so much.”

Your heart tightened as you listened. You could see the sadness in Mrs. Brooks’ eyes, a depth of loss that you hadn’t expected.

Ben’s mother let out a sigh, soft and weary, as though she had been holding it in for too long. “You know, from the moment I met you, there was something about you. Something I never had the chance to share with Benjamin.” She paused, gathering her thoughts as if she hadn’t shared this kind of honesty in years. “I’ve always wanted a daughter for many reasons, you see? I dreamed of having someone who could see this world as I see it. A confidante. You remind me a lot of myself when I was younger. You have a fire in you – a light. And I don’t want my son to put it out.”

Your heart halted its beats abruptly. You were taken aback by her blunt honesty, shaking your buzzing head lightly, trying to make sense of her words. “What d’you mean?”

“You don’t know what your getting into, either. You’re not like them. You’re not meant for this kind of life. That’s why I want to warn you, dear,” she said, her gaze sharp.

Oh no, not another warning… How many was that now? Three? Four, if you counted Grace?

Great.

“Benjamin might love you now, but he’ll be just like his father in the end. Cold. Hard. Empty,” she said harshly, the weight of regret in every line of her expression. “The man you think he is, may not be the man he turns out to be. Benjamin isn’t the boy I once held in my arms anymore. He’s not the man you think he is. I see his father in him more every day. I can see it in the way he looks at the world, in the way he reacts to the people around him. I don’t want you to end up like me. You’ll be the one left behind. Trust me.”

You felt a knot in your throat, your heart pounding with an ominous sound like an ancient war drum. You didn’t know how to respond. Your thoughts spiraled in every direction.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking your eyes like salt in a wound. “I don’t know if I can walk away. I think I love him,” you confessed quietly, barely audible over the chatter of the tea room.

The words shocked you. You’d never said them out loud before, but they didn’t seem to rattle his mother at all.

Her eyes softened, her hand reaching over to clasp yours on the table in a sad understanding. “I know you do. But that’s the problem, dear. When you love someone like him, you’ll always be fighting a battle you can’t win.”

▶️ Chapter 8: Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn

Ooof, looks like not even Ben's mother has much confidence in him... What did you think of all the warnings? And if Ben was already this upset now, then well, imagine what he feels like when it really happens. Choo-choo, all aboard the angst train! Get ready to meet the man of the hour next week 😉

(Fair warning: Chapters never really got any shorter. I don't know what to tell ya, but half of the next one is smut, so there's that 😂🤷‍♀️)

Coming Up:

“I remember you mentioned a girl from school staying here.” The patriarch of the steel empire carved into his roast with casual violence, sipping his wine like it was penance, a pair of almond-shaped, glacier blue eyes zeroing in on his son. “Didn’t think you meant still staying here.”

You managed a polite smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Brooks.”

He gave a short nod that might’ve been a grunt, reaching for the wine glass before saying, “Likewise.”

Ben’s mother – composed in a deep jade green dress that complimented the glint in her eye – broke the tension with a dry, almost teasing, “She’s been keeping me company. And sane.”

You glanced at her in grateful surprise, but she didn’t look at you. Her gaze was squarely on her husband, almost daring him to challenge her.

Oh fuck. You had a feeling that dinner would derail soon enough. You still remembered how your own mother always looked when she wanted to pick a fight with your father. You could see that same desire in Mrs. Brooks tonight.

Richard’s eyes flicked to you as cutting as a scalpel. “Rosemary Hall, was it?”

You smiled, knowing your alibi by heart. “Yes, sir. We, uh, crossed paths with Ben’s group at Choate once or twice. We’ve stayed in touch.”

“Mmm.” He sounded unconvinced, like he already had a list of questions and was working through them in his mind. “And what is it you do, exactly?”

You gave an innocent shrug of your shoulders. “A little of everything. Read a lot. Try to keep busy.”

Mr. Brooks leaned back with a hum, wine glass in hand. “You read. Anything useful?”

Ben’s hand tensed slightly on the table. You felt it even without looking.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

We can deal with the awkwardness, but will we deal with everything else Dean throws at us? We’ll see 😝🩵

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 2

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, tiny bit of angst, fluff, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜), drinking & everything that comes with a crazy night out

Word Count: 5.3k

Posted on Patreon April 9, 2025

A/N: Welcome back! June did us dirty, and I'm still catching up on everything, so expect a post dump with all your sweet comments coming in soon. But without further ado, here's some fluffy, drunk-in-love reunion and glimpses into their past 😉

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 2: Old Haunts

“Wow, I haven’t been in here forever,” you say as Dean leads you into Bobby’s Junkyard – Lawrence’s go-to diner for young and old alike.

Dean and you used to come here almost every day for burgers and milkshakes during your youth. The warm, nostalgic hum of the place instantly wraps around you like an old, favorite sweater you’d found under your twin bed.

But it’s also where you told Dean you were going to New York – whether he liked it or not. Considering this, you find it quite odd he’d bring you here first.

It surely isn’t the best memory for you, but judging by his happy grin, you know he clearly isn’t thinking about that night. He’s remembering all the good times you’ve had here, all the laughs and conversations, and you can’t help but recall them, too.

“Figured,” Dean says and casually rests a palm on the small of your back, guiding you to your old booth.

The red vinyl seats creak with familiarity as you settle in across from him, painfully aware how much time has passed since you last sat in that same spot. His green eyes even still hold the same warmth that always made you feel like home.

You honestly can’t quite believe he remembers all of this. After everything that happened between you two, you’d been dead sure he’d incinerated every memory he ever had of you. You wouldn’t even have blamed him if that had been the case.

“What are you doing?” Dean tuts and quirks a brow at the laminated menu in your hands.

“Seeing what I can order. I have a friend from Barre class who got me onto this whole Paleo diet thing,” you say mindlessly as your eyes skim the options before the menu is snatched from your grasp. “Hey!”

“None of that fancy New York shit here,” Dean says and tosses the menu on the unoccupied table behind him. He eyes you with a scrutinizing look. “Don’t insult our tradition.”

“Dean…” You sigh and roll your eyes, hearing his amused chuckle at your protest. “Do you know how long it’s been since I ate that much fat and sugar?”

Dean grins lazily. “I’m guessin’ too fucking long, sweetheart. You’re gonna commit to memory lane or not? Sin a little with me, huh?”

“Fine,” you relent, smiling. Who could say no to that? Your gaze then wanders up when your waiter comes to your table, your smile and eyes widening with both surprise and delight. “Oh my God, Benny?!”

“Well, if it isn’t Lawrence’s lost daughter,” Benny greets you with a broad grin. “Look at you, chère! Only gotten prettier in the last ten years.”

“Oh, stop!” Giggling, you shake your head and get up to hug him before settling back into your seat. “How have you been? I can’t believe you still work here,” you say before realizing how incredibly condescending that sounds, quickly correcting course. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. No offense.”

Amused, Dean snorts at your blunder. “Smooth.”

Luckily, Benny only barks a loud laugh and doesn’t take your comment to heart. “Still the same spitfire, I see.”

“You know, Benny actually bought this place from Bobby three years ago,” Dean tells you, sending his friend a smile full of pride.

Your heart stings a little again, as if someone was rubbing salt into an old wound. Dean, Benny and Cas had all been best friends, and for as long as you’d dated Dean, you’d always been hanging out with them and the girls, too. You’d all been friends once, but after the break-up, you felt booted out of the group – not that they’d ever officially declared a ban, but you knew where their alliances lay.

Moreover, you didn’t think you deserved them after leaving like you did.

When your first book was published, you didn’t even invite them to the launch party, fearing they wouldn’t show up anyway. Truthfully, you’d cried all night because you would’ve wanted no one rather there than your friends – and Dean. It’s the night you realized you’d be on your own from then on out.

“Wow! That’s awesome! Congrats, Benny,” you say with a genuine smile. It seems like everyone in your hometown is doing well and has found their place. But what about you? You can’t help but feel more lost than ever before.

What do you have to show for yourself? Three bestsellers? Great! What else? An empty apartment? Expensive wine? Do you even have friends you actually like? And Hemingway doesn’t count. Most days, you’re not even sure he likes you all that much, either. And what about dating? Your last long-term relationship ended four years ago. Your dating prospects have been more than lousy since.

“My, thank you. Old man didn’t have any kids, you know? And like you gracefully pointed out, chère, I have been working here for a long ass time,” Benny says with a teasing grin.

“Alright, I’m sorry, okay?” You laugh bashfully, your cheeks rosier than the glow of a ripe peach. “But hey, I’ve heard you’re doing well in the dating department, too. You and Donna? I’m so happy for you guys! Great choice, man. I always thought Andrea was a bitch.”

Dean and Benny both burst into laughter at your blunt honesty. You’ve always been a bit of a shit-starter in the group. A lot of bar fights at Rocky’s began with your words: “Oh, yeah? Wanna say that again to my friends over there? They’re gonna beat you the fuck up, buddy!”

“Now, where did you hear that, chère?” Benny asks puckishly, his eyes drifting to Dean opposite you.

“Oh, uh, actually Charlie told me. You know word travels fast in a small town. She’s been keeping me in the loop over the years,” you tell him and notice Dean straighten at that information in the corner of your eye.

“Shoulda known. That girl can’t keep anything to herself.” Benny chuckles, shaking his head. “What about you, huh? Still seeing that NHL player?”

“Oh God, no!” You snort at the reminder, vividly shaking your head. “No, we broke up a long time ago. Thankfully.”

“Well, good. His team sucked,” Benny quips. “So, what can I get you guys? The usual?”

“Yup.” Dean nods and snips a finger at you with a click of his tongue. “With extra bacon, cheese, and fries for her. Oh, and, uh, add another slice of pie as well.”

“I hate you,” you reply with a playful glare at Dean, but your cheeks are hurting from smiling too goddamn much. For the first time in a decade, you start to feel like you again. It feels like home – in the best possible way.

“Do you really?” Dean returns with an awfully flirtatious and bold smirk.

“Alright, usual with extra junk coming right up,” Benny cuts into the heated moment and clears his throat. “Hey, uh, Dean? You have a minute to look at my truck out back again? For some reason, the damn thing wouldn’t properly start this morning. Givin’ me a lotta trouble…”

Dean purses his lips and folds his hands on the table, and you can tell by the look the two men share, their silent conversation surely isn’t about the car. It’s about you, Benny probably wanting to warn his friend about the dangers of hanging out with an ex. And a small part of you wholeheartedly agrees with him.

It’s only been two hours since you’ve entered Dean’s orbit, but all those feelings you’ve kept buried underneath the surface begin to dig themselves out of their grave. You can’t help but wonder if Dean feels them coming alive, too.

Maybe there’s still something there, an old spark that could grow into a flame – or a wildfire that burns everything down.

You won’t know until you dare to find out.

“Uh, kinda have taken the day off and catching up here. Just call Garth at the shop to check it out,” Dean tells him with a polite ‘fuck off’ smile.

Benny gives a reluctant nod and forms the same defiant expression on his face. “Alright, brother. Your choice.” With a defeated sigh, he then beelines for the kitchen.

“So, Charlie’s been giving you updates, huh?” is the first thing Dean asks when Benny’s out of earshot, causing you to wonder what his curiosity is truly about. Why does he care? After your harsh goodbyes, you didn’t think he ever wanted to hear from you again.

“Yeah, she’s been sending me very detailed newsletters over the years.” You chuckle lightly and try to deflect. “I honestly think she could be a writer by the colorful language she uses.”

“Huh, yeah, she’s-, uh, she’s hoot,” Dean says with a tight smile, scratching the back of his neck. “So, uh, what d’she say about me?”

“Oh, uh…” You stump a little at his direct approach but decide to go with honesty. “She-, uh, she actually never mentions you. And I don’t really… ask, you know?”

“Right, yeah, no… That makes sense,” Dean replies and awkwardly clears his throat. Is he actually hurt by that or relieved? You can’t really tell but find his reaction odd, nonetheless.

And then, until your food arrives, the two of you stick to small talk about Benny and his plans for the diner, catch up about Bobby, and talk a little more about the Winchester clan – John’s health issues and Sam’s blooming law practice in Palo Alto.

“Fuck me,” you moan with a mouthful once you’ve taken the first bite of your burger and instantly wash it down with a big gulp of strawberry milkshake. “God, this is so good! I honestly forgot how fucking awesome this tastes.” You then notice Dean’s enchanted stare and arch a brow, giggling. “What?”

Dean shakes his head out of his stupor, swallowing. “Uh, nothing. Just happy you’re finally enjoying food again and eating a real meal instead of all that big city crap, sweetheart. What the fuck is a Paleo anyway?”

You snort a laugh. “Bunch of big city bullshit, I guess.”

“Hm. Exactly what I thought.” Dean’s lips rise to a pleased grin at your response. “And what about that bar thingy, huh? You becoming a lawyer like Sammy now, too?”

“No.” You laugh again. “It’s this new workout trend. Kinda a mix of yoga, Pilates, and ballet.”

“Fancy,” Dean teases with a mock posh expression. “You wearing a tutu for this?”

You lean forward with a bit of a daring look in your eyes. “No, actually, it’s more like a black, skin-tight bodysuit kind of thing,” you explain casually and watch his Adam’s apple bob in triumph.

“Uh-huh, think I get the picture…” Dean mutters and stuffs his dry mouth with a bite of burger, but you notice how his eyes escape down your frame.

“So, did you ever read any of my books?” you ask after a small pause but hide your genuine curiosity behind casualness.

For years, you’ve wondered if he ever had and recognized himself in your words. The stories in your books are echoes of your shared past, and while it isn’t exactly obvious to a stranger, Dean would probably recognize himself on every page.

Dean, on the other hand, seems a bit taken aback, suddenly squirming in his seat, his green eyes looking everywhere near you but never directly at you. “Uh, no, actually. Sorry,” he replies and occupies his lips briefly with a sip of milkshake. “Always wanted to, you know? Just never got around to it. Life kinda got busy after you left. You know, with the business and my dad…”

A part of you feels relieved. How embarrassing would this reunion between you two have been, otherwise? But another, bigger part of you is mad he never bothered. For the first few months after your move to the city, you’d always hoped he’d come for you, fight for you, but he never did. Maybe if he’d read what you had to say, he would’ve.

“Dean, it’s fine. You don’t have to give me an excuse. I don’t care either way. Was just curious, you know?” You shrug your disappointment off with nonchalance and hope he doesn’t see right through it. “They’re just a bunch of fictional crap, anyways. Still surprised they even became bestsellers in the first place.”

Dean’s brow furrows, and you know by the quirk of his lips that he’s seconds away from trying to cheer you up and convince you of the opposite. You know because he’s always done that whenever you’ve put yourself down in the past, only now you don’t feel he has any right to, his sheer attempt even angering you more.

“What, no, c’mon! Your writing has always been amazing! I’m not surprised someone else saw that you’re phenomenal, too. I always told you you’d make it,” Dean showers you with flattery, but it’s hard to believe at this moment. “I’m sure your next book will be a bestseller, too. You’re unstoppable, sweetheart.”

You purse your lips, your gaze musingly fixed on the two leftover fries on your plate before you meet his eyes. “How would you know, huh? You didn’t even read the first three,” you snip and watch his tongue poke the inside of his cheeks as he takes in your comment.

But there’s really no reason for animosity after ten years. Does it really matter what your ex from high school thinks?

“Look, uhm, I’m sorry. Maybe this was a bad idea. I should probably go now, spend some time with my mom…” you say and rise from your seat, opting to take the high road. You put down enough money to cover both your orders and include a generous tip for Benny. “Thanks for indulging me, though. It was nice catching up with you again, Dean. Take care, alright?”

Sure, you could have said lot of things. The two of could’ve even screamed your lungs out at each other. You never felt like you’d gotten the infamous closure. You’re not even sure you understand fully why you broke up in the first place. It all imploded so quickly back then. But why would you want to know now? What good could it do? The past remains the past. Opening old wounds and fighting ancient battles seems like a useless waste of time.

“Y/N, wait! Don’t go!” Dean’s hand grasps your wrist and pulls you back before your feet reach the exit. You meet his gaze, his hand loosening its grip and drifting to your palm, your fingers brushing before he lets go entirely. “Look, uh, I’m sorry.”

You smile a little, your features softening. “What exactly are you sorry for?”

“Well, uhm…” Dean scratches the back of his head. “Not exactly sure, quite frankly, but I know something I said upset you. Guess that hasn’t changed either.” He chuckles self-consciously.

“No, uh, you didn’t upset me, Dean,” you lie and offer him a soft smile that’s supposed to hide your true feelings. “Just remembered why this isn’t a good idea, you know?”

“Alright, hold on, okay? Maybe you’re right, but at least gimme one last shot to prove you wrong, sweetheart. What d’you say?” Dean’s smile is so charming and inviting it seems like an impossibility to deny him anything.

Matching his smile, you cave with a little sigh. “Go ahead. Shoot your shot, Winchester.”

“Okay, stay here. Don’t you dare move.” Dean grins victoriously and rushes past you to the far end of the diner, and it suddenly dawns on you what his plan is.

On cue, the diner fills with music from Bobby’s old jukebox, playing a song Dean just picked. You recognize it immediately and send him a raised look, partially amused by his choice as Can’t Fight this Feeling starts.

“Really? REO?”

“C’mon, it’s our song,” Dean argues goofily and joins you again in a few strides.

“Yeah, and like I told you back then a million times, I refuse to accept that,” you retort, laughing.

“Welp, don’t care,” Dean quips. He then holds out his palm, smirking. “Will you do me the honor and accept this dance, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You chortle but hesitantly agree to his offer, placing your hand in his before he pulls you flush against his body in one suave motion. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back while yours lands on his shoulder, feeling the dips of his muscles under your pads.

“It’s the song that played the first time I asked you to dance during our junior prom. Remember that?” Dean’s eyes find yours as you get lost in his embrace.

Goddammit, you’ve missed those arms around you. They make you feel safe and loved. They always have, and now you’re sure they always will.

“‘Course I do. My mom forced me to go to get outta the house. I so didn’t wanna be there. Not even Charlie and Meg got me out of my mood,” you recall.

“Yup, and then came me.” Dean chuckles warmly, feeling the vibrations against his chest. “I’d had my eye on you the second Cas brought Meg and her friends around, including her hot and smart friend. But you were pretty damn unapproachable, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say your reputation as a heartbreaker preceded you, Winchester,” you sass.

“You were definitely a hard one to win over.” Dean laughs a little at the memory. “But when I saw you sitting there on the bleachers of the gym, reading goddamn Kafka of all things, I thought I try again, even when Benny and Cas told me to give up because you clearly ain’t interested.”

“And you did come over and surprised me by quoting a line from the book I was reading. Still remember which book it was?” you challenge him.

“Yeah, The Trial,” Dean shoots like a pistol. “Kinda made me like you more. Still remember the quote, too. ‘I like to make use of what I know.’”

You laugh, your cheeks warming. “Yes, exactly! And then you proceeded to tell me you were a great dancer and had to make use of it.”

“Worked like a charm, didn’t it?” Dean grins down at you.

“It did.” Your eyes stay connected as you sway to the music and follow Dean’s lead, aware you’re being watched by a few diner customers now. But Dean doesn’t seem to care, so neither do you and just enjoy the moment. “Still remember what happened by the end of the song?”

You kissed him, and he grinned right through it.

