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there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years

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Coming Home

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 4980

Warnings: Smut. Relatively vanilla, but decidedly explicit.

A/N: For @impala-dreamer and the “Make Me Feel It” challenge. My prompt was “The Story,” by Brandi Carlile. To me, that song feels like letting your guard down and trusting someone to see you at your worst.

Major thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67 and @stunudo for the read-throughs and suggestions, and to @justcallmeasmodeus @thoughtslikeaminefield and @cracksinthewalls for listening to me grumble about this monster all day.

October, 2006

Dean can’t sleep, and what-fucking-else is new? Not like he was Sleeping Beauty to begin with, but it’s harder since Dad died. He tosses and turns on the lumpy motel mattress, listening to Sammy’s snores. His muscles ache and his eyes itch and he can’t stop clenching his jaw. It’s been a couple days since he’s managed more than a catnap at a rest stop.

If he pauses for too long, if he lets himself rest, the grief catches up and chokes him. Dean’s fine, or he will be. He just has to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He gives up around 4am, leaves Sammy a note and trudges down the block to the all-night diner.

Left foot, right foot. Don’t look back. Don’t stop.

All the diners are starting to look alike. On good days, the familiarity is comforting. Today it just feels surreal, like he keeps driving and driving and never really gets anywhere, and the grey fluorescent lights make his vision skip and skitter strangely.

There’s one other guy at a table in the corner, a trucker nursing a cup of coffee; otherwise it’s empty apart from the waitress wiping down glasses at the other end of the counter. He blinks away the disorientation and sits down heavily on one of the cracked vinyl stools.

She sets down her rag and comes over, smiling, and it cuts through the grey and the cold and warms him from the inside.

He orders a coffee and a slice of pie, and he starts eating without really tasting anything. He feels fucking cold, like he brought October into the diner with him.

He watches the waitress tidying up, rolling silverware, cleaning the counter… Dean catches himself staring at her hips, the way she shifts her weight as she stands.

Maybe it’s the way she moves that’s got him distracted, maybe it’s just sleeplessness making his vision blur, but one way or another he misses his mouth entirely when he goes to take a sip of coffee. Blistering-hot liquid sloshes over his hand, and he promptly drops the mug. It shatters at his feet.

He looks down numbly at the splintered pieces as the puddle begins to spread. She’s there with a towel before he can really register what happened.

“Jesus,” Dean spits, finally snapping back into his body. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

She just gives him a little half-smile and shrugs, and Dean slides off the stool to get out of her way. He tiptoes gingerly around the mess and grabs a handful of napkins to get the worst of the coffee off his lap. His cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

When she’s done, Dean perches back on his stool to shovel down the last few bites, ready to get the hell of her way, but she sets a fresh cup in front of him.

“Thanks,” he says automatically.

She quirks her lips in a tiny smile, and fuck, she’s cute. Dean tries to muster up his most charming grin, but it feels stiff and twisted on his face.

“Long day?” she asks softly. She’s watching him with her head tilted to the side like she actually wants to hear about it.

“I’m fine,” he replies. Smile, shrug, don’t think.

She looks tired, too. She’s got dark circles under her eyes to match Dean’s, but there’s something sweet and open in her expression that makes him feel comfortable, somehow. Something about her is warm, and Dean’s first instinct is to hold out his hands like he’s thawing them over a fire.

Her smile isn’t pitying, just empathetic, a sort of bone-weary been there, done that look.

“My dad died,” Dean blurts out.

He wasn’t planning on telling her that. It’s the first time he’s said the words quite so bluntly, let alone to a stranger. He’s not that guy, he doesn’t go around dumping his problems on other people, but… he looks up, meets her eyes. His chest hurts.

“I’m fine,” he insists.

Fine. Smile, shrug, don’t think. You’re fine.

Dean heaves in a breath. His ribs are being squeezed by some cold iron grip, and his throat is tight.

She reaches out across the counter and puts her hand over his, and she gives it a tiny, gentle squeeze.

“You will be,” she offers.

He’s not that guy, he’s just not, and the ache in his chest is this massive unbearable thing that’s about to split him open, and the longer she looks at him with that warmth, the harder it gets to hold himself together. And he needs to hold himself together. If he lets go, even just a little, he’s going to fucking drown.

Dean yanks his hand back like he’s been burned.

“Sorry,” she says. Her eyes look sad, but she’s giving him a tiny smile, like she understands.

“I gotta -” he chokes out, and he stumbles as he gets off the stool. He throws some bills on the table without really looking, and he turns to go.

Left foot, right foot.

He doesn’t look back.

***

March, 2008

“Fuck, Dean, just take this exit,” Sam says. He’s got that bite in his voice again.

“I’m fine,” Dean says. He burps and puts the cap back on the flask one-handed. He gets in the right lane, though. Time for food.

Signal. Turn. Brake.

Time’s passing strangely. He blinks and there’s another day gone. He hasn’t got that many days left. If he closes his eyes for long they’ll disappear.

He pulls into the parking lot of an all-night diner. Sammy jumps out and slams the door before Dean can even cut the engine, like a petulant fuckin’ kid.

Dean shivers, goosebumps running down his neck. He takes one quick slug from the flask, then another, trying to shake off the chills, before he follows Sam inside.

He hasn’t been sleeping. Better ways to spend his last weeks. He’s crystal-clear, though. He’s fine. Everything is bright and sharp and hard-edged around him. The whiskey just warms him up a little.

“Ordered you a burger,” Sam mumbles, when Dean sits down next to him. “To go, so we can get to a fucking motel.”

“Told you, Sammy, I’m fine,” Dean says breezily, and asks the waitress as she passes, “Could I get a coffee, when you get a sec?”

He ignores Sam’s glare.

The waitress comes over, and Dean gets a quick impression of a soft smile and curious eyes as she passes him a steaming mug. He takes a greedy sip and burns his tongue.

