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amyscascadingtabs · 5 years

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i’ll walk through hell with you

chapter 2: i guess truth is what you believe in

read chapter one

read on ao3 here

Amy and Leah visit family, a holiday is celebrated, and illness takes over the Santiago-Peralta household.

december

If there is one thing Amy is certain of, stuck in the car with 97 miles to go and an overtired toddler in the back seat, it is that something must be seriously wrong with her.

No one in their right mind says yes to a family weekend upstate with all siblings and their families nine days before Christmas. Not when it’s a three-hour drive. Not while they’re already left alone to care for their child for the weekend due to a time-sensitive and crucial opportunity coming up in a case Jake has worked for two months. Not when previously mentioned child is recovering from a cold and is ten times more cranky and attention-craving than normal.

Except - apparently - Amy.

She doesn't know what the fuck she was thinking.

She knows some thought went into her plan, such as the idea to drive late at night so Leah could sleep in the car. She simply wishes it could have worked, because right now the toddler is singing Wheels On The Bus for the seventeenth time in forty minutes and Amy feels like her head is going to explode. It's a quarter to ten, over two hours past the kid’s bedtime, and so far she refuses to fall asleep. She's wide awake in her seat, chatting and laughing and singing like there’s no tomorrow. If Amy had as much as a spare drop of energy left -even better, if there had been another parent in the car to focus on entertaining their child - the whole thing would have been adorable, but tonight it’s exhausting above anything else.

“Maaa-maaa?” Leah shouts the word from the back seat, wildly kicking her legs against the back cushioning, and Amy has to take a deep breath before she can reply in a calm tone.

“Yes, baby?”

“Are we there?”

“Not yet, Lee.”

Amy can see the reflection of Leah scrunching her forehead in the baby car mirror. “Why?”

“Because we still have a little way left to drive. We’ll be there soon, I promise.”

“Soon?” Leah shines up, kicking her legs again. “When is soon?”

“It will go faster if you close your eyes for a while,” She tries, using one of the oldest parenting tricks in the book. “I promise.”

“Not tired!” Her daughter responds in her cheeriest voice, and Amy gives herself a mental pat on the back for stifling a groan.

They repeat this exchange about ten times or so before Leah tires of it and returns to her singing. At that point, Amy’s counting it as a win. As much as she loves being this kid’s mom, there are indubitably times - and late-night drives with an overtired two-year-old in the back seat - when she loves it less.

Then Leah falls asleep for the last ten miles of the drive and clutches her arms and legs around Amy like a koala to a tree when she’s lifted out of her car seat and carried to bed, and it’s easier than ever to love being a mom.

There’s never an uneventful day with all of the Santiagos in the same house, and it’s not any more relaxing with the extra presence of six partners, twelve grandchildren, and one dog. From the moment Amy and Leah make their way down to the kitchen for breakfast, and the toddler finds out there might be a cookie baking session with grandma happening today, the day is in full swing. Leah joins her in facetiming Jake for a few minutes to say good morning, but after that, Amy barely sees her daughter for more than a split second in several hours.

The chaos is a welcome distraction. She plays Cards Against Humanity with Luis’s teenage daughters and Julian until Simon starts begging them to help him make a YouTube video, and she teaches five-year-old Noah how to draw the perfect portrait of a horse. She reads a story to three-year-old Maisie, and she laughs heartily at the sight of Leah chasing Oscar the Bichon Frise around while yelling Kitty Cat!. For a few, wondrous hours, Amy manages to live in blissful oblivion over the two starkly negative pregnancy tests she unceremoniously shoved in the bathroom trash can before leaving yesterday, and it feels like heaven.

It feels like heaven up until she joins the crew of brothers and partners currently taking up space in the kitchen. Her brother Isaac is parked in the middle of the kitchen couch, feeding the youngest Santiago member, just-turned one-month-old Milo, with a bottle; around him Camila, Luis, Tony and his wife Clara all fawn over and admire every aspect of the newborn’s appearance. Christian, Julian and Julian’s husband Lucas are at the other end of the kitchen cuddling with and doting on the exhausted dog, and Amy silently curses her allergies for making her unable to join them. Simon just brought out his camera in the living room and she refuses to risk another unwilling YouTube appearance, so her only option is to sit down with the team of awestruck baby-admirers.

“You forget how tiny they are,” Luis says, watching the infant with a nostalgic glance in his eyes. “I’ve had five, and you never get used to it.”

“You don’t,” Camila confirms with a small laugh, reaching out to stroke the baby’s closed fist with her thumb and index finger. “Not even I do. I’m shocked every time!”

“I thought I remembered everything from when Maisie was born.” Isaac grins, giving the empty baby bottle to Camila and carefully lifting the infant upright against his shoulder. “But then he comes out, and I think he must be several pounds lighter because surely Maisie was never this tiny, but he was bigger!” He shakes his head. “It’s insane.”

“He’s so cute,” Tony chimes in. “Do you get to sleep anything? I’m nervous about that.” His left hand is resting next to Clara’s on top of her visible baby bump. Amy lets out an audible snort upon hearing about her brother’s main cause for worry, but Isaac just grins.

“You get used to it. It’ll probably be worse for Clara anyway.”

“Great.” Clara grimaces, turning to Amy. “I can’t even sleep now! I either have a baby sleeping on top of my bladder or kicking me in the ribs for the whole night.”

“I remember.” She smiles, thinking back to the few times late in her pregnancy she’d made Jake sleep on the couch only because she couldn’t stand listening to his snoring on top of it all. “It sucks, and then everyone keeps telling you to sleep while you still can and you’re trying not to punch them.”

“Exactly!” Her sister-in-law laughs, tucking a strand of red-blonde hair behind her ear. “At least everyone says it’s worth it.”

“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have done it so many times,” says Camila, and Clara looks relieved. “Oh, Amy, you need to hold Milo for a little while! He’s been in everyone’s arms except for yours today. Isaac, send him to Amy.”

“Oh.” She squirms in her seat, a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. “It’s okay. I was just going to look for Leah anyway -”

“Leah’s upstairs doing puzzles with Sarah and Samuel,” Isaac explains, referring to David’s two-year-old twins. “She’s fine. You can hold him, Ames.”

“I think I’m good… okay, no choice, I see.” Her younger brother’s already holding out the infant to her, and before she can adjust to the thought, there’s a tiny, yawning baby in her arms.

It’s achingly familiar, yet it feels like it’s been forever.

At first, it’s like every muscle fiber in her body tenses with the sudden awareness that there's a fragile, helpless human in her arms and the weight of terrifying responsibility resting with her for a moment. It's been two years since Amy last held a newborn, and she certainly forgot how breakable they feel when they haven't learned to support their own head. Then Milo lets out a content sigh, his mouth twitching like he's smiling at her, and although she knows he's too small and it's likely just gas, the brief facial expression makes her feel chosen.

She's missed this, she realizes. Noting the classic Santiago baby appearance traits, the head of dark hair and the little button nose, she thinks of countless hours spent holding her own clingy newborn two years ago, and bites her lip when she remembers that she still has no idea when she’ll get to do it again. Milo’s adorable, and Amy's secretly wishing he could stay in her arms forever or she could steal him and take him home with her, but he's also a painful reminder of what she wants most and doesn't have yet.

“He likes you,” Isaac comments, nodding towards the infant. “You and Jake haven’t thought of having another one?”

She freezes at the sound of his question, instantly clueless about what constitutes a good reply. She could tell him the truth, of course, and probably receive a flood of well-meaning advice about the best ways to conceive, but doing so would lead to expectations. Santiagos aren’t known for struggling to have kids, and she’s terrified of handling a hoard of family members subtly trying to figure out whether or not she's pregnant every time they see her. It's enough pressure coming from herself. She doesn't need people adding to it - least of all her family.

“Oh,” she says instead, avoiding eye contact by playing with one of Milo’s fists. “Well, we’re not sure yet.”

“Two years is the best age span between siblings,” Luis chimes in. “We always tried to aim for two years and our kids are super close.”

“Yes, yes, two years is perfect,” Camila agrees, nodding eagerly. “The adjustment is much more difficult when they’ve turned three, or four, and suddenly they’re not the youngest anymore… Sometimes I think Tony never got over his grudges against Simon!”

“I’m telling you, mom, that’s not it, we have a grudge because four years ago he made me do that awful cinnamon challenge that almost gave me an asthma attack and filmed it -”

“Two years is great,” Christian interrupts his younger brother’s story without remorse. “We went for two years between Isabel and Noah and it was perfect. You do want to have more than one kid, right?”

Amy has never wished harder for a baby in her arms to start crying.

She needs to get away, out of the situation where she has to hear and answer these sudden intrusive questions, but Milo shows no signs of waking. She’s stuck with a panicky, claustrophobic sensation in her chest and a forced smile on her lips.

“We do,” she replies to Christian’s question, weighing every word carefully. “We’re just not sure when.”

“No point in waiting,” says Isaac, looking at the baby in Amy’s arms. “I wish we’d had Milo earlier!”

There must be a lack of air in the room, or her allergy medicines have stopped working and are making her react to the dog, because she can’t shake the feeling she’s suffocating. She's feeling trapped even in the spacious kitchen, and although she knows everyone has their eyes fixed on Milo, she can't shake the feeling it's her they're staring at.

She wonders if they're seeing right through her; if they somehow know about negative pregnancy tests of yesterday, or if they can sense her desperation and frustration in the fake smile plastered on her face.

“I suppose you never know,” she answers somehow, heart pounding too quickly. “I, uh… have to go to the bathroom. Do you want to hold him for a little while, Clara?”

Amy senses eyes on her as she sneaks out the kitchen, hurries through the hallway and grabs her coat before heading out and sitting down on the porch, but she can't bring herself to care. She has to fill her lungs with fresh air and get away from well-meaning but prying questions, or she’s going to have a full-on breakdown.

There’s a layer of snow on the ground, too thin for any children or adults to be playing in but enough to give a sense of hope for a white Christmas. She scrapes her fingers through the minuscule ice crystals gathered on the wooden decking, drawing an uneven heart with her index finger and following it with another.

You do want to have more than one kid, right?

She draws a third, smaller heart below the two bigger ones.

You and Jake haven’t thought of having another one anytime soon?

She draws a fourth tiny heart next to the third one.

No point in waiting.

She hides her fist in the sleeve of her winter coat, rubbing it over her drawings and turning them into nothingness. She curses the fact that Jake’s working, that he and Rosa are following up some highly important leads today and their mission would likely be sabotaged if she called and interrupted her husband now, and she curses the fact that Leah’s having the time of her life playing with her cousins and would probably scream in protest if Amy tried to steal her for cuddles.

It’s not too cold outside with her warm coat keeping her comfortable, but she’s still shivering, so she wraps her arms around herself and tries to blink away the tears taking form in her eyes.

She’s aware she’s being ridiculous. Having a baby takes more than a couple months of trying in many, many cases - the majority of them, even. She’s far from unique, yet a sneaking suspicion and vexing anxiety are lingering with her.

No point in waiting.

She puts one hand on her chest and one hand over her stomach, trying to focus on the fresh air flowing in through her nose and out through her mouth, filling and leaving her for each inhale and exhale.

“Just relax,” she whispers to herself, pretending it's Jake's voice saying the words, his unwavering belief that it will all be fine she's listening to.

“Are you sure you’re still my sister? Have you had some kind of personality change?”

“Huh?” Amy almost jumps at the sound of Julian’s voice, bringing her out of her focused breathing and forcing her to look up.

“You’re willingly outside in the cold weather,” he declares, slumping down next to her. “Even with a coat on, that's impressive for you.” She notes that he's only wearing a hoodie himself and seems unbothered by the temperature.

“I needed fresh air.”

“Because of Oscar? I swear his breed is supposed to be allergy-friendly, we researched that stuff in depth. Maybe your allergies are just undefeatable?”

“No, it’s fine as long as I don't pet him.” Amy places a hand on her brother's shoulder, squeezing it. “Oscar’s great. Leah's in love with him.”

