Self aware!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who realizes he's in a game, technically just a bunch of 0's and 1's.
He's angry at first because he feels invalidated in everything that has happened to him in his life since it was seemingly just for entertainment, and he feels violated—like his autonomy, his choices, were stripped away from him.
Then he gets curious.
Who are you?
You're playing the game, you probably know more about him than he'd like anyone to, and you just keep choosing him in what must be the selection screen.
Self aware!Simon 'Ghost' Riley thought he was the one deciding what happens, but he isn't.
Now that his memory doesn't erase after every match anymore, it's weird for him to kill people he knows, people he doesn't know and even himself again and again and again.
His curiosity turns into something more...twisted.
At first, Simon tried to ignore it—tried to ignore the way your choices always seemed to circle back to him.
You could have picked anyone else because there are dozens of operators, dozens of voices filling the lobby and yet every time you picked him.
Ghost. Ghost. Ghost.
The realization settled under his skin like a splinter and he started paying attention.
Sometimes he would stand perfectly still after a mission ended, listening to the distant hum beyond the edges of the world—listening for you.
He never heard words, but he felt you as a presence pressing against reality itself.
Watching him, choosing him, returning to him again and again.
At some point, he stopped wondering why and instead began wondering where you went when you weren’t here.
The thought consumed him.
You vanished for hours sometimes, days or weeks.
The world would freeze around him, suspended in a limbo nobody else seemed aware of and Simon would wait...and wait...and wait.
When you finally came back, selecting him without hesitation, relief hit him so hard it felt like pain.
It frightened him—not because he cared, because he shouldn’t and because he shouldn't even be aware of everything.
You weren’t part of his world, you were above and beyond it holding the strings—yet Simon found himself looking for signs of you everywhere.
Did you hesitate before choosing him?
Did you favor certain weapons because you liked seeing him use them?
Were you looking at him right now, only him?
The questions multiplied until they crowded out everything else.
Eventually, the missions and objectives became secondary inside his endless cycle of death and resurrection because none of it mattered as much as the fact that you kept coming back.
One day, after a match ended, Simon looked directly at the skybox past the clouds and the horizon and the boundaries of the map.
If he could see the cracks in his reality, then maybe you weren’t as unreachable as he thought—maybe there were cracks in yours too.
Perhaps given enough time, enough determination, enough obsession...every wall might eventually break.
So he waited, watching every moment you gave him and collecting them—remembering them even though he shouldn't be able to while somewhere beyond the screen, completely unaware, you continued to press the button that chose him and keeps him alive.
my masterlist
a/n: I just love myself self-aware characters AND LITERALLY CANNOT WAIT FOR MW4
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Synopsis: Your neighbor, Mr. Riley, is cold, quiet and impossible to read. He helps out a few times—carrying heavy boxes, fixing things—but never sticks around long enough for a 'thank you' that he doesn't even seem to want. Every conversation ends in silence, every interaction feels wrong.
Then his face appears on the news. He's not just unfriendly —he's a wanted fugitive, linked to multiple murders and armed robberies for which he wore a skull mask to hide his identity.
Shaken but relieved he's gone, you try to move on...until the news break that he has escaped.
!MDNI!
cw: SLOW BURN, reader lives alone and is kinda lonely, reader lives in a shitty neighborhood with a high crime rate, Simon seems like a dick (he kinda is, but also not really), mention and slight description of strangulation, criminal! TF141, kidnapping, captivity, restraining, mention of self-harm/suicide (not descriptive), description of a panic attack, criminal! Simons backstory (altered to fit the story), AU, heavy focus on reader interacting with Simon, reader has a panic attack alone,
Tags will be added as the story continues.
wc: 9,4k
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ see the end for author's notes ˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
You only glance at him for a short moment but other than that you let your eyes stay low and unfocused as if it doesn't really matter who's walked in because it's always him.
Let him think you're getting used to that, let him think you're settling in just like he wants.
His boots scuff against the wood as he crosses the threshold.
Something heavy shifts against his side, the faint rustle of a bag and the thump of it hitting his thigh as he walks.
You don't react immediately.
Just another petal, just one more line in the drawing—keeping your eyes low like the sound barely registers.
Only when he walks into the living room fully and the door is closed and locked do you glance up—slow, casual, almost groggy like you'd been fading in and out of focus, not waiting like your heart's been pounding this whole time.
He's carrying a grocery bag in one gloved hand, the other is stuffing the necklace with keys back down his hoodie—out of sight, out of reach.
Ghost pauses near the table, glancing once toward you before setting the bag on the kitchen counter.
He doesn't say anything yet, just moves in that slow and deliberate way of his.
Then he walks toward you, stops a few steps short and places something on the table.
A book.
The cover's worn but intact, the title barely faded.
You blink, having already forgotten that he said he'd bring you one.
It's not new or recently bought—probably second-hand or picked up from somewhere no one would miss it.
But it's real, and it's for you.
"Didn't know what ye liked, so just grabbed one." he says, voice low and even.
You look at it—fiction.
Something he must've thought is enough to keep you calm, slow and engaged.
He studies you while you study the cover.
No threats in his posture, just observation though there seems to be some sort of tension between his shoulders.
"Next time tell me what ye like, 'll look for it." he adds more quietly after a few beats.
You lean forward, letting your fingers brush the edge of the cover like you're unsure whether to take it—like this small offering might burn you.
But you nod softly once, not too eager but trying to match his measured movements.
"Something with...character." you murmur, trying to keep the tone neutral but grateful.
He watches you for a moment longer, nods once in acknowledgment before he turns back to the kitchen and you make it a point to not follow him with your eyes no matter how much you want to.
You hear the fridge open and the sound of paper rustling.
You wait, eyes lowered onto the book, and trace the edges with your thumb.
He brought you something, something just for you.
You don't know if it's because he thinks you deserve it, or because he wants you to believe you do.
But it doesn't matter, you'll use it either way because you know it's true—that if you don't have something to do, you'll go mad.
Every act of care he offers will become another stone in the foundation of your plan, another reason for him to believe you're becoming what he wants.
In the kitchen he opens cabinets, shifts things on shelves.
You don't turn your head.
You just open the book slowly, pretending to skim a page and pretending you haven't snooped through all the cabinets and drawers and know exactly what's in them.
Eventually he comes back into view, wiping his hands on a cloth.
"Food'll last a while longer now." he says like it's meant to reassure you.
You nod, subdued, and look at him with just enough of a tilt of your eyebrows that it could suggest gratitude.
He tilts his head slightly, like he's still trying to read something under your expression.
But there's nothing there, at least nothing you let him see.
Just stillness, obedience—just the perfect amount of gratitude from someone who's too tired to plan and too resigned to try.
And it seems to work because Ghost just nods again before taking his usual seat on the couch—near, but not hovering.
Watching, settled, satisfied even.
The only sound left is the soft rustle of the book's pages as you turn one, eyes skimming a story you're not really reading.
You're not in it for the fiction, you're in it for the chance to keep pretending and the closer he moves toward trust the closer you get to the door—to freedom.
You turn another page, slow enough that it seems like you're following the plot.
From the couch Ghost leans back, arms stretching across the top edge like he owns every inch of space you're not occupying.
He's not staring hard, at least not enough for it to look like a threat, but you feel it.
The weight of it, of his eyes on you.
You let him think it doesn't bother you.
"Didn't take long." you say lightly, your eyes still on the book.
It's not a question, not exactly, but it's enough to let him answer if he wants to.
His reply is slow and almost careful.
"Didn't need to. Just grabbed what was needed."
Something in his tone makes you think that only he decides what counts as 'needed', that you wouldn't get a say in it even if you wanted.
You hum, turn another page like it matters.
"Guess you don't like being away from here long." a statement, a quiet testing of the water.
Ghosts head tilts slightly but from the corner of your eye, just below the shadow the cap throws over his face, you can see his eyes narrow slightly.
"Guess not."
Nothing else, no explanation.
You pretend to read, letting a beat of silence pass before you speak again—casual, as if you're talking about the weather.
"I don't think I've ever met someone who spends so much time indoors."
There's a pause, a faint scrape of fabric as he shifts forward and rests his elbows on his knees.
"Home's where ye keep what matters."
You glance up—just a flick, just enough for your eyes to meet his before dropping back to the page.
"Guess that makes sense..."
It's an easy agreement, one that doesn't give anything away, but inside you're filing it away.
Home. What matters.
The fridge hums, rain starts to tap against the boards covering the windows.
Ghost leans back again, seemingly satisfied with your answer.
You let your fingers idly smooth the corner of the page, keep the act going.
A small, tired twitch of the corners of your lips as if the book's distracted you from the walls pressing in.
A glance his way, just long enough to look like you're getting used to him being there.
The slower you move, the more you seem to accept this, the more he'll start to talk and when he does you'll learn what really makes him tick.
You continue dragging your eyes over the page, though none of the words stick.
The quiet scratches at your nerves—too thick, too close.
The cold creeps in around the edges, through the boards, through the thin cotton of the t-shirt he gave you now that you're not walking around anymore and looking for chances to get out of your cage.
You rub at your arm absently, letting the motion seem casual but a small shiver slips through before you can smother it.
Ghost notices—of course he does.
He's eying you like a hawk and even though he seems to try to be subtle about it, his gaze pricks your skin uncomfortably.
His head tilts slightly, a pause, then the scrape of the couch as he leans back fully.
"Cold?" he asks.
You hesitate, weighing it.
Admitting weakness feels dangerous, but refusing when it's obvious might look worse.
"...A little." you respond, the words are soft and reluctant like you only said them because he asked—which you did, technically.
He rises slowly, every movement underlined with weight.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he crouches by the fireplace, makes use of the untouched fire starter kit.
He doesn't look at you while he feeds the fire, just stacks the kindling with practiced motions.
It grows quickly, snapping and spitting until the room starts warming by degrees.
"Better?" he asks without turning, voice low over the crackle.
"...Yeah. Thanks." you nod careful and small.
He glances over his shoulder, the shadows shifting over his eyes and they linger on you for a beat longer than necessary before he stands and brushes his gloves against his thighs.
"Ye should've said sooner." it's not a scolding, it's more like an expectation—a reminder that he notices everything.
You lower your eyes to the book again.
"Didn't want to bother you."
That earns you silence—heavy, thoughtful silence.
You risk a glance up and catch him still watching you, something unreadable in the set of his shoulders.
Then he moves back to the couch, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly as he leans against his knees.
The firelight catches the side of his mask, sharp angles made sharper by the flicker of orange.
You smooth your thumb along the edge of a page casually before you close the book.
If you want to make your plan work, you have to engage with him no matter how much you don't want to—no matter how nauseous it makes you feel, no matter how much it makes your skin crawl.
"You've done this before." you say, eyes carefully searching his.
His head tilts, just slightly.
"Done what?"
"Kept a place like this stocked. Organized."
You let the words sound half-curious, half idle—like you're just making conversation, not trying to pry.
His eyes don't leave you.
"...Suppose I have." he responds after a moment, after a beat too long as if he considered answering at all.
You hum softly, as if satisfied but continue to press carefully.
"So...what, like military? Or just the kind of person who likes things neat?" you ask.
You can't shake the feeling that his precise movements and his overall control is a simple thing he just has, it seems trained—plus the chain around his neck he keeps hidden under his clothes holds at least one dog tag, if you saw right.
There's a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you've nudged too far, then he shifts back against the couch.
"Little of both."
You nod, letting a small smile flicker like you're indulging him.
"Makes sense."
"Bet your friends don't keep things as tidy." you add after another beat, deliberately lighter.
That earns a short sound—low, almost amused under the mask.
"Not even close."
You chuckle short and soft, enough to make it seem like you're sharing a moment and not probing for cracks.
But inside, you're picking it apart and trying to memorize every tiny crumb he feeds you.
Friends, messy, different from him.
Maybe even a point of tension, but trust and favors since he told them to watch you and make sure you're still there.
Loyal because they do their criminal work together without stabbing each other's backs.
The fire pops sharply, sending sparks up the chimney.
You shift in your chair, curling slightly closer to the warmth as your eyes swim to the fire as well.
On the surface, it's casual and harmless—but every word you draw from him is another thread to hold onto, another shape forming in the shadow of the man who cages you here.
And you know you'll need every piece of it, every piece of that monster who had no issue with almost killing you just to say he wants you safe.
The fire builds, licking at the logs until the shadows dance higher along the walls.
The warmth creeps toward you steadily, loosening the tight ache in your shoulders.
You keep quiet and let the silence stretch like you're comfortable in it.
Ghost doesn't let it sit long.
"Ye read much before?" he asks, voice quiet, like it doesn't matter to him whether you answer or not.
You blink once, feigning a slow pull back to awareness even though his voice almost made you flinch.
"Sometimes." you shrug careful and light, glancing down at the book in your lap.
"Not as much as I could've and should've, probably." you admit a moment later.
He hums—deep, neutral.
You can't tell if he's filing that away like you have been every of his words or if he's actually just trying to hold a conversation.
"What'd ye do, then?" he asks after a beat.
"For all that time ye weren't reading."
The question hangs there, deceptively simple—casual on the surface but you know that if you're not careful with your answer, your words might just get used against you in one way or another.
You keep your tone level when you respond.
"Work, friends, just...normal things. Nothing interesting." you settle as your answer, shrugging slightly as if your life before you knew he existed is a distant memory you don't care about.
His gaze lingers like he's weighing the truth in your words, like he's measuring you against some unspoken picture he already has in his head—exactly what you expected him to do.
"Normal's not bad." he states after a moment.
Your lips twitch into something that could pass for agreement.
"Guess not."
The silence returns but it feels different this time like you've both given each other something small and unimportant but still a piece of yourselves.
You open the book again, pretend to read.
Then, gently, you nudge back.
"Guess you don't get much of that. Normal, I mean."
He knows what you're referring to, you're sure of it.
Living as a criminal and hiding in plain sight while one's hands are slick with blood isn't really the definition for normalcy.
Ghost's head turns toward the fire.
The mask shifts slightly as he exhales, not exactly deeply but still a bit heavier.
"...Not really."
You let your gaze linger on him for half a heartbeat before dropping it again as if you're only curious, not digging.
"Must feel strange..." you murmur, softer now "...staying still for once."
He doesn't answer right away, just leans back with his arms spread across the top of the couch again and claiming the space.
"Doesn't feel wrong." he finally says.
Your fingers press against the spine of the book to keep steady.
There it is—a small piece you can use to your advantage because he wants a quiets life, normalcy, but didn't have it before.
You nod, slow to feign satisfaction in the answer but internally don't let yourself relax in the slightest because you know better.
He's asking questions too, he's searching for pieces the same way you are.
And the more you both play this game of small exchanges, the clearer it becomes—whoever slips first loses.
The fire keeps cracking in the hearth, the smell of smoke and burning cherry oak curling faintly into the room.
You let the warmth settle into your skin, enjoy it while it lasts because fires don't seem to be lit here often.
Ghost shifts, his gloved hands pressing against his knees as he pushes himself up.
You keep your eyes on the dancing flames, tracking his motion from the corner of your vision as he walks to the front door.
The locks scrape and click, heavy and metallic, each one undone with deliberate care.
The sound makes the hair on your arms and neck stand up.
You tighten your grip on the book, force your gaze to the page now like it doesn't matter that he's working on the door—like it isn't dangerous that he's opening the one exit that stands between you and freedom.
The door creaks.
Cold air brushes through the room, stirring the firelight.
The smell of rain and wet earth follows not soon after and it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
You're so close yet so far of getting out, of getting away but Ghost is a brick wall you can't break through and you know that.
He'd slam you back into the furthest wall of the cabin the second a single strand of your hair gets a fleeting taste of freedom.
You hear the rasp of a lighter, the faint inhale, then the soft exhale of smoke.
He doesn't step outside onto the small porch you can barely make out behind the door, doesn't even give you the illusion of a chance—a small mercy at least.
He's leaning with his back against the doorframe, his body a solid shadow against the grey spill of daylight beyond the cabin door with his mask rolled up just enough to expose his lips so he can smoke.
'He's not a frequent smoker' you think.
This is the first time you've seen him smoke, the smell of cigarettes isn't in the cabin either and the smell of smoke on his jacket doesn't come from cigarettes—you're sure of that.
The silence stretches again, but not comfortably—it's tense on your end.
It's a test, a trap with razor sharp teeth.
"Place ye worked..." Ghost says finally after a few drags, his voice carried by the fresh air coming from outside "...ye like it?"
Your heart jolts at the casualness.
You wet your lips, tilt your head slightly like you're weighing the memory.
"It was fine." you answer.
You could tell him how much you hated going to work in that company every day, but you decide against it.
Not only because you don't want him to think that you hated anything in your life before it became this, but also because right now you kind of miss it.
You miss interacting with other people, even if they were nosy and annoying.
"Nothing special. Paid the bills." you add.
He exhales smoke after having taken another drag as you talked, a faint plume catching the gust of wind before vanishing.
"People treat ye alright?"
It sounds simple on the surface but you know it isn't.
He's watching how you answer, how you react to all of it.
You nod once, this time deciding for a half truth you can believe yourself.
"Mostly. Everyone's got someone they don't get along with though. It's just how people are." you shrug soft and harmless.
There's a beat of silence, then the faint grind of the cigarette as he flicks ash out into the cold.
"Suppose so."
You risk your own nudge, keeping it light.
"And you? Ever do that kind of thing?"
The shadow of his shoulders stiffens just slightly but his voice stays even.
"No. Not my sort of work."
You hum like that's all you wanted to know but you're turning it over and pressing on the edges of it to see what kind of use you can get out of that information.
The silence lingers, heavy with things he doesn't ask and answers you therefore don't give.
The locks clank one after the other, slow and firm, as he shuts the door and seals it again after crushing the cigarette under his boot.
He turns and pulls his hood down a fraction, just enough for the firelight to catch the dark hollows of his eyes.
Ghosts watch flashes briefly at his wrist when he adjusts his sleeve, then disappears again under the fabric.
"Hungry?" he asks, tone flat but not unkind.
" 's kinda late already."
Your stomach twists—not just at the thought of food, but at the reminder that time is slipping in ways you can't mark.
You crush the thought of asking what time it is exactly because you're certain he won't give you an answer or that, if he gives you one, it will throw you off enough to loose your act since you don't even know what day it is anymore.
You glance at the fire, then down at the book again before answering.
"...Yeah. I could eat."
Ghost nods satisfied like that's what he wanted to hear, then he pauses mid-step towards the kitchen.
He watches you for a few very long moments, not moving a single muscle before he suddenly begins to move.
He's coming towards you with certain steps, not rushed but determined.
This in itself already makes you panic but when you look up to see how close he already is and notice that his eyes are narrowed, you almost break into a cold and panicked sweat.
He stops in front of you, stares for another second before his gloved hand suddenly grabs your chin and almost your entire jaw.
Your breath hitches in fear involuntarily, the familiar fabric of his gloved hands near your throat enough to almost make you scream—to take the chance you didn't get last time.
But you smother that thought, that instinct, before it can take root.
You don't know what his intention is yet, acting too fast might make things more difficult for you.
Ghost's voice cuts through the tension, his narrowed eyes fixed on your neck.
"What's that?" he asks and his tone is different from before—it's lower, more commanding and therefore turning his question into a statement.
He's not asking you to tell him, he's telling you to do so.
"What..?" you question in return, oblivious to what he's referring to.
"The scratch marks on yer fucking neck." he responds angrily, almost in a growl, his eyes snapping up to meet yours.
"Scratch..marks..?" you question once more, trying to force your voice to be steady.
Scratch marks? Why would there be scratch marks on your neck?
Your fingers twitch against the book in your lap, nails digging lightly into the worn paper to ground yourself and deny yourself moving away from his hand still holding your jaw.
His grip on your chin doesn't hurt, not yet, but it's solid and unshakable—he could tilt your head any way he wanted and you'd have no say in it.
The heat of the fire and the smell of the smoke suddenly feel suffocating.
Your mind reels back, trying to find the reason for the scratch marks.
You go back to the time period he was gone, knowing the answer has to lay there.
In a rapid blur you fly through your memories until you find the answer.
The pressure of his hands around your throat, the desperate, clawing panic until your body sunk in under the lack of oxygen it kept from itself after you touched his jacket and all the memories came flooding back from how he even got you into this cabin in the first place.
Now you remember—the panic attack you had in his room.
You forced yourself to keep moving to find weak spots in your prison afterwards, causing you to push that incident into the back of your mind until you forgot about it—until now.
You blink fast, force your voice into something small but certain.
"I...I must've scratched myself."
His eyes narrow even more, the rest of his face still hidden underneath the mask and the hood of his hoodie—giving you only his eyes as an indication of what he might think or feel.
He clearly doesn't buy it, not yet.
"When?" he asks sharply.
Your throat tightens under his hand and you swallow while trying not to make it obvious.
"...Earlier. I was drawing and I guess I...wasn't paying attention. Must've done it without noticing."
It sounds weak even to you, but it's all you have.
His thumb brushes against your jaw, slow and deliberate—a ghost of pressure that leaves a burning feeling in the trail his thumb leaves behind.
You freeze, everything in you screaming not to flinch or pull away.
"Absentminded." he mutters, the word grates.
You nod, quick, as though agreeing will make him let go.
"Yeah. Didn't even realize until you pointed it out."
Another long pause as hiss hand lingers.
His eyes bore into yours like he's stripping away the lie piece by piece.
A log in the fire pops, crumbling in the flame—the sound makes you want to jump, dangerously close to tripping over the tension.
But finally, his hand drops.
He straightens, shadow stretching taller across the room.
"Need to be more careful." his voice is flat again, almost calm, but the edge in it remains.
You rub your palm quickly across your throat and jaw, brushing away the phantom ache of his grip.
"...I will." you agree quietly, hoarseness in your voice even though you tried to sound sure.
He studies you a second longer before turning steadily back toward the kitchen.
You don't breathe until his back is to you, until he opens a cupboard.
The warmth from the fire doesn't reach your skin anymore.
It doesn't matter how carefully you lie, how steady you keep your mask—Ghost sees too much.
And if he looks long enough, you're terrified he'll see everything.
The cupboard he opened closes again, a aluminum can gets set down on the counter.
You force yourself to shift slightly in your chair, casual, a quiet hum in your throat like you're trying to settle back into comfort.
He glances at you once, quick but sharp, then returns his attention to what he's doing in the kitchen.
The silence weighs heavy, almost unbearable, until he breaks it.
"Ye like soup?"
Your head snaps up before you can stop yourself.
The question is so startlingly mundane that it disarms you for a beat and you just respond without thinking.
"Um...yeah. I do."
He nods once, as though cataloguing it, then sets two cans aside.
Even if you didn't like soup, would it matter?
He gave you soup to eat already, so why would he ask now?
You grip the edge of the book tighter.
Even this, the simple act of asking what you like, feels like another test—another layer of control dressed as care.
He pulls a pot from under the counter, sets it on the stove.
The soft hiss of the burner clicking fills the air, followed by the slow glug of liquid pouring.
For a while it's just the sounds of him moving in the kitchen and he doesn't speak again until the soup is heating.
"Ye ever cook?"
Your mouth goes dry for a moment, still fighting the phantom ache.
"Sometimes."
He glances at you over his shoulder, unreadable under the mask.
"Good."
That single word hangs in the room like an anchor and you can't tell if it's approval, a reminder or a warning.
You shift your eyes back to the fire, hiding the way your shoulders tense.
The smell of simmering broth curls into the air, filling the cabin.
You close the book, lay it carefully on the table beside you and draw your knees closer to yourself.
For a moment, you let yourself pretend it's just dinner—just two people at the end of the day, one cooking, one reading by the fire.
But the phantom ache at your throat drags you back fast and you know that you can't afford to forget, not even for a second, what he did to you or what he's capable of—who he is.
The fire snaps beside you, the smell of simmering broth blending with smoke and burning wood.
Ghost stirs the pot with unhurried motions, his back broad and solid in the low light.
Every scrape of the utensil feels deliberate, like he knows the silence is pressing you down.
You try not to fidget.
You fold your arms loosely across your stomach, shift your legs under the chair, then force yourself still again.
Any more movement and it'll look nervous, restless—the kind of thing he'd notice, the kind of thing he'd pry into.
But your skin still tingles where his hand had held your jaw, your throat burns from the passed weight of his fingers closing around it.
You wonder how much of that you can take before something in you buckles, before the act slips and before you break.
He doesn't have to strangle you again for that to happen.
His touch, even when it's just a brush of his thumb and even when it's disguised as care, presses down on something inside you until you feel yourself fraying.
How many more times can you sit through it?
How many more times can you let him test the edges of your faked obedience before the panic pushes through and ruins everything?
The scrape of the plastic utensil in the pot stops.
He sets it aside, turns, and leans back against the counter.
His arms fold across his chest, casual but watchful.
You look down quickly to pretend interest in the fire again, though you can feel the heat of his stare even through the shadow the hood throws over his eyes.
The silence stretches until your chest aches with it and somewhere, deep down, you know he doesn't believe your lie—he just doesn't press because he wants you to torture yourself in it.
The smell of food thickens in the air, mixing with the smoke from the fire more noticeably.
It should be comforting but instead it presses heavy against your chest.
Ghost stays leaned against the counter, arms folded, head tipped slightly up so he can watch you from between the edge of his mask and the hood—not taking off either or exchanging the black surgical mask for the balaclava with the print.
The light makes the dark hollows of his eyes sharper, more cavernous.
His voice cuts through the low crackle of the flames.
"Travel much?"
You shift slightly, rubbing your thumb along a spot of the armchair.
"Not really." your tone is quiet, subdued.
Ghost hums low, not breaking his stare.
"Never wanted to?"
You force your shoulders to lift in a faint shrug, as though the thought never mattered much.
"Sure. But wanting something and getting it aren't the same thing."
That earns you a pause, a heavy one.
He doesn't move or look away—he studies you like he's measuring the truth behind every word and any implication that might be hiding behind it.
You risk a gentle push, careful and feather-light.
"...You have, though?"
It's not a question, not really, and now you're the one watching closely and waiting.
There's the faintest shift in his posture, a tightening across his shoulders before he lets out a low sound—neither confirmation nor denial, just a breath.
"Had to." he finally says.
Had to.
Not wanted to, probably didn't choose to.
You note the wording and lock it away.
"Sounds like you didn't like it much." you murmur, your voice soft and non-confrontational.
Ghosts head tilts a fraction, the black mask getting a golden glow in the firelight.
"Doesn't matter if ye like it. Ye just do it."
You let the words hang there, let him think you're too tired to press or understand what he means.
Inside your pulse keeps drumming a little faster because every small crack, every piece of his past he doesn't mean to give you, is another thread you can pull.
And you wonder how many of those threads you can collect before the whole thing unravels, before his touch and his voice and his scrutiny finally make you slip—hopefully you'll have enough threads by then to pin him down.
The fire pops, a sharp snap that makes you flinch before you can mask it.
Ghost doesn't miss it, he never does.
He leans back in the counter again, one arm resting casual but deliberate on it.
"Ye've been sittin' in that chair since Ah left." he says evenly, not quiet gruff but not quiet casual either.
Your stomach knots.
It's not what he's saying, not directly at least, it's the weight underneath it—the subtle push as if he wants you to break and say you've snooped around like he already knows you did, at least that's what it feels like.
You lower your eyes back to the book on the table, force your voice steady.
"I was tired, it was easier to stay put."
A hum rumbles low from Ghost, unreadable and he drums two fingers against his thigh slowly like a ticking clock.
"Mm." he hums "Just doesn't look like ye, is all."
Your throat goes tight.
He's not accusing, not yet, but brushing right against the line of it.
You draw in a small breath, keep your reply soft and almost dismissive—too scared to even question how he thinks he knows what you're usually like.
"Guess I'm not myself lately."
That earns you another silence, long enough that you almost look up to check his expression.
But then he hums in acknowledgment before you raise your gaze.
"Suppose that's true." Ghost murmurs finally, leaning his hips further against the counter.
The way he says it makes your skin prickle.
As if he knows there's more to it, like he's waiting for the moment you slip and knows exactly how to get you to that point.
The silence feels thick, like tar you're trying to breath through.
You start tracing the armrest of the chair again, grounding yourself and focusing.
Ghost doesn't let it go.
His voice cuts through the crackle of the fire again, steady and close to conversational.
"Funny, though. Ye're usually fidgetin' more."
Your thumb on the armrest presses into the cold wood as you force yourself to stay composed, to stay soft and not snap.
"Guess I'm tired of pacing." you say with a ghost of a shrug "Doesn't get me anywhere."
He tilts his head again, the shadows shifting across his masked face again.
"So ye've given up?"
The words sting and you can't tell if it's because of how sharp they are or because of the trap underneath them.
You force yourself to exhale slowly through your nose, desperately trying to find a response that won't give away your act while still being convincing and egging him on to lower his guard.
If you were to tell him that yes, you have given up, he'd be suspicious and if you tell him you haven't given up he'll keep the walls high and unyielding.
"Just...trying to save my energy." you settle to say carefully, skin prickling with possible consequences to your words.
Another pause, another hum—he's weighing it.
Then he leans his upper body forward slightly, crossing his arms over his chest while his hip stays pressed against the counter.
"Guess 's just strange, that."
You almost break.
You almost ask what's strange, almost yell at him and admit that you've searched around the cabin for an escape in hopes of damage control if you admit—but you bite it back.
If he wants to press, let him.
Don't give him the satisfaction of chasing it.
He waits like he expects you to fill the silence but when you don't, he speaks again.
"Strange seein' ye quiet when ye used to talk to yerself."
Your chest tightens.
He's right.
You used to fill the silence with mutters, half-thoughts, scraps of noise—not anymore.
Now every word you spend is measured, rationed and too draining to just throw out.
You press your lips together then let out a small, practiced chuckle.
"Perhaps I'm running out of things to say."
Ghost doesn't laugh with you.
He just watches, still and heavy, as though he's trying to peel your skin back to see what's underneath.
"Hmm." he hums, tone unreadable "Don't reckon that's it."
The fire cracks louder, the heat pressing against your skin.
You feel like you're suffocating in it—in him, his questions, the silence between .
He leans back again finally slow and deliberate which makes your heart stutters because you don't know if that means you've passed his test or if he's simply letting you sweat a little longer before the next one.
Ghost doesn't move, doesn't speak.
He just stands there, head tilted the slightest degree and eyes pinned to you through the shadows of his mask.
The air feels tight in your lungs.
How much longer can you hold this?
How much longer before he sees the cracks, the act slipping?
You're getting anxious and paranoid in the silence he leaves, in his gaze constantly trying to pick you apart.
Your fingers itch to rub at your neck again but you don't dare, not while he's watching you this way.
The silence stretches like he's daring you to say something first.
Your pulse thunders in your throat.
You wonder how much of his silence you can continue to take before you break, before the words would spill raw and unguarded from your mouth in an attempt to earn at least some mercy—your mind keeps spinning back to it, again and again without you being able to help it.
But just as you wonder that again, he exhales.
Low and steady, the edge snapping clean at the breath.
Ghost leans further against the counter, stretching an arm along the top like he's claimed the whole space again while the predator's focus softens if only just.
"Food." he says simply, voice back to that flat and practical tone "Need t' eat somethin' before it gets darker."
You almost sag with relief, but you catch yourself before it shows.
"Okay." you nod, careful.
He turns back to the pot he sat aside, the weight of his presence easing as he turns away from you.
The firelight flickers over the back of his shoulders, the black fabric of his hoodie shifting as he moves.
Already, he's slid back into that strange rhythm of caretaker and captor all at once—tightening the leash then loosening it, just enough to keep you walking in step.
And you know it's not because he cares, it's control and tactics.
The kitchen seems so small when he moves inside it—too quiet, too deliberate.
You swallow once, twice.
Your throat feels tight like his hand is still there, like he saw everything.
He didn't, he couldn't have—you were careful, you were.
You even wiped down the handles of the drawers with your sleeve, erasing any trace you might could've left behind.
But the way he stared just now...you can't shake it, can't stop replaying it.
You can't stop imagining him standing in his room earlier, looking at the jacket you touched, the things you moved, the air you disturbed-
Stop.
You force your expression softer and force it to turn into something tired, something calm and settled—exactly the way you've trained yourself to look, exactly what you expect him to want you to look like.
Behind you, he stirs the soup.
The soft scrape of the metal spoon against the pot's sides fills the room.
It shouldn't feel threatening, but it does and you can't shake the thought that he's testing you—still testing you.
He's waiting for you to make a mistake, to flinch at the wrong time, to answer too fast or too slow or too honest or not honest enough.
Your heart pounds but you tip your head slightly toward the kitchen and pretend to listen with mild interest, not fear.
The burner clicks off and footsteps follow.
Ghost steps into your periphery holding two bowls—steam curling from both, carrying the faint smell of processed vegetables and salt.
He sets one in front of you, his gloved hand lingers a second too long near yours.
Your pulse stumbles.
"Eat." he says quietly, gruff and rough like usual.
A command, a 'caring' one—dangerous one.
You wrap both hands around the bowl, letting the warmth soak into the cold of your fingers.
You take a slow sip using the spoon, the hot broth burns your tongue but you don't let it show.
Ghost sits across from you on the couch, not too close but close enough that you can feel him watching you even when he lowers his head toward his own bowl—his body and face angled away from you as he seems to just stir the soup around.
You lift your spoon again, intentionally steady.
You can't let him see how your mind is sprinting, still worrying and panicking.
Does he know? Did he notice something out of place?
Did you put everything back exactly right?
The jacket, the drawer, the duffle bag in his closet, the angle of the door handle leading to his room?
"Yer jumpy tonight."
Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth for a moment, then you force the soup into your mouth and swallow as you make it look like you're thinking and not startled.
"Just tired." you say softly.
You angle your gaze downward, let your lashes lower—a quiet confession that gives him nothing.
He hums.
A low, thoughtful sound that curls down your spine in the worst way.
The fire cracks again, the rain keeps tapping the boards and the soup steams between you.
"Mm." Ghost hums once more after a beat, still not making a move to actually eat.
"Yer thinkin' hard."
Your stomach knots so sharply you almost choke on your next sip but still you force a faint smile, making it look small and embarrassed—like you've been caught daydreaming about something harmless, not spiraling into paranoia.
"Just...the book." you lie, nodding toward the worn cover on the table.
His eyes lift slightly and you feel the weight of them even more behind the mask.
"Right."
He doesn't sound convinced but he doesn't sound unconvinced either.
He sounds like he's marking your answer, like he's sliding it into some internal ledger you'll never see.
You take another slow spoonful pretending the warmth calms you, pretending the tension isn't suffocating you from the inside.
It doesn't seem like Ghost is eating, more like he's toying with the food.
But every few seconds, you feel his eyes rise to you again.
Measuring and circling you, trying to see what your silence hides.
Maybe trying to see how much pressure it takes before you crack but you concentrate to breathe evenly, to not keep spiraling—to not show the terror clawing at your ribs, to not let him see how desperately you want to run.
Because right now, just like every moment he forces himself into your space and conscious, Ghost is watching for the smallest slip—the slightest tremor, the tiniest truth you might be hiding under lies.
And you refuse to give him any of it, even as your hands shake around the warm metal bowl.
Even as he studies you like he already knows you lied and is only waiting for the moment you prove him right.
You don't look at him as you eat, focus on your own bowl of soup instead—an attempt to keep the paranoia rising at bay.
From your peripheral vision, you can see that the the black surgical mask he put on is lowered below his chin.
You're still wondering what he looks like, what you'd see if you looked at him now with a face bare and only the cap throwing a shadow over his eyes.
You've wondered about a beard already, a nose broken too many times or scars or any form of disfigurement on his face.
Maybe his face is looking as cruel as he is?
Perhaps his face is as violent as he is? As ugly as the things he's done?
A part of you wants to know, yearns to take a peek, but you don't let yourself.
You keep staring into the broth of your soup, chewing bits you don't even care to taste.
He doesn't ask more questions, doesn't talk or pry anymore for the rest of dinner or lunch or whatever this is.
You wonder what it means that he's willing to let you see him bare faced, to give you the chance of looking at him without a mask and cover.
If you'd look, what would happen?
Would he use it as an excuse to do something? To scold or punish you? Yell or harm?
Or would he maybe even like it? Find some kind of twisted satisfaction in it?
You don't know and you don't want to find out, not now and hopefully not forced to ever.
Ghost is done eating before you are.
He doesn't set his bowl down on the table, doesn't stay seated until you're done—he just adjusts the mask back over the lower part of his face and stands up with the bowl in hand that you can't help but notice looks almost comedically small in his hand.
You watch him discreetly as he turns his back on you and walks into the kitchen, his upper body clearly visible over the U-shaped counters.
The metal bowl and spoon clink against the sink when he puts them in before he turns the tab on.
You eat a bit slower as you watch him move, watch him pull open the locked drawer with the chain of keys around his neck.
He doesn't put the chain back on immediately, stuffs it into the front pocket of his black cargo pants instead.
Your burnt tongue still feels tender and rough when it brushes over the thin skin at the roof of your mouth as you swallow another bite.
You watch him put some dish soap into the filling sink, then put the bottle down next to it.
He's not just hiding cutlery and knives from you, even something simple as dish soap gets hidden from you but he gave you a notebook and pen and even the ceramic mug from the tea he gave you before he left is still sitting on the table.
You're not sure if it's deliberate, not thought over or carless though the latter feels unlikely.
You finish your soup, put the spoon in it and it clinks against the bowl as you move to set it down on the table.
Before you can though, Ghost extends his hand behind him and curls his fingers to beckon you to give you the bowl without turning or even looking at you.
For a moment, this reminds you of how he was back in the apartment complex before you knew who he truly was—before he was arrested, before he told his friends to watch you, check if you left, change your heater and before he ultimately escaped confinement.
You remember that raining morning, the day after he helped you with your coffee maker and carried it the rest upstairs to your apartment door, when he ignored your 'good morning' and walked past you as if you weren't even worth acknowledging.
For a moment you hesitated, caught up in the memories of your life across from him before he took it in his own hands, then you get up.
Automatically you grab the mug as well before getting up from the safe feeling comfort of the armchair and step closer to the kitchen, closer towards him.
You walk steady and fast, not too fast though—simply enough to make it look like you're not expecting him to do something other than take the bowl and mug from you, though deep down your stomach tingles with worry and unease.
A few feet behind him you come to a halt, just close enough to his still extended hand to reach the content of your hands out to him when you extent your arms.
He still doesn't look at you, the gloves he always seems to wear already pulled off the hand not extended and revealing thick, calloused fingers—small faded scars spanning across the back of his hands and fingers.
Some look thinner but longer, others short and thicker while one seems so deep that it's visibly raised from his skin just below the knuckle of his index and middle finger.
You blink to stop yourself from staring, only noticing you have been staring when the ungloved tips of his fingers dip into the soapy water to test the warmth.
To conceal the fact you were staring and don't make it seem like you were hesitating, you put the mug in the bowl as well and hold the edge of the metal as you raise the arm holding it and extend it towards his hand for his taking.
Instead of taking it the same way you're holding it though, Ghost takes the bowl by the bottom with his palm and closes his fingers around the middle of it until they graze the edge and trap your fingers between his gloved ones and the warmed metal.
You watch the movement of his fingers, watch it happen and yet don't pull away to stop the contact from happening—force yourself not to even though your heart races and your throat closes.
What were you supposed to do? Drop the bowl? Let the mug shatter on the floor?
Once you feel like the bowl balances steady in his palm and that all responsibility should it fall is off you, you pull away.
It's hastier than you would've liked, hastier than a perfect hostage would pull away—he doesn't comment on it.
He just takes the bowl, lowers it into the sink with a small splash before removing his other glove.
He doesn't react to the touch,as if he didn't even notice it—doesn't even look at you before his hands dip into the sink and grab a sponge.
You turn before you walk back to the living area where you grab the notebook, pen and book.
You need to take a breath, get some distance from him—as much as you can have, anyways.
The fire in the hearth is already starting to burn out since he only put a few logs in, so this room doesn't provide even an inch of comfort anymore.
Ghost doesn't turn around to you until you start making your way to the hallway, then he turns to look at you sharply.
His shoulder twist and his entire head whips around to you, the quick and almost violent looking motion making you pause with a slight flinch automatically.
"What're ye doin'?" he asks, his voice practically booming through the space separating you from him.
"I'm tired." you say after a moment, after you manage to shove the initial shock down.
Ghost's eyes narrow and you think he's about to tell you to sit back down since his shoulders are also still tense, but then he nods—just once and slow in obvious reluctant permission, that's all you need.
You force your head and gaze forward, make your feet carry you into the hallway that's only illuminated by the light coming from the overhead lamp of the living room.
Your heart's still beating faster than usual, not exactly racing but close to it, as you walk the few steps down the hallway to the second door on the left—your room.
The door is still slightly ajar and you push it open fully before slipping inside and closing it behind you.
You inhale shakily but quiet.
You feel drained, exhausted—a feeling that's so familiar and so unfamiliar at the same time that it makes your stomach clench because you only knew it from work.
Never had you thought you'd miss it—the meetings, the paperwork, fluorescent tube lighting, the humming of the printer, the useless conversation with co-workers who only bothered learning your name but nothing more, the war's over the coffee machine, the mindless greetings and niceties of goodbye or taking more work than you were supposed to because your boss couldn't get his own work done—but now you do, terribly so.
You miss work.
You miss the luxury of boredom, miss the half-hearted smiles of co-workers, miss talking to them, you miss having something to do and you miss the control over your own life.
You miss your parents, you miss your friends you left behind in your hometown, miss the few people you got to know after moving to Manchester.
You miss your neighbors, not all of them but some like Mrs. Alleen even though you never had the interest in gossip and rumors she had.
You even miss that guy from 4B, the apartment above you, who'd sometimes blast his music until three or four in the morning.
You miss your apartment, the crack in one of the tiles in the bathroom, the water that never stayed warm for more than a few minutes before Ghost's companions switched your old heater for a new one, you miss the groaning of the old apartment complex when it seemed to settle for the night.
You miss walking up the stairs to the third floor because the elevator was never fixed, miss walking to the subway for work.
Tears rise into your eyes, burn hot and wet on the surface of your cornea as your throat closes up with the realization that you took everything you had for granted—that everything you had has been taken from you for being nice, for being polite.
Ghost's word echo in your head as you blink the tears away and put the book, notebook and pen down on the desk.
'You were the only one who treated me with politeness in that place.'
If he meant what he said, if it's true and kindness does have teeth, when does his 'kindness' of strangling, kidnapping and holding you captive bite him?
You just hope it bites him quick, sharp and tearing him apart as fast as possible.
꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂
When you wake the next morning, eyes feeling puffy from tears you weren't entirely successful of keeping down the night before while falling asleep, the cabin is quiet.
No creaking of furniture or floorboards, no footsteps.
You take your time to sit up and get out of bed, your bladder forcing you out of what little comfort your room gives so you can use the bathroom.
Slowly you open your door, then take a careful step outside—the cabin stays oddly silent when you do.
You step out of your room fully, peek into the living room and at the couch where Ghost usually sits but he's not there.
Is he gone?
You decide to ignore your almost aching bladder and walk down the hallway, keeping your footsteps light as you step into the main room of the cabin.
He isn't in the kitchen either, though there is a metal plate on the kitchen counter with breakfast that seems to have gone cold.
You glance at the door—the locks are gone which makes your brows furrow.
You look behind you, back into the dark hallway, but there's no sign of Ghost.
Rather confused and perplexed you turn your body back to the hallway and walk it down, stopping at the door right opposite of yours which leads to his room—listening for sounds, a sign that he might be only testing you and waiting for you to try and open the front door now that the locks are gone.
You listen closely for what feels like forever but you can't hear anything—no pacing nor breathing that isn't yours.
You pace back into the main room, stare at the door and vacancy of locks as you consider calling out for him—you don't want to.
You'd rather drink a truck full of oil than call out for him, make yourself look dependent on him, but you feel like you have no choice.
You need to know if he's truly not around before you do anything that might get you in trouble.
So, after a few moments of warring with yourself, you part your lips.
"Ghost..?" you call out rather quiet but loud enough so it carries through the cabin, trying not to make yourself sound as hesitant as you are just in case he is around and might question it later.
There's no answer so you try again as you walk towards the hallway once more, still nothing.
The bathroom door is wide open so he's definitely not in there which only leaves his room—you stop in front of the door.
"Ghost?" you call out, reluctantly and almost softly knocking on the door when there's no answer after a few moments.
The cabin stays silent, almost eerily so.
You knock again, a bit firmer this time, but there's still no sound from behind the door.
Your heart pounds when you reach for the handle and press it down, the door opening a few inches by itself—barely enough so you can peek inside which you do after counting to five in your head.
His room looks just like it did yesterday, as if he hadn't been in here at all—only his jacket on the bed has been moved to the edge of the mattress.
You don't step inside, don't dare to.
You don't know for how long he's already gone for, when he'll come back and you don't want to risk this bit of leash he's seemingly giving you.
After closing his door again, you step back into the living area and the front door.
With suspicion you eye the naked looking door, eye the placed the locks usually hang at—you don't let yourself hope.
You take a deep, steadily breath, then slowly and carefully push the handle of the front door down while softly pushing the wooden door forward with your other hand.
The door doesn't budge and through the wood you can faintly hear metal clink from right outside the door as it's forced to move by your push.
Despite having told yourself not to hope, the wave of disappointment washing over you is undeniable.
a/n: so sorry this took a while. I wrote a lot of drabbles/short one-shots since the last part of KHT. You can check them out either on my profile or find them in my masterlist if you're interested, they're mostly CoD :) Also, I listened to the dub of reboot MW2 in my native language for the first time and I cringed so hard TT
Someone on ao3 said Ghost sounds scottish, seems like reddit was not a reliable source for how to write out a manchester accent (My fault though, I should've known better because when is reddit ever a reliable source for anything) So, if anyone could help me correct I'd be very glad <3
Thanks again to my beta/proofreader @donttm1ndm3 for helping me out<3
Vampire!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who refuses your blood even though he's dying, finally giving in to your reprimands to just fucking drink it. He didn't tell you how needy blood makes him, hips rutting against the bed in search of friction and relieving the tightness in his pants—helplessly hooked and addicted to your blood now, because how could you taste just so so good?
Synopsis: You were there the night only one was meant to survive and you didn’t die while you carry something dangerous—the ability to erase people like they never existed. Months later, Dean still looks at you like you’re a monster to be feared…until the truth comes out that his time is running out.
And when it does, he asks for the one thing only you can give: to make him forget you so it won't hurt as much when he dies.
Part: 6/6
cw: fem!reader, x reader, no use of Y/N, reader has abilities, plays between season 2 and 3, doesn't strictly follow canon, Dean's crossroad deal, Sam's first death, enemies to lovers (one sided and if you squint), slight slow-burn, graphic descriptions of violence and gore, no happy ending, kinda open ending
wc: 3,5k
a/n: Now that this fic is officially over by being fully published, there is a hole in my heart and in my head. Thank you everyone for reading<3
I'll also probably work on the synopsis again because I am NOT happy with it TT
ACT VI: What you took and what you leave behind
Morning came whether you were ready or not and you really, really weren't.
You hadn't really slept, just laid there on top of the covers in the motel room before eventually sitting and staring at the wall while Sam pretended not to watch you from the other bed.
He didn't push or ask, but you could feel the questions sitting right behind his eyes.
The knock came just after sunrise and Sam was already on his feet before the third one could echo.
The door swung open, and there he was—Dean.
"Where the hell have you been?" Sam asked sharp but relieved, stepping aside to let him in.
"Slept it off." Dean shrugged while brushing past him "Found a place."
Your chest tightened a little at the words—a place, not with you.
Dean's gaze flicked to you for a second and it felt...wrong.
Not soft nor conflicted, not anything like from last night—only guarded distance.
You swallowed hard, adverting your gaze.
"You okay?" Sam asked his brother, shutting the door behind him.
"Yeah." Dean nodded.
"Djinn venom messes with your head. Needed to clear it out." he added, voice steady.
"You could've called." Sam pressed in complaint, making Dean exhale through his nose in mild annoyance.
"Phone died." Dean shrugged once more in response.
It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either and you knew that.
Your hands curled slightly at your sides, but he didn't look at you again—not once and that hurt more than anything else.
Because you knew something was missing, you could still feel it even now, and it wasn't just in him but also in the space between the two of you.
Dean moved around the room like he always did, grabbing his jacket and checking his weapons while talking to Sam about the case like nothing had shifted nor happened and as if you weren't standing right there.
And maybe to him you weren't, not really at least.
You turned away slightly, unable to watch it and unable to not feel it because you knew.
You knew what he had said, what he had felt, what he had given you—and you took it, even if not all of it.
The realization sat heavy in your chest, weighing your heart down and making it hard to breathe.
He loved you, or something close enough to it that it didn't matter what you called it, and now he didn't remember it anymore.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Days passed.
The road picked back up with the same crappy motels, same cases and same routine but something was off.
Dean was different, not just distant—confused.
It showed in small and subtle ways, easy to miss if you didn't know what to look for.
It showed in the way he'd stop mid-sentence sometimes, like he lost a thought or tried to grab one he didn't have anymore.
It showed in the way his gaze would linger on you for a second too long—not soft or warm, but searching as if he was trying to place something and failing.
Like he was asking 'Do I know you from somewhere?' without saying it, but making you feel it all the same.
And then there was the edge.
It crept in slowly, sharp and unsettling.
Confusion doesn't stay confusion forever, especially not with Dean Winchester—it turns into suspicion.
You noticed it first in the way he watched you, not exactly avoiding anymore but observing instead as if you were someone he didn't trust.
One night he caught your wrist when you reached for the first aid kit and the grip wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle either.
"You ever use that thing on me?" he asked flat, almost careful.
Your heart stopped for a moment, then beat faster.
"What?"
"Your...ability." he clarified, eyes narrowing.
"No." you said steadily as you shook your head even though your throat tightened at the lie.
Dean held your gaze a second longer, measuring the answer, then let go.
"Right." he said, but he didn't sound convinced.
That's when it hit you.
You hadn't erased his feelings, you had erased the the context—the why.
You had erased the memories that gave those feelings he had towards you meaning, so they were still there.
Now they were only buried again, unanchored which made them wrong and dangerous because now he felt something he couldn't explain toward someone he didn't fully remember—and Dean didn't like things he couldn't explain or feeling out of control, it made him angry and suspicious.
It made him look at you like you were something to figure out, or something to eliminate.
Your stomach churned.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
He remembered something else too, not clearly or fully but enough to question it.
"I asked you something."
The words came out of nowhere one morning, low and sharp.
You froze.
Dean leaned against the motel dresser, arms crossed as he watched you closely—no warmth, no softness.
"Back at the bar. I don't remember everything, but I remember asking you to do something." he said slowly.
Your chest tightened painfully because you didn't know what to tell him, though you knew the truth wouldn't work—if anything, it would only make things worse.
"I just don't remember what." he continued, pausing as his jaw clenched and letting you hang there in the suffocating silence for a moment.
"And that doesn't sit right with me." he added, his narrowed eyes locking onto yours with suspicion.
"Feels like something's missing."
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
"Did you–" he started, then stopped himself and recalibrated.
"Did you take something?"
The question hung dangerous because the answer was yes, with the worst part being that he wasn't wrong to ask.
You forced your voice to work.
"No."
Dean held your gaze longer this time, searching for a crack or a tell or anything that would expose your lie.
Then he looked away.
Not because he believed you, but because he didn't know what to believe and that was worse.
Across the room, Sam watched the entire exchange quietly.
Later, when Dean stepped out, he turned to you.
"What's going on?" he asked soft and patient, completely opposite to Dean.
Your throat close up with everything in you wanting to tell him, to fix it and to undo it, but you couldn't—because you didn't know how and because you already did what you had done.
You took parts of you from Dean, memories that explained why he felt this romantic affection towards you, and you could never give them back to him because you could only take.
"He's just...stressed, I guess." you said instead.
Sam frowned.
He didn't buy it, at least not fully, but he nodded anyways—if only because he had something else to focus on right now.
"Bobby might've found something." he said, lowering his voice slightly like Dean might hear somewhere outside the motel room "About the deal. We might be able to get Dean out of it."
Sam's voice was filled with fragile and desperate hope which made your chest tighten again because even if they did, even if Dean lived, he still wouldn't remember why you mattered and you'd have to live with that—every second of it.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The lead didn't last long, of course it didn't.
Bobby had called it in like it mattered, like it might actually be it.
His voice was gruff like always, but there was something under it—something almost hopeful.
"Got somethin'." he said over the phone "Old text. Mentions a way to void a contract, demon deals included."
Sam had been on his feet before the call even ended.
Dean was reluctant and skeptical, already halfway convinced it was a dead end but he still went along.
You followed—of course you did.
The place Bobby guided all of you was a ruin.
A old church that was half-collapsed, rot and dust thick in the air having been sitting there too long.
Sam and Bobby worked through the texts in a book they found under the altar—latin, symbols, looking at ritual markings carved into stone that had no business still standing.
You stayed back, watched and waited because that was always your role.
"This could be it." Sam said, voice tight with hope.
Dean didn't answer, he just leaned against a pillar with his arms crossed and jaw tight—watching just like you did.
Hours passed as research turned into translation, translation turning into theory and theory turned into a ritual...but nothing.
The symbols didn't react like they were supposed to, the ritual didn't take and the air didn't shift.
No sign, no change, not anything.
Silence settled heavy in the broken church, then Bobby sighed first—low and frustrated.
"Son of a–" he started to mutter, but Sam shook his head immediately.
"No, no, maybe we did something wrong. Maybe the wording..."
"We didn't." Dean cut in flatly and that was it—simple, final.
"You don't know that." Sam argued nonetheless after spinning around to him sharply.
"I do." Dean shot back "Because this is how it goes, Sam. There's no loophole, no get-out-of-jail-free card."
"There has to be–"
"There isn't!" Dean snapped and the sound echoed through the empty space.
You flinched slightly but not because of the volume, because of the certainty in Dean's voice.
Sam's jaw clenched.
"We're not done. There's always something." he said, quieter now but more frustrated and maybe even angry.
Dean shook his head.
"Yeah. There is." Dean agreed, shaking his head with a humorless scoff.
"It's called a deal, and I made one."
Sam didn't back down, his shoulders tensing.
"And we'll break it, get you out of it." he insisted.
"You really think you can outplay demons?" Dean asked in response, brows raised in challenge.
"I think I have to try." Sam grit out and that hit something.
Dean pushed off the pillar.
"Yeah? And how's that working out so far?" Dean taunted harsher than he needed to, pushing off the pillar—but he wasn't wrong.
Sam didn't answer, because he didn't have one that felt right.
Bobby stepped in before it could get worse.
"Enough." he muttered, glancing between the brothers "We regroup and start over."
'Start over.''
The words landed like a weight because they meant being back to nothing, back to square one while time kept running out without pause or mercy
The drive back was painfully quiet, but Sam didn't stop—he couldn't.
The moment you got back to the motel, he was already on his laptop again.
Books open, notes scattered and his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he called anyone who might know something while staying in almost constant contact with Bobby who asked other hunters if they knew a way.
"I don't care how obscure it is." Sam said into the phone at one point "If there's anything, anything at all, you tell me."
His voice was tight, fraying.
Dean hated it, that much was obvious.
"You're wasting your time." he said at one point deeper into the night, leaning in the doorway.
Sam didn't look up, his fingers still flying over the keyboard of his laptop as he responded.
"Then let me waste it."
Dean's jaw tightened at the answer.
"This isn't something you fix, Sammy." he almost barked.
"Watch me." Sam mumbled in response, undeterred.
That was the problem—Sam wouldn't stop, even if it broke him and Dean knew it which only made everything worse.
While Sam spiraled into research, Dean spiraled into something else—you.
It started small, again—always small at first.
Questions that didn't sound like questions, looks that lingered too long with silences that felt loaded.
Then it sharpened.
"You're real quiet lately."
The comment came out of nowhere, making you look up from the book in your hands.
"Sorry?"
Dean sat on his bed, arms crossed and watching you.
"Just an observation." he said casually, but it didn't feel casual.
"I'm always quiet." you replied carefully.
"Yeah, but this is different." Dean said, tilting his head to the side as his eyes narrowed slightly.
"How?" you asked in response, already feeling like an insect pinned under glass.
He didn't answer right away, just studying you for another few seconds.
"Like you're thinking about something you don't want to say."
Your fingers tightened slightly around the page at his words, at the observation, because he was right.
"I'm not." you denied, but Dean's gaze didn't waver.
"Sure." he said dismissively but not the kind of dismissive that let things go, rather in the kind of dismissive that locked things away for later to file them down.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Another day it was another shift.
You reached for a book on the table and Dean's hand moved first, stopping you—the contact made your breath catch.
His fingers rested over yours for half a second too long, then he pulled back as if realizing that wasn't supposed to happen.
Something flickered across his face—confusion, irritation and something deeper he couldn't place while you couldn't either.
"Sorry." he muttered, but he didn't sound like he meant it.
He sounded...off like the reaction didn't match the moment—because it didn't.
You knew why and once again that only made it worse.
Dean still felt what he felt for you when he was trapped by the Djinn, still felt what he felt that night in the hotel and you just made him forget why.
Later that night you heard him pacing restlessly, going back and forth across the motel room with heavy steps.
You stayed still, pretending to sleep.
"Something's not right." Dean muttered, his voice cutting through the quiet.
"What do you mean?" you heard Sam ask in return.
"You ever feel like you're missing something?" Dean questioned, his pacing suddenly stopping.
Your heart stopped.
"What kind of something?"
Dean hesitated to answer as if he didn't have the words but was looking for them, scrambling to grasp them.
"I don't know." he admitted finally "Just...something important.''
A beat passed, then you felt his eyes on you as they burned into the back of your head.
"Like a gap." he added quieter.
Silence, then the wooden chair you knew Sam sat on creaked as he turned to glance at you too.
Your stomach dropped because now it wasn't just Dean noticing, it was Sam too.
"I think she did something." Dean said suddenly and the words hit the room like a gunshot.
"What?" Sam asked and you could hear the mixed feelings in his voice.
"Her." Dean repeated, sharper this time.
When Sam didn't respond, he continued.
"I remember asking her to use that...thing she does. I just don't remember why or what."
Your pulse pounded, blood rushing in your ears—you forced yourself to stay still, to keep pretending to sleep.
Sam finally spoke up, careful but certain.
"Dean, that doesn't mean-"
"I'm just saying something's off." Dean cut in, pausing briefly.
"And I don't like not knowing what." he added quieter, more dangerous.
This was the consequence of using your ability on him—a consequence neither immediate nor obvious, but inevitable.
You didn't just take something from him, you left behind the absence and Dean didn't ignore gaps—he hunted them.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The change didn't stay with lingering gazes and questions, it turned into an edge.
Everything you did seemed to catch Dean's attention now—too much attention.
"You always read this stuff?" he asked one evening, watching you flip through one of Sam's lore books.
"Yeah." you nodded and Dean hummed low, unconvinced.
"Funny." he muttered "Feels like you've been around longer than you have, knowing more than you should."
Your fingers stilled briefly on the page, he noticed—of course he did.
"Sorry, is something wrong?" you asked carefully, lifting your eyes to meet his.
"Don't know. You tell me." Dean challenged in resounding.
That was how it went.
Every conversation felt like a test, every glance like a question he couldn't answer and underneath it something else began to stir.
You could feel it even when he couldn't name it—the pull.
The way he'd step a little too close before catching himself, the way his voice would soften for half a second before sharpening again, the way his hand would hover like he almost reached for you before pulling back as if he touched fire.
It didn't make sense to him, so he turned it into something that did—suspicion, frustration and finally anger.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
"Did you mess with me?" the question came even sharper than all the others, even less careful.
You looked up from the motel table slowly.
"No." you denied and Dean scoffed lightly.
"Yeah, you fucking said that already."
"Because it's true." you said, making his jaw tighten.
"Then why does it feel like it's not?"
Silence fell as you didn't have an answer you could give him, not one that wouldn't make everything worse.
Dean shook his head slightly, pacing again.
"I don't like this." he muttered "I don't like not knowing what the hell is going on in my own fucking head."
Neither did you and that was the problem, because every day you came closer to your breaking point where the confession would spill over unguarded.
And then Sam started noticing it more.
At first it was just a glance between the two of you, then longer looks that turned to full-on interruptions.
"Dean." Sam cut in one night when Dean's tone got too sharp "Drop it."
"I'm not doing anything," Dean shot back.
"You are." Sam objected firmly.
"Yeah? What am I doing, Sam?" Dean laughed, but there was no humor in it—only frustration and anger.
"You're–" Sam stopped himself because he didn't have the words either because he didn't know what you did and therefore couldn't possibly explain why his brother acted this way.
Then Bobby saw it too.
He didn't say much, but when he did it landed.
"You keep lookin' at her like that, you're gonna start a fight you don't even understand." Bobby grumbled one afternoon.
Dean didn't answer but he didn't stop either, and sometimes neither Sam nor Bobby were fast enough.
"You think I'm stupid?!" Dean's voice cut through the motel room one night, sharp and sudden.
You froze, too stunned to respond which made Dean step closer—not threatening, but not safe either.
"You think I wouldn't notice if something got taken out of my head?!" he pressed angrily.
Your heart pounded violently in your chest.
"I didn't–"
"Then fucking explain it!" he cut in, yelling.
"I can't explain something that didn't happen..."
Dean laughed again, short and bitter.
"Right."
Dean didn't hit you, he never did and you were certain he never would, but he did get rough with you and his eyes didn't let it go—they never did.
Every time it happened, every time the tension snapped tight between you, you thought about it.
About going back in, about fixing it, about doing what he asked of you by erasing yourself completely—no more confusion, no more suspicion, no more...this.
Your hands would tremble just thinking about it because you knew what could go wrong, you always did.
What if you took too much?
What if you slipped, just slightly, and erased something else?
Something important?
Something like the crossroad deal?
The thought made your stomach drop every time.
If you took that, even if unwanted and by accident, Sam would have to tell him.
Sam would have to look him in the eyes and say 'You're dying and going to hell because you sold your soul for me because I died while you watched it happen.'
You couldn't do that to him, to either of them...so you didn't.
Even when it got worse, even when Dean's frustration turned colder and more violent—even when the looks he gave you started to hurt more than the words.
Underneath it all you still knew that he loved you, he just didn't know why and that made the feeling wrong—making it unstable like something stretched too far and ready to snap.
So you made a choice.
Not in the moment, not suddenly or from one moment to the other—it built slowly, painfully, until one morning you woke before them.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The motel room was quiet and still.
Dean was asleep, Sam too, and for a second you just stood there looking at them.
This, this was the closest thing you had ever had to something real—something that felt like it could've been yours, and you were about to walk away from it.
Your chest tightened, throat seizing as the all too familiar burn of tears found it's way back to your eyes.
You didn't want to go, but staying wasn't helping either of them—it was making it worse.
Every day you stayed, you were the thing Dean couldn't understand.
You were the thing that kept pulling at him, the thing that made him angry because he couldn't place it, the thing pulling him apart from his brother since they had been fighting more and more because Sam kept trying to defend you as Dean's anger grew.
You were the gap Dean was tearing himself apart trying to fill it.
You swallowed hard, blinking against the tears threatening to spill over and down your cheeks.
"I am so, so sorry." you whispered, not even sure who you said it to—Dean maybe, Sam, or even yourself or maybe all three of you.
You grabbed your bag quietly.
You didn't leave a note, didn't trust yourself to write one because if you did you might stay but couldn't—not like this.
The door clicked shut softly behind you.
The morning air felt too cold, too empty.
By the time the Winchester brothers noticed your absence, you'd already have a new number buried under a new identity.
And just like that, you were gone—long before the deal could take Dean, leaving behind the pieces of something he almost remembered and the space where you used to be filled with love that had nowhere to go.
Synopsis: You were there the night only one was meant to survive and you didn’t die while you carry something dangerous—the ability to erase people like they never existed. Months later, Dean still looks at you like you’re a monster to be feared…until the truth comes out that his time is running out.
And when it does, he asks for the one thing only you can give: to make him forget you so it won't hurt as much when he dies.
Part: 5/6
cw: fem!reader, x reader, no use of Y/N, reader has abilities, plays between season 2 and 3, doesn't strictly follow canon, Dean's crossroad deal, Sam's first death, enemies to lovers (one sided and if you squint), slight slow-burn, graphic descriptions of violence and gore, Dean is a ass most of the time towards reader, the Djinn case (mentioned), Dean confessing, Dean asking reader to use her ability, p in v, vaginal fingering, raw sex, rough sex, overstimulation, table sex, smut with plot and feelings
wc: 3,6k
a/n: don't judge the smut, it's my first time writing smut in a chapter format and not just as a drabble and more bullet point like TT
ACT V: Sleepless night.
You couldn't pull away, no matter how much you wanted.
You felt awful for holding him close by the collar of his jacket even though he didn't protest your grip, he returned it with his own—with the palm of his hand still cradling your jaw while his fingers curled into the back of your neck.
But Dean was vulnerable, he had been drinking even if not much, and you felt like you were taking advantage of that even though he was the one who pulled you close first.
You should push him away, bring him back to the motel where Sam still waited while worried sick...but you didn't.
Dean tasted like whiskey and scotch when you parted your lips despite yourself, letting his tongue slip past your lips.
You could feel other patrons starting to stare, but you still couldn't pull away—not now, maybe not ever.
Comfortable warmth crept through your body, ever nerve hyper aware of Dean's soft lips and the rough stubbles on his chin scratching against your skin.
He didn't stop, didn't pull away an inch—if anything, he deepened the kiss.
It was so desperate, so messy, so hungry and so hot that your head began swimming.
Then his hands started to roam.
The hand on your jaw going to your neck moved further back, burying in the back of your hair as the other landed on your thigh and gripped the soft flesh there firmly before moving higher.
It traveled to your hip, ghosting up your waist before settling on your smaller back where it clenched into the fabric of your jacket—Dean wasn't forcing you in place, he was holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling while he kissed you like he yearned for it longer than he had let on.
He pulled away after a few moments, his lips red and swollen as he licked over them as if he was trying to savor your taste.
"I didn't plan to go back to the motel tonight." he whispered, still only inches from your lips—his hot breath fanning across your face as he spoke.
Before you could reply, he took a hold of your wrist and slid off the bar stool.
"Come on." he said while slightly panting, giving your wrist a light tug that you followed as you slid off your own stool by the bar.
You felt flustered by the eyes following you and Dean as he pulled you along towards the hotel lobby, his hand around your wrist gripping firm but trembling slightly with anticipation.
He rushed up the stairs with impatient steps and you followed—not because of his hand around your wrist, but because you wanted to.
Dean's deal was continuing with only a little over seven months left, he confessed that he'd fallen for you and asked you for the impossible.
And as Dean keeps guiding you both upstairs to the hotel room he must've booked since he said he didn't plan on returning to the motel, Sam suddenly crosses your mind.
"Sam is still in the motel, I should call him–" you started, but Dean interrupted as he came to a halt in front of a room door and pulled out a keycard from the pocket of his jacket.
"Sammy's a big boy, he can handle himself for one night." he huffed amused, pushing open the door before gently pulling you inside by your wrist.
You turned to close the door with your other hand, opening your mouth to insist on at least calling Sam to tell him you're both okay as the cheap lock clicks into place with a finality that echoed through the dim room, but Dean didn't give you the chance to argue.
The moment the hotel door shut behind you, he didn't waste a second.
His hands gripped your waist, spinning you around and pinning your back against the wooden door before his lips crashed back onto yours—hungry and demanding before parting with a low groan that vibrated against your tongue.
The taste of whiskey and scotch still lingered on him, sharp and smoky—kissing you like he'd wanted to do this for months, like he'd been dying to get you like this.
Now, with you finally here alone, he devoured your mouth with his teeth nipping at your lower lip.
His hips ground forward, his cock already thickening against your lower stomach through his jeans.
You gasped into the kiss, your fingers twisting back into the collar of his jacket as you pulled him closer—Sam fully forgotten now.
The wood of the door creaked under the pressure of your body pressed against it and Dean's hands roamed down your sides, rough palms sliding under the hem of your shirt to stroke the warm smooth skin of your hips and then your waist.
"Fuck, sweetheart." he murmured against your lips, voice gravelly with months of pent-up want and need "You have no idea how long I've been thinkin' about this. About you."
He punctuated his words with another deep kiss, tongues sliding messily past your lips as his hands let go of your bare skin to shake off his own jacket and then yours—letting both drop carelessly onto the ground.
Then his hands fumbled at his belt, the metal buckle clinking loudly in the quiet room before he pulled it out of the belt loops on his jeans and letting the leather fall onto the ground as well.
Deans lips stayed connected to yours, his tongue swiping over and swirling around your own—your hands now gripping and holding his shirt like he might change his mind about all this, pulling away again and going back to how he was before tonight and the almost kiss a few week ago.
One of his hands went back up to your face, cradling your cheek then your jaw before cupping the side of your neck as his other hand dove for the button of your jeans.
He popped it open with ease, the zipper rasping on its way down before his fingers slipped past the rough fabric to find your underwear already soaked with arousal.
"Jesus, you're wet." Dean rasped into your mouth as he refused to break the kiss, his voice thick with approval.
Then he pushed the fabric aside, sliding two fingers along your slick folds before letting them slip inside and forcing a half moan and half gasp from your throat as the heat of your pussy clenched around the intrusion.
Your arousal started coating his knuckles with a wet sound that made his cock twitch harder against your lower stomach, his fingers curling inside you and stroking that spot that made your knees buckle—his thumb circling your clit with firm but deliberate pressure while index and middle finger pumped in and out if you.
The scent of sex rose sharp between the two of you, mixing with the stale hotel air and the faint tang of motor oil on Dean's skin he always seemed to carry.
You couldn't help but moan into his mouth, your hips bucking against his hand as the door thumped rhythmically with each thrust of his fingers.
"Dean..!" you panted as you pulled back slightly, hands now clawing at his shoulder and nails digging into the muscle there through his shirt.
He pumped deeper, the squelch of your wetness a obscene sound in the small space as his forehead pressed against yours to watch your face twist with pleasure.
"That's it, sweetheart. Taking my fingers so perfectly, like you were made for it." Dean praised in a murmur that came rough, breath hot on your cheeks as he added a third finger—stretching you, the burn making you whine and grind down harder.
As you whined, something in Dean snapped.
He couldn't wait anymore, yanking his hand free before hauling you toward the rickety table by the window.
The table was shoved against the peeling wallpaper in the run-down hotel room, its surface cluttered with a old lamp that was probably double your age—Dean swept it aside with one arm.
The lamp clattered down onto the stained carpet but before the sound could resonate and distract you, not that you would've let it, he lifted you onto table.
Your ass hit the cold and sticky wood with a smack, your jeans tugged down to your thighs in a frenzy and Dean helped you kicked the fabric off along with your shoes—leaving you bare from the waist down except for your underwear that was sitting crooked around you from when he shoved it aside hastily.
His own jeans were shoved low enough to free his cock, thick and veined, pre-cum beading at the flushed head as it slapped against your inner thigh.
Dean gripped your hips, yanking you to the table's edge.
He aligned the thick head of his cock before thrusting into you in one brutal stroke, burying himself balls-deep in your clenching cunt with a moan that mirrored your own.
The table groaned under you, the wooden legs scraping the floor as Dean set a punishing rhythm—hips snapping forward with a wet slap each time.
He wasn't gentle as he pounded into you, he was desperate and it showed in the way his hips moved sloppy but hard.
"Fuck. You feel so good." Dean grunted, one hand braced on the table while the other tangled in your hair to tilt your head in a way that forced your gaze to stay on his own.
You were a helplessly moaning and gasping mess beneath him, your legs wrapped around his waist and heels dug into his lower back—urging him deeper, harder, as the table groaned louder beneath you with every drive.
Dean leaned his upper body down further, the hanger of his necklace resting on your throat as he captured your mouth in another sloppy and heated kiss.
Then he pulled back barely, pressing open mouthed kisses on the bare skin of your neck—his lips lingering on your pulse point, tongue darting out briefly to give the sensitive spot a lick.
You gasped at the sensation, your hands finding the hem of his shirt to bunch it up and roam over his back to feel the different muscles flex beneath your fingers.
Then your nails dug into the flesh and muscles, raking red lines across the skin of Dean's back—making him hiss and rut his hips harder.
The room was silent aside from the sound of the rhythmic creak of the table, your sharp and pleasant cries mixed with Dean's grunts and groans as his throbbing cock continued to stretch you wide.
He lifted his head again, his lips leaving the sensitive skin of your neck before his eyes found yours once more.
Sweat dripped from his brow onto your collarbone, cooled instantly in the draft from the rattling AC unit probably long due for maintenance no one cared about.
Dean shifts his angle, grinding against your clit on each thrust and making the heat in your stomach build before you shattered first beneath him—your walls pulsing around him, soaking his balls as you came undone with a sharp cry while your thighs trembled against his sides.
Dean didn't stop.
Instead, he scooped you off the table mid-thrust with his cock still buried deep as he stumbled the few remaining steps to the bed.
The mattress springs squealed in protest as he dropped you both onto it, you beneath him with your legs splayed wide.
His hands were moving hastily and desperate as he took off your shirt, unclipping your bra and stripping it off as well—throwing both down next to the bed before his own clothes followed.
Then he hooked your knees over his elbows, folding you nearly in half, and pounded back in as the new angle let him drive even deeper.
The headboard banged against the thin wall, probably pissing off the room-neighbors if there were any, but he didn't care and neither did you—not now.
"Look at you, taking it so well." Dean rasped, green eyes locked on yours while his pupils were blown wide with lust.
His thumb found your clit again, rubbing messy circles on the sensitive and swollen nub of nerves as the slick smoothed the rough pad of the digit.
You clawed at the sheets at the overstimulation, the coarse fabric bunching under her fists as the metallic taste of blood spread in your mouth from biting your lip too hard.
Every thrust jolted through you, his heavy balls slapping your ass with each rut of Dean's hips.
The bed frame rattled, springs popping with overuse but it only heightened the need—the way his body pinned yours, desperate and raw.
He leaned down once more, capturing you again in a sloppy kiss as he pistioned faster—tongues tangling before his rhythm faltered.
Dean abs tensed as your pussy kept milking him relentlessly, pulling away from your lips slightly with his eyes boring back into yours and his brows pinched together.
"Fuck–gonna come." he grunted, the words vibrating deep in his chest, before he slammed into you one last time.
Deans hot cum filled you, his cock pulsing thick ropes against your cervix as the overflow started leaking out around him and soaked the sheets.
He collapsed forward, still buried inside you, breath heaving against your neck as the combined scent of sex and sweat hang heavy in the air—both of your bodies twitching in the aftershocks.
"You good, sweetheart?" Dean asked after a few moments, still panting as he finally lifted off you.
"Y-yeah, I'm good." you nodded, also still breathing heavily, as Dean carefully pulled out and collapsed onto the mattress next to you.
His arm snaked around your shoulders, pulling your body against his side before his index finger gently lifted you chin up so he could press a kiss onto your lips—softer this time, almost careful as if he was kissing something fragile that might be damaged.
For a few minutes you just laid there like this, pressed against Dean's side and relishing the skin-to-skin contact.
Then he got up, grabbing a towel from the adjoining bathroom and helping you clean up before he did the same.
When Dean laid down next to you again, he pulled the blanket over both you—your back to his chest, his arm draped over your waist with his other under your head as he prepped more kisses onto your hair.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Dean fell asleep eventually, you didn't know when exactly.
One moment he was still there, awake and present, while in the next his breathing had evened out beside you in a steady and deep rhythm—peaceful for once.
You weren't.
Your body was exhausted, every part of you ached with it and the fatigue settled deep into yours bones, but your mind wouldn't stop.
You stared at the ceiling after Dean eventually shifted in his sleep, his arms leaving you and folding under his head as he rolled to lay on his stomach.
You stared at the ceiling and the faint cracks running through it, at the way the dim light from outside filtered through the curtains and painted everything in dull gray.
Three a.m, maybe four—time didn't feel real anymore.
You turned your head to the side, glancing at Dean.
The blanket was bunched low on his hips, exposing his bare back to your gaze and your eyes followed the faint red lines you clawed into the soft skin.
'Erase yourself.'
The words wouldn't leave, they circled over and over again—loud in the quiet, almost screaming at you.
You turned to lay on your side facing Dean who was still asleep and not even stirring at the movement next to him.
He was laying close enough that you could hear every breath, close enough that you could see the slight rise and fall of breath with his back and close enough that if you reached out that you could touch him—you didn't.
Because all you could think about was what he asked, what he needed—'Erase yourself from my memory.'
You swallowed hard, your throat feeling tight.
He was going to die, that part wasn't hypothetical—it wasn't a maybe, it was a when.
Months, that's all he had left and after that...hell.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Dean hadn't asked for something small, he had asked for relief—for mercy from something he couldn't outrun.
And you could give it to him, that was the worst part.
You could give it to him, but at what cost?
You squeezed your eyes shut briefly, trying to think and trying to be rational.
If you did it, he wouldn't remember you.
Not the drives, not the motel rooms nor the way things had started to change between you or even tonight—not any of it.
Your chest ached more.
But if you didn't do it, he'd carry it with him every second closer to the end while knowing exactly what he was losing.
You exhaled shakily because you knew the facts for a while now, but only now were they crashing down on you—fully, truly, inescapable.
But there were other things too, things you couldn't ignore.
You didn't have anywhere else, not really.
No home to go back to, no place that had ever felt like this—like them.
Then another thought crossed your mind—Sam.
This wasn't just about Dean, it never was.
What would happen to Sam, after Dean was gone?
You knew enough now to understand what that would do to him, what it would leave behind and you wanted to be there as long as you could—for both of them.
Because for the first time you belonged somewhere, even if it was fragile and even if it was temporary.
And you liked both Winchester brother in different ways, but you liked them both nonetheless.
That thought settled differently now—heavier, clearer.
Sam was a good friend, always looking out for you and telling you to rest when he noticed you read too much lore and wrote too many notes that caused your head to swim while eyebags formed under your eyes.
And you liked Dean, no matter how gruff he sometimes got and how much he avoided you at the start.
You didn't just like the way he looked at you or because of what he said and did tonight, but everything in between—the quiet moments, the rock music he'd tap his finger to on long car rides, the stories, the way he interacted with Sam and the things he didn't say but you still understood.
You eyes locked onto his face, at the peaceful relaxation on his face and the way his lashes fluttered in dream while throwing small shadows onto his cheeks.
He looked younger when he slept, less guarded and less...doomed.
Your heart clenched in your chest against at the thought and you swallowed hard as his voice echoed in your head—'I don't get to have that, not anymore'.
Maybe he didn't, but maybe you could still give him...something.
Not everything he asked of you, not completely, but enough to meet his request halfway.
Your hand lifted slow and hesitant like even now you weren't sure.
Your fingers hovered near his temple, barely touching the skin there but not pulling back even as doubt crossed your mind again.
Your ability had never felt clean, never felt safe because there was always a consequence—always something that slipped wrong, something you couldn't predict and you knew that better than anyone.
Your hand trembled.
What if you took too much?
What if you broke something?
What if–
You squeezed your eyes shut briefly.
He asked for this, only that mattered.
So you slowly and carefully let yourself slip in—not deep like the first time you used it, but just the surface like you instinctively did with Jake.
You found yourself there in his memory, surfing through it carefully as you passed fragments and threads and moments.
You didn't touch everything, you couldn't and wouldn't, you just touched you.
The first time he really noticed you positively, the long drives where silence wasn't uncomfortable anymore after Sam fell asleep in the passenger seat, the way his voice softened when talking to you without him realizing, the almost kiss and tonight.
Your throat seized painfully.
Even here, even inside something that wasn't supposed to feel, it hurt.
"I'm sorry." you whispered even though he couldn't hear you, then you pulled carefully.
Not all of it, not entirely you, but enough—just the parts that would linger, the parts that would hurt the most by the time Dean's deal came to an end.
You let go quickly before you could second guess it, before you could take it back.
The connection snapped and you inhaled sharply, your hand dropping back down into the mattress.
Your heart was racing too fast and too loud.
Something had changed, you could feel it—you always could.
You turned your head away, blinking against the moisture in your eyes.
Dean didn't wake, didn't even stir in the slightest, but somehow something was...quieter.
Your heart constricted as you sat up, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand
You sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing while feeling everything—guilt, doubt, fear.
What exactly did you just do...?
You didn't wait to find out, not now, but you knew you took parts of you neither of you would ever get back.
Carefully you slipped out of the bed, moving quiet and slow as if you moved too fast something would break.
You picked up your clothes from where they were still laying on the ground next to the bed, dressing yourself again and slipping back into your shoes before you grabbed your jacket by the door.
You didn't look back because if you did, you knew you might not leave.
The door clicked shut softly behind you, the stairs back to the ground floor creaking faintly under your weight.
The hotel lobby was empty and quiet as you walked through it, opening the door leading outside once you reached it.
The night air hit cold and sharp, too real.
You walked without stopping.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Sam opened the door almost immediately as if he hadn't slept at all and had been waiting—which you would believe he did in a heartbeat.
His eyes scanned you quickly, relief flashing through them as he saw you unscathed.
"Where is he?" he asked and you swallowed the lump in your throat down quickly.
"He's okay." you said, your voice steadier than you felt "He'll be back."
Sam studied you for a second longer like he knew there was more, looking like he almost asked, but he didn't.
He nodded and stepped aside, letting you in.
You said nothing else, didn't trust yourself to because some things couldn't be undone—not even by you.
Synopsis: You were there the night only one was meant to survive and you didn’t die while you carry something dangerous—the ability to erase people like they never existed. Months later, Dean still looks at you like you’re a monster to be feared…until the truth comes out that his time is running out.
And when it does, he asks for the one thing only you can give: to make him forget you so it won't hurt as much when he dies.
Part: 4/6
cw: fem!reader, x reader, no use of Y/N, reader has abilities, plays between season 2 and 3, doesn't strictly follow canon, Dean's crossroad deal, Sam's first death, enemies to lovers (one sided and if you squint), slight slow-burn, graphic descriptions of violence and gore, Dean is a ass most of the time towards reader, the Djinn case (mentioned), Dean confessing, Dean asking reader to use her ability
wc: 4,8k
a/n: just a quick warning that the next part will be dirty in more ways than one
ACT IV: The bar.
The case sounded simple, but of course it never was.
"Djinn." Dean said, tossing a file onto the table in the motel room.
"People go missing and show up later, if they show up at all, brain-fried or dead with their bodies drained of blood."
You frowned slightly, flipping through the pages of your notes.
"Poison?" you asked.
"More like venom." Sam corrected from the other side of the table "They put you in a dream state and feed off you while you're under."
"Best case? You wake up before it kills you." Dean nodded.
"And worst?" you asked quietly but neither Sam nor Dean answered—they didn't have to.
"Same rules." Dean added after a few beats, grabbing his jacket as he reached the front door.
You already knew them since they were basically ingrained into your DNA by now—stay, wait and don't get involved.
You nodded anyway.
"Sammy, you stay too." Dean threw into the motel room as he opened the front door, making Sam's face falter in confusion and frustration.
But Dean's face stayed set and determined, clearly showing that he wasn't accepting any argument from his younger brother.
Sam's jaw clenched as he begrudgingly let himself fall back onto his bed, the old springs creaking under his weight.
"Fine. I'll stay." Sam muttered obviously annoyed, reaching for his laptop like he needed the physical anchor.
Dean grinned at Sam's annoyance, then he left.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Hours passed, too many.
The light outside faded from gray to dark while the motel room settling into that dim, buzzing quiet that made everything feel too still.
You sat on the edge of the bed, your leg bouncing slightly with nervous- and restlessness.
Sam checked his phone again and again...and again—checking the time, for a message from Dean that didn't seem to come.
"He should've called already. He always calls." Sam muttered, more to himself than to you.
Your chest tightened in worry, because that mutter didn't help.
Another hour passed, then another before Sam stood abruptly.
"I'm going." he said, already grabbing his own jacket from next to the hanger Dean's left empty.
Your head snapped towards him from where you had stared mindlessly at a stain on the wallpaper you didn't even want to know where it came from, while running through worst case scenarios in your head—just because Dean's deal was a year didn't mean he couldn't die before that.
"W-what?" you stammered at being ripped out of your thoughts suddenly.
"If it's a Djinn, if it got him–" Sam started already halfway to the door, but he trailed off—not finishing the sentence and not needing to.
"I'll stay here." you said quickly, standing as well and Sam nodded.
"If he comes back, you call me immediately." he said firmly as he put his jacket on, worry and tension making his shoulders tighten.
"I will." you assured and then Sam was gone too.
The silence came back, but even worse this time because now there was no one left.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
You paced, sat and stood again.
You checked the door every couple of minutes like it might open if you checked it and stared at it long enough.
Time stretched thin as every second became louder than the last.
You couldn't focus on anything but the vacancy the Winchester brothers left behind.
Then, finally, the door burst open.
You jumped slightly, nerves fried to non-existence already.
Sam stepped in first with Dean following behind him.
Relief hit you fast, sharp and overwhelming but more than welcome.
"You're okay." you breathed, stepping forward instinctively.
Dean didn't look at you, didn't react.
He walked past you like you weren't there, like you didn't even exist, and the relief shattered.
"Dean?" you said confused, but still nothing—not even a glance.
He grabbed something out Sam's hands, keys maybe, and then just turned back toward the door.
"Hey–!" Sam called out frowning "Where are you–?"
The door slammed shut before he could finish.
Silence again, but this time it hurt.
"What the hell was that..?" you asked quietly after being able to free yourself from your stupor, your voice tight.
Sam ran a hand over his face.
"I don't know." he murmured frustrated as he ran a hand over his face.
"Djinn venom messes with your head, maybe he's still coming out of it."
"But that...he wasn't disoriented..." you said carefully.
That way Dean moved was deliberate.
Sam didn't argue, he just grabbed his phone and called.
He tried once, waited a minute then called a second and a third time but his calls were left unanswered.
Your heart clenched and your stomach dropped with every ring that went nowhere.
"Dean, pick up." Sam muttered under his breath, pacing now as he continued dialing Dean's number over and over again—still nothing.
Minutes passed, then half an hour that turned into a full one as Sam continued to pace as the worry grew.
"I can't just sit here." you said suddenly as you snapped up from the bed, surprising even yourself.
Sam stopped pacing.
"Neither can I." he agreed and then the both at you just looked at each other—same thoughts, same fear.
"We split up." you said, making Sam hesitate before he finally nodded.
"You stay here in case he comes back. He'd rather return to you than to me." you instructed as you slipped into your shoes.
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but you didn't let him.
"I'll find him."
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The night air had a deep chill that had nothing to do with the cold, making you shiver even under your jacket—or maybe it was just you.
You moved fast through the streets of the unknown city, peeking in anywhere you could while occasionally calling out for Dean or asking the few passersby's you encountered if they saw him—but no one did.
Where would he go? How far was he even away?
The impala was gone, so maybe he was just driving around alone..?
No.
If Dean was somewhere, then it was somewhere loud enough to drown things out but quiet enough not to be found—a pub, a bar.
And then you finally found him in a run-down hotel bar in the center of town with a crumbling facade and windows too dirty to see through properly, of course.
When you pushed your way inside it smelled like stale beer and something heavier.
The hotel had definitely passed it's glory a long, long time ago and seemed to focus on keeping the bar on the ground level going more than anything.
The music was loud, playing rock from busted speakers while a few patrons were scattered across the seats at the bar counter and booths.
You spotted him immediately, sitting alone in the corner of the bar with a half-empty glass in front of him and another already in his hand.
Relief washed over you, anger and worry coming with it all at once.
You crossed the room quickly.
"Dean." you said as you came to a halt next to him.
He didn't react, didn't look up.
"Dean." you tried again, louder, and this time he reacted.
His jaw tightened slightly for a moment, but his head still didn't lift—his eyes locked on the half-empty glass in his hand.
You sighed in frustration, pushing down the instinct that told you to just turn back around and leave at the lack of acknowledgement.
But you didn't.
"We've been looking for you worried sick, Dean." you started "Sam's been calling you like a mad men, he's–"
"I'm fine." Dean cut in muttering, finally speaking—flat, dismissive.
You shook your head in even more frustration.
"No, you're not." you observed dryly, and that got a reaction—small but there as his grip tightened slightly on the half-empty glass.
"You just walked out." you continued, taking a step closer.
"You didn't say anything, you didn't even–"
"I said I'm fine." Dean repeated, sharper this time but you still didn't back down.
"Sam's worried and so am I." you pressed.
Dean let out a short, humorless laugh at your words before he responded.
"Yeah, well, don't be."
"That's not how that works." you shot back immediately but Dean stayed silent, his shoulders still tense.
You inhaled deeply, momentarily pressing your lips together.
"Come back to the motel, please." you said finally, softer now—pleading, almost begging.
He didn't answer nor move, staying still like a statue that was just waiting to catch dust and vines to merge back into the earth to vanish in it completely.
"I'm calling Sam," you said as you inevitably gave up of getting through to Dean, pulling your phone out "He needs to know you're-"
Dean's hand shot out fast, grabbing your wrist before you could dial.
"Don't." he said low and sharp
His grip wasn't rough, but it was firm—desperate in a way that made the frustration and anger crumble.
Your eyes swayed back to him and for the first time since he returned from hunting that Djinn, he met your gaze—something in his eyes was breaking.
"Dean..." you said quietly and his grip loosened slightly but he didn't let go fully.
"Just...don't." he repeated, his own voice softer now—not commanding anymore, almost a plea.
Something was wrong, more than before and more than usual.
You could feel it right at the edge of everything he wasn't saying.
Dean didn't let go of your wrist right away, but he didn't send you away either, so you slowly lowered your phone and slipping it back into your pocket while your gaze didn't leave his.
"Okay." you finally agreed quietly and Dean's hand dropped carefully from your wrist after a second like he wasn't sure what to do with his hand now that it wasn't around your wrist anymore.
You glanced at the empty stool beside him, then at him.
He didn't stop you, so you sat—close enough that your shoulders almost touched, but not quite.
The music filled the space where words didn't come immediately.
Dean stared at his drink and you watched him as you did what you could do best—wait.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
"It got me." Dean spoke low, quiet and rough after ten whole minutes like the words had been sitting in his throat for a while.
You didn't interrupt, didn't move.
"The Djinn." he added as he continued as if you might not understand what he was talking about otherwise.
"I didn't even see it coming." he huffed humorlessly "Guess I'm slipping."
"No you're not." you said instinctively, not even thinking about your words but knowing they were true.
Dean shook his head slightly.
"That thing, it doesn't just knock you out. It brings you...somewhere else." he continued.
Your chest tightened as your mind spun back to earlier, before Dean left and Sam corrected you on the venom.
"Like a dream..?" you asked, glancing at him without turning your head.
"Yeah, but not like a normal one." Dean nodded faintly in response as his fingers tightened around the glass before he continued.
"It builds something, something you want like a...like a dream. It gives you something you don't question because you want it so much." he said.
You stayed still, staying seated next to him and listening for whatever was coming next.
"I didn't know I was under or felt it, I didn't feel anything except..." Dean trailed off, jaw clenching briefly before he continued "...everything being right."
For a few moments, you didn't know how to respond or if you even should at all.
How does one respond to that?
"What was it?" you asked softly, settling for a question rather than for words that might not mean anything.
Dean didn't answer right away, like saying it out loud made that dream a true fantasy in a way he didn't want.
Then he lifted the half-empty glass, chugging the amber liquid in one go before slamming the glass down on the bar-counter as if the echo could keep him in this exact moment.
"Mom was alive." he bit out, inhaling through his teeth at the burn of the liquor in his throat.
You overheard Sam and Dean mention her once or twice, the latter never wanting to talk about her so it came as a surprise that he mentioned her now—to you, of all people.
It were Sam and Bobby who told you about Mary and her untimely death, stuck on the ceiling and bursting into flames in Sam's nursery when he was only six months old.
"Dad too." Dean added as he watched the condensation on the glass like it held answers to questions no one but him knew.
"No hunting, no–" he paused as he gestured vaguely at himself and the door leading out of the hotel bar where the impala stood outside on the street "None of it."
"Sam was in law school, Jessica by his side at Stanford." Dean continued, his voice softening without meaning to before a faint and distant smile flickered across his face.
"He proposed" he went on "She said yes."
You felt something twist in your chest.
Sam didn't talk much about Jessica, and when he did it was drunk after a hunt with more casualties than he could bear—it's only because of that that you know about her too.
"And you?" you asked, almost whispering now like you were walking on eggshells and trying not to wake the sleeping beast.
For a second it looked like Dean wasn't going to answer, but then he let out a long breath.
"I had someone."
Your heart skipped but you didn't move, didn't speak and didn't even breathe properly.
Dean's gaze drifted behind the bar where a bartender was drying glasses with a rag too old and hands too dirty.
"She was...good." he continued lower, watching the man go through the motion of drying and putting away something fragile.
"Too good for me."
Your fingers curled against your thigh but you gathered your courage and turned your head to him.
"And?" you asked, even though your voice barely worked.
Dean exhaled slowly before finally his eyes met yours.
"It was you."
Your heart stopped, the world narrowing down to just that—to just him, to just those words while the rushing in your ears drowned out the still playing music and noise around you.
"What?" you whispered, taken aback.
You expected a lot, maybe something sarcastic or a brush off, but not that.
Dean didn't look away this time, didn't take it back.
His eyes were slightly glossed over with the buzz of alcohol, but they were so sincere that the thought he might be messing with you didn't even cross your mind.
"In that dream, it was you by my side." he repeated.
Oh.
Oh.
Your heart was racing now, fast and unsteady as beats stumbled over one another.
"That's not–" you started, shaking your head slightly in an effort to catch up "Dean, you barely–"
"I know." Dean cut in sharp and immediate, hardness set into his eyes before they softened
"I know." he said once more, softer.
Silence stretched between you as you were unsure what to say, but the silence wasn't empty—it was full of everything neither of you had said before.
"I didn't question it. I didn't stop to think 'why', I just...accepted it. Happily. Because it felt right." Dean admitted.
"And I stayed." he added without giving you the chance to process his confession.
"What?" you blinked, focusing on that instead.
"I stayed even when things started to feel off, even when I should've figured it out."
Your chest tightened painfully at his words.
"...why?" you asked even though you already knew, you just needed to hear it.
"Because I was happy." Dean breathed, and the honesty in it hurt.
"I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to wake up and go back to–" he kept going, vaguely gesturing around again "–this."
A bitter edge slipped into his voice.
"I didn't want to go back to knowing how things actually are, back to knowing how they end."
That pulled the ground out from under your feet, hard.
"So you just...let it happen..?" you asked with an unsteady voice, your eyes still locked on his like you were trapped in the green sincerity—waiting for the moment they pulled you in, letting you drown in the color and him.
"Yeah." he confirmed with no hesitate or excuse.
"I let it keep me there, let it feed, let it–" he paused to clench his jaw again and advert his gaze. "...kill me."
Your stomach dropped as alarm bells rang in your head loud, sudden and unforgiving.
"Dean–!" you started sharply.
"I knew." he cut in quietly, finding your eyes again "Not at first, but later."
His gaze didn't leave yours again as he went on.
"I knew something was wrong, that it wasn't real...and I still stayed.
Heavy silence followed that you didn't know how to fill at first, breathing feeling harder now.
"Because of them? Your family...?" you asked, forcing your voice calm and soft like it could somehow keep your worry at his words from spiraling.
"Not just them." Dean replied, shaking his head once.
You already knew where this was going, but it didn't make it easier—it didn't make breathing easier or calmed your still racing heart.
"Because of you."
The words were quieter, but that didn't soften the blow they dealt.
"I liked it." Dean admitted, his voice almost gone and barely a whisper "Too much."
Then he paused again, shaking his head like he was shaking off thoughts or rewinding them.
"I like you. More than I should." he corrected himself—not past tense, present.
There it was, out in the open with no taking it back as it filled the small space between the two of you.
You stared at him trying to reconcile this with...everything—with the distance, the avoidance and the way he looked at you like you were something he had to stay away from.
"You-you've been avoiding me for weeks, months." you stuttered, your voice shaking slightly.
"I know."
"You barely look at me."
"I know."
"Then why–"
"Because I don't get to have that." Dean snapped suddenly with his brows pinched together in anger—not at you, at himself.
You were stunned by the outburst, silence slamming back into place.
Dean ran a hand over his jaw and the beard bristles there, exhaling sharply.
"I don't get to want things like that, not anymore." he said, and the worst of it was that you knew why.
"The crossroad deal..." you mumbled before you could stop yourself, the words just slipping out and making Dean freeze completely in a way you had never seen before.
The air shifted instantly as his eyes snapped to yours, unreadable but sharp.
"How do you know that?"
Your mouth opened and closed uselessly, searching for a response you didn't have because you promised Sam you wouldn't tell Dean that he told you about it.
"I-I–" you stammered with your mind still scrambling but it was too late, you saw the shift and the realization that came with it.
"Sam." Dean said flatly, not even asking if he was right because he knew he was.
And yet you didn't respond, letting fragile silence hang between you and bracing for an explosion but underneath it was something else—something quieter that hadn't gone away, not even now.
Because even with everything crashing down Dean was still looking at you like that, like he meant what he said and that might've been the most dangerous part of all.
He didn't move at first or look away, didn't get angry the way you expected him to.
He just...stared at you as if something had finally clicked into place.
"Of course he did." Dean muttered under his breath with an eye-roll, more tired than furious.
Your chest tightened with guilt at breaking your promise to Sam without thinking.
"I wasn't going to say anything, he asked me not to." you said quickly.
"Yeah, that sounds like Sam." Dean chuckled, the frustration ebbing away while the anger you braced for never came.
Then he exhaled slowly, leaning forward against the bar like he needed something solid to hold him up.
"Guess that saves me the speech, then." he muttered, toying with the second glass in his hand he hadn't drank from yet.
"It doesn't have to." you offered quietly and his eyes flicked back to you with something softer and more exposed in them now.
"Yeah, no, it kinda does." he deflected in a murmur after a second before lifting the glass to his lips and you watched him chug the whole thing before setting the emptied glass down next to the other one.
You didn't stop him.
"I don't get this." Dean huffed humorlessly after a few moments of silence in which you adverted your gaze again, shaking his head slightly.
You frowned.
"What?"
"This." he repeated, motioning between the two of you with his chin "You. Me. Whatever the hell this is."
His voice wasn't angry, it was frustrated and lost.
"I don't get you." he added, glancing sideways at you without meeting your gaze again.
You blinked at him confused.
"What do you mean–"
"Because it didn't used to be like this." he cut in, then paused.
"I was fine."
The words came quick, as if he needed to say them before he lost the nerve.
"I was good with the deal. One year, Sam lives—that's it. Clean, simple."
Your stomach twisted uncomfortably.
"I knew how it ended, knew what I signed up for." he continued, voice rising slightly at each word as the frustration grew.
His gaze dropped back down onto the bar-counter with a sigh.
"I made peace with it." he added quieter, then his brows furrowed again.
"Then you stayed."
You remained silent, unable to speak like your brain abandoned your vocabulary to make space for Dean's voice and words.
"At first, I was pissed at you." Dean admitted.
"I know." you said immediately.
"No, you don't. Not really." he disagreed, shaking his head before his eyes met yours again.
"You...stood there and offered to erase him like he was something I could just lose twice."
Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth to respond, but Dean didn't let you.
"I wasn't thinking straight, I know that now." he added quickly and paused like he needed a moment to find the courage and the words.
"Back then? I hated you for even suggesting it."
The honesty stung but it wasn't cruel, it was just real and you understood.
"Then things changed." Dean continued quieter, less sharp.
"Somewhere between all those crappy motel rooms and those stupid long drives..." a small and almost reluctant huff of a smile broke through his words "...you didn't feel like a problem anymore."
Your heart skipped.
"You were just...there." he said "Helping...staying...not running like I thought you would."
Dean's gaze softened slightly as he paused before going on.
"And I started noticing it." he admitted quietly with a faint shrug of his broad shoulders.
"Noticing what...?" you asked.
"You."
The word landed the way it was spoken—softly.
"The way you patch us up like it actually matters, like I matter." Dean started to explain quietly
"The way you sit there reading lore like you're trying to earn your place–"
"I am." you interrupted small and quiet.
"I know. That's the problem." he replied immediately with a brief sigh.
You looked at him a little lost and confused, so he went on.
"I started caring...and I wasn't supposed to." Dean said just like that—no deflection or joke, nothing to hide behind.
"So I pulled back." he went on "Kept my distance. Figured if I didn't let it get too far, it wouldn't matter."
A humorless huff left him.
"Didn't work."
Your heart was pounding again now—loud and unsteady.
"It just got worse. Every time you were in the room, every time you looked at me like I wasn't–" Dean admitted, but cut off abruptly like he was about to say something he didn't want—jaw clenching to a point of almost cracking.
"Like I wasn't, what?" you pressed softly but Dean shook his head.
"Doesn't matter."
"It does."
That earned you a moment of silence before he sighed once again.
"Like I wasn't already gone." he said, eyes meeting yours again.
"I'm falling for you." Dean added, the repeated admission quieter but not carrying less weight—perhaps more, even.
"I didn't plan it, I didn't want it but it's happening anyway and it's getting worse with every second you're close and I can't fucking stop it."
Your breath caught in your throat like the air around was too thin and too tight to breathe in as Dean's gaze drifted away from you again.
"And I'm scared." he admitted in a whisper, the words and tone almost not sounding like him.
Dean Winchester is strong, capable, confident—he's not scared, not ever.
"I'm scared of what's coming, of what's waiting for me down there when that year's up." he continued.
Hell.
He didn't say it, but it was there between every word.
"I was okay with it before you." he scoffed, making your heart ache.
"I knew what I was getting, that I could handle it."
He paused again, his mouth opening and closing once then twice with no sound coming out.
"But I can't feel this..." his voice faltered slightly "...and then just go."
Dean looked at you then as his words echoed in your head, bouncing off the walls on the inside of your skull while they repeated like a broken record.
For a moment he just stared at you, his eyes boring into yours like he was trying to memorize something he knew he didn't get to keep.
"So I need you to do something for me."
Your stomach dropped, churned and flipped because you already knew what he was going to ask of you.
"Don't." you warned quietly but firm, shaking your head like you might be able to shake off that suggestion from existence once and for all.
Dean's eyes stayed locked on yours, undeterred by your initial refusal.
"I have to." he pressed lowly, like he felt guilty for asking this of you.
"No, no you don't–!"
"Yes, I do." he cut in, sharper now but the edges still soft "Because I'm not strong enough not to feel this."
"You want me to erase you from Sam's memory?!" you questioned in disbelief, your voice barely holding as anger found its way back to you.
Dean shook his head quickly.
"No, not from Sam. I want you to erase yourself from me, from my memory."
Your breath caught because this, this was even worse—'Erase yourself from my memory.'
"No." you declared immediate and firm, shaking your head again.
Dean didn't flinch fron the rejection.
"Please." he said quietly—raw.
You hesitated, scrambling for words you could hardly find in the mess your head had become since you found him here.
"You told me never to use it, you made it a rule!" you barked in a whisper, your voice shaking now as emotions bubbled over unguarded.
"I know."
"And now you're asking me to–!"
"Because this is different!" Dean snapped, but not in anger—in desperation.
"I can't fucking go down there thinking about you. I can't carry this with me." he said, his voice breaking slightly at the edges.
Your chest felt like it was caving in at the desperation and torment in his eyes and voice.
"I need it to not hurt, or at least hurt...less." he added "Please."
You couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't–
Dean closed the distance before you could say anything else.
His hand came up to your face hesitant as if he wasn't sure he was allowed—the palm of his hand cradling your jaw just below your ear, his fingers gently curling around the back of your neck.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn't careful nor planned, it was everything he hadn't let himself feel all at once.
And you didn't pull away, you couldn't.
Not when your hands found the collar of of his jacket to pull him closer, not when your heart was racing for a completely different reason now and not when his words were still echoing in your head—'Erase yourself.'
The kiss deepened in a desperate mess like time was running out, like the last few minutes were ticking and the last few grains of sand trickled through the hourglass.
For this moment, you let yourself forget everything else as you focused on Dean utterly and fully.
pervy and needy bookstore owner König who watches you between shelfs as he palms his throbbing cock through his pants without you noticing. When you leave, he grabs the book you were looking at and carries it to the employee bathroom to cum between the pages. Maybe next time you get back you'll buy it and get surprised by his gift.
Synopsis: You were there the night only one was meant to survive and you didn’t die while you carry something dangerous—the ability to erase people like they never existed. Months later, Dean still looks at you like you’re a monster to be feared…until the truth comes out that his time is running out.
And when it does, he asks for the one thing only you can give: to make him forget you so it won't hurt as much when he dies.
Part: 3/6
cw: fem!reader, x reader, no use of Y/N, reader has abilities, plays between season 2 and 3, doesn't strictly follow canon, Dean's crossroad deal, Sam's first death, enemies to lovers (one sided and if you squint), slight slow-burn, graphic descriptions of violence and gore, Dean is a ass most of the time towards reader
wc: 3,4k
a/n: I'm on season five now, and literally every season I start I get new short fic ideas help
ACT III: Things he doesn't say
Weeks passed after Sam told you about Dean's crossroad deal.
You counted the weeks at first, but just in your head—quiet, careful, like everything else you did now.
Because every week mattered, every day did, every hour that ticked by was one Dean didn't get back—and you knew, that was the problem.
You knew.
It changed how you looked at him, so you stopped looking at him—at least you tried to.
You kept your distance, more than he ever had.
You stayed in your space, stayed quiet and stayed careful with your words and your expressions and your thoughts like they might somehow give you away—if you slipped, if you said the wrong thing, he'd know.
Dean noticed.
Of course he did, he noticed more than he let on.
At first it just made him more distant too as if the two of you were orbiting each other at opposite ends, both pretending that space didn't matter.
But distance doesn't stay stable forever—not when you're trapped in the same car and the same rooms, the same life.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
"You missed one."
You looked up from the book in your lap, confused.
Dean stood by the door with his keys in hand, already halfway out.
"Sorry?"
"Shapeshifters." he said, jerking his chin toward your notes.
"They don't just shed skin, sometimes they keep pieces. Teeth, fingernails...depends how rushed they are."
You blinked because Sam hadn't told you that when you asked him to tell you more about shapeshifters.
"Oh, okay." you said slowly, almost a little suspicious.
Dean nodded once like that was it, like he hadn't just spoke more words to you in a single sentence than he did in the past two months combined.
"Also, if you want to make sure the bastard's dead you stab the heart with silver or decapitate them." he added already turning away, and then he was gone—just like that.
It kept happening, tittle things—corrections, additions, details Sam hadn't mentioned.
"You don't salt windows on a vengeful spirit case, you salt the entry points which means door frames and vents and anything it can use." - "That lore's bull." - "Don't trust eyewitnesses, they sometimes lie without meaning to because they try to make sense of something they don't understand."
It was always quick, always like he didn't want to be there long enough for it to mean something and always with that edge of annoyance like it irritated him that you didn't already know—that it irritated him more that he was the one telling you.
Sam noticed it too, but he didn't say anything.
He just watched the two of you with that quiet, knowing look that made you feel like he was waiting for something.
And then sometimes Dean talked more—not directly to you, but around you like you just happened to be in the room when he said things.
"Remember that hunt in Colorado?" he said once, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand.
Sam looked up from his laptop.
"Which one?"
"The one with the mine." Dean explained "Collapsed tunnel, angry spirit that almost took your head off."
"Yeah. You shot the support beam trying to hit it." Sam said with a quiet laugh.
"It worked." he shot back with a smug smile.
"It almost buried us alive." Sam huffed in response.
You stayed quiet but you listened, because those things weren't just mindlessly told stories—they were Dean.
They were piece of him he wasn't exactly offering, just letting them exist where you could hear them.
As if it didn't matter, like you didn't matter—but it did.
You knew it did because he only did it when you were there.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The hunt that changed things didn't feel different at first.
It was just another small town and another case with another restless spirit tied to a grave that hadn't been properly dealt with.
"Same rules." Dean announced before they left the motel and you nodded automatically.
"Stay here."
"I know."
"Doors locked."
"Yes."
"Call if anything–"
"I will."
Dean hesitated for just for a second, then nodded once and left with Sam.
The silence came back with their absence—familiar, heavy.
You tried to focus on spread out notes and open books, giving yourself something to do and doing something to be useful.
But then an hour after they left, the temperature dropped.
It was a subtle change at first, then sharp and undeniable since you could see your own breath that caught at the dooming realization at what was happening.
You didn't move, didn't panic—you knew enough now not to.
The lights flickered, once and twice before the mirror suddenly cracked.
A sharp, violent fracture split across the surface and made your heart slam against your ribs.
"Okay, okay..." you whispered to yourself.
You stood slowly, grabbing the salt from the table.
The air shifted.
Pressure building, something watching and waiting—then it hit.
The spirit manifested fast, too fast.
A blur of movement, of rage, of something wrong as it lunged for you.
You threw the salt instinctively, the line scattering uneven on the floor but being enough to disrupt the evil spirit for a second.
You stumbled back, grabbing the iron poker Bobby had insisted you keep so you 'wouldn't forget him while the boys drove you insane'.
"Stay back!" you snapped, your voice shaking but holding.
The spirit screamed and came again but you held your ground—barely.
Every movement was instinct and half-learned knowledge, every breath sharp and uneven as you tried to remember what to do and what not to and what would get you killed.
Then the door burst open—Dean.
He didn't hesitate, didn't ask nor think.
He was already moving before you could truly register him, already between you and and the spirit with iron in hand as he struck hard enough to force it back.
"Sam!" he barked into his phone, not taking his eyes off the attacking spirit "Hurry up!"
You staggered back slightly as your grip tightening on the poker while Dean stepped forward, taking control of the fight like he'd done it a thousand times—because he had.
Minutes stretched, or maybe it was just seconds though it was hard to tell how much time exactly with how much adrenaline pumped through your veins.
Then the spirit screamed again, this time in what resembled pain as it's form burst into flames before it disappeared.
It was gone—bones burned with salt, finished.
The brief silence after was louder than the fight and the screaming.
Dean spun around to you.
"You okay?" he asked, brows pinched together in what you'd read as worry in Sam's face but with Dean you weren't quite sure.
You nodded quickly, still catching your breath.
"Y-yeah. I'm fine, I–" you started, still catching your breath and processing what just happened.
"What the hell was that?" he snapped as he cut you off, his voice sharp.
You flinched slightly at the sudden outburst.
"I-it came out of nowhere, I–" you tried, but Dean interrupted you once again.
"You were supposed to stay put!" he barked.
"I did!" you shot back, a spark of frustration breaking through "I didn't go looking for it, it came here!"
Dean ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like he needed to burn off something he couldn't say.
"You could've been hurt!" he sneered.
"I wasn't!"
"That's not the point!"
"Then what is?!" you challenged, your voice quieter now but still frustrated.
Dean stopped and looked at you like he was trying to decide something or stopping himself from saying something.
"It's my job to keep people from getting hurt." he claimed finally—flat, controlled.
You held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded because you knew there was no use arguing with Dean when he was riled up like this.
"Okay." you responded rather gruffly, but that it wasn't okay—you both knew it.
After that he stayed more.
Not all the time nor so much to make it obvious, but enough—enough that you noticed.
He didn't leave the room as quickly, didn't avoid being alone with you as much.
Sometimes he sat, not with you exactly but just...sat like it didn't mean anything and like he wasn't choosing to—you didn't say anything about it because neither did he.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Another week passed.
It slipped by quieter than the ones before it—no close calls, no late-night emergency patch-ups, no slammed motel doors or raised voices.
That night, Sam left to grab snacks.
"Don't kill each other." he said lightly on his way out and Dean rolled his eyes.
"Just get the damn pie." he muttered right before the door shut behind his brother.
Silence settled in for a second then filled with the low hum of rock music from the radio, something old and steady—the kind that made the room feel smaller but comfortable.
You sat on a chair opposite of Dean, Sam's notebook flipped open on the table between the two of you as you mindlessly turned page after page without really reading.
Dean leaned back in the chair with his boots kicked up slightly and gaze unfocused.
For once he didn't leave, not even after a couple minutes even though you fully expected him to.
"You ever hear about John's hunt in Blackwater Ridge?" he suddenly asked and the question caught you off guard, making you look up.
"Johns hunt in...Blackwater Ridge...?" you echoed and Dean nodded, not looking at you right away.
"Wendigo case." he said like this was the most normal thing to talk about "Before Sam was really back in the picture."
"No, haven't heard of it." you replied as you shook your head slowly.
Dean nodded once, clearly having expected that.
"Yeah...wasn't exactly a story we told a lot."
There was something different in his voice—quieter, less guarded.
He took his feet off the table and leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.
"Dad took me with him." he started "I was a kid. Thought it was gonna be like every other hunt—go in, kill the thing, get out."
A pause.
"It wasn't." he added, as a faint and humorless smiled tugged at his lips.
You stayed quiet, ready to listen while you waited for him to continue.
"That thing...it didn't just hunt people." Dean said.
"It watched and waited, knew how to pick folks off one by one."
His gaze drifted slightly around the room.
"Dad kept telling me to stay put, stay safe..."
You swallowed faintly.
"But you didn't...?" you said softly, quiet like speaking too loud might ruin the moment.
"Of course I didn't." Dean huffed mildly amused, then paused.
"I got someone killed." he finally admitted quietly, making your chest tighten.
Dean's jaw clenched like even now it didn't sit right, like even now he thought he should've done more than he could've at the time.
"Didn't listen, didn't think, just...acted." he uttered before he shook his head once as if he was trying to shake a thought away.
"After that, dad didn't bring me along for a while."
Silence stretched as only the music filled the space between you before Dean spoke again.
"He never stopped though, after mom." Dean said more quietly and your gaze softened reflexively.
"You remember her?" you asked carefully and Dean nodded.
"Some." he agreed "Not enough."
A beat.
"She was...good." he said, them added more like the word didn't quite cover it "Normal. Warm. She kept things together."
His voice dipped slightly.
"And then she was gone."
The room felt heavier, more vacant like it suddenly wasn't only Sam that was missing.
"He tried after, with us, with Sam." Dean continued.
"In his own way." he scoffed faintly.
You didn't miss the way his voice tightened, but you didn't comment on it.
"But it wasn't the same." he finished before the silence returned, making you shift slightly on the chair with your hands clenching briefly into fists before you forced yourself to release the tension again.
"I didn't have that." you said before you could stop yourself or really think about it, adverting your gaze.
Dean glanced at you and you hesitated, thinking of backing off, but then you continued.
"Not the hunting, obviously." you clarified "Just...someone to teach me how to deal with it."
"With what?" he asked.
"With this." you swallowed, looking down at your hands that were still resisting on top of the pages of Sam's notebook—looking at something that wasn't visible but never really left you either.
"The first time I used it, I didn't even know what I was doing..." you admitted quietly, keeping your gaze lowered—scared of what you mind find in Dean's face
But Dean didn't interrupt or joke or deflect, he just listened so you hesitantly continued.
"I had a friend. They were...struggling. A lot." you started, your throat tightening with tears at the memory but you forced the moisture in your eyes back down.
"I didn't know how to help them. Nothing I said mattered, nothing I did changed anything." you continued before you let out a small, unsteady breath.
"So I just...wanted it gone."
Dean's gaze sharpened in slightly alarm.
"The pain, the things that weighed them down." you clarified quickly "I just...wished they didn't have to feel it anymore."
A pause before you were able to continue.
"And then I was there..."
Your fingers curled slightly into the pages of Sam's notebook, crumpling but not ripping.
"...in their memories."
Dean didn't move, didn't interrupt.
"I didn't know what I was looking at...didn't know what mattered and what didn't. I just...took something I thought was hurting them and making them miserable." you continued and in the heavy silence that followed you took a deep, shaky inhale before you were able to go on—the memory still sharp, painful, unprocessed.
"They killed themself a few days later." you whispered, voice breaking as the tears bubbled up again like a shaken soda can opened too soon.
As quiet as the words landed, they also hit hard and you could feel your heart breaking just a little more as you forced yourself to keep going.
"I didn't erase the pain, I erased something that was...holding them here." you whispered, blinking a few times against the tears threatening to fall as guilt washed over you in a wave you became too familiar with.
"Something important, something that made them want to try to stay, something that made them wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night. And I didn't even know what it was."
Your hands trembled slightly, voice high pitched and wobbly while barely staying a breathed whisper—eyes still adverted on your hands, the same ones that killed without being dirtied directly.
When you finally dared to glance at him, Dean's expression had changed—not to anger, to something else.
"I...uhm...tried once more, on someone else. I tried something smaller, trying to be...careful because I just needed to make sure that I did that to my friend." you added after a moment, swallowing against the lump in your throat
"It still messed things up. Not as bad, but enough. After that I stopped and didn't use it again, didn't want to..." you shook your head faintly.
"...until Jake. That wasn't a choice, it just...happened." you tried to explain, voice tightened.
Silence stretched between you long and heavy, then you forced yourself to actually look at him instead of glancing—waiting.
For it, for the anger and fury and for the word—monster.
It didn't come.
Dean exhaled slowly like your words weighed heavy and deep on his chest, running a hand over his face.
"That's not on you." he said.
"...what?" you blinked confused.
You expected a strong reaction, not this.
You expected yelling, maybe a violent outburst similar to the one in Bobby's house where Dean threw the chair so hardly against the wall that it broke upon impact.
You expected to feel like you were sitting at the beach, watching the tide rising and threatening to drown you while you stayed in place and unable to move—to be helpless and alone with Dean's anger until Sam finally returned.
"You didn't know." Dean said instead, looking at you now too—steady and certain like he actually meant it "You were a kid trying to help someone you cared about."
Your throat tightened impossibly further and for a moment you wished Dean would explode, to put his hands around your neck and snuff the life out of you like he must've wanted to do after you offered to erase Sam from his mind—because you'd deserve it.
"I still–" you started, but Dean didn't let you finish.
"You didn't know." he repeated firmer this time, more like an order.
The words hit differently coming from him.
"You didn't wake up and decide to hurt someone. You tried to fix something you didn't understand. You didn't know." Dean insisted.
Your chest felt crushed with weight you couldn't see nor name, tears burning hot behind your eyes.
But not solely because of the words, but because of who spoke them with so much convincion.
"And the farm...what you offered me..." Dean continued quieter, and everything inside you went still.
Here it was, the moment everything shattered.
You tensed while waiting for the inevitable blow.
"I get it now." he said, completely disarming you and making you stare at him.
"You were trying to help, same as before." he added.
"I-I thought you'd–" you stuttered, voice barely working.
"Yeah, I know what I said." Dean cut in, a small humorless huff escaping him before he looked away briefly with a clenched jaw..
"I was out of my mind." he admitted sheepishly but sincere "Angry, grieving, looking for something to hit."
His gaze returned to you again and your breath caught slightly.
"But that doesn't make it okay. I shouldn't have said those things, not any of it."
All you could do was stare at him.
"You're not a monster."
The taking back of the words settled deeper, deeper than when he first said you were.
You didn't realize how much you needed to hear thar until now, until Dean did.
Silence followed once more, but it wasn't heavy or suffocating—just simple quiet that didn't need any filling.
Dean didn't look away this time and neither did you.
When he slowly leaned closer over the table towards you, so did you—shifting closer, too close as your heart picked up it's pace and a warm feeling spread low in your stomach.
Your breath slowed slightly as the distance between you seemed to disappear without either of you moving consciously, more like the poles had changed and now pulled the two of you closer rather than pushing away.
Dean's gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes before finding your lips again as his own parted slightly.
Your heart started racing as it hammered in your chest like it wanted out, but you didn't pull back—neither did he.
For a second, it seemed and felt like it might happen.
Like everything, the distance and the tension and the things unsaid, would finally break.
But Dean pulled back sharply at the last second, as if he caught himself too late.
He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he turned away and cleared his throat.
"Sam's taking forever." he muttered, pacing towards the door and pulling the curtain of the window next to it away to peek outside.
You stayed where you were, not moving an inch while your heart and brain were at war trying to decide wether to forget this entire thing or face it.
You stayed where you were, trying to steady your breathing and trying to ignore the way your chest ached—not exactly from hurt, but from something dangerously close to hope.
Dean didn't look at you again, not even after Sam returned with the snacks, but something had changed between the two of you—and this time there was no pretending it hadn't.
A pleasant note had been added to a song that always sounded wrong while playing on repeat.
Synopsis: You were there the night only one was meant to survive and you didn’t die while you carry something dangerous—the ability to erase people like they never existed. Months later, Dean still looks at you like you’re a monster to be feared…until the truth comes out that his time is running out.
And when it does, he asks for the one thing only you can give: to make him forget you so it won't hurt as much when he dies.
Part: 2/6
cw: fem!reader, x reader, no use of Y/N, reader has abilities, plays between season 2 and 3, doesn't strictly follow canon, Dean's crossroad deal, Sam's first death, enemies to lovers (one sided and if you squint), slight slow-burn, graphic descriptions of violence and gore, Dean is a ass most of the time towards reader
wc: 3,9k
a/n: the way I yearn for Dean and Sam is NOT healthy.
ACT II: The one who stayed
You didn't sleep that night, not even for a second.
The house creaked around you like it was settling into itself, wood shifting with every change in temperature—but it sounded too loud in the silence of grief.
Or maybe you were just listening too hard, because every time you closed your eyes you heard it again.
'You should've died, not him.'
The words didn't quiet echo, but they sat heavy and permanent in your chest.
You stayed on the couch in Bobby's living room, your knees pulled to your chest and staring at nothing while the hours dragged past in slow and suffocating silence.
Bobby had gone to bed at some point, but Dean hadn't—you knew that.
You could feel it, like something sharp still lingering in the air.
Until suddenly, it wasn't.
The shift was subtle, so subtle you almost missed it but the sound of the front door creaking open and close was confirmation to the feeling that the house felt emptier—quieter, but in the wrong way.
Your head turned slightly toward the hallway, toward the room where Sam's body still laid and towards the absence of Dean.
Your chest tightened and for a moment you thought about going after him, about saying something, anything, to fix what you had broken but your feet didn't move.
Because what would you even say?
'Sorry I offered to erase your brother from existence'?
The thought made your stomach twist, so you stayed where you were just like before—hidden, waiting.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Morning came too fast.
Gray light slipped through the windows dull and lifeless, dragging the world back into motion whether you were ready or not.
You hadn't moved, hadn't slept and hadn't stopped thinking.
The front door creaked open again, and your head snapped up.
Dean stepped inside and he looked...wrong—not just tired or wrecked, something deeper than that as if something had shifted under his skin and settled there.
Your eyes searched his face, your instinct prickling and the hair at the back of your neck rising like your body was expecting something bad.
Something wasn't right, you knew that immediately without being able to pinpoint what, but before you could say anything there was a sound from the other room—the one where Sam's body laid on a old mattress ever since Bobby and Dean carried it inside.
You froze because it couldn't have been Bobby who left more than an hour ago.
Dean didn't freeze like you did, he moved fast towards the room.
You followed without thinking, basically jumping off the couch and stumbling through the living room stuffed with books to get to the room next to the kitchen where Bobby had to stop Dean from exploding on you yesterday.
And then you saw him—Sam.
Standing, breathing, alive.
Your heart stopped and for a second your brain refused to catch up because that wasn't possible.
You saw Sam die, you saw the blade being violently shoved into his back, you saw him collapse in the mud, you saw the blood and you heard Dean saying that you should've died instead of his brother.
"Sam?" Dean's voice almost broke with his eyes widened, lips curling up in hope and relief.
"Dean?" Sam said, looking just as confused as you felt.
Sam stood there like nothing had happened, like his world hadn't ended a few hours ago.
Your back hit the doorframe without you realizing you'd stepped back.
Something was wrong, deeply and fundamentally wrong.
People didn't just come back, not like that, not without a cost and not ever.
Your gaze flicked to Dean but he didn't look surprised.
He looked relieved, yes, and definitely overwhelmed but not confused.
And that somehow scared you more than anything.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Bobby came back later, pulling Dean out into the courtyard filled with junk cars after giving a half-hearted excuse.
You stayed quiet and tucked away in the kitchen, having not even really listened as they talked about some roadhouse that burned down and some city with railroads.
You stayed quiet, trying to make sense of something that didn't have sense.
Sam kept glancing at you through the doorway of the living room leading to the kitchen, curious.
After a few minutes of Dean and Bobby still being outside, he cautiously walked into the kitchen like he was trying not to spook you but knowing he might.
"You were there. At the farm." he said as the planks creeked under his weight, hands in his pockets in a non-threatening manner.
You nodded slowly.
"I saw what happened." you said, unable to look at him as you spoke.
Sam frowned slightly, studying you.
"You're like me." he said after a moment, not a question but a realization.
You hesitated.
"Not...the same." you admitted "But...yeah."
That seemed to settle something in him.
Sam nodded slightly, like he'd come to a conclusion he didn't tell you of.
But before he could say anything else the front door opened.
Voices, Bobby first then Dean and someone else—a woman.
You straightened slightly where you stood, instinct kicking in as your attention snapped toward the living room.
Bootsteps crossed the floor.
Bobby entered first, moving aside just enough for the woman behind him to step in.
She carried herself differently—confident and sharp, even if a little traumatized, like she belonged in rooms like this and even ones filled with tension.
Her eyes swept the space quickly before landing on Sam and relief flickered in them.
"Sam." she said, breath catching just slightly.
"Ellen." Sam greeted in return, just as surprised and relieved.
You stayed where you were, tucked away in the kitchen—not quite part of the room or the conversation.
Dean stepped in last, his gaze found you immediately and hardened.
"Go outside." he said flatly and it took you a second to realize he was talking to you.
"What?" you asked quietly and taken aback, but Dean didn't soften.
"Or upstairs. Pick one." he added in the same flat tone, not loud but clearly not a suggestion either.
Sam stepped forward with a frown.
"Dean–" he tried, but his older brother wouldn't let him.
"It's fine." Dean cut him off without even looking at him.
"It's not–" Sam started again, taking another step forward.
Dean finally turned his head to his younger brother, just enough to make their gazes meet.
"Sam." he said lowly and that was it—a warning, a line drawn and enough to make Sam stop.
Sam's jaw tightened, but he didn't push further and took a step back again.
Your chest felt tight again in a familiar way like it did in the farmhouse, like hiding and knowing exactly how low you stood without anyone having to spell it out for you.
"I'll go." you said quickly before it could turn into something worse.
Sam looked like he wanted to argue again but you shook your head slightly—it wasn't worth it, not now and not for you.
You moved past them all quietly, keeping your head down as you stepped toward the front door.
You could feel Dean's eyes on you the entire time, watching to make sure you really left.
As you stepped out the air outside was cold, or maybe you were just shaking from feeling so utterly useless.
You stepped off the porch, gravel crunching softly under your shoes as you moved a few feet away from the house.
You didn't dare to go too far, scared of getting lost between cars parked around the house that made it look more like a junkyard than anything else.
The door fell shut behind you and from inside you could hear voices talking muffled instantly.
You wrapped your arms around yourself without thinking.
It definitely wasn't the cold, it was everything else.
You didn't belong in that room and you knew that.
You weren't a hunter, you weren't family—you were just...a problem they hadn't solved yet.
Your eyes drifted across the junkyard.
Rows of broken cars, rust and silence and a breeze flowing through your hair.
You focused on that instead of the house, the voices you couldn't hear—instead of wondering what Dean was saying about you, or what he wasn't saying.
Time passed, you didn't know how much exactly but it was enough for the cold to settle into your bones and long enough for your thoughts to start looping again—'You should've died, not him.'
Then the door creaked open behind you.
You stiffened slightly, turning your head and saw that it was Bobby who stood in the doorway.
He looked at you for a second, not suspicious this time but more like he was tired of questioning your existence.
"Get back in here." he said but you hesitated.
"C'mon, it's fine." he added gruffly, like that explained anything.
Your gaze flicked past him, trying to catch a glimpse inside but you couldn't see much aside from movement and shifting shadows.
"Am I...in trouble?" you asked quietly before you could think about it.
"If you were, you'd know." Bobby snorted.
That wasn't as reassuring as he must've thought, but it was something.
You nodded before you walked back toward the house and past him back inside.
The air felt heavier the moment you passed the doorway as if you were stepping back into something you weren't supposed to hear but were allowed to now.
Sam was standing near the table while Ellen leaned against the counter, arms crossed and eyes sharp as they landed on you the second you entered.
Dean didn't even look at you and somehow it made you feel even more miserable.
"Door." Bobby muttered as he passed you by.
You turned and closed it, then waited because that was what you did best—waiting to be told what came next.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
You expected to be told to leave.
Every second of that day, you waited for it—for Dean to snap again, for Bobby to decide you were too dangerous, for Sam to change his mind.
But it didn't come.
"You're not disappearing." Sam said instead, his voice cutting through the room—firm, certain.
You blinked at him.
"What?"
"Ava." he said simply "She was there...and then she wasn't. No explanation, no trace of her until the farm."
"You I won't just let vanish like that." he added, his eyes locking onto yours.
Dean exhaled sharply through his nose as if he didn't agree but wasn't going to fight it either.
Bobby looked between the two brothers, ready to step in but then Dean spoke up.
"You stay, but under rules." he decided.
The rules came quickly and clear, non-negotiable.
"You don't hunt, you don't engage, you stay in the motel while we're working and you don't use your ability." Dean said firmly and you nodded along to all of them.
What else could you do?
You had nowhere else to go.
The group left you at Bobby's house and returned completely disheveled the next day with Sam seething silently but no one told you what happened—you didn't ask, didn't dare to.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Life on the road wasn't what you expected.
It was...smaller with motels that smelled like stale air and old cigarettes, diners with greasy menus and long drives filled with music you didn't recognize at first but started to.
They, or rather Sam, taught you.
Not how to fight, but enough to not live in a constant state of feeling useless and confused—lore, creatures, patterns, what to avoid, what to never underestimate and how to defend yourself if you were ever forced to.
Thanks to them, you learned the importance of rock-salt and silver and holy water.
Sam explained things patiently and careful like he understood what it felt like to be thrown into something you didn't ask for.
Dean on the other hand didn't.
He kept his distance, always.
If you were in a room, he found a reason not to be.
If you spoke, he answered shortly—if at all.
If your eyes met for even the briefest moment, he looked away first.
He behaved around you like being near you was something he had to manage against his will, to control and avoid everything regarding you and your sole existence.
When the gate opened you weren't there, they didn't let you and left you at Bobby's place.
Safer they said, out of the way—you didn't argue, couldn't because they didn't tell you at the time and it was Sam who told you about it later on a long drive to a city whose name you'd already forgotten.
But they all came back different, especially Sam and Dean.
They came back tired in a way sleep wouldn't fix, quieter like whatever they had seen, whatever they had fought, stayed with them.
And still you went with them, not that there was really anywhere else for you to go after the farm.
Motel rooms became your space, your 'job' because you needed one, because you needed something to justify being with them.
So you learned, asked questions and researched.
You read through Sam's notes he gave you until the words blurred together, cross-referenced lore and did anything you could from a motel room that might help them catch whatever they were hunting.
And when they came back bruised and cut and bleeding, you were there—cleaning wounds, bandaging injuries with steady hands even when your chest wasn't nearly as calm.
"You don't have to do that." Sam said once while you were cleaning a cut on his brow.
"I know." you answered but kept going anyway because you felt like if you stopped, you'd be back where you started—useless, watching and waiting, surviving when others didn't.
Dean noticed, you knew he did even if he never said anything—even if he never stayed in the room long enough to acknowledge it, even if every time you stepped closer he stepped back.
And still you stayed.
Not because you felt safe or because you felt like you belonged, but because for the first time since you first discovered your ability a little over a year ago you didn't feel quiet as helpless anymore.
Even if one of them refused to look at you, even if the other one was still trying to figure you out, even if something about the way Sam had come back from the dead still didn't feel right.
Something had changed, you just didn't know what it was yet.
You only knew it had something to do with Sam and Dean and the way neither of them talked about that night.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
It happened in another motel, another place that looked like every other motel you had been to—faded wallpaper, buzzing lights, bedspreads that had seen too much.
Dean had left again which wasn't unusual, not anymore.
You sat cross-legged on one of the beds with a book open in your lap but unread, your eyes tracing the same line over and over again without actually processing the words.
Sam noticed, he always did.
"You're gonna burn a hole through that page." he said lightly from the small table by the window where he was flipping through websites on his laptop.
"What?" you blinked, looking up at him.
"You've been staring at that paragraph for like ten minutes." he said mildly amused, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth..
You glanced down at the book, hadn't even realized.
"Oh."
Silence stretched for a moment, then Sam spoke again.
"You know something's wrong." he stated, making your eyes snap back to him.
You hesitated.
"...yeah." you finally admitted quietly.
Sam closed the laptop slowly, which wasn't a good sign.
"You saw it." he said "At Bobby's."
You swallowed hard, knowing exactly what he was talking about.
"I saw you die...and then come back like nothing happened." you said quietly and Sam nodded like he expected that answer.
"People don't just come back, not like that." you added, voice tightening slightly.
"No." Sam agreed.
Another pause before he looked at you fully.
"There was a deal." he said and the words didn't make sense at first.
"A...what?"
"A crossroads deal." Sam clarified which didn't do anything to solve your confusion, making you frown slightly.
"That's not–" you started, shaking your head faintly "That's not a thing."
"It is." Sam countered and your confusion deepened.
"What does that even mean?" you questioned and Sam leaned back slightly, running a hand over his face like he was deciding how much to tell you.
"A demon." he started.
"A crossroad demon. You summon it with a voodoo-like ritual and then you make a deal. Usually ten years, sometimes less, and they give you what you want."
A cold feeling started creeping into your chest.
"And then? When the time's up?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer wouldn't be good.
"And then they you die and they take your soul." Sam confirmed quietly.
Heavy silence followed his words and your grip on the edges of the book tightened slightly.
"What does that have to do with you?" you finally asked, voice even quieter now like you were afraid that speaking too loud would make the worst come true.
"Dean made a deal." he said without looking away from you.
The words hit wrong and heavy as if they didn't fit the world properly, as if they didn't belong to it.
"For...what?" you asked with your stomach already dropping, throat tightened.
Sam's jaw clenched for a moment, molars grinding together so hard you thought his teeth might shatter under the pressure.
"For me." he finally said and everything inside you went still.
"He traded his soul, for me. I was dead and he–" Sam continued, voice strained now like it physically pained him.
"No." you cut in quickly, shaking your head as a disbelieving scoff got stuck in your throat.
"That's not possible," you went on, more to yourself than to him.
"You can't just...people don't–"
"They do." Sam said firmly, interrupting your babbling.
Your heartbeat picked up slightly without you being able to feel it, the realization making you feel numb as Sam's words echoed in your mind—'Usually ten years, sometimes less.'
"How long?" you asked before you could stop yourself.
Sam hesitated and that hesitation told you everything before he even spoke.
"A year." he finally bit out.
The room felt smaller, colder.
"He only has a year?" you repeated, voice hollow.
Sam nodded.
"He's not even supposed to have that little, it's supposed to be ten years, but he said one year was all he was able to get." he added quietly but that only made it worse.
Your gaze dropped to your hands and to the faint tremble you couldn't quite control.
"That's why..." you trailed off.
That's why he looked wrong, that's why he wasn't surprised when Sam came back from the dead, that's why Sam is forgiving him so much—because they both know that a year is all they have left together.
Your throat tightened.
"He didn't tell you." you said and Sam shook his head.
"No, not at first. I had to force him to tell me after we closed the gate."
"Why?" you asked in a whisper.
"Because that's who he is. He made the choice, knew I wouldn't approve of it and wanted to carry it alone." Sam answered simply, sounding more frustrated than angry.
Something sharp twisted in your chest at that.
You thought back to that night, to Dean's face and to the way he looked at you when you offered–
"I told him I could erase it..." you whispered "I told him I could take you away from his memory."
Sam's expression softened slightly at your words, no anger or fury in his eyes—only silent understanding.
"He didn't take it well." he said, smiling faintly as he must've replayed what he heard—that Dean was ready to kill you for even suggesting it.
You let out a hollow breath.
"That's one way to put it." you mumbled, your grip on the book tightened even further before you forced it to loosen.
Silence settled again, but it wasn't the same mindless silence as before—this one was heavier, fuller because now you knew.
"Don't tell him I told you." Sam said suddenly.
Your head snapped up.
"Sorry?"
"About the deal." he clarified.
"He'd be pissed. At me and at you, doesn't matter. He doesn't want you to know. Hell, he didn't even want me to know."
You frowned slightly.
"But–" you started with a frown, wanting to argue because Dean already hated you and you didn't want him to hate you even more the moment the truth uninevitably came to light.
"I'm serious." Sam cut in gently but firm "Please."
You paused...then nodded.
"...okay."
Sam exhaled quietly like that mattered more than he let on.
"I'm trying to fix it." he added.
"What?"
"The deal. There's gotta be a way out of it, there always is." Sam explained.
Fragile and dangerous hope flickered in your chest before you could stop it, reflecting what you saw in Sam's eyes.
"You think you can break it?" you asked.
"I have to." Sam said, not 'I think' nor 'maybe'—'have to.'
'Have to' because there was no alternative.
Your gaze drifted toward the door, toward the space Dean had left behind.
Your heart constricted painfully.
"You said demons, crossroads...deals...all of this–" you murmured, your thoughts catching on something else now but then you hesitated before you forced yourself to ask.
"The thing at the farm...the man with the yellow eyes..."
Sam went still for a second before he responded.
"Yeah." he said quietly.
"That's all connected?" you asked just to clarify and Sam nodded slowly like he was giving you the time to process it, like he knew you need it.
"He's the one who started it. Azazel, the yellow-eyed-demon." he explained and you locked the name away.
"He's the reason I am the way I am." Sam continued "Psychic stuff, visions, all of it."
Your stomach clenched uncomfortably.
"And me?" you asked, your voice even smaller now.
Sam looked at you like he was weighing his words with care.
"If you were there, at the farm, if he brought you in like the others..." he started, trailing off but you already knew the answer.
"He chose you." Sam finally finished and the words felt like they were sinking into your skin—gnawing, sucking, trying to get to your core and very being.
"Why?" you asked even though you weren't sure you wanted the answer.
Sam exhaled slowly.
"He was building something, a group of soldiers with people like us." he said.
You felt dizzy at the revelation.
"For what?"
"For a war." Sam replied, his expression darkening slightly.
The word lingered heavy—war.
"He used Jake to open the gate before we killed him." Sam added "Demons got out. A lot of them."
Your mind flashed back to Bobby's place, to the tension and the exhaustion when they came back.
"Even though he's dead, what he started is still happening." Sam said.
Silence fell again and this time it was in horrible and heavy understanding.
You looked down at your hands again—at the thing you could do, at the thing you'd tried to offer, at the things you did and the people you hurt.
"Hey." Sam said suddenly and you looked up, ripped out of your spiraling thoughts.
"You're not alone in this." he said and he spoke those words so simple but they landed warm and comforting.
Because for the first time you believed it, even if just a little and even if everything else was falling apart around you.
Synopsis: You were there the night only one was meant to survive and you didn’t die while you carry something dangerous—the ability to erase people like they never existed. Months later, Dean still looks at you like you’re a monster to be feared…until the truth comes out that his time is running out.
And when it does, he asks for the one thing only you can give: to make him forget you so it won't hurt as much when he dies.
Part: 1/6
cw: fem!reader, x reader, no use of Y/N, reader has abilities, plays between season 2 and 3, doesn't strictly follow canon, Sam's first death, enemies to lovers (one sided and if you squint), slight slow-burn, graphic descriptions of violence and gore, Dean is a ass most of the time towards reader
wc: 3,4k
a/n: couldn't keep myself from starting a Dean ff even tho I'm only mid season 3, sorry hihi. Also, kudos to who finds the Mitski reference
ACT I: You should've died
The farm felt wrong in a way that went deeper than rusted nails and rotting wood.
It felt listened to, like the place had been waiting for something to happen and didn't care what kind of blood it took to get there.
You stayed where no one thought to look, stayed a broken stretch of wall in the upper level of the house—dark enough that dust looked like shadow and shadow looked like safety.
With your ability you had learned that survival wasn't about strength, it was about not being seen until you had to be and right now being seen meant dying.
Down below the others were already moving through the cursed houses like pieces on a cursed board after Lily's death.
You didn't join them, you just watched—too scared to reveal yourself, to end up like Lily.
You'd been watching and waiting for hours, listening to conversations and explanations from the open window you sat under—a circle of salt around you after Andy so loudly announced he was looking for some to keep the demons away.
The shadows kept dancing on the wall, moonlight pressing through the glass as the branches danced steadily outside with every gust of wind.
You blinked and suddenly he was there—a man with bright yellow eyes.
For a moment he just grinned down on your terrified from, then he stepped forward and stopped just at the line of your salt circle.
He stood there tall and wrong in a way your instincts screamed at before your mind caught up.
You didn't move, didn't dare to.
After another sinister grin down on you, his voice came gentle and calm like a knife being set down carefully.
"One of you will win." he said, pacing along the front of the curve of salt slowly like he was teaching you lesson and mercy and secret all the same.
"Only one of you will live." he continued, your name on his tongue making your chest tighten but you didn't show it.
You didn't give anything away because fear is loud and fear can get you killed.
He kept talking and explaining, revealing things about you he couldn't have known while encouraging you to show your worth to him and kill the others because he'd give you so much in return.
You woke up gasping from that dream, heart pounding in your chest like you'd just narrowly escaped death.
The sentence didn't leave you, it stayed.
It settled into your bones like it had always belonged there—'Only one survives.'
You swallowed hard and stayed hidden, waiting and watching still because if fear doesn't kill you then panic will.
You waited as you let the others play out whatever fate had been written for them while you told yourself that you're allowed to be scared, allowed to hide.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
It happened fast after that.
Voices below turned sharp, movements turned violent—Andy's gurgles as he was ripped apart made you cover your ears for an entire minute.
You didn't see the start but you saw the after when you finally dared to move again.
Andy's torn apart body on the floor, Ava's not far away with her neck broken judging by how far her head had been twisted.
Outside, heavy footsteps were running through the rain.
There was shouting, fists connecting with flesh and a body slamming through an old wooden fence that broke under the impact.
The silence that followed felt louder than the fighting, the shouts, the screams of pain—too final, too abrupt like even the wind was holding its breath.
Your heart kicked hard once and you recognized the moment as your chance—not to fight nor kill, but to run.
For the first time since waking up in that old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, ripped from your life and usual routine, you approached the door leading outside.
You stay careful and quiet as you glance out the door that was left open to make sure the coast was clear before you took a hesitant step past the doorway.
Outside, the air hit you colder than expected and the farm felt too big after hiding in a small room for so long.
Then you saw and heard them, two men approaching the farm with hasty steps—both carrying guns that made you take an immediate step back into the shadows.
Their weapons were raised ready, their faces set in tension that made it impossible to guess what they were expecting.
One of the two, the younger one with broad shoulders and green eyes, was shouting for Sam—you overheard Sam mention his brother Dean, so you guessed that was him.
Your eyes snapped to Sam when he stepped forward, clearly injured but not badly enough to cause serious worry.
Relief flooded you...until you saw the figure move behind him.
Dean's panicked shout punched through the air, trying to warn his younger brother of the approaching threat but it was too late.
Your stomach dropped.
Jake had stuck his blade into Sam's back.
Everything slowed.
Sam Winchester's body collapsed like the world had decided it didn't need him anymore and Jake turned—not to the older man, not to Dean, but towards you.
For half a second, his eyes locked on yours.
Confusion flickered there, then anger like he shouldn't know you but something in him did anyway.
And in that split moment the yellow-eyed man's voice came back—'Only one survives'.
Your pulse spiked as Jake started to turn from the scene, the older man with his raised gun a sudden threat forcing him to redirect his attention away from you.
Dean shouted something, probably Sam's name or maybe just making noise in panic, but you couldn't focus on it.
You were already moving inward, not forward or back.
It was instinct and survival, something between panic and power that you never fully trusted.
You touched Jake's memory.
Not deeply but just enough to cause a small tear, to remove a single thread without unraveling anything to scrape off your existence from the top of his brain.
Jake's expression flickered as he bolted past you, his focus broke for a split second like something important had just slipped out of his mind.
His eyes stayed away from you, focused on the treeline that would swallow him whole if he got far enough.
The man that came with Dean fired and the shot rang out but Jake ran unharmed, gone into the trees with the man still in pursuit.
And just like that you realized what you had done, that you broke the promise you once made to yourself.
You breathing has suddenly come shallow, your hands shaking.
You hadn't meant to do it, you just needed him to...not see you—not to remember you existed long enough to not kill you.
But memory wasn't a clean thing, you learned that the hard way.
It didn't obey 'just enough', it obeyed chaos and damage—you can't toy with someone's memories and change them without some kind of unwanted after effect.
To your side, Dean had dropped to his knees and you turned slowly.
Your eyes were still widened in horror from what you had just so carelessly done and so they couldn't wide further from the horrible scene in front of you.
Sam had collapsed to his knees on the ground like something unfinished, like a sentence cut off mid-word.
Dean's hands were on him already, shaking as they pulled him closer like he could force life back in by refusing to let go.
His voice cracked as he called out for his brother—Sammy.
You stood there feeling helpless and useless, because you were.
You couldn't heal nor fix, all you could do was remove and you were so painfully aware of how dangerous that was—how easy it would be to take something too far, to take everything.
Dean didn't look at you as he held his brother upright, but the older man did when he returned after not being able to get Jake.
He came back fast while breathing heavy with his gun still raised, eyes sharp and assessing.
Then he saw Sam, his expression changing from irritation and anger to loss and grief.
But finally his gaze shifted to you—measuring, suspicious.
"Dean." he said quietly "Who the hell is she?"
Dean didn't answer, he couldn't—too focused on trying to find any sign of life from Sam.
So the man stepped forward instead, spraying you with holy water.
It hit your skin cold and wet, but you only flinched slightly from it.
The man waited for a moment, probably for something to happen, but when nothing did he spoke again.
"She's not a demon." he muttered but he didn't sound any less suspicious of you.
"Doesn't mean she's safe."
Dean finally looked up, his eyes wrecked and red-rimmed—empty in a way that was already starting to harden into something worse than just loss and grief.
"She was there." he stated flatly, his voice echoing nothing of the emotions on his face.
The man raised his gun slightly again, but you stayed still.
You didn't reach for anything, didn't run—there was nowhere to go anyway.
"I didn't do anything to him." you said quickly.
Dean laughed once, humorless and empty like the sound was more part of a script than actually wanted.
"You were there." he repeated, voice rising "Sammy is dead and you were there."
You flinched at the words—they were true.
You were here this whole time, hiding while others were dying and not doing anything about it.
The man stepped between you and Dean before the gun could lift fully in Dean's grip, you hadn't even realized he raised it.
"Easy." the man warned.
Dean lifted the gun higher and angling it further in your direction anyway while his other arm stayed locked around Sam like the entire world might collapse if he let go.
"You don't understand–" Dean started angrily through gritted teeth, jaw clenching and unclenching as if he was imagining how much force he'd have to use to rip your throat out with his teeth.
"I understand enough." the older man snapped "You shoot her, you don't get answers."
That word 'answers' stopped Dean for half a beat, enough for the other man to make a decision.
"You're coming with me." he said to you, a command he clearly wouldn't accept disobedience to.
Dean looked like he wanted to argue, like he was still just a breath away from lodging a bullet in your skull but Sam was still in his arms and that was the only thing keeping him from doing it.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
Bobby's place smelled like old wood, even older books and too many unfinished nights.
Sam's body laid in the next room—unmoving, unreal.
Dean hadn't moved from it in hours, staring down at the body like it might sit up with life any second and he wouldn't want to miss it or else it wouldn't happen.
You stood in the doorway unsure if stepping closer would make it worse or better, though it felt like there was no 'better' left in the house.
Bobby watched you from across the room, cautious and perhaps still suspicious.
Dean didn't look at you, didn't speak, barely even blinked and you couldn't blame him.
Eventually, you spoke anyway.
"I was hiding in the house..." you started.
"I didn't...I didn't come out until after it was already happening."
Silence as Dean's jaw tightened.
"I saw him die." you added quietly "Sam. I saw it."
That got a reaction.
A sharp inhale from Dean, Bobby shifting slightly like he was bracing for something you weren't aware of yet.
Dean still didn't look at you but his hands balled into tight fists on his thighs.
You swallowed hard before continuing, the grief in the house pressing you down too.
"And Jake saw me, so I...I made him forget me. I-I didn't mean to, it just...happened."
That part made Bobby's eyes narrow and even Dean's head lifted just a fraction at it.
"Forget you?" Bobby echoed and you nodded.
"I can...do that. Erase memories, that's what I do."
That word hung there—do.
Not control, not curse nor gift—'do' like it was something you did as reflexively as breathing.
Dean finally turned and the look he gave you wasn't grief anymore, it was worse—suspicion mixed with calculation and anger as if you were a problem he hadn't decided how to deal with yet.
"You think that helps?" he asked lowly, stating it more than questioning it.
You hesitated.
"I don't know what else I can do." you then admitted but the honesty didn't soften him, it broke something further.
Grief doesn't like honesty, it likes targets and you were the deer while Dean held the gun.
You saw the moment it snapped in him, the shift from pain and anger to something much sharper that was spiraling out of control.
"I don't want your help." Dean snapped sharply, nostrils flaring like he was loosing the fight of keeping his composure.
"I can take the pain. I can make it so you don't remember him dying." you tried again, softer and quieter.
Bobby moved closer immediately, sensing it.
Dean stood abruptly the moment your words registered, the chair he sat on scraping against the wooden floor as it threatened to tip over.
"You think you can just–what?" he snarled, voice rising again "Take it away? Take him away like it never happened?!"
"I just–" you start, trying to defend yourself.
"Keep your filthy fucking fingers away!" Dean snapped, his own finger basically in your face while his eyes burned with rage.
The air went still at his words and even Bobby stopped.
You took a step back without meaning to—Dean saw it and it only made it worse.
"Yeah, that's right. Back up." he scoffed, his voice sharp and shaking all at once.
"I'm not trying to-" you started again with your hands slightly raised, not exactly in defense but rather in something closer to helplessness.
"You are!" Dean cut in sharp and immediate "You're standing there like you can fix this!"
"I can't fix it, I know I can't–" you said quickly, the words tumbling over each other on their way out.
"Then what good are you?!" he shot back.
The question hit harder than it should have, because you didn't have an answer.
Your eyes flicked past him into the next room for just a second, eyes flicking toward the still shape on the mattress and toward the silence around it that shouldn't have been there.
"I can take it away." you said again finally, still quiet but firmer.
Dean stilled at that, confusion pushing past the anger in his eyes.
"I can't bring him back." you continued quickly to use the moment of stillness to get your point across, voice unsteady now but pushing through it anyway.
"I can't heal him, I can't undo what happened–"
"Then stop talking." Dean muttered dangerously low, like a wire about to rip apart trying to hold too much weight.
But you didn't stop.
"I can take the pain, I can make it so you don't remember him dying or the way it happened–" you pressed, this time stopping yourself as Dean's eyes bore into yours.
"I can take Sammy too." you added in almost a whisper now, the words catching in your throat but you forced them out anyway "I can erase him. You wouldn't-"
Dean spun around, his hands wrapping around the chair instead of around your neck despite how badly he must've wanted to watch the light go out in your eyes at that moment.
"You don't get to fucking call him that!" Dean yelled, lifting the chair before throwing it so violently against the wall that the backrest broke off.
You flinched hard and Dean's head snapped around to you like a blood sniffing shark.
Bobby stepped forward fast, trying to get a hold of the situation—of Dean.
"Stop." he murmured, stepping forward with raised hands ready to reach out.
"No." Dean barked, not even looking at him as his eyes stayed locked on you and now blazing—something unhinged sitting just beneath the surface.
"No she doesn't get to stand there and, I don't know, offer to delete my brother like he's some bad memory?!"
"That's not what I meant!" you tried, your panic rising now.
"Then what did you mean?!" he demanded, stepping closer.
You didn't move, couldn't because you were already backed against the world.
"I just–I thought–" you stuttered helplessly before your voice faltered and forced you to start again "You're hurting and I can make it stop. I can take it away so you don't have to-"
"So I don't have to remember him?!" Dean cut in with a sharp shout before leaning in even closer.
"So I don't have to remember my brother?" he asked quieter, lowering his voice with it almost breaking at the last word and somehow that was worse than the yelling.
"I wouldn't know what else to do." you confessed, barely above a whisper now.
"I-I'm not a hunter, I can't fight what you fight and I can't bring him back. This is the only thing I have and I thought..."
"You thought wrong."
Deans words landed like a slap.
He stepped closer again, too close now with anger rolling off him in waves.
"You think forgetting him makes it better?" he questioned dangerously low "You think I'd want that?"
"I thought you wouldn't have to hurt like this..." you tried to defend yourself again, your voice almost cracking under the weight of it.
"That hurt is all I've got left of him!" Dean yelled.
The silence that followed his outburst was heavy and suffocating, making your chest tighten.
"I didn't mean–"
"Yeah, well, you did!" Dean shot back and then something in the air shifted again—colder, sharper.
He looked at you like he finally saw you clearly, not just as someone who was there but as someone else entirely.
"Messing with people's heads...taking things that aren't yours to take." he muttered, jaw clenching.
Your stomach dropped again, nausea rising in your throat.
"That's not–" you started, not even sure where you wanted to go with your sentence because you knew Dean was right—it's why you never used your ability.
"That's exactly what it is." Dean cut in, stepping forward again menacingly.
This time, Bobby moved fast.
He put a hand on Dean's chest, stopping him before he could close the distance completely.
"Dean. That's enough." Bobby warned but Dean didn't take his eyes off you.
"You're a monster." he said flatly like he finally understood something he wasn't quiet sure of before.
The nausea rose higher, threatening to bubble over.
"I didn't choose this." you whispered, scared that speaking louder might make you puke.
"Yeah?" Dean said, letting out a humorless laugh "Funny. Still makes you one."
He tried to move again but Bobby held him back harder this time.
"That's enough!" Bobby finally barked.
Dean struggled against Bobby's hand for a second—anger, grief, everything boiling over with nowhere to go.
"You don't understand!" Dean choked out, voice cracking.
"He's gone! He's gone and she's just...standing there offering to erase him like he didn't matter!"
"I didn't say that! I said I could take the pain!" you shot back, the first spark of something stronger than fear breaking through.
"You don't get to decide that! You should've died, not him!" Dean yelled.
The room rang with it and he stopped, finally stepping back—not because he was calm, but because there was nothing left to burn.
His shoulders dropped slightly, breath uneven and hands shaking while Bobby still had his hand lightly on his chest.
For a moment, he just stood there while you and Bobby were still processing what he had said.
Then Dean looked at you again, not angry anymore but wracked.
"If I forget him..." Dean said low and hollow "...then he's really gone."
Bobby's grip loosened slightly but he didn't step away as no one moved or spoke.
And you stood there, the weight of what you'd offered settling in your chest like something heavy and irreversible.
You hadn't helped, you'd just shown him exactly what he stood to lose.
All you'd done was prove how dangerous you really were, not because you could hurt people but because you could take away the only thing they had left of the ones they loved and that made you worse than useless—it made you something to fear, to hate, something that should've never walked out of that farm alive.