“Yeah,” Dean smiles softly, “Changed my whole life, sweetheart.”

You mirror his expression as your heart swells. “Yeah, mine too.”

And you can feel it then, in the air around you two – you’re catapulted right back to the moment where you fell in love. Your heart is beating exceptionally fast, and you know his is, too.

“So, uh, you’re curious what’s next on the list?” Dean interrupts the electric silence, clearing his throat before twirling you around and catching you again with a playful smile.

“Uh, I didn’t know there’d be more,” you reply and can’t help breathing in his scent as he holds you close. That one hasn’t changed either. It’s still full of pine, leather, and motor oil, but it’s even more unique and indescribable than that.

“Of course there’s more,” Dean states as if it were obvious he’d want to spend more time with you. Where will it lead, though? What’s his agenda here? He can’t possibly think this is a normal thing to do with an ex-girlfriend, who someone hasn’t seen in over a decade. “C’mon, you didn’t really think memory lane ends here, right? This is just us fueling up before the trip even starts. Didn’t want to get you drunk without ensuring you had some nice, greasy padding in your stomach.”

“You wanna get me drunk, huh?” Laughingly, you lift a brow. “So, what’s the next stop on memory lane? You takin’ me back to Rocky’s?”

Dean grins broadly. “Oh no, way better, sweetheart.”

“Fine,” you agree once more, unable to cut the invisible string that ties you to him. “But if we’re gonna do this, I have to change outta those clothes first.”

“Now, we’re talking. Can’t wait to see you outta that pantsuit,” Dean teases, smirking.

You scoff in amusement. “It’s just slacks and a blouse. This hardly passes as a suit.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Dean retorts playfully and holds open the diner door for you like a gentleman.

Dean leans against his car with crossed arms as you walk – or run – out of your mom’s house again, meeting him on the small cobblestone path that leads up to the porch.

“That was quick,” Dean notes. “Didn’t even think you could change that fast. Surely never were ready this quick when we were still dating.”

“Yeah, well, trust me, wasn’t quick enough,” you huff. No kid should hear those sounds coming out of their mother’s bedroom.

Dean’s lips rise to a grin at the realization. “Ah. And how is Connie these days?”

“Busy,” you reply and add bitterly, “With Mr. Edlund.”

Dean’s brow knits, the smirk turning to a frown of disgust. “Our high school English teacher?”

“That’s the one,” you reply in sing-song.

Dean snorts a laugh. “Guess Connie hasn’t changed a bit, huh?”

“Nope, she hasn’t,” you murmur, smacking your lips. “Probably the only person I’ve always wanted to change. Funny how that works.”

“C’mon, she ain’t so bad. I know you love her,” Dean says, gently nudging your shoulder.

“No, I do,” you admit and look at him. “I’m here, right?”

“Yeah, you are,” Dean says softly before the boyish smile reappears on his freckle-dusted face, eyeing your choice of outfit – your old jeans overalls. “Can’t believe you put on the fucking overalls.”

“Hey! I loved them, okay? ‘Sides, you said I had to commit to memory lane, so consider me committing to denim. Even wearing my old flannel, so I match with you,” you reply slyly, pinching a bit of fabric on your arm between your fingers.

“Oh, you mean my old flannel?” Dean cocks a brow, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Huh, I guess. Forgot about that...”

You feign innocence as you steal a glimpse at it. Of course you’ve known it used to be his. You certainly haven’t picked it out by accident. Going through your old closet in your childhood bedroom, you’d come to the conclusion you wanted to see where this little adventure with the former love of your life would lead.

“Also not wearing a bra, by the way. You know, for old time sake,” you add with a cheeky wink and slide into the passenger seat, reminding Dean of your past aversion of unnecessary clothing items.

You figure it can’t hurt, and by the amount of time it takes him to climb into Baby after you, it certainly hasn’t.

“Mini golf?” You lift an eyebrow as you step out of the Impala and onto the familiar pavement of the parking lot.

The course sits right next to the arcade and the bowling alley. You’ve spent countless hours here with your friends, including a few heated make-out sessions with your green-eyed companion on that very parking lot.

“Hell yeah! We haven’t played in forever. We used to come here all the time,” Dean says, chuckling, and rounds his way to the trunk, pulling out three six-packs of beer cans.

“Oh no, Dean… We’re not doing Shotgun Mini Golf,” you warn playfully once you realize his plans. “We’re way too old for this!”

“Nonsense,” Dean says and grins at you, leading you toward the entrance.

The sun hangs low in the sky, its golden rays spilling over the miniature course. The humid Kansas air clings to your skin, thick with the chirps of cicadas and the occasional clink of a ball against plastic as you position yourself in front of the first hole with your neon pink putter.

“You think you’ve still got it, sweetheart?” Dean teases with a big grin, performing his usual trash talk. “I think you’re gonna be very wasted by the time we reach the last hole.”

“Oh, you’re on, Winchester.” You grin back slyly and swing your putter with practiced ease, the ball rolling steadily across the green and sinking into the hole with a soft plunk.

“Well, shit…” Dean whistles lowly and seems to realize his chances aren’t as great as he initially surmised.

“Your turn,” you sing triumphantly as you shoulder past him and watch his next move with interest.

Dean, undeterred, steps up to his shot. He lines up the ball, takes a deep breath, and swings – but the ball veers off course, clanging against the edge of a ramp and skidding toward the side. After three strokes total, he finally gets the ball into the hole. He exhales a defeated sigh, scratching the nape of his neck.

You let out a soft laugh, loving the sight of your ex already off his game. “Enjoy!” With a wide smirk, you hold out a can of beer for him at eye level.

Dean grabs it and digs out an Army knife from his pocket, puncturing a small hole near the bottom of the can. A hiss escapes before he covers the hole with his thumb and pops open the top. And then, you watch him in amusement as he tries to keep up with the rushing stream of golden liquid, chugging the whole can as beer trickles down his chin and arms, thoroughly soiling his flannel and jeans.

“Shit!” Dean coughs as he gulps down the last drops of beer, shaking his wet and sticky hands after discarding the empty can in the nearest trash bin. “Alright, maybe this was a bad idea. Been a while since I’ve done this.”

You laugh wholeheartedly. “Uh-uh, no backsies, Losechester.”

Dean snorts at the old nickname. “Alright, sweetheart, your funeral.”

But for the next three holes, it surely was Dean’s own eulogy before your luck seemed to turn, and you lost the following four rounds. By hole twelve, both of you were toe to toe and notably drunk, tumbling over obstacles and double-visioning holes and balls.

“Call it even?” Dean asks breathlessly, resting palms on his thighs after shotgunning the last beer.

The nausea bubbling in your stomach agrees with him, and you give him a tight-lipped nod, taking his steadying hand when he supportively offers it to you. How have the two of you ever managed to finish the whole course when you were younger? It seems like an impossibility now, and maybe the thought even extends to your relationship.

You can’t just get an old thing back, can you? It’ll never be the same.

The last traces of daylight are swallowed by the dark Kansas sky, dotted with a thousand twinkling stars above as the two of you stumble out onto the parking lot, your laughter ringing out into the quiet summer night.

“I can’t believe we did this again,” you say between bursts of giggles, one hand clutching his arm as if you might collapse into him at any second.

Dean’s arm slings around your waist when you almost fall, steadying you a little more, his hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear. You laugh even harder, pressing your palm on his solid chest for balance. He feels warm against you, and although everything feels fuzzy, the old magnetic pull is undeniable.

Your glassy gazes lock, and he softly tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek a little too long. His touch and closeness send shivers up and down your spine, soon reaching that sweet spot between your thighs.

“So, what now? Is this where we call it a night?” you ask innocently, your eyes drifting down to the plump, pink flesh of his lips that cause an urge within you to sink your teeth into them. Is he still a great kisser?

You’ve surely never encountered the same magic with anyone else after him.

Dean does what you can’t and bites down on his bottom lip, his eyes musingly swerving around. “No, c’mon! It’s barely after nine! I’ve got more stops on my list.”

Your lips rise to a smirk, your heart expanding in your ribcage and almost squeezing through. “Do you now?”

“Hell, yeah! I haven’t seen you in ten years. I’m not letting you go that easy again, sweetheart,” Dean replies, not noticing the drunken honesty in his words at first, but once he does, he subtly clears his throat and takes a step back from you. “How about some fuel, huh?” He gestures to a food truck across the parking lot.

“I could eat again,” you agree but wonder what his hesitancy is about. The old him would’ve already taken his shot and kissed you. He surely had plenty of opportunities tonight, always backing out at the last second.

Does he not want this, too? And if not, why is he doing all of this and dragging you down memory lane in the first place? He certainly doesn’t seem to want the night to end, either.

With your plastered mind racing, you and Dean then settle down at the picnic table on the lot with some tacos and two pops. The night feels expansive, the parking lot stretching out into nothingness, a sea of concrete and empty space under the lights of buzzing streetlamps.

“So, how are things with your mom, really? And don’t serve me the bullshit version you give strangers,” Dean says, breaking the silence after the first few bites.

“Uh, you know, same, honestly. Like I said, Connie hasn’t changed much,” you reply, offering him a smile. Whenever you’d grown frustrated with your mother back then, you’d always confided in Dean, but he hasn’t been around for a while now.

“She ever finally tell you who your dad is?”

You laugh a little, shaking your head. “Uh, no, I guess not. A few months ago, she said she thinks he’s either from Puerto Rico or Guatemala. She’s not sure, but she remembers my father speaking Spanish.”

“Huh.” Dean’s brows raise slightly. “What happened to you being 13% Cherokee?”

“Yeah, more like a 100% lie,” you retort, chuckling. “Remember when she told me she thinks I’m half-Asian but couldn’t remember which part of Asia exactly?”

“Yeah.” Dean laughs softly, nodding. “You could do one of those DNA tests, though, right? I heard they’re a thing now.”

“I guess, but I don’t really care enough to do that, you know? I mean, I’ve lived thirty years without a father. Don’t see why I’d need one now,” you say, fingers playing with your taco shell. “Besides, judging by Connie’s type, I’m not sure I wanna know. What if he’s nuts like her, and I end up taking care of two crazy parents?”

“Guess that’s a possibility,” Dean replies, chuckling.

“And the rest is, you know, typical Connie shit,” you explain with a half-hearted shrug. “Remember when she told me to give you more blowjobs to avoid getting pregnant?”

Dean laughs loudly at the memory, wiping the tears brimming in his green eyes with his fingers. “Classic Connie... She also gave me a pack of condoms the first night I was staying over. We even got breakfast in bed in the morning.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say. Your childhood home doesn’t resemble Casa Erotica,” you remark wryly. “She keeps sending me these really weird articles about sexual liberation, too. Even got a book about Kama Sutra for Christmas.”

“Well, I don’t remember you needing help in that department,” Dean accidentally comments and instantly bites his tongue, his wide eyes finding yours.

You laugh lightly, your cheeks blushing. “Well, uh, thank you. Neither did I. And you don’t even know what new tricks I’ve learned over the last decade,” you quip flirtatiously, watching his jaw grind at your suggestion. You casually crumple your empty wrapping paper into a ball and look at him expectantly. “So, what’s next on our list?”

“Right, uhm…” Dean breaks from his stupor, clearing his throat. He wipes his hands with a napkin before rubbing them on his jeans. “Well, there’s really only one more spot I wanna take you to.”

“Alright, lead the way.” You smile, feeling the butterflies in your belly soaring high to the stars above.

▶️ Chapter 3: Old Sparks – JULY 16

The heat is turning up as the night progresses, and if you're thinking, "Hmm, Dean seems a little sus," you're probably right 😜

Get ready for more heat & angst next week!  

Coming Up:

The nightly summer air is cool and crisp as the two of you settle into a comfortable and easy silence on the hood of the car, facing the horizon. For a heartbeat, you just breathe and enjoy the view, side by side. When you steal a glance at the backseat, Dean catches you and chuckles softly.

“What?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “I guess I just know where your mind went now. We’ve had some good times here, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you agree quietly, but it’s not the reaction he’s hoped for.

“You guess so?” Dean cocks his brow at you and playfully nudges you with his shoulder, seeing the faint hints of tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. “Alright, what’s going on with you?”

“I told you. ‘M just tired,” you lie once more.

“Hmm,” Dean hums, not believing you even for a second. Ten years might have passed and both of you changed slightly, but he still knows you too well – better than anyone on this planet. What a fucking heartbreaking thing to realize. “C’mon, talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Not in the mood to talk, Dean. Just leave it be,” you reply and keep your focus on the twinkling town lights, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Have you ruined your life by leaving ten years ago?

“Alright, how about I start, huh?” You only offer him a careless shrug as a response, and Dean exhales a small sigh. He swallows thickly, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. “I lied to you earlier… in the diner,” he starts, and you meet his eyes with a tilt of your head then.

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

Hahaha even funnier because both PH and this series are inspired by things that are played by the same actress 🤣 (I’m a fan lol). And don’t remind me of that song either! They used it so much during the promo of that movie (because of course they did 😂)

You had me cringing with her when she ducked under the table. The gum! God, put the fucking gum down girl! It’s worse than her mom getting it on with Mr Edlund 😂 mortifying by the way (thank god my mum is still married to my dad - I’d die if that happened to me, though he mum sounds cool as a friends mum - am I making sense?) Surely Dean has to know what she’s doing - but damn, what a great meet cute - wouldn’t have expected any less from you Wayne!

The gum was a bit of a Friends reference 😂

And yes, you’re totally making sense! I think she’s awesome as a friend’s mom, but you definitely don’t want all that cringe as a kid. But you’ll see that Dean certainly appreciates Connie 😅

I’m so excited to see where you take this, especially with the warnings. It’s already feeling exactly like a romcom, which I’m sure is what you’re going for. But it’s better because it’s Dean with his muscles and Baby and you’re promising me drama with all the little details hinting at their breakup - 😘❤️❤️❤️

My Soldier Boy series wrecked me a little, so I need something simple and flangsty to decompress. Nothing better than a classic romcom for that job 💞

Oh, there will be drama! Plenty of it 😂

Thank you for reading, Beth!! Last few months have been a little tough as I’m trying to crawl out of my burn-out (as you can probably tell by my insanely long response times lol), but hopefully I can catch up soon with my own tbr 😭🩵

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 1

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, tiny bit of angst, fluff, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜)

Word Count: 3.9k

Posted on Patreon April 2, 2025

A/N: I'm so excited to do a Dean series again! I missed him 😩💚 This one's super fluffy with a lot of screaming in the middle. I took the premise from the movie of the same name, but it changes drastically after the beginning. Happy reading, friends!

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 1: Old Regrets

The blinking little line on an empty page screams at you. The more you stare at it, the more it morphs into a middle finger, giving the biggest ‘fuck you.’ How to start? What to write? What words to choose?

Shit, shit, shit…

Where is this character? What do you even want to write about? Do you even have a genre? A hint of an idea?

No, fuck, fuck, no…

You glare at the seven words on your screen, five of them curses – repetitive, too. God, you can’t even be creative with your maledictions. And is ‘no’ even a word that counts? It feels more like a cry for help.

You blow a raspberry and slump your shoulders with a sigh. Fuck, you’re screwed, aren’t you?

Your publisher will drop you if you can’t deliver a raging new bestseller in six months. Your first draft is due in four weeks – and that was after you’ve begged Rowena to extend your deadline. You’ll lose your job, you’ll lose your nice apartment in SoHo, and you’ll have to move back home to Kansas and live with your mom till you die there.

Great. Maybe you should write about that. You’re certainly feeling dramatic right now.

Softly, you bang your head against the keyboard, your word count exploding. With a frustrated groan, you rise and shut the laptop a little too harshly, sauntering into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and feed your cat, who announces his hunger with a loud meow as he hops onto the counter.

As you place the bowl in front of Hemingway and scratch his fluffy, orange head, your lips suddenly rise to a smile as a memory pops up.

“You know, sweetheart, if you ever get a cat, you should name him Hemingway.”

“Why? ‘Cause I love books?”

“Yeah! ‘Sides, I like Hemingway’s work. That cat should be happy to have a cool name like that.”

Wow. You haven’t thought about him in a long time. Your heart still does that little sting, albeit it’s been ten years since you’ve even seen him. Since you’ve talked to him.

Dean Winchester is one of the reasons you barely ever visit home. Maybe even the biggest one.

It’s hard not to think about him, considering the first three books, all bestsellers, were essentially all him. They stemmed from ideas that blossomed in the five years you’d spent together. But now you are all tapped out. You’ve said what you needed to get out, spun your fantasies in every which way, and rid yourself of the what-ifs.

But what if?

No, this is crazy. Thinking about your high school sweetheart you dated all through college? Maybe you don’t need the wine tonight, after all.

Your gaze falls to the big window and the sparkling city skyline that sprawls out behind it. You recognize the grandeur, the beating metropolitan pulse, and the colorful facets of the people that call it home.

And still, you feel nothing. There used to be excitement in your veins. You felt lucky to be here, to live your dream, to do everything you ever wanted.

And yet, you feel empty. There’s an ache in your heart that keeps telling you you’re missing something.

Aside from your failing career, you haven’t seen your mother in a while. Maybe it’s good to go back home for a visit, flee the noises of the city, and touch grass.

You need a fresh perspective. So after finishing three glasses of wine, you open your laptop back up and book a flight.

“Mom?”

Your voice echoes through your childhood home, swinging the front door shut with your foot as soon as you’ve shuffled your bags into the foyer.

“Honey, hi! Oh, I didn’t know you were coming,” she says with a bright smile, embracing you in a tight hug.

“What d’you mean? I called you and said I was coming,” you point out, chuckling uncomfortably. Your relationship with your mother is complicated. You love her, but she’s a ‘free spirit,’ which is code for your mother being a bit promiscuous.

The men she dates are never bad or have treated you with unkindness, but it was hard to go to school when your mother gave cunnilingus to half your teachers. Judging by the silky robe wrapped around her and her tits pressing against you, you assume she’s also having company today.

“Oh, I thought you were pranking me, honey.” She snorts a laugh and brushes a few strands of loose hair behind your ear.

“Y/N, hi! Good to see you, kid.”

You narrow your eyes at the half-naked man who appears behind your mother in the doorframe, only a flimsy bedsheet wrapped around his waist.

“Mr. Edlund?”

“Oh, honey, do you remember Chuck? He was your high school English teacher,” your mother reminds you as if your gasp and agape mouth didn’t already give that fact away.

“I know, Mom!”

“We’re very proud of you, kid,” Mr. Edlund says, smiling, and wraps an arm around your mother’s shoulders. He then slaps her ass, making her yelp and giggle. “You ready to get back in there, Connie?”

“Oh God…” You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head vigorously to get rid of the vivid image in your mind.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t raise you to be such a prude.” Your mother tuts and gently pats your cheeks. “Sex is a very natural thing.” She then begins to knead the knotted muscles in your shoulders. “Maybe that’s why you’re so stiff. Did you not read the article I sent you? When’s the last you had an orgasm, huh?”

“Oh my God, Mom!” Your cheeks are burning hot, your heart is hammering wildly, and no matter how sexually liberated someone claims to be, you can’t imagine they’d be normal about a conversation like this with a parent. “Okay, you know what? You guys just-… finish here–” Ew, ew, ew! “–and I’ll just-… Yeah, I’ll come back.”

You’re so fast out that front door again you can barely hear your mother’s “Thank you, honey!”

