Rembrandt lighting, or Chiaroscuro effect, is a lighting technique used to create a stark contrast between dark and light in an image. While usually used for dramatic effect, it can also have a deeper meaning for characters portrayed in this lighting. When a character is shown with a half-lit face, it can symbolize moral ambiguity, or an internal struggle between ones own good and bad sides. When characters see themselves in this light, it can symbolize losing the sight of ones own ‘face’; giving into the darkness and letting it consume them.
JAVIER PEÑA + HALF-LIT FACE IN SEASON 2
Summary: You and Dean promise forever. But a lot of things can still happen in the middle.
SERIES MASTERLIST
Previous chapter
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Word count: +7.3K
Warnings: Author chose not to give warnings to avoid spoilers… but there are a lot of things going on.
A/N: Just before we started with the end… I wanna thank all of you who have been reading and supporting this story. Every like, every reblog, every comment, all of it means a lot to me! Really. Thank you for waiting so patiently every episode. I did my best to bring you something special and funny and exciting.
Now this is it. The final part. I hope you don’t hate me lol but let’s be honest, what’s Supernatural without a bit of angst and drama and a lot of chaos!
Gracias gracias gracias! 🙏🏻
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You arrived in a time not meant for you, blinking under harsh electric lights, the hum of engines in your ears, the weight of two centuries of history collapsing into your bones. But Dean was there, and he was holding on. That was all that mattered.
The first few weeks were chaos. The Men of Letters bunker felt more like a crypt than a home. You had trouble sleeping. You kept checking mirrors, half-expecting to see a corset or your father's scowl.
But Dean never left your side, he tried everything to make it easier and lighter for you in every sense. His arms hold you at night and his eyes were your guide and your anchor during the day.
Sam helped you get paperwork forged. Castiel handled the Enochian rituals to anchor your soul in this time. Jack became practically like a son to you. His innocence and curiosity echoed something deep within you, making it easy to feel connected to him. The urge to protect him came naturally, pure, and instinctive.
You returned to hunting. The adrenaline of every salt-and-burn case surged through your veins like the most natural thing in the world. You were brave, and with each hunt, you grew stronger, sharper, more confident.
He proposed one morning out of nowhere, after not-so-casually pulling the Impala over in the middle of a quiet bridge somewhere along the road. The early sun painted the sky gold behind him as he stepped out and came around to your side.
Then, without a word, he dropped to one knee and opened a small, worn velvet box. Inside was a simple gold ring, old and a little scuffed, with a single pearl in the center. It was beautiful.
Dean looked up at you, nervous in that way he rarely let anyone see.
"This isn't 'cause of fate, or because somebody upstairs said so," he said. "I'm asking you because I want to. I choose you, every damn day. Not because I have to. Because I get to. You're it for me, deer."
And the same day of your—technically—200th wedding anniversary, Dean was wearing one of his best FBI suits, and you were in a simple but beautiful white dress that made you look like something out of a dream as you walked down the improvised aisle in the bunker. His throat caught the second he saw you.
Sam and Charlie stood as Dean's best men. Sam looked proud, a little misty, and Charlie wiped a tear when Dean kissed your hand at the altar.
Eileen was your maid of honor, signing your name in her palm before squeezing your fingers tightly. "You got this," she mouthed.
Castiel officiated the ceremony. He stood between you, still a little awkward in the way only Cas could be, holding a leather-bound journal of lore in his hands like scripture.
"I have no legal authority," he admitted, tilting his head. "But I do have... grace."
Dean chuckled, soft and warm, and took your hands like they were the only thing anchoring him.
"I bind your souls," Castiel said, his voice steady, solemn, almost reverent. "Not by the law or tradition of men, but by celestial grace. By love freely given."
Dean and you promised forever to each other.
He looked at you like the world could end again and he'd still say yes.
Everyone who loved the both of you was there.
Bobby clapped Dean's back. "'Bout damn time, kid."
Claire handed you crushed wildflowers and hugged you hard. Jody cried. Donna brought pie. Garth and Bess came with their kids, beaming.
Jack practically glowed, watching you both with that unshakable, childlike awe. "This is what family looks like," he whispered to Castiel, who stood nearby.
The bunker's war room had been transformed for the night: string lights looped along the arches, mismatched chairs pushed aside to make a dance floor, and Charlie hacked the jukebox to play a mix of classic rock and your favorite oldies.
There was pie—so much pie—and beer, and everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives. It was like witnessing a one-in-a-million wonder of nature: a bunch of hunters celebrating love and actually enjoying an evening. No blood, no hunts gone sideways. Just... people, laughing, dancing, and talking about nonsense.
You brought that for them. That was the truth.
Your first dance as a married couple wasn't rehearsed. It didn't need to be.
Dean held you close, swaying slowly in a wide circle in the middle of the war room. The music was soft and old-fashioned, one of those scratchy classic rock ballads Dean loved but would never admit made him emotional. You laughed into his shoulder when he spun you too fast, then settled into him again as the room blurred around you.
Everyone gave you space. They didn't need to be told, hunters understood sacred ground when they saw it.
Your cheek pressed against Dean's chest, and he kissed the top of your head without a word. He hadn't expected this in his life. Not really. Not love like this, or peace. And definitely not a future that he could deserve.
Later that night, from across the room, Sam watched with a quiet smile, a half-full beer in his hand as Eileen and you laugh over something he couldn't hear.
Dean came to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence for a moment.
Then Sam spoke, voice low and honest. "I'm sorry, man," he said. "For keeping where she was from you. For not saying it sooner."
Dean glanced sideways at him. "You did what you thought was right. Cas too. And maybe you were right. Maybe if I'd gone sooner, it wouldn't have ended like this."
He took a long sip, then added, "But I'm not mad. We brought her back. That's what counts. I forgive you. Both of you. I mean it. I probably would've done the same if it was you."
Sam turned to him. "Thanks, man."
Dean shrugged. "You're my little brother, Sammy. We've lost too damn much to keep score."
Sam's smile was tired, but genuine. "I still can't believe you're married."
Dean huffed a laugh. "Yeah. Me neither."
They looked over at you again, now with your arms linked with Eileen, your cheeks pink from laughter, your head tipped back in joy.
Dean raised an eyebrow. "So... you and Eileen, huh?"
Sam looked down into his beer, just a little embarrassed. "Yeah. I mean, maybe. I think... I think I could have something there. Something real."
Dean nodded slowly. "Good. You deserve it."
Sam bumped his shoulder against Dean's, quiet affection between brothers who had walked through hell and still found their way back.
"I wish mom and dad were here," Sam said after a moment.
"Me too, Sammy" Dean replied, almost in a whisper. "Me too."
They stood like that a little longer, watching you laugh, the music playing, the lights glowing soft overhead.
Finally, the party wound down slowly, like the embers of a long-burning fire.
Laughter faded to murmurs, footsteps turned toward the stairs. One by one, everyone made quiet goodbyes, hugs, back slaps, half-sung congratulations.
You had invited everyone to stay, of course. "The bunker has room," you'd said more than once. But no one took you up on it.
It wasn't spoken aloud, but there was a gentle, mutual understanding between all of them.
You and Dean deserved this night.
Jack was the only one who hadn't caught the drift.
"But the bedrooms are right there," he said, completely serious, pointing down the hall. "Why wouldn't we all just stay here together?"
Dean blinked, mid-sip of a final beer. You watched the internal panic rise in his eyes as he tried to formulate a G-rated response.
Luckily, Castiel stepped in, placing a firm hand on Jack's shoulder. "Jack," he said, voice calm but final, "I'll explain it on the way."
Jack frowned, but nodded, already full of cake and a little sleepy. "Okay."
Sam and Eileen were the last to leave. She hugged you tightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and whispering, "I'm so happy for you."
Sam lingered, just a few seconds longer than necessary, looking around the war room like it was the first time he'd seen it in years. He turned to Dean. "Don't mess this up," he said softly.
Dean smirked. "Not planning on it."
And then they were gone.
The silence that followed was strange but sacred. You turned and looked at where Dean was already digging into a leftover bowl of pie.
"I thought you said you were full," you said, crossing to him.
"I lied," he said, mouth full, grinning like a teenager.
You picked up a second spoon and sank it into the pie, bumping shoulders with him as you shared the same bowl in companionable silence.
Then Dean set the spoon down, licked the syrup off his thumb, and said, "You really did it."
"Did what?"
He gestured vaguely around. "All of it. You were supposed to marry some lord in a mansion, wear diamonds, ride carriages. You changed that for a son of a bitch who lives with his brother in a dusty hole in the ground and the only thing he has to his name is a 1967 Chevy."
You looked at him for a moment, soft and full of love, and brushed your fingers along his jaw. "No," you said gently. "I chose the bravest, most loyal, and selfless man of all time. I change that for something real."
Dean blinked, something in his throat catching, like maybe the pie was just a little too sweet now.
"You sure know how to hit a guy right in the feels, Mrs. Winchester," he leaned forward and kissed you, slow and deep, one hand cradling your face like you were still a miracle he hadn't earned.
And then, without another word, he stood up and scooped you into his arms.
You yelped in surprise, arms flying around his neck. "Dean!"
He grinned. "What? I’m your husband. I'm allowed to carry you over at least one threshold."
You laughed into his shoulder, the bunker blurring past as he carried you down the hallway, toward the room that was now not just his, but yours too.
There, the lights dimmed and the door shut.
For the first time in a long time, you weren't running from death or fate or ancient curses.
You were just a husband and a wife.
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The years that followed were a blur of adrenaline and ache: hunts, ghosts, demons, witch covens, and ancient gods. Apocalypse threats came and went, each one chipping away at the world you thought you could build together.
Dean was your husband, your partner, your sword and shield—but also your greatest vulnerability. And you were his.
You were each other's Achilles' heel. It made you dangerous, and sometimes a bait. It also made you incredibly strong.
There were days you begged him to let you sit one out. There were nights he held your trembling body after a hunt, whispering promises like, "We're gonna make it. You and me." And you'd nod, because you had to believe it.
But deep down, you both knew the universe didn't give happy endings.
Not in this life.
You lost Bobby. He died saving you. Burned alive in a barn filled with cursed objects. Dean never quite forgave himself for that.
Then you lost Charlie too. Her laugh still haunts your dreams.
But Castiel... Castiel was the worst. He gave himself for you. For Dean. Again.
You remember the moment he was pulled into the Empty like it was branded into your soul. Dean hadn't cried like that in years. You didn't say anything, just sat on the floor beside him in the bunker hallway, his face buried in your lap like a child. His knuckles were bruised from punching the wall.
"I told him not to," Dean whispered once. "I told him we'd find another way."
And you said the only thing you could. "He always found his own way."
There were wins, too. Hunts that ended with pie and beer and motel sheets tangled around your ankles. There were mornings when Dean kissed your neck and murmured, "You're still the best damn thing I ever hunted down." And there were moments when, just for a second, you believed you could outsmart fate.
But the road never ends. Not for long. One by one, your people disappeared. Some to death. Some to other worlds. Some to peace.
You lost Jack, but you watched him grow into something beyond any of you. The Nephilim gone cosmic, God dethroned, the world finally quiet.
Now it was just the three of you: Sam, Dean and Claire Winchester.
Still driving. Still hunting. Still standing.
Dean still holds your hand when you fall asleep. But you've noticed the way he lingers in his silences lately, like he's already hearing the end of the song.
But you weren't afraid anymore. Because if Death couldn't part you then—if time and angels and reapers and broken vows couldn't undo you—then whatever comes next will have to fight harder than hell to tear you apart now.
You and Dean Winchester. Married across centuries. Lovers in the middle of the apocalypse. You were never meant to last. But somehow... you still are.
Still choosing each other. Every damn day.
And you weren't the only ones: Sam and Eileen found something close to peace too, tentative at first, then radiant. A love forged not in fire but in quiet resilience. You danced at their small wedding in the bunker, the jukebox playing Zeppelin because Dean wouldn't let it be anything else.
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SOME YEARS LATER
The four of you had found your own family traditions. And for Dean, nothing ever beat the annual pie fest.
He'd talk about it for weeks before the event—and wouldn't stop talking about it for weeks after. He always made it his mission to hit the best stalls, try the weirdest fillings, and hunt down the rumored bourbon-crust apple masterpiece. He was like a kid in a candy store, hands sticky with cherry, laughing until his cheeks hurt, making fun of Sam for being too "health-conscious" to try the pecan-bacon monstrosity.
You had taken dozens of photos: Dean holding up a slice of pie like it was Excalibur, Sam grumbling in the background, Eileen sneaking whipped cream from a can when Dean wasn't looking.
It was your tradition. A little slice of normal in the middle of all the chaos you still lived through.
That same evening, the peace broke—like it always did—with a hunt. A backwoods vampire nest, half a town over. Dean was already sharpening his machete before the sun had fully set.
"I think I'll sit this one out," you told him, curling a hand gently over your stomach. "Period cramps. I'll stay and have a rest."
Dean gave you a crooked smile and kissed your forehead. "Want me to bring you back a slice of that weird lavender-lemon thing you liked?"
"Bring back your whole self, and I'll consider it."
You kissed your husband goodbye and watched the Impala roar out of the parking lot, its familiar rumble fading into the night.
When you shut the door behind you, you turned—and saw Eileen walking out of the bathroom, holding a small white stick wrapped in a piece of toilet paper.
"Oh God," you whispered. "Is it done?"
"It is," she said, voice quiet.
"And...?" Your voice cracked with nerves.
That morning, you and Eileen had made a quick escape to the nearest pharmacy to buy one pregnancy test. While the brothers were out grabbing some takeout breakfast, it felt like the perfect chance to take it... just a little secret between the girls.
And now, she just smiled—wide, trembling, excited—and turned the test toward you.
"It's positive," she said softly.
Your breath caught. And then you rushed toward her, wrapping her in a hug before either of you could stop the tears.
There was a baby Winchester on the way.
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Hours passed, and Eileen soon drifted into an exhausted sleep.
You, on the other hand, somehow couldn't.
Not just from the emotion of it all—but because something in your gut was screaming. That awful sixth sense you'd learned to trust over the years, the one that hunters never ignored. Your chest felt tight, your hands clammy, sweat prickling the back of your neck.
Something was wrong.
You didn't know how or why, just that the stillness of the motel room felt off. Suffocating.
Eventually, the tension became unbearable. You grabbed your phone, your fingers trembling as you dialed Dean. No answer.
You tried Sam. Still nothing.
Eileen stirred beneath the covers, the movement of the mattress waking her just enough to notice your pale, stricken expression in the glow of the bedside lamp.
"Are you okay? What's wrong?" she signed, her brow furrowed.
"I don't know," you whispered, voice thin and tight. "I just... I have a bad feeling."
You waited five more minutes.
Then you stood up, grabbed your coat, and slipped your angel blade into your boot. Your gun went into the pocket of your coat.
"Stay here," you told Eileen.
"No way," she signed back sharply, already on her feet. "I'm coming too."
You didn't argue. You knew her too well—she wasn't about to let you go alone. And deep down, you were glad. If something had happened, you'd need her at your side.
You took Sam's car, drove like hell. Your hands gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles went white. The night swallowed the road, trees whipping past like shadows from another world. You kept checking your phone, hoping, praying for a call back. Nothing. Just the silence.
The GPS led you to the outskirts of the small town, down a gravel road leading into the woods.
That's where you saw it.
The Impala, parked and empty. Headlights dimmed, driver's door open. One machete discarded in the mud.
You and Eileen leapt out, weapons drawn. The scent of blood hit you first: metallic, thick, undeniable. Your heart pounded, eyes scanning everything. And then...
There, not far from the treeline, sprawled across the ground like a broken doll, was Dean. Blood seeped from beneath him, pooling into the dirt. Sam was crouched over him, his face streaked with blood, mud, and the worst kind of panic.
"NO! No no no... Dean!" You dropped to your knees, grabbing his face. It was cold. Too cold. "Wha—what happened? Dean!? DEAN!" you cried out, panic eating away every thought, every breath. You shook him, desperate, trying to wake him. But he was pale, his features slack and lifeless.
"He was thrown back... into that pole... he hit his head, and then it went through him," Sam said, his voice cracking. "There's... ther— there... is a lo—lot of blood."
Behind you, Eileen was crying, her whole body trembling with helplessness and shock.
"Dean... baby, please, wake up!" you begged, voice trembling with desperation and fury. It wasn't fair... not after everything the two of you had been through. "DEAN, PLEASE! WAKE UP!"
Your hands cupped his cheeks, fingers slipping in blood, but he didn't flinch. His skin was so cold. His head lolled just slightly to the side, and his eyes closed.
Sam crouched beside you, his hands on your shoulders now. Gentle, but firm.
"He's gone," Sam whispered, his voice wrecked, choked. "He... he told me it was okay. He said it was time. That he was at peace."
You turned on him, eyes wild, the scream already in your throat. "No, no, Sam—NO! Don't say that! He's not gone! He can't be... he promised me! He promised me forever!" your sobs cracked through the forest, breaking something in all three of you.
"I'm sorry," Sam said, voice cracking, the guilt all over his face. "I... I tried to stop it. I couldn't..."
You threw yourself over Dean's chest, weeping like the sky might shatter open with you. Your hands fisted in his coat, clinging to the last pieces of warmth. "Please," you whispered, your forehead pressed to his. "Please don't leave me, Dean. You can't leave me now."
Behind you, Eileen slowly approached, her own eyes swimming with tears. But then her expression changed. She dropped to her knees beside him, her trembling hands brushing along his neck and jaw, then resting lightly over his ribs.
"What—what is it?" Sam asked, watching her movements. You looked up too, through blurred vision.
Eileen didn't answer immediately.
Her brow furrowed. She pressed her fingers more firmly just beneath Dean's jaw, then again on his neck. Her hand shifted to the side of his chest, near the wound. She suddenly gasped and signed something quickly.
"She felt something," you translated, barely daring to hope. "What did you feel?"
Eileen's lips moved now.
"A pulse," she mumbled.
Your breath caught. "What?!"
Sam leaned in instantly, his own fingers searching under Dean's jaw, near the carotid. "Oh my God. It's weak, but it's there."
You cried out, half-sobbing, half-laughing. "He's alive! Sam... he's alive!"
"He must've gone into hypovolemic shock," Sam muttered, already stripping off his jacket and pressing it around the wound in Dean's side. "The pole went through him, but missed his heart..."
"We can't stay here," you said, snapping back to yourself. "We need to move. Now."
Sam wrapped Dean tighter, lifting his upper body as you cradled his head. "We're getting you out of here, Dean," you whispered through tears. "I'm not losing you. You hear me? I won't let you go."
And this time, even though Dean didn't answer,
you knew he heard you.
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Hospitals have a silence that isn't quiet. It's full of hums, distant footsteps, beeping machines—the muffled sounds of suffering behind white curtains and locked doors. You'd memorized all of it by now.
For two months, you walked these halls like a ghost. You hardly ate, barely slept. You cried quietly when the nurses weren't looking, and curled up in the corner of Dean's room, your hand always resting somewhere on him: his chest, his arm, his fingers. As if your touch could anchor his soul. As if your skin could whisper, Don't leave us, Dean.
The medical prognosis didn't help your nerves. Not at all.
The doctors had done everything: stabilized him, patched what could be patched, cleared internal bleeding, repaired two cracked ribs, and closely monitored the swelling in his brain, hooked up to machines that hissed and beeped in steady rhythm, the only sign he hadn't fully slipped away.
He was alive, but in a coma. Like a story paused halfway through a sentence.
"He might stay in that state for days, months, or even years," they said. "And if he does wake up, there's a possibility he may never walk again."
It was beyond heartbreaking. Sam was devastated. Eileen, too.
But you? You were shattered. A hollow version of yourself, barely held together by stubborn hope and the memory of his green eyes and warm voice reserved only for you.
During the first two weeks, no force on Earth could tear you away from Dean's side. You barely left the room. Sam and Eileen took care of you, bringing clean clothes, homemade food, doing everything they could.
But it wasn't enough. You needed rest. Especially when none of you knew how long this wait would last.
"Claire," Sam said one afternoon, gently pressing a hand to your shoulder. You hadn't realized you were crying again.
You blinked up at him, your palm still over Dean's heart, feeling the slow, artificial rise and fall of his chest.
"You have to eat something," Sam said. "You need to rest. You need to take care of yourself."
"I know," you whispered. "But I just... can't."
He knelt beside you. "You have to. Not just for you." His voice dropped, eyes flicking down to your midsection.
You swallowed hard.
"I'm not asking you to be okay," Sam continued, his voice catching. "I know none of us are okay, but... more than anyone, you have to take care of yourself. I'm gonna take care of you... you and the baby."
You lowered your gaze and slowly placed a hand on your belly, fingers trembling slightly as they pressed against the soft swell beneath your sweater.
It still felt unreal sometimes, life growing inside you while the man who helped create it hovered between worlds.
"I didn't even get to tell him," you whispered, more to yourself than to Sam. "We were so careful, we weren't even sure we wanted... but I was going to tell him that night. When you both came back."
Sam nodded, swallowing hard. "He would've been happy. Scared shitless, probably, but happy."
A broken smile ghosted across your lips. Sam rested his hand over yours and gave it a quiet, reassuring brush.
"If there's one thing I know about my big brother, it's that nothing keeps Dean from the people he loves. Not death, not time, not even a coma."
You closed your eyes and leaned into the contact for a moment, drawing strength from your brother-in-law's quiet conviction.
"I know, Sammy" you murmured, and looked back at Dean's still form, his face pale but peaceful under the soft light. "I know."
Sam, along with Eileen, kept his promise to take care of you. And, of course, you did your best to take care of yourself and the pregnancy.
Around your sixth week, you finally allowed yourself to spend a little time at the bunker—just enough to take a proper shower, eat real food, and even sleep in your own bed for a night or two.
Dean was never left alone. You, Sam, and Eileen created a rotation schedule to make sure someone was always at the hospital, watching over him 24/7.
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By the time your first trimester came to a close, you had started to feel more human again. Your energy had slowly returned. The nausea faded enough to let you eat without fear. You had a small bump now, just enough that Dean would've joked about you smuggling a small melon under your shirt.
That day, Sam had gone with you to your routine checkup. You cried when the doctor played the baby's heartbeat through the monitor and confirmed what he had suspected since the last visit: there were two of them, fast, strong, and yours.
Sam had smiled—genuinely—for the first time in weeks. You'd even laughed a little, feeling something like hope settle back into your bones.
There weren't just one, but two little babies growing inside you. Two tiny lives made by you and Dean. It was beyond magical.
You and Sam walked back through the hospital corridors toward Dean's hallway. You couldn't wait to see him and tell him about the twins—even though you knew he probably wouldn't hear you.
But the moment you rounded the corner, everything changed.
Eileen was outside his room... crying.
Not just sniffling. Crying. Shoulders shaking, hands pressed to her face.
Your chest tightened.
"Eileen?" you asked, voice barely a whisper. You felt the tea slip from your fingers and hit the floor.
Sam almost ran toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders. Eileen looked up at him, eyes red, and then she shook her head at you. "I—I don't know what's happening," she signed and spoke at once, breathless. "They rushed in. Alarms started going off. The monitors—something changed."
Sam pushed forward instantly, his protective instincts kicking in, and you grabbed his coat for balance as you followed him. Through the glass window of Dean's room, you could see the chaos: doctors crowding the bed, nurses moving fast, a crash cart nearby, someone shouting orders you couldn't hear.
"No," you breathed, backing up a step, your hand flying instinctively to your stomach. "No. No. Not now."
You tried to go in, but Sam caught you.
"Let them do their job," he said, his voice shaky but firm. "We don't know anything yet."
But you did. You felt it. Something in you shifted, deep and primal. You didn't know if it was the pregnancy, your soul, or something else—but something was happening. The space in your chest where Dean lived pulsed ardently.
And then, through the chaos, you heard it.
Not from a monitor. Not from a doctor. A cough. One rough, guttural sound. Then another. Like someone reaching for air after being pulled from the bottom of a deep, frozen lake.
The staff paused. All of them. The chief nurse leaned down, checking Dean's pulse.
And then, slowly, he stirred.
You shoved past the door before anyone could stop you. Nurses said something you didn't hear. Sam was calling your name behind.
But all you saw was Dean—his eyes blinking open against the harsh light.
"Dean?" you said, stepping to the bed.
His head turned slowly, dazed and confused.
"...Deer," he rasped.
That one word cracked you open like thunder.
Tears blurred your vision as you were dragged out of the room.
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Hours passed, and the only thing you could do was walk back and forth like a caged lioness. Every time a doctor walked by, you nearly jumped. Sam tried to sit you down. Eileen brought you water. You didn't even remember drinking it.
They wouldn't let you in. Not until they stabilized him, not until they knew for sure what had just happened. They needed to run tests—brain activity, reflexes, oxygen levels. All of it.
But none of it mattered to you. He was alive.
He had said your name.
He had seen you.
You sat in one of the rigid hospital chairs, one hand on your belly, the other clenched into your lap so tightly your nails left crescent moons on your palm. Sam sat across from you, staring at the floor, his leg bouncing restlessly. Eileen stood nearby, arms crossed, chewing the inside of her cheek like she might tear it open.
No one said much. No one could.
Until finally, a doctor stepped into the waiting room. Older. Gray-haired. Tired, but smiling.
"He's awake," he said.
You burst into tears instantly. Sam hugged you before you could even stand, and then you were on your feet, nodding at the doctor like your life depended on it.
The doctor held up a calming hand. "We're still running a few final tests, but... honestly? It's a miracle. There's no spinal damage, no internal complications we can see. He's responsive, speaking clearly, and so far, has full motor control. All things considered... he's not just alive. He's fine. Remarkably fine. Frankly, I have no medical explanation for it. He's got some kind of angel watching over him."
Sam let out a shaky exhale and sank back into the chair, his hand over his face. Eileen covered her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.
You couldn't move for a moment. You just stared at the doctor, blinking hard.
"Can I—?"
He nodded. "Go ahead. He's asking for you."
You didn't wait another second, and stepped right into Dean's hospital room. The beeping of machines still filled the space, but it was steady now, reassuring, rhythmic and alive.
Dean was lying there, propped up against the pillows, still pale but awake. His green eyes were open and soft when they landed on you.
And even though his voice was raspy and his body clearly exhausted, his smile was still the same, only yours.
"Hey, sweetheart," he whispered.
You broke completely. You rushed to his side, trying not to throw yourself over him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, your face buried in his neck. You cried ugly, shaking sobs, but this time, they weren't for grief. They were for hope and joy.
"I thought I lost you," you choked out.
"I know," he whispered, hand curling around yours. "I'm sorry."
You pulled back just enough to cup his face, brushing a tear from his cheek with your thumb. "No. Don't be. You're here, you're alive, that's all that matters for me."
Dean exhaled with relief, his eyes searching yours, trying to make sense of everything. Then his hand drifted toward your belly, almost absently at first. His brow furrowed when he noticed the noticeable roundness beneath your shirt.
"What...? Are you...?" he choked out, his expression shocked, almost comically so.
You nodded, placing your hand gently over his. "I was going to tell you that night. That's why I stayed behind. I wasn't sure yet, but Eileen helped me with the test."
Dean's eyes flicked down again, and he looked visibly confused.
"You're... showing," he murmured. "I mean, really showing."
You hesitated, tears gathering in your lashes again.
"You've been in a coma," you said softly. "For two months. I'm at the end of the first trimester."
Dean's breath hitched. Two months.
He leaned back into the pillow, eyes wide as he tried to process that... tried to imagine all the days that had passed, all the things he'd missed. His hand stayed on your stomach, but his gaze slowly drifted toward the window as the weight of your words settled over him.