“Isn't he amazing?” Julian's grin is comically wide, his eyes sparkling with undiluted pride. “He can sit, and roll, and catch, and play dead if he gets enough candy! Parenthood is incredible. I’m so glad our kids get along.” He doesn't entirely sound like he’s joking, and Amy can't help but laugh at his excitement. “So if it wasn't Oscar, why did you leave?”

“Were you listening to the conversation?”

“Eh, bits and pieces. How so?”

She sighs. “They - mom, and Isaac and Christian, mostly - interrogated me about whether we’re planning to have another baby anytime soon.”

“And you’re not?”

“We are! We’re actively trying for it.”

“Oh! Cool,” Julian nods, scratching the stubble on his chin. “I can get behind that. I wouldn't have anything against reproducing with those Peralta genes either if I could.” Amy elbows her brother in the side at that, probably way harder than necessary, and it makes him gasp in offense. “Hey! It’s just objective facts that he's attractive!”

“I’m telling Lucas you said that.”

“Lucas agrees. Either way - if you actually are trying, what's with the tears and the sudden storming out?”

“I didn't storm out,” she protests, and he gives her a meaning look of judgment as if to say yes, you did. “And it's nothing.”

Julian snorts. “Sure it is.”

“It's not a big deal.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“It's just making me a little stressed is all.”

“A little.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” Amy groans, placing her head in both hands and quickly running her fingers through her hair. There's a knot in the back of it, and she busies herself trying to pull it apart as she speaks. “We are trying. It's just not going very well yet, I guess. It’s making me nervous, and it's not something I want to tell everyone in our family about, because, well… we’re not exactly known for struggling with that.”

Julian is silent, and there’s a moment where Amy wonders if she’s managed the impossible. For all their countless petty fights and differences, Julian has always had a reply to offer her. Sometimes he’s supportive, sometimes questioning, and sometimes he’s all over judging her decisions, but he never ignores her worries when she chooses to confide in him. It throws her off to see him take so long to answer her now, and she watches him twist the white gold wedding ring on his finger absentmindedly while he grimaces.

“No,” he says right as she starts to consider tapping him on the shoulder to make sure he’s conscious. “I guess we’re not known for struggling with anything. Has this… been a problem for a long time?”

“A couple of months.”

“...Is that a long time? I’m not great with this heterosexual business. I’m much better with waiting times for adopting a dog.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “It’s not that long. But it’s longer when you don’t have a lot of time to begin with.” Julian looks about as perplexed as if she’d been trying to explain the intricate details of quantum physics to him, and she clarifies. “Fertility decreases as you age.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“I’m thirty-nine. Maybe I shouldn't panic yet, but in a year, or two…” Amy shakes her head. “It gets really low. Higher chances of miscarrying. Chromosome variations. Premature birth. You name it. Basically, the sooner I get pregnant now, the better and safer it is for everyone.”

“I see.”

“So there's some time pressure,” she explains further, connecting her hands inside the coat sleeves to eliminate the cold that's started to seep in. “And it’s making me terrified something's wrong with me already. That it's not going to work. That we’ll never be able to have a second kid. I know that's maybe not the end of the world, but… I really, really want it, and I’d be heartbroken if it didn’t happen.”

A pair of stubborn, humiliating teardrops make their way down her cheeks at the thought, and she untangles her hands to quickly wipe them away.

“I’m sure it'll work out, Ames.” Julian's smile is partly sympathetic and partly insecure when he speaks, like this subject is miles out of his comfort zone but he's trying his best anyway. “As you said, two months is nothing, right? Mom was like, 42 when she had Simon. Surely if anyone's got the genes for this, it’s our family.”

“Yeah. It's never a guarantee, though, and I can’t handle their questions. Two years is the best time between siblings,” she imitates in an exaggerated high-pitched tone, and Julian laughs heartily. “As if I wasn’t already pressuring myself about the same thing. But I can't tell them that, because then they’d start asking.”

“Mm, our family does lack all understanding of what privacy is sometimes.” Julian grins. “There are several options even for gay men! Surrogates! Adoption! I read this article in a magazine where a pair co-parented with lesbians!” His shrill imitation tone is awful and hilarious at the same time, making Amy snicker. “I think she was mad at me for weeks after I told her we were happy with a dog. She means well, but it just becomes a lot.”

“Doesn’t get easier when it’s something you already want, either.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Maybe. I hope so.”

“If not, I’m pro-dogs. They’re pretty much like children, except you don’t have to create a college fund for them. A win-win situation if it weren’t for the fact that owning a dog could probably kill you. But other than that!” Julian stretches his arms over his head, looking mighty proud of himself. “Solid.”

“I’m already busy trying to talk Jake out of buying a cat,” says Amy, massaging her temples at the thought. “But he’s managed to get Leah obsessed with them, so I think I’m losing.”

“That’s why she’s calling Oscar a cat! Wow. Jake’s a genius.”

“Well, that and she’s two. And please don’t ever tell him that, because his ego would literally explode.”

Amy can feel her face going numb from the cold outside, a sudden gust of wind coming at them and making her eyes tear for a new reason. The fact that she’s lost track of time hits her, awakening an uneasiness and a sudden need to get inside and check up on how her daughter’s doing, so she gives Julian a quick, rare hug, and is surprised when he squeezes her back for a long time.

“Thanks for coming out,” she mumbles, and he nods.

“Of course. I just don’t like seeing you cry.”

“Aww, that’s kind of sweet.”

“You look so weird when you do,” he says with a smirk, and she rolls her eyes at the mock insult. “No one should have to see that.”

“Fuck off, Jules.”

“Yep. Now let’s go make sure our kids are still alive and haven’t eaten any couches. Is that a thing with human children too?”

january

It’s a good Christmas.

It’s a Christmas where Amy can allow herself some time to relax and unwind, put her worries aside and focus on her family during the ten days both her and Jake manage to garner off work. It’s a long-awaited and dearly welcomed break from early daycare drop-offs, ten-minute-dinners, and infinite planning to make sure nothing is forgotten.

Instead there is time for slow wakeups, snuggling with Leah when she crawls into their bed in the early hours of the morning and giving in to her request of watching iPad in their bed only so they can keep their eyes closed for a little while longer. There's time for late-night conversations over a glass of wine that don't feel rushed because at least they don't have somewhere to be tomorrow, and there's time to properly see friends outside of work for the first time in what feels like forever. They go to dinner at Terry’s house, watch Rosa enjoy the indoor trampoline park even more than Leah does, and they gratefully accept Charles’ offer to babysit their daughter for a night. Amy figures the man has a specific motive in mind, but then Jake suggests they spend the night at a hotel and Leah gets ecstatic at the mention of watching Disney movies with her uncle Charles and Nikolaj, so she ends up saying yes. She’s only human, after all, and she’s not going to neglect the rare and precious chance of a sleep-in.

(The date also times mysteriously well with when she should be ovulating.)

(She does not want to ask.)

Even the yearly Christmas dinner with the Santiagos ends up being survivable. Although there are kids crying, odd snarky comments between Tony and Simon, and Leah outright refuses to wear anything but her sequined dinosaur shirt and glittery tights to the event, things proceed smoothly and Amy’s stress levels remain on the healthier part of the scale. She watches Jake hold and make funny faces at Milo and can feel her mom giving them meaning looks from across the room, but she breathes through it and silently thanks the Universe when Leah chooses that exact moment to climb onto Amy’s lap and ask if they can read one of her new books. Sure, part of her wishes she could be gifting her husband a crafted announcement with a baby onesie and a positive pregnancy test much like the ones she’s pinned on Pinterest, but the tender way he hugs her thank you after he opens his gift and sees the photo book filled with pictures with him and Leah, is more than enough to ease her sorrow. He gifts her a gold necklace with the letters J and L in separate miniature hearts, and when he tells her it’s so she can always be keeping them next to her own heart, she tears up and kisses him so long and ardently that he looks a little dazed, blinking with surprise when they part.

It’s a good New Year’s Eve, too. They spend the first part of the evening at the Holt-Cozner New Year’s Party, listening to their daughter proudly tell every guest she’s going to stay up until midnight, and then they try not to laugh when she passes out the moment she’s in her car seat at half-past nine. Jake and Amy end their year in pajamas on the couch, toasting in champagne just for the sake of it and going right to bed afterward.

Next year we’ll have another baby, she thinks to herself before falling asleep about fifteen minutes into the new year, a new sense of shimmering optimism lingering with her. It has to have worked by then.

January is hell. Everyone knows it, specifically, everyone who’s had children at daycare, because January means no one is healthy and neither Jake nor Amy manage a full week at work without taking time off to care for a sick child or themselves. Amy prays they’ll make it through without any cases of stomach flu, but such seems to have been too much to ask, because she’s woken up by devastating crying from Leah’s room on the one night Jake’s doing a night shift and she knows before the two-year-old’s even started retching.

She doesn’t get any sleep that night.

She doesn’t get any sleep the next night either, because when Leah stops throwing up and Amy feels like she can breathe again when the child keeps some applesauce down and asks if she can watch Doc McStuffins, it only takes three hours before Jake starts complaining about feeling sick.

January must surely be some twisted sort of a joke, she thinks, and disinfects her hands an extra time before she goes to remind her very miserable husband that he’s not actually dying.

It’s only natural, amid the virus-filled havoc, that it takes her a few days to realize she hasn’t gotten her period.

Come to think of it, she is feeling a bit nauseous. The excessive fatigue and emotional imbalance she knows were early symptoms in her first pregnancy is harder to distinguish from the exhaustion after two intense days of caring for poorly family members, but she’s a mom and a Santiago and she categorically never gets sick.

She gives the nausea a day, waiting for it to break out into the same flu Jake and Leah are already victims of, but it doesn’t. It stays the same.

Amy’s never been so excited about nausea in her life.

She waits until Leah’s gone to bed, falling asleep in Amy’s arms on the couch. The two-year-old’s still not quite her energetic, bubbly self and has been stuck to her parents like a needy band-aid for most of the day, and it could have been tiring if it hadn’t also meant lots of cuddles. Right now, though, Amy's arms and back are happy to get a break from carrying the kid around while she lays down next to Jake instead, spooning him and receiving a grateful smile when she starts playing with his hair.

“How are you feeling, babe?”

“Dying. I think I might be dead already,” he groans before turning his head and looking her in the eyes with feigned seriousness. “Please say something nice at my funeral and promise me you'll take care of Charles when I'm gone.”

“You're not dying, Jake.”

“How d’you know?”

“Because you haven't thrown up since last night and you only have a slight fever,” she reminds him, feeling his lukewarm forehead. “You're fine.”

“I am definitely much better with a hot girl draped on top of me,” he says with a smug expression, his hand gently stroking under her old NYPD shirt up her back. She rolls her eyes, because looks haven't exactly been the top priority for the last three days and she's not sure when she last washed her hair, yet Jake never stops making an effort to charm her. “How are you feeling, Ames?”

“Actually, I've been kind of nauseous all day. But I'm not sure it's stomach flu.”

“Huh? What else would it be?”

“I'm thinking,” she presses her index finger to his chest, “maybe I should take a pregnancy test.”

“Oh.” He squints at her. “Why?”

Amy gives him an exasperated look.

“Okay, yeah. But you’ve also spent the last three days taking care of your sick family. Leah was throwing up on us. Are you sure you're not just ill?”

“I have a good feeling,” she insists, because she does - there's a renewed sense of hope and blind faith that perhaps this could be it, resting with her. “And I never get sick.”

“Once again, your daughter was vomiting on you and I'm still convinced I might be dying. This is a brutal virus, Ames.”

“Clearly.” She runs her fingers through his messier-than-usual curls again, and his mouth shapes into a content smile despite his still worried eyes. “I’m still going to take that test, though. In case.”

“In case,” he repeats slowly. “Well, it’s your body.”

“Exactly.” She kisses his forehead. “You get it. I’ll be right back.”