Strolling aimlessly around your old neighborhood, you walk till you reach the town center. On first glance, it seems like nothing much has changed in Lawrence. Sure, there’s new shops, a house façade here or there in a different paint color than it used to be, or fresh foliage and flowers blooming in the park, but the core of your hometown remains untouched.

It’s still the town you couldn’t wait to leave when you were younger. Only one person had almost made you stay a lifetime.

Your eyes then land on an all too familiar flickering neon sign – Rocky’s Bar & Grill. A smile creeps to your face as a string of memories floods your mind. God, you had more than one wild night in there – laughing with your friends, playing pool, drinking your own body weight, and even do some sexually liberated things in the public restroom your mother would certainly be proud of.

Curiosity and nostalgia drag your feet into the establishment, and you instantly feel the familiarity of this place rushing back to you. It seems like the bar has been frozen in time, not even the tacky decoration changed, which has already been outdated when you were a child.

“Y/N? Is that really you? Oh my God!”

Your head turns to the chipper voice behind the bar counter, your smile rising immediately as you recognize the redhead. Charlie hasn’t changed a bit, either.

“Yup, it’s me,” you say with an awkward little laugh and hug your friend.

Charlie and you used to be inseparable in school. Even after your move to New York, the two of you stayed in touch – until you got busier and busier and busier, eventually settling into your new life as you tried to forget about the old one.

“It’s really good to see you.” Charlie grins, and her welcoming warms your heart.

You swallow down the guilt bubbling in your throat. Are you actually an ass for ditching your friends? But that’s normal, right? People evolve and move on to different things. It’s just how life works. No need to feel guilty about anything.

“It’s good to see you, too.” You try to form a smile, but your heart only keeps beating faster. Maybe this is a bad idea. What are you even doing here? “I-, uh, thank you for all your newsletters, Charlie. Really. You know, I-, uh, I try to respond, but then my editor calls and, you know, book tours…”

God, you sound like an idiot.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I get it. You’re a best-selling author. I’m sure you’re super busy. I can’t even imagine,” Charlie brushes your concerns away with her usual sunny smile, and you can tell she means it. It’s rare to find that in New York – people who still show honest kindness. “Just happy you’re reading them and haven’t forgotten about us.”

Well, you might have missed a few of them recently… You really are an ass, aren’t you?

“No, are you kidding? Of course I haven’t forgotten about you guys,” you lie with a forced laugh. Shit. “So, uh, how’s the gang?”

“Well, uh, as you know, Benny broke up with Andrea–“

“Uh-huh, yeah… How-, uh, how is he?” Needless to say, you had no clue they broke up.

“It was hard in the beginning, you know? I mean, after she cheated on him and everything…”

“Oh, yeah. So tough.” You nod your feigned agreement.

“Right? I mean, can you imagine? Anyways, he’s doing better now. He actually started seeing Donna,” Charlie tells you with a conspiratorial grin.

“No!” You gasp loudly, eyes wide. “Donna Hanscum? Sweet, little Donna is dating Benny Lafitte, high school quarterback?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm, you know what? They actually make a great couple,” you note musingly. You’ve never met two people with purer hearts.

“Right?! That’s what everyone’s been saying, too!” Charlie’s grin broadens, and you notice how easily you fall back into old habits once the initial awkwardness and shame subside. “Oh, uh, Cas and Meg are still going strong. Expecting their second kid.”

“Wow. That’s… surprising,” you joke, giggling.

“Yeah,” Charlie laughs her agreement, but then silence takes a hold. You know why. She doesn’t want to tell you about Dean, and you don’t exactly want to ask about him, either.

From Charlie’s newsletters, you always knew when Dean was out of town – every summer for the past ten years he had taken a road trip to California with his little brother. Considering it’s July, you feel relatively safe being here without the risk of running into your ex.

“So, uh, you work at Rocky’s now?” you ask to break the ice.

“No, uh, I’m still with Roman Tech,” Charlie says and holds up the tablet in her hand. “The bar’s just finally getting some Wi-Fi.”

“Oh, yeah, of course! About time Lawrence made it to the 21st century, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, that’s what I’ve been saying since school. The only internet we used to have was in the public library. Remember that virus we accidentally downloaded when we tried to get that pirated version of the new N*SYNC album?”

“God, yeah, we crashed the whole system. Mr. Metarson was so mad,” you recall, laughing. “Well, uh, I should probably let you get back to work.”

Charlie nods, smiling. “It was good to see you, Y/N. You should come home more often.”

With a deep sigh, you then order a whiskey from the bar and settle down in a quiet corner booth at the far end. God knows you don’t want to run into more blasts from the past. You should’ve never come here. What did you think it would accomplish?

You surely haven’t come up with an idea for a new book so far and have only been reminded of old regrets instead. This hasn’t been your home for the last ten years. You have no place here anymore.

Finishing your drink, you jot down ideas on a small napkin – all of them terrible. You huff a sigh and crumple the useless notes. Curling your lips, you pick up your empty tumbler. Maybe another one is fine? You’re sure it’s past noon somewhere, just as you’re sure your mom and her new lover are nowhere near done yet.

You glance up when the door of the bar swings open, hearing the first few notes of his voice. It’s deeper than you remember, but you recognize it all the same.

Fuck. He’s not supposed to be in town! What the fuck is he doing here?

Your eyes widen and take everything in before you. Ten years have done nothing to Dean Winchester. In fact, he looks even more handsome than the last time you’ve seen him. His jaw is more defined, there’s scruff on his cheeks and throat that make him look more rugged, and there are soft, kind crinkles around his green eyes.

Why does your ex have to look so downright fuckable?

Shit! You’ve just gotten off a plane this morning! You didn’t exactly have time to check a mirror when you fled your mother’s house.

What should you do?

As Dean greets Pamela at the counter, you decide to slide under the table and hide there. This is a nightmare. You cannot face your unfairly hot ex-boyfriend like this.

“Y/N?”

Fuck! Why the hell is he coming over to you? Doesn’t he know about the unspoken rule to avoid your ex at all costs when you see them in public?

“Dean! Oh my God, hey!” You shuffle back onto the bench with as much nonchalance as you can find.

“Were you just hiding under the table?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous.” You snort awkwardly, your cheeks heating in fluster. Your hand desperately forages for something on the sticky floor till it grabs the first thing it can find. “I was just looking for my–,” you glimpse at the semi-hard and semi-wet item between your fingers, “–gum.”

Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew! You’re holding someone’s used gum. God knows what diseases you’ll contract after this, feeling the germs already soak into your skin.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Were you gonna put it back into your mouth or–“

“No, no…“ You shake your head, swallowing thickly. Your hand fumbles for the crumpled napkin before you discard the gross gum in there. “I was just picking it up. I didn’t wanna leave it there, you know? I heard it’s, uhm, bad for the, uh, bar floor environment.”

God, he probably thinks you’re an idiot.

“Right, yeah.” Dean chuckles politely at your bad attempt at a joke, scratching the nape of his neck.

Is he nervous? You remember he used to do that whenever he was anxious. He also still seems to have a preference for wearing flannels, the material perfectly hugging his broad shoulders and barely hiding the muscles on his arms.

“So, uh, what are you doing here?” you ask with the friendliest smile, trying to push all the uncomfortableness and embarrassment down.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Dean replies and crosses his oh-so muscular arms over his aforementioned broad chest, the corners of his lips quirking with a curious smile. Is he flexing? “You barely ever come home. I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen you since… welp, the break-up, I guess. What’s it been? Ten years?”

“Really? Ten? Wow, crazy,” you say and ignore your thundering heart as best as possible. You either are close to throwing up or passing out. “Well, you know, I’m just here visiting my mom. I’m currently writing my fourth book. Just figured it’d be nice to get out of the city for a few days, clear my head…”

“Right, yeah, uhm, congratulations! New York Times bestselling author, huh? You really made it,” Dean says and smiles, but you can tell it’s forced, and you think you know why. “Proud of you,” he still adds.

“Yeah, uh, thanks.” You clear your throat and shake your head a little. Why is there such a weird feeling in your stomach? “But, uh, what about you? What have you been up to? Did you become a firefighter like you wanted to?”

“Uh, no, actually,” he replies, pursing his damn plush, kissable lips. “I-, uh, I stayed on with my dad. Family business. He’s not getting younger, you know? Kinda needs my help.”

“Yeah, no, totally get it. As long as you’re happy, it’s good, right?” Your heart hurts a little at the thought of Dean giving up his dreams to please his father. But you’re sadly not that surprised, either. He’s always been one of the most righteous, loyal, and dutiful people you know.

“Yeah, uh, I’m-… I’m happy. Business is going good, you know? And the old man actually lets me make decisions now,” Dean shares, chuckling.

“Wow, John Winchester letting go of control, huh? Thought I’d never see that,” you joke, earning you a warm laugh.

“Trust me, me neither, sweetheart,” Dean says with a chuckle but then notices how your brow raises at the old nickname. He scratches the back of his neck again, subtly clearing his throat. “I-, uh, I’m sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Oh, uh, no worries. It’s fine,” you brush it off but can’t deny the way your heart is fluttering with butterflies you thought had perished ten years ago. He still seems like the same sweet guy, and you could just fall right back in love with him.

But that’s crazy, right? You can’t just start something up with an ex from ten years ago, can you? Besides, like the rest of your friends here, Dean’s probably already mated for life and has procreated by the multiple, succumbing to the charmed small-town destiny. Still, you can’t help your gaze from drifting to his massive hands and thick, long fingers, noticing there’s no ring there.

“Well, uh, anyways, we just opened our fifth location down in Wichita,” Dean tells you proudly.

“Wow, that’s great, Dean. I’m glad you’re doing well.” You send him a warm smile, nodding, and then recognize the strange silence sneaking back in. “Well, uh, it was good to see you. Take care, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, you too.” Dean turns halfway, licking his lips. He hasn’t even managed a full step yet before spinning back on his heel to you. “Hey, uh, I was gonna grab take-out, but do you want some company? C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink. You drink beer too or just whiskey before noon?”

You snort a laugh at the teasing grin on his face. How can he be so charming and easy to talk to? Just like in high school, you fall victim once again to Dean Winchester’s irresistibility.

“No, uh, I’ll take a beer, too,” you agree with a wide smile.

“Took two years to build, but I’m really happy how it turned out,” Dean tells you as he swipes through pictures on his phone, showing you his life.

“Wow, building your dream home on the plot next to your parents. You really double-downed on staying in Lawrence, huh?” you tease, although there’s pain in your heart you try to conceal.

Dean chuckles, nodding. “Yeah, well, someone has to take over, right? Sam decided to stay in California when he married Jess, so…”

“Wait, little Sammy got married?” You gape at Dean, involuntarily leaning closer. You playfully touch his forearm that rests on the counter, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he coolly nurses his beer.

Is history repeating itself? Maybe this time, you could change the outcome, though.

“Yeah, uh, they’re actually expecting their first kid this fall,” Dean shares, and you can see the pride in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve almost forgotten their vibrancy over the years. They’ve always been one of your favorite features about him.

“No way! Wow, we’re getting old,” you say, giggling. You still remember meeting Jess when you and Dean drove down to California and visited Sam during his freshman year at Stanford. It had been one of your last road trips together before the two of you broke up.

“Yeah, I know.” Dean laughs and takes another gulp of beer. “So, when was the last time you actually came home, huh?”

“Hey, I come home almost every summer. And Christmas. Sometimes…” You begin to rethink under his scrutinizing look. “Well, maybe not the last few years. Guess it’s been a while.” You give a shrug of your shoulders, but Dean’s brow only raises higher. “What? New York is pretty irresistible around Christmas, okay?”

Dean chuckles triumphantly, shaking his head. “But you don’t have to live there, right? You could write anywhere,” he points out, and you know that particular topic is a sore point for him.

“Yeah, I guess now I could,” you admit and meet his forest-green eyes, seeing a million questions in them he doesn’t dare to ask. “But there’s nothing here for me anymore, you know? I mean, my mom, sure. But she visits me three times in New York every year. I don’t really have a reason to come back here.”

“Wow, really hard to see you from that high horse,” Dean wisecracks, chuckling.

“Wha-, c’mon!” You scoff a laugh. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Lawrence is great. I just have more opportunities in New York.”

Dean suddenly rises from the barstool, finishes his drink, and holds out a hand to you, nodding toward the door. “Alright, c’mon.”

“Where are we going?” you ask but still take his warm hand, your own feeling small in his, as he leads you back into the bright daylight.

And there, you see it – the classic, sleek black beauty he calls his Baby, parked meticulously by the curb of the sidewalk, untouched paint coat shining in the sun.

“Can’t believe you still got the Impala,” you breathe, an entranced gleam in your eyes.

Dean lifts a brow. “‘Scuse me? The day she leaves my side is the day I die.”

You press your lips into a tight line, but the teasing grin slips through. You still remember where to poke the bear. Turns out it’s like riding a bike – you never truly forget.

“Wow, so I guess the obsession with the car hasn’t changed, either.”

“What d’you mean?” Dean furrows his brow, close to offended, and you stifle the bubble of laughter that wants to erupt. “Look, aside from you, she’s my first love, okay?”

Bobbing your head, your brows hitch before you smirk at him.

Dean huffs a sigh, rolling his eyes. He rounds the front of the car to the driver’s side, opening the door. “Alright, get in and shut up.”

Giggling, you accept his invitation, your fingertips feeling the familiar, worn leather of the seat as a flood of memories crashes right back at you. God, you can’t even remember how many hours you’ve spent in this car with him, but they did feel like they were endless.

Until they ended.

“Can I pick the music?” you ask with a teasing grin, although you know the answer too damn well.

“Rules haven’t changed, either. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts their cakehole,” Dean says, chuckling, and starts the engine.

“So, where are we going?”

Dean smirks. “Down memory fucking lane, sweetheart.”

▶️ Chapter 2: Old Haunts – JUNE 18

This series might start cute and fluffy, but don't let that fool you. I promise you you'll curse me soon enough 😂 Reader's mom also might be one of my favorite parents ever. She was based halfway on the mother in the movie and the mother from Friends With Benefits. Love me a good hippie mom 😜

Coming Up:

“Okay, stay here. Don’t you dare move.” Dean grins victoriously and rushes past you to the far end of the diner, and it suddenly dawns on you what his plan is.

On cue, the diner fills with music from Bobby’s old jukebox, playing a song Dean just picked. You recognize it immediately and send him a raised look, partially amused by his choice as Can’t Fight this Feeling starts.

“Really? REO?”

“C’mon, it’s our song,” Dean argues goofily and joins you again in a few strides.

“Yeah, and like I told you back then a million times, I refuse to accept that,” you retort, laughing.

“Welp, don’t care,” Dean quips. He then holds out his palm, smirking. “Will you do me the honor and accept this dance, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You chortle but hesitantly agree to his offer, placing your hand in his before he pulls you flush against his body in one suave motion. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back while yours lands on his shoulder, feeling the dips of his muscles under your pads.

“It’s the song that played the first time I asked you to dance during our junior prom. Remember that?” Dean’s eyes find yours as you get lost in his embrace.

Goddammit, you’ve missed those arms around you. They make you feel safe and loved. They always have, and now you’re sure they always will.

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

Mechanic!Dean is the best – it’s the simple ruggedness for me 😮‍💨

But yes to more chaotic Mechanic!Dean (with a slight delay because these last few months might have wrecked me – ‘s all good 😂)

first off omg I can relate to this cause I actually have a orange cat who will meow so loud when he is hungry. Soon as he sees me in the kitchen during his feeding times and meows loud til I feed him. Only thing is his name is Scooter not Hemingway he is named after a muppet. 😂 I also have a white cat named Casper he just stares at me. But I loved this part cause it made me think of my 2 boys.

Yeah he sleeps like he is dead after he is satisfied with his meal. 😂

My sister’s cats are the same every time I cat-sit them. They’re always yowling like they’ve been starving for days lol. And Casper is such a perfect name for a white cat!! 👻

And Scooter looks so sweet 🥹 Orange cats are my favorites 🧡

Moving on cause I can talk about my two boys all day. Anyway the part with her mom omg! That cracked me up I couldn’t stop laughing. I also got a little traumatized remembering being a little kid and walking in on my parents. 😳 But I will not think of that here no no! But I love her mom can’t wait for more of her!

Bahaha I’ve been there too on the walking in on parents lmao. But it’s not a childhood if you don’t get scarred by your parents a little 😂

But yeah, reader’s mom is definitely… special in that regard lol. There’s more Connie and her shenanigans in your future 😉

Charlie telling her everything that happened I was like girl you should have went home more how dare you!! Hopefully she finds a reason to stay home.

Her reasons for staying away will be revealed soon. It’s always hard to come home and be with your old friends if you left because you were running from something or didn’t want to be reminded of the things you lost ❤️‍🩹

Her reunion with Dean was so cute it was sweet. But I know you Wayne you will break my heart a little before healing it again. So I am going to hang onto this fluffy part for as long as I can! But I can’t wait to see more of their story. Maybe some sexy time too cause I’m a ho for dean smut! 😂 great first chapter Wayne I can’t wait for more!!

Guilty 😂 There will be heartbreak and a lot of screaming BUT the ending is probably one of the fluffiest I’ve ever written. No smut, tho, in this series. I tried to fit it in, but it didn’t feel right. I’m planning on writing a smutty one-shot, however, as soon as I got a little more free time again 🥰💞

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 1

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, tiny bit of angst, fluff, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜)

Word Count: 3.9k

Posted on Patreon April 2, 2025

A/N: I'm so excited to do a Dean series again! I missed him 😩💚 This one's super fluffy with a lot of screaming in the middle. I took the premise from the movie of the same name, but it changes drastically after the beginning. Happy reading, friends!

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 1: Old Regrets

The blinking little line on an empty page screams at you. The more you stare at it, the more it morphs into a middle finger, giving the biggest ‘fuck you.’ How to start? What to write? What words to choose?

Shit, shit, shit…

Where is this character? What do you even want to write about? Do you even have a genre? A hint of an idea?

No, fuck, fuck, no…

You glare at the seven words on your screen, five of them curses – repetitive, too. God, you can’t even be creative with your maledictions. And is ‘no’ even a word that counts? It feels more like a cry for help.

You blow a raspberry and slump your shoulders with a sigh. Fuck, you’re screwed, aren’t you?

Your publisher will drop you if you can’t deliver a raging new bestseller in six months. Your first draft is due in four weeks – and that was after you’ve begged Rowena to extend your deadline. You’ll lose your job, you’ll lose your nice apartment in SoHo, and you’ll have to move back home to Kansas and live with your mom till you die there.

Great. Maybe you should write about that. You’re certainly feeling dramatic right now.

Softly, you bang your head against the keyboard, your word count exploding. With a frustrated groan, you rise and shut the laptop a little too harshly, sauntering into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and feed your cat, who announces his hunger with a loud meow as he hops onto the counter.

As you place the bowl in front of Hemingway and scratch his fluffy, orange head, your lips suddenly rise to a smile as a memory pops up.

“You know, sweetheart, if you ever get a cat, you should name him Hemingway.”

“Why? ‘Cause I love books?”

“Yeah! ‘Sides, I like Hemingway’s work. That cat should be happy to have a cool name like that.”

Wow. You haven’t thought about him in a long time. Your heart still does that little sting, albeit it’s been ten years since you’ve even seen him. Since you’ve talked to him.

