Chapter Summary: The system's breaking down. Sam goes missing (runs away), and Dean's forced to finally call in some witchy reinforcements himself before getting kidnapped by an old foe.
Warnings: 18+ language and violence, canon-divergence/rewrite, set during 2x10, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, major angst, family mysteries, John Winchester's stellar parenting, hurt/comfort, feelings, jealousy, fluff, some one-sided pining sneaking in, character development (yay!)
Word Count: 16.6k
A/N: This one was a beast to write, but I'm so incredibly proud of how it turned out! Our first official "rewrite," and I'm completely in love with it 🥰 In other news, this one is not only action-packed but also emotionally packed with some major growth by our green-eyed hunter. The pining party is slowly starting, and I promise I will set that boy on fire like a supernova 😆❤️🔥
Slowly but surely, Dean’s running out of people to call.
For the last twenty-four hours, his entire world has shrunk down to a ringing phone that nobody answers and an empty passenger seat that won’t stop reminding him how fucking badly he screwed up. The realization hits him right between his ribs as another voicemail picks up. The automated voice starts talking before he hangs up and tosses the phone onto the passenger seat hard enough that it bounces against the leather.
“Son of a bitch…”
Obviously, the empty seat doesn’t answer. It hasn’t all day. The only thing occupying Sam’s side of Baby right now is a growing pile of gas station receipts, empty coffee cups, and Dean’s steadily worsening mood. Every few minutes, his green eyes still flick toward it, however, as if he’s expecting six-foot-four worth of aggravating little brother to suddenly reappear.
But Sam’s not answering. Not his phone. Not messages. Not anything.
At this point, Dean’s called enough times that he’s starting to memorize the exact length of his brother’s voicemail greeting. At first, he’d been annoyed, of course. Then frustrated. But now he’s just fucking worried, which somehow manages to piss him off even more.
“Come on, Sammy.” The words leave his mouth for what feels like the hundredth time as he drives one-handed down another stretch of highway, washed golden orange under the late afternoon sun.
His jaw clenches so goddamn hard it aches. Baby devours mile after mile beneath him, the engine humming steadily as classic rock crackles through the stereo. Usually, the sound calms him, but today it’s just fucking noise.
Truthfully, this whole damn thing is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It never should’ve happened.
Barely a few days ago, they’d been trapped in godforsaken River Grove, Oregon, while a demon virus turned an entire town into a living, breathing nightmare. People killing each other. Families and neighbors turning on one another. Possessions. Blood. Chaos. The whole nine yards.
And then there was Sam – infected, untouched, immune.
Dean had spent months trying not to think too hard about the visions, the nightmares, the headaches, and all the impossible crap Sam could do. Months pretending they could keep hunting while ignoring the giant supernatural elephant sitting between them.
If you can’t save him, you’ll have to kill him.
Dean swallows thickly at his father’s words, still ringing all wrong in his head. It’s the secret he’d been carrying around ever since their dad died – the thing John Winchester had dropped into his lap like a grenade with the pin halfway pulled before taking the rest of the explanation to the grave.
Needless to say, the conversation hadn’t gone well when Dean finally told Sam the truth. Hell, “hadn’t gone well” is probably the understatement of the century.
And sure, Sam has never been particularly good at talking about his feelings. Shocking, considering who raised him. Funnily enough, between John and Dean, Sam’s the one who’s probably even the most in tune with his feelings. And usually, the kid sticks around long enough to argue first. That’s how they work. That’s how they’ve always worked.
They fight. They yell. They say things they regret. Then they pretend none of it happened and go get burgers and beers. Simple, really.
But this? This is fucking different.
Dean winces and reaches for another coffee that’s long since gone cold, but the bitterness does nothing to wake him up. Nothing has so far, honestly. Sleep’s been mostly optional since Sam disappeared. Because every time Dean closes his eyes, he sees that look on his brother’s face.
Not anger. Not even shock. Hurt.
And Dean? God, he would’ve preferred angry. Angry, he knows how to handle. Angry sticks around goddamn long enough to yell. But hurt? Hurt just sits there till it fucking leaves.
And now Sam’s gone. Maybe temporarily. Maybe permanently. Dean doesn’t know, and that damn uncertainty is what keeps digging stubbornly under his skin.
Because now, Sam knows. Knows their father thought something was wrong with him. Knows his entire family has been keeping it from him. Knows Dean spent months wondering if one day he’d have to pull the trigger on his little brother.
Awesome conversation starter.
Suddenly, his phone buzzes on the seat, and Dean snatches it up so fast he nearly swerves off the road. But his pulse drops again when he recognizes Bobby’s name lighting up the screen instead of Sam’s.
“You heard from him yet?” The older hunter doesn’t even bother with hello.
Dean scrubs a hand down his face. “Nope.”
“Alright, I’ve made some calls. Nobody’s seen him.” Bobby sighs. “You wanna tell me what’s really going on?”
Dean stares through the windshield and chews on his lower lip. “Also nope.”
“Figured. You sure the kid’s in trouble?” Bobby asks then. “Look, Dean, maybe he just needed some time to cool off.”
That’s the real question, isn’t it?
Because logically? Sam’s twenty-three, capable, and dangerously intelligent. He sure as hell can disappear whenever he feels like it, and no one can stop him, not even Dean.
But emotionally speaking? Dean wants to drag the kid home by his stupid mop of hair and handcuff him to the next radiator.
“I don’t know, Bobby,” he admits at last, and it tastes awful on his tongue.
Even Bobby must’ve heard it. “Alright, son, you hear anything, you call.”
“Yeah,” is all Dean says before the line clicks dead, and he tosses the phone aside again.
However, only a few minutes later, he’s calling somebody else. Then somebody else. Then another hunter. Then another. He tries Ellen, Ash, and even Jo. And still nothing. Nobody’s seen Sam. Nobody knows where he went – or if they do, they won’t tell him.
By the time the sun starts sinking toward the horizon, Dean is officially out of options. He’s exhausted every contact he has. His nerves are shot, and his stomach is hollow.
But there are still numbers left in his contacts. Well, admittedly, not that many. Just one, really.
His eyes drift toward it on the screen and immediately jerk away again.
Nope. Absolutely not.
A minute passes where he just drives and drums his fingers against the wheel before his eyes fall back on it again. It’s still there – the same number Sam’s been calling for weeks now. The same number Dean somehow never calls.
Truly, everything about this is ridiculous, including his hesitancy. It’s not like he doesn’t know you, right? Unfortunately, he knows you pretty damn well at this point. More than he’d like, which means he knows exactly how this conversation’s going to go.
Dean groans and drops his forehead against the steering wheel for a second. This is humiliating. Then again, so is spending an entire day searching for his missing brother and getting ghosted like a chick after a one-night stand. At this point, what’s one more indignity, right?
And that’s when he finally grabs the phone and presses call before he can change his mind.
It rings a few times – enough for him to consider hanging up again before the line picks up and your voice floats through the speaker.
“Sam?”
Dean instantly registers the uncertainty in your voice. Even though this clearly isn’t Sam’s number, you still expected his little brother. You probably hadn’t imagined it in your wildest dreams that Dean would ever call you without a gun pointed to his head.
“Uh…”
Your voice sounds warm and yet slightly distracted, and he suddenly realizes he actually didn’t plan this far ahead. He didn’t think you’d even pick up, and now he can’t think of a single word to say. God, where is he even supposed to start?
Awesome. Just awesome…
“Dean?”
Well, at least you sound surprised now, and he imagines those pinched brows again. They’re sort of cute.
No, God, concentrate.
He clears his throat roughly. “Uh, yeah. It’s me. Dean… Winchester.”
“I know that.”
“Right, yeah…”
Ah, fuck. On a scale from one to ten, how idiotic does he sound right now? Honestly, he’s baffled you haven’t hung up yet.
“Did Sam lose his phone? What’s going on?” you ask, clearly confused.
Dean almost laughs but rubs a hand down his face instead. “Uh, no,” he replies. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know.”
That didn’t clear things up, did it?
“What?”
Yup.
“What happened? Why are you calling me? Where’s Sam?” you press.
Dean smacks his lips, head bobbing. Saying it out loud why Sam really left just makes it all too real, so he decides to leave out the why.
“Sam took off, alright?”
“Took off?” you question. “As in voluntarily?”
He lets out a sigh. “Probably.”
“Oh.” A beat passes. “Well, good for him.”
“Good?” Dean wants to gasp in offense, but his brow only creases wildly in irritation.
“He finally got tired of your helicopter parenting, huh?”
Dean shakes his head, jaw clenching. “Unbelievable. Knew you’d take his side.”
“I don’t even know what happened yet. But yes, statistically speaking, taking Sam’s side seems like the safer bet,” you say. “So, what’d you do?”
“Why d’you think I did something, huh?” he snaps. “Maybe Sam’s the problem. Ever thought about that?”
“Literally never,” you answer without missing a beat.
Dean scoffs, running a hand down his face. This was clearly a mistake. He never should’ve called you. Of course you’d refuse to help him. Of course you’d side with Sam.
But for some reason, the noise he made must’ve sounded desperate enough because he can suddenly detect a faint sigh on the other end of the line.
“Alright, fine,” you relent. Maybe there’s even an eye roll involved, but he doesn’t care. “What d’you need?”
“I need to find him,” he says, still without elaborating on the why.
“Dean…” You exhale another sigh. “I don’t wanna get in the middle of this. If Sam needs some space, maybe you should just let him have it, you know?”
“Look, he might be in trouble, alright?”
“Why are you saying that?” Suspicion creeps back into your voice. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened, okay? I just need to know where he is and if he’s okay, alright?” Dean says more firmly. “It’s complicated. I just–… He might’ve gone after the demon. I just need to make sure he’s alive and breathing, alright?”
“What? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, okay? ‘Cause he’s nuts,” Dean huffs in frustration. “Just–… Can you help me?” He lets out a small sigh before pressing out the next thing, which costs him way more effort than he’d like to ever admit. “Please.”
Apparently, that’s the magic word because you finally seem to cave with a final exhale of defeat.
“Fine,” you say. “I guess I can try scrying.”
“Scrying?” Dean’s brow furrows. “You said this scrying thing only works on supernatural stuff.”
“Yup, it does,” you reply, and he hears a drawer opening and some paper rustling on your end.
“But Sam’s–… Sam’s human,” he says and swallows harshly in the same breath because it feels like a giant lie.
“Well, technically, from a magical standpoint, Sam wouldn’t fully register as human. He has psychic abilities, and his aura also indicates he’s gifted,” you explain.
God, he hates that. Not Sam, though. Just the uncertainty of it all. The not knowing. The constant feeling that something is moving beneath the surface while everyone else already has pieces of the puzzle except for him.
And what you said just proves everything Dean doesn’t want to believe about Sam. That his little brother’s not normal. That he’s some weird freak. That he might go – as Sam himself put it – dark side.
But deep down, Dean already knows all of that. That whole Croatoan thing practically shoved that unbearable possibility right into his face.
“Gifted?” Dean cocks a brow and wants to scoff at the term. It surely doesn’t feel like a fucking gift. “Is that really what we’re calling it?”
“Yeah, why?” Your question comes out almost absent-minded. Innocent. To you, there’s obviously nothing wrong about having abilities.
“Nothin’,” Dean mutters and then just waits.
And waits and waits and waits till–
“I got him, I think,” you say after a few minutes.
“Where?” Dean straightens automatically in his seat and pushes harder down on the gas pedal, even though he doesn’t know the exact direction yet.
“Lafayette, Indiana,” you reply. “You need me to narrow it down further? ‘Cause I can grab another map and–”
“No, uh, no,” he cuts you off gently. “I got it from here.”
Once Dean’s narrowed down the exact state and town, he’s pretty sure he can find his little brother on his own. Sam’s not as smart as he likes to think because Dean knows how Sam thinks.
“You sure?” you check. “You want me to come? I could help.”
“No, uh, I’m good,” he says, swallowing lightly. “But… thanks.”
The word surprises both of you. He can tell by the silence that follows.
“You’re welcome,” you say softly after a heartbeat, and Dean swears he can almost hear a smile in your voice before the call ends.
Dean then lowers the phone and stares at the road ahead.
Lafayette, Indiana.
For the last twenty-four hours, finding Sam was the only thing that mattered. Every mile, every phone call, every increasingly desperate attempt at tracking him down had led to the same objective.
Find Sam.
Now, Dean finally has – or at least, he knows where to look, thanks to you.
Unfortunately, locating his little brother turns out to be the easiest part. Actually talking to him? Yeah, that might require a goddamn miracle altogether.
Lafayette, Indiana
Sam’s alive and well. That’s probably the most important thing, right?
And still, Dean’s honestly not quite used to that fact yet. Because not even an hour ago, the only objective was to find Sam, and now that Dean’s succeeded in that mission, the kid somehow manages to make him annoyed about it.
Why?
Oh, well, because for the better part of half an hour now, Dean’s been sitting behind the wheel of the Impala in some rundown motel parking lot in Lafayette, watching his little brother’s motel room through the windshield. And guess what?
Sam’s not just fine. Oh no. He’s with a chick. Yet fucking again.
Honestly, if Dean ever made a bingo card about his little brother, sneaking around behind Dean’s back with strange women should take up several squares at this point.
First, there was that demon bitch, Meg. Then came witchy little you. And now… well, whoever this brunette chick is.
And sure, in the first ten seconds after finding Sam, Dean felt incredibly relieved. Genuinely fucking relieved. It was the kind that nearly buckled his damn knees when it finally arrived. Because for more than a day, Dean imagined every possible worst case scenario, convinced he was about to find a corpse, a demon trap, or some brand-new nightmare custom-built to specifically ruin his life in the most creative way.
But alas, none of that happened.
No, instead, Sam’s sitting fucking comfortably at a table with a pretty brunette Dean’s never seen before, drinking coffee like his little brother didn’t just spend the last day taking fucking years off Dean’s already probably short lifespan. It feels like his hair turned grayer just within the last five minutes.
Honestly, the audacity of it all is fucking impressive.
And sure, Sam can handle himself. Dean knows that. Hell, Sam probably knows it, too. But knowing something and believing it are two completely different things when every phone call goes straight to voicemail and every scenario one’s brain comes up with somehow ends in a body bag.
So yeah, finding Sam alive had helped. But finding him fucking flirting his ass off was another matter entirely.
Dean squints toward the motel room yet again. The girl laughs at something Sam says. Sam smiles in return. And just like that, Dean discovers a brand new emotion.
Offense.
Not because Sam’s smiling. God knows Dean would rather see that than whatever expression his brother wore after their fight in River Grove.
No, the offensive part is that Sam looks fine. Completely fucking fine.
Dean spent the last twenty-four hours preparing for tragedy only to discover his little brother apparently wandered into a meet-cute. And for a microsecond, Dean even was proud of Sammy. That pride faded quickly, though.
Un-fucking-believable. Truly.
His gaze then drifts back toward the brunette again, studying her through the glass. Pretty. Definitely pretty. Not Jessica pretty. Nobody’s Jessica pretty.
Well, one woman he can think of is Jessica pretty – a girl who also ironically met his brother behind Dean’s back, but he’s not ready for that admission yet.
And yeah, sure, the brunette chick is still pretty enough that Dean can understand why Sam hasn’t exactly been prioritizing family communication.
Still, people call Dean a womanizer, but at least he’s fucking honest about it and doing it out in the open in front of everyone, you know?
That realization settles somewhere between amusement and irritation. Mostly irritation. A little amusement.
“You sneaky little bastard…”
The words leave before he can stop them. Across the parking lot, Sam remains blissfully unaware, though. Probably for the best.
Because, truthfully, Dean’s not entirely sure how he’d explain any of this – the relief, the anger, the stalking like a creep, and the overwhelming urge to drag Sam into the Impala and yell at him for approximately three hours straight at full volume.
And then there’s the equally overwhelming urge to leave Sam exactly where he is because he’s clearly alive, clearly safe, and apparently doing just fine without Dean hovering over his shoulder.
That last thought sits badly and probably hurts the fucking most. And Dean can’t even help but agree with that sentiment.
Sam’s always been independent and more than capable of making his own decisions. He clearly doesn’t need his big brother.
But Dean? He’s not so sure he can say the same thing about himself.
Sure, he can handle himself alone perfectly fine. It’s just, most days, he really doesn’t want to. He doesn’t like it. Downright hates it, in fact. That probably makes him weaker than Sam.
His green eyes then flick to the empty passenger seat before he can stop himself, and the sight punches harder than it should. Because the truth is, Sam leaving was never just about Sam leaving.
Maybe you and Bobby were right. Maybe Sam just needed space.
Is that what’s waiting for Dean down the line? An empty passenger seat?
Honestly, it would be so much easier if this were a hunt. Easier if there was a monster. Easier if somebody needed saving. Instead, he’s left staring at the possibility that Sam simply didn’t want to be around him.
And damn, if that one doesn’t fucking sting. Death by a thousand cuts or something like that…
Then, suddenly, the passenger door flies wide open, and Dean nearly jumps out of his fucking skin, already reaching for his gun under his jacket.
“What the–”
And then, you, of all the damn people in this godforsaken world, slide casually into the seat next to him. “Hey,” you say and close the door behind you.
Dean’s brows rise to his fucking hairline as he stares at you, wide-eyed beyond belief. “…Hey?!”
“Yeah, hey,” you repeat and scrunch your brow, like you’re suddenly talking to a complete moron. “I know you’re not used to a lot of normal people, but ‘hey’ is generally an internationally recognized greeting among humans.”
“You’re not human,” is all he says as his mind draws a complete blank.
“Ouch, thanks,” you huff and roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Took you barely five seconds to make me regret coming here.”
Dean opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he can think of an appropriate response. “Why the hell are you here?”
You scoff, shaking your head. “Gee, ever heard of a thank you?”
“No, I mean–…” Dean takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”
“Yeah, that’s what you said,” you admit and then shoot him a raised look. “But honestly? You sounded desperate over the phone, my dude. And I know that tone. I worked at a suicide hotline in college. You sounded like you were this close to throwing yourself onto train tracks.”
“That’s not–” Dean wants to argue but stops, because yeah. He was admittedly kind of desperate. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice. “How did you get here so fast?”
“Oh, I flew here on my broom,” you reply nonchalantly. There’s not a blink of an eye or even a smile when you say those words.
You give him a dry look. “No, you dumbass. I took a plane,” you huff, sounding almost offended. “I was joking. What’s wrong with you?”
Dean’s only baffled for another second before an amused smile sneaks onto his face. It’s the first time in a while he’s moved those muscles. And just like that, something inside the Impala finally settles. Even the smile lingers longer than it probably should.
It doesn’t erase the last twenty-four hours, not completely, but it’s enough to make him forget why he’s here or what’s waiting for him across the parking lot, even if it is just for a heartbeat.
The crushing pressure behind his ribs eases ever so slightly, and it’s a goddamn strange realization, honestly. He hasn’t really expected that.
Hasn’t expected you to come at all.
Hell, he even specifically told you not to come. And yet, here you are, filling the passenger seat like you belong there.
And there it is. Fuck. He’s screwed, isn’t he? He can’t have those thoughts, not about you or anyone for that matter, but especially about you. But the thought still catches him off-guard.
Shit.
It’s not even about the here and now. It’s about what all of this, you being right next to him, reminds him of – all the times you’ve been right next to him before.
In dreams. In hallucinations. In memories.
For weeks now, those dreams have been showing up whenever they damn well please. Strange fragments of a childhood he doesn't remember having, following him around like ghosts. Sometimes they’re vague. Sometimes they’re painfully clear. But one thing never changes.
You.
You’re always there. The tiny terror who followed him around like a shadow. The girl who somehow always knew when something was wrong. The girl who found him even when he deliberately tried not to be found.
Especially when he tried not to be found and just wanted the world to leave him alone.
And despite all fucking common sense, you came now as well.
Not for Sam. For him.
Dean still doesn’t understand what those dreams really are or what they even mean. At this point, he’s even stopped pretending he has answers. But sitting here right now, watching you casually settle into his passenger seat after crossing half the damn country because you thought he sounded upset, the line between dream and reality suddenly feels a lot thinner and blurrier than he’d like.
Dream-you and actual-you aren’t supposed to overlap this much. Yet, somehow, they keep doing exactly that.
Dean catches himself looking at you, and apparently, it’s long enough to draw your attention.
“What?”
Dean blinks, swallowing as he tries to shrug his shoulders casually. “What what?”
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
Obviously, the only reasonable solution to salvage this whole awkward situation is to immediately avert his gaze and pretend it never happened.
“Wasn’t staring. Don’t flatter yourself, Sabrina,” he scoffs.
Do people call this gaslighting? He’s not sure. Probably.
“Uh-huh.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Sure.”
Dean clears his throat and gestures toward the windshield in hopes it offers enough distraction. “You gonna help me stalk my brother now or what?”
At least, that earns a snort. Your eyes then finally follow his toward the motel room, and for a moment, you simply watch.
Sam laughs at something the brunette says. The brunette laughs right back. Your lips hike to an amused smile.
“Oh.” You grin slyly. “Well, good for him. Honestly, you made it sound like Sam was dying. Turns out he’s just hooking up.”
Dean snorts, shaking his head. “He’s not hooking up. Trust me.”
Your brow scrunches as you glance at him. “How do you know?”
“I know,” Dean replies simply, a small smile dancing on his lips.
Sam doesn’t have enough game for that. One would think he does, considering he’s handsome, six-foot-four, and college-educated, but his little brother usually manages to wash that all down the drain by carrying too many textbooks. He might as well tattoo uber nerd across his forehead.
“Is that why you haven’t gone in yet?” Your brow then furrows a little more as you tilt your head at Dean, suspicion growing. “Wait… how long have you been sitting here and watching them?”
Dean twitches his shoulders casually but avoids looking at you. “Not that long. Thirty minutes, give or take.”
“Dude,” you gasp, mouth falling open. “You’ve been watching your brother flirt through a window for half an hour? Who the hell does that?”
“I was making sure he’s okay, alright?” he defends. “Nothing more to it.”
“Whatever you say, perv,” you mutter, unconvinced. “God, please tell me you would’ve left before they’d gotten naked.”
“What?!” Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again because he doesn’t actually have a defense prepared for that one.
“I mean, ew.” You visibly cringe. “What the hell is wrong with you, huh?”
“With me?”
“Yes, with you,” you insist. “You’re conducting surveillance on your brother’s love life. You told me he ran away.”
“He did run away, and it’s not surveillance,” Dean argues.
“You’ve literally been parked here for half an hour. Do you even realize how weird that is?”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, the point is that Sam disappeared for twenty-four hours and still managed to have a more productive social life than you,” you counter.
Dean furrows his brow. “What d’you know about my social life, huh?”
“I can tell that you barely have one,” you quip. “I mean, you practically freaked out when I said hey.”
“That’s not why I freaked out! You just jumped into my car, alright?”
You snort, amused. “Whatever you say.”
Dean shoots you a sour look. He wants to argue. Really, really wants to argue. Unfortunately, however, every argument he comes up with somehow makes him sound only creepier. You seem to reach the same conclusion because your expression shifts from horror to full amusement, your grin growing wider.
“Wow.” You whistle lowly, chuckling. “I haven’t known you for that long, but I think this is a new low for you.”
“Oh, shut up,” Dean huffs and rolls his eyes back. “You’re probably just jealous.”
You turn your head slowly toward him, raising a brow. “Of what exactly?”
Dean silently nods toward the motel room, where Sam’s still vividly chatting with the brunette chick.
You snort a loud laugh. “I’m sorry… You honestly think I’m jealous of the girl Sam’s with?”
“Just sayin’…” Dean shrugs. “You and Sam have gotten pretty close. Gotta sting he’s replacing you like that.”
Your mouth opens and closes before finding a response. He’d almost call your speechlessness a win. Almost.
“Did they drop you on your head a lot when you were a kid by any chance?” you shoot back, staring at him in disbelief. “Trust me. I have zero interest in Sam. Have you forgotten I have a boyfriend? You actually met him a few weeks ago. Remember that?”
Oh, how could Dean ever forget tall, confident, and handsome military man? He’s painfully aware of that guy because Cameron looked like the kind of dude who actually belongs in someone’s future. The kind of man women are supposed to end up with.
You specifically.
He’s not a hunter. Not somebody carrying enough baggage around to sink a damn cruise ship. He’s just… normal. Sorta like you.
Across the parking lot, Sam smiles again as the brunette touches his arm. And for one stupid heartbeat, Dean’s brain supplies the obvious comparison.
Sam’s smart and stable and just the right amount of caring. Unlike Dean, his little brother can easily pass as normal. Ordinary. He’s proven that time and time again. And honestly, if somebody had to pick between the Winchester brothers, Dean’s not entirely sure why they’d ever choose him.
“Speaking of your boyfriend,” Dean says, clearing the lump in his throat subtly. But he’ll be damned if he looks at you now. “Where’s Army guy? Surprised he’s letting you come here alone.”
You cock an eyebrow in slight amusement. “Letting me?”
“You know what I mean,” Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “He did threaten me.”
“Yeah, and you deserved it,” you counter. “You keep forgetting the part where you tried to shoot me.”
“You ever gonna get over that?”
“Attempted murder?” You raise a brow, then shake your head with a dry smile. “Probably not.”
“Great,” Dean huffs and sinks deeper into his seat.
“Cameron left again,” you share after a beat then, finding Dean’s eyes. “Got deployed.”
Dean bobs his head quietly. “You know where?”
“Not really.” You shake your head, shrugging. “Paige left as well. Her boss threatened to fire her if she didn’t come back soon. House got kinda empty,” you admit. “Maybe that’s why I came, too. You were admittedly kinda a nice distraction.”
Dean nods, swallowing. He refrains from saying that he likes being a distraction for you.
Man, maybe you’re right. There clearly is something wrong with him, isn’t there?
You then find his eyes and look at him, offering him a soft smile. Softer than he’s ever seen before. “You finally wanna tell me what’s going on between you and Sam now?”
Dean shrugs it off, staring out through the windshield again. “What makes you think something’s going on?”
“I know Sam didn’t just run away without any reason,” you point out, but it’s not an accusation. It’s gentle, like you’re touching him with kid gloves for once or handling a wounded animal instead of arguing with him.
God, it’s almost weird.
For a moment, he considers lying. It’s his first instinct, honestly – crack a joke, deflect, pretend nothing happened.
Business as usual, right?
Except he’s fucking exhausted. Not physically. Not even emotionally. Just tired. So, so goddamn tired. Tired in that deep, aching way where carrying something around for too long starts feeling heavier than simply setting it down.
“My dad told me something before he died.”
The words just leave his mouth before Dean even fully decides to say them. And beside him, you go completely still at that, but he keeps his eyes stubbornly trained on the motel room.
“He made me promise something.”
Your brow furrows slightly. “What kind of something?”
Dean scoffs a humorless laugh, rubbing the tension out of his jaw. “Eh. The kind that screws up your entire life, you know.”
That seems to get your full attention now. He can feel it without even looking.
“My dad thought there was something wrong with Sam,” he continues slowly, chewing on each syllable like it’s made out of glass.
“What d’you mean… wrong?” you ask carefully.
Dean drags a hand down his face and exhales harshly. "The visions. The psychic stuff. All of it.”
“What does that mean?” You shake your head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“I think he thought it had to do with the demon, you know?” Dean finally looks at you, even if only briefly. His voice sounds flatter and more distant, like he’s reciting somebody else’s nightmare instead of his own. “I mean the demon said as much. It said it had plans for all those kids. Kids like Sam.”
You pinch your brows together, clearly digesting each word. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean–”
“Yeah, it does,” Dean cuts you off and looks at you. “Dad said if I can’t save Sam–… if I can’t save him, then…”
“Then, what?” you ask, leaning forward. “Dean… then, what?”
“Then I might have to kill him,” he finally manages to push the words out. One would think it would get easier the more often he has to say it, but it feels like the contrary and it’s just getting harder and harder.
You blink faster than a humming bird fluttering its wings, your mouth agape as you stare at him in sheer disbelief, like he just confessed to burying bodies in the backyard.
“Whoa.”
Dean huffs a noise that almost sounds like a laugh if he didn’t know better.
Because, yeah, whoa pretty much sums it up.
“Your dad told you you’d have to kill Sam?” you check for good measure like you aren’t sure if you’ve heard him right the first time around.
Unfortunately, you did, though.
Dean nods. “Yup. That’s the short version.”
"And you told Sam this?”
Dean grimaces, nodding again. “Yesterday, yeah.”
You stare at him for another second. “Yesterday?” You lift an eyebrow. “I thought your dad died months ago.”
“He did,” Dean confirms. “But I promised him I wouldn’t tell Sam, alright? Not that I could’ve if I wanted to. Physically wanted to puke my guts out every time I thought about it.”
You bite down on your lips. “Starting to see why Sam left,” you mutter under your breath.
Dean’s head snaps toward you, shooting you a look. “See, that’s not really helpful.”
“Not trying to be,” you huff and meet his eyes. “But Dean, seriously, what reaction were you expecting, huh?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.
“‘Cause if somebody sat me down and said, ‘Hey, by the way, our dead father thinks I might have to murder you someday,’ I probably wouldn’t stick around either,” you point out bluntly.
“Yeah, I get it.” Dean groans. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I’m just saying–”
“I know,” Dean snaps, exhales a deep breath, and then looks at you, his gaze softening slightly. “I know, alright?”
His frustration came out sharper than intended, but his regret was also immediate. You seem to notice that because you don’t argue back. You simply watch him and wait patiently.
Arguably, your boundless understanding feels a lot worse than any lecture.
Dean lets out a long breath, gathering his thoughts. “I wasn’t gonna do it, you know?”
You tilt your head. “Dean–”
“No, I’m serious, alright?” he tells you. “I wasn’t.” A small, humorless laugh escapes him as he rubs his mouth. “Not sure I ever could, you know?”
For some reason, his voice seems to carry enough sincerity and conviction that you actually stop talking and arguing with him for once. It’s like you know that part is true and he means it with every broken fiber of his being.
Dean never planned on following through. Never even considered it.
At least, not really. Not consciously. The problem is that his dad’s voice has been living in the back of his head ever since. It’s a splinter he can’t pull out. A question he can’t stop asking.
What if?
What if Dad was right? What if the demon really does have plans? What if Sam really is different? What if–
“Dean.” Your voice cuts cleanly through the spiral.
He blinks out of it and looks at you. “What?”
“I believe you.” You shrug your shoulders the slightest bit and offer him a small smile. “We’ll figure it out, alright?”
Dean nods and swallows thickly but has to avert his gaze. It just all takes him back to River Grove again, to Salem, to Duane Tanner, to you.
Every time he’s pointed a gun at someone in his life or raised a weapon at a monster, he’s told himself there was a damn reason for it. Hell, he firmly believed it with every cell in his body.
He saves people. He doesn’t hurt them. That’s the job. That’s always been the job. Nothing more, nothing less.
But lately, things stopped being as simple. It’s not straight-forward anymore. It’s not easily distinguishable.
He would’ve shot Duane. He would’ve shot you. And he would’ve told himself it was the right thing to do, that there was a damn reason for all of it, till he was probably blue in the face.
And Sam, his smart and kind-hearted little brother, stopped him and told him to think twice. To really fucking look. And Dean did. So how can Sam ever be evil? Sammy’s the good one. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
“Huh.”
Upon your utterance, Dean’s focus snaps back to you in the passenger seat. He raises a brow, curious. “What?”
“Oh, uh, nothing,” you brush it off, but your brows are pinched again, so he knows you’re putting together puzzle pieces.
“You were thinking about something,” he presses, but it’s not demanding. If anything, he’s aiming for encouraging. You’re smart. Probably as smart as Sam. Dean could use a dose of that right now. “Just tell me.”
You lick your lips hesitantly but relent. “I was just thinking about Sam’s aura,” you note carefully. “I didn’t really pay a lot of attention to it before. At least not what the color means exactly.”
Dean’s brow creases slightly. “What d’you mean? You said it was purple, right?”
“Among other things, yes,” you confirm. “But it’s not just the color itself, you know? It’s the shade that matters. What it’s mixed with. There’s a lot of nuance to it.”
“So…?” Dean tries to follow along. He really does, but admittedly, a lot of that stuff still sounds whack to him. He knows you’re still usually right about it, though. You’ve always been right about him.
“So, Sam’s purple is darker than most psychics I’ve met before,” you explain, and Dean instantly doesn’t like where this is going. “His aura’s more mulberry. Mine, on the other hand, is–”
“Lupine, I know,” Dean shoots like a pistol and finishes your sentence before he can stop himself. The answer comes so automatically that Dean doesn’t even realize he’s said it till your head snaps toward him.
And for a full damn second, you simply stare. “You actually remember that?”
Shit.
Dean averts his eyes out the windshield again, playing it cool. “Don’t read too much into it.”
“Kind of hard not to…” you mutter with a slightly teasing tone in your voice.
“Well, try.”
Your lips twitch the tiniest bit before you bite back the smile. Then your attention drifts back toward Sam.
“My point is that Lupine has more white in it,” you explain. “You understand what I’m saying?”
Dean nods slowly, following along as best as he can. Black stands for bad. White means good. That’s what you’re going for, right?
“You’re saying Sam’s evil,” he deduces.
“What? No.” Your brow scrunches. “It’s literally not as black and white. It just means… something darker seems to be pulling at Sam, specifically his psychic abilities. It doesn’t mean his abilities are bad or that Sam is. It just means before you told me all of this, I never had a reason to think about it. Does that make sense now?”
Admittedly, Dean doesn’t understand it entirely. None of it still sounds good in any way, shape, or form. But weirdly, he trusts you.
“I have to tell you something else,” you say then, drawing his attention to you once more. As he watches you, you’re almost chewing your damn lip bloody. “Promise you won’t shoot me if I tell you or harm me in any other way?”
Dean rolls his eyes slightly. “I wouldn’t hurt you. Figured you’d know that by now.”
“Oh, how reassuring,” you reply wryly and then clear your throat with some awkwardness. “Don’t freak out, but I kind of did a tarot reading on you guys back in Sleepy Hollow.”
But Dean? Oh, he doesn’t freak out like you expect him to. No, instead, he snorts a chuckle, clearly amused, and throws you a sideways glance. “Sweetheart, you really think I didn’t know that?”
“Wait…” You frown. “You know?”
“You weren’t as sneaky as you’d like to think, Miss Cleo,” he quips. “So, what fortunes did you tell for us, huh?”
“Okay, first of all, it’s not fortune telling,” you note, to which Dean only raises his hands in surrender, clearly placating you. “I pulled three cards for Sam.”
Dean leans back in his seat, and, against all common sense, he’s even listening. Usually, he’s completely tuning out when it comes to this crap.
“The Magician, the Ace of Cups, and the Devil,” you add.
And that last one? Yeah, needless to say, but that one immediately lands wrong in his stomach. Probably because it’s literally called The Devil. Seriously, what good can come of that, right? If he’s ever heard of a bad omen before, this would be it.
“Comforting,” he mutters wryly.
“It’s not what you think,” you try to explain. “The Devil doesn’t necessarily mean evil.”
Dean scoffs at that. “Pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks that, Sabrina,” he says. “Except maybe Satanists. You ever seen Paradise Lost?”
Your brow knits slightly. “Seen? Isn’t that a poem by John Milton?”
“It’s a documentary about the trials of the West Memphis Three,” he explains. “You know, those teenagers who got accused of doing satanic rituals back in the 90s. Had a lot of Metallica songs in it.”
“What’s that got to do w–”
“I’m just sayin’, most people would look at that as a bad omen, you know?”
You let out a little sigh. “Thank you for that groundbreaking observation.”
Dean smirks coolly. “You’re welcome, Sabrina.”
For once, you don’t rise to the bait, however. Instead, your expression turns thoughtful again.
“The first time I interpreted it, I thought it represented obsession,” you share. “As in, being chained to something. Back then, I thought it meant revenge, purpose, control…” Your brow pinches the tiniest bit again.
“And now?” Dean finds himself asking.
You exhale slowly through your nose. “Now, I’m wondering if maybe I underestimated what exactly he’s chained to."
And just like that, Dean feels the ground shift beneath his boots again.
“How the hell is that supposed to be better?”
You shrug your shoulders defenselessly. “I didn’t say it would be. Just said it doesn’t mean evil-evil. It’s just darkness.”
And there it is again – another drop of proof that Sam isn’t as normal as Dean wishes he’d be.
That’s the real goddamn problem, though, isn’t it?
It’s not about Sam. It’s about him. Everything keeps circling back to the same thing. John didn’t hand Sam a burden when he died. He handed it to Dean.
Next to him, you seem to realize the conversation has drifted into more dangerous territory. The teasing vanished a while ago, as did the jokes. You’re quiet now, your fingers absently tracing the seam of the passenger seat while you think. Dean almost wishes you’d start arguing again. Anything would be easier than this.
“I know you don’t actually think Sam’s evil,” you break the silence softly.
And his answer?
“No.”
It’s instant and instinctive. Because despite everything, despite the visions and the demon prophecies and his dad’s warning and every nightmare that’s followed Dean since he died, that answer has never ever changed.
Sure, Sam is goddamn stubborn and annoying in that little brother way and so freaking arrogant sometimes. On top of that, he’s also way too willing to sacrifice himself. But evil?
Nope, never. The certainty of it almost fucking hurts.
You study him carefully. “Then what’s the problem?”
Dean gives a short, humorless laugh. Because how the hell is he supposed to explain this? How does he explain a fear that doesn’t even fully make sense inside his own damn head?
“It’s not about what Sammy’s now,” he says slowly and finds your eyes. “It’s about… what if. You know, my dad spent my whole life teaching me how to pull a trigger.” He rubs a hand across his jaw.
You don’t interrupt him, rush him, or even attempt to fill the silence. You just wait for him to finish, and somehow that’s a lot worse. He doesn’t deserve that kindness – especially from you. Not after what he’d done.
“Every hunt. Every monster. Every decision,” he continues. “I trusted him.”
And honestly? That might be the fucking hardest part of it all – the goddamn trust. Because John Winchester wasn’t just his father; he was the blueprint. The rulebook. The thing Dean measured every damn decision he ever made in his life against. And now? That same blueprint suddenly has a crack running straight through the middle.
What’s he supposed to do with that?
“What if Dad was right, you know? I mean, what then?” The question slips out before Dean can stop it.
It’s the thought he’s been choking on since the stupid hospital. He doesn’t believe Sam’s evil or dangerous or any other thing people may want to claim. But what if his dad knew something Dean doesn’t? And if John did know something, what happens when Dean finds out what it is?
Would he pull the trigger? Like he wanted to do with Duane or you or any other thing he came across and convinced himself was evil?
If Dean points a gun at someone, there must be a reason. That’s how hunters survive. That’s how Dean survives. He always believes completely, absolutely, and without question. The same way he believed pointing a gun at you was the right thing. The same way he believed every order his father ever gave him.
Reason, duty, necessity – a hunter’s favorite excuses.
Now, however, that logic has another face – Sam’s. And suddenly, it becomes clearer why his little brother left. Because if Dean ever starts looking for answers, real answers, what happens if he finally finds one? What happens if the trail eventually points somewhere Dean doesn’t even want it to? Somewhere his dad already thought it would?
Because answers have consequences. Answers become decisions. Decisions become actions. And Dean is suddenly horrifyingly aware of where that road might end eventually.
“You know, I never signed up for this. Any of this,” he says with a dark scoff. “I can hunt monsters, sure. I know how to do that. Vampires, demons, ghosts… You name it, and I can kill it. Things with claws and fangs and glowing eyes. Those are simple. They give you a reason. They make the decision for you, y’know? But this?” He shakes his head, swallowing harshly. “I didn’t fucking sign up for this. Dad did. He made the choice. And now somehow it’s mine.”
For a long moment, neither of you speaks then, but the silence isn’t awkward. It isn’t uncomfortable or even strange. It’s simply there, present and steady.
You don’t argue. Don’t tell him he’s right or wrong. Don’t offer some neat little solution that magically fixes everything. You just sit beside him, listening and understanding. And Dean realizes he can’t fucking remember the last time somebody let him do this.
Just this.
Be exhausted. Be scared. Be angry. At least not without asking him to carry somebody else’s weight, too.
Dean stares out the windshield again. Across the parking lot, Sam’s still there. Still alive. Still chasing answers. Still doing exactly what he's been doing since all of this started.
And maybe that’s the fucking problem in the end.
Dean understands why Sam wants to know. He really does. Hell, Dean would probably want to know, too. If it were happening to him. If he were the one having visions. If he were the one the demon wanted. If he were the one carrying whatever the hell this thing is.
But he’s not, is he?
Instead, he’s the guy standing next to it, watching it happen and waiting for the next shoe to drop. Waiting for the next terrible thing. Waiting for some answers that somehow always manage to make everything even worse.
“I just wanted him to stop. For one goddamn minute, I wanted him to stop looking. Stop finding answers,” he admits at last, licking his chapped lips. “I know that sounds selfish.”
Surprisingly, you shake your head, though. “It doesn’t. I get it,” you say and huff a small laugh that’s lacking any humor. “Trust me. More than you know.”
“Yeah, maybe you do,” Dean agrees. After all, Sam managed to drag you into it as well. That’s truly the only reason you’re here. “He keeps acting like if he finds enough answers, it’ll all make sense.”
You look at him, tilting your head slightly. “And you don’t think it will?”
Dean lets out a hollow laugh. “Dad spent twenty-two years looking for answers,” he replies. “He found the demon. He found out about the other kids. He found out about whatever the hell’s happening to Sam. Look where that got him.” He runs a hand down his face. “I just wanted him to slow down, you know? One minute where we weren’t chasing something. He couldn’t. That’s why he left.”
You follow his gaze to Sam and the girl in the motel room and lean back in your seat. “I don’t think you were asking for that much,” you say quietly.
Dean slowly glances over at you, his brows raising in sheer disbelief.
You snort at his expression. “I’m serious.” You shrug, amused. “I mean, dude, you found out your dad basically handed you the worst responsibility imaginable and then died. And now Sam wants answers immediately, which I get as well. But… I don’t know. Maybe taking five minutes to process your entire life imploding isn’t actually that unreasonable, you know?”
A small laugh escapes Dean. Granted, you were the last person he ever expected to agree with him.
“Five minutes, huh?” He teasingly cocks a brow.
You roll your eyes, but it lacks the usual annoyance. “If we’re being generous,” you quip, giving him a small smile. “Besides,” you add, offering him another shrug, “we’ll figure it out.”
Dean looks at you, the corners of his mouth twitching the slightest bit. “That’s your pep talk? Pretty weak.”
“Shut up.”
He chuckles and feels the knot in his chest loosen enough to breathe again for the first time all day.
And sure, nothing’s truly fixed. His dad is still dead. Sam is still looking for answers. The demon is still out there somewhere. But somehow the weight doesn’t feel quite as crushing with somebody else carrying a tiny corner of it.
That realization is dangerous and uncomfortable enough that Dean naturally decides to ruin the moment.
“So,” he starts, clearing his throat subtly. “You said you read both our cards.”
Your eyes narrow instantly, already shaking your head. “Oh no, forget it. We’re not doing that.”
“C’mon, you told me Sam’s,” he argues, chuckling. “What about mine, huh?”
“I’m taking yours to my grave,” you quip.
Dean snorts. “That bad, huh?”
You only smirk in return. “Oh, I think you’re safer not knowing.”
“Huh.” He leans back in his seat and smacks his lips. “Honestly? I weirdly believe you.”
You giggle in response. And for a moment, everything feels almost normal. Your smile still lingers when the first gunshot slams through the motel window across the parking lot.
Dean’s head snaps toward the sound in an instant just in time to see Sam dive out of his chair. Every muscle in Dean’s body locks as the moment shatters within a second.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters as he already tears open the car door. “Stay here.”
“Dean, wait–”
But he’s already on the move before he can hear you finish that sentence.
One minute, you’re listening to Dean Winchester, of all people, emotionally vomit in the driver’s seat of his precious car. The next, some maniac tries to shoot his little brother through a motel window in broad daylight.
Honestly, you should probably stop expecting normal things to happen around the Winchester family at this point.
The gunshot rings across the parking lot so loudly and suddenly that your brain barely has time to register it. Glass explodes from Sam’s motel room before the shouting starts.
“Son of a bitch.”
Beside you, Dean is already moving. Of course he is. Apparently, emotional vulnerability only lasts approximately three and a half seconds before the universe decides that’s enough character development for one day.
“Dean–”
“Stay here.” The order arrives over his shoulder as he throws open the driver’s door.
Then he’s gone. Just like that.
You stare after him for exactly half a second. Truthfully, at this point, you’re starting to think Dean just keeps giving you instructions exclusively so you can ignore them again.
Because seriously? The guy spends the last hour confessing his deepest fears, admits he’s hanging together by what appears to be a single fraying thread, tells you all he wants is one goddamn minute to breathe, and then immediately sprints toward an active shooter.
Amazing. Truly. No notes from you, except maybe some advice to seek out therapy.
Obviously, you’re not staying here and listening to him, stepping right out into the bright afternoon sun.
Across the parking lot, movement then catches your eye. Sam and the brunette are both on the floor now beneath the shattered motel window, scrambling through broken glass and overturned furniture. They’re alive and unharmed – at least for the moment.
You briefly hesitate because, technically, there are two Winchesters in danger right now. You’re supposed to be their guardian witch or something like that, right? It’s your job to protect them, but you can’t split yourself in two or clone yourself either. Honestly, the decent thing for them to do would be to stay together at all times and make your life easier, but you also can’t see that happening anytime soon.
You glance back at the motel and then at the direction Dean disappeared. Sam is being shot at. Dean is chasing the person doing the shooting. One of those situations concerns you significantly more.
It ain’t Sam, by the way. Not because you care about Dean more. Obviously not. That would be ridiculous. Moreover, you know they’re both equally capable and even equally smart. They can handle themselves. The difference is that Sam seems generally more level-headed. He never makes decisions that significantly shorten his life expectancy. The younger one simply possesses something the older one clearly lacks:
Self-preservation.
Sam thinks things through. Dean launches himself at problems like a martyr – a completely moronic one at that. He’s even currently demonstrating it at high speed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter and run right after the stupid knight before he manages to stab himself with his uber-righteous sword.
As you round the corner of the building, the motel disappears behind before you look up. Jesus, why do shooters always have to hide on rooftops? How did Dean even get up there so fast? You always hated PE in high school.
With a sigh, you grab the railing and start climbing the fire escape. It’s still your least favorite form of cardio. By the time you reach the rooftop, your lungs are already protesting, your hair is sticking to the back of your neck from the humid Indiana afternoon, and the bright daylight feels almost offensive.
Situations like this should happen at night. At least, darkness has the decency to look dramatic, but instead, the sky is goddamn azure-blue and the sun is smiling down. Meanwhile, Dean Winchester is getting his ass kicked.
So far, it honestly all tracks, considering your past experiences with the Winchesters.
You heave yourself onto the rooftop just in time to see Dean hit the concrete hard enough that the impact causes you to wince. A second later, the man standing over him drives a fist into Dean’s jaw.
Ouch.
You then remember your own training, thanks to Mia. SRA-C. Which stands for sex, race, age, and clothing. You don’t expect to give that description to the next cop, considering both Winchesters have an extensive criminal record themselves, but for sake of describing the perp, it’s still quite handy.
In this case, the stranger is male, Black, and in his late twenties to early thirties, wearing a dark blue flannel over a gray henley and a pair of jeans. He’s broad-shouldered and solidly built, but not monster-broad. Not supernatural broad. Just the sort of broad that suggests he could comfortably throw another human being through a wall if sufficiently motivated.
At this exact moment, he seems very motivated.
Dean tries to push himself up, but the stranger immediately plants a boot in his chest and sends him crashing back down.
Welp, this is less than ideal.
“Dean!” It escapes you in a panic before you instantly cover your mouth.
And just like that, the stranger notices you before Dean does. Like a hound lifting its head at the scent of a fox in the forest, his eyes snap up and lock onto you.
To be fair, you’re a CSI. You’re never actively involved during an ongoing crime. Your job is to come in after. This isn’t exactly your field of expertise.
“Well, well, who’s your pretty friend, Dean?” The stranger shoots you an eerie grin, which automatically causes a lump to form in your throat.
“Dammit. I told you to stay in the car,” Dean grunts through gritted teeth, clearly not happy with you.
“I’m trying to help you,” you hiss defensively.
“Well done so far,” he shoots back.
Seriously, sarcasm? That’s what you get for trying to save him? Honestly, next time, you’re gonna pick Sam.
The stranger’s grin then widens ever so slightly as his attention settles fully on you now. Not Dean. You.
Apparently, you’ve just become the more interesting problem. The realization sends a cold shiver down your spine.
Dean seems to notice that little fact as well, but you’re currently a lot less concerned with whatever creepy vibe this guy has going on than you are with the fact that he’s actively winning, which means your brain immediately defaults to the most obvious solution:
Magic.
Of course. Magic is always the solution.
Locked door? Magic.
Lost keys? Magic.
Ancient curse? More magic.
Large angry stranger beating Dean Winchester into the concrete? Definitely magic.
Your fingers curl instinctively, but not enough to cast anything yet. It’s just enough that you can already feel the current stirring beneath your skin – the familiar pull, that quiet pressure, the thing that’s always there waiting for you to reach for it.
You need to think this through, though. Judging by the guy’s aura, although very angry and slightly unhinged, he’s clearly human and not some supernatural being, which means restraint is slightly in order. You’re pretty sure you’re in the business of slaying demons and not humans.
Luckily, you’ve recently discovered you’re fairly good at improvising. So the true question is:
What would Buffy Summers do?
There are no plants or vines nearby, but technically, you assume you could probably conjure up a tree or something like it up from somewhere. Seems a little elaborate, though.
What else?
Fire. You could probably set the guy on fire like a candle. After burning that demon trap into the floor of your lab a few weeks ago, you’ve learned you can do that. Surely, if you can do it to cheap linoleum, you can do it to a human being as well.
But again, that seems over the top and you’re not in the business of killing people, including the evil ones. Moreover, if Dean sees you set a man on fire, he might classify you as incredibly dangerous and kill you right after, even if you saved his life.
You’ve just spent an hour with this man, telling you how he’s thinking about killing his own brother if he ever turns evil, and you know he loves Sam. Dean doesn’t even like you all that much, so naturally, his inhibitions about killing you would be even lower. You know the guy still has trouble with thinking in shades of gray. Better not risk it and find out how much progress he’s truly made in that way.
Then there’s wind. You admittedly like that idea. You’ve never used wind all that much. Why would you? It’s kind of boring, and what would you even use it for in every day life? Blowing out birthday candles? Fanning yourself?
But a gust of wind that blows the stranger off the roof would be neat right now. Maybe you could even create a mini tornado. It’s the Midwest, after all. No one would bat an eyelash here, right?
The stranger obviously doesn’t notice your silent scheming, but Dean somehow does. His green eyes flick toward your clenched fists for barely half a second and then back to your face.
When you meet his gaze, he shakes his head – small and subtle and almost invisible.
No.
He’s telling you not to do it. Why the hell would he do that? What does he mean? The gesture catches you completely off guard.
You’re currently watching a man beat the absolute hell out of Dean. This seems like a pretty reasonable time for magical intervention.
But Dean’s jaw only locks tightly before another tiny shake of his head follows.
No, don’t.
You don’t understand it, but for some weird reason – after everything that happened in the Impala, after the last hour, after Dean trusted you with things he clearly hasn’t told anybody else – you stop and let magic retreat again.
For one brief second, you recognize relief flashing across Dean’s freckled face, visibly exhaling the tension in his body.
The stranger’s gaze then moves between you and Dean, studying and calculating, like he’s trying to put the pieces together.
“Come here,” he orders you with a nod.
You don’t move, however, only raising a brow. “No offense, dude, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how kidnapping works.”
The stranger’s smile disappears fast after that. The gun appears even faster.
You almost think he’s going to aim it at you because somehow that’s what always happens these days when you meet strange men. But instead, he’s pointing it directly at Dean’s head, and you admittedly like that option even less.
Everything inside you goes rigidly cold. Even Dean freezes in place.
“Last chance,” the stranger says calmly. “Either you come with me voluntarily, or your boyfriend here catches a bullet. I promise I don’t wanna hurt either of you. This is just about Sammy.”
Your brow furrows briefly, your eyes landing back on Dean.
Sam?
Right. That maniac shot at the youngest Winchester. But why?
Judging by the look in Dean’s forest green eyes, he seems to have an idea. He also seems rather annoyed about it. You can tell he’s twitching for an eye roll.
Dean doesn’t look at the gun, however. Doesn’t even look at the stranger. He just keeps looking at you.
There’s no panic in his eyes, though. There isn’t fear. It’s just that same quiet warning as before.
Don’t. Don’t try anything. Don’t do anything stupid.
The irony of Dean Winchester silently telling someone else not to be stupid would almost be funny under different circumstances.
But alas, you exhale slowly and then take a step forward.
The stranger nods once, satisfied. “There we go.”
Before either of you can react, however, the gun vanishes from Dean’s head and a sharp crack echoes across the rooftop in the same breath.
Dean’s body goes limp, collapsing against the concrete.
“Dean!”
“Psst.”
The first thing Dean becomes aware of is the throbbing pain of a headache. It feels a little like Gordon looked at his skull and rearranged a few things for fun in there. It makes him wonder if the psycho hit him with a tire iron instead of the end of a rifle.
Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past the dude.
“Psst.”
Something then bumps his knee.
“Psst, Dean.”
Another nudge follows.
Dean groans before he even opens his eyes and instantly regrets it. The movement sends a fresh spike of pain through his head, making his stomach roll unpleasantly.
“Finally,” you hiss beside him. “I’ve been trying to wake you for half an hour now.”
Dean forces one eye open, and the first thing he sees is you. You’re tied to a chair right next to his, close enough that your knees are touching. Dust clings to your jeans, and a strand of hair has escaped and fallen across your face. You look annoyed, worried, exhausted, and somewhat offended by the entire situation, which, considering recent events, feels appropriate.
More importantly, though, you’re awake, you’re talking, and you’re alive.
He feels the relief surge through his veins at the realization. He was hoping you wouldn’t do something magically stupid that could possibly get you killed. If you ever thought Dean was too black and white in his thinking, you clearly haven’t met Gordon Walker yet.
Dean then takes stock of their surroundings. The place looks like every abandoned building he’s ever been trapped inside. It’s small, not bigger than a cabin or some shed, made entirely out of rotting wood and dust motes. The windows are broken and partially boarded-up, while the walls carry more cracks than a dry desert ground. The ropes bite into his wrists where they’re tied behind the chair as the smell of mildew reaches his nose.
Awesome. Just lovely, really.
Then he hears metal clattering in the adjoining room and notices Gordon’s nowhere near, but he seems to be certainly close by.
God, the guy’s nuts. Dean’s only cursing himself because he should’ve seen this coming from a mile away.
You seem to reach the same conclusion because your expression tightens. “Please tell me you know what’s going on. Who the hell is this guy?”
Dean lets out a slow breath. Where exactly is he even supposed to start?
“Gordon Walker,” Dean replies then. “He’s a fellow hunter.”
“If he’s a fellow hunter, why did he kidnap us and tie us to a chair?” you ask – rightfully so. “Not to mention the murder attempt on Sam.”
Dean purses his lips, clicking his tongue. “Well, last time we ran into him, we kinda pissed him off. Guessin’ this is revenge.”
You scowl deeply. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Well, hey, it’s not technically our fault, okay?” Dean defends.
You, however, only roll your eyes at that. “Hard to believe.”
“It’s true,” he insists. “Actually, I think you’re gonna like this story.”
“We’ll see about that,” you mutter, unconvinced. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
Most people like you probably assume hunters are one big happy family. Truth is, they aren’t. Most of them can’t even stand each other. Some of them are barely housebroken.
And still, somehow, Gordon manages to be the worst of them all.
“A few months ago, me and Sam hunted a vamps’ nest in Montana. Ran into Gordon there and decided to work together,” Dean shares. “Turned out those vamps weren’t hurting anybody, though. They drank animal blood. Slaughtered a few cows, but that’s it.”
Your brow furrows in surprise. “Seriously? I didn’t know vampires could do that.”
“Makes two of us,” Dean scoffs softly. “Anyways, Gordon didn’t really care, though. Still wanted to kill them.”
That earns him a raised look, your lips twitching slightly. “Wow.”
Dean’s eyes flick to you, brow knitting. “What?”
“You let a monster live?” you ask, but Dean instantly recognizes the teasing tone in your voice.
Dean smacks his lips and gives a small shrug. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. Was mostly Sam pushing for it.”
“Yeah, I can see that one more,” you quip, grinning a little. “Still, you actually saved vampires. That’s huge for you. Kinda like getting a junkie away from heroin.”
Dean rolls his eyes back. “Alright, shut up.”
“Guessing Gordon out there didn’t see it that way, though, huh?”
“Nope,” he confirms, popping the p. He sure as hell didn’t.
To Gordon, a monster is a monster. End of discussion. No exceptions. No gray area.
Dean then watches the realization slowly dawn on you and spread across your face.
“Oh,” you breathe, eyes slightly widening. “That’s why you didn’t want me to use magic.”
Dean clicks his tongue in confirmation. “Yup.”
“Aww.” The sound surprises Dean, and God, he hates that stupid smile rising on your lips now. “Were you actually worried about me?”
Damn it.
“No,” he huffs quickly, brushing the insane implication off. “Just–… keep quiet about the whole thing, alright? Don’t mention the M-word or the W-word or anything relating to it. Got it, Sabrina?”
You nod, but you also bite your lips to keep the grin from growing, which only irritates him more.
“Look, Gordon’s not gonna care if you’re helping people," Dean continues quietly, his gaze flicking to Gordon still busy and occupied in the next room. “He doesn’t care if you’re good. Doesn’t care who you save. If he finds out what you are, he’s gonna kill you. Understood?”
The warning lands heavily between the two of you. He watches you swallow harshly. For the first time since waking up, you don’t immediately argue or even make a joke.
Good.
Meanwhile, Dean finds himself thinking something considerably less comfortable. A few months ago, he might’ve agreed with Gordon. Hell, he even sort of did.
Maybe it wasn’t enough to pull the trigger for good, but it was enough to point a gun at you, enough to assume the worst, and enough to see the witch before the human.
The memory leaves a sour taste in his mouth now. Because now? Now, Gordon looking at you and seeing a target just pisses him off.
When the dingy floor creaks, both of you immediately look up as Gordon appears in the doorway carrying a toolbox. The smile on his face makes Dean want to punch something.
“Well,” Gordon says pleasantly, his gaze landing on Dean. “Look who’s awake.”
Dean leans back in the chair and tries to play it cool. “Gordy.”
The crazy hunter’s smile then widens. “Dean.”
Over the next several minutes of conversation that levels up in insanity, Dean slowly discovers that Gordon has become even crazier since the last time they ran into each other.
Initially, he’d assumed this whole thing was about sweet revenge. Honestly, it would’ve made sense. After all, Sam and Dean left him tied to a chair for three days, soaking in his own piss and God knows what else.
Gordon seems exactly petty enough to hold a grudge about something like that. But, as it turns out, the truth is so much worse.
Because Gordon isn’t here over vampires or settling a score. Apparently, he’s here solely because of Sam.
Because of the visions. Because of the psychic kids. Because of the demon.
Because Gordon has somehow convinced himself that Sam Winchester is already halfway to becoming a monster. No evidence required. No trial necessary. Just a conclusion Gordon apparently reached and never bothered revisiting after some low-level demon spilled its damn guts.
Dean argues. Obviously, he argues.
Sam’s a good person. Sam saves people. Sam has more conscience than most hunters Dean’s ever met.
Hell, much like you, Sam probably feels guilty fucking jaywalking.
However, none of it matters. Of course it doesn’t. Hunters are a stubborn breed, and Gordon clearly has already made up his damn mind.
The conversation goes nowhere. Dean knows it. Gordon knows it. Even you seem to realize it by the panicked looks you’re throwing Dean every once in a while. Mostly because every new thing Gordon reveals somehow sounds more insane than the last.
At least, you’re clearly starting to fully understand why Dean wants you to keep the witch thing quiet at all costs. There’s no reasoning with crazy.
Eventually, Gordon falls silent and ends the discussion about Sam. Then his attention drifts past Dean and right toward you.
Shit.
Dean knows what that means and instantly hates it. He’s seen that look before on other hunters. On himself.
Curiosity. Assessment. Evaluation.
The way hunters look at something unusual. Something useful. Something maybe even potentially dangerous. Something that isn’t entirely human in their eyes.
He can’t possibly know, though, right? Gordon’s smart, but he ain’t psychic. He’d probably off himself if he were.
“So, Dean,” Gordon says casually then. “Who’s your girlfriend here?”
You immediately open your mouth, and Dean already knows what wants to spill out. You want to correct Gordon.
“Actually–”
“Yup, girlfriend,” Dean quickly cuts you off. Honestly, Gordon provided him with a great cover there. Random girl is harder to explain than girlfriend. The former would probably draw suspicion, and you’re not nearly equipped enough in hunter lore to pass some hunter test. “Still fresh. Showing her the ropes a little. Just killed her first ghost back in Sleepy Hollow. Was a real head scratcher.”
You narrow your eyes and shoot him a rather bewildered look but luckily don’t argue against it. Dean assumes you’re smart enough to figure out what he’s doing.
Gordon smirks at that and seems to buy it for now.
“You jealous, Gordy?”
But Gordon barely even acknowledges that and decides to ignore him, focusing back on you. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Dean sees the hesitation in your eyes. You’re probably trying to figure out if going by a fake name is smarter than giving him your real one.
C’mon, you know this one. Fake name. Always go with fake.
“Uh… Sabrina,” you answer with a tiny swallow, which could be chalked off to nerves and not necessarily lying.
Good girl.
Dean’s satisfied with that answer, and Gordon seems to accept it as well.
The crazy hunter nods thoughtfully. “Sabrina,” he repeats and then gifts you an all-too harmless smile. “Does that come with a last name?”
Dean closes his eyes briefly because he can already guess where your mind’s wandering.
Please don’t say Spellman. Please. For the love of fucking God…
Dean can see it in your eyes – the tiny bit of panic, the scrambling. But then you seem to catch yourself and pivot.
“Uhm, Milano.”
Dean exhales a little breath of relief, although he’s noting to have a conversation with you later about that one, where you’re probably going to point out again that he uses rock band names himself. He’s going to tell you it’s a different context, though. Gordon’s smarter than most run-of-the-mill cops.
It’s good enough for now, however.
But then, you keep talking, which is less good, and Dean can tell your nerves are completely shot.
“Yeah, uh, my dad’s Italian,” you add. “From Sicily, actually.”
Jesus fucking Christ, stop talking.
Dean already doesn’t like where this is going.
“He’s got ties to the Cosa Nostra, too,” you continue. “So, you know, you better let me and my boyfriend here go unless you wanna wake up with a bloody horse head in your bed.”
Silence follows. Long silence.
Dean stares at the floor and wants to blow a raspberry. Admittedly, he can’t fault you for trying, but he definitely needs to have a chat with you about that if the two of you ever get out of this one alive. He probably should even train you.
Yeah, he definitely needs to train you.
Gordon is studying you, but mostly because he honestly seems to try to decide whether that was the worst lie he’s ever heard in his life.
The real worrying part about this whole thing, though, is that you seem proud of it.
Luckily, Gordon eventually snorts and finds it more amusing than anything else.
His eyes find Dean’s. “Oh, I can see why you like her,” he says, chuckling. But then the smile changes, ringing every alarm bell in Dean’s head. “I’m sure she’ll be a great comfort to you once Sammy’s gone. Gonna make things easier.”
And there it is – the thing Dean hates most about Gordon.
Not the violence. Not the obsession. Not even the insanity.
It’s the way Gordon reduces people and turns them into categories.
Weapons. Threats. Collateral damage.
Dean’s little brother becomes a monster before he’s done anything wrong. You become a replacement. A consolation prize.
And suddenly, Dean finds himself angrier than he’s been all day. Both you and Sam deserve better than that, and Gordon will not hurt either of you if Dean’s still got something to say about it.
Gordon then turns his back and returns to his work of rigging this place with traps and explosives from head to toe, and Dean recognizes the short window of opportunity.
His eyes drop to the floor and to a cluster of vines growing through a crack in the rotting wood. Then they land on you. When you meet his gaze, he motions silently with his chin toward them, and you understand what he wants you to do in an instant.
Well, team work does make the dream work, huh? Guess the two of you do make a good team, after all. Who would’ve thought?
For the first time since the rooftop, Dean then gives you the slightest nod.
Go ahead. Now.
Dean then watches your shoulders go rigid beneath the ropes, watches your focus sharpen. To anyone else, it probably wouldn’t look like much – just a girl sitting in a chair.
Dean knows better by now, though, and he’s pretty sure the two of you are not getting a second chance at escape if this little plan fails.
The vines near the floorboards then tremble and stretch the tiniest bit, barely noticeable from afar. It’s easy to miss, and that’s exactly what Dean’s counting on.
But then the crack running through the rotting wood widens another fraction of an inch. And another. And all of a sudden, the old floorboards let out a loud, splintering creak.
Gordon freezes, head turning slowly toward the two of you.
Shit.
There’s no confusion on his face, only alert. Gordon’s like a predator who heard something move in the tall grass. Dean feels the opportunity slipping further and further away and starts to worry. If Gordon figures out it’s your doing–
Just in that moment, another creak causes Gordon’s eyes to drop to the floor, then to the vines, and then finally to you.
Everything happens very fast after that.
The realization arrives first. Then comes the creepy smile.
“Well now,” Gordon murmurs, causing Dean’s stomach to sink like a stone.
The hunter moves before either of you can react. One second, he’s standing near the workbench, and in the next, he’s crouched beside your chair. A flash of silver appears in his hand just as fast, and Dean barely registers the syringe before Gordon drives it into your neck.
“What the hell are you doing?!” The words tear out of Dean like a bullet, the chair lurching under him as he throws himself forward and fights tooth and nail against the ropes.
You gasp, the vines stop moving, and for one single heartbeat, confusion flashes across your face before your eyes unfocus and close, your body slumping against the chair and the restraints around.
“What the hell did you do to her?” Dean demands angrily, the only hope that you’re still somewhat alive being the ticking pulse he registers in your throat. It’s weak, though.
Gordon simply pulls the empty syringe free. “Relax,” he assures Dean, but the latter only wants to connect his fist with Gordon’s jaw. “Just a little ketamine, Dean. She’ll be just fine. Promise. I have no intention of hurting her.”
Honestly, that slightly surprises Dean the most so far.
His eyes drift to you again, watching your chest rise and fall. You still seem to be breathing. Thank God. Gordon better hopes it stays that way, or he won’t make it out of that cabin alive.
But the relief of you still being alive only lasts a moment, because Gordon’s attention stubbornly remains fixed on you for some reason. The hunter begins to study you again with a look Dean already fucking hates.
Slowly, Gordon then reaches forward and moves the collar of your shirt aside a tiny inch, and Dean suddenly realizes what the hunter’s looking for. His entire body goes rigid.
No. No, no, no…
Dean knows what’s there and what Gordon will surely find – the Berkano mark sits exposed against your skin, right above your collarbone.
Gordon smiles broadly. “Well, well…” He whistles lowly. “What do we have here?”
Fuck.
How the hell did Gordon even know it would be there? Who the hell told him that?
The hunter crouches lower, studying the mark with open fascination now. Dean wants to rip free from his confines and tear crazy Gordon’s throat out with his bare teeth.
The look on Gordon’s face isn’t one of a man seeing another person. It’s the look of a collector finding something rare.
“Look at that.” Gordon’s smile widens. “A Berkano witch. Seems like you and Sammy got yourselves a witch as a pet, huh? Gotta be the last one, too. According to my research, they all went extinct in the mid nineties.”
Pet.
Dean’s jaw clenches fucking hard enough to hurt.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Gordon,” he growls. “She ain’t a witch, alright?”
Gordon glances toward the vines protruding through the floorboards, then back at Dean, cocking an eyebrow. “No? Again, how stupid do you think I am, Dean?”
Honestly? Pretty damn stupid, he wants to answer, but he wisely keeps that thought to himself for once.
Gordon continues studying the mark. “Don’t worry. Not gonna hurt her.”
Dean lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, forgive me if I don’t exactly trust your bedside manner.”
“Oh no, heard a lot about them,” Gordon shares, shaking his head. “Been helping hunters for centuries. Millennia, even. She could be useful. Especially with a demon war on the horizon.”
There it is.
Useful.
It’s a word, which Dean has slowly come to hate the most.
To Gordon, you’re not a girl or a person or probably even human. You’re useful – like a knife, a trap, or a gun.
Dean feels something nauseating twist inside his chest as a memory surfaces – a torn journal page and his father’s handwriting.
Asset.
At the time, Dean hadn’t thought much about it. Now, the memory makes him feel fucking sick to his stomach.
Because Gordon’s looking at you the exact same way his father once did to – as something, as potential, as a resource, as a goddamn solution to a problem.
A sacrifice.
Dean’s eyes drift to your unconscious form. Toward the loose strand of hair stuck across your cheek. Toward the steady rise and fall of your breathing. Toward the girl who used to sit with him by the pond. Toward the woman who also spent an hour sitting beside him in the Impala while he practically fell apart.
And suddenly, the entire idea feels painfully fucking wrong.
“She doesn’t know anything,” Dean says and catches Gordon’s eyes. “She’s a rookie. Trust me. She’s not as powerful as you think she is.”
It’s mostly a lie, because Dean’s already seen what you can do – rookie or not. But Dean’s also willing to lie all damn day if it keeps Gordon away from you.
“Just let her go, alright?”
“We’ll see,” Gordon says simply and straightens. “I’m sure there’s a way to unlock that potential. If demons can do it with kids like Sammy, why shouldn’t we? Level the playing field a little.”
Gordon doesn't see Sam. He sees a dangerous weapon pointed in the wrong direction. And apparently, he doesn’t see you either. You’re just another weapon as well – but one that’s pointed the right way.
That fact makes Dean more furious than he ever thought possible because Gordon’s fucking wrong – about both of you.
Maybe a few months ago, Dean would’ve understood it. Hell, maybe a few months ago, he would’ve agreed. Back when he’d pointed a gun at a terrified witch in Salem because it was easier than asking questions. Back when monsters were monsters, witches were witches, and everything fit neatly into categories.
Not anymore.
Now when Dean looks at you, he doesn’t see a weapon. Doesn’t see a threat. Doesn’t see a bloodline. Doesn’t see some magical answer to the demon problem.
He just sees you – just as stubborn as you’re smart. Super fucking annoying. Entirely too willing to follow him into danger. And most importantly, human.
It all then lands with a startling clarity. And once it does, Dean can’t imagine ever seeing you any other way again.
The rest then happens fast.
Luckily, Sam finally bursts through the door only a few minutes later. And honestly, Dean’s never been so damn happy to see his little brother’s giant forehead in his entire life (not that he’d ever admit that out loud).
Sam then navigates Gordon’s little set of death traps exactly the way Dean knew he would – careful, methodical, and thinking three steps ahead while Gordon’s busy congratulating himself on being the smartest guy in the room.
Turns out Sam Winchester is fucking smarter. Who would’ve guessed? Well, clearly not Gordon.
Take that, asshole.
The fight then doesn’t last nearly as long as Gordon probably imagined it would. The guy spends so much time obsessing over what Sam might become that he completely underestimates who Sam already is.
Big fucking mistake.
A few minutes later, Gordon is unconscious, the traps are disabled, and Dean is finally free of the ropes cutting into his wrists.
The first thing he does isn’t check himself, however.
It’s you. Of course it is.
Dean crosses the room in three strides and drops beside your chair. “Hey.”
Nothing.
You remain exactly where Gordon left you, head slumped slightly to one side, still deep under whatever cocktail he shoved into your neck.
“What’d he give her?” Sam asks behind him.
“Ketamine.”
“She seems okay, though, Dean,” Sam notes, and Dean nods. “Her breathing’s steady. I can carry her out.”
“No, uh–” Dean quickly shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can do it.”
He then checks your pulse once again just to be sure before he scoops you into his arms and carries you out of that damn cabin, Sam following closely behind and checking over his shoulder if Gordon follows. The adrenaline starts bleeding out of Dean’s system after that, leaving behind something heavier – a mix of exhaustion and relief.
It’s been one long, crazy fucking day. And yet, somehow, after all of it, Sam is still Sam. You’re still you. Neither of you are monsters. Neither of you are weapons. Neither of you are problems that need solving.
The two of you are just people – people Dean would very much like to keep alive.
Funny how simple that feels now.
His mind drifts back to Gordon. About that asshole insisting that the great John Winchester would’ve done what needed to be done, saying Dean wasn’t the man his father was.
And for the first fucking time in his life, the thought doesn’t sting. Not even a little. If being the man John Winchester was means looking at Sam and seeing a monster before a brother, if it means looking at you and seeing a weapon before a person, then maybe Dean’s perfectly happy not being that kind of man.
Maybe that’s one fucking thing he’s finally getting right.
When Gordon then runs out of the cabin screaming and shooting like a maniac, the sirens aren’t far behind, echoing through the quiet night – another one of his little brother’s genius plans.
The cops then arrive, Gordon gets hauled away, and Dean couldn’t care less.
Good riddance.
By the time the cops slam the cuffs on Gordon, Dean’s already carefully and safely placing you in Baby’s backseat. Nothing or no one can hurt you there. He even makes sure your head doesn’t bump the doorframe and skillfully ignores Sam’s little looks.
The brothers then slide into the front, each taking their rightful place and exchange a quick look. No words needed.
Sam’s alive. You’re alive. Dean’s alive. And after today, that’s more than enough.
Peoria, Illinois
The drive to Illinois is quiet. It’s the sort of silence that settles after a storm finally runs out of things to destroy.
Dean spends most of it with one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other presses his phone against his ear, chewing Ellen’s head off at the end of the other line before she takes his own head off right back.
Apparently, Gordon really did have connections at the Roadhouse, but Dean believes Ellen when she tells him it wasn’t her, Ash, or even Jo, no matter how angry the young blonde currently is at the brothers or anything associated with the Winchester name – also courtesy of their father.
Honestly, Dean can’t even blame her. He’s starting to realize John Winchester screwed up more than he ever thought possible.
He’s heard phrases like don’t meet your heroes or parents are just people too before, but they kind of hit differently now that they apply to him, don’t they?
Every so often, Dean’s eyes then drift to the backseat, where you’re still blissfully knocked out and sleeping off that little drug dose. Gordon’s definitely hit you good, and Dean can’t help but hope that someone’s hopefully repaying the favor when Gordon rots the next few years in jail.
Meanwhile, Sam fills him in on everything he learned from Ava, the brunette chick and fellow psychic kid, before Gordon crashed the party. About Scott, another psychic Gordon apparently murdered. About Ava’s engagement Dean doesn’t take too seriously. About the warning vision she had that actually saved Sam’s life and Dean’s and yours in the process.
All in all, Ava seems like another psychic kid, desperately wanting to pretend life is painfully ordinary. Dean can only understand that all too well.
Unfortunately, normal stopped being an option for any of them a long damn time ago.
A few hours later, the lights of Peoria then finally appear. After Sam couldn’t reach her, he wanted to check up on her, and Dean naturally obliged.
The neighborhood surrounding Ava’s house is dark and quiet when Dean pulls Baby to the curb. The engine rumbles to a halt softly beneath them as Sam’s already reaching for the door.
“I’m gonna check inside,” his little brother says and jumps out of the car.
Dean nods, not moving an inch, his gaze flicking to you in the backseat only once. It’s enough to make Sam understand he won’t leave you here alone.
Then Sam is gone, the passenger door slams shut, and the sound echoes through the Impala loud enough to elicit a groggy groan from the backseat.
Dean immediately straightens and turns halfway back to meet a set of very confused and weary eyes.
Well, look who’s back among the living.
“Morning, Sabrina.”
He grins at you. You squint at him.
“It's night,” you astutely notice as you blink outside the windows and at the one glowing light in the front.
“Details.” Dean shrugs and gives you a wink.
You stare at him for another second before your eyes swerve around the interior, then drift out the windshield at the unfamiliar neighborhood. Then they land back on him.
“What the hell happened?” you ask, still clearly a little dazed.
Dean can’t help the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Depends.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Depends on what?”
“How much do you remember?”
You frown. “Rooftop.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Kidnapping.”
“Yep.”
“Creepy hunter with a syringe.”
Dean clicks his tongue and gifts you a smile. “Bingo.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. Dean watches you gather your bearings one painfully slow piece at a time.
“What the hell was in that syringe?” you ask, rubbing your aching temples.
“Little dose of ketamine. Knocked you out good for a while there.”
Your brows draw together above your nose, groaning. “Man, Special K feels nothing like Placebo advertised.”
Dean laughs before he can stop himself, a short bark of amusement escaping into the quiet night.
“Yeah, well, I think the fun dosage is a little lower than what Gordon gave you.”
“Noted,” you grunt, unamused. “What happened to the douche? You guys kill him? ‘Cause no judgment from me here.”
“Oh, really?” Dean teasingly lifts an eyebrow. “Just like that, huh?”
“Hey, you wake up with the worst hangover of your life and then we’ll talk,” you scoff bitterly.
“Fair enough.” Dean chuckles a little. “But no, we didn’t kill him, though, admittedly, both me and Sammy wanted to.”
“Man, the one time I need you to make use of that twitchy trigger finger, and you chicken out,” you mutter wryly.
Dean snorts a laugh. “Yeah, well, forgive me.”
“So, what happened then? Where’s Gordon now? Florida? ‘Cause that’s the second worst place I can think of after death,” you quip.
“Close enough,” Dean chuckles. “He’s in jail. Gonna be there for a while.”
“Huh,” you breathe, surprised, and then give a small shrug. “Good enough, I guess.”
“Glad you approve.”
As the peaceful quiet settles back in the car, Dean admittedly feels lighter again than he has all damn day. Maybe because you’re awake and well. Maybe because Gordon’s gone. Maybe because Sam’s alive.
But whatever the reason, his chest doesn’t feel quite so tight anymore.
“Where are we anyway?” you ask then, glancing out the windshield. “Where’s Sam? Please tell me he didn’t run away again.”
Dean snorts a little. “No, uh, Sam’s still here. Just checking in on the brunette chick,” he explains. “We’re actually in Peoria, Illinois.”
That earns him another confused look before Dean jerks his thumb toward Ava’s house.
“Turns out Sammy’s little date was another psychic kid,” he adds. “Gets visions, too. He couldn’t get a hold of her earlier, so Sam wanted to check up on her.”
“Oh.” You nod slowly and then fall quiet again.
For a moment, Dean thinks that’s the end of it, but your mouth opens again a few heartbeats later.
“I heard some of it, you know?” you say, catching him by surprise.
“Hm?” Dean looks back at you, not quite following.
Your gaze remains fixed on the dashboard when you respond. “Back at the cabin. With Gordon…”
His stomach sinks slightly. Apparently, the ketamine didn’t knock you out as thoroughly as Gordon advertised. Dude can’t even do that right.
“I was drifting in and out,” you share softly. “I heard Gordon talking… and you.” You pause for a moment, not meeting his eyes. “I heard you trying to convince him I wasn’t a witch.”
Ah, that.
Dean instantly looks away and turns back to face the windshield. He truthfully doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that information. But for some reason, you don’t force him to act on or even say anything.
“Thanks,” is all you say.
Dean shrugs as casually as possible. “It’s nothing. Just wanted to make sure Gordon doesn’t get any damn ideas and come after you. Not a big deal.”
“Whatever you say,” you reply simply, but he can see the tiny knowing smile in the mirror. You clearly don't believe him even for a second.
Unfortunately, you are definitely correct about that assumption.
Before either of you can continue, however, the front door of Ava’s house bursts open again. Sam strolls though it, and one single look at his face immediately wipes the remaining humor out of the car.
Sam’s clearly distressed, and Dean’s stomach drops at the sight. Jesus Christ, what now? He really can’t catch a break, huh? The universe is clearly conspiring against him at this point.
The passenger door then opens as well, and Sam swiftly slides inside.
“What happened?” Dean asks before Sam even manages to catch a breath.
Sam stares at a glistening ring between his fingers. An engagement ring.
Uh-oh. Not good. Definitely not good.
“Ava’s fiancé is dead,” Sam says. “It’s a damn blood bath in there.”
“What?!” You lean forward in shock, looking between them.
Sam blinks at you for a second, noticing you’re suddenly awake but feeling too upset to comment on it.
He just nods. “Ava’s gone, too. I think the demon took her, Dean. I found sulfur.”
“Crap,” Dean mutters, slumping back into the seat.
They can never get a win, can they? Not for long, at least.
Sam then shakes his head, swallowing, the frustration and anger rolling off him in tidal waves. “I need answers, Dean,” he announces, causing Dean already to wince internally. “We need to find out what the demon’s plans are. Once and for all.”
Dean wants to sigh. It’s same damn thing they’ve been circling all day.
Answers. More answers. Always answers.
Dean feels exhaustion deep in his bones, but he knows Sam’s right. They finally need to get ahead of this. They can’t walk into the storm blindly. Still, Dean wishes he could get a few hours of rest without worrying. Maybe even a weekend.
“I agree,” you chime in from the backseat, drawing both brothers’ attention to you. You bite your lip slightly when you meet Dean’s surprised look, but there’s something gleaming in your gaze that he can’t quite place. “The attic in Sugar Hill is full of lore stuff, mostly about demons, spells, everything you can possibly imagine… And I honestly only understand half of it. I could use some help going through it. Maybe we find some answers there. We still don’t even know what the ritual entails, and it’s our best lead so far to kill that demon.”
“You sure about this?” Sam checks carefully, but Dean can already see the eagerness shimmering in his hazel eyes.
And he suddenly also realizes your plan – occupying his little brother enough to give him a break. Books are the kid’s kryptonite, after all. It’s a win-win for everyone.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” you reply softly, but Dean registers a sly little glimmer in your gaze. “Why don’t you guys come with me? Got enough bedrooms. You can stay as long as you’d like. I really could use the help.”
“That’d be great. Thanks,” Sam says keenly and barely takes a breath between the words, already glancing at Dean with that familiar puppy look in his eyes. “You wanna go?”
Dean shrugs casually, trying to sell it properly. “Guess I don’t have a choice, huh? Gotta keep looking out for you.”
Sam grins happily. “No, I guess you don’t,” he replies and then gives you a determined nod. “Alright, count us in.”
“Great, thanks,” you say with a smile, but it’s not exactly aimed at Sam, and Dean can tell.
It’s meant for him.
Dean meets your eyes and holds your gaze, both of you recognizing the truth.
This isn’t just for Sam. It’s a solution that gives his little brother answers to chase and Dean room to finally breathe.
You know it. He knows it. But neither of you says it because saying it out loud would ruin the whole damn thing.
Dean gratefully returns your smile for the briefest second before starting the engine, the next destination finally sounding better than he could’ve ever imagined – a place where he’d admittedly never been happier his entire life.
The sad and truly unfortunate part is, though, that you don’t even have the faintest clue what that does to him.
▶️ Interlude I: Purify the Colors, Purify My Mind
Alrighty, you guys, how did you enjoy this little reimagining of a familiar episode and plot? Dean surely showed some growth and major character growth here, and I absolutely loved writing every second of it. Reader's pov also cracks me up 😂 As you can see, Dean's already catching some real feels and slowly realizes he can't outrun them anymore. As for reader, I think she's getting there as well. What do you think? 😉
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Coming Up:
“Coffee’s fresh,” he says, clearing the annoying lump in his throat. “Pancakes are almost done. Eggs are scrambled. Hash browns are crisping. Don’t touch the bacon again. It’s still hot.”
You only hum appreciatively and lean in again, stealing one more piece anyway because ignoring his orders is apparently a newfound sport for you, your fingers brushing his as you pull back. The brief touch sends white-hot flames racing up his arm.
Dean swallows harshly, snapping himself out of it. Get it together, idiot.
You, on the other hand, hop onto the counter beside the stove, swinging your bare legs, completely unaware of the war he’s waging in his own head. “You really went all out, huh? What’s the occasion? Trying to impress the resident witch? I didn’t even think you could cook like that.”
The teasing lilt in your voice does fucking dangerous things to him. He then can’t help but picture pulling you off that counter, tasting the salt of bacon on your lips, and tangling his fingers in your messy hair. He shuts the thought down even faster than it came, flipping a pancake with more force than necessary.
What the fuck happened to him? How did he get here? Why can’t he get all these weird images of you out of his goddamn head?
“Just figured we could use a decent meal for once,” Dean mutters in response. “Before Sammy buries himself alive in those books again. Kid forgets food exists when he’s on a roll. Still wondering how he survived college without starving.”
You laugh softly, and he annoyingly realizes he likes making you laugh. He likes the way you look at him when you do. He likes–
“Sam!” Dean calls suddenly, deep voice way louder than probably needed. He’s pretty sure the next neighbor several miles away heard him. Even you flinch at the volume. “Get your ass down here before it gets cold!”
You lift an eyebrow in amusement, licking your lips. “Desperate for backup already?”
Chapter Summary: Your first official case with the Winchesters teaches you two things: Sleepy Hollow has a decapitation problem, and Dean has a you problem. Guess which one’s harder to deal with? Honestly, the murders are almost a secondary issue at this point.
Warnings: 18+ language, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, angst, humor, monster of the week (Sleepy Hollow version), family mysteries, Dean spiraling hard, lots of bickering, fluff if you grab a magnifying glass
Word Count: 15.2k
A/N: Ready for another dreamy puzzle piece? Oh, there's so much bickering in this one and Dean's in rare form again lol (the frustratingly annoying kind), but there's also a little bit of chemistry trickling back in 😉
By the time the three of them actually make it to the bed and breakfast, Dean’s patience is hanging by a damn thread.
And God, the place looks exactly like the kind of establishment that would charge extra for being authentic. It’s all crooked wooden beams and ivy crawling up the sides everywhere. The sign out front even creaks in the evening breeze. Honestly, this whole house is one thunderstorm away from turning into a haunted attraction.
The inside doesn’t help its reputation, either.
There’s floral wallpaper that’s seen better decades and dark wood furniture with too many carvings. And doilies. So many damn doilies…
A super creepy porcelain doll even sat on a shelf in the hallway, which Dean already snatched and hid under Sam’s covers as a prank.
And Sam, nice and accommodating as he is, still asked the older lady at the reception for another room for you. Fully booked, she told you due to the media spectacle, though, because everyone and their mom decided Sleepy Hollow is the place to be right now. At least that means Dean can still catch some sleep and doesn’t have to worry about your car starting in the middle of the night.
He then dropped his duffel on the floor, took one look at the setup – two beds, one couch – and made the decision in about half a second.
“You take the bed.”
You cocked a brow at him, immediately suspicious. Smart.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he shot back, already kicking off his boots. “Couch is closer to the door.”
Which is true.
Also happens to mean he’s got a clear line of sight to the exit, the bathroom door (which leads to the bathroom window), and you. Not that he says that part out loud. Doesn’t need to. But he’ll know when you try to sneak past him. In other words:
If you decide to go tinkle, tinkle, little star, he’s gonna watch you where you are.
Not in a creepy way, though – he’d like to emphasize that part. He’s going to let you pee in peace, but he will listen to a potential window opening and your feet leaving the tiled floor.
You rolled your eyes at his response but took the offer anyway, muttering something under your breath about “paranoia,” “control issues,” and “serial killer vibes.”
Dean ignored that. Well, for the most part, he did.
Sam, of course, played peacekeeper like always, offering to grab extra blankets and takeout, making it all sound so goddamn normal as if this isn’t the weirdest setup they’ve had in a while.
And then, somehow, despite everything, you and Sam kept… chatting.
At first, it was only case-related, and Dean was able to live with that. It should’ve stayed that way. But then it drifted to little comments, quiet jokes, and shared looks Dean doesn’t like one bit. The two of you acted like you’ve known each other longer than a couple of awkward run-ins and one coffee.
Dean stayed out of it. On purpose. Sat on the arm of the couch, cleaning his gun and pretending not to listen. Didn’t entirely work, though.
Because, every now and then, you’d laugh.
Annoyingly so, because then that stupid feeling – that quiet, irritating little twist in his chest that makes zero sense and pisses him off more the longer it sticks around – came rushing back.
But it’s all just noise. Dean knows that. It’s just Sam being Sam, and you being… whatever the hell you are.
Eventually, the room settles, however, and the lights finally go out.
Sam’s out first while you take a little longer. Dean can hear the subtle shifts, the occasional sigh, and the mattress creaking softly as you get comfortable. For a few minutes, he wonders if you’re actually gonna try something – bolt, pull a trick, or disappear into thin air.
You don’t, though.
Somewhere between keeping one eye half-open to watch you, Dean’s thoughts then start to blur. The last thing he registers is your silhouette on the bed, half-lit by moonlight slipping in through the too-narrow windows.
And then, the fuzzy edges and orange filter are back, which means his watchful eyes have finally fallen shut, and he finds himself right back in bizarro-dreamland again.
Great. Is it too much to ask to get some peaceful rest every now and then?
This time, he’s down at the pond, still about twelve years old. It sits at the edge of the trees, the surface still, only breaking in ripples where the breeze skims across it. The sunlight is softer and golden now where it spills through the brush, and the heat of the day has dulled into something easier, a late-summer hush settling over everything as the world is winding down for the day.
Dean isn’t, though. His thoughts are still racing.
Usually, it feels peaceful down here, but now it feels like he swallowed a stone and it got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. He still doesn’t have the words for it at twelve, doesn’t really know how to name that feeling yet, but he knows he doesn’t like it.
He sits at the edge of the pond in the tall grass, one knee pulled up, the other stretched out, heel digging absentmindedly into the dirt. The blades of weed bend under his fingers where he’s been pulling at them, stripping them down to nothing and letting the pieces fall again. There’s also a small scatter of stones beside him. A few skipped over the water, but most of them sunk. He scuffs the toe of his boot against the dirt again and watches it crumble.
Behind him, the world feels far away, discolored and muted. The house is out of reach. But still, every once in a while, yours and Sam’s voices carry over the distance, your laughter echoing down the hill.
But Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the water in front of him, jaw tight, trying not to think about it. About you. About the way you said it.
My magic.
It all still sounds damn wrong in his head.
He frowns at himself, picking up a small rock and tossing it into the pond. It skips once, twice, then sinks again. And then–
“There you are!” your voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, bright and breathless.
Dean stiffens in an instant before his eyes wander over his shoulder to steal a glimpse. He sees you come running down the slope toward him, a little unsteady on the hill, cautious enough not to trip, but determined nonetheless. One strap of your short denim overalls is twisted, the other hanging off your shoulder. A few strands of hair stick to your forehead from running. There’s also dirt along your arm and a little on your cheek now from whatever activity you and Sammy have been up to.
And you’re smiling.
It’s as if nothing’s wrong and that whole conversation a few hours ago never happened. The smile is wide and easy and a little crooked. It doesn’t look like it takes any effort. It looks like it’s solely meant for him.
“I was looking for you,” you say, slowing as you get closer. “You wanna come play now? Me and Sammy wanna catch fireflies.”
When Dean sneaks another peek at you, you admittedly still seem the same. Same dirt-smudged knees. Same bright eyes. Same hopeful expression that assumes he’ll say yes like he always has before.
And for a heartbeat, something in him wavers. He pictures it without meaning to – tiny lights blinking in the dark, you chasing them across the yard, laughing, dragging Sammy along with you. It should sound fun. It probably would’ve been.
Before.
Because then, the word comes flying back.
Witch.
It spreads over everything, dimming the edges of your smile and turning something that used to feel easy into something complicated and wrong.
“No, thanks,” he mutters, averting his eyes back to the water, his heel digging more into the dirt. “Told you I don’t wanna play.” He grabs another rock, throws it harder this time. It doesn’t skip, though, just sinks. “Just go with Sam. Leave me alone, okay?”
The words land blunt and cold. He knows it the second they leave his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back.
Then, there’s a long pause behind him. He still doesn’t dare to look back at you.
“Why are you being weird?”
He scoffs to deflect, keeping his gaze fixed on the water. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you insist and step even closer. He can feel you there now, just off to his side, small but impossible to ignore. “You won’t even look at me and your aura is different, too.”
Dean’s frown deepens. “My, what?”
“It’s pine green,” you say like that explains everything. “But usually, it’s apple green. You’re sad.”
Bullseye.
He straightens a little, shoulders going rigid. His grip tightens around another stone in his palm. “I’m not sad,” he snaps, pushing himself up to his feet in one swift motion. “Stop reading me.”
He finally looks at you then, but it’s quick and guarded. The eye contact is only necessary to get his point across and not something he actually wants. He brushes his hands off on his jeans to break it again, hoping he can wipe that strange feeling away along with the dirt.
“Maybe I just don’t wanna hang out with you anymore,” he adds for emphasis and clarity.
His only option here is to double down because he doesn’t know how else to handle this – you standing there and looking at him like you can see every damn thing he doesn’t want you to see.
That one finally seems to hit and reaches the desired effect. He sees it this time – the way your face falls and confusion gives way to hurt.
“Why?”
It’s so quiet and careful he barely hears it. You’re asking a question you’re not sure you want the answer to. Your voice doesn’t match the way you looked when you first came down the hill – happy.
The smile is gone.
Instead, your mouth is pressed into a tight line, trying to hold it together. Your eyes are glistening as if the setting sun is catching them at the wrong angle, but Dean knows it’s not actually the light.
There’s a part of him that knows this is the moment to backtrack. To shrug it off. To say something else. But that knot in his chest pulls tighter instead and twists more and more.
You’re not supposed to be like this. You were normal.
Before you started talking about magic and auras and things he can’t see but knows are real because his dad told him they are – and that they’re bad. Dangerous. Evil.
Things you don’t trust. Things you don’t get close to.
But he hates that look on your face right now. Hates that he’s the reason for it. It makes him feel… bad. So, if you’re bad and he’s bad, what does that mean?
The feeling doesn’t go away. It just mixes with everything else – the confusion and the frustration and the anger and the sadness.
You’re the one who changed. This is your fault, not his. He hasn’t changed. He’s still the same. And if you hadn’t done that, if you were still normal, then he wouldn’t have to feel this way. Why is he the bad guy here?
“Because you’re weird now, okay?” he blurts out, the words coming out rougher than he means them to, pushed by something he doesn’t fully understand. “You’re all… witchy and stuff.”
It sounds stupid even as he says it, but he doesn’t have better words for. Doesn’t have the language for what he’s trying to explain. So it comes out like that instead.
Blunt. Clumsy. Mean.
When your lip trembles, he’s flooded with instant regret, but he has no idea how to take something like that back either.
“Do you hate me?”
The question is so small it almost gets lost in the canyon between the two of you. He doesn’t know why, but it knocks the air out of his lungs. It gets harder and harder to breathe.
Because the answer? The answer isn’t simple.
He doesn’t hate you. He knows that much, deep down, even if everything else is in disorder. But you’re asking him like it’s yes or no – and it’s not.
It’s confusing and weird and uncomfortable and he doesn’t understand it, and the more he tries to, the worse it just feels. But there’s something scared and stubborn and taught in him that recoils when he thinks about you now. He doesn’t know how to explain that. Doesn’t know how to say anything that makes sense of the mess inside of him.
And you? You’re standing there, looking at him like you need an answer he doesn’t know how to give.
So, he ends up saying nothing at all. Just stares somewhere past your shoulder, jaw tight, completely silent.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees your face change, though. Sees the moment it sinks in.
Why does that make the feeling in his chest worse instead of better? This was supposed to help and not backfire.
It hurts. Like, a lot.
“Fine,” you finally snap, voice wobbling despite the anger that flashes across your face. “Then I don’t like you anymore either.”
Dean winces, barely noticeable from the outside, but he definitely feels it on the inside.
“You’re mean and stupid,” you add with another huff.
The words hit, but not in the way insults usually do. Oh no, these ones? They stick and sink somewhere deeper than they should.
Something broke, but you turn on your heel before he can fix it. Before he can react and figure out what to say – or even try to.
And then, you’re running.
Back up the hill, away from the pond, away from him. You become smaller with every step until the trees start to swallow you up whole.
And Dean? He just stands there at the edge of the water, shoves his hands into his pockets, balls them into fists, and watches you go.
Dean’s barely awake.
In fact, he’s not anywhere close to even opening his eyes to little slits yet. If there’s a stage between dead asleep and pre-awake, he’s probably in that one. His body surely hasn’t caught up to any signs of alertness at all, the morning thick, his head heavy, thoughts slow. He just lies there on the couch, one arm slung over his tummy, the other hanging off the edge, fingertips brushing the rough fabric.
But his brain’s becoming more and more vigilant, picking up on the background murmur. There’s two voices pulling at him – Sam’s and yours.
“…no connection between any of them?” you’re asking. Your voice is clearer than the rest, sweeter too, like honey in Earl Grey tea. It cuts through the fog easier, almost like sunshine.
Dean breathes out slowly through his nose, still not moving, but his lips twitch a little. Something else wakes up too, stretching under the blanket and under his boxer briefs.
To be clear, though, that’s got nothing to do with you personally. Happens every morning whether you’re here or not. It’s just a natural occurrence. And yeah, sure, the nice timbre of your voice facilitates that a little, especially when he imagines what it could say instead of case-related words. Like, harder please or fuck, Dean, right there.
Okay, fine, now he’s really just making it worse on purpose. He tries to refocus and hears papers shuffling.
“None that I could find so far,” Sam answers with a sigh, frustration lacing his tone. “Different jobs, different neighborhoods. No shared hobbies, no family overlap, nothing obvious.”
“So… random?”
“Maybe not random,” Sam says. “Just… something else.”
Dean’s brow twitches slightly at that. Yeah, no kidding.
“You said ghost yesterday,” you say after a small pause, more thoughtful this time.
“Could be a poltergeist, too.”
“What’s the difference?”
Dean huffs quietly under his breath, eyes still closed. Cute.
“Ghosts are usually tied to a place or an object,” Sam explains, shifting in his chair slightly, judging by the squeaks. “Poltergeists are more… aggressive. They throw things, move stuff around, escalate faster. They’re more chaotic and less focused.”
“Huh.”
Dean can hear the pen in your hand tapping lightly against the table. Thinking. Always thinking.
“Decapitation doesn’t exactly scream ‘random chaos,’ though,” you add after a second. “Feels more premeditated than spur-of-the-moment.”
The corners of Dean’s mouth tug slightly upward. Yeah, exactly.
But then, something else sneaks through the cracks in his mind – ripples in the water, sunlight through the trees, a tinier voice.
Do you hate me?
Dean’s eyes tighten shut for half a beat. Then, he pushes himself up before his brain can wander any further, the couch creaking under his weight as he sits forward and rubs a hand down his tired face. His neck twinges, but he ignores it.
“Depends what you’re dealing with,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.
Both you and Sam look over. The two of you are seated at the small dining table like this is some kind of domestic morning routine Dean definitely didn’t sign up for. Papers are spread out between you, a laptop open, coffee cups half-empty, and a plate with what looks like actual breakfast sits in the middle.
Dean stretches his arms over his head with a quiet groan, maybe a yawn, back popping, making no effort to hide the fact that he just woke up on a couch that feels like it was designed by someone who hates spines.
“Morning,” Sam says.
“Debatable,” Dean mutters.
You’re already watching him, that familiar hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Look who finally joined the land of the living.”
Dean drops his arms and squints at you. “Yeah, yeah. Some of us don’t wake up at the crack of dawn for fun.”
“It’s not dawn,” Sam interjects.
“Feels like it.”
“You sleep like a bear, you know that?” you add casually and rise from your seat, grabbing a third coffee cup from the tray.
Dean frowns. “I do not.”
“Oh, you do,” you insist as you snatch a paper bag as well. It’s perfectly greasy at the bottom, the delicious smell of bacon winding up his nose, and his stomach reacts before his weary brain has even caught up to it. “Didn’t even stir when I left.”
That finally cuts through the last of the grogginess.
Dean straightens, brows lifting. “You left?”
“Mhm.” You hum as you casually stroll his way. “Figured if I’m stuck with you two, I might as well make sure you don’t starve… or actually have food that isn’t gas station jerky.”
“You went out?” he asks, tone sharpening just a notch. “By yourself?”
“Yeah,” you say, a smirk rising on your lips. “Crazy concept, I know.”
Dean exhales through his nose, pushing himself fully to his feet now. “But that’s–”
“What?” You tilt your head, brow arching. “Illegal?”
“No, that’s not–” He shakes his head clear. All the different smells hitting him at once make it hard to concentrate, and he doesn’t even know if it’s the coffee, the food, or you, but you’re definitely getting too close for his liking. “You’re not supposed to just–”
“Exist without supervision?” You’re clearly teasing him now, a playfulness gleaming in your eyes as you hold the coffee cup and brown bag out to him. “Don’t get your panties twisted now. You didn’t even notice I was gone.”
“I noticed,” he mutters as he takes the items, accepting them almost like a peace offering.
“Sure you did.” The smile on your lips, however, clearly states that you don’t believe him one bit.
“I said I’d keep an eye on you,” he grumbles before taking a gracious sniff of the food inside the bag.
God, that smells good. His stomach’s growling.
“And you did,” you reply, shrugging lightly, but the teasing edge in your smile is still there. “You just weren’t very good at it.”
“I was asleep.”
“Exactly.”
He grimaces but stops arguing further. You’re already half a coffee into the morning while he hasn’t even had his first drop yet. He knows when he’s in a losing battle. So, he glances down at the cup in his hands before taking a sip.
Black. No sugar. No cream. Exactly right.
His eyes drift back to you, slightly bewildered. “How’d you know?”
“Oh, your aura told me you take it as black as your soul.”
Dean squints. “Wait… It did?”
Your face stays completely serious for several seconds before the first crack shows in the façade, and a snort escapes your throat.
“No, I’m just messing with you,” you retort with a bubble of laughter. “Sam told me you like it as black as your soul. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”
Dean turns his head slowly toward his little brother, who conveniently doesn’t look up from the papers in front of him.
Traitor.
He scoffs under his breath, but there’s no real heat behind it as he takes another sip. You hum, satisfied, already turning away and heading back to the table. He watches you sit down, pick up your pen, and slide right back into it with Sam, all easy and natural, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.
It shouldn’t look like that. Shouldn’t feel like that.
And then, for the tiniest second, the image overlaps with a smaller version of you again, younger, looking at him like–
Do you hate me?
His jaw tightens slightly around the rim of the cup.
Mean and stupid.
Dean takes another gulp, harder this time till he almost chokes on it or burns his tongue, which ever comes first, and shoves the weird feelings in his chest down again with the caffeine.
“Crap,” Sam mutters all of a sudden, breaking the moment as he flips his laptop around. “Guys, we’ve got another one.”
Your attention snaps to him immediately. “Another body?”
“Yup, found this morning. We should go to the crime scene right now. Local PD got there less than an hour ago.”
“Awesome.”
Dean’s head snaps toward you, finding a bright grin on your lips. You’re not horrified. You’re not even fazed. If anything, you look… excited.
He cocks a brow at you. “Awesome? A guy died.”
“Actually, it’s a woman,” Sam chimes in.
“Same difference.”
“What?” You shrug your shoulders, looking at him. “I’ve never worked a decapitation scene before. What’s the problem?”
“You’re excited.”
“I’m interested,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”
“Someone’s missing their head,” he points out dryly.
“Yes, which is objectively unusual.”
Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Because, yeah, it admittedly is.
He spent half of yesterday going over the first three victims, trying to find a pattern that made sense. Clean decapitations like that aren’t exactly common in his line of work either when they’re not caused by other hunters. It is interesting. It’s a good case. He just–
“Still weird you’re this into it,” he mutters into his coffee.
Your eyes narrow slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Oh, and you’re not?”
Dean shrugs, taking another sip like it’s no big deal. “Meh. I mean, it’s a–… it’s a… case.”
Sam makes a noise that sounds like he’s trying not to laugh, but Dean ignores him skillfully.
“Well, whether you’re into it or not, there’s an active crime scene waiting,” you say and push your chair back, grabbing your denim jacket.
Sam nods, already gathering his things as well. “Let’s go before they start clearing it.”
When going to a crime scene, the drives usually feel like routine. Dean keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the gearshift as he lets whatever surroundings roll past the windows – white picket fences, corn fields, woods. It doesn’t really matter when he focuses on the road ahead.
Sam’s also in the passenger seat like always, half-turned with his laptop balanced against his knee, skimming through what little they have on the fourth victim.
But this drive’s still different than all the other ones that came before it, because, this time, Dean’s eyes keep drifting to the backseat and flicking to the rearview mirror every so often.
When there’s a light rustle of fabric behind him, he sneaks another glance at you in the back and watches you pull on your CSI jacket – navy-blue, official, the three letters stamped across your front and back in yellow.
You smooth it down your arms, adjust the collar, and settle into it without hesitation, like you’ve done this your whole life. By the time Dean turns onto the street, you don’t look like someone tagging along anymore – you look like you belong.
Dean exhales hard through his nose and forces himself to concentrate back on the road again as he finds a space to park, eventually pulling in behind a patrol car.
Sam shuts his laptop with a soft click just as Dean kills the engine. “Fourth victim is like the others.”
“Still no connections?” Dean asks.
“None,” Sam sighs in frustration. “Think our best bet is a cursed object at this point, considering every victim was found at a different location.”
From the backseat, you hum lightly. “So no ghost or poltergeist?”
Sam smiles patiently. “Could still be either. But it’s definitely not tied to a body or burial ground. It’s moving around.”
“But the murders only started two weeks ago, so whatever we’re looking for, it’s gotta be new in town, right? Something must’ve triggered it,” you muse.
Dean shoots you a look in the mirror. “You always this eager about headless bodies?”
You meet his stare head-on. “You always this grumpy before noon?”
He scoffs, not bothering to answer, and takes an assessing sweep around the street.
The fourth victim’s house sits dead center in the sort of neighborhood that seems to trim its hedges with a damn ruler. Everything is exact and perfect to a tee – lawn cut short and greener than it needs to be and flowerbeds arranged like a diagram. There’s not a single weed out of place, not a leaf where it shouldn’t be. It’s all tree-lined streets and white fences, radiating a curated postcard calm that feels a teeny-tiny bit too pure and sober, considering there’s a body waiting at the end of it.
Control freak, Dean notes internally as he jumps out of Baby and adjusts his suit jacket. Sam mirrors him and straightens his tie, slipping right into federal agent mode.
“FBI,” Sam greets a patrol officer straightaway, flashing his badge as they approach the yellow tape. “Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”
A subtle snort escapes you as you follow them, ducking under the tape.
Dean stops in his tracks and raises a brow at you. “You got something to add?”
“Yes,” you say with a long sigh. “Those names are ridiculous.”
“They’re fine.”
“They’re obvious, bad, and lazy,” you shoot back. “I clocked them the first time you showed up at my scene. Might as well introduce yourselves as walking classic rock playlists next time.”
Dean frowns. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t have to,” you counter with a challenging smirk. “I just called you Agents Metallica and Bon Jovi in my head the whole time.”
Sam exhales a long-suffering sigh that sounds suspiciously like agreement. “Told you.”
Dean shoots him a look. “Oh, c’mon–”
“They’re not subtle, Dean.”
Dean scoffs, slightly irritated by the sudden team-up. “They work.”
“They scream fake,” you and Sam argue at the same time.
Dean blinks between the two of you, outnumbered but refusing to acknowledge it. He brushes it off with an eye roll.
“Yeah, and?” He shrugs defiantly. “What’re you going by, Sabrina?”
You hesitate a little before holding up your ID – your real one.
Dean lifts a stern brow. “You’re serious?”
“I don’t exactly carry fake IDs,” you say defensively.
Dean lets out another scoff, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, maybe you should. Using your real name? That’s how bad things find you.”
That one finally lands. Score for him. You don’t have a comeback for it, and Dean knows it. He doesn’t push further, just nods once like the point’s been made, and turns toward the house as the leading detective of this investigation approaches.
“FBI Agents Hetfield and Sambora. Hope you don’t mind,” Dean says smoothly, thumbing back at you over his shoulder, “we brought our own crime tech.”
“Detective Griffith,” he introduces himself and gives you a quick once-over before shrugging. “Be my guest, guys. We could use the help.”
Eagerly, you’re already rushing past the detective once you’ve gotten the green light, nitrile gloves snapping on as you step over the threshold. Dean follows a little slower, eyes adjusting to the interior.
The inside matches the outside, the house being just as controlled as the yard. Everything’s aligned, spotless, and untouched. It’s the kind of clean that feels more like pressure than comfort, though.
Except for the kitchen – that’s where the illusion finally breaks. There’s tons of blood smeared across marble tiles and a headless body where it shouldn’t be.
“Walk us through it,” Dean tells the detective.
“The victim is sixty-two year old Martha Crane. No husband, no kids. Lived here alone. Neighbor found her this morning,” Griffith says. “Came by after she didn’t answer her phone.”
“No forced entry?” Sam asks.
“None.”
Dean bobs his head, scanning the room, but his attention keeps swerving back to you.
You’ve already dropped into a crouch near the body, focused, precise, and methodical. Your hands hover before you touch anything, eyes tracking the wound, the angle, and the space around it. You act like you’re reading something written under the surface.
“Angle’s consistent,” you murmur. “Single motion.”
Admittedly, it’s… good. You’re good. Dean notices that but obviously refrains from stating it out loud.
“How far did the head roll?” you ask suddenly then, not taking your eyes off the corpse and the blood spatter by your feet.
The cop blinks. “What?”
“The head,” you repeat, glancing up briefly. “Where was it found in relation to the body?”
“Uh… about twelve feet,” he replies hesitantly. “Near the doorway.”
You rise to your feet with a nod, filing it away as you assess the space. “Rolled quite a bit,” you mutter. “I’m guessing the perp used a sword or blade of some kind. Probably swung it like a baseball bat to reach that kind of distance.”
Dean’s brow furrows slightly, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “You always start with those questions?”
You don’t look at him, focusing back on the evidence in front of you. “Only when it matters.”
“Right,” he huffs under his breath and keeps watching you work.
“Victim complained about something last night,” Detective Griffith then adds. “Said she heard… hooves.”
Hooves.
Dean glances at Sam, Sam glances back, and even your attention seems to waver for a second at that, your hand stilling in the middle of depositing a Q-tip from the wound into a plastic bag.
“…Hooves,” Dean repeats.
“Yeah,” the detective says and lets out a snort, clearly not buying it. “She thought someone was riding a horse nearby. Accused the guy next door of hiding one in his backyard.”
You shift your position down to the floor again, scanning the area with more intent. Your fingers then brush lightly along the tile before you stop, pinching something between your gloves.
“Welp, that’s not hers,” you murmur.
Dean pushes off the wall and steps closer. “What isn’t?”
You hold it up for him to see, and it’s a strand of hair – long and black. The victim’s hair, on the other hand, is short and white.
“Horse hair,” you state.
Dean narrows his eyes. “You’re guessing.”
“Nope.”
“Alright, I’ll bite,” he says and cocks an eyebrow. “How do you know it’s from a horse, huh?”
You hesitate a moment, chewing on your bottom lip as if you don’t really want to explain your answer. “It has a… horsey aura.”
Dean stares at you, deadpan but completely dumbfounded on the inside.
Even the detective blinks at you. “Did she just say aura?”
See, Dean himself took more issue with the word horsey, but every man for himself, he supposes.
But you? You don’t even react to either of them, choosing to brush past the raised brows. Back at that crime scene in Salem when Dean first met you, he clocked a few stares from your colleagues as well and didn’t know what that was about. Now he thinks he does.
“It tastes like hay, okay?” you hiss with a defensive shrug. “You know, stables, carrots, a little sugar…”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean cuts you off, rubbing a hand down his face. “I think we get it, Jennifer Love Hewitt. We’re not doing that.”
He pads a few steps into the less frequented dining area, gesturing for you to follow, which you do with a knitted brow.
“Doing what?”
“That,” he grunts, hands motioning vaguely at you. “The aura, the tasting, the questions – tone it down.”
Your brows crease a little more, confused. “It’s relevant.”
“It’s weird,” Dean counters. “You’ve got a normal job, right? You gotta know you can’t go around talking like that – about auras and magic and God knows what else… ‘Cause, news flash, That’s So Raven, normal people usually find that freaky.”
You hold his gaze for a second before it contemplatively drifts to the side. “Actually, most of my colleagues already think I’m weird,” you reply, lips pursing as you scratch your neck. “This isn’t exactly new.”
Dean lets out a long sigh. “Oh, I can see why.”
Your jaw tightens, but instead of snapping, you just stroll back into the kitchen and pull back the small rug next to the body, pointing down at a pool of half-dried and sticky blood underneath it.
“Also,” you say, “hoof print.”
Dean follows your finger and tilts his head at the partially blood-smeared but very horsey evidence.
He throws you a look. “Why don’t you start with that next time, huh?”
The detective curiously leans in, squinting at the print. “How the hell did a horse get inside this house?”
Again, Dean glances at Sam, Sam glances at you, but no one chooses to answer that question.
As you straighten again, you pull out another evidence bag from your jacket, holding it up for them. There are reddish-brown flakes inside.
“I found trace amounts of rust,” you explain. “Whatever blade is being used for these decapitations is old and corroded. That’s where the residue’s coming from.”
Dean arches a brow skeptically, studying you. “You sure about that?”
When you meet his eyes this time, the irritation fully creeps in. “No, I just like collecting random dirt.”
Sam presses his lips together, clearly holding back a comment, but Dean doesn’t let it go.
“Or you’re jumping ahead.”
“I’m not,” you grit through your teeth. “It’s on the wound.”
But Dean? He hums like he’s not convinced, even though he is, which causes you to take a deep breath. Jesus, you’re sensitive. But pushing you is easier than–
He doesn’t finish that thought.
“Alright,” Sam cuts in, stepping between the two of you just enough to break the line of fire. “I think we’ve got everything here for now.”
Dean nods once, still watching you for a second longer than necessary before turning to the front door, you and Sam following closely behind. As he walks down the pristinely white porch steps, he already notices the crowd of neighbors and reporters that has accumulated behind the yellow tape in small clusters, watching and whispering like vultures.
He tries to ignore them as best as he can, already halfway to the Impala when something cuts through the noise and catches his ear:
“…not like anyone’s gonna miss her.”
He stops cold and turns on his heel toward the voice, locking in on a young blonde in her mid-twenties, chatting with the rest of her neighbors. She finds his eyes and already looks like she regrets the careless words, gaze dropping and arms around her tightening as soon as she realizes she’s been overheard.
“Miss,” Dean says, flashing his badge as he steps into her space. “FBI. You wanna repeat that?”
She startles, eyes widening. “I–… no, I didn’t mean–”
“You said no one’s gonna miss her,” Dean presses, deep voice already edging sharp enough to cut. “That’s a pretty bold statement about a murder victim.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “I was just–”
“Just what?” Dean prompts. “Because right now it sounds like you’re withholding information from a federal investigation.”
The woman folds in on herself, shoulders tensing. “I don’t know anything,” she says, backtracking even a physical step. “I’m sorry I said that. I don’t want any trouble. I had nothing to do with it. I swear.”
Dean leans in more, erasing the space she created. “Then don’t make this harder than–”
“Hey,” your voice suddenly chimes behind him.
Skillfully, you step between them, not forceful or confrontational, but just enough to break the pressure Dean’s been building. Your shoulder brushes his as you pass, however. It’s a subtle nudge, but he knows it was definitely fucking intentional.
“It’s okay,” you tell the young woman gently in a soothingly sweet and understanding tone. “Ignore him. He does that.”
Dean inhales sharply. “I do not–”
You, however, seem to follow your own lead and ignore him entirely. Instead of batting even a single eyelash at him, you angle toward the woman and focus solely on her.
“You know, gotta be honest with you,” you start, your voice sounding almost conspiratorial. “As soon as we saw that manicured front lawn, we knew Martha Crane was a complete control freak.”
The woman’s shoulders lose a bit of tension, ears perked as she listens to you. After seemingly weighing whether she can trust you or not, she lets out a light scoff. “Understatement of the century.”
“Yeah, trust me. I know people like that. Judgmental assholes, am I right?” You laugh a little, causing the young woman to laugh as well. “Hell, I work with people like that. The FBI’s full of them. Actually met this guy recently – full-on control freak. Got a huge stick up his ass. He’d criticize me at every turn and throw a fit when things didn’t fall into his very narrow-minded worldview.”
Dean’s expression morphs into a full scowl. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who you’re talking about – him. It’s fucking him, right?
Funny. Clever. Mistake.
He’s definitely going to shoot you for it.
“God, that guy sounds awful,” the woman huffs, wrinkling her nose.
C’mon now… He ain’t this bad, is he?
“Oh, he is. Total fucking prick,” you say and roll your eyes theatrically. Then you dare to shoot him a quick, mischievous sideways glance before turning back to the young witness. “These people just like control and can’t handle it when things don’t go their way.”
The woman scoffs in agreement once more. “Yeah, that honestly sounds like Martha.”
Dean steps in again but forces himself to dial it back a little this time. “The victim?”
The woman nods. “She complained about everything. Noise, lawns, pets – anything she could report, she did.”
Another neighbor, a family father in his forties, steps forward as well. “Called the cops on my kid’s birthday party once.”
“She tried to get my fence taken down,” a soccer mom adds.
More neighbors then chime in with their own stories. It builds, piece by piece, irritation turning into collective hatred. By the time the chatter dies down again, the first woman just gives a shrug of her shoulders.
“She was a judgmental bitch. I’m glad she’s dead.”
Welp, and people say living in suburbia is the dream…
Dean then only nods once, lips pursed. “Alright, thank you, miss.”
You give her a reassuring smile as well before heading back to the car. Dean turns with you, but the second the two of you are out of earshot, he lets out a grunt to get your attention and make his irritation known.
“I could’ve handled that.”
At that, you stop, still mid-step, and spin toward him. The motion is so abrupt he almost bumps into you.
You arch an eyebrow, lips twitching in amusement. “Oh, could you?”
Dean lifts his chin, squaring off in front of you. “Yeah.”
If you were a guy, this would probably turn into a dick measuring contest. Or a pissing contest. Man, guys are gross.
“With what?” you shoot back. “Threatening her into silence?”
“I was applying pressure,” he argues defensively. “It works.”
“It almost didn’t,” you fire back. “She was two seconds away from shutting down completely.”
“I had it under control.”
You snort a disbelieving laugh. “No, you didn’t.”
Dean steps closer, the irritation climbing, nostrils flaring slightly. “I was setting it up.”
“Setting what up?”
“For you to swoop in,” he replies cleverly. “Good cop, bad cop. You ever heard of that?”
“Oh, bullshit,” you scoff and cross your arms. “No, you fucking weren’t.”
“Yeah, I was.”
“You almost tanked the whole thing,” you retort. “There was no setup.”
Dean scoffs, rolling his shoulders. “You got what we needed, didn’t you?”
“Because I fixed it.”
“Yeah, only because I softened her up first.”
“Oh no, you scared her,” you counter. “Which isn’t surprising since that seems to be your go-to method. Ever thought about actually giving people some sympathy, grace, and understanding instead of yelling and threatening everyone around you to do your bidding?”
Dean exhales a harsh breath, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You don’t know how this works. Any of this.”
You step closer, matching him, frustration finally breaking through to its full extent. “No, I just do this for a living. And unlike you, I actually get paid for my job and didn’t get my badge from an arts and crafts store.”
Dean laughs your jab off, although he surely gasped internally. How fucking dare you?!
“Look, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get yourself in trouble, Sabrina,” he snaps. “Or, you know, killed.”
“I’m not the one causing problems. Not to mention, a few weeks ago, you’re the one who wanted to kill me,” you shoot back. “And now, you’re also the one breathing down my neck, criticizing everything I do like you’re just waiting for me to screw up.”
“Well, maybe I am.”
“Oh my God, pick a damn side!”
Dean frowns in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You heard me,” you snap. “I didn’t even want to be here. You made me stay and guilt-tripped me into it, and now you’re second-guessing my every move. Make up your damn mind, dude! Am I a problem or not? Do you trust me or not? Do you actually hate me or not? ‘Cause all this indecision is driving me nuts. Even your aura is a huge mess, by the way.”
Dean blinks, shaking his head clear as all your words still swirl around his mind and try to find a place. “What, now?”
“This whole time, it’s been flip-flopping,” you huff. “Red, green, red, green – like a fucking stoplight on amphetamines. So, which one is it? Stop or go?”
Red.
Dean stills.
Red?
The memory – no, the dream because it’s definitely not real – crashes into him within seconds and floods his mind. The sunlight through the trees reflects off the water’s surface, almost blinding him, but he can still see your face, how your lip quivered, and how your eyes stung with tears.
Do you hate me?
You said his aura was green back then, apple green or maybe pine, but green. But it shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. Because none of it was ever real. He just made it all up… in his head… like a normal person.
Fuck.
“Red?” he asks out loud, his voice several notches quieter than it was before. He already hates himself for asking in the first place.
It shouldn’t get to him the way it does. You shouldn’t.
“Yeah, mostly red, actually,” you say, still exasperated from the argument, chest heaving.
But Dean only studies you for another minute, trying to line it up, trying to make it make goddamn sense. “What does that mean?”
You hesitate for a beat, staring at him tiredly before you exhale a long breath. “It means you’re reactive, impulsive, and you don’t think things through. And right now? You’re kind of being a giant dick.”
Dean purses his lips. Admittedly, both real-you and dream-you are masters of delivering insults that stick. Is dick the grown-up version of mean and stupid? Probably.
Before he can respond, though, his little brother cuts through the tension before it can fully escalate again.
“You guys good?” Sam checks, his hazel eyes flickering warily between you and Dean.
Both of you fix your eyes on Sam, but neither of you responds.
“Okay,” Sam sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I think we should head to the library next. I mean, the whole hooves thing makes me think we might actually be dealing with the Headless Horseman. Maybe we can find out who it is, because this thing’s definitely mobile.”
Dean nods, still hung up on that whole red-green thing, but you shake your head slightly, brows creasing. Figures.
“Actually, I wanna process the evidence first. Might give us a clue about the weapon and where to find it,” you say.
Dean then finally dares to look at you again, brow furrowing lightly. “Thought you already did that with that whole horsey aura thing.”
“That’s not–… You know what? Never mind.” You press your lips together, biting back whatever comment you wanted to make, and simply turn to Sam. “Point is, I need a lab. Don’t exactly have one here. The rust, the hair… There’s more there.” Then you smack your lips, musingly looking between the brothers. “You guys do breaking and entering, right?”
Sam and Dean exchange a look.
Of course.
Dean sighs. “Yup, we do.”
“You guys go. I’ll hit the library,” Sam says, not even arguing (or volunteering).
“Fine. I’ll go with her.” Dean nods and rolls his eyes slightly.
But you? You immediately grimace and wrinkle your nose.
“Do you have to?” you question and then tone down the hostility a little by clearing your throat. “I mean, can’t Sam come to the lab with me, and you can go to the library?”
Dean’s lips rise to a smirk at that. “Not a chance in hell, Sabrina.”
Dean Winchester is by far the most irritating person you’ve ever met in your entire life.
The forensics lab at Sleepy Hollow PD has a familiar rhythm you know all too well from home. The machines hum in the background, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the steel counters reflect a clean surface. It’s a space that makes sense, where things follow rules and where answers exist if you know where to look.
And at first, Dean’s presence is just background noise like the rest of the interior. A shift of boots here, a faint tap of fingers there, and the soft click of his tongue against his teeth, like he’s trying to fill silence that isn’t asking to be filled. He clearly doesn’t know how to exist in stillness, but it’s manageable.
Annoying, but manageable.
You try to ignore it. You really do. You’ve worked in worse conditions than a mildly irritating human being before. Your focus simply zones in on the sample in front of you, on the familiar routine of gloving up, setting tools in place, and letting muscle memory take over.
But then he sighs – long, loud, and entirely unnecessary. The kind that almost demands acknowledgment.
You close your eyes for a second before glancing over your shoulder. “Do you mind?”
Dean looks up, a little startled. “What?”
You gesture vaguely in his direction. “All of… that. Can you not?”
He frowns, glancing down at himself, then around the room, genuinely confused. “I’m not doing anything.”
You hold his gaze for a moment longer, weighing if explaining basic self-awareness is worth your time before coming to the conclusion that explaining it would cost more energy than tolerating it. So, you turn back to your microscope without another word, and for a few minutes, it seems to work.
Then the damn tapping starts again. Different pattern this time. Worse. It’s less rhythmic and more erratic, as if he’s finally gotten bored enough to start experimenting with new ways to be even more annoying.
You exhale a long breath. “Dean.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
You don’t even turn this time, adjusting the microscope in front of you till the image sharpens under the lens. “If I have to explain it, you’re already too far gone.”
Silence finally follows, but it’s so quiet now that it almost seems suspicious, and you’re already afraid it might not last all that long.
Still, you take advantage of the brief pause from the human distraction behind you. The residue sharpens into focus again, clearly uneven and aged, not indicating any modern weapon. You track the patterns and mentally catalogue the details like you always do.
But then, behind you, something clinks.
You freeze, turn your head, and find Dean holding a pair of tweezers.
“Put that down,” you tell him scoldingly.
Stumped, he looks at them, then at you. “I’m just–”
“Put. It. Down.”
He does, though not before inspecting them like he’s admiring their craftsmanship. You then watch him drift to the next station, fingers already moving again with zero impulse control. He brushes over surfaces, picks up a tray, and tilts it slightly.
“You’re going to contaminate something,” you warn.
“I’m not touching anything important,” he retorts, which is exactly the sort of thing someone says right before they touch something important.
And a second later, you hear a distinct rattle.
You close your eyes. “Dean.”
“I didn’t break it.”
“That’s not the standard I usually aim for.”
He actually huffs a small laugh at that, then leans against the counter for all of three seconds before pushing off again. The pacing comes next – slow loops at first before they get tighter with every pass as if the entire room is shrinking around him.
You don’t need to look to track him. You can feel it – the restless energy, the constant motions, the sheer refusal to simply settle down.
But annoyingly and deeply inconveniently, you’re unfortunately aware of him in other ways as well.
Every time he brushes past you a little too closely, there’s that faint scent of leather, gun oil, and something warm again. Something unmistakably him. It persists just long enough to distract you and pull your focus away from the work in front of you.
You frown slightly but force your attention back at the task at hand, even though the whole thing is quite… unhelpful.
When yet another metal tray clatters behind you, you resign and reach for your headphones, sliding them on without a word and letting the music flood your ears. Blessed silence wraps around you as you get back to work and let the Beach Boys fill in as white noise instead.
However, that only lasts about halfway through Good Vibrations before the music cuts out all of a sudden.
Jolted out of your peace, you blink and turn to see Dean standing right next to you now, holding the cord of your headphones between his fingers. He looks at you more curious than apologetic, though, which is honestly even more irritating. If you yell at him now, it’d feel more like reprimanding a toddler who doesn’t know any better.
“You can’t just shut me out like that,” he says almost reproachfully.
“I was working.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” he replies like that’s the main issue altogether.
You snatch the headphones back from him, setting them gently down on the counter. “What do you want?”
He shrugs, pursing his lips. “What are you doing?”
You shoot him a deadpan look. “Working.”
“No, I mean, how,” he clarifies. “Walk me through it.”
Your brow scrunches. “What? Why?”
“I wanna know how it works.”
You narrow your eyes at him slightly, trying to figure out if this is yet another setup. Is he trying to undermine you again? Is this a test?
“You want me to explain forensic processing to you,” you repeat slowly.
“Sure.” He shrugs again. “Why not?”
Your mouth opens and closes before you study him for a beat. He’s still restless. Still too fucking much. But there’s at least something quieter underneath it now. Maybe it’s curiosity – or maybe he just needs something to latch onto to fill the silence with something other than his own thoughts.
“Fine,” you sigh at last, turning back to your station.
Dean smacks his lips and leans over your shoulder like a bored kid in a museum. “So, what’s that?”
“Evidence.”
“Yeah, I got that,” he scoffs. “What kind?”
“The kind you don’t contaminate by hovering,” you reply flatly.
But Dean? Yeah, he leans closer anyway while you shut your eyes briefly, inhale deeply, and count to three.
“Is that the rust stuff?” he asks then.
“Yes.”
“From the wound?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“And you think it’s from a blade?”
“Yes, Dean.”
He nods slowly, processing it. But then, his mouth opens once more. “Could be something else.”
You decide to level with him, meeting his green eyes. “Like what?”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Dear Odin, Freyja, and Thor...
What have you done wrong in your life to be punished like this?
Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue. Patience is a–
“On the slide is trace residue,” you explain. “I’m checking composition, degradation, age – anything that might tell me where it came from. You can look if you want.”
You take a step back from the microscope to let him take a peek. He hesitates for a moment but then leans closer, not crowding, but still near enough that you’re aware of him in a different way now. His aura is steady, warm, green as he glimpses through the eyepiece.
“See that breakdown pattern?” you ask quietly. “It’s consistent with oxidized iron. Lines up with older weaponry.”
He pulls back from the lens and glances at you. “Like a sword?”
“Maybe.” You shrug, swaying your head from side to side. “If I had to guess, I’d say Civil War era most likely.”
He hums, considering that, and you notice how he doesn’t argue for once. He just takes it in and lets it sit. Miracle of miracles.
“Gotta say, kinda cool you can tell all that from a few flakes of rust,” he says, then takes a glance around the lab. “But you know, for a place that deals with dead bodies and blood, this is… weirdly clean.”
“First of all, not that many dead bodies here. You’re confusing it with the morgue. I’m not a medical examiner,” you say with a small chuckle. “And second of all, cleanliness is kind of the point of a lab.”
He purses his lips, shrugs. “Yeah, but still. You’d think there’d be more–, I don’t know… more gore.”
You give him a dry look. “You want more gore?”
“Just saying. Feels misleading.”
“Please stop talking.”
As you focus back on your work and switch slides to examine the horse hair next, you expect him to hit you with another trifling question about evidence. But when he speaks again, he suavely changes subjects, and you realize his questioning before was just supposed to warm you up for the real interrogation.
Was he just buttering you up? Are you really that easy?
Granted, aside from his interaction with a witness earlier, he’s admittedly good with people. You watched how easily he convinced the detective on the scene to trust him and how smoothly he talked his way into this lab by simply tossing the pretty receptionist a cocky smile and a few charming lines.
That was kind of a bonus point.
And sure, you technically knew this side of him existed because he showed it to you before – before he knew you who you truly were. It’s still different to observe it from an outside perspective, though. You can see the appeal more clearly if you blend out the fact he held a gun to your head not that long ago.
“So,” Dean starts and blows a raspberry, mustering surely all the casualty he can possibly find. “What did you and Sam really talk about at that diner yesterday? What’d he tell you?”
You freeze imperceptibly for a second but keep your eyes on the sample. “You know, he’s your brother. You have access to him. Why don’t you just ask Sam?”
“Oh, I will. Don’t worry about that,” Dean says. “But I’m asking you now.”
You snort a little. “Is this you trying to see if our answers will match?”
“Maybe,” he admits. “Just humor me.”
You exhale softly, shutting off the microscope, your eyes finding his. “We talked about the demon. He told me what happened to your family,” you share carefully. You can tell by the flickers in his aura that he’s getting nervous. “He also told me about that hunter that worked with my grandma.”
“Bobby?”
“Yeah.” You confirm with a nod and lick your lips, shifting on your feet a little. “Then I showed him the letter from my mom I found in Mia’s basement. It was written for my twenty-first birthday, but Mia never gave it to me.”
That seems to catch his attention, his eyes lifting to you. “A letter?”
“Yup.” You reach for your bag, pulling it out. You hesitate for a tiny second before holding it out to him.
Dean looks at it, then back at you, and there’s a gleam of surprise in his gaze as his brows lift. “You’re just gonna… hand that to me?”
“You asked.” You shrug lightly, although your fingers hold onto it a second longer before letting go for good.
He takes it carefully – that’s what you notice first.
Carefully.
Not the way he handles everything else in this room, like a bull in a china shop – absent-minded, restless, careless. His grip is suddenly contrastingly measured and cautious. It almost seems like he’s aware this is something that matters.
He unfolds it, juniper eyes scanning the page, and then he goes shockingly still – not quiet in the way he’s been trying to be. Completely still. You’re not even sure he’s still breathing.
You watch him and fix on his aura without really meaning to. Outwardly, his jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze lingers longer on certain lines. But his aura? The rich and deep forest green desaturates and cools, becoming a bit more muted as if someone turned the brightness down. But a soft blue starts to bleed through it, merging it to a teal shade – sea pine. It pools mostly around his heart, concentrating there.
Are your mom’s words actually affecting him? You’re not entirely sure, but you think you can pick up pieces of his own grief and loss.
When he finally finishes reading, he folds it back up just as carefully as he opened it and hands it back to you wordlessly.
“Thanks,” you say, strangely softer than you intended.
Dean just nods and doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t say anything at all.
It’s… unexpected to say the least. And somehow, it’s still more telling than anything he could’ve said. If he hadn’t tried to shoot you only a few weeks ago, you probably would’ve even started to like him. At least, you would’ve considered him a decent person and not a scathing, intolerant maniac with a gun.
You tuck the letter back into your bag and start chewing on your lower lip, scrupling about trusting him enough to goad him into telling you more about the demon. If he thinks he can work an angle with you to get more information, maybe so can you.
“Sam also told me about the ritual, by the way,” you say after a beat. “The one my mom seems to talk about, too. The one I’m supposed to do to unlock more power or whatever.”
Dean smacks his lips, slightly arching a brow. “He did?”
“Yeah, he thinks I should do it.”
That response forces him to scoff under his breath, shaking his head. “‘Course he does.”
“You don't?” you ask, curiously raising a brow. “Why’s Sam so convinced then?”
Dean lets out a deep breath, running a hand over the back of his neck as if he’s still debating to say what he really thinks or not. After a brief pause, he seems to land on the former. “‘Cause Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.”
“Whatever it takes?” you repeat, brow furrowing.
Dean’s gaze meets yours briefly before he averts his eyes again. “Yeah.”
“But you’re not,” you deduce from his reluctance.
He shakes his head, jaw locking, but he still doesn’t look at you. “No.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause I already lost enough.”
The words slip out, and as soon as they do, he pushes off the counter, pacing away from you with a shake off his head. He rubs a hand over his mouth as if he wants to push the words back inside.
He doesn’t elaborate, but you can see it now, clearer than before – there are lines he actually won’t cross. Not again. Not ever. Not for anything.
Not even for the evil thing that killed his parents.
He licks his lips and dares to glance at you again, straightening slightly. “All I’m saying is… you’ve got a life, alright?” he says, his deep voice steadying with every further spoken syllable. “You know, a real one – job, place, people. You don’t just throw that away chasing something like this,” he adds. “Sam… he’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.”
You stare at him for a moment, letting the message sink in. “So you don’t think I should do the ritual?”
“Correct.” He exhales slowly. “Look, once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no clean way out of it, alright?”
“Sam seems to think there is.”
“He’s wrong.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, your mind racing with every possible option. But no matter how hard you think about it, you find yourself staring down a fork in the road, not knowing which path is the right one. So, you look to Dean for answers.
“What d’you think I should do?”
He bites his lip, staring out the only window in the room, mulling over your question for a minute or two before he meets your eyes again. “I think, uhm… you don’t make that call just ‘cause someone else is pushing you to,” he says carefully. “You make it when you’ve got no other choice left. And right now, you’ve still got choices.”
You nod slowly, letting his warning seep into the back of your mind, but there’s something else tugging at you.
“Do I actually still have a choice?” you ask then, scoffing a small, humorless laugh. “I mean, Sam said this thing might still find me. That it might come after my family.”
Dean’s jaw grinds as if he doesn’t like the fact that his brother put that idea into your head. But what would his solution have been? Not tell you and watch you and everyone you love die? Is that his end goal? You think he’s surely not that cruel before remembering the same guy tried to murder you in cold blood.
His head bobs for a moment before a click of his tongue follows. “It could.”
And for a while, neither of you speaks then. But the tension is softer and more velvety than it was at the crime scene. It’s not looking for a fight anymore.
“Look,” he starts, and you find his eyes again. “Don’t worry about the demon. Me and Sam can handle it, alright? It’s not gonna come after you or anyone close to you.”
Slightly skeptical, you cock a brow and cross your arms. “You sure?”
He hesitates a second before his Adam’s apple bobs around a swallow. Then he meets your eyes. “I promise.”
Your heart skips a few beats. You’re honestly not sure you can trust his words. How could he ever promise something like that? Most of all, though, why would he? You know he hates you and everything you stand for.
“Alright.” Dean then straightens abruptly and rubs his palms together, nodding toward the exit. “Are you about done here, or is there more horse hair?”
“No, uh, I think I’ve got it all,” you reply and pull off your gloves. “Just have to clean up. Shouldn’t take long.”
Dean nods quickly, suddenly in a slight hurry, almost bumping backwards into a metal cart. “Great, uhm, I’m gonna go ahead and grab a bite. I’ll wait for you by the car.”
“Okay, yeah,” you agree and spin back to your station, gathering your slides and evidence bags.
He heads for the door and doesn’t touch anything on the way out. You notice that. Maybe there’s hope for him after all. But as his hand reaches for the handle, he stops unexpectedly and turns back to you.
“You–, uh, you want anything? I can grab you something, too.”
You stump for a second. Because honestly? That’s the last thing you anticipated.
You shake your head slowly. “Uh… no. I’m good.”
He frowns slightly. “You sure? You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Your brow furrows, head tilting a little as you assess him. You can’t even tell if he’s serious right now or playing another angle again. You wouldn't put it past him to poison your food. He seems strangely sincere, however. His aura does, too.
Is that considered weird or normal? Or is it only weird because he tried to kill you and now seemingly worries about your food intake, but it’d be completely normal under different circumstances?
“Yeah, uhm, I’m fine… really,” you reply and swallow lightly. “But, uhm, thanks.”
Dean gives you a nod. And then, he’s out the door within seconds, practically fleeing the lab.
Yeah, it’s weird, isn’t it? Definitely weird.
When Dean and you finally make it to the library, Sam’s exactly where the two of you left him – buried behind a stack of books that’s grown in both size and instability. He’s halfway through one, another marked with a pen, and a third is open but has been clearly abandoned mid-thought. Dean’s sure if his little brother could read two at once, he would.
Dean remains a step behind you, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, as you stroll ahead without hesitancy. You seem to feel comfortable here, which makes sense, considering you went to college and probably spent a lot of time in libraries. At least, you don’t strike him as someone who partied their way through it. You’re too smart for that – kind of like Sam.
Two nerdy peas in a dusty pot.
You lean slightly toward the table behind Sam, eyes already eagerly scanning his little brother’s spread of research. “Find anything?”
Sam finally blinks up at that, slightly delayed as he pulls himself back into the present. “Working on it,” he replies, then glances between you and Dean. “You guys? How was the lab?”
You give a slight nod toward Dean, a small, teasing smile rising on your lips. “Has he ever been tested for ADHD yet?”
Dean’s brow furrows wildly at that. Sure, he was aware you were a little annoyed by his antics, but it wasn’t that bad, was it? It’s not his fault labs and libraries are indefinitely boring.
Sam lets out a soft chuckle in response, nodding along like he’s agreeing with you. “Not yet, but I wouldn’t rule it out,” he quips like it’s a well-documented phenomenon. “If anyone’s a textbook case…”
The creases in Dean’s brow deepen. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
Sam shrugs lightly, already looking back down at the page in front of him. “Just saying, man. You don’t exactly thrive in environments that require… stillness.”
“Well, anyways, human distractions aside,” you start, organizing your thoughts, “I managed to process the residue from the wound. It’s iron-based and heavily oxidized, but the corrosion isn’t uniform and refined in a way modern alloys are. There are inconsistencies in the structure – impurities you don’t really see in anything manufactured post-industrial standardization.”
Sam's shoulders pull back slightly, his attention sharpening. “So older metal,” he deduces.
Dean, on the other hand, is amazed his little brother even understood an ounce of that. He only caught about half of it and can’t help but notice that you used a lot more technical jargon with Sam than you did with Dean back at the lab.
Were you dumbing it down for him?
Dean would be offended if he wasn’t too fascinated by the way you speak – certain, steady, laying out all the answers without second-guessing.
His mind drifts back to the lab, the words in your mother’s letter still swirling around his head. It’s not the magic part that got stuck, however – not the blood moon, the legacy, or any of that witch-destiny crap he’s been taught to side-eye since he was old enough to hold a gun. It’s the rest of it that haunts him.
You are loved beyond measure.
His jaw grinds slightly as that line echoes through his skull again. It’s the part that doesn’t let go. It almost leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, hitting somewhere deeper than he’d like – a place he usually keeps locked down tight. It’s memories he doesn’t need right now and things he rarely lets himself think about unless it’s late or quiet or he’s had one too many beers and his guard slips just enough to let it hurt for an hour or two.
He’s seen grief before – lived in it, breathed it, and carried it around like a second skin. But that letter wasn’t just grief. There was a warmth underneath it, and it rewired something in his brain.
Suddenly, you’re not just a witchy wildcard anymore he needs to keep at arm’s length. You became the girl again he first saw before he knew you liked to write spells in glitter gel pens – the girl who lost her mom and who got handed something she never asked for and is now stuck dealing with the fallout.
Same as him. Same as Sam. Maybe just a different flavor.
Dean meant every word he said back at the lab – about you having a life, about staying out of this mess, about not doing some weird ritual. He doesn’t want to watch you get dragged into something that chews people up and spits them out, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the job, the fight, or the next thing trying to kill you. You’re not supposed to end up like this, running around chasing ghosts and curses and things that don’t stay dead. That’s not your lane. It shouldn’t be.
But seeing you like that – like someone who had a life before all this, someone who still has one – makes everything a hell of a lot more complicated. And the more he thinks about it, the less it feels like it’s even his call to make. Not anymore. Maybe it never was. It certainly seems like it doesn’t really matter what either of you wants.
Because if that letter also made one thing painfully clear, it’s that none of this started with you.
Family legacy. Awakening. Power waiting for you. Destiny.
God,he hates that word because it’s just another way of saying you don’t get a choice, wrapped up in something that sounds nicer than it actually fucking is.
You didn’t ask for any of this – not the magic, not the demon, and not whatever target just got painted on your back the second you turned twenty-one. Dean already knows how this goes, seen it play out too many times to count – once you’re in, you’re in. It doesn’t matter how normal your life used to be or how much you want to keep it.
For all his talk back at the lab, he’s slowly starting to realize it might be too late to walk it back now.
Because the truth is, it’s already circling you. Things are already set in motion. Lines are being drawn. And he knows better than anyone that once something like that sets its sights on you, it doesn’t just let you walk away unscathed.
Your voice then snaps him out of his thoughts, forcing him to concentrate back on the case at hand – something he actually can fix.
“Yeah, it’s consistent with hand-forged steel,” you confirm, looking at Sam. “The carbon distribution’s uneven, which points to older smelting methods. It’s not something mass-produced, and it hasn’t been preserved well, either. There’s evidence of long-term exposure to moisture, maybe even soil.”
“Timeline?” Sam asks.
“Pre-modern production. Likely 19th century, give or take,” you reply. “Depends on how it was stored – or not stored. I think Civil War era would be the most consistent fit.”
Sam nods slowly like he understood all of that. He then leans back a little in his chair, thinking it through. “Okay, so we’re looking for a Civil War-era blade, possibly tied to a spirit,” he muses, tapping his pen against the page. “Problem is there are a lot of Civil War soldiers buried around here. Some not even officially recorded. Unmarked graves, battlefield spillover…”
“So too many candidates,” Dean concludes.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “If this is a soldier tied to a weapon, it’s not gonna be easy to get a clean ID.”
You shift your weight slightly, following along, but there’s a small crease between your brows now. “But the Headless Horseman legend – wasn’t that from a different war?”
Sam nods, already reaching for one of the books. “Yup. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow was originally about a Hessian soldier. Revolutionary War. Not Civil War.”
“So it doesn’t match,” you infer.
“Not exactly,” Sam replies. “But that’s not that unusual. Local legends change over time. People see something they don’t understand, and they use whatever story fits best to explain it.”
Dean picks up on that thread. “So if something starts taking heads off, folks are gonna call it the Headless Horseman whether it lines up with Irving or not.”
You nod slowly. “Alright, so the name sticks, even if the details don’t. So, what? This all could just be a coincidence that there’s an actual Headless Horseman in Sleepy Hollow?”
“Seems like it,” Sam says.
There’s a brief pause as you think it over before glancing between them. “Okay, but how do the victims connect to the weapon? If it’s a cursed object… how does that work?”
Dean answers first. “Usually? You touch it.”
“Or you move it, disturb it,” Sam adds. “Anything that establishes contact. Some objects can affect people just by being nearby, but physical contact’s the most common trigger.”
You absorb that, head bobbing in thought. “So all four victims would’ve had to come into contact with the same object.”
“Yeah, most likely,” Sam confirms.
Dean pushes off the table and straightens. “Which means there’s gotta be a place where all of them could’ve run into it without knowing what it was.”
His little brother is nodding as well, probably having circled that same idea. He flips another page, scanning quickly before something seems to click.
“I might have something,” Sam says then, opening up his laptop and turning it toward you and Dean. “There’s a history museum here in town. It’s small, but they’ve got a special exhibit right now. Weapons, uniforms… that kind of thing.”
Dean leans in just enough to glance at the screen. “Open to the public?”
“Yup,” Sam says. “Regular visitors, tours. Judging from the homepage, people can get pretty close to the displays.”
You lean in as well, skimming the details. “That would explain how unrelated victims end up exposed to the same object,” you say. “Different people, same location.”
The pieces line up enough to be worth chasing.
Dean rolls his shoulders and readily fumbles for his keys in his pocket. “Alright, guess the museum’s our next stop.”
As you enter the museum with Sam and Dean, you instantly lose any sense of a timeline, clocking at least three different centuries fighting for shelf space within the first minute of being here. You’ve honestly never seen anything like it. The entire place looks like someone tried to preserve history but then gave up halfway through organizing it.
A faded Union uniform slumps beside an old musket leaning against the wall, which almost threatens to fall over if someone breathes too damn hard, while a case of antique and mismatched teaspoons sits next to it, labeled in barely legible handwriting and fading ink.
Nothing matches, nothing flows, and whatever system might have existed here certainly died a long damn time ago.
You take it in for a moment, head tilting. “If I did this at work, I’d be fired before lunch.”
Dean shuts the creaking door behind you, glancing around with something closer to amusement than concern. “Oh, c’mon, it’s got character.”
“Character isn’t a filing system,” you mutter, spotting four different labeling styles within the same six feet, which make your stomach churn.
Sam doesn’t engage, already drawn like a moth to a stack of papers. He locks onto the nearest surface that looks remotely administrative and heads straight for the counter. “Excuse me? Is anyone here?” he calls. “Do you have a catalogue? Inventory records? Anything that organizes–”
“‘Course I do,” a gruff voice cuts him off.
The owner emerges as if he’s been summoned by the word catalogue alone, shuffling out from behind the desk. He’s probably closer to ninety than eighty in age, wrinkled and hole-littered cardigan buttoned unevenly, glasses slipping down his nose as he eyes all three of you with suspicion before he strangely seems to fix on Dean the most.
“You look like a toucher,” he says.
Dean stumps, blinking at the old man. “I–… what?”
You can barely stifle your laugh, shoulders shaking from holding back too much. “Oh, he is,” you add with hurting cheeks. “Especially on public transportation.”
Dean’s head snaps to you with a glare, which only makes you bite your lip harder.
“Well, don’t touch anything here, boy,” the man adds with a warning look.
You shoot Dean a sideways glance as the owner turns away again. “Oh, he clocked you instantly.”
He frowns, somewhat defensive. “I do not look like a toucher.”
“You touched everything at the lab, too. You’ve got zero impulse control. You practically radiate ‘I wonder what happens if I poke it.’”
He purses his lips like you caught him there, but before he can argue further, the owner reappears with an armful of binders. No, not even an armful – multiple trips. By the time he’s done, there are eight thick, overstuffed binders stacked on the counter, loose papers sticking out of all sides.
Sam stares at them like he’s been personally insulted.
“I wrote everything down,” the old man says proudly, patting the top binder. “Every item. Buttons, coins, spoons… Got a lot of spoons. People like spoons.”
You glance around the room again. There are, in fact, an alarming number of spoons. And guess what? Dean’s restless fingers are already sifting through some of them. You smile in amusement, shaking your head slightly at him. You really can’t take this guy anywhere.
Sam then carefully opens the first binder, flips a page, then another, his brow creasing deeper with each passing second. “Is this… organized?”
The man pauses, considering it like it’s a philosophical question. “My wife used to do that.”
Sam waits, but the old man doesn’t elaborate.
“And now?” Sam prompts after a full minute with no answer.
“She died twenty years ago.”
Dean gives a solemn nod. “So we’re freestylin’. Got it.”
Sam exhales a long-suffering breath, staring down at what appears to be fifty years of unsorted acquisition logs written in increasingly inconsistent handwriting. “So, everything’s just… in the order you got it?”
“Yep.”
“For twenty years.”
“Yep.”
You fold your arms over your chest, looking between the binders and the rest of the room. “Alright, so we could spend the next six hours playing archaeological bingo, or we could not.”
Dean perks up at that. “Big fan of not.”
Sam looks at you, a smile forming on his lips, already catching on. “You have something faster?”
You reach into your bag and pull out your notebook, flipping it open on the counter. “I can narrow it down,” you explain. “Find the object directly instead of digging through… whatever this is.”
Dean watches you, one brow lifting judgmentally as you pull out a pen – a purple glitter gel pen.
“Really, Mini Milano?”
“Purple’s for magic targeting magic,” you tell him without looking up.
“C’mon, we don’t need magic for this,” Dean grunts. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, use our eyes?”
“Dean, look around you. This whole place is a mess. A spell will save us hours,” Sam counters before Dean can double down.
The older brother then grumbles something under his breath, but he refrains from saying anything else. You do catch the way he shifts, though. You can read the subtle discomfort in his aura – how he’s a little more on edge now, a little more wound tighter. Magic’s clearly still not his favorite thing in the world.
Your attention then lands back on the empty page in front of you, the words already forming as you focus on the intent, pen moving with deliberate care.
Objects bound by curse or spite,Hidden now from mortal sight,Reveal to me what must be known,The thing that claims what’s not its own.
You mutter the lines under your breath before closing the notebook, letting the magic flow through the room.
And for a full minute, it seems like nothing happens.
Dean clicks his tongue. “See? We could’ve just–”
A purple glow suddenly lights up the entrance, cutting him off mid-sentence as his attention shifts. All three of you turn at once.
There is an old sword mounted just off to the side, glimmering purple from your spell. It’s positioned right where anyone walking in could see it first. It doesn’t look particularly remarkable. The metal is darkened, the hilt is worn, and age sits heavily in every inch of it.
The corners of Sam’s mouth twitch with a satisfied smile. “Guess that’s gotta be it.”
You follow him, studying the blade more closely. The corrosion patterns match your findings in the lab. It lines up too neatly to be anything else.
Behind you and Sam, Dean suddenly clears his throat. “Uhm, guys?”
You and Sam slowly turn and glance at him. Dean rubs the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. There’s a slight flush in his cheeks as well, and it slowly begins to dawn on you.
“So… funny thing,” he begins.
“No…” You’re already shaking your head, guessing what’s coming next. “You didn’t, did you?”
“There’s a sign, okay?” Dean defends, gesturing toward the display.
You spin and see that there is, in fact, a sign. Interactive Display – Feel Free to Touch. You stare at it for a moment longer before turning back to him.
“I might have… touched it,” he admits in case it still wasn’t clear, although that fact has already been very well established by now.
Sam gapes at him. “You what?!”
Dean throws his hands up. “It’s right by the entrance. It literally tells you to touch it. What was I supposed to do? Ignore the sign?”
“Yes,” both you and Sam reply flatly.
You close your eyes for a moment and press your lips into a tight line, counting to three again. “Let me get this straight – you touched a random sword in a museum where we were looking for a potentially cursed sword?”
Dean purses his lips, then shrugs his shoulders as if that was a reasonable life choice. “In my defense, I didn’t think that’d be the murdery one, alright?”
Sam rubs a hand down his face. “Dean…”
You, on the other hand, just look at Dean and weigh several responses, eventually discarding all of them in favor of a long and slow breath out.
“You realize what this means, right?” you ask.
“Yeah, I’m probably cursed. Got it,” Dean sighs with an annoying lack of panic in his voice.
Sam, meanwhile, is staring at the tempting sign again like it just solved half the case. “That’s how they’re getting cursed.”
You shoot him a curious look. “The victims?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Public display. Encouraged contact. Anyone who walks in and touches it–”
“–walks out marked,” you finish.
Dean cocks his head slightly, brow knitted. “So what? I’m just the latest idiot who touched it?”
You hum, nodding. “Seems that way, yes.”
Dean shoots you a small glare while Sam already turns back toward the counter.
“Sir? Do you keep a guest book?” he asks the owner. “Visitor log, anything like that?”
“‘Course I do,” the man says, shuffling back and returning with a worn notebook. “Not many people sign it, though. Shame, really.”
Sam flips it open immediately, scanning the entries while you lean in slightly to look. It doesn’t take long for you to find the names of at least two victims.
“Welp, guess we’re finally getting warmer,” you murmur.
Sam closes the guest book and looks back at the owner. “How long have you had that sword? The one by the entrance?”
The old man squints, thinking. “Oh, not that long. Couple weeks, maybe.”
Sam and you exchange a look. It fits the pattern.
“Have all the people who signed the guest book in the last few weeks touched that sword?” you ask the old man.
“Oh, more than that,” he replies, making you frown. “Probably hundreds. Got a lot of tourists recently because of those murders. Sword’s popular.”
Great.
“Do you know where it came from?” Sam presses. “Or who it belonged to?”
“My wife used to keep track of that,” he says, voice softening. “Had a system. Labels, dates…”
“Yeah, we’ve established that,” Dean mutters under his breath.
Sam tries again, a little gentler. “Is it written down in the catalogue?”
The man looks at the binders, then somewhere past them, his gaze drifting out the window. “The spoons are all accounted for,” he murmurs. “Except the silver one. That went missing… ’98. Or Friday.”
Oh no… Is he sundowning?
Sam stills, recognition dawning on his face. “Okay,” he says with a sigh, turning to you and Dean. “I think we won’t get anything useful out of him anymore.”
Dean whistles lowly. “Yeah, he’s gone.”
The owner nods to himself, satisfied with something none of you are a part of anymore, and shuffles back behind the counter where he came from.
“But that’s good news, right?” Dean says then, causing your brow to knit.
“How’s that good news?”
“Well, if a lot of people touched it and only four got their heads chopped off, means I might not be cursed,” he reasons cleverly.
Your brows pinch a little more together as you cock your head to the side, taking a closer look at him from head to toe. “No, you’re cursed.”
“Wow. Encouraging,” he says dryly. “Little Miss Optimistic over here, huh?”
Sam’s brow creases as well, squinting at you. “Wait… Can you actually tell if he is or not?”
“Yup,” you reply, nodding. “I mean, I never spotted a curse before in someone’s aura, but this one seems pretty clear.”
Dean frowns. “How so?”
“For starters, there’s a petunia-purple rope around your neck now that wasn’t there before,” you quip and grin a little. “Kinda looks like someone already marked the spot.”
“Petunia?” He arches an eyebrow, wrinkling his nose.
That’s what he takes issue with?!
“Yes, petunia.”
Sam sighs again and stares down at the mountain of binders in front of him. “Alright, let’s take these back to the B&B and go through them one by one,” he suggests.
Dean glances once more at the sword, then at his brother. “So what’s the plan? I just wait around until I hear hooves and something tries to decapitate me?”
You snort under your breath. “That does seem to be the current trajectory.”
“Awesome,” he grumbles.
Sam gathers the binders with effort, stacking them into something barely manageable. “Look, if we figure out who the sword belonged to, we can figure out how to stop it.”
“And preferably before you make history as victim number five,” you add.
“Good to know where I stand,” Dean scoffs, then motions with his chin to the sword. “What about that thing? Can’t just leave it here and let more people touch it.”
Sam gives him a tired smile. “Well, since you’re already cursed, how about you take care of that? We’ll head back to the B&B and get a head start.”
“Fine,” Dean huffs, rolling his eyes.
You frown slightly, thumbing toward Dean. “Wait, he’s getting out of research that easy?”
Sam chuckles. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”
You side-eye Dean for a second, already seeing those fingers twitching again, and nod in understanding. “Yeah, I think I get it.”
Dean blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” you and Sam reply simultaneously, causing the older Winchester to glare at both of you.
You’ve noticed that Dean gets even more irritated when Sam and you seem to be on the same wavelength. It’s kind of entertaining, though, to see that vein in his forehead twitch. You think you might start doing it on purpose soon just for that reason.
“Guess I’ll take care of that sword,” he mutters grumpily, shaking his head.
“You do that,” you quip, smirking. A knight and his sword. “You are a toucher, after all.”
Dean gives you the driest look you’ve seen so far. “You’re really not gonna let the touching thing go, are you?”
You shrug lightly. “I’m at least documenting it mentally.”
“For what?”
“A growing body of evidence against you.”
He snorts an amused laugh while Sam’s already heading for the exit, all eight binders in his large arms. You follow, casting one last look at the sword, and pretend not to notice the slight curve of your own lips as you push the door open and step back out into the daylight.
▶️ Chapter 5: Old Habits Die Screaming
The museum and lab scenes get me every time lmao. Guess we've learned for certain now that Dean's a toucher (and we can cross off him getting cursed from our Supernatural bingo card) 🤣 Which of Dean's psychic/witch-inspired nicknames won in this part, though? How much did that dream hurt? And do you think Sam will murder them both by the end of the next chapter? I think he's about done with their bickering lol. And lastly, what's your opinion on this mysterious ritual (aka which brother do you agree with)? 😜
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You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck.
Well, that was an enlightening reading…
Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”
“Working,” you reply quickly.
“Looks like scrapbooking.”
“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”
“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”
A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck, but then another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress.
Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore.
You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply.
The Lovers.
For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–
No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.
Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?
my senior english teacher told me that any scene with a woman in a cornfield in every piece of literature ever is about her journey to womanhood/pleasuring herself in the field and i just.... believed her
"If only Stratt had the coma resistant gene she would've gone herse-" what if she went anyway.
What if she spent the journey awake with no one but the comatose bodies of her friends for company.
What if she watched as Yao's life support failed and couldn't do anything to help but mourn.
What if she woke up one "morning" to find Ilyukhina gone too and had to grapple with the fact that the only ones left were her and the man she betrayed.
What if she sat by Grace's side from then on because the thought that he could die too was too much to bear, and even if she knew her presence changed nothing it was she best she could do.
As if Joanne couldn't get any shittier, she misgendered and insulted a woman who called for support, all because the woman had PCOS/PMOS and "didn't sound feminine enough."
Fuck her.
Your shitty children's series isn't more important than people's lives.
Thinking about Steve being so afraid that the serum would change his love for Bucky.
The moment Erksine tells Steve that the serum will cure him of all his ailments, his heart stalls and his stomach sinks. He tries desperately to not give himself away when he meets the doctor’s eyes.
“All of them?” He asks. If his voice comes out small and trembling, he can pass it off as being in total awe of the concept of being healthy. And he is. But…
Erskine doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss as he smiles kindly and places a warm hand on Steve’s shoulder. “All of them.”
Steve lays awake that night, praying to a god he hadn’t spoken to since he lost his mother. Please, he begs. Don’t take this from me. Let me keep this one thing. It isn’t long, though, before his thoughts devolve into apology after apology to Bucky. Despite how much he loathed the thought of it, if he must lose his love for Bucky in order to be there for him—to protect him—, then so be it. It’s horrible, and painful, and bitterly unfair, but Steve Rogers will sacrifice anything to save Bucky Barnes.
The moment he steps out of the machine that transforms him, Steve notices most of the changes immediately. He’s big and tall. The world is bright and his heart feels strong. He can actually breathe. When he chases after the man that murdered Erksine, his thoughts and legs move fast—faster than Steve ever thought possible.
It’s only at night when Steve finally realizes.
He still loves Bucky.
He still wants to hold him in his arms, run his fingers through his hair, and kiss him breathless. He still loves him. He still loves him. Amidst his relief, Steve feels confusion. Erskine said the serum would cure him of all his illnesses. And it has, all except for this one thing. It’s then when one thought hits him with all the weight of the world;
Found your OG Ghost art, so I take it that you're an OG version, and a Roach fan too! Can you make a sketch where Roach gets transported to the Reboot World and meets the Reboot Soap and Ghost? Pretty pleaaaase.
Summary: You expected nothing by jokingly saying "Good morning, Ra" to the sun each day as you walked to work. Well, today, Ra answers back
Warning(s): None! :)
Words: 3,161
Note(s): This is set in the Moon Knight universe, after the events of the show occurred
You didn’t mean for it to become a ritual.
The first time, it was just something to press into the empty space.
Your walk to work isn’t long, not really, but it stretches in that particular way quiet moments do, long enough for your mind to start turning on itself. Long enough to notice things you’d rather blur past. The jagged cracks splitting the sidewalk like old scars. The same car alarm shrieking in uneven bursts down the block, as if it’s caught in a loop it can’t escape. The low hum of a waking city that never quite drowns out the quieter, heavier noise underneath- your own thoughts, pressing in before the day has a chance to bury them under conversations, tasks, or distractions.
So you look up.
The sky is clear in a way that almost feels intentional. Not soft or forgiving, but sharp- an uninterrupted stretch of pale morning blue pulled thin across the horizon. The sun hangs there, just cresting the edge of the world, already too bright, already insisting on its presence. It forces your eyes to narrow, light catching along your lashes, spilling gold into everything it touches: the rooftops, the pavement, the edges of your vision.
And because there was nothing else to say...
“Good morning, Ra,” you muttered.
A joke.
A dumb one, if you’re being honest. The kind that only feels clever at two in the morning, when your screen is the only light in the room and you’re half-lost in a spiral of mythology threads and comment sections that take themselves just seriously enough to be convincing. You’d scrolled past posts about sun gods and ancient rituals, about people who once believed the sky itself had a pulse, had intention, had eyes.
It lingered longer than it should have.
Maybe that’s why you said it.
Or maybe it was just the silence.
Either way, it wasn’t meant to be anything.
Just a throwaway line tossed into the open air, an attempt to soften the edge of a world that, at that hour, felt a little too vast and a little too uninterested in you.
You expected nothing.
You got nothing.
No shift in the light. No warmth curling differently against your skin. No sign, subtle or otherwise, that anything had heard you, much less cared.
That should’ve been the end of it.
But the next day, you did it again.
Not intentionally, not in any way you could point to. It just… slipped loose from somewhere behind your teeth, like your body remembered before your mind had the chance to weigh in. Same stretch of sidewalk under your feet, uneven and familiar. Same angle of sunlight cutting across your face, forcing your eyes half-shut. Same quiet pressing in around you, dense and expectant in a way that made the words feel almost necessary.
“Morning, Ra.”
You didn’t break stride. Didn’t pause to think about it. The words fell behind you as easily as your footsteps, swallowed by the space you left in your wake.
By the third day, you noticed.
Not just that you were saying it, but that you were waiting for the moment to.
Your attention started to catch on the details. The point in your walk where the buildings began to thin, where brick and concrete gave way just enough for the sky to widen overhead. The way the light hit there, unobstructed, sharper- less filtered by glass and shadow.
By the fifth day, it wasn’t an accident anymore.
You timed it.
Not consciously, not at first, but your steps adjusted, your pace settling into something just deliberate enough to land you there at the right moment. You’d glance up before you spoke now, squinting into that same unwavering brightness, as if checking that everything was in place.
By the second week, it had rules.
It had to be outside- saying it through a window felt wrong, like trying to have a conversation through glass. It had to be during that exact stretch of your walk, where the sky opened just enough to make the moment feel… unobstructed. Clear. Direct.
You weren’t superstitious. You knew that.
But there was something about consistency that settled into your bones anyway. Something about repetition that made the act feel less like a joke and more like… acknowledgment.
Or maybe it just made it feel less ridiculous.
Less like you were talking to nothing.
You never expected a response.
Why would you?
The thought barely even qualifies as a question- it’s more like a reflex, something instinctive and dismissive that settles into place before anything else can take root. Of course there wouldn’t be an answer. Of course there couldn’t be.
Gods- real, imagined, half-remembered from old stories that have been worn smooth over centuries- don’t pause for things like this. They don’t lean down out of the sky to acknowledge someone mumbling a greeting between crosswalks and coffee. They don’t sift through the noise of a waking city to pick out a single, ordinary voice and decide it matters.
There’d be stories: real ones, not the kind buried in textbooks or retold for entertainment. News reports that didn’t sound like satire. Footage that couldn’t be explained away or picked apart frame by frame until it lost its shape. The sky itself would feel different, like it had weight to it. Like it was something more than empty space lit by something distant and indifferent.
Cars pass. Tires hiss against pavement. A screen door slams somewhere behind you. The same car alarm down the block stutters into life and dies again, unresolved. The sun rises because it always has, not because it’s choosing to.
You reach that stretch of open sky, the one you’ve unconsciously measured your mornings around. The buildings fall away just enough, the horizon widening like a held breath finally released. Light spills down unobstructed, sharp and golden, catching along the edges of everything.
You tilt your head back, squinting.
“Good morning, Ra.”
The words leave you like they always do- quiet, almost incidental. A habit. A ritual. Nothing more.
You take another step.
And something answers.
Good morning.
You stop so abruptly your shoe drags hard against the pavement, rubber catching with a rough, jarring scrape that echoes louder than it should. The motion jolts up through your body, sharp and grounding, like something trying, and failing, to remind you where you are.
Calm.
That’s the first thing your mind latches onto. Not gentle, not kind- just… composed. Controlled in a way that suggests it has never needed to rush, never needed to raise itself to be heard.
And beneath that calm-
Weight.
Not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel. It settles into your bones, sinks past your skin and muscle like gravity deciding to focus on you alone. Your chest tightens around it, your breath catching just slightly, like your body doesn’t quite know how to make room for something that vast.
The light shifts.
Not across the sky- nothing so broad, nothing so easily dismissed as weather or coincidence or the slow turning of the earth.
It moves toward you.
At first, it’s almost imperceptible. A tightening of brightness at the edge of your awareness, like the world has subtly rebalanced itself without announcing the change. The street doesn’t look different. The buildings don’t cast new shadows. The horizon remains exactly where it was a moment ago.
And yet, the warmth on your skin changes character.
It sharpens.
What was once simple sunlight becomes something more deliberate, more directed. It no longer just falls on you. It finds you. It gathers across your face, your hands, the line of your shoulders with unsettling precision, like an unseen hand turning a lens ever so slightly until everything unnecessary drops away and only you remain in focus.
Consistency is rare, the voice says.
It doesn’t rise or fall. It doesn’t shift with emotion or emphasis. It simply is, carried through the air like something older than sound, like meaning shaped directly into presence rather than spoken words.
You let out a short breath- sharp at first, then fractured halfway through, like it can’t decide whether to become a laugh or just collapse into something quieter. It catches in your throat anyway, thin and disbelieving, leaving a faint sting behind your teeth.
Your mind scrambles for something solid to stand on, something normal enough to hold the moment in place.
“I said ‘good morning,’” you argue weakly.
The words come out uneven, stripped of their usual certainty. They sound smaller than you intend them to, carried out into that unnaturally attentive air like they’ve lost confidence halfway through leaving your mouth.
You swallow, then add- because your brain is still reaching for something, anything that makes this feel less like what it is:
“That’s not exactly a sacred rite.”
I did not name it sacred.
The calmness of it is almost worse than anything else.
Because it leaves room.
Room for implication. Room for interpretation. Room for the uncomfortable idea that something vast and ancient is standing on the other side of your ordinary words, regarding them with a seriousness you never intended them to have.
“…You’re telling me,” you continue, your voice tightening slightly around the edges, as if you’re trying to keep it from cracking into something less controlled, “that saying ‘good morning’ every day somehow… what? Got your attention?”
The question hangs there the moment it leaves you- thin, exposed, immediately feeling too large for the sidewalk it’s spoken on. It drifts into that unnatural stillness the same way a stone drops into deep water: small at first, then swallowed by something much bigger than it should be able to disturb.
The light doesn’t flicker.
It doesn’t hesitate.
It simply holds, unwavering in its focus on you, warm and precise as a gaze that has never once looked away since it found you.
For a moment, there’s nothing but that attention.
Not silence exactly- something more deliberate than silence. A pause shaped with intent, as if the world itself is waiting for the answer to finish forming properly.
Yes.
It doesn’t arrive like speech so much as declaration, pressed directly into the space around you without needing breath or distance or permission. It doesn’t echo, because it doesn’t need to repeat itself. It lands fully formed, complete in its certainty, as though ambiguity is not something it has ever had to accommodate.
The warmth across your skin deepens a fraction, not increasing in intensity but in presence, as if that single syllable has anchored it more firmly to you. The air feels slightly narrower again, the world subtly re-centering itself around the fact that you are still standing here, still being regarded.
You become very aware of your own posture.
“Okay,” you say, and the word comes out flatter than you intend, stripped of its usual function as agreement or dismissal. Here it lands somewhere in between, uncertain and thin. “That doesn’t really explain-”
You stop.
You realize, distantly, that your hands have gone slightly cold despite the warmth pressing against your skin. A contradiction that makes no sense and yet is happening all the same, like your body can’t agree on whether it should be reacting to the sun or something inside the sun.
You are noticed
The words pause there, and for the first time you feel something like intent gathering behind them- not emotional, not human, but aimed.
You are consistent. You are attentive. You return.
Each sentence is delivered with the same unbroken calm, but they do not feel interchangeable. They land in sequence, precise as measurements taken without hesitation. There is no praise in them. No approval. Just accounting- careful, deliberate recognition of pattern.
I offer you a choice. You may refuse.
The warmth across your skin shifts immediately, deepening: not increasing in intensity in any measurable sense, but changing quality, as though the source has moved closer in definition rather than distance.
You could become my conduit. My Avatar. A presence in the world where mine cannot remain unbroken. You would act. You would be given what is necessary to do so.
Your eyes shift slightly- half instinct, half disbelief- toward the empty stretch of sidewalk, toward the ordinary continuation of the world that refuses to acknowledge what is happening here.
“Why me?”
There are other people.
The thought comes unbidden, sharp and immediate, as if your mind is trying to restore order by sheer repetition alone.
There are always other people.
You can feel them in the abstract, even now- scattered across the city in their own uninterrupted continuations. People moving through their mornings with purpose that doesn’t require explanation. People whose lives are already legible in ways yours suddenly feels… less so. Defined roles. Clear trajectories. Faces that would make sense if someone were to single them out and say this one, of course this one.
People who carry themselves in ways that seem to justify attention before it’s even given.
People who matter in obvious ways, visible ways, measurable ways.
The phrasing sharpens in your mind as it forms, like you’re stacking arguments against something that hasn’t actually contradicted you out loud. People whose importance doesn’t need interpretation. People who exist within frameworks that already understand them- names that would fit cleanly into a statement like this without bending it into something unfamiliar.
People who would make sense in a sentence like this.
Because you are here.
The warmth across your skin shifts subtly again, not increasing, but re-centering, like attention narrowing further until there is no remaining ambiguity about what is being looked at.
You return, the voice continues, calm as ever. You speak. You do not require recognition to continue.
The confusion in your chest doesn’t ease. It deepens, because nothing in this explains selection. Nothing in it justifies you as a singular point of contact in something that feels immeasurably larger than singular anything.
You assume worth must be earned through visibility. Through impact. Through scale. That is not the case.
The words settle with unsettling ease, like they’ve been placed exactly where they were always meant to go.
“…Alright,” you say.
The word barely makes it out at all- more breath than speech, more surrender than statement. It leaves your mouth and immediately disappears into the space between you and the light, swallowed so completely it feels like it might never have existed outside your own mind.
For a fraction of a second, nothing changes.
Then, your world ignites.
Light floods everything at once: no origin, no direction, no boundary. It doesn’t pour in from the sky so much as overwrite it. The air, the pavement, your own skin- everything is suddenly defined in a brilliance so complete it erases the idea of shadow rather than filling it.
And it isn’t just around you.
It is through you.
Inside you.
Behind your eyes. Beneath your ribs. Threading through every place you’ve ever understood as “yourself” until there is no clear separation between where you end and the light begins.
There is no pain in the way your mind expects pain to exist.
But there is intensity so total it refuses comparison.
And then- beneath the overwhelming brilliance, beneath the impossible saturation of light that seems to erase the difference between seeing and being seen- you feel it. Something remembering how to exist inside you properly.
It feels like a lock turning after years of resisting every almost-fit, every near-alignment, every moment where something nearly worked but never quite held. A mechanism worn by time and repetition suddenly finding the exact cut it was always meant to respond to.
You will carry the sun, he continues. And it will carry you in return.
Then the light begins to change, like attention slowly lifting its hand away from your face.
The overwhelming brilliance doesn’t vanish- it unthreads. It loosens its hold on the world in stages, each layer of impossible brightness peeling back without resistance, like it had only ever been holding itself there long enough to be acknowledged.
The pressure in your senses eases first.
Then the saturation in the air.
Then the way everything had felt too sharply defined, as if reality itself had been overexposed.
Bit by bit, the world returns underneath it.
Street. Pavement. Distance. Shape.
Sound filters back in- muted at first, then slowly reclaiming its ordinary texture. A passing car. The faint scrape of movement somewhere behind you. The city resuming what it had been doing all along, entirely uninterested in whether or not anything extraordinary had just occurred.
And then, the light is gone.
You are standing on the sidewalk exactly where you were before it began.
Your feet are still planted against cracked pavement. Your weight is still yours. The air is still ordinary against your skin, no longer shaped by attention that felt too large to be real.
A breeze passes, indifferent.
There is a matter requiring proximity. You are to meet an agent of Khonshu, known as Moon Knight
The moment it is spoken, it feels less like introduction and more like designation. A fixed point in something larger than the conversation, something already in motion long before you were included in it.
There is no image given to you. No explanation. No story attached.
Only the name, held steady in that same impossible calm.
They will be aware of me.
Another pause, slightly longer this time, not for emphasis, but as if allowing the instruction to fully settle into you, into whatever part of you has already begun to accept that this is how things now proceed.
Moon Knight.
That isn’t a mystery. Not entirely.
Even people who don’t follow anything like this kind of thing know the shape of it. A vigilante. The kind of presence that shows up after violence has already happened and leaves before anyone agrees on what they saw. A man. Or something like one. A figure that belongs to rooftops and alleyways, to the spaces where law and absence of law overlap and stop caring about the difference.
The voice does not elaborate. It does not soften the edges of that name or translate it into something more manageable. It simply leaves it there, fully formed, as if your understanding is assumed.
You become aware, faintly, of how strange it is that your body is still here doing normal things- feet on pavement, weight balanced, breath continuing on its own- while your thoughts try to catch up to the idea that you have just been instructed to meet a masked vigilante as if this is a logistical appointment.
“…Why him?”
Because he moves where I do not remain continuously present.
“So I meet him,” you say, and there’s a careful edge to it now, something trying to reassert logic into a space that keeps refusing to behave logically, “because you need… what? A go-between?”
Because interaction must occur where certainty and uncertainty coexist. There is a disruption. Anubis is missing.