Amy takes these tests with ease now. She’s been doing them two, three times extra following every first negative in a desperate hope for the result to change. False negatives are common, test results are safer the longer after a missed period they’re taken, and there’s no reason not to test an extra time. Long story short, she's becoming a pro at taking pregnancy tests, but so far the single lines and minus signs are staying the same.

She says a silent prayer this one will be an exception.

Plastic cap off, pee for five seconds, plastic cap back on, lay the test flat and wait while trying not to freak out. She manages all steps but the final.

She carries the little plastic stick out to the living room coffee table gently as if it had been made of glass.

“Three minutes,” she informs Jake, and he nods while she sets a timer on her phone. In three minutes, they'll know whether her good feeling is right or dead wrong, and the nausea increases but this time Amy thinks it's nerves.

She doesn't want to stare, but she does anyway, waiting for a second line to appear no matter how faint. Jake sits up next to her, taking her hand and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, and she manages a weak smile without lifting her eyes from the test.

The timer goes off without a second line appearing.

Amy lifts the test to inspect it closer, but there's not even a hint of anything. She gives it to Jake for a second opinion, and he inspects it just as closely before shaking his head and mumbling a quiet sorry, babe.

She's not pregnant this month either.

“It’s okay, Ames. Three months is nothing.”

She doesn’t realize there are tears in her eyes until they’re trailing down her cheeks and Jake’s hand is there, wiping them away. She presses on his wrist to move it, make him stop because she’s not okay and she doesn’t want him pressuring her to feel anything but the searing disappointment coursing through her veins.

“It’s not,” she says, shaking her head. “I just feel so stupid. I thought I was feeling something.”

“You’re not stupid,” he tells her, and the tenderness in his voice erases her annoyance. “You want this really bad. I do, too, but… well, it’s not my body.”

“Not your body being a massive failure.”

“Hey!” Jake holds up one hand like he’s making a stop motion. “No one talks that way about my wife!”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’m serious! You don’t get to say those things, okay? You know it’s not true.” She hums a doubting sound, and he sighs, placing his arm around her shoulders. “Ames, we’ll just try again. We already did a great job once, and there are moments I wish we hadn’t, because if we didn’t have a toddler in daycare I would be so much healthier… okay, I still don’t regret it,” he adds. “Except maybe the daycare part, because I swear I’m sick all the time.”

“You love our daycare! Without it, you’d never get to eat that Scientology-guy’s chocolate chip cookies at every parent meeting.”

“Fair point. Craig, right? Weirdly good baker. Fine - I guess I don’t regret the daycare either. But you’re about to.”

This time, she’s the one squinting at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Still feeling nauseous?”

“Kind of, why are you… oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Your immune system isn’t undefeatable!”

“It’s still better than yours,” she counters, and Jake just grins.

“But not undefeatable.”

She gives him a slow nod, trying to hide the despondency on her face as she takes the negative test from his hands.

“I’m just going to throw this away.”

Amy is certain of it when she wakes up three hours later, almost throwing herself out of bed to make it to the bathroom in time - January is officially and unquestionably hell.

#my writing #b99 #brooklyn 99 #brooklyn nine-nine #peraltiago #jake x amy #b99 fic #brooklyn 99 fic #brooklyn nine-nine fic #b99 fanfiction #brooklyn nine-nine fanfiction #jake x amy fic #jake x amy fanfiction #peraltiago fic #peraltiago fanfiction #sorry for being so rude about january don't take it personally if you love january #it's just.. everyone's sick

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 4 years

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Cremation Charlie

Title: Cremation Charlie (COMPLETE)

Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Summary: A lot has happened since Vegas. Dean meets up with you in Albuquerque. Takes place in Season 7, after Plucky's.

Word Count: 14,000

Warnings: fluff, flirting, angst, explicit language, smut, heights

A/N: Originally posted on AO3. So, I have to thank Winchesters_queen (on AO3) for this story idea. Seeds were unknowingly planted when I chose Albuquerque as the reader's place of residence. It took me a while to get a feel for how the story should progress. And, I do like the idea of trying to follow the canon of the show. Hot or not, I feel like if the reader found out Dean had been on the FBI's Most Wanted List, there'd be a little hesitancy in meeting up again. I mean, yeah, everyone's got a type and to each their own. I just don't think this reader would find serial killers hot. But the pieces and plot fell into place. Happy with that.

Dean peeled out of the back alley of the restaurant slash playland. It was the perfect mix of a young kid’s fantasy and an adult’s hellhole. He was still chuckling, feeling the remnants down deep in his belly. He hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. Not since the time he spent with you in Vegas.

He wasn’t sure where he and Sam were headed. One thing he was sure about. Even though he missed Baby, ached to run his fingers along her steering wheel and rev her engine, he was relieved to be driving this ‘73 Mercury Cougar right now. He would have never gotten the glitter bomb Sam was covered with out of Baby’s passenger seat. Hell, Sam wouldn’t have been allowed inside her with his sparkly ass.

They would hotwire another POS car soon enough. Would have to in order to stay under the radar of pretty much everyone at this point once they made it out of Wichita, Kansas. Or got a lead on exactly what Dick Roman was planning from Frank. Something had to give soon. Roman’s toothy grin, hiding the leviathan underneath, required some serious restructuring under Dean’s hands.

Dean gripped the steering wheel and floored the gas on the dark open road. Fields spun out for miles, merged with the horizon in every direction. He’d missed Kansas. Wanted to hug these back roads for as many hours as he could. The peace and quiet. He rolled down the driver’s side window. Memories triggered. Not memories as much as... snapshots. Before Sam. With Mom in the passenger seat. Him behind Dad in a booster seat. Tiny. Looking up. Seeing her blonde wavy hair bouncing in the wind. Her smiling profile, directed at Dad. Her turning back to tap his little knee with a soft caress.

Movement beside Dean broke him out of the slideshow recall. Sam shifted, his lengthy frame crumpled like a broken pretzel in the seat. Head lolling, dreaming or nightmaring about God knew what. Dean got distracted by Sam’s occasional sparkling. The glitter reminded him of strippers. Strippers reminded him of Vegas. Vegas reminded him of you.

“We’re gonna find a motel, Sammy. So you can wash all that shit off.” Dean decided.

“Hm?” Sam grunted. His eyes blinked slow, pried open with a wide yawn.

“All that clown jizz. You need to wash that crap off. Pronto.”

“Sure. Whatever.” He groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “Ah, shit.” His eyes blinked with a rapid concern. “I got fucking glitter in my eyes.”

Dean’s chuckling started up again. From deep down, genuine. Most of his chest got in on the laugh.

“It’s not funny, Dean. I could go blind. And, this isn’t plain glitter. It’s supernatural, fear manifested glitter.” Sam stared at his offending hand and continued blinking.

“Jesus. There’s some bottled water in the cooler. Rinse it out.” He thumbed behind his seat.

Sam turned to him, “What about the…” he stopped himself.

Dean knew Sam remembered they weren’t in Baby just then.

“Bend forward and flush it out.” Dean directed.

A minute passed. Dean pulled a hand towel out of his duffel in the back seat. Splashes of water dampened Dean’s jeans. He pushed the towel in Sam’s face, his eyes closed. “Pat. Don’t rub. Better?”

“A little.” Sam sighed and shook his head like a freshly washed dog.

Dean blinked his own eyes at the droplets hitting his face. “Well, don’t get it on me for Christ’s sake!”

“Not as funny, huh?” Sam huffed.

Dean sighed.

Dean took a shot of whiskey from Bobby’s flask, tapping away on the laptop. Browser windows opened and cascaded on top of each other on the screen. Dozens of articles on Dick Roman, his enterprise, his holdings, his ventures. Dean was sick of seeing that pompous, arrogant ass. But couldn’t stop searching. He needed to find the thing that killed Bobby.

His fingers dipped into the duffel resting on the nearby empty seat. He rummaged through, found the shape he sought out by touch, and pulled out one of Bobby’s cells they’d kept with them after he’d died. Well, Dean had kept it for a specific reason. One he hadn’t shared with Sam. Sam was currently occupied in the bathroom; scrubbing himself under the shower stream for what was going on a half hour.

He’d heard the message for the first time a month after Bobby’s death. And you’d left it a couple months before that. He should have reached out to you then. Talking to you might have helped. He’d be able to confess, explain, as crazy as everything would sound. It might have grounded him for an hour or so, talking to someone normal, outside of their circle of crazy. And, if you’d hung up and never reached out again, so be it.

But? What if you didn’t? What if you were just a little crazy enough to give it all a listen? To be open to all of the things under the veil of normal? He’d gotten a feeling, maybe more of a suspicion, you might during those few hours you shared on that October night. Hell, maybe he would have taken off without Sammy and driven to Albuquerque to meet up with you. Finish what you’d both started in Vegas five months ago, a lifetime of pain ago. Escape. Even if it was only for a little while.

But then he got sucked into 1944. Then he’d hooked up with the Amazon Lydia, and Sam had to kill Dean’s teen daughter, Emma, the result of said hook-up. That was a whole thing. And hours earlier they’d taken care of an employee of Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie, who’d been using manifestations of children’s fears to play judge, jury, and executioner to whoever he thought deserved it. Dean grinned at the still wrapped giant Slinky on the kitchenette counter. At least one good thing came out of it.

He listened to ensure the water was still running in the shower. He’s gonna be a fucking prune when he comes out. Dean hit the speaker button on the phone.

“Um, yeah. I’m looking for FBI Director, Mike Kayser.” Your voice was hesitant. Dean smiled at the way you stated your full name, all formal. You even added your middle name, a new piece of information he hadn’t heard the night you spent together. “This is insane.” You mumbled. “Look, anyway, I got this number from a guy. He said his name was Dean Winchester. I was told to call this number if I couldn’t reach him.” He frowned, anticipating the next part of the message he’d listened to a dozen times. “But, I’m calling because, well, I’m a little, no, a lot concerned. So, I met this Dean Winchester after he apparently had died. From what I found out he and his brother had themselves a murder spree across the country. Ended up on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. Got captured in Ankeny, Iowa, and were killed trying to escape.” You sighed into the phone. “Look. I really just need to know what the hell’s going on. The guy I met…” You stopped. “Well, he didn’t seem like a serial killer.” Dean pictured you rolling your eyes. “Of course, that’s what everyone says after the fact. But, he didn’t. And, I find it odd that of all the phone numbers he’d give me to contact would be that of an FBI Director. If that’s even true. So, if someone could call me back and let me know something. At the least, I’d like to know if I need to be put in Witness Protection and get an alias.” You laughed that laugh that made Dean grin. You left your number. “Thanks.”

Dean exited and scrolled through the call list. Again. For the tenth time after he’d noticed that Bobby had called the number you’d left. And, it had been a long talk for Bobby. Fucking twenty minutes. And even more curious, you had called him back a couple weeks later. Talked to Bobby again for another half hour. Chatty fucking Cathy, huh Bobby. What the hell did you talk to her about? Whatever it was had some finality to it, because there hadn’t been another call from you. And Bobby had died soon after that.

Must have been why she never tried to get in touch with me after that last time. She’s got some sense. But, I could already tell that. He knew he should leave it alone. Leave you alone. But he really wanted to know what Bobby had told you. And why the hell you’d called Bobby back.

The shower cut off. Dean yelled. “Sammy! Want me to grab us some grub? I’m starving.”

“Yeah. Something not artery clogging for me.” He sounded even more exhausted.

“It’s two am. Your kale eating ass will have to settle for whatever greasy joint is open.” Dean grumbled and grabbed his jacket off the chair back. He slipped Bobby’s phone in a pocket and headed out.

Dean put in the order at the diner counter, paid in advance, and stepped out in the cold March night for some privacy. The misty drizzle prickled his cheeks. His breath steamed out from his mouth. He scrolled through Bobby’s call list and pressed your number. Stared at it. Hesitated to dial.