Dean Winchester is one of the reasons you barely ever visit home. Maybe even the biggest one.

It’s hard not to think about him, considering the first three books, all bestsellers, were essentially all him. They stemmed from ideas that blossomed in the five years you’d spent together. But now you are all tapped out. You’ve said what you needed to get out, spun your fantasies in every which way, and rid yourself of the what-ifs.

But what if?

No, this is crazy. Thinking about your high school sweetheart you dated all through college? Maybe you don’t need the wine tonight, after all.

Your gaze falls to the big window and the sparkling city skyline that sprawls out behind it. You recognize the grandeur, the beating metropolitan pulse, and the colorful facets of the people that call it home.

And still, you feel nothing. There used to be excitement in your veins. You felt lucky to be here, to live your dream, to do everything you ever wanted.

And yet, you feel empty. There’s an ache in your heart that keeps telling you you’re missing something.

Aside from your failing career, you haven’t seen your mother in a while. Maybe it’s good to go back home for a visit, flee the noises of the city, and touch grass.

You need a fresh perspective. So after finishing three glasses of wine, you open your laptop back up and book a flight.

“Mom?”

Your voice echoes through your childhood home, swinging the front door shut with your foot as soon as you’ve shuffled your bags into the foyer.

“Honey, hi! Oh, I didn’t know you were coming,” she says with a bright smile, embracing you in a tight hug.

“What d’you mean? I called you and said I was coming,” you point out, chuckling uncomfortably. Your relationship with your mother is complicated. You love her, but she’s a ‘free spirit,’ which is code for your mother being a bit promiscuous.

The men she dates are never bad or have treated you with unkindness, but it was hard to go to school when your mother gave cunnilingus to half your teachers. Judging by the silky robe wrapped around her and her tits pressing against you, you assume she’s also having company today.

“Oh, I thought you were pranking me, honey.” She snorts a laugh and brushes a few strands of loose hair behind your ear.

“Y/N, hi! Good to see you, kid.”

You narrow your eyes at the half-naked man who appears behind your mother in the doorframe, only a flimsy bedsheet wrapped around his waist.

“Mr. Edlund?”

“Oh, honey, do you remember Chuck? He was your high school English teacher,” your mother reminds you as if your gasp and agape mouth didn’t already give that fact away.

“I know, Mom!”

“We’re very proud of you, kid,” Mr. Edlund says, smiling, and wraps an arm around your mother’s shoulders. He then slaps her ass, making her yelp and giggle. “You ready to get back in there, Connie?”

“Oh God…” You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head vigorously to get rid of the vivid image in your mind.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t raise you to be such a prude.” Your mother tuts and gently pats your cheeks. “Sex is a very natural thing.” She then begins to knead the knotted muscles in your shoulders. “Maybe that’s why you’re so stiff. Did you not read the article I sent you? When’s the last you had an orgasm, huh?”

“Oh my God, Mom!” Your cheeks are burning hot, your heart is hammering wildly, and no matter how sexually liberated someone claims to be, you can’t imagine they’d be normal about a conversation like this with a parent. “Okay, you know what? You guys just-… finish here–” Ew, ew, ew! “–and I’ll just-… Yeah, I’ll come back.”

You’re so fast out that front door again you can barely hear your mother’s “Thank you, honey!”

Strolling aimlessly around your old neighborhood, you walk till you reach the town center. On first glance, it seems like nothing much has changed in Lawrence. Sure, there’s new shops, a house façade here or there in a different paint color than it used to be, or fresh foliage and flowers blooming in the park, but the core of your hometown remains untouched.

It’s still the town you couldn’t wait to leave when you were younger. Only one person had almost made you stay a lifetime.

Your eyes then land on an all too familiar flickering neon sign – Rocky’s Bar & Grill. A smile creeps to your face as a string of memories floods your mind. God, you had more than one wild night in there – laughing with your friends, playing pool, drinking your own body weight, and even do some sexually liberated things in the public restroom your mother would certainly be proud of.

Curiosity and nostalgia drag your feet into the establishment, and you instantly feel the familiarity of this place rushing back to you. It seems like the bar has been frozen in time, not even the tacky decoration changed, which has already been outdated when you were a child.

“Y/N? Is that really you? Oh my God!”

Your head turns to the chipper voice behind the bar counter, your smile rising immediately as you recognize the redhead. Charlie hasn’t changed a bit, either.

“Yup, it’s me,” you say with an awkward little laugh and hug your friend.

Charlie and you used to be inseparable in school. Even after your move to New York, the two of you stayed in touch – until you got busier and busier and busier, eventually settling into your new life as you tried to forget about the old one.

“It’s really good to see you.” Charlie grins, and her welcoming warms your heart.

You swallow down the guilt bubbling in your throat. Are you actually an ass for ditching your friends? But that’s normal, right? People evolve and move on to different things. It’s just how life works. No need to feel guilty about anything.

“It’s good to see you, too.” You try to form a smile, but your heart only keeps beating faster. Maybe this is a bad idea. What are you even doing here? “I-, uh, thank you for all your newsletters, Charlie. Really. You know, I-, uh, I try to respond, but then my editor calls and, you know, book tours…”

God, you sound like an idiot.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I get it. You’re a best-selling author. I’m sure you’re super busy. I can’t even imagine,” Charlie brushes your concerns away with her usual sunny smile, and you can tell she means it. It’s rare to find that in New York – people who still show honest kindness. “Just happy you’re reading them and haven’t forgotten about us.”

Well, you might have missed a few of them recently… You really are an ass, aren’t you?

“No, are you kidding? Of course I haven’t forgotten about you guys,” you lie with a forced laugh. Shit. “So, uh, how’s the gang?”

“Well, uh, as you know, Benny broke up with Andrea–“

“Uh-huh, yeah… How-, uh, how is he?” Needless to say, you had no clue they broke up.

“It was hard in the beginning, you know? I mean, after she cheated on him and everything…”

“Oh, yeah. So tough.” You nod your feigned agreement.

“Right? I mean, can you imagine? Anyways, he’s doing better now. He actually started seeing Donna,” Charlie tells you with a conspiratorial grin.

“No!” You gasp loudly, eyes wide. “Donna Hanscum? Sweet, little Donna is dating Benny Lafitte, high school quarterback?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm, you know what? They actually make a great couple,” you note musingly. You’ve never met two people with purer hearts.

“Right?! That’s what everyone’s been saying, too!” Charlie’s grin broadens, and you notice how easily you fall back into old habits once the initial awkwardness and shame subside. “Oh, uh, Cas and Meg are still going strong. Expecting their second kid.”

“Wow. That’s… surprising,” you joke, giggling.

“Yeah,” Charlie laughs her agreement, but then silence takes a hold. You know why. She doesn’t want to tell you about Dean, and you don’t exactly want to ask about him, either.

From Charlie’s newsletters, you always knew when Dean was out of town – every summer for the past ten years he had taken a road trip to California with his little brother. Considering it’s July, you feel relatively safe being here without the risk of running into your ex.

“So, uh, you work at Rocky’s now?” you ask to break the ice.

“No, uh, I’m still with Roman Tech,” Charlie says and holds up the tablet in her hand. “The bar’s just finally getting some Wi-Fi.”

“Oh, yeah, of course! About time Lawrence made it to the 21st century, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, that’s what I’ve been saying since school. The only internet we used to have was in the public library. Remember that virus we accidentally downloaded when we tried to get that pirated version of the new N*SYNC album?”

“God, yeah, we crashed the whole system. Mr. Metarson was so mad,” you recall, laughing. “Well, uh, I should probably let you get back to work.”

Charlie nods, smiling. “It was good to see you, Y/N. You should come home more often.”

With a deep sigh, you then order a whiskey from the bar and settle down in a quiet corner booth at the far end. God knows you don’t want to run into more blasts from the past. You should’ve never come here. What did you think it would accomplish?

You surely haven’t come up with an idea for a new book so far and have only been reminded of old regrets instead. This hasn’t been your home for the last ten years. You have no place here anymore.

Finishing your drink, you jot down ideas on a small napkin – all of them terrible. You huff a sigh and crumple the useless notes. Curling your lips, you pick up your empty tumbler. Maybe another one is fine? You’re sure it’s past noon somewhere, just as you’re sure your mom and her new lover are nowhere near done yet.

You glance up when the door of the bar swings open, hearing the first few notes of his voice. It’s deeper than you remember, but you recognize it all the same.

Fuck. He’s not supposed to be in town! What the fuck is he doing here?

Your eyes widen and take everything in before you. Ten years have done nothing to Dean Winchester. In fact, he looks even more handsome than the last time you’ve seen him. His jaw is more defined, there’s scruff on his cheeks and throat that make him look more rugged, and there are soft, kind crinkles around his green eyes.

Why does your ex have to look so downright fuckable?

Shit! You’ve just gotten off a plane this morning! You didn’t exactly have time to check a mirror when you fled your mother’s house.

What should you do?

As Dean greets Pamela at the counter, you decide to slide under the table and hide there. This is a nightmare. You cannot face your unfairly hot ex-boyfriend like this.

“Y/N?”

Fuck! Why the hell is he coming over to you? Doesn’t he know about the unspoken rule to avoid your ex at all costs when you see them in public?

“Dean! Oh my God, hey!” You shuffle back onto the bench with as much nonchalance as you can find.

“Were you just hiding under the table?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous.” You snort awkwardly, your cheeks heating in fluster. Your hand desperately forages for something on the sticky floor till it grabs the first thing it can find. “I was just looking for my–,” you glimpse at the semi-hard and semi-wet item between your fingers, “–gum.”

Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew! You’re holding someone’s used gum. God knows what diseases you’ll contract after this, feeling the germs already soak into your skin.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Were you gonna put it back into your mouth or–“

“No, no…“ You shake your head, swallowing thickly. Your hand fumbles for the crumpled napkin before you discard the gross gum in there. “I was just picking it up. I didn’t wanna leave it there, you know? I heard it’s, uhm, bad for the, uh, bar floor environment.”

God, he probably thinks you’re an idiot.

“Right, yeah.” Dean chuckles politely at your bad attempt at a joke, scratching the nape of his neck.

Is he nervous? You remember he used to do that whenever he was anxious. He also still seems to have a preference for wearing flannels, the material perfectly hugging his broad shoulders and barely hiding the muscles on his arms.

“So, uh, what are you doing here?” you ask with the friendliest smile, trying to push all the uncomfortableness and embarrassment down.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Dean replies and crosses his oh-so muscular arms over his aforementioned broad chest, the corners of his lips quirking with a curious smile. Is he flexing? “You barely ever come home. I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen you since… welp, the break-up, I guess. What’s it been? Ten years?”

“Really? Ten? Wow, crazy,” you say and ignore your thundering heart as best as possible. You either are close to throwing up or passing out. “Well, you know, I’m just here visiting my mom. I’m currently writing my fourth book. Just figured it’d be nice to get out of the city for a few days, clear my head…”

“Right, yeah, uhm, congratulations! New York Times bestselling author, huh? You really made it,” Dean says and smiles, but you can tell it’s forced, and you think you know why. “Proud of you,” he still adds.

“Yeah, uh, thanks.” You clear your throat and shake your head a little. Why is there such a weird feeling in your stomach? “But, uh, what about you? What have you been up to? Did you become a firefighter like you wanted to?”

“Uh, no, actually,” he replies, pursing his damn plush, kissable lips. “I-, uh, I stayed on with my dad. Family business. He’s not getting younger, you know? Kinda needs my help.”

“Yeah, no, totally get it. As long as you’re happy, it’s good, right?” Your heart hurts a little at the thought of Dean giving up his dreams to please his father. But you’re sadly not that surprised, either. He’s always been one of the most righteous, loyal, and dutiful people you know.

“Yeah, uh, I’m-… I’m happy. Business is going good, you know? And the old man actually lets me make decisions now,” Dean shares, chuckling.

“Wow, John Winchester letting go of control, huh? Thought I’d never see that,” you joke, earning you a warm laugh.

“Trust me, me neither, sweetheart,” Dean says with a chuckle but then notices how your brow raises at the old nickname. He scratches the back of his neck again, subtly clearing his throat. “I-, uh, I’m sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Oh, uh, no worries. It’s fine,” you brush it off but can’t deny the way your heart is fluttering with butterflies you thought had perished ten years ago. He still seems like the same sweet guy, and you could just fall right back in love with him.

But that’s crazy, right? You can’t just start something up with an ex from ten years ago, can you? Besides, like the rest of your friends here, Dean’s probably already mated for life and has procreated by the multiple, succumbing to the charmed small-town destiny. Still, you can’t help your gaze from drifting to his massive hands and thick, long fingers, noticing there’s no ring there.

“Well, uh, anyways, we just opened our fifth location down in Wichita,” Dean tells you proudly.

“Wow, that’s great, Dean. I’m glad you’re doing well.” You send him a warm smile, nodding, and then recognize the strange silence sneaking back in. “Well, uh, it was good to see you. Take care, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, you too.” Dean turns halfway, licking his lips. He hasn’t even managed a full step yet before spinning back on his heel to you. “Hey, uh, I was gonna grab take-out, but do you want some company? C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink. You drink beer too or just whiskey before noon?”

You snort a laugh at the teasing grin on his face. How can he be so charming and easy to talk to? Just like in high school, you fall victim once again to Dean Winchester’s irresistibility.

“No, uh, I’ll take a beer, too,” you agree with a wide smile.

“Took two years to build, but I’m really happy how it turned out,” Dean tells you as he swipes through pictures on his phone, showing you his life.

“Wow, building your dream home on the plot next to your parents. You really double-downed on staying in Lawrence, huh?” you tease, although there’s pain in your heart you try to conceal.

Dean chuckles, nodding. “Yeah, well, someone has to take over, right? Sam decided to stay in California when he married Jess, so…”

“Wait, little Sammy got married?” You gape at Dean, involuntarily leaning closer. You playfully touch his forearm that rests on the counter, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he coolly nurses his beer.

Is history repeating itself? Maybe this time, you could change the outcome, though.

“Yeah, uh, they’re actually expecting their first kid this fall,” Dean shares, and you can see the pride in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve almost forgotten their vibrancy over the years. They’ve always been one of your favorite features about him.

“No way! Wow, we’re getting old,” you say, giggling. You still remember meeting Jess when you and Dean drove down to California and visited Sam during his freshman year at Stanford. It had been one of your last road trips together before the two of you broke up.

“Yeah, I know.” Dean laughs and takes another gulp of beer. “So, when was the last time you actually came home, huh?”

“Hey, I come home almost every summer. And Christmas. Sometimes…” You begin to rethink under his scrutinizing look. “Well, maybe not the last few years. Guess it’s been a while.” You give a shrug of your shoulders, but Dean’s brow only raises higher. “What? New York is pretty irresistible around Christmas, okay?”

Dean chuckles triumphantly, shaking his head. “But you don’t have to live there, right? You could write anywhere,” he points out, and you know that particular topic is a sore point for him.

“Yeah, I guess now I could,” you admit and meet his forest-green eyes, seeing a million questions in them he doesn’t dare to ask. “But there’s nothing here for me anymore, you know? I mean, my mom, sure. But she visits me three times in New York every year. I don’t really have a reason to come back here.”

“Wow, really hard to see you from that high horse,” Dean wisecracks, chuckling.

“Wha-, c’mon!” You scoff a laugh. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Lawrence is great. I just have more opportunities in New York.”

Dean suddenly rises from the barstool, finishes his drink, and holds out a hand to you, nodding toward the door. “Alright, c’mon.”

“Where are we going?” you ask but still take his warm hand, your own feeling small in his, as he leads you back into the bright daylight.

And there, you see it – the classic, sleek black beauty he calls his Baby, parked meticulously by the curb of the sidewalk, untouched paint coat shining in the sun.

“Can’t believe you still got the Impala,” you breathe, an entranced gleam in your eyes.

Dean lifts a brow. “‘Scuse me? The day she leaves my side is the day I die.”

You press your lips into a tight line, but the teasing grin slips through. You still remember where to poke the bear. Turns out it’s like riding a bike – you never truly forget.

“Wow, so I guess the obsession with the car hasn’t changed, either.”

“What d’you mean?” Dean furrows his brow, close to offended, and you stifle the bubble of laughter that wants to erupt. “Look, aside from you, she’s my first love, okay?”

Bobbing your head, your brows hitch before you smirk at him.

Dean huffs a sigh, rolling his eyes. He rounds the front of the car to the driver’s side, opening the door. “Alright, get in and shut up.”

Giggling, you accept his invitation, your fingertips feeling the familiar, worn leather of the seat as a flood of memories crashes right back at you. God, you can’t even remember how many hours you’ve spent in this car with him, but they did feel like they were endless.

Until they ended.

“Can I pick the music?” you ask with a teasing grin, although you know the answer too damn well.

“Rules haven’t changed, either. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts their cakehole,” Dean says, chuckling, and starts the engine.

“So, where are we going?”

Dean smirks. “Down memory fucking lane, sweetheart.”

▶️ Chapter 2: Old Haunts – JUNE 18

This series might start cute and fluffy, but don't let that fool you. I promise you you'll curse me soon enough 😂 Reader's mom also might be one of my favorite parents ever. She was based halfway on the mother in the movie and the mother from Friends With Benefits. Love me a good hippie mom 😜

Coming Up:

“Okay, stay here. Don’t you dare move.” Dean grins victoriously and rushes past you to the far end of the diner, and it suddenly dawns on you what his plan is.

On cue, the diner fills with music from Bobby’s old jukebox, playing a song Dean just picked. You recognize it immediately and send him a raised look, partially amused by his choice as Can’t Fight this Feeling starts.

“Really? REO?”

“C’mon, it’s our song,” Dean argues goofily and joins you again in a few strides.

“Yeah, and like I told you back then a million times, I refuse to accept that,” you retort, laughing.

“Welp, don’t care,” Dean quips. He then holds out his palm, smirking. “Will you do me the honor and accept this dance, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You chortle but hesitantly agree to his offer, placing your hand in his before he pulls you flush against his body in one suave motion. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back while yours lands on his shoulder, feeling the dips of his muscles under your pads.

“It’s the song that played the first time I asked you to dance during our junior prom. Remember that?” Dean’s eyes find yours as you get lost in his embrace.

Goddammit, you’ve missed those arms around you. They make you feel safe and loved. They always have, and now you’re sure they always will.

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

Tag List Pt. 2:

@hellsbratonthet @jassackles @periandernyx @hayah84

@deans-baby-momma @snowayumi @bettystonewell @gowanadrienne

@mostlymarvelgirl @ladykitana90 @spxideyver @kamisobsessed @lunaleah

@little-diable @ablondehoe @apobangpo-0613 @mariarozasworld @iprobablyshipit19

@mochminnie @maddie0101 @nuoctis @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester

@kellyls04 @mariaanna2000 @narniabusinessbitch @brinnalaine

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 3

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜), drinking & everything that comes with a crazy night out, stupid decisions like drunk driving, mentions of break-ups, fluff, angst and hurt and a rough ending

Word Count: 3.6k

Posted on Patreon April 16, 2025

A/N: Enjoy this little rollercoaster of emotion. This is just the beginning! 🤪🎢

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 3: Old Sparks

Dean said one more stop, but his actions spoke differently. As soon as the two of you were on the road again, he convinced you to go to Rocky’s for a nightcap before your last stop.

That nightcap turned out to be your downfall.