“Hot coffee,” he says hastily, setting the mug down to blow on it, and then he delivers the line with an almost automatic grin. “You know what else is hot?”

“Come on,” Sam mutters.

Dean finishes with a wink: “You.”

“You’re not gonna spill on me again, are you?” she smirks.

He looks up at her, really looks. Something about her smile says come inside, stay a while, like stepping in from the cold to the golden flicker of firelight.

“I remember you,” she says. “You were having a rough night.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Oh.”

He stares as she introduces herself. It feels so far away, now. Feels like he’s lived a few lifetimes since then, but he hasn’t, not really; he won’t even have a chance to live this lifetime.

He shudders and wishes he’d brought his flask inside.

“Sorry,” she says, “Not a good memory to look back at, I guess.”

He shakes his head.

“No, I’m fine, just… took me a second,” he says, and recovers, pasting on a bright smile. “Don’t know how I could forget such a pretty face.”

Sam makes an exasperated noise next to him.

“Smooth,” she says dryly. “What’s your name, butterfingers?”

“Dean.”

“Well, Dean, if you make a mess again because you’re too busy flirting to remember where your mouth is, you can clean it up yourself this time. Okay?”

The words are light and teasing, but her smile looks like an apology, like she knows all too well how hard it is to look back sometimes.

“How ‘bout you let me make it up to you?” Dean offers. “Let me buy you a drink when you’re done here.”

She’s eyeing him up and down, and Dean flashes his most winning smile, even though he has a sudden inexplicable urge to hide his face. There’s a bell from the kitchen window and she turns without answering. Dean’s pretty sure he just struck out, and he’s more bothered by it than he’d like to admit, but then she’s back.

“Yeah, okay,” she says casually, handing over a couple takeout containers. “I’ll be done in fifteen.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Sam grumbles, as he counts out bills.

“Hey, you get your wish,” Dean says, grinning. “You get to sleep in a bed tonight. Motel’s right up the road, if I’m remembering right.”

“Yeah. Great.”

She’s talking to the cook, hands on her hips, and Dean catches a string of profanities. He smiles to himself and shakes his head, trying not to stare.

“I’ll meet you out front,” he says. She gives him a little wave, and he almost trips over his feet on his way to the door.

Sam shoulders his bag, jaw set, eyes tired.

“I can drive you,” Dean offers, guilt slithering through his stomach, but Sam shakes his head.

“I’ll walk. I can see the sign from here.”

“I just - I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.”

“Yeah. I won’t wait up.”

Sam turns to go, and Dean feels panicked, for a second. He’s going to blink and lose another day. He’s spent too many days sniping and snapping and being a shitty fucking brother.

“Sammy,” he says, and Sam looks back, tight-lipped. “Thanks.”

Sam’s expression falters, the bitter mask falling away and leaving sadness in its place.

“It’s okay, Dean, I get it,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost to the wind.

Dean doesn’t watch him go. He gets in the car and fishes his flask out of the glove compartment. Then he leans against the hood of the car and eats his burger.

Chew, swallow. Don’t think about it.

He sees her through the window, coming out from behind the counter. Dean sets the takeout container on the hood and gets to the front door just in time to open it for her.

“So, where to?” he asks.

“Not sure,” she says softly, looking down at her feet and fidgeting with the strap of her purse.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Dean snorts. “I’ve told that one a few times myself.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs, sheepish. “Yeah, okay. I… I don’t usually do this.”

“Hey, no pressure,” Dean says. He holds his hands up and takes a step back. “If you say the word I’ll leave right now, no harm done. Okay?”

She’s evaluating him, and it feels like an x-ray, the way she stares. He can see the moment she makes a decision.

“I’ve got drinks back at my place,” she says, and adds sharply, “I’ve also got mace, so… don’t get any ideas.”

It’s oddly endearing, for a threat.

Her place is a tiny, cluttered studio apartment in a not-great part of town. When she opens the fridge, he sees a mess of takeout containers and bottles.

“Beer, tequila, whiskey…”

“Whiskey’s good.”

He looks around and realizes there’s nowhere to sit. There’s a single stool at the kitchen table, and an armchair in front of the coffee table; the only place big enough for two people is the bed. He looks at her, and she’s blushing, like she just had the same realization.

“Shit, sorry, this is weird,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t - I’m in a really fucking strange place in my life. Everything is… temporary, I guess.”

“You and me both,” Dean mutters. He sits down on the floor, in front of the coffee table. She gives him a grateful little half-smile and hands him a glass.

“Tell me about it?” She settles on the floor too, cross-legged, rolling her glass between her palms like someone who’s very used to holding a drink.

They skip all the small talk, the flirtation and the easy questions, and they dive right into the things that Dean fucking hates talking about. Somehow he doesn’t mind.

This was supposed to be a simple pickup, one fun night, a distraction, and instead he’s sitting on this chick’s floor asking about her childhood, finding that he actually cares about the answers… this isn’t like any one-night stand he’s ever had. It’s so much more intimate than that.

The rules are different, with her. He doesn’t have to pretend to be fine. She doesn’t seem to pity him, when he talks about some of the fucked-up things in his life. She just accepts it. She accepts him.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, when he finishes his third drink, but he’s starting to go hoarse. She doesn’t ask if he wants another, just takes the empty glass out of his hand. Her knee pops audibly when she gets up, and they both laugh.

“I’m too old to be sitting on the floor, I think,” she says, heading to the fridge. “If I say we should relocate to the bed, are you going to take it as a come-on?”

He smiles up at her, exhaustion and whiskey making his vision blurry around the edges. “Only if you want me to.”

“Jury’s still out.” She looks down, cheeks flushed like that’s not entirely true. “But I think for the sake of my fuckin’ kneecaps… make yourself comfortable.”

He does. He sits back against the pillows, sinking into them. She comes over and passes him a drink, and he looks up at her, feeling oddly vulnerable stretched out on her bed like this.

“Be right back,” she whispers, and sets her own glass on the nightstand before she heads for the bathroom.

Dean closes his eyes, thinking, just for a second.

He wakes all at once. There’s bright gold sunlight streaming through the windows and a quilt on top of him. She’s curled into his chest, nose brushing his collarbone where his henley is unbuttoned. His hand is resting on the curve of her waist, tucked under her thin shirt. She’s just starting to stir; she shifts, settles closer, and he feels her lips on his throat.

Dean can’t remember the last time he felt this rested, or this warm.

He can’t remember the last time he wanted to stay somewhere. He wants to stay right here in this moment, taking in the tickle of her breath on his neck, the cheap pillowcase under his cheek, the sound of a siren in the distance.

She pulls back slowly, sleepy-eyed. Then she smiles. It feels like coming home.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he remembers who he is. He remembers that this isn’t his life.

He digs the phone out of his phone and snaps it open long enough to growl, “Be there soon.”

She’s still smiling, but her eyes are sad. Dean wants to stay, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, and that’s why he makes himself pull away. If he lets himself have this, even for a morning… if this was his life? He’s not sure he could let himself be dragged away from it, hellhounds or no.

She takes the phone out of his hand and enters her number, “Just in case you’re ever passing through.”

“I doubt it’ll happen,” he says roughly. “But… if I’m passing through.”

Stand up. Deep breath.

He feels cold, the warmth leaching from his bones already.

This isn’t your home.

He doesn’t have a home. Now he never will.

She walks him to the door and he hugs her, barely feeling it, barely noticing the feather-light kiss she presses to his cheek.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” he says, and he turns to go.

Right foot, left foot. Don’t look back.

***

October 2008

If Dean doesn’t get out of this fucking motel, he might lose his fucking mind.

He paces the bathroom, back and forth, feeling brittle and edgy and hollowed-out. One more nightmare, one more argument, and he might snap. He’s sick of Sammy’s fucking face, and looking at his own in the mirror is even worse.

He sees hell whenever he closes his eyes.

He dials her number before he can talk himself out of it, and she picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t - I mean, I ended up coming through after all. I don’t know if you remember me, but… this is Dean.”

“I remember you,” she says. He can hear the warmth in her voice, even through the static.

She texts him the address: new place, same town. He tells Sam not to wait up.

He’s not sure why he’s nervous. He’s not sure what it is about her, but there’s something about this chick that he can’t shake. The important thing is that it’ll be fun. It’ll get his mind off things for a night. He rolls down the window and turns the music up.

Don’t think about it.

When she opens the door, Dean’s heart jumps crazily in his chest.

“So, do you want to go out, or...” Dean starts, as she closes the door behind him.

“Can we just pick up where we left off?” she asks, breathless.

Dean can smell the fresh, sweet scent of her hair. He feels dizzy, hot and cold all over, and when he leans in to kiss her it feels like falling. It’s deep, syrupy-slow, her mouth opening easily under his, intimate and familiar.

She lets out a barely-there whimper, deep in her throat.

“Bed,” he chokes out. He’s not sure he’ll make it that far.

He grabs her again, stumbling, as they practically fall through the bedroom door, and she whirls around to face him with this fiery, blazing look that makes him forget how to fucking walk. Her back hits the wall and he crashes into her. She slips her hands under his shirt and drags her nails down his lower back, and Dean gasps, grinding into her helplessly.

“Please,” he pants. He kisses her neck, bites her jaw, whispers it again: “Please.”

She yanks at the hem of his shirt. He almost rips her tank top. She shoves, sends him stumbling backward, and reaches back to unclasp her bra, letting it fall unceremoniously. Dean takes a step backward, still staring, so the edge of the bed against the back of his knees takes him by surprise. He sits down hard and scrambles back.

She pauses at the foot of the bed, letting him look. He rakes his eyes over smooth curves, speechless, as she unbuttons her jeans and shimmies them down her hips, and she crawls up the bed in nothing but plain black panties.

She straddles him, pushing at his shoulders until he falls back against the mattress. He runs his hands over her, up her sides, trying to memorize the lush pillowy swells and dips of her, the velvety feel of her skin. Her mouth is hungry on his.

She’s moving, slow and snakelike, rolling her torso so that he can feel the slight drag of her hard nipples up his chest, then twisting her hips, rubbing herself against him. It’s almost too much even through his jeans, all this hot rough friction. He grips her hips and rocks up against her, and she lets out a tortured little whine as she breaks away from the kiss.

She gets Dean’s zipper down, tugs, and he lifts his hips obligingly so that she can get his pants off. He kicks at them awkwardly, making a face, and she giggles; it’s a nervous giggle, and it dies in her throat when he rolls on top of her. He pauses with his hands braced on either side of her head, and she stares up at him, cheeks flushed.

“What do you -” he starts, and before he can finish the question, she reaches up and brushes the pad of her thumb over the curve of his lower lip. He flicks his tongue over it and watches her eyelids flutter. He ducks his head to kiss the hollow of her throat, then her collarbone.

“Thought about this,” she says. “I was kicking myself, after. For being too scared to make a move, for -”

She gasps when he slips his hand down the front of her panties, dragging two fingers down through silky-slick heat, running them up again, teasing before he pulls the thin fabric down.

“I was wondering,” he confesses. He hooks his hands under her thighs and holds her in place, and she shudders at the first brush of his tongue.

“I don’t do that - don’t invite strangers over,” she pants. “I don’t trust people, but you - fuck, do that again.”

“Taste so good,” he mumbles. It’s barely audible, the way his face is buried between her legs. She squirms, thighs shaking as he gets his lips around her clit.

The words are rushed, high-pitched, spilling out along with tiny gasps and sharp inhales: “Thought about your mouth, fuck. Thought about this. It was - you do a thing, with your tongue, and - right there, oh, fuck, just - you kept licking your lips, and... Dean. Dean.”

He sneaks a glance up at her. She’s arching her back, fingers twisting in the sheets, saying his name over and over in this broken, reverent voice. Dean feels raw and strange, like he’s the one spread-open and vulnerable here. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about it.

She practically convulses when he slips two fingers into her, but he’s holding her down with his other hand. He works her with his fingers and sucks in quick little pulses, lost in the way she tastes. She grabs his hair, pulling him down against her, gripping so hard it stings his scalp, and it’s so fucking hot he feels like he could come just from this: her taste on his tongue, her fingers in his hair, her ragged voice as she says his name one more time. She shakes and shudders as she comes.

“Gorgeous,” he can’t help but whisper, pressing a kiss to one of the stretch marks that show like pale tiger stripes on her thighs. The scar tissue doesn’t taste any different than the rest of her skin, but he kisses another to be sure, then drags his mouth up, nipping at the soft skin under her belly-button, licking a drop of sweat from the valley between her breasts.

She’s panting, cheeks stained pink and sheened with sweat, looking up at him with glittering unfocused eyes, and the clench of pure fucking desire in his gut hits him like a freight train. The first slick press of his cock is almost too much. He closes his eyes and sinks in slow, feeling the give where her body opens up and lets him in. Her breath hitches in her chest when he grinds down, as deep inside as he can be.

One of them is shaking, and Dean thinks it might be him.

He kisses the underside of her jaw, mouthing at the soft salty skin there, and rolls his hips, and the wet-hot surge of friction is so fucking good. Part of him wants to move, snap forward and give in, fuck into her hard enough to obliterate the swelling sensation in his ribcage. Part of him wants this to last forever.

He’s present in his skin in a way he hasn’t been in ages, frantic with all the input from his senses, lit up and fizzing with it. The strangled cry that rips from his throat sounds foreign, like an animal, like something wild… she digs her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, tilts her hips up, and he’s so close to the edge of his control already.

The physical details of it, the actual act, that’s nothing new. It’s this feeling in his chest. It’s the way he feels like he’s about to shatter.

“There,” she groans. He opens his eyes enough to see her, and his vision is blurring, images of her coming through like shots from an unfocused camera: lips parting around his name, eyes rolling back in her head when he hits the right spot, sweat trickling down her temple to soak tendrils of hair.

Dean’s so fucking close, so fucking hard, it’s like his entire universe is narrowing down to the throb of blood pulsing in his cock, the way she’s clamping down around him as she grinds up to meet every thrust, writhing under him, pulling him close, her fingernails fiery points of pain at the small of his back.

This is so much more than he expected. He can’t breathe.

She lets out a gasp and a sweet little sob, arching up, and he can feel her all around him, soaking wet and searing hot, so good it blinds him. His hips jerk forward one last time, as if he could possibly get any closer to her. He gives in and lets himself go under.

The tension bleeds from his muscles, leaves him wrung-out and quiet. He keeps rocking into her, soft shivers of pleasure rippling through them both, as she reaches up and cups his face between her hands, tugging him down for a kiss. He rests his forehead against hers for a moment, close enough that their breath mingles in the damp thick air between them. He kisses the tip of her nose, then her eyelids. He moves back to pull out.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she whispers. “Stay.”

“Can I go like six inches to either side?” Dean asks, and she makes a face, giggling, as they shift over together, trying to move without putting any real space between their bodies.

Dean settles in between her sprawled legs, resting his head on her chest. Her heartbeat is slowing, gradually. He focuses on the sound of it, the feel of her ribs rising and falling under his cheek as she breathes, and she runs her fingers through the short damp hair at the nape of his neck.

He wants to stay right here, just like this.

He could pretend, for one night. He could pretend to be someone else, someone who gets what they want.

“If I fall asleep, wake me up in half an hour,” she says dreamily. “Let’s do that again.”

He can feel the waves closing in over his head.

Her fingers slow and then stop. Her heartbeat goes low and even.

When he’s sure she’s asleep, Dean shifts, doing his best not to disturb her. She doesn’t stir. He gathers his clothes and gets dressed silently.

She looks so peaceful: hair tangled, skin glowing, lips curled up in a smile. She looks warm. Dean’s chest aches. He sneaks one last glance at her before switching off the light and turning to go.

He doesn’t look back.

***

February 2010

Dean waits for a moment, staring up at the dark sky, but there’s no answer. He wasn’t really expecting one.

Deep breath. Drink. Swallow.

He wipes away the tears, steeling himself to go back inside and pretend that nothing’s wrong.

The wheezy voice echoes in his ears: going through the motions.

Deep, dark… nothing.

He wants to deny it, is the thing. He wants to deny it, but he can’t, even to himself, even to the quiet nighttime sky. But that dark nothing is easier than letting himself feel. When he slows down, when he rests, when he allows himself to feel anything, it all crashes over him, swamps him, fills his lungs and makes him choke.

Inside, you’re already dead.

When was the last time he felt alive?

He sees her clearly: head thrown back on the pillow, lips parted, saying his name like a prayer. If he lets himself remember, he feels a ghost of her warmth and a swelling, fluttering fullness in his chest.

Something inside him snaps.

He practically runs to Baby, flings himself blindly into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with trembling fingers. He hits the gas and the tires squeal.

The cold air slaps against his face, and his heart pounds, and he almost turns around five times before he hits the right exit. It’s not hard to find her place again, but it doesn’t occur to him until he’s knocking that she might’ve moved. She might not be home. She might have a fucking boyfriend who’s going to punch him in the face.

She opens the door.

He can see hurt and shock and something bright (hope?) flickering across her face, and then she looks him up and down.

“Dean,” she says softly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m -”

“If you say ‘fine’ right now I’ll punch you in the mouth,” she says matter-of-factly. There’s no judgement in her eyes, just familiar wide-open warmth. “It’s three in the morning. You snuck out, like a fucking asshole, and then I didn’t hear from you in over a fucking year. So. Are you okay, Dean?”

He has to force the words out; it feels like they’re scorching his throat.

“No. I’m not.”

He sways on his feet and sags against the doorframe. It’s pulling him under, one wave after another.

She wraps her arms around him and squeezes, holding him close, right there in the doorway. He runs his hands up her back and buries his face in her hair, taking deep heaving breaths that burn his lungs. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water.

She presses her lips to his pulse and whispers against his skin: “Come inside, Dean. Stay a while.”

She pulls the door closed behind him as he takes one shaky step, then another.

He doesn’t look back.

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#dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #supernatural fic #supernatural smut #dean x reader smut #dean winchester angst #dean winchester #spn fic

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sunshine-shitposts · 3 years

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ALRIGHT. First selfship piece is going UP. I got some big inspiration from @amethystsoda and @dongiovannaswife so like... love you guys 💖💖 no stinky vampire man... yet. Hoping to get the next part up within the next week.

Dust in the Wind—Part 1

It had been a while since Jotaro had been to the Dallas Speedwagon Foundation Headquarters, and it had since moved locations to outside downtown… somewhere.

It was a damn pain if you asked him.

Dallas was a mess to move around in; you were better off on foot, since there were so many one-way streets. His grandfather had explained, the first time that he had brought his grandson to the Foundation in Dallas, that it was probably because car size in America outgrew the more narrow streets that Dallas began with. Jotaro himself didn't really understand it until he saw for himself: Texans loved big cars. There was an astonishing amount of pick up trucks here, compared to other places he'd been.

He wasn't very familiar with Texas, he had to admit. He'd visited Galveston and Corpus Christi more often for marine work, though he had to admit to himself that they weren't his favorite places in terms of the ocean; this side of the coastline of the Gulf of Mexico tended to have a lot of sediment in its water. When he stayed at a house in a place called Crystal Beach for a while, he remembered how searching for hermit crabs with a colleague was rather annoying due to the brown murkiness of the water.

The houses on stilts were quite novel, though.

...That was enough reminiscing.

Jotaro huffed, figuring he could just go to the old location to ask for assistance—it was still being used by the Foundation despite it not being the main building anymore—when a bright voice floated through the air.

"Hey, mom. Y'got everything?"

"Yes, but it's a lot, you know, they turned in projects… can you open the trunk?"

"'Course, no problem. Gimme a sec…"

Jotaro looked up from his map, seeing a young woman helping her mother begin to load several large rolled up cardboard tubes into the back seat of a small blue hatchback.

The woman was dressed comfortably, a boon in the blossoming Texas heat, with a black wide-brimmed hat and minty-colored sunglasses and a lazy smile on her face. She couldn't have been more than an inch over five feet, and her wavy purple hair fluttered in the wind. What didn't look conducive to staying cool were the dark, full-length leggings under her jean shorts or the knee-length, full sleeve knit cardigan, but he knew what it felt like to have a comfort jacket. Her mother, several inches taller than her, was well (albeit colorfully) dressed with a lanyard and ID swinging around her neck, and a mobile folding cart filled with books, folders, and cardboard tubes. The mother's hair, a light silvery-blonde that fell around her shoulders, made Jotaro wonder if they were actually related, but he admitted to himself that stranger things do happen, and hair dye did exist.

Jotaro hummed to himself and looked back at the map as a gust of wind between the tall buildings sent papers scattering, the mother crying out in dismay.

"Sunnie–!!"

"Don't worry mom, I got it."

Jotaro watched the paper of his map flutter suddenly and unexpectedly, swooping in the opposite direction that it had been previously. It was such a sudden change that Jotaro looked back up from the map, only to see all the papers floating through the air to finally gather into the young woman's outstretched hand.

"I'll never ever understand how you can do that," the mother said, her voice equal parts thankfulness and bafflement, "And I don't think I ever will."

"You keep saying that, y'know," her daughter laughed, easily hefting the heavy folding cart into the trunk of her car.

"I know!! But it's true, it's like magic! But real!!"

Jotaro focused his gaze on the young woman.

Stand users are drawn to each other.

When the two women were nearly finished loading all of the mother's things into the car, he approached them, trying to relax his intense demeanor as much as possible. The woman's mother reminded him a lot of his own, and he didn't want to frighten her.

"Excuse me," he asked, fishing around in a pocket inside his coat to pull out his notebook. The two women turned to look at him, the mother's eyebrows raising as she made an 'oooh' noise. Her daughter's expression, however, was completely unreadable behind her large sunglasses, but Jotaro felt her gaze. Her carefree attitude had suddenly disappeared, and he knew that she was likely sizing him up. He wondered if she, too, felt the same weird restlessness in her own chest. "I was wondering if you could tell me how to get here," he continued. Her mother leaned in to see the address written on the notebook's page, then lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Sunnie! He's asking about the Speedwagon Foundation!"

Immediately, the daughter seemed to relax, looking at the page as well. "Oh, no shit?" After another second, her eyebrows rose above her sunglasses. "Oh! No shit!!"

"You know of it?" Jotaro asked, putting the notebook back into the chest pocket.

"Know of it? I'm heading there, after I drop mom back off at the house," the younger woman laughed, extending her arm for a handshake. "I'm Sunnie Green, recently employed by the Foundation. Good to meet you, Mr…?"

"Jotaro Kujo," he replied, accepting the shake and subsequently drowning her small hand in his own. Her shake was strong and firm and confident in a pleasantly unexpected way.

The second he said his name, though, a wry grin broke out on her face.

"No fuckin' way," Sunnie said, surprised, "I have heard some stories. Good to meet you in the flesh. Foundation's been expecting you."

Jotaro grunted. He knew that after his 'trip' to Egypt all those years ago, people at the Foundation liked to gossip about him, and he had hoped that those tales and rumors had died down, but it seemed that they'd persisted. He wondered if they'd only gotten more wild with time. "Well. That aside, if you could point me in the right direction, it would be much appreciated."

"Well, uh, it's not quite in Dallas anymore? It's a bit away from here, so uh…" Sunnie trailed off, her face scrunching up in thought.

"Sunnie," her mom stage-whispered, "Sunnie, you should drive him there."

"Huh-whaa?" Sunnie looked at her mom, eyes wide, then nodded like a lightbulb went off over her head, crossing her arms and grinning, "Yeah!! Yeah, that just makes sense. That makes so much sense!!"

"That won't be necessary–" Jotaro began, but Sunnie shot him a confident grin.

"Don't be silly! This is the perfect solution. It's late in the day, getting a taxi or rideshare there will cost you money you don't need to spend, I mean come on. I'm right here, dude. I gotcha." The smaller woman laughed and put the final bag of papers in the trunk of her car, shutting the door. "I'm not taking no for an answer. And mom?" she looked at her mom expectantly, who smiled widely.

"I'll sit in the back!" She beamed before looking back up at Jotaro, "That way you don't have to sit with all the projects."

Without giving him the chance to offer otherwise, Mrs. Green made her way to the back seat, opening the door and getting in. Jotaro breathed a quiet sigh, gathering himself before he walked to the front passenger's door and opened it. He did not miss Sunnie's triumphant smirk before he ducked inside. To his surprise, it was actually roomy inside the small car. At least, roomy enough to be comfortable for him. There was some music softly playing over the speakers and a water bottle in one of the cupholders, and dangling off of the rearview mirror were some small pom poms and repurposed cell phone charms, several of them Pokémon. In a little storage area under the main console, he saw a lanyard with an ID decorated with the Speedwagon Foundation logo on it.

Sunnie got in the car as well, buckling up and shifting out of park, turning smoothly into the street when it was safe.

"I'm excited for you to go to the new Foundation Headquarters, Mr. Kujo," Mrs. Green chirped, hands patting her bright red jeans excitedly, "Some of my former students helped decorate the interior! I'm very proud of their work."

"Mom's an interior design professor," Sunnie laughed, "Used to get hired for private homes and hospitals and stuff. There was that one home on White Rock with the spiral staircase? Fucking dope."

"I still talk to them," her mom said airily, "Sometimes I stop by for cookies."

Jotaro didn't quite know how to respond. The two women were very open and friendly and it was making him feel… strange. Was it just a Texan thing in general? Joseph had once mentioned 'Southern Hospitality'. Then again, who could say? The old man liked to talk for the sake of talking sometimes.

He caught a minute glance from Sunnie, who then leaned her head back, a lazy grin on her face.

"So mom, what're all those projects in the back?" She asked, "No balsa wood models this time? That was a nightmare to transport."

"But those were group projects and they were light weight! These plans are deceptively heavy and there are so many–"

As Carol rambled on about the projects sitting around her, Jotaro found himself happy that Sunnie seemingly sensed his discomfort and acted on his behalf to divert her mother's attention. He zoned out, his mind stuck on the impending meeting—one that he had never imagined he would have to have, and one that was admittedly making him feel a little sick in his stomach.

The red brick house they arrived at was in a quiet little subdivision about 40 minutes in traffic away from Downtown Dallas, lined with large trees and with a nice pond. The houses were all two stories, most driveways accessible from the street, and the summer warmth and ample sunshine had the lawns dotted with flowers of many colors. Sunnie parked the car in front of the pebbled sidewalk to the house, and the large dark blue front door opened. A salt-and-pepper haired man with a moustache walked out, wearing an old shirt and jeans and carrying a duffle bag. Sunnie and Mrs. Green got out of the car, and Jotaro decided to get out as well.

The man, presumably Mr. Green, seemed surprised. "I doubt one of your students turned him in," he laughed nonetheless. Mrs. Green giggled.

"No, no! He's with the Foundation!" Mrs. Green explained, and her husband rolled his eyes.

"I was kidding, Carol," he said, voice deadpan. Sunnie snickered.

"We found him looking for the new campus downtown, so I offered to take him there. Speaking of, we gotta get this stuff outta the Spaceship so we can head out," Sunnie turned to Jotaro, "This won't take too long–"

"I'll help," he told her, "Least I can do."

Sunnie paused, pursed her lips, and nodded.

With four sets of hands, unloading took no time at all, but Jotaro once again noted that Sunnie seemed stronger than her smaller size let on. At the end of it, her dad handed her the duffle bag, which she tossed in the back seat.

"See you in a few days," she said, hugging her parents, "Don't get too wild without me around."

"Darn. We'll have to cancel that crazy party," her dad grinned, and she smacked him on the arm.

Jotaro got back into the car with Sunnie, and she drove them out of the subdivision.

"…Do you live with your parents?" Jotaro asked, a sudden burst of curiosity getting the better of him. Sunnie looked at him out of the corner of her eye for a brief second, then turned her gaze back to the road as she flipped on her turn signal.

"I left my husband recently," she said, smoothly turning onto the service road, and Jotaro suddenly felt incredibly awkward, "Got out of the apartment as fast as I could. Grabbed a few things, said goodbye to the dog, and fucking split. It was really sudden, and since I don't have that much money to my name and my husband currently is in control of my finances, living with my parents is easier. I'm actually in my childhood room right now, when I stay at the house." She laughed dryly, merging onto the turnpike.

"Mm," Jotaro simply responded, and Sunnie laughed.

"It's not weird, dude, come on. Chill," she said, passing a particularly large eighteen wheeler and switching two lanes to the left, "I mean, it's kinda weird. But it's fine. I don't mind. I've heard a lot about you from some of the other employees already, I think it's fair that you know about me, if just a little." She looked at him briefly, eyes twinkling. "You're kind of a hot topic at the Foundation, you know."

Jotaro shifted in his seat and looked out his window.

"Which brings me to an important point," she continued, "I know why you're here."

Immediately, he looked back at her, eyes narrowing. That was supposed to be need-to-know information.

"I'm a Liaison for the Speedwagon Foundation. That's my official title, but I have a very specific job, and he is why you're here."

"You mean you–"

"Yes, and I'm aware of your history with him. Well, with the one from here." Her finger tapped the steering wheel pointedly. "I know you don't like him, that you have reason to not like him, and I know you won't like this one. But I'm imploring you not to start shit with him when you see him, okay? I've told him not to start shit with you so, you know, if you would be so kind."

Jotaro audibly gritted his teeth. This was just his fucking luck, running into that bastard's babysitter. "What makes you think he'd listen to you?" He growled.

"I don't know? He's been cool with me so far." She snorted. "I mean, he's an absolute piece of work, but it's been alright. No worse than teaching a class full of preschoolers can get on a bad day, but I did have to… establish that I can take care of myself against him."

"And how did you do that?"

"I stole his air," she said simply, "Made it impossible for him to breathe."

"Have you ever done that before? To someone else."

Her mouth fidgeted, eyes unreadable. They passed under the tollway in silence, broken by soft, ghastly wind chimes as a shimmering turquoise hand with a swirling wing shape on the wrist partially manifested on her shoulder, squeezing lightly before vanishing.

"You'll have to buy me a few drinks before I talk about that." Her voice was short, clipped. "I'm sure you have similar unlockable content you don't talk about otherwise."

It was a weird way to put it, but she was right. He did.

So he dropped the subject, looking back out the window.

"By the way, Catherine—Mrs. Gupta, rather—is here today, too," she said, tone easily switching from icy and guarded to light and airy, "She's the Regional COO, though I'm sure you know that. I'm told that she's the one who contacted you, after all."

Jotaro did not feel like answering. He didn't know what to say.

Sunnie merely glanced at him again, grinned to herself, and kept driving.

After Sunnie showed her credentials and pulled through the gated entrance of the new Dallas Speedwagon Foundation HQ, Jotaro let his eyebrows raise in surprise.

The previous location, having been built when Robert E. O. Speedwagon himself had struck black gold in Texas, was (while large) old, and it showed in its architecture and the relative closeness of the buildings. This, however, was a sprawling, modern campus with green spaces and fountains galore.

"We've got seven buildings here, but we'll be heading to the main one. Explore later if you'd like," Sunnie explained easily, searching for a parking spot. "I may be a… honestly kind of critical Subject Liaison, but I still don't have a dedicated parking space. That's fine, however," She lifted her finger and grinned, the sound of windchimes clinking in the air as her Stand fully manifested: lithe, vaguely robotic, feminine, and lined with light turquoise and shimmery silver. The face was mostly featureless and smooth like a plain mask, save for two large and sleek wing-like shapes on the sides, and two calculating but blank amber eyes. "We'll have her take care of this for us."

The Stand wiggled its fingers excitedly, then zoomed out of the roof of the car, unimpeded by the physical barrier. Jotaro watched, blank faced, then asked what could have been considered a very personal question.

"What's it's range?"

"Dust in the Wind's most powerful up to about six to nine feet from me, but she can and will travel quite far." That's… two to three meters, Jotaro translated in his head. "The further she gets, the less effective she is, but she's curious. She likes looking for things."

Jotaro huffed out the barest hint of a chuckle, remembering his time in jail before his trip to Egypt—how Star Platinum had brought him toys, beer, and reading materials in an attempt to placate him.

"I thought up this little tactic in college, since parking was shit there. It was cut-throat, honestly, so Windy helped scope out all the good spots." The Stand swooped down in front of the car and began nodding and pointing, motioning for them to follow. "Oh fuck yeah, it's a good one," Sunnie said happily before following as her Stand danced through the air in front of them, gracefully carving through the air. "She's playful. That's how I, uh, originally met… you know."

Jotaro looked at her, slightly confused. "Your Stand found him?"

She nodded, rounding a row of cars. "You know that weird feeling we got when we saw each other? How Stand users just kind of… know when other Stand users are around? I felt that when I first came here. She immediately jumped out and disappeared to find the source and found, well, him. Then he demanded to see the user, and bam," She shrugged, keeping one hand on the steering wheel, "We met."

Jotaro found himself grimacing at the mention of that man demanding anything and getting it. That piece of shit didn't deserve fuck all, in his opinion.

"Ah! There," Sunnie mumbled, pulling into a spot a row away from the front sidewalk. "She was right, it is good."

As she turned off the car and they both stepped out, Windy flew back to her user, nuzzling her face and disappearing. Sunnie grabbed her backpack and duffle bag from the backseat and they headed down the large sidewalk, lined with magnolias and sparkling water features.

"The old Speedwagon Foundation buildings are actually currently used for housing… supernatural objects. Like Stands tethered to items, fragments of pillars… there's this weird broken sword there that apparently possesses people, but when it does it just begs to be fixed," Sunnie rambled, shoving a hand in her long cardigan's pocket. Jotaro had to catch a breath, recalling that fight where Polnareff had indeed been possessed. That thing was here now? "This facility does a lot of R&D, field agent training, the like. Dallas has a lot of big companies around so they have some good deals, like with TI and stuff."

"You know a lot for someone who hasn't even been here for four months," Jotaro mumbled, glaring at the small woman. She glanced at him with a lazy smirk, the frog bell on her decorated backpack jingling softly as she walked next to him.

"I actually used to be in politics. Handled VAN data in my last campaign, but my strong suit was research. Following the money, making connections, y'know, all that mess," she said, tone light, "I know my way around things. Donor lists, requesting things under the FOIA, the like. I wanted to get a good picture of the Foundation before I thought about working here. And the rumors about their involvement in… supernatural matters interested me."

They walked through the large sliding glass doors into a cooled, busy lobby, shiny and sleek and new. Reflective surfaces, swooping centerpieces, statement greenery… it was impressive. What Jotaro did not appreciate was the eyes he felt on him the second he had walked in and the whispers that he knew were dancing around.

"Oh, Miss Green?" a receptionist pipped up upon seeing her, "And Dr. Kujo, oh!" The young man quickly patted down his curly chestnut hair, "I wasn't expecting you to–a-arrive together, huh. Well, Mrs. Gupta is waiting for you."

"Thanks, Mikel," Sunnie smiled, waltzing past the desk and towards a central elevator. Jotaro nodded his head slightly to the nervous young man as he continued to follow the smaller woman, stepping into the elevator. Sunnie leaned down (she didn't have to go too far) for a retina and thumb print scan, and the doors closed, the elevator smoothly starting up. They rode in silence, until the doors opened to a series of sterile white hallways.

"We're well underground, so you know," Sunnie mentioned as they began walking again. "It's easier to keep him down here with no threat of sunlight. The trick is that these lights outside his suite have a bit of UV in them. Sort of like how they keep the Pillar Man in D.C.," she informed him as they took a left, walking towards a large white double door. "Remember," she said pointedly, "No fights."

She leaned in for another eye and hand scan, and they passed through a short hall and through another sliding double door.

The first thing Jotaro saw in this more lavishly designed room was a tall, lithe, dark skinned woman with close-shaven hair wearing a golden pencil skirt and a deep forest green satin blouse, and stilettos that easily brought her close to his own height. Her expensive-looking gold jewelry and hoop earrings seemed to glitter as she turned her head towards the door, and her glossy dark red lips split into a dazzling grin.

"Sunnie! I see you've brought our guest," she said in a low voice like honey, lightly accented and melodic.

"Yep! I'm surprised he fit in my car," the smaller woman chirped as she walked into the room, "You didn't mention how tall he is."

The woman held out a well manicured hand, which Jotaro shook. "My name is Catherine Gupta. I became the regional COO of the Dallas branch of the Speedwagon Foundation a few months ago. It's good to meet you, Dr. Kujo."

"Call me Jotaro," he said, glowering at the door beyond them, "I'm assuming that's where he is?"

Mrs. Gupta nodded. "These newer facilities have several suites, some aboveground, some underground, for various purposes, if needed," she said, "When he came to us, it just made sense to stick him down here, where he is both protected and contained."

"Throwing him in a blender would be preferable," Jotaro grumbled, and Mrs. Gupta laughed lightly.

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of the Joestars' history with him," she said, shaking her head a bit, "The Foundation has extensive files on what happened in Britain all those years ago, as well as what you and your group went through. I've reviewed all of these multiple times to understand the situation fully."

"Well if that's the case, why the hell was I only recently informed of… this??" He gestured to the door beyond them, far past trying to hide the venomous rumble in his voice.

She pursed her full lips, "I wanted to tell you sooner, and believe me, I did everything in my power to convince my then-higher ups to let you know, but they were determined to keep it a secret from you and any other members of the Joestar bloodline. I felt that keeping it from you, however, was a moral failing. So I simply took the power I needed to make this happen."

He had to admit, he was impressed. She had said it so matter-of-factly that one might mistake it for an easy task, but he was aware that it almost definitely wasn't. The roiling rage he felt building inside his chest simply from being in proximity to that piece of shit subsided somewhat. "You have my thanks, then," he said quietly, "Does the Don know?"

Having been quiet up until that point, Sunnie shifted and the little frog shaped bell charm jingled, her head cocking to the side curiously. Jotaro took this to mean that she was unaware of his family tree.

"I'm still working on clearing that. I'm sure you're aware that there are a few more hoops to jump through when it comes to navigating our relationship with Passione," Mrs. Gupta chuckled. Hearing the name of the infamous Italian mafia, Sunnie's eyes blew wide and she covered her mouth slightly to whisper, 'yooooooo, what the shit, my dude', before Mrs. Gupta shot her a knowing smirk. "You would have found out soon enough, Sunnie. Just keep it secret for now, especially from him," she looked in the door's direction, and the shorter woman nodded enthusiastically.

"You got it, boss," she said, grinning widely, "Is… is the Don of Passione is a Joestar?"

"Indeed he is," Mrs. Gupta nodded, and Sunnie nearly flailed, whisper-shouting 'yo what the SHIT' again, causing the taller woman to laugh, "Though, I'll let you in on that later."

"Dope," Sunnie giggled, before noticing a tupperware box on one of the tables. "Oh～? And this is?"

"Murgh makhani from Janpreet. He made extra," Mrs. Gupta said warmly, before shooting Jotaro a glance. "My husband," she explained as an afterthought.

"FUCK yeah, tell him I say thanks," Sunnie giggled.

"Will do."

Jotaro had mostly tuned the two women out, however; he was staring at the door, glowering. Mrs. Gupta and Sunnie shared a glance.

"Welllll, I know you don't like him, but here we go. Time to face the music, I guess?" Sunnie said as she turned, her long cardigan following behind her as she nodded her head towards the door.

Mrs. Gupta raised an eyebrow at Jotaro, gesturing for him to go before her. He took a breath and turned to the door, steeling his soul and narrowing his eyes.

It was time to face Dio.

ゴゴゴゴゴ...

(Part 2)

#SunnieD #sunnie writes #SORRY GUYS I'M NOIVUSS

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