Dean had been properly buzzed that Vegas night with you. But parts of your conversations, especially back on the rug at his motel were clear and vivid. One fact you’d told him was that you had terrible insomnia. Stayed up late most nights and existed on not much sleep. He could definitely relate to that.

He shrugged. “What the hell. I can chalk it up to a Friday night drunk dial.” Dean called your number. He felt his eyes widen when he heard you pick up on the second ring.

“Bobby?”

He could feel his eyes bug out even more. Sonava bitch gave her his real name. “Not Bobby.”

Silence for some seconds. “Dean?”

“Long time no talk, sweetheart.”

You were shifting, doing something. “How-how are you doing?”

“Been better. How about you? I know it’s late, but…”

“You knew I wouldn’t be asleep.” Your laugh was a delightful mix of soft and scratchy to Dean’s ear.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Are you playing hard to get with me or don’t want to be found altogether?”

“Me? What about you?” You tossed back the question.

“Hey, I haven’t heard from you since those few texts a week after Vegas. Then, come to find out you’ve been chit-chatting with Bobby. You didn’t seem like the Sugar Daddy type to me.” He leaned against the side of his parked car. The bright interior of the diner and neon sign above lit up his waiting spot. It would be some minutes before his bag of food would appear on the counter.

“Do Sugar Daddies own junk yards? I didn’t realize how lucrative a business that was. Impersonating federal agents can only get someone so far, I guess.”

Dean held up a hand. “Wait. Wait a minute. How do you…”

“Bobby told me a lot, Dean.”

Dean swallowed. “How much?”

“You should ask him. My mind is still trying to process most of it.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean trailed off.

“Why are you calling me on his phone, anyway?” Silence again. “Oh. How long ago?”

“It’s been a couple months.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean. He sounded like a decent, upstanding man. And, I could tell… he cared a lot about you and Sam.”

“You could tell that over a couple phone conversations?”

“Yep. Men of little words say a lot when it’s important. You have to pay attention. And, catch them on a good day, I guess.”

“I heard that voicemail you left.”

“Ah. So, you know how freaked out you had me? Thanks, by the way. You owe me two months worth of sleep.”

“Sorry.”

“Bobby didn’t mention talking to me?”

“No. I guess he figured it was better you didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Or he was occupied with more important things. It sounded like you all were working on saving the world again.”

“What the hell did he…”

“Where are you?” You switched gears on him.

“Wichita, Kansas.”

“How far is that from Albuquerque?”

Dean smiled. He’d already Googled it back at the motel. “About ten hours.”

“Think you can make it here around midnight tonight? I mean, if you have time...”

“I don’t think the world’s going to implode between now and then.”

“If that’s a joke, you have a fucking twisted sense of humor, Dean Winchester.”

Dean chuckled. “Kind of goes along with the job.”

“Yeah.” You sighed. “So, do I send you the location to meet me on this phone or the original number you gave me?”

“You still have that?”

“Yep.”

Another smile. “Send it to mine, sweetheart.”

“Will do. Oh, and bring a bottle of champagne.”

“Huh?”

“Bottle of champagne. Can be a cheap bottle. As long as it pops and fizzes when you open it.”

“Okay…”

“See you in a few hours, handsome.” You hung up.

Of course. The early morning nap at the motel after the greasy diner food turned into a passed out until two in the afternoon snooze fest. Sam’s unwillingness to let Dean up and leave without a detailed explanation delayed the trip as well.

Dean tapped a Sorry, gonna be late. Still okay or should we try another time? to you before he attempted to pacify his brother. “What’s the problem here, Sammy?”

Sam raised his hands. “Are you serious? You’ve had nothing on the brain but Dick since Bobby.”

Dean raised a finger along with his brows. “Rephrase.”

Sam pursed his lips before continuing. “And now, it’s ‘I’ve got something to do I’ll be back’ and you expect me to believe you’re not going off half-cocked to take care of it without me? Did you hear from Frank?”

Dean’s phone buzzed back a reply from you. Still okay. You got my directions?

“Is that him?” Sam rose from his bed and stormed over to Dean.

“No.” Dean sighed. He typed a quick Yes. “Okay, look. It’s a woman, alright.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “I thought you were done with the ladies, after Lydia. That’s what you told me three days ago, Dean. Accidental fatherhood, uncle having to kill his niece and all that.”

“I am. I just… Sam.” Dean slipped the phone into his pocket and went back to packing his duffel. “There’s always another job to keep our minds off how badly we’ve screwed up until we find a way to save the world.” He zipped the bag. “I met this woman back in Vegas. That night before you went all bonkers for Becky and I had to attend your wedding.”

Sam shivered at the memory.

“I’ve got a second chance to just…” He dropped his arms in defeat and exhaustion. “Just be, man.”

“Get laid, you mean?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe that, too. But, I didn’t have to work at being anything but me with her.”

Sam’s eyes widened. Dean could tell he was ready to call bullshit with that grin. “So, she knows all about us, huh? The hunting? The apocalypse? You going to hell? Me following you a year later, stuck in Lucifer’s cage? Castiel? The leviathans? You tell her all that?”

“Bobby told her something. Before he… I just don’t know what.”

Sam shook his head. The confusion and incredulity washing over his face. “What?”

“Look, I’m going, Sam.”

Sam nodded. “I’m coming then.”

Dean shook his head.

“There’s no way you’re going anywhere without me. Besides, if we get a lead on Roman, we’ll need to move. Fast. And, we need to be together. We don’t have the back up like we used to.” Sam nodded again. “You know I’m right.”

Dean rolled his eyes and tilted his head back. “Fine.”

He sent you a message. Hope it’s okay but brother wants to tag along.

You wrote back a minute later. The more the merrier.

The Midwestern plains transitioned into Southwestern mesas and red rock landscapes over the trek. Sam and Dean approached the city of Albuquerque eleven hours after the start of their drive. They’d taken turns at the wheel, with Dean a much more willing passenger without Baby as their mode of transportation. Multiple signs greeted and pointed out they were on Route 66 as it became one with Central Avenue in Albuquerque.

The urban stretch of the route through this city covered around eighteen miles, according to Mr. Walking Talking encyclopedia aka Sam Winchester. The temptation to swing into a casino they passed was great for Dean. He smiled to himself, wondering if you’d gone in there since Vegas to try your luck on roulette again. Always bet on black. A funky, pueblo style motel, named the Tewa lodge, got Dean’s attention. Note to self in case I ever find myself in the area again. He read the amenities under the VACANCY sign. ‘$29.95 and Up. Free Cable TV and FREE Local Calls’. Oh baby, you had me at ‘Kitchenette’s’.

A diner called Loyola’s, decked out with a large neon steaming cup of coffee, served breakfast burritos when it was open according to the window stenciling. Dean’s mouth salivated at the large number of diners on the strip. My kind of city. He had to pull up to read the menu of yet another tiny restaurant called The Doghouse. The long rectangular neon sign resting atop the boxy building had an animated brown weiner dog wagging its tail. Dean slapped Sam’s chest. “Foot-long chili dogs, Sammy. Foot. Long.”

“Dude, I would never get in the car with you after you ingested something like that.”

“This is definitely my kind of city.” Dean beamed in the dark under the flashing neon. “Hey, what do they call those food tours, where you taste tons of different things?”

“Gastronomy.” Sam chuckled.

“I wanna gastronomy all over this bitch.” Dean pulled back onto the road.

“They certainly like their neon.” Sam pointed to a bright cowboy riding a horse as it lassoed the “El Don” in the name of the El Don Motel sign. “Lots of history here.”

“Yeah, I’m guessing EMF is off the charts in a lot of these places.” Dean added.

Modern and Spanish mission style mingled together on every street. For every building with crisp edges and straight lines there was another with stucco, a red tile roof and rounded edges. They took in as much as they could in the early morning drive, ticking past two am. They drove over the Rio Grande River. But the city wasn’t their ultimate destination. At least not according to your directions. Once through the city, it was another twenty minutes of solitary travel through grassland and barren, desert vistas. Mesas cut silhouettes against the night sky. The Mercury Cougar’s wheels finally spun onto the dirt road they’d been in search of after Sam had to pull out a road map when the GPS gave out.

Sam caught the beacon of activity first. “Down that way. Looks like truck lights.” He pointed. “Sure we’re not walking into some sort of trap, Dean?”

He patted Sam’s shoulder. “Well, I guess it’s good you came along to protect me from myself, little brother.” Dean’s stomach flipped. But not with unease. It was in anticipation of seeing you again. “She’s cool, man. No weird vibes, even if we are in Breaking Bad territory.”

“You don’t have a stellar track record with the ladies you’ve picked up lately.”

“Shut up.”

On approach, the headlights of four 4x4 trucks came into focus, parked in a neat row one next to the other by the road. A group of people were assembled around the back of the vehicles. A couple seated on the open tailgates, some standing, and all looked to have beers in hand.

Dean slid the Cougar alongside one of the trucks, parked, then smiled when you walked over to greet him and his brother. Every shitty moment of the past five months slipped away when your figure was spotlighted in his headlamps. Whatever, wherever this was, you looked in your element here. Relaxed and confident in faded jeans and the kind of t-shirt Dean liked on a woman. The kind that grips all those dangerous curves and leaves nothing to the imagination.

“Come on, Sam. Let’s make our introductions.” Dean hopped out without waiting for Sam’s response.

You strolled up to the open car door and met Dean on the other side, an open beer bottle gripped in one hand; two dangling by their necks between fingers in the other. “You found it.” You smiled.

“Could have warned us it’d be a huge pain in the ass to get here.”

A grin this time. “What would have been the fun in that?”

Damn, he didn’t realize how much he missed that look on your face until he saw it again. Dean made the introductions between you and Sam. You offered the beers.

“I hear you like desert treks, Sam.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Well, that’s what you were off doing when I met Dean in Vegas. Where’d you end up, anyway, that night?”

“Married.” Dean answered for him.

Sam spit out some of his beer. He wiped his face with the back of his cuff. “Quickie wedding. Quickie divorce.” Sam explained.

It was your turn to raise eyebrows. “Wow. How come that wasn’t on your agenda of things to do that night, Dean?”

Dean leaned against the side of the car. “If we’d been together a few more hours, who knows, sweetheart.”

You laughed. “Sure.”

The cold beer slid easy down Dean’s throat. His lips smacked together. “So, what’s the deal?” He pointed to the group. A huddle of three eyed the newcomers. The other two were kissing in the truck bed and didn’t take much notice of anything.

“That’s my crew. We’ve got a job at sunrise. Testing out the equipment.”

“Job? This doesn’t look like an office job.” Dean grinned.

“Little side business I started a couple years back. More of a passion you might say.” You shrugged.

“At three am in the morning I’d say so.” Dean quipped.

You stepped into Dean’s space, your sneaker tapping his boot. “Maybe I can get some free labor out of you boys?”

“Depends.” He licked his lips, staring at you.

“On?”

“If I get some alone time with you later.” His eyes looked dead straight into yours, unblinking, waiting to see if you’d cave. He remembered how good you felt, so close, when he’d gotten the nerve to do his Luke Bryan impersonation in the motel room. He wanted to feel your lips pressed to his again. See if they were as soft as he remembered.

Sam cleared his throat a few feet away.

You backed away. Dean smiled in victory over the blush he’d caused. “Come on over.” You sighed, shaking your head, as you released the statement.

Dean eyed the curve of your hips leading the way. Sam elbowed him and gave the “Dude, take it down a notch” expression.

“Everybody,” your voice was loud, in charge, and Dean appreciated the change. “This is Dean Wilton and Sam Jackson.”

What the hell? Dean could feel Sam’s quizzical look burrowing down at him, even without turning.

A younger guy, tall and almost Sam’s height but with a buzzcut, thrust himself in front of them with eager handshakes. “It’s an honor to even be considered for an article in the BFA journal.”

Sam and Dean stared wide-eyed at each other and then you.