You and Dean emptied shot after shot, playing pool and darts before you told him to bolt as soon as you’d returned from the restroom with that godawful, stuffed singing trout, which held a sign that read: “Drink like a fish.”

Both of you had always hated the damn thing, so stealing it and bringing it to its final demise by drowning it in the river out back seemed like an appropriate and necessary action after ten years. You and Dean laughed, squealed and giggled as you raced down the quiet streets of Lawrence like the two of you were teenagers, running from Sheriff Mills all over again.

Fortunately, no law enforcement came after you this time, but that didn’t stop either of you from more shenanigans.

After your escape, Dean headed straight to the drive-in theater, where you caught the last thirty minutes of the midnight showing of All Saints’ Day 4: Hatched Man Lives, which just so happens to be Dean’s favorite horror flick of all time. You’d watched it every Halloween with him.

You stuff yourselves full with popcorn, nachos, licorice, Skittles and gummies before the two of you hit the road again when the movie rolls its end credits. Junk food, booze, junk food, booze – it’s a cycle you and Dean repeat throughout the day and night as you carry on with your adventure.

Suddenly, Dean then haphazardly pulls over at the side of a quiet stretch of road near an empty field a little outside of town, and you recognize the familiar land as the old Tran farm.

“Dean, what are we doing here?” you ask a little too giggly and feel like a schoolgirl again as you arch a brow at your tour guide’s mischievous smirk.

Dean’s palms drum against the steering wheel to AC/DC’s Back in Black, the excitement and adrenaline visibly rushing through his veins. “I think tonight’s the night, sweetheart,” he tells you, drunk with liquid courage and a big wolfish grin.

“Dean, no!” You wheezed, your contracting abs almost breaking you in two. “You couldn’t do it when you were twenty-one. What makes you think you can do it now?”

“Hey, I’m a lot stronger now. And the cow’s older, too,” Dean argues in boozed logic.

“Is it even the same cow?”

“I don’t know, but I’m gonna tip it over,” Dean drawls with determination gleaming in his glassy green eyes.

“Dude, no!” You giggle and shake your head but still follow him all the way into the dark field. How poetic.

Needless to say, Dean couldn’t even find the cow nor see straight, neither of you even knew if the cow still existed, and by the time the two of you had decided to free the chickens from the coop instead, Mrs. Tran ran out of the house and fired a shotgun into the air.

Laughingly, Dean and you then reach the safety of Baby, hearts beating fast as you breathlessly fall back into your seats.

“Well, that was a bummer,” you note, giggling, and share a look with your partner in crime, whose grin is broader than the full moon on a clear night like tonight.

“Still fun, though, right?” Dean says, to which you agree with a vigorous nod. “Alright, can you grab the tapes from under your seat?”

“Oh, which one d’you want? Zeppelin II or IV?” you tease as you haul out the old shoebox full of cassette tapes.

“Hey, I listen to a lot more than Zeppelin, okay?”

“Anything after the 80s?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes briefly with a lack of a clever response before he simply rummages through the box himself and fishes out a mixtape. “Remember this?”

A wide smile forms on your lips, recognizing your own handwriting on the label – Y/N’s Favorite Traxx of 1999! If you remember correctly, it opens with the Backstreet Boy’s I Want It That Way, which Dean loathes with every fiber of his mullet rock being. To be fair, so do you, but you’ve always loved annoying him more.

“No way! I can’t believe you still got it!” You beam, holding the tape between your fingers like a precious treasure.

“‘Course! You think I’d throw this away?” Dean chuckles playfully, but you grow quiet instead of laughing with him.

“Honestly? Kinda, yeah…”

Dean’s eyes flicker to you, but he apparently decides not to get into it and keep the atmosphere light. “Well, uh, put it in,” he encourages you.

By now, the night is spilling over into the quiet hours of the morning, and you grow unsure if you want to continue this trip down memory lane, your mind starting to spin out of control with what-ifs. What does it all mean? Why is he doing this with you? He never directly makes a move on you, but the two of you avoid talking about your past relationship as well, so what the fuck are you doing here exactly?

“Oh, I don’t know. Not really in a 90s mood right now,” you reply, your gaze drifting out the window.

“Everything alright with you?” Dean checks, his eyes searching for yours in the dimly lit car, but you don’t meet them.

“Yeah, yeah,” you assure, head resting in your palm. “Just getting tired, you know?”

“Well, uh, you still up for our last stop, sweetheart?” Dean asks, his voice still light, but there’s an undercurrent filled with tension slumbering underneath it. When you open your mouth to tell him you think it’s better if you went home now, he adds a “please” and a puppy dog look.

“Sure,” you cave at last and force a weak smile. “Last one, alright?”

Dean nods quietly, and you notice the soft creases appearing on his brow that tell you he’s not liking the sudden shift in the air between you. Nevertheless, he still pops in your cassette tape, the Impala’s silence filling with the Backstreet Boys, as if Dean doesn’t want to let go of the past either.

Baby comes to a stop at the edge of a cliff, a few town lights that are still on twinkling below you like little stars. Dean’s last stop is Heaven's Lookout – the local teen make-out site and a place where you’d spent countless hours entangled with him.

In fact, you’ve lost your virginity in this exact spot in the backseat of the Impala.

The nightly summer air is cool and crisp as the two of you settle into a comfortable and easy silence on the hood of the car, facing the horizon. For a heartbeat, you just breathe and enjoy the view, side by side. When you steal a glance at the backseat, Dean catches you and chuckles softly.

“What?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “I guess I just know where your mind went now. We’ve had some good times here, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you agree quietly, but it’s not the reaction he’s hoped for.

“You guess so?” Dean cocks his brow at you and playfully nudges you with his shoulder, seeing the faint hints of tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. “Alright, what’s going on with you?”

“I told you. ‘M just tired,” you lie once more.

“Hmm,” Dean hums, not believing you even for a second. Ten years might have passed and both of you changed slightly, but he still knows you too well – better than anyone on this planet. What a fucking heartbreaking thing to realize. “C’mon, talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Not in the mood to talk, Dean. Just leave it be,” you reply and keep your focus on the twinkling town lights, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Have you ruined your life by leaving ten years ago?

“Alright, how about I start, huh?” You only offer him a careless shrug as a response, and Dean exhales a small sigh. He swallows thickly, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. “I lied to you earlier… in the diner,” he starts, and you meet his eyes with a tilt of your head then.

“About what?”

“I did read your books. Multiple times, actually. Pretty sure I can even quote every line by now,” Dean confesses with a self-conscious chuckle.

“Oh.” You honestly have no idea what to say to that. You don’t even know how you feel about it. Are you happy? Sad? Feeling exposed? Horrified? Probably a bit of everything. “Why did you lie about it?”

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Well, uh, to be quite frank with you, I kinda resented your entire industry for a long time for taking you from me, you know?”

“I’m really sorry how things ended between us,” you tell him, licking your lips as you search for the right words. There are still things he doesn’t know, that no one really knows, and you decide it’s time you finally unburden yourself from some of them. “I just-… Remember when I really wanted to go to Brown?”

“Yeah, I do. When you got that rejection letter, I even took you here to cheer you up. We ate ice cream, and, uhm, I told you if they didn’t want you, it was their loss and you’d find something else. And you did. You went to KU. I mean, it’s not Ivy League, but at least you got to go with Cas, Meg, and Charlie, right?”

“Yeah, uhm, I might have lied about it back then,” you confess, eyes fixed on him. His brow knits, confusion flashing across his freckled face. “Brown did accept me, I just chose to stay here with you.”

Dean’s mouth is agape as your revelation sinks in. “Why wouldn’t you have said something?”

You give him a twitch of your shoulders, small and reluctant. “I didn’t wanna leave you,” you admit, your fingers fidgeting in your lap. “But I did wonder, you know? What would’ve happened if I’d gone… So, when that publisher was interested in my manuscript and told me I had better chances if I moved to New York, I felt like I finally had to shoot my shot, you know?”

“Yeah, uhm, I know. I get it.” Dean’s raspy voice softens, his mind racing a mile a minute. “Look, I’m-… I’m sorry for being such a dick to you back then. You didn’t deserve that. You tried, and I didn’t let you. I know I wasn’t being fair to you. I was just scared to lose you. I knew I would eventually if you went to New York, you know? Like you’d realize then that there’s better things out there than me. Guess I thought if I ripped the bandaid off quickly right then, it’d hurt less than later down the road. But I was wrong about that, too… I still was always proud of you, though. Never had a doubt in my mind that you wouldn’t make it. You were meant for great things, y’know?”

You close your eyes because if you don’t, the tears would fall freely. Somehow, hearing everything you ever wanted to hear over the last decade only hurts more than it heals. And you know why, as those same old regrets settle in your heart.

“I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life. You were everything to me,” you whisper and almost choke on the words, the first tear slipping down your cheek.

“Yeah, I know that now.” Dean’s eyes glisten like lush green moss under rain, a chuckle devoid of humor leaving him. He doesn’t look at you, and you don’t look at him, both of you lost in the town you grew up in, sprawling out below your feet. “Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart.”

“But you still broke my fucking heart.”

Your voice carries sadness, torment carved into its edges. It’s the kind of pain one only wins by losing a first love. It’s not meant to sound reproachful. It really isn’t. It’s just one of those tragic facts of life that neither of you can deny.

Dean nods, lips drawing into a painful smile. “I know,” he rasps quietly but still doesn’t dare facing you, as if the smallest glimpse at you could shatter his heart. He’s not strong enough to take it. Not as strong as you, at least. “You never told them the truth. About what happened. Benny, Cas… Not even Charlie and Meg. Why? I mean, you could’ve had it so easy, making me look like the asshole because I was. Instead, you just went with my narrative and never looked back. I never understood why.”

Your head bobs in thought. “I guess I didn’t want to hate you. And I didn’t want them to hate you either. You just seemed like you needed them more than I did back then, and I’m fine with being called a bitch, so…” You offer him a half-hearted shrug and sniffle more than you smile.

Dean expels a breath of disbelief, and you don’t entirely know what it’s about. Maybe relief he finally got an answer to a long-pondered question? Or maybe it's because he never truly thought you could be so selfless, considering how he’d ultimately deemed your decision as selfish.

And maybe, just maybe, it might be the shock of realizing you’ve still chosen to protect him, even after everything he’s put you through.

“You know, you asked me today why I barely ever come home, and I think you should know that the reason why I don’t is you,” you share and can’t keep the bitterness from slipping into your syllables. And for the first time in ten years, you realize just how much you’ve resented him for what he’s done to you. “It’s not that I never wanted to look back. You told me not to come back. Remember that one, too?” Your words aren’t bitter anymore but brackish. “I always planned on coming home once my first book tour was finished. I didn’t wanna leave forever. My life’s not exactly that great, you know? I’m not that happy. The last time I was happy was when I was still with you.” The rawness of your words rattles him, his face softening. “And I don’t know… After everything, I didn’t really think I could come back. You closed that door, not me.”

“Yeah, I know…” Dean nods, wiping the tears from his eyes. His hands are shaking as he rubs his mouth, fighting to push back the wave of regret. “I realized pretty early on that letting you go was a big fucking mistake. I-, uhm, I actually flew to New York six months after you left. Came to your launch party at that fancy bookstore when your first book came out.”

Bewildered, your mouth falls open, shaking your reeling head. “I-I didn’t even know you were there. I didn’t see you–“

“No, I know,” Dean cuts in. “I came there to get you back, try to convince you to leave with me and come home. But when I saw you, I realized that was wrong. I mean, all your dreams were coming true. You looked happy. I didn’t wanna be the guy that tore you away from that. Didn’t exactly have a lot to offer you back then.”

“You had plenty in my eyes.” You send him a soft smile, its tenderness surprising even you.

Dean swallows hard, throat tightening with every heavy breath. “I still kept thinking about you. Never really stopped…” His admission hangs between you for a moment. “And, uhm, when we opened our second location and business was going good, I figured that’s something, you know? So, three years after New York, I decided to try again when I heard you’d be in Kansas City during your book tour, but, uhm, I guess you’d already started dating that hockey player then…”

“Right…”

A rueful smile plays across his lips. “You know, I’d be lying if I said I don’t still think about what would’ve happened if you’d stayed all those years ago… or if I’d just gone with you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that, too. All the damn time, actually,” you say, locking eyes with him. “Maybe leaving was the wrong decision…”

Dean goes silent for a moment, a spark of hope igniting on his freckle-dusted face. His eyes search yours, as if trying to find a treasure he’s lost years ago. “You really mean that?”

You nod and lean in slowly, gauging his reaction as your heart hammers wildly in your chest. The chasm between you two closes.

Dean doesn’t move or pull back, not even when your hand reaches out and tenderly caresses his cheek, the scruff surprisingly soft under your fingertips. His eyes close, Adam’s apple bobbing with a light swallow. He gives in to your touch, and with a breathless exhale, you press your lips on his.

It’s tentative at first, a question in form of a brush, painting with water and not color. Transparent on canvas.

The kiss only lasts a second or two before you pull back but never go far. You seal air in your lungs and wait, giving him a chance to bail if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t. He draws you right back to him.

Dean brings the vibrancy to your blank page, his colors spreading across the canvas and crowning it art. Your lips part against his, let him claim you as his tongue slips inside and meets yours. Years of separation, of regret, and of longing burst through the lines.

Raw. Hungry.

Dean’s hands grab hold of your waist, pulling you closer, short of dragging you into his lap. His kiss grows more urgent – like he’s trying to make up for lost time. It’s frantically ardent and boldly desperate. And mostly, it’s full of everything you’ve both kept buried for far too long.

It’s not like any kiss you’ve ever shared. It’s different. Better. Because you finally know where you belong.

Here. With him.

His hands roam, explore familiar territory anew. His fingers trace your pulse point, feeling your heart’s rapid beats underneath his pads. You gasp for air, swollen lips wandering down the column of his throat. His skin tastes salty on your tongue, a low groan of defeat rumbling in his chest as he succumbs to you.

“What d’you say we make the backseat the last stop on memory lane?” you whisper with a suggestive smile, hands cupping his neck as you nudge his nose with the tip of yours. You haven’t left a mark on his skin yet, but you surely plan to make him yours again.

But hesitation creeps into his expression. His lips part in contemplation as he looks at you, your labored breaths mingling in the fresh, early morning air.

“What?” you check with a bemused smile, hiding caution behind it. You know that look of his and don’t like the heavy weight pressing down on your heart, the sheer force threatening to crush it.

“I-, uh, I think maybe we should call it a night, y’know?” Dean says and gently puts his hands on your arms around his neck, loosening their grasp on him.

Holy fucking shit.

The embarrassment floods your senses, every word of his adding a new crack to your heart. No one gives you whiplash quite like Dean Winchester.

Your hands flinch back and let go of him, the rejection seeping into your bones. You shake off the stupidity and bring distance between you two, jumping up from your spot on the hood.

“Oh, yeah, no, you’re right,” you agree in a silly attempt to save face – not that Dean can’t see right through it, but at least you can forever pretend you both came to that same conclusion.

Dean wrings for words, witnessing the hurt shimmering in your eyes. It almost forces him to come closer again and pull you into his arms, but he’s trying to keep his head on his shoulders. He’s already messed up enough for one night.

“It’s just-… You’re only in town for a few days,” he argues softly. “I wouldn’t want to get too–“

“No, no, totally. I get it. No worries,” you assure him with that little bit of pride that’s still there. “I’m gonna walk home, okay? Thanks, uh, for everything. I had a great night. I really did. Was good to see you again and catch up, Dean.” You send him a smile and act like the tears aren’t blurring your vision.

“Y/N, wait! At least let me drive you home,” Dean offers, his heart pulverizing at the crestfallen sight of you. He’s promised himself he’d never hurt you again. How has he ended up here?

“No, really, I’m fine,” you assure him, holding up a palm to stop him from following you. “Not the first time I walked home from here. It’s not that far. Sun’s already coming up. It’s the perfect way to end memory lane if you think about it,” you add and force a weak smile, sniffling. “Take care, okay?”

Dean nods with a hard lump lodged in his throat but doesn’t say anything more, watching you disappear from his life again.

▶️ Chapter 4: Old Scars – JULY 23

You guys ready to murder me yet? 😂 And yes, this is where the angst comes fully in. But don't worry – I made it funny too, so you never know if you'll be sniffling or snorting 😘

Coming Up:

“Oh, Y/N… Hey.” Dean’s brow shoots up once he recognizes you.

Your heart stops abruptly. He doesn’t seem happy to see you. There’s no smile on his plump lips, only panic in his green eyes. It’s not a good sign that necessarily boosts your confidence.

Neither is the fact that he quickly steps out onto the porch and shoves the door almost entirely shut behind him, only leaving an inch of leeway. While he doesn’t say it directly, he’s surely not planning on inviting you into his home.

He has also called you by your name instead of the endearing “sweetheart.”

Fuck. Maybe this is another bad idea of yours. He’s clearly not thrilled about your visit.

“Hi, uhm–,” you finally manage to spit out and offer a tentative smile, your fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your old jeans jacket. “Look, I would’ve texted you that I was coming by, but I don’t have your number anymore, so…”

What a fucking great start…

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 3

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜), drinking & everything that comes with a crazy night out, stupid decisions like drunk driving, mentions of break-ups, fluff, angst and hurt and a rough ending

Word Count: 3.6k

Posted on Patreon April 16, 2025

A/N: Enjoy this little rollercoaster of emotion. This is just the beginning! 🤪🎢

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 3: Old Sparks

Dean said one more stop, but his actions spoke differently. As soon as the two of you were on the road again, he convinced you to go to Rocky’s for a nightcap before your last stop.

That nightcap turned out to be your downfall.

You and Dean emptied shot after shot, playing pool and darts before you told him to bolt as soon as you’d returned from the restroom with that godawful, stuffed singing trout, which held a sign that read: “Drink like a fish.”

Both of you had always hated the damn thing, so stealing it and bringing it to its final demise by drowning it in the river out back seemed like an appropriate and necessary action after ten years. You and Dean laughed, squealed and giggled as you raced down the quiet streets of Lawrence like the two of you were teenagers, running from Sheriff Mills all over again.

Fortunately, no law enforcement came after you this time, but that didn’t stop either of you from more shenanigans.

After your escape, Dean headed straight to the drive-in theater, where you caught the last thirty minutes of the midnight showing of All Saints’ Day 4: Hatched Man Lives, which just so happens to be Dean’s favorite horror flick of all time. You’d watched it every Halloween with him.

You stuff yourselves full with popcorn, nachos, licorice, Skittles and gummies before the two of you hit the road again when the movie rolls its end credits. Junk food, booze, junk food, booze – it’s a cycle you and Dean repeat throughout the day and night as you carry on with your adventure.

Suddenly, Dean then haphazardly pulls over at the side of a quiet stretch of road near an empty field a little outside of town, and you recognize the familiar land as the old Tran farm.

“Dean, what are we doing here?” you ask a little too giggly and feel like a schoolgirl again as you arch a brow at your tour guide’s mischievous smirk.

Dean’s palms drum against the steering wheel to AC/DC’s Back in Black, the excitement and adrenaline visibly rushing through his veins. “I think tonight’s the night, sweetheart,” he tells you, drunk with liquid courage and a big wolfish grin.

“Dean, no!” You wheezed, your contracting abs almost breaking you in two. “You couldn’t do it when you were twenty-one. What makes you think you can do it now?”

