Found some courage from another user. Still learning how posting on here works. Please bear with me on this learning curve while I figure it all out.
Oh, profile pic is what Maria Winter looks like as an adult. Enjoy.
18+ I love to reblog things I enjoy here, so enjoy.
Image, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC
4/6/26 update - I now have a Patreon. I'm just getting it up and running, so there's not much there as I add this little edit. I'm slowly getting my current stories over on there, but I will be adding bonus content that I don't have on here, eventually.
Writing Update: 4/12/26
I hope you guys enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them and rereading them. Most are a work in progress, and I'll post them when I can.
Most of my fics are Dean x Reader/You. Can't help it. I'm a total Dean girl. lol I'm sure I'll expand to Sam x Reader/You, the brothers x Reader/You, Cas x Reader/You, and perhaps even Benny x Reader/You. It'll all depend on the story and how it ends up writing itself. They'll all be labeled.
Whenever I write, I always picture Maria Winter as the character in the story, even if it is Y/N or the reader. She's been with me through many stories that I've written over the past 30 years. I love that I get to share her with all of you.
I'm one who enjoys the reader to be something different than human. Somehow, writing those always brings a lot of unexpected things to the story. I haven't yet written where the reader or OC is human. There's always something hidden below the surface.
I think if I do any AUs, I will try out having the reader be human but with something utterly unique to the AU that's like 1 in a billion.
Many thanks to all my readers. Your comments, reblogs, hearts, and follows are what keep me writing and sharing them here. I love hearing from all of you.
All My Stories In One Place
One Shots Master List
Well, it finally happened. lol
Series Master List
This includes - soulmates, Other OC series, A/B/O, Show rewrites
I included the links here that are on the Series Master List, hoping it would make it easier for everyone to find what they're looking for.
Soulmate Master List
OC Female Master List
A/B/O Master List
Show Rewrite Master List
Touched Master List
OC Female Creature
This includes one-shots and series.
A/N: I have several for here, they just aren't ready to be posted yet.
A/N: Sometimes, I have to remind myself that I haven't even been on this platform a year yet as I set up this particular master list. I love all my readers and the other authors I've found on here. If any of you would like to see what my first Master List was like, here's a link.
My Favorite Stories List
Pond Dive Recap with Me and @spnfanficpond, if you missed it.
Thank you
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.
Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM
Word Count: 946
Warnings: Character Deaths, Show Level Violence, Grief, Doesn't follow the show timeline.
A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.
Chapter 1 - Coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Prologue
Everyone has a doppelganger.
You just never met yours.
You were twenty-five when the vampire took him from you. One minute you were arguing about wedding colors in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the windows. The next, there was blood on the cabinets, and his body crumpled at your feet.
You hadn’t known monsters were real until that night. Not really. Not in the way you do when one is standing in your home with its mouth red and smiling.
You killed it.
The blade felt too heavy in your hands at first, slick with your own shaking grip. But when it lunged again, when it stepped over him like he was already nothing, something inside you shifted. Instinct sharpened. Vision tunneled. Your claws slipped free without you even thinking about it.
You took its head off in a single, brutal swing.
It didn’t bring him back.
You sold the house. Sold the furniture. Sold everything except his Charger. That, you kept. Along with a handful of things that meant more than your own life—the leather jacket that still smelled like him, the watch he’d never taken off, and the photo from the day he proposed.
He’d been nervous. You could see it now in the picture—the way his green eyes had almost sparkled with unshed tears when you said yes. The way joy had carved itself into every line of his face. Sunlight had caught across his freckles, deeper from a summer tan, and you’d thought you had never seen anything so good.
The ring he’d slipped onto your finger now hung on a chain around your neck, hidden beneath your shirt. You hadn’t taken it off once. Not really.
The Charger’s trunk no longer held emergency flares and jumper cables. It held blades. Silver. Salt. Guns. Research printed and highlighted until the pages were soft at the folds. There were more monsters than you ever imagined. More things that hunted in the dark. But no matter how much you learned, there was nothing that described the things about you.
You were… different than those around you.
You’d always chalked it up to autism. ADHD. Being different. Too sensitive to light. Too aware of sound. Too quick to notice what others missed. But those words never explained the retractable claws.
The healing had always been strange. It didn’t work on everything. You still bruised. Still split your knuckles open. Small cuts lingered stubborn and red. But the bad ones—the ones that should have scarred you permanently—sealed themselves. Deep gashes knitted together. Broken bones fused. Organs repaired if the damage threatened to last.
It never made you invincible. Just harder to kill.
Five years passed.
You learned to fight properly. To move with your instincts instead of against them. Your claws grew sharper. Your steps steadier. You let the predatory patience settle into your bones. Learned to read the twitch of a jaw, the flick of a gaze. Lies sat differently on people if you knew how to look.
Hunting became muscle memory.
You told yourself you stayed in it so no one else would lose someone the way you had. So no one else would kneel in a kitchen soaked in blood with a future ripped out from under them.
It wasn’t the job at the gas station you’d walked away from. It wasn’t the friends who slowly stopped calling. It wasn’t girls’ nights or shared laughter or the house that had held too many memories.
You had a purpose now.
They had been trying to get to him. They always were.
Her deep blue eyes haunted his sleep. So did the ring tucked into the bottom of his duffel—the one he’d almost used. He wasn’t sure if he kept it to punish himself or to remember that, once, he’d been brave enough to want something normal.
He gave her a hunter’s funeral. Watched the flames take her with Sam on one side and Bobby on the other.
There was a picture of her in his wallet. It had lived there so long the edges had softened. He took it out on days he was afraid he might forget the exact curve of her smile.
Sleep didn’t come easy anymore.
Her absence lived in the quiet. In the third beer he still reached for before remembering. In the empty space on cases where she used to throw out something wild that somehow made sense. In the silence where she used to tease him about his music—even if she secretly loved it.
Five years had passed.
He still felt it.
Jodi called with a case: two bodies found without hearts in a small town. Official line said animal attack. Stay out of the woods.
It would give him something to focus on.
September air carried the first hint of fall. Leaves had already started turning—reds and golds bleeding through green. She would’ve loved it here. Would’ve made him jump into a pile of leaves like a couple of idiots.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the police station. They already had a room. Already had the Fish & Game badges tucked into their pockets.
Then he noticed the car parked ahead of them.
Sleek. Dark. Almost black, but when the light caught it, there was a hint of blue beneath the surface.
A woman in uniform stepped toward it, sliding into the driver’s seat. Her hair fell loose down her back. He couldn’t see her face.
Something in his stomach twisted.
It felt familiar.
Dean shook it off and killed the engine.
It was time to work the case.
Chapter 1 - Coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Images, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC
You can also find me on Patreon
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.
Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM
Word Count: 946
Warnings: Character Deaths, Show Level Violence, Grief, Doesn't follow the show timeline.
A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.
Chapter 1 - Coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Prologue
Everyone has a doppelganger.
You just never met yours.
You were twenty-five when the vampire took him from you. One minute you were arguing about wedding colors in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the windows. The next, there was blood on the cabinets, and his body crumpled at your feet.
You hadn’t known monsters were real until that night. Not really. Not in the way you do when one is standing in your home with its mouth red and smiling.
You killed it.
The blade felt too heavy in your hands at first, slick with your own shaking grip. But when it lunged again, when it stepped over him like he was already nothing, something inside you shifted. Instinct sharpened. Vision tunneled. Your claws slipped free without you even thinking about it.
You took its head off in a single, brutal swing.
It didn’t bring him back.
You sold the house. Sold the furniture. Sold everything except his Charger. That, you kept. Along with a handful of things that meant more than your own life—the leather jacket that still smelled like him, the watch he’d never taken off, and the photo from the day he proposed.
He’d been nervous. You could see it now in the picture—the way his green eyes had almost sparkled with unshed tears when you said yes. The way joy had carved itself into every line of his face. Sunlight had caught across his freckles, deeper from a summer tan, and you’d thought you had never seen anything so good.
The ring he’d slipped onto your finger now hung on a chain around your neck, hidden beneath your shirt. You hadn’t taken it off once. Not really.
The Charger’s trunk no longer held emergency flares and jumper cables. It held blades. Silver. Salt. Guns. Research printed and highlighted until the pages were soft at the folds. There were more monsters than you ever imagined. More things that hunted in the dark. But no matter how much you learned, there was nothing that described the things about you.
You were… different than those around you.
You’d always chalked it up to autism. ADHD. Being different. Too sensitive to light. Too aware of sound. Too quick to notice what others missed. But those words never explained the retractable claws.
The healing had always been strange. It didn’t work on everything. You still bruised. Still split your knuckles open. Small cuts lingered stubborn and red. But the bad ones—the ones that should have scarred you permanently—sealed themselves. Deep gashes knitted together. Broken bones fused. Organs repaired if the damage threatened to last.
It never made you invincible. Just harder to kill.
Five years passed.
You learned to fight properly. To move with your instincts instead of against them. Your claws grew sharper. Your steps steadier. You let the predatory patience settle into your bones. Learned to read the twitch of a jaw, the flick of a gaze. Lies sat differently on people if you knew how to look.
Hunting became muscle memory.
You told yourself you stayed in it so no one else would lose someone the way you had. So no one else would kneel in a kitchen soaked in blood with a future ripped out from under them.
It wasn’t the job at the gas station you’d walked away from. It wasn’t the friends who slowly stopped calling. It wasn’t girls’ nights or shared laughter or the house that had held too many memories.
You had a purpose now.
They had been trying to get to him. They always were.
Her deep blue eyes haunted his sleep. So did the ring tucked into the bottom of his duffel—the one he’d almost used. He wasn’t sure if he kept it to punish himself or to remember that, once, he’d been brave enough to want something normal.
He gave her a hunter’s funeral. Watched the flames take her with Sam on one side and Bobby on the other.
There was a picture of her in his wallet. It had lived there so long the edges had softened. He took it out on days he was afraid he might forget the exact curve of her smile.
Sleep didn’t come easy anymore.
Her absence lived in the quiet. In the third beer he still reached for before remembering. In the empty space on cases where she used to throw out something wild that somehow made sense. In the silence where she used to tease him about his music—even if she secretly loved it.
Five years had passed.
He still felt it.
Jodi called with a case: two bodies found without hearts in a small town. Official line said animal attack. Stay out of the woods.
It would give him something to focus on.
September air carried the first hint of fall. Leaves had already started turning—reds and golds bleeding through green. She would’ve loved it here. Would’ve made him jump into a pile of leaves like a couple of idiots.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the police station. They already had a room. Already had the Fish & Game badges tucked into their pockets.
Then he noticed the car parked ahead of them.
Sleek. Dark. Almost black, but when the light caught it, there was a hint of blue beneath the surface.
A woman in uniform stepped toward it, sliding into the driver’s seat. Her hair fell loose down her back. He couldn’t see her face.
Something in his stomach twisted.
It felt familiar.
Dean shook it off and killed the engine.
It was time to work the case.
Chapter 1 - Coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Images, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC
You can also find me on Patreon
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
let's pretend i didn't start writing this three months ago... i tried to make this extra long to make up for my hiatus :)
also, happy pride, everyone!
"am i reading this wrong?" said in a low tone, for only the other to hear
"i saw you looking at my lips," said teasingly, to gauge the other's reaction
the fraction of a second where their faces are just close: lips ghosting each other's, taking this moment in, almost waiting for one to give in first
in the middle of a heated conversation
an emotionally charged embrace, pulling away and realizing how close their faces are, and leaning in
one brushing hair out of the other's face, the featherlight touch (or any light touch tbh)
a simple "can i?"/"can i kiss you?" because consent is important!
"can we stop pretending?"
a barely audible, "come here"
one is concerned for the other (physical injury, emotional conflict, etc), and they respond with "you always make sure i'm okay," maybe a "why?" then the air changes
"show me what you want."
one leans in and pauses, to which the other responds with some grounding gesture (a touch/"please"/a slight nod/etc) to communicate their own desire
orrr they lean in, slightly panic, and move back, to which the other pulls them in (lightly) by their arm/coat/collar/cheek/belt loops/etc
"you talk a lot." while the other is mid ramble
"you have no idea how long i've wanted to do this"
the first kiss being messy and impassioned, then the second being softer and more familiar, as though their minds are catching up with reality
"you really can't see it, can you?"
the energy shifting right as one openly glances at the other's lips
(and maybe a laugh, "what?" as the other person does this)
submit to my "ask" box if there is anything you want to see OR anything you want to share! i'm trying to respond to more asks and post more than once every three months (oops)
hello everyone! originally, i was unable to post chapter thirty here to tumblr due to length restrictions on posts. however, not wanting my tumblr friends to miss out if they didn't have an ao3 account, i've gone through and made it available in two parts!
chapter thirty (bunny-bee) is an in-depth exploration of bunny and bobby's relationship, starting from when bunny was first left at bobby's doorstep. not to chap my own ass, but it's some of the best writing i've ever done.
if you haven't had the chance to read bunny-bee, find part one and part two here! i hope you enjoy!
want to be added to the taglist? fill out the form below!
Series Summary: The boys stink. Something needs to be done about it.
The above summary was something I came up with when I thought this was going to be a fun little one-shot. (hah! stupid writer and her stupid assumptions. how dare she think she can make plans and have Sam and Dean adhere to them.) It still applies to the beginning (and this sniff, sniff theme may come up again), but I'm going to add that this story is a first-person reader insert (turned into) Original Female Character that weaves in and out of show canon, up to Season 10, with an alternate ending.
Rated Mature.
Tagged: Show Level Violence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Character Death, the slowest of slow burns, and (mild) sexy times at the end. See series parts for additional tags.
Series Word Count: 65,500
This has been done and posted on AO3 for a while but I thought I should make a post on tumblr as well.
Repeat. (Part 5 of Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Series) by Drasna
Story Summary: Round and round they go - El and Dean meet up once again. Will it all (FINALLY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD) come out in the wash?
Story Part Tags: Seaon 10, Comfort/Angst, Case Fic, Post-Demon Dean Winchester, Mild Smut
Word Count: 7,300
Rated Mature
Series Parts (Click to Jump To): Wash. Pre-Rinse. Rinse. Spin. Repeat.
Chapter 1
I don’t need Sam’s advice on this haunt. I don’t need backup. I don’t need any additional research.
What I need is info on Dean and how the hell he’s doing after having survived a demon exorcism. (Back it up there, now. Remember, not just any run o’ the mill demon, but a Knight of Hell. Oh, and apparently, Dean WAS a demon. Like he was the Uber driver AND the passenger. At the same time. I’m still trying to digest all that.)
It’s not like I can call Dean up and ask, “Hey, how’s it hanging?” after all he’s been through. It’s only been a couple months since all of that went down. What I do know about Dean: when things are this raw and fresh, his coping skills are found at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and he takes out his anger on any evil motherfucker who has the misfortune of crossing his path. So, yeah, he’s probably not ready to talk.
It’s not like we left things between us on bad terms. We didn’t leave them any kind of way, really. Well, there was that kiss and the mutual desire for something more.
Dean couldn’t promise me much. But he didn’t disappear. He kept in touch as semi-regularly as a Winchester could. When we talked, we’d try not to talk shop. We spent a lot of our conversations talking about Bobby and other things that made us laugh and reflect on happier times. He kept wanting to take a road trip my way and bring me back to Lebanon so I could hunker in the bunker for a week. “Or maybe forever,” he’d sweetly tease.
All that, though, was eclipsed by duty and prophesy. I kept reminding myself about the bigger picture, grand scheme of things, my little inconsequential existence in the world. Even if anything might have happened, it’s not like it would have meant anything. Turned into anything.
Sam and Dean have had monumental things to take care of over the past two years. Like saving the world. Twice.
Sam almost sacrificed himself in an attempt to close the gates of hell. Instead, the scribe of God, Metatron, expelled the angels from Heaven and a holy war broke out on earth to see who would reign supreme. And, Dean. Man, Dean. He went and made decisions to save Sam from the brink of death.
Gotta take care of Sammy.
Forget what Sam might want, though.
Round and round the Winchesters go. It’s like I’ve been watching an opera from the nosebleed seats for the past ten years. Sometimes, someone passes me one of those fancy binoculars on a stick so I can see all the action on stage up close. Those are the moments I hold onto. They’re never an Aria or Recitative or Deus ex machina. They’re the quiet moments. The space where the performers have a chance to breathe.
Deep down, I know Dean just wants Sam to have a chance to breathe.
I wish he wanted that for himself just as much.
The need to check in after all of the gossip through the hunter grapevine overwhelms me. I cave and send over the most nonchalant yet all business text in Sam’s direction.
Hey. If you don’t see this right away, no biggie. I’ve got a case close to home. Like almost in my backyard close to home. Thinking it might be a woman in white. Vaguely remember you guys dealt with one of those years back. Any info you can pass along? Hope you’re well.
That took ten minutes to compose. To my immediate relief and then subsequent panic, Sam replies in under 60 seconds.
Still don’t want to crack open a book, huh?
I smile at Sam’s easy comeback.
What can I say, you’ve spoiled me. Why risk a papercut when I’ve got the Master of Lore at my fingertips?
Flattery will get you nowhere.
How about begging?
That’s beneath you.
But I’m not above doing it.
A long pause after that comment makes me second guess having sent it. That might have come across as…
I would love to hear you beg.
I stare at the line, dumbfounded. I almost drop the phone when it rings and Sam’s name is on the screen. I answer after a deep breath, voice wavering. “Hello?”
“I’m so sorry. Dean grabbed my phone and, well, he can’t help himself.” He’s huffing. There’s shuffling.
“Hey!” Dean might be wrestling him for the phone. His voice is farther from the receiver but still pretty clear. “Tell El I can’t help myself around her.”
My body tingles at the way he emphasized “her.” It’s been too long since I’ve heard that gravelly timbre.
“Would you quit it!” Sam yells in my ear. “How old are you?”
I laugh at the banter. It reminds me of the first time I was privy to their sibling dynamic.
There’s grunting and swearing. I stare at my screen and count the seconds in wait. Finally, Sam emerges from the melee. “Just get in the car, Dean!”
“Blah, blah, blah. Who died and made you boss? Oh, wait. I did this time.” I hear the squeak, then slam, of one of the Impala’s doors.
“Well, does that satisfy why you really checked in?” Sam’s question is low and quiet.
“Huh?”
“Proof of life. Dean’s back. And he’s good. Well, whatever good is for Dean. He’s that.”
“Oh, that’s great. I mean that’s not why I called, but I’m glad to hear he’s doing fine.”
“Riiight.” Sam does not sound convinced. “So, you think you’ve got a woman in white?”
“Unfortunately. Some men have met an untimely demise around the bridge into town.”
“And that leads you to a woman in white, how?”
“Well, the accidents started happening a couple months after traffic cams recorded a woman jumping off the Mid-Delaware bridge. Search and rescue never found the body. But, she was identified as Roberta Grisogono. Her five year old daughter had drowned in a tub weeks prior to the dive.”
“Ah.” I don’t have to see Sam to know he’s nodding.
“Roberta’s targeting men for revenge?”
“More like punishment. Was Roberta married?”
“No. No mention of a husband in her obituary.”
“What’s your plan exactly?”
“Going to the bridge tonight, see if I can connect with Roberta. Maybe she can give me some clues as to where the police can find her remains.”
“Sure that’s a good idea?”
“Well, if you can help me figure out another way to stop a restless spirit from killing people, I’m all ears.”
Sam sighs. “Not really.”
“See, that’s why I called. To have your semi-enthusiastic approval of my ghost-removal modus operandi.”
“I’d approve if you had backup.”
“Well, I put an APB out to a few friends as soon as I got all the details this afternoon. But they either aren’t close enough or busy with a hunt of their own. It’s a reconnaissance mission. And, besides, I’m not her type.”
“You can’t wait another night?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. Check in when you find out something?”
“Yep.”
“Alright. Be careful.”
“Always.” It feels like the natural end to the conversation, but my brain is not ready to say goodbye. “How are you doing, Sam?” I remember his multiple calls to me from months back. Sam was desperate to find his brother. He thought I might be one of the lucky individuals Dean would contact after he’d been resurrected.
“I’m good.” It’s a quick answer. But not too quick. It feels genuine.
Because Dean’s back.
“He meant it.”
Sam’s non sequitur elicits the expected, “Huh?” from me.
“Dean. Earlier.” His voice is lower. “When he said he couldn’t help himself around you. He didn’t tell me everything about his time with Crowley. But, what I saw with him – experienced with the demon – any good notion or thread of humanity had been choked out of him. His self-imposed exile was probably the best thing for everyone, until we knew what we were dealing with.”
A shiver stands me upright at the thought. “But, it’s him… now?”
“Yeah, it is. Don’t worry about him. Or us. We’re fine.”
Sheesh, yeah. Right. Don’t worry about the Winchesters.
~~~~
I can’t draw too much suspicion and actually hang around on the bridge. We don’t have a ton of law enforcement presence in Matamoras. But, one of our three police cars can be spotted passing over or parking along the state line a few times every evening. Ever since Roberta.
The same, however, cannot be said for the New York “protect and serve” side of the bridge. That’s where I stake out the scene in my hatchback. The Church of the Living God parking lot is the closest spot to the river’s edge and the bridge.
Unfortunately, I’m only about twenty minutes into my vigil when a bright light blinds me through the front passenger window. I jump in my seat at the heavy taps on the glass. “Police. Need some help, Ma’am?” The voice is deep and throaty, like it belongs to someone who’s smoked two packs a day for decades.
Here’s to hoping I can sweet talk my way out of this inquisition. I weigh my options. A sobbing, unconsolable mess about the demise of a recent relationship? Usually the fastest route to politely being asked to move along by the empathetically challenged.
The window zips down at a button press. I yammer as the flashlight clicks off. “I’m sorry, Officer, I was…”
“Save it.” Dean’s disapproving countenance pops into the open window. “Sloppy, Princess. Could’ve been anyone pretending to be the cops. You’re lucky it was Prince Charming.”
“Dean!” I yell in delight.
A smile cracks the facade of displeasure.
“What are you doing here?”
“Sam said you’d need some backup for this woman in white.” The car door opens. He slips into the passenger seat. “I’m the backup.”
I shake my head, happy and bewildered at his proximity. He’s here. “Where were you guys when I called?”
“New Canaan, Connecticut. Trying to cash in on what we thought would be Bobby’s inheritance from this rich old woman. All we got was a shapeshifter case. Just our luck, right?” He pauses. “You've been doing okay?”
I nod, taking in what I can of him in the shadows. I inhale deeply out of habit to gauge his stink. All I can identify is fast food grease and some cheap cologne. I grin. He wanted to smell good for me. “You?”
He chuckles. “Whatever you’ve heard probably doesn’t begin to explain how I’m doing.” He taps the dash. “We can catch up later. Let’s take a walk along the bridge.”
“Don’t you think I’d be doing that right now if I could?”
“Someone might have called the Matamoras police station and reported a possible home robbery all the way across town five minutes ago.” He checks his watch. “That should give us a good twenty before anyone drives back.” In a flash, he exits the car.
I scramble, pulling the key out of the ignition, and sprint to catch up to his bounding frame. The Impala is nowhere in sight.
“Gimme a recap on what we’re dealing with again.” Dean enters the side walkway of the truss bridge first. He listens, head bobbing left, right, up, down while he checks the surroundings. “Gettin’ any vibes on our special friend?”
“Nope. Not even a tingle.”
“Hm.” His fingers wrap around the railing. “Man, Deja vu.”
I wait for him to explain.
“Our woman in white introduced herself by jumping off a bridge pretty similar to this one.”
“Chased Sam and you with your car, too.” I add, the rest of the tale coming back to me. “Didn’t you take a swan dive into a muddy river bank?”
His nose wrinkles. “Yep.” The overhead street lamp bathes his features in cool white. “How are we gonna get Roberta to come out and play?”
I shrug. “Not like I’ve got an unfaithful husband for her to pounce on.”
Oh no. That look. That Dean-thinking-he’s-got-a-great-idea look. “Well,” he draws out the one word. Leans his biceps into my shoulder. “You could admit your true feelings for me.” He stares into my eyes and smirks. “No need for words, Princess. That blush says it all.”
“You wish.” The weak comeback is all I can muster.
“I do,” he whispers, then sighs. “Cause then I’d be able to tell you the same.”
“Dean,” I rush out, “don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Just, don’t. You almost sound serious.”
His lids open wide. “What if I was?”
A jolt of electricity whites out my vision for a few seconds. Every hair follicle buzzes. Then, I’m cold. Submerged in an ice cold bath. Water weighs atop my body. Legs tangled in slimy ropes. My hands scrape along corrugated metal.
I gasp for air. I’m in Dean’s arms. On the ground. Concrete. His fingers thread through my hair. “Thank Christ.” His lips touch my forehead. “You dropped like a stone.”
“I-I think she’ll show me where she is. In the river.” I stare up at him. Dean looks terrified. For me. I squeeze his arm. “Wanna go play the ‘getting warmer’ game with a ghost?”
Chapter 2
This whole night has been a repeat of my greatest and not-so-greatest moments with Dean Winchester.
We eventually found Roberta’s body. Dean drove us in the Impala along the river bank. My antennae zoned in on the spirit’s signal at an overpass. We pulled off to the side, peered over the edge and investigated. Dean’s flashlight illuminated a storm drain opening. My breath halted at what appeared to be a body sticking out of the massive pipe.
Dean did the dirty work, got wet, and freed Roberta from the tangle of roots and trash. Once he’d dragged Roberta onto the bank, he called 911. We waited –watching from a far enough vantage– for the police to arrive and discover the remains.
“They’re gonna make sure she’s taken care of now, El.” Dean whispered in my ear. But I knew it was for Roberta’s benefit more than mine.
I closed my eyes. Roberta clinged to me. Two hands clenched at my intestines for dear unlife. I dropped to my knees. Dean wrapped his arms around me. I choked out my plea. “You’ve gotta move on to what’s next, Roberta. You may have been wronged. But, if you did something to-” Fingers pinched my windpipe. I wheezed and gasped, struggled to continue. “If you had any love for your baby girl, you have to atone for what you did. Maybe, maybe you can be together again someday.” Roberta let go and the pain subsided in an instant.
My body and mind was my own again.
I coughed and sputtered. Dean relaxed his hold but had not released me from his grip entirely.
“I got ya, Princess.” Dean rubbed my back, light pressure in clockwise circles.
Roberta was more than likely not at peace, but she’d passed through the veil to meet her fate.
Dean and I are a collective mess. Unfortunately, he has to drive the Impala in soaked clothes that squelch on top of the seat. He smells like rotten eggs.
Dean Winchester stinks.
“You’re gonna shower at my place,” I order.
“Was hoping you’d say that,” he murmurs in gratitude. His voice turns soft, almost pleading when he utters, “I’m sorry, Baby. I’ll get you clean as a whistle tomorrow. Promise.” A beat passes. “I treated her like shit.” His tone now is sullen and regretful.
“Huh?”
Dean strokes the dash. “When I was a demon. I was disrespectful. I didn’t take care of her like she deserved.”
I’m hurt and angry learning about Baby’s mistreatment at the hands of the person that cares about her most of all. I swallow that down for the time being. “She knows it wasn’t all your fault, Dean.”
He twists the radio knob and dispels some annoying static, chancing upon a rock ballad. “But she knows it was partly my fault. Like what you did there.”
I rub a worn spot of leather on the bench between us. “You’re lucky to have her.”
“Yeah. I’m lucky to have people that keep dealing with my bullshit and sticking around, too.”
I smile, not needing to ask who he means.
~~~~
This might be a terrible idea. It might backfire completely.
I’m tired of the almosts, the what ifs.
I’m scared out of my gourd that I could be misinterpreting everything. But I also know that Dean Winchester doesn’t think much of himself on a good day.
I want to take care of him like I know he deserves. Screw what he thinks.
For now, he’s cleaning himself up in my shower. He’d called out to me a minute after turning on the water that the coast was clear for me to enter. I ducked inside, grabbed the sopping pile of clothes barely contained in the tiny pedestal sink and placed them in a bucket. I recall the time Dean helped me with the skunk situation using a similar bucket.
The bathroom is muggy and humid. The water Dean’s under is hot enough to steam up the mirror. I can make out movement from his shadow behind the curtain.
“I’ll give these a quick rinse in the kitchen sink.” I call out to him. “Sorry, no washer.”
Dean’s hearty laugh fills the small room. “Good thing or else you might decide to wash ALL my clothes again.”
“Hah, hah,” I reply in a sarcastic tone.
I’m about to leave with the bucket, but halt when I notice Dean’s duffle bag atop the toilet seat.
That’s when I got what might be a terrible idea.
And now, I’m sitting on my sofa, scrolling on my phone as I wait.
It’s not long before the water turns off. The sound of the shower curtain being pulled to one side is next. It’s maybe another 30 seconds before Dean projects his voice loud enough for me to hear. “Hey, El?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah?”
“Are you fucking with me?”
I grin. “Huh?”
A dramatic sigh follows. “I apologize for the crack about washing my clothes.”
“Accepted.”
“Please tell me you didn’t wash them all again.”
“I didn’t.”
“Great, so where’s my bag?”
“Out here.”
There’s a pause. I begin to count in my head. It’s when I reach the number ten that I hear, “Okay then.”
The door swings open. I get a good, hard look at Dean in nothing but one of my fluffy baby blue towels wrapped around him like a kilt. He slips that well worn amulet over his head to rest around his neck.
It may be ten years since I was last graced with this show, but, damn, Dean Winchester has only improved with age.
He scans the room for his bag, intentionally not meeting my gaze. It’s difficult but I try to catalog all the bits I can in case things don’t go as planned. A cherry red tints his cheeks. He’s pale almost everywhere but his forearms.
I spot what I assume is the nefarious Mark of Cain branded on the inside flesh of one of those arms. If Bobby was around he would have kicked Dean seven ways to Sunday for pulling that stunt.
“If you wanted me naked all you had to do was ask.” Dean puffs out his chest but still doesn’t look at me. “Alright, I give up.” He rolls his eyes and gazes past me on purpose. “Where is it?”
I’ve one upped him and can’t help my enjoyment. “Where’s what?”
“My bag,” he huffs.
“Oh, on the floor. Between my bed and the dresser.”
His head tilts to the direction I gave and he sighs. He strolls, tall and proud, making sure to secure the towel with one hand.
It’s my first time getting a proper look at Dean’s feet. And his toes. And yeah, they are fucking adorable.
I send Bobby a silent prayer in thanks for letting my path cross with Dean Winchester’s all those years ago.
Dean bends slightly which gives me an even nicer view of the cotton clinging to his curvy backside. He lifts the bag and places it on my twin bed.
I hold my breath. He unzips the duffle with his back to me and pulls out his clothes, one by one.
Dean’s body stiffens.
I know he’s found it.
He clears his throat. “Are you going to want this back, or can I keep it?”
I grin. “Depends.”
“On?”
“If you’re feeling lucky.” I do a quick inhale and let the words trail out on my exhale. “And if you’d like to wear them for me.”
Dean chuckles, loud and unexpected. He spins on a heel so he can stare me down. He clutches my pink panties close to his chest. “You mind repeating that.”
I hold my own in the staredown. “I think you could pull it off.”
He grins. “Would it surprise you to know this wouldn’t be the first time a woman asked me to wear her panties?”
“You know, it actually wouldn’t.”
He twirls the panties around a finger. “What kind of lucky we talking about, sweetheart?”
I shrug. “All depends on you.”
He bungees the panties back into his grip. In an instant, the mirth is gone. “I hate this.”
His one-eighty silences me.
He deflates and sits at the foot of the bed. Bow legs splay wide. The towel threatens to reveal more of him with the stretch. “I can’t pretend things can be this easy with you, El. Neither one of us is footloose and fancy free here. You know too much. And I, I’ve done so much.” His hands ball into fists, one still holding my underwear.
I frown. “Since when did you become the overthinking Winchester brother?” I ask in a glib tone.
“I’m serious,” he shoots back.
“I know, that’s the problem.”
“It doesn’t make sense. I get it. If I saw you at a bar, and didn’t know you from Ad- if I didn’t know you, I’d be trying every single line I could to get you in my backseat…”
“Classy,” I sass.
He side-eyes me. “Baby’s nothing but classy.”
I’m trying to be as interruptive as possible. None of this is going according to plan.
“But,” he continues, “like this, with you knowing all you know, I got no game.”
“That makes me sound like a conquest.” I cross my arms. “If you’re trying to kill the mood, mission accomplished.”
“Okay, not the right word.” He starts, closes his mouth, thinks, then starts again. “I wish we’d kept hunting with you, all those years back.” He sighs after the non-sequitur.
“Can’t you ask that angel to time travel you back to the past? We could split off into a different timeline, have a do over.” I ask in an effort to add some levity. Deep down, though, a part of me isn’t joking.
“Cas doesn’t have the juice like he did a couple years ago to send me back.” Dean shakes his head, answering in serious contemplation. “And besides, you can’t actually change the outcome. Trust me, I’ve tried.” A manic chuckle bubbles out of Dean’s throat. “How many ways can I say I’m beyond fucked up? Time travel? Mark of Cain? Former Demon?”
“I’ve learned over the years that the Winchesters aren’t given the same rulebook and scorecard as everyone else. There are higher powers calling the play. That doesn’t make YOU fucked up.”
“You haven’t seen me this past year.” Dean drops my panties on the mattress and snatches up his black t-shirt. He tugs it over his head. “And, it’s not like I’m trying to go on the straight and narrow after whooping it up with the King of Hell. I’m on a friggin’ dating app. Woman in every port guy, right here.” He lifts his arms to point two thumbs at his chest. “The less time they spend around this, the better.”
“Newsflash, none of that surprises me.”
“Well, maybe it should scare you as far away from me as possible.”
“What scares me more is not knowing where you are or how you’re doing.” I get up from the couch and march to the bed, sitting beside him. He taps his fingers over the terry towel covering his thighs. I force myself to finally continue. “I’ve always wanted to ask you something.”
His toes curl and scrunch into the rug beneath his feet. “Ask,” he permits in a hushed tone.
I gulp. “Why Lisa? Why didn’t you try, with me? And don’t say because Sam told you to go to her.”
He shakes his head. “It’s like I said before. You and I, we know too much. I couldn’t start over with someone in the life. At least, not then. I couldn’t imagine hunting without Sam by my side. He was gone. I didn’t know how to be me. It was better to be someone else.”
“Dean Winchester.” I reach out, tilt his head to face me. My hand trails down his arm to find a home in the crook of his elbow. “What’s so wrong about knowing too much? Can’t you see you don’t have to hide with me? And if knowing too much is wrong in your estimation, well, then, we can be wrong together.”
His hand clamps over mine.
My words are released slowly and thoughtfully. “You wanted me to admit my true feelings for you earlier, on the bridge, hoping we’d get the woman in white to show up. I think she was hell bent on protecting women from caring so much that it made them vulnerable. And you and I have been doing the same damn thing for years.” I lean my cheek against his shoulder, adding, “All this trying to push away only seems to bring us right back here. And every time, it takes a little bit longer to find each other. I don’t want to lose any more time with you.”
His chin brushes my forehead. “I don’t either.” His arms snake around me. I’m pulled in closer to his warmth. “Will you come back with me? To Lebanon?”
I snuggle into the soft layer of cotton and the give of his chest. “You expect me to leave all this behind?” I lay the sarcasm on thick.
“If you stay, Bobby’d say you were being stubborn, you know. And Pamela would say you’re missing out on a sure thing.” He waits a beat. “Like, the surest of sure things.”
“Hm.” I hum, more to myself, close my eyes. He starts a slight rocking motion, swaying. My arms cling around his lower back.
“Huh.” He murmurs, an arm that was around me disappears. There’s a shuffle and clink at our left. “You still got it.”
I open my eyes to see the cat angel figurine cradled in his large palm.
“Yeah.” I reach out and stroke its pudgy belly with a finger. Eventually, my hand covers it. I serve as the blanket to Dean’s bed for the little guy. “It reminds me of you. Whether those reminders were good or bad depended on the day, I guess.”
Dean’s chest inflates slowly. His body goes rigid for a moment, preparing again. “Down there, all those years ago. When I made my choice… I couldn’t take my angels with me. I couldn’t have you watching me, reminding me of what could’ve been. There wasn’t space or place for it, for where I had to go deep inside. What I became. What I did. It was all wrong. I was wrong. And then, to make another choice to take the mark…”
I squeeze and press the little angel between our flesh. Pointy things dig into my skin. “If Bobby was here, he’d tell you to ‘quit your boo-hooin’ boy. We all gotta make tough choices and deal with the fallout. We can drown ‘em at the bottom of a bottle for a while, but they're always gonna resurface.’” I pause after my very poor imitation of the grumpy old man that I miss every day. I clear my throat and add, “There’s a lot of life ahead. You can choose how to spend it. Make amends. Ask for forgiveness. Not just from others, but from yourself.”
Dean nuzzles his chin against my forehead. “I’m sorry for pushing you away. I never thought you weren’t strong enough. I thought you’d be safer, is all.”
“Dean?”
“Hm?”
“This is the part where you kiss me.”
“Ah.” His lips place a warm peck on my eyebrow. “Like that?”
I sigh. “Sure.”
A little bubble of laughter releases from him. He nudges his nose down my cheek and it’s not long before he’s kissing me correct and bringing his A-game. His mouth opens, eager and slick. He leans back every so often, parts from my lips, in order to stare into my eyes. I melt at the attention. During one of those soul-searching gazes, he whispers, “We can go as slow as you want, Princess.”
The cat figurine thunks onto the rug from my lift and swipe of Dean’s hand. I cup his jaw and wipe my thumb over his cheek. “A little less conversation,” I grin.
He nods, quirks up one side of his mouth, “I little more action. Copy.”
~~~~
This bit of news can’t wait until I’m home. I gotta call Dean now.
“Why you callin’? What’s wrong?” his voice is gruff. He sounds like he might actually have been sleeping.
“You remember that casus interuptussis by Lake Wallenpaupack?”
Dean hums. “That sounds familiar.”
“The skunk?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s been years. Something fatal finally happen?”
“No. I was scrolling through the hunter’s app Charlie created…”
“That thing is great, right?!? I can tell Sam’s lowkey pissed and impressed at how awesome it is everytime I wave it in his face. He’s being such a baby, not beta testing it.”
”Anyway,” I huff.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“Would you believe I read an article from Lakeville Leaks that says some cops patrolling near Cove Haven pulled over a guy, speeding, dressed in an abominable snowman costume with white contacts?” I barely take a breath before I continue, realizing I’ve given Dean way too much runway with that question. “They’d gotten a radio call about another scare slash sighting only a couple minutes prior. The guy caved and spilled everything. Turned out to be some young kid who’d been paid by his rich land developing uncle. The uncle’s usual crony, that haunts and creeps around the area, had gotten arrested for a B&E. Dude’s been doing it for decades to keep people away or get them to move out so he can gobble up abandoned properties on the cheap.”
There’s a longer pause. “Like a real-life Scooby-Doo?”
I giggle. “Yeah.”
“Huh? Well, sounds like those meddling cops finally solved the case.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t anything supernatural. Always bugged me that I never went back to look into things.” I turn up the dirt road.
“We had our radar up. Nothing crazy happened to merit another looksee. We can’t hop in the Mystery Machine every time somebody spots a potential monster. We’re busy enough.” He offers. “But, I’m glad it was just some stupid, rich fuck, too, this time. Hopefully he gets what’s coming to him.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Got a shower in and then passed out. Trying to get a little beauty rest, yeah.”
“You don’t need to get any prettier, Dean. Leave some for the rest of us.”
He chuckles.
I clear my throat, taking a sharp turn between an aisle of trees not traveled by many. “Oh, I may need you to take a look at my car again.”
A groan accompanies a long sigh. “Or, you can stop being so goddamn stubborn and start driving one of the other cars.”
I slow down and roll my beat-up hatchback to a stop over the hidden soil-covered pad. I count to five then continue into the dark tunnel scooped out of the rock face. Mechanical noises click and echo upon my approach to the rising garage door. “No way. I’m not gonna risk dinging any of those MOL beauties. Anxiety is bad enough when I have to drive Baby somewhere.”
“El, it’s been two years since you left Matamoras with that hunka junk. It’s time, sweetheart. If you won’t drive one, maybe Sam and I can find a way to sell one of ‘em. Get you something that you’re comfortable driving. And sensible.”
I ease into the garage and pull up alongside the Black Beauty that gleams due to Dean’s recent wash and wax. She’s such a show off sometimes. “Legacies allowed to sell Men of Letters stuff?”
“As long as there isn’t a curse attached I don’t see why not. Nothing in the handbook that says otherwise.”
“I still feel weird about it. You sure Sam would be alright with it?”
“He’s the one that keeps reminding me you need a dependable set of wheels when we’re away on a case. You gotta get to and from school. And work. For some reason,” he teases.
I kill the engine and don’t take the bait. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Okay.”
I stand in the middle of the garage for a minute, holding a take out bag filled with burgers and fries, and a Cobb salad for Sam. I wonder which car Dean might be willing to part with. My mind drifts to Bobby, like it does so often. He would’ve loved these cars, tinkering in this garage.
He’d be proud of the boys. Proud of me.
I stroll through the halls that keep the ghosts out. The few that had been kept inside these walls, stuck around for decades, had made themselves known to me right away. Together, Sam, Dean and I had made sure they crossed over. Since then, it’s been quiet and my first real sanctuary in forever.
I’ve had time to build a life with Dean, as unpredictable and chaotic as it can sometimes get. But we’re living it.
I pass the kitchen and drop the bag of food onto the table, then shuffle along in search of one or both of the brothers. I mentally scroll through the assignments list for my classes this semester. This psychology degree is a lot more work than I bargained for. But if I want to become a therapist and help other hunters in a professional capacity, I’ve got to stay focused.
No sign of anyone in the library, I continue on, ending up outside Dean’s bedroom a minute later. I knock. “Babe, you hungry?”
The door whips open. He’s all smiles, with that just showered hair, in that dead man robe. “Hm. How’d you know I was in the mood for some El?” He pulls me into his room by the strap of my messenger bag. The door clinks shut. He hugs me close, swoops down to give me a proper welcome home kiss.
I get an indulgent whiff of him. He used my cherry vanilla body wash again in the shower. I taste the orange soda he downs as a nightcap instead of whiskey.
I sigh when he breaks away. It’s been a dry spell without a case for over a month and I’m not complaining. Dean can sometimes be gone for days or a couple weeks with Sam. They still travel all over the continental United States when they get a call that has a fellow hunter positively stumped. But I can accept the time apart more easily now that the hunts have been milk runs (for the Winchesters, comparatively speaking) for about a year.
Not long after I’d moved into the bunker, Dean made another deal with Death to safeguard the world from him and the Mark of Cain. He’d been banished to an alternate universe.
Really, though, he should have known none of us were going to let that - him - go. We researched day and night until we found a spell that might work. It had taken weeks, but Sam, Cas, and I located the whereabouts of the necessary and rarest of ingredients: archangel grace. We weren’t gonna let the fact it was locked away in London at the British Men of Letters main headquarters stop us either. Rowena had been roped in to help, promised access to magical upgrades, for her portal opening spell casting.
The trip to Apocalypse World to bring back the now unmarked Dean Winchester? I’ll save that for another day.
When Dean returned, I sat all three of them down. Dean, Sam, and Cas. It was time for therapy. Individual and group. All this obsessive, entangled, enmeshed mess of an existence? If anyone had any chance of making it to retirement age, stuff needed to get picked apart, infected wounds unwrapped and cared for proper. As far as I was concerned Dean’s stone one had to start with him loving himself first.
Have there been setbacks? Of course. But has there also been progress? Absolutely. Instead of sacrificing their lives for each other they’re exposing their vulnerabilities to each other. And to me.
I’m proud of them all. And I’m important to Dean. Enough for him to stick to the mundane end of the supernatural pool (again, for what Winchesters classify as mundane). I’m important enough that he only drags me out on a case unless they really, really need me. He lets me have the little normal that I crave.
“What’s going on?” I grin and drop my chin to my chest. His fingers unzip my jacket.
“You asked. I’m hungry.” He smiles, then catches my lips with his again.
Lately, we spend evenings falling asleep by nine more than we roll around in the sheets. We’re still connected, but there’s more gasping over the unexpected touch of frozen toes than impending orgasms.
He rids me of one layer, then another. I stand, a little shiver dancing up my spine, in my bra. Before he can start on my jeans, I give his hand a little smack. “Hey, what about you, buddy? What’s under the robe?”
I haven’t seen Dean blush like this in forever. The apples of his cheeks turn dusty pink. “You know… we’re going on thirteen years since we first met.”
I blink at the realization. Dean’s sly smile transports me back in time. That cocky twenty something had so much to prove and nothing to apologize for. I lift up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I know,” I whisper. “I’m owed some skin for all that time served.”
He chuckles, unties the belt, and raises a brow. “You wanna do the honors?”
My nod is quick and eager. I step in close, slide my hands under the robe’s lapels and attempt to reveal his t-shirt. His hands and forearms, tight to his middle, create a tug of war with very little give. I know he’ll get a kick out of my struggle so I stifle the whine. I part the top layer the same way Clark Kent undresses, making his mad dash to any nearby telephone booth.
The eventual recognition that he’s wearing my ancient nightshirt makes me giggle. “It’s just a flesh wound,” I murmur. It still fits him tight and right everywhere, even with the little pudge of a stomach. Maybe even more so because of that. “You’d definitely win the who-wore-it-better contest.”
He smiles. “You remember the last time I had to wear this?”
I sigh. “Yes. I washed ALL your clothes.” I tap the tip of my finger into his chest for emphasis. “By accident.”
He snatches me around the waist and sandwiches me in his embrace like the bread in a panini press. “You wanted an excuse to see me naked. Admit it.” He pecks at my mouth over and over again.
“I was trying to do something nice,” I huff, feigning annoyance.
“Sure.” He licks his bottom lip, dripping with sarcasm. That mouth is sexy as hell. Not as pouty and puffy as when he was the epitome of a fuckboy. But, man, they still do some impressive acts in the bedroom. His hands skim up my bare back. Fingers rest on my bra hooks, but he doesn’t release them. “What if I told you this shirt isn’t the only thing of yours I’m wearing tonight?”
“What?” I frown. I love the guy but I don’t need him stretching out any more of my clothes.
His gaze drifts down to my bare tummy pressed against the soft cotton. The jeans I have on add another layer between us, but his arousal is warm and stiffening, hard to ignore. I slip a thigh into the space his bow legs naturally create. I wedge in and shimmy. I can’t tear my stare from the way his lids flutter and bat at my teasing. His lips part a fraction. “Have a look.”
I’m ready to step back and open his robe when I figure it out. I pause. “Really?”
He smirks and dammit if Fuckboy hasn’t reemerged in spades tonight. “When I found them again, years ago, I started tucking them into a pocket before going out on a hunt. I think you were right about them being lucky. ‘Cause something always seemed to go sideways when I’d forget them.” He leans down and caresses my ear with his words. “I always wondered how lucky I could get if I actually wore them again. You know, got rid of the guilt and shame and let myself have something pretty and fancy- just like you, Princess.”
I moan at the confession, and clench my lids shut. He’s lighting me up inside. I pull the robe free between us and feel the iron hot temperature of his skin. My fingers inch the shirt up. I snake my arms around his back and hang onto his handlebar shoulders.
He works the button and zipper of my jeans. They’re pushed past the curve of my ass. He peels everything down only to my mid-thigh. Enough so I can experience the touch of him, meld against him. The only way we could be pried apart right now is if we’re doused with a bucket of cold water.
He finds my mouth with his again. His kiss is slow and tender. It lets me luxuriate and hone in on the ache in my core and his pulsing erection covered in lace. I warm in anticipation of what’s to come. How much of a show he’ll give me. I plan to sit on the edge of his bed and have him strip off that robe and t-shirt in tantalizing slow motion. Not the panties though. Those are gonna stay on for a while. So I can run my hands over the trapped bulge. Trace the imprint of the constrictive lace forming into creamy freckled skin while I imprint the entire image in my mind for safekeeping. Including those goddamn kink-creating bow legs. He might have to spin around for me so I can appreciate how well the cotton candy pink hugs his ass.
I can’t wait to stare up at him as he towers above me, maybe with one or two of my fingers in that mouth. See how good he licks and sucks things. Get his cheeks to redden and his eyelids to flutter the way I adore.
I can’t wait for the way his mouth will feast on me while I tell him to get on his knees on the mattress between my legs. I want that pinky-lace covered ass popped up high in the air to admire. After all, I deserve something pretty and delicate, too.
But I’m lucky to have that already in Dean. Even if he doesn’t see it.
He leans up and away from my mouth. Green eyes sparkle down at me.
“You’re gonna have a lot of laundry to do after this, Suds.”
~~~The End~~~
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Spin. (Part 4 of Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Series) by Drasna
Story Summary: Dean's been dragged to hell. Elina's trying to put her life back together. Let's see how well that goes.
Story Part Tags: Demons, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Post-Purgatory Dean Winchester
Word Count: 12,500
Rated Mature
If you don't want to wait for the tumblr rollout, the complete series is on AO3.
Series Parts (Click to Jump To): Wash. Pre-Rinse. Rinse. Spin. Repeat.
Chapter 1
The thing about living this double life, one foot in and one foot out, is that the normal crap you keep wanting to be a part of… well, it doesn’t wait around for you to figure out your bullshit.
The sun keeps on rising and setting. The bills keep piling up and need to be paid. People expect you to slap on a happy face right quick. It’s too depressing for them to have to trudge through the muck of grief alongside you. If you can’t get with the program, you get left behind. Thrown out on your ass. Another faceless example, that no one wants to acknowledge, of what the world can do to someone it chews up, decides the flavor is not to its liking and spits out.
The ones who understood my pain were handling the grief in their own unhealthy ways. Bobby called me every day after the news of Dean to make sure I was alright. But I could tell my favorite grump was imbibing much more than usual. His words slurred. A drunk Bobby hardened up with each drink. No feelings were getting in or out anytime soon.
The facts, though? Bobby could spurt out details like a leaky faucet. He’d wanted to burn Dean’s body. Sam wasn’t having it. Sam buried Dean. “All’s he’d tell me is some’er in Pontiac, Illinois. He’s hell-bent on bringin’ him back from ‘ell, El.”
I reached out to Sam. I called. I’d left voicemails. Sent text after text. But he wasn’t responding to me. Bobby said Sam had stopped talking to him, too, while he was at the salvage yard. And, then, about a week later he’d left in the middle of the night.
We’d all let him down. We’d all let his brother down. Why would he stay or talk to any of us?
As helpful and sweet as Pamela and Garth had been, I couldn’t hold them hostage forever. No matter what Bobby threatened to do to them. So, I cut them loose and promised to be there for them like they’d been for me. Every hope I could muster was that I’d never have to; neither one of them deserved the nightmares that hid in wait behind closed lids.
It took a bit of convincing before they packed their bags and headed out. What could Lilith need with me anymore? I’d found out through some other drunken stumbles about a demon that had been working with the boys to find and defeat Lilith who’d been sent back to hell. And, yeah, okay, that was really fucking concerning after-the-fact information. But, I wasn’t fresh or enticing bait to dangle in front of anyone anymore. One Winchester brother was six feet under. The one still breathing wouldn’t have me on his priority list anytime soon, and for good reason.
He’d lost Dean. I can’t lose him, either. I’d stared at that last line in Sam’s note long enough for the swirls and loops to etch into my mind’s eye. Now, he would have to figure out what can’t means. Try to process and reconfigure a life without Dean. If he can. God, I hope he can.
Dean was an every second of everyday thing for Sam for so long. I have to convince myself that I can move on easier than Sam. For me, Dean was a tangled skein of yarn. What-ifs pulled on only to catch and snag on threads of doubt that didn’t want to free themselves. Maybe it was better we hadn’t found a way to unravel ourselves and roll all that string back into something new together. Maybe that year I missed out on with him was my saving grace? How could I ever move on if I had actually been given the opportunity to know exactly what I lost?
Those beautiful green eyes flecked with gold in the sunshine.
That rumble of bravado under the deep timbre in his voice.
Those lips that promised so much with one kiss.
That embrace I never wanted to escape.
No. It was better to have been denied loving him in all the ways I’d hoped.
I felt even more helpless and useless when it came to comforting Sam. If he needed space I wouldn’t suffocate him with daily calls and voicemails. Besides, I had my own shit to figure out.
Ryan Hoyt and Mitch Hagan were the sweetest of bosses. They offered me legal counsel and representation pro bono during the investigation and questions surrounding Gary. I knew they’d wait for as long as I needed until I felt well enough to return to work. But I’d already been out for three weeks. The impending doom and the possible reinstatement of the dreaded “Hoyt filing system” made my decision to get back to the office an easy one.
The one foot in and one foot out deal? Yeah, even superheroes battle keeping that secret identity shit straight and doubt themselves all the time. Look at Batman. Superman. Ironman was out in the open, but he also had a bazillion dollars to make things kinda sorta work for him. I still have to find ways to feed myself daily and manage to keep this studio apartment’s lights on.
I think it’s time I admit to myself that the “with great power comes great responsibility” motto should be left for everyone’s friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Not me, the not-so-friendly lately neighborhood Psychic.
But, Matamoras is kind of my responsibility now. It’s reeling from the murder of one of its own, Aunt Cheryl, at the hands of another one of its own, Gary. If the citizens are gonna get to move on with their normal, I’ve gotta take care of any of the abnormal that steps foot in it.
I’m here for the long haul.
So, it was back to the law firm and picking up shifts at Tony’s. There are lots of side-eyes and tentative smiles from my co-workers at the pizza parlor. Any conversation is stilted and awkward. But I’m resigned to push through. I’m getting some decent pity tips in the process.
It’s late Wednesday morning and I’m opening Tony’s solo as a favor for Linda who’s running late. I hurry and unlock the front entrance, tip the sign facing out onto the street to OPEN at 11:01 am. I scurry back into the kitchen, clock-in, tie my server apron tight about my waist, pull out some of the basics from the walk-in, and drop trays into the prep table. I hear the tinkle of the doorbell while I work. Of course it’s today that someone decides they absolutely need to eat at Tony’s as soon as it opens.
I clang and clatter for a few more minutes. I text Linda that I would very much appreciate it if she hurries her ass up. When I don’t hear anyone callout or another doorbell ring, I sigh and prepare to hold down the fort as best as I can. I enter the front of the house and spot a statuesque blonde, wearing a leather duster and smart slacks, sitting in a booth. She’s the only customer, thank goodness. It’s graduation day at the high school. We’re gonna be slammed by Tony standards in a couple hours. More than likely there’ll be some new faces stopping in to eat who’ve been celebrating. I figure this must be one of them.
I grab the fresh pitcher of water I’ve prepared along with a glass and stroll over to her booth. She meets my gaze and offers a pretty, plastered smile.
“Welcome to Tony’s. What can I getcha?” I doubt my good-natured expression is as bright as hers, but at least I’m trying.
She returns to study the laminated menu in her hand. “Hm. I’d kill for some fries.”
I nod and pour her a drink of water. “Sure. Want them alongside something else?”
“No. Those’ll be great, fresh out of the fryer. Extra salty.”
“I’ll get that order in for you straight away.” I don’t bother to tell her it’s only me for the next ten minutes or so.
Her smile tilts up into a funhouse sneer for a second.
A ringing zings through my ears. Something crawls under my skin. A wave of dread. A flicker of the violation, of when my body was no longer mine to control.
A faraway echo of the faintest whisper fills my head. “Let me out. Please.” I don’t recognize the voice.
PTSD has been an annoying passenger for a while. This, though, switches my panic dial to a different station.
I tap my pen on the order pad. I remind myself to inhale and exhale. “What brings you to Matamoras?”
“Meeting up with an old friend.” Her smile softens but it doesn’t meet her eyes. Eyes, cornflower blue, stripped of the sparkle I expect. She grabs the water glass and takes a sip.
I can’t help but hold my breath now as I wait.
She spits out the liquid. Steam sizzles out of her mouth. Eyes flip lacquer black for a fleeting second. She coughs, then clears her throat. “I didn’t realize holy water was being served. I would’ve asked for sparkling instead.”
I begin to recite the Latin I’ve committed to memory since that fateful night in the Delaware River.
She raises a hand, like a student in class. “How are you gonna explain me smoking out to anyone passing by this pretty picture window off Main Street?”
I pause the chant. “What do you want?”
“You, Elina.” She sighs. “But, you’ve gone and warded yourself.”
I wonder if the anti-possession tattoo lines me with a candy-coated shell of protection that demons can see.
The demon shoots me an exaggerated frown. “So, that’s off the table. I was kind of hoping to exchange this meat suit.”
I assess my options. I’ve got a hunter’s knife tucked in my boot. And I can douse her with the rest of the pitcher to give myself a head start. I hear another whisper-yell. “Help me.” My stomach twists at the fact there’s a woman imprisoned in her own body by this hellspawn.
“Where’s Sam Winchester?” the demon coos.
I gulp, forcing my breakfast down. “I-I don’t know. He’s in the wind.”
She squints. “In the wind, huh? You can understand how I’m thinking you might be lying?”
“Totally understandable. I mean, you are a demon. Do unto others, right?”
Her lips go tight. Her attention is enraptured by the menu again. “I tried to help them, you know? But when Dean’s deal came due, Lilith booted me out of my old vessel.” Her gaze flickers up at me. My mind whirls, piecing together that this could be the demon that had been with the boys during Dean’s final moments. But I remind myself that demons lie. She’s trying hard to be solemn and sincere with a pinched, forlorn expression. “From what I heard, Lilith made sure the hellhounds tore into his flesh and raked his soul over every available coal on its way to the underworld.”
I grind my teeth and close my eyes. It’s an image that’s haunted me with heart-crushing regret hundreds of times. “I can’t help you on both counts, my body or the brother.”
“Call him.” She nods to the lump that’s my cell phone in an apron pocket.
“No.” I straighten and decide to take my chances with someone seeing a demon smoke out of this woman’s body. Gossip around town is that strange things seem to occur in my vicinity. Might as well live up to that if I can save an innocent person. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…”
“Hey, Elina,” Linda’s sing-song voice calls out from the kitchen, “I’ll get the fryers on in a few! Thanks for covering!”
“I’d very much appreciate you getting that order in for me.” The demon smiles and her eyes flash black again. “My flight topside was a one-way ticket. I’m not allowed back into Hades until my business with Sam Winchester is complete.” She shrugs. “I get cast out of this, I’ve got the juice to pinball into the closest meat suit. Your friend back there will fit me just fine. Or anyone else in this town.” She clocks a little boy passing the parlor window with his mom and dog. I’m not sure about the kid’s name, but I remember him coming in and wanting the soft-serve vanilla with a dozen maraschino cherries. “Maybe that little guy. Out in the big bad world, saddled up and ridden like a pony.”
“You bitch,” I snarl under my breath.
“I also heard about the fun Helios had with you.” She leans an elbow on the tabletop and cradles her chin in her palm. Her fingers tap on her cheek in boredom. “You knew him as Gary. He wept for that blunder, stretched out on a rack. But he also wouldn’t shut up about how nice it felt to wear your skin for a short time. How easy you sank a knife into an innocent.”
“That wasn’t…”
“You? I’m sure it makes you feel better to believe that. But the saying ‘the mind is strong but the flesh is weak’? Yeah, they kind of got that backward. Some minds only need a tiny bit of permission for the body to follow the leader.” She rises from the booth, a lot taller than me in chunky-heeled boots. “We’re really more like viruses up here. We infect those without purpose, those who are lost, much, much easier. Do what I ask, and I’m out of this town. Or don’t, and see firsthand what kind of destruction I can wage here.”
“He-he won’t answer.”
