I'm Juliana, I'm 54 years old and I'm a writer. @foxyjwls007 - Tumblr Blog

Glitch 🌙 || Chapter 1

Fastening myself to you with a stitch...🪡

Pairing: Dean Winchester x witch!reader

Series Summary: Despite the blood in your veins painting a glaring-red target on your back, John Winchester once left you alive and kept you hidden for a reason. But when his two grown sons drag their muddy boots onto your crime scene one day, the first meeting is anything but cute.

You have a regular job and a carefully constructed, somewhat normal life built on just enough lies to keep the supernatural at bay, cleaning up messes no one else wants to see. And you definitely never advertise the fact that your magic comes from a bloodline ancient enough to make demons jitter.

Dean Winchester, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. He sees a witch and reaches for a weapon – no questions asked. You lie to survive. Dean judges to cope. The rules of this world dictate the two of you are supposed to hate each other for eternity, but somewhere along the road, something glitches in the cosmic machinery of fate.

That glitch is you.

Warnings: 18+ language, crime scene, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of death and emotional trauma, drinking

Word Count: 13.4k

A/N: Let's dive fully into this one, shall we? Dean might be already in over his head, though. Some deceit and shameless flirting going on in this one... 😝

🔮 Chapter Title: willow by Taylor Swift

🌻 Soundtrack (Wildflower Magic Edition) ✨ Soundtrack (Midnight Magic Edition) ⛅️ Soundtrack (Daydream Magic Edition)

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 1: Rough on the Surface

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean’s sweating buckets under the Impala.

The smoldering summer heat of noon beats down like a relentless spotlight, the spare parts and damaged vehicles littering Bobby’s junkyard shimmering in the haze. Soft gusts of wind, which feel more like the hottest setting of a blow dryer, carry the smells of rust, oil, and pines through the thick and suffocating air.

Dean wipes his dirtied face with a grease-caked palm, sweat trickling from his forehead down to his neck as he wields a wrench under the Impala, fleeing into the cooler shadows, although the black metal seems to attract the blistering sun even more. His jeans, shirt, and skin are stained with grime. His back is already sore from working for hours – days even – on Baby. But he wears his aches like a badge of honor. All that matters to him these days is restoring her to her former glory.

And maybe fixing her fixes him, too. At least, that is the hope.

Sam has left him alone for the most part after their last case a week ago, hauling himself up in the coolness of Bobby’s house with boxes of their dad’s stuff – John’s research, old burner phones, and even family photos. The only sore reminder of the brothers’ heated discussion last week is the smashed trunk of the Impala.

Dean winces when he thinks about it again. He’s been cursing himself for the past three days for taking out his frustrations with a crowbar. Baby deserves better.

“Dammit!” Dean huffs as the wrench slips from his hand and clatters to the gravel. “Son of a bitch…”

The heat of the pavement burns through his shirt, but he doesn’t care. All his mind is willing to focus on is the car. Whenever he stops, his thoughts wander, and he can’t let that happen, so he never stops.

It’s simple.

He doesn’t want to think about his father’s death, the weirdness of it all, the strange and hollow feeling in his gut like a black pit, Sam’s sudden drive for revenge, the mystery box full of family secrets, or the burden John’s laid on his shoulders with his dying breath.

Dean’s been doing the same dance for close to three weeks now, but it’s been working so far – although Sam would probably disagree with that assessment. Who’s asking him, though? God knows the kid’s head hasn’t been screwed on right either since their dad’s passing.

Granted, they both have said some regretful things over the last few weeks. But why does Sam have to be so goddamn pushy all the time?

Avoiding Sam is the best option for now. Luckily, his little brother has received the message, too.

However, Dean’s stomach is growling as he slowly pushes out from under the car. His green eyes narrow when the blinding sun hits them, already feeling more drops of sweat bead along his hairline as he wipes the oil on his hands into his worn jeans. His gaze then flickers to the empty cooler. He’s out of beer, too. His stomach roars once more.

Great.

Dean sighs. He supposes he has to face the music now, doesn’t he?

But approaching the house causes his stomach to twist with more than hunger. What surprise would await him in there on this beautiful, sunny day? Has Sam found even more fun souvenirs in their father’s pandora box?

As Dean finally drags his feet into the house, Sam is sitting by Bobby’s small dining table, still deeply lost in the contents of one of said boxes. Dean almost sighs out loud when he steals a glance at his little brother, strolling straight to the fridge to retrieve a beer and some ingredients for a sandwich.

Dean still doesn’t know how to ever repay Bobby for his kindness and hospitality over the last few weeks – feeding the boys, lending them working cars, and ensuring Dean’s alcohol level never drops entirely to zero. As soon as the Impala is fixed, Dean plans to finally get out of the old man’s hair. They’ve been staying long enough – some might even say overstaying their welcome – but Bobby never says a thing to them about it.

He doesn’t dare to glimpse at Sam while he’s fixing his meal on the counter, but he certainly can feel his little brother’s hazel eyes burning a hole into the back of his head.

“What?” Dean sighs exhaustively and finally spins around to face Sam, stuffing the first bite of his sandwich into his mouth. He has to occupy it with something before losing his temper again. He masks his discomfort with a sarcastic smile. “Found more burner phones?”

One would think Sam stopped his quest after the last one led the brothers to a killer clown – a rakshasa. But Dean doesn’t seem to be so lucky, judging by the twinkling determination in his little brother’s eyes.

“Uh, no.” Sam shakes his head, a gleam of confusion in his gaze. But it’s not geared toward Dean, a stack of papers in front of his scrunched nose. “Just going through some more of Dad’s research.”

The way Sam says it, Dean knows his little brother surely found something worth discussing. Dean also knows he can’t avoid it forever. Sam will push eventually, so he prefers to get ahead of the problem.

“Anything interesting?” Dean asks, washing the sour nature of the question down with a gulp of beer.

“Maybe,” Sam replies, but Dean knows there’s more. There always is. Sam’s just ramping up for the big guns. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week – how we can’t kill the demon without the Colt, even if we do find it.”

“So?” Dean gives a shrug of his shoulders and keeps nursing his beer. He’s going to need a second one soon if this conversation goes on any longer.

Sam exhales a small sigh of frustration. Dean’s careless attitude has been annoying him as much as Dean’s annoyed by Sam’s relentless agenda to find the demon who killed their entire family and one college girlfriend. What’s so hard to understand about that?

“So,” Sam parrots with strained patience and continues, “I’ve been looking through Dad’s stuff to see if there’s something else. He wouldn’t have given up the Colt if he didn’t have a plan B, right?”

“We don’t know if he gave up the Colt,” Dean mutters, even though he knows it’s all bullshit. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how the gun suddenly went missing after his miraculous recovery in the hospital. Not to mention, their father died practically five minutes later.

Sam quirks a brow. “Don’t we, though?”

Dean only shakes his head and takes a seat next to Sam. He doesn’t want to have this conversation all over again, so he relents. “Alright, what did you find, huh?” he entertains his little brother’s idea, hoping it’s enough to pacify any revenge plans for the moment.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t want the demon dead. It killed his mother. It killed Jess. And it killed his father and a bunch of other innocent people too. But what if it kills Sam next? What’s he supposed to do then? His dad and brother were the most important people in his life, the only family he had left, and now there’s only Sammy.

Dean’s not scared of a lot of things, but he’s scared of being alone in this world.

Lately, it feels like no matter what he does, the demon’s winning. If they go after it and it kills Sam, the thing wins. And if Dean does nothing and lets the bastard keep breathing, it’s still winning. Either way, Dean’s losing, and he doesn’t like those odds.

Sam doesn’t answer right away. It’s not the thoughtful kind of silence, however. It’s the kind that means Sam is deciding how much truth to unload at once. He gathers a few loose papers and straightens the stack like he needs the extra second to decide how hard he wants to push. That alone puts Dean on edge. He already regrets sitting down.

“Dad kept circling back to the same handful of things,” Sam says finally. “Symbols. Locations. Names.”

Dean takes another sip, eyes skimming briefly over the papers before looking away again. “Hunters write stuff down. Shocking.”

“I’m serious, Dean.” Sam slides one of the notebooks closer, flipping it open. Their dad’s handwriting fills the pages. Dean can recognize it in his sleep at this point – tight, angular, relentless. It still stings a little to see it, another reminder that he’s gone and not coming back this time. “There are patterns here. He wasn’t just cataloging. He was narrowing something down.”

Dean leans back in his chair, stretching his sore shoulders. “And this is where you tell me you’ve cracked the code and we ride off into the sunset together like Thelma and Louise?”

Sam ignores that skillfully. “Dad kept his research on the demon all together in the same box. He even demon-proofed the thing. It’s all in there. Weather patterns, crop failures…”

“Yeah, we already handed all that stuff over to Ash,” Dean points out.

“I know,” Sam grits, patience wearing thinner, and slides over a ripped and crumpled piece of yellowing paper. “But I found something else in there, too.”

“Looks like he ripped a page out of the journal.” Dean frowns as he takes the piece of flimsy paper into his hands and stares at the few words on the page.

Sugar Hill, NH

Traced lineage briefly. Potential anomaly. Historically cooperative. Protective alignment. Asset.

Left key in Salem – MO. Not time. Contingency only.

“That’s it?” Dean looks up from the page and stares at Sam, brow raised. “This is what got you all worked up?”

There aren’t many notes, and that’s what bothers him. John Winchester never shut up on paper. When he wrote less, it meant their dad was being careful.

“You see that symbol in the margin?” Sam asks, moving his finger on the page to a small, angular letter in the right corner.

ᛒ

Dean squints his eyes at it. The symbol looks familiar, even though he has no idea what it means. It almost feels like he’s seen it before, a vague memory coming to mind of his father explaining it to him when he was just a kid. But Dean can’t remember for sure, which is odd. He usually never forgets the things his dad taught him, so maybe it’s just one of those false memories – his own personal Mandela effect. Most times, all those weird symbols he comes across this job blur together eventually and tend to look pretty much the same.

“It’s a rune,” Sam adds. “From the Elder Futhark.”

“Fu–what?”

“The Elder Futhark,” Sam repeats with a sigh. “It’s an old-school writing system.”

“What’s it mean?”

“I think it literally translates to ‘birch,’” Sam replies, crinkling his nose slightly.

Dean cocks a brow. “Like the tree?”

“Yeah, like the tree.” Sam nods, flipping through loose pages. “In older traditions, it’s tied to growth, birth, uh… lineage. Maternal stuff.”

Dean grimaces. “Maternal?”

Sam chuckles a little. “Yeah, but not soft, exactly. See, birch was seen as kind of protective. It’s the first tree to grow back after a fire,” he explains. “It’s about renewal, shelter, quiet protection.”

“Huh. Fire,” Dean breathes and then looks at Sam. “You think it’s got something to do with us?”

Sam considers this for a moment before answering. “Maybe. I think Dad thought so, or he wouldn’t have written it down and put it into that box.”

Dean peeks at his father’s notes again, a few words standing out that definitely (and unfortunately) sound like a plan B according to John Winchester.

Protective alignment. Asset. Not time. Contingency only.

“What does MO mean?” Dean asks then. “Missouri again? Should we call her?”

But Sam shakes his head, frowning at the page. “I don’t think so. Maybe he meant ‘modus operandi.’ There’s also a Salem in Missouri.”

“You think he put the key thingy there?” Dean looks at his brother and hates that he feels himself getting invested in this nonsense. Leave it to Sam to drag him into even more shit. “What d’you think it is? A weapon like the Colt?”

Sam stares blankly at the pages in front of him, clearly trying to make sense of his father’s research. “I don’t know.”

At that, Dean smiles a little to himself and rises from his seat, patting Sam on the back. “Well, you go have fun figuring it out. I’m going back to work on the car.”

Sam exhales a frustrated sigh but doesn’t bother arguing, returning to the stack of paperwork in front of him.

Crisis averted, Dean thinks, satisfied.

For now, at least.

It takes Sam less than two days to figure out part of the mystery before he plants himself in front of Dean and announces they’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, adding the usual “I’ll fill you in on the way,” which is Sam-code for you’re not backing out of this, so buckle up.

Luckily, that was just enough time for Dean to get the Impala running right again. God knows he wasn’t borrowing another soccer-mom minivan from Bobby. He still has nightmares about the damn cup holders.

And for a while then, the two of them just drive, and Dean’s happy about the silence, the only sounds coming from classic rock tunes through the stereo and Baby’s steady hum under his boots. Sam keeps his nose buried in a stack of papers while Dean keeps his eyes on the road. It gives him something to focus on – lines, distance, direction. But as they pass Chicago, Dean feels himself getting antsy, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a rhythm that doesn’t match the music anymore.

“Alright,” he caves finally, shooting a glance at Sam in the passenger seat. “What did you find? Enlighten me.”

Sam draws an amused smile and arches a brow, but he keeps his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly interested.”

“Just spit it out, alright? Least you can do after dragging me all the way out here,” Dean grumbles, although driving is still better than sitting still at Bobby’s, twiddling his thumbs.

“Alright,” Sam chuckles, but Dean doesn’t miss that little hint of triumph in his brother’s voice. “I started with Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. Small town. Nothing out of the ordinary. But there was a house fire in 1995.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “A fire?”

“It was ruled accidental, but there were three fatalities,” Sam says. “A grandmother, a mother, and an eleven-year-old girl.”

Dean scrunches his brow slightly. “Not exactly the usual play…”

The one and only case so far that they’ve tracked connected to the yellow-eyed demon started the same way their nightmare did – a baby in a crib, six months old, and a mother burning on the ceiling. All of it happened in 1983. That’s the pattern.

“I know,” Sam replies. “That’s actually what caught my attention.”

Dean throws him a sideways look. “You sure this isn’t just some random fire?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits and flips a page. “But I’m pretty sure Dad was there because the responding officer on scene was a deputy called Mia Owens.”

“MO,” Dean repeats quietly.

“Yeah, and get this,” Sam continues, “Mia Owens moved to Salem a few days after the accident and adopted an eleven-year-old girl.”

Dean blinks at that. Alright, that certainly doesn’t sound like a coincidence anymore. He can admit as much.

“You think it’s the same girl that supposedly died in the fire?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “I don’t think she died, Dean. I think Dad was there, faked her death, and gave her to Mia Owens to hide. There’s a birth certificate for the girl she adopted, but it’s under a different name. But I couldn’t find any school transcripts, medical records, or anything before the age of eleven. Nothing.”

Dean thinks it through carefully. A house fire in 1995. An eleven-year-old girl that may or may not have survived. Shady adoption records and name changes. His father’s notes.

Asset.

Dean hates to admit that it does fit his father’s style. John wouldn’t go through the trouble of hiding a girl if he didn’t think she was important.

“You think Dad meant a little girl with the key?” Dean asks, raising a brow. “A key to what?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I wanna find out,” Sam says pensively, his hazel eyes drifting out the window. “Maybe she’s like me.”

“You think so?” Dean questions skeptically, although he might be biased here. He just really doesn’t want to deal with more freak kids and Sam’s ESP. “I mean, if she was eleven in ’95, she’d be even a year younger than you. Did you have one of your premonition things about her?”

“No.” Sam shakes his head, and Dean feels the relief flooding his body almost immediately. “But maybe she wasn’t part of the original group.”

“You think there were more kids?”

Sam gives a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Dad did.”

“That’s a lot of maybes, Sam,” Dean mutters. “Please tell me we’re not about to harass that poor girl. We don’t even know if she’s the real deal. Maybe that deputy adopting and moving away after the fire was just a coincidence. I mean, seeing a dead kid probably does something to normal people.”

Sam shoots him a raised look at that. “Dean, there are no coincidences in our line of work. And if there were, this would be a pretty big one.”

“Alright, fine. We’ll talk to her,” Dean caves with a sigh. “But if this girl turns out to be completely normal, promise me you’re gonna leave her alone and not drag her into our mess.”

Sam purses his lips and shrugs. “Sure, promise.”

Dean hears the words, but he’s not entirely convinced Sam actually means them.

“I couldn’t find anything on the girl or where she is now, but Mia Owens works at Salem PD,” Sam says. “I figure we start there.”

Dean only gives him a nod at that and focuses his eyes back on the gray stretch of highway ahead.

Salem, Massachusetts

This town might be Dean’s worst nightmare. It’s when his everyday life of horror suddenly turns to an amusing tourist attraction. Witch-themed shop windows, plastic broomsticks, and neon pentagrams litter the cobblestone streets. There’s even someone selling “authentic cursed candles” next to a goddamn coffee shop.

It’s history turned into fucking merch. The town’s darkness is apparently just part of the decor.

“Oh, look, they’re offering ghost tours. Maybe we should take one,” Dean says with a wry grin and kills the engine a block away from the police station.

“Yeah, maybe another time.” Sam chuckles, shaking his head, and smooths out the wrinkles in his suit before grabbing his FBI badge from the glove compartment. Then he glances at Dean. “You coming?”

“Nah, you go ahead. I’ll wait here. Maybe take a nap,” Dean says casually, already leaning back in his seat. After all, he did just drive for close to twenty-four hours straight with barely a break between. He deserves some shuteye, considering Sam dragged him out of bed before sunrise.

Sam gives him a look but heads inside without arguing. Dean’s sleeping plans, however, don’t last for too long before his eyes catch on a flyer stuck to a lamppost, gently fluttering in the ocean breeze. It’s a missing person poster of a young woman, late twenties, last seen three months ago.

As Dean’s gaze then drifts further down the sidewalk, he spots another one on a bulletin board outside a convenience store. Different face but similar age. And then his eyes land on a third one, partially covered by an ad for a harbor cruise. This one’s also female, early thirties, and was last seen a year ago.

Three missing women are cause enough to step out of the car and take a closer look. The air smells like salt and rusted metal as tourists and shoppers pass him on the sidewalk. Dean then studies the nearest flyer – no signs of struggle, no suspects, and no vehicles found. As he looks at the other two then as well, he notices the same pattern there. All disappeared without a trace within one year. If he didn’t know any better, he would think all these women vanished into thin air.

But Dean does know better. His gut is already screaming that there’s more than just answers about lost family secrets in this town.

There’s a case here.

When Sam finally strolls out of the police station, Dean’s leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed. His little brother looks thoughtful, which Dean learned a long time ago means complicated.

“Well?” Dean asks as Sam reaches the car.

“Mia Owens checks out. Moved here eleven years ago with her daughter,” Sam informs him and then flashes a smile. “And get this – the daughter also works for Salem PD. Apparently, she’s a CSI.”

“CSI, huh?” Dean’s brows shoot up with interest. “She working today?”

“Yeah, but the detective inside said they’re at a crime scene right now.”

“You know where?”

“Yup.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Dean says and already opens the driver’s door before stopping. “Hey, uh, you noticed these?” He gestures with his chin toward the missing person posters.

Sam follows his gaze to the closest flyer. “Missing persons?”

“Yeah, plural,” Dean notes. “At least three within a year. All women. Similar age range.”

Sam frowns slightly. “It’s a tourist town, Dean. People pass through. Stuff happens.”

“Not like this.”

“I think you’re getting influenced by the merch here,” Sam retorts, laughing it off. “We’re not here for a case. We’re here to get answers.”

“Oh, and since when are we in the business of ignoring cases, huh? You just wanna let more women die?” Dean argues.

“You don’t know they’re dead,” Sam points out. “You barely even have a case here.”

“We barely ever do, man.”

“Alright,” Sam plays along, leveling with him, which honestly feels really patronizing. Dean knows he’s right about this. His gut is never wrong. It’s the one instinct he can always rely on. “And what do you think killed them, huh?”

Dean gives a defiant shrug. “I don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out.”

The house sits too far back from the road to feel even remotely welcoming. The white siding looks harmless enough from a distance, neat windows and trimmed hedges included. It’s one of those places that probably has matching towels in the bathroom as well. However, there’s a stillness to it that feels strange and anything but peaceful.

Dean slows the Impala as the gravel path turns to mud beneath the tires, the big oaks crowding in on either side like they’re trying to pass judgment. As he cuts the engine, all he hears is the ticking of metal cooling under Baby’s hood and the faint buzz of insects in the woods. For a moment, he just studies the place through the windshield and can’t help the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach of being watched.

“Found her,” Sam says from the passenger seat, snapping him from his stupor, and turns the laptop toward him. “She’s been with Salem PD for about a year now. She graduated early from Boston University with a master’s in biomedical forensic sciences.”

“So she’s smart?”

Dean doesn’t know why he asked that. Of course the girl must be smart if she graduated college early. He couldn’t even swing high school, so he imagines someone who can use the word “biomedical” correctly in a sentence must be genius-level smart. At least, they’d be definitely smarter than him, but even Sam seems to be impressed, and he’s smart, too.

Sam huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’d say.”

Dean sort of admires that. Maybe it’s even jealousy. Because if it’s the girl they’re looking for and not some random coincidence, then it means this girl lost everything, survived unimaginable and unbearable trauma, and still made something of herself. What happened to her didn’t define her, so that’s pretty admirable in Dean’s book.

“That her?” Dean squints at the personnel photo on the screen.

He halfway expects the usual washed-out ID photo – bad lighting, stiff posture, grainy DMV quality, maybe even mid-blink. But instead, the picture makes him pause, not just his breath but his heart, too.

Because even flattened by fluorescent lighting and a bland gray background, the girl on the photo shines and illuminates the whole scene without the need for good angles or straining effort. There’s a natural curve to her mouth that makes even the most neutral facial expression seem like a secret smile. It causes him to wonder what it looks like when she actually smiles.

Her eyes are somehow soft and sharp at the same time, a steadiness gleaming in them that challenges to hold contact for longer than necessary just to see who breaks it first. He gets the sense that, despite the way she looks – innocent, warm, pretty – this girl doesn’t spook easily.

“Huh.” Dean shuts the laptop slower than usual and licks his lips. He tells himself it’s just that she’s hot. That’s all. He’s allowed to notice when someone’s hot. But something about the photo persists in his head a heartbeat longer than it should, and he can’t help that now he kind of wants to see her in person – or the smile.

He wants to see the smile.

“What?” Sam’s already scowling like he knows what’s coming. He probably does.

“Well,” Dean says and pushes the car door open, stepping out onto the gravel as a smirk begins to form on his lips, “here’s hoping your theory’s wrong.”

Sam halts mid-exit before he slams the passenger door shut. “Excuse me?”

Dean closes his door and adjusts the lapel of his suit jacket. “‘Cause if this is just a paperwork mix-up and not demon-adjacent, I might actually get a decent night out of it.”

He smirks broad and full then, even though he can tell Sam wants to either smack or throttle him right now.

Sam stops in his tracks halfway of rounding the hood. “Dude. Are you serious right now?”

He shrugs his shoulders, grin widening. “What? Just saying. She’s cute.”

“Dean, she might be connected to a house fire tied to the same thing that killed Mom,” Sam points out all righteously.

Dean’s smirk softens, but it doesn’t disappear. “Yeah,” he says. “And if she’s not, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”

“Unbelievable.” Sam exhales sharply through his nose, already turning toward the house with a shake of his head.

Dean chuckles and follows, hands slipping into his pockets. The two of them then stroll past uniforms and patrol cars, ducking under yellow tape, badges already out as Dean approaches an officer stationed by the door.

“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”

The cop, however, doesn’t even get a chance to answer before an older woman steps up. She’s somewhere in her forties, maybe a little past it, and definitely looks like she doesn’t startle easily. There are crinkles around her eyes that aren’t from laughing but probably from squinting at bad situations way too often. Years of experience have settled into her posture, knowing exactly how much force to use without wasting it. She also probably knows when to talk and when to let silence do the work.

She gives seasoned cop energy, and Dean sighs internally. This won’t be easy as pie.

“Right here. Sergeant Owens.” She doesn’t extend a hand but already squares her shoulders instead.

“FBI, ma’am.” Dean swallows subtly and quickly flashes his badge before she can notice they’re super fucking fake. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

Sergeant Owens cocks an eyebrow and places her hands challengingly on her hips. “And what exactly does the FBI want with me?”

God, Dean feels a slight buckle in his knees at the firm tone of her voice. It feels like she’s scolding him for something he hasn’t even thought about doing yet.

“We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction,” Sam jumps in, more fearless than Dean, but that’s probably because Sam’s still driven by his need for answers. Dean doesn’t really want answers. He just wants peace and maybe a burger. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.”

“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Dean gets straight to the point, not wasting another minute tiptoeing around the subject. He knows jumping into it will probably shake something loose, even if it’s just a defense mechanism. That would already tell him a lot, and that’s all he really needs.

“My adoptive daughter, yes,” the sergeant confirms and crosses her arms. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Apparently, Sergeant Owens likes getting straight to the point as well. Dean interprets this as a good sign because he’s certainly intimidated by her glare.

“We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire,” Sam says carefully. “You were the first responder on scene?”

“I was,” Owens confirms, but her eyes never loose their sternness. “It was ruled an accident.”

“Three dead. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Dean adds.

She nods once. “That’s right.”

Dean tilts his head slightly at that. “Except here’s the thing,” he continues calmly, wetting his lips. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”

Her gaze expectedly darkens. “What are you implying, agent?”

“I think you know,” is all Dean says, not backing down till Sam cuts in to dissolve the tension.

“We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”

But the sergeant steps forward, bristling. “Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”

“Mia, it’s okay,” a soft and sweet voice pipes up suddenly, and there’s movement behind Owens.

Dean notices because the air changes in an instant, like someone opened a window and let a gentle breeze in. And before he can blink, you step up beside the sergeant.

You’re different from the photo. Somehow, in a worse way, which really means better, and that automatically means worse for him. Because in person, there’s even more warmth. It’s almost heat, like the hottest day in July, causing him to sweat in his suit by just looking at you. There’s a barely detectable trace of something electric crackling underneath the surface, under your skin, that the dull picture didn’t capture. A stream of light seeps through the windows and catches in your eyes as if even the sun herself is seeking you out.

For a heartbeat, Dean forgets what he wanted to say till Sam elbows him in the ribs.

Right. Words. FBI. Fire. Focus.

“You don’t have to–” Sergeant Owens turns toward you instantly, protective instinct written all over her face, and Dean recognizes that one from his own father. Maybe even from himself when he looks in the mirror whenever Sam’s concerned. But if the story is true, Dean thinks he understands why their dad picked Mia Owens to keep a secret.

“It’s fine,” you assure her with a small nod, completely calm in a way that makes Dean nervous.

His eyes move before his brain catches up, tracing the line of your shoulders beneath the CSI jacket, the shape of your waist, and the quiet confidence in the way you stand. He can tell you’re not reckless or naïve. You know exactly what’s happening here. You’re not scared or confused. You’re measuring, careful, calculated.

His stomach tightens imperceptibly.

“You wanted to speak to me?” Your gaze drifts back and forth between him and Sam, assessing. A swallow gets stuck in Dean’s throat, lump thickening.

“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. Smooth, Winchester. Smooth. He then nods and pulls out his badge with a smidge more confidence. “Special Agent Hetfield. This is Special Agent Sambora.”

You step closer to look – really look – and Dean feels the sweat begin to gather in the back of his neck again, probably soon flushing like a waterfall down his spine. You examine his credentials with far more attention than most people ever do. There’s no rush as your eyes scan over the name, the seal, and even the goddamn laminate.

Please don’t be a Metallica fan. Please don’t be a Metallica fan…

In his periphery, he can see even Sam shift his weight, sees the tension creeping into his shoulders. Dean resists the urge to yank the ID back like a guilty teenager in a liquor store. He wonders if you’ve already figured it out. You’re smart, he reminds himself and watches your expression for recognition. For amusement. For the moment you call him out.

But instead, you smile. And shit, it’s so much more striking than the photo hinted at. It’s even warmer and brighter, like staring directly into the goddamn sun.

“Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”

Dean licks his lips, studying you for a moment longer, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s long enough that it causes you to straighten your posture just the slightest bit, bracing for whatever comes next. He can already tell you’re not expecting it to be good news.

“Are you the girl from the fire?” Dean asks you bluntly, but you don’t stump or jolt back like he expected you would. Like most people would.

Instead, your eyes flicker from him to Sam and then back to him again, seemingly weighing both danger and options. “Am I in trouble?”

It’s not a clear yes, but it’s definitely not a no either. An innocent person would never ask that question. A guilty one would. You are the eleven-year-old girl who survived a fire. Who lost her entire family and is now being forced to talk to two strangers about it. Dean suddenly feels incredibly repentant about that, enough to seek out a church. He won’t, but the urge is there. God, he should’ve never let Sam convince him to come here, poke around, and disrupt a life that’s not theirs to disturb.

“No,” Sam assures you quickly, shaking his head and giving you that soft smile he always reserves for calming victims. “You’re not in any trouble, I promise. We just want to ask you a few questions about that fire. What you remember…”

You grind your jaw, glancing at Dean again as if you know he’s the weak link here, suspicion clear as day in your eyes. “Why does the FBI care? It was ruled an accident.”

Dean lifts a brow at that, smiling cleverly. Gotcha. “Then why were you declared dead and adopted under a different name?”

You narrow your eyes to a little glare at him, which he finds more adorable than threatening. Then you exhale a sigh of defeat, and Dean almost wants to grin at that but bites it back.

“Fine,” you huff, your eyes darting around the house that’s currently bustling with cops before you lower your voice. “But not here,” you say. “Besides, I don’t have time right now. I’m still on the clock, and I have a ton of evidence to process. You can come by my lab later. My shift ends at six.”

You pull out a business card and hold it out to him. As Dean takes it, his fingers briefly brush yours, and he swears a jolt of electricity travels straight up his arm and slithers down his spine to places it shouldn’t go.

“We’ll be there,” Dean promises and can’t really control the slight upward twitch of his lips.

Without another word, you then turn back toward the rest of the crime scene, already slipping your gloves on, the conversation dismissed without being rude. Dean watches you walk away, gaze unapologetically following the curve of your hips down to your ass before dragging back up again.

When he whistles lowly, Sam kicks his leg pretty damn hard, forcing Dean’s eyes away from you.

“Dean.” Sam glowers and scolds him like a dog who peed on the new carpet. Sometimes, Dean wonders if his little brother ever wishes to bring a spray bottle of water to these things. “Can you not?”

Sure, Dean could try. But the unnameable restlessness that buzzes in his blood when he thinks about you probably won’t let him. There’s something about you that can’t be stuffed neatly into any labeled box he has, but for the sake of finding something to put you in, he chalks it off to simple attraction. Lust. Chemistry.

Yeah, that’s probably it. Nothing more to it.

As Dean swings the motel room door open, the smell of old carpet and bleach hits him instantly. The TV is on mute, some local news anchor gesturing dramatically about weekend tourism, but Sam’s attention is nowhere near it.

His little brother is hunched over the small table by the window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie abandoned, the yellow legal pad beside him filled edge to edge with tight handwriting. There’s also a stack of photocopies scattered in front of him, ranging from birth certificates and property records to archived newspaper clippings and police reports.

“You’re back early.” Sam doesn’t even look up when Dean enters, shutting the door behind him.

“Dude, I’ve been gone six hours. It’s almost five,” he notes. Good thing his own investigation didn’t get him kidnapped or shot this time. Otherwise, he’d probably be dead till Sam noticed he was even gone that long.

Sam lifts his head, brows pinched, and checks his watch like he just surfaced from underwater. “Huh.”

“So, you find anything?” Dean asks and tosses the keys onto the dresser.

Sam exhaustively leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. “Define anything.”

“Anything weird. Anything cult-y. Any reason a dead kid suddenly isn’t dead anymore.”

“Nope.” Sam exhales hard. “The adoption paperwork is messy but not illegal. Name change’s clean, too. I found the death certificates for her mother and grandmother but not for her.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly. “So she’s… not officially dead.”

Sam shakes his head slowly with a frustrated look gleaming in his brown eyes. “No, uh, it’s not even in the official police report. I mean, hell, there’s not even a mention of her. Like she never existed. The only thing that mentions three deaths during the fire is a local newspaper, but that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Dean’s brow lifts.

“That’s it.”

“That’s… weird,” Dean says for lack of better words.

“Tell me about it,” Sam huffs.

“And Dad?”

“Well, if we assume Dad was involved that night, I think he probably is the ‘civilian’ who ‘assisted in the rescue.’ He disappeared before he could give a full account,” Sam states with a tight smile, reading off the report. “If there’s something supernatural in her background, it’s definitely not on paper.”

That’s not necessarily unusual, especially if their father was part of the coverup. The brothers learned early how to erase their tracks properly.

“I did look into the property records of the house, though,” Sam adds. “It’s got a lot of history. Been in her family for practically centuries. It’s still in her name – her real name. It’s never been sold to anyone else.”

Dean bobs his head, then smacks his lips. “Alright, so let’s say your theory is right and the fire wasn’t an accident and Dad was really there that night, the worst case scenario is that he saved a little girl and then hid her from the evil thing that was probably still after her to finish the job. Is that what you’re saying?”

Sam sighs. “Yes.”

“Huh.” Dean purses his lips, nodding. “So basically, you’ve got nothing.”

Sam lets out a breath through his nose, drawing his lips into a tight line. “Yup,” he admits somewhat bitterly. “But she’s still gotta be connected to the demon somehow. Why else would Dad have gone through all that trouble to hide a small piece of paper in a demon-proof lockbox?”

“Look, I hear ya, alright? But not everything the old man did always made a whole lotta sense,” Dean reasons.

Sam’s brow scrunches significantly at that. “Since when are you saying that? You worshipped the man.”

“Since now,” Dean replies without missing a beat, although he really wants to say since Dad idiotically sacrificed his soul for poor little me. “Maybe a demon was involved. Maybe there wasn’t. Hell, doesn’t even mean the fire ties back to the yellow-eyed demon. There’s other demons around, you know? You forgot Meg? Maybe Dad just tracked it out of habit, and it’s your fault for reading too much into three lines on an old note.”

Sam stares at him for a long moment then, hazel eyes completely stern, and Dean knows his little brother pretty much wants to strangle him right now – because he’s right. For once, Dean’s right and Sam’s wrong. Dean can almost feel the universe losing its balance over it.

He smirks annoyingly wide at that. “Guess that means the CSI hottie is fair game.”

“I think she already has enough trauma in her life without needing your help, Dean,” Sam mutters, amused.

“No better cure than Vitamin D for that.”

“Dude!”

Yeah, Dean almost wants to slap himself, but he’s too busy grinning shamelessly.

“Maybe wait till we’ve talked to her and make sure she’s not connected somehow before you hit on her again,” Sam scolds and then checks his watch once more. “Speaking of, we need to leave soon or we’re gonna be late.”

“Yeah, hang on. Got something, too,” Dean says, victory already curving his lips. “Drove around town and looked into the missing women cases. Dug a little deeper.”

A corner of Sam’s mouth lifts wryly. “Oh, good. This should be interesting.”

Dean shoots him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Sam shrugs lightly, then leans forward on the table. “Just curious what kind of deep investigative journalism you conducted today. Talk to any conspiracy bloggers? Interrogate a barista?”

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs the room’s only other chair, dragging it across the carpet so it faces Sam directly. “You’re hilarious. Really. You should take that on the road.”

“Dean–”

“Eight,” Dean cuts in.

His little brother’s brow furrows. “Eight what?”

“Eight missing women. Not three,” Dean states and watches Sam at least straighten at that. “Five more in the last twelve months. All married. All reported missing by their husbands. And all had domestic disturbance calls logged at some point before they disappeared. You know, neighbors calling in yelling, one shattered window, one ‘accidental fall’ down the porch steps that didn’t quite line up with the bruises. And then all of them just vanished without a trace.”

Sam frowns then, shoulders slumping. “Dean, they probably just left their husbands. Doesn’t mean there’s anything weird going on.”

“Sure.” Dean nods, feeling quite clever. “See, that’s what I thought too at first. But then I talked to a few of the husbands.”

Sam arches a brow. “And?”

“And,” Dean continues, “all of them had accidents after their wives’ disappearances.”

“What kinda accidents?”

Dean exhales slowly through his nose. Boy, that one’s a loaded question. He’s heard some weird shit over the years in this job. Seen worse. But this one surely took the cake. He’s never sat across a red-faced contractor in a living room before, who muttered something about a “freak bedroom thing.” The guy turned purple by the time Dean finally got him to say the words “fracture” and “penis” together in the same sentence.

That was new territory.

Salem – witch capital of America. He almost laughs at that. If there were ever a town for something old and vindictive to take root, it’d be this one. God, he hates witches. Of course some bitch hauled up here of all places and sprinkles hex bags around like it’s fucking confetti.

“You know, shower slips, stair falls, gym injuries,” Dean replies, coughing up the lump in his throat.

“That’s vague. Could still be unrelated.”

“Could be.” Dean bobs his head, lips pursed, then looks dryly at his brother. “They all broke their dick, Sam.”

“What?” Sam’s brows pinch together. Hard.

“Yeah, that got your attention, huh?” Dean slumps back in his chair and lets out a sigh.

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times before finding the right words. “Did any of them die?”

“No, Sam, they all just had an itchy cast for a few weeks,” Dean deadpans. “I mean, one guy thinks he might have permanent damage, but that’s only ‘cause he was too freaked out and embarrassed to go to the ER.”

Dean doesn’t mention that the last victim’s husband was still wearing a cast, which he kept repeatedly scratching right in front of him. For an entirety of thirty minutes, Dean didn’t know where to look and kept staring at the ceiling fan.

Sam muses, head nodding. “So let me get this straight – the women are all probably alive and just left, and the husbands are alive too and got away with minor injuries.”

“Minor?”

“You know what I mean. We’ve seen a lot worse,” Sam clarifies, which Dean can hardly deny. This is basically bush league – no pun intended. “What are you thinking? Witch?”

Dean shrugs. “Probably. Fits the M.O.”

“Look, it still might be a coincidence,” Sam argues, which frustrates Dean greatly.

He knew Sam was going to call it a stretch, even with all the evidence laid out in front of him. He knew Sam would say correlation isn’t causation. And he knew Sam would point out that injured men don’t automatically equal hex bags and covens.

And Dean knows that, too. But he also knows eight women just don’t evaporate into thin air and husbands don’t shatter things like that by accident. At least not eight fucking times.

“Dude, c’mon,” Dean counters. “Eight guys having those kinds of injuries is not nothing. I mean, they’re dicks to their wives and then they get injured in the most ironic way possible? When’s the last time you’ve ever heard of something like that, especially in a town this size?”

Sam doesn’t respond, which Dean takes as admission.

“Exactly.”

Sam studies him for a long moment. “Alright, let’s say you’re right–”

“I am.”

“Even if it’s witchcraft,” Sam continues, “it sounds like a vigilante and not something purely evil.”

“So? What, you wanna give that bitch a free pass just ‘cause she’s got some weird moral compass?” Dean questions.

“So do we,” Sam points out.

“It’s different.”

“How so?”

“‘Cause it just is. ‘Cause I said so, alright?” Dean snaps. “Witches are evil. We kill evil things. End of story. I mean, hell, you love all those serial killer docs. You’ve never heard of escalation before? Whoever’s doing this maybe isn’t killing people right now, which is why we have to stop them before they do.”

Sam exhales a long breath at that, caving slightly. “You find any weird symbols? Hex bags?”

“Nope, not yet. But I’ll find something,” Dean assures his little brother. “I’m telling you, man. There’s something weird going on in this town.”

Your lab is a sanctuary of steel counters and fluorescent lights, humming with the quiet efficiency you’ve come to rely on. The evidence board glows behind you in blue, crime scene photos pinned in neat rows, your notes scrawled in the margin. The faint tang of chemicals keeps everything clinical and contained, and the chaos of magic stays locked away here – no tarot deck in sight, no spell books on the shelves, no runes scratched under the desk. It’s just science doing the heavy lifting while you sort fibers and catalog blood spatter.

A knock on the doorframe a few minutes past six then snaps you out of your peaceful routine, announcing Metallica and Bon Jovi right on schedule.

Metallica leans one broad shoulder against the frame with a smirk in place, suit jacket already unbuttoned, golden freckles and evergreen eyes sparkling under the bright lights. Bon Jovi stands a half-step behind, posture more careful but no less intense.

Their auras roll into the room ahead of their bodies, brushing against your senses like a breeze through leaves.

A while ago, you made your own science out of describing auras. Bland names like yellow usually don’t say a whole lot about a person, do they now? Has anyone ever looked at a color wheel properly? There’s more options than just six. Is it a warm yellow? Or does it have more of a blue-ish tint to it? Brighter? Darker? That already says a lot about someone. So, you grabbed a Pantone color catalog from the hardware store not too long ago and got more creative.

After all, who doesn’t like a little more sparkle and fun in their life?

Well, judging by Metallica’s aura, he might not. His aura is dense and close to his skin like armor. There’s a deep brick red at the core, steady and restrained. It’s the color of adrenaline held on a leash. Of survival mode that never quite switches off. But hunter green (ironic, yes) glimmers through the red. Big caretaker energy a guy like him probably even denies having. There’s also gunmetal gray that spiderwebs around the red and green, locking them up like chainmail. It speaks of grief he clearly hasn’t let himself feel yet. Maybe even survivor’s guilt chewing at the corners.

That one’s definitely your knight, but not in the sense that you’re the princess he needs to rescue. You’re the dragon he’s convinced himself to slay. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Bon Jovi’s aura, on the other hand, is larger, more diffuse, and a lot harder to pin down. His primary color is a bright buttercup yellow, which pulses unevenly. He’s intelligent, anxious, and probably has a mind that overthinks practically everything. A deep Moroccan blue pools heavily around his center, however, telling of grief, emotional depth, and moral restraint. But the most interesting part about this guy? It’s the flickers of mulberry purple striking through the others like lightning. Uninvited and unpredictable. It feels like something is watching back. Psychic potential, maybe? Or maybe it’s just good intuition.

Their colors aren’t what give you pause, though. It’s how their auras interact with each other, which is certainly a rarity. They’re symbiotic. Not many people have that.

Metallica’s red steadies Bon Jovi’s erratic yellow when their gazes meet. In turn, Bon Jovi’s blue cools the heat in Metallica’s red just enough to keep it from boiling over. Metallica’s gray also thins in the other’s presence, like shadows retreating from light, while the purple in Bon Jovi calms as if Metallica’s grounding him.

Which tells you one thing: they’re more than just hunting partners. Brothers is your best guess. Either that, or they’re super gay for each other with a soulmate-deep bond. You probably shouldn’t ask them to clarify. That never works out well for you.

What’s important for you, though, is that they’re clearly stronger together. Dangerous even. But they’re also more vulnerable when separated.

You strip off your gloves and rise from your swivel chair with a deceptively bright smile. “Agents, right on time. I was just finishing up. Come on in.”

They do. The door clicks shut behind them, which feels threatening enough, considering you’re pretty sure they want to kill you or do God knows what else with you. Did they already bring the matches and lighter fluid?

But even with the pressure on your shoulders, you gesture to the chairs across your workstation. “Have a seat. Thirsty? I’ve got some water I can offer you.”

You spin to the mini-fridge and pull out two chilled bottles of water – holy water, to be exact. Quietly blessed last week by the local Catholic priest. If they’re demons, it’ll sizzle on contact. If not, well, hydration is key.

“Thanks,” Bon Jovi says, accepting one bottle with a polite nod. He twists the cap, takes a sip.

Nothing.

Metallica does the same, gulping half of it down without so much as a blink. Still nothing.

Clean. Human. Hunters. Still dangerous. Still lethal. Especially to someone like you. But they’re not the obvious kind of monster that hides under beds and in closets.

Slightly more relieved, you settle back in your chair, folding your hands on the desk. Warm enough to disarm but cool enough to maintain distance. The goal is to seem professional, helpful, harmless, which is easy because you are.

“So, the fire. What do you want to know, agents?”

Bon Jovi leans forward first, the buttercup yellow flaring with that anxious intelligence. “We’re looking into some old cases that might connect to similar incidents. The Sugar Hill fire – was there anything unusual about it? Anything you remember that maybe didn’t make the official report?”

You let your expression soften just enough, playing the role of the cooperative survivor. You’ve rehearsed this story a thousand times by now – ever since Mia took you in. You’ve kept it simple, tragic, human.

“I was only eleven. I don’t remember a whole lot,” you start, swallowing, a hint of old pain creeping into your voice. It’s not an act for their benefit, though. The loss of that night still aches like a root pulled from soil. “I woke up to smoke and flames. My mom and grandma… They didn’t make it out.”

“How did you survive?” Metallica asks, but it doesn’t sound accusing. It sounds like he’s angling for something specific.

Are they curious about the demon? Is that why they’re here and sought you out?

“A man pulled me out of the house, carried me to safety, and handed me over to Mia. She adopted me a few days later,” you explain.

“Did–, uh, did this stranger say what his name was?” Bon Jovi asks.

You give them a shrug of your shoulders, then shake your head slightly, brow creased. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Maybe Jim? Jonathan? It was a long time ago. I’m sorry,” you say – or lie. “The cops ruled it an accident back then. Blamed it on faulty wiring.”

Metallica’s brick red holds steady as he watches you the whole time, juniper eyes calm but attentive. “This guy, uhm… did he say why he was there? Anything about your family? Why he was in the right place at the right time?”

You shake your head, offering a sad smile. “Not that I remember. He just… helped. Kind stranger, you know? I mean, I was a traumatized kid. Mia handled the paperwork. I had nothing to do with that. She just changed my name and moved with me here to give me a fresh start. Sugar Hill is a small community. She didn’t want me to live with this my whole life. That’s really all there is to it.”

Bon Jovi’s blue deepens significantly, disappointment glimmering through his yellow. He was hoping for more – something about patterns, maybe, or why your family might have been targeted. But you can’t give him anything to grab onto. Even if they’re here for the demon, trust is earned and not simply given. The cards warned you for a reason.

Metallica, on the other hand, visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop, and the red aura settles as if he internally exhaled. Then a sly, almost triumphant glint crosses his face. He’s clearly decided you’re normal, which brings you relief for the moment. The knight’s armor has been dismantled. Tragic backstory, smart girl who turned pain into a forensics career, no red flags, case closed, you can practically hear him think.

Your own expression stays neutral, but on the inside, you’re smirking wide. Gotcha. Now, you just have to get rid of them and hope they leave town soon without poking around too much. But another knock on the door foils your plans.

Shit, Paige, you realize as you look up, past the two fake FBI agents in your lab, and see your best friend strolling through the door with her usual cheerful smile.

As Paige pokes her head in, her curls bounce and her grin widens. “Yo, evidence queen, you better not still be buried in blood. Drinks wait for no woman. I will personally drag you out of here if I have to–”

She stops dead in her tracks when she spots the two men in suits in front of you, her brow knitting more and more with each second that passes by. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions.

“Shit.” Her eyes widen and her teeth clench before she grimaces fully. “Am I interrupting something?”

Before you can reply, Metallica already twists around with a smirk in place. The guy really goes for anything with boobs and two legs, huh? Makes a girl feel real special. Not that you blame him. Paige has always been pretty and bubbly enough to wrap guys around her little finger. But she’s also been your biggest confidante – the Willow to your Buffy, so to speak.

“No, not all,” Metallica says with a charm that could be easily mistaken for gentleness if you didn’t see the gun poking out under his suit jacket. “Me and my partner were just finishing up here.”

Paige frowns a little more at that and tilts her head. You already know what she’s thinking. “Partner? As in…”

Do not say gay, you warn her with a sharp look because you can already see Metallica latching onto the implication, shoulders tensing and drawing back, eyes crinkling in bewilderment, like his ego is a physical thing that just got wounded. He’s gotten that accusation before. You can tell and try your hardest not to laugh out loud.

“FBI,” you provide quickly, shooting her another look. You hope it’s enough to alleviate the sting in Metallica’s ego and keep him from proving his virility by overcompensating in the stupidest way possible as boys often tend to do. You then glance back at Paige. “I’m almost done, alright? Just wait at Clancy’s. I’ll be out in five.”

Paige nods slowly but tosses you a worried look as if she can feel the tension in your muscles. You don’t want her to get hurt. If hunters are poking around in your life and even remotely suspect you’re a witch, they will look at any woman close to you and automatically assume it’s a coven.

To clarify, it’s not.

Sure, you’ve taught her a spell or two, mostly for self-defense. Like a father teaching his daughter how to knee a douche in his crown jewels. Not that you have any first-hand experience with that since you don’t know your dad, but you imagine that’s probably a pretty similar reason. However, you’ve never ever sat around a cauldron before and cackled like a maniac.

God, you hate most witch movies. They really give your kind a bad rep. Melissa Joan Hart gets a pass, though. Whoever made Hocus Pocus, on the other hand, should be burned at the stake, especially the person responsible for casting Sarah Jessica Parker. Carrie was fucking annoying in Sex and the City, too.

“You know, me and my partner could use a drink,” Metallica suddenly chimes in, charismatic grin shaping into form. Fucking hell. He still needs to mend his ego and lick his wounds in front you, it seems. You steel your expression as you meet his expectant eyes. “Mind if we crash girls’ night? Tag along? Off duty, promise.”

Yes, I’d mind, dickhead, you think bitterly. Read the fucking room.

Even Bon Jovi shoots him a look of clear disapproval, blue cooling the flare in Metallica’s red. But his partner skillfully ignores it, undeterred, gaze locked on you. The interest is obvious now that he’s apparently decided you’re safe. You wonder how a guy with those instincts is still alive, considering tricking him only required a smile, a sad story, and a little cleavage from you. You guess Bon Jovi’s intelligence is mostly keeping him out of greater trouble.

You keep the smile trained on your face, but your frustration spikes. You want them fucking gone, out of this town, and not embedding themselves in your normal life. But refusing outright might ping suspicion.

Play along. Survive. Make sure no one else gets hurt.

“Sure,” you say and clear your throat slightly. “The more the merrier. The bar’s called Clancy’s. It’s on Church Street. Meet you there at seven?”

“Great.” Metallica gives you a nod, satisfied. In his head, the gears are shifting, already planning the night. “See you, ladies.”

You watch them go, exhaling slowly once the door shuts. Harmless? Hardly. But they’ve bought the act. For now, you’re just the normal girl with the sad story and the cute friend, and Metallica thinks he’s got a shot at taking you back to whatever roach-infested motel they’re crashing in.

You almost laugh out loud at the irony. Keep dreaming, hunter.

“Hey, what’s going on? Why was the FBI here?” Paige whisper-asks as she hurries over to you, even though the door is firmly shut again and the men in black are long gone.

“They’re not really FBI,” you explain. “I think they’re hunters.”

“Shit,” it slips out of her, brow scrunching. “Really? Do they know you’re, like, you know…”

“No, obviously not, or I would be dead by now,” you hiss and start to pace your desk to free yourself of some of the nervous energy buzzing in your veins.

“Why would you invite them to drinks, then?”

“Dude! What was I supposed to say? I didn’t wanna raise suspicion by trying too hard to get rid of them.”

“Right. Smart.” Paige nods, purses her lips, and then looks back at you. “So, what now? What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, feeling somewhat helpless. “Act normal? Hope they leave again? Get ‘em drunk enough to miss their aim?”

“Good plan.”

When the door suddenly swings back open, you already brace yourself for a bullet flying your way before recognizing Mia and exhaling another breath of relief. She shuts the door quickly and quietly and then instantly finds your eyes.

“Just saw those two agents leave the precinct. Are they hunters?” she asks, her voice sterner than usual, but you’ve learned over the years that just means she’s concerned.

You nod. “I think so, yeah. They asked about the fire. And they wanted to know about John Winchester.”

“Did you tell them anything?”

You shake your head, swallowing.

“Good. Keep it that way,” she tells you, and you know it’s more than just a command. “Are they leaving town again?”

Another head shake from you. “No, they invited themselves to Clancy’s with me and Paige tonight.”

Mia takes that in with a pensive bob of her head, then lets out a sigh. “Alright, go, but be careful. Don’t say too much. We don’t need them poking their noses into our business,” she says. “I spoke to Amy at the hospital again. She says she already wants to leave tonight if possible. Try to get rid of them by then, yeah?”

You nod quickly and share another look with Paige. You’ve played normal all your life. You can do it again tonight.

As Dean slides behind Baby’s wheel, the familiar creak of the door and the distinct scent of old leather and gun oil instantly envelope him like a second skin. The engine rumbles to life with that low, satisfying growl he never gets damn tired of hearing as he lets his head tip back against the seat for half a second and grins like he just won a bet against Sam he never actually made out loud.

“See?” he says, throwing the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. “Hate to say I told you so. Normal girl. Sad story, smart as hell, works with gross stuff dead people leave behind for a living. No demon deals, no witchy vibes, no nothing. Just a hot CSI with a tragic backstory and killer legs.”

Sam slumps in the passenger seat and crosses his long arms, staring straight ahead with a sour look. “She gave us holy water, Dean.”

Dean snorts loudly at that, one hand drumming the steering wheel to the tail end of Zeppelin. “Dude, she gave us water. Cold water. From a fridge. In July. In a lab and a building full of cops. You’re reaching, Sammy.”

“She watched us drink it. Didn’t take her eyes off us once. That’s not casual hospitality. She was testing us,” Sam counters.

Dean rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out the window. “Or she’s polite and didn’t want us dying of dehydration while she answered our invasive questions about her dead family. Either way, you’re projecting. You want her to be part of Dad’s puzzle so bad you’re inventing clues.”

Sam’s jaw flexes. “I think she was playing us. Don’t you think she answered every question too perfectly? She was too calm. She gave us exactly what we wanted to hear and nothing more. No slip-ups, no emotions, nothing. People who’ve been through that kind of trauma usually crack a little when you bring it up. She didn’t.”

Dean’s grin fades a fraction, grip tightening imperceptibly on the wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, though, but the image of you flickers behind his lids. You’ve learned early to lock your pain down tightly, carrying it without letting it spill. Dean remembers being four. He remembers the smell of smoke, the heat, his mother’s scream cut off like someone snuffed a candle. Sam was only a baby. He got the blank slate version. Dean got the full-color replay that still shows up in nightmares, the taste of ash on his tongue when he wakes up gasping.

An eleven-year-old girl watching her whole world burn? Pulling herself out of that hell – or being pulled – only to have strangers poke at the scars years later?

Yeah, he gets why you’ve built walls. Hell, he respects it.

“She’s allowed to be guarded,” he mutters, quieter than the usual bravado he serves Sam in these instances. “Doesn’t make her a monster. Makes her smart. You’d do the same.”

Sam shoots him a sideways look, surprised. “You’re defending her now?”

“I’m saying she’s human, Sam,” Dean snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it. “And humans who’ve been through hell learn how to smile through the questions. Doesn’t mean she’s hiding a cauldron in her basement. Although, in this town, she just might. But probably only for Halloween decorations.”

He flicks the turn signal, changes lanes, and tries to shake the weird tug in his gut when he thinks about you standing there in that white lab coat, all competence and quiet steel. It felt familiar – like déjà vu he can’t place. Not in a creepy way, though. It’s more like recognizing a song one hasn’t heard since their childhood. But he shoves the feeling aside. After all, what’s the point in chasing something when the facts are clear?

You’re clean. Case closed. And maybe legs open?

Dean knows better than to say that last thought out loud, however. Sam would only smack him again. Nevertheless, there’s something really satisfying about the possibility of ending the night with company that isn’t his little brother or a poltergeist for once.

“You should go for the friend,” he suggests then, smirk molding back in place. “Paige. She’s got that bubbly energy. Balances out your brooding. You two could talk about feelings or whatever while I handle the grown-up stuff with the Crime Scene Siren. Maybe offer up my body for some scientific research.”

Dean wiggles his brows. Sam snorts, finally cracking a genuine smile.

“I’m not looking to ‘go for’ anything tonight,” Sam states as expected, however. “I’m going back to the motel. There’s still Dad’s notes, the rune, the adoption records. Something’s off, Dean. I can feel it.”

Dean sighs – internally at first, then out loud for effect. “Yeah, yeah, you and your feelings. Suit yourself. Means more drinks and girls for me. And hey, if things go well, maybe I won’t even come back tonight.”

The mental image already flashes shamelessly behind his eyes – you laughing at all his jokes across the table, maybe leaning in close enough that he catches whatever shampoo or perfume you use, maybe letting him walk you to your car, maybe–

He cuts the thought off before it gets too detailed (or his jeans become too tight).

But the grin creeps right back a second later. Sam can sulk in a motel room with yellowed journal pages all he wants. But Dean? He’s got plans. And for the first time since his father died, those plans don’t involve a shovel or a shotgun.

He turns up the volume of the stereo as Ramble On kicks in, letting the guitar fill the silence. Even if Sam’s right – and Dean’s pretty damn sure he isn’t – tonight’s not about answers for once. Tonight’s all about forgetting the damn questions for a couple of hours.

Dean’s elbows lean casually on the scarred wood of a high-top table at a cozy little dive bar called Clancy’s, a beer bottle dangling loosely between his fingers while his grin is shamelessly wide as you lean close and hold his gaze in such an easy way that the whole damn room feels a size smaller.

The bar’s got that lived-in feel as classic rock fills the air in the mid-evening buzz, people chatting and clinking glasses. It’s got just enough grit to keep things lively. Your friend Paige went for a refill a while ago but never made her way back, which Dean doesn’t mind even a little. He’s got you right where he wants you – smiling, leaning in, batting your lashes, and some time ago, you even touched his forearm for several seconds, which is the universal signal for getting laid tonight. He’s three beers in already while you’re only on your second one, so he’s got to watch it a little.

“By the way, apologies for my partner earlier. Sambora's got that whole, you know, brooding-genius thing locked down. Thinks every loose end’s hiding a conspiracy,” Dean says, takes a sip of beer, and leans an inch closer. “Me? I’m the approachable one. The fun one. The guy who closes cases and still has time for a drink with a sharp forensics expert like you.”

You quirk a brow, lips curving in amusement. “Approachable, huh? Is that what we’re calling ‘the fed who shows up unannounced and asks personal questions’ these days?”

He chuckles, leaning forward a fraction more. “Guilty. But in my defense, it’s hard not to be curious when the CSI on scene is this smart. And easy on the eyes. And funny. Triple threat.”

Your laugh softly, teeth rolling over your bottom lip. “Careful with the flattery, or I might just think you’re after more than just case details here,” you quip and take a sip of beer without breaking eye contact. “So is that your pitch? You’re the cool agent who doesn't let the job eat him alive?”

“Something like that.” Dean shrugs casually, chuckling. “Gotta balance out the gloom. Life’s too short for all work, no play, right? Otherwise, it’s all stakeouts and bad coffee. Though I’d take bad coffee any day if it came with company like this.”

Your eyes narrow, but there’s a spark in them that sharpens your smile. “C’mon, Agent Hetfield–”

“Dean,” he offers.

“Dean,” you repeat, and he shivers a little when you do because it feels like your voice learned its own melody just to say his name. “What’s really on your mind, huh? I’m sure you didn’t tag along just to charm me out of my crime scene stories.”

He licks his lips, chuckling softly. “Uh, not entirely, no,” he admits and nurses his beer, knuckles lightly tapping the wooden table. “You know, uhm, actually, can I ask you about some other cases?”

You purse your lips, brow pinching slightly. “Uhm, sure.”

“You, uhm, ever seen the missing women posters outside the station?”

“Yeah, sure, I have,” you reply. “Hard to just walk by something like that.”

“Right, uhm, well, I looked into it a little and saw they had all domestic disturbance calls prior to their disappearances,” he says and watches you nod along. “You were the CSI on some of those scenes when things went south, right?”

“Yeah, it’s really sad what happened to them. I hope they’re okay,” you note sympathetically. “Are you suspecting any of the husbands? Because I didn’t find any relations or other things connecting each victim.”

“Uh, no,” he says at first but then quickly shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “When you were at those scenes, you ever notice anything off? You know, weird vibes, anything that screamed ‘not just a runaway’?”

You pause mid-sip and lower your beer again, brow furrowing slightly as it often does with people whenever he asks those kinds of questions. He may have just ruined his chances for sex, but a case always comes first. Well, most times it does.

“Vibes?” You arch a brow, amusement sneaking back into your smile. “Didn’t know the FBI was regarding crime scene vibes as cold, hard proof.”

Dean just smirks. “Humor me a little. You’ve seen any symbols? Felt anything off? You know, small things that don’t make the report but stick with you.”

“Off? Symbols? In Salem? Half the town’s built on weird vibes,” you quip, laughing.

“Right, yeah,” he chuckles. Stupid witch capital of America.

“Listen, those women mostly came from broken homes, you know? To be quite honest with you, I think they just finally snapped and left without a forwarding address,” you say. “There never was any blood or fingerprints that didn’t match. No ransom notes. If there’s a pattern, it’s probably human nature and not some X-Files twist. In my lab, it’s DNA and fibers only. Sorry to disappoint.”

Dean nods, taking it in. “Human nature, huh? Guess you’re probably right. Still, eight in a year. No trace. Makes a guy wonder.”

“Oh, wonder all you want, agent,” you say with a sly smile. “But if it was a monster under the bed, I’d have found the claw marks by now. Promise.”

Dean barks a laugh at that because he’d love to tell you how wrong you are, but he only ever steals people’s innocence and shatters their illusions about the real world when he absolutely has to – when their lives depend on it. But for a moment, the FBI mask and bravado still slip. His eyes study you for a beat – not just skimming the surface, but how you’ve constructed your life. You’ve got friends who drag you out, a job that keeps you grounded, and routines that surely don’t involve salt rounds or devil’s traps.

He envies it more than he wants to admit. Wonders what it would’ve felt like to grow up without the road and without the weight of revenge. If he hadn’t been dragged from one monster to the next. If he’d stayed in one place long enough to finish school, date someone normal – maybe even have a girl like you laugh at his dumb jokes over cheap beer on a Wednesday night without having to lie about his entire existence.

He understands your quiet armor. Admires it even. You’ve turned fire into focus, loss into logic. He carries his own version of it every day.

“Why?” you ask then, a hint of concern lacing your tone. “You think there’s something more to these cases?”

“Nah.” Dean shakes his head, gulping his beer. “Just covering bases. Town like this – tourists, history, all the ghost-tour crap. Can make someone wonder if the stories ever bleed into real life sometimes.”

“Only on the brochures,” you tease, grinning.

He smirks, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “To keeping it boring, then.”

You clink your bottle with his, the conversation then drifting to bar stories, bad cases, and the sort of small talk that feels bigger because neither of you is pretending to be someone else. Well, at least, not entirely.

Admittedly, Dean likes how you match him – quick, dry, and never flinching. He likes how you don’t shrink when he leans in or when the flirting edges closer to reality. It feels… natural.

“Paige is a force of nature. Keeps me from turning into a hermit,” you tell him after drink number three, while he switched the beer for a whiskey on the rocks. You’re a little warmer and looser now, but there’s still that silent steel underneath around your heart he clocked back at the lab. “Someone has to drag me out when I start talking to evidence bags like they’re people, you know?”

“I hear ya,” he says, nodding. “And hey, no judgement. I talk to my car.”

“Well, it’s a nice car,” you note and smirk, sharp eyes seeing right past the FBI suit and charm. “Although, you do strike me as the type who’d name it something ridiculous like… I don’t know – Betsy.”

“First of all, it’s a she,” he starts, only halfway serious. Well, seventy-five percent serious. “And her name’s Baby. She’s a ’67 Chevy Impala. Show some respect, alright?”

A laugh bubbles out of you at that, and Dean has to laugh, too. For a second, the tension between him and you sharpens and transforms into electricity. It’s the kind that makes him want to lean across the table and see how far that smile of yours goes. And fuck, he almost does. It’s so fucking easy how you fit – like you’ve done this before, even though Dean knows damn well you haven’t.

He takes another swig from his beer, lets the cold bite chase away the softer thought. He’s not here for feelings. He’s here for a night that doesn’t end with blood or sulfur or another stained motel ceiling staring back at him.

One night – that’s the deal he makes with himself every damn time.

Your phone then suddenly vibrates on the table. You glance at the screen for a second before your face shifts into professional calm. “Uh, sorry, it’s work. One sec,” you excuse yourself and turn toward a quieter corner of the bar.

Dean stays put, but as you move, your bag on the table falls open. He doesn’t mean to snoop. He really, really doesn’t. But it’s almost impossible to keep his eyes away from its contents.

He spies a small velvet pouch inside, a bundle of herbs that smell too sharply of sage, a notebook with that same angular B-rune on it, and a deck of tarot cards fanning out just enough for him to catch the intricate backs and one visible face – something with swords and a charging knight.

Dean’s gut twists.

Tarot. Herbs. A spell book. Holy water. The flawless deflections. Eight women vanishing clean after scenes you processed.

Goddammit. Was Sam fucking right? He’s never going to let Dean live that down.

But you’re a witch, aren’t you? And not just any witch – you’re the one he’s been hunting.

When you finish the call, you hurry back to the table and scoop up your bag without noticing his stare. You then spin to him with a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Lab emergency. Gotta run. Rain check?”

He forces the charm back into place. “Sure. No worries. Duty calls. Work never sleeps, right?”

“Yeah, something like that.” You flash a quick smile, nod, and sling the bag over your shoulder, heading for the door.

You’re gone a moment later, Dean’s eyes following you until the door swings shut behind you. Then the flirtatious warmth in his chest sours into hunter focus.

He downs the rest of his whiskey in one go, sets the glass down hard, tosses some cash on the table, and heads for the door as well.

Game on, witch.

▶️ Chapter 2: Every Bait and Switch – June 5

Oh my, we might've pushed Dean a little too far here lol. You guys think he's more salty that she's a witch or that she got one over on him? 😂 Don't be fooled by the feelings and flirting in this first one, though. That boy's gonna switch quite fast now 🙈

What did you think of this rather rough start? Leave your thoughts and theories below, friends!

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Coming Up:

“Don’t move.” His deep voice carries across the courtyard like a blade, the barrel of his gun smoothly trained on your back.

The familiar click that follows is loud in the quiet night, clean and unmistakable. You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch, eyes going wide the second you see the weapon in his hands.

“It’s not what it looks like!”

Dean huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in a different situation and steps closer. “Yeah? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you found your next victim.”

“Dean–” Sam already hisses behind him, but Dean skillfully ignores the protest.

“I got it,” he mutters under his breath and doesn’t lower the gun even for a second, dark green eyes fixed on you. “Step away from them. Now.”

But instead of following his order, you do the opposite and step right in front of them, shielding both mother and son behind your back. The woman lets out a startled sound, pulling her son with her as they tuck tighter behind you. The boy whimpers once, muffled against his mother’s thigh as he clutches a stuffed fox to his body. His eyes are wide and fixed on Dean, but he’s not curious or confused. He’s scared.

Scared of him.

For a moment, that throws Dean off his game because that’s not usually how it goes. Usually, fear is pointed in the right direction. Usually, it tells him exactly who the monster is.

Not in this case, though.

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