“Hey, I’m a lot stronger now. And the cow’s older, too,” Dean argues in boozed logic.

“Is it even the same cow?”

“I don’t know, but I’m gonna tip it over,” Dean drawls with determination gleaming in his glassy green eyes.

“Dude, no!” You giggle and shake your head but still follow him all the way into the dark field. How poetic.

Needless to say, Dean couldn’t even find the cow nor see straight, neither of you even knew if the cow still existed, and by the time the two of you had decided to free the chickens from the coop instead, Mrs. Tran ran out of the house and fired a shotgun into the air.

Laughingly, Dean and you then reach the safety of Baby, hearts beating fast as you breathlessly fall back into your seats.

“Well, that was a bummer,” you note, giggling, and share a look with your partner in crime, whose grin is broader than the full moon on a clear night like tonight.

“Still fun, though, right?” Dean says, to which you agree with a vigorous nod. “Alright, can you grab the tapes from under your seat?”

“Oh, which one d’you want? Zeppelin II or IV?” you tease as you haul out the old shoebox full of cassette tapes.

“Hey, I listen to a lot more than Zeppelin, okay?”

“Anything after the 80s?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes briefly with a lack of a clever response before he simply rummages through the box himself and fishes out a mixtape. “Remember this?”

A wide smile forms on your lips, recognizing your own handwriting on the label – Y/N’s Favorite Traxx of 1999! If you remember correctly, it opens with the Backstreet Boy’s I Want It That Way, which Dean loathes with every fiber of his mullet rock being. To be fair, so do you, but you’ve always loved annoying him more.

“No way! I can’t believe you still got it!” You beam, holding the tape between your fingers like a precious treasure.

“‘Course! You think I’d throw this away?” Dean chuckles playfully, but you grow quiet instead of laughing with him.

“Honestly? Kinda, yeah…”

Dean’s eyes flicker to you, but he apparently decides not to get into it and keep the atmosphere light. “Well, uh, put it in,” he encourages you.

By now, the night is spilling over into the quiet hours of the morning, and you grow unsure if you want to continue this trip down memory lane, your mind starting to spin out of control with what-ifs. What does it all mean? Why is he doing this with you? He never directly makes a move on you, but the two of you avoid talking about your past relationship as well, so what the fuck are you doing here exactly?

“Oh, I don’t know. Not really in a 90s mood right now,” you reply, your gaze drifting out the window.

“Everything alright with you?” Dean checks, his eyes searching for yours in the dimly lit car, but you don’t meet them.

“Yeah, yeah,” you assure, head resting in your palm. “Just getting tired, you know?”

“Well, uh, you still up for our last stop, sweetheart?” Dean asks, his voice still light, but there’s an undercurrent filled with tension slumbering underneath it. When you open your mouth to tell him you think it’s better if you went home now, he adds a “please” and a puppy dog look.

“Sure,” you cave at last and force a weak smile. “Last one, alright?”

Dean nods quietly, and you notice the soft creases appearing on his brow that tell you he’s not liking the sudden shift in the air between you. Nevertheless, he still pops in your cassette tape, the Impala’s silence filling with the Backstreet Boys, as if Dean doesn’t want to let go of the past either.

Baby comes to a stop at the edge of a cliff, a few town lights that are still on twinkling below you like little stars. Dean’s last stop is Heaven's Lookout – the local teen make-out site and a place where you’d spent countless hours entangled with him.

In fact, you’ve lost your virginity in this exact spot in the backseat of the Impala.

The nightly summer air is cool and crisp as the two of you settle into a comfortable and easy silence on the hood of the car, facing the horizon. For a heartbeat, you just breathe and enjoy the view, side by side. When you steal a glance at the backseat, Dean catches you and chuckles softly.

“What?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “I guess I just know where your mind went now. We’ve had some good times here, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you agree quietly, but it’s not the reaction he’s hoped for.

“You guess so?” Dean cocks his brow at you and playfully nudges you with his shoulder, seeing the faint hints of tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. “Alright, what’s going on with you?”

“I told you. ‘M just tired,” you lie once more.

“Hmm,” Dean hums, not believing you even for a second. Ten years might have passed and both of you changed slightly, but he still knows you too well – better than anyone on this planet. What a fucking heartbreaking thing to realize. “C’mon, talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Not in the mood to talk, Dean. Just leave it be,” you reply and keep your focus on the twinkling town lights, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Have you ruined your life by leaving ten years ago?

“Alright, how about I start, huh?” You only offer him a careless shrug as a response, and Dean exhales a small sigh. He swallows thickly, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. “I lied to you earlier… in the diner,” he starts, and you meet his eyes with a tilt of your head then.

“About what?”

“I did read your books. Multiple times, actually. Pretty sure I can even quote every line by now,” Dean confesses with a self-conscious chuckle.

“Oh.” You honestly have no idea what to say to that. You don’t even know how you feel about it. Are you happy? Sad? Feeling exposed? Horrified? Probably a bit of everything. “Why did you lie about it?”

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Well, uh, to be quite frank with you, I kinda resented your entire industry for a long time for taking you from me, you know?”

“I’m really sorry how things ended between us,” you tell him, licking your lips as you search for the right words. There are still things he doesn’t know, that no one really knows, and you decide it’s time you finally unburden yourself from some of them. “I just-… Remember when I really wanted to go to Brown?”

“Yeah, I do. When you got that rejection letter, I even took you here to cheer you up. We ate ice cream, and, uhm, I told you if they didn’t want you, it was their loss and you’d find something else. And you did. You went to KU. I mean, it’s not Ivy League, but at least you got to go with Cas, Meg, and Charlie, right?”

“Yeah, uhm, I might have lied about it back then,” you confess, eyes fixed on him. His brow knits, confusion flashing across his freckled face. “Brown did accept me, I just chose to stay here with you.”

Dean’s mouth is agape as your revelation sinks in. “Why wouldn’t you have said something?”

You give him a twitch of your shoulders, small and reluctant. “I didn’t wanna leave you,” you admit, your fingers fidgeting in your lap. “But I did wonder, you know? What would’ve happened if I’d gone… So, when that publisher was interested in my manuscript and told me I had better chances if I moved to New York, I felt like I finally had to shoot my shot, you know?”

“Yeah, uhm, I know. I get it.” Dean’s raspy voice softens, his mind racing a mile a minute. “Look, I’m-… I’m sorry for being such a dick to you back then. You didn’t deserve that. You tried, and I didn’t let you. I know I wasn’t being fair to you. I was just scared to lose you. I knew I would eventually if you went to New York, you know? Like you’d realize then that there’s better things out there than me. Guess I thought if I ripped the bandaid off quickly right then, it’d hurt less than later down the road. But I was wrong about that, too… I still was always proud of you, though. Never had a doubt in my mind that you wouldn’t make it. You were meant for great things, y’know?”

You close your eyes because if you don’t, the tears would fall freely. Somehow, hearing everything you ever wanted to hear over the last decade only hurts more than it heals. And you know why, as those same old regrets settle in your heart.

“I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life. You were everything to me,” you whisper and almost choke on the words, the first tear slipping down your cheek.

“Yeah, I know that now.” Dean’s eyes glisten like lush green moss under rain, a chuckle devoid of humor leaving him. He doesn’t look at you, and you don’t look at him, both of you lost in the town you grew up in, sprawling out below your feet. “Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart.”

“But you still broke my fucking heart.”

Your voice carries sadness, torment carved into its edges. It’s the kind of pain one only wins by losing a first love. It’s not meant to sound reproachful. It really isn’t. It’s just one of those tragic facts of life that neither of you can deny.

Dean nods, lips drawing into a painful smile. “I know,” he rasps quietly but still doesn’t dare facing you, as if the smallest glimpse at you could shatter his heart. He’s not strong enough to take it. Not as strong as you, at least. “You never told them the truth. About what happened. Benny, Cas… Not even Charlie and Meg. Why? I mean, you could’ve had it so easy, making me look like the asshole because I was. Instead, you just went with my narrative and never looked back. I never understood why.”

Your head bobs in thought. “I guess I didn’t want to hate you. And I didn’t want them to hate you either. You just seemed like you needed them more than I did back then, and I’m fine with being called a bitch, so…” You offer him a half-hearted shrug and sniffle more than you smile.

Dean expels a breath of disbelief, and you don’t entirely know what it’s about. Maybe relief he finally got an answer to a long-pondered question? Or maybe it's because he never truly thought you could be so selfless, considering how he’d ultimately deemed your decision as selfish.

And maybe, just maybe, it might be the shock of realizing you’ve still chosen to protect him, even after everything he’s put you through.

“You know, you asked me today why I barely ever come home, and I think you should know that the reason why I don’t is you,” you share and can’t keep the bitterness from slipping into your syllables. And for the first time in ten years, you realize just how much you’ve resented him for what he’s done to you. “It’s not that I never wanted to look back. You told me not to come back. Remember that one, too?” Your words aren’t bitter anymore but brackish. “I always planned on coming home once my first book tour was finished. I didn’t wanna leave forever. My life’s not exactly that great, you know? I’m not that happy. The last time I was happy was when I was still with you.” The rawness of your words rattles him, his face softening. “And I don’t know… After everything, I didn’t really think I could come back. You closed that door, not me.”

“Yeah, I know…” Dean nods, wiping the tears from his eyes. His hands are shaking as he rubs his mouth, fighting to push back the wave of regret. “I realized pretty early on that letting you go was a big fucking mistake. I-, uhm, I actually flew to New York six months after you left. Came to your launch party at that fancy bookstore when your first book came out.”

Bewildered, your mouth falls open, shaking your reeling head. “I-I didn’t even know you were there. I didn’t see you–“

“No, I know,” Dean cuts in. “I came there to get you back, try to convince you to leave with me and come home. But when I saw you, I realized that was wrong. I mean, all your dreams were coming true. You looked happy. I didn’t wanna be the guy that tore you away from that. Didn’t exactly have a lot to offer you back then.”

“You had plenty in my eyes.” You send him a soft smile, its tenderness surprising even you.

Dean swallows hard, throat tightening with every heavy breath. “I still kept thinking about you. Never really stopped…” His admission hangs between you for a moment. “And, uhm, when we opened our second location and business was going good, I figured that’s something, you know? So, three years after New York, I decided to try again when I heard you’d be in Kansas City during your book tour, but, uhm, I guess you’d already started dating that hockey player then…”

“Right…”

A rueful smile plays across his lips. “You know, I’d be lying if I said I don’t still think about what would’ve happened if you’d stayed all those years ago… or if I’d just gone with you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that, too. All the damn time, actually,” you say, locking eyes with him. “Maybe leaving was the wrong decision…”

Dean goes silent for a moment, a spark of hope igniting on his freckle-dusted face. His eyes search yours, as if trying to find a treasure he’s lost years ago. “You really mean that?”

You nod and lean in slowly, gauging his reaction as your heart hammers wildly in your chest. The chasm between you two closes.

Dean doesn’t move or pull back, not even when your hand reaches out and tenderly caresses his cheek, the scruff surprisingly soft under your fingertips. His eyes close, Adam’s apple bobbing with a light swallow. He gives in to your touch, and with a breathless exhale, you press your lips on his.

It’s tentative at first, a question in form of a brush, painting with water and not color. Transparent on canvas.

The kiss only lasts a second or two before you pull back but never go far. You seal air in your lungs and wait, giving him a chance to bail if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t. He draws you right back to him.

Dean brings the vibrancy to your blank page, his colors spreading across the canvas and crowning it art. Your lips part against his, let him claim you as his tongue slips inside and meets yours. Years of separation, of regret, and of longing burst through the lines.

Raw. Hungry.

Dean’s hands grab hold of your waist, pulling you closer, short of dragging you into his lap. His kiss grows more urgent – like he’s trying to make up for lost time. It’s frantically ardent and boldly desperate. And mostly, it’s full of everything you’ve both kept buried for far too long.

It’s not like any kiss you’ve ever shared. It’s different. Better. Because you finally know where you belong.

Here. With him.

His hands roam, explore familiar territory anew. His fingers trace your pulse point, feeling your heart’s rapid beats underneath his pads. You gasp for air, swollen lips wandering down the column of his throat. His skin tastes salty on your tongue, a low groan of defeat rumbling in his chest as he succumbs to you.

“What d’you say we make the backseat the last stop on memory lane?” you whisper with a suggestive smile, hands cupping his neck as you nudge his nose with the tip of yours. You haven’t left a mark on his skin yet, but you surely plan to make him yours again.

But hesitation creeps into his expression. His lips part in contemplation as he looks at you, your labored breaths mingling in the fresh, early morning air.

“What?” you check with a bemused smile, hiding caution behind it. You know that look of his and don’t like the heavy weight pressing down on your heart, the sheer force threatening to crush it.

“I-, uh, I think maybe we should call it a night, y’know?” Dean says and gently puts his hands on your arms around his neck, loosening their grasp on him.

Holy fucking shit.

The embarrassment floods your senses, every word of his adding a new crack to your heart. No one gives you whiplash quite like Dean Winchester.

Your hands flinch back and let go of him, the rejection seeping into your bones. You shake off the stupidity and bring distance between you two, jumping up from your spot on the hood.

“Oh, yeah, no, you’re right,” you agree in a silly attempt to save face – not that Dean can’t see right through it, but at least you can forever pretend you both came to that same conclusion.

Dean wrings for words, witnessing the hurt shimmering in your eyes. It almost forces him to come closer again and pull you into his arms, but he’s trying to keep his head on his shoulders. He’s already messed up enough for one night.

“It’s just-… You’re only in town for a few days,” he argues softly. “I wouldn’t want to get too–“

“No, no, totally. I get it. No worries,” you assure him with that little bit of pride that’s still there. “I’m gonna walk home, okay? Thanks, uh, for everything. I had a great night. I really did. Was good to see you again and catch up, Dean.” You send him a smile and act like the tears aren’t blurring your vision.

“Y/N, wait! At least let me drive you home,” Dean offers, his heart pulverizing at the crestfallen sight of you. He’s promised himself he’d never hurt you again. How has he ended up here?

“No, really, I’m fine,” you assure him, holding up a palm to stop him from following you. “Not the first time I walked home from here. It’s not that far. Sun’s already coming up. It’s the perfect way to end memory lane if you think about it,” you add and force a weak smile, sniffling. “Take care, okay?”

Dean nods with a hard lump lodged in his throat but doesn’t say anything more, watching you disappear from his life again.

▶️ Chapter 4: Old Scars – JULY 23

You guys ready to murder me yet? 😂 And yes, this is where the angst comes fully in. But don't worry – I made it funny too, so you never know if you'll be sniffling or snorting 😘

Coming Up:

“Oh, Y/N… Hey.” Dean’s brow shoots up once he recognizes you.

Your heart stops abruptly. He doesn’t seem happy to see you. There’s no smile on his plump lips, only panic in his green eyes. It’s not a good sign that necessarily boosts your confidence.

Neither is the fact that he quickly steps out onto the porch and shoves the door almost entirely shut behind him, only leaving an inch of leeway. While he doesn’t say it directly, he’s surely not planning on inviting you into his home.

He has also called you by your name instead of the endearing “sweetheart.”

Fuck. Maybe this is another bad idea of yours. He’s clearly not thrilled about your visit.

“Hi, uhm–,” you finally manage to spit out and offer a tentative smile, your fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your old jeans jacket. “Look, I would’ve texted you that I was coming by, but I don’t have your number anymore, so…”

What a fucking great start…

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[waynes-multiverse]

I think it might be My Brother’s Girl by @cockslutpadalecki

It’s an older fic, but Dean comes back after five years in Purgatory, and Sam and reader have a son together.

Hope that helps 🩵

Hi Alex! I was wondering if you were familiar with a Dean x reader angst where Dean comes back from purgatory 3 years later and finds out the reader and Sam have a son together? I read it a couple months ago and forgot to reblog because this stupid app refreshed and I lost the fic. I thought you were the one who wrote it too at first lol. Sorry if this is annoying and you hate these questions, feel free to ignore! 😭

Hi there! Oooh, I'm sorry, hun, this fic isn't mine and I haven't read it before either. That's soooo angsty! 💙💙

If it's fairly recent, you can look in the dean winchester x reader tag or whatever tag it might've been under.

Anyone else know which fic anon is looking for?

[waynes-multiverse]

Ahaha thank you, friend! I already had a Dean fic titled Cruel Summer, but the song fit so well for the story that I couldn’t resist ☀️😈

You already got me lol. Your scene openings are one of my favorite things, and I know other people have said this here, but I've gotta hop on the bandwagon on praising your descriptions. I can see L.A. so vividly in my head here, even though I've never been there in person. 🔆

I swear scene openings take me the longest, but like with Florida!!! I tried to catch the “vibe” a bit 😎

And honestly, you’re not missing much by not seeing LA. The beach is great and I love the observatory, but the rest of the city is just traffic 😂 (My family is from the San Diego area, so we never had it far, but there’s tons of prettier things in Cali than LA lol)

Oh, she's a pro lmaooo. I had a feeling she wasn't the parent of these kids and that this was her literal job, just from the "all three before 8 AM" line 🤣🤣

Hahaha I tried to hide it and only leave a few hints (like Mark’s “they have your eyes” comment), but I enjoyed doing that little twist and keep everyone a little guessing if reader is married, single mom etc. 😝

And you got the idea of making her a nanny from the Rookie, huh? I actually just started season 1 thanks to you and Michelle. 😂

Gah, no way!!! I have to catch up with you soon and ask how you like Tim so far and if we’ve successfully recruited you 🤓

And yes, I got the nanny idea from some Rookie side storyline. Two characters were fighting over a good nanny and discussing salaries. Somehow that stuck, and I thought an LA nanny would be a fun match for Mark 😄

Sooo sweet. 🥹 That's how you know it's more than a job to her too. She genuinely cares about these kids (which makes what Mark does even more of an asshole move 🙄)

Yup! And I think it’s generally a thing when you care 24/7 for small humans. They grow on you, even when they’re not your own 🥹

Ehehe another beautiful description, and it also reminds me of Dean in S12 when he's talking about people from LA. "Smelling like Adderall and sweaty desperation" (or something like that) 🤣🤣

Omg!!! I forgot about that Dean line, but yes, totally those vibes! 🤣🤣🤣

I also laughed at all the little antics of the kids - Noah's "emotional allergy" to the ground was 👌🏽👌🏽

My friend’s kid is currently in that phase. My own son is more likely to run away from me giggling 😂

God, just the description of him had me in an L.A. summer puddle. 🫠 (The leather jacket cape 🤣) But also yes to her instinct of protecting the kids -- he does look like a wacko coming right toward her!

In LA, you never know what comes running at you 😂 But I’m glad you liked the leather jacket cape lol

BRUH. 🤣🤣 I can't with him! Of course that's all he "heard" from her tirade

Of course he did. I thought that was such a typical Mark response too 😆

I'm thinking Bourne Ultimatum lmaooo

You ain’t wrong. He definitely left an impression on those kids and her lmao

Hahaaa "worse" is debatable, but such an accurate description of him 🤣

Subjectively “worse” for the reader ‘cause who could be immune against that charm? 😂

GOD what an asshole! lol But an irrevocably charming one? You're so right, Mark inherently feels more like that than Russell or Dean, probably a mix of his inherent personality and also his diagnosis 🙃

Yeah, I feel like Russell and Dean can be dicks as well (obviously), but they never do it on purpose. With Mark, I feel like he says things on purpose to provoke and knows exactly the effect it has on people 😅

Especially with a diagnosis like that, it messes with the way you think and see things even more. Definitely wanna explore more of that mindset in this series.