The demon smiles. “Let’s give it a go anyway, for shits and giggles.” Her gaze darts over my shoulder. Her smile doubles.
“Elina?” Linda’s voice is closer. She’s in the room with us now. She’s probably behind the counter, but I don’t turn around.
“Can you get an order of fries in?” I call out.
“Sure. Have ‘em out in about five minutes, if that’s alright?” I know Linda’s question is directed at our customer.
“I’ve got all the time in the world.” The demon smiles at Linda. The kitchen door swooshes. She stares back at me, hard and determined. “Call him.”
I sigh and pull out my phone. Sam’s number is selected by muscle memory. I hold the phone to my ear and wait as it rings. Sam picks up on the fifth ring.
“‘Lo.” Sam murmurs deep.
“Sam?”
“Ellllll?”
He’s drunk. He’s so drunk. That’s the only reason he’s picked up.
“Sam, you have to,” my words rush out but I’m not quick enough before dust blows into my face. I inhale and cough as ancient syllables pour from the demon. I blink and my lids glue shut.
When I open my eyes seconds later I hear Linda calling from the counter. “Order up! Elina? You okay?”
I inhale and clutch my chest. The demon’s gone. My phone rests on the booth table atop a menu. “Yeah.”
“Customer in the bathroom?”
“Um, no. I haven’t unlocked the bathroom yet.” I swipe my phone up and stick it in my pocket. A deep breath readies me to turn to Linda. “She just left.”
“Huh?” Her soft features are on sudden alert when she takes me in. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod faster than I can control. “Yeah.” I shrug. “She ranted about having to leave. Some sort of emergency.”
“Oh.” She’s not convinced. “Ooohkay. Well, why don’t you unlock the bathroom and maybe take five?”
“Sure. Yeah.” My steps are quick to the door. I fumble with my keys at the lock. It takes a few tries before I’m successful and slip inside.
I cringe at my reflection. I’m sweaty and red-faced. I pull out my phone and check the time. Fuck me. I literally lost five minutes of consciousness. I didn’t faint. I remained upright. I navigate to the log screen.
My last call to Sam lasted just shy of a minute.
I dial his number again.
He picks up on the first ring. “Ruby, if you hurt her…” He sounds stone sober and mad as hell, hissing through his teeth.
Ruby?!? “Sam, it’s El.”
“Are you alright?” The tone shifts to worry.
“Yeah-yeah. I think so. It… Ruby, you know that thing?”
“It’s a long story, El. You don’t have to worry.” The fight leaves his voice. “She promised to leave town.”
“She’s coming after you, Sam. You…”
“Let her come.”
“Sam…”
“You’re doing the right thing. Don’t come looking for me. I’ll have to keep running instead of what I gotta do if you track me down.”
“Ever think Dean might have wanted me to keep you running so you don’t do something stupid?” I bite back adding like he did .
“I don’t care what Dean wanted. Look at where it got him.” He sighs. “You gotta trust me, El. I need. I need to know someone believes…” His voice hitches.
I hear it in his plea. He’s wrestling with himself. What he can do. What he’s capable of. The struggle hits home in an instant.
“Promise me, Sam. You call if you need me. And you keep in touch. Even if it’s just one word letting me know you’re alive and good. Please?”
“Promise.”
Unfortunately, Sam didn’t keep his promise.
But about four months after that close call with a demon, I made good on my promise to Pamela. Unfortunately.
Bobby’d sent me three lines of text.
Pamela at Wagner Memorial
ICU
Not lookin good
Bobby was calling for reinforcements and I was the first on deck. Pamela’s biological relatives had been out of the picture for a decade. Didn’t matter. The hunter network was more reliable and loyal, nine times out of ten.
Things had quieted down in my little town. I wasn’t the main subject of conversation anymore. I could tell because the whispers stopped when I passed the bridge playing ladies and lodge member gentlemen. The “family emergency” wasn’t met with any outward speculation by my bosses at the firm. Mitch Hagan told me to take all the time I needed. “When family calls, best you run faster than a ranch hand hearing the dinner bell.”
I didn’t think my watch would last more than a couple weeks.
But I wasn’t prepared for what I’d find in South Dakota.
Pamela was stable by the time I got to the hospital a couple days after Bobby’s text message. Post surgery, she was heavily sedated, her eyes bandaged.
Well, the sockets where her eyes had been were bandaged.
I whisper to Bobby outside her hospital room. “How’d it happen?”
“L. You better sit down.” Bobby sighs.
Oh man. “Why?”
He purses his lips and snorts air out his nose. “Sit.”
I shake my head and take one of the seats he points to in the hallway.
He settles beside me. “I’d gone to see Pamela with Sam and-”
“Sam’s back! Where’s he been?”
“L-”
“He went radio silent on me. Didn’t message me back after I-”
Bobby snatches one of my hands and holds it tight about the wrist. That quiets me long enough for him to finish. “Dean’s back.”
Maybe Bobby held on because he wasn’t sure if I would faint or flee.
But blinks are all I manage for some time. My heart races.
“What?” I finally squeak out. “He-he,” I stutter. “Did Sam-”
“No. We don’t know how. That’s why we went to see Pamela. Try and find some answers.” Bobby lets go of me, tugs off his cap, and runs a palm over the stragglers atop his melon. “Never gonna forgive myself for draggin’ her into this.”
Dean’s back. “Nobody drags Pamela into anything.” I clasp my hand onto Bobby’s now. Partly to ease his guilt and steady my nerves. If I don’t hold on to something, I might spin like a top. “What happened?”
“Dean-” Bobby stops, hitches in some breath. His eyes get glassy. I swallow, waiting to wake up from this dream. “He dragged himself out of his own pine box.”
“Where he was buried, in Pontiac?”
Bobby nods. “Something yanked him out of hell and dropped him back into his body. But, smelling sweet as the daisies he’d been pushin’ up. Not a mark on him, except for a brand that looks an awful lot like a handprint.” Bobby taps at his shoulder.
“You did all the tests?”
Now Bobby just looks offended I’m even asking that question.
I nod to brush off my scatterbrained and incoherent thoughts. “Of course you did all the tests.” I gnaw the inside of my cheek.
“They’ve been trying to figure out what got Dean topside. And if it’s a friend or foe.”
“That was the answer Pamela was supposed to help you all find?”
“Yep. Somethin’ that goes by the name of Castiel answered Pamela’s knockin’. And, when Pam pushed…”
The thing seared out our friend’s eyeballs. Anger floods through me.
“Why aren’t they here?” My voice rises in irritation. “Why are you here cleaning up their mess, again?” I point to Pamela’s hospital room door. “She’s in there because she was willing to help. And if we fail to live up to their expectations? They move on to someone else.”
I realize my unintentional confession too late, then bounce out of my seat. I stomp toward the end of the hall and lean against a wall. It’s past visiting hours in the hospital. I have a feeling Bobby’s pulled a few strings with the medical staff.
Bobby lumbers toward me. His presence hovers in that reliable, comforting way that I’ve grown to rely on and that not every hunter gets to experience. “I know this, all this, has been hard on you, L. I wish to God you hadn’t had to go through any of it.” He sighs. “The boys, both of ‘em, don’t want to see you hurt again.”
“But it’s alright for Pamela to get hurt.” I shake my head.
His hand grips my forearm from behind. “They feel awful about what happened today. They helped me get her to the hospital. Stayed until she was stable. When Pamela came to -few hours after the surgery- she started asking for you. That’s why you’re here. And Dean isn’t.”
~~~~
Pamela’s reaction to her future is anything but normal. She always believed the reliance of sight was way too easy. It made people lazy. Why would anyone even think about tapping into other planes of consciousness when a vibrant reality displays right in front of them? Now, with the crutch of vision gone, she had no choice but to exercise and strengthen every other sensory muscle.
Pamela’s blindness would help her see.
“At least my parting gift was seeing those Winchester men.” Pamela grips my fingers while regaling the tale. Bobby’s gone back to the salvage yard. It’s just her and me chatting away over a tray of hospital breakfast. I feed her yogurt with my free hand.
I want to ask how Dean looked. Not that Pamela would have anything to compare to the man that walked into her home.
Bobby said there were no visible scars; that Dean looked fresh off the factory belt.
But his time in hell must have left wounds, deep and destructive.
Pamela grins, soft and lazy. “Gotta say I was questioning how good your eyesight is, Elina.”
Leave it to her to already be tossing out off-color jokes. “What are you talking about?” I scrape the bottom of the yogurt cup for the last bit of mixed berry.
She shrugs. “Dean’s hot. But, that Sam. There’s so much of him to run your hands over.” Pamela fists a bed sheet. The pain meds have her loose and loopy.
My only response is to nudge the tip of the spoon against her bottom lip. She opens and swallows. Gulps in a loud and demonstrative way.
“I mean, Dean is totally your type. And mine, unfortunately.”
“I thought it was Sam you had your-” I snap my mouth shut.
“Eye on?” Pamela tosses her head back into the pillow and cackles. “Listening to people tiptoeing around me is gonna be amusing as hell.” She presses a hand against her bandage covered temple. Layers of gauze mummify her eyes, wrap around her head and form a skull cap. Her typically wild raven tresses are wrangled into a braid and rest over a shoulder. I imagine one of the nurses did that for her.
Pamela had bright and mesmerizing eyes the color of blue lapis.
I stifle a sob.
She cocks her head at the noise.
“Elina. Don’t.”
“It’s not fair.”
“No. It’s not. Not late breaking news for us, though. Life usually isn’t.” She sighs. “We lose things. We find a way to keep going. Or we lay down and die. I for one ain’t ready to pick out my burial gown.”
I wipe at my watering eyes.
“El, whatever brought Dean back… sweetie… it’s hella powerful. No one should mess with that.”
“Bobby…”
“Bobby’s Bobby. He’s gonna help those two no matter what anyone says. But you gotta listen to me. You gotta steer clear of Sam and Dean. Once and for all. They’ve made enemies in this life and the after life. You’re not sacrificing yourself for someone else’s stupid choice. You hear me?”
She feels for my hand.
“No man’s worth all that.”
~~~~
When I wake up, the corner chair in Pamela’s hospital room feels like concrete under my ass.
I remember the nightmares I’d waded through as I slept. Pamela’s screams. Dean’s screams. Flames licking at their faces.
Pamela wants me as far away from the boys as possible. She made a point of telling me Dean had flirted with her not even five minutes after they’d met. Seems I was the furthest from his mind. Again.
Bobby is noncommittal, stuck in the middle of his charges. He wants what’s best for all of us. But he doesn’t know what in the hell that is at the moment.
I pull out my phone, muted so as not to disturb Pamela, and scroll through my call list. Not a Winchester in sight.
Dean’s been topside for days. Not a text or call. Nothing from Sam, either.
Pamela’s out after another round of pain meds. My mentor. My friend. She stuck her neck out for them and this is the thanks she gets.
It won’t be that hard to move on from Dean.
~~~~
The world’s going to hell.
But I’m just trying to pay rent.
The insanity of the past few months isn’t tracked by the population of Matamoras in the same way as the hunter network. The weird apocalyptic anomalies are more curious than concerning for the everyman. The weather’s been a bit “off.” Autumn hasn’t quite figured out it’s clocked in for its shift and actually needs to get to work (maybe another caffeine hit from a pumpkin latte is in order). People’s fuses are shorter than usual. Pets have gone missing at an alarming rate or turned on their owners.
Tragic accidents or “survived by the skin of their teeth” stories headline the local paper (The Matamoras Herald) everyday. It used to be city council elections and harvest festivals making the news.
My phone calls with Bobby are short and to the point. He’s too busy studying and trying to track down what seal might get broken next. He’s curt, all business. There’s a lot at stake, after all. I’m not the only one that needs saving. As long as I’m breathing and not bleeding, he’s got work to do.
And it would be easier to move on from Dean if I didn’t hear tales about the Winchesters from every hunter I know (aside from Bobby, of course).
Turns out Dean got pulled out of hell by an angel. Yep, an angel. I mean, yeah, who hasn’t assumed their existence, what with needing light to balance the dark that is demons. They’ve just never been as out and about to our motley crew. Guess an impending apocalypse will bring all the boys to the yard.
Sam’s got a little more than telekinesis and clairvoyance in his superpower tool belt. It’s rumored that demon blood is the secret ingredient.
Dean almost died (again) from ghost sickness.
Sam and Dean have been teaming up with Ruby on a regular basis. Yep, the demon that paid me a visit at the pizzeria. Enemies close, I guess.
There’s something called angel radio.
Sam and Dean helped a human realize she was, in fact, a fallen angel. (That bit of news came directly from Pamela, who ended up helping them again – “do as I say, not as I do” much, Pamela? The woman has adjusted marvelously, by the way. My new nickname for her is Daredevil.)
I could try and tune out all the noise but the world is vibrating with a bubbling boil of energy. We’ve been dumped in a big frying pan of popcorn kernels, heating up. Whether aware or not, we’re all nervously anticipating explosions at a subatomic level.
Smokey Bear needs to take the matches away from Sam and Dean and remind them only they can prevent forest fires.
~~~~
Dean lit the world on fire. Now its expiration date was quickly approaching.
Giving in, giving up. He was the weakest link.
Righteous man. What a crock of shit.
How could he be considered a righteous man? A righteous man doesn’t get out of being tortured by torturing someone else.
Yet somehow, in the twisted logic of winged cherubs playing harps and former humans with onyx eyes, he’s the guy with a moral compass that broke the first seal in hell.
And now, all of heaven expects he’s gonna be able to put a stop to all this.
Dean wants a hit of whatever Castiel’s been smoking.
It might be stronger than whatever's dripping into him from the IV bag.
He’d rejected Cas’ offer to heal him. Didn’t matter if Sam had asked Cas to do that. He didn’t deserve an easy out. Not this time. Not ever.
He’s seized at least twice. Can’t be certain. His memory is fucked. He’s blacked out countless times since Alastair strangled and beat him bloody. When his medication doesn’t stay ahead of the pain, the numbness and tingling wriggle under his skin. Labored breathing wheezes out of his swollen throat, to say nothing of the fistful of razors he swallows with every gulp. In another day or two he’ll be a mottled splatter of purple and yellow bruises.
He deserves all of it and more.
When the pain startles him awake throughout the day or night - he can’t tell in the constant twilight that is his windowless hospital room - sometimes Sam is there. Sitting in a chair. Pacing at the foot of his bed. Standing in the doorway.
Sam doesn’t say anything. What could he say to make any of this right? Dean wants to be the strong one for Sam. But he’s only made things worse by his choices. Again and again. All for the misguided certainty that he was saving Sam.
But from what? How has defying fate and death saved Sam? How can he be any better off on a diet of Demon blood?
It’s the third day (maybe?) when the hallucinations start. He gasps out of nightmares filled with flames and the smell of his own charred flesh to figments of her. His double vision can’t focus on the transparent images. Sat in a chair. Leaning on the bed rail.
He hasn’t allowed his mind to pause a thought on her since he chose to get off the rack and start torturing.
She’d been one of the things he clung to, reminding him of what he needed to fight for, every time he refused Alistair’s offer. After another eternity of flaying, poking and tearing, he’d be given the ultimatum.
He’d think of Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and her, every time he’d said no.
He had to give them all up when he said yes.
He didn’t deserve any of them. Especially her.
Especially now, with what happened to Pamela.
So, why was he allowing her to stay put in his thoughts now.
At some point, when his eyes flitted open and his gaze landed on her, she spoke.
“Dean?”
That’s when he realized he wasn’t conjuring her up.
She was here.
Dean clamped his eyes shut. “No,” he croaked.
“Dean.” Her voice, low and coaxing, drifted into his ears. No imagining. She was real, flesh and blood.
Dean swallowed. “I’m sorry, El. I’m so sorry about what happened to Pamela.”
The legs of the chair dragged along the tile floor, interrupting him. “I was at the funeral when Bobby got news of you in the hospital.” Her voice closed in to the right of him. “He says you better stop trying to beat him to the grave. You’ve already done it once. Quit being a show off.”
Her words released on a tremble of air. She was close enough for him to feel her breath against his forehead. A soft pair of lips pressed into his temple.
“I didn’t want to believe in God. Then you had to go and get resurrected, Winchester.”
He froze. No part of her should be touching his vile skin. “You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled.
She sighed. “I agree. But when Bobby got the news he thought I might be helpful. So did Sam.”
His lids parted and opened with a concerted effort. It took many blinks but he eventually focused on her frame, now sitting in the chair. Dressed all in black, bags under her eyes, sallow complexion.
The heart monitor began to beep quicker; enough for her to squint in concern at the machine. “Do I need to get someone?”
Dean gulped and wheezed. “No. I-I just never thought I’d see you again.”
She frowned. “Neither did I. But you knew where I was when you… I guess I wasn’t allowed a vote on that matter.”
Dean marveled at how pretty she got when she was angry.
Her anger melted away as they stared each other down. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a scorned teenager. But, none of this is even remotely comprehensible. And that’s coming from someone who’s seen a lot of shit. Angels, Dean?”
Dean nodded through the pain.
Her warm hand rested over his. Her fingers ran back and forth over his wrist. “You’re a miracle.”
Dean huffed. “I’m the reason-”
“Look, there’s one thing you’ve gotta get through that concussed head of yours. You survived hell. I don’t care what bullshit story the higher ups and bottom feeders are trying to sell you. You’re the human in this equation that did an extraordinary thing for your brother. You sacrificed. You fought the good fight for as long as you could.” She squeezed his hand. “But you couldn’t hold out forever, Dean. Because you're human. You’re still just human at the end of the day.”
“You know what the prophecy says?”
She nodded. “Sam filled me in when I got here.”
Dean shook his head. “I can’t do it, El.”
She offered a tired smile. “Then, don’t.”
Dean couldn’t stop blinking. “What?”
“Don’t do it.” She leaned in closer. “Leave it all behind.” She gulped, swallowed loud enough for him to hear. “Come back to Matamoras with me. I’ll take care of you. You can heal up and use your second chance for something other than being a pawn in someone else’s revenge for a change.”
He’s wanted her for so long. “I can’t do that to you,” he murmured, turned and faced the opposite wall.
Her hand pulled away. “Dean. This is a one time offer.”
He replied with a curt nod. “Good. Then I won’t have to say no more than once.”
The chair legs squeaked as they were backed away from the bed. “No one can punish you any worse than you punish yourself.” Footsteps headed to the door. “But, I guess I’ve got something to pray to and someone to pray for now. Maybe you’ll come to your senses before it’s too late. Bye, Dean.”
Chapter 3
Note: Lines of italicized dialogue in the first section are from 4.21 "When the Levee Breaks" and 7.11 "Adventures in Babysitting"
Dean stared at the name in Bobby’s contact list.
It’d been years since he’d last talked to her.
This was not a call he’d ever imagined making.
He’d considered reaching out to her when Sam had called his bluff –after they both beat each other bloody– and walked out of the motel room; walked out on him.
You walk out that door, don't you ever come back.
He was going to call when they’d unleashed Lucifer. Bobby had checked on her instead.
Dean had scrolled to her phone number after he’d come back from the future.
After he’d almost died at 80 years old.
After channel hopping, literally.
Every time he got a replacement phone, her number was one of the first he’d put in his contact list from memory.
His thumb almost pressed CALL after he and Sam came back from the past.
It was after he’d come back from Choose-Your-Own-Heaven with Sam that he actually did dial her number.
It’d been disconnected.
Bobby fessed up he’d told her to get a new number. The harder for her to be found, even by Sam and Dean –hell, especially by Sam and Dean–, the safer she’d be as the Four Horsemen blazed a trail across the Earth.
Then, Sam had made the ultimate sacrifice. But not before he made Dean promise to go find Ben and Lisa when he was gone. Get himself a slice of apple pie life.
And Dean kept that promise.
But a part of him always wondered how things might’ve turned out if he’d said yes to her offer.
An apple pie life could be made with lots of different ingredients. The recipe didn’t have to include a house with a picket fence and a kid.
It could’ve been Elina and that studio apartment in Matamoras.
Not that Dean was a great baker. His apple pie life crumbled when Sam entered it again. He’d loved Lisa and Ben. He did. But the pull of his brother was stronger. Lisa was right. They had some major codependency issues.
The ingredients in that recipe, with Lisa and Ben, would have never worked with Sam and hunting.
But, Elina? As much as he knew she’d understand every aspect of his crazy (at least once all of the new crazy had been explained) it would make her vulnerable. She’d be preyed upon by every enemy the Winchesters had tallied up over the years.
It had already happened once. He didn’t want to put her in danger ever again.
Dean’s baking days were over.
Instead, he solved Sam’s soulless situation and took down Eve.
Now, they were cleaning up the mess that had been Cas unleashing Leviathans into the world.
Bobby had been the latest casualty.
Bobby.
Gone.
Three weeks since he died. No clue or lead on what those damn numbers he wrote on Sam’s hand meant before he passed.
The man they could always depend on was fucking gone.
Sam left Dean in Rufus’ cabin while he went on some inconsequential mission to track down some girl that had called Bobby’s phone. Sam, of course, had to call out the elephant in the room before he departed and have it sit in Dean’s fucking lap.
Dean, you know, um... I wonder if – if we... I mean, should we be telling people? I mean, people he knew.
How long ago did I give Frank these numbers? It's been a few weeks, right? What, is he nuts, or is he just being rude?
Probably both. Dean, I-I got to ask you a question.
Unless, of course, something happened to him. He can't get to the phone because a Leviathan ate his face.
Yeah, also a possibility.
We should go check on him.
Dean, do you want to call Bobby's people or not?
W-why is – why is that our job?
Because who else is gonna do it?
I'm not calling anybody. If you want to, you go right ahead.
I don't want to call anybody. You kidding me?
Sam was onto something. This shouldn’t be done over the phone.
Dean scrolled a few names down from Elina and hit CALL.
“Garth? Hey, it’s Dean Winchester. Yeah, yeah. I wasn’t expecting to have to call you so soon either after Delaware. Why am I calling from Bobby’s phone? Long story.” Dean cleared his throat, unwilling to release the well of feelings in his chest. “Listen, Garth. I gotta know if Elina is still in Matamoras.”
~~~~
I miss my VW Bug. Man, I can’t believe it’s been four years since it took a permanent bath in the lake with me and a Demon wearing Gary.
My body’s visceral recall of that night has me shaking and my teeth chattering.
I grip the steering wheel and ride through the feelings with deep inhales and exhales. At least I’m only a block away from my apartment. Small favors do show up every now and again.
I’ve spent so much time at Mufflers -N- More the past few months I should sleep in their garage. I was the last customer at closing time. Again. If only I had enough money saved to upgrade from this Ford “Asspire”.
My hatchback makes a literal coughing sound as I pull into my usual spot on the street. I swear it can read my spiteful and wantful thoughts,
“Take it easy. Don’t get your spark plugs in a bunch. We’re just going through a little rough patch is all. I’m not giving up on us yet.” I tap the dash. “Hopefully, we can figure it out before couple’s therapy is needed. Cause I definitely don’t have the extra cash for that.”
I kill the engine and the car whines. Long shadows criss-cross the sidewalk as night time approaches.
All I want is to zap my Lean Cuisine in the microwave and cocoon under the bed covers. I might be in time to catch “2 Broke Girls.”
I’m almost at my apartment stairwell when I spot an old Buick parked a few cars down from mine. There’s a driver in it, also cast in shadow. My radar extends in alarm and I scamper up the first set of steps. I pull the flask containing a cocktail of holy water and Borax out of my purse.
A heavy car door opens. It’s when I’ve reached the landing that I hear a voice call out my name.
His voice.
“Elina,” he repeats and punctuates it with a car door slam.
I turn.
Dean’s by the bottom step. His white knuckle grip on the handrail could snap it in two.
He begins the ascent, slow and careful. I mumble “Christo.” He doesn’t twitch. No black eyes. His head doesn’t spin like a top.
It’s when he gets closer and the floodlight washes over his face that I see the dread and exhaustion.
Dean Winchester hasn’t tried to contact me in years. I know a visit from him can’t be by choice. That expression solidifies it and makes me even more worried.
“What is it?”
“Listen, I know it’s been forever.” He halts on the last step before the landing. He meets my eye level. “But, can we go inside and talk?”
“Not unless you pass the usual tests.” I shake the flask I’m holding between our bodies. “I’d never hear the end of it from Bobby if I let you…”
Dean’s features pinch in discomfort. That’s when it hits me. It’s been weeks since I heard from the old man. Last text from him was, Got a lead on Dick Roman. Don’t eat at Biggerson’s.
“Where’s Bobby, Dean?”
Dean’s gaze skips around my frame, avoiding my eyes. “El.”
“Where is he?”
When he does manage to look at me, his lips purse together tight. There’s an ever so slight quiver to his mouth.
“No, Dean.”
~~~~
I don’t remember much. My brain and body disconnected right after that. I managed to get into the apartment. Dean followed. I sank onto the couch. He sat with me in silence. Eventually, a cup of tea was placed in my hands.
“How?” I finally ask.
Dean rubs his eyelids. “Dick Roman shot him.”
I want to rage at Dean, but I’m too numb to manage any kind of emotion. “He was helping you.”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“What?!?” The tepid tea splashes over my hand as I jerk. “You’ve waited three weeks to tell me Bobby’s dead!”
“El, I’m sorry. We had to drop off the grid. The Leviathans-”
A sob releases. “Did you do what he wanted? Did you burn his body? He-he,” I swallow back a cry. “He never wanted there to be a chance he could come back. He told me to make sure he could never come back.”
Dean grabs my wet hand. “We did what he wanted.”
I pull away, stand, and make my way to the kitchen sink. I pour out the tea and wash my hands. Any excuse to get away from the touch and the care I always craved from Dean, even now. I haven’t felt this kind of loss and this lost in forever. And the last time I did, Bobby was there to help me through it.
The man that filled the vacant part of my heart reserved for family is gone now, too.
“El.” Dean’s behind me. “Have you had any dreams about him?”
“No.” That question fires up my insides. Bobby didn’t reach out to me before he crossed over. Had I been rebuffed and forgotten all over again? “It must have been quick. Him going to the other side,” I reason out loud.
“Yeah.” Dean releases a soft chuckle. “If anyone deserves to get bumped to the front of the line to pass the pearly gates…”
“It’s Bobby.” I finish Dean’s sentence.
It’s some time before Dean speaks. “It didn’t feel right telling you over the phone, hundreds of miles away. But, I’ll get out of your hair.”
I nod at the sink instead of him. “Somewhere you gotta be?”
“Trying to figure out some intel Bobby left us with before he- Sam and I haven’t been able to make heads or tails of it. You know Frank Deveraux?”
I breathe in to steady myself and whip around to face Dean. I can muster enough irritation to fortify myself for all the things about this man that weaken my defenses.
He’s aging incredibly well and is somehow even more handsome than I remember. It was ridiculous to believe I could withstand the onslaught. I’m hating myself more than him with each passing second. “I know of him. I’ve heard stories.” I don’t need to add that all the tales came from Bobby.
Dean nods. “All true. I’m trekking back west to see what he’s come up with.”
“Because of course, Frank won’t dare give you any information over a possibly compromised phone line.” I side-step around Dean and head back to the couch. “You’ve done what you came to do.” I grab my poetry book and leaf through the pages, stroking each pressed rose petal I pass.
“I’m sure you’ve got someone you’ll wanna talk to about all this.”
“Everyone I’d want to talk to about this is dead, Dean.” I lie. There are two other people. One of them is standing in my apartment and the other one is his very tall brother.
Dean settles onto the couch beside me again. “You don’t have anyone here?”
I shake my head. “No one who knows about the life. I’ve been heeding your advice and kept people at a distance to keep them safe. Haven’t bothered with anything you could consider a relationship in years.” I level my gaze at him. “Guess you’re more of a do as I say, not as I do kind of guy.”
Dean’s softer in his reply, perhaps a reaction to the scolding. “It’s not like that, El. I had to try. I promised Sam.”
I nod. “From what Bobby told me, it sounded like you tried pretty damn hard. Enough to be out of the life for a while. A whole year? Long enough for Bobby to be happy for you, believing you got out before you got dead. Permanently.”
“It was a good year.”
I chew the inside of my lip.
“I didn’t think he’d tell you about any of it.”
“I’d ask him if there were updates on you every once in a while. After hearing about Sam, well, I wasn’t sure you’d get by without him.”
“Even if I didn’t reach out,” Dean continues, “I always wondered how you were doing. I wanted-I wanted to know you were alright.”
“I was. I had Bobby.” It all washes over me again.
Dean wrings his hands. “I know. I keep wanting to call him. He was-he was always there, when you needed him.” Dean sighs. “The shit Sam and I would give him, put him through. He always knew what to say to-to make things make sense in all of this fucked up shit. Even if it was only for a little while. He made things possible.”
“He home-schooled me with his library of lore. Those first six months at his house it was nothing but reading and lectures.” My lips curl up into a smile. “The man could tell a story.”
“That he could,” Dean agrees.
“Did you do the same for Lisa and Ben? Teach them about the things we hunt?”
He stiffens. “I did. But they won't need it anymore.”
“Why?”
“Cas helped.”
There’d been stories from Bobby about Castiel. But, I’d never had the pleasure (or maybe the luck) of having met the Angel of Thursday before he died.
“How?”
“Wiped their memories of me.”
My irritation flames in an instant. “Without their say? Like what happened to me when you made your deal? You saw how great that went.”
Dean sighs.
“You are the epitome of insanity, Winchester. Ever heard of doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Some of the best men I’ve ever met have very low opinions of themselves,” I continue to berate him. “The one fault they all seem to have in common, though, is that they think they know what’s best for everyone else.” Now all I can think about is that grumpy old man and I’m crying.
Dean doesn’t ask if he can wrap his arms around me. He suddenly is, though. I lay my head against his flannel and let the tears flow.
In between crying and reminiscing about Bobby, Dean and I catch up over the next hour. It’s awkward in parts, the way he edits his time with Lisa. I try not to overthink as to why he downplays it. We talk more about Sam. How he’s stitched together with the thinnest thread. Dean promises to get Sam to call me soon.
I can’t convince Dean to stay for a microwaved meal. He’s gotta make up for lost time. The hug goodbye envelopes me in his warmth and scent. “Bobby’d want you to check in on me.”
“I will.”
“No disappearing?”
“No, ma’am.”
Chapter 4
“What do you mean he disappeared?!?” I shut my apartment door after a messy and manic Sam Winchester rushes into the living room
This was not how my lazy Saturday morning was supposed to turn out.
“We had a plan.” Sam fists both hands in his hair and does laps around my couch.
Sam rambles. How they’d gotten into the corporate fortress of Richard Roman Enterprises. How he’d found the prophet. And then he found Dean and Cas, in mid-shanking of Dick Roman.
“This energy. It pulsed. It was like a seismic shift. Then, this light, and bang, and-and then they all just disappeared.” Sam stares down at me. He’s frantic. His bear paws for hands reach out and latch onto my biceps. “Can you try and find him? That vibrational energy thing might work, right?”
“Sam,” I whisper.
He shakes me. “You gotta wake up and do something, El! You’re not dead yet. Neither is Dean.” He stops, releases me, back pedals into the dinette chair that’s three sizes too small for him. “He can’t be dead.”
“Sam, it’s not that I don’t want to try.” I slide into the chair across from him. My heart races at saying the thing that’s broken it. “I’ve tried. For years. Since they dragged him to hell. Whatever connection we had. It’s gone. It’s been gone for a long time.”
~~~~
“You need backup, El.” Garth repeats in his pleasant but insistent drawl.
“I’m just doing some intel. It sounds ghosty, maybe a bit cryptid. Either way, whatever it is, it hasn’t hurt anyone…”
“That we know of…”
“Yet.” I interrupt Garth’s interruption. “If I can identify it, we’ll know if it’s some sort of threat. If it’s a spirit, I might be able to help it on its journey to the afterlife. Then, couples heading to Cove Haven won’t get their romantic rendezvous interrupted. Come on, Casanova, you can’t tell me that helping those looking for love isn’t a noble pursuit.”
“I would if it meant all this love searching was for your benefit. Last I checked Casper didn’t have a profile on booHarmony.”
I sigh. I’ve gotta give in on something or it’ll be another ten minutes of grilling me on what I’ve been doing with myself for the past couple months. Garth’s check in could not have come at a more inconvenient time. “Fine, see if there’s someone nearby that might be able to help me out.” I rifle through my duffle bag and make sure I’ve got enough underwear for a few days. “Lakeville’s about an hour from me. Hoping to get there in time to check in at 4pm.”
“What lake is the resort by?”
“Lake Wallenpaupack.”
“Hm, why’s that sound familiar?”
“Michael Scott treated the office to a booze cruise on that lake.”
“Who?”
I chuckle. “You obviously don’t know him.” A blatant try at changing the subject has me asking, “how’s your charge doing?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Still no word on the mom?”
“Not a syllable. You ever think we’d have to add ‘locate the King of Hell and track down prophet’s mom’ to our hunter duties?”
“Never.”
“The Winchesters always keep it interesting.”
I scrunch my eyelids shut. He went and did it. I did my best to avoid those two in this talk. Garth is baiting me.
“Speaking of…” he starts.
“I wasn’t.”
Garth tuts. “So much has happened since I saw ‘em in Missouri. Dean came by the houseboat to check on Kevin a couple weeks back and filled me in. He asked about you. Says he’ll pick up if you call him.”
I scoff while stewing internally at Dean’s jab. “How very generous of him.”
“Look, more often than not, Dean is as confused as a fart in a fan factory. He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. But you know deep down, he cares. Sam, too. They just don’t have much time to show it in between saving the world every other week. El, it’s not like Dean disappeared because he needed to clear his head or wanted some space. He got sucked into Purgatory.”
“I know, Garth. It’s just all this top shelf Heaven and Hell business. It’s above my pay grade, you know? Like you said, none of this was in the job description. This ‘is not limited to, but may include’ bullshit keeps piling on. That’s all. It’s nothing personal against Dean.”
“Darlin’, Dean is nothing but personal for you.”
“Okay, Dr. Phil. I’m afraid our time is up. I’ll send you the hotel address. Go do your job and find me a nearby hunting partner.”
~~~~
“I’m gonna kill that happy-go-lucky beanpole.” I announce to myself, fisting the steering wheel tighter as I spot Baby in the resort parking lot. “What the hell are they doing in PA?” I murmur, eventually coasting into a spot as far away from that black beauty as I can find.
It’s been well over a year since I’ve seen them both. And though I can guilt trip Sam for not reaching out during that time, Dean… Well, Dean did try to contact me soon after he returned from Purgatory. I, however, haven’t returned any of his calls or countless voicemails.
“Hell. Heaven. The cage. Purgatory.” My giggles sound more and more insane. “None of this is funny, you idiot. Get your shit together.” I whisper to myself. Groaning, I prepare for the Winchesters.
I do a horrible job at faking a nonchalant and oblivious stroll along the sidewalk, not peering in Baby’s direction in case one or both of them are sitting in her.
All of that effort is for naught, however. As soon as I open the door to the hotel lobby, my gaze lands on Dean sat in one of the cube-shaped chairs.
That charming half tilt of a grin grinds me to a standstill.
He rises and waltzes over, engulfing me in a hug. His warm breath tickles the inside of my ear. I get a whiff of coffee and greasy fast food with my nose buried in his flannel. “Anyone asks, we’re having ourselves a long overdue getaway, Mrs. Perry.” The weight of my duffle slips off my shoulder as he pulls away and slings it over his right one. His green eyes light up with mischief, staring me down in a way I haven’t seen in years. They are surrounded by a multitude of crow’s feet that I want to trace with my fingers.
His brows wiggle. “You gotta see the room.”
~~~~
Our walk to the room was quick and quiet, only taking seconds.
“Um…” It’s all I can offer Dean, staring up at the seven-foot tall pink champagne glass in the corner of the multilevel suite.
Dean points up at it, standing in the lounge area between the sofa and fireplace. “Whirlpool.” He’s smiling from ear to ear.
I chuckle and crane my neck to the right. There’s a wraparound staircase that leads up to the landing where one can actually bathe in some bubbly. “Classy.”
Dean shrugs and tosses my bag on the sofa. “Of course, the most expensive suite was the only one available.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Sam and I just wrapped up a case in Wilkes-Barre. There were Nazis necromancers. A giant Golem. We were getting ready to head back to the bunker when Garth called. Sam’s hunkering down at the motel until you and I are done.”
“What?” I shake my head. Nazis? Golem? Bunker?
He wags a finger. “Uh-uh. We got a couple hours until nightfall before you and I go traipsing through the woods for whatever thing is out there. You aren’t avoiding this.” He swings his finger back and forth between our bodies like the pendulum of a metronome. “Let it be stated, here and now, that I did not disappear on purpose.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“So, you have listened to the voicemails I left?”
I nod. “Every single apology.”
His posture slackens. Arms fall to his side. “Why didn’t you pick up? Call me back?”
The words spill out before I can filter them. “Because I can’t forgive myself. Knowing the torture you had to go through. Again. And I couldn’t help find you. What good are these gifts if I can’t do anything to save the people I care about? It’s all random souls and spirits knocking on my noggin’. The Good Samaritan shit is getting old.”
“Hey, hey.” He’s hugging me again, but this isn’t to put on a show for anyone. “Sam told me he went to see you after Roman. Begged you to find me. That you tried the entire day even after you told him it wouldn’t work. He saw how broken up you got when all that effort turned up bupkis. He felt awful for putting all that on you.”
My arms tangle around his back and I hold on. I’ve missed him.
“El, us not connecting anymore… I couldn’t let you back in when I gave in. In hell. I had to give up everything that meant something. I’m sure that’s what broke our bond. It has nothing to do with you not trying hard enough.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He strokes the top of my head. “It’s not your fault. And, honestly, Purgatory wasn’t half bad.” I try to pull back to look at him but he clutches my skull firmly. “We’ve got time. I want to answer whatever questions you’ve got, if it helps.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll do my best.”
I smile, pressing into his chest.
“Seriously, though. Garth is the new Bobby?”
I laugh at the mix of incredulity and gall in his question.
~~~~
We didn’t find a ghost or a Bigfoot in the woods that night.
I did, unfortunately, chance upon a skunk.
And got summarily sprayed.
I pinched my nose the entire hike back to the resort. Dean’s face contorted a hundred different ways beside me on the walk. I stomped in anger and irritation.
“For fuck’s sake.” My cussing doesn’t have the dramatic punch I want when I sound like SpongeBob SquarePants.
Dean concurs my assessment by chuckling.
I pout. “Shut up.”
“Tonight’s a wash. You aren’t creeping up on anything smelling like that.” He tramples through some brambles ahead of me. “No way we go through the hotel’s lobby. Good thing the most expensive suite has a back door from a patio.”
“I can’t go in the room with all this on. They won’t get the odor out of there for weeks. You’ll get charged up the wazoo for property damage.”
“Good thing Mr. Steve Perry isn’t worried about his credit score.” Dean stops to think. “But, yeah, that might not be the best call. You wanna wait out on the patio while I go to the store? ‘Cause, I mean, there’s no way you’re getting in Baby smelling like that. And, I wouldn’t wish that odor on your car’s upholstery, either.”
“You’ve gotta make a beer run now?” I flounce my arms in defeat.
“We’ve got a whirlpool that you can soak in. I just have to buy some stuff that should help with the stink.”
I sigh and nod about Dean’s hopefully great idea.
“I passed a market five miles down the road this afternoon. Gonna need baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, some dish soap and a bucket.”
I stare at him.
“Sam and I had a run in with a Pepe Le Pew ourselves when we were kids.” He opens the screen door to the patio, hurries in, and pulls out a key that unlocks the sliding glass door. “I’ll be right back.” The vertical blinds curtaining the glass fan about wildly as Dean pushes through.
I pace atop the wooden deck, unsure if I should sit atop the cushions on the rattan bench. I’m sick of smelling odious and it’s only been five minutes.
Dean returns with something draped over his forearm but it’s hard to make it out in the dark. “Was gonna turn the patio light on, but you may want some cover for this part.”
“Huh?”
“It’s one of those fancy hotel robes.” He places it on the bench. “When I leave, strip, put that on, and don’t get arrested for indecency in the process.”
Everything else may be cloaked in shadows, but Dean Winchester’s grin beams like the bat signal.
“I hate that you are getting so much enjoyment out of this.”
“It’s the little things.”
~~~~
I have a lot of time to sit with my stench on the screened-in patio. Most of the skunky smell is emanating from my discarded clothes heaped in a corner on the floor. I should just toss them onto a bonfire at this point. I’m in a fluffy white robe that Dean will definitely have to pay for. I stare out into the inky black in case I do manage some sort of sighting. Dean’s right, though. It’s doubtful now.
This all started because the Albertsons couldn’t stop talking to my boss, Ryan Hoyt, about this thing that floated past their window at Cove Haven last weekend. It peered at them, unblinking and with solid white eyes, into their bedroom. They checked out that same night.
My boredom had me do some research and I went down a rabbit hole of mysterious sightings near Lake Wallenpaupack over two decades. Nothing sinister or threatening. No one was injured or had gone missing.
But, it was something novel and exciting. I wanted to hunt something instead of the usual spirit tracking me down for help.
And, apparently, my reward for all my trouble is a pungent odor that might cling to my skin for a while if I can’t clean it off soon.
I shiver at the breeze blowing in through the window screen. Leaves rustle in soft accompaniment. There could be anything in those woods. Then I think of everything Dean told me he encountered in the woods of Purgatory.
My heart breaks at all the trauma Sam and Dean have had to suffer. They’re walking miracles. It’s a miracle they can still walk.
I rub my hands together to try and warm them up. I think back to the Dean I met all those years ago. In comparison to the man I wandered in the woods with earlier, young Dean was innocent and naive, unblemished and unsuspecting. I wish he’d been able to stay that way a lot longer.
I startle at the knock on the glass door. It whooshes open and Dean hops out. “Geez, Dean.”
“I got the whirlpool going. I’m gonna need some help measuring the ingredients for your skunky soak.” He directs me in with a tilt of his head.
About ten minutes later, we pour a slurry, sudsy mix out from the newly purchased bucket and into the swirling water. In no time bubbly foam peaks form in circles created by pulsing jet streams. The addition of some bubble bath was Dean’s idea.
Dean wipes his hands together. “I’ll give you some privacy. Gonna pass out on the couch but holler if you need something.”
“I hope this works.” I sigh.
“Well, it can’t make it worse,” Dean reasons. He backs up with a shy smile, then trots down the staircase. My face warms. My heart skips. I turn the mood lighting down. I don’t need to gander at my naked reflection in the mirrored walls surrounding the tub.
It might be different if I’d had some company. For some reason, Dean’s being a gentleman.
I settle into the warm and welcoming whirlpool. I scrub away at my skin as soft rock music escapes from hidden speakers and fills the room. Dean must be fiddling with the stereo. I sink my whole body below the surface. Massage my scalp and thread fingers through my hair.
I’m a good three rock ballads into my bath when I turn off the whirring jets. I float toward the side of the champagne flute looking over the living room. I peek past the edge and find Dean’s on the sofa. Not asleep, though. He’s resting on his back, one arm draped behind his head, staring up in my general direction. I’m expecting a naughty grin, but he’s still wearing that shy smile.
He calls up to me. “Smell any better?”
I nod, then rest my chin on the glass’ rim. “So, tell me more about this bunker.”
Dean’s eyes widen and the expression on his face fills with wonder and excitement. “It’s huge, El. Sam and I had our pick of bedrooms. We’ve got a kitchen. Showers with the most amazing water pressure. Sam is in heaven with the library’s collection of books. I think we’ve maybe only explored like a third of the place.” He smiles in pride. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”
“And you actually met your grandfather? Who was a member of this Men of Letters organization?”
He nods. “Somehow the time travel part is not the weirdest thing out of the whole story.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” I confess.
He sits up straight and tilts his face up to me, full attention.
I tear my gaze away from his inspection.
He speaks first. “I don’t know how I do it. I do know why. Because I have to. For Sam. For people I care about. Because I don’t know how to do anything else.” When I’m brave enough to stare at him again, he stammers. “But, I-I do wish the choices weren’t so great all the time.” He smiles. “I wish I had more time to watch pretty girls take baths in champagne glasses.”
~~~~
There hadn’t been time for much else after my bath. Dean needed to get back on the road. The prophet in Garth’s care, Kevin, was busy decoding some godly scripture that might help seal the gates of hell for good.
Yeah, there was no time for fun in a whirlpool with that stuff going on.
Even though I understood, it didn’t mean I had to like it.
So, once I was dried off and dressed, Dean insisted on bringing my packed duffle out to my car while I finished blow drying my hair.
I stroll down the sidewalk five minutes later to find him leaning on the trunk of my car. He smiles and passes me my keys. “Think this hunk of junk can make it to Kansas?”
I chuckle. “I’m not gonna risk it. You may have to drive me there sometime soon.”
He looks wistful and sad all of a sudden.
“I know, Dean. You’ve got work to do.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, El.” His hand reaches out to cup the side of my face. “There’ve been a lot of times I’ve wanted to.”
I step forward, press against his chest, and slot into the space between those bow legs. “You did say way, way back that all I had to do was give you a call. Anytime.”
Hot breath warms my mouth. His tongue peeks out and skirts between his lips. “That was a lifetime ago,” he whispers.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t try and cash in on it one day.”
“You know I’m a really bad idea, right?”
“I’ve made worse.” I lift up on tiptoes to kiss him. My initiation catches him off guard. He moans a little, exhales into my mouth. I clasp hands around the back of his neck and urge him forward and down so I can settle on my feet.
It’s not long before he returns my kiss with an urgency that takes my breath away. His arms tangle about me and he pulls me in even closer. He tastes and allows me to explore his mouth. We’re insistent in our hold of each other. Even if I know we have to let go eventually, I don’t let that deter me from luxuriating in the present moment.
Our kisses slow and ease. The tip of his nose brushes mine. “I won’t make any more promises.”
I nod in understanding and peck his top lip. “Not expecting you to.”
“But you better pick up the damn phone when I call.”
I giggle. “I will.”
He taps my ass and groans. “Get going, before I change my mind.”
~~~~
I drive east in the early morning still smelling faintly like skunk spray. Even though it’s cold out, I roll the window down to allow a cleansing breeze inside my car. The radio is my company on the hour-long ride.
My body tingles with the phantom memory of Dean’s touch. I feel lighter than I have in a long time. There’s a shred of guilt snaking through the haze of endorphins. I worry Dean will be sacrificing himself again soon for the greater good while I’m daydreaming about how his mouth would feel all over my body.
I get lost for moments, remembering that beautiful face, and the rumble strips slam me back into the present.
I should be exhausted when I get back to my apartment but the adrenaline of the night’s events won’t allow for sleep. I decide to snack on some chips and then unpack my duffle.
Something pink and lacy peeks out from the mound of clothing. I tug at the material and lift it out to inspect it.
My lucky underwear.
That I lost seven years ago.
On my first hunt with The Winchesters.
“Wha-?”
I scramble for my phone and dial Dean.
He picks up on the third ring. “You called. So, I’m gonna say that’s a good thing. At least you still want to talk to me.”
I sit on my bed. “You’ve had them. All this time?”
He sighs. “You said they were lucky. I figured I needed all the luck I could get. Newsflash - they aren’t lucky.”
“I’m gonna need a little more explanation than that. And, I’m not mad, I don’t think.” I chuckle.
“Fine. Do you remember when you washed ALL of my and Sam’s clothes while I was in the shower?”
“Uh-huh.” Do I remember how gorgeous a damp and half-naked Dean Winchester looked rummaging through my dirty laundry? That image pops into my mind at least once a day.
“And I decided to put one of your shirts on and wrap a towel around my bottom?”
“Yeah.” Again, once a day.
“Yeah, well, I may have been wearing something under the towel.”
I gasp. “No?!?”
“I thought it would be a funny gag. I was gonna give you a pink panty parade. But as I was standing there, talking to you later, I realized I didn’t want to piss you off. Scare you off. I didn’t want you to think I was a perv that steals ladies underwear.”
The mental image of Dean in my pink panties has stunned me into silence. I want to ask if he’s worn them since that night but I decide it would be better not to make him more embarrassed than I can tell he already is.
He adds, “I kept wanting to return them. I’m sorry it took so long.”
“I can’t believe you’ve kept them all this time.” I think of a question that’s less of a landmine for him. “Where’ve you stashed them?”
“In Baby. She’s good at keeping secrets.”
I smile and twirl the underwear around one finger in the air. “No wonder things have been so crappy all these years. You stole my good luck charm.”
That earns a hearty laugh on the other end. “Yeah, that must be it.” His tone changes, and he rumbles out, “Maybe you might finally get lucky soon.”
A/N: Thank you, everyone, for being here and loving my ramblings. This is to celebrate reaching 400 followers. There's no summary. Just something that came out of nowhere and took on a life of it's own. Sort of like what my stories turned into here, on this platform.
Without all of you, your encouraging words, hearing the things you have loved, cried over, and how late you stay up just to wait for and then read the next chapter when you should be sleeping, it all means the world to me.
So, I hope you enjoy this little thing as much as I did writing it.
No Pairing
Word Count: 5315
Warning: Cannon-level violence, many familiar faces, doesn't exactly follow the show's timeline.
-----------------------------------------
November 2, 2005
The pull had started three days ago.
At first, it was just pressure behind your sternum—subtle, like the warning scent of ozone before a storm. But by the second day, you couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. The streets of Palo Alto felt wrong under your boots, and you knew better than to ignore the thrumming ache in your bones.
Someone was meant to die.
You waited on the rooftop across from the apartment for hours. The hoodie hid your face. You hadn’t spoken to anyone since arriving in town. No need. No time. Only the pull. Only the weight.
And then—The lights came on in the third-story window.
Jessica Moore.
You recognized her from photographs. Not yours. Someone else’s, long ago, when you weren’t meant to see them. She glowed even from across the street. Hair like honey and sunrise. You hated what that meant.
The kill would come tonight.
You slipped inside the building through the stairwell door. No lock was strong enough to keep you out—not with claws sharp enough to split a bullet. You were already inside when the knock came.
Three short raps on the door. Familiar. Casual.
You didn’t breathe.
Through the half-open bedroom door, you could see her—bare feet padding toward the door, pajamas soft with sleep. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t ask who it was.
She smiled. “Brady?”
Your stomach knotted.
He was inside before she even stepped back. Not aggressive. Not suspicious. Just… invited.
That made it worse.
He smelled wrong. Like rotten sulfur and perfume. The kind of stink that clung to souls already claimed. You felt your lips pull back, silent, feral.
Jess led him toward the kitchen. “Sam’s out, but he should be back tonight.”
Brady smiled with teeth he didn’t earn.
You moved before he did.
One breath, and you were between them—an unnatural blur of black hoodie and retracted claws. You slammed him back against the kitchen island hard enough to splinter tile.
Jess screamed.
Brady hissed, eyes black now, mouth curling into a snarl. “What the hell—?”
Your fist drove into his gut, and the demon inside jolted. His host’s ribs cracked under the force.
He clawed at your hoodie, trying to get a look at your face. You twisted, avoiding contact, slamming him again, against the fridge this time—an uppercut to the jaw that dislocated it on impact. You didn’t need an exorcism. You needed him gone.
Jess backed into the far wall, shaking, barefoot, and frozen.
“Jess,” the demon rasped, laughing around broken teeth, “You should’ve burned. That was the plan, sweetheart.”
You bared your canines. “Plans change.”
Then your claws pierced his throat.
Black smoke burst from his mouth—screaming, writhing—and you dragged it down with your own lungs, holding it with a sick kind of weight, forcing it to stay until it thinned into nothing.
You never knew how you did that part. You just did. Bastet’s gifts had always been vague, and mercy wasn’t always clean.
Brady collapsed. Dead.
Jess stared.
Blood painted the kitchen floor. Her lip trembled. “Wh– Who—?”
You turned. Kept your face down, your hoodie shadowed.
And vanished out the back before she could see you.
She wouldn’t remember details. Not really. Her brain would protect her from what it couldn’t explain. A blur in black. A phantom with claws. A sound like thunder and something breaking loose in the air.
She’d tell Sam she was attacked, but not by who. Not clearly. She’d say someone saved her. A woman, maybe. Maybe not.
You didn’t wait for thanks.
You didn’t need it.
Because she wasn’t supposed to die.
And now… she wouldn’t.
-----------------------------------
Cold Oak, South Dakota – May 2007…
Cold Oak was a graveyard of silence.
Rotten boards creaked under your boots as you crossed the threshold into town. No breath of wind. No birdsong. Just stillness. Like the town itself was holding its breath. And the stench of sulfur and death in the air.
Someone was meant to die. Another catalyst for something you were supposed to stop.
The pull had started two nights ago. This time, it was sharp. Gnawing. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. The whispers of the earth beneath your bare feet told you to run faster. You did.
Then you saw them—blurs through the cracks of broken buildings. Children with demon blood. Not literal children. Just pieces of a twisted plan. You stayed out of sight, silent. Waiting for the moment fate would strike. You watched them for two days.
And then it did. Late that second night, when only two were left. The one you were meant to save and the one meant to kill him.
A scream cracked the quiet.
You ran.
By the time you rounded the chapel, he was already there—the soldier. Jake Talley. Taller than Sam. Stronger. Eyes empty as stone. He moved with brutal purpose, blade drawn, and Sam didn’t see him coming.
But you did.
You moved.
The world blurred.
Steel met bone as you slammed into Jake’s path—your chest catching the knife meant for Sam. It punched through muscle and rib, slid between organs, and stopped halfway through your spine. Pain burst across your vision like fire.
You didn’t scream.
You didn’t have time.
Jake’s eyes widened. “What the f—?”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your hand wrapped around his wrist and squeezed. Tendons popped. He shouted. The blade twisted in your chest, but you didn’t let go.
Behind you, Sam shouted something. Your knees buckled. Dean’s voice broke like a gunshot from the trees.
“Sam!”
The blade slid out with a wet scrape as Jake ripped his arm free. You staggered—but didn’t fall. Blood soaked through the front of your hoodie. You were already healing.
Jake backed away. “What are you?”
You said nothing.
You lunged.
One punch shattered his jaw. Another cracked his sternum. You slammed him into the church wall hard enough to crater the siding, then turned just as Dean and Bobby skidded into view.
Dean was already reaching for his gun.
“Get away from him!” he yelled.
You stood between Sam and the soldier’s body, hoodie torn, blood still dripping from your front—but your face was hidden in shadow, and your body stilled as the pain ebbed. Dean’s aim didn’t waver.
Sam coughed behind you. “I—I’m fine—she—she saved me.”
Dean blinked, gun still raised. “Who the hell—?”
But you were already gone.
By the time Bobby reached them, only silence remained where you'd stood. No tracks. No scent. Only a few drops of blood that evaporated before they could be touched.
Dean holstered his gun, chest heaving. “What the hell just happened?”
Sam, staring at the spot where you'd been, whispered, “I don’t know… but she took the knife for me.”
And Bobby, squinting at the empty space between them all, muttered, “Then whoever she is… she ain’t just human.”
------------------------------
Harvelle’s Roadhouse, Nebraska – May 2007…
It started with the lights flickering.
Ash barely looked up from his laptop. “Damn power grid again,” he muttered, fingers still flying. The thing was overheating—again. Too much data from too many hunters. But there was something in the pattern. A spike in demon signs over the last forty-eight hours. Someone was making a move.
He didn't hear the front door open.
Didn’t notice the chill that followed it.
But he felt the dread, low in his gut, just as the beer bottle on his table shattered.
Then the screaming started.
Ash shoved back from the table, heart hammering. Demons.
Not hunters. Not even regular monsters. Demons.
He ran for the bar, but flames were already licking through the east hallway—someone had torched the supply closet.
“Ellen!” he shouted, voice cracking. No answer. Completely forgetting she had gone out for more peanuts.
A scream tore through the smoke. He turned—and saw you.
You moved like shadow.
Black hoodie, jeans, boots—but nothing else about you said normal. You tore through one demon like paper, claws flashing in the firelight. Another lunged at you, knife raised—and you caught his arm midair and ripped it from the socket.
Blood sprayed.
Ash ducked behind the pool table. His hand trembled over the shotgun Ellen kept for emergencies. He couldn’t get a clear shot without hitting you.
Not that you needed the help.
Then one demon—taller, stronger—got a lucky blow in. A barstool cracked across your back. You dropped to one knee. Your hood slipped.
Ash froze.
The smoke lit your face like a spotlight. Not fully human. Not even close.
Your eyes were royal purple, but not soft or muted. They gleamed like polished amethyst. Slitted pupils—a cat’s gaze—pierced through the firelight, unblinking.
You locked eyes with Ash.
And then you were moving again—too fast to track. Three more demons fell before the fire reached the ceiling.
Ash stood slowly, mouth dry.
He didn’t know who you were. Didn’t know what you were.
But he knew you’d saved his life.
And you’d seen him see you.
The final demon lunged from the back room—bloodied, furious—and ran straight into your claws. You didn’t give him the chance to speak. Just drove a fist into his chest, through ribs, and yanked something black and steaming from his spine.
Then you turned.
The Roadhouse was burning. Sirens in the distance.
You looked at Ash once more.
He nodded—slow, stunned. “...I won’t tell.” But you knew he wouldn’t be able to keep this to himself forever.
You vanished through the flames before he could say anything else.
By the time Ellen returned, the fire was out. Ash was shaken but alive. He didn’t mention the girl in black.
But for days afterward, he kept sketching eyes he couldn’t forget.
------------------------------------
Greybull, Wyoming – March 2009…
The candle was starting to burn low.
Pamela sat motionless in the armchair by the wall, legs crossed, boots planted. She didn’t need light to watch over them. She’d worked with less.
Sam and Dean lay flat on their backs, separate beds, still as corpses. Their souls weren’t in their bodies. Not now. Not while they hunted the truth from the other side. Astral projection was always a gamble, but Pamela didn’t mind holding the line. She just wished the two idjits had come up with a better plan that hadn’t involved her.
A creak came from the far corner of the room.
Soft. Precise.
Too soft for most ears.
Pamela smiled.
“I know you’re there,” she said, voice low, calm. “You’re good. But not that good.”
No reply. Just stillness.
Pamela tilted her head, her sightless eyes locked on the dark corner. “You’re not human. And you’re not a demon, or I’d feel the static crawling under my skin.” A beat. “So what are you?”
Nothing. Not even a breath.
Then—
A whisper of air. Not spoken words, just presence. Something ancient. Something sharp-edged and graceful and humming with power. It didn’t scare her. But it didn’t comfort her, either.
Pamela’s smile faded. “You’re here for them?”
A flicker. Movement to her left. The air shifted.
“No,” you murmured. “Not for them. Because of what’s coming.”
She turned her head slightly, toward the bed.
“That demon—Alastair—he sent something. Didn’t he?”
A faint breeze drifted in through an open window, and with it, the scent of sulfur.
Pamela stood in one motion.
The candle’s flame danced just once before the demon moved into view, wearing a middle-aged man’s skin, all teeth and speed and snarling intent.
Pamela flinched back—
But you, the girl in black, were already there.
You moved like a shadow peeled loose from the wall, crashing into the demon with inhuman force. The fight was fast, brutal. A blur of limbs, claws, and slamming impacts. The demon tried to speak—but a clawed hand gripped his throat, crushing cartilage.
The candle blew out.
In the dark, Pamela heard a crack, a scream, and the soft thud of a body hitting the carpet.
Silence.
Then—
The flame returned with a flick of a match. Pamela turned toward it slowly.
You stood over the demon’s lifeless shell, breathing steady. Your hoodie was still up, face hidden—but the blood on your knuckles caught the candlelight like glass.
Pamela didn’t speak.
She felt you looking at her.
Finally, she said, “I won’t ask who you are. I don’t think I’d get the truth anyway.”
You didn’t move.
“But,” Pamela added, “I think we’re on the same side.”
A pause. Then—barely audible:
“Only because she isn’t on board with what’s supposed to be destined.”
Pamela’s brow furrowed. “She?”
No answer.
When she blinked, you were gone. Like you’d never been there.
But Pamela knew better.
She turned back to the bed, resting her hand gently on Dean’s chest. “You boys owe someone,” she muttered. “You just don’t know it yet.”
------------------------------------
Carthage, Missouri – November 2009…
The town was too quiet.
No wind. No animals. No sound but boots crunching dry grass as the four of them made their way down the empty main street. Sam, Dean, Ellen, and Jo—armed and wired, adrenaline thrumming.
“I don’t like this,” Jo muttered, eyes scanning windows. “Feels like a trap.”
“It is a trap,” Ellen said flatly.
Then came the voice.
Sultry. Sharp. Cruel.
“Hello boys…”
They turned.
Meg stood half a block down, black eyes gleaming, lips curled in mock sweetness.
Dean raised his gun.
“Oh, don’t bother,” she purred. “You brought bullets. I brought dogs.”
From the shadows behind her, the first growl rolled like thunder.
Jo stepped back. “Hellhounds.”
They all froze.
And then—
A whistle.
High. Piercing. Not human.
From the alley across the street, a figure stepped out.
All black. Hood up. Small. Still. No scent. No sound.
Dean blinked. “What the hell—?”
The hellhounds stopped mid-growl.
Meg turned. Her smirk faltered. “What—”
The hounds snapped to attention, ears twitching toward the figure in black, you.
Another whistle. Softer. Complicated. Like birdsong—no, like command.
The hounds spun, claws tearing through pavement, eyes locked on you.
You didn’t run.
You turned—slowly—and walked into the alley.
They followed.
All four.
Gone in seconds.
The silence afterward was worse than the growls.
Meg stared, visibly rattled. “That—what the hell just happened?”
Dean’s gun didn’t lower. “I don’t know. But you just lost your dogs.”
Meg vanished in a snarl of black smoke.
Dean and Sam bolted toward the alley, but Ellen’s hand shot out. “Wait.”
In the distance, the unmistakable sound of tearing. Of snarls turning into whimpers. And then—nothing.
Jo’s voice was quiet. “You think she… killed them?”
Dean swallowed. “She didn’t even draw a weapon.”
Ellen looked at the alley. “That wasn’t a hunter.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen that figure before.”
Dean nodded. “Me too. Cold Oak. Years ago.”
They moved to the alley’s edge, guns raised—but it was empty. Not a trace. Not a drop of blood. Just the smell of scorched air and something older. Something wild.
Dean muttered, “Who the hell is she?”
Sam shook his head. “Whoever she is… she saved us.”
Jo exhaled shakily. “Yeah. But for how long?”
-----------------------------------
Chicago Rooftop – October 2011…
The rooftop was cold, steel-gray, and lonely.
Bobby crouched beside the makeshift satellite dish, earpiece jammed in tight, trying to focus over the wind and static.
Inside the building, Leviathans talked like kings. Cocky bastards. Planning the future like the world was already theirs. Dick Roman's voice oozed through the wire—suave, smug, slicker than poison.
Bobby’s hand clenched tighter on his notebook. He couldn’t let this slip through. Not after everything.
That’s when he heard it.
Not over the wire.
Behind him.
A footstep.
Too heavy to be human. Too quiet to be friendly.
He stood slowly, turning.
The Leviathan smiled. “You really shouldn’t spy on things stronger than you.”
Bobby’s gun was already out, but they both knew it was useless.
“Come on, Singer,” the thing sneered, black ooze slick on its tongue. “The boss wants a word.”
Bobby didn’t flinch. “Tell Roman I don’t do interviews without a lawyer.”
The thing lunged.
And then—you moved.
A blur of black and muscle dropped from the HVAC unit above.
You hit the Leviathan mid-tackle, tackling it off-course and slamming it to the rooftop with inhuman force. Metal dented. The Leviathan roared, twisting, snapping.
You were faster.
Bobby had just enough time to see the glint of her claws in the afternoon sun as they sliced through the Leviathan’s throat. Clean through.
The Leviathan’s head hit the ground and bounced once.
It was still moving, but stunned. Dazed. Disoriented.
You crouched beside it, claws slipping from your fingers as if by instinct. Your hoodie fell back for just a second—just long enough for Bobby to see those eyes.
Purple. Feline. Glowing like violet embers in the wind.
“You…” he breathed.
You stood slowly. “You’re not done yet. They still need you. They all do.”
Then you were gone—vaulted over the ledge like gravity didn’t apply.
Bobby stared after you, heart hammering. Wind tugged at his coat.
The Leviathan’s body twitched behind him.
He didn’t waste time.
Gun out. Blade drawn. Head in a duffel.
Later, back at the cabin—
Ellen was pacing. “It was her again, wasn’t it?”
Bobby dropped the duffel. “Purple eyes. Fangs. She’s real.”
Sam nodded, jaw tight. “She saved Jo. Saved me.”
Dean leaned against the wall. “Yeah. But we still don’t know who the hell she is or why the hell she’s helping us.”
Ash, from the corner, sipped his beer. “Don’t think she wants you to.”
Bobby stared out the window. “Maybe not.” He still wasn’t ready to tell them what you’d said to him. Hell, it’d shaken him more than he cared to admit.
Then, softer—
“But I think she’s on our side.”
--------------------------------
Men of Letters Bunker – December 2013…
The Bunker wasn’t supposed to feel like a tomb.
But today… it did.
Sam was dying—again. Not visibly, not dramatically. But inside, the damage from the trials was killing him cell by cell. And Dean… Dean was out of options. He’d already let the angel in. Gadreel. Supposedly helping. Supposedly healing.
Kevin didn’t buy it.
He was in the war room when the doors slammed open. Which they weren’t supposed to do. No one was supposed to be able to get in without a key.
Dean skidded in, panic in his voice. “What was that?!”
The lights flickered.
And then… you stepped into the hallway.
All in black. Hood up. Eyes glowing like amethyst fire beneath the shadow.
Kevin’s blood ran cold.
Dean stopped mid-step. “You.”
You didn’t answer.
You moved.
Kevin followed, half-stumbling, half-shaking. “Dean, who is that?! What—”
“I don’t know,” Dean muttered. “But she’s real.”
They found Sam in the infirmary—sitting upright, Gadreel still inside him, eyes glazed over like stained glass.
You didn’t hesitate.
You walked right up to him, placed one clawed hand on his chest—and shoved.
Gadreel screamed.
Not Sam. The angel.
The air lit up like fire. Enochian symbols burst through the skin of his arms and throat. His mouth opened, and light exploded from it—like exorcism, but purer. Older. Divine.
Gadreel was forced out.
His grace burned as it exited, a serpent of gold and pain.
Sam collapsed.
Kevin ran to his side. “SAM?!”
You crouched. Clawed fingertip sliced Sam’s palm—just enough for blood to well.
Then you cut your own.
You curled your fingers into a fist over his wound—and let your blood drip into his.
It glowed as it touched him.
The wound closed instantly.
Color flushed back into his face. His breathing evened. His chest rose, stronger.
Dean whispered, “He’s okay…”
Kevin stared at her. “Who are you?”
You turned to him—slowly.
He flinched. Those eyes weren’t human. Cat’s eyes. Royal purple. Unblinking. Old.
“I’m the reason you’re still alive,” you said quietly.
Then turned and walked toward the door.
Dean followed. “Wait—stop. Just—just talk to me. Please.”
You paused.
“You remember me,” you said.
Dean nodded. “Cold Oak. The alley in Carthage. The rooftop.”
He stepped closer. “You saved my whole damn life.”
“Because it wasn’t your time, or theirs.”
“Is it now?”
You looked at him. Really looked. Then smiled softly.
“No,” you said. “But one day, it will be. One day, everyone’s time comes. Someone just believes that should be based on choice, not a bad script.”
Then she was gone.
No door opened. No sound. Just vanished.
Bobby appeared behind them, shotgun in hand. “...Was that her?”
Dean didn’t turn.
“Yeah.”
Kevin whispered, “What is she?”
No one answered.
But Sam—still dazed—murmured from the bed:
“Touched…”
--------------------------------------
May 2015 – The Red Lodge Motel, Missouri…
Charlie had almost cracked it.
The Book of the Damned was a tangle of curses, ancient languages, and spite. But she was close. Closer than she’d ever been. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, candlelight flickering across pages, her coffee long gone cold.
The motel room was quiet except for her typing.
Then—a creak.
Not the floor. Not her chair.
Outside.
Her hand froze over the trackpad.
She stood, quietly clicking her laptop shut. Reached for the blade Dean gave her.
Another sound. Softer this time. Fabric brushing the door. A breath.
Then—
Bang!
The door splintered inward. Charlie spun as two men surged through, one grabbing her wrist, the other swinging a blunt object that clipped her temple.
She hit the floor hard.
Everything blurred. Light. Noise. Blood.
“Where’s the book?” one growled, foot on her ribs.
Charlie coughed. “Go to hell.”
He raised the weapon again—
And that’s when the growl came.
Not human. Not dog. Not even wolf.
Something… else.
Both Steins turned.
A figure stood in the broken doorway.
All black. Hood up. Barefoot. Unarmed.
Except for her eyes.
Purple. Vertical-slit pupils. Burning.
Charlie gasped.
“What the hell is that?” one Stein muttered.
You didn’t speak.
You moved.
Faster than they could blink.
You swept the first attacker’s legs, claws flashing, and drove your knee into his sternum so hard it cracked.
The second tried to run—only to be caught mid-turn, slammed into the wall, then the floor, then through the rickety table.
The room shook with the violence of it.
Charlie blinked through the blood in her eye. “Y-you…”
You crouched beside her.
“You’re safe now,” you said softly.
“You’re the Touched,” Charlie whispered.
You looked away. “That’s not what I call myself.”
Charlie reached up, trembling. “You saved me.”
“You weren’t supposed to die.”
Sirens began to wail in the distance—someone must’ve heard the noise.
You stood.
“They’ll come for you again. Stop lying to Dean and hide the book in the bunker in a warded box.”
Charlie’s throat caught. “But it’s the key—”
You turned, half-shadow now.
“It’s going to be more trouble than you realize.”
Then you were gone—out the window, into the dark, leaving only blood and silence behind.
--------------------------------------
Highway Diner, Illinois – Early Spring 2017…
The diner was half-lit, half-dead.
Mary sat in the corner booth, shoulders tense, hands wrapped around lukewarm coffee. She wasn’t tired, but she looked it. Thoughts chewed holes in her quiet—memories of Mitch’s voice, his promise: “A world without monsters.”
It sounded like a lie that could be true. The kind she’d been raised to want.
She didn’t hear you sit down.
Just the shift of the air across the booth.
Mary’s hand moved instantly toward the small of her back—revolver instinct—but she froze when she saw the stranger across from her.
All black. Hoodie up. No sound. No scent. No threat.
You lifted both hands slowly. Palms bare. No aggression.
Mary narrowed her eyes. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
You didn’t flinch. You just lowered your hands… and pushed the hood back.
Mary stopped breathing.
Eyes—purple. Not contacts. Not a trick. Slit pupils. Feline and ancient.
Mary blinked. “What the hell are you?”
You didn’t smile. You didn’t move.
“I’m someone who’s trying to stop you from making a mistake.”
Mary leaned back slightly. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I’ve made plenty.”
“You’re considering a deal. With men who hide order behind cruelty.”
Mary’s jaw tightened. “They’re not perfect. But they’re organized. They have reach. They get results.”
You nodded once. “So did the Inquisition.”
That stopped Mary cold.
“You’re not stupid,” you said, voice low. Calm. “But you’re grieving. And tired. And they know how to twist both.”
Mary stared across the table. “How do you know me?”
“I know your sons.”
That landed. Hard.
Mary’s fingers tightened on her coffee cup.
“I’ve watched them die,” you continued. “More times than I care to count. Nightmares of things that never came to pass. I’ve also saved them.”
Mary’s breath hitched. “You—”
“I was there. When Azazel tried to kill Jess. When Jake tried to stab Sam. When Jo would’ve bled out in Carthage and, Ellen would have died by her side. When Bobby nearly had his skull cracked open.”
You leaned forward, just slightly. “You don’t remember me. But they do.”
Mary’s eyes flicked down to her hands. “Why now? Why talk to me?”
“Because you’re about to trade your instincts for orders. And that doesn’t end well. Not for you. Not for them.”
Silence hung between the two of you.
Finally, Mary asked, “What are you?”
You held her gaze, something ancient flickering behind your stillness.
“Touched.”
Mary swallowed. “And you care what happens to me?”
“I care what happens to them. And losing their mother again would destroy them.”
Mary looked away. Toward the window. The reflection of the stranger was gone—even though you still sat there.
When she turned back…
…the booth was empty.
Only a faint scent lingered in the air. Not perfume. Not smoke.
Just something wild.
----------------------------------
South Carolina – May 2017…
The forest was too quiet.
Eileen ran anyway.
Branches slapped her arms. Her breath came in ragged pulls. She couldn’t hear the hound—couldn’t hear anything—but she felt it. The ground shivered with pursuit. The hairs on her arms bristled with the pressure of something massive chasing her down.
Hellhound.
Crowley’s gift. Ketch’s pet.
She risked a glance back—and tripped.
Her knee hit the dirt hard. Blood soaked through denim. The scent would carry. The thing would smell her.
She scrambled up just as the trees snapped behind her.
It was close. Too close.
She couldn’t outrun it.
She knew she was going to die.
And then—*
A blur. A whistle.
Sharp. Alien.
Even she could feel it reverberate down her spine.
The forest shifted.
You launched from the shadows—barefoot, fast, all black—crashing into something unseen. The hellhound screamed, snarl turning to yelp, teeth colliding with something faster than its senses.
Eileen hit the ground again, arms up, expecting blood, bone, pain—
But it never came.
Instead—silence.
The kind of silence that lives between heartbeats.
Eileen opened her eyes.
You crouched in front of her. Hoodie soaked. Hair wild. Purple eyes glowing in the dark like amethyst flame. Not human.
Eileen gasped.
You didn’t speak. Just signed—not perfect, but clear enough:
“Safe now.”
Eileen blinked. Her fingers moved, hesitant. “Who are you?”
You looked past her. Toward the trees.
“Come.”
Then you scooped Eileen into your arms like she weighed nothing.
Eileen tried to protest—but the strength in your arms, the scent of blood and ozone and crushed leaves—it was grounding. Safe. Familiar in a way she couldn’t explain.
She let herself be carried.
Through the trees.
Away from the battlefield.
Elsewhere in the forest
Ketch stood still.
The snarls had stopped.
The sounds of pursuit had… ended.
No yelps. No kill. No blood. Just—
Silence.
Then, a shape moved between trees. Small. Human-sized. Carrying something.
He reached for his radio.
Then hesitated.
For the first time in years… he felt afraid.
--------------------------------------
Jack’s Birth – Alternate Universe Rift, North Cove, Washington – May 2017…
The rift pulsed like a bleeding wound in the air.
Lightning tore the sky open again and again, the forest trembling beneath it. The cottage rattled under the weight of something wrong threading into the world.
Inside, Kelly Kline screamed.
Jack was coming.
And something else was, too.
Lucifer.
Dean was outside, yelling over the wind. Sam was bracing Cas by the warding. Mary stood guard at the edge of the porch, shotgun trembling in her grip.
Crowley had the blade in hand, the ritual already half-spoken.
He knew what it meant. He wasn’t smiling.
He knew he wouldn’t survive it.
And you? You watched from the shadows, already having seen too many ways this ended badly.
Then everything happened at once.
Lucifer appeared in a scream of white fire.
Mary turned to push Sam out of the way—only to be dragged toward the rift by invisible force.
In the cabin, Kelly’s eyes rolled back. Too much pain. She was dying.
Crowley raised the blade.
Cas turned.
Lucifer raised his hand to strike—
And time cracked.
A shrill whistle cut the wind.
Sharp. Commanding. Not of this world.
The air bent.
A figure appeared in black.
Hooded. Fast.
You moved like a predator unleashed.
First—
You caught Mary mid-air and pulled her back from the rift with one hand, claws biting into the earth for anchor. Mary gasped as the pull vanished.
Second—
You leapt into the cottage, pressed two fingers to Kelly’s abdomen—and the pain stopped. The baby crowned. Her blood slowed. Her heart steadied.
Kelly breathed.
Third—
Outside again. Crowley brought the blade to his gut—
You caught his wrist.
His eyes flared. “What—?”
You said nothing.
Just shook your head.
No.
Fourth—
Lucifer roared and lunged at Cas—
You appeared between them, claws drawn.
Lucifer’s hand slammed into your chest.
But instead of killing you, it bounced off like static meeting a grounded line.
Cas stared, stunned.
Lucifer’s smirk faltered.
You turned to him.
“You,” you said, voice quiet, ancient, lethal, “were only ever His pawn, and you never truly figured it out.”
Then you slammed both hands into his chest.
The rift behind him widened in an unholy shriek of light and wind.
You shoved him backward—
And he fell.
Screaming.
Into the rift.
It snapped shut behind him like the mouth of the universe closing.
Silence fell.
Crowley staggered. Cas dropped to his knees. Mary stared. Sam and Dean just stared, stunned.
You turned.
Blood soaked your chest.
Your hood was still up.
Dean took a step forward. “You…”
“I told you,” you said.
Dean swallowed. “It wasn’t our time.”
You looked back at the cabin. Your eyes softened.
“Take care of him. He’s important.”
Then you disappeared.
No sound.
No flash.
Just… gone.
But the world?
Still whole.
-------------------------------
That was only a week ago. You’d spent two days curled in on yourself in the back seat of your car. It hurt everywhere. It always hurt everywhere when you changed things. Bastet never said anything directly to you. Just the nightmares. Flashes of places you were needed to save those that were being manipulated by a force you weren’t ready to face.
You had called Lucifer a pawn. But in all truth, you felt like a pawn too. Her pawn. Watching all of them through the nightmares almost felt worse than if you had been there with them through the journey.
“My life sucks…” You mumbled, forcing your body to obey as you climbed into the front seat.
It was these in-between times when you felt like you had no direction. No clear path for what you were supposed to be doing. She seemed just as hyper-focused on them as He was, and you weren’t allowed to confront him about it.
Your gaze drifted to the forest beyond the windshield, still mostly dark from the night slowly fading. Fingers already on the keys in the ignition. “Where am I supposed to go next?” The words were whispered as you turned the key, and the engine roared to life.
You weren’t sure where you were going or when you’d see them again, but you knew you couldn’t just sit here and wait. So, you drove, trying not to think about emerald-green eyes or the pull you always felt to be by his side.
-----------------------------------------
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
I was watching season 2 episode 21 and thought of this story. Then, had to read it, lol. Can't believe I wrote this almost a year ago now. I'm still considering a part 2, just hasn't come to me yet.
Summary: When Dean comes back from Hell, you quickly realize that his subconscious remembers more than his waking mouth admits.
AN: Requested by Ashley Klann on Patreon! I’ve written a “back from Hell” piece before with an Omegaverse twist, called Make it Right. But here’s a more canon-rooted drabble. 💜
Request: After Dean comes back from hell, he has nightmares and a breakdown. The reader is there to comfort him and just holds him, and he ends up letting all pent-up feelings out.
Posted on Patreon: May 15, 2026
Word Count: 1.3K
Tags & Warnings: Set around mid-season 4 (when Sam was traipsing around with Ruby). Established relationship, angst, feels, hurt/comfort to the max
Dean might’ve been able to shrug off ghost sickness. He might’ve been able to look you and Sam in the eyes, with his third beer in hand, and claim he didn’t remember anything about his four months in Hell.
But what he just couldn’t do was make you believe it. Not a month ago, not last week, not tonight.
He climbed into the dingy motel bed, slow and groaning. You could see the exhaustion in the darkness under his eyes, and in the dull green of his irises. You saw the evidence of his lack of sleep pulling at his limbs, because he hadn’t truly rested since he got “topside.”
Since he showed up at your apartment with Bobby in tow, scaring the shit out of you with his half-cocked smile before he proved he wasn’t a shapeshifter or a demon.
The way Dean held you then had been so strong and fragile at the same time; you felt the shake in his arms, the tension embedded in his frame, even while he was burying his face in your hair. You’d blinked hot tears that clung to your lashes, cupped his face between your hands and kissed him just as hard and desperate.
He was alive, so you were alive. That was what that day felt like for you: coming back to life.
But this was a different kind of living.
When you slid into bed beside him, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t welcome you against his side or wrap his arm around you. He didn’t even pretend to meet your eyes, let alone kiss you goodnight. He just mumbled the empty word, like he already knew it wouldn’t be one.
Sam was still out by himself. He was doing that more often lately, ducking out and taking the car or walking into town by himself. His excuses were always valid on the surface, like getting breakfast at the diner early, or doing some research at a café, or getting an early morning run in before you or Dean rolled out of bed. Still, you had half a mind to call bullshit.
Dean had stopped trying, even though he’d noticed too, sometimes with lips pursing, jaw clenching.
Tonight, he didn’t seem to care about his brother’s nighttime habits or your soft frown as he turned onto his side, away from you.
“You okay?” you asked, despite knowing what it would get you.
“‘M fine,” he said. “Just tired.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. You wished he wouldn’t bury it all so deep. You wished he would let you help him. But Dean had always carried layers behind that stupid devil-may-care attitude, behind that cocky grin on just the right side of charming, and the old leather that draped his shoulders like a second skin of bravado.
You’d noticed that his father’s jacket was still folded up somewhere in the trunk of the Impala. Dean hadn’t been wearing it since he got back.
You couldn’t help but think that mattered, even as you laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss near his neck.
“’Kay, goodnight,” you said.
You felt slightly raised flesh under the thin fabric of his shirt, and you realized then that you were accidentally touching the handprint burned into his skin—the mark of Castiel, the angel who rescued him.
You quickly let your hand slip away, feeling the tension in Dean’s body.
Your heart clenched, and you had to blink the sting out of your eyes when you turned onto your side and tried to get comfortable.
The first jolt stirred the mattress, then tugged at your subconscious.
The second one, and his painful groan, made your lashes flutter. Your eyes slid open as you fought through the dregs of sleep, but his fingers clawing against your arm finally yanked you out of it.
You sucked in a confused, pained hiss, looking over at Dean. You realized that he hadn’t meant to hurt you. He had a desperate grip twisting in the sheets, his brows tightly knitted, jaw clenching so hard you could almost hear his teeth grinding. But the sounds that were escaping his barely parted lips were too heartbreaking, like a wounded animal unwilling to let their whimpers escape, afraid for something worse to follow.
“Dean,” you rasped, reaching for his shoulder cautiously. You were wary of him trying to knock your hand away, or worse, but he just flinched harder.
It did manage to wake him up though.
His eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, following by more labored ones as he struggled to take you in, to realize where he was.
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.
“Dean?” you prompted gently. You were slow in the way you slid closer, smoothing a comforting hand up his arm.
He looked over at you, tired of lying, but still unwilling to answer you.
But in that moment, you knew the truth. You knew what he was hiding, deep and dark behind his eyes when they met yours.
He couldn’t hold it for long though. His own self-loathing won out. Even just having you beside him with love and concern in your eyes was too much for him to handle.
He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, but that was where he hesitated. He either lacked the strength to get up and leave you, or he was just that shaken. His eyes closed and an uneasy sigh fell from his lips, making his shoulders sag.
You crawled over to his side of the bed and bent a knee underneath you as you sat just behind him, just barely keeping yourself from touching him. You didn’t want to smother him, but you wouldn’t leave him alone either.
“You do remember everything, don’t you,” you said. The heartbreak was in your throat, but you thought it might help him to say it out loud.
Dean shook his head slowly, but this time, it wasn’t a denial. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he still forced himself to speak, his voice thick and rasping.
“Not just…what happened to me,” he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. “What I did.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion. You didn’t understand, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to you—why he hadn’t been able to let you in. Why he couldn’t allow himself to touch you with his hands. Every time he looked at them, they were drenched in blood.
And when he tried to look at you, the words died in his throat. It felt selfish to try.
His lips trembled. His shoulders heaved. He covered his face as his eyes burned, and the first sob shuddered through him.
You didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Once the first tear drew down your cheek, you couldn’t let yourself do anything else but hold him from behind. Your lips pressed to his shoulder, and you held onto him as tightly as you dared.
He held you back, his hand clasping over your arm to keep you there. It gave you the encouragement you needed to slide closer, your hand cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his chin. His glassy eyes met yours.
“I love you,” you reminded him. “That doesn’t change.”
Again, Dean shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t know what I…”
“Right now, I don’t need to know,” you said.
Just then, he was desperate to believe you.
He bowed into your kiss, desperate for your warmth too.
One touch couldn’t make him forget. It wouldn’t heal him either.
All you could do was stay.
AN: My heart gets ripped out every time I watch that ep where he tells Sam about his experience in Hell. 🥲💔 But let me know what you thought of this hurt/comfort snack!
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Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 6071
Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Everyone's finally home.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Chapter 60 ------- Chapter 62 - coming soon
A/B/O Master List
Main Master List
Series Master List
Chapter 61
The morning came in slowly.
Not abrupt. Not sharp. Just light easing its way through the edges of the curtains, turning the room from dark into something muted and soft around the corners.
Dean was already awake before he opened his eyes.
That was becoming a pattern lately.
Not because he slept poorly—but because something in him didn’t fully settle until he checked the space beside him. Even before thought caught up, his body was already aware of you: the weight of your sleep, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the warmth still tucked against his side where you’d curled in sometime during the night.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Just stayed there.
Listening.
Feeling.
His arm was still around you, heavy and loose where it had fallen into place hours ago. Your hand was tucked near his chest, fingers relaxed in that unconscious way that only happened when you were fully gone into sleep. The cabin was quiet except for the faint creak of wood adjusting to the morning temperature.
And beneath all of it—beneath breath and stillness and the slow waking of the world—there was the bond.
Warm.
Steady.
Close enough now that he didn’t have to reach for it. It was just there, like it had always been there, waiting for him to notice.
His wolf was already awake.
Not restless.
Just… present.
Tucked in close, like it had decided there was no reason to be anywhere else.
Dean finally shifted slightly, careful not to disturb you. His hand moved once, slow and absent, brushing over your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt where you wore it more than your own sleep clothes most nights. The motion was unconscious, more instinct than thought.
You didn’t stir.
Just exhaled softly and sank deeper into the mattress.
His eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.
There was something about mornings like this that made thinking feel different. Less sharp. Less immediate. Like his mind had to pass through something warmer before it could form fully.
And right now, everything it formed kept circling back to you.
Not just here.
But forward.
A shape that didn’t have words yet.
Just feeling.
His gaze dropped briefly—slow, unguarded—to where your hand rested against his chest. Then lower, where the blanket curved over your body, soft and still.
The image came uninvited.
Not dramatic.
Not rushed.
Just quiet.
You, sitting up like this one day with sleep still in your eyes—but different. Changed in ways that hadn’t fully arrived yet. His shirt stretched over a growing curve, your hand resting there without thinking about it the same way yours was resting on him now.
His throat tightened faintly.
Not fear.
Something closer to awe he didn’t have language for.
His wolf responded immediately—no hesitation, no question. Just recognition. As if it had already accepted that image as fact, not possibility. A low, steady certainty that settled into his bones and didn’t leave room for argument.
Dean exhaled through his nose slowly.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it.
Careful. Soft. Almost private.
He stayed like that for another moment, just watching you breathe, letting the thought exist without pushing it away or pulling it closer.
Then reality gently pressed back in.
Work. Responsibility. The things that didn’t care about how warm the bed felt or how right this moment was.
He shifted again, slower this time, easing his arm carefully out from under you. You made a small sound at the loss of warmth, but didn’t wake. Just turned slightly into the space he left behind, instinctively seeking what had moved.
That alone made his chest tighten. He stood after a moment, careful with every movement as he reached for his clothes.
The room behind him stayed warm.
Still.
Alive in a way that had nothing to do with sound.
When he was dressed, he paused at the edge of the bed.
Just stood there.
Watching you again.
Hair messy against the pillow. Face turned slightly toward where he had been. One arm curled loosely against your chest like you were still holding onto the idea of him even in sleep.
His wolf settled deeper at the sight, content in a way that made leaving feel heavier than it should have.
Dean reached out once more, fingers hovering near your shoulder. Didn’t wake you. Just brushed lightly there.
A quiet touch. A promise without words.
Then he stepped back and left the room slowly.
And even as he walked down the stairs, pulling himself back into the day, that image stayed with him—soft and steady behind his thoughts like something the world hadn’t managed to touch yet.
The house shifted with him gone.
Not suddenly. Not in any noticeable way at first. Just the subtle absence of weight in the hall, the quiet where his footsteps would have been, the bed still faintly warm on his side but cooling by degrees.
You slept through it.
Deep, unbothered sleep that didn’t rush or snag on anything. The kind that only came when your body had finally stopped waiting for something to go wrong or change.
When you did wake, it wasn’t because of sound.
It was light.
Morning had fully settled in by then, spilling through the curtains in softened gold, turning the cabin into something warm at the edges. The space beside you was empty, sheets rumpled where he’d been, pillow still carrying the faint imprint of him.
His scent lingered strongest there. You shifted into it without thinking, face pressing briefly into the pillow with a small, involuntary sound of protest.
Gone again.
Your wolf stirred, not distressed, just aware—stretching lazily through you like she was checking the room the same way you were.
“He went to work,” you murmured into the fabric.
No argument came back—only quiet agreement.
The bed felt too big for a moment after that, even though it wasn’t.
You lay there a little longer anyway, letting your mind come fully online in pieces. No urgency. No schedule. Nothing pulling you up except the soft awareness that the house was already too quiet to stay in bed forever.
Eventually, you rolled out from under the blankets and changed into one of his shirts without thinking about it, pairing it with soft shorts. The fabric hung loose and familiar, already warmed by your body by the time you moved downstairs.
Coffee came first.
Always.
The cabin responded to you in its own rhythm now—familiar motions, familiar sounds. The hum of the machine as it came to life. The smell of it filling the kitchen in slow waves. The way the light hit the wood floors differently at this time of day, softer than evening, less golden than sunset.
You leaned against the counter while it brewed, barefoot, quiet, letting your thoughts drift.
There was no cleaning to do.
No tasks waiting.
Everything had already been done, prepared for Jess and Sam arriving today, like the house itself was holding its breath in anticipation.
That left too much space.
And space, you were learning, had a way of getting filled whether you invited it or not.
Your phone buzzed.
Once.
Then again.
You picked it up before you’d even finished pouring your coffee.
Jess.
Of course.
The first message was a blurry photo of Sam at the wheel, one hand gripping the steering wheel too tightly, the other mid-gesture like he was mid-argument with the air itself.
“He says I’m not allowed to touch anything important. I asked what he considers important. He stopped answering.”
The second was another photo—Sam glancing sideways at the camera with a deeply offended expression.
“Send help.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. You typed back quickly, leaning against the counter.
“Nope. Let him suffer. It builds character.”
Almost immediately, the typing bubbles appeared.
“I feel like you are encouraging this.”
You smiled into your coffee.
“I am.”
Another pause.
Then:
“How’s the cabin?”
Your eyes drifted around the kitchen automatically. Clean. Warm. Familiar. A little too still without the noise of everyone else arriving yet.
“It’s quiet. Too quiet. Dean left early. I think the silence is judging me.”
“That sounds about right.”
You snorted softly.
“Drive safe. Both of you.”
“We are. Sam is aggressively safe about it.”
That made you laugh again, softer this time.
When the messages stopped, the house settled back into its rhythm around you.
Except now there was something else.
Restlessness.
Not uncomfortable. Just directionless.
You wandered the cabin after that without really deciding to—coffee in hand, moving from kitchen to living room to window and back again. Everything was already in place. Everything ready. Even the bed upstairs was still unmade only because you hadn’t touched it yet.
Eventually, you ended up at the table with your laptop.
Opened it.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Your fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment before you let out a small breath and leaned back. Nothing needed doing. That was the problem.
The thought came quietly, but it stuck.
Nothing needed doing.
So your mind did what it always did when there was no external task to latch onto. It started searching.
A quick look, you told yourself.
Just curiosity. Nothing serious. You typed before you could overthink it.
Pregnancy symptoms early stages.
The search results loaded almost instantly. And just like that, the cabin disappeared. Not physically. But in the way your focus narrowed.
Changes that could start earlier than expected or not at all, depending on timing.
Your stomach tightened faintly at some of them. At others, you found yourself pausing longer than you meant to.
This is normal, one article said.
This is variable, another insisted.
There is no single timeline, a third reminded you.
You leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table now, coffee forgotten beside your laptop.
Some of it was fine.
Some of it made your chest feel oddly tight in a way you didn’t want to name yet.
Because it wasn’t certainty.
It was possibility laid out in too many directions at once. And possibility, you were quickly realizing, was heavier than you expected.
You closed the laptop after a while without meaning to.
Just… paused.
Letting the quiet return again.
The cabin was still yours. Still warm. Still waiting. But now your thoughts had shape to them. And they didn’t feel quite as small as they had that morning.
The sound came first.
Not loud at first—just the shift of tires over gravel at the edge of the tree line, distant enough that it might have been mistaken for anything else if you hadn’t already been halfway between stillness and anticipation.
But something in you recognized it anyway. Before thought caught up, your body was already moving.
Coffee abandoned. Chair pushed back too fast. Bare feet already hitting the floor as you crossed the room.
Your wolf surged forward immediately, fully awake now, all stillness gone in a rush of recognition and joy that didn’t need explanation.
The cabin door opened on a rush of afternoon air, cooler outside than in, carrying the scent of pine and dust and road. You stepped onto the porch barefoot, the wood still warm beneath your feet from the morning sun, and looked out through the trees.
The vehicle appeared a moment later.
A familiar shape breaking through the line of forest.
Your breath caught without permission.
The car slowed as it curved into the drive, tires crunching over gravel that suddenly felt too loud in the quiet that followed you out of the house. You didn’t realize you were already stepping off the porch until your feet hit the ground and you were moving down the steps.
Not walking.
Moving faster than that.
Jess saw you first.
The passenger door flew open before the car had fully stopped. Sam’s protest died halfway out, realizing the two of you missed each other more than either had said.
She didn’t even wait.
Didn’t pause.
She was already out, already running, already closing the distance between you like nothing else mattered in that moment except getting there.
Your name left her in a breathless laugh as she ran.
And then she hit you.
Hard.
Warm.
Real.
The impact stole what was left of your breath as your arms came up around her just as fast, catching her without thinking, holding on like it was instinct more than choice. Her hands fisted in your shirt immediately, and you felt her shake once—just a small tremor she tried to hide by holding tighter.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Just held.
The kind of hold that didn’t need explanation. The kind that said you’re here, you’re here, you’re here over and over until it finally sank in. Wolves brushing against each other in much the same manner.
When you finally pulled back just enough to see her face, she was smiling already—but her eyes were glassy in a way she clearly wasn’t ready to admit to.
“You’re really here,” you said, quieter than you meant to.
Jess let out a broken laugh that turned into something softer halfway through. “Yeah,” she whispered. “We are.”
Behind her, the car door shut.
Not rushed.
More grounded.
Sam had gotten out slower, like he was giving the moment time to exist without interrupting it.
When you finally looked past Jess, he was standing there with one hand still on the door, watching the two of you with that expression he got when something mattered more than he expected it to. Warm, slightly overwhelmed, trying to pretend he wasn’t affected by it.
Then he moved.
Not fast like Jess.
But steady.
And when he reached you both, he didn’t hesitate either.
His arms came around the two of you at once, pulling you into a group embrace that shifted everything into place all at once—like something inside the cabin had finally clicked back into its intended shape.
Jess laughed against your shoulder. Sam exhaled something that sounded like relief disguised as exhaustion. And through it all, something in your chest loosened in a way you hadn’t realized had been tight.
The bond responded instantly.
Not sharper.
Not louder.
Just fuller.
Like a space that had been waiting quietly for its missing pieces had finally been filled again. It settled into you with a kind of steadiness that made your knees feel briefly less certain, even as your arms stayed wrapped around them both.
Home.
Not temporary.
Not visiting.
Home.
When Sam finally stepped back first, he looked between the two of you like he didn’t entirely trust his own emotions to behave properly in public.
“Okay,” he said slowly, clearing his throat. “This is… a lot before dinner.”
Jess immediately wiped at her face and sniffed dramatically. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” he muttered.
“You didn’t have to.”
You laughed, still holding onto Jess with one arm like letting go might undo the fact that she was here at all. Behind Sam, the car ticked as it cooled, the last traces of engine noise fading into the trees.
And just like that, the world started moving again.
Jess stepped back first this time, grabbing your hands instead and looking you up and down with immediate intensity.
“Okay,” she said, voice sharpening into something far more familiar. “We have so much to catch up on.”
Sam groaned softly behind her.
You could feel the shift already—the way the quiet, heavy emotion of the arrival began to tilt toward something louder. Something alive. Something that didn’t stay still for long.
Jess’s grin widened. “And I mean everything.”
Sam immediately pointed at her. “No.”
She ignored him completely. And just like that, the house didn’t feel quiet anymore.
The emotional weight of the reunion lasted exactly thirty seconds longer.
Then Jess clapped her hands once, looked past all of you toward the car, and declared, “We should probably unload before I start interrogating everyone.”
Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Interesting that you think those are separate events.”
“They are,” she said brightly. “One is chores. One is joy.”
You laughed, not letting your mind spiral with how you knew things were going to go. The reality of her being here still hadn’t fully settled in your chest. Sam too. Their scents already threaded through the air, familiar and grounding, weaving themselves back into the fabric of the cabin before their bags had even crossed the threshold.
Your wolf was nearly vibrating with contentment. Brushing against theirs through the bond that connected the four of you.
The three of you headed toward the car together. Afternoon sun filtered through the trees in broken strips of gold, warming the gravel drive and catching dust motes still drifting where the tires had disturbed them. The vehicle looked packed to the windows.
You stopped short. “Jess.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes?”
“Did you pack the entire dorm room?”
“No. Just the important stuff.”
Sam snorted. “She packed like we were fleeing the country.”
“I packed like a woman with foresight,” Jess shot back, already opening the trunk.
The trunk lifted to reveal an impressive wall of luggage, boxes, tote bags, hanging clothes, and several items that looked like they had been shoved in through sheer determination rather than spatial logic.
You stared.
Sam pointed into the trunk. “I’d like the record to show I had to slow down over every single pothole and bump because of this.”
“You’re dramatic,” Jess said.
“I had to drive by faith.”
That one made you laugh hard enough you had to brace a hand on the bumper.
Sam immediately reached for the heaviest boxes, because of course he did. Jess grabbed two tote bags, a pillow, and somehow a lamp tucked under one arm. You took a duffel and a stack of folded blankets, the smell of detergent and road trip air rising from them.
“Careful with that one,” Jess called over her shoulder.
You glanced down. “Why?”
“My hair products are in there.”
Sam muttered, “May they rest in peace.”
Jess gasped. “Samuel Winchester.”
“Not helping,” he added to you as you tried to stifle more laughter, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Trip after trip carried across the driveway and into the house.
The cabin transformed with each pass.
A suitcase near the stairs.
Shoes by the door.
A tote dropped in the hall.
A jacket flung over a chair because Jess had apparently decided coats no longer required hooks now that she was home.
The quiet order of the last few days gave way to lived-in motion, and somehow the place felt better for it.
By the second trip upstairs, you could hear Jess already narrating plans from the far side of the cabin.
“We need to reorganize our dresser.”
“You mean your dresser,” Sam called back.
“No, I mean our dresser. You’ve had one drawer for the last year because you fold like a serial killer.”
“I fold efficiently.”
“You wad shirts into emotional balls.”
You nearly missed the last step laughing.
Their side of the cabin opened into familiar rooms, and theirs suddenly looked smaller with all their things returning to it. Jess moved through it like she had never left, setting bags down, opening curtains, already reclaiming space through sheer personality. Sam followed behind with the heavier loads, pretending to be put upon while clearly pleased.
You set a duffel on the bed and looked around.
Their scent belonged here.
Their laughter belonged here.
The bond felt it too—no longer stretched between locations or visits or departures. It sat steady and whole now, the four of you anchored to one place in a way that settled deep.
Jess turned, catching you watching the room. Her expression softened. “We’re really back,” she said quietly.
You nodded, throat suddenly tight again. “Yeah,” you managed. “You are.”
Sam dropped the last box by the dresser and straightened with a groan.
“And now,” he announced, dusting off his hands, “I’d like everyone to appreciate that I carried ninety percent of this operation.”
Jess scoffed instantly. “You carried the heavy things. I carried the important things.”
“You brought a decorative basket.”
“It’s storage.”
“It’s wicker.”
“It has potential.”
You laughed as they bickered lovingly, leaning against the doorframe while sunlight stretched across the floorboards and landed over half-unpacked bags.
Downstairs, the cabin waited with dinner plans, more noise, and Dean still yet to come home to all of this.
But for now, with boxes everywhere and Jess arguing the value of wicker storage solutions while Sam looked ten seconds from surrender, the house felt exactly as it should.
Full.
And only getting louder.
You slipped downstairs, letting the two have their moment together, but paused at the bottom of the stairs. The cabin felt whole again, seeing their things scattered around in places they lived, or Jess left them.
A pair of Jess’s shoes sat abandoned near the stairs now. Sam’s duffel had been left half-zipped in the hallway like he’d intended to come back for it and immediately forgotten. A jacket hung off the back of the couch by one sleeve. Somewhere upstairs, a drawer had been opened and never closed.
You loved every bit of it.
The silence that had pressed against the walls all morning was gone, replaced now by footsteps overhead, voices filling the silence, doors opening and shutting, laughter appearing out of nowhere and refusing to leave.
You were in the kitchen pouring a glass of water when Jess swept in like weather.
“There you are,” she announced, as if you’d been hiding from her on purpose.
You handed her a beer automatically. “I was gone for maybe forty-five seconds.”
“Exactly. Suspicious.”
She took the beer, drank half of it in one pull, then narrowed her eyes at you over the rim.
Sam entered behind her, slower, carrying two more bags he’d apparently found in the car.
“I’d like it noted,” he said to no one in particular, “that I’m still unloading while she begins social warfare.”
Jess waved a dismissive hand. “You’re strong. You’ll recover.”
“I’m gonna need a chiropractor by thirty.”
“You’re already twenty-four going on eighty.”
You laughed, leaning back against the counter as Sam set the bags down with exaggerated suffering.
The bond hummed warmly around all of it. Full and settled, yes—but lively now too. Energy moving between all of you in familiar currents. Jess bright and effusive. Sam steady beneath the dramatics. You somewhere in the middle, feeling more centered than you had all morning.
And your wolves could barely contain their own excitement for this coming full moon. To finally be able to run together without leaving looming on the horizon.
Jess set her beer aside and turned to you fully. “Now,” she said.
You recognized that tone immediately.
It was the same one she used before gossip, before plotting, and before asking questions she had no intention of letting go unanswered.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Sam pointed toward the stairs. “I’m leaving.”
“You live here,” Jess said without looking at him.
“I’ll live outside.”
She ignored him entirely, eyes locked on you. “I want details.”
“About what?”
Her jaw dropped theatrically. “You know what.”
You reached for your glass to hide your smile. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
Jess planted both hands on the island and leaned in.
“You disappeared into a heat cycle with my brother-in-law figure slash grown pup slash giant menace, and I have been trapped in a car for days with only Sam’s playlists for company. So yes, I would now like compensation.”
Sam made a wounded sound. “My playlists are excellent.”
“They are seventy percent sad guitar.”
“They are nuanced.”
“They are depressing.”
“They tell a story.”
“They tell me to nap.”
You laughed hard enough to have to set your glass down.
Jess snapped her fingers once, reclaiming the room. “Focus.”
“I hate when you do that,” Sam muttered.
“You love when I do that.”
“I endure when you do that.”
She smiled sweetly, then turned back to you. “Well?”
Heat rose into your cheeks before you could stop it. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Jess stared.
Sam stared too, though his was more cautious—like he already regretted staying.
“There is absolutely something to tell,” Jess said. “You two have been alone in a cabin for nearly two weeks.”
“We were not alone the whole time.”
“That is not the part I’m interested in.”
Sam immediately held up both hands. “Nope.”
“You don’t get to nope,” Jess informed him.
“I deeply do.”
“You can go upstairs.”
“I can hear through floors!”
You laughed again, and even Jess cracked.
Then she softened, just slightly, and nudged your wrist. “I’m teasing,” she said more gently. “Mostly.”
“I know.”
Her expression warmed further. “But seriously… are you okay?”
The question landed beneath all the jokes exactly where it was meant to.
You met her eyes and nodded. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m okay.”
Better than okay, really.
You could feel it in yourself now that they were here. The steadiness. The ease. The way the house no longer felt like it was waiting for something.
Jess seemed to read some of that in your face, because her own expression eased too. “Good.”
Then, naturally, she ruined the tenderness within seconds. “So… scale of one to ten, how insufferably attentive was Dean?”
Sam groaned so loudly it echoed. “Why am I cursed?”
You laughed into your hands.
Jess grinned like a menace.
And somewhere deep in the bond, even your wolf seemed amused by the return of pack nonsense.
The laughter lingered long after the words did.
It moved through the kitchen in waves—Jess still smug over the chaos she’d caused, Sam looking personally betrayed by every turn the conversation had taken, you caught between them with your cheeks warm and your chest lighter than it had been all morning.
It felt good.
Simple.
Easy.
The kind of good that came from people knowing exactly how to needle each other without ever drawing blood.
Jess reached for the bag Sam had dropped by the island and peered inside. “Oh good, snacks survived.”
“Barely,” Sam said. “You packed them under a lamp.”
“It was padded.”
“With crackers.”
“They were protected by intention.”
He stared at her. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” she said brightly, pulling out a half-crushed box of granola bars, “beloved.”
You nearly choked laughing.
Sam looked at you for support.
You offered none.
“Traitor.”
“Correct,” Jess said for you.
She set the snacks aside and immediately began unpacking groceries and road-trip leftovers onto the counter like she’d been back for weeks instead of minutes. A bag of chips. Bottled water. Gum. A suspicious number of gas station candies—two bananas in questionable condition.
You eyed the spread. “Did you two eat like feral teenagers the whole drive?”
“We had sandwiches yesterday,” Sam said.
“From a gas station,” Jess added proudly.
“That does not help your case.”
“It had lettuce.”
“That lettuce saw things.”
Jess laughed and tossed the banana toward the trash. You caught it midair on instinct, stared at it, then slowly set it on the counter instead.
“We don’t waste food.”
Sam pointed. “See? She gets me.”
“I said food,” you replied.
Jess cackled.
“I can turn those into banana bread.”
The late afternoon slipped into that kind of happy disorder that only happened when people belonged somewhere enough not to be careful in it. Jess wandered in and out of the kitchen while talking nonstop, opening cabinets she already knew by memory, asking questions she barely waited to hear answered, then circling back later for the answer anyway.
Sam hauled the last forgotten things in from the car, then returned with the expression of a man who had finally accepted his fate.
“All right,” he said, dropping into a chair at the table. “Everything is inside. If there’s anything left in that car, it lives there now.”
“There’s a pillow in the back seat,” Jess said absently.
He closed his eyes. “I hate it here.”
“You love it here.”
He opened one eye. “Unfortunately.”
You smiled into the glass you were rinsing.
The bond around all of you had settled into something rich and steady now. No longer the bright spike of reunion, but the deeper warmth that followed it. Presence. Familiarity. The relief of missing pieces returned to their places.
You could feel Jess too—her happiness running fast beneath everything else. The excitement of being done with school for now. Of no more leaving every few months. Of being able to build routine instead of borrowing it in visits.
You suspected Sam felt the same, even if he wore it quieter.
“So,” Jess said, sliding onto the stool across from you. “What time does Dean get home?”
You checked the clock automatically. “Soon. Another half hour, maybe. If Bobby’s nice and let’s him leave early today.”
Her grin sharpened instantly. “Oh, excellent.”
Sam’s head lifted with caution. “Why do you say things like that?”
“Because I have plans.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She ignored him completely. “I’m greeting him dramatically.”
“You greeting anyone dramatically is just called greeting people.”
“I’m offended.”
“You should come with a warning label.”
Jess gasped. “That was rude.”
“You taught me.”
You laughed again, drying your hands on a towel. “What exactly are these plans?”
She leaned across the counter conspiratorially. “I haven’t decided yet. Tears? Screaming? Pretending I’m injured so he has to carry me?”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just got here and I’m already tired.”
“You’ve been tired since birth.”
“That is medically possible.”
The front windows had begun to shift with later light now, afternoon turning slowly toward evening. Shadows stretched longer through the trees outside. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once and fell silent.
Then all three of you heard it at the same time.
Faint at first.
An engine.
Familiar in a way that lived in your bones now. Your whole body reacted before thought did, head lifting toward the driveway.
Jess lit up like someone had struck a match inside her. “Oh,” she said, already hopping off the stool. “This is gonna be fun.”
Sam muttered, “We could still hide.”
But he was smiling when he said it.
And you, despite yourself, were already grinning too.
The sound of the engine grew louder as it came through the trees, steady and familiar, the kind of sound that had long since become part of the rhythm of your life. Gravel crackled beneath tires a moment later, followed by the low rumble of the engine idling in the drive.
Dean was home.
Your wolf lifted immediately, bright and eager, pressing close beneath your skin with the same instinctive recognition that ran through you. Warmth bloomed through the bond before the front door had even opened.
Jess, meanwhile, had become a tactical problem.
She spun once in the middle of the kitchen, eyes darting around like a general surveying a battlefield. “Positions,” she whispered dramatically.
Sam didn’t move from his chair. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No one has positions.”
“We absolutely have positions.”
She pointed at you first. “You—act natural.”
“I am natural.”
“More natural.”
Then she pointed at Sam. “You hide.”
“I live here.”
“Exactly. Hide with purpose.”
He stared at her for a long beat. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet compelling.”
She pointed at herself with both thumbs. “I’ll take the lead.”
You leaned against the counter, already laughing.
The Impala’s door outside opened, then shut with a solid thud. Boots hit gravel. A second later came the sound of the porch steps taking his weight one by one.
Your chest tightened with the simple familiarity of it.
Home.
The front door opened.
Dean stepped inside carrying the day with him—work boots, worn jeans, T-shirt clinging lightly across the shoulders, the scent of oil and metal and sun-warmed air following in behind him. His hair had been raked back at some point with grease-marked fingers and had mostly given up holding shape.
He got one step into the cabin before he paused.
Because the house no longer smelled like just you.
Sam.
Jess.
Road dust.
Shampoo.
Travel snacks.
And under all of it, pack.
His eyes lifted.
You watched the exact moment it hit him.
They’re here.
His whole face changed.
The tired edges of the day dropped clean away. Something bright and boyish broke through so fast it almost looked like surprise.
Then Jess launched herself at him from around the corner.
“DEAN!”
He barely had time to brace before she hit him full force, arms around his shoulders. Dean barked out a startled laugh, catching her automatically as momentum shoved him back half a step.
“Jesus—Jess!”
“We’re home!” she declared directly into his ear.
“I can tell!”
“You missed me.”
“You’re strangling me.”
“That’s not a denial.”
Dean laughed harder, one arm locked around her so she didn’t take them both down. Over her shoulder, his eyes found yours.
And softened instantly.
Even from across the room, the bond reached for you—warm, relieved, full in a way that made your own smile deepen without permission.
Sam rose from the table and crossed over slower, shaking his head. “This is why I wanted warning before entry.”
“You had warning,” Jess said, still attached to Dean. “I screamed his name.”
“That was not useful warning.”
Dean finally pried her loose enough to breathe and immediately got pulled into a one-armed hug from Sam, the kind men gave when affection needed disguising as roughness.
“Good drive?” Dean asked.
“No.”
“Liar,” Jess said.
Sam released him. “It was fine until hour seven.”
“It was fine until he became emotionally weak,” Jess corrected.
Dean snorted and set his keys in the bowl by the door.
Then he came to you.
No showmanship.
No teasing.
No words at first.
He just crossed the kitchen like gravity had made a decision, stopping close enough that your body already knew where to lean. His hands found your waist automatically, rough palms warm through the fabric of your shirt.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, smiling up at him. “Yeah. You?”
His gaze dipped over your face like he was checking for more than your answer. “Better now.”
Behind him, Jess made a dramatic choking sound. “Oh my God, disgusting.”
Sam immediately pointed at her. “You are not allowed to say that after tackling him at the door.”
“I was expressing familial love.”
Dean didn’t even look back. “You’re expressing a death wish.”
She grinned. “Missed you too.”
His thumb brushed once at your side before he finally stepped back, though reluctantly enough that both you and your wolf felt it.
The room buzzed now—voices overlapping, movement restarting, the cabin alive in every direction. Dean glanced around like he still couldn’t quite believe it.
All of them here.
All at once.
No one leaving in two days or a week. No countdown hanging over the room.
Just home.
His wolf swelled warm through the bond at the realization, pressing outward with deep, satisfied certainty.
The noise of everyone being home didn’t fade so much as spread out.
It moved through the cabin in layers now—Jess talking from two rooms away and somehow still sounding close, Sam answering only when necessary, Dean pulling off his flannel and draping it over the back of the couch, boots thudding across the floor before getting kicked off near the door.
For a brief moment, there was a pocket of quiet between movements—just long enough for it to register that no one was leaving it.
The kind of sound that made a place feel lived in.
Dean paused near the couch, just for a second longer than he needed to. Not quite looking at anything in particular—just taking it in. The overlapping voices, the heat of the kitchen, the fact that no one was packing up or heading out. His jaw flexed once, subtle, like something in him was adjusting to the weight of it.
Then he kept moving, but slower now. Easier.
You noticed it without meaning to.
That slight shift in him that didn’t come from exhaustion anymore.
It came from staying.
Chapter 60 ------- Chapter 62 - coming soon
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✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 6✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: jess confronts you and dean ✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: we're back again! i love them✦
Dean’s shirt doesn’t feel long enough anymore. You clench the fabric between your hands and turn it in your fingers, trying to pull it down and apart all at once. Maybe you can shrink into it like a turtle, and Jess’ sharp gaze won’t burn through you like a cigarette on a leaf.
She’s looking at Dean like she wants to kill him. He’s got one hand reaching behind him to steady you, and another curled at his side. You reach out to grab his shoulder, and his shoulders relax slightly. He remains planted in front of you, though. Protecting your modesty.
You try and pull the shirt down further, and step fully behind his back. You’re not afraid of Jess. You’re more worried Dean’s going to work himself up into passing out, and you’re going to have to catch him.
“Jess,” Dean starts, squeezing your wrist tighter. Like he’s trying to make sure you don’t slip away. “This- It isn’t what it looks like-“
“Really?” Jess snaps, and you drop your face into Dean’s shoulder with a sigh.
You love the man. He can be a bit of a dumbass sometimes.
“This isn’t what it looks like?” Jess waves between you and Dean. “Is that really what you’re going with, Winchester? That this is just some misunderstanding?”
“I- uh-“
“You were on the phone with Sam three hours ago. You told him you were in Louisiana, this is not Louisiana-“
“I know that-“
“You told him your girlfriend knew where you were-“
“Hey, she does-“
“Ha!” Jess points at him with an almost manic grin. “Because your girlfriend is right here!”
Her finger turns to you, and Dean tenses. He steps right in front of you, grip tightening, and narrows his eyes.
“Don’t point at her.”
Jess blinks, and you squeeze his shoulder lightly.
“De, I’m okay-“
“No. You’re pissed at me, fine. Be pissed. But she did nothing wrong.”
“Nothing-“ Jess scoffs, though there’s something in the sound that’s been dulled from before. “You both have been lying to Sam for months. To me for months. For- For years!” Her eyes widen. “Sam introduced you almost two years ago, you- You’ve been fucking the whole time-“
“No!” You jump in, leaning over Dean. “It’s not like that, it’s- We haven’t been dating the whole time- It’s only- Dean-“
“Seven months.” Dean mutters. “Two weeks, four days.”
“Exactly- That’s not-“ You cut yourself off, giving him an amused look. “You know the days?”
“Course I know the days.”
“It’s- Dean, I don’t know the days-“
“You’re bad at time, ‘s why I set all those alarms.”
“No, you set the alarms because you forget things-“
“I never touched that app until you, baby.” Dean smirks, and you roll your eyes.
“You touched the app, don’t be dramatic-“
“Nope.” He squeezes your waist. You’re not even sure when his hand got there, but it makes you melt all the same. “Cross my heart. Never even knew what a timer was.”
“You- You knew-“
“Ask Charlie, she’ll tell you ‘bout my perfect internal clock.” He ducks down, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “’m like a pigeon, Princess.”
It’s difficult not to giggle and melt for him. You hold it together. “Pigeons have homing instincts. Not clocks.”
“Hm- Fine. I’m like an owl.”
“That’s- Time isn’t an owl thing either. Owls are wise, they like- Read books.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “Owls read books?”
“No, it’s- That’s the thing you see, in a cartoon, the owl reading the book.”
“Oh- Like that dork with the glasses in PBS.”
You nod, beaming up at him. “Yeah. Just like that.”
Dean grins, reaching up to cup your chin. Your smile widens, your face all hot under his hands, and he leans down, and-
“If you kiss in front of me, I’m going to vomit.”
Right. Jess.
She’s still glaring between you, but it’s with less fury than before. Like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle without the box, and realized halfway through she might be using the wrong pieces. Dean tucks you under his arm, his fingers tracing small shapes on your shoulder. At least he’s not trying to barricade you anymore. You like this better anyway. He’s the prettiest, softest, smartest set of armor in the world. You think he has more of a heartbeat than you do, sometimes. You know yours follows whatever rhythm his says is safe to beat.
“Look, we’ll- We can explain. Just-“ Dean sighs, dropping his face into your hair and taking a long, deep breath.
You smile nervously at Jess. She looks even more confused.
“Don’t tell Sammy.” Dean looks up again, his fingers splaying on your stomach. “Please.”
Jess glares between you. She crosses her arms and tilts her head, scanning you up and down like the answers she wants will be written all over your skin.
You’re sure, in a way, that they are. Dean was bold, for his it’s not what it looks like claim. You’re wearing his shirt and nothing else. He’s wearing his lazy night boxers, that are for when he’s too tired for pants. You’ve offered to help him wear his pants, if he’s cold. He always kisses your brow and mutters something about that being dangerous. You say it’s not dangerous, they’re pants. He says anything that’s got you touching me is dangerous, Princess. You remind him you touch him all the time. He grins—because he’s won the game you always lose, but he never gets any less proud of it—and murmurs exactly before ducking down for a kiss.
His lazy night boxers have little ducks on them. You bought them for him, because he reminds you of a duck. He tried to be offended by that, but he wears them all the time.
And they’re inside out. Like he’d shoved them on, because he had. And his hair is mussed up, and you’re holding his arm around your waist because there’s a pleasant, dull ache between your legs and you’ve never had to walk with it before. Dean’s boots are next to yours at the door. His jacket is tossed over the couch.
There’s nothing else this could be.
If Jess snaps that she’s going to tell Sam now, you’ll understand. You should’ve told him sooner. It’s your own fault, for not wanting the tiny, sacred blossom you’ve been growing with Dean to be touched by anything outside. You’ve been so worried it wasn’t going survive being in a real garden. That weeds would grow over it or winter would freeze it or the soil wouldn’t be rich enough.
But those were phantoms. Loud voices in your head that Dean was good at silencing.
