Description: Unknown to the Winchesters, Y/n is an angel; but when something goes wrong on a hunt, they’re forced to reveal their secret.
“No, no, no, don’t you dare close your eyes.” You risk a glance in the rearview mirror, heart threatening to pound through your chest. “Damn it, Dean. Keep your eyes open.”
You slam your foot down on the gas and the car lurches forward, picking up speed as you race down the highway through the darkness.
“Y/n, drive faster,” Sam orders, sitting in the backseat with his brother. He’s pressing a shirt, already soaked with blood, to the wound in Dean’s abdomen.
“’S fine, babe,” Dean mumbles, eyes fluttering open for a heartbeat. “’M fine…” His eyes roll back in his head.
“Dean!” Sam slaps his brother’s cheeks a few times, trying to wake him.
Wake up, you think desperately. Please please please please.
Save him, you pray. I always follower orders and I never ask for anything, but now I’m asking you to save him. If you’ve ever cared you will save him.
Dean’s body starts to convulse, his back arching up off the seat violently.
You jerk the steering wheel to the right, tires squealing as you pull to the shoulder of the road and slam on the brakes. Throwing open your door, you race around the car and wrench open the door to the backseat.
“Sam?” You’re practically pleading, but you know there’s nothing he can do.
“He’s not breathing.” Sam places his hands on Dean’s chest and starts compressions, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. “He’s not breathing.”
There’s wind; wind so fast and so strong that it almost feels like it’s burning as it whips across your cheeks.
There’s cold; air so frigid, so thin, that no matter how many gasping breaths you take there is no relief.
There’s falling; plummeting. Your stomach is threatening to leap up into your throat and no matter how hard you push, how fast your wings pump, you can not slow this.
The impact is jarring in your bones, tearing in your wings, blinding, searing pain as your body slams against the ground.
No, not ground. Pavement. Asphalt. You’re on a road.
To your left comes the sound of screeching tires. Headlights cut into your vision and you squeeze your eyes shut against the light; bracing for the collision, for more pain.
Car doors slamming. Boots against the pavement.
“Where the hell did she come from?” a voice is saying.
You keep your eyes closed. There’s a pebble digging into your cheek but you can’t find the strength to raise your head.
“Help,” you whisper, but even you can barely hear the word.
When your eyes flutter open, you see shoes. Their owner is crouching next to your body.
Humans. They’re humans. They’re not supposed to see you. They can’t find out what you are. You have to-
“Shit, Sam, she’s in bad shape.”
“We should get her out of here,” a second voice agrees.
“Don’t-” You choke off in a gasp, your attempt at movement jarring your injuries. “Don’t touch me…”
“Just hang on,” the first voice replies, and there’s a warm hand touching your shoulder. You want to flinch away from the touch but you’re so tired, so tired. “You’re going to be alright. We’ll get you out of here.”
Strong arms slide underneath your body. Someone’s picking you up. You cry out at the pain, curling in on yourself.
“Hang on, sweetheart,” the voice says. It’s a male’s voice. Somehow soothing in it’s roughness. “I’ve got you.”
He’s holding you, now; cradling you against his chest. It’s a broad chest, strong. Your head lolls against it and you can feel the power in the arms that are holding you.
Despite it all, somehow you feel safe.
You slip easily into unconsciousness.
When you wake, it’s to the feeling of soft cloth draped over your body and a pillow beneath your head.
You open your eyes slowly, waiting impatiently for your vision to adjust to the darkness of the room. Turning your head to the right, you see a silhouette; a lone figure sitting in a chair next to your bed. His elbows are resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely together.
A pair of bright green eyes bores into your own.
“Hey, hey, hey, take it easy,” the man says when you start to sit up. His hand is warm against your shoulder as he pushes you back down. “Relax. You’re safe.”
“Where- where am I?” Your voice comes out as a croak.
“A motel,” he says, like you should know what that is. Like it should be a comfort. “Do you remember how you got here?”
You shake your head, the movement making you wince. Your head aches, pounds, throbs. There are nails pounding into the back of your eyes and it hurts.
“Easy.” His voice holds some emotion you’re not familiar with - concern, you think it’s called. You hear his movement, eyes squeezed shut against the pain, and then there’s something damp and blissfully cool being draped over your forehead.
“You’re pretty banged up,” the man continues. “Definitely a concussion. Looked like some broken ribs. Not to mention the cuts and bruises.”
Not to mention the damage to your wings.
You don’t say the words aloud.
“You mind telling me why you were lying in the road like that?”
Eyeing him warily, you clench your hands around the fabric of the sheets. “I don’t remember,” you murmur.
He nods, like he expected this. “Alright,” he says slowly. “Alright, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. What’s your name?”
Your jaw clenches, apprehension flooding through you. Hesitation. Everything you’ve ever been taught has told you never to trust humans.
The man takes your hand, gently disentangling your fingers from the sheets. “You’re safe,” he repeats. “You’re safe here.”
Are you? Can you trust him?
But then again, what have the angels done for you lately? Sending you on their missions, using you as their clean up crew. Bringing you in for the dirty work and then at the first sign of hesitation tossing you down to earth like a sheep to wolves.
Where else do you have to go?
“My name is Y/n,” you whisper, and as you say it, you slowly draw your hand back.
He sits back in his chair. “Y/n, I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”
Ah. Winchester. The hunter.
“You’re a hunter,” you say quietly. It’s not a question. “I’ve heard the stories.”
If you’ve surprised him, he doesn’t show it. “You in the business?” he asks a little suspiciously.
“Yes,” you reply. “Yes. My - my parents. They were hunters.”
“And where are they now?”
“Dead.” Isn’t that how these human’s lives work? Tragic backstories full of heart break to turn them into warriors?
“I’m sorry.” Dean studies you, brow furrowed, and then he sighs heavily. “You have anywhere to go, Y/n? Any place we can bring you? Drop you off?”
After a moment’s hesitation, you shake your head.
“That’s what I thought.” He bites his lower lip, obviously debating something. “Well,” he finally says. “You might as well stick with us for a while. At least until you’re healed up. It can’t hurt, right?”
He’s wrong about that. It could definitely hurt.
But it might be the safest place for you.
One year and six months earlier.
Dean Winchester is always saving you.
He doesn’t really know it. How could he? He has no idea what he is to the angels. Michael’s vessel. He has no idea that his destiny is for greatness. Simply being with him is enough to keep you safe from those who hunt you.
Demons are another story. So are vampires. Restless spirits, wendigos, werewolves, that one case with a bunch of evil clowns. Those are not as easy. Those are the times when he’s aware that he’s protecting you; when his arm darts out automatically to push you behind him, when he’s never more than five steps away from you.
It almost bothers you, that you have to rely on him in this way. Six, seven months ago, you wouldn’t need to. You could pop into a building in a flurry of wings, smite anything that got in your way, heal your own wounds, and disappear again in a matter of minutes. You’re an angel, you can take care of yourself, you can-
But that’s not entirely true. Not anymore.
Because being an angel is your secret now, isn’t it? You’re not fallen, not exactly. You’re simply… absent. On a break. Hiding from heaven until you can figure out what you want from this world.
Tonight, it seems Dean Winchester’s job is to save you from a bar fight. One that he started, but still.
The two of you are sitting at a table near the back - Sam opting to stay at the motel and recharge after the last hunt instead of joining you for dinner. You don’t need to eat but you still force yourself to; tackling the burger one mechanically chewed bite at a time like you’ve been doing for the past six months traveling with them.
You’re eating and Dean is making a joke and then you’re throwing back your head in laughter while he looks on in wonder. And it feels good. It feels perfect. It feels care free to be here with him and not looking over your shoulder.
“I’ll get us another round,” he says, pushing back from the table with a grin to make his way over to the bar.
You watch him leave, not oblivious to the lingering looks the other girls in the bar give him, and you wonder what this feeling in your chest is. This tightness, this heat.
“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doing alone in a place like this?”
The man who sits down in Dean’s vacant chair reeks of alcohol. His red-rimmed eyes are swimming in his state of inebriation, and it’s all you can do not to cringe when a sweaty palm finds your thigh beneath the table.
You slide your leg away, eyeing him warily. “I’m not alone,” you reply. “My friend went to get us more drinks.”
His answering dark chuckle sets your teeth on edge. “I’ve heard that excuse before, sweetheart.”
“I think I’d better go and find him now.” You start to stand but he grabs your arm, grip surprisingly strong.
“Where you goin?” he slurs. “We’re just talking.”
“Let go of me,” you say calmly, but your eyes search the bar desperately for Dean.
“We’re not done talkin’-”
“Yes,” an angry voice cuts him off. “You are.”
Before you have time to say anything, Dean is grabbing the drunk man by the collar and prying him away from you, tossing him almost violently away from your table.
“Hey, man, what the hell? We were just talking!”
“Yeah?” Dean scoffs, moving to stand protectively in front of you. “And now you’re done.”
Shaking his head, the man starts to walk away. “Bitch isn’t even worth it,” he mutters under his breath.
“What did you just say?” Dean grabs the man again. “What the fuck did you just say about her?”
And it’s Dean who throws the first punch.
The fight doesn’t last long. Really, it’s not even much of a fight. It’s Dean pummeling the man into the ground and a group of guys you don’t know trying to subdue him. It finally breaks up when the bartender threatens to call the cops.
You set your arm on Dean’s shoulder, feeling his heavy breaths beneath your palm as you pull him out of the bar.
“Are you alright?” he’s asking as you step into the dimly lit parking lot.
“I should be asking you that,” you reply, making him sit on the trunk of the Impala so you can look at his wounds. He has a quickly forming bruise on his jaw and a cut on his lower lip, but other than that he seems no worse for wear.
Your body is screaming at you to touch your hand to his forehead and heal him, but you curb the urge.
“It takes more than that to bring me down,” he replies, green eyes boring into your e/c ones.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you say quietly, wiping at the blood gently with the tip of your fingers.
Dean catches your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Yes. I did.”
And you say nothing more, because Dean will always try to save you, even when you don’t need it.
“Seriously? Never? Not even once?” Dean’s tone of incredulity is no different the fifth time he’s asking the question than it was the first time.
“Nope. Not even once,” you reply, more than a little tired of the conversation.
His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. “But - how?” he demands. “How is that possible? You’re gorgeous.”
You shrug. “It’s just never happened. Growing up in the life, I never really had time, you know?”
“And no one’s ever tried?” he counters. “Not even once?”
“Not even once,” you confirm.
He shakes his head. “That’s insane.”
It started off as an innocent conversation about your pasts. You’ve always loved the way Dean tells stories; how he puts all of his effort into the telling. He focuses on the details - the gestures, and the sound effects, and the phrasing that makes everything just a little bit funnier than it would’ve been otherwise.
You don’t participate as much. It’s difficult to make up a life from before the Winchesters, so you avoid it. Limited details; enough that you’ll be sure to remember it. Enough that you won’t mess up.
He’s telling you about his first kiss - what he describes as a nightmare with a girl who tasted like hot dogs - when he suddenly leans back on the couch, crosses his legs at the ankle, and eyes you seriously.
“Who was your first kiss?” he had asked, like it was the most important question in the world.
His answering disbelief was almost comical.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” he continues. “I mean, a girl like you? I would’ve tried-” He cuts off abruptly, seeming to only just realize what he said.
“You say that,” you begin a little nervously. “But you’ve never tried, either.”
Dean rubs the back of his neck, but his eyes are locked on you. “Maybe we should fix that,” he suggests casually.
You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Entering a romantic relationship with a human in any way is forbidden; not to mention the dozens of laws you’d be breaking.
Besides, Dean is your friend. He’s always just been your friend. You can’t risk it. You can’t risk letting him close enough to see what you’re hiding because then where would you be? Your entire relationship with the Winchesters is founded on the lie that you’re human, that you’re just like them.
No. It’s an awful idea, and one that you can’t act on.
And yet you’ve always been curious. Kissing is part of all human culture, something that is valued as one of the truest signs of love. It means so many things. There are so many forms.
You’ve been curious ever since you first saw a kiss in a movie. And then you found more references in books, and you watched more scenes on the television, and every time you saw it -
You found yourself imagining what it would be like to experience that with Dean.
And then Dean is standing in front of you and your breath catches in your throat.
“Shouldn’t we?” he continues, and his fingertips brush against your cheek. “You should have the experience. It might come in handy later, on a case or something.” His voice is low, rough, like a caress against your skin.
You’re tempted to ask him just how kissing him would help with a case, but you can’t seem to find your voice. His green gaze is steady, trapping you, holding you in place more firmly than his hands ever could.
His face comes closer; close enough that you can feel his breath fanning across your face, the heat coming off of his cheeks.
He touches his lips to yours in the barest breath of a kiss.
You think he tries to be gentle with you. You know he tries. But the moment your lips touch the two of you erupt.
Dean’s hands tangle almost painfully into your hair, tilting your head back for a new angle. His mouth is firm and insistent, pushing your lips apart so he can taste you.
You find yourself pressing closer, though there’s no space between you, trying to lose yourself in the warmth and sensation that is Dean. So this is what kissing is. This is what you read about in all those hidden books.
When he pulls back from you, breathing heavily, he leans your foreheads together, eyes still closed.
“Does that-” You clear your throat. “Is that normally how things like this work?”
“No,” he replies breathlessly. “No, it’s not.”
You bite your lower lip. “Was it - bad?”
“No.” He kisses you again, this one softer, sweeter; a peck, you think it’s described as. “No, Y/n. It was a lot of things, but bad is definitely not the word I’d use.”
“Oh,” you whisper, looping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest. “That’s good, then.”
You’re lounging on one of the beds in the motel room when Dean arrives, the chill of winter air and a flurry of snowflakes accompanying him through the door.
“I’m back,” he says by way of greeting, as if you hadn’t noticed, but you find yourself grinning anyway, your stomach flipping pleasantly at the sight of him. Then you notice he’s holding something behind his back.
“What are you hiding?” you ask in mock suspicion, climbing off of the bed to meet him in the center of the room.
He smiles and pulls out a bouquet of red roses from behind his back. “Here,” he says gruffly, pushing them into your hands. “These are for you.”
“Dean,” you gasp, smelling the red blossoms. “They’re beautiful.”
“Yeah, well,” he rubs the back of his neck nonchalantly, “I just found ‘em, thought you might like them or something.”
Your brow furrows. “I was under the impression that roses - actually, that no flowers - bloom during the winter.”
“Shut up,” he replies, kissing your cheek before crossing to the table and starting to remove his jacket.
As he sets down his keys, you pull out your phone and start your camera.
Dean sighs, eyeing you with mock disdain. “What are you doing?” he asks tiredly.
“Taking a picture,” you reply. “Of the flowers you just found.”
You hold them up near your face, trying to get a good angle, when Dean swoops in from the side and kisses your cheek, right as you snap the photo.
He blushes furiously when you show it to him. “Delete that,” he orders immediately.
You cradle your phone to your chest. “No way!” you protest. “It’s cute!”
“I’m not cute,” he argues, snatching your phone.
“No, Dean, no!” you plead, jumping when he holds it out of your reach. “Please don’t delete it, please!”
He holds you at arms length, tapping buttons quickly on your phone, but holding the screen at an angle where you can’t see what he’s doing.
“Dean Winchester, if you delete that photo I’m never sleeping with you again!”
And now he’s laughing, handing your phone back before tugging you into his arms and giving you a quick kiss. “I’m pretty sure that would be a punishment for both of us,” he says mischievously.
You roll your eyes and bat him away, changing the settings on your phone so that the photo is now set as your background picture. “Perfect,” you murmur, looking at the screen with a smile.
And when he hugs you from behind, his chest warm against your back, you know that he’s agreeing with you.
Dean Winchester will always try to save you, even when you don’t need it.
You should’ve known it would be enough to get him killed.
It was supposed to be routine. It was supposed to follow a plan. The three of you were going to herd the wendigo into a corner and torch it. No risks, no heroism, just an intense game of tag until you were all in position.
But Dean got too protective. Dean always gets too protective, and when the wendigo was coming straight for you, when it wouldn’t change course, when you were raising your blow torch with the knowledge that you wouldn’t make it to the corner so you’d have to take it down now -
And now you’re losing him.
Save this man? Save Dean? Someone who taught you more about life, about living, about love, than anyone before?
“Come on, Dean,” Sam is practically spitting, shoulders jerking as he pumps his brother’s chest. “Breathe, damn it!”
You shove Sam aside, hands moving on their own to cover the gaping cuts in Dean’s stomach. As soon as you make contact with the wounds you let your grace pour through you into him, blue flaring up around your hands and from your eyes, flooding the car with an icy sort of light.
Sam is shouting something, but you don’t hear the words. You don’t hear anything over the roaring in your ears.
Find him find him find him.
You squeeze your eyes shut, searching for something, anything, any sign that Dean is still alive because even an angel can not heal death.
It’s not a heart beat, not really. It’s barely more than a fluttering; an erratic, unsteady beating as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. You catch it and hold fast, holding it, shaping it, pouring energy into it until it grows steady. Beneath your hands you can feel skin, muscle, bone, all knitting back together. Blood recedes from the edges of the wound, air floods his lungs.
When you finally pull away, chest heaving, Dean is sound asleep and all that remains of his injuries is a bloody hole in the center of his shirt.
“What the hell was that?” Sam demands, and without a word you turn and touch two fingers to his forehead, watching him slump into unconsciousness with little interest.
It’s over now, you realize.
They can’t know what you are. They can’t know.
In heaven, you are known as an animus angel; one who specializes in memory. You’re the one they call in when humans learn too much, when it’s time to erase an angel’s presence from one’s mind.
You were never very close to the youngest Winchester. He was always a little suspicious of you, and you were always a little too nervous around him. You place your hands on either side of his head, calling forth his memories like a wave.
You let them wash over you, sifting through them one by one. Slowly, carefully, methodically, you erase all trace of yourself from his mind. It’s like you never existed; the past two years never happened.
The memories hit you, cutting you like a thousand tiny knives. The night you met, your first kiss, the first time you realized you were in love with him. You sift through every laugh you shared, every touch, every moment where he made you feel like you were flying even when your feet were on the ground.
You have to stop, halfway through, each breath tearing your throat in a barely suppressed scream and with tears streaming down your cheeks. You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the trembling in your hands.
You think his phone might be easier to work with for now, so with fumbling fingers you free it from his pocket and flip it open.
Your breath catches in your throat when you see that his background is the photo you took two months ago.
You didn’t even know he kept it.
You’re sobbing now, as you delete the photo, delete your number, delete every text and every call. Then you take his face in your hands again, determined to finish this.
But you can’t. You can’t erase everything. Maybe you were always too selfish to be a good angel. So you leave Dean with three things.
And the knowledge that he was loved.
You only wish that you could forget as easily as he will.
(I might do a second part to this, but I haven’t decided yet, so if you’re interested in a sequel, let me know?)
kianamaiart
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
janainaart
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