“Don’t pay Stan much mind. He’s still wet behind the ears.” A tubby man spoke up in a baseball cap, his arm around a cute little blonde sitting next to him in the truck bed. They’d been the two kissing earlier. “You lucked out. It’s gonna be a nice morning to launch.”

Sam mouthed the word launch? to Dean.

“So, you two are freelance journalists?” Stan asked.

Dean gave your grin only a second of his attention. “Uh, yeah. You know, love the open road… love to… freelance.” He waved the beer around in a dramatic gesture. “Go where the wind takes us.”

Stan tapped his biceps and let out a chuckle. “Where the wind takes you. I see what you did there.”

“So,” you continued. “along with Stan, we have Marvin,” she pointed to the man on the truck, “Cleo,” the girl under his arm, “and over there is Gen and Gabe.” A female and male, both Native American, gave a quick nod.

Sam waved. “Nice to meet all of you.”

“I told them you’d basically be observing and might help out if you felt so inclined.” You clarified to Sam and Dean. “We want to get two trucks out over there to shine some light on the situation, give us a little halo to work with?”

“On it.” Stan raced away to the farthest truck. Marvin and Cleo hopped off the bed and got into their cab.

“Gabe.” You nodded. “How about you and Gen over there in the middle, and start to unload the equipment?”

“Got it, boss.”

Once it was the three of you, alone, Dean was the first to speak. “Journalists, sweetheart? And, what the hell is going on?”

Your eyes stared back at him, innocent with a little hint of mischief. “Isn’t this what you boys do? Go undercover a lot? I thought the FBI thing would scare them. And, Marvin might actually try to look like he’s working if he thinks someone’s writing a story on us. This might be his last launch if he can’t get it together.”

“Shit, you really do know a ton about us.” Sam blinked his eyes in rapid succession.

“Bobby told me about the ghosts, monsters, angels, demons, and those nasty suckers you're dealing with at the moment. The reason you ended up being on America’s Most Wanted.” You shrugged. “Your last names were apparently everywhere along with those cute mugs of yours. I didn’t want to connect all the dots for my crew, in case any of them care about what’s happening in the world and actually track the news.”

“Thoughtful, I guess.” Dean tilted his head. “But, still. What the hell is going on? What’s the BFA?”

Sam added, “And, what exactly, are you launching?”

You smiled. “BFA is the Balloon Federation of America.”

Dean’s mouth hung open. “Balloons? You're launching balloons?”

“One very big balloon, Dean.”

You smiled at how agreeable and accommodating the boys were at taking directions. And it was kind of fun bossing Dean around. You got a sense he was enjoying it as well.

Dean assisted Gen and Gabe with pulling all the heavy equipment out of one of the truck beds. The propane tanks and inflation fans were the most cumbersome. Dean helped Gabe with the four passenger gondola, much lighter made of wicker, but awkward in size and shape for only one to maneuver. He worked from atop the truck, guiding it down to Gabe. He was wearing way too many layers for what was to come. But, for now, the March temperature was chilly enough that you didn’t bother to mention it. He’ll find out soon enough.

“Gondola, huh?” Dean hopped down. His boots hit the ground. His body, silent and agile, like a cat. “I thought only boats in Venice or at The Venetian were called that.” He brushed his hands together and wandered over to stand beside you.

“You can call it a basket. You aren’t an official part of my chase crew, so I’ll give you a pass.”

He shook his head. “We talked about a lot of things that night. Why not this?”

“Could say the same about you.” You tilted your head, studying him in the dark. His jaw clenched at the call out. That scruff begged for you to run your nails over it. You wanted to hear the scratch and feel the grit under your fingers, like fine sandpaper. Focusing, even on your train of thought, was a true struggle with him in such close proximity. You did your best to continue. “This is sacred to me. Not a lot of people understand why I love it so much. Or, why I have to do it. So, I’m a little protective.”

“So, why show it to me now?” His voice was low, tentative.

“Cause you called. And, you were close. And, who knows when I’ll see you again.” Another question was begging to be asked by Dean. The expression on his face was pained and confused, like a little boy. How does he go from sexy to cute in a fraction of a second? “What?”

“I still don’t understand why Bobby would tell you… everything.”

Stan and Marvin placed the large canvas bag, with Sam’s help, by the gondola, resting on its side. Gabe and Gen positioned the inflation fan and readied the burner.

“If you do a good job, Winchester,” you lifted onto your tiptoes to whisper in Dean’s ear, “maybe you and I can go somewhere private later and talk more about… everything.”

His lopsided grin fueled the flirting. “I’m up to any task. Here to learn all about ballooning, right?”

You smiled back. “So, right now, we are in the putting up phase.”

“Putting out?” Dean questioned for clarification and licked his lips.

You giggled. “Putting up. This is the setup and inflation phase.”

“Ah.” He pointed to Sam, holding the large bag open while Stan and Marvin unpacked the contents. “Kid’s a natural.” He nodded to the first part emerging from the bag. “What’s that?”

“That’s the skirt of the envelope. Envelope is the balloon. That’s in the bag, too. Those wires are what connect the envelope to the gondola.” Gen and Gabe fastened the skirt in place. Stan and Marvin began to unfold the balloon out to its full length.

Dean’s eyes widened as they continued unfolding. “How tall is it?”

“Almost 70 feet.”

Dean whistled.

“Sam?” You called out to the younger, but taller, of the brothers. “Would you mind meeting Stan and Marvin down by the other end? Tell Stan I asked you to help with the crown line, please?”

“Crown line. Got it.” Sam was all smiles. He really looked like he was enjoying himself.

“What’s the crown line?”

“You’d make a really good journalist, Dean.” You waited for his Okay, Wise Ass look to form before answering. “Think of it like an anchor. Sam will be in charge of holding that rope nice and taut while we inflate the balloon.”

“What am I going to help with, boss?” Dean mused and watched Stan pull at the balloon, unwrapping the folds with great care like a present on one of the sides.

You appreciated Stan’s excitement in ballooning even if he could be a little over the top. Marvin’s lackluster attempt as he unfolded the other side to match Stan’s light bulb pattern produced a frown on your lips.

“Boss?” Dean waved a hand in front of your face, pulling you out of your internal staff assessment. “Wow, this really is a passion, huh?” Dean’s narrowing eyes studied you.

You nodded. “I told you it was.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Here I am trying my best to compete with a bunch of polyester fabric.”

“Nylon, actually, and fire resistant material to boot.” Dean sidled up closer in the dark that wasn’t that dark, with the bright moon low in the sky and the truck lights criss crossing over the scene. The heat of his body broke through the chilly March morning, entering your space.

God, you had missed him more than you thought was possible. In the space of a few hours that October night, he’d imprinted a want that you hadn’t been able to shake. It had been nights and days of thoughts of him. And, then, when you came across the rather terrifying information that Dean and his brother had been serial killer fugitives on a murderous crime spree - one that had ended up in their deaths - well, the thoughts had turned ominous and life threatening. Thank God Bobby called me back. You’d been saddened by the news of the gruff and sweet hunter who’d helped so much in such a short amount of time. You were debating when to hit Dean with the other information you had been holding back. If there would even be time to do that tonight.

A finger tapped on the side of your chin. “What do we do with you, Dean?”

His brows rose in one uniform gesture. “I’ve got some ideas.” The voice crept out low with a ton of possible innuendos ready to spill out.

“Since you can’t keep that mouth of yours shut... you and Gabe can hold the mouth open while we inflate.” You resolved. “May want to lose a couple layers. It’s gonna get pretty hot up in here. Go help Gabe with the fan and ready the burner for me.”

“Sassy and bossy.”

You nodded. “It’s my night to call the shots. You had your fun in Vegas.”

“Aw, come on. You had fun, too.” Dean peeled the jacket and button up off together in one deft motion. The discarded clothes draped over the side of your truck bed. “Remember Cherie?”

You cleared your throat. “How could I forget?”

Dean tilted his head, looking a bit taken aback at your enthusiasm. “I was there, too, remember?”

The self-deprecation made you giggle. “How could I forget?” You repeated. Pointing to the balloon, you reminded, “Less talk, more action.”

A half-hour had passed and the inflation process was almost done. Stan and Marvin had released some small helium balloons to gauge the wind conditions, chasing them in the dark sky with their flashlights. Sam did a great job at the top of the envelope with the crown line. You could hear him conversing with the men and Gen with genuine interest in the launch preparations. You took special note of how animated Gen was with Sam, the very opposite of her normal broody demeanor. Massive mountain of a man with flowy mane and mutton chops is her type. Code is finally cracked.

You’d manned the burner, shooting fire into the mouth of the envelope like a dragon in staccato bursts. Dean had spent a lot of time talking over the roar of the flame and the fan’s motor. His questions were directed at Gabe on the other side of the opening. Your silent sympathy went out to both of the men. Their arms had been extended and their bodies positioned in awkward stages for a long time to tent the envelope in order to get her airborne. You remembered your own burn and fatigue endured as part of a chase crew growing up. Their muscles might be screaming in agony the next day.

Gabe was pleasant enough to the so-called reporter, answering Dean in short statements. But his attention was elsewhere. He kept peeking down the other end to the crown line where his sister Genessee had wandered to talk to Sam. The protective older brother was emerging.

Your gaze kept going back to Dean for much of the process. His initiation began with burrowing into the balloon's mouth, head first, on his hands and knees. It provided a sweet view of his even sweeter ass before he gathered the fabric over his shoulders and rose up in victory.

He was quite the distraction with all of the delicious little details you got to inspect. His biceps bulged and stretched the sleeves of his white t-shirt. The sweat that caused the shirt material to stick to random parts of his torso also drenched his forehead. Being so near to the burner and its heat had every patch of exposed skin glistening in the fire’s flame. He licked the perspiration pouring down his face and onto his lips. Your heart stopped a few times when he tugged his shirt up to wipe at his face, giving you a glimpse of the firm chest and undulating tummy you had only dreamed about on occasion.

He called out to you once, his grin bright in the orange glow, “Like blowing wind up my skirt, sweetheart?”

You smiled back and nodded, relishing the flirting just enough without making Gabe uncomfortable. Your assessment of the inflation continued even with the distraction. It always brought butterflies to your stomach, watching the rise of the fabric, bowing bigger until you could stare into the tunnel ahead, like some psychedelic acid trip. You directed Dean to change position and follow Gabe’s lead when the envelope hinted its impending lift off the ground. You checked in with Stan, your point person walking back and forth from the crown line to the gondola, screaming over the fan and burner. “Get Marvin here to hold her steady! Won’t be much longer before we launch!”

Stan saluted and ran off in search of Marvin.

“Gabe, I think Sam can ease off the crown line. Want to get him and Gen back here.”

Gabe’s wary glance went from you to Dean.

“Dean’s got it.” You calmed his concern.

Dean gave Gabe a thumbs up. Gabe nodded and hurried to pass along the instructions.

“Dean, can you help me pull the gondola back and then tilt up when I give you the word? Don’t let her go or you owe me forty grand.” Dean’s surprised expression made you chuckle. You shut off the fan and flashed the burner steady. The balloon was rising up like a drawbridge, quicker and quicker. “Now.”

He nodded, staring up in awe, so close to the imposing object and its dominance of the sky above them. The sheen of her metallic panels were muted and dulled in the dark.

“She’s even prettier in the daylight.” You answered Dean’s silent inspection. “Pink, purple, and blue. She sparkles in the sun.”

He gave you a smile right as Marvin and Stan returned to your side.

“Clear out the fan and get that extra propane tank.” You called to the men and tugged the flame bright again. “Short ride still needs some backup fuel.”

Soon the whole crew was back, hands clamped on the sides of the gondola, keeping your baby in place, tethered to the ground for a few more minutes. Sam and Dean smiled at each other like kids. That alone made your whole night.

“Walkie-talkies on and ready?” You tapped yours on, snug on your belt buckle, and confirmed the nods from Gen, Stan, and Marvin. You grabbed one of the rails and hopped onto the edge, then swung one leg in followed by the other and slid into the gondola. Gabe secured the tank into its holding spot beside you. “Alright, Mr. Wilton? Ready for that ride?”