"I missed that much," he whispered. "I missed... your first ultrasound? The cravings? You feeling the baby move for the first time?"
"Don't worry about that," you said softly, brushing your hand through his hair. "You're awake now, and there's still so much we can experience together. For example, they're not kicking yet, just fluttering... like butterflies."
Dean blinked hard, then gave a teary, crooked smile. "Wait... them?"
Now it was your turn to chuckle, eyes blurring with tears of joy as you cupped his face in your hands.
"We're having twins, Dean."
Dean's eyes widened, and he blinked a few times like he hadn't heard you right. You could've sworn one of the monitors showed his heart had just skipped a beat.
"Twins?" he croaked. "Like... two? As in, double trouble? You're tellin' me I pulled a double shot?"
You laughed, tears slipping down your cheeks.
He shook his head, staring at your belly like it was a live grenade. "Man... Winchesters really don't miss, huh? Hell of an aim."
You snorted, covering your mouth. "Seriously, Dean?"
"What?" he shrugged with that crooked little grin, though his eyes were already glassy. "I'm just saying. Two in one shot? I should get some kinda medal for that."
You leaned in and kissed him. "Your reward is diapers, baby monitors, and zero sleep for the next five years."
Dean let his head fall back on the pillow dramatically. "Son of a bitch."
But then he looked at you again. Looked at your belly. And something shifted in his face, something soft and awed.
"Twins," he whispered again. He laughed softly, wincing a little, but still laughing. Then his gaze drifted toward the ceiling, his expression sobering.
"When I was out... I don't know how to explain it," he said quietly. "I wasn't dreaming, but it wasn't dark, either. And I didn't see Cas and Jack exactly—but I felt them. Like... light. All around me. They didn't talk the way we do, but I knew what they meant."
"What did they say?" you whispered, barely breathing.
He looked at you again, eyes shining. "That everything was going to be okay. That it wasn't my time. That you needed me... but I needed time to heal."
A sob tore from your chest as you leaned down and kissed him, soft, grateful, full of tears.
"They are watching over us," you whispered. "They bring you home."
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Two weeks after Dean woke up, you all returned to the bunker.
It wasn't the dramatic fanfare you'd imagined—no banner saying "Welcome back from the dead" (though Dean joked about making one)—but it was the kind of homecoming you'd prayed for during every hour he lay in that hospital bed.
You all moved through the bunker slowly that night. You unpacked bags. Eileen made tea. Sam sorted through mail no one had checked in weeks. Dean disappeared into the garage for a moment, just to check on Baby, he said.
When he came back, he found you curled on the couch, a baby names book open on your lap. He sat beside you, quieter than usual.
"Thinking about names already?" he asked, running his thumb gently over your leg.
"A few," you smiled. "One of them might be pie-related if you don't start contributing."
He chuckled, then fell quiet again. After a pause, he said, "I think I'm done."
You looked up. "With what?"
He met your eyes. "With hunting."
The words hung in the air. It wasn't shocking, but it was... heavy.
"All those years, I thought I was only good at one thing. Chasing monsters, moving from motel to motel, dealing with all the crap that's on this world. But now..."
He reached out and placed a hand gently on your stomach.
"I've got two little reasons to stay alive. And a bigger one sitting right in front of me."
You blinked back tears as he added, "I want to learn how to be normal. Or at least... Winchester-level normal. I want to build cribs, burn pancakes, and when they cry at 2 a.m." His eyes drifted to your swollen belly again, heavy with emotion.
"And most importantly... I don't want them to grow up the way Sammy and I did. I want them to just be kids. To be innocent and happy. To go to college if they want to. I wanna give you a nice house, peaceful mornings, pretty dresses."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"I spent my whole life thinking I wasn't worthy of that. But I wanna try. I wanna be just a daddy. And your husband."
You leaned down, cupping his face in your hands, your forehead resting gently against his.
"You already are my husband," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "And even if you burn every pancake, I'll still think you're the best daddy these babies could ever have."
Dean let out a breathy laugh, his eyes shining. You kissed his cheek, and he closed his eyes, your touch anchoring him to the new life you were both building together.
Later that night, as the four of you sat down for dinner, Dean told Sam and Eileen about his decision.
He didn't give a big speech. He didn't need to. But when his eyes met Sam's, something passed between them: a chapter closed.
"Actually," Sam said, reaching for his wife's hand, "Eileen and I have been talking about making that change too."
Eileen gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Sam let out a soft, uncertain laugh, rubbing a hand over his face.
"I mean... we've all lived a tough life. And after what happened to you..." he added, looking at Dean with soft eyes, then at you, then back to Eileen, "We'd be risking the chance for real peace, for something we know will never truly end. We've given too much of ourselves to this world already. I think it's time to settle down and start living for us. For the family we've found."
"As long as we have each other," you said quietly, your voice calm but full of meaning, "everything will be fine. We'll learn to live... not just survive."
Your voice held steady, but underneath it was the weight of hope, history, and all the blood it took to get here.
Sam looked at you. Then at Dean. Then at Eileen. This was family. And it was still growing—inside of you... and maybe, soon, inside of Eileen too.
"Yeah," Dean said, reaching across the table for your hand. "It's time we try."
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LAWRENCE, KANSAS
The air smelled like fresh grass, barbecue smoke, and chocolate frosting.
The garden behind the Winchester house was alive with color—balloons bobbing in the summer breeze, streamers tangled in the branches of the oak tree Dean once swore he'd cut down but never did. Paper crowns and Nerf swords littered the yard. The faint sound of music played from a Bluetooth speaker balanced precariously on the porch railing, and children's laughter echoed like music across the field.
Liam and Alice Winchester were turning eight, and it was impossible not to see Dean's grin mirrored in both of them.
Alice raced across the yard with a sparkly purple cape trailing behind her, shouting spells in mock Latin at her cousin Jules, who was dramatically "dying" behind a pile of plastic swords. Liam, ever the quieter twin, sat with his Uncle Sam and his cousin Oliver by the cake table, building a detailed fortress out of leftover party boxes, clearly explaining the strategic defense points. Dean had a tear in his eye watching them, he blamed it on the smoke from the grill.
The families had built their lives side by side. Literally.
Dean's auto shop—Winchester Bros. Auto—sat just a few blocks from the house, a cozy space filled with old engines, restored Chevys, and a red toolbox Liam had already claimed for himself. Sam, on the other hand, had taken a quieter path, working a remote university administrative job he genuinely loved: books, ethics, structure. He was still the walking encyclopedia, now with a mug that read "World's Best Daddy."
They were neighbors now. Brothers and best friends who had fought through Hell—literally—to get to this life.
Their homes were protected, of course: salt lines at every door, hex bags stitched into curtains, devil’s traps painted beneath every rug, sacks of salt under the ground surrounding the properties. That part never really went away. And even though they never hunted again, not in the old sense, they still kept the weapons sharp and the angel blades oiled, just in case.
The kids knew about monsters. Not in bedtime stories, but in the gentle way parents tell you about fire or broken glass. They knew what a devil's trap looked like. They knew how to call for Uncle Castiel… even if Cas didn't answer anymore. But more importantly, they were just happy kids. With science fairs at school and scraped knees and bedtime songs sung off-key by their dads.
Eileen emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of lemon cupcakes, her five-months-pregnant belly already showing as she prepared for the arrival of little Julia.
Sam watched her, utterly in love after all these years. She still signed as she spoke when she was excited, her words dancing in the air.
"Presents in ten minutes!" she called, laughing as the children groaned in unison.
You stood next to Dean near the grill, watching your daughter braid her hair with glitter ribbon while your son examined a fake sword like it was a museum relic. Dean slid his arm around your waist, pulling you close. You leaned into him easily, your safest place in the world.
"Remember when we thought we'd never get here?" you said softly.
Dean nodded, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Every damn day. And yet here we are, birthday chaos and frosting in my hair."
You laughed, then stilled for a moment, catching sight of an empty spot under the old oak. There used to be a time when every celebration held a missing chair. You never stopped missing them: Castiel and Jack, Charlie, Bobby... But somehow, their presence was woven into everything good.
You still had dreams of Cas sometimes. In light, just like Dean said. Not a voice, but a presence. A peace.
And even now, Jack sometimes found a way to send little things, signs. Fireflies that danced in impossible patterns. Coincidences too perfect. A child's laugh that echoed strangely like his.
Suddenly, Liam tugged on Dean's hand.
"Daddy! Come see what Jules and I built!"
Dean smirked. "Is it gonna explode?"
Liam grinned back. "Only a little!"
Dean turned to you and kissed your cheek. "This. This is the good stuff."
"Go," you smiled. "I'll keep an eye on the burgers."
He jogged off after his son, laughter carried in the breeze. You watched your husband, your children, your family. No sign of monsters, no apocalypse, no final hunts.
Summary: When Death herself comes to collect, the only shield left is the vow Dean made to you at the altar. But can he truly protect you? Till death do us part… or not even then?
SERIES MASTERLIST
Previous chapter
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Word count: +4.9K
Warnings: Forced marriage. Violence typical of the series.
A/N: Hello! Well, turns out we are officially at the end of the road… almost! There’s still one last part left to officially close this chapter on Dean’s AU life! But tell me if you want to see more of Deer and Dean, I’ll be more than happy to explore more details of Deer into the Supernatural universe👀
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The ride back to the Sinclair estate was a blur of hooves and heartbreak. You sat stiffly in the carriage beside your father, hands clenched in your lap, dress wrinkled and still smelling faintly of Dean. You'd barely had time to gather your things when his men pulled you from the cottage. No time to explain. No time to beg. No time to say goodbye.
"You've disgraced this family," your father muttered for the fifth time, staring out the window with a clenched jaw. "Running off with an American. Letting him defile you like some tavern wench."
"Stop," you snapped. Your voice cracked. "You don't know what we've been through."
"I know enough. I know the kind of man who hides in a shack with a young woman for days is not a man fit to wed her. I know he's beneath you. And I know he will answer for it."
"Father, you..."
"No," he turned to you, eyes hard. "You are a Sinclair. You will behave like one. You'll do your duty, or I will see to it that he suffers the consequences."
You didn't respond. You didn't dare.
But your silence was not peace—it was a storm waiting to split the sky.
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Later, after you'd been locked in your own room like a disobedient child, the latch clicked behind you once more.
Beatrice.
She shut the door with quiet precision, her lips already tight with judgment.
"So," she said coolly, arms crossed over her corseted bodice. "It's true, then. You were hiding with a man."
You didn't answer immediately, turning instead to the window where the gray sky bled slowly into dusk. "Why are you here, Bea?"
She took a step forward. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The scandal you've caused? People are already whispering. They say you were found in a bed with him. Naked."
You turned to her slowly. "I was."
Bea recoiled, horror flickering over her face. "How could you? Do you realize how this affects me? How am I supposed to maintain a reputation when my sister has acted like some common..."
"Shut up." Your voice cracked through the air like a whip. "Just... this isn't about you."
"No. This is about our family," she hissed. "And you've ruined any chance I had of marrying well. First you broke your engagement with Mr. Bridgeton. Now you have... I don't even know how to call it... with some American man. There's no chance I can get out off your disaster clean. Any noble and wealthy family would let me in..."
A bitter smile curled on your lips. "So that's what this is about? Getting richer, a title, a marriage arrangement with some man you barely know?"
"I'm trying to protect what's left of our name," she snapped. "Unlike you, I don't have the luxury of being the tragic, mysterious sister. I must to marry. I have to be perfect."
You took a step toward her. "You think perfection is love? You think what our parents had was love? What Lottie has?"
Bea flinched. Her hands trembled. You softened. Only a little.
"You don't know what it is, Beatrice. Real love. It doesn't ask you to be 'perfect'. It doesn't demand obedience. It chooses you. Again and again, even when it's hard. Even when it's messy. Even when it costs everything."
A moment passed between you, thick with tension and something that might've been heartbreak.
"We are in love with each other," you said. "That isn't punishment. It isn't a crime. And I hope you get it for yourself one day."
Bea shook her head, eyes bright with something unshed. Finally, she turned and left.
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As the last light of day slipped behind the trees, a maid arrived at your room carrying a gown you didn't recognize.
The dress was pale and stiff, unfamiliar in every way. Not the soft ivory you once imagined. Not the lace-trimmed dream you used to whisper about under your breath. It clung to you like someone else's skin, cold, formal, nothing like the fire that burned in your chest.
And still, your hands trembled. But not just from fear.
There was guilt, yes, so much of it. You thought of Dean. Of all the things he had run from in his life. Of how, in another life, he'd once flinched at the idea of forever, of wedding bands and promises too big to hold.
He hadn't said it to you, not directly. But you'd seen it in his eyes, years ago, in the modern world. The fear of being tethered. Of not being good enough.
And now, here he was: bound, bruised, and likely being forced into a vow he hadn't chosen.
But beneath the ache, something else stirred on your chest. Something fluttering and raw: pure love.
Because you were walking toward him. Toward Dean Winchester. The only man who had ever made you feel whole in a world that tried to split you in two. And even though none of it was how you imagined—not the chapel, not the silence, not the fear pressing into your lungs like ice—you couldn't ignore the truth.
You were marrying the love of your life.
Your heart pounded as the carriage rolled to a stop at the old chapel's door. The guards didn't wait for you to gather yourself. They opened the door, stepped back, and expected you to walk.
You did.
Your shoes clicked across the stone steps, and the world around you blurred in gold candlelight and dread.
And then... you saw him, Dean, and everything inside you snapped into place.
Standing at the front of the chapel, his hands were bound behind his back. Flanked by your father's men. A bruise bloomed across his cheekbone, angry and swollen, and a thin line of blood had dried near his temple.
You stopped walking.
"Move," one of the guards growled.
Your legs did, but your soul stayed frozen halfway between rage and sorrow.
Bea stood at the end of the pew. Even she looked pale now, nervous. But not enough to speak.
Dean's eyes met yours.
You couldn't tell what you saw in them, but it wasn't regret.
When you reached the front, your father appeared beside the priest. "Do it," he ordered.
"But—he's hurt. He shouldn't even be..."
"He will recover. And if he has any honor left in him, he will marry you and make this right."
You looked to Dean. He gave you the faintest nod. The kind of silent promise he only knew to give you.
The priest opened the book.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here..."
Your mind drifted as he spoke. You barely heard the words. This wasn't how it was meant to happen. The silence in the chapel was suffocating. You stood beside Dean at the altar, your hand trembling in his. The bruise on his cheek, barely healed, was still stark against his skin, a sickening reminder of what your father's men had done to him. You could barely look at it without flinching.
Your heart ached. You had dreamed of a wedding one day, yes, but not one forced under threats and bruises, not one shadowed by resentment and desperation.
You glanced at Dean, and he looked back at you, his jaw set, eyes soft in a way that didn't quite match the steel in his posture. As if to say: I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.
Still, you couldn't help the doubt whispering inside you. Maybe he was doing this only because he felt obligated. Because your father had made it clear it was marriage or death.
The priest's voice rang through the chapel, solemn and final: "If anyone here has reason that these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
A moment of silence. Then...
"Dean!"
The chapel doors slammed open.
You turned, your breath catching in your throat. It was Sam.
He stood in the doorway, wild-eyed, chest heaving from running. His coat was torn, his shirt streaked with dirt and blood, but it was the urgency in his voice, frantic and sharp, that turned the air to ice.
Dean spun too, his whole body tensing. "Sammy!?"
The chapel erupted. Bea gasped. One of your father's guards reached for his weapon. The priest stepped back from the altar, eyes wide with confusion.
"What nonsense is this?!" your father roared, stepping forward.
"I'm not here to stop the wedding," Sam said, breathless, stepping forward. "But we don't have time. Dean, Claire... a reaper found you," he said, looking straight at you. "And it's not just any reaper. It's the same one that's been tracking her since she was pulled out of her time. It's here, guys. It's close."
Dean pulled you behind him instinctively. "You're sure?" he asked Sam.
"Yes. Cas and Jack are barely holding on—they're still at the cottage, weak," he said.
"What happened to Cas?" you asked, heart leaping.
"The reaper used something on them... some kind of power that cut them off. Like a spell or a force field," Sam explained. "We couldn't even feel them at first. That's why it took us so long to get here. The second we managed to break through, I came straight for you. The reaper's been stalking the veil around here for days. It's waiting."
Dean's hand tightened around yours. "Then we don't wait. We finish this and go."
"Dean... do you still want to do this? Even now?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Sweetheart, I crossed two centuries for you. You really think I'm gonna stop here?"
You blinked, breath catching, but he wasn't done.
"I love you," he said, quiet but steady. "I've loved you across time, across lives. I'm not letting you go again."
From behind you, your father's voice sliced through the silence. "Two centuries? What in God's name is this man talking about?"
You flinched, but before he could step forward, Bea reached out and stopped him.
"Let them be, Father," she said softly, her voice trembling with something unfamiliar—maybe awe, maybe envy, maybe understanding. "Just... let them be."
Your father stared at her, stunned into silence. But Bea didn't back down. For once, her sharp tongue and social pride were quieted by something she couldn't name.
Dean's hand found yours.
"Say yes," he whispered, for your ears only.
The priest looked stunned. "A-Are you certain?" he asked toward you.
"Absolutely, unconditionally yes," you replied, more confident, your eyes never leaving Dean's.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. The words were said quickly, but meaningful.
Sam lingered near the entrance, one hand on the hilt of an angel blade, eyes scanning the windows as if the reaper might step through the shadows at any moment.
But at the altar, it was just you and Dean.
The priest, still shaken but steadying himself, turned to Dean.
"Do you, Dean Winchester, take Miss Sinclair to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, to love and to cherish... till death do you part?"
Dean looked at you like you were his home. Like even the walls trembling with the approach of death couldn't pull him from this moment.
"Not even death could make me let go of you," he said, voice was rough but sure. "I take you, now and always."
Your breath caught. Something in your chest cracked open. The whole world might have been falling apart, and still, in that second, you felt more whole than you ever had.
The priest swallowed. "And do you, Miss Sinclair... "
"I do," you cut in, voice small but clear. "I choose you, now and always."
Dean smiled.
You didn't even wait for the cue. You rose on your toes and kissed him, your hands cupping his face, brushing over the bruise there like a silent apology. His arms wrapped around you, grounding you against him like there wasn't a reaper pacing the veil, like time hadn't broken to bring you here.
"By the power vested in me," the priest managed, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Now you were no longer alone. Not a Sinclair. Not a runaway.
You were a Winchester.
A rumble sounded outside, closer. The candles flickered. A chill seeped through the stained-glass windows like breath on your neck.
Dean pulled away just far enough to whisper, "Time to go, sweetheart."
But even as you turned, a shadow moved past the window — not a person, not quite a shape.
A presence.
Sam swore. "It's here."
Dean reached into his coat and drew his blade. "Then let's give Death a reason to regret showing up late to our wedding."
The chapel erupted into chaos: glass shattered, the front window of the chapel exploded inward with a terrible scream of wind, the candles on the altar went dark in one sharp gust.
And through the wreckage stepped a woman with eyes like black fire.
She was beautiful and terrible—ageless, her face veiled but her presence unmistakable. The reaper.
Dean shoved you behind him. Your father and his men raised their weapons. Sam pulled an iron blade from his coat. "Take out everyone!" he shouted to you.
You hesitated, but Dean turned to you, pressing a desperate kiss to your forehead. "Go. I'll come back to you."
"I'm not leaving you," you sobbed.
Dean turned to meet the reaper's stare. "You want someone? Take me. Not her."
The reaper tilted her head.
Behind you, Bea tugged at your wrist. "Come on. Please."
Your eyes locked onto Dean's, silently pleading—Let me stay. Let me fight with you. Or run away together.
Instead, he took your face in his hands—broad, calloused, warm—and kissed you. It wasn't rushed. It was steady. Full of confidence, love, and something fiercer: bravery.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "Go with them," he murmured. "Take your family somewhere safe. Sam and I will handle this."
"I love you, Dean," you whispered, voice trembling. "Take care. Both of you..."
"I love you too, baby" he said, no hesitation. Then, glancing toward your father—who stood rigid and pale, as if barely holding himself together—Dean added, "Take care of my wife."
Your father didn't speak. He just gave a tight nod before seizing your arm and Bea's, his grip firm and urgent. Without a word, he turned and pulled both of you toward the back of the chapel, away from the coming storm.
The three of you stumbled out into the night, skirts tangled, breath catching in your throats. Behind you, the chapel echoed with the sounds of chaos—shouts, the clash of metal, and the inhuman wail of something that did not belong in this world.
You didn't know where you were going, only that you had to get away from that thing, the woman with black fire in her eyes.
"This way!" your father commanded, pulling you behind a hedge.
"What is happening!?" Bea gasped. "What—what was that thing!? First a ghost at Lottie's ball, and now this!?"
Your father, both astonished and furious, spun toward you with wide, frantic eyes. "What are you even talking about!?" His voice, usually husky and thick, pitched into a higher, almost cracking register. "A reaper? A ghost?"
You didn't answer. You couldn't. There was no vocabulary for this. Not here. Not in your time. You only knew it wanted you, and that it would not stop.
Before something else could happen, your father stood up and pointed a finger at his daughters. "Go back to the estate," he instructed. "I'll kill this... whatever the hell it is."
Decided, he took a step forward, but you reacted quickly by taking his sleeve and pulling him back with all your strength.
"Father, no!" you pleaded. "We all need to leave! That thing is not human! It'll kill you."
He shook you off, his expression one of fury sharpened by fear. "I don't know what madness you and these men have dragged us into, but I will not run from it. I will protect my family!"
You ran to him. "You can't fight it! You don't understand, it's not just some thief or a criminal... it's Death itself!"
He looked at you then, truly looked, and for a moment—just one—you saw the fear crack through the pride.
"You've been tainted by all this madness," he whispered. "That man, those people... They've poisoned your mind."
"That's not..." you tried to defend them, but your father spoke again.
"They even change your name. Claire? Your name is..."
Behind him, the chapel shook, interrupting him. The reaper's scream split the night, and glass fell like rain as Sam flew backward, landing hard against the ground with a grunt of pain.
"Sam!" you cried.
Dean was next, dragging himself out with a bleeding temple and a busted shoulder, his coat scorched and one of his sleeves torn away. He limped as he ran to Sam's side.
The reaper stepped through the ruined doorway, graceful as a ghost, her veil now lifted.
"I told Death I would collect her," she said, voice melodic and terrible. "She doesn't belong here among the living."
Dean stepped forward, blade raised. "Then take it up with me, bitch."
"And me," your father said, raising his pistol at her.
But the reaper didn't look at them. She looked straight at you. The moment her gaze locked with yours, the world tilted around. You could no longer hear Dean's voice or your father's ragged breathing, just the terrible, impossible pull that clawed beneath your ribs.
Your knees buckled.
"Claire!" Dean shouted.
Your father turned sharply, seeing your body sway, and stepped closer to shield you again.
But it was already too late.
The reaper moved faster than anyone could react. Your father raised his pistol and fired, but the bullet passed through her like smoke. She didn't even flinch.
"No!" you cried, grabbing your father's coat and pushing him backward with every ounce of strength you had.
The next second, the reaper's cold, translucent hand pressed to your chest. Your scream caught in your throat, and the world exploded into black.
Your body convulsed, lifted inches off the ground, your eyes rolling back as light burst behind your lids. It was like every memory, every heartbeat, every dream of yours was being torn from the roots. Your veins felt like fire and ice at the same time. The blood pressure in your system murmured lullabies of ending.
Bea shouted your name, but it was like hearing her underwater.
You could feel yourself leaving.
Then, a blinding, golden blast cracked across the earth like lightning, sending the reaper staggering backward—hissing, screaming, vanishing into the shadow.
You collapsed, but someone caught you. When you blinked, struggling to breathe, the face above you was not Dean's.
It was someone younger, blonde, with eyes like gold and stormlight. For a second, you could even swear it was Castiel, however...
"Hi," the boy said softly. "I'm Jack. You must be Claire."
Your chest hitched, barely get the word out.
"I got here as fast as I could," Jack whispered.
Behind him, Sam stood shakily, his face white with relief. "It's okay. She's okay," he said, over and over.
Dean dropped to his knees beside you, grabbing your hand like it was the only thing holding him to the world. "Sweetheart... hey, I'm here. I've got you. Just breathe, alright?"
You turned your head to him, tried to smile, and managed only a whisper. "I'm not going anywhere without you..."
Dean laughed, a breathless, broken sound, and kissed your knuckles. "That's my girl."
Your father, still frozen, stared at the scene in total disbelief.
"What in God's name... what are you people?" he whispered. "What is he?!" your father roared, pointing at Jack, eyes wild. "Is that thing with you too?"
Dean stood up, taking your now-weakened body carefully from Jack's arms and carrying you. His jaw was set, voice tight but calm. "Put the gun down," he said evenly. "We'll explain everything later. Right now, we need to move before the reaper comes back."
Your father was too stunned to resist when Bea dragged him toward the horses, though he kept looking back at Jack like he'd glimpsed something he could never unsee.
Jack turned to Sam and Dean. "Get Claire and her family to the cottage. Now."
Sam nodded. "Can you hold her?"
Jack didn't answer, he simply stepped into the reaper's path again, his silhouette glowing like a sunrise against the dark tide.
You rode fast, the wind stinging your cheeks, branches lashing at your veil. Dean held tight to your waist as the cottage came into view through the trees.
The front door flew open, and Castiel stumbled out, still in his female vessel, skin pale, eyes dim with effort.
"Where's Jack?" she rasped.
"He's holding her," Dean said. "We need you both. She's not gonna stop."
"I know," Castiel said. "Help me inside."
You helped settle her back onto the bed just as a vibration began in the earth, low and terrible. You turned back to the window, and in the distance—between the trees—the reaper flickered into view again.
"She's coming," Sam said, tightening his grip on his blade.
Dean pulled you to his side. "Whatever happens, I've got you."
Your father stood in the doorway, finally silent, his pistol lowered. "That thing... it spoke your name."
"I know," you said.
For once, he had nothing to say. Bea stood behind him, her hands clenched at her sides.
Out of nowhere, the cottage began to shake—wind screaming through the windows as lightning and thunder cracked the sky open.
"Step away from the door," Castiel warned, moving to the center of the room and raising her hands. "I'll need your blood," she said, turning to you.
You didn't hesitate. You'd seen Castiel and the Winchesters use their own blood to draw all kinds of symbols before. So you simply extended your arm toward her, ready to give whatever she needed.
But to your father, it was unacceptable, almost diabolical.
"Wait," he snapped, placing a protective hand over Castiel's as she reached for you. "You're not taking anything from my daughter."
"It's necessary," Sam said calmly, trying to sound both confident and reassuring. "The spell to banish the reaper only works with the blood of the soul it's trying to reclaim."
Your father didn't look convinced. Not even close.
"It's alright, Papa," Bea said gently, stepping forward and removing his hand from Castiel's with surprising grace. "I've seen my sister fight things I can't even begin to understand—but they're real. All of it. If we don't do this... that reaper will take her from us. Forever."
Still unsure, your father finally released you.
Castiel drew her angel blade from her coat and made a clean cut across your trembling palm. The pain was sharp, but you didn't flinch.
Then she began to chant, low, guttural Enochian words too strange for human mouths, too ancient for this world. Her fingers dipped into your blood and traced symbols across the kitchen table, each one glowing faintly with every sacred word she uttered.
Outside, a roar split the night. Wind howled through the cracks of the cottage like a dying scream.
Dean moved to your side, steadying you with a hand around your waist. "She's close," he murmured, eyes scanning the walls like he could see through them. "Too close."
Castiel's voice rose in pitch, her body swaying slightly as the spell demanded more from her. "We need time," she gasped.
But time was running out.
From the window, Bea let out a quiet gasp. "Look!"
You turned in time to see Jack, a glowing figure in the dark, facing the reaper alone in the field. His arms were outstretched, golden energy pulsing from his fingertips like waves of divine flame. The reaper struck at him with force that shook the earth, but he stood firm, shielding the cottage with his own power.
He was buying you minutes, seconds maybe.
"We have to finish it," Sam urged Castiel. "Now!"
"I'm trying," she gritted out. Sweat beaded along her temple as the last of the blood symbols flared brighter, casting harsh shadows against the wooden walls. Then she reached for your cut palm again and placed it at the center of the table, atop the largest sigil, her voice now a shout:
"Exoramus illam per flammae animae et lumen veritatis... fractura aeternitatis nunc!"
The symbols ignited.
Outside, a beam of golden light shot into the sky, striking the clouds themselves. Lightning struck the ground in answer—once, twice—and the air cracked with supernatural force.
The reaper screamed.
You could feel it, in your bones, in your blood. A sound not of pain, but rage. Her form flickered in and out of visibility, and then she turned her eyes toward the cottage, toward you.
She surged forward.
Jack braced himself, but he wouldn't hold her for long.
Castiel's voice dropped low again, murmuring the final invocation in a tone that sent chills through your spine. She raised her hand—and with one final gesture, slammed her bloody palm against the center of the sigil.
The floor rattled.
A burst of blinding white light exploded from the table, shooting outward in every direction like shockwaves. It passed through the walls. Through you.
And out in the field, Jack raised his hands one last time, catching the spell's wave like a conductor of divine wrath.
The reaper froze mid-strike, her scream warping into a wail as she was torn apart, her form unraveling into ash and wind, sucked upward into the sky and vanished.
Silence fell, utter and deafening. Outside, Jack stumbled back, falling to his knees. Castiel collapsed onto the table. Dean caught you before you could sway.
Sam exhaled, clutching the wall.
And your father, wide-eyed and breathless, whispered the only thing left in him: "What the fu—?"
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Jack and Castiel stood at the edge of the clearing, the last embers of celestial light crackling faintly in the air. The reaper was gone, banished, hopefully destroyed. They had made sure of it, pouring every ounce of their celestial power into the final strike. Castiel looked shaken now, quiet and pale, her glow fading with exhaustion.
Inside the cottage, you sat curled beneath a wool blanket, Dean at your side with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You hadn't stopped shaking. Neither had your sister.
Beatrice sat across from you, her usually perfect posture wilted, her eyes darting from your now husband, to the angelic figures outside, to the bloodstains on Sam's shirt.
Your father stood near the wall, arms crossed, pistol hanging limply from his hand like he no longer trusted it would be useful against whatever else might come through the woods.
"What I want," he said finally, voice low and brittle, "is the truth."
You met his eyes. And you lied.
"Dean is a merchant," you said, your voice steady despite the war still echoing in your bones. "From America. He came here months ago to trade with families in London, imported goods, art, fabrics.
Your father's brow furrowed. "Then why the secrecy? Why vanish with him into the woods like fugitives?"
You didn't flinch. "His family trades rare religious antiquities: texts, relics, sacred items. Their work takes them across continents, recovering and protecting things that others would abuse or misuse. When we fell in love, I knew you wouldn't approve. So it was my idea we must just ran away together."
"And him?" Your father gestured toward Sam, who looked up with a calm, practiced smile.
"Samuel is his brother. And Castiel is his sister," you added. "Jack is..." for a fraction of second you found yourself on a dead end, but Sam was quick.
"Is our nephew," he said. "Castiel's son."
Okay, you thought, there are certainly a lot of things you have missed.
Beatrice blinked, your father narrowed his eyes. "And what about that... thing? That demon woman that tried to tear your heart out?"
"We were caught in something big," Dean explained. "Things like that sometimes come with the territory. But now it's over, it won't happen again."
There was a pause. Your father didn't believe all of it. Of course he didn't.
But he had seen enough.
"And now what?" he asked.
You swallowed. "Now... I go with my husband. To America."
Beatrice gasped. "You're leaving?"
"Dean is my husband," you said. "My place is with him now."
For a moment, you could swear you saw regret in your father's eyes, like he suddenly realized he had sold his daughter into something dangerous and blasphemous.
Dean nodded beside you, his hand squeezed yours, warm and comforting. "I'll protect her with my life, sir" he promised. "We'll send letters. We'll find a way to keep in touch."
Your father turned away, staring out the window into the woods, as if waiting for something else to emerge from the trees. "Your mother would've hated this," he said. "And yet... maybe she'd have understood."
You blinked back tears. "I hope so."
He said nothing more.
Eventually, he and Bea took the guest room upstairs, their footsteps heavy on the wooden floorboards. Your father didn't hug you. But he didn't stop you, either.
Tomorrow, the portal will be open, and you'd leave 1815 behind forever.
Summary: Dean and you are finally together! What could possibly go wrong?
SERIES MASTERLIST
Previous chapter
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Word count: +6.2K
Warnings: Fluff with a bit of angst, tbh. Domestic!Dean if you squint🙈 Sex. Unprotected PiV (be safe, sin globito no hay fiesta!). Oral sex (both receive).
A/N: sorry it take me so long😭 I promise next chapter won’t take too long to come!
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Light. Wind. Pressure like thunder beneath his ribs.
When Dean opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the silence—thick and unfamiliar. No hum of electricity, no distant highway or birdsong. Just the quiet crackle of a dying hearth and the faint scent of woodsmoke and ink.
He stood in a study. Heavy curtains blocked most of the light, casting the room in shadow. A writing desk sat near the window, papers neatly stacked beside an inkwell. There were books—hundreds of them, and silk gowns hanging carefully on a screen near the wardrobe. A lady's room. And not just any woman's.
Castiel's vessel. The female version Dean had his angel friend talking about: «This house belongs to the vessel I used in this time. I won't be there. But it's a safe place to land.»
No angelic flare. No welcome. Just the dull thud of Dean's boots as he stepped further into the room.
A change of clothes waited for him, neatly laid out. Dean eyed the outfit warily.
Black wool trousers, a pressed linen shirt with a high collar, a dark cravat, and a long frock coat that fell to his knees. He ran his fingers across the cloth. No zippers. No elastic. Boots that buckled instead of laced. It felt like dressing for a wake.
He muttered under his breath. "I look like I'm about to sell snake oil."
Still, he dressed. Every piece he pulled on brought him closer—to you. To your soft skin, your warm eyes, and that sweet voice that had his knees went weak. He hadn't forgot anything about you.
You lived – and hunted – every cell of what he was.
Once dressed, Dean glanced at himself in the mirror. The coat was snug across the shoulders, slightly worn at the cuffs. The cravat made him feel like he was being strangled, so he loosened it just enough to breathe. He left the top button of the shirt undone. Not exactly proper, but screw proper. The man in the mirror didn't look like a hunter. But the steel in his eyes? That hadn't changed.
"Alright," he said to himself. "Let's find my deer."
Outside, the sky was washed in pale gray, and the air carried a crisp bite of early spring. The countryside rolled out in misty fields and low stone walls, dotted with hawthorn and elder trees. Dean had never been to England before. And certainly not like this.
He mounted the stallion waiting for him—sleek black, its mane wild and eyes sharp. The animal huffed and shifted beneath him, impatient.
"Yeah, I get it," Dean said, patting its neck. "You're the muscle, I'm the brains. Let's keep it that way."
He couldn't help it—he smirked. Riding the dark horse reminded him of Baby. Solid. Fast. Stubborn. Beautiful. "Good boy," he muttered as they kicked into a gallop.
Dean spent hours riding the main roads, listening. He stopped at an inn near a post road, ordered a pint, and asked casual questions about local families. He overheard two gossips discussing the Sinclair daughters while haggling for lace at a market cart. One old man, hunched over a basket of radishes, pointed with his cane toward the forested edge of a distant estate.
"Big house, high iron gate. You'll know it when you see it," the old man rasped, leaning heavier on his cane. His cloudy eyes narrowed as he studied Dean's unfamiliar face, the way his coat didn't quite sit like a gentleman's. "You courting one o' them, son?"
Dean grunted, noncommittal. "Something like that."
The man chuckled, a dry sound like wind rustling old paper. "Ah, then it's got to be Miss Beatrice—the youngest. Pretty as a painted porcelain doll and sweet on attention, that one. But if it's the middle daughter—well, you're too late, I'd wager. She's about to be married to one o' them Bridgerton boys. Lord Benedict, I heard."
Dean's spine went stiff.
"Perfect match, they say," the man went on, unaware of the sudden silence hanging off Dean's shoulders like a noose. "Sinclair's done well for himself. Old hawk of a father, but he's got a head for placing his girls like chess pieces. First one married a Duke. This one'll get herself a title too, mark my words. All very... respectable."
Dean's jaw clenched. Something twisted sharp in his gut—tight, hot, territorial. A name. A title. A future. All with someone else?
He forced a breath through his teeth. "You said the road forks after the orchard?"
The old man blinked, then nodded. Dean didn't thank him.
He was already spurring the stallion forward, heart pounding harder than the hooves beneath him, mind racing with the idea of you in another man's arms—your smile tucked away behind cold formality, your freedom signed over like a contract.
He'd crossed oceans of time to find you.
No way in hell he was going to lose you now.
Dean reached the edge of Sinclair land by midday, heart heavy with anticipation. He kept to the tree line, hidden among branches and budding leaves.
And then—he saw her.
A blur of motion on the open hill. A woman on horseback, riding fast. Too fast.
Her gown whipped like banners in the wind, loose hair catching in the breeze. No servant followed. No chaperone. Just her, fleeing something invisible.
Dean's breath caught.
Even from a distance, he knew.
You.
He pressed his knees to the horse's sides. "Go. Now."
The stallion surged forward beneath him, hooves thundering over earth and stone, Dean's eyes locked on the silhouette ahead, heading toward the lake.
The closer he got, the louder the wind and the pounding of hooves—but none of it drowned the scream in his bones: Not again. Not like this.
He reached the clearing just as you climbed the rock.
Then he saw the rope.
"No..."
And you jumped.
Dean launched from the saddle before it had even stopped moving. He was up the rock in seconds, hands slashing at the rope with the knife he'd kept hidden in his boot.
The body dropped—he caught you before you hit the ground.
Your skin was cold. Lips blue. Eyes barely open.
"Deer," he breathed. "No. No, no, no. I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you. I swear."
You choked on your own breath, lightheaded, not believing in what you were seeing.
"Dean...?"
He nodded quickly, holding you tighter. "It's me. I came back for you."
And then the blackness took you again. You fell like a broken marionette—silent, weightless.
Dean caught you in a tangle of limbs and panic. You were so still. Too still. And it brought a torrent of his worst memories.
"No...no, no, no..." he gasped, his arms locking around you, pulling the rope from your neck with shaking fingers. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't do this..."
Your head lolled back. The purpling mark around your throat made bile rise in his gut.
He laid you down in the grass, hands trembling as they searched for any sign, any spark of life.
"Please," he whispered, voice cracking. "Don't leave me again."
Dean pressed his ear to your chest, breath stalling until... there, a heartbeat.
Faint. Fragile. But there.
"Thank you," he choked out, eyes burning, one hand closing over your ribcage like he could keep that fragile rhythm going just by holding on. "Thank you, deer. Oh, I love you so fuckin' much..."
He bowed his head over you for one second—just one—before pure instinct snapped back into motion.
Your skin was ice against his palm. He couldn't let you stay here. He couldn't risk you slipping away again.
"I've got you," he muttered as he scooped you back into his arms. "You're not going anywhere."
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Dean kicked the door open with his boot, carried you inside, and laid you gently on the small bed in the back room.
He stoked the fire. Pulled every blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed. Removed your wet shoes, then his own, and slipped under the covers behind you, pulling you against him with the same desperate care he had when he'd first caught you. He tucked your chilled fingers beneath his shirt and pressed his lips to your forehead.
"I'm here," he whispered. "You're safe. I swear."
Your breathing had evened out, but you hadn't woken.
So he stayed. Held you like he might never get the chance again.
Hours passed, the light in the room shifted to gold, and then—finally—your lashes fluttered. Your fingers twitched against his chest.
You opened your eyes. Dean felt it before he saw it. That flicker of life, returning to you.
"Dean?" You blinked slowly, as if unsure whether he was real.
He smiled, pain and relief crashing together in his eyes. "Hey," he said softly. "Yeah. It's me."
"How...?" You touched his face, like you still didn't believe it.
"Cas," he breathed. "He sent me. Said he'd follow when he can. But I couldn't wait anymore. I had to find you."
Tears welled in your eyes. You tried to speak, but your throat was still too raw.
"You don't have to say anything," Dean whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. "Just stay. Just... don't leave me again."
And for the first time in what felt like centuries, you let yourself believe you were safe. That you were no longer alone.
You looked up, forehead resting against his. "I love you, Dean."
His lips brushed yours, gently, tenderly. "I love you too, baby," he promised.
And when he kissed you fully, it was the kind of kiss that rewrote time.
It was deep, intense, longing. His mouth moving over yours like a man starved, his hand sliding reverently over the soft fabric of your dress along your waist, your ribs, the soft curve of your hip... as if re-memorizing what he thought he'd lost. His body pressed closer, heat and breath and need tangling in a rhythm that felt holy.
Then his fingers grazed your throat, instinctively—possessive, gentle, worshipful.
But you flinched. The pain flared, sharp and immediate, and the moment cracked.
Dean pulled back instantly, eyes wide. "Shit. I'm sorry... your neck..."
You shook your head, even as tears welled again. "It's okay. I'm sorry... I..."
His jaw clenched, grief flickering in his expression as he looked at the faint mark the rope had left on your skin.
"No, baby. I'm sorry," he murmured, voice low but firm. "You need to rest. We'll have time. As much as we want. But now you are priority, okay?"
You nodded, and he place a soft peck on your lips. The ache in your chest didn't ease, but his arms and his lips did. Wrapping around you like armor, sweet like home.
After another moment of comfortable silence, you spoke again, voice cracking as you looked at him, touched his jaw like it might vanish.
"I thought I'd never see you again."
His hand closed over yours and held it tight. "I thought the same, sweetheart. I've been losing my damn mind without you." He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. "I looked for you everywhere. Dreams, omens, books... hell, I even asked Jack for help... I don't think I've gone more than a day without praying to whoever could listen to me, yelling at them, begging to just give me something."
A tear slipped from the corner of your eye. "And now you're here. Just... here."
Dean nodded, brushing his thumb over your cheek. "We're together. That's all that matters."
A moment passed, during which his chest fluttered just from seeing that familiar expression on your face—the one you always made when trying to piece together something new.
"Dean?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Who the heck is Jack?"
His chest vibrated with the warmth of his laugh, making your heart flutter in return. "You'll love him," he said. "There's so much you've missed... so many things I want to tell you. About me, Bobby, Charlie, Sammy, Cas..."
He trailed off for a beat, a pang tightening in his chest at the thought of how his own brother and best friend had kept such a secret from him. But now that you were here, with him, he didn't want to worry about any of that—not yet.
He'd deal with them later.
"I missed you so much, too," you whispered. "Every night, I dreamed of you, Dean. I started to think maybe I'd made it all up. Maybe none of it was real."
Dean let out a shaky, broken laugh. "I'm real. Everything I am, and everything I'll ever be for you, is real."
That pulled a shy, flustered laugh from you, cheeks blushing, the kind that escaped when you were overwhelmed with feeling and didn't know where to put it. Small, hoarse, a little bashful... but real.
"Damn, I missed your laugh," he said, grinning, eyes still damp with relief.
You reached for him and he pulled you in, wrapping you tightly against him. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in—leather, wind, something wild and real that had no place in this prim world.
"By the way," he said after a moment, sounding more animated. "You should see the getup I landed in when I got here. Cas left me the world's stiffest coat and boots that look like they were made for a pirate."
You looked up at him, your eyes soft. "You actually pull it off."
He gave a half-smile. "Yeah, well. I tried to keep it a little Winchester—left the cravat on the floor. Tight-ass society rules ain't really my thing."
"You... rode a horse."
Dean raised a brow. "Black stallion. Fast as hell. Pretty sure the damn thing's possessed—bit me twice and kicked a fence. But I called him Baby, so we're square now."
You laughed—really laughed this time—even as tears still clung to your lashes. "Your real Baby's gonna be so jealous if she finds out."
"Good thing it's a secret just between you and me, right?" he said, lifting one eyebrow.
You bit your lower lip, playful and warm. "That sounds rebellious."
"You like it rebellious, babe," he murmured, then leaned in and kissed you—soft, humid, unhurried. Not pressing for more. Just anchoring you there, with him.
Dean softened, brushing your hair away from your face. "This place, though... it's beautiful. Old. Like stepping into one of your Jane Austen novels, but with way more judgmental stares and way less plumbing."
You curled your fingers into his shirt. "It's suffocating."
He nodded, gaze serious again. "Yeah. I could see it. The second I heard about your father, about this house they kept you locked in... I knew. I knew you'd be fading here."
"I was," you admitted. "I thought maybe if I just... ended it, I'd wake up back where I belonged. With you."
Dean's voice broke, low and raw. "Don't say that. Please. You belong with me—alive. Anywhere, anytime. Just alive."
Silence fell for a beat, thick with emotion.
Then you asked quietly, "So... what now?"
Dean leaned back just enough to meet your eyes. "Cas said he'd follow when he could. He didn't have enough juice to bring us both through, so he sent me first. Told me to find you. Keep you safe."
You nodded.
Dean ran a hand through his hair. "So I figure... we stay here for now. Lay low. Keep close to town, resting a bit after all the shit we've been through. You don't leave my sight."
You raised an eyebrow. "Bossy."
"Damn right," he said, but his smile was gentle. "I already lost you once. That's not happening again."
You leaned in, forehead to his, breath mingling. "Promise?"
"I swear, sweetheart. We wait for Cas. And when he shows up—we go home."
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But then it passed one, two, three complete days. And Castiel didn't appear.
You tried not to show your worry, but Dean could see it in your silences, in the way your fingers curled tighter into his shirt when you thought he wasn't paying attention. He didn't say it out loud, but he was worried too.
Each morning, the two of you stood at the edge of the clearing behind the house, gazing up into the sky like maybe he'd come down in a flash of grace and fix it all. But each morning, the sky stayed quiet. At night you prayed for Castiel, calling his name at the empty air. But there wasn't an answer.
The cottage became a kind of home in the meantime.
You cooked with ingredients you and Dean bartered for in town, always careful to keep your face hidden beneath the edge of your cloak. He made a game of it—slipping in and out of old-fashioned speech to blend in, charming the baker into giving him an extra roll or two, muttering that he missed gas stations and coffee that didn't taste like burnt hay.
You laughed more than you had in your entire existence in that epoch of time.
You washed dishes together, read from dusty books, wrapped yourselves in blankets as the spring rains came tapping against the windows. At night, you fell asleep curled against his chest, and in the mornings, he kissed your forehead like he couldn't quite believe you were real.
But still... Castiel didn't come.
On the fourth afternoon, when Dean returned from town with a basket tucked under his arm, he set it down a little too fast on the table.
You turned. "Something wrong?"
Dean exhaled, jaw tightening. "Your name came up. In the square. Some merchant said your horse turned up near the river last this morning. Your father's been asking questions. Loud ones."
Your heart stuttered. "They're looking for me?"
"Yeah. So no more going to town yourself. Not until I know it's safe. I'll go. I'll keep low."
You nodded, throat dry. "What if they find us? My father... if he finds us together he's capable of..."
Dean stepped close, tilting your chin until you met his eyes. "He won't found us. I'll keep you safe. I swear."
The wind moved through the cracks of the old windowpanes. Outside, the sky hung low and pale. It was quiet. But a different kind of quiet now. Waiting had become its own kind of ache.
That evening, Dean lit a fire while you brewed tea with dried herbs. He sat behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist as you leaned into him on the floor, warm and still and careful.
"You think he's okay?" you asked softly. "Cas?"
Dean didn't answer right away. "He's strong. He's done worse with less. But yeah... I think something's holding him back. I just don't know what."
You closed your eyes, listening to his heartbeat against your back.
And then you whispered the question you hadn't dared until now: "What if he doesn't come?"
Dean's arms tightened just a little. "Then I'll find another way. I'll fight my way through time if I have to."
You turned your head, met his gaze. "You always say that like you mean it."
He smiled, quiet and certain. "I do. For you, I'll do anything."
The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting flickers of gold across the old wooden floor. Outside, the rain had eased to a soft patter against the cottage roof. Inside, time felt suspended — as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you.
Dean shifted slightly behind you, arms still around your waist. "You cold?"
You shook your head. "Not with you."
There was a pause, weighted, tender.
You turned in his arms, facing him, your legs folding beneath you as he looked down at you like you were made of something holy—and almost too fragile to touch. Almost.
You studied his gaze: the way it flicked down to your lips, the way his breath hitched as you leaned in closer. The way his chest seemed to pause in anticipation of your next move...
You and Dean hadn't been intimate yet since your reunion. It wasn't because either of you hadn't thought about it—or because Dean hadn't shown signs of wanting you. God knows how much he longed for this moment to come.
And as your fingers curled against his chest and your breath ghosted against his lips, he had to close his eyes just to steady himself.
Your lips brushed the line of his throat, soft and lingering, just beneath his jaw. You felt the pulse there—sharp, fast, unsteady—and the way Dean tensed under your touch, as if caught between wanting to surrender and needing to stop himself.
You felt him stifle a groan, his grip tightening at your waist like a warning. Or maybe a plea.
Dean's breath was shallow, chest rising against yours, jaw clenched as if restraint alone could hold him back. But your hands had already found their way under his shirt, palms mapping over warm, familiar skin. You kissed a little lower, letting your teeth graze the strong curve of his throat.
His head fell back against the headboard, eyes fluttering shut. "Jesus..."
His body betrayed him. Hips shifting, back arching—drawn to you.
"Sweetheart..." he rasped, voice wrecked and low, "I don't want to hurt you—"
"You could never hurt me, Dean," you whispered into his lips, already climbing into his lap, and that was enough.
Dean's self-control splintered.
One hand slid up your spine, pulling you flush against him. The other cradled the back of your head like he was still afraid you might vanish if he held you too tightly. Your thighs straddled him, your dress hitched up, and all you could feel was his body under yours—solid, warm, needing you.
Dean was kissing you, deeper and hungry. Suddenly, there was a flicker of hesitation in the way his hands slowed, stilling at your hips. You felt it in the way his breath caught.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His voice was quiet, rough with restraint. "I don't... we don't have anything, sweetheart. There's no condoms here..."
Dean always had been careful with you. Thoughtful, gentle, protective. That part of him had never changed.
You cupped his face, brushing your thumb along the stubble of his jaw. "I know," you whispered. "It's alright."
He searched your face for a long second, like he was looking for any trace of doubt.
There wasn't.
Dean kissed you then like he finally let go. And you held him as if you'd never let him go again.
When he lifted you into his arms and carried you to the bed, your heart beat with a kind of aching softness. There was nothing rushed, only reverence in the way he laid you down, in the way his hands found yours, fingers threading together as he hovered above you.
Like he needed to memorize every breath, every inch, every sound you made.
And then there was only warmth—his weight pressing into you, his lips at your throat, your bodies finding each other again like a song long-forgotten but suddenly remembered.
His breath caught against your skin when you opened to him—your body trusting him before your words ever could. His hands mapped over your body with quiet wonder, slipping beneath your dress, ghosting along the inside of your thigh.
Your dress was thin, almost translucent in the candlelight. It clung in places where your body was already flushed, already trembling beneath his mouth. His hands, rough from years of work but now impossibly gentle, gathered the hem and drew it slowly up your thighs.
Dean paused, eyes dark and reverent, dragging the fabric higher with aching care over your hips, your stomach, until the worn linen pooled just below your ribs. There was nothing beneath it. No corset, no lace, no petticoats. Just skin. Just you.
His breath caught.
"Jesus, sweetheart..." he murmured, half to himself, half to the sight of you laid bare. One of his hands smoothed over your hip, thumb brushing that hollow just below your navel, as though memorizing you all over again.
And then he was lowering himself again, this time slower, deliberate, like every inch of you deserved worship. He kissed the soft skin of your stomach, trailing lower, his mouth tracing the places that made you sigh and arch and gasp his name.
Your legs parted for him before you could think, and his hands slipped beneath your thighs, grounding you as his mouth found you—bare, aching for him.
Dean groaned low in his throat at the taste of you. His mouth was slow at first, tender, like he was relearning what made you melt. But soon he grew more confident, more greedy—his tongue working in lazy, perfect circles on your clit while his stubble scratched deliciously at your thighs. One of his hands crept up, settling on your stomach to keep you from rising off the bed completely. The other cradled your hip, possessive.
"Oh... that's so good, Dean..." you mumbled, gasping in between, your fingers tangled in his hair, your whole body trembling at the slow, sure, devastating rhythm of his mouth on your pussy.
And when your hips stuttered, breath caught in your throat, Dean didn't let up. He only pressed deeper, holding you together while you fell apart in his mouth.
He stayed there for a long moment after, pressing soft kisses against the inside of your thigh, breathing hard, his hand still stroking slow, grounding lines down your side.
He looked up at you, eyes heavy and full of something that looked a lot like love.
You were still breathless, your body limp and humming with aftershocks, but when Dean moved up to kiss you again, to keep giving, you stopped him softly with a hand on his chest.
He blinked down at you, surprised.
You leaned up, your mouth grazing his jaw. "Let me," you whispered, your voice quiet but sure. "I want to make you feel good, too."
"Sweetheart..." Dean's brow furrowed, eyes searching yours. "You don't have to prove anything to me," he said gently.
"I know," you said, and meant it, hushing him with a finger to his lips, cheeks warm with a mix of shyness and anticipation.
It was your first time trying this, because Dean had never asked for anything he thought might make you uncomfortable. Yes, he liked sex in very... particular ways, but with you, he had always been patient, gentle. He took his time teaching you, learning what you liked and what you didn't. You'd often felt he focused so much on your pleasure that he set aside his own desires.
«Your pleasure is my pleasure, sweetheart,» he would always say.
But not tonight, Mr. Winchester. Tonight, it was your turn to take the lead, to give him back a piece of that devotion. To show him just how much you wanted to give. To let him feel what it meant to be cared for in return. And because he deserved it.
Dean's breath hitched. He looked stunned and undone for a moment. He watched you like you were something holy. He laid back as you kissed your way down his chest, slow and nervous and determined, guided by the sound of his breath catching and the way his hands trembled slightly in your hair. You looked up once—just once—and the look in his eyes nearly undid you. Wonder, heat, devotion.
Your fingers fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers—different, unfamiliar from your time—but he helped, guiding your hands, until you freed him.
You paused, your heart pounding, and pressed a kiss just above the place where he was already hard. Dean hissed softly, his fingers flexing on the sheet.
"Was that okay?" you asked, your mouth so close he could feel the vibration of your voice on his tip.
He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. "Yeah. Just—fuck, yeah."
And then you leaned down.
The moment was awkward and overwhelming, but it felt good. You were unsure at first, trying to remember what felt right, what he liked. But every sound he made—every stuttered breath, every low groan, every whispered "baby, that feels so good"—helped you find a rhythm.
Dean was trying not to move, one hand clenched in the bedsheet, the other resting against your head. His voice was low, broken at the edges. "You don't know what you're doing to me."
You smiled softly against his skin, feeling him twitch in response. Your own body was already aching again, just from the sound of his pleasure. He was always so strong, so in control, but right now, he was shaking, purely and completely yours. And that shook something loose in you too.
Dean let out a guttural breath. "You need to stop, sweetheart, or this is gonna be over too soon."
You looked up, flushed, lips parted. His pupils were blown wide, sweat gathering at his brow, chest heaving.
But it wasn't just lust in his eyes. It was love. Raw and real and right there for you to take.
Dean pulled you up gently, cupping your face in both hands like you were something priceless. His kiss was deep and slow, no longer restrained, but not hurried either.
"Come here," he murmured, voice husky, guiding you into his lap again, arms wrapping around you like he couldn't bear to let go.
Your knees bracketed his hips, and your fingers trembled just a little as you steadied yourself against his shoulders. He looked up at you, green eyes darker than you'd ever seen them, and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
You reached between your bodies and guided him to your entrance, both of you gasping when he brushed against your center— bare, hot, ready, aching. He gritted his teeth, eyes fluttering shut, but his hands never stopped touching you, grounding you.
You moved slowly, lowering yourself over him inch by inch, and the stretch stole your breath. He filled you so completely it almost hurt—but it was a good kind of pain, the kind that blurred with pleasure. The kind that reminded you how alive you were. How real this was.
Dean's head fell forward against your chest. He was breathing like he'd just run miles, voice ragged against your skin. "You feel so damn good," he groaned.
You rocked your hips slightly, and his grip on your waist tightened. He let you find the rhythm, let you take your time until the ache turned molten and your body found the rhythm it had always been meant for.
"Dean..." you moan against his hair, your hands exploring the soft skin of his broad shoulders.
He laid you back gently on the bed, covering you with his body as he started to move with you, deeper. The bed creaked softly beneath you, the fire in the hearth casting golden light across your bare skin.
"I missed this," he whispered with that tone you knew it was pure trouble and list. "I missed your sweet, tight pussy..."
He kissed your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.
"Did you miss me too, baby?" He asked, pounding deeper and steadier into you.
You nodded, whimpers stealing your breath.
"Say it, babygirl," he demanded. "I want to hear you, sweetheart."
"I mi–missed you, Dean," you managed to said between moans and cries as his tip hit the right spot inside of you. "Oh! I missed how you fuck me, Dean..."
"That's my good girl," he smiled against the soft skin of your neck.
Dean whispered your name like a prayer, like he was stitching it into himself. Your fingers dug into his back, breath catching with every thrust, every brush of his lips over your pulse point.
There was nothing but you and him... no past, no time, no fear. Just the two of you rediscovering each other in the quiet dark.
"Dean," you gasped, your voice high and near breaking.
"I got you," he whispered, lips at your ear.
Your bodies moved as one. It was no longer careful, no longer slow, but still with that same care, that same awe. Like neither of you could believe this was real. That after everything, after loss and time and heartbreak... you had found each other again.
Finally, Dean held you through the aftershocks, face pressed to your shoulder, heart pounding against yours. You ran your fingers through his hair, whispering his name like a secret.
You didn't have to say I love you.
It was everywhere. In every touch. Every breath. Every time your bodies came back together like they'd never been apart.
And even though your promised angel hadn't come yet, both of you felt already at home.
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The morning light was soft and golden when you stirred, tangled in linen sheets and the warmth of Dean’s body. His arm was still wrapped around your waist, your cheek tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. Everything felt safe, steady, like the storm had passed and left only calm in its wake.
You smiled sleepily, pressing a kiss to his chest, and he shifted just enough to murmur something unintelligible against your hair.
Then came the sound.
BANG!
The front door exploded open.
You barely had time to react before bootsteps thundered down the hallway and the bedroom door flew open with a crash.
Your father stood in the doorway: coat unbuttoned, face flushed with rage, a flintlock pistol already raised in his hand. Behind him were two of his men, grim-faced and armed.
Dean sat up fast, yanking the sheets up to shield you. You gasped and clutched the blanket to your chest, frozen with shock.
“What the hell…?” Dean barked, instinctively moving in front of you.
“You bastard,” your father growled, stepping into the room. “You think you can soil my daughter’s name and hide like a dog in a shack?”
“Papa, no!” you cried, scrambling to pull the blankets with you as you tried to climb over Dean to reach him. “Please, he didn’t…”
“Get away from him!” your father snapped, cocking the pistol. “This man seduced you, kidnapped you…”
“He didn’t kidnap me!” you screamed. “I left!”
But he wasn’t listening.
One of the men grabbed Dean’s arm, wrenching it behind his back. Dean resisted, but the second man stepped in, pinning him roughly against the wall, one arm across his chest, one holding his shoulder. Dean struggled, jaw tight, muscles coiled like a live wire.
You threw yourself between your father and Dean, your hands raised. “Stop it—please!”
“Get back, girl!” your father shouted, shoving you aside with enough force to send you stumbling against the bedpost. Pain shot through your arm, but you didn’t care, you lunged forward again, grabbing at his sleeve.
“He didn’t force me! I love him!” you cried.
“SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH, GIRL!” your father roared, his hand flying up, so close to your face you flinched, eyes wide, bracing for the blow that never came.
Dean roared from behind the men holding him. “DON’T TOUCH HER!”
The pistol was still aimed at his chest.
Your knees hit the floor. “Father, please! Please don’t hurt him… please…”
The world shrank to the pounding of your heart in your ears, the wild panic clawing at your lungs. You couldn’t breathe. You knew your father: Dean was going to die because of you. He was going to die right in front of you and there was nothing you could do about it.
Then, your father spat the words: “If he’s still alive in the next five minutes, it’s because he either faces me at dawn… or marries you by noon.”
Everything stopped.
Dean froze. His head snapped toward your father. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me,” your father snarled. “Either I kill you now, or you marry the woman you’ve ruined.”
You turned to Dean, tears streaking down your face, voice shaking. “You don’t have to… I know this is insane… I’ll fix it, I’ll talk to him…”
But Dean was already stepping forward, dragging his arms free with brute force. His chest rose and fell with rage, but his voice was steady.
“You think I’d run from her? From this?” He looked at you then. “I love her. I’m not letting anyone take her away from me again.”
Your father scoffed, but Dean didn’t blink. “We’ll marry,” he said. “And if you ever raise your hand to her again, I’ll be the one calling you out at dawn.”
The room was silent.
You were shaking as Dean stepped to your side, drawing you into his arms—sheets and all—protecting you even now.
The man who’d tried to kill him had just forced him into a wedding. And Dean had said yes.
A shotgun wedding, indeed.
Only this time, the man holding the gun had no idea just how much Dean Winchester would come to mean to his daughter—or what hell he’d unleash if anyone ever tried to take you away from him again.
Summary: Some tragedies aren't written in blood, they're etched in time.
SERIES MASTERLIST
Previous chapter
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Word count: +5.8K
Warnings: The image above is Fem!Castiel, not Reader. Angst. Suicide. Mentions of arranged marriage. Family physical violence. Beliefs of the epoch (1815).
A/N: This episode is a direct continuation of Part 10, read it again if necessary.
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The maze was quiet now.
Cold dew clung to your skirts. Somewhere beyond the hedges, the echoes of music had faded—swallowed by distance and darkness. You knelt in the grass, breath still uneven, one hand clutching the sleeve of the stranger who wasn't a stranger.
She looked at you like someone who had waited centuries. Who had seen too much and carried it all in silence.
You had seen her before. Outside the modiste's. And—no, it was impossible.
"Wait..." you murmured. "I know you... from my dreams. But... no, that can't be possible, because you're a woman and he—"
Your voice cracked. The name trembled on your tongue.
"...Castiel?"
She didn't deny it.
The woman nodded slowly.
"Hello, Claire."
The name anchored you. It pulled you back to yourself, away from the edge. You stared at her—at him, or whoever she was now—your mind scrambling for understanding. For sanity.
"You can't be real," you whispered. "I must be hallucinating. What's happening to me?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes—reddened now, glassy—were locked on you like you might break apart if she looked away.
And you? Your head was spinning so fast it felt like there were only two possibilities: you would faint, or you would finally fall, completely and permanently, into madness.
Something in her eyes told you she had the answers to your prayers. That she, alone, could bring you peace. But she, in turn, looked somewhere between sorrow and regret.
"Who are you?" Your voice cracked. "Why do you know me? And why do I know you? Why did you call me Claire?"
Still, she said nothing.
Desperation ignited in your chest. It burned up your throat, flushed your cheeks, twisted your stomach, and tightened your lungs.
"Say something," you begged, the words shivering in your mouth. "Please—I'm not well. I'm remembering things that don't exist. I know your name. I know your voice. I see people in my dreams who don't belong in this world. And every time I wake up, I feel like I've left something behind. Someone. I think—I think I'm losing my mind..."
"You're not mad." Her voice was gentle, but wary. It cut softly through your panic. "But if I tell you more, I might make you mad."
You blinked. "I don't care."
"I shouldn't have come so close," she murmured.
Your father, calling your name from somewhere beyond the hedges, sharp and furious.
Then your sisters, Lottie and Bea, their cries pitched between concern and exasperation.
"Answer us this instant!" your father shouted, nearer now. They were already entering the maze.
Your heart jolted violently. You turned to run toward Castiel, to reach for her hand, but she caught your wrist first.
"Listen to me," she said urgently. "You must pull yourself together. Now. You must act as if everything is fine. You must not let them see that anything is wrong."
"But—"
"I will come to your room tonight," she whispered. "When it's safe."
You stared at her, trembling. "How do I know you'll come?"
Her eyes—too ancient for such a youthful face—softened.
"Because I love you."
And then she was gone. Simply... gone. As if the shadows of the maze had swallowed her whole.
You were alone.
Footsteps pounded around the corner. A lantern's glow bobbed against the hedges.
You wiped your face with trembling hands, forced yourself to stand, and stepped out of the shadows just as your sisters rounded the bend.
"There you are!" Lottie snapped. "Honestly, what sort of spectacle are you trying to make?"
You opened your mouth, but your voice emerged raw. "I needed air."
Your father arrived a breath later, his face thunderous.
"What in God's name are you doing out here?" he snapped, seizing you by the arm. "Do you have any idea how this looks?"
"I—" The words lodged in your throat. There was no excuse he'd accept, not one that wouldn't unravel everything.
"You disappear in the middle of your introduction to the Queen," he hissed. "Do you think this family can afford your dramatics? You shame your sister on her first ball, you humiliate Mr. Bridgerton and his family—"
"I needed air," you repeated, you sound like a frightened little child. "I just—couldn't breathe."
He scoffed. "Then control your nerves. You will return to the ballroom. Now."
His grip tightened. You didn't protest. There was no use. You were already being marched back through the garden path, your slippers half-lost in the dew-soaked grass, your gown dragging behind you like a bloodstained banner.
Charlotte walked ahead without looking back. Beatrice followed closely, glancing over her shoulder once with something between concern and contempt.
You caught your reflection in the ballroom windows as you approached—hair mussed, cheeks pale, eyes too wide.
A ghost who was dammed to live.
The music swelled again as the doors opened before you, and a new dance began. Heads turned, fans fluttered.
You knew what they were thinking: A young woman, newly betrothed, fleeing her own celebration? What nonsense. What scandal.
Benedict waited just inside, brows knit with worry. He stepped forward, reaching for you, and your father's hand on your back pushed you toward him.
"Smile," he growled in your ear. "Or I swear, you'll regret it."
You obeyed.
"Are you all right?" Benedict asked quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "You disappeared so suddenly... I was worried."
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The ache in your chest was too heavy, the air too thin.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "If something's wrong, you can tell me. Please."
"Don't you worry, Mr. Bridgeton," you managed to say, finally. "I'm fine."
Benedict hesitated, clearly not satisfied, but said nothing more. He offered his arm.
You danced at melodies you couldn't recall. You curtsied, you nodded, you laughed at jokes you didn't hear. You played your part so well, it was easy to forget there had ever been a woman in the maze. Or a name. Or a memory.
But even as your lips moved and your limbs obeyed, something inside you had fractured. Not broken, not yet—but cracked and invisible to everyone except you.
It pulsed beneath your ribs. It whispered when the violins played. It reminded you that someone was coming. That you were not, in fact, alone.
And so when the last dance ended, and the carriages began to roll away beneath a pale moon, you endured the goodbyes, the congratulations, the rigid kiss your father placed on your forehead before dismissing you like a well-groomed ornament.
Benedict and his family were among the last to take their leave.
His mother clasped your hands in hers, her face unguarded for once. "You gave us quite a fright, miss. You looked so pale. I do hope it wasn't the corset—those things are barbaric."
You tried to smile, but it faltered, tired.
"If you need anything," she added more quietly, "even just air, please don't hesitate to send word. We're not strangers. We're about to become family, after all."
Benedict stepped closer, offering a gentler farewell than your father had allowed.
"I'll come tomorrow," he said, his voice low. "Just to check in. If you'd rather I didn't, say so, and I won't—but if you want to talk... or just not feel alone..."
He trailed off, searching your eyes for something he couldn't name.
You nodded faintly. You couldn't give him more than that. Not tonight.
He pressed a brief kiss to your gloved hand, then turned to join his mother, his gaze lingering on you as he stepped into the night.
Your sisters were too tired to chatter. You overheard Lottie discussing the rather scandalous scene you had caused with her husband, the Duke of Lawrence.
When they passed you in the corridor, you could tell they were beyond angry.
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Not even the maids spoke to you as they unpinned your hair, unlaced your gown, and left you alone in one of chambers reserved for honored guests.
It wasn't until the fire burned low and the house went still that you finally moved.
You sat at the edge of your bed, your hands trembling in your lap. The ribbon at your throat itched like a memory. You had no idea what time it was—but somehow, you knew.
She would come. You weren't sure whether you were terrified or desperate. But you thrust her, completely and blindly.
The clock ticked. The wind pressed soft fingers against the glass.
And then... A whisper in the air. A pressure, subtle but definite. The kind of silence that fills the room just before a storm.
And she was there.
Not with a flash. Not with a sound. Just... there. Standing at the foot of your bed, as if she had stepped out of the shadows themselves.
You didn't scream. You simply looked at her. The governess dress. The dark hair. The bright, too-knowing eyes.
"Is this real?" you asked immediately, softly.
She nodded. "Yes."
You swallowed hard. "Then tell me the truth."
Castiel stepped forward, slowly. "You're not ready for all of it."
Her gaze flickered—not away from you, but inward, like she was searching for something far deeper than this room.
Then, instead of answering, she leaned closer. One hand rose—steady, pale, sure—and she touched two fingers gently to your forehead.
"What are you doing?" you asked softly. You weren't afraid. Just curious.
"You trust me?" she asked, carefully.
"I do," you answered without hesitation. Because you did. Somehow, it felt like déjà vu. Like both of you had done this before.
And then—your world fell away.
There was no sound. No warning. Just a sudden rush of everything—memories exploding through you like starlight through a shattered sky.
A man with a patient smile sliding books across the war room table. Sam. Your big brother.
Then, a pair of quiet, loyal blue eyes, always on the edge of the room, watching you like he already knew this moment would come. Your guardian. Castiel.
And in the center of it all—of everything—was him.
A voice, low and teasing, calling you by that soft and warm nickname: deer. Green eyes lighting up every time they found you. A smile that made your heart skip. Freckles scattered over life-hardened features. Calloused hands that became the safest place you'd ever known.
Dean.
The bunker. The scent of gun oil and old paper. The scrape of his boots across the floor.
Dean was everywhere.
The way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching. The way he leaned just a little closer when he made you laugh. His voice, rough with sleep, whispering your name on warm, quiet nights.
The heat of his body beside yours when you both pretended the bed was too small to sleep apart.
His hands in your hair, steadying, grounding.
His mouth on yours, exploring, worshipping, discovering parts of you you hadn't known could be kissed. His hands roaming your body, squeezing, holding, reclaiming. Loving.
You remembered every night you gave yourself to him. How gently he held you, how reverently he whispered your name, how his touch erased every doubt and every fear.
You remembered touching his face, brushing the worry from his brow. You were his. And Dean Winchester had been yours.
Another name appeared in your mind. This time it was feminine: Claire. And you immediately knew it was yours. You choose it. It represented the woman you wanted to be. A warrior, a free woman, a hunter.
Then the memory twisted—his hands pressed to your body, screaming your name. His voice cracking in the dark, begging you to stay. The way he held you when the light in your eyes had already gone. The way he wept into your hair, long after your breathing stopped.
You gasped, falling back onto the mattress.
The pain wasn't physical—it was loss in its purest form. It hollowed you. It shattered you.
You weren't breathing. You were remembering.
You had loved him. Body and soul. And you had left him.
Castiel knelt beside you in silence. Her hand rested lightly on your shoulder. She didn't try to comfort you. She simply stayed.
You didn't move for a while, staring up at the marble ceiling as you tried to process the weight of it all.
Every heartbeat. Every goodbye that had gone unspoken.
And the love that had never been given enough time.
A sob tore from your chest.
"I loved him," you whispered. "God help me—I still do... my Dean," you breathed.
The name came too easily now. It didn't just tremble on your tongue—it belonged. To your heart. To your soul.
Castiel's expression softened. "I know."
You clutched the blanket beneath your hands, shaking.
"This place—this life—it's mine. Isn't it? It can't be."
"It is," Castiel said gently. "You must be careful, Claire. You must not let this go further than a dream..."
"But it wasn't a dream. Castiel, that was my life. The one I chose to live," you said, blinking tears from your lashes.
Castiel hesitated, regret washing over her features.
"I should've never done this," she whispered, panic beginning to creep into her voice. "I should've never come..."
"Then why?" you sobbed. "If not—why did you?"
"Because I missed you."
The room was quiet for a long moment. Just the sound of your breath, your heartbeat, and the crackle of the dying fire.
Then: "Does he miss me?"
Castiel closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "More than he lets anyone know."
"How long have I been gone from there?" you asked softly.
She looked away, uncertain whether she should say more.
"Castiel," you said, your voice firm despite the tears.
Finally, she answered, "A year and a half."
You stared up at the canopy above you, warm tears spilling freely down your cheeks.
"Oh, God," you mumbled.
You shut your eyes. You could only think of Dean, on how much your loss might been hurting him. Loving you in silence. Carrying grief like it was just another scar.
"I have to go back," you said suddenly, sitting up, breath catching. "Castiel—I have to."
She didn't answer. Her face was unreadable, gaze turned toward the dying fire.
"I have to go back," you repeated, more urgently now. "If he's still there, if he's still waiting—if there's even the smallest chance—I can't just stay here and pretend I'm whole."
Castiel reached out, her hand covering yours. Her touch was steady and calm. But her voice... was sorrowful.
"There is no going back."
The words hit like ice water.
"What?" you whispered.
She looked at you then, truly looked—like she was memorizing you one last time. "Your soul must follow its path. And fate... fate has not changed her course."
"But I remember now," you said, heart pounding. "That was my life. Dean, Sam... you. That was real. This isn't just a dream. That was love, family. I belonged there."
"You did," she said, and her voice broke a little. "But not anymore."
You shook your head, breath shuddering. "Then why you came all this far, if not for me to take me back?"
"Because I wanted to know you were fine," she said.
"If you care so much about me, then help me," you implored.
"There are things you must still do here, Claire," she answered.
Tears blurred your vision. "So that's it? I just... stay here and suffer while he forgets me?"
"Dean will never forget you," she said gently. "But he must survive without you. Just as you must survive without him."
You looked away, heart splintering. "This feels like a punishment."
"It's a mercy," she said, rising to her feet. "One I wish I didn't have to give."
You stood too, desperate. "Castiel, please—don't leave me here. Don't leave me like this."
She stepped back. Her wings unfolded faintly in the candlelight, a shadow of something divine and far away. "I'll always be watching," she said, softly. "And when the time comes, I'll be the first to find you."
"What does that mean?" you cried. "When will that be?"
She didn't answer.
And then—she was gone.
The room fell still. Cold.
And you were alone with the silence, and the terrible, beautiful weight of remembering.
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You didn't sleep that night. Not really.
The hours crawled by in fragments, tears soaking into your pillow, thoughts splintered by grief so dense it felt like drowning. You couldn't stop seeing him—Dean. His hands all over you, his voice calling your chosen name: Claire, his eyes when he smiled at you, like the world made sense.
Sometimes, your body gave out, and you drifted into uneasy dreams. But sleep didn't soothe you. It only dragged you deeper into memories.
The road. Cold and empty, dust curling behind tires you'd never seen before. The low growl of the Impala pulling up beside you. Sam's cautious voice. Castiel's silence. The way Dean's eyes landed on you like you were the most precious, pure thing he had ever known.
You remembered that the first word that came out of your mouth back there was his name. "Dean," you had said, voice hoarse, barely a whisper—and yet full of conviction. And everything changed after that.
You dreamed of the first time he took your hand and guided it around the grip of a gun, standing behind you, his breath at your ear, teasing you for flinching at the sound.
Of the way he used to kiss you—abrupt, laughing, sweet—and how your hands would curl into his jacket, terrified by how much you wanted him.
You dreamed of movie nights in the bunker, curled under his arm while he explained every detail with such ridiculous passion it made your stomach ache with laughter.
Of how he drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your knee.
You dreamed of love. Of living.
And then you woke again. Crying. Empty. Remembering.
But as the sun began to rise and the room turned gold with morning, something inside you steadied. The pain was still there—raw and sharp—but a strange clarity settled over you.
If Castiel wouldn't let you go back... if this time was truly yours to live... then you would live it.
Not like your father wanted. Not as some girl married off like fine china to the most agreeable bidder. And not as Benedict Bridgerton's polite, dutiful wife.
No. If Dean had taught you anything, it was that love was meant to be chosen. And life was meant to be yours.
You couldn't have him. But you could honor what you had by becoming someone worthy of the love he gave you.
So you made a quiet promise to yourself as you sat up from bed, wiping tears from your cheeks:
You would not marry Mr. Bridgerton. You would carve out a life of your own choosing—whatever the cost.
You weren't whole. Not yet. But maybe... maybe this was how you'd begin.
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Your maids woke you at first light, their hands gentle as they coaxed you from the bed and into a pale daydress of dove-gray silk. They said little, sensing something had changed in you overnight. Perhaps they mistook your silence for grief, or melancholy, or simply the burden of being a daughter of the house. They were wrong. Something inside you had realigned—fragile but resolute.
You descended the stairs slowly, only to hear your father's voice echoing from the drawing room.
"She is indisposed this morning," he was saying sharply. "You may send a letter another day."
"I should like to hear that from her," Benedict replied, more firm than you expected.
You stepped into the room before either man could speak again. "I am not indisposed," you said calmly. "And I would be glad to speak with Mr. Bridgerton."
Both men turned toward you, your father frowning, Benedict stiff with surprise. You lifted your chin.
"In the garden, perhaps," you added, glancing toward the doors that led to the manicured lawn. "We shall be accompanied, of course." You nodded at the waiting maid.
The moment you were outside, the silence stretched taut between you. Benedict walked beside you with quiet grace, hands clasped behind his back, but he looked... worn. Not from pride or frustration. From worry.
"I was afraid for you last night," he said after a moment. "You looked as if you might disappear entirely."
You smiled faintly. "I nearly did."
He glanced at you then, and you caught the flicker of sincerity in his eyes. "Are you unwell?"
"No," you said softly. "Not unwell. Only... awake."
He waited. You stopped beside a hedge blooming with early roses.
"I must speak plainly, Benedict," you said, folding your hands in front of you. "I cannot marry you."
He blinked. "I see."
"I think perhaps you do," you continued. "You are kind. And you've always tried to be decent to me. But this has never been about love. Not on either side."
He didn't deny it.
You looked at him gently, kindly. "May I offer you some advice, Mr. Bridgerton?"
A pause. "Of course."
"I know about Sophie."
His eyes widened—but not with shame. With fear. With hope.
"I know you love her. And I believe she loves you." You drew a breath, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. "Life is shorter than we imagine it to be, Mr. Bridgerton. It is fleeting and rare and never promised. If you love her... then choose her. Marry her. Do not let this... performance of society steal what might be the truest thing in your life."
He looked at you then—truly looked. "How do you know that?" he asked quietly.
You smiled, tears pressing at the back of your eyes. "Because I loved someone once. And I lost him. And I would give anything to have chosen him, every single day, without hesitation."
Benedict bowed his head. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not," you replied. "Not for the love. Only for the time I let it be hidden."
He reached for your hand and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles. Not out of passion, or possession—but gratitude. Respect.
"I will never speak ill of you," he said. "And I hope... truly... that your life becomes your own."
You gave him a small nod, and the faintest smile. "And yours, Mr. Bridgerton."
Then you turned back toward the house, the morning sun on your face, and your footsteps lighter than they had been in a long, long time.
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You waited until your return to London to speak with your father. It had to be here—on your terms. The house was quiet that morning. Rain tapped gently against the windows as you crossed the marble-floored corridor toward his study, heart thudding like a drumbeat inside your ribs.
He was alone when you entered, seated behind his mahogany desk, pen poised over a letter. He didn't look up.
"I wish to speak with you," you said, steady.
His eyes lifted, cool and unreadable. "Make it quick."
You stepped forward. "I will not marry Mr. Bridgerton."
He blinked once. Then, slowly, set down his pen, and spoke your name tirelessly. "I do not have time for your little games, child. I'm busy right here."
"I'm serious, father," you insist. "I already talk about this to Mr. Bridgeton when he visited me in Lottie's residence. I've canceled my engagement with him."
You could perfectly see your father's face going turning from confusion, to realization, to anger.
"You did what?" he muttered, rage contained in every word.
"What you heard," you replied calmly. "I won't marry him. Because I don't love him. And he doesn't love me."
"Have you lost your mind?" Your father rose to his full height. "Do not be foolish. Do not throw away this family's future because of some childish whim—"
"It isn't a whim," you said, voice sharpening. "It's a decision. Mine."
"Don't be absurd," your father snapped. "This family has sacrificed too much for you to ruin everything out of—out of some foolish romantic, feminine notion—"
"Romantic?" Your laugh was sharp. Cold. "There's no romance in this arrangement. No affection. No truth. Just survival. Just ambition."
He stepped forward. "You're being selfish. Think about your little sister. About how this scandal will affect her reputation."
"Bea is perfect and beautiful, she's already a daughter of Society. And she has Lottie to "protect" her status. I don't have to sacrifice my own life for them," you said, firm on your decision for the first time in a long, long time. "Selfish would be marrying a man who doesn't love me just to secure your own standing in society. Selfish would be trapping him in a life neither of us want."
His jaw tensed, clearly losing his patience with you.
He rounded the desk in two strides, his anger sharp and tightly leashed. "Don't you understand, silly girl? I am trying to protecting you. Giving you a future."
"No. You're giving yourself a future. Using us as a pawn to reclaim what we've lost. Lottie and Bea might be satisfied with that, which I respect, but it is not the life I want for me."
The tension snapped like a string pulled too tight. The room seemed to darken around the edges as your father's voice rose, sharp and cutting.
"You have no idea the damage you've done! You think this is about love? About choice?" he barked. "This is about legacy. About ensuring this family doesn't fade into irrelevance!"
You stood your ground. "I don't care."
That's when the door swung open behind you.
Bea stood at the threshold, her expression caught between confusion and rising fury.
"What's going on?" she demanded, stepping into the room. Her gaze snapped to your father. "Why are you shouting?"
"She's refused the engagement," your father growled. "She's decided to disgrace this family—"
"You what?" Bea snapped, turning toward you as though you were something vile and unrecognizable.
"This matter does not concern you, sister," you warned, your voice tight.
But Bea ignored you, stepping forward with venom in her voice. "She should be grateful. Lord Benedict could've chosen anyone."
"Who? You?" you shot back. Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line as she gave you her most lethal glare. You knew her well enough to recognize the poorly hidden envy that had simmered ever since your father first spoke of marrying you into the Bridgerton family.
Your father launched into a tirade—ranting about how deeply you had disgraced the family, about the sacrifices he had made for your future, about how he hoped Benedict might still accept you after such a display of disrespect.
Bea trailed behind him, echoing his anger, throwing cruel barbs, feeding the fire.
Their voices grew louder, sharper—clashing and rising until they filled the room, until they made your heart race and your head spin.
And then, searching for something—anything—to silence them, to end this once and for all, you said it. Without hesitation. Without fear.
"I can't marry him," you said. Not yelling. Just... honest. "Because I've already been with someone."
The silence that followed was instant. Solid. Crushing.
Bea blinked, mouth parting. "What—?"
Your father stared at you like you'd struck him. His face drained of color—then flushed dark with rage.
"You what?" he whispered, stepping forward. "You dare stand there in this house—my house—and speak such filth?"
"I'm telling you the truth," you said, chin high even as your breath caught in your chest. "You want honesty? Here it is. I've lain with a man. And I loved him. Truly."
"Who?" your father snarled, advancing. "Who was it? Who?"
You didn't answer. You wouldn't. You couldn't give them Dean—not his name, not his memory, not his truth. That was yours.
And in that silence—your refusal, your quiet defiance—he struck you.
His hand flew with the force of years of control finally breaking, landing hard across your cheek. The sound cracked through the study like thunder.
Bea gasped, stepping back as though she'd been hit too.
You stumbled, your hand flying to your cheek, the sting of it blooming hot across your skin. But you didn't cry. You didn't fall.
Your father's voice dropped to a low, livid growl.
"If anyone hears of this, it will not be your future ruined—it will be your sisters'. The Duke of Lawrence could think wrongly about Lottie. No one will marry Bea. No respectable family will look twice at us. Your disgrace is contagious."
He stepped closer, demanding. "Tell me who it was. Now."
But still, you were silent.
Because what could you say?
That you had loved a man who would never exist in this world? A man with green eyes and a motorized car and a broken soul? That his name had been Dean, and that he'd made you feel whole, even when you were shattered? No, that was the only thing your father wouldn't take away from you.
You swallowed back the sob rising in your throat and said nothing.
Your father's hands clenched at his sides. "Ungrateful girl."
Then he turned his back on you.
"Leave my sight," he spat. "And pray that no one ever finds out what you've done."
You stood there for a moment, heart pounding, cheek burning, vision blurred—not from tears, but fury. And then you walked out. Past Bea, who looked too stunned to move. Past the echoing halls that had once held your childhood.
This house was no longer yours.
But your life, the chosen one, it was yours.
That was something you would claim, piece by piece, even if you had to burn every illusion down to do it.
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The days that followed your confession blurred together like a fever dream. The slap your father gave you had left more than a mark on your cheek—it had shaken something loose in you. Something final.
He was furious. Not only at you, but at Mr. Bridgerton as well, who, with more grace than you expected, had told your father that he would not force a woman into marriage who did not love him. That he would not dishonor himself or you.
Your father had barely concealed his outrage. "You've humiliated me," he spat. "You've shattered everything I built."
Again and again, he demanded to know the name of the man you'd laid with.
You gave him nothing but silence.
Eventually, you told him only what he would believe: "He is American. He's long gone."
"An American businessman?" he hissed. "A merchant? A traveler?"
You didn't answer. What could you say? That he hunted monsters? That he kissed your scars and carried your soul in the glove compartment of a black 1967 Impala?
So he locked you away.
Your bedroom became a prison. The windows were barred from the outside. The door locked each night. No letters. No books. Not even your sisters were allowed inside. Meals arrived silently on a tray and were taken away untouched.
You stopped speaking.
Each night, as the candlelight flickered against the high, suffocating ceilings, you cried until your voice cracked. And always, always, you whispered the names you clung to like broken prayers:
"Castiel... please. Come take me back."
"Sam..."
"Dean."
You scratched their names onto parchment scraps, into the soft wood of the vanity, into your own skin if you had to. You screamed into your pillow. You begged the stars. You cursed the sky.
You waited for Castiel.
But she did not come.
And slowly, the silence began to eat away at you.
Madness isn't loud. It's slow. It's quiet. A creeping rot that starts in the heart and curls into the brain. You stopped sleeping. Or maybe you only dreamed with your eyes open. You saw Dean's jacket in the shape of your blanket. Heard Sam's voice in the rain. Smelled gunpowder in your chamber fire.
You realized, one night, that you could not keep waiting.
You would not survive this place.
Not like this.
And so, just before sunrise, as the world turned pale with morning fog, you slipped out. You had studied the locks. Watched the maids. Counted the hours. You knew the guards changed shifts just before dawn.
You escaped to the barn and took your mare, Grace.
And you ran away with her.
Not to London. Not to anywhere known. To the forest. The edge of the lake.
You told yourself you were going to start anew. Become a hunter in your own time. Find what little monsters lurked in the shadows of your world.
But you hadn't brought weapons.
You'd only brought a rope.
The trees were still. The lake, silent. A faint breeze stirred the reeds, whispering like ghosts.
You found a strong branch. Tied the rope. But before you climbed the rock, you took one last moment for something that felt... sacred.
Your mare had followed you through the woods, her hooves silent on the damp earth. You had raised her yourself—gentle, strong, loyal. She nuzzled your shoulder as you led her to the edge of the clearing by the lake, where the trees opened wide like arms.
You pressed your forehead to hers, fingers curled into the soft hairs of her mane.
"You've done enough," you whispered, voice raw. "You've carried me far enough."
She blinked slowly, nudging you with her nose. You could've sworn she knew.
You reached up, pulled the bridle from her head, and undid the bit. Your hands shook. You dropped the leather onto the ground and whispered:
"Be free."
Then, with one final pat, you stepped back and slapped her flank gently.
She hesitated for a second—just long enough to make your heart ache.
Then she turned and galloped into the trees.
You watched her disappear into the mist. And with her went the last tether you had to this world.
Then you climbed the rock, barefoot, with your palms scraped, your breath unsteady, and your heart full of ghosts. Mud between your toes. Wind cold on your arms.
You looked up to the dawn sky and whispered one last time:
"Please, Dean. Let me find you."
And then, you stepped off the rock. The rope bit into your throat. The world darkened. Your body jerked once. Twice.
Then...
SNAP
Not the rope. The sound of a blade slicing clean through it.
You fell hard, the air knocking from your lungs. Your vision flickered. Your hands scraped against moss and roots.
You gasped.
And someone was kneeling beside you.
Strong arms lifted you. Familiar hands. And then you saw him.
Green eyes full of panic, of fury, of grief—and something close to worship.
"Deer," he breathed. "No. No, no, no. I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you. I swear."
You choked on your own breath, lightheaded, barely believing.
"Dean...?"
He nodded quickly, holding you tighter. "It's me. I came back for you."
And then the blackness took you again—but this time, you didn't feel lost.
Will dean and Claire have their happy ending with each other cause I believe dean and Claire are true loves so please tell theirs a second chance with their love story like what if chuck or amara brought her back?
Please I've been on my knees, change the prophecy, let it once be me. Who do I have to speak to about if they can redo the prophecy?
MAIN MASTERLIST
Summary: A year and a half ago Dean lost the only girl he had ever truly loved: you.
SERIES MASTERLIST
Previous chapter
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Word count: 3.7k
Warnings: ANGTS. Allusion to depression. Mentions of alcoholism, suicide thoughts, GRIEF. Dean is having a really tough time.
A/N: I’d like to apologize for take me longer than usual to bring this chapter🥲 I’ve been very busy with the finals in college, I barely have time for SLEEP… Thank u all for your patience and your support! but here it is! I hope you enjoy it🙂
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Six months after you, Dean still couldn't get himself to spoke your name again.
It hurt too much to say it aloud, or just to hear it.
Because that night, not only had your body turned to ashes — so had his life, and his will.
Dean Winchester had lost more people than most men ever knew. Friends. Family. His mother. His father. His brother, more times than he could count.
But nothing had ever come close to you.
Losing you tore through him with the same violence as losing Sam had — that same unbearable sensation, like his heart had been ripped out of his chest while he was still breathing.
You weren't just another loss. You were the kind of love that made the world worth saving. And when you died, the world didn't just feel darker, it felt meaningless.
The world kept turning. The sun and the moon still rose. Monsters and spirits still crept from every rotten corner of the planet. There was always another hunt, always a new mission, a new threat to chase.
But Dean was still trapped in the morning he lost you.
He spent endless nights awake, turning over every detail, wondering what he could've done differently. The possibilities added up to a million—most ending in failure, some offering fragile hope. And he regretted not trying harder any of them.
Life moved forward, but Dean stayed stuck in that moment, the world spinning on without him.
The first months were the worst.
He stopped shaving regularly. Started forgetting meals, or skipping them on purpose. Beer replaced water. Whiskey replaced sleep. Some nights he didn't even make it to his bed — just passed out in the Impala, or on the couch with the TV flickering nothing at 3 a.m.
Because Dean wasn't just drinking to forget.
He was drinking to disappear.
He didn't hunt smart anymore. Took risks he had no business taking, walked into nests alone, taunted demons like he had nothing left to lose.
Sam noticed first, of course. Tried to pull him back. Talked to him, pleaded, even yelled. But Dean just shrugged him off. "I'm fine," he'd say. Always fine, even when his knuckles were bloodied and he hadn't slept in days.
Because his bed was a grave he couldn't bring himself to lie in.
He'd taken to the couch where he used to play movies for you; to the Impala where he made love to you so many times; the library where he could find you curled in a couch, reading a book from your time, sometimes a modern one; or any other empty, cold bedroom in the bunker — anywhere but his or yours.
The sheets still smelled like you. The pillow still held the shape of your head. It was intoxicating and physically painful.
Dean had held your motionless body, shaken you, screamed your name into the hollow stillness. But you was already gone. There was nothing he or anyone—not even Cas—could do.
It wasn't just where you died. It was the last place where both of you were a whole. And Dean couldn't touch it without falling apart.
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On the first anniversary, Dean finally brought himself to visit your grave for the first time since he buried you. Or at least your physical being.
Because your memory and your soul wasn't something he could lay to rest. It was a weight he was cursed to carry for the rest of his days.
He stood there for what felt like hours, his gaze as empty as his heart.
Dean didn't care about the scattered raindrops falling on his cheeks—he believed they were your kisses. And he didn't flinch at the gusts of winter air, because to him, they were your hands, still reaching for him.
He didn't bring flowers. He didn't believe in that kind of gesture anymore.
What good were flowers, when all the prayers he'd ever said had gone unanswered?
For the first time in a long time, Dean whispered, "I'm sorry."
Not for what he did — or couldn't do. But for what he hoped for.
Because that was the thing. He'd started to believe.
For once in his cursed life, he had let himself want more.
More than blood and monsters. More than motel rooms and goodbyes. More than curses and fatal prophecies.
He'd looked at you and thought: Maybe this could be it. Maybe she's the end of the road.
What an idiot he'd been. A pathetic son of a bitch who believed in happy-ever-afters, like his life was a fucking fairy tale.
He should've known better by now — that kind of peace was never written in his stars.
Because everyone Dean had ever loved either died or left him. And now you weren't the exception. Just another cruel reminder.
He carried that guilt like a second skin.
How dare he think he deserved peace? A home?
How stupid he'd been to believe that love could be enough to change his fate.
He had spent nearly thirty years of his miserable life watching the prophecy of his existence play out — and it was never about love. It was always about loss.
And still, he had begged — in silence, on his knees, to whatever force ruled the universe: "Change it. I can't do this anymore."
But there was no answer. Only silence, and a headstone with your name carved into it.
He left Lisa and Ben, wiping out their memories, because they were safer without him. That had always been the deal, to protect the ones he loved by walking away.
But now how was he supposed to save you from your own prophecy? You, who seemed just as cursed as he was.
Maybe that was the cruelest joke destiny ever played: Letting two damned souls cross paths... only to tear them apart.
He used to think he could outrun fate and death, beat it back with grit and bullets and sheer stubbornness.
But loving you had taught him something new: some tragedies aren't written in blood, they're etched in time.
You weren't just collateral damage. You were the reason Dean Winchester almost believed he could rewrite the story.
And now, he was left with nothing but the punchline of a cosmic joke... one that ended with you gone, and him still breathing.
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Dean stopped crying a long time ago. The sobs had dried up soon after his visit to your tombstone, that only one time, five months ago.
The bottle still lived on his nightstand—though the nightstand had changed rooms twice since then. He still didn't sleep in his bed. He hadn't even touched the doorknob in weeks.
But he was quieter now. Not better, just quieter. Like the grief had burned itself down to embers, smoldering in the corners of his soul where no one could see.
Dean got up every morning, worked as usual, he hunted. He didn't take unnecessary risks anymore—but not because he valued his life... he was just too tired to be reckless.
One evening, back after a routine salt-and-burn in Ohio, Dean sat on the table, already looking for the next hunt. Sam joined him in silence, cracking open two beers and offering one over without a word.
Dean accepted it with a small nod, took a sip, and stared into his laptop, tired eyes .
"You look better," Sam said after a moment. His voice was cautious, like he didn't want to scare the moment away.
Dean snorted lightly, without taking his eyes off the screen, even though her words had suddenly thrown him off balance. "Don't lie to me, Sammy," he replied, anyway.
"I'm not," Sam insisted. "You do. I mean...you seem to be taking care of yourself. You're even shaving."
Dean shrugged. "Don't want you walking in and mistaking me for Bobby."
Sam chuckled, but then his tone softened. "I mean it, man. I'm proud of you. You've come a long way."
Dean looked down at the bottle in his hands, twisted it slowly, then said, "Yeah. I guess I'm healing."
It was a lie. A polished, practiced lie. One of the thousand he kept locked behind his teeth.
Because in his head, that night flashed: A lonely motel room in Nebraska, a couple months ago.
It had been during his last solo hunt. Nothing dramatic. But afterward, the silence in the room had felt like a scream. He remembered sitting on the floor by the bed with a bottle of whiskey, and a half-loaded gun. He remembered himself staring at the barrel for hours.
Not because he wanted to die, but because he didn't want to wake up another morning feeling like this. Alone and pathetic.
He didn't pull the trigger. He didn't even take off the safety.
But he'd thought about it. And he hadn't told anyone.
Especially not Sam.
"You really doing okay?" Sam asked, turning to look at him.
Dean met his eyes and smiled, soft and crooked. "I'm breathing. That's gotta count for something."
Sam nodded, but the way his eyes lingered told Dean he didn't quite believe him.
Dean was quiet for a long time.
Then, as if Sam could read his thoughts, said: "You're not cursed, Dean."
Dean huffed a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "Aren't I?"
"You're not," Sam repeated, more firmly. "You loved her. That's not a curse."
Dean didn't respond to that. Just drained the last of his beer and stared at the keyboard like they held the answer to a question he hadn't figured out how to ask.
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A month later, the war room buzzed low with the familiar hum of fluorescent lights. Bunker silence, the kind that made the echoes of old grief feel louder.
Dean stood at the table, flipping through a worn folder filled with photos and newspaper clippings. Across from him, Castiel leaned forward, trench coat flaring behind him like it always did, eyes scanning a centuries-old engraving of a farmhouse orchard in rural Oregon.
"They've reported cold spots, livestock dying, people going missing," Dean said, tapping a photo of a blackened tree. "Locals think it's the orchard itself. Cursed or haunted."
Castiel's brow furrowed. "It could be a wrath spirit. If the orchard was once a burial site, or if violence occurred there..."
Dean exhaled slowly. "Alright. Salt rounds, iron blades, silver for good measure."
Castiel didn't respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, like he was hearing something only he could. His gaze drifted to the hallway.
"Cas?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes.
"There's movement in Idaho. A demon nest may be converging. I'll investigate. I'll meet you in Oregon."
Before Dean could respond, wings thundered through the room in a gust of wind and grace. Just like that, Castiel was gone.
Dean blinked against the shift in air pressure. The silence that followed was sharp. Then something fluttered to the ground.
A single sheet of paper, slipped out like an afterthought.
Dean stooped to grab it, expecting an old case file or maybe a lost lore page.
But the texture gave him pause: parchment, thick and aged. The edges were scorched, browned like it had been near flame.
He turned it over.At the top, in ornate cursive, it read:
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers
He stared at it for a long moment, brows knitting. A pit opened in his gut, slow and sure.
He scanned the page. The paper trembled slightly in his hand as he read:
"It is with breathless anticipation that society awaits the union of Miss Sinclair and Mr. Bridgerton, whose wedding is to be held..."
His stomach dropped. The silence in the war room grew unbearable.
Dean didn't breathe. His eyes zeroed in on the date.
June 11th, 1815.
The exact date burned into the back of his mind.
One week before you disappeared, back on your day.
He remembered well, that book with your family symbol. The one you dream about, the one made you asked Castiel for his help to remember something about your past...
...House of Sinclair. Nobility of Essex, England. Early 19th century.
...The middle daughter was marked with a suddenly absence.
...Vanished in her early twenties. No recorded marriage. No burial site listed. The only information about her was the date of her disappearance: June 18th, 1815.
And now... now this. A paper dated a week before you disappeared.
The paper trembled between his fingers. And then fury began to creep up his system.
All the late nights scouring grimoires, the weeks of denial, the theories that made his head spin—none of it had given him an answer.
And yet here it was. Truth.
Not delivered in thunder or fire.
But slipped, silently, from Castiel's coat.
Dean stared at the paper as if it might burst into flame. His heart pounded in his chest, with rage and something colder.
The slow realization that someone had known. Castiel had known. And hadn't told him.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
"Dean?" Sam's voice was casual. "I—hey. You okay?"
Dean didn't answer. His hand slowly lowered, the paper still clutched in his fingers.
"Where did you get that?" Sam asked, sensing the shift.
Dean turned toward his brother with haunted eyes. "It fell outta Cas' coat."
Sam stopped mid-step. His face froze, just for a second.
And that was all Dean needed. Treason.
His voice dropped, hoarse and razor-sharp. "You knew."
Sam didn't deny it. Didn't even blink.
Dean's heart cracked like ice underfoot.
Dean's breath caught—then exploded out of him like a shotgun blast. "Son of a bitch."
He stormed out, boots slamming down the hall. The second he reached the war room, his fury detonated.
"CAS!" he bellowed, voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "Get your feathery ass down here. Now!"
The air tensed, crackled. A gust of wings stirred the papers on the table.
Castiel appeared a moment later, as solemn and expressionless as ever.
Dean threw the paper at his chest. "You drop something?"
Castiel caught it mid-air. When he looked at it, there was no confusion in his eyes. No denial.
"You knew. Both of you, motherfuckers," Dean said, voice low and lethal. "You've known this whole time. "You knew," Dean snarled. "You fucking knew. And you let me rot."
"Dean—" Sam entered behind him.
"Don't." Dean's voice was pure venom. "You let me bury her. You let me pour whiskey over her goddamn grave and scream her name into the air for a whole year and a half. While she was alive. While she was..." his voice cracked. "While she was still out there."
Castiel's eyes flickered, the paper crinkling in his hand. "I didn't intend for you to find that."
"No shit," Dean laughed—a bitter, unhinged sound, fists clenched. "You don't get to play God and decide what I can or can't handle. You don't get to take her from me twice."
Dean turned on Sam, wild-eyed. "And you—you stood there every damn day while I broke apart. You knew, Sammy. You knew and you just watched me fall."
"We thought—"
"I don't give a damn what you thought!" Dean roared. "I don't care if it would've broken me. It did anyway!"
His voice echoed. The room vibrated with the weight of it.
"How long?" Dean demanded, stepping into Castiel's space. "How long have you been lying to me?"
Castiel's voice was barely audible. "I found where—when she was a month after she died here. It was a hunch. I went to her time and she was there."
"And how is that you have this precisely now?" Dean shook his head, like trying to knock the words loose. "Have you been following her?"
"I kept my distance," Castiel confessed. "She had no memory of us. I only wanted to make sure she was safe."
"Bullshit," Dean spat. "You watched her. You knew where she was. And you never thought to tell me? I wanna know everything, Castiel. Everything."
Cas hesitated, his eyes found Sam's, and they silently agreed that there was no point in continuing to hiding the truth at anymore. "She went back to two months before her death in her time. I found her a week after she arrived. Her soul... it was displaced, but intact. She had no memory. Not of you. Not of any of us."
Dean's breath caught.
"I visited the town," Castiel continued. "Stayed out of sight. At first, I only meant to check. To make sure she was safe." His voice dropped. "But I missed her."
"And what gives you more right to see her than me, huh?" Castiel looked away. "She was my girlfriend. She was..." Dean swallowed hard. His chest hurt, her throat was sore from emotions and anger.
"I couldn't interfere, Dean" he continued. "Time had corrected itself. That version of her... she was never meant to live beyond June 18th, 1815. The day she hanged herself. The day she was pulled to 2013. It was always going to end like this."
"Screw the timeline!" Dean exploded, slamming his hand against the table. "Screw fate, and screw your rules. You think I give a damn what Heaven or Death thinks anymore?"
Sam and Castiel looked away, regret etched deep in their faces.
Dean's voice cracked. "Is she... is she dead? Back in there."
"No," Castiel said. "That day hasn't come for her yet. Last time I saw her, was in the garden maze the night of the announcement of her engagement. She looked at me. I think... some part of her just – knew. She remembered me. She called me by my name."
Dean closed his eyes. "You let her remember you, and still didn't tell me? You didn't think maybe she'd want to remember me, too?"
Sam stepped in, voice careful. "Dean, listen—"
"No." Dean's voice dropped, deadly and cold. "I'm done listening."
Silence settled over the room again. Only the low hum of the bunker's lights filled the air. Dean stood frozen, the edges of the parchment still trembling in his hand.
"How do you know she hasn't..." He stopped himself, unable to say it aloud. Even the thought of her body under a tree made his stomach turn violently. "What do you mean, that day hasn't come for her yet?"
Castiel shifted uncomfortably. "In these cases, time moves at its own pace. It doesn't always unfold linearly. History hasn't changed yet—but it will, once she fulfills her fate. Then the timeline will settle into what it was always meant to be."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Which means...?"
"She vanished from time when she hanged herself because, somehow, her soul evaded Death," Castiel said softly. "That's why her family never found her. But now... she will meet her destiny. She'll rest in peace. And her family will finally be able to bury her."
"And how the hell am I supposed to know when she..." A sharp pain crossed Dean's chest, stealing the rest of the sentence. This—all of this—was too much. "Fuck. How do I know when that day comes for her?"
"Dean..." Sam stepped in gently, trying to steady him, to stop the inevitable reckless move Dean was about to make.
But Dean didn't even glance at him. His eyes locked on Castiel—sharp, furious, demanding.
Without a word, Castiel disappeared. And before Dean could take a breath, he reappeared.
"With this," Castiel said, placing a worn book on the table. Dean recognized it instantly—it was the one about English noble families. The one that had first led them to her name. To her.
"It will update," Castiel continued. "When the day arrives—when her death is sealed—it will no longer list her as 'missing'. It'll change to the date of her death. That's how you'll know."
Dean's hands moved fast, flipping through the pages with a practiced urgency until he found it: House of Sinclair.
He scanned the entry.
"It hasn't changed," he said, breath catching. "Not yet."
A flicker of relief crossed his face. And behind it, something fragile. Hope.
Dean's gaze didn't leave the page. His fingers clenched the edge of the book, knuckles white.
"She's still alive," he said, like he needed to hear it aloud. "She's still alive in that time."
Sam exhaled slowly.
Dean finally looked up. "Take me there."
Castiel tilted his head. "Dean—"
"Take me to her," Dean repeated, voice low, rough, a threat and a plea tangled together. "You can do it. I know you can."
"Dean," Castiel said carefully, "you don't understand what you're asking."
Dean stepped forward, the weight of months—grief, fury, guilt—boiling over beneath his skin. "No, Cas. You don't understand. I buried her. I mourned her. I've been walking around like a damn ghost, thinking I lost the only good thing I've had in years. And all this time—you knew. You both knew."
Sam opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off. "Shut up. Don't tell me you did it to protect me. Don't say it was for my own good. I decide what I can handle."
"You weren't in any place to handle it," Sam said quietly. "You still aren't."
Dean barked a humorless laugh. "I don't need your permission. Or your approval. If Cas won't take me, I'll find a way myself. There's always a way."
"Dean, please—"
"No," Dean snapped. "You owe me this. You both do."
A silence fell over the room like a storm about to break.
Sam looked between them, jaw tight. "And what happens when you get there? You pull her out of the noose again? You bring her here? What then? What if she dies anyway, Dean? What if you just... hurt her all over again?"
Dean turned to him, eyes bloodshot but unwavering. "Then at least I'll know. I'll try. Because I'd rather die with her than keep living with this damn silence."
Castiel lowered his eyes. And after a long pause, he said, "I'll need time to prepare myself."
Summary: A glimpse of your life before Dean, and how even then it didn’t feel quite right for you.
SERIES MASTERLIST
Previous chapter
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Word count: +6.1K
Warnings: THE GIF IS MERELY ILLUSTRATIVE, Reader has NOT physical description. Violence typical of the series. Family issues. Allusion to depression and anxiety. Crossover.
A/N: Hello Hunters! I hope this chapter finds you well😁 How do we feel about the last one?🫣
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THEN
You were the middle daughter—always in between.
Not the graceful hope of your father’s legacy like Lottie, nor the charming jewel he paraded at dinners like Bea.
You were simply you: a little too quiet for your father’s liking, a little too strange for your sisters, always caught somewhere in the middle of things you were supposed to be.
There was a time when your mother would tuck wildflowers into your hair and call you her “moon child,” saying your mind was always wandering to places she couldn’t see. But then she died giving birth to the son your father had waited for all his life: a boy who lasted only three days. You were only eight. After that, no one in the house really looked at you the same.
You remember standing outside your father’s study, hands curled into fists in the folds of your dress, listening through the door.
“She’s not like the other two,” your father said. “She’s… unsettled. Wayward, even.” Then a sigh. “Margaret indulged her too much.”
After that, it felt like you learned to fold in on yourself. You’d sit through breakfast and forget to eat. You’d press your fingernails into your palms just to feel something that didn’t ache in your chest. Lottie rolled her eyes when you brought poetry to the table. Bea laughed when you misstepped during dance practice.
“You’ll never find a husband with your head in the clouds,” Lottie said once, her voice sweet but sharp.
And you had smiled. You always smiled. Even when your heart felt like it was sinking in cold water.
Sometimes you’d sneak into the library at night, barefoot on the marble floor, just to feel close to the books your father kept locked away. Latin, History, Astronomy... Things meant for men. You’d whisper their content under your breath like spells.
You liked pretty things: dresses and the flowers in the garden. You liked pearls, and the soft brush of silk over your delicate, always perfumed skin. But you also liked the weight of a book in your lap, or the idea that you could learn the names of stars like men charted ships. Your sisters didn’t understand that you could be both. Even you didn’t always know how to explain it.
You never told anyone about the nights you couldn’t sleep. The hours you spent staring at the ceiling, heart racing for no reason. Or the mornings you woke up already tired, pressing your fingertips to your temples to stop the thoughts from spinning.
Sometimes, you thought you were broken. Sometimes, you wondered if anyone would notice if you weren’t there at all.
Your father wasn’t cruel, but he was made of stone and ambition.
“I expect you to behave with dignity,” he once told you, after you’d laughed too loudly at a garden party.
“Yes, Papa.”
He gave you everything you needed: dresses, tutors, a roof over your head… but never softness. Never warmth. Never a hand through your hair, or a quiet “I’m proud of you.”
You think he loved you, in his way. But it was a love measured in obedience and silence.
Still, you tried. You really did. You smiled in portraits, curtsied in gowns, practiced your piano and answered politely when suitors came to call.
But deep down, you always felt like a stranger in your own life. Like there was something else out there, calling you.
Something you missed without even knowing.
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NOW
Sunlight spilled softly through the high windows, casting warm stripes across the pale blue wallpaper. The scent of lavender drifted faintly from the linens, and a breeze fluttered the curtains. Everything was quiet. Peaceful.
A soft knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a maid, broke the silence.
"Good morning, Miss Sinclair," she said cheerfully, carrying a tray with your usual morning tea. "You're up early."
You blinked, trying to give her your best fake smile.
"I... I had a strange dream," you said, more to yourself than to her.
The maid poured your tea with a practiced hand. "Oh? One of those restless ones again?"
You nodded faintly. "Maybe. I cannot remember it now."
That was a lie. You did remember, though not fully. Only fragments remained, like scattered pieces of a puzzle or the faint sketch of a painting. No color, no detail, no clear form. But there was something: the suggestion of a face, and the aching sense that you had lost something important.
You didn't tell her (nor anyone) that most mornings began like this since you can remember—wrapped in a thick kind of stillness, as though the world woke up around you, but you stayed behind. You used to think it was just fatigue. Or melancholy. But lately, it felt heavier than that. Like your soul forgot how to move.
She smiled. "Well, dreams are like that. Gone the moment you try to hold them."
You took the cup from her and stared into the rising steam. "I thought I smelled smoke."
She paused and sniffed the air. "Strange... the fireplace hasn't been lit since yesterday afternoon. Maybe it's lingering in the fabric." She waved it off with a small laugh. "I'll air the room while you dress."
You nodded absently, watching her move about the space. Everything felt so normal. Familiar.
And yet, something tugged at the back of your mind. A shadow of something lost. Something warm. Something... important.
You couldn't remember what.
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Downstairs, the silverware clinked softly against porcelain as you stirred your tea, pretending to be more focused on your toast than the tightening in your chest.
"Remember," your father said, setting down the morning paper with a decisive thud, "you and Bea will be leaving tomorrow morning. Lottie expects you to assist with the final arrangements."
You nodded, though you hadn't forgotten. He had reminded you three times already.
Across the table, Bea, the youngest member of your family, beamed. "It's going to be perfect, Papa. Lottie's first ball as a duchess... Imagine the guest list!"
"I'm sure she'll make quite the impression," you said quietly, sipping your tea.
"She must," your father added, glancing at you now. "Our family's standing is secured through such opportunities. And your presence, both of you, must reflect that."
Bea continued talking about her own preparations for next year's debut into society. She was only seventeen, but already far more enthusiastic about society than you had ever been.
"I've heard Lady Wycliffe's daughter is already working with a dance instructor," Bea said, twirling a spoon in her untouched tea. "And I want the same modiste she used for her Paris gowns. The ones with the real Belgian lace."
"Paris is expensive," your father said, though he didn't sound entirely disapproving. "But the right marriage will justify the cost."
You forced a smile, eyes fixed on the steam curling from your cup.
Across from you, Bea's voice began to fade into the background. Names, silks, titles... it all blurred. You caught snatches of Lottie's schedule for fittings, of a new waltz being all the rage, of Lord Something's new estate in Bath. But it all felt so distant. Meaningless for you. As if the conversation were happening in another room.
You looked down at your hands. They didn't tremble. They were steady, composed. Like they belonged to someone else.
After a while, Bea tilted her head with practiced innocence. "Are you feeling well enough for it, sister? You've looked a bit... ghostly since waking."
You forced a smile. "Just a strange dream, nothing more."
"Dreams won't keep you from your responsibilities," your father said, dismissive. "Make yourself useful. Lottie will need all hands for the final preparations."
You looked down at your hands, the teacup trembling ever so slightly.
Useful. How many times had you heard that word?
It wasn't praise. It was a condition. Your worth, your presence, always weighed against how much easier you made someone else's life.
Bea giggled softly and buttered her roll. "Well, I do hope your mood improves by the weekend. There's no point in looking so tragic when you're about to be the next bride in the family."
Your stomach turned slightly, but you said nothing. The tea had gone cold in your hands.
You spent the rest of the morning locked in your room. Thankfully, your father had gone to his usual meetings with society men, and your sister had a tea appointment with her friends. So now that you were alone, no one could force you to go out and exchange false smiles and hollow laughter with every person you crossed paths with in the park.
You could finally sit in the quiet corner of your room and try to dig into your mind, to make sense of whatever was happening to you.
You reached for the chest beneath your bed. Inside, hidden under a pile of books and old gowns was your most important secret: the memories of every dream you had ever had for the past couple of months.
Two months to be exact... two months of strange dreams that felt too vivid to be just dreams at all. They felt more like memories... Waking each morning with the taste of road-dust and smoke on your tongue.
Men's voices echoed in your head. You never understood what they told you, and sometimes they sounded happy, other times angry, and sometimes even scared. One was gruff, tender when it was toward you. The other warm, intelligent. And then another, quieter. All American.
You couldn't recall their names, but the sound of them, those voices, their faded faces, lingered like a melody half-forgotten.
You wrote it down without thinking.
Just fragments: a hand reaching for mine. Smoke. A building that reminded you strangely of a roadside inn. Salt. His voice calling me back.
Your breath caught. Calling me back. Who? From where?
You sat motionless for what felt like hours, pen dangling from your fingers. The light shifted across the floor. You didn't move. Not because you were tired. But because, sometimes, it felt like if you stopped moving... you might disappear. And no one would notice. Not right away. Not ever. And the only thing that kept you grounded now was the memories you wrote in those papers.
You stared at the words, they didn't make sense, but they were inside of you. You set the pen down and closed your eyes, letting the hush of the room settle over you.
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By afternoon, you were seated in a polished black carriage beside your younger sister
chattering about floral patterns and ribbon choices with breathless enthusiasm. Across from you, your maid sat quietly, her eyes flicking between you and the window with practiced attentiveness.
The dressmaker's shop was busy, brimming with titled daughters and their mothers, dress forms draped in taffeta, and swatches of silk in every color imaginable. While Beatrice darted off to consult with the modiste about the lilac gown she insisted would "dazzle the room," you remained closer to the window, unable to shake the uneasy feeling crawling along your spine.
Then you felt it. A chill.
Not in the air, but beneath your skin. Like being watched. You turned your head subtly, scanning the street beyond the open door.
There, across the street, half-hidden beneath the awning of a bookshop, stood a woman. Pale skin, dark hair twisted elegantly. Eyes a striking, unnatural blue. Her gaze was fixed on you. Not the shop, not the crowd, you.
Your breath hitched. It felt like... No, impossible...
"Miss Sinclair?" your maid's voice cut in. She'd followed your gaze, her brow furrowing. "It's everything fine?"
You blinked. "I... no," you murmured, shaking your head. "Could you—please...?"
But you didn't even finish your sentence.
You stepped out of the dress shop, your gloves clutched tightly in one hand, the air hit you like a wave, brisk and bright, full of the murmurs and movement of the afternoon crowd.
You barely heard Beatrice's voice calling after you or your maid's worried footsteps behind. Because someone was watching you.
You scanned the street, heartbeat rising.
The breeze pulled at the hem of your coat. The sounds of the street faded. For a moment, there was only her, and the impossible pull in your chest. Like you knew her. Like you'd met before, somewhere far from here. Or into your own subconscious.
You stepped forward, weaving through the passersby. The crowd thickened. A group of boys darted across your path. A cart rolled by. Someone brushed your shoulder, murmuring an apology.
You pushed through, eyes fixed on the place where the woman stood...
Gone. She was gone.
You halted, disoriented, twisting to look down the street. Nothing.
And that's when you turned, colliding into someone solid. You gasped as strong hands caught your arms to steady you.
"Forgive me, I wasn't..." you began, but your voice faltered the instant you looked up.
The man before you smiled, soft and familiar in a way that made your stomach dip.
"No harm done," he said, warm and composed.
You stared, heart thudding. Tall. Dark hair. Soft hazel eyes with a faint trace of amusement. Mister Benedict. He knew you. And you knew him.
He smiled gently. "You're not injured, I hope?"
"No," you said, your voice faint. "Only startled."
There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, though carefully tempered. "Miss Sinclair," he said, a subtle bow of his head. "It's everything fine?"
You opened your mouth, words caught behind your teeth. You nodded, unsure of your own voice.
He looked over his shoulder briefly, where three elegantly dressed women stood speaking with a modiste. One of them, the younger, looked over and offered a polite smile, clearly waiting for him. You knew them too: his mother and two of his little sisters.
"Are you sure you are well?" he worried. "You seem a bit pale."
I swear to God, if someone else told me that I look pale one more time...
"Yes," you said. Then, unsure why, you added, "Mostly."
His smile faltered just slightly, something unreadable behind his gaze. "I imagine tomorrow's preparations will be overwhelming. A duchess's ball is no small feat. Believe me, I've heard."
You stared at him, confusion swimming just beneath the surface. "You're attending?"
"Of course," he said lightly. "As your fiancé, it would be improper not to."
"Right," you said, managing a faint smile. "Silly me..."
His brow furrowed again, but instead of pressing, he offered gently, "What are you doing wandering out here, anyway?"
You blinked and looked over your shoulder as if remembering your surroundings. "My sister's inside. We're collecting the dresses for tomorrow."
He nodded with a knowing smile. "Then we're in the same predicament. I'm here with my mother and sisters, enduring fabric swatches and color debates."
You allowed a breath of a smile to form, despite yourself.
He extended his arm, ever the gentleman. "Come. I'll take you back to your sister, Miss Sinclair."
You hesitated, then placed your hand in the crook of his elbow.
And as he guided you back toward the dressmaker's door, someone behind you called out casually, "There you are, Benedict! Mother is asking for you."
You turned to see the girl walking toward you.
"I'm sorry, Hyacinth," he replied softly.
His sister barely glanced at you before looping her arm through Benedict's. "Come now, before she sends Colin to drag you back."
Benedict gave you an apologetic smile, then turned slightly toward the group gathered around his family's carriage. "Mother, Eloise," he greeted politely, then looked back at you. "Miss Sinclair and I happened upon one another."
Lady Bridgerton gave you a warm but measured smile. "Miss Sinclair. So delightful to see you! We look forward to seeing you at the duchess's ball."
"As do I," you replied with a courteous dip of your head. You met each of their eyes as they offered polite nods and warm smiles. To your fortune, at least you were about to marry into one of the few truly happy and sincere families in all of Mayfair.
You exchanged a few words and light comments about the dresses before Lady Bridgerton turned to leave, guiding her daughters with practiced ease. As they began to walk away, Benedict let out a quiet breath through his nose and gave you a sheepish look.
"You have a lively family," you remarked, a small smile tugging at your lips.
He chuckled. "That's one way to put it."
With that, he gave you a small bow. "Until Saturday, Miss Sinclair."
"Until Saturday, Mr. Bridgerton."
You watched him follow after his family, and only then did you turn back to the shop, your sister waving you in from the doorway.
"There you are!" she huffed. "Honestly, if you wander off like that this weekend, I'll never hear the end of it."
Your maid glanced at you curiously but said nothing.
You said nothing either. Your gaze lingered once more toward the crowd, where just moments ago that strange woman had stood. She was gone now. As if she'd never been there.
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The sun was low by the time you and Bea arrived at the grand estate. The sprawling house stood as proud and elegant as ever, its white facade glowing in the golden light. Lottie, your older sister, was already directing footmen and servants with the confidence of a duchess well accustomed to being obeyed.
"Finally," she sighed as the two of you stepped down from the carriage. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost in the modiste's ribbons."
Bea giggled and looped her arm through yours. "You know how she gets when the silk is the wrong shade of blue." There was a sarcastic tone lingering in her voice.
You smiled faintly, still distracted. Something about the air felt... heavy.
Inside, the drawing rooms were buzzing with motion. Dresses being pressed, silver polished, seating charts redrafted by candlelight. Lottie walked briskly between rooms, issuing commands, and you tried to ignore the way your skin prickled the deeper into the house you went.
Finally, Lottie stood at the center of the grand salon like a general surveying a battlefield, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Sunlight glinted off the sapphire brooch pinned to her high collar, and her expression was as crisp as the pleats on the drapes.
"Beatrice, you'll be stationed by the entrance to greet the guests as they arrive. Smile, curtsy, and please don't speak too much unless someone speaks first. We don't need another incident like the garden luncheon."
Bea raised an eyebrow. "He asked if I liked poetry, I didn't know he wrote it."
Lottie gave her a thin smile and turned. "And you..." she fixed her gaze on you, lips tightening slightly. "You will remain by my side until the dancing begins. If I'm called away, I expect you to step in and keep the conversation flowing. No sulking in corners, no disappearing for air, and please refrain from quoting anything peculiar. I want no talk of Greek myths or battle strategies at my ball. You will be dismissed of your charge once Mister Bridgeton arrives. Then, he will be your priority."
You blinked. "Do I really talk about battle strategies that often?"
Lottie exhaled sharply. "This is not the time for antics. This is the first ball I host as Duchess of Lawrence. It also happens to be the announcement of your marriage to The Queen. Consequently, everything has to be perfect. Understood?"
You both nodded.
Lottie opened her mouth to say something more, when she was interrupted by a scream.
It echoed from the upper floor, piercing, desperate, raw. All three of you froze.
"Oh! What now?" Lottie complained.
Without a thought, your legs moved first.
"Upstairs!" you shouted, lifting your skirts as you bolted up the grand staircase, your heart hammering so violently it might have cracked your ribs.
Your older sister shouted your name, but you didn't even hesitate. You reached the corridor just as a maid burst from the nursery, sobbing and bleeding from a long scratch across her neck.
"She was there!" she cried. "The duchess... her grace... the old one... she's come back!" The panic in her eyes was alarming. She was pale, at the edge of unconsciousness.
Lottie appeared behind you, exasperated. "What on earth are you talking about? That's not possible. The Duke's mother died two years ago."
You turned to the maid, gripping her shoulders. "What did you see? Tell me exactly."
The maid gasped, trembling. "A woman. Dressed in a black mourning gown. But she was floating... her eyes... white as snow. And her voice... it was like ice."
You were already scanning the walls, the windows. You weren't even sure what you were looking for, but you were certain that you'll knew it when you found it.
A part of you knew this wasn't shock. It was instinct. Familiar. Like slipping into a role you hadn't played in years, but your body still remembered every move.
"She's a ghost," you said quietly, but confident.
Bea blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Ghosts?" Lottie let out a humorless laugh. "Don't be absurd, sister. This is Hampshire, not a penny dreadful."
"There's something wrong here. Something dangerous." Your voice came out steadier than you expected. "Where was she when you saw her?" you asked the maid.
"In the nursery," she whispered.
Bea frowned. "What are you on about?"
You ignored her. "Did she touch anything? Did anything fall?"
The maid looked confused but nodded. "The mirror cracked."
You didn't hesitate. You turned toward your sisters, her faces looking at you as a third eye had magically appeared on your forehead. "We need salt. Oil. Matches. Iron."
"Have you lost your mind?" Lottie asked, shocked. "Salt and oil? You want to cook a 'ghost'?"
But you were already pulling open drawers, searching. Your hands found a fireplace poker.
Iron. Perfect.
From the back of your mind came the memory of a voice—gruff, American—Always go for the bones, sweetheart. Burn the bones, and they don't come back.
You didn't know how you knew that, only that it was true.
"She's tied to something in this house," you said. "Maybe her remains. Maybe something she loved. We need to find it."
"You've always had... a wild imagination," Lottie muttered, "but this is truly too much."
You stared at her.
"Sister, I adore you, but do you ever wonder if you were dropped on the head as a child?" Bea followed her, looking at you as you were some kind of phenomenon.
Lottie rubbed her temple. "You know what, dear sister?" For some reason, a sudden shiver ran down your spine. "...when you're quite finished with whatever ghost-hunting has seized you, and choose to be of use, I shall be downstairs—preparing the ball. My ball."
She just turned around and disappeared down the hallway.
You turned to the maid, and said, "Come back to your chores. And please, say no word. I'll handle this."
She nodded and disappeared down the service stairs.
However, Bea remained standing beside you, like she was waiting for your next move. You looked to her, but she merely shrugged. "Oh, I rather want to know what all this is about."
"Fine. But you do whatever I say. We clear?" You stated.
"Yes, ma'am." She agreed.
The two of you made your way down the corridor, past the nursery. Coldness seeped through the air like a veil. Your breath fogged. The walls moaned. Then...
Lottie screamed. And she reappeared running toward you, her face pale.
A figure lunged from the dark—tall, swathed in shadowy lace, with eyes like white fire. She grabbed Lottie by the throat and lifted her off the ground.
"No!" you shouted. "Let her go, you bloody son of a—" You ran, swinging the fireplace poker with everything you had. It passed through the figure once... but on the second strike, the spirit screamed and flared backward.
Lottie fell into your arms, coughing. "You—how did you—?"
Her eyes were wide and red with fear. Bea was already crying.
"Help me find her grave," you said breathlessly. "Now."
Lottie coughed in your arms, her usually poised face now contorted in panic. "There's a family crypt," she rasped. "On the grounds, beyond the orchard."
You turned to Beatrice, whose eyes were wide but steady. "Get the salt. Candles. Whatever oil you can find. And bring the poker."
"You're not seriously going out there now," Lottie said, her voice trembling.
"Yes," you said. "Before she comes back... and before anyone else gets hurt."
"But my ball..." she mumbled like a little girl.
You rolled your eyes and gripped her by the shoulders.
"There won't be any ball if we all are dead, you hear me? I must hunt down this thing."
She hesitated, then nodded. "You'll need the keys."
Minutes later, cloaked in shawls and coats, the three of you crossed the damp, shadowed garden. The air was colder than it should have been for spring.
Lottie unlocked the iron gate with trembling fingers. The door groaned open, revealing the narrow stone steps leading underground. Candles flickered wildly in the wind as you descended, your hand tight around the poker.
Inside, the air was still. Too still.
You led the way into the crypt. Rows of stone coffins lined the walls, each carved with the names of the Duke's ancestors. The far end was darker, untouched by light.
Then you saw it: Isabella Abbot, the Duchess of Lawrence's tomb. Fresh cracks split the stone at the base. The metal nameplate had fallen, as if pushed from the inside.
"She's angry," you whispered. "Something kept her soul here."
"Why?" Bea asked, holding the oil lamp high. "She wasn't... evil, was she?"
Lottie shook her head. "She was harsh. Controlling. But no. Just proud."
You stepped forward. "There's something in here that's binding her. We need to open the coffin."
But the air shifted. The temperature dropped in an instant, and your breath misted.
Then came the shriek.
The ghost appeared behind you, hurtling toward Lottie again, her mouth open in an inhuman howl.
"DEAR LORD," your sister cried out.
You didn't think. You swung the iron poker again and shouted, "Bea, the salt!"
Beatrice scattered it in a wide arc, just as the ghost lunged. The spirit hit the invisible line and screamed, repelled, flickering violently before disappearing again.
"Now!" you barked. "Open it!"
Lottie and Bea helped you push the stone lid. It groaned open. Inside lay the decaying body of Duchess Isabella, wrapped in elegant silks and jewels.
"Oh my goodness!" Bea stepped back.
Lottie disappeared in a corner to empty the content of her stomach.
Your eyes scanned the corpse, and then you saw it. At her neck, glinting like a flame, was a locket.
You reached in and pulled it free. Inside, a lock of hair and a faded portrait of a young man: her first son, who had died at sea decades ago.
"She never let him go," you whispered. "She tied herself to him."
And then, behind you, she returned... screaming, enraged, her ghostly hand reaching for your throat.
You struck a match. Poured the oil.
"Go back," you whispered, not even knowing why the words felt right. "You're free now."
And you dropped the flame.
The locket caught instantly. The fire blazed white-hot. The spirit shrieked, the sound deafening, until it faded into silence, carried on smoke that disappeared like mist in the candlelight.
You stood, shaking, soot on your hands. The crypt was still.
Your sisters stared at you.
Lottie finally found her voice. "What... in God's name just happened? How did you know all that?"
"My books," you whispered, shrugging. But it was a lie. You felt like you had done it before. Which, of course, was completely absurd.
Bea blinked, looking at you unconvinced. "That's not reassuring."
You laughed softly, tired, but certain now that whatever haunted your dreams... it was real.
What was even more remarkable was that, for the first time in what felt like your entire life, you felt good. The rush of adrenaline coursed through your veins like warm blood—not like the cold that had been keeping you company for so long.
That night, you barely slept. Not because you feared the shadows in your room, or the ghost of the duchess reaching for you from the dark.
No... it was the emptiness that came after. The cruel crash after the highest fly. The silence inside your chest once the adrenaline was gone, once the fear had passed and nothing was left but the hollow ache you couldn't explain.
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The gown clung at your body like a secret—deep crimson, richer than wine, scandalously vivid against the pale silks your sisters chose. The empire waist hugs just beneath your ribs, gold embroidery catching the lamplight as you move. The sleeves were short, brushing your shoulders like a hesitant touch, and the silk fell around you in quiet waves, flowing like blood over marble.
At your throat, a thin ribbon of red lace, rested against your skin. It felt too intimate, too knowing, as if it remembered something you've forgotten. You did not know where it came from.
You looked like a woman in mourning. Or a ghost who's decided to live anyway.
You barely hear the knock before the door opens.
"Is she ready yet?" your youngest sister's voice cuts through the silence. "We're going to be late, and Charlotte is already downstairs."
She stopped when she saw you. For a moment, even she is silent.
Your father appeared behind her, his gaze sweeping over you with a cold sort of satisfaction. "At last," he said. "You almost look like a Sinclair tonight."
You didn't answer. You weren't sure which part of you he's referring to—the gown, the posture, or the carefully hidden ache behind your eyes.
Your other sister, already laced into pale blue satin, leaned closer with a whisper meant only for you. "Try not to outshine the hostess. She's the duchess, after all. And you're... well, you're just the guest of honor."
You murmured something polite, something forgettable, and follow them down the corridor.
Each step felt like stepping deeper into a life that doesn't quite fit.
The light of a thousand candles danced across the golden walls of your sister's ballroom, refracting through the crystal chandeliers in glittering shards. Violins wept soft notes as lords and ladies murmured behind painted fans and lifted crystal flutes to their lips. You stood at the top of the marble staircase beside Benedict, your hand resting on his arm, your body corseted into perfection, and your face sculpted into the smile your father had taught you.
You had become a portrait, not a person.
"Your Majesty," Charlotte announced with regal grace, "may I present Miss Sinclair, my beloved sister... and her betrothed, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton."
You felt every eye in the room shift toward you. The Queen's gaze, heavy and jeweled, fell upon you with the weight of expectation. She offered a thin smile.
Applause broke out, polite, pleasant, poisoned. You could feel the eyes of every unmarried woman, and their mothers, piercing your back. Murmurs of envy and jealousy rose from every corner. After all, you were marrying a Bridgerton.
It was unbearable. You couldn't breathe.
The walls seemed too close. The scent of perfume cloyed in your nose—jasmine and lavender, gardenia and rose, all pressing in like hands on your throat. Your heartbeat fluttered madly, your chest rising and falling beneath the cruel pressure of your corset. Still, you smiled. You always smiled.
Benedict leaned toward you, whispering, "It will be over before you know it."
But that was the problem. It wouldn't be over. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
You were about to become Mrs. Bridgerton.
The orchestra began the waltz, and the crowd parted like silk. As the betrothed couple, you were expected to open the floor.
Your steps were automatic as Benedict guided you to the center. His hand slipped to your back, the other clasped your fingers gently. He was ever the gentleman. You hated him for it.
The music swelled.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
You moved together as if the world wasn't collapsing beneath your satin slippers. The room spun. The chandeliers bled into stars above. The heat rose behind your eyes. You couldn't focus. You couldn't breathe.
Then—softly, like a thread pulled taut—Benedict spoke.
"Are you fine, my dear?"
You faltered. Missed a step.
The world stilled, as though everything hinged on that single word.
"What... what did you just call me?"
He blinked at you, unsure. "Dear?"
You stopped. He meant it kindly. Tenderly, even. But the syllable echoed in your head like a bullet.
Deer.
You gasped, chest seizing. Memory cracked through the fog of your mind.
Rain. Blood. Gunpowder.
A hand clutching yours.
A voice calling you back—"Stay with me."
Green eyes. Rough hands. A flannel shirt soaked in red. A smile that made your knees went weak.
And a name. A single name that could send you to madness just to think about it.
Dean.
"No," you whispered, stepping back. "No, no, no, no—"
Benedict called your name, reaching for you. "What's wrong?"
But you couldn't answer. You couldn't stay there. You turned and fled.
Gasps rose from the crowd as you bolted from the ballroom, skirts gathered in your fists. Voices called after you—Charlotte, Beatrice, your father, Benedict—but you didn't look back. Couldn't.
Your slippers pounded against the marble floor as you darted down the corridor, out the French doors, into the cold night air. The garden awaited, tall hedges stretching like arms, the entrance to the labyrinth yawning before you.
You slipped inside.
Branches clawed at your sleeves as you ran blindly through the twists and turns. The music behind you faded into ghostly echoes. Your breath came in ragged sobs, your corset cutting deeper with every gasp. You didn't care.
Now it was impossible for you to breathe.
The maze spun around you like a tornado. Your thoughts screamed over each other—memories that weren't memories, names you didn't know but somehow loved, and a voice. His voice. Dean.
Your knees buckled.
Before you could fall, strong arms caught you—cool and sure, like marble warmed by candlelight.
"Breathe," she said, soft but firm.
You didn't understand how she'd crossed the distance, but suddenly she was there, kneeling with you in the damp grass. Her hand pressed lightly between your shoulder blades, the other at your wrist, counting the frantic pulse there.
"I need you to listen to me," she said gentle, but with the authority of someone who had spoken to storms and been heard. "You are safe. Right now, in this moment."
You gasped again. The world narrowed. Your corset felt like a noose.
Her forehead touched yours, barely.
"Breathe in," she whispered, matching your rhythm. "Like this. Good. Now again."
You followed her voice. You followed her breath.
Slowly, the edges of the world softened. Your heart, though wild, no longer beat like it meant to escape your chest. You clutched her sleeve as if it were the only solid thing in a world unraveling.
"I think I'm going mad," you whispered.
She looked at you, not with pity, but something far older. Sadness, and infinite patience.
"You are remembering," she said, like suddenly she was realizing something was wrong. "You shouldn't remember."
And then—through the blur of tears—you saw her.
The woman was not dressed for a ball. No lace, no powder, no sparkle. Hair, dark as ink, parted cleanly and pinned back without ornament. Her gown was simple, high-necked and dark, the fabric plain but immaculately clean. A practical pelisse clung to her shoulders, buttoned to the throat, the muted color blending into the night. She looked like a governess, almost, or perhaps as someone meant to go unnoticed. And yet you couldn't look away.
But it was the eyes that undid you. Not their shape or their color, though they were a striking blue, oddly bright in the dark.
It was the weight in them. The stillness. The knowing.
She looked at you like someone who'd waited centuries. Who had seen too much, and carried it all in silence.
You had seen her before. Outside the modiste's.
"Wait..." you murmured. "I know you... From my dreams. But... no, that's impossible, because you're a woman and he—"
You stopped short, your words catching on the thorns in your throat.
A name trembled on the edge of your tongue.
"...Castiel?"
The woman looked at you with eyes too ancient for her face. She nodded slowly, giving up.
Summary: You can write your own destiny, choose your path and be happy… or can’t you?
SERIES MASTERLIST
Previous chapter
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Word count: +4.7K
Warnings: A HUGE amount of angst. Brief oral sex (F!receiving).
A/N: 🫣
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Dean hadn't ask you formally to be his girlfriend, but you definitely were a couple. You two had been having dates, romantic road trips—and a lot of the best sex any of you would ever had—for the past two months already.
There was an undeniable and pure connection between you. It was there in the way he reached for your hand without thinking, lacing his fingers through yours when you walked into a diner or sat beside him on the motel bed. In the way he always ordered your coffee just right, remembered your favorite songs, how he tucked your coat around your shoulders when you forgot it.
It was the way he looked at you.
He didn't say it, not outright, but his eyes always did. That quiet reverence when you smiled. That low, hungry gaze that made your knees weak when you were alone. And when you were curled up together in the Impala or tangled under the sheets, he'd hold you close like he was afraid the world might steal you away if he let go.
Out in the field, Dean was all instinct and precision, always a step ahead, but he never treated you like porcelain. He'd glance your way before a shot, let you take the lead when you had the plan. He didn't smother you. He trusted you, and so did Sam. And that trust made you fiercer, braver.
Still, you could always feel him nearby, like a second shadow, ready to put himself between you and danger without hesitation. And after every hunt, like it was second nature, he'd tug you gently toward him, eyes skimming over you like he needed to see that you were whole.
It was protection without possession. And it made you feel safe and confident in a way you never had before.
Furthermore, Dean was tender in ways you don't think he actually realized. Like brushing your hair behind your ear, pressing his lips to your forehead when he thought you were asleep, and whispering your name into the hollow of your neck like a secret.
And when it came to sex... God, there was that, and it was everything. Dean taught you everything he had to offer about passion and lust, tangled with the endearing love you both had for each other.
"Dean..." you whimpered, out of breath, as his tongue moved slowly up and down your core.
Your fingers tangled in the strands of his soft hair, while his broad, calloused hands held you firmly in place, right where he wanted you.
He glanced up at you, eyes dark with devotion, like he was worshipping you with every movement of his mouth. And when you gasped his name again, a little broken this time, he grinned against your skin like it was the only sound he ever wanted to hear.
"That's it," he murmured, a couple of his fingers replacing his tongue to guide you down the edge, voice low and rough, almost proud. "Let go, sweetheart. I've got you."
And he did. Not just now, not just like this, but in the weight of his gaze, in the way he held you like you were the one thing in this world he didn't want to lose.
When it was over, and your body had finally stilled beneath his, Dean didn't say much. He just kissed the inside of your thigh, then crawled up to you and gathered you into his arms. You curled against his chest, your heartbeat slowly syncing with his.
There were also the lazy mornings. The way he never turned away when you reached for him.
Whatever it was between you two, it was real.
And in those following weeks, life had a rhythm. A rough, imperfect rhythm that still somehow felt like home.
One night, Dean asked you if you were hungry. No hunt, no ghosts, no monsters. Just hunger. The real kind.
He didn't tell you where he was taking you. Just held the door open with that easy, habitual care, then turned the Impala onto the open road, classic rock low on the radio and one hand resting lightly on your thigh.
You ended up at a burger shack just off the highway, an old place with peeling paint and blinking neon, the kind that still served everything wrapped in wax paper and too much grease. He parked the Impala facing the woods and passed you a wrapped burger.
"You eat like a proper American now," he joked.
You unwrapped it with a grin. "You corrupted me."
You sat in silence for a while, the radio humming low.
Fries passed back and forth, your feet propped on the dashboard, his arm draped along the back of your seat, conversation floating with jokes and soft laughter. It felt like the kind of date you'd seen in movies, but never lived. Warm, unhurried. Real.
At some point, Dean grew quiet, and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, like he was nervous.
"You ever think about... getting out?" he asked.
You looked over. "Out of what?"
"This life. Hunting, motels, ghosts..." His fingers tapped the steering wheel. "All of it. Have you ever regret joining us on this?"
You tilted your head. "When I first got here, I thought maybe I'd find a way back. To my time. But now..." You looked out the windshield. "Now it just feels like this is where I'm supposed to be. So no, I'm not feel any regret. I would never regret following you, Dean."
Your hand reached for his cheek, fingers tracing the rugged texture of his two-day beard. "Why you ask? Have you?" your voice was soft, attentive.
Dean shrugged, thoughtful. "I used to want to be a firefighter as a kid, you know?"
You blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah," he said with a sheepish grin. "Big boots. Red truck. That kind of thing. Saving people... without all the blood rituals and beheadings."
"That's pretty cute, Dean," you laughed softly, leaning your head back against the seat. "You'd have been good at it."
He glanced at you then, soft, serious. "I still think about it sometimes. Not the job, exactly. Just... a different kind of life. Sammy almost got it once. And sometimes I regret having dragged him back to this."
You swallowed, sensing something deeper beneath his words.
"If you ever wanted out," he said quietly after a while, "I'd go with you."
Your eyes flicked to him. "Dean..."
"I mean it." His voice was low, rough with something raw. "We could just disappear. Find a house somewhere off the grid. You could have a garden or whatever people do when they're not hunting monsters. I'd... learn to fix normal things. Maybe start a garage."
You blinked against the sudden sting in your eyes.
You stared at him, taking in the weight of his words and the meaning layered beneath them. There was a promise—an unspoken desire to be bound to each other—in the sincerity of his green gaze, and it melted your heart.
He shrugged, like it wasn't earth-shattering. "Not saying tomorrow or anything. Just... if that's something you wanted. I'd want that too."
You reached for his hand, laced your fingers through his, and held on.
"Yes," you whispered, voice soft as a vow. "That sounds rather lovely, my dear."
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Sam and Castiel became a constant part of that rhythm too.
Mornings often started with Sam already at the table, buried in lore with three half-empty mugs of coffee beside him. He never commented when you walked in wearing Dean's shirt, hair a mess, cheeks still warm from the night before, but the twitch of a smirk on his face gave him away. He was happy to see his brother having the love the deserved. And it made him think that maybe he could find his own soon.
Castiel, on the other hand, was as baffled by human affection as ever. He watched you and Dean with that tilted-head curiosity, trying to understand things like handholding and inside jokes. But he grew fond of you quickly. Protective, in his own quiet way.
You grew close to both of them in different ways. Sam felt like the big brother you never had. And Castiel felt like an ancient, tired guardian who saw the cracks in your soul and chose to protect them anyway.
And in between the hunts, the motel rooms, the late-night drives and diner stops, there were stolen kisses, soft laughter, touches beneath the table, and Dean always finding ways to remind you, without words, that you belonged.
Right here. With them. With him.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you belonged, like you had a place, a purpose, and people who loved you. Dean didn't say the words often, but he didn't have to. You felt it in the way he looked at you when you laughed at one of his dumb jokes, in the way his hand always found yours under the table, in the way he whispered your name when he thought you were asleep.
You weren't just surviving anymore. You were living.
Everything seemed to settle, to fit perfectly into your new life. So perfect, so easy, that it made you forget you had come from another time. That somewhere in the past, you were a different woman; quiet, and too sad to go on. A woman who had once believed the only way out was the 'easy' way.
And now, it seemed you'd forgotten her... until, seven months after your arrival, everything began to fall apart.
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During the couple of weeks before everything changed, life was normal. A couple of days at Bobby's, supply run with the brothers, movie nights with Dean, hunting trips (one of which turned out to be just a rat infestation), morning runnings with Sam, and went out to dinner with the boys and Charlie.
And then came the hunt.
It had started like any other. A nest of vengeful spirits terrorizing an abandoned farmhouse on the edge of town. Sam had tracked the source to an old family tragedy, while Dean salted and burned the remains they'd found buried beneath a collapsed shed. You were on lookout, shotgun in hand, standing watch by the broken staircase.
It should've been over.
But something had gone wrong.
One of the spirits hadn't been tied to the bones. It was bound to something else still hidden. And when it appeared out of nowhere, lashing out with a furious shriek, Dean didn't have time to react.
But you did.
"Dean!" you screamed, sprinting toward him.
Your body slammed into his with full force, knocking him out of the ghost's path just in time, but it hit you instead. Not physically, but with a psychic blow that sent you flying back, straight into the darkness of a crumbling third floor.
Dean watched you fall, helpless. The silence that followed felt like an eternity... until it was broken by the sickening sound of your body slamming violently against the floor below.
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Everything around you was silent. Weightless. The pain in your head, the panic in your chest... it was all gone. In its place, a cold stillness.
You stood barefoot in what looked like a vast, gray field. No wind, no sound. Just mist curling around your ankles like smoke.
"Am I dead?" you whispered, your voice swallowed by the fog.
"No," said a voice behind you. "You've been gone for quite some time. But not dead."
You turned.
A woman stood there: tall, pale, dressed in black. Her eyes were impossibly old. You didn't need her to say it to know what she was.
A Reaper.
"I don't understand..." you murmured, panic creeping through your veins.
Calmly, she stepped closer, "You died almost two hundred years ago. By your own hand. What's walking around now is a soul caught between Heaven and Earth. Your soul is old, and tired. "
You shook your head, backing away. "That's not true. I'm real."
"You're temporary," she said, tilting her head. "You've been on borrowed time, slipping through cracks. You have to rest."
You started to cry. "No. No, there has to be a way. I'm not ready. I have a life now. I have... Dean. I love him. I have Sam, and Castiel. I have..."
"You were never meant to stay," the Reaper said gently. "Your place is no longer among the living."
"I won't go," you said, your voice trembling. "You'll have to drag me."
The Reaper sighed, almost with pity. "Don't fight it, or your soul will get lost in the emptiness."
You blinked.
A faint voice broke through the fog, distant, but growing louder. "CLAIRE!"
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Suddenly your chest exploded with pain, like fire and lightning. Your knees buckled and you woke up.
"I got you, babygirl, I got you," Dean whispered, cradling you tightly in his arms as your eyelids fluttered open. His voice cracked with the weight of emotions he didn't know how to name—relief, fear, disbelief.
Your vision was blurry, the world around you a swirl of dim light and muffled sounds. You blinked, slowly adjusting. Sam was crouched nearby, eyes wide and wet, his face pale with shock.
"Hey," he said softly, managing a small, shaken smile. "You're awake."
You opened your mouth to speak, but your throat burned. All you could manage was a whisper. "What...?"
"Don't try to talk," Dean murmured quickly, brushing the hair from your face. His hands were trembling. "You're safe now. Cas healed you."
It was then you noticed Castiel standing just behind them, his expression unreadable, but his eyes heavy.
There was dried blood on your skin, on the back of your head, in your hair, the thick metallic scent of it clinging to you.
Your head throbbed dully. Your body ached everywhere, like you'd been crushed and sewn back together.
Dean looked at Cas. "You got her in time?"
Cas didn't answer immediately. His gaze stayed on you.
"I did what I could," he finally said. "She was... far. But I reached her."
You frowned, he wasn't supposed to be there. Did the boys prayed to him? What they were talking about?
They didn't tell you the truth, not then. Not that your heart had stopped. Not that Castiel had pulled you back from the veil when your soul had already started to slip away. You had died, if only for a minute. But no one dared speak it aloud.
Castiel had placed a glowing hand on your forehead, and the bones in your body mended themselves in a rush of white-hot pain. Your skull, cracked from the fall, sealed under his grace... but the blood remained. None of them had dared to wipe it away.
Dean wouldn't let you walk. He carried you to the car. You barely remembered the ride back to the bunker.
The next days were a fog.
You couldn't stay awake for long. Your body refused to cooperate, as if gravity had turned on you. There was a heat in your skin—feverish, bone-deep. Sometimes you'd drift off mid-sentence, waking again in a cold sweat.
Dean never left your side. He sat at the edge of your bed, watching over you through sleepless nights, gently coaxing you to eat, holding a damp cloth to your forehead when the fever spiked.
Sam paced the halls, researching anything he could. Some lore, some answer. Something to explain why you weren't getting better. But there was nothing. Not even Bobby could help.
And Castiel... he was quiet. Confused.
"I healed her wounds," he said quietly one evening, standing just outside your room with the brothers. "But something's... wrong. It's not physical."
Dean ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. "Then what the hell is it?"
"I don't know," Cas admitted, which scared them more than anything. "It's like her soul is... exhausted. Fractured."
Dean stared through the doorway at you, curled up under the blanket, your face pale and damp with sweat.
"She's not going to die again," he said. "She's not."
So he took you to a hospital. A real one. He was desperate enough to believe science could explain what Heaven and Hell could not.
The doctors ran every test imaginable: blood panels, brain scans, heart monitors. They checked for diabetes, thyroid issues, autoimmune disorders. They even ran a pregnancy test, just in case. Dean stood outside the room with his arms crossed and a hole opening in his chest, waiting for someone to come out and say they'd found it, whatever it was.
But they didn't.
Every test came back clear. Physically, you were fine.
"But she's not fine," Dean growled when the doctor tried to smile reassuringly. "She's not okay. Look at her."
And still, no one could explain the dark hollowness in your eyes, or the way you flinched from sunlight, or why you barely spoke unless Dean said your name. They couldn't explain the way your soul seemed to be folding in on itself.
Dean didn't want to believe it, but deep down he knew Castiel was right.
It wasn't your body that was broken. It was your soul.
One night, you were just... done. You hadn't said a word all day. You hadn't eaten more than a spoonful of applesauce. A nurse came in to draw more blood, her voice chipper in that professional way, like she could talk away the misery.
She looked at your inner elbow, already bruised and sore, and winced. "She's too tender for another draw here," she said to Dean, as if you weren't in the room. "We'll have to go through the hand or foot."
Dean just nodded, exhausted. His eyes were rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—which he hadn't—and like he didn't know how to fix this, which he didn't.
You opened your eyes slowly. Just a crack.
"Dean..." Your voice was barely a whisper.
His head snapped toward you immediately. In an instant, he was at your side, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand brushed your hair away from your forehead, fingers trembling.
"What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?" he asked, voice tight with worry.
You swallowed. Every part of you ached. Your limbs felt like they were made of stone, too heavy to lift. But your eyes found his, and for a moment, they were clear.
"I wanna go home," you murmured.
He blinked, surprised. "I know, baby, but—"
"No, Dean," you cut him off softly. "Please. I'm not getting better here. The lights... the noise... it's too much. It doesn't feel right. I wanna go home. I think... I think I'll be better there."
He looked at you for a long time. Really looked. Your thin hospital gown, your hollow cheeks, the IV line taped to your wrist. You were slipping away from him, and not in a way a doctor could stop.
He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead to yours for a moment.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. We'll go home."
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On the second morning back at the bunker, Dean woke slowly, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the blinds. For the first time in days, he felt rested. Calm.
His first instinct, as always, was to check on you.
You were still curled into him, your body draped across his like always. Your hand rested over his chest, light as a feather. Your face was tucked against his neck, and for a moment, everything seemed normal. Peaceful.
Dean smiled to himself. Today's the day, he thought. She's gonna be better. I'll get some food in her, maybe get her to laugh.
Carefully, he reached down and brushed some hair from your face. "Morning, sunshine," he whispered.
You didn't respond, but you were sleeping, he thought. His hand trembled slightly as he brought it to your cheek.
Your skin felt cold against his palm. Way too cold.
And Dean had a bad feeling.
"Deer?" he called softly at first, not wanting to rip you out of your dream. But you didn't answer. You didn't even move. "Claire." Now his voice was louder, authoritative, scared.
He shifted you away from his chest to get a better look. Your face was alarmingly pale, your features still and peaceful... but something felt wrong.
With a shaky, unsure hand, he pressed his fingers to your neck. His heart dropped violently... there was no pulse.
"What the hell—"
Dean acted fast, flipping you fully onto your back and starting chest compressions.
He didn't understand what was happening. Why now? How?
"SAM!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "SAMMY!"
Sam appeared in a blink, his eyes widening in horror.
"What happened?" he asked, dropping to his knees beside you.
"I don't know... Sammy, help me!" Dean answered, still pressing down on your chest. "Wake up... no, no, no, sweetheart... Please... Don't— Don't leave me..."
Dean didn't stop. He couldn't. His hands kept pressing against your chest, desperate, mechanical, as if the rhythm itself could defy fate. His breathing was ragged, his face tight with panic.
"Come on... don't do this. Claire. Deer, please..."
He tried to call Castiel. On his mind, out loud, but the angel didn't answer. "FUCK."
"Dean," Sam said softly, but his brother didn't listen.
"Stay with me, baby. You hear me?" Dean's voice cracked. "You're gonna be fine. Just wake up. Wake up, sweetheart—"
"Dean," Sam said again, more firmly this time, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Dean. Stop."
"No," Dean growled, still working on you. "She's not gone. She can't be."
Sam gently but firmly pulled him back. Dean resisted, then finally collapsed beside you, hands shaking, eyes wild.
Sam reached out, checking your pulse again. He leaned down, listening—hoping, praying. But nothing.
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "She's gone."
Dean's breath hitched. He blinked slowly, unable to accept it. "No. No, no, no..."
Without hesitation, Dean grabbed his phone with trembling fingers. "Cas! CAS, damn it!—pick up, you son of a bitch!"
Still no answer.
Dean held your lifeless body against his chest so tightly it was as if letting go would break him. He cried into your hair, his tears soaking your strands. Your limbs hung limply at your sides—motionless, pale.
Sam couldn't understand what was happening. He sat at the edge of the bed, unable to look at you, he didn't want to. He cried in silence, the sound of his older brother's broken sobs painfully loud in the room.
A few minutes later, Castiel finally appeared. But he wasn't fine either. He looked beaten: his trench coat was torn, and blood stained his clothes.
Sam and Dean looked at him.
"WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?" Dean barked, furiously. "I needed you here!"
"Cas, what–?" Sam asked, but Castiel's eyes were already on you.
"What happened?" he asked, voice low. He stepped forward, trembling.
"She's gone," Sam answered gently. "It just... happened. We don't know how."
Dean stepped forward, wild-eyed, broken. "You have to bring her back."
Castiel looked toward your still body, then back at Dean. "I... I'll try."
He placed two fingers on your forehead and closed his eyes, reaching. Searching. Long seconds passed.
Then his brow furrowed, confused. "She's not in Heaven."
Dean's jaw clenched. "Then check Hell." It wasn't possible, he think, but it definitely would worth the shot.
"I already am," Cas said softly, voice laced with something that frightened them both. "She's not there either."
Dean blinked, stunned. "What the hell does that mean?"
Castiel slowly lowered his hand. "Her soul... it's gone. Not destroyed, not imprisoned. Just... gone." He paused, tracing your face softly with his fingers. "I can feel– that her heart just stopped beating. She died naturally."
"Naturally?" Dean asked, rage and confusion on his voice. "She's in her early twenties, what do you mean 'naturally'?"
"Dean, she's technically 221 years old," the angel replied.
Then, silence. It was a fact, and it wasn't a surprise.
After a moment, Sam asked gently. "Where have you been, though? Who did this to you?"
"I—" Castiel's voice cracked. "I was intercepted by some kind of entity on my way here... Whatever held me back didn't want me to save her. Like I did when she fell."
Dean stared down at you, motionless on the bed. His voice came out as a whisper. "So that's it? She's just... gone?"
"Not gone," Cas said gently. "Just... not here."
Dean turned away, his hands curling into fists. "I'm gonna find the son of a bitch who did this..."
"Dean," his brother intervened, "we heard Cas, she died in her sleep. Naturally."
"We did. And we also heard that something stopped him from saving her," Dean said, his voice raw, charged with an anger that could tear through Heaven and Hell. "That means something let this happen. Well, I'm gonna hunt this motherfucker down, and I'm gonna rip it apart. Then, I'll bring her back."
But it won't be easy.
Dean spent days searching for something, anything, that could bring you back.
He tried every spell, tried to negotiate with every demon he could encounter, to summon every angel he could possibly find. But they hadn't had answers, no deal to treat because not even they could find you.
It was like you never, ever, existed. And the only person who could recall your soft gaze and warmth was him.
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The sky was gray when they burn your body.
Ash clung to the clouds, wind biting against their jackets as the fire roared. The pyre stood tall in the middle of a quiet field, far from town, surrounded by nothing but silence and pain.
Dean stood motionless, staring at the flames like he could will them to stop. Like he wanted to join them.
It had taken days to get him here. Days of silence, of rage, of him locking himself away in the garage or in your room, sitting in the chair you always curled up in. He hadn't said much, barely ate, barely slept. Just kept looking through books, calling contacts, whispering your name when he thought no one was listening.
Dean wouldn’t accept that you didn’t belong there. In his time and space. Because God knows he belonged to you.
So he refused to let go.
"I can bring her back," he had told Castiel through clenched teeth. "There's always a way."
But Cas only shook his head. "Her soul isn't here, Dean. She's gone."
Dean hadn't answered. He'd walked away, slammed the door behind him.
Sam had tried too. Tried to talk to him, reason with him, plead with him. "She wouldn't want this, man. She wouldn't want you like this."
But Dean had stared at him, hollow. "Don't tell me what she'd want."
It was Bobby who finally got through. He came down from Sioux Falls, brought by Castiel and Sam, both at their wit's end.
He didn't yell. Didn't argue. Just sat beside Dean in the dark, room where he'd begged Castiel to preserve your body, sipping from a flask and waiting.
After a while, Bobby said, "I know what it's like to lose someone you love so bad you can't breathe. I know the fight. The clawing, desperate need to undo it. But she's gone, son. And this... this ain't helping her rest."
Dean didn't speak. Your hand felt heavy and cold beneath his.
Bobby's voice softened. "You gave her peace. She died knowing she was loved. Let her go with that."
That night, Dean finally agreed.
But now, standing in front of the fire, he didn't feel peace. He felt nothing but that awful, choking emptiness.
Sam stood beside him, shoulders tense, eyes damp. Castiel watched from a few paces back, his hands folded, gaze fixed on the flames with reverence.
No one spoke. No one could.
Dean's jaw was tight, his eyes red but dry. He didn't cry. Not yet. His grief came in silence, deep, vast, and unmovable. He hadn't said goodbye. He couldn't.
The crackling of the fire filled the space between them. Somewhere in the wind, a bird cried out.
Dean took a shaky breath.
"I want her here," he said, barely audible.
Sam looked down. Castiel closed his eyes.
"I want her here with me," Dean repeated, louder this time, his voice breaking. "It's not fair..."
And then finally, he cried, not loud, not dramatic. Just tears carving quiet tracks down his cheeks as he stood rooted in place, watching the last of you disappear into smoke.
Warnings: I prefer to not give details to prevent spoilers. You’re on your own, kids.😉
A/N:🫣
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For the next three months, your life with the Winchesters and Castiel had settled into something that felt truly belonging.
And the family just kept growing around, when you finally met Bobby. He welcomed you into his house and the family business. He gave advices, lectured you on everything he knew, and gave you the confidence to reach for him whenever you need something.
Sammy was patient, endlessly. He would sit with you at the library for hours, explaining how the world had changed since your time: technology, laws, gender roles and equality, and modern slang. He was the one who taught you how to use a laptop, though he sometimes had to hide his laughter when you got frustrated and poked the screen like it might obey you faster.
Castiel, though, became something else entirely. A best friend. Maybe because, in his own way, he was just as out of place as you were. He didn't judge when you marveled at microwaves or stared too long at the flashing lights of a city skyline. He answered every one of your endless questions without growing tired, or if he did, he never showed it.
Sometimes, you and Cas would just sit together in silence, sharing a kind of wordless understanding that didn't need to be explained. He was your anchor on the days when the world felt too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar.
And Dean... he was something different.
He took it upon himself to introduce you to 'the important stuff.' Rock music: Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Metallica, Bon Jovi. Movies: Star Wars, Die Hard, Back to the Future. You name it. He was there, more than excited and willing to show the new world to you.
Late nights would find you both sprawled on the worn motel beds or the bunker couch, Dean grinning like a kid as he watched your reactions.
"You've never seen this? Oh, sweetheart, we're fixing that right now," he'd say, popping in a VHS tape or queuing up something on an DVD player.
And you soon discovered that you also had your own stuff to share.
One day, Sam found you curled into the far corner of the bunker's library sofa, knees drawn up beneath you, entirely absorbed in the worn pages of Pride and Prejudice. The copy had a cracked spine and yellowing edges, but you cradled it like treasure.
Sam's voice interrupted the silence, warm with surprise. "Didn't know we had that one in here."
You looked up, startled, but smiled. "I used to read this by candlelight... I never thought I'd hold it again."
Sam's brow quirked. "You know it's a movie now, right?"
Your eyes widened. "A movie?"
He chuckled. "Several, actually. There's the BBC miniseries and the 2005 version."
You blinked. "People still know this story? They watch it?"
"Yeah," Sam said, amused. "It's kind of a big deal."
And it was the end of Dean Winchester's movies era.
That night, Dean was sprawled across the bunker couch, TV remote in one hand, a beer in the other, deciding if he wanted you to see Lethal Weapon or Terminator when you bounced into the room, clutching the DVD case Sam had handed you.
"Dean," you said brightly, "we're watching Pride and Prejudice tonight."
Dean froze. "We're what now?"
You held up the case with the same reverence he reserved for classic rock vinyl. "It's a book I love. Sam told me it's a film now. Will you watch it with me?"
He looked at you, hopeful, radiant, practically glowing with excitement.
Dean groaned dramatically. "Fine. But unless there's a car chase, I'm gonna need extra pie for this."
You sat beside him, barely breathing as the film unfolded. His initial jokes dissolved somewhere around the proposal scene, and he started commenting about the movie like he was getting really interested in the story.
You glanced at him with a triumphant grin.
Later, as the credits rolled, he leaned back with a long exhale. "So... when Darcy said, 'You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you'—that was smooth. I might use that."
You laughed, giving him a playful shove.
Dean nudged you with his shoulder. "Hey, don't look at me like that. If I'm gonna suffer through 19th-century foreplay, it might as well be with you."
Your laughter softened into something warmer as you rested your head on his shoulder.
"I'm glad you liked it."
He tilted his head, voice low. "Yeah... me too."
He was close. Always close: an arm thrown casually around the back of the couch, a shoulder brushing yours when you laughed too hard, a hand steadying you when the crowd of a new town felt overwhelming.
You didn't stay behind, either. After the incident with the creature by the motel pool, you had insisted on joining them on more hunts as an active member, and to your surprise, they had agreed.
Maybe it was your bravery. Maybe it was the fact that you refused to be treated like something fragile.
But little by little, you became part of the team.
You trained harder with Sam and Dean, practiced with Castiel, learned everything you could about the monsters that haunted the modern world.
At first they gave you easier tasks: research, backup, lookout. But it wasn't long before you were right there in the thick of it: salt rounds loaded, blade steady in your hand, heart pounding in rhythm with theirs.
The adrenaline, the fear, the victories—saving people and hunting things... it bonded you even tighter to them.
Especially to Dean.
You didn't sleep together at the bunker, it would have been too much, maybe, to cross that invisible line there. But during hunting trips, as the motels usually had only two beds, it became natural for you to share one of them.
At first, Sam felt like the most awkward third wheel, and insisted on take his own room. But neither you or Dean seemed to make it look like a serious thing. So you both will just justify it saying there was no need to waste money resources on a second room, and Sam wouldn't push anymore.
Dean would kick off his boots and fall onto the mattress with a groan, then look over at you with a smirk and say, "C'mon, deer, I don't bite."
The first few times you stayed stiff and awkward on the edge of the bed, afraid of getting too close. But Dean never pressed, never teased, he just offered his quiet presence, and somehow that was enough.
As time passed, you grew comfortable. You stopped worrying about the way your arm brushed his when you shifted at night. Stopped pulling away when you woke up with your legs tangled loosely under the covers. Stopped pretending you didn't notice the way your heart sped up when he was near.
There was tension, of course. But Dean never pushed. Never crossed a line. And somehow, that made it worse: made you ache for him even more.
You didn't know exactly when it happened, maybe it was one night when he stayed up until dawn patching up a cut on your forehead, hands trembling slightly; maybe it was the way he remembered you liked your coffee sweet and loaded with cream in the morning.
But somewhere between the laughter, the long looks, the soft silences... You realized you were falling for Dean Winchester.
Or maybe it was there from the beginning. Even before that very first kiss.
And even though the thought scared you, it also felt like the most natural thing in the world.
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"Oh my goodness," you laughed, your face lighting up with amusement as you clicked through your own laptop.
Of course, you had your own now. The Winchesters had bought it for you after you accidentally stumbled upon downloaded porn on Dean's. Sam was really pissed at him.
"Dean, you've got to see this!"
He looked up from where he was cleaning one of his knives, arching a brow. "What now? Another animal video you think might change my life?"
You turned the screen toward him with a grin. "Nope. Almost better. A pie convention two towns over this weekend. Apparently it's like, the 'pie event of the year'? There's a cherry pie competition, a blindfold taste test... It's like Disneyland made of pies."
Dean stood up so fast he nearly knocked over the salt canister on the table. "You're not messing with me?"
"Would I lie about pie?" you teased, and his grin stretched wide, boyish and awed.
"We're going. You and me. Sam can handle things here, he won't appreciate it."
Right on cue, Sam strolled into the room, coffee in hand, and Dean spun toward him. "Hey, Sammy. Claire and I are taking a little road trip. Couple days. Important business."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, pie?"
Dean didn't even bother denying it. He just smiled and shrugged in a funny way.
Sam rolled his eyes, but there was something fond in the way he glanced between the two of you. "Fine. I was planning on heading out with Charlie and Cas anyway. They roped me into some kind of lore convention... don't ask. Just don't die in a pie-eating accident."
Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "No promises."
You caught Sam's gaze as he turned to leave, and he gave you the tiniest smirk and wink before disappearing down the hall.
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Next weekend, the pie convention turned out to be everything Dean dreamed of and more. Booths stretched for blocks, each one offering free samples, contests, and flavors that had Dean acting like a kid at Christmas. You trailed behind him, your fingers sticky with berry filling, laughing as he tried (and failed) to talk a judge into giving him an extra slice of bourbon pecan. So he stole it from him, anyway.
By the end of the day, you both collapsed into the Impala parked just off a quiet country road. The sun was setting behind the trees, golden light spilling through the windshield, painting the car in a soft, amber glow. Dean handed you a beer, and you took a sip, still not convinced of the taste.
"I'm not sayin' it was the best day of my life," he said, eyes closed. "But if I die tomorrow, I'll go with a smile."
You laughed, turning in your seat to face him. "You really love pie that much, didn't you?"
He cracked one eye open and smiled at you. "I love anything that makes me forget the crap for a while."
There was a long pause then, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that let you feel things you didn't know how to name yet.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly more serious. "Y'know... back there. All those people. Families, couples, kids..." He glanced at you. "Sometimes I wonder what it would've been like them. Normal. If I hadn't grown up the way I did."
You tilted your head slightly, sensing the heaviness behind his words.
"My dad... he trained us to hunt before we even knew how to live. And I... I did things. Made choices that stick with me." He let out a shaky breath. "It's hard not to think I've screwed everything up."
You didn't say anything, just let your fingers gently brush the back of his hand resting between you. He didn't pull away.
You knew some things about their past: their family, the hell they'd been through. Dean was the one who told you, bit by bit. Glimpses of what they had done, what they had survived. The people that had lost. It was hard not to cry when you saw the hurt, the pain, and sometimes even fear in his eyes.
It made you want to free him from all of it... to lift the weight off his shoulders and make him feel safe. Cared for. Loved.
After a while, he looked down at your touch, then back up, his voice quieter. "Don't you ever want to know more about where you come from? About who you were before all this?"
You hesitated, eyes flicking to the windshield, watching the fading light turn to dusk.
"I used to," you said softly, that British accent sending shivers down his spine. "But it frightens me. What if I find out I was someone I wouldn't even like? What if I came from a world that wouldn't let me return here?"
Dean looked at you, listening intently, his breath caught in his throat.
"If I'm here now, it's for a reason," you continued. "And I don't want to waste time chasing shadows when I have a real life now. With Sam, with Castiel, and..." your voice faltered for a second, but you met his gaze steadily, "with you."
Dean didn't say anything at first, just stared, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he let out a quiet, breathless laugh; not mocking, just overwhelmed.
"You're something else, deer," he murmured.
And maybe it were the stars beginning to blink into the night sky above, or just the mere heat of the moment, but you felt the urgent desire to kiss him.
Dean's eyes were still on you, something soft and stunned flickering behind the green of them. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the low hum of cicadas around you, the distant rustle of trees in the night.
You swallowed hard.
"I mean it," you said, voice quiet but certain. "This... all of this. It matters to me."
Dean gave a small nod, but his expression was unreadable. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Maybe he didn't believe it, not really. That someone like you could want someone like him.
So you kissed him. To proof that for you he was worth of love as much as anyone else.
You weren't even sure what possessed you. Maybe it was the moonlight, or the pie, or just the way he looked at you like you were the one thing he didn't want to break. Your lips brushed his, tentative at first, barely more than a breath. But he didn't pull away.
He stilled.
And then he kissed you back.
Slow, warm, reverent... not like the rushed, careless kisses you'd seen in films. Not like the ones full of teeth and tongue that made you hide your face behind a pillow when they played on motel televisions. This was just different.
But still, your thoughts wandered to those scenes. The ones where the characters ended up tangled in bedsheets, breathless. You remembered the way Dean's jaw would tense slightly when those parts came on, how he'd glance over at you to see if you were watching. You always were.
So am I doing this right? Was it supposed to feel like this... like my whole body was trembling, but not out of fear, but something raw and primitive?
You didn't know, but you wanted to.
You pulled back slightly, breath hitching, your hand resting against his chest. "Dean..." you whispered, nerves tightening your throat. "I... I don't really know how this works. I've never..."
Dean's eyes widened a fraction, and you felt him tense beneath your hand. But not in a bad way, more like he was trying very hard to stay still. Just like you.
You cleared your throat. "But I... I want to."
He blinked at you, processing that. "You mean...?" His voice cracked just a little, and for the first time, Dean Winchester looked genuinely nervous.
You nodded, cheeks flushed. "I trust you."
Dean exhaled, slow and careful, and then gently squeezed your hand. "Okay. Then we're gonna take it slow. Real slow, alright?"
You nodded again, heart pounding.
He looked around, then jerked a thumb toward the back seat. "Gimme a sec."
You watched as Dean opened the back door, and started rearranging the Impala's interior with almost military precision. He took off his jacket, folded it into a pillow, pulled a blanket from the trunk, then ducked back inside to make sure the door locks were set.
When he was done, he opened the door for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. No pressure, just patience. Just Dean.
And before he could say more, you reached for him. Your hand curled into the collar of his flannel, tugging gently, and then your mouth found his.
It was clumsy at first, more instinct than anything, but it was yours. Hungry in a way that surprised even you.
Dean froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, then responded with a low sound in his throat that sent a rush through your body. His hands came to your waist, steadying, anchoring.
You broke the kiss just enough to whisper, "I want this, Dean. I want it with you."
That was all it took.
He helped you into the backseat carefully, never taking his eyes off yours, and shut the door behind him. You settled back against the makeshift bedding, nerves fluttering wildly in your belly. He joined you, hovering above, and you welcomed him between your thighs.
It was overwhelming in the best of the ways: his breath against your face, his fingers brushing your temple like a question. And you answered by reaching up to guide him down to you.
Dean kissed you again, slower this time. His lips moved gently against yours, coaxing rather than taking, and the warmth of him poured over you like sunlight after a long storm. His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek in a touch so tender it made your chest ache.
You clung to him, not just from inexperience or nerves, but because it felt like the only place you wanted to be. His weight above you was grounding, protective, and arousing.
"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper against your skin. "We stop the second you want to, I swear."
You nodded, your breath shaky, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "I trust you, Dean."
Dean lowered his head to kiss your neck, his pelvis already pressing yours into the seat. Your hand slipped inside his shirt, caressing the warm skin underneath.
He groaned softly against your skin, the sound rumbling through your chest as his lips traced a slow path along your throat. Your fingers explored the curve of his ribs, the rise and fall of his breath under your touch grounding you more than anything else ever had.
Then he straightened up, managing to pull off his shirt.
You sat up slightly, breath catching in your throat as your eyes traced the lines of his body: the muscles beneath his skin, the constellation of old scars scattered across his arms and torso. Each mark told a story, and though you didn't know them all, you wanted to.
Your gaze lingered on the tattoo over his chest, the black anti-possession symbol, bold against his skin. Your fingers brushed it gently, the warmth of his slightly tanned skin beneath your touch. A few freckles dusted his shoulders, unexpected and endearing.
Dean leaned in and started with your boots, crouching low in the cramped space of the Impala's backseat. He unlaced them slowly, then slid them off one by one, his touch warm and steady.
Next, his fingers moved to the hem of your shirt, peeling it up gently, lifting it over your head, careful not to startle or rush you. When your skin met the cool air, you shivered, and he immediately reached your arms, caressing. His hands paused, reverent, before moving to the button of your pants.
He undid the button, then the zipper, moving slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn't. The fabric slid down your hips, tugging carefully until the pants pooled at your ankles, then helped you shift to pull them free.
And there you were, semi-naked beneath Dean Winchester. Trapped in his car while he just looked at you with a quiet awe in his expression that made you feel more beautiful than you ever had before.
He guided you onto your back again with a soft kiss. His hands didn't waste time, caressing your exposed skin, tracing a delicate path along your shoulders, down your breasts, your ribcage, and over your hips.
"Tell me something, baby," his voice was a soft, warm whisper. "Have you ever touched yourself?"
"Touch myself?" you asked shyly, like you weren't sure what he meant—but deep down you had an idea. You flushed, like you'd just been caught in the act.
"Yeah," he purred. "You know, when you're in your room, alone, and you get that feeling right here." One of his hands caressed the soft flesh of your tummy, just above the hem of your panties. "Like you're feeling now. Have you ever tried to ease it, baby?"
"I might have," you confess in a whisper. You had, maybe. In your bed, when the thought of Dean was too loud, too overwhelming to ignore. You'd tried to soothe the instinct.
"Then show me."
Dean took your hand in his, guiding both into your cotton panties. You let out a gasp, a sound of surprise and pleasure, as he pressed your whole palm against your core.
"Move your fingers, sweetheart. Show me what feels good."
Your breath caught in your throat as you began to move, slow and uncertain at first. Dean stayed close, his palm pressed against the back of your hand, mirroring every motion, feeling every hesitant stroke.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice low and full of heat. "Nice and slow. Let me feel you, baby."
Your fingers explored with timid curiosity, guided by instinct and the memory of lonely nights. But this time, it felt different. This time, Dean was watching. Feeling you. Breathing with you. Encouraging you.
His hand never left yours, he followed each movement, memorizing the rhythm of your touch, the little shifts that made your breath catch.
"You like it right there," he said, more statement than question. He could feel it in the way your hand paused, circled, lingered. "Show me everything, sweetheart. I wanna learn what gets you off."
He tightened his fingers just slightly, applying the gentlest pressure behind yours, enough to remind you he was right there.
"Feels better when I'm here, doesn't it?" he whispered.
You nodded, barely able to form words. "Y-Yeah..."
Dean's smile was slow, wicked, and full of adoration. "Then take more. Go deeper. You know what your body wants, baby. Don't be shy."
You obeyed, breath hitching again as the sensation intensified. Dean kissed your shoulder, his touch reverent, worshipful.
"That's my girl," he murmured. "So damn beautiful when you're like this."
You moved with a little more confidence now, spurred by his praise and presence. The heat between your legs was pulsing, building, and the knowledge that Dean could feel every tremor, every stutter in your motion, only made it burn hotter.
"You gonna come for me, baby?" he whispered. "Wanna feel you fall apart in my hands."
You felt his fingers taking the lead, thicker and rougher, parting your wet folds with ease, quickly finding al the perfect spots that he just learned, making your whole body tremble under his touch, utterly at his mercy. Your sticky fingers clenched into the muscles of his arm, seeking for relief.
Soft circles, and up and down, teasing your entrance like a menace. But he didn't push farther yet. No, he wanted you dripping, begging, ready for him first.
After a few more movements, you finally came undone with a soft cry. You felt your honey dripping thick out of you, and your whole body trembling beneath his.
He kissed your neck and collarbone, his fingers still working you—softer now, but still making you squirm beneath him, your hips shifting, chasing his touch.
"...Dean... more..." you moaned right into his ear, and you felt his still-clothed pelvis brush against the bare skin of your thigh, seeking friction, seeking release.
So your hands moved downward, searching for the buckle of his belt. Your fingers worked quickly, and you felt his body shift, helping you along, letting you work him open.
Dean's breath catched the moment he felt your delicate, tentative hand find him inside his boxers. He never left his place there, though.
You were amused by the expression on his face: his eyes fluttering shut, jaw tensing, and body surrendering over you.
He hardened in your hand, thick and warm, and the reaction made you even wetter around his fingers.
"Holy shit... deer," he groaned, low and rough under his breath.
Your hand started moving on his length— clumsy, inexperienced — but he seemed to like it. A lot. He started moving his fingers again, sinking both of you into a mess of hands, moans, and whispered names.
After a few minutes, he looked up at you, breathless. "Wait..." he growled. "If you keep going, I'm..." He couldn't even finish the sentence, the mere thought made him shudder.
"You what?" you asked, the almost innocent tone in your voice making him twitch in your palm.
"Oh, sweetheart," he groaned, "you're gonna be the death of me."
A shaky breath escaped your lips at the unexpected sight of Dean bringing his slick-coated fingers to his mouth, savoring your taste.
"You taste so sweet, baby," he whispered. "If I had more space, I swear I'd eat your pussy out right here."
You didn't quite understand what he meant, but God, you wanted to find out right now.
He made room to work on his own jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. And once he was completely naked in front of you, the sight made your face flush an impossible shade of red.
You couldn't help but look away. You thought about his size... which definitely left your mouth dry.
For the first time that night, real nervousness settled in. Reality hit you, mixing with anticipation and desire. You wanted to feel him, but the thought of what it might be like to have him inside you made your stomach twist with nerves.
He noticed your wide eyes and gave you a soft, crooked grin. One hand reached up to gently brush your hair behind your ear. "You okay?" he asked, voice low and tender.
You nodded, even though your heart was pounding. "I just... I've never done this before."
His expression softened even more. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of you," he promised.
Then he leaned down and kissed you gently, while his hands slid under your back to work the clasp of your bra.
His green eyes darkened the moment he saw your breasts for the first time. One of his broad hands cupped one, squeezing gently, his thumb tracing slow circles over your delicate nipple. You moaned, feeling heat pool between your legs, your thighs instinctively pressing together.
"You're so damn beautiful, deer," he whispered, warm and sincere. "Fuck, you're more perfect than I imagined..."
Then his hands moved to the last piece of clothing still on you. You lifted your hips, letting him slip your panties down and off, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
Dean sat back for a moment, just looking at you, jaw slightly clenched like he was trying to hold himself together. Then he reached over to the glove box, flipped it open, and pulled out a small foil packet.
You blinked. "What's that?"
He paused, smirking a little. "A condom."
"...A what?"
Dean's brows shot up, amused. "You've never seen one of these?"
You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on the tiny package like it might bite.
His grin widened as he tore it open. "Damn, sweetheart, you really are from another time."
You flushed, but the way he looked at you, warm and patient, made it hard to feel embarrassed. He held it up like he was giving a lesson. "This goes on me. It, uh... keeps things safe. And clean. You know, in case of babies, diseases, apocalypse-related mishaps..."
Your eyes widened even more. "Oh. That's... practical."
Dean laughed softly, low in his throat. "Very."
You watched, curious and fascinated, as he rolled the condom on. Once he was done, he looked at you again, his smile softer now.
"I didn't know there were tools involved," you breathed, heart pounding.
He kissed your temple, chuckling. "There's a lot I want to teach you. But tonight? Just this. Just us."
Your nod was soft but sure. Dean leaned over you, supporting his weight on one forearm as his other hand slid carefully down your side.
His lips found yours, slow and deep, and he whispered against them, "Listen, this might hurt just a little. I can't help it, but I promise it'll feel good soon after. Just tell me if you want me to stop, okay?"
You whispered a shaky "Okay," and wrapped your arms around him, grounding yourself in the steady beat of his heart against your chest.
Then, with a patience you hadn't expected, and a tenderness that nearly broke you, he began to guide himself against you.
You felt his tip brushing against your core, drawing soft whimpers from your lips, especially when he took his time to caress your most sensitive spot.
Your body responded instinctively, already stretching around him, a reaction born purely from need.
"Dean..." you breathed, almost desperately. You didn't even know exactly what you were asking for, just that you needed something, anything, to ease the ache burning inside you.
"I know, babygirl," he murmured gently. "I'm just making sure you're ready for me."
And then, after a few more heartbeats, you felt him shift, lining himself up at your entrance, and slowly begin to push into you. You gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders as a deep stretch filled you, unfamiliar and overwhelming. It didn't exactly hurt, but it wasn't easy, either. Your body trembled beneath his, adjusting to him inch by inch.
Dean kissed your jaw, your cheek, your lips, whispering praises in between: "You're doing so good... I've got you... just a little more..."
Finally, he was fully inside, still and patient, his forehead resting gently against yours.
"You okay?" he asked again, his voice strained now, clearly holding back for your sake.
You nodded, breath shaky. "Yeah. Just... don't move yet."
He smiled faintly, brushing your hair back. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
It didn't take long for him to start feeling you moving your hips. Timidly at first, just a small shift, testing how your body responded to the fullness.
Dean froze, groaning softly into the crook of your neck. "Fuck, sweetheart..."
The sound of his voice sent a spark straight through your spine. Encouraged, you shifted again, a little more this time, and his hands immediately found your waist, steadying you with a reverence that made your chest tighten.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled back just slightly and eased forward again, watching your face the entire time.
"God, you feel incredible," he whispered, kissing your temple. "So damn perfect around me..."
His hands gripped your hips, guiding your rhythm, matching your pace with slow, deliberate thrusts. It was overwhelming: his body, his heat, the way his mouth found yours between soft curses and whispered praises. The way he held you, like you were something precious.
"Dean... Dean..." You couldn't do anything else but say his name like a prayer, especially as he teased your limits, pushing harder, deeper into you.
The sound of skin against skin, moans, and whimpers from both of you soon hushed even the rain tapping on the roof of the Impala. Every improper, filthy sound you made only encouraged him to take you rougher... yet he still held back, still careful, still trying not to hurt or scare you.
Dean was also trying to keep himself from finishing too soon. You didn't know it, but he hadn't been with anyone in months. Sure, the need had been there, but his mind always betrayed him, because if it wasn't you, he didn't want it. It wouldn't make sense to be with someone else while thinking of you.
And now that he had you, it only confirmed that he didn't need anyone else.
"It feels so good," you breathed out, voice trembling. "Dean... please! Don't stop..."
Dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His movements grew more intense, more desperate, until you could feel every tremble in his body.
His mouth traveled to your breasts, taking one of your nipples, his tongue tracing soft circles around it, his mouth leaving sucking marks on your soft flesh. Marking you as his. Your own breath hitched, the pleasure building to a crescendo that made your fingers dig into his back.
"C'mon, deer, cum for me," he groaned, feeling your pussy clench harder around his cock. "Feels so good, baby..."
You clung to him as the waves crested, your body tensed, then unraveled all at once, a soft cry escaping your lips as your world seemed to splinter in the most beautiful way.
Dean wasn't far behind. You felt him still, groaning your name like it was the only word he knew, holding you so close it was hard to tell where he ended and you began. His whole body shuddered against yours before he finally collapsed, breathing hard, his forehead pressing gently to yours.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant patter of rain against the Impala's roof.
Then, softly, he smiled. "You okay?"
You nodded, still dazed, your voice a whisper. "I've never felt anything like that."
"Me neither, baby." Dean kissed you slowly, tenderly, like a promise. "You did amazing."
For a long, long time, he had wanted you. You were the one who lived in his deepest dreams, the one he whispered about in the solitude of his bedroom. Having you beneath him felt like the most natural, meant-to-be, thing in the universe.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he realized he might actually be feeling something.
Not a whim, not just a fleeting attraction, or a desperate lifeboat he clung to just to keep from drowning in his own misery.
No, this was real, and raw, and pure.
For the first time in his life, he knew that if you asked him to, he'd leave everything behind just to be with you.
He kissed you again, slow and sweet. "I'm not letting you go, deer."
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean," you promised back.
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The sun was already high when you stirred, warm light pouring in through the fogged-up windows of the Impala. The air around you was heavy with the scent of wet earth, leather, and lingering sex. You couldn't tell where you ended and he began, limbs tangled in the sweetest kind of chaos.
You blinked, the world slowly coming into focus, and that's when you realized three things in quick succession:
1. You were still naked.
2. Dean was still naked.
3. Someone was knocking on the window.
A loud, authoritative knock.
Dean groaned, half-asleep, and shifted against you under the thin blanket. "Five more minutes," he muttered against the top of your head.
"Dean," you hissed, your heart sprinting, trapped between the seat and his body, "Someone's at the window!"
"What!?" he sat up too fast, the blanket slipping off his shoulder.
Then came the knock again, louder this time, followed by a voice: "Sir? Ma'am? Step out of the vehicle. Now."
Dean swore under his breath. "Oh, son of a bitch."
You scrambled to clutch the blanket around you, and Dean fumbled to cover both of you with the rest of it, twisting around to squint through the window. Sure enough: a very unimpressed-looking sheriff, mirrored sunglasses and all, stood outside with a notepad in one hand and what looked like a ticket book in the other.
"Oh God," you whispered. "Dean... what do we do?"
"I got it. I got this," he said, trying (and failing) to sound confident. He rolled the window down two centimeters. "Morning, officer."
The man stared, jaw tight. "Morning. We got a call from the farm owner. Said he found your car fogged up and occupied. You do realize you're trespassing, right?"
Dean cleared his throat. "Right. Yeah. Look, uh... there's a very romantic explanation for this."
The officer looked pointedly at the crumpled clothes in the front seat and your sock stuck to the gearshift.
Dean winced. "Okay. Not a great explanation. But I swear, we're consenting adults. Nobody's in danger here."
"You're also naked in public," the officer said flatly. "Which puts us in indecent exposure territory."
"Okay, okay... technically, we're in a car..."
"You're not helping," you whispered.
Eventually, the officer gave five awkward minutes to "dress and compose yourselves" standing with his back turned. Dean struggled to get his jeans on while still inside the cramped backseat. You accidentally elbowed him in the ribs trying to find your bra. And your dignity.
"Romantic night under the stars, huh?" he muttered, wincing.
"Romantic until the part where we get arrested."
Once (mostly) clothed, you were herded into the back of a patrol car like a couple of teenagers caught skipping curfew. You just wanted to cry, humiliation creeping up your whole being.
At the station, Dean was allowed one call. Of course, he dialed Sam.
"Yeah?" Sam answered, groggy.
"I need you to come to the county sheriff's office."
Pause. "What did you do?"
"It's not... okay, yes, technically it's public indecency, but..."
"Oh my God," Sam groaned.
"Also, bring bail money. And pants. Mine have a strange stain on it."
"Dean, I don't wanna know..."
By the time Sam arrived, looking smug and far too well-rested, you and Dean were sitting in plastic chairs, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
"So," Sam said, barely suppressing a grin, "Romantic getaway, huh?"
Dean glared at him. "Shut up and pay the damn fine."
Sam turned to you. "You okay?"
You buried your face in your hands. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Fair."
As Sam paid the bail and the receptionist handed over a brown paper bag with your boots inside, Dean leaned toward you with a sheepish smile.
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The door to the bunker groaned open as you and Dean stepped in, both red-faced, tired, and still vaguely humiliated from the morning's events. Sam followed behind, biting his tongue to keep from laughing out loud for the hundredth time.
Castiel looked up from the map table as you entered. He tilted his head, his brows furrowing at the sight of you two slinking in like teenagers caught sneaking in after curfew.
You passed him by, unable to even look him –or Sam, or Dean– to the face, and go sit down in a chair. Castiel sat across from you, watching you with intense curiosity as you shifted on the hard wooden chair, trying not to wince. "Claire, are you injured?"
Instinctively, your eyes turned to Dean, who somehow seemed to read your mind: you were sore. His gaze softened, a silent apology in his eyes. Cheeks burning, you quickly shifted your gaze to the table.
"No, Cas. Just my dignity."
"What happened?" Castiel asked, his voice low and steady, like the head of a household demanding the truth from his daughter.
Sam, already sipping coffee and waiting for the explosion, said casually, "They were caught... romancing in the back of the Impala. By the police."
Castiel's gaze snapped to you. "You were compromised in a vehicle?"
You sank lower into your chair. "It's not..."
"I trusted him," Castiel said solemnly, pointing a very slow, accusatory finger at Dean. "I left you alone for one evening and this is the result?"
Dean held up both hands. "Whoa, okay. Let's not go full Puritan ghost here."
"She's from 1815, Dean. That is practically the Regency era. Have you any idea what this would do to her dowry?"
You choked. "I don't even have a bank account, Cas."
"And now your reputation is in ruins," he added gravely, looking mildly offended on your behalf.
Dean, trying not to lost control of the situation, ran a hand down his face. "Cas, I didn't seduce a nun. I took Claire stargazing and then... things happened."
Castiel turned to you, eyes softened but authority still on them. "Did he declare his intentions? Did he offer marriage, or at the very least a respectful courtship letter?"
Dean choked on his own saliva the moment the word "marriage" reached his ears.
"I don't think people write letters anymore," you mumbled.
Castiel's jaw tightened. "They should."
"Cas," Sam said, nearly wheezing, "You're reacting like she was ruined in the middle of a ball."
"She was ruined in a Chevrolet, Sam!"
"Okay, that's it. It's enough, dude," Dean replied.
But Castiel wasn't done. He stepped in front of you and placed a hand on your shoulder. "If you are with child..."
"CASTIEL!" The three of you shouted at unison.
He blinked. "Then I shall smite him accordingly."
"No one is smiting anyone, Castiel," you intervened, somewhere between a nervous laughter and wishing the floor would swallow you whole.
Dean stood up. "Listen, Cas, I really appreciate your concern about my girl, believe me, I do."
Your cheeks burned and your heart flipped at the expression he used to refer to you: my girl.
"But this is the 21st century, and she's a grown, consenting woman. We don't need divine supervision every time we get a little close. So, now I'm going to take a shower, and when I come back, everyone's going to pretend this never happened."
Castiel tilted his head, visibly processing the statement.
Sam cleared his throat and stood as well. "Alright, I think that's our cue. C'mon, Cas. Let's give them a little privacy."
Reluctantly, Castiel nodded. "Very well. But if she is harmed..."
"She won't be," Dean cut in gently, but firmly. "Ever."
The angel gave Dean one last glare before walking out of the room in a swirl of dramatic disapproval. Sam snorted, giving the both of you a knowing smile before following Cas to the kitchen.
Dean turned back to you, that cocky little smirk softening as he approached.
"Except you, sweetheart," he murmured low, only for you to hear. "I want you to remember everything."
Dean brushed his knuckles gently along your arm. "So... shower?" he offered, a glint in his eye that made your stomach flutter.
You nodded, smiling, heart thudding when his fingers laced with yours. He led you to the bathroom, and the door clicked shut behind you.
