𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖘 || 𝘥. 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

𝟎𝟎𝟐 ⌖ profession confession

palo alto, california
oct. 31, 2005 // early morning

𝐇𝐄'𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 a light sleeper. Dad taught him to be that way. So when he heard a crash from the kitchen, he was on his feet before he'd even registered that it could be a threat. His steps whisper-soft, he crept down the hallway, practically holding his breath. His eyes were locked on the dresser near the front door: picturing the weapon inside, planning how to get to it. A low slide-and-roll out from the hallway, yank the drawer open, pull the hammer and fire, fire, fire —

His thoughts and body stilled before the kitchen door, moonlight streaking the floor in front of him. His nose twitched in anticipation, and he risked a glance through the doorway. The window at the back of the room, behind where Fitz had been sitting last night, was closed. Unbroken. Not the point of entry. He wasn't sure when he'd determined there was an intruder, but he kept the notion close to mind.

But no one was there, so he darted past. Another noise broke the tense silence. Then another. A grunt. A hiss. A curse word or two. A series of thumps, smacks and pained noises. A man and a woman.

He stepped out from the hallway and saw two somethings tussling around on the hardwood floor, barely distinguishable in the darkness. Hair glimmered, eyes gleamed, and teeth shone. He palmed the switch, and both figures froze like deer in headlights as the room was illuminated in warm yellows.

Sam was very rarely shocked. He'd been surprised, sure, by this past evening especially, but he hadn't been shocked.

He was shocked now.

Dean was here, somehow. He looked the same as he did two years ago — brown hair in a gel-spiked crew cut, Dad's leather jacket, dark, stone-washed jeans, sharp-jawed and with a hardness in his eyes that clashed with their soft green hue. His face, however, was tomato-red, and there were tears welling up over his cheeks.

Sam quickly identified the reason: Fitz, who had him locked in a flawless rear-naked chokehold that would've earned a nod of approval even from his own father. Her elbow was locked around his throat, her face buried in the back of his neck so he couldn't gouge out her eyes. Her legs were wrapped around his abdomen, squeezing hard like a murderous human backpack.

"Get... off..." Dean wheezed, his fingers tangling in Fitz's mane of bedhead as he tried to yank her off him. Her head jerked slightly at the motion, but it was Dean who cried out in pain. "Fuck—!"

"Fitz," Sam yelped, starting forward to peel her off his brother. "Get off him!"

She immediately let go, but Dean wasn't done yet. He whipped his arm back, nailing her in the jaw with his elbow. All reflex. She went down with a grunt, her face smacking the hardwood. Sam thought he saw her lip split open.

"She bit me!" Dean yowled, rubbing the back of his neck. His fingers came back red.

Fitz was bleeding in multiple places. As she pushed to her feet, Sam could see blood on her left shoulder, dribbling down her mouth, and pooling behind the skin of her jaw, forming a bruise. "He broke in," she accused, her voice wet. "And he stepped on me trying to get in from the window. Fucking Del Griffith over here."

She staggered to her feet. Dean neatly stepped out of the way and watched her collapse unceremoniously on the couch.

Dean rubbed his blood off on his jacket, still looking at Fitz like she was a scratch on his '67 Impala. Then, he turned back to Sam. "Listen, we've gotta talk about your taste in women."

"She's not—" Sam cut himself off, rubbing his face in utter disbelief. "Dean, what are you doing here?"

Fitz's face lifted from the couch, her lips smeared with blood. "You're... oh, fuck me."