What kills me is he took the car with her purse inside. Like not only is taking the car a dick move, but he totally left her stranded with no phone, ID, or money - with 3 kids to take care of!! What kind of policeman are you, Mr. Meachum??

Like he said – “No one’s bleeding. Gold star.” 🤣

At least he brought booze? But yeah, asshole 😆 (Yet somehow I've already forgiven him?)

You just know he never would’ve shown up like that if he thought reader was a mom of three. But now, he was like, “Yep, gonna shoot my shot and apologize charmingly with a bottle.” 😂

Omfgg this one might be my favorite bantery exchange. 😆😆 He's just like, "yep, guilty. Sorry.~"

He owns it lol. But that’s what I took from his interactions so far with Amber too. Again, he knows who is and provokes on purpose. Could totally see him go from placating reader à la “men are trash” to “yup, of course I’m included” 🤣

Of course I love his repartee with the reader here, but what hit me most was his realization that he got her fired from a job she truly loved, and now those poor kids don't even have reader as a normal balanced mother-figure in their lives. They're stuck with Malibu Cruella de Vil (also fucking hilarious), and I'm guessing absentee dad until they find a new nanny. 😢

Yep, those kids got it the worst. Reader will always find a new job, but those poor kids lost an important part of their lives and are stuck with those parents now 😔

But I freakin love that reader called out Malibu Cruella in front of all her SoulCycle friends. That image is deeply satisfying 😈

Right?? lol

Again, hell yes! Our girl's getting paid serious $ for her gremlin wrangling and owns her place, which totally makes sense for LA wealthy families. Love that for her! But Mark's skepticism is also understandable considering LA real estate lmfao

I upped the usual nanny salary a bit for her last job because it made sense for that family to overpay her lol

And yes, Mark’s skepticism is totally fair. LA is crazy with rent (same as NYC), but they do have affordable neighborhoods. Won’t be in the Hills, tho 😅 (By the look of Mark’s house, I assume he lives somewhere in West Adams 👀)

Yes, I'm really glad he acknowledged this loll. Mans came in hot, but he saw the protective instincts~

Glad you liked this bit! I really figured he would’ve clocked that immediately as a detective 🥰

(pls pls pls Wayne, don't break me in the future? Pretty pls? 😂💙💙💙

Honestly, I don’t know!!! A part of me wants to save him, and another part wants to end this as dramatically as possible. We’ll see which part wins. I think it depends heavily on the direction of the show and what else they do with his tumor 🥲

This is right about where I blacked outttt 🫠

I know you said you went through a time where it was kinda boring writing smut (I've been there too), but you've clearly found a way to make it new and exciting, because this was so freakin' hot. 🥵🥵🥵

Yes, I definitely had a period where it felt so stale and boring, but ever since TAT I found my smut voice again. Especially in this series, I plan to let it all out, so get ready for some pure smangst 😜❤️‍🔥

Animal - that's exactly it with him. (and same HC that he would be overwhelming at times lolol) 🥵🥵🥵 Could literally quote this whole section as my favorite tbh, but these are the ones that made me feel things 😝

Yup!!! And I think a lot of it has to do with his diagnosis, too. I mean, I think he had edge before, but he might have leveled up in recent months, and it’s that whole “this might be the last time I get to do this, so let’s make it count” vibe I was going for 🥵

Can’t wait to share the next part of this little series! Thinking about it gets me in such an angsty mood. I genuinely love all the angst and hurt Mark’s character brings along 🤓💙💙💙

(PS: I loved all the Yellowstone gifs. Beth’s “liar” killed me 🤣🤣)

No Rules in Breakable Heaven

Abandon the Ship Pt. I

And you say I abandoned the ship, but I was going down with it...

Series Summary: It starts with a chase and ends with his name in your mouth. He says it’s just for fun. Late nights. No strings. No promises. You were never supposed to matter. But he keeps coming back like a habit he can't quit. He’s bleeding time, and you’re getting too close to something meant to burn out fast.

Pairing: Mark Meachum x reader

Warnings: +18 due to language and smut (p in v, oral f/m, fingering), meet-cute (Wayne's Version), strangers to lovers, one-night stand, drinking, humor, tiny humans, a pinch of angst, fluff?

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Aaaah, new character alert (& Cruel Summer vibes)! So happy I finally get to share this!! This was what probably sucked most about all the bad luck recently because I've been so stoked to do this for weeks!! I have definitely some interesting plans for this, depending how the show goes 🤞🤓

Series Masterlist || Tag List || Patreon

Los Angeles mornings have a chaotic rhythm in designer packaging.

The sun climbs slow and golden over the hills, the air is still soft with sleep, and the city hasn’t decided yet what kind of madness it wants to be today. In these quiet hours, before the honking and the sirens and the buzz of espresso machines, you load three small children into a luxury SUV like a very determined sherpa, tugging straps tight and adjusting sippy cups like a one-woman pit crew. 

“Okay,” you say brightly, securing the last car seat strap with a satisfying click, brushing a Cheerio out of the baby’s curls before slamming the door shut. “Who remembers what we talked about?”

“No yelling,” Mila says, swinging her feet.

“No trash cans,” her twin brother mutters with a suspicious look in his eyes.

“Snacks,” Noah offers with great confidence, clutching a half-eaten graham cracker in one sticky hand.

“Close enough,” you sigh and slide into the driver’s seat. 

The twins – Miles and Mila – are four, full of righteous opinions, and identical only in destructive potential. Noah, the baby is nearly two and convinced you have magic powers because you know where the food lives. 

You’ve got a system. You can wrangle them like a pro – park visits, potty breaks, stroller logistics, snack distribution. You’ve handled full-blown meltdowns in the middle of Whole Foods and a spontaneous naked rebellion during music class. By now, you know you can handle any lemons (or diapers) life throws your way.

Today, for example, it’s spilled yogurt, someone’s sock in the toilet, and a small argument over whether bees have bones. You manage all three before 8 AM – fully dressed, caffeinated, and armed with the kind of calm that only comes from deeply internalized panic.

This morning, like most, starts at Echo Park. 

It’s a staple on your approved outing list. Safe, scenic, stroller-friendly. You’ve done the swings, the climbing structure, and the obligatory duck sighting. You’ve run interference on a toddler standoff over a sand shovel. You’ve kissed a scraped knee, and Noah has climbed into your lap as soon as you sat down on the bench. 

You’ve let him. You always do. 

You then check your watch. It’s been just under two hours. Enough. 

It’s just past 11 AM, and it’s time to get them back in the car once again before someone decides to pee in public. The late June heat in Los Angeles is already starting to settle in – the kind of warmth that fools you into thinking the day will stay pleasant before the concrete starts to bake and everything smells like burnt tires and desperate ambition.

“Okay, team,” you call out across the playground. “Wrap it up. The countdown’s running. Shoes on. Water break, then back to the car.” 

Groans. Crushed spirits. The usual protests.

You herd them toward the exit gate like a very tired Border Collie. Behind you, two small hurricanes tumble through the grass, still high off sugar and sunshine. They are locked in some kind of chase game that involves yelling, giggling, and occasional threats of mortal revenge. 

Meanwhile, your arms ache from carrying Noah, who is perfectly capable of walking, but has recently decided he’s emotionally allergic to the ground and too insulted for the stroller. But the finish line is in sight.

The car is parked in the middle of Echo Park’s lot while three small humans orbit around you like caffeinated moons as you throw your purse and phone onto the passenger seat and load diaper bags, stroller, two bikes, and bag full of sandbox toys into the trunk. 

“Okay,” you say, breathlessly, heaving the last bag into the car. “Everybody chill. Everyone breathe. Mila, I swear, if you take off your shoes again–”

“I’m a raccoon,” Mila informs you, twirling as she holds the hem of her dress like a movie star. “Raccoons don’t wear shoes.”

Miles is spinning in tight, dizzying circles on the sidewalk as well, with his arms straight out and his shirt on backwards. You made a note to fix it twenty minutes ago, but you’re too far gone now.

“Hey!” you call. “Miles, keep spinning like that and you’re gonna barf.”

“I like barfing!”

“Cool. Let’s save it for after lunch,” you tell him and look at them – your little circus, all noise and limbs. 

This is your life, now. Juice stains and bandaids. Screaming over sunscreen. Three little people who talk to you like you’re Google and God combined.

You exhale through your teeth, palms bracing against the SUV. It’s sleek, dark, and more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned. You’ve memorized every button, every storage compartment, every stain removal protocol. You know exactly where the granola bars are hidden and which seatbelt sticks in the heat. 

You should be more tired, and some days, you are. But right now, you’re just trying to get them into the goddamn car, already calculating who’s going in first. 

And then you hear it – footsteps. Loud. Fast. Coming right toward you like for some godforsaken reason, you’re the target.

You whip around to see a man sprinting across the parking lot. 

Tall. Built like trouble and doesn’t know how to sit still. Longer, shiny hair. Trimmed beard that says ‘yes, I know what I’m doing, and I’m doing it well.’ Black jeans on bow legs, a gray t-shirt clinging to his broad chest, a battered leather jacket flaring behind him like a cape, his expression wild and focused.

And then, dark green eyes lock onto you. 

You flinch instinctively, already stepping in front of the kids. This is fucking LA, after all. The crazy doesn’t hide in this town – it lives everywhere. 

“Hey! I need your car!” he shouts, reaching into his jacket as he skids to a stop in front of you.

Your heart skips before he flashes a badge, and you exhale with relief – but only for a second. 

“LAPD, Detective Meachum,” he says, baritone voice breathless and rough with adrenaline. “I need to borrow your vehicle. Emergency. Official police business.”

“I–… What–” You blink, already shaking your head before you realize you’re doing it. “No.” 

“No?” His mouth curves with the kind of smile that has probably gotten him out of a hundred bad decisions.

“That’s right. No,” you repeat and don’t budge. “I have three kids under the age of five, a half-eaten granola bar melting in my bra, and I’m not about to let some sweaty stranger with a badge and a beard and zero sense of boundaries Grand Theft Auto nap time.” 

His brow raises. Then he smiles a little. “You like the beard?”

You freeze, your heart pounding faster, mouth opening. “Wha–”

“Just saying, you mentioned it.” He smirks.

Asshole. 

“What in the Fast and the Furious hell is wrong with you?!”

He really looks at you then – like he’s used to getting what he wants and doesn’t know what to do when someone pushes back. Sharp green eyes are already sizing up how much trouble you’re going to be as his chest rises and falls fast, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. 

“Ma’am–” 

“Oh, don’t ma’am me,” you snap. “You don’t get to ma’am me and then try to leave me stranded in a parking lot. I have three children here. Three.”

His gaze flicks to the twins, to the toddler, then back to you. The kids aren’t crying. They’re just staring at him like he’s the lead actor in a movie they’re too young to see.

Honestly, you feel like you’re too young to see that movie. 

You can smell the heat on him – sweat, asphalt, and something a little reckless. His apple green eyes glitter in the sunlight, and for a second, just a second, your brain fucking stutters.

He gives you a crooked grin, breath still catching in his chest. “I can see that. They’re cute.”

You narrow your eyes to a glare. “Don’t.”

“They’ve got your eyes.”

“They absolutely do not.” 

His lips twitch, but he schools it quickly. “Look, I’m trying to be polite here.”

“Oh, how gracious of you,” you huff. “What d’you want me to do, huh? Just stand here while you joyride in my car?”

“I wouldn’t call it a joyride. I’m chasing someone. Armed suspect. Probably shouldn’t have told you that.” He smiles, and you hate how good it looks on him.  

His voice is clipped, clipped, clipped – like every second he talks to you, he’s losing ground. And yet there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t match the urgency. Amusement. Or maybe something worse – fucking charm. 

“You can’t just take someone’s car,” you argue and cross your arms. 

“I mean, I can. That’s what the badge is for.” He flashes a quick, exasperated grin – somehow both dazzling and rude. “Look, I really don’t have time to explain, and I can see that you’re doing a stellar job here. No one’s bleeding. Gold star. But if you don’t give me those keys, someone else might not be so lucky. So unless you want to explain to the evening news why a guy got away on your watch–”

“My watch?!”

“–I suggest you hand over the keys,” he finishes and is smug as hell about it, as if he knows he’s going to get away with this.

You hate that it’s working.

“You are unbelievable,” you hiss through your teeth.

“I get that a lot.”

“You are not taking this car!” 

The kids are watching you now, silently waiting. You hesitate, and that’s all he needs.

“Respectfully, ma’am – yes, I am.” He plucks the keys from your hand before you even feel them leave your fingers. 

“Hey!” 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, throwing himself into the driver’s seat. “You’re doing amazing.”

“Wait! My bag–” 

Too late. He’s already shutting the door and adjusting the seat. You lunge for the handle, but the lock clicks before your hand reaches it. He winks at you through the window.

He fucking winks. 

“Tell your husband he’s a lucky guy,” he shouts through the glass with a grin, the engine roaring to life. 

And then, he’s gone. Car, purse, phone, and all.

The SUV screeches out of the lot, tires biting the scorching pavement. You stand frozen, stunned, three kids clustered around your legs, one arm still reaching for the car that’s now halfway down the block and vanishing fast. 

The kids erupt into giggles. Mila claps. Miles yells, “That was so cool!” 

And you? You are going to fucking scream. 

Mila shrugs and says, “That guy’s weird.” 

You stare into the blinding sun above, questioning your life choice and wondering if you’re going to make it home before nap time and the kids turn feral. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “He’s definitely weird.”

You crack open the front window of your living room, letting in what passes for night air in June in Altadena. It smells faintly of cut grass, someone’s grill, and the perpetual low hum of traffic. The TV glows in the background – some reality show you’re not really watching. 

You settle back down onto the couch and place your laptop across your thighs, half a job application typed out, half a bottle of beer drunk, half a bag of tortilla chips devoured beside you. 

The house is quiet – too quiet, if you’re honest. 

You’re still half-expecting a tiny voice calling your name, someone asking for another glass of water, or forgetting how to pronounce rhinoceros. But there’s nothing. Just you, your crappy Wi-Fi, and a cheap beer sweating into your palm. 

Your body aches, and not in the cute way either. It’s a bone-deep exhaustion, radiating from your lower back and shoulders and wrapping around your knees like lead. 

You eventually got the kids home today – thank God for LA’s ride-share drivers with patience and car seats. You spent two hours apologizing, another three hours panicking, and the rest of the day waiting for a knock on the door that never came. 

No car returned. No badge. Nothing. 

You groan and flop your head back against the couch, taking a slow sip of warm beer and closing your eyes for a full five seconds.

Then comes the knock. Of fucking course. 

You drag yourself upright, expecting a neighbor or a Jehovah’s Witness or someone trying to sell solar panels. But you are definitely not expecting a six-foot-one, leather-jacketed disaster with a crooked grin and a bottle of whiskey. 

Detective Meachum holds up your purse like a trophy. “Special delivery.” 

He flashes a smile that should be registered as a deadly weapon. T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans – like he just stepped off the set of a cop show where the detective never plays by the rules and always gets the girl.

Your mouth falls open. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

“Surprise?”

“You–… I–” You steel yourself for a moment. “You absolute fucking asshole!”  

“Okay,” he says calmly, head bobbing. “I deserved that. Possibly more. Definitely more. You can hit me if you want.”

“You derailed my entire day!” 

“I am aware now, yes. Hence–” He jostles the whiskey bottle in his hand. “Liquid penance. Sold a kidney for this one.” 

But you’re not falling for the smile again and already spiraling into a rant. “I had to drag three kids back to the park with no phone, no snacks, no diapers, no stroller, and no fucking backup! Mila threw up on my shoes!” 

He winces theatrically. “That’s a rough one.”

“Oh, you think?” You raise your brow and fold your arms over your chest. “When I asked a dad at the playground if he could call me an Uber, he tried to hit on me and said his wife wasn’t home tonight.” 

“Oof,” he says and whistles lowly. “Men are trash.”

“Present company included,” you shoot back.

“Guilty.” He grins and tilts his head slightly. “Guess you had a shitty day after I dramatically exited stage left, huh?”

“You could say that,” you grumbled. 

“I mean, in fairness, I didn’t realize I was kicking off a domino effect of childcare-based misery,” he adds apologetically. “But yes, my bad.”

“You didn’t come back!” 

“Look, I had every intention of–… Okay, yeah, you’re right.” He sighs then upon your glare and leans a shoulder casually against your doorframe like it’s a bar in a dive he’s already been thrown out of once tonight. “In my defense, it was a legit chase, alright? High speed. Real stakes. Tires screeching.” 

“So, did you at least get your guy? Or did you just wreck my life for fun?” you ask dryly. 

“Ah,” he says and grins, pointing like you’ve queued him up. “Funny story. Buckle in.”

You roll your eyes and exhale a deep breath. 

“So, I’m flying out of the lot, and this absolute maniac I’m chasing takes a hard turn into a construction site – which, okay, bold move,” he begins, already gesturing animatedly. “Naturally, I follow. Bad idea. Perp jumps out of the car and bolts across three lanes of traffic and then bam – Tesla cuts me off. Scooter kid zips out of fucking nowhere. There’s a smoothie involved, too. Long story short, I hit a pole.” 

Your eyes widen. “You totaled the car?” 

“I–… yes. Technically,” he says and scratches the back of his neck. “There’s no polite way to say ‘the front half crumpled like a soda can.’”

You arch an eyebrow. “And you show up now?” 

“I had to go to the hospital for a wrist X-ray,” he explains. “And then I had to track you down. Wasn’t as easy, you know?”

A tiny smirk curls your lips. “Bet it wasn’t.” 

He huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, I went to the address on the registration. Huge, beautiful house. Fancy gate. Trimmed hedges. Thought, ‘wow, someone’s doing alright.’” 

“Surprised?” you tease.

“A little. No offense, but I didn’t expect the soccer mom in a hoodie full of apple juice stains and a messy bun to live in a mansion in the Hills,” he admits with a soft laugh, and you feel your cheeks catch heat. “Anyways, I ring the bell, expecting you to answer, probably with a toddler stuck to your legs. Definitely with more kids screaming in the background. But instead, some icy blonde with a face carved by botox and rage opens the door.”

You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue to cover the grin on your lips as best as you can. “And how did that go over?”

“Oh, not well.” He snorts a chuckle. “Malibu Cruella de Vil launched into a full-blown tirade. Said she was gonna call her lawyer. Said you stole her car. Basically told me to arrest myself. Been with the LAPD for a little over a decade, and that was a first.”

“You got me fired,” you cut into his soft laughter. 

“Right.” He clears his throat and his voice of amusement, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry. But hey, at least it’s not your car.”

“What a relief,” you deadpan.

He purses his lips. “So, not your kids, huh?”

“Nope.”

“And I’m guessing the name on the registration isn’t your husband either, and you’re not actually married to a plastic surgeon named Craig,” he deduces. 

“Wow. Are you a detective by any chance?” you mock with a wry smile.

He laughs, throwing his head back a little. “Yeah, might’ve done some minimal detective work to figure out where you live and return your stuff. And, alright, maybe also checked if you didn’t have a six-foot-five husband waiting behind the door with a shotgun.”

