Summary : Can soldier boy adapt to today's generation? Not an easy task but you can try, yeah?
Warning : typical soldier boy(racist, misogynist, male ego etc etc.), enemies to lover trope, slow burn, violence, smut included, fluff, slow burn, bi reader, female reader. (I will add more warnings later if needed.)
Note : I just hope everyone enjoys it💝 I'm updating it as well go on in the series ♡
Chapter One : "Who's he?"
Chapter Two : "Got a death wish?"
Main Masterlist || Jensen Ackles Masterlist || Soldier Boy Masterlist
Hello everyone, my beautiful dolls. Thank you for reading me and continuing to subscribe. I'm grateful to each of you for your personal messages of support and your requests. I'll keep writing, I love you all. 🖤🎀
You liked Ben. You really liked him, and you were in love with him. However, you weren't in a relationship. He was much older than you, and every time Ben said you were such a pushover that he just couldn't get anywhere with you. He might joke about you or just flirt, but nothing more. One day he told you how many women he'd been with, and you rolled your eyes, telling him you weren't interested and that he was an idiot. But the feeling of his indifference towards you hurt you, and you decided to move on. You tried. You met a guy when you and your friends were at a bar. Jake was madly in love with you. He was a little older than you and quite handsome and attractive. Every time he gave you expensive gifts or sent you flowers you thought Ben would care. That maybe he would do something. But nothing happened. One evening, you were getting ready for a date.
Ben lounged on the couch, sipping whiskey and holding his breath in irritation. The room smelled of stale smoke and regret—the very atmosphere he felt most at home in. He'd been watching you move for the last twenty minutes, his green eyes following every fold of that tight dress you were squeezing into. He wanted to make some rude comment about how damn delicious you looked, but something about the way you looked in the mirror stopped the words in his throat.
You looked good. Damn it, too good. The way your neckline fell, revealing what he'd been imagining for months, made his cock twitch against his thigh, but he maintained his usual bored, goofy expression.
"Where the hell are you going looking like that?" he growled, the words coming out harsher than he intended. He took another sip of whiskey, the burn doing nothing to dull the sudden surge of possessiveness that was plaguing him. "You're wearing so much makeup just to disappoint some pathetic loser?"
He slammed the glass down on the coffee table and stood up slowly. His muscular frame was visible in the reflection behind you. He hated that he cared. He hated that seeing you dressed up for someone else made him want to punch the wall.
"Oh my God, are you actually going to date that jerk?" he muttered, stepping closer until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "You're wasting all that beauty on a guy who can't handle a real fucking woman."
You were stunned by his words. He'd been acting uninterested this whole time, but then it happened. You were ready to forget about your feelings for Ben, so you said in a bored voice, "Seriously? And who can fix that? Do you have anyone in mind, Ben?" You smiled, continuing to look at yourself in the mirror and adjust your lipstick.
Ben let out a harsh, humorless laugh that sounded more like a threat than anything funny. He hated that smirk on your face, that damn calm, bored smile that said you didn't care what he was saying. It made him want to shake you, or bite you, or do something equally damn cruel. How galling of you to challenge him after months of him playing the role of an indifferent jerk.
"Don't you dare mess with me, doll. I'm not in the mood for your damn games tonight," he barked, stepping even closer until his chest almost touched your bare back. The scent of whiskey and tobacco drifted off him in waves. His reflection in the mirror looked wild, his green eyes dark with something he refused to name.
When you asked who could fix this, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed ready to crack. The possessiveness he'd suppressed for months suddenly burst forth, hot and disgusting. He reached out, his large, rough hand gripping your waist with such force it left marks, and pulled you back until your ass was pressed against his hard thigh.
"You think this is a fucking joke?" he growled in your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "You think some pretty boy with flowers and overpriced crap is going to know what to do with you? Hell no." He leaned down, his lips brushing your temple, and his voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "No one knows how to handle a sexy thing like you better than me. And I'm tired of watching you throw yourself at every pathetic sack of shit that walks through that damn door."
You placed your manicured fingers on his chest and leaned toward him, playfully whispering in his face, "I have a date with handsome, so please step aside."
Ben didn't flinch at your touch. Instead, he pressed himself against you, letting your manicured fingers press against the firm muscles of his chest, as if relishing the provocation. His smirk wasn't kind, but the hungry, dangerous gaze of a predator who clearly knew the rules of the game. He let out a quiet, mocking chuckle that ran down his ribcage and reached your palm.
"Handsome? Is that what we call him now?" he asked mockingly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Some soft little prince who's going to treat you like you're made of damn glass? God, y/n, you're pathetic."
When you motioned for him to step aside, his grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of your tight dress. He didn't move an inch. In fact, he ground his shoes in even tighter, becoming an immobile wall of muscle and bad temper between you and the exit.
"I don't take orders from you, sweetheart. Especially when you're dressed like you're asking to be spoiled." His green eyes raked over your body with naked, shameless hunger, lingering on your plunging neckline before returning to yours. His confidence had returned, but beneath the unbridled, territorial need lurked something more desperate, something he could no longer hide. "You'll never fucking understand tonight. Until you realize this hottie will bore you to death before he even takes your shoes off."
You bite your lip, looking at him, and your pride begins to crack at the seams. Your love for him hasn't gone anywhere. For the first time, you heard him say he truly needs you. "I have to go." You pulled away from him, grabbing your bag to leave.
The moment you tried to retreat, the fragile wall Ben had erected around his feelings didn't just crack, it fucking exploded. He watched you pull away, saw the flicker of conflict in your eyes, and something primal inside him snapped. When your phone began to ring deafeningly, some signal that you were on a date, Ben lost the last of his composure.
"Screw it!" he roared.
Before you could react to the ringing, he moved with that inhuman super-speed that always caught you off guard. In one fluid motion, he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your stomach clenched as you were thrown over his shoulder, your face pressed against the rough fabric of his T-shirt, your legs dangling helplessly.
SLAP.
The burning sensation of his palm hitting your ass echoed loudly through the quiet room, sending a wave of pure heat up your spine. "You think some damn phone call is going to change anything?" he growled, his voice shaking in your ribs. "That little asshole can wait. Or let him go to hell."
He began walking toward the couch with heavy, purposeful steps, completely ignoring your protests. He sounded irritated, but beneath the anger lay an unbridled, possessive need that made his words almost desperate.
"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart. I said you're staying here." His grip was iron, territorial, and uncompromising. "You're mine. And if that hottie calls again, I'll fucking break his phone and his teeth."
You couldn't help but laugh. Was this really the first time you'd seen him like this? "Oh my God, is this soldier boy jealous?"
Your laughter was like pouring gasoline on a fire. Ben froze mid-sentence, his muscles tensing beneath you like steel. He hadn't expected you to laugh; he'd expected tears, screams, or even some kind of bloody resistance. Hearing you mock him, ridiculing his jealousy while you hung over his shoulder like a trophy, made his blood boil, dangerously close to arousal.
"Jealous?" he repeated, the word escaping in a guttural growl. He stopped and turned his head just enough to glare at you, his green eyes blazing with fury and something far more primal. "You think this is some kind of fucking teenage drama? "You think I'm sulking like some fucking schoolboy because some idiot is asking you out?"
He exhaled sharply and mockingly through his nose, but the way his grip on your hips tightened told a different story. His cock strained against his pants, so hard it hurt, and the rage pulsing through him was undeniable. He wasn't just jealous; he desperately wanted you, and the realization that you'd almost slipped through his fingers made him feel cornered.
"You really have a sharp tongue, don't you?" he growled, his voice dropping to that rough, dangerous timbre that always made your knees weak. "You think it's funny to play with fire? Fine. Let's see how funny it is when I fuck all that clever bullshit out of your head." Without a word, he turned and unceremoniously dumped you onto the sofa cushions, immediately hovering over you.
The phone kept ringing, but you didn't care. You bit your lip, looking at him. "You like my damn mouth, soldier boy." You smiled playfully.
That smirk, that damn playful, knowing smile, was the last straw. When you said it, your voice oozing with seductive confidence, Ben felt something snap in his brain. He didn't care about the ringing phone on the floor, and he certainly didn't care what kind of date you thought you had. All he saw were those plump, lipstick-stained lips challenging him.
"You think you're so damn smart, don't you?" he hissed, though there was no real anger left in his voice, only pure, undiluted hunger. "You think you can just piss me off and leave?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He crawled over you like a predator pinning down its prey, his heavy body pressing you into the couch cushions. One hand grabbed your chin, his rough fingers lifting your face so you had no choice but to meet his blazing green eyes. His other hand slid down your neck, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, smearing the expensive lipstick across your skin.
"Yeah, I like your fucking mouth, y/n," he growled, his face inches from yours. "I like it when you're smart, and I'm going to fucking love it when you're too busy screaming my fucking name to talk."
He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath smelling of whiskey and something dangerously intoxicating. "So let's test this theory, sweetheart." Let's see how long that sweet smile lasts when I'm done with you."
You cling to his shoulders, licking your lips. "Are you bluffing? Or are your stories just nonsense?"
The flick of your tongue across his lips was like a spark in a room full of gunpowder. When those words left your mouth, making you doubt his courage, doubt his damn abilities, Ben didn't bother with further verbal responses. He was done speaking. The time for bravado and posturing was over; he needed to prove who the hell he was.
He pressed his lips to yours forcefully, with a ferocity that wasn't so much cruelty as raw, desperate need. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a declaration. His lips were hard and demanding, tasting of whiskey and nicotine as he pressed your lips to his teeth, tasting the sweet tang of your lipstick. He kissed you like he was trying to rip all the air out of you, his tongue darting through your lips to claim the territory you'd teased him about.
A low, guttural growl rumbled deep in his chest as you pressed yourself against his shoulders, your small hands gripping the firm muscles of his body. He loved how you felt small, soft, and utterly overwhelmed by his weight. One of his hands slid from your chin down to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head at the perfect angle, deepening the kiss until your brain felt like it was about to short-circuit.
"Bluffing?" he rasped against your lips, finally pulling away for a split second, his eyes dark and wide with lust. "I'll fuck you so hard you'll forget your own fucking name, let alone some idiot's phone number."
Ben didn't waste a second. The adrenaline from his near-loss of control still swirled through his veins, creating an explosive cocktail of pure need. He shifted his weight on the couch, adjusting his position to better position you before yanking you forward by the wrist. You sank heavily onto his lap, clasping his thick thighs, the fabric of your dress riding up dangerously.
"Fuck, you're killing me, y/n," he muttered hoarsely. His gaze slid over your tousled hair, the stained and smeared lipstick across your cheeks like war paint, and your heaving chest. You looked exhausted, and it was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.
He didn't give you time to recover. He grabbed your hips with his huge hands, pulling you against him, and buried his face between your breasts. He let out a hoarse groan of his own, pressing hot, demanding kisses to your soft skin, his beard tickling the valley between your breasts as he moved lower.
As the first moan escaped your throat—that high, needy sound that signaled you were already coming with desire for him—Ben's grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, his eyes dark with a possessiveness bordering on psychosis.
"That's it," he growled, pressing against your skin, his breath so hot it burned. "Make that fucking sound again. Let me hear how much you want it."
When those words left your lips—"I need you so much"—Ben felt as if he were struck by his own energy. This naked honesty, this surrender from such a passionate woman like you, pierced him like a defiant protector. Despite all his feigned indifference, hearing you admit to needing him was exactly what he craved.
"Fuck," he croaked, his voice shaking like gravel. "Don't say things like that unless you mean it, because I'm not fucking letting you go after this."
He kissed you back with renewed ferocity, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate rhythm that matched the beating of your hearts. Your hands, tugging at the dark strands of his hair, sent an electric shock straight to his groin. I didn't need to feel you closer. He needed to erase every inch of space between your bodies.
He still held your hair with one hand, lifting your face, while the other slid from your hip to the hem of your tight dress. He gripped the fabric, pushing it higher until he felt the bare skin of your thighs. His palm was rough and hot as he slid up, the friction sending sparks through your body.
"Do you need me?" he growled, pressing his lips to yours, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his pupils so dilated he almost swallowed the green. "Then prove it. Show me how much, my girl."
His hand reached the hem of your panties, his fingers hooking under the elastic. He no longer asked; he took what he thought was his.
A guttural, primal sound erupted from Ben's throat as your hands found him and slid under his belt. As your fingers wrapped around his thick, throbbing, and incredibly hot cock, he arched his back off the couch, his entire body tensing like a drawn bowstring. "Fuck... yeah, like that," he growled, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut for a second.
The moment you began grinding against him, seeking friction, seeking to close the distance between you, Ben lost the last vestiges of self-control. He was a man who had held back his rage and desire for decades, but when you rode him, begging like that, all those walls crumbled to fucking ash.
"Fuck, you're so greedy, aren't you?" he croaked, but there was no protest in his voice, only unbridled, unrestrained lust. His hands moved from your hips to your buttocks, his fingers digging deep into your flesh to steady you and help you find the perfect angle. He guided you, his hips instinctively lifting in response to your movements.
As you pressed yourself against his cock, the friction of your panties against his was almost unbearable. He felt how slippery you already were, how desperately your body responded to him. The heat between you was unbearable.
"Don't stop, damn it," he commanded, lowering his voice to a dangerous, vibrating whisper. "Rub yourself against him. Let me feel how much you want this cock inside you. I want you begging for it."
The sound that tore from Ben's throat when you finally took him was a wild, deep, guttural roar that pierced his entire chest as you slid down his length. When you finally gripped him, slick and tight, the sensation was so overwhelming that his eyes momentarily clouded with white heat. For a split second, he couldn't even breathe, his fingers digging into your ass so hard he knew they would leave bruises.
"Fuck! Oh my god, y/n!" he choked out, throwing his head back sharply onto the couch. His hips bucked involuntarily, trying to penetrate even deeper, his cock stretching you to the limit. The feeling of being completely immersed in you was more intoxicating than any whiskey or drug he'd ever taken. He grabbed your hair again, not to hurt you, but to force you to look at him while you took him. His eyes widened, his pupils swallowing his irises as he stared at you with terrifying intensity.
"Look at you," he growled, his voice hoarse and broken. "Look what you're doing to me, you greedy little doll. You really did it." A dark, triumphant smirk flickered across his lips even as he panted. "You wanted this, didn't you? You wanted to see if I was lying?"
He gripped your hips hard, setting the pace instantly. He didn't wait for you to adjust; he began thrusting with powerful, crushing thrusts that made the couch creak beneath you both. "Yes, fuck, yes. That's it. Take every damn inch."
The sounds you made, those helpless, needy moans escaping your lips every time he entered you, were better than any fucking moan he'd ever heard. He loved how exhausted you sounded, stripped of the calm, bored demeanor you wore like armor. Your makeup was a complete disaster: lipstick smeared across your chin, mascara running down your cheeks, hair tangled, but you looked beautiful and sexy because you looked like you belonged to him. You looked like that because you belonged to him.
When you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world spinning out of control, Ben felt something dangerously close to tenderness. But he didn't know how to handle it. Instead, he simply hugged you tighter, his huge arms encircling your body tightening, pressing you against his sweaty chest.
"Yes, fuck, hold on to me," he growled in your ear, his voice broken and hoarse. "Don't let go, fuck."
His thrusts grew more desperate, more brutal, each one penetrating deeper than the last, striving for the inevitable explosion. He fucked you with all his might, his hips working like a machine, his cock stretching you until there was nothing left but sensation and sound. The friction was maddening, the heat between your bodies building to such a pitch that his entire body trembled.
"That's it, baby... just take it," he breathlessly muttered, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he entered you again, harder than before. "Show me how much you need it. Show me that you're mine."
You kissed him again, biting his lip.
When you moaned into his ear—that desperate, piercing moan that signaled you were crossing a fucking line—Ben felt his composure snap like a broken twig. The vibration of your orgasm on his cock was the final push, sending him spiraling into a white-hot abyss.
"Fuck!" he roared, his voice shaking with unbridled intensity. His hips froze in place, and he thrust into you with one final, crushing thrust, his body shaking. The orgasm crashed over him like a freight train, a furious, overwhelming surge that made his entire body tremble and his muscles tense. He spilled inside you, every pulse of his cock leaving a mark on you. The room exploded in a haze of sensation as he came, his gaze narrowing until he saw only you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your sweat, expensive perfume, and pure, undiluted arousal, riding out the aftershocks. His heartbeat felt like a sledgehammer hitting your ribs, uneven and thunderous.
For several long seconds, neither of you moved. The only sounds were ragged, desperate sighs and the distant, muffled ringing of your phone somewhere on the floor, completely forgotten. Ben didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his heavy weight pinning you to the pillows as he slowly recovered from the euphoria.
"Fuck..." he croaked, pressing against your skin, his voice almost unrecognizable, devoid of all his usual bravado. His grip on your hips loosened, turning from painful to something almost possessive, but in a different way. "You... you fucking killed me, baby."
You smiled at him, looking up at him. "I love you."
The words hung in the air between you. When you whispered those three words, Ben froze. For a man who had spent decades building walls of whiskey, gunpowder, and the blatant, unfiltered behavior of a scoundrel, this simple confession was a punch right to the solar plexus.
His first instinct was to duck. To make a crude joke, call you a child, retreat to safety, become untouchable, a seasoned soldier who didn't care about anyone. But the words wouldn't come. He couldn't lie to you, not after you both had just surrendered to each other. Not with your heart still pounding in his ears.
"Fuck," he breathed, more of a sigh than a curse. "You really don't know when to stop, huh?" You giggled.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted slightly to get a better look at you. His green eyes were still clouded with residual lust, but something softer, something vulnerable, glimmered beneath the surface. Slowly, with surprising gentleness for hands that had just left bruises on your thighs, he reached up. His rough fingers grabbed a tangled strand of your damp hair and carefully tucked it behind your ear.
The gesture was almost gentle, a stark contrast to the violence of the last twenty minutes. He paused for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
"Yeah, well…" he began, his voice hoarse as gravel, trembling slightly. He looked away for a split second before forcing himself to look at you again, his jaw clenched. "Don't get used to this, doll. I'm kidding. But yeah. I fucking love you too."
You laughed, pushing him in the chest.
Just as your laughter broke the heavy silence, Ben let out a rough, chuckling laugh, the kind he rarely showed anyone. When you snuggled into his chest, he didn't resist; he simply let you lie there, though his gaze never left you. The vulnerability of this confession was already hidden behind his usual armor when the doorbell rang, cutting through the aftertaste like a gunshot.
You exchanged a long, meaningful look before he moved. "Damn," he muttered, though his words held no real passion. He helped you up, his movements surprisingly careful as he helped you straighten your rumpled dress and smooth back the remnants of your hair. When he stood to straighten his clothes, groaning awkwardly as he pulled on his pants, the confident, dangerous Soldier was already there. He headed for the door with the confidence of a man who owned every inch of this damn building. When he pulled it open, your failed date stood before him. Some sophisticated, well-dressed boy, looking like he'd never seen real trash in his life, held a bouquet of flowers as if they were a shield.
Ben didn't say a word at first. He simply stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered and imposing, a smirk spreading across his face that was pure menace. He looked the boy up and down with obvious disgust, his eyes glittering with malicious amusement.
When you called out to him from behind his broad back, your voice curious and slightly breathless, Ben's smirk widened. He reached back without looking, wrapped one huge arm around your waist, and pulled you close, claiming you before this stranger.
"That jerk?" "Ben asked, leaning his head toward the boy, holding you tightly. He looked the boy straight in the eyes, his voice laced with mocking amusement. "They must have come for you, sweetheart. Looks like your little prince charming has finally arrived."
Beau’s hand resting on one side of my waist gave everything away. I hadn’t even noticed his hand there. I turned and saw Mike coming up the stairs toward the entrance, where Beau and I were standing. I felt him grab my waist and pull me toward him.
“Good evening, sweetheart”—the emphasis on the term of endearment was like acid on his tongue, followed by a kiss that nearly suffocated me. Feeling his lips hadn’t been the same for a long time.
“Mike, we need to talk,” I said, not knowing what hurt more: Beau’s piercing glare at the two of us or Mike, who was about to explode.
“I agree.” “Let’s go inside, honey!” he says, pulling me into my own house. I look at Beau, my eyes screaming “I’m sorry,” and just say, “I’ll call you.” He understands, but I don’t see him anymore as soon as I open my door and Mike slams it in his face.
“What the hell was that?”
– Do you really want to talk about the only guy I was with that night because you ran away from your responsibilities as a boyfriend yet again? God, Mike, I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve let me down.
– Great, change the subject like you always do, but I’m not blind—and I’m certainly not stupid! That jerk was holding your waist and looking at you like you were the last woman on Earth!
– At least I have someone who pays attention to me, for the first time in the months I’ve been dating you. – I say firmly.
I see him take a deep breath, as if the explosion had already erupted. – Did you sleep with him?
– What?
– Tell me now, S/N, did you sleep with him?
Things were already out of control, and what made it even worse was that he thought I’d cheated on him. The worst part of all is that he didn’t realize what a mess he’d been making for months, and I was the one to blame for not putting an end to it. I gasp before answering:
– Oh. You’re a total asshole.
– Is that all you can say?
– I’m tired of answering you, you idiot! Damn it, you show up here with that attitude and tone of yours, accusing me of doing the one thing I’ve been dying to do. Don’t you even want to know how the event I organized went? I spent weeks telling you about this opportunity, and all you have the nerve to do is accuse me?
– You always do this! You want to accuse me of being this or that, but you don’t even realize when you tell me to my face that you want to sleep with my boss—are you crazy?
– Yes, I’m completely crazy for being with someone who, for months, hasn’t even noticed I exist! You’re the reason for my biggest problems. And I couldn’t care less if you’re hurt. I’m done with this! This relationship is never going to go anywhere.
– So that’s it? It all ends on just some random night?
– No, Mike. All this shit ends after months of realizing how mediocre and selfish you are! You’ve never supported me in absolutely anything, and you never will. I’m wasting my time with you.
– Great, go ahead. I wasted a lot of time with you thinking we’d have a future, but spending your whole life grading books isn’t going to get you anywhere! If you think your failed life is going to get better after I’m gone, you’re wrong!
All I can think about is throwing a vase within my reach at him. The vase broke, but his face didn’t—unfortunately. That was enough for him to yell that I was crazy and slam the door, walking out of my house and my life forever. I feel my heart racing and my hands shaking from the adrenaline of the fight, but a wave of relief also washes over my chest. It’s over. Shit, it’s really all over. I see my phone with a message in the notification bar:
Beau Arlen: I’m here if you need me! When you’re feeling better, let’s grab some coffee together.
And that was enough for me to sit down on the floor and completely break down.
3 months later
I was standing in front of the police station. I’d been sitting on a bench out front. Arms crossed, standing tall. Ever since I got a promotion at the publishing house, I’ve picked up a few new habits. I watch some police officers come out, laughing, others silent, just thinking about what to do when they get home. Until Mike comes out. I look at him, and he looks back at me. A smile spreads across his face. I no longer feel anything for that smile because, miraculously, it wasn’t meant for me. The blonde who was a few steps behind me runs up to him and jumps into his lap. The two of them smile at each other and head toward the parking lot.
I feel the evening breeze until I sense that familiar presence coming my way. Beau. There he was, with his broad shoulders and beautiful arms, standing tall, yet I can see his body is at ease. It’s my turn to walk toward him, a wide smile on my face as I go to hug him. He pulls me into his arms right away, and I laugh
– Good evening, Sheriff Arlen
– Good evening, my favorite editor – he says before planting the most delicious greeting kiss on me. Damn, that’s what it felt like to be appreciated and desired. And I loved it every time he showed it in every little detail.
I get home exhausted. After lunch, the office was in chaos with one demand after another, phone calls, and an unnecessary meeting about organization. Seriously? That’s the basics of any job.
On the bright side, I hear a knock at the door. It sounds familiar. At least he kept his word, I think. I open the door looking tired but ready to welcome him.
“Wow, you look beat,” Mike says as soon as I open the door. “But you’re still the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“A compliment coming from a critic isn’t usually very kind,” I retort. I look at his hands and see… flowers. Obviously, it’s his classic move. “Orchids?”
“Your favorites, remember?! On our first date you—”
“Yes, Mike, on our first date I said I loved orchids, and after that day you never stopped giving them to me.” I’ve heard that one before. – I say sarcastically
– Can I come in? I know you’re mad, but you know I always try to make it up to you. – He says, with that abandoned puppy look on his face. Shit. Before I know it, I’m already making room for him to come in, and he does.
Mike approaches and kisses me on the cheek, lightly touching my waist as if trying to test the waters. I was so tired at that moment that I just did the same: I surrendered to his touch, leaning in and giving him a peck on the lips. I close the door and look at him. – I’ve been waiting for you…”
– I know, my love. I’m sorry, one stressful thing led to another, and I just needed to get away from there. Do you understand how stressful this has been for me? I want to be the best, and to do that… I’ll need to give it my all there. I know you understand, and I’m just asking you to put yourself in my shoes.
– I always put myself in your shoes, but we’re in a relationship… we have plans, we have a future, I just want a little consideration. I wish you’d just told me, that’s all. It’s not the first time…
– I know, honey. I know! But please, let’s not make a big deal out of this, okay?! – he says, kissing me and now squeezing my waist – I love you so much. I like how understanding you are. – he says, gently. Before I know it, I let this argument, once again, be resolved in bed.
I’d been warning him for a whole week, and he was running late. The publisher decided to organize a promotional event for upcoming releases. It was a big deal, and I was put in charge of leading everything—which meant double the work: renting the venue, checking the guest list, making sure there were enough chairs, and arranging for food. I spent the week on the edge. And all I asked Mike was to show up to support me—something basic.
I checked our conversation for the third time, with a few messages asking where he was and if he was still going to show up. Nothing. Meanwhile, the event was going on with a few hiccups, but I managed to resolve them quickly. Journalists, writers, librarians, bookstore owners, and publishing partners were mingling, chatting, laughing, and drinking. Everything seemed fine, until I sensed a familiar presence approaching:
– s/n? – Beau approaches, drink in hand
– Sheriff Arlen? – I say, surprised by his presence – I can’t believe you’re here!
“Mike mentioned the event a few days ago. He was proud to emphasize that ‘my girlfriend is organizing everything.’ So I came to check out the hard work and… from what I can see, it looks amazing.” He says, admiring the space until he looks back into my eyes.
– Oh, come on. I did what I could… Mike must have been tired of hearing me complain about the same things, so that’s probably why he mentioned it.
– You’re being modest. I wouldn’t mind hearing you talk about it, especially since organizing a big event like this is a huge headache for one person. But you’re tough, I can see that. – he encourages me – I’m impressed with your work, honey – he says naturally.
My shy smile gives me away. Again. But before I can say anything, one of the catering staff comes to alert me to yet another problem in the hall. Great, one more problem to solve. “Excuse me? Duty calls,” I say, and he smiles.
“Sure! I’ll be around,” he says.
After resolving yet another problem, I realized it was time to go on stage to host the upcoming book launches, which would be presented by the authors themselves. That’s when I was able to grab my phone and see the disappointing message:
Mike: Sorry, I have to stay late! See you later.
Great. He did it again.
The event had come to an end. After that message, I pushed any sadness aside because it was nothing new. It was my moment of glory; I couldn’t let the same feeling Mike always stirred in me get to me again.
I was grabbing my bag to leave when I realized I wasn’t going home alone and depressed after all. Beau was leaning against his truck, enjoying the late afternoon as the evening stars began to fill the sky. I smiled when he came over to me.
“I know you must be exhausted, but I’d love to have a moment alone with the star of the show. Want to grab a drink?” he says, unpretentiously. I smile because my answer was simply to get into his truck and let him take me wherever he wanted.
After talking about the event, we started to loosen up in our conversation. I laughed at the story of an incident he told—“And then, the guy just tripped on his skateboard and fell right into the cop’s arms. We were working so fast that day that we thought the universe was giving us a chase like that as a gift.” He added, and I burst out laughing, taking another sip of my drink.
“How can this be the worst chase in history and the fastest arrest ever made?”
“Yeah, I thought it couldn’t get any better, but that day was the best.” he says as he drinks his beer. He sets the glass on the table and looks at me with those same eyes I still can’t quite figure out. “There’s one thing I still want to understand.”
– About what?
– You being so modest.
I laugh – Okay, go ahead.
– I saw you look at the door about ten times today. But at the same time, I saw you command everyone’s attention in the room. I mean… you’re beautiful, smart, confident, but you wait for someone so pathetic to give you less than you deserve.
“Wow, you’re direct, aren’t you?!” I say, almost choking, without looking away from him.
“I believe alcohol has a great effect on people. I just… see that he doesn’t care. And you accept it.”
I run my finger around the rim of the glass, lost in thought. Actually, I already knew all this, but hearing someone from the outside talk so openly about it is painful.
– You know it’s not that easy, right?!
– I’ve been through this before, Y/N. I know what it’s like to be with someone who has no interest in what their partner likes or who just throws all their consideration in the trash. Nothing in life is easy, but it’s up to you to keep accepting what you think you deserve or not.
“Okay, so you think I should end a relationship that’s lasted years and be with you?” I retort.
“Maybe.”
“Great, we don’t even know each other.”
“I’m not like your boyfriend.” I won’t cross your boundaries, and I know what I should—
– I think we should stop here. – I say, cutting him off. I finish the rest of my drink and get up from the table. I walk out first, and he catches up to me after paying.
– Yes or no, please—
– I’m at my limit, Beau. Do you think I don’t know how much I hate myself for still being with Mike? Do you think it didn’t hurt me not to see him on a day as special to me as today? – I say.
– But I was there. And I want to be there for you at every damn event you organize, I want to celebrate your victories, I want to take you to my place, I want—he trails off. He takes a deep breath and then looks at me – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have meddled in your life. Let me at least take you home. It’s the least I can do. – I sigh as I hear all that.
The ride was silent. As soon as we arrive, he drops me off at my front door. I look at him, trying to figure out what all that was about. I mean, was it the alcohol? All that confession to someone I’ve known for such a short time but who hasn’t left my side until now.
“Beau, I—”
“No.” He cuts me off. “We don’t need to talk about this.” “If you’re happy with him—”
“I’m not.” I say it so quickly that I even surprise myself. “I’m just… confused. About everything. About you, about my feelings.”
“I like you. And I’d love it if you’d give me the chance to get to know you better. But I can’t cross the line, out of respect for you.”
I realize how close I’m getting to him, how I let my gaze linger too long on his face, his eyes, his mouth. But before I can do anything, I hear a familiar voice:
– Y/N?” Mike interrupts, looking at Beau and me—standing close together, our expressions giving us away to anyone passing by.
Beau hated her boyfriend. In fact, it was impossible not to hate that jerk. Mike was one of the cops in her department and was known for his excellent work. But on the other hand, when you visited him at the station to drop off a piece of cake or just to see him, he could be a real jerk. The first time Beau saw you was in the elevator as you were leaving, after your morning visit to your boyfriend, holding back tears. Beau heard that on that day, the two of you had been fighting and you wanted to make up, but Mike wasn’t in the mood to talk and was rude. And it was there, in that elevator, that Beau realized he wanted to get to know you.
S/N is beautiful. Brown eyes that sparkled in the sun, curly hair, always well-dressed in a suit or a skirt and blazer ensemble. She worked at the book publishing house Magia da Criação, famous in the city, and was involved in the entire process from creation to the launch of the books. She always walked with confidence, as if she knew what she wanted, where she wanted to go, and how she wanted it.
And one day, you went to the police station to have lunch with Mike. He was late—maybe on purpose or because of a pile of paperwork—but he was late.
I kept fiddling with my phone, checking our conversation and waiting for a reply, when I heard a voice:
“Hey, S/N? You down here?” Beau’s voice joined his presence in the spring air.
“Oh, hi! Sheriff Arlen! Yeah, I’m waiting for Mike… again,” I say, trying to stay patient.
“That’s weird. His lunch break was earlier today… I saw him leave half an hour ago and—”
Beau’s voice is cut off when I see Mike walking back to the station.
– Honey? What are you doing here?
I held up my phone, trying to stay neutral. – Lunch, remember? I thought we were going together.
– My phone died – he lies. Right to my face.
I just dial his number and his phone vibrates in his pocket. I look at Mike, waiting for a response. Just then, I see Beau excuse himself and leave, perhaps taking a deep breath to keep from punching Mike right there.
– Are you always going to want to control my schedule now? Let’s not turn this into a stupid argument, okay?! – Mike defends himself.
I look at him and take a deep breath. – If you didn’t want me here, you should’ve just said so! I wasted my lunch break waiting here for you like an idiot and—
– Stop bugging me! I just left for lunch early; the workload is heavy. You know what I’m going through, and you keep holding me accountable for everything! – Mike raises his voice a little and takes a deep breath. – We’ll talk about this shit later. I’m not going to stress about it here. I’ll stop by your place later.
Before I can even respond, he walks into the police station and takes the elevator up. Typical of him; I’m still wondering why I’m here, insisting. I take a deep breath, feeling a lump in my throat and, even worse, hungry. Before I can head over to the nearby diner, Beau approaches:
– It’s mean to leave someone hungry. If you don’t mind, I’d love some company for lunch.
I smile awkwardly. – No need to bother—I can eat lunch on my own.
– I know you can, but I can’t. Are you up for it? – He’s persistent. Even though I only know the basics about Beau, something feels off. I mean, having lunch with my boyfriend’s boss? That was… wrong? He snaps me out of my daze as he adds – It’s okay if you don’t want to; I know it’s weird. But we’re just having lunch as colleagues—can we keep that in mind?
We placed our order, and I felt shy for a moment. Maybe he noticed, because he asked some icebreaker questions while we waited for the food, and they really helped. By the end of lunch, I was already laughing freely and openly at all the work stories he was telling or whenever I asked him to tell me about his. He was always interested in hearing what it was like to work at the publishing house or how I spent my free time. We seemed like old friends. I glance at the time:
– Oh shit, I have to get back to work. If I’m any later than this, I’ll get fired. – I laugh, still enjoying his company. He insisted on paying the bill even though I kept insisting we split it.
– Thanks for lunch… you saved my afternoon and my stomach – I say softly. I notice his gaze, smiling at me. He picks up his hat and holds it to his heart, saying:
– I’m the one who should thank you for your company. I didn’t know I needed this so much.
– Neither did I.
Our gazes linger for too many seconds to be anything simple. It was just a lunch with a guy I’d seen several times at my boyfriend’s work, who made me laugh, treated me ten times better than Mike ever did. Oh, for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t needy. Or was I?
I clear my throat. – Well, I’m heading over there now… See you another day? – It just slipped out
– Definitely. I’ll be holding you to that next lunch. – He says, and I see him hesitate a little as he approaches. He didn’t want to force closeness, and I was mentally grateful for that.
I smile and just walk away. Thinking about what I just felt while looking at him. It was the first time, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last.
SORRY this is too long, I was having fun finding the story and flirting with sam a little LOL
8.7k words, canon typical violence, your dog died before the story starts, smut, p in v, oral f receiving
summary: a chance meeting of the winchesters leads to them helping you avenge your poor hunting dog, sam's nice too ;)
------------
The Roadhouse was crowded, loud voices carrying over each other, the clinking of glasses drowned out by the raucous laughter coming from the back table. You were huddled over your drink at the bar, case notes laid out on the sticky countertop. This one was a little more personal, Ash was helping you track down a haunted necklace whose ghost killed your dog. The necklace was stolen in the time it took you to confirm that he hadn’t made it, which meant someone was out there with a very angry ghost literally tied around their neck. As pissed as you were to have lost your dog, you knew you had to at least put the ghost down so no one else died.
Ash had good info, traced the necklace through antique auction sites all the way to South Dakota, conveniently only a state away. You nurse your drink, marking up the small map you brought, planning your route with a tired hand.
Right as you’re thinking about packing up and finding a motel, a large body slides into the seat next to you. “Hi,” he smiles at you warmly, eyes shining like he’s a couple of drinks in. You barely hide your sigh, turning to look at him with a neutral face. “I’m Dean,” he plows on, ignoring your silence. “My brother over there hasn’t stopped staring at you,” he tilts his head to a table where you see an even bigger man sitting, he’s hunched over like he’s trying to make himself smaller, trying to fit in the space.
You can see that he’s embarrassed, even from the distance. His cheeks are a little pink, he watches the guys playing pool across the room for something to do. “Now, I wouldn’t usually play wingman for him, especially not for someone as pretty as you,” Dean leans in closer, “but he said you’re intimidating and I had to test his theory.” He winks, smile growing wider when you huff and roll your eyes. “You’re trying to get your brother laid here of all places?” You laugh, giving him a look, “any other bar in the world would have plenty of pretty girls for him to hit on.”
You take a sip, see how he thinks for a second. “Yeah, but you’re not in any other bar, you’re here,” he says it quietly, like he’s debating if he’s flirting for his brother or for him. “Not for much longer,” you sigh, “I’m getting back on the road early, no time for-” you wave your hand up and down at him, “this.” He turns forward, pursing his lips and sliding your case notes in front of him. “Where are you going?” He asks, leafing through the pages with furrowed brows.
“North,” you point to the map. It hits you a second too late that you don’t know this man, you shouldn’t be sharing any of this with him, even if Ellen seems to enjoy having him around. The possible danger you’ve just put yourself in makes you cold, you drag your notes back to yourself quickly, closing the file so he can’t see anything else. “We’re heading that way too,” Dean doesn’t seem to be bothered by your sudden frosty behavior, “got word of a vamp nest about a hundred miles past your stop.”
“You’re gonna take on a nest, just the two of you?” You can’t help your surprise, sure, they’re big guys but you wouldn’t take on a nest without a whole team. “Yeah, we do it all the time,” he smirks, pleased that he’s at least got you talking. “What’s waiting for you when you get to…” he opens the folder just enough to see the town circled on your map, “Kadoka?”
Maybe it’s the drinks you’ve had over the night, but something tells you it’s okay to trust him. “Just a necklace, the ghost haunting it needs some help getting to her final resting place,” you shrug, tapping your fingers on the file. Dean looks at you seriously, “what’d she take from you?” The bluntness of the question throws you off, whatever he sees in your eyes tells him he hit the nail on the head. He immediately softens, forehead creasing and lips pulling tight. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” he murmurs, signalling for a couple of shots from Ellen.
She sets the glasses in front of you, “you behaving over here, Winchester?” Her tone is light, she winks at you as she pours. You recognize the name immediately, the many conversations about them with Ellen and Jo flying back to you. “Of course,” Dean smiles, passing you the shot. “Mhm,” Ellen looks him up and down, raising one brow and turning away to tend to the next patron. He clinks his glass with yours, downing his shot and smirking when you swallow yours and signal for a refill.
The second shot goes down easier, Ellen says your name sternly, “you know you’re getting cut off soon, make these last ones count.” She laughs when you give her a pleading look, “you’re not sleeping here again, last time you stayed, Jo got it in her head that she should be hunting on her own.” You laugh, “that’s not on me, she’s the daughter of two hunters, babe. She gets it honest.” You gesture between you two, smiling when Ellen hangs her head. “I’m serious about cutting you off, go be sad somewhere else,” and she pats your hand gently, taking the shot glasses away.
You sigh, raising your hands in defeat, “fair.”
When Ellen is busy again, Dean looks at you softly. “You’re sad and drunk, I’ve got a great brother who can help you out for a little bit,” he smiles, laughing when you shove him. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not in the business of fucking through the grief,” it’s your turn to laugh when he chokes on his beer. He motions for the file again, curling two fingers until you pass it back to him.
“But you’ll hunt through the grief?” He scans the pages, reading your handwritten notes in the margins. “Yeah,” you lean your head on your hand, “call it a coping mechanism.” He hums, turning the page and freezing, “this is the necklace?” You peek at it and nod, “ugly, isn’t it?” The joke doesn’t land, he traces a finger over the photo. “I’ve seen this before, a witch was wearing it,” he turns to you just to see you nod again. “Yeah, I killed her. Her creepy helper took it and ran while I was checking on…” you shake your head, turning away with a deep breath, “sorry, I just haven’t talked about it with anyone.”
He keeps his voice low, leans in just a little, “it’s okay, I understand.” A rueful laugh rips from your throat, “no, it wasn’t a person.” You feel your cheeks heating up, feeling silly for what you’re about to say, “I had a dog, he hunted with me for years, the witch sicced the ghost on him.” If anything, Dean looks sadder for you, his jaw ticking when he sees the unshed tears in your eyes.
“Come on,” he grabs your folder and helps you stand, his hand on your shoulder leading you to the table his brother was still sitting at. The taller man had his nose in a book, his head shooting up when Dean dumps you in a chair and sits across from you. He introduces you, leaning against the table with an unreadable look on his face. “Hi,” the tall one smiles, it’s a cute little thing, “I’m Sam.” He shakes your hand, repeating your name when you say it.
“What do you remember about this necklace?” Dean opens the folder and passes it to Sam, smirking when he sees the blush on Sam’s cheeks. Sam sets his book aside and looks through the file, the way his face scrunches as he concentrates has you feeling warm. It’s probably all the alcohol but you almost wish he’d been the one to approach you at the bar.
Sam hums, “that witch in Texas, right?” Dean nods, “that’s where she was.” He looks to you, “where’d you kill her?” Sam’s head shoots up, “you killed her?” Dean answers for you, “bitch killed her dog.” Sam’s face falls, “you had a dog?” He whispers it, giving you the saddest look you’ve ever seen.
“I ran into her in Kansas about two weeks ago,” you relax more into your seat, weariness working its way into your bones, “she went down easy enough but there was a man with her, he took the necklace and ran.” Sam flips a page, “any idea who he was?” You shake your head. Dean gives you a long look, “would you mind if we tagged along? Just as backup?” You meet his eye, see the concern he’s fighting back.
It wouldn’t be the most insane thing you’ve done, and you know enough about the Winchester brothers to know that what they hunt stays dead. You weigh the options, wondering if they know about you the same way you know about them. Finally, you nod, shoulders hunching. A quiet, “thank you,” slips out, waved off easily by both of them.
Dean seems to breathe easier after that, happy to watch you and Sam discuss your research, a small smile on his face when Sam makes you laugh. You share your route with them, make sure they’re in agreement with your plan. They’re easy to talk to, confident and comfortable, their willingness to help makes you wonder if they do this kind of thing all the time.
When you’ve sobered up enough to drive, you duck behind the bar to hug Ellen before heading to your car. “They’re good people,” she whispers in your ear, patting your back with a look in the guys’ direction when they wave at her.
The motel you find ten minutes away is good enough to crash for the night, you see Dean pull into the lot right as you’re grabbing your bag out of your trunk. He ducks in to book a room while Sam mirrors you, leaning on the hood of the impala. “Ash has never been wrong when he helps us out,” he murmurs quietly, stalling like he doesn’t want to say goodnight yet. “We’ll get this ghost,” he smiles at you, looking down when you smile in return.
“I’ve got the Winchesters with me, I’m not worried,” you wink, going back to your trunk to dig out a bottle of whiskey. Dean comes back then, catching your arm with a loose grip. “You sure about that?” He nods to the bottle, smirking when you roll your eyes. You think about it for a second, assessing how drunk you still feel, deciding how bad you want to feel in the morning. You shove the bottle in your bag and waltz to your motel room, unlocking the door quickly. “Have a good night, boys,” you wave and shut the door behind you, letting out a long sigh.
It’s none of Dean’s business if you take a few more shots before passing out, you have a feeling he’s no stranger to drinking until he can’t think straight anyways.
—------------------
The sun rises too quickly, you wake to the sound of the alarm clock blaring, your head pounding and your stomach twisting. You groan, pushing out of bed and dragging yourself to the shower where you hope the water will wake you up enough to function. A knock on your door has you dressing quickly, a sleepy Sam standing on the other side. You let him in, going back to grab a towel for your hair. “We got breakfast and coffee,” he sets two bags of food on the little table in the corner, opening the door for Dean when he knocks with three cups in his hands.
Dean takes one look at you and laughs, apologizing when you wince and hold your head. He pulls a bottle of pills out of his jacket pocket and throws it to you, “eat, take these, you’re gonna feel like shit all day.” He keeps his voice low, sharing a smile with Sam when you fall back on your bed with a dramatic sigh. He sets a breakfast sandwich next to you, pulling you up with a steady hand and passing you a cup. “Come on, you don’t want to be sick,” he retreats to the table, digging in shamelessly.
You’re hit with a wave of guilt suddenly, surely the Winchesters had more important things to worry about than you and your dead dog. “Why are you guys doing this?” You can’t help how softly you ask, your throat feeling tight at the kindness they’ve shown you so far. “What, eating?” Dean talks around a mouthful of food, making you grimace.
“No, I mean… don’t you have something bigger to be worrying about?” You see how their faces fall a little, “you said there’s a nest you want to clear out, you don’t have to take care of me if there’s more pressing work to be done.”
Sam sighs, “Bobby mentioned you a few days ago, we didn’t realize who you were until you mentioned losing your dog.” You drop your head, “didn’t peg Bobby Singer for a gossip.” Dean smiles, “our general rule is that if Bobby and Ellen like you, you’re probably good people.”
“She said the same thing about you last night,” you chuckle, finally taking a bite of your sandwich. The eggs and bacon taste incredible to your hungover brain, a small moan slips out before you can stop it. “Right?” Dean laughs, crumbling his wrapper and shooting it to the trash can across the room.
“You’re still okay with us coming along?” Sam murmurs, smile breaking across his face when you nod. “I guess two guard dogs are better than one,” you smirk, tucking your legs under you. “Do we get to know anything about your dog?” Dean leans back, looking at you curiously.
You think about it for a moment, it’s only been a couple of weeks, the pain is still so fresh. Pictures of your fallen friend flash through your mind, his short fur and happy eyes and ears that always flopped the wrong way. You stand, reaching for your purse and pulling out your wallet, handing Sam the photo you’ve been crying over every night. “Poor Tiny, he deserved so much better than death by a ghost,” your throat is tight again, you climb back on the bed and busy yourself with your food.
“Tiny?” Sam raises his brows at you, “he was huge.” He hands Dean the photo, smiles when Dean chokes on his coffee. The photo shows you standing next to a giant doberman, he sits beside you, his head coming up to your ribs. “Yeah, he was the best,” you sigh, “no one ever fucked with me when he was around.”
“Understandable,” Dean mumbles, standing to hand the picture back to you. The conversation turns lighter after that, the meds helping your aching head and the food soothing your stomach. You hit the road not long after, the boys following you at a distance.
Driving helps, it gives you a chance to think, to reminisce, to plan. The trees flying by a perfect distraction when your thoughts get too heavy, when the guilt weighs in on all sides and you feel like you can’t pull yourself back out of the pit growing in your heart. Tiny was your best friend, he was the one constant in a life so unstable and scary. He protected you so fiercely, followed you so loyally, and you walked him right to his death.
When you stop for the night, pulling into another shitty motel, your eyes are red and puffy. The guys notice immediately, ushering you into your room and letting you crack open that bottle of whiskey you left in your bag. They’re good company, enough of a distraction that you don’t find your eyes wandering the room in search of your lost companion. They tell you stories from the road, laugh at each other for mistakes made in the past, talk about their connection to Bobby. You understand why Bobby likes them, they’re similar to him in a lot of ways.
“How do you know Bobby?” Sam asks after a lull, stretching out on the empty bed. “He saved my ass when I first started hunting,” you smile, the look on his face when he pulled you out of the way of a very obvious trap etched into your mind forever. “He told me that a dog would’ve seen the signs I missed, so I got Tiny and made Bobby help me train him.”
“He did seem fond of Tiny when he told us about you,” Sam murmurs. You just laugh, “he hated that fucking dog, couldn’t get him to listen to a single word he said.” The conversation shifts after that, Dean slips away to make a diner run, leaving you and Sam in your room.
“I can go, if you want to shower or sleep,” he mumbles, playing with his room key. You ask him to stay, surprising you both. It sounds better than being alone, at least with Sam here you can focus on him. You finish off your glass, sitting crisscross on your bed and facing him. “Okay, I have to ask,” you see his eyebrows raise, he sits up to mirror your position, “last night, at the Roadhouse, Dean came over to talk to me.” He nods, something different flashing through his eyes. “He told me that you said I was intimidating,” you smirk, watching as his cheeks go red.
“He said that?” He’s trying to play it cool, trying to pull back his confidence. “He said a lot more than that,” you laugh, “he was trying to be your wingman.” Sam groans, dropping his head in his hands. “Look, I’m so sorry for him,” he peeks up at you over his fingers, heaving a deep breath. “He thinks everyone in a bar is looking for someone to go home with,” his hand goes to his hair, pushing it back while he stares at the ceiling.
You hum, “so you’re not interested?” His eyes snap back to you so fast, his mouth dropping open for just a second. “Well, I didn’t say that,” he grins, holding your gaze. “Good,” you say, leaning back on your hands with a smile. He chuckles, shaking his head, “you’re trouble.” You shrug, letting your head roll to the side.
Slowly, with all the care in the world, he stands and steps toward you. When you just watch him move, he leans down enough to cup your cheek, his breath fanning over your face gently. “Let me take you out, when this is all over and the necklace is gone,” he whispers, smiling when you nod a little dumbly, looking up at him with wide eyes. He closes the distance, pressing the softest kiss to your lips with a sigh. He pulls back before you have the chance to deepen it, kissing your cheek and dropping his hand.
Dean’s knock on the door makes you jump, you guess Sam saw the headlights and that’s why he stopped. The scent of burgers and fries fills the room as soon as Sam lets him in, your stomach growling loudly like it was cued. If Dean notices the nervous energy radiating off of you and his brother, he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to stuff his face and take another shot with you.
That shot is the one that pushes you over into drunken territory, so when you open your bag to grab a book you’d been telling Sam about and see Tiny’s big red collar, you have to stand there for a minute to compose yourself. Sam notices, approaching you slowly with a quiet call of your name. You whisper an apology, willing the tears to stay away. “Don’t apologize,” he responds quickly, standing beside you and laying a hand on your back. You let him pull you into a hug, your shuddering breath betraying how badly you needed it.
When you pull away, wiping your eyes and thanking him softly, he doesn’t step back. You dig through your bag, pressing the book into his hands and returning to your spot on the bed. “It’s a copy of an old hunter’s notebook, the amount of lore he fit in there is insane,” you try to lighten the mood, Dean helps you out. “They’re making copies of these things now?”
“More like I spent a week transcribing it while he breathed down my neck to make sure I didn’t fuck it up,” you chuckle, remembering the time fondly. “He’s gone now, but his work was right on the money.”
Sam leafs through it, stopping on the page titled “haunted objects.” He hands it to Dean, pointing at the small diagram in the corner, “look familiar?” Dean leans in, studying the runes. “Oh shit, yeah, that’s what the witch had on the walls in Texas,” he mumbles, turning to you. "That's probably how she controlled the ghost.”
You nod, “she had one on the wall in Kansas too. She just smacked it and the ghost did what she said.” Sam makes a soft sound, “bet the ghost is tired of being controlled.” The sigh you let out has all eyes on you, “yeah, I’m not out for revenge, I want to get that ghost out of hands that intend to abuse her power.” Sam and Dean share a look, they do that a lot, you think. Whatever silent conversation they have is over as soon as it starts, Dean turns to you with a smile.
“This whole time Bobby was afraid you were going to go I Am Legend to avenge your dog, he’s going to be glad to hear that your priorities are so straight,” he leans back in his chair like you just removed the weight from his shoulders. You shrug, rubbing your eyes and fighting back a yawn, “she didn’t have a choice, I couldn’t save Tiny but I can at least save her.”
“Pretty and smart,” Dean sings, laughing when Sam shoves him and you throw your crumpled burger wrapper at him. Another yawn from you has Sam standing, he ushers Dean to the door, wishing you a good night. Dean doesn’t fight him, waving with a smile all the way outside.
You hear them talking on the other side of the door, “that was cute, Sammy.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, a hug is big. That’s like third base for you.”
A groan and the sound of their door closing marks the end of your eavesdropping.
—-----------
You get up early enough to get breakfast the next morning, texting Sam when you’re back so he can help you bring everything in. He meets you in the parking lot with a smile, his hair still wet from a shower. The diner you found is better than the one from the previous morning, you even ordered extra bacon after remembering how Dean complained about the “shitty excuse for pig” the other place served.
“I could get used to this,” Dean yawns, taking his place at your table again. “I’d cook if it was an option,” you shrug, “I make a killer omelet.”
“Oh, hear that, Sammy? She makes healthy shit,” Dean smirks at his brother, laughing when he receives a swift kick under the table. And then you’re back on the road. You feel lighter today, like the company is helping lift your spirits. You’re not sure what to do with that information other than tuck it away for later, so you turn up your music and decide not to think about it. The impala looks cool in your rearview mirror, your thoughts echoing Dean’s earlier statement, “I could get used to this.”
Kadoka sneaks up on you, it’s only late afternoon when you roll up to a new motel to change and head to the antique store that last had the necklace. The guys follow your lead, flashing their badges when you introduce yourself to the man behind the counter. The man seems less than interested in answering your questions, “why does the FBI care if I sold a stolen necklace? Don’t you have bigger things to worry about?” He crosses his arms and gives you an arrogant look, smiling when you step away and motion for Dean to take over.
He’s not as nice, all but threatening the man until he finally hands over the ledger with the buyer’s info. When you get back to their car, Sam notices the frown on your face. “You okay?” He asks, turning in his seat to face you in the back. “Yeah,” you answer quickly, a loaded pause settling over the car. “Just, that must be so easy for you guys, right? Assholes like that guy always put up such a fight with me, he folded so fast as soon as you jumped in,” you lean back against the seat, biting your lip in thought.
Sam and Dean look at each other, maybe they’d never thought about that kind of thing before, you wonder if you should find a male hunting partner just to breeze through questioning men. “We’re lucky,” Sam murmurs, “it’s the height.” He shoots you a sympathetic smile while Dean pulls out of the parking lot.
The woman who purchased the necklace lives across town, the drive feels longer than it is. There’s no response when you knock on the door, Dean wanders along the porch and peeks in the window. He calls to you and Sam, drawing his gun quickly and pointing inside. Sam makes sure you’re behind him and kicks the door in, entering the house slowly, checking around corners as he moves. Dean follows behind you, splitting off to check upstairs while you and Sam creep through the kitchen and living room.
When the ground floor is clear, you hear Dean shout, “up here!” You climb the stairs and poke your head into the bedroom Dean’s standing outside of. There on the floor, covered in blood, is the woman you assume bought the necklace. “Shit,” you sigh, stepping in carefully to see if the jewelry is still around. There’s no sign of it, you turn back to the doorway where Sam and Dean are waiting, freezing when you see a sigil on the wall.
“Damn it,” you point at it, watching as Sam steps in and studies the sigil. “It’s been dry for a while, whoever was here left a few hours ago,” he snaps a picture of it and leans down over the body on the floor, checking to see what wounds the poor woman suffered. “Does this ghost have claws?”
You nod, “I think they’re just nails, but she clawed Tiny up just like this.” The three of you do a sweep of the room before calling it in to the local police and heading back to the motel. The drive is quiet, each of you thinking through the next steps. The guys join you in your room after they change, finding you with your nose already in your old hunter’s journal.
Sam offers to call Bobby, putting it on speaker when he picks up. “Tell me she’s not running head first into danger,” Bobby mumbles, earning a soft laugh from you. “Bobby, you have no faith in me,” you sigh, sharing a smile with Sam. “You’re a hot head, it’s my right to worry about you,” Bobby grumbles. “Doesn’t seem like much of a hot head from where I’m standing,” Dean chimes in, confusion tinting his words.
“Just wait till you get her in a fight, she uses her magic like a damn wizard,” Bobby’s tone is serious, Sam and Dean look at you quickly. “Magic?” Sam asks, his brows furrowing. “Oh, you didn’t tell them?” Bobby’s sarcasm bites through, making you roll your eyes.
“Yes, magic,” you glance at Sam, “and no, I didn’t tell them.” Dean leans back, eyeing you suspiciously, “seems like something we should’ve known about.”
“Did you try any necromancy to get your dog back?” Bobby asks, only half joking. “Bobby,” you huff, “can you find a tracking spell for this necklace? I’ve got some supplies, I can probably make something work.” You ignore Sam and Dean’s incredulous faces, grateful when Bobby just says that he’ll look into it and get back to you.
Silence blankets the room when the call ends, two different energies radiating from the men sitting on either side of the table in front of you. Dean looks hesitant, like he’s suddenly regretting trusting you this far. Sam’s curious, tilting his head like he’s waiting for an explanation. You move to sit on the bed, needing to put a little distance between them and yourself. “I, uh -” you sigh, realizing the position Bobby just put you in. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you - you’re hunters, I can’t trust most of them not to stab me the first chance they get,” your voice is quiet, your hands folded neatly in your lap.
“But Bobby knew,” Sam states, “he trusts you.” Dean doesn’t seem as willing to accept your explanation, “why didn’t you try the tracking spell sooner?” You give him a small smile, “they’re more accurate when you’re close. Plus, you two have been nearby this whole time, you would have noticed the smell.”
“She’s right,” Sam jumps in, “we haven’t left her alone long enough to do it.” Even with Dean’s skeptical glances, they’re taking the news better than you expected. “The last hunter that learned about this tried to kill me, why are you two so calm?”
Sam huffs, Dean props his feet up on the chair you abandoned. “Sweetheart, we’ve seen a lot of shit, a friendly witch is the least of our worries,” Dean gives you a slow smile, like he’s realizing that he’s fine with it as he says it. “Not a witch,” you murmur, “I just tap into the energy when I need to, I don’t live in it like they do.”
“Why not?”
“It’s got a way of corrupting people. I prefer to use it as a tool, not the whole means of my existence,” you shrug. “Besides, I only have so much access, so my options are normal person with a secret skill or shitty witch that wouldn’t make it in a coven. It’s an easy choice.”
“Bobby was joking about the necromancy, though, right?” Sam gives you a concerned look, relaxing when you nod. Your phone dings with a text from the man himself, it’s a photo of a book, the text lays out a spell that might work, along with “do you have something that the ghost has been in contact with?”
You shoot back a quick yes and thank you, moving back to the table to let the guys read over the photo. “You have the ingredients?” Dean eyes you, sipping his beer with a frown. Instead of answering, you grab your keys and motion for them to follow you outside. Hidden under the lining of your trunk was a treasure trove of herbs and potions, loose elements tucked between your modest collection of guns and knives. You don’t miss the impressed look on their faces when you turn to grab your phone back.
The spell was simple enough, a little mugwort, a little lavender, ectoplasm from the ghost you’re tracking, all things you keep stocked or had harvested. You work quietly, sitting on the floor of the motel room with a bowl and a map, assembling the pieces with the kind of focus reserved for the arcane. Sam and Dean take their spots on the bed, watching how carefully you handle each ingredient, like even something as common as lavender needs a gentle touch.
You grab the red collar out of your bag, twisting it in your hands lovingly before you drop it in the bowl. The ectoplasm follows, you can’t help the small sound of disappointment you let out when you realize it’s going to stain the collar. A quick slice to your palm, a few drops of blood, and the magic words set the map alight in front of you.
Dean leans in closer when the map burns down to a small point, a smile on his face when Sam types the coordinates into his phone and pulls up an abandoned warehouse an hour away. “Good work,” he helps you up and pats your shoulder, “maybe we should get into magic, Sammy.”
And you all pile into the impala, the moon high in the sky and dark clouds rolling in. The anticipation builds quickly, but you’re not as nervous as you remember being on your last hunt. You know it’s because Sam and Dean are there, they’ve been so… normal this whole time, so calm and helpful, willing to let you lead, happy to take over when you ask. You wonder if this is how it is with them all the time, if their lives on the road are as simple as they’ve made it look.
The warehouse is old, the tin roof pinging when it starts raining. Dean takes the lead, it seems to come so naturally to him, and when Sam falls in line, you do too. Sam picks the lock, grumbling under his breath when it takes longer than he’d like, almost as though it’s stopping him from showing off a little. You and Dean enter slowly, sweeping through the space with bated breath.
You’re all three armed with a gun and an iron crowbar, the latter of which is tucked through your belt, the weight a comfort against your leg. An airy scream draws your attention to one side of the room, and suddenly Dean is flying against the wall. He lands hard, rolling to his back to catch his breath.
The ghost shows herself then, screaming again as she slams into Sam. He sails straight through a shelf, the broken boards clattering around his body, echoing through the warehouse. The sound of footsteps approaching has you whipping around, you recognize the man as the witch’s assistant, his predatory smile sending a chill down your spine.
Dean’s back on his feet, raising his gun at the man, shouting for him to stand down. You watch the interaction, assessing the man’s appearance. He singles in on you, pulling the collar of his shirt down enough for you to see the necklace resting on his chest. “You,” he circles you slowly, keeping a wide berth, “you killed Selene.” You shrug, keeping your gun pointed at him, “she killed my dog, seemed like a fair trade.”
Sam moves behind the man, clearly ready to tackle him if he has a chance. Later, when you think back on this moment, you’ll realize how terrifying Sam and Dean were - their movements so sure, like they’re stalking their prey. “You can walk out of this,” you tell the man, “I just want the necklace, it’s time for this ghost to go home.”
He just laughs, “how kind of you.” The ghost screams again, appearing in front of Dean and swiping him out of the way effortlessly. He groans from the floor, hands covering his head and reaching for his dropped gun. Sam uses the distraction to run at the man, but the ghost blinks into existence right before he makes contact, throwing him away again like he weighs nothing.
You fire your gun, landing two shots into the strange man’s chest, watching him fall. You rush forward, hands scrabbling for the necklace, only for his eyes to shoot open. He grabs your wrists, wrestling you to the ground, “you thought it would be that easy?” He snarls, baring his teeth and pinning your hands by your sides. You manage to get a leg between his, driving your knee up hard enough to make him shout.
His grip loosens just enough for you to pull free, you clamber away, pulling your gun up just in time to shoot him in the head. He falls silently, the dust settling around him as you wrench the necklace off of him.
A loud screech has you covering your ears, you look around to see the ghost standing still, arms outstretched towards Sam and Dean. They’re both on the ground, hands on their ears, eyes watching you carefully. You can see Dean trying to get to his crowbar, see Sam fighting to get to his knees.
Necklace in hand, you step to the middle of the room and take a deep breath. The screaming is overwhelming, you feel like you have to shout the spell you prepared to get the ghost’s attention. As soon as you start reciting the incantation, she turns on you. You stand your ground, forcing the energy through your hands, a small wave of fear rushing through you when she gets close enough to touch.
A crowbar swings through her right before she grabs you, Sam stands in her place, buying you time. Dean swings on her from across the room when she tries to hit him again, panting with the effort. You mutter the last words of the spell, the necklace burning in your hands. You hold it until it shatters, a bright light emanating from the chain until it bursts through the warehouse.
The ghost gives one final ear-splitting scream, wind whips through the room, Sam shields you with his body before you even realize he’s doing it. She stands in the middle of a whirlwind, reaching desperately for something you can’t see, and dissolves into a gray mist. The smoke shoots upward, pushing through the ceiling and disappearing.
The dust settles, silence falling over the space. “You okay?” You ask Sam, hands flying to the cut on his temple. He nods, giving you a once over and looking for his brother. Dean makes his way over, letting you check his head too. “She did not like you two,” you sigh, feeling bad that they took most of the beating. Dean just shrugs, tilting his head toward the door, “come on, let’s get out of here.”
The adrenaline dies down in the car, quiet rock music floating over the three of you as you all try to breathe again. Sam calls Bobby, letting him know that it’s over, laughing when he grumbles something too low for you to hear. Sam puts him on speaker at Bobby’s request, you hear your name come through, “I don’t know if you’re ready for this, but you’ll never guess what kind of dog showed up here a few hours ago.” Your eyes grow wide, a wave of sadness washing over you before you can stop it.
“It’s probably a few months old, already too damn big,” he grunts like he’s holding it, you hear it whine like he’s keeping food away from it. Sam gives you a sweet look, smiling like he’s the one getting a dog. “Yeah, uh- “ you take a breath, “yeah, Bobby, I’ll head your way first thing.”
“Good, we’ll be waiting,” you can hear Bobby’s smile when he says it, your heart squeezing a little. “Full circle,” Dean murmurs when Sam ends the call. He looks at you in the mirror, watching all of the emotions you try so hard to hide fly over your face rapidly.
You pull them into your room when you get back to the motel, pushing them both into chairs so you can clean their heads and assess their wounds. They didn’t suffer anything too serious, but they let you patch them up without a complaint. You apologize quietly when Dean groans a little, holding his face still with one hand and swiping a disinfectant over his temple. He excuses himself when you’re done, claiming that he wanted a shower and a beer, preferably together.
“Thank you, both of you,” you manage to get out before he leaves. He just smiles and steps back toward you for a hug, strong arms wrapping around you gently. “Of course,” he whispers, “we’re friends now, so if you need help again just call.”
Sam sits patiently while you check the back of his head, closing his eyes when your fingers stroke through his hair looking for any bumps. You stand between his legs and tilt his head up, checking his pupils before you clean the blood off the side of his face. He keeps his hands on his legs, watching you with heavy eyes. “You’re really pretty,” he whispers, laughing softly when you roll your eyes and shoot him a look.
You adjust your grip on his face, brushing light fingers over the stubble on his cheek as you turn his head, trying to make sure you get all the grime off his skin. “I wanna meet your new dog,” he mumbles, watching how your lips pull into a smile. “You gonna follow me all the way to Bobby’s?” You ask quietly, chuckling when he nods enthusiastically.
“We have another friend in Sioux Falls, we could stop by to check in on her too,” he wraps slow fingers around your leg, massaging right above the back of your knee. You hum, “don’t you have a vamp nest waiting for you up north?” He shrugs, “we’re only a few hours away from Bobby, we can afford a detour.”
You nod, looking at him with a glint in your eye. “You still want that date?” You giggle when he nods again, surprising even yourself with the noise. “Me too,” you whisper, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his lips. He doesn’t hesitate, hands landing on your hips so he can pull you onto his lap. He holds you so tightly, licking into your mouth with a groan. You let him guide your movements, let him take the lead when he slides a hand up the back of your shirt and plays with the clasp of your bra.
The kiss turns heated, like he can’t hold himself back anymore. He shoves to his feet, lifting you easily, and presses you against the nearest wall. Warm kisses work down your neck, you feel him growing harder when you grind into him. He grunts when you circle your hips, hands flying to your ass and squeezing. You tug on his hair, swallowing down the moan he chokes out, and lean down to whisper in his ear. “You still think I’m intimidating?” Your voice is silky, pulling a soft whine from him.
He turns quickly, throwing you on the bed and climbing over you with a bashful smile. “Ask me again when we’re done,” he laughs, rucking up your shirt and yanking it over your head, your bra following quickly. Big hands cover your breasts, massaging the flesh while he works his mouth down from your neck to your nipple. You scratch his back, sliding your hand under his shirt collar with a moan. The warmth of his tongue has your head spinning, flicking over your bud with intent. He’s trying to make you squirm, you can tell when he bites your nipple and pulls just a little, earning a gasp and a shudder from you.
He whispers your name, smiles up at you from between your breasts, and lets you pull his shirt off finally. You run your hands down his chest, over his ribs, along his stomach until he’s twitching under your touch. “Baby,” he murmurs, stopping your hand before you get to his pants, “you first.”
He works your jeans down your legs, kissing your thighs, your knees, all the way down to your ankles. You lean up on your elbows to watch him, the hunger in his eyes lighting something in you. He steps out of his own pants before he returns to you, tracing light fingers over your panties with a bite to his lip. He looks at you for permission, leaning down to kiss you breathless when you nod, and slides your panties off with steady hands.
He lays himself down between your legs, chewing on his lips as he takes your shining core in. The face he makes before he dives in has heat crawling up your back, all longing and desperate want, his nose skimming over your most sensitive parts while his tongue pokes out to taste. You melt as soon as he makes contact, sighing when he licks up to your clit and suckles on it gently. “Mm, Sam,” you whisper, feeling how he groans against you.
You thread your fingers through his hair, guiding him to all the right spots. He goes willingly, heavy eyes watching you with rapt attention as he works you up. Light fingers prod your entrance, your back arching when he presses in and curls up, searching for that spot inside you that he knows will win him another pretty noise. He smirks when he finds it, leaning back to spit on your clit before he drinks down everything you give him. You know he sees your eyes roll back, but you can’t find it in you to care when he buries his face in your cunt and growls.
You pull his hair, gasping and groaning as he dines on your juices. He licks around his pumping fingers, collecting your slick before he returns to your clit, applying sweet pressure until your legs shake and you whisper how close you are. He says something that you can’t make out and you tip over the edge, grinding into his face and biting back your moans. That heat you felt earlier spreads down your legs, up your spine, warming your whole body until it has you whining.
He doesn’t let up until you practically pull him off of you, letting you suck in a breath while he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “So fucking pretty, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear, kissing along your cheeks, over your nose, and finally pressing soundly to your lips. He gives you a minute to recover, smiling when you snap the waistband of his boxers with a wink. “Come on, you deserve a treat for saving me back there,” you reach a little further, palming him through the fabric and watching his head fall forward. He grinds into your hand, a low moan tearing from his chest when you find his tip and squeeze it just right.
“Please,” he breathes, sighing when you pull him out of his boxers and stroke him properly. He’s fucking giant, your mouth waters just at the sight, your legs closing a hair in anticipation. “Jesus, Sam,” you whine into his cheek, “you’re huge.” He nods, eyes opening to meet yours with concern. “We don’t have to,” he whispers, reassurance threading through his tone, “I know it’s a lot.”
You shake your head, smirking, “you got a condom?” He nods quickly. “Then we’re doing this,” you press a kiss to his lips, grinning when he melts into you. He jumps up to grab his wallet, finding a condom and rolling it over his length. He steps out of his boxers fully, cheeks going red when he sees you checking him out. You make a twirling motion with your finger, laughing when he spins in a slow circle, his hands landing on his hips with an embarrassed smile.
He moves back to you, pulling a pillow away from the headboard and lifting your hips. “This helps with the size,” he mumbles, the cutest pink dusting over his cheeks as he places the pillow under you and shifts to hover again. He assesses the position and pauses, adding another pillow beneath you for good measure. The care he shows has your stomach flipping, it feels like he’s doing quick calculations to make sure you’re going to be as comfortable as possible.
When he gives you a nod and lines himself up, you can’t help but roll your hips, rubbing his tip over your clit. It makes you both groan, your nails scratching down his back and earning you another soft whine. He looks you in the eye and pushes in, going so, so slowly, letting you adjust to the stretch. He feels as big in your cunt as he felt in your hand, firm length bullying your walls open until you throw your head back.
The final few inches feel neverending, he kisses you to distract you, sucking on your neck when you can’t focus enough to kiss him back. He whispers sweet praise, tells you how incredible you feel as he bottoms out. You can tell that he intends to give you a second, but you wrap your legs around him and groan, “move.” He can’t argue that, grinding just a little before pulling out at a glacial pace.
You squeeze your legs, causing him to slam back in. He apologizes with a groan, you silence him by kissing him deeply, meeting his hips with yours on each thrust. He gets the message, relaxing into you and setting a brutal pace. It’s intense and overwhelming and perfect, your eyes crossing when he rubs his tip into that spot inside you again and again. “Fuck,” he moans, panting into your open mouth.
“I’m close,” you cry, embarrassment rising at how quickly he got you there. He just nods, snaking a hand down to find your clit. A couple of purposeful circles does the trick, snapping the coil that tightened in your stomach, sending shockwaves through your whole body. He chokes on a desperate sound when you clench down on him, fighting against your walls to keep moving. You see stars, your back arching into him, pressing your breasts against his chest.
You feel him tense above you, can tell he’s close, so you scratch his back again, one hand coming up to tug his hair sharply. “You gonna come, Sammy?” You whisper sweetly, smiling when he scrunches his face and drops his head to your shoulder. He gives a few harsh thrusts, grunting with the effort, and shudders through his own orgasm. It’s your turn to praise him, quiet murmurs of “so good,” and “holy shit,” and “Sam,” falling from your lips.
He leans up enough to see you, giving you a shining smile that makes your cheeks warm. He says your name softly, big hand coming up to cup your face, his thumb stroking over your lip and pulling gently. He watches it spring back in place, presses a kiss where his thumb was and drops his head again. You push him just a little, he rolls over, bringing you with him. You can feel his heart still racing in his chest, his hands stroking over your back and tangling in your hair.
“I was terrified of you,” Sam mumbles, covering his face when you laugh. “I’m serious,” he sighs, “you scare the shit out of me.” You lean up on your elbow, brows furrowing, “still?” He nods. “Sam,” you sigh, “do you think you’ll hunt forever?” He looks away, serious eyes studying the wall, “I don’t know, I’d like to retire before something kills me, I think.”
“I’d like that too,” you smile, laying back down on his chest. “Trouble,” he whispers into your hair.
A knock on the door grabs your attention, Dean’s voice carrying through, “I’m leaving your dinner out here, no way I’m coming in that room again.”
You share a laugh with Sam, shifting over so he can stand. He cleans himself up and pulls his boxers on, opening the door and grabbing the bag. He lays it all out while you shuffle off to the bathroom, whistling softly when he gets a view of your ass. You come back in your robe, smirking when his eyes dart to the way it sits loosely over your chest. You don’t care to close it when you sit, letting him have dinner with a view. He just shakes his head, doing his best not to stare.
Tomorrow, you’ll go get your new dog, start over again with a new hunting buddy. But tonight? Tonight, you’re going to enjoy Sam’s company, maybe jump him for round two, and sleep in his arms until he has to rejoin his brother. Maybe he’ll convince you to let him ride along to Bobby’s, maybe Dean will make fun of him endlessly, but you figure that’s part and parcel of being with a Winchester, whatever capacity it ends up being.
---------------
i'm watching s12, was anyone gonna tell me Sam and dean went to federal fucking prison for attempted assassination of the god damn president
˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚ This a part of a series - go here to access all of the chapters in one place. This story is heavy on hurt/comfort because that is my favorite trope ever. As always give feedback and send requests of things you might want to see. Happy reading
The bunker smells like old books, coffee, gun oil, and antiseptic.
Somehow, it's comforting.
Maybe because after a year of roadside motels, abandoned houses, and bloodstained back roads, the bunker is the closest thing you have to home.
It isn't warm, exactly.
The pipes knock at random hours. Half the lights hum. The hallways seem to stretch forever when you wake from a nightmare and can't remember where you are.
But your clothes are in the dresser down the hall.
Your books are stacked beside your bed.
There is a chipped mug in the kitchen that Dean complains about every time you use it, even though he was the one who bought it for you.
Those things count for something.
You sit at the library table with your injured arm secured against your chest, an ice pack balanced over your ribs and a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.
Dean stands several feet away, staring at the open first-aid kit as though it has personally offended him.
"This thing is useless."
Sam glances up from where he's crouched beside your chair. "It has everything we needed."
"It has gauze."
"It also has painkillers, antiseptic, tape, splints—"
"Gauze with ambition."
You look at Dean. "You packed it."
"That doesn't mean I have to respect it."
Sam shakes his head and checks the bandage near your temple.
Dean continues rummaging. "Where's the good medical tape?"
"The white roll."
"That's the cheap stuff."
"It's medical tape."
"It peels."
"You put it on over blood."
"That sounds like victim blaming."
A tired laugh escapes you.
Dean's eyes flick toward you immediately. "There she is."
You sigh. "Are you going to say that every time I laugh now?"
"Until morale improves."
"I think that's supposed to be a threat."
"It can be two things."
Sam presses lightly along the edge of your ribs. Pain catches sharp beneath the ice pack. You jerk away.
He stops instantly. "Sorry."
"You say that like you didn't know it would hurt."
"I knew."
"So you're not sorry."
"I'm sorry that I was right."
Dean points at him. "That's the Winchester way."
You give them both a flat look. "You're deeply irritating people."
Dean finally finds the roll of tape he wanted.
"And yet you keep hanging around."
"Limited options."
"Cold."
"Accurate."
The teasing helps. It doesn't make the pain disappear, but it pushes the forest farther away. For a few seconds, you can almost stop thinking about the demon's red eyes. About the way he said your name. About the certainty in his voice when he told Sam and Dean they didn't understand what you were.
Sam adjusts the sling carefully. "How's the shoulder?"
"Attached."
"That's not what I asked."
"It hurts."
Dean nods approvingly. "Look at that. Progress."
You glance at him. "I liked you better when you were emotionally unavailable."
"I still am."
"Could've fooled me."
His hands still for half a second. Then he starts putting supplies back into the first-aid kit.
"Pain level?"
You lean your head against the back of the chair.
"Four."
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Six."
Dean closes the kit. "Better."
"You two are impossible."
"Yeah," Sam says. "But now we know when you're lying."
"You've always known."
"Exactly."
The adrenaline from the hunt is beginning to fade. Without it, every ache becomes louder. Your ribs throb each time you inhale. Your shoulder feels heavy and wrong despite being back in place. The cut near your hairline pulses in time with your heartbeat. Worse than any of that is the exhaustion. It settles behind your eyes and drags at your limbs until even sitting upright feels like work.
Sam notices. "You should lie down."
"I am sitting down."
"That wasn't what I said."
"I'm not tired."
Dean looks over. "You fell asleep while I was arguing with the tape."
"I was resting my eyes."
"You snored."
Your head lifts. "I do not snore."
Sam smiles. "You do a little."
"Whose side are you on?"
"Science."
Dean takes the ice pack from you before it slides off your ribs. "Come on."
"Where?"
"Bed."
You look toward the hallway, then back at him. "That feels far."
"It's twenty feet."
Dean studies you. You know that look too. He's deciding whether to make a joke or pick you up.
You straighten immediately. "I can walk."
"Didn't ask."
"You were thinking it."
"I think a lot of things."
"Most of them are terrible."
"Still thinking about carrying you."
You push yourself to your feet before he can make good on the threat. The room sways. Sam's hand closes around your good elbow. Dean's palm lands lightly at your waist. Neither says anything. They don't need to. You wait until the dizziness passes. Then you take one careful step toward the hallway. Dean stays close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
"You planning to hover all night?" you ask.
"Maybe."
"That seems healthy."
"Health went out the window when you joined the family business."
You glance toward him. Family. He says it casually, like the word doesn't mean anything. Like it doesn't catch inside your chest every time. You don't tell him that it does.
Sam follows with the first-aid kit. "You need anything before you sleep?"
"New ribs?"
"Fresh out."
"Then no."
Dean opens your bedroom door. Your lamp is still on from that morning. A paperback lies facedown on the blanket, holding your place. A sweatshirt hangs over the back of the desk chair. Normal things. Your things.
You lower yourself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beside you as Dean sits long enough to hand you two painkillers and a bottle of water.
"Take them."
You look at the pills. "I already had some."
"Four hours ago."
"You remember that?"
"I remember everything."
Sam leans against the doorway. "That is wildly untrue."
Dean ignores him.
You take the medicine. "Happy?"
"Thrilled."
"You need better hobbies."
"I've got hobbies."
"Cleaning guns isn't a hobby."
"Says you."
You hand the water back. Dean sets it on the nightstand within reach before standing. Sam doesn't move from the doorway. Neither of them leaves.
You look between them. "What?"
"Nothing," Sam says.
Dean nods. "Just making sure you don't fall over."
"I'm sitting."
"You've surprised us before."
You shake your head and ease yourself back against the pillows. The movement pulls at your ribs. A quiet breath slips through your teeth. Dean notices. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't ask whether you're fine. Maybe he's finally learning. Instead, he picks up the abandoned paperback from the blanket.
He studies the cover. "This looks terrible."
"You watched Dr. Sexy, M.D. for six hours last week."
"That show has layers."
"It has shirtless doctors."
"Exactly. Layers."
Sam takes the book from him and puts it on your nightstand. "You should sleep."
"You both keep saying that."
"Because you keep not doing it."
You pull the blanket over your legs. The room grows quiet. The thought that has been waiting in the back of your mind pushes forward again.
"He knew my name."
Dean's expression shifts. Sam looks toward you. You keep your eyes on the blanket.
"Maybe he heard it before tonight."
Dean leans one shoulder against the wall. "Maybe."
"You don't believe that."
"No." The honesty surprises you.
Sam folds his arms. "He knew you before we found you. That's clear now."
Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket.
"What if I don't want to know what he knows?"
Neither of them answers immediately. Dean looks down the hallway, then back at you. "You don't have to figure it out tonight."
"What if it's bad?"
"It's probably bad," he says.
Sam gives him a look.
"What?" Dean asks. "Lying doesn't help."
He turns back to you. "But whatever it is, it doesn't change what you've done this past year."
You swallow. "And what exactly have I done?"
"Annoyed me."
"Dean."
"Stolen my food. Ruined at least three perfectly good shirts. Nearly adopted a rabid raccoon."
"It wasn't rabid."
"It was foaming."
"It could've been soap."
Sam closes his eyes briefly. Dean's mouth pulls into the faintest smile.
"My point is, whatever you were before we found you, you're still you now."
The words settle somewhere deep. You glance at Sam.
He nods once. "No demon gets to define you."
You look away before either of them can see how much that affects you. "Okay."
Dean pushes away from the wall. "Good talk."
"That was almost emotional."
"Never happened."
He reaches for the light switch.
Sam points toward the bottle of water. "Drink more before you fall asleep."
"Yes, Mom."
Dean turns off the lamp. "Don't call him that. He'll start packing snacks."
"I already pack snacks."
"See?"
The door remains open a few inches when they leave. They think you don't notice things like that. You always do.
You wake to the sound of Dean's phone vibrating. For a moment, you don't know where you are. The forest is still clinging to the edges of your mind. Red eyes burn behind your eyelids. Your shoulder aches when you shift beneath the blanket.
Then you hear Dean's voice from the library. "Yeah, Bobby?"
You sit up carefully. The bunker is dark beyond your open door, but light spills faintly from the war room.
Bobby's voice carries through the phone, rough and impatient even through the speaker. "You idjits alive?"
"Define alive."
"You breathing?"
"Mostly."
"Then quit whining."
You hear Sam pull out a chair.
Dean says, "You call to check on our respiratory systems, or you got something?"
There's a pause. You ease your feet onto the floor. Your ribs protest as you stand.
Bobby's voice lowers. "You find out anything else about that demon?"
"No name. No sigil. Red eyes, black smoke, telekinetic temper tantrum."
"And it knew the girl?"
Dean looks toward the hallway. You step into view. He doesn't look surprised to see you.
Sam does. "You're supposed to be asleep."
You make your way slowly toward the table. "I was."
Dean watches you lower yourself into the chair beside Sam.
Then he continues. "Yeah. It knew her."
"Called her Emma," Sam adds.
Bobby goes quiet.
Dean leans forward, forearms on the table. "That mean something to you?"
"No."
The answer comes too quickly. Dean hears it too.
"Bobby."
"I said no."
"You said it suspiciously."
"I'll dig."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you got."
You pull the blanket tighter around yourself.
"What else did you call about?"
"Three college kids went missing outside Ashford."
Sam reaches for the laptop. "When?"
"First one disappeared eight days ago. Other two vanished last night."
"Together?" Sam asks.
"No. Different locations."
Dean rubs a hand over his face. "Missouri?"
"About thirty miles outside town."
"We just got back."
"I know."
Dean gestures toward you. "She has cracked ribs and one working arm."
"I can hear you," you say.
"Good."
Bobby continues. "I wouldn't be calling if it could wait."
Sam opens a search page. "What makes you think it's our kind of thing?"
"The calls."
Dean stops. "What calls?"
"All three victims got phone calls before they disappeared."
"That's not exactly supernatural," you say.
"No," Bobby replies. "But the calls came from dead relatives."
The room falls silent. Sam's fingers hover over the keyboard. Dean's expression hardens.
"What did they say?"
"Don't know. Families only heard one side."
Bobby shuffles papers on the other end of the line. "But all three victims said the same thing before leaving home."
You look toward Sam. He looks back at you.
Dean asks, "Which was?"
Bobby's voice turns grim. "They said somebody needed them."
A chill moves across your skin. Dean stands and grabs the keys from the table.
"No."
You stare at him. "What?"
"You're not coming."
You blink. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"Dean—"
"You can't lift your arm, you can barely breathe, and you almost fell walking twenty feet."
"That was earlier."
"That was an hour ago."
Sam gives him a cautious look. "We don't even know when we're leaving."
"Morning."
"I can heal a lot by morning."
Dean points at your sling. "You are not Wolverine."
"You don't know that. My past is mysterious."
Bobby groans through the phone. "Will you all shut up for two seconds?"
No one does. You push yourself to your feet. "I'm going."
Dean stares at you. "You're injured."
"I can research."
"We can research."
"I can interview people."
"You look like you lost a fight with a truck."
"It was a tree."
"That doesn't help your case."
Sam rubs his forehead. "Maybe we decide after she sleeps."
Dean turns on him. "Whose side are you on?"
"The side where nobody starts yelling at two in the morning."
You fold your good arm across your chest. "I'm not staying here alone."
The words come out quieter than you intend. Dean's expression changes. Only slightly. But you see it. The bunker is home now. That doesn't mean it feels safe when they're gone. Not after the demon. Not after hearing that voice in the woods.
Sam notices too. He closes the laptop. "We'll figure it out in the morning."
Dean looks like he wants to argue. Then his eyes drop to your bare feet against the cold floor.
He sighs. "Back to bed."
"That isn't a yes."
"It isn't a no."
"It sounded like a no."
"It sounded like you're about to pass out standing up."
You glance down. The room is tilting a little.
Dean steps around the table and places one hand against your back. "Come on."
You let him guide you toward the hallway. Behind you, Bobby mutters something about Winchester stubbornness.
Sam answers, "She learned from Dean."
"I heard that," Dean calls.
"That was the point."
You smile despite yourself. At the doorway to your room, Dean pauses. "We leave after breakfast."
You turn toward him. "So I'm coming?"
"I didn't say that."
"You said we."
Dean's mouth tightens. You smile wider.
He points toward the bed. "Sleep."
You climb back beneath the blanket. Dean waits until you're settled before leaving. The door remains cracked open again.
From the library, you hear Sam begin asking Bobby questions about Ashford. Three missing students. Three calls from the dead.
And somewhere in Missouri, something is waiting for them to answer.
| older bf!Dean daydreaming about sharing a domestic life with you ⋆˙⟡
Cw:: fluff!!, tiny bit of angst in the end, super tiny bit of allusion to smut at one point
As usual you and Dean had found some cheap motel by the road to stop by while hunting in some small town. Here you are, exhausted from all the research and going from store to store asking people most of what they know, trying to figure out what is that you’re dealing with this time. You are laying on Dean’s chest while his arms are wrapped around you, holding you tightly against him. Your eyes are closed, already fallen asleep long time ago, exhausted from the day. Deans one hand comes to play with the soft curls of your hair, taking in the softens under his fingers tips while he rests his cheek on top of your head. His mind too occupied to fall asleep beside you, too occupied by the thoughts of you, how you and his life could’ve turned out.
Occasionally Dean’s mind start to wander, thinking about how your shared life could look like if neither of you were burdened with the knowledge of monsters creeping in the shadows. How it would look like if the two of you could have had just normal jobs, normal lives, instead of having to worry about each other’s lives constantly and not having to save the world more times than he can count. Dean finds comfort in dreaming and planning out how that life could look like with you by his side, always.
Dean would want you by his side with a shiny ring on your finger, he also knows he’d agree with any kind of wedding you’ve dreamt of. You want a big grand wedding? He’ll work his ass off to afford it and make it look exactly as in your dreams. You wish for a smaller personal wedding? Then he’ll make it happen without a question. Anything to make you happy, and to be the best husband he could possibly be.
Dean dreams of living somewhere more rural, maybe some small town in the south with a nice lake close to by where he can go on fishing on the weekends with some beer in his hand. He’d love to teach you fishing as well, get you a nice gear of your own. Even if you wouldn’t be interested in learning fishing Dean would be pleasant with you just seated on his lap by the lake. Radio which plays classical rock playing in the background, while Dean sings along knowing it’ll make you giggle, which to him is the sweetest sound in existence.
Dean also knows he’d like your shared house to have a big backyard, big enough for a dog to run around and enjoy the summer evenings. He’d like to have a dog of a big breed, so he knows there someone to take care of you even when he’s gone off at work. Deans not sure what he’d work would be, most likely something related to cars, he’s pretty handy in it at least. He would love to be able to provide for you, to take one worry of your shoulders, and to be able to get you every little thing your heart desires.
He dreams your shared house to have a nice big kitchen where he can cook up tasty meals to surprise you with, and where he can come hug you from the behind while you’re baking the sweetest apple pie - for which he definitely did not peg for. He’d love to surprise you with breakfast in bed, sneaking back to your shared bedroom quietly as he places breakfast on the bedside table as he starts to pepper kisses all of your face as he mutters “good morning sweetheart”, while admiring how gorgeus you look under the sunlight peeking trough the curtains. Dean dreams of spending most days just lazing around on the bed with you in his arms as he gets to trace your whole body with his hands and lips, as you squirm under his touch, and he puts all his focus on you.
He wished he could give you another life so bad, easier life, one with less pain. Daydreaming of different life with you brings his comfort but also sadness when he remembers all of it will always be just a dream, nothing more. He pulls your body closer to him as presses a long kiss on your forehead before he murmurs “I love you so much”.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sam loves to buy you gifts each time you stop at a gas station. it can go from a funny looking plush, to your favorite snacks, or a book he thought you'd enjoy reading.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ his jacket collection started growing as you got together, some of them are gifts, and others are duplicates. he purposely bought some of them twice, just so that each time you steal one from him, he'll match with you by wearing the other one.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sam absolutely adores pet names, especially coming from you. he loves to call you baby or honey, but your name will always be his favorite word. hearing you call him by those same names always make the cutest smile appear on his lips.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ words of affirmations and physical touch are his favorite love languages. he can sit you down and tell you how much you mean to him, how much of an impact you have on him, and he'll do it for hours if he has to. even when he trips over his tongue, he always manages to tell you every single one of his thoughts and feelings when he's around you.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ whenever you're close to him, his hands will be on you. he doesn't always mean it in a possessive, or even sexual way, sam just enjoys the softness of your skin. he's also a huge waist grabber, his grip will always be on you waist each time you lean in to kiss him.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sam is soft spoken in nature, but he his even more when he's conversing with you. even when he's angry, he never raises his voice at you, he just physically can't. instead he'll keep the same, soft tone you love so deeply.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ he puts sticky notes all around your room and on your belongings. if he's awake before you and knows he won't be here when you wake up, he'll leave notes in your bedside table, on your laptop, and even in your purse. his love notes became so frequent, you had enough to fill a jar up to the rim, and not even one duplicate can be found, each one of his notes are unique, proof of his ever-growing feelings.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ even if sam is significantly taller than most people, there's times where he wishes he could be smaller, for once. when you cuddle, he'll often ask if you'd be okay with letting him on top of you, which you always accept. sam would then carefully ly his whole weight on you, settle his head on you chest, and put his caring arms around your waist, sighing loudly in contentment.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sam cherishes each one of the moments he's lucky enough to share with you. if he ever finds himself enjoying something while you're away, he'll bring it up to whoever's around him, grinning as he explains how everything is suddenly better when you're here.
A series of drabbles based on different songs, giving them my own twist in form of stories. The topic of the song gets put into a story for either Sam or Dean, depending on who fits more. Length of the drabbles will differ. I will take song requests but I can’t guarantee that I can make it work. Also, my focus in music is more rock/indie/alt. But if you do have a song request and a scenario, send it to me! Enjoy ♫
⚡︎ = coming soon
Now playing…
▶︎ Hey, Hey What Can I do - Dean Winchester
▶︎ Last Kiss - Sam Winchester ⚡︎
▶︎ Everybody Here Wants You - Dean Winchester ⚡︎
▶︎ She’s Always A Woman - Sam Winchester ⚡︎
▶︎ Across the sea - Dean Winchester ⚡︎
▶︎ I Know It’s Over - Sam Winchester ⚡︎
▶︎ There’s A Light That Never Goes Out - Dean Winchester ⚡︎
Try all the flavors: Blueberry • Pecan • Cherry • Pumpkin • Rhubarb • Salted Maple • Strawberry • Lemon Meringue • Peach • Cranberry • Apple
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Summary: Deans had a tough day, maybe he just needs a little softness.
Warning: (very brief) cannon level violence, smut, unprotected sex
A/N: it truly only gets worse for this guy
For The Filling:
2 pounds pumpkin, peeled, seeded, ½ inch chunks
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
3 large eggs
To taste, ground ginger, ground cinnamon, grated nutmeg, ground allspice and ground cloves
1 tablespoon bourbon or dark rum
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The windshield's smashed. That's the first thing he notices.
The windshield's smashed and the Impala's upsidedown and he's crushed against the ceiling with his face slicing in to broken glass. It feels like a fog, he can't remember how he got here, it's just a wreck of metal twisted around him.
Then he hears the dogs. He doesn't see them, not until they're ripping at him. Flesh and bone, torn apart piece by agonizing piece. They're tearing at his chest, ribbons of skin and blood- he's vomiting up something unholy.
One dog opens it's mouth, lips curling like it's going to snarl- "Dean- honey-"
He can't understand, body heaving, mind still blinking awake, "What-"
"-you're shouting-" your hand smooths over his arm, thumb rubbing lightly against his skin.
"Where-" he swallows, looking around, "You're here."
It might be a question, you're not sure, you reply anyway, "I'm here."
He takes in the scene- scrambling for a moment as he pulls himself out of the image of the car wreck, away from the dogs. There's nothing like that here. He's in your bedroom, sheets wrapped around his legs, sweat coating his back. You're in front of him, that look of worry, soft as it fills your face.
He remembers his ribs, glances down to see the ugly shade- he remembers last night, he remembers how hard he slapped your ass. He feels guilty, in that moment, like he should apologize- he didn't mean to be that harsh. He can't picture doing that right now, not when you're looking at him with sparkling in your eyes.
You're crying. It takes him a second to realize it, to see it in the dark room. But you're crying while you look at him, your breath shallow, your hands still on him.
"What-" his throat is too hoarse to get out another word. He chokes slightly, swallows hard to pull himself back together, "What's wrong?"
You're taken aback- that's possibly the last thing you expected him to say, "You scared me, honey."
"I'm sorry- god I'm so sorry, did I hurt you? Did I-"
You cut him off, "No- no Dean you didn't hurt me- just scared me seeing you like that-" you wipe your eyes with the palm of your hand, pushing the tears away like you never wanted him to see them in the first place, "-scared me that you weren't okay."
"I am okay." He smiles, trying to hide how forced it feels.
"You were screaming, Dean- I've never heard you- never heard anyone scream like that-"
He pulls you into him as he lays back against the mattress, he's too exhausted to even pretend he can sit up right now. He's done enough pretending for one night.
"Didn't mean to scare you-" he looks up at the ceiling as you lay your head on his chest- his heart's still pounding, loud and unwavering, "-never mean scare you."
He's embarrassed. Cheeks flushed, sweat still stuck to his forehead. His eyes trace the edges of the room, refusing to look at you. He's never done this in front of another person, no one but Sam and he doesn't count. He's certainly never done it in front of a girl- never done it in front of someone he's fucked.
He's used to the nightmares by now, used to waking himself up with a jolt, bruises on his body from how hard he's thrashing. He's used to feeling like he's having a heart attack, clutching at his chest as adrenaline rushes through his blood. He's used to vomiting, to kneeling in front of motel toilets as he throws up last nights burgers.
He's not used to you.
He doesn't want you seeing this part of him- didn't even want you to see the bruises on his ribs. But bruises can go away- he knows these deeper parts won't.
You speak quietly, a finger running along his torso, tracing the outline of the purple bloom, "Was it the hunt?"
He looks at you, confused.
You glance up, "That you were dreaming about- was it the hunt?"
"No- no I-" fragments of glass and teeth fill his mind, he can't remember what they belong to, "-I don't think so-"
"You can tell me- whatever it was- I won't understand, I know, but I'll listen."
You look so pretty. Dean looks at you for a moment, your eyes, your lips- you always look pretty- but in the soft light with glitter in your eyes, he feels like his heart might burst.
Maybe it's just the comedown from the nightmare. He looks back up at the ceiling, "I don't dream about hunts- not really."
"What do you dream of?" You press your lips against his ribs, careful.
"Dying." He doesn't know why he says it, but it feels good to tell you.
You lift your head slightly, "Y'think you're gonna die?"
He almost laughs, pushing a small breath of air out his nose, "You need to sleep, honey- I never should've woken you-"
You offer a small smile, "I like being awake with you."
He looks back down at you. God he can't get enough of that sight. He shifts, pulling himself up on the bed, dragging you up with him. You follow his lead, letting him move you in time with him until he's sitting against the headboard with his legs stretched out and you straddling him. You sit on his lap, legs wrapped around his waist- you're both naked, but sex is the furthest thing from either of your minds.
He reaches out, his hands cupping your cheeks as he looks at you, a small smile. One of your hands finds the bruise on his torso, pressing your palm against it, the other running along the crook of his arm.
There's a long pause like that. Dean feels guilty for waking you, for everything he's done to you. You don't need him in your life- you've got enough. You've got a bakery with cinnamon scented air- Dean's never brought sweetness with him, sweetness doesn't tend to follow him anywhere. He wonders why you bother with him, why you let him get away with it.
"I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of-" he doesn't think of hell. He won't let himself, not right now, not here with you "-lot of things I can't be forgiven for."
You're silent as you let the words hang in the air, waiting for whatever else you know he wants to spill. Your fingers draw over his arm, the scars that run deep. You can't imagine the horrors he's seen, what monsters could cause wounds like his. You want to tell him to stop, to run away from all that sickness, to keep himself safe. You want to tell him you can't imagine what you'd do if you found out he was dead, if Sam called to say you'd never see him again. You know it's not your place- so you don't say anything.
"I've done- I do a lot of bad shit. I know when I'm here it's different, I'm different- but I'm not nice-" he takes a deep breath, "-I'm damaged goods, sweetheart."
You give a small nod, taking in his words. You lean forward, pressing your lips against him- he closes his eyes, takes a steady breath. You speak without breaking away, your lips still tracing his, "I think you're nice."
He opens his eyes again, a small smile as he stares at you. He swallows hard, "I dream about you, sometimes."
"Don't lie!" You laugh, shoulders relaxing slightly, pulling back to look at him properly. Dean knows he's supposed to ignore the way your ass shifts against his cock, but you're not making it easy.
"I'm not lying!" He laughs back, hands moving down your body. One wraps around your hip, the other rests on the side of your chest, thumbs rubbing small circles against you.
"You so are! You don't even think about me when you're not here-"
Dean feels defensive- honestly he feels angry. How could you possibly think that? He speaks without any humor, "I think about you constantly."
Your smile falters at his tone, forehead creasing. You move back to the point, "I show up in your dreams?"
He's thankful you're not pressing it, "Yeah, like I said- sometimes."
"What do I do?"
You kiss me. You fuck me. You hold me when I cry. You bake pie. You bake our kids pie. You read in the yard. You marry me. You laugh when you get caught in the rain. You smile like the sun. You bake more pie. You grow old with me. You look pretty.
"You don't complain as much in my dreams as you do in real life." He grins.
You swat his arm, "Shut up-"
He laughs, "Never do that in my dreams!"
"I hate you-" you groan, pulling away.
He laughs louder, keeping his hands around you, "I'm joking- course I'm joking-" he rubs his thumb against the side of your chest.
"Maybe I don't think you're nice after all." You huff, but you can't hide the smile poking at the corner of your mouth.
He pulls back to look at you, still smiling, "I dream about us. Dream about spending time with you."
You start laughing before you even get the joke out, "That what you were dreaming about just now?"
Dean never gets this. Never gets these soft moments after nightmares, never lets himself feel happy afterwards. But it's easy with you. Everything's easier with you.
He leans forward, dragging you into him as he sets a proper kiss against your lips. You lean into it, your chest pressed against his, your hands moving up to run along his jaw. You can feel his morning stubble starting to poke through, rough against your fingers as you pull him closer.
His hand moves over your back, fingertips tracing a line down your spine, memorizing your body. It's light, gentle, just his calloused fingers against your skin, feeling you breathing carefully between his body and his hand.
He sits up straighter, pulls his back off the headboard as he kisses you deeper, lips parting slightly to slot between yours. His free hand shifts up your body, his fingers graze across your chest, just as gentle.
You pull back slightly, your lips still close, eyes creasing open slightly to look at him, "Dean- we shouldn't- not while you're hurt-"
"I've gotta feel you-" he looks at you with big wet eyes- they're betraying him, betraying his hardened exterior. For a moment he looks younger than he is, "-please honey-"
You chew on your lip as you consider, "Promise you'll tell me if you're in pain?"
He smiles, "I promise, sweetheart- cross my heart."
You give a small nod as you smile back, leaning forward to press your lips against his again. It's his body's turn to soften now, sinking against you, hands splayed out across you as he just holds you for a moment.
Then you start to move- just slightly- grinding your hips against him. He gasps into your mouth, more desperate than he's pretending to be, his lips immediately stumbling over your jaw to try and conceal the sound. He buries his face into your neck, pressing kisses along your skin, a wet trail left in his wake. His hand ghosts over your breast, like he's being hesitant, just his fingers tracing a circle around your nipple.
His cock hardens as you rub against him, shifting your body so you can slide your pussy against his length. He grips you tighter, breath falling ragged for a moment, face sheltered from view.
"Jesus-" he speaks through his teeth.
You pull back, cautious, eyes dancing with worry, "You okay?"
He laughs slightly, planting a small kiss against your cheek, "Not hurtin' sweetheart, you're just turning me into a mess is all-"
"That's not me-" you grin against his lips as you go to kiss him again, his face in your hands, "-you're always a mess."
He laughs out his nose, pulling you into him as he kisses you, heavy- still grinning. You move carefully, pulling your legs either side of his, still grinding against him. His hands move down to your hips, gripping you tight, your own hands still on his cheeks.
He lifts you carefully, you push yourself up on your knees- the kisses fall messier, open mouthed, tongues- but you're both still smiling, still laughing against each other. He lowers you, until your pussy is pressed against the tip of his cock. One of your hands slips to his nape, fingers threading through his hair.
You sink down slowly, letting him fill you- stretching around him with an ache that makes you giddy. You let out a gasp, lips pressed against the stubble on his jaw, his thumbs draw lines against your waist, keeping you gentle as you lower yourself.
"Christ- fuck-" he mutters against your temple, voice hushed. He must feel the way you tense slightly at his words, he smiles against you skin, "M'okay- m'okay honey- you just feel so good-"
You grind against him, his grip on you tightens again as his eyelids flutter shut, mouth hanging open in a whimpering groan. You let him set the pace as his fingers twitch on your waist, keeping you gentle as you start to move properly, letting him fill you.
His lips move to rest against yours, both of you too focused on your movements to really kiss each other, just sharing a breath as your bodies relax. One of his hands returns to your back, pressing you into his chest as he splays his hand out across your spine.
Between last night's sex and being awoken by Dean's nightmare, your body's exhausted- thighs weak and mind dizzy- but it's the kind of tired that feels good- especially in his arms. It feels safe, like he's the only person you could do this with, being so careful with each other.
He wants to bury himself inside of you, wants to feel like he's part of you. But it's not deep enough- not like this. He moves steadily, keeping his hands on you as he shifts his body- his ribs ache, he doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything other than you. He keeps himself inside you, holding on tight as he turns- rolling you until your back is against the mattress, his body hovering above you.
He smiles at you- it's not the cocky grin he's always flashing, it's quieter, softer, an unstoppable emotion he doesn't quite understand. You wrap one leg around his waist, spreading yourself for him as he starts to move, filling you on every slow thrust. Your hands find the muscles on his back, smoothing over them, feeling the way they ripple under your touch- there's a scar on his shoulder blade, shifting ugly as you run your fingertips along it.
His hips roll carefully, it's not the brutal fuck he was seeking last night- he needs something different now. He needs you- needs to give you everything, needs to take even more. You reach up to kiss his cheek, one light touch planted against his skin, then your head falls back against the pillow, eyelids fluttering shut.
He doesn't want to cry- and he won't, not tonight. He's embarrassed himself enough. But he can feel it in his gut, the need to let these emotions out- the need to tell you how much you mean to him. He only ever gets this feeling with you. Sex is usually something he can use to escape- use to hurt himself just enough that he can pretend it's normal- but you never let him, not for long. Maybe that's why it feels like so much more with you, he feels safe.
He presses his lips to your face, scattering kisses across your cheeks and nose. You smile absentmindedly at the touch, eyes opening again to stare up at him. His eyes are glistening, you don't think anything of it. You're too distracted by his eyelashes. He's got those pretty eyelashes you've teased him for before- fluttering as he looks at you like you're the only thing in the world.
He speeds up, only slightly, still being careful- needier. His jaw tenses, muscles flexing. Your own hips lift to meet him, your bodies working in time as you both chase the high you're so close to.
"Honey-" he manages to whimper out, voice weaker than he expected.
You smile, "Yeah?"
"M'gonna cum- can't- can't hold back-"
You run your hand up to the back of his head, fingers seeding through his hair as you pull him closer. You let him bury his face into your neck, his lips pressed against your skin. He pushes in harder, hips snapping slightly, rhythm falling restless.
You kiss his temple, "Come for me, pretty boy."
His movements stutter, a groan forced out of him as he cums, buried deep inside you. The feeling sends you over the edge, tugging at his hair without meaning to as your hips lift off the mattress, back arching and whole body tensing as it floods your body.
Dean stays inside you, hips still rocking gently- barely- as you sink back against the mattress, exhaustion flooding your body once again. He kisses your neck, one kiss, then another, heavier, regaining his thoughts as he feels you under him.
He pulls out- his body half collapsing against yours, half against the mattress. You twist your fingers through his hair, his head on your chest. He feels a familiar pain, returning to his torso after being staved off just long enough by the pleasure running through his veins. His breathing is shallow, evening out carefully as he feels your heartbeat in his ears.
You stay like that for a while, your fingers running over him, his breath relaxing. He shifts, only slightly, his head resting properly on your chest, his own hand running up to trace patterns across the side of your stomach.
You go to speak, then close your mouth again. You think for a moment, Dean seems so peaceful like this. But he clearly realizes you want to say something, looking up at you with bright eyes.
"You really think you're gonna die?" You say it like it's been on the tip of your tongue the whole time, like the conversation was never broken.
He gives you a weak smile, "Course I'm gonna die, all gotta eventually."
"You know what I mean." You try to laugh, but it doesn't come out properly. You blame it on Dean's head against your chest, not the feeling in your gut.
"Hunting ain't safe, you know that." His full answer.
"You ever think about stopping?" You're not saying it. You're not telling him he should. You're not screaming at him to run away like you want to. It's a question, you'll allow yourself that.
"If I stop there's a good chance the whole world will end." He laughs- it's a joke, though there's more truth to it than he likes.
"Well I guess that's what you've gotta ask yourself-"
"What's that?"
You smile, looking at him carefully, "Where do you wanna be when the world ends?"
˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚ This is a part of a series - go here to access all of the chapters in one place. This story is heavy on hurt/comfort because that is my favorite trope ever. As always, give feedback and send requests for anything you'd like to see. Happy reading!
Dean slams the trunk shut with a metallic thud. The flamethrower rests against his shoulder as naturally as if he has carried one into a hundred hospitals before. Knowing Dean, he probably has.
"You packed extra salt rounds?" he asks.
Sam checks the duffel for what must be the third time. "Yep."
"Iron?"
"Yep."
"Holy water?"
Sam looks up. "Dean."
"I'm asking."
"You watched me pack it."
Dean nods once. "I know."
"Then why are you asking?"
"Makes me feel better."
You try to hide your smile.
Dean notices anyway. "What?"
"Nothing."
His eyes narrow. "You've been hanging around Sam too much."
Sam closes the duffel. "She's smiling because you're worried."
"I'm not worried."
"You brought a flamethrower."
"That's called being prepared." Dean adjusts the strap across his shoulder and looks toward the building.
The county hospital rises above the parking lot, dark except for the intermittent glow of emergency lights behind several windows.
An ambulance sits abandoned near the main entrance. Its rear doors hang open. One overhead light buzzes loudly, blinking every few seconds before settling into an uneven glow.
You look toward the open ambulance. No sirens. No voices. No footsteps inside. The entire building feels as though it is holding its breath.
Dean reaches into the trunk and hands you another pistol. "Safety's on."
"I know how a safety works."
"Humor me."
You check it anyway. "Happy?"
"No."
"Good talk."
Dean closes the hidden compartment. "Stay close."
This time, you don't tease him. You simply nod. You enter through the side door. The emergency exit you escaped through only minutes earlier stands wide open. No bodies wait on the other side. No grasping hands. No movement at all. Dean raises one hand and motions you forward. Sam takes the opposite side of the corridor while you remain between them.
The sheriff's flashlight lies on the tile where he dropped it. Still on. Its beam points toward the ceiling.
Dean picks it up. "He was just here."
Sam crouches beside a dark smear on the floor. "Blood."
Your stomach tightens. "Is it his?"
Sam touches two fingers carefully to the edge of it. The blood is still wet. "I don't know."
Dean shines the flashlight ahead. A thin trail stretches down the hall. "Then we follow it."
The blood leads through a maze of dim corridors. Past dark examination rooms. Past abandoned wheelchairs. Past overturned medication carts and patient rooms left open. The deeper you move into the hospital, the colder the air becomes. Not freezing like the morgue. Just wrong. A slow chill that seems to settle beneath your skin.
The trail ends outside the pediatric wing. A colorful mural covers one wall. Smiling cartoon animals hold bright balloons beneath painted white clouds. A giraffe bends its long neck toward a laughing lion.
It should feel cheerful. The room was filled with stuffed animals. They should've been facedown or. lying in a way something that is stuffed should be. Instead, every stuffed animal in the waiting room has been turned toward the hallway. A row of teddy bears and rabbits sits motionless on tiny plastic chairs.
Watching you.
Dean stops. "Hell no."
Sam sweeps his flashlight across them. "They weren't like that before?"
"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say no."
Before anyone has time to comment, a cough echoes from somewhere ahead. Human. Weak. All three of you freeze.
"There," Sam whispers.
Another cough follows. Dean moves toward it quickly, his boots surprisingly quiet against the tile. The nurses' station has been destroyed. Computer monitors lie shattered across the floor. Medical charts and loose papers cover the hallway. One desk has been overturned completely. Behind it, someone shifts.
Dean raises his gun. "Sheriff?"
Maddox lifts his head. Relief floods his face. "I knew you'd come back."
Dean lowers the weapon and crouches beside him. "You hurt?"
"My ankle."
The sheriff tries to move and immediately winces. "Think it's broken."
Sam kneels on his other side. "Did any of them bite you?"
"No."
"Scratch you?"
"I don't think so."
"That isn't an answer," Dean says.
Maddox gives him a tired look. "Now I know how she feels."
You almost smile. Dean doesn't. Sam checks the sheriff's arms and neck, then carefully feels along his injured leg.
"No obvious bite marks. Ankle's swelling fast."
Dean glances toward the hallway. "We'll splint it when we're clear."
You move to the corner of the nurses' station and look into the darkness. Nothing moves.
Dean watches you. "Anything?"
You shake your head. "Nothing."
Sam looks up sharply. "You hear that?"
Dean frowns. "Hear what?"
Exactly. Nothing. Not a single sound.
The fluorescent lights have stopped buzzing. The distant ventilation system has gone silent. Even the building's emergency generator seems to have shut down. The silence wraps around the hallway until pressure builds inside your ears.
Then a monitor beeps. One sharp electronic chirp.
BEEP.
Another answers somewhere farther away. Then every heart monitor in the hospital activates at once.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
The sound pulses through every corridor, perfectly synchronized.
Dean rises. "We've got company."
They step from the darkness together. Doctors. Patients. Nurses. Orderlies.
Some still wear hospital gowns. Others are dressed in scrubs or white coats stained with old blood.
They emerge from every open doorway, moving with the same stiff, unnatural gait. Not alive. Not entirely dead. Puppets waiting for someone to pull their strings.
Sheriff Maddox braces one hand against the desk and tries to stand.
Dean pushes him gently back down. "Save your strength."
"They're coming from both sides," Sam says.
Dean glances toward the nearest exit. Blocked.
Then he looks at you. "Stay with him."
You open your mouth.
"No."
You blink. "I didn't even say anything."
"You were going to."
"You don't know that."
"I know that face."
Dean gives you a look that leaves no room for argument. "Keep him alive."
Then he and Sam step into the middle of the hallway. Side by side. Just as they always do.
Dean rolls one shoulder and readjusts his grip on the shotgun. "You know..."
Sam raises his weapon. "What?"
"I was really hoping today would involve fewer dead bodies."
Sam's mouth twitches. "Me too."
The first possessed body lunges. Dean meets it head-on. The butt of his shotgun cracks against its jaw before it can reach him. Sam fires over Dean's shoulder. The salt round strikes a second attacker in the chest and throws it into the wall. The hallway erupts. Bodies rush from both directions.
You crouch near the sheriff, iron knife in one hand and the pistol in the other, covering the brothers' backs. Dean fights like a storm. Fast. Controlled. Always moving. He strikes one body with the shotgun, pivots, then fires into another without pausing.
Sam is quieter. More precise. Every shot counts. Every movement has a purpose.
When Dean ducks, Sam fires. When Sam reloads, Dean moves in front of him. They don't need to speak.
Watching them fight together is like watching two people who have spent their entire lives learning each other's rhythm. Because they have.
A possessed nurse breaks from the crowd. She moves faster than the others. Too fast.
Dean doesn't see her. He is holding back two bodies at once, one hand pressed against the throat of a dead orderly while another claws at his jacket. The nurse sprints toward him.
"Dean!" Your warning comes without thought.
You fire. The salt round catches her squarely in the chest. She flies sideways and crashes into a row of plastic chairs.
Dean spins. For half a second, your eyes meet. He gives one sharp nod. A silent thank you.
Then he turns back to the fight. Sam ducks beneath a swinging arm. He grabs an IV pole from the wall and drives it through the nearest attacker's chest, pinning the body against a door. Three more immediately take its place.
"There are too many!" he shouts.
Dean kicks one backward. "I noticed!"
You glance down at Maddox. "I need to help them."
He is pale with pain, one hand clamped around his swollen ankle. Another crash echoes through the hallway. Dean stumbles backward. Not far. Not badly. Just enough to make your heart lurch.
Your fingers tighten around the iron knife.
"Sorry," you whisper.
The sheriff follows your gaze. His voice remains steady. "Go."
You look at him.
"I'll be fine."
"You can't walk."
"I can shoot." He lifts the pistol Dean gave him. "Go."
You nod once. Then run.
Dean has just thrown one attacker aside when another grabs him from behind. Its arms lock around his chest and drag him backward. Ten feet away, Sam is pinned against the wall by two bodies, struggling to reach the knife at his belt. You sprint toward Dean.
At the last second, you drop and slide across the tile beneath the thing holding him. Your knife flashes upward. Iron cuts into its leg. The creature shrieks and collapses.
Dean immediately catches your arm and pulls you behind him. "I told you to stay back."
"You looked busy."
"I was handling it."
"You were losing."
"I was strategically winning."
Even now. Even in the middle of a hallway filled with possessed corpses. You laugh.
Dean looks personally offended. "Don't laugh while I'm trying to save your life."
"You're welcome."
"I had it."
"Sure."
Sam finally throws one of the bodies away and drives his elbow into the other.
He reaches you both, breathing hard. "You okay?"
You nod. "I'm fine."
Dean points toward you without looking away from the attackers. "Don't encourage her."
"I asked a question."
"She lies."
"I do not."
"You say you're fine while actively bleeding."
"I'm not bleeding."
Dean quickly looks you over. "You sure?"
"Dean."
"Just checking."
The nearest possessed body takes another step. Then stops. Every corpse in the hallway becomes motionless at exactly the same moment. Arms fall to their sides. Heads lower.
The synchronized monitors continue beeping around you.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
Slowly, all of the bodies turn their heads toward the far end of the corridor. The movement happens together. Dozens of necks twisting in one direction. Someone is coming.
A soft footstep echoes through the silence. Tap.
A second follows. Tap.
Then another. Tap.
A woman steps around the corner. She wears an old-fashioned nurse's uniform. Not a costume. The stiff white dress belongs to another era, falling neatly below her knees. A small cap sits perfectly over hair pinned into a precise twist. Her shoes are spotless. Everything around her is blood, dust and destruction. Yet not a single mark touches her. She walks slowly through the rows of motionless bodies. They bow their heads as she passes. Not puppets now. Subjects.
She stops beneath the flickering emergency light. Then smiles politely. "I've been waiting for the Winchesters."
Dean's expression goes still. He raises the shotgun. "And you are?"
The woman folds her hands neatly in front of her. "You've been asking the wrong questions."
Sam watches her carefully. "What questions should we be asking?"
Her eyes move toward him. Then Dean. Then past them both. Until they settle on you.
The smile remains. But something inside it changes. "I haven't been waiting for them."
Every instinct in your body screams. This woman is not possessed. She is not another victim. She is not being controlled by whatever has taken the hospital.
The bodies are controlled by her. The symbols. The sleep. The dead rising from cold storage. All of it leads back to the woman standing at the end of the corridor.
Something ancient looks out through her calm eyes. Dean moves slightly, blocking her view of you.
Her smile widens. "I've been waiting for her."
The monitors stop. Every screen in the hospital goes black. The woman tilts her head.
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 😉
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.
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!! 🥹💜
🔮 Series Masterlist
Coming Up:
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.
Hell yeah, I'm so ready to dive into this. But my heart is gonna ignore Cam for now because I know you're about to draw Dean and our girl back together somehow 😌 (even if it is through one of Sam's ominous premonitions 😅)
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.
I absolutely LOVE this description (as I tend to with all of your delicious prose). Autumn is so idyllic in a lot of ways, and I feel like we already associate it with a lot of movies like Practical Magic and Hocus Pocus, so it matches the vibe of this dream perfectly ✨🍂
But again, the fact that this house is a safe place for Dean is so bittersweet, because of course we know this eventually gets taken away from him (and reader), like so many other safe places—and people.
Also this detail -
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.
Jesus Christ, John, get your son a jacket that fits. 😒
“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.”
Grandma, noooooooooo 😭😭😭
I get her logic, but I'm on mom's side. Don't separate our babies! 💔 (Me yelling this knowing full well what's about to happen eventually. 🙃)
“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.
“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.”
Again, I'm fucking terrified, Wayne! DON'T DO THIS TO ME. 😭😭😭
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.
I snorted so hard at that last bit. Such a great line 😂👌🏽
But I'm already sus about coworker Pete after that "oddly muted" line. Is he our demon in disguise? 🤨 (God, it's like the worst Where's Waldo.)
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.
It truly is sad. If Mia had told her the truth, reader might've been mired in all things Supernatural much sooner. Or maybe she would've learned more about her powers and been able to control them sooner, as well as felt more connected to her family. It's a tough call, but also understandable that reader's feeling betrayed and not sure what to do about it. Telling Mia about her involvement with the Winchesters proooobably won't go down well either 😅
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.
Oooh interesting! I like the background here and how you're framing him. It's pulling away from the often used trope of the "boyfriend who doesn't know the real her" before she meets Dean.
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.
lol I fucking love the Mummy. Such a classic 💜 (Brendan's character gives Dean vibes. Just sayin')
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.
Aww I have a really bad feeling reader will eventually lose him like Sam lost Jess. I hope not. I hope their parting is eventually mutual - I know we're in a slow burn lol. But these moments in the context of SPN always give me a false sense of security 😅
It stands for sudden destruction, catastrophe, and the truth arriving violently enough to rip your life apart at the foundation.
Ignoring Sam's calls was understandable from her POV, but I feel like she really shouldn't have ignored this warning about The Tower. 😬
But oooh my God I was biting my nails and reading so furiously fast when "Pete" revealed himself. His whole monologue about her family was so heartbreaking, but I was so proud of her for literally turning his blood into holy water WTF? Home girl's a bloodbender 🤣👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽
All the new tidbits we get about that night of the fire were so interesting, albeit so very sad, especially the tidbit that John didn't even try to help reader's mom and grandmother. I hope reader gets the chance to meet John again herself and have him answer some hard questions. 😒
“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.
Oooh this is how her grandmother made reader, Sam, and Dean forget about each other, obviously on a more potent scale 🤔
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.
They really do learn this lesson so many times in SPN, but even though they're this young, it's painful when Dean reflects that he's already seen it happen so many times, again, with that quintessential Dean Guilt.
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.
Aww damn, how dare you do this to my poor baby!! 😭😭 This is part of why I struggle with slow burns lmaoo - it hurts me so much!
And Paige clocked his jealousy immediately loll. A best friend always knows 😂
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.
He IS cute, damn it!! 😭
But while it was kind of him to apologize to her for storming into her life (not totally his fault, but it is what it is), I think it's downright smart of her to be firm on going to Sugar Hill and finding out more about the ritual. At this point she needs to be powerful enough to protect herself and the people she loves.
And of course you had to dig into the boyfriend bit 🤣
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.
But of course Dean is skeptical about actual romance and an understanding partner. He didn't exactly get to have that with Cassie, and hasn't tried much at real relationships since 🥲
Through all of their bickery banter though, you truly do feel the connection between them (even if he's being a bit of an ass lmao).
I do wonder if sparks will fly between Mia and Bobby while she's healing up 😏
I'm very interested to see how reader will come back into Sam and Dean's lives, but reader's path forward with Cam and Paige is sure shaping up to be an adventure! 💜✨
Haha fair enough, honestly 😂 But Cam's still staying for a little while longer, so you might as well embrace him. I keep telling people to cast their second favorite after Jackles in the role. May we have all the dream men we can get in this one 😏🥂
(And surprising enough, Cam became a little fan favorite, which is rare for an opposing ship in a fic as you know. I've heard things that range from "I wouldn't mind polyamory at this point" to "I don't even care about Dean anymore" 🤣🤣)
I absolutely LOVE this description (as I tend to with all of your delicious prose). Autumn is so idyllic in a lot of ways, and I feel like we already associate it with a lot of movies like Practical Magic and Hocus Pocus, so it matches the vibe of this dream perfectly ✨🍂
Thank you, friend! I honestly went all out with the descriptions in this series since there's so many location and vibe changes. But fall in New England tends to have a special witchy note 🤓✨
But again, the fact that this house is a safe place for Dean is so bittersweet, because of course we know this eventually gets taken away from him (and reader), like so many other safe places—and people.
Oh God, I know 🥲 Kinda torturing myself here by giving those boys some safe and happy childhood memories and simultaneously taking them away. But hey, he's starting to remember again, so they won't stay gone forever
Jesus Christ, John, get your son a jacket that fits. 😒
My HC is actually that he couldn't be bothered and eventually just gave Dean his too big leather jacket 😝
I get her logic, but I'm on mom's side. Don't separate our babies! 💔 (Me yelling this knowing full well what's about to happen eventually. 🙃)
Freya surely tried (and failed). But there's actually more to that story that made that step ultimately necessary... 👀
I snorted so hard at that last bit. Such a great line 😂👌🏽
But I'm already sus about coworker Pete after that "oddly muted" line. Is he our demon in disguise? 🤨 (God, it's like the worst Where's Waldo.)
In return, your "Where's Waldo" line got me 🤣🤣
It truly is sad. If Mia had told her the truth, reader might've been mired in all things Supernatural much sooner. Or maybe she would've learned more about her powers and been able to control them sooner, as well as felt more connected to her family. It's a tough call, but also understandable that reader's feeling betrayed and not sure what to do about it. Telling Mia about her involvement with the Winchesters proooobably won't go down well either 😅
Very true! On the other hand, Mia was in a hard spot, too. Telling reader more about what was going on and allowing her to dive deeper into that part of her family history might have exposed her to demons much sooner. And Mia, unlike Grams and Mom, is only human and didn't have the means to keep these things away. We also don't know what John might have told her or what instructions he gave her regarding reader. We do know he wanted to keep her hidden, so he might have told Mia to ensure no one ever discovers her.
Oooh interesting! I like the background here and how you're framing him. It's pulling away from the often used trope of the "boyfriend who doesn't know the real her" before she meets Dean.
Yes, exactly! I wanted reader to have a close network she can trust, including a first love that really sticks and moves her, you know? Cam might not be her true love, but he's for sure her first love and someone who truly knows her. It also beautifully contrasts Dean, who didn't have any of those things and really can't relate to that part (as we see toward the end). But it also gives reader that advantage of already knowing what a great love feels like and what long-term commitment looks like. So she eventually can take that into her relationship with Dean and be the more stable and less confused one, kind of moving him in the right direction like a needle on a compass 😅💞🧭
lol I fucking love the Mummy. Such a classic 💜 (Brendan's character gives Dean vibes. Just sayin')
Very true! I even hinted a little at that when reader called that whole grave robbing thing romantic since she's basically done something similar with Dean a week ago 😂
Aww I have a really bad feeling reader will eventually lose him like Sam lost Jess. I hope not. I hope their parting is eventually mutual - I know we're in a slow burn lol. But these moments in the context of SPN always give me a false sense of security 😅
As they should 😝 And honestly? You might be onto something here with that whole Sam/Jess parallel. Supernatural loves to kill female characters as plot device for emotional development, so we might as well sacrifice a man for once, right? Still, kinda got attached to Cam tbh... 😂🙈
Ignoring Sam's calls was understandable from her POV, but I feel like she really shouldn't have ignored this warning about The Tower. 😬
Tbf, she did read the warning label, said "thanks for the heads-up," and then went in slightly more prepared. But I think she learned her lesson that she definitely needs to prepare even more next time lmao
But oooh my God I was biting my nails and reading so furiously fast when "Pete" revealed himself. His whole monologue about her family was so heartbreaking, but I was so proud of her for literally turning his blood into holy water WTF? Home girl's a bloodbender 🤣👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽
Marie would've been proud 😏🩸
What can I say? Sam told her to improvise and she watches a lot of Buffy. There's literally an episode where Buffy stabs a vamp with a pencil. Girl got creative 😂🤷♀️
Oooh this is how her grandmother made reader, Sam, and Dean forget about each other, obviously on a more potent scale 🤔
Something Dean surely realized as well. As Heather put it: they all got the Men in Black treatment 😆😎
Aww damn, how dare you do this to my poor baby!! 😭😭 This is part of why I struggle with slow burns lmaoo - it hurts me so much!
And Paige clocked his jealousy immediately loll. A best friend always knows 😂
Funnily enough, this is exactly why I love slow burns so much. I crave the torture 😂🧊🔥
And I truly love Paige in this scene. A best friend really always knows lmao (Besides, she did have a firsthand view of Dean's unashamed flirting with her bestie back at the bar that first night 😜)
But while it was kind of him to apologize to her for storming into her life (not totally his fault, but it is what it is), I think it's downright smart of her to be firm on going to Sugar Hill and finding out more about the ritual. At this point she needs to be powerful enough to protect herself and the people she loves.
And of course you had to dig into the boyfriend bit 🤣
May we finally fully begin our journey of the "chosen one" 😂🤓
Yes, obviously, I had to dig into the boyfriend bit. I was real excited about that one. Shoulda seen my stupidly giddy grin while writing this part 🤣🤣
But of course Dean is skeptical about actual romance and an understanding partner. He didn't exactly get to have that with Cassie, and hasn't tried much at real relationships since 🥲
Exactly this! So reader's relationship (and worldview essentially) nicely contrasts his experiences. And he's clearly struggling with understanding it. It's not just jealousy of Cam himself, but there's a little envy that mixes with it of like "Wait... why does she get to have that? Why did this never happen to me?" lol
Through all of their bickery banter though, you truly do feel the connection between them (even if he's being a bit of an ass lmao).
Welp, young Dean is kinda known to be bit of a cocky ass as well as pain in the ass 😂
And that bickering chemistry is also what I really enjoy about enemies to lovers 😆🫶
I do wonder if sparks will fly between Mia and Bobby while she's healing up 😏
Ooooh sparks may fly! They do have a little bit of Jodie/Bobby dynamic, so we'll see 😉✨
I did not get much time this month for reading, but below are a few stories and one writer I wanted to highlight (in alphabetical order):
"Aww, Mikaela!" by Eternal Scribe
Things Wheelie shouldn't be allowed to find on Earth television. (Transformers)
⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼📚⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼
A New Years Spark by @winchestergirl2
It's New Year's Eve and Alec seeks you out, hoping to ignite a spark. (Alec McDowell x Reader, Dark Angel)
⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼📚⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼
All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You by @deanwanddamons
You’re driving alone after getting into a huge fight with your now ex-boyfriend. You spot a guy standing on the side of the road in the rain, hitching a ride, so you give him a lift. That guy happens to be Dean Winchester. (Dean Winchester x Reader, Supernatural)
⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼📚⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼
As You Wish by @zepskies
You both were bid to obey: for king and country, heart or duty. A familiar story, and a cruel verse. In the turn of one season, you would be wed to serve your royal house, but not to the man who guarded your heart. (Knight!Dean Winchester x Princess!Reader, Supernatural)
⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼📚⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼
Fresh Out the Slammer by @waynes-multiverse
You are just a bright spark at Sam’s graduation party Dean never meant to touch. Over the years, you drift in and out of his life like smoke: always enough to sting, but never enough to hold. Some people leave footprints, but you leave burn marks instead. By the time Dean sees the flames, the damage is already done, however, and no matter how many fires he runs into, yours is still the one burning under his skin. (Firefighter!Dean Winchester x Reader, Supernatural)
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Loud by @lila-lou
After the blast, you drag Soldier Boy to safety and stash him in your apartment. He’s wounded, paranoid and mouthy, and you’re stuck playing nurse and “please don’t explode” handler. Somewhere between the arguments and the accidental laughs, you start to wonder what’s more dangerous: getting caught… or getting close. (Soldier Boy x Reader, The Boys)
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Parent Trapped by @teamackles96
A student of yours tries to play matchmaker. (Mark Meachum x Teacher!Reader, Countdown)
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Someone To You by @lamentationsofalonelypotato
The day you met Ben in a bar, your life changed, but after a year of you juggling school, work, life, and relationships, you're ready to get serious and move on. However, Ben's not sure that he wants to let you go so easily. (Soldier Boy x Reader, The Boys)
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Undercover by @deanwanddamons
Homicide Detective Dean Winchester and Agent Y/F/N Y/L/N go undercover to solve a spate of murders. (Dean Winchester x Reader, Supernatural)
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What Still Lingers by @deanwanddamons
Dean gets a phone call from Bobby about a case. What he doesn’t know is how personal it will be. (Dean Winchester x Reader, Supernatural)
it isn't perfect but it might be | dean winchester x reader
I could go back to the old place and write your name on every blank page
But it's a story now, just a story now
It's the kind of thing that you'd say
You say no need to look behind me
That I can keep you here beside me
To make a mess of it, then make the best of it
It isn't perfect, but it might be
| synopsis: | A demon crashes the most corrupt billionaire party of the year, and the Winchesters go undercover to stop it. Black tie attire, overpriced champagne, and one slow dance later, you start to realize blending in might be harder than exorcising the threat. Especially when Dean Winchester decides he’s done pretending not to look at you like that.
| includes: | dean winchester x fem!reader, no of y/n, light angst, fluff
| word count: | 2,297
| note: | happy late valentine's day ! pls enjoy this cute rom-com inspired break from reality. ♡
| song inspo: | it isn't perfect but it might be by olivia dean
∞ ☼｡𖦹 ° . ⋆♡
"So, let me get this straight." You placed your palms flat against the cheap linoleum countertop. "This demon is planning on crashing one of the biggest, and most corrupt, billionaire business parties of the century to cash in on their souls—and we're supposed to stop them?"
"It's our job." Sam argued.
The two of you had been going back and forth for nearly an hour, trying to decide the best plan of attack for tonight. While Sam was taking his usual moral high ground route of a "safe" exorcism, you figured if the demons wanted to clean house of a few dozen pretentious rich assholes—who were you to throw a wrench in their evening?
"I hate to say it sweetheart, but I'm gonna have to go with Sammy on this." Dean emerged from the bathroom. A flimsy white towel hung loosely around his hips. Beads of water trickled from his damp hair down his broad shoulders and if it weren't for Sam clearing his throat, you might've kept trying to urge his towel to slip off by using the Force.
Shaking your head, you slumped into a chair next to Sam. "It's not like they're innocent."
"But they don't deserve to die." Sam said and you knew he was right.
Your soul nearly levitated as Dean placed his hands on your shoulders, leaning down to your ear to whisper. "Come on, sweetheart. When have you ever been one to say no to a party?"
∞ ☼｡𖦹 ° . ⋆♡
You felt ridiculous.
It wasn't like you'd never dressed up before. You went to prom twice in high school and other various formal events throughout your early twenties. But it had been a few years since you'd joined the Winchesters on their quest to conquer evil and gowns usually weren't the best attire when fighting demons.
Tonight was a different story.
Your cheeks flamed as you applied the final touches of mascara to your lashes. You knew there was nothing to be embarrassed about. There were plenty of cases where the three of you had to dress up. Detectives, FBI agents, and Dean's personal favorite—priests and a nun.
Tonight was no different than those cases. This one just happened to include a flattering floor length dress with a tasteful slit up your right leg, showing just enough of your skin to leave a little up to the imagination. The soft material hugged every curve of your body, draping over your shoulders to expose your entire back.
Everything about it was beautiful. The way your hair was pinned up but no amount of clips could stop a few rebel strands from curling around your cheekbones. The dainty necklace Dean had plucked for you from a street faire in New Orleans sat perfectly on your chest between your breasts. Bruises and scraps camouflaged by silk and concealer, your heart swelled at the sight of yourself in the dirty motel mirror.
So, why, beneath all the shimmer and glam, did you still feel like you wanted to hide in a closet?
A fist pounded against the bathroom door. "Cutting it a little close princess, time to go." Dean shouted.
Once you conceded, the three of you brainstormed a plan. Since it would raise a few eyebrows having two men on your arm, Dean insisted he accompany you inside the party while Sam posed as a waiter. None of you were sure where the demon might pop up but it was safer to have all bases covered.
Sam left a little while ago to try and blend in with the wait staff. Which just left you and Dean and your anxiety.
The thought of Dean seeing you in this kind of outfit made you nervous. It had been a long time since you decided to stop denying your crush on the older brother. From the moment you'd ran into the Winchesters on a hunt in Rhode Island, your heart never failed to falter at the sight of him.
Your life had been boiled down to chasing the rush of Dean. His laughter at your poor attempt of a joke, brushing elbows in the tight booth of a diner, him tossing you your favorite candy after you insisted you didn't want anything from the gas station.
Sam had finally had enough and called you out on it after a particular hunt that included a random raven-haired civilian connected to the haunting. You had spent an entire day glaring daggers at her perfect shiny hair before Sam cornered you in the library and made you spill your guts.
True to his word, as always, he never told your secret to Dean. Even though, he swears it would be better if you just fessed up and told Dean how you felt.
The sky has a better chance of falling than you ever doing something incredibly stupid like that.
Dean shouted your name through the door again and you knew your time stalling was up. Taking a deep breath, you shut off the light and twisted the knob.
The sight of Dean standing, waiting for you, in a sleek black tux was almost enough to kill you. He looked devastatingly handsome. You never saw him this cleaned up before—usually Dean opted for the bargain suits at the thrift store, scoffing at spending more than $5 on fancy clothes he'll never wear again. This suit was certainly more than that—the material perfectly hugged every inch of his muscular build. His hair was slightly slicked back except for one strand twisting in protest on his forehead. There was nothing boyish or immature about the man standing in front of you.
When your gaze finally reached his eyes, your chest heaved. His gaze didn’t move from you. Not your face. Not once. You thought you were hallucinating the way Dean shamelessly drank you in, taking his time to assess every bit of you.
"Hi." Could you be anymore lame?
"Hey." Dean sounded almost nervous as he returned your awkward greeting.
The silence in the room was so loud that you could make out the faint hum of the neon sign buzzing from outside your window and a few passing cars on the neighboring highway.
"Should we...?" Your knuckles might begin to bleed from how hard you were clutching your small purse if you stood there for a moment longer.
"Yeah, yeah let's uh—let's go." You giggled softly as Dean fumbled to open the motel door, stepping back to let you exit first.
"Such a gentleman." you teased.
"Oh, I'm full of surprises sweetheart." He yanked open the passenger door of the Impala before you had a chance to. "Just you wait."
∞ ☼｡𖦹 ° . ⋆♡
You couldn't wait to get back to the motel and rub it in Sam's face just how right you were about this evening.
The ballroom was enormous. Tables lined with delicate linens were sprinkled along the extravagant marble floor. Sparkling white lights twinkled beneath the transparent fabric wrapped around the monstrous limestone columns lining the gallery windows. Wait staff moved seamlessly through the room as if they too were ghosts, weaving in and out amongst the crowd of the country's most elite.
Tucked in the corner of the ballroom, a band played elegant interpretations of modern music. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Dean smile to himself as the band played a regal rendition of Knockin' on Heaven's Door.
Somewhere in the sparkling lights and sea of expensive appetizers, you knew the demon could be anywhere. Disguised as any of these privileged assholes. It made your stomach turn—seeing all of these people with more money than you could ever imagine, floating around the room like they owned the world. You understood why you needed to be there tonight, why this job doesn't know stereotypes or bias, but you couldn't help but feel a bitter taste in your mouth as you gaped at the young ladies your age. Dripping in designer and riches, you'd never felt smaller.
"I'll go line the doors and windows." you said, abruptly opening your purse to reveal the bag of salt you stashed.
As you turned to flee towards the shadows of the ballroom, Dean grabbed your hand. "Woah, woah not so fast princess."
You gave him a blank stare. "Dean, we're working."
He shook his head, pointing behind you to where Sam stood awkwardly holding a tray of some kind of fish. "Sammy's got surveillance covered. Time for us to do our part."
Your eyebrows raised. "Which is...?"
Dean swiftly snatched two glasses of champagne from a passing waitress. "To blend in."
Four empty glasses later, you were a giggling mess next to Dean. Leaning against his shoulder, you whispered your theory in his ear. "I think it's her." You tilted your chin towards the gorgeous blonde woman across the room.
"What makes you say that?" Dean whispered. His breath skimmed your neck when he leaned in, close enough that your pulse betrayed you.
"She hasn't eaten or drank anything. Keeps flirting with that entire tech company over there."
"And that means she's a demon?"
You took a sip of your drink, narrowing your eyes. "Maybe."
Dean laughed, a sound like instantly made your heart stammer, and plucked the glass from your hands. "Alright, s'enough of that. Come on, before you start exorcise the poor girl."
He stood up and your brows furrowed as your stared down at his outstretched hand. "Where are we going?"
Dean motioned towards the dance floor where almost half the party swayed to the music. "Dance with me."
"Dance? You?" you covered your mouth, muffling your laugh at the thought of Dean slow dancing.
He didn't waste anymore time. Wrapping a gentle hand around your elbow, he pulled you out of your chair and began to lead the two of you towards the center of the ballroom.
His hand slid to yours, shifting your body to gracefully fall into his chest. Dean's other hand was placed delicately at the small of your back. Your head was swimming in pools of alcohol and desire at the feeling of his calloused hand on your skin.
You couldn't help but stare up at him in utter surprise. You knew Dean could be careful, calculated in every movement. You've watched him on hunts—moving through the forest without making a sound. Silently moving through the night like an invisible assassin. But those nights always ended in violence and pain. This was different.
A crooked smile grew on his lips as he gazed down at you. "Told you I'm full of surprises."
Everything else seemed to fade away. Sam's watchful eye from the kitchen doors. Party-goers who had been eyeing you two suspiciously all night—knowing you had no business being in their company. The likely threat a demon was circling in the vicinity, waiting to pounce.
“You look incredible,” he murmured, closer now, like he didn’t want the rest of the room hearing it. “Should’ve said it back at the motel.”
You kept your head flush against his chest to conceal the traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks. "You don't clean up too bad yourself, Winchester."
His finger hooked gently beneath your chin, lifting it just enough that you had to meet his eyes. You can make out every line on his forehead, the shadow of stubble on his cheeks. How pink and soft his lips looked.
"Dean..." you breathed. Your body trembled under his stare.
The humor and sarcasm that always played on his features was long gone, replaced by something you could swear might be desire. For you.
His thumb was still beneath your chin, tracing lightly along your jaw instead of dropping away. His eyes flicked down to your mouth and then back up again.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, voice low enough that it disappeared into the music, “and I’m gonna forget we’re workin’.”
Your pulse kicked harder against your throat.
“Maybe,” you whispered, stepping closer, your hand tightening slightly at the back of his neck, “you should.”
That was all it took.
His restraint snapped in something intangible and then his mouth was on yours.
It was warm and certain and extremely overdue (in your opinion).
The world didn’t disappear like the movies promised. You could still hear the band. Still feel the glide of other couples moving around you. Somewhere across the room, a glass shattered and someone laughed too loudly.
But none of it mattered.
Dean’s hand pressed more firmly at the small of your back, drawing you closer until there wasn’t space for doubt anymore. The kiss deepened, slow and intentional, like he’d been thinking about it for longer than he’d ever admit.
You tilted into him without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair, and for a single reckless moment, you forgot demons. Forgot billionaires. Forgot Sam pretending to care about hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen.
You just felt Dean.
When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. His forehead rested against yours, breath uneven.
“Been wanting to do that for a while," he whispered, almost amused at himself.
You laughed softly. “Should've said something sooner.”
“You know timing's never been my thing, sweetheart.”
As if summoned by the universe itself—a scream ripped across the ballroom.
The music screeched to a halt. The blonde woman you’d accused earlier convulsed violently near the tech table, black smoke spilling from her mouth as guests scattered in shrieking chaos.
Dean sighed.
“You owe me ten bucks.” you said, stepping back. Flicking the slit of your dress open, you snatched the small gun from its holster on your thigh.
“Rain check?” you asked, flashing him a grin.
His eyes dragged over you one more time. “Oh sweetheart,” he said, pulling the demon blade from inside his jacket, “I’m collectin’.”
Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader
Summary: A one night stand has Dean Winchester considering becoming an honest man.
Genre: Fluff, Self-Inflicted Angst, Smut
Content: no Y/N, Dean POV, one night stands, strangers to lovers, Reluctant Wingman!Sam, Dean finally finds you, 1164/9432 words
A/N: Guys, this is the last fic on my backlog for Supernatural. We're officially all caught up with AO3. Unfortunately, that does mean I won't be posting daily anymore.
Fic Masterlist | First Chapter | Previous Chapter
Chapter 6 - Home is Where the Heart Is
It’s a month later when Dean pulls over in a town they weren’t even planning on stopping in. He sees a pretty, red Cadillac parked in the local library’s lot and slams on the brakes like a kid stepped into the road, ignoring Sam’s disgruntled complaints at the reckless driving and veering right so hard he could risk flipping Baby if she wasn’t such an angel to drive. His eyes chase a glimpse of the license plate as he pulls up beside it, and his heart puffs up when he sees that Georgia peach plastered in the center.
He stumbles out of the Impala, leaving Sam in the dust as he rushes up the steps only to pause halfway when the very girl that’s been haunting his dreams steps out of the large, wooden doors. You stop, too, letting the door drift closed behind you as you cross your arms over your chest at the sight of Dean.
“It’s you,” he says, airy with relief.
“It’s you,” you say, tight with apprehension.
“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets as he casually steps up the stairs like he hasn’t been searching high and low for you the past month. “You’re a hard girl to track down.”
“I’m really not,” you say. “I never stray too far from home.”
“Home,” Dean repeats, a bit of pride surging in the back of his mind at being right.
“Not all of us go wherever the wind takes us. Some of us have roots. Mine are here,” you say with a bit of bite in your voice that Dean hasn’t had the reason to become accompanied with before. He has more than enough reason now.
“So, this is where you live?” Dean asks, glancing back at the town behind him that had seemed so plain but with new eyes carries a sort of warmth he’d missed before.
“Uhm, no, actually,” you say quickly, as if eager to shut him down. Dean flips his head back around, warm nostalgia fading under the ice bucket that is your words. “I’m just here for a case, but, you know, Georgia.” You raise your eyes as if the word is all the explanation needed.
“I love peaches,” Dean says.
The comment catches you off guard, stealing a laugh from your lips that breaks through the tension in your face, causing it to fade for just a moment as a smile creeps into your features before you remember to snuff it out. You refurrow your brows and shake the expression away. “What is this?”
“What?”
You roll your eyes. “Come on. What is this?” you ask, gesturing between the two of you. “The small talk? The ‘I wasn’t sure I’d see you again’ when it seemed pretty clear you didn’t want to? What are you getting at here?”
Dean bites his lip. “I, you know.” There’s an apology in his gut that strangles itself in his throat, too tender to survive in the open air. So, instead, he sticks with what’s familiar. He deflects. “I was thinking we could team up again. Worked pretty good last time.”
One eyebrow lifts, and the pinch in your lips before you speak tells Dean that his words don’t work the way he hopes. “I can handle myself.”
“Oh, I know you can,” he insists, hands drawing from the safety of his pockets to surrender. “But sometimes it’s nice to have a little help here and there, right?”
“It was nice. Until it wasn’t,” you say pointedly. The stare you give him is like being thrown into a pot of water as the heat slowly rises. Neither of you say a word until your sharp eyes eat away at him so deeply the shifting on his feet does nothing to ease his anxious heart.
“Look, I . . .” he starts, going nowhere fast.
“You bailed,” you finish for him, looking in the distance before you continue, a twinge in your eye and dip in your chin that hints at the hurt you’re holding back. Hurt he put there. “And I could get that, us being a one time thing. I did get that. But now, you’re acting all charming again like it didn’t even happen. Like I’m supposed to forget you disappeared on me.”
“It’s not like you gave me your number,” Dean defends, always quick to bite when a hand is raised. Too quick, from the immediate guilt that floods his stomach at the way he’s instinctively tried to put this on you.
“It’s not like you asked for it,” you bite back.
“Okay. Okay,” he resigns. “The truth is . . .”
The door behind you opens as a patron steps out of the library, saving Dean a second more by giving him the chance to steady his breath. You both nod awkwardly as the person, an old woman with a bag of library books, steps around you. She makes a comment about the “cute couple” that aches like a knife to the heart before walking down the steps, which Dean holds her hand for when she staggers a bit on the first. After, he comes back to you, taking your arm in his grip to gently guide you to the right of the door.
He looks into your guarded eyes, his own pleading with them before the words spill from his lips, finally. “I ran because you scared the hell out of me.”
“Scared you?” you scoff, bitter amusement in the breath. “Big bad hunter is scared of a little TLC?”
Dean doesn’t laugh. “You broke me open. No one’s ever treated me like that, and I didn’t know how to handle it.”
Dean knows you still aren’t getting it by the way the wrinkle in between your eyebrows only deepens.
“For a second, you made it seem like I was something worth caring about. Like you might want me to stay around.”
“And that scared you?”
Dean nods.
You stare at him, and he bites his lip to subdue the uneasy feeling it gives him. Then, the harshness in your face falls, and you shake your head.
“Well, you are worth caring about, and I did want you to stay around, which only made it suck harder when I came out of that bathroom and you were gone.”
“I regretted it,” he says like a promise. “So fucking bad. I’ve spent the past month hauling Sam around Georgia hoping I’d spot a red Eldorado somewhere along the way.”
“You really do like peaches,” you say with a laugh, and the laughter, he knows, is forgiveness.
Dean laughs, too, because forgiveness has made him lighter than air. “You could say that.”
“Well, you should know I actually have a house not too far from here, and I also happen to know a good recipe for peach cobbler. If you’d wanna stop by sometime.”
“Please, God.”
Dean wouldn’t mind a place to come home to, as long as that place had you.
Surrender to Dreams Taglist: @vampire-kissi3s
Supernatural Taglist: @mrrayjay
Dean Winchester Taglist: @itzpixiebabe
