Callsign: Starfire💫☄️✨

|29|she/her|currently obsessed with Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw,Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin,Tyler Owens,Steve Harrington,Dean Winchester,etc|AUDHD|currently struggling through life|

[katiemcrae]

❝ just a girl in love with fictional men ❞

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟcurrently semi-inactive ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟwelcome new followers!･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Hiii guys I finally made a masterlist type post! Full credit goes to @lewmagoo for the inspiration for my masterlist 🥹🫶🏻💗

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟabout me ･✧*:･ﾟ✧

Katie ✧ 29 ✧ she/her ✧ unemployed freestyle~writer and daydreamer ✧ AUDHD(self diagnosed autistic) ✧ disabled

my current fics on wattpad:

Strange Magic~ Steve Harrington

Chasing the Storm Chaser~ Tyler Owens

Take My Breath Away~ Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin(TBA!!)

Safe Haven~ Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw(TBA!!)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟmy socials ･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

twitter: wanderiingwitch ✧ instagram ✧ wattpad: katiemcrae96

[isabelle-leclerc]

Protector

Summary: During a busy shift at County General, medical student Yn is assigned to treat a patient on her own while the rest of the team handles another emergency. When the situation suddenly takes an unexpected turn, the ER staff quickly comes together to protect one of their own.

Relationship: S1!John Carter x medical student!reader

Pit Stop: requests are open!

The afternoon rush had settled into the familiar rhythm of County General’s Emergency Room, every monitor beeping in a different cadence while stretchers rolled in and out of trauma bays. Yn sat beside a middle-aged construction worker with a six-centimeter scalp laceration, carefully irrigating the wound before placing another neat interrupted suture. Doctor Benton had assigned her the straightforward case before disappearing with Carter to assist on an elderly woman who had arrived in respiratory distress. Lydia stood nearby documenting the treatment, smiling as Yn chatted reassuringly with the patient. Across the room, Carol and Haleh exchanged amused looks because, as usual, every nurse seemed to have unofficially adopted the sweet, hardworking student into the ER family.

“You’re doing nice work,” Lydia said as she handed Yn another packet of 4-0 nylon. “Dr. Benton actually complimented your knot tying earlier. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Yn laughed quietly. “I think that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.” “That was a compliment?” Carol called from the desk. “For Dr. Benton? Absolutely,” Haleh answered with a grin.

The patient chuckled. “Well, I think she’s doing a beautiful job. You’re a beautiful doctor.” “I’m not a doctor yet,” Yn replied politely while tying another square knot. “Just a medical student.” “Still beautiful.” “Thank you,” she answered professionally. “Now hold still for me.”

Lydia checked the supply cart before frowning. “We’re almost out of antibiotic ointment in here. I’ll grab another tube and some fresh gauze.” “Could you bring another saline syringe too?” Yn asked. “You got it, honey. I’ll be right back.”

As Lydia disappeared into the supply room, the bay suddenly felt much quieter despite the chaos outside. Yn leaned closer to inspect the wound edges, completely focused on obtaining good approximation without excess tension. The patient watched her instead of the ceiling, his expression slowly changing from friendly to something that made her uncomfortable. She noticed it immediately but continued working, hoping he would remain cooperative.

“So,” the man said with a crooked smile, “you got a boyfriend?” Yn kept her eyes on the suture. “I’m just concentrating on getting your head stitched up.” “That’s not an answer.” “It also isn’t relevant to your treatment.” “I bet somebody as pretty as you has guys lining up.” She tied another knot and cut the suture. “Sir, I’d appreciate it if we kept the conversation about your injury.” “Oh, come on. Don’t be so serious.” “I’m being professional.” “I like that.”

Yn reached for another suture, her voice remaining calm. “Please stop flirting with me.” Instead of stopping, the man leaned slightly toward her despite the instructions to stay still. “Maybe after your shift we could get a drink.” “I’m not interested.” “You didn’t even think about it.” “I don’t need to. The answer is no.” He laughed dismissively. “Everybody says no first.” Yn finally looked him directly in the eye. “I’m telling you clearly that I’m not interested. Please respect that.”

For a moment he seemed to settle back against the stretcher, and Yn returned to the repair, believing the conversation had ended. The silence lasted only a few seconds before she felt fingers suddenly wrap around her wrist with surprising force. Her breath caught as the patient yanked her closer, making the chair beneath her scrape loudly across the floor. His grip tightened enough that she instantly felt pain radiating through her forearm.

“You’re prettier up close,” he murmured. “Let go of my wrist.” “You don’t have to act shy.” “I said let go.” When he pulled harder instead of releasing her, Yn reacted instinctively by standing up so abruptly that her rolling stool shot backward and crashed onto its side. The loud clatter echoed across the nurses’ station, instantly drawing several heads toward the treatment bay. Yn stood as tall as she could despite her trapped arm, keeping her voice firm and unmistakably loud.

“Let go of me.” “No.” “Let go. Now.” The patient frowned as if offended by her refusal. “You’re making a scene.” “You are hurting me.” Before the man could say another word, someone moved rapidly between the curtains. John Carter had heard the chair hit the floor while assisting Benton nearby, and the urgency in Yn’s voice erased any hesitation. He crossed the bay in two quick strides, immediately seeing the patient’s grip around her wrist.

“Release her,” Carter ordered sharply. The man scoffed. “Mind your business, boy.” “This is my business.” “I’m just talking to her.” “You’re grabbing her.” The patient tried pulling Yn closer again, but Carter stepped forward and firmly pried the man’s hand away before positioning himself between them. “You do not touch hospital staff without permission.” The patient sat upright angrily. “Don’t push me.” “You’ve already assaulted her.” “What?” “Stay on the stretcher.”

The raised voices had already attracted more help. Doctor Greene entered almost immediately with Malik close behind, both recognizing the situation before anyone had to explain it. Mark’s calm expression hardened as he looked directly at the patient. “What happened?” “He grabbed her wrist,” Carter answered. “I barely touched her,” the patient protested. Malik folded his arms. “Funny. Doesn’t look that way.” Mark pointed firmly toward the mattress. “Lie back now.” “I’m leaving.” “No, you’re staying until we determine you’re medically cleared,” Mark replied evenly. “And security is on the way.” “I didn’t do anything.” “You grabbed a member of our staff after she repeatedly told you no.”

The patient muttered under his breath but reluctantly settled back while Malik remained beside him, making it obvious that another attempt would not succeed. Mark began assessing whether additional sedation or restraints would be necessary while calmly explaining the hospital’s expectations. Carter, meanwhile, had already turned all of his attention toward Yn, whose breathing was finally beginning to steady now that she was no longer trapped.

“Can I see your wrist?” he asked gently. Yn nodded. He carefully lifted her hand, taking care not to squeeze where the patient had held her. A faint reddish outline of fingers had already begun darkening into purple beneath her skin. Carter rotated her wrist only slightly, stopping the instant she winced.

“Does that hurt?” “A little.” “Here?” “Mostly there.” “I don’t think it’s broken.” “No,” she whispered. “Just sore.” “You’ll probably bruise.” “I figured.” “You should still have someone examine it.” Yn managed a small smile despite everything. “Thank you, John.” He looked almost embarrassed. “You don’t have to thank me.” “I do.” “I didn’t really do anything special.” “You came.”

Before Carter could think of another awkward reply, Yn leaned forward and placed a quick grateful kiss against his cheek. His entire face froze in complete surprise, his ears turning bright red almost instantly. For several long seconds he simply stared at her, speechless, while she smiled warmly despite the aching wrist.

“You’re welcome,” he finally managed. Carol appeared beside them with Haleh only a heartbeat later. Carol gently took Yn’s uninjured hand while Haleh already had an ice pack wrapped in a towel. “Come on, sweetheart,” Carol said softly. “Let’s get that wrist looked at.” “I’m okay.” “We know,” Haleh replied. “Humor us anyway.” Carol glanced toward Carter with an approving smile. “Nice job.” He blinked. “I… thanks.” “We’ve got her from here.”

As the nurses guided Yn toward an empty treatment chair, she looked back once and gave Carter another grateful smile. He instinctively lifted his hand in a shy wave before realizing everyone was watching him. His expression remained completely dazed, somewhere between relief and disbelief, while Carol and Haleh disappeared around the corner discussing ice, elevation, and documenting the workplace injury.

John continued staring after them until a familiar voice broke through his thoughts. “Carter!” He turned abruptly. Doctor Benton stood beside him with his arms crossed. “You finished admiring the scenery?” John blinked again. “What?” “The patient in Curtain Three still needs a central line.” “Oh. Right.” Benton studied him for half a second before speaking in his usual dry tone. “You did the right thing.” John looked mildly surprised. “But standing here daydreaming won’t help anybody.” “Yes, Dr. Benton.” “And Carter?” “Yes?”

Benton allowed the smallest hint of approval to cross his face. “Next time, get back to work five seconds sooner.” John couldn’t suppress a sheepish smile. “Yes, Dr. Benton.”

[pixopix]

i would love to see some sims 2 inspired dividers!!

Please credit @pixopix, likes and reblogs are appreciated!

Final gif snipped from here.

[pxrce-lain]

⎯ ׅ ‌꒰۪۪ ᩧ heisei retro dividers 𑣲 like & reblog

[strangergraphics-archive]

bat themed dividers for @stevesxyellowxsweater

please like, reblog and credit if you use. thanks! 💕

[strangergraphics-archive]

steve harrington dividers:

please like, reblog and credit if you use. thanks! 💕

[uzmacchiato]

Drumrolls 🥁😁 I've been meaning to create these since a long time 😍

Some of these don't exactly look like stained glass but I liked the designs, so I kept them🥲

Feedback is appreciated as always🫶🏻

IMPORTANT : If you use these dividers please tag @uzmacchiato for credit in the post you use it.

➡️ 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ✨

CENTERED SMALL :

CENTERED LONG :

BANDS :

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Please don't use without providing credit to the account mentioned above.

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Please support by Reblogging, Liking or Subscribing.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 73 - Someway, Somehow

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter 72✦

✦summary: you look for dean✦

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

✦author's note: happy season 8! we're offically off the canon rails✦

You know this bleak, fog ridden land. It haunts the edges of nightmares you don’t tell Dean about. It lingers in the back of your head all the time, under a beach of stones that cover a million more worlds like it.

Some of them are lined with flowers in pots and sunbeams on a kitchen floor. A few are made of hanging gardens and an infinite sky, or a lush castle with high ceiling and higher walls and sacred broom closets. There’s the one made of secret kisses in the back of a familiar car, and sneaking around under beds and down alleyways until you get caught. There’s the one where Dean’s face presses into your neck and he paws at your clothing like a dying man, while you both kiss like you can’t stand to spare a moment for breath. There’s the one where you burn and he never falters, and he holds you, crumpled on the floor and thrashing in his arms.

Then there’s this one. It’s a deep cut, washed out into the Riptide and neglected in favor of whiskey and corset strings that Dean grabs onto like a leash, the same way he wears a lipstick stain like a collar. Neglected in favor of reality. Painful, blunt and rusted reality, that twists in your gut and never lets the infection heal.

And this—this dark, gothic land, with blood red curtains and goblets that shine next to plates that collect dust—this world becomes enough.

It’s all you have left.

You sweep through long halls in a dress that flows behind you, covering the shadows with lace and silk. You run out to the empty yard and slam into Dean, right where you knew you’d find him. Standing with the stake in his hand that he drops, in favor of spinning you off the ground and cradling your trembling body. One hand cups the back of your head, and the other digs into your hips. You trip trying to pull yourself closer, and drops a thick arm under your thighs, hauling you up into his arms.

He’s warm. So warm you let yourself pretend this is real. You bury your face in his neck and dig your nails into his neck. Wherever he is—the real Dean—you hope he can feel the dull, claiming pain. You hope he knows that you brush wet, swollen and tear stained lips over the crescent dents after, trying to push them a little deeper into his skin. You’re allowed to be possessive and selfish here.

Because, no matter how much it hurts you to know, it’s not real. 

Dean guides your face away from his neck, tugging your hair gently, forcing your gaze onto his. Tired, glassy eyes flicker like a jumping engine, a heart being shocked back to life. His mouth works in that tiny way, where he’s trying to think of something to say but only seems to know how to touch. He brushes your hair once, twice, and third time with this thumb sweeping over your cheekbone, his lips parting with a long, broken sigh.

You press a tender, worried kiss to his lips, and he snaps. His hand fists in your hair. He stumbles back like he’s been punched, kissing you until you’re both breathless and drunk on a phantom taste. He trips his way to a soft pile of grass in the courtyard, somehow managing not to come up for air. Dean lands flat on his ass and holds you over his chest, attacking your neck and jaw with brutal lips, sucking tiny bruises before flicking his tongue over the ache. You dig your fingers into his hair, biting back wrecked moans.

Dean grabs your chin, squeezing your cheeks and shooting you a stern, lust-blown glare.

“Don’t be like that, Princess,” he mutters, grazing his mouth over your puckered lips. “I gotta hear you. Lemme hear you.”

He traces his fingers teasingly up your side and nips at your lower lip. You let out a high, pathetic whine, and he smirks.

“There she is.”

Dean kisses you again, before gliding his mouth back down. There isn’t an inch of your skin he doesn’t seem determined to mark. Your moans echo off the courtyard walls, and his grunts vibrate against your skin, sending tiny, sweet shivers up your spine. Your shirt gets peeled off, so he can mouth at your breasts. He traces the curve of your ass and sits you right on the growing bulge in his pants, but never does anything more than rock his hips.

If Sam ever got a peak in your head, he’d vomit and then say something about you not even letting yourself feel good in a useless fantasy, and then you’d punch him in the face. Holding Dean after he cuts off the… other stuff, it’s just as good as anything else. You just need him, really. To be close for a fleeting hour of rapid sleep, where you can trace over his Golden features and beg the stains on your skin to keep you dirty, because the idea of being clean sounds so harrowing you think it might eat you alive.

“You doing alright up there?” Dean murmurs against your skin, his face buried between your breasts, and you nod.

There’s a long, aching sting at your eyes. You hug his head and breathe deeply, trying to burn the sweet smell of cinnamon into your nostrils. 

Dean says your name, splaying his fingers on your lower back. He tries to lean back, but you hold him in a headlock, the tears streaming down your cheeks. He grunts and pries at your forearms, grabbing your wrists with light hands and forcing your grip to slacken. He smiles faintly, at your scrunched up, snotty nose and red eyes. It’s tired. Everything about him seems tired, but he still smiles, as if you’re the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, taking both of your hands between his. “It’s gonna be alright, you’re gonna be alright.”

He kisses his knuckles, trapping yours, and you sob so hard it shakes your body. You’re not worried about you. You’ve learned, for better or worse, that you really always will get through it. The universe doesn’t seem all that open to letting you tread down that other path.

But you’re worried about him. You’re worried about him in a way that almost cleaves you in half, that threatens to be the only thing that could possible overrule the universe, that frays the already weak threads that stich up whatever foul, glorious thing you’re made of. You’re held together by hooks and needles, at this point. You’re twisting yourself into knots that half ease right here, in Dean’s arms, but all that happens is your heart spills and spills and spills, until the rotting grass is overgrown and stained with silver dew.

Dean glances down, but doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t say much but soft reassurances, until you’re able to speak again. His thumb pets down the bridge of your nose, and—if you’re shaking so much the ground starts to shake with you—he flips you onto your back and hold you until you the weight makes you breathe.

Tonight is one of those nights. He traces over your face with the most cautious touch, his face twisted with a heavy, painfully blatant longing. Hooded eyes shine, scanning over your crumpled features. His mouth hangs open, like he’s trying to inhale you, the same way you hold his fisted hand over your lips. Just trying to get a little extra of something you’ve never been able to be satisfied with. Something that’s never going to be able to be close enough.

“Better?” He rasps, when your breathing steadies. You shake your head, your lips wobbling and he sighs. “Yeah, I know.” He kisses your brow, brow knitting like he’s in pain. “I know.”

He never tells you much, but there isn’t much your brain seems to need to hear. Sam’s alive. They’re working to get back. Dean loves you, and he swears up and down and left and right, on his both his babies—you and the damn car—and his mother and brother and Scooby Doo boxers and Led Zepplin cassettes, that he’s going to come home and say it to your face again. You tell him he already has, and he laughs and tells you that you have no idea. He asks you about things, every single time. How’s Claire. How’s Jo. Are you talking to Cas again, have you spoken to Eileen at all, has Crowley come crawling out from underground. You tell him the truth, and sometimes he makes a face like he wants to argue. Sometimes he does argue, and you think you miss him so much you’re going mad.

“You gotta talk to Cas, sweetheart, who the hell knows what the angels are up to-“

“No.”

Dean sighs your name, and you shove his chest with a flat hand.

“You talk to him, if it’s so important.”

“I’d like to,” Dean mutters under his breath. “Could tell him to talk some sense back into your smart ass.”

You shove him again, and he just catches your wrist and guides it away.

“I’m serious,” he says, strict and heavy, even as he drags his thumb over your knuckles and uses a soft, coaxing tone. “If I get back and you’re still fightin’ with Cas, I’m gonna be pissed.”

And you just hold his gaze, your throat closing up so tight the words have to break to get out. “So come back,” you whisper. “And prove it.”

India is hot in the middle of April. Wet and hot, mud always coating your boots and dirt getting under your nails, a sticky warmth filling up your lungs with every breath, a million smells that remind you of Dean flooding your senses and making you press your lips tight enough to crack.

He’d love it here. The people and the food, the bartering and the TV and, again, the food. He’d pull you through the markets with your hands locked, spending half an hour talking to one seller about his fish before storming off for a reason he sputters trying to explain. You’d kiss his cheek and ask if he wants to go fishing. He’d light up like a child and drag you back to the hotel, kissing all over your face as you stumble through the door, giggling like a lovesick fool in his arms.

Instead, you lean against the old table in the warehouse, sharpening your knife and ignoring the muffled curses of the man in the chair. Bobby’s bottle shines green, in the dim, flickering light. You kick your bag a little away from your feet, dancing and humming while you wait for everyone to calm the hell down.

For him, specifically, to calm down. You tied him up in the nice binds, you’ve given him a lot of wiggle and breathing room—Jo was worried he’d get out, you know he won’t—and brought him some very expensive and stolen lamb that he didn’t get to eat, because he tried to bite your fingers off. He’d have it pretty good, if he’s stop overreacting. You’re the one who should be freaking out, and you’re perfectly calm. The Silver is bright and smooth and calm, iced over your veins and melded into your muscles. It moves when you move, and screams when you scream, and it’s like learning to walk all over again, but you’re doing it. And you’re calm.

Psychotic, the man before this one said. You sliced his hand open and dripped salt on the wound, for that one. It wasn’t the claim, but the way he said it. Like you were just some crazy, scorned bitch. Which another former captive called you, and he lost his tongue, but he’d also crossed your very, very clear line about Claire, so you think he earned it.

That’s why this one can call you whatever the fuck he wants. You’ve been called worse, and you’re past caring what kind of whore or slut or bitch or cunt you have to be. If anything, it’s a compliment. It means they’re afraid.

The man spits something, then chokes and thrashes the chair. The chains rattle unpleasantly against the floor, and you shoot him an unimpressed look.

“Neal, I can’t understand you,” you remind him, and his eyes narrow. “And remember what we talked about? Good behavior?

Neal’s face curls and contorts into something like a sneer. You sigh and spin your knife in your hand, pushing off the table with a tiny kick of your feet.

“This,” you wave the blade over his general, rather rude demeanor. “Isn’t good behavior. This isn’t how we earn speaking privileges again, buddy. I don’t want to have to remind you again.”

Neal’s eyes flash with fury. He growls something and you stop right in front of him, crossing your arms and scanning over his locked down body with a frown. He’s been here almost two weeks, and all you’ve really gotten is an uncooperative attitude and a lot of insulting comments about your body. You would’ve thought he’d give up after a while. The rest of them did.

You tap your foot and chew on your lower lip. Neal’s gag is getting dirty, but it didn’t exactly start clean. Maybe you’d soaked it in dirty dish water, before stuffing it in his mouth. He deserved it. He made a comment about Claire that he was lucky to survive.

Luck that came with being one of the last Alphas left. If there had been hundreds of them before, the count is down to double digits. You, Cas, and Crowley sort of did a lot of damage to the population, leaving only the smart ones that evaded capture, and know to stay underground. Those are the ones like the Alpha Vampire, who you haven’t been able to find after months of looking.

And then there are the ones who didn’t get caught because they were too stupid to be worth it.

The ones like Neal.

There isn’t a corner of the Earth you don’t think is worth ripping up to find Dean. For a week after Michigan, you thought God might have taken him. Jo barely managed to talk you down from truly, fully losing it, and she only got the chance because of your exhaustion from killing Eve.

“You felt God grabbin’ me, right?” She’d said, holding your hands and pleading in a way that was so unlike Jo, you’d managed to focus on her words. “You told me, you felt God yankin’ me away, just like you felt my mom. Like you felt him tryin’ to grab Bobby. You woulda stopped him, if he was goin’ for Sam and Dean. You woulda,” she’d squeezed your hand, even as you’d stared at her with empty eyes. “I know it. You know it. Hell, God himself knew it, so- Wasn’t him.”

You’d blinked at her, and nodded slowly. She was right. It couldn’t have been God. He’d vanished from the sky again, so you couldn’t ask, but you knew. One of the only things that had saved you, in that moment, was that you hadn’t been wrestling with God to pull Sam and Dean back. You would’ve detonated, if you had. But instead they’d just vanished, and you’d been hit by the despair before the wrath.

It had been long. Long and harrowing and cold, in the week after. Jo says you barely spoke, and you have to believe her, because you don’t really remember that much otherwise. It’s all a blur of a bed that didn’t have the warmth it was supposed to, showers that you were afraid to take and scars of Gold you traced with trembling, fearful fingers. The only sharp memory is the fight with Cas, and even that is sanded around the edges. You’d drifted until Jo reminded you that it couldn’t be God, and it had been like slamming against a rock. 

If it wasn’t God, it was something else. Something weaker.

You could kill something weaker. You could do it without destroying yourself, and dragging the rest of the world down with you. You could get Dean home.

In the days after that, you’d moved fast. Kevin had been sent off with Meg, who promised to keep him away from Crowley. You and Jo had packed up Bobby’s house and left, looking for something. Anything, that would even tell you where Dean had landed. That would tell you how to get him home.

“Listen,” Meg had said before you separated, low and careful. “Things like that bone? My daddy told me to be careful with them.” She’d given you a pointed look. “Told me they had kickback.”

Kickback.  

A rebound of power, Rowena had explained. An aftertaste, but everyone in a few yards gets it shoved down your throat. Dean and Sam got dragged somewhere. All you had to do was drag them back.

Which means all you have to do is figure out where they got dragged.

It’s a harder task, than you originally thought. You’ve gone after countless people and beasts and entities for answers. God convicts who were willing to talk without anyone needing to be tortured, rogue angels who looked for you to help, demons who you trapped and witches and cult members who got to find out exactly how many of the rumors have been true. And in all of them, from the annoying to the unless to the rude, Neal is, by miles and margins, the fucking stupidest.

“I’m going to take out your gag,” you tell him slowly, leaning down over his chair. “You’re not going to call me any names, I won’t cut out your tongue, and we all win, okay?”

Neal eyes the weapon, inches from slicing his cheek. You smile sweetly and flick your wrist, taking out a lock of his hair, and he flinches. Like a little fucking bitch.   

“Okay?” You prompt again, and his throat bobs.

He nods. You beam, and saw at his gag with a wide smile. The cloth falls and you let it hang around his neck, watching with raised brows and a warning curve to your lips. Neal glares at you, and you tip your head, letting your hair brush over his cheeks. He recoils back, his breathing shallow and hot over your face, and you smile in slow, smug satisfaction.

“That’s a good boy,” you purr, drawing yourself back up.

Neal—the idiot—snaps.

“You little fucking bitch-“

“Ah,” you slam the gag back up to his mouth, choking him on the fabric. His eyes flicker, hatful and beady and small. You sigh. You really wanted to do this the easy way. “That’s not what we talked about,” you tug the fabric tighter, and he grunts. “I’m being very nice right now, and you- You didn’t even eat the food I bought you! Do you know how hurtful that is?” You roll your eyes. “And- Even if I didn’t buy it, I still got it for you. And you call me a bitch? Rude.”

You shove him back and let go of the gag, taking a large step back before he can spit in your face.

He tries. He always tries, because he’s an idiot. You dodge it without blinking, but it lands only a few inches away from Bobby’s bottle. The old wood sizzles and hisses under the venom. You turn back around with a furious flurry and rage in your chest, a growing winter storm that Neal seems to feel, with how he goes still.

“Do you know what happens?” You ask slowly. “If you destroy that bottle.”

Neal opens his mouth. You don’t give him a real chance to respond.

“I kill you,” you spit, taking a large step forward. Neal’s fingernails and lips are starting to go purple. The warehouse creaks under your feet, as slow frost spreads over your feet.

“I didn’t hit the damn bottle,” Neal tries to snap, but it’s weak. His voice cracks, and his eyes are too wide. You hold a finger to your lips and shake your head. He swallows loud enough that you can hear it, and you smile.

“I kill you,” you repeat, honeyed and low. “And then I track down every one of your children, and I kill them too. Then I open Purgatory, and I kill all of you all over again. Do you understand.”

Neal’s eyes narrow. For a second, you think he really might be stupid enough to test you, but he only nods.

“Great,” you spin you knife, kneeling down to his height. “See? Isn’t it easy to listen to me?”

Neal’s mouth ticks. He still doesn’t speak, and you sigh.

“Now, I know you’re going to try and tell me you have no idea where the Leviathan bone goes, but if you do that, I’m going to have to cut off your hand. And I don’t wanna do that. It’s gross, it smells bad, now I have to get rid of a hand- You get it,” you shrug. “So, if you’d be so perfectly kind to think a little bit harder, maybe we can figure out a version of this where you only lose your finger.”

The column of Neal’s throat works. His jaw does a funny little motion, and you grab his cheeks with a sigh, pressing the knife to his throat.

“I told you to stop doing that, it’s not going to work.”

“Fuck-“ Neal pushes out the words through his teeth little bits of spittle landing on your skin.

It burns, but the sores heal in seconds. Cockatrice venom doesn’t do much to you, apparently. It’s still annoying to have to heal it.

“Fuck- You-“

“Everyone’s trying,” you say dryly, pressing the knife down until a thin bead of blood coats the blade. “Where is my Dean.”

“I’ve told you, I don’t fucking know-“

“Liar,” you lean closer, eyes narrowing. “I know you’re a liar, I know what Mommy taught you, I- I fucking know-“

Your voice breaks, and the frozen coating over your hands is giving way to pure, raw wrath. You will get him back. You have to get him back. There is nothing ahead of you, if you don’t get Dean home. This power is useless if you can’t find him, life is useless if you have to feel all of it but you don’t get to have something that’s just yours, everything has been nothing if you don’t get to have Dean.

And Neal sees it, between the shattered cracks of the Silver, waxing and waning like an ocean storm, crashing up high enough that the chains turn to roots and the pain under all of it becomes so obviously, dangerously clear.

Most Alpha and demons caved under it. They’d been trying to barter or mock, not understanding that the rumors about you and Dean didn’t cover the thinnest scope of your love. You’ve long learned that people talk about the Winchesters and their strange little monster. The demon boy and his black eyes and breakdowns. The brute hunter that carves through anything in his way, to get to his baby brother and his girl.

The Magdalene. The Whore. The Bride, who’s stuck herself to the brother’s side and sleeps in the brute’s bed. They say everything about you and Dean. That you fuck like rabbits, that he sits at your feet like a dog, that you follow him around like a lovesick schoolgirl and crawl into his lap with blood on both your hands.

And yet it takes that peak behind your fury, for them to get it. To understand that they are not looking at some tragic little star-crossed love, some Bonnie and Clyde pairing that talks big and shoots bigger.

They are looking at a Horror. They are looking at something that can’t fit in their little minds, who could sweep over lands and mold them in her name, who could hold the stars in her hands or bring paradise to the earth, but only wants one, perfect, sweet idiot of a man.

And you don’t have him right now. There’s no Dean, to tell you that you need to sleep, or breathe, or think your plan through a little bit harder. They call him the Brute Winchester, but he was the only thing that could ever get you to bow your head for a leash. He could’ve saved them. He’s not here, so there’s nothing but you, and an unending pain that you need the world to fucking feel.

Neal sees it. He blinks and leans back, under the blinding floodlight of the truth. They all do.

But most of them see it as something like a supernova, that’s going to consume them if they don’t look for cover or cower.

Neal is an idiot. Neal smiles.

“You don’t know how to get him back, do you,” he coos. “Little Whore, bragging about killing Eve and not even able to find her little boyfriend. You’re what they’re afraid of. You can’t even track him like the fucking mutt you’re supposed to be.”

You cover Neal’s mouth with your hand. Your eyes squeeze shut, your breathing shallow, your palm burning at Neal tries to bite it.

You are the weight of the roots under your feet, happy to be alive, to be connected, to grow instead of sink. You’re the cold fear of the ground, worried the heat will come, but won’t be enough to thaw it. You’re the sky far overhead, filled with so much it’s not sure what to call itself, unsure what it even is if not empty.

It is everything. You are everything. The leather cord of Dean’s amulet is stuck to your skin, trying to hold onto you when he can’t, and you are everything.

This Alpha is nothing. So you make him everything too.

When you open your eyes, Neal is frozen. His eye sockets have been overgrown with flowers that burst from under the lids and through the pupils. Grass and thin weeds grow under his nails. You uncover his mouth, and branches burst forward, a million tiny birds taking off in a swarm. You wipe the trickle of water that falls down his chin and sigh.

Better than the last one. He got a little too confident, said that Dean was probably hiding from you, or begging God to take you so you’d leave him alone, and got turned into a pile of brushel and kindle that burned rather easily, to nothing but flecks of ash in the air. You think Dean would be proud of you for controlling it. Neal only got turned into a blooming corpse, once he earned it.

And he was wrong. He was wrong. You press your hands flat against the table and take deep breaths, repeating it over and over and over. Pushing the thought out of your head like a parasite being fished up your throat. You will get Dean back. There is nowhere in the universe that you can’t reach, no cage you can’t rip open to get back to his side. Lucifer and Michael couldn’t hold you. Some little rebound of a magic bone isn’t going to out preform God’s favorite sons.

But it has. You haven’t found him.

But you will. You will. You chew on the inside of your cheek until you taste blood. Your fingers twitch and curl, trying to burrow into your palms, and you scrape them along the table instead. It starts to hurt, the pressure building under your skin and bubbling over in your chest. It hurts more than the brief sting or stab of a bite or cut ever would. You squeeze your eyes shut and grab your knife, driving it straight into the wood. You lean over, rubbing your face like you can push back the burn in your eyes and heavy stress on the bridge of your nose. A dam, threatening every second to break.

You pinch it and try to breathe slow. If you let yourself drown in the blood, pounding in your ears, you can almost hear Dean’s voice, coaching you through it.

In and out. Easy for me, Princess. Just breathe. I’ve got you.

He doesn’t have you. He said he was going to. He said he wouldn’t leave and now you’re fucking alone, suffocating on thick air in a warehouse, grabbing at wood like it’s not just going to rot under your fingers, and you’re not about to slip away into nothing, nothing, nothing, you’re going to be nothing again and you should’ve saved him, why didn’t you save him, what foul kind of use are you to the world if you can’t save the best thing about it, if you can’t do anything but cry and run around and be nothing-

Your breathing is ragged. Sharp. There’s a dull sting to your palms, and you open your eyes to find you’d started scratching at your palms until you drew thin lines of blood. You swallow, a boulder settling in your throat that you’ve never been able to dislodge alone. Bobby’s bottle shines in your periphery, knocked onto its side and cradled in a little nest of grass and leaves. Containing yourself when you use your powers- It’s a work in progress. You right the bottle with a mumbled apology you know he’s never going to be able to hear.

And you think you almost got away with it. You drag Neal’s body out back, and flick Dean’s lighter until you’ve got a sweet little flame going. You watch it for a moment, bending light in the sunrise. It seems to know you’re not Dean, whenever you use it. There’s a shadow of distrust that almost puts it out, but then it realizes it’s you, and that seems to be close enough.

You know it sounds crazy—even for you—but all of Dean’s things miss him. You wear his shirts to bed, trying to pretend he’s still there to hold you in the dark, and the fabric clings to the Gold on your skin the same way you cling to its collar, inhaling every last bit of cinnamon and grass until you can almost pretend Dean is there. You have his keys in your pocket, and they keep begging you to drive back to  an empty home. They seem to think that he’ll be there, and don’t listen when you tell them that he’s gone. He never goes, they demand. He’s just waiting for you at home. And you shake your head and clean his guns—and you do a bad job, but he’ll fix it when he gets home—and they seem to be the same kind of restless he is, where they’re itching for something to get in front of. Something to defend. They ask you with every touch, if your safe. They beg you to let them help, when you tell them you’re fine. The bullets say they exist to lodge in the skulls of your enemies. You tell them they’re being a little dramatic, and put them back in Dean’s actual bullet box with a sigh.

And you really, really almost get away with it.

Neal’s body burns, and you throw the rest of it into the backwoods river, asking the water to carry it where no one will ever find. You go back inside and clean up, rubbing your eyes and fighting a yawn. You’ve been up all night. Your eyes are drooping and your skin is raw and sensitive, a live nerve that wants to peel off your iron-heavy bones. There isn’t an artery in your chest and neck that isn’t trying to burst. A joint or tendon in your gut or legs that doesn’t want to snap. You hold it together, with the thinnest of wires. You jabbed them through every inch that threatens to unravel and pull them tight, because you don’t have the privilege of falling apart.

But you’ve never been lucky enough, to not have something go rancid and soft. To not trip over the only loose stone, and plunge face first into freefall.

You stuff all your tools and knives—you lost the Blade, throwing it at Dick Roman’s eye, and replaced it with a smaller set Claire found in China—into the bag. You wrap Bobby’s bottle in a woven cloth and wedge it between your books. You check the ground for anything else, and there it is. The loose stone. The branch that your wire catches on, that pulls you right apart.

Dean’s box slid a little under the table, when you kicked over the bag. You have to stretch to grab it, and frantically wipe off the quickly gathered dust and cobwebs. Your fingers linger on the latch. Your knees draw to your chest, and you stare at the silver detailing until your vison blurs.

Hot tears land on the back of your hand. A shattered, uncontrollable sob rips from your throat, and your shoulders pull tight. You’re curling into a ball around the box, dropping your face between your legs and shuddering with every single breath. The air feels like it’s burning up in your body. The soil beneath you becomes rich and wet, and the wood behind you mends from time, setting down roots in a place nothing else has been allowed to stay.

You scream so loud it bounces off the walls, and outside, the river seems to scream back. Lightning cracks, somewhere faraway. You scream again, and thunder rolls through the air. It’s loud because it’s trying to find him. Because if it’s loud enough, it will glow like a beacon in the dark, and Dean will come home.

You need him to come home.

It’s a while, before you’re able to stand again. Your legs are shaking, and there are no warm arms to hold you upright. You wipe your own tears, and little dandelions bloom when they hit the muddied earth. You gather yourself, because no one else will, and that was only a fissure. You can stich up a fissure.

A break—a true, untenable break—will not leave a living world in its wake. Not a world that isn’t molded to your hands. Salvation. Damnation.  

You wonder if Azazel knew that the only difference between the two would be whether or not you got to have Dean. You’re sure he didn’t. He would’ve let Dean die in that hospital bed if he did. Long before you could save him. When you weren’t capable of much more than squinting at a soul or stomping out a demon like a spider that jumped on you in the shower.

It would be the easy thing, to let yourself break. But this world deserves better than a righteous blight. There are still things in it, that you can find to be beautiful. The river spit up nuggets of gold, gathered on the bank like shells on a beach. The morning glows like you’re wandering through Dean’s heaven, when the sun splits over green mountains. You have Bobby in your bag, and you’re going to get him back. You have Dean’s box, and if you explode, you’re never going to find out what’s inside.

You’ve been telling yourself you’re waiting for him to be back. You know, deep in your gut, that you just can’t. You can’t name why. You can’t justify it. But you cry when you see it and you don’t want to open it without him.

You don’t want to do any of this without him.

You have to. It’s either that or giving up, and you’ve been running too long to let your feet fail now. You’re going to get through this.

You always do.

The motel you’ve been staying at is on the nicer side. You have a large room and complementary breakfasts. There’s a pool that only has a handful of bugs in it, at any given time. The wallpaper is peeling but the bathroom is clean, and the water pressure is strong, and the beds are covered in so many pillows you can almost shape them into a perfect Dean, whenever you sleep.

Not that you sleep much.

You took three hours, somewhere around twilight, and headed to the warehouse around midnight. You unlock the door and slip inside before anyone should be up.

And yet, waiting for you on the bed with a glare, Claire is wide awake. Her arms are cross and her chin is jutted up in that way Dean used to say was all you. The Lady is curled in her lap, Indy is flopped at her feet, and the Phoenix chick—Sparky, Claire’s been calling him, and you haven’t really been able to stop her—is pecking at her hair. You almost laugh at the absurd sight. Claire doesn’t look that amused.

“Where did you go,” she whisper shouts, and you kick off your shoes with a sigh.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Claire-“

“Yes, I do! What if there was another break-in, what if the police showed up, what if the leviathans came back-“

“Did you have another nightmare?”

Claire scowls. It’s not an accusation, but you know she takes it as one. She’s trying to play up the gum-like toughness Dean always carried with his every word and step. The sense that bending him was impossible, without him snapping back like a rubber band. She’s been doing that hewn, tight jawed expression whenever the police do come around—you dispose a lot of bodies, and people in India are really annoyingly observant—and doesn’t seem open to hearing that you really don’t need her to grow up for this.

If anything, you’re still a little annoyed she talked you into coming. You wanted her to go back to Jody, but she flat out refused. She locked herself in the Firebird and said she’d go on a hunger strike. Jody said she could take her anyway.

A selfish part of you didn’t want to let her out of your sight. Not after Michigan. Not when there were all too familiar bags forming under her eyes, and paranoid twitch that made your heart ache—that reminded you of Sam—every time the wind got a little too loud.

She’d been allowed to come on the rule that she’d listen, stay out of your warpath, and continue with school. Staying out of the warpath just means no hunting. School just means the homeschooling curriculum you stole from Bobby and Rufus. Dean’s going to have some things to say about that, when he gets home. He’ll be welcome to. He can shout at you and argue all he wants, as long as he’s in front of you. As long as you get to hear his voice.

You dump your bag on the floor and bite your cheek. You’re doing your best with what you have. It isn’t much. It’s better than nothing at all.

“Claire,” you say gently, keeping your voice down. Jo’s passed out, in the other bed. If you wake her up, she’s going to have opinions. “It’s okay if you are having nightmares-‘

“I’m not!” Claire snaps, too fast, too loud. Jo stirs a little, and you give Claire a stern look. She swallows and bows her head, her voice dropping back down. “I’m not,” she mumbles. “I- I just couldn’t sleep.”

You sigh, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Indy eerps, rolling onto her back and nosing at your knee. You rub her stomach, watching Claire in your periphery, letting her words linger in the hum of the fan and wet morning air.

“It’s not like I wake up screaming,” Claire grumbles, and your mouth twitches.

“I know.”

“Do you? ‘Cause you keep saying I’m having nightmares, so it sounds like you don’t-“

“Claire.”

She curls back, under your flat stare. You sigh and lean forward, touching her knee lightly. She keeps her gaze locked down, just as stubborn as always.

“I have nightmares,” you say softly, and Claire’s scowl deepens. “Dean has nightmares. And he never wakes up screaming.”

That makes her pause. She looks up with a poorly hidden surprise, pulling at a loose string on her shorts. You smile sadly and squeeze her knee, leaning a little further. Like you’re telling her a secret, even if you’re sure Dean would tell her the exact same.

“I wake up,” you murmur. “Because he’s not making any sounds.”

“That- But-“

“He snores,” your smile turns misty. Tired and fond and a little smooth around the edges, the weight of missing him settling right at the top of your chest. You stave it off for now. For Claire. “He snores like a fucking machine.”

Claire makes a face like she’s trying to fight off a laugh, and your cheeks ache just a little less.

“So when he’s quiet,” you say, watching her carefully. “I know something is wrong.”

Claire presses her lips in a thin line. She stares down at her fingers, and you let out a slow breath.

“He gets stiff. I realize I woke up because he was squeezing me, or lying on top of me, or just- Grabbing me. His face does that frown,” you pinch your face up, trying to mimic Dean’s worried and angry scowl, and Claire’s throat bobs. “And he breathes really heavy, and I- I wake him up. Carefully, but- I know whatever he’s dreaming about- I- I have to get him out of it.”

And it hurts just to think about. It makes every space around you feel bigger, to speak about him. Some small part of your brain thinks that if you do it enough he’ll just appear, but the rest of you knows better, and doesn’t want to talk about him at all. But that little part, it’s loud. It expands and begs, every time you indulge it. Spreading memories in every dip and space in your ribcage, pushing just to the right of your heart until you think you’re going to burst.

You can almost see him, in the longest corners of the room. The sun plays a cruel trick where the golden light takes his shape, and you can’t help yourself from looking. In case it is him. If it is, you’ll need to grab him before he vanishes behind the clouds. Tell him that if you’re not dreaming of him, you’re having nightmares. The boring kind, where you wake up screaming in a pool of sweat that’s already collecting algae, reaching for him and only finding an empty bed, then screaming louder. Nightmares that would make him take your face between his hands, that he could tell you weren’t real. John isn’t going to kill you in front of him and Sam. Bobby’s soul isn’t going to be ripped from your hands like Jo’s. Sam isn’t going to crumble to dust in your arms, falling apart too fast for you to put him back together.

You don’t know what Dean had his nightmares about. They were rare for both of you, when you shared a bed. After you’d wake him up, he’d bury his face in your chest and refuse to speak until the sun rose, his hands mapping your body and his back flexed and tense until he convinced himself he was allowed to relax. Then all you’d get was a kiss and mumbled thanks, before he clambored out of bed for coffee. You always had guesses. You pieced things together from the low, pained groans and pleas that would push themselves out, before you managed to wake him. You have the same kind of guesses about Claire.

But she’ll talk about it when she’s ready. You don’t need to know what the nightmare is about, to seal over the damage for a single day. It’s just a band aide on an open wound, but it will stop the infection. You’ll worry about the scar, when you’re not trying to keep her from being cut wide open again.

“Everyone has nightmares,” you duck, forcing Claire to meet your gaze. “But they’re just nightmares. The leviathans are gone. Jo can handle the police or a monster, and anything else- I won’t let it hurt you. Okay?”

Claire’s silent for a long while, and you wait. You have no time. You’re willing to stretch what you do have thin, for her.

She nods, and you bite back your sharp relief, just squeezing her knee one more time and taking a deep breath through your nose.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You offer, already knowing the answer.

Claire shakes her head. You glance over at Jo, fully knocked out and starfished, obvious to the world around her. You’d been planning to catch a few hours before she and Claire woke up, but the motel has strong coffee, and you’ve slept less for longer.

“You wanna watch a movie?” You offer, and Claire sits up. You laugh, and it’s small but real.

Dean would be proud.

You settle against the headboard, Claire tucked into your side, the Lady padding over and curling between your bodies, and Indy splayed over your legs, her tail whipping back and forth over the sheets. She’s almost the size of a Great Dane, now. It’s getting harder and harder, to sneak her around. You’ll call Rowena later. Ask about a shielding or illusion spell, or make one up if she can’t help.

Sparky stays on Claire’s head. They seem to have developed a bond you’re not willing to try and break. You offer the chick a finger, while Claire picks out a movie, and he nips you, nudges you for a pet, and then immediately turns back to Claire’s hair.

They motel has most of the channels. Claire asks you what you want, but you know she’s just trying to be polite.

“Whatever you want,” you tell her, and she smiles. She picks an old western that’s near the start of its run, and slumps down into the mattress. You only half watch, your eyes lidded and glazed. You’re all but asleep with your eyes open, the voices and music all blending into a white noise that threatens to lull you into sleep.

“Did they help?” Claire asks quietly, and you frown at her, unsure if you heard right. “Whoever you were- With,” she clarifies, still staring at the TV. “Are they going to help you find Sam and Dean?”

The question is so small. So unsure, like she’s not sure that she’s allowed to ask it. You twist the skin of your finger and tip your head back, trying to let the headrest carry the weight of it. The lie. The pair, that you don’t want rolling off of you and poisoning her.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think they might.”

Claire hums, and it doesn’t matter how much she believes you. She relaxes, and that ease leave a wake, settling over your skin and tendons and knotted organs. You let out a breath, and it doesn’t catch in your throat.

You don’t sleep. Not fully. But your eyes fall, and your body goes as loose as it’s allowed, and you drift in and out of the world without so much as a nightmare or tear. Claire knocks out on your arm, and the sun pushes over the sky and through the curtains. The weight of Indy comes and goes. A door creaks, and you twist enough to see Jo gone from the bed before you’re pulled back under. It’s not fruitful sleep. It’s bobbing through the calmest parts of the ocean, able to breathe, never able to fully rest.

You’ll find the land. You’ll make it, if you have to.

For now, you just drift.

Jo’s at the table with a coffee, when you finally drag yourself out of bed. Indy’s sitting at the foot of your bed, watching you with wide, curious eyes. You tuck Claire—fully asleep, but still angled like she’s  trying to watch TV—under the sheets, and pad over to Jo’s side. Indy bounds after you, dropping her chin onto your knee and whining softly. Jo rolls her eyes and pushes the coffee across the table, shooting Indy a distasteful glare.

“She’s actin’ like I let her starve,” Jo grumbles. “I took her out. Got her- Really the biggest fuckin’ fish you’ve ever seen. I mean, I still don’t know how she got the whole thing down, it was-“

She holds her hands up, almost all the way apart, and you laugh softly. “She’s a growing girl-“

“She’s grown big enough. We’re gonna have to make a fuckin’ stable.”

You raise your brows. “We?”

Jo shrugs. You both know who we is, and it’s not anyone in the room. “He will,” she doesn’t say his name. You think, sometimes, she’s worried it will set you off, like cutting the wrong wire on a bomb.

“Sam thinks she’s going to be as big as the house,” you murmur into your coffee, and Jo makes a face.

“That’s too fuckin’ big.”

“Yeah, but- At least Dean will get to build his barn.”

Jo stares at you, for just a little too long. You know she hears it. Dean will. Sam thinks.

“Have I told you he wants to build a barn?” You ask, still not meeting her gaze. Silently begging her, to just go along with it. Just right now, while you can’t bear to do anything else.

“No,” she says slowly. “Don’t think you have.”

“Well, he does. He told me he wants to build a barn, a farm, a house, and a garage. I told him he doesn’t know how architecture works, and he- He just said he’d figure it out.” You laugh to yourself, watery and almost floating through the air. “The annoying thing is he probably will. He’ll skim one book and say he’s got it, and then I’ll blink and he’ll have a house.”

Jo says your name. You ignore her.

“I mean- One time I asked him how he built my car, and he just said he put stuff together in the way that made sense. That doesn’t mean anything, but- It worked. He always makes it work.”

You choke on the last word. Jo reaches for your hand, and you curl it into a tight fist. She mutters your name, and you shake your head, tears pricking at the edge of your eyes.

“Don’t,” you whisper, staring at the table. “Please.”

Jo sighs, but doesn’t say a word. She grabs your hand, and you immediately grab it back, trying not to dig in your nails. You watch the coffee slush around in your mug. It’s going cold. Everything, from the sink pit in the hollow of your chest to the churning in your gut, is going cold. Jo’s hand is warm. It keeps your fingers from shaking, and that keeps the world from shaking with it.

Sometimes, you wonder why she sticks around too. She could’ve gone with Meg or Charlie or Adam. She could’ve gone with the Amazons. Could’ve left to look for her mom, even if you’re more than willing to be Ellen is trapped with God. But Jo just… Stays. So maybe people stay, and you begin to feel like a leech. Draining them to make yourself bigger. Suctioned onto their kindness, unable to do anything on your own.

You’re learning, that sometimes, people just… Love you.

You lean on Jo until you’re both about to topple, and she holds you up until you can drag her off the edge of the cliff. You press Sam until he’s about to break, and he doesn’t try to lock you out or push you away. You run around like a pigeon that can’t quite remember where home is supposed to be, and Bobby waits for you to remember how to turn around and find your way back. You screw up again and again and again, and you learn so slow and love so quietly and spill your guts all over Dean’s hands and chest and thighs, and he just cleans you up and stays. He loves you, without any kind of payment or justification. You rip yourself up to try and find some part of you that’s good enough for him to touch, for any of them to touch, and they just… ask you to put yourself back together.

They love you more with the cracks, even if they let the infection of you creep out. They love you when you’re small and withered, they love you when you’re consuming and so alive you can’t bear it, and you’re learning it in the slowest, hardest way possible. The way that involves contorting into every possible shape, before Dean takes you and tells you he likes this one just fine. The way that has blood under your nails and dirt on your knees and foam at your mouth, snarling and snapped like a rabid animal until you learn to trust the water again. It almost kills you, but the blood dries, and you-

You get better.

You miss Dean with more than you can fit in your heart, but you eat, and try to sleep, and you stick with Jo and Claire. You miss Dean, and—without realizing it, like the crawl of a shadow across the ground—you never doubt if he’s missing you.

“The alpha get us anything?” Jo asks a little before Claire gets up, and you shake your head. “And- You didn’t-“

You give her an apologetic look, and she sighs you name.

“You can’t keep fuckin’ killing them-“

“He was saying some very mean things,” you snap defensively. “You would’ve killed him-“

“Of course I woulda killed him! But you’re supposed to be better than me!”

You nose wrinkles. “No, I’m not-“

“Uh- Yeah. You are.” Jo rolls her eyes, leaning back with a huff. “You’re ‘supposed to torture ‘em and then say, you think that’s bad,” she turns her voice into a mockery of yours, and you frown. “Just wait until you meet my little friend.”

“I’m not Scarface, Jo-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Your mouth falls open. “No, I’m not- I don’t even- I’d never run a drug ring.”

Jo makes a doubtful expression, and squawks when you throw a balled up napkin straight at her head. Indy shoots over the table, cooped up and eager to fetch, and Jo topples back with a shout. You laugh, covering your mouth with a hand, and Jo chucks the napkin right back at your face. You block it.

You don’t block Indy.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Claire sits up, her hair falling over her face, swollen with sleep. You wish you had an answer that wasn’t childish and insane. You don’t, so you take Claire for breakfast, and flip Jo off over your shoulder.

She’s right, in the long run. Maybe you shouldn’t have killed Neal, but there are other Alphas. Other angels, other demons, other pagan gods that can—that will—help you. You don’t let yourself think of another option, for the whole day. You have to help Claire with school. You have to read and get lunch and call Kevin and get dinner. The world might stop when you’re caving in, but when you’re keeping yourself just upright, when you’re rushing through the day like it’s a current, and you’re just waiting to be spat out the other side, time does nothing but plow on forward.

You read anything you can find. You and Jo scout for leads on other Alpha’s, while Claire does her homework with a sour expression. You look online, Jo makes a few more calls on leads. If you didn’t know better, every day would just feel like a very long, strange case.

“What was that thing you were tellin’ me about?” Jo asks, peering at the translation notes you’ve scribbled through countless notebooks and loose pieces of paper.

You hum, not looking up from the Book. You always think you’ve read all of it, only for new pages to appear out of thin air. It’s suspicious. You’d think it was God, if you didn’t know he hasn’t been watching you for months. “What thing?”

“Y’know, the thing-“

“I tell you about a lot of things, Jo-“

“Yeah, but- This one was all magic and shit.”

You give her a dry, blanket expression of annoyance. She rolls her eyes.

“C’mon. It’s- What the hell else am I supposed to call it?”

“I don’t know? Its name-“

“I dunno its name- It’s-“ She sighs, glaring at the air. “You know, that magic spot thingy. You went lookin’ for one when Dean was- Well-“ She cringes slightly. “Last time.”

Your frown deepens, pulling down in thought. The magic spot thingy. “You mean the Vortex points?”

“Yes- Yes,” Jo snaps, leaning forward with a wide grin. “That. Why don’t we try that?”

“Um…” You look at the book, then the notes. Your hands flex, and your mouth falls a little open.

Why don’t you try that? Why haven’t you tried that?

“Because we don’t know where Dean is,” you answer yourself softly, and Jo’s face falls.

“Oh. Right- That’s- Never-“

“But,” you cut her off, your brain turning too fast to track. “If- It’s stronger there. Everything. Bridges, spells, enchantments-“ You swallow. “Prayers.”

Jo blinks. “You want us to… pray?”

“No,” you close the book, mouth set in a grim line. “I want Dean to pray. Somewhere- Somewhere I’m able to hear.”

Jo’s doubtful. You don’t blame her. Whatever let you hear Dean’s prayer in Heaven, whatever let him call you from across the world, over and over and over again, you don’t know how it works. You know it’s woven just to the right of your heart. You think it might be that part of you that’s embedded in him, that branch of love that grew over him, that he never pushed out. The mechanics don’t matter right now. If Dean is praying, you aren’t hearing it. If you can hear it, you can try and trace it.

“Like a radio signal?” Jo asks, and you nod. She sighs. “But- What if we ain’t able to do that?”

“Then,” you say, dark and firm. “We figure something else out.”

Jo doesn’t argue past that. This is the kind of thing, where she knows far better. It takes you the rest of the day, but there’s a Vortex point in the Himalayas. It’s a long trip. You work out a spell, that will get you there and back in a day. Claire gets clear instructions not to leave the motel room for anything, while you’re gone.

“We’re leaving at sunrise,” you tell her. “We’ll be back by sunset.”

And you don’t say hopefully. You don’t say you’ll try. You will be back by sunset, whether you have something or not.

You hope you have something. You need it. You need anything, to weave into another wire. Another way to keep yourself going, an extension of the rope you’re hanging onto, something metal you can from into a new rail before you reach the end of the line.  And you can almost convince yourself that this, this single, small mission, will be it.

You’ll go to the Vortex point, pull Dean out of the ground like a potato, and go home. If you really let yourself play pretend, you’re going to the Vortex point for nothing but research. You’re going to do some experiments, collect some data, and call Sam on the drive home. You’ll try to tell him about what you found. Dean will try to steal the phone, and Sam will lock himself in the bathroom so he can’t. You’ll smile to yourself, at the sound of him banging on the door. The moment you get home, Dean will sweep you into his arms and kiss you up against the wall.

“Sammy was bein’ a dick, sweetheart,” he’ll mutter, his arms caging you against his body.

You’ll giggle against his lips and pull on his shirt, unsure what to do with yourself but melt into him. He’ll carry you to bed, ignoring your false protests. You’ll sit on your knees when he tosses you onto the mattress, watching with wide eyes and an embarrassing heat pooling between your thighs, as he peels off his shirt. He’ll ask you about the hunt. You’ll forget everything you wanted to tell him, until he smiles fondly, cups your face, and bends down to kiss you stupid.

“Missed me, huh?” He’ll tease, his thumb gliding over the nape of your neck, and you’ll nod. Hopeless. Entirely his, in ways you think he still doesn’t quite understand.

“You have no idea,” you’ll whisper, and he’ll grin like he won a prize.

“You have no idea,” you whisper to the dark.

And if the day passes fast, with odd normalcy and smiles that only bring a little bit of guilt, the night drags. It buries you, until your lungs are stuffed and you’re sure you’re never going to see the morning again.

If you don’t have a lead, you spend the sleepless hours trying to practice. You coax a spring to shoot out of the ground, you ask an old bush to light itself on fire, you convince a river it would be better flowing north. You’re getting stronger. More comfortable, in being everything. It doesn’t hurt, when it’s not against your will. The soreness that lingers in your body after gets smaller and smaller every night, and you find yourself getting bigger and bigger.

You still don’t understand most of what you can do, but no one does. So you just test the limits, and find that the boundary is further past your fingertips than you could’ve possibly dreamt.

It’s a good distraction, until it’s not. Until you remember why you’re not letting the Silver go dormant again. Until you push a little too hard and the Spiderweb flares like the core of the Sun, rocking from the force of a solar storm.

You let yourself be weak. You spent so long in self-pity, so long trying to be small and fragile. Small and fragile things don’t survive in the wild. Small and fragile things get put in cages, and it doesn’t matter what kind of light they’re made of. They don’t have enough of themselves to break free.

Stand tall.

You are.

But it took falling, to learn how. And it cost you Dean, and now you sit on the curb of a packed street in India, surrounded by hundreds of people. Entirety alone.

The darkness doesn’t swallow you anymore, but the brighter you let yourself get, the longer the shadows become. The pain grows like a bacterial infection, finding every place it can settle and overtaking your view of the world. The guilt becomes acidic. The sorrow you didn’t let Claire see presses back up like magma, demanding and burning in your lungs. You wander the streets for somewhere that’s louder than your head, but even the most crowded bar can’t compare.

A million songs, a million men, and million unwanted touches as people shoulder past you or trying to take the empty spot next to you. None of them are Dean, so all of them are wrong. One bold drunk tries to follow you out to the street, and you cover your ears, crouching in the gutter and begging the darkness to swallow you whole.

It doesn’t. It swallows him, and spits him back out when you ask it to. He stares at you with a gaunt, sober face. You smile and know it’s nothing but a manic, crude mask. You leave him on the ground, and keep wandering for that cove you know you won’t find.

It won’t even exist, until you get Dean back. And that just makes the pain bigger. You really don’t know where to put it, when there’s nothing to distract you. It’s just you, and the pain, and everything else in the dark. Rain might fall for you. The wind might pick up, to howl for your grief. The colors dull themselves, and the golden lights glow until the marks of Dean on your body seem to glow brighter than the stars. But that’s still all just fucking pain.

There isn’t a thing you wouldn’t do, just to feel it a little less.

A year ago, you would’ve taken you knife to the soft, unblemished parts of your skin. A punishment for daring to, even in the smallest of ways, be clean. But if Dean comes back and sees new scars, he’s going to have questions, and then you’ll have to answer them, and he’ll make that mournful, adoring face, and you’ll feel all the guilt just slamming back into you like a freight train. So you find other options.

You steal a bottle from one of the crowded bars. You drink until you can’t tell were you stop and the infinite waterfall of stars begins. You wander the streets and smile at the birds. You trip over loose pebbles and they unfurl into silver butterflies that blend into the night sky. You crouch, back on the curb, the bottle tight in your hand, and you whistle until your slow, haunted song is being sung back by every bird in the city.

You smile at nothing, tears streaming down your cheeks. You pour the rest of the bottle out in the gutter, and hope that wherever Dean is, he gets to be drunk too.

Somewhere in your addled brain, you figure out that you’re in no state to go back to the room. You stumble wherever the wind carries you, and find yourself at the motel pool, your feet dangling in the water and the blue, neon light dancing on your bare thighs and hands.

And you know you’ve been here before. And you know you’re going to be here again.

You sit at the edge of the pool, watching the light swim in the water before. It’s beautiful. That irreplicable chlorine blue, vibrant and glowing on your skin in the dark. Quiet wind blows over the marshes behind you. You breathe through your nose and smooth out your tennis skirt. You remember this one. In about five to six hours, it’s going to be coated in blood, and Bobby’s going to burn it in his backyard.

It’s a shame. You really liked it.

You feel him before you see him. The world shifts a little Golden. Warm fingers trace your arms, then your wrist. A thick thigh pressing against yours, and a hand slowly drags up, splaying over your lower back. Chapped lips press to your temple, and you lean your head on his shoulder, letting your eyes drift shut.

“You remember this?” Dean asks quietly, and you hum.

“Of course I do.”

He swallows, loud enough for you to hear. You turn your face into his neck, and he pulls you a little closer. There isn’t a space between your bodies that you leave untended. Your arms wrap around his torso, and his mouth rests on the top of your head. His breathing is slow. Steady. His heart pounds in that way you memorized, before you even let yourself admit that you needed him. You used to press your fingers together until you could feel your own heartbeat, and you’d try to pretend it was Dean. You must’ve gotten good at it. This almost sounds real.

“You were so pissed at me,” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes.

“You called me a spoiled brat.”

“Well- In my defense, sweetheart, I really thought you were.”

You lean back to glare at him, and he catches your chin with a knowing smirk. His thumb drags over your lower lip, and you pout, trying to make your glower the savage, blinding one that lends you that title of Whore Beast. Instead you think you might just be mimicking a bunny. Dean taps your nose, and it scrunches. His smile widens, and you try to hide your face back in his body. He doesn’t let you, holding your chin with a firm but gentle grip.

“Mighta been right,” he teases, light dancing over every word. “Look at you.” He flicks your nose again. “Spoiled brat.”

Your glare doesn’t seem to be focused enough to block out the building eruption from every part of you that matters. It’s made of longing and love and an inability to ever really be mad at him. Not when he says ‘brat’ the same way he says ‘baby’ and ‘princess’. Like there isn’t a thing he could think of, that wouldn’t be endearing. Like there aren’t any words that capture whatever he thinks of you, so he just settles for calling you like a lighthouse, shining only to guide one ship back to shore.

“I am not spoiled,” your voice is breathless, and Dean chuckles, leaning just close enough for you to feel the heat of his lips.

“Guess I gotta step up my game, sweetheart,” he holds your gaze, and your flush might be enough to set this misty, scared little world on fire. “You’re supposed to be so spoiled you can’t even remember what it feels like to want.”

You flatten a hand on his chest for balance. Your lips part, and Dean leans a little closer, his fingers curling on your hip. You take a ragged breath, and his nostrils flare.

And you remember what it feels like to want. You remember it so clearly, because it’s still reflected behind you, fading on the horizon, stretching so long you don’t know how you ever got to the other side. You remember wanting so bad it was cannibalizing, wanting so bad you lost sleep, lost sight, lost balance. You did nothing but want, did nothing but memorize the landscape of a world you were sure you’d never be allowed to step a single, dreadened foot upon.  You wanted so bad you sat on the alter, begging to be a sacrifice he’d use to find himself someone he deserved.

And you remember him walking up to you at that alter, pushing you so carefully down, and using his body to pin you there. To keep you with him, whispering something too close to a vow against your skin, moving the marker of what was holy. The alter was only stone. You and Dean, upon it, where the only things that mattered in the world.

Dean’s brow has furrowed. He’s scanning over your features with worry, his murmur of your name soft. You wrap your arms around his neck and climb into his lap, and he holds you steady with a light, revertant touch. It seems to wash like steam over his whole body. It’s in the way his shoulders relax, in his eyes, gleaming with a pooling adoration, and in the soft, awestruck downturn of his lips. You used to think he only looked at you like this in your dreams. You’ve long learned that if there’s one thing you can never trust, it’s the reflection staring back at you, even only an echo of it on another person’s face.

“I was so mad at you,” you remind him, and his throat bobs.

“I know,” he rasps. “Said that. I think.”

You nod, pressing further forward. “I thought you hated me,” you whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Never. Never hated you, I- Hell, I tried, but-“ He swallows, a desperate edge creeping over his voice. “Couldn’t. Never could. Never did.”

You hum, looking down to your fingers. You trace his collarbone, and you could swear he shivers. “I hated you,” you mumble, and his hands twitch.

“Yeah?”

You nod, and Dean takes a ragged breath.

“When’d you-“

“When you left me,” you look at him under your lashes, and he seems afraid to move. “When you died, and you- You didn’t let me say goodbye.”

“Didn’t wanna hurt you,” he defends, but it’s weak. You just stare at him, combing through the stubble on his jaw. It’s getting longer. You haven’t seen in him in this kind of tight tee-shirt in so long, you forgot how thin they were. How they clung to his arms, how you could see every breath, even the stumbling, unsure ones. That, combined with the thickening, borderline beard he has in your dreams, it’s enough to make you fall for him all over again.

The first time you were here, he had a baby face and a smile that was only smaller than his heart. He slouched more, and never seemed willing to grab you with tighter hands than you held him. You wonder what kind of handprints he would’ve left, if you told him to hold on however he wanted. You think it would be closer to something like now.

You think that if you met Dean with this shirt and those eyes and these calloused hands, you might’ve fallen lower than your knees. You might’ve crashed into him so fast that neither of you would’ve had the time to even consider pulling away.

When he gets home, you’re hiding his razor and dragging him to the mall. He’s earned it. You’ve earned it. He’s too pretty, to bury under layers of ugly lumberjack clothing.

“Do you hate me know?” Dean asks, and you can hear it in the rare crack in his tone. His fear of the answer.

You thought he would’ve known better, from being nothing but a bought of madness, woven together from a love that spreads like a flood across everything you’ve ever known.

“No,” you breathe. “I- I was never good enough at it anyways.”

Dean’s mouth twitches up. He lets out a broken laugh of relief, cradling the back of your head. “Well, I guess we’re made for each other, huh?”

You nod, because there’s nothing else you could possibly be made for. You could cure the world of yourself, of other disease, of the devil and God in one fell swoop or scream. You could walk through the gates of Heaven, you could raze the castle of Hell, take all that promised world and rule over it the way God wants you to. Even without Dean, you’d still be doing it for some kind of love.

There is much, much more you can do than love Dean. But there is no world where you want to do everything, and not have Dean at your side. You have long decided that greatness does not negate your love for him. Your love for him only allows you to be greater.

Dean kisses you, and you press over him with everything you have. He’ll be home soon.

You both tumble into the water, as fast as you’ve always fallen together, and you don’t let go of him until the dream slips away.

Jo woke you up with a glass of water in the face. You told her that wasn’t necessary. She said it was, because you were crying in your sleep. You check the motel mirror before you go, and scowl, because she was right. There are tear stains on your cheeks, and a bloodshot ring around your pupils. You fix it, and ignore her smug look. There’s a job to do. Steps to be taken, that might be forward, or backward, or nothing but a standing march in place.

The fun part is finding out.

“This is- So fuckin’ cold-“ Jo hugs herself tight, bundled in about five jackets and poofy shoes that make her walk like a penguin. “How the hell ain’t you cold?”

You shrug, kneeling in the snow and brushing flakes off your shorts. It was like this at the other Vortex point too. You’d gotten to the top of the mountain in Brazil, and all the jungle heat had just felt like… nothing. Like you were floating through a perfectly regulated room.

“I’m gonna die,” Jo mutters to herself, rocking back and forth on her feet. “I’m gonna die, just ‘cause Dean had to stab a dick, I’m gonna die-“

“Stop saying you’re gonna die,” you tell her flatly, scooping away the piles of snow. “You’re not gonna die.”

“Yes, I am-“

“With that attitude, maybe.”

She glares, hard enough it prickles on the back of your neck. You sigh and sit back, giving her a pointed, expectant look.

“You know, the faster we do this, the faster we go back.”

Jo pauses. She looks out over the mountain—mostly just gray shadows in an infinite sea of white—and her nose wrinkles. You go back to scooping and sorting through your bag, waiting for her to catch up. She huffs. You hum to yourself, pulling out your knife and digging it into the spot you want.

There’s a loud scoff, and the snow shifts as Jo waddles over to your side. You smile at her, and she sticks out her tongue, before quickly pulling it back in with a wince.

“What’re we doin’?” She squints at your knife, and you grab her mittened hand, guiding it around the hilt.

“You’re hold that there,” you say, moving to your feet. “And I’m getting rid of the snow.”

“Alright,” Jo nods, then looks up with wide eyes. “You’re- What-“

“Shh,” you snap, and she snaps her jaw shut, looking from you to the falling snow like you’re crazy.

And you are. But you’re also getting better at it.

You stretch your arms, plant your feet, and close your eyes. You’re the snow. You’re the snow, falling from the sky without care for where it’s going, know only that it is will either find more of its kind and they will survive together in long, strong banks, or it will land somewhere hostile, and die alone. It goes with the wind, because it doesn’t have much of a choice. Not a single snowflake has ever even thought that there might be another way.

So when you offer it, every single one of them falters. Jo gasps softly behind you, and when you try to glare at her, you realize why.

The snow didn’t just stop in your head. Every single flake is suspended in the air, glowing like diamonds over the endless mountains. Rays of sun split through the thick clouds, and the light fractures in a million colors, giving the world an impression that it’s been trapped in a prism. Your hands fall slightly, stunned by the never-ending rainbow, the glory of a world that only carries one kind of life, getting to remember what it hasn’t been allowed to see in countless years. The snow doesn’t move. It just hangs there, clinging to your every breath, waiting for you to tell it what to do.

Jo covers her mouth with her hand, and you take a slow, concentrated breath. You press your hands out, and ask the snow to move, just from here, just for a little while.

There’s a flurry of white. The cold bites your skin for a half second, and you have to cover your eyes. But when you look again, you see it.

The snow is gone. It’s piled up on the edge of the cliffs and flown to other mountains, scattering across the land to grant you access to what you knew you’d find.

The stone courtyard is wide. The columns are tall and the statues of everything from monkeys to lions to tigers are finely detailed with gold. You look at Jo, still crouched on the ground, holding your knife like a life raft. She doesn’t seem sure where to look, and you understand. The temple is massive. A feat of architecture, at this elevation, built likely longer ago than either of you can imagine. You turn in a slow circle, and it would steal your breath if you weren’t so focused on it.

That small, pulsing pull, just to the right of your heart. It’s magnetic, but completely still. You press your hand flat on your chest, almost trying to pull it out, and it gets a little stronger. The Spiderweb sparks in return, and you know. That’s your Dean.

You close your eyes, trying to follow the thin, static thread that powers it like a cable. You tug a little too hard, and everything vibrates and turns to colors and a rush of gold and purple and green and blue and silver. You loosen too much, and it starts to slip through your fingers like fine sand. You kneel down, bowing your head and just trying to feel it.

Just feel it, Princess.

You’re trying. But all you can make out is his voice. Deep and rough in a way you haven’t heard in a while. Scraping at the edge of every word, like he’s hasn’t been drinking water. Croaking in his throat like he’s been shouting. He sounds tired, and it makes your heart flip.

Yet still, you can’t make out a single fucking word.

You try. You try so hard, and Dean’s voice gets so loud you reach back, some instinctive, foolish part of you thinking he’s going to be right behind you. He’s in your ear, saying words that you can’t understand, that you can’t even begin to unscramble, because it seems to be really nothing but noise. You start to pant, scraping at the ground and doubling over. Jo breathes out your name, and you shake your head.

You can hear him. He’s out there, he’s alive, he’s praying to you so why can’t you fucking hear him, you should be able to hear him-

He says your name. It’s clearer than all the snow on the mountains, and your eyes shoot open. You let out a strangled sound, and he says your name again.

“Love you,” Dean rasps, and you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck.

And you scream.

You scream so loud lightning cleaves through the mountains behind you, righteous and desperate to break something the same way you’re broken. You scream until you can’t hear the wind or the snowfall or Jo calling your name. You can only hear Dean. I love you, baby. Baby, I love you, easy, baby, I love you. It echoes around the valleys. Your head hurts so much you think it’s going to split open like a geode. Your back hurts like the sky itself is pressing down, but you’ve never had the resolve of an Atlas. You’ve never had the strength. Jo grabs you. You hold her back, trying to keep your feet on the ground.

The whole world becomes a blur of color and light and Dean’s voice, and then there’s just… Silence.

The hum of a fan. The rustle of sheets and eerp of Indy, romping across the small room as you fall to your knees. Claire says something you can’t hear, and Jo pulls her away. You hug yourself, trying to hold onto just a little bit of it. That kernel of Dean, already melting back into the Spiderweb with the rain, a heavy downpour on the roof, blowing in through the window, turning to something it didn’t think it could be. Something that doesn’t thaw, but flows through every bit of life, in the woods, the streets, the sewers and out into the ocean.

Jo takes Claire out. She says it’s for food. You know it’s so you can be alone, and you’ll thank her for it, when you can feel anything outside of yourself. You don’t want Claire around you like this. Dean would’ve done the same thing.

And he’s out there. You scratch at your chest and wrap a hand around your throat to calm down, but repeat it over and over until it’s embedded in your head. He’s alive. Dean’s alive. He’s out there, and alive.

The Lady curls in your lap, and Indy noses at your hand until you scratch her ears. Even Sparky darts over to sit on your head, pecking at your head until you offer in a finger, and move him to perch on your shoulder. Slowly, just like always, you come down.

He’s out there. Alive. Tired, but still able to speak. Still bothering to think of you.

Your gaze drifts to the box. Innocuous, peeking out from the folds of your bag. He wanted you to have it. He probably thinks you’ve already opened it.

I love you.

You crawl slowly across the ground and pull it out. The Lady and Indy poke at it, the Lady quickly losing interest and jumping on the bed, Indy seeming to recognize it as something of Dean’s and letting out a loud whine. You pat her head, settling against the foot of the bed, toying with the latch until it just… unclicks.

And you don’t know what you expected. A knife. A ring. A nice perfume, or more lingerie. Something important. Something worth giving you, then asking you not to open in front of him. You’d formed a curious mental list, of what that could possibly be.

You never once considered a pile of paper.

You frown. The box is overflowing with loose paper after loose paper, all of them covered in Dean’s blocky, uncoordinated scrawl. Sam used to say he had the handwriting of a fourth grader, and you’d smack Sam upside the head, because the little fucker didn’t teach himself the alphabet.

You miss him too. It’s smaller than that chasm of Dean that’s split through your spinal cord, but that’s a unique kind of pain. Sam alone is enough that you keep picking up the phone to ask him a question, before remembering he won’t pick up. If you asked Sam about these papers, he’d tell you to read them. He’d probably take one and just start reading it himself. At his invisible direction, you take the one off the very top. It’s crumpled. Almost a year old, if the date—April 17th, 2011—is correct.

It’s addressed to you.

Princess, 

Come home. 

You blink, the paper crinkling under your fingers. April 2011 you were in Heaven with Cas. And Dean-

Dean was writing this. For you.

I know that I’ve spent the last few months pissed at you. I know I wrote about twenty damn letters about it. A deep breath. Your biting your tongue enough to sting. And I know you’re gonna read them and only think that I hate you, but I don’t. Never did. Never could. 

You love something, you want it to be better. Heard that on TV, once. Might’ve been on the radio. Shit, maybe Sammy or you said it. But it’s the truth, baby. I love you, and I want you to be better. Not you, but you. I want you to be okay, and you aren’t okay. Not when you’re making crazy decisions like you think no one’s going to care if you go off the deep end. I care. Bobby cares. Sammy cares. And it goddamn kills me, that you think we don’t. So I need you to be okay.

I love you.

You close your eyes. It takes a moment to remember how to breathe. A moment to rub your eyes and collect yourself, so that the words don’t just float off the page.

You fucking killed me again, and I still love you. I’ve been trying to tell you. You never goddamn listen. You’re too smart for your own good, sweetheart. Can talk yourself into anything, and I- 

i think i feel you, sometimes. think i felt you now. its insane, but i feel you. the air smells more like you, and i can hear something that dont got words, but it sounds lie like you. and i know thats freaking batshit, but stranger things, right? you feel like an angel. you feel like everything good. and i wish you could understand that. sammy says you dont know. you gotta know. i wish i knew how to tell you. i wish that you’d believe me, when i did. 

i can show you. i know people can say things all they want and you dont believe them. got that spelled out for me, when it took me pinning you to a wall for you to realize maybe i wanted to fuck you. so ill keep doing it like that. ill help rowena get those souls out of you. ill kill eve for you. i wont let you pull that shit again, cause im about to make it real clear that i love you, and you can think nothing about me all you want (you probably should) but nothing you say is gonna make me love you less. i let you boss me around about a lot, princess. youre not getting the upper hand on this. you break my heart, you either stitch it back up like my hands or leave it like that till i die. but no one else is touching it. so deal with that. 

Not much for life updates. Had to tie Sammy’s shoes yesterday, cause he keeps falling over whenever he does them. Been taking Claire out to shoot bottles, she’s getting pretty good. Rowena ate dinner with us, which was weird, because I didn’t even know she ate. I don’t think she sleeps. I know she doesn’t cause I’m not either. 

I love you. And you’re going to goddamn feel it. 

Yours, DAW  

The world can’t be spinning. Your heart can’t still be beating. The edge of the paper crinkles too loud, and you drop it, terrified you broke it. Just as fast as you let it go, you pick it up. You read it again. A third time. You can hear him behind you, like at the mountain. You never goddamn listen. He thinks you might hate him. Never did. Never could. I love you. And you’re going to goddamn feel it. It’sso clear it presses on your nose, it burns in your chest, it rattles something so deep inside you the whole world seems to tilt. But not off axis.

Something flips, and you feel sick, but your feet are beneath you in a way they haven’t been maybe your whole life. Like your neck was snapped, but it just righted a part of your spine that had been wrong. Everything was upside down.

You read it until you’ve memorized it. You count the I love yous—all seven of them—like a squirrel stocking for winter.  

Then you remember the rest of the box. Not a box of paper.

A box of letters. A supply of them, enough that he barely seemed to be able to fit them all.

You fumble with the one in your hand, dropping it back at the top and pulling out the one beneath it. April 16th. You don’t read it yet, checking the one before that. April 15th. One for each day. Back through March, February, January, December. You dig all the way to the bottom, trying so hard to move fast and not rip a single page. The very first one is shorter. Dated February 21st, 2010. A little less than month after you and Sam fell in the cage, and stained with something that smells like beer.

Princess,

I don’t know how to do this. I’m going to spell things wrong. You’ll know what I’m saying. You usually do. One time I said boom and meant Molotov, but you got it. Sammy said I was the luckiest asshole alive, because he would’ve just made me go to bed with how much I was drinking.

I’m drinking more now. 

Youd be pissed.

I miss you.

This is shit. I’ll try again in the morning.

I love you

DAW.

Eight. Eight I love yous. Twelve, if you count the ones he said to your face. Twelve drops of love that hit you like a tsunami, that shake your world like falling stars. You hold it to your chest and close your eyes, tears burning over your face. You smear them like warpaint, before looking at February 22nd. He spells everything wrong, and you laugh because you can almost see his pretty face, scrunched in concentration. He doesn’t say he loves you in this one, just he says he needs you, and that’s more than enough. You grab February 23rd, and he talks about needing you to come home, and Bobby hating him for letting you jump in, and drinking rubbing alcohol—god, you hope he didn’t—before signing off.

I’ll be back tomorrow. 

Wait for me. 

I’m sorry. 

DAW.

You can’t keep reading. You can’t even see through the tears. You clutch the letters to your face, hyperventilating and shaking and feeling it. It’s so easy it makes you furious you didn’t let yourself have it sooner, and that just makes you cry harder, and soon your throat is too closed up and your nose is stuffed and your whole body has this bone deep exhaustion that can only let you sit there and feel it. All of it, unrelenting and permanent and inevitable, the same ways as yours.

Just through the scraps of paper in your hands, you can feel Dean’s love.

But you can’t say it back. You can’t have it without worrying it’s going to be taken away. You can’t just have a good thing and cherish and worship it, without looking out the window and waiting for the sky to warn you. For it to try and take it away. You can only bathe in it and fight for it and scream for it until you run out of breathe in a world where the air changes direction, just to blow your way.

And you’re glad you didn’t let the Leviathans kill God.

But you.

You can’t fucking wait to do it yourself.

Sam and Dean were celebrities. The icky, dramatic kind, that got their faces plastered on tabloids and everyone loved to hate. Dean had always thought everyone was exaggerating about it, but there was no way to ignore the truth. Not now. When it was punching him in the face.

There wasn’t a single monster in Purgatory that didn’t know the Winchesters. They had some nicknames. Some legends and rumors. Sammy got the good end of the stick.

“Beware the Younger,” Dean read off the tablet, smirking at the carved words. “Taller than the trees, colder than the winter. Demon boy- They’re all really hung up on the demon thing, huh?”

Across the firepit, Sammy sighed. “I did start the apocalypse,” he muttered, and Dean shrugged.

“Yeah, but who hasn’t. Don’t get a big head, Sammy, it’s gonna fall off your titan body.”

He laughed, and Sam made a face. “Come on, Dean, there’s no way it says that-

“Demon boy, head bigger than his heart, titan body that cuts through the world. Tower on the sunrise, never let him know your name, never let him know your game- Oh, they’re rhyming now- Never tell him where you come from or go, never make a deal you don’t plan to break.” Dean’s nose scrunched. “Dude, you sound like Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Shut up,” Sam muttered, looking around the dark woods. “What about you? Little burger man, head of ass?”

“Haha,” Dean flipped him off, squinting down the tablet. “Handsome Winchester, cooler Winchester, just surrender right now ‘cause he’s gonna kick your ass-“

“Gimme that.” Sam snatched the tablet out of Dean’s hand, and Dean laughed, letting it echo through the forest.

Sammy had warded the perimeter. They should be set for at least five hours. Enough to eat, breathe, sleep, patch up. And if something was determined enough to break through, they were already prowling past the wood line. Dean letting himself get a rare laugh wasn’t gonna change a thing.

“Fear the Elder,” Sam read and Dean leaned forward with a smirk. “Moving like the Mountains and unforgiving, blood on his hands and gold in his teeth. Silver tongue, red heart, beating louder than the sun. Never falters. Never turns around. No path he can’t tread. Man of God, Killer of God, End of the line, more vengeful than the most foul beast. Do not take what is his. Do not make his smile fall.”

Dean shrugged, a half-satisfied press to his lips. “Hey, y’know- Could be worse. I sound pretty freakin’ cool, you just sound like a knockoff bigfoot-“

“And never spill Winchester blood,” Sam said, his face falling, grim and pained. “Where the Whore will be able to smell it.”

Dean’s jaw locked. Sam glanced up, heavy, apologetic regret all over his puppy-dog face. Dean stretched at hand, beckoning Sam to pass it back over. He did, slowly, like he already kind of wanted to take it back.

“We don’t need to worry about this, it’s- She’s not here-“

“Do not think of the Whore,” Dean muttered, and Sam fell quiet. “If you need think of her, you are already dead.”

Dean swallowed, and he wanted to break this damn tablet in half. Sam bowed his head, watching Dean carefully, speaking like he was trying to talk down a damn jumper.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Dean,” he muttered. “And- I mean, that’s a warning, not a call to battle.”

Dean grunted and dropped the tablet on the ground. He knew She wasn’t in any danger of a monster taking her out. Not like Sam and Dean were.

But She wasn’t alright.

Dean didn’t know how long he and Sammy had been stuck here. Time moves differently in these places, and Purgatory nights seemed to crawl twice as long as the days. They’d touched down a lifetime ago, figured out that they were pretty much screwed, and never had a second to tally up the weeks since.

They’d made an agreement. No giving up. Not on each other. Not on getting back home. They’d either stay alive long enough for someone topside to yank them out, or figure out a way home themselves. Dean thought She and Cas might work it out in the first month, until She told him that she hadn’t spoken to Cas since some big fight after Michigan. Dean should’ve seen that one coming. He loved Her to death and past it, but she’d never exactly been open to people telling her what to do, or stopping her, or getting in her way. Cas had—under Dean’s instruction—done all three.

He’d tried to soft pitch the idea that maybe Cas had just been listening to Dean, and it was more his fault that he’d landed his ass in Purgatory. She hadn’t given Dean the impression that she listened.

But She could figure this out herself. Weird stuff was her specialty, and there wasn’t much weirder than being trapped in Purgatory. Dean tried to give Her all the help he could, from the other side. There wasn’t much. He didn’t know anything about any of this, and She didn’t think he was real.

He’d thought about telling Her. He thought about it until his head hurt. He opened his mouth and choked on the words. He got a half-confession out, then looked at her a little too long and lost his voice. She might not believe him. She didn’t seem to, whenever he got too close to the truth.

A few nights ago, he’d written out this whole damn speech. Sammy had been knocked out, Dean had been on watch duty, and he’d used his makeshift knife to scratch the words in the dirt. He’d look up at rustles in the woods, or one of Sam’s bigger sleep-snorts, but that was it. He was going out next. He’d see Her, and she wouldn’t know she was seeing him, and it was one of those things Dean knew was going to bite him in the ass about, if he didn’t deal with it soon.

It’s me, Princess. Really me. Real me, Dean. Your Dean. Not a dream Dean- He’d laughed to himself, then groaned.

There was no good way to do it. The more he thought about it, the worse it got. This wasn’t a monster of his own making, it was an infection he’d already let sit too long. It was already a big if, whether or not she’d believe him. There wasn’t much he could say to prove it, when she thought he was just a figment of her imagination. If he told Her something about herself, she’d know it. If he said something about himself, She’d think he was making it up, and he’d have no way to convince her otherwise. She’d think it was too good, too easy to be true. Dean would’ve thought the same thing two years ago. Before Death. Before soulmates.

And if he got her to listen, there wasn’t an explanation that wouldn’t end there. Soulmates.

Dean had sort of dug himself a very big, very deep grave with this one. He kinda wanted to tell Sammy, just to give the kid a good laugh at his expense.

He only had two ways through this one. He said soulmates, and She didn’t believe him—pretty likely, as even if it made perfect sense, if there was one thing his girl had always been good at doing it was talking circles around herself until she believed up was right and left was down—and she didn’t believe the dreams were real, and Dean got stranded in the grave. He’d prove it when he got home, and She’d blame herself for not listening, and have a pretty big freakout, and then calm down and kill Dean for keeping that from her for a whole year.

Or he said soulmates, and She believed him, and she dragged him out of Purgatory by his ear just to kill him. For keeping that from her. For a whole damn year.

He’d groaned and kicked dirt of his speech, dropping his face into his hands. He was screwed. He was so fucking screwed, he might as well start figuring out how he wanted to decorate the doghouse.

And he knew making it, that this wasn’t going to be his best call, but he didn’t have many others to choose from.

He wouldn’t tell Her. It wouldn’t work. She didn’t trust Her own head, enough for Dean to talk her into it. And with everything She’d told him, there was more than enough for her to worry about. If he told Her, the small sanctuaries of their dreams would just turn into another place for her to freak out. She’d ask him to relay theories to Sam, and demand to see all his injuries, babying and smacking him at the same time when he told her how he and Sammy had dealt with the latest rush of vamps.

Dean knew it could be called selfish. He didn’t care. Not for this. Not when the dreams were all he goddamn had.

If you need think of her, you are already dead.

Dean almost snorted. He did nothing but think of Her, and he felt kinda dead. He and Sammy were both just cutting their way through the motions, mechanical and unwavering until they came out the other side.  

“You made any progress on that map thingy?” He muttered, and Sammy sighed.

“No, not really. I- I don’t know, Dean, how useful is it even gonna be-“

Dean cut him off with Her name. “She’ll wanna see it. You two can geek out about rivers or whatever, soon as we’re out.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, doubtful and quiet. His eyes dropped to the dirt, Dean leaned forward on his log, making his voice firm.

“Sammy, don’t make the freakin’- grieving wife face-“

“Why not?” Sam snapped, but it wasn’t forceful. It was just… tired.

They were both so damn tired.

“I mean, what the are we even doing, Dean? Wandering around, hoping we don’t die in the morning? We don’t even have a clue where to start, where this ends-“ Sam waved a hand, his voice raising. “All I do is try not to lose it and shoot you by accident, and all you do is make- Make stupid jokes and pray before bed! You, Dean, you’re praying.” Sam scoffed. “I’d think you were a shifter if we didn’t test each other every freakin’ day. I mean, who are you even pray to. Who’s going to care?”

Sam’s shout lingered in the air. He let out a heaving, long breath—Dean had a feeling he’d been holding it in for a while—and slumped back down. Dean stared at the fire, at the long shadows, flickering in the dark.

Sammy wasn’t wrong. He had been praying. Every night during his watch, every day when he stopped to take a piss, he was about three Hail Mary’s away from calling himself an altar boy.

But he couldn’t think of another damn thing to do.

He said Her name, slow and hallowed. The most important word in the world. He could swear that, in the starless Purgatory sky, something glowed past the dark.

Sammy looked up with a frown, and Dean swallowed, repeating Her name, a little louder this time.

“I’ve been prayin’ to her. Every night.” He shook his head. “And- I know it ain’t doing much, but- Hell, Sammy, I can’t stop. It’s gotta get help her, right? I tell her where we are, I tell her what we’re seeing, everything. That’ll help.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said softly. “I mean, why would she even be hearing it? I know- In Heaven- But this isn’t Heaven. Cas can’t hear our prayers down here-“

“She isn’t Cas.” Dean muttered. “It’s- It’s different-“

“No, I- I know, Dean, but- She doesn’t exactly take prayers, dude-“

“She takes them from me.”

Sam fell silent. Dean sighed, staring at his hands. Caked in mud. Cold and clasped together. He felt goddamn sick.

“We’re- Me and her-“ The words just wouldn’t come out. Not without Dean twisting them. “We got a soul-bond.”

“A soul-bond?”

Dean grunted an agreement, and Sam stared at him.

“What- What the hell does that even mean-“

“Means what it means,” Dean snapped. “Means she should be able to hear it, when I’m the one praying. But- I don’t know, Sammy. Some kinda wire must be getting crossed, ‘cause I don’t think it’s working.”

They were silent for a moment. Dean glanced up, only to find Sam still frowning at him. There was that far-off look on his face, though. Like he was more in his head than out there with the rest of the world. Dean leaned into his vision, waving for attention, and Sammy blinked.

“Huh?”

“Nothin’, just- Earth to Sammy,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “What were you doing the nerd eyes about.”

“The-“ Sam sighed. “I told you not to call it that-“

“I’ll call it what I want,” Dean shrugged. “What’s up.”

“It’s- I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing,” Sam said it all small, and Dean knew it wasn’t nothing.

“Sam…” He warned, and Sam caved quick.

“Just- What if- And I’m not saying this is it, but-“ Sam glanced up, then back to Dean, dropping his voice. “We’re in a weird spot. And I know he doesn’t stand much against her or whatever, but- He can pretty easily mess with you, Dean. No offense.”

Dean scowled. “How am I not supposed to take offense to that-“

“Because it’s God,” Sammy hissed. “And you’re like- A dude.”

“A dude who stole his wife,” Dean muttered under his breath, and Sammy rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, dude. That’s my point. Maybe he’s not super happy about that, and he’s… I don’t know, messing with the prayer signal.” Sam’s throat bobbed, his voice getting tight. “And she… She just can’t hear you at all.”

And a critical, cardiac thing in Dean plunged. His lungs faltered like they’d collapsed, and his heart slowed to a titanic pace, and his jaw tightened so much he knew that—if She was here—She’d grab it and pry it open and yell at him about grinding his teeth.

She had to have been hearing. She had to know he was in Purgatory, that he was looking for a way back to Her, that he loved Her. God was a son of a bitch, but he owed Dean that much. Dean had saved his damn life. He’d given everything—mostly for Her, but God sure was reaping the benefits—and the bastard didn’t get to just swoop in. To take Her away from Dean, when She needed him.

If She hadn’t been hearing him, She- She might think he was dead.

Sam said Dean’s name, worried and tense. Dean waved him off. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Not when he could feel parts of the ground crumbling, and he couldn’t afford to lose his footing.

“I’m getting’ my two,” he grunted, moving down to his back. “Wake me up to trade watch.”

Sam sighed and gave him that sad, pitiful look again, but he knew better than to argue. They could go to bat about strategy, about next moves, about food or camp or any other damn thing, and they’d work it out. It was the closest to the team Dad had trained them to be, for better or worse.

But Dean wasn’t gonna talk about Her. Not in any way that might turn to a fight.

He twisted so his back was to Sammy, closed his eyes, and counted himself luckier than most. At least he still got a part of her, even if it was going to vanish from his fingers by morning.

If you can hear me, he prayed. And Christ, I hope you can, I’m coming home, sweetheart. I swear I’m coming home. I’ll hold on if you hold on. Fuck, I’ll hold on for both of us. Just don’t give up on me. Dean squeezed his eyes tighter, fighting off the burn. I love you. All the way down, remember. You and me. Just you and me.

And all Dean heard in response was the howl of the wind, high above his head, untouchable, untamable, and wild in the dark.

Dean didn’t count the money on the table. He remembered exactly how much there had been. He remembered exactly how long it had lasted, before he’d needed to make some difficult calls. He turned over a few bills in his hands, and wondered if there had been another way. One where he’d stretched everything thinner, while keeping Sammy in one piece. There wasn’t going to be any avoiding the rougher parts. There never was. You didn’t get outta the mountains without crawling through the caves. But if he’d been a little smarter, maybe the would’ve come out with a few less bruises, or he could’ve taken more bullets.

“What’s the money for?” She murmured, and Dean wrapped his arm around Her shoulders, pulling her almost fully into his lap.

“Nothing,” he lied easily. She didn’t have to worry about it. Dean knew She was probably doing enough of that already. “You have a good day, Princess?”

She shook Her head, her lips pursed into a swollen little line, her whole face crestfallen and her body shaking like a damn toy poodle. She climbed over him, legs hooking around his waist and head bowing. Dean knew Her well. He cradled the back of Her head and kissed her brow, frowning against the warm skin.

“Fight with Jo?” He asked quietly, and got no answer. “You talk to Cas-“

“No,” She mumbled, and Dean sighed.

He left Her cling to him. She almost burrowed Her face into his neck, and when Dean spread his fingers on her lower back and pushed Her closer, she let out a soft, sweet little noise and eased fully into his arms. It filled Dean with a strange, warped kind of pride. He was caring for Her. She was letting herself relax, and he was willing to bet a real cut of money that she hadn’t stopped moving since he and Sammy had vanished.

A few days after this night at the table, he’d be out with Sammy at the park, and the kid would ask him about girls. What was ‘up’  with them, how he was supposed to talk to them, why Dad didn’t like either of them hanging around them too long. Dean could chalk up a lot of Sammy’s lapses in charm to Dad giving him the impression that the prettier the girl was, the more likely she was to be venomous or something.

And Dean had done his best to combat that, but he’d been a bit of an idiot. He hadn’t met Her yet. He hadn’t known how good the world could get, when you had something so beautiful it caught all the light and cast it around her, like a diamond that melted into water, a river that swept Dean away to a kind of paradise he should’ve known better than to fight.

He’d told Sammy then that women were like dogs. He’d barely been thirteen. He’d been failing most of his classes, scraping by with hands covered in things a boy’s hands should never know, and he’d been trying to get big enough to match Dad’s shadow. Dad said women were like dogs. All different kinds of them, loud or quiet, loyal or violent, lazy or constantly running around for attention. They brought you joy, but they were just damn dogs. Nothing you wouldn’t do for yours. No real, logical need  for them outside of a companion.

Sammy had been doubtful. He’d always been smarter than Dean anyway.

But Dean knew better now. He needed Her, just for the damn logical reason of a third, better opinion than he and Sammy were going to offer. He needed Her to swoop in like of God from the Machine and save their asses, and he need to feel Her outside of these dreams. He needed Her to be okay. It was better than nothing, that he could take this wolf of a woman and turn her into a snuggling koala, but She didn’t think it was real. And Dean didn’t know how that was going to carry over into the real world.

“You gonna be alright?” He asked, because even if She lied, at least that meant she had some fight left.

She leaned back and stared at him. She had those doe eyes again, and it made Dean swallow. He couldn’t fuck her in here. Not when She didn’t think it was real.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, and Dean’s tongue darted out, almost against his will. He muttered Her name, and she leaned forward until their brows were resting together, her breathing short and ragged. Dean rubbed a slow circle on Her back, almost purely to ground himself. She stared at his mouth, then slowly dragged her gaze up, and Dean thought he might choke on his heart.

“Don’t gimme that,” he said, pleading and quiet, and She shied a little back.

No. Dean couldn’t have that. He grabbed Her neck, keeping her forward, and let their lips brush in the lightest possible touch.

“C’mon, Bambi,” he said, soft and teasing. “Look at me.”

She did. Tears made Her eyes glow, and Dean dug his fingers into her soft skin, trying to keep her together with just a touch. Even one she didn’t think was real.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he said, and it came out like an order. He was past caring. “Got it?”

She nodded. It was small. Tight and unsure. Dean took it anyway.

“C’mere,” he pulled Her closer, moving into a deep, slow kiss. She made that pretty little sound of surprise, like she still didn’t expect it to always feel this good. Dean pressed his tongue on Her swollen lower lip, and she shivered, pulling herself closer by her thighs.

He smiled against Her lips. He didn’t rush. This was all he had. This was what he was fighting to get back to.

He wasn’t about to let a single moment slip through his fingers. Not now. And never when he got home.

✦chapter 74

✦End note: sooooo much planned this season. 2 secrets i believe. many many things :). thank you for reading! Chapter Title from Ain't No Mountain by Marvin Gaye

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!) - Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

[ceriseangels]

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ FIGHTING INSOMNIA AND TRAVEL ANXIETY BY WAXING POETIC ABOUT JOHN CARTER. HERE IS A SNEAK PEEK OF 'NOT STRONG ENOUGH TO BE YOUR MAN'.

BRIEF SUMMARY: PLUS SIZE!CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND!READER X JOHN CARTER; PEDES READER; SHE FELL FIRST, HE FELL HARDER

────۶ৎ────────۶ৎ────────

Your heart skips a beat when certain awkward limbs and a pointy nose fills your line of vision. A cheesy smile threatens to breach your face, and you do your best to tamper it down.

"Hi, Johnny," you quip. "How's it going?"

You walk in stride next to him, falling into a familiar rhythm born from playground games and long walks around your posh hometown. You revel in the way his ears turn pink at the nickname, heart pounding against your rib cage.

"Oh, you know, living the dream!" He chirps, dodging a flying crash cart barreling towards him.

"Oof! Nice save," you giggle at his clumsiness, a certified Carter trait since you both started at County General a few months prior.

You recall the joy that coursed through you when you found out you'd be sharing your first rotation together— hanging up the phone and immediately jumping into his arms, him spinning you around like he'd done a million times before.

Your heart aches.

"I was actually about to take a nap in an on call, got a few free minutes?" He poises, and, after nearly ten hours of non-stop work, it sounds like heaven.

He leads the way, even opening the door for you when you arrive. Sliding past him, you catch a whiff of his smoky aftershave.

It's electric, like a shock as it fills your senses. Rolling your shoulders, you do your best to conceal the shiver that unzips your spine.

Eyes drifting to the small twin mattress, your heart sinks. There's no way the two of you will fit on that, your gaze falling to your plush frame.

John's a mind reader, he must be, with the way his hands find your waist. They're gentle, unassuming, a light graze of his thumb burning into your skin as he squeezes by you.

"Here," he mutters, ushering a loose gurney up against the bed.

Though it's sweet, it does nothing to ease your worries. Embarrassment is a black widow creeping up your spine, digging its fangs into you, spreading its venom deep within.

"I'm taking the gurney, what, are you nuts?" He smiles, taking a seat and patting the bed next to him.

It's hard to stay upset when he looks at you the way he does— wide, puppy dog eyes, a bright smile his parents could never quite beat out of him. He's beautiful. You feel sick.

You saunter over, plopping down on the bed. You're face to face, now, everything you wish you could tell him rising up like steam.

"Hi," he whispers. Your heart pounds.

"Hi," you reply, the twinkle in his eye nearly bringing you to tears.

Without another word, he swings his legs over, resting his head back on the gurney. You follow suit, laying on your side. He turns onto his moments later, and you're once again face to face with the most beautiful man in the world.

"How are the babies?" He whispers, scooching closer to where the two beds meet, falling into an awkward slot.

"They're so amazing," an instant smile spreads across your lips. "I mean, when they're not sobbing, or puking, or exploding in diarrhea."

You two burst into a fit of giggles, and you're seven years old again— the murmurs of a famous Carter family gala wafting up the stairs, dress clothes long ago shed, lounging in a large guest bed.

It's not so glamourous now, but they way he looks at you hasn't changed. You hope it never does.

[bluetimeombre]

John, Oh John!

synopsisyou and john have always been cut from the same cloth, close in the way only you two could be working in the ER. but what john doesn't know- your deep love for him- can't hurt him. only you. but if you have to hear him love a girl that isn't you one more time, your heart might not make it.

warningsheavy angst, language, sex allusions

authornotei've been binge watching ER, I'm obsessed, my god its so good and of course, I love John Carter. i don't know if anyone else will care but i have to write for this man

“John! Oh John!”

John. Oh John. It was a mantra prayed upon next door to your room. It was religious, almost every other night the calling for his name.

It was damn right sinful.

When John had invited you to move in with him almost six months ago you thought all your problems were solved. You would no longer lose rent on a stuffy apartment you didn't even like, being kept up by frat parties that seemed to run all night. You'd share with Carter, be able to study together as you had since starting as med students together, be able to help each other out and share the rent.

“Oh my god, John!”

You hadn't thought about the noise. The moaning, the thudding of beds, the awkward greeting of the new girl of the week in the mornings where all you wanted to do was drink coffee and get ready for the day in peace.

Your bed was next to Carters, a wall separating the two of you.

This girl was blonde, slim, not from the hospital from what you could tell. They'd stumbled in at eleven and you'd heard him jingle at the door so you hid yourself away, running from the living room you paid rent for to offer them privacy and peace that they never offered you.

“John...” the girl had whined, you imagined her hands crawling up his chest, peeling off his coat and scarf, dragging her lips over his neck.

“Wait, wait, wait-” you heard John, probably making sure the coast was clear before he took her on the sofa. The sofa you'd paid for! He'd called your name, checking where you were. Gathering you'd hidden yourself away he carried on.

It wasn't the first night the sound of fucking next door had kept you up, in fact you'd lost count of the many of women John preferred to you. Slowly your patience was failing. Sleep as an intern in the ER was precious- like a gem stone. You shouldn't have been losing it in your own apartment.

You heard the mumble of medical procedures and thought you were in a nightmare.

“John, what are you doing?” the girl asked.

You knew what he was doing. To make himself last and drag on the night he thought about medical notes, the books you studied piled on the coffee table.

“Making it last,” you heard him say.

You wished he wouldn't.

When the low moaning started again you couldn't take it.

It was somewhere past four but you'd never known Mark Greene to turn away help.

“What are you doing here? You're not on till seven,” said Carol as you threw on your doctors coat, swinging on the stethoscope.

Outside it was dark, starting to rain and you'd drank two coffees on the way in. You weren't feeling awake but the hustle of the ER and the calls of trauma were better to hear than the moaning and slams of bed.

“Couldn't sleep, thought I'd get in early, early bird catches the.... something,” you said, eyeing the board. Abdominal pains, sores, vision blurs, the usual. There were plenty not taken up with a doctor.

“Couldn't sleep huh?” Carol asked, as familiar with the drill as you were.

“Nop.”

“And what was her name this time?”

“I didn't catch it.”

You didn't know if it was a head nurse thing or just a Hathaway thing but Carol had caught the feelings you had for John maybe even before you had.

She'd watch the two of you come in as fresh faced med students aiming for two different things. The two of you worked well on cases. You learnt how to take a more direct approach through Carters determination in surgery and John learnt to take closer care with his patients with your attentiveness in a pedes rotation.

“God, men are pigs,” said Carol.

“What have I done now?” asked Ross as he passed, leaving and picking up a chart. “You're in early,” he observed.

“I'm dedicated.”

“Wanna check out a cough in five?”

“I'll be there.”

You didn't need to stare to see Carol and Doug share a look. As you'd taken an interest in pedes work in the ER you'd been brought under Dough Ross's rather large wings. And if you were around Ross by proximity you were around Carol. And if you were around them Carter wasn't far.

It was a chain of terrible love stories.

“Eventually you'll get written up for overtime,” said Carol.

“A hospital that hates over-achievers, damn.”

“You should just talk to him.”

You turn to her, leaning on the counter. “And tell him what? I hate him having sex?”

“Well if he could be a little quieter,” she suggested.

“It's not him, it's the women.”

Carol was silent as you distracted yourself with the charts. You knew what she would say next, you knew what you would say after that and it would continue as it had for months. “You should tell him how you-”

“-no.”

“What's the worst that could happen?”

“He says he doesn't feel the same way, tells everyone, I'm left embarrassed, I lose my apartment, need I go on?”

Her eyes rolled. “No I get it.”

“Hey!” Ross called out. “Cough! Five! Let's go!”

You followed him on and used what you'd come to the Er to get: distractions. You followed Ross around from patient to patient, got called in on a trauma and even had time to change the the filters in the coffee machine before you were faced with John.

He was bright eyed, smiling with his dimples. Heck, you were even convinced his eyes lit up seeing you, with your coat hanging off, hair already falling out of its hold and he'd just left some blonde babe. Maybe she'd dropped him off at the hospital and he'd beg a lift back with you. Or he'd told her to let herself out the apartment.

Carter had no right to look at you like that.

“Hey,” he smiled. “You get in early? I thought you started at seven with me?”

“Oh yeah... I was paged in early.”

“Trauma?”

“Cough.”

He laughed. “You were paged in for a cough.”

“I know can you believe it,” you had tried to make it sarcastic, wanted it to seem like a passing comment but your lips didn't move into a smile and it fell weak into your stomach.

John leant next to you at the counter, tilting his body in a way to try to look at you. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Something's up, what?”

Maybe it was how close you’d worked, going from students to interns. Or it was your living together which made you both understand each other with small looks.

Clearly you didn’t know each other well enough, otherwise he’d note the bags under your eyes or the way your body didn’t lean into his like you used to.

John jutted his hip against yours with a chuckle. “Talk to me, c’mon.”

“I just didn’t get much sleep last night.” You admitted.

How stupid could men be?

John didn’t even catch on to what you were laying down. “How about we do something tonight? Catch a movie? Get some dinner?”

You and John used to do that sort of thing often. When you'd first moved in together it was all watching films with take out, taking it in turns to order your favourites. You could hardly recall what the films were about because the two of you spoke throughout them. It took a month then you knew everything there was to know about him.

But that was almost two years ago and things were different.

You were in love with him.

He had no idea.

Instead he had love for hours a night and that seemed to do him fine.

John was still waiting for an answer. “Dinner? Movie?”

You looked at him. Over his shoulder you spotted Carol, shaking her head. “Dinner sounds great.”

John's face broke out into a smile. “Yes!” he cheered. His lips pressed to your head quick, gone before you could get a feel of him.

“Carter!” Benton called.

Benton's ordering and bossing around of Carter had grated on his nerves for months but you'd never seen him smile so wide and all but skip to him.

Maybe things weren't being so bad.

“Why would you agree to go to dinner?” asked Carol.

Why would you? Because even if he wasn't your lover, he was still your friend. You'd take that. “Was I supposed to say no?”

“You're gonna hurt yourself,” she said.

But sadly you had hope, which was probably the only thing keeping you in the state you were in.

“It's just dinner with a friend,” you said, picking up a patients chart, any chart.

Carol clocked her head at you. “It's not though is it?”

“To him it is.”

John appeared at your side, hands bracing your arms as he leant over you. For a moment you panicked, imagining that he heard it all. His grin said different. “I'll book us Nona's, your favourite Italian, I'll get it for eight.”

He disappeared, rushing around the corner. You got a last look at his scrubs and gown.

When you turned back to Carol she'd gone too.

“And so I said to him, that's not his Appendix, that's his Kidney.”

Johns laughter bounced around the restaurant. As promised he’d booked your favourite Italian, a table in the window lit by a candle and golden lights around you.

There was an empty plate from a tiramisu you’d shared and several empty glasses of wine dotted around from the evening you’d shared, lipstick of your stained glasses you’d had.

John had entertained you all night, telling jokes, talking about work. His eyes had been lit up since you both sat down, talking animated and never letting a moment of quiet. He’d even dressed up, supporting a suit as if this was some kind of date.

With the lights down low and dragging your fingers over your glass of wine, you almost imagined it was.

The waiter came by and John waved him down.

“Another bottle of white,” he ordered, sharing the last dregs of the bottle between your two glasses.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re trying to get me drunk,” you joked.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he laughed. “I’ve missed you. It’s just nice that we get to do this, I didn’t see you at all yesterday. You were in bed when I got home.”

Home. Home with his date.

“We’ve been… busy,” you said.

Johns smile broke but only a fraction, some sort of disappointment floating by and marring his expression. “Yeah, I-I guess we have.”

There was a flicker of silence, the first sort there’d been in the night.

The wine was delivered.

“We should do this once a week,” suggested John, alight with the idea.

You laughed. “What, with our schedule?”

“Okay.” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Once a month, surely we can manage that, right? We’re capable people, capable doctors.”

There was more laughter, dulling the ache you’d been carrying.

At some point Johns hand had come down and touched yours.

You’d expected him to pay your hand friendly, move it away and make another crack at a joke.

His hand lingered. Stayed, his fingers stayed slowly moving against the back of your hand.

John watched as his fingers drew lazy circles over your skin. There was a smile playing on his lips.

You didn’t have it in you to move away. You chuckled lightly. “What are you doing?”

John looked at you, his other hand coming up to cup his chin as he rested there. “I’ve missed you.”

It was sincere, almost loving.

You laughed it away. “You’ve said that already.”

“What? A guy can’t say it again?”

“A guy can’t say but you…” you trailed off.

“I what?” asked John pointedly, tilting his head to get a better look of you.

It was almost cruel how unaware he was, or maybe acted he was. The thought that he knew your feelings that were oh so obvious to some and were using them against you made you feel sick.

You slipped your hand out of his and took a sip of your wine. “Nothing.”

“No, what?” he asked, nudging himself closer to the table. “What were you gonna say?”

You drained the glass of wine and picked up the bottle, pouring yourself more while John watched and waited. You laughed, doing your best to brush it off. “I dunno what I was gonna say, slipped by me.”

You could tell he didn't believe you. He seemed to like to chose when he wanted to believe you.

“I-” He'd just started to speak when his gaze drifted over your shoulder and widened at the door. “Oh god, don't turn around, don't look- don't look!”

Frowning you did just what he said not to do, wine still in hand.

Carter was busy slouching in his chair, trying to hide.

A girl walked in with two of her friends, peeling off their coats and handing them to the staff at the door. They were all large smiles and tanned skin, dresses that hugged perfectly and hands manicured. They were alight with life and not drowned in exhaustion like you.

You looked back to John and didn't even have to guess and why he was hiding from them. Your brows rose at him.

“I went to school with her,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “She has a massive crush on me.”

“Does she?” at least you weren't the only fool to love him.

John nodded, the front of his hair moving as he did.

You looked again and as if she sensed you, the girl turned.

“No... no... no....” chanted John as she seemed to recognise him, even half swallowed by the table as he was trying to be.

“John Carter!” the girl greeted with her arms out and her wide smile.

John was polite in standing and hugging her.

You were polite in occupying yourself with the wine.

“Oh my god, look at you it's been so long!” she said, pulling away. Her hand smoothed the jacket of his suit. “God when I last saw you you were winning horses races on... oh, what was your horses name, again?”

“Marigold,” said John.

“Marigold, that's right!” she laughed, hand slapping at his bicep and lingering.

You snorted at the obvious affection she was laying on. At least (you hoped) you were slightly more incredulous.

They both looked to you.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt,” she apologised.

John went to speak but you spoke before he had the chance.

“You didn't, actually, join us if you like,” you invited.

John's face fell. “What?”

“Oh, I mean I'm here with friends but, hey, what's one drink between old friends?” she pulled up a chair effortlessly, setting it between you and Carter.

Carter himself lingered up on his feet, pulling his jacket close and slotting a button in. He looked at you, almost with some betrayed ideas in his eyes. He sat down, deflated but his old friend from school - Samantha- was already taking his wine glass and filling it. She was already talking about the first time she met John.

You didn't know why you'd decided to interrupt your own night with him. Just as you didn't know why John seemed to perturbed that you had.

Two days later he was at it again.

“John! Oh, John!”

You didn't even get a glance at this one, you had no idea who it was. The old friend from the restaurants or a friend of hers that had joined you later in the night. Maybe it was patient or a friend or family of patients. It could've even been the new intern that had started. You didn't know.

They were all blending into one.

“John! John! John!”

You'd tried putting on headphone from you walk man. You'd tried smothering yourself with your cushion. You'd tried every trick under the sun but it was as if the sounds of pleasure had buried itself in your bones. Even if you couldn't hear it, you knew it was there and it was enough in your bones to have you tossing and turning.

“H, stands for hemolysis, the- the break down of red blood cells-”

You threw your covers off. It was nearing three a.m. The ER could always use an extra pair of hands. That's what you told yourself as you pulled on clothes in the dark, desperate to get out the apartment before you crawl out of your skin.

Perhaps turning on the light would have been beneficial.

You pulled up your pants, jumping to do so but sliding on a lose sock. You fell, hurtling to the ground and trying to catch yourself on the desk had only resulted in banging your head on the side.

For a moment, lying in the dark of your room with a new ache in your head you thought maybe you were concussed because there was suddenly no noise. No nothing.

“John-”

“- wait, shh, shh-”

Nope, still there.

You finally got your pants on without any more injury and left your room.

There were to empty beer bottles at the kitchen counter. You noticed them as you pulled kitchen roll onto your head, pulling it back you pulled open the fridge to check in the light. A little blood.

All the more reason to get to the ER.

You were just fetching your bag from the side when the squeak of a door behind you alerted you.

“Hey, what's going on?” John spoke up.

You didn't dare turn around. You knew if you did you'd find a recently fucked-out Carter, maybe his friend hanging off his arm like his other friends had two nights before at Nona's.

He called out your name.

“Nothing, John,” you dismissed, swinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Where are you going, it's like, three am?”

You didn't answer.

“Did the hospital call?”

“Just go back to bed, Carter.”

It could have been the head split, the fact you were running on little sleep as it was or that John was so insisting he cared when the noise of you falling had clearly broken him out of his blissed state.

You never called him Carter. If you did, it was a bad sign.

“Wait- wait- jus' a second, hold on-”

You turned, catching a glimpse of him retreating back in his room.

You dabbed at your cut again, seething at the pain it brought.

You doubted stitches were needed but maybe some glue. Heck, maybe you could find an on-call room and sleep off the wound.

John's door opened again and he was rushing out, tugging a shirt on with joggers already pulled up. He flicked the light on and you watched his eyes widen at the cut as if you'd been shot. “Woah-woah, hey-hey-”

“Leave it, John.”

“What happened? What'd you do?” he rushed to you, sliding on the floor as he cupped your cheeks, checking the cut in the light.

His clothes hung limp on him and you didn't even have to look close to see the blue and purple bruises at his neck, still fresh, a thin trail of kisses not yet settled. There was no slouch in him like you knew there to be in you. He was alert. The kind of attention sex required.

He was using all that energy- the energy he was stealing from you- to asses your wound.

“What were you doing, jumping-jacks?” he tried to joke.

You didn't feel like laughing. “Can you leave it, please?”

The crinkle at his eyes at his own teasing dropped. He became as dull as you felt.

“No, no I- I can't leave it,” he said, serious. “You're bleeding, you're hurt, what happened?”

You sighed. “I was dressing in the dark, I'm a clutz.”

He shook his head. “Why were you dressing at three am?”

“Because I'm going into work.”

“We're not on nights.”

“Then I'm going in for fun.”

“Like the other night when you were paged in for a cough that didn't exists?” he said. “Mark told me, so what's going on?”

You had hoped Mark Greene- your mentor- wouldn't be noticing the slow falling apart of your love life. No such luck there. “Nothing,” you told him. “Nothing is going on.”

“You running off in the night is something, in my books at least,” said John, stern. His arms fell to his side. “So, you want to tell me?”

You'd just done a thirty-six hour shift and was only reward with two hours sleep. You didn't have it in you to be kind to him while your own chest felt like it was caving in on itself. “No, I don't.”

John scoffed. “Well, I've got all night, I can wait.”

“No, you don't.”

He frowned.

At that moment his latest peeked out of the room. She'd had the decency to wrap herself up in his thin white sheet at least. Her hair was a mess, her body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She genuinely seemed sorry to be interrupting but clearly wanted to get back to the high she was chasing.

“Hey, John, is everything okay?”

She was so un-like you. She was everything you weren't. You didn't even know who she was but she wasn't you and seeing her coming out of John's room, wrapped up in his sheet and smell and faint marks of him you were reminded of that.

You didn't know why she- an odd number in his list of conquests- broke your heart. But it did.

You chocked on a sob, turning away from them both.

John's neck snapped to you at the noise. “Hey, hey-” his hands were soft on your forearms but you shrugged him off.

“John?” asked the girl again, a lazy drawl of her voice piercing your heart.

“Just, go back in, I'll- I'll be a second,” he said, dismissively.

It some how made it all the much worse because he didn't care for the other girls feelings. It was nothing serious to him, it never was. If it was serious, if he brought a girl back and took painstaking effort to introduce the two of you maybe you could pull on a brave face, pretend to be happy for him.

But he was constantly throwing it all in your face.

“John?” the girl asked again.

“Meg, seriously, I just need to sort this out-”

Sort it out? Like you were something on a check list?

You'd managed to make it to the front door before John caught you.

“Hey, wait! No- jus'-” his hand slammed down over you on the door, closing it before you could escape. “You're scaring me now, what's going on?”

“Nothing,” your own voice betrayed you, cracking as tears escaped you.

You rushed to wipe them away but John beat you to it.

“Hey, hey.” His thumb swept at the tears, voice laced in worry and pain. “Why are you crying? What's happened?”

You knew yourself well enough from the years of stress of medical school, from losing patients that were making promising progress and dying, from months of hearing John love on a girl that wasn't you to know when you couldn't trust your voice. All you could do was duck your head and sniff.

John was still close enough for you to smell the other girls perfume on him. “Why- why don't we sit down? I'll make you some tea.”

“I don't want tea,” you chuckled dryly.

John seemed startled. Tea was always what you offered him after the hard days. “Coffee?”

“I just want to go,” you admitted.

“Go? Go where?” he asked, voice almost as broken as yours. “You want to leave, you want to get out of here?”

He asked like he was almost understanding where you were coming from.

You nodded.

“Can I come with you?”

You shook your head.

John nodded with tight lips, like his own heart was breaking. “Okay them, I- I can't let you go. Not alone.”

You cried. “John-”

“It's three am it's dark out, I'm not letting you go anywhere alone-”

“John-”

“And frankly you're scaring me right now, I can't stand seeing you like this-”

“- I just don't want to be near you right now.”

The confession hung between the two of you like a hook caught in your hearts and tearing you both down. It was one thing you hurting because of John's actions but it wasn't like you'd told him how you felt. So really, you were hurting him for nothing.

“Okay, okay,” he said calmly. Turing for a second to gather himself up, patting the back of his hair down. “Okay you don't have to be anywhere near me but can you at least stay? So I know you're safe. I'll- I'll hide in my room or something. Out there, it's-it's not and I know you hate me right now but you will give me a heart attack if you go-”

“- I don't hate you,” you uttered.

“Well you just said you don't want to be near me,” he pointed out, the first angry notes in his voice. He took a deep breath and took a step closer, his hands clenched in together. John bent a little in the knees to get a look at you. “I'm sorry, whatever I did, I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

He hadn't. Nothing he'd done had been with you in mind.

John laughed at himself. “It's me, for Christ sake, I'd never do anything to hurt you, okay? You've got to believe me. You know me.... you know me!”

The door to his room opened again and in the dim light the both of you saw his girl- Meg- wander out. She was in one of his old grey shirts, flaunting herself with jutted out hips. She threw herself down on the sofa and watched, waiting.

You wiped your tears away, telling yourself to get a grip. “Can we just- can we do this later, John, please?”

You'd thought the tears and begging would have been enough but John looked at you, studying all over you. He took in a deep breath like he was getting his confidence from somewhere.

He shook his head, staring at you. “No. Okay, wait- just wait for for a second, one second.”

You did. You waited one second and watched as he returned to Meg, crouching at the sofa and talking low to her. He even put his hand on hers and spoke very calmly and clearly.

Whatever he was saying Meg seemed to not like, or really understand, her eyes flickered back up to yours accusingly.

That's when you slipped out the door and hailed down a taxi to take you to the ER.

Carol had offered to help but you said no, so did Lydia, practically following you down with the right kit to take care of the cut on your head. Genie had offered with a kind understanding smile but you'd hidden yourself away on an empty bed with a mirror.

Mark was the only one you'd let stay in the room, even then you weren't letting him get close enough to help. “We should get a CT, at least.”

“Geez, it's just a small cut,” you chuckled, putting the thin strips of tape over it to help bring it together. It was the sort of thing that wasn't even medical. Just common sense.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said.

“And do you want to be the one to tell Wheever you ordered un-neccary tests and wasted hospital rescourse and money?”

You'd thought that would have been enough to deter him but instead Mark leaned forward.

“Yes.”

Damn.

“As chief resident I don't have to have you working till you get the all cleared.”

You huffed. You could always find an on-call room to catch up on sleep but you feared you'd re-play John's heartbreak over again if you did. “Fine, book me the CT,” you said, slinging your stephscope back around your neck and pocketing your pocket mirror.

“Thank you,” said Mark and with one last look of conserved worry, he left.

But the door swung open a second later and Carter waltzed in, hands in the pocket of his lab coat. He paused and looked at you, as if you were a patient of his.

It was going on four. He'd followed you in.

You opened your mouth to say something. A sorry, maybe. An apology for ruining his sex time and for crying.

John beat you to it. “I know you said you didn't want to be around me but I'm sorry, I-” he laughed at the very idea that was true. He knew you too well for that. “I don't believe you.”

“What do you want me to do about that?”

“I want you to talk to me.” John grabbed the stool close and sat on it, pushing himself close in front of you like any attentive doctor would. He grabbed your hands. “Talk to me.”

You wondered what you should have told him first. That out of desperation for your well-being Chuni had offered up her spare room at her place till you could get a place of your own. That Mark was willing to move around the schedule and face Wheever's wrath in doing so. That you couldn't take one more night of not being the one John chose.

“I'm sorry for being mad earlier, at the apartment,” you said first, looking down to where he held your hands. His knuckles were bleached white from the tightness he held onto you to. “I'm not- I'm not mad at you.”

His body sagged in relief. “You're not?”

“No.”

“Oh - thank god.” His body curved over yours, breath fanning the envelope of your hands.

“It's just me, it's just stuff,” you dismissed.

“No, it's not just stuff,” he said, equally as dismissive. “If it's getting you up in the middle of the night, ending in you being hurt- I mean... we can sort it.”

His thumb was a delicate tough as he brushed over your cut.

It didn't feel as painful when he did.

John's gaze lingered on your cut before looking back at your eyes. There was nothing to indicate he knew what this was really about, only a small hurting sorrow that he didn't know how to help you.

It was enough to hurt you all over again.

But maybe pulling the band off at once was better than a slow, agonising pull.

You squeezed his hands. “John, I'm moving out.”

The words were like heavy stones sinking in the bottom of a lake. You saw his expression blanked, his hands release yours slowly and his face pale as if the world was ending. His eyes searched yours trying to detect a hint of amusement.

He found nothing.

Mark popped his head back in, saving you. “CT's ready for you.”

“Thanks Mark,” you said as he nodded once and left again.

John hadn't moved, frozen in place. He stared past your body.

“I'll um... I've got to go...” it was the cowards way out but the way you saw it you'd been tough a long time, lying in bed and crying yourself to sleep. Letting yourself feel pathetic for doing so when you had so much more in life to give it meaning. If you could just get away enough, create some distance so you didn't feel trapped you could at least keep his hand in friendship. At least still have the privilege of looking in his eyes everyday and know, just for a second, you once had a chance for it all with him.

When you got back to the door and looked back, John was still on the stool, eyes watering.

Three hours later your shift officially started but you were already four patients deep, a case in pedes with Ross, a trauma that had gone up to the OR, an elderly man with a nasty fall to his hip and possible schizophrenia. Your last was a young girl, complaining of stomach craps. You suspected pregnancy and was thinking as much when you glanced out the door to the front desk.

John was staring through the door at you, Carol at his side trying to talk to him also staring in at you.

It wasn't a good sign in any case, not when Carol knew everything and John knew so little. It didn't help he looked wrecked. Tie askew, hair sticking up in the way that indicated hands running through it in stress.

Then he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

“Leanne, have you been sexually active recently?”

“With my boyfriend.”

“And how long ago was your last period?”

“Two weeks.”

“Are you late?”

“Not yet.”

You jotted it all down on the chart. “Ok, we're gonna get some blood work, start you on an IV and get a urine sample in-”

The door swung open and you and Maleek who was helping on the case looked up.

John stood there, breathless like he'd ran the ten or so paces it took to get here.

“John?” you asked.

“You love me?”

The world stilled. There was suddenly nothing but you and him. Him looking at you astonished, like he couldn't believe it. At a loss of words from the very idea.

“I'm sorry- what?”

He took a heavy step forward, a deep inahle seething. “You love me.”

It wasn't an accusation the second time.

You looked back to the fifteen year old and Maleek who seemed as startled as you. “Can we not- I'm with a patient-”

“It's okay, I got this,” said Maleek, stepping in the way.

And John Carter was still standing there, catching his breath and staring at you.

You, with little other choice, barged past him.

You heard Carol calling out for you as you marched around trying to find a private corner to have the dreaded confrontation.

“I'm sorry!” she called.

John was hot on your heels. “Don't apologise, I deserved to know!”

Benton had joined the crew of on lookers at the desk. “Do I want to know?” you heard him ask.

“Probably not,” Mark replied.

Exam room two was empty and you held the door open for Carter. He marched in, hands running over his hair again as he mumbled to himself. You closed the door behind, locking it and closing the blinds because you knew everyone was going to try to listen to your world crumble.

You gave yourself a two second head start in catching your breath before turning to him.

John stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, waiting. His lip tucked under his teeth. “You love me.”

“Who told you?”

“Carol,” he said. “I was so worried about you I asked if she knew what was going on but turns