“Mhm,” you hum and cock a brow. “You really want me to believe that? You sure you’re not just here to see if you have a shot with the nanny you got fired?”

He clasps a hand to his chest, innocent and mock-affronted. “What, me? No.” He shakes his head unconvincingly, then smirks – slow and lazy. “I came here out of pure, unselfish guilt. But seriously, I figured I owed you a whiskey, at least. And your phone.” He hands it over, adding, “I put my number in, by the way. You know, break glass in case of Mark.”

You lift an eyebrow. “Mark?”

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles and sends you a softer smile now, slightly flustered. “Me. I’m Mark. Hi.”

“Right. I’m–”

“Yeah, no, I know. I looked it up before I came here, remember?” Mark says, amused, probably noticing how your face is a shade redder now. But then his expression turns a little more sincere. “And hey, I’m sure you’ll find a new gig quickly. I mean, honestly, she was stupid to fire you. You looked like you were killing it with these kids. Hell, I, for sure, thought they were yours by the level of professionalism.”

“Still think they got my eyes?”

“Touché.” He snorts, grinning without shame. “But at least you don’t have to go back to that fancy hellhole and see that bitch again. Her loss, not yours, right?”

You let out a sigh, half-frustration and half-tiredness. “It’s not about her,” you share. “I’ve been with that family for three years. I caught the twins in my arms when they took their first steps. And the baby hadn’t even been born yet when I started there. His first word was my name.”

Mark nods like he suddenly understands then. “Right…” He clicks his tongue. “It was more than a job,” he realizes. 

“Yeah,” you breathe and offer him a small shrug. “It always is.”

“Well, look, I really am sorry for getting you fired. That sucks,” he says. And for the first time, it really sounds like he means it. “Anything I can do? You want me to talk to Malibu bitch? Tell her it’s all my fault?”

“No, it’s fine,” you assure him and exhale a breath. “It’s not gonna help. Trust me. Not entirely your fault alone. After I finally got the kids home, she yelled at me and was upset we missed toddler yoga.”

“Toddler yoga?” His brow quirks.

“Yes, it’s as stupid as it sounds,” you mutter your response. “Anyways, one thing led to another, and after the morning I had, I guess I just lost it. I called her a wine mom who only spends time with her kids when it’s for an Instagram post. And maybe, possibly, I told her she’s turning her kids into tiny sociopaths by ignoring them and feeding them almond paste instead of affection... in front of her SoulCycle friends.”

“Damn. I’m impressed.” Mark lets out a bark of laughter. “Sounds like a great mom. Poor kids.”

“Yeah, and now they don’t even have me anymore,” you say quietly. “She didn’t even let me say goodbye to them. They’ll think I just vanished, probably wondering why I never came back.”

You feel it then – the way your throat closes, the way your eyes start to sting, and the way your heart constricts a little tighter behind your ribs. You’re about to cry, and the chaotic detective on your doorstep can probably tell as well since he shifts on his feet.

A beat passes where Mark quiets for once. 

“Well,” he says then, subtly clearing his throat. “If you feel like yelling some more about your ex-boss, or calling me names, or finishing that beer with something stronger–” He lifts the whiskey like it’s holy water. “I make a great audience. Terrible decisions, sure, but excellent company.” 

You hesitate. You know what this is, and you also know what happens as soon as you invite that man inside. It’s like the Big Bad Wolf knocked on your door tonight with a bottle of cheap booze and the promise of an orgasm. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes and smiles sweetly. “Let me in, yell at me some more, and I pour you a glass while you call me every name in the book. You can even call me a plague upon nannies everywhere. I’m great at getting screamed at. Just ask my captain.”

You lift a brow and eye him from head to toe, studying him. “What’s in it for you?”

“I get to drink expensive whiskey and hear more of your greatest hits while I pretend not to stare at your legs,” he says and grins wickedly. 

Fucking hell.

Your grip tightens on the door, and your brain tries to scramble for reasons why you should absolutely let a reckless stranger into your home. But it’s honestly been a while since you had a guy over. 

Your job is stressful, and most nights, you’re too exhausted to put on makeup and a tight, glittering dress to go out. And even if you do find your way into a club, you never stay too late or drink too much, knowing your alarm goes off early in the morning. 

You give a resigned sigh and step back, opening the door wider. “One drink.”

Mark tries to bite back a shit-eating smirk but doesn’t entirely succeed as he passes you and strolls inside. 

He got you fired. The least he can do is be a decent distraction for one night. 

The whiskey’s nearly gone. 

The bottle’s between you on the coffee table, glowing warm amber under the lamp. Your legs are folded under you on the couch, your head fuzzy and pleasantly light, body thrumming with a slow, steady burn that’s only partly the whiskey and mostly the company. 

Mark’s sitting sideways now, arm slung over the backrest just behind your shoulders, knee bent and almost touching yours. You haven’t told him to leave yet. 

He hasn’t brought it up either.

Instead, the conversation has turned lazy and slow – those late-night murmurs in low light that drift deeper without realizing. You certainly haven’t expected to trauma-bond about jobs, asshole bosses, and sleepless nights with the guy who abandoned you in a parking lot with three children and got you fired.

“So,” he says, voice quiet and rough like smoke. “What’s next for you, gremlin wrangler? Job-wise.”

“God,” you snort at the nickname. Then you give a shrug of your shoulders. “I don’t know. I already put up my post on the website. Probably find a family quickly. Good nannies are a hot commodity in LA, and this house doesn’t pay for itself.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice house. More cozy than the ice queen’s castle in the Hills,” Mark notes and takes another glance around your living room. “What’s the name of the Disney one again?”

You arch a brow. “You mean Elsa from Frozen?” 

“Yeah, that’s the one. Let’s call her that.” He grins wide and a little drunk – maybe on more than just the whiskey. “Of course you know your Disney.”

“Part of the job description,” you quip. 

“How much are you paying rent for this place anyways?”

“Oh, I’m not renting. It’s mine,” you say proudly. The house is small, old, but yours. 

Mark’s brow raises. “You inherited or something?”

“No, dumbass,” you snort a laugh. “I bought it. Couple months ago, actually. Still thinking of what exactly I’m gonna do with this place, you know? I mean, granted, I’m still paying off a huge mortgage, but it’s all mine.”

“Jesus,” he scoffed, brow furrowing. “How much do nannies earn?”

“In LA? Pretty well,” you reply. “If you’re a good nanny, which I am. Elsa actually paid me an annual salary of 200k, including all expenses paid when they wanted me to come on vacation with them. I went to the Maldives three times and twice to Europe. Didn’t pay a cent.”

“Seriously?” Mark sinks a little back into the couch and takes a sip of his drink. “Man, guess I’m doing something wrong. You get that much for dealing with diapers and tantrums? I barely earn half of that, and I’m getting shot at almost every day.”

“Hey, Miles once had a phase where he head-butted me every time he gave me a hug. For fun,” you say, laughing. “And I’m getting shot at with pee, poop, and puke on a daily basis. It’s not all sunshine and Bluey.”

“Honestly, same. I get the pee, poop, puke a lot, too. And the head-butts.” Mark laughs. “I mean, not as much anymore. But surely happened a lot more when I was still working patrol. You know, I think this is the first time I’m questioning my life choices.”

“First time? Really?” you tease with a little grin. 

He matches it. “Maybe happened once or twice before that.”

You then let out a long sigh. “Well, if it helps, I’m questioning my life choices right now, too. I was supposed to go to Europe with them again in September. Just me and the French Riviera.”

“And three kids under five,” Mark adds, copying your wistful tone in jest. 

“Hey, they do sleep sometimes,” you retort, giggling. “And then it’s just me and whatever hot Italian or French guy with an unbuttoned shirt buys me the first drink at the bar.”

“Wow, didn’t know you were that easy,” he taunts you a little, that tiny wolfish smirk spreading under the beard again. “I bought you a whole bottle. What does that get me?”

“You bought me a bottle because you got me fired,” you counter playfully. 

“Fair,” he says, but the smirk doesn’t disappear. “I wouldn’t worry about finding another job. Any family would be lucky to have you. I mean, you care, you know? That’s rare to find in an employee.”

“How do you know? You just met me today,” you challenge him with a little smile. 

Mark leans in a little like he’s sharing a secret. “First thing I noticed about you. I mean, I came running up to you probably looking like a maniac, and you immediately moved in front of the kids and looked at me like you were ready to shoot me in the middle of the street in broad daylight.”

“Funny. That was exactly what I was thinking,” you joke, and he laughs again – full, soft, and warm. 

“Well, anyways, I figured, ‘Yeah, of course she is. Now that’s a great mom.’ And then I find out those aren’t even your kids,” he says, and there’s something in the green of his eyes you can’t quite decode. “So, yeah, I’d say you give a shit, and your next family should give you a goddamn throne.” 

“Smooth,” you giggle softly, your gaze drifting to your fingers in your lap. 

He suddenly groans then and squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain and leans slightly forward on his thighs. 

“You okay? Too much whiskey?” you check and tilt your head with a soft smile. 

He chuckles lightly, blinking his eyes back open, and empties his tumbler. “Uh, maybe. Just a headache. Already gone.” He smiles somewhat convincingly, your gazes locking.

A heartbeat passes, and your breath catches. He clocks it. 

His hand moves slowly – first toward your glass, taking it from you without breaking eye contact, then setting it down on the coffee table with a gentle clink. When he turns back, his face is closer and you can almost count each freckle on the tip of his nose. His fingers graze your wrist, tracing upward. He gently pulls a little, and you shift closer till your leg is brushing his. 

It’s silent for a moment. Green eyes drop to your mouth, then flick back up – asking without asking. You don’t pull back or answer, just hold his gaze.

And then, his lips press against yours.

It’s scorching hot from the start. He kisses you like he’s been dying to all night and you’re his goddamn last meal. His lips are plump, firm, and searching, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours as his hand moves to the back of your neck. 

The tension explodes all at once. He tastes like good whiskey and leather and sweat, and you kiss him like you’re starving for it. You climb into his lap, straddling his muscular thighs, fingers eagerly tugging at the hem of his shirt. He growls against your mouth, hands dragging down your back, gripping your ass hard as you grind against him.

“Bedroom?” he mutters without ever really parting from your skin. 

“Left down the hall,” you pant, breathless. “First door.” 

He hauls you up like you weigh nothing, hands on your thighs, mouth never leaving yours. The trip down the hallway is frantic – bumping into walls, your bubbly laughter tangled in his deep groans, your fingers tugging at his belt as he kicks open the door.

Clothes fly in all directions. You don’t know who takes off what first or in which order. You just know you want to feel as much warm skin underneath your fingertips as you can tonight. 

He bites your shoulder and kisses your neck. You bite his jaw and kiss his collarbone. When there’s just underwear left, you push him down on the bed and fall to your knees in front of him. 

He looks down at you like he’s already ruined – broad chest rising fast, pupils blown wide, boxers tenting with how ready he is. His hands fist in the sheets like he’s trying not to grab you, dark green eyes looking at you as if they want to see what you’ll do next. 

You curl your fingers into the waistband, and he lifts his hips in a silent offering. You drag the fabric down, slow and unhurried, watching the way his cock springs free –thick, flushed, and leaking. Beautiful and heavy, twitching against his stomach like it’s aching for you. 

You take him in your hand first, wrapping your fingers around the base, stroking him just once – slow, deliberate. His hips buck and his eyes snap back to yours. He runs a hand through his hair, head tilting back. 

Then you lean forward and lick a long stripe up the underside, tasting the salt of his skin, the heady musk of him. He groans, deep and raw, as you seal your lips around the tip. 

He’s hot, heavy, and velvety on your tongue. You hollow your cheeks, easing lower inch by inch, and one of his hands finds your hair, fingers tangling between strands. Not forcing – just there, grounding himself as you take him deeper.

But fuck, the sounds he makes? They’re low, unfiltered, almost feral. He keeps muttering your name under his breath like a prayer, and it sends tingles throughout your skin. You pull back just to swirl your tongue around the head before sinking again, letting your spit slick him up as your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach.

He’s definitely more than the average you’ve usually taken home. And you didn’t even have to take this one home – he’s been practically delivered to your doorstep. Either by God or the devil, you’re not sure yet. 

“F-fuck, that mouth,” he hisses under his breath and twitches on your tongue, hips starting to rock in sync with you. 

And then suddenly, he pulls you off with a wet pop and a hand under your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, and hungry, jaw locked tight. He pulls you up by your arms into his lap, a secure arm wrapping around your middle as he brushes your hair out of your face with his other. 

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna come,” he says, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. 

“Thought that was the point,” you tease. 

“My turn.” He smirks.

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you gently underneath him and dragging you further up the mattress. He kisses you contrastingly hard – tongue deep, his taste mixing with yours – before sliding down between your thighs and leaving featherlight kisses on your skin in his wake. 

He spreads your legs with both hands, gaze locked reverently on your center like it’s the only thing that matters. 

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs with a sleek smile as he runs his fingers through your slick heat.

And then his mouth is on you. 

Hot, slow licks that make your hips jerk, your back arch, and your fucking toes curl. He groans like it’s his favorite thing in the goddamn world, tongue moving in lazy circles before he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. Your breath hitches and a strangled moan escapes. 

Holy shit. 

You’re almost sure you could’ve come from that alone, and it’s never this easy. But your own surprise doesn’t last long before you feel one, two fingers join in, and they seem to be even more clever and skilled than his tongue – thick digits curling until they hit that spongey spot that makes you cry out and no one ever reaches. 

Your thighs shake around his head and your hands fly to his silky hair, gripping tight as he devours you. His name falls from your lips among a few curses, and you break with a moan so loud and filthy you’re not sure the neighbors can’t hear it, too.

Your legs lock around his shoulders, your hips grind almost helplessly into his mouth, and he doesn’t stop until you whimper – until you push gently against his head before falling back into the sheets with the most blissful sigh ever uttered on this planet.

He kisses his way back up your body and chuckles against your neck. “Still mad at me for getting you fired?”

“Feeling better about it now,” you grin breathlessly. 

Fuck, you could peacefully fall asleep right now and never wake up and be perfectly fine with that. 

Then his mouth claims yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. “Condom?” he asks, voice just a smoky rasp. 

Still panting, you silently reach over into your nightstand, tossing it to him with trembling fingers. Despite the satisfying ache in your bones, you still manage to prop yourself onto your elbows as he rips open the foil and rolls it down his throbbing length. 

His eyes find yours in the dark. “You good?”

You nod – dizzy, content, and keen – and kiss him in response, your hands gently pushing his shoulders back into the mattress. He watches you with mesmerized eyes as you bracket his hips. His massive hands spread wide on your thighs and slide higher and higher – gentle and coaxing. 

His cock stands thick and hard between you. Your knees press into the mattress as your fingers slide between you, guiding him to your entrance. The head slips against your folds, hot and slick and pulsing. You pause just for a second, breath catching in your lungs as you brace your hands on his smooth chest and sink down.

And shit, the stretch makes your whole body shudder. He’s so goddamn big, and you feel every single inch as you ease him in – burning, filling, aching. Your walls flutter around him, already overwhelmed. The ache slides into pleasure so quick your head spins.

“Fuck,” he grits out beneath you, eyes squeezing shut. “You feel–… Shit, you feel unreal.” 

You gasp as you bottom out, hips flush against his. You stay there for a heartbeat, throbbing around him as the thick weight of him stretches you to your limit. His warm hands come up to cradle your waist, callous thumbs brushing your ribs like he’s trying to ground himself. 

You find your rhythm gradually, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles. The angle makes you see more stars than there are in the sky – he hits every nerve ending like he was built to wreck you. His hands glide from your waist to the globes of your ass, helping you move, guiding you down harder.

And fuck, it feels good. You ride him like you need it – like this isn’t just sex, but it’s a goddamn exorcism. Sweat slicks your skin, your tits bounce with every movement, and his gaze is fixed on you like you’re the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever fucking seen. 

He thrusts up to meet you, the slap of skin-on-skin filling the room, wet and so goddamn shameless. The friction sends sparks spiraling through your belly, and you lean forward, bracing your palms on the headboard to take him even deeper. 

His mouth finds your neck, your shoulder, your nipples – biting, kissing, groaning your name. You grind down harder, chasing the fire pooling low in your stomach, and watch him fall apart underneath you – mouth slack, eyes wild, fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. Sweat beads on his chest, and his filthy praises tumble out like he can’t stop them. 

“Shit, look at you–… taking me so good… so fucking tight–” 

Your orgasm hits like a wave against rocks – your whole body trembles, muscles clenching around him, his name tearing from your throat over and over. You barely get your breath back before he grabs your waist, flips you onto your back, and drives into you again – deeper, harder. Animal.

He fucks you like he’s losing his mind and wants to lose it in you. He pounds into you with everything he has left – raw, ragged thrusts, fucking you like he’s trying to leave a piece of himself behind. 

Your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your nails scrape down his back. He’s flushed, feral, lost in it – but when he looks down at you, it’s something else entirely. This isn’t just about getting off.

It’s about you.

He kisses you as he comes – deep and breathless and wild. 

His body goes taut. You feel him pulse, hear the guttural stutter in his breath as he buries himself to the hilt. He doesn’t move right away. Just pants against your neck, one hand cradling your face, the other pressed tight to your waist like he doesn’t want to let go. 

The air is thick with sweat and whiskey and sex, but underneath it blooms something warmer. It’s like everything else about him – reckless, consuming, and addictive. 

It’s not love. It’s not fate. It’s just heat and skin and something strange humming beneath it all that you can’t name – something that might fade with the morning light.

For now, though, you let it linger and let him stay.

▶️ What If I Told You I'm Back? – SOON

Do we like so far? How did you enjoy that little reader plot twist? I honestly had a little too much fun with this lol. Somehow Mark feels more up my alley than any other Jackles character, and I can't wait to see what else we get from him in the show 👀

I'll post parts of this series randomly whenever the muse strikes, life lets me write, and however the show develops, but we're definitely safe for the next 2-3 parts 🤓💙

⭐️ Tag List PSA: I updated the tag list to include Mark, so if you're not on my Everything Jensen tags, and want to be added to Everything Mark Meachum or this series specifically, fill out the form 🚀. If you received a tag for this story, you're already on the Everything list and will be tagged either way.

Coming Up:

It was a one-time thing. Good sex with a handsome stranger. A moment. A distraction. A hot, borderline reckless one-night stand with a guy who kissed like he meant it and fucked like he needed it.

Yes, it was good. Better than good. But it was also over. That’s how these things go.

You get out of the car, and the porch creaks under your feet as you climb the last step to your house, keys already in hand, eyes focused on the lock. You’re half on autopilot, your brain fried from interviews, LA traffic, and summer heat, when a deep voice cuts through the suburban quiet.

“Hey.”

You flinch so hard you let out a very undignified yelp, keys clattering to the floor. Your head snaps toward the sound, and there he is:

Mark.

He’s sitting on the bench to the left of your front door, half in shadow, one arm resting loosely on his thigh like he’s been waiting there for a while. The other hand, however, rubs the back of his neck like he already regrets being here.

“Jesus,” you breathe, one hand flying to your chest, heart pounding fast underneath your palm. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He stands instantly, clearly aware of how bad this looks – tall and awkward and handsome in the last light of day, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You glance at the door, then back at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” he says, which you both know is a lie. He clears his throat a little. “And honestly? Being a bit of a dick.”

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned