Dreamlanderin

Here to write fanfiction/imagines/promps because I am mentally unstable with a day dreaming quirk. Not taking requests right now ♡

[dreamlanderin]

Master list

Dean Winchester

Dean's Baby: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Truth hex

Sam Winchester

You don't see me: Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Part 5 , Part 6

[dreamlanderin]

Dean's Baby (Dean x Reader) Part 3

Summary: You go for a drive after having cabin fever, For part 1 and 2

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 3k

“Wait, what?”

Dean leaned back against the hood of the Impala, arms crossed

“I said get in the driver’s seat.”

You blinked at him, half-convinced the pain meds were still messing with your brain. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He popped the “p,” flipping the keys once before catching them.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t make me repeat myself. Get in.”

For a second you just stood there on the cool pavement. Your mouth opening and closing like you were trying to form words. Dean had opted to take you for a drive after you’d given a full-blown fit, Sam hovering like a mother hen, Dean running his ironclad no-moving policy like he was the damn sheriff of the bunker.

You’d finally snapped. Told them both you weren’t glass, that if one more book got lifted out of your hands or one more “sit down before you tear your stitches” slipped from Sam’s lips, you’d scream. And you had, sort of.... your voice sharp, echoing down the hallways, leaving Sam tight-lipped and Dean with that unreadable look in his eyes.

You thought that was the end of it...until Dean appeared at your door ten minutes later, a jacket and a duffel in his hands. “We’re going for a ride,” was all he said, no room for argument.

And now here you were. The Impala, her headlights cutting through the dark stretch of Kansas backroads until Dean abruptly slowed, easing her onto the gravel shoulder. No towns in sight, no houses, just endless black fields and the low hum of cicadas.

The car settled into silence as he killed the engine. For a moment, all you heard was your own heartbeat, too fast and too loud. You halfheartedly thought Dean was going to lecture you.

You'd turned to him, frowning. “Dean… why are we stopping?”

He'd just leaned back in the seat, casual as ever, and jerked his chin toward the wheel. “Because you’re driving.”

All of this lead up to your brain catching up with the rest of you “You’re letting me drive Baby?”

“Letting you?” Dean huffed, pushing off the hood and closing the space between you. He dangled the keys under your nose. “I’m telling you. You’re driving.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, and not just because of the keys in front of your face. No one drove Baby. Not anyone. Except apparently.... now you.

Sam would flip.

You reached out slow, waiting for him to snatch it back "What brought this on? Pretty sure yesterday you were about ready to lock me in a padded room.”

Dean shrugged, though the glint in his eyes gave him away. “Well, hey, if you don’t want it I could...”

Before he could finish, you snatched the keys from his hand, quick.

Dean’s smirk widened, smug but warm, and he mumbled a low, “That’s what I thought,” before peeling himself off the hood and heading for the passenger side like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made you wonder if he's ever even sat on that part of the car.

You just stood there for a beat, staring at the keys clutched tight in your hand. Your stomach flipped hard enough to make your ribs ache. You were going to drive Baby. Dean’s Baby.

Nobody else drove her. Ever.

The thought hit like a sucker punch, and you huffed out a shaky laugh under your breath, half nerves, half disbelief. Nobody’s gonna know. Sam couldn’t know...hell, the whole hunter network couldn’t know... Hell must have frozen over.

Still, your legs carried you forward, the driver’s side door opening with that familiar creak, and you slid into the leather seat. It hugged you instantly, the smell of old leather and faint motor oil wrapping around you.

Oh, hell yeah.

You swallowed down the grin threatening to break free, clearing your throat instead like that would make you seem less excited. No dice, the way Dean was watching you from the passenger side, elbow braced on the window, made you think he was trying to act relaxed for your part.

Giving him one last look, you slid the key into the ignition. Baby roared awake beneath your hands, that low purr vibrating.

Your pulse spiked. All at once you were acutely aware of how fragile you were sitting in the driver’s seat of Dean Winchester’s most prized possession. Suddenly every move felt like it carried the risk of catastrophe.

You gripped the wheel tighter, already imagining yourself somehow revving her straight into a ditch. Or a tree. Or- hell - even into air, if you managed to break physics the way your luck usually went.

“There aren’t any trees for miles, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice cut through your panic like he’d plucked the thought straight out of your head. His smirk curved slow and sharp, but his eyes softened around the edges. “Relax. Baby likes a steady hand, not a death grip.”

Your knuckles went white anyway. "I'm scared of like crashing her or something, you idiot"

“You won't. C’mon,” he drawled, tilting his head toward the empty stretch of blacktop ahead. “Ease her into gear. Just like I showed you with that knife, you’re not fighting her, you’re working with her.”

You inhaled slow, steady, trying to convince your heart to climb down from your throat as your foot pressed to the pedal. Baby rumbled in response, smooth and ready, and the car inched forward.

Dean’s gaze never left you, his voice low and even. “That’s it. Easy. You’ve got her.”

The Impala rolled smooth under your hands, headlights cutting through the stretch of empty road. You weren’t sure where you were going, but you knew one thing, you were driving Baby. That was enough to make your chest hum with adrenaline.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The empty Kansas road stretched ahead, nothing but blacktop and stars. You had both windows cracked just enough for the night air to sneak in, the Impala humming steady under your hands.

Your lips twitched.

“Uh, ground rules: driver picks the music, passenger shuts his cakehole and navigates.”

Dean turned his head slowly, brows climbing. “Nice try.”

You shot him a look. “What do you mean, nice try? Those are your rules. You don’t shut up about them.”

“Yeah, my rules, when I’m driving,” he countered, leaning back smug.

Your fingers tapped the wheel. “So they’re conditional?”

“Damn straight.” His smirk tilted wider. “Baby doesn’t take orders from just anyone.”

You snorted. “She seems fine with me.”

Dean’s eyes cut sideways at you, narrowing. “She’s tolerating you. Big difference.”

You leaned just enough to brush your fingers toward the radio. Dean’s hand shot out, covering the dial in an instant.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice low. You arched a brow, lips twitching. “Control freak.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, settling back again. “Call it what you will, fate, destiny…”

You blinked at him. “Isn’t that from Tangled?”

Dean’s head snapped toward you, mock-offended. “What - no. Don’t disrespect me like that.”

Your grin spread slow. "Uh, huh"

“Shut up,” he shot back, pointing at you but failing to hide the smirk tugging his mouth. “Anyway...but I call it… keeping Baby safe from your questionable taste in music.”

You gasped in mock outrage, one hand pressed to your chest. “Questionable? You literally blast nonsense until my ears rang.”

Dean smirked wider, smug as ever. “It's not nonsense it's called culture, sweetheart.”

“Pretty sure it’s called hearing loss,” you muttered, but the laugh in your voice gave you away.

Dean chuckled low, shaking his head as he settled deeper into the seat, watching you over the rim of his grin.

A softer silence slipped in, the kind that didn’t feel heavy, just easy. The hum of the engine, the blur of dark fields, the cicadas buzzing somewhere out in the night. For the first time in days, your chest didn’t feel so tight.

"Why..." you try to phrase the question right "Why are letting me drive her?" You asked more seriously now. You weren't able to gauge his reaction yet, still having that heavy music blast in your ears until you heard is go silent for a little bit. Hed tuned down the volume, then you heard him sigh.

"I wanted to" You could sense he wasn't looking at you, most probably glancing out the window now.

You weren't sure what to say then, is was a simple statement. "Dean, you don't let anyone drive baby... not even your own brother. Is it because you feel bad about the hunt?"

There was a long silence, baby humming. And you glanced towards him, and true to it, he wasn't looking at you. His eyes were on the road almost in thought.

"No" He said "I just..." he tapped the handle of the door "wanted you to be happy"

You couldn't help the way you stomach tightened a little, how your hands tightened around the wheel followed by a simple oh.

You cleared your through a bit "I thought you were angry about... It's just, you love her a lot, and I was just surprised you'd trust me with something that mattered so much to you"

You didn't know if it was the air or something that made him so open tonight, you thought your head had short circuited when those greens met yours. There was something behind them that you couldn't quite place... it was intent.

"She’s just a car, sweetheart. You’re what matters.”

You blinked. Just once. Because that was all it took for your throat to close up.

You didn’t say anything, not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t.

She’s just a car, sweetheart.

It echoed. Kept echoing.

And maybe it was the wind or the static in your chest, but suddenly, all the reasons you were mad this morning didn’t feel that important anymore.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “...Thanks, Dean." you look at him briefly "I needed this"

His face faded into something smaller, gentler, though he kept his eyes forward. One hand drummed against his knee, the other tapping against the door like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Yeah, well.” He cleared his throat, voice rougher than it needed to be. “Don’t get used to it. This was a one-time thing.”

You glanced sideways, catching the corner of his mouth betraying him with the faintest smile.

“Sure,” you said, leaning into the seat. “One-time thing.”

But the way he looked at you when the road curved - like he’d do it again in a heartbeat - told a different story.

"So.... Can I go faster?"

"No" ----

The bunker’s garage door rattled closed behind Baby as you eased her into park, trying to play it cool even though your palms were sweaty on the wheel. You slid out of the driver’s seat, boots hitting the concrete with a soft thud.

Sam was already waiting, arms crossed, coffee mug in hand. His eyes flicked from you… to Dean… then back to you again. Slowly, his brows rose.

“She was in the driver’s seat, Dean.”

Dean didn’t flinch, just shrugged out of his jacket like it was normal

Sam’s tone sharpened. “Dean.”

“What?” Dean’s voice was all faux innocence, his smirk betraying him.

Sam gestured toward the Impala, then at you, like he was building a case in court. “You’ve spent years lecturing me about how no one drives Baby. Not even me. And now - ” He cut himself off, jaw tight, clearly trying not to snap. “- you let her take the wheel? After she just tore her stitches?”

Dean tilted his head, maddeningly calm. “Relax, we went slow"

Sam stared at him, incredulous. Both of them starting to grumble things much like you'd imagine two animals would over a waterhole.

You just bit your lip, laughter spilling out before you could stop it. “Goodnight, Sam.”

His glare softened instantly at you, he didn’t stop you when you slipped past him, your laughter echoing down the hall.

Behind you, Sam’s voice carried, low and firm: “Dean. We’re going to talk about this. You can't just -"

Dean’s reply was nothing but a smug chuckle.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

This was just silly and fun to write.

Do you guys think I should continue. Or try another project? Let me know, I need inspiration ;)

Taglist: @akeimei @kalsigned

[dreamlanderin]

Dean’s Baby (Dean x reader) part 2

Summary: You go on a hunt and get hurt. For Part 1

Warnings: Blood, swearing, violence, wendigos, supernatural

Words: 5.3k

The bunker’s library hums with a different kind of energy than the garage. Instead of oil and metal, it’s paper and dust, the faint must of old bindings thick in the air. Lamps pool warm light across the endless sprawl of books and notes, and Sam’s right in the middle of it, hunched over a stack that looks like it might collapse if he so much as sneezes.

He doesn’t notice you at first. His head’s bent low, brows furrowed, pen tapping absently against the page as his eyes scan the text like he’s translating it in real time. That little crease between his eyebrows has taken up permanent residence by now, a sure sign that he’s deep in the weeds.

You linger in the doorway for a beat, torn between announcing yourself and slipping back into the hall. But Sam beats you to it, his voice carrying without him looking up:

“You ditched me.”

There’s no heat in it, just quiet fact. Still, your shoulders twitch like you’ve been caught red-handed.

“I didn’t ditch you,” you protest, pushing off the frame and padding in. “I just… relocated.”

Sam looks up then, those big earnest eyes pinning you like you’re under a spotlight. He doesn’t even have to say anything, you feel the silent 'really'? hanging between you.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh, dropping into the chair across from him. “I was going cross-eyed watching you translate Latin footnotes. Needed a change of scenery before my brain liquefied.”

Sam leans back, finally setting the pen down, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “You know research is part of the job, right?”

“Yeah, well, so is not dying of boredom.” You gesture vaguely at the fortress of books. “How you do this for hours without snapping is beyond me.”

“It helps when you’re actually reading them,” he says dryly, but the teasing’s gentle, not sharp. Then he shifts, pushes a heavy tome across the table until it lands in front of you with a muted thud. “Here. Try this one.”

You eye the book like it might sprout fangs. “What is this?”

Sam shakes his head, patient as ever. “It’s field notes from a hunter who tracked a wendigo in Minnesota. No Latin. You might find it easier.”

You drag the book closer, flipping it open with exaggerated reluctance. The handwriting’s messy but legible, notes scrawled in the margins, sketches of claw marks and trees. It’s not exactly riveting, but it’s… tolerable.

Sam watches you skim a page or two before speaking again, his tone quieter this time. "You okay? You don't have to push yourself, you know"

You glance up from the page, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “Just… you’ve been on edge lately. Even more than usual. You don’t have to prove anything to me, or to Dean, for that matter.”

That earns a snort out of you. “Trust me, the last thing I’m doing is trying to impress your brother.” You snap the book shut a little harder than you mean to, the sound echoing across the quiet library. “I’m just trying not to drown in all this lore. It feels like every time I blink, you’ve already pieced together the whole puzzle.”

Sam tilts his head, studying you with that unreadable, professor-like stare of his.

“I’ve been doing this my whole life,” he says finally, voice steady. “You weren’t born into it like we were. You’re not supposed to know everything overnight.” His hand rests on the edge of the table, casual but grounding. “What matters is that you’re here, and you try. That counts for more than you think.”

Something tight coils in your chest. You want to shrug it off, joke your way out of it like you usually do, but the words stick. Maybe because you want to believe him. Maybe because you’re afraid to.

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, eyes back on the book to avoid his, “trying doesn’t save people, does it? Wendigos don’t really care how much effort you put in.”

Sam leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his voice dropping lower. “No. But having someone willing to stand their ground, even when they’re scared, that does make a difference. More than you know.”

You swallow hard, flipping a random page just to have something to do with your hands. The messy sketches blur together, but you don’t miss the weight in his words. He means it.

And you hate that it makes you feel seen in a way you weren’t ready for. Heat rised in your face, you probably looked red now.

You duck your head further into the book, praying Sam doesn’t notice the way your ears are burning. Of course, that’s exactly the moment the door creaks open behind you.

“Well, well, aren’t you cozy,” Dean drawls, voice thick with amusement but edged with something quieter, less playful. His boots scuff against the floor as he strolls in, eyes flicking between you and Sam just a little too sharply before settling into his trademark smirk.

You groan under your breath, and mumbled “Perfect...color commentary.”

Dean ignores your comment. “Figures. Sammy’s out here writing the Dead Sea Scrolls, and you’re, what? Doodling?”

You toss the book onto the table with a thud. “They’re field notes, actually. Which, in case you forgot, is more than you contributed tonight.”

Dean smirks, unbothered, and takes a slow swig of his beer, one you hadn't even noticed he was carrying. “I was doing very important maintenance, thank you. Baby doesn’t tune herself.”

Sam rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smile. “She’s fine, Dean. Maybe try helping with the case for once?”

Dean shoots him a look that says don’t start with me, but Sam doesn’t rise to it. Instead, Dean saunters closer to the table, his gaze flicking back to you. His eyes narrow slightly, like he can sniff out the lingering heat in your cheeks.

“You look a little red there, sweetheart,” he says, his voice too casual to be innocent. Before you can react, he reaches out, knuckles brushing against your cheek in mock concern.“Sam bore you to death?”

You swat his hand away, scowling. “Shut up.”

Dean only chuckles, unbothered, and leans against the table with that trademark smirk tugging at his mouth, taking another swig of beer, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong...I love when he does the whole ‘family thing.’ Real Hallmark moment.” His tone is playful, you almost wonder if he had been listening by the door, but when his eyes cut to Sam, there’s an edge tucked beneath the grin, the kind of look that lingers a beat too long to be just teasing. “Right, Sam?”

Sam groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dean...”

But you’ve already snatched the nearest object-a pencil-and lobbed it at his chest. Dean catches it effortlessly, like he saw it coming a mile away, and tucks it behind his ear with exaggerated flourish.

“Thanks, kid" he says, grinning.

You glare, wishing your blush would cool down already. “You’re impossible.”

Dean’s smirk softens just a fraction, like he’s letting you off the hook. He claps a hand onto Sam’s back, hard, making Sam flinch. “So, what’s the verdict, Professor? Are we looking at a case?”

Sam sighs, pushing another book across the table toward him. “See for yourself.” Sam dragged the book toward the center of the table so both you and Dean can see. He flips it open, finger tracing a line of notes.

“Local reports match,” he says. “Disappearing hikers, weird noises in the woods, claw marks that don’t line up with any known animals. Wendigo signs are all over it.”

Dean leans down, scanning the page with a skeptical squint. “Great. Just what I wanted...” He closes the book with a snap and sets it back on the pile. “Sounds like enough to check out. Better to be sure before the body count gets higher.”

You push your chair back, a little too eager to get away from the studying, standing with a little stretch. “Guess that means we’re going camping. I’ll start packing.”

Dean smirks, already tipping his beer back for one last swig "Pack light, we won't be there long"

Sam shakes his head, gathering up the stack of papers with practiced efficiency. “We leave at dawn. The trailhead’s a few hours out.”

You nod, already heading toward the hall, the soft echo of your footsteps carrying ahead of you. Behind you, their voices blend...Sam’s steady and practical, Dean’s rougher and laced with sarcasm... as they sort the details.

Another hunt. Another night in the woods with monsters waiting.

And, like always, you’ll be right there in the middle of it. ✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The woods were dense, shadows already settling even though the sun hadn’t dipped all the way yet. Every step crunched damp leaves under your boots, the smell of moss and pine heavy in the cool air.

You trailed just behind the brothers, humming under your breath without thinking, one of Zeppelin’s songs Dean had blasted on the way over. The tune stuck in your head like burrs on a jacket, though the rhythm kept breaking as you tugged at the stubborn strap of your holster. Bobby had passed it down to you when you complained about carrying gear on hunts, but the buckle was a bitch, always slipping when you least needed it to. You muttered a curse under your breath, trying to force the leather flat against your hip.

Ahead, Sam’s voice carried low but clear. “Claw marks line up with what the reports said. Wendigo’s sticking close to the hiking trails.” He ducked beneath a low branch, sweeping his flashlight along the bark of a nearby tree. “It’s smart. People come in, they don’t come out. No one thinks to go looking until it’s too late.”

Dean grunted, shotgun shifting easily in his grip as he scanned the undergrowth. “Smart, sure. But sloppy too. That ranger report said they found bones half-buried near the ridge. Wendigo hasn’t covered its tracks like it should’ve.”

Sam frowned. “Which means it’s either getting lazy…”

“Or it’s getting desperate” Dean finished for him, voice tight.

Their back-and-forth rose and fell in that familiar cadence, practical theory on Sam’s end, sharp gut-instinct on Dean’s. You half-listened, still fighting the strap at your side, humming louder when your fingers slipped and the buckle bit your knuckle.

“Damn thing,” you hissed.

Dean glanced back briefly, brow quirking at the sound of your humming. His mouth twitched, half amusement, half admiring “Of all the times to sing Zeppelin, sweetheart…”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but before you could, Dean was already moving. His boots crunched over the leaves as he closed the distance. You didn’t even realize how close until his shadow cut across yours and his hand brushed past your hip.

“What are you...?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his fingers curled around the stubborn strap, tugging you closer as he bent to inspect the buckle. The sudden pull sent a flush racing up your neck before you could stop it. Dean worked the leather like it was nothing, calloused hands steady and practiced, knuckles grazing your side as he fastened it tight with a solid click. Dean gave the strap one last tug for good measure, sudden enough that you nearly stumbled forward. His hand steadied the holster, and you with it, before you could lose your balance.

“There,” he muttered, voice low and certain, like the matter was settled. His eyes flicked down briefly, then back up. “We need to get you a new one.”

His thumb brushed just under the hem of your shirt as he let go, the touch quick, practical...except for the way it seared into your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

What was that? Your breath caught, pulse kicking up hard, but Dean was already straightening again like nothing happened, smirk tugging faint

You forced yourself to scoff “Show-off.”

Dean smirked, already stepping back with that infuriating calm, as though he hadn’t just tied your insides in knots. “Better than watching you wrestle it all day"

Sam, still a few steps ahead, like he’d seen the whole thing without even needing to look. “Can we focus? Wendigo, remember?”

Dean just mumbled under his breath, cocking the shotgun as he fell back into stride beside Sam.

You shifted your holster one last time, willing your heartbeat to settle as you followed.

The woods pressed close on either side, and for a moment, all three of you stood staring down the two paths, one bending left into thicker brush, the other sloping right toward darker, steeper ground.

"Looks like we have to split up" Sam said, sweeping his flashlight over the darker trail. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, the way it always was when laying out the next move.

Before you could respond, Dean shook his head sharply. “Nope. Not happening.”

Sam’s flashlight beam cut across the brush as his jaw tightened. “Dean, we’ve covered more ground splitting up before. If this thing’s moving, every minute counts. Sticking together slows us down.”

Dean turned on him, eyes flashing. “Yeah? And when one of us gets dragged off into the dark, what then? We’re down a man and the Wendigo gets a free meal. Not worth it.”

Sam exhaled, heavy “I’m not saying we go miles apart. Just… fifty yards, parallel. If it’s out here, someone’s got a better chance of spotting it.”

Dean’s grip on the shotgun tightened, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Or a better chance of being spotted first.”

For a moment the only sound was the wind through the branches and the distant rustle of something you couldn’t place. Then both brothers’ eyes turned toward you, like you were the deciding vote.

“Well?” Dean asked, his voice low but insistent.

Sam’s gaze was steadier, calmer, but no less pressing. “What do you think?”

Caught between them, the weight of their stares, the choice was suddenly yours.

"I...uh"

You shifted under the weight of their stares, arms crossing instinctively. The forest pressed in tighter with every second of silence, and you thought of the stories Sam had read aloud, bones half-buried, people vanishing without a sound.

“Sam’s right, it’d be faster,” you admitted, then glanced into the thick dark of the brush. A chill crept up your spine. “But Dean’s right too. This thing’s whole trick is separating people. Why hand it the advantage?”

Dean’s mouth twitched, just enough to show he was satisfied. “Smart choice, sweetheart.”

Sam exhaled through his nose, clearly not thrilled, but he didn’t argue further. “Fine. Together, then. But if we miss a trail, that’s time lost.”

Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder with mock cheer. “Don’t worry, Sammy. We’ll make it work. Like always.”

It didn’t take long for you to realize you’d chosen right. The path sloped deeper into the trees, the air damp and cool, and soon enough Sam slowed, his flashlight sweeping deliberately across a cluster of trunks.

“Here,” he said, crouching slightly to trace a deep gouge in the bark. The grooves ran long and jagged, too wide and deliberate for any animal you knew. A few feet farther, another tree bore the same scars, angled low like something had been dragging claws along the wood.

“Wendigo,” Sam confirmed, his voice low. He angled the light toward the ground, revealing a scatter of disturbed earth, a faint impression like something had been dragged.

Dean made a quiet, grim sound behind you. “Lucky us. Looks like we picked the right road.”

Sam forged ahead, focused and methodical, piecing the trail together with each step. You hung back, your stride syncing more with Dean’s as he fell into step beside you.

You hesitated, chewing your lip before blurting, “So… what’s the deal with Wendigos, anyway? Sam said the signs match, but I don’t really… know the whole story.”

Dean’s eyes flicked toward you, a smirk ghosting his mouth. “What, Sammy didn’t give you the bedtime horror version back at the bunker?”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the strap of your holster. “I zoned out”

That earned you a quiet chuckle, though his voice sobered as he shifted the shotgun in his grip. “Wendigo’s what happens when somebody goes full Donner Party. Gets stuck starving out in the wilderness, makes the call to eat another person. And if they like it, if they keep doing it -- something ugly takes hold. Twists ’em. Gives ’em claws, speed, appetite that never runs dry.”

You shivered despite yourself, the image sinking into your gut. “So… once someone turns into one, there’s no going back?”

Dean’s jaw flexed as he scanned the trees, his eyes sharp and steady. “No going back. Best you can do for ’em is put one of these in their chest and burn what’s left.” He tapped the barrel of the shotgun lightly.

Your throat tightened. “That’s… comforting.”

Dean glanced sideways at you, his expression unreadable for a beat before softening, just a fraction. “Hey. Don’t spook yourself. You’ve got me...and Sam"

He let the reassurance hang for a moment, then his gaze dropped to your hip, to the holster Bobby had given you. His mouth twitched.

“Still don’t trust that thing,” he muttered. Before you could argue, he reached to his belt and tugged free the heavy hunting knife sheathed there, flipping it once in his hand before holding it out to you, hilt first.

Your brows lifted. “Dean, I already...”

“Yeah, yeah.” His eyes locked on yours, voice low and firm. “Take it anyway. That buckle gives out in the wrong moment, you’ll be glad you had a backup.”

You hesitated, then wrapped your fingers around the hilt. The knife was warm from his hand, heavier than the one at your side. Your stomach did a little flip you hoped didn’t show on your face. Where is this coming from?

“…Thanks,” you murmured.

Dean smirked faintly. “Don’t lose it.” He paused then, shifting his weight, the smirk softening as his hand went to the back of his neck. “You know, there's something I…”

Sam’s voice carried from ahead, sharper now. “Footprints. Fresh ones.”

Dean straightened instantly, slipping back into that hunter’s edge. “Stay close,” he muttered, and for a moment his hand brushed your elbow, guiding you forward before he lifted the shotgun again.

The woods had gone too quiet. ✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

“I’m open!” The knife Dean had given you felt searing in your grip as you broke from behind him, angling wide just as the Wendigo lunged.

It was massive, too tall, too fast. Sunken eyes glinted in the beam of Sam’s flashlight, rows of teeth catching the light as it let out another inhuman cry. It had ambushed you on the trail.

“Dammit!” Dean barked, shotgun snapping up. He fired, the blast exploding through the dark, but the creature darted sideways, impossibly quick, bark splintering where the shell hit instead.

“Keep it moving!” Sam’s voice rang as he yanked the flare from his jacket, striking it alive with a hiss. The red glow lit his face like blood, and for a moment the forest was a hellscape of shadows and smoke.

The Wendigo hissed and recoiled, but only for a second. Then it came again, circling, fast and low.

“Eyes up!” Dean shouted, shoving you back just as a set of claws tore into the dirt where you’d been standing. He shoved the shotgun into your hand for balance, his other arm firm around your shoulder. “Stay with me!”

Your pulse roared in your ears, but you clutched the knife tighter, forcing your feet under you again. “I’ve got it, just tell me where!”

The thing’s shape flashed between trees, there, gone, there again. Too fast. Too hungry.

Sam’s flare lit another patch of trees, and the creature shrieked as the glow caught it. Its outline froze in place for a heartbeat, gaunt body all bones and stretched skin.

Dean growled low “Now! Move!”

The flinched at the light as if it burned. For a fraction of a second it was frozen in place--long enough for instinct to grab hold of you.

You bolted forward, away from Dean, knife raised, lungs burning as you shouted, “I’ve got it!”

“(Y/N), wait!” Dean’s voice barked behind you, raw with panic, but you were already moving. The flarelight threw the Wendigo’s shadow long across the dirt, and you aimed for the center mass, the way Dean had drilled into you a hundred times.

The blade sank deep into its side with a sickening crunch. The creature howled, the sound so piercing your vision blurred. It whipped around, faster than you could brace, claws swiping.

You barely managed to yank the knife free before it backhanded you with bone-cracking force. The world tilted, air knocked from your chest, until your back slammed against a tree. Bark tore at your jacket, pain sparking white-hot across your ribs.

“(Y/N)!” Dean’s roar shook the trees.

Your vision was spotty, but you could make out the Wendigo lunging for you, jaws snapping wide, only to be knocked sideways as a shotgun blast lit the woods. Dean was on it, reloading with brutal efficiency, eyes wild, jaw tight.

Sam came from the other side, flare blazing like fire in his fist. “Keep it boxed in!”

The Wendigo hissed, thrashing, but you staggered to your feet, knife slick in your grip. Adrenaline drowned out the pain in your ribs. You moved back in, breath sharp.

Dean’s voice thundered over the chaos. “Finish it! Don’t think -- just do it!”

The creature spun toward you again, and this time, when it lunged, you were ready. You ducked low, felt its claws skim your shoulder, and drove the knife straight into its chest.

It shrieked one final time, inhuman and broken, before collapsing forward into the dirt.

Smoke and flarelight danced across the body, grotesque and still twitching. The smell was rancid, burned rot filling your nose.

You were shaking, breath coming in sharp bursts, but you stayed crouched over the thing until Dean’s hand gripped your arm, grounding you.

“Easy,” he muttered, voice hoarse but steady now. His other hand slid the knife out and tossed it aside. “It’s done.”

Sam doused the body in accelerant with practiced calm, tossing the flare onto it. The corpse went up in an instant, flames hissing and snapping, orange light staining the night.

Dean didn’t let go of your arm until the thing was nothing but fire. When he finally did, it was only to shift his hand to your shoulder, fingers pressing firm like he was checking you were still standing.

“You hurt?” he asked, voice low, roughened by leftover adrenaline.

“I’m fine,” you lied, though the sharp throb along your ribs told a different story. Each breath burned, and when you shifted, pain stabbed deeper.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, not buying it for a second. “Yeah, fine my ass, what were you doing charging in like that, I taught you better than this.” He angled the shotgun over his shoulder and stepped closer, head ducking as he looked you over. “Thing tossed you like a rag doll.”

Before you could argue, Sam’s voice cut in, calmer but no less concerned. “She’s bleeding.”

You followed his gaze and saw it, a tear across your jacket, crimson seeping through the fabric at your side. Your stomach dipped. Adrenaline had masked it, but now the sting set in sharp.

“Great,” you muttered, trying for sarcasm but wincing as you pressed your hand against it. “New jacket ruined.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, but his mouth stayed a tight line. “Forget the damn jacket.” His hand hovered at your side like he wanted to help, but didn’t want to make it worse. “We’ll patch it up back at the car.”

You nodded, trying to breathe steady, but when you reached down to adjust your gear, your fingers met empty space. Your holster was gone.

Your head snapped up, heart lurching. “Wait--my holster. It’s not--”

Dean’s eyes followed your frantic search, his mouth tightening. He crouched, sweeping the leaves with his flashlight. Nothing.

Sam shook his head, scanning the ground. “It probably got ripped off when it threw you.”

You cursed under your breath, clutching the knife Dean had given you tighter. "But It had my favourite knife"

Dean looked back at you, gaze fierce. “Told you that thing was junk" His voice wasn’t sharp, but it was laced with something worse--fear threaded through frustration.

“C’mon,” he muttered, shifting the shotgun to his back so he could get an arm under yours. You hissed as the movement pulled at your ribs, but he steadied you instantly, tightening his hold.

Sam lingered behind, crouching near the still-burning body. “I’ll make sure it’s ash. You two head back to the car.”

Dean didn’t argue. He just gave his brother a short nod and muttered under his breath, “Should’ve known better than to trust Bobby’s busted hand-me-downs.”

Despite the ache in your ribs, you let out a shaky laugh. “Pretty sure Bobby would haunt you for saying that.”

Dean snorted, adjusting his grip as he guided you over the uneven ground. “Yeah, well, he should’ve retired that holster twenty years ago.”

The fire popped behind you, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh and pine sap. Dean kept you close, every step careful, his hand braced firm at your side.

“You don’t gotta baby me,” you murmured, though you didn’t exactly pull away either.

His jaw flexed, eyes scanning the shadows as if the Wendigo might somehow crawl back out of its own ashes. “Not babying. Just keeping you on your feet.” A pause, then quieter, almost swallowed by the night: “Not losing you too.”

The words hung there, heavy and unguarded, until he cleared his throat and jerked his chin toward the dark trail ahead. “Car’s this way. Let’s move.”

It felt a lot longer than it did before to reach the car. Every step jarred your ribs, every breath scraped like glass, and though you kept your teeth clenched tight, Dean didn’t miss the way your weight leaned heavier against him.

By the time the Impala came into view, gleaming faintly in the pale moonlight, you could’ve cried with relief. Dean didn’t waste a second, he pulled the door open, guided you down into the passenger seat with surprising gentleness, and crouched in front of you on the cracked pavement.

“Stay put.” His voice was clipped, rough around the edges, like he was barely holding the worry back. He dug into the trunk for the med kit, shotgun thrown with the others.

You tried for sarcasm, though your voice was thinner than you meant. “Where else am I gonna go?”

Dean shot you a look but didn’t bite. He dropped to one knee, snapping the kit open, and pulled out a length of cloth. His hands worked fast, practiced, but careful when they touched you.

“Lift your arm,” he muttered.

You hissed as you obeyed, the torn fabric of your jacket peeling back to reveal the gash along your side. Dean’s jaw tightened, and he muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like another curse aimed at Bobby.

“You’re lucky it’s shallow,” he said finally, winding the cloth around your ribs with firm, steady pressure. “You were acting stupid and reckless. You could’ve gotten hurt a hell of a lot worse than this.”

The words were sharp, but his hands didn’t match the bite in his ton, gentle, precise, like he was afraid pressing too hard would break you.

You flinched as the cloth tightened, breath catching in your throat. “I wasn’t being stupid,” you muttered, the words defensive but weaker than you wanted. “I saw an opening. I took it.”

Dean’s hands stilled, the knot half-finished. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and burning, but something else flickered beneath the frustration. “An opening?” His voice dropped, lower, rougher. “That thing almost tore you apart.”

You swallowed hard, ribs aching under the pressure of both his bandage and his words. Your gaze dipped, finding safety in the scuffed pavement beneath him. “Yeah, well… it didn’t.”

For a moment the only sound was your uneven breathing. Dean let out a slow breath, tying the knot off with a sharp tug. “Yeah. It didn’t,” he muttered, softer this time, like he was trying to convince himself.

“Just don’t do that again,” Dean said, voice low but steady, the kind that brooked no argument. “Opening or not.”

His hand stayed on your side even after the bandage was tied off, warm and grounding through the fabric. His eyes held yours, no smirk this time, no sarcasm to soften it. Just plain, unguarded worry.

“Okay?”

You swallowed hard, ribs aching with every breath, but the heat of his hand and the weight of his stare made it harder to look away than to nod. “...Okay.”

Dean lingered there for a beat longer, like he didn’t quite trust the answer, before finally letting go.

The silence stretched between you until the crunch of boots on gravel announced Sam’s return. He stepped out of the dark, eyes sweeping from you to Dean, then to the smoke still curling in the treeline.

“Fire’s out,” he said simply, though his gaze lingered on your pale face. “You good?”

You nod "Yeah, let's get out of here"

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The bunker felt different after a hunt, quiet, heavy, the kind of silence that rang in your ears after the noise of gunfire and claws on bark. You sank into one of the library chairs, ribs aching under the tight bandage, exhaustion pulling at your bones. The books and papers still lay scattered across the table, Sam’s notes exactly where he’d left them.

Dean came in a minute later, his boots softer than usual on the floor. No beer in his hand this time, no smirk on his face. Just him. He dropped into the chair across from you, arms braced on his knees, eyes fixed on you in that way that made it hard to breathe... and it wasn't because you had a broken rib.

“You scared the hell outta me tonight,” he said finally, voice low, stripped of its usual bite.

You shifted in your seat, uncomfortable under the weight of it. “I’m fine. We won.”

Dean shook his head, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t think I was gonna lose you for a second.” His gaze cut to the bandage peeking from your jacket, then back up to your face. “That’s not a feeling I want to have again.”

Something tight coiled in your chest. You tried to joke it off...habit...but your voice came out too quiet. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

Dean leaned back, eyes narrowing like he was trying to read between your words. Then, slowly, he reached across the table. His hand found yours where it rested against the worn wood, his touch warm, calloused, careful.

For a second, neither of you moved. The contact was simple, but it thrummed through you like the echo of a blast.

“You’re not just backup,” he said, almost a growl, like the words were dragged out of him against his better judgment. “You matter. To me. Got it?”

Your throat tightened, and all you could do was nod, your fingers curling into his almost without thinking.

It looked like he wanted to add something but... Dean exhaled, like some of the fight finally left him, and his mouth twitched into the barest ghost of a smile. He gave your hand a squeeze before letting go, standing like he couldn’t risk sitting there another second.

“Get some sleep,” he muttered, heading toward the hall. But just before he disappeared, his voice carried back to you, softer, more certain:

“…I’ll be here.”

The library hummed around you, warm lamp light pooling over the table, the knife he’d given you still resting at your side

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Hehehe, Dean being a bit Jelly (if you squint) I have so many Drafts it's not even funny...

Enjoy ;)

Taglist: @akeimei @kalsigned

[dreamlanderin]

Truth Hex (Dean Winchester x reader)

summary: Dean gets hit with a truth Hex and says some embarrassing things

warnings: Swearing (like it's Dean so)

Words: 3k

“Son of a -” Dean yelped as the next hex scorched the wall above you, showering both of you in splinters. He shoved his shotgun against his shoulder, peeking over cover.

“Y/N, remind me again why we thought charging in without backup was a good idea?” You glared at him, clutching the iron knife tight in your fist. “Because you said, and I quote, ‘Piece of cake, sweetheart. Its just a grandma!.’”

“Yeah, well, cake doesn’t throw fireballs!” Dean snapped, ducking again as another blast whistled past his ear. His eyes darted around wildly.

“Where the hell is Sam?!”

“How shoukd I know!” You pressed yourself flat against the table as the witch’s cackling echoed from the shadows.

Dean growled, wiping sweat and soot from his forehead, and yelled over the roar of another hex, “SAM! If you’re takin’ your sweet time with that damn hex bag, I swear-”

Another blast cut him off, so close it singed the edge of his flannel. Dean slapped at the smoking patch, face twisted in a really?! expression even as he scrambled lower.

From across the room, the witch’s sing-song voice carried:“Little liars, little liars, caught in my den…Speak your truth, or never lie again…”

Dean barked a laugh, cocky even with danger burning down our necks “Yeah, well, truth is - your rhyming sucks, lady!”

You shoved his shoulder, hissing, “Dean, maybe don’t taunt the crazy witch throwing hex grenades at us?”

“Hey, if I go out tonight, I’m goin’ out on top.” He winked, pumping the shotgun. Another flare of red cracked across the room, forcing you both to dive as the table split down the middle with a violent snap. Dean rolled to his feet, jaw set, shotgun raised. “Alright, lady, playtime’s over-”

And then her hand snapped up, words spilling out in Latin too fast to track. The air trembled. Dean’s body locked, a sharp gasp ripping from his chest.And just like that, the witch’s power slammed into him like an angry wave, crashing him into the wall hard enough to rattle the whole damn house.

He groaned, sliding down in a heap, shotgun skittering out of reach across the floor.

“Dean!” you shouted, scrambling toward him.

The witch stepped out of the shadows, her eyes glowing that unnatural, hellish red, lips curling into a smile sharp enough to cut glass. She raised a bony hand, dark smoke curling between her fingers.

“That’ll teach you to run your filthy mouth, hunter,” she hissed. “Truth is sharp, sharper than your silver. Let it carve you open"

You surged forward, knife raised, rage hot in your chest. “You stay the hell away from him-”

But before you could close the distance, a crash of footsteps came from the doorway.

“Sam!” you breathed.

Sam burst into the room, sweat-soaked and furious, Latin already rolling off his tongue like a battle hymn. In one swift motion, he hurled the completed hex bag toward the witch. It landed at her feet with a flash of light, smoke curling upward like a storm.

“No!” she shrieked, spinning too late. The ground trembled as her own curse turned inward, magic recoiling like a whip. Her scream rattled the windows, a horrible, drawn-out sound that then cut off into silence as her body crumpled into ash.

You stood frozen for a beat, chest heaving, blade still raised.

Sam dropped his chanting, panting as he brushed soot from his jacket. “Took you long enough,” you muttered, scanning the room before landing on Dean

"Sorry, she had some traps set" Dean was still slumped against the wall, blinking like he’d just come off a roller coaster. You dropped to your knees beside him, pressing a hand to his shoulder.

“Dean, hey. You okay?” Dean blinked up at you, groaning as he rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. Just--uh…” His brows knit together, and then he blurted, almost sheepishly “That was scary.”

Idiot, you thought. You shook your head then punched his shoulder, hard.

Dean blinked at you like you’d just grown horns. “What the - ”

“You scared me, you idiot.” You huffed, shoving yourself to your feet, brushing the dust off your jeans. Your pulse was still thundering in your ears.

Dean winced as he pushed himself up, rubbing the shoulder you’d socked. “You scared me? I was the one getting tossed across the damn room like a WWE stunt dummy!”

Sam was already scooping up the witch’s charred remains into a bag, muttering something about needing to salt and burn the rest. He glanced over his shoulder with a roll of his eyes. “Can you two argue after we get rid of her bones? Please?”

Dean groaned, grabbing his shotgun from where it had skidded. “Yeah, yeah. Sammy’s always gotta be the buzzkill.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. “Better a buzzkill than a corpse.”

Dean shot you that trademark smirk, the one that usually meant he thought he’d won the argument. “Sweetheart, you wound me.”

“Not yet,” you shot back.

Sam slammed the trunk shut outside, cutting off any further snark. Dean exhaled hard, brushing his hands on his jeans and looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who’d just been hexed into a wall.You narrowed your eyes at him. Dean just clapped his hands together, voice a little too bright.

“Alright. Witch barbecue’s done. Who’s hungry? I say we hit the bar, beer, burgers and most important, Pie"

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The diner was the kind of place Dean lived for: neon lights buzzing above cracked vinyl booths, the smell of grease and burnt coffee thick in the air, a faded sign promising BURGERS ... BEER ... PIE.

You slid into the booth without thinking, Sam dropping down beside you. Across the table, Dean froze, his hand tightening.

“I was gonna sit there.”

Sam blinked, surprised. You glanced up at Dean, brows raised. Dean frowned, shaking his head like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He gave a little shrug, sliding into the seat across instead. “I-uh...Forget it.”

Sam’s mouth ticked up. “...Okay.”

Dean shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass, then snatched a menu and flipped it open. “Let's just order before I starve”

The three of you skimmed the menus in silence until the waitress ambled over, pad in hand. She smiled, tired but friendly. “You folks are out late. Pulling an all-nighter?”

Dean leaned back in the booth, flashing that cocky grin he wore like armor. “Actually, sweetheart-” he started smooth, then the words shifted in his mouth, spilling out before he could stop them. “We’re hunters. Spent the evening chasing down a granny-witch who damn near roasted me alive.” He laughed then frowned.

The table went silent. Your eyes snapped to him. Sam’s head jerked up, a 'what the hell are you doing' look already on his face. Dean froze, jaw tight, eyes narrowing like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud. “I mean-uh-” He gave a strained laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "hunting for… new burgers. Real picky about my meat.” Sam dropped his menu with a groan.

The waitress blinked, clearly confused, but forced a polite chuckle and scribbled down the order. “Alright then… burgers it is.” She gave a final awkward smile and walked off.

Dean exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. Dean exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face.

“Uh… what was that?” you asked.

"What was what?” he shot back, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was trying to play it cool.

Sam set his menu down, brow furrowed. “You okay, man? You’re acting a little…”

Dean scoffed, but the words slipped out, gravelly and unfiltered: "Not fine, Sammy. I haven’t been fine since Dad shoved a shotgun in my hand and told me monsters were real.”

The table went still. You blinked at him, thrown off by how sharp and plain it came out. Sam just stared, like Dean had suddenly grown a second head. He waved a hand, grabbing his glass. “Forget it.”

You watched him for a long moment, his jaw working, eyes fixed anywhere but on you.

Slowly, you reached across the table and laid your hand over his. Just enough pressure to make him look at you.

“Dean,” you said softly.

“Where’s this coming from?”

His throat bobbed. He shifted in the booth, trying to yank that familiar smirk back onto his face. But the words came out rough, low, and too damn honest:

“Sweetheart, my brain short circuits when you do that.”

You blinked. “When I do what?”

Dean glanced down at your hand on his, jaw tightening. “That. Touchin’ me. I can’t think straight when you-” He cut himself off, scowling like he could bite the words back.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes darting anywhere but the table.

Your ears go red as you slowly pulled your hand back, the air between you suddenly thick. “Sorry,” you muttered.

He dragged a hand down his face, voice low and relentless, the truth spilling faster than he could control it. “It’s the first time all damn day I wasn’t thinking about witches or guns or who’s bleeding out next, and that stupid Jamble song about toothpaste. And now I’m rambling...great.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Dean - ”

But Dean didn’t stop. He gestured vaguely with both hands, eyes flicking anywhere but yours. “I mean, not that I’m some kinda hand-holding junkie. Don’t need to make it a thing. It’s not like I’m out here writing sonnets or - whatever. Just… damn, it was nice. But my heart speads up a bit and- I need whiskey. Speaking of, why don’t diners ever stock the good stuff? You know how much easier pie goes down with bourbon?” He trailed off suddenly, jaw locking, realizing he’d just derailed himself completely.

"Dean" Sam said slowly “What show do you secretly watch on reruns?”

Dean snorted. “None. I don’t...”He cut himself off, words jerking out like a punch: “Dr. Sexy, M.D.”

You blinked. Sam’s lips twitched, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Dean glared down at the table like he could burn a hole through it. “And Project Runway that one summer, but that was..hell, it was just there, okay?”

You laughed, covering your mouth. “What the hell?”

Dean pointed a finger at you. “Hey don't-"

"Dean" Sam leaned in, voice calm but eyes sharp. “didn’t that witch say something about liars before she blasted you?”

Dean’s head snapped up. “I GOT HEXED!?”

“Wait, what?” You frowned, turning to Sam.

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I should’ve seen it earlier. The witch cursed him. It’s a truth spell. It’s happened before...different witch, same kind of deal. He can’t lie. Everything that comes out of his mouth is the truth, whether he wants it to be or not.”

Dean sat back hard against the booth, eyes wide. “You’re tellin’ me I’m stuck as some freakin’ human truth bomb?”

Sam gave him a pointed look. “That’s why you admitted you were scared back at the house. Why you’ve been… well, blurting out things you wouldn’t normally say.”

Dean dragged both hands down his face with a groan. “This is the worst curse. At least with a rash or a voodoo doll I can punch somethin’. This? This is...this is humiliating.”

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Honestly? It’s kind of entertaining.”

Dean dropped his hands, shooting you a glare. “Oh, glad my misery’s makin’ your night, sweetheart. Non of this would have happened if I hadn’t been so distracted by your...”He clamped his mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked, a groan rumbling low in his chest as he dragged a hand down his face.

“…I hate witches.”

Sam leaned back in the booth, eyebrows raised. “Yeah. Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

You tilted your head, trying not to grin. “Distracted by my what, Dean?”

Dean groaned louder, thumping the back of his head against the booth cushion. “Not a chance in hell I’m finishing that sentence.”

Sam smirked. “Oh, you don’t have to. Truth spell’ll do it for you eventually.”

Dean’s hand dropped to the table with a thunk, and he glared at his brother. “You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Will it wear off?” you asked, turning back to Sam.

"Eventually,” Sam said with a small shrug. “As long as he doesn’t try to fight it, it’ll burn out on its own.”

“Oh…” You leaned back, an amused smile curling at your lips. “You know, there are some things I’ve always wanted to know…”

Your grin turned wicked.

Dean sat forward instantly, eyes narrowing. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

So of course, you dared.

The rest of the night at the diner turned into an interrogation booth, only Dean wasn’t the one asking the questions. By the time Sam was done poking and you’d had your fun, you’d learned more about Dean Winchester than you’d managed in years of hunts together.

Like how he once lost Baby’s keys for a week only to find them in the "secret" box he kept. Whic you’ll probably have nightmares about.

Or how he secretly liked his burgers without onions but always ordered them anyway so Sam wouldn’t call him picky. Or how he still kept three cassette tapes of “Eye of the Tiger” around the bunker, just in case.

Dean groaned through every confession, ears going redder each time you and Sam laughed. By the time the food came, he was ready to crawl under the booth and never come out. When you guys reached the bunker later that night you were met with the familiar hum of the lights.

Sam headed off toward the library, muttering something about researching reversal spells.

Dean was hunched over the kitchen table like a man at a funeral, fork in one hand, a half-eaten slice of pie in front of him. He stabbed at it half-heartedly, chewing like it was gravel. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him sulk.

“You gonna glare that pie to death, or actually enjoy it?”

Dean shot you a look, sharp but tired. “Pie doesn’t laugh at me, sweetheart. Doesn’t dig for all my dirty little secrets.” He shoveled another bite in, muttering, “Pie just gets me.”

You smirked, stepping into the room. “Pie also doesn’t blush every time I hold its hand.”

He groaned, dropping the fork with a clatter. “For the love of...are you ever gonna let that go?”

You sat down across from him, chin resting on your hand. “Nope”

Dean rubbed at his face, exasperated. The curse still tugged at his throat, dragging the words out before he could stop them. “Truth is… I feel better when you’re around. Stop acting as if its a crime”

The room went still. He froze, eyes widening like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it. His mouth opened, ready to backtrack, but nothing came out. You didn’t tease him this time. You just reached across the table and slid your hand over his. Firm. Steady. This time you didn’t let go.

Dean stared at your joined hands, his jaw tight, a dozen emotions flickering in his eyes. Slowly, cautiously, he curled his fingers around yours. His voice came rough, almost a growl:

“…Still hate witches.”

You smiled. “Sure you do.”

"So.... uh....are you going to tell me how I distracted you?"

Dean’s mouth twisted, like he was physically fighting the words back. Finally, they punched their way out, ragged and frustrated: “…You looked at me.”

Silence. Your brows shot up. His ears went red. Dean groaned, dropping his forehead into his free hand. “Or breathed, okay? Doesn’t matter. Point is...you exist and apparently that’s all it takes to throw me off my game.”

You bit back a laugh, squeezing his hand just to watch him squirm. He peeked at you from under his hand, grumbling low.

"You're so cute"

"IM NOT CUTE!"

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

I'm baccckkkk... *cough cough* Yeaahhhh 😅

Not my best, but I had fun writing it....Anyway, hope you like it ;)

Let me know if you have some suggestions.

[dreamlanderin]

Can we all just take as second to appreciate this man's lethal face card.

#I am not okay.

AN: Feel like I haven't been giving Dean enough love.

[dreamlanderin]

You don't see me, part 6 (Sam x reader)

Summary: The aftermath, Follows after part 5.

Warnings: Blood, angst, mention of demons.

Words: 4k

The sound of the demons' guttural growls and the metallic clang of weapons echoed down the school’s halls, but Sam hardly noticed. His focus was razor-sharp, his movements precise, every swing of his blade and every word of an exorcism pouring from his lips with ruthless efficiency.

The demons came at him like a tide, their black eyes gleaming with malice, their bodies moving unnaturally fast. But Sam was faster. Stronger. His body moved like it wasn’t even his own, each step calculated, each attack devastating. He barely felt the strain in his muscles or the sweat dripping down his face. All he felt was the fire coursing through him, igniting something primal and dangerous inside.

Dean was at his side, hacking through the hoard, but Sam could sense it—the way Dean kept glancing at him, alarm flickering across his face between swings. Sam could feel the weight of those looks, but he didn’t have time to process them. Not when the demons kept coming, and definitely not when he knew you were somewhere in this hellish place.

It had all happened so fast. They’d been moving cautiously through the school, the thick smoke making it hard to see, when the hoard came barreling down the hallway. Dean had shouted, “Incoming!” as the demons poured out of the shadows like something out of a nightmare.

There were too many of them to stand and fight in the narrow hall, so they’d been forced to retreat. Sam had turned to cover Dean, but when they reached the end of the corridor, there was nowhere else to go. A massive, broken window had loomed in front of them, and without thinking, Sam had grabbed Dean by the arm and leapt through it.

The crash had been deafening, glass shattering around them as they hit the ground on the other side, rolling into a crouch. Dean had cursed under his breath, brushing shards of glass off his jacket, but Sam hadn’t stopped moving. That was when he’d seen you.

Through the thick wall of glass that separated the empty swimming pool from the outside, there you were. Bleeding, broken, and so pale you looked like a ghost. Sam’s breath hitched as his eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the chaos around him dulled. He could see the blood smeared down your side, the trembling in your legs as you leaned against the glass for support. And you looked at him.

“No!” Sam roared, his voice breaking through the cacophony of noise as he charged toward the glass. His blade swung in a wild arc, cutting down a demon that had gotten too close.

Dean was shouting something behind him, his voice sharp and urgent, but Sam couldn’t hear it. The only thing he could see was you on the other side of that damn wall, your bloodied hand pressed against the glass.

The demons surged toward him, trying to block his path, but it didn’t matter. Sam moved through them like a storm, his blade cutting through flesh and bone, his voice ringing out with exorcisms that sent black smoke pouring from their bodies. He was relentless, brutal, every ounce of anger and desperation pouring into his attacks.

Dean fell into step beside him, slashing and firing with practiced precision, but Sam could tell his brother was watching him. He could feel Dean’s eyes on him, the unspoken questions and worry etched into his face.

“Sam!” Dean barked as he took down another demon. “What the hell are you doing?!”

But Sam didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. Not when you were so close and still so far. Not when you were bleeding out in that pool, and a child—a demon child—was standing there, taunting you like a predator savoring its kill.

And then you smiled at him.

It wasn’t a happy smile. It was soft, faint, and so tired it made something inside him snap.

Another demon lunged at him, and Sam twisted, driving his blade into its chest before spinning to kick a second one to the ground. His hands were slick with blood, demons blood. His breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

When the last of the demons fell, Sam barely registered the black smoke dissipating around him. His chest heaved, his vision swimming as the adrenaline started to wear off. He turned back to the glass, slamming his fists against it, his voice raw as he shouted your name.

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him, your expression soft, resigned. And that smile—God, that smile—it was the kind of thing that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“No!” Sam shouted, his voice hoarse as he slammed against the glass again. But his strength was fading, his body finally registering the toll of the fight. His arms felt like lead, his legs shaky beneath him. He’d burned through everything he had, and now he felt empty. Drained. Helpless. Dean tried his gun, but it was empty

Dean grabbed his arm, yanking him back. “Sam! Stop—it’s not breaking!” he shouted, his voice sharp with urgency. “We need a plan, now!”

But Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he watched the child reach for you, the air around her shimmering with power. Every instinct screamed at him to do something, to save you, but his body wouldn’t obey.

And then the light came.

A brilliant, blinding white that engulfed the room, forcing him to shield his eyes. The demons’ screams filled the air, shrill and panicked, as their bodies disintegrated into smoke and ash. Sam squinted against the light, his heart pounding as a familiar sound reached his ears—the heavy thud of wings.

When the light dimmed, Castiel was standing inside the pool house, his gaze calm and unyielding as he stepped between you and the demon. Sam staggered forward, his breath hitching as relief and exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. He wasn’t shaking anymore, but he saw the child scream and her body fall to the earth.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The first thing you felt was warmth—not the comforting kind, but something deeper, hotter, like a slow-burning fire spreading through your stomach and arm. It didn’t hurt exactly, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was strange, foreign, and for a moment, you thought it might be the pain of dying.

Your eyes fluttered open, sluggish and heavy, the light above you a harsh blur that made you squint. The air smelled of smoke and burnt ozone, and as your vision adjusted, you realized you were still in the pool house. The cracked tiles and the towering glass wall were unmistakable, though now the room was eerily quiet, the chaotic echoes of earlier replaced with a suffocating stillness.

You tilted your head slightly, your neck stiff, and saw him—Castiel. He was kneeling beside you, one hand resting gently on your stomach, the other on your injured arm. His eyes were closed, his expression calm but focused, as if he were channeling something through you. The warmth spread from his touch, radiating outward, and though your body screamed at you to move, you couldn’t. You felt rooted, pinned beneath the weight of exhaustion and whatever it was Castiel was doing.

“Hey,” a voice broke through the fog, familiar and rough. Dean. You turned your head slowly, your gaze meeting his. He was crouched next to you, his hands braced on his knees, his face tight with concern. His jacket was torn, and there was a streak of blood on his cheek—not his, you realized, but someone else’s. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice softer now, like he was trying not to startle you.

For a second all of it felt like a dream. Had you gone somewhere else for a second? Everything had felt like a haze, and you could barely remember what happened.

On your other side, Sam stood stiffly, his broad frame hunched slightly as he watched Castiel work. His face was pale, beads of sweat clinging to his brow, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were glassy with something you couldn’t quite name. Guilt? Fear? Maybe both.

“You’re okay,” Sam said, his voice low and uneven, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. He stepped closer, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The warmth intensified, pulling your attention back to Castiel. His eyes opened, bright and piercing, as he removed his hands from your stomach and arm. “The bleeding has stopped,” he said simply, his voice steady and calm. “But she needs rest. Her body is weak.”

You tried to speak, you wanted to thank him, but your throat was dry, the words sticking there like sandpaper. You coughed softly, and Dean was by your side in an instant.

“Take it easy,” he muttered, his tone gruff but laced with relief. “You scared the crap out of us, you know that?”

Your lips curved faintly, though it took more effort than you expected. “Guess I… have a habit of that,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dean snorted, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, well, cut it out. You don’t get to do that again.”

Sam knelt beside you, his gaze searching your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “We thought we lost you,” he said quietly, his voice breaking at the edges. “You were—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening as he looked away, unable to finish the sentence.

You swallowed hard, your throat still raw, and forced your eyes to meet his. “I’m still here,” you said softly, the words as much for yourself as for them.

Castiel stood, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turned to Dean and Sam. “She will recover, but she needs time,” he said. “The wounds were severe.”

Dean nodded, his jaw set as he rose to his feet. “Thanks, Cas. You really pulled through.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “You called me” his eyes flickered to Sam as he said it so simply. He stepped back and looked at the corpse of the little girl Lilith had possessed.

"It was a demon called Lilith" Cas said, his brows scrunched. He could not understand why she would bother with a town like this.

Dean stood and glanced at Castiel, his hands resting on his hips as he took in the room one last time. "Alright, Cas, we got her breathing again—now how the hell are we supposed to get out of here? That whole damn town’s crawling with demons."

Castiel turned his sharp gaze toward Dean, his expression as unreadable as ever. “You don’t have to worry about the demons. I’ve taken care of them.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Taken care of them? You mean—”

“They’re gone,” Castiel interrupted, his tone final. “But I suggest you get to the car and leave before they decide to come back.”

“The demon Lilith, she isn’t at her full capacity yet, I won’t be able to stop her next time”

Sam couldn't help how his face hardened. Lilith. He won't forget the name.

Dean opened his mouth to respond, likely to ask for more details, but before the words could form, Castiel tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with that otherworldly glow. And then, with a rustle of wings, he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of ozone in his wake.

“Damn it, Cas,” Dean muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. Every time.

Dean crouched back down, his hands reaching to help you up. “Alright, let’s get you outta here. You can sleep it off in the car.”

But before he could touch you, Sam was already moving. He knelt beside you, his large hands slipping under your arms and knees, lifting you carefully, like you were made of glass. “I’ve got her,” he said, his voice firm but soft.

You weakly shook your head, your voice barely a whisper. “Sam, I can walk…”

“No, you can’t,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. His grip was steady, but you could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body carried the strain of exhaustion and something more—a weight you couldn’t quite name. “Just let me do this.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, your head resting against his chest as he carried you. You felt small in his arms, like the world had shrunk down to the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Sam was here. He was holding you. This wasn't how you had wanted to see them again. Not like this. Even in your haze, you noticed the blood. His jacket was stiff with it, the coppery smell clinging to him like a second skin. It wasn’t just his. It couldn’t be.

As the three of you stepped out into the open air, the remnants of the battle came into sharp focus. The town wasn’t bustling anymore. It was empty, the silence pressing against your ears like a weight. Bodies littered the streets—human shells that had been vessels for demons, now lifeless and broken. Blood pooled in the cracks of the pavement, dark and glistening under the bright sun.

The sight made your stomach turn, your exhaustion warring with the nausea rising in your chest. You swallowed hard, your voice rasping. “Sam… you’re covered in blood.”

He didn’t answer right away, his jaw tight as he kept walking toward the Impala. His arms didn’t waver, even as you felt the faint tremor in his hands. Finally, he said, “It’s not mine.”

The words were simple, but they carried a weight that settled heavily in the air between you. You glanced up at him, his face pale and drawn, his eyes dark with something that wasn’t entirely human. Dean walked a few paces ahead, his shoulders tense, his hand gripping his gun like he was ready for another fight, even if there wasn’t one coming.

The Impala came into view, parked crookedly near the diner where this nightmare had begun. Dean moved toward your motorbike without a word, his jaw tight as he grabbed the few things you’d left behind. You knew they’d have to abandon it, and the thought stung, though not nearly as much as the ache in your body.

Sam carried you to the car, his movements deliberate, his arms steady despite the tension you could feel in every muscle. He eased you toward the back seat, his hands careful as if you might shatter under the slightest pressure. The worn leather felt familiar beneath you, a stark contrast to everything that had happened.

You didn't know what to say to him. Your recklessness and desire to prove yourself had almost ruined everything. You could have lost them, maybe forever.

You winced, trying to sit up, your feet still hanging outside the car. The warm air brushed against your skin, mixing with the warmth radiating from Sam as he knelt down in front of you. His hands moved with purpose—one steadying you by your shoulder, the other brushing gently against your hairline, pushing a stray strand out of your face. His touch was firm but soft, grounding you.

He didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed over your face, taking in the cuts, the bruises, the dried blood streaking your skin. His thumb hovered just shy of a particularly nasty cut on your cheek, and he frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“You look like hell” he finally said, his voice rough but quiet. I was in hell.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, your chest aching from the effort. “You’re one to talk,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes flicked over him—his bloodstained clothes, the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. “You’re worse than me.”

He shook his head, his hand lingering in your hair for a moment longer than it needed to. His gaze softened, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you. “I thought we were gonna lose you,” he admitted, his voice cracking just enough to reveal the vulnerability he was trying to hide. “And after everything—”

You interrupted him, reaching up with a trembling hand to rest lightly on his wrist. “But I didn't” you whispered. “And you didn't. Castiel saved us”

Yes, Castiel, he thought.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple shifting visibly. “You scared the hell out of me,” he confessed, his thumb brushing against the side of your face in a gesture so tender it made your chest tighten. “You—damn it, why did you leave?”

“I—” You started to speak, but the words tangled in your throat. I'm sorry, is what you wanted to say. You felt like crying so he would just hold you. Your hand dropped from his wrist, resting limply in your lap as you searched for the answer, “I thought…” Your voice faltered, and you looked away, ashamed. “I thought you’d be better off without me.”

"That you didn't need me anymore"

His hand on your shoulder tightened, grounding you, forcing you to meet his gaze again. “Not need you?” he repeated, his voice louder now, incredulous. “How the hell could you think that?”

You flinched, his words hitting like a slap. “Because I’m a mess, Sam! I have no idea what I am doing, okay?” The words came spilling out, raw and unfiltered. “Every time I’m around, I just make things worse. I mean just look at what happened today"

Sam’s eyes widened slightly, the shock of your admission hitting him. But he didn’t let go. His hand moved from your shoulder to your face, his palm cradling your cheek as his thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You think you’re the only one who’s lost?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You think I’ve got it all figured out? I’m just as messed up as you are. Maybe worse.”

But you have Ruby, you wanted to say.

“Sam…” You tried to look away again, but he wouldn’t let you. His fingers pressed gently against your jaw, keeping your gaze locked on his.

“No, listen to me,” he insisted. “I’ve done things—things I’m not proud of, things that haunt me every damn day. But you? You’re not a burden. You never were.” His voice cracked again, and he leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “You’re my family. You’ve always been my family. And you don’t get to decide that we’re better off without you.”

Tears blurred your vision, and you hated how weak you felt in that moment, hated how easily he broke through the walls you’d tried so hard to build. “I didn’t want you to have to carry me,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

His lips twitched into a faint, bitter smile. “That’s what we do—we carry each other. That’s how we survive.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for the first time in a long time, you felt the cracks in your armor start to give way. You wanted to argue, to push him away, but you couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that, his eyes so full of pain and something else—something that felt like hope.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to stay.”

His expression softened, the anger fading into something gentler, though no less intense. “Then let us show you how,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to figure it out on your own. You never did.”

For a moment, the world around you disappeared. It was just the two of you, the weight of your shared pain and unspoken fears finally laid bare. His hand stayed on your face, his touch warm and steady, and you felt the faintest flicker of something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time.

You nodded slowly, your breath hitching as you whispered, “Okay.”

“I’m sorry” He whispered. You just looked at him—really looked at him. There was so much etched into his face: the pain, the worry, the frustration, and underneath it all, the unwavering determination. You realized he wasn’t just telling you these things—he was showing you, every word reflected in his eyes.

And you knew he saw everything in you, too. He saw you. The guilt, the exhaustion, the fear. But there was something else in his gaze, something that made your throat tighten and your heart ache. He wasn’t just angry or hurt—he cared. He cared more than you thought anyone ever could.

You didn’t need words. Neither of you did. In that moment, you both said everything you needed to with a single look.

His hand was still on your face, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone, and you leaned into the touch without thinking. Your breath hitched as his eyes softened, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin. For a second, the world felt still, the chaos and blood and pain fading into the background. It was just you and him, a fragile moment suspended in time.

And then he leaned forward, his forehead resting gently against yours. His breath was warm against your lips, shallow and uneven, and you felt the tension radiating off him—the war he was fighting with himself, the fear of breaking you even more.

But you weren’t broken. Not in this moment.

"Stay" he whispered.

Your hand came up slowly, fingers brushing against his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his cheek. He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into the touch like it was the only thing grounding him.

When his eyes opened again, they were heavy with emotion, the kind of weight that made your chest ache. He wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you, all of you, the parts you tried so hard to hide.

And you saw him, too. The cracks he tried to cover, the guilt he carried.

For a moment you mind conjured up that he would say her name again, instead of yours. But he doesn't.

It started small, a gentle chuckle escaping your lips, but then he laughed too, and the sound of it—rough, tired, but genuine—was like the first crack of sunlight breaking through a storm. His forehead stayed pressed to yours as the two of you shared that small, absurd moment, finding something human and warm.

It was such a quiet intimacy, you'd felt him lean forward, his breath tangle with yours—until an awkward cough shattered the silence.

Both of you turned, startled, to see Dean leaning casually against the side of the car, arms crossed and an exaggerated look of being grossed out.

“Well,” Dean drawled, his tone heavy with gruff. “This is all very touching and everything, but I think I’ve earned some pie after all this crap. And you two really need to break it up because it’s making me nauseous.”

Sam groaned, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels, while if you hadn't been so pale, would have been burning red.

Dean’s expression softened just slightly at you, though he rolled his eyes for effect. “Seriously, lovebirds. Let’s get moving before Castiel’s angel dust wears off and this town decides it wants us dead again.”

Sam stood, his hand brushing your shoulder gently as he helped you ease back into the seat. He glanced down at you, his eyes full of something unspoken but steady, before shutting the door and turning back to Dean.

As Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, still grumbling under his breath about pie and melodrama, you shifted slightly, leaning back against the worn leather seat. Sam lingered by the open door for a moment, his hand resting on the edge as if he wasn’t quite ready to follow Dean's lead.

His face changed, though—just subtly. The quiet relief from earlier faded, replaced by a flicker of something heavier. His jaw tightened, and he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the vial.

The now empty vial.

He stared at it for a moment, the glass catching the faint glow of the Impala’s headlights. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tightness around his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. He hadn't been strong enough. He turned his head slightly, checking to make sure Dean wasn’t watching, and then, without a word, he let the vial drop.

It shattered soundlessly against the gravel beside the car, the shards glinting faintly in the moonlight. Sam didn’t look down. He just straightened, wiped his hand on his jeans, and stepped into the car, his movements careful as he sat beside you in the back seat.

“Alright, everyone in?” Dean asked from the front, starting the Impala with a low growl.

Sam nodded, settling beside you, his eyes focused on the passing darkness beyond the window. His hand found yours briefly, giving it a gentle squeeze as if grounding himself. He didn’t look at you, though, his gaze distant, the shadows playing across his face like a reflection of something he didn’t want you to see. He hadn't been strong enough, he'd almost lost everything to Lilith. His expression hardened a little, his mind shifting to dark places: Never again.

You were too tired to question it, too drained to notice the faint, almost imperceptible tension still coiled in his frame. The Impala rolled forward, its headlights cutting through the eerie quiet of Green Hollow as the shattered glass of the vial disappeared.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

AN: Well, Hope you guys enjoyed the story. It's on the shorter side, sorry ;)

Ps. I don't feel like this is a cliffhanger? But hey they made peace.

Tag list:

@youdontknowe @theamuz  @mysteryenchatress @craycraycraic @craycraycraic @variant-zee @ur2moms @ambiguous-avery @steviespookie @s0urw00lf @bewr0210 @mostlymarvelgirl @dear-bambi2 @yeehawgiddyup13 @samwinchesterisawhore @hh38 @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @marshmallowtraver @bribow010 @saltycandysalad

[dreamlanderin]

You don't see me, Part 5 (Sam x reader)

Summary: You're in Green Hollow, Sam and Dean race to find you. Follows after part 4

Warnings: Swearing, blood, gore, horror, angst (Legit almost everything you can expect from a supernatural episode), spoilers if you squint?

Words: 10k (I got carried away)

You’d been following Bobby’s directions for hours, squinting at a hand-drawn map that seemed to make less sense the further you drove. The landmarks he’d mentioned—a crooked signpost, an old water tower—had been there, sure, but they looked… different. Faded, almost distorted, like you’d stepped into some parallel version of the real world.

Your phone was useless out here, the signal dead the moment you’d left the last highway. You’d tried restarting it, even waved it in the air in a desperate attempt to catch a bar, but nothing. Just static.

And then, after what felt like an eternity of wrong turns and second-guessing, you’d found it. The town. Green Hollow.

It didn’t look like much—a handful of buildings huddled together in the middle of nowhere, their facades weathered and crumbling like they’d been abandoned decades ago. But the lights were on in some of the windows, and you’d caught glimpses of movement behind curtains and doorframes. A general store, a diner, what might’ve been a post office—they were all there, clustered around a single stretch of road that barely qualified as Main Street.

At first, it had seemed… normal. Quiet, but normal. Until you stepped out of the bike.

That’s when you felt it. Eyes on you.

It wasn’t subtle, either. People weren’t sneaking glances from behind windows or casually looking up as they passed. No, they were staring. Full-on, unapologetic staring, like you were some kind of intruder who’d wandered where you didn’t belong. A woman sweeping the porch of the general store stopped mid-swipe, her hand frozen on the broom as her gaze locked onto you. A group of kids on bikes paused at the corner, their laughter dying as they turned in unison, their faces eerily blank. Even an old man sitting on a bench across the street was watching you, his eyes unblinking, his hands resting motionless on his cane.

You tried to shake it off, brushing past the unease with a shrug as you headed toward what looked like a diner. You’d figured maybe you could grab something to eat, ask a few questions, and figure out your next move. But when you pushed open the door, the bell jangling above your head, the low murmur of conversation inside died instantly.

Every head turned toward you. Every set of eyes.

You froze, the weight of their stares pressing against your skin like a physical thing. The room was small, just a handful of tables and booths, but it felt suffocating. The waitress behind the counter—young, with a crooked name tag that read Mary—stood frozen, the coffee pot in her hand hovering inches above a mug. The man she’d been serving, a burly guy in a flannel jacket, turned his head so slowly it was almost unnatural, his gaze pinning you in place.

You managed a tight smile, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Uh… is the kitchen still open?”

Mary didn’t answer. She just stared at you, her wide eyes flicking briefly to the other patrons before settling back on you.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, backing toward the door. “Guess not.”

No, just no. You left the diner without another word, the weight of their stares trailing you all the way to the sidewalk. The air outside felt colder now, heavier, and as you glanced back at the windows, you swore you saw the curtains twitch.

You tried the motel next, if you could even call it that. It was more of a rundown, single-story building with a flickering VACANCY sign hanging crooked above the office door. But when you stepped inside, the tiny reception desk was empty, the bell for service cracked and rusted. You’d called out, your voice echoing in the stillness, but no one came.

It wasn’t just the motel, either. The gas station was locked up, the lights inside dim. The general store had closed early, its door chained shut. Even the post office, which had looked abandoned at first glance, now seemed to hum faintly, like there was someone—or something—inside watching you.

You tried not to let it get to you, tried to tell yourself it was all in your head. Bobby had said there was just some strange weather or something you needed to check out, this didn’t feel like strange weather at all. Did he give you the right map?

 You’d gone back to your bike, luckily it was still there, a part of you thought it might be missing when you went back. It would have to do for now, maybe you should camp for the night? The headlights cast long, distorted shadows across the empty street, and in the rearview mirror, you thought you saw movement—a figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

But when you turned to look, the street was empty.

By now the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the town cloaked in an uneasy twilight. The streets were deserted, silent except for the faint creak of an old weather vane spinning lazily in the cool evening breeze. You’d pulled your motorbike up to the edge of the road, flicking the kickstand down and cutting the engine. The silence that followed felt too heavy, like it had been waiting to swallow the sound whole.

Unfolding the crumpled map Bobby had given you, you tried to make sense of the faded lines and scrawled notes. The directions had been straightforward enough when you set out, but now the roads seemed to twist and blur together, leading nowhere. Your headlamp cast just enough light to make out the words, but even they felt wrong somehow, like the map was deliberately trying to confuse you. You were hungry and tired, you wish you’d taken some snackss when you’d stopped by the gas station.

You tried your phone again but nothing.

You shifted your weight on the bike, exhaling sharply to ground yourself. It was fine. You’d figure it out. You always did.

But then you noticed them.

At first, it was just a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye—quick, darting, like shadows stretching in the fading light. You brushed it off as nothing, focusing instead on the map. But the flickers kept coming, and when you finally glanced up, you saw them. The children.

They were standing in the dim glow of a streetlamp a little ways down the road, half-hidden in the shadows. Two, no, three of them. Their faces were blank, pale, and still, with eyes that seemed to glint unnaturally in the low light. You recognized them immediately—the same kids you’d seen earlier when you’d first rolled into town. They’d been playing by the fountain in the square, laughing and running circles around each other. But now? Now they weren’t laughing. They weren’t moving at all.

They were just staring at you.

You looked back down at the map, trying to shake the uneasy feeling creeping up your spine. It was fine. They were just kids. Probably curious about the stranger in town. Kids were like that, weren’t they? Still, your fingers tightened around the edge of the paper, crumpling it slightly as you forced yourself to focus.

The sound of small, deliberate footsteps broke the silence.

Your head snapped up, and you realized they were closer now. Still not speaking, still not smiling—just standing there, watching. One of them, a girl with long, stringy hair that clung to her face, tilted her head slightly, the movement unnervingly slow. Her eyes caught yours, and for a split second, you felt frozen in place, like she was daring you to look away.

You cleared your throat, gripping the handlebars of your bike. “Can I help you?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

No answer. Just silence, thick and oppressive.

This wasn’t right, you thought. Your hand itched against your thigh, next to you knife.

The boy next to her—a gangly kid with a too-thin frame and a face that looked too sharp in the dim light—took a step forward. Then another. His bare feet scuffed against the pavement, the sound too loud in the stillness.

You didn’t wait for them to get closer.

Stuffing the map back into your jacket, you swung your leg over the bike and fumbled with the ignition. The engine roared to life, a comforting burst of sound that cut through the quiet. You glanced back toward the children, expecting them to scatter at the noise.

But they didn’t move.

If anything, they seemed closer now, their figures outlined by the glow of the streetlamp. The girl’s lips curved into something that might have been a smile.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you revved the engine, trying to drown out the rising panic. You weren’t scared of a few kids. You’d faced worse, far worse. This was nothing. Just your nerves playing tricks on you. Right?

You shouldn't have come here. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that their eyes were following you, even as you turned the bike and sped off down the road. The town blurred around you in streaks of dark shapes and flickering lights, but you couldn’t bring yourself to slow down, not until the uneasy weight pressing on your chest began to ease.

But as you glanced in the mirror, your stomach dropped.

They were still there. And their eyes, they were black now.

Demons. Where the hell did Bobby send you?

You twisted the throttle, the bike roaring beneath you as the town faded behind in a blur of dark shapes and faint streetlights. The air felt heavier with each mile, like you were dragging it with you, and the memory of those children’s unblinking stares clung to your mind like smoke. You told yourself to shake it off, to focus on the road ahead, you needed to leave, and now.

The first time you noticed them, you thought it was just your nerves. A man in a dark coat, standing under the yellow haze of a streetlamp, his head turning to follow as you passed. Then another—a woman in a pale dress, sitting on the steps of a house with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes locked onto you, they flashed black. Then another, and another. Figures standing in doorways, leaning out of windows, scattered across the streets like chess pieces on a board.

All of them were watching you.

Your chest tightened as you leaned into the bike, urging it faster, the engine growling as the wind whipped past your face. The cold bit at your cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the growing weight of their stares. They were everywhere now, appearing out of shadows and corners, their faces blank but their eyes piercing.

Your breath came faster, shallow and uneven, as you tried to push the bike harder, faster. The town blurred around you, the streets twisting and curling like the lines of Bobby’s map. You didn’t know where you were going—just away.

Then you saw her.

She was standing in the middle of the road, a small figure bathed in the pale glow of your headlamp. The white dress she wore was stark against the darkness, its hem brushing her bare ankles as the fabric swayed gently in the wind. Her hair, dark and loose, framed a face that was eerily calm, far too still for a child standing alone in the street at night.

You slammed the brakes, the tires screeching against the pavement as the bike skidded sideways. Your heart leapt into your throat as the handlebars jerked in your grip, and for one terrifying moment, you thought you’d lose control. The bike wobbled, then steadied, stopping just a few feet from where she stood.

The engine idled loudly, its growl the only sound breaking the eerie silence. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your hands gripping the handlebars so tightly your knuckles ached. The girl didn’t move. She just stood there, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, her head tilted slightly to one side as she watched you.

You cut the engine, the sudden quiet almost deafening. The faint hum of the wind picked up again, carrying with it the distant creak of something—maybe a swing set or a weathered sign—moving in the darkness.

She stood, there unphased.

“Hello,” she said, her voice soft and clear, like the chime of a bell.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. “Hey,” you managed, your voice rough and uncertain. “You… okay, kid?” You look at her, please be a kid.

She tilted her head further and gave a faint nod, her dark eyes glinting in the light of the bike. “I’ve been waiting, you know” she said simply.

“Waiting for what?” you asked, your pulse thundering in your ears.

She smiled then, small and faint, but it sent a chill crawling down your spine. “For you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, the air felt colder. Heavier. You glanced around, your eyes darting to the shadows that lined the street, searching for… something. Someone. But the street was empty now, eerily so. The figures who’d been watching earlier were gone.

Just you and the girl.

Your hand instinctively moved toward the knife strapped to your thigh, your fingers brushing the hilt as your muscles tensed. “Who are you?” you asked, your voice sharper now, more demanding.

Her smile didn’t waver as her eyes flashed white.

“I’m Lilith”

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

It had taken Sam and Dean almost a full day just to figure out which road to take. They’d driven through the area where Green Hollow was supposed to be—at least twice—but the town itself was nowhere to be found. The map didn’t make sense, the roads didn’t match up, and every turn seemed to lead them back to the same stretch of empty highway.

“This is ridiculous,” Dean muttered, gripping the steering wheel with frustration as the Impala rumbled down yet another unmarked road. “It’s like the damn town doesn’t exist.”

Sam, slouched in the passenger seat with a map unfolded across his lap, ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. “The map says it’s supposed to be right here,” he said, jabbing a finger at a point on the paper. “But it’s not. None of this lines up.”

Dean shot him a glare. “You think I don’t know that? We’ve been driving in circles for hours, Sam. Maybe Bobby gave us the wrong coordinates.”

Sam shook his head, his brow furrowed in thought. His knee bounced restlessly, his fingers gripping the edges of the map a little too tightly. “Bobby doesn’t make mistakes like that. If he says it’s here, it’s here. We’re just missing something.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, like a magic portal, maybe? ‘Cause I’m not seeing a single sign of this Green Hollow anywhere.”

Sam didn’t respond right away. His mind was a tangle of frustration and unease, not just from the endless backtracking but from the weight of the vial still tucked away in his duffel bag. He hadn’t touched it, not since he’d packed his bag back at the motel, but just knowing it was there was enough to keep his nerves frayed. He’d told himself it was just a precaution, but he knew better. The temptation was clawing at him, and the withdrawal only made it worse. His hands itched to fidget with something, but he forced them to stay steady, even as a cold sweat broke out at the back of his neck.

They’d eventually pulled off into a small, run-down gas station on the outskirts of a nearby town, the kind of place where time seemed to have stopped thirty years ago. The fluorescent lights flickered, and the old man behind the counter looked like he hadn’t seen a stranger in years.

“Green Hollow?” the man had repeated, squinting at them from behind the counter. “Why the hell would you wanna go there?”

Dean had leaned against the counter, his tone flat. “Long story. Can you tell us how to get there or not?”

The old man had given them a long, scrutinizing look before finally jerking his thumb toward the window. “You’ll need to take the dirt road about five miles west of here. Ain’t marked, but you’ll see it if you’re looking. Place is a mess of old trails and overgrowth, though, so good luck not getting lost.”

“Great,” Dean had muttered under his breath, already dreading the drive.

“You boys sure you wanna go poking around there?” the man had added, his voice lowering slightly. “Ain’t much left of Green Hollow. Place is washed up. Folks there don’t like strangers much.”

Sam had thanked the man and grabbed the directions, but the warning lingered in the back of his mind as they left the gas station and headed back to the Impala. Dean, of course, hadn’t cared. “Washed up or not,” he’d said, starting the car with a growl of the engine, “we’re finding this place.”

As they drove toward the dirt road, Sam leaned his head against the window, the vibration of the Impala’s engine doing little to calm the restless energy swirling inside him. His thoughts drifted—mostly to you. What was he even going to say when he saw you again? How could he explain himself, the mess he was in, and the way he’d let so much spiral out of control? Every time he thought about it, the words felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

Would you even want to hear him out? He wasn’t sure he’d deserve it, not after leaving things the way he had. But the thought of you out here, alone, in a place that didn’t even seem to want to be found—it made his chest tighten.

The dirt road wasn’t hard to spot once they knew where to look, but navigating it was another story. It was narrow, uneven, and riddled with potholes, winding through dense trees that seemed to swallow the light. The further they went, the more the air seemed to change—heavier, quieter, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

Dean had grumbled the whole way, swerving to avoid a particularly deep rut in the road. “This better be worth it,” he’d said, gripping the wheel tighter as the Impala jolted over another bump. “If we end up driving into some Deliverance situation, I’m blaming Bobby.”

Sam didn’t respond, his focus split between the map in his lap and the weight of his duffel bag at his feet. He hadn’t opened it, hadn’t even looked at it since they’d left, but the knowledge of what was inside felt like a lead weight. He’d brought the vial with him. He didn’t know why—it wasn’t like he planned on using it. But the thought of leaving it behind had felt like a risk he wasn’t ready to take. It wasn’t just the blood that haunted him, though. It was you.

His thoughts circled back to you, and he found himself gripping the map a little tighter. He couldn’t stop imagining the way your face might look when he showed up—surprised, maybe even angry. But there was also a small, selfish part of him that hoped you’d still look at him the way you used to, with that quiet trust that had always unnerved him a little because he wasn’t sure he’d ever deserved it.

Then they found it an old sign written in yellow: Green Hollow.

Dean slammed the car door shut, stepping out into the late afternoon sunlight, the Impala parked a little crooked near the curb of Green Hollow’s diner. The town, to both their surprise, had a pleasant hum to it. People walked casually along the sidewalks, chatting with neighbors or carrying groceries. A group of kids on bikes zipped past, laughing as they raced down the street.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place someone vanishes into thin air,” Dean muttered, shielding his eyes against the sun as he scanned the square.

Sam climbed out more slowly, rolling his stiff shoulders. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice distant. The heavy bag slung over his shoulder seemed to weigh more than just his belongings. He could feel the glass vial inside, nestled among his clothes, and it gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Dean gave him a sideways glance as they started toward the diner. “You good?”

Sam nodded too quickly, his hand brushing against the strap of his bag. “I’m fine.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, his frown deepening as his gaze dropped to Sam’s hand. It was trembling slightly, the motion faint but noticeable.

“You look like crap, man,” Dean said bluntly, stopping short of the diner steps.

Sam ignored him, brushing past with a muttered, “I said I’m fine.”

Dean didn’t push, though his jaw tightened. Dean’s gaze flicked toward the people milling about the square. “Alright,” he said, grabbing his jacket and opening the door. “Let’s ask around.”

They split up, keeping the square in sight as they started talking to locals. Most of the people they approached seemed friendly enough, offering polite smiles and vague answers about the town’s quiet charm. No one acted suspicious, and no one seemed particularly interested in two strangers asking questions.

Sam spoke with a woman near a flower shop, her apron dusted with dirt and her hands holding a small pot of marigolds. “I’m looking for someone,” he explained, showing her a picture of you that Bobby had dug up. “She might’ve passed through here recently.”

The woman squinted at the photo, then shook her head with a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry, hon. Can’t say I’ve seen her. But if she’s new, she might’ve stopped by the diner. Folks there know everyone who comes through.”

Sam nodded, thanking her before heading back toward the square to meet Dean.

Dean wasn’t having much luck either. He stood near a group of men loading lumber into the back of a pickup truck, arms crossed as he asked about you. The men glanced at the photo, shook their heads, and returned to their work without much interest.

“Nothing,” Dean muttered when they regrouped.

Eventually they headed to the diner. Inside, the place was all warm lighting and polished chrome, the scent of coffee and grease hanging in the air. A waitress with a kind smile greeted them and gestured to a booth near the window.

Dean slid into the seat first, his eyes already scanning the room for anything out of the ordinary. Sam took the other side, resting his elbows on the table as he tried to focus on the menu. His fingers tapped lightly against the laminated paper, his leg bouncing under the table.

What’s that smell? Something to Sam had smelled familiar, it made his head dizzy and his hands shake. It was all over this place.

“You want coffee?” Dean asked, his voice tinged with a note of something sharper—concern disguised as nonchalance.

“Sure,” Sam said, though he barely glanced up.

When the waitress returned with two cups of coffee and Dean’s order of pie, Sam reached for his cup, but his fingers faltered, the handle slipping slightly before he steadied it. Hot liquid sloshed near the rim, and Dean didn’t miss the way Sam’s hand trembled as he lifted the cup to his lips.

Dean’s frown deepened, but he didn’t comment, choosing instead to spear a piece of pie with his fork. “You think she’s here?” he asked after a moment, his tone casual.

Sam shrugged, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from his cup. “Probably,” he said. “I mean, Bobby said this was the last place she was headed. She might just be laying low—sleeping it off at one of the motels or something.”

Dean’s eyebrow arched. “Sleeping it off? She’s not exactly the ‘kick back and relax’ type.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam muttered, taking another shaky sip of his coffee. “Neither are we, but it happens.”

Dean didn’t argue, though the skeptical look on his face spoke volumes. He leaned back in his seat, watching as Sam stared down into his coffee like it might hold the answers he was looking for.

Sam’s thoughts, however, weren’t on the coffee or even the town around them. He kept picturing the look you might give him when you saw him again—angry, maybe hurt. And he deserved that, didn’t he?

He couldn’t stop the sarcastic thought that crept into his mind: Sorry I ignored you and didn’t call for weeks—my bad. How’s the hunting going?

The corner of his mouth twitched briefly at the ridiculousness of it. But beneath the sarcasm, there was a weight—a fear that whatever he said wouldn’t be enough to bridge the gap between them.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Dean said, breaking the silence.

Sam blinked, looking up. “What thing?”

“The thing where you overthink everything and don’t say squat,” Dean said, pointing his fork at him. “If you’ve got something on your mind, spill it.”

Sam shook his head, brushing it off. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean muttered, digging back into his pie. “And I’m the Tooth Fairy.”

They finished their meal and headed back to the Impala, deciding to drive around town to get a better sense of the place. The streets were starting to quiet as evening crept in, the earlier buzz of activity tapering off into the kind of calm that made Dean’s instincts prickle.

They saw it.

Dean slowed the car, his gaze locking onto a familiar shape propped awkwardly against the curb.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, throwing the car into park and jumping out.

Sam followed, his stomach sinking as they approached the bike. It was unmistakably one of Bobby’s—a sturdy machine with just enough wear to show its history.

“This is hers,” Dean said, crouching down to inspect it. “It’s one of Bobby’s. I fixed it up last time I was at the junkyard.”

Sam knelt beside him, his fingers brushing the handlebars. The grease stains were still there, faint but unmistakable.

“Why is her stuff still here?” Dean noted your duffle bag was still attached and looked up, thinking maybe you were close by and that he’d spot you comping up the sidewalk.

“Dean” Sam looked at him pointedly, Dean frowns but notices what Sam was hinting at,

Dean’s hand brushed against the handlebar, and his eyes caught on a streak of something dark near the base of the grip. His fingers hovered over it before he rubbed at it gently, then brought his hand closer to his face.

“Is that…?” Dean’s voice trailed off, his jaw tightening as he recognized the faint but undeniable smear of blood.

Sam stiffened, his chest tightening. “It’s fresh,” he said quietly, his hand gripping the strap of his bag like it might anchor him.

Dean glanced around the street, his gaze sharp. “Alright, now I’m officially not liking this”

“Don’t look at them, act normal” Sam whispered “It’s impossible for nobody to have seen her, either there is something wrong with this town, or there is something wrong with them”

Dean’s jaw tightened as he glanced at Sam, his grip on the wheel still firm. “And what exactly do you mean by ‘something wrong with them’?” he asked, his voice low but edged with unease.

Sam shifted, keeping his voice steady despite the jitteriness clawing at his insides. “I mean, they’re too normal. It’s like they’re trying too hard not to notice us—or the bike.” He gestured subtly toward the people walking down the street, all of them going about their business as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Not one of them had so much as glanced in the direction of the bike, even though it was left awkwardly propped on the sidewalk.

Dean’s eyes flicked back to the street. The people moved in a rhythm that felt… off. Perfectly timed, like they were part of some eerie choreographed routine. A woman pushing a stroller stopped at the exact same moment a man adjusted his tie, as if they were mirroring each other. A group of kids laughed too loudly as they walked past, their laughter abrupt and out of sync, cutting off too quickly.

Dean muttered under his breath, “Yeah, no, that’s not creepy at all.”

Sam leaned closer, lowering his voice even further. “Don’t stare. Just… keep it casual.”

Dean shot him a sidelong glance, one brow arched. “We’re driving a classic car through the middle of a washed-up ghost town. Casual isn’t exactly in the cards.”

Sam’s hand twitched, and he clenched it into a fist to steady the tremor. His palms felt clammy, and he rubbed them against his jeans as he tried to focus. “Look, all I’m saying is we don’t know what we’re walking into. This place isn’t right, and if they’re not going to give us anything willingly, we’ll have to figure it out another way.”

Dean sighed, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the wheel. “Great. So, what’s the plan, genius?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the street ahead, his mind racing through the possibilities. “We start with the motel,” he said finally. “If she’s not there, we’ll ask around—but carefully. If they’re hiding something, we don’t want to tip them off.”

Dean nodded, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Fine. But if one of these Stepford rejects tries anything, I’m not playing nice.”

Sam almost smiled at that, but the weight of the situation kept his expression grim. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Sam’s gaze lingered on the bike. The faint smear of blood and the ignition still on gnawed at him. You had to be somewhere close. He just hoped they weren’t already too late. Please be okay, please, please

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The cold, hard floor beneath you was a poor substitute for shelter, but it was the best you could manage under the circumstances. You didn’t know how long you’d been here—probably just a few hours—but it felt like an eternity. The first rays of sunlight began creeping through the grime-covered windows, casting faint streaks of pale gold across the room. It was almost comforting, but not enough to banish the dread clawing at your chest.

Your body ached in ways you hadn’t thought possible. You shifted slightly, wincing as a sharp pain shot through your side. You pressed your hand against the source—a gash just above your hip. It wasn’t deep enough to be fatal, but it was bleeding more than you liked, the steady trickle soaking through the makeshift bandage you’d tied around it. Your left arm wasn’t much better; a long scrape ran from your elbow to your wrist, raw and throbbing. Nothing life-threatening, but enough to make every movement a struggle.

Your thoughts replayed the chaos from hours earlier, every detail burned into your mind. When Lilith had finally revealed herself, you’d bolted, your instincts screaming at you to run. You’d leapt onto your bike, the engine roaring to life as you sped away. But the moment you turned out of the main street, you realized you weren’t alone. The townspeople—those same eerily vacant faces that had stared at you when you arrived—had started to chase you.

They came out of nowhere, spilling onto the streets like a wave, their footsteps pounding against the asphalt as they gained on you. You had pushed the bike as fast as it would go, weaving between narrow streets and tight corners, but they were relentless. One of them—a man with hollow eyes and dirt-streaked clothes—had managed to grab at your arm as you turned a corner. His grip was iron-strong, his nails clawing into your skin as he nearly dragged you off the bike. The memory of his face—too close, too wrong—sent a shiver down your spine.

In a panic, you’d reached for the knife strapped to your thigh, slashing at him with wild desperation. The blade cut deep, and he stumbled back with a guttural sound that didn’t quite seem human. Blood had splattered onto your arm, hot and sticky, but you didn’t dare look back. You’d gunned the throttle, the engine screaming as you tore down the road, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. You didn’t even notice you were hurt

But the bike was loud, and it drew attention. You could hear them behind you, their shouts echoing in the night, growing louder with every turn. You knew you couldn’t outrun them forever—not on the bike. It was too conspicuous, too easy to track. You needed to disappear. So, when you spotted the outline of the old school in the distance, you made your choice.

You’d parked the bike.. The engine clicked softly as it cooled, but you didn’t wait around. You grabbed your bag, slipped the knife back into its sheath, and ran, your boots crunching against the gravel as you darted toward the schoolyard. The building loomed ahead, its dark windows staring back at you like empty eyes. It was large enough to hide in, with plenty of rooms to keep you out of sight. You hadn’t seen anyone else as you crept inside, but you hadn’t taken any chances.

Now, in the relative stillness of the classroom you’d chosen, you took stock of what little you had. The desks and chairs scattered around the room had been pushed to one side to make space for your rudimentary fortifications. On such short notice, you’d done what you could to ward off any demons that might come sniffing around.

A quick search of the school had turned up a few supplies: an old box of chalk, a rusty pair of scissors, and some forgotten cleaning supplies tucked away in a janitor’s closet. It wasn’t much, but you’d made it work. Using the chalk, you’d drawn a devil’s trap on the floor just inside the door, ensuring that any demon who stepped into the room would be instantly immobilized. The scissors weren’t exactly iron, but they’d do in a pinch as a makeshift weapon if you had to fight your way out.

You’d also found a bottle of salt in one of the abandoned classrooms—probably left behind by a teacher who’d used it for a science experiment. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to line the windowsills and the threshold of the door. It wouldn’t hold up forever, especially if Lilith decided to come after you herself, but it was better than nothing.

The faint sound of footsteps outside the building sent a chill down your spine. You froze, your hand instinctively going to the scissors you’d tucked into your waistband. They weren’t close—yet—but you could hear them, the steady crunch of gravel underfoot and the occasional murmur of low voices. The townspeople. Or… whatever they were. You’d heard them last night, too, their footsteps echoing through the schoolyard as they searched for you. They’d come so close to the building that you’d barely dared to breathe, afraid they’d hear you.

The faint light of dawn creeping through the window offered little solace. You didn’t know if it was enough to keep Lilith at bay. If she wanted you badly enough, the salt wouldn’t matter. But for now, you had to hope that your makeshift defenses would hold. You pulled the scissors from your waistband, gripping them tightly as you pressed your back against the wall, listening to the sounds outside. You were going to die here, you thought. And Bobby, Oh Bobby would blame himself.

What about Sam and Dean? You hadn’t even said goodbye to them. The thought twisted in your chest like a knife, sharp and cruel. And now, here you were—hurt, bleeding, hiding in an abandoned school—about to die because you’d been too damn stubborn, too caught up in proving yourself.

No. You shook your head sharply, banishing the thought before it could take root.

I am not going to die here.

You took a shaky breath, pressing your palm harder against the wound on your side as if the pressure alone could hold you together. I will live. I’ll see Bobby again and hug him so hard he’ll call me an idjit. I’ll laugh at Dean’s stupid jokes again, and when I see Sam, I…

Your thoughts faltered. What would you do? What would you even say?

The memory of his face surfaced—those warm, haunted eyes that always seemed to carry the weight of the world. Would he even care? Would he even look at you the same way? You didn’t know. But there was no time to dwell on that now.

Movement caught your eye. You pressed your back flush against the cold wall, your breathing shallow as you stared at the stained glass window across the room. Shadows moved on the other side, their distorted silhouettes flickering against the colorful panes. They were there.

The tapping started—a slow, deliberate sound that sent shivers down your spine. Fingernails, or maybe claws, scratching at the glass, testing it. They were looking for a way in.

Your grip tightened around the scissors in your hand, the dull metal pressing against your palm. It wasn’t much, but it was all you had. Your gaze darted to the devil’s trap on the floor, the salt lines around the windows and door. You’d done everything you could to fortify this room, but was it enough?

The tapping grew louder, more insistent. Then came the whispers—low, guttural murmurs that didn’t sound quite human. They were speaking, but the words didn’t make sense, like a language that didn’t belong in this world.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the sound deafening in the otherwise silent room. You forced yourself to stay still, to stay quiet, even as every instinct screamed at you to run.

But where would you go?

The shadows grew darker, the tapping more frantic. Then, suddenly, the whispers stopped. The silence was worse. It stretched on, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight you couldn’t escape.

And then, a voice—soft, childish, and chilling.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Your blood turned to ice. You knew that voice. It was hers.

Lilith.

You gripped the scissors tighter, your breath catching in your throat. The tapping resumed, but now it was coming from multiple windows, surrounding you.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to focus. You weren’t going to panic. Not now. You had to think. There’s always a way out. Always.

Your eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything you could use. The door was barricaded, but if they broke the windows, you wouldn’t have much time. The second they got in, it was over.

What would Bobby do? What would Sam and Dean do?

What would you do?

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. If this was the end, you weren’t going down without a fight.

You stared at the flickering shadows, your mind racing. Panic clawed at the edges of your thoughts, but you shoved it back, locking it behind a wall of sheer determination. Think. Think. Running wasn’t an option—not yet. They’d catch you before you even reached the hallway. You needed a plan. A distraction.

Your gaze swept over the room, cataloging every detail, every possible tool. The barricaded door. The salt lines. The devil’s trap scrawled on the floor. The scavenged supplies—a few candles, some chalk, and a rusty old fire extinguisher. An air vent. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough. Your eyes landed on the ancient metal trash can in the corner, and an idea began to take shape—reckless and desperate, but it might just work.

Crouching low to stay out of sight, you moved quickly and quietly. The fire extinguisher was the first thing you grabbed, dragging it to the trash can. You shrugged out of your jacket, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound on your arm, and stuffed it inside. Matches from a supply closet went next, the flame sparking to life in your shaking fingers before catching on the fabric. Smoke began curling upward, thick and acrid.

Grabbing a piece of cardboard to control the airflow, you moved to the windows, dumping salt along the ledges and whispering a hurried exorcism ritual you’d memorized from Bobby. Would it be enough to hold? Probably not, but it was all you had.

The smoke was spreading now, seeping out through the cracks around the windows and door. It wouldn’t drive the demons off, but it might obscure their vision enough for you to get away.

Then your eyes flicked to the ceiling—a rusted air vent, partially concealed by a row of cabinets. Your heart thudded. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a way out.

The tapping at the windows grew louder. A voice followed, soft and singsong, with an edge that made your blood run cold.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Lilith’s voice cooed, childlike and cruel. She was in the hallway.

You didn’t look at the windows. You didn’t have time. Moving quickly, you dragged a desk beneath the vent, ignoring the searing pain in your arm. You hauled yourself up, biting back a gasp as the motion jarred your wound, and wrenched the vent cover loose with fire extinguisher, breaking off the screws. It screeched as it gave way, and you froze, the sound cutting through the room like a siren.

Outside, the tapping stopped.

You moved faster, shoving the cover aside and scrambling into the vent. The narrow space closed around you, dark and stifling. Sweat trickled down your back as you pulled the cover into place behind you, muffling the sound as best you could.

The fire below crackled, smoke filling the room. You could hear the demons outside, their muffled voices rising in confusion. Then, with a crash, the window shattered. You heard them pour inside, heavy footsteps as they tried stomping over the salt line.

The vent was tight, your movements slow and awkward. Every shift of your body sent a metallic groan reverberating through the duct, but you kept going, forcing yourself to crawl forward. The smoke was creeping up, the acrid smell stinging your eyes and throat.

From your cramped hiding spot, you could hear them fill that room, it echoed down the metal tube. “Do you like nursery rhymes?” she said, her voice echoing in the silence.

"I think I'll sing you one"

You held your breath, the weight of her presence pressing against your chest like a physical force. The fire crackled louder, and you could hear the scrape of furniture being moved, the demons tearing apart the room in search of you.

And then, silence.

You didn’t dare move. Every muscle in your body was coiled tight, your breath coming in shallow, quiet gasps.

When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost sweet. And she didn't speak, really, she hummed something.

You heard the scrape of her shoes against the floor, the sound growing fainter as she moved away. The demons’ voices followed, their footsteps retreating into the hallway. The smoke had done its job, disorienting them just enough to mask your escape.

You waited, counting the seconds in your head. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The air in the vent was stifling, your lungs burning with the effort of staying silent, the smoke had now entered the vent, making it hard to breath or see.

Finally, when the only sound was the distant hum of the fire below, you started moving again. Your fingers scraped against the metal, your breaths shallow as you crawled toward the faint light spilling through a vent cover ahead.

When you reached it, you pressed your face to the slats, peering out into the darkness. You took a breath; The hallway was empty. Quiet. But you knew better than to trust it.

You pushed the cover loose, sliding it aside as carefully as you could, and dropped down into the shadows. The school was a labyrinth, the hallways twisting and turning in a way that made it impossible to orient yourself.

But you had to keep moving.

You slipped into the darkness, your steps silent, your breathing steady. You didn’t know where you were going, but one thought kept you moving forward: You weren’t going to die here

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

As they turned the corner, the faint tendrils of smoke curling into the sky caught Sam’s attention first. He stopped mid-stride, his brow furrowing. “Dean,” he said, pointing toward the plume. It was coming from the direction of the old school.

Dean’s head whipped around, his eyes narrowing as he followed Sam’s gesture. “That’s not good,” he muttered, already picking up the pace toward the smoke.

Sam jogged after him, his heart pounding. His mind was racing with possibilities. What if it was you? What if you were in there? The smoke wasn’t thick enough for a full-blown fire—yet—but it was enough to make his chest tighten with dread. And then he caught something else. A faint, sickly-sweet scent that made his stomach churn.

He slowed for half a second, his brow furrowing as the scent grew stronger. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He’d smelled it earlier in the town, faint and fleeting, but now it was unmistakable. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut: demon blood.

His stomach twisted, the craving clawing its way up his throat before he could shove it back down. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the smoke ahead instead of the nauseating pull of temptation.

As they approached the edge of the schoolyard, a figure stepped out from behind one of the houses. It was one of the older women they’d seen earlier, her neat apron and floral dress a sharp contrast to the chaos hinted at by the smoke. She waved at them, her smile bright and disarming.

“Well, hello there,” she called, her tone syrupy sweet. “You boys lost? It’s not safe to go near that old school. There's a small fire”

Dean slowed, his hand instinctively reaching for the pistol tucked into his jacket. “Thanks for the warning, ma’am,” he said, his voice clipped, but he didn’t stop walking.

“Oh, no, no, no.” The woman’s voice turned sharper, her steps quickening to block their path. “I insist. You really shouldn’t be here.” Her smile widened unnaturally, her eyes almost too bright.

Dean stopped dead, his jaw tightening as he glanced at Sam, whose face was pale, his sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his back. Dean frowned, noticing the slight tremor in Sam’s hand as he rubbed the back of his neck. The sweat, the shaking—it wasn’t just the heat or exhaustion.

Sam didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag as the scent hit him again, sharper this time. Demon blood. It was clinging to the woman, faint but present, like she’d bathed in it. His stomach churned again, and he forced himself to swallow the rising nausea.

Before Dean could speak, the woman’s smile faltered, and her expression twisted into something darker. Her head tilted slightly, her teeth flashing in a grin that was far too wide.

Sam tensed, his hand going for the knife tucked into his belt.

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, boys,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, the saccharine sweetness replaced by a low, menacing tone. And then her eyes turned black.

“Demon!” Dean growled, pulling his gun in a flash. The woman lunged, unnaturally fast, her fingers clawing at him. Dean fired a salt round straight into her chest, sending her stumbling back with a shriek.

Sam rushed forward, grabbing her arm before she could recover, and slammed her into the side of a tree. He whipped out a flask of holy water, splashing it across her face. Smoke hissed and rose as she screamed, writhing against his grip.

“Where is she?” Sam snarled, his voice ragged and trembling. “Where’s the girl?”

The demon just laughed, the sound guttural and mocking. “What girl?” she hissed, her black eyes narrowing. “We have so many here”

Dean strode up, his blade gleaming in the sunlight as he pressed it to her throat. ““Speak, Grandma—use your words. Or I'm going about to go full Bundy on your ass"

But before they could get another word out of her, the demon’s eyes rolled back, and her body slumped, lifeless.

“Damn it!” Dean hissed, shoving the corpse aside. “This place is crawling with them.”

Sam wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his fingers still trembling as he shoved the flask back into his pocket. That scent was still lingering in the air, faint but pervasive, making his skin crawl.

“We need to get to that school. Now,” he said, his voice tight.

Dean didn’t argue. They took off running toward the smoke, weaving between the rows of dilapidated houses and across the overgrown schoolyard. The closer they got, the thicker the smoke became, its acrid scent stinging their noses. Sam could barely focus on anything other than the pounding in his chest and the way the demon blood seemed to hang in the air, taunting him.

The school loomed ahead, its windows shattered and its exterior weathered with age. Smoke curled out from one of the lower floors, the faint flicker of firelight visible through the broken glass.

Dean’s grip on his gun tightened as they approached the door. “Alright, Sammy. Let’s find her and get the hell out of here.”

A horde of black eyes were headed their way.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The fluorescent lights above flickered erratically, casting long, jittering shadows across the hallway walls. Your breathing was ragged, every inhale dragging through the sharp pain in your chest. Blood seeped through your shirt, leaving a dark trail on the scuffed tile floor behind you—a trail you knew she could follow.

Lilith’s voice echoed softly down the corridor, calm and melodic, chilling in its childish cheer. She was humming a tune, something eerily familiar but twisted, like a nursery rhyme gone wrong. Her footsteps were slow and deliberate, the sharp click of her shoes on the tile sending shivers down your spine.

You glanced over your shoulder, but the hallway stretched empty behind you, the hum growing louder, closer. Your legs felt like lead, every step a struggle, but you pushed forward, turning down another corridor, your hands brushing against the cold, peeling walls as you stumbled. You'd been bleeding, a lot.

The school was a maze. Every hallway looked the same—endless doors, broken lockers, and darkness that seemed to creep in from the edges. You couldn’t find the exit. All of the rooms were locked, Panic clawed at your throat, but you forced it down, focusing on the sound of your boots against the floor.

“Are you tired yet?” Lilith’s voice rang out, echoing in the empty space. She sounded almost amused, like a child playing hide-and-seek. Ring a ring a Rosie She began so sing again, sweetly.

You didn’t answer, biting back the scream that threatened to rise. Your hands were slick with blood, your vision blurred from exhaustion. You turned another corner, and that’s when you saw it: the door to the swimming pool. It's open.

You pushed it open with what little strength you had left, stumbling into the vast, cavernous room. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint scent of mildew. The pool itself was massive, its tiled depths empty and cracked, while a towering wall of glass stood on one side of the room, stretching from floor to ceiling. Through it, you could see the schoolyard outside, the faint glow of streetlights filtering in.

Your gaze darted around the space, searching for something—anything—that could help you. But the room was barren save for a few scattered chairs and broken tiles.

You needed time.

Ashes, ashes. They all fall down

Behind you, the door creaked open, and Lilith’s silhouette appeared in the frame. Her pristine white dress swayed as she stepped inside, her shoes padding softly against the tiled floor.

“Hide and seek,” she said brightly, clapping her hands together. “That’s what we’re playing, right? I’m really good at it, you know.”

You staggered back, your grip tightening around a chair you’d grabbed earlier. Your knees buckled slightly, the blood loss making your head swim, but you refused to let yourself fall. Not yet.

Lilith tilted her head, her expression innocent but her eyes glinting with something dark and monstrous. “But you’re not playing fair,” she said, her voice dipping into a childish whine. “You keep running away. Don’t you want to have fun with me?”

She took another step forward, her smile widening. “I promise, it won’t hurt for long. Just a little bit. And then we can be best friends forever!”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you backed toward the pool, your gaze flicking to the glass wall. Maybe—just maybe—you could break it and get outside.

“Stay back!” you warned, your voice hoarse, as you lifted the chair, holding it between you and her.

Lilith’s giggle echoed through the room, sweet and sinister. “Oh, look at you” she cooed, her tone dripping with mock affection.

You turned and hurled the chair at the glass with every ounce of strength you had left. The impact sent a dull thud reverberating through the room, but the glass didn’t even crack. Desperation clawed at you as you grabbed another piece of debris and swung it at the glass, again and again, each strike more frantic than the last.

Nothing. Not even a scratch.

“Uh-oh,” Lilith teased, her voice sing-song as she stepped closer.

You turned back to face her, your chest heaving, your vision growing hazier by the second. The world seemed to tilt, the edges of the room blurring as exhaustion and blood loss dragged you down.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-" You chant. Your back pressed against the glass, gripping the edge of a railing for balance as your legs threatened to give out.

Lilith stopped at the edge of the pool, Laughing. “You’re not looking so good,” she said, her tone dripping with false concern. “Maybe you should lie down”

"omnis legio, omnis congregatio et-" It's not working.

Your fingers fumbled at your belt, pulling out the scissors you had. You didn’t have the strength for much, but you weren’t going to make this easy for her. If this was your last stand, then so be it.

"Ergo, draco maledicte, ecclesiam-"

A gunshot rang in your ears. And that’s when your eyes caught movement at the window. You frown, maybe your blood loss had finally reached the level of hallucinations.

Sam. Dean?

Outside the glass, through the harsh fluorescent glare, Sam and Dean were there. They were fighting—tearing through a horde of demons with a ferocity you’d never seen before. Dean’s movements were sharp and efficient, his blade flashing in the dim light as he fought with all the reckless determination you knew so well.

But it was Sam who stopped you cold.

He was covered in blood—too much blood. You couldn’t tell how much of it was his or theirs. His face was twisted with something raw and desperate, his swings more brutal, more ruthless than you’d ever seen. He fought like a man possessed.

And then his eyes locked on yours. You couldn't help the beat of relief inside you.

The noise and chaos around you faded for a moment, drowned out by the pounding of your own heart as you stared at each other. His lips moved, shouting something, but the sound didn’t reach you through the thick pane of glass. His face twisted with frustration as he slammed his fists against the unyielding surface, trying to break through, trying to reach you.

They can't get to you.

You hand grips your makeshift weapon tighter as you heard her shoes come to a halt. You didn't look at her, only them.

You let out a soft, defeated smile, the kind that said, It's okay without words. You didn’t have the strength to shout back, didn’t have the breath to explain or reassure him. All you could do was stand there, bleeding and tired, and hope he’d understand.

Lilith tilted her head, noticing your gaze and following it to the scene outside. Her face lit up with delight, her hands clasping together like she’d been given a gift. “Oh, how sweet,” she cooed. “We have an audience.”

She stepped closer, her shoes making clicking sounds against the tile as she approached. The sound of Sam and Dean’s shouts grew louder as they slammed against the glass, desperate to break through.

You heard the creak of Bobby’s porch swing, the faint clink of his glass bottle resting on the rail, the wood groaning softly under his weight.

You could see Dean hacking at the surface with his blade, his jaw tight with frustration. Sam was yelling something, his voice hoarse and frantic, but the words were lost to you.

You smelled the faintest hint of old paper and ink, Sam’s hand resting on a dusty lore book between you. The bitter taste of coffee lingered in your throat.

The lights above you started to flicker, you could feel the heat of her presence, the suffocating weight of her power pressing down on you as she reached out, her hand stopping just shy of your face.

You felt the weight of Dean’s jacket draped over your shoulders, heavy and warm against the night’s chill. His hand had lingered for just a moment after settling it around you..

“Thank you for this” Lilith murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You don't know how helpful you've been”

The glass behind you shook violently, the sound of impact reverberating through the room as Sam and Dean threw everything, they had at it. You glanced over your shoulder, your vision blurring, and saw Sam scream something, his face contorted with anguish as he pounded against the glass. You were so tired. Your grip slackened on the scissors as you started to slide down the wall. You were to weak.

You felt the sting of warmth on your cheeks, sunlight filtering through Bobby’s kitchen window as he handed you a plate of pancakes. “Eat up,” he’d grumbled, though his voice held that familiar undercurrent of care.

And then, in a flash of blinding white light, the room shifted.

You saw the soft glow of the Impala’s headlights cutting through the dark as it pulled into Bobby’s yard, Sam and Dean leaning against the hood, their laughter quiet but warm, a sound that felt like home.

The demons outside cried out as a new presence descended, their forms disintegrating into smoke and ash under the sheer force of its power. You blinked against the brilliance, barely able to process what was happening as the heavy thud of something filled the air.

Lilith’s smile faltered for the first time, her white eyes narrowing as she turned toward the source of the light. A silhouette.

Castiel? The last of your strength slipping away as the adrenaline burned out of your system. The world tilted dangerously, and you felt your knees buckle beneath you.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

AN: Yeah... Don't kill me. I feel severely disturbed at how fast I wrote this. Anyway, hope you enjoyed guys. Feedback is always welcome

Tag list:

@youdontknowe @theamuz  @mysteryenchatress @craycraycraic @craycraycraic @variant-zee @ur2moms @ambiguous-avery @steviespookie @s0urw00lf @bewr0210 @mostlymarvelgirl @dear-bambi2 @yeehawgiddyup13

[dreamlanderin]

You don't see me, part 4 (Sam x Reader)

Summary: You get a surprising visit, that results in a impulsive decision. Sam reflects. Part 3

Warnings: Swearing, blood, supernatural shit (I feel like this is warning enough), little angst.

Words: 7.4 k

You were still full of car grime, the streaks smeared across your hands and forearms a stark contrast to her near-perfect hair and that stupidly perfect face. When she’d sauntered into the yard, your first instinct had been to stab her with the knife in your toolbox. The thought hadn’t entirely left your mind.

“You’ve got five seconds to explain before I toss you back out,” you say, your voice sharp with annoyance.

Ruby leans against the doorframe like she owns the place, her dark eyes sweeping the garage with casual disdain. “Relax, princess. I’m not here to cause trouble—at least, not for you.”

Your frown deepens. “What do you want?”

“Information,” she says simply, though the curl of her lips makes it sound like something much more sinister. “There’s been… let’s call it activity up north. Weird demon sightings, hauntings. The usual mess.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you thought Bobby would just hand over his intel to you?”

Ruby shrugs, her smirk deepening. “Not exactly. But I figured I’d try asking nicely before he shoots me with rock salt.”

Your arms cross instinctively, your body shifting to block her path to the house. “Why not get Sam and Dean to help you? Or are they finally wise enough not to trust you?”

Her expression falters, just for a second, before she recovers, her tone sharpening like a knife. “Sam and Dean aren’t exactly in fighting shape right now. Not that it’s any of your business.”

That stops you cold. Your grip tightens around the knife you still hadn’t let go of. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she says vaguely, dragging out the words like she’s savoring the game, “I’m trying to clean up a mess before it turns into something worse.” Then, as if catching herself, she glances at you with a knowing smirk. “But you wouldn’t have heard about that, would you? All cooped up here.”

Your glare sharpens, but the thought of demon activity makes your stomach twist. If it had anything to do with you know who, then this could be serious.

“We haven’t heard anything on the scanner,” you say cautiously, though the words don’t feel solid. “So your intel must be lousy.”

Ruby scoffs, shaking her head as though you’re missing something obvious. “Right, sorry—I forgot who I was talking to.”

She steps closer, her smirk turning razor-sharp. “Look, princess, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re not exactly reliable these days. So why would he tell you about a demon sighting?”

Your jaw tightens, the words catching in your throat. She’s baiting you, and it’s working.

Ruby tilts her head, her voice dripping with condescension now. “He doesn’t trust you enough to send you out there. And why would he? You’re not a hunter.”

That’s it. You’re about decimals away from burying your knife in her smug face.

“So be a doll,” she adds with a sugary-sweet tone, “and call him for me.”

You don’t move. Your grip on the knife stays firm, the cool steel grounding you against the storm of frustration Ruby was stirring up. Her smirk deepens as she leans one shoulder lazily against the doorframe, perfectly at ease while you stew.

“What's the matter?” she drawls. “Cat got your tongue? Or is it hitting a little too close to home?”

“Cut the crap,” you snap, stepping forward just enough to block her further from the house. “If you’ve got something to say, Ruby, say it. Otherwise, you can turn around and get out of here.”

She chuckles, low and infuriatingly smug, as though she’s enjoying this more than she should. “Oh, I’ve got plenty to say,” she says. “But let’s not pretend you’re actually gonna listen, huh? That’s your problem, princess. You’re all bark, no bite.”

Your jaw tightens, and you grip the knife so hard your knuckles turn white. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Oh, but I do,” she counters, pushing off the doorframe with that snake-like grace of hers. Her eyes flicker over you, sizing you up, her tone sweetening in that patronizing way that makes your skin crawl. “I know you’re here because you don’t think you’re good enough to be out there. And guess what? Bobby agrees. Why else do you think he hasn’t let you out of his yard since you got here?”

You feel the jab hit its mark, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you glare at her, your voice sharp. “Or maybe Bobby’s just got enough sense not to trust a demon’s word.”

Ruby scoffs. “Sure, blame me all you want. But deep down, you know I’m right. Bobby’s not keeping you here to protect you. He’s keeping you here because he thinks you’ll get yourself killed the second you step foot outside this junkyard. And honestly?” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I don’t blame him.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a second, you feel the sting of them sink in. But you shove it down, meeting her gaze with fire in your eyes. “You don’t get to talk to me about what I can or can’t do. You’re a parasite, Ruby. And the only reason you’re still breathing is because I haven’t decided to end you myself.”

Ruby doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you with a mixture of pity and amusement. “Big talk for someone who’s been playing house with Bobby instead of hunting. Face it, you’re out of practice. You’ve been hiding here, convincing yourself it’s just ‘time to regroup,’ but you know the truth.”

You clench your teeth, refusing to let her see how close she’s getting to the truth. “And what truth is that?”

“The truth,” she says, her voice cutting like a blade, “is that you’re not a hunter. Not really. You’re just a liability. That’s why Sam and Dean haven’t come for you. They don’t need dead weight dragging them down.”

Your chest tightens, anger and doubt warring in your mind. You hate her for saying it, for putting into words the fear that’s been gnawing at you since you left. But you refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing you falter.

“I’m not doing this with you,” you say coldly, turning away to put distance between you and her venom.

“Oh, don’t walk away now,” she calls after you, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “I’m just getting to the good part.”

You pause, your fists clenched, but you don’t turn around. She takes your silence as permission to keep going.

“Why do you think Sam and Dean keep getting hurt?” she presses. “Because they have to pick up your slack. They’re out there, putting their lives on the line, while you’re holed up here with Bobby. They’re cleaning up your messes. And for what? So you can sit here and sulk about how unfair the world is?”

You whip around, your glare sharp enough to cut. “You don’t know anything about me or what I’ve done.”

“I know enough,” she says, her tone softening, though her words remain sharp. “And so do they. That’s why they’re not here. They’re better off without you.”

Her words hit like a slap, but before you can fire back, she steps closer, her expression shifting to something almost sincere.

“Look,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “I’m not saying this to be cruel. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. And if you want to prove me wrong—if you want to show them you’re not just dead weight—then do something about it.”

You narrow your eyes, your instincts screaming not to trust her, but her words have already planted seeds of doubt. “What are you trying to say?”

She smirks, stepping back with a casual shrug. “I’m saying maybe it’s time you stopped waiting for Bobby to give you a job and took matters into your own hands. There’s plenty of action out there if you know where to look.”

You feel the weight of her words sink in, her bait carefully laid. And despite every instinct telling you not to trust her, a part of you wonders if she’s right. If you’ve been hiding. If it’s time to step back into the fight.

Ruby, ever the predator, sees the hesitation flicker across your face and seizes the moment. “But hey,” she adds, turning toward the door. “What do I know? I’m just the parasite, right?”

Ruby's words hang in the air, sharp and taunting, like the hiss of a snake ready to strike. You watch her, every muscle in your body coiled tight. Then, without a word, you move.

“Okay,” you mutter, voice low and dangerous. “That does it.”

You stride over to the corner of the garage where Bobby keeps his shotgun propped against the wall, next to a box of tools and grease-streaked rags. Your hands move with purpose, snatching it up and checking the barrel without hesitation.

Ruby, half-turned toward the door, senses the shift. She glances over her shoulder, her smirk faltering for just a fraction of a second. “Oh, come on, princess, don’t be like that—”

Crack.

The garage echoes with the deafening blast of rock salt. The smell of gunpowder and sulfur fills the space as the salt scatters harmlessly against the far wall.

Ruby was standing just a few feet away near the garage door, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation. You’d almost hit her. She smooths her hair down absently, her dark eyes narrowing as she studies you.

“Are you insane?” she spits, voice sharp and incredulous. “You could’ve taken my damn head off!”

You don’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, you calmly pull the pump on the shotgun back, the familiar clack-clack reverberating through the space. The sound is unmistakable—a promise, not a threat.

“That first shot?” you say, your tone low and unshaken. “That was a warning.”

Ruby stiffens, her mouth opening like she’s about to snap back, but then she hesitates. For the first time, there’s a flicker of something almost resembling uncertainty in her eyes.

“Okay,” she says, raising her hands in mock surrender, her lips curling into a forced smirk. “I get it. You’re feeling all big and bad now, huh?”

You don’t lower the shotgun. Your eyes lock onto her, steady and unwavering, as you load another shell with a sharp click. It won't kill her but it would scar that pretty face she's so fond of.

Ruby’s smirk falters, her posture tensing as she watches you lift the gun again, the barrel leveling directly at her face.

“Oh, for hell’s sake,” she mutters, her voice dripping with exasperation.

Before you can fire, she vanishes in a blur of dark smoke, her presence evaporating as quickly as it appeared.

The garage door creaks faintly on its hinges, and the space falls silent once more, save for the distant rustle of wind outside.

You lower the shotgun slowly, your pulse pounding in your ears. Your jaw tightens as you take a steadying breath, the adrenaline still thrumming through your veins.

“Damn parasite,” you mutter under your breath, setting the gun back against the wall with a little more force than necessary.

But even as you stand there, trying to shake off the weight of the encounter, you can’t ignore the faint chill left behind in the air. Ruby’s words still linger in your mind, no matter how much you want to deny it.

The sound of hurried, heavy footsteps echoes from the house, followed by the creak of the screen door slamming open. A second later, Bobby bursts into the garage, his own shotgun clutched tightly in his hands, his face a mixture of alarm and barely-contained frustration.

“What in the hell’s goin’ on out here?” he barks, his sharp gaze darting from you to the shotgun in your hands, then to the fresh scorch marks peppering the wall of the garage.

“What’d you do to my wall!?”

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The low rumble of the Impala’s engine filled the silence, broken only by the occasional hum of tires against the asphalt. Dean tapped the steering wheel in a rhythm that didn’t match the classic rock playing softly on the radio, his eyes flicking to Sam every few moments.

Sam sat in the passenger seat, leaning forward slightly, his elbows braced on his knees. He was jittery, a quiet kind of restless that Dean didn’t need words to pick up on. His fingers twitched against his thigh, his gaze darting from the road ahead to the phone in his hand.

It's been a few weeks since you've disappeared.

Dean finally sighed, his patience fraying. “Alright, what’s your problem?”

Sam’s head snapped up, like he hadn’t realized how obvious he’d been. “Nothing,” he muttered, though his fingers tightened around the phone.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You’ve been twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs since we left. What’s going on?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. His thumb hovered over the phone screen, lingering indecisively. Dean caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, his tone sharp now, more demanding. “You waiting for someone to call, or are you about to make one?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably, his jaw clenching. “It’s nothing,” he said again, too quick, too defensive.

Dean’s gaze flicked to the phone. “Is that her?” he asked, his voice low and pointed. “Or is it…?” He trailed off, but the unspoken name hung heavy between them.

“It better not be. I hope for your sake it’s Bobby you’re about to call”

Sam didn’t answer, but his thumb moved slightly, his finger hovering between two names on the screen. Your name. Ruby’s name.

Dean caught the hesitation, his jaw tightening as frustration flared. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell’s going on with you, Sam? You’ve been weird for weeks, and now you’re sitting here like you’re-

“Just drop it, Dean,” he snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. Sam’s grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles white

“No, I’m not gonna drop it,” Dean shot back. “You’ve been cagey as hell, and I’m not blind. Something’s eating at you, and I’m guessing it’s got something to do with the fact that you’re still mangled up from that Forest shadow thing” Dean paused, his voice softening slightly, just enough to drive the point home. “And her.”

Sam’s shoulders tensed, his head dropping slightly as he stared down at the phone. His thumb hovered a moment longer before he locked the screen and shoved it into his pocket. “It’s nothing,” he said, quieter now, but no less strained. “Just leave it.”

Dean didn’t push further, but his jaw stayed tight, and his eyes lingered on Sam for a moment longer before turning back to the road. The silence that followed was heavier than the noise had been, filled with unspoken accusations and unanswered questions.

Sam shifted in his seat, his hand twitching toward his pocket before pulling back. His leg bounced nervously, the tension rolling off him in waves. Withdrawal was creeping in, and it wasn’t just the blood he was missing.

He couldn’t be what you wanted if he gave into it. He knew that. But the thought clawed at him, relentless and unyielding. Just once more, his mind whispered, insidious and tempting. One last time, and then I’m done.

But that’s what he always said. Every time. Every drop. And it was never the last. The truth that he didn’t want to admit, even to himself, pressed in on him: he didn’t trust himself anymore.

And it didn’t help that Ruby had left him a supply. A small vial, tucked away in his duffel bag like a whispered temptation he couldn’t silence. She’d paid a visit a few days ago, saying she had some business to take care of and wouldn’t be there for their usual “Sessions”. He hadn’t thrown it away—not down the drain, not into the fire like he should have. It was still there, hidden but present, its weight far heavier than the glass it was made of.

He told himself it was just precaution, just in case. But deep down, he knew better. The truth was sharper, darker: he wasn’t sure he could let it go.

It felt like every time he looked at that damn vial, he could hear Ruby’s voice in his head, smooth and coaxing. “It makes you stronger, Sam. It’s what you need to win.”

But it wasn’t about winning anymore. Not really. It was about control. About the pull that wrapped around his chest like barbed wire every time he thought about using it. He could feel the urge crawling under his skin, whispering the same lie over and over again. Just once more. Just one last time.

He clenched his fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms as he stared out the window. He couldn’t let Dean see him like this—restless, teetering on the edge. And he sure as hell couldn’t let you see him like this, not after everything.

Atleast they finally knew where you were, at Bobby’s, hed called a few days later to let them know you were safe, but not to come. You had needed time to yourself. Dean wanted to storm over but Sam, he had respected your need for distance. Since then he had tried to stay away from the blood, that when you were ready he would be ready too. But this made his mind drift.

Sam’s mind drifted back to the memory of you under the stars, your quiet voice cutting through his thoughts. “I just don’t let it stop me. I’d never get to have this. Being here. With you.”

And that’s when he stops. This old memory of you, makes him stop whenever he wants to give up.

The memory always came back to Sam in pieces—soft edges, muted tones, like an old photograph that refused to fade completely. It had been one of those rare, quiet nights, camping out under the stars instead of cramming into some grimy motel. The fire had burned low, casting a warm glow that barely reached the edges of the clearing. Dean was stretched out a few feet away, his snoring loud and unapologetic, a constant rhythm against the stillness of the woods.

Sam hadn’t been able to sleep—not really. Something about the openness of the sky above, the unfamiliar quiet, made it hard to settle. He’d been lying on his back, staring at the stars through the canopy of trees, when he’d heard the sound of your footsteps. Light, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if you should be there.

“You awake?” you’d whispered, your voice so soft it barely broke the hum of insects around you.

“Yeah,” he’d whispered back, turning his head to see you standing there, wrapped in a blanket you’d dragged from your sleeping bag. Your hair was a little messy, and you looked tired, but there was something about the way you held yourself—vulnerable, hesitant—that made him sit up.

You’d crouched down beside him, settling on the edge of his sleeping bag, close enough that he could see the faint shadows under your eyes, the way your breath puffed softly in the cool night air.

“Can’t sleep?” he’d asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You’d shaken your head, hugging the blanket tighter around yourself. “Dean’s snoring could wake the dead.”

Sam had smiled at that, a quiet, easy smile, and for a while, the two of you just sat there in the soft glow of the dying fire, the world around you fading into nothing but the quiet sounds of the night.

“What are you thinking about?” you’d asked after a long pause, your voice barely audible.

Sam had hesitated, glancing at you, then back up at the stars. “I don’t know,” he’d said finally. “Everything, I guess. What we’re doing, where we’re going… if it’s all worth it.”

You’d been quiet for a moment, watching him, your gaze steady in a way that made him feel exposed, like you could see right through him. “You think too much,” you’d said softly, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

He’d chuckled, the sound low and quiet, not wanting to wake Dean. “And you don’t think enough.”

You’d grinned at that, but it faded quickly, replaced by something softer, more thoughtful. “That’s not true,” you’d murmured. “I think a lot. I just… don’t let it stop me.”

Sam had turned to look at you then, really look at you, the firelight catching in your eyes. “What do you mean?” he’d asked, his voice quieter now, like the moment was too fragile for anything louder.

You’d shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “I mean, I think about what scares me, what I might lose, how much I might screw things up. But if I let that stop me, I’d never do anything. I’d never… get to have this.”

“This?” Sam had echoed, his brow furrowing slightly.

You’d gestured vaguely around you, your hand brushing close to his. “This. Nights like this. Being here. With you.”

The simplicity of your words had knocked the breath out of him. You weren’t saying anything big or dramatic, but the way you’d said it—like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it meant everything—made something in his chest tighten.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You’d just sat there, the space between you shrinking as the fire burned lower. Eventually, you’d leaned back, lying down beside him, your blanket brushing against his arm as you both stared up at the stars.

He couldn’t remember how long you’d stayed like that, whispering about silly things—what you thought the stars looked like, Dean’s awful snoring, how you swore you’d heard Bigfoot once when you were a kid. But he remembered the way your voice sounded in the dark, soft and unguarded, like the walls you kept so carefully up had been left behind in the warmth of the firelight.

And he remembered the way you’d fallen asleep beside him, your head resting just inches from his shoulder, your breaths slow and even as the night stretched on.

Now, as he sat in the Impala, staring out the window at the blur of trees rushing past, that memory wrapped around him like a thread, tugging at something deep inside. He thought about the way you’d said those words—so simple, so honest. He hadn’t known what to say then, hadn’t known how to hold onto a moment like that.

But he’d thought about it all the time. Before Ruby, before the blood. And that’s why he needed to stop. He needed to stop because it had been keeping him from everything.

They were headed into town now, they’d been driving for a couple of days on a lead about strange weather reports and changes. It was close by Bobby, and in his mind he couldn’t help but hope that he’d see you again.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The slam of the screen door echoed through the yard as Bobby stormed in, shotgun in hand, his posture still stiff as you went into the kitchen. “What the hell happened out there?” he barked, his gaze landing on you.

You shrugged, setting the shotgun back against the wall. “Just taking out the trash.”

Bobby’s jaw ticked as he glanced between you and the door. “That ‘trash’ better not be the kind that comes back with friends.”

“She’s gone,” you said evenly, brushing your hands on your jeans like you hadn’t just taken a shot at Ruby in a fit of anger.

“Yeah, well, you also left me with a damn hole in my wall,” he muttered, walking over to the fridge and grabbed a beer “shit” he grumbled, shaking his head.

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you stared at the ground, your jaw tightening as the weight of Ruby’s words pressed down on you like a stone. Bobby noticed the shift in your posture, the way your shoulders sagged slightly, and his sharp gaze softened just a fraction.

“You know I am not mad about the wall, right, kid?” he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

You hesitated, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. “I need a case,” you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Anything. Just… give me something to do.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious,” you said firmly, meeting his eyes. “I’m tired of sitting around here doing nothing. I’m a hunter, Bobby. I can’t just… stay here, waiting for something to happen.”

“Last time I checked, you were still patching yourself up from that last mess you got dragged into,” Bobby countered, his tone cutting. “And now you’re asking for me to send you into another one?”

“I’m not asking for a favor,” you shot back, your voice sharper than you intended. “I’m asking for a chance. I need to prove that I can still do this.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes at you, he put down the beer his arms crossing over his chest. “To who? Me? Sam? Dean?”

You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to the ground. “To myself,” you admitted quietly. “I need to prove it to myself.”

The admission hung in the air between you, raw and vulnerable. Bobby’s expression softened, though his voice remained firm. “And what happens if you screw it up? You think putting yourself in danger is gonna fix that?”

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice trembling just slightly. “But I can’t just sit here, Bobby. I feel useless. Like I’m a liability. And I can’t stand feeling like that anymore.”

Bobby let out a long sigh, dragging a hand over his face. “Damn it, kid,” he muttered. “You really don’t make this easy, do you?”

You managed a weak smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Not my strong suit.”

For a long moment, Bobby just stared at you, weighing his options. Finally, he let out another sigh and walked out the room. You thought he'd just left, mid-conversation, but then you heard him rummaging around the room before he returned. His brows furrowed.

 “Fine,” he said gruffly. “But you’re taking a light one. Something simple.”

Relief flooded through you, though you tried not to let it show too much. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Bobby muttered, pulling out a folder and tossing it onto the table. “This one came in yesterday. Some weird sightings near a small town upstate. Might be nothing, but if you’re hell-bent on proving yourself, you can start with that.”

You stepped forward, picking up the folder and flipping through the sparse details. It wasn’t much—a couple of reports about strange noises and missing livestock—but it was enough. Enough to remind you of who you were. Of what you could do.

“I’ll take it,” you said, your voice steadier now.

“Listen, kid,” Bobby said gruffly, not looking up from the pile of papers he was pretending to sort. “I promised your folks I’d take care of you, and I know you’re all grown now, but that don’t mean I stopped worrying about you.”

You paused, turning back toward him. He still hadn’t looked at you, his eyes fixed on the desk as though it held some answer.

“You go out there, you be smart, you hear me? Don’t go rushing in like some idjit trying to prove a point. Use your head. And for god’s sake, don’t get yourself killed.”

His voice softened just slightly, though his tone stayed sharp as a knife. “Because if you do, I swear to all that’s holy, I’ll drag your sorry ass back here and tan your hide myself.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips, despite the heaviness in the room. “I’ll be careful,” you promised.

Bobby finally glanced up, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp and full of something unspoken. “You’d better. You ain’t got much family left, but you’ve got me, and I’m too damn old to be burying anyone else. So, don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” you said softly, gripping the folder a little tighter.

He gave a curt nod, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he turned back to the desk. “Alright, then. Get outta here before I change my mind.”

As you stepped toward the door, his voice followed you, low and gruff. “And call me when you get there. Don’t leave me hanging, you hear?”

You wanted to hug him but knew he wasn't much of a touchy feeling type of guy. You paused in the doorway, glancing back at him. “I will.”

Bobby muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, Damn stubborn kids

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The vial sat on the nightstand like it had claimed the space as its own, its dark contents catching the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Sam paced back and forth in the cramped room, his long strides eating up the space only to circle back again. He raked a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on a knot near the back of his head, but the dull tug wasn’t enough to ground him. His thoughts spiraled, looping around the same point again and again: the vial.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t touch it, wouldn’t even look at it. And yet, here he was, pacing in circles like some caged animal, his eyes flicking to it every time he turned around. It felt like it was calling to him, whispering in the back of his mind with Ruby’s smooth, coaxing voice.

It’s what you need, Sam. It’ll make you stronger.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as if the pain might drown out her voice. But it didn’t. It never did.

He stopped suddenly, standing in the middle of the room as his breathing came a little too fast. His gaze locked on the vial, his jaw tightening as an unspoken war waged inside him. Then, without giving himself the chance to think, he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and headed for the door.

Dean barely glanced up from his laptop when Sam appeared in the doorway. He was hunched over the desk, the glow of the screen casting harsh shadows across his face as he scrolled through news articles.

“I’m going for a walk,” Sam said, his voice a little too tight.

Dean didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Don’t wander too far.”

Sam nodded, though Dean still wasn’t looking at him, and stepped out into the cold night air. The door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet rush of the wind felt like a small relief after the suffocating weight of the motel room.

The town was small, barely more than a handful of streets that twisted around each other like a lazy spiderweb. The sidewalk under his boots was cracked and uneven, the streetlights humming faintly as they cast pools of pale light onto the pavement. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold as he walked without any real direction.

Sam’s boots scuffed against the uneven pavement as he kept walking, the night cool and crisp around him. The stars overhead blinked faintly, a distant reminder of how far removed he felt from anything steady or real. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his fingers curling and uncurling as if restless energy alone could sort out the tangle in his head.

The blood. Ruby. You. It all churned in him, like a storm that refused to break.

The vial was still sitting on the nightstand back at the motel, a small, unassuming thing with a grip tighter than he cared to admit. It promised strength—clarity even—but every time he thought about it, guilt wormed its way into his chest. It didn’t just feel wrong; it was wrong. He knew that. It didn’t matter how much Ruby whispered otherwise.

But that didn’t stop the temptation.

Ruby said it made him better. Faster. Stronger. He couldn’t argue that—he’d seen it for himself. But it wasn’t him. Not really. It was something else, something darker. Something that pulled at the edges of what made him… him.

And it made him think of Jess.

He hadn’t wanted to. Not tonight. But her face slipped into his mind anyway, unbidden but persistent, the memory so sharp it almost hurt. He thought of how she’d laugh at the smallest, silliest things, how she’d always leave little notes tucked into his books—messages that were never profound, just sweet. Things like, Don’t forget milk, or, You’re going to do great today.

Jess had this way of making the world seem lighter. It wasn’t just her smile, or her laugh, or the way she’d rest her head on his shoulder when she was tired. It was her presence. She just… was. And he’d loved her for it.

When you came along, he hadn’t meant to notice the similarities. It had felt almost like a betrayal at first, this faint echo of Jess in the way you carried yourself. But it wasn’t the same, not really. Where Jess had been lightness, you were fire. Where she’d been a quiet kind of steady, you were all edges and defiance, wearing your scars like armor.

And somewhere along the way, that had pulled him in too.

Sam’s mind drifted, unbidden, to a memory of you that never seemed to leave him. It wasn’t tied to anything extraordinary—no near-death experience, no heartfelt confession. It was just a moment, quiet and unassuming. You’d been sitting on the edge of the bed in a cheap motel room, your back to him as you meticulously untangled the knot in his tie.

It had been after a long day, both of you too exhausted to speak much. He’d tossed the tie on the bed in frustration, grumbling something about it being ruined. But you, without a word, had picked it up and started working at the knot with steady fingers, your brows furrowed in concentration. The lamp beside you cast a soft halo of light over your hair, and for a second, he forgot where you were, forgot what you both did for a living.

You hadn’t said anything, hadn’t made a big deal of it. You’d just handed it back to him once you were done, your lips curving into the faintest of smiles as you shrugged. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” you’d said simply, brushing off the gesture like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. What struck him most wasn’t the act itself, but the quiet way you’d done it, as if easing someone’s frustration was just second nature to you. You hadn’t known he was watching you so closely, hadn’t realized how much that small moment of care had stayed with him. It was something he hadn’t known he needed at the time, and yet, it had settled into his chest, warm and steady.

He’d fallen a little in love with you then, he thought. Not because you were strong or brave or even kind—though you were all those things—but because in that fleeting moment, he saw something more. A quiet tenderness you didn’t show often, and it had pulled him in, as certain as gravity.

Sam stopped walking, his breath puffing out in uneven clouds as he leaned against the side of an old lamppost. Did he… love you? The thought lingered, unsettling and quiet, because it didn’t feel like the love he’d had for Jess. Or even the complicated, twisted thing he’d thought he felt for Ruby. It was something else entirely—something he couldn’t pin down but couldn’t deny, either.

His gaze drifted upward, tracing the constellations without really seeing them. Everything about this felt tangled, like that knot you’d worked so patiently to undo. Only now, the knot was his life—his choices, his mistakes, the blood coursing through his veins like a poison he couldn’t shake. And not even you, with your steady hands and quiet strength, could fix it this time.

You didn’t deserve to get dragged into this. Neither of you did. But here you were, caught in the mess of it all, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever find a way to untangle it.

He let out a long breath, his chest tightening with the weight of it all. Jess. You. Ruby. The blood. Everything felt like it was slipping further out of reach, like he was holding onto sand that kept falling through his fingers.

He wanted to be better. To be stronger for Dean, for himself—for you. But every time he thought about the blood, about what it gave him, the temptation curled tighter. It wasn’t just about the power. It was about control. About finally being enough, about not needing to rely on anyone else to fix what was broken.

But that was the lie.

Sam’s jaw clenched, his nails biting into his palms as he looked down at his hands. The blood made him strong, yes. But it wasn’t strength that felt earned—it was borrowed, tainted. It was a strength that could destroy everything he was trying to hold onto.

His mind circled back to you, to that night under the stars, your voice cutting through his restless thoughts like it always did. “I just don’t let it stop me,” you’d said, so matter-of-fact it had almost knocked him flat.

You hadn’t been trying to inspire him. Hell, you probably hadn’t even realized the weight of your words at the time. But they’d stayed with him. Because in a way, you were what he was trying to hold onto. That defiance. That fire.

But the blood? The blood would burn it all down.

Sam looked back up at the stars, the cold biting at his skin, and for the first time in a long while, he found himself praying.

“Castiel,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. The name felt strange on his tongue, like something fragile and unfamiliar. “I don’t know if you can hear me. Hell, I don’t even know if you’re listening. But I… I need help.”

The words felt raw, dragged up from somewhere deep and bruised. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I keep telling myself I can fix this, that I can make it right, but I… I can’t. Not like this.”

He paused, his throat tightening, his hands clenching into fists. “And her—she doesn’t deserve this. She’s out there, and I don’t even know if she’s okay. I know I’ve let her down, just like I’ve let Dean down. I know that. But I don’t want to keep letting them down. I just… I don’t know how to stop.”

Sam’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, his gaze still fixed on the stars as though they might blink back with some kind of answer. “Please,” he whispered. “Just… help me be better. Help me keep them safe.”

The silence stretched on, the wind rustling softly through the trees. He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, for some sign—any sign—that he’d been heard.

But none came.

The stars stayed silent, cold and distant, and Sam let out a shaky breath, the weight of the unanswered prayer settling over him like a stone.

“Figures,” he muttered, his voice thick with frustration and something heavier. He pushed off the lamppost and started walking again, the night pressing in around him like it was trying to swallow him whole.

The blood was still there, waiting. But so were you. And for now, that was enough to keep him moving but it didn’t matter where, cause he couldn’t go where he wanted to.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Dean’s voice was edged with irritation, but there was a note of something else underneath—concern, or maybe disbelief.

Sam froze just inside the doorway, his heart skipping a beat at the words. He shut the door quietly behind him, leaning against it as he listened.

“Bobby, you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on her,” Dean continued, his tone accusatory now. “You’re telling me you just let her walk out?”

Sam’s stomach twisted, his pulse quickening as he stepped closer. He couldn’t hear Bobby’s response, but Dean’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching tighter.

“Yeah, well, letting her go on a case wasn’t exactly the smartest move, was it?” Dean snapped, his frustration bleeding through. “She’s still recovering. Hell, we’re all still recovering, and you let her go out alone?”

Sam moved to the edge of the table, his brows furrowed. “What’s going on?” he asked quietly, his voice cutting into the conversation.

Dean held up a hand, silencing him for the moment as he turned his attention back to the phone. “Where is she, Bobby? What case did you send her on?”

There was a pause as Bobby answered, and Dean ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “A town away? That’s it? You didn’t think maybe, I don’t know, to let us know she was leaving?”

Another pause, and then Dean’s expression softened, if only slightly. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. She asked you, and you didn’t want to stop her. But you know how she is, Bobby. She’s stubborn as hell, and now she’s out there, alone.”

Sam stepped closer, his concern growing. “She left on a case?” he asked, his voice tighter now.

Dean sighed, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment to address him. “Yeah. Bobby let her take a case. Some town not too far from here, but still…” He shook his head, clearly annoyed. “She shouldn’t be out there alone.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, his mind racing. “Why didn’t he stop her?”

Dean raised a brow, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “You know her, Sam. Once she’s made up her mind, there’s no stopping her. And Bobby…” He hesitated, his gaze dropping for a moment. “Bobby probably thought it was what she needed.”

Sam frowned, the weight of the situation settling over him like a heavy blanket. “Did he at least tell you where she went?”

Dean nodded, putting the phone back to his ear. “Yeah, Bobby. We’ll find her. Thanks for letting us know.” With that, he ended the call, tossing the phone onto the table with a frustrated huff.

“She’s in Green Hollow,” Dean said, his tone clipped. “Apparently, it’s a simple job. Some weird reports of disappearances and strange noises. Bobby says she’s fine, but…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t like it.”

Sam’s fists clenched at his sides. The thought of you out there, alone, investigating something potentially dangerous—it didn’t sit right with him. Not after everything that had happened.

“She shouldn’t be alone,” Sam said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Dean nodded, already grabbing his keys from the table. “Damn right, she shouldn’t. Get your stuff. We’re leaving.”

And as he followed Dean out the door, one thought stayed with him: He wasn’t going to let you face this alone. Not again.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Ruby stood in the shadows just beyond the tree line, her dark eyes glinting with satisfaction as she watched you wheel one of Bobby’s old bikes out of the garage. Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, the phone pressed to her ear as she spoke in a low, syrupy tone. “She took the bait,” she murmured, her voice laced with amusement. Her fingers toyed idly with a strand of her hair, her gaze fixed on you as you adjusted the strap of your bag and swung a leg over the bike. The engine sputtered to life, the sound carrying across the quiet yard, and Ruby’s smile widened.

"She’s headed straight for you"

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

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[dreamlanderin]

You don't see me, part 3 (Sam x reader)

Summary: Time apart. Follows on part 2

Warning: Blood. Demons. Angst if you squint

Words: 8k

Boys, I wish I could’ve explained this in person, but I knew you wouldn’t let me leave. I’m not walking away from you or the fight—I’m walking toward the person I promised I’d be when I first joined you. I need to find her again. Don’t look for me.

That’s what you’d left behind. Nothing for Sam, no apology, no explanation beyond those carefully chosen words. No indication of where you were headed or when, if ever, they might see you again. They’d been confused at first.

Dean came looking for you not long after Sam regained consciousness. His knocks on your door echoed down the empty hallway, sharp and impatient, but no answer came.

At first, Dean feared the worst. The memory of you clutching your side during the hunt came rushing back, sharper now with the realization that he hadn’t checked on you after they got Sam stabilized. He’d been too focused on his brother, on Ruby, on the chaos. The idea that you might’ve bled out alone in your room made his chest tighten painfully. “Damn it,” he muttered, his fist pounding against the door one last time before he shoved it open. The room was eerily pristine, the bed made, the surfaces cleared of the usual clutter. It was too perfect, and for a brief moment, Dean thought you’d been taken—dragged out of the motel while he’d been distracted.

His gaze swept the room in a panic, catching on the empty closet and the missing duffel bag that used to sit by the foot of your bed. That’s when he saw it. The note lay folded neatly on the nightstand, your name scrawled on the outside in your unmistakable handwriting. Dean crossed the room in two strides, snatching it up with shaky hands. He read it once, then again, the words sinking in like lead. You weren’t taken. You’d left.

For a long moment, Dean just stood there, staring at the note as his jaw clenched tighter and tighter. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath. His grip on the paper tightened, crumpling the edges as a wave of anger surged through him. You were hurt. You were supposed to stay and recover. And what the hell did you mean, Don’t look for me? Did you really think he was the kind of guy who could just sit back and let you walk away?

Dean stormed back to thier room, the note clenched in his fist. When he reached the table, he slammed it down in front of Sam, who was still pale and sluggish, slouched in his chair.

“She’s gone,” Dean said bluntly, his voice tight. Sam blinked, his brows furrowing as he reached for the crumpled note. “What do you mean, gone?”

“Read it,” Dean snapped, pacing the room like a caged animal. Sam’s eyes scanned the letter quickly, his face darkening with each word. When he finished, he set the note down carefully, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Why?” he asked, his voice quiet but strained. Dean stopped pacing, turning to glare at his brother. “I don’t know, Sam. Maybe because she got tired of patching us up and watching you play tug-of-war with a damn demon?”

Sam flinched, guilt flashing across his face. “Dean—”

“She didn’t even say goodbye, Sam,” Dean said, his voice breaking for just a second before he covered it with a sharp exhale. “What the hell does that mean?”

Sam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Dean let out a sharp exhale, raking a hand through his hair as he stared at the note again. “I don’t get it. She was one of us. We’re supposed to have each other’s backs.” Sam hesitated, then said quietly, “Maybe that’s why she left.”

Dean froze, his shoulders tense, but he didn’t argue. The words hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken truths pressing down like a weight neither of them wanted to carry.

Finally, Dean grabbed the note and stuffed it into his pocket, his expression hardening. “She said not to look for her,” he muttered, heading toward the kitchen. “But I’m not making any promises.”

Sam sat in silence, staring down at the table. The faint sound of Dean opening and slamming cabinets echoed in the distance, but his mind was elsewhere.

He thought about the way you’d looked at him in the motel room, the quiet pain in your eyes when you leaned in and told him, It’s me, Sam. He thought about the moments before that—your hands pressed to his chest, your voice trembling as you told him to hold on.

And now you were gone.

Sam closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “Stupid,” he whispered, the weight of your absence settling over him like a shadow.

He’d been out of it last night—so much of it felt like a blur now. But one thing he remembered, clear as day, was the moment you got attacked by the Shadow Stalker. You’d screamed and before he even had time to think, he was already throwing himself between you and that thing. The impact had been brutal, the creature’s claws raking through his chest and shoulder as if he were nothing. He’d felt the burn of his body hitting the ground, the sharp ache of ribs threatening to give way. By the time he realized what had happened, he was already in the Impala.

His head was resting on your lap, the faint scent of blood and dirt mixing with the metallic tang in his mouth. Everything around him was hazy—the sound of Dean shouting, the rumble of the car engine, the warmth of your hands pressing against his wounds to stop the bleeding. You’d said something to him—your voice soft, steady, and full of worry. He couldn’t remember the exact words now, but he remembered the feeling of it.

He’d tried to reach out then, his hand brushing against the fabric of your jeans as he fought to lift it higher. He’d wanted to touch your hair, to brush away the blood he’d noticed streaked across it. But his strength had failed him, and before he could manage it, the darkness pulled him under again.

And now you were gone

The fever dreams had come and gone in waves. Something in the dark was always following him, its shadowy tendrils creeping closer no matter how fast he ran. There was a light ahead—distant, wavering, always just out of reach—and he chased it. He wasn’t sure why, but the instinct to reach it burned through him.

Then his eyes would open, and the real world would filter in, fragmented and confusing. Voices, sometimes low and steady like Dean’s, other times higher and softer. Was it you? He thought it was, but then the voice would shift, distort, and become someone else entirely. Ruby? No. It couldn’t be Ruby. Could it?

Heat pressed against his skin, making him sweat despite the cold ache in his body. Everything had hurt—sharp pangs in his chest, dull throbs in his head—but none of it mattered as much as the exhaustion. It weighed him down, pulling him back into the haze of his mind where the dreams waited.

Things blurred together there: distorted faces, shadowy monsters, fragments of hunts long since passed. It all swirled in a chaotic fog, except for one thing that stood out with perfect clarity. You.

You were there, in the midst of it all. You looked at him, said something he couldn’t quite hear, but the feeling in your voice reached him. It was grounding, pulling him toward you even as the darkness clawed at his edges. He’d opened his eyes again, and there you were, sitting by his side and he had mumbled something, he can't remember much of what he had said. Something about You and not regreting protecting you? He’d barely gotten the words out before the edges of reality blurred again. His mind flickered, pulling him back into the haze, but not before he noticed someone else in the room. Ruby. Why was she here? The thought barely registered before his head lolled to the side, his strength fading once more. Darkness crept in again, pulling him under before he could make sense of anything.

By the time he regained consciousness, the worst of it had passed. The fog in his mind had lifted just enough for him to make out the dimly lit room and the distinct shapes within it. Dean was slouched in the chair beside the bed, his arms crossed and his head tilted to one side, deep in sleep. Sam’s gaze shifted to the other figure in the room—Ruby, leaning casually against the wall with a lazy grin. “Finally awake, huh?” she said, her tone dripping with amusement. Sam frowned, the residual confusion making his head feel heavy.

Everything hurt—his chest, his shoulder, even his pride—but most of all, he felt a strange relief that everyone seemed to be okay. Dean was alive, and he could only assume you were too, though the room was conspicuously missing your presence. “How long?” His voice came out rough, barely more than a whisper. “A couple of hours,” Ruby replied, pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward him. “You were a mess. Guess I saved your ass again.”

Sam blinked, trying to sit up, but the sharp sting in his shoulder quickly convinced him otherwise. Ruby was at his side in an instant, her hand brushing against his arm to stop him. “Easy there, champ. Don’t go pulling those stitches.” He hesitated, glancing at her hand before looking away. Something felt off. Maybe it was the hazy memories of the hunt or the way her voice sounded too smooth, too deliberate. Or maybe it was the guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind, the feeling that he’d somehow let everyone down by getting hurt. “Where’s—” he started, but Ruby cut him off. “Not here,” she said, her tone sharp but casual.

It must have been the look on his face that made her continue.“Does it matter? They’re fine. You need to focus on getting better.” Sam frowned but didn’t push it. His throat felt dry, and the ache in his body made it hard to think straight. Ruby crouched beside him, her dark eyes narrowing as she studied him.

“You’re still weak,” she said after a moment, her voice softening into something almost sympathetic. “That thing did a number on you. And if you don’t bounce back soon, it’s gonna happen again.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam muttered, his voice hoarse.

Ruby smirked, shaking her head. “You’re stubborn. I’ll give you that.” She straightened up, pulling a small blade from her pocket. The sight of it made Sam’s stomach churn, even before she dragged it across her palm, letting a thin line of blood well up against her skin. “You know what you need,” she said, holding her hand out toward him.

Sam stared at it, the sight of the dark, rich blood stirring a mix of instinct and revulsion. He knew she was right—her blood could heal him, give him the strength to recover faster than his body ever could on its own. He’d done it before, too many times to count. But this time… This time, something felt different.

“I don’t want it,” he said, his voice firmer than before. Ruby raised an eyebrow, her grin fading into something colder. “Don’t be stupid, Sam. You’re not gonna get better on your own.”

“I said no.” He pushed the words out through gritted teeth, his gaze meeting hers with a stubborn determination. Her expression darkened, the easy charm slipping away to reveal something more dangerous. “You’re seriously gonna let yourself waste away out of what—pride? Morality? Don’t forget who pulled you out of that mess.”

“I remember,” Sam said quietly, the weight of his words heavier than she might’ve expected. He thought of the hunt, of you running into danger without hesitation, of Dean working tirelessly to keep him alive. He himself didn't quite understand why he was turning a cure down, maybe that Shadow Stalker had infected his mind in a way that made him desperate to keep the dark out. And demon blood, was as dark as it could get.

“This isn’t the answer.”

Ruby’s jaw tightened, and she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “You’re being reckless. You think you’re stronger than you are, but you’re not. Without me, you’d be dead. Without this”—she held her bleeding hand closer—“you’re useless.” Sam’s chest tightened, a flicker of doubt threatening to take hold, but he pushed it down. He shook his head, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

“I’m not in the mood for this.”

Ruby’s smirk faltered for a split second before settling into something sharper, colder. “Not in the mood?” she repeated, her tone laced with mockery. “This isn’t about your mood, Sam. This is about staying alive.”

But it wasn’t just about staying alive, and they both knew it. He could feel it now—that gnawing pull, the faint burn in his veins that left him restless and raw. He hated that part of him, the part that had grown dependent on her blood, that craved the rush of power it gave him.

It had started small, just enough to stay sharp, to keep fighting. That’s what he’d told himself, anyway. But over time, it had become something else. He couldn’t ignore the way his heart raced when she answered his calls, the way he’d catch himself checking his phone like some desperate junkie waiting for a fix. Ruby wasn’t just a partner. She was his dealer, and every time he gave in, it felt like she tightened the chain around his neck. “I’ll figure it out,” he said finally, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat. “Just… not now.”

Her smirk returned, cruel and knowing. “You’re such a cliché, you know that?” she said, leaning down slightly, her dark eyes boring into his.

"Afraid Dean might see?"

He didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he looked away. She wasn’t wrong, and that only made him hate her more. Ruby huffed out a laugh, short and bitter. “Fine,” she said, straightening up. “You do you, Sam. But don’t expect me to keep cleaning up your messes when you’re too proud to ask for help.” She wiped the blood on a rag, her movements brisk and annoyed, before tossing the stained cloth onto the table. “You know where to find me when you change your mind,” she added, her voice softening into something almost seductive. Her boots echoed against the floor as she walked away, the door clicking shut behind her.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Sam stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling, his hands clenching into fists. The ache in his body was relentless, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the ache in his mind.

He hated himself for wanting it. For the small, traitorous part of him that considered calling her back.

Not this time, he thought bitterly. Not now. But the doubt lingered, clawing at the edges of his resolve.

It wasn’t just the craving—it was the shame that came with it. The knowledge that he’d let himself fall this far, that he’d traded pieces of himself for power he wasn’t even sure he wanted anymore. He hated what it said about him, about the choices he’d made.

That’s why he kept it to himself. Dean didn’t know. He couldn’t know. The thought of telling him, of seeing the disappointment and anger in his brother’s eyes, was unbearable. Dean always believed in fighting with what you had, not what you could take, and Sam knew this would cross a line Dean couldn’t forgive. And you? You would see right through him. You always had a way of peeling back the layers he tried to hide behind, exposing the things he wasn’t ready to admit—not even to himself. You’d dig and dig, your concern masquerading as stubborn determination, and it would only be a matter of time before you uncovered the truth. He couldn’t let that happen.

So he kept you at arm’s length. It wasn’t fair, and he knew it. But it was easier to push you away than to risk you looking at him the way he was afraid you might. Like you didn’t recognize him anymore.

Sam sighed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. The room was quiet now, the only sound the faint hum of the motel’s air conditioner. He hated how tangled everything had become—how every choice he made seemed to push him further away from the people who mattered most.

You’re gone because of me, he thought, the words heavy and bitter.

He leaned back against the chair, his gaze drifting to the empty space where you might’ve sat if things had been different. If he hadn’t been too much of a coward to tell you the truth. The truth was... no he couldn’t say it. Even now, with the ache in his body and the haze in his mind, that truth would remain his for now. Still, he felt asif if somehow he had become this terrible monstrous thing. He didn't deserve you or Dean.

Sam let out a shaky breath, his chest tightening with a mix of regret and resignation. He wanted to tell himself it was better this way, that you were safer without him dragging you into his mess. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. The truth was, he didn’t know how to fix this. Not the addiction, not the distance he’d created between himself and Dean, and definitely not that coldness you’d left behind. For now, all he could do was sit with the weight of it, the silence pressing down on him like a punishment he knew he deserved.

The sound of drawers slamming and the clatter of gear being thrown into a bag jolted Sam from his thoughts. He blinked, lifting his gaze to see Dean storming around the room, his jaw tight and his movements sharp with frustration. “What are you doing?” Sam asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “What does it look like?” Dean snapped, tossing a handful of shotgun shells into his duffel. “I’m going after her.” Sam frowned, pushing himself up a little despite the protest in his shoulder. “Dean… she left a note. She doesn’t want us to go after her.” Dean froze for half a second before turning on his heel, his eyes blazing as he pointed a finger at Sam. “Don’t start with me. She’s hurt, she’s out there alone, and you think I’m just gonna sit here and twiddle my thumbs because of some damn note?”

“She’s not stupid,” Sam said quietly, his voice careful. “She knows how to handle herself.”

Dean scoffed, slamming his bag shut with a force that made the whole table shake. “Yeah? Well, she didn’t handle herself too great when she went toe-to-toe with that Shadow Stalker. Did you forget how banged up she was? I sure as hell didn’t.” Sam clenched his jaw, the memory of your bloodstained shirt flashing through his mind. He hadn’t forgotten. How could he?

“She’s trying to figure things out,” Sam said after a long pause. “She needs space.” Dean let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he shrugged on his jacket. “Space? That what we’re calling it now? Sam, she didn’t even say goodbye to you. She didn’t say goodbye to either of us.”

“That’s not the point,” Sam muttered, looking away.

“No, the point is she’s out there somewhere, bleeding and pissed off, and I’m not just gonna let her disappear without a fight. So why are you, huh?” Dean’s voice softened slightly, though the fire in his eyes remained. Sam didn't know how to answer him.

“We’re family, man. We don’t leave each other behind. That’s not how we do things.”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the chair. “What if you chasing her just makes it worse? She doesn’t want to be found, Dean. You saw the note.”

Dean paused, his hands tightening around the strap of his bag. For a moment, the anger in his expression faltered, replaced by something rawer—fear, maybe, or guilt. “Yeah, well… tough,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “She can hate me all she wants, but I’m not gonna sit here and do nothing. Not when she might need us.” Sam didn’t argue, but the doubt lingered in his mind. He didn’t want to admit it, but he wasn’t sure if Dean’s stubborn determination would bring you back—or drive you further away.

Dean grabbed his keys, his movements resolute as he headed for the door. “You staying here or coming with me?” Sam hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. His body ached, his mind was a mess, and the thought of going after you filled him with equal parts hope and dread. “I’ll stay,” he said finally, his voice low. “You’ll move faster without me.” Dean stopped at the door, glancing back at his brother with a look that was equal parts frustration and understanding. He didn’t push it, just nodded once before stepping out into the night. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Sam alone with the echo of his brother’s resolve—and the weight of his own inaction. He didn’t deserve to find you.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

You’d hitched a few rides over the past day, bouncing from one truck stop to another as you slowly made your way north. The drivers didn’t ask too many questions, and you didn’t offer much beyond polite thanks and vague mentions of family up the road. It kept things simple, and simple was exactly what you needed. After that you were on a bus, the long ride stretching out before you as the highway unraveled into the distance. The seat was stiff, the air stale with the faint scent of old upholstery and spilled coffee, but it was quiet. That was what mattered most—quiet and distance.

It had taken another day or two to reach Bobby’s. You’d mapped it out in your head, calculating the stops and connections with the kind of precision that came from years of tracking hunts. But this wasn’t a hunt. This was something different, something heavier, and the weight of it sat in your chest like a stone. Youd leaned your head against the bus window, the blur of fields and trees rushing past. The weight in your chest was familiar now—regret, guilt, and something else you couldn’t quite name. You’d left to find yourself, but the question remained: Could you even recognize her anymore?

Bobby would have a place for you—you were sure of that much. Or atleast that was your thought process on the bus. He always had room for strays, and you were no exception. But the thought of facing him, of explaining why you’d left, twisted your stomach into knots. Bobby wasn’t one to beat around the bush, and you knew he’d see right through you the moment you walked through his door. You sighed, closing your eyes as the bus rattled on. You didn’t have all the answers yet, and maybe you wouldn’t by the time you got there.

You started to feel silly about the whole thing—walking away like this, leaving behind a life you’d fought so hard to build. Maybe you should’ve stayed, if only to see if Sam was okay. The image of him lying on that bed, pale and broken, flashed through your mind, and for a moment, your resolve wavered.

But you dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came. Staying would’ve only made things worse—for him and for you. You’d spent enough time trying to patch up the cracks in everyone else’s lives while ignoring your own. This wasn’t about Sam, or Dean, or any of it. This was about finding yourself again, about keeping a promise you’d nearly forgotten you’d made. Still, as the bus rumbled down the highway, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d made a mistake. If maybe, just maybe, you’d left something behind that you weren’t ready to let go of. And let me tell you, it wasn’t easy being back at Bobby’s.

The creak of the porch under your boots, the smell of motor oil and dust in the air, the piles of junk and old car parts scattered around—it should’ve felt like a refuge. But it didn’t. Not now. You leaned on the porch railing, staring out at the yard. Everything about this place screamed familiarity, but you couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on you. Being here brought everything bubbling up—the doubts, the guilt, the question of whether leaving had been the right thing to do. This was where you'd met the boys, and all just came flooding back to you.

When you’d shown up on Bobby’s doorstep, he’d just squinted at you like he could read the whole story written on your face. No lectures, no questions. Just a gruff, “Well, don’t just stand there like an idjit. Get your ass inside.” That was Bobby for you. You ended up, sat, in his kitchen, hands curled around a mug of coffee you hadn’t even taken a sip from. Bobby leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his eyes sharp and waiting. “You look like hell,” he finally said. You almost laughed at how matter-of-fact he was. “Thanks, Bobby. Nice to see you too.” He raised an eyebrow. “You want nice, you’re in the wrong house. What’s goin’ on?” You sighed, staring into the coffee like it held some kind of answer.

“I left.” His face didn’t change, not much. Maybe a flicker of something in his eyes. “You mean the boys?”

You nodded.

“You just up and walked out on ’em?”

“It’s... complicated,” you muttered, setting the coffee down. “Sam got hurt—real bad—and it just... it felt like everything was falling apart. There’s this distance now. Between all of us. Between me and him.”

“Sam, huh?” Bobby said, and there was something in the way he said it that made you feel like he already knew more than you’d told him. You rubbed the back of your neck, staring at the table. “I couldn’t stay, Bobby. I was... I don’t know. Waiting, I guess. Waiting for something to get better, for something to change. But it didn’t. And in the meantime, I was just... losing myself. Trying to fix everything, trying to keep up. I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Bobby didn’t say anything for a minute, just tipped his head like he was weighing your words. Then he let out a deep sigh. “And now you’re here. Lookin’ for what, exactly? A pat on the back? Somebody to tell you it’s all fine and dandy?” You flinched a little but shook your head. “I’m just... I need space, Bobby. To figure out who I am outside of all this.” He nodded slowly, his face softening just a little. “Well, you got space here. Long as you need it. But listen to me—run all you want, you’ll still be you when you get where you’re goin’. That’s what you gotta reckon with. Not Sam, not Dean. You.” You nodded, swallowing hard. He wasn’t wrong. He was never wrong. “Appreciate it,” you said quietly.

“Don’t mention it,” Bobby grumbled, straightening up and heading for the fridge. “You want somethin’ to eat, or you just plan on sittin’ there starin’ at that coffee all night?” It wasn’t easy being back at Bobby’s. But maybe that was exactly what you needed.

The days at Bobby’s passed slowly, a strange blend of familiarity and restlessness. You threw yourself into work—cleaning up the salvage yard, organizing his cluttered shelves, fixing up a few busted cars. Anything to keep your hands busy and your mind too occupied to wander.

But even as you distracted yourself, the silence pressed in, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. Every now and then, you’d catch yourself glancing at your phone, half-hoping, half-dreading to see Dean’s name or a text from Sam. You’d received a few over the past few days, but you ignored all of them. The calls went unanswered, and the texts were left on read. The only message you sent was a short, vague reply: I’m safe. Don’t worry. It wasn’t enough to stop Dean from trying. He never took “don’t worry” for an answer, and his persistence made it harder to stick to your resolve. Every time your phone buzzed, your heart clenched. Part of you wanted to pick up, to hear his voice and let him lecture you into coming back. But you couldn’t do that—not yet.

And Sam… well, you weren’t sure you could face him even if you tried. The memory of his pale, bloodied face haunted you, along with the weight of the words he’d mumbled before slipping into unconsciousness. You matter. You’d wanted to believe him, wanted to hold on to the warmth of that moment. But it had been fleeting, and when Ruby’s name slipped into the air between you, it shattered everything you thought you’d felt.

You dismissed the thoughts as quickly as they came. Staying wouldn’t have fixed anything. It would’ve only made things worse—for you and for them. You’d spent too much time trying to hold everyone together, trying to patch up cracks in people who didn’t even want your help. This wasn’t about Dean, or Sam, or Ruby. It was about you. And you’d promised yourself, long before you even met the Winchesters, that you wouldn’t lose yourself again.

Bobby didn’t say much at first, just watched you work with his usual scrutinizing gaze. He let you settle in, his silence almost comforting in its predictability. But that didn’t stop him from throwing in the occasional jab. “You gonna do somethin’ useful today, or you just plan to stand there lookin’ like a lost puppy?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the doorway as you sorted through a pile of old hunting gear. You huffed, rolling your eyes as you held up a rusted blade.

“I’m cleaning up your mess, Bobby. I’d say that’s plenty useful.” He snorted, but there was a softness in his eyes that told you he wasn’t as gruff as he pretended to be. “You keep that attitude up, you’ll fit right in with the junkyard.” Later that evening, as you sat in the kitchen nursing a mug of coffee, Bobby finally cut to the chase. “So,” he started, settling across from you with his own mug. “How long you plannin’ on mopin’ around here?” You frowned, your fingers tightening around the handle.

“I’m not moping.”

“Sure, and I’m the King of England.” He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not foolin’ anyone, kid. Least of all me.”

You sighed, staring into the dark liquid in your cup. “I just needed some space, Bobby. That’s all.”

“Space is fine,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “But space don’t fix what’s broken. You know that as well as I do.” Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you didn’t say anything. When you finally looked up, his gaze was steady, unrelenting in a way that made you feel like a kid again. “I couldn’t stay,” you admitted quietly. “It felt like I was… drowning. Trying to keep everything together, trying to be everything for everyone. And Sam…” Bobby tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to finish. “There’s something going on with him,” you said, your voice faltering. “Something he’s not telling me—or Dean. I tried to figure it out, but every time I got close, he’d shut me out.”

Bobby didn’t respond right away, just tapped a finger against the side of his mug as he mulled over your words. Then, after a long pause, he said, “You’re not wrong about the boy.” You blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

He let out a sigh, his gaze drifting to the window as if he were debating how much to say. “Dean called me a while back. Said Sam’s been… different. Edgy. More than usual.” Your stomach twisted. “Did he say why?” Bobby shook his head. “Not in so many words. But he mentioned Ruby’s name a couple times. Said Sam’s been spendin’ too much time with her.” The mention of Ruby sent a chill down your spine.

“He’s in love with her,” you said, the words bitter on your tongue.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed, his face hardening slightly. “Love’s a strong word. More like… she’s got her claws in him real deep. Sam’s a smart kid, but he’s also stubborn as hell. He thinks he’s doin’ what’s best, but I got a feelin’ he’s diggin’ himself a hole he can’t climb out of.” The knot in your chest tightened. You’d seen it too—the way Ruby hovered just close enough to keep him tethered, the way his shoulders relaxed when she was around. You hated her for it, hated the way she seemed to know exactly how to pull Sam’s strings. “He’s gonna get himself hurt,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. Bobby sighed, his gaze softening. “Maybe. But that ain’t your problem to fix.” You nodded, though the words didn’t settle as easily as they should’ve.

That night, as you sat on the porch with a blanket draped over your shoulders, you stared up at the stars and tried to make sense of everything. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint chirp of crickets and the distant rustle of wind through the trees. You thought of Sam, of the way his eyes had searched yours in that motel room. You thought of Dean, of his relentless determination to keep everyone together. And you thought of yourself, sitting here now, wondering if you’d done the right thing. The stars didn’t have any answers. Neither did you. But as the night stretched on, you realized that maybe Bobby was right. Maybe space wouldn’t fix what was broken.

You missed them.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Dean’s knuckles tightened around the wheel of the Impala as the miles ticked by. The road stretched ahead in a blur of asphalt and scattered headlights, but his mind was somewhere else. The crumpled note sat in the passenger seat, the words burned into his brain no matter how hard he tried to shake them. Don’t look for me. Like hell he wouldn’t.

He’d started at the last place they’d been, retracing your steps like it was any other hunt. Truck stops, diners, gas stations—he grilled anyone who might’ve seen you, his tone sharp and clipped, his patience nonexistent. A few vague descriptions matched your appearance, but they all pointed in different directions. It was like you’d vanished into thin air, leaving only breadcrumbs that barely stuck together. He pulled into another gas station, the fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead as he parked the car. The clerk inside barely looked up from his magazine as Dean approached the counter.

“Seen her?” Dean asked, slapping a photo onto the counter. It was a candid shot, one Sam had taken months ago during a rare quiet moment between hunts. You were laughing at something Dean had said, your head tilted slightly, your hair catching the light. The clerk squinted at the photo, his chewing gum slowing as he considered it. “Maybe,” he drawled. “Couple days ago. Hitched a ride with a trucker headin’ north.” Dean’s jaw tightened. “You got anything more specific?” The guy shrugged.

“Didn’t catch where they were goin’. She looked like she was in a hurry, though.”

Dean muttered a curse under his breath, snatching the photo back as he turned toward the door. Every lead was colder than the last, and with each dead end, the knot in his chest tightened. You weren’t making this easy, but he hadn’t expected you to.

Back in the Impala, he rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion creeping in around the edges. He hated this—hated not knowing where you were, if you were okay, if you even wanted to be found. But none of that mattered. Not to him. Not when the thought of you out there alone, hurt and vulnerable, gnawed at him like a wound that wouldn’t heal. “Damn it,” he muttered, slamming his hand against the steering wheel.

A memory flashed, sharp and uninvited—your laugh filling the air during a rare quiet night on the road. You’d been teasing Sam about something, and the sound of it had made Dean smirk despite himself. Now, that laughter felt like a ghost, haunting the empty space you’d left behind.

With a heavy sigh, Dean started the car and pulled back onto the highway. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet.

Sam sat alone in the motel, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. Dean had been gone for two days now, chasing after you with the kind of determination Sam couldn’t bring himself to muster. His shoulder still ached from the hunt, the stitches pulling every time he moved, but that wasn’t what kept him up at night. It was you.

He stared at his phone, your single message still sitting there like a taunt. I’m safe. Don’t worry. Safe, sure. But the “don’t worry” part? That was impossible. Sam leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled slowly. The truth was, he wasn’t just worried about you. He was worried about himself—about the way Ruby’s presence lingered like a shadow in his mind, about the pull of her blood and the power it gave him. About the way he couldn’t seem to stop craving it, no matter how much he tried. You’d seen it, hadn’t you? Seen the cracks he’d been trying so hard to hide.

Maybe that’s why you’d left—not because of the hunt, not because of the fight, but because you couldn’t stand to watch him fall apart. His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. It wasn’t you. It was Ruby. Sam stared at the screen for a long moment, his chest tightening as the familiar rush of guilt and need washed over him. He didn’t answer. Not this time. But the doubt lingered, clawing at the edges of his resolve. And as the silence settled over the motel once more, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was too far gone to fix any of it.

Was he being pathetic? Yes. But he also had an idea of where you might have gone, and that at least gave him some comfort. It was better than thinking you were out there with no plan, no destination. That wasn’t like you. You always had a plan. Still, the idea of you being gone didn’t sit right. He thought, at some point, to go to you. That maybe if he apologized… or said something—anything—you’d come back.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to fix whatever it was that had pushed you to leave in the first place. He just didn’t know what to say. It was a lot emptier without you. The motel room was cramped and quiet, the kind of quiet that made the cheap wallpaper and sagging furniture feel like they were closing in. Dean had gone out for food—or maybe just to burn off his frustration somewhere else—and Sam was left alone, staring at the scattered papers on the table. It was their usual setup: lore books stacked high, scribbled notes, and a laptop balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. But it didn’t feel right. Not without you.

You always brought order to the chaos, sorting through the mess with a sharp eye and steady hands. Without you, it just felt like clutter. Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair. The motel’s AC unit rattled faintly in the background, doing little to cut through the stale air. His phone sat on the table in front of him, the screen dark, but he couldn’t stop glancing at it. He thought about calling you again, even though he knew you wouldn’t pick up. He thought about texting, about saying something that might make you reconsider. But every time his fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words felt wrong.

Too little, too late. Instead, he’d scroll through the texts you’d sent before—all the quick updates, the late-night jokes, the “be careful” warnings that were more about you worrying than the hunt itself. It felt like a lifetime ago now, like they belonged to a different version of himself. One who hadn’t let things spiral so far out of control.

The truth was, he didn’t know how to fill the void you’d left behind. Sam ran a hand through his hair, staring at the phone again. He’d sent you one last text the night before, short and to the point: We’re still here. Wherever you are, just… stay safe. You hadn’t replied. He tried to tell himself that it was fine, that you needed space, but the weight in his chest said otherwise. He wanted to believe you were okay, that you’d find what you were looking for, but doubt crept in every time he closed his eyes. What if you weren’t okay? What if you were out there, hurt or worse, and he wasn’t there to help

The door creaked open, and Dean walked in, his boots heavy on the floor. He had a bag of takeout in one hand and a six-pack in the other, but his face was set in that hard, determined way that made Sam’s stomach knot. He dropped the food on the table and slumped onto the bed, his shoulders tight and his jaw clenched. “Anything?” Dean asked, his voice clipped. Sam shook his head.

“Nothing.” Dean let out a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face. "She's headed north" he pauses “Figures. She’s probably with Bobby.”

“Maybe,” Sam muttered, though he didn’t sound convincing. Dean glared at him, his frustration barely contained.

“You think I’m wrong?”

“I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know anything right now.” The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Dean cracked open a beer and took a long swig, his eyes fixed on the floor. For a while, neither of them said anything. Then Dean broke the silence

“She’s out there, Sam!” Dean snapped, slamming his bear on the table. “We can’t just sit here and do nothing!”

“And what do you want me to do, Dean?” Sam shot back, his voice sharper than usual. “I can barely move without ripping my stitches open. You think I can chase after her in this state?”

“That’s a damn good excuse, all you've been doing is mope around” Dean snarled. “You let her walk away. You just let her leave, Sam!”

Sam flinched at the accusation, his jaw tightening as he pushed himself up. “She didn’t leave because of me,” he said quietly, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.

“Bullshit,” Dean hissed, his voice low and cutting. “She left because you pushed her away. Because you’ve been too wrapped up in whatever the hell is going on with you and Ruby to notice anything else!”

Sam’s eyes flared with anger, but he didn’t deny it. "You think I don’t feel guilty?” Sam shot back, his voice raw. “You think I don’t lie awake wondering what I could’ve done differently? I know I screwed up, Dean.” Dean’s glare softened, but only slightly. “Then fix it,” he said, his tone low and firm. “Before she’s too far gone.”

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

You use to like the porch, use to come here a lot when you were younger. One night, after hours spent organizing Bobby’s shelves just to keep your hands busy, you found yourself sitting on it with a bottle of whiskey. The sky above was inky black, pinpricked with stars, the kind of night that would have felt endless and peaceful under different circumstances. But the quiet only made the storm in your head louder.

You stared at the bottle, your fingers curling around it tightly. “What the hell am I doing?” you muttered under your breath.

The answer didn’t come.

Instead, the memories crept in. Sam’s pale face, broken and bleeding on the bed. Dean’s shouts, frantic and sharp, cutting through the chaos like a blade. The weight of it all crushed you from the inside out, suffocating and relentless. Then there was Ruby, a name that hung in your mind like a noose, tightening with every passing second. And then this porch, it took you back to all those years ago, this was where you guys had met:

“We’re John’s boys,” Dean said simply, like you were supposed to know exactly what he was talking about.

“And?” You squinted at the pretty boy in a leather jacket, the sun high in the sky as you stood in the doorway. You were wearing something close to shorts and a flannel, a shotgun casually tucked under your arm.

“Look, sweetheart, we—”

“What my brother means,” the taller one interrupted smoothly, cutting Dean off before he could finish, “is that we’ve driven a long way, and we just want to talk to Bobby, if you don’t mind.” He smiled a polite, almost apologetic smile.

You glanced between them, your grip tightening on the shotgun as they lingered just outside the doorway.

“Names?”

“I’m Dean, and that’s Sammy—”

“Sam. Just Sam,” the taller one corrected, shooting a glance at his brother.

Your gaze shifted between them, taking in their clothes—well-worn boots, layers that were functional more than fashionable. You frowned. “You’re hunters?”

“The best,” Dean quipped, his tone dripping with self-assurance.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Aren’t you a little young?”

Dean’s smirk faltered for a second, replaced by a slight frown before he quickly composed himself. Beside him, Sam gave a small, polite smile.

“Thank you,” Sam said, his tone light, almost amused.

You tilted your head, considering them for a moment longer before stepping back slightly. “I’ll call him down,” you said, your voice firm. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you. Got me?”

“Loud and clear,” Sam replied calmly, his tone easy and steady.

Dean, however, looked a little annoyed, his jaw tightening as he glanced at his brother.

You stepped back inside, leaving the door open just enough to keep an eye on them as you turned to yell toward the stairs. “Bobby! You got visitors!”

That’s how you’d first met them. You’d been staying with Bobby for a while, helping out where you could, when they’d just showed up one day, and then again and again, until their appearances became less like interruptions and more like routine.

They had a way of pulling you in, those brothers. The kind of presence that made everything else seem smaller, quieter. Enough so that, one day, when they headed out, you’d gone with them. And you never came back.

That was a few years ago. A lot had changed since then.

You took a long swig from the bottle, the burn in your throat grounding you for a fleeting moment. But it didn’t stop the tears that welled up, hot and unrelenting.

“Shit,” you muttered, brushing them away roughly. You hated this—hated feeling weak, hated that you’d run, hated that even now, you couldn’t stop thinking about them.

The door creaked open behind you, and Bobby stepped out. His footsteps were heavy but unhurried, his presence as steady and solid as the creak of the porch under his weight. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the railing beside you. His sharp, knowing eyes seemed to cut through the dark.

For a long moment, the silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Then, finally, Bobby broke it. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with cryin’, you know.”

You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t fix anything.”

“No,” Bobby agreed, his tone gruff but not unkind. “But sometimes it helps you figure out what’s worth fixin’.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with truth. You didn’t respond, just stared at the bottle in your hands. That was a day or two ago, but the memory of it still burned in your chest, raw and unshakable.

Today, you’d just finished up on one of the trucks while Bobby insisted on cooking, though it hadn’t done much to settle the noise in your head.  You felt too embarrassed to meet Bobby’s eyes after that night on the porch, like your vulnerability had left a mark you couldn’t scrub away.

The house was quiet now, the faint sizzle of the scrapyard humming in the heat. You threw the towel over your shoulder and leaned against the hood of an old truck, letting out a deep breath.

The day had passed slowly, dragging on like it was trying to remind you of everything you weren’t ready to face. But that was the point, wasn’t it? Distance. Space. Time to figure out what the hell you were even doing.

And then you saw it.

Out of the corner of your eye, a figure shifted just beyond the tree line. At first, you thought it was a trick of the light—a shadow flickering in the heat. But the longer you stared, the more certain you became. Someone was there.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you wiped your hands on a rag and stepped away from the truck. “Bobby?” you called, your voice cutting through the stillness.

No response.

The figure moved closer, stepping into the clearing with a calm, deliberate stride. The sun glinted off dark hair, and as they drew nearer, your chest tightened. Sharp features came into focus, along with a confident smirk that sent a chill down your spine.

“Ruby?”

She stopped a few feet away, her gaze sweeping over you like she was sizing you up. Her smirk widened, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Long time no see.”

Your stomach twisted, and your grip tightened around the wrench in your hand. The cool steel felt like the only solid thing in a moment that threatened to unravel completely.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, your voice sharp, almost shaking.

Ruby’s smile deepened, a dangerous edge to her expression. “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in your little soul-searching trip.”

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Dumm dummm daaa. (Please let me know if you guys are bored with this, because I know this one is not as fun as part 2)

Feedback is always welcome ;)

[dreamlanderin]

You don't see me, part 2 (Sam x reader)

Summary: Sam gets hurt during a hunt and you have to face a truth. Follows after part 1

Warning: Blood, demons, monsters, angst.

Words: 5.8k

The bunker had never felt smaller. Maybe it was the way the silence had grown heavier, pressing down on your chest, or the way your footsteps echoed louder in the empty halls. You didn’t know when it had started—this slow unraveling between you and Sam. Maybe it had always been there, waiting for the right moment to pull you apart.

The days blurred together now, a fog of old books, flickering fluorescent lights, and the faint hum of the world above. Sam had been distant—more so than usual. At first, you told yourself it was just the weight of another hunt or the endless parade of nightmares he carried like second skin. But it wasn’t that. It was her.

Ruby.

You’d caught them together a few days ago, though "caught" wasn’t the right word. There was nothing secretive about it, no hurried whispers or hidden glances. Ruby stood in the hallway just outside the war room, her arms crossed, her smirk sharp enough to cut. Sam leaned against the wall, his body tilted toward hers.

You’d come around the corner, your boots scuffing softly against the tile, and stopped short when you saw them. Ruby’s voice was low, almost soothing, as she pressed something into his hands—a small, unassuming vial filled with a dark, swirling liquid. You couldn’t hear what she said, but the way Sam’s shoulders relaxed, the faint nod of his head, told you everything you needed to know. She was helping him. Again.

Ruby’s eyes flicked up, catching yours before you could move. Her smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you swore she could see right through you.

You didn’t stay to hear the rest. You turned on your heel and walked away, your stomach twisting as her laughter followed you down the hall. Sam hadn’t come after you, hadn’t even noticed you were there. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but it did. God, it did.

The days after were worse. Sam barely spoke to you, his attention focused on his laptop or his phone. He was chasing leads, he said, though you wondered how much of those leads came from Ruby. You tried not to think about it, tried to drown yourself in lore and research, but the silence between you two grew louder with each passing day.

Dean noticed, of course. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it, either.

“You two havin’ a spat or something?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the doorframe of the library as you flipped through an ancient bestiary.

“No,” you said, too quickly.

Dean raised an eyebrow, chewing on the toothpick that had somehow become a permanent fixture in his mouth. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”

You shot him a glare, but it lacked bite. “Drop it, Dean.”

He shrugged, pushing off the doorframe. “Just sayin’. If you need to vent or whatever, I’m around. Not great at the whole feelings thing, but I can pretend.”

You offered him a faint smile, more out of politeness than anything. “Thanks.”

He nodded, leaving you to the books and the oppressive quiet. As much as you appreciated Dean’s attempts at comfort, you couldn’t bring yourself to talk about it—not to him, not to anyone. Instead, you buried yourself deeper in research, hoping the pages of ancient lore would dull the ache in your chest: I didn't ask you to wait for me.

In the midst of all this you found yourself reminiscing about certain things. Like how your life was before the boys: I was definitely less dramatic, that is for sure. When you had joined the boys you had made a promise to yourself, to make a difference in the world. You couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere you'd missed that, and a quiet guilt had started to settle within you.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The call came a few days later—a case in Colorado. A string of unexplained disappearances in a small mountain town. The locals were terrified, whispering about shadowy creatures lurking in the woods. The sheriff was tight-lipped, but the pattern was unmistakable. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human.

“Sounds like a wraith,” Dean said, tossing the sheriff’s report onto the table.

“Could be,” Sam agreed, though his tone lacked conviction. He glanced at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. You knew who he was thinking about, who he was probably texting.

“I’ll pack the silver knives, just in case,” you said, standing before the conversation could veer into dangerous territory.

“I’ll grab the UV lights,” Dean added, shooting Sam a look you couldn’t quite decipher. “Think you can peel yourself away from that phone long enough to load the gear?”

Sam blinked, startled, and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Yeah. Sorry.”

You avoided looking at him, busying yourself with the bag of weapons in the corner. Still, a little smile tweaked on your face from Dean's comment. Seems you weren't the only one annoyed with them. So much so that the air in the room felt thick, like something unspoken was hanging between the three of you. You didn’t have the energy to deal with it, not today.

The drive to Colorado was long and uneventful. You sat in the backseat, staring out the window as the scenery blurred by. Dean had his music cranked up, Metallica blasting through the speakers, but it did little to drown out the thoughts swirling in your mind.

Sam was quiet, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape. He’d barely said two words to you since the trip started, and you couldn’t tell if it was guilt or indifference keeping him silent. Either way, it didn’t matter. You weren’t in the mood to talk to him, either.

Instead, you focused on Dean. He kept the conversation light, cracking jokes and recounting old hunts in vivid detail. You laughed when he wanted you to, nodding along even when your mind wandered. It was easier this way—easier to pretend everything was fine.

But even without Sam or Dean. There was still that guilt. That selfishness that had started to fester, saying: you were wasted here. That you had not fulfilled that promise. You were not making a difference because of a boy.

Is it...true?

You shook it off, though. Ignoring the little voice.

The first night in Colorado, you got your answer fast enough. The creature wasn’t a wraith—it was something worse. Locals called it a "Shadow Stalker," an ancient spirit that preyed on fear. It slipped through the darkness like smoke, its form shifting and flickering like a dying flame. Victims reported feeling an overwhelming sense of dread before they vanished, their bodies never found.

“This thing’s bad news,” Dean said, flipping through the notes you’d compiled. “How do we kill it?”

“Fire,” you replied, your voice steady. “It’s bound to the forest, but if we can trap it and burn the remains, we should be able to destroy it.”

Sam nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Ruby gave me something that might help.”

Your stomach clenched at her name, but you didn’t say anything. Sam pulled out the vial she’d given him, holding it up to the light. The liquid inside swirled like ink in water, dark and unyielding.

“She said it can weaken spirits,” Sam explained, his tone defensive. “It might give us an edge.”

Dean frowned, eyeing the vial with suspicion. “You sure about this? I don’t trust anything that comes from her.”

Sam bristled, his jaw tightening. “It’s worth a shot.”

You stayed silent, your gaze fixed on the notes in front of you. Arguing with Sam about Ruby never ended well, and you didn’t have the energy for another fight. Still, the thought of relying on something she’d provided made your skin crawl. You couldn’t help but think Ruby was adding something to the table... were you?

The plan was simple: lure the Shadow Stalker to a clearing, trap it with salt and sigils, and set it ablaze. It should have been straightforward. But plans rarely accounted for the chaos of reality.

The forest was dark, the towering trees blotting out most of the moonlight. The air was thick with an unnatural stillness, every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves setting your nerves on edge. The Shadow Stalker was faster than any of you had anticipated, its form flickering in and out of sight like smoke caught in a draft.

The three of you had split up, trying to corral the thing toward the trap. It wasn’t ideal, but the forest was too dense to move as a group, and the creature seemed to thrive on dividing its prey.

You heard Dean shout, his voice sharp and urgent, followed by the unmistakable sound of a branch snapping. Heart pounding, you sprinted toward the sound, your silver knife gripped tightly in your hand. The underbrush snagged at your boots, branches tearing at your jacket, but you didn’t slow down.

When you found him, the creature had Dean pinned to the ground, its glowing eyes burning like embers. Its form was humanoid but wrong, its limbs elongated and twisted, its shadowy body shifting and flickering with every movement. Dean was struggling beneath it, his knife just out of reach.

Without hesitation, you charged forward, shouting to get its attention. The creature turned, its eyes locking onto you, and for a moment, you thought you’d succeeded. But it moved faster than you could react, lunging at you with a guttural hiss.

You swung your knife, but it passed through the creature’s body like smoke, offering no resistance. Before you could recover, the thing lashed out, its claws raking across your side. Pain exploded through your ribs, hot and searing, and you stumbled back, hitting the ground hard.

The creature loomed over you, its form shifting and solidifying as it prepared to strike. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your knife slipping from your fingers as your vision blurred. You thought about Dean, about Sam, about everything.

And then Sam was there.

He came out of nowhere, throwing himself between you and the creature without a second thought. The Shadow Stalker shrieked as his body collided with its form, his momentum knocking it off balance. It turned on him immediately, its claws sinking into his shoulder and chest before tossing him aside like a ragdoll.

“Sam!” you screamed, scrambling to your feet despite the pain.

The creature advanced again, but your eyes fell on the small vial lying in the dirt a few feet away. Sam must have dropped it when he fell. You lunged for it, ignoring the way your side protested, and snatched it up with trembling hands.

The Shadow Stalker was almost on you, its twisted form flickering in and out of focus. You didn’t think—you just threw the vial at its feet, the glass shattering against the ground. A burst of light erupted from the impact, engulfing the creature in a brilliant glow. It screamed, its body writhing and twisting as the light consumed it, until finally, it dissolved into ash.

The forest fell silent.

You turned, your chest heaving, and saw Sam lying motionless on the ground. Dean was already there, his hands pressed against Sam’s chest in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.

“We gotta move,” Dean barked, his voice tight with panic. “Help me get him up.”

You nodded, adrenaline overriding the pain in your side as you rushed to help. Together, you and Dean hauled Sam to his feet, his weight heavy and unyielding between you. He was conscious, but barely, his head lolling against your shoulder as he mumbled something you couldn’t make out.

“Hang on, Sam,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Just hang on.”

Please be okay

The drive back to the motel was a blur. Dean drove like a man possessed, the Impala’s tires screeching as he tore down the winding roads. You sat in the backseat with Sam, your hands pressed firmly against the wounds on his chest and shoulder. Blood seeped through your fingers, warm and sticky, but you didn’t let go.

“Stay with me, Sam,” you pleaded, your voice barely audible over the roar of the engine. “Don’t you dare pass out.”

Please

His eyes fluttered open for a moment, his gaze unfocused. “You… okay?” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. “I’m fine,” you lied. “Just hold on.”

He had reached his hand out, seemly wanting to touch you, but it fell down before his eyes closed.

When you finally reached the motel, Dean barely waited for the car to stop before he was out and pulling Sam from the backseat. You followed, your legs shaky as you helped him get Sam inside.

Dean laid him on the bed, his movements swift and precise as he grabbed the first aid kit from his duffel. “Get me some water and towels,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You moved without thinking, grabbing what he needed and returning to his side. Dean worked quickly, cutting away Sam’s blood-soaked shirt to reveal the gashes across his chest and shoulder. They were deep, the edges ragged, and the sight of them made your stomach churn.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean muttered, his jaw tight as he cleaned the wounds. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands gripping your knees as you watched Dean work. Occasionally handing him something after a barked order. The room was silent except for the sound of his muttered curses and the soft, labored breaths coming from Sam.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe. You’d saved him. That was all that mattered.

Please be okay, please.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The knock at the door came sharp and impatient, like someone who wasn’t used to waiting. Dean shot you a look, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun on the table. You tensed, the adrenaline from the hunt still coursing through your veins as the room went unnervingly still.

Another knock, louder this time.

“Who the hell—” Dean started, but his words cut off as he swung the door open.

Ruby stood on the other side, her arms crossed and her expression set somewhere between irritation and boredom. She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, brushing past Dean like he wasn’t even there.

“Of course,” she muttered, glancing around the room before her gaze landed on Sam. “You idiots managed to get him hurt.”

“Nice to see you too,” Dean snapped, slamming the door shut behind her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Ruby turned to face him, her dark eyes narrowing. “What do you think I’m doing here? Cleaning up your mess. Again.” Her gaze flicked to you, letting out a scoff “What happened?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Dean cut you off. “None of your damn business.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, her hands going to her hips. “Right. Because clearly, you’ve got it all under control. That’s why he’s lying there bleeding out.”

“He’s not bleeding out,” Dean snapped, though his jaw tightened as he glanced at Sam. “I stitched him up.”

Ruby snorted. “And you think that’s enough? This thing wasn’t just any monster, Dean. You have no idea what kind of damage it’s done.”

Her words made your stomach twist, and you looked at Sam, his face pale and damp with sweat. He was breathing, but it was shallow and uneven, his chest barely rising and falling beneath the bandages.

“I can fix him,” Ruby said, her tone matter-of-fact, as though she were offering to change a tire.

Dean took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Why the hell should we trust you?”

“Because you don’t have a choice,” she shot back, her voice sharp. “You want him to survive or not?”

Dean hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides. “What’s the catch?”

Ruby sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was dealing with a particularly slow student. “There’s no catch. I need him alive as much as you do.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said, your voice low but steady. Ruby’s eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, the room felt colder.

“Look,” she said, her tone softening just enough to be almost convincing, “I don’t care if you trust me or not. But if you don’t let me do this, he’s going to die. So stop wasting my time and move.”

Dean glared at her for a long moment, his jaw working as he weighed his options. Finally, with a muttered curse, he stepped aside. “Fine. But if you pull anything—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll kill me, I get it,” Ruby interrupted, brushing past him to kneel beside Sam. She examined him quickly, her movements brisk and efficient, before standing and turning back to Dean.

“I’m going to need something,” she said. “A specific herb. Should be in one of those backwater shops you like to call hunting supply stores.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “What herb?”

“It’s called witch’s balsam. Ask for it by name,” Ruby said impatiently. “Now, unless you want him to keep circling the drain, I suggest you get moving.”

Dean looked at her, then at you, his expression torn. “You gonna be okay here?”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed it. “Yeah. Go.”

Dean hesitated for a moment longer, then grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the room, muttering curses under his breath. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving you alone with Ruby.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Sam’s ragged breathing. Ruby didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she just didn’t care. She moved to the table, rummaging through the supplies Dean had left behind with a look of mild disgust.

“Amateurs,” she muttered, shaking her head.

You stayed by the bed, your hands clenched into fists as you watched her. There was something about the way she carried herself, the way she seemed so at ease in the chaos, that made your skin crawl.

“What do you want?” you asked finally, your voice sharper than you intended.

Ruby turned, raising an eyebrow. “What do I want? I want to keep him alive. That’s what you want too, isn’t it?”

Her words hit a nerve, but you refused to let it show. “Why are you really here?”

She crossed her arms, leaning back against the table with a smirk. “Because he called me. Don’t act so surprised—he always calls me before a hunt.”

Your chest tightened, the words cutting deeper than they should have. “We didn’t need your help.”

Ruby laughed, low and mocking. “Right. Because you were doing such a great job on your own.”

You clenched your jaw, biting back the retort that rose to your lips. She wasn’t worth it. Not now. Not when Sam was lying there, barely holding on.

Ruby must have sensed your hesitation, because her smirk softened into something almost sympathetic. “You know,” she said, her tone quieter now, “you should be grateful. I’m the reason he’s still breathing.”

"No, it's because of me and Dean that he is still breathing"

"Really? And how did you manage that?"

Your eyes flicker away for a second, thinking about that vial. She gave you a knowing smile, the kind you really wanted to slap off her face.

She moved toward the bed, her hand brushing against Sam’s arm as she looked down at him. “You care about him,” she said, her voice low and almost contemplative. “I get that. But here’s the thing—you can't protect him because you don’t know him like I do.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, anger bubbling beneath the surface, but you stayed silent.

“I’ve seen the darkness in him,” Ruby continued, her gaze never leaving Sam. “I’ve seen what he’s capable of. And if you think you can save him from that, you’re deluding yourself.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, daring you to respond. But all you could do was stare at her, the weight of everything crashing down on you in a way you couldn’t quite process.

Ruby smirked again, satisfied, and turned back to the table, leaving you standing there with nothing but the sound of Sam’s shallow breaths to keep you company.

You didn’t move from your spot by the bed, your fists clenched so tightly at your sides that your nails dug into your palms. Ruby’s words echoed in your mind, cutting deep into every insecurity you had managed to bury until now.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice low but trembling with barely restrained anger.

Ruby turned slowly, the smirk on her face growing sharper. “What do you think I mean? You’re playing house, acting like you’re his savior or something. It’s pathetic.”

Your breath hitched, the venom in her tone hitting harder than you cared to admit. “I’ve been here for him,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “Every damn day. I’ve patched him up, kept him going when he couldn’t keep himself together. You don’t get to walk in here and act like you know him better than I do.”

Ruby laughed, the sound cold and biting. “Oh, sweetheart, you think bandaging him up makes you special? That it makes you important? You have no idea what’s inside him. You wouldn’t last a second in his world.”

“This is my world too,” you snapped, stepping forward despite the icy fear curling in your stomach. “I’ve fought beside him, bled beside him. I know what he’s been through.”

“Do you?” Ruby tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Do you really? Because all I see is someone who thinks they can fix him by sticking around long enough. But here’s the thing: Sam Winchester doesn’t need someone to hold his hand. He needs someone who understands him—who isn’t afraid of what he’s capable of.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” you said through gritted teeth.

Ruby took a step closer, her dark eyes boring into yours. “Maybe you should be.”

Her words sent a chill down your spine, but you refused to back down. “I don’t believe you,” you said, your voice trembling but defiant. “You don’t care about him. You just use him to get what you want.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow, her smirk fading into something colder, more dangerous. “And what are you doing, exactly? Sticking around, waiting for him to notice you? Hoping one day he’ll look at you and see more than a tagalong?”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and cruel, and you felt the air leave your lungs. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Ruby smiled, clearly pleased with herself.

“Let me save you some time,” she continued, her voice soft but dripping with malice. “He doesn’t see you. Not the way you want him to. And he never will.”

“That’s not true,” you whispered, but the words felt hollow even as you said them.

Ruby laughed again, the sound low and mocking. “You think I’m lying? Look at him.” She gestured toward Sam, lying pale and unconscious on the bed. “Even now, he’s dreaming about something—someone—and it’s not you. It’s never you.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You refused to let her see how deep her words had cut. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

“Because someone needs to wake you up,” Ruby said simply snapping her fingers in your face. “You’re wasting your time. And in this line of work, time is something you don’t have much of.”

You shook your head, stepping back as her words settled like lead in your chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” Ruby said, crossing her arms. “I know you’re not strong enough for this. You’re not strong enough for him.”

You felt your knees weaken, your entire body trembling as the weight of her words bore down on you. For a moment, you thought about yelling, about throwing something, about doing anything to drown her out. But instead, you turned away, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“I don’t need to prove anything to you, you're just a demon” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ruby smirked, leaning back against the table with an air of satisfaction. Your comment not having an effect on her, “You’re right. You don’t. But you’re not trying to prove it to me, are you? You’re trying to prove it to him.”

Her words hung in the air, suffocating and unrelenting. You couldn’t stay in the room any longer. The walls felt like they were closing in, the sound of Sam’s shallow breaths and Ruby’s mocking laughter echoing in your ears.

Without another word, you turned and walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you. You stayed in cheap motel bathroom, looking at the mirror.

I didn't ask you to wait for me

You're just a tagalong

Her words seeping deeper into you replayed in your mind, one thought cut through the haze of pain and anger: Maybe she’s right.

You winch, feeling that throb on your side. With all the chaos and Ruby, you'd forgotten that you too were hurt.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The room was unnervingly quiet except for the steady sound of Sam’s shallow breaths and the faint rustling of Ruby shifting as she stood by the table, her arms crossed and her expression one of thinly veiled impatience.

You'd come out of the bathroom a little while ago, still a little riled up from everything. You'd patched yourself up as best you could, luckily it won't scar and it's not nearly as bad as Sam's wounds, the only proof you were ever injured at all was the red stain on your shirt. But overall you'd decided that you didn’t care about her right now—your focus was entirely on Sam.

He stirred, letting out a soft, pained groan as his head shifted against the pillow. His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t wake. Then his eyes cracked open, hazy and unfocused, scanning the room with a confused squint.

You leaned forward instinctively, your chair scraping softly against the floor. “Sam?” you said gently, your voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze landed on you briefly before sliding away, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of where he was. “What… happened?” he rasped, his voice raw and weak.

“You got hurt,” you said, keeping your tone steady, though the memory of his body hitting the ground sent a sharp pang through your chest. “The Shadow Stalker… you saved me, Sam. But it got you pretty bad.”

He blinked slowly, his eyes trying to focus on you, his confusion still apparent. “You… okay?” he mumbled, his voice barely audible but laced with concern.

Your heart twisted at the question, and you forced a small smile. “I’m fine,” you said softly. “Thanks to you.”

His lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, but his head tilted back against the pillow, exhaustion pulling at him. You watched his chest rise and fall unevenly, and for a moment, the words caught in your throat.

“Sam,” you said, leaning closer. “I need you to stay awake for a bit, okay? Just for me.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he forced his eyes open again. “M’trying,” he murmured.

You exhaled shakily, your fingers tightening on the edge of the chair. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that? Throwing yourself in front of that thing…”

His gaze met yours, and for the first time, there was something clear, something raw in his eyes that made your breath hitch. His lips parted, and his voice was soft, almost fragile, as he said, “You… matter.”

The words hit you like a jolt, your heart pounding in your chest. “Sam…” you whispered, unsure if you were about to laugh, cry, or crumble.

“You matter to me,” he said again, his voice faltering slightly. “Ruby…”

Your chest constricted as his words trailed off, her name cutting through the warmth of the moment like a blade. Your breath caught, and you shook your head instinctively, the ache in your chest spreading like wildfire.

“No,” you said softly, but firmly, leaning closer until he couldn’t look away. “It’s me, Sam. Not Ruby.”

His eyes searched yours, confusion flickering in their depths.

"What?" He was too groggy, too out of it to understand the weight of what he’d just said. His head sank deeper into the pillow, his lashes fluttering as he started to drift again.

You sat back, your chest tightening with a mix of pain and anger. The room seemed smaller now, the walls pressing in around you as the weight of everything settled over your shoulders.

Ruby, on the other hand, looked smug. She didn’t say a word, but the faint curl of her lips was enough to send a fresh wave of anger coursing through you. You turned your gaze back to Sam, your heart aching as you watched him sink deeper into unconsciousness.

You opened your mouth to respond, to say something—anything—but the sound of Dean clearing his throat behind you snapped you back to reality. You hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Got the herb,” Dean said, his tone clipped as he dumped a small bag onto the table beside Ruby. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ruby stepped forward, taking the bag and inspecting its contents with an air of impatience. “Finally. Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, well, sorry I don’t have a Rolodex of shady suppliers,” Dean shot back, his glare sharp enough to cut.

Ruby ignored him, turning her attention to Sam. “This’ll help,” she said, her tone brisk. “But it’s not gonna be pretty.”

You glanced at Sam, who was already drifting off again, his face pale and damp with sweat. Your hand tightened around the edge of the chair, a mix of fear and helplessness churning in your stomach.

“I’ll handle it,” Ruby said, her gaze flicking to you briefly before settling back on Sam. “You can sit this one out.”

Dean shot her a look but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned to you, his expression softening just enough to make your chest tighten. “Why don’t you take a break?” he suggested. “You’ve been sitting here all night.”

You hesitated, your eyes lingering on Sam, but eventually, you nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

As you stood, your legs felt unsteady beneath you, the weight of everything threatening to pull you down. You took one last look at Sam, his face etched with exhaustion, and then stepped away, your heart heavier than ever.

You matter to me... Ruby

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The motel hallway was eerily silent, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead the only sound breaking the stillness. You stopped just outside the door, leaning heavily against the wall as your legs threatened to give out beneath you. The weight of everything that had happened pressed down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs and leaving you dizzy.

He’d said your name. He’d said you mattered. But then he’d said hers.

Ruby.

Her name felt like poison in your veins, eating away at every shred of hope you’d held onto. You didn’t even blame him, not really. Not when you’d known all along where his heart lay. But hearing it, having it thrown in your face at your most vulnerable moment—it hurt more than you could have imagined.

You pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could physically hold yourself together. The ache behind your ribs had grown sharper, deeper, with every passing minute. It wasn’t just the exhaustion from the hunt or the fear of losing him. It was the realization that no matter how much you gave, no matter how many pieces of yourself you sacrificed, it would never be enough.

Not for him.

Sliding down the wall, you sat on the worn carpeted floor, your knees pulled up to your chest. The world outside the window was quiet, the stars faint against the inky black sky. It felt like you were the only person left in the universe, alone with your thoughts and the jagged shards of your heart.

You matter to me.

Did you? Were you making a difference with the boys? Like you promised yourself you would when you joined them.

The words played on a loop in your mind, soft and haunting. I never asked you to wait for me. You're just a tagalong. You matter to me, Ruby.

For a moment, you’d believed them. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d finally seen you. But then he said her name, and the illusion shattered.

Maybe Ruby was right. Maybe you were just a placeholder, someone to keep him company while he chased something else. The thought made your stomach twist, a nauseating mix of anger and shame bubbling to the surface.

But no. That wasn’t fair. You weren’t some fragile, desperate thing clinging to his attention. When you first joined them, you wanted to make the world a little better than you had found it. You had stayed because you cared, not because you thought he needed you. But now… now you weren’t so sure. Had you become selfish with Sam? Had your fixation on him cloud your orginal mission?

Maybe all you were doing was hurting yourself.

You leaned your head back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling tiles as your thoughts churned. You’d spent so much time trying to be what he needed—his support, his anchor, his friend. And yet, here you were, drowning in your own pain while he lay in that room, dreaming of someone else.

You couldn’t keep doing this.

The realization hit you like a cold slap to the face. You couldn’t stay, not like this. Not when every glance, every word, every unspoken promise was slowly tearing you apart. You needed space. Time. Time to heal, to figure out who you were without him. Time to get over this. Over him.

And that meant leaving.

The thought scared you, but it also felt… freeing. Like a weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying had suddenly been lifted. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to think about what life could be like outside of this—outside of him.

Would it hurt? Absolutely. But staying here, watching him drift further away with every passing day, was killing you. And you refused to let it.

You wiped at your face, surprised to find tears you hadn’t realized had fallen. Taking a shaky breath, you pushed yourself to your feet, your legs weak but steady enough to hold you. You glanced toward the motel room door, your chest tightening as you thought about the people inside.

Should you tell them first? No... no. Dean would stop you and Sam; with him you'd cave just from seeing him. You'd have to rip it off like a band-aid, without notice.

Dean would understand, eventually. He always did. Sam… well, Sam would survive. He seemed to be fine without you.

You turned and walked toward your room, the weight of your decision settling in. Tomorrow, you’d leave. You didn’t know where you’d go or how long you’d be gone, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was moving forward. Letting go.

You were done waiting. Done being a tagalong. You had spent too long letting others define your worth.

If you stayed, you’d lose yourself. And you weren’t ready for that. Not yet and besides, you’d made yourself a promise, a long time ago. And it was time to keep it.

So you wrote it down in a letter, left it on the nightstand, and let them find it in the empty room the next day. The road ahead was uncertain, but as you started walking—hitchhiking back toward an old friend—you felt a quiet certainty.

You didn’t have all the answers, but you were finally choosing yourself. You did matter. And that, for now, was enough.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

There will be a part 3. (Sorry it was so long; I got carried away)

Hope you enjoyed, Feedback is always welcome.

[dreamlanderin]

My dearest, most cherished audience—your feedback has utterly destroyed me (in the best way possible). I am slain by your kindness, undone by your support! Truly, how am I to recover from such generous praise? I shall now take to my fainting couch to contemplate. *Dramatic backflip*

But seriously guys, thank you so much for the positive feedback. It made my day 🥲🥹

[dreamlanderin]

You don't see me (Sam x reader)

Summary: Sam is hung up on ruby and you are left to pick up the pieces.

Words: 3k

Warnings: Angst, I guess?

The bunker is quiet tonight, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant creak of Dean moving somewhere down the hall. You’re sitting across from Sam at the long wooden table, stacks of books and lore spread between you like a fortress of words. The heavy, ancient tomes barely make a dent in the silence hanging between you. It’s not uncomfortable exactly, but the weight of unspoken words lingers, settling like dust in the corners of the room.

Sam hasn’t said much in the last hour, but you know him well enough by now to tell his mind is elsewhere. His eyes flicker down to his phone every few minutes, thumb hovering over the screen. He hasn’t texted her yet. You wish you didn’t know that, but you do. The tension in his shoulders, the faint crease of worry between his brows—it’s a routine you’ve seen too many times. He’s fighting a battle he’s already lost.

“You okay?” you ask, pretending to skim the passage in front of you. The words blur together, your focus slipping.

He blinks, startled by your voice. “Yeah.” He offers a polite smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just thinking.”

“Figured. You’ve been reading the same page for twenty minutes.”

He lets out a soft laugh, but it falls flat. “Guess I have. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” you reply gently, though the knot in your chest tightens. “I get it.”

And you do. Too well.

You wonder if Ruby knows just how much space she takes up in his mind. How his expression softens when he thinks about her, the way his gaze lingers on his phone like it’s a lifeline. You’ve seen that look before—the same one he used to give Jess. But Ruby isn’t Jess. And deep down, you think Sam knows that too.

You close your book with a quiet thud, watching the way his fingers drum absently against the table. “You should call her.”

His eyes snap up to yours, searching for something he doesn’t find. “It’s late.”

“I don’t think she’d care.” You try to keep your tone light, but the words carry more weight than you intended.

He doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches thin. You push your chair back, forcing a smile as you stand. “I’m gonna grab some coffee. Want anything?”

He shakes his head, gaze already dropping back to the phone. “I’m good. Thanks.”

You linger for a moment, hoping he’ll say something, anything. But he doesn’t.

The kitchen is dimly lit, the faint drip of the coffee machine the only sound as you lean against the counter. Your arms cross tightly over your chest, a futile attempt to keep the ache behind your ribs from spreading. It’s a familiar pain now, one that grows sharper every time Sam glances at his phone or mentions her name. Ruby. She’s a shadow you can’t outrun, a presence you can’t compete with.

She wasn’t the one who stayed up with him on sleepless nights, listening to his worries and fears. She wasn’t the one who patched him up after hunts, hands steady even when yours should have been trembling. She doesn’t know him the way you do, and yet, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t see you.

By the time you return, coffee in hand, Sam is standing by the bookshelves, phone pressed to his ear. His back is to you, but you don’t need to see his face to know who he’s calling. You set the mug down on the table a little harder than necessary, the soft clink echoing in the quiet room.

He doesn’t react. Or maybe he does and just chooses not to. Either way, you sink back into your chair, staring at the blurred words on the page in front of you. His voice carries faintly across the room, low and warm in a way that twists something ugly in your chest. You don’t need to hear what he’s saying. You already know.

You knew this would happen. It always did. The phone would ring, her name would light up his screen, and you’d disappear—just a shadow in his periphery. You hated how easily she pulled him away, how little it seemed to take for her to consume him completely. But what you hated most was how powerless you felt to stop it. He never even noticed you were gone.

When he finally returns to the table, his expression is unreadable. He sits across from you, and the silence between you feels heavier than before.

“Everything good?” you ask, keeping your tone neutral.

He nods, brushing his hair back with one hand. “Yeah. She just wanted to check in.”

Of course, she did. You swallow the bitter reply that rises in your throat and force a small smile. “Good. That’s good.”

The silence stretches again, unbearable now. Sam notices this time. His gaze flickers toward you, softer than before, but still guarded.

“I know you’re worried about her,” he says quietly.

Your heart skips, but you keep your expression even. “Dean’s worried about her. I’m just… cautious.”

Sam leans back, crossing his arms as he studies you. “It’s not just that. You don’t trust her.”

“She’s a demon, Sam. Of course I don’t.”

He flinches at your bluntness, his shoulders stiffening. “Yeah, I know.”

You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “If you know, then why are we even having this conversation?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost pleading. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple.” Your voice softens, but the edge remains. “She’s dangerous. You know it. I know it. Dean knows it. I can’t just sit here and pretend like that doesn’t terrify me.”

Sam looks at you then, really looks at you, and for the first time, you see a flicker of doubt in his eyes. But it isn’t enough.

“She’s helped us before,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I need to believe there’s something worth saving.”

You wanted to laugh, to tell him that ‘help’ wasn’t the same as trust, that saving her wasn’t his burden to bear. But the words caught in your throat, tangled with the memory of every time you’d stayed silent before. It didn’t matter what you said—he wasn’t listening. He never had. His faith in her was something you couldn’t touch, no matter how desperately you wanted to.

You shake your head, the words catching in your throat. “Believing in someone isn’t the same as trusting them. You’re trusting her with your life, Sam. With ours.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t save Jess. I couldn’t save Mom. If I can stop Ruby from going down the same path…”

His voice cracks, and your chest tightens at the vulnerability in his tone. You know. You’ve been there through all of it, left to pick up the pieces every time.

“Or maybe she’s counting on that,” you whisper.

Sam freezes, and for a moment, neither of you move. The distance between you feels too small, too wide, all at once.

“She’s not the only one who needs you,” you say finally, voice trembling. “Why can’t you see that?”

His eyes snap to yours, something raw and unsteady flickering in his gaze.

Your heart pounds in your chest, each word from him sinking deeper than the last. He doesn’t understand—he can’t. This wasn’t just about Ruby; it was about all the times you’d stayed, all the times you’d carried the weight of his grief without asking for anything in return. And now, with just a glance, it felt like he was ready to cast you aside as though none of it mattered. You wondered if he even realized how much space he took up in your world, how much you’d given without question.

“I didn’t ask you to wait for me.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and unexpected. You don’t move, but inside, everything shifts. Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, it feels like the room tilts, the ground beneath you cracking open.

He didn’t say it to be cruel—you know that. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. You feel the heat rising in your chest, curling into something raw and bitter. You want to scream, to shout at him for how thoughtless those words are. But all you can do is stand there, frozen in place, the weight of them sinking deep.

He didn’t ask you to wait.

Your mind spirals, pulling you into the moments you’ve spent by his side—the late nights, the patched wounds, the way you’ve carried his burdens without question. You think of all the times you chose him, even when it hurt, even when it meant putting your own heart on the line. And now, all of it feels unbearably small, insignificant in the shadow of those seven words.

You force yourself to breathe, slow and steady, but the ache behind your ribs spreads wider. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see me.

Swallowing hard, you turn away, the tension in your throat sharp and suffocating. The words you want to say—to demand how he could be so blind, so cruel—stay locked behind your teeth. Because what’s the point? He’s already made his choice. And it isn’t you.

"I know," you breathe. "You didn’t have to."

Forcing your feet to move, you walk away. You want to scream at the empty hallway, to beg him to come after you, to say something that would make this pain go away. But you don’t. You can’t. Instead, you pause at your door, hand resting on the frame, trying to convince yourself that this was enough. That it had to be enough. Because if you let yourself hope for more, it might just destroy you.

With a quiet exhale, you step inside, shutting the door softly behind you. The room feels colder, emptier, and as you sink onto the bed, you finally let the weight of it all settle over you.

He didn’t ask me to wait… but I did anyway... How stupid of me.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Any feedback would be great ;) hope you enjoyed

[dreamlanderin]

Dean's baby (Dean x reader)

Summary: After a long day of research, you go bother Dean in the garage.

words: 2.7k

Warnings: none

The bunker’s garage. Dean is under the hood of the Impala, a socket wrench in one hand, grease smudged on his forearm. His muscles flex subtly beneath his t-shirt with every movement, the faint sheen of sweat catching the dim light filtering through the room. The scent of motor oil hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of tools and old leather. The rhythmic clinking of metal echoes softly, grounding the space in familiar sounds of work and grit.

You wander in, your footsteps light but still noticeable against the concrete, the echo bouncing lazily through the garage. Boredom clings to you after hours spent in the bunker.

 The day had started off normal: wake up, polish some ancient weapons down in the bunker, make breakfast, and check the news for any strange sightings. One report caught your attention, a possible wendigo sighting. You never liked those. They always made your skin crawl.

That’s where you’ve been for most of the afternoon: doing research with Sam. Well, mostly he’s been doing the actual research while your mind drifts elsewhere.

Honestly, you’re a little annoyed with him. The younger Winchester and his big, stupid puppy-dog eyes. And that hair, god, that hair. Always falling into his face until he sweeps it back with that effortless little motion, usually when he’s frustrated or deep in thought.

You’d caught yourself staring, a lot.

Anyway.

You spot Dean, engrossed in his work in the garage, and smirk to yourself.

"Hey, grease monkey," you call, leaning against the workbench with a lazy grin.

Dean doesn’t flinch. His arm tenses as he tightens something under the Impala’s hood, the movement drawing attention to the way his shirt strains slightly across his shoulders. There’s a faint sheen of sweat along his forearms, catching the light just enough to highlight the grease smudges marking his skin. The garage hums with the familiar scent of motor oil, metal, and leather, a warm, grounding smell that feels like him.

"If you’re here to help, there’s a rag over there. If you’re here to annoy me, the exit’s where you left it," Dean mutters, not bothering to look up.

You smirk but don’t move. "Why not both?"

Finally, Dean ducks out from under the hood, giving you that half-annoyed, half-amused look he’s perfected over the years. His eyes meet yours, sharp and clear, but your mind has already started drifting, back to where you spent most of the afternoon.

Research with Sam.

You were more focused on how easily he navigated the endless pages of lore and obscure texts, piecing things together faster than you could even process. It’s annoying, how effortlessly smart he is, how his mind seems to work ten steps ahead while you’re still trying to catch up.

You pretend it doesn’t bother you, but sometimes it does. Not because he makes you feel small, Sam would never do that, but because you wish you could keep pace. And honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how often you find yourself nodding along, hoping he doesn’t notice when you’re completely lost.

Dean's voice pulls you out of it. "Aren’t you supposed to be helping Sammy with the case? Or did you solve it already while staring at his hair?"

Your cheeks heat, but you roll your eyes, playing it off "Sam’s doing his super-sleuth thing," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "I was starting to lose brain cells watching him cross-reference, so I figured I’d come see some manual labour”

Dean smirks, turning back to the engine. "Well, you came to the right place. Watch and learn, kid. This baby’s a masterpiece."

"Masterpiece? It’s stuck together with duct tape and prayer."

Dean freezes, socket wrench in hand, and slowly turns his head to glare at you. There’s that dangerous glint in his eyethe one that usually means you’re about to get roped into cleaning weapons or organizing the storage room. But beneath the mock offense, there’s humor simmering just under the surface.

"Careful," he says, voice low with faux seriousness. "You’re walking a fine line."

You hold his gaze, arms crossed, trying not to let the corner of your mouth twitch. Dean’s like that, a mix of sharp edges and warmth that sneaks up on you. He acts tough, all bravado and snark, but you’ve seen him stay up all night patching Sam up after a hunt, or quietly fixing the broken lock on your door without ever mentioning it.

"Relax," you tease, nudging the Impala’s fender with the toe of your boot. "I know she’s your baby. I wouldn’t actually insult her… to your face."

Dean’s glare narrows further, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. "Good. Because this ‘baby’ has more heart than most people I know. You’d be lucky to be half as reliable."

You snort, shaking your head. "She’s lucky to still be running at all."

Without missing a beat, Dean grabs the dirty rag from the workbench and flicks it at you, the grease-streaked fabric catching you square in the shoulder.   

"Hey!" you yelp, recoiling with a laugh as you swat it away. "Gross!"

Dean grins, clearly pleased with himself. "That’s what you get for disrespecting the queen." He tosses the rag back onto the bench like nothing happened, already turning his attention back to the Impala.

"You’re impossible," you mutter, brushing off the faint smear left behind.

"And you’re still standing in my garage," Dean counters, leaning back under the hood. "Which means you’re fair game."

"Yeah, yeah." You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the grin tugging at your lips.

Moments like this, easy, light, and a little messy, are the rare ones you tuck away for later, because you know they don’t come around often.

It’s strange, really. How easily this life found you. Or maybe how easily they found you.

Meeting the Winchesters hadn’t exactly been planned. You stumbled into their world under circumstances that could generously be called chaotic, one wrong place, wrong time situation after another until suddenly, there you were. Tied up in the mess of hunts, ancient books, and things that shouldn’t exist outside of nightmares.

But somehow, instead of leaving you to deal with it on your own, they’d taken you in.

Dean likes to act like you’re a pain in his ass, but he’s the one who never lets you drive anywhere alone. The one who shoves a gun into your hand and taught you how to shoot, even if he complained about it the entire time. And sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, his eyes soften, if only a little.

And Sam, Sam’s different. Gentler in his approach, but no less protective. He’s the one who stays up late researching the things you don’t understand, explaining it all in that calm, patient way that somehow makes you feel a little less out of your depth, even when you know you’ll never catch up to him.

They don’t call it family. Not out loud. But it’s in the way Dean knocks your boot off the workbench with a muttered "Get your feet off Baby," or the way Sam always checks to make sure you ate something after long nights.

It’s quiet, unspoken, but you feel it all the same.

You let out a breath, still leaning against the workbench, watching Dean work. "So, what’s wrong with her this time?"

Dean shrugs, wiping his hands on another rag, his muscles moving slightly with the movement. "Nothing serious. Just a tune-up. Gotta keep her running smooth." He glances over at you with that smug, gruff look, eyes gleaming. "Something you wouldn’t understand, what with you not knowing the difference between a carburetor and a spark plug."

You gasp, hand to your chest in exaggerated offense. "I know what a spark plug is! It’s the… sparky thing."

Dean freezes for half a second, staring at you like you’ve personally insulted his entire existence. And then he barks out a laugh, loud and unapologetic, shaking his head. "Sparky thing. Yeah, okay. You’re a regular gearhead."

You roll your eyes, stepping around to the other side of the Impala and leaning against the fender with a lazy stretch. "I’m just saying, for someone who spends hours messing with this thing, you could at least upgrade to something newer. You know, with Bluetooth. Or seat warmers."

Dean’s hand stops mid-wipe, and he lowers the rag slowly, fixing you with the kind of glare that suggests you’ve crossed into dangerous territory. "Seat warmers? Really?" His voice drips with disbelief, as if you’ve just suggested painting flames down the sides of the car.

"First of all, seat warmers are for wimps. Second, this car’s got more soul in her headlights than any of those plastic toys rolling off assembly lines. She’s not just a car. She’s family."

"Right…." you say, holding back a laugh. "The Impala is the real Winchester sibling."

"Damn straight," Dean replies, his tone serious.

He goes back to tightening a bolt, his forearms shifting with the motion, tense and controlled. There’s a natural ease to the way he moves, like he’s done this a thousand times, every motion instinctive. His t-shirt pulls just slightly across his back as he leans over the engine, the faint sheen of sweat from hours in the garage catching the low light.

You try not to notice, but it’s hard to ignore the quiet strength in the way he works, strong hands, calloused and capable, making even the smallest task look deliberate.

For a moment, the only sounds are the soft scrape of metal and the rhythmic click of his wrench, and you find yourself lingering longer than you meant to.

You tilt your head "You really love this car, huh?"

Dean glances at you, his expression softening slightly. "Yeah, I do. She’s been through a lot with us. Hell, she’s saved our asses more times than I can count."

He pauses, rolling the wrench absently in his hand, eyes flicking over the engine but not really seeing it. His voice drops, quieter now, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. "When everything else goes to crap, at least I know she’s still here. Still running."

For a moment, the weight of his words lingers, heavier than the air thick with motor oil. You catch the flicker in his eyes, the kind that doesn’t need explanation. It’s not just the car. It’s everything she’s carried him through.

The unexpected honesty catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t have a snarky comeback. You watch the way he absently runs a hand along the edge of the hood, fingers tracing the curve like it’s second nature. You can’t help but wonder how many nights he’s sat in the driver’s seat alone, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

"That’s... kinda nice," you say quietly, the words feeling too small for the moment but all you can come up with.

Dean straightens, shrugging it off almost immediately, like he didn’t just crack the door open to something more vulnerable. His eyes flick back to you, the faintest smirk returning to his face. "Yeah, well, don’t get too sentimental on me. Next thing I know, you’ll be asking to drive her."

Your eyes light up, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Oh, can I?"

The shift is subtle, classic Dean, slipping behind the wall the second things start feeling too real. But there’s still something lingering in the way he watches you

"Not a chance in hell."

"Come on, Dean!" you whine, stepping closer. "Just once! I won’t even go out of first gear."

"Nope," Dean says, popping the P with exaggerated finality. "This car’s got standards."

You pout, leaning against the Impala dramatically. "You’re no fun."

Dean raises an eyebrow, and walk’s round the car towards you: leaning in a little closer, his teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m plenty of fun. You just don’t meet the qualifications for the VIP package."

His voice drops slightly at the end, smooth and full of that effortless confidence he carries around like armor. It’s the kind of line he throws out without a second thought, but it lingers longer than you expect, heating the space between you just enough to make your pulse pick up. You tell yourself it’s just the closeness, the warmth of the garage air, and not the way his eyes flick over you like he’s enjoying your reaction.

"Wow," you say, tilting your head with a mock-offended scoff. "Now you’re just being mean."

Dean chuckles under his breath, shifting back a fraction but still well within arm’s reach. There’s something easy about the way he leans, like he knows exactly how to walk the line between playful and challenging.

"Mean?" he echoes, standing upright and planting his hands on his hips, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to be noticeable beneath the grease-smudged fabric of his shirt. His gaze locks onto yours with that familiar intensity, the one that’s half teasing and half something else you can never quite place. "You just called my car a sparky, duct-taped death trap. You’re lucky I let you breathe near her."

You know he’s joking, mostly. But there’s something about the way he says it, the protective edge creeping into his voice like he’s daring you to insult the Impala again. You’ve seen him put himself between her and danger more times than you can count.

You laugh, holding your hands up. "Okay, fine. I’ll leave your precious car alone." You step back, your grin still in place. "But if you get stuck in a ditch again, don’t call me to push."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "Like you could push anything heavier than a shopping cart."

His voice carries that familiar roughness, laced with amusement, the kind that makes it impossible to take him seriously, even when he’s laying the sarcasm on thick. You roll your eyes, pushing off the Impala with an exaggerated sigh.

"I’ll remember that next time you need me to help save your sorry butt," you shoot back, already heading toward the door.

It’s the kind of banter that feels second nature by now, the words rolling off your tongue as easily as breathing. But just as your hand brushes against the doorframe, something tugs at you to glance back.

Dean’s still there, leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed, watching you leave with a half-smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes follow you, not in a way that demands attention, but in that quiet, lingering way of someone who’s gotten used to having you around. Like maybe he notices more than he lets on.

Your grin softens almost involuntarily, the sharp edges of the teasing fading into something quieter. "Besides, you’d miss me too much”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but there’s no denying the way his eyes warm just a little. He doesn’t say anything, just gives a short, gruff nod like that’s answer enough.

And it is.

"Thanks, Dean”

Dean rolls his eyes, picking up his wrench again. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here”

You giggle lightly as you disappear down the hallway, your footsteps soft against the cold bunker floor, Dean’s eyes trail after you. He shakes his head with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Seat warmers," he mutters under his breath, glancing at the Impala like she might somehow agree with him.

The sound of Sam’s voice drifts faintly from the library, calling your name, probably to drag you back into research or help with whatever case he’s buried in.

Dean’s smile fades just slightly, not gone, but dimmed, like someone turned the dial down a notch.

His hand lingers on the Impala for another beat longer than necessary before he shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders as if to shake something off.

He ducks back under the hood, wrench in hand, and mutters under his breath, "All right, Winchester. Get a grip."

But even as he works, his thoughts are still trailing after you, following the soft echo of your laugh down the hall.

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Check out part 2

Please be nice it was my first one, any feedback would be appreciated ;)