I'm Juliana, I'm 54 years old and I'm a writer.

[catierambles]

Once in a Blue Moon Ch. 34

True to his word, Napoleon kept them on topic, not so subtly steering the questions back to Samantha and the divorce. They tried goading them at every turn; not just Samantha, but the others as well.

“I want to be very clear, Ms. Rogers.” Samantha said, “They are not the reason why I’m divorcing Jonathan. Jonathan is the reason why I’m divorcing Jonathan. Me meeting them was merely a happy accident in hindsight.” Mike reached over and took her hand, lacing their fingers and she squeezed it briefly, “I am a wolf now. They are my Mates and I am theirs. It is as simple as that.”

“How did you get infected?” Olivia asked.

“It was an accident.” She said.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“She was attacked.” Mike said, “By...not a Feral, but a wolf that had lost control. I was out for a run, smelled blood, and found her. The wolf was long gone. I picked her up and carried her back to Sy and the others so they could take care of her.”

“And the wolf that attacked her?”

“We never found who did it.” August said, “It was a full moon that night, so younger wolves can lose control. It’s rare, extremely rare, but it happens.” His hand slid over her shoulder and she reached up to touch it.

“Why not take her to a hospital or call emergency services?”

“We’re a couple hours into the mountains so cell service sucks and I didn’t have my phone anyway.” Mike said, “With her injuries, by the time they got to us, it would have all been wasted effort. Either she...died from her injuries, or she pulled through and the infection healed her.”

“Why were you up in the mountains and not at the retreat like you told Pastor Graves?”

“I needed to be alone where no one knew where I was.” She said simply. “I needed the quiet and the solitude. While the retreat is certainly very peaceful, you are anything but alone.” She suddenly took in a quick breath through her nose, her head snapping in the direction of the kitchen. “No. No no no.”

“Sam?” Mike asked, looking at her, seeing how she had gone pale.

“Mrs. Graves?”

“Ah, home sweet home!” Came the exclamation, Jonathan walking out from the kitchen, “Though I would have preferred to come in through the front instead of the patio like a member of the staff.”

“No no no.” Samantha whispered, jumping up from her seat and backing away.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Geralt growled as he and the others moved between them.

“This is my home.” Jonathan said, “Come now, Samantha. Aren't you going to greet your husband?”

“A-August. G-Geralt.” She stammered, her voice small.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Napoleon suggested quickly. “Get her out of here.” Walter was the first to get to her, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her from the room quickly as she hid her face in his neck. Jonathan tried to intercept them, but August moved, blocking him as Walter disappeared up the stairs.

He held her in his lap on the bed, his arms around her as she shook. They both looked to the door as it eased open, but it was just Napoleon and Sy.

“One the media crew invited him.” Napoleon said, closing the door behind them. “Probably hoping Samantha would look guilty or ashamed. Instead they got her looking absolutely terrified just seeing him.”

“Leon?” Samantha asked, her voice still shaky, “Did you know--”

“Absolutely not.” He said, “If I had known they would be expressly inviting him here, I would never have agreed to it.” The door opened slightly, Mike sticking his head in.

“She okay?” He asked and Samantha pulled away from Walter to open her arms for him, Mike going to her and climbing onto the bed and into her embrace. “Are you okay?”

“I will be once he's gone.” She said, nodding into his shoulder.

“Want me to get you some water?” He asked and she nodded again, letting him pull away so he could slide off the bed and leave the room, the door closing behind him.

Mike went down the stairs two at a time, swinging around the banister with a hand around it and into the hall leading to the kitchen. Grabbing one of her water cups from the cabinet, he held it under the ice dispenser in the fridge door and then under the water dispenser, watching it fill.

“Mike, right?” He looked over, seeing Jonathan in the doorway.

“Yep, that's me.” He said, turning his attention back to the dispenser and pulling the cup away before it became too full, screwing on the lid with the straw.

“You're young.”

“We both know you like’em young, but I'm not your type, dude.”

“Are you enjoying fucking my wife?” He asked and it made him freeze, his jaw clenching before he swallowed past the anger rising in his chest.

“Actually, yeah.” He said, looking at him again and there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “She sure is beautiful when she comes, but something tells you’ve never seen that yourself. Let me guess,” He gave him a quick once over, “Two Pump Chump? Sixty Second Assassin? Can't get it up without a little blue pill? Sounds about right.” Color crept up Jonathans’ neck, a vein starting to visibly throb in his temple.

“She always was a whore.” Jonathan said, approaching him slowly, “So it makes sense she would spread her legs for a bunch of beasts. Do you all fuck her as wolves, too? Fight over who gets to mount that bit--” Mike snapped, throwing a punch at him but Jonathan dodged, catching his arm and twisting it behind his back, slamming him face first into the fridge, leaning in to hiss into his ear. “I'm going to get that little bitch back and then I'm going to punish her for letting herself get tainted and fucked by beasts.”

“The hell you will!” Mike spat and Jonathan twisted his arm making him hiss in pain.

“There's nothing you can do to stop--” A force colliding with him had him sprawled out on the kitchen floor, looking up at Samantha standing over him, fingers tight as claws slid out from under her nails and eyes burning, the color sharpening as her wolf pushed to the surface.

“Don't you fucking dare touch him.” She growled, an unnatural roughness to her voice. “Get. The fuck. Out. If you ever come here again, I will send you to your fucking god in pieces.”

“Samantha--”

“Out!” She snapped, lips pulling away from sharp teeth. He scrambled to his feet, face ashen as he fled out of the patio doors, disappearing around the house. It was over in less than a minute and Mike moved quickly when she suddenly collapsed as if her strings had been cut, easing her to the kitchen floor. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, sweetcheeks, I'm okay.” He said, holding her against his chest.

“What the fuck was that?!” He looked over, seeing the others in the kitchen doorway.

“She went Alpha.” He said.

“No fuckin’ shit!” Sy exclaimed, “Pretty damn sure every wolf in a ten mile radius felt that!”

“What happened?” Walter asked, going to them and crouching down, “She suddenly ran from the room without a word.”

“Jonathan. He--” Samantha started, swallowing heavily, “He hurt Mike.”

“I'm okay. It was nothing.” Mike said, “Piece of shit provoked me.”

“I saw him hurting him and I didn't--I don't know what came over me. I just needed to get him away from Mike.”

“You protected me, Sam. You're my Alpha and you protected me.” He said, brushing her hair away from her face and pressing his lips to her forehead. “You protected me.”

“Is everything okay in there?” Came the call from the living room.

“Leon, get rid of them.” August said and he gave a tight nod, moving away and back to the living room.

“Come on sweetheart, let's get you off this floor.” Walter said and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he picked her up again in a Princess carry.

“You're carrying me an awful lot today.” She said, weakly attempting humor and he gave a small huff of a laugh.

“If I had my way, your feet would never touch the ground.”

“That sounds awkward and inconvenient."

[foxyjwls007]

That's the press for you 😡

[waynes-multiverse]

Aquamarine

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: Congrats! You've finally broken Dean Winchester – bikini tops were lost and lips crashed. Now it's time to break some motel pool rules and dive right into that Florida madness.

Part 3 in the One Helluva Drug series

Warnings: 18+ due to language and smut (motel pool sex, fingering), humor, fluff, friends to lovers, Florida

Word Count: 2.3k

Posted on Patreon May 22, 2026

Song Inspo: Slut! – Taylor Swift

A/N: Welcome back to Florida and the third installment in this hot and humorous little series! Get ready to melt in a pool because we're letting every inhibition go in this beautifully crazy state 🫠💦

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The motel pool glows an unnatural Caribbean blue under the floodlights, water rippling lazily and inviting, the chlorine mesmerizingly addicting against the thick, syrupy summer night.

Florida doesn’t do quiet after dark. Even now, with the neon signs buzzing pink and teal like a drunk flamingo under a bruised-lavender sky that refuses to surrender to darkness, the air feels electric with cicadas, distant police sirens, and the occasional splash of something that’s probably not a fish.

And you? You’re topless, skin still slick from the pool, your bare tits pressing against Dean fucking Winchester like you’re trying to climb inside his ribs, nipples hardening to aching peaks with every scrape against the damp cotton of his shirt. 

The kiss lingers like lightning in humid air – slow, searing, and inevitable. His mouth is hot and greedy on yours, tongue sliding deep, tasting like the beer he never got around to drinking and pure, pent-up desperation. 

His hands roam – big, calloused palms sliding down your bare back, following the trail of water droplets down your spine, mapping your waist with reverent hunger, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if memorizing scripture written in skin.

You pull back just enough to grin against his lips, wicked and a little sun-drunk, your voice a velvet dare wrapped in saltwater sweetness. “Strip, Winchester.”

Dean blinks, lips kiss-swollen, breath stuttering, those forest-green eyes – now as dark as storm-tossed mangroves – drifting across the empty parking lot. His gaze roams the cracked pavement and Baby gleaming under the lights. There are no guests, no souls stirring, and even Kyle the gator has retreated into the shadows.

“Here?” he croaks, his deep voice sounding like gravel dipped in raw want, cheeks flushed under freckles that scatter his skin like starlight.

You nod, biting down on your bottom lip, water still dripping from your hair down your tits. “Right here,” you confirm, smirking. “Unless the Sunshine State’s finally made you shy. But trust me, Florida’s not gonna judge us.”

He barks a laugh that sounds half-drowned, a mix of disbelief and surrender swimming underneath. “Sweetheart, Florida stopped judging the second that dude grilled fish on his hood.” 

He then reaches behind his neck, grabbing the hem of his tee and yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. And Jesus fucking Christ, the sight of him makes your mouth water. 

Moon-silver and neon-glow illuminate the broad planes of his chest and shoulders, littered with cinnamon freckles across tanned skin, tracing the soft give of his stomach and the light trail of hair arrowing downward and disappearing inside his jeans like an invitation.

Boots thud against concrete next. Then his belt. He pops the button on his jeans slowly, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to look away, but you never would. His stare alone causes liquid heat to pool low in your belly. The denim then slides down those thick thighs and bow legs, and fuck, the outline of his bulge in his black boxers is already obscene – impossibly hard, straining painfully, and completely ready for you.

The second he kicks the jeans aside, you barely manage to wait and surge forward, crashing your lips back to his. Tongues tangle, wet and messy. Your bare breasts press against his bare and warm chest now, nipples pebbled from the cool night air and the way his hands cup them, thumbs brushing over the sensitive buds until you moan into his kiss.

And then, with a playful grin and a wicked laugh, you shove.

Dean’s eyes go wide as he stumbles backward, arms windmilling for half a second before he hits the pool with a spectacular splash. Water explodes around him in bursts of turquoise fire and diamond spray. 

When he surfaces, water streams down his gorgeous face as he pushes wet strands of hair from his forehead. You can’t help but giggle when he looks at you equally shocked but stupidly turned on as well.

“You little–” he starts, but you’re already launching yourself in after him, bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips. 

You hit the water smoothly, gliding over to him, and the second you’re close enough, his arms band around you, hauling you against him. You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his soaked boxers. He groans, low and wrecked, hands palming the globes of your ass as you kiss him again – filthy, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue and years of finally, finally, finally.

Your teeth tug cheekily at your lower lip as your thumbs hook into the sides of your bikini bottoms, shimmying them down your legs underwater. You make a show off it, making sure he catches every second of it as you toss the soaking-wet fabric onto the concrete by the lounge chairs. 

Dean’s jaw goes slack, ravenous juniper eyes devouring every naked inch of you. “Fucking hell, sweetheart…”

Your smile curves like the crescent moon above. “Your turn, Winchester. Fair’s fair in Florida.”

He doesn’t argue or even hesitate, shoving his underwear down his hips and kicking it somewhere toward the shallow end. Even through the aquamarine blur of pool water, you recognize the sheer size of his cock – perfectly long, thick, and heavy, tip flushed a deep rose. 

God, you’d kill to take him into your mouth and see how far he’d get till you choke around him. Maybe if Sam doesn’t return anytime soon, you still might find some time to try in the motel room later. 

For now, though, you just pull him close and wrap your legs around his waist again, naked skin meeting naked skin underwater. You claim his plush lips, slow and deep, tongues dancing like the palm fronds above in the ocean breeze. His cock slides hot and heavy against your belly, and Dean hisses at the contact, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck, baby… you sure?”

He’s never called you baby before. In fact, you can’t remember if you ever heard him call anyone baby before, except for his beloved car, and your heart flutters a little at the thought. 

You still can’t believe you did this. Maybe you did get hexed or possessed down here in Florida after all. God knows you never behaved like this in any of the other forty-nine states. But there’s an undeniable electricity vibrating through your blood that you’ve never felt before, and you’re still not sure if Florida is truly to blame or if it’s all just Dean Winchester’s fucking fault. 

You answer by reaching between you, wrapping your hand around his length and stroking him slow and tight, your fingers not even closing fully around his massive girth. He’s rock-hard, velvet over steel, the head already leaking. 

“Been sure for years,” you whisper against his lips, his little grunts of pleasure like the most beautiful song in your ears. “Now shut up and touch me.”

Dean doesn’t wait to be told twice, letting his hands explore with exquisite and maddening patience now, no longer rushing. Calloused palms wander up your ribs, groping your tits with worshipful weight, rolling your nipples between fingers till sparks explode behind your eyelids. 

His mouth trails kisses down your throat, sucking gently at the fluttering pulse there, then lower and lower, lips closing hot and wet over one sensitive peak, teeth scraping skin. You arch into him with a throaty moan that echoes softly through the empty motel lot.

One hand then slips between your thighs, fingers parting your folds and finding you soaked – hotter than the Florida night, slicker than the pool. Two thick digits circle your entrance teasingly before pushing inside your pussy with barely any warning. 

When he curls them just right, deeply stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy, you cry out, head tipping back. The water laps at your tits as he pumps them in and out before his thumb finds your clit, drawing lazy, firm circles that make your hips jerk against his hand and scream for more. 

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice husky and commanding. 

His green eyes are hooded now, pupils blown wide with lust, swallowing the color until only a thin ring of emerald fire remains. He watches every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, as he pumps his fingers faster, scissoring them, pressing deeper. The water splashes around your joined bodies in rhythmic waves, cool against the burning heat building inside you.

“Goddamn,” he growls against your neck, sucking a mark there that will surely bloom in more beautiful colors than the Florida sunsets have to offer. “So fucking tight. This what you’ve been hiding from me? This pretty little pussy dripping for me all this time?”

You clench around his fingers, rocking your hips harder against his hand. “Dean–… Oh God–”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, thighs trembling around his wrist. He doesn’t relent even for a second, adding a third finger that stretches you beautifully while his mouth claims yours again, swallowing every desperate sound. 

The coil in your belly tightens and tightens – sharper, brighter, hotter – until it shatters. 

You come hard on his fingers – clenching, pulsing, a broken cry spilling into the night. Unfathomable pleasure crashes through you in golden, syrupy-sweet waves, leaving you boneless and gasping against his shoulder as you cling to his chest like you’d drown without him.

But Dean’s nowhere near done. 

He pulls his fingers free, spins you around gently yet firmly, and presses your front against the cool tile of the pool wall. Your elbows brace on the edge, tits deliciously squished against the slick surface as you still try to catch your breath. 

Dean crowds in behind you, his massive frame enveloping you, cock sliding hot and heavy between your thighs. He teases relentlessly – dragging the thick, velvety head along your drenched slit, nudging your swollen clit with every pass, coating himself in your release.

“Dean,” you whimper, pushing back, chasing friction. “Please…”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath scorching against your skin. “Want to feel every inch, baby. Want you dripping for it.” 

Those lust-drunk eyes stay locked on your face as he notches the head at your entrance, pressing in the barest fraction before pulling back, again and again – torturous, perfect torment.

Only when you’re shaking, begging in broken whispers and moans, does he finally thrust forward – slow, inexorable, stretching you open inch by inch around his considerable girth till he’s buried to the hilt, balls-deep in the tight heat of you. The fullness is fucking harrowing in the best way possible, bordering on overwhelming, a delicious burn that melts into liquid bliss.

“Fuck, yes,” you moan, the sound echoing off the motel’s stucco walls. He feels enormous like this, the blunt tip pushing against your cervix. 

“Son of bitch, sweetheart…” Dean’s groan is guttural, animalistic as his forehead drops to your shoulder, the scruff on his cheeks and jaw scraping your skin. “You’re practically strangling me.” 

Then he begins to move – deep, rolling strokes that send water splashing in time with his hips. He pulls back and slams in again and again, and the angle is destructively perfect – his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes like supernovas. 

One hand then snakes around to rub your oversensitive clit while the other grips your hip tighter, anchoring you as he fucks you against the wall – harder, faster, hotter. The pool water sloshes wildly around you, cool against overheated skin, and every thrust sends ripples outward like you’re the center of some filthy hurricane. 

Dean’s mouth is on your shoulder, teeth grazing and biting skin, deep voice rough in your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Been dreaming about this pussy for years. Fuckin’ years. You and me in this stupid state… finally losing our goddamn minds together.”

You push back against him, meeting every merciless thrust, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter again. “Give it to me, De. Want you to ruin me.”

He snarls – actually fucking snarls – and fucks you like the world might end tomorrow (which to be fair, it always could in this life). The night spins in watercolor blurs of neon rose, chlorine blue, and moonlit silver. Your second orgasm builds slower but deeper, a gathering storm fed by every filthy praise growled against your ear and the relentless slap of wet skin on wet skin.

His strokes are deep and punishing till all you see is buzzing neon and twinkling stars above. His fingers work your clit faster, pinching and rubbing until your thighs shake. 

It hits you like a tidal wave, stronger than the first, vision breaking into prisms of color as you clench hard around him, crying out his name into the humid Florida night.

Dean fucks you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Fuck, baby, gonna–… where–”

“Inside,” you barely manage to gasp. “Come inside me.”

He buries himself deep and follows with a choked moan, throbbing hot and thick inside you, ropes of cum marking your fluttering walls and filling you to the brim as pleasure wracks his powerful frame. 

His forehead then drops back to your shoulder, breathing ragged, strong arms wrapping around your waist like he plans on never letting go. The water settles slowly around you both, lapping gently now, as if even Florida is giving you a minute to breathe.

For a long moment, there’s just panting and the buzz of the motel sign then, cicadas humming a lullaby as the two of you stay locked together, not wanting it to end. 

Then, Dean begins pressing soft, reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder before scoffing an amused laugh against your damp skin. “Florida’s still a goddamn circus, but I think I just found the main attraction.”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to catch his lips in a lazy, sated kiss. “Told you. Sink or swim, Winchester.”

He chuckles against your lips. “Well, Florida can still eat my ass.”

You grin broadly and wiggle your brows. “Pretty sure that’s my job now.”

Hope you enjoyed this smutty little summer treat, friends! I'll see you guys back next Friday for another smutty treat with Russell Shaw that will get your heart rate up 😉❤️‍🔥

On July 31, we're then diving back into Glitch 🔮 (If you can't wait that long, Interlude II, Chapter 7, and Chapter 8 are already on Patreon, with Chapter 9 coming this Sunday 🤓)

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DW Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@jensensswthrt @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @samslvrgirl

@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn

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@kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned @jassackles @periandernyx

[foxyjwls007]

Sweet baby tomatoes! That was so hot 🔥

[amentiaewrites]

CHAPTER 10: Misery

°⛧. A sequel to Ordinary ⛧°。

Pairing: Demon!Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader

Rating: mature, tension

Word count: 8.1 k

Summary: You and Dean finally have the talk you have both been avoiding, and every ugly truth he gives you pushes your exhausted body closer to shutting down.

CHAPTER 9 MASTERLIST

Story tags: Demon!Dean, Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel

A/N: Okay, first things first: I’m sorry if the writing in this chapter feels a little off. I hadn’t touched writing in weeks, and I think it shows. I’ll probably come back to smooth it out a bit in a few days, but I didn’t want to leave you hanging any longer.

And now for the bigger apology. I’m sorry for going radio silent for a month. I was in a really bad place because one of the very few things keeping me sane was taken from me, brutally. It pulled me down so hard that I stopped finding joy in other things too. To the point that I couldn’t even write, and genuinely considered deleting all my work here.

But I managed to pull through, and I’m slowly rebuilding my relationship with the things that used to bring me joy.

You sat in the chair at the table, staring at the bottle of whiskey Dean had pulled from the paper bag, without really seeing it. Your mind had narrowed down to the steady sound of the hammer.

Metal against wood. Again and again. Dean was outside still working on the door he had broken, and somehow that was the part your brain chose to latch onto. The rhythm gave you something to focus on that was separate from the blood drying under your bandage, separate from the ache in your body, separate from the fact that you had just fallen apart on the floor in front of him.

You felt strangely numb. The sharp pain in your forearm was the only thing cutting through it with any real strength, and even that was starting to feel distant around the edges. The exhaustion had finally caught up with you. It was physical, sure. Lack of sleep, barely any food, hours of panic, fighting, running on fear, and now blood loss from the rushed, ugly cuts you had made with a filthy knife. All of that was more than enough.

You were done. Completely drained.

Three weeks of mourning. Three weeks of worry, searching, dead ends, burner calls, hope you were terrified to have, and fear you could not put down. Three weeks after all the dread and preparation for the mission that had taken your husband from you.

And after all that, the one thing you had always been able to rely on in danger, the only protection you had against demons, had not been enough.

Your blood had been enough. Your magic had been enough.

You had not.

You had been too slow. You hesitated, too afraid to use your own strength on a demon because the demon was still your husband. That was why you lost it when he knocked the knife from your hand. That was why it had been so easy for him to break the last thing holding you upright.

You felt weak in a way you had not felt for a long time, and the worst part was that you knew, logically, you had power here. Your magic could hurt him badly if only you stopped hesitating. You could probably kill him, if you truly wanted to.

You had the upper hand. Objectively.

But you wanted your husband back so badly that it gave the demon power over you, and you hated yourself for that more than you knew how to handle anymore.

Your eyes drifted from the bottle to your forearm, at the place where Dean had wrapped gauze around the cuts with careful, irritated hands. The bandage was already stained red in places.

You should have been embarrassed. Crying on the floor in front of him, folding in on yourself while he stood there and watched, should have made you want to crawl out of your own skin. Somehow, at this point, you did not even have the energy to care. Dean wanted fire from you, he wanted fight, attitude, the thrill of pushing until you pushed back. You knew that now. You had seen how he reacted to it. You had felt exactly how much he liked it when you jumped him in the car and threatened to burn him alive.

Too bad.

Your body had nothing left to give him.

You got so lost in the blankness that you didn’t notice the hammer stopping. The silence took a few seconds to register, and by the time your eyes focused again, Dean was already back inside. He tossed the hammer onto the couch with a dull thud and dropped into the chair opposite you, legs stretching out under the table with an exaggerated sigh.

‘So,’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘About the bloody finger-painting.’

You lifted your eyes to him.

He motioned around the room with one finger, taking in the sigils on the windows and walls.

‘Thought I told you to wipe that crap off.’

There was no teasing in his voice this time. No lazy playfulness. He looked perfectly serious, and for several long seconds, you stared at him in silence.

Then you reached for the bottle.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t stop you.

You unscrewed the cap slowly, lifted the bottle to your mouth, and took a long drink without breaking eye contact. The whiskey burned all the way down and landed in your empty stomach with enough force to make your eyes sting. Usually, you did not reach for alcohol when your nerves were bad. You had enough bad coping mechanisms without adding that to the list. Right now, though, the warmth spread fast through your body and left a dull tingle in your fingers almost immediately. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was your body finally switching into preservation mode.

Whatever. You took what you could get.

You lowered the bottle and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

Dean watched every movement.

You hugged the bottle against your chest with one arm, keeping your bandaged forearm close to your body.

‘Take them down yourself,’ you said finally.

Part of you expected him to snap. Bark another order. Slam a hand on the table. Remind you exactly how badly this could go if you kept testing him. A bigger part of you had stopped caring.

Dean said nothing at first. He just looked at you, quiet and still, eyes fixed on your face. After a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched.

‘Fine.’

Your eyes narrowed. ‘Fine?’

He gave a low chuckle.

‘Yeah, fine. You’re clearly beat,' he said, looking you over slowly, and there was enough blunt assessment in his expression to make you feel exposed all over again. 'And I don’t need you bleeding out all over the place.’

His gaze stopped on your forearm.

You looked down too. The red had spread more through the thin layers of bandage, darker near the center where the cuts were worst.

Your chest tightened with irritated confusion.

Because why the hell was he doing this?

He was selfish now. Arrogant and cruel. A violent, possessive dick who had left you grieving for three weeks, tortured you with clues and phone calls, kidnapped you, dragged you into the woods, manhandled you, and ordered you around as if you were his property.

Then he promised not to hurt you. Gave you his flannel because you were cold. Patched up your arm.

Was that part of the game too? Another way to mess with your head? Give you scraps of care, little flickers of your husband when it suited him, just enough to see how badly you wanted to believe there was still something to hold onto?

Or was he really that desperate for your presence, your attention, your touch, that he was willing to work around the parts of you that hurt him?

You did not ask. You took another slow drink instead. This one went down easier, which was probably a bad sign.

A drop of whiskey caught on your bottom lip, and you wiped it away with your tongue before you thought about it. Dean’s arms tightened across his chest. You saw it. You saw his throat move when he swallowed.

Your teeth pressed into the inside of your cheek.

He wanted you. Badly. He had not been subtle about that from the start, sure, but maybe you had underestimated how much it was affecting him. Grinding at him. Making him impatient enough to take risks.

Good.

You needed to know what he wanted badly enough to make mistakes over.

You lifted the bottle for another sip, but Dean leaned forward and reached across the table. To your own tired surprise, you did not flinch this time. You did not pull back either.

He noticed.

A brief flash of satisfaction crossed his face before he covered it with that smug little curve of his mouth.

His hand closed around the neck of the bottle just above yours, his fingers brushing your knuckles long enough for heat to rise between you.

‘Easy there,’ he said, smirking as he pulled the bottle from your hand. ‘We’re supposed to share.’

He brought it toward his mouth, then stopped.

You frowned.

Dean looked down at the rim, his expression shifting into something thoughtful. Then he tapped the mouth of the bottle carefully against his lower lip and waited.

For a second, you had no idea what the hell he was doing. Then it clicked, and a ridiculous little breath pushed out of your chest.

He was testing it. Your saliva. The possibility that even as little as that might burn him.

The whole thing was so careful and so stupidly practical that you almost laughed, which probably meant you were closer to losing your mind than you thought.

But there was no reaction. No hiss, no sign of pain. Dean’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, and then he tipped the bottle back and took a long drink.

‘Besides,’ Dean said when he lowered the bottle, ‘you keep goin' like that, you’re gonna pass out on me.’ His smirk gained that bratty edge that made your fingers tighten around nothing. ‘And we still gotta talk.’

He took one more sip and handed the bottle back.

You reached for it and this time, you made sure your fingers closed over his hand. It was quick. Deliberate. Hard enough to make the point.

The burn snapped between your skin and his.

Dean hissed through his teeth, but his grin only widened when you gave him a pointed look and took the bottle.

The whiskey really was starting to work now. Mostly on the pain, which had dimmed from sharp stinging into heavy pressure under the bandage. Your limbs felt looser than they had any right to feel. The warmth spread fast through your bloodstream. Weeks of barely sleeping and barely eating were doing you no favors, and you knew that. You also did not stop yourself from taking another drink.

You were still watching Dean carefully, but with the panic dulled and the immediate fight over, curiosity pushed its way in.

He looked unfairly good, which was a big fucking problem. The black T-shirt clung to him in all the wrong places, and when he settled back with his arms across his chest again, the muscle in his forearms and biceps shifted in a way you were almost certain he did on purpose.

You dragged your gaze back to his face.

The smug grin told you he knew exactly where your eyes had gone.

His eyes were green. There was a spark in them that looked close enough to the boyish one you missed so much it made your chest hurt. For one stupid moment, you could almost pretend it was just Dean. Your Dean. Sitting with you on some random night, sharing a bottle, irritating you on purpose because he liked the reaction.

Then he opened his mouth.

‘Now,’ Dean said, voice low in the quiet room, ‘you good to finally talk? Like an adult this time? Or do I gotta pin you down again?’

You hated how your body reacted to that, so you rolled your eyes as hard as you could to cover it.

‘Weren’t you supposed to be scrubbing off the sigils right about now?’

The corners of Dean’s eyes tightened as he dragged his teeth over his bottom lip.

‘You always did look good with an attitude.’

Memories hit before you could do anything about it. All the times he had fixed that attitude, using that exact tone in your bedroom, against a wall, in the Impala, everywhere your mind should not have gone while this version of him sat across from you.

Heat rose in your cheeks.

Goddamnit.

You took another sip because it was easier than letting him see your teeth clench.

But Dean saw it anyway. His grin told you enough.

‘I’ll get to it,’ he said, leaning back lazily. ‘Eventually. Right now, I wanna have a drink with my lovely wife.’

The mocking edge in his tone hit exactly where he meant it to. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

Dean’s smirk faltered, but you doubted guilt had anything to do with it. He was probably adjusting, choosing the next angle.

‘Alright,’ he said, straightening in the chair. ‘Let’s get one thing straight.’

You kept the bottle close, fingers wrapped tight around the glass.

‘I already told you. I’m not gonna hurt you. I don’t wanna hurt you.’ His eyes dropped to your bandaged arm. ‘So quit bein' stupid.’

You pressed your lips together.

‘No, seriously,’ he went on, leaning forward now. ‘What the hell were you thinkin'? Huh? You were gonna turn this place into Fort Knox, sit on the couch, and wait me out?’

You said nothing.

Dean’s smile came back, slower this time.

‘Or was that the plan? Sit tight until Sammy comes charging in? Maybe Cas?’

Your stomach pulled tight.

Dean laughed under his breath and leaned back again.

‘Yeah. About that.’ He glanced around the cabin, eyes moving over the useless sigils. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, princess, but you’re not the only one who knows what these little smudges can do. Whole damn radius is angel-proofed.'

Fuck.

You kept staring at him.

‘So don’t waste your energy thinkin' Feathers is gonna swoop in and save the day.’

You should have expected that.

Of course he wouldn’t leave you somewhere Cas could simply appear and grab you. Of course he had chosen the place carefully. He was still Dean. Some part of him, at least. He knew you. He knew the first three desperate options your brain would reach for and had already taken them off the table.

The wards had been your one pathetic attempt at changing the rules, and you couldn't even finish them.

Dean scanned your face while the realization settled. He looked pleased with himself.

You watched him as he pulled the bottle from your hands and took another drink. Watched the amber liquid slosh inside the bottle as he set it back on the table and pushed it toward you with two fingers.

You grabbed it, drank, swallowed, and finally found your voice again.

‘Do you really think keeping me here against my will is going to make me cooperate?’

You wanted it steady. It came out close enough.

Dean looked at you for a moment, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

‘Of course not.’ He shrugged. ‘I knew you were gonna put up a fight. Kinda looking forward to that part, actually.’

You scoffed, disgusted despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs.

‘But you keep forgetting something, baby,’ he said, voice dropping lower. ‘I know you. I know everything about you. Every soft spot. Every button.'

Your fingers tightened around the bottle. Dean’s eyes stayed on yours.

'And eventually, you’re gonna be a real good girl and give me what I want.’

The arrogant certainty nearly pushed you over the edge again.

You twitched in your seat, ready to reach across the table and burn that smug face until the smile finally disappeared. But your body refused to follow through. Everything hurt. Your limbs felt heavy. Your head had started to buzz at the edges. You were too tired to make the movement worth it, so you pulled in a slow breath and held your ground from the chair.

‘And why the hell would I do that?’

You set the bottle down and crossed your arms over your chest. Then immediately regretted it when the movement shifted your badly buttoned shirt. Dean’s attention dropped fast. A muscle in his jaw ticked. The look on his face was pure hunger, and you yanked his flannel tighter around yourself.

Dean rolled his eyes, visibly annoyed. ‘Oh, come on.’

You straightened as much as you could and forced every word to come out clear.

‘I. Don’t. Want you.’ You glared at him. ‘I want my husband back. My Dean. And you know damn well that’s the only reason I’m not burning the fuck out of you right now.’

Dean reached for the bottle again, smiling.

‘Sure. Yeah. Right.’ He took a sip and leaned back. ‘Looked real convincing when you were bawling your eyes out on the floor.’

The words landed low. You went still.

That was dirty and you knew he meant it to be.

You deserved it, maybe. You had shown weakness in front of him, and now he had it in his hands. You wanted to tell him to fuck off. You wanted to tell him he had no right using that against you when he was the reason you had been coming apart for three weeks. You wanted to remind him that you had watched him die, that you had held him, that every second since then had felt like a knife being twisted in your heart again and again.

You did none of it. You said nothing.

Dean tilted his head, studying you.

‘You really do want him back, don’t you?’ He huffed and shook his head. ‘Well, sweetheart, I’m right here. Still me. Just without the guilt hangover.’

‘No, you are not him,’ you shot back, swallowing against the anger in your throat. ‘You’re not even close.’

Dean's brow lifted. ‘And what makes you so damn sure?’

There was actual curiosity in the question. Real enough that it pulled the answer out of you before you had time to think it through.

‘You hurt people. You killed people.’

Dean just shrugged. 'Killed people before.’

Your fingers found the bottle again because this conversation needed something to dull it. ‘Not like this.’

He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, already irritated.

'Oh, come on. Don’t get all cute and naive on me now. Those guys were all assholes.’ He leaned forward slightly, voice sharp with conviction. ‘Couple of scumbags who thought they were better than everyone else. I did the world a favor.’

You took a drink and winced when the whiskey burned down your throat. Then you set the bottle back on the table harder than you meant to. The sound cracked through the cabin.

You were getting angry again. Which was good, because anger was easier than the rest of it.

The worst part was how normal this kept trying to feel. Sitting across from him. Talking to him, arguing with him, hearing his voice answer yours. Watching his hands move when he reached for the bottle. After three weeks of silence and waking up to nothing beside you, he was finally here, close enough that you could see every flicker in his expression.

You were relieved. Scared. Excited. Furious. Drunk enough to admit it out loud if he asked.

You missed him so much. And now you were so overwhelmed you were pretty sure you would cry again if your body had anything left.

So you used the anger.

Because for whatever reason, you seemed to be the one person in the world still allowed to push Demon Dean’s buttons and live.

‘Oh, right,’ you said, letting every bit of snark you had left into your voice. ‘You’re a real damn hero.’

Dean’s mouth kicked up as he grabbed the bottle from your hand.

‘You know what this is really about?’ he asked.

You stared at him.

He drank quickly, then set it down with a soft thud. It was almost empty now. You felt the missing whiskey in the heaviness of your eyelids and the way the pain in your arm had dulled completely.

‘Please,’ you said flatly. ‘Enlighten me.’

Dean’s smile widened.

‘It pisses you off because you know this was underneath the whole time.’

The sentence hit hard enough to take your breath for a second.

Because you had thought that before. Of course you had. You had seen the darkness in Dean. The violence, the brutality, the rage. The part of him that could scare people just by going quiet. You had watched him work too many times to pretend he was only soft hands and bad jokes and that beautiful, tired smile he gave you when he hoped no one else was looking.

You loved every part of him. Even the damaged parts. Especially the parts he thought made him hard to love. They were inside a man who fought himself every day to be better than the world made him.

But hearing this Dean say it out loud with such a mocking tone made your stomach turn.

‘Your Dean spent half his life choking on shame,’ Dean said. He picked up the bottle and moved it lightly in his hand, watching the whiskey catch against the glass. ‘I cut that part out.'

He made a small toasting gesture toward you.

‘You’re welcome.’

You stared at him until your vision blurred at the edges. You pulled in a careful breath and made yourself speak.

‘Just… tell me why you’re doing this.’

Your voice sounded tired even to you.

Dean’s smile faded by a fraction.

You closed your eyes for a second and rubbed your forehead with your good hand. The whiskey, the blood loss, the panic crash, all of it was starting to really drag you under.

‘Really. Just cut the crap and tell me. Is this your idea of fun? Does seeing me like this make you feel good?’

When you opened your eyes again, Dean was no longer looking at you. His head had tipped back, eyes turned toward the ceiling, jaw set hard.

‘Dean.'

His name came out softer than it should have, but you didn't really care.

'I’m serious. What’s the fucking point of all this?’

He stood suddenly, chair scraping against the floor.

The movement made you tense, but he didn’t come toward you. He dragged a hand down his face and swore, loudly, before he started pacing.

‘I swear to God,’ he snapped, shoulders tight, ‘it’s like I’m talkin' to a damn wall.’

You watched him move, pulse climbing again despite the whiskey. He was angry now, but it didn’t feel the same as before. This wasn’t the cold threat from the car or the sharp impatience at the cabin door. This had frustration under it. Real frustration, coming from saying something too many times and still not being heard.

Dean stopped near the table and turned back to you.

‘How many times do I gotta tell you?’

His hand closed around the back of the chair. The wood creaked under his fingers, and for one second, you watched the pressure of his grip instead of his face. His knuckles went pale. Anger climbed through him fast now, visible in the line of his shoulders, the set of his mouth, the way his whole body seemed to hold itself back by force.

Then his eyes went black.

You had no idea whether he meant to do it or whether his patience finally slipped. Either way, the effect was immediate. Your stomach tightened so hard it was almost painful.

Dean pushed the words through his teeth.

‘I want you,’ he said. ‘Because you’re mine, and I like keepin’ what’s mine close.’

Yeah. Of course.

There it was again. His possessive bullshit, sharpened by the demon in him until it turned into something that sat wrong in your chest. You had already known that was part of this. You were his wife. He had decided your body, your time, and your choices all belonged to him.

And it got under your skin exactly the way he wanted.

‘I’m not anyone’s property,’ you bit back, forcing yourself to ignore the cold shiver his black eyes sent over your skin. ‘And I’m sure as hell not yours. I belong to my husband. My human husband. Not some… monster wearing his face.’

The chair made another strained sound under his hand.

Dean’s mouth twitched once, but there was no humor in it.

‘Yeah. You can call me a monster all you want.’ His voice came out low and too controlled. ‘Won’t make me any less yours.’

The words caught you off guard. For one second, every thought in your head stalled. Until now, it had always been about you being his. He had never said it the other way around. He had never implied the possession went both ways. That made something sharp pull behind your ribs.

Dean saw the hit land. His smile came back, slower this time, and his eyes flicked green in one lazy blink.

‘And I’m still very much Dean where it counts, baby.’ His gaze moved over your face, down to your mouth, then back up again. ‘Believe me.’

Something inside you snapped clean through.

‘But… I don't understand,’ you said. 'You can have anybody.'

Your voice came out sharper than you wanted, and once the words were out, you could not pull them back. Your heart started beating too fast.

‘Hell, you told me yourself. You take whatever you want. You do whatever you want. So don’t stand there trying to scare me with your black eyes and your demonic ass and tell me how much you care about what’s yours when you were the one who left me.’

You did not even realize you had stood up until the room shifted around you and the chair scraped behind your legs. Your head spun for a second, but anger held you upright better than strength could have.

Dean stared at you.

You probably should have stopped, but you didn’t.

‘You said you didn’t want to be cured, and then you left me. You left me in that bunker losing my fucking mind while you went screwing around God knows where with God knows who.’

The words were out before you fully understood what you had said.

Then you froze.

You stood there with your chest heaving, hand tight around the edge of the table, wishing you could drag every word back into your mouth and swallow it. You had just handed him something raw, another stupid thing he could use against you.

Dean watched you for a long second.

Then his grip on the chair eased, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

‘So that’s what’s got you all bent outta shape.’

You crossed your arms over your chest and looked away at once.

The movement pulled at your bandaged forearm, but the sting barely registered. You wanted to deny it, to give him some cold, clever answer that made you sound above all of this. But there was no point. You had already laid it all out.

His voice dropped. ‘You think I cheated on you?’

You chewed the inside of your bottom lip and said nothing.

‘Oh,’ Dean said.

Just that. Rough. Interested.

Your eyes stayed on the wall, but you heard the chair scrape softly when he moved around it. A few slow steps brought him closer, and you stayed where you were because your head spun when you tried to shift your weight. Maybe that was whiskey. Maybe the blood loss. Maybe the fact that your body was still stupid enough to respond to him even while your mind screamed at you to keep distance.

‘Is that what’s been keepin’ you up at night?’ he asked.

He stopped close enough that you could feel the heat of him before you looked back. Your throat tightened.

‘Your precious husband fucking somebody else?’

The sting in your chest was instant. Your stomach turned, and bile burned at the back of your throat because he knew. He knew how right he was. He knew you well enough to understand the thought had been eating right through you.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes.

Dean’s gaze dropped.

Your shirt had shifted again. Your breasts were pressed high under the way your arms were crossed in the half-buttoned fabric, and his attention locked there with a hunger that made your pulse kick so hard it almost embarrassed you more than the question had.

His hand came up.

You tensed immediately.

Dean noticed. His eyes flicked back to your face, and for a second, that smugness sharpened. Then his fingers caught the crisp edge of your shirt where it split open over your chest. He touched the fabric only, teasing it aside just a little, slow and deliberate, careful not to let his skin brush yours.

‘These hands,’ he said, voice roughening, ‘on somebody else.’

You tried not to visibly wince.

His fingers slid along the seam of your shirt, close enough that your skin heated under the fabric anyway.

Then he leaned down. Too close. Close enough that for one terrible second, you thought he was going to kiss you. The heat between you rose fast. His scent hit you, whiskey and leather and Dean under all of it, and you hated that your body loved everything about it.

His face hovered near yours, his eyes moved over your lips, and your chest rose rapidly no matter how hard you tried to control it.

‘This mouth,’ he said, quieter now, ‘kissing somebody else.’

Your breathing went shallow. Your anger flared hard, and thank God for it, because anger made you pull yourself together.

You caught his wrist. Hard.

This time the burn was immediate and brutal. His eyes flashed black inches from your face, and a growl tore out of him as he jerked back. Smoke curled from under your fingers before you let go.

Dean stepped away, teeth clenched, shaking his hand once at his side, but he was not angry. He smirked instead.

Your heart was still racing as you glared at him. From the fear, from the closeness, from the sick pain of what he had described. Because of course it had kept you up at night. Of course you had thought about him with other women. You kept telling yourself it was not him, that your husband would never do that to you, that whatever Demon Dean did while he was gone did not count.

It had hurt all the same.

‘You can glare all you want, sweetheart,’ Dean said, still smirking as he flexed his burned wrist. The red marks were already fading too fast. ‘Doesn’t change what your pulse did when I got close.’

‘Screw you,’ you snapped.

Your eyes dropped to his wrist. The burns were almost gone.

That stopped you for half a second. You had seen your magic tear through demons before. And Dean was healing from it much faster. The damage closed in front of your eyes, leaving irritated skin behind where there should have been a much nastier wound. Something was definitely off.

Dean followed your gaze, then lifted his wrist with a little tilt of his head.

‘What? See somethin’ you like?’

You dragged your eyes back to his face, but said nothing.

His smile sharpened.

Then he turned away, dropped back into the chair, and reached for the whiskey.

‘Anyway,’ he said as he lifted the bottle and found only one swallow left. ‘You can unclench. I didn’t do any of that.’

You kept glaring at him as he took the last of the whiskey, drained it, and set the empty bottle down with a hard little tap.

‘The kissing and the fucking, I mean.’

He said it so casually that your breath caught, which pissed you off all over again. You laughed once, short and disbelieving, because how could you not.

‘Yeah, right.’

Dean’s eyebrows lifted.

You lowered yourself back into the chair because your head spun hard enough to make the room tilt. The rush of emotion had burned through whatever false steadiness the whiskey gave you, and sitting seemed smarter than finding out what the floor tasted like.

'Do you seriously expect me to believe that?’

Dean’s expression changed. The teasing did not fully disappear, but something colder settled behind it. He looked at you across the table, eyes narrowed and too serious now.

‘Cheating’s for asshats who gotta go sniffing around because they can’t keep what’s theirs satisfied. That ain’t me.'

You blinked at him.

Then immediately rolled your eyes because the line was so absurdly corny and so ridiculous that you did not know what else to do.

Dean just shrugged, as if the rest was obvious. ‘Besides, I already had the good stuff at home.’

Was he serious right now? Honestly. Was he just… mocking you again?

This had to be another way to mess with you. Demon Dean could not possibly be sitting across from you with a straight face and claiming he followed some kind of moral marital line out of principle.

You let out another tired, humorless laugh as your fingers dug into the flannel around you.

‘Of course, now,’ Dean went on, irritation cutting back in, ‘I can’t lay one damn finger on my own wife without getting my ass kicked by her magic.’ He threw one hand out, exasperated. ‘That’s a problem.’

'And why is that?'

You knew it was stupid. Of course it was stupid. You were exhausted, drunk, bleeding through a bandage, and sitting across from your demonic husband asking him why he cared so much about touching you when he had already spent the whole day making that painfully clear.

Still, your attitude was the only thing making you feel like a person instead of a trapped animal, so you held onto it.

Dean blinked slowly. ‘Really?’

You lifted your chin, even though the motion made the room tilt a little.

He looked at you for a full second, then rolled his eyes so hard you almost expected them to get stuck.

‘We're actually doing this now? What are you, twelve?’

Heat crawled up your neck.

Yeah. You had walked right into that one. But what else were you supposed to do? Let him sit there and talk about your body like it was some kind of denied privilege?

You looked away for half a second, trying to gather whatever was left of your dignity, but it was getting harder to hold onto anything. Your body was really starting to shut down now. Your mind too. You felt the pull of unconsciousness somewhere behind your eyes. Your limbs were heavy. Your eyelids kept trying to fall. You needed to lie down. You needed food, water, sleep, stitches, maybe a hospital.

And still, for one stupid, obvious reason, you wanted to keep him talking.

Because he was here. Because he was responding. And every word gave you something.

So you pushed through the dizziness and forced yourself to focus.

‘I just don’t get why-’

‘Goddamnit, I need you!’

His voice tore through the cabin hard enough to make you stop breathing.

Dean stood with both hands braced on the table now, face twisted with anger that looked too close to desperation. The empty bottle rattled near his hand. His eyes were green, but there was nothing soft in them. He looked furious with you, furious with himself, furious with the fact that the words had come out at all.

‘Alright?’ he snapped. ‘That what you wanna hear? Yeah. I need you.’

He grabbed the bottle, remembered it was empty, and the uselessness of it seemed to piss him off even more. His fingers closed around the glass.

‘I tried everything,’ he said. His voice dropped, but the force stayed in it. ‘Every damn thing I could think of to get you outta my head. I drank. I fought. I let women hang all over me. I let myself do whatever the hell I wanted because, hey, that’s the whole point, right?’

His grip tightened. The bottle creaked in his hand.

‘And it still came back to you.’ He looked at you then, and the raw frustration in his face made your breath go shallow. ‘Every time. You. Your voice. Your face. Your body.’

Your throat closed.

Dean’s mouth pulled tight. His jaw was clenched. ‘Nothing else was enough. Nobody else was enough. It all came back to my body needing yours.’

The bottle shattered in his hand.

Glass cracked across the table. You jerked back in your chair as sharp pieces skittered over the wood, some stained red where they cut into his palm. Dean swore, loud and nasty, and shook the shards loose. His hand was a mess for maybe two seconds. Then the skin started knitting itself back together.

The healing should have been the part that stunned you. But that was not the thing that held you still.

It was what he had said. The way he had said it.

Irritated. Furious. Hungry. Desperate in a way that made your stomach tighten because Dean had needed you before. Your Dean had wanted you. Missed you. Reached for you in ordinary moments. Your Dean had loved you.

This was different. This was terrifying. Because he obviously hated needing you.

And underneath the fear, under the whiskey and exhaustion and the insane pounding of your heart, something else pushed through.

A thought.

He needed you enough to lose control. He wanted you badly enough to make mistakes. Badly enough to bring you here, to let you burn him, explain himself, come closer even when every inch of your skin was a weapon against him.

That meant something. It had to mean something, right?

Maybe it wasn't enough to save yourself. But maybe it was the only thing you had. If he wanted you this much, if his obsession was this strong, then maybe you could use it. If he was trying to manipulate you, maybe you could do the same. Just to slow him down. To keep him close enough for the cure.

To bring him back.

Not tonight, of course. Not while you could barely keep your eyes open and your arm was bleeding through the bandage. But soon. You had to get your head clear. You had to stop reacting to every word, every look, every familiar piece of him he used against you.

You had to lock the fuck in.

Dean shoved away from the table and walked to the sink. He turned the faucet on hard and rinsed blood and glass from his already healed hand. The tension in his shoulders did not ease. If anything, he looked more annoyed now, as if admitting any of that had pissed him off more than your burning touch.

A faint wave of satisfaction moved through you.

It would have felt better if your vision had not started blurring at the edges.

You looked down.

The bandage around your forearm was soaked through now. The cuts throbbed under it. You had used too much blood, too much strength. Your body had been warning you for a while, and you had ignored every signal because you didn't want to show any more weakness.

You needed to lie down. Badly. But you still had one thing to say.

You gripped the edge of the table with your uninjured hand.

‘If you need me that much,’ you said, and even to your own ears, the words sounded thin now, ‘then let me cure you.’

Dean stayed with his back to you. His hands were braced against the counter, head dropped between his shoulders.

You swallowed, fighting the pull behind your eyes.

‘Let me set this right and take you home.’

His shoulders went still.

You tried to stand, or maybe you only thought about standing. Your body did not cooperate either way.

‘Dean.’ Your voice almost broke on his name.

He did not turn around.

‘Let me take you home.’

‘No.’

One word. Low. Final. More growl than answer.

The room tilted.

You blinked hard, but the shapes did not come back right. Dean’s back blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Your injured arm still throbbed under the ruined bandage, and your fingers had gone cold around the edge of the table.

‘P… please.’

This time he turned.

‘I said no.’

His face was stone cold. Jaw set. Eyes fixed on you with a sudden sharpness that told you he noticed what was happening a second before you did.

He looked like he might say something else.

That was the last thing you remembered before everything went black.

‘Son of a-’

Dean moved before the chair could tip all the way back.

One second she was sitting there, staring at him with those exhausted, glassy eyes, and the next her body went loose. Her head dropped, her hand slipped off the edge of the table, and the whole damn chair started going with her.

He caught her before she hit the floor.

‘Awesome,’ he breathed under his breath. ‘That’s just awesome.’

Her weight was not the problem. Demon strength made that part easy. The problem was the heat that hit the second he pulled her against him. Her body pressed into his arms and chest, and the burn came fast, biting through his sleeves, through his shirt, through every place she was close enough for that magic of hers to react.

Dean hissed through his teeth and tightened his hold anyway.

‘Yeah, yeah, I get it,’ he muttered, carrying her toward the bedroom. ‘Still mad at me.’

She did not answer. Her body was limp in his arms, her head against his shoulder, one hand hanging loose, and she was still hurting him without even trying.

He crossed into the bedroom fast, careful not to knock her bandaged arm against the doorframe. The old bed creaked when he lowered her onto it, and Dean had to peel his hands away one at a time. His shirt smoked faintly. The skin underneath stung and pulled tight while it healed.

He ignored it.

He leaned over her, close enough for his mouth to hover near her throat, and listened. Heartbeat there. Weak. Fast. Too damn fast, actually, but there. Her chest rose under the half-open shirt, shallow and uneven, and the next breath brushed warm against his cheek.

Still breathing.

Something in his chest loosened and he hated that immediately. He did not like the weird flash of relief that hit him, and he sure as hell did not like how it felt to know she was breathing.

Dean straightened, rubbed both hands over his face, then planted them on his hips and stared down at her.

Yeah, he was pissed.

No. Pissed did not cover it. He was livid.

Part of it was at himself. Obviously. Because apparently he had decided to run his damn mouth until he handed her every ugly piece of truth she had been digging for. Great job, dumbass. Real smooth. This was supposed to be fun. He was supposed to be leaning back, enjoying the show, watching her get all mad and flushed while he pushed buttons he had earned the right to push. She was supposed to figure out how to shut that magic down so they could both stop wasting time.

Instead, she had pushed and pushed until he said too much.

Need.

He had actually said that. Out loud.

Son of a bitch.

Now she had one more thing to throw in his face when she got her strength back. One more little weapon for that big brain of hers to turn over until she thought she understood him.

No. She didn’t understand crap.

Still, the worst part was her arm.

Dean’s eyes dropped to the bandage. Red had spread through the gauze near her wrist and along the lower edge, darkening where it had soaked too deep. The sight made his teeth press together.

That was on her.

If she had not tried to be a goddamn hero with the bloody art project, if she had not grabbed the nastiest knife in the cabin and carved herself open to keep him out, she would not be lying there unconscious, drained, pale as hell, and making him deal with one more problem.

He should have let her sit with the consequences a little longer. That was the lesson, right? Pull a stupid stunt, pay for it.

Except the lesson was useless if she bled through the damn sheets.

‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered.

Dean reached down and checked the bandage again, using the edge of the flannel wrapped around her to lift her arm. The cuts probably needed stitches. Better cleaning too, because those little wipes from the kit were crap.

She needed sleep. Proper rest. He knew that. He wasn’t an idiot. He had seen the dark circles under her eyes the second he got close to her in the Impala. Seen the hollow look in her face under all that panic. Seen how hard she had been running herself into the ground.

He had just hoped she could keep it together long enough to get them somewhere useful.

Common ground. A deal. A plan. Obedience would have been great.

Dean looked at her face.

She was turned slightly toward him. Her mouth was slightly open, still breathing unevenly. She looked wrecked. Worse than she had at the table. Worse than she had on the floor, crying.

And still, goddamnit, he missed her so much it made him angry all over again.

His gaze moved before he could decide against it. The shirt was still half-open under the flannel, fabric pulled wrong from the fight, from his hands, from the whole stupid day. His eyes caught there first, because of course they did. Then lower, to the curve of her waist, her hips under the wrinkled fabric, all the places he had been thinking about for three miserable weeks while every other distraction bored him into a bad mood.

Then his eyes stopped at her lips.

Bad idea.

Really bad idea.

Dean exhaled through his nose and ran a hand over his mouth.

He could wake her up. Shake her until those eyes opened, tell her to quit passing out on him, tell her she had a husband right there and a few damn marital duties she was seriously neglecting. The thought came fast and ugly, because he wanted her real fucking bad.

His eyes dropped to the soft skin peeking through the open shirt again, and his jaw worked once before he forced himself to look away.

No.

Even like this, he wasn’t that desperate. He didn’t need to take it from her while she was half-dead on an old bed. He wanted her awake, looking right at him when she finally stopped holding back. He wanted her to want it. Wanted her to ask. Beg, if he did this right.

And he was damn sure he could get her there.

The red on the bandage finally snapped his head back where it needed to be.

Dean's mouth flattened.

He was gonna have to make another run. He needed better bandages. Real disinfectant. Stitch strips, maybe. Something he could use instead of needle and thread, because stitching her up while her skin tried to cook him was going to be a real fun time for nobody. Food too. Something with salt, sugar, protein, whatever the hell she needed after bleeding on every wall in the room. More booze for himself, because this whole thing had turned into a bigger pain in the ass than advertised.

But the stores were closed now, or close enough to it, and driving out would take too long. He had already left her alone once, and she had turned the cabin into a damn murder house.

No. He was staying put until he knew she was stable.

Dean left the bedroom and dragged one of the old armchairs from the main room. The legs scraped over the floorboards the whole way, loud enough to make her shift faintly on the bed. He stopped, eyes cutting to her face. She didn’t wake.

He planted the thing beside the bed, angled it toward her and the door at the same time, then dropped into it with a hard, annoyed huff.

He leaned back, stretched his legs out, and stared at her.

She slept on, pale and silent. Her breathing evened out and her pulse seemed to settle back toward normal.

Dean’s mouth tightened.

‘You better not make a habit outta this,’ he muttered.

She didn’t answer, obviously.

He settled deeper into the chair, eyes glued to the rise and fall of her chest.

For now, he would watch her. Make sure she kept breathing. Make sure the bandage did not keep soaking through. Make sure nothing came through the woods, through the patched-up door, or through any other damn thing trying to take what belonged to him.

Yeah.

For now, he was making sure she was alright.

And if anyone had a problem with that, they could bite him.

Tag list:

@tinysnacklefan @spacepl4ant @ladysparkles78 @foxyjwls007 @mbinvisible @freddiemcn @alliwantisanimeandfood-blog

A/N: If you want to be added to the tag list for this story, let me know in the comments or DM.

[foxyjwls007]

Damn! Great chapter.

I'm glad your back and feeling better.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 72 - Ain't Nothing In This World For Free

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 71✦

✦summary: you go in for the kill✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦

✦author's note: dean's about to make big money moves✦

Jan 5th – 2012

Princess,

It’s really freaking cold.

And I know what you’re gonna say. It’s winter, De, course it’s cold. Cold happens in the winter. We’re further away from the sun right now, so all the heat is gone, but you can go make a fire and we can cuddle and that’ll be warm, cause I’m warm and you’re warm and body heat is real good for combating cold. I love you. Go feed the monsters.

I don’t think you’d say that. I mean, you might. Parts of it. I’m not a great actor, sweetheart, but I do know you. And I know you’d get all nerdy on me, but I’d  probably have to tell you the cuddling part. That could be a pretty good move, actually. If I use that on you later, you have to pretend I didn’t tell you it was coming. That’ll ruin my charm. My seduction. Sammy used to call me a manwhore sometimes, and he mighta been right, but I was just honing my skills. Charming you is my white whale, baby. You don’t land a hot wife by fucking around, and trust me. I’m gonna land you. We can get married wherever you want (not a church) and go on the most awesome honeymoon the world has ever fucking seen.

After we take care of this, of course. I promised, and my word ain’t worth much, but everything that comes outta my mouth when I’m looking at you is the truth. I talk in oaths when I see you, princess. Used to scare me, but it grows on you. Kinda gave up on trying to pretend I was a goner a while ago. Not worth trying to push you out when I’m gonna die at your feet. Just means I gotta crawl a little further, and I’d rather use that energy to keep looking at you, right until the sun goes out.

You’re in the other room right now. Working on the plan with Cas and Jo. I don’t love it, but you know that. Told you, I don’t lie. I’ve said this is stupid to your face, I’m gonna say it here too, and I won’t even say I told you so when this goes sideways. My money is on Crowley stabbing us in the back again, but I’m keeping an eye on him. I’ll be ready. You and Jo can do your shit, Cas and I will take care of Dick, and God, if he’s got any damn spine, will offer us some kinda grace or gold for saving his ass.

I really wish you were a little meaner sometimes, baby girl. Not cause I don’t think you’re perfect, but

Jesus, we could just let them go at it. We could open up that gate and toss God to Jaws. They’d mash him up for us, and we’d gank them right after, and everything would be in the clear. Yeah the angels would still be dicks, and Crowley would still be a pain in the ass, but they’re like swatting flies compared to freaking God. You’d be free.  we could be free, if you’d just. You know. Do the wrong thing.

I know you won’t. Like I said. I know you, and I know you’re gonna wanna do the right thing, even if you don’t always know what the hell that is. I don’t really know either. Who the hell does, you know? Everyone’s got their own screwed up ideas of what’s up and down and left and right, and you turn around and it changes, and all we can do it try and keep track of where the hell we are. Don’t even know where we’re going. Don’t know how we’re gonna get there. Maybe this is gonna work, maybe it won’t. Long as I got you and Sammy, I think I’m good wherever we go.

Was thinking about Heaven last night. Hoping that, if you got a normal one, I’d be in there, same way you’re in me in mine.

I hope I make you happy, sweetheart. That’s what I’m getting at. I hope that when all this is said and done, no matter where the hell we land, I’m still making you happy.

I’ve gotta go, before one of you barge in and start asking me to vote on things again. It’s nice that you’re trying to include me, even if I know this ain’t a real democracy. Jo vetoed my last three votes cause she says I’m just always gonna side with you, but that’s not true. Her plans were bad, and I sided with Cas that one time, and

Don’t know why I’m telling you this, actually. You were there. Next to me. don’t ever leave

I’m gonna go. See you out there, baby. Love you.

Yours,

DAW

The knife was long. A bone that Dean had spent hours carving into a proper blade. It had been grueling. He had callouses on his hands in places he didn’t think were possible, and his neck was aching from bending over for hours. At one point, about halfway through—when his fingers started to cramp and his leg was bouncing restlessly—he’d joked to Sammy that maybe he’d just leave it as was and bludgeon Dick over the head. Sam had sighed and told him it had to be a flesh wound, or the blood wouldn’t stick.

“I got that, Sammy, I was just-“ Dean had cut himself off, running a hand over his jaw. “Never mind.”

No one seemed in the mood for jokes right now. Dean wasn’t a big fan of them either, but he didn’t exactly know how to fucking stop. Sometimes he got a sweet giggle out of Her, or a snort out of Charlie. When he really hit it on the nose, Sam made that tight face that meant he was wound too tight to show joy, but still capable of feeling it. Even Cas gave him a few twitches or long stares, which—for Cas—was basically a standing ovation and knee slap.  

It was really good to have his Cas back. Felt like when they’d finally pulled that barrier off of Sammy’s soul, and Dean had been able to look the kid in the eyes and know that—in the way things ever were and ever could be—they were gonna be alright. Scrambled up and fried Cas had been fun when Dean didn’t need him, but then Dean had needed him. Then they’d be stranded in the storm, captain overboard and their mast torn up, and Dean had been pretty much be praying to an octopus that wouldn’t stop playing snake on a phone. He’d wondered if they’d ever get out, or if he was gonna be stuck trying to speak octopus for the rest of his freaking life.

But Cas was back. Dean looked his friend in the eyes, and didn’t wonder if the angel was seeing him, or just a bunch of waving spaghetti light.

Cas had been avoiding him, though. They’d been planning the move against Dick and Eve, and Cas had stood across the table, avoiding Dean’s gaze. Dean would try and say something to him, and he’d just be met with one of those weary stares and nods, before someone called them away. It didn’t make him miss crazy Cas. It just made him feel sort of hollow. Maybe Cas was still pissed at him about the whole Purgatory thing. They did have to explain the past six months to him, from the moment he’d taken on the Purgatory souls to when Dean fed him magic ice cream.

“The last thing I remember,” Cas had said slowly, frowning around the kitchen. “I was here. You were here,” he’d nodded to Dean. “And-“ He’d said Her name softly. “She was in danger. Gabriel… He said she was dying. And I- I had made a promise, I had pledged all my grace, so I-“ Cas had gone silent for a moment, his mouth in a tight line and his gaze cast down. “I must have-“

“You took on the souls, Cas,” Sam had finished gently. “Rowena moved them into your body, and you vanished. Jo found you, then-“ Sam had said Her name. “She and Rowena found Jo-“

“And me,” Meg had added. “I also found Jo.”

“You didn’t find anything,” Jo had muttered, and Meg had shrugged.

“Whine all you want, blondie. I was part of the team on that one.” She shot Cas a grin. “And you were cuckoo bananas, Cassie. Just all… Sunshine and rainbows.”

Cas had frowned. “I have never been sunshine. Or rainbows. Angels are made of grace.”

Dean had snorted. That was Cas alright.

“Good to have you back, buddy,” he’d said, and Cas had just given him a strange, taut look. Dean had swallowed, and tried for a smile. Cas hadn’t returned it. A lump had formed in his throat.

“Do you really not remember anything?” She’d said, that little brow wrinkle even tighter than normal.

Cas had given her an apologetic shake of his head, and She’d let out a slow breath.

“That’s okay,” She’d murmured, scanning over Cas’ sad little face. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

And She’d always had a way of saying that. A way that made Dean believe it, even when he didn’t know how the hell She could figure out fixing angel brain damage. They’d already fed him the magic blood. They weren’t gonna get a new shot until the phoenix chick grew, and who the hell knew how long that was gonna take.

Dean needed to put stronger limits on what kinda animals he was letting into his house. Limits he’d been able to enforce, because he’d said no cats and suddenly She’d soul bonded with a dragon. Then he’d said just the dragon was fine, and she dragged in magic kitten. Dean had let her have that one—even though that kitten was gonna be a lion one day, and Dean was a real big fan of not getting his face eaten off—and said no more, and now they had a freaking phoenix.

He was never gonna tell her the unicorn. She’d ask if they could track it down, and She’d use her pretty little pout and bounce on her feet and Dean would forget the word no.

“This is it, Princess,” he muttered that night, staring at the phoenix chick on the dresser. “We’re running outta room.”

“I know,” She said, and Dean wasn’t sure she did.

“I’m serious-“

“Mhm.”

Dean said Her name, and she leaned out of the bathroom, brow raised. Her hair hung, wet and tangled—framing her cheeks and making her look like a freaking mermaid—and Dean had sighed.

“C’mere,” he extended a hand, and She flushed.

“I- Um- I’m not-“ She looked down, voice dropping to a mumble. “I just got out of the shower, De-“

“Yeah, I worked that out.” Dean beckoned, smiling affectionately. “C’mere.”

She looked at him under fluttering lashes, lips parted and fingers gripping the doorframe like she was afraid of falling. Dean pushed down a laugh. She wouldn’t as a reaction to her borderline absurd cuteness. He beckoned again, spreading his legs wide and leaning a little forward, keeping his voice low and soft.

“Nothing I ain’t seen, baby,” he said, and Her lip quivered. “Just gonna brush that out for you.”

“You don’t know how-“

“You think I’ve been watchin’ you for eleven years and haven’t picked up how to do your hair?”

She blinked at him, then looked back to the bathroom. Dean sighed.

“Princess, just- leave the towel.”

She pressed those pretty lips in a thin line, and Dean patted his knee. He wouldn’t even make this a sex thing. Not right now. He just wanted Her to be as comfortable in her skin as he was. Looking at Her skin, not being in it. Sammy might call him obsessed sometimes, but he wasn’t hitting Bates level. If anything, he was the perfectly healthy level of obsessed with Her.

Who wouldn’t be? What kinda sick bastard would look at Her and not fall to his knees?

She slipped out of the bathroom with Her head still down and her back curved. Dean knew trying to hide when he saw it, but he was patient. Her walking around naked was a big step, and he wasn’t about to push it. The Lady hopped off the bed and rubbed against Her ankle, and that pulled a small smile to Her face. She bent down to rub her between the ears, and Dean waited. He let himself stare just a little at Her cleavage. He’d put his face there and never move, if She let him. Best pair of boobs in the freaking world.

“She’s getting on well with the bird,” Dean said, watching Her pet the kitten. “Thought for sure we were gonna have a Tom and Jerry thing going, but- Guess having a Disney Princess for a mom makes them all peaceful.”

She laughed softly, looking at Dean under dark, wet lashes. “I think you just want everything to be a cartoon, Deano,” She said, and Dean swallowed.

“Not everything, baby,” he muttered. “I kinda like you in 3D.”

That got a tiny flush, and She looked back to the kitten. Dean knew that face, though. Trying to hide a smile, to pretend She didn’t hear Dean’s compliments. She could take Her sweet time absorbing them and see if he cared, but Dean wasn’t ever gonna let Her get away with ignoring how much he loved Her.

“Get over here,” he murmured, and She looked back up with those shining, nervous eyes. Dean flashed Her his best, charming smile. “Promise I don’t bite.”

 Unless you ask, baby. I’ll bite you all over, if you give me the green light.

Dean punched himself, internally. Yeah, She had a perfect body and very bitable, soft skin. Yeah She smelled better than Heaven and made sweeter noises than any Zepplin song, but this wasn’t about that. She crawled over to him with her pretty ass in the air, and Dean fisted his hand. He wasn’t gonna bend Her over and see what kind of colors he could make her turn. He let Her settle between his knees and watch him with a shallow breaths, keeping himself perfectly still. She leaned up until their noses bumped, and Dean took Her face between his hands.

“Hey, Princess,” he murmured, and She dug her nails straight into his damn thigh. Dean grunted, and She tried to pull back.

“I’m so- Oh-“

Dean didn’t give Her a chance to apologize. He pressed his lips over Her’s, kissing slowly. Lazily. They might not have all the time in the world, but the damn thing could stop spinning for just a few hours while he took care of Her. It owed him that much.

She folded over Dean like a ragdoll, when he hauled Her into his lap. Her fingers curled on his collar, one hand wrapping around his neck and combing through the short hairs at his nape. He shivered slightly, groaning into Her mouth, and she made a pretty little noise that made his cock twitch in his pants. Her knee bumped against his crotch, and he bit Her lower lip to stop his moan.

“So soft, baby,” he muttered, pressing lighter kisses over her cheeks and nose. “Almost askin’ for it, aren’t you.”

She cooed in response, chasing Dean’s mouth and almost climbing over his chest. Son of a bitch, Her boobs were pressed right under his damn face, and when Dean grabbed Her waist, she arched right into his touch. It took the willpower of a damn hero, for Dean to pry Her away and flip her over. She squeaked, trying to turn back around, but Dean locked Her to his chest with an arm.

“Takin’ care of your hair,” he kissed under Her jaw. “Then we gotta get some sleep.”

She sighed and dropped Her head against his shoulder, glaring at him under hooded, glossy eyes. Dean chuckled and slid his hand around Her throat, tipping her a little further back. He kissed Her with every, infinite drop of love in his body. It was a storm that started to the right of his heart and never ended. A storm that belonged to Her. She got wiggly, when Dean pushed his tongue down Her throat, and he had to pull away. If She kept squirming against his dick, he wasn’t gonna be able to keep this PG.

Maybe PG-13. She was naked, and his hand had glided down on insistent, a magnet being dragged to the greatest treasure it would ever find. His thumb grazed Her clit, and she grabbed his wrist with a tiny, breathy moan. Dean sighed, kissed the corner of Her mouth, nipped her jaw, and pulled away.

“Sorry, Princess,” he murmured, and She just made a disgruntled sound, wrapping Her arms back around her stomach.

Dean sighed, positioning Her carefully between his legs, and She drew her knees to her chest, folding into a pretty little ball as Dean set to work on her hair. It was harder than She’d ever made it look, and Dean was sorta worried about hurting her.

“Uh- If this is- I kinda gotta yank real hard-“

“It’s okay,” she mumbled, and Dean swallowed.

It didn’t sound okay. He didn’t think it had much to do with the hair.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find the words that would make Her understand. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to fuck her. He thought about those promises—the ones he’d made to her, about helping Her figure out what she liked—almost every night. She’d press up against him in the dark, drooling and loose and soft, and Dean wanted to wind Her up and watch her burst in a million different colors. He could smell how wet She was, and he wanted to drown in it. Press Her into the mattress and lie under her hips, kissing and eating out her pussy until she screamed. He dreamed about putting her over his knee and just letting her drip all over his hands.

But She was the only woman he’d ever had where it was about more than sex. The only relationship he ever had that actually, really, unendingly mattered. Dean’s selfish, perverted thoughts could wait until She was on steady feet. They were the best kind to sweep out from under Her. When he fucked Her until she cried, he really wanted to make sure those were some happy tears. Hell, his balls were heavy and blue in his sweats, but She wasn’t getting her mouth on them until Dean was sure she wasn’t just trying to prove something.

He cleared his throat, so close to finding the words, but She cut him off with a small voice, and he swallowed them all down.

“Do you think the plan will work?”

Dean’s hands faltered. He didn’t want to lie to Her. But when things were so small and thin and fragile—when every step felt like a tightrope and Dean couldn’t really see the bottom—he wasn’t sure what the hell to do.

“I think we’re gonna be alright,” he tried, and Her shoulders sagged. 

“Dean…”

“I know,” he sighed, pressing his face into Her neck. “I know, Princess, but- I don’t fuckin’ know.”

She leaned against him with a slow, shaky breath, and Dean wrapped his arms around Her stomach. She’d been eating better. It made Her warmer. Easier to hold onto, to dig his blunt fingernails into Her hips and leave tiny bruises like a claim he was allowed to make. She grabbed his forearm, and Dean hiked his legs over Her’s. He was trying to tie them further into a knot. A proper one, that nothing would be able to undo.

“We get through it, right?” He said against Her skin, letting his lips brush that sensitive spot that always made her melt. “We always get through it, and sometimes we come out in some pieces, but we put each other back and we keep goin’. Right until the road runs out, and then-“

“All the way down,” She whispered and Dean nodded tight.

“That’s right. We’re gonna be alright,” Dean sucked a tiny mark under Her jaw, then kissed the tip of Her nose. “All the way down.”

She passed out in Dean’s arms, only a handful of minutes after. He’d barely finished Her hair when he felt the drool on his arm. He smiled to himself, and settled into the bed. It took a while for his eyes to close, but he counted every second awake like a kid counting presents. He had what he’d been looking for since he was an idiot kid. He had more than he’d let himself dream about, right at the tips of his fingers. It was so close, he could almost taste the apple pie. He just had to hold on, a little fucking longer.

Always a little longer. Just a few more steps—less than he dared to count—and they’d be out of the woods.

Dean had learned the past few nights, that the little phoenix chick glowed in the damn dark. Made it a little harder to sleep, but he could find ways to appreciate it. Free nightlight, if their kids were afraid of the dark.

“We could start a business,” he joked to Charlie in the morning. “You make one of those websites, I breed the birds, we’d make a killing.”

“That’s animal traffickin’, genius,” Jo grumbled from across the table, and Dean flipped her off.

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m real jealous I didn’t think of your bird breedin’ crime.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Alright, what the hell crawled up your ass?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Jo said flatly. “I’m a ray of sunshine.”

Dean frowned at her, but everyone clambered into the kitchen all at once, and this didn’t feel like a good place to try and get Jo to open up. There wasn’t really a good place to get Jo to open up in general. There were places that would get him shot, and places that wouldn’t. Dean was gonna gun for the latter.

“I think we have the plan,” She announced, dropping at Jo’s side. “Crowley says he knows where Eve and Dick will be this weekend.”

“I was supposed to rendezvous with them after my little Heaven vacation,” Crowley said, standing stiffly on the edge of the kitchen. “I can get the boys past the door, but after that-“

“We’re on out own,” Dean muttered. “Like usual.”

“I will be with you, Dean,” Cas said. “And I have been told that I can handle Leviathans myself.”

“Oh, are you like, extra magic?” Charlie said eagerly, and Cas frowned.

“I am not magic.”

“But- You’re an angel,” Charlie titled her head. “Isn’t that like- Obviously magic?”

“Angels are magic the same way humans are, actually,” Kevin told Charlie. Dean thought of Bobby, and the kid of tantrum the old man would throw at the amount of people in his sacred kitchen. “There are a lot of complex classifications and stuff. I- I don’t really understand most of them.”

“We are all creations of God,” Cas said, shrugging like it wasn’t that interesting. Like She and Sammy and Kevin weren’t gonna start drooling over the information. “Angels have always been taught that he started with us, and worked his way out. But, for a while,” Cas sighed. “I have been wondering how much of that is true.”

“Not a lot, if Azrael was telling Dean and I the truth about Eve,” She muttered. “But- It doesn’t matter right now. Eve and Dick-“

“That’s what we go for,” Sam finished, rubbing his legs with a pinched face. “That’s what we have to finish.”

She nodded, and everyone else followed suit. Dean caught Her eye over the table, and gave her a small smile. We’ll be okay, he tried to tell Her with just his eyes. It’s all gonna be okay.

For a second, Dean thought She could hear him. Something about the way She let out a sharp breath, the way her mouth twitched, he really wondered. She offered him a small smile in return, and looked over to Jo. Still sulking about something. Dean would figure out what later.

The plan was, on paper, pretty clean cut. Cas, Sam, and Dean would go with Crowley to pass the apple to Dick. Dean would go stab stab, the Leviathan Queen would fall, and the rest of them would go out like the weird little hive mind they were. On the other side, She would take Meg and Jo, find Eve, and take care of the bitch with Her Blade. That was the part Dean didn’t love. He made that real clear, when they were round tabling.

“She’s tried to kill you, sweetheart, of course I’m not good with you running into her open murder arms-“

“I didn’t work,” She said, crossing Her arms. “I’m still like, super alive.”

Dean gave Her a flat look, and She shrugged in challenge. “I’m just- I’m thinking,” Dean took a deep breath, leaning forward. “If any part of this is gonna be a trap-“

“She can’t trap her majesty,” Meg drawled. “Ain’t you heard the gospel, Dean?”

“You stay outta this,” Dean snapped. “Don’t call her that, and don’t- She can very easily get trapped.”

“She is very kidnappable,” Crowley murmured, earning him a weird look from Sam and a scowl from Jo and Dean. Crowley rolled his eyes. “Please, it’s not like I’ve kidnapped her. I am just- You must have noticed the little pattern-“

“I’m not getting kidnapped!” She shouted over him, chin tipped up. “I can take care of Eve, she won’t kill me, and that’s it. Okay?”

She glared around the table, all of them quietly staring back. She slammed Her hand on the table, and a little more than the ground shook. Dean almost felt it in his ribcage, like a bass drum loud enough to make the earth quake.

“Okay?!”

They all mumbled agreements, and she smiled wide.

“Okay!” 

And that was it. They had a plan. Team Get Dick—Jo came up with the name, and Sam and Dean didn’t have the votes to get it rejected—and Team Eve’s a Bitch would do their jobs, meet back up, get out, and-

“Keep going,” Dean said, the words low and rough in his throat. “We just- We keep going until it’s behind us.”

They all nodded, and Dean knew they heard what he wanted to say.

We keep going, and then we move on.

Charlie was the only one who wouldn’t be sticking around for the finale. She protested about it, but She didn’t have the field training, and they didn’t know what kind of mess they’d be walking away from. Dean wanted her safe. He was already worried about Claire trying to hitch another ride, and he couldn’t have another kid he was worried about misplacing. He couldn’t have another person who bled out in his arms.

“This is stupid,” Charlie grumbled when Dean walked her to the car. She’d get Bobby’s old pickup, all the money they could offer, and a free gun. One of Dean’s good ones, too.

Maybe he was trying to apologize for kicking her out. He was still gonna stand by it. Better pissed and alone than dead. “Yeah, I know, but- If anything goes wrong-“

“You don’t want me stuck here,” she sighed. “Yeah, I know. I was just hoping, I don’t know. Team Get Dick isn’t exactly for me, but I could still be helpful- What if you need someone to hack you through a door-“

“Cas can fry anything,” Dean said, a little apologetically, and Charlie slumped.

“Yeah. I know.”

Dean sighed. “Look, we’ll find you again after, alright? But you’re smart, you probably got a better life out there-“

“Oh, I definitely have a better life out there,” Charlie said. “But I like this. I like you guys.”

Dean couldn’t fight his smile. He didn’t get it. He’d run to the hills the moment he knew She and Sam would follow. But he’d take it.

“We like you too, kid,” he said, and Charlie beamed, spreading her arms wide. Dean pulled her into a hug, and prayed he actually would get to find her. And that when he did, she’d have a life she didn’t want to leave behind to rejoin their shit one.

“I still think it’s dumb that Kevin gets to stay,” Charlie grumbled. “I’m like- way better at fighting.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well. I trust Kevin to stay in the car.”

Kevin, if anything, had begged to go into hiding with Charlie. Or get sent to Jody’s, or join Rowena’s boytoy club. When they’d been prepping Charlie to hit the road, Dean had been pretty sure he’d open up the trunk and find Kevin hiding amongst the bags. But Charlie was—in the way of being human—not very important. Kevin was the prophet, and Dean didn’t want him stuck in an angel barricade or something.

“Kevin is still resistant to the plan,” Cas said quietly as Dean watched Charlie drive away, the tires kicking up dirt in their wake. “I understand your worries, Dean, but there is no safer place in the world than Bobby Singer’s house.”

Dean grunted, crossing his arms. “What about when we don’t come back, buddy? Things go sideways, Crowley does a double back or Eve slips out, the angels pop down or something?”

“Kevin would be under the strongest wards in the world-“

“He’d be alone,” Dean snapped. “I ain’t leaving him alone-“

“Dean,” Cas said, quiet and steady. Dean could feel his damn gaze, burning into his head. “I understand your fears-“

“I’m not fuckin’ afraid.”

Cas sighed. “Your hesitations, then. We have not always been good at staying together, but bringing Kevin right into Eve’s nests- It’s foolish. And you know it.”

Dean said Her name. “She didn’t have a problem with it.”

“She is occupied with other, more important things.” Cas took a step forward, until he was right in Dean’s periphery. “She trusts you to care for the others. I can support sending the human girl off, but the prophet-“

“If you call me stupid, man, I’m gonna freakin’ sock you.”

Cas sighed. “I would never call you stupid, Dean. But- I also believe you know I’m right.”

Dean swallowed, his hand curling into a fist. He did like that, and he didn’t fucking like knowing that. Charlie getting out was a chance to free her from the life. Kevin was tied to it, but Dean should be trying to keep him away from the blood, not dragging him alone in the car. That’s what Dad would’ve done for him. And look at Dean, he’d turned out just fine. Stable and happy and-

He shook himself off, fighting a bitter laugh. He finally looked at Cas and tried not to let it sting at how he leaned a little away. The permanent bags under Cas’ eyes were back, and his hair looked messier, his tie looser, and Dean hadn’t seen him this put together since damn March last year.

“I doubt the angels are going to be a threat,” Cas said. “I have been getting radio silence since I returned, but-“ He frowned at the air. “That may just be their fury with me.”

“You should get that checked out by a doctor, buddy.”

“There are no angel doctors. I do not contract illnesses, or infections-“

“Yeah, but you’re what, a thousand?” Dean grinned. “It’s alright. Perfect normal age to start getting performance issues, I hear.”

Cas frowned, giving Dean that confused, purely Cas look that always made Dean laugh. “I am… Not a performer, Dean.”

“Oh, I ain’t either. But I still don’t get issues.” Dean winked, and Cas’ frown deepened. “You can ask my boss, she’s been giving me five stars, ‘cross the board. I’m her star employee.”

Cas blinked, and said Her name slowly. Dean nodded, and Cas sighed. “You are not her star employee.”

“What-“

“That would be Joanna Harvelle. They seemed to have a profound bond, similar to ours. In fact,” Cas tilted his head. “Sam may have a bond with her as well-“

“I have a freakin’ bond with her,” Dean grunted. I’m her soulmate, so everyone can shut the hell up. “And you’re talking friendship, Cas. I’m talking sex. Romantic sex.”

“Oh.” Cas was silent for a moment. “That was… Not clear.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, and dropped down to sit on a tire. “Yeah, I got that, buddy.”

Cas didn’t respond, staring down at Dean with that strange expression passing back over his face. Clouds moving in, threating to block Dean back out, when they’d just started talking like normal again. Dean cleared his throat, clasping his hands between his knees. Cas gave him a curious look, but didn’t move.

“You’re talking to me again,” Dean muttered, and Cas tensed. “Wasn’t sure it was gonna happen.” He was trying to say it like a joke. It wasn’t coming out like one.

“Dean…”

“Look, I know the last time you were you, I was kinda-“ Dean waved a hand. “Pissed or whatever-“

“You wanted to kill me,” Cas said flatly, and Dean gave him a flat look.

“Well, you stabbed me in the back and stole my girl, then brought her back half dead. I was a little freakin’ annoyed.”

Cas’ mouth worked slightly. He took a step back, and Dean sighed.

“Cas- Wait-“

“I regret my actions, Dean,” Cas raised his voice, holding Dean’s gaze. “But I do not regret taking her.” Cas said Her name, and Dean’s hand fisted again. “She was in danger. I kept her safe.”

“You almost got her killed-“

“And you would’ve protected her-“

“Yes!” Dean shouted, and Cas blinked. “I woulda worked somethin’ out, I woulda called all hands on deck for both of you. You never would’ve fucked off to the woods, she never woulda gone chasing after you, I would’ve stopped that shit, if you both got your heads outta your damn asses and-“

Dean cut himself off with a sharp breath, trying to wipe the heat of anger off his face. He’d thought he was over this. He hadn’t even really thought about it since Jo and Sam locked them in the panic room. Sammy said bottling things up made them burst. It was really annoying when Sammy was right.

“I am sorry, Dean-“

“Don’t,” Dean grunted, glaring at Cas’ shoes. “It ain’t your fault.”

Cas paused. “It sounds like it is… Almost exclusively my fault.”

Dean, in a very small but loud part of his brain, agreed. It was Cas’ fault She’d ever left him. It was Her fault she hadn’t trusted Dean or told him how to help. It wasn’t Dean’s fault. He was coming out, clean hands and chin up.

But his hands had felt pretty fucking dirty the whole time, and it wasn’t like he’d ever really been able to put his chin over his neck. Dad had been good at it. Sammy still was. Dean bowed his head and followed like a dog. Maybe if he’d looked up he would’ve seen things going wrong sooner. Maybe if he’d seen he would’ve fought and gotten them to stop. He could’ve told Cas that they’d help with whatever he needed, and he didn’t need to worry about sneaking around or asking too much. He could’ve told Her that she didn’t need to worry about losing him, even if he didn’t think she’d listen to it. Cas wouldn’t either. She’d felt Dean die. Cas had pulled him, broken out of hell. Dean couldn’t imagine it. Just thinking about them in pain made his stomach cramp and twist.

And Dad would’ve said none of that mattered. Betrayal was betrayal, no matter how you cut or frame it. But Dean wasn’t trying to be Dad. He was trying to be Bobby. And Bobby would’ve told him Cas already felt bad enough. Bobby would’ve told Dean to grow the hell up.

“It wasn’t,” Dean met Cas’ gaze. “Your fault. We all did some stupid shit.”   

Cas didn’t answer. He blinked at Dean, silent and cautious, and Dean sighed.

“I’m not angry, man. I promise. I’m over it.”

Cas frowned. “Over it,” he echoed, and Dean shrugged.

“It’s been months, man. I’ve sorta been frying bigger fish.”

“Bobby?” Cas said softly, and Dean sighed, looking down to the dirt.

“Other shit too, but- Yeah.”

“I am sorry, Dean. Bobby was a good man-“

“I know,” Dean grunted. “Didn’t save him though, did it.”

Cas was silent again. When Dean looked back up, he was shifting on his feet awkwardly, glancing at the empty stretch of tire next to Dean. The corner of Dean’s mouth twitch, and he scooted over, patting the rubbed, and Cas shuffled forward like he didn’t know what to do with his feet. He sat with a tense noise, his posture rigid and legs pushed out, and Dean fought back a laugh.

“I am sorry,” Cas said suddenly, and Dean’s teasing died in his throat. “About… all of it.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

Cas nodded slowly, and they both fell silent. And as Dean watched Cas scoot around, trying and failing horribly to sit comfortably on the tire, he’d never wanted to tell someone more. That last secret, that he might be keeping too long. Bobby had known for a week before he died. Sammy had known and forgot. Death and Joshua knew, but that was like your teachers knowing about a high school crush. Wasn’t anything they were gonna do about it.

Cas wouldn’t do anything either, but at least Dean would have someone who knew. Someone to actually help him figure shit out. And Cas would get it. He, of all people, would understand why Dean hadn’t told Her yet.

But Cas had just gotten back. He’d just stopped keeping secrets, and Dean- He couldn’t ask him to keep another one. That wouldn’t be fair. So instead he just bumped Cas’ knee with his own, and gave him a small, easy grin.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said, and it was the truth.

Cas didn’t smile back. Dean hadn’t expected him to. But he bowed his head, and his voice got rougher. “Thank you, Dean. I am… glad to be back.”

Dean nodded, and looked back to the house. He should go in and tell Kevin it was his lucky day. He’d be stuck home on pet sitting duty. Basically a vacation.

But something kept him sitting down. Something ugly and selfish, that started with a bad feeling in his gut and moved through an angry part of his heart, that got vigilant and hot when She was in danger. Dean’s drummed his hand on his knee, and took a slow breath. It wouldn’t matter if nothing happened. And if it did happen…

“Cas?”

Cas gave him a questioning look, and Dean let out a slow breath, holding his gaze.

“You gotta make me a promise.”

Cas sat impossibly taller. Made Dean feel short. Maybe Sam was right, and he slumped too much. “Of course, Dean,” Cas said. “What do you need.”

Dean swallowed. He shouldn’t. But he had a feeling Cas would offer Dean the moon for his forgiveness right now, and Dean didn’t give a shit about the moon. He only needed one thing. One small thing, that Cas was probably gonna do anyway, but he had to be sure.

“Next time,” Dean said slowly. “No matter what, no matter how it’s looking- You gotta promise me you’re gonna do the right thing.” He gave Cas a meaningful look. “Not what you think is the right thing. The right thing.”

Cas blinked. “Dean, I do not-“

“I’m saying not more for my own good bullshit, Cas,” Dean said. “You and I both got the memo, there’s only one person who’s good really freakin’ matters, and it ain’t me.”

“I am…” Cas glanced over to the house, frowning slightly. “Not sure I agree, Dean. And I don’t think she would either-“

“’Course she wouldn’t,” Dean dismissed. “That’s part of the damn problem. We’re both gonna follow her, and she’s gonna say save Dean, and you’re gonna dive ‘cause she’s the one that matters, right? That’s how this is always gonna go?”

Cas’ frowned deeply, but didn’t deny it. Dean sighed, his words staring to get sore like a bruise.

“I’m just askin’ you to promise me that won’t happen again,” he muttered. “You owe me that much.”

And he hated the words, the second they left his mouth. Cas didn’t owe him anything. No one owed Dean anything, and of their little team, he was the one who was gonna go out the easiest. Hell, he’d still be out, if it wasn’t for Cas.

But Cas nodded, and Dean didn’t have it in him to feel bad about that. “Okay,” Cas said. “I will… Do the right thing.”

Dean clapped Cas on the back, and Cas’ mouth pulled into one of those awkward smiles. Dean would let himself feel guilty about this when the job was done and the right thing just turned into Cas siding with him in a stupid argument about where they should build their farm. But he was never gonna feel bad about keeping her safe. That was his one damn job, and he’d sworn he was never gonna fail it again.

Cas went inside, and Dean followed. He needed to get some practice with the knife. It was balanced all wrong, and he’d never been a fan of close combat weapons. Anything shorter than his arm was too close for comfort.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Dean chuckled, leaning back as She wrapped her arms over his shoulders. “Ain’t smart to sneak up on someone holding a knife, Princess.”

“I’d disarm you,” She mumbled, pressing her face into his hair. Dean grinned, leaning back so She had to meet his gaze.

He reached up with careful fingers, and held Her chin. She blinked at him and bent a little further down, her hair tickling Dean’s face. He pecked Her upper lip, and almost laughed when She pouted.

“Not enough, sweetheart.”

She wrinkled Her nose, pushing on his shoulders to get away, but Dean wasn’t letting Her go that easy. He caught Her hand and tugged her around the chair, setting down the knife and placing Her between his legs. She glanced back at the blade on the table, Her brow furrowed all tight and cute, and Dean rubbed her hip gently.

“Eyes on me,” he murmured, and Her head immediately turned.

Dean didn’t know how the hell he’d gotten so lucky. If Sam tried to pull that, She’d grab the knife and ask him if he wanted to try that again. Not her star employee, Dean scoffed. Wasn’t like anyone else got to have Her between their legs.

“I was holding it wrong?” He teases, and She sighed, running her fingers over the collar of his shirt.

“It was just- The grip. It looked too tight.”

“Too tight- I’m tryin’ to stab Dick, not do a circus performance-“

“And do you think he’s going to be standing in one place for you to stab?” She raised Her brows, and Dean shrugged, grinning smugly.

“Sammy and Cas are gonna tag team him for me.”

She gave him a doubtful look, and Dean chuckled.

“You don’t think I can do it?”

“No,” She murmured, resting her palm over Dean’s chest. “I think you’re going to cut a finger off, then do it.”

Dean grabbed Her, light and testing, around the wrist. She stilled, but didn’t freak out. Dean guided Her up to his mouth, kissing Her knuckles, then her palm, then her wrist. She watched him with unsteady breaths, but he’d  take it. Better than the full freak out.

“You’ll stitch me back together,” he murmured, and Her throat bobbed.

“I’ll stitch back your finger?”

“Cas’ll put it on ice for you-“

“Why can’t Cas stitch it together-“

“’Cause he’s got a terrible beside manner, baby,” Dean grinned, twining their fingers together. “And you’re a sexier nurse.”

She flushed and shuffled a step forward. Dean laughed softly as she pulled Her hand away and wrapped her arms around his head, all but shoving his face into Her boobs. If this was supposed to be Her being pissy, he was good with it. If anything, the only punishment was that he couldn’t mouth at Her breasts and sweet little nipples in the living room without getting smacked.

“I have bad bedside manner,” she mumbled, pushing Her face back into Dean’s hair. “I’d get really mad at you.”

“I know,” Dean hugged Her middle, splaying his hand on Her lower back. “It’s gonna be real hot.”

She laughed, breathy and small, and Dean smiled into Her chest. He had a feeling She didn’t love this plan that much either. He’d suggest pair up together, if that didn’t leave Sammy with Crowley and Meg, and Dean third-wheeling Her and Jo. It had to be a Man of God who stabbed Dick. She said Sammy got the title from being a Winchester, but the bylaws weren’t clear or something, if letting Lucifer possess you got that title stripped. Crowley had suggested calling the tiny little Winchesterling and my whore mother, but Dean didn’t want Adam around this. Hell, if he could get away with sidelining Sam, he would.

She’d floated that, in the early stages. Dean had given Her a pointed look, and She’d dropped it with a scowl. The rest of the plan—after that—had been almost all Her. Dean still didn’t think She was a big fan.

“I’m gonna be careful, Princess,” he murmured, dipping his hand under Her shirt. “Swear on my Baby.”

She made a doubtful sound, and Dean kissed Her chest, then Her collarbone. He pressed his hand over Her lower back and propped his chin on Her chest. She leaned down, pressing their brows together and staring at Dean with shining, glossy eyes.

“Pinky promise,” he said, even gentler than before. “Only way I’m gettin’ back to you is one piece.”

Her lip trembled. Her voice was hoarse. “How about you just get back to me,” She whispered, and Dean nodded.

“Deal.”

He pressed one, light kiss to Her parted lips. She hummed, eyes fluttering closed, and Dean barely managed to take a sharp breath before he was pushing back up. He traced his tongue over Her lower lip and cupped the back of Her head, moving to his feet. She opened for him with a soft whine, and Dean pushed Her back to the desk, keeping their bodies tight together and caging Her with his arms. She grabbed his face, kissing him back like she was drowning in thirst, and Dean groaned, pushing his hips down against Her core. The knife clattered to the floor, and Dean caught Her chin before she could get distracted.

“Pick it up after,” he grunted, playing with the waistband of Her pants, and she nodded airily, fisting Her hands in Dean’s shirt.

He smiled against Her mouth and settled between Her legs. His bugle grinded against Her core, and he slowly kissed Her down, until she was lying on the desk—Dean finally got why bosses in pornos went after their secretaries, this was hot, and he could really get down with that fantasy—and Her legs were spread wide in the best invitation Dean was ever gonna get. He ducked down, sucking a dark bruise ont that one, soft spot, pinning Her down with a hand on her tummy.

“De- Dean-“ She gasped, arching off the desk. “Deeeean-“

“Dean!” Sam’s voice cut through the air, tight and annoyed, and Dean groaned, dropping his face back into Her boobs before twisting around with a glare.

“Ain’t you able to see we’re busy?”

“Yeah, dude.” Sam glared back. “It’s kinda all I can see, it’s-“

Sammy made a—very dramatic—gagging sound, and She shoved at Dean’s chest.

“We- We didn’t think anyone was around,” She fixed her hair and adjusted Her shirt with trembling fingers, and Dean sighed, taking over in a second. She gave him a nervous smile, and he kissed the space between her eyes, smoothing out Her shirt and—just for fun, because Sam had ruined the rest of it—snapping Her shorts against her waist. She squeaked, and Sam groaned again.

“You’re in the library. Why would you- Never mind,” Sam sighed, and Dean smirked to himself, running his thumb over the thin line of bruises he’d left on Her hips. Damn right never mind.

He thought about licking the tiny marks he’d put on Her throat and collar. Sam could fuck off, Dean had a mission, and nothing else was gonna come first-

Sam said Her name, and She sat further up. Dean sighed. Never a damn moment of peace.

“Cas is looking for you,” Sam mumbled, a hell of a lot softer than he’d been speaking to Dean. “He and Meg want a clearer picture of the building, and, um- Crowley’s not exactly being cooperative- I think Jo’s stopping any murders, but she might just- You know- Kill Crowley herself-“

“I’m coming,” She pushed Dean fully off, and he slumped back with a groan, catching Her hand as she smoothed her shirt on more time.

“That’s not how you were supposed to be sayin’ that,” he grumbled, and laughed when he got smacked.

“Dean Winchester,” She hissed, and Dean winked, kissing the back of Her hand. 

“You free tonight, pretty girl?”

She flushed. “May- Maybe. Why, are you-“

“Askin’ you out?” Dean shrugged, reaching forward to redo the button he’d gotten on Her jeans. She went totally still, gripping Dean’s hand tight enough for his bones to hurt. He let his knuckles brush Her crotch, and she made a high, half confused sound. “Maybe. You gonna say yes, if I am.”

She nodded, leaning into Dean’s hand, and Sam coughed loudly.

“Crowley. Jo. Everyone about to fight,” he said Her name, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“I’ll grab you after dinner,” he told Her, smacking her ass lightly. “Good luck with the yardfight, Princess.”

She made a disgruntled sound, but still walked away with a glare out the door. Dean leaned back in his chair, smirking after Her. She’d been pent up enough the past month, to the point that Dean was worried denying Her again might end up with his dick getting in trouble. And that cut off hadn’t even been his fault. He was a little worried She was just gonna kill Crowley herself.

He sighed, and looked to the knife. She’d been right. He had been holding it wrong. He should’ve asked Her to show him right before she got pulled off to play mom.

“You guys seem happy,” Sam said softly, and Dean smiled to himself.

“We are. She’s a little pissed at me ‘cause-“ Dean cut himself off. Sammy didn’t need to know that. Dean didn’t really want him to know that. “Uh- Stuff.”

Sam’s nose wrinkled. He seemed to have put together what the stuff was on his own. “Yeah… Right.” He coughed. “Uh- How’s the knife thing going?”

Dean grunted. “I miss my sword, Sammy. Coulda avodided the whole damn scaveneger hunt if I still had it.

“We can try to look for it, after,” Sam offered. “I mean, I think we should, even if you didn’t want it. It’s a weapon of Heaven, it’s an artifact- Maybe we shouldn’t let it go back into combat, for preservation, or leverage against Naomi- She seemed kind of…”

Sam trailed off, and Dean snorted. “Bitchy?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed, dropping in one of the spare chairs. “That.”

Dean nodded, frowning at the knife. He picked it up and spun it on the desk, watching the blade catch the light. “It’s my sword, Sam,” he muttered. “We get it back, I ain’t donating it to science or whatever.”

“But- We can just get you another sword, Dean-“

“Don’t want another sword,” Dean said flatly. “That one- It felt like mine.”

“How can a sword feel like yours?” Sam asked, and Dean just shrugged. He couldn’t explain it. That thing had just felt like a second limb, and he was always gonna be pissed at himself for leaving it in the Leviathan hive. He knew he’d lost it for a good reason—getting Her out, getting Her safe—but he still figured he got to be pissed about it. He didn’t ask for much for himself. All he freakin’ wanted was pie, his girl, and his magic freakin’ sword.

And a farm. And Sammy to be safe, and Cas to not go crazy again. For Jo to stay alive, while he was at it. Bobby back. Her and all Her animals to be safe. Kevin to stop freaking out. Maybe some good dinner—he was pretty hungry—and for all the cops in a America to piss off and go back to eating their donuts. For God to really fuck off. And everyone in the world to chill the hell out.

Dean asked for too much, maybe.

“Hey, Sammy?” He asked, still watching the knife spin. Sam hummed in acknowledgement, and Dean sighed. “This works, and- You know- That’s it-“

“I don’t know what happens next, Dean,” Sam said, before he’d even damn finished. “None of us do. That- That’s kind of the point.”

Dean shook his head, glaring at the knife. “Nah, it- There’s gotta be more than that- You’re the one who was always telling me we gotta have an end-“

“And you’re the one who told me you wanted out five years ago, Dean.”

The knife clattered onto the desk, and Dean tried to glare at Sam, but he was just met with those tired, damn puppy eyes.

“You remember that?” Sam asked, and Dean could’ve snorted.

“’Course I remember it.” They’d been working one of those cases that bled his will dry. Dad hadn’t been dead five months, She’d been in the wind—Dean had been sure She’d abandoned him—and Bobby hadn’t been cluing anyone into her location, making Dean feel like there was a phantom every time he visited that house. He’d only had Sam, and Sam had been keeping secrets. He’d been tired, not much left to fight for, even less to live for. He’d told Sam that. Sam had told him they had to keep going, just for now.

For now turned into Dean dying, then the end of the world, then two more just for nows. They were coming up on a third. Dean felt a little sick.

“How’s Eileen?” Dean asked, watching Sam closely. The kid went a little red

“Going underground, like I told her. Just- You know.”

“In case of the worst,” Dean muttered, and Sam nodded tightly. “We’ll get her after.”

“I know.” Sam paused, glancing back up at Dean, looking half his damn size. “If you’re still looking for land, she- Um- She actually found a pretty big stretch of it in Maine. Not even that expensive.”

Dean swallowed, wrapping his hand around the knife. “Guess she can show me when we get her then, huh.”

“Yeah,” Sam said softly. “Guess she can.”

And it was a silent promise that neither of them had ever been good at keeping. You go and I’ll move on. Dean wondered when they’d stop lying about that. He wondered when they’d never have to bother making that promise again.

She’d managed to break up the fight without anyone—even Crowley—getting killed. Jo was still fuming and red-faced, when Dean walked into the kitchen, but the biggest causality seemed to be a pie she’d smashed into Crowley’s face before things de-escalated.

“I wanted to eat that,” Meg mused, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Doesn’t look as tasty on your face as in Blondie’s hands.”

Crowley scowled, Jo looked three seconds from murder, and Dean stood in the doorway with a miserable gape. He’d wanted to eat that. It had been his pie. He got the ingredients with Claire last week, and he’d promised to save her a slice, and now she was gonna accuse him of neglecting her again, and he wasn’t getting any pie-

“We can go to Mel’s in an hour, De,” She said as She passed Dean, pulling Jo behind her. “We’ll get you some more, okay?”

Dean relaxed a little, and nodded. Jo sulked after Her up the stairs, and Dean turned back to the kitchen with a sigh. Cas was frowning at the bit of pie that had made it to the floor, Crowley was wiping himself off with the good towels, and Meg was giving Dean the smirk that made him wish Jo had pied her instead.

“She taking you out for pie, De?” Meg drawled, and Dean ignored her, stomping over to Crowley.

“Go take a freakin’ shower,” he yanked the towel away, and Crowley scowled.

“I am a demon, I would not need a shower if you’d let me through your little power block-“

“Nope,” Dean snapped. “Guest bath is third floor, first door on the left.”

“Guest bath?” Crowley’s lip curled. “I will not be bathing in the guest bath like a- a common street rat-“

“Then Sammy can hose in you in the freakin’ yard,” Dean shrugged. “Don’t touch my towels.”

“He’s such a homemaker,” Meg cooed. “That’s how he earns his pie.”

Dean took a deep breath, and pointed a stern finger. “Hey. I can still shoot you.”

“But you won’t,” she purred. “You know, De? I really like pie too. If you ever think you’d wanna share, I’m sure the pie would enjoy it.”

Meg was lucky Dean found that amusing. The pie would not enjoy that. It had taken Dean six months to get the pie not to hide herself whenever she got stripped, and the success rate still wasn’t great. The pie got embarrassed when Dean touched her in front of people. The pie would start freaking out and crying, if Dean pitched two people eating her.

Dean was good with that. He didn’t like sharing his pie anyway.

“Good luck with that,” Dean snorted, and Meg raised her brows.

“Maybe the pie would like some other pies eating her, instead of…” She looked Dean up and down, obviously unimpressed. “You.”

Cas looked up with a frown. “Pie cannot eat pie, Meg. That would be cannibalism.”

“For hell’s sake-“ Crowley scoffed her name. “She’s the pie, you air-headed angel. And- If we’re taking numbers-“

“No one’s taking anything,” Dean snapped. “Go shove the hose up your ass, Crowley.”    

Dean left the kitchen before anyone could argue with him, waiting in the hallway for Her to come back down. It took a while—Crowley used the guest bathroom, just like Dean thought—but She appeared at the top of the stairs with a soft smile, and Dean felt his wrath dissipate into thin air.

“You look good, baby,” he offered a hand as She came downstairs, and she laughed softly.

“I look the same as I did five minutes ago.”

“Exactly,” Dean kissed the side of Her head. “Freakin’ good.”

She rolled Her eyes, but smiled against Dean’s shoulder. “Pie?” She mumbled, and Dean nodded.

Mel’s was on the edge of town, had the best damn pie in the area, and considered Dean a gold star customer. He barely got through the door before the nice old lady who waited tables waved and asked if he wanted the usual. The big, tatted up guy she’d been serving frowned, but Dean just grinned and nodded, and She leaned against his side, her head tipped into his shoulder and breathing soft. Dean herded to the register, kissed the back of Her head, and ordered a root beer float.

“I- I’m okay-“

“I’m not eating alone,” Dean cut her off with a challenge, She glared for a moment, then gave up with a sigh. Dean kissed the tip of Her nose, then grinned at the thin kid behind the register.

“Make that a root beer float and some fries, buddy.” He said, and the kid—staring at Her for a few seconds before he seemed to hear—nodded and punched in the order with shaking fingers.

Dean moved Her to a booth, slung his arm around Her shoulder, and slid the kids placemat in front of Her. She glanced at the crayons with a small pout, and Dean chuckled.

“C’mon, I know you wanna do the word puzzle thing.”

“Word search,” she muttered, and Dean gave Her a pointed look. She sighed, grabbed the crayons, and bent over with an overly focused expression.

Dean watched Her, fond and silent. He tucked some hair back from Her face and ducked to kiss her cheek. She looked back up with wide eyes, and Dean kissed Her other cheek.

“Ignore me,” he said, and She frowned, giving him a suspicious one-over before turned back to the puzzle. Dean leaned over Her shoulder, squinting at all the letters, almost floating off the freaking page. “How the hell are you seeing anything in there?” He muttered, and She shrugged.

“I don’t know, I’m just- Looking for linguistic patterns, I guess.”

“What, like- Uh- I before E?” 

“That one’s actually a myth,” She hummed. “But- Yeah.”

Dean nodded, resting his face against Her shoulder and squinting at the paper. “This shit really doesn’t make you dizzy, huh.”

Her yellow crayon faltered. She gave Dean a slow look, like he was crazy, and he frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just- This makes you dizzy?”

 “Uh- Duh. Look at it,” he gestured at the jumbled letters. “They’re all mushed together, and- Normal reading is hard enough, this is just asking me to get confused.”

She glanced at the paper, then back to Dean. “What do you mean, normal reading is hard?”

Dean sighed. “Look, I know I’m not a genius like you and Sammy, but-“

“Forget about me and Sam,” She cupped Dean’s cheek, and he swallowed. She was looking at him the same way She looked at crossword puzzles. He didn’t hate it. “Is it really hard for you to read?”

“I dunno,” Dean mumbled. “I mean, I wouldn’t say hard, just- Y’know. Makes my head hurt sometimes.”

The little wrinkle in Her brow deepened. Dean said Her name cautiously, and she just shook her head.

“Princess, it ain’t that big a deal-“

“Just- Shh.” She pressed a finger over Dean’s mouth, and he raised his brows.

She really was scanning over him. Putting him under the freaking microscope. She combed Her fingers through his hair, and smelled real good, and Dean decided he’d love to be a bug under her inspection. He could be one of those big, cool bugs, that grew into a big bug, and seduced Her with his bug magic or something. Charlie had showed him some books about that. They’d been kind confusing, but he’d figure it out.

“Dean, honey,” she said softly, and Dean blinked. She might as well have punched him in face, with how his head went all fuzzy and empty. “When did you drop out of school?”

Dean didn’t see how that was important. He didn’t really care. Honey. “Uhhh-“ He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I dunno, senior year? Dad said he needed me hunting, I didn’t like it anyways, so- Just stopped going, I guess. Not like anyone bothered to check where I’d gone.”

He laughed, but She didn’t look very amused. “And how many schools did you go to?”

“Dunno. Enough to run out of hands and toes.” Dean frowned. “Princess, what-“

“Shh.” She tapped his cheek, and Dean snorted.

“Bossy,” he kissed the inside of Her wrist. She barely even blinked.

“Did you go to elementary school?”

“Uh- Probably? I was a kid, sweetheart, I don’t freakin’ remember-“

“What about your teachers?” She asked—real demanding tonight, apparently—and Dean frowned.

“There were a lot of them. Only really remember one, Miss Hanson. She was cute. Had a big crush on her, and- She kinda looked like you, actually.” Dean gave Her a winning smile, but she seemed too into smartypants mode to catch Dean’s shameless flirting.

“Did she ever pull you aside for like… A test?”

“No? I was pretty shit at spelling, I don’t think she was giving me double time to make a champion or something, so-“ Dean paused, a faded, grayed out memory scratching at his head.

Miss Hanson had given him an extra test once. He’d read a pretty cool book about a Toad and Frog, and he’d been really proud of himself because he got through the whole thing in thirty minutes. That had been a record. Usually he gave up and just started fidgeting with his shoelaces or—when he was supposed to be reading to Sammy—made up a story himself. But pretty Miss Hanson had asked him to, so he had, and she’d been so proud of him she called a meeting with Dad to talk about it. Thiry whole minutes. Dean was basically a genius, and Dad should know it.

Dad, though, had not been proud. He’d shouted some words Dean couldn’t hear anymore at Miss Hanson and the principle, stormed out of the office with Dean in tow, and they’d skipped town the next day. Dean hadn’t been sure what happened, or what the yelling had been about. He’d just known his miracle thirty minutes wasn’t enough for Dad. He’d tried to break the record, but it just made his head hurt, so he’d given up for a while. He’d adjusted eventually, and sort of stopped thinking about it. Of course he was a slow reader, compared to the two little Einsteins he shared motel rooms with. They both expected him to be a little slower, too. No one was that surprised by any of it. But-

“Uh,” Dean gave Her a sheepish look. “What’s it mean, if I did have one of those tests?” He sighed at Her curious look, and gave her the story. She kept getting all puppy eyed and pouty as he kept going. Jesus, she was almost looking at him like he was some flea ridden stray.

“Dean…” She said softly, and Dean grunted.

“I mean, you know how Dad was-“

“No, De, it’s- Thirty minutes isn’t fast.”

Dean shook his head. “Yeah, you could do better, but-“

“That’s not-“ She sighed, tracing Her fingers over the line of his jaw. “Can I tell you something, and you won’t get mad?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean shrugged. “Not sure what the hell you could say to piss me off, though-“

“I think you have dyslexia, honey.”

Dean blinked at Her. Honey again. Sort of softened the blow, so that was nice.

The waitress served the food and drinks. Dean kept staring at Her, his head sort of just filled with a lot of jumbled up thoughts he couldn’t pick apart. She watched him with a worried expression, holding his hand on the table, lips pressed in a thin line.

“Are you mad?” She whispered, and that jolted Dean back a little. He shook his head, glanced at their hands, then shook his head again.

“Nah, I’m just- Uh- Why- What?” He coughed. “I mean, why the hell- Not why the hell, but- I’m not- I can read, Princess-“

“I know you can read,” she said quickly, squeezing his hand. “You know I know that. But- I don’t know, you love stories and stuff, but you don’t like reading that much-“

“Yeah, ‘cause it takes forever-“

“Because you have dyslexia,” She countered. “That doesn’t mean you can’t read, De. It just means it’s a little harder.”

Dean blinked at Her, and he wished he could argue, but it had taken him almost a year to get through every Lord of the Rings book, and he’d only managed to do that because he loved them. Everything else hadn’t been worth it. Hell, he used to be so slow at reading the lore than Sammy—who’d demanded he do it for once—would kick him out and finish for him.

A lump was forming in Dean’s throat. He grabbed Her hand and pressed closer, staring at Her fingers. At the ring he’d given Her, that she wore all the time.

“And, uh- If that’s- If you’re right,” he swallowed, his voice aching in his throat. “You still- You’re not-“ He coughed. “You’d still- Shit-“

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” She said, and Dean pressed his mouth in a thin line. “I’d never think that.”

Dean nodded, and pushed his face into Her neck. He wasn’t gonna cry. Not over this. But he might hide in Her warmth until he was sure he wasn’t gonna cry, and then clear his throat and focus on his pie. She watched him for a moment, and he pushed Her root beer float forward with a crooked smile. She wrapped her hands around the glass, but still didn’t stop staring.

“Are you-“

“I’m good, sweetheart,” he said, and—surprising even himself—he meant it. “Drink up for me.”

She watched him for another moment, then did. Dean didn’t let himself linger on that revelation for too long. He had pie to eat and a girlfriend to seduce. It could go in his box of shit to address later, right next to them being soulmates. And that one he was planning to take care of, very soon.

She’d gotten ice cream on Her nose somehow. Dean wiped it off with his thumb, then fed it to Her. She sputtered and flushed, fumbling with Her glass, and Dean snorted.

“Shit, Princess-“

“You scared me!” She whined, wiping the root beer off Her cheek. “You- You can’t just-“

“Sit next to you?” Dean suggested. “Be charming?”

She glowered, and Dean leaned forward, kissing Her sticky lips.

“I’ll go get some napkins,” he murmured, and She nodded, holding onto his hand until he was standing, and she sorta had to let go.

Dean went to the bar and register, but the place was crowded for a weekday night, and he figured the bathroom would be better. He was right. Empty and stocked up with napkins.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror though, and paused. He should fix his hair, and redo the cuffs of his flannel. His jacket was fine—she liked this one— but he could change his shirt. It was too late for that, though, so he just hoped she didn’t look down too much. His jeans were fine, though, so She could look down, but only the exact right amount or everything would be ruined. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He could do this. He’d been ready for it all day, he’d even gone out to the Impala while Charlie was packing, to make sure everything was right. Nothing was even gonna really change. It was only half of them. It was gonna be fucking fine .  

He gave himself a short, encouraging nod. At least he had a reason for being shit at spelling now. Good timing. He’d be given some pretty good grace about that.

Dean walked back into the diner with a fistful of napkins and his eyes on his watch. It was almost eight. Nice and dark outside. They could go soon, and it would be perfect.

Then he looked up, only a few feet from the booth, and froze. The guy the waitress had been serving—when they’d walked in, almost a damn hour ago—was bent over their table with his back to Dean. Blocking Her from view, taking up Her space in a way Dean barely got away with sometimes. The napkins crumpled, and Dean took a lurching step forward, ready to throw a fist at the son of a bitch’s face. The only thing that cut over the ringing in his ears, though, was Her voice. Siren like and sweet, controlled. Always, always, making him falter to hear.

“I actually have a boyfriend,” She said, and Dean almost tripped. “So- No.”

The guy scoffed. “Please, that pretty boy you walked in with?”

“Yeah. He actually carries a gun, so…”

She trailed off, and the man didn’t move. Dean reached for that gun. If he was getting permission, he’d be more than happy to shoot.

“I think you can do better than that, sweetheart,” the guy—stupidly—said. “Little man, won’t be able to protect you that long.”

“Really?” She titled Her head, and Dean could see her frown. “Because he’s been doing it eleven years, and- I think he’d have something to say about who’s protecting who.”

Dean dropped his hand from his gun, a much sharper image making itself clear. An image the guy clearly wasn’t seeing himself, but Dean couldn’t really blame him. It could be kinda hard to catch the crazed glint in Her eyes, when she was so damn enchanting. 

The guy laughed. “What the hell does that mean?”

Her lips curved in a smile. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

The guys grinned, and Dean sighed. He shook his hand out, put the napkins on the table, and tapped the guys shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” he grinned as the guy turned, and socked him right in the jaw.

The guy dropped like a stone. A few people from the other booths looked over with wide eyes, but Dean ignored them. He helped Her out of the booth, kissed Her nose, and waved bye to the waitress. She smiled, and waved in return. She’d been watching Dean deal with men drooling over Her for years. He’d gotten a pie on the house, when he told the waitress he’d finally locked Her down. He wasn’t worried about the cops, and if someone called them, Jody would get it.

It was real nice, sometimes, to be on the wrong side of corruption.

“I was gonna stab him,” She grumbled as Dean guided Her outside.

He hummed, wrapping his jacket around Her shoulders. “I know.”

“You stopped me-“

“I got plans tonight, Princess,” he said, smiling at Her backwards glare. “Not lookin’ to do them in jail.”

She huffed and pulled his arm over Her body. Dean kissed the back of Her head and opened the door, helping her in before running over to the other side. He took a deep breath, when he sat behind Baby’s wheel. He turned the keys between his fingers, foot bouncing and restless, and looked over the seat.

She watched him in the low light of the parking lot, frowning slightly. Her hair fell over Her face and she didn’t seem to notice. She grabbed Dean’s shaking hand and squeezed it once, brow furrowed with worry. She looked like a damn angel. Dean smiled, and it washed through his body like morning sun. He smiled and took Her hand, squeezed three times, and put the key in the ignition.

“You get Claire’s pie?” He asked as he pulled out of the lot, and She nodded, holding up a little box.

“Almost forgot it, with how you dragged me out.”

Dean snorted. “I didn’t drag you-“

“You treated me like ragdoll,” She huffed, and Dean smiled at the road, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he drawled, kissing Her hand. “I thought you liked that.”

She sank down and pulled their woven hands over her chest. Dean grinned at Her, and she rolled her eyes, pinching his wrist.

“Ow-“

“You’ll live,” She muttered, but Dean caught her soothing the hurt with her thumb.

“Could kiss it,” he suggested. “Make it better.”

She ducked her head, but brushed Her lips over the hurt. Dean grinned, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

“Think my cheek hurts too, actually-“

“I’m not doing the Indiana Jones scene with you,” She snapped, and Dean played mock hurt.

“Aw, c’mon, I’m doing it for you, I don’t even- I’m sorry, Princess, but it’s not that hot a scene-“

“Yes, it is!”

“He passes out,” Dean said, flat but still smiling. “That ain’t sexy, baby. If I ever pass out on you, shoot me.”

She laughed, and Dean puffed out his chest like a damn bird. “What would you do if I passed out on you,” She asked softly, and Dean shrugged.

“Pick you up and put you in bed?”

She gaped. Dean gave her a disbelieving stare.

“How the hell is that the wrong answer?!”

“You wouldn’t wake me up?”

 “No, why the hell would I wake you up-“

“Because you want to have sex with me!”

“Of course I wanna have sex with you, sweetheart, I love you. But sometimes that means just wrappin’ you up like a pretty burrito and sucking it up!”

He hit the wheel for emphasis, and expected Her to counter the same way she usually did. But the car was dead silent, and when Dean looked over, She was just giving him the biggest Fuck Me Doe Eyes he’d ever seen.

“You alright?” He asked, glancing at their hands. Her nails were stinging against his skin. “Uh- Princess-“

“I’m good,” She whispered, dropping Her face against his shoulder. “I- I just…” She was silent for a moment. “I’d be okay with it. If you woke me up. Or just- Whatever.”

She hugged his arm, and Dean frowned out the windshield. That was something he was gonna have to get to the bottom of later. Way later. Right now they were too close, and if he turned back now, he was never gonna get the nerve again.

Dean let Her burrow and hide while he parked. He glanced around to make sure the strip was empty, then pet the back of Her head, keeping his words low.

“Can you come out of a second?”

She leaned up, blinking at Dean with blown-out eyes, and he offered Her a nervous smile.

“Uh, this is just- I used to come here with Bobby,” he swallowed, trying to look over to the road, but always just looking back to Her. “He’d let me do ninety in the truck. Learned a lotta stuff, and- Here.”

Dean grabbed Her chin, and turned it to the window. Her breath caught, something in his chest eased. She liked it. He knew She would.

A flat strip of highway with no mountains on the horizon, the only trees behind them in the city. In the winter the fields were coated in frost, and the sky looked like someone had spilled glitter glue in a lake. It had been Bobby’s spot, when he was a kid avoiding a shit dad. It became Dean’s, and they never spoke out it anywhere else. Dean asked Bobby once, if She knew, and he’d said he’d given it to Dean first, and Dean should have some things that got to be his.

So he’d kept it for a while, but he had other things now. And sharing with Her wasn’t giving away any more of him than he’d already fused to Her. Then She’d fused to him.

Dean didn’t think soulmates meant half. He figured it meant magnets. Those dual stars that orbited each other, and hurdled through space, never once pulling apart. Together, until everything collapsed.

“You like it?” He asked, just because he wanted to hear, and She nodded softly.

“It’s beautiful,” She breathed, and Dean grinned. He wasn’t gonna do that chick flick shit, where he agreed and stared at Her. He’d spent long enough staring. He wanted to collide. To get just a little closer, all the time.

He nosed Her cheek, and turned her face for a kiss. She obliged him with a tiny gasp, and Dean nipped on Her lower lip. It would he so easy, to haul Her into his lap, but he wasn’t done yet.

“I got something for you,” he murmured. “In the glove compartment.”

She pulled back with a tiny frown, glancing over Her shoulder, then back to Dean. He nodded to prompt Her on, and she leaned back. Dean watched with his stomach in his throat, trying not to break his fingers holding the wheel. He could do this. She’d written his name over Heaven and felt him die and stayed anyways. All Dean needed to do was grow a damn spine.

And She pulled out the first letter box, and Dean’s breathing turned shallow, the air growing thick and humid, the agitation pricking over his throat and lungs. She frowned at it. Dean’s palms were coated in a thin, slippery sweat, everything about to fall through his fingers-

“Your bullet box?”

Dean blinked. “My- What?”

“Your bullet box,” She repeated, turning it in Her hands. “You- You keep it in the bag-“

“You’ve seen it?!” Dean blurted, and She looked at him like he was crazy.

“Um- Yeah? We share the bag, De. I look in it.”

Dean could barely speak over his heart in his throat. “Have you… Opened it?”

“No? I don’t use a gun, why would I open it.”

Dean could’ve vomited with relief. He looked up at the roof and laughed, squeezing his eyes shut. She said his name—probably thinking he was losing his damn mind—and he shook his head. “It’s not a bullet box, sweetheart.”

“Oh- Okay.” She was still frowning between him and the box, when Dean opened his eyes. “What is it?”

“It’s for you,” he said, because it was that simple. “Just- Something I started doing while you were in the cage. Don’t-“ He grabbed Her hand, pinning it to the box before she could undo the latch. “Don’t open it in front of me.”

She nodded, but didn’t look less worried. “But- You made it, right?”

“Yeah, I just- I don’t wanna watch it,” he pled. “It’s not bad, I swear, but- I can’t. Tomorrow I’ll sit in another room, and you can- You know.”

He nodded to the box, and She shook her head. “We’re on the road tomorrow, but- I can do it in the motel-“

“No,” Dean rubbed his jaw. He’d rather jump off a damn bridge than sit in Sammy’s room while freaking Jo read over Her shoulder. “No. We- We’ll do it after. Just- Not now.” He squeezed Her hand. “Please?”

She still looked pretty confused, but She nodded. Dean laughed, shaky and a little broken, and leaned forward for a kiss. He pressed a small one to Her lips, then grabbed the back of her head and started kissing all over Her face.

“You’re gonna like it,” he murmured. “Promise.”

She hummed, twisting Her face to try and catch Dean’s lips again. He offered them freely, and She grabbed his flannel, pulling him closer. He grunted, turning in the seat to lean over Her, his knee and a hand on the bench so he could move Her down to her back. Dean took the box and set it on the dash, never letting the kiss break. She hugged him, dropping Her leg to offer him more space, and he chuckled, hooking his arm around Her waist.

“Hold on,” he whispered, and She tensed up.

“Dean- Dean-“

He tossed Her carefully onto the back bench and crawled after, shrugging off his flannel. She was shoving his chest before his feet even hit the ground, and he let Her with a grin. She needed to wind herself up, before She relaxed.

“You scared me,” She shouted, slapping his bicep. “And you- You didn’t even warn me-“

“I warned you.” Dean tossed his flannel to the side, and ducking down for a kiss. She squeaked and dropped flat against the bench, glaring up at him. Dean gave Her and incredulous look, and She scowled.

“If you kiss me, you’re going to make me forget I’m mad,” She grumbled, and Dean smirked.

“Yeah, Princess,” he grabbed Her ankle, rubbing up and down her calf. “That’s kinda the point.”

She narrowed Her eyes. “I could’ve hit my head-“

“I wasn’t gonna let that happen.” Dean pulled off one of her shoes, then the other. She watched him with shallow breaths. Dean was a little worried she was gonna hurt herself. “You want me to stop kissing you?” He asked, and She shook her head frantically, still not leaning up. Dean raised his brows. “But you wanna keep being a brat?”

She hesitated, but nodded. Dean gave Her a stern look, pulling the slightest bit back, and She tugged her leg back to her chest. Dean paused, scanning over Her for hesitation, and she—shyly, with Her arms around her stomach and shining, anxious eyes—spread Her legs wide. Dean’s grin slowly split his face, and She flushed, pretty and embarrassed and all his.

“Oh, baby girl,” he rubbed Her knee, slowly massaging his way up Her thigh. “You want it?” He hovered over Her, letting their lips just barely brush. “You want it real bad?”

She nodded, pulling on his shirt, and Dean hummed, watching Her with a soft smile.

“But you were all pissy, kickin’ and shoutin’ at me,” he cooed, dipping his hand under Her shirt. She shivered and arched into the touch, eyes fluttering slightly. Dean teased his fingers up Her sides, and she was already getting wiggly. He might’ve worked Her up too much. She looked like She was about to cum from just the light touch. “You sure you want it?” He squeezed under Her ribs. “Use your words.”

“Ye- Yes,” She breathed, holding Dean’s stern stare.

“You want what?” He prompted, and She sucked in a breath, voice small.

“You.”

 Dean smiled, leaning down just a little further. His thumb grazed Her breast, and his knee settled between Her thighs, not offering enough space for Her to move. He kissed up Her neck and over her jaw, one corner of her mouth, then the other. She grabbed his head but didn’t try to move him anywhere else, just seeming to hold on for Her life. 

“Dean,” She mumbled, and he hummed, sucking on Her upper lip. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“’M not teasing,” he said, and She made a noise like she was trying to scold him, but couldn’t really remember how. “I’m waiting for you to talk.”

“I did talk,” She protested. “I- I said what I want-“

“But you were kinda vague, sweetheart. Didn’t actually give me any directions, or ideas,” he cupped Her breast, brushing his thumb over a perked, soft nipple. “I mean, there’s just so many things that I could do with you. With your pretty fuckin’ body,” he attached his mouth to Her throat, sucking a dark mark before flicking his tongue over the hurt. He dragged his hand back down, between Her thighs, and cupped Her cunt. “With this pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he pressed his palm down hard, and kissed the sweet moan off her lips. “I just don’t know, Princess. You’re leavin’ me a little lost.”

“Dean,” She breathed, tears already starting to gather on Her lashes. “Please.”

Dean smiled, cupped Her cheek, and kissed her swollen, shaking lips. How the hell could he ever tell Her no?

It wasn’t hard, to make quick work of Her clothing. Even in the limited space Dean managed to move quickly, helping Her out of her clothing with soft words and softer kisses.

“Alright, arms up,” he coaxed, kissing over Her breasts as he peeled off Her shirt. “That’s it, baby, c’mon.”

He kissed down Her stomach, then over the waistband and line of Her panties before pulling them down. He paused at the sight of Her cunt, dripping wet and sweet. He licked his lips and dragged his thumb over her puffy little clit, laughing when Her hips bucked off the bench.

“Dean- Fuck-“ She grabbed Dean’s wrist, craning Her neck, then falling back with a whine. Dean had attached his lips to Her inner thigh, sucking softly and flicking his tongue, just inches from where he knew She needed him, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged, but that just made his kiss open mouthed and wet.

He took mercy when She’d started just wiggling and whimpering below him, pressing a single, featherlight kiss to Her clit and—because he was only a mortal man—burying his face in Her pussy for one, long breath. She was slick and hot against him, and Dean considered just taking what he wanted right there. Only thing that stopped him was the fact that She was a live wire, and he wanted to watch her snap. Above him and over him, hugging him like he wasn’t the same thing driving Her out of her mind.

Dean moved Her, naked and shaking, into his lap. He’d tossed off his own shirt and pulled down his pants, cradling Her in his lap and letting his cock rub against her slick thigh. She was panting and flushed, clinging to his neck and slumped over his body. Dean kissed the slope of Her shoulder, then right under her ear, keeping his voice smooth and deep.

“There ain’t enough time in the world, for me to do everything I wanna do to you,” he murmured, dragging his hand down Her side. “I mean, Jesus, sweetheart. If you told me you wanted to be tossed around and played with, I would’ve pinned your hands up and given you something to really whine about.”

She made a pathetic, gorgeous sound, and Dean chuckled.

“You love that, huh? Love the idea of turning into a pretty little fuck doll for me?” Dean kneaded Her ass, letting his fingers brush just against where she needed him. “You know what we’d call that, sweetheart? When you wanna just get nice and dumb on some big dick?”

She shook Her head, and Dean smirked, dropping his voice to a whisper.

“Cockslut, Princess. We all it bein’ a good little cockslut.”

Jesus, he’d never seen Her this reactive. She was always sensitive, but She’d started to grind down onto his thigh and moan something close to his name, and Dean was barely even touching Her. He leaned back to watch Her, and she pressed her brow against his, as if She couldn’t bear to be apart for a single second. 

“You like listening to me, huh,” he murmured, and She mewled. “Yeah, that’s right. You like hearin’ how much I worship you. How much I wanna love every inch of you, ‘till you can’t even stand. If we had forever… Baby, you’d never leave the bed.”

She panted, riding Dean’s thigh with unfocused eyes and slack lips. Dean knew She wasn’t going to get there herself, but son of a bitch, if it wasn’t a sight to watch her try.

“Think I’d just tie you down for a few days,” he rasped, watching Her every reaction. “Take my time kissing your pussy, making you cum in my mouth until you can’t even scream. Got the sweetest one I’ve ever seen, Princess, I swear to god. Wanna sit you on my face, make you ride me, maybe fucking put your hands behind your back so you can’t do anything but feel it, feel me, eating your wet little pussy-“

She cried out and smashed Her lips over Dean’s, kissing him like she really didn’t know what to do with herself. Dean kissed Her back, massaging her sides, still talking against her lips.

“Should be put down, with how I’ve been dreamin’ about you,” he grabbed the back of Her neck, keeping their mouths pressed together. “Used to jerk off just thinking about your tits, about markin’ them up until you couldn’t touch ‘em without thinking of me, about sucking on them while I got you folded over, fucking you full, filling up your pussy until it was drooling, fucked up with the cum you deserve-“

Dean groaned, his own cock getting demanding. He kept brushing against Her heat, and it was enough to drive him out of his goddamn mind.

“You got no- No fuckin’ idea,” Dean grunted, kissing Her between every word. “You bend over and I pop a boner, Princess, just thinkin’ about taking you on my knee and- Shit-“ She rolled her hips just right, and arousal got smeared all over Dean’s shaft.

“De- Dean-“ She clawed at his back, so quiet and breathy he almost missed it. “Dean-“

“I know. I know what you need, baby,” he grunted, hooking his arm around Her back. “Easy now, just lemme take care of it.”

Dean pulled Her up, lined himself against her cunt, and lowered Her down as slowly as he could.

It wasn’t easy. She clenched at the damn tip, and Dean had to grit his teeth to not lose it right there. He eased Her through it, still talking, all while holding Her hips like she’d float off to space if he even loosened his grip.

“Just like that,” he muttered, watching Her swallow up his dick. “Breathe, sweet girl, just gotta keep breathin’. Let your greedy pussy take what she needs, c’mon-“

Dean bottomed out with a hiss, and She clenched around him so hard his vision went white. Dean moaned, trying to choke out a warning, but then she squeezed harder. Her body writhed against him, her mouth agape and those beautiful, hypnotizing sounds fell from Her lips.

She was cumming. Dean had just put it in, and she’d fallen apart. She was almost thrashing, sobbing his name and grinding her hips with shallow thrusts, and Dean caught Her chin with a hand, squeezing Her cheeks and forcing her gaze.

Her eyes rolled back in Her head, and she let out the most sinful, broken sound he’d ever heard. Dean could barely think, staring at Her. Twitching and writhing on his cock, trying to watch him through the tears streaming down Her cheeks, covered in sweat and almost burning under his touch. Dean pulled Her down in a bruising kiss, and She grabbed his neck with shaking fingers. Dean spread his fingers over Her lower back, pinned Her down on him, and rolled his hips.

It was slow. Deliberate and testing.

She made a sound like he was railing Her into the mattress, and Dean grinned against Her lips.

“That’s right,” he grunted, setting a slow, torturous rhythm, helping Her grind onto his cock and thrusting up until Her mouth was hanging uselessly. “That’s right, Princess, you take it. Take it so fuckin’ well for me, take it ‘cause you love it.” He moaned, digging his fingers into Her soft hips. “Fuckin’ love it, baby, such a good little pussy, such a good girl for me- Fuuck-“

Words were starting to fail him. Dean pulled Her impossibly closer and thrust a little faster, letting their moans fill up the car, mixed with Dean’s grunts and Her little cries, all musical with the sound of Dean’s thick cock, slapping in and out of Her drooling pussy. She’d barely stopped cumming for five minutes before she was milking him again, and Dean had to suck and nip on Her neck to stay focused. He felt like he was about to fucking explode, with all the friction between them, with Her calling his name, breathless and ruined in his ear.

A third orgasm rolled over Her, making Her boneless in over Dean’s chest. He fucked Her in shallow thrusts, angling her hips so her clit dragged against him and he was bullying into that spot he knew would carry her over, just one more time.

“C- Can’t-“ She babbled, holding Dean so tight he almost couldn’t breathe. “De- I- I can’t-“

“Yeah, you can,” he grunted, snaking his hand between their bodies. “Be good, baby, gimme one- Shit-“

Dean cut himself off with a moan, unable to hold himself back when the lightest touch of Her clit had her cumming with a scream. Dean could swear he saw Her light up like a star, and flowers bloomed in her damn hair as she sobbed and flooded his dick, spasming and almost sucking his soul out of his damn body. His orgasm ripped through him, and it was all he could do to keep fucking Her through it in small, jagged thrusts.

He came down first, breathing raggedly and kissing over Her face.

“Good work, baby girl,” he rasped, rubbing Her back. “’S okay, you did so good.”

She cooed and pressed her face into his neck, body still trembling and soft. Dean chuckled, and dropped his head back with a groan. She’d be out before he could get Her clothing back on. He’d get Her home and tucked in bed, and tomorrow would be tomorrow, and they’d be right where they always were.

“I’ve got you,” Dean said, an oath to Her, for only a car who’d seen the whole time and a box that already knew to hear. “All the way down.”

Jo’s been snoring in the passenger’s seat for three hours. Meg kept trying to wake her up, so you kicked her over to Dean’s car took Cas instead. Cas sat silently, nodding his head to the music and filling up the backseat with a distracting amount of grace. It’s changed a little, since you healed him. He’s still electric and blue, but… Brighter. More prone to flickers and restless wings. To flashes like lightning, through his blue. You might ask him to sit down, so you can draw and study him later.

Cas volunteered to help Dean get the snacks, and you—for the first time all day—got Jo alone.

“Jo,” you hiss, squeezing her arm. “Jo-“

“Wha- Wha’s-“ Jo rolls her neck, eyes only half open. “Are we there-“

“No, we’re like an hour out- Jo-“ You smack her lightly, and she tries to roll away with a groan. “I need to talk to you-“

“Talk to me later-“

“He said it again.”

Jo wakes right up. The seat creaks with the force of it, and you press your lips in a thin line. She stares at you, holding your forearm, and you grab her hand and keep it there. She gives you a tight, doubtful look, and you shake your head. It wasn’t just another dream. He said it. You heard him say it. Aloud. The one way it’s never supposed to be said.

“Did he say it like- I love you,” Jo drawls your name in a poor mimicry of Dean’s voice, and you shake your head.

“No- No- Well,” you swallow. “It was like- I love you, but there was context around it-“

“What kinda context?”

You open your mouth, then close it, your face heating. “I- I don’t want to tell you.”

“C’mon, you gotta tell me-“

“No, you’re gonna make fun of me-“

“Yeah, but, like- Later. After we work out what the hell is Dean’s fuckin’ problem.”

You frown. “He doesn’t- He doesn’t have a problem-“

“He’s an idiot,” Jo says flatly. “That’s what- Three times?”

“Four,” you mumble. “The first time was in the Sandman. But- Maybe he doesn’t mean it- Ow-“

Jo whacks the back of your head, fixing you with a stern glare. “The hell he don’t mean it,” she scolds with a pointed finger. “I’m always tellin’ people I love them on accident, four times, when I’m dating them and we’ve been obsessed with each other for years.”

You scowl. When she puts it like that, you sound really stupid. “I wouldn’t say obsessed,” you muttered, rubbing the spot she hit, and Jo rolls her eyes.

“You still sleep with that stuffed cat he gave you?”

“No,” you stick out your tongue. “Indy took it. It’s hers now.”

“Uh huh,” Jo gives you an unimpressed look. “And who looked after Indy, while you were runnin’ around, dyin’ in heaven?”

“Petsitting isn’t love, Joanna-“

“It is when I asked Dean to feed my Tamogachi’s once, and he killed ‘em. And we weren’t even fightin’, he just-“

“He doesn’t like tamogachi’s,” you say defensively. “He doesn’t like anything they made after the 80s- He says it’s mindless consumerism-“

“Fuck off, you taught him what that means.” Jo leans forward, beaming wide. A little dangerous. “C’mon, how’d he say it this time. Was he tellin’ someone else, or- Did you ask him for food, or-“

You cover her mouth with a hand, narrowing your eyes. She’s going to make fun of you for this. You already know you’re going to tell her anyway, and with the gleam in her eyes, she knows too.

“We were in the car last night,” you whisper, because God might hear through the car door and decided to take him away. “And I- I was just making fun of him for not wanting to have sex with me while I was asleep- It made sense,” you add quickly, when Jo gives you a disbelieving look. “That’s not the point. I made fun of him, and he said of course I want to sleep with you, I love you.”

Jo’s jaw unhinges under your hand, and you nod frantically.

“I know-“

“Why ain’t you sayin’ it back?” She demands, whacking your hand away, and you shrug weakly.

Outside, God flashes. It’s not that bright or loud. Just enough to remind you that he’s out there waiting. Always waiting.

“I mean,” Jo rambles. “He’s basically droolin’ at your feet, and I know you love that big fuckin’ loser back, don’t even try to lie to me-“

“He’s not a loser,” you mumble, and Jo gives you a blunt, unimpressed stare. You sigh and pull your knees to your chest. “It- It’s complicated-“

“It’s really fuckin’ not-“

“God, he- He might take him away,” you say, frantic and quiet, and Jo stills. “If I say it, if- If he even hears it, he’s going to take Dean, and I- I don’t-“

You can’t even say it. The thing you might turn into, if God takes Dean. It’s easy to try and be good, when you have him pulling you back down to earth. When everything mostly becomes flowers and  grounded, golden morning light. But without Dean all that power you’ve built, all the Silver you’ve integrated into your bloodstream and learned how to control like a breath, it turns into something bigger than the sickness. You turn into something you don’t want to name.

And Jo understands. She always has, better than anyone else. She takes your hand, and you lean your head on her shoulder, neither of you able to think of anything clever to say.

“He gave me a box,” you finally mumble, and Jo frowns.

“Like- A magic box?”

“No, just a box,” you sigh. “But I’m not allowed to open it until tonight.”

Jo’s grip tightens. “That’s- You don’t think he’s-“

“It’s too big for that,” you dismiss, because you’d been staring at the box all morning trying to work out what the hell he put in there, and if it’s an engagement ring, you need to talk to Dean about surprises, because you’ve already shaken it an awful lot. “It doesn’t make a lot of sound, and- It’s pretty light.”

“Huh.” Jo pauses. “What if I open it?”

“No, this is- He was really stressed about it. His voice cracked, when he was talking about it.” You smile fondly, and Jo rolls her eyes, but you catch the twitch of her mouth. You know she’s happy for you, even when she complains. Just like you know that, even though Sam’s always saying he wishes you and Dean would go back to pretending you don’t care about each other, he’d lock you in the panic room the moment that happened.

There’s a tap on your window, and Sam waves nervously, his face pinched up and worried. You glance at Jo in confusion and roll down the window, frowning slightly.

“What’s wrong, is there- Did something happen?”

“Yeah, um- Yes and no?” Sam rubs the back of his neck, glancing behind him. “I’m just- Dean’s handling it, but I’ve been sent to tell you not to freak out, and- Maybe remind you not to shoot the messenger-“

“Sam,” you say in warning, and he swallows. “What happened.”

“So, I was in the car, and Dean was inside with Cas, and I remember that I had some water in the trunk already, so I went to get it. And I open the trunk, and- I’ve been telling Dean to fix the locks for years, so this can kind of be his fault, if we’re thinking about it and someone needs to be guilty-“ Sam says your name, as you pull away from Jo and reach for the door. “It’s not great, but- Worse things have happened-“

Sam stumbles out of the way as you shove your way outside, shoving his hands in his pockets and shooting an apologetic expression across the parking lot. You make it three steps before you freeze.

The Impala is parked right in front of the station. Cas is standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, holding an armful of snacks and drinks. Crowley must still be in the car, but Meg is leaning out the widow with a smirk. Dean has his hands on his hips and that tense posture he uses on pretty much everyone that isn’t you or Sam during hunts.

Claire is sitting on the curb, looking a little sheepish as Dean chews her out.

Your fingers flex. Sam says your name nervously, and Jo swears behind you. You chew your lower lip, shifting on your feet, and catch Cas’ eye. He gives you a tired look, and something in your jaw snaps.

Claire’s eyes fix on you, when you stomp across the parking lot. Dean catches it and turns around, sighing a little at the fury almost pouring off your body.

“Sweetheart, it’s alright-“

“Shut up,” you snap, stopping right above Claire. “What did I say to you, last time you pulled this.”

Claire swallows, glancing over to Dean, as if he’s going to save her. “I- Um- I don’t remember-“

“Then think harder.”

She takes a shallow breath, curling a little further down, and you lean to the side, raising your brows.

“Claire Ann Novak, if you don’t answer me right now-“

“You said I wouldn’t see another gun until I was sixteen,” she mumbles, and you nod.

“Yeah. I did say that. Did you think I was joking?”

Claire shakes her head, and Dean murmurs your name, resting a hand on your lower back.

“We’re kinda in a situation,” he says. “Jody got called off by Rufus. Claire was supposed to be stayin’ with Kevin, but- I’m worried she’ll be a bad influence-“

“I am not a bad influence!” Claire protests, and Dean gives her a tired, bored look.

“You ain’t helping yourself, kid.” He looks back to you. “Cas can drop her up in North Dakota, but- She’s still gonna be on a hunt.”

You’re crossing your arms tight enough to knot them like that. Dean keeps rubbing your back, and you glower down at Claire, who at least has the decency to look ashamed of her self. You get what she’s trying to do, you really do, because it’s the same shit you did at her age. But you were stupid and magic. Claire could fucking die, and if she dies, you’re going to kill her.

Jody and Rufus are good hunters, but they don’t have strong wards. Dean’s right, that if you send Claire to Kevin, she’s just going to talk him into following you, or worse, going on a hunt with no adult supervision.

Fuck.

“She’ll ride with me,” you mutter, and Claire perks up.

“Seriously? I don’t have to go home-“

“No, you’re going home the fucking second we’re done,” you point firmly, and she curls back. “And you’re not leaving home until you understand that this,” you wave a hand around the lot. “Is not okay. Go get in the car. Now.”

Claire nods sheepishly, and moves to her feet. Dean catches her shoulder and gives her a stern look. She sighs and meets your eyes with a sad, shameful expression.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and a little bit of the wrath in your chest flickers. Not enough to relax your steel posture or tone, but enough for the smoke to clear.

“Just- Get in the car,” you mutter, and Claire shuffles off with her head bowed. You turn on Dean, brows raised and face taut, and he sighs.

“I’ll start checkin’ the trunk before we drive,” he mutters, rubbing your arm. “But it’s alright. She’ll stay in the car- Hell, we can even stuff her back in the trunk, if she loves it in there so freakin’ much.”

You roll your eyes and drop our face into his chest. Dean cradles the back of your head, swaying you back and forth, and you wrap your arms around his torso.

“Are we meetin’ back here?” He mutters, and you nod against him.

“You go North, I take South-“

“We handle it, text that we’re goin’ back, and ditch,” Dean finishes, slowly pulling your face back. “I remember, Princess.”

You nod, biting your cheek, trying to push down the itching worry over your skin. Dean drags his thumb down your nose, holding your gaze.

“We’ve got this,” he mutters, low enough for only you to hear. “We’ve been to heaven and hell, baby. This is just another shitty Wednesday.”

You laugh weakly, and Dean kisses you. Slowly and carefully, his tongue tracing your lower lip and his fingers tangled in your hair. You sigh softly into his mouth, and he hums, dragging his thumb over your cheek. No one dares to interrupt or mock you, so Dean just kisses you until you’re breathless and almost unable to stand. He drops his brow to yours, when he pulls away, and drags his hand over the curve of your collarbone, the leather cord of his amulet around your neck.

When he looks back to you, his eyes are glassy and heavy. You want to smile and reassure him, but neither of you seem to have the words. You kiss him one more time, and he returns it with the force of a man who’s been told war is over.

You can still feel him on your lips, when you get back in the car.

Meg had to go back with you, but you gave a daggered warning about giving Claire any ideas or pissing Jo off.

“You want to work with us,” you’d hissed outside the car. “You play nice.”

Meg had smirked and looked you up and down, her voice close to a purr. “But I am playing nice. I’m playing so nice.”

She’d taken a small step forward, and you’d given her a bored smile.

“Prove it.”

She’d sighed like you were asking her to figure out quantum theory, but did seem to be trying. You kept the music down to eavesdrop, and she wasn’t telling Claire anything overtly dangerous. She was even mostly ignoring Jo, which might be the biggest victory so far. You’ve been worried they were going to kill each other.

“Do we know the boy’s plans,” Jo asks as you start to pull onto backroads, and you nod.

“Crowley’s gets them in, Cas clears the way, Sam stays in the car for getaway-“

Meg snorts. “You got Sammy to sit sidelines?”

“Well, he doesn’t know it yet,” you mutter. “But someone has to, and- He’s live bait, it’s not safe.”

Jo frowns. “And we… Ain’t live bait.”

“No,” you shrug. “You have me.”

There were advantages, to being… whatever you were. Magdalene, Whore, Bride, it didn’t matter right now. Eve could talk all the big game she wanted about killing you, but if Dean hadn’t insisted you go in with back up, you would’ve been more than comfortable running in and dealing with Eve yourself.

“You’re staying in the car, Claire,” you glare at her in the rearview mirror, and she huffs dramatically.

“But- I could be- It’s not like you’re fighting the Leviathans-“

“It doesn’t matter what we’re fighting. You’re staying in the car. And if you argue with me-“ You say firmly. “I’m handcuffing you to the seat.”

Claire’s mouth falls open. “You- You can’t do that- That’s child abuse-“

“No, child abuse would be throwing you into the monster nest with the thousand year old madwoman obsessed with killing God,” you snap, and Claire swallows. “You want to sneak out on a hunt like an adult, you get restrained like an adult.”

Claire huffs, sinking into the backseat. “You wouldn’t handcuff an adult in the car,” she grumbles under her breath, and you snap your head around.

“Excuse me?! You want to tell me what I would and wouldn’t do right now-“

Jo says your name urgently, grabbing the wheel, and you turn back around with a scowl.

“We’ll finish this later,” you mutter, digging your fingers into the wheel. Claire doesn’t answer.

“You’re lucky she’s just handcuffin’ you,” Meg says to Claire, quite enough you know you’re not supposed to hear. “I’ve heard stories about her crushing souls in her hands and turning angels into sock puppets.”

You make a sound between a laugh and a scoff, and Jo smirks at the road. The good thing about hunters talking is that you get a lot of street cred. The bad thing is that you end up sounding like a boogeyman in eyeliner and skincare products.

“Really?” Claire whispers back, and Meg shrugs.

“First time she met me, she hatched the first dragon in a thousand years. First time she met blondie, she took out a whole witch coven with her bare hands.”

“It wasn’t bare hands,” you cut in, before pausing. “And- How’d you know that?”

“I’ve been in Sammy and Bobby’s heads,” Meg winks. “I’ve seen everything, about all of you.”

She smirks between you and Jo, and you roll your eyes. She’d been in Bobby’s head like, two years ago. A lot of things have happened since then, and you weren’t even around when she was in Sam’s head. Jo sinks deeper into her seat, fiddling with the label of the soda Dean got her. You give her a questioning look, and she waves you off.

The rest of the ride is filled with Meg telling half-true stories about you, Sam, and Dean, and Claire hanging onto every word like she’s preaching gospel. 

“And of course,” Meg drawls. “There are the books.”

“The books?” Claire says excitedly, and Meg nods.

“Little Sammy and Deanie, they’ve got their own bestseller series-“

Jo snorts. “That shit wasn’t bestseller, you get it online for free.”

“Hm,” Meg grins at her. “Why were you looking for them online? Something you wanted to see?”

Jo flips her off, and Claire looks between them hopefully.

“Are they like- Books about you guys? I thought our lives were supposed to be secret- Dean is always saying they’re supposed to be secret-“

“They are secret,” you sigh. “But- There was a prophet who didn’t know he was a prophet, and he’d been writing about them for years.”

Claire nods, then pauses. “Them?”

“I wasn’t in them,” you say, and Claire’s mouth falls open.

“Why? You’re like- So much cooler-“

“And hotter,” Meg smirks, and Claire makes a face.

“No- Ew-“

“Hey,” you frown, and she cringes.

“Sorry, just- It’s like- I don’t wanna think about that- That’s so gross-“

“Don’t think about being in Dean’s car, then,” Meg hums, twirling her hair and giving you a knowing look. “I could smell the sex on the seats, made me so jealous of your little pretty boy-“

You jerk the car to the side, just hard enough to knock her head against the window. You check back to make sure Claire’s okay, and give Meg a warning look. It’s more than the playful or stern one you give Jo and Claire. You line it was thorned, bubbling power, and it singes the air like a threat. Meg backs off with raised hands, and you turn your attention to Claire.

“I wasn’t in the books because Chuck- the prophet- Didn’t think I fit in Sam and Dean’s story. But if you want to read them, I think Sam still has copies.”

You know Sam still has copies. He hid them from Dean, who threatens to burn them every time he sees them, and always feels the need to remind you he didn’t really sleep with any of those women. He always does it with a worried, pleading expression and a soft voice, and you don’t even get sick with jealously, because the idea seems to make him want to vomit. You have a feeling Claire won’t make it very far into the books for the same reason. If she doesn’t like Meg calling you hot, she’s going to hate Dean shooting fake sex scenes.

If Crowley’s been telling the truth—and that’s always a big if, but you think he understand that if he’s not, you’re stomping his soul under your heel and spitting on the pavement—Eve and Dick have made a base for themselves in the real, very dead Dick Roman’s old mansion. It’s a sprawling mansion in Michigan, complete with hunting grounds, a guest lodge, and two pools. Dick and the Leviathans are in the main house. Eve is through the wooded grounds and in the guest lodge. You park the car on the outskirts of the property, and this is going to be the hard part.

“Don’t be stupid,” you tell Claire, and she nods. It seems to be setting in, on her paler face. The gravity of the situation. “I’ll be back soon. The car is warded, so as long as you don’t open the door for anyone but me, you’ll be fine.”

Claire nods nervously. You sigh, kiss the top of her head, and pull her into a tight hug. She’ll be okay. The Leviathans can’t get in. She’ll be okay.

“Are we ready?” You asked Jo and Meg, and they nod tightly. “Remember-“

“Cover your back,” Jo says, cocking her gun. “Don’t die.”

You let out a slow breath, and look to the woods. It’s broad daylight, but the trees seem dark. The shadows looming, the light falling over the ground in a way that feels almost wrong. Ashy and gray, like a poorly done painting, or a disjointed dream.

“Okay,” you mutter, spinning the Blade in your hand. “Let’s do this.”

You take a single step into the woods, and the rush kicks in.

Eve isn’t a fool. She’s filled the woods with everything from vamps to wolves to demons to beasts that you really wish you could just take a picture of and study, but the defense only seems strong enough to deter a normal band of hunters. They’re not prepared for you, bigger than the forest, focused only on carving your way to Eve, and felling monster after monster without breaking a sweat. Some of them run in the other direction, when they see you. The demons get brave and dive at you with curled lips and sneers, and the Silver shoots into them like an arrow, driving apart their smoke and reducing them to nothing but the lingering stench of rancid eggs.

The Yeerks are back as well. Eve’s personal guards, getting more and more dense as you approach the lodge. Meg and Jo hold their own, but it’s close. You look back and a dark haired woman has her hand inches from Jo’s head. You whip around—letting the Silver drive out of you like a drill, right into the earth that doesn’t want to carry thing so vile, that feels them like fleas—you stomp your foot.

The ground swallows the woman whole.

Jo falters, and stares at you. You stare back, the rush faltering for only a moment.

“Cool trick,” Jo says, and you nod, staring at the spot where the woman vanished. “You know you could-“

You shake your head, and Jo cuts herself off with a sigh. Another Yeerk dives from over head. Jo blasts it with her shotgun, knocking it off course, and Meg grabs it out of the air, slamming its head into the tree. You take a step forward, looking between them, and Jo waves you off.

“We’ll block the door once you’re in,” she calls. “Fuckin’ go.”

You nod, take a few steps back, looking up to the trees. The canopy of leaves, filtering that sunlight, and filtering it wrong. The Silver howls, uncomfortable with the off-axis pull, and you can feel gray light on the leaves crying in return. Whatever Eve’s done to this place, whatever the Leviathans have done, it’s wrong.

But you look back over your shoulder, and there seems to be a jungle in your wake. A path, marking every step you’d take, where the wood are overgrown and lush. The moss creeps up the dead, white bark of the trees, and the light that hits the blooming flowers and green leaves is soft. Shimmering and threaded like the spiderweb pattern of a beam of sunshine through the water. You take a deep breath, your hand flat on the door of the lodge.

It opens for you, without a single push.

You expect to force your way through legions, but the halls are empty, dark, and quiet. A thick smell of old wood almost suffocates you, and hundreds of tapesties and painting on the wall have turned to faded paper and moth eaten string. You pause in front of one. Nothing more than a tattered weaving of a beach, white waves painted to crash onto the shore and the sun shining from somewhere behind the viewer. You touch a stray thread of blue, and a rushing breeze flies past your face. The wood smell is covered in salt and brine and something finer. Something thin and delicate and sweet. Water drips down from your fingers and onto the floor, and you can feel it.

Whatever this place was, however far away or old, you’re the peace of the water and sand, always surrounded by more of itself, content into knowing it could be swept away or change with the tide. It will get to see more. Be more. And compared to a life a cold, lonely stone, that doesn’t sound so bad at all.

“A pretty trick,” Eve says from behind you. “I wish you’d learn to do more with it.”

You whip around, flipping your Blade to drive for her throat, and Eve only watches you with a  smile.

“I knew you’d come for me-“

“Yeah, you’re a real genius for that,” you cut her off dryly, and her whole face twitches. A faltering of a mask. A predator playing prey, unable to hide their teeth.

“Be careful how you speak to me,” she says your name, and you roll your eyes.

“Why would I do that?” You take a step forward, and Eve takes a step back. “Because you understand me? You can teach me? You can show me paradise?”

Eve’s lip curls. “I can help you be free, you stupid girl. If you weren’t so attached to your little men, you’d be free-“

“And then what?”

Eve blinks at you, recoiling again when you take another step back. “It doesn’t- That is not your concern-“

“It feels like my concern,” you spit. “You wanted to kill me, you wanted to take Dean-“

“I want nothing but is what’s best for you,” Eve sneers. “Dean. That man, he does nothing but hold you back-“

“From what. From replacing God?”

“Yes!” Eve screams, and you blink. “I did not give everything, I did not lose everything, just for you to make the stupid mistake of believing a man could ever defy God, that any of them could possibly be strong enough to resist the pull of a power they do not deserve. But I deserve it, you deserve it- We are makers. I am the maker, and you will not,” she takes a step forward, eyes gleaming with fury. “Defy me.”

And this is the part where you used to be afraid. Where you’d lose control and kill her with a scream. But Death told you to stand tall. And you don’t move.

“You need me to open Old Heaven,” you mutter, scanning over Eve’s furious face. “And you needed Dean…”

“Oh I never needed Dean,” Eve says dismissively. “But having him is having you. My greatest creation,” she looks you up and down, and sighs heavily. “Refusing to be a god, just for a man.”

Your grip on your Blade tightens. “I am not your creation,” you hiss. “And I am not a god.”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we,” Eve smiles. “When you finally lose Dean.”

Your vision doesn’t blur. The Silver doesn’t burst, and you don’t lose control. You just lunge and drive the Blade, right into Eve’s gut. She laughs, cold and high like a phantom, and you twist it. gritting your teeth. You are not a god. And that isn’t about Dean, or Eve, or any bigger plan. You aren’t a god because of you, and you’re getting really fucking tired of people telling you what that’s supposed to mean.

It’s not the wound or the Silver that kills Eve. It’s just… You. You reach into her vessel and smother her in light. It makes things grow over all the old fissure and cracks. The ones that used to be her soul, that used to be softer. And that softness spreads out like an algae, and Eve is old and hungry and lonely, so she folds like the less that she was never allowed to be. Her body goes limp in your arms, and you don’t turn her into nothing. You pull her out, and she’s nothing more than a glowing ball in your hand.

You let her go, and she floats into the air, uncollecting like steam, before she’s scattered through the world. Everything and nothing at all. A sharp breath leaves your chest, and your head hurts.

Your head really hurts.

Your ribs press into each other like something is caving in, and your spine goes tense like it’s begging to crack. And something’s wrong. The old lodge creaks like a scram and the wind picks up like a warning, and something is wrong.

The door flies open under your hand, and you sprint out of the lodge with panic welling up your chest. It’s collecting over your skin like sweat, lodging in your throat like a bitter rock you can’t swallow. Jo and Meg both call for you, but you sprint past them. The wind picks up behind you, carrying you forward a little faster. Your back burns like a geyser about to burst, and your head feels like a grindstone for an axe. You don’t know what’s happening. The Spiderweb is alight and strong, the world is spinning, but… Slowing.

The ground shakes, and it’s an omen. A world that’s honored to serve your feet, trying to hold you both upright. Almost frantic, like it’s trying to save itself.

You reach the Firebird, and stumble, catching the open door with shaking hands.

Claire.

Claire is gone.

“Shit,” Jo comes up behind you, panting, and you barely even hear her over the wind. “That’s-“ She says your name, and you raise your hand for silence.  

There’s a trail of electric, thrashing blue that goes through the woods. It’s not the trail of a fighting animal, though, and you’re not good at holding this kind of concentration for too long. If she’d been fighting them, maybe, but Claire went with them voluntarily. She even left her jacket.

Where Dean sowed the tracker.

It’s quick, get through the grounds, carving through what’s left of Eve’s monsters. Jo and Meg help with silence and worried looks, and you tuck your Blade back into your jacket when you reach the edge of the forest, rubbing your hands to combat the cold. You will find her. You’re not afraid of that. You just don’t want to freak her out, when you rip the Leviathans limb from limb. If you find her dead you fix her. And if God tries to take her, you open Old Heaven and let the Leviathans take him.

There’s a space on the property where it’s quiet. You can see, over the horizon, a smoking section of the wood. You can smell that foul, rancid Leviathan goo, choking up the air and forcing your breath to be shallow. You could’ve casted a tracking spell with Claire’s jacket, but that would’ve taken time you don’t have. You follow the path that Cas, Sam, and Dean left, stepping over bodies smoking with borax and pits of tar. Jo and Meg will keep the exit clear. You walk in the manor with your hands empty and an undying fire in your chest.

You are everything, and there’s a clarity to it you’re not willing to fight. Hesitation makes you falter, and Claire needs you not to break. So you are all of it, from the unease of the house, knowing they’ve been filled up with poison and told it was honey, to the water running deep underground, afraid to breach the surface and find out what it has to be. You are everything except the Leviathans, and you want them out. If they’re a parasite, you were the wrong beast for them to attach themselves to. The stupid ones try to fight you, and you crush them under mountains of life. The cowardly ones retreat and split them into a million fractures of light. The loyal ones scramble to block you from the doors—massive and walnut and eroding with black venom—and you grab them by the jaw and narrow your eyes.

They’re all white teeth and death, and maybe you would’ve been afraid of them, if the didn’t force you to grow a bigger maw in return. But they devour, and you hang open and cradle. You feel something tugging you past that door, just to the right of your heart, and you will not be kept from it.  Your fingers dig into their skin, and it cracks like sandstone. They scream, and you crumble them between your fingers.

You shove the door open, and run out into a ballroom. It’s all high ceilings and rich, velvet curtains. There’s a chandelier one seems to catch light coming from somewhere behind you, despite the low lamps down by the ground. You’re up on a balcony, clutching the railing and leaning over, vines and honeysuckle growing from your fingers and down to the ground. To the chaos below.

Dick Roman has Claire, trapped against his chest. A Leviathan with Dean’s marred face—Edgar, you recognize in the point of his broken teeth—lays on the ground, and your Dean is circling Dick, the knife on the floor between them and Cas at his side. Crowley’s pressed against the wall and Sam’s blocking the exit on the floor. The wall just past you, flat and lined with windows, doesn’t lead to the outside.

It leads to something gray. Something horrible, that you recognize all too well.

The dead world.  

Sam’s eyes lock with yours. He shouts your name, and everyone’s eyes shoot to you. Dick’s face carves itself into a violent smile, and the growth under your fingers falters. He’s more dead than the rest of them. It’s like looking into a pit with no bottom, no start, no… anything.

“There you are,” he calls your name. “Just in time for the big show! Very clever, to try and keep the apple from us, but I’m afraid were ready for it. We’ve done almost everything, except found the key, and you just-“ He laughs. “Turn yourself in! It’s my lucky day.”

You swallow. You could tell him Eve was dead, but you don’t think it’s going to be a positive different. “Let them go, Dick-“

“No,” Dean shouts at you, eyes narrowed. “You’re stayin’ up there, Princess, we’re not doing this again.”

“I wouldn’t tell her what to do, Dean,” Dick purrs. “Your life, Claire’s life,” he squeezes her throat, her eyes screw shut, and your vision goes a little red. “It all depends on if your princess is willing to be strong. To take what is ours, what should have always been ours, to kill that monster that wants to take her away from you, Dean. Don’t you want her to be free? Don’t you want her to be happy?”

Dean works his jaw. He looks up at you, and you lean a little further. And you’ve never been able to do that thing he and Sam do, where you talk without speaking. But this is your Dean. And  your hand glides to your Blade, and your eyes dart to Dick, and his throat bobs.

He understands.

Dean glances at Cas and jerks his head. You wrap your hand around the Blade—the weapon God made just for you, that you found so long ago, still trying to hide yourself from Dean—and you take a deep breath.   

Dean looks back to Dick. His mouth curves into a small, mocking grin.

“I ain’t to worried about it, buddy,” he drawls. “I know my girl, and that- That ain’t gonna make her happy. But I know what will.”

Dick frowns, and you throw the Blade, right into his eye.

He roar. It echoes off the walls and makes the windows shake. He loses his footing and lets go of Claire. Your scream, shrill and desperate, echoes over Dick’s. Dean dives for Claire and drags her back, shoving her into Cas’ arms and charging back forward to grab the knife.

And you feel it, the second his hand touches the bone.

God, shining outside. An old power that won’t be ignored, that’s all too familiar, that reminds you of infinite pain and visions you can’t understand.

And that sense returns. An instinct deeper than your body, right down to your soul, blaring like a siren and flashing like a lighthouse.

Something is wrong.

Dean pushes to his feet, and you scream. You scream words you can’t here, for him to stop, for everything to stop, that something is so, so fucking wrong. Dean looks at you, leaning over the edge of the balcony and ready to dive for him, and roars for Cas.

Cas looks at Dean, then you, and his jaw locks. Dean moves for Dick, and you climb up on the balcony, ready to jump and stop him. Cas vanishes, right as Sam looks at the fear painted on your face and dives for Dean.

An arm locks around your stomach, and drags you backwards. Dean swings the knife in his hand and raises his arm. Sam reaches him, right as he drive the bone into Dick’s chest.

The world goes white. Pure, blinding white, like someone scooped away a part of the room. Cas and Claire shout and block their faces, but you stare into the light and try to look for color. Cold blasts you in the face like arctic wind, and you scream so loud you think it might be rattling the edges of the universe. You reach out to try and find them, but your fingers are clumsy and tired, and you swipe at nothing. You grab that thing to the right of your heart and pull it, tears streaming down your face that flood whatever ground remains under your feet.

You can’t find him. Dean’s somewhere, he has to be, but you can’t find him. You can’t find him, you can’t find him, he’s not in pain but you can’t find him, why can’t you fucking find him-

The light fades, and they’re gone.

Dick’s body. Sam. Dean. All just… gone.

Crowley vanishes from his corner of the room. Cas mutters your name, placing a light hand on your shoulder, but you don’t even look at him.

Dean’s gone.

The scream that leaves you isn’t human. It’s older than whatever was in the bone, older than the Leviathans, older than this world itself. It’s shifts the world under your feet and you fall to your knees, still screaming. The world screams back, because it understands what’s happened. It understands that fear doesn’t mean anything you care about, because Dean is gone. You scream loud enough that God vanishes from the sky, and when you stop screaming, he doesn’t come back.

You scream loud enough that wherever he is, he must hear you, and you scream louder because you swear you can hear him shouting back.

✦chapter 73

✦End note: first season finale ending in princess pov since s4 ! happy end of season 7. sam and dean might be in purgatory but consider this. i'm sorry. please trust me. Chapter Title from Ain't No Rest For the Wicked by Cage the Elephant

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!) - Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

[foxyjwls007]

He said it again! He gave her the letters! They finally had sex! WTF!! Now he's gone and there will be blood. Son of a bitch!

[wendichester]

.⛥ ݁ ˖ 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐒 𑣲 fluff ⚡︎ angst ✮ smut

i kinda feel like an orange ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 781 words you feel like an orange and dean will do anything for you.

on his wrist ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 589 words dean loves your simple, worn-out, black hair tie. it's awfully handy for your extracurricular activities.

cuddled confessions ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 407 words dean doesn't cuddle. or so he says.

miniskirt ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 900 you're rocking a miniskirt and dean goes crazy! ⌗ teen!dean

voicemail ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 1.6k words you and dean broke up, he tries to call you a couple of hours after.

two winchesters walk into a bar ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 5k words making a quick stop at harvelle's has never been more fun

harder than heaven ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 630 you fell first. he fell harder.

handled with rage ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 1.5 words you and dean are fighting and you make the mistake of slamming the impala's door.

responsible guy ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 6k words dean is a true gentleman. a young man raised right. and boy does that do things to you!

never getting laid ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 1.1k words you really should've thought better before getting involved with a hunter. or dean really should've thought better before crossing you. now he's forever cursed.

speed dial to trouble ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 635 words you drunk dial dean and he drops everything to get you

little star ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 425 words girl dad dean fluff where reader walks in to him singing to his daughter

santa’s little helper, dean’s big problem ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 410 words you have to dress up for the case; dean wants to dress you down.

let me show you how ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 992 words when you confess you’ve never touched yourself before, dean doesn’t laugh—he leans back against the headboard and talks you through it.

the ring thing ˗ˏˋ x ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 3.2k word dean runs into you at a park, sees the ring, the kid, the life—and tries very hard not to want something that was never his.

in chronological order, but not necessarily in favorite order. this will be closest thing we'll ever get to a masterlist of all my works.

[foxyjwls007]

I enjoyed them all! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[lightdancingwords]

Familiar Ground - Part Eleven of ?

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character

Series Summary: Set in the early seasons, Familiar Ground follows Dean Winchester as an unexpected reunion at Bobby Singer’s house brings Natalie Guimet—an old childhood friend and constant from his time there—back into his orbit. Told through interwoven past and present scenes, the story explores shared history, unspoken feelings, and the slow realization that some bonds don’t fade with time—they wait.

Word Count: 12,293

Tags/Warnings: Mention of death, grief, old loss, guilt, 18+ implied smut/smut

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

Dividers: by @strangergraphics, @talesmaniac89

Chapter Eleven: Love As A Tether

Natalie swallowed hard.

Collector.

The word sat on the page like it had been waiting for her to find it. Not Master, not the name she had carried back from Nova Scotia with blood under her fingernails and stitches pulling tight across her stomach. Collector. Older. Plainer. Somehow worse because of that, because it made the thing sound less like a ruler and more like a function. A purpose. Something that did not simply possess souls by accident, or opportunity, or hunger, but gathered them because gathering was what it did.

Dean felt her go still beside him.

He looked from the book to her face, watching the color drain slightly from her cheeks. Beneath the table, his knee pressed more firmly against hers, and though he did not reach for her hand this time, the nearness of him steadied her anyway. Natalie kept her eyes on the faded handwriting, willing herself not to be thrown backward into that cold coastal house, into the ledger, into the Master’s calm voice explaining suffering like an inventory problem.

“Collector,” she said, the word barely above a whisper. “It was known before.”

Bobby leaned over the table, one hand braced beside the open book. His gaze sharpened behind his glasses, but he did not rush her, which told Dean he understood exactly how dangerous this moment felt. Not physically. Not like a monster lunging from the dark. More like the ground shifting under them after they had already survived one collapse. One wrong assumption could break a hunt wide open. One right word could do the same.

Sam, across the table, went very quiet.

Dean saw it happen—the sudden stillness, the flicker in his eyes, the way his mind caught on something and started tugging. Sam sat back slightly, brow furrowing, one hand already reaching toward a stack of books without quite touching them.

“Wait,” Sam said slowly. “I’ve seen that.”

Bobby’s head snapped toward him. “Seen what?”

“Something about a collector,” Sam said, voice gaining speed as memory started to arrange itself. “Not in connection with the Master. I didn’t think it had anything to do with this. It was in one of the older references, maybe not a hunter journal exactly—more like a translated account. I remember because it didn’t fit any category. It mentioned something that gathered the unjudged.”

Natalie’s breath caught.

Dean’s jaw tightened. “The unjudged?”

Sam nodded once, eyes unfocused as he searched backward through the mess of the morning. “Souls that hadn’t been received. Not ghosts, not damned, not ascended. The note made it sound like folklore, like some obscure afterlife superstition. I set it aside because I thought it was metaphorical.”

Bobby pointed toward the shelves immediately. “Go find it.”

Sam was already moving before the order finished landing. He pushed back from the table, nearly knocking his chair into the wall, and crossed the room with long, urgent strides. The earlier confusion over Bobby’s library system seemed forgotten now, replaced by the focused, relentless energy that made Sam so dangerous when he had a thread to follow. He pulled one book down, rejected it after a glance, grabbed another from a lower shelf, then crouched near the boxes Natalie had shifted earlier, digging through old notes and brittle paper with a care that somehow still looked frantic.

Dean watched him for only a second before turning back to Natalie.

She had not moved.

Her fingertips rested on the edge of the black book, but she wasn’t touching the ink itself, as though the page might burn her if she pressed too close. Dean could see the memory working through her, the way her expression had gone distant and tight. She had worn that same look when she spoke of Nova Scotia, when she described the Master letting her leave because fear traveled faster when carried by the living.

Bobby turned back to her too.

The gruffness had not left him, exactly, but it had settled into something more careful. “Natalie.”

She blinked, then looked up.

“This is information,” Bobby said.

It was simple. Deliberate. The kind of statement that might have sounded obvious from anyone else, but from Bobby it carried weight. He was not minimizing it. He was anchoring her to it.

Natalie swallowed. “It’s a name.”

“It’s more than you had yesterday.”

Dean nodded, keeping his voice low. “More than we had.”

Her eyes flicked toward him at the correction.

We.

Not you.

The word seemed to land where he meant it to, because some of the rigidity in her shoulders loosened. Not much, but enough. Dean let himself breathe a little easier.

Bobby tapped the table with two fingers, drawing her focus back. “You said the Master called itself that?”

Natalie shook her head slowly. “No. It never used that name. It let me call it the Master because that’s what the rumors called it. Or maybe because it liked the implication.” Her mouth tightened with disgust. “It talked like names were something other people needed. Like it was above them.”

“Of course it did,” Dean muttered. “Pretentious son of a bitch.”

Bobby gave him a look. “Helpful.”

Dean shrugged. “Accurate.”

Natalie almost smiled, but it faded quickly as her gaze dropped back to the page. “Collector feels older. Like something people called it before the stories got distorted.”

Bobby nodded slowly. “That happens. Names shift. Hunters mishear. Translators clean up things they don’t understand. One generation calls a thing a collector, next one calls it a master, next one calls it a god if it scares ’em bad enough.”

Dean hated that more than he wanted to admit.

Because Bobby was right.

Monsters grew in the telling. Sometimes the story got exaggerated. Sometimes it got softened. Sometimes the important part got buried under the part that sounded good around a bar table at two in the morning.

Sam’s voice carried from across the room. “Bobby, where do you keep the compiled death-route folktales?”

Bobby answered without turning around. “Third shelf from the bottom, behind the Campbell indexes.”

Sam paused. “There are four third shelves from the bottom depending on which stack you count.”

“Then count right.”

Dean closed his eyes. “This place is a nightmare.”

Natalie, despite everything, huffed out a small laugh.

Bobby pointed at her without looking away from the book. “Don’t you start. You found the damn thing in two minutes, you don’t get to complain.”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking Sam’s doomed.”

From the shelves, Sam said, “I heard that.”

Dean called back, “She’s not wrong.”

“I also heard that.”

“Then find faster.”

Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience, then resumed digging.

The brief humor softened the room, but it did not break the tension. If anything, it made the silence afterward feel sharper. Natalie stared at the phrase again—collector beyond the gates—and felt the meaning begin to spread outward in her mind, touching every piece of information she had gathered over three years. The rumors of souls caught in transit. The stories of monsters guided toward specific kills. Missouri’s refusal to explain too much. The ledger in Nova Scotia. The Master’s calm amusement when she realized Leandro’s name was not lost, but held.

“What if Master was never a title?” she said.

Dean looked at her. “What do you mean?”

Natalie leaned closer to the book, thinking aloud now, assembling the possibility piece by piece. “What if people called it the Master because they saw monsters obeying it? Because it controlled them, directed them, used them. But that wasn’t what it was. That was just what people saw from the outside.”

Bobby’s expression sharpened with interest. “And underneath?”

“Collector,” Sam said from the shelves, voice distant but listening.

Natalie nodded. “Underneath, it collects. That’s the core of it. The monsters are just tools. The bargains are tools. The fear is a tool. But the souls are the point.”

Dean’s hand curled into a fist on the table.

He could not help it.

Every time she said it, he thought of Leandro. He thought of Natalie bleeding alone. He thought of every hunter who died believing the worst thing waiting was Hell, never knowing there might be something else crouched in the cracks with a ledger and a use for them.

Bobby saw his hand. Saw the anger in his face.

“Easy,” Bobby said.

Dean’s eyes flicked to him. “I’m easy.”

“You’re the opposite of easy.”

Natalie’s hand found Dean’s under the table then, her fingers sliding into his clenched fist until he let her open it. The touch was quiet, hidden by the table’s edge, but it did what she intended. Dean’s fingers loosened. He turned his hand and held hers instead.

Bobby pretended not to notice.

He did notice.

“This is what we needed,” Bobby said, voice firm enough to cut through the fear circling back into the room. “A second source. Not Missouri. Not that thing’s own mouth. A reference that predates your hunt.”

Natalie looked up at him. “But it doesn’t tell us how to stop it.”

“No,” Bobby said. “It tells us we’re not chasing smoke.”

The words struck her harder than she expected.

For three years, some part of her had feared exactly that. Even after Missouri. Even after the ledger. Even after the wound. There had still been a quiet, terrible voice in the back of her mind asking whether grief had made her see patterns where there were none. Whether the Master had merely played along with the shape of her desperation. Whether Leandro was truly trapped, or whether she had built a nightmare around the absence of answers.

But this book had been here.

In Bobby’s house.

Buried behind old death records and septic manuals and whatever other insanity made up Bobby Singer’s so-called system.

It had been waiting long before Natalie went north.

Long before the Master cut her open and sent her home with a message.

Dean leaned slightly toward her, his voice pitched low enough that it was meant mostly for her. “Hey.”

She looked at him.

His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand. “We’ve got a trail.”

Natalie nodded, but her throat felt tight. “Yeah.”

“And Sammy’s gonna find the other book.”

From across the room came an immediate, aggravated, “I’m trying.”

Dean did not look away from Natalie. “He’ll find it.”

Bobby grunted. “He better. Tall as he is, he can reach the stupid shelves I can’t.”

Sam emerged from behind a stack with dust in his hair and offense on his face. “I am useful for more than my height.”

“Prove it,” Bobby said.

Sam opened his mouth, then stopped. His gaze caught on something in the box beside his knee. Slowly, he reached down and pulled free a thin, water-damaged journal bound in cracked brown leather. A strip of paper stuck out from between the pages, marked in handwriting that was not Bobby’s.

The room went silent.

Sam looked at the journal.

Then at Natalie.

Then at Bobby.

“I think,” he said carefully, “I found it.”

Dean felt Natalie’s hand tighten around his.

Bobby straightened.

The morning seemed to hold its breath.

And for the first time since Nova Scotia, the Master—the Collector—felt less like a shadow waiting beyond the world and more like a thing with a history.

A thing that had been known.

A thing that had left marks.

And if it had left marks, then maybe, just maybe, it could be tracked.

Sam brought the journal to the table like he was carrying something breakable.

Nobody spoke while he crossed the room. Even Dean, who usually had a comment ready for everything, stayed quiet as Sam cleared a space between the black book and Bobby’s coffee mug. The journal looked unimpressive at first glance, thin and warped along the edges, its leather cover cracked from age and water damage. A faint line of mold had crept along one corner, and the pages had swollen unevenly, giving the whole thing the look of something rescued from a flood and then forgotten in a box by someone who had intended to deal with it later.

Bobby narrowed his eyes at it. “Where the hell’d you find that?”

Sam glanced back toward the shelves. “Bottom box under the Campbell indexes.”

Bobby frowned. “That ain’t where that goes.”

Dean stared at him. “That’s the part you’re worried about?”

“It has a place.”

Natalie gave him a look.

Bobby scowled. “It does.”

Sam ignored them, carefully loosening the strip of paper that marked the page. “This isn’t a formal grimoire. It reads more like a field journal, maybe late nineteenth century or early twentieth. Some of the spelling is inconsistent, and the notes switch between English and Latin in places.”

Bobby reached for the journal.

Sam slapped his hand lightly away before thinking better of it.

The room froze.

Bobby looked down at his hand, then up at Sam.

Dean slowly leaned back in his chair, eyes widening with appreciation and horror. “Oh, Sammy.”

Sam seemed to realize, one second too late, that he had just swatted Bobby Singer in Bobby Singer’s own house while holding one of Bobby Singer’s books.

“I just—your hands are greasy,” Sam said quickly.

Bobby’s expression went flat. “My hands are clean.”

“You were eating bacon.”

“Boy.”

Natalie covered her mouth, but her eyes betrayed her.

Sam turned the journal toward himself protectively. “I’ll read it.”

Bobby grunted, clearly deciding to postpone retaliation until after the apocalypse-adjacent research, which was very mature of him and therefore deeply suspicious.

Sam bent over the marked page, smoothing it with two fingers. “Okay. This section is titled De Colligente Ultra Limina.”

Natalie’s shoulders tightened. “The Collector Beyond the Thresholds.”

Sam glanced at her, impressed despite the circumstances. “Yeah.”

Dean looked between them. “Thresholds like gates?”

“Possibly,” Sam said. “Threshold can mean physical boundary, ritual boundary, spiritual boundary. In this context, it’s probably metaphysical.”

Dean stared at him.

Sam sighed. “It means between places.”

“I knew that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I got the gist.”

Bobby pointed toward the journal. “Read.”

Sam looked down again, the faint amusement fading from his face as he moved into the text. “It says the Collector is not a reaper, not a demon, not an angel, and not a god, though it has been mistaken for all four by people who didn’t survive long enough to correct themselves.”

The humor left the room at once.

Dean felt Natalie’s fingers tighten around his beneath the table, and this time he tightened back first. He watched her face as Sam read, saw the way she held herself carefully still, as though any movement might expose how badly the words were landing. The description matched too cleanly. Not angel. Not demon. Not god. Not anything neatly placed in the categories they knew. A thing defined by what it was not, which somehow made it feel larger.

Sam continued, voice lower now. “The writer claims the Collector appears where death is interrupted, but not by accident. It is drawn to moments of violent transition where will, fear, sacrifice, and unfinished purpose converge.”

Bobby’s face darkened.

“Hunters,” Dean said.

Sam nodded slowly. “Hunters would qualify. Soldiers too. Maybe anyone who dies in a moment where their soul is… actively resisting the crossing.”

Natalie closed her eyes for half a second.

Leandro.

Dean didn’t need to hear her say it.

Bobby did not sit down, but he leaned both hands on the back of a chair, his knuckles going pale around the wood. The thought had hit him too, and probably harder. Leandro pushing Bobby out of the way, Leandro dying mid-fight, Leandro’s last act not surrender but protection. If the journal was right, then Leandro had been exactly the kind of soul the Collector wanted.

Sam read on. “It does not steal every soul. It cannot. It requires a fracture.”

“A fracture in what?” Bobby asked.

Sam scanned ahead, then shook his head. “The text isn’t clear. It says fractura judicii—a fracture of judgment, maybe. Or judgment interrupted.”

Natalie opened her eyes. “Missouri said he hadn’t crossed cleanly.”

“Yeah,” Sam said softly. “That fits.”

Dean hated the way those words sounded. That fits. Like they were solving a puzzle instead of confirming that Natalie’s father had been trapped in some impossible spiritual no-man’s-land for most of her life. He knew Sam didn’t mean it coldly. Sam never did, not with things like this. But research had a way of making horror sound academic because sometimes that was the only way to survive looking at it straight.

Bobby swallowed hard and looked away toward the shelves.

Natalie saw it. Of course she did.

“Bobby,” she said quietly.

He shook his head once. Not dismissing her. Not angry. Just asking her not to comfort him yet, because comfort would make the guilt worse before it made anything better.

Sam turned the page carefully. “There’s more.”

Dean’s gaze snapped back to the journal.

“The Collector doesn’t own souls in the way demons claim ownership after a deal. It holds them in suspension and uses them as currency.”

Natalie’s voice came out thin. “Currency.”

Sam nodded, looking sick. “That’s the word. Currency, leverage, and anchor.”

Bobby looked back. “Anchor to what?”

Sam read silently for a moment, then frowned. “That part’s strange. It says the Collector cannot enter the ordered realms, but it can influence their borders. Souls held in suspension act like… weights, maybe. Points of pressure. The more it holds, the more it can widen the spaces between systems.”

Dean’s stomach turned. “In English.”

Natalie answered before Sam could. Her voice was quiet, but horrifyingly steady. “The more souls it collects, the more reach it has.”

Sam nodded.

Dean looked down at their joined hands. Natalie’s fingers felt cold now.

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, a small attempt at warmth.

Bobby swore under his breath. “So it ain’t just hoardin’. It’s building somethin’.”

“Maybe,” Sam said. “Or maintaining something.”

Natalie’s gaze sharpened. “A territory.”

Everyone looked at her.

She stared at the table, but Dean could see that she wasn’t seeing the wood anymore. She was back in Nova Scotia, in that house, facing something that spoke as if Heaven and Hell were neighboring countries. “It talked about structures. Systems. Rules. Like Heaven and Hell were places with borders it could approach but not enter.”

Sam leaned forward. “If it can’t enter those realms, but can widen the cracks between them…”

“Then the border souls aren’t just trapped,” Natalie said. “They’re being used to hold the cracks open.”

Bobby’s mouth tightened. “Like stakes in the ground.”

The comparison made Dean’s skin crawl. He thought of the water spirit from the day before, bound to land and water, contained by old boundaries that could be broken and reset. He thought of Leandro’s soul not as a person, not as a father, not as someone Julia still loved and Natalie had chased across borders to find, but as something pinned in place to serve a function.

“No,” Dean said, the word coming out before he decided to say it.

Natalie looked at him.

He didn’t know what else to add. The refusal was useless. A reaction, not a plan. But it came from somewhere deep, somewhere furious and human. No, because Leandro was not a damn nail in some cosmic fence. No, because Natalie was not going to keep bleeding for this thing’s amusement. No, because if the universe had decided there were cracks where souls could fall through, then maybe the universe needed a Winchester with a crowbar.

Bobby seemed to understand the sentiment, because he did not call Dean on it.

Sam turned another page. “There’s a warning here.”

“Of course there is,” Dean muttered.

Sam ignored him. “It says the Collector cannot be compelled by the usual rites of exorcism, banishment, binding, angelic invocation, or demonic contract language. Its bargains are not contracts. They are exchanges of placement.”

Natalie’s brow furrowed. “Placement?”

Sam read the phrase again, lips moving silently as he worked through the Latin. “It may move a soul from one threshold to another. It may hide a soul from judgment. It may delay a crossing. But it doesn’t create ownership in the legalistic demonic sense.”

Dean gave him a look. “You’re saying demons have paperwork and this thing has a filing cabinet?”

Sam grimaced. “In a terrible, oversimplified way? Kind of.”

Bobby grunted. “I hate that I followed that.”

Natalie’s face had gone very pale.

Dean noticed immediately. “Nat?”

She pulled in a slow breath. “When I found Leandro’s name, it wasn’t just written down. It had markings next to it.”

“What kind of markings?” Sam asked.

Natalie closed her eyes, trying to picture the ledger without letting the whole memory swallow her. “Columns. Symbols. One looked like a gate. One looked like a hook or an anchor. And one was blank.”

Sam’s attention sharpened. “Blank how?”

“Like it hadn’t been assigned yet.”

Bobby’s expression tightened. “Assigned to what?”

Natalie shook her head. “I didn’t know. I didn’t exactly have time to study it after the Master walked in.”

Dean’s hand tightened around hers, anger flaring again at the casual reminder of how that encounter ended. He forced himself to breathe through it, because she was right here. Alive. Sitting beside him. Not bleeding out in that house. Not alone.

Sam flipped back one page, then forward again. “This journal mentions three states: held, anchored, and rendered.”

Dean frowned. “Rendered?”

Sam looked uncomfortable. “It doesn’t explain fully. But from context, I think rendered souls have been converted into power.”

The room went cold.

Natalie’s face went utterly still.

Dean knew exactly where her mind went. He went there too.

Leandro.

Bobby’s voice was low and dangerous. “Can we tell which one he is?”

Sam did not answer quickly, and that was answer enough.

Natalie’s fingers started to slip from Dean’s hand, as if she were retreating inward without meaning to. Dean caught them gently before she could pull away, not trapping her, just reminding her he was there. She looked at him, eyes bright with a fear she was trying so damn hard to master, and Dean shook his head once.

“We don’t know,” he said.

“But—”

“We don’t know,” he repeated, firmer this time. “And until we do, we don’t let that thing win twice by assuming the worst.”

Bobby looked at him sharply, and for one brief moment Dean wondered if he had overstepped. Then Bobby nodded, slow and rough, and looked back at Natalie.

“Dean’s right.”

Dean blinked. “Can somebody write that down?”

“Don’t ruin it,” Bobby snapped.

Sam actually laughed once, softly, and it helped. Not much, but enough to loosen the choking dread in the room by one notch.

Natalie let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Held, anchored, rendered.”

Sam tapped the journal. “The writer says held souls can still be released.”

The room went still again, but this time the silence changed.

Natalie looked up. “Released how?”

Sam read ahead, his brow furrowing. “It says a held soul may be restored to judgment if its tether is severed before anchoring completes.”

Bobby moved around the table quickly now, leaning over Sam’s shoulder. “What tether?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Find out.”

“I’m trying.”

Dean looked at Natalie, and for the first time since Sam opened the journal, he saw something like hope flicker in her face. Tiny. Terrified. Almost afraid to exist. But real.

Held souls can still be released.

The words had changed everything.

Sam kept reading, slower now, careful not to miss anything. “The tether is created at the moment of interrupted death, then reinforced by memory, grief, or unfinished intent. The Collector feeds the tether by drawing the living toward pursuit.”

Natalie’s expression shifted.

Dean felt the meaning land one second before she said it.

“Me,” she whispered.

Bobby went rigid.

Sam looked up.

Natalie stared at the journal, horror and understanding dawning together. “It wanted me to chase him. It knew I would. Missouri warned me because she knew. The Master let me leave because my grief was strengthening the tether.”

Dean’s blood ran cold.

“No,” he said immediately.

Natalie looked at him.

“That’s what it says, Dean.”

“I don’t care what it says.”

“Dean—”

“No.” He turned toward Sam. “There’s gotta be more. Some way around it.”

Sam was already scanning the next lines, eyes moving fast. “There might be. It says grief reinforces the tether, but so can recognition, naming, and ritual attention. That doesn’t mean Natalie caused it. It means the Collector manipulates the living into sustaining the connection.”

Bobby’s voice was harsh. “So it uses love.”

The words landed with a terrible simplicity.

Nobody contradicted him.

Natalie looked down at her hands. “That’s what it does.”

Dean felt a pulse of hatred so clean and hot it almost steadied him. The Collector didn’t only take souls. It weaponized the people left behind. Julia’s grief. Bobby’s guilt. Natalie’s desperate search. Maybe even Leandro’s final act of protection. It took love, the best thing people had, and turned it into a rope.

Natalie’s hand trembled in his.

Dean lifted it before thinking and pressed his mouth gently to her knuckles.

The gesture surprised the room into silence.

It surprised him too, a little, but he didn’t take it back. He kept his eyes on Natalie, not Bobby, not Sam, not the journal.

“You hear me?” he said quietly. “It used you. That’s not the same as you helping it.”

Natalie’s eyes filled, though she blinked hard against it.

Bobby cleared his throat roughly and looked away, pretending to study a bookshelf that had not moved.

Sam’s face softened, but he returned to the journal because giving Natalie something useful was probably kinder than staring at her pain.

“There’s a passage here about severing,” Sam said. “It’s damaged, but I can make out part of it. The tether can be weakened by confronting the false claim.”

Dean frowned. “False claim?”

Sam nodded slowly. “The Collector’s hold depends on an unresolved claim over the soul. A debt, a bargain, an interrupted purpose, something like that. If the claim is proven false or fulfilled outside the Collector’s control, the soul may be released.”

Natalie sat forward. “Leandro died saving Bobby.”

Bobby’s face tightened.

Sam nodded. “That may matter.”

“How?”

“If the Collector’s claim is based on interrupted purpose,” Sam said, thinking aloud now, “then maybe Leandro’s final intent was never incomplete. Maybe the Collector is treating his death like unfinished business because he died mid-fight, but his actual purpose in that moment was fulfilled. He saved Bobby.”

Bobby looked like he had been struck.

Natalie turned toward him.

For years, Bobby had carried Leandro’s death like a debt he could never repay. He had raised Natalie partly because of love, partly because of loyalty, and partly because guilt had sunk its teeth into him and refused to let go. Now Sam was suggesting that Bobby’s survival might not be the failure Bobby had always believed it to be.

It might be the proof that Leandro’s soul had no rightful claim against it.

Bobby’s mouth opened, then closed.

Dean watched him struggle, and for once, he did not crack a joke.

Natalie stood slowly, her chair scraping softly beneath her. “Bobby.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on the table. “Don’t.”

She ignored him, because she was Natalie and because he needed to hear it whether he wanted to or not. “If Sam’s right, then you living is the reason my dad’s soul can be freed.”

Bobby’s face twisted.

“That ain’t how guilt works, kid.”

“No,” Natalie said softly. “But maybe it’s how truth works.”

The words broke something open in the room.

Bobby looked at her then, and Dean saw twenty years of grief sitting behind the older man’s eyes. Leandro’s death. Julia’s widowhood. Natalie at five years old, sitting at a kitchen table with her feet not touching the floor. Bobby had built half his life after that around the belief that Leandro died because he failed him. But if Leandro’s last choice had succeeded, if Bobby’s life was not evidence of failure but evidence of love completed, then the Collector’s hold was not only cruel.

It was fraudulent.

Sam looked back down at the journal, his voice careful. “We still need more. A lot more. But this gives us a direction.”

Dean squeezed Natalie’s hand once more, then looked at Bobby. “We prove Leandro finished what he set out to do.”

Bobby swallowed hard.

“And then,” Dean continued, his voice going colder, “we make the Collector let him go.”

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Then Bobby drew in a rough breath, wiped a hand over his face, and straightened.

“All right,” he said, voice gruff and uneven. “Then we find every damn thing this journal’s got.”

Natalie nodded, eyes wet but steady.

Sam turned the fragile page with reverent care.

Dean stayed close to Natalie, his shoulder pressed to hers, his hand still wrapped around hers beneath the edge of the table.

The Collector had a history.

It had methods.

It had rules.

And for the first time, it also had a weakness.

Bobby was the first one to move.

Not much. Just enough to break whatever spell had settled over the room after Sam’s last words. He drew in a rough breath, dragged one hand down over his beard, and looked at the journal on the table as if it had personally reached across twenty years and punched him in the chest.

“Sam,” he said, voice gruff and clipped. “Gather everything you can from that. Every line, every translation, every reference. Cross-check it with the black book and anything else we got on interrupted crossings, reapers, unjudged souls, whatever the hell category this thing thinks it belongs in.”

Sam nodded immediately. “Yeah. I’m on it.”

“And don’t assume the translation’s clean.”

“I won’t.”

“Especially not with threshold language.”

“I know.”

Bobby gave him a look.

Sam sighed. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good.” Bobby stood there another second, jaw working like he wanted to say something else and couldn’t trust what might come out if he tried. His eyes flicked to Natalie, then away just as quickly, and that small avoidance somehow said more than any speech could have. “I need a minute.”

No one stopped him.

He turned and walked out through the back door, letting it swing shut behind him with a soft wooden clap that sounded too quiet for the weight he carried with him.

Natalie remained where she was, one hand still resting on the back of the chair, her gaze fixed on the door. The instinct to follow him rose at once, but so did the old fear of making it worse. Bobby was a man who loved fiercely and retreated roughly. He had raised her with engine grease on his hands, sarcasm in his mouth, and worry tucked behind every grumbled order to eat, sleep, or stop being an idiot. When he walked away, sometimes it meant he needed space. Sometimes it meant he needed someone to ignore the fact that he needed someone.

Dean seemed to read that hesitation in her.

He stepped close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. “Go.”

Natalie looked at him.

Dean’s expression had softened, but his voice stayed certain. “He needs you.”

Her throat tightened. “What if he doesn’t want to talk?”

“He probably doesn’t.” A faint, sad smile crossed Dean’s face. “Go anyway.”

Natalie stared at the door for one more heartbeat. Then she nodded and followed Bobby outside.

The backyard was bright with late morning sun, but the warmth felt muted after the dim, dust-thick weight of the house. Bobby stood near the edge of the junkyard with his back to her, hands planted on his hips, cap tilted low as he stared out over the rows of rusted cars and old metal. He looked smaller out there than he ever did inside, which was strange, because Bobby Singer was not a man anyone with sense would call small. But grief had a way of doing that. It bent people inward, even the stubborn ones.

Natalie stopped a few feet away.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The wind moved through the junkyard, rattling something loose in one of the stacked cars. Somewhere overhead, a bird called once and then fell silent. The world kept going with insulting ease, as if it had not just handed Bobby a possible answer to a wound he had carried for twenty years.

Bobby did not turn around, but he knew she was there.

Of course he did.

“You didn’t have to come out,” he said.

Natalie wrapped her arms around herself, not from cold, but from the old instinct to hold herself together. “I know.”

“Dean send you?”

A tiny smile touched her mouth despite everything. “A little.”

Bobby huffed. “Figures.”

“He said you needed me.”

That made Bobby go quiet.

Natalie watched the back of him, the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed once against his belt before stilling. She knew that movement. She had seen it when she was ten and he found her crying over one of Leandro’s old shirts. She had seen it when she was sixteen and her prom date never showed. She had seen it when she left for Nova Scotia and he let her go because she had been an adult, technically, even though neither of them had believed that made it easier.

Bobby finally turned his head slightly, not enough to face her fully. “You were so damn little.”

The words caught her off guard.

She blinked. “What?”

“When Julia brought you here after Leandro died.” His voice was low, rough with memory. “Or hell, maybe I brought you. Don’t even remember it clean anymore. Everything from back then’s all mixed up.” He swallowed, eyes still on the junkyard. “You had these little shoes with flowers on ’em. Mud all over the toes, because you wouldn’t stop wanderin’ out to look at the cars.”

Natalie’s breath caught softly. She did not remember the shoes, but she remembered the shape of those early days in pieces. Bobby’s house feeling too big. Her mother crying when she thought Natalie was asleep. The smell of coffee. The clank of tools. A man who did not know what to do with a grieving child and did it anyway.

Bobby’s jaw worked.

“You’d lost your father, and I stood there thinkin’ I had no damn business tryin’ to help raise anybody. I couldn’t even keep my own life from turnin’ into a pile of ash.” His mouth twisted. “But then you looked at me like I was supposed to know what came next.”

Natalie’s eyes stung.

“So I pretended I did.”

She stepped closer, slowly. “Bobby.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You were five. Then you were six, insistin’ on campin’ in my backyard like a thunderstorm was gonna take orders from you. Then you were ten, bringin’ Dean outta whatever hole John had shoved him into that week. Then you were sixteen, sittin’ in that damn dress in my yard, tryin’ not to cry because some idiot boy didn’t know what he’d stood up.”

Natalie looked down, a faint, aching smile passing across her face.

“And now look at you,” Bobby said, finally turning enough to face her. His eyes were red-rimmed, though he would probably blame the wind if she mentioned it. “Grown woman. Hunter. Scarred up. Stubborn as hell. Standing here tellin’ me that maybe the worst thing I ever carried wasn’t what I thought it was.”

Natalie held his gaze.

The silence stretched again, but this time it was not empty.

Bobby looked back toward the junkyard, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter. “I built a lot on that guilt.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck, looking suddenly exhausted. “I took care of you because I loved your father. Because I loved your mother in the way you love a friend’s family after he’s gone. Because you were just a kid and someone had to.” He paused. “But there was guilt in it too.”

Natalie nodded, even though the admission hurt. “I know that too.”

His eyes cut to her.

She stepped fully beside him now, standing shoulder to shoulder as they looked across the yard together. “You think I didn’t know? Bobby, I grew up in this house. I knew when you were helping because you loved me, and I knew when you were helping because you were trying to answer for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Bobby’s face tightened. “It was my fault.”

“No,” she said, quiet but firm.

He looked at her sharply.

Natalie did not flinch. “No. If what Sam read is right, then my father died doing exactly what he meant to do. He saved you.”

“That don’t make it better.”

“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t. It doesn’t make him less dead. It doesn’t give my mother back the life she should’ve had with him. It doesn’t give me the father I lost.” Her voice trembled, but she kept going. “But it means his last choice mattered.”

Bobby looked away, eyes shining with something he was fighting hard not to let fall.

Natalie turned toward him. “And you living because of him isn’t proof that you failed him. It’s proof that he succeeded.”

The words landed hard.

Bobby closed his eyes.

For a moment, he looked like he might argue. Natalie could almost see the old reflex rising in him, that instinctive rejection of comfort because guilt had lived in him so long it had begun to feel like loyalty. Then his shoulders sagged, just slightly, and the fight went out of him in a way that made her heart ache.

“Damn you,” he muttered.

Natalie let out a wet little laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

“You sound like Missouri.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Wasn’t meant as one.”

“Yes, it was.”

Bobby huffed, but there was no bite in it.

They stood there a while longer, looking out over the junkyard that had held so many versions of them. A grieving child. A reluctant surrogate father. Two reckless kids becoming best friends under storms and moonlight. A young woman leaving for Nova Scotia with too many secrets. A grown woman coming home with scars, answers, and more fear than she knew what to do with.

Bobby finally spoke again.

“I should’ve told you more.”

Natalie’s throat tightened. “Maybe.”

He glanced at her.

She gave him honesty, because after everything, he deserved that much. “I understand why you didn’t. But yes. Maybe if I’d known more, I would’ve looked differently. Maybe I would’ve brought you in sooner. Maybe I wouldn’t have gone alone.”

Pain crossed his face.

“I ain’t ever gonna forgive myself for that.”

“Bobby—”

“No.” He shook his head. “Let me have that one.”

Natalie studied him, then sighed softly. “Fine. But don’t make it bigger than mine.”

That startled him into looking at her.

She folded her arms. “I’m the one who went alone. I’m the one who didn’t call. I’m the one who thought I could face something outside Heaven and Hell because grief made me arrogant.”

“Grief made you desperate,” Bobby corrected.

“Same neighborhood,” she said, and that earned the smallest twitch of his mouth.

He looked back toward the house, where Dean and Sam were just barely visible through the window, bent over books at the table. Dean was not reading. He was watching the yard, because of course he was. Sam, beside him, appeared to be pretending not to notice.

Bobby saw it too.

“He loves you,” he said gruffly.

Natalie’s heart warmed and ached at once. “Yeah.”

“You love him.”

She smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Bobby nodded, though his expression carried the complicated strain of a man watching two children he had helped raise step into something that could either steady them or destroy them, depending on how cruel the world decided to be. “That boy’s got more heart than sense.”

“I know.”

“He’ll throw himself in front of anything for you.”

“I know that too.”

“Don’t let him.”

Natalie looked at him.

Bobby’s voice dropped. “And don’t you do it for him neither.”

She thought of her conversation with Dean in the junkyard that morning, the promises they had made about no demon deals, no solo hunts, no noble sacrifices dressed up as love. “We talked about that.”

“Good.” Bobby grunted. “Talk again. He’s a Winchester. Takes more than once for sense to stick.”

Natalie laughed softly.

Then, after a moment, she reached for Bobby’s hand.

He looked down in surprise when her fingers curled around his.

For one second he seemed frozen, as awkward with tenderness as he had ever been. Then his hand closed around hers, rough and warm and familiar.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Natalie said.

Bobby swallowed. “You oughta be.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She smiled sadly. “I know.”

He squeezed her hand once, then released it before the moment could become too much for either of them. His eyes returned to the junkyard, but his voice, when it came, was softer than before.

“We’re gonna find him.”

Natalie’s breath caught.

Bobby glanced at her. “Leandro. We’re gonna find out what happened. We’re gonna prove that bastard’s claim is false, or whatever fancy words Sam wants to use. And if there’s a way to get your father where he belongs, we’ll do it.”

Her eyes filled again, but this time she did not hide it.

“And if there isn’t?” she whispered.

Bobby’s face tightened, but he did not lie to her. “Then we’ll face that too.”

Natalie nodded, because that was the only honest answer.

He turned toward her more fully then, and for a moment the gruff hunter fell away enough for her to see the man who had crouched in front of a five-year-old girl and told her she would always have a place with him.

“But you listen to me,” Bobby said. “Your father’s soul matters. What happened to him matters. But you are not a payment. You hear me?”

Natalie’s lips trembled.

“You don’t pay for the dead with the livin’,” he continued, voice roughening. “Not with your life. Not with Dean’s. Not with mine. Not with anybody’s.”

She nodded once. “I hear you.”

“Good.”

A beat passed.

Then Bobby cleared his throat and turned back toward the house, gruffness dragging itself back over him like armor. “Now come on. Before those idjits misread Latin and summon somethin’ stupid in my kitchen.”

Natalie laughed, wiping quickly at her cheek. “Sam wouldn’t.”

“Dean would distract him.”

“That’s fair.”

They started toward the house together, steps slow at first, then steadier. Through the window, Dean’s head lifted the second they moved, his attention snapping to Natalie with such open concern that Bobby let out a low snort.

Natalie glanced over. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Bobby.”

He shook his head. “Just thinkin’ your father would’ve liked that boy.”

Natalie stopped.

Bobby kept walking for two more steps before realizing she was no longer beside him. He turned back, brows raised.

She stared at him, heart caught somewhere between grief and joy. “You think so?”

Bobby looked toward the window again, where Dean was now pretending to read while very obviously monitoring them. A smile tugged faintly beneath Bobby’s beard.

“Leandro liked stubborn idiots with good hearts,” he said. “Explains why he put up with me.”

Natalie let out a shaky laugh.

Bobby opened the back door and stepped inside first, voice rising immediately. “All right, what’d you two break while we were gone?”

From the table, Dean looked offended. “Nothing!”

Sam lifted a hand. “A pencil.”

Dean pointed at him. “Traitor.”

Natalie followed Bobby inside, the ache in her chest still there, still deep, but no longer quite so lonely.

For the first time in years, talking about her father did not feel like opening a wound in the dark.

It felt like bringing him home.

The rest of the day disappeared into paper.

Not cleanly. Not neatly. There was no single revelation that solved everything, no one passage that made the Collector suddenly understandable. Instead, the truth came in fragments, scattered across books that had no business knowing about one another. A water-damaged field journal. Bobby’s black-bound volume with the French notes tucked in the back. A brittle collection of nineteenth-century death customs from the northern Atlantic. A hunter’s private correspondence copied in shaky handwriting, then shoved between two unrelated volumes as if even the person who saved it had not known what to do with what they had found.

Sam found the first cross-reference a little before lunch, buried in an old account from a hunter who had investigated a cluster of deaths near Quebec. Natalie found the second half an hour later, not in the main text of a book, but in the handwritten correction some unknown researcher had scrawled in the margin after disagreeing violently with the translator. Bobby found a third while swearing at a stack of papers that had tried to collapse on his foot. Dean, who complained loudly that half of Bobby’s books were written by lunatics with terrible penmanship, still managed to uncover a mention of “souls used as posts along unclaimed roads,” which silenced the room so completely that even he stopped pretending not to be shaken.

By noon, Sam had dragged a clean notebook to the center of the table and declared that they needed one place to compile everything before the information scattered across Bobby’s house swallowed itself again. Bobby objected to the implication that his library was anything less than functional, Natalie pointed out that one of the relevant documents had been sitting behind a manual on septic tanks, and Dean helpfully added that the septic tank manual had at least been written in English. Bobby told him to shut up and sharpen pencils.

So they built the notebook together.

Sam wrote the cleanest notes, because of course he did. Dates, sources, names, alternate translations, possible meanings. His handwriting stayed steady even when the subject matter turned uglier. Natalie handled the terms that did not translate cleanly, especially the ones that seemed to orbit border language: threshold, crossing, judgment, held, anchored, rendered. Bobby drew arrows between concepts with the grim authority of a man who trusted a good diagram more than a paragraph, and Dean made blunt little additions in the margins whenever the others got too academic.

Collector likes loopholes.

Doesn’t own souls. Uses them.

Love = tether? Gross. Kill it.

Natalie saw that last note and stared at it for a long moment, her mouth tightening as if she could not decide whether to laugh or cry.

Dean noticed. He always noticed. “You okay?”

She nodded, but it was the sort of nod that only meant she had not fallen apart yet. “I hate that it makes sense.”

Dean looked at the note, then back at her. His expression shifted, anger and tenderness colliding in that familiar way of his. “Then we use it against the son of a bitch.”

Bobby grunted from the other side of the table. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.”

Dean pointed at him without looking away from Natalie. “I’ve said at least three sensible things.”

“Name two.”

Dean opened his mouth, then frowned. “Not the point.”

Sam, without lifting his head, said, “One of them was probably ‘pass the bacon.’”

Natalie laughed despite herself, and for a few brief seconds the room loosened. It needed those seconds. They all did. The day kept pressing down on them, page after page, discovery after discovery, and without those little interruptions of family irritation and tired humor, the weight of the research would have crushed the air out of Bobby’s house.

Lunch was sandwiches eaten over open books, because no one had the patience to clear the table properly. Bobby made Natalie take the thickest one and did not even pretend he was not watching her eat. She gave him the same warning look as before, but this time there was less bite behind it, and he answered with a gruff little lift of his brows that said he knew exactly how much he could push before she snapped. Dean slid a bag of chips toward her without comment. Sam, who noticed both gestures, wisely kept his eyes on the notebook and his mouth shut.

By midafternoon, the picture had grown clearer and worse.

The Collector did not simply wait for souls to fall into the cracks. It engineered cracks where it could. It guided monsters, manipulated timing, and fed on unfinished purpose the way some things fed on blood. It did not need every violent death. It needed the right ones. Deaths with force behind them. Deaths charged with sacrifice, panic, devotion, refusal. A hunter throwing himself between a monster and a friend. A mother dying before she could protect her child. A soldier refusing to retreat. A lover turning back when every instinct screamed to run.

Dean went very still when Sam read that part aloud.

Natalie did too.

Nobody mentioned Mary Winchester.

Nobody needed to.

Dean stared at the table, jaw clenched so hard Natalie could see the muscle jumping near his cheek. She reached beneath the table and touched his knee, not to distract him, not to soothe something that old with one touch, but to remind him that he was not alone in the room with the memory. His hand found hers immediately, rough and warm, and he held on so tightly she knew exactly where his mind had gone.

Sam noticed, and his voice softened as he moved on.

Bobby noticed too, but his face had already gone dark with another grief.

Leandro.

Every useful passage led back to him eventually. Not by name, not always, but by shape. A hunter dying mid-fight. A final act completed in body but disrupted in spirit. A soul taken at the instant when will and sacrifice were strongest. Each time the research circled that truth, Bobby seemed to grow heavier in his chair. He did not break. Bobby Singer did not break where people could see him if he could help it. But by late afternoon, his voice had gone rough enough that Natalie stopped pretending not to hear it.

“This doesn’t mean it was your fault,” she said quietly after Sam read a passage about “borrowed guilt strengthening a tether through the living witness.”

Bobby’s eyes lifted to hers.

The room paused around them.

Natalie held his gaze. “If anything, it means the Collector used what you felt afterward.”

Bobby looked down at the table, his hand resting near the notebook but not touching it. “Don’t know that that’s better.”

“No,” she admitted. “It isn’t better.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, expression hard. “It means it’s a parasite.”

Sam nodded slowly. “That’s actually not a bad way to put it.”

Dean looked offended. “Why do you always sound surprised when I’m useful?”

“Experience,” Sam said.

Dean glared at him.

Natalie almost smiled, but Bobby did not. His gaze stayed on the open page, on the ugly little phrase Sam had translated three different ways and disliked more each time.

The living remember. The Collector fastens.

Bobby dragged a hand over his beard. “So every time I blamed myself—”

Natalie’s voice cut in, gentle but firm. “No.”

He looked at her.

“No,” she repeated. “We are not doing that.”

His mouth twisted. “Kid—”

“The Collector does not get to make your love for my father into evidence against you.” Her voice shook on the last words, but she did not back away from them. “It doesn’t get that.”

Dean looked at her then, and the pride in his face was so naked it nearly undid her.

Bobby sat there for a long moment, absorbing it badly, because Bobby absorbed kindness the way some men absorbed punches—by pretending they had not landed until the bruise showed later. Finally, he gave one short nod and looked back at the notebook.

“Write it down,” he muttered.

Sam blinked. “What?”

“That.” Bobby pointed at the page. “Collector uses memory and guilt to reinforce tethers. But if the claim’s false, there’s gotta be a way to challenge it. Write that down.”

Sam wrote it down.

Dinner came later than it should have, and by then none of them had the energy for anything complicated. Bobby reheated leftovers and opened cans of whatever looked least expired. Dean made a half-hearted complaint about the lack of burgers, but Natalie bumped her shoulder into his and told him he could survive one meal without red meat. Dean informed her this was medically unproven. Sam said, without looking up from the notebook, that Dean’s cholesterol would probably appreciate the break. Bobby told all of them to eat before he threw the pan at someone.

They ate in the middle of the research again.

By then the notebook had become something almost sacred. A map of horror, yes, but also a map of possibility. Sam had divided it into sections: known names, reported behaviors, soul states, tether mechanics, possible weaknesses, unresolved questions. Natalie had added a page for Leandro specifically, though writing his name at the top had taken her longer than she expected. She had stared at the blank line until Dean’s hand settled at the back of her chair, steady and silent, and only then had she written it.

Leandro Guimet.

Held or anchored unknown.

Claim basis unknown.

Final act: saved Bobby Singer from fatal attack.

Possible challenge: final intent fulfilled.

When Bobby saw it, he got up without a word and went into the kitchen. They heard the refrigerator open, then close. A bottle cap hit the counter. Nobody followed him that time. He came back a minute later with a beer in hand and eyes that looked suspiciously bright, then sat down and told Sam his column headings were too damn neat.

Sam accepted that for the emotional deflection it was.

The worst discovery came after dinner.

It was Natalie who found it, buried in one of the French notes tucked behind the black-bound book. The passage had been copied from an older source, probably translated twice before it landed in Bobby’s house, but the meaning survived well enough to turn her hands cold.

She read it once.

Then again.

Dean saw her face change. “Nat?”

She did not answer immediately.

Bobby sat forward. “What is it?”

Natalie swallowed. “It says anchored souls can still be aware.”

The room went so quiet that the ticking clock sounded obscene.

Sam reached for the note carefully, his eyes scanning the passage. His expression tightened with every line. “It says awareness varies. Held souls are suspended, often unaware of duration. Anchored souls may experience memory loops, emotional echoes, or impressions from the living tether.”

Bobby’s chair creaked under his grip.

Dean’s stomach turned.

Natalie stared at the paper until the words blurred. “So if my father’s anchored—”

“We don’t know that he is,” Dean said immediately.

“But if he is—”

“We don’t know.”

She looked at him, eyes shining now, grief breaking past the control she had held all day. “Dean.”

He stopped, because she was right to be afraid and he could not protect her from the possibility by refusing to say it aloud.

If Leandro was anchored, he might know.

He might know time had passed.

He might feel Julia’s grief. Bobby’s guilt. Natalie’s desperate search for him. He might have been trapped for two decades in the echo of the last thing he ever did, not suffering exactly, not damned, but not free either. Held in place by love turned into rope.

Bobby stood so abruptly his chair slammed backward. “Damn it.”

The words cracked through the room.

Natalie flinched, but Bobby was not angry at her. He was staring at the page like he wanted to burn it and could not because they needed it. His breath came rough, his face flushed with helpless rage.

“That son of a bitch,” he said, voice low and shaking. “That goddamn son of a bitch.”

Sam looked down, giving him the dignity of not being watched too closely.

Dean looked at Natalie.

Natalie looked at Bobby.

For a moment, all the research stopped being research. It stopped being translations, categories, and possible ritual mechanics. It became a man named Leandro who had laughed in Bobby’s kitchen, taught him how to track a thing through bad weather, loved Julia, carried his daughter on his shoulders, and died pushing his friend out of the way.

It became personal again.

Maybe it had never stopped being personal.

Natalie rose slowly and crossed to Bobby. She did not touch him at first. She had learned that much from him. Instead, she stood beside him, close enough that he could feel she was there, and looked down at the page with him.

“We don’t know,” she said, echoing Dean now.

Bobby’s jaw worked.

“We don’t know,” she repeated. “And until we do, we don’t let it make us imagine every possible way it could hurt him.”

Bobby let out a rough, humorless breath. “That advice you plannin’ on takin’ yourself?”

Natalie’s mouth trembled. “Trying.”

He looked at her then, and the anger in his face broke into something far more painful. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

Dean rose as well, not crowding either of them, but unable to sit still with Natalie hurting that badly. Sam stayed seated, one hand resting on the notebook, grounding the work because someone had to.

After a while, Bobby picked up his chair and sat back down.

Nobody commented.

They worked another hour after that, but exhaustion had begun to make everything harder. Words blurred. Translations tangled. Dean read the same paragraph three times and still had no idea what it said beyond the fact that it made him want to hit something. Sam’s notes grew less tidy. Bobby’s temper shortened. Natalie’s composure thinned until every mention of Leandro’s possible state felt like fingers pressing into an open bruise.

Finally, Sam closed the journal with care.

“We need to stop for tonight.”

Dean looked ready to argue on principle, but one glance at Natalie stopped him.

Bobby did not argue either.

That alone said enough.

The notebook lay in the middle of the table, thicker now with inserted pages, copied passages, rough diagrams, and a growing list of questions they could not yet answer. It did not give them a way to defeat the Collector. Not yet. It did not tell them whether Leandro was held, anchored, or something worse. It did not promise that he could be freed.

But it gave them more than they had that morning.

A name older than Master.

A function.

A method.

A possible weakness.

And a truth that changed the shape of Bobby’s oldest guilt: Leandro’s final act had not failed. Bobby had lived because Leandro saved him. If the Collector claimed otherwise, then the claim was a lie.

Natalie sat back in her chair, drained to the bone, and looked at the notebook through tired eyes.

Dean’s hand slid into hers.

This time she clung to him openly.

Bobby saw it and did not tease. Sam saw it and did not smile. The room was too raw for that, too full of ghosts that were not ghosts and grief that had been opened too many times in one day.

Bobby rubbed both hands over his face, then let them fall heavily to the table.

“All right,” he said, voice worn down but steady. “We sleep. Tomorrow, we keep diggin’.”

Natalie nodded.

Dean squeezed her hand.

Sam carefully stacked the most important books beside the notebook, as though arranging them neatly could give shape to the chaos of what they had learned.

Outside, night settled over Sioux Falls and Bobby’s junkyard, covering rusted cars and old paths and the tent-shaped memories of childhood beneath darkness. Inside, four hunters sat around a table with too much knowledge and not enough answers, bound together by love, guilt, fear, and the stubborn refusal to let the Collector have the final word.

For now, that refusal was all they had.

For tonight, it would have to be enough.

One by one, the house emptied.

Sam was the first to give in, though not without stacking the most important books into a careful pile beside the notebook and marking three places with scraps of paper torn from an old receipt. He looked like he wanted to keep going, because Sam Winchester had never met a terrible supernatural mystery he did not believe could be solved through stubbornness and sleep deprivation, but even he had reached the end of what his mind could hold. He said good night quietly, squeezed Natalie’s shoulder as he passed her chair, and gave Dean one of those long brother looks that said several things at once.

Take care of her.

Take care of yourself.

Don’t be stupid.

Dean gave him a small nod.

Bobby lingered longer, because Bobby always lingered when worry had him by the throat. He checked the locks even though everyone knew they were already locked. He grumbled about leaving books on the table even though he was the one who told them not to move anything. He looked at Natalie twice like he wanted to say something else about Leandro, about the Collector, about the fact that her father might have liked Dean, but whatever words he found were too large for the hour and too raw for the room.

So he only touched the back of her chair once as he passed.

“Sleep,” he said gruffly.

Natalie looked up at him, exhausted and soft-eyed. “You too.”

Bobby snorted. “Bossy.”

“You raised me.”

“Apparently I made mistakes.”

She smiled faintly, and that was enough for him. He gave Dean one sharp look, not teasing this time, not warning exactly either. More like trust wrapped in threat because that was the only language Bobby could stand to use when something mattered too much. Then he went down the hall to his room, and after a moment his door shut.

The kitchen fell quiet.

Dean and Natalie stayed where they were.

Neither of them spoke at first. The notebook sat in the middle of the table, closed now, but still heavy with everything they had forced into it. The Collector’s older name. The border souls. The possibility that Leandro had been held not because his final act failed, but because something cruel had lied about the meaning of sacrifice and fed on the grief left behind. The day had taken them apart piece by piece, then left them sitting in the wreckage with too many truths and not enough answers.

Dean’s hand was still wrapped around Natalie’s.

His thumb moved slowly over her knuckles, again and again, a small rhythm in the silence. He did not seem aware of doing it at first. His gaze rested on their joined hands, his expression drawn with grief and exhaustion and the kind of fear he had spent most of his life turning into anger because anger was easier to survive.

Natalie watched him watch her hand.

She could feel the tremor beneath the steadiness of his touch.

Not strong. Not obvious.

But there.

“Dean,” she said softly.

He looked up.

The rawness in his eyes stole whatever else she might have said.

All day, they had talked about souls and tethers, about love being used as a trap, about what the Collector did with people who died before judgment could take hold. But beneath every word, every translation, every ugly line of lore, Dean had been carrying one simple image: Natalie on a floor in Nova Scotia, bleeding, alone, nearly gone before he ever knew she needed him.

His hand tightened around hers.

“I keep thinking about it,” he admitted, voice low.

She did not ask what.

She knew.

Dean swallowed, jaw shifting as he tried to force the words through the place where fear had lodged itself. “How close it was.”

Natalie’s throat tightened.

He looked down again, thumb brushing over her knuckles with aching care. “You were lying there, and it just… let you leave. Like your life was nothing. Like it could decide whether you got to come home.”

The words landed quietly, but Natalie heard the fury beneath them. The helplessness too. That was the part he hated most. Not the danger. Not even the blood. Dean could face danger. Dean could face blood. But the idea that she had almost vanished from the world while he was somewhere else, unaware and unreachable, had shaken something deep in him.

“I did come home,” she whispered.

Dean looked back at her, and his face softened with so much relief that it hurt to see. “Yeah.”

His thumb stilled.

“I’m really damn glad you did.”

Natalie’s eyes stung.

The day had stripped her down too. Not only because of the Collector. Not only because of Leandro. But because Bobby’s words had stayed with her long after he said them in the yard, settling somewhere tender she had not known was waiting to be touched.

Your father would’ve liked that boy.

Bobby probably did not know what that had done to her.

Maybe he could not know.

Leandro had been a story most of her life, a warmth remembered through Julia’s grief, through Bobby’s guilt, through photographs and old shirts and the shape of absence at every important moment. Her father had not watched her grow up. He had not met the friends who became family. He had not seen Dean Winchester stumble into her life as a bruised little boy with too much responsibility and somehow become the man she loved.

But Bobby had known him.

Bobby had known Leandro’s laugh, his temper, his instincts, his measure of people.

And Bobby believed Leandro would have liked Dean.

The knowledge settled in Natalie’s chest like a blessing she had not realized she needed.

“He said my father would’ve liked you,” she said.

Dean blinked, surprised by the turn. “Bobby?”

Natalie nodded.

Dean looked almost uncomfortable, as though the idea mattered too much to receive easily. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He huffed softly, glancing down at the table. “Well. Your dad had questionable taste in friends if he liked Bobby.”

Natalie laughed, but it broke halfway into something quieter. Dean looked up immediately, worry sharpening in his face, and she shook her head before he could ask.

“It just meant a lot,” she said. “More than Bobby knows, I think.”

Dean’s expression changed.

He understood then.

Maybe not the exact shape of it, but enough. Enough to know that for Natalie, loving him had always carried ghosts with it. Julia’s grief. Leandro’s absence. The fear that love in their world always ended with someone left behind. To be told that her father, the man whose death had shaped her whole life, might have approved of Dean—might have liked him, trusted him, seen the good in him—was not a small thing.

Dean lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.

Natalie’s breath caught.

The gesture was tender enough to undo the last of the distance between them.

For a long moment, they only looked at each other across the scarred kitchen table, the closed notebook between them like the dark road waiting tomorrow. But the hour was late, and exhaustion had thinned the walls they usually kept around themselves. There was no room left for deflection. No room for jokes. No room for fear pretending to be practicality.

There was only the truth.

Dean stood first.

He did not tug her up. Did not assume.

He only held her hand and waited.

Natalie looked at him, saw the question in his eyes, and answered by rising from her chair.

They left the kitchen lights burning low behind them.

The walk upstairs felt different from the night before. Last night had been full of uncertainty, the awkward sweetness of two people learning how to share a bed without crossing a line they were not ready to cross. Tonight was quieter. Heavier. Not rushed, not feverish, but certain in a way that settled deep beneath the skin.

At his door, Dean paused and looked at her.

“You sure?” he asked.

Natalie’s heart squeezed at the question, at the steadiness of it, at the way he still gave her the choice even now, after everything they had said and survived and admitted.

She stepped closer, her free hand resting against his chest. “Yes.”

Dean searched her face for another heartbeat.

Then he nodded once and opened the door.

Inside, the room was dim and familiar, lit only by the faint moonlight at the curtains and the soft spill from the hallway before Dean closed the door behind them. His duffel still sat near the bed. His jacket still hung over the chair. The room still looked like Dean in all the small, chaotic ways Natalie had already started to love openly instead of privately.

Dean turned back to her.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Natalie reached for him.

That broke whatever fragile distance remained.

Dean kissed her slowly, his hands coming to her with care rather than urgency. Her waist. Her back. The side of her face. Each touch asked and answered at once, and Natalie gave herself permission to lean into all of it, to feel the warmth of him without flinching away from what it meant. He held her like someone grateful, like someone afraid, like someone who had almost learned too late that love was not made safer by being denied.

She kissed him back with the same tenderness, fingers curling in his shirt, then smoothing over his shoulders as if reassuring herself that he was real. Dean made a soft sound against her mouth, not desperate, but overwhelmed, and the sound moved through her with aching force.

They had spent years being careful in all the wrong ways.

Tonight they were careful in the right ones.

Dean guided her toward the bed, but he did not hurry her. He kept stopping to look at her, to touch her face, to kiss her again like every kiss was its own decision. Natalie found herself smiling through the emotion rising in her chest, because there was no performance in him now, no swagger, no mask. Just Dean, nervous and tender and utterly present.

When they came together, it was not about proving anything.

It was not about erasing fear, or grief, or the shadow of the Collector waiting beyond them. None of that vanished. The world did not become kinder because they loved each other. Leandro was still trapped. The Master still existed. Tomorrow would still demand research, plans, and danger.

But for this one night, love was not a tether used by something cruel.

It was a choice.

A shelter.

A place to rest.

Dean loved her with a gentleness that made Natalie ache, kissing her as if every part of her was precious because he knew how close he had come to never having this at all. He held her through the tremble of emotion that overtook her, whispered her name against her hair, and stayed with her in every sense that mattered. Natalie held him back just as fiercely, giving him the trust she had been too afraid to offer for years, letting the truth of what she felt move through her without turning away from it.

Afterward, they lay tangled beneath the blankets, breath slowly easing, the room quiet around them.

Natalie rested with her head against Dean’s chest, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. His arm was wrapped around her waist, his hand spread warm against her back, and every so often his fingers moved in small, absent strokes as though he still needed to remind himself she was there.

She understood.

Her own hand rested over his heart.

Dean turned his face into her hair and pressed a kiss there. “You okay?”

The question was soft, roughened by emotion and exhaustion.

Natalie closed her eyes.

For the first time, the answer did not feel fragile.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Dean’s hold tightened slightly.

She lifted her head enough to look at him. In the moonlight, his face looked younger somehow, stripped of bravado and sharpened edges, leaving only the man beneath all of it. The boy she had known. The friend she had loved. The lover who looked at her now with quiet wonder and no regret.

Natalie touched his cheek. “Are you?”

Dean looked at her for a long second.

Then he smiled.

Small. Tired. Real.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She settled back against him, and he drew the blanket higher around them both. Outside, the junkyard was still. Downstairs, Bobby’s house slept around them, old walls holding old grief and new hope with the same stubborn endurance that had carried all of them this far.

The Collector had taken love and twisted it into a tether.

But here, in the dark of Dean’s room, love became something else.

Not a trap.

Not a debt.

Not a weapon.

A home.

And for one night, held safely in each other’s arms, Dean and Natalie let themselves believe that home was worth fighting for.

Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7, @deans-baby-momma, @foxyjwls007

Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other stories I’m writing!

[foxyjwls007]

This was so heart wrenching 💔

[lightdancingwords]

Supernatural Fourth of July

(Or: Dean Winchester Decides They're Going to Watch Fireworks)

Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean decides to properly celebrate the Fourth of July with Sam. This is a one-shot. (And does take place after Supernatural Summer Solstice.)

Word Count: 4,048

Tags/Warnings: Fourth of July, holiday celebration, fireworks, memories, callbacks

Author's Note: I couldn't resist. After writing Supernatural Thanksgiving, Supernatural Christmas, and Supernatural New Year, Dean's birthday, Valentine's Day, Summer Solstice, and enjoying it, I had to do a short story to celebrate the Fourth of July! I'm going to keep doing little one-shots with various events and holidays to shove Dean and Sam in (usually) comedic moments, I think, for the time being--so if you're interested to read future one-shots, let me know and I'll add you to those tag lists!

Divider: by @talesmaniac89

The declaration came at breakfast.

In retrospect, Sam probably should have recognized the warning signs sooner.

Dean was awake early. Not hunter early, not the kind of early that came with a case, a phone call, or the aftermath of a nightmare. This was different. Dean moved around the kitchen with a kind of purposeful energy that immediately put Sam on edge the moment he shuffled through the doorway in search of coffee.

The bunker was quiet in that peculiar way it often was in the mornings. The hum of ventilation drifted through the corridors, the old Men of Letters machinery carrying on with its mysterious subterranean business somewhere behind the walls. Sunlight filtered weakly through the high garage windows at the far end of the bunker, enough to suggest morning existed somewhere above them even if the bunker itself remained stubbornly disconnected from concepts like weather and seasons.

Dean, however, looked very aware of the date.

He was standing at the stove wearing jeans, boots, and an old Led Zeppelin shirt, one hand occupied with a spatula while bacon crackled in a pan beside him. There was coffee already brewed, eggs on a plate waiting to be served, and an expression on Dean's face that Sam had learned to distrust over the course of his entire life.

It wasn't excitement.

Excitement was manageable.

This was certainty.

Sam stopped beside the coffee maker and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What."

Dean looked up from the stove. "What, what?"

"That look."

Dean frowned. "What look?"

"The one that says you've made a decision and I'm going to find out about it in the worst possible way."

Dean looked offended by the accusation, which only made Sam more certain he was right. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh huh."

Dean transferred the bacon onto a plate, turned off the burner, and finally faced him fully. There was no grin. No dangerous enthusiasm. No signs of another Summer Solstice campaign waiting to happen. If anything, Dean looked strangely calm about whatever was happening inside his own head.

Then he dropped the bombshell with all the gravity of a man announcing the weather. "We're going to fireworks tonight."

Sam blinked.

The statement sat in the air between them for several seconds while his brain attempted to catch up. "...Fireworks."

"Yep."

"Fourth of July fireworks."

Dean slid a plate onto the table and pulled out a chair for himself. "That's generally when they happen."

Sam ignored that. "We haven't done Fourth of July in years."

Dean shrugged as he sat down, reaching immediately for the coffee pot. "Seems like a good year to start again."

That gave Sam pause.

Not because Dean was wrong, exactly. They'd certainly had years where celebrating holidays had ranked somewhere below preventing apocalypses and somewhere above remembering to pay motel bills. But there was something about the way Dean had said it that caught Sam's attention.

Not excitement.

Not nostalgia.

Decision.

The kind of decision Dean made when something mattered to him.

Sam settled into the chair opposite him and studied his brother over the rim of his coffee mug. Dean was focused on pouring cream into his coffee with the kind of concentration that suggested he was deliberately avoiding eye contact.

That, more than anything, made Sam suspicious. "Okay," Sam said carefully. "What's going on?"

Dean finally looked up. "Nothing's going on."

"Dean."

"It's the Fourth of July."

"Dean."

Dean pointed at him with his coffee mug. "People celebrate the Fourth of July, Sam."

"Normal people celebrate the Fourth of July."

Dean stared. "I have no idea how to respond to that."

Sam ignored him and pressed on. "You hate crowds."

"Selective crowds."

"You hate traffic."

"Bad traffic."

"You hate standing around waiting for things."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it again. "...Okay, fair."

"And yet," Sam continued, "you're announcing fireworks at breakfast like this is a military operation."

Dean leaned back in his chair and considered that for a moment. Then he shrugged. "I just wanna go."

Simple.

Matter-of-fact.

No jokes.

No deflection.

For some reason, that answer unsettled Sam more than if Dean had shown up with brochures and a countdown calendar.

Dean wanted to go.

Not because there was a hunt.

Not because there was a mystery.

Not because there was a monster hiding behind a patriotic festival.

He just wanted to go.

Sam took another sip of coffee and watched his brother for a long moment over the edge of the mug.

Somewhere above them, America was apparently preparing for parades and barbecues and fireworks displays. Somewhere above them, kids were probably already waving sparklers around in driveways while parents shouted warnings about keeping them pointed away from faces and dry grass.

Down here, beneath layers of concrete and steel, Dean Winchester had decided they were going to participate.

"We're driving separately if you buy illegal fireworks."

Dean looked genuinely scandalized. "Sam."

"Dean."

"I would never."

"You absolutely would."

Dean considered that for exactly two seconds. "Okay, but in my defense, they're significantly cooler than legal fireworks."

Despite himself, Sam laughed.

The sound earned him a small grin from across the table, quick and fleeting enough that he almost missed it. Whatever this was, whatever had put the idea into Dean's head, it clearly mattered enough that Dean was trying very hard to play it cool about the whole thing.

Unfortunately for him, Sam Winchester had spent his entire life learning to read his brother.

And this?

This wasn't enthusiasm.

This was something else.

Something quieter.

Something older.

Sam wasn't sure what it meant yet.

But he had a feeling he was going to find out.

Dean did not mention the fireworks again for almost three hours.

That should have reassured Sam.

Instead, it somehow made him more suspicious.

Normally, when Dean became interested in something, everyone within a five-mile radius knew about it almost immediately. The Summer Solstice Festival had come with eight days of facts, historical context, educational ambushes, and what Sam still maintained was psychological warfare involving Castiel and astronomy.

This was different.

Dean simply... carried on with his morning.

He washed dishes after breakfast. He disappeared into the garage for a while. He emerged smelling faintly of motor oil and grease, grabbed another cup of coffee, and wandered into the library with a maintenance manual under one arm. If not for the fact that Sam had known him for over thirty years, he might have believed the fireworks comment had been entirely casual.

It wasn't.

Sam knew it wasn't.

Because every once in a while, when Dean thought nobody was looking, he'd glance at the clock on the wall.

Not anxiously.

Not impatiently.

Just checking.

As though mentally measuring the distance between now and sunset.

By late morning, Sam had migrated to the war room with his laptop and a stack of lore books, mostly because old habits died hard and because research felt productive even when there wasn't an active case attached to it. Across the table, Dean had somehow acquired a newspaper and was pretending to read it while very obviously not reading it at all.

Sam watched him turn the same page three times. "You know you're holding that upside down, right?"

Dean looked down.

The newspaper was, in fact, upside down.

He flipped it over without a trace of embarrassment. "Testing you."

"Sure you were."

Dean grunted and folded the paper.

For a few minutes, silence settled comfortably around them, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the distant hum of the bunker ventilation. Then Dean spoke without looking up.

"They're doing food trucks this year."

Sam looked over his laptop. "What?"

"The fireworks show." Dean shrugged as though this were completely normal information to possess. "Lebanon's got food trucks coming in this year."

"You looked it up."

Dean frowned. "I glanced."

"You researched fireworks."

"I did not research fireworks."

"Dean."

"Okay, maybe a little."

Sam leaned back in his chair. There it was. Not excitement exactly.

Investment.

Dean wasn't the kind of person who casually looked up event schedules and vendor lists. This was a man whose vacation planning generally consisted of getting in the car and seeing where the road went.

"You know," Sam said carefully, "we don't actually have to stay for the whole thing if you don't want to."

Dean looked up immediately. "What makes you think I don't want to?"

The answer came too quickly.

Too automatically.

Sam held up both hands. "I'm just saying. Crowds, noise, traffic—"

"I'm aware of what fireworks are, Sam."

"Okay."

Dean held his gaze for a moment longer before looking back down at the newspaper. "I wanna stay for the whole thing."

Simple.

Definite.

Again.

Sam frowned slightly.

There it was again, that strange certainty from breakfast. No joking. No sarcasm. No carefully constructed cool-guy act to pretend he wasn't invested in something deeply sentimental.

Just honesty.

Dean wanted to go.

Dean wanted to stay.

Dean cared.

The realization sat oddly with Sam.

Not because Dean wasn't allowed to care about things. God knew Dean cared about things deeply and fiercely and often to his own detriment. But Dean usually hid it beneath layers of sarcasm and humor and carefully cultivated indifference.

This felt... exposed.

Around lunchtime, Dean disappeared into town and returned carrying two grocery bags.

Sam looked up from the couch as Dean dropped them onto the kitchen counter. "What'd you get?"

"Stuff."

"Specific stuff?"

"Very specific stuff."

That immediately narrowed the possibilities to either food or explosives.

Dean began unloading the bags.

Hot dogs.

Hamburger buns.

Potato salad.

Chips.

Beer.

More beer.

Sam nodded approvingly. "Okay, barbecue supplies make sense."

Dean continued unloading.

Ketchup.

Mustard.

Paper plates.

Napkins.

Then, finally, Dean reached into the bottom of the second bag and carefully set a long rectangular box on the counter.

Sam stared.

Dean stared back.

The box sat between them.

Sparklers.

Not fireworks.

Not Roman candles or bottle rockets or anything likely to get them arrested.

Just sparklers.

For some reason, the sight of them hit Sam like a physical thing.

Heat.

Summer air.

Smoke hanging in the darkness.

A field.

The Impala.

Something tugged at the edge of memory before slipping away again.

Dean saw him looking. "Oh." His voice softened slightly. "Yeah."

That was all he said.

No explanation.

No joke.

Just... yeah.

Sam looked from the sparklers to his brother and back again.

The feeling of almost remembering lingered stubbornly at the edge of his thoughts.

Somewhere deep in his memory, something was trying very hard to be found.

Dean picked up the box and set it carefully aside with the rest of the supplies. "We should leave around seven," he said, almost casually. "Get there before the crowds get bad."

Sam looked up sharply. "You're planning arrival times now?"

Dean pointed a hot dog package at him. "Preparation prevents suffering."

"You mocked me for saying that in Minnesota."

"Different context."

"Same sentence."

Dean shrugged. "Growth."

Sam laughed despite himself.

Across the kitchen, Dean grinned.

For just a moment, he looked younger somehow.

Lighter.

Like there was something he was looking forward to with both hands.

Sam wasn't sure he'd seen that look on his brother's face nearly enough over the years.

Whatever this was, he thought as he watched Dean disappear into the pantry with hamburger buns under one arm, maybe it was worth the mystery a little longer.

By six-thirty, the bunker had taken on the peculiar atmosphere that always accompanied departures that weren't hunts.

There was no frantic scramble for weapons. No last-minute checks of ammunition supplies or lore books shoved hastily into duffel bags. Nobody was researching local disappearances or suspicious deaths or unexplained animal attacks in neighboring counties.

Dean was packing a cooler.

Sam stood in the kitchen doorway and watched his brother carefully arrange bottles of beer between bags of ice with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for rebuilding engines.

"You know," Sam said, "most people just buy drinks when they get there."

Dean looked up. "Most people also pay eight dollars for a bottle of water at baseball games."

"Fair."

Dean nodded once and returned to his work. A few moments later he added, almost as an afterthought, "Besides, parking lot food before fireworks is tradition."

Sam frowned slightly. "Since when?"

Dean shrugged. "Since always."

That wasn't an answer.

Dean knew it wasn't an answer.

But he also clearly wasn't interested in elaborating, so Sam let it go.

For now.

The drive into town was quieter than Sam expected.

Not awkward quiet.

Not heavy.

Just comfortable.

Kansas rolled past outside the windows in shades of green and gold as the sun slowly began its descent toward the horizon. The fields surrounding Lebanon seemed to stretch forever in every direction, the summer heat softening the edges of the landscape beneath a sky so blue it almost looked artificial.

Dean drove with one arm hanging out the open window, fingers tapping absently against the door in time with the music drifting from the speakers. He looked relaxed in a way Sam hadn't fully appreciated until he saw it.

Not distracted.

Not forcing it.

Relaxed.

No case waiting in the bunker.

No apocalypse breathing down their necks.

No phone waiting to ring.

Just an evening.

Just fireworks.

The realization felt stranger than it should have.

By the time they reached the fairgrounds, the town was already beginning to gather.

Cars lined the roads leading toward the fields, and clusters of people moved through the warm evening carrying folding chairs, blankets, coolers, and enough snacks to survive a siege. Children darted through the crowds waving glow sticks while parents called after them with varying levels of success.

Dean parked farther back than necessary.

Sam noticed. "You hate walking."

"I hate parking lot exits more."

Also true.

They climbed out of the Impala and were immediately greeted by the sound of distant laughter and country music drifting across the grounds. Somewhere nearby, somebody had started grilling hours ago, and the air smelled like charcoal, barbecue sauce, and fresh-cut grass baking beneath the last heat of the day.

Dean closed the driver's door and stopped for a moment.

Not long.

Just long enough to look around.

Sam watched him do it.

Families spread blankets across the grass. Teenagers tossed footballs back and forth while waiting for darkness to arrive. A little girl in a red shirt ran past carrying sparklers bigger than her forearm while her older brother followed close behind looking equal parts annoyed and protective.

Dean's expression softened.

There and gone again.

But Sam saw it. "You okay?"

Dean blinked and looked over. "Yeah."

The answer came easily.

Honestly.

Not defensive.

Just yes.

For some reason, that unsettled Sam more than if Dean had brushed him off.

They found a spot near the edge of the field overlooking the fairgrounds and set down the cooler. Dean seemed oddly particular about where they sat, adjusting their location twice before finally settling on a patch of grass with a clear view of the open sky above the trees.

"Good enough?"

Dean glanced around. Then nodded. "Yeah."

Again with that certainty.

Sam lowered himself onto the blanket and stretched his legs out in front of him while Dean remained standing, hands shoved into his jacket pockets despite the warmth of the evening.

Around them, the crowd continued to grow.

The sky had begun its slow transformation from blue to gold now, the sun hanging low enough to cast long shadows across the field. Somewhere in the distance, someone tested a firework prematurely and a small burst of red exploded against the horizon.

The sound cracked through the evening air.

Dean's hand immediately twitched toward his hip.

Sam turned instinctively toward the sound.

For one ridiculous second, both brothers froze.

Then they looked at each other.

Dean snorted first.

Sam followed a second later. "Conditioning," Sam said.

"Yep."

Neither of them mentioned that Dean's hand had gone for a gun that wasn't there.

Neither of them mentioned that Sam had immediately started scanning for threats.

Some habits settled too deep to ever fully disappear.

Another small firework popped somewhere in town.

This time neither of them reacted.

Progress.

Dean dropped onto the blanket beside him and reached for the cooler. "You want a beer?"

Sam accepted the bottle automatically.

As Dean settled back against his hands and looked out over the growing crowd, Sam caught that expression again.

Not excitement.

Not exactly.

Recognition.

And suddenly, standing in a Kansas field as the sun slipped lower toward the horizon, Sam felt that memory tug at him again.

The Impala.

Fireworks.

Smoke.

A field.

Dean driving.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "...Dean."

"Hm?"

"This wasn't your first choice of spot, was it?"

Dean glanced over. "What do you mean?"

"The field."

Sam looked around at the open grass surrounding them. "The edge of town. Open sky. Away from the crowd."

Understanding flickered across Dean's face. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Dean looked back toward the horizon. "No," he said quietly. "It wasn't."

And suddenly Sam knew they weren't really talking about parking anymore.

Dean was quiet for a while after that.

Not evasive quiet. Not the kind of silence that meant he was building walls or looking for an exit from the conversation. This was different. Softer. More like someone standing in front of an old photograph they'd forgotten they still owned.

Around them, the fairgrounds continued to fill. Someone nearby was arguing good-naturedly about the proper way to grill a hamburger. A group of teenagers kicked a soccer ball back and forth near the tree line while younger kids darted through the grass wielding glow sticks like tiny lightsabers. Somewhere off to their right, a radio played an old country song that Sam was fairly certain Dean secretly liked and would deny under oath.

The sun continued its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the fields in gold.

Dean cracked open his beer.

For a long moment, Dean said nothing at all.

Then, quietly: "I was seventeen."

Sam turned toward him.

Dean wasn't looking at him. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon where the last traces of sunlight were bleeding out of the sky.

"You were thirteen," he continued. "Dad was gone on a hunt somewhere. Nebraska, maybe. Oklahoma. One of the square states."

Sam laughed. "Most of them are square states."

"Yeah, well, geography's never really been my thing."

That was difficult to argue with.

Dean rolled the beer bottle between his palms for a moment before continuing. "Dad left instructions."

Sam snorted. "Which means you ignored them immediately."

Dean looked offended. "I considered them."

"You stole the Impala."

"Borrowed."

"You stole the Impala."

Dean considered this carefully. "...Temporary unauthorized borrowing."

"That's called stealing."

"Agree to disagree."

Sam shook his head, laughing despite himself.

The memory was beginning to return now, not in flashes anymore but in actual moments. The humid summer air. The smell of cut grass. The deep, impossible excitement of being told to get in the car because Dean had somewhere they were going.

Not a hunt.

Not a motel.

Not another town they'd forget by morning.

Somewhere else.

Somewhere normal.

"We found one of those roadside fireworks tents," Dean said. "You know the ones. They show up for about two weeks every year and somehow sell enough explosives to finance a small country."

Sam barked out a laugh.

"That's actually pretty accurate."

"We bought sparklers."

The memory clicked into place.

"And fireworks."

Dean grinned. "Oh, we bought so many fireworks."

"You bought Roman candles."

"Absolutely."

"Firecrackers."

"Yep."

"Bottle rockets."

"Oh, definitely bottle rockets."

Sam stared at him. "Dean, where did you get the money for all of this?"

Dean frowned thoughtfully. "I honestly don't remember."

"That's because you spent all of it on fireworks."

"Entirely possible."

The grin widened slightly. "Worth it, though."

And suddenly Sam could see it perfectly.

Dean standing beside the Impala with a lighter in one hand and all the confidence of a seventeen-year-old boy who had never seriously considered the possibility of consequences. Sam standing nearby with sparklers while Dean insisted that this next one was going to be awesome.

Smoke hanging in the summer air.

Sulfur.

Laughter.

Freedom.

Then: "Oh my God."

Dean glanced over. "What?"

"The field."

Dean immediately winced. "...Yeah."

"We set the field on fire."

Dean held up a finger. "We set part of the field on fire."

"Dean."

"It wasn't the whole field."

"It was enough of the field that we had to put it out."

Dean considered this. "That's fair."

Sam was laughing now.

Not because it wasn't dangerous.

Not because it hadn't been monumentally stupid.

Because it had been so spectacularly, perfectly Dean.

"You told me not to panic."

"Solid advice."

"You were panicking."

"I was managing the situation."

"You yelled, 'Get the Sprite!'"

Dean pointed immediately. "It was the nearest liquid."

"It was lemon-lime soda."

"It was an emergency."

"You threw soda on a grass fire."

"And eventually the grass stopped being on fire."

Sam stared at him.

Dean stared back. "...Technically successful."

The laugh that escaped Sam this time was helpless.

Beside him, Dean was laughing too, shaking his head at the memory. "You know Dad would've killed us."

"Oh, absolutely."

"He would've buried us in that field."

"He would've buried me in that field."

That, at least, was undeniably true.

The laughter faded slowly after that, settling into something quieter as the sky overhead darkened another shade and the first stars began appearing above the fairgrounds.

Dean took another sip of his beer and looked back out over the crowd. "Still worth it, though."

The words came easily.

Without hesitation.

Without qualification.

Sam looked over.

Dean shrugged. "Come on. We had fireworks. We had sparklers. We committed minor arson."

"Minor arson."

"Moderate arson."

"Dean."

Dean grinned. "My point is, it was a good Fourth of July."

The simplicity of it landed harder than Sam expected.

Because thirteen-year-old Sam had remembered the fireworks.

He'd remembered the sparklers.

He'd remembered the excitement of doing something forbidden and wonderful and loud beneath an open summer sky.

What forty-something Sam saw now was something else entirely.

Dean had been seventeen.

Seventeen.

Still a kid himself.

And somehow his first instinct when John Winchester left town had been to look at his little brother and decide: He deserves a Fourth of July.

Not a hunter's Fourth of July.

Not another night in a motel room waiting for Dad to call.

A real one.

Messy.

Loud.

Potentially flammable.

But real.

Sam swallowed against the unexpected tightness in his throat. "You know," he said quietly, "I don't think I ever thanked you for that."

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"The fireworks."

Dean looked genuinely confused. "Sam, it was fireworks."

"No," Sam said softly. "It wasn't."

For a moment, Dean didn't answer.

Then he looked back toward the darkening sky and shrugged one shoulder.

"Figured you deserved one."

Simple.

Matter-of-fact.

As though he were talking about lending Sam twenty bucks or picking up groceries on the way home.

Not stealing one ordinary summer night from a childhood that hadn't offered many of them.

Not giving his little brother something Dean himself had never really gotten to have.

Just Dean.

Just being Dean.

And somehow, Sam thought, that made it mean even more.

The first firework exploded overhead.

Both brothers flinched.

Dean's hand twitched toward his hip.

Sam's head snapped toward the sound.

For one absurd second they sat there in full hunter mode, scanning a fireworks display for threats.

Then Dean looked over.

Sam looked back.

Dean started laughing first.

The sound was warm and helpless and genuine.

"Oh, that's sad."

"We're broken people."

"Little bit."

Another firework bloomed across the sky, red fading into gold above the fairgrounds.

This time neither of them moved.

Instead they leaned back against the blanket and watched the colors spill across the darkness overhead while children cheered around them and applause rolled through the crowd.

For once, loud noises didn't mean gunfire.

For once, explosions didn't mean danger.

For once, they were just fireworks.

Tags List: @deans-baby-momma, @ozwriterchick, @hobby27, @foxyjwls007, @ihavepointysticks

[foxyjwls007]

Awww.... this was just lovely 🥹

[aylacavebear]

Doppelgangers - Chapter 6

Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.

Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM

Word Count: 4306

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, Grief, Angst - LOTS, Everything's Coming to a Head, Doesn't follow the show timeline, Altering POV's.

A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.

Chapter 5 ----- Chapter 7 - coming soon Doppelganger Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

Chapter 6

The dirt road stretched deeper into the woods than you expected.

Trees crowded closer the farther you drove, their branches knitting together overhead until the sky became little more than fractured slivers between black leaves. Gravel shifted softly beneath your tires as you kept your distance, eyes locked on the faint glow of the pastor’s taillights ahead.

No hesitation.

No uncertainty.

He drove this road like he knew every bend by memory.

Your fingers rested lightly against the steering wheel, steady despite the slow climb of adrenaline tightening beneath your ribs. The deeper into the forest you went, the less the world felt real. Town lights had vanished miles ago. There were no houses here. No distant highways humming somewhere beyond the trees.

Just woods.

Dense. Ancient. Watching.

The sounds of the forest wrapped around your car in layers at first. Crickets chirping in uneven rhythms. Leaves whispering against one another overhead. The occasional rustle somewhere unseen beyond the road.

Then gradually—

Silence.

Not natural silence.

The kind that arrives all at once.

The crickets stopped first.

Then the rustling.

Then everything.

Your pulse slowed instinctively instead of quickening. Predators recognized silence for what it was.

Warning.

Every instinct beneath your skin sharpened.

Ahead, the sedan slowed.

Through the trees, you finally caught sight of it: an old cabin tucked deep in the woods, half-hidden behind thick brush and towering pines. The structure looked forgotten by the world. Weathered wood. Sagging porch. Dark windows reflecting almost nothing back.

The pastor pulled beside it and parked.

His headlights cut across the trees one final time before the engine died.

Darkness swallowed everything immediately.

For one brief moment, the woods disappeared entirely.

Then your vision adjusted.

Two doors opened ahead.

Two figures stepped out.

You were still too far back to stop anything.

Your jaw tightened.

The sedan doors shut softly. Muffled. Controlled.

Then nothing.

No voices.

No movement.

You slowed the Charger carefully, easing it farther down the road before finally pulling beneath the heavy cover of overhanging branches. The engine clicked quietly as you killed it.

Still no sound from the cabin.

Your hand moved automatically to the silver knife at your hip, fingers brushing the worn handle in practiced reassurance. Then to the gun tucked against the small of your back beneath your flannel. Silver rounds.

Ready.

Always ready.

You glanced once toward the cabin through the trees before shifting your weight toward the open driver’s side window.

The door stayed shut.

No unnecessary noise.

You slipped silently through the window frame and landed lightly against damp earth, crouched low beside the Charger. Cool air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of wet bark, old wood, and something deeper underneath.

Something animal.

Your movements stayed careful as you closed the distance through the trees. Silent footsteps against dirt and fallen leaves. No snapped twigs. No shifting gravel.

Your eyes tracked every movement automatically.

A branch swaying gently overhead.

Leaves drifting across the forest floor.

Shadows shifting between trees as the wind moved through them.

But no sign of the pastor.

No sign of the second man.

The closer you got, the more wrong the silence felt.

When you finally reached the sedan parked outside the cabin, you paused beside the rear bumper, body still and listening.

Nothing.

The metal ticked softly as the engine cooled.

No voices inside.

No footsteps.

No heartbeat close enough to track.

Your eyes swept the cabin windows again.

Dark.

Empty.

Then suddenly—

A light flicked on inside.

Warm yellow spilled briefly across the front room window.

And for the first time since entering the woods—

You froze. Heart hammering against your ribs.

You stayed motionless beside the sedan, every muscle held taut beneath your skin as your eyes locked onto the shifting silhouette inside. A figure moved across the small space slowly, casually. No frantic pacing. No signs of struggle. No violence.

Just movement.

Like someone settling in for the evening.

Your brow furrowed slightly.

That wasn’t right.

You hadn’t heard a door open. Hadn’t heard footsteps crossing the porch. And you knew with absolute certainty neither man had entered through the front.

The woods were too quiet for you to miss that.

A chill slid slowly down your spine.

Your gaze flicked once toward the trees surrounding the cabin before returning to the window. Instinct prickled hard beneath your skin now, not with the sharp warning of immediate danger, but something stranger. Unease layered with confusion.

The silhouette moved again.

Then the front door swung open.

Not violently.

Not suddenly.

Almost lazily.

Warm light spilled across the porch and into the darkness beyond, cutting long pale shapes between the trees.

You tensed automatically.

The pastor stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame. His expression remained calm, softened by the amber light behind him. No claws. No blood. No sign of panic at being followed miles into the woods.

Just quiet awareness.

“I know you’re out there,” he said.

His voice carried easily through the stillness. Warm. Steady. The same voice that delivered sermons every Sunday from behind stained glass and scripture.

“If you want to know the truth,” he continued gently, “you’re welcome to come inside.”

A brief pause.

“I’m no threat to you.”

The words should’ve sounded ridiculous.

Every instinct you possessed screamed trap.

Your fingers twitched near the silver knife at your hip as your pulse slowed into something colder and sharper. Werewolves lied. Predators lured prey closer. Monsters wore friendly faces all the time.

You knew that.

You’d built the last five years of your life around that truth.

And yet—

Something about him wasn’t matching the picture in your head.

No tension sharpened his voice. No false bravado. No edge of concealed violence waiting beneath the surface.

Just calm.

That calm unsettled you more than anger would have.

The pastor stepped away from the doorway a moment later, disappearing back inside without another word, leaving the door standing open behind him.

An invitation.

Or bait.

You stayed where you were for several long seconds, eyes fixed on the glowing rectangle of light cutting through the darkness.

The forest remained silent around you.

No crickets.

No wind.

Nothing.

Then slowly, cautiously, you moved.

Your footsteps stayed soundless against damp earth as you emerged from behind his sedan. The porch came into clearer view with every step, weathered wood silvered faintly beneath the cabin light. The old boards creaked softly under your weight as you climbed the few steps, each sound seeming unnaturally loud against the stillness surrounding the woods.

You paused at the threshold.

The cabin interior unfolded in front of you in one slow sweep.

One room.

Small.

Worn.

A bed sat tucked against one wall beneath a narrow window, blankets neatly folded despite the age of the mattress beneath them. A small wooden table and mismatched chairs occupied the opposite side near an empty stone fireplace dusted faintly with ash. Along the far wall sat a cramped kitchen space—old counters, faded cabinets, a rusted sink.

And directly across from you—

The back door stood wide open.

Cool night air drifted through it softly, stirring the thin curtains hanging above the sink.

The pastor stood there with his back partially turned to you, gaze fixed out the dark window above the basin. His hands rested clasped loosely behind him, posture relaxed enough that it should have felt vulnerable.

Instead, it felt deliberate.

Like a man who already understood exactly how dangerous the room had become.

And still wasn’t afraid.

He didn’t need to turn to see you.

“I clocked you that first day when you came into my church.”

His voice carried through the cabin low and even, warm in a way that should have been comforting. Instead, it settled beneath your skin like something alive. Certain. Knowing. The kind of certainty that didn’t come from guesswork.

Your fingers flexed once near the silver knife at your hip.

The cabin smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and rain soaked into the walls over decades. Beneath it lingered another scent now that you were closer. Iron. Not fresh blood, but memory of it. Faint enough most people would never notice.

“What makes a monster a monster?” 

The question settled heavily into the room.

The pastor finally shifted slightly near the sink, not enough to face you fully, just enough for the light overhead to catch the silver threading through his beard. Outside the open back door, the woods remained deathly still. No insects. No movement. Like the entire forest was listening.

Your pulse beat slow and hard against your ribs. The question wasn’t just for him. It was for you. Every hunter you’d faced, every choice you’d made in the past, every life weighed against another—what drew the line between monster and man? And standing there, watching him, you felt the pull of that line.

“The first man,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the trees beyond the window, “he used his power over others to hurt those who trusted him.”

Your jaw tightened immediately as your pulse spiked, muscles tensing as your mind traced the implication without moving. Every word painted a pattern, a chain of intentions and consequences, but it was his tone—the measured, almost mournful cadence—that made you pause.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath your shifting weight as you remained near the doorway, muscles coiled tight beneath your skin. Ready. Waiting for the moment this calm mask finally cracked open into teeth and violence. 

It didn’t.

“The second man,” he continued, voice softening almost imperceptibly, “he did harm in a different way, twisting control into fear. Using trust and god’s word as a weapon.”

A faint breeze drifted through the open back door, stirring the thin curtains near the sink. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a branch groaned quietly before falling silent again. 

You didn’t move, though your breath hitched once, soft, careful, a sound lost to the night. Your mind ran faster than your body could, cataloging details, piecing together what he said with what you already knew. Missing pieces you hadn’t fully connected yet.

Your stomach twisted.

Because predators wore human skin more often than claws.

“This man,” he said, flicking a glance toward the open back door, “he was planning something cruel. He finally revealed it all in confessions.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

Confessions.

Church.

Trust handed over freely behind closed doors.

Your throat tightened slightly before you forced it back down. The silver ring on your right hand felt suddenly colder against your skin as your fingers curled reflexively.

Still he didn’t move toward you.

Still he wasn’t afraid.

“And the woman,” his voice came again, deliberate and unwavering, “she’s been plotting in her own way. Calculating. Obsessing over a married man. Thinking she can bend someone to her will.”

The cabin suddenly felt smaller.

Tighter.

“The man’s wife is pregnant,” he continued quietly. “None of them knows.”

Your breathing slowed instinctively. A shiver ran down your spine, but you didn’t flinch. You absorbed, cataloged, let the words settle in your chest like stones in a stream.

Your eyes tracked him carefully now, searching for deception in every subtle movement. Every twitch. Every shift in posture. But there was nothing frantic about him. Nothing unstable.

Only exhaustion buried beneath restraint.

Outside, the trees swayed faintly against the night sky. The scent of damp earth drifted through the open doorway.

His gaze remained fixed on the darkness beyond the open door, on patterns only he seemed to see. His final words hung in the air, almost a plea, almost a warning:

Then finally—

He looked at you.

Fully.

Brown eyes steady beneath the warm cabin light.

“All I ask, little cat,” he said softly, “is that you don’t let that unborn child die, if you choose to kill me tonight.”

Silence crashed into the room afterward. 

The words twisted inside you. Choices. Consequences. Monsters and men. And suddenly, the question he asked earlier wasn’t just his. It was yours. It had always been yours.

Your chest tightened, a low, uneasy rhythm echoing in your ears. The pastor’s words had settled over you like a weight, pressing questions you’d asked yourself into sharper focus. What makes a monster a monster? 

You’d asked it before, in mirrors, in quiet moments in the dark, when the reflection staring back wasn’t fully human. And now… standing in the cabin, you hesitated. The line between justice and vengeance, predator and protector, had blurred in the span of a single confession.

The silence stretched long enough for your pulse to finally begin slowing.

Not fully.

Not safely.

But enough that the knife at your hip no longer felt like the only answer in the room.

Your shoulders eased by degrees, tension bleeding out slowly instead of all at once. The instinct to fight still lingered beneath your skin, sharp and ready, but it no longer screamed. It watched. Waited. Measured.

The pastor remained where he stood near the sink, giving you space to think. To choose.

The cabin creaked softly around you as the night air drifted through the open back door, cool against your skin. Somewhere far off in the woods, an owl called once before silence swallowed the sound again.

You swallowed carefully.

Then finally—

“I’ll protect them.”

Your voice came quieter than you expected, roughened slightly by everything tightening in your chest. The pregnant wife. Her husband. A child that hadn’t even drawn its first breath yet.

The pastor’s eyes softened almost immediately.

You forced yourself to continue before doubt could creep in. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to them.”

The words settled heavily between you, carrying the weight of a promise. Not empty reassurance. Not pity.

A vow.

The silver ring against your finger caught faintly in the cabin light as your hand flexed once at your side.

A beat of silence passed.

Then another.

Your gaze drifted briefly toward the open back door, toward the endless dark beyond it, before returning to him.

“You need to leave town.”

The pastor didn’t react outwardly, but something weary flickered behind his eyes.

“Go somewhere nobody knows you,” you continued quietly. “Start over somewhere else.”

Your throat tightened slightly around the next words.

“I’ll make sure you aren’t followed.”

The cabin fell still again after that.

Not tense this time.

Something stranger.

Something mournful.

The pastor lowered his head slightly, almost like the beginning of a prayer before looking back at you fully. Relief moved across his features first, subtle enough most people would’ve missed it. Beneath that came something deeper.

Compassion.

Not fear of you.

Not judgment.

Compassion.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

The sincerity in his voice settled awkwardly against the sharp edges inside your chest. You weren’t used to gratitude from monsters.

Or maybe—

The thought stopped before you could finish it.

He studied you quietly for a moment longer, the warm cabin light catching in his brown eyes. Then slowly, a small smile touched his lips. Gentle. Kind in a way that felt almost painful after everything he’d confessed.

“You’re not the monster you think you are, little cat.”

The words struck harder than they should have.

Your breath caught faintly.

Because he said it like he knew.

Not guessed.

Knew.

Before you could find a response, the pastor turned toward the open back door. His footsteps remained calm and unhurried across the old wooden floorboards as he stepped into the darkness beyond the cabin.

“Andrea Johnson.” 

Then, the night swallowed him quickly.

One moment there.

The next—

Gone.

You stood frozen in the center of the small cabin long after the woods fell silent again.

The lamp above the sink buzzed softly overhead. The curtains near the window shifted faintly in the cold air drifting through the open doorway. Somewhere nearby, the sedan’s engine ticked quietly as it cooled.

But your mind remained trapped on the same question looping endlessly through your chest.

What makes a monster a monster?

You had come here tonight ready to kill him.

Certain.

Certain enough to bring silver.

Certain enough to follow him into the woods alone.

And now he was gone because you let him go.

Not because you couldn’t pull the trigger.

Because you chose not to.

The realization settled heavily into your bones as you stared into the darkness beyond the cabin door, trying to come to terms with the impossible weight of mercy.

The Impala crawled slowly down the dirt road, tires crunching softly over gravel and damp earth. Dean kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting low near the gun tucked beside his seat. The headlights cut narrow paths between the trees, branches twisting overhead thick enough to swallow most of the moonlight above.

Neither brother spoke much.

The deeper they drove into the woods, the heavier the air seemed to become.

Not silent.

That would’ve almost been easier.

Crickets chirped unevenly somewhere beyond the trees. An owl called once from high above before another answered farther off. Leaves shifted softly whenever the breeze moved through the forest. Life still existed out here.

But something felt wrong.

Dean couldn’t explain it.

The kind of wrong hunters learned to trust anyway.

His jaw tightened slightly as his eyes swept the narrow road ahead again. The cabin wasn’t far now. He remembered enough from the maps and half-forgotten case notes to know this road only ended one place.

Then Sam suddenly leaned forward slightly in his seat.

“Dean.”

Dean’s gaze sharpened immediately. “What?”

Sam pointed subtly toward the trees off the side of the road. “There.”

At first, Dean saw nothing but shadows.

Then the angle shifted as the Impala rolled forward another few feet.

Midnight blue paint caught faintly beneath the moonlight filtering through the branches.

The Charger sat tucked deep enough into the shadows that it nearly disappeared entirely unless you were close enough to know what to look for. No lights. Hidden deliberately.

Dean slowed the Impala even more.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered quietly.

The same car.

Again.

A strange knot tightened low in his stomach.

Sam’s voice stayed low. Careful. “Think she’s here?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately.

Because he already knew the answer.

The road curved one final time.

Then the cabin came into view through the trees.

Old.

Weathered.

Light spilled warmly from the open front door, stretching across the battered porch and bleeding pale gold onto the dirt below. Beside the cabin sat a dark sedan they knew belonged to the pastor.

Still warm enough that faint heat shimmered above the hood beneath the headlights.

Dean’s grip tightened instinctively against the wheel.

“Stay sharp,” he said quietly.

The forest pressed close around the clearing, branches swaying faintly overhead. Crickets still chirped somewhere nearby, but the sounds only made the place feel stranger. Like the woods themselves were holding their breath around something unseen.

The Impala rolled to a careful stop several yards from the porch.

Engine idling low. Headlights already switched off.

Neither brother moved immediately.

Dean stared at the open doorway, every instinct he had pulling taut beneath his skin. Something had already happened here.

He could feel it.

But whether they were too late to stop it—

Or too late to survive it—

He didn’t know yet.

The Impala’s engine idled low for another few seconds before Dean finally killed it.

The sudden quiet settled heavily around them.

Crickets filled the spaces between the trees in uneven waves, their sound carrying sharp in the cool night air. Somewhere deeper in the woods, leaves rustled softly beneath something small moving through the underbrush. An owl called once overhead before silence swallowed the sound again.

Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on the cabin.

The open front door.

The light still burning inside.

Nothing moved across the windows.

That bothered him more than if something had.

Beside him, Sam shifted slightly in his seat, gaze sweeping the clearing again. The sedan parked outside. The dark tree line surrounding the cabin. The narrow dirt road behind them that suddenly felt very far from town.

“Feels wrong,” Sam murmured quietly.

Dean nodded once.

Because it did.

Not immediate danger.

Not yet.

But the kind of tension hunters learned to feel before a fight started. The air itself seemed tighter somehow, stretched thin enough that one wrong movement might snap it.

Dean opened his door carefully.

The old hinges gave the faintest creak before his boots touched damp earth. Cool air brushed against his face immediately, carrying the scent of wet leaves, old wood, and something faint underneath it that made instinct tighten low in his gut.

Sam stepped out on the opposite side a second later, shutting the door slower than normal to avoid the sound carrying through the clearing.

The brothers moved automatically after that. Muscle memory built over years.

Dean reached back into the front seat, fingers curling around the grip of the handgun resting there before tucking it securely into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Hidden beneath worn fabric. Easy reach if things went sideways.

Silver rounds loaded.

Just in case.

His other hand briefly checked the silver knife strapped at his hip. Backup weapon. Close quarters insurance.

Hunters who survived learned fast not to trust a single weapon.

Across from him, Sam mirrored the motions almost unconsciously. Gun concealed beneath layers of flannel and denim. Silver knife secure against his leg.

Prepared for claws.

Teeth.

A close fight in tight spaces.

Prepared for a werewolf.

Dean’s gaze drifted once more toward the hidden Charger farther back among the trees. A strange unease twisted through him again at the thought of the woman somehow being mixed up in all this.

Hunter?Victim?Something worse?

He still didn’t know.

And somehow that uncertainty bothered him more than the monster waiting somewhere nearby.

The porch creaked softly as the wind shifted through the clearing.

Dean’s attention snapped back immediately.

Nothing moved.

The cabin light still spilled warmly through the open doorway, standing in stark contrast against the cold darkness surrounding it.

Like an invitation.

Or a warning.

Dean exchanged one final glance with Sam.

No words needed.

Then slowly, carefully, the two of them started toward the cabin.

The cabin felt different after he left.

Too quiet.

Too still.

You stood near the small kitchen counter, both hands braced against the worn wood, fingers curled tighter than you realized against the rough edge. Your head remained slightly bowed, eyes unfocused on the sink beneath the window while your thoughts spiraled somewhere far deeper than the room around you.

What makes a monster a monster?

The question echoed endlessly now, threading through every memory you’d tried burying over the years. Every hunt. Every creature. Every human face twisted uglier than claws ever could be.

The pastor’s words clung stubbornly beneath your skin.

You’re not the monster you think you are, little cat.

Your throat tightened faintly.

The cabin smelled colder now without him there. Old dust. Damp wood. Faint traces of rain drifting through the open back door. The lamp above the sink buzzed softly overhead, casting warm yellow light across peeling counters and warped floorboards.

You didn’t hear the Impala outside. Didn’t hear the crunch of boots against dirt. Didn’t hear the soft creak of the porch steps beneath cautious weight.

Your thoughts had swallowed everything else whole.

Even when the brothers entered the cabin silently, guns already drawn toward a target that no longer existed, you remained motionless near the counter, unaware of the danger suddenly filling the room behind you.

Then—

“Where is it?”

The voice was firm. Low. Carrying authority without malice. And it cut through the fog of your thoughts like a blade.

Your breath caught violently in your chest.

No.

Your body reacted before your mind fully caught up.

You pivoted sharply on your heel, instinct taking over in one fluid motion, and suddenly the cabin shifted around you in a fraction of a second.

Two figures stood just inside the doorway.

Solid. Armed. Guns leveled. Eyes sharp.

The two men you’d seen around town.

But your focus locked onto the shorter one instantly.

And the world tilted beneath your feet.

Green eyes.

Freckles dusted across tan skin.

Broad shoulders beneath layered flannel.

Even the way he held himself—

Your stomach dropped so hard it bordered on pain.

Mark.

No—

Not Mark.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs as your mind tried desperately to separate memory from reality. Because Mark was dead. You’d watched him die. 

But the voice—

God, the voice sounded almost identical.

The air inside the cabin tightened into something suffocating.

The brothers’ breaths stayed steady. Controlled. Hunters trained for violence standing in a room that suddenly felt one wrong movement away from exploding into it.

You hadn’t heard them approach. The night had swallowed their footsteps whole. But now you felt the full weight of their attention fixed squarely on you.

Assessing.

Calculating.

Dangerous.

Your chest rose slowly beneath the pressure building there, breaths measured despite the violent confusion twisting through your thoughts. Your hands remained visible at your sides. You didn’t reach for the knife at your hip. Didn’t touch the gun hidden against your back.

You simply stood there.

Staring.

Your gaze flicked once toward the taller one beside him before returning helplessly to the man in front.

The similarities hit too hard. Too sharp.

Not exact.

But enough.

Enough to crack something open inside you that had never fully healed.

Everything seemed to pause inside that tiny cabin.

The rustle of leaves outside.

The sway of curtains near the open back door.

Even the old buzzing lamp overhead.

And as your gaze locked fully with his—

You understood with sudden, terrible certainty—

Nothing from this moment forward was ever going to be simple again.

Chapter 5 ----- Chapter 7 - coming soon Doppelganger Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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[little-diable]

Change my mind so much it’s exhausting - Dean Winchester (smut)

It only feels right to return to posting with a Dean fic. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. Xxx

Summary: Dean is the best friend of reader’s dad. She’s in love with him, he can’t stay for longer than one night. Tonight, they decide to spend one last night with one another before ending things

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, oral(f), some angst, age gap, dbf Dean, Dean having commitment issues

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader (2.3k words)

It became a pattern before either of them admitted it. Dean would disappear for weeks. Sometimes months. No calls. No texts. Nothing but the occasional update her father would mention over dinner.

“Dean and Sam are in Montana.”

“They’re chasing a case in Oregon.”

“Dean said he’ll stop by when they’re back.”

Her father never noticed the way (y/n)’s heart skipped at those words. Because he always came back, not for the bunker, not for the hunt. For her.

The soft rumble of the Impala’s engine outside her apartment had become a sound she knew by heart. She would tell herself not to look through the window. But she always did. There he’d be, leaning against the driver’s door with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking exhausted. Like he’d spent weeks carrying the weight of the world.

He never knocked twice.

“You awake?” he’d ask when she opened the door.

“You knew I would be.”

And just like that, the distance between them disappeared for a night. Pizza boxes left open on the coffee table, old movies neither of them actually watched. Conversations that wandered from stupid jokes to childhood memories, to hunts that almost went wrong, to dreams neither of them dared believe could ever happen.

Sometimes he’d fall asleep on her couch before making it to her room. Yet, their bodies would always find together some time throughout the night. He’d wake before sunrise, already pulling on his boots. Every single time. 

“You don’t have to leave yet,” she would whisper, still wrapped in a blanket. Dean would pause and for one impossible second, she’d think he might stay. Then he’d force that familiar crooked smile onto his face.

“I do.” No explanation, just those two words.

He’d press a lingering kiss to her lips, grab his keys, and disappear before the sun had fully risen. The only proof he’d been there was an empty coffee mug in the sink and the faint scent of leather and motor oil that lingered long after he’d left.

She tried convincing herself not to wait for him anymore. She dated other people when he was gone for months. Ignored his messages. Promised herself that the next time the Impala rolled into her street, she wouldn’t answer the door.

Then, weeks later, headlights would sweep across her curtains. And despite everything, her feet would carry her to the door. Because somehow Dean Winchester always knew exactly when to come back. Just never how to stay.

One rainy night, as he stood in her doorway with damp hair and shadows beneath his eyes, she looked at him for a long moment before speaking.

“You only ever come here when you’re running from something.” His jaw tightened.

“I’m not running.”

“No?” She folded her arms. “Then why do you always leave before morning?”

Silence stretched between them. The rain tapped against the windows. Finally, Dean looked down at the floor.

“You know this is complicated.” Her chest ached.

“Because of my dad?” 

Dean was her father’s best friend. The man who had carried her on his shoulders when she was little. The one who taught her how to throw her first punch, change a tire, and drive stick in the Impala after weeks of relentless begging.

He wasn’t supposed to look at her differently. (Y/n) wasn’t supposed to notice the gray beginning to dust his stubble. Or the way his voice dropped when he said her name. Or how lonely he looked when he thought nobody was watching

He kept quiet, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at her with those green eyes until she sighed and let him in; once again. An hour later, empty takeout containers littered her coffee table. Dean sat with one arm stretched across the back of the couch, his head tipped toward her as she talked about her week. He listened more than he spoke, smiling at the parts she didn’t even think were funny.

“You disappeared for five weeks,” she eventually said quietly.

“I know.”

“No call.”

“I know.”

“No text.”

Dean rubbed a hand across his face.

“I know.”

Her frustration had been simmering for weeks, and now it spilled over. It felt ugly, too cutting, too intense. “You vanish, Dean.”

He looked away.

“I had a job.”

“You always have a job.”

“You know what my life is.”

“And what am I?” Her voice cracked despite her best effort. “Some place you stop when you get tired of running?”

His jaw tightened at her words. “Don’t.”

“No.” She stood, putting space between them while anger began to drip from her words. “Answer me.”

Dean rose too. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the room too cold

“I come here because it’s the one place I don’t have to think, don’t have to play some role. Don’t take this from me.” His eyes finally snapped back to her. They were full of something he’d spent months trying to bury. “It matters too much.” 

The words stole the air from the room. She laughed once, bitterly. “You keep pretending this is easier than it is.”

His shoulders sagged. For the first time since she’d known him, Dean looked defeated, head hanging, hands balled into fists.

“You make me forget,” he admitted. “For one night I forget all the things waiting for me out there. And then morning comes and I’m reminded of the years between us, the memories, the promises.”

She reached up before she could stop herself, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruise on his jaw. His hand found hers, almost cautiously, as though he expected her to pull away. She didn't.

“You know I don’t care about the age gap or you being my dad’s best friend. All I care about is you, Dean.” A long silence stretched between them.

“So simple,” he murmured.

“It could be.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “No.”

The word hurt more than she expected. She started to step back, but Dean caught her wrist. His thumb brushed against her pulse.

“I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she spoke quietly. “This has to end, Dean. I won’t survive otherwise.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His grip loosened, giving her every chance to walk away. Instead, she closed the distance. The kiss was hesitant for exactly one second. Then weeks of distance, missed phone calls, unsaid apologies, and impossible feelings crashed together all at once.

His hand slid to her cheek, and hers tangled in the front of his shirt as if she was afraid he’d disappear before she could convince herself he was still real. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, both of them breathing a little harder. Dean closed his eyes.

“One last night is all I’m asking for,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. (Y/n) stared at him for at least ten seconds before nodding her head, hoping to cover the hurt laced in her gaze. He followed her to the bedroom, the familiar path he had walked too many times to count. 

It didn’t take long for their clothes to hit the floor, one by one the layers were stripped away. Lips found skin, fingers found roots to tug on, hearts found a similar beat. One last night. One last high. One last kiss. The house of cards was about to collapse, and there would be nothing but hurting memories afterward. 

“Dean,” she panted his name, pressing herself closer to him while he lingered between her thighs. He cherished her taste, let it linger on his tongue while his arms had a tight grip around her thighs. He was set on pushing her over the edge with his mouth first, needing to watch her fall apart without being distracted himself. 

She shook as her orgasm rose, pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. His name left her, her fingers tugged on his roots, but his gaze never wavered. It stayed glued to her trembling body until her first high let go of her. 

“Condom?” She shook her head at the question. 

“Not if it’s our last time.” She had always asked for extra protection, not daring to wonder if he spent his weeks away around other women. But tonight she couldn’t care, tonight she needed all of him. 

Dean kept quiet at that. He moved up her body, lips leaving kisses every now and then, and then entered her, slowly, cautiously. Both moaned at the sensation, bodies adjusting after all that time apart. 

“Fuck,” it was a deep breath leaving him. He moved slowly, taking his time while she kept her legs wrapped around him. Their bodies met with every thrust, he was set on leaving marks as if he wanted to make her remember this for the next weeks. But (y/n) was sure her heartbreak would do a good job of reminding her anyway. 

“Atta girl, fuck, my pretty girl, you feel so good like this.” Tears gathered around her lashes, she tried to blink them away, but without luck. They began to drip down her cheeks while he kept moving, oblivious to them at first. It felt as if watering a grave, an empty home with a soul no longer there, yet the love remained, like it always would. 

The second he looked down at her, eyes no longer closed, his pace began to falter. He wiped the tears away with his thumb, but he kept quiet, not speaking words she needed to hear, confessions, promises, nothing. 

Her walls fluttered around him, even though she fought against the sensation. She didn’t want to cum yet, didn’t want to end it this quickly, but his fingers began to circle her bundle of nerves, pushing her over the edge once again.

Dean fucked her through the high, eyes not leaving hers while chasing his own release. He pulled out of her seconds before letting go, painting her stomach white with a deep groan. Both were heavily breathing, staring at one another until he closed the gap for another kiss. 

…

Morning arrived too soon, sunlight slipping through the curtains in thin stripes across the floor. Everything felt strangely still, as though the world outside had agreed to wait just a little longer.

She lay on her side, watching Dean pull on his T-shirt in silence. Neither of them mentioned what had happened. Neither of them needed to.

The air between them had changed. He sat on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots, elbows resting on his knees for a moment before he let out a slow breath.

“So,” he started quietly.

“So.”

His lips twitched into a tired smile.

“We’re really bad at ‘one last time.’”

She smiled despite herself. Dean reached for his jacket from the floor, turning it over in his hands before finally slipping it on.

(Y/n) wondered what would happen after today. She imagined Dean leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer while her father complained about a hunt. Sam would probably notice the silence first. He always noticed; her dad wouldn’t. He’d clap Dean on the shoulder, laugh too loud at one of his jokes, maybe even say something about how good it was to have everyone together again. The thought made her stomach twist.

“You think he’ll know?” She asked, eyes not meeting his. 

Dean’s expression hardened.

“No, he trusts me.” The words landed between them like broken glass. Dean closed his eyes for a brief second before crossing the room until he was right in front of her again. “I don’t regret you.”

Her eyes lifted to his.

“Not for a second.”

His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles.

“I regret the position it puts you in.” She had no answer to the words, aware that there was no use in fighting Dean Winchester on a decision like this.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

It sounded strange. Not like a promise, more like a warning.

“Tonight,” she began, unable to finish while her throat grew tighter. 

“We go back to pretending.” The words seemed to hurt him too, making his face harden. 

Dean looked toward the apartment door and then turned from her. He opened the door, hesitated with one hand on the frame. For just a second, she thought he might come back. Instead, he looked over his shoulder.

“You deserve more than stolen nights.”

Before she could answer, he was gone.

…

By seven that evening, the bunker looked exactly as it always had. The smell of burgers drifted from the kitchen. Classic rock echoed faintly from the garage. Her father was laughing before she even stepped through the door.

“There she is!” he called. “Perfect timing.”

She forced a smile while greeting her dad. 

Dean was already there, leaning against the counter, beer bottle in hand. He looked up as she walked in, just for a heartbeat. There was no smile, no lingering glance. Nothing anyone else would notice.

“Hey, kid,” he said as casually as if he’d last seen her weeks ago instead of hours.

Her father tossed Dean another bottle from the fridge. “Dean was just telling me about that hunt in Wyoming.”

Dean smiled with practiced ease. It was the same smile everyone knew. The same one that hid everything. Across the room, their eyes met for the briefest moment. No one noticed. No one could.

But in that fleeting glance lived an entire night neither of them could take back and no answer to what came next.

[little-diable]

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 10: Meet The Winchesters

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Nine✦

✦summary: dean introduces you to his family✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦

✦author's note: their mental gymnastics to pretend they don't really want each other... insane.✦

You think Dean might be drugging you, with all the hand holding and kissing.

When he squeezes your hand, it does to your mind and body. He’s moving you towards his family. You’re stumbling after him and everything is all a fever dream. 

Dean’s hugging his Mom. Exchanging a tight nod and awkward shoulder clap with his dad—who, at the very least, grabs Dean’s arm and nods back—before turning to the impossibly taller man next to the empty seats, and shouting Sammy so loud some of the glasses seem to shake. Sam stands—you’ve never seen him in person, he’s somehow even taller than you thought—and drags Dean into tight hug, muttering something that makes Dean laugh. 

You smile, because it’s impossible not to when he seems this happy. 

Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river. 

Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.

But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place. 

They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and- 

“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”

You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.” 

Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground. 

“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar-“

“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary. 

She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum. 

And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too. 

“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”

“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“

“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”

“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog. 

This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face. 

And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-

“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”

“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space- 

Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. 

He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.

“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”

“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”

“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”

Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”

“Sam-“

“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”

Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. 

Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.

You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean. 

But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift. 

Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-

Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you. 

But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.

“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”

“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“

“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”

The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped. 

Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.

In your cover story, you don’t live together. 

But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti. 

“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”

You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“

“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.

He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.

“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”

Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far. 

“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”

You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out. 

Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down. 

“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“

“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”

“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“

You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.

“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect. 

He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”

“Ah. The lowest bar.”

He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.

For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge. 

“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”

“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.

“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”

You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless. 

That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. 

It’s not the story Dean says. 

“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”

You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago. 

You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.

There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation. 

But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it. 

What if it hadn’t faded. 

Why does he remember. 

Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it- 

“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again. 

You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.

“Dad, c’mon-“

“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”

“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“

“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow. 

“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”

“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”

“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight. 

This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.

But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. 

“You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“

“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding. 

“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“

“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”

Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.

“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“

“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.

“Dad, don’t use us for this.”

John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“

“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”

The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter- 

“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”

Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles. 

“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”

John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this. 

Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“

“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table. 

You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams. 

Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat. 

It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-

“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow. 

He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. 

Not real. So unfairly not real.

You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show. 

He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again. 

You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. 

It’s been a really long day.

You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.

You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back. 

You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back. 

But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real.

“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“

“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”

He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“

“I know.”

“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“

“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”

“Dean-“

“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”

You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me. 

“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”

That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”

“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”

“And you didn’t do anything about it?”

“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”

“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.” 

You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“

“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”

He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”

You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“

“And I said I’m gonna.” 

“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”

He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.

“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”

“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“

“Yeah, you do.”

Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“

“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away. 

You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips. 

“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”

His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench. 

He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire.  Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face. 

Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.

He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.

Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that- 

There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks. 

Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.

“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.” 

“Dean-“

“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back. 

Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh.

Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask. 

And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. 

You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. 

No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real. 

Whatever it was, it was far, far too real. 

✦Chapter Eleven✦

✦End note: the illusion... it's falling... ✦

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[foxyjwls007]

Doh! So close!

On another note, John needs to drop dead. What an asshole he was to her.

[iamkeruhh]

TPM update .ᐟ

Hey y’all! I promise perfect mistake pt.3 will be out very soon!!! Here’s a collage for the TPM AU in the meantime 💗

ps— thank you everyone for your support!! It’s kinda surreal to write silly fangirl stuff and for people to actually enjoy it, so thank you! And don’t worry, I’m just as excited to see where this story leads XD

taglist ٠࣪⭑ @diorgirl444 @ticklish-leafy-plant @moonz33 @stars-in-h3aven @hopelessbrain @iloveneilperry @jensensswthrt @pomegranateher @angelbysea @valinat @laughsandlivia @uglyinternetkitten @mari-1917 @velyssaraptor @maximuminfluencerstarlight @rafs127 @momentomoribitch

(If u weren’t tagged and I’ve said I added u, there was something wrong with the tag!! I don’t mean to leave anyone out on purpose)

[foxyjwls007]

Can I please be tagged? I'm enjoying your story. 😊❤️

[aylacavebear]

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 67

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 5438

Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Shifting, Pregnancy, Angst.

A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

Chapter 66 ------- Chapter 68 - coming soon

A/B/O Master List Main Master List Series Master List

Chapter 67

Jess didn’t realize she’d stopped moving at first.

There was no dramatic break in stride. No sound. No warning that something had shifted under the world itself.

Just—

One heartbeat she was running.

The next, she wasn’t.

Her paws still touched the earth, but the rhythm beneath her had changed. Like the ground had stopped answering her properly. Like the bond—normally a steady thread woven through all four of you—had gone thin in one direction.

Wrong wasn’t the word.

Just… distant.

Jess lifted her head.

The forest didn’t look different. The air didn’t smell different. Nothing visible had changed.

And still—

Her fur lifted along her spine in a slow, deliberate ripple, as if her body had decided to listen before her mind had caught up. Her wolf searching in a way she’d learned how to lean into.

She exhaled.

The sound felt too loud in her own ears.

Behind her, a wolf bounded past, brushing her flank in passing—Sam, still caught in the momentum of the run. He didn’t notice her stop. Or maybe he did, and just assumed she’d catch up.

But Jess wasn’t following anymore. She stood there.

Listening.

Not to the wind through the trees. Not to the yips or paws against the earth around her.

To something underneath it all.

A pull.

Faint enough that if she had been anywhere else, she might have ignored it entirely. But she wasn’t anywhere else.

She was here.

Her head turned before she consciously chose to move it.

West.

Not a direction she could explain. Not something she could justify with scent or sound.

Just—

West.

Toward the cabin. Toward you.

The realization didn’t come like thought.

It came like impact.

Jess’s breath hitched, sharp and sudden, claws digging once into the dirt beneath her as her weight shifted forward without permission.

For a fraction of a second, she stayed still. As if the world itself was holding its breath with her.

Then—

She moved.

Not gradually. Not cautiously.

Gone.

Jess broke into a run so fast the earth barely registered her leaving it. Branches blurred at the edge of her vision. Wind tore through her fur, but even that felt secondary now—background noise to something louder underneath everything else.

The bond snapped tighter with every stride.

She and her focused in a way they’d never been before.

And behind her, faintly—so faint she almost missed it—

Confusion flickered through Sam. Not alarm. Not panic. Just the beginning of not understanding why she was gone.

Jess didn’t slow to explain.

Couldn’t.

Because whatever was waiting at the cabin wasn’t something that could wait for language.

It was already happening.

It doesn’t feel like Jess is in danger or lost. It feels like she’s… no longer where she was a breath ago. That distinction matters for him—his mind immediately tries to map it. Distance. Direction. Intent.

But the bond doesn’t give him clean answers. Just pressure. Like a thread tugged tight toward the cabin.

And Sam—being Sam—doesn’t panic. He tests. Slows. Lets his senses widen instead of narrowing.

The forest is still full of life around him. Pack members moving. Running. Playing. Normal.

Which makes the shift stand out even more. Because everything else is stable.

Only one line in the web just changed tension.

That’s when Dean feels it too.

Not as analysis. As resistance.

Like Sam is no longer fully beside him in the rhythm of the run.

Dean cuts slightly to the side, shoulder brushing Sam’s flank—not checking in, but confirming: you feel that too.

Sam answers without looking at him. A shift in posture. Weight forward. Ears angling toward the same invisible point Jess vanished toward.

The cabin.

Dean’s response is immediate in that quiet wolf way—no hesitation, just alignment. His pace adjusts, not stopping the run entirely, but changing its shape. He’s no longer moving through the forest.

He’s tracking it.

Sam stays half a stride ahead now—not because he’s leading, but because he’s listening harder. Pulling at the bond like a thread between teeth, trying to find where it thins.

And that’s when it gets stranger.

Because the thread doesn’t feel steady anymore.

It feels… thinned.

Like Jess didn’t leave the pack. She just stopped participating in this direction of it.

Dean picks up on Sam’s tension then—not emotion, but intent. That subtle tightening in posture that means something is not what it was a second ago.

Their pace slows together without needing agreement. The run doesn’t stop.

It reorganizes.

Around them, the forest keeps moving—other wolves, distant yips, the living noise of the gathering—but the Winchester brothers’ world narrows into that single, shared pull toward the cabin.

Sam finally breaks formation by half a step, angling slightly west again.

Dean follows instantly, currently too focused on his brother and Jess to consider something might be going on with you.

No question. No debate.

Just instinctive confirmation: we go where she went.

And under it all—

That same low, growing awareness neither of them can name yet.

Not fear.

Not urgency.

Something closer to a storm that hasn’t found its shape. Because beneath all of it, neither can feel you through the bond like they had been.

It started feeling like resistance.

Jess didn’t register the space she’d already crossed anymore—only the pull. That steady, invisible line dragging through her chest, tightening with every stride she refused to slow.

Wind tore through her fur, but it didn’t matter. Sound blurred at the edges—birds lifting, branches shifting, distant calls from the pack behind her—but none of it landed properly anymore.

Everything outside that pull had become background noise.

Inside it—

there was only direction.

The cabin wasn’t far. But it felt like it was waiting.

Not still. Not empty.

Waiting.

Her paws hit the ground harder now, urgency bleeding into rhythm without her choosing it. She didn’t think in steps anymore. Didn’t measure distance. Just followed what was suddenly the only thing that felt real.

The bond stayed taut behind her—Sam’s confusion now sharper, more focused. Dean’s awareness folding into it like a second weight pressing forward.

They were close. Not physically.

But in understanding.

Jess pushed harder.

Branches broke past her vision in streaks. The scent of home—wood, stone, familiar pack warmth—began to thread through the air, faint at first, then growing stronger with each breath.

And beneath it—

something else.

Something that made her pace falter for half a heartbeat.

Not alarm. Not fear.

A storm without context.

Her body responded before her mind could name it, claws digging into dirt as she adjusted direction without thinking.

The cabin was there now.

Warm light spilled through the trees in soft edges, cutting through the darker green of the forest like it had no intention of hiding. The porch glow. The worn path. The shape of home sitting steady against the woods like it had always been there waiting for her return.

Jess slowed only when she reached the bumper of the Impala.

Not because she needed to.

Because something in her made her.

The air here felt different.

Thicker. Charged.

Like the space itself had shifted while she was gone and only now decided to settle back into place around her.

Her ears flicked forward. Every instinct in her went still.

Not frozen.

Focused.

The cabin was quiet. Too quiet for what she was feeling.

And that—that absence of explanation—was what made her finally move forward again.

One step.

Then another.

Closing the distance between her and what had pulled her home. Jess shifted before she reached the porch.

It wasn’t a thought so much as a release—bone and muscle realigning under skin, fur receding as familiarity returned in slow waves. The ground steadied beneath her feet. Her balance changed. Sound sharpened differently now, less instinct, more awareness.

By the time she stepped onto the porch, she was already human again. Barefoot. Breath still slightly uneven from the run.

The cabin door was open.

Warm light spilled out into the night air, soft against the darker edges of the trees. For a second, she just stood there, letting herself cross that threshold between outside and inside like it might mean something more than it did.

Inside, everything was still. Too still in a way that didn’t feel empty.

It felt held.

Jess stepped in.

The familiar shape of the cabin wrapped around her immediately—wood, warmth, the faint lingering scent of pack and home. She didn’t pause to think. Just moved forward on instinct, still riding the thread that had pulled her here in the first place.

Down the hall, she saw it.

Light.

Soft, steady, coming from beneath a half-closed bathroom door on the right side of the hallway.

She slowed.

Something in her chest tightened—not alarm, not quite. Just recognition of the fact that whatever she was about to walk into had been building long before she arrived.

Sam’s flannel was draped over the back of a chair near the entryway—left behind in the rush of everything earlier. Jess grabbed it without thinking, pulling it over her shoulders like instinct remembered warmth before she did. As an afterthought, she grabbed Dean’s flannel, her movements never slowing.

Sam’s flannel hung loose on her frame, sleeves too long, scent of him still embedded in the fabric. She didn’t stop to adjust it. Because the bond hit her harder the closer she got.

Not Sam’s.

Yours.

It wasn’t words. Not images. Not even clear emotion at first.

It was flooding.

A pressure behind Jess’s ribs that didn’t belong to her body but still moved through it anyway—tight, shaking, layered with something so dense it made her breath catch.

Shock.

No—disbelief.

No—something sharper underneath that.

Hope trying not to collapse under fear.

Joy so sudden it hurt.

Fear so quiet it barely existed until you felt it bleeding through everything else.

Jess’s steps slowed at the bathroom door. Her hand hovered there for half a second before she pushed it open.

The light inside was bright compared to the hallway, too clean, too exposed.

And there—

You were standing at the counter.

Still.

Barely moving at all except for the faint rise and fall of your breath like it was the only thing keeping you anchored.

Hands gripping the edge of the sink so tightly your knuckles had gone pale.

The pregnancy test sat on the counter in front of you.

Jess didn’t speak immediately. Because there was nothing in her that felt like it belonged to humor anymore.

Only understanding. And something softer underneath it that settled deep in her chest as she looked at you.

You didn’t turn right away.

Couldn’t, maybe.

Your voice came first. Barely there. Like if you said it any louder, it might stop being real.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words barely left your lips before the air seemed to change around you.

Jess didn’t hesitate.

She crossed the space between you in two quiet steps, closing the distance like it had never existed at all. One arm came around your shoulders, the other wrapping tight around your back, pulling you into her without force—but without room to refuse it either, sliding Dean’s flannel over your shoulders in the process.

Solid. Warm.

Her cheek pressed lightly against your temple, the fabric of Sam’s flannel soft where it brushed your skin, his scent layered with hers—familiar, grounding, pack. Then Dean’s scent wove through theirs.

Jess didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to.

Her hand slid up your back in a slow, steady pass, then again—anchoring, not soothing in a way that dismissed what you were feeling, but in a way that held it with you so it didn’t have to sit so sharply in your chest alone.

The bond shifted with the contact. Not quieter.

But steadier.

Like the storm hadn’t stopped—but you weren’t standing in the middle of it by yourself anymore.

Your arms came around her, letting the steadiness of her keep you from falling to the floor.

Jess exhaled softly against your hair, her hold tightening just a fraction as if she could feel that shift the second it happened.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured, voice low, steady—certain in a way that didn’t ask questions yet. Didn’t rush ahead of you.

Just met you where you were.

Her hand stilled between your shoulder blades, palm warm, grounding.

And still—

she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t look at the test. Didn’t need to. Because she could feel it.

All of it.

And she was right there with you inside it.

Jess’s arms didn’t loosen. If anything, they tightened the second your body gave. It wasn’t loud at first. Not a sob. Not even a sound.

Just—

something inside you finally giving way.

Your fingers twitched for the briefest moment before gripping at the fabric of the flannel, at her, like you needed something solid to hold onto before everything inside you scattered too far to gather again.

Your breath hitched.

Once.

Then again, sharper.

And Jess held on through all of it.

Her hand came up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you in closer, her cheek resting against your hair as she steadied you through the shift from silence into something that couldn’t stay contained anymore.

“It’s okay,” she murmured softly—not dismissing, not quieting—just giving the moment somewhere safe to land. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The bond surged.

Not chaotic. Not broken.

Just full.

Too full to stay quiet anymore.

Dean barely registered it.

One moment fur, the next skin—breath already pulling too sharp in his lungs, chest tight with something that had no shape yet, only urgency.

Something was wrong.

He didn’t question it. Didn’t slow down to understand it.

He felt it.

And it was enough.

He was already moving toward the cabin before his feet had fully steadied beneath him.

Sam hit the ground beside him a second later, the transition to human form cleaner, quieter—but the impact of the bond no less sharp.

It punched through him in a wave.

Not fear.

Not danger.

But—

intensity.

Raw. Unfiltered. Too layered to name all at once.

His head snapped toward the cabin. Dean was already halfway up the steps.

“Dean—” Sam started, but it wasn’t a warning.

It was a reach.

Dean didn’t stop. Didn’t even turn. Couldn’t.

Sam exhaled sharply and moved after him, faster now, grabbing at what grounding he could on the way in. His gaze flicked once—just once—taking in the room, the scattered remnants of where they’d left their clothes earlier.

Yours were there. All of them.

That told him enough.

He reached for his boxers, yanking them free, then Dean’s, and following him down the hall.

“Put these on,” he said, quick, low—already moving, not waiting for a full response.

Dean caught his boxers mid-step, barely breaking stride. It was just enough. Just enough to keep moving forward without slowing down.

The light down the hall hit them both at the same time.

Bathroom.

Open door.

Dean felt you before he saw you. Felt the break in you echo through the bond like something physical. It hit his chest hard enough to steal the air from his lungs.

And just like that—

everything in him narrowed to one thing.

You.

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t think.

He moved.

Dean hit the doorway fast enough that the frame rattled faintly under the force of it. He didn’t register that.

Didn’t register anything beyond the fact that you were there. And that something in you had broken open.

The sight of you—shaking, folded into Jess, his flannel draped over your shoulders—landed all at once, too much and not enough at the same time. Your scent hit him next, thick with emotion, sharp with something that sent his wolf surging forward under his skin.

Distress.

It snapped through him like a live wire.

Dean moved.

Two strides—maybe three—and he was there, hands already reaching for you before thought could catch up. One braced at your back, the other coming up to your face, thumb dragging quick beneath your eye like he could physically wipe away whatever had put that look there.

“Hey—hey—” His voice was rough, too tight, not quite steady. “I’m here. What’s—”

His gaze flicked over you, fast, searching.

Hurt?Threat?Anything he could fix?

There was nothing visible.

That didn’t stop the instinct. It only sharpened it.

His body angled instinctively between you and the open space of the room, half-turned like he was already prepared to put himself between you and something that hadn’t even shown itself yet.

Behind him, Sam slowed at the threshold.

Took it in.

Jess holding you. Your body folded in on itself, not from pain—but from overwhelm. The counter.

The test.

Sam’s breath caught. Understanding clicked into place before Dean had even fully processed what he was looking at. 

The room blurred at the edges. Not gone. Just… distant. Your thoughts hadn’t slowed, even if your wolf had gone utterly still inside you. Like she still hadn’t fully grasped the reality of the moment.

Dean’s hand stilled against your face. Not because he chose to stop. Because something in you shifted just enough that he felt it.

Not distress.Not pain.Something deeper.Wider.

Your grip tightened in Jess’s flannel. Your breath hitched again—not breaking this time, but trying to steady.

And through the bond—

something else bled through.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Dean frowned, just slightly, confusion cutting through the urgency as his gaze finally dropped—following the line of your body, the direction Jess had angled you away from—

The counter.

A pregnancy test.

He went still.

Not frozen.

But—

caught.

Like his body had reached the end of one instinct and hadn’t yet caught up to the next.

His hand slipped from your face, not pulling away entirely—just lowering, settling instead over your lower back, grounding, anchoring, needing to stay in contact even as everything in him tried to reorient.

His wolf didn’t settle.

Didn’t calm.

It stilled.

Watching.

Recalibrating.

Dean’s voice, when it came this time, was quieter. Not because the urgency was gone. Because it had changed shape.

“…you’re—”

His breath caught.

“…you’re pregnant?” 

Dean didn’t move right away.

Not after the words left his mouth. Not after the shape of them settled into the space between all of you.

Something in him had gone still again—but not the same kind of stillness as before. Not confusion. Not bracing.

Processing.

His hand remained at your lower back, warm and steady, thumb shifting once like he needed to remind himself you were still there. His gaze hadn’t left your face, but it wasn’t searching anymore. It was… taking you in. Every detail. Every breath. Every flicker of emotion that crossed your features as you tried to hold yourself together.

Jess didn’t move either, keeping you in her arms. She felt it—the exact moment the tension in him changed. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t come with a sharp inhale or a sudden motion.

It was quieter than that.

It was the way his shoulders dropped. The way the sharp edge of instinct melted into something deeper. The way his scent shifted—subtle at first, then unmistakable.

Understanding.

It hit him all at once.

Not in pieces. Not fragmented.

Whole.

Your scent. The test. The way you were shaking—not from fear, not from pain, but from something too big to hold on your own. The way your wolf had gone so still, like she was waiting for something outside of herself to anchor her.

And beneath all of that—

the bond.

It wasn’t frantic anymore. It wasn’t jagged or uncertain. It was so full it was spilling over within you.

Dean’s breath left him in a slow exhale, like something in his chest had finally unlocked.

And then he smiled.

It didn’t start small.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It broke across his face—wide and bright and unguarded, something boyish and reverent all at once. It reached his eyes, lit them from the inside out, turned something deep in him soft in a way he never let anyone see unless it was you.

Joy flooded the bond.

Not cautious. Not held back.

It poured through, warm and steady and certain, wrapping around you before you even realized you’d been waiting for it.

Jess felt it the same second you did.

Her hold on you shifted—not loosening, not pulling away—but changing. One hand smoothed up your back, grounding, reassuring. And then, gently, carefully, she guided you away from her embrace.

Toward him, helping you slip your arms into the flannel through the movements.

Dean didn’t hesitate.

His arms came around you the moment there was space, pulling you in close—firm, certain, like he needed you right there against him to believe this was real. One hand slid up your spine, the other settling low at your back again, anchoring you fully this time.

You went without resistance. Folded into him like something in you had been waiting for that exact place.

His scent wrapped around you immediately.

Warm. Familiar. Him.

And beneath it now—something new. Something fuller. Richer. Threaded through with a quiet kind of awe that made your chest tighten all over again, but not in the same way as before.

Your breath hitched once—

then again—

and then, for the first time since the lines had appeared—

you inhaled.

Deep.

Full.

Your wolf shifted inside you, not stilled anymore, not frozen in that suspended moment between knowing and not knowing.

She leaned into him.

The tension that had been coiled tight through your muscles loosened in slow, uneven waves. Your hands, which had been gripping the counter hard enough to ache earlier, moved—one curling against his chest, the other wrapping around his side like you needed to hold onto something solid. Your fingers splayed across his back before relaxing against his skin.

Dean’s chin dipped, his mouth brushing into your hair.

He didn’t rush to speak. Didn’t fill the space just to fill it.

He breathed you in first. Let the reality of it settle into his bones, into the way he held you, into the way his hands refused to let you go.

Jess stepped back. Not far. Just enough.

Sam’s arm came around her the moment she reached him, pulling her into his side without looking away from the two of you. His hand rested around her waist, grounding her the same way Dean grounded you. The two of them stayed quiet, steady, letting the moment belong where it needed to.

Dean’s hold tightened just slightly.

Not restrictive.

Protective.

Reverent.

His breath shifted against your hair, uneven for just a second before it steadied again.

“We’re…” he started, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

He paused. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Because the words were bigger than his breath for a second.

His grip on you firmed, just enough to pull you closer, like he needed you to feel it too.

“We’re gonna have a pup.”

The words settled into the room like something sacred.

Not loud.

Not overwhelming.

But final.

Real.

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Not from fear. Not from uncertainty.

From feeling it land. From those words being spoken aloud. From it becoming more than just hope that you’d kept carefully contained for the last two weeks.

And this time—when your breath came in—

it didn’t catch.

For a moment after the words settle, nothing moves.

Not because there’s nothing left to feel— but because there’s too much.

Dean keeps you close, arms firm around you, breath still warm where it brushes your hair. His hand spreads against your back, thumb dragging once, twice, like he needs the contact to steady himself just as much as you do.

You feel it before you see it.

The shift.

Not in his grip—he’s still holding you like something precious—but in the way his chest rises under your cheek. A deeper inhale. A sharper exhale. Something building.

Your wolf stirs first. Not restless. Not uncertain.

Bright.

Like something inside her just… lit.

It rolls through the bond a second later—stronger than before, no longer just steady warmth but something fuller, fuller, fuller until it has nowhere left to go.

Dean lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. It catches halfway—like he didn’t expect it to come out—but once it does, it doesn’t stop.

“Holy—” he huffs, the sound breaking apart into something disbelieving, something awed. His hands tighten on you—not hurting, never that—but anchoring, like he needs to make sure you’re still right here. That he’s not dreaming.

His forehead dips briefly against yours, a quick, almost frantic touch.

And then— he moves.

It’s not careful the way everything else has been.

It’s instinct.

Joy, finally too big to stay contained.

His hands slide—one bracing at your back, the other under your thighs—and before your mind can catch up, he lifts you clean off your feet.

A startled sound leaves you—half breath, half laugh—as your hands grab for him on instinct, arms wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Dean—!”

But he’s already turning.

Not wild. Not out of control. But enough—just enough—to pull you with him, to break the heaviness that had settled into your bones.

Your laughter breaks through it. It surprises you as much as it does him.

It spills out, breathless and bright and edged with tears that haven’t quite stopped falling yet. Your forehead knocks lightly against his as he steadies, your body still lifted in his arms, his grin right there, inches from yours.

It’s different up close.

Wider. Softer. Completely undone in a way that’s new.

“We’re—” he starts again, voice rough, almost tripping over itself.

He exhales, shaking his head once like he still can’t quite believe it, like saying it once wasn’t enough to make it real.

Then he says it again. Stronger this time.

Clear.

“We’re having a pup.”

The words don’t just land.

They expand.

They fill the space, the bond, your chest—everything—until there’s no room left for anything else.

Your breath catches—

then breaks into another laugh, softer this time, shaking at the edges as your forehead presses into his, your nose brushing his without you even thinking about it.

Your wolf leans fully into his now, no hesitation, no stillness left.

Just there.

With him.

Your hands slide from holding on as tightly as you had, to cupping the sides of his neck, grounding yourself in him the same way he’s grounding you. Your thumbs brush just under his ears, your touch unsteady but sure.

“Dean…” you breathe, his name barely more than a whisper, but full—so full it almost aches.

He doesn’t set you down right away. Doesn’t seem to realize he’s still holding you. Or maybe he does—and just doesn’t want to let go yet.

Behind him, the room shifts.

Not loudly. Not intrusively.

Jess lets out a soft, breathy laugh of her own, one hand coming up to cover her mouth for a second like she’s trying—and failing—to keep it in. Her eyes shine, fixed on the two of you, that familiar warmth in them deepened into something almost overwhelming.

Sam’s arm tightens around her shoulders, pulling her closer into his side. His head tips slightly toward hers, but his gaze stays forward, steady and quiet and seeing.

There’s a flicker of a smile there too—soft, a little stunned—but unmistakably there.

No one interrupts.

No one rushes in.

They just… witness it.

Dean finally shifts his weight, easing you down just enough that your feet brush the floor—but his hands don’t leave you. One stays at your back. The other slides to your hip, thumb tracing a slow, grounding path there like he’s memorizing the feel of you in this moment.

Like everything just changed—and he’s not letting a second of it slip past him.

Your laughter fades into softer breaths, your chest still rising a little too fast, but it’s not tight anymore.

Not overwhelming.

Just… full.

And Dean?

He’s still smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.

There wasn’t.

The test still sat on the counter. The lines still there. Still unmistakable.

But the frantic edge that had filled the bathroom only minutes earlier had dissolved into something softer now. Fuller. The kind of quiet that settled after a storm finally passed through.

Dean kept touching you like he couldn’t help himself.

His hands never fully left you as the four of you slowly untangled from the cramped space of the guest bathroom. One stayed at the small of your back as he guided you out into the hallway. The other brushed your arm, your hip, your waist—small grounding touches like his body was checking over and over that you were still there.

Still real.

You barely made it three steps down the hall before he pulled you against him again.

Not urgent this time, but just because he wanted to.

His forehead pressed briefly against yours, his grin returning softer now, but no less overwhelming. Joy still poured through the bond in warm, steady waves, easing the last lingering tightness from your chest every time it brushed against you.

The cabin felt different as you stepped back into the open living room.

Warmer.

Fuller somehow.

The lamps near the couch cast soft amber light across the wood floors while moonlight spilled silver through the tall windows overlooking the trees. The house had settled into that strange quiet that only existed deep into the night—when the world outside still felt awake, but everything inside had softened.

Jess moved first.

Always practical even through her own excitement, she disappeared briefly toward the laundry basket near the stairs before returning with a pair of soft sleep shorts and one of your oversized shirts. Her smile turned fond when she handed them over.

“You should probably wear something other than Dean’s flannel, before he combusts from sensory overload,” she teased gently.

Dean snorted immediately. “Hey.”

But his arm tightened around your waist possessively anyway, proving her point.

A breathy laugh escaped you—still fragile around the edges, but real.

God, it felt good to laugh.

You changed quickly, the oversized shirt swallowing you in softness while Dean hovered nearby like he physically couldn’t force himself farther than arm’s reach. The second you were dressed, his hand found your stomach again as he held you from behind, chin resting on the top of your head.

Not absentminded this time.

Intentional.

Reverent.

His palm spread carefully over the fabric like he still couldn’t quite comprehend what it meant.

Sam noticed.

You saw it in the way his expression softened further as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, Jess tucked against his side. The two of them looked almost as overwhelmed as you felt, though in a quieter way.

Not shock anymore.

Wonder.

Dean guided you toward the couch a moment later, settling beside you immediately—close enough that your thighs touched, one arm stretched along the back cushions behind you while the other stayed draped over your middle like he’d decided that was simply where it belonged now.

No one seemed entirely sure what to do next. And somehow… that made the moment feel even more real.

Jess laughed softly under her breath at something only she seemed to notice. “You’re both staring at her stomach.”

Dean didn’t even look guilty. “Can you blame me?”

“Nope,” Sam answered instantly.

That pulled another laugh out of you, warmer this time. The kind that loosened something deep inside your ribs. 

For a while, conversation came in scattered little pieces.

Disjointed. Breathless at times. Jess asking if you needed water. Sam quietly mentioning that there were probably books somewhere at Mary and John’s place.

Dean muttering something about building another room onto the cabin before immediately realizing what he’d said and burying his face briefly against your shoulder while Jess burst into helpless laughter.

“You already have room for a pup, Dean.”

“Yeah, well—” he mumbled into your shirt. “What if we need more room later?”

Sam made a choking sound from the kitchen. Jess outright cackled.

And finally—

finally—

you felt the last trembling remnants of panic leave your body completely.

Because this wasn’t fear anymore. Not even close.

This was your pack.

Your family.

Your mate pressed impossibly close beside you, smiling like he’d been handed the moon itself.

And somewhere beneath your own heartbeat, your wolf curled warmly around the truth of it all.

Chapter 66 ------- Chapter 68 - coming soon

A/B/O Master List Main Master List Series Master List

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[aylacavebear]

Brownies Part 3

Summary: You've never smoked weed before, nor have you had an edible. It was something you'd never even thought about before. Perhaps that was because alcohol was always available. But when a container of brownies sits innocently in the kitchen with a note stating they're very clearly Dean's, you can't help but snag a couple.

Pairing: None

Word Count: 5631

Warnings: Marijuana, Edibles, Hilarity, Reading being high, Dean and Sam being themselves.

A/N: I hope you guys like this one as much as I did writing it. Lots of humor in Parts 1 & 2. A bit of embarrassment in Part 3.

Part 2 Brownies Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

Sleep released you slowly.

Not all at once, but in that hazy, comfortable way where awareness seeped back a little at a time. Warmth surrounded you beneath the blankets, the mattress soft beneath your body, your pillow molded perfectly beneath your cheek. For several long moments, you simply stayed where you were, eyes still closed, savoring the feeling of having nowhere to be. 

Every muscle in your body felt loose, relaxed in a way that only came after an exceptionally deep night's sleep. There wasn't the slightest hint of a headache lingering behind your eyes or heaviness pressing against your limbs. If anything, you felt... refreshed.

You drew in a slow breath through your nose, letting it out just as gradually. The familiar scent of your laundry detergent clung to your blankets, mingling with the faint, ever-present smell of old concrete that belonged to the bunker no matter how often it was cleaned. 

Somewhere beyond your bedroom walls, the ventilation system hummed its steady, comforting rhythm, accompanied every so often by the soft click of pipes hidden behind thick walls adjusting to the day's changing temperatures. The bunker had its own soundtrack, one you'd grown so accustomed to over the years that you'd stopped consciously noticing it.

This morning, though, you noticed everything.

Your eyelids finally fluttered open. The room was dim.

Not because it was still early, but because the thin line of light under your door was pushing its way into the space. The darkness wrapped the room in a quiet calm that made it difficult to judge the time. It could have been dawn.

Or noon.

You honestly had no idea, not in the mood to even glance toward the clock on the nightstand.

For another minute, you simply lay there, staring at the ceiling while your thoughts lazily drifted from one thing to another.

Then something tugged at the edge of your awareness.

Your room.

Slowly, your eyes wandered toward your desk.

Your laptop sat exactly where it belonged, closed and plugged into its charger, the little charging light glowing softly beside it.

A faint crease formed between your brows. You didn't remember putting it there. Your gaze continued around the room.

The overflowing pile of snack wrappers you'd left scattered across your bed yesterday was gone. The bags of chips had disappeared. So had the open container of cookies. Even the empty popcorn bag had vanished without a trace.

You turned your head toward the nightstand.

Your coffee mug was gone. The empty soda can you'd finished sometime after Dean had handed you a fresh one...

Gone too, along with the second one you’d finished sometimes into The Mummy.

Even the small trash can tucked beside your desk caught your attention. A clean white liner folded neatly over the rim.

Your stomach sank.

Dean.

It had to have been Dean.

The realization settled quietly over you, bringing with it an odd mixture of gratitude and guilt. He hadn't simply gotten you back into bed.

He'd cleaned up after you.

You let out the smallest sigh, lifting one hand to rub tiredly at your face before letting it fall back onto the comforter.

"...Thank you," you murmured into the empty room, even knowing he couldn't hear you.

Silence answered.

You rolled onto your back again, intending to enjoy another few peaceful minutes before getting up.

That was when the first memory surfaced. Not gradually. Not gently. It simply arrived.

"...Come here."

You blinked.

The image appeared in your mind with startling clarity.

A can of soda.

One inch out of your reach.

"...You're being difficult."

Your eyes widened. "...I argued with a soda." The words escaped in a whisper.

Heat immediately began creeping up your neck.

"Oh..." You closed your eyes. "...No."

You could still see it. Lying flat on your back. Talking to a can of soda as though it had intentionally refused to cooperate. Your stomach twisted.

Maybe...

Maybe that had been the worst part.

You could live with falling off the bed.

Gravity happened. Gravity happened to everyone. Even for you, although you were supposed to land on your feet.

Talking to carbonated beverages, however...

You pulled the comforter halfway over your face. "...Please let that have been the worst part."

For one blissful second...

You almost believed you'd gotten lucky. Then another memory floated to the surface.

"They're like little constellations..."

The blanket slid the rest of the way over your face. "Oh, God."

Your voice came out wonderfully muffled beneath the comforter. You squeezed your eyes shut, as though somehow hiding from the memory would make it disappear.

It didn't.

Instead, more pieces arrived.

One after another.

"I like your smell."

You groaned softly into your pillow.

"Your heart's fast."

Your face burned hotter.

"You hum when you think."

One eye opened beneath the blanket. "...I said that out loud."

You already knew the answer. Unfortunately.

"I like when you carry me."

The blanket became your sanctuary.

You lay perfectly still beneath it, contemplating whether there was any possible way to remain in your room for the next...

Week?

Month?

Possibly the rest of your natural life.

Because sooner or later...

You were going to have to leave this room, which meant facing Dean. And Sam.

Both of whom had witnessed every wonderfully unfiltered thought your brain had apparently decided was worth sharing. All the things you silently held onto and never once spoke aloud to anyone.

A long, slow groan escaped you as you buried your face deeper into the pillow. "...I am never going to recover from this."

The bunker, of course, offered no sympathy. Its quiet hum continued around you as another memory threatened to surface.

You immediately pulled the blanket tighter over your head. "No."

Not yet.

You weren't emotionally prepared for whatever came next.

The kitchen had long since settled into its usual morning rhythm.

Fresh coffee filled the room with its rich, earthy aroma, the scent weaving effortlessly through the bunker's cool air. Somewhere deeper in the bunker, the ventilation system maintained its steady hum, accompanied by the occasional click from aging pipes expanding with the warmth of the building waking for another day.

Dean leaned comfortably against the center island, one ankle hooked over the other while both hands wrapped loosely around a ceramic coffee mug. Wisps of steam curled upward, disappearing long before they reached his face. Every now and then he lifted the mug for another sip, but more often than not he simply watched the steam rise, his thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely.

Yesterday had left him with a problem he hadn't expected.

It wasn't taking care of you. That part hadn't bothered him in the slightest. Getting you back into bed, cleaning your room while you became completely absorbed by the carbonation in your soda, making sure you drank enough water before finally convincing you to sleep—none of that had felt unusual. If anything, it had simply felt... natural.

No.

The problem was everything you'd said.

Dean frowned faintly into his coffee.

He'd spent years around you, never once questioning the quiet way your eyes always seemed to be taking in more than you let on. It had simply become another part of who you were. You noticed things. Tiny things. The sort of details most people walked past without a second thought. He'd never given it much consideration. And not once had he considered he had little things.

Now he couldn't seem to stop.

Without realizing it, his thumb began slowly turning his mug against the palm of his hand, the rough ceramic scraping softly beneath his fingertips.

"You don't waste any movements."

His grip paused. The memory arrived uninvited, clear as if you were standing beside him, saying it all over again.

"You already know where you're going before you move."

Dean's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Did he?

He'd never consciously thought about how he moved through a room. After years of hunting, years of fixing cars, years of reaching for tools without looking because he already knew exactly where they'd be, efficiency had simply become habit. Yesterday, though, you'd spoken about it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He hadn't even realized you were watching. Not like that. Not like someone who saw past every wall he’d ever constructed around himself.

His fingers resumed their absent rotation around the mug.

"You hum when you think."

Almost immediately, Dean stopped moving altogether. His eyes narrowed toward the coffee.

Had he...?

No.

Surely not.

He stood there another few seconds before quietly pushing himself away from the island to refill his mug. The coffee pot gurgled softly as he tipped it, dark liquid splashing into ceramic while the familiar scent grew richer between them.

Without thinking...

A low hum escaped somewhere deep in his chest. It lasted perhaps two seconds.

Dean froze.

The coffee pot remained suspended over his mug.

Very slowly, he lowered it back onto the warming plate before glancing toward absolutely no one.

"...Son of a..."

Across the kitchen, Sam looked up from where he'd settled at the table with his laptop open beside his own mug.

"What?"

Dean looked over. "...Nothing."

Sam studied him for a moment longer before quietly returning his attention to the screen. He didn't believe that for a second. Truthfully, he'd noticed the humming nearly fifteen minutes ago.

He'd also noticed Dean catch himself pacing once already before forcing himself to stand still. Every few minutes his older brother seemed to become aware of another little habit that had existed for years without him ever giving it a second thought.

Sam found the entire thing endlessly amusing. Not because Dean was embarrassed.

Well...

Maybe a little because of that.

Mostly, though, because of the look on Dean's face every time another piece of yesterday clicked into place. It wasn't mortification.

It was bewilderment.

As though he'd suddenly discovered he'd been living with an audience all this time without ever realizing someone had been paying attention.

Sam clicked to another tab, eyes moving over the words of another article, hiding the smile threatening the corners of his mouth behind another slow sip of coffee.

He understood exactly what had happened. You hadn't invented those observations yesterday. You'd simply spoken them aloud.

That was the part Dean was still trying to come to terms with.

Somewhere down the hallway, faint enough that either brother might have missed it on any other morning, came the quiet creak of a mattress shifting beneath someone's weight.

Dean's eyes lifted instinctively toward the kitchen doorway. His expression remained carefully neutral. After several long seconds, nothing else happened.

He looked back down into his coffee.

Sam noticed that, too. He didn't comment. There wasn't any need. Sooner or later, you'd come out of your room.

Sooner or later, all three of you were going to have to pretend yesterday hadn't happened. Sam suspected that plan was doomed almost immediately.

He also suspected it was going to be one of the more entertaining breakfasts the bunker had seen in quite some time.

So, for now, he simply clicked into a new tab, took another drink of his coffee, and waited with all the patience of someone who knew the best part of the morning hadn't happened yet.

For several long minutes, you remained exactly where you were.

The blanket had long since slipped back down around your waist, leaving you staring up at the familiar seams in the bunker's ceiling while your mind stubbornly refused to move on from yesterday. Every time you thought you'd finally worked through the worst of it, another memory floated to the surface with perfect, merciless clarity, each one somehow managing to be just a little more embarrassing than the last.

Eventually, another problem began asserting itself.

Coffee.

You weren't desperate for it, not in the way you usually were after first waking up, but the thought settled comfortably into the front of your mind all the same. The rich smell of fresh coffee seemed almost tangible, even from all the way down the hall. Dean had clearly already made a pot.

The realization brought with it another small wave of guilt. He'd cleaned your room. Made sure you'd gotten into bed.

Probably checked on you more than once before turning in himself. And then he'd gotten up early enough to make coffee for everyone.

You let out a slow breath through your nose. "...I really owe him."

The words disappeared into the quiet room.

You finally pushed the blankets aside and sat up, letting your feet settle against the cool concrete floor. The chill climbed pleasantly through the soles of your feet, helping clear away the last remnants of sleep. For a moment, you simply sat there, elbows resting on your knees, fingers loosely intertwined as you stared toward your dresser across the room.

Wasn’t I wearing socks yesterday? You shook your head slightly, focusing again on the dresser.

Getting dressed. That was the logical first step. Normal people got dressed before facing other human beings.

Especially after accidentally telling one of those human beings that his freckles looked like constellations. Your face warmed all over again. With a quiet groan, you forced yourself to your feet and padded across the room.

The dresser waited exactly where it always had. You reached for the top drawer, pulled it open, and looked down at the neatly folded shirts inside.

Your hand hovered.

I like when you carry me.

It wasn't even the words. It was the memory that came with them. Dean standing beside your bed. The warmth of his arms. The surprised little squeak you'd made when he'd lifted you without warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut. "...Nope."

The drawer slid shut again.

You stood there for another second, one hand still resting against the smooth wood as though perhaps another idea might present itself.

None did.

Coffee still sounded nice. You turned instead toward the small bathroom connected to your room. The light flickered on with a familiar buzz. Your reflection blinked back at you from the mirror.

You looked...

Comfortable.

Your oversized sleep shirt hung crookedly off one shoulder, wrinkled from an unusually restful night's sleep. Your pajama shorts weren't much better, and your hair...

You stared.

It looked as though someone had introduced it to a tornado.

Dark strands curled in every direction imaginable, refusing to cooperate with gravity or basic common sense. A few stubborn pieces still stood almost straight up near the back of your head while the rest framed your face in thoroughly uneven waves.

You couldn't help the tiny sigh that escaped. "...That explains a lot."

Your gaze drifted toward the hairbrush resting beside the sink. You reached for it automatically. Your fingers stopped just short.

Your freckles... they're like little constellations all over your skin.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks so quickly it almost startled you. "Oh..."

Your hand retreated. "...No."

The hairbrush remained exactly where it was.

You stared at it for another few seconds before quietly switching the bathroom light back off and stepping into your bedroom once more.

Coffee.

You'd brush your hair after coffee. Probably. Maybe. At least that sounded like a reasonable plan.

You paused beside your bedroom door, your hand settling around the cool metal handle without turning it.

Beyond the door, the bunker carried on with its familiar morning sounds.

The faint clink of ceramic against metal. Someone setting a mug onto the island. The soft scrape of a chair shifting somewhere in the kitchen.

The low murmur of pages...

No.

Not pages.

Your brow knit together.

Keys.

A keyboard. Sam's laptop.

For some reason, recognizing that tiny sound made everything beyond your bedroom feel suddenly, unmistakably real.

They were both out there. Both awake. Both remembering yesterday just as clearly as you did.

Your hand tightened around the handle. You could still turn around. Nobody knew you were awake yet. You could absolutely crawl back beneath the blankets and emerge sometime around...

Next Tuesday.

That seemed perfectly reasonable.

Unfortunately...

Coffee.

Coffee won.

You let out one long breath, squared your shoulders as best you could, and eased the bedroom door open.

The hallway stretched ahead of you, quiet and familiar. Concrete walls. Warm overhead lights. Nothing about the bunker had changed overnight.

Only you had.

Your bare feet carried you forward almost of their own accord, each step unhurried, almost reluctant. The closer you drew to the kitchen, the stronger the smell of fresh coffee became until it wrapped around you with comforting familiarity. It should have eased the knot in your stomach.

Instead, it somehow made the moment feel even more inevitable.

You reached the edge of the war room and slowed.

The kitchen lay just beyond.

You stopped just out of sight. Not hiding.

Just...

Gathering yourself.

From where you stood, you could see only part of the center island, but neither brother. One more steadying breath filled your lungs before you lifted a hand and unconsciously tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

It immediately slipped free again, falling across your cheek exactly as it had before. You didn't bother trying a second time.

Coffee first.

You could survive the rest of the morning after that.

You lingered for only another heartbeat before forcing your feet to move again.

The kitchen opened itself to you one familiar step at a time, the scent of fresh coffee growing stronger with every foot you covered. It mingled with the brothers’ scents that lingered in rooms they spent more time in, wrapping around the cool, clean smell of concrete that never truly left the bunker. Ordinarily, those scents would have settled something inside you.

Today, they simply reminded you that you weren't alone. Even before you crossed the threshold, you knew exactly where they were.

Dean's heartbeat reached you first, slow and steady from somewhere near the center island. Every so often, ceramic clicked softly against the countertop as he shifted his mug between holding it and setting it down. Sam's heartbeat carried from farther to your left, accompanied by the almost constant, uneven rhythm of fingers moving across the keys of his laptop. The tiny sounds blended together so naturally that your mind sorted them without conscious effort, painting a picture of the room long before your eyes confirmed it.

It was something you'd done for years. Usually without thinking.

This morning...

You found yourself wishing, just briefly, that you couldn't hear any of it.

Drawing one slow breath through your nose, you finally stepped into the kitchen. Almost immediately, you felt it. Not in any supernatural sense.

Just the unmistakable awareness that both sets of eyes had lifted toward you.

You kept yours firmly on the coffee pot.

The distance between the doorway and the counter where caffeine waited wasn't more than a handful of steps, yet it somehow felt considerably farther this morning. Each footfall echoed faintly beneath your bare feet, sounding entirely too loud against the otherwise peaceful quiet of the bunker.

No one spoke.

You weren't sure whether that made things easier or infinitely worse.

The coffee pot sat exactly where Dean had left it, a thin ribbon of steam still curling from its spout. Beside it rested a clean mug, already waiting as though someone had anticipated you'd eventually make your way here. Yours. The same one he’d taken from your room when he’d cleaned up.

Your chest tightened ever so slightly. Of course he had.

Without looking anywhere but your hands, you reached for the mug and filled it almost to the top. The familiar sound of coffee pouring into ceramic grounded you in a way little else had managed all morning. You wrapped both hands around the mug almost immediately, welcoming the warmth against your palms despite the fact that the bunker wasn't cold enough to warrant it.

The first sip was almost embarrassingly comforting.

Rich. Strong. Exactly the way Dean always made it. You closed your eyes for the briefest moment as the warmth spread through you.

"...Morning." Dean's voice broke the silence gently.

Not forced. Not awkward. Simply... there.

You lowered the mug just enough to answer, your eyes still lingering somewhere around the countertop instead of either brother.

"Morning." Your own voice sounded remarkably normal. Far calmer than you felt.

Silence settled over the room once more. Not uncomfortable. Just... careful. Like all three of you were unconsciously feeling out unfamiliar footing.

You became acutely interested in the slow wisps of steam rising from your mug. Anything to keep your attention occupied. Anything except the memories that insisted on replaying themselves with painful clarity.

They're like little constellations...

Heat immediately crept back into your cheeks. You took another drink before your brain could volunteer another memory.

Across the room, Dean watched the top of your head dip with another sip from your mug and had the distinct impression that you were trying very hard to become one with it. It was almost enough to make him smile.

Almost.

Instead, he quietly shifted his own weight against the island, choosing not to say anything more. He'd noticed the same oversized sleep shirt you'd worn yesterday. The same pajama shorts.

The same tangled hair that looked as though you'd made it halfway through your morning routine before giving up somewhere along the way.

He didn't need to ask. Embarrassment had written the story plainly enough.

Sam noticed it too.

He watched you cradle your coffee with both hands as though it were the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor, your gaze refusing to rise higher than the countertop. Every few seconds, another loose strand of hair slipped across your face, and without thinking, you'd tuck it behind your ear again.

Each time, gravity patiently undid your efforts.

He hid the beginning of a smile behind his own mug. Not because he wanted to laugh at you. Because he knew exactly what was happening.

You were buying yourself time.

As long as you didn't look at either of them, perhaps yesterday could remain safely tucked away where all embarrassing memories belonged.

It was a nice plan.

Unfortunately...

Sam was fairly certain it wasn't going to survive much longer.

The silence lingered another several heartbeats. Not uncomfortable anymore. Just... tentative.

Each of you seemed content to let the quiet exist for a little while longer, as though everyone instinctively understood that yesterday's events required a little gentleness this morning.

Dean shifted his weight against the island. He drew in a slow breath, finally deciding he ought to say something. Anything.

A simple How'd you sleep?Feeling better?Coffee's fresh.

His mouth had only just started to open when Sam beat him to it.

"So..." Sam's voice carried easily across the kitchen, warm with unmistakable amusement. He closed his laptop with an unhurried motion before looking over at you with the kind of smile that had always managed to walk the line between teasing and reassuring. "How're you feeling?"

You glanced up just enough to meet his eyes for the briefest second before dropping your attention back to your coffee.

"...Actually..." You considered it honestly. "I feel really good."

"You look like you slept."

"I did."

"Headache?"

You shook your head. "No."

"Nauseous?"

"No."

He nodded thoughtfully, as though mentally checking items off a list. "So Charlie was right."

That pulled your attention back toward him. "Charlie?"

Dean answered before Sam could. "I called her yesterday."

Your eyes widened. "You..."

He nodded once, his expression apologetic without ever becoming dramatic. "I didn't know how two brownies would affect you."

"Oh." You looked back down into your mug again. "...That makes sense."

Another quiet settled over the room. This one lasted only a few seconds before Sam spoke again.

"So..." He rested his forearms against the table. "Do you remember much?"

The question hung gently between you.

You stared into your coffee long enough that Dean was already preparing to change the subject entirely.

Then...

You gave one very small nod. "...All of it."

Dean winced.

Sam's eyebrows climbed. "Everything?"

Another nod. "...Unfortunately."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched despite his best efforts. 

"I've been hoping since I woke up that maybe I dreamed it." You sighed softly. "I didn't."

"No."

"...I definitely didn't."

Dean finally looked up from his mug. There was something unexpectedly earnest in your voice that tugged at him.

You weren't trying to laugh it off. You genuinely wished you could rewind the previous afternoon.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," he said quietly.

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it. It wasn't really laughter. More...

Disbelief.

"I argued with a soda."

Dean pressed his lips together. "You did."

"I thought the refrigerator was judging me."

"It... might've been."

You looked at him then.

Really looked at him for the first time since entering the kitchen. "I said your freckles looked like constellations."

Dean's composure cracked just enough for one corner of his mouth to betray him. "...Yeah."

"Oh, God." You covered your eyes with one hand. "I remember saying that."

"You did."

"I remember all of it."

Dean pushed himself away from the island then, carrying his coffee with him as he rounded the counter.

He stopped beside you, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that his hip rested comfortably against the edge of the counter near you.

For a moment he simply stood there.

Then, with the smallest shrug, he looked down into his own mug. "...For what it's worth..."

You peeked at him through your fingers.

"...I didn't mind."

You blinked. "What?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "You weren't mean." He shrugged again, searching for the words. "You were just..."

His brow furrowed. "...Really honest."

The warmth that flooded your face somehow found another gear. "I'm not sure that's better."

"It is," Dean said it simply. Matter-of-factly. "You just didn't have a filter."

Before either of you could say anything else, Sam leaned back in his chair, watching the two of you with an expression that bordered on entirely too pleased with himself.

"I do have one question, though."

You groaned quietly. "...Sam."

"What?"

"I'm already regretting whatever you're about to ask."

"I was just curious."

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously over the rim of your mug. "Curious about what?"

Sam's grin grew just a fraction wider. "...Did the bubbles ever win?"

For exactly one heartbeat...

Silence.

Then you closed your eyes. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Not because it wasn't embarrassing.

It absolutely was.

But because, hearing it out loud the morning after… It sounded just as ridiculous as it had felt perfectly reasonable yesterday.

Dean let out an exasperated huff beside you, shaking his head into his coffee. "...I'm never gonna let Charlie leave something like those brownies lying around."

The laughter faded naturally, leaving behind something altogether lighter than the silence that had greeted you when you'd first walked into the kitchen.

It hadn't erased the embarrassment. You doubted anything ever truly would.

But somewhere between Sam's gentle teasing and Dean's quiet reassurance, the sharp edges had begun to wear away. What had felt, only minutes earlier, like a memory you'd spend the rest of your life trying to outrun had already started becoming something else.

A story.

One that, given enough time, would probably be told far more often than you'd prefer.

You took another sip of your coffee, the warmth settling comfortably in your chest this time instead of serving as little more than a distraction. The knot that had occupied your stomach since waking had finally begun to loosen, replaced by the quiet familiarity that always seemed to settle over the bunker whenever the three of you simply... existed together.

No hunts.

No monsters.

No looming disaster.

Just morning.

Dean finished the last of his coffee before pushing himself away from the counter with an easy sigh. He carried his mug to the sink, rinsing it beneath the faucet more out of habit than necessity before setting it in the drainer. As he reached for the refrigerator door, he glanced back over one shoulder.

"So..." His tone had settled back into something wonderfully ordinary. "You hungry?"

You hadn't really thought about it. Not until he asked. The answer arrived almost immediately.

"...Actually..." You smiled faintly. "Yeah."

"I figured."

The refrigerator opened with its familiar suction, cool air spilling into the kitchen as Dean leaned inside to inspect its contents. Eggs. Bacon. Cheese. Leftover hash browns from the night before. His movements carried the comfortable confidence of someone who had prepared the same breakfast hundreds of times before, reaching automatically for ingredients without needing to stop and think about where anything had been put away.

Behind him, Sam quietly reopened his laptop as the screen flickered back to life. He wasn't particularly focused on whatever article had occupied him earlier. Every so often his eyes drifted over the top edge of the screen, lingering for a moment before returning to the display.

Years.

It had been years of watching the two of you orbit one another. Years of shared glances neither of you ever seemed to notice.

Years of one always making coffee if the other had slept in, of automatically grabbing an extra blanket before movie nights because the other always got cold, of reaching for the same toolbox at the same time and somehow never colliding.

Neither of you ever said anything. Neither of you seemed willing to.

At this point, Sam had accepted that trying to hurry either of you along would probably only send you both running in opposite directions.

So...

He waited. It seemed to be working about as well as anything else.

You wandered toward the table almost absentmindedly, your coffee mug still cradled between both hands. The chair scraped softly against the floor as you pulled it out and settled into it, curling one leg beneath yourself out of long-standing habit. The warmth of the mug seeped pleasantly into your fingers while you watched Dean move comfortably around the kitchen.

Even after everything yesterday...

Nothing about him had changed. He still nudged the refrigerator closed with his hip because both hands were full. Still reached for the cast-iron skillet instead of any of the others. Still hummed under his breath without realizing it.

Your lips twitched. You noticed the moment he caught himself. The humming stopped so abruptly that you couldn't help smiling into your coffee.

Dean glanced back just enough to catch the expression before quickly returning his attention to the stove. "...Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"I wasn't."

"You absolutely were."

There wasn't any heat behind the accusation.

Only the comfortable familiarity of conversations you'd both had a hundred different ways over the years.

A soft chuckle escaped Sam before he managed to hide it behind the rim of his mug.

The skillet settled onto the burner with a heavy clunk, followed by the familiar hiss of butter beginning to melt across the seasoned surface.

The smell alone was enough to make your stomach remind you that, despite yesterday's impressive collection of snacks, it had been quite a while since you'd eaten anything resembling an actual meal.

You rested your chin lightly against your hand, watching Dean crack eggs one-handed into a bowl with practiced ease.

"...You know..."

Both brothers looked toward you.

You stared thoughtfully into your coffee before continuing.

"I think..." Your brow furrowed. "I'd try them again."

Dean stopped whisking. "...The brownies?"

"Not two." You laughed quietly to yourself, shaking your head. "Definitely not two."

Sam's smile returned. "What then?"

"Maybe..." You considered it seriously. "Half."

Dean looked somewhere between amused and horrified. "Half."

You nodded. "I slept really well."

"You also had a philosophical discussion with a soda."

"I know."

"And the refrigerator."

"I know."

"And my freckles."

Your face warmed immediately. "I know." A smile tugged at your mouth anyway.

"But..." You searched for the right words. "It wasn't..." You looked down into your mug for a moment. "It wasn't like drinking."

The humor in the room softened.

"I wasn't trying to forget anything."

Neither brother interrupted.

"I didn't wake up still tasting whatever I’d drank the night before."

You slowly turned the mug between your palms, watching the last curls of steam disappear into the air.

"I just..." Another small shrug. "I felt... peaceful."

The admission settled gently over the kitchen.

Dean looked down at the eggs for a long moment before returning them to the skillet. "I can understand that."

His voice was quiet.

Honest.

"But next time..." He pointed the spatula lightly in your direction without looking away from breakfast. "...I'm cutting you off after half."

A laugh escaped you, easy this time. "Deal."

"And Charlie's labeling the container."

"Bigger note?"

"Bigger note."

"Maybe one that says Dean's brownies. Do not touch."

Dean snorted. "I'm thinking bigger."

"How much bigger?"

He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow lifting. "I'm thinking skull and crossbones."

You laughed again, the sound filling the kitchen so naturally that it seemed to settle into the concrete walls alongside years of other mornings just like this one.

Outside the bunker, the day carried on unnoticed.

Inside, breakfast sizzled on the stove, coffee stayed warm in well-loved mugs, and the three of you gradually found yourselves talking less about embarrassment and more about whether Charlie would ever let any of you live the story down.

Some memories, you suspected, would never stop being embarrassing.

Given enough time...

They simply became the ones everyone laughed about together.

And somehow, sitting there around the kitchen table with the people who had quietly taken care of you instead of judging you, that didn't seem like such a terrible thing after all.

Part 2 Brownies Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

Image, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC You can also find me on Patreon

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[foxyjwls007]

I loved it! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[aylacavebear]

Yay! I'm so glad to hear that. I've been debating adding to this, since I sorta left it open to lots more hilarity, and maybe something a little tender too. Who knows. :)

[foxyjwls007]

I'm hoping you do. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[waynes-multiverse]

Glitch || Interlude I

Fastening myself to you with a stitch...🪡

Pairing: Dean Winchester x witch!reader

Interlude Summary: After eleven years, you finally return home.

Warnings: 18+ language, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, reader x OMC, angst, friendships, family mysteries, witchcraft

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: Get your first official house tour as we go back to Sugar Hill, where it all started a long time ago. And don't worry – the Winchester boys will visit this place soon as well (and give Dean a few things to think about lol). For now, enjoy this little deep-dive! 🤓

🔮 Chapter Title: Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) by Arcade Fire

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

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Interlude I: Purify the Colors, Purify My Mind

You’ve been driving for hours already, Salem disappearing in your rearview mirror a while ago as the country roads unwind under the tires of your Aveo, the crisp morning air drifting in through the cracked windows. Dawn has fully broken now, taking the strangeness and horror of last night with it and painting the sky in soft pinks and golds that stretch across the hills and farmland ahead. 

The landscape swells around you as Sugar Hill draws nearer. Rolling hills are draped in clover-green, ancient woods pressing close before opening into wide, untouched meadows that glow in the morning light, wildflowers dotting the fields in splashes of rainbow colors. Even the air feels different here – purer, more alive, vibrating with the same natural power that flows through your veins. You can feel it tingling in the tips of your fingers. 

Despite the beautiful landscape that feels almost sacred, however, the knot in your chest tightens with every familiar bend.  

Eleven years. 

You haven’t traveled these roads since the night everything you’d known and loved smashed to smithereens. The memories of that night still haunt your soul – waking to screams downstairs, the acrid stench of sulfur, your mother and grandmother’s voices raised in desperate spells, the roar of flames. 

John Winchester had saved you that night. Carried you out the back and bundled you up in the backseat of the Impala while the yellow-eyed demon hunted you through the smoke. He’d been a family friend, their ally against the demon that haunted his own family. Then he’d hidden you in Salem with Mia and told you to stay hidden and never come back. 

You grip the steering wheel tighter. Part of you still wants to turn around and run as far away into the other direction as possible. What if the house rejects you? What if going back opens doors that should stay closed? What if you’re not strong enough for whatever waits inside? 

Or worse, what if you are?

“You okay?” Cameron asks from the passenger seat, his large hand resting warm and steady on your thigh, his long legs stretched as much as your tiny car allows.

“Yeah, you kinda got that thousand-yard stare going on,” Paige chimes in, lounging in the backseat with her bare feet propped against the door.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking,” you reply. “Haven’t been back in so long, part of me keeps expecting the house to be gone – or worse, look exactly the same.”

Cameron squeezes your thigh gently. “It’s gonna be alright. Whatever we’ll find, you’re not alone in this.”

But maybe you should be. You know how dangerous it is to bring both Paige and Cameron with you, considering demons are apparently hot on your trail. You feel incredibly selfish, not being strong enough to do this on your own. What if something happens to them because of you?

You can’t let that happen.

Your thoughts thunder like storm clouds after eleven years of carefully built normalcy. Lab coats, glitter gel pens, nights out with Paige, and lazy Sundays with Cameron are all unraveling with every mile closer to Sugar Hill. Going back means facing the ritual and the full weight of your bloodline, and you’re honestly not sure you’re ready for any of it.

You then turn onto the dirt road that climbs the hill, overgrown grass scraping the underside of the car as your old childhood home comes into view. This entire place had always felt like another realm where witches would keep watch over hunters and innocents alike and where the veil between natural and supernatural was whisper-thin. You remember how the sunsets here felt like a sacred blessing – a dream woven from birch trees, wild grass, and centuries of protection.

This very land had been a sanctuary for generations of Berkano women, your Northern European ancestors who crossed with the first English settlers, survived the witch hunts by fleeing north, and built their hidden home on this very hill. So many mothers and daughters had lived and died here. Their graves even still lie in the small, hidden cemetery behind the pond at the edge of the property, marked only by birch trees and the family rune.

But now that same beauty feels elegiac, wilder, and sadder somehow. 

The house’s brightly blue siding has faded to a weary periwinkle over the years, wild grass surging tall and untamed around the foundation and vines climbing the columns, nature reclaiming what grief had abandoned. Wildflowers fight through thistles and brambles in the front yard, shattered windows reflecting the sunlight. The white wrap-around porch sags on one end while a section of the roof above the kitchen looks partially collapsed. 

But it’s still so heartbreakingly, achingly beautiful it hurts.

Your breath catches as you slow the car to a stop, your birthmark on your collarbone tingling warmly under your skin as if the land recognizes its last daughter returning. 

Cameron’s hand tightens on your thigh. “Stay behind me when we get out. Both of you,” he says, voice reassuring. “I’ll take point until we know it’s clear.”

“Always the hero,” you murmur, affection easing your anxiety a little. 

His Ranger instincts comfort you more than you can say. Some part of you wants to tease him for treating your family home like a potential hostile building, but another part – the part that watched a demon nearly kill Mia last night – feels nothing but grateful.

Paige leans curiously forward between the seats and stares out the windshield. “Wow, this entire place looks like a painting of heaven. I mean, right now, it looks like it’s been brooding in its trauma for a decade, but I can see the appeal.”

She doesn’t know how right she actually is. This place truly was heaven once. 

You sit there a moment longer, heart hammering against your ribs before you reach for the door handle and step out. The air smells like pine resin, damp earth, wildflowers, and lasting traces of old smoke that the breeze couldn’t quite carry away over the years. There are no neighbors or rooflines anywhere near, just the silence of nature enveloping you – birdsong, pattering water, and wind through the leaves. 

Your sneakers sink into the overgrown grass before you reach the porch steps, the old wood creaking loudly under your weight. The front door gives with a push, Cameron walking in first with one hand subtly resting on the gun he insisted on bringing while Paige links her arm through yours, uncharacteristically quiet for once as you cross the threshold together. 

As soon as you set foot inside the house, memories flood your senses like a tidal wave. Dust motes dance in the midday sunlight slanting through the broken windows, catching on thick cobwebs that decorate every corner and crevice of this place and drape from the big chandelier in the entrance like delicate lace. 

The living room, on the other hand, still bears deep, black scars in jagged circles where the worst of the fire had raged – where your mom and grandma made their last stand. And for a heartbeat, you feel eleven years old again, frozen on top of the stairs, helpless and scared. 

Cameron tries to flip a light switch unsuccessfully. “Power seems to be cut,” he muses and then glances at you. “Is the breaker box in the basement?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Alright.” He nods and already turns toward the basement door. “You guys stay here till I give the all-clear.”

Paige wraps herself tighter around your arm, resting her chin on your shoulder as you both watch Cam disappear downstairs. “He’s kind of hot when he’s all business,” she says. “Maybe I should start dating a soldier.”

You snort and shake your head at her. “Sorry to disappoint, but I think he’s the last of a dying breed.”

While Cam’s gone, you drift through the ground floor, your fingers tentatively brushing the dining table with three place settings covered in a thick layer of gray. Even your mom’s brittle herb bundles still hang in the kitchen where they always used to be like she never left in the first place and was coming back any second now to brew you your favorite tea.

Every creak of the floorboards and every familiar shape beneath the dust sheets twists the dagger deeper into your heart. 

The lights then suddenly flip on with a few coughing flickers before Cameron returns a minute later, dusty but satisfied. As he trudges back up the stairs, he raises a small and worn leather booklet in his hand. The Berkano rune is embossed on the front cover. 

“Found this next to the breaker box,” he says. “Looks like a manual for the house.”

“It is,” you reply with a small laugh. “Elsbeth was the first witch who claimed this land and built a home here. The first house was actually a lot smaller before they rebuilt it in 1886, but Elsbeth wrote down the first instructions and rules after her husband suggested selling the land at some point before the other generations kept adding to it.”

“Since this is still in your property, I’m guessing Elsbeth’s husband didn’t win that fight, huh?” Paige quips.

“Nope.” You smirk a little. “Rumor has it, he accidentally fell off a ladder shortly after.”

Cameron cocks a brow, amused. “Accidentally?”

You grin. “You better not disagree with me, Cooper.”

“Noted.” Cam laughs and hands you the manual. 

Your fingers tremble a little as you take it. The leather is soft and darkened with centuries of handling, the handwriting on the first pages elegant yet unfamiliar, although both your mom and grandma had added notes in the margins over the years. But the core spells that keep this place protected and running belonged to generations long before them.

“I remember this. They always kept it handy,” you say, carefully tracing the rune on the cover before leafing through the first few pages. You then look up at them and grin. “You guys ready for some magic to spruce up this place a little?”

Paige nods vividly with an excited smile. “If it’s half as efficient as your cleaning spell, I’m game. Otherwise, a spell that renews my tetanus shot would help.”

You stroll to the center of the scarred living room with a pounding heart and flip the manual open to a restoration spell. “By blood and bone and Berkano’s mark, awaken, renew, and heal the dark,” you speak the first lines. “From foundation deep to rooftop high, return this home beneath the sky.”

You can feel the magic flow through your blood like warm sunlight – golden, alive, and shimmering. 

The dust then rises in sparkling spirals and vanishes first. Charred and broken floorboards lighten and mend right in under your feet. Shattered glass lifts from the ground in front of your eyes, knitting itself back into the window frames. Peeling paint smooths and deepens into the purest colors. The sagging porch outside straightens with a groan while vines and overgrown brush retreat from the walls and foundation as if gently ushered away by invisible hands.

Even the kitchen herbs regain their vibrant color and rich fragrance. The dining table gleams with fresh polish, the three place settings shining like they’re waiting for a family to sit down to dinner. The sunlight outside brightens visibly, pouring through every window in rich, honeyed waves that chase away eleven years of shadow and sorrow.

When the final sparks fade, the entire Queen Anne has transformed back into its former glory, no trace of the tragedy left behind as though it never happened.

The only thing still missing is the presence of your mom and grandma. Sadly, no spell can bring them back. 

Paige spins slowly in the now-gleaming foyer, eyes wider than the full moon. “Okay, I’m officially speechless.”

“Rare occurrence,” Cam quips with a little grin. 

You, on the other hand, flip through the manual. “I need to renew the protection wards as well. They shield the whole property. Nothing evil should be able to cross the boundary once they’re active.” You glance toward the staircase. “But I’ll need a few ingredients first. If I remember correctly, my grandma kept them up in the attic.”

Cameron pulls you into his chest, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Alright, let’s get it done. Make this place a fortress again.”

You nod, drawing strength from him before leading them upstairs.

The first door on the right opens into the octagonal tower, where your childhood bedroom used to be. It’s situated on the southeast side of the house, letting sunlight stream through the tall windows every hour of the day. 

As you glance up at the midnight blue ceiling, you can still see the gold constellations your mother painted for you. The quilt your grandma made still lies folded at the foot of the twin bed. You remember lying here as a little girl, fingers tracing the Berkano birthmark near your collarbone while she told you stories of Eira and the natural magic that flowed through your veins like sap through ancient birch trees. You remember practicing your first spells at age seven and scribbling them into the notebook you still use to this day while your mom taught you how to make flowers bloom on the windowsill with pure delight.

You used to feel so safe here once – like the whole world outside couldn’t touch you as long as you stayed here. 

You wander farther down the hall till you land in your mother’s bedroom. Her bed is still neatly made, her herb journal resting on the nightstand beside a half-burned citrus candle. The room holds memories of late-night talks, hair braiding, and quiet lessons about your family’s purpose – guardians to hunters, protectors of the innocent.

At the end of the hall then lies your grandmother’s room. It carries a deeper and older weight. There are dried protective herb bundles hanging from the ceiling beams, her large oak desk cluttered with yellowed papers and ink pots. You remember sitting at her feet on the rug while she taught you how to write spells properly – how clear intention mattered more than perfect rhyme. She always smelled of old books and fresh pine.

Now, you stand in the hallway between the three rooms that once held your entire world. The restored house glows warmly around you, feeling like centuries of Berkano women are watching over their last daughter.

And for the first time in eleven years, it doesn’t feel like a tomb. It feels more like this place has been waiting for you to come home and remember who you truly are.

“Hey! There’s another staircase up here,” you suddenly hear Paige’s voice echoing from above, bright with excitement. “Cameron’s already trying the door!”

You exhale a breath you’ve been holding in for too long and glance back at the bedrooms one last time before heading toward the narrow attic stairs at the end of the hall. When you reach the top, Cameron is gripping the old brass doorknob, turning it with increasing force.

“It’s stuck,” he mutters, brows furrowed. “I think it might be locked. You got a key for this somewhere, babe?”

You don’t, but another memory creeps into your mind as you step closer to the door. “Let me try.”

The moment your fingertips brush the cool brass, a familiar warmth blooms beneath your skin. And then, all of a sudden, a soft little click echoes through the stairwell. The door creaks open a crack all on its own, releasing a breath of old paper, dried lavender, and centuries of quiet power.

“Okay…” Paige lets out a low whistle. “That was officially a little creepy. Is this place haunted by any chance?”

“Maybe,” you say absentmindedly, already stepping carefully inside. 

“I’m sorry… did you just say maybe?” Paige checks behind you, but you don’t answer her anymore, your focus taken fully by what waits for you inside. 

God, the attic looks like a living museum of your bloodline. 

The sunlight filters through the large stained-glass window at the far end – a magnificent birch tree with hazel bark and leaves in every shade of green. The colored light spills across the old oak floorboards in changing patterns of emerald, amber, and soft rose. Exposed wooden beams arch overhead, strung with bundles of dried herbs, copper charms, and strings of tiny crystals that chime as you pass.

Shelves line every single wall in the room, packed with curiosities: rows of glass jars containing shimmering powders, dried flowers, colorful liquids, and gemstones. Ancient maps of ley lines and demon hotspots are pinned beside yellowed sketches of creatures you don’t yet have names for. 

Other witchy trinkets fill every surface available as well – silver rune pendants, carved wooden wands, a small collection of ornate daggers, a cracked hand mirror you remember being able to reflect auras, and stacks of leather journals filled with handwritten lore. And then, in the center of the room, stands a heavily carved pedestal holding the ancient Berkano spellbook, its cover moulded with the same rune you bear on your skin.

Paige already curiously drifts toward the spellbook. The second her fingers graze the cover, however, an electric little zap cracks through the air. She yelps and yanks her hand back.

“Ow! What the–”

You can’t help drawing a small, amused smile. “Only bloodline can touch it,” you explain. “The book protects itself. Grams always said it would never let itself fall into the wrong hands.”

“Rude.” Paige shakes her hand dramatically, clearly still feeling the sting. You’re pretty sure if she were a demon, she would’ve gone up in flames, though. “But also admittedly kind of badass.”

You nod in agreement before moving to the shelves, your eyes scanning the labels written in your grandmother’s hand. For the ward renewal you need a very precise mix: coarse sea salt blessed under a full moon, fresh rosemary, strips of birch bark from the oldest tree on the property, a small moonstone, scraps of rowan wood, dried elder flowers, powdered shavings of stag antlers, and a vial of quartz dust gathered from the hill itself. Usually, all these things wouldn’t be easy to find, but your grandmother always liked to be prepared. 

You gather everything into a small cast-iron bowl and mix it together under the glowing stained-glass birch before you cast the protection spell, your voice as clear and strong as possible.

“By blood and bone and Berkano’s light, by earth and sky and ancient right, we call upon the natural vein to guard this home from every bane. No demon, spirit, dark, or fell may cross this threshold, break this spell. From hill to pond, from tree to stone, this sanctuary stands alone.”

The ingredients in the bowl flare brightly in green and gold before dissolving into shimmering dust that rises and shoots through the walls, floor, and ceiling, the entire property inhaling its protective magic. 

Cameron, standing by the stained-glass window, suddenly straightens. “Look, the fence.”

You join him and take a peek out the window. Down the slope, the old birch fence marking the property boundary glows with a soft, pulsing light before fading back to normal wood. The wards are active once more.

“It worked,” you breathe with a relieved smile.

Cameron studies the land stretching out below – the wild fields, the pond reflecting the sunlight, the distant tree line. “It’s beautiful here,” he says quietly. “Feels… different already. Safer.”

You stare at the boundary for a moment longer, a quiet question lingering. “I still don’t understand how they broke through last time. The wards should have held. They always held before…”

Strong arms then slide around your waist from behind. Cameron pulls you back against his chest, chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out over the newly protected land. His warmth chases away the last chill of uncertainty.

“You’re home,” he says against your hair. “Really home. And whatever comes next, we face it from here. Together. On your terms.”

You lean into him, letting the attic’s peaceful magic ground you. The ancient spellbook, the curiosities of generations, the light dancing through the birch tree window… it all feels like it’s been waiting.

For the first time in eleven years, the weight on your shoulders doesn’t feel like devastating grief anymore. It feels like purpose. Something new, something powerful, is only just beginning.

And you? You’re finally back home – back where you've always belonged. You can feel it in your heart.

▶️ Interlude II : Call Me, Beep Me – July 31

How did you like this first interlude? These are honestly just scenes that I could never quite fit into chapters theme-wise and were too short to stand as their own chapters, so I figured this was a good solution. If you ever have ideas for an interlude or something you want to see, let me know! 🤓

We have two smutty one-shots posting the next Fridays before we'll return to this series. Stay tuned, friends! 💜

Series Masterlist

Coming Up || Posting Schedule:

💦 Aquamarine (Part 3 of the Florida!!! series) – July 17

🩺 Midnight Rhythms (Russell Shaw x nurse!reader) – July 24

🔮 Interlude II: Call Me, Beep Me – July 31

🔮 Chapter 7: Loose Lips Sink Ships – August 7

🔮 Chapter 8: Salt Air – August 21

🚀 Join the coven on Patreon and read everything now

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Series Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@jensensswthrt @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

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@kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned @jassackles @periandernyx

[foxyjwls007]

I'm a little torn. Cameron is very nice and sweet.

[waynes-multiverse]

Glitch 🌙 || Chapter 6

Fastening myself to you with a stitch...🪡

Pairing: Dean Winchester x witch!reader

Chapter Summary: A terrifying vision leads Sam and Dean back to Salem and back to you. But can they stop whoever's coming for you before it's too late?

Warnings: 18+ language and violence, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, major angst, family mysteries, demons, injuries and hospitals, hurt/comfort, jealousy (unless you're in denial like Dean), fluff if you squint hard, some spiciness (reader x OMC)

Word Count: 15.9k

A/N: Ready to meet the other guy, guys? 'Cause Dean surely isn't 😝 Be nice to Cam, friends. He's a fun plot device to torture Dean with, so enjoy him while he lasts till the end game starts 😉

🔮 Chapter Title: Evidence by Jimmy Eat World

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

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 6: East Atlantic Breeze

Dean just knows when he’s dreaming these days. Granted, it’s not right away, usually. There’s always that blurry stretch at first till he forgets himself enough to sink into it. But then, the recognition comes, familiar like an old scar aching in winter.

He also knows this house by now, too. 

He’s inside this time and slightly older, probably around fourteen. The bones of the old Queen Anne groan around him as gusts of wind brush against the siding outside, the sound somehow comforting beneath the murmur of low voices downstairs. 

Early autumn has already taken over the mountain, the cooler air drifting through cracked-open windows and carrying the scent of damp leaves and chimney smoke into the hallways. The trees outside have only just started turning, streaks of maroon, amber, and gold bleeding through the dark green forest surrounding the hill. 

The entire house smells like cedar, apple, and cinnamon from your mom’s baking tonight, and everything always glows softer and warmer here somehow. 

Safe.

Dean stands near the top of the staircase while he struggles into his jacket. The sleeves are slightly too short now, but Dad still hasn’t gotten him a new one. His father’s getting ready to leave again, and Sammy’s probably already waiting outside in the car. Dean knows he should be heading down soon as well before John starts barking orders again.

But instead, he pauses and leans against the hallway wall, his attention catching the conversation in the kitchen downstairs. He can hear silverware and dishes clinking beneath the voices drifting through the house.

Slowly, he steps closer to the staircase landing, careful not to let the old floorboards creak beneath his weight and give him away. His father’s deep voice cuts through first.

“…doesn’t sit right with me,” John says gruffly. “It’s the third set of tracks this month. This thing’s closing in.”

“John,” your mother says gently, patient like always whenever his father starts spiraling into hunter paranoia. She sounds like she’s had this exact argument at least ten times before.

“I’m serious, Freya,” his father says. “They’re getting bolder. They’re searching.”

“And I’m telling you the protections are intact.”

“That doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way forever.” 

Your grandmother lets out a sigh, long-suffering and unimpressed. “John, if a demon crossed the property line, you’d know. The wards are holding.”

Aine.

Dean remembers her as well, his stomach twisting strangely at her voice, firmer and older than your mother’s warm tone. She always wears long dark dresses around the house, silver rings adorned with gemstones glinting on her fingers whenever she touches his shoulder or pushes hair out of your face. She always looks at him like she can see every single thought rattling around in his skull before he even opens his mouth or can cause trouble.

He shuffles a little closer toward the staircase, fingers curling loosely around the banister rail. He probably shouldn’t listen. Last time he got caught eavesdropping, Aine glared at him for so long afterward he swore she could see the guilt physically crawling around inside his guts.

Still, he can’t really stop. 

He can picture all three of them perfectly without even seeing the kitchen – Dad pacing near the table, Freya standing by the stove with her arms crossed over her chest, trying to keep the peace like always, and Aine sitting perfectly still nearby, watching all of it unfold with that sharp-eyed look, thinking three steps ahead of everyone else.

“The demon’s getting desperate,” his father says then. “You said yourself it’s been searching for years.”

“We don’t know exactly what it’s searching for, though,” Freya replies.

“We know enough,” Aine says sternly. “It wants the boy.”

Dean’s brow furrows wildly at that. What the hell are they talking about? What boy? Do they mean him or Sammy?

“And it sees our bloodline as a threat,” your grandmother adds.

His dad lets out a deep breath through his nose. “We still don’t know what the demon wants with Sam.”

Sam. 

So they’re talking about his little brother and not Dean. The relief of that only lasts a few seconds, however. 

“No, we don’t,” Freya admits quietly. “We only know he’s important somehow.” 

“And we know what it wants with my granddaughter,” Aine adds with a huff.

“She’s not ready yet,” Freya notes softly. “Not for whatever’s coming.”

“She won’t be ready before her twenty-first birthday,” Aine agrees. “Until then, her abilities will remain limited.”

“And if the demon makes a move before then?” his father asks sternly. 

“We protect her,” Freya says simply. “All of them.” 

Aine hums in agreement. “Which may require difficult decisions.”

Dean frowns slightly. He doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that the children are attached to one another at this point,” Aine says. “That attachment creates vulnerability. As long as they’re together, one of them will always have a target on their back.”

“Mom,” Freya sighs tiredly. “They’re just kids.”

“And children grow.”

“You can’t expect them not to care about each other.”

“No,” Aine agrees calmly with her daughter. “But perhaps we can make it easier.”

Something about the way she says it makes the hair on Dean’s arms stand up.

“Separating them now would only hurt them, Mom,” Freya continues gently.

“Hurt them temporarily,” Aine corrects. “Protect them permanently.”

What the hell are they talking about? His jaw clenches before he even understands why, his heart thudding strangely against his ribs. 

“We don’t know that,” Freya argues.

“Like I said, we know enough, dear.”

There’s a moment of silence before his father speaks again. 

“What are you suggesting?”

Aine hums thoughtfully. “Only that there may still be ways to loosen certain attachments before matters escalate further.”

Dean doesn’t fully understand what any of that means, but he knows immediately he doesn’t like it. An ice-cold shiver crawls unpleasantly down his spine. 

Why are they talking about separating him, Sammy, and you? Does that mean they’re never coming back here? 

That doesn’t seem right. Dean won’t stand for that. 

A floorboard then creaks behind him suddenly, causing Dean to turn.

He finds you standing in the hallway in plaid pajama pants and fuzzy socks, clutching a mug almost too big for your hands. Steam curls upward from whatever Freya apparently made you before bed. Your hair’s still damp at the ends from your bath and woven into loose pigtails as you squint your eyes at him suspiciously. 

“You’re eavesdropping again,” you whisper accusingly.

Dean’s straightens in an instant, shrugging it off. “No, I’m not.”

“You are, too.”

“Am not.” Dean then quickly grabs your wrist and pulls you farther down the hallway before the adults downstairs can hear either of you. “Shh,” he hisses. “Would you keep it down? They’ll hear.”

“So you are eavesdropping.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, crossing his arms, “you and Sammy aren’t allowed to hear it. I can.”

Your brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because I’m older.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Exactly,” Dean scoffs loudly. “I know how to shoot a gun.”

But you only stare at him like that proves nothing at all.

He rolls his eyes back and sighs. “They talk about weird crap when they think we’re not around.”

You curiously lift a brow. “What kind of weird?”

Dean shrugs, pretending not to care all that much, although his chest still feels strange from whatever the hell Aine mentioned downstairs.

“The usual weird stuff,” he replies simply. 

“Demon weird stuff?”

“Yeah.”

You take another thoughtful sip from your mug. “Grandma says you shouldn’t call it weird.”

Dean snorts a chuckle. “Your grandma also thinks tea fixes everything.”

“It does help.”

“Yeah? Tell that to Dad’s cholesterol.”

You wrinkle your nose, clearly not understanding the joke at all. Dean still grins, though.

It’s stupid how easy it always feels around you here. Easier than anywhere else. Easier than with most people, honestly. There’s no carefulness. No trying. He can just be himself. 

He can’t lose that. 

You then glance toward the stairs again before your gaze drops to the duffel bag by his feet.

“Are you leaving again?”

Dean nods with a light swallow, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Dad’s got a hunt.”

Your shoulders slump. “Again?”

Dean winces internally, feeling the guilt trickle into his gut.

“Won’t be long,” he replies softly, although the words spoken downstairs ring through his head. 

What if he can’t really make such promises anymore? What if Dad’s never taking him and Sammy back here? What if he never sees you again? What if this is the last time?

“Can I come?” you ask suddenly, causing his brows to shoot up. 

Dean barks a laugh, shaking his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dangerous.”

“I can do dangerous things.”

“You’re nine.”

You straighten your spine indignantly to make yourself taller. “I know things.”

Dean frowns a little, pointing a finger at you. “That right there? That’s exactly why you can’t come.”

Your mouth falls open in protest. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“I could help.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“I know more than Sammy does.”

Dean groans, throwing his head back. “And there it is.”

“It’s true!” 

He exhales hard through his nose. God, you’re annoying when you get like this – tiny and yet determined and impossible to argue with because you always sound so damn sincere about everything.

“Yeah, well,” he sighs and scratches the back of his neck, “this stuff’s different, alright?”

You stare up at him stubbornly for another beat before your expression softens again, your lips pulling into a small pout. “When are you coming back?” 

Dean follows your gaze toward the front yard outside. Through the stained glass window above the stairs, he can see the Impala parked out front, Sammy already sitting in the backseat and waiting for him and his father.

But something feels wrong about the picture.

Ten-year-old Sam is curled awkwardly against the door, one hand pressed tightly against the side of his head. Even from here, Dean can see pain flashing across his face.

The realization that something isn’t right hits hard enough to send a strange feeling through the dream around him. The hallway suddenly feels too long, the wind outside howls louder, and the edges of his vision begin to blur.

Sammy didn’t get migraines at that age. 

“Dean?”

Upon your call, he looks back at you. You’re watching him carefully now, concern creeping into the creases of your brow.

“When are you coming back?” you repeat softly.

Dean swallows once against the strange panic climbing up his throat. Before he can think about it for too long, he reaches out without thinking and tucks a loose strand of hair out of your face.

“I don’t know yet,” he admits but then sends you a smile. “Promise I’ll come back, though.”

And he means it. Every damn inch of him means it.

Your face brightens, trust flowing warm and absolute into your smile as if his promise alone is enough to steady the entire world again. You look at him like his word means something permanent to you and nothing could ever possibly break it, and that little fact twists his heart painfully deep inside his ribcage. 

“Okay,” you say quietly.

But down in the yard, Sammy suddenly doubles over harder in the backseat, and the dream snaps violently apart.

Dean jerks awake so fast his right shoulder slams painfully into the motel wall beside the bed. Darkness crashes back around him all at once – the cheap wallpaper of a motel in bumfuck nowhere, the buzzing neon outside, and the stale smell of old cigarette smoke buried deep inside the mattress beneath him (and God knows what else).

But for a moment, he can still smell a trace of the woodsmoke and cedar from his dream before he notices Sam thrashing against the sheets with a strangled sound next to him.

Dean’s on his feet before even being fully awake.

“Sammy.” His deep voice comes out rougher than usual as he grabs Sam’s shoulder hard enough to shake him. “Sam.”

Sam jolts awake with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instantly to his forehead. His breathing comes uneven and shallow, pain still written all over his face.

Dean’s stomach drops, heart pounding. He already knows it’s not a nightmare but another vision. 

“You with me?” he checks sternly.

Sam nods quickly between ragged breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before forcing out a strained, “Yeah.”

“What happened? What’d you see?”

Dean then waits for an answer, stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Finally, Sam looks up at him, and Dean can see the fear sitting naked and clear behind his little brother’s hazel eyes, turning his blood ice-cold before your name bleeds from Sam’s lips.

Every muscle in Dean’s body locks up in an instant.

“A demon found her,” Sam says hoarsely, swallowing harshly. “She was at the lab. It had Mia and Paige, too. I saw blood, black eyes–…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “Dean, she was screaming.”

A shudder so cold it could freeze a volcano runs down Dean’s spine. He’s reaching for his jeans off the chair before Sam can even finish talking, adrenaline crashing at full speed into his bloodstream.

Sam’s visions usually don’t leave a lot of wiggle room, much less giving the brothers a head start most times. They can’t sit around for hours till they’ve come up with a plan. This isn’t just some random case. 

It’s you. And for some reason he can’t explain, that changes fucking everything.

Salem, Massachusetts

After your little headless adventure a week ago, there have been exactly three things keeping you emotionally functional.

One: caffeine.

Two: spite.

And three: Cameron finally coming home today after six months overseas.

Obviously, the third one’s carrying most of the weight.

A yawn escapes you under the fluorescent lights of the lab as you try to fish out bullet fragments from a bloody denim jacket with tweezers. The safety goggles sometimes make seeing not any easier. 

Meanwhile, the AC works with military-grade precision inside the depressing government-beige walls every police station in America apparently requires, while outside the tall windows, Salem bakes beneath late summer heat. 

Beside you, Paige sits cross-legged on top of one of the empty lab counters despite multiple signs explicitly telling civilians not to sit on literally any surface in here. Naturally, that only encouraged her. 

“You know,” Paige says thoughtfully from her spot, “normal people usually put little hearts in notebooks. Maybe doodle initials if they’re feeling really cray-cray.”

You don’t look up from the microscope. “Uh–huh… Your point?”

“You labeled a blood spatter diagram with the words Mrs. Cameron Cooper in pink glitter pen.”

You pause, then slowly glance down at the file in front of you.

Oh. Huh.

“Well,” you mutter and clear your throat. “That’s embarrassing.” 

In your defense, glitter gel pens shouldn’t be that accessible in a government building. That’s just asking for trouble, especially when you’re running on four hours of sleep and one iced coffee the size of Rhode Island.

Paige beams triumphantly. “You’re in love.”

“I’ve been in love for like two years now,” you point out. 

“Yeah, but now he’s coming home and suddenly you’ve become clinically insane about it.”

“That’s not true,” you retort, quickly scribbling over the doodles with a black marker.

Paige snorts into her iced coffee while you turn to carefully scrape another sample into a glass vial. Honestly, she should feel lucky you haven’t hexed her into temporary silence yet. 

She grins knowingly. “Cameron’s flight lands in, what, an hour?”

“Fifty-two minutes.”

“God, that’s disgusting,” she teases. “But granted, you do look happier than you did all summer.”

That part might actually be true. 

This whole week everything felt normal again. No demons. No destiny. No Winchester brothers showing up out of nowhere to emotionally clothesline your life into another dimension.

The lab door then swings open behind you.

“Good morning, ladies.”

Pete, one of your younger colleagues, wanders inside, balancing two coffees and a stack of files tucked beneath one arm. Usually, he comes to work like an overexcited Golden Retriever who learned forensic science instead of fetch. Today, however, something about him feels oddly muted.

Normally, he carries an unopened comic book with him and is already halfway into a rant about some obscure sci-fi reboot nobody asked for. Pete practically vibrates with nerd trivia at all times. Last month, he spent twenty minutes passionately explaining why practical effects peaked in the eighties while holding a human femur. Once, he compared fingerprint dusting techniques to Pokémon evolution charts.

Today, though, he just sets the coffees down silently and starts sorting files beside the evidence cabinet.

No movie references. No rambling. No Star Wars shirt, either. No asking if anybody watched Battlestar Galactica again.

Weird.

You glance over your shoulder briefly while sealing another sample tube. “You feeling okay?”

Pete looks up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You haven’t mentioned Star Wars once.”

He shrugs. “Figured I mention Star Wars too much.”

“What if I called Spock a Jedi? Does that do something for you?” you quip.

But he only gives a brief chuckle that doesn’t mirror in his eyes and reaches for a pair of gloves from the supply shelf.

The wrong shelf.

You snort. “Pete.”

“What?”

“The nitrile gloves are literally behind you.”

He pauses and looks at the shelf. 

“Oh, right,” he says lightly and turns around toward the correct one.

Your brows crease slightly. Pete normally knows this lab better than you do half the time. The man alphabetized the evidence freezer for fun once. You’re pretty sure he’d survive longer than everybody else during an apocalypse purely because his organizational skills border on supernatural already.

Still, grief does strange things to people, and you know his grandmother only died a few weeks ago. Dark circles shadow the skin beneath his eyes, and his shoulders seem tenser than usual under his wrinkled sweater vest. Maybe his brain’s just foggy today. It happens.

You hesitate only briefly before flicking the switch inside your head and letting color bloom beneath skin.

Paige glows bright firecracker orange beside you as usual – loud emotions, fierce loyalty, stubbornness, and some light homicidal tendencies, especially when someone cuts the line at Starbucks.

Pete’s aura, however, definitely leans darker than usual.

There are literal storm-gray clouds drifting around his dandelion-yellow aura, tangling sluggishly with thin, oily-black strands. 

Huh. That’s… new.

You’ve seen grief darken people before, clinging to them like cigarette smoke. Sadness, too. Depression leaves heavy marks sometimes and muddies auras. But still–

“You good?” Pete glances up from the evidence cabinet.

“Yeah,” you answer and look away quickly, dropping the aura reading. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

Before you can think any harder about it, the lab door opens again. This time, Mia strolls inside, carrying an evidence box beneath one arm and an iced coffee in the other hand. Her dark sunglasses rest on top of her head, and her gun belt clinks as she walks.

“You alive in here?” Mia asks dryly. 

Paige waves enthusiastically from the counter. “Hi, Mom.”

Mia snorts and points toward her without missing a beat. “Still not yours.”

Paige grins in return. “Emotionally, though.”

Mia laughs softly before placing the evidence box down on your workstation. Usually, you’d already be teasing her about paperwork or stealing her coffee or asking about whatever disaster patrol dealt with this morning.

Not this time, though.

Instead, you pull your gloves off carefully and avoid looking at her for too long. It’s awful, actually, because Mia notices immediately. Of course she does. She raised you.

“You still doing toxicology on the Harbor case?” she asks.

You give her a quick nod. “Mm-hm.”

“I left the supplemental reports in there, too.”

“Okay.”

The silence that follows is haunting and so awkward even Paige and Pete don’t know where to look to avoid it. Paige suddenly becomes very fascinated with the nutritional values of her coffee cup while Pete pretends to organize paperwork that’s already organized. 

Full disclosure: you’ve been sort of avoiding Mia to the best of your abilities since returning from Sleepy Hollow and going through her basement safe, finding a letter from your mother. 

You haven’t told her about the letter. You haven’t told her about the Winchesters, about the ritual, or about your other discoveries. You haven’t told her a single thing. Haven’t really asked any questions, either. And now, it feels like there’s this big secret sitting between the two of you – and Mia doesn’t even know what your distance is about. 

God, you hate everything about this. 

Mia then rests one hand lightly on the counter. “You working late tonight?”

“Probably not.”

“Cam gets in today, right?”

You finally glance at her for the shortest second. “Yup, in less than an hour.”

A small smile rises on her face. “Bet you’re excited.”

“Uh-huh.”

The next silence is even worse. She definitely knows something’s up with you now. You can practically feel the unasked questions sitting between you.

And sure, a part of you understands why Mia hid everything. Why she tried so desperately to give you a normal life after the fire – school dances and science fairs and college applications instead of prophecies and demons and whatever horrifying supernatural nonsense apparently stalked your family tree for generations.

But another part of you keeps remembering the letter, followed by the awful realization that everybody around you seems to know pieces of your life you were never allowed to have.

You know you have to tell her eventually. But there’s nothing wrong with a little procrastination, is there?

“Tell Cameron I said welcome home,” Mia says finally.

“I will.” You nod quickly and force a smile, although she can definitely tell it’s fake. You know she can hear the distance in your voice. 

You have to get out of here before you explode and spill everything in front of an audience. 

“Well, uhm, I gotta go. Don’t wanna be late,” you excuse yourself with a swallow and grab your bag from the chair, shoving your sunglasses onto your head before the guilt catches up to you.

“Drive safe,” Mia calls after you.

You pause for half a second but then force yourself not to turn around.

“Always do,” you answer lightly before disappearing out into the bright Salem heat.

The rain starts sometime during the second half of the movie flickering across your bedroom TV screen, pattering softly against the window, blurring the town into blobs of gray and gold. 

But as pretty as Salem looks in weather like this, your focus isn’t on the rain outside but on the man sprawled currently beneath you. Being this close to Cameron again feels too good to be true. 

He still smells the same. He still feels the same. And his laugh still sounds the same, too. 

God, you missed him. 

And not just because he’s your boyfriend, although that obviously falls into the equation as well. But it’s mostly because, aside from Paige, Cam just gets you – every little part of you. He understands you better than anyone else on this planet, and you’ve never met anyone like him before who does. 

You still remember when you spotted this tall, pretty boy staring into an old book in the library with a deeply wrinkled brow. And the book in his hands? It was about the Salem witch trials. 

Naturally, you got curious – friend or foe, right? And as you sat down and chatted him up, Cameron then told you that his history professor gave them an assignment to dig deeper into their family tree and write a paper about it. 

And sweet, handsome Cam? He just so happens to be a direct descendant of one of the Salem witches. He has zero magical powers, which makes him slightly more boring again (his ancestors were falsely accused), but he’s been a loyal defender of witchcraft ever since. 

In fact, the man didn’t even blink when you told him you were a witch and rescued the sad ficus in his dorm room. All he said was ‘cool,’ grinned, and kissed you harder. 

And you didn’t just miss him because he’s one of the few people who understands you. You didn’t miss him in a dramatic movie-monologue, Romeo-and-Juliet, Maria-and-Tony, ‘I’ll-poison-and-stab-and-kill-myself-without-you’ kind of way. You missed him in the quiet, awful ways that sneak up on you – hearing his keys in the lock, feeling his warmth next to you at night, smelling his body wash in the shower. 

Now, your head rests on his chest while he absently plays with the ends of your hair, the pizza box lying open near your feet, completely demolished after several hours of mutual starvation and no self-control. His deployment bag still sits half-unpacked near your dresser, tan-colored fabric spilling slightly out of the zipper. He’d barely made it through your apartment door before you’d practically tackled him into the nearest horizontal surface available. 

It’d been a very enthusiastic and acrobatic reunion to say the least. 

In your defense, though, six months is an unreasonable amount of time to go without kissing someone you love.

You snuggle deeper into his embrace and watch Brendan Fraser on screen, running away from at least fifteen angry mummies while Rachel Weisz yells at him in fake Ancient Egypt. 

“See? This is romance,” you quip teasingly.

Cameron scoffs a chuckle above your head. “This is grave robbing.”

“No, Cam, grave robbing is the backdrop,” you explain with a grin. “The romance is the unresolved sexual tension during life-threatening situations.”

“They’ve known each other for two days.”

“So what? Chemistry hits instantly,” you quip, wiggling your brows. 

He snorts and wraps his arms tighter around you, pecking the top of your head. 

A smile tugs at your lips as you settle more comfortably against him. His skin’s still warm from the shower you took together earlier, one of his hands resting lazily against your bare thigh beneath the oversized Army shirt you stole from him.

The past few hours almost feel normal enough to pretend the last weeks never happened – no demons, no hunters, no terrifying family revelations hidden inside dead moms’ letters.

Tonight, it’s just Cameron’s heartbeat beneath your cheek and stupid movies and rain outside.

But you honestly may be cursed, because right in the midst of that ordinary peacefulness, your phone buzzes loudly on your nightstand, shattering the illusion of normalcy when Sam Winchester’s name flashes across the screen. 

Damn. You know that boy is psychic, but that’s impressive even for him. 

Cameron shifts slightly under you as he sneaks a peek at your screen. “Who’s that?”

You grab the phone quickly and silence the call before it finishes ringing. “One of the hunters,” you reply, tossing the phone back onto the mattress. 

Cameron’s fingers still against your leg for the briefest second. “The ones you told me about earlier?”

“Mhm.”

After the first round of reunion activities, you finally managed to fill him in on everything that happened this past month, including almost getting shot and hunting a headless ghost on a horse. Cameron had listened through all of it while you talked yourself in circles, his fingers tracing comforting patterns along your spine while you tried explaining things you still barely understood yourself. 

You still don’t understand most of it even now. And when you were finished, it was the first time you actually watched his jaw go slack.

“The guy who pointed the gun at you?” Cam checks.

You snort softly, shaking your head. “No, the other one.”

“That honestly doesn’t make me feel better.”

Yeah, obviously, he wasn’t a big fan of that particular part of your story. There’s no smooth way of telling someone you almost got killed, but you admittedly find his concern for your life slightly adorable. 

You smile a little to yourself as you reach for another slice of pizza. The mattress dips slightly as Cameron props himself up against the headboard behind you, his expression quieter and more serious than before.

“You really think you should be involved with these people?”

There’s no accusation in his voice. All you hear is worry, which you suppose is fair. You’re not sure how you would feel if the roles were reversed. 

You stare at the television for a second longer before answering. “They’re not bad people.”

“You said one of them tried to shoot you.”

“He thought I was dangerous,” you argue lightly. 

Cam smirks. “You are dangerous.”

The smile fades a little from your face as you look back toward the TV again. You’ve spent most of the afternoon trying not to think too hard about any of this, but now the thoughts are creeping back in.

Sam’s intensity whenever the ritual came up. Dean stepping in every time the conversation started pushing too far.

Truthfully, tarot cards and auras aside, you still don’t know what to make of either of them.

“I think Sam means well,” you say slowly. “He just seems to want answers really badly.”

“And the other one?”

You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip as the rain taps softly against the window while the movie soundtrack swells dramatically in the background.

“He’s kind of a jerk,” you admit.

Cameron snorts a laugh. “Strong endorsement.”

“But… I don’t know.” You draw a small frown and shrug your shoulders. “He surprised me, I guess.”

And that’s probably the closest you can explain it right now. 

You weirdly trust Dean not to kill you again. After all, he had plenty of chances in Sleepy Hollow and never took a single one. In fact, it even seemed like he cared enough to keep you alive, although he hid that concern under several layers of armor. Still, whatever misguided notion he harbored about you in the beginning seemed to have passed enough to tolerate your presence. 

“I trust him to keep me alive,” you add quietly.

Cameron studies your face for a beat. “That’s a pretty big thing to trust somebody with.”

You swallow slightly and play with the napkin between your fingers. “Yeah, I guess.”

Silence falls between you for a second afterward before Cameron’s hand begins to move slowly along your thigh under the blanket again.

“So what are you gonna do?” he asks eventually. 

“I don’t know,” you sigh and avert your eyes thoughtfully to the pizza box.

Most days, you’ve felt like you were trapped in a tragic play by Shakespeare – to be a full-powered witch, or not to be, that truly is the question. 

“I don’t wanna wake up one day and realize my whole life stopped being mine. I liked things the way they were before all of this,” you explain quietly, a lump forming in your throat. “But I also can’t stop thinking about why my mom wanted me to know all this so badly. I mean, this is a part of me, right? The only thing I’ve really got left of my family. And if demons are actually looking for me… What if something happens to you? Or Mia? Or Paige because I stayed ignorant on purpose?”

You’ve spent eleven years carefully crafting a normal life in Salem – school, college, work, family, and friends. Tiny apartments and bad coffee and movie nights and futures that made sense. But now, all of a sudden, there’s this other thing standing beside it all – this enormous shadow of a life you were apparently supposed to have instead.

Your mother’s life. Your grandmother’s.

But what if you don’t want to be some kind of weapon?

The thought alone makes your stomach twist, but Cameron reaches over and gently stills your fidgeting hands before you can shred the napkin entirely into pieces.

“Don’t worry about us, okay?” he assures you. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

You finally look up at him and nod. “I know.”

The warm lamplight softly illuminates the scar near his left eyebrow, and your heart flutters as you watch the smile rise on his lips. Cam always feels safe. No matter where you are, he’s home to you. So instead of answering and spiraling further into family destinies, you lean over and catch his lips in a kiss.

Slowly at first. Then much less slowly.

Cameron’s hand wanders up your waist beneath the oversized shirt, pulling you halfway into his lap while the movie continues forgotten in the background.

But then your phone buzzes once more against the mattress beside you, disrupting the peace yet again. Neither of you moves for a second, but you don’t exactly break apart either.

“Ignore it,” Cam mutters against your mouth with a grin. 

A smile hitches on your lips. “Oh, gladly.”

He kisses you harder and deeper in response, causing a few moans to escape you. Your brain has barely managed to stop thinking altogether again when the phone vibrates a third time.

You groan loudly and drop your head against his shoulder. “What in the living hell–”

Cameron chuckles in amusement while you reach blindly toward your phone. But as you glance at the screen this time, it’s not a call, and it’s not from Sam either. 

Instead, a text message glows on the screen.

>>Pete (9:47 PM): hey sorry i know ur off but theres some kind of emergency at the lab. can you come in??

Your eyebrows draw together slightly. “Huh.”

Cameron cocks a brow at your reaction. “What?”

You reread the text once. Then again. Pete usually types like a nerdy suburban dad trapped inside a twenty-five-year-old forensic tech. Proper punctuation. Correct spelling. Entire text messages that sound almost robotic – like talking to C-3PO.

This one looks rushed, though. Messy. Wrong.

“Pete says there’s some emergency at the lab.”

“After nine at night?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.” 

You bite your lip thoughtfully. Outside, thunder rumbles near the harbor. You stare at the message another second before locking your phone and shaking off the weird feeling in your gut.

“Probably evidence contamination or some chain-of-custody disaster again. God knows Salem PD can turn literally anything into a crisis,” you mutter with a long sigh, already climbing reluctantly out of bed.

Cameron catches your wrist before you can fully stand, however. “You want me to come with you?”

You shake your head softly and lean down, kissing him once more. “No, stay here and get some rest,” you tell him with a smile. “You just got home.”

His fingers linger a heartbeat longer around your wrist before letting go. “Text me when you get there.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” You smirk and playfully salute him. 

Cam snorts, shaking his head at you. “That’s not even my rank.”

“It is in my heart.”

Cam chuckles as The Mummy continues descending into chaos while you reach for your jeans on the floor. But just as you do, another tarot card slips out of your bag on the dresser and lands right on the hardwood floor by your feet.

The Tower.

It depicts a jagged black tower split open by lightning, tiny figures tumbling from the burning windows while smoke billows into the painted sky. It stands for sudden destruction, catastrophe, and the truth arriving violently enough to rip your life apart at the foundation.

It’s change you can’t outrun anymore, and you certainly feel the unease that comes with a card like that prickling down your spine. You glance back at Cam one last time and swallow before shoving the card back into your bag and heading out into the storm.

There are truly only four times in your life when you felt like you were unwittingly part of a horror movie. 

Only one of those times happened before meeting the Winchesters – when you watched your old life go up in flames. The other three all happened within the span of a month after the brothers crashed your life. 

There was one creepy stroll through the dark woods of Sleepy Hollow, and another walk through a graveyard in the middle of the night while fog obscured any sight. And then, there’s this one right now – walking through the eerily dark and strangely quiet hallways of the forensic wing at Salem PD. 

Unless there’s an emergency, an ongoing manhunt, or a kidnapped child in danger, there’s truly no reason for anyone to be here at this hour, including you. Most evidence doesn’t grow legs overnight and can usually wait till daylight to be processed. 

Even the parking lot outside was half-empty, only a few windows on the building’s upper floor glowing dimly as the night shift tries to keep the city safe and a few overworked detectives don’t know when to quit and go home.  

Your rain-soaked boots squeak on the polished linoleum as you take your usual route to the main lab. Something still feels off, but not in a grand, noticeable way. It’s more of a tiny feeling in your gut that someone moved all the furniture in the room half an inch to the left, but you have no way of proving it yet. 

“Pete?” you call out as you push through the double doors with your bag hanging from your shoulder.

No answer.

Only half the overhead fluorescents are switched on as you enter. The stainless steel counters gleam cold beneath the pale blue light while computers and machines hum quietly in sleep mode around the room.

Your pace slows instinctively as that horror-movie feeling begins to prickle in the back of your neck again. The cards did warn you.

“Pete?”

Not even a cough echoes back before your eyes spot something dark and liquid on the floor.

Drops – small, scarlet stains are scattered unevenly across the tile near the center workstations. At this point, you recognize the sight of blood even from a distance.

It’s luckily not enough for a murder scene. Not even enough to panic. It’s enough to assume one of your co-workers might have dropped a vial or accidentally spilled something or–

God, please let it be Pete having another nosebleed. 

Your heart is pounding viciously against your ribs as you move faster around the nearest counter and then stop dead in your tracks with a sharp intake of air. 

Paige and Mia sit tied to chairs near the back wall of the lab, and for one full, horrible minute, your brain refuses to process the image correctly.

It doesn’t make sense. Why are they here? Why are they–

Paige’s wrists are bound tightly behind her back with duct tape, her mascara streaking below two wide and terrified eyes while she makes desperate muffled sounds through the tape stretched across her mouth. Beside her, Mia’s chair has been tipped slightly sideways from struggling. Her hair’s escaping from its usual neat bun, fury burning behind her eyes so fiercely it almost hides the fear underneath.

Every nerve in your body goes ice cold.

“Oh my God–”

You lunge forward toward them without wasting another thought. You don’t think about who put them there or if that person might even still be around, although judging by both Mia’s and Paige’s vivid head shakes, you really should’ve. 

The lab door then crashes shut behind you with a force violent enough to rattle the glass cabinets, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot.

You spin around so fast your shoulder slams painfully into the edge of a metal workstation before you can make out Pete standing near the entrance in the dark. 

Or maybe it’s not Pete after all. 

His posture, his expression, his behavior – everything that subtly felt wrong about him today suddenly makes a ton of sense. The gray storm clouds, the oily strings in his aura – it never was grief. It was always a demon. 

Welp, good news is you’ve finally learned to spot demon aura. The bad news is that it might be slightly too late to be even remotely helpful knowledge right now. 

Whatever’s wearing Pete stands completely still with a lazy confidence sitting under its skin. He then lifts and tilts his head at you fully, a sneer spreading across his lips before his eyes turn pitch-black. 

“There she is.”

Paige lets out another muffled cry behind you while Mia immediately starts shaking her head sharply at you, eyes wide with warning.

You take one tentative step backward, your pulse hammering violently in your ears as your mind frantically sorts through every conversation you’ve had over the last month – salt, devil’s traps, holy water, exorcisms.

Dean made sure of that before leaving Sleepy Hollow, shoving a scribbled note into your hands with a few gruff instructions, as if he had already expected trouble to crawl out of the walls eventually.

You memorized the exorcism and also carry a bottle of holy water in your bag, but something in the demon’s cunning smile already tells you your hand won’t be stealthy enough to reach for it and your mouth won’t be fast enough to send that thing straight back to Hell before the demon probably cuts out your tongue. 

One may almost call this a hopeless situation. 

But then you remember the episode of Buffy in Season 2 when she used a pencil to stab a vampire. If there’s anything fighting evil on TV taught you, it’s that literally everything can be turned into a weapon if the protagonist feels desperate enough. 

And you? You feel pretty damn desperate right now.  

The demon takes a patient sweep around the room before looking back at you with a grin that stretches all wrong across Pete’s familiar face.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “this was easier than I expected.”

Your fingers twitch slightly toward your bag, but of course the demon notices that little movement instantly.

“Oh, relax.” He snorts an amused chuckle. “If I wanted you dead already, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

You swallow thickly and try to calm your wildly beating heart. “What do you want?”

The demon’s smile widens. “You really don’t recognize me?”

Your brow knits in confusion, lips pursing the slightest bit. 

The demon tilts his head, studying your face almost curiously. “Huh.” He laughs darkly. “Guess that makes sense. You were what? Eleven?”

For a moment, the world turns freezing cold and darker than a black hole around you. There’s nothing there anymore. Even your blood feels like it’s draining out of your body, leaving nothing for your heart to pump. 

The demon starts strolling slowly toward you. “I gotta admit, though – your family made my job real difficult after that. All those protection spells, wards, hex bags, birch barriers…” He rolls his eyes dramatically and lets out a sigh. “Whole damn bloodline was paranoid.”

Your breath halts in your lungs.

“But your grandma?” he continues. “Mean old thing. Nearly took my head off that night.”

The world tilts upside down under your feet. Your heartbeat stutters hard against your ribs.

That night. The fire.

The demon watches as realization begins to dawn on your face. Then he grins like he won a prize.

“There it is.”

Your mouth goes dry. “No…”

“Oh, yeah.” He sounds almost pleased now. “I remember that house real well.”

Paige whimpers behind you, Mia goes frighteningly still, but the demon unfortunately keeps talking.

“Your mother screamed a lot. Could barely hear myself think by the end of it.” The demon’s smile only widens at the horror blooming in your eyes. “She kept trying to get upstairs. To get to you.” His voice turns mockingly thoughtful. “Even after her dress caught fire. Real determined woman.”

“Stop,” you grit, but that only seems to encourage him more.

“And your grandma?” he continues almost fondly. “Now that was ugly. Think one of the others broke her leg before we finally got her down.” He sneers. “Still tried casting spells through it, too.”

Your vision starts blurring around the edges. The demon notices your shaking hands and laughs in dark amusement.

“Oh, come on. Don’t look so upset. Family reunions are supposed to be emotional.”

Rage then flashes hot through your panic. Your fingers close hard around the strap of your bag. The holy water still sits inside. If you can just distract him long enough–

“And don’t even think about it,” he tsks with a sharp look. 

Before you can respond, something invisible suddenly slams into your chest like a speeding car. Pain explodes through your spine as your body hits the wall hard enough to knock the oxygen from your lungs. Your feet leave the ground for half a second before an unseen force pins you there, crushing against your ribs and shoulders so tightly you can barely breathe.

You gasp sharply as you struggle against the invisible strings holding you upright, but nothing moves or even budges.

Paige screams behind the tape over her mouth while Mia starts fighting violently against her restraints again, chair scraping across the floor.

The demon doesn’t seem bothered by any of it, though, and then strolls casually past you toward Mia.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the big boss wanted you dead quick. But after eleven years of tracking your ass down?” He glances back at you over his shoulder, smirking broadly. “Figured I earned a little fun first.”

“Mia–” Your voice cracks around the pressure crushing your chest.

The demon ignores any failed protests and casually reaches down, grabbing the side of Mia’s chair and jerking it hard enough to slam her sideways onto the floor. She cries out through the gag.

“Don’t touch her!” The words tear out of you in a snarl.

Mia’s eyes flash toward yours. Furious. Protective. Terrified.

The demon crouches slowly down to her. “You know what’s funny?” he asks, one hand gripping Mia’s jaw hard enough to make her flinch. “She still tried protecting you, too.”

“No, please–… Don’t–” Your stomach drops as soon as you realize his intentions in the black pits of his eyes.

A smirk twitches on the demon’s lips. “Guess you’re about to lose your second mommy as well.”

“Dammit,” Sam huffs and snaps the phone shut in frustration when it rings out to voicemail yet again. “She’s not picking up.”

The Impala tears through the highway fast enough that the engine starts sounding strained under Dean’s feet, but he ignores it and presses down harder on the gas pedal. Rainwater streaks across the windshield, reflecting in passing headlights while mile after mile disappears beneath the tires. But Salem’s still too damn far away for Dean’s liking.

Sam immediately dials your number again for what has to be the twentieth time in the last hour.

Dean’s jaw tightens as he aggressively shifts gears. “What the hell is she doing?”

The question comes out rougher than intended, sharpened by the same ugly knot of anxiety that’s been marinating in his chest ever since Sam woke up in that motel room sweat-drenched, pale, and shaking from another vision. 

Dean keeps replaying the sight of his brother clutching his head in pain, disoriented and breathless while trying to explain what he saw. Sam’s visions have never exactly been wrong before, and that’s the part Dean can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard he tries to focus on the road ahead.

“Come on, come on…” Sam murmurs impatiently as he listens to another string of unanswered rings, bouncing one restless knee hard enough to cause the dashboard to vibrate.

Dean reaches over finally and shoves the phone downward. “Dude.”

“What?” Sam snaps.

“You calling every thirty seconds isn’t helping.”

Sam shoots him an irritated look. “And what? Doing nothing is?”

Dean opens his mouth, ready with some smartass response, but nothing actually comes out. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know what the hell they’re supposed to do either, besides drive faster and hope they’re not already too late.

Sam rubs tiredly at his forehead before staring back down at the phone in his hand. “She doesn’t know what she’s dealing with.”

Yup, that’s exactly the problem, Dean thinks in agreement. 

Right now, you only know enough to be truly dangerous to yourself if he’s being completely honest. You may be able to draw a devil’s trap, recite an exorcism, and carry holy water, but that only might buy you a little bit of time. 

By the time Salem then finally comes into view, the rain’s mostly stopped. The town glistens beneath streetlights and neon signs while Dean swings the Impala hard around another corner downtown.

The police station looks downright dead when they pull up.

There are no lights in most of the windows and no movement either. There’s just the sound of rainwater dripping off the building’s awning as Dean kills the engine in the parking lot – right next to your car. 

Considering Sam’s vision showed you being attacked in the lab, Dean doesn’t necessarily take that as a good sign, though. 

Again, a head start would’ve been nice. 

Sam jumps out of the Impala first, practically running toward the entrance while Dean grabs the shotgun from under the seat and follows closely behind.

Inside, the station feels wrong in the same way horror movies feel wrong in the beginning – it’s too damn quiet, and the stupid lights are flickering, too. 

Their footsteps echo through the empty hallways, the entire building feeling abandoned in an unsettling late-night way. Sam leads without hesitation, sneaking through the forensic wing like he already knows exactly where he’s going from his vision alone.

Dean keeps one hand tight around the shotgun as they round another corner. There’s still no sound, nothing to point them in the right direction, which can be either good or bad. His eyes can barely make out shapes in the dark before a loud crash explodes down the hallway. 

A scream follows immediately after – yours.

Both brothers break into a run at the exact same time. Dean nearly shoulder-checks Sam trying to get through the lab doors first, adrenaline rushing into his blood the second another crash rattles from inside. The sound of glass shattering follows before a distorted scream that surely doesn’t belong to anything human overpowers every other noise.

Dean shoves through the doors hard enough they slam against the wall behind him, but the sight in front of him makes him stop short for entirely different reasons than he expected.

Instead of finding you half-dead, bleeding out on the linoleum, you’re sitting breathlessly on the ground near the far wall, one hand braced shakily against the tile while your chest rises and falls like you’ve just crossed the finish line after a marathon. 

Several feet across from you, what seems to be a demon thrashes furiously inside a devil’s trap burned black into the linoleum floor. Smoke still curls from the charred lines while steam rises visibly from the meat suit’s skin, black eyes wild and crazed with unmatched anger as the thing screams loudly enough to shatter the glass cabinets.

For a full minute, Dean genuinely has no idea what he’s looking at. Even Sam stares with his mouth agape, tilting his head with that familiar knit in his brows that says he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, either. 

You look up at them, pale and visibly trembling but conscious, alive, and somehow still coherent enough to speak and joke around. “If this is you guys coming to save me, you suck at your job,” you gasp out between breaths. 

Dean’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “How–, uhm, how did you–”

You smile breathlessly. “Did you know the human body is made up of roughly sixty percent water? So, technically…”

Understanding flashes across Sam’s face first, immediate fascination overtaking the earlier panic. “You turned the water inside his body into holy water?”

“Yup, like Jesus – or something like that. Thought I give it a shot.” You nod, swallowing thickly as you still try to catch your breath. “And then I burned the devil’s trap into the floor before he could move again.”

Dean’s eyes drop toward the blackened symbol carved into the linoleum beneath the demon’s feet once more, the melted plastic edges still smoking from the intense heat.

“You gave it a shot?” he repeats in disbelief, raising a brow at you. 

You shrug your shoulders. “Sam told me to improvise.” Then a small grin spreads on your lips. “So did Buffy.”

He shoots you a dry look. “A TV show? That’s what you were going off on?”

Sam throws him a raised look at that, pretty much saying and how many times have you done that, huh? But that’s all beside the point. You’re still a rookie, an amateur, and you need to at least level up a little more before you can afford stunts like that. 

Still, good job overall, he supposes. You’re alive. Congratulations on not dying would probably be in order. 

And then the relief crashes fully through his system, leaving him almost dizzy for a moment. Because the entire drive here, some ugly part of his mind had already started preparing for the possibility of being too late – of walking into blood and bodies and another failure they’d have to live with afterward. Another pyre he’d have to light at the end of this. 

Instead, you trapped the damn thing yourself.

Before he fully thinks about it, Dean closes the remaining distance and holds a hand out to you. “You hurt?”

Your eyes flick briefly to his hand before you take it. Your fingers feel unbelievably warm against his calloused palm as Dean pulls you gently to your feet. Up close, he notices the bruising already darkening near your shoulder and the lingering panic and fear still written across your face no matter how hard you’re trying to keep yourself together on the outside.

“I’m fine. Just a little banged up,” you reply and then nod toward the two innocent hostages still tied up. “But Mia–… He got her pretty bad before I could trap him. We need to get her to a hospital.”

Dean turns and instantly sees the blood soaking through Mia’s side, dripping steadily from the chair onto the floor beneath her. Her breathing sounds shallow, strained through clenched teeth while Paige struggles frantically with the restraints around her wrists.

Dean moves immediately while Sam grabs a discarded towel from the counter and presses it hard against the wound. Mia hisses sharply in pain.

“We need to go,” Paige says as soon as Dean has carefully removed the tape from her mouth and wrists, her voice shaking badly.

You dig out your keys from your bag with trembling hands and toss them toward her. “Take my car,” you tell her quickly. “I’ll come after.”

Paige catches the keys awkwardly before Sam and her help Mia carefully to her feet. She nearly collapses immediately again with a sharp gasp, blood already soaking through the towel Sam pressed against her side.

Dean manages to catch her before she hits the floor. “Easy there, Sarge.”

“Someone better fill me in on what’s going on here,” Mia hisses through anger and pain. 

You bite down on your lips and nod. “Yup, later. Promise.”

The demon laughs in cruel amusement behind them, but Dean ignores it for now, helping steady Mia while Paige gets her arm around her properly. The second they disappear through the lab doors, the room falls into silence.

Dean then turns back toward the trap and watches the black eyes gleam through steam and smoke.

“Well, this is cozy,” the thing quips, snickering in delight. “So glad the Winchesters could join us tonight. I really wanted to thank you guys.”

Sam steps a little closer, brow furrowing. “For what?”

“My, Sammy, for finding her, of course,” the demon retorts with a wide smirk. “You boys truly did the hard part for us.”

The silence only thickens like molasses in the room as Dean meets your eyes briefly before you avert yours first, and he feels the sting of that between his ribs.

“Big boss spent years trying to track the little witch down again after your daddy hid her away,” the demon says mockingly. “Then you two idiots show up in Salem asking questions about Berkano witches and demons.” A sharp laugh escapes. “Might as well’ve mailed us her damn address.”

Dean’s stomach twists into more knots while Sam goes pale next to him.

The demon seems to notice and only grins wider. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. John Winchester covered his tracks real good after that fire. Got her out before the house came down, dumped her with the cop lady, and disappeared before we could pick the trail back up.” Its black eyes slide between the brothers. “Smart man. Shame his sons ain’t.”

Dean’s jaw locks tightly. You haven’t said a single word since the revelation hit, but he can still feel the suddenly freezing temperature in the room that has nothing to do with anything supernatural.

Sam steps closer toward the trap despite Dean grabbing unsuccessfully for his arm. “What does Yellow-Eyes want with her?”

The demon gives a careless shrug. “Her dead.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a threat.” He then glances down and around himself, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Starting to understand the hype. My mistake. She seemed more harmless when she was still a little girl, crying for her mommy.”

“Yeah, guess I grew up,” you retort bitterly. 

The demon smirks deviously. “Won’t happen again, sweetheart.”

“Damn right it won’t,” Dean growls. “‘Cause I’m sending you right back into the hole you crawled out of.”

The demon snorts. “Oh, please do. You think I’m the only one after her?” He lifts a brow in mock. “The entirety of Hell is looking for her. Got a high reward on her head. She made it to the top of the most wanted list, especially since you two woke the sleeper cell. What is she, your Plan B after you lost the Colt?” He smirks triumphantly. “She is, isn’t she?”

Sam’s eyes flick to you. “He was there that night?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug slightly, keeping your gaze trained on the demon. 

“I thought you said the demon’s eyes were yellow.”

“They were,” you grit through your teeth. 

“Oh, boss was there,” the demon offers. “Witches as powerful as her mommy and grams? Took a lot of us to take them down. And man, they fought.” He whistles lowly and shoots you a grin. “Got about ten of us before we’d finally torn them apart enough to make a difference. Does that make you feel better, sweetheart?”

You glare at the demon, jaw clenching. “Screw you.”

Sam’s expression darkens. “You said they got about ten of you… Got how? Did they send them back to Hell?”

The demon smirks, amused. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sam’s jaw tightens sharply. “What really happened that night?”

A smile slowly rises at the corners of the demon’s mouth. “Your daddy showed up right in the middle of it, grabbed the kid before boss could get to her, and then ditched outta there while the witches tried holding us off. Didn’t even try to save them.” He cackles and finds your eyes. “Obviously, that didn’t work out too great for them.”

Dean’s eyes drift to you. Your cheeks have lost all color, fists clenched tightly at your sides, your eyes overwhelmed and brimming with tears that you don’t let fall, not wanting the thing to win. 

“Oh, c’mon, sweetheart,” the demon croons. “You should’ve heard your mom screaming for you.”

“The ritual,” Sam cuts in thankfully before the thing could continue his taunts. “What does it do?”

“No clue.” The demon snorts a laugh. “Witch crap’s above my pay grade, Sammy. All I know is the old bastard wants the Berkano line wiped out before she comes into her full power.”

Dean’s nostrils flare as he takes a slow step forward.

The demon’s grin widens. “There he is.”

“You got about five seconds before I send your ass screaming back to Hell,” Dean threatens. 

“Oh, I’m terrified.”

“And I mean it.”

The demon laughs again, black eyes sliding toward you. “Sooner or later, one of us is gonna get outta a trap long enough to carve you open real slow and figure out exactly why even the boss is so scared of your bloodline. Maybe we’ll start with your hands first. Or your eyes. Or your tongue. Bet a witch can scream for a real long time before she dies–”

Dean steps right to the edge of the trap, fury flashing across his face. “You touch her again and I will personally drag your ass apart piece by piece.”

The demon smirks wider. “See? That’s cute. You actually care–”

That’s when Dean snaps and the exorcism starts tearing out of him at a furious pace before a hand on his arm halts him in his tracks – yours. He glances at your hand briefly before finding your eyes.

“Wait, what happens to Pete?” you ask. 

Dean’s brow furrows. “Pete?”

“My co-worker,” you clarify and nod toward the demon in the trap. “You can’t kill him.”

Sam steps in. “It’s not gonna kill him unless the vessel’s already hurt. If that’s the case, then there’s nothing we can do anyway. Keeping this thing inside of him would just be crueler.”

You look between both brothers for a moment before you give a subtle nod, and Sam continues the exorcism. 

The demon then begins to convulse violently inside the trap again, black and thick smoke starting to pour out from Pete’s mouth while the thing screams agonizingly and curses in several languages at once until the final Latin word leaves Sam’s mouth. The smoke then finally breaks free completely, slamming upward toward the ceiling before vanishing.

Pete, on the other hand, collapses unconsciously inside the trap before blinking groggily up at the three of you a few beats later. 

“Where am I?” He glances around the dark lab through squinted eyes. “Why am I at work? What happened?” His gaze then falls to the symbol burned into the floor underneath him. “What is that?”

“Uhm… shit,” you curse under your breath and look wide-eyed at the brothers. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

Sam and Dean share a brief glance, both their mouths opening without anything useful coming out because, yeah… that is a hard one to explain away. 

You huff an exhausted breath after receiving no answer from either of them and spin back toward Pete, crouching to his level and snatching a pen from a nearby counter. 

“Okay, Pete? Everything will be fine,” you assure him with a deceptively calm smile and hold up the pen. “Just look at this, alright?” 

Dean then watches you hurriedly rummage through your bag. You practically empty the whole thing onto the counter – an assortment of dried herbs wrapped carefully in twine, small polished gemstones, an owl feather, and a little cloth pouch filled with some kind of dust. You look frantically through it all till you stumble upon a small vial with silver powder inside and hold it up with a smile. 

“There it is.” You grin and empty the potion into your palm before moving back over to Pete. “Mind grows clouded, sight grows dim, leave no trace of what has been. Let the waking world unwind, erase the previous day from conscious mind.” 

The powder glimmers strangely in the dim light before you blow it directly into Pete’s face. And just like that, the guy coughs a few times before his entire body goes limp. 

Dean’s brows lift slightly as Pete slumps unconsciously against the floor, breathing deeply and evenly now, like he’s merely fallen asleep at work after an exhausting shift.

“Sam, help me move him,” you order his little brother as you grab one of Pete’s arms. 

Sam takes the other side, and together the two of you heave Pete onto a chair by a workstation, resting his head gently on a countertop in front of a keyboard – a perfectly staged crime scene. 

You then turn around and glance at the remaining mess, letting a tired sigh pass between your lips. 

“Okay,” you murmur quietly to yourself and chew on your lower lip as you take in the destroyed lab – glass littering the floor, cabinets hanging half-shattered from their hinges, and the blackened devil’s trap scaring the linoleum. “Turn back ash and shattered stone… make undone what hate has sewn. Leave no mark and leave no trace… return everything to its… proper place.”

For half a second, nothing happens, but the hairs on Dean’s arms still rise, so he knows magic can’t be too far away. 

And then, the damage starts reversing itself.

The black scorch marks across the linoleum slowly fade, the warped plastic smoothing itself back into place while shattered glass trembles across the floor before dissolving into dust that then vanishes entirely. Cabinet doors straighten with a few metallic creaks and cracked surfaces seal shut piece by piece until the entire lab looks almost untouched again. 

Sam lets out a quiet huff of fascinated amusement beside Dean, but Dean’s still too busy staring at the spotless floor where a demon had been screaming a minute ago. 

You sway slightly afterward, fatigue finally catching up with you as the adrenaline drains out of your body. Dean instinctively shuffles forward a little in case you fall, but you steady yourself against the counter before he is forced to make a move.

“What did you just do?” he asks then, brows tightly creased.

“Repair spell,” you answer simply, still sounding rather impressed with yourself. “Don’t wanna leave any evidence behind that gets me hanged in the town square.”

“No, I mean–” Dean shakes his head, swallowing lightly. “Before that… with Pete. What’d you do to him?”

“Oh.” You glance toward Pete’s snoozing form and casually shrug your shoulders. “It’s a memory spell. My grams taught me it for emergencies. Don’t worry. He’s not gonna remember anything from the last twenty-four hours.”

Your words don’t carry any malevolent meaning, but Dean freezes in his boots, his mind flashing back to last night’s dream.

The kitchen. Your grandmother. Difficult decisions. Severing attachments under the guise of protection.

Was that what they were talking about? Is that what actually happened?

“Memory spell?” Dean repeats carefully, looking at you. “Your grandma taught you that one?”

“Yeah.” You sling your bag over your shoulder after shoving everything back inside, still innocently oblivious to the fact that Dean suddenly looks like somebody punched straight through his ribcage. “Never used it before. Sure as hell is practical, though.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” he mutters, trying to rub the tension out of his jaw. “I bet it is…”

You either don’t notice the tone or choose not to comment on it. Instead, you glance once more toward unconscious Pete before rubbing at your bruised shoulder with an exhausted sigh.

“Okay,” you breathe and look at the brothers. “Let’s get outta here before he wakes up again. Can you guys drive me to the hospital?”

Dean’s only capable of giving you an automated nod before you and Sam head out of the lab, his gaze drifting back to your sleeping co-worker whose memory just got wiped – an entire day of his life just got erased like it never happened and the guy will be none the wiser afterward.

And suddenly, Dean can’t stop thinking about all the things he probably isn’t supposed to remember either.

Nobody talks during the entire ten-minute drive to the hospital, which makes time pass a lot slower than it actually does as Salem blurs past the windows in flashes of neon and wet pavement. 

Dean catches glimpses of you in the backseat every now and then through the rearview mirror despite trying not to stare. You’re curled into yourself right behind him, one arm wrapped across your middle while you look blankly out the rain-streaked window, but you haven’t looked at either of them once since leaving the lab.

And honestly? Dean can’t blame you.

His mind keeps jumping back and forth between anger, confusion, and guilt – between thinking about possibly being hexed with a memory spell that’s suspiciously got your grandmother’s handwriting on it and replaying the demon’s words over and over again, confirming his worst fears that him and Sam led all this crap to your doorstep. 

He should’ve had his head more in the game before coming to Salem the first time. He should’ve cared more, kept a closer eye on Sam, and slowed him down when he went too fucking far. Most of all, Dean can practically hear the old man’s disappointment. 

His father had been so careful – choosing his words wisely, encoding it all, sealing it shut, and then throwing away the key. He’d kept you safely hidden for eleven years till Sam and Dean opened the box with a bunch of firecrackers and stomped into your life, dragging dirt all over your polished floors. 

Even Sam seems to feel the guilt for once, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He throws a glance toward the backseat as well before looking away again just as quickly. He clearly feels it too – the realization that they walked thoughtlessly into your life and carried enough trouble to get everybody around you nearly killed in one night.

Dean swallows hard against the lump lodged in his throat.

Because before tonight, this had all still felt weirdly temporary somehow – like maybe you could still walk away from it if you wanted. In his mind, there was a chance that you could just go back to your job and your apartment and your normal little Salem life while Sam and Dean disappeared down another highway, chasing their own mess.

Welp, that illusion’s gone now.

Demons found your family, your home, your people. And Dean knows exactly what that means because he’s watched it happen to everyone else who ever got too close to this life.

You can’t walk away from this anymore, and it’s all his fault.

The hospital then finally appears through the windshield in a wash of white lights. Dean parks near the emergency entrance, but before he even fully kills the engine, you’re already out of the backseat and hurrying toward the building.

Dean exchanges one quick glance with Sam before both brothers follow.

The waiting room carries that familiar hospital smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Paige then notices you first as you storm through the doors, relief lighting up on her face as she jumps up from one of the plastic chairs lining the wall. But there’s a guy right next to her that rises immediately as well like he’s part of the group. 

Dean slows his steps and tilts his head.

The guy’s tall – really tall, actually. Dean can see the broad shoulders and solid built under the dark gray henley even from a distance. The dude certainly looks like he could throw a decent punch if he needed to. There’s visible exhaustion under his eyes, but the second he spots you, all of that vanishes and his entire face lights up. 

“There you are.”

The guy crosses the waiting room in a few strides, and before Dean fully registers it, the man’s already pulling you into him.

And you? You go willingly – completely willingly.

Dean watches your hands fist into the fabric at the back of the guy’s shirt while his arms wrap tightly around you, one hand settling against the small of your back like he’s done it a thousand times before. He kisses your temple the second you bury your face into his chest, holding you there a moment longer than necessary like he needed the physical proof that you’re still alive.

Dean uncomfortably averts his gaze, not sure where to look, but this whole thing feels too private and intimate for an audience. It doesn’t feel like it was meant to be witnessed by his eyes, a strange little sting knotting his stomach. 

The guy then pulls back just enough to look at your face properly, both hands carefully wandering to your arms as his eyes seem to inspect you for injuries. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “Are you hurt?”

And just like that, your entire expression softens in a way Dean hasn’t seen before. Not with Sam. Definitely not with him.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, though your voice still sounds frayed. “What about Mia? How is she? Have you guys heard anything?”

The guy exhales visibly in relief at hearing you speak and offers you a warm smile. “She’s okay, too,” he tells you. “Doctor said she lost a lot of blood, but they got the bleeding stopped. She also told me she’s apparently been through worse and started telling me that story about getting shot during a drug bust in 2001 again.”

A watery laugh escapes you at that, wiping a few stray tears from your cheeks. “Yeah, she loves telling that story.”

The guy smiles softly at that and pulls you closer again, your shoulders loosening significantly. And Dean suddenly realizes with growing irritation that the dude clearly knows you really well because he’s somehow managing to calm you down in under thirty seconds after the night you just had.

Then the guy finally notices the brothers standing behind you, and the warmth in his face cools almost immediately. It’s not exactly hostility but definitely wariness. Protective. Dean recognizes the look because hunters wear it all the time around strangers – sizing people up and assessing threats.

“I’m gonna grab coffee,” the guy says after a second, eyes flicking briefly toward the brothers again before they land back on. “You want anything?”

You shake your head tiredly before changing your mind halfway through. “Actually, yes. Sugar. I need sugar in medically concerning amounts.”

That earns you another smile from him. “I got you. Wanna come with? Mia’s still resting.”

You nod with a smile, and his hand brushes lightly against your lower back again as he steers you gently toward the vending machines, the two of you disappearing down the hallway. And Dean finds himself staring after you longer than he probably should, catching the way your fingers intertwine with the guy’s.

Weirdly domestic. Weirdly intimate. And Dean doesn’t like how much he notices that.

Pursing his lips, his gaze then drifts to Paige, who’s watching him with a slightly amused expression she tries to hide behind a styrofoam cup of bad coffee. 

Dean sways a few steps closer and then casually motions with his chin down the hallway. “So… who’s the guy?”

Paige doesn’t reply instantly. Instead, she bites harshly down on her lips like she’s swallowing down a few comments before regaining her composure and meeting his eyes. 

“Oh, that’s just Cameron,” she replies breezily and takes another sip, feigning innocence. “Her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend,” he repeats, wrinkling his nose slightly at the term. It hits oddly somehow and irritates him for some reason. 

Paige gives him a big nod, very clearly enjoying the show now, judging by the giant grin rising on her lips. “They met in college.”

Dean’s eyes flick briefly down the hallway again where the two of you disappeared. He shouldn’t be that surprised, right? You’re gorgeous and funny and weird in that oddly charming way where you carry glitter gel pens next to crime scene photos, somehow making it work. 

You have a normal life. Of course you’d have a boyfriend, too. Dean’s not stupid. This is the logical conclusion. It makes complete sense. 

Still, the realization catches him more off guard than it probably should, mostly because Dean’s never really pictured you belonging to somebody else before.

And leave it to Paige to notice the exact second that thought crosses his mind because her grin widens in an instant.

Dean scowls, narrowing his eyes to a glare at her. “Why’re you smiling like that?”

She gives a causal shrug of her shoulders. “Nothing. You’re cute.”

“Shut up,” he scoffs, shaking his head at her.

But she only snorts a laugh into her coffee cup while Dean mutters a curse under his breath and looks away as fast as he can. Whatever she’s thinking right now, she’s absolutely wrong about it. Dean’s at least sure of that if nothing else. 

An hour later, the waiting room’s grown even quieter, fully falling into nightly silence.

The doctor informed you ten minutes ago that Mia’s stable after surgery and just woke up, summoning you almost instantly. You looked rather reluctant to accept the command, and as Dean aimlessly wanders the endless hospital corridors and happens to stroll past Mia’s room, he begins to understand your initial hesitancy.

Judging by Mia’s raised voice, you’re apparently getting the lecture of a lifetime in there. Dean isn’t able to hear every word, but he catches enough to understand the gist – something about keeping secrets, getting everyone in danger, and running off with two guys who wanted to kill you. 

Dean assumes him and Sam are meant with that last one. 

He doesn’t expect you to leave the room so abruptly afterward before you suddenly stand right in front of him and close the door behind you with an exhaustive sigh. 

“Man, she’s mad,” you huff, shaking your head. “If I still lived at home, she’d probably ground me till I’m thirty.”

Dean offers you a comforting smile, scratching his throat as he saunters closer. “That bad, huh?”

You scoff a dry laugh. “Yup, but she’ll get over it,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. “Maybe if she’d shown me the letter sooner and told me the truth, I wouldn’t have gone snooping behind her back.”

“Cut her some slack,” Dean says gently, catching your attention. “This ain’t exactly easy to figure out. Nothing wrong with wanting to protect someone you love from all this crap.”

You lift your brow. “So lying to someone’s face is better?”

“Sometimes.” Dean shrugs, his gaze briefly flicking to Sam talking to Paige by the vending machines. He looks back at you then, clearing his throat rather awkwardly. “You–, uh, you got a minute to talk?”

You study him for a beat before nodding, a teasing smile flashing across your lips. “You wanna give me a lecture too now?”

Dean chuckles softly and shoves both hands into his jacket pockets, shaking his head. “No, uh, just figured we need a plan, y’know?”

“A plan for what?” 

He lets out a deep sigh, rubbing his jaw. “You know you can’t stay here anymore, right? In Salem. That demon wasn’t random, and now that they found you again…” He pauses, licking his lips. “There’ll be a lot more.”

You go very still at that. Dean can see how the reality visibly takes hold of you.

“But I can’t just leave. This is my home,” you argue just for the sake of bargaining it seems. 

“I know.” Dean nods quietly but doesn’t offer anything else. He knows you already know and decides to let you play through the options on your own. 

“What about my job? I’ve barely been on it for a year. I can’t just quit now. What am I supposed to do for the rest of my life?”

Dean just stares at you patiently, waiting for the truth to settle as you start to pace maniacally in front of him. “Look, this is just temporary. Just until the demon’s dead. Then you can slip right back into your old life. Pretend this never happened.”

“You really believe that?” You doubtfully arch a brow. “You said it yourself – that never happens. And what about Mia and Paige and–” You close your mouth before finishing. 

“Your boyfriend?” Dean supplies with a raised brow. God, again with that word. He hates how annoying it sounds in his head now. You then nod slightly, and he mirrors it with his own nod. “Our friend Bobby knows how to hide people properly – wards, devil’s trap, safe houses… The whole nine yards. Nothing’s gonna happen to them. I promise.”

Your brows shoot up in surprise. “You’d do that?”

“Yeah,” Dean assures you before the guilt punches him square in the chest all over again. “Look, I know this happened because of us. If me and Sam hadn’t shown up–”

“Dean–”

“No.” He shakes his head sharply, interrupting your well-meant protest, but he needs to get this out for good. “That thing was right. My dad kept you hidden for years and we waltzed into your life, dragging all our crap behind us.” He grinds his molars painfully before daring to look fully into your eyes. “I’m sorry, alright? We screwed up.”

The words feel strange coming out of his mouth because Dean doesn’t really apologize – not sincerely and not often at least. But this one matters.

Your expression softens slightly, and for some reason, that almost makes him feel worse.

“Bobby can hide you, too,” he adds after a beat.

“No.” You shake your head slowly, and Dean finds your eyes again, brow furrowing. “I think I’m gonna go to Sugar Hill,” you announce. “I wanna know what the ritual is. What my family was trying to protect. What that demon is so scared of. I think I’m done pretending this has nothing to do with me.”

Dean studies you for a long moment then.

A month ago, you wanted nothing to do with any of this. Now you’re standing in a hospital hallway talking about chasing down ancient family rituals because demons nearly murdered your adoptive mother tonight, just adding proof that this life changes people too damn fast.

“You sure?” he asks quietly.

You give him a resolute nod, and Dean already knows there’s no talking you out of it this time. His gaze then drifts toward the waiting room, landing on Cameron sitting beside Paige now.

“So…” he says casually then, smacking his lips. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Your mouth twitches for a second before you press your lips together. “Yep.”

“Never mentioned it before,” he mutters, biting the insides of his cheeks till he tastes a hint of copper on his tongue.

You toss him a slightly amused look at that, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t know we were that close. I mean, considering you tried to kill me and all that, excuse me for not being too keen on giving you a full list of my loved ones.”

Loved ones. 

Something sour rises in his throat at that, but he swallows it back down and subtly loosens his shoulders once, brushing the thought away. 

“Yeah, yeah…” He scoffs and rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance. “Whatever. Just didn’t know you were hiding a six-foot-three linebacker somewhere. That’s all.”

“He’s in the military.”

Dean hums nonchalantly, his eyes wandering back to the waiting room. He can see the dog tags under the henley now. “What branch?”

“Army. Rangers,” you reply with a trace of pride in your voice that strangely annoys Dean as well.

“Huh.” He starts biting his cheek anew. 

“He was deployed overseas for the last few months. Just got home yesterday.”

At that, Dean’s head slowly turns to you, shooting you a dry look. “Wait, yesterday… Is that why you didn’t pick up the phone when Sam called?”

You press your lips guiltily together, shrugging. “We were having dinner and watching a movie…” 

Oh, Dean knows what that translates to. There’s no way you did any of these things. God, he so doesn’t want to think about this – about you and–… Why the hell is he thinking about this? 

It shouldn’t bother him. It doesn’t. Not even a little. He feels perfectly neutral about this. Just–

“Sam and I thought you were dead, bleeding out on the fucking floor!” he snaps furiously, puffed chest rising and falling a little too fast. “Just pick up the damn phone next time!”

“Jesus, fine,” you scoff and cross your arms, rolling your eyes back. “Would you relax?”

“I am relaxed,” he huffs rather unconvincingly. 

You give him a raised look. “It’s truly fascinating you keep lying to me when you know damn well by now I can read your aura.”

“Well, stop doing that.”

“Stop lying.”

Dean exhales a long and deep sigh before nodding toward the waiting room. “He know about all this?”

“What, me being a witch who’s getting hunted by demons?” You catch his gaze, and he nods briefly. You laugh a little. “Yeah, obviously.”

Obviously.

That word almost makes Dean scoff out loud. Because obviously has never been part of his experience. It’s barely part of his vocabulary. Most people he’s met in his life run away screaming the second monsters become real. 

Hell, the only girl Dean ever seriously tried telling the truth to called him insane before walking out of his life entirely. Hunters don’t get steady relationships and soft hospital reunions and someone waiting for them under fluorescent lights afterward.

People like Dean usually get motel rooms and one-night stands and empty passenger seats.

So yeah, hearing you say obviously like trusting somebody with your entire horrifying supernatural life is the easiest thing in the world feels… deeply unnatural, grossly romanticized, and infuriatingly naive. Not to mention, it’s also delusionally simple. 

“Right, okay…” Dean clicks his tongue, squishing the bitterness around in his mouth like he’s tasting wine for the first time. “So how’d you get him anyways?”

Is self-destruction his new hobby these days? 

You blink, your head swirling toward him. “I’m sorry–…what?”

Dean shrugs slightly. “Just sayin’. Did you pour some kinda love potion into the poor guy’s drink one night or what?”

You snort a small laugh, biting down on your tongue. Judging by the little fiery twinkle in your eyes, you surely want to slap him right now. 

“Contrary to your deeply concerning beliefs about women, I don’t need magic to get a man,” you retort wryly. “I can do that very well on my own, thank you.”

Dean only gives you a skeptical hum in return. “Sure, sweetheart.”

“Have you forgotten that you hit on me a few weeks ago?” you shoot back. 

“You flirted back,” he grits, shaking his head with a scoff. “Certainly didn’t seem that attached when you pushed your boobs out at the bar.”

“How dare you–” You gasp before narrowing your eyes to a glare. “I flirted for survival.”

Dean snorts at that, not even hiding his amusement. 

Survival his ass. That felt real. You weren’t faking shit – not the smiles or the laughs at his jokes or the light touches of his arm… Right?

Dammit. Son of a–

“You know, you can be a real bitch sometimes,” he huffs. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and you’re an even bigger and significantly more annoying asshole after midnight.”

“Yet, you’re still here.” Dean smirks cockily down at you. 

To his surprise, though, your lips twitch a little as well and that shouldn’t feel as good as it does because it’s–

It’s delusionally simple. 

It’s almost morning, the dark night sky morphing into that lighter, washed-out blue-gray at the horizon right before dawn as they all pull into Mia’s driveway. 

Everything suddenly feels heavier now after the adrenaline has finally burnt out of everyone’s systems, and the entire neighborhood looks half-asleep beneath glowing streetlights and damp tree branches, peaceful and serene in the way New England towns like this one get around five in the morning.

The hospital released Mia an hour ago with strict instructions to rest, which she immediately argued with three separate nurses and you about before finally losing the fight once medication kicked in and you threatened her with knocking her out with a spell. 

But even now, stepping carefully out of the house with Sam hovering nearby, your adoptive mother still looks more annoyed than injured despite the bandages wrapped under her jacket as everybody helps her pack and grab the most necessary items from the house.

You, on the other hand, are leaning against Baby, oversized sweater sleeves covering most of your hands from the cooler morning air. The exhaustion still clings visibly to you, even in the dim porch light, and Dean catches himself checking whether you’re standing steady enough after the night you’ve had.

You are. Barely. But still.

Paige comes through the front door carrying another duffel bag over one shoulder. “Mia keeps trying to pack case files,” she huffs exhaustively. 

“Because I have active investigations,” Mia argues while Sam carefully helps her lower into the backseat. 

Every slight wince she tries hiding immediately tightens something in your expression. Dean notices the way your fingers curl harder into your sleeves whenever Mia shifts wrong or presses unconsciously against her side.

“You also got stabbed,” you remind her pointedly. 

“And?”

Paige throws both hands up dramatically before looking toward Dean and you.

Dean chuckles a little. “Yeah, Bobby’s gonna have fun with this one.”

“I’m sure this Bobby can survive the experience,” Mia says, unimpressed.

Sam shuts the trunk with a solid thunk before moving back toward the car. “We’ll get you someplace safe,” he assures her. “Bobby knows what he’s doing.”

Mia studies both brothers carefully for a second, and Dean can practically see the cop instincts working behind her eyes, even exhausted and drugged-up – assessing risk, weighing trust, deciding whether these two strangers are worth it.

Then she nods once. Dean glances toward you automatically afterward.

“They’ll be safe,” he assures you quietly. You look over at him. He jerks his chin toward the car. “Bobby’ll ward the hell outta wherever they’re staying. Devil’s traps, salt lines, iron. Nothing’s getting near them.”

Your shoulders loosen slightly at that. “Thanks,” you say softly.

Dean shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it is a little. Bobby’s probably already awake and cursing both Winchester boys out while throwing together emergency packages and booking cabins somewhere.

Still worth it.

As the front door then creaks open once more, Dean looks up when Cameron steps outside, carrying another bag in one hand. The guy heads down the porch stairs toward you, dark hoodie pulled over the gray shirt now, broad shoulders filling the damn thing annoyingly well. 

Dean notices the military posture more clearly this time – the controlled movements, the constant alertness in his eyes, the sort of stance people pick up after years of training whether they mean to or not.

Cameron then sets the bag down near the trunk before his eyes swerve fully toward Dean for the first time.

“So,” he says evenly and clicks his tongue, sizing the green-eyed hunter up from head to toe. “You’re the guy that pointed a gun at my girlfriend, huh?”

Dean almost swallows his damn tongue.

Meanwhile, Sam becomes oddly fascinated by reorganizing bags in the trunk again while you close your eyes briefly like you already know this conversation’s about to become painful.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Okay, look, in my defense–”

“You pointed a gun at her.”

Dean opens his mouth again, but truly nothing comes out. Because honestly? There really isn’t a defense for it now that he’s standing here at five in the morning while your boyfriend looks at him like he’s evaluating whether Dean deserves to keep all his teeth.

“It wasn’t–” Dean starts before stopping himself. “I thought she was–”

A witch. Dangerous. A threat.

The words sound worse out loud now somehow.

Dean exhales sharply through his nose instead, scratching the back of his neck guiltily. “Yeah, I got nothing.”

Cameron studies him for another long second before stepping slightly closer. “Do that again, and you’ll regret it,” he says calmly without an ounce of aggression, which is truly quite the achievement, considering the meaning of that sentence. 

But weirdest of all, Dean understands it in some way, because if some stranger had shown up aiming a gun at someone Dean cared about, Dean probably would’ve reacted a hell of a lot worse than this.

So after a second, he gives one accepting nod with a slight swallow. “Fair enough.”

The tension eases after that, and Cameron looks at you again, expression softening almost instantly.

“I’m coming with you to New Hampshire,” he says then.

Your head lifts, brows shooting up in bewilderment. “Cam–”

“I mean it.” His hand settles lightly against the small of your back when he steps closer to you again, thumb brushing the fabric of your sweater almost absentmindedly, familiar and comfortable. “You’re not doing this alone.”

There’s something strangely intimate about how easy the two of you are together. Not dramatic or over-the-top – like Cameron touches you constantly without even thinking about it and you naturally lean into him every single time.

It feels weirdly foreign to watch.

You glance up at your boyfriend then, softer than you’ve been all night. “You sure?”

“Yeah, pretty damn sure,” Cameron says, smiling.

You bite back a smile as well before your gaze drops to your boots. Dean catches the emotion flashing across your face – relief that somebody’s staying. He knows what that feels like. 

Paige then eagerly raises her hand. “And I’m coming too!”

You stare at her in disbelief. “Paige, no–”

“What? You think I’m letting you wander into haunted witch houses unsupervised?”

A tired laugh slips out of you. “There could be more demons,” you point out, though Dean notices you don’t actually sound resistant to the idea – more worried for them than anything else.

“And there could also be bears,” Paige argues. “And yet, we survived summer camp in ninth grade.”

“That’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“It is spiritually the same thing.”

Cameron snorts softly beside you while your head tips against his shoulder in exhausted amusement.

And Dean? Yeah, he immediately wishes he hadn’t noticed that.

“You guys don’t have to do this,” you add more quietly then. “Seriously.”

“Oh, we know,” Cameron says easily.

“That’s why we’re doing it anyway.” Paige grins.

Dean watches the exact second it hits you that they genuinely mean it – that neither of them is backing out despite everything that happened tonight. Your eyes go a little glassy afterward before you blink the tears away.

“Okay,” you say softly and nod.

Cameron presses a quick kiss against your temple, and Dean abruptly looks toward the street instead. Witnessing affection kind of feels like a personal attack now.

Sam closes the trunk then a second later before joining them. “We should probably get moving.”

You nod once before looking toward the brothers, and for a moment, nobody really knows how to say goodbye after a night like this.

Dean then breaks the silence first, clearing his throat. “We’ll call once Bobby got Mia somewhere safe.”

“Okay,” you reply with a small smile. “Just know that if Mia starts threatening people, don’t take it personally.”

“I can hear you,” Mia calls from the Impala’s backseat.

“I’ll try not to.” Dean chuckles lightly. “We’ll keep her safe. Don’t worry.”

“I know,” you say with a soft smile and look at Dean one last time. 

And Dean knows that look in your eyes all too well – resolve. Like tonight finally pushed you across some invisible line and there’s no going back now. Hunters wear that same look all the time. He kind of hates it on you, but there’s nothing he can do about it now, is there?

All he can do now is watch you and your friends squeeze into that tiny car of yours, hoping for the best as you disappear down the road. 

▶️ Interlude I: Purify the Colors, Purify My Mind

God, Dean needs some help. Truly all I can say at this point 😂 In other news, what do you think of that little memory spell theory and Dean's latest dream? Surely seemed... interesting. I think he's slowly catching on that it might be a little realer than he hoped for (but watch him keep all of that locked up tight for ages). That man's sitting on secrets like a dragon on gold 😆😝

Next Friday, we're approaching our first Interlude of this series, which are smaller, more one-shot/drabble-like parts between major chapters. Most of them are funny or take little deep dives, but they are still plot-relevant in some way, shape, or form. Afterwards, this series is on break for two weeks with some one-shots coming your way till we'll return with another Interlude and then Chapter 7 and so on...

I'm also so, so sorry for taking so long to respond to comments these days. I've already announced it on Patreon a few weeks ago, but I'm making it tumblr-official as well: I'm currently three months pregnant with Baby #2 🩵🩷 The first trimester fatigue and nausea have been a little rough, but it's slowly getting better, so I'll be back soon in full capacity 😅 Just know I appreciate everyone who's been commenting and reading this story so much! Y'all have put the biggest smiles on my face and I love every single one of you!! 🥹💜

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The landscape swells around you as Sugar Hill draws nearer. Rolling hills are draped in clover-green, ancient woods pressing close before opening into wide, untouched meadows that glow in the morning light, wildflowers dotting the fields in splashes of rainbow colors. Even the air feels different here – purer, more alive, vibrating with the same natural power that flows through your veins. You can feel it tingling in the tips of your fingers. 

Despite the beautiful landscape that feels almost sacred, however, the knot in your chest tightens with every familiar bend.  

Eleven years. 

You haven’t traveled these roads since the night everything you’d known and loved smashed to smithereens. The memories of that night still haunt your soul – waking to screams downstairs, the acrid stench of sulfur, your mother and grandmother’s voices raised in desperate spells, the roar of flames. 

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Series Tag List Pt. 1:

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Someone's a little jealous 😏

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countdown: rod stewart?

chapter fifty six | series masterlist | ao3

dean winchester x oc

i don't believe in god, but i believe that you're my savior

when you live a life that never allows you to understand the existence of home, you start to find it in other places. people, too. dean winchester's home is the driver's side seat of the impala, and always with sam next to him. bunny norton's home is across an ocean, and preferably as far away from dean winchester as possible. when they asked her all those years ago for her help, she'd come running. but dean makes her wish every day that she hadn't stayed.

slow burn, enemies to lovers. they hate bang in chapter four, but that's just to add flavor to the hate. canon is followed whenever i feel like it, tags will be updated as story progresses. slightly OOC dean in the first few chapters bc i like when the pretty man angry…

previous chapter

rod stewart 3 months, 1 day, 8 hours 08:19:26

The Impala rolled to a slow stop at the curb in a quiet neighborhood washed pale by a day’s worth of rain, the kind that never quite turned into a storm but settled over everything anyway, thin and cold and persistent enough to bead along the windshield and slick the blacktop until the whole street looked dark and freshly bruised.

It was early April in Montana, which meant the world seemed caught somewhere between thaw and misery, all barely-budding trees, muddy lawns, and flowerbeds that had not quite decided whether they were brave enough to bloom. The houses on either side of the street were modest and well-kept, most of them with porch lights glowing even though it was barely late afternoon, their windows warm behind curtains and their gutters ticking softly as water dripped into puddles below. It should have looked ordinary. Safe, even. The sort of place where people argued over trash cans and borrowed lawnmowers and noticed if a strange car sat too long by the curb.

Dean sat there in his black suit and loosened tie, one hand still resting on the wheel, jaw working faintly as he stared through the rain-specked glass at the Wilts house. It sat halfway down the block beneath the sag of an old maple, a small blue place with white trim and a narrow porch. There was nothing especially sinister about it from the outside, nothing that announced immediate danger, but Dean had learned a long time ago that houses rarely had the decency to look haunted before they started swallowing people whole.

They had spent most of the day dressed as federal agents and walking the same miserable circles through police stations, evidence rooms, and living rooms that smelled like burnt coffee and grief. The case was messy from the start, a string of robberies and murders without pattern or warning, the victims carved up in their own homes while valuables disappeared from drawers, safes, jewelry boxes, and bedside tables. It had the shape of something deliberate, maybe even clever, but every time they tried to pin it down, the edges went soft.

No matching jobs between the victims. No shared church. No support group, no bar, no bad debt, no secret poker night, no obvious vengeful ex with a knife collection and too much free time.

The only connection they had found worth circling twice was between two of the robberies, and even that barely held together under pressure. Two victims had worked for the same company more than ten years ago, but in different departments, on different floors, during overlapping months that could have meant something if either of them had ever actually met. According to the records, they had not. According to the people who remembered them, they might as well have lived in different states.

It was the kind of dead end that made Dean itchy.

Not just because dead ends meant people kept dying, though that was bad enough, but because somewhere across town Bunny was chasing the same case with that maddening little certainty in her eyes, the one that said she had already decided she was right and was simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. The bet from two days ago still hung between them like cigarette smoke, light and ridiculous on the surface, but sharp enough underneath to make Dean want, with an almost embarrassing amount of sincerity, to get there first.

Being handcuffed to a motel bed by his own wife probably should have taken some of the competitive edge out of him. It hadn’t. If anything, it had made it worse.

Dean stepped out into the thin, needling rain and shut the Impala’s door behind him with more care than his mood deserved, the sound dull and solid in the wet quiet of the street. For a second, he stayed where he was, one hand on her roof, his eyes lifted toward the Wilts house while the mist gathered in his hair and along the shoulders of his suit jacket, beading dark against the black fabric. 

He caught his reflection in the rain-specked glass of the driver’s window and leaned in just enough to tug his tie straight, though the damn thing had been sitting wrong since lunch and had apparently decided not to cooperate. His collar felt damp. His cuffs felt damp. The back of his neck felt damp in a way that was starting to make his teeth itch.

He rounded the front of the Impala, dress shoes whispering over the slick pavement, and glanced up at the low clouds as if he could intimidate them into making a choice.

“I’m gettin’ real tired of this mist crap,” he said, not loudly, but with enough feeling that it should have counted for something. “Either rain or don’t rain. Pick one. My jacket’s been a little wet since nine this morning, and I’d rather be soaked than this halfway bullshit.”

There was no answer.

Dean took another step toward the paved walkway before the silence registered properly, and he stopped with one foot on the curb, turning back with his eyebrows already pulling together. Sam was still standing beside the passenger door, tall and still and slightly hunched against the weather, his phone pressed to his ear and his gaze fixed somewhere past the houses across the street. The rain had started to curl the ends of his hair, and the expression on his face had gone distant in that way that meant he was listening too hard to something Dean could not hear.

“Sam.”

Sam lifted one finger without looking at him.

Dean stared at him.

The neighborhood went on dripping around them, gutters ticking, tires hissing faintly on some farther road, the wind worrying the branches of the maple in front of the Wilts house until they scraped softly against one another. Dean spread his hands in a sharp, silent what the hell, because they were standing outside a witness’s house in fake federal suits while his overgrown brother took a mystery call in the rain like they had all the time in the world.

Sam still didn’t move. Dean let three more seconds pass, which he considered generous under the circumstances. “Dude.”

That finally did it. Sam blinked as if coming back from somewhere, pulled the phone from his ear, and looked down at the screen before tucking it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Sorry.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “That better not have been Bunny calling to gloat.”

“It wasn’t Bunny.” Sam stepped away from the car and crossed toward him, his expression already shifting into something more careful, less distracted. “I called Bobby this morning.”

Dean’s face changed at once, irritation tilting toward suspicion. “You called Bobby.”

“Yeah.”

“About the case.”

“What else would it be about, dude?”

They started up the walkway together, the wet concrete dark beneath their shoes, rainwater pooled in shallow dips where the slabs had settled unevenly over the years. Dean glanced toward the house again, then back at Sam, trying to read whatever had been left behind by the voicemail. 

“I had him dig up a few things,” Sam said, lowering his voice as they came within sight of the front porch. “Records, old reports, anything weird that might not have made it into the local files. I didn’t realize he’d called me back until now. Must’ve left a voicemail while we were still at the station.”

Dean looked at him like Sam had just admitted to inviting a coyote into the motel room because it seemed lonely. “Why the hell would you call Bobby?”

Sam gave him a look, small and incredulous, the kind he usually saved for mornings when Dean put whiskey in his coffee and called it efficient. “Why the hell wouldn’t I call Bobby?”

Dean’s mouth tightened.

“We call Bobby for everything,” Sam said, keeping his voice low as they started up the last stretch of walkway, rain ticking softly against the bare branches above them and pattering over the porch roof in uneven little bursts. “That’s sort of the point of Bobby.”

“Yeah, I know what the point of Bobby is,” Dean said. “The point of Bobby is also that right now, the guy’s basically a double agent.”

Sam huffed a short laugh under his breath, not quite amused enough to smile. “He’s not a double agent. He isn’t part of this stupid bet between you and Bunny.”

Dean stopped just short of the porch steps and looked at him with open disbelief, because Sam was smart, annoyingly smart, smart enough to get into Stanford and smart enough to recite Latin upside down with a concussion, and yet here he was standing in the rain acting like Bobby Singer could be trusted to stay neutral when one of the people involved was the girl he had raised and just recently reconnected with. “Like hell he’s not.”

Sam stared at him.

“A few months ago, sure,” Dean said, lifting a hand as if laying out evidence in court. “Back when you couldn’t mention the other person’s name without one of them gettin’ cold, sure. But now? She calls him twice a week just to chat. Chat, Sam. With Bobby. On the phone. Voluntarily.”

Sam’s expression softened despite himself, though he tried to bury it by glancing toward the door. “Yeah, well. He raised her.”

“Exactly,” Dean said, pointing at him. “He raised her. Which means there’s a real solid chance Bobby got whatever he got, called Bunny first, gave her the whole damn rundown, and then remembered somewhere around cup of coffee number three that maybe you’d wanna know too. We keep this close to the chest until we put whatever we’re chasing in the ground. With silver. Or fire. Whatever gets the job done.”

Sam shook his head as he climbed the steps after him, the corner of his mouth threatening to move again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Think whatever you want,” Dean said, smoothing a hand down the front of his suit jacket as they reached the door. “Just help me win.”

The porch gave them a little shelter from the rain, though not enough to keep the damp from following them in, clinging to their shoulders and the hems of their trousers while the wind worried at the eaves above. Up close, the Wilts house looked smaller than it had from the curb, the blue paint chipped along the doorframe and the white trim darkened where water had collected in thin lines. There was a planter beside the door filled with soil and the fragile beginnings of something green, and a welcome mat nearly black with rainwater, its cheerful lettering blurred beneath their shoes.

Sam reached out and knocked. The sound landed heavy inside the house, three dull raps that seemed to move through the walls and disappear.

Both of them pulled their badge wallets from inside their jackets, an old motion by now, practiced enough to look casual and false enough to feel like putting on another layer of damp clothing. Dean shifted his weight and glanced toward the curtained window beside the door. Nothing moved behind it. No shadow passing through the hall, no creak of footsteps, no startled voice calling that she was coming.

They waited. Rain whispered over the porch roof. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once and fell quiet. Dean looked at his watch, then at Sam, then back at the door. After nearly a minute, Sam nodded toward the small doorbell fixed beside the frame. “Try that.”

Dean pressed it with his thumb and listened as a faint, tinny chime sounded somewhere deeper in the house. Again, nothing. Dean’s patience, never especially sturdy to begin with, began to thin into something sharper. He leaned slightly to the side, trying to see through the narrow gap in the curtains. “She even home?” he asked.

“It’s four on a Saturday,” Sam said.

“Her car’s in the driveway,” Dean said, his eyes moving from the window to the side yard, where a wooden gate led back behind the house and a line of wet fence boards disappeared toward the maple shadows. “Maybe she’s out back and didn’t hear the bell.”

Sam followed his gaze, his face tightening with the same thought Dean had not quite let himself finish. The case had made ordinary things feel wrong: closed curtains, unanswered doors, cars left sitting in driveways, the stillness of a house that should have had at least one living person moving around inside it. He tucked his badge wallet more firmly into his hand and stepped back from the door, already angling toward the porch stairs.

“I’ll check the yard,” he said. He only made it half a step before the door opened.

It didn’t swing wide. It creaked inward by a careful few inches, slow enough that the old hinges seemed to complain about it, and the woman standing behind the screen door looked as though she had been crying for so long she had passed through grief and come out the other side hollowed by it. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, the skin beneath them bruised purple with sleeplessness, and she held a crumpled tissue to her nose with one trembling hand. Her hair had been pulled back hastily, wisps escaping around her face, and she wore a cardigan too large for her narrow shoulders, one sleeve bunched around her forearm as if she had forgotten to tug it into place.

She looked from Dean to Sam, and then to the open badge in Sam’s hand.

Dean felt his own expression settle, all the irritation draining out of him so quickly it might as well have slipped through the porch boards with the rain.

“Marlowe Wilts?” Sam asked, gentle but official.

The woman swallowed, eyes shining again. “Yes,” she said, her voice raw from crying. “That’s me.”

She looked almost surprised to find them there, as though she had opened the door expecting rain or silence or nothing at all, and for a second her hand tightened around the door. Sam softened his posture by half an inch, the badge still visible but no longer pushed forward like a demand, and gave her the small, careful nod he used with grieving witnesses and frightened civilians, the one Dean had seen work on people who would have slammed the door in his own face twice over.

“Mrs. Wilts,” Sam said. “I’m Agent Becker, FBI. This is my partner, Agent Fagen. We were hoping we might have a few minutes of your time about your brother’s case.”

Marlowe’s mouth trembled, and she drew in a breath that sounded like it hurt. Before she could answer, another shape moved in the dimness behind her.

Dean saw the dark fall of hair first, then the familiar line of a shoulder beneath a neat black blazer, and his stomach dropped with the sudden, clean certainty of a man watching his last decent card go up in flames. Bunny stepped into view on the other side of the screen door, composed as anything, her expression gentle and grave in a way that made her look like she had been there for hours and belonged there more than either of them did.

Dean’s face fell.

Damn it.

Bunny’s eyes flicked to him, and the smallest smile touched her mouth, so brief it might have been politeness if Dean hadn’t known every wicked little corner of her face by now. Then she turned back to Marlowe, placing one hand lightly on the woman’s shoulder, her fingers careful and steady against the oversized cardigan.

“Thank you again for speaking with me, Mrs. Wilts,” Bunny said, her voice hushed and warm, the crisp edges of her accent softened by the house, the rain, and the woman standing broken in her own doorway. “I know this has been terribly difficult, but you’ve been very helpful. We’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to your brother.”

Marlowe nodded shakily, pressing the tissue harder beneath her nose. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Bunny gave her arm a light squeeze, not lingering too long, not giving more comfort than Marlowe seemed able to take, and then she stepped toward the screen door with the quiet ease of someone who had already been invited inside and learned where the grief sat in the room. She pushed it open and held it with one hand, glancing down as Wallace slipped out beside her.

The dog looked far more official than he normally did. He wore a black vest that was fitted neatly over his broad back, with POLICE K-9 stitched in white along both sides, and he stepped onto the porch with the solemn dignity of a dog who was very committed to doing his fake job. His ears flicked at the creak of the screen door, nose lifting briefly toward Sam and Dean before he settled at Bunny’s side, calm and watchful, scarred muzzle twitching at the scent of rain.

Bunny turned to them then, extending her hand as if they had not shared a motel room, a marriage certificate, and most of their adult lives. “Agent Mary Winchester,” she said smoothly. “National Crime Agency. Pleasure to meet you both.”

Dean felt something in his brain trip over itself.

Their mother’s name, clean as a blade and dropped right there on a dead man’s porch, wrapped in a fake badge and Bunny’s prim little smile like she hadn’t just reached into Dean’s chest and flicked something tender for the sake of winning a bet. Dirty trick. Low, gorgeous, clever trick.

Sam recovered first, his hand closing around hers with only the smallest delay. “Agent Sam Becker,” he said, voice even in a way Dean knew cost him something. “FBI.”

Bunny gave him a polite nod, then turned her eyes to Dean.

Dean took her hand because Marlowe was watching and because not taking it would have been worse, but his grip lingered a fraction too long, his thumb pressing once against the side of her finger in warning. “Agent Dean Fagen.”

“Pleasure,” Bunny said softly.

Bunny released his hand and turned back toward the doorway. “Mrs. Wilts, please do try to rest if you can. I know that sounds impossible at the moment, but even something as simple as a little tea, or just a moment of quiet, anything you can manage. We’ll be in touch very soon.”

Marlowe nodded, folding the tissue in her hand until it was nothing but a damp white twist. Then she looked to Sam and Dean, shame and exhaustion passing over her face as if she had only just remembered they had come to ask more of her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you came all this way, and I do want to help; I just…” She swallowed, gaze dropping briefly to Wallace before lifting again. “Would you mind coming back later? This has all been a bit much, and I think I need a little time to pull myself together.”

Sam’s expression gentled at once. “Of course,” he said. “That’s no problem.”

Dean nodded, forcing his face into something respectful while every competitive bone in his body still twitched at the use of his mother’s name. “Take your time, Mrs. Wilts.”

Marlowe gave them a grateful look, then stepped back into the house with one last tremulous nod. The front door sighed shut between them, soft and final, leaving the three of them on the porch with the rain murmuring around them and Bunny standing there with Wallace at her heel like she had just won the whole damn day without wrinkling her suit.

Dean waited until he heard the lock turn, a small, careful click from the other side of the door, and then he turned his head toward Bunny with the slow disbelief of a man who had been patient for exactly as long as human decency required and not one second longer.

Bunny only smiled at him.

Not much. Not enough for Marlowe to have caught it through the curtains, if she had still been standing there. Just a neat little curve at the corner of her mouth, restrained and dreadful and pleased with itself in a way that made Dean want to kiss her and throttle her in roughly equal measure.

“Mary Winchester?” he said, voice low.

Bunny blinked at him, all innocence. “Yes?”

Dean stared at her. “You wanna tell me where the hell you get off using our mom’s name as an alias?”

Sam shifted beside him, quiet but watching, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and the reluctant kind of amusement that came from knowing someone had played dirty and played well.

Bunny glanced between them, then gave one small shrug, the movement elegant beneath her dark blazer. “It knocked the pair of you off your game, didn’t it?”

Dean’s jaw worked.

“And besides,” she added, stepping past him toward the stairs with Wallace falling easily into place at her side, “I am legally a Winchester now. Strictly speaking, I only borrowed the first name.”

Bunny started down the steps, careful in her heels on the wet wood, and Sam followed after her first with a faint shake of his head. Dean lingered half a beat, eyes narrowing at the back of her blazer, then came down after them because letting her walk away first felt too much like letting her win twice. Wallace’s tail swept once, twice, pleased as anything to have all of his people gathered in one place again, the fake police vest shifting over his broad back with every step.

“Even for you,” Sam said as they crossed the short path toward the curb, doing his best to hide the smile in his voice, “that was kind of a low blow.”

Bunny did not look especially wounded by the accusation. If anything, she seemed to consider it with a thoughtful tilt of her head, as though Sam had commented on the weather or the quality of the porch rail. “All’s fair in love and war.”

Dean scoffed as they crossed back toward the curb. “This doesn’t feel like love, but it’s really starting to feel like war.”

Bunny looked at him over her shoulder, the smile touching her mouth again. “Dean, darling, you were the one foolish enough to agree to a bet with me. I’m afraid that makes it both. Far be it from me to use any weapon at my disposal.”

“I’m not foolish,” Dean said, because dumb was one thing, but foolish coming out of Bunny’s mouth made him sound like he should be wearing a dunce cap. “And I’m not losing this bet.” “Yes, darling.” “Don’t ‘yes, darling’ me,” Dean said. “It’s condescending.” “Of course, my love. I wouldn’t dream of sounding condescending,” Bunny said, terribly mild.

Sam gave Dean a look that said, very clearly, that he had brought this upon himself. Dean ignored him on principle and kept his attention on Bunny as they reached the Impala, rain freckling the polished black hood and slipping in silver threads down the windshield. Wallace lowered his head to investigate a cluster of weeds near the curb with the solemn commitment of an animal who had never once been told that the fate of a case did not rest on damp roadside vegetation.

“How did you even get here?” Dean asked. “We didn’t see your car.”

Bunny stopped near the passenger side of the Impala and reached into the inside pocket of her blazer, producing her cigarette carton with the easy, practiced motion of someone who had been waiting for the first available excuse. She tapped the pack against the heel of her hand, drew one out with her fingers, and tucked it between her lips before answering, her gaze cutting briefly down the street where the houses blurred blue and gray through the mist. “I parked a few blocks over.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I was looking into something else,” she said, as if that explained anything at all, and bent her head to shield the cigarette from the rain while she flicked her lighter. The flame caught small and gold between her hands, bright for half a second and reflecting against the locket around her throat in the damp afternoon, and then vanished as she took the first drag. “Found out Mrs. Wilts lived nearby, thought the walk might be nice.”

She shrugged. “Admittedly, the weather’s a bit dreary, but it’s always nice to stretch your legs.” Smoke slipped from her mouth in a pale ribbon and was immediately carried away by the rain.

Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly, his attention sharpening past the fake K-9 vest, the cigarette, the easy smile she was using to cover whatever she had found before they got there. “What were you looking into?”

Bunny laughed softly, not loud enough to disturb the house behind them, but warm and knowing as she looked at him through the pale drift of smoke. “Nice try, Sammy.”

Dean stared at her for another second, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug that was meant to look careless and probably did not, given the way Sam’s eyes slid toward him with immediate suspicion. “You know what? Doesn’t matter.”

Bunny’s brows rose.

“It doesn’t,” Dean said, pointing at her before she could look too pleased with herself. “You wanna do the whole secret thing, fine. Knock yourself out. We just got a call from Bobby, and we’re gonna go check that out before we come back here and talk to Mrs. Wilts.”

For the first time since she had stepped out of the house, Bunny’s smile shifted into something quieter, the amusement thinning just enough to let the work show through underneath it. She took another slow drag from her cigarette, eyes steady on Dean’s face, and tilted her head as rain misted in the loose strands of her hair. “He called about the fourth robbery, then?”

Dean’s expression flattened.

Bunny exhaled, smoke pale against the gray street. “The fourth robbery? The one that happened three nights ago and never finished being filed because the victim changed their mind. Or, something that looked and sounded like the victim changed its mind.”

Dean turned his head toward Sam. Sam looked down for half a beat, then reached back to scratch at the nape of his neck, his shoulders drawing up beneath the damp line of his suit jacket. “That’s, uh,” Sam said, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes. “That’s what Bobby called about, yeah.”

Dean lifted a hand toward him, palm open, vindicated and furious in the same breath. “This. This right here. This is exactly what I was talking about.”

Sam sighed. “Dean—”

“No, no, don’t ‘Dean’ me.” He pointed at Sam now, then at Bunny, who was watching him over the end of her cigarette with an expression that was doing a heroic job of pretending not to enjoy itself. “You go poking around for information, Bobby digs something up, and who gets the call first? Her. Because of their weird bond.”

Bunny’s smile cooled by a degree, not enough to make the air sharp, but enough that Dean noticed. She took one last drag from the cigarette, then held it away from her body as ash darkened at the end. “Our ‘weird bond,’” she said, carefully, “would be that Bobby is my father in nearly every sense of the word, lest you’ve forgotten.”

He looked away first, jaw tightening as he glanced toward the street, toward the dripping hedges and the blank shine of the Impala’s windows and the Wilts house standing silent behind them. He did know that. Christ, of course he knew that. He knew it in the way Bobby’s whole face had changed the first time Bunny called him Da again at Christmas, knew it in the cash she had forced into Bobby’s hands after Vegas, knew it in the guarded, careful way she still sometimes looked at Singer Salvage like she was afraid the home she had been handed at seven years old might disappear if she loved it too openly.

“Yeah,” Dean said after a beat, the fight thinning out of his voice even though the frustration stayed. “I know. And I’m glad, I am. You and Bobby getting back to… whatever you guys are getting back to. That’s good, baby. I’m happy for you.”

Bunny’s expression softened, just barely.

Dean looked back at her and immediately remembered he was annoyed. “Just—damn it.”

She reached out with the hand not holding the cigarette and patted his arm, gentle as anything and twice as insulting. “You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger. I’m rooting for you.”

Bunny turned away before he could decide whether he wanted to glare at her or lean into it, taking another drag from her cigarette as she started down the sidewalk with Wallace trotting at her side, his fake vest dark against the wet gray of the afternoon. The rain had softened again into something almost invisible, just a cold shimmer in the air, and for a moment she looked like she might disappear into it. Black blazer, dark hair, pale smoke, and the red ember of her cigarette briefly bright before it dimmed.

Sam watched her go for half a second, then called after her, “Where are you heading next?”

Bunny slowed, turning back just enough to look at him over her shoulder. “Why would I tell you that?”

Sam gave a small shrug, honest enough to be annoying. “Figured it was worth asking. We’re heading to the jewelry store on Sixteenth, if you’re curious.”

“Dude,” Dean said.

Bunny’s gaze flicked from Sam to Dean, then back again, and for a moment she only stood there in the rain with smoke slipping pale from her mouth and Wallace nosing at the wet grass beside her shoes. “That’s a dead end.”

Dean’s attention sharpened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“I checked it out yesterday,” she said, tapping ash toward the curb with a neat flick of her fingers. “It was a robbery, yes, but it hasn’t anything to do with our shifter. Poor timing, nothing more. Local police already know who did it, though I imagine they’re not thrilled about having to admit that with all of this going on. Not what we’re after.”

Dean folded his arms. “And we’re just supposed to take your word for that?”

“No,” Bunny said, almost kindly. “But you’re welcome to waste an hour proving it to yourself.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, and Dean pretended not to see it.

Bunny glanced down the street again, as if weighing something, then gave the smallest sigh through her nose. “If the two of you need a bone thrown to you this badly, you might try the gallery on Elm and Lancaster.”

Sam went still in the way he did when a piece finally landed close enough to the center to matter. “What gallery?”

“Small place. Private collection coming in for some hideously expensive little exhibition everyone in town will pretend to understand and talk about over supper clubs.” Bunny flicked ash neatly toward the gutter, the rain catching it almost before it fell. “A few paintings were taken off the truck before they could be brought inside, and the warehouse worker responsible for loading them was found in his home the next morning, nearly shredded.”

The word sat ugly in the damp air.

Dean and Sam looked at each other, the playfulness thinning between them as cleanly as smoke in wind. For all the soft rain and Bunny’s tilted smile, there it was again: blood on a living room floor, valuables missing, a body opened up by something strong enough and angry enough to turn a house into a slaughterhouse. Dean could feel the case sliding back under his skin, cold and familiar, the bet still there but suddenly smaller beside the shape of what they were chasing.

Sam looked back at Bunny. “You sure?”

“I am.”

Bunny inclined her head, not quite gracious and not quite smug, which on her was a dangerous middle ground. Dean watched her for a second longer than he meant to, rain gathering along her lashes and in the dark wool of her blazer, cigarette burning steadily between her fingers like a small, stubborn star. The old Bunny would not have given them that. The old Bunny would have smiled with every tooth hidden, kept the lead tucked behind her ribs, and let them spend the afternoon chasing a jewelry store ghost just to prove she could.

Marriage changed people, apparently. Or maybe almost dying together every other week did. Hard to say.

She turned again. “Goodbye, loves. Come on, Wallace.”

Wallace’s ears perked at the shift in her voice, and he fell into step beside her as she started down the sidewalk, his fake K-9 vest dark with mist and his tail swinging lazily behind him. Bunny had made it two steps before Dean moved.

“Hey.”

She glanced back, cigarette lifted halfway to her mouth.

Dean caught her wrist gently, careful of the cigarette, his fingers closing around her skin with no more pressure than he needed to stop her. For all the irritation still humming in him, he felt the smallness of the contact at once, the private shape of it in the middle of the street, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat warm beneath the chill of the rain. “Have a good day, princess,” he said softly.

Her expression softened into surprise only for a second before he leaned down and kissed her, quick and close-mouthed and easy, just enough to taste smoke and rain and the smug little smile she could not quite keep off her lips. When he pulled back, Bunny looked up at him with her eyes warm. “You too, cowboy,” she said.

Dean let go of her wrist and stepped back. Then he lifted his other hand. Her car keys dangled from his fingers, flashing silver in the low gray light. For one suspended, perfect moment, Bunny stared at them. Then her eyes snapped to his face. He smiled.

She lunged.

Dean pulled back fast, laughing under his breath as she reached for them, and with one easy little flick of his wrist, he let the keys drop through the runoff grate at the edge of the curb. They clattered once against metal, vanished into the dark below, and the sound they made when they hit the shallow water underneath was small, final, and deeply satisfying.

Bunny gasped as if he had shot her. “Oh, you dick.”

“That,” Dean said, already backing toward the Impala, “is what you get for handcuffing me to a headboard.”

Bunny was already crouching near the grate, cigarette abandoned now as she peered down into the narrow black slats with frustration gathering in every elegant line of her body. Wallace stood beside her, looking from the grate to Dean and back again with great interest, as though waiting to see which part of this counted as the game.

Without looking up from the grate, Bunny pointed vaguely in his direction. “Wallace, go bite Daddy.”

“Do not bite Daddy,” Dean called, pointing at the dog as he reached the Impala. “I’m innocent, and your mom’s the one playing dirty.”

Sam folded himself into the passenger seat and finally gave up trying not to laugh, the sound low and helpless as Dean slid behind the wheel and pulled the door shut. The Impala rumbled to life beneath his hands, warm and familiar and loyal in a way wives and brothers and dogs apparently were not, and Dean glanced through the windshield to see Bunny still crouched at the grate, one hand reaching down between the bars while Wallace sniffed helpfully at the curb.

Sam shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You know, if you two keep this up, one of you is gonna poison the other just to get the upper hand.”

Dean put the car in drive, his grin still lingering as he checked the mirror. Bunny looked up then, rain in her hair and murder in her eyes, and lifted one hand to give him a gesture that was neither ladylike nor especially federal.

“Nah,” Dean said, easing the Impala away from the curb. “Poison’s too subtle. Pretty sure slitting my throat in my sleep is more her style.”

✩

The gallery on Elm and Lancaster sat in a narrow brick building between a florist and a shuttered tailor’s shop, its front windows washed silver by the rain and arranged with the kind of careful sparseness that made Dean immediately distrust everything inside. There were no crowded walls, no cluttered shelves, no friendly mess of a place owned by someone who actually liked things; just pale wood floors, white walls, soft yellow track lighting, and enough space around each painting and sculpture to make the whole room feel like it was holding its breath.

Dean stood with his hands in his pockets beside something that looked, to his eye, like three bent pieces of metal arguing with a rock. A small card beneath it listed the title as Inheritance of Motion. The price tag beside that made him blink twice.

“Thirty-eight thousand dollars,” he muttered, leaning slightly closer as though the number might rearrange itself into something less offensive if he stared hard enough. “For scrap metal.”

Across from him, Sam gave him the kind of look that said he was supposed to be listening, not insulting what could end up being evidence, but Dean ignored it on principle and kept his eyes on the sculpture. He had seen enough weird things in his life to make room for most possibilities, but apparently rich people paying car money for a twisted coat rack was where his open-mindedness went to die.

The owner of the gallery, a thin man in a gray sweater and wire-framed glasses named Adrian Bell, stood near the front counter with his arms folded tight over his chest. He looked tired in the polished way people did when they were trying very hard not to look scared, his eyes moving too often toward the front windows and then back to Sam. He had already offered them coffee twice, apologized for the mess even though the gallery looked cleaner than most motel rooms they had ever slept in, and explained that the stolen paintings had been part of a private collection due to open the following week.

“Eric Langley,” Sam said, consulting his notepad with the mild, steady focus Dean had seen pull answers out of people who did not want to give them. “That was the employee involved in the theft?”

Adrian nodded, his mouth tightening around the name. “Yes. Eric handled the warehouse and delivery intake. He was the one who signed off on shipments, supervised loading, coordinated with clients, all of it.”

“And before that night, had you noticed anything strange about him? Changes in behavior, arguments with coworkers, anything that felt out of character?”

“No,” Adrian said at once, then seemed to realize the answer had come too quickly and shook his head, troubled by his own certainty. “No, that’s the thing. Eric was steady. Dependable. He had been with us almost since the beginning, one of the first people I hired when we opened. He loved the place, genuinely loved it, even if his work kept him mostly in the back with crates and invoices and delivery schedules. He was always the first one here and the last one gone. Sometimes I had to tell him to go home.”

Dean looked away from the sculpture then, not because any of that was new, but because it had started to sound familiar in the way cases always did when people talked about the dead as if goodness should have protected them. Reliable guy. Great employee. Never hurt anybody. The kind of person whose neighbors would later say they could not imagine him doing something terrible, and maybe that was true, right up until something wearing his face did it for him.

Sam glanced up from his notes. “Any electrical shortages or strange smells around the building lately? Sulfur, maybe?”

Adrian’s face changed with immediate recognition. “Actually, yes. A few weeks ago,” Adrian said, nodding as if relieved to finally offer them something useful. “It was awful. Truly awful. I thought something had died in the walls.”

Dean stepped closer, the sculpture forgotten. “What do you mean, a few weeks ago?”

Adrian rubbed a hand over his mouth, wincing at the memory. “We had a staff potluck for Valentine’s Day. Just something small, lunch in the back office, everybody brought something in. There were cookies, pasta salad, those little sausages in sauce. And deviled eggs.” He gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Someone brought deviled eggs.”

Dean stared at him.

“One of the halves must have rolled under the refrigerator during the party,” Adrian continued, clearly mistaking Dean’s expression for encouragement. “We didn’t realize it for days. I nearly hired someone to tear open the drywall because the smell was so persistent, but Eric finally pulled the fridge out and found it. Rotten egg. One half of a deviled egg. I cannot begin to describe the smell.”

Dean’s face settled into something flat and deeply unimpressed. “So,” Dean said slowly, “not sulfur.”

“Well, sulfurous,” Adrian offered. “In a culinary sense.”

The demon theory, which had been hobbling on one good leg for hours now, took another quiet step toward death. Dean felt it go and resented the hell out of it. He had wanted smoke, black eyes, cold spots, a reason for all that violence that did not lead right back to Bunny being right. A demon would have been clean in its own ugly way. Familiar. Something they knew how to cut out of the world. A shifter meant skin in drains and borrowed faces and someone somewhere seeing a monster walk past a window wearing the shape of someone they loved.

Sam cleared his throat, mercifully moving on. “And the night of the theft, Mr. Langley was caught on security footage loading the paintings into his own truck?”

Adrian nodded again, but the motion looked heavier this time. “Yes. I saw it myself. I already gave a copy of the tapes to the police, but it was Eric; there’s no question of that. He moved three paintings from the delivery bay into his truck just after ten-thirty, after everyone else had gone home.” His throat worked. “I still don’t understand it. He wasn’t a thief, or careless, nor was he greedy. He had keys to the building, access to plenty of valuable things for years, and he never so much as misplaced a receipt.”

“Was he having money trouble?” Sam asked. “Debts, medical bills, anything like that?”

“Not that I knew of. He lived simply. He was quiet. Divorced, no children, but not unhappy.” Adrian looked toward one of the paintings on the wall as though the answer might be hidden in its soft, expensive colors. “And then he went home and killed himself. I still can’t believe it.”

Dean’s eyes sharpened. “Killed himself?”

“That’s what the police said.” Adrian’s voice lowered, discomfort pulling the words thin. “They said he must have panicked after the theft and… done that to himself. But I don’t understand how someone panics that badly before anyone even accuses him of anything. We hadn’t even reported the paintings as missing yet; I only noticed when I came in first thing the next morning.”

Sam’s pen stilled. Dean looked at him, and this time Sam looked back. There it was.

Not a suicide. Not if Bunny was right about the body. Not if Eric Langley was dead in his own home long before a camera caught him stealing paintings he had no reason to take. Dean could feel the shape of it now, ugly and damp and close enough to touch: something wearing Eric’s face, walking through his workplace with his keys, his gait, maybe even his easy little nod at the camera, only after leaving the real Eric behind for someone else to find.

“Mr. Bell,” Dean said, his voice lower now, “we’re gonna need to see that footage.”

“Of course,” Adrian said quickly, almost grateful for something practical to do. “It’s in the back office. I saved a copy for the police, but the system keeps the original recordings for thirty days.”

He turned toward a narrow hallway behind the counter, gesturing for them to follow.

Dean waited half a step, letting Adrian move ahead before falling into place beside Sam. The gallery’s polished floor reflected the overhead lights in long pale streaks, and their shoes made almost no sound as they passed between walls full of art priced like ransom notes.

Sam leaned slightly closer as they walked, his voice dropping until it barely disturbed the quiet. “This is starting to look more and more like a shifter, Dean. You know that, right? We’re not just playing some stupid game of ‘chase the demon’ anymore.”

Dean kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, watching Adrian unlock a door at the end of the hall. “I know,” he muttered. “Damn it. I’m going to have to vacuum so much dog hair out of the Impala, man.”

✩

By the time they got back to the motel, the rain had finally committed to being rain.

It came down in a steady silver sheet beyond the window, blurring the neon vacancy sign across the wet glass and turning the parking lot into a shallow black mirror, every passing headlight smearing long and pale before it disappeared toward the county road. The police scanner sat on the dresser beside the television, low and staticky, muttering through clipped dispatch codes and bored voices while Sam worked at the table with his laptop open and Dean sat across from him with three folders spread out between them.

Wallace had been with them for a few hours now, curled on the carpet between their chairs with his chin tucked over one massive paw, his fake K-9 vest finally gone and his fur still faintly damp around the ears. He had appeared maybe fifteen minutes after Sam and Dean made it back, announced first by a soft, patient scratching at the connecting door between the rooms, so polite and steady that Dean didn’t think much of it initially. When he opened it, Wallace had been sitting on the other side with his tail sweeping once across the carpet, looking up at him like the arrangement had been made long ago and Dean was simply late to understand it.

Dean had stared down at the dog, then into the empty room beyond, where the bathroom light had been left on, and Bunny’s coat was draped across the chair. The bedspread was rumpled, her bag open near the foot of the bed from where she must have changed, a half-empty cup of tea cooling on the nightstand, all the usual evidence of her orbit without the woman herself anywhere in sight. He had figured she dropped Wallace off before heading out to chase some other lead, probably because it was getting late and because even Bunny, for all her nerve, knew better than to drag a tired dog through a wet town after dark if she didn’t have to.

Or maybe she just knew Dean would let him in. He had, obviously.

Now Wallace breathed slow and heavy beneath the table while the case settled around them in layers, ugly and patient. Dean sat with one elbow braced against the scarred tabletop, thumb tapping idly against the side of his glass as he looked down at the file they had pulled on Henry Wilts, Marlowe’s brother. Big house, high-paying job, pretty wife, and enough insured valuables to explain why something hungry for money or status or easy access might have turned its borrowed face toward him.

The wife, Anita Wilts, had been cleared almost as soon as they’d found Henry’s body. She had been in St. Barts when Henry was murdered, photographed on a beach with three friends, two cocktails, and a sunhat wide enough to pick up radio signals. Marlowe had not seemed especially fond of her, but grief had made her honest in the blunt way exhaustion sometimes did, and she had told them that Anita had never been cruel, only vain, and in any case was not nearly clever enough to murder her husband, stage a robbery, and get herself out of the country ahead of it without leaving a trail wide enough for the whole sheriff’s department to trip over.

Dean believed her.

Not because family couldn’t lie. Families lied all the time. Families lied better than strangers because they knew where to put the knife and how to smile after. But Marlowe Wilts had looked too hollowed out to waste energy protecting anyone, and when she talked about Henry, there had been nothing slippery in it. No careful pauses, no glances toward doors, no anger polished into performance. Just a sister trying to explain that her brother had liked old cars and expensive watches and calling on Sundays, and then stopping halfway through a sentence because talking about the living habits of a dead man had become too much.

Dean lifted one of the pages and let his eyes move down the list of insured assets, the paper whispering beneath his fingers.

Jewelry, mostly. A few antiques with names that meant nothing to him. Silver serving pieces, because apparently people still owned things like that outside of needing them for werewolves and period dramas. Then a separate page for the cars, three of them, all classic American muscle, and that got his attention even though the man was dead and the hour had stretched long. A ’69 Camaro. A ’70 Chevelle. A ’68 Mustang fastback. Not an Impala, but respectable. More than respectable, really. The kind of collection that said Henry Wilts had either possessed excellent taste or paid someone with excellent taste to have it for him.

Dean leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing at the list. “Huh.”

Sam did not look up from his laptop. “What?”

“Guy had cars. Classic American metal, all three of them.”

“Yeah?” Sam’s fingers kept moving over the keys, the bluish light from the screen cutting tired shadows beneath his eyes. “That relevant?”

“Don’t think so. But these things kick ass. Didn’t think rich guys had taste.”

Sam gave him a brief, distracted look over the top of the screen, then went back to whatever corner of the police database he had managed to break into while Dean pretended not to be impressed. The scanner crackled on the dresser, a dispatcher sending a unit toward a noise complaint three streets over, and Wallace’s ear twitched once before settling again. Outside, rain tapped at the window in small, tireless fingers, steady enough that it had become part of the room.

Dean set the page down and picked up the next one, his gaze skimming over appraisals and insurance values until the numbers blurred into the same rich-man nonsense he had spent the afternoon staring at in the gallery. It was strange, though, the cars. Not because they were worth stealing, because they were, but because they hadn’t been touched. Jewelry had been taken. Antiques. Cash. Paintings. Things that could move quickly if you knew the right buyer or wore the right face long enough to make people trust the transaction. Cars left paper. Cars had titles, garages, neighbors who noticed engines starting at three in the morning. Cars were loud in more ways than one.

Maybe the thing was smart. Maybe it was careful. Maybe Bunny was sitting somewhere with a cigarette between her fingers already knowing that too, which irritated him enough that he took a swallow from his glass and went back to reading.

Across from him, Sam stopped typing. The silence was small but immediate, the kind Dean felt before he looked up. Sam’s expression had shifted, the faint crease between his brows deepening as the glow of the laptop washed his face pale. “I got into the police database,” he said, voice low.

Dean set the file down. “Yeah?”

“Eric Langley’s report.” Sam’s eyes moved over the screen, and whatever he saw there pulled his mouth into a thin line. “Dean, it’s… this guy looks like he’d been put through a wood chipper.”

Dean’s hand stilled against the folder. For a second, the only sound in the room was the rain tapping steadily against the window and the scanner muttering to itself on the dresser, all static and clipped voices and ordinary trouble happening somewhere else. Wallace lifted his head from his paws, as if he had heard something in Sam’s voice worth waking for, then blinked slowly at them through the yellow motel light.

“What do you mean, wood chipper?” Dean asked.

Sam didn’t answer right away. He scrolled once, his face tightening further, and then turned the laptop around so Dean could see the screen. “I mean, I don’t know how the coroner was comfortable calling this a suicide.”

Dean leaned forward.

The crime scene photo was badly lit, flash-bright in the center and dark at the edges, but it was clear enough that Dean felt his stomach give a hard, familiar twist despite himself. He had seen bodies opened by things with claws and teeth, seen rooms painted red by creatures that didn’t care enough about human shape to leave much of it behind, but there was still something different about seeing a man’s kitchen turned into a slaughterhouse beneath the cheerful overhead light of a tract home. White cabinets. Linoleum floor. A refrigerator covered in magnets and takeout menus. Blood everywhere, sprayed across the lower cupboards, dragged through broken glass, smeared beneath the table where something had knocked two chairs sideways and left one half-kiltered against the baseboard like it had only just stopped moving.

“Jesus,” Dean said quietly.

Sam looked down at the table instead of the screen. “Yeah.”

Dean clicked to the next photo with one finger, his mouth flattening as Eric Langley’s body came into view, or what had been left of it. “This isn’t suicide,” he said, voice low and rough with disgust. “Guy’s practically chum.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Sam turned the laptop a little farther so they could both see it, though neither of them seemed especially eager to keep looking. “The report says self-inflicted injuries, probably brought on by panic after the theft, but look at the wound pattern. It’s not controlled. It’s not hesitation marks or a weapon he turned on himself. This looks like something tore into him.”

Dean’s eyes moved over the screen again, taking in the splatter, the angle of the broken frames on the wall, the dark drag near the threshold. “Looks more like a wild animal got to him.”

“Except there’s no sign anything broke in,” Sam said, reaching for the file beside his laptop and flipping it open with a soft rasp of paper. “No forced entry. Doors locked from the inside, windows intact, no tracks outside the house except Eric’s and the responding officers’. Neighbors didn’t hear glass break, didn’t hear an animal, didn’t see anything in the yard. The only signs of struggle are inside: blood, knocked-over chairs, broken dishes, those picture frames on the wall.”

Dean stared at the photo a moment longer, then turned the laptop back toward Sam with a little more force than necessary. “Could still be a demon.”

Sam looked at him. “Dean.”

Dean lifted one shoulder. “A really sadistic demon. More BTK Killer than our usual flavor.”

Sam sighed, not annoyed exactly, but tired in the way he got when Dean was making him state the obvious because neither of them liked the answer. “You need to give up the demon theory.”

Dean reached for his glass, not because he wanted it so much as because his hand needed somewhere to go. “I don’t need to do anything.”

“You saw the footage,” Sam said. “Same as I did. Eric walks into that loading bay after hours, loads three paintings into his own truck, looks right at the camera, and his eyes flare. Not black, but a camera flare. It’s a shifter.”

Dean’s jaw clenched.

Sam softened his voice a little, though not enough to make it pity. “It fits. It fits better than anything else. The violence, the robberies, no forced entry, victims letting someone in because they think they know them, Eric caught on camera doing something he had no reason to do while the real Eric was probably already dead at home.”

Dean looked down at Henry Wilts’ file again, at the neat list of assets and appraisals and valuables reduced to numbers, because that was easier than looking at Sam and seeing the shape of Bunny’s victory reflected back at him. He did know. That was the problem. He had known from the second the gallery footage flickered across the monitor in Adrian Bell’s back office, Eric Langley’s face washed gray-green by night vision, his movements steady and casual as he loaded stolen paintings like he had every right in the world to be there. He had known when the thing wearing Eric’s face looked up, and the camera caught that pale flash in the eyes, too bright and wrong for human and not wrong enough for demon.

“Yeah,” Dean said at last. “I know.”

Sam waited.

Dean took a swallow from his glass and set it down again, his thumb finding the rim. “I just don’t like losing.”

“No kidding.”

“Especially not to Bunny.” Dean glanced toward the connecting door as if she might somehow hear her name through the wall, through the rain, through whatever lead had dragged her out into the night. “She’s gonna brag.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the laptop. “Probably.”

“No, not probably. Definitely. Even if we catch this thing first, she’s still gonna do the whole…” Dean lifted one hand, fingers loose, and made a vague little gesture that seemed to encompass Bunny’s smile, her accent, her habit of being right, and the particular way she could make silence feel like an insult dressed for dinner. “Thing.”

Sam finally looked amused. “Her being right the whole time, thing?”

“Her making sure I know she’s been right the whole time, thing.”

“That’s not really all that different,” Sam said. He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath his weight. “Losing half the bet won’t kill you.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know that.”

“It’s one shot, man. Whiskey and hot sauce, and you both have to take it. You like both of those things,” Sam said, fighting the grin tugging at his mouth.

“That’s not the point, Sam. The point is that the two of those things are pretty fuckin’ terrible when you put them together.”

Sam shrugged, looking back down at his computer with the faintest trace of smugness still sitting at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually make stupid bets with Bunny.”

Dean gave him a flat look across the table, but Sam had already gone back to typing, all long fingers and quiet focus and the kind of deliberately innocent expression that meant he knew exactly how irritating he was being. The rain kept working at the window, silvering the glass until the motel room felt cut off from the rest of the town, and the police scanner murmured on the dresser in bursts of static and half-heard voices that never quite became urgent enough to matter.

Dean glanced toward the connecting door again.

The strip of light beneath it had not changed. Bunny’s room was still quiet beyond the wall, still carrying all the signs of her having been there and none of the woman herself, and the longer Dean stared at it, the more her absence started to sit wrong in his chest. He trusted her, which was its own strange little miracle. He trusted her with knives, with guns, with Latin older than some countries, with Sam’s life and Bobby’s and his own. He trusted her to walk into a room full of monsters and come back out with blood on her cheek and a plan half-built behind her eyes.

That did not mean he liked her being out there somewhere in the rain after midnight while a shifter wore dead people’s faces and left kitchens looking like butcher paper.

“Where the hell is she, anyway?” Dean asked.

Sam didn’t look up right away, his eyes moving over whatever record he had found next, but his shoulders shifted in a small, knowing way that made Dean regret saying anything the second it left his mouth. “Probably out chasing some lead we don’t know about yet.”

“Yeah, thanks. That clears it right up.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, but he kept his attention on the laptop. “I’m serious. Shifters are kind of her wheelhouse. Which is why I still don’t know why you bet against her on this in the first place.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, glass resting loose in one hand. “Because I have faith in myself. And because I was distracted.”

“By what?”

Dean stared at him.

Sam finally glanced up, and whatever he saw on Dean’s face made him drop his eyes back to the screen with a quiet huff of laughter. “Right. Never mind.”

Dean took another swallow of whiskey, more to give himself something to do than because he wanted it. The warmth burned down his throat and settled low in his chest, not quite enough to take the edge off, but enough to make the room feel less damp around the corners. “Anyway, betting against my wife is called equality. Pretty sure women fought for that.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “On shifters, Dean. You bet against Bunny on finding a shifter. If this were a striga, sure, maybe that’s a decent bet. If it were a demon, fine, you and I could probably sniff that out blindfolded. But this?” He shook his head a little, still typing. “That’s like betting against Bobby on lore, or against you on whether a carburetor sounds wrong.”

Dean’s jaw worked, because the worst thing about Sam being smug currently was that he had a point. Bunny had known what they were chasing before he had managed to admit the shape of it. She had walked into the case like it had been waiting for her, picked at the seams, followed the right blood trail, and then had the nerve to look good doing it.

“I’m starting to figure that out, yeah,” Dean muttered. “Doesn’t mean I don’t get to be worried about my wife out there at midnight.”

The typing stopped. Dean looked up immediately. “What?”

Sam was smiling to himself, not broad enough to be worth punching, but close enough to make Dean consider it. His eyes stayed on the computer, though his expression had gone softer around the edges, the kind of amused that came with memory instead of mockery.

“What’s the face for?” Dean asked, already annoyed.

Sam shrugged, trying very hard to look like a man who had not just been caught having a thought. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me nothing. That’s your thinking-something face.”

“I just think it’s sweet, that’s all.”

Dean’s expression shut down on principle. “Sweet.”

“You, worrying about her all the time. It’s sweet.”

Dean stared at him for a beat, then set his glass down with a quiet click against the table. “What, I’m not allowed to want my wife to be safe anymore? It’s a free country, man. I can worry about whoever the hell I want.”

Sam lifted both hands slightly, palms out, but the smile didn’t go away. “I didn’t say you couldn’t.” 

Dean pointed at him, irritation returning mostly because it was easier to hold than the worry still knocking around under his ribs. “You know, for a guy who keeps almost dying, you’ve got a real attitude about people caring whether you get turned inside out.”

Sam gave a short laugh then, low and tired, and Wallace’s ear flicked at the sound. “Dean, you’ve been high-beaming that worry at me since I was old enough to walk. If anything, I’m glad you finally have someone else to aim it at.”

Dean blinked. “High-beaming?”

“Yeah. Full force. Blinding. It’s great when I need someone keeping me alive, but it’s exhausting half the time.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Uh, you absolutely do.” Sam leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him as rain threaded silver down the window behind his shoulder. “Traveling with you is like traveling the lower forty-eight with an anxious mother hen who doesn’t understand posted speed limits.”

Dean’s face twisted. “I’m not a mother hen.” 

Sam’s grin finally broke through properly, boyish for half a second beneath the exhaustion and the laptop glow. “I’m just saying, I’m happy to pass the buck to my sister-in-law. Let you put all that energy onto someone else for once.”

Dean looked toward the ceiling as if asking God, the angels, or any bored spirit in the room to give him strength, then dragged a hand over his mouth. “Shut up.”

Sam went back to the computer, still smiling as his fingers found the keys again. “Sure.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, jaw working, and glanced again toward the connecting door. The room beyond stayed quiet, Bunny’s absence sitting on the other side of the wall like a held breath, and outside the rain went on falling, silver and steady over the parking lot, over the Impala, over whatever dark street his wife had disappeared down while chasing something that knew how to wear the dead.

Wallace sighed heavily from the floor, as if disappointed in all of them. Dean looked down at him. “You got something to say too?”

Wallace blinked once, slow and unimpressed, then tucked his nose back against his paw.

Sam’s grin widened at the laptop.

Dean picked up the nearest file again, muttering, “Whole damn family.”

He made it through half a page before the words started slipping loose from their meanings, insurance values and witness statements blurring into black lines on white paper while that same old, unwelcome thing moved restlessly under his ribs. It wasn’t new, exactly. He had felt it after the Halcyon, felt it on hunts before that; in hospitals and motel rooms and empty roads where the dark pressed too close to the windows. Not knowing where she was made something in him itch, something mean and protective and too easy to mistake for control if he looked at it from the wrong angle.

Dean did his best not to look too hard. There were enough dark rooms inside him already without shining a flashlight into that one and finding some other reason to hate himself.

He trusted Bunny. He did. She was a damn good hunter, better than a lot of the other hunters he knew and more stubborn than anything had a right to be while still weighing less than a wet duffel bag. She could handle a blade, read a room, lie to a witness, follow a trail, patch a wound, and put a bullet where it needed to go without blinking. He knew all that. He respected it, loved it in the quietest and most inconvenient parts of himself–the parts that noticed her competence with the same helpless pull that noticed her mouth.

But he still didn’t like her out there alone in the dark.

He didn’t like that he hadn’t seen that ugly green Bronco of hers all damn day, didn’t like the thought of her walking through a wet town after midnight while a shifter peeled lives off people like old wallpaper, didn’t like that she wasn’t here to needle him from across the table about being right. The room felt wrong without her in it, which was irritating, because the room was wrong in at least eleven other ways already and he didn’t need to start ranking them.

Dean closed the file with a soft slap and pushed back from the table.

Sam’s eyes flicked up. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, already standing. “Gonna wash my hands.”

Sam looked at the folder, then at Dean’s hands, but either he was feeling merciful, or he had decided the lie was too sad to bother kicking. He only gave a small hum and turned back toward the laptop while Dean crossed the room with the casual, deeply natural stride of a man who was absolutely not trying to angle himself toward the thin gap they had left in the curtains.

He glanced out as he passed.

The parking lot shone black beneath the rain, the neon vacancy sign bleeding red over puddles and the slick roofs of the cars parked in crooked lines below. The Impala sat where he had left her, wet and beautiful and loyal beneath the broken glow of the motel lights, with a dented pickup two spots down, a minivan near the office, and some little compact car. No Bronco. No familiar boxy shadow tucked beneath the far light. No sign of Bunny coming back from wherever the hell she had decided to vanish to.

Dean felt his face shift before he could stop it, frustration pulling tight across his mouth. He kept walking.

The bathroom light buzzed faintly when he flicked it on, turning the cracked mirror yellow at the edges and making the old sink look even worse than it had that morning. Dean braced both hands on the porcelain for a second and stared at himself, at the damp hair gone messy from being dragged through rain and fingers all day, at the loose collar of his Henley, the tired eyes, the wedding ring sitting too new and too settled on his hand. He turned the faucet on hard enough to make the pipes complain and shoved his hands beneath the cold water, because if Sam asked, he could say he had ink on his fingers from the files or grease from dinner, or some other excuse that sounded less pathetic than checking the parking lot for his wife’s car like a dog listening for the back door.

When he came out, drying them on a towel that had given up on softness about a decade ago, the room had changed. Sam was no longer at the table.

He stood beside the dresser instead, one hand braced near the police scanner, his laptop abandoned open behind him and his head tipped slightly toward the small black box as static scratched through the motel air. The amused softness had left his face completely. His shoulders had gone still, his mouth set in a line Dean knew too well, and Wallace had lifted his head again from the floor, ears angled forward as though the whole room had started listening at once.

Dean slowed in the bathroom doorway, towel still loose in his hand. “What’s up?”

Sam lifted one finger, not quite to silence him, but close enough that Dean felt the rest of his question die behind his teeth. “Something weird on the scanner.”

He reached over and turned the volume up a little, and for a second there was only static, the low electrical hiss filling the motel room while rain worked at the window and the old heater clicked softly beneath it. Dean tossed the towel toward the foot of the bed and crossed to stand beside Sam, close enough that the two of them were nearly shoulder to shoulder in front of the dresser, both of them watching the scanner like it might grow teeth if they looked away.

A male voice crackled through, thin and warped by distance. “Dispatch, this is Unit 9-Bravo-268. I’m down by the water treatment plant, near the old tunnel entrances.”

The dispatcher came back a moment later, bored but attentive. “Copy, 9-Bravo. Everything all right?”

There was a pause, then the officer answered, sounding more confused than alarmed. “Yeah, I think so. It’s just… I’m hearing music down here.”

The dispatcher hesitated. “Music?”

“Yeah,” the officer said. “Sounds like somebody’s playing Rod Stewart? Pretty loud, too. It’s echoing around the access road.”

For a beat, the motel room went very still in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with both Winchesters trying, at the same time, not to react too fast.

The scanner gave another soft burst of static before the dispatcher came back on, sounding like a woman who had not expected Rod Stewart to become her problem at this hour. “Could be maintenance staff. You’re cleared to check the area if you want to take a look.”

“Copy that,” the officer said, though he still sounded uncertain. A few seconds passed, filled with rain and static and Wallace’s quiet huff from the floor. “I’ve got a few vehicles in the employee lot. Looks like maybe overtime maintenance. I’ll circle once and report back if anything seems off.”

“Copy, 9-Bravo. Keep us updated.” The scanner settled back into its restless mutter.

Dean stood there for another second, staring down at the little black box while the words turned themselves over in his head. Water treatment plant. Tunnel entrances. Rod Stewart. It could have been nothing. In their line of work, nothing was only sometimes nothing, and more than once Dean had chased a supposedly strange noise only to find a wild animal, a drunk guy, or a faulty piece of equipment.

Sam looked at him carefully. “Bunny has, like… a weird thing for Rod Stewart, right?”

Dean was already moving. Not quickly, not yet, because there was no screaming over the scanner and no gunfire and no officer calling for backup, but moving with the sudden, practical purpose of a man who had just been given the first real direction his worry had found all night. He crossed to the bed and grabbed his boots from beside it, shoving one foot in, then the other, tugging the laces tight with quick, practiced pulls.

“She’s got a lot of things,” he said. “Unfortunately, yeah, Rod Stewart’s one of ’em.”

Sam closed the laptop halfway, then seemed to think better of it and left it open as he started gathering what they needed from the table. “Could be a coincidence.”

Dean shot him a look while pulling on his jacket. “At midnight? By tunnel entrances? In a town where a shifter’s running around wearing dead guys like party masks?”

“I said could be.”

“Yeah, well, I could be a patient man.” Dean snatched the Impala keys from the dresser, the metal cold against his palm. “Grab your stuff.”

Sam was already reaching for his jacket, the earlier smile gone but not replaced by panic, just the steady alertness that came when a case started tugging them toward the next door. He grabbed his phone and checked the knife tucked beneath his coat with a movement so quick and familiar it barely seemed conscious.

On the floor, Wallace had risen to his feet.

He stood between them, broad and silent, looking first at Dean, then at the leash hanging from the chair near the connecting door, his scarred muzzle lifted as if he had understood enough of the situation to know his evening had just changed. Dean looked down at him and sighed through his nose, because of course the dog was coming. Of course Bunny’s dog, who had been sleeping like an old rug ten seconds ago, had suddenly become a soldier awaiting orders.

Dean grabbed the leash and clipped it to Wallace’s collar. “You bite anything wearing my face, we’re gonna have words,” he muttered.

Wallace wagged his tail once.

Sam paused at the door, eyebrows lifting faintly. “That your pep talk?”

Dean pulled the motel door open, letting in a rush of cold wet air and the silver hiss of rain from the parking lot. “It’s a working relationship.”

Wallace pushed forward eagerly enough that Dean had to tighten his grip on the leash, and Sam followed them out with his jacket half-zipped and his phone already in hand. Behind them, the motel room stayed lit and messy, files open on the table, scanner murmuring on the dresser, Bunny’s empty room still glowing faintly beneath the connecting door.

Dean locked up, glanced once toward the wet space where her Bronco still was not parked, and headed for the Impala.

✩

The tunnels beneath the water treatment facility were colder than the rain outside.

Cold and damp and breathing faintly through every seam in the concrete, with water ticking somewhere deep in the walls and the hollow thrum of machinery carrying through the structure like a pulse buried under stone. The air tasted metallic, sharp with chlorine and old runoff, and every few yards the beams from their flashlights caught on pipes sweating condensation, rust-stained grates, warning signs gone pale at the edges, and the long black mouths of side passages that disappeared into more dark.

Somewhere ahead, Rod Stewart echoed through the tunnels.

The song warped as it bounced off the concrete, tinny and too loud and wrong in the industrial dark, the bassline thinning into something almost insectile while the lyrics came and went in broken pieces around corners and through open service doors. The whole thing was ridiculous, really, but Dean had been doing this too long to trust anything that sounded funny in the middle of a hunt. Funny was usually the world clearing its throat before it showed you something bad.

Wallace moved ahead of them, his paws silent against the damp floor, ears swiveling as the music ricocheted around them. Every so often his head dipped toward the ground, scarred muzzle pulling in the scent trail, then lifted again toward the sound. He had stopped looking like a dog enjoying an outing about ten minutes ago and had settled into something sharper, heavier, all that broad muscle and old hurt aimed down the tunnel like he had finally remembered every bad place he had ever survived and decided he knew what to do with this one.

It had taken them five minutes in the parking lot to get him moving.

Five stupid, wet, increasingly annoying minutes of Dean trying every command Bunny had ever used around the dog and realizing, with mounting irritation, that Wallace had apparently decided he only took commands in English from his mother. Sam had tried “track” and “find her” and “go,” while Dean stood there in the rain with his gun heavy under his jacket, trying to remember whether Bunny used chercher for finding things or whether that was one of the words she used when she wanted Wallace to stop trying to eat trash. Wallace had stared at both of them with patient disappointment until, finally, as if exhausted by their accents and their general lack of usefulness, he had turned on his own and trotted toward the tunnel entrance.

Dean had followed because arguing with the dog seemed like a new low, even for him.

Dean moved behind the dog with his flashlight in one hand and his gun in the other, shoulders tight beneath his damp jacket, every sense drawn thin and alert. Sam walked a few steps back and to the side, sweeping his light over the walls, the ceiling, the floor, checking corners before they reached them and shadows after they passed. Neither of them spoke much. There was no need. The music was too loud, the tunnels too narrow, and the possibility of Bunny somewhere ahead was too large to put words around without making it worse.

They took a left where Wallace led them, then another right past a row of pipes painted blue and green and flaking badly near the joints. The song grew louder with every turn, clearer now, bright and obscene in the gloom. Dean’s jaw tightened.

Of course. Of all the songs in the world, of all the ways Bunny could leave a breadcrumb trail through a place like this, it had to be “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?”. He could almost picture her doing it too: volume turned all the way up, choosing the most absurd possible signal because absurd was memorable and because she had always had a nasty talent for making fear look like wit.

A scream cut through the tunnel. Dean stopped so fast that water from a puddle lapped over the tip of his boot.

Sam’s flashlight snapped toward the sound, his gun rising in the same motion, and for one long second the scream warbled through the concrete around them, high and female and terrified, folding strangely beneath Rod Stewart’s voice until the two sounds tangled together in the damp air.

But it wasn’t Bunny’s scream.

Dean knew it before his mind had time to make the shape of the thought, knew it in the part of him that had learned her voice through arguments and laughter and pain and sleep, through motel walls and battlefield smoke and the way she sometimes said his name like she was pulling him back by hand. That scream wasn’t hers.

Relief hit, brief and mean.

Then the scream broke again, and the relief went sour in his throat. Sam looked at him, pale in the flashlight glow. Dean raised his gun a little higher. “Move.”

The music suddenly jumped louder. It blasted down the tunnel hard enough to rattle against the concrete, swallowing the woman’s next cry until it became just another distortion beneath the song. Someone had turned it up. Someone had heard the scream and tried to bury it. 

Wallace gave a low sound in his chest, not quite a growl, not quite a warning, and moved forward. Dean let him.

They rounded another corner, boots splashing through a shallow ribbon of water running along the low point of the floor, and the tunnel ahead opened into a wider service corridor. At the far end, light poured from a room with its door propped open, warm and yellow against the blue-gray concrete, spilling across the floor in a long crooked shape. The music was coming from there, loud enough now that Dean could feel the cheap speakers buzzing beneath it. Shadows moved strangely across the rectangle of light, too fast and broken to make sense of from where they stood.

Dean lifted a fist, and Sam stopped behind him immediately. Wallace stopped too, though his body stayed angled forward, every inch of him tense, ears fixed on the open doorway while his tail went still behind him.

He eased closer to the wall, breathing shallow through his nose, and glanced back at Sam. His brother’s face was set, gun up, flashlight lowered enough not to throw their shadows ahead of them. They both listened.

Rod Stewart blared from the room. Something metal scraped across concrete. A woman sobbed once, muffled and close. Dean’s fingers tightened around the grip of his gun.

He moved first, slow and tight to the wall, Sam falling into place just behind him with the kind of silent understanding that came from too many doors, too many rooms, too many ugly things waiting on the other side. They killed their flashlights before they reached the doorway, letting the hard yellow spill from the room ahead do the work instead, and Dean kept his gun angled down as he leaned just far enough to look inside.

Then he stopped. For half a second, he only stared.

A scoff slipped out of him before he could stop it, low and incredulous beneath the blare of the music, and his eyes rolled toward the wet concrete ceiling as if the whole universe had personally exhausted him. He ran a hand over his jaw and tipped his head once for Sam to follow and stepped through the doorway, the light inside cutting across his face in hot, uneven bands.

It was a boiler room, or had been one once, all sweating pipes and rusted valves and old machines crouched in the corners like sleeping animals. The heat hit him immediately, thick and damp and mean after the cold tunnels, carrying the sour-metal smell of standing water, oil, blood, cigarette smoke, and whatever chemical bite was coming from the open bottles arranged on the table near the far wall. A boom box sat on an upturned crate beside it, the same battered thing Dean had seen rolling around the back of Bunny’s Bronco more than once, its speakers buzzing bravely as Rod Stewart filled the room with a cheerfulness that bordered on criminal.

And there was Bunny.

She stood in the middle of all that heat and noise like she had been expecting them eventually but had not cared enough to wait, stripped down to a high-cropped white tank, the silver of her locket catching the light. Her jeans hung low on her hips, her hair loose down her back in dark waves dampened slightly by sweat and the room’s wet heat, and when she shifted, reaching for something on the table, Dean caught the fine stamp of his initials inked at the small of her back.

D.M.W. His jaw tightened around a thought that had no business showing up in a room like this.

The table in front of her looked like trouble laid out in neat rows, the most interesting among them being a syringe she was filling from a dark glass bottle with a focus that would have looked almost medical, if not for the cigarette tucked between her lips and the woman tied to the chair ten feet away.

The woman was the source of the sobbing.

She looked like she might have worked at a bank or a dentist’s office, someone ordinary and pressed into the wrong shape by terror, with a blouse torn at the shoulder, one cheek swollen, and her wrists bound tight to the arms of the chair. Blood had dried beneath her nose and at the corner of her mouth, and when she saw Dean and Sam come in, her whole body jerked against the restraints with a raw, desperate sound that cut through the music more cleanly than the scream had.

Wallace, apparently deciding that the room’s moral complexity was less important than the fact that his mum was there, rushed forward with a bark that bounced off the boilers and nearly made Sam flinch. Bunny looked down just in time for the dog to crowd against her legs, his tail going hard enough to slap the side of the table.

“There you are, sweet boy,” she said around the cigarette, bright and pleased, as if Wallace had not just led two armed Winchesters through a treatment plant in the middle of the night. “Hello, darling.”

Dean stepped farther inside, gun now held by his side, his eyes moving from Bunny to the bound woman and back again. “Looks like a party.”

Bunny lifted her gaze then, and the smile that broke across her face was sunny enough to be deeply unsettling under the circumstances. She pulled the cigarette from her mouth with two fingers and set the filled syringe carefully beside the vial. “Hi, my loves. I was wondering when you might catch up.”

“Help me,” the woman blurted, voice cracking so hard it almost vanished beneath the song. “Please, please, you have to help me. She’s crazy. She dragged me down here, she won’t let me go, she keeps asking me these questions, and I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know anything.”

Sam moved closer, but not close enough to put himself within reach, his gun steady in both hands and his eyes fixed on the woman with a kind of wary pity that did not soften into belief. “That the shifter?”

Bunny gave the woman a faintly bored glance, then looked back at Sam. “That it is.”

The woman made a wounded, disbelieving sound. “I’m not. I’m not, I swear; she keeps saying that, but I’m not anything. I don’t even know what that is. My name is Caroline Hodge, I work at First Montana Bank, I have a husband, and a little boy—”

Dean raised his gun then, not aiming at her chest yet, just lifting it enough that the metal caught the boiler room light. “All three of us are carrying silver,” he said, his voice flat enough to cut under the music. “So if you’re thinking about doing the whole innocent-victim routine, I’d save the energy.”

The woman’s mouth trembled.

Bunny leaned back against the edge of the table, cigarette smoke curling around her face as Wallace pressed close against her thigh, and for all the heat in the room, her eyes had gone cool and sharp. “It’s very good,” she said. “I’ll give it that. The crying is a bit much, but the details really help sell the whole picture.”

For a second, the thing in the chair held the shape of Caroline Hodge with admirable commitment: the wet eyes, the trembling mouth, the desperate little hitch of breath that made her look small and human and terrified beneath the boiler room light. Then Dean saw it give way. Not all at once, not with the clean, satisfying drop of a mask, but in pieces; the mouth still shook, but the eyes stopped begging, and something flat and irritated slid into the space where panic had been. The shift was almost worse because the face did not change. It was still bruised, still soft, still somebody’s mother or wife or bank teller, but whatever looked out from behind it had gotten tired of pretending.

Sam’s gaze moved from the shifter to the table beside Bunny, and his expression tightened in a way Dean recognized too well. The rolled leather kit had been opened neatly across the surface, each little pocket filled with something silver and unfriendly: thin blades, hooks, chains, narrow stakes polished bright at the tips, a pair of cuffs, and several vials arranged in a row beside the dark bottle Bunny had drawn from. It looked less like a hunter’s emergency kit and more like something someone would bring to a room if they had already decided mercy was not going to be very useful.

Sam glanced at her, careful but not soft. “What exactly are you doing here?”

Bunny looked down at the table as though mildly surprised by the question, then lifted one shoulder. “I thought I’d have a bit of fun before we put it down.”

Dean’s eyes cut to her.

She smiled. “I’ve already won the bet, haven’t I? It would be wasteful not to enjoy the victory properly.”

The thing in the chair made a low sound, almost a laugh, but it caught in its throat when Bunny picked up the syringe.

Dean straightened. “Bunny.”

She was already moving, slow and unhurried, cigarette balanced between two fingers now, the syringe held carefully in the other hand. The music kept pounding through the room, absurd and relentless, while the old pipes groaned overhead and steam ticked somewhere behind the boilers. Wallace stayed by the table, eyes fixed on her, his body still except for the faint twitch of one ear.

“What the hell are you doing to it?” Dean asked, voice sharpening despite himself.

Bunny glanced back over her shoulder, hair slipping across one bare shoulder, eyes dark beneath the harsh yellow light. “It’s really nothing to worry about, love,” she said. “Just giving it a bit of its own medicine.”

Then she reached the chair, caught a fistful of the shifter’s hair, and pulled its head sharply to the side. The thing snarled then, the sound breaking through Caroline Hodge’s voice in a way that raised the hair along Dean’s arms, but Bunny did not flinch. She drove the needle in, quick and practiced, and pressed the plunger down before the shifter could do more than jerk once against the ropes.

The scream that followed was no act.

It tore out of the thing raw and furious, bouncing hard off the concrete and through Rod Stewart’s voice until the room seemed to shake with both. The shifter’s body strained against the chair, wrists twisting, heels scraping, all that stolen softness gone ugly with pain, and for one second the face seemed to ripple at the edges like heat over asphalt.

Bunny let go and stepped back, calm as anything, while the thing sagged forward and cursed at her through clenched teeth. Dean stared at her. Sam did too.

Bunny returned to the table, picked up the dark bottle, and held it where the boiler light could catch the glass. “Colloidal silver,” she explained. “Silver particles suspended in liquid. Not enough to kill one of them, unfortunately, but enough that they feel every bit of it. Discovered it affects shifters a few years back, and that’s been quite the exciting revelation. Bobby’s been passing it along to a few of the other hunters we trust as a way to slow them down.”

Dean looked from the bottle to the thing in the chair, which had folded in on itself as much as the ropes allowed, shoulders shaking and breath coming through its teeth in thin, hateful pulls. Caroline Hodge’s face was still there, still bruised and wet-eyed and human enough to make the whole thing sit wrong if he looked at it too long, but the ripple under the skin had not fully settled, and every now and then something twitched beneath the cheek like the stolen shape wanted to crawl off the bones and find somewhere else to hide.

His jaw tightened. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

Bunny shifted back against the table, one hip resting against the edge, the bottle still loose in her hand. The cigarette had burned low between her fingers, ash bending dangerously toward the floor, and the steam rising off the pipes caught around her in thin gray ribbons until the whole room seemed to breathe smoke and heat. “I don’t know what you’re asking, actually.”

Dean’s eyes cut to hers. “You’re torturing this poor woman.”

Bunny’s expression sharpened at once, the softness leaving her face so quickly it might never have been there. “First of all,” she said, voice still level but gone colder at the edges, “I am not torturing a woman. I am torturing an it.”

The shifter laughed weakly from the chair, bloody mouth curling around the sound.

Bunny did not look away from Dean. “And second, this fucking thing tortured its victims before it killed them. You saw the files. You saw what it left of Eric Langley, what it did to Henry Wilts, what it has been doing in houses full of family photographs and coats still hanging by the door. I’m giving it a taste of its own medicine.”

Dean took a step toward her, close enough now that he could smell the smoke on her skin beneath the chemical stink of the room. “That’s not the point, and you know it.”

He turned his head toward Sam, because Sam was supposed to be the part of this that made sense, the one who looked at a room full of silver tools and a tied-down monster and understood that there were lines for a reason, even when the thing on the other side of the line deserved worse than they had time to give it. But Sam was looking at the table, at the opened leather kit and the vials and the clean bright edges of the blades, his expression drawn tight in a way Dean could not immediately read.

Dean smacked him in the shoulder with the back of one hand. “Dude.”

Sam blinked, then looked at him. “What?”

“A little help here?”

Sam’s mouth opened, closed, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out careful enough that Dean knew he was already going to hate it. Sam shrugged. “It’s not like I’m endorsing this.”

Dean stared at him. “Wow. Strong start.”

“I’m not,” Sam said, firmer this time, though his gaze shifted once toward the shifter before coming back. “But it did torture people before it killed them. We both saw the photos, Dean. Eric Langley wasn’t just murdered. He was ripped apart. Same with Henry. Same with the others. This thing didn’t make it quick, and it didn’t care who found the bodies after.”

Bunny’s eyes stayed on Dean, but there was a grim satisfaction in the lift of her chin, as if Sam’s words had not pleased her so much as confirmed what she already considered obvious.

Dean looked between them, incredulous. The heat pressed at his back. The music thudded through the floor and crawled up through his boots. The shifter breathed in ragged little bursts from the chair, and the room suddenly felt too crowded with all the worst things they had learned to justify.

“So that’s the standard now?” he asked, voice dropping lower, rougher. “They hurt people, so we hurt them back before we put ’em down?”

Neither of them answered quickly enough.

Dean’s mouth tightened into something that was almost a smile and nowhere near amused. “Awesome. Great. Good to know we’re setting policy in a boiler room with a damn torture kit and Rod Stewart on backup vocals.”

Bunny’s face went still. “Dean.”

“No, come on,” he said, the words coming sharper now because if he slowed down, he was going to have to feel the thing underneath them. “That’s what we’re saying, right? Monster did bad things, so we get to do bad things back. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, syringe full of silver for a kitchen full of blood.”

Sam shifted beside him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Sam?”

The question landed harder than he meant it to, and Sam’s face changed, just a little. Dean saw it. Hated that he had put it there. Hated more that he couldn’t stop now, because the room had gotten under his skin and the silver bottle in Bunny’s hand looked too much like every knife he had ever picked up after someone–something–told him it needed doing.

Dean looked back at Bunny. “You think I don’t get wanting to make it hurt? I get it. Trust me, I get it. But if anybody knows how hard it is to put down the knife after you pick it up, it’s me.”

That took the air out of the room more completely than yelling would have.

Even the song seemed farther away for a second, muffled beneath the rush of heat through the pipes and the distant pulse of water somewhere behind the walls. Sam’s expression closed around something old and guilty, something neither of them had touched directly since Dean crawled out of Hell and brought too many pieces of it back with him. Bunny’s eyes flicked over his face, and whatever argument she had been ready to make died behind her teeth.

Dean held her gaze, breathing shallow, gun still hanging at his side.

“This thing deserves to die,” he said. “I’m not arguing that. But this?” His eyes dropped briefly to the table, to the syringe, to the neat silver instruments laid out like choices. “This is a road you don’t wanna go down.”

Sam shifted beside him, and Dean knew before his brother spoke that he was trying to soften the shape of the room, trying to put a hand against the door before it slammed all the way shut. “Dean, it’s not like that.”

Dean turned his head toward him. “Then what’s it like, Sam?”

Sam’s mouth tightened, but whatever answer he might have had did not come quickly enough to matter, because Bunny gave a short, humorless sound from the table and folded one arm across herself, the bottle still hanging from her other hand.

“No matter what you say,” she said, voice low beneath the music, “you are not going to make me feel bad for carving into it.”

Dean looked back at her.

Bunny’s eyes were bright in the boiler room light, not wet, not soft, but bright with something old and banked and furious, something that had been sitting under her skin since she was seven years old and had never really gone quiet no matter how well she dressed it up. “Things like this tortured my family,” she said. “One of them wore my father’s face into my house and made my mother trust it before it tore her apart. And when I found the one that did it, years later, do you know what it told me? It told me it still remembered how my Mum screamed. How Molly’s blood felt on its hands.”

The room seemed to shrink around that, the heat pressing closer, the song suddenly too loud and too stupid and too cruel for the shape of what she had just put into the air. Even the shifter had gone quiet in the chair, its breathing thin and ragged behind them.

“So forgive me,” Bunny said, each word clipped clean, “if I do not feel the slightest bit bad about hurting a monster before I put it down. It is not as though I am torturing hu—”

She stopped. The cut-off was small, but it landed like something dropped from a great height.

Bunny’s mouth closed. Her eyes flicked once, not quite to Dean, not quite away from him, and then she folded both arms over her chest like she could physically hold the rest of the sentence inside herself if she was quick enough.

Dean stared at her. Then he reached down and slapped the button on the boom box. Rod Stewart died mid-chorus. The silence that followed was enormous.

It left behind the drip of water somewhere in the pipes, the low groan of machinery through the walls, and the sound of Dean’s own pulse beating too loudly in his ears. Bunny stood across from him in the sudden quiet, smoke still curling from the cigarette forgotten near the tray, her chin lifted in that stubborn way he knew too well.

Dean’s voice came out flat. “Finish that sentence, Bunny.”

Bunny did not move. “I wasn’t going to say what you think I was.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as something cold and ugly opened under his ribs, not quite anger, not quite hurt, but close enough to both that he could feel where it wanted to go. “You were gonna say it’s not like you’re torturing humans like I did.”

Bunny’s face changed at once. Not guilt, exactly. Something sharper. Offended, maybe, or wounded that he had reached for that version of her so quickly. “No,” she said, hard and immediate. “I wouldn’t say that, Dean. Ever.”

Dean let out a breath through his nose. “Then what the hell were you gonna say?”

Bunny looked up at him, eyes dark and furious now, but the anger was not clean anymore. It had snagged on too many things: her dead mother, his time in Hell, the monster in the chair, the fact that they were having this conversation in a boiler room with blood drying on concrete and silver laid out like confession. “I was going to say that it is not as though I am torturing humans like some of the other freaks we have come across,” she said. “Humans, Dean. Actual humans who enjoy pain without needing fangs or claws or borrowed skin to excuse it.”

Sam said her name quietly, but Bunny did not look at him.

“There are worse people out there than this thing,” she went on, voice still controlled but trembling at the edges now, not with fear, never fear, but with the effort of keeping too much feeling pressed into too small a space. “Worse humans. Worse monsters. Worse everything. I am not pretending this is clean, but it is justice. It hurt people because it liked the sound they made when they broke. I am giving it one small taste of that before we send it where it belongs.”

Dean rubbed a hand along his jaw, rough enough that the scrape of his palm over stubble sounded loud in the quiet.

He wanted to answer her. He wanted to say that justice did not need a syringe, that he knew exactly what it felt like to build a reason strong enough to hold a blade steady, that if she kept making rooms like this for herself then one day she would walk into one and not recognize the difference between punishment and appetite. He wanted to say a lot of things, and every one of them felt too big, too late, and too close to begging.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he said, and reached for the gun he had set on the edge of the table without remembering doing it. “We kill it. Now.” He turned.

The chair was empty.

For one impossible second, Dean’s brain refused to make sense of what his eyes were giving him. The ropes were still there, frayed and loose, one hanging off the arm of the chair in a limp twist. A few drops of blood marked the space where the shifter’s feet had been, bright and fresh beneath the boiler light.

But the thing wearing Caroline Hodge’s face was gone. Bunny went very still. Then she said, quietly, “Fuck.”

Sam’s gun came up at the same time Dean’s did.

The room snapped back into motion. Bunny grabbed her own gun from the table, cigarette forgotten, syringe forgotten, every trace of the argument burned away beneath the sudden, clean terror of a monster loose in the tunnels. Sam moved toward the door in a low, fast jog, shoulder tight to the frame as he peered out into the corridor with his weapon raised.

“Nothing here,” he called back, voice sharp now, all hunter. “I’ll check the way we came in.”

Bunny clicked her tongue once, and Wallace tore his gaze from her to Sam, already moving before she finished the command. “Avec lui, Wallace.”

The dog surged after Sam, silent and fast, disappearing into the yellow spill of the corridor like a shadow with teeth.

Dean stepped toward the other side of the room, flashlight back in his hand, gun tracking the dark spaces behind the boilers and the low crawl of pipes near the rear wall. The music was gone, and without it the facility sounded enormous around them; water moving behind concrete, metal expanding in the heat, far-off echoes that could have been footsteps or could have been the building settling around the thing they had let slip its bonds.

Bunny came up beside him, close enough that her bare shoulder almost brushed his sleeve, silver knife now in her left hand and gun in her right. For half a second, neither of them moved.

The argument was still there between them, hot and unfinished, stretched tight as wire. Dean could feel it in the space where he did not look at her, in the way Bunny kept her eyes forward, in the silence where some apology or accusation might have gone if either of them had been foolish enough to spend breath on it with a shifter loose among them.

They moved together into the dark, side by side and not touching, the boiler room light falling away behind them while the empty chair sat in the heat and the tunnels ahead swallowed the sound of their footsteps. 

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Oh damn! 😮

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 71 - Say It Anyway

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 70✦

✦summary: you revisit old wounds✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦

✦author's note: can you say "emotional progress"?✦

The house was about ninety percent books now. Between the collection Rowena and Adam had dropped off—Rowena complaining about her boy luggage being only good for carrying extra things—the books you and Sam have been borrowing from the library, and all the PDFs Charlie printed out, there’s barely room to stretch your legs. Dean thinks it’s overkill. You told him that he could live with it, or buy you a tablet.

“I will,” he mutters, pushing other stack off to the side. “I’ll buy you three if it means I get the freakin’ kitchen back.”

“The kitchen is clean,” you hum, flipping another page. “You can use it right now-“

“There are books on the oven, sweetheart.”

“Then move them to the floor.”

“I can’t, someone is gonna trip, and we don’t have any space to do triage or- Or bandaids.” He sighs. “I’m just sayin’, you could do some of this on the porch or something.”

“You could do it on the porch,” you grumble, and Dean snorts.

“I could, Princess? That right?”

His voice is low. Honeyed and teasing in a way that he knows isn’t fair. You flush, your fingers curling on the pages, and risk a glance up. He’s giving you that half-amused, affectionate look that always makes you squirm. Brows raised, mouth twitching, something close to bewilderment shining in his eyes. You swallow, and try to look back to your paper. Dean drawls your name, and you sink a little into the chair.

“You wanna try that again?” He murmurs, and you stare blankly ahead, not actually reading a single  word.

“No.” You sound meeker than you want to be. Dean just chuckles, bumping his foot against yours.

“C’mon, Princess. Look at me.”

You stare harder at your book. You can see him in your periphery, all handsome and infuriating and smug. It’s not your fault you’re folding like a fragile deck of cards. He’s been building you up and knocking you down for almost a month now without any reprieve, and you’re maybe a few more teasings away from screaming like an animal when he denies you again.

“Baby-“

“I don’t want to,” you mumble, and Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees. His big hands. His massive, warm hands that always mold right against your body and tease your sides and breast and aching pussy, toying with you until you’re a little more than a rainbow in a puddle, daisies and butterflies blooming in your stomach and under your fingers-

Dean reaches up and traces his thumb over your lower lip. You make an undignified sound, but don’t dare to look. You’ll cave, and you’re really supposed to be stronger than that.

“Just one look,” Dean murmurs, like he’s coaxing a kitten out of a cage. “Let me see those eyes, sweet girl. Come on.”

You’re breathing awfully fast. Your heart is pushing up your throat, and you’re worried that if he kisses you it’s just going to move into his chest. But then you’d be close. Close as you could possibly get, and you’d never be able to lose him, and-

You look at him. He grins like you’re made of diamonds and drags his thumb down your nose, slowly wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck. You stare at him, trying not to blink. You never want a single moment like this end.

“Take ten,” he mutters, gaze softening as he scans over the bags you know are hanging under your eyes, the swell of your lips from chewing and pursing. “Walk Indy with me, hang out with the Lady, just-“ He reaches forward slowly, grabbing the top of your book. “You’ve been at this all fuckin’ day, and night, and yesterday, and-“

“I need to figure out how to hatch the egg and-“

“How the Leviathans spell works, yeah, I remember.” He gives you a pleading look. “Ten. That’s all I’m askin’ for.”

You swallow, your fingers tightening on your book. Dean tilts his head and tugs it gently, and you let go. You are exhausted. Your eyes are so heavy they might as well be threaded with iron, the whole world is getting kind of foggy—all blurred together like watercolor, Dean’s Gold painted to your hands and leaking all over the room like mist—and your back is aching. You’ve been slumped in this chair for hours. You’re not even sure you’re going to be able to stand up.

Dean sets your book off to the side and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline. “Good girl,” he says, and your eyes flutter closed. “What’re we doing?”

“Can you- Shit-“ You cut yourself off with a yawn, bowing your head against his shoulder. “De?”

“Yeah?”

“I smell.”

Dean laughs, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you straight into his lap. He inhales deeply against your hair, rubbing your spine gently, and hums. “Seem perfect to me,” he says, and you roll you eyes.

“That’s because you’re stupid.”

“I’m stupid, huh.”

“’Bout girl stuff,” you mumble, tugging mindlessly at the fabric of his shirt. “You’re like- A man.”

“Yep,” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you can hear his smile. “Thought we were all on the same page about that one, Princess.”

You press your face straight into the crook of his neck, grumbling incoherently. Dean chuckles, petting the back of your head.

“How about we put you in a bath, baby.”

“’Cause I smell?” You whine, and Dean shakes his head.

“’Cause you’re wound up. And I’m getting worried you’re gonna snap all over me,” he sighs, keeping you cradled in his arms as he stands. “And not in the hot way.”

You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He’s right. The Silver is tight in your body like a trigger gear, and you can feel it. How the wrong nudge would make you burst, atomic and neon and everywhere in a way you won’t be able to control. And you’re trying. You’re trying so hard to figure out what you’re supposed to do with all this everything, but there’s so much of it, and with all the books cluttering your house, there isn’t a single guide on how to be the whole universe. No self-help websites, either. You checked.

Dean draws a bath, keeping you upright with one arm and fumbling with the other. You try to roll out of his arms to make it easier, but he just tugs you right back.

“I can just sit-“

“I’ve got it,” he mutters, glaring over your head. “I- There.”

The water starts to run and you giggle, tracing over the flex of his bicep. Dean gives you an almost disbelieving grin, laughing in surprise.

“Yeah? That’s doing it for you?”

“You’re strong,” you whisper, and he snorts.

“I’m turning a knob, baby. If that’s impressing you, I gotta try harder.”

You shake your head—he’s doing perfect, just as he is—and Dean sighs. He strips you with gentle hands and not a single wandering touch. It’s rude. You’re right here, naked and crawling into the water with your ass up, and he’s just watching your hands to make sure you don’t slip like a gentleman.

He does drag his palm over the curve of your ass, but when you look over your shoulder he smiles gently, and you don’t think he knows he’s even doing it. You huff and sink into the water. Dean leans over the lip of the tub and wipes your hair from your face, glancing between the steaming water and the door.

You grab his wrist, and he blinks at you, then nods, his smile crawling right back.

“Extra bossy today,” he mutters, sitting obediently on the edge of the tub. “Am I feeding you something new?”

You roll your eyes, and press your face into his thigh. He laughs to himself and combs his fingers gently through your hair, looking down at  you in a way you can feel, prickling all over the Spiderweb like blooming flowers and soothing the Silver like a balm.

“Jody called,” he says, talking not to fill the silence, but because he knows you need something to hold onto that isn’t your own, racing thoughts. “Claire’s doin’ real well in school, but-“ He sighs. “She wants to move back with us.”

Your throat tightens, as you turn to meet his gaze. “She can’t, not right now-“

“I know,” Dean shrugs. “Told Jody that we were still working thing out, and we don’t want her around the life. But-“ He swallows, glancing off to the side. “Y’know. I was thinking about after. When we’ve ganked all the Leviathans and Eve, when God gets with the program and shit-“

“Dean,” you say softly, resting hand on his knee, and he clears his throat.

“It’s- I don’t need an answer right now, and I know it ain’t gonna be easy or fast or- I’m just- Cas is still riding the Jimmy suit without the man in there himself, and who the hell knows where her mother is-“

“We can take her.”

Dean looks down with wide, surprised eyes. “Really?”

You nod, and his throat bobs.

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to,” you say gently. “If you-“

“Yeah,” he cuts in quickly, and you smile at the red on his ears. “I mean- I wouldn’t if it was just me and Sammy- We can’t keep anything alive for the life of us- I mean, Sam says I grow something in my socks sometimes- But you’ve never complained, and if we’ve got you-“ He takes a deep breath, glancing back at your openly adoring expression. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” it might be one of the only times that you really mean that, without any alarms or hisses telling you to think again. “I am.”

Dean grins, and leans down to kiss the top of your head. You smile and sink into the water, letting your eyes flutter closed. He takes your hand and folds your fingers together, his thumb dragging close to your wrist. Not touching. Not more than a brush.

But you don’t explode. For now, you just slowly diffuse. The steam over the water is free and warm and happy to float, to dissolve into something lighter and easier. The water that stays in the tub is glad to be contained and still, kept safe from the never ending tumbling of the oceans and rivers. You’re alright, here with Dean. You drift through more than ten minutes, your thoughts still looping around work, but turning into the steam, just like everything always does. Just like—no matter how tight you hold onto it—everything always will.

You don’t know when you start crying. It just seems to happen for no reason now. Dean wipes the tears and pulls you out of the tub, wrapping you up in a towel and carrying you to bed.

“I- I’m sorry-“ You choke out, sitting on the edge of the mattress, curling far enough into yourself that you can maybe drag back together. “I- I don’t- I don’t know why- I’m sorry-“

“I know,” Dean kneels between your legs, still wiping every touch, smiling up at you with heartbreaking care. Care you have no right to ask for. Care he’s always given so freely, you sometimes don’t understand how he always has more left. “I know, baby girl,” he mutters. “You’re okay.”

You sob so hard it shakes your whole body, and double over him with a high whine. Dean moves to his feet and presses your down into the mattress, keeping you caged and safe between his arms. You think you fall asleep. You don’t remember it, if you did. You just squeeze your eyes shut, your face buried in his chest, and open them to find the light faded from the sky. You expect the panic to crash over your like ice water, but there’s too much heat around you.

Dean. Still holding you, playing with your hair and humming to himself to pass the time. The Lady has curled herself up next to his head, and her tail keeps whacking him in the face, but he just grunts and turns his cheek the other way. A smile threatens your sore cheeks. You sit slowly up, your limbs shaking and eyes hooded, and he smiles. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he teases, and you swallow, glancing around the room.

“How long-“

“Few hours. But,” he squeezes your waist, pushing you a little further down against his torso. “I got a full report. Sammy said Rowena’s gonna call you around ten, and he took away Kevin’s tablet privileges ‘cause the kid‘s eyes were going red. I think you two,” he pinches your side, and you squeak. “Might secretly be related or something, if Sam’s the one who’s gotta call quitting time. Charlie’s making dinner, sloppy joes, she says they won’t be ass but Jo ain’t sure, so I can always drive out and get you Chinese."

You nod slowly, looking over to the door. You should get back to reading. There’s a reason you were up for almost two days straight, and it isn’t because you’re crazy like Jo keeps suggesting. You’re nowhere closer to hatching the phoenix than you were last week, and you need to figure out how you’re going to use the blood when you find it, because the Book had a passage on it, but it also had a passage on phoenixes themselves, and if you’re going to raise this one-

“Hey,” Dean reaches up, grabbing your chin and guiding your gaze back down. “I can hear you thinking. Share with the class.”

You swallow, fingers curling on his chest. “You- You know how we’re hatching the phoenix? And it’s going to heal Sam’s soul, and Cas’ grace?”

Dean nods slowly. “And then we’re gonna kick Leviathan ass, yeah. I read the memos.”

You smile weakly, focusing your attention on your hands. “Well, um- The thing is- Phoenix hatchlings are sort of… Small. And delicate. And this is the last one ever, so we have to get it right-“

“Princess-“

“And if we don’t want to harm the hatchling,” you say frantically. “Then we can’t draw blood twice. Which means I’ll only have enough for one potion, which means it’s not Sam and Cas, it’s Sam or Cas, and I- I don’t know what to do.”

Dean’s jaw tenses. He uses his hands on your waist to slowly drag himself up, until he’s leaning against the headboard and his face is resting at the top of your chest. You slowly card through his hair and he lets out a heavy breath, warmth fanning over your skin.

“When’d you work that out,” he mutters.

“Yesterday.”

“Sammy-“

“Doesn’t know,” you say softly, and Dean hums.

“Yeah, alright. Don’t tell him.”

You frown, leaning back slightly. “Dean-“

“He’s gonna have an opinion on that,” Dean mutters, looking up at you under lidded eyes. “And I don’t wanna freakin’ hear it.”

That pulls a small, delicate smile to your face. You duck down, trying to hold his gaze. “And you?” You ask. “What’s your opinion on it?”

Dean laughs, dry and tired. “Princess, you know I’m not the guy to ask that-“

“You’re my guy,” you mumble, and he goes silent in a second. “And- I’m asking.”

Dean’s throat bobs. His fingers dig into your hips, deep enough to leave a mark, and you just keep watching him. You know he’s not a miracle worker, but he’s the closest thing you’ve ever had to a cure. And no matter what Sam’s claims, he’s the reasonable one. He never jumped into hell or drank demon blood or accidently opened a magic door filled with Lovecraftian horrors. You can’t think of a single bad thing he’s done. You’re sure they exist, but right now—with his face between your hands and his eyes filled with a weighted, tired adoration that always makes you feel like being good isn’t just an Everest that keeps getting taller—he’s the only person who’s opinion you want to hear.

“I’m always gonna say Sammy,” he says hoarsely. “But- We need Cas back to normal, unless we want to start wrangling angels.”

“I could wrangle an angel,” you whisper, and he chuckles, turning to kiss your palm.

“Yeah, I know you could.” Dean gives you a tiny, rougish grin, dipping one hand under your shirt, his knuckles skimming against bare skin. “But I don’t want you hurtin’ yourself.”

You lean down, pressing your brow over his. “I wouldn’t’ hurt myself-“ You cut yourself off at his dry look, and roll your eyes. “That’s- The point is, if you think I should do Sam-“

“Nope.”

You blink. “But you said-“

“I said I’d always go Sam,” Dean shrugs. “Nothing about your call.”

“That’s- Dean, that’s not helpful-“

Dean shuts you up with a kiss, murmuring against your mouth. “I know, sweetheart. But whatever call you make,” he nips at your lower lip. “I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” you breathe out.

Dean only hums. “And here I am. Doing it anyways.”

You roll your eyes, and kiss him harder. Jo knocks on the door before he can roll you beneath him—Charlie’s done, and she’s pretty sure it’s not poisonous—and you have to clamber off of Dean with a deep breath and tight frown. You fix your hair in the mirror, and he comes up behind you, splaying a hand on your stomach and kissing the curve of your neck.

“If you really need me to make the choice, I’ll do it,” he mutters, holding your gaze in the mirror. “But I think anything I say is just going down the drain the moment you figure it out.”

“That’s not- I’d listen to you-“

“You’d try and listen to me,” Dean corrects, kissing just under your jaw. “And then you get a thought in that pretty head and suddenly I’m on freakin’ mute.”

You swallow, holding his hand against you. His brow isn’t furrowed. His jaw isn’t locked. “You’re not mad about that?” You ask softly, and Dean just shrugs.

“Yeah. I pick my battles, like Nero.”

“Nero?”

“Yeah, the big general. Roman guy- You know who I’m talking about-“

You turn, and press a quick kiss to Dean’s cheek. He stutters like you just punched him, slowly reaching up to cup your face. You stare at each other for a long moment. Dean’s throat bobs. His fingers flex. You blink up at him, silently begging him to just do something so you don’t have to. He always hears you. Dean ducks down, presses a fevered kiss against you lips, and walks you backwards until you’re pinned to the dresser. His hands grope under your shirt, his thumb brushing the curve of your breast, his thigh pushing up between your legs. You grab for something to hold onto and hold find his short, soft hair. You tug it, and he groans, pushing his tongue between your lips-

“Hey!” Jo pounds on the door, and you shoot back with wide eyes. “Matin’ seasons is after dinner! If- Y’know,” she pauses. “We don’t all die.”

You roll your eyes, fixing the collar of Dean’s shirt. “We’re not gonna die, Jo-“

“You ain’t smelled it yet,” she snaps back. “It’s- I’m tryin’ to be nice, but it’s- You remember when we drove past that cow farm in the valley?”

“Yeah?”

“Imagine if the cows ate only Taco Bell-“

“Do I have to listen to this?” Dean mutters, and Jo pulls the door open, flipping him off. Dean sputters like a dog. “We- We coulda been naked-“

“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before, buddy-“

“You’ve never seen me-“ Dean pauses, looking between you with wide eyes. “Hold on. That’s- She’s seen you naked?”

“Yeah, um- Yeah.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, like- A lot?”

“Before me?!”

“I was here first,” Jo stomps into the room, grabbing your bicep and dragging you to the door. “C’mon, if I’m dyin’ again, you’re going with me this time.”

You sigh. “That’s not funny-“

“It’s kinda funny. Come on.”

You shoot Dean an apologetic look, but he’s still staring after you, glowering at the air.

“You weren’t here first!” He shouts after you. “I was!”

“Slacker!” Jo calls back, and you smile wide enough that your face hurts.

It’s the small moments, that stich you back together when you start to fray. Charlie’s pride over her sloppy Joe’s, even if they don’t taste amazing. Kevin swallowing them in whole bites, Dean’s commitment to eating them not matter what, Sam actually liking them—Dean thinks he doesn’t have tastebuds, you’re starting to agree—and Cas feeding his to Indy until you catch him, and make him stop. Nothing hurts for split seconds. God flickers outside in the sky, but he’s not allowed to come take this from you. This is yours.

After dinner, you go back to your room to call Rowena while Dean takes Indy—and Cas—for a walk. She’s up in Canada somewhere, and somehow hasn’t killed Adam yet. You’re proud of her. She doesn’t want to hear it.

“You’re not doing anything to him, right?” You ask, flipping through your notes. “He’s- I don’t want to say weak, but-“

“He’s pathetic,” Rowena spits. “And I am not doing anything to him. He has nothing worth doing to. I prefer experienced men, not- Sniveling boys.”

“Hm. Good to know he’s growing on you.”

“He bakes,” Rowena sniffs. “It is… Not horrible.”

“Oh- Dean can bake-“

“I do not care. Is he fucking you?”

You flush, vision going unfocused for a second, then cough. “So, um- I’ve been looking for the spell in the Book,” you start, and Rowena rolls her eyes, but doesn’t push. “And I found it-“

“Excellent-“

“But,” you give her a flat look, leaning forward. “It’s blocked out and damaged. So I only know the specfics of things they already got- Seed of a man with a rotten soul,” you look back to your notes, reading aloud. “And blood of a first beast.” The Lady purrs in your lap. You pet her a little extra, bile rising in your throat. “And- Me and Dean. But I still don’t know why.”

Rowena hums, peering at you through the bowl. “And you’re sure they want your boytoy-“

“Yes. And I know you like him,” you flip over a page. “So stop trying to convince me you don’t.”

Rowena rolls her eyes. “Fine. Are those all the things they would need?”

“No, there’s one more. I just- I can’t see what.”

“Hm. Do you have any angels in your corner without brains made of worms.”

You shake your head. “Well- Cas’ brain isn’t made of worms, and- It’s not like his memory was wiped. If he knew he’d tell me.”

Rowena sighs. “Well, I can’t work out how the spell functions without the ingredients, little tiger-“

“I know, I know, just-“ You run your hand through your hair, glaring down at the paper. “If Eve knows, someone else has to as well. She didn’t just- Invent it.”’

“But this is a spell a Magdalene could invent,” Rowena says, and you sigh.

“Or God.”

“Well, seeing as we don’t play nice with God, your family-“

“No. Dean would kill me.”

Rowena’s nose twitches. “You’re going to let the- The manboy tell you what to do?”

You sigh. You don’t like it either—it would be so easy to storm back to your family, demand the answers, and maybe kill Roman while you’re at it—but Dean would say something about you being in no shape to see them and this being a bad idea considering they were working with Eve already-

They were working with Eve already. Eve had to get the idea from somewhere. And it was either God—unlikely, she is trying to eat him—or your family. Which means your family is off the table. They probably passed on the spell without realizing why Eve—the first woman, an assumed big fan of God, like they think you should be—wanted it at all. Which leaves God telling you the spell, which he won’t. You don’t think he’ll talk to you at all right now unless he’s trying to woo you or you’re telling him you’ll join him.

But you know someone who he does talk to. Who’s an angel older than Cas. An angel almost as old as Gabriel, wherever he’s fucked off to. An angel who might know.

“Joshua,” you tell Sam, Dean, and Jo in the kitchen, spinning the Blade in your hand. “He might know about the spell, and- he’s the gardener, he might know how to hatch a phoenix. That’s two things- Both  things- I could’ve figured out both things-“

“Easy,” Dean mutters, rubbing your spine. “Breathe.”

You take a loud, staggered breath, and Sam clears his throat.

“Well, okay- Let’s say he does know,” Sam frowns. “He doesn’t leave the garden, right? So we can’t pray to him, and if Heaven is still on lockdown-“

“Then we go to him,” you shrug, and Sam blinks.

“Lockdown,” he repeats, saying your name firmly. “Lockdown.”

“I heard you-“

“Did you-“

“Yes,” you stick your tongue out at him. “And I’m not worried about it.”

Sam gapes, and shakes his head, looking to Dean. “Dude, if she suggests killing us-“

“She’s not gonna suggest killing us,” Dean rolls his eyes, then glances at you. “Right?”

“I- Yes.”

“You are gonna kill us-“

“No, I’m going to get us there myself.”

Everyone is awfully quiet for a second. You don’t really appreciate it.

“I can move between Heaven and Hell,” you say, crossing your arms. “I’m basically from Heaven-“

Jo snorts. “None of us are from Heaven, I’m shocked dyin’ would even work, we’re all goin’ straight to hell-“

“Actually Dean and I have spots reserved in heaven,” Sam mumbles, and Jo frowns.

“But- You both like, really suck.”

Dean scowls. “Speak for yourself, shortstack-“

“Dean.” You place a hand flat on his chest, and he falls silent, still glowering at Jo.

“Yeah,” Jo smirks. “Dean-“

“Jo.” You give her a stern look too, and she sulks, but leans back.

“Sam,” she grumbles, and Sam blinks.

“What did I do- I- I’m just saying that because we’re vessels, we-“

“Sam,” you say, and he slumps back into his seat. “Look, I just-“ You look around the group, hugging yourself tight. “I can do it. I know I can. It’s just like getting us to Europe, but- A bigger door.”

Sam and Jo are silent. Dean gives you a small, worried look, his jaw clenched tight and nostrils flaring. You grab his wrist and squeeze it once. He squeezes back two times, and you swallow.

“Dean-“

“It’s a lot of juice,” he grunts. “And last time you were up there, you nearly fuckin’- If Cas hadn’t brought you back-“

“But he did,” you whisper. “And I- I can do this.”

Please let me do this. It’s something I can do, and I’ll do it right, and I need to be right. I need to do this right.

Dean swallows, and nods. You squeeze his wrist three times. He just brushes a kiss to your brow, and sits down next to Sam. And now—finally—you have a plan.

The four of you will go to Heaven. Charlie’s in charge again, and—if you’re doing the math right—you should be back within about one week. You’re going to aim to land in the Garden, but you’re playing a little fast and loose with the spell, and there’s a tiny chance you’ll miss. Even then, it’s straight forward. Get to the Garden, same way Sam and Dean were told to last time. Talk to Joshua about Old Heaven and the phoenix egg, tucked in Dean’s jacket.

Ask about Bobby, if you have time. Maybe even if you don’t. You aren’t sneaking him in your jacket for nothing, and you need to know how to bring him back.

“Try not to run into any angels. Stick together. Don’t die.”

Dean nods around the room, chest puffed out and face grim. You give him a small, encouraging smile. Sam and Jo roll their eyes.

“Rousing stuff, dude.”

“Inspiring,” Jo adds, and Sam snorts.

“Yeah, I was going into this really looking to die-“

“But now?” Jo grins. “I’m, like, I’m turnin’ around on the idea-“

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, shuffling behind you. His hand rests on your waist, and he glares over your head. “Next time you two ain’t invited on our Heaven vacation.”

“It’s not a vacation,” you mumble, and Dean nods quickly, kissing the top of your head.

“I know, sweetheart, I’m just- Y’know. When we do go on vacation.”

“We don’t want to go on your vacations, Dean,” Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean sticks out his tongue.

“Why, ‘cause I’m gonna be getting laid while you bitch around- Ow-“

You elbow him in the gut, your face burning, and he quickly groans out an apology. You’re smiling where he can’t see it. If he knows you like the idea of a sex vacation, you’re going to lose all authority you’ve ever managed to scrape together.

“I think I’m ready,” you rub Dean’s back, frowning down at your spell. “We’re definitely going to all land in the same place, but- That might be anyone’s personal Heaven, so- Hope it’s not yours, I guess.”

“Dean and I have seen each others heaven’s,” Sam says, peering over your shoulder. “It only caused like, three big fights?”

“Cool,” Jo crosses her arms. “Fun. Uh- Personal heaven- That like your dreams? Or- Ideal world, or-“

“It’s your best memories,” Sam explains. “Like- I had this week where I got to- To have a dog,” he shoots Dean a nervous look. “And Dean’s was a lot of- Stuff-“

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, and you give him a curious look. You were only in his heaven for a few minutes last time, when he was in the fort you built him, right before you died. It’s not your heaven to be nosy about, but the question burns on the edge of your teeth.

Was there more. Was there more of you and him. Does he see the world in shades of you, the same way everything is Gold, and the negative, dark cavity spots without Gold. Did he ever peel apart the fractured and delicate moments you had, back before you knew you could keep him, before your hands learned how to hold onto something and your feet started to trust that staying put behind Dean was safer than running until you found the edge of the horizon. Did he strip down every word until it was all just melodies of your voice, the same way you did for him.

Jo says your name, and you blink at her. “Are we gonna land in your heaven, or…”

You shake your head. “I- I don’t think I have a heaven. And last time I was up there, I kind of-“ You swallow. “You’ll see. When we get to the garden.”

You’re really hoping this will be easy. The angels are—ideally—too busy to worry about you wandering through, and the garden is supposed to be one of those things that’s for you, or whatever. All of Heaven is supposed to be your home. You’re just… Bringing guests.

You send Sam first. Dean tells him to duck down and holds his breath like he’s going underwater, and Sam just gives him an unimpressed look. You place your hand flat on his chest, murmur the spell, and really hope you’re not sending him a little west of Heaven or something. It’s going to be a whole thing to get him back.

Sam vanishes, and… nothing else really happens. You send Jo next, with a soft promise that it won’t hurt, which makes her roll her eyes. Dean goes after her, catching your hand when you place it flat on his chest and giving you a small, charming smile. He mutters your name, and you meet his gaze, your knees getting a little wobbly under the attention. He kisses your knuckles and tells you it’s going to be fine. You tell him you know. You’re the one doing the spell, and you don’t mess this kind of thing up.

Dean disappearing into thin air, leaving a new coat of gold on your fingers and the smell of cinnamon in the air. You squeeze your eyes shut and let the Silver flow out, tracing him through the universe like a hound on a trail. You’ve been trying to make Cas teach you this trick for years, but he hasn’t been in much shape to do much but coloring books and play snake. So you have to figure it out yourself.

You’re the planets, hurling through the dark in all the same circles and always waiting for that warm moment when they’re closer to the Sun, then dreading the cold when they’re drowning in the heat. You’re lone stars without any worlds to keep them company, grabbing onto asteroids that hurl a little too close and incinerating them into nothing with the heat of desperate love. You’re a thin veil that’s covering everything, steam rising up and glowing like a pearl in the dark, so sure it’s better, it’s greater, it means more because it goes up, while the dripping tar can only sink down.

There’s a shrouded layer of Gold, hidden in the mist. You hold onto it until your back feels like it’s going to split open, and your vision blurs, and the world flips, and-

Dean shouts your name, and you blink up at a clear, blue sky. Strong arms wrap around you from behind, keeping you on your feet as you stumble. You press right back into a warm chest, and drop your head onto his shoulder.

“Did it-“ You look around frantically, sinking your nails into Dean’s forearm. “Are we-“

“Yeah. We all landed safe.” Dean pulls you upright, and when you tip a little further back, he’s watching you with a worried, knit brow. “You’re, uh- You feeling alright, sweetheart?”

You nod. You feel better than you thought you would, actually. The Silver is flowing steadily. Your vision is sharp, the colors are clean, and nothing hurts more than usual. You look around the area, trying to gage where exactly you landed. It was a high hope, that you’d drop right into the Garden, but you did have low expectations. You didn’t tell Sam, Dean, and Jo—they would’ve worried—but Heaven is more like an ocean than a flat planet, and putting a new drop of water just means you’re mixing it with everything else.

You’ve ended up in a clean patch of woods, with bright skies and warm dirt and the sun beating down from the sky, a faint hue of purple running under every single color. You don’t recognize it the place itself, but you look down and find Sam sitting in the dirt, wearing a tight shirt with a red truck on it and Velcro shoes, dirt splattered over his face and scuffing his jeans, and don’t really have to wonder who’s heaven you’re in.

“Where are we?” Jo asks, leaning against a tree, and Sam sighs.

“When we were kids, Dad had all these places he’d drop us so he could- You know- Go and hunt. It was- Um- Bobby’s-“ He gives you a nervous look. “A lot of the time. But once he gave us to this really nice lady with a motel, and-“

“She gave you that freakin’ bird book,” Dean finishes. “You spent the whole week trying to make the crows your friends or something, I remember that.” He pauses. “You remember that it didn’t work, right? You got a nasty scratch ‘cause you fell in the rain gutter and I had to patch you up and Dad made us stay an extra week ‘cause he didn’t wanna deal with the first aide.”

“Yeah, um-“ Sam swallows, glancing out of the woods and to the black pavement road. “I remember.”

You follow his gaze, and your heart moves up to the top of your chest. Standing on the makeshift, gravel parking lot, leaning against the Impala, is John Winchester. He’s younger than you ever knew him, but the lines in his face are still deep, the dark in his eyes still cold. He’s glaring down at a little, blond boy with unruly hair and shoulders that threaten to make him topple over. Dean tenses behind you, his grip tightening, a sharp breath fanning on the top of your head.

John snaps something at little Dean, and your lip curls. He’s barely taller than your stomach, his face too gaunt for a kid who can’t be more than eight, his posture stiff and his shoes unstitched around the laces. His shirt has a hole near the collar that you want to stitch up, but John doesn’t seem to notice. He’s small enough that you could carry him the same way he carries you now, and a borderline feral anger is overtaking your hands, burning to sock John in the face then wipe the dirt off little Dean’s cheeks. Find him some food, wrap him in a blanket like a burrito, give him something besides thin sleeves to hold onto.

“Dad was so pissed,” Dean mutters behind you, almost in a trance. “Right now he’s tellin’ me that he shouldn’t ever come back to find a scratch on Sammy. That I- I shouldn’t let him play in things that are gonna get him hurt.”

“I- I know, Dean, but- We got to stay a whole extra week. You took me to see Star Wars, and May- The lady- She made you that pie!”

Dean shrugs, still staring at himself by the car. You grab his hand and squeeze once. He looks down to you, and his shoulders sag. He squeezes back three times, then looks back to Sam and Jo.

“Follow the yellow brick road, right?”

Sam nods, moving to his feet. “I guess. Should be easier than last time, I- I hope.”

Jo frowns between them. “What happened last time?”

“Michael kidnapped me and Adam,” you say, holding out an arm for her. “Zacariah was hunting Sam and Dean, but I put him in a jar.”

Jo hums, linking herself to you. “Ain’t Zacariah the one who got me killed?”

Bile presses up the back of your throat. “Yeah.”

“Did he like the jar?”

You shake your head. “Dean stabbed him.”

“Good,” Jo mutters, giving Dean an appreciative grin. “Thanks.”

Dean shrugs and grunts. You all start to the road, following Sam’s lead. You’ve never actually moved through Heaven like this before, but you’re also hoping it’s easier than last time. Last time really sucked.

You wander down the road until everything starts to shift. The purple fades, replacing itself with a Golden glow, like sun rising through summer mist. The trees get bare, the sky gets grayer, and the dirt turns dark and compact. There’s a white flurry of cold you only half feel, drifting down through the sky. Sam’s back in his flannel and jeans, Jo still hasn’t changed, and Dean grunts in surprise when he looks down at himself and sees the massive, puffy coat and thick mittens on his hands.

“What the hell-“

“Awwwww,” Jo grins. “You’re like an ugly marshmallow.”

Dean scowls—you assume, hard to tell under the scarf wrapped around his face—and points a stern mitten at Jo’s amused expression. “Screw you, I’m a handsome marshmallow.”

You giggle, and he shoots you an exasperated, betrayed look.

“Come on, Princess.”

“Sorry,” you beam at him, bouncing on your toes. “You’re a very handsome marshmallow.”

“You probably get all the lady marshmallows, don’t you,” Jo wiggles her brows. “Just the biggest, fluffiest guy.”

Dean glares at her, tipping up his chin. “I only want one lady marshmallow,” he says smugly, shooting you a wink. You flush, and Jo gives you a disappointed look.

“Really?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, looking at your shoes, and Dean chuckles, looking around the woods.

“Is it bad that I don’t have a freakin’ clue where we are?”

“Eh,” Jo shrugs. “Just tells me you were an ugly marshmallow a lot.”

“Hey, no disrespecting me in my own Heaven, you little rat-“

“Dean!” Sam shrieks, and you all look at him with wide eyes.

He frowns, holding up his hands. “I, uh- I didn’t say that-“

“Dean- Dean, look!”

The shout comes from behind your Sam. From a little boy—bundled up the same way Dean is, with hair that falls over his eyes and paler skin—stumbling through the snow with a rock clutched between his mittens. His smile is wide, freer than you’ve ever known your Sam to smile. His cheeks are chubby and he’s barely bigger then a tree stump. Dean takes a half step forward like he can’t help it, and you let go of Jo to follow him.

“De-“

“I found it-“ Sam trips over his own feet, bigger than his body, and falls face first towards the snow. Dean lurches forward, too far away to catch him, and you realize you’re doing the exact same, and-

“Watch your feet, kid,” a low, painfully familiar voice grunts, and a hand materializes out of thin air, catching Sam by the scruff of his neck.

Bobby pulls his upright like a cat, ruffling his hair and giving Dean a small, look at him grin. Dean’s throat bobs. There’s a faint ringing in your ears, accompanied by horns and wails that walk the line between a choir and a mourning shriek. You take a tiny, unsteady step forward, and Jo grabs the crook of your elbow. She murmurs your name, but it’s lost in the wails.

“Bobby?” You whisper, and he doesn’t even glance over.

This isn’t your Bobby. Sam looks a little older than six, which means you’re seven and trapped somewhere in a closet or bedroom you don’t think you’re ever going to escape. This Bobby doesn’t know you. He’s got hair that’s still a little red and a beard without patches, and he can’t even see you at all. It’s not your memory.

But a choked sound still leaves your throat. You reach for his bottle in your jacket, unsure what you’re even going to do with it. Just knowing that you have to hold onto something. Praying that some part of Bobby can realize who you are, because you need him to look at you, you need him to smile and tell you that it’s going to be okay, you need to hear his voice in something other than a dream and you need him to tell you it’s going to be okay-

“We found it!” Little Sam rushes up to Dean, holding up a massive rock. “Bobby says that if we smash it, it’s gonna be a geode.” He tips his nose, already a little haughty for such a small body. “A geode is  a shiny rock, Dean. I’ll let you share mine.”  

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean whispers. He’s watching little Sam with misty eyes and a far-off expression. It pulls you a little back into yourself, to watch his Gold twist and pound into itself, the memory sweet but heavy, like a painting of a sunset covered in dust. This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean. And behind him, real Sam shifting nervously on his feet, frowning at his smaller, gold-coated counterpart.

“Was I really that fat?” He whispers, and you laugh weakly, the sound pushed from your throat.

“You were cute,” you say, and Jo nods.

“Like a hamster.”

“A hamster-“

“Let’s get you two inside,” Bobby grunts, herding Sam forward. “Don’t need ya’ catchin’ a cold on me. I’m no doctor, and this ain’t drivin’ weather.”

Little Sam nods, almost skipping past Dean with the rock tight to his chest. He pauses, and turns around, sticking out his hand out for Dean to take.

“I don’t wanna get lost,” he says, glaring at Dean like it’s offensive that he’d even hesitate.

Dean swallows, his voice low and rough. “Bobby won’t let us get lost, Sammy.”

“But I don’t wanna hold Bobby’s hand. I wanna hold yours.” Little Sam scowls, and early bitch face was a lot cuter than the identical one your Sam is pulling right now.

Dean just stares at Little Sam, seeing almost lost. You almost drift forward, wrapping around his arm. He looks down at you, almost hopeless. You give him a small, encouraging smile, and his throat bobs.

He takes Little Sam’s hand, and they start to walk forwards, after Bobby, into the darkening woods. You linger for a second, watching your Dean—ten times bigger than Sam, looking down at him with an open, lost expression—turn into a silhouette between the trees. Watching Bobby look back over his shoulder at them, and smile. For a second, your Dean gets smaller. Still taller than Sam by a few heads, but barely bigger than the skinny, young trees that won’t make it through the winter.=. A lump pressing high up in your throat. Jo wraps her arm around your shoulders and give you a sad smile. You lean your head on her shoulder, nod to your Sam, and follow Dean in the woods.

Everything changes again. The Gold fades to cool shades of blue, the trees get solid until they’re all paint-peeling walls, and the snow-covered ground becomes half-rotting wood and an ugly carpet.

You’re in a motel room. There’s one bed with a throw blanket you remember to be itchy, and an impossibly humid heat in the air, making your clothes stick to your skin and opening the window do next to nothing. Next to you, Jo’s changed into shorts and a white shirt that’s almost see-through from the wet heat. She frowns around the room, tilting her head at the weird alligator and flower paintings on the walls.

“Louisiana?” She asks you, and you nod.

“The grandma who was cursing her bloodline.”

Sam coughs. “The what?”

“Grandma who was cursin’ her bloodline,” Jo rolls her eyes. “Keep up, Sam.”

Sam frowns, and Dean clears his throat.

“This is Jo’s, right?” He shoots you a nervous look. “Unless Heaven got an update, and you get your own-“

The door slams open, answering Dean’s question for him. You—the memory of you, with shinier hair and longer lashes and brighter eyes than you’re sure real you has—bustle inside, hauling a massive air conditioner in your arms that looks like it’s going to make you tip forward. Dean lurches forward to help you, and Sam pulls him back with a flat look.

“I think this will work,” Fake You says, frowning at the unit. “I mean- It was working when I found it. So it should work here too.”

Jo hums, watching Fake You with a faint smile. “Found it?”

Fake You rolls her eyes, dropping the unit on the bed. “It was in the motel. No one else was using it.”

“Are you sure-“

“Do you want me to put it back? And die of heat stroke?”

Jo snorts, and shakes her head. “I’m just sayin’, if the police come, I’m not covering for you.”

“Yes, you will,” Fake You waves her off, frowning down at the unit. “I think we put it in the window. That’s where I found it before.”

Jo nods, shooting your Dean—frozen with Sam in the corner of the room, looking between the three of you with wide eyes and an open mouth—a teasing grin. “Why don’t you call Dean and ask him what to do- Fuck-“

Both you and Fake You throw things at the same time. Fake You—past you—misses. You don’t.

Jo whines, rubbing her head and glaring at you, and Fake You huffs, picking up the unit with a scowl.

“I don’t need Dean to do this,” she snaps, and your Dean frowns in the corner. Sam rolls his eyes, and Jo’s shit-eating grin returns.

“Yeah, but you want him to,” she teases. “You wanna kiss him, and fuck him, and marry him-“

Fake you pretends to throw the unit at Jo’s face, and she shrieks and dives to the side with a laugh. You stare pointedly at your shoes, avoiding a single glance at Dean. You remember this hunt clearly. You and Dean were still half-fighting. He hadn’t told you about his deal yet, you hadn’t told him about your powers, and you were only just starting to get over the whole you being forced to leave him in the hospital thing. You went on a hunt with Jo, and it was one of the only times that year you really laughed. In a few minutes you’re going to start decking each other, and it’s going to devolve into a very giggly, childish fight where she gets you pinned, and you promise not to whine about Dean the whole week, even though she’s the one that brought him up to start. You do her makeup and watch a movie, eating a lot of popcorn. It was a good week. Sure, a few people got murdered, but it was the closest thing to peace you ever get, and it’s not like any of them were murdered on your watch. You understand why it’s a favorite memory. You’re sure if you got your own heaven, it would be one of your highlights too.

“You two always talk about me like this?” Dean grumbles in the corner, and Jo shoots him a grin.

“We ain’t talkin’ about you like anything-“

“You’re talking about me like I’m a slab of freakin’ meat,” he huffs, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Dude, as if you don’t like that.”

Dean makes a haughty, offended sound, and you accidently catch his gaze. Maybe it’s just the weather of the memory, but it feels like you’re being submerged in a hot spring. Wetness pools over your skin and between your thighs. Dean says your name, and you flush deep enough to just turn into a burning, needy puddle.

“Am I just meat to you, Princess?”

You swallow, and shake your head. You’re hugging yourself too tight. Dean’s eyes flick down, and his gaze softens. He reaches out a hand, and you shuffle over to his side, glancing at Fake You as you pass her.

“This is creepy,” you whisper, pressing your face into Dean’s chest, and he chuckles.

“Yeah, no shit. At least you look hot, though.”

You roll your eyes against him, but smile where he can’t see. You’re a little surprised that there is a Fake You—last time you just overtook Fake You’s body—but there are too many other thing to worry about. You step out of Jo’s memory with a glance back to Fake You, and your heart is a little sore. She’s you. A version of you that’s never lost Dean, or Jo, or Bobby. She’s never been to Hell or Heaven or anywhere that she couldn’t run back home. You want to grab her and tell her to free Dean now. To not worry with the morality and fear of the Silver and just save Dean, because if she hesitates he’s gone, and the whole world starts to become dimmer and dimmer, until sometimes the only light left is the fire that she makes with her skin as kindle and her heart as fuel.

Dean pulls you out the door, before you can get lost in it. The idea of a life where you never lost him. Where you saved him and he kissed you and that was the end of it. But you pass through the door, and everything shifts, and you know. There’s never any going back.

You figure out fast that you’re caught in a loop of Sam, then Dean, then Jo. Never you, not as any more than a starring role in the memory. You didn’t know there were so many happy memories of you. You’re in a handful of Sam’s, a fistful of Jo’s, and almost all of Dean’s.

When you’re in Dean’s, though, you’re you. Not the ghost of you that plays bar trivia with Sam or jumps off a dock in Maine with Jo. You find yourself in a long, familiar hallway, wearing an ugly blazer that’s long forgotten in some motel in the Midwest, Dean’s amulet gone from your neck and no one with you. Only an instinct telling you that you go move a little forward, to where you’re supposed to be. You push open an office door, and Dean looks up at your from the desk, wearing his old leather jacket and the amulet. You remember what you’re supposed to do here. You run him into the ground, and he lets you with a smile, and you fall in love so fast and so big you don’t even know that’s what it was until it’s far too late.

Instead, you just smile at him. And he smiles right back.

“I don’t like this one,” Sam mumbles in his next memory, hunched over a lab table that’s too small for him, looking nervously around the room.

“It’s your Heaven, dude,” Dean shrugs, squinting at a vending machine out in the hall. “You think those things work here?”

“It’s heaven,” Jo stands up with a grin. “They better.”

She and Dean go off to find out, leaving you with Sam at the table. His leg is bouncing, and he seems to have fixated on something at the front of the classroom. Someone. A girl with a head of blonde, curly hair, laughing at something her friend is saying, loud enough that you can hear over the noise of the busy room. You know her. You’ve seen her, in Sam’s memories.

“You don’t like this one?” You say softly, and Sam shakes his head, his voice hoarse.

“Sometimes,” he rasps. “I don’t want to remember. When I do, I just- I think about if this never happened. She’d- She’d still be-“

Sam swallows the words, and you sigh, watching him with a sad smile.

“Aren’t you glad you had her though? At all?”

“Were you be glad if you lost Dean,” he says, and there’s no venom in it. Just pure, aching question.

And you know it’s not what he wants to hear, but you nod. Even when Dean was dead, even when you wondered if you were ever going to be able to go home, you wouldn’t have traded loving him for anything. If he ever forgot you, if you ever lose him again, you’d still love him. You’d stay away. You’d let him move on. But Michael and Lucifer ripped up your memories, and the only thing you ever remembered was to love Dean.

“How does this go?” You ask softly, and Sam sighs, letting you distract him.

“She’s being really loud. Like- Really loud. It was annoying me, and I went over to tell her to be quiet. She hit on me, and I panicked and ran away, and then when it was time to pick lab partners, she chose me.”

You snort, and Sam shoots you a glare.

“She liked me, okay- Stop laughing-“

“Sorry, it- it’s just- You saw how Dean and I met, if he’d done anything like that I would’ve punched him-“

“And he still would’ve fallen in love with you,” Sam grumbles, and you flush.

“Don’t be- It wasn’t that-“ You cut yourself off under Sam’s flat stare, staring at your hands. “You know that- That wasn’t actually the first time I met him,” you mumble, and Sam frowns, looking over his shoulder to where Jo and Dean are still trying to work the vending machine.

“Uh- Does Dean know that?”  

“No,” you say. “It- It was when you were in the library, with your dad. I was there too, I heard you, and-“ You swallow. “I was hiding, but I saw Dean through the shelves, and I- I just-“ You give Sam a tired, almost pleading look, begging him to understand. “I felt it,” you breathe. “I’d never even spoken to him and I felt it.”

Sam’s throat bobs. He looks back to Dean again, then you. “For Dean?”

You smack him, and he laughs, rubbing the ache.

“Sorry,” he says, and you know he doesn’t mean it, but he’s smiling. So you don’t care.

Jo and Dean come back from the vending machine with snacks and soda bottles that vanish them moment you leave Sam’s heaven and step back into Dean’s. He pouts, glaring at the thin air where the food was, and you bite back your smile.

“We can get you jerky when we get home,” you whisper, and he grumble.

“I’m hungry now.”

“There will be fruit in the garden, we can take some of that.”

Dean frowns at you, almost nervous. “But that’s magic food, sweetheart. I eat that, I gotta stay here forever.”

You blink at him, then smile. Always smarter than he thinks. “That’s the underworld, De.”

“Oh. Well- Alright.” He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Heaven food it is. Better be freakin’ good though, or I’m leaving a bad review on Sammy’s stupid website.”

“It’s not a stupid website, Dean, it’s the only reason you don’t have e-coli-“

“I don’t have any kinda coli,” Dean snaps. “E, B, A, D-“

“No, that’s not-“ Sam sighs, and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s keep going before you realize what memory this is.”

You frown, blinking around the room, then down at yourself, and squeak. You’re half-naked, wearing only a corset and cowboy hat, your body hidden by a thin sheet Dean wrapped around you when you weren’t thinking. He’s grinning proudly, bare chested and only in his boxers. You can feel something dry and sticky on your thighs and over your ass. Jo leans down near the creaking, wooden door, and picks up a pair of panties.

“When’d you start wearing this brand?” She frowns at you, and you swallow.

“They’re popular in Iran.”

“Huh,” She squints. “They look comfy.”

“They are. And they’re pretty cheap-“

Dean clears his throat, pulling you closer to his chest. “Why’d you know what kinda underwear she uses?”

“Because we’re friends, Winchester,” Jo sticks out her tongue. “Sorry you don’t got any of those.”

“I know what kind of underwear she wears,” you offer, but it just makes Dean’s frown deepen. “And Cas. And Sam.”

“You- You know what?” Sam sputters, and you shrug.

“I do your laundry.”

He stares at you, huffs, and stomps out the door. Jo laughs and follows him, leaving you and Dean alone in the cabin. You look back at him, really not understanding why Sam’s so mad. Dean sighs, mouth twitching, and kisses the frown off your lips.

“Bobby ever snoop through your stuff?” He murmurs, thumbs dragging circles on your waist, and you pause.

“No, but- Um-“ You flush. “He’d find things out and give me weird talks.”

“Thing?” Dean gives you an amused look. You swallow.

“Like- Me and you. Sleeping together, and- Things.”

Dean grins, mischief sparkling in his eyes. His hand drags up your side, leaving a pleasant, hot shiver in their wake. “Sleeping together? Us?”

“It- It was before- When we were just sharing a bed, and-“ It’s hard to form full sentences, when he’s touching you like this. “He was just- He wanted us to be safe-“

“Good thing I’m super safe, then,” Dean murmurs, ghosting his lips over yours, and you manage to muster a glare until fluttering eyes.

“You never use a condom,” you breathe, and he smirks.

“Yeah, but you got that magic potion thingy, and,” he squeezes your ass. “You like bein’ filled up, don’t you. Like being my sweet, needy girl.”

Words float through your head without shape, and all come out in a high, confused moan. Dean dips his hand under the sheet, brushing his knuckles against the lips of your pussy, and-

The door slams, and Jo sighs dramatically.

“I told Sam,” she mutters, marching forward. “Fuckin’ told him.”

You’re dragged away from an annoyed Dean, still too dazed to fight back. Jo pulls you through the door, and your clothing forms back over your body. Sam’s waiting with his arms crossed, and Jo gives him a smug told you so look.

“Were they-“

“Yeah. Give him a second, I think he was hard.”

Your face burns, and you let Jo sit you in time out on the barstool. You’re back in the Roadhouse, before it turned into dusty bottles and boxed up windows. Jo’s wearing a blue dress she keeps adjusting uncomfortably, and there are a few hunters crowding the tables who aren’t paying her much mind. Dean shuffles through the door, and gets pointed firmly to Sam’s side.

“You can’t be trusted sittin’ next to her,” Jo snaps, and Dean scoffs.

“She was kissing me back-“

“Because she’s stupid.”

“Hey,” you glare at Jo, and she sighs.

“Sorry, but- Look at him,” she waves a hand at Dean, who grins, charming and mock innocent. “He’s gonna distract you.”

You stare at him for a moment too long. Dean winks, and you flush. Jo groans, and snaps her fingers in your face. Maybe she’s got a little bit of a point. You’re supposed to be focused.

“Where are we?” You ask her, and she sighs, soothing the frills of her skirt.

“Home.”

Right on cue—all of Heaven seems to be on a very dramatic timer—the door to the back swings open and Ellen walks through with… A man. He’s a little shorter than Dean, a lot blonder, and has Jo’s longer face and thinner eyes. He kisses Ellen—younger, warmer, smiling—and grins at Jo, reaching out an arm.

“C’mere, kid, I got somethin’ to show you.”

Jo swallows, but doesn’t move. She hasn’t been really engaging in most of the memories. Not of her mom. She just freezes, like she’s trying to drag it out. To keep the moment trapped in amber, before it slips away like the reality. You take her hand, and she holds on tight.

“You remember my switchblade?” She says softly, still not looking away from her parents. “This is when he gave it to me. One of the last times I saw him, too.”

You swallow, and just squeeze her hand. “We’re gonna find her,” you say, and Jo laughs, tired and flat.

“I know you’re gonna try. But- Never any use makin’ promises, is it.”

Neither of you have an answer to that. Sam and Dean—silent and shifting in the corner—don’t seem to either. There isn’t much to say. Nothing at all that isn’t empty, or hasn’t already been said.

“Wow,” another familiar voice—one that should not be here—splits through the room. “Isn’t that so sweet.”

You whirl around, reaching for the blade. Sam and Dean go for guns they don’t have, then grab bottles off the counter.

Meg grins at you all from a back table, spinning a glass in her hand. She’s still in the short, dark-haired vessel. Her smoke is the same ugly charcoal you’ve always known, and the hideous features that twist through it are curved into a smile.

“Hi, guys,” she says, sighing when none of you respond. “Hi, Meg. It’s so lovely to see you, we’ve missed you so much.”

“We have not missed you,” Sam snaps, and Meg rolls her eyes.

“Don’t be like that, Sammy, we always have fun together. Remember last time, when I met your mom!” She grins at you, and you narrow your eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you mutter, and she scoff.

“Please, you won’t do anything, we’re friends-“

“No, I mean- You literally shouldn’t be here.” You glance at Jo, pressing your lips in a thin line. “A demon in Heaven- The shouldn’t be possible.”

“Nothin’ to say about us being friends though, right?” Meg grins, then sighs under your glare. “Fine. But it’s not that hard to follow. Crowley just left the door open, because he’s an idiot.”

You swallow and for the first time since you got into Heaven, the Silver starts to burn. “Crowley’s here?”

Meg nods, grinning around your group. “And he’s mad at you guys. It’s cute, he’s throwing a whole temper tantrum. Like a baby.”

“He’s mad at us?” Dean frowns. “What the hell did we do?”

“Rob him,” Sam mutters. “Steal his blood. Chain him to his chair and probably get him in trouble with Eve-“

“Yeah, yeah, alright. I get it.” Dean pinches his brow, still glaring at Meg. “Still doesn’t explain you though. I thought you and Crowley were on the outs because of the whole Lucfier War of Roses shit.”

“We are,” Meg shrugs. “Which is why I followed him. To help you.”

Jo narrows her eyes, crossing her arms. “How can you help us?”

Meg beams, leaning forward. “I’m multi-purpose,” she drawls. “Sammy knows, isn’t that right?”

She shoots Sam a wink, and his nose wrinkles. The Silver keeps pounding in your ears.

“That don’t mean anything,” Jo snaps. “Either you’ve got something to give us, or you can fuck off.”

“Ouch,” Meg laughs, looking Jo up and down. “You’re coming on real strong for the only one I haven’t actually done something to.”

Jo just scowls, and Meg rolls her eyes.

“Fine. I can help you however you want,” she smiles at you. “I’m sure you’ll figure out what to do with me, princess.”

Dean and Jo both move to block you from Meg’s view, and fighting starts to tear through the room, raising voices and clenched fists and spitting words that you can barely hear. You don’t care about Meg. You don’t care about her taunting or help or sabotage. You, oddly, still trust her more than you trust most people. She listens to you more than Sam, sometimes. But she’s here because Crowley’s here. And that’s making everything get really fucking loud.

A demon doesn’t go to Heaven for no reason. Crowley doesn’t put himself in the front lines for no reason. If he’s here it’s because Eve sent him. If Eve sent him directly—instead of letting him outsource to a demon—it’s because he is in trouble. Which means he’s going to be mad at you. Which means that whatever he’s after—something in Heaven, something they probably need for the spell—isn’t something that’s going to be easy to find. That Eve could safely get herself. And she didn’t send Leviathans, she sent Crowley, which means she wants something alive, something like you and Dean, which means she might know you’re here and you left Kevin and Charlie and Cas alone, which means you’re putting Dean in danger, danger, danger-

The Silver is blaring like an alarm. You’re breathing shallow and fast, everything turning either into harmonies that are yours—the clouds of Heaven that morph themselves to match you, that glow because they’re honored to hold holy bodies—and sharp, jagged edges that aren’t. That either want to be a part of you but feel like hostile—a parasite that shouldn’t be allowed to join you—or things aren’t yours. That can’t be yours. That you need to crush or make yours, before they spread like a thin layer of ash. Before they spread, and everything becomes the dead world.

You can’t breathe. You wrap a hand around your throat, the Silver already too big for you to count what’s real, and just try to fucking breathe. But you can’t. You cave into yourself and you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, your back hurts and you can’t fucking breathe-

You stumble back, trying to find something to keep you upright. The Silver is pressing out of every nerve, scratching through the world for somewhere safe to hide. Something is burning into your side, thought your jacket. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Dean turns around with a frown. Your eyes lock, and his widen. He shouts your name, rushing forward, but you trip and fall over a table, and he’s just too far to catch you. Everything goes white.

When your vision clears, he’s not there.

You’re home. Bobby’s house, home. But all the books are gone, and the fireflies flitting outside in the easy, green dark mean it’s summer, rather than dead winter. The floor is shiny, and the kitchen is half clean, and when you wander out onto the porch—almost in a trance—the wood isn’t chipped. Bobby’s old truck is parked in the yard, no sign on the Impala or Firebird.

And sitting in his old chair, baseball cap over his head and beer in his hand, is Bobby. Your Bobby.  Staring out at the yard with a faint smile on his face, a few less wrinkles and gray hairs. Watching a girl with braids and thin fingers play in the mud. There are grass stains all over her dress. Your dress. In an hour you’re going to cry because you can’t put the grass back in the ground. In two hours, Bobby’s going to coax you out of your room with a milkshake, and in three hours you’re going to watch a movie, and pass out the moment the credits roll. You wake up in your bed in the morning. Bobby makes you pancakes, and you wolf them down because you’re still a small, feral thing, and you haven’t learned that this peace isn’t going to last forever.

You take a small step forward, and the porch creaks. Bobby glances backward, and raises his brows. You swallow, and it hurts. Your eyes burn, and Bobby’s gaze softens.

“Dad-“ Your voice breaks on the first word. “Daddy- You- You’re-“

Tears burn on your cheeks, and Bobby sighs. He sets down his beer and stands, pulling you into his arms without a question. You press your face into his chest, shaking and clinging to the edge of that old, gray shirt he always wore. Back home, it’s still in his dresser, stale and gathering dust because you won’t let Dean wash it. Right now it smells like pine trees and scotch and something a little drier, that was always Bobby.

“Hey, kiddo,” he mutters. “You ain’t supposed to be in here.”

You swallow, and let him pull you a little back. He examines your face, features tight with worry, and sighs.

“What the hell have you done?”

“No- Nothing-“

“Nothin’ my ass. How else did you end up in heaven-“

“We’re- We’re doing a thing, and-“ You wipe your nose, and pause. “How are you in Heaven?”

Bobby shrugs. “I don’t know, probably somethin’ stupid, maybe I did a few hail mary’s before the lights went out-“

“No- No-“ You shake your head. “You can’t be in Heaven. It’s- that’s not possible.”

“Jesus. I know I wasn’t perfect- Sure as shit screwed some things up, but-“

“You’re in a bottle, Bobby.” You reach into your jacket, and pull out the bottle, holding it up to his face. “I have your soul, you can’t be in heaven.”

Bobby stares at the bottle, then you, then the little you, still playing in the mud. His frown deepens, and you clear your throat.

“Um- Maybe- You know-“ You glance at the bottle, and it flickers in your hands. The green of Bobby’s soul doesn’t seem to be confided to the glass anymore. Almost like it’s blending perfectly with the green of the world. Of Bobby. “We don’t know what I can do, really,” you mumble. “And- I guess this means you’re not in here watching us all the time-“

“You put me in a fuckin’ bottle?” Bobby snaps, and you swallow.

“It’s a nice bottle. Dean cleans it.”

He stares at you, and you give him a small, nervous smile. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. “C’mon, kiddo,” he starts past you, back to the porch. “I think I’m gonna have to sit down.”

You nod and start to follow, but freeze half a step forward. You look back to yourself. Innocent and happy in the mud, sure that Bobby is going to watch her forever. “What about-“ What about me. “What about her?” You whisper. “You can’t just leave her.”

“She’ll be here when I get back,” Bobby says gently, and you shake your head.

“But-“

“And she’s gonna be alright,” he says your name. “She’s a trooper. She always is.”

You turn, and find him watching you. He smiles, tired but real, and jerks his head. You follow him inside, and only look back once.

Bobby’s heaven isn’t like Sam, Dean, and Jo’s. It’s his house, but—the longer you look—the more you see time blending through it. The kitchen in clean how it was when just you and he used it, but the cool pot Dean got him for his birthday is on the rack, and photos of all three of you as adults are pinned to the fridge. There are two bowls of food on the floor. One for that dog Rufus pawned onto him while you were a teenager, running around the country like an idiot, and one for Indy. The apron Sam used to strangle a demon—which immediately got set on fire—is still hanging on a peg, but right next to it is the one Sam bought him as an apology. It’s warm outside, but snow is falling like glitter. You look at Bobby, confusion written all over your face, and he just shrugs.

“Don’t know what you’re lookin’ at me for. Apparently you designed it.” He grabs a beer out of the fridge, and you hold out your hand. He stares at it, then you, and snorts. “No.”

You gape. “But- I want one-“

“You hate these-“

“Maybe I don’t anymore,” you snap, and Bobby snorts.

“Alright,” he tosses you the bottle. “But you ain’t able to get drunk here. Shouldn’t be a problem, if ya like it.”

You stare at the bottle, then Bobby. It smells rotten. Bitter and foul, like it always has. It makes you think of summers where everything was carcesses and spit filled with poison. You put the beer down, and Bobby hums.

“I prefer vodka,” you mumble, and he just laughs again.

“Sure, kiddo. Y’know, I always thought you’d make a bad drunk.”

“You always thought that? That- I’d make a bad drunk?”

Bobby shrugs. “I was a fuckin’ delight-“

“Rufus told me you’re banned from a bar in every state.”

“Well, Rufus better learn to stop runnin’ his mouth,” Bobby mutters. He pauses, and gives you a long, careful look. “How is he? Out there?”

You swallow. You don’t want to talk about this. You don’t want to remember this isn’t real. “I- I haven’t talked to him in a few months, but- Sam says he’s okay.”

“Hm,” Bobby nods, still watching you. “How ‘bout Claire?”

“Good.” You pick at your nails. “She’s staying with Jody, while we work on Eve.”

“Eve-“

“Turns out she made the Leviathans. They’re trying to eat God.”

“Why not,” Bobby mutters, glaring at his bottle. “And- Jody-“

“Dean talks to her. He- He says she’s tired, but- okay.”

Bobby nods, and your fingers start to bleed a soft, shimmering Silver. You frown at it, then look back up to Bobby.

“I’m trying to bring you back,” you stutter out. “I- I am- I promise- I’m going to ask Joshua, and- We know I can, I brought Jo back, I just- I don’t know how, but I will-“

Bobby says your name, and you cut yourself off, staring down at your hands.

“I will,” you whisper. “I promise.”

“I know you do,” Bobby says. “But don’t hurt yourself for me, kiddo. I ain’t worth it.”

You shake your head, and Bobby says your name again, leaning over the table.

“Listen to me. I know this is hard, but-“

“You don’t,” you snap, the top of your mouth hurting like a burn. “You don’t know. You can’t- You-“ Your voice breaks. “You’re not there.”

Bobby falls silent, and you curve further into yourself.

“You’re not there,” you whisper again. “I- I need you and you’re not there, daddy, you’re not there-“

You crack again. Everything hurts, and when you wipe the Silver on your pants it just blooms with flowers. Bobby’s chair scrapes as he stands, and you don’t fight it when he pulls you into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I do know, kiddo. I promise, if I knew how to get outta here and back into a body I would, but- I’m sure Dean’s takin’ care of you- And-“ He cuts himself off, with a long sigh. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cling to his shirt and cry until there’s nothing left, and Bobby leans back with a sad smile.

“You can’t stay here,” he says, and your lip tremlbes.

“Why- Why not-“

“’Cause we’d make it a day before you started worryin’ about the boys.”

“I can bring them here too-“

“No. This is my Heaven. And I love you kids, but the only thing I’m happy about is not walkin’ in on Dean freakin’-“ His lip curls. “Fondlin’ my girl.”

You laugh, but it’s small. Almost hollow. Bobby sighs, and says your name, low and soft.

“They need you.”

“No, they-“

“Yeah. They do.”

You shake your head, hugging yourself tight, and Bobby nods.

“Yes. Yes, you can. I am sure,” he says firmly. “That whatever the hell this even is now, you can do it.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t waver, and you know he’s right. It’s annoying. You still pull him into a tight hug, and pray that some of the green will stay on your hands when you go back.

“I’ll bring you back,” you whisper. “I promise.”

And Bobby just sighs. “Yeah. Alright.”

You pull apart, wipe your sleeve on your nose, and close your eyes. If you look at him—at this world—a little longer, you’re going to beg to stay again. You focus the Silver, and try to retrace your steps. When you open your eyes, you’re back in the Roadhouse. Ellen, the hunters, and Jo’s dad flicker like broken projections. There’s glass on the floor.

And no one else to be found.

She’d barely even vanished, when the ground shook. And Dean should’ve been faster. He should’ve noticed Her falling apart behind him, instead of shouting at Meg about being a bitch. If he had noticed, She wouldn’t have cocooned herself or whatever and slipped through Dean’s fingers. If he had noticed, She would’ve been there when the angels showed up blazing, grabbed the four of them, and tossed them into one of Heaven’s cells.

They were a lot like Vegas cells. Thin bars, weirdly cold and warm at the same time, and covered in a whole lot of glitter. Dean pointed this out to Sammy. Sammy didn’t seem to appreciate it.

“Just trying to get the mood up, Sammy-“

“Why.” Sam said flatly. “This is just like last time, Dean- Actually, it’s worse than last time! Last time we weren’t locked up in Heaven’s jail with two demons!”

“The demons aren’t delighted to be locked up with your either, Moose,” Crowley muttered, and Sam shot him a glare.

“No one made you follow us-“

“Well, no one made you get yourselves caught, did they?”

Sam huffed, and looked off to the side. Meg laughed, and Jo rolled her eyes.

“Don’t know why you’re laughing,” she snapped. “You’re locked up too.”

“Yeah. But I know how to have fun, unlike certain pretty boys.” Meg smirked, and Jo’s scowl deepened.

Dean sighed and rubbed his jaw. Apparently Heaven also only had one cell for all instructors to share. The bad part was that Crowley had been here when they got thrown in. The good part was that She wasn’t here yet. Which meant, wherever She’d landed, she was safe.

“How long did it take them to catch you, Crowley?” He asked, and Crowley huffed.

“Annoyingly fast. It was rather rude, actually. They jumped me like- Like ruffians.”

“They probably tracked him because he’s a demon, Dean,” Sam said, already picking up what Dean was poking at. “Which means-“

“You.” Jo glared at Meg, who blinked innocently.

“Me? That’s- That’s ridiculous, there weren’t any angels on my tail, I checked.”’

“Well you didn’t check well-“

“I checked perfectly. And I’d say it was you idiots, stirring up noise, making messes everywhere, walking into Heaven with God’s Bride?” Meg clicked her tongue. “Not very smart of you, is it?”

“You’re a demon,” Jo spat. “In Heaven. We were doin’ just fine until you showed up.”

“Well if it was just me,” Meg snapped. “Why’d the grab their star boys too, hmm?” 

“I don’t know, maybe they thought we were- Helping you-“

“I thought you’d never work with the likes of me.”

Jo scoffed, but Sammy cut her off with Her name. Everyone was looking at Dean all of a sudden. Sam’s words were low and urgent.

“They took us,” he said. “The moment she was gone. And- Cas told us he can’t track her, because she- She messes with their radar or something-“

“And once she was gone,” Dean finishes, throat tight. “We were just big neon freakin’ signs.”

They all, for a rare moment, fell silent. Dean squatted at the edge of the cell, rubbing his jaw until it ached. They had no damn clue where She’d popped off to, but he knew she’d turn around and come back for them. And She either wouldn’t find them and blow up, or the angels would be waiting for her, goad her, and she’d blow up. Or they got out and found Her first. That was the only way Dean could see this ending without a blow up. 

He looked around the group—Sammy still sulking, Jo glaring at Meg like she wanted to rip her vessel open, Meg examining her nails, and Crowley grumbling about hosptiatly—and didn’t really love their odds.

The door rattled, and Dean shot to his feet, ready for anything between the angel hangmen or angel sheriff.

“You gonna talk to us?” He called down the hall, leaning against the bars. “Or does Heaven not have due fuckin’ process?”

“Dean,” Sam hissed. “Sit down, they’re angels-“

“They’re dicks,” Dean grunted, and Meg hummed.

“They really are. And one of them grabbed my ass while throwing us in here. Which is rude,” she shouted at the hall. “If I’m not allowed to grab him back!”

Jo frowned. “Nobody groped me.”

“That’s good, Jo,” Sam sighed, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Yeah, but why are they gropin’ her, I’m- Not a demon-“

“It’s ‘cause you’re cute, buttercup,” Meg winked. “Not sexy.”

Jo looked like she was going to throw a punch. Dean caught her wrist, and gave her a stern look.

“Not now,” he muttered, and Jo sighed, but nodded.

“Aw,” Meg beamed. “So noble, rescuin’ me-“

“Not rescuing,” Dean turned back to the hall. “Delaying. She can go to town when we’re outta here. See if I give a shit.”

Meg huffed, and Dean peered for shadows or shifts, or anything that would tell him just what these sons of bitches were up to. 

“I don’t think angels have to give us due process,” Sam said miserably, and Dean grunted.

“What, you’re tellin’ me America’s got one up on fuckin’ heaven?”

“I guess,” Sam squinted past him. “I’m not sure.” His mouth twitched. “They do have a really brutal immigration process.”

Dean snorted, then banged on the bars, raising his voice. “You hear that?” He called. “You’re losin’ to America-“

“We lose to nobody,” a woman’s voice—cold and bored—echoed down the hall, and Dean froze. “And the demon boy is correct. We owe you no process.”

Heels clicked on the floor and Dean swallowed, taking a large step back from the bars. The shadow on the floor was made of shifting light and fluttering patterns. The woman casting it was almost his Dean’s height, pinned up, and downright sour looking. Her lips were tight and painted red, her hair tied up, and her outfit what Dean’s girl would call really fucking ugly. He grinned to himself at the thought. Angels never seemed to be prepared for Her. It was always fun to see.

The woman stopped in front of them, her gaze raking over Sam and Dean and her lip curling rather rudely. She looked down the hall, huffed, and called to someone Dean couldn’t see.

“Why did no one tell me how… Unimpressive they are?”

And sulking after her, hands tucked behind his back, was Balthazar. Dean’s hands curled into fists. Sam moved to his feet, eyes wide, and Meg took a step back.

“They are rather locked up,” Balthazar drawled. “I assure you, they’re much more impressive when they’re… running around. Like very big rats. On steroids.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean growled, leaning against the bars. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, we thought you might be dead-“

“Not dead. Just… reoccupied.” Balthazar spread his arms. “Welcome to Heaven’s new, humane prison! You should be thanking me, if I didn’t build this you’ve be stuffed in the Sun, which, as we found, kills humans surprisingly fast.”

“We trusted you,” Sam said, jaw ticked. “And you- You’ve been working with Heaven?”

“Really?” Dean added. “These douchebags, they’re like Mormons-“

“Tread carefully, Dean Winchester.” The cold bitch sneered. “Balthazar has returned to where he belongs. With his brothers and sisters. Annoying us,” she shot him a glare. “But no longer acting like a brat.”

“Yet,” Balthazar grinned at her, and her nose twitched.

“Yet,” she echoed, and Dean cleared his throat, leaning forward.

“I’m sorry, lady. Who the hell are you?”

She sniffed, turning up her nose. “The angel in control of your fate, you insolent, petulant child. After Castiel blew everything up and vanished, someone had to take over, to restore Heaven to it’s former glory-“

“Yeah, yeah, that’s great,” Dean waved a hand. “What’s your name.”

The bitch scowled. “Naomi.”

“Cool. Naomi,” Dean threw her his most charming grin. “Seems like you knew who we are,” he gestured behind him. “Which means you probably know that we’re down one.” He said Her name, and Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “’Bout this tall, punch you in the face gorgerous, kinda mouthy and real stab-happy? Magdalene, Bride of God- You know,” he leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Here’s the deal. I know you picked us up when she wasn’t around, but she ain’t really gonna take that lying down. She’s been known to blow up stuff. Houses, castles, office buildings-“

“Hell,” Sam jumped in. “Lucifer’s cage. Twice.”

Dean nodded, looking back to Naomi. “Twice. Which- You know. This is nice and all,” he rattled the bars. “But it ain’t Lucifer’s cage. So, unless you want her dropping in-“

“We do.”

“I’d let us- What.” Dean blinked, and Naomi smiled, awfully smug for someone signing a death warrant. “You- Are you fuckin’ crazy-“

“No. I’m strategic.” Naomi said. “Everyone knows about the Bride’s… Affection. For you all.”

“Me, yeah,” Dean shrugged lazily. Soulmates. “Sammy and Jo she’s got a soft spot, but they’re second, and those two,” he jerked his thumb at Meg and Crowley. “You know. Demons. I wouldn’t place bets, is all I’m saying.”

“I don’t have to place bets,” Naomi’s smile grew. “I have you, Dean Winchester. And to get the Bride? That’s all I’m going to need.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “I don’t think that’s gonna work out for you,” he said through gritted teeth, and Naomi just smiled.

“We’ll see, won’t we.” She took at step back, still smirking at Dean. “But you’re right about this cell. We don’t want her to actually get to you. Balthazar. Put them in the Garden.”

There was that loud whoosh, and Naomi vanished. Balthazar sighed and started to walk back out, but Dean wasn’t letting him go that easy. He banged his fist against the bars again, leering down the hall.

“Balthazar, you get back here- You spineless, side switching son of a bitch!”

Balthazar sighed, and turn back around with a half amused look. “Don’t worry, Dean,” he smiled. “I’ll switch right back, as soon as the Bride shows her pretty face.”

He vanished down the hall, and Dean swallowed, slumping back.

“Nice going, macho man,” Meg drawled, and Dean shot her a glare.

“Shut up.”

She smirked but did. Balthazar came back in a few minutes with a handful of other angels—they were handsy, now that Meg mentioned it—and they got zapped right into Heaven’s Garden.

It was… Different. Than Dean remembered Cas describing, way back when. Bigger, maybe. More colorful than just green things, with a lot of weird, overgrown plants and young, fragile looking trees. Something jade-colored and winged darted out of a tree, and Sam flinched. Dean raised his hands to block an attack, scanning over the thick tree line for as sign of whatever the hell that had been, and-

“Welcome,” Joshua said, smiling at them from what seemed to be the base of a large, strange, white cliff. Flowering vines grew over the low stone, almost shimmering in the permanently golden light. “I see you’re enjoying the new… Renovations.”

Dean swallowed, glancing back over his shoulder. Crowley and Meg seemed to be trying to press against a corner that didn’t exist, touching as little as possible. Sammy had moved on to examining some cartoon-looking mushrooms, and Jo was still watching the sky. Dean looked back to Joshua, and said Her name. He bowed his head, a smile twitching at his mouth.

“Between you and me,” he said. “I consider Naomi a fool, and- Pray that she hasn’t stationed too many of us to guard you. No one ever stands much of a chance, against the Bride.”

“Do you-“ Dean took a step forward. “You got an ear with God, do you know where she is? If she’s alright?”

Joshua gave him an apologetic smile, and Dean’s hope sunk right to the pit of his stomach.

“Right- No one can know,” he muttered. “Magic gps doesn’t work.”

“I am sorry,” Joshua said, and Dean thought he meant it. “But if it helps, my ear with God… It has gone deaf.”

Dean blinked. “What? What’d you- God ain’t talking to you anymore? Why, I thought- He was lonely or whatever.”

“He was. I- He still may be. But-“ Joshua sighed, and shook his head. “It might be easier, for you to understand yourself, and come find me after.”

Joshua stepped to the side, and Dean squinted. The vines were growing over something. Something lit with red flowers that flickered like torches, with water that glowed like those plastic stars he used to stick on the top of motel ceilings to help Sammy sleep.

“Understand myself?” He rasped, and Joshua bowed his head.

“I know more of you than you think, Dean Winchester,” he said gently. “You may not believe me, without the proof in front of your eyes.”

Dean nodded, and took a cautious step forward. He paused when he passed Joshua, looking over the man’s face any sign of worry, any clue that this might be some sorta trap. He found only sympathy, and it made his heart restless in his throat.

“Is is bad?” He asked, like a child, and Joshua chuckled.

“No. I don’t think it could be, if it tried.”

There was that cryptic angel talk again. Nice to know some things never changed. 

Dean stepped past Joshua, pushing the vines out of the way and ducking into the cave. The whole place smelled like Her. Sugar and vanilla and Her apple, so strong that Dean could swear he’d turn around, and she’d just… Be there. And he knew better, but all the same. Dean could almost feel Her, through this whole damn place. The path went down, and the feeling only got stronger. He saw the end of the tunnel, shimmering with silver light, and swallowed. He almost turned back. This was where She’d been when Cas grabbed her. When he’d thought he’d finally lost her forever. And part of him really didn’t want to know, what kind of paradise she’d left, or what kind of Hell she’d been trapped in.

But the other part was masochist. The other part knew that, what, ever the hell it was, Dean deserved it. So he took the last step forward, and almost fell to his damn knees.

It was like Her, if she was a place. That was the only way he could rationalize it. Pure white walls of stone that shimmered gold, silver water tumbling down the cliffs and falling into black lake, every ripple almost making freaking art with it’s patterns. All of it stained in so much color and life. More of those jade bird nested along the rocks, fish the color of gemstone darting through the lake, more of those burning flowers growing near the shore and sending pollen like fireworks through the air.

Dean walked slowly, not sure if he was in a dream or not. She wasn’t here. It couldn’t be.

Renovations, Joshua had said.

She made all this shit. The trees and planets and animals. It had all been Her.

Dean’s eye caught on a dip in the land, and the smooth surface of the cliffs. Another cave. He walked towards it, watching his step over the crystal like stones and strange looking critters. Something like a chipmunk-cat sniffed him, then cooed. It ran up his damn leg, and he didn’t have the heart to kick it off.

“No bein’ evil,” he muttered, and it cooed.

Four more joined it, by the time Dean got to the cave. He cradled them in his hands, worried that if he dropped them, She’d somehow feel it. They were also pretty cute. And fluffy. Far from the worst thing he’d ever held, that was for sure. They scattered when he ducked inside, anyway. Dean pretended that didn’t weirdly hurt, and let them go.

Then he turned, and this time, didn’t have enough strength to stay on his feet.

The floor of the cave was covered in flowers, and the walls were dripping in glowing lichen and vines, but that wasn’t what Dean cared about it. Because under the overgrowth and over every inch of stone, there were paintings. Paintings of wings—copper and wooden and electric—and of thick greens and twisted up purples and rushing  blues. There was a kitchen that Dean felt like he’d seen before, flowers on the table and pictures on the fridge. Bobby’s library, with Cas’ standing near a shelf and wearing a trenchcoat made of feather, and Sammy hunched at the table with his laptop glowing in his face.

And there no was Dean.

There was the Impala, her wheels roses and her windows water and her body looking sorta like a bull or something, which would be hard to maintain, but still seemed pretty fucking cool. There was Jo on the couch, asleep with hair all over her face. There was even Claire, holding a golf putter like a shotgun and smiling, but there was no Dean.

But there was gold.

Inlaid over every single painting, on the spines of books and lining the Impala, over Indy’s wings and running through that kitchen like a backsplash, there was so much gold. Written between the margins of every image was that one word, printed in golden ink, glowing like a lighthouse in the dark.

Dean’s heart knotted and strained against itself. His throat got tight, like it was trying to hold all his organs down. He looked up to the ceiling and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through his nose and stop the burn of useless tears down his face.  

“She spent most of her time like this,” Joshua said softly, and Dean started.

“Jesus fuckin’- So all of you just like sneakin’ up on poor assholes trying to have a moment, huh?”

Joshusa’s mouth twitched. “My apologies. I assumed you might have some questions, but if you would rather be alone-“

“No- No,” Dean rubbed his face, trying to wipe away the ache under his skin. “I actually, I got a-“ He swallowed, looking back to that damn word. Etched into the stone and over Sammy’s brow and into the veins of Cas’ wings. There was a painting of Her hands, coated in gold and blue, and the word was drawn into her skin like a tattoo, and Dean-

He took a ragged breath, and looked back to Joshua.

“That word- What’s it say?”

“Dean.”

“No, I know, Enochian ain’t a lanugae for lowly humans or whatever-“

“You misunderstand,” Joshua placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, the touch almost like he was fragile. “The word translates to Dean.”

Dean swallowed. The tears pressed out of his eyes. He didn’t bother to wipe them.

Dean. It meant Dean. It had always just meant Dean, and Jesus, he couldn’t even remember how long She’d been writing it.

“God, when he was talkin’ to you,” Dean cleared his throat, but his words still came out choked and small. “He didn’t- There’s this thing, that she and I got, that’s- Uh- More than just, you know-“

“Soulmates,” Joshua nodded, smiling gently. “Yes. I am- Maybe one of four beings aware in the universe. Five, if we count yourself.”

Dean blinked. “Uh- You, God- Death-“

“Amara.”

“Yeah, I don’t know who the hell that is-“

“You will.”

Dean swallowed, shoving away a tear that had reached his jaw. “Great,” he muttered. “That’s- If God knows, then what the hell is he thinking?” He snapped. “She’s got a hand on me, I got a hand on her, God ain’t in that picture- Can’t he just pick someone else?” Dean glared up at the ceiling. “Lotta chicks out there who probably don’t have their soulmates in orbit or whatever, there’s- There’s gotta be someone else-“

“But there isn’t,” Joshua cut him off, and Dean’s jaw clenched.

“There should be,” he grunted through his teether. “Billions of fuckin’ people, and he’s gotta go after her?”

Joshua sighed, squeezing Dean’s shoulder gently. “I admit, I have my own… Questions. But it is not my place. I only know that this- It will not end easy.” He frowned up at the ceiling, voice dropping to a murmur. “For any of us.”

Dean swallowed down his pain, and kept rubbing his face until it was raw. He’d break over this later. He had to be made of something strong than titanium right now. Something that would catch whatever light She was making, so she’d know where to find them. He’d fall into Her later, once he’d cleared this belt. Once it all stopped stinging, and they were home, and he was dragging Her and Sammy and Claire up to Michigan, where God couldn’t find them.

In the morning.

He’d fall apart when a new sun was rising, in the morning.

“We need angel oil,” he muttered, and Joshua raised a brow. “If we’re going after Dick Roman, it’s all we got left. Cas- He’s a little outta commission-“

“I am not a viable option either,” Joshua said apologetically. “My wings- They’re different. They would not produce the kind of oil you need. But- If there’s anything else I can help with, I’m rooting for you. For her.”

Dean swallowed, and nodded. The oil thing had been a long shot anyway. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the phoenix egg—tiny in his had, black like coal but almost burning his damn fingers—and held it up to the light. “You got an idea of how to hatch this?” He asked, and Joshua shrugged.

“I think you may only have to pray.”

Dean’s fingers curled on the sleek shell. He’d been worried that would be the answer. It had been his bet, but no one had asked, and he didn’t want Her worrying about shit unless it was nessecry. He put the egg back in his jacket and moved to his feet, giving Joshua a tight nod that he returned.

“I am, truly, on your side,” Joshua said softly. “He,” he glanced up to the roof of the cave. “Is a strange father. A strange creator. But- Making something is not the same as knowing it. A craft is nothing, unless it has a soul. He is nothing, if his inventions never grew souls.”

Dean nodded again, a little lost, but he was pretty sure he got the gist. That was two whole angels on their side. Three if they counted Balthazar, still wandering around the Garden on detail. Dean didn’t doubt he’d flip back to their team the moment She showed up. Goddamn coward.

“Sammy,” he grabbed Sam’s arm and dragged him to a shrouded corner of the Garden, looking over his shoulder to make sure Balthazar wasn’t in earshot. “Stop bitching, I gotta talk to you-“\S

Sam whined, yanking his arm free. “But you don’t have to pull me-“

“Get over it.” Dean pulled the phoenix egg out of his jacket, holding it low between their bodies. “I talked to Joshua, he says she can hatch it with a little extra juice. But-“ He wrapped his fist around the egg, glaring at the tiny goddamn thing, putting him in this stupid, stupid position. “Look, this ain’t-“ He sighed Her name. “She thinks we’re only gonna get one shot outta this thing, when it hatches. Don’t wanna drain the baby, right? So-“

“It’s me or Cas,” Sammy finished, and Dean nodded tightly.

“Cas- He’s happy the way he is,” Dean muttered, trying to logic his way around this. He loved Cas, he did, but- Sammy was Sammy. He’d made promises. He’d done things he’d never be able to wipe off his skin, that he’d do all over again to keep his baby brother safe. And Sam couldn’t stay like this. Downing pain meds and hunching on the curb and seeing ghosts. That was the kind of thing Dad would’ve shot Dean for allowing. The thing he was supposed to fucking fix. “The angel oil, we could take it from Balthazar-“

“Balthazar would ask for money,” Sam muttered, and Dean didn’t like that tone. The sheer defeat under it. “And I don’t think we can jump him, Dean.”

“Could get Meg to jump him-“

“Meg and Crowley are basically worse than humans right now. I mean- Jo punched Meg when she was- It’s not important,” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There were sex jokes. A lot of them. And Meg’s bleeding now, and Crowley won’t stop shouting at the birds about being king, and- They’re both kinda useless.”

Dean grunted, scanning over Sammy’s tight face. “Sam-“

“You need to heal Cas.”

“Sam-“

“I’m alright,” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “I promise I’m alright, Dean. I- I can hold on a little longer. I can consent to holding on longer, Cas- He’s barely even Cas right now. And we’re going to need everyone on our side. We’re going to need him back.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. Sam gave him a sad, pointed look.

“If it was you or Cas,” he added softly. “You’d pick Cas too.”

Goddamnit. That was a good, stupid point. “That’s different-“

“Dude.”

Dean glared at Sam. Sam didn’t even blink, because he was a smart little freak, and son of a bitch, it was so annoying when he was right.’

“Fine.” Dean grunted, and Sam’s mouth twitched.

“Great. Um-“ He glanced around the garden. “Do we have a plan to get out of here, or-“

“I’ve got one,” Dean shoved the egg into Sam’s hand. “Find cover. Take Jo, and uh-“ He glanced up at the sky. At the permanent sunset, and the flashing angel wings against the horizon. “Maybe don’t look too high up.”

Sam’s throat bobbed, but he nodded. Dean took an unsteady breath and moved out to the clearing, shooting Joshua a small nod as he moved to his knees. Balthazar paused on the edge of the clearing, watching carefully as Dean pressed his palms together. Against the skyline, the angels stopped soaring. Dean would ask for God to have mercy on them, but god wasn’t the one they should be worried about. And Dean had a pretty good feeling, as he bowed his head, that the deadbeat wasn’t going to save them either.

“Hey, Princess,” he murmured, trying not to feel too stupid. “I- Uh- I know you’re out there somewhere. Know you’re probably pissed that we vanished, that you’re looking for us. Well, we got dropped in the garden. All of us- And Crowley, but you can make the call ‘bout him staying here or whatever. Just- We’re in the garden.” Dean cleared his throat. He didn’t know how the hell to sign this off. “Uh… I love you.” He coughed. “Over.”

He looked up. Everything seemed to have gone still, from the shifting light to the leaves on the trees. Even the water in all the rivers and waterfalls was suspended. He frowned, and turned his head to the sun. Shining gold and bright.

And brighter. And brighter. And brighter.

The whole world shook. The angels rattled in the sky and the clouds glowed like they were on fire and the trees seemed to push themselves futher out of the ground. The water rushed again, faster than before, and bird started singing loud enough to split through the air. Dean stumbled to his feet, shielding his eyes with a hand as he peered at the horizon. Silloutes of angles, vanishing at the light got brighter and brighter. It wasn’t golden anymore.

It was pure shining silver.

And Dean grinned. The world kept shaking, but he just stood in the center of the clearing and grinned. A few fools dove at the approaching silver light, and vaporized in a second. Roots were pushing out of the ground around the clearing, blocking him from angels trying to dive and get him. Balthazar had slipped inside the ring, but wasn’t making any attempts to grab Dean. He wasn’t that stupid. Balthazar and Joshua both were covering their eyes, as She approached. Dean found Her bright, but he didn’t need to look away. He could see Her just fine, and she was fucking gorgeous.

Her eyes were pure Silver, Her hair floating around her, her skin glowing. Behind her, misty light seemed to be waving in and out of the air. When She landed, only an arms length away from Dean, the branches all fell away, and lush, burning flowers bloomed under Her feet. Dean held out a hand, smiling wide. She blinked at him, and crashed forward.

Dean grunted, stumbling back from the force of Her hug, and held her face into his neck. He could feel the burn of tears against his skin, and he shushed gently, rocking them back and forth. “Hey- Hey-“ He kissed the top of Her head. “We’re alright, Princess, we’re alright.”

“I- I lost you,” She choked out, nails digging into Dean’s back. “I couldn’t find you- I couldn’t- I- I thought-“

“I know,” Dean muttered, pulling back, holding Her face between his hands. “But you found us, right?” He gave Her a firm look. “Right?”

She nodded, and Dean smiled. He kissed the space between Her eyes, and she made a weak, broken sound.

“We gotta go home, okay?” He whispered against Her skin. “I got a way to hatch the egg, and- Heaven’s got a new boss. Who’s lookin’ for you, so- We should grab Sammy and Jo and go-“

“Wait- But-“ She shook her head, pushing a little back. “The Leviathans, Dean- The spell-“

“We got a way to kill them first, it’s okay-“

“But what if Eve makes more,” She whispered, holding Dean’s hands tight enough he thought they might break. “We don’t have a way to kill her, De, and if- If she tries again-“ She took a deep breath, pressing her brow to his. “Whatever that last ingredient is, it’s here. They wouldn’t have send Crowley for nothing, and- And I just need to check, because if I can stop it- If I can get rid of it- She won’t have a way- She won’t need me, or- Or you.” Her voice cracked. “She won’t need you.”

Dean took a long breath through his nose, scanning over her beautiful, wound up features. She was right. If Eve couldn’t get whatever that last thing was, she’d stop bothering to hunt Her altogether, and it would be one less thing to worry about.

“Alright,” he muttered, and she looked up with wide, glossy eyes.

“Are you-“

“Don’t ask me that,” his mouth twitched. “I’ll change my mind.”

She giggled, soft and a little wet, but real. Dean kissed Her, fast enough to keep time but deep enough for her to feel it, and squeezed Her cheek.

“You gotta be fast,” he muttered, and She nodded.

“Oh- Okay,” She pulled back, scanning around the clearing, her gaze landing on Joshua. “Okay.”

She walked away from Dean, chin high and power bleeding out of Her like an open wound. Dean didn’t want to leave Her. Not right now. He grabbed Balthazar—still pressed against the edge of the clearing—and told him to get Sam and Jo and, if they were behaving, Meg and Crowley.

“But you flip again,” he hissed. “I’ll tell her. And you’ll fuckin’ wish angels could go to hell.”

Balthazar swallowed, hands up in surrender, and agreed. He stumbled off and Dean went back to Her and Joshua, talking in low, concerned voices.

“We got an update?” He asked, and She gave him a look that didn’t exactly inspire hope. “What- What’s wrong-“

“As I was telling her,” Joshua said, low and regretful. “I only know because of God’s last order, to all of Heaven.” He sighed. “Protect the tree.”

“The tree?” Dean echoed, brow knitting. “You don’t- You mean-“

“The tree,” She murmured, hugging herself tight. “The first tree. Eden’s tree. She just needs an apple.”

“That’s good though,” Dean said desperately. “’Cause- If it’s up here and the angels are protecting it- We don’t have to worry-“

“Dean.” She gave him a heavy look, and he swallowed.

“We can just leave it to them, Princess. We don’t- This doesn’t have to be our thing.”

She shook Her head, and Dean’s hands flexed. He said Her name lowly, a warning. Not to stop as a threat, but to pull up. Before they crashed into something they couldn’t put back together.

“He doesn’t want the tree to be destroyed,” She said, and Dean didn’t love where this was going. “So the angels can’t. But- I can.”

“But-“

“I’m already doing him one favor,” Her voice was cold, and her eyes were glowing again. It was hot, in a scary kind of way. Dean really wished She was looking like this under different circumstances.

“He ain’t gonna take it lying down, baby,” he tried, and her mouth just curved up.

“Good.”

And that was that. Dean knew when to pick his fights with Her. This wasn’t one he was going to win. He gave Joshua a questioning, almost begging, you gonna stop this? look, and Joshua just shrugged. Dean sighed, gave Her a tight smile when she kissed his cheek and whispered a thank you, and tried not to grab Her when she started to walk away.

“What’s going on?” Sammy asked when Balthazar brought them back to the clearing, and Dean grunted.

“Ecoterrorism, I think.”

“What?”

Dean sighed, and muttered the breakdown to Sam and Jo. He shoved the egg into Sam’s hand with a tight nod, looking over his shoulder where She was glowing, even through the trees. Where Her power was pouring over the world. Where a prayer wouldn’t be answered, so much as tossed like a coin into a wishing fountain. Meg and Crowley could hear too, but Meg just seemed smug and pleased that She was doing something about it, and Crowley…

Crowley looked mildly worried, but not in the way Dean thought he’d be. If anything, he seemed mostly annoyed. Like them blowing up a key part of his plan was more of a mild inconvenience than anything else. Dean didn’t love it. It made something scratch at the back of his head. Something he couldn’t drag apart from the rest of this mess, but mattered. There too many fucking things happening, but something loud was trying to remind him that it mattered-

“Shit,” Jo breathed, and Dean yanked himself out of his thoughts.

They’d caught up with Her at the tree, and part of Dean wondered if this is what those suckers in the Bible felt like, witnessing the rainbow after the floor, the bush on fire, the light at the top of the mountain. This felt like something humans shouldn’t be allowed to see. Like something bigger than any of them could even begin to understand.

Because Dean had seen Her show more power. He’d seen Her hold archangels in her hands and fill up with the power from purgatory, but that had still just been Her. This, for reasons Dean couldn’t fully figure out how to explain to himself, because everything he came up with—the confidence, the anger, the freedom—still didn’t fully cover it, was different. She looked different.

And if Dean had never understood why Death saw Her as an equal—because maybe he hadn’t, maybe some part of him only ever looked at Her and saw the bright-eyed, doe faced and sweet girl who cried into his neck and giggled at stupid things and danced in his arms with a delicate smile—he got it now. She wasn’t just another kind of angel or demon or witch.

Framed against the burning Tree of Eden, looking up at the sky that was clouded with smoke that glowed like it was still of fire and stars that shined like ice trying to break free of itself, She was… Everything.

Not Dean’s everything. Just-

Everything.

The Sky flared, and Dean could swear he saw the light bending like stormfall, threatening to crash over them all. She flared brighter, and the smoke grew thicker. It turns and pressed the foreign light out, like it was something alive. The tree crackled, the fruit shriveling and falling to the ground like dropping flies. Lightning stuck close enough to their group that Sam practically shrieked in surprised. She raised a hand, and the next lightning strike bent into Her. Dean roared Her name, sprinting forward before he could think better, but she didn’t fall. 

The lightning blasted out of Her fingers, and the Tree split in half.

The sky roared and Dean stumbled to a stop, covering his ears and bending in pain. Silver light washed over him like a flood, until he couldn’t even see. When he breathed, all he could taste was Her apples. Eden’s apples.

Her apples. The same as Eden’s apples. That had grown when She blasted those miracles across the world, that Dean had kept, until-  

The world cleared, and Dean tripped forward with a groan, catching himself with a hand on the table.

The table. The library table. He opened his eyes, and they were back at Bobby’s. Sam was slumped against the wall, rubbing his temple and cradling something in his hand, Jo was shaking herself in the middle of the room, Meg was sitting in one of the chairs, and She was standing on the table, blinking around with unfocused eyes. She swaying, Her fingers trembling, lip wobbling. Dean said Her name, his voice still hoarse, and Her gaze snapped to his. Still faintly silver, like a waxing moon.

“De- Dean-“ She stumbled forward, and Dean dove, catching Her right before she hit the ground.

She was out cold in a second. Warmer than Dean wanted, but She’d also just been sort of on fire, so he wasn’t that worried. He lay Her on the couch, and whipped around with narrowed eyes, grabbing his gun off the table.

Crowley had been trying to hide near the door. Dean wasn’t letting him get away that easy. He grabbed Crowley by the throat and slammed him the wall. Sam jumped, Jo blinked, and Meg just watched with mild amusement. 

“Dean, what the hell are you doing-“

“He’s already got an apple,” Dean hissed, words spitting over Crowley’s face. “I gave it to him, so he’d tell us where the Leviathans were keeping her. He’s had it the whole fuckin’ time.”

Crowley scoffed. “Please, squrill, why would I risk myself going to Heaven if I already had the apple?”

“That’s a good point, Dean,” Sam said nervously. “And- If he has it, he would’ve given it to Eve-“

“Or he wanted to keep it, all for himself,” Dean snapped. “And now he’s gotta give it to Eve, or she’ll turn him into fuckin’ Leviathan chow.”

Sam didn’t have a counter for that. Crowley didn’t seem to either, his mouth just hanging open and a look of pure indignace on his face. Dean balled up the collar of his shirt and slammed him back against the wall, hard enough to snap his head. To make the house shake.

“You ain’t givin’ her that apple.”

“And how do you plan to stop me?” Crowley sneered. “The boss burned herself out on the tree, Dean. You can only put your hand on me because I let you.”

“Yeah,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “Right now. But I know you can’t get outta this house without walking, and you’re not getting anywhere without your little fucking powers. ‘Sides- Sammy, it worked?”

Sam sighed, and nodded. He held out his hand, and there it was. Gold and red and ruffling soft feather, sort of looking like an ugly duckling.

The baby phoenix. Ready to become a donor and bring their Cas back. Dean smirked at Crowley, who’s face had gone slack.

“We’re about to have two new weapons, douchebag,” Dean snapped Her name. “She’s gonna be up soon. And she can either waste you, or you can trade to the winning team.”

Crowley’s eyes darted around the room. None of them flinched, and his mouth twitched.

“So I’m part of the team, boys?”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “You’re a contractor.”

“Ah- I’m hearing membership at the club-“

“Don’t push it,” Dean grunted. “You in?”

Crowley smiled. “Not much of a choice, is it.”

It wasn’t. Still the smart thing, though. Dean let go of him, and he coughed dramatically—overkill, demons didn’t even need to breathe—as Dean turned back to Sam.

“Showtime,” he muttered, and Sam nodded tightly.

It was a surprisingly quick process. Jo held the phoenix chick, Dean woke Charlie up and made her draw blood—and didn’t ask why she was so good at it—and Kevin scanned through Her Book until he found the instructions. Just… Feed it to Cas.

“Take this, buddy,” Dean muttered, passing over a bowl of ice cream, the blood just looking like a strawberry glaze. “Gonna make you feel better.”

Cas nodded, but didn’t eat immediately. He squinted at Dean, tipped his head, and sighed.

“What-“

“You are sturdy, Dean,” he said plainly. “I hope you find us shore soon.”

Jesus, he wasn’t gonna miss that. “Thanks, buddy.” He muttered, tapping the bowl. “Eat up.”

Cas looked at the ice cream, and sighed. “My draw to the light… It is stronger than my wings can carry right now.”

“This is gonna make your wings stronger-“

“But,” Cas looked at him again. “I will miss the dark. Of the tree. The world seems safer, when I don’t have to fly.” He tilted his head. “You are in bloom, though. And I would not want to miss the sunrise.”

Dean blinked at him, a little worried that Cas was going to refuse to be fixed. But before he could push a little further, Cas took the first bite. Dean let out a sharp breath, and watched him finish the whole bowl. He watched anxiously, tapping his fingers against the back of Cas’ chair. He should’ve waited for Her to wake up. He couldn’t see Cas’ grace. He had no damn idea if this had worked or not-

“Dean,” Cas said, and his voice was… deeper. Steadier. “My head hurts. My head should… Not be able to hurt.”

“Uh- Yeah, that might be the blood.” Dean ducked down, trying to look for signs. Cas eyes were dilated. Maybe this was kinda like a concussion. “You feeling alright, buddy?”

Cas frowned, and nodded slowly. “I feel…  Awake.”

“And- You got any riddles or something?”

“Riddles…” Cas looked at him like he was crazy. “Why would I tell you a riddle. I am not a sphynx, and you are… Not good at them.”

Dean laughed, choked and rough. “It worked,” he muttered, moving back to his feet. “Son of a bitch, it worked- She’s gonna be so happy.” Dean grinned at Cas, who just blinked slowly back.

Cas said Her name slowly. “Where is she? Is she- Has she recovered? Dean, she- Purgatory was not her fault.”

“Uh- Yeah, we’re past that.”

“Already?”

Dean blinked. That wasn’t great. He decided they’d worry about it when She woke up. “I’ll explain later, bud, just- Uh- You got some wing oil for me?”

It took a bit to get Cas on board, but he was back, and Dean could explain things to him again. They got the oil. When She was awake, Dean would be able to show Her the weapon. Completed and ready for action.

And all they would have left was to use it. And then-

They would finally be free.

✦chapter 72

✦End note: one more chapter in season 7! I hope you guys have enjoyed it, and extra shoutout this week to people reading the chapters as they're coming out. i've said it before and i'll say it again, i appreciate you guys more than i can say <3. Thank you for sticking with me this far into the series. see you next week! Chapter Title from True Blue by boygenius

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[foxyjwls007]

He prayed to her. He finally said it!!!! I hope she remembers that he did🙏