And you should’ve told Sam.
“Jess-“
“Fine.” She cuts you off, looking up at the ceiling with a shake of her head. “But I want to hear him talk.”
She points at Dean, and you swallow. He can do this. He just has to not talk about how you just had sex, focus on the timeline, and it’ll be fine.
Dean swallows, pulling you tighter to his chest.
“I- Uh- Are you sure you don’t want her to talk- She talks real pretty, and-“
“I listen to her talk all the time.” Jess tips her chin up, eyes locked on Dean. “Think of it as in-law bonding.”
“In-law bonding?” Dean stands a little taller. “Oh, that’s awesome, did you and Sammy- Oof-“
You elbow him right in the gut, and he doubles over with a groan. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you rub his forearm while smiling at Jess.
“No ring,” you hiss, low enough for only Dean to hear.
He grunts, kissing the top of your throat. “Thanks, baby.”
You hum, and give Jess another winning smile. She just raises her brows, an unimpressed expression painted on her face.
And you realize, as you all settle on the couch, that right now Dean isn’t just Sam’s brother. He’s also the secret boyfriend Jess has been grinding you down into showing her. The one she’s wanted to gnash at and rip up, to see if he’s made of something she deems worthy enough.
For a second, you’re glad you didn’t tell Sam. Doing this with both of them might’ve actually killed Dean.
“Seven months.” Jess starts slowly, glaring between you.
Dean’s still holding your hand. Your thighs are pressed together. You made the careful call not to sit on his lap or lean any closer than you needed to.
“Yep.” Dean gives her that boyish, charming smile. It’s the one he uses on you, to get what he wants.
He’s been spoiled, by how much you love him. How easily you fold. Jess doesn’t even blink.
“How.”
“How, uh-“ Dean frowns. “How’s it been seven months?”
“How did it start, dumbass.”
“Oh. I- Um- I flew out to visit her. And- We went to the zoo and kissed. But she kissed me.” He adds quickly. You’re worried he’s going to cramp his hand, with how tight he’s holding yours. “I wasn’t gonna make a move, but- We got caught in the rain, and that makes girls romantic-“
“That makes girls romantic-“’
“Me. It makes me romantic.” Dean sits taller. A terrified soldier at attention. “I got really romantic, and- I wooed her into kissin’ me. Would’ve have happened if I wasn’t throwing off signals. And- Hormones, like an ant-“
“Pheromones.” You whisper, and Dean nods frantically.
“But- The ant-“
“That was right.” You offer him a small smile. “But I think you’re talking about bird dancing. Ant pheromones are for communication.”
“Oh. Cool.” Dean grins at you, then at Jess. “You see why I took her to the zoo? Little freakin’ nerd.”
“I am not a nerd-“
“Yes, you are.” Dean grabs your chin, squeezing it gently. “No pouting, sweetheart. Makes you too cute.”
Your nose wrinkles, and your face twists into a mock sneer. Dean laughs, and leans down to kiss you.
Jess hits him with a pillow. He squawks like a bird, twisting his back to shield you from more fluffy projectiles, and you giggle.
“I thought I told you not to talk?” Jess snaps at you—though with far less venom than she’s been using on Dean—and you give her an apologetic smile.
“Do you want me to leave the-“
“No.” Dean—his face pressed into your breasts, his arms around your stomach—sits back up. “No, you- You stay. I’ll behave, I’ll even-“ He sits on his hands, giving Jess a hopeful look. “See? No touching.”
“Hm.” Jess lets out a long breath. “Fine. Keep going. Zoo.”
“Right. Zoo.” Dean rocks on his hands, face scrunched as he thinks. He looks like a scolded toddler, trying to think of a way to explain why they ate the last cookie.
You’re a little worried that the harder he thinks, the more he’s going to talk himself out of telling very simple, easy truths.
“Why were you at the zoo?” Jess prompts tightly.
Dean frowns. “Cause she wanted to go to the zoo?”
“No, I- How did you end up at the zoo here. Like- Physically?”
“Oh.” Dean shrugs. “I drove.”
“From Chicago?”
“Yeah. I usually drive. I’ll, uh-“ He glances at you. “I take the I-90, then stick south-west, lotta backroads depending-“
“Dean, I don’t care about your route-“
“I know, I’m just- I get here in like three days, drivin’ real fast. And safe.” He adds quickly. “I drive safe, Princess. I’m the most law abiding guy out there.”
You shake your head, turning to hide your smile. Jess leans forward, still frowning.
“You drive for three days.” She says slowly. “Just to get to California.”
“I mean- Yeah.”
“Where’s your car right now?”
“Back in Chicago.” Dean shrugs. “Flew in, just this one time. Emergency.”
“Emergency?” Jess frowns, looking to you. “What- Are you okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. I- I’m okay.”
“What happened, I- Why didn’t you tell us-“
“I was- Um- I wanted to-“
“But you didn’t, you called Dean-“
“It was- I needed him.” You give her a pleading look. “You- I know you would’ve helped. I- I needed Dean.”
Jess’ frown deepens. She looks Dean up and down, and he sits taller. You know she’s trying to imagine what he has, that she and Sam don’t.
That would make him worth lying about.
Because she’s mad Dean lied to his brother. To her boyfriend.
But you also lied to her. And you’re her friend.
“He dropped everything.” You say softly, and Jess looks at you suspiciously.
You know you’re not supposed to talk. You’re going to anyway.
“I called him, I told him not to come, but- He asked if I needed him- He made me tell him I needed him- And I did, and he came. And I needed him. I love you,” you give her a soft smile. “You don’t call me when you need Sam.”
Jess’ nose twitches. Something in the lines of her face softens. “Sam and I have been together for three years.”
“I know.”
“I’ve known you for three years-“
“I know-“
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jess whispers, her eyes tired and pained. “If you asked me not to, I wouldn’t have told him. I mean- I would’ve been pissed about it, but-“
“You would’ve hated it.” You lean forward, holding onto Dean’s knee. “You would’ve thought about telling Sam all the time, I didn’t want to do that to you.”
Jess’ throat bobs. She laughs softly, glancing at Dean, then back to you. “He’s going to be pissed.”
“Yeah.” You sigh. “I know.”
“God, he- He literally promised Sam he wouldn’t do this.” Jess gives Dean a stern look, and you frown.
“Do what, date me?”
“Chase after you.” Jess shrugs. “Sam was real worried you were just another hookup-“
“She’s not.” Dean grabs your hand on his knee. “I haven’t slept around since we started talking. Couldn’t even get it up anymore, after I met her. Swear on my car.”
Jess snorts. “So what, you were just celibate for a year-“
“Yeah. I was.”
Dean holds Jess’ untrusting look. She looks between you again, features pinched slightly, and lets out a long, sharp breath.
“Jesus, Sam is going to-“
“Kill us.” Dean smirks. “He can try. He might got a few inches on me now, I but I don’t go down easy, Jess. I’m scrappy.”
“Scrappy?” You echo, smiling up at him, and he shrugs.
“I fight dirty. He pretends to bite your nose, then kisses it. “You know that.”
He tickles you side, and you smack him almost in the face. Dean laughs, wrapping his arm fully around your stomach and pulling you into his chest. You fall back into the couch cushions, half in his lap, and give Jess a nervous smile. She’s staring at you both like she’s seen a ghost. You can’t really blame her.
“We’re going to tell Sam.” You tell her. “I promise.”
Dean holds you back like a seatbelt, as you try to sit up. You twist to glare at him, and he’s got that charming, boyish smile. He leans up to kiss your shoulder, and you don’t understand how Jess manages to be immune to him. This whole mess could’ve been avoided, if you didn’t fold like a towel under his attention. Letting him shape you into where he needs you to be, absorbing up everything he gives you, even trying to get tossed over his shoulder, because those big hands on the back of your thighs make you so dizzy and stupid you might as well be high.
He drags his thumb in small circles, staring up at you adoringly, and you give in. You always give in.
Jess still doesn’t look wholly convinced, when you collapsed back against Dean’s chest. You wrap your arms around your stomach, trying to breathe through your nose. This will be fine. This will be fine.
“You’re happy.” Jess murmurs, and you try to push back your smile.
It’s not a question. Dean doesn’t let it be a question. Either you’re already happy, or Dean comes and makes you happy.
“Is he respectful?” She asks you, and Dean tenses.
“I’m a freakin’ gentleman-“
“I didn’t ask you, Winchester.” Jess shots him a daggered glare, and he slumps back into the cushions. Jess says your name. “Is he respectful?”
“Very.” You say quickly. “He’s chivalrous.”
You lean your head back to smile at him. He’s beaming so proudly, you’re worried his head is going to pop.
“Hm.” Jess’ nose twitches. “How long did he wait after that visit to ask you out.”
“A year. And- I called him. If that helps.”
Jess pauses. “How the hell did you get his number?”
“He left it for me?”
Jess’ gaze snaps to Dean, and he winces. The way he’s adjusting you in his arms, you could swear he’s hiding behind you.
“Dean-“
“Hey, I wasn’t allowed to ask for her number, so- No rules broken-“
“That’s not the point, he didn’t- It wasn’t about semantics-“
“I don’t know what that word means-“
“Yes, you do.” You cover Dean’s mouth, frowning at Jess. “And- Why wasn’t Dean allowed to ask for my number?”
Jess pales. Like she’s just realizing what she’s been saying—what she’s been implying—and that you have fucking ears.
No rules broken. He promised Sam he wouldn’t do this. Chase after you.
“Did Sam tell him not to?” You ask softly, and Jess sighs.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Maybe-“
“He did. But- He knows his brother, alright? And Dean-“ She gives him a look. “You’d never been serious about a relationship before-“
“I’m serious about this.” He mutters, fingers curling against your stomach. “And I’m not- That ain’t something that’s gonna change.”
“He flew on a plane for me.” You say softly, and Jess sighs.
“Yeah. I got that. But- He swore to Sam he wasn’t gonna try anything, then- You lied to his face-“
“It was new, Jess.” Dean’s voice is heavier than before. Cautious, his body almost rooted into yours. Like he’s worried Jess is going to try and rip you away. “If I told him we were talking, he woulda made me promise not to date her. If I told him we were dating, he would’ve told her all kinds of horror stories ‘bout me in high school and shit. That ain’t fair.”
Jess winces. “He- He does want you to be happy-“
“But he thinks she’s too good for me.”
“He’d never-“
“Yes, he would.” Dean sighs, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “And he’s right. But we’re not the one who makes the call.”
He and Jess stare at each other, and you shrink a little further back into Dean’s chest. You’re not too good for him. He’s too good for you. He’s too good for everyone. He’s like a perfect man they made in a factory, warm and thick and sweeter than every other sugary thin you love so much. You worry sometimes, that you get too greedy for him, but there’s no end to it. To him, and his soft, firm hands.
Sam almost stopped you from having him.
You should be furious about that. But every time a little anger sparks, it’s stomped out by a downpour that’s heavier. That fills up your chest and almost pushes out of your eyes.
If you hadn’t lied to Sam, you wouldn’t have Dean.
Jess says your name, and you blink away the threatening tears.
“Is it worth it?” She asks softly.
You nod without a single thought. Jess sighs.
“There are- Like so many other men-“
“So?”
She gives you a flat look. “I have friends! I could’ve set you up, if you were this desperate-“
“Hey.” Dean frowns. “I’m the whole package, kid-“
“I’m sure you are, banana pants-“
“They’re ducks-“
“Dean.” You give him a stern look, and he goes silent. You look back to Jo. “Don’t be mean to him. He’s sensitive.”
Dean scowls, grumbling under his breath. “No, I’m not-“
“Yes, you are.” You run your fingers through his hair—it’s getting long, and he’s going to try and make you cut it but maybe you’ll just tell him no—and smile. Dean grunts, dropping his face into your shoulder. His lips graze the crook of your neck.
Jess looks like she’s being torn in half.
“I love him.” You say, soft and quiet. “I- I’ve never- I don’t want anyone else.”
Dean smiles against your skin. Jess groans like she’s being tortured.
“Seven months?” She mutters, and you nod.
“We were calling at lot before that, but- He was just hitting on me-“
“Were you hitting on him back?”
“I, um- I think I was trying-“
“She’s bad at it.” Dean chuckles, propping his chin on your shoulder. “It’s fuckin’ adorable. Like watchin’ a baby bird trying to fly. Couldn’t even get outta the nest.”
You sigh, leaning your head back against his. “You’re bad at metaphors.”
“I’m amazing at everything.” He teases, and you snort, shaking your head.
“Mhm.”
“I am. Makes me a good housewife, if you got an opening.”
You roll your eyes, still smiling stupidly, and look back to Jess.
“He does my laundry. And cleans, and brings me things, and-“
“I carry her around-“
“I don’t ask you to do that-“
“Yeah, but I love doin’ it.” He kisses your cheek. “You ass goes right next to my face-“
“Okay!” Jess shouts, slumping back into her chair. “I get it, you’re- This is… Something.”
It’s more than something. It’s the best thing you’ve ever had in your life. The only thing you’ve ever been certain of, because the Earth shifts and the ground under your feet slips and Dean’s more unmovable than a mountain. Now doesn’t feel like the best time to tell Jess that.
“I love him.” You say instead. “He cooks for me.”
Jess’ eyes widen. “He cooks for you?” She looks to Dean. “You can’t cook!”
Dean frowns. “Who says I can’t cook? Sam?”
“I- When you come out to visit, he always tells me we have to go to restaurants-“
“Yeah, ‘cause I like tryin’ new food. I can cook.”
“And bake.” You say quickly, and Jess starts, like she’s just putting things together.
“Oh my god, he made the cupcakes.”
“I told you that-“
“Yeah, but I didn’t- That’s-“ she gapes at Dean. “You’ve been leaving all those hickeys, and- The chocolates-“
Dean tenses. “You, uh- You didn’t read the card, did you-“
“It’s in my room.” You murmur, and he lets out a sharp breath.
Jess shakes her head, frowning between you. “God, Sam’s going to- I won’t tell him.” She points at you and Dean, eyes narrowed. “Because I love you,” she ignores Dean all together. “And I think Sam likes having not murdered anyone. But you,” her gaze snaps to Dean. “Are going to call him right now and say that after Benny’s you’re driving up to California.”
Dean swallows. “That’s, uh- Long drive-“
“You’re not actually making it, genius.” Jess rolls her eyes. “I’m giving you a week to figure out what the hell you’re going to tell him, and then I’m telling him myself.”
You look back to Dean. He grimaces, but shrugs. It’s the best deal you’re going to get. You can even figure out an escape plan, in case Sam does try to kill him. Dean knows how to throw a punch—and less scrapy than brutally strong—but you don’t think he’ll stand a chance against Sam. Mostly because Sam will lunge to rip out his throat, and Dean will refuse to lay a single hand on his baby brother.
“Deal.” Dean grins at Jess. Her lips don’t even twitch.
“Good. Call him.”
“Uh- Now?”
“Yep.”
“I dunno, it’s late-“
“He’s awake.”
You pause. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Yep. I told him you had a book I wanted, and I was going to pick it up.” She grimaces. “Got caught in traffic. Thank fuck.”
Her gaze darts to your bare thighs, pulled to your chest and resting between Dean’s legs. You flush. You’re also glad she got caught in traffic.
“My, uh- My phone is in your room.” Dean squeezes your knee. “Baby, can you…”
You nod, and roll off Dean’s lap. He lingers for a second, brushing a kiss over your brow before dragging himself away. You smile like a fool, hugging yourself tighter. If you don’t, your heart it going to spill like honey all over the floor in front of Jess.
She’s still watching you suspiciously, when Dean goes to grab his phone. You clear your throat, face burning, and she sighs.
“You really love him?”
You nod, and almost apologize for it—it’s not your fault, how are you supposed to not love Dean, but you feel bad anyway—before Jess laughs.
“I told him.”
You blink. “You told Dean I love him?”
“No,” she snorts. “I told Sam. That this was going to happen.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again, and shake your head. You didn’t know this was going to happen. Dean had just appeared and suddenly the universe had shifted into better colors than you’d even see before. You’d been blind for so long, it had been like a firework hitting you square in the chest.
There was no way for Jess to know it was going to do that.
“What?”
Jess rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “When Dean came down that first time, I told him not to introduce you.”
Your lips pull tight. “Why- Why would you do that-“
“Because Sam loves him, but- He loves you too. And Dean- You know what he was like. Before.”
You swallow, shrinking into yourself. You know too well. You try not to think about it, because it puts a sour taste in your mouth. Vile thoughts and pictures flash through your head like bullets, demanding that you remember Dean’s experience. That he’s always going to have some other girl waiting for him in the corner of a bar, and if he gets tired of you, he just has to drop you on the floor and wave her over.
He’d never do that. Not to you. If for some horrible, horrible reason Dean ever does get sick of you—and no matter how much he reassures you he won’t, there’s always that tiny voice, because you’re sick of you all the time—he’d never hurt you over it. But there’s always that phantom. The smiles of girls when you go to bars. The fact that sometimes when you kiss him, you know he’s so good at it because he had practice.
When you were under him, he knew what to do because he’d done it countless times. And you’d just lain there, looking up at him like he was a god. Useless. If he wanted something warm to fuck, he could get a fleshlight instead. It would cry less, and he wouldn’t need to care for it after, and-
“Hey.” Jess touches your hand, and you swallow.
Tears had been burning at your eyes. You sniff, wiping your nose, and Jess flinches, face tight with guilt.
“I’m not- I didn’t think Dean would just try to sleep with you,” she says softly. “Sam did. I told him not to introduce you two because I thought it would end like this,” she nods to where Dean had disappeared through the door. “And he said the worst that happens is Dean tries to sleep with her, and I kill him.”
“He didn’t.” You mumble, staring at Jess’ hand. “I had to make him sleep with me. He kept trying to make it special, it was taking so fucking long.”
Jess laughs, and your lips tug up. She moves to sit next to you on the couch, and your knees bump.
“He’s good to me.” You whisper, dropping your head on her shoulder.
She sighs. “Yeah. I knew he would be.”
You smile at nothing, and Jess wraps her arm around your shoulders.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Mhm.” You count on your fingers. “Charlie- His roommate. All his coworkers. Benny, obviously-“
“Obviously.”
“Um- My friend Jo, but just because she caught us. And now you.”
Jess hums, frowning at the air. “Jo, she’s the one from your hometown?”
“Yeah.”
“Does your dad know?”
You snort, shaking you head. “De’s more afraid of him that he is of Sam.”
“Really? Your dad was so nice-“
“To you and Sam.” You give her a pointed look. “You aren’t fucking me.”
Jess laughs, and you pause. That was what you’d wanted to ask her about.
You lower your voice, even though the only other person who could hear is Dean.
“He’s really good at sex.” You whisper, and Jess’ eyes widen. “Is it a genetic thing? Is Sam good at it too?”
Jess’ face goes red. She clears her throat, and you study her carefully.
“I- Um-“ She shakes her head. “I mean, yes, but- He’s your first,” she says gently. “I mean, you don’t have a benchmark-“
“Oh. Hm.” You tilt your head. “How many times does Sam make you cum?”
Jess’ sighs, slumping into your side. “Like- two, usually.”
You nod. “Oh.”
“Oh?” She narrows her eyes. “What, Dean can’t be that good-“
You beam at her, and she scoffs.
“Whatever. At least mine can read.”
“Dean can read! He’s just- He likes to play stupid-“
“Play?” Jess grins at you. “Sam told me he almost got held back in fourth grade-“
“Because he couldn’t sit still. He was hyper, he needed to run around to focus-“
“Dean told me he can’t do calculus.”
“He doesn’t need to do calculous.” You grumble. “He’s a genius.”
Jess shakes her head, still smiling. “Wow. He must be really good at sex.”
You shove her arm. “Dean says Sam used to cry when their mom moved the rocks in the garden.”
“He liked them in order.” Jess says defensively. “You do the same thing-“
“I’m very annoying.”
“Sam’s not annoying-“
“I didn’t say he was.” You shrug. “Interesting, that you thought of it though-“
Jess pushes you, and you laugh.
“Sam can’t eat anything but butter noodles.”
“He’s- He doesn’t care about food, okay? His brain goes to other things.” She glares at you. “Dean eats like a racoon.”
You giggle, leaning back into her shoulder. “He told me he and Sam used to eat grass.”
Jess sighs. “Yeah, I know. I think mine ate it more.”
“At least he didn’t eat dog food.”
“That- He actually did that?”
“Yep.” You shake your head. “He says it was a dare.”
“He knows he doesn’t have to do those, right?”
“Nope. I’m worried Charlie’s going to call me one day and say he’s lost in the woods because she dared him to be or something.”
“You should put a tracker on him.”
You snort. “He’d find it.”
“I’d find what?” Dean reappears in the doorway, glaring at Jess. “You took my seat.”
Jess sticks out her tongue. “I was here first.”
“No you weren’t- I-“ He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
You giggle, as he shuffles over to the chair. You stretch out your legs, resting then in his lap, and he rubs your ankle with a small grin.
“What am I gonna find?”
“Nothing-“
“A tracker.” You answer, and Jess glares at you.
“Why would you tell him-“
“Because he’d find it.” You shrug, and Dean puffs out his chest.
“Hell yeah, I would.” He pauses. “Why’re you talkin’ about trackers.”
“Jess wants me to put one on you.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “I’m not a freakin’ dog-“
“She’s worried you’re going to get lost in the woods.” Jess says, and Dean glares at you.
“I- I’m not gonna get lost in the woods-“
“You would if Charlie dared you to.” You nudge his thigh with your foot, and he sighs.
“I know how to get outta the woods, Princess.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I’m like a pigeon.” He grins. “I’d phone home. Back to you.”
He picks up your leg, kissing the inside of your ankle. You roll your eyes, your smile ditzy and gaze locked onto his. You’re glad Jess is next to you. Your shirt is riding enough up that Dean can see right between your legs, and you’re still not wearing underwear.
His gaze flashes with hunger when he sees it. A smirk pulls at his lips, and he rubs your calf in smooth, firm circles when he lowers your leg. You flush, trying not to squirm. It’s torture, knowing what he could do to you if he got you alone. It’s worse than when you were just imaging. You can picture those pretty, smug lips kissing up your inner thighs, over the sensitive skin around your core, before finding where you’re throbbing for him and-
“Call Sam.” Jess snaps, nodding to the phone in Dean’s hand. “Now.”
Dean sighs, slumping down in his chair. He taps on his phone, still rubbing your ankle, and you bite down a happy sigh.
The phone rings. You and Jess watch Dean carefully, but he doesn’t seem that nervous. He just rolls his neck, tipping his head back against the chair while he waits.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice cuts through the air. Dean’s grip tightens on your ankle.
“Hey, Sammy. You got some time?”
“Yeah, uh-“ Sam clears his throat. “It’s pretty late, but- Jess is out. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Jess is out?” Dean ignores the question. “Where’d she go?”
Jess glares at him, and he just smirks at the ceiling. You sigh, giving her an apologetic look. Dean, in all his glory and kindness, can still be a fucking butt.
Sam says your name. “Something about her having a book? I dunno, she seemed pissed about something.”
Jess cringes. You squeeze her hand.
“Huh.” Dean drawls, looking at you and Jess under his lashes. “Wonder what.”
You kick him, and he smirks, pinning your foot against his stomach.
“I don’t know, it was just- She was acting weird all evening. I’ll ask her when she gets home or something.” Sam sighs through the speaker. “Why are you calling me, Dean. It must be what, 1am there?”
“Yeah, uh- Just wanted to tell you the plan.”
“The plan? You don’t make plans.”
Dean frowns. “Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t. I call you and suddenly you’re on the road doing something-“
“Yeah, ‘cause I planned to be-“ Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Whatever, you wanna hear the plan or not?”
“Maybe. Does it involve me meeting your fake girl friend?”
“Yes, smartass. It does."
Sam goes silent for a moment. Dean picks up his head, frowning at you, and you give him a nervous look. He squeezes your foot three times, working his own jaw.
“Really?” Sam finally says, and Dean sighs.
“Yeah, really.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” Dean glares at the phone. “You’ve been up my ass for months about this, and I’m givin’ in and suddenly it’s why?”
“Yeah, Dean, because I’ve been- Well, I’m not saying up your ass-“
“You’ve been rooting around in there like she was just gonna fall out-“
“Don’t be gross, dude-“
“I’m just tellin’ the truth-“
“You’re being a jerk.” Sam snaps. “So that I won’t ask more questions.”
Dean sighs, and you hide your smile. He likes to pretend to hate it when people know him too well. He gets all fake grumpy, when you predict him.
You’re never going to tell him how adorably predictable he actually is. You pretend to give him restaurants to chose from, but you know what he’ll pick the moment you see it. He always holds your hand, and always gets all puppy-dog excited over pie, and when you say what should we watch you’re already looking for his answer before he says it.
Dean’s a good, smart, handsome man, and he’s simple in the way that math is simple. There’s only ever one answer, and if you know it well enough there’s not that much work to do. It can take time to know him well. But it’s time well spent.
And Sam’s the only person in the world who has Dean figured out as well as you do. You’re still a little shocked Jess is the one who figured it out from a phone call. You’ve been worried that Dean would slip up in the way only Dean could, and Sam would sink his teeth into it and cut the case wide open.
The way he’s very close to doing right now.
“Look, Sammy-“
“Don’t do that.” Sam snaps over Dean. “I’m not a kid, Dean. You’re being weird.”
“I’m not bein’ weird-“
“You’re calling me at one in the morning, about meeting your fake girlfriend-“
“She’s not-“ Dean groans, and it echoes in your chest a little. “She’s not fake, alright? And you’re not gonna be meeting her.”
“You just said-“
“I said it involves that. Not that it was gonna happen.”
“Dean, you can’t just- You have to tell me what the fuck you mean, you know I hate surprises-“
“Well,” Dean’s voice drops under his breath. “There’s no other good freakin’ way to do this.”
“What?”
“I said it ain’t a surprise, Sammy.” He raises his voice again, giving you and Jess a tired look. “I’m tellin’ you, right now. After Benny’s, I’m heading over to you, and we’ll- We’ll work something out, alright? I want you to know.”
“Hm.” Sam still sounds doubtful. “Why.”
“’Cause.” Dean snaps. Sam scoffs.
“That’s not a good reason, Dean-“
“Well, it’s the one you’re gonna get. You can go all CIA on my ass after, alright? I’m there in one week, whether you like it or not.”
Sam sighs. “Dude, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Dean frowns. “Why the hell not? I visit you all the time.”
Jess tenses, mouth falling open. She looks frantic all of a sudden, leaning forward.
“Mom and Dad are coming out.” Sam mutters, and Jess swears, slumping back down.
“I forgot.” She whispers to you, but you barely hear it.
You’re too busy looking at Dean.
He’s pale in the face and red in the ears. His jaw is tight, a vein in his brow ticking. You mouth his name, pressing your foot into his stomach gently. He squeezes you three times, but there’s a hollow gleam in his eyes.
You don’t have to. You mouth, but Dean shakes his head.
Something in his gaze steels. He clears his throat, and his voice is rougher than before.
“Good. Family reunion.”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I’m an adult. So is Dad. And-” He sighs, looking purely at you. “Was gonna have to introduce her eventually.”
“I know, but- Maybe not now-“
“Nope. Now. Next week. Lookin’ forward to it.”
“Dean-“
“”s late. Night, Sammy.”
Dean hangs up the phone, and you sigh. Jess doesn’t try to stop you, when you detangle yourself and make your way over to his side. You wrap your hands lightly around his neck, your fingers brushing on the hair at his nape. His eyes flutter closed. You give him a small smile.
“I forgot they were coming, Dean.” Jess mutters from behind you. “I would’ve told you to wait a week, I’m sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You answer for him, watching his brow knit tight. “We’ll figure it out.”
You will. You have to tell Sam eventually, and if you keep waiting, it puts Jess at risk of his anger too. It’s one thing for her to give you a week deadline before you tell him. It’s another for this to turn into a secret she has to keep too.
Jess leaves soon after, hugging you and mumbling another apology. You’re not as worried about it as she seems to be. It’s not going to be easy, but Dean’s stronger than people give him credit for. He lived under John’s roof for years. He’ll survive one dinner, and then he’ll come home, and he can tell you everything that happened and you can kiss all over his face and make him feel better.
He’s still in the chair, when you walk back into the living room. You smile softly, walking between his legs. He grabs your waist without opening his eyes, his voice low and under his breath.
“I’m alright, sweetheart-“
“I know.” You murmur, combing your fingers through his hair. “I didn’t think you weren’t.”
Dean looks at you under lidded eyes. You keep you smile even, and he lets out a long sigh.
“He wasn’t that bad.”
“Okay.”
“He wasn’t-“
“I said okay.”
Dean grunts, shifting to lean forwards. His face presses into your stomach, his hands dragging down to hug you around your ass. You keep petting his head, humming to yourself as you wait.
“I don’t want ‘im near you.” Dean mutters finally, and you sigh.
“I thought you said he wasn’t that bad?”
Dean pinches the back of your thigh, and you squeal.
“Dean-“
“You always gonna get this mouthy after I fuck you?”
His drawl is low. Deep. It rolls through your body like thunder and heats your cheeks, a burning ache pooling between your thighs. You narrow your eyes.
“Nice try.”
He sighs, and presses his face back into your stomach. “Wasn’t tryin’ anything.”
His thick fingers trail up the back of your thigh, leaving excited, lingering goosebumps in their wake. You swallow your little squeak, but can’t stop the tug of his hair.
“Dean.”
“Hm?” He kisses under your breast, and you let out a slow breath.
“You- You can’t just-“
“Yeah, I can.” He mouths higher, tongue flicking over your nipple through your shirt. You lean over him, nails scratching at his scalp.
“I- I wanna talk about it-“
“Nothin’ to talk about.”
“But-“
“They’re not meetin’ you.” Dean mutters, dark and low. “Maybe Mom, after Sammy. But- He’s not getting close.”
“I’ll have to meet him eventually-“
“Yeah. But not now.”
“De.” You tug him back, and he lets you. Even as he grabs a handful of your ass.
His eyes are hooded. Exhausted in the way only Dean can be, where you think he must be loading his shoulders with invisible bricks and still trying to carry you as well. You want to carry him.
“It’s okay if it was bad.” You say softly. He works his jaw, and you lean down, letting your noses bump. “I don’t care.”
That makes his lips twitch. “You don’t care?”
Your eyes widen. “No, I- I care, I just- It doesn’t- I don’t love you less-“
Dean grabs the back of your neck, and pulls you down into a long, deep kiss. You hum, melting over his chest. Suddenly you’re straddling his thigh and pushing him back down into the chair cushions. He holds you steady, running his fingers through your hair and smiling against your lips.
“I know, Princess.” He leans back, kissing you softly between every word. “You just get real cute when you freak out.”
You grunt, grabbing at the collar of his shirt. “You’re such a butt-“
“I’m your butt.” He smacks your ass lightly and you squeak, pushing further into his thigh. “And you’re mine.”
That ignites an almost feverish heat through your body. You have something teasing about you being his butt, but Dean squeezes your ass again and drags you down for another kiss, and you’re getting a little dizzy.
“Dean,” you breathe out, and he chuckles.
“Thought you wanted to talk about it, baby?”
“I- I do-“
“You do what?” He starts trailing open mouth kisses down your neck. Your hips are rolling weakly, seeking any kind of pressure and relief against his leg.
“I wanna talk-“
“We are talkin’-“
“No, I- I wanna-“
“You wanna help me.” Dean murmurs, kissing up to your ear. “I know, Princess. My sweet girl.”
He shoves his knee up, right as you grind down again. You whimper, pressing your face against the side of his head.
“You are helping. Just like this.” He turns, kissing your cheek, then your slack, panting mouth.
You try to shake your head. “You- You don’t- When I need help-“
“Everyone’s different.” Dean mutters. “This, you-“ He squeezes your waist. “All I need.”
And God, you believe him. Dean grabs your jaw and kisses you like a starved man. His tongue pushes its way between your lips, his grip tight enough that you could slip out of you tried, but it’s a silent order not to. This is where Dean wants you. Where he can feel you.
“You’re so soft, Princess.” He murmurs, and you hum against his lips. “So damn needy, too. If people saw this, they’d think I hadn’t touched you in months.”
You make a disgruntled noise, hips rolling mindlessly down onto his thigh. He didn’t touch you for months. You’re making up for lost time, if anything.
“No one else makes you feel like this, do they?” Dean’s voice drops to a growl, his fingers digging into your hips and ass. “No one else gets to see my baby, so fuckin’ desperate.”
You shake your head, grinding down faster and faster. Your thighs are starting to falter and ache. That new, hot pressure is building in your abdomen, and you scratch at Dean’s shoulders, trying to pull them to move faster. His bulge is pressing through his sweatpants, right against your inner thigh. When you roll your hips just right, the head of his cock hits your drooling pussy, and you see stain when you move away.
“Say it,” Dean mutters, and when your eyes flick up, he’s watching you like he’s never seen anything better in his life. “Say who’s makin’ you feel good, sweetheart. Who’s making my good girl so fuckin’ messy-“
“You.” You breathe out, looking at him with pleading eyes. “You, Dean- Deaaaan-“
Your words fall of in a moan, as you’re rewarded with a sharp, harsh kiss. Dean’s grip on you tightens, enough that if you weren’t left with handprints before, you’re certainly going to have them now. You pant out his name in short gasps, as he guides your hips against his crotch. He moans, low and rough in your year. It sparks more and more heat between your thighs.
His kisses are sloppy and harsh. His teeth scrape, as he sucks on your neck, leaving another mark you’re not going to want to hide the morning.
“That’s it, Princess,” he mutters between kisses, and your back arches, your eyes glazed and vision swimming with pleasure. “C’mon, gimme what I want.”
You whimper, pulling at his hair. He just moans louder, pinning you against his crotch as he ruts up against your pussy.
“So soft, baby, so fuckin’ good for me- Come on-“
“De- Dean-“ Your vision is going white. His hand dips under your shirt, thick fingers dragging up your sides, and it sends hot, perfect shivers through your already sensitive body. “Dean- I- I’m-“
“I know.” He growls, biting right under your jaw. “Easy fuckin’ girl, barely even did anything and you’re gonna cum all over me-“
“Dean-“ You gasp, face burning. You’re almost blubbering. You have no fucking idea how he does this to you, every time. “Please-“
“Now, baby, show me what I’m doin’ to you, show me how good it feels-“
You obey without even thinking about it. Even if you wanted to hold on longer, your body wouldn’t have let you. It follows Dean’s thick, demanding words, and shatters under his hands. You spasm, grinding weakly down against his twitching cock. Your head rolls, your mouth hanging open as you babble out his name, sudden tears of pleasure streaming down your cheeks.
Dean leans back, keeping his hold steady on you as he pulls his cock out of his sweats. You lick your lips at the sight of it, big and angry and so hard. Dean groans your name, dropping your brows together and pumping himself with rough, smacking strokes. Your fingers twitch to touch him. You might be drooling at the sight of him, chest heaving and gaze searing into you.
He moans your name, as he cums. It splatters a little over your shirt and hands, and you don’t expect it to be so hot.
Curiosity gets the better of you. Dean’s catching his breath, massaging your sides and watching you closely, and you take the quiet second to test a theory.
You like Dean’s cum off your fingers, and hum in surprise. It’s salty, and earthy, and you don’t hate it. You gather a little more on your thumb, and suck on that too.
Dean makes a deep, feral sound, and you jump in surprise as he smashes his mouth against yours.
“My girl,” he grunts, tugging on your hair to deepen the angle. “Jesus, you got no idea what you do to me.”
And you might have some insecurities, but you have an idea. If the fact that he’s kissing you like this isn’t enough, the way he carries you back to bed, helps you change, and tucks you into his chest is.
“I love you,” you whisper, watching him in the dark.
He smiles, and leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Love you too, Princess.”
You hum, and in the background your phone buzzes. You don’t bother to look at it right now. Dean’s right here, and warm, and yours. He holds you tight and kisses your nose before he knocks out, the rumble of his chest like white noise. You trace his features with your eyes for a while, before passing out yourself.
When you wake up, there’s golden sunlight coming through the curtains. It makes Dean look like he has a halo, and the crook of his nose makes him seem like a Greek god. You smile to yourself, just watching him for a while. When you roll over to check your phone, Dean grumbles and drags you back against his chest. You giggle, his lips grazing your neck. At least he doesn’t drool. Then he’d entirely just be a massive, slobbering dog.
You’d love him anyway.
There’s only one notification from last night. A text from Sam.
Hey, my family’s in town next week. You wanna come to dinner with us? My mom really wants to meet you.
Dean will be there. I promise he won’t be weird.
Please. It’ll help Jess.
Fuck.
Oh-
Fuck.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes, and you really can’t say no, and-
“Just tell ‘im yes.” Dean mutters in your ear, and you blink.
“You said you didn’t want me near your dad-“
“He won’t be near you.” Dean mutters. “Knew Sammy was gonna want you to meet ‘em. Not happenin’ when I ain’t there.”
You sigh. “De, are you-“
“’m sure.” He yawns, pressing his face back into your shoulder. “You and Jess, one night. Killin’ two bird with one stone, y’know.”
You frown. “What?”
Dean snores in response, and you sigh. He’s like a fucking bulldozer.
You text Sam that you’ll go. You don’t have much of a choice.
Meeting the parents. Not that big a deal, when they don’t even know you’re dating Dean. You’re just the third wheel friend. They’ll be paying more attention to Jess, and Dean will be there, and it’ll be fine.
Oh. You squeeze your eyes shut, because oh. You have another problem. On that will wait for morning, but still has to happen.
You need to tell your dad about Dean.
✦Part 8✦
✦End note: dean when wife ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 6✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: jess confronts you and dean ✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: we're back again! i love them✦
Dean’s shirt doesn’t feel long enough anymore. You clench the fabric between your hands and turn it in your fingers, trying to pull it down and apart all at once. Maybe you can shrink into it like a turtle, and Jess’ sharp gaze won’t burn through you like a cigarette on a leaf.
She’s looking at Dean like she wants to kill him. He’s got one hand reaching behind him to steady you, and another curled at his side. You reach out to grab his shoulder, and his shoulders relax slightly. He remains planted in front of you, though. Protecting your modesty.
You try and pull the shirt down further, and step fully behind his back. You’re not afraid of Jess. You’re more worried Dean’s going to work himself up into passing out, and you’re going to have to catch him.
“Jess,” Dean starts, squeezing your wrist tighter. Like he’s trying to make sure you don’t slip away. “This- It isn’t what it looks like-“
“Really?” Jess snaps, and you drop your face into Dean’s shoulder with a sigh.
You love the man. He can be a bit of a dumbass sometimes.
“This isn’t what it looks like?” Jess waves between you and Dean. “Is that really what you’re going with, Winchester? That this is just some misunderstanding?”
“I- uh-“
“You were on the phone with Sam three hours ago. You told him you were in Louisiana, this is not Louisiana-“
“I know that-“
“You told him your girlfriend knew where you were-“
“Hey, she does-“
“Ha!” Jess points at him with an almost manic grin. “Because your girlfriend is right here!”
Her finger turns to you, and Dean tenses. He steps right in front of you, grip tightening, and narrows his eyes.
“Don’t point at her.”
Jess blinks, and you squeeze his shoulder lightly.
“De, I’m okay-“
“No. You’re pissed at me, fine. Be pissed. But she did nothing wrong.”
“Nothing-“ Jess scoffs, though there’s something in the sound that’s been dulled from before. “You both have been lying to Sam for months. To me for months. For- For years!” Her eyes widen. “Sam introduced you almost two years ago, you- You’ve been fucking the whole time-“
“No!” You jump in, leaning over Dean. “It’s not like that, it’s- We haven’t been dating the whole time- It’s only- Dean-“
“Seven months.” Dean mutters. “Two weeks, four days.”
“Exactly- That’s not-“ You cut yourself off, giving him an amused look. “You know the days?”
“Course I know the days.”
“It’s- Dean, I don’t know the days-“
“You’re bad at time, ‘s why I set all those alarms.”
“No, you set the alarms because you forget things-“
“I never touched that app until you, baby.” Dean smirks, and you roll your eyes.
“You touched the app, don’t be dramatic-“
“Nope.” He squeezes your waist. You’re not even sure when his hand got there, but it makes you melt all the same. “Cross my heart. Never even knew what a timer was.”
“You- You knew-“
“Ask Charlie, she’ll tell you ‘bout my perfect internal clock.” He ducks down, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “’m like a pigeon, Princess.”
It’s difficult not to giggle and melt for him. You hold it together. “Pigeons have homing instincts. Not clocks.”
“Hm- Fine. I’m like an owl.”
“That’s- Time isn’t an owl thing either. Owls are wise, they like- Read books.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “Owls read books?”
“No, it’s- That’s the thing you see, in a cartoon, the owl reading the book.”
“Oh- Like that dork with the glasses in PBS.”
You nod, beaming up at him. “Yeah. Just like that.”
Dean grins, reaching up to cup your chin. Your smile widens, your face all hot under his hands, and he leans down, and-
“If you kiss in front of me, I’m going to vomit.”
Right. Jess.
She’s still glaring between you, but it’s with less fury than before. Like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle without the box, and realized halfway through she might be using the wrong pieces. Dean tucks you under his arm, his fingers tracing small shapes on your shoulder. At least he’s not trying to barricade you anymore. You like this better anyway. He’s the prettiest, softest, smartest set of armor in the world. You think he has more of a heartbeat than you do, sometimes. You know yours follows whatever rhythm his says is safe to beat.
“Look, we’ll- We can explain. Just-“ Dean sighs, dropping his face into your hair and taking a long, deep breath.
You smile nervously at Jess. She looks even more confused.
“Don’t tell Sammy.” Dean looks up again, his fingers splaying on your stomach. “Please.”
Jess glares between you. She crosses her arms and tilts her head, scanning you up and down like the answers she wants will be written all over your skin.
You’re sure, in a way, that they are. Dean was bold, for his it’s not what it looks like claim. You’re wearing his shirt and nothing else. He’s wearing his lazy night boxers, that are for when he’s too tired for pants. You’ve offered to help him wear his pants, if he’s cold. He always kisses your brow and mutters something about that being dangerous. You say it’s not dangerous, they’re pants. He says anything that’s got you touching me is dangerous, Princess. You remind him you touch him all the time. He grins—because he’s won the game you always lose, but he never gets any less proud of it—and murmurs exactly before ducking down for a kiss.
His lazy night boxers have little ducks on them. You bought them for him, because he reminds you of a duck. He tried to be offended by that, but he wears them all the time.
And they’re inside out. Like he’d shoved them on, because he had. And his hair is mussed up, and you’re holding his arm around your waist because there’s a pleasant, dull ache between your legs and you’ve never had to walk with it before. Dean’s boots are next to yours at the door. His jacket is tossed over the couch.
There’s nothing else this could be.
If Jess snaps that she’s going to tell Sam now, you’ll understand. You should’ve told him sooner. It’s your own fault, for not wanting the tiny, sacred blossom you’ve been growing with Dean to be touched by anything outside. You’ve been so worried it wasn’t going survive being in a real garden. That weeds would grow over it or winter would freeze it or the soil wouldn’t be rich enough.
But those were phantoms. Loud voices in your head that Dean was good at silencing.
And you should’ve told Sam.
“Jess-“
“Fine.” She cuts you off, looking up at the ceiling with a shake of her head. “But I want to hear him talk.”
She points at Dean, and you swallow. He can do this. He just has to not talk about how you just had sex, focus on the timeline, and it’ll be fine.
Dean swallows, pulling you tighter to his chest.
“I- Uh- Are you sure you don’t want her to talk- She talks real pretty, and-“
“I listen to her talk all the time.” Jess tips her chin up, eyes locked on Dean. “Think of it as in-law bonding.”
“In-law bonding?” Dean stands a little taller. “Oh, that’s awesome, did you and Sammy- Oof-“
You elbow him right in the gut, and he doubles over with a groan. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you rub his forearm while smiling at Jess.
“No ring,” you hiss, low enough for only Dean to hear.
He grunts, kissing the top of your throat. “Thanks, baby.”
You hum, and give Jess another winning smile. She just raises her brows, an unimpressed expression painted on her face.
And you realize, as you all settle on the couch, that right now Dean isn’t just Sam’s brother. He’s also the secret boyfriend Jess has been grinding you down into showing her. The one she’s wanted to gnash at and rip up, to see if he’s made of something she deems worthy enough.
For a second, you’re glad you didn’t tell Sam. Doing this with both of them might’ve actually killed Dean.
“Seven months.” Jess starts slowly, glaring between you.
Dean’s still holding your hand. Your thighs are pressed together. You made the careful call not to sit on his lap or lean any closer than you needed to.
“Yep.” Dean gives her that boyish, charming smile. It’s the one he uses on you, to get what he wants.
He’s been spoiled, by how much you love him. How easily you fold. Jess doesn’t even blink.
“How.”
“How, uh-“ Dean frowns. “How’s it been seven months?”
“How did it start, dumbass.”
“Oh. I- Um- I flew out to visit her. And- We went to the zoo and kissed. But she kissed me.” He adds quickly. You’re worried he’s going to cramp his hand, with how tight he’s holding yours. “I wasn’t gonna make a move, but- We got caught in the rain, and that makes girls romantic-“
“That makes girls romantic-“’
“Me. It makes me romantic.” Dean sits taller. A terrified soldier at attention. “I got really romantic, and- I wooed her into kissin’ me. Would’ve have happened if I wasn’t throwing off signals. And- Hormones, like an ant-“
“Pheromones.” You whisper, and Dean nods frantically.
“But- The ant-“
“That was right.” You offer him a small smile. “But I think you’re talking about bird dancing. Ant pheromones are for communication.”
“Oh. Cool.” Dean grins at you, then at Jess. “You see why I took her to the zoo? Little freakin’ nerd.”
“I am not a nerd-“
“Yes, you are.” Dean grabs your chin, squeezing it gently. “No pouting, sweetheart. Makes you too cute.”
Your nose wrinkles, and your face twists into a mock sneer. Dean laughs, and leans down to kiss you.
Jess hits him with a pillow. He squawks like a bird, twisting his back to shield you from more fluffy projectiles, and you giggle.
“I thought I told you not to talk?” Jess snaps at you—though with far less venom than she’s been using on Dean—and you give her an apologetic smile.
“Do you want me to leave the-“
“No.” Dean—his face pressed into your breasts, his arms around your stomach—sits back up. “No, you- You stay. I’ll behave, I’ll even-“ He sits on his hands, giving Jess a hopeful look. “See? No touching.”
“Hm.” Jess lets out a long breath. “Fine. Keep going. Zoo.”
“Right. Zoo.” Dean rocks on his hands, face scrunched as he thinks. He looks like a scolded toddler, trying to think of a way to explain why they ate the last cookie.
You’re a little worried that the harder he thinks, the more he’s going to talk himself out of telling very simple, easy truths.
“Why were you at the zoo?” Jess prompts tightly.
Dean frowns. “Cause she wanted to go to the zoo?”
“No, I- How did you end up at the zoo here. Like- Physically?”
“Oh.” Dean shrugs. “I drove.”
“From Chicago?”
“Yeah. I usually drive. I’ll, uh-“ He glances at you. “I take the I-90, then stick south-west, lotta backroads depending-“
“Dean, I don’t care about your route-“
“I know, I’m just- I get here in like three days, drivin’ real fast. And safe.” He adds quickly. “I drive safe, Princess. I’m the most law abiding guy out there.”
You shake your head, turning to hide your smile. Jess leans forward, still frowning.
“You drive for three days.” She says slowly. “Just to get to California.”
“I mean- Yeah.”
“Where’s your car right now?”
“Back in Chicago.” Dean shrugs. “Flew in, just this one time. Emergency.”
“Emergency?” Jess frowns, looking to you. “What- Are you okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. I- I’m okay.”
“What happened, I- Why didn’t you tell us-“
“I was- Um- I wanted to-“
“But you didn’t, you called Dean-“
“It was- I needed him.” You give her a pleading look. “You- I know you would’ve helped. I- I needed Dean.”
Jess’ frown deepens. She looks Dean up and down, and he sits taller. You know she’s trying to imagine what he has, that she and Sam don’t.
That would make him worth lying about.
Because she’s mad Dean lied to his brother. To her boyfriend.
But you also lied to her. And you’re her friend.
“He dropped everything.” You say softly, and Jess looks at you suspiciously.
You know you’re not supposed to talk. You’re going to anyway.
“I called him, I told him not to come, but- He asked if I needed him- He made me tell him I needed him- And I did, and he came. And I needed him. I love you,” you give her a soft smile. “You don’t call me when you need Sam.”
Jess’ nose twitches. Something in the lines of her face softens. “Sam and I have been together for three years.”
“I know.”
“I’ve known you for three years-“
“I know-“
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jess whispers, her eyes tired and pained. “If you asked me not to, I wouldn’t have told him. I mean- I would’ve been pissed about it, but-“
“You would’ve hated it.” You lean forward, holding onto Dean’s knee. “You would’ve thought about telling Sam all the time, I didn’t want to do that to you.”
Jess’ throat bobs. She laughs softly, glancing at Dean, then back to you. “He’s going to be pissed.”
“Yeah.” You sigh. “I know.”
“God, he- He literally promised Sam he wouldn’t do this.” Jess gives Dean a stern look, and you frown.
“Do what, date me?”
“Chase after you.” Jess shrugs. “Sam was real worried you were just another hookup-“
“She’s not.” Dean grabs your hand on his knee. “I haven’t slept around since we started talking. Couldn’t even get it up anymore, after I met her. Swear on my car.”
Jess snorts. “So what, you were just celibate for a year-“
“Yeah. I was.”
Dean holds Jess’ untrusting look. She looks between you again, features pinched slightly, and lets out a long, sharp breath.
“Jesus, Sam is going to-“
“Kill us.” Dean smirks. “He can try. He might got a few inches on me now, I but I don’t go down easy, Jess. I’m scrappy.”
“Scrappy?” You echo, smiling up at him, and he shrugs.
“I fight dirty. He pretends to bite your nose, then kisses it. “You know that.”
He tickles you side, and you smack him almost in the face. Dean laughs, wrapping his arm fully around your stomach and pulling you into his chest. You fall back into the couch cushions, half in his lap, and give Jess a nervous smile. She’s staring at you both like she’s seen a ghost. You can’t really blame her.
“We’re going to tell Sam.” You tell her. “I promise.”
Dean holds you back like a seatbelt, as you try to sit up. You twist to glare at him, and he’s got that charming, boyish smile. He leans up to kiss your shoulder, and you don’t understand how Jess manages to be immune to him. This whole mess could’ve been avoided, if you didn’t fold like a towel under his attention. Letting him shape you into where he needs you to be, absorbing up everything he gives you, even trying to get tossed over his shoulder, because those big hands on the back of your thighs make you so dizzy and stupid you might as well be high.
He drags his thumb in small circles, staring up at you adoringly, and you give in. You always give in.
Jess still doesn’t look wholly convinced, when you collapsed back against Dean’s chest. You wrap your arms around your stomach, trying to breathe through your nose. This will be fine. This will be fine.
“You’re happy.” Jess murmurs, and you try to push back your smile.
It’s not a question. Dean doesn’t let it be a question. Either you’re already happy, or Dean comes and makes you happy.
“Is he respectful?” She asks you, and Dean tenses.
“I’m a freakin’ gentleman-“
“I didn’t ask you, Winchester.” Jess shots him a daggered glare, and he slumps back into the cushions. Jess says your name. “Is he respectful?”
“Very.” You say quickly. “He’s chivalrous.”
You lean your head back to smile at him. He’s beaming so proudly, you’re worried his head is going to pop.
“Hm.” Jess’ nose twitches. “How long did he wait after that visit to ask you out.”
“A year. And- I called him. If that helps.”
Jess pauses. “How the hell did you get his number?”
“He left it for me?”
Jess’ gaze snaps to Dean, and he winces. The way he’s adjusting you in his arms, you could swear he’s hiding behind you.
“Dean-“
“Hey, I wasn’t allowed to ask for her number, so- No rules broken-“
“That’s not the point, he didn’t- It wasn’t about semantics-“
“I don’t know what that word means-“
“Yes, you do.” You cover Dean’s mouth, frowning at Jess. “And- Why wasn’t Dean allowed to ask for my number?”
Jess pales. Like she’s just realizing what she’s been saying—what she’s been implying—and that you have fucking ears.
No rules broken. He promised Sam he wouldn’t do this. Chase after you.
“Did Sam tell him not to?” You ask softly, and Jess sighs.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Maybe-“
“He did. But- He knows his brother, alright? And Dean-“ She gives him a look. “You’d never been serious about a relationship before-“
“I’m serious about this.” He mutters, fingers curling against your stomach. “And I’m not- That ain’t something that’s gonna change.”
“He flew on a plane for me.” You say softly, and Jess sighs.
“Yeah. I got that. But- He swore to Sam he wasn’t gonna try anything, then- You lied to his face-“
“It was new, Jess.” Dean’s voice is heavier than before. Cautious, his body almost rooted into yours. Like he’s worried Jess is going to try and rip you away. “If I told him we were talking, he woulda made me promise not to date her. If I told him we were dating, he would’ve told her all kinds of horror stories ‘bout me in high school and shit. That ain’t fair.”
Jess winces. “He- He does want you to be happy-“
“But he thinks she’s too good for me.”
“He’d never-“
“Yes, he would.” Dean sighs, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “And he’s right. But we’re not the one who makes the call.”
He and Jess stare at each other, and you shrink a little further back into Dean’s chest. You’re not too good for him. He’s too good for you. He’s too good for everyone. He’s like a perfect man they made in a factory, warm and thick and sweeter than every other sugary thin you love so much. You worry sometimes, that you get too greedy for him, but there’s no end to it. To him, and his soft, firm hands.
Sam almost stopped you from having him.
You should be furious about that. But every time a little anger sparks, it’s stomped out by a downpour that’s heavier. That fills up your chest and almost pushes out of your eyes.
If you hadn’t lied to Sam, you wouldn’t have Dean.
Jess says your name, and you blink away the threatening tears.
“Is it worth it?” She asks softly.
You nod without a single thought. Jess sighs.
“There are- Like so many other men-“
“So?”
She gives you a flat look. “I have friends! I could’ve set you up, if you were this desperate-“
“Hey.” Dean frowns. “I’m the whole package, kid-“
“I’m sure you are, banana pants-“
“They’re ducks-“
“Dean.” You give him a stern look, and he goes silent. You look back to Jo. “Don’t be mean to him. He’s sensitive.”
Dean scowls, grumbling under his breath. “No, I’m not-“
“Yes, you are.” You run your fingers through his hair—it’s getting long, and he’s going to try and make you cut it but maybe you’ll just tell him no—and smile. Dean grunts, dropping his face into your shoulder. His lips graze the crook of your neck.
Jess looks like she’s being torn in half.
“I love him.” You say, soft and quiet. “I- I’ve never- I don’t want anyone else.”
Dean smiles against your skin. Jess groans like she’s being tortured.
“Seven months?” She mutters, and you nod.
“We were calling at lot before that, but- He was just hitting on me-“
“Were you hitting on him back?”
“I, um- I think I was trying-“
“She’s bad at it.” Dean chuckles, propping his chin on your shoulder. “It’s fuckin’ adorable. Like watchin’ a baby bird trying to fly. Couldn’t even get outta the nest.”
You sigh, leaning your head back against his. “You’re bad at metaphors.”
“I’m amazing at everything.” He teases, and you snort, shaking your head.
“Mhm.”
“I am. Makes me a good housewife, if you got an opening.”
You roll your eyes, still smiling stupidly, and look back to Jess.
“He does my laundry. And cleans, and brings me things, and-“
“I carry her around-“
“I don’t ask you to do that-“
“Yeah, but I love doin’ it.” He kisses your cheek. “You ass goes right next to my face-“
“Okay!” Jess shouts, slumping back into her chair. “I get it, you’re- This is… Something.”
It’s more than something. It’s the best thing you’ve ever had in your life. The only thing you’ve ever been certain of, because the Earth shifts and the ground under your feet slips and Dean’s more unmovable than a mountain. Now doesn’t feel like the best time to tell Jess that.
“I love him.” You say instead. “He cooks for me.”
Jess’ eyes widen. “He cooks for you?” She looks to Dean. “You can’t cook!”
Dean frowns. “Who says I can’t cook? Sam?”
“I- When you come out to visit, he always tells me we have to go to restaurants-“
“Yeah, ‘cause I like tryin’ new food. I can cook.”
“And bake.” You say quickly, and Jess starts, like she’s just putting things together.
“Oh my god, he made the cupcakes.”
“I told you that-“
“Yeah, but I didn’t- That’s-“ she gapes at Dean. “You’ve been leaving all those hickeys, and- The chocolates-“
Dean tenses. “You, uh- You didn’t read the card, did you-“
“It’s in my room.” You murmur, and he lets out a sharp breath.
Jess shakes her head, frowning between you. “God, Sam’s going to- I won’t tell him.” She points at you and Dean, eyes narrowed. “Because I love you,” she ignores Dean all together. “And I think Sam likes having not murdered anyone. But you,” her gaze snaps to Dean. “Are going to call him right now and say that after Benny’s you’re driving up to California.”
Dean swallows. “That’s, uh- Long drive-“
“You’re not actually making it, genius.” Jess rolls her eyes. “I’m giving you a week to figure out what the hell you’re going to tell him, and then I’m telling him myself.”
You look back to Dean. He grimaces, but shrugs. It’s the best deal you’re going to get. You can even figure out an escape plan, in case Sam does try to kill him. Dean knows how to throw a punch—and less scrapy than brutally strong—but you don’t think he’ll stand a chance against Sam. Mostly because Sam will lunge to rip out his throat, and Dean will refuse to lay a single hand on his baby brother.
“Deal.” Dean grins at Jess. Her lips don’t even twitch.
“Good. Call him.”
“Uh- Now?”
“Yep.”
“I dunno, it’s late-“
“He’s awake.”
You pause. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Yep. I told him you had a book I wanted, and I was going to pick it up.” She grimaces. “Got caught in traffic. Thank fuck.”
Her gaze darts to your bare thighs, pulled to your chest and resting between Dean’s legs. You flush. You’re also glad she got caught in traffic.
“My, uh- My phone is in your room.” Dean squeezes your knee. “Baby, can you…”
You nod, and roll off Dean’s lap. He lingers for a second, brushing a kiss over your brow before dragging himself away. You smile like a fool, hugging yourself tighter. If you don’t, your heart it going to spill like honey all over the floor in front of Jess.
She’s still watching you suspiciously, when Dean goes to grab his phone. You clear your throat, face burning, and she sighs.
“You really love him?”
You nod, and almost apologize for it—it’s not your fault, how are you supposed to not love Dean, but you feel bad anyway—before Jess laughs.
“I told him.”
You blink. “You told Dean I love him?”
“No,” she snorts. “I told Sam. That this was going to happen.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again, and shake your head. You didn’t know this was going to happen. Dean had just appeared and suddenly the universe had shifted into better colors than you’d even see before. You’d been blind for so long, it had been like a firework hitting you square in the chest.
There was no way for Jess to know it was going to do that.
“What?”
Jess rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “When Dean came down that first time, I told him not to introduce you.”
Your lips pull tight. “Why- Why would you do that-“
“Because Sam loves him, but- He loves you too. And Dean- You know what he was like. Before.”
You swallow, shrinking into yourself. You know too well. You try not to think about it, because it puts a sour taste in your mouth. Vile thoughts and pictures flash through your head like bullets, demanding that you remember Dean’s experience. That he’s always going to have some other girl waiting for him in the corner of a bar, and if he gets tired of you, he just has to drop you on the floor and wave her over.
He’d never do that. Not to you. If for some horrible, horrible reason Dean ever does get sick of you—and no matter how much he reassures you he won’t, there’s always that tiny voice, because you’re sick of you all the time—he’d never hurt you over it. But there’s always that phantom. The smiles of girls when you go to bars. The fact that sometimes when you kiss him, you know he’s so good at it because he had practice.
When you were under him, he knew what to do because he’d done it countless times. And you’d just lain there, looking up at him like he was a god. Useless. If he wanted something warm to fuck, he could get a fleshlight instead. It would cry less, and he wouldn’t need to care for it after, and-
“Hey.” Jess touches your hand, and you swallow.
Tears had been burning at your eyes. You sniff, wiping your nose, and Jess flinches, face tight with guilt.
“I’m not- I didn’t think Dean would just try to sleep with you,” she says softly. “Sam did. I told him not to introduce you two because I thought it would end like this,” she nods to where Dean had disappeared through the door. “And he said the worst that happens is Dean tries to sleep with her, and I kill him.”
“He didn’t.” You mumble, staring at Jess’ hand. “I had to make him sleep with me. He kept trying to make it special, it was taking so fucking long.”
Jess laughs, and your lips tug up. She moves to sit next to you on the couch, and your knees bump.
“He’s good to me.” You whisper, dropping your head on her shoulder.
She sighs. “Yeah. I knew he would be.”
You smile at nothing, and Jess wraps her arm around your shoulders.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Mhm.” You count on your fingers. “Charlie- His roommate. All his coworkers. Benny, obviously-“
“Obviously.”
“Um- My friend Jo, but just because she caught us. And now you.”
Jess hums, frowning at the air. “Jo, she’s the one from your hometown?”
“Yeah.”
“Does your dad know?”
You snort, shaking you head. “De’s more afraid of him that he is of Sam.”
“Really? Your dad was so nice-“
“To you and Sam.” You give her a pointed look. “You aren’t fucking me.”
Jess laughs, and you pause. That was what you’d wanted to ask her about.
You lower your voice, even though the only other person who could hear is Dean.
“He’s really good at sex.” You whisper, and Jess’ eyes widen. “Is it a genetic thing? Is Sam good at it too?”
Jess’ face goes red. She clears her throat, and you study her carefully.
“I- Um-“ She shakes her head. “I mean, yes, but- He’s your first,” she says gently. “I mean, you don’t have a benchmark-“
“Oh. Hm.” You tilt your head. “How many times does Sam make you cum?”
Jess’ sighs, slumping into your side. “Like- two, usually.”
You nod. “Oh.”
“Oh?” She narrows her eyes. “What, Dean can’t be that good-“
You beam at her, and she scoffs.
“Whatever. At least mine can read.”
“Dean can read! He’s just- He likes to play stupid-“
“Play?” Jess grins at you. “Sam told me he almost got held back in fourth grade-“
“Because he couldn’t sit still. He was hyper, he needed to run around to focus-“
“Dean told me he can’t do calculus.”
“He doesn’t need to do calculous.” You grumble. “He’s a genius.”
Jess shakes her head, still smiling. “Wow. He must be really good at sex.”
You shove her arm. “Dean says Sam used to cry when their mom moved the rocks in the garden.”
“He liked them in order.” Jess says defensively. “You do the same thing-“
“I’m very annoying.”
“Sam’s not annoying-“
“I didn’t say he was.” You shrug. “Interesting, that you thought of it though-“
Jess pushes you, and you laugh.
“Sam can’t eat anything but butter noodles.”
“He’s- He doesn’t care about food, okay? His brain goes to other things.” She glares at you. “Dean eats like a racoon.”
You giggle, leaning back into her shoulder. “He told me he and Sam used to eat grass.”
Jess sighs. “Yeah, I know. I think mine ate it more.”
“At least he didn’t eat dog food.”
“That- He actually did that?”
“Yep.” You shake your head. “He says it was a dare.”
“He knows he doesn’t have to do those, right?”
“Nope. I’m worried Charlie’s going to call me one day and say he’s lost in the woods because she dared him to be or something.”
“You should put a tracker on him.”
You snort. “He’d find it.”
“I’d find what?” Dean reappears in the doorway, glaring at Jess. “You took my seat.”
Jess sticks out her tongue. “I was here first.”
“No you weren’t- I-“ He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
You giggle, as he shuffles over to the chair. You stretch out your legs, resting then in his lap, and he rubs your ankle with a small grin.
“What am I gonna find?”
“Nothing-“
“A tracker.” You answer, and Jess glares at you.
“Why would you tell him-“
“Because he’d find it.” You shrug, and Dean puffs out his chest.
“Hell yeah, I would.” He pauses. “Why’re you talkin’ about trackers.”
“Jess wants me to put one on you.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “I’m not a freakin’ dog-“
“She’s worried you’re going to get lost in the woods.” Jess says, and Dean glares at you.
“I- I’m not gonna get lost in the woods-“
“You would if Charlie dared you to.” You nudge his thigh with your foot, and he sighs.
“I know how to get outta the woods, Princess.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I’m like a pigeon.” He grins. “I’d phone home. Back to you.”
He picks up your leg, kissing the inside of your ankle. You roll your eyes, your smile ditzy and gaze locked onto his. You’re glad Jess is next to you. Your shirt is riding enough up that Dean can see right between your legs, and you’re still not wearing underwear.
His gaze flashes with hunger when he sees it. A smirk pulls at his lips, and he rubs your calf in smooth, firm circles when he lowers your leg. You flush, trying not to squirm. It’s torture, knowing what he could do to you if he got you alone. It’s worse than when you were just imaging. You can picture those pretty, smug lips kissing up your inner thighs, over the sensitive skin around your core, before finding where you’re throbbing for him and-
“Call Sam.” Jess snaps, nodding to the phone in Dean’s hand. “Now.”
Dean sighs, slumping down in his chair. He taps on his phone, still rubbing your ankle, and you bite down a happy sigh.
The phone rings. You and Jess watch Dean carefully, but he doesn’t seem that nervous. He just rolls his neck, tipping his head back against the chair while he waits.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice cuts through the air. Dean’s grip tightens on your ankle.
“Hey, Sammy. You got some time?”
“Yeah, uh-“ Sam clears his throat. “It’s pretty late, but- Jess is out. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Jess is out?” Dean ignores the question. “Where’d she go?”
Jess glares at him, and he just smirks at the ceiling. You sigh, giving her an apologetic look. Dean, in all his glory and kindness, can still be a fucking butt.
Sam says your name. “Something about her having a book? I dunno, she seemed pissed about something.”
Jess cringes. You squeeze her hand.
“Huh.” Dean drawls, looking at you and Jess under his lashes. “Wonder what.”
You kick him, and he smirks, pinning your foot against his stomach.
“I don’t know, it was just- She was acting weird all evening. I’ll ask her when she gets home or something.” Sam sighs through the speaker. “Why are you calling me, Dean. It must be what, 1am there?”
“Yeah, uh- Just wanted to tell you the plan.”
“The plan? You don’t make plans.”
Dean frowns. “Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t. I call you and suddenly you’re on the road doing something-“
“Yeah, ‘cause I planned to be-“ Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Whatever, you wanna hear the plan or not?”
“Maybe. Does it involve me meeting your fake girl friend?”
“Yes, smartass. It does."
Sam goes silent for a moment. Dean picks up his head, frowning at you, and you give him a nervous look. He squeezes your foot three times, working his own jaw.
“Really?” Sam finally says, and Dean sighs.
“Yeah, really.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” Dean glares at the phone. “You’ve been up my ass for months about this, and I’m givin’ in and suddenly it’s why?”
“Yeah, Dean, because I’ve been- Well, I’m not saying up your ass-“
“You’ve been rooting around in there like she was just gonna fall out-“
“Don’t be gross, dude-“
“I’m just tellin’ the truth-“
“You’re being a jerk.” Sam snaps. “So that I won’t ask more questions.”
Dean sighs, and you hide your smile. He likes to pretend to hate it when people know him too well. He gets all fake grumpy, when you predict him.
You’re never going to tell him how adorably predictable he actually is. You pretend to give him restaurants to chose from, but you know what he’ll pick the moment you see it. He always holds your hand, and always gets all puppy-dog excited over pie, and when you say what should we watch you’re already looking for his answer before he says it.
Dean’s a good, smart, handsome man, and he’s simple in the way that math is simple. There’s only ever one answer, and if you know it well enough there’s not that much work to do. It can take time to know him well. But it’s time well spent.
And Sam’s the only person in the world who has Dean figured out as well as you do. You’re still a little shocked Jess is the one who figured it out from a phone call. You’ve been worried that Dean would slip up in the way only Dean could, and Sam would sink his teeth into it and cut the case wide open.
The way he’s very close to doing right now.
“Look, Sammy-“
“Don’t do that.” Sam snaps over Dean. “I’m not a kid, Dean. You’re being weird.”
“I’m not bein’ weird-“
“You’re calling me at one in the morning, about meeting your fake girlfriend-“
“She’s not-“ Dean groans, and it echoes in your chest a little. “She’s not fake, alright? And you’re not gonna be meeting her.”
“You just said-“
“I said it involves that. Not that it was gonna happen.”
“Dean, you can’t just- You have to tell me what the fuck you mean, you know I hate surprises-“
“Well,” Dean’s voice drops under his breath. “There’s no other good freakin’ way to do this.”
“What?”
“I said it ain’t a surprise, Sammy.” He raises his voice again, giving you and Jess a tired look. “I’m tellin’ you, right now. After Benny’s, I’m heading over to you, and we’ll- We’ll work something out, alright? I want you to know.”
“Hm.” Sam still sounds doubtful. “Why.”
“’Cause.” Dean snaps. Sam scoffs.
“That’s not a good reason, Dean-“
“Well, it’s the one you’re gonna get. You can go all CIA on my ass after, alright? I’m there in one week, whether you like it or not.”
Sam sighs. “Dude, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Dean frowns. “Why the hell not? I visit you all the time.”
Jess tenses, mouth falling open. She looks frantic all of a sudden, leaning forward.
“Mom and Dad are coming out.” Sam mutters, and Jess swears, slumping back down.
“I forgot.” She whispers to you, but you barely hear it.
You’re too busy looking at Dean.
He’s pale in the face and red in the ears. His jaw is tight, a vein in his brow ticking. You mouth his name, pressing your foot into his stomach gently. He squeezes you three times, but there’s a hollow gleam in his eyes.
You don’t have to. You mouth, but Dean shakes his head.
Something in his gaze steels. He clears his throat, and his voice is rougher than before.
“Good. Family reunion.”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I’m an adult. So is Dad. And-” He sighs, looking purely at you. “Was gonna have to introduce her eventually.”
“I know, but- Maybe not now-“
“Nope. Now. Next week. Lookin’ forward to it.”
“Dean-“
“”s late. Night, Sammy.”
Dean hangs up the phone, and you sigh. Jess doesn’t try to stop you, when you detangle yourself and make your way over to his side. You wrap your hands lightly around his neck, your fingers brushing on the hair at his nape. His eyes flutter closed. You give him a small smile.
“I forgot they were coming, Dean.” Jess mutters from behind you. “I would’ve told you to wait a week, I’m sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You answer for him, watching his brow knit tight. “We’ll figure it out.”
You will. You have to tell Sam eventually, and if you keep waiting, it puts Jess at risk of his anger too. It’s one thing for her to give you a week deadline before you tell him. It’s another for this to turn into a secret she has to keep too.
Jess leaves soon after, hugging you and mumbling another apology. You’re not as worried about it as she seems to be. It’s not going to be easy, but Dean’s stronger than people give him credit for. He lived under John’s roof for years. He’ll survive one dinner, and then he’ll come home, and he can tell you everything that happened and you can kiss all over his face and make him feel better.
He’s still in the chair, when you walk back into the living room. You smile softly, walking between his legs. He grabs your waist without opening his eyes, his voice low and under his breath.
“I’m alright, sweetheart-“
“I know.” You murmur, combing your fingers through his hair. “I didn’t think you weren’t.”
Dean looks at you under lidded eyes. You keep you smile even, and he lets out a long sigh.
“He wasn’t that bad.”
“Okay.”
“He wasn’t-“
“I said okay.”
Dean grunts, shifting to lean forwards. His face presses into your stomach, his hands dragging down to hug you around your ass. You keep petting his head, humming to yourself as you wait.
“I don’t want ‘im near you.” Dean mutters finally, and you sigh.
“I thought you said he wasn’t that bad?”
Dean pinches the back of your thigh, and you squeal.
“Dean-“
“You always gonna get this mouthy after I fuck you?”
His drawl is low. Deep. It rolls through your body like thunder and heats your cheeks, a burning ache pooling between your thighs. You narrow your eyes.
“Nice try.”
He sighs, and presses his face back into your stomach. “Wasn’t tryin’ anything.”
His thick fingers trail up the back of your thigh, leaving excited, lingering goosebumps in their wake. You swallow your little squeak, but can’t stop the tug of his hair.
“Dean.”
“Hm?” He kisses under your breast, and you let out a slow breath.
“You- You can’t just-“
“Yeah, I can.” He mouths higher, tongue flicking over your nipple through your shirt. You lean over him, nails scratching at his scalp.
“I- I wanna talk about it-“
“Nothin’ to talk about.”
“But-“
“They’re not meetin’ you.” Dean mutters, dark and low. “Maybe Mom, after Sammy. But- He’s not getting close.”
“I’ll have to meet him eventually-“
“Yeah. But not now.”
“De.” You tug him back, and he lets you. Even as he grabs a handful of your ass.
His eyes are hooded. Exhausted in the way only Dean can be, where you think he must be loading his shoulders with invisible bricks and still trying to carry you as well. You want to carry him.
“It’s okay if it was bad.” You say softly. He works his jaw, and you lean down, letting your noses bump. “I don’t care.”
That makes his lips twitch. “You don’t care?”
Your eyes widen. “No, I- I care, I just- It doesn’t- I don’t love you less-“
Dean grabs the back of your neck, and pulls you down into a long, deep kiss. You hum, melting over his chest. Suddenly you’re straddling his thigh and pushing him back down into the chair cushions. He holds you steady, running his fingers through your hair and smiling against your lips.
“I know, Princess.” He leans back, kissing you softly between every word. “You just get real cute when you freak out.”
You grunt, grabbing at the collar of his shirt. “You’re such a butt-“
“I’m your butt.” He smacks your ass lightly and you squeak, pushing further into his thigh. “And you’re mine.”
That ignites an almost feverish heat through your body. You have something teasing about you being his butt, but Dean squeezes your ass again and drags you down for another kiss, and you’re getting a little dizzy.
“Dean,” you breathe out, and he chuckles.
“Thought you wanted to talk about it, baby?”
“I- I do-“
“You do what?” He starts trailing open mouth kisses down your neck. Your hips are rolling weakly, seeking any kind of pressure and relief against his leg.
“I wanna talk-“
“We are talkin’-“
“No, I- I wanna-“
“You wanna help me.” Dean murmurs, kissing up to your ear. “I know, Princess. My sweet girl.”
He shoves his knee up, right as you grind down again. You whimper, pressing your face against the side of his head.
“You are helping. Just like this.” He turns, kissing your cheek, then your slack, panting mouth.
You try to shake your head. “You- You don’t- When I need help-“
“Everyone’s different.” Dean mutters. “This, you-“ He squeezes your waist. “All I need.”
And God, you believe him. Dean grabs your jaw and kisses you like a starved man. His tongue pushes its way between your lips, his grip tight enough that you could slip out of you tried, but it’s a silent order not to. This is where Dean wants you. Where he can feel you.
“You’re so soft, Princess.” He murmurs, and you hum against his lips. “So damn needy, too. If people saw this, they’d think I hadn’t touched you in months.”
You make a disgruntled noise, hips rolling mindlessly down onto his thigh. He didn’t touch you for months. You’re making up for lost time, if anything.
“No one else makes you feel like this, do they?” Dean’s voice drops to a growl, his fingers digging into your hips and ass. “No one else gets to see my baby, so fuckin’ desperate.”
You shake your head, grinding down faster and faster. Your thighs are starting to falter and ache. That new, hot pressure is building in your abdomen, and you scratch at Dean’s shoulders, trying to pull them to move faster. His bulge is pressing through his sweatpants, right against your inner thigh. When you roll your hips just right, the head of his cock hits your drooling pussy, and you see stain when you move away.
“Say it,” Dean mutters, and when your eyes flick up, he’s watching you like he’s never seen anything better in his life. “Say who’s makin’ you feel good, sweetheart. Who’s making my good girl so fuckin’ messy-“
“You.” You breathe out, looking at him with pleading eyes. “You, Dean- Deaaaan-“
Your words fall of in a moan, as you’re rewarded with a sharp, harsh kiss. Dean’s grip on you tightens, enough that if you weren’t left with handprints before, you’re certainly going to have them now. You pant out his name in short gasps, as he guides your hips against his crotch. He moans, low and rough in your year. It sparks more and more heat between your thighs.
His kisses are sloppy and harsh. His teeth scrape, as he sucks on your neck, leaving another mark you’re not going to want to hide the morning.
“That’s it, Princess,” he mutters between kisses, and your back arches, your eyes glazed and vision swimming with pleasure. “C’mon, gimme what I want.”
You whimper, pulling at his hair. He just moans louder, pinning you against his crotch as he ruts up against your pussy.
“So soft, baby, so fuckin’ good for me- Come on-“
“De- Dean-“ Your vision is going white. His hand dips under your shirt, thick fingers dragging up your sides, and it sends hot, perfect shivers through your already sensitive body. “Dean- I- I’m-“
“I know.” He growls, biting right under your jaw. “Easy fuckin’ girl, barely even did anything and you’re gonna cum all over me-“
“Dean-“ You gasp, face burning. You’re almost blubbering. You have no fucking idea how he does this to you, every time. “Please-“
“Now, baby, show me what I’m doin’ to you, show me how good it feels-“
You obey without even thinking about it. Even if you wanted to hold on longer, your body wouldn’t have let you. It follows Dean’s thick, demanding words, and shatters under his hands. You spasm, grinding weakly down against his twitching cock. Your head rolls, your mouth hanging open as you babble out his name, sudden tears of pleasure streaming down your cheeks.
Dean leans back, keeping his hold steady on you as he pulls his cock out of his sweats. You lick your lips at the sight of it, big and angry and so hard. Dean groans your name, dropping your brows together and pumping himself with rough, smacking strokes. Your fingers twitch to touch him. You might be drooling at the sight of him, chest heaving and gaze searing into you.
He moans your name, as he cums. It splatters a little over your shirt and hands, and you don’t expect it to be so hot.
Curiosity gets the better of you. Dean’s catching his breath, massaging your sides and watching you closely, and you take the quiet second to test a theory.
You like Dean’s cum off your fingers, and hum in surprise. It’s salty, and earthy, and you don’t hate it. You gather a little more on your thumb, and suck on that too.
Dean makes a deep, feral sound, and you jump in surprise as he smashes his mouth against yours.
“My girl,” he grunts, tugging on your hair to deepen the angle. “Jesus, you got no idea what you do to me.”
And you might have some insecurities, but you have an idea. If the fact that he’s kissing you like this isn’t enough, the way he carries you back to bed, helps you change, and tucks you into his chest is.
“I love you,” you whisper, watching him in the dark.
He smiles, and leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Love you too, Princess.”
You hum, and in the background your phone buzzes. You don’t bother to look at it right now. Dean’s right here, and warm, and yours. He holds you tight and kisses your nose before he knocks out, the rumble of his chest like white noise. You trace his features with your eyes for a while, before passing out yourself.
When you wake up, there’s golden sunlight coming through the curtains. It makes Dean look like he has a halo, and the crook of his nose makes him seem like a Greek god. You smile to yourself, just watching him for a while. When you roll over to check your phone, Dean grumbles and drags you back against his chest. You giggle, his lips grazing your neck. At least he doesn’t drool. Then he’d entirely just be a massive, slobbering dog.
You’d love him anyway.
There’s only one notification from last night. A text from Sam.
Hey, my family’s in town next week. You wanna come to dinner with us? My mom really wants to meet you.
Dean will be there. I promise he won’t be weird.
Please. It’ll help Jess.
Fuck.
Oh-
Fuck.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes, and you really can’t say no, and-
“Just tell ‘im yes.” Dean mutters in your ear, and you blink.
“You said you didn’t want me near your dad-“
“He won’t be near you.” Dean mutters. “Knew Sammy was gonna want you to meet ‘em. Not happenin’ when I ain’t there.”
You sigh. “De, are you-“
“’m sure.” He yawns, pressing his face back into your shoulder. “You and Jess, one night. Killin’ two bird with one stone, y’know.”
You frown. “What?”
Dean snores in response, and you sigh. He’s like a fucking bulldozer.
You text Sam that you’ll go. You don’t have much of a choice.
Meeting the parents. Not that big a deal, when they don’t even know you’re dating Dean. You’re just the third wheel friend. They’ll be paying more attention to Jess, and Dean will be there, and it’ll be fine.
Oh. You squeeze your eyes shut, because oh. You have another problem. On that will wait for morning, but still has to happen.
You need to tell your dad about Dean.
✦Part 8✦
✦End note: dean when wife ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
i don't believe in god, but i believe that you're my savior
when you live a life that never allows you to understand the existence of home, you start to find it in other places. people, too. dean winchester's home is the driver's side seat of the impala, and always with sam next to him. bunny norton's home is across an ocean, and preferably as far away from dean winchester as possible. when they asked her all those years ago for her help, she'd come running. but dean makes her wish every day that she hadn't stayed.
slow burn, enemies to lovers. they hate bang in chapter four, but that's just to add flavor to the hate. canon is followed whenever i feel like it, tags will be updated as story progresses. slightly OOC dean in the first few chapters bc i like when the pretty man angry…
previous chapter
vegas
3 months, 6 days, 2 hours
02:05:30
Dean woke up feeling like someone had split his skull open with a tire iron and packed the space behind his eyes with broken glass and cheap whiskey, the pain sharp and throbbing with every sluggish beat of his heart as consciousness dragged him unwillingly toward the surface.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. His face was half buried in something soft enough to swallow him whole, the pillow cool against his overheated skin, and every inch of his body felt heavy in that deep, unpleasant way that came from drinking far past the point of good decisions and straight into self-destruction. Somewhere beneath the pounding ache in his head, nausea rolled slowly and viciously through his stomach, warning him not to sit up too fast unless he wanted to repaint whatever room he’d crashed in the night before. Dean breathed through it, one hand creeping sluggishly up to press against his forehead while his brain attempted the slow, painful process of catching up to reality.
Vegas.
Right. Vegas.
Bits of it came back in disconnected fragments first, flickering loose through the fog in his head without context attached to them. Neon lights bleeding across rain-slick pavement. Bunny laughing somewhere beside him. Sam bitching about card counting while Dean ignored him on principle. Tequila. Too much tequila, apparently. He remembered music, loud enough to rattle through his ribs, remembered Bunny smoking beneath a canopy of lights while the desert wind tugged strands of dark hair across her mouth.
A low groan crawled out of him before he could stop it, muffled into the pillow. Jesus Christ.
Dean Winchester did not get hungover anymore. Not really. Years of drinking enough liquor to kill lesser men had built him into something half-pickled and chemically preserved, his body usually capable of bouncing back after a few hours and a greasy breakfast, no matter how ugly the night before had gotten. This, however, felt biblical. The kind of hangover he hadn’t experienced since he was nineteen and angry at the entire goddamn world, sitting on the hood of the Impala with a stolen bottle of Rumple Minze clenched in his fist and enough unresolved rage in his chest to poison a city reservoir.
He cracked one eye open with visible effort, immediately regretting it when sunlight speared straight through his skull hard enough to make him hiss under his breath. The room around him blurred at first, all color and shape bleeding together while his brain struggled to catch up with what his eyes were seeing, and for several long seconds, he simply stared without comprehension, breathing shallowly against the pillow while his thoughts slogged uselessly through his head.
This wasn’t right.
That realization came slowly, surfacing through the haze with a creeping sense of wrongness that prickled beneath his skin before he could fully place why. What should have been some cheap, dim little motel room on the shitty side of Vegas—floral bedspread older than Sam, cigarette burns in the carpet, suspicious stains Dean chose not to think about—was instead something out of a goddamn luxury magazine spread. The duvet tangled around his legs was thick and expensive enough that he could feel the weight of it even through the ache in his body, the sheets soft against his skin in a way motel linens never were, and when his gaze finally managed to drag itself further across the room, the confusion only deepened.
Tall ceilings stretched overhead, cream-colored and elegant instead of nicotine-stained. Actual artwork hung on the walls, framed properly instead of the mass-produced paintings that motels bought in bulk to hide mildew damage. The carpet looked clean enough to sleep on voluntarily, which felt fundamentally unnatural to Dean on every conceivable level. No buzzing fluorescent lights. No weird damp smell clinging to the air. No distant sounds of fighting through paper-thin walls.
A massive bank of floor-to-ceiling glass dominated the far side of the room, sunlight pouring through in molten gold as the Vegas strip glittered beyond it in sharp flashes of glass and steel, the city sprawled out beneath him like something unreal. Way too high up. Way too expensive. Way too nice for a place Dean would willingly spend money on unless somebody else was footing the bill.
His brow furrowed deeper into the pillow. “Fuck,” he muttered hoarsely, voice rough with sleep and liquor.
The words barely made it out before another pulse of nausea rolled through him hard enough to force his eyes shut again. Dean swallowed thickly against it, one hand blindly fumbling against the mattress like he expected to find a beer bottle, a gun, his jeans, anything that might explain how the hell he’d ended up here.
The bed beside him felt cold where his hand had landed, smooth silk and empty space instead of another body, and his sluggish brain had only just begun preparing itself for the possibility that he’d somehow managed to lose both Sam and Bunny somewhere in the black hole between tequila shots and sunrise when he forced himself to roll onto his back with another low, miserable groan. Every muscle in his body protested the movement immediately, his stomach twisting unpleasantly as the room tilted for half a second beneath him, but at least changing position let him see more than the goddamn pillow.
That was when he spotted her.
Curled near the edge of the massive bed like she’d collapsed there sometime before dawn and never moved again, Bunny slept faced away from him beneath the tangled sheets, dark hair spilled messily across one of the expensive pillows in waves that looked almost black in the low golden light pouring through the windows. One bare shoulder peeked out from beneath the duvet, freckles scattered across pale skin in constellations. Dean knew it was her before he even properly saw her face. Even half-dead from alcohol poisoning and confusion, some part of him had catalogued the shape of her.
Still, he leaned closer anyway, squinting through the sunlight and pounding headache until her features sharpened into focus, and relief moved sluggishly through his chest when he confirmed that no, he had not apparently stumbled home with some random freckled stranger last night.
Dean dragged a hand down his face with a wince, immediately regretting it when the movement seemed to wake every nerve ending in his skull at once. His mouth tasted like cigarettes and bad decisions, dry enough that his tongue practically stuck to the roof of it, and somewhere on his chest, there was a tacky patch of something that smelled aggressively like tequila when he shifted beneath the sheets. He frowned down at himself blearily, noticing for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“The hell did we do?” he muttered hoarsely to nobody in particular, voice roughened by sleep and liquor as he glanced back toward Bunny.
She didn’t stir beyond the slow rise and fall of her breathing, still dead to the world in the way only true exhaustion allowed, one hand tucked loosely beneath her cheek beneath the pillow. Dean watched her for a second longer than necessary, brow furrowing slightly as he tried to pull anything useful out of the disconnected static rattling around in his head. He remembered drinking with her. Definitely. Remembered her laughing hard enough to lean into his shoulder at one point while Sam looked on like he regretted every life choice that had led him there. After that, though? Nothing solid. Just flashes. Neon. Laughter.
Carefully, like sudden movement might actually kill him, Dean reached over and let his hand settle against her side beneath the sheets, palm warm against bare skin. His thumb brushed once over her hip before he gave it a gentle squeeze, earning himself a quiet groan from somewhere deep in her chest.
“Hey,” he rasped. “Rise and shine, sweetheart. Time to wake up.”
She responded with a miserable little groan muffled halfway into the pillow, curling tighter beneath the blankets instead of opening her eyes. “Hungover,” she mumbled thickly, accent roughened by sleep and dehydration, the word dragged out like a personal offense.
Dean huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if his head didn’t feel moments away from splitting open entirely. “Yeah, no kidding.” He swallowed against another wave of nausea before rubbing tiredly at his jaw. “C’mon, angel, I need you conscious. We gotta figure out where the hell we are.”
For a moment, there was no response besides the quiet hum of the suite around them and the distant, muted pulse of Vegas far below the windows, and Dean assumed she’d either fallen immediately back asleep or was still trying to claw her way back toward consciousness through the same pounding haze currently flattening him. Then Bunny finally cracked an eye open beneath the spill of dark hair across her face, gaze unfocused as it drifted slowly around the unfamiliar room.
Silence stretched for exactly long enough that Dean knew the realization had hit her, too. Then, very quietly and very miserably, “…what the fuck?”
Dean closed his eyes briefly and hummed his exhausted agreement, the sound low and gravelly in the back of his throat as another pulse of pain moved behind his eyes hard enough to make his stomach twist. “Yeah,” he muttered after a second, dragging the heel of his palm over his forehead like he could physically smooth the hangover out of his skull. “That’s kinda where I’m at too.”
For a moment, neither of them moved beyond breathing through the misery of existence itself, sunlight pouring lazily across the bed in warm gold bands while somewhere far below them, Vegas carried on completely unaware that Dean currently felt moments away from death. The room hummed softly around them with the quiet luxury of expensive air conditioning and distant city noise muted by glass thick enough to survive a nuclear blast, and Dean had just enough time to think that he should probably attempt standing at some point before Bunny suddenly shifted beside him with a groan.
Still half-buried beneath the blankets, she reached blindly toward the bedside table without lifting her head properly off the pillow, one arm stretching out across the mattress while her eyes remained mostly shut against the light. Her hand slapped uselessly against the polished wood once. Twice. Fingers fumbling clumsily over what sounded like a lamp base before stretching just a little too far.
Bunny vanished off the side of the bed with a startled noise somewhere between a groan and a curse, followed immediately by a heavy thump against the carpet that sounded painful enough to make Dean wince in sympathy.
“Jesus,” he rasped, instinctively trying to push himself further upright before the room lurched violently sideways around him. A brutal wave of nausea crashed into him so hard he had to stop immediately, leaning heavily back against his elbows. Black spots burst briefly across his vision.
For several long seconds, he could only breathe carefully through clenched teeth while the world steadied itself again, sunlight stabbing behind his eyes with every heartbeat. Somewhere on the floor beside the bed, Bunny made a soft, pained little noise into the carpet.
Dean swallowed thickly. “You alive down there?” he croaked eventually, voice shredded thin from dehydration and sleep. He dragged a hand slowly down his face again, feeling the scratch of stubble against his palm before peering blearily over the edge of the mattress. “Baby?”
There was a pause. Then, from somewhere below him and several feet closer to the center of the earth: “…it’s cold on the floor.” One of her feet remained hooked loosely in the blankets on the bed, toes peeking out from the duvet like the world’s saddest crime scene evidence.
He blinked slowly. “Is that good or bad?”
Another long silence followed, heavy with the kind of deep spiritual exhaustion that only catastrophic hangovers could produce. Dean could practically hear her trying to process the question through whatever remained of her brain function. “I honestly don’t know,” she admitted miserably, voice muffled by the carpet. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover in my life.”
Dean blew out a slow breath through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a groan himself. “Yeah,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling again. “Join the club.”
The room settled back into quiet around them after that, soft and strange and deeply surreal in the morning light. Dean could hear Bunny shifting sluggishly on the floor beside the bed, the rustle of sheets and fabric dragging against carpet while she presumably attempted the impossible task of reassembling herself into a functioning human being. His head still felt like somebody had jammed an ice pick through one temple and out the other, and every time he moved too quickly, his stomach threatened mutiny.
Bunny’s hand appeared slowly over the side of the mattress, fingers blindly patting around like she was searching for buried treasure. Dean watched with vague fascination as she grabbed hold of a piece of discarded fabric and tugged it down onto herself. A dress shirt, white and wrinkled.
Dean squinted at it for a second through the haze in his vision, sluggishly trying to determine whether it belonged to him. It might have. Honestly, at the moment, he could barely remember his own middle name, let alone inventory his clothing choices from the night before.
“What,” she asked after a moment, voice still muffled somewhere below the mattress level, “the hell did we do last night?”
Dean let his head fall back against the pillows with another groan, staring up at the cream-colored ceiling overhead while he tried once again to force his memories into something coherent. Nothing useful surfaced. Just disconnected flashes and sensations rattling around loose in his skull like broken glass.
“I was kinda hoping you’d know,” he admitted. “Pretty sure my brain dissolved somewhere around tequila number twelve.”
“Mm.” Bunny was quiet for a second, and he could practically picture the frown pulling at her mouth while she tried to sort through the same fog. “Last thing I properly remember is the three of us playing poker with some man named Rick. Or Bob. Gary, maybe. Something terribly American.”
Despite himself, Dean snorted quietly. The movement immediately punished him with another sharp spike of pain behind his eyes. “God.” He pressed his fingers against his eyes again before squinting down toward the floor. “Wait, poker?”
“Yes, darling.”
“I don’t even remember poker.”
Another beat of silence passed before Dean’s brow furrowed more deeply into confusion. Slowly, painfully, he lifted his head just enough to glance around the enormous suite again, finally noticing for the first time what was missing. No giant moose-shaped silhouette asleep in an armchair. No Sam muttering judgmental comments about hydration from across the room.
Dean frowned. “…where the hell is Sam?”
From somewhere down on the floor beside the bed, Bunny made a soft humming noise that sounded suspiciously close to a prayer for death. “Hopefully, wherever he is, he’s faring better than we are,” she mumbled after a second. There was a pause while she seemed to reconsider the state of her own body with growing despair. “Because at present, it feels rather like I’ve been flattened beneath a tequila truck,” she added weakly.
Dean grunted his agreement low in his throat, though the movement immediately punished him for existing. Carefully, with all the caution of a man attempting to dismantle a bomb using only instinct and spite, he forced himself to sit up fully against the headboard. The second he moved upright, pain bloomed behind his eyes so violently it nearly knocked him back down again. Sunlight crashed into him from the wall of windows in hot golden sheets, too bright and too clean and entirely too enthusiastic for what his body was currently enduring, and Dean squinted hard against it.
“Jesus,” he muttered hoarsely beneath his breath. His stomach rolled again, slower this time but no less threatening, and he swallowed hard against it before dragging his gaze sluggishly around the suite. “If I didn’t know what getting mickeyed felt like, I’d swear somebody slipped us something,” he said after a moment, words slow and roughened by dehydration.
The thought lingered unpleasantly in the air between them.
Normally, Dean trusted his tolerance more than he trusted most people. He knew exactly how much liquor it took to get him drunk, exactly how far he could push himself before things started going blurry around the edges, and while the occasional blackout wasn’t impossible, this level of complete memory annihilation felt wrong somehow. Hollowed out. Like entire sections of the night had simply been scooped clean from his skull with a spoon.
No response came from the floor beside the bed.
Dean’s brow pinched slightly as he glanced down toward the side of the mattress again. “You alive down there?”
For a second, there was only the distant muted pulse of traffic far below the windows and the steady hum of expensive air conditioning drifting through the suite. Then Bunny finally spoke in the flat, fragile tone of somebody hanging onto consciousness through sheer force of will alone.
“I’m doing a tremendous amount of positive thinking at the moment,” she informed him weakly, “because I would really rather not vomit on this incredibly expensive carpet.”
The image hit Dean hard enough that a laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The sound came out as a rough huff that immediately made his skull throb hard enough to blur his vision again, and he hissed sharply through his teeth while pressing both hands against his forehead. “Ow,” he groaned.
Despite the pounding misery trying to cave his head in from the inside, Dean forced himself to look around the suite properly for the first time. The room remained aggressively luxurious from every possible angle, all warm cream-colored walls and dark polished wood glowing amber beneath the morning sunlight pouring through the windows.
His gaze dragged slowly across the mess, sluggishly piecing together fragments of evidence through the haze in his head. A pair of Bunny’s heels lay abandoned near the couch beside one of his socks. There was a dark skirt crumpled near the windows, and farther away, he spotted his jeans lying limp like they’d given up on holding shape.
Something lacy caught his attention, pale green fabric dangling precariously from one of the carved posts of the headboard. Dean stared at Bunny’s underwear for a long second through the fog in his vision before reaching over with all the sluggish dignity of a man operating at approximately three percent functionality. He hooked the fabric carefully with two fingers and tugged it free, the motion sending another sharp pulse through his temples.
“Found these,” he muttered, tossing them vaguely toward the floor beside the bed.
“…thank you,” Bunny said with genuine feeling, like he’d just handed her life-saving medical supplies instead of underwear.
Dean hummed softly through his nose, gentler this time so his brain wouldn’t rupture, before leaning over enough to pat the foot still tangled stubbornly in the blankets near him. Her toes twitched beneath his hand in response.
After several long seconds spent mentally preparing himself for war, Dean pushed himself off the bed. The moment his feet hit the floor, the world tilted violently sideways.
“Fuck,” he hissed, catching himself hard against the nearest wall while nausea surged through him so aggressively he thought for one terrible second that he might die standing up. His stomach rolled warningly beneath his ribs, every pulse behind his eyes sharp and molten, and Dean stood there half bent over with one palm flattened against the wallpaper while he concentrated very hard on not throwing up in what was probably a suite worth more per night than his car.
From the floor, Bunny lifted her head slightly. “How are you even standing right now?” she asked weakly, genuine awe threaded through the exhaustion in her voice.
Dean swallowed hard, breathing slowly through his nose before risking movement again. “Pretty sure I’m about thirty seconds away from throwing up in a decorative plant, sweetheart, so let’s not start calling miracles in just yet.”
That earned him a quiet, miserable little laugh from somewhere near the carpet.
Taking another steadying breath, Dean shuffled cautiously forward through the suite with all the dignity of an eighty-year-old man recovering from surgery, one hand dragging along furniture and walls whenever the room swayed too sharply beneath him. His boxers had ended up across the room, and he grabbed them with a tired grunt before stepping into them one leg at a time while leaning heavily against the wall for balance.
Everything hurt.
Not injured, exactly, just… catastrophically overindulged. His body felt dense and overheated and vaguely poisoned from the inside out, every movement delayed half a second behind his thoughts while his brain attempted to catch up with reality through layers of cotton and tequila fumes.
A few feet away, he found his jeans crumpled beside one of the armchairs and hauled them on with considerably more effort than pants should’ve reasonably required. By the time he managed to get them over his hips, he was breathing hard enough to make himself annoyed about it, and he left both the button and belt undone. Too much effort.
Dean scrubbed both hands slowly over his face before dragging them back through his hair, trying unsuccessfully to force some clarity into his head as he glanced around the suite again. It looked even stranger standing up.
Too nice, too unreal. After the Halcyon, waking up somewhere luxurious and unfamiliar felt a little too close to another cosmic joke for comfort.
Dean exhaled slowly through his nose and turned back toward the bed just in time to finally get a proper look at Bunny sprawled on the floor beside it.
She’d apparently managed to tug the dress shirt on at some point during his slow migration across the room, though “on” was generous considering it was only halfway buttoned and noticeably crooked, one side hanging lower than the other while the collar slipped loose against her throat. Dark hair spread wildly around her across the carpet in tangled waves, her face flushed pink from dehydration and alcohol and sleep, and she looked so thoroughly wrecked that Dean couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him.
“Rough night, princess?” he asked, voice still gravelly around the edges.
Bunny glared up at him with all the fury a severely hungover woman could muster. “Oh, piss off,” she muttered, trying to lever herself upward onto her elbows.
She only made it halfway before suddenly freezing.
The movement stopped so abruptly that Dean’s faint amusement faded almost immediately. Bunny’s eyes had locked onto something near his shoulder with sharp, dawning focus, cutting clean through the haze of exhaustion on her face.
She lifted one hand and pointed weakly toward his arm. “Tattoo,” she said.
Dean blinked at her for a second, the word taking its sweet time crossing the ruined wasteland of his brain before it actually landed. “Tattoo?” he repeated, because apparently at some point in the last twelve hours his life had become the kind of joke that required follow-up questions.
Bunny didn’t answer beyond pointing again, her face still half slack with hangover misery and half sharpened by dawning, terrible fascination. Dean looked down at his right arm first, squinting at bare skin and muscle and the old familiar geography of scars he knew well enough not to register unless something new interrupted it. Nothing. He frowned harder, then turned his head toward his left, already annoyed by the effort of basic investigation. “What the hell are you—”
Then he shifted, the morning light catching the inside of his left arm at a different angle, and Dean finally saw it. For a second, everything in him went very still.
There, inked into the skin of his inner bicep, a little way below the brutal, pink brand Castiel’s hand had burned into his shoulder, was a rabbit. Not a cartoon exactly, not some drunken piece of flash picked off a wall because it had looked funny after too many shots, but a clean little linework thing done with more care than a decision like that deserved. Long ears, small curved back, the shape delicate without being fussy, dark ink sitting stark against his skin like it had always been waiting there beneath the surface and had only just decided to show itself.
Dean stared at it. His brain, traitorous and useless as it had been all morning, coughed up a fragment then, sharp and sudden enough to make his stomach drop for an entirely different reason.
A bunny for my Bunny.
His own voice. Slurred around the edges, sure, warm with liquor and laughter, but unmistakably his. The words surfaced without context attached to them, nothing before or after, just that one humiliating little declaration echoing up out of the blacked-out pit of last night like evidence at a crime scene.
Dean closed his eyes briefly. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
A strangled little sound came from Bunny. When he looked down, she had clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes bright despite the flush of misery still clinging to her face, laughter shaking silently through her before it finally broke loose in a startled, delighted burst that made her wince and smile at the same time. She looked absolutely wrecked on the floor in that crooked dress shirt, hair everywhere, cheeks pink, eyes glassy from the hangover, and somehow she was still grinning up at him like he’d just presented her with the funniest, most impossible thing she had ever seen.
Dean should have been horrified.
He had never thought of himself as the kind of guy who got a tattoo for a woman. That was the kind of dumbass, soft-brained move he would’ve mercilessly mocked if Sam had done it, the kind of thing he’d file away for future blackmail and bring up at every possible opportunity until the end of time. And yet there it was, inked into his skin beneath the mark of an angel, because apparently, blackout Dean had taken one look at romantic tension, trauma, and tequila, and decided subtlety was for cowards.
Still, it wasn’t just any woman he’d gotten a tattoo for. That was the problem, wasn’t it?
Dean looked at the rabbit again, then back down at Bunny, and something helplessly crooked tugged at one corner of his mouth despite the pounding in his head. “Could be worse,” he said, voice rough but threaded with reluctant amusement. “Could’ve gotten a Playboy Bunny to match the one on your ass.”
Bunny’s laughter stumbled into another pained groan as she lowered her hand from her mouth, still smiling in a way that made the whole room feel slightly less hostile. “Honestly,” she murmured, blinking up at him through the mess of her hair, “I might have liked that more.”
Dean huffed softly, careful not to let it become a full laugh this time, then leaned down with one hand braced against the bed and offered her the other. “C’mon,” he said. “Up you go.”
Bunny stared at his hand for a second like it belonged to a man asking her to scale Everest, then sighed with the grim resignation of somebody accepting that the floor could not, in fact, be her final resting place. She took hold of him, fingers warm and slightly unsteady in his, and Dean hauled her upright slowly enough that neither of them hurt from the effort. Even so, the moment she got her feet beneath her, she swayed hard into him, one hand catching clumsily at his forearm while her face pinched with sudden nausea.
Dean’s other hand moved to her waist without thought, steadying her before she could fold sideways into the nightstand. “Easy, angel,” he murmured, grip firm over the loose fabric of the shirt. “I gotcha.”
For a moment, they just stood there in the middle of the suite, half-dressed, hungover, and held together mostly by bad choices and muscle memory. Bunny’s shoulder brushed his bare chest; the shirt she’d stolen hung crooked down one thigh, buttons mismatched, collar slipping open, and Dean became suddenly, inconveniently aware of the new ink on his arm, of the softness of her waist beneath his hand, of the way her fingers lingered against him even after she’d stopped swaying.
Then she made a small, wounded sound and pressed the heels of both hands hard against her eyes.
Dean let the moment go before it could become something with teeth. “Getting a tattoo is probably not the dumbest thing I’ve ever done for a woman,” he said, glancing down at his arm again. “But it’s definitely up there.”
Bunny groaned like the sentence had personally injured her. “I am far too hungover to contemplate what the dumbest thing you’ve ever done for a woman might be,” she said, words precise despite the rough scrape of her voice, “so I’m going to let that slide for now, darling.”
“Real generous of you, sweetheart.”
Her hands dropped slowly from her face, and her gaze drifted around the suite again, taking in the scattered clothes, the enormous bed, the ruined evidence of whatever the hell they had done the night before, and the city glittering obscenely beyond the windows. The smile faded from her mouth by degrees, confusion settling back in beneath the hangover as she looked toward the floor-to-ceiling glass and then the strange, expensive furniture around them.
“Dean,” she said quietly, “where the hell are we?”
“Still working on that,” Dean admitted. He looked around the room once more, at the discarded clothes and massive windows and polished luxury surrounding them, before rubbing a tired hand over his jaw.
“But first,” he muttered, “we need clothes and coffee before we continue this little investigation.”
Bunny hummed her agreement, though the sound came out thin and miserable, one hand still pressed against her temple like she was physically holding her skull together through force of will alone. “Clothes,” she echoed faintly. “Coffee. Yes. God, I want coffee.”
Dean huffed softly through his nose, watching as she released his arm only after testing her balance with the careful suspicion of someone negotiating with gravity. She stood for a moment in the middle of the ruined suite, bare-legged and disheveled in the crooked white shirt, gaze moving slowly across the scattered evidence of the night before until it settled on the dark skirt lying crumpled near the windows.
Even in her current state, Bunny managed to move with a stubborn sort of dignity, though every step looked like it required negotiation between her body and whatever remained of her patience. She padded carefully across the carpet, one hand trailing briefly over the back of the couch for balance, then stopped in front of the skirt and drew in a slow, deliberate breath like bending down had become a task worthy of military planning.
Dean should’ve been looking for his boots. Or his shirt. Or a phone. Or Sam. Honestly, there were about a dozen practical things he could have been doing that did not involve watching Bunny bend over in the middle of an obscenely expensive hotel suite while wearing nothing but a half-buttoned dress shirt and a pair of underwear he was already thinking about pulling off with his teeth. But he was only human.
The shirt rode up as she bent, loose cotton sliding higher over the backs of her thighs, and Dean’s gaze dropped without even a scrap of shame attached to it. It was familiar territory, after all. He’d had his hands there enough times by now that pretend modesty would’ve just been insulting to everyone involved. His mouth had already started to pull into something faintly appreciative despite the pounding in his skull when his attention snagged abruptly on something new just above the curve of her ass, dark ink stark against pale skin where there absolutely had not been dark ink before.
For a second, Dean just stared.
Then a laugh escaped him, stilted and disbelieving enough that it sounded like it had been punched out of his chest.
Bunny froze halfway through picking up her skirt. “What?” she asked groggily, straightening with visible caution and clutching the fabric against herself while she turned to squint at him. Her expression was immediately suspicious, which Dean probably deserved on principle.
Dean opened his mouth, closed it again, and stared at her for another second as the situation unfolded in his brain with such brutal, perfect absurdity that not even the hangover could dull it. “Well,” he said slowly, voice already tilting toward amusement despite himself, “looks like I’m not the only one who made a lifelong commitment to ink last night.”
Bunny’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
Dean bit the inside of his cheek, trying and failing not to grin. “Means you might wanna check your back, sweetheart.”
The suspicion on her face deepened into genuine alarm. “Oh, no,” she said, very softly. “No. Absolutely not.”
He nodded toward the mirror set into the wall near the open archway of the suite. “See for yourself.”
Bunny looked at him for one long, deeply mistrustful second before turning with the slow dread of a woman approaching her own execution. She made her way across the room unsteadily, skirt still clutched in one hand, and stopped in front of the mirror. For a moment, she simply stared at her reflection, pale and messy and hollow-eyed beneath the brutal honesty of morning light, then turned slightly and lifted the back of the shirt with the kind of hesitation usually reserved for removing bandages.
Her gasp was immediate. Sharp. Horrified. Completely awake in a way nothing else had managed to make her all morning.
Dean, naturally, crossed the room to investigate with considerably more enthusiasm than he’d had for literally anything since waking up. There, nestled low on her back in delicate black cursive, just above the curve of her hips, were his initials. D.M.W.
Not huge. Not garish. The lettering was clean and elegant, curling slightly at the edges in a way that somehow suited her even though it was, technically speaking, a tramp stamp of his name. The skin around it was faintly red, and Dean had to press his lips together for about half a second before the grin won completely.
Bunny stared at the reflection like it had personally betrayed her. “There is no bloody way,” she said, voice faint with horror. “No. I did not.”
Dean leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the mirror, thoroughly delighted even though his own body was still threatening collapse. “Oh, you did.” He reached out and lifted the hem of the shirt higher, smug. “Unless there’s another D.M.W. you’re running around Vegas with, princess, that’s definitely me.”
Bunny twisted a little farther, trying to see the tattoo more clearly in the mirror, and her expression went through several stages of grief in the space of about three seconds. Disbelief, outrage, mortification, and then, most dangerously, the twitching edge of a smile she was very clearly trying to murder before he could see it.
Dean saw it anyway. “Oh, this is good,” he murmured, grinning wide enough that his face hurt. “This is really good.”
“Don’t.”
“You got my initials tattooed on your back, princess.”
“I said don’t.”
“Lower back, too.” Dean made a soft clicking sound with his tongue, absolutely incapable of stopping himself. “Classy.”
Bunny dropped the shirt back down like that might somehow erase the evidence from existence and turned toward him with all the wounded dignity she could manage while severely hungover and wearing his crooked dress shirt. “Piss off. And you know this was not a decision I would ever make sober.”
Dean grinned, still leaning there with his arms loosely crossed, new rabbit tattoo tucked against his bicep, and his jeans hanging open like he had any room to judge anyone. “Still, baby. My initials, right above your ass?” He shook his head with exaggerated solemnity. “That’s a lot.”
She shoved him lightly in the chest, which probably would’ve been more intimidating if the effort didn’t make her immediately wince and grab his arm for balance afterward. “You have a rabbit on your arm.”
“Yes, I do.” He nodded toward her lower back with unbearable satisfaction. “Mine’s symbolic. Yours is basically a property label.”
Bunny made a scandalized noise. “Oi, careful,” she said, but the smile finally broke through despite her best efforts, small and helpless at the corner of her mouth. “You are unbearable.”
“Apparently not,” Dean said, unable to resist. “You branded yourself with my initials because you’re so into me.”
Dean glanced down at the tattoo again, half-hidden now beneath the hem of the shirt, and felt his grin shift into something softer before he could quite stop it. There was something absurdly intimate about it, something ridiculous and stupid and permanent in a way that should’ve made him bolt emotionally for the nearest exit. But instead, standing there in the bright morning light with his head pounding and her name effectively inked into his own skin in the shape of a rabbit, all he could really think was that they had somehow spent the night making choices sober versions of themselves were too chickenshit to admit they wanted.
That thought was dangerous as hell, so Dean did what Dean did best and buried it under a joke.
“Gotta say,” he said, pushing off the wall with a lazy little wince, “that’s officially my third favorite drunk decision you’ve ever made.”
“Third?” Bunny repeated, suspicion sharpening through the hangover haze as she watched him, her eyes narrowing with the kind of wary focus that said she already knew whatever came out of his mouth next was going to be insufferable.
Dean, naturally, took that as encouragement. He lifted one hand and began counting lazily on his fingers as he followed her toward the scattered wreckage of their clothes, still grinning with the kind of smugness that would’ve gotten him smacked even on a completely sober morning. “Third place,” he said, voice rough and amused, “goes to the Playboy tattoo on your ass, obviously. Classic. Strong branding.”
Bunny’s mouth opened, probably to tell him exactly where he could shove his commentary, but Dean kept going before she could get there. “Second place is the fact that you’re apparently into me enough to get my initials tattooed above it, which is so much more embarrassing than anything I’ve ever done in my entire life.”
Bunny stared at him for a long second, cheeks still faintly pink from alcohol and mortification, the dark skirt gathered in her hands, while she looked like she was actively considering whether murder was worth the nausea. “I feel as if I’m going to regret this, but what’s the first?” she asked at last, tone prim in a way that would’ve sounded dangerous if she weren’t standing barefoot in a crooked dress shirt.
Dean’s grin turned slow and wicked despite the pounding in his head, because apparently no amount of tequila, memory loss, or possible supernatural interference could stop him from being an asshole when handed an opening that good. “First place is still you and me in the rain outside that bar,” he said, letting his gaze flick over her just enough to make the point land.
Bunny’s eyes rolled so hard it was honestly a miracle she didn’t pass out from the additional strain, and she shoved him in the chest again with the hand not clutching her skirt, though the impact was weaker than she probably intended and mostly made her sway. Dean caught her automatically by the elbow before she could stumble, smug as hell and entirely too pleased with himself, which only made her expression flatten further. She pulled free after a second with what dignity she could salvage and muttered, “For the record, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done for a man. By miles, love. Miles.”
“Still did it,” Dean pointed out, because he had apparently woken up and chosen death by Englishwoman.
Bunny stepped into her skirt with slow, deliberate concentration, one hand braced on the back of the couch while she navigated fabric, balance, and the betrayal of her own inner ear. The motion should not have been as funny as it was, but Dean watched her fight her way into the thing like she was wrestling with a live animal, her mouth pressed into a hard line while the crooked dress shirt slid off one shoulder and her hair fell in tangled waves around her face. Even miserable, even furious with him, even tattooed with his initials in a place he knew he was going to think about for the rest of his life, she still looked like herself in the way that hit him inconveniently low in the chest, all sharp edges and stubborn grace and murder in her eyes.
“Keep smirking,” she said without looking at him, voice still roughened by sleep but regaining some of its usual bite, “and I’ll make you tattoo my name across your bloody forehead.”
Dean should’ve shut up. He knew that. He could feel the sensible response somewhere in the back of his skull, bound and gagged beneath several layers of hangover and testosterone, begging him to stop making things worse. Instead, he hooked his thumbs loosely into the open waistband of his jeans, tilted his head, and said, “I’d do it.”
Bunny froze halfway through tugging the skirt up over her hips and looked at him.
Dean’s grin softened around the edges before he could stop it, but the smugness stayed because it was safer that way, easier to wear than whatever else had tried to move across his face. “Happily,” he added, voice low and rough. “Because I wouldn’t be the one who got the other person’s name tattooed on them first.”
Bunny looked at him with something unreadable flickering beneath the exhaustion, something that might have been amusement if it hadn’t been standing so close to embarrassment and something softer neither of them were awake enough to touch. Then she grabbed the nearest shirt from the floor and hurled it directly at his face. It hit him harder than strictly necessary.
Dean caught it late, laughing under his breath as fabric slid down over his eyes and nose, the sound immediately making him wince again. “Ouch, sweetheart.”
“Put your clothes on,” Bunny told him, turning away with a dramatic dignity slightly undermined by the fact that she had to brace one hand against the couch again. “We are finding your brother, locating coffee, and pretending this conversation never happened until I have enough caffeine in my bloodstream to survive it.”
“So bossy,” he muttered, shoving his arms through the sleeves of the Henley with a wince when the movement pulled faintly at the fresh tattoo on his bicep. “Find Sam, find coffee, pretend we didn’t both wake up looking like a cautionary tale. Solid plan.”
Bunny moved toward the heavy double doors at the far end of the bedroom with the grim determination of a woman marching toward either salvation or a firing squad. Dean got his jeans buttoned on the second try, abandoned the belt for the moment because fine motor skills were apparently for people who hadn’t tried to outdrink the city of Las Vegas, and scrubbed a hand back through his hair as Bunny wrapped both hands around one brass handle and pulled.
The door swung open on silent hinges, and Bunny stopped dead in the threshold.
Dean nearly walked into her back. “What?” he muttered, squinting past her shoulder.
The bedroom was nice. Too nice, sure, all polished wood and sunlight and sheets that probably cost more than most weapons in the trunk, but it had still been a bedroom. This, however, was something else entirely. The room beyond stretched wide and open beneath ceilings tall enough to make Dean’s neck ache just looking up at them, all warm marble floors softened by enormous rugs, curved couches sunken into a conversation pit near the center of the room, and a crystal chandelier hanging overhead.
There was a baby grand piano sitting near one bank of windows, looking absurdly glossy and untouched, a full bar gleamed along the far wall with rows of bottles arranged like some shrine to bad decisions, and several other doors led off into who the hell knew where, because apparently the suite had enough square footage to require a map.
For one brief, horrible second, Dean thought again of the Halcyon. Of pretty rooms that didn’t lead where they should. Of halls rearranging themselves while something old and amused watched from behind the wallpaper. His stomach tightened beneath the nausea, instinct sharpening despite the hangover, and his gaze swept the room automatically for exits, threats, anything that didn’t belong.
Then Wallace lifted his big scarred head from one of the couches, scarred muzzle planted happily over an enormous bone that looked roughly the size of a human femur. His pink collar sat slightly crooked around his neck, one ear tipped back lazily as he regarded them with mild interest, tail giving exactly one thump against the expensive upholstery before he returned to gnawing with single-minded satisfaction.
“The hell,” Dean said, because it seemed to be the only phrase his brain still had available.
Somewhere near the far side of the room, Sam looked up from a white-clothed breakfast table with a fork in his hand and an expression so bright, rested, and offensively alive that Dean felt an immediate, violent urge to throw something at him.
Sam was sitting there like a man who had not, in fact, been dragged through the business end of a tequila truck the night before. His hair was damp, like he’d already showered. His shirt was clean. There was a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, coffee beside it, and across from him stood a neatly dressed man in a dark suit who looked like he belonged to the suite in a way none of them ever would.
“Well, good morning,” Sam said cheerfully, lifting his coffee like a toast. His eyes flicked over both of them, lingering for one devastating second on Dean’s rumpled shirt and Bunny’s violently hungover expression, and his grin widened. “How was the rest of your night?”
For several seconds, nobody moved. Bunny stood rigid in the doorway wearing a wrinkled dress shirt tucked badly into her skirt, hair still wild around her flushed face, one hand braced against the frame like the only thing keeping her from collapsing was pure spite. Dean stood half a step behind her, belt still undone, jaw set, head pounding.
Sam, the smug son of a bitch, took a bite of toast.
The man in the suit, either professionally oblivious or too well-trained to react to any of it, stepped forward with a small, polite inclination of his head. His smile was courteous, discreet, and absolutely devastating.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Winchester.” Dean felt Bunny freeze beside him so completely that he could practically hear her brain stop functioning.
The man continued smoothly. “I took the liberty of having the chef prepare your preferred breakfasts. Mr. Winchester, I believe you requested the steak and eggs with extra bacon. Mrs. Winchester, the eggs Benedict with roasted tomatoes and black coffee.” His smile warmed by exactly one professional degree. “I also had my personal hangover cure brought up for both of you. After such a long evening, I thought you might be feeling the effects this morning.”
For several seconds, Bunny only stared at him.
Not at breakfast. Not at the hangover cure. Not even at Sam, who still sat there with his coffee and his smug little morning-after expression like he’d been waiting all morning for the floor to drop out from under them. Bunny stared directly at the man in the suit, her face pale beneath the flush of alcohol, one hand still braced against the doorframe as her mind caught on the same thing Dean’s had.
“Who the hell are you?” Bunny asked, voice low and careful in a way that was somehow more dangerous than if she’d snapped.
The man’s polished smile did not falter. “Arthur, ma’am,” he said with another small inclination of his head. “Your personal butler for the duration of your stay here at the Lucky 29. It has been my pleasure to assist you and your party, particularly after such a memorable evening. And may I say, congratulations once again.”
The word landed in the room with an awful little weight. Congratulations.
Dean’s brain caught on it the way fabric caught on a nail, snagging hard before tearing loose into a dozen different terrible directions. Beside him, Bunny went even more still, her hand tightening around the edge of the doorframe until her knuckles looked pale against the brass-warmed wood. Dean could practically feel the same calculation moving through her, slow and silent and full of alarm.
Arthur knew his name. Not Dean Smith. Not Dean Hagar. Not the kind of half-assed alias he could usually pull from a classic rock cassette and a cheap smile. Winchester. The real one. The name that lived on wanted posters, police databases, and obituaries that hadn’t stuck. The name that got people looking too closely if they heard it in the wrong places.
Dean’s gaze flicked toward Sam.
Sam, infuriatingly, looked perfectly comfortable with all of this, like personal butlers and breakfast tables and Bunny being called Mrs. Winchester were just standard Vegas-trip fallout. He took another slow sip of coffee while Dean stared at him hard enough to peel paint.
Before Dean could speak, Arthur stepped toward Bunny with practiced discretion, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I kept this safe for you as requested, Mrs. Winchester. I also took the liberty of having it cleaned at the jeweler’s this morning. I hope this was acceptable.”He held out a ring.
Dean’s stomach dropped so abruptly that the nausea vanished beneath it. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t flashy. Just a silver band with a diamond catching the morning light in one brief, sharp glint. Simple. Pretty. Exactly the sort of ring Bunny would’ve picked if she’d ever let herself admit she wanted one.
A wedding ring.
The words rattled in Dean’s head with the slow, brutal force of a car crash. Arthur had called them Mr. and Mrs. Winchester. They’d woken up naked in an expensive Vegas suite. Dean had a rabbit tattooed on his arm. Bunny had his initials inked low on her back. There was a ring being handed to her by a butler who knew them by name.
Did they get fucking married?
Bunny stared at the ring for a long moment, expression gone strangely blank around the edges, before she finally reached out and took it from Arthur’s open palm. “Thank you,” she said, faint and automatic, though she didn’t put it on.
Instead, her eyes dropped immediately to Dean’s hands. Dean followed her gaze. The ring he’d worn for years on his right hand was no longer on his right hand. It sat squarely on his left ring finger, familiar silver suddenly unfamiliar in placement, heavy as a confession. Dean stared at it, his pulse thudding once, hard, in his throat.
It was just metal. That was the stupid thing. The same ring he’d worn for years without thinking about it, silver rubbed dull at the edges, scratched in places from hunts and engines and a life spent putting his hands where most people had the good sense not to. It had sat on his right hand through blood, bar fights, grave digging, salt lines, motel mornings, and more close calls than he could count. It had been familiar enough to vanish into him, another piece of background noise in the wreckage of Dean Winchester.
Now it sat on his left ring finger, and the whole damn thing felt rewritten.
His throat worked once, dry and tight, while his brain tried to hold too many things at the same time. The room. The tattoos. Arthur saying Mrs. Winchester like that was something ordinary and settled. Bunny standing beside him with her ring held loose in her palm instead of on her finger. Sam was too quiet now; the smugness finally dimmed beneath whatever he saw on Dean’s face.
Things had just started to feel normal between them again, or as normal as anything got for people like them.
After the Halcyon, after that gilded nightmare had chewed time out of their lives and spit them back onto the road wrong-footed and bruised in places nobody else could see, after Dean had broken down in the hospital with Alastair’s blood still metaphorically under his nails and Bunny had looked at him like she was trying to hold him together with nothing but her hands and sheer stubbornness, after Zachariah had shoved them all into that glossy little corporate dollhouse and made them live lives that felt close enough to real to hurt when they were ripped away again. After all of that, they had almost made it back to something that looked like Dean and Bunny.
Not fixed. Not clean. Hell, not even particularly functional, but theirs.
They’d been making weird jokes again. Sharing motel-room silences without them turning stale. Staying up too late because sleep felt like a bad idea, and talking felt easier when the lights were low, and Sam was finally out cold in the other bed or the other room. Eating fries off the same greasy paper tray. Letting their hands brush without either of them flinching away from the fact of it. Trying, in that dumb, stubborn way hunters tried, to pretend the world wasn’t ending quite so loudly because for five goddamn minutes they still had each other.
That was probably why they’d both jumped at it when Sam mentioned Vegas.
The yearly Winchester Vegas trip. Like that was still a thing they got to have. Like there were still traditions left untouched by angels and demons and apocalypse crap. Dean hadn’t even cared that Bunny had immediately looked at him like she knew every stupid casino story he’d ever half-told her was about to come back to life in the worst possible way. He’d wanted it anyway. Neon, cheap whiskey, too much noise, Sam pretending he wasn’t having fun while absolutely having fun, Bunny laughing under casino lights with smoke curling between her fingers.
Normal. He’d wanted normal so badly he’d mistaken it for safe. And instead, they’d gotten this.
A strange luxury suite high above the Strip. A hangover so vicious it felt engineered by an angry god. Fresh ink on his arm. A butler handing over her wedding ring like this was all part of the service package. His own ring moved to the finger people looked at when they wanted to know who belonged to who, what promises had been made, what life somebody had chosen.
Dean wanted to marry her, sure. Of course he did.
That was the worst part, wasn’t it? Not that it was some impossible, foreign idea. Not that the ring felt like a joke or another goddamn hallucination cooked up by Heaven to see how far they could push him before he broke something important. No, the worst part was that some quiet, buried part of him looked at Bunny standing beside him with that little silver ring in her palm and thought, with a terrible aching clarity, yeah. Yeah, that could be good.
It wasn’t a thought he’d ever let surface properly before Sandover. Before he was Dean Smith in a pressed shirt and a clean office, selling his soul one meeting at a time without knowing he’d already done the real version once. Before Bunny had been Dr. Bunny Smith, brilliant and exhausted and sharp-tongued, coming home to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. In that life, the fake one, marriage had slipped around them without resistance. It had been coffee cups in the sink. Her shoes by the door. His hand on her lower back in a kitchen that didn’t smell like gun oil. The two of them saying I love you like they had said it every day for years, like there was no blade hidden under the words, no countdown running beneath the floorboards.
And Dean had loved it. That was the thing he still couldn’t stand to look at too directly. He had loved being married to her.
He had loved waking up beside her without needing to check the salt lines first. Loved knowing where she was because she was in the next room, because she was coming home at six, because the worst thing waiting for them was traffic or a bad day or him forgetting to buy milk. He had loved the boring parts. The parts he would’ve mocked out loud if anyone asked because wanting them felt too much like handing the universe a loaded gun and pointing it straight at his chest. But that world had been fake.
This one wasn’t.
This world came with blood in the carpet and ghosts in the walls and angels wearing human faces while they talked about destiny. This world came with pain, and deals, and Hell, and Sam looking worse every week, no matter how much Dean pretended not to see it. This world didn’t let guys like him keep good things. It sure as hell didn’t let them marry their dream girl and drive off into the sunset with the windows down and the music loud, not unless there was a corpse in the backseat or something waiting at the end of the road to tear it all away.
So he’d shoved the idea down. Deep. So deep it couldn’t even grow teeth. He hadn’t let himself think about a ring on her hand or his name tangled with hers in any way that wasn’t desperate and quiet and half-hidden in the dark between hunts. He hadn’t let the idea take root because wanting it was dangerous, and Dean had learned a long time ago that the things he wanted most were usually the first things the world took.
Until Vegas, apparently.
Until tequila and neon and whatever catastrophic hole in judgment had opened beneath their feet last night. Until blackout Dean, stripped of fear or sense or every defense sober Dean had spent years building, had apparently looked at Bunny Norton and decided the thing he wanted was worth saying out loud.
Arthur, whether oblivious to the fact that the floor had just opened up beneath both of them or simply too professional to acknowledge emotional devastation before breakfast, gave another small, courteous nod. His expression remained warm and discreet, a polished mask of service industry calm that suggested he could have announced a murder with the same gentle efficiency and then offered coffee afterward. “I’ll inform the chef that you’re both awake and ready for breakfast,” he said smoothly, folding his hands in front of himself. “In the meantime, please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Dean barely heard him.
The ring still sat heavy on his hand, wrong and familiar and impossible not to feel now that he had noticed it, every tiny shift of his fingers dragging awareness back to the silver band on the wrong side of his body. Beside him, Bunny remained quiet, her own ring resting in her palm like something fragile or dangerous, thumb brushing absently over the diamond without putting it on. Her face had gone distant in a way Dean didn’t like, all the earlier color and hungover irritation drained down into something pale and careful, her mouth set soft but unreadable as if she were trying very hard not to let any one thought get too close to the surface.
Arthur disappeared through one of the suite’s side doors with the silent competence of a man who had been trained not to flee visibly from other people’s catastrophes, leaving the room suddenly too open and too bright around them. The chandelier glittered overhead. Wallace chewed happily on his bone, utterly devoted to being the only creature in the suite having a good morning.
Sam lifted his brows as if he hadn’t just been sitting there in full possession of whatever the hell had happened the night before while Dean and Bunny stood half-dressed, tattooed, and apparently married in the doorway.
“So,” Sam said, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice no matter how hard he clearly wasn’t trying. “How was your first night as a married couple? Honestly, from what I witnessed, I’m surprised you’re both upright.”
Dean stared at him for one stunned second before something hot and sharp cut through the fog in his head. “You remember what happened last night?”
Dean moved before he could fully think better of it, crossing the few steps toward the breakfast table. The suite tilted halfway through the trip, his stomach lurching in protest, and he had to catch himself hard on the back of one of the dining chairs when black spots flared briefly at the edges of his vision.
Sam watched the entire thing with open fascination.
“Oh my God,” Sam said, a laugh breaking through his disbelief. “Are you hungover?”
Dean’s jaw tightened. “Shut up.”
“No, wait, seriously.” Sam set his coffee down, leaning forward like he was observing a rare natural phenomenon in the wild. “You are. You’re actually hungover. I didn’t think that could happen anymore.”
Next to Dean, Bunny sank into the chair beside him like her bones had been liquified. She didn’t so much sit as collapse, folding down into the expensive upholstery with a boneless, tequila-heavy grace that made the chair seem less like furniture and more like the only thing preventing her from melting directly into the floor. Her dark hair fell forward around her face as she leaned both elbows on the table and lowered her head into one hand.
The ring sat on the table now, silver and diamond catching faintly against the cloth, and the sight of it made Dean’s stomach turn again for reasons that had nothing to do with tequila. “Samuel, darling,” she said, voice low and scraped thin with hangover misery, “I need you to give us a full rundown of what the hell happened yesterday.”
Sam’s amusement faltered by a degree as he looked between them, his gaze moving from Bunny’s pale face to Dean’s fixed stare and then back again. For the first time since they’d opened the bedroom door, something like genuine confusion crossed his face. “Wait,” he said slowly. “You really don’t remember any of it?”
Bunny blinked at him, expression flat enough to level buildings. “Sam, it feels as if I’ve been chewing roofies all evening, so I would greatly appreciate it if you skipped whatever clever joke you’re currently preparing and got down to brass tacks.”
Dean lowered himself into the chair beside her with more care than he would have liked anyone to witness, his body still operating under protest as he sank into the expensive upholstery and gripped the edge of the table for balance. Sitting helped, technically, though it also gave his brain fewer things to focus on besides the ring on his hand. “Skip to the important parts first,” Dean said, voice rough and clipped as he forced his attention back to his brother. “Where the hell are we, how’d we get here, and where’s my car?”
“And,” Bunny added, lifting one finger without raising her head much farther, “I would very much like to know whether we actually got married or if this is simply you taking the piss out of both of us.”
Dean nodded once, too quickly, and immediately regretted it when pain flashed behind his eyes. “Yeah. That too.”
Sam exhaled through his nose and reached for a tall glass sitting near the center of the table, reddish and garnished with celery and something green Dean didn’t have the bandwidth to identify. He nudged it toward them carefully, like he was offering aid to a pair of injured animals who might bite him if he moved too fast. “Drink some of this first.”
Bunny recoiled with the slow horror of a woman being offered poison. “If that has alcohol anywhere near it, I may actually be sick.”
“It’s not a Bloody Mary,” Sam said quickly, though his mouth twitched like the comparison had already occurred to him. “Arthur said it’s a hangover cure. Tomato juice, spices, some kind of vitamin thing, I don’t know. He brought it up earlier.” Sam shrugged, then took another sip of coffee with the smug ease of someone whose organs had apparently already begun negotiating peace. “I was feeling a little rough when I woke up, and it helped.”
Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “You don’t look rough.”
“I showered. I’ve been up for a while.”
Dean stared at the glass for a second, then reached for it because he needed something to do with his hands before they started shaking or before he did something worse, like ask Bunny what she was thinking, or look too long at the ring she still hadn’t put on, or let his brain linger on the fact that the woman sitting next to him wasn’t technically his girlfriend anymore.
She was his legal wife, apparently.
Mrs. Winchester.
The words moved through him with a slow, dangerous heat, catching somewhere deep beneath the panic and hangover and sheer absurdity of the morning. If he hadn’t felt like death warmed over, if his skull hadn’t been trying to crack itself open, if Bunny’s face hadn’t gone pale and distant in a way that told him she was about three bad thoughts away from shutting down completely, maybe some stupid, private part of him would have let itself be thrilled. Quietly. Secretly. In some dark, locked room inside his chest where he kept all the things he wanted but didn’t trust himself to touch.
Hell, maybe it already was.
Dean had never thought anyone would want that with him. Not really. He knew what he was. Knew what came with the Winchester name, what followed it like smoke. Blood, bad luck, credit card fraud, demon deals, black eyes in dark rooms, bodies salted and burned before dawn. He knew the version of himself the world got when the jokes ran out and the doors locked behind him, and he had never been dumb enough to imagine somebody looking at all that and thinking husband. Men like him got motel rooms, bar bathrooms, one-night stands with women who never asked for last names, maybe a few weeks of something good before the road or the grave or the family business took it back.
But Bunny knew.
Bunny had been born into the dark, same as him, raised by loss and iron and the kind of love that checked weapons before it checked the weather. She knew what lived under beds and in woods and behind familiar faces. She knew the sound of a shovel biting into frozen ground, the stink of old blood, the specific dead-eyed exhaustion that settled into a person after stitching someone up in a motel bathroom and pretending breakfast would fix it. She had seen him ugly and half-broken and mean with fear, had seen him bloody, drunk, reckless, cruel, scared, damned. She knew every terrible thing attached to his life and had stayed anyway.
And now there was a ring on his finger and one lying on the table between them like a question neither of them was brave enough to answer out loud.
The drink was cold when he lifted it, condensation slick against his fingers, the smell sharp with tomato and pepper and something savory underneath that actually made his stomach settle for the first time all morning instead of revolt. He took a long swallow before he could think too hard about it.
It tasted kind of like a Bloody Mary if somebody had taken the fun out and replaced it with a vitamin aisle. Still, it wasn’t bad. The spice hit the back of his throat, chased by salt and citrus and enough heat to cut through some of the cotton stuffed into his skull, and Dean lowered the glass slowly, breathing out through his nose as the burn settled in his chest.
“Okay,” he said, voice low, eyes still on Sam. “Talk.”
Sam’s expression sobered a little beneath the command, enough that the smug edge finally dulled into something more careful. He set his coffee down and looked between them, gaze lingering briefly on the ring lying untouched near Bunny’s hand before returning to Dean. “Alright,” he said slowly. “What’s the last thing either of you remembers?”
Bunny exhaled through her nose, eyes still half-lidded with misery as she leaned back in the chair. “Poker,” she said after a moment. “I remember the three of us playing poker with some man whose name I’ve already forgotten. After that, everything goes horribly fuzzy.”
Dean frowned, trying to force the memory into shape, but all he got was casino light and laughter and the warm press of Bunny against his side. “I don’t even remember that much,” he muttered.
From across the room, Wallace finally abandoned his bone with a reluctant stretch, front paws pressing into the couch before he hopped down and ambled toward the table like he had decided the family crisis now required his supervision. He stopped between Dean and Bunny, shoved his scarred muzzle against Dean’s knee, and let out a heavy sigh. Dean lowered one hand automatically, fingers sinking into the dog’s fur as Wallace settled there, warm and solid beneath his palm.
“Alright,” Sam said, watching the dog for half a second before he drew in a breath and leaned back in his chair. “Poker was the last thing you remember, then. That tracks, I guess. We’d been at that table for a while. And, to be fair, we were doing pretty well.”
Bunny gave a hollow little laugh into her hand. “Doing pretty well.”
“Okay,” Sam amended, mouth twitching. “We were mopping the floor with everyone who sat down.”
Dean’s fingers stilled briefly in Wallace’s fur.
Sam saw it and lifted one shoulder. “I mean, it wasn’t even close. You were cleaning people out left and right. Bunny won one hand with a straight flush and then somehow convinced the guy across from her to fold on the next one even though she had basically nothing, and Dean, you were doing that thing where you look like you’re not paying attention but somehow know every card that’s been played in the last fifteen minutes.”
“That’s called being good,” Dean said automatically.
“That’s called making casino security nervous.”
“Same thing.”
Sam huffed a quiet laugh, but there was still a thread of concern beneath it now, his gaze flicking over Dean’s face and then Bunny’s. “By that point, though, all three of us had been drinking pretty heavily.”
Bunny finally picked up the hangover cure, sniffed it with the expression of a woman confronting a difficult but necessary medical procedure, and took the smallest possible sip. Her face shifted through disgust, consideration, and reluctant approval in quick succession before she lowered the glass again. “That’s the understatement of the century, isn’t it? I feel as if I’ve somehow got tequila in my eyes.”
Sam’s grin came back, smaller this time. “Yeah, well, you and Dean were drinking tequila like it had personally wronged you.”
Dean scratched slowly behind Wallace’s ear, watching the dog’s eyes half-close in bliss. “Sounds like us.”
“Unfortunately, yeah.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “After poker, you decided to try pretty much everything else. Blackjack. Texas hold ’em. Slots. And the weird thing was, you just kept winning. All of us did. It was like you couldn’t lose. By the time the casino started really paying attention, we had to be up at least a hundred grand.”
Silence dropped over the table. Even Wallace seemed to pause. Dean stared at Sam, waiting for the punchline that didn’t come. “A hundred thousand dollars.”
“At least,” Sam said. “Maybe more. It got hard to keep track once they started comping everything.”
Bunny very carefully set her glass down. “Comping everything?”
“Yeah. Drinks. Food. Poker chips. A host came over, introduced himself, said the Lucky 29 ‘valued guests who knew how to enjoy themselves.’” Sam glanced around the suite, mouth quirking. “Then they offered us this.”
Dean looked slowly around the enormous room again, at the chandelier throwing light over polished marble, the sunken conversation pit, the full bar, the piano, the massive windows with Vegas burning beyond them in morning gold. He thought of Arthur knowing their names, Arthur knowing their breakfast orders, Arthur holding Bunny’s ring like this was all part of a very expensive package.
“They gave us the suite,” Dean said.
Sam nodded. “For the night, yeah.”
Dean stared at him. “Because we were winning.”
“Because you were winning,” Sam corrected. “I helped. Bunny helped. But by then, the two of you were…” He trailed off, searching for a word.
Bunny lifted her head slightly. “Drunk?”
“Magnetic,” Sam said, and then seemed to regret it the second both of them looked at him. “I mean—loud. Not loud exactly, but people were watching. You were both winning, laughing, and getting free drinks from basically everyone. The casino loved you. Or at least they loved the money moving around you.”
Dean swallowed, his hand stilling against Wallace’s head again as another strange little pulse of memory flickered uselessly in the back of his mind. Bunny under casino lights. Her laugh bright and reckless, head tilted back, smoke and perfume and tequila on her mouth. His hand at the small of her back. Chips stacked in front of them in impossible little towers.
Sam watched Dean for a second, expression shifting like he’d caught some flicker of memory cross his face and wasn’t sure whether to press on or let it pass. Then he cleared his throat quietly and continued, his voice a little more careful than before. “At some point after they gave us the suite, I left you two downstairs for maybe an hour. Hour and a half, tops.”
Dean’s hand resumed its slow movement over Wallace’s head, though he didn’t remember deciding to start petting him again. “You left us alone?”
Sam gave him a look. “You’re both adults. You were fine.”
“That’s debatable,” Bunny murmured into her glass.
“I went with one of the Lucky 29 staff members to get our stuff from the other motel,” Sam said, ignoring that. “I figured if they were sending someone over anyway, I should probably go with them before some poor bellhop opened our bags and found the guns, fake IDs, and whatever else we had lying around.”
Bunny nodded faintly, still looking pale as she took another careful sip of the hangover cure. “That was probably wise.”
Dean exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting briefly toward the far wall as if he might somehow be able to see through the hotel and down to wherever Baby was parked below. The thought of someone else handling their things, even with Sam there, scraped unpleasantly against the inside of his skull, but he couldn’t argue with the logic. Their shitty motel room had probably looked like a federal indictment with double beds.
Bunny lowered her glass and looked back at Sam, the little silver ring still untouched on the table near her hand. “That explains how Wallace and our bags ended up here,” she said, voice steadier now, though still rough around the edges. “It does not explain the bit where we apparently got married.”
“I’m getting there. When I got back and dropped Wallace off at the suite,” Sam said, “I was still pretty hammered. So I’m not saying I was operating at full genius level either, but I remember enough. I found you two downstairs near one of the private entrances, and you had just come back from a tattoo parlor.”
Dean felt the corner of his mouth twitch before he could stop it.
“I saw Dean’s,” Sam said, glancing toward the ink visible on Dean’s arm. “The rabbit. I don’t know what you got, though.”
Bunny groaned into her hands. “Please don’t.”
“What was it?” Sam asked, leaning slightly to try and catch her eye. “Because judging by the fact that you look like you want to crawl into the tablecloth and die, I’m guessing it was something stupid.”
Dean felt the smirk creep onto his face before he could stop it.
Bunny heard it somehow, because she lifted one hand just enough to point at him without looking up. “Don’t you bloody dare. It’s so stupid.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, a little too pleased with himself despite the headache still trying to tunnel out through his temples. “It’s not stupid.”
“It is the stupidest thing I have ever done by miles,” Bunny said, voice muffled by her palms. “Possibly the stupidest thing anyone has ever done.”
Dean scoffed. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”
Bunny lifted her head just enough to glare at him through her fingers. “You only like it because it’s your initials.”
Dean’s smirk deepened by half an inch, but the warmth under it surprised him, softening something around the edge of his mouth before he could sharpen it into something safer. “Yeah, I like it,” he said, quieter than he meant to.
Sam, who had apparently caught enough of the shape of that moment to understand, grinned even wider. “Wait,” he said, looking at Bunny again. “Did you actually get Dean’s name tattooed on you?”
Bunny’s hands returned fully to her face with a groan so low and wounded it made Wallace lift his head from Dean’s knee in concern.
Dean glanced at her, making sure she was still hidden behind her palms, then looked back at Sam. “It’s my initials, but hell yes, she did,” he said, shielding the movement from Bunny with his shoulder, and mouthed, very clearly, tramp stamp.
Sam pressed his lips together hard, but the grin broke through anyway, bright and disbelieving and younger than he usually let himself look these days. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head once as if the two of them had finally exceeded even his generous expectations for disaster. “Wow,” he said, voice quiet with the effort of not laughing outright. “The two of you become expert decision makers when I’m not around, huh?”
Dean muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like shut up, but there wasn’t much bite behind it anymore. The exhaustion had sanded the edge off everything, leaving him sitting there with Wallace pressed warm against his leg, a half-finished hangover cure in his hand, and the woman he had apparently married staring into the middle distance like she was trying to process the fact that she’d tattooed his initials onto her body sometime before dawn.
“After the tattoos, we went back down onto the casino floor for another hour or so,” Sam said. “Maybe a little longer. Honestly, the timeline gets fuzzy after this point for me.” His mouth twitched faintly at something private in the memory. “You started smoking with Bunny, and I do remember that.”
Dean’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t smoke.”
“You did last night.”
Dean went quiet.
Sam glanced down at the table for a second before looking back up again, his voice calmer now, less amused and more thoughtful as the shape of the memory settled around him. “You were sharing cigarettes with her. Standing next to a blackjack table and taking drags off of her cigarette like you didn’t have a care in the world.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Bunny. “You guys looked happy, so I wasn’t going to stop you.”
Something moved faintly across Bunny’s face at that, quick enough that Dean almost missed it. Her fingers tightened once around the walls of her glass before relaxing again.
“We kept gambling after that,” Sam continued. “But the weird thing was, it never stopped. You two just kept winning. We all did, honestly, but especially you.” His gaze drifted toward Dean now. “I think you maybe lost three games all night out of… what? Twenty? More than that?”
Dean stared down into his glass, trying to summon any solid piece of it back and getting nothing but fractured impressions in return. Bunny’s perfume. Smoke curling blue beneath neon. The sound of slot machines screaming somewhere in the background, while chips stacked higher and higher in front of them. A laugh against his shoulder. Her hand catching his wrist. Bright casino lights reflecting gold in her eyes.
“It got to the point where people were watching you move between tables,” Sam said quietly. “Not in a bad way. More like…” He searched for the word carefully this time. “Like you were the center of something. Every time one of you sat down somewhere, a crowd started gathering around the table to watch.”
Dean shifted slightly in his chair, uncomfortable for reasons he couldn’t quite name.
“I was at a roulette table when Arthur finally came down to find us,” Sam continued. “By then, I figured maybe the casino was cutting us off or trying to get us upstairs before we cleaned out the entire damn building.” His mouth pulled faintly to one side. “But Arthur told us our reservation was ready.”
Bunny blinked slowly. “Our reservation?”
“Yeah. At first I thought it was dinner or something.” Sam gave a quiet little shrug. “Honestly, it probably should’ve been. All three of us were drunk enough by that point that food might’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
Dean’s stomach twisted unpleasantly beneath the hangover cure.
Sam leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression distant now, eyes focused somewhere past the suite and the sunlight and the breakfast table entirely. “Arthur took us out through one of the private exits near the casino floor,” he said. “There was a car waiting outside. Big black thing. Fancy enough that I was afraid to touch anything in it.”
Bunny let out the faintest breath of laughter at that.
“We drove for maybe fifteen minutes,” Sam continued. “Long enough to get away from most of the Strip. The chapel was sitting out near the edge of everything, all lit up in neon like every other wedding place in Vegas, except this one looked…” He paused briefly. “Kind of sad, honestly. Like it had probably looked exactly the same for thirty years.”
Dean could almost see it. Blue neon buzzing against dark desert air. Heat rising from the pavement even after midnight. Bunny beside him in the backseat with her head tipped against the window and her fingers laced loosely through his while whiskey and tequila softened the edges of every bad decision into something that felt inevitable instead of dangerous.
“There was an Elvis impersonator,” Sam said, and despite everything, his mouth twitched again. “A really committed one, too. Sequined suit. Sideburns. The whole thing.” He glanced toward Bunny. “And these awful fake blue flowers everywhere. There was a guy waiting near the front with paperwork and a ring for Bunny. I’d never seen it before, and I’m honestly still not sure where you got it from.”
Dean looked automatically down at the silver band sitting on the table.
“I probably should’ve asked more questions,” Sam admitted. “But honestly? By then I’d been drinking whiskey neat for five hours, and the two of you looked…” He stopped again, searching. “Happy. You both just looked really, really happy.”
The words settled strangely into the room. Dean’s chest tightened without warning.
Sam looked down at the table briefly before continuing, his voice softer around the edges now, stripped of most of the earlier amusement. “And then, my big brother was standing in front of an Elvis impersonator in his dirty hunting boots, getting married to my best friend.” A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Honestly, it was kind of a mess. Everybody was drunk, the chapel was terrible, and Elvis cried at one point, but it was your mess. And for what it’s worth, it felt right.”
Sam glanced between the two of them again before speaking, his tone lighter this time, trying gently to pull some of the weight back out of the room without fully succeeding. “I’m just glad you finally got married so you’d have an excuse to flirt as much as you already do.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Not that being unmarried ever stopped either of you before. You’ve both been kind of insufferable for months now. At least now you can blame it on being newlyweds.”
Bunny still sat folded slightly inward at the table, one elbow resting near the untouched ring while her fingers remained curled loosely around the empty glass. The earlier embarrassment had faded out of her face somewhere during Sam’s story, leaving behind something quieter and more distant instead, her gaze fixed on the little silver band sitting against the white tablecloth like she was trying to decide whether it belonged to her at all.
Dean understood the feeling. Because if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really know what to say either.
It all sounded strange coming from Sam’s mouth, disconnected from him somehow, even though every piece of it fit together too well to deny. Vegas. Tequila. Tattoos. Bunny laughing beneath neon lights while he followed her through casinos with whiskey in his bloodstream and his hands all over her. Marrying his dream girl in the middle of the night because, for once in his life, he’d stopped overthinking long enough to just do the thing he wanted. That sounded exactly like something Dean would do.
And still, something about it sat wrong in his chest.
Not wrong in the sense that he regretted her. That wasn’t it. Even half-dead from the hangover and emotionally blindsided before breakfast, he knew that much with terrifying certainty. The idea of Bunny being his wife didn’t feel bad. If anything, that was the problem. Some quiet, traitorous little part of him kept catching on the shape of the word and holding onto it longer than it should have.
Bunny Winchester. His wife. It should’ve felt ridiculous. Instead, it felt dangerous in the way all his favorite things tended to feel.
But the rest of it… the chapel, the blackout drunk vows, the fact that neither of them could even properly remember saying yes—it scraped against something deeper in him that he’d never really let himself look at before. Dean had never allowed himself to think about marriage long enough for the fantasy to grow roots, but apparently, some hidden part of him had still built a picture anyway.
If it ever happened—if there had ever been a world where Dean got to keep something good long enough to marry it—he thought maybe he would’ve wanted something small. Quiet. A courthouse somewhere with Bobby pretending not to get emotional about it and Sam trying not to smile too hard. Maybe dinner afterward at some little diner where Bunny stole fries off his plate and tried to convince him to split a strawberry milkshake with her.
He would’ve wanted her in a real dress. Not expensive, necessarily, because she never cared about things like that nearly as much as other people assumed she should, but something she loved. Something soft and white and hers. He would’ve wanted her to have flowers that weren’t made out of dusty blue plastic. He would’ve wanted her to remember it.
Beside him, Bunny finally reached out and touched the ring lightly with the tip of one finger, her expression distant enough that Dean knew, with a sudden awful certainty, that she was thinking something dangerously close to the same thing.
Dean cleared his throat roughly, dragging himself back toward safer ground before his brain could wander anywhere even remotely useful or honest. “You’re serious about the money thing? We really won over a hundred grand?”
The shift in conversation broke some of the strange stillness hanging over the table. Sam leaned back slightly in his chair again, the softer expression fading into something more familiar and easier to handle. “Yeah,” he said, a faint grin pulling briefly at his mouth. “I haven’t had a chance to sit down and figure out the exact total yet, but my guess is we’re somewhere around a hundred thousand. Maybe a little more.”
Dean stared at him for a second, genuinely incredulous. “A hundred grand,” he repeated, because the number still sounded fake when he said it out loud.
Sam nodded once. “We’ll probably lose a chunk of it to whatever the hotel won’t cover, but even after that? We’re still walking away with a stupid amount of money.”
Bunny let out a soft hum from beside him. “Well,” she murmured, voice quieter than before, “perhaps we can finally stop staying in motels where the wallpaper peels if you breathe too hard near it.”
Dean huffed a laugh at that, low and tired but more genuine than anything that had escaped him all morning. The pounding in his skull had finally dulled from attempted murder down to something survivable, and the awful nausea twisting through his stomach had settled into a manageable ache now that Arthur’s bizarre little miracle drink had worked its way into his bloodstream. Whatever the hell had been in it, the guy deserved a medal.
“Hell of a hangover cure,” Dean muttered, lifting the glass slightly before taking another drink. The spice and citrus burned warmer this time going down, no longer fighting his body so much as dragging it reluctantly back toward functionality. “Seriously. He should bottle this and sell it everywhere.”
Dean leaned back slightly in his chair while Wallace pressed heavier against his leg, the dog seemingly satisfied now that everyone had stopped actively spiraling for the moment. He frowned faintly into his glass.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I’m honestly not convinced the three of us didn’t accidentally brush up against some cursed object last night.” His eyes lifted toward Sam again. “Something like that rabbit’s foot a few years back. The one Bela stole from you.”
Sam’s expression tightened briefly in immediate recognition. “What?”
“I’m serious.” Dean gestured vaguely with the glass. “Think about it. We hit Vegas, and suddenly we can’t lose at anything. Cards, slots, whatever. We win enough money to weigh down the trunk, get a free luxury suite, blackout marry each other, and somehow wake up without one of us missing a kidney.” He squinted faintly. “That’s not how things usually go for us.”
Bunny made a small noise of agreement under her breath. “He does have a point.”
Sam watched him quietly for a second before shaking his head once. “No,” he said. “Trust me, if we’d gotten mixed up with something like that, we’d know by now.”
Dean’s brow furrowed. “How?”
“Because with our luck? Something horrible would’ve happened to balance it out already.” Sam leaned back slightly in the chair, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful than teasing. “I’m chalking it up to the universe giving us a break for one night.”
Dean barked out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself, the sound roughened around the edges by disbelief and exhaustion alike. “Yeah,” he said, leaning back in the chair as he stared out toward the Strip blazing bright beyond the windows. “Like that’s going to happen.”
The room settled into silence after that, not uncomfortable exactly, but weighted in the way things always became around the three of them eventually, every joke and bit of temporary lightness sinking back beneath the reality waiting underneath. Bunny pushed herself slowly up out of the chair.
Wallace’s head lifted immediately from Dean’s thigh at the movement, dark eyes following her with quiet interest while she ran one hand tiredly back through her hair. The motion only succeeded in making the already messy waves worse, strands falling around her face and catching against the collar of the oversized dress shirt she still wore over last night’s skirt. Up close, Dean could see exhaustion settling into her properly now that the adrenaline of the morning had burned off, the sharpness around her eyes softened into something worn thin and thoughtful.
“I think I’m going to shower before my skeleton attempts to leave my body entirely.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward Sam, then Dean, though not quite long enough to settle properly on either of them. “Would one of you mind finding my bag?”
“I’ll get it, sweetheart,” Dean said automatically. The answer came too quickly, instinctive enough that it pulled something small and painful tight beneath his ribs the second it left his mouth. Bunny gave a faint nod at that, murmuring a soft thanks, but she still didn’t really look at him.
Dean noticed. He noticed because Dean always noticed when it came to her. The little absences. The hesitation in her posture. The way her fingers lingered too long around a glass when she was thinking too hard about something. The fact that she still hadn’t put the ring on.
It remained sitting there on the white tablecloth between the empty glasses and breakfast plates, silver catching softly in the sunlight spilling through the windows, untouched. Dean’s gaze snagged on it again despite himself, something low and uncomfortable twisting faintly in his chest at the sight.
Bunny stepped away from the table slowly, Wallace rising to follow her for two hopeful steps before she bent automatically to scratch behind his ears. “Stay with Dean, darling,” she murmured, pressing a kiss between the dog’s ears before straightening again.
Then, before she could think too hard about it, she leaned down slightly and pressed a quick kiss against the side of Dean’s head. The touch was brief, familiar enough to hurt a little. Her hand settled against his shoulder afterward, fingers squeezing once through the fabric of his shirt before she stepped away entirely and started toward the door that led to their room.
Dean watched her go in silence. He watched the sway of her tired posture disappear past the doorway. Watched the sunlight catch in the dark mess of her hair. Watched the woman who had apparently become his wife less than twelve hours earlier walk away without her wedding ring.
And because he was Dean Winchester, because his brain always knew exactly where to sink the knife when left unattended for too long, one ugly, familiar thought rose quietly up through the rest before he could stop it. Maybe he’d done what he always did. Maybe he’d taken something good and found a way to ruin it.
The thought sat heavy and sour in the pit of his stomach while the silence stretched out around the table again. Wallace returned to lean heavily against Dean’s leg with a sigh, apparently deciding the crisis had evolved beyond canine intervention, and Dean lowered one absent hand to the dog’s head without really thinking about it.
Across from him, Sam stayed quiet long enough that Dean knew he’d noticed the shift.
That was the thing about Sam. For all the ways they drove each other insane, for all the secrets and anger and grief currently rotting holes through the middle of both of them these days, Sam still knew exactly when Dean was sinking somewhere ugly inside his own head. And, maybe more importantly, he usually knew when not to shove at it directly.
After a minute, Sam cleared his throat lightly and leaned back a little further in his chair. “So,” he said, tone deliberately casual now, gentler than the teasing from earlier, “can I actually see the tattoo this time? I didn’t get a great look at it last night.”
The question pulled Dean back hard enough that he blinked once before looking over at his brother. Then he huffed a quiet breath through his nose and nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, alright.”
He reached up and tugged back the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the fresh black lines inked into the inside of his arm once more, the little rabbit sitting stark against his skin. Sam leaned forward slightly to look at it better this time while Dean rested his arm back against the table, sunlight catching briefly against the silver ring on his left hand as the scene around them settled into something quieter, stranger, and infinitely more complicated than it had been when the morning started.
✩
An hour later, Dean stood in front of the closed bathroom doors in the bedroom suite and tried very hard not to feel like a coward.
It wasn’t working.
Bunny had disappeared to shower, and in the hour since, Dean had done what he did best when left alone with too much quiet and too many consequences: he had torn apart every decision he’d made in the last twenty-four hours until there was nothing left but raw nerves, regret, and the familiar rotten certainty that he had managed to ruin something good before he’d ever really gotten to enjoy it.
It was practically a gift at this point, some ugly Winchester talent passed down through blood and bad luck. The ability to find the softest thing in reach and then damage it by accident because he opened his mouth wrong, or held on too tight, or did something stupid before thinking through all the ways it might hurt someone else.
And marrying Bunny in Vegas while blackout drunk? Yeah. That had to be somewhere near the top of the list.
He’d showered in Sam’s bathroom just to kill time, standing under water hot enough to scald until the tequila and cigarette smoke and whatever else clung to his skin finally gave way to hotel soap and the faint soreness of fresh ink. It had helped his headache, at least. Arthur’s miracle drink had taken the edge off the hangover, too, leaving Dean feeling more human than he had any right to after waking up half-dead in silk sheets, but neither the shower nor the food nor Sam’s careful attempts at distraction had done a damn thing about the tightness behind his ribs.
All roads had led him here eventually. Back to their room. Back to the closed bathroom doors. Back to the small silver ring resting in his palm.
He turned it slowly between his thumb and forefinger, watching the diamond catch the soft bedroom light. It looked too delicate in his hand, too clean against the scars and calluses and grease-darkened lines that never really went away, no matter how much he scrubbed. Bunny’s ring. His wife’s ring, technically, though the thought still hit him sideways every time it surfaced.
He didn’t know what he was going to say.
That was the problem. Dean usually had words for things that didn’t matter and nothing but wreckage for the things that did. He could bluff his way through a federal building, talk his way into a morgue, charm waitresses, piss off monsters, lie to cops, lie to victims, lie to himself. But Bunny was on the other side of that door, and somewhere between breakfast and now, the whole shape of the morning had shifted from funny to terrifying to something soft enough that he didn’t know where to put his hands.
He would give her an out if she wanted it. Hell, he’d make it easy. He’d make some crack about annulments and Vegas mistakes and chalk the whole thing up to tequila before she had to ask for it herself. He’d pretend it didn’t gut him. He’d give her time if that was what she needed, give her space, give her whatever version of not being trapped made her shoulders stop sitting so tight beneath his shirt.
But God help him, he was a selfish bastard.
Because underneath all that noble crap, underneath the rehearsed lines and the exit routes he was already building for her with his own two hands, Dean wanted something so badly it scared the hell out of him. He wanted her to open that door and look at him. He wanted her to say she didn’t mind. That it was insane and stupid and too fast and not how she would’ve done it, but she didn’t mind being married to him. Worse than that, he wanted her to say some part of her had wanted it too, that maybe she’d been waiting for him to get his head out of his ass and ask her properly, that maybe the ring didn’t feel like a trap in her hand.
He wanted her not to run. That was the ugly heart of it, really.
Not the chapel. Not the paperwork. Not even the ring. Dean could handle those, could joke around them until they lost their teeth. What he couldn’t handle was the thought that Bunny might look at this mess and see the thing that finally made her step back from him for good. That she might decide he had taken too much, wanted too much, dragged her too far into the wreckage of his life and called it love because he didn’t know how else to keep her close.
Dean looked down at the ring again, letting the quiet stretch around him while his thumb brushed slowly over the small diamond set into the band. It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t one of those huge, stupid rocks that caught on everything and announced itself before the woman wearing it ever got to speak. Even drunk, even apparently operating on tequila and whatever suicidal burst of honesty had possessed him last night, some part of Dean had known Bunny wouldn’t want that.
She wouldn’t want something heavy enough to get in her way, or expensive-looking enough to make her feel like she had to be careful with her own hand. She’d want something simple. Something pretty without being useless. Something she could wear on a hunt if she wanted to, something she could turn inward against her palm if she needed to throw a punch and still keep the stone from breaking skin.
The thought hit him low and strange, because he hadn’t even seen it on her yet. Not properly. Not where it was supposed to be.
And still, for the better part of an hour, he had imagined it there so many times the image had started to feel dangerous. Bunny’s hand wrapped around a diner mug with the ring catching light against her finger. Bunny cleaning her gun with the diamond turned inward so it wouldn’t snag on the cloth. Bunny flicking ash from a cigarette, silver bright against her skin. Bunny reaching for him in the dark with his initials on her back and his ring on her hand, both of them carrying proof of some reckless, drunken truth neither of them had been brave enough to say sober.
Dean closed his fingers around the ring before the thought could go any further.
He couldn’t stand there forever. He wanted to, maybe. Standing outside the bathroom door with her ring in his fist wasn’t exactly heroic, but it was easier than whatever came next, and Dean had always been good at confusing avoidance with strategy when the thing waiting on the other side had eyes like hers.
Still, eventually, he lifted his hand and knocked.
For a second, there was only the low rush of water somewhere inside the bathroom, the faint shift of movement beyond the door, and then Bunny’s voice called back, softer than usual but steady enough to make something in his chest ache.
Dean pushed the door open.
The bathroom was ridiculous, because of course it was. Marble everywhere, huge mirror, soft lighting, towels folded neatly. Bunny stood at the sink with her back to him, wrapped in one of the casino’s white robes, the fabric plush and loose around her shoulders while damp hair fell down her back in dark, heavy waves. She was working a brush through it carefully, the way she always did when she had the time.
Dean stopped just inside the doorway for half a second.
She looked softer like this. Not fragile, exactly; Bunny could be wrapped in silk and still somehow look like she might gut a man if given sufficient reason. But stripped of the crooked dress shirt and hangover panic and the sharp glitter of breakfast-table horror, she looked quiet. Tired. Bare in a way that had nothing to do with skin. The steam had left a faint flush along her cheeks, and the bruised shadows beneath her eyes were more visible now in the gentle bathroom light.
Her gaze lifted to meet his in the mirror. For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Bunny gave him a small smile, the kind that tried to be reassuring and didn’t quite have the strength to make it all the way there. There was something tired sitting behind her eyes, something thoughtful and careful and far away, and Dean felt his fingers tighten around the ring in his palm.
“Hey, princess,” he said quietly.
Her smile softened by a fraction, just enough to hurt. “Hi, cowboy.”
Dean stepped farther into the bathroom and let the door fall mostly shut behind him, though not all the way, some dumb part of him unwilling to make the room feel too closed in when everything between them already felt delicate enough to bruise. He moved until he was beside her at the sink, then settled his back against the counter, one hip braced against the cool marble while he angled himself toward her because looking at her directly felt dangerous and necessary at the same time.
Bunny turned her attention back to the mirror, still moving carefully, still quiet in that way that made him want to fix something without having the first damn clue where to put his hands. Her skin looked clean and soft beneath the bathroom lights, still faintly shiny from whatever lotion she’d found, her cheeks flushed from the shower and her damp hair hanging dark over the white robe.
Dean watched as she opened a little glass bottle from the counter and tipped a few drops of something clear and expensive-looking into her palm before working it slowly through the ends of her hair, fingers combing carefully through the wet strands with a patience she seldom had time for in their real lives.
“You smell nice,” he said after a moment, because it was true, and because it was safer than saying anything else currently sitting like broken glass in his throat.
Her gaze flicked to him, and the smile that touched her mouth this time came a little easier. “Do I?”
“Mhm.”
“I found a few things in one of the drawers,” she said, lifting one shoulder in a small, almost sheepish shrug as she smoothed another pass of oil through her hair. “I thought I might as well try them, seeing as we’ve apparently won enough to pay for this suite three times over. The lotion is rather lovely, actually.”
She lifted her arm toward him without ceremony, wrist offered near his face, and Dean leaned in because apparently he had never once in his life possessed the self-preservation necessary to refuse her when she did anything that soft. He inhaled carefully, catching something clean and green beneath the warmth of her skin.
“Yeah,” he murmured, glancing up at her. “That’s nice.”
Dean hummed softly, eyes drifting over the absurd bathroom again, the marble and the folded towels and the tiny glass bottles lined along the counter like they belonged to people who had never once washed blood out of their hair in a gas station sink. For a few moments, neither of them said anything. Bunny kept working through her hair, slow and methodical, and Dean let himself watch the routine because he knew she liked this sort of thing when she could get it: good soap, hot water, time enough to brush her hair properly instead of dragging it into a knot because a case was waiting. Little luxuries. Things their lives rarely made room for.
Guilt pinched under his ribs at the thought of interrupting it.
He cleared his throat anyway, quiet and rough. “Found your stuff,” he said. “Bag’s on the bed. Figured you’d wanna get dressed after, unless you want me to bring it in here.”
Bunny shook her head, still watching herself in the mirror as she dragged the brush carefully through another dark section of hair. “I’ll fetch it in a minute. No reason to make you take the extra steps.” Her eyes lifted to his wet hair, still dripping faintly against his collar. “How was your shower?”
Dean glanced down like he’d forgotten evidence of it was attached to his head. “Good,” he said, then nodded once with genuine appreciation. “Pretty damn good water pressure.”
Bunny made a soft, agreeable sound as she set the brush down on the counter. “Excellent water pressure. I could’ve stayed in there another hour if I didn’t feel guilty about wasting that much water.”
Dean’s mouth tugged at one corner before he could stop it, the smile small and private enough that he didn’t bother trying to turn it into a smirk.
That was his Bunny, all right. The woman could walk into some rotting house with a shotgun in hand and blood on her sleeve, could dig up graves in the freezing dark without complaint, could look a monster dead in the eye and call it something rude in that crisp English voice of hers before taking its head off, but the idea of wasting too much hot water in a luxury hotel made her feel guilty.
It should’ve been funny, and it was, but mostly it just did that thing she was always doing to him without meaning to, slipping past the armor and catching somewhere soft. Bunny worried about little things. Not because she was fragile, not because she didn’t understand the shape of the bigger horrors waiting outside the door, but because she did. Because if she didn’t keep one hand on the small, decent things, the dark would take everything else.
Dean had always liked that about her.
He thought, suddenly, of standing with her in a pet store aisle a few weeks back while Wallace sat politely at her feet in his pink collar, scarred face lifted toward the shelves like he understood the gravity of the decision being made. Dean had leaned against the cart for what had to have been ten minutes while Bunny asked the clerk about ingredients, stomach sensitivity, preservatives, whether the food had anything in it that might make a rescue dog’s digestion worse, while Dean pretended to be bored and secretly watched her care so intensely about a bag of kibble that his chest had started hurting in a way he’d had no business letting happen beneath fluorescent lights.
Bunny caught his expression in the mirror and arched a faint brow. “What?”
“Nothin’,” he said, because explaining any of that out loud would’ve required emotional vocabulary he did not currently possess.
She hummed like she didn’t believe him, then reached for a small jar from the counter and unscrewed the lid. “Have you and Sam had any luck locating the enormous pile of money we supposedly won last night?”
Dean nodded, settling more heavily against the counter as he folded his arms over his chest. “Yeah. Sam found most of it. Casino’s still sorting out some of the cash-out stuff, but it looks like the final split comes to around thirty-six grand each.”
Bunny’s hands stilled for half a second against her face. Then her brows lifted, and a slow, disbelieving smile tugged at her mouth as she looked down at the cream shining faintly over her fingers. “Thirty-six thousand dollars,” she repeated softly. “That certainly isn’t pocket change.”
“Nope.” Dean let the corner of his mouth tilt up. “Not unless your pockets are a hell of a lot nicer than mine.”
“They are not,” she said, smoothing the cream over her skin with careful upward strokes. “Though apparently they could be.”
Dean huffed a quiet laugh.
Bunny glanced at him in the mirror, something easier passing briefly through her face. “Do you know what you’ll do with yours?”
Dean shrugged one shoulder, trying to make the question feel smaller than it did. “Probably hang onto it for now. Maybe buy some parts for Baby, do a couple things I’ve been putting off.” He looked down at the tile, then back toward her reflection. “Sam said something about getting a new laptop since his is held together with duct tape and prayer, but I don’t think he knows what he’s doing with the rest yet.”
Dean watched her smooth the last of the cream over her cheek, the motion slow and absent now, like her hands were moving through the routine while her mind stayed somewhere else entirely. “You got any big plans for yours?” he asked, trying to sound casual and mostly landing somewhere adjacent to it. “Thirty-six grand buys a lot of fancy hair oil.”
Bunny gave a quiet huff of amusement, but the smile that followed was small. “I doubt I’ll keep most of it,” she said, setting the little jar back on the counter and wiping the excess from her fingertips with one of the pristine white towels folded beside the sink. “I’ll probably send some to Da, and maybe some to Frank and Spencer. They’ve got a college account started for Lou, and I’m sure they’d be cross with me for sending too much, but I can be very stealthy when required.”
Dean frowned faintly, the name snagging in his head. “Lou?”
Bunny glanced at him in the mirror, then blinked like she’d only just remembered there were whole pieces of her life lately that he’d heard about in summary, not in full. “Oh,” she said softly. “Right. I suppose we never really got a chance to talk about Kentucky, did we?”
“No,” Dean said, careful. “Guess we didn’t.”
For a second, something passed between them that had nothing to do with rings or Vegas at all; a small, old ache from when she’d been away and he’d been in a hospital bed, and everything had gone sideways around them before either of them could catch up. Dean shifted against the counter, turning the ring once more in his closed hand before forcing himself to focus on the safer thread. “How’s Francesca?”
Bunny’s mouth curved immediately, familiar warmth breaking through the tiredness at last. “You know she hates when you call her that.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, letting his own mouth tilt. “That’s why I do it.”
“She’s good,” Bunny said, eyes softening as she looked down at the counter rather than the mirror. “So is Spencer. They’ve got this farm in Kentucky, more animals than sense, and a darling, chubby little boy named Lewis, though everyone calls him Lou. He’s terribly spoiled. Very serious about grabbing hair. Happy baby, though. Really happy.”
Dean leaned against the counter and watched her talk about them, watched some of the tension leave her shoulders without her noticing, and felt that old familiar ache settle somewhere under his ribs. “Sounds nice.”
“It was,” Bunny said quietly. “It was strange, seeing her again. But nice.”
For a few seconds, the bathroom held onto that softness, the marble and steam and eucalyptus wrapping around the silence until it almost felt safe. Dean could have let it stay there. He probably should have. Instead, because he had never known how to leave well enough alone when there was a wound nearby and his fingers were already bloody, he shifted slightly against the counter and looked down at the ring hidden in his palm.
“I remember their wedding,” he said.
It was careful bait, and Dean hated himself a little for setting it out. He didn’t know what he wanted from her reaction except proof of life, maybe. Something. A flinch. A smile. A joke. Anything that told him whether the word wedding had teeth for her now, whether the ring in his hand was a thing she wanted back or a thing she was too polite to run from until he gave her the chance.
When she didn’t say anything, he kept going, because silence had always made him itchy.
“It was fun,” he said, trying to make it sound casual, like his pulse wasn’t beating hard in his throat. “Not really a line-dancing-at-a-wedding kind of guy, but they had an open bar, so, you know. Pretty much guarantees success.”
Bunny’s mouth curved faintly at that, small and distant but real enough to make his chest pull tight. “Frank told me about how much fun you’d had with the open bar.”
“Uh oh. Not in trouble, am I?”
“No, darling. You’re not in trouble.” Her smile lingered for another second, eyes dropping back toward the sink, and Dean waited, giving the moment room to turn into something he could read. It didn’t. Bunny just stood there in the soft white robe with damp hair over her shoulder and that careful look settling back into her face, the one that made him feel like she had gone somewhere inside herself and forgotten to leave him directions.
So Dean reached over slowly and opened his hand. The ring sat in his palm for one last second, bright and small and warm from his skin, before he placed it on the counter in front of her.
Not too close. Not pushing it into her hand. Just there, between the little glass bottle of hair oil and the jar of face cream, looking wildly out of place among all the quiet, ordinary things she’d been using to put herself back together.
Bunny looked down at it.
Dean watched her face in the mirror, searching for anything he could hold onto. Surprise. Relief. Panic. Want. But her expression barely moved, and the lack of it hit him worse than any answer she could’ve given. The familiar instinct came before he could bury it.
End things before they had the chance to hurt you.
Dean looked down at his boots.
It wasn’t even a choice so much as instinct, his gaze dropping hard to the floor like there might be something there worth studying, something safer than Bunny’s face in the mirror or the ring sitting between glass bottles and expensive cream. His boots looked wrong against the shining bathroom tile, scuffed leather and road dust and stubborn old blood worked into places no polish would ever reach, out of place among all that marble and steam and white towels folded into neat little hotel-perfect stacks. They looked like him, really. Like something dragged in from the road and set down in the middle of a life too clean to want it there.
So he looked at them and missed it.
He missed the way Bunny’s fingers moved toward the ring after that breathless little stillness. Missed the way she touched it first with the barest edge of caution, then curled her hand around it like she was afraid it might vanish if she hesitated too long. He missed the faint, almost helpless pull at one corner of her mouth, the beginning of something small and quiet and terrified that might have been a smile if he’d given it one more second to live. If he’d looked up one second sooner, it might have changed the shape of everything that came next.
Instead, Dean stared at his boots and felt that old rotten thing rise in him, familiar as gun oil, mean as hunger. Cut it off first.
Anything good, anything warm, anything that started feeling too much like it could belong to him if he just stood still long enough to let it settle. Cut it off before it got comfortable. Before it grew roots. Before someone else realized they’d made a mistake and ripped it away from him with both hands. Better to do the damage himself. Better to make it clean, make it easy, make it sound like he was doing the right thing instead of bleeding all over the floor from a wound no one had touched yet.
Dean cleared his throat, and even that sounded wrong in the quiet bathroom. “I think we should get an annulment.”
The words came out low. Rough. Almost casual, if a person didn’t know him well enough to hear the strain underneath. The room went still.
Not loud still. Not dramatic. Just the kind of stillness that settled over something the second after it broke, when the pieces hadn’t hit the ground yet, but everyone could already hear them falling. Dean kept his eyes on the floor because he couldn’t quite make himself look at her, couldn’t watch whatever that sentence did to her face. He could feel her staring at him, though. Felt it on the side of his neck, across his shoulder, somewhere deep beneath his ribs where all the stupid hopeful things had gone suddenly quiet.
After a long moment, Bunny said, very softly, “Oh.”
Just that.
One small word, prim and quiet and flattened at the edges, and Dean hated himself so violently for it that his jaw tightened before he could stop it.
He shrugged. His body knew the motions of not caring, even when his chest felt like it was folding in on itself. “It’s probably for the best, you know?” he said, still looking down, still studying the ruin of his boots against the perfect tile like they had answers. “I mean, things between us have been…” He stopped, rubbed one hand over the back of his neck, and tried again. “They haven’t exactly gotten back to normal.”
He heard her breathe in, slow and careful. Dean kept going before that sound could stop him.
“And I don’t wanna make it worse because we got wasted in Vegas and did something stupid.” His voice caught faintly on stupid, but he shoved past it. “We’ve already been through enough lately. Last thing we need is one drunk mistake setting us back even further.”
Dean swallowed hard, forcing his shoulders loose even though every muscle in his body wanted to lock up. “Whole thing was a bad idea,” he said, quieter now, like lowering his voice might make the lie kinder. “Probably easiest if we just undo it now before it gets more complicated down the line.”
Dean finally made himself look at her. It took more out of him than it should have, lifting his gaze from the floor to her reflection and then, because the mirror felt too indirect for the damage he’d just done, turning his head enough to look at her properly. Bunny stood very still beside the sink, damp hair falling dark over the white robe. Her face had gone quiet in that way that always scared him more than anger did, all the small movements tucked away behind careful eyes as she searched his expression like there might be something written there that his mouth had failed to say.
God, she was beautiful.
The thought came uselessly, brutally, right in the middle of him trying to let her go.
Even pale and tired, even with wet hair and shadows under her eyes and that hotel robe wrapped around her like it belonged to someone who had never once run through graveyard mud with a shotgun in hand, she was the most perfect damn thing he had ever seen. Not perfect, clean. Not perfect, easy. Perfect like herself, sharp and stubborn and soft where she thought no one was looking, freckled and exhausted and standing there with every terrible thing that had ever happened to her still somehow unable to make her cruel.
He loved her.
He loved her so much it felt less like warmth and more like damage, something lodged beneath his ribs that moved every time she breathed. And if she didn’t want this, if she didn’t want him with a ring on his hand and all his wreckage dragged into the open alongside it, then fine. So be it. Dean could live with that, probably. He had lived through Hell. He had lived through worse than heartbreak, technically, even if none of those things had ever stood in front of him smelling like eucalyptus with his ring held in her hand.
Because why the hell would she want this? Why would she want him? He was impulsive and reckless and angry, with a drinking problem the size of Kansas and a talent for turning tenderness into shrapnel. Heaven was trying to jam a hand up his ass and steer him toward destiny like he was some meat puppet with a pretty prophecy attached, Sam was drifting farther from him by the day, and the apocalypse was crawling closer one ugly inch at a time.
Marriage was for people who had futures. Dean had a car full of weapons and a front-row seat to the end of the world.
Bunny looked at him for a long moment, and something in her face shifted, small enough that most people would have missed it. Dean didn’t. He just didn’t know what it meant. Her eyes dropped, and that was when he finally saw the ring in her hand, held against her palm, her freckled fingers curled around the silver band like she had picked it up at some point while he’d been too busy staring at his boots and cutting his own throat before she could do it for him.
His chest gave one hard, stupid pull.
Bunny looked down at it, too.
“No,” she said softly, and the word scraped thin on the way out. She nodded once, but it didn’t look like agreement so much as something she was forcing into shape because he had already given it to her. “No, you’re—” She stopped, swallowed, and tried again with a steadier voice. “You’re right.”
Dean went very still.
Bunny turned the ring slightly between her fingers, the diamond catching the bathroom light in one brief, delicate flash before she closed her hand around it again. “We were drunk,” she said, careful and quiet, every word laid down like she was trying not to disturb something wounded between them. “Very drunk, apparently. And marriage is… it’s a rather large commitment to make because one happens to be on a hot streak in Las Vegas.”
Dean’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. “Yeah,” he managed.
Her mouth moved like she might smile, but it never quite became one. “And we’ve got more important things going on. Angels. Demons. The impending end of days. All very inconvenient, really.” She looked back up at him then, eyes too steady now, too carefully composed. “We’ve already had one relationship-altering conversation in a hotel recently. I think perhaps it’s best we don’t have a second.”
Dean’s throat tightened hard enough that swallowing hurt. He forced his shoulders into something loose anyway, forced his face into something close enough to easy that maybe she wouldn’t see the part of him that had dropped through the floor the second she agreed.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Probably smart.”
Dean made himself smile. It felt wrong on his face, too stiff around the edges, too thin to pass for anything real if she looked too closely, but he put it there anyway because that was what he did. Smile like it didn’t hurt. Shrug like it didn’t matter. Make the wound look smaller than it was so nobody felt obligated to touch it.
Some stupid, selfish part of him had been hoping she would push back, which was the ugliest part of the whole damn thing, really; he’d handed her the knife, wrapped her fingers around the handle, and still some buried piece of him had wanted her to refuse to use it. Wanted her to look at him and call him a coward. Wanted her to say no, Dean, I don’t want an out, I want you.
But his luck, apparently, had run out sometime after the chapel.
“Good,” he muttered, because if he said anything else, he wasn’t sure what might come out with it. His gaze flicked briefly toward the ring still closed in her hand before he forced it away again. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
The words sounded awful. Clean. Reasonable. Like something a better man might say if he weren’t using them to cauterize something still alive.
Bunny nodded once, small and careful, her fingers still curled around the ring like she hadn’t quite remembered how to let go of it. “Yes,” she said softly. “Same page, darling.”
Dean pushed away from the counter before the quiet could get its teeth into him any deeper, one hand dragging over the back of his neck while he turned toward the door. The bathroom suddenly felt too warm, too full of steam and eucalyptus and all the soft little things Bunny had used to make herself feel human again, and he hated himself a little for leaving this conversation in the middle of them like smoke damage.
“Me and Sam are gonna go pick up the cars from the old motel,” he said, aiming for practical because practical was all he had left. “Get Baby, grab your Bronco, make sure we didn’t leave anything behind. Shouldn’t be more than an hour, then we can head outta town.”
Bunny looked at him through the mirror rather than turning around, her expression composed enough that he trusted it even less than tears. “Okay.”
One word again. Dean hated how much he heard in it. Hated how little he could trust himself to understand. So he stepped closer before he could think better of it, bent down, and pressed a kiss to the side of her head, just above her damp temple. It was familiar enough to pass for normal if neither of them looked too closely, gentle enough that it nearly undid him anyway.
“Be back soon,” he murmured.
He didn’t look back from the doorway, because if he did, if he saw her standing there with his ring in her hand and that careful, composed look on her face, he wasn’t sure he would survive being noble for another second. He just crossed into the bedroom, pulled the bathroom door quietly behind him without shutting it all the way, and kept moving toward the suite before the stupid, selfish part of him could turn around and beg.
✩
By the time they found the chapel again, the morning had already sharpened into afternoon.
Vegas heat pressed down over everything in a flat, golden sheet, warming the roof of the Impala beneath Dean’s hand and turning the black paint glossy enough to catch warped pieces of the street around them. The Strip sat farther behind them now, all glitter and glass and noise fading into the distance, while this part of town felt quieter in a sadder sort of way, sun-bleached and tired around the edges. A pawn shop squatted on one side of the chapel, windows crowded with guitars, watches, and other people’s bad decisions, and on the other side stood a souvenir store with inflatable dice hanging in the window and a rotating rack of postcards slowly turning in the faint breeze from a rattling outdoor fan.
The chapel itself was called Angel of Love Wedding Chapel.
Of course it was.
The sign hung above the front doors in curling pink and blue neon, dim in the daylight but still faintly glowing like it hadn’t figured out the sun had risen. A painted angel with gold wings and a heart-shaped arrow smiled down from the sign with a bland, cheerful innocence that made Dean want to shoot it on principle. After Heaven shoving its hands into their lives and calling it destiny, the idea that he and Bunny had gotten married in a place with angel in the name felt like the kind of joke the universe told right before it kicked your teeth in.
Dean did his best not to look at it too long.
If he believed in fate, signs, destiny, any of that crap, maybe he would’ve taken it as something. A warning. A punchline. A big blinking arrow over the fact that every time Heaven got anywhere near him and Bunny, things turned sideways and bloody and impossible to explain. But Dean had spent too much of his life watching people dress up bad luck as meaning, and he wasn’t in the mood to start now, not with the air between him and Bunny sitting awkward and sore in the front seat like a third passenger neither of them wanted to name.
The Impala ticked softly as the engine cooled, metal settling beneath the sun. Dean sat there for a second longer than necessary after he put her in park, both hands resting on the wheel while Bunny sat silent beside him, looking out through the windshield at the chapel doors. She was dressed in her own clothes again, though there was still something too careful about her, hair brushed smooth over her shoulders, sunglasses pushed up on top of her head, mouth set in a way that told Dean she was thinking too hard.
Sam was supposed to meet them just outside of town. He’d found a few final chips that never made it to the cashier the night before, tucked into one of the suite’s drawers like drunken squirrels had been preparing for winter, and had offered to cash them while Dean and Bunny took care of the annulment. At the time, Dean had nodded like that made sense. Like splitting up was practical. Like it didn’t leave him alone with Bunny and the bruise he had put between them in that marble bathroom.
Now, sitting outside the Angel of Love chapel in the too-bright Vegas sun, Dean found himself wishing Sam were here just so there would be another voice in the car. Something to fill the spaces. Something to keep him from noticing the way Bunny’s hands rested quietly in her lap, one thumb brushing over the bare finger where the ring wasn’t.
He got out first.
The heat hit him immediately, dry and bright against the back of his neck, and he crossed around the front of the Impala with his jaw set and his keys still in his hand. Bunny had already reached for the handle, but Dean got there before she could open it herself, pulling the passenger door wide and stepping back.
She glanced up at him, and for one second the smallest, saddest hint of a smile touched her mouth. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Dean nodded, because anything more complicated than that felt like it might crack open in his teeth. “Yeah, baby.”
Bunny stepped out into the sun, smoothing one hand down the front of her shirt as the door swung shut behind her with a familiar heavy sound. Dean closed it the rest of the way, palm lingering for half a second on the warm black paint before he forced himself to turn toward the chapel.
“You ready?” he asked.
The question came out low and careful, like he was asking about something ordinary. Like they were heading into a morgue, or a diner, or another one of those roadside museums Sam always pretended not to want to stop at.
Bunny looked toward the front doors. Then she gave one small nod. “Yes,” she said, quiet enough that the traffic nearly swallowed it. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Dean hated the answer, but he had asked for it.
Together, they crossed the short stretch of sunbaked pavement toward the chapel entrance, neither of them close enough to touch and both of them aware of it. At the doors, Bunny paused for half a breath, looking up at the ridiculous painted angel smiling above them with its heart-shaped arrow and cheap gold wings.
Dean saw her notice it. He saw the irony move across her face and disappear before she let it become anything. So he reached past her, pulled the front door open, and held it there. Bunny walked inside without looking back.
The bell above the door gave a bright, brittle jingle as they stepped inside, the sound too cheerful by half as it cut through the hush of the little chapel’s front room. Cool air rolled over Dean’s face, carrying with it the stale sweetness of old flowers, carpet cleaner, and faint cigarette smoke trapped somewhere deep in the walls. The place looked worse in daylight than it probably had the night before, all faded pink walls and glass display cases crowded with plastic bouquets, framed photos, ring boxes, dusty silk ribbons, and little ceramic angels with painted smiles that seemed to stare from every available surface.
Behind the clerk’s desk, a man looked up from a stack of paperwork with the vague, practiced interest of somebody used to strangers walking in hungover, nervous, excited, or all three. Then his face changed completely.
His whole expression broke open into a beam.
“Well, well!” he said, pushing back from the desk so fast his chair squeaked against the floor. His accent was thick and warm, his voice booming in the small room as if he were greeting old friends instead of two people who had absolutely no memory of him. “There they are! My beautiful lovebirds!”
Dean felt Bunny go still beside him.
The man came around from behind the desk with both arms already open, his crooked name tag catching the light where it was pinned to the front of an open Hawaiian shirt. Ernie. Dark hair slicked back from his forehead, beer belly pressing comfortably against a white undershirt, a small stain near the collar, open-toed sandals slapping softly against the floor as he crossed toward them. Everything about him radiated such immediate, unguarded fondness that Dean had no idea what to do with it until Ernie grabbed him into a back-slapping hug hard enough to rattle the last of the hangover around inside his skull.
Dean stood there for half a second with both arms hovering uselessly before awkwardly patting the man once on the back. “Uh. Hey.”
Ernie turned to Bunny next, his expression softening with almost theatrical affection as he gave her a much gentler embrace, careful and brief, the kind someone offered a woman they genuinely liked and did not want to wrinkle. Bunny accepted it with frozen politeness, one hand lifting faintly to pat his arm while her eyes flicked toward Dean over Ernie’s shoulder, wide and unreadable in a way that made Dean’s chest tighten.
“And the bride,” Ernie said warmly when he stepped back, taking one of Bunny’s hands between both of his for a second. “Beautiful then, beautiful now. Still glowing.”
Bunny’s mouth moved faintly. “I’m fairly certain that’s nausea.”
Ernie laughed as if she had said something charming, then bustled back toward the desk with a pleased little clap of his hands. “I am so glad you came. I was just saying to myself, ‘Ernie, you must call down to the Lucky 29 and have somebody come get this for them before they leave town.’ And here you are! Perfect timing. Perfect.”
Dean cleared his throat, glancing once toward Bunny. She was standing very straight now, shoulders tucked into careful composure, sunglasses still pushed up in her hair, her face polite and pale in the overly bright little room.
Ernie bent behind the desk, rummaging through a stack of framed certificates leaning against the wall. “I had your marriage certificate framed, just like I promised. Came out beautiful. Very beautiful. Very classy. You two have taste, even very drunk.” He laughed again, bright and easy, as if the sentence contained no emotional shrapnel whatsoever. “And I tell you, I do not say this to everyone, truly I don’t, but that was one perfect wedding. One of the best we have had here in months. Maybe years. You make a beautiful couple. Beautiful. The way you look at each other, ah—” He pressed one hand briefly to his chest, smiling widely. “The real thing.”
The words made the air between Dean and Bunny tighten by another painful degree.
Dean looked down at the cluttered counter. Bunny looked at a display of silk roses.
Ernie didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he was too happy to let the silence bother him. “And where is the brother? Sam, yes? Big guy. Very serious face until the dancing started.” He pointed at Dean with a grin. “He still owes me twenty dollars from our bet.”
Dean blinked. “Bet?”
“On whether Elvis would cry before the vows were finished,” Ernie said, as if this explained anything. “He say no. I say yes. I know my Elvis. My Elvis is very in touch with the heart. Very in touch.”
Bunny made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been swallowed almost immediately.
Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the movement stiff. “Listen, Ernie,” he said, forcing himself to step into the conversation before the man’s joy could make the whole thing even harder than it already was. “We’re actually here for a different reason.”
“Of course, of course,” Ernie said, apparently hearing something entirely different in Dean’s tone as he finally pulled a frame free from beneath a pile of others with a triumphant little noise. “You want to see it first. I understand.” He set it on the desk between them.
Dean stopped breathing for a second.
There it was.
Their marriage certificate, framed behind clean glass in a simple black frame, official enough to make the whole ridiculous night suddenly solid in a way Sam’s story and Arthur’s congratulations hadn’t quite managed. The paper sat crisp and cream-colored beneath the glass, stamped and signed and real, with decorative little flourishes around the edges and the name of the chapel printed across the top in looping script. Their signatures at the bottom, unmistakable even through the glass. His quick, heavy scrawl. Her more elegant hand beside it. A legally binding piece of paper, framed like a souvenir.
Ernie clapped his hands together once, still beaming at them over the framed certificate like he had just placed a newborn baby on the counter instead of legally binding evidence of a decision neither of them could remember making. “So,” he said brightly, looking between them with open expectation, “what can I do for you, my friends? My Elvis, he comes back at three if you want another picture with him. Better light in the afternoon, too. Very flattering.” His grin widened as if the thought delighted him. “You are welcome to wait here, of course. My wife is making tea in the back. She would be very happy to see you again.”
Dean felt the sentence land somewhere uncomfortable.
Again.
Everybody in this place had memories of them except them. Ernie, his wife, Elvis with the apparently tender heart, Sam, Arthur, probably half the damn casino floor. They existed all over last night in other people’s heads, laughing and drinking and looking at each other in ways strangers remembered fondly enough to beam at them in daylight. Dean stared down at the framed certificate, at his name and Bunny’s sitting side by side under glass, and suddenly the whole thing felt too exposed.
He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound normal. “Yeah, uh. Appreciate it, but we won’t be needing that.”
Ernie’s smile didn’t falter yet, though confusion flickered faintly behind it. “No picture?”
“No.” Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, aware of Bunny standing too still beside him, arms close to her sides like she was trying not to take up any more space than necessary. “We’re actually here because the casino said we could come back here to…” He stopped, jaw tightening once around the words before he forced them out anyway. “Get an annulment.”
For the first time since they’d walked in, Ernie went quiet.
The change was immediate enough to feel physical, like somebody had dimmed the room without touching the lights. His wide smile dropped from his face, not dramatically, not with offense, but with such plain disappointment that Dean felt it twist somewhere behind his ribs before he could armor himself against it. Ernie looked from Dean to Bunny, then back again, his brow pulling together beneath the slicked-back sweep of his hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I don’t understand.”
Dean swallowed.
Beside him, Bunny’s arms folded slowly across her body, one hand curling against the opposite sleeve like she was holding herself in place. “It’s nothing you’ve done,” she said, voice gentle and careful in that prim way she got when she was trying very hard not to let anything sharper show through. “Truly. You’ve been very kind.”
“But last night,” Ernie said, and there was no accusation in it, only confusion so sincere it somehow made everything worse. “Last night you were so happy. Both of you.” He glanced down at the certificate, then back up at them, his expression softening into something almost pleading. “I have done this a long time. I see many couples. Some are drunk, yes, some are nervous, some are foolish, some should maybe wait until morning.” A faint, sad smile moved across his mouth and disappeared. “But you two… the way you looked at each other. That was not foolish. That is how I look at my wife.”
The words settled into the cluttered little room with all the weight of a hymn in the wrong church. Dean couldn’t look at Bunny.
Bunny’s breath moved quietly beside him, slow and measured, and when she spoke again, her voice had gone thinner around the edges. “We’re sure,” she said, though the pause before it made the certainty sound assembled rather than felt. “But getting married in Las Vegas while drunk was never really part of our plan.”
Ernie looked at her for a long moment, his eyes kinder than Dean knew what to do with.
Bunny’s arms tightened around herself once before she forced them loose, reaching into her bag with careful fingers. “And we’ll need to return the ring we purchased from you as well.” Her mouth moved like she might try to smile, but nothing came of it. “I’m afraid I don’t remember the transaction, but I assume—I assume we got it from here.”
She drew out the ring. Dean’s gaze dropped to it immediately.
The little silver band sat in Bunny’s palm for half a second, catching the daylight from the window in one clean, bright flash, and then she reached forward and placed it gently on top of the desk beside the framed marriage certificate. She didn’t drop it. Didn’t slide it away like something she couldn’t bear to touch. She set it down with the same quiet care she gave delicate things, fingertips lingering for barely a breath before she pulled her hand back.
Dean stared at it. The ring looked smaller on the desk than it had in his palm. Smaller still beside the certificate, and somehow worse.
For a moment, nobody said anything.
The little chapel seemed to hold its breath around them, all faded pink walls and dusty angels and glass cases full of cheap rings reflecting the afternoon light in dull little flashes. Somewhere overhead, an old Elvis song played softly through a speaker that crackled at the edges, his voice warm and grainy and absurdly tender as it drifted down over the cluttered counter, over the framed certificate, over the ring Bunny had placed there with too much care for something she was supposedly giving back. Dean stared at the silver band until his eyes started to burn, then forced himself to look somewhere else and found nothing better waiting for him.
Ernie let the silence sit for a few seconds longer before he nodded once, slowly, his disappointment folding itself into something gentler. “I see,” he said quietly, though the way he looked between them suggested he didn’t. “The Angel of Love, she helps Cupid’s arrow find its way.” His mouth pulled into a faint, sad smile. “But sometimes, maybe, the arrow finds the heart a little too early.”
Ernie turned before either of them could answer, rifling through a stack of folders and loose papers behind the desk with much less of his earlier cheer, his sandals scuffing softly against the worn floor as he searched. “The annulment papers, they are simple,” he explained, voice still warm but quieter now. “There is a forty-dollar filing fee, because I must send it to the city. I have my notary stamp somewhere, one moment. I put it in a very safe place, which means, of course, I do not know where it is.”
Under different circumstances, Dean might have laughed at that. Now he only reached slowly toward his back pocket, fingers stiff as he pulled out his wallet.
Ernie found the papers first, sliding a thin packet free from beneath a laminated price sheet for vow renewals and laying it carefully on the counter in front of them. The pages looked painfully ordinary. White paper. Black ink. Blank lines waiting for names, dates, signatures, neat little boxes for ending something that had apparently begun under neon and tequila and the sound of Bunny laughing at him like there was no apocalypse waiting outside the chapel doors. Ernie placed a pen on top of the stack, then looked between them one more time, his expression softening in that way kind strangers had when they knew they had stepped into grief but didn’t know where the edges were.
“I give you a moment and go find the stamp,” he said, then nodded once to himself and disappeared through a beaded curtain into the back room. The beads clicked softly behind him.
Dean stood very still.
Bunny stood beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her without either of them touching, and when she glanced up at him, he saw the question there before she said anything. Who first. Which one of them was supposed to put their name down and make the undoing real?
Dean knew, with sudden, terrible clarity, that there was no way in hell he could do it. Not first. Maybe not at all.
His hand hovered on his wallet, thumb hooked against the worn leather, but his eyes stayed fixed on the papers, on the clean blank signature line waiting beneath the printed words. He could face down demons, could pull a gun on his own father, could crawl out of a grave with dirt still packed in his lungs, but the idea of signing his name there made something inside him go rigid and cold.
So he did the cowardly thing. He gestured toward the papers without a word, small and stiff, giving Bunny the first move because he couldn’t find the guts to take it himself.
Beside him, Bunny let out a quiet little breath, not quite a laugh and not quite anything else, just air leaving her chest like something had finally settled heavy enough to press it out of her. Dean heard it anyway. Heard all of it. And still, he looked down at his wallet instead of her face, sliding two twenties free with fingers that didn’t feel entirely steady.
Bunny stepped closer to the desk like the distance between her and the papers was something that needed crossing carefully, one small shift of weight at a time. Her hand hovered above the pen for a second before she picked it up, fingers curling around the cheap plastic barrel with a hesitation Dean felt in his own bones. He leaned one hip against the edge of the counter and tried to make himself look casual, tried to arrange his body into something loose and unaffected, but he knew he was failing miserably. There was nothing casual about the way his pulse was beating in his throat, nothing easy about the two twenties held too tightly in his hand, nothing convincing about the way he kept staring at the pen like it was a loaded gun.
Bunny didn’t sign.
Her gaze had snagged on the framed certificate instead, drifting over the cream-colored paper behind the glass, and after a moment, something faint and startled twitched at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, not fully, but close enough to make Dean’s chest pull tight before he could stop it.
“Wow,” she said softly, the word touched with a kind of incredulous wonder that didn’t quite match the misery sitting around them. “We used our real names.”
Dean blinked, then looked down.
Sure enough, there they were, printed neatly beneath the decorative flourish of the chapel’s name, formal and official and absolutely insane in the middle of a town built on bad aliases and worse decisions. Beatrice Chabrier Norton. Dean Michael Winchester. Not whatever fake IDs they’d been carrying last night, not some legally convenient ghosts pulled from their pockets and flashed under casino lights. Their names. Their actual names, sitting side by side behind glass like they belonged there.
Despite himself, Dean felt a small smile tug at his mouth. “Huh.”
Bunny’s eyes flicked briefly toward him. “What?”
“I mean, I’m legally dead,” he said, glancing back at the certificate with a quiet, disbelieving huff. “And we’re both wanted by the FBI, angel. Kinda impressive we managed to make it through the paperwork.”
Bunny looked back down at the frame, her mouth pressing together like she was trying very hard not to let the moment become funny. “I’m wanted by Interpol as well, technically.”
Dean turned his head slowly toward her. For a second, the annulment papers might as well have vanished from the desk entirely. “You’re what?”
Bunny’s eyes stayed on the certificate. “Wanted by Interpol.”
“How the hell are you wanted by Interpol?”
She gave a small shrug, prim and evasive and entirely too casual for the sentence she had just dropped into the middle of the room. “It was this thing in Mexico with Frank when we were younger.”
Dean stared at her. Bunny did not elaborate.
He wanted to ask. God, did he want to ask. There were about fifteen questions already lining up in his head, starting with Mexico? and ending somewhere near why does every woman in my life have a federal record and better secrets than me? But the pen was still in her hand, and the annulment papers were still waiting, and somehow dragging the conversation sideways into whatever international incident she and Frank had apparently caused in their twenties felt like a stay of execution he didn’t deserve.
So Dean just looked back at the certificate, the smile still there but smaller now, aching around the edges. “Right,” he muttered. “Sure. Mexico thing.”
Bunny’s mouth twitched. “Best not to ask.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, though his eyes flicked toward her again. “I’m gonna ask later. You know that, right?”
“I assumed as much, love.”
For one brief second, they almost felt like themselves again. Almost. Standing shoulder to shoulder in a tacky Vegas chapel, staring at proof of their own terrible judgment while calmly discussing legal death, FBI warrants, and Interpol like any of that belonged in a normal afternoon.
She was still looking down at the annulment papers, pen held loosely in her hand, her profile turned toward him in the dusty chapel light. The soft line of her nose, the damp-dark sweep of hair over one shoulder, the careful set of her mouth while she stared at the blank signature line like it might shift into something easier if she only waited long enough. He could hear Ernie moving around in the back room, drawers opening and closing, papers rustling, the faint click and sway of the beaded curtain whenever he passed too close to it, but none of it really mattered. Not the forty dollars still caught between Dean’s fingers. Not the framed certificate. Not the old Elvis song crackling overhead like some ghost of last night had gotten trapped in the speakers.
All Dean could seem to care about was her.
The fresh sting of ink on his arm where some drunken, reckless, honest part of him had chosen a rabbit and called it hers. The faint smell of eucalyptus still clinging to her skin, filling the Impala on the drive over, different from the lavender shampoo he knew by heart and somehow just as right because it was on her. The sound of her laugh that morning, wrecked and hungover and startled out of her despite herself, the way it had warmed the room for half a second, even with rings and missing memories and fear sitting between them.
His Bunny.
Not his because of the name on the certificate, not because of the ring, not because some guy dressed like Elvis had pronounced anything over them while they were too drunk to remember it. His because she had been lodged under his ribs for so long now that he didn’t know how to breathe around the place she’d taken up. His because even standing here, waiting for her to sign away the thing some stupid part of him still wanted, he couldn’t make himself regret loving her.
Her hand had been hovering over the annulment papers for too long.
Ten seconds, maybe. Maybe less. Maybe forever. The pen tip hung just above the blank line where her name was supposed to go, close enough that one small movement would do it, one tiny dark mark that would turn this whole thing into something they could laugh about badly later if they were very careful and very cruel to themselves. Dean stood beside her and didn’t breathe right, his wedding band heavy on his finger and his heart doing something stupid and terrified behind his ribs.
Then Bunny looked up at him.
Her eyes were green and conflicted and so full of things she wasn’t saying that Dean felt the whole room tilt beneath him more violently than the hangover ever had. The pen trembled once between her fingers, barely enough to notice, but he noticed anyway because it was Bunny and because he had spent years learning every little fault line in her when he should have been learning how to survive without wanting her this badly.
She held his gaze for one full beat. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, “I can’t.”
Dean stared at her.
For a second, his brain didn’t catch up. It couldn’t. The words hit some locked, hopeless place inside him and just sat there, too soft and too impossible to make sense of right away. Bunny’s mouth parted slightly like she might say more, but nothing came out, and the pen lowered by an inch in her hand without ever touching the paper.
Then the meaning finally broke open.
Something in Dean’s chest pulled loose so fast it almost hurt.
A slow smile crept across his face before he could stop it, not the sharp one, not the cocky one, not the grin he used to piss people off or cover bleeding. This was smaller. Stunned. Helpless around the edges. The kind of smile he had no defense against because it had slipped out before any of his usual armor could slam down over it. “Yeah?”
In the back room, Ernie swore softly under his breath as the edge of one of the decorative vases clipped his pinky toe with pinpoint cruelty.
“Ah,” he hissed, grabbing the nearest shelf with one hand while the offending vase wobbled dangerously beside his foot. For one sharp, terrible second, he thought it was going to shatter, and then he would have to explain to Seta that he had broken one of her blue glass vases again while searching for the notary stamp. But the vase only rocked once, twice, then settled safely against the floor with a dull little clink, intact and innocent-looking as if it had not just tried to remove his smallest toe from his body.
Ernie glared at it anyway. “You,” he muttered, pointing at the vase, “are lucky she likes you.”
The little storage room behind the chapel had always been crowded, stuffed nearly wall to wall with silk flowers, spare frames, boxes of blank certificates, extra candles, old photo props, binders full of paperwork, plastic doves, sequined jackets, a backup Elvis wig in a bag labeled DO NOT TOUCH, and at least three things Ernie could no longer identify but refused to throw away because the second he did, somebody would surely need them.
Seta was always telling him he needed a better system back here. Labels, shelves, organization, maybe one of those little plastic drawers with the slots and the tiny handles. She had said it just last week while standing in the doorway with her tea in one hand, looking around at the mess with that patient expression she used when she loved him too much to call him hopeless outright.
He hated when she was right. Mostly because she was always right.
Thirty-seven years they had been married now, and Ernie could count on one hand the number of arguments he had won, which was zero. That had been one of the first things marriage taught him. There were victories, and then there was peace, and peace tasted better when Seta was humming in the kitchen and pretending not to smile because he had finally done what she suggested three days ago. Besides, what kind of fool argued too long with a woman who remembered how he took his tea, who still tucked her cold feet beneath his leg on the sofa, who had stayed through leaky roofs and slow seasons and Elvis impersonators with gambling problems?
No, Seta was right. The room was a disaster. And somewhere inside the disaster was his notary stamp.
Ernie bent with a careful grunt, moved the vase out of the path of his other foot, and reached deeper onto the shelf behind a stack of photo albums and a dusty basket of artificial rose petals. His fingers brushed cardboard, ribbon, something sticky he decided immediately not to investigate, and then finally closed around the familiar squared-off handle of the stamp.
“There you are,” he said, triumph warming his voice as he pulled it free. “Hiding from me like a guilty man.”
He straightened with a small groan and called toward the front room, voice carrying through the beaded curtain. “I found it, my friends. We are ready.”
No answer came.
That did not surprise him, not at first. People standing in front of annulment papers did not always answer quickly. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they whispered. Sometimes they stood there for long minutes staring at empty lines like the paper might choose for them if they waited politely enough. Ernie had learned, over the years, that love made people strange, and fear made them stranger, and that very often the two looked so much alike in the face that only time could tell them apart.
He set the blue vase carefully back where it had been, then thought better of it and moved it two inches farther from the edge. Seta would be proud. Maybe not impressed, exactly, but proud enough. Then he stepped around a box of vow renewal candles, nudged aside a plastic bin full of silk carnations with his foot, and made his way back toward the front of the chapel with the stamp in hand.
The beads clicked softly against his shoulder as he pushed through the curtain. “My friends,” he began, already shaping his face into something gentle enough for whatever he might find waiting on the other side. “We can—”
He stopped.
The front room was empty.
For a moment, Ernie only stood there beneath the crackling Elvis song drifting down from the overhead speaker, not quite surprised and not quite willing to smile yet. The front door had settled shut, the little bell above it still swaying faintly as if it had only just finished ringing. Sunlight slanted through the glass, catching dust in the air, glinting off the display cases and the cheap ceramic angels and the plastic flowers arranged in their tired little vases.
Slowly, Ernie walked back to the desk. The framed marriage certificate was gone. So was the ring.
The annulment papers remained on the counter, but not as he had left them. The pages had been torn cleanly in half, the signature lines split down the middle, the plain legal language broken into two useless pieces beneath the pen. The forty dollars sat beside them, weighted neatly under a ceramic angel with chipped gold wings, enough to cover the fee they would not be using, or maybe simply an apology for making him go look for the stamp.
Ernie stared at the torn papers. Then his smile returned.
Not the broad, booming grin from earlier, not the one he used when couples stumbled in under neon and nerves and champagne courage. This one was smaller. Softer. The kind of smile a man wore when he had been married thirty-seven years and still knew love when it stood in front of him pretending to be practical.
He reached out, gathered the torn annulment papers, and set them aside with a satisfied little nod. “I knew it,” he murmured to the empty room, placing the notary stamp gently down on another cluttered patch of desk. “Cupid, he is never early.”
hello everyone
WELCOME OUT OF THE DIVORCE ERA AND INTO THE THESE TWO ARE LEGALLY WED ERA WOOOOOOOOO
gotcha. fuckin gotcha. had the time of my life writing this one and i hope you got the whiplash of emotions i carefully crafted. oh??? oh you thought they were actually going to go through with the annulment after we've worked so hard to get them together???? WRONG. so wrong im not doin my shaylas like that
have they told each other they love the other person yet? no but like. details
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: Apologies, folks! I know I said I was gonna have this up before the weekend was over but then I ended up rewriting this thing like three times before I settled on it. It's so hard to bring everything to a close in a satisfying way. It's so crazy to me to think that I've finished another series. I've spent 20 weeks on this thing (technically longer when you account for planning and yapping about it before I started writing). I managed to stick to my weekly uploads despite everything. And you, my lovely readers, my love to you all. All your comments and kudos and you guys coming back week after week? I couldn't ask for anything more! 💜💜💜
Ashes of Grace Masterlist
The absence of your Grace felt different at night. During the day, it was easier to ignore.
There were distractions in the daylight. Research spread across the war room table. Sam reading quietly beside you in the library while he mindlessly tapped his foot. Dean dragging you out on pointless drives around the various Kansas roads just because the sunset looked good from behind the windshield of the Impala. Grocery stores and gas stations and diners and all the tiny, wonderfully mundane things that filled a human life.
But at night? At night, the world became quiet enough for you to feel the echo of what was missing.
You stood barefoot in the kitchen, staring at the flickering bulb above the dinner table while the rest of the bunker slept around you. Once, you would’ve been able to hear Heaven. Hear the choirs of your siblings. Feel their presence and know that they were near. Could feel the vastness humming just beyond existence. But now, there was only silence. Human silence. Heavy and finite.
The first few weeks after Seraphiel’s death and your celestial tampering to have Heaven lose your name, had been terrifying. You kept expecting someone to realize what you had done and come for you. Kept waiting for the universe to correct itself. Kept waiting for Heaven to come dragging you back into the shape you were supposed to occupy. Sam had called it anxiety. The constant fear that a heavenly army was doing to descend from the sky and enact righteous punishment for your actions.
You pressed your hand to your sternum and turned your eye inwards, towards the place where the faintest trace of your Grace remained. A fading ember buried beneath layers of humanity. Sometimes it flickered when you were emotional enough. Sometimes when you grew frustrated with the mechanics of human inventions. Sometimes when Dean kissed you like he was trying to memorize your existence.
But it wasn’t enough to be anything. Not enough to take back your celestial mantle. You couldn’t heal. Couldn’t do miracles. Couldn’t smite. The stars no longer spoke to you. You missed your wings. The thought hit you hard enough that your breath caught. For one weak moment, the remaining fragment of your Grace stirred in response to the ache, and light shimmered faintly behind you. You turned to look.
For the briefest second, you caught sight of your winged shadow cast against the far wall. Translucent. Flickering. Broken at the edges like smoke. Your throat went tight. Despite everything, it was still you. You remembered what it felt like to fly. Not the mechanics of it but the freedom. The feeling of stretching across creation itself. You remembered what it felt like to exist without hunger or exhaustion or fear. Remembered what it felt like to carry eternity inside your ribs. The memories should’ve comforted you. Instead, grief rolled through you so abruptly that you nearly doubled over from it. You weren’t sure if the noise that escaped you was a laugh or a sob.
“Feathers?” Dean’s voice came rough with sleep behind you. You turned fully to look at him and found him standing in the doorway in sweatpants and an old Led Zeppelin shirt, hair sticking up in every direction. He looked ridiculous and human. And yours. His expression softened the second he saw your face. “Oh, Feathers…” You looked away from him and sniffled.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Yeah, well, kinda hard not to notice when you vanish from bed at two in the morning.”
You glanced over your shoulder again, and the whisper wings behind you was gone. Dean walked towards you, stopping just in front of you. His eyes drifted to where your shadow rested against the wall, and he understood in a heartbeat. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t need to. Instead, he wrapped a hand around the back of your neck and pulled you into him, pressing his forehead to yours, the way someone might check for a fever or proof of life. His other hand settled at your hip, grounding you. You didn’t realize how tightly you were holding yourself until that moment when something in your chest finally loosened.
“I gave up eternity,” you said after a moment. You swallowed hard, searching for the words that would fit the feeling between your ribs. “There are days I still feel it,” you admitted. “The absence. Sometimes I think there’s a part of me that will always ache for what I was.” Dean was quiet for a moment. Then,
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.” You looked at him, only partially startled by the honesty. There was no easy reassurance waiting for you. No insistence that humanity erased the loss. Dean understood loss too well to lie about it, and his brand of bluntness was oddly refreshing. “You lost a whole universe, Feathers.” The nickname made warmth bloom in your chest, bittersweet in all the right kind of ways. “You don’t have to pretend that it doesn't hurt.”
It did.
But knowing the truth of it didn’t make it hurt any less. You wished it did. You leaned into him, your forehead still pressed against his, and let yourself breathe. The silence between you wasn’t empty. It was the kind of quiet that only existed when someone was willing to stand in the middle of the kitchen with you and not say a word. Dean’s thumb traced a slow, absent arc against the back of your neck.
“Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice,” you whispered, a confession. Dean pulled back slightly, studying your face. His hand remained on your neck, warm and steady.
“You didn’t make a choice,” he said after a moment. You blinked at him, confused. “You weren’t really given much of an option. They sent you down here thinking you’d come running back to Heaven once you saw how bad us mud monkeys are.” His hand slid from your neck to your shoulder, and he squeezed you gently. “But you stayed anyway. Even when it hurt. Even when you realized what you would have to lose.” His voice softened. “That’s not a choice. That’s who you are.”
The words settled into you differently than you thought they would. They weren’t a comfort, exactly. But they rang true regardless. You looked down at your hands, turning them over in the dim light of the kitchen. Human hands. Capable of breaking and healing and holding.
“I think that I was always going to end up here,” you said. Dean squeezed your shoulder again, a silent encouragement. “Even before Seraphiel sent me here. Even when I was an angel.” You closed your eyes, feeling the truth of your words settle into your bones. “I was always going to love humans. The capacity was always there.” Dean cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized was there or had fallen. His touch was gentle and reverent.
“I think you were always more human than you gave yourself credit for,” Dean said, his voice low and rough. He stroked your cheek. “Maybe you were always supposed to become… this.” You leaned into his touch, letting the warmth of his palm sink into you.
“This…” you repeated. “This human who still doesn’t understand social cues?” Dean’s lips quirked up into the half-smile you had come to adore.
“Yes, this human. The one who makes coffee just to smell it. The one who thinks bad movies are an art form. The one who keeps eating my cereal and putting the empty box back.” You let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising you with its lightness.
“It seems rude to just throw it away without telling you.” Dean’s smile widened.
“It’s rude when I grab the box and find out it’s already empty.” The tone in his voice was light. He paused, studying your face. “You doing okay, though?”
You considered his question, taking an extra second to really think about it. In that moment, with only the faint ashes of Grace left inside you, you realized that the ache would probably never leave. There were always going to be nights where you missed your wings so fiercely that it hollowed you out. You were always going to have moments where you caught yourself instinctively reaching for power that no longer existed. You were doomed to grieve the angel you used to be for the rest of your human life.
But humans lived beside grief every day. They loved beside it. Laughed beside it. Chose each other beside it. And maybe that was the whole point. Humans weren’t meant to erase pain or outrun loss. But it was a matter of deciding that something was worth hurting for.
“Yes,” you said. “Thought I’m not sure I understand why. Nothing has changed.”
“Sometimes just saying it out loud helps.” He shrugged, thumb still tracing patterns along your jaw. “Getting it out of your head and into the air where someone else can help you carry it.” You nodded, understanding slowly dawning. That was what set humans apart from angels. Not the pain or the loss, but the fact that you could share it. The fact that you weren’t expected to carry everything all by yourself.
“Humanity is much more complex than Heaven gives you credit for.” Dean’s smile grew warmer, and he pulled you into a hug. You went easily, resting your forehead against his chest and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
“It’s definitely different from divinity. But different isn’t always worse,” he murmured against your hair.
“No,” you agreed.” Just unfamiliar.” You stood like that for a while, wrapped in each other in the quiet kitchen. The loss of your wings and Grace and celestial nature didn’t disappear, but in Dean’s arms, it felt less like an ending.
“Come back to bed,” he whispered, his breath warm. “You’re shivering.” You hadn’t noticed the chill until he mentioned it. You nodded against his chest, pressing closer to him for a moment before pulling away.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” you said again, though the apology didn’t feel necessary.
Dean’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together as he led you back towards your shared room. The hallway stretched before you, your bare feet padding against the cold concrete floor. The hallways always felt like they were longer at night, the shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. Dean’s hand was warm around yours, his thumb tracing small circles against the back of your hand as you walked.
“Hey,” he said softly as you reached your bedroom door. “You good?” You looked up at him, studying the way the light caught the planes of his face. The stubble along his jaw. The gentle concern in his eyes. After everything, he still asked. Still cared enough to check in.
“I’m okay now,” you said. Then added, “I think I am.”
Dean’s mouth quirked up at one corner. He reached past you to push the door open, and you followed him inside. The bedroom was dark except for the light shining in from the hallway that spilled across the rumpled sheets of his bed. Your bed. Your shared space. The place where you had learned to be human in the most intimate ways.
“You know,” Dean said, his voice low as he closed the door behind you, “I don’t think I ever asked you before.” You turned to face him in the darkness, confused.
“Didn’t ask me what?”
“I never asked if you were sure that you wanted to stay.” He moved closer, his hand finding your hip. “You never actually said it out loud.” You knit your brows together and tilted your head slightly.
“I thought it was obvious.”
“I mean… yeah, you’re here, but you know what they say about assuming.”
“What do they say about that?”
“You make an ass out of– you know what, never mind. I’d just like to hear you say it.” The gravity settled around you both like a blanket. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath your fingertips.
“I want to stay,” you said, deliberate and certain. “With you. With Sam. In this bunker. In this human body.” You smiled up at him even though he likely couldn’t see you. “I want to wake up in the morning and burn toast. I want to argue about which movie to watch. I want to learn how to change a lightbulb.” Your voice went soft as you cradled his face in both of your hands. “I want to stay with you, Dean Winchester.”
He pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you with a fierceness that made your breath catch and dragged you down onto the messy bed with him. You yelped in surprise, and he quieted you with a kiss that found your nose before the second one met your lips.
“Just checking.” Another kiss. “I just needed to hear it.”
You leaned into his touch, feeling the calluses on his palms against your sides. The physicality of everything grounded you. The warmth of his hands. The scent of him that had become so familiar. The steady rhythm of his breathing that matched yours.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m staying.”
He rolled so you were laying on top of him in the dark, your legs tangling with his as you found your balance against his chest. His hands moved up your back, tracing the ridges of your spine through the sleep shirt.
“You’re not alone in this.” You nuzzled your nose against his. The grief that had gripped you moments ago in the kitchen softened, replaced by something more tender. Something that felt akin to belonging.
“I know,” you whispered. “I think it’s still going to hurt sometimes.”
“Good,” Dean said. “Pain doesn’t make you weak, Feathers. It just proves that your heart is real.”
You hummed softly, kissing him in the darkness. Dean answered immediately, one hand sliding into your hair while the other settled against the curve of your waist. The kiss lingered, unhurried and familiar. There was no urgency to it. No desperation. Just certainty in an existence that was full of ambiguity. You pressed closer to him until there wasn’t space for anything else between you. The steady beat of your hearts pressed to each others’ chests. Human. Finite.
Real.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as he rolled onto his side, guiding you with him. The mattress dipped beneath your combined weight, sheets tangling with your legs as the world narrowed to warmth and soft breathing and the feeling of being held. The ache in your chest was still there. It probably always would be. You’d miss your wings. You’d miss the stars. You’d miss the impossible vastness of what you had once been. But as Dean’s hand slid up your back, the grief no longer felt like an open wound. It felt like it was just another piece in the grand shape that was you.
His thumb brushed across your cheek. You kissed him again. And again. Each kiss seemed to pull you further and further away from the memory of heaven and deeper into the life you had chosen for yourself. Tomorrow would bring research and hunts and coffee and arguments and all the small pieces that made up a life. But tonight, there was only this. Dean’s arms around you. The warmth of shared breaths. The promise of morning. You let yourself sink into it. And when his lips found yours again, the rest of the world faded away.
You had been made of light, once. Of starlight and song and holy fire.
But now, you were made of so much more.
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Rinse. (Part 3 of Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Series) by Drasna
"Rinse" is Part 3 of the Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Series
Rating Mature
Dean x Reader/OFC
Tags: Canon-compliant (or trying to be), Season 3, Lots of Angst, Demon Assault/Attempted Sexual Assault (trigger), Show Level Gore/Violence, Language, Pining, Dean is infuriating at times, Sam is the sweetest, Main character death (offscreen; but, it's Supernatural, so you know, it's probably not sticking)
Word Count: 15,000
Summary: The boys stink. Something needs to be done about it.
The above summary was something I came up with when I thought this was going to be a fun little one shot. (hah! stupid writer and her stupid assumptions. how dare she think she can make plans and have Sam and Dean adhere to them.) It still applies to the beginning (and this sniff, sniff theme may come up again) but I'm going to add that this story is a first person reader insert that weaves in and out of show canon.
"Rinse" won't make a lick of sense unless you've read the other parts first. Check the tumblr links below the story banner.
I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Friends Becoming Strangers" square.
A huge thanks to @jacklesversebingo for allowing me to use one of my bingo squares in a part of a story I was currently working on. These bingo prompts have genuinely tested my creativity and provided some meaty plot twists. Thank you, thank you!
Updated from original post: Series is complete on AO3.
Series Parts: Wash. Pre-Rinse. Rinse. Spin. Repeat.
~ Six Months Later ~
I bolt upright in bed, mid-gasp.
My heart pounds. Flashes of what caused my pulse to race appear in the curtain call of each blink.
Bobby. In the dark with a flashlight. In his house? Sneaking around, like he’s investigating an unfamiliar place. Then, he was attacked by something. Thrown to the floor in his kitchen. A blur of arms clawing. A screeching sound that wasn’t human.
What the hell? I shake the shiver out of my spine and glance over at the alarm clock. Fifteen minutes before it goes off. There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep. I resign myself to get out of bed and start the day.
It’s gonna be a busy one at Hoyt and Hagan. There are two client appointments on the calendar. I’ve got some note taking during and transcribing to do after each of them.
I debate with myself in the shower as to when I should check on Bobby. It’s still too early and he’ll only scoff in my ear at the unnecessary concern.
I decide I’ll call him during my lunch break, all nonchalant like. Hey Bobby, it’s your favorite psychic nut job, poking out of hunter hibernation for some updates.
Just to be sure he’s okay.
I grab a slice and a soda at Tony’s Pizza Parlor for lunch. The four block walk gives me a chance to stretch my legs and see if they’ll be short staffed over the next week. I need to bulk up my car maintenance fund. According to Nate at Carl’s Auto Shop, I will probably need to replace the brake pads in a few months. Before the squeaks turn into screeches at every stop.
Gary’s working the counter. I try not to fuss with my hair too much in his presence. His dimples drill into his cheeks with a bright smile. My stomach spins like it’s in a washing machine. I ask him how his Aunt Cheryl is doing. The swoony, sensitive six footer moved back to Matamoras when his only living relative, Cheryl Somers, fell ill and couldn’t take care of herself anymore.
It’s been five months since Gary arrived and became ubiquitous around this tiny town where you only have to breathe heavily to become the subject of juicy gossip. He works a variety of service jobs. I’m blessed that one of them is at Tony’s. My random shifts have intersected with his on occasion. I am also cursed because I still haven’t gotten the nerve to get past simple pleasantries. Mainly I worry I’ll slip about my personal details or he’ll ask me a question about my family. And, I’ll have to lie. Because he’d never believe the truth. The people that would understand are just as damaged as I am.
Playing at normal is tough.
I scoot into a booth that has a nice vantage of the counter so I can spy on Gary. I pry the greasy pepperoni one by one from the stringy mozzarella. The deconstruction exercise prolongs my excuse to hang around with my solitary slice. I mindfully chew. Taste buds light up with oregano, tomato sauce, processed toppings, and velvety cheese.
The one brain cell not focused on Gary reminds me about Bobby. I dab at my face with a one-ply scratchy napkin, then tap in the start of a phone number I know by heart on my cell. Bobby’s name appears from my contacts after the fifth digit.
I’m still miffed about Garth accidently dropping my old phone in the depths of the Delaware when he visited six months back. He felt so bad he drove me to the nearest cell phone store and bought me a new one right on the spot. He got me a newer and nicer model. It didn’t make up for all the contacts and messages I lost, though. It took me weeks to connect with almost everyone I could remember.
I wait for Bobby to pick up. It rings. And rings. And rings. The voicemail answers. “You’ve reached Bobby. You know what to do.”
I know what to do, but I hang up instead. I’m that person that hits redial and gives it another try. Bobby is prone to leaving his cell phone atop a stack of books or on the kitchen counter as he hops from room to room. So, there’s a chance he might…
“You’ve reached Bobby. You know what to do.”
I sigh and collect my words. “Hey, Bobby. It’s been a bit. Wanted to see how you’re doing. Nothing much new on this end. Give me a call, though, soon. Yeah? Been told my car’s gonna need new brake pads. Wanna make sure I’m not getting hosed on the cost to replace them. Okay? Thanks. Bye.”
“Who’s Bobby?” The voice drifts over my shoulder from behind me.
Oh God. Gary’s asking that question. I’m gonna have to turn and actually make eye contact and answer. I swallow and rotate in the booth a bit. He’s wiping down the table, tray filled with trash in his grasp. Wavy jet black bangs obscure his eyes for a brief second. It’s not enough time before his onyx irises gaze with interest in my direction.
“Huh?” I pretend I didn’t hear him.
“Who’s Bobby? He’s not the only guy that knows a thing or two about cars.” His smile is bright. “I could probably help you out. Take a look.”
“Oh.” I want to bang my head into the table to shake out any words that are longer than one syllable. “That’s… that’s…”
“He family? Bobby?” Gary stands beside my booth now.
“Yeah.”
Gary nods. “Well, offer’s available if you need it.” Someone, maybe Maribel, shouts his name across the restaurant. “Good luck.” He darts away.
“Thanks.” I groan at my suave communication skills.
~~~~
(Italicized Dialogue from S3, Episode 10, “Dream a Little Dream of Me” - Teleplay by Cathryn Humphris; Story by Sera Gamble & Cathryn Humphris)
Dean sat at Bobby’s hospital bedside.
It’d only been a couple days since he got the call. A doctor had been looking for a Mr. Snyderson.
Bobby enjoyed informing Dean years ago of the name he would have to answer to if he received a call from someone in search of Bobby Singer’s emergency contact.
“How the hell’d you get yourself into this mess, Bobby?” he asked aloud.
Dean wondered if Bobby had picked the name Edgar Snyderson so that would be all John’s eldest son would focus on. Not the fact that if he ever heard it uttered by anyone else, it would be because Bobby wouldn’t be able to call him a numbnut or an idjit.
Sam was due back any minute. Dean’d tasked Sam with the research part of this mystery, which included combing through the collage of pictures and news clippings hidden on the back closet wall in Bobby’s hotel room.
The room where his comatose body had been found.
Dean had gone to the university to dig up any information on a Dr. Walter Gregg, whose obit had graced Bobby’s case board. Finding out about unapproved dream studies led to the name of a test subject, Jeremy Frost. The college kid made it clear the doctor had been playing fast and loose with his research and the people involved. That equalled a whole lot of potential enemies and nefarious insinuators. Bobby was probably close to figuring out who the murderer was.
The machines whirred and beeped around the man he’d bet his life on, if he had much left of it to wager.
Dean was shy of six months before his demon bill came due.
“I don’t need you rolling out the red carpet for me in the hereafter. Pretty sure you ain’t gonna be taking a sauna or walking over raked coals. But we don’t need you practicing your harp skills anytime soon, either.” He bit his tongue at the name that almost slipped out. He tried not to mention her if he could help it. The more time went on, the more he hoped it would stick; his nonexistence for her. “It’d kill her if something happened to you.” He nodded to no one. “We’ll figure this out.”
As if on cue, his studious brother entered the room. “How is he?”
“No change.” Dean wiped a hand over his face and stood to meet Sam by the tray table at the edge of the bed. “What you got?”
“Well, considering what you told me about the Doc’s experiments, Bobby’s wall is starting to make a hell of a lot more sense.”
“How so?”
“This plant, Silene Capensis, also known as African Dream Root, it’s been used by shamans and medicine men for centuries.”
“Let me guess – they dose up, bust out the didgeridoos, and start kicking around the hacky.”
Sam scoffed. “Not quite. If you believe the legends, it’s used for dream walking. I mean entering another person’s dreams, poking around in their heads.”
“I take it we believe the legends.”
“When don’t we? But dream-walking is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, this dream root is some serious mojo. You take enough of it, with enough practice, you can become a regular Freddy Krueger. You can control anything. You could turn bad dreams good. You could turn good dreams bad.”
“And killing people in their sleep.” Dean added the obvious.
“For example. So, let’s say this doc was testing the stuff on his patients Tim Leary-Style.”
“Somebody gets pissed at him, decides to give him a little dream visit, he goes nighty-night.”
“But what about Bobby? I mean if the killer came after him, how come he’s still alive?”
They both stared at Bobby.
“I don’t know.” Dean tapped Sam in the middle of his chest. “Come on. Man needs as much beauty rest as he can get before we wake him. And a kiss on the lips better not end up being the cure.” He strolled to the doorway and turned back in time to see Sam making his way to Bobby’s side.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing we’ve ever had to do to save someone.” Sam chided in a soft whisper over his shoulder towards Dean. “Stay strong until we can figure this out, Bobby.” His gigantor hand gripped Bobby’s pale one.
Dean marched out into the hallway in wait. Something heavy lodged in the base of Dean’s throat. He swallowed but the fear wouldn’t loosen. The possibility of losing Bobby. The memories of his father in the hospital right before he died kept rising to the surface. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.
Sam finally joined him. They walked down the hall towards the nurse’s station and the elevators. Their steps got into that synced soldier rhythm they easily fell into often. Dean wished it would continue in silence. But out of the corner of his eye he spotted Sam’s mouth open and close. Trying out the lines in his head before he’d have to share what he was thinking.
With that much thought, Dean knew it wasn’t going to be anything good.
When it was only the two of them in the elevator going down, Sam spoke. “Am I gonna have to be the one that mentions the elephant in the room?”
Dean’s gaze lifted to the ceiling. He sighed.
“We gotta call her, Dean.”
“No. We don’t. We’re gonna handle it so she doesn’t have to ever know what kind of danger Bobby was in.”
“She deserves to know,” Sam mumbled. “Bobby’s important to her. Plus, all of this dream stuff…”
“Sam,” Dean started.
Sam got his hands and arms in the conversation now, waving them about. “She should be here!”
“No!” Dean huffed, raising his voice back at Sam. He glanced at the number display.
“I still need to work this case with you. I shouldn’t even be in the same state as her, let alone the same room. We can’t risk that, Sam. Not again.”
“You of all people know what she’s capable of. She could get into Bobby’s head.”
“Yeah. You know it. I know it. Bobby knows it. But, as far as we know, Elena doesn’t. As long as she doesn’t remember me, she won’t be doing any ‘Wonder Twins, Activate’ shit. And we’re gonna keep it that way.”
“Dean!”
“No. Bobby’s been onboard with the plan, all of it, for the past six months. Last I checked, you were, too.”
“Not like you gave any of us a choice.” Sam snarked.
Dean ignored the jab. “Bobby’d want us to exhaust every other option before we pull her into something like this. Again.” He pointed at the floor as the door’s slid open. “We find another way.” He waved a hand for Sam to exit first. “Let’s go, Sherlock.” They covered the distance quickly to another set of double doors. “So, how do we find our homicidal little sandman?”
“It could be anyone.” Sam stated, looking thoroughly exasperated.
“Yeah?”
Yeah.
Dean rattled off possible suspects. “Anyone who knew the doctor, had access to his dream shrooms.”
“Maybe one of his test subjects or something?”
“Possible, but his research is pretty sketchy. I mean, we don’t know how many subjects he had or who all of them were.”
Sam scoffed.
“What?” Dean asked.
Sam sighed, long and deep. “In any other case, we’d be calling Bobby and asking him for help right now.”
Dean halted, pulled at Sam’s forearm to stop his brother’s stride. “Know what? You’re right.”
“What?”
“Let’s go talk to him.”
“Sure. I think we might find the conversation a bit one-sided.”
“Not if we’re tripping on some Dream Root.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
~~~~
There’s been no response from Bobby by the end of my work day.
Something was up. A car question always ensured Bobby would return a call within hours.
I call the other hunter who knows almost everyone’s business as much as Bobby does.
“Elle Woods.” Garth coos his nickname for me. I still don’t get how he made the connection between me and the fictional main character in Legally Blonde. “How’re you doin? To what do I owe this honor?”
“Hey, Garth. I’m trying to get a hold of Bobby. He’s not answering my calls.”
“Oh?” The one syllable expresses confusion.
“Yeah.”
“When’d you last talk to him?”
“It’s been about a month.” My face warms at the confession.
“Oh.” The one syllable is laced with judgment.
I let the guilt was over me as I wait.
“Hm. Well, I had to call him about a case I worked in Baton Rouge, Louisiana last week. There was this circus in town and a murder pinned on one of the performers. Killer clowns couldn’t turn their victims into a pile of green goo last I checked.” Garth chuckles.
I veer the conversation back. “Was he okay? Everything good at the salvage yard?”
“Oh, well, he wasn’t home. Was working his own case.”
My skin tingles at the news. It’s not surprising to hear. Bobby hunts on occasion. It’s more the reminder of the dream I had of him that morning that puts me on edge. “Where was he?”
Garth sighs. “If memory serves right, he was investigating something that happened at a university in, I think, Pittsburgh.”
“Okay, thanks Garth.”
“Sure thing, sweets. Want me to try and check in on him, too?”
I smile. “Appreciate it.”
“I’ll tell him to call you ASAP if I make contact.”
“Thanks.”
“No problemo.”
“Talk soon.”
I hang up. Pittsburgh. It’s clear across in western Pennsylvania. A good six-hour drive from me. Couldn’t be any farther from Matamoras and in the same state. It makes sense he wouldn’t bother to call me. Not like he could do a quick pop in.
Still.
I click my teeth. Moments later, I’m clicking away at the keyboard, searching anything weird over the wire that matches what Garth told me. Only one news headline has me screaming Yahtzee in my head. There’s mention of a university neurologist dying in his sleep. Cause: Unknown.
It’s not much. But, it would catch Bobby’s eye. And he’d do some digging. So, I do the same. The neurologist was the research head of a large, ongoing sleep study. And, another article hints that his death may have been the result of foul play.
I then do what Bobby always suggests I do when I can’t get a hold of him and he’s off on a case somewhere. I contact hospitals in the area.
By the third phone call, I’ve found him. All I can get out of the medical staff is that he’s unresponsive and been in their care for a few days.
An hour later, I’m on I-80, headed to Pittsburgh.
My brakes are squeaking big time.
~~~~
(Italicized Dialogue from S3, Episode 10, “Dream a Little Dream of Me” - Teleplay by Cathryn Humphris; Story by Sera Gamble & Cathryn Humphris)
My driver’s license (fake) gets me the information I need at the hospital. Next of kin and all that. A doctor runs through the updates on Bobby’s current medical state while we stand at the nurse’s station. It's good news. Bobby woke up a few hours ago.
The doc questions why I wasn’t listed as an emergency contact. He mentions that they had to call a Mr. Snyderson instead. I shrug, rattling off that my Dad probably doesn’t think I know how to manage an emergency.
I wonder who the hell Mr. Snyderson is as I get Bobby’s room number and am pointed in the direction to find it. Mainly I’m relieved that the closest thing I have to family - that hasn’t disowned me - is conscious and doing fine by all accounts.
I don’t even need to check the number, hearing Bobby’s voice drift out into the hall from a room just up ahead on the right. “We better work fast… and coffee up. ‘Cause the one thing we cannot do is fall asleep.”
I take a cautious step in and prepare to meet “Mr. Snyderson.” A very tall figure with expansive shoulders stands at the side of Bobby’s bed. His broad back is to the doorway. It’s the moppy head of hair that I recognize first. My brain swims with sudden knowledge and memory. I feel overwhelmed and a bit lightheaded.
Sam. Sam Winchester. A hunt. We worked a hunt together a couple years ago. Road tripped from Maine to California. I even remember spending some time with him at Bobby’s after a car accident he’d been in with his dad. I’m also struck with the fact that he lost his dad. The scattered moments don’t have any connective tissue that I can discern. They catch my attention like twinkling ornaments atop a Christmas tree. Each represents some commemorative event I need to be reminded of.
Bobby sees me in the doorway. His face runs a litany of emotions. Serious to surprised. Welcoming to worried. “L.” He whispers.
I smile. Sam spins. His rotation hints at the shape of someone sitting on the other side of Bobby’s bed. Sam settles with a stare at me and walls off the stranger for the time being.
Sam’s as cute as I remember. There’s a bit more mass to him. And then, I remember us bonding over his psychic abilities. It’s disorienting, the flashes and pops of life bursting out of hibernation.
“L?” Bobby asks. “You doin’ alright there, kid?”
I shake my head and manage a smile again. “Considering I’m visiting you in the hospital, don’t you think I should be the one asking that question?” I hesitate at the awkward glances Sam and Bobby shoot each other. I flap my hands at my sides. “Hey, Sam. How are you doing? Been a while.”
His eyes bug. “H-Hey Elina. Yeah. I’m, I’m doin’ pretty well.” A hand scratches the side of his neck. “How’s things in Matamoras?”
“Good. Doing my best to stay out of trouble.” I point a finger at him. “Are you Mr. Snyderson, who got the call about Bobby instead of me?”
“That’d be me.” There’s a terse answer from the other side of the room. The figure is still hidden by Sam. A scrape of chair legs follows.
Sam swallows. Hard. He steps to the side.
My gaze lands on a pair of bright green eyes staring back. The guy is male model attractive. My skin warms up in a reflexive response to all that pretty. “You can call me Dean, though.” He smirks.
“Dean?” The name registers instantly. “Sam’s brother?”
He nods and puffs his chest out. I can’t quite tell if it’s a smug posture or if he’s donning some invisible protective armor.
“He-” I start to fill the gaps in my mind as my mouth reveals the facts. “Sam’s mentioned you.” Older brother. Cocky. Pain in the ass. Overbearing.
I don’t get a response in return. Instead, Dean turns to Bobby. “We’ll touch base if we hear anything else.” He rounds the edge of the hospital bed and taps Sam on the arm. All I get is a quick nod from Dean before he disappears.
“See ya.” Sam smiles, lips scrunched tight. He stumbles past me out of the room, following his older, shorter brother.
Yeah, I’ve met my share of guys like that before. Bad boys have never done me any favors. Way more trouble than they’re worth. I keep reminding myself of that as I catch one last glimpse of Dean Winchester in the hallway before Sam shuts the door behind him.
When it’s only the two of us, I hurry over and give the old man a careful embrace. He taps my back in assurance. “I’m fine.”
I peel away and stand to squint at him. “Let me guess? Fine enough to hop back into solving whatever caused this.” I plant my hands on my hips. “Why can’t you fall back asleep? And why does that Dean dude rank as your emergency contact?”
He squints back at me. “The Winchester boys are family, too, L.”
“Sam’s what you’d call an absolute peach, Bobby, I’ll give you that. But, I don’t have any firsthand experience with Dean to make a judgment call.”
“Hm.” Bobby nods slowly. “Could’ve sworn you’ve met both of them.”
“Nope.” I definitely would have remembered Dean Winchester.
~~~~
I knock on the door to Bobby’s room at The Aviary Hotel.
There’s a delay. I can hear some cursing and arguing as I wait. The taller squatter opens the door part way in greeting. “El.” Sam smiles.
“Hi.”
“Everything alright?” A hand stuffs into a pocket and he leans against the door, filling up the space.
“Bobby’s probably getting released tomorrow morning.”
“That’s great news.”
“It is. I figured I’d grab him some clean clothes for his discharge.” I sweep a hand towards him. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, uh…” Sam stammers.
“For chrissakes.” Dean’s voice interrupts. An arm pushes Sam back into the room and out of the way. Dean grimaces at Sam before giving me a dose of all that attitude. “Listen, Elena, it’s great that you’ve decided to come all this way and play nursemaid. But, we’ve got actual case work to do. So, would you make it quick?”
I blink at the condescending tone. Bobby filled me in on the details back at the hospital. I had felt a little sympathy at the predicament Dean has found himself in. HAD. “Oh, of course. Certainly don’t want to interfere with all your great case work. Is there another suspect you need to give a DNA sample to?”
Dean’s irritation crumbles. He looks like a shamed puppy that’s peed on the carpet.
“Don’t mind him, El.” Sam pulls the door all the way open. “We’re all a little high strung at the moment.”
I scoot in between the brothers. The room’s wallpaper is a feathery explosion in blues, greens and yellows. “Well, the decor isn’t going to help calm anyone down,” I critique.
Dean flops in a sad looking armchair and grabs sheets of paper on a nearby side table to study with intense interest.
Hospitality must be Dean Winchester’s middle name.
“Get you something to drink?” Sam strolls by Dean, backhanding Dean’s bicep along the way. Dean pays him no mind.
I wave a hand. “Nope. Just point me in the direction of Bobby’s stuff and I’ll be out of here.”
Sam offers a soft smile in apology and gestures to a set of louvered bifold doors. The room is crazy huge. A full kitchen and another door that must lead to the bathroom make up the other half. There’s a desk on this side of the living area. More papers litter its surface, along with a laptop that I recognize as Sam’s (various stickers are slapped on top).
Yep, the brothers have made themselves at home. The double beds have been slept in by the state of the sheets. I smell greasy fast food.
When I open the closet, Bobby’s entire wardrobe is hung up. I grab the empty duffle from the closet floor. “Was he planning on moving here?” I frown to myself. When I remove the first plaid ensemble from a hanger I spot the case board on the back closet wall. “Ah, of course.” I take my time and fold one shirt with care before packing it. Then another. Taking my sweet time as I take in all the information.
I decide to inquire with the friendlier Winchester. “So, Sam. Bobby told me what happened to him.” I turn to see him sitting at the desk. Dean’s in my field of view in the background as well, still reading. I attempt a poke. “That he was stupid enough to make himself a prime lullaby target of this Frost kid.” Dean’s mouth purses but he doesn’t look over. “Got any ideas yet on how he gets some shut eye without being murdered?”
Sam sighs. “No.”
I want to ask if he’s thought about using his powers while he’s asleep and under the influence of the African Dream Root again. But I don’t know how Dean feels about his brother’s powers. Or, if he even knows for certain. My memory is still hazy and I don’t want to risk outing him or stirring up a touchy subject. Something tells me Dean wouldn’t handle Sam’s powers well if he did know.
“Well, if you need me to try and make contact with someone on the other side, let me know. I mean I haven’t done it in a while, but I can always give Bobby’s friend Pam a call if I need some guid-”
Dean bolts out of his chair. Papers crumple in his tight fist. “We don’t need you to do anything.” The dismissive tone matches the inconsequential way he stares at me. “We don’t need anyone else fucking things up.”
Sam rotates in the seat, arm resting along the chair back. His bewildered and angry expression towards Dean is all I focus on. My cheeks warm at the berating from this stranger with a chip on his shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon.
“From what I hear,” Dean continues, “you are giving the normal life the good ole college try back in Montezuma. I suggest you keep it that way. And get as far away from all this as you can.” His voice cracks at the end. That sound makes me dare to lift my gaze back to him.
He’s trying his best to be an all-knowing asshole. But something’s cracking the veneer. I don’t think he’ll be able to keep it up for much longer. For a moment, I want to march right into this guy’s personal space and slap him. Right before I hug him. But it’s a fleeting inkling. I nod at him. “I’ll get this stuff to Bobby. Sounds like the both of you can handle picking him up at the hospital in the morning.” I inhale and prop up a smile as I turn to Sam. It’s the only way I’ll keep my lips from quivering.
Sam’s brows angle down. “I’m sorry, El.” He whispers.
I shake my head. I can’t speak. If I do, I’ll cry. And I don’t fucking know why my body is reacting like this to the things Dean Winchester said to me.
My heart is racing. I walk with lightning speed to the door.
My brakes are squeaking big time back to Matamoras.
~~~~
Sam’s tired. He should be the one sleeping in the back seat.
He’s the one that’s lived through and remembered hundreds of Tuesdays where Dean died. He didn’t have the blessing(?) of a memory wipe with every morning reset. Now, he panics when he stumbles upon a radio station playing the chorus of Asia’s most well known song. He woke up on so many Tuesdays to “the heat of the moment.” Those words grate like fingernails across a chalkboard every time he hears it. Hearing that music always makes him question for a couple seconds if he’s been dropped back into Groundhog Day Hell.
One Tuesday did have a Wednesday after it. Without Dean.
Sam’s lived six months without Dean already. The Trickster showed him what life would be like without his brother. Sam spent those six months obsessed, determined to find a way to bring Dean back from the dead. He’d convinced the Trickster to snap his fingers and take him back to a Wednesday where Dean lived. Honestly, the Trickster probably got bored of Sam’s sulking and found another puppet’s strings to pull. But, regardless, Sam got his brother back.
He hasn’t bothered to share any of what happened during those six months with Dean (or that one of his deaths actually stuck). Not when they’re trying to prevent Dean from going to hell.
Sam’s need to fix messes could be considered heroic –maybe even to him– if he wasn’t the reason the messes were created.
Sam’s not sure how much one person is expected to withstand. If he and Dean are in some kind of tragedy endurance contest, he’d like to tap out, please, and wave the white flag in surrender. But, then, he thinks about Dean going it alone. When he decides that’s not an option, he straightens up, plants his feet, and braces for the next wave of sorrow to pummel him.
So, yeah, Sam’s tired. But still determined that his brother’s not gonna die. Not anytime soon. Not if he has a say in the matter. Especially when Dean’s no longer resigned to the inevitable of his demon deal coming to fruition.
Sam can push through the exhaustion and fight for Dean’s future because even Dean wants a chance at what’s possible for himself.
Sam saw it with his very own eyes in Dean’s dream. Not the dream Dean’s currently having in the backseat. In between snuffles and snores he’s mumbling nonsense (something about wrenches and spanners). No, what Sam witnessed in Dean’s dream months back proved Dean thinks about a future of what ifs.
The dream had occurred days after he and Dean had managed to wake Bobby from the nightmare coma courtesy of Jeremy Frost. Days after Dean found himself in grave danger of becoming Jeremy’s next victim.
Dean hadn’t slept for days. The threat of never waking up again meant classic rock on full blast in Baby. Gallons of coffee. A concerning amount of No-Doze pills that Dean most definitely wasn’t taking to cram for a college exam.
Bobby had kept himself awake researching with Bela. In between, he spent a lot of time fuming at Dean for the way he’d sent Elina packing. Dean brushed off Bobby's grumpy attitude and reminded him it was best for Elina.
Dean had eventually reached a breaking point, gave his safety a big ole’ “fuck you,” and decided sleep was worth the risk. He’d driven Baby to a clearing off the road, parked her, and leaned back to close his eyes.
Sam harvested some of Dean’s hair right off the scalp, insisting that if Dean was going under he’d need someone to watch his back in the dreamworld.
When they’d both roused from sleep in the Impala nothing had seemed off.
Until Elina popped up in the backseat.
“Finally!” Elina exclaimed.
Sam almost pogoed off the bench at the sound made by a person that most definitely could not be there.
She bopped first Dean’s, then Sam’s, shoulder with a folded up newspaper. “Geez, you two were really knocked out.” Her elbows and arms draped atop the front bench’s backrest. “I was gonna give you five more minutes of beauty sleep. I know you both need it.”
Dean’s eyes widened, staring at her. His lips parted.
Sam dared to interact with the apparition. “El, what are you doing here?”
Her brows furrowed. She nodded in pensive thought. “I ask myself that question every day, Sam. What the hell am I doing with my life, hunting with the likes of you two?” She nudged Dean’s shoulder with an elbow and grinned at him. “Saving people: an absolutely non-existent way to earn a living, am I right?”
Dean nodded back and offered a confused smile. “R-right.”
Elina looked from Dean to Sam then back to Dean. “You okay?”
Dean nodded with increased fervor and turned in his seat to give her his full attention. “Yeah.”
“Better be. I think I found us a case.” She presented the paper to Sam. “Take a look.”
Sam took the offering and gazed at the front page. A jumble of letters littered the paper like a word search puzzle. “What are we looking at?” Sam bluffed.
“A man was found dead in the famous confectionery amusement park in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Police hadn’t released details of the death to the public.” She tapped the spot that appeared to be a headline. “An anonymous source talked to this reporter and said the guy that died had been literally encased in a chocolate mold. You know, like those chocolate bunnies? Only this was a gigantic chocolate dude. Impossible to create anything like that in the on-site factory.”
“Solid Milk Murder,” Dean mumbled. Sam watched his older brother fixate his gaze away on Elina’s face.
“Get this,” Elina continued. “This reporter did more digging into the victim’s life. Six months prior his father had died. Dad had been a supervisor at a candy factory in a Delaware beach town. He’d been pulled to pieces in a taffy stretching machine.” She scooted behind Dean and wrapped her arms around him. Dean stiffened in shock. “Sticky situation,” she mumbled into Dean’s ear and then pecked him on the cheek. Dean closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A small smile lined his lips. When his eyes blinked open and Adam's apple twitched with a swallow, he appeared to relax into the embrace. “I say the Three Amigos see if this is our kind of thing.”
Before Sam or Dean could respond a noise rattled outside of the car. Elina flickered out, gone in an instant. There’d been no time for either of them to discuss what had happened. They quickly exited the car to investigate.
Dean manifested Lisa next. The scene was the perfect slice of Apple Pie Life. A picnic in the park. Lisa had even told Dean she loved him before disappearing.
Things went downhill from there. But, they’d made it out of the dream alive. Jeremy hadn’t, thanks to Sam turning the tables.
Unfortunately, Bela had broken into the safe in the hotel room and stolen the Colt. Bobby left them with a promise to be in touch if he got a lead on her or the gun’s whereabouts. That was the only thing they thought could kill Lilith.
Sam finished packing back at the hotel. A heavy mix of anger and defeat hung in the air. Quietly writing, Dean hunched over the desk in an attempt at privacy while Sam bounced around the room grabbing all their items. Sam spotted names on the envelopes Dean stuffed into his bag when he was done. One read Lisa. The other, Elina.
It wasn’t until they headed out to the car and tossed the bags in the trunk that Dean spoke.
“Hey Sam, I was wondering, when you were in my head what did you see?”
“Uh, just Jeremy, he kept me separated from you. Easier to beat my brains out I guess. What about you? You never said.”
“Nothing. I was looking for you the whole time.”
As easy as it was for Sam to withhold all the dream details, he was pretty certain Dean was doing the same.
The car doors creaked and squeaked. When they settled in the driver and passenger seat, Dean said, “Sam…”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been doing some thinking. And… well, the thing is… I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go to hell.”
“All right, yeah. We’ll find a way to save you.”
“Okay, good.”
Sam’s lived through his own hell since Dean confessed wanting salvation from an eternity of torture. With everything they have been through, they’ve got nothing to show for it. They still aren’t any closer to finding Bela and the Colt and the magic bullet that will put an end to Dean’s demon deal.
The last case in Milan, Ohio and the monster they encountered fed off Dean’s fear of dying. The crocotta had used its powers to mimic their dad’s voice and contact Dean through the phone. The monster, claiming to be John, told Dean he could help him locate the demon that held his contract.
Dean had opened up to Sam after they’d defeated the crocotta back at the motel room.
(Dialogue - in italics - from Ep. Long Distance Call; written by Jeremy Carver)
“I wanted to believe so badly there was a way out of this. I mean, I’m staring down the barrel at this thing. You know, Hell… for real, forever, and I’m just…”
“Yeah.”
“I’m scared, Sam. I’m really scared.”
“I know.”
“I guess I was willing to believe anything – you know, last act of a desperate man.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having hope, you know.”
“Hope doesn’t get you Jack Squat. I can’t expect Dad to show up with some miracle at the last minute. I can’t expect anybody to, you know? And the only person that can get me out of this thing is me.”
“And me.”
“‘And me’?”
“What?”
“Deep revelation, having a real moment here, that’s what you come back with – ‘And me’?”
“Do you want a poem?”
“Moments gone.” Dean turned on the television. “Unbelievable.” He passed Sam a beer and they drank in silence.
They’ve shaked and baked their way through a handful of demons since that case; trying to get any information on the real demon that holds Dean’s contract. But they keep hitting a brick wall. Whatever owns the agreement to Dean’s demise scares the holy hell out of every demon they’ve encountered.
Sam might have a lead on a novel way out of Dean’s contract. It doesn’t involve facing off with the Demon that makes every underling willingly choose an exorcism over betrayal. The solution may be wrapped up in the potential case they’re heading to in Erie, Pennsylvania. Sam knows it will be a hard sell if his hunch is right. But he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.
For now, anyway, Sam’s got another trick up his sleeve. He offered to drive from Ohio into Pennsylvania so Dean could get some shut eye. The trek had taken longer because he passed right on by Erie. On purpose.
Sam’s luck ran out about an hour from the destination when Dean stretched and sat up in the backseat.
Sam clocked Dean in the rearview mirror. He checked his watch. Eyes widened. “What the hell? Did you drug me? I’ve been out for like seven hours.”
Sam had thought about knocking his brother out. Thankfully, he didn’t need to resort to that. Yet.
Sam shrugged. “My smooth driving lulled you to sleep.”
“Yeah, right.” Dean chuckled.
Sam’s jaw clenched as he passed a highway distance sign that displayed the city where they were headed.
“Sam.” The mirth in Dean’s voice disappeared. “Sam,” he repeated. “Are you lost? You better be lost.”
Dean has always looked out for Sam. Sam knows, deep down, Dean’s always wanted happiness for him. Sam wants that for Dean, too. If Sam can unload Dean off to someone that might be able to help him get happiness in whatever form - whether it’s the hunting life with Elina or the suburban life with Lisa - why shouldn’t Dean get the chance to try?
“Pull over,” Dean ordered.
Sam shook his head. “Nope.”
“Bitch, what the fuck?”
“Consider this a proactive discussion prior to the demon deal dissolution.”
Dean groaned. His head flopped onto the backrest. “I’m so kicking your ass when you stop this car. And, you’ve gotta stop eventually.”
“It’ll be worth it.” The hesitance in Sam’s voice contradicted the certainty of his words.
Dean was directly behind him now. Sam could feel Dean’s warm breath on the back of his neck as he huffed, “Really?”
Sam swallowed hard. “Yep. We’re gonna find a way to save you, Dean. And, when we do, Elena’s gonna remember all of it.”
“You don’t know that,” Dean murmured.
“Well, if she doesn’t, then Bobby and I will tell her everything that happened.”
Dean slapped him upside the head.
“Jerk! I’m driving!” Sam exclaimed.
“It won’t change anything.” Dean slid to the middle of the back seat. “It won’t change how I feel. She’s better off without me, Sam, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t. And how would she know it when she doesn’t even remember you? You got a shit deal and Elena got dragged in as a free gift with your order.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“I know you didn’t. But, Dean,” –Sam glanced at his brother– “Elena didn’t ask for it either.”
“She’s trying the normal life thing. That’s good. I’d just complicate it all again.”
“You could give the normal life thing a try, too, you know.”
“You aren’t gonna shut up about this are ya?”
“Nope. Come on, no time like the present.” Because there’s literally no time, Sam thought.
~~~~
Ugh. No time!
I rummage through the jewelry box. Again. My gaze darts to the alarm clock on the nightstand. I should have left the apartment five minutes ago if I wanted to appear fashionably late.
The attempt at nonchalance is no longer an option. I will now have to text Gary.
Running later than expected. Wait for me?
Thoughts claw their way up the curtains in my head when I rush like this. I can’t find my grandmother’s rose gold necklace. I know I didn’t lose it. At least I hope not.
Are the blouse and skirt not dressy enough for Bella Notte? I forgot to ask Gary if it’s a formal restaurant. If I send another text it will be obvious I’m obsessing way more than I should. Maybe the outfit is too much? If it is, I probably don’t need the necklace, too. But now that I went searching for it and it’s not where I expected it to be, I have to find it.
My fingers thread through my hair and grip my skull. I’ve gotta calm my ass down.
The phone chirps with news of a Gary response.
Nowhere I gotta be but waiting for a beautiful woman. Just don’t stand me up, alright?
Gary’s flirting. And even through the technical distance of texting this attention increases the beating of my racing heart. I steady my fingers to type.
Of course not.
Screw it. It’s taken almost a year for this first date to happen. I can tear the apartment upside down for the necklace I was going to wear when I return.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the jewelry box mirror. I touch the soft leather cord around my neck. It doesn’t go with the blouse. But I promised Bobby I wouldn’t take the thing off when he gave it to me months ago.
I sigh, thinking about the grouch in the hospital bed. Back then, he asked where the fire was that I needed to get to in such a goddamn hurry. I wasn’t about to tell him I was running away from an avalanche of attitude by the name of Dean Winchester. The passing thought of that guy still bristles my fur. What the hell was his problem?
Bobby ordered me to hand over his duffle I’d brought from the hotel room. It took him a couple minutes to sift through it as he grumbled about my packing job. Eventually, he pulled out a cord with a charm.
“Should have given you one of these years ago, L. They only gotta find a chink in your armor when you’re the most vulnerable. Lost. Without hope.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Demons, knucklehead.” He rubbed the scrap of hair atop his balding skull.
I frowned. “My place is warded to ‘Singer Specifications.’” I air-quoted. “Salt lines get redone on the windows and doors weekly with double-sided tape. I’ve got a spray bottle of holy water on the kitchen counter. You even told me you peeled the upholstery off the roof of my car to paint a Devil’s Trap under it.”
He cleared his throat. “Right, I forgot I did that.” He waves the cord at me. “Overkill? Maybe? But a lot of shit’s been stirred up lately. And there’s an increase in demon activity because of it. Humor an old man. Put it on and promise me you won’t take it off. Ever.”
“Ever?”
He nodded. “Shower with it. Sleep with it. The whole nine yards.”
I’d kept my promise.
But, tonight. Well, tonight, fashion sense beats common as I pull the cord over my head. Before I can drop it into my jewelry box, there’s a knock at my door.
I frown, stuff the cord and charm in my grip, and wonder who’s paying me a visit and how fast I can get rid of them. “Who is it?” I call out.
“Uh, it’s Dean Winchester.” The voice rumbles. “You probably don’t remember me.”
“Oh no,” I mumble and rush to the door. I’m face to face with him after a quick unlock and pull. “What happened?” The question spews out. I hear how frantic I sound.
His eyes widen and punctuate his already shocked expression. “What?”
“Bobby! What happened?”
“Nothing. Bobby’s fine. Back in Sioux Falls, far as I know. Talked to him just yesterday.” He raises a hand to apparently calm me.
The gesture has the opposite effect. From my limited encounters, any reaction from this man reeks of condescension. I lash out with what I think is biting sarcasm. “Good. Hopefully Bobby put me down as his emergency contact like I asked, Mr. Snyderson.”
He confuses me further with a smile.
I shake my head and try not to focus on how cute his smile is. Or how long his lashes are and how that only adds to the flirtatious vibes when his lids flutter over those green eyes. “Why are you here?”
“Sam and I were in the area. On the way to a case.” He rocks back and forth from heel to sole.
I peek past him to the staircase landing. No Sam.
“He’s waiting in the car, outside.” Dean clears his throat. “He figured it was better I do this alone.”
My hand lands on my hip as I try my best cool-and-could-care-less stance. “Do what?”
He sighs. “Apologize.”
I’m staring up at this guy. Not as tall and eclipsing as his brother, but still much taller than me. He’s wearing a leather jacket that’s a little too big for his frame. A fleeting thought has me wondering if it’s Sam’s. But that can’t be right. An older brother doesn’t get his younger brother’s hand-me-downs. There’s hesitation and uncertainty in his eyes. Their gaze flits from side to side. For a moment, he seems smaller.
And sincere.
“I’m on my way out,” I state. Then add, “but you can come in for a minute.”
He tugs a smile up the corner of his mouth and hurries inside. My nose twitches at the odor of stale sweat and something metallic.
“This is a nice little place you got here. Just like I imagined it would be.”
Why the hell had he been imagining what my place looks like?
His hands disappear into his jacket pockets. He strolls into the middle of my apartment.
I close the door. “You mentioned apologizing.” I’ve got places to be, buddy.
Dean turns to stare back at me. He lifts a brow, then steels his jaw. “Yeah.” He rotates on his heels to face me full on. “I was a dick and you didn’t deserve any of my bullshit. I’ve been going through some shit for about a year… not an excuse, I know that. But, I figured an explanation to go along with the apology was in order. Trying to make amends to the people I wronged before I hang up my hunting license.”
“You’re quitting?” For some reason, the confession utterly surprises me. I know nothing about this guy. But, none of that lines up in my brain about him. “Getting out of the life?”
“Something like that, yeah.” He smiles. It’s forced and pinned high on his cheeks. “Got any tips?”
“Tips?”
“Yeah, how’d you do it?”
I shake my head. “Tips should come from someone who’s done it successfully. I can’t say I’ll never get wrapped up in a case again. It’s a work in progress.”
He shrugs. The long jacket sleeve almost swallows his clenched fist at the action. “I don’t know. You’ve got a job. Your own place. Sounds pretty successful to me.” He spins, slow and deliberate, taking in the details of my apartment.
It should feel intrusive. Privacy invading. But, I find myself taking advantage of the opportunity to study his mannerisms. His lids squint, then relax. He licks his top lip. There’s a slight nod to some steady bopping tune that might be playing in his head.
Dean halts and stares at something. He bends over and leans to the side. On his way to the dresser, he crouches with creeping steps. Investigation mode appears to be activated with a graceful squat. A hand sweeps along the wood floor out of my view. He hops up to standing. Something shiny dangles between his fingers.
I float over in adulation at the sight. “Oh wow, you found it!”
He grins and drops it into my open, waiting palm. “Pretty important?”
“A gift from my grandmother.” My gaze darts to the corner behind the dresser where it had been hiding. I connect the dots. “It must have slipped over the side.” I inhale and beam at Dean. “Thank you.”
“Glad I could help.”
I drop the anti-possession charm on the dresser and use both hands to put on Grandma’s rose gold necklace.
Dean points to the leather cord. “Don’t forget that.”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t go.”
The judgment in his eyes wipes away any mirth on his face. “Bobby gave you that, didn’t he? He’d be awfully disappointed to know you weren’t taking precautions. ‘Out of the life’ doesn’t mean you slack off on being careful.” He scoops up the cord and unties the knot. A nod precedes his order. “Hold your arm out.”
I’ve obeyed before I realize it. He wraps the cord around my wrist a few times, turning it into a bracelet. Warm fingers fumble against my skin to fasten the leather. They slide up my forearm just enough to tuck the charm under my cuffed sleeve. “There,” he states. “Don’t have to worry about clashing or demons tonight.”
I’m about to thank him again when his eyes do a double-take in the direction of my dresser. He stares in surprise. “You-uh-you collect a lot of cat figurines, huh?”
I huff out a laugh and joke, “Yeah, I’m easing into the crazy cat lady role.”
He picks one up from the dozen miniature cats without asking.
I smile at the little angel in his hand. “That’s my favorite one.”
Dean raises a brow. “Another gift?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Best guess is the people that rented the apartment before me forgot it in the dresser they left behind. I found it in the bottom of a drawer under my clothes one day.”
“Oh.” He nods. “Why’s it your favorite?”
“I don’t know. Just makes me smile.”
“Hmm.” There’s a far away expression on his face.
I suddenly remember I am now very, very late for a date. “Well, Dean, I appreciate you coming by to apologize. No hard feelings. I hope things work out for you. Really.”
Dean relocates the angel with care. He straightens and gains a couple of inches. “I can use all the hope I can get.”
I nod along with him for what seems like forever.
“Riiight.” He stretches the word. “Have a nice night.”
I trail him to the door. “Tell Sam I said hi?”
He turns and looks at me. “Will do.” A hitch of breath follows. I wait for him to say whatever it is he seems to be mulling over. He offers me a soft smile. “Goodbye, Elina.”
The door opens and closes in a second and he’s gone. I’ve been surprisingly affected again by one Dean Winchester. And even though the apology should make me feel better, I somehow find myself worrying about the mysterious and aloof hunter.
I sigh and choose not to dwell on it if I can help it. After all, I’ve got a date!
I rush to the bathroom one more time.
~~~~
Gary’s lips are insistent. Not super rough. His hands curl about my waist. The door handle by the passenger seat presses into my lower back.
The front seat of my VW bug isn’t very roomy. But, here we are, parked at the Staircase Rapids Canoe and Kayak Launch along the Delaware River. The deserted pull off and the moonlight dancing over the water make for a decent and impromptu makeout location.
Dinner was nice enough. I thought my Fettuccine Alfredo was a little runny. But I kept those thoughts to myself.
Gary was a nice enough dinner companion – from the crusty Italian bread with the dipping oil to the Tiramisu we shared. After months of building Gary up in my head, I thought I’d only find more of him to be starry eyed about. Once we could finally talk uninterrupted, the only new thing I’ve found out is he’s very good at deflecting. He offered up short and stubby answers to most of my questions.
I assumed a cool disinterest had crept up in him by the end of the night. He didn’t ask anything very personal. There was nothing deep and probing. Well, except for his tongue currently in my mouth.
As I rate his kissing technique (there’s too much swirl and suction for my liking) I’m also wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Why am I not able to let go and enjoy the closeness and warmth of this other person? It’s been way too long since I’ve experienced this kind of touch. I don’t need to calculate how long. My inner scorekeeper quickly reminds me. It’s been almost two years since my one night stand in Wildwood, New Jersey.
I’m swimming in a haze of too much wine mixed with indecisiveness. His fingers skirt under the hem of my blouse and test the waters. When do I tell him that’s enough? Do I let him cop a feel over my bra? Despite his insistence to pay for my dinner, I slipped my credit card to the waitress so we could split the cost. I didn’t want to owe him anything.
I’ve done more for less attention and regretted it later. I shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t beat myself up for craving touch and fulfilling a basic human need.
It would be easy if I didn’t want more. And I’m realizing with every slip and slurp of Gary’s mouth that there isn’t going to be anything more than this. Whatever happens.
He whispers in my ear that I look incredibly hot tonight. I should gasp a thank you or toss him a complementary compliment. Instead, I’m reminding myself how expendable and forgettable I am. I’m tallying up how many people I expected to stick around –who displayed a modicum of care and interest– actually did.
Gary has been, well, nice enough. I recall how he offered to look at my brakes months back. Fixed them for me at cost at the garage where he moonlights.
All the chance encounters with this man have been thrilling and invigorating. After tonight, they could be embarrassing and stomach upsetting.
Cause this doesn’t feel right.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I finally get what I think I want… and… it’s not.
“Whatsa matter, baby?” he mumbles the question into my mouth.
I snatch at the opportunity presented. My hand rests atop his chest to push him away. I am done inhaling the red wine and cocoa on his breath. “I-I think it’s getting late.” His offer to drive me home in my car, after I had too much wine, is now an obvious problem. I scramble to sound invested in his well being. “You don’t want to call Jason too late for that drive back to the restaurant to pick up your truck, do you?”
“Sweet of you to worry, but I’m a big boy.” He combs some of my hair behind my ear. “You aren’t having a good time?”
“No,” I hurry out my answer. Gary’s figure is awash in the ashy gray of evening. His face, half in pitch black shadow, gives me little to read. The whites of his eyes are the only thing I can make out well. He blinks in wait. I continue. “I had a great time. But, it’s getting late.”
“We could have an even better time if you’d relax.” His thin lips curl up high into a smirk. Hands overpower with ease and clamp over my wrists. A push and I’m smothered between his chest and the door. He grapples my arms tight against my sides. His mouth latches onto my neck. “Isn’t this what you’ve been wanting?” His question vibrates under my skin.
My heart beats for release. “Gary, please…”
“Hm, begging for it already.” He chuckles.
“No.” I squirm. I shake my head, lift my shoulder in vain to detach his lips from me. “Take me home, please.”
He groans out an exasperated sigh. His bangs sweep over my lips. “For fuck’s sake. We could’ve had a good time tonight, El.” His teeth click. He launches backward into the driver’s seat.
I sit up and wedge farther into the little corner between the door and the seat. Where the hell can I run where he won’t catch me right away? There isn’t anything for five miles in either direction on this stretch of road heading back to Matamoras from Pond Eddy. I massage the skin of one wrist. Maybe I can convince him to drive me home? Promise to continue the fun at my apartment? I could hop out of the car and run to the 24-hour Smoke Shop a block away.
When I switch to the other wrist I notice something’s missing.
Gary starts the engine. The dashboard illuminates and winks to life. He taps on the overhead light. My leather cord dangles from the tips of his fingers. He eyes the charm swaying back and forth. His lips peel back and display pearly whites. “Fuckin’ piece of shit,” he hisses. Under the engine hum a whirr accompanies the opening of the driver’s side window. With a quick slingshot, my necklace disappears into the darkness outside.
“What the hell are you doing?” I’m surprised at my ability to sound angry.
“What did Dean have to say when he stopped by earlier?” Gary asks and turns to look at me. I can see every inch of his face now but he’s not any easier to read.
Oh. Shit.
I grab the door handle.
But I’m not faster than Gary.
He cups the back of my head and slams my forehead into the curved outcrop of the dash. A shock of whiplash shuffles the contents of my skull. It’s followed by a ringing in my ears. Fingers weave into my hair and tug me to sit upright, tipping my head back like a Pez dispenser. I scream at the corkscrew twisting of his hand. Hundreds of strands yank out of my scalp.
“The Winchesters.” Gary is calm and stone faced. He’s in my personal space, staring down at me. “Where are they headed?”
“Those two are stupid enough to get themselves killed if they aren’t careful, El. Help ‘em out. Tell me where they are going.”
“I t-t-told you. I don’t kn-”
I hear a crack, then realize it was the side of my head getting slammed into the car window. A dull, heavy pulse bangs against the kettle drum that is my brain.
“We gotta do it the hard way, huh?”
I slump against the glass and close my eyes. The surface is cool, slippery. Despite the pain radiating throughout my body, I could fall asleep.
Gears shift. The car judders forward in that familiar way when I give it a little too much gas. Then, it slows to a crawl.
“We’ve got a pool going, seeing how boring as hell it’s been topside lately. Pun intended, by the way.” Gary hums a little to the pop tune blaring from the radio. “Who’s Dean gonna run to before his deal comes due?” He announces the question like a game show host. “I had my money on you. Always thought you had an advantage over Lisa. I mean, yeah, there’s Ben. That meat stick has a soft spot for kids. But, you, I mean come on, you were in the life. You know what it’s like. You get him. Well, when you remember him.” Gary snorts. “You saved him for fuck’s sake!”
I force my lids open. Something sticky’s blurring the vision of my right eye. The headlights are creeping over a dirt path. Gary taps the steering wheel to the song’s beat.
“Wha- talkin’ ‘bout?” I murmur.
“You pulled out in the lead at the last minute. Spray a little scrubbing bubbles in there” – he presses a finger to my temple – “and I’ll get what I need, get out of this ass backwards town and onto bigger and better things. A promotion from Lilith. Maybe visit New York City. Get up to some trouble.” Gary turns to grin at me. I’m seeing double, his figure swimming in and out of focus.
His eyes turn totally black.
I shake my head. The pounding only increases.
A demon. There’s a fucking demon driving my car.
“Gotta say I’m a little disappointed.” Gary slams the brake pedal hard. My body flails back into the seat. I groan as Gary continues talking, shifting into park while the engine runs. “Thought we could have some real fun before getting down to the doldrums of business. This wasn’t the way Gary wanted to end up inside you, either.”
I gotta get out of here. I reach for one of the door handles but I only fist at air. Beyond the car hood, I can only make out a sliver of the dirt path awash in high beams. Ripples of water, the color of black volcanic glass, sway and meet the edge of the earth.
Sudden and abrupt, Gary’s palms cradle my head. A kaleidoscope of black-eyed masks circle in my vision. “Open wide so I can have a peek, baby.” His jaw unhinges. Smoke expels from between his lips. Onyx clouds hang in the air. Terror bubbles up and a pitiful yelp leaves me. His gaping hole of a mouth turns up at the corners in a sinister cheshire cat grin.
The smoke appears sentient, swirling its form into a thread with a needle-like point heading right toward my mouth. Then, I feel the invasion. The alien gas slides down my throat. It violates and expands throughout my lungs and inflates in dominance. It’s rough, uncaring, pawing under my skin for control. My vision is gone, a complete blackout. I can’t stop blinking in hopes I will see something, anything. I gasp somewhere, far away, for breath.
“There we go, baby.” It’s my voice, but I’m not saying the words. I’ve been amputated from the body I’m stuck inside. The prisoner part of me rattles around in my brain, beating against my skull. “It’ll be better if you don’t fight.”
My sight returns but it’s distorted. I’m peeking through a fisheye lens. My hand adjusts the rear view mirror - without any directive that’s mine - so I can stare at my reflection. Half of my face is smeared in blood. My blood. My fingers push matted hair off my forehead and cheek. My eyes leer at my own visage, lascivious and coveting. My tongue peeks out to lick the blood dripping from my nose.
“Oh, we’re gonna be able to get so much more done with this body.” Incorporeal fingers flip through my memory. “Hm. You weren’t lying. You don’t know where they went.”
“Elina?” A hoarse voice mumbles out of Gary’s body slumped in the driver’s seat.
“All those naughty thoughts.” My voice holds a condescending, judgy tone, as I stare at Gary. “Maybe if you’d paid more attention to taking care of that sickly aunt you wouldn’t be in this mess, Gar.” One of my hands feels its way up Gary’s shirt and under his suit jacket. It finds something cool and hard inside the breast pocket. My other hand unceremoniously pulls the clear bud vase from the mount it resides in near the steering wheel. “Lilith appreciates your service.”
Gary stares at the folded hunting knife in my hand. A firm wrist whip releases the blade from the confines. He scrambles to sit up in the seat. “What-what are you-”
Gary doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I’m screaming in the cage of my brain. My hand slashes at his throat, plunging deep into the flesh and meeting the resistance of bone. My wrist twists. My other hand places the bud vase near the gaping wound. Blood gurgles and spurts into the receptacle as Gary’s head flops to the side.
I can’t stop screaming.
“Hopefully that’s enough.”
My voice quips out some lines of Latin as my eyes stare hard at the tiny vase.
“Fuck. Well, guess that killing two birds with one stone saying doesn’t apply here. Not enough juice.” My hand tosses the vase into the back of the car. “We’ll just give Sam a ring and find out where he and Dean are. Find another warm body to make another call. Then we’ll update Lilith on our progress.” I see my lips scrunch up in the mirror’s reflection. “Gary’s gonna have to go for a swim.” My body expels an exasperated sigh.
I can’t stop screaming.
“Shut the fuck up. Or when we track Dean and Sam down, I’ll cut their tongues out and feed them to you.”
I gasp, stunned and muted by the threat.
“That’s better. Now where’s that cell phone of yours.”
Dropping the knife, my hand searches the footwell by my heels. The demon will secure my purse in moments.
Dean’s face flashes in my memory. I can use all the hope I can get.
“You get him. Well, when you remember him. You saved him for fuck’s sake!” Gary’s voice - the demon’s words - replay in my head.
Demons lie.
But I remember Sam. Sam doesn’t deserve whatever this demon has in store for him. And, deep down, I’m pretty sure Dean doesn’t deserve it either.
From the periphery of my sight, I see blood seeping out of Gary’s fatal wound. The wound my hands created.
Demons kill.
The demon won’t hesitate to do this again to someone else.
Unless I fight back.
“You can’t fight me.” My voice sing songs. “You don’t get out of this until I say.”
I remember Sam. Sam was able to do things he hadn’t thought possible when something was important enough to try and save.
“I told you to shut up.”
I realize how similar my voice sounds to my sister’s when she used to tease and scold me.
I hated that.
The engine idles, a background hum to all of the crazy.
My hand flips my phone open and begins to tap through my contacts.
I won’t be used to hurt another person. Anger boils and the body I’m in heats up around me. My thoughts zone in on how the gear shift would feel in my hand. How I’d press on the brake while I switch from Park to Drive.
The pedal bears down and the gear shift clicks to R, N, then D.
“What the–?”
I imagine my foot lifting off the brake and slamming the gas.
The car hiccups forward, almost rearing up on its wheels like a horse being whipped. It’s only a few seconds and then it’s bobbing as if it’s been fitted with hydraulics. Gary’s lifeless body bounces in the driver’s seat.
“You psycho bitch!” My voice screams. “Your funeral, not mine!” I feel my jaw open wide, stretching muscles and tendons to their limits.
The lights flicker out in the car. I focus on the sound of water lapping against the exterior. Whatever is going to happen next, I hope it’s quick.
“What the hell?!?” My voice roars in the dark. “What did you do?!? Why am I stuck?!?” My head whips side to side with a feral intensity.
I imagine chuckling like a victorious villain. The Devil’s Trap on the ceiling. Bobby came through for me. Again. Even as my body shivers at the cold water surrounding my feet, I know I can do one last thing to make the man proud. After all, I aced my Latin class in college.
I thread the words of the exorcism together, echoing in my brain.
“No! Stop!”
My body is betraying me again, either because of the demon or because I might be weakening its hold and control over my flesh. I’m fading. Lids too heavy to keep open.
Glass breaks behind me and water rushes in. The ice cold shocks my heart. Hands wrap around my waist and tug. I’m pulled through the water. This must be what dying feels like.
I break through the water’s surface. “El!” A hand wraps around my waist. A body tangles around mine in the river and drags me somewhere.
Pairs of hands hold me down on hard ground.
“Fuck! Sam!”
The Latin chant spills from a familiar voice, fast and furious.
Sam.
The force of water and smoke expelling from my throat jolts me awake. My eyes flicker open.
I see them.
Sam and Dean stare down at me. A heavy full moon hangs in the sky behind them.
“Hold on, El!”
Dean.
I can’t, though.
~~~~
I wake up screaming.
Sam and Dean are gone.
No moon. No night.
I’m in a room. Yellow fluorescent light.
My heart races. Something beeps.
I stare at a drop ceiling.
“El!”
Pamela. Pamela’s here. I gasp for air.
“It’s alright, darlin’.” Her hand soothes a warm trail up and down my arm.
I slowly realize “here” is a hospital room. I am in a bed, sensors taped to skin and needles tapped into veins.
“Aw, sweetie. Everyone’s gonna be so happy to know you’re awake. Doctor’s gonna want to check you out and talk to you.” She sighs. “Unfortunately, so are the police.”
My mind swims with newfound knowledge. “Dean.” I croak out. “Where’s Dean?” I turn to see her watercolor blue eyes inspect me. The usual troublemaker grin is nowhere to be found.
She pats my hand. “Later, sweetie. Listen to me now.”
“Pamela…”
“Do you remember what happened to you? In the car?” She strokes the hair atop my head. “Do you remember what that thing did to you? Do you remember what it made you do to Gary?”
The knife in Gary’s throat. The blood. I nod. The tears flow.
Pamela nods back. “That’s what the police want to talk to you about,” she whispers. “But, if you claim it was self-defense-that he was gonna hurt you-trust me, it’ll be an easy sell. Those two lawyers you work for, Mitch and Ryan?” I nod as she continues. “They’ve been by to check on you and keep me informed of the investigation. Gary’s Aunt Cheryl’s been rotting away in the basement of her house for months. Gary” –her voice even lower– “that thing joyriding him, it had you in its sights all that time, just waiting for the right moment, like a goddamn serial killer. Cops found photos of you all over the house and satanic” –she air quotes– “stuff in his room.”
My head spins. “Why? Why was it after Sam and Dean?”
A nurse pops in. Her face lights up. “Oh. How’s the patient?”
Pamela smiles and grips my wrist. “Sis just woke up.”
The nurse beelines to the side of my bed and checks the IV drip. Her gaze skirts over me and then at the monitor. “Dr. Wallace is making the rounds.” She clears her throat. “We’ve been given specific instructions to notify the police department as soon as…”
Pamela waves a hand, “Just do whatever you gotta do so we can get her out of here as soon as she’s able. Please.”
The nurse nods and zips out of the room.
“Sis?” I notice a dull throb from my forehead extends to the right side of my head. Oh, yeah, my skull met the dashboard and a window. The painkillers are obviously holding back a torrent of pain.
“Bobby needed one of your relatives to watch over you while he…” Pamela trails off.
“He’s with them, isn’t he? Sam and Dean?”
“What do you remember?”
It’s all a jumble. Memories and thoughts can’t reconcile themselves. “I remember knowing Dean, and then… not. And then, knowing him again.”
Her fingers rub circles atop my hand. “I don’t know all the details. Bobby’s a vault when he swears to secrecy. But, the long and short of it… this Dean Winchester made some kind of demon deal almost a year ago.”
I close my eyes. All I hear in my head is Dean.
I don’t like any of this, though, not one bit. I can’t keep literally dragging you into my shit.
Whatever this connection is, it’s obvious we don’t have any control over it. And that can go real bad, real quick.
You’re special. And I want you to stay that way.
“Oh, Dean,” I whisper. “What did you do?”
“Hey.” Pamela gives me a soft nudge. “This Dean sounds like a ton more trouble than he’s worth. You need to worry more about yourself right now, those police that are going to be by, and getting better. Bobby’s orders.”
~~~~
I was in the hospital for two more days under observation because of the head trauma I sustained. Once they ran me back and forth for numerous tests I finally got discharged with orders to rest.
I’ve been on lockdown for three weeks. I’ve also got security detail.
Not from the cops, mind you. I was convincing enough with my story. They bought that what I did to Gary was in self-defense. It wasn’t like I had to embellish much, just selectively omit some details. The demon had left a trail of crazy and murder that only supported my innocence.
No, I’m on lockdown with Pamela. And Garth, my security detail, has been ordered by Bobby to act as a sentinel outside my building. When he’s not in his car by the entrance during the day, he’s tucked into a sleeping bag by the threshold of my door at night. Pamela sleeps on the couch. I am within eyesight of either one of them in my twin bed. No one could ever claim this studio apartment is spacious.
It’s not so much about who might be coming after me, I suspect, as much as where I might run off to. Bobby called Pamela often. There’d been discussions, of which I’d not been allowed input, that maybe I should be moved. But the logistics and the where couldn’t be agreed. I couldn’t be taken to Sioux Falls. That meant Sam and Dean were there.
Garth had to get on the phone one night and offer, “Geez, Bobby. Law enforcement here is so on edge even the wind changing direction gets the third degree. No way anyone new or somethin’ out of the ordinary gets by them for quite a while. This is probably the safest place for El to be right now.”
That seemed to be good enough for Bobby, finally. Not for me. All I want are answers from Dean about why he thought wiping my memory of him was a great idea. More importantly, all I want to do is help him. Nothing involving a demon is good, I’m living proof. And anything involving a deal with a demon is a thousand times worse.
Pamela went out for food and supplies one morning while “cousin” Garth and I had a late Saturday breakfast. It was the first time we’d been by ourselves.
“You never met Sam and Dean Winchester?” I ask and slurp the sweet sugared milk from my cereal bowl.
“Nope.” Garth helps himself to another serving of the copycat Froot Loops.
I sit up and eye him as he digs in. “So, it was Bobby, then, that had you destroy my phone?”
He gasps, then coughs, mouth full of cereal. A little milk dribbles out of his nose. The features on his cue ball of a head scrunch in towards the center at his discomfort. “What?”
“Come on, Garth. Be honest with me.”
He wipes the mess off his face. “Alright, fine. Yes, Bobby had me do it.” He raises a hand. “And before you ask, I swear I don’t know why. He just told me you needed to be kept out of harm’s way and getting rid of your phone would help with that. So, I did.”
“I know why,” I mumble. “Erase any trace of Dean. It was probably Dean’s idea and Bobby just had you execute it.” I stand, itchy with irritation, and head over to the sink to deposit my cereal bowl. “Doesn’t it piss you off? The way Bobby doles out orders and we’re supposed to follow them without question?”
Garth blows his nose, I’m guessing to clear it of any residual milk. He flares his nostrils and does a little head shake. “Way I see it, Bobby’s survived this long on more than a little luck and a lot of praying. Like it or not, he’s usually right.” Garth looks up at me from his seat. His face wrinkles up into a thoughtful expression. “Bobby did tell me you got pretty close to those Winchesters. The Dean fella, in particular.”
I cross my arms, lean against the tiny bit of counter space that makes up my kitchenette. “I thought so.” I sweep my socked foot along the linoleum floor. My gaze lands on the cat figurine collection across the room on the dresser.
“Thought?”
I zone in on the cat angel. The one Dean got me. The one he picked up when he was here and trying to apologize when I didn’t remember everything. “Being close to someone means having faith in them. That’s how it goes for me anyway.”
“Faith is hard to come by for some people.” Garth shrugs. “You and I are close but it wasn’t always like that. I had to earn it. Look me in the eyes and say you have faith in everything I do with a straight face.” He raises his eyebrows.
I feel my mouth quirk up into a grin. “Fair enough,” I chuckle.
There’s a tell tale knock at the door. It’s the secret knock and I start for the door. But Garth raises a finger and sprints over before me.
Pamela breezes in with a couple bags. “Alright, I think I got everything on the list.” She drops them on the table and pulls out a newspaper for Garth.
“Thanks, Pammy. Gotta catch up on what Marmaduke’s up to.”
She smiles softly at him, then hands me a pile of envelopes. “Grabbed your mail.”
“Thanks, Pammy.” I parrot Garth.
I don’t get the same sweet smile at the use of the nickname. “I’m makin’ rice and beans tonight. Not up for discussion.”
“Hmmm.” Garth rubs his non-existent tummy and wades through the newspaper.
The two of them chatter. I walk to the couch and flop on it, flipping through the mail. Bill. Bill. Junk. But then there’s an envelope with my name and address handwritten on it. The print is haphazard and hurried. It’s postmarked from Sioux Falls from about a week ago. And in the top left corner are two letters.
D.W.
I purse my lips to hold in a gasp. Once I compose myself I announce, “Anyone gotta use the bathroom before I take a shower?”
“Nope,” Pamela states.
“I am A OK,” Garth replies. “Pammy, you like Garfield?”
I pull some clean clothes out of the dresser and dash into the bathroom while they discuss the merits of Odie.
It’s the only place I can get any privacy. I sit on the toilet, my change of clothes a heap in my lap, and Dean’s letter in my hands.
My entire body shivers. I inhale deep and slow to try and calm down, but it’s not helping. A finger inches under the flap and rips open the envelope. I unfold three pieces of paper that were inside. The first one is on stationery from The Aviary Hotel.There’s a crease etched in the middle, top to bottom, and a few left to right; it’s been folded into a smaller square at some point in the past.
The writing is tight and neat. Different from the one on the envelope.
I’m not gonna apologize for how I acted today, El.
What would be the point, anyway? You wouldn’t understand why I had to.
Take my advice and stay as far away from Sam and me as possible.
–Dean
Short and not very sweet. But, I think back to the altercation I had with Dean in the hotel room with the loudest wallpaper I’d ever seen. It was when I didn’t remember, months back. Bobby had been in the hospital. I shake my head, even now, at how obnoxious Dean had been.
The fucker was doing everything in his power to make sure I wasn’t gonna give a shit about him. But why? Why the memory wipe? I tuck the page behind the others.
The next page is on very familiar stationery. I gave it to Bobby as a cheeky little gift one Christmas. He never uses it, but I know where he stashes it - in the right side drawer of the desk in his library.
Dean found that stationery and probably sat at that very desk to write what I’m now reading. The page has crinkles in it, like it was balled up and thrown out.
I let out a chuckle in nervous hiccups at Dean’s scribble right under the fancy font.
A bunch of BS from the desk of B.S.
Ain’t that the truth!!!
El,
Bobby told me you remember everything. His friend Pamela told him that you’ve been asking about me. I don’t know why your memories came back. The deal’s not up yet.
I’m glad you’re gonna get to go home soon. I’m so sorry you got caught in the middle of all of this ,. princess I always just wanted you safe.
As much as I wish things could be different, nothing good comes from being around me. It kills me you had to find out the hard way with the demon riding that guy.
All those times you saved me and didn’t give up on me, it kills me I’ll never be able to repay you proper.
I’m glad you remember me now. Truth is, I didn’t think you ever would again.
It hurt to have to push you away all this time. To not reach out and tell you about the stupid thing I did when I was crazy in my head over losing Sam. He died, El. About a year ago.
I stop reading. Drop the papers in my lap. I recall the very healthy looking Sam I saw months back. And the one who helped rescue me only weeks ago.
I traded my soul to bring him back. But the crossroads demon only gave me a year before my bill came due.
My heart beat increases, pounds in my head. Dean’s words trigger the pain from the assault, a deep ache in my bones. My skin prickles with anger.
Sam died a year ago and Dean’s deal was for a year.
No, Dean. No.
The bitch thought it’d be cute to wipe your memory of every little bit of me as part of the agreement. You gotta believe me, El, that’s not what I wanted. I may have thought it was better you’d never met me. But I never would have traded losing you for Sam. Me, that’s a no-brainer.
I turn the page over and continue to read Dean’s words through my blurry vision. The other pages scatter onto the tile floor.
I want It just twisted the knife, having you look at me like I was a stranger. Having to tear into you hurt so fucking much. But it was all I could do to drive that urge to help out of you. You were a great hunting partner. One of the best. It’s selfish of me and dangerous for you, but I’ve thought about what it would be like having you hunt with Sam and me again. Like a team. And it feels right. I think that life, if the apple pie life was never in the cards for me, that would have been nice.
But my time is almost up, so I’m gonna try to hold on to what might have been, wherever I’m going.
I just want to tell you that I love need you to stay safe, alright. I need you to be okay when all this is over. And, I need you to be there for Sam. And maybe, maybe he can be there for you, when you want to remember me.
Cause I’ll never forget you, Suds.
-Dean
Both hands cover my mouth. I stifle the sobs. It’s not helping and I’m only getting louder. Pamela or Garth will knock on the door soon. I lean to the left and twist the faucet knob. A spurt of water shoots out. A steady stream soon follows.
I wish he’d tried to tell me. That night when he was here. I would have thought he was crazy. But, still, I might have told him to have Sam come up and confirm. I might have called Bobby. I might never have gone to meet Gary.
I could have been with them all this time. Trying anything and everything to help. I grab the page again and look at that word he’s crossed out. Love. He could have written anything after that. He could have just wanted to remind me that he loves pie.
But somehow, I think not.
More tears come.
I flip the lever so water cascades out of the showerhead. I wipe my soggy eyes with the back of my hand and gather up the other dropped pages.
The last page wasn’t written by Dean. The print is large and loopy. Sam.
Dean tossed both these letters out today. The first one he’d been carrying around in his bag for months in an envelope with your name on it. I saw him dump it in Bobby’s office along with the second note. I wanted to give you the chance to read them now, in case there’s time for you to reach out before we track down Lilith. Maybe give him a reason to keep fighting, El. Cause he’s tired of hearing me. He’s trying to hold on but the closer he gets to the clock running out… I can’t lose him, either. Sam.
I leave all the pages atop the sink. My gaze lingers on the phone number Sam wrote at the bottom of the note. It’s gotta be Dean’s. My brain and body go on autopilot. I cry as I shower, towel off, and then dress into my second set of pajamas for the day.
By the time I exit the bathroom, Garth is gone, and Pamela waits for me on the couch. She’s the best big sister I could ask for in that moment, opening her arms for me to collapse into and cry some more. She waits until I’m ready to tell her everything. When I’m done, she tucks my damp hair behind my ears and gives me a nod for courage.
“You do what you got to do, sweetie. I’ll be out in the hall. When you need me, that’s where I’ll be.”
I know he won’t pick up. And, I don’t know what I’m gonna leave on his voicemail. I stand up and walk over to the dresser. I place Sam’s note on top of it, by my cat figurine collection, and punch in the numbers. The ringing begins and I stare at the little cat angel, readying to say anything after Dean’s greeting.
“This is Dean’s other, other cell so you must know what to do.”
“Hi.” My voice eeks out, a whispery rasp. I clear my throat. “Dean. It’s me. El. I-I just wanted to tell you that I’m-I’m pissed. I’m pissed that you didn’t hang around at the hospital and wait for me to wake up. Cause, ah, I-I did think of a tip for you.” The lump in my throat makes my breath hitch. “Don’t quit the life. Not yet. And don’t wait so damn long to kiss me the next time you see me, Winchester. I’ll, I’ll be waiting.”
I circle my finger along the halo of the little kitty.
~~~~
I don’t sleep that night. I wait for his call. When my phone finally rings, it’s a little after two in the morning.
But the name on the screen is Bobby. He hasn’t called me direct since I’ve been out of the hospital.
I answer but don’t say anything. Just wait for the old man’s voice.
Hey, friends! Been a while since I've laid out a straight up writing update, but I'm very happy to share what I have cooking for the 🔆 Summer Vibes Menu, as we ease into the end of spring:
Back in Black
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: When Dean comes back from Hell, you quickly realize that his subconscious remembers more than his waking mouth admits.
Requested on Patreon! I’ve written a “back from Hell” piece before with an Omegaverse twist, called Make it Right. But here’s a more canon-rooted drabble. 💜
Sneak Peek:
The way Dean held you then had been so strong and fragile at the same time; you felt the shake in his arms, the tension embedded in his frame, even while he was burying his face in your hair. You’d blinked hot tears that clung to your lashes, cupped his face between your hands and kissed him just as hard and desperate.
He was alive, so you were alive. That was what that day felt like for you: coming back to life.
But this was a different kind of living.
⟢ Read now on Patreon!
⟢ Coming to Tumblr: May 31
Keep the Lights On
^ @justjensenanddean (post)
Pairing: Russell Shaw x Reader
Summary: He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.
᯽ Inspired by 3x22 | This can be a stand-alone one-shot, but it fits well in the Every Second Counts-verse — between Bubbly and Breaking Point
Sneak Peek:
A labored breath escaped him, along with another rivulet seeping through his shirt. His free hand itched for the cell phone lying beside him on the cement. Backup was on the way, taking a bit long though.
Time was always the question and the challenge. The decisions in between were what he was usually good at, even in moments like these.
⟢ Read on Patreon: May 29
⟢ Coming to Tumblr: June 7
30 Days or Less
^ @losthavenmine (post)
Pairing: Mark Meachum x Reader
᯽ 'Til When Do Us Part-verse
Summary: The full story. The true story of how you met Mark, with every tantalizing shade of public humiliation. You knew better than to date a cop, let alone a detective in your father’s division. But Mark Meachum was exactly the kind of stubborn and reckless man that threatened to knock every responsible thought out of your head, if he could convince you to take a chance on him.
Sneak Peek:
Mark’s broad frame was blocking your way to your dad’s office—on purpose, you were beginning to think.
The man chuckled. “Interesting. I’d like to hear more about it, but I know you’re probably here to have lunch with your dad. How about you join me for a drink tonight? There’s this chill place near downtown. Not too loud. Good beer on tap. Unless you’re more of a martini kind of girl.”
You sighed in amusement. “More of a whiskey sour girl, actually.”
“Well, what do you know. A woman after my own heart,” Mark said, his brows raising along with his grin.
He eyed you in a subtle way, yet you’d never read a clearer danger sign in your life.
You glanced around his arm and caught the way your dad was frowning while sitting at his desk, his firm gaze planted on you and Mark.
“Something tells me you’re severely lacking in self-preservation,” you said, more quietly. “Either that, or you’re just that fucking cocky.”
Mark’s lips quirked. “Maybe a little of both, I’m ‘a be honest.”
You bit your lip against a laugh. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, Detective, but I don’t date cops.”
⟢ Read now on Patreon!
⟢ Coming to Tumblr: June 14
One Good Try
Pairing: Mark Meachum x Reader
᯽ 'Til When Do Us Part-verse
Summary: You’ve opened the door. Mark has to decide if it’s worth walking through. But your father, his boss and division captain, isn’t making it any easier to date you.
⟢ Read on Patreon: June 5
⟢ Coming to Tumblr: June 21
Mutual Engagement
Pairing: CEO!Dean x Assistant!Reader
᯽ The Assistant (NEW mini series - masterlist coming soon)
Summary: Let’s take it back to Day 1. Here's how you got the job at HunterCorp as Dean Winchester’s Executive Assistant, how you kept it, and the day your professionalism with him finally broke.
This of course is in the same world as Pratt Fall, but it spans the year building up to that moment. 😉
Sneak Peek:
You’re not sure if you should do it.
You have a sensitive report in your hand, fresh off the printer. You really think Dean should see it before he gets any deeper into his negotiations with Roman Enterprises, but he’s meeting with them right now in the big conference room, with Dick Roman himself, as well as the rest of his sales and legal representatives.
This isn’t the first meeting Sam and Dean have undergone with the company; Roman Enterprises has been courting HunterCorp into a partnership on a new product, but this could be the day that makes the big swinging dicks in the room shake hands (even if that little visual almost makes you snort).
Dean’s never expressly warned you about entering a meeting uninvited, but it’s still nerve wracking as you stand outside the door. You can hear familiar voices, including the nasally tone of Alastair, the one who gives you the creeps whenever he slithers through the office and gives you a “charming” once-over.
But you also hear Dean. His voice is deep and smooth and confident, and maybe, it gives you the little confidence boost you need to twist the knob and push the door open.
⟢ Read on Patreon: June 19
⟢ Coming to Tumblr: June 28
To be followed closely by Nothing by Halves 🌆
I'm saving this summary/sneak peek for now (spoilers~) 😘