It took Dean a couple seconds to realize the question was directed at him. “Wha-what?”

“How are you going to write that article if you don’t get in?” You asked, perplexed and confused, smiling through the question.

Dean’s mouth rounded into an “O” and then he shook his head. “Oh. Yeah. No. I can’t.”

Your heart dropped.

Sam whispered somewhere behind you. “He’s scared of flying. Airplanes.” You looked at Sam, who shrugged. “Probably heights, too.”

You shook your head at Dean. “I can guarantee you, Dean, that after a couple minutes you’ll be fine. No relative altitude, if it's a height thing. And, we don’t have much of a choice but to work with the wind, not enough power to fight an air current. I promise not to take you higher than 3,000 feet.” You smiled.

His look was filled with dread and apprehension. “Is that all?”

You thought back to your first night together and opted for the flirty approach. You waited for his eyes to land on yours as they glanced everywhere in worry. “You’ll be glad you took the chance.”

That cracked the surface of worry. “And if I’m not and want to jump out?”

You nodded. “I’ll lower this baby enough for you to skydive out.” The seconds ticked by. A sigh left your mouth. “Mr. Jackson might be better suited for this part of the reporting.”

Sam chuckled. “Oh, I’m up for it. But, I think Dean will be kicking himself if he doesn’t take you up on the offer.”

Dean shrugged. “We could both go.”

You looked at Dean in amazement. Geez, he really is scared if he’s turning down an opportunity to be alone with me.

“We can’t both go. Somebody’s gotta interview and be a part of the chase crew.” You caught Sam’s slight nod to Gen, standing behind him as he spoke directly to Dean across the gondola. “Don’t be a wuss.” Sam egged.

“I’m not a wuss.” Dean mumbled. More moments of indecision worked over his face. “Fine.” He hopped into the gondola before he could debate any further with himself. It teetered with the additional weight and Dean looked ready to bolt out again.

“Keys, Dean?” Sam questioned

“In my jacket, on the truck.” He leaned forward, wedging his ass into a corner of the wicker basket and staring at its floor. Fingers white knuckled the side edges, his arms locked and splayed out. He looked like he was bracing himself for a rocket launch. Or perhaps anticipating motion sickness.

You shook your head to yourself. There didn’t seem any point in trying to comfort him at the moment. He’ll just have to see for himself. “Gabe, you drive my truck and lead the chase.” You readied your hand on the burner.

Gen raised a hand to alert her brother. “I’ll ride with Sam. Answer some questions.”

Sam seemed quite happy with the decision. Gabe, not so much.

You pulled out your trusty baseball cap, out of your secret stash pocket with essentials, and grabbed an extra one for Dean. A slight shove placed it in his sight line in the arm’s length of space between the both of you. “Put this on, going to get hot.”

He hesitated with a grunt, then hurried with a swift and snug placement of the cap on his head. The death grip returned to the basket. He still didn’t look up. His eyes scrunched shut nice and tight.

When you turned back to Sam, you whispered. “He’ll be fine.”

Sam nodded.

You nodded to the crew, gave the thumbs up, then tugged at the burner. The flame roared. Everyone’s hands lifted up at once, releasing your anchor to the ground. The balloon rose up soft and steady, an almost imperceptible shift, like you knew it would. The slight hiccup in your stomach from the elation reminded you of all those countless balloon rides growing up. A tilt to glance down over the edge saw your crew shrink below, awash in the headlights, their necks craned up to survey the flight.

Dean asked, disgruntled and impatient, eyes still closed, once the burner silenced for a bit. “Are we doing this or what?”

“Done, Dean. Open your eyes if you want. Tiny Sam down below.”

“What?” His face shot up. One eye popped open, staring at you, then the motion of the scenery behind you. “We…”

“We’re in the air.” Pilot mode was second nature to you at this point. Scanning the environment for any potential hazards, changes in wind conditions, flaming so you could rise were just a few of the dozen things you multitasked as you calmed your nervous and oh so handsome passenger. You had to admit some of the elation you felt was due to his presence this early morning. “How are you doing?”

His other eye opened and his head rotated left, right, up, down. Wide-eyed under the baseball cap, he ventured out of the corner. His boots slid with care along the basket’s side as if he was scaling a wall. A quick lengthening of his neck allowed him to peer down at the group on the ground. “Holy shit!” There was more awe than fear in his voice.

You radioed to Gabe, “Looks good up here. I don’t think Mr. Wilton will be joining you all down below just yet. Over.” The look on Dean’s face was priceless as he took in the atmosphere. You could see the hesitancy fading away and the relief building.

“Copy that, Silent Lucidity. Which direction you headed? Over.”

“Looks like she’s going where the little ones headed earlier. So, Northwest. Keep an eye on her and I’ll check in at fifteen. Over.”

“Got it. Over and out.” Static punctuated the end of Gabe’s statement.

“I’ve got a little lantern light I can flip on, if you need it.” You offered to Dean. “But, it can mess with the view. So, let me know.”

“Will it make it hard for you to steer or whatever?” Dean asked.

“Not steering, but no, not really. We picked this launch site for a reason. There will be a beautiful sunrise view for the job. Not a lot of things to stare at but sky.”

He chuckled. “So, you’re really gonna be up here again in less than a couple hours with a guy who’ll be proposing to his girlfriend?”

“Yep. Still doing okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. Surprisingly good, actually. Nothing like being in an airplane or staring out of a 40th floor window.”

“Told ya.”

“You did. I’ll never doubt you again.” He was working his way closer to you, edging with care. “What’s it take to become a pilot?”

“Hundred clocked flight hours, FAA certification.”

His features came into bright focus under the burner flames, only a foot away from you. He’d taken off his baseball cap. “Wow. That’s impressive.” You could tell he meant it. Then, the gears of some random thought fell into place. “Queensrÿche?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“So, her name’s Silent Lucidity?”

Another nod. “Sometimes I like to play the song when she launches.”

“Nice. You really are full of surprises, sweetheart.”

“So are you, Dean. How can someone who’s battled Lucifer be afraid of heights?”

He shrugged. “Hey, I’m still human.”

“From the stories I heard, you leveled up beyond most of us mere mortals a long time ago.”

His eyes flashed in the flame. You were the only thing he was focusing on now. “So, what did Bobby tell you? Exactly?”

“He told me that your dad got into hunting because a demon killed your mom. You and Sam were brought up in it. You’ve dealt with pretty much every monster anyone could think of. Nothing much surprises you anymore. Not after Heaven and Hell.” You stopped, watching him study you. “Told me that you went to Hell and came back. Then, there was the impending Apocalypse. Thanks for saving the world, by the way.” Your mind was a swirl of impossible details as you tried to recall things in the correct order. “Then, you tried to save your brother from Lucifer. But, he ended up in some cage with the devil and the archangel Michael. Sam came back to the surface, not quite whole after that. When you tried to put him back together again, well Lucifer decided to scramble his egg instead. And, that now, Sam’s dealing with some major PTSD. And, that you lost a good friend recently.”

He couldn’t hide his confusion. “Why would he tell you all that?”

“He said he heard how scared I sounded when I left the message. That the only way he could explain the crazy was with even more crazy. That if I wanted to believe my life wasn’t in danger, I’d have to believe what he was going to tell me. And, that if I ever told anyone else, they’d more than likely have me committed. He also said you never, ever gave anyone outside of the hunting circle that particular number. So, you must have wanted to stay in touch with me. Or, he guessed, you’d want to be there for me if I needed help. Bobby said if that was the case, you’d want me to know the truth if it would make me feel better.”

Dean shook his head and smiled. His eyes were glassy in the burst of another flame.

“He cared about you a lot Dean.” Your thoughts reversed with your own past. “He sounded a lot like my dad.” You shook yourself out of them to focus on Dean. “So, Sam is…”

“Putting up one helluva fight to keep Lucifer at bay.”

“And, you?” You didn’t ask for permission and tapped on the lantern light. His features glowed in the amber light cascading into the gondola behind your right shoulder.

Those murky green eyes stared back with a set, clenched jaw. His tall frame dipped down, you guessed to get a better view of your reaction from under the rim of your baseball cap. “What about me?”

“It sounds like you sacrifice a lot for the good of the mission. For the good of Sam. Always.”

“Really? You got that out of a couple phone calls with a drunk old coot?” The smile teased. His low voice dripped with sarcasm and exhaustion.

“Maybe. You left me that night in Vegas. For Sam. When he called.”

The smile was gone in an instant. “Sweetheart, if I could have…”

“But, you couldn’t, Dean. Because of Sam.” Both shoulders rose. “And, hey, I get it. Family and all. It’s not like you were bailing your brother out of jail after another night of hell raising.” You shook your head. “Bad choice of words. But, you know what I mean. You both have had monumental, earth shattering decisions, universe affecting choices to make. What’s a night with a woman you’d just met in Vegas mean in the grand scheme of things?”

His hand lifted up over both your heads. His fingers draped over yours on the burner control. The touch was light, delicate, electric, and warmer than the flame. “It meant a lot to me.”

You swallowed hard, tilting your chin up to stare. The propane smell was thick in the air. You sighed. “Alright, Cremation Charlie.”

That broke him from his swoon worthy stare. “Huh?”

“Cremation Charlie was a nickname for a poor sap, back in the day before they’d invented inflation fans. The guy in the chase crew who put his life on the line. He was the one that would stand in the mouth of the envelope, hold it open while the burner heated the air to get the damn balloon off the ground. Risked burning himself to a crisp for the mission. Over and over again.”

Dean closed his eyes and grinned. “Yeah, that sounds like me.” His fingers skimmed over yours. You took the moment to spy and pay homage to his physique. His body still damp in spots with perspiration. His smell. His heat. “It’s pretty quiet up here.” He mumbled, eyes still closed, his frame swaying a couple inches back and forth.

You didn’t want to disrupt the silence. But you’d need to warm the air again to stay in the current floating you to where you hoped to end up. “Give it a tug.” You whispered.

His eyes jolted open at the soft command. “Huh?” The green in his eyes sparkled.

You slipped your hand out from under his. “Let’s get a rise out of you.” You grinned. “Heat us up, big boy.”

Dean smiled and tugged at the burner, looking up into the mouth and watching the flame burst alive. “What happens if we get too high?”

You wrapped your fingers around another dangling rope. “I pull on this and a vent opens to let air escape. Helps us descend.”

“So, if I get too carried away, you can put on the brakes?”

“Something like that.”

He shook his head and stared down at you. The fear was gone. The Dean you met that Vegas night was back and in full force. “You, in charge. Sexy as hell.”

You giggled at the tease. “You like bossy women?”

“Don’t tell anybody.” You gasped at the other hand pushing into the small of your back, pulling you into his embrace. His hand on the control, your hand on the rope, tangled against each other in a dance of commands and directions. “I wish Sammy had stayed on his desert trek that night.” Dean licked his bottom lip, inspecting yours. “Things might have been a lot different.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and kiss me already.”

He smiled, bent down, tilted at just the right angle to fit under the rim of your cap, and pressed his mouth to yours. It was eager and investigating, searching with his tongue, making you moan. You felt him tug on the control, the flame roaring above you.

You broke for a second. “Easy there, tiger.” Your eyes scanned the area around you.

“Hey, I was just following orders.” He smirked.

“Yeah.” You sighed. “Okay, that’s enough playing pilot.”

He chuckled and released his hold from the burner, but not from you. “When are you done with your job this morning?”

“We should be done and packed up no later than nine. Do you have to leave right after?” Your mouth dropped into a frown.

“We’re waiting on some word about the…” He censored his information even though you already knew about it all. “Trail’s gone cold for a bit.” He tugged the walkie talkie from your belt without asking and brought it to his mouth. Your mouth opened in protest, but he began to speak before you could voice anything. “Sam? You there? Dean, here. Over.”

A few seconds passed. “Dean? What’s up? Over.”

“I think we’re going to need more hours of... investigative journalism after the job. Over.” The smirk on his face and naughtiness in his eyes made your core ache.

Sam cleared his throat over the radio. “I’ll get a room. Over.”

Dean smiled down at you. “Copy that. Over and out.”

Never would have thought. Bossy looks damn good on her.

After swallowing down the panic for the first part of the balloon ride and realizing how skilled of a pilot you were, Dean switched into his autopilot mode around a beautiful woman. Flirty, feisty, and all fingers. It was as necessary as breathing for him. And, he missed it. Especially how easy it flowed with you, regardless of the environment. Whether the chaotic energy of the Vegas strip or the sublime floating dream that he was in right now, in the air above Albuquerque. You were the constant he was craving to touch.

Your eyes were shy to hold his gaze one minute, then challenging him in a staring contest the next. You’d roll your eyes at a cheeky joke, then blush at a flirty turn of phrase. And your voice. It was light and airy, not bouncy or super peppy. With just the right amount of conviction and authority when you needed it to be. And those lips. Damn. I gotta find out all the things they can do.

He tested the waters again. Snaked his fingers around your waist and pulled you close. He’d pulled the cap off your head without asking. The questions thrown out were due to his interest but also his wanting to distract you. He needed to get at the skin under that tight sky blue t-shirt. He held back a sigh and clenched his jaw at how warm and welcoming you felt. He thought you might be onto his ulterior motives but were more than willing to go along for the ride.

Turns out you had been ballooning for as long as you could remember, growing up in Colorado. Your parents had been what one would call enthusiasts when it came to hot air balloons. And as their only child, well there was no way you weren’t going to get the balloon bug. Your dad was a pilot, your mom a part of his chase crew. They held balloon rallys, hosted events and it was just another Sunday for you to be up in the Colorado air surrounded by a dozen other balloons.

You’d moved to Albuquerque right after college. Dean smiled when you told him the city you called home was known as the Ballooning Capital of the World. The International Balloon Fiesta was held in the Rio Grande Valley every October. It had been one of the main reasons you settled there. You were geeking out with the facts, explaining more about the intricacies of piloting, talking about balloon glows and mass ascensions, while his grip on you tightened. Goddamn adorable.

Then he asked about what your parents were up to now. A frown replaced his smile, finding out your parents had passed away a year after you moved. They had been on a hunting trip at their cabin in the mountains. Authorities deemed a horrible bear attack had been the cause. That had been eight years ago.

He wanted to ask if that had been the impetus for Bobby telling you so much; if you had mentioned that before his truth spilled out. Bobby knew, had known, loss better than anyone. And, if he knew you had no close family? Well, he was a softie when it came to helping out a lady in distress. Hell, isn’t every hunter that appreciates a pretty woman? But Dean held it in, stared into your eyes, and told you how sorry he was. You gave him a soft peck on the lips in thanks.

You didn’t play when it came to your balloon, Dean learned quickly. You’d found a field to touch down at after a half-hour in the air and radioed to the chase crew. Dean gave you some space to pilot for the all important landing. He watched with great interest at your actions, venting and burning, guiding your baby. He felt a pang in his chest, missing Baby, squirreled away under a tarp in a barn miles away.

You were working with the wind to get to your hoped for spot. Patience. She has a ton of it. Accepting what she can’t control and working with what she’s given to get to her destination. Maybe she needs to give me some lessons.

The four trucks and Sam in the Cougar roared up the nearest road from down below. Headlights bright in a caravan formation. The sky was starting to lighten. Dawn would arrive soon. Got a ride in a fucking hot air balloon with the prettiest pilot there is. Dean smiled at you.

You caught the look on his face with a turn of your head. The balloon was careening downward at a nice clip as you vented. “What?”

“Crash landing?” An eyebrow rose.

“Not if I can help it. But you might want to hold on to something.”

Dean pressed himself to your back, trapping you between his arms as he gripped the edge of the gondola. “This good?”

You cleared your throat and he chuckled.

The chase crew made good time, ejecting from their vehicles to rush over. The gondola swooped down. You tried to keep her parallel to the ground as she propelled forward. Her front end hit first, bouncing like morse code. Dean leaned back like a counterweight. Gabe and Stan caught up to the back end and grabbed a hold, braking and slowing the motion.

Marvin appeared to hold the basket down as well. You pulled the vent open all the way. The fabric of the envelope began to puddle like a discarded dress. Dean spotted Sam grab at the crown line with Gen as they helped to guide it down.

You were directing and ordering again, reminding everyone you didn’t have a lot of time to deflate and pack up to get back to where you had launched. The blush and heat in your cheeks was noted by Dean in silence as the crew pushed out the remaining air in the balloon and folded it up. Dean helped get the gondola back onto one of the trucks and secured all the other equipment. The entire event had exhilarated and lit up all of his senses. He wanted to take you in his arms and kiss that energy all over you. But the crew would only have more questions.

Everyone had hauled collective asses back to the launch site to start the putting up process all over again. Dean rode with Sam, discussing the balloon ride and how much time he thought he’d need alone with you. Sam shook his head and laughed, extolling all of the fun things he’d learned about Gen. There was a lighter feeling in the air of their car. No talk of leviathans or hunts or Lucifer or the loss of Bobby. For a short amount of time, they were two guys comparing notes about pretty girls and having some goddamn fun with a group of people.

When Dean closed the passenger side of the car, he ran to your truck for his next order. He gave you a cheeky salute. “Cremation Charlie, reporting for duty.”

You smiled back, cool and deliberate. Sam slid up to Dean’s side. “I can go and help with the crown line again.” He offered.

“You guys have been great. Really.” You nodded. “But, we’ve got this round. And, after this next part, you’re going to want to head out.”

Dean frowned. “Not leaving yet, sweetheart.” The tone in his voice was insistent.

“Not leaving Albuquerque, yet.” You agreed. Another smile. “You bring that champagne like I asked?”

Dean tilted his head toward the car.

“Grab it.”

He sighed. Sam shrugged and stood his ground. A quick trip to the car and a reach into the open window of the back seat found the bottle. Dean jogged back only to find you and Sam had moved to the rest of the crew, even Cleo, now beside the gondola. The envelope had already been unpacked and unfurled on the ground.

“If you’d be so kind and open that, Dean.” You motioned to the champagne.

Dean fumbled with the wire cage over the cork.

“We have a tradition for first time riders. Sam, even though you didn’t go up, you certainly proved an invaluable part of the crew. So, I think you should get to partake as well.” You continued.

Dean eased the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop and a small bit of fizz leaked out, down his hand.

“May I?” You reached for the bottle.

Dean passed it over with a smile.

“On your knees, boys.” You ordered.

The entire crew chuckled at Dean and Sam’s expressions.

You pointed to the ground.

Dean cocked his head to his brother. Sam sighed. They knelt down in unison, staring up at you.

“This is what we call your initiation, a baptism you might say.” The seriousness in your voice made Dean’s eyes narrow as he stared at you. “Let us pray.”

The crew bent their heads. Sam elbowed Dean to do the same. But all he wanted to do was keep his eyes on you. You lifted your eyelids at his gaze and coerced Dean to follow suit with the rest. His grin rose one side of his mouth upward before he gave in.

“Sam and Dean.” Dean spied your sneakers strolling closer, the earth crunching beneath your steps. “May the winds welcome you with softness.” Your voice was low, reverent. “May the sun bless you with its warm hands.” Dean thought back to when it was only the two of you, up in the air, free. “And then set you gently back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.” You finished.

He couldn’t wait to be alone with you again. And, then, Dean felt the cool bubbling liquid pour over his head. Son of a bitch.

The entrance bell dinged when you stepped foot in Loyola’s. Your eyes lit up when you chanced upon Dean, sitting in one of the booths, digging into a breakfast burrito at 11:00 am. He waited. The sign by the register encouraged you to seat yourself. You made your way over to the Winchester brother that made your insides somersault.

He glanced up at your approach, looking adorable and sinful at the same time. He chewed with gusto and reverence. To your surprise, he dropped the burrito and bolted out of his seat to stand by the table. It gave you the opportunity to inspect his sturdy frame. The change of clothes confirmed he’d found somewhere to shower. A faded denim button-up draped over his shoulders. Amazingly, you thought he might only be wearing one layer atop the wide span of his chest. He was doing the entire city of Albuquerque a civil service, swaddling those fine bow legs and ass into a tight pair of dark jeans. Do not drool. “Hey.” The dab of a napkin wiped away some scrambled egg from his chin. “You finally made it.” His smile extended from ear to ear.

You gripped the shoulder strap of your bag. The soap scent filled your nostrils. Damn. How did his smile make your mind cease to function? “Yeah. Sorry. Wrap up took longer than expected.” You shrugged. “And, I needed to clean up, too.” You grinned.

“Hm. Well, you didn’t have someone pour champagne all over you. You're lucky I don’t have Baby with me.” He motioned for you to sit.

Your bag hit the bench seat before you slid in across from him. “Baby?”

“All that storytelling and Bobby didn’t mention my pride and joy?”

You frowned, wondering who or what in the hell Baby was.

“My car. Was my Dad’s.” Dean frowned as well.

“Where is it?”

“We had to stash it when the leviathans made those murder Xeroxes of us. They even drove around in an exact copy of my wheels.”

“I’m sorry.” The whole subject matter was surreal; made you feel like you were talking to a sci-fi character from a television show. If that nagging, gnawing suspicion hadn’t been with you for years, you knew you wouldn’t believe a stitch of the yarn Bobby had told you months back. You looked over the laminated menu. You already knew what you’d order. You needed something to distract you from how pretty his green eyes shined in the sunlight streaming through the diner window.

Dean tilted a shoulder a fraction, making you look up. He’d trapped you in that gaze again. “Hopefully, I get to see her again soon.” He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “I mean, hey, I got to rendezvous with you again. Things are looking up.” He grinned.

The waitress swung by and took your order, dropping off a glass of water and pouring you a cup of coffee. Dean’s eyes widened when you told her you’d have the Southwest Sizzling Sampler and to please keep the caffeine coming. “What?” You questioned with a raised eyebrow when it was only the two of you.

“Not for nothin’, but a woman with a healthy appetite is kinda hot.” He licked his lips and went back to his plate of food. A finger pointed to his burrito. “Want some?”

You chuckled. “I’m good. Thanks.” You suddenly realized you were down a Winchester. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean gulped down his mouthful. “We got a room at the Tewa lodge. He’s doing some Roman research.”

“Ah. Should I tell Gen of his location?”

A gruff laugh left his throat. “I think Sam beat you to it.”

“I guess research is a big part of the whole hunting thing.” You turned behind you, noting the other patrons within earshot. You recognized Stella from the bookstore. She immediately said hello, chatted you up for some seconds, only to put you more on guard. You turned back to Dean and took a quick swig of your water. You resumed your topic. “So, research?”

He raised a brow and donned a smile variation you hadn’t quite seen from him before. “Yeah. The boring part of hunting. But, necessary. Jobs don’t actually fall into our laps. Not often.” Dean shot into another thought. “Did Bobby give you my new number? At least, the number I had when you made contact with him?”

You shook your head. “He didn’t want to put you in danger. That’s what he said, anyway. In case I really wasn’t who I said I was. He’d done some research of his own on me before calling back. See if the info I left about myself in the voicemail checked out. But, he said, he couldn’t be too careful.”

Dean nodded. “Sounds like Bobby.” His eyes narrowed. “Mind if I test you?”

“Test me? Like multiple choice?”

He plopped a trial sized plastic bottle of mouthwash on the table. But, the cloudy white liquid was most definitely not mouthwash. “Pour some of that on your hand.”

“What?” Your entire body stiffened up on defense. “What is it?”

“Just a household cleaner with Borax in it.” He responded like they were discussing the weather. “If you’re a baddie, it’ll burn you.”

“It could burn me, regardless. Ever read the warning labels on the back?”

“Not skin irritation. Talking, eat your skin away if you’re a leviathan.”

“Jesus.” You shook your head, opened the bottle, placed a stack of napkins from the dispenser under one hand, and then dripped cleaner over your knuckles. You wiggled your fingers and patted away the liquid. “Did I pass?”

He smiled. “Yep. Demon test, too.”

“Huh?”

He secured the cap and snuck the bottle back into his leather jacket resting next to him on the bench. “I snuck some holy water in your glass.”

You ran your tongue along the top of your mouth. “Ew.”

“Can’t be too careful. A lot could have happened since Vegas. And, I would have had to add avenging you to the top of my to do list if those fuckers got to you, too.”

The thought of him extracting violent revenge on your behalf gave you a weird sense of comfort and safety. You smiled.

He smiled back. “Anyway, with the thoughts I’ve been thinking, gotta make sure you’re not going to gank me when we’re alone later. My guard will be down.”

Your mouth dried up. “Are we going to be alone later?”

He nodded with certainty. “Oh yeah. You’re taking me back to your place.”

God, you loved that cocky assuredness. Any other man would come off as a smug bastard. But, there was so much charm covering it up in Dean’s whole being that you couldn’t resist. “Am I?”

“Yep.” Another slight nod. The waitress disrupted your flirting and dropped the plate in front of you. “Wow. That’s beautiful.” Dean commented on the piles of breakfast food.

You rubbed your hands together and shot back. “Fueling up for later.”

He chuckled. “My kinda woman.”

He followed you back to your apartment in his Cougar. You were distracted for most of the ten minute ride. Thinking about what he was going to do with that gorgeous body of his; that this was actually happening. Glancing in your rear view mirror at a red light pulled you into a long study of his perfect face. His cocky grin followed a horn tap on his steering wheel when the light turned green. He probably knew you’d been staring. Son of a bitch.

Your palm was a sweaty mess turning the knob of your apartment door. It didn’t help that he was breathing down your neck, looming over you.

Tyrion greeted you with his usual rumbling of purrs. “You have a cat?” Dean queried from behind. He sounded disappointed. You heard the click of the door closing.

You scratched the top of your buddy’s head. Tyrion eyed the new male in the room with a proud tilt up of his long-haired chin and twitchy whiskers. “I do.” You confirmed the obvious.

“I’m allergic.” Dean sighed. At that, Tyrion strolled up to Dean and did a figure eight between his bow legs.

“So am I.” You stated and flung your jacket across the back of your, and Tyrion’s, favorite chair.

“So, you’re a masochist?” Dean chuckled and pinched his nose shut.

“Okay, Ew. First, don’t pull my cat into some sexual kink. Second, I don’t derive gratification from pain and humiliation...”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued and aroused that you actually know what a masochist is…”

You shook your head and forced yourself not to focus on how sexy his voice sounded wrapping around the word aroused. “Third,” you continued, “Tyrion is a Siberian. He’s hypoallergenic. Us cat allergy sufferers can usually tolerate being around this breed.”

“Really?” The genuine surprise on his face went to inspect the furball, plopped onto his back, displaying a belly to Dean for some rubbing.

You nodded. “But, to be on the safe side, I keep him out of my bedroom.”

Dean shot his stare back up at the word bedroom.

You cleared your throat.

He grinned and bent at the knees to give Tyrion a few pats for good measure.

“Want something to drink?” A quick dash around the breakfast bar gave you a chance to escape. You grabbed a bottled water from the fridge and sipped away, trying to cool the burning of your cheeks.

“I’m good.” You heard him respond from the living room. He was still bent down making friends with Tyrion.

You tapped at the bottle with your fingernails and stared at the fridge door and your assortment of magnets. What the hell? What am I supposed to do now?”

“Nice little place.” He leaned against the edge of the breakfast bar. His leather jacket had been discarded.

“Thanks.”

He stuffed his hands into front jean pockets and mosied over like a gunslinger. “Am I gonna have to make the first move again?”

You smiled. “‘Fraid so.”

He stared down at you with a smile. “Something tells me you don’t mind it.”

You shook your head and swallowed down a sigh.

He pulled the bottle from your grasp and dropped it somewhere. Your stomach tumbled in excitement at the grasp of his warm hands around your waist. He lifted you like you weighed a feather and sat you on the bartop, right in front of him. You were almost at perfect eye level. He pried your knees open and wedged into your legs. He was hot and so close, face inches from yours. “I don’t have a lot of time to do everything I want.” His breath snuck into your open mouth. “I’d need days.”

And, then, his lips were pressed into yours again. Firm, decisive, and a little needy. Not quite as needy as yours, returning the want and the build from your alone time up in the air together. He released your lips, kissed along your jaw and cheek. Rubbed his scruff against your skin. Encapsulated your earlobe with a glorious suck between those billowy lips. He ran his tongue against the diamond stud. Moaned a breathy, “Do you taste good everywhere?” into your ear.

You gripped the edge of the breakfast bar. He was making you unsteady, drunk with desire. Your eyes widened. His fingers snapped the button of your jeans open and worked the zipper down.

He broke from his work and stared at your face. “I shouldn’t be having all the fun.” He grinned. “Put your hands on me, sweetheart.”

Your shaky hands lifted off the bartop and rested on the lapels of his denim shirt. You snuck a squeeze at his pecs and he chuckled.

“We good?” You knew he was asking for permission to dip his fingers under your panties. He was currently skimming the band of it, lighting up the skin around your belly button. “Once I start, I’m not stoppin’.”

You nodded. “We’re good.”

His mouth went to your neck, licking, pecking, sucking. He moaned against the skin when his fingertips found your wet warmth. “Damn.”

Your breath hitched with the prodding and searching. He teased the sensitive nub with his thumb, hand sandwiched tight between you and the denim as he cupped your sex. His mouth was at yours now, examining every inch with his tongue.

Senses came back to you in bursts and blips. You undid the buttons of his shirt as he continued his own exploration. Once you’d freed the last button you danced over the ridges and planes of his chest. His body reacted with a twitch when you scraped nails over his perky little nipples. He groaned into your mouth. You moaned when his hand pulled out of your panties. He kissed through his request and stared into your eyes. “How about we go somewhere we can be alone?”

You followed his gaze to the floor where Tyrion was darting between Dean’s legs again. You laughed and nodded. Dean tried his best not to trip over the cat, stepped back, and helped you off the bar. You grabbed his hand, wet with your excitement, and guided him to the bedroom. You couldn’t resist turning back at the sight of him, shirt unbuttoned and peeks of tummy, chest and pecs. There was a tattoo on his chest above his heart that got your attention for a split second. Walking backward, you lost your balance at the hunger in his eyes. He leaned in, pressed you into the bedroom door, then tumbled you both through after fumbling at the knob. Once inside, he flung the door shut with a kick of his boot heel.

He wasted no time, grabbing at the hem of your t-shirt, pulling it up. He cursed and gave it a firm tug when it caught on your chin to release you from the confines. The giggle from you was more to calm your unease of what he was actually capable of when he put his mind to it. The strength behind his movements was unquestionable. He quashed the sounds of your laugh with his mouth, gulping down the vibrations leaving your throat. He was literally taking your breath away.

Fingers squeezed at the bra cups, finding taut nubs and rubbing over the fabric in circles. He guided you down onto the bed with the push of his mouth. His arms were around you in an instant, cushioning your fall onto the mattress. He leaned above, one knee between your legs, all smiles. “Never done it with a pilot before.” His knee settled against the warmth and rubbed you through the layers.

You lifted up on your elbows and leaned up to suck at his bottom lip. It provided him the opportunity to unclasp your bra. You released his lip and fell back on the bed. “Never done it with a monster hunter before.”

He removed your bra. His eyes widened and he licked his lips. “I guess we’re both in for a treat.”

God, his mouth. The way it worked over each inch of your body. He talked about not having enough time but seemed in no hurry to get on with the actual task of fucking. At least not with the package you had yet to unwrap. But, you got a hint of what he was working with at the bulge tenting his jeans.

His tongue lolled about the dip in your neck, your collar bone. He nipped and tugged at your flesh. Circled your nipples, sucked and tweaked them into bliss. Stoking the heat in your core and readying you.

He slipped out of his shirt like a snakeskin, slithering down, peeling your pants and panties down to your calves. He popped off your canvas shoes, finished your disrobing, and then stood to take you in, completely naked.

It was the middle of the day. Sunlight crept into your bedroom through sheer curtains. Any other man, any other time, you would have covered up in embarrassment. But, you let him take you in so you could do the same. The creamy, bronze kissed skin of his chest made you ache. The scars all had some history behind them. Dappling of freckles here and there ground him into some sort of reality; confirmed he was in fact human and not some god, come to earth to ruin anyone he touched for anyone else.

He bent down, forced you to maintain eye contact. His tongue flicked out and teased your folds. He savored the taste, smiled, then went to work on you. He talked you through everything he was doing and was planning to do to you. Stopped talking long enough to follow through on his promises. His fingers found that spot deep inside he said would make you crumble for him, come for him, into his mouth. And, you did. Twice. Cause that’s what he said he’d make you do.

You were panting, trying to catch your breath when he rose up and fished his wallet from his back pocket. He tossed a foil wrapper alongside you on the sheets. “Gonna feel so good inside you.” He murmured, taking off his jeans.

“Shit.” You gasped when you finally saw all of him.

He smiled in pride. “Thank you.”

“Dean, I…”

He nodded. “I can already tell it’s gonna be a tight fit, sweetheart.” He bent down and kissed your lips. “We’ll get there. Trust me. Gonna be so much fun getting there.”

He snatched the wrapper, ripped it open, and worked the condom over his hard length. He slid over your body, capturing you between those muscled forearms and kissed you in languid waves.

And, then, he was pushing against your entrance. Steadying atop of you on one forearm while his other hand assisted, seeking a way to penetrate. His held breath released, slow, when he finally breached and made some headway inside.

“Goddamn.” He settled in, listened to your moans. “Alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded and tried to control your breathing. The searing and stretch of him in you was like nothing you’d experienced. “You’re amazing.”

He smiled and kissed your chin. “You’re awesome.”

You made him work hard that afternoon. And he loved every second of it.

He’d come down from the high of his second orgasm a half hour ago. He thought maybe it had been your fourth, but he wasn’t going to ask. You snuggled into his side, the both of you now under the covers, dozing in and out. Tyrion, on occasion, would scratch and meow on the other side of the closed bedroom door. He played with your hair, delaying the inevitable for as long as he could.

You spoke first. “Have a clue where you’re headed next?”

“Uh-uh. We’ve got someone trying to help track Roman. But…” He pinched his nose, “Wild goose chase. Who knows? Maybe Sam will have something when I get back.”

He felt your fingers trace over his anti-possession tattoo. “Dean?”

“Hm?” He was ready for you to ask for details on his tat.

“Do you and Sam ever go on those run of the mill hunts anymore? Or is it all leviathans and angels and demons now?”

He smiled. “All the time. I kind of look forward to a simple ghost hunt every now and then.”

“Do hunters have cold cases they work on?”

“Sometimes. Why?” You felt so good in his arms. Like you fit just right.

Your head lifted up. Your eyes stared into his. “My parents…” Your voice trailed off. “I’ve always had this feeling. The way they died. It didn’t seem…”

It was all you had to say. His arms wrapped you up tight. “How about once Sammy and I take care of these leviathans, I come back and we figure out what happened. Together. Supernatural or not, we get you some answers.”

He wiped a tear from your cheek. You nodded, burying your head back against his chest.

For another hour, Dean closed his eyes and drifted away. In that tiny one-bedroom apartment of yours in Albuquerque that felt like something he could call home. With you.

Sam could wait. The work he had to do on the road could wait. The inevitable sacrifice he’d have to make, again, could wait.

What he wanted, what he wished for, what he dreamed was to be up in the air with you again. In your Baby.

And let you pilot them wherever the wind would lead you both.

THE END

MASTERLIST

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester smut #spnfanficpond #dean x reader #dean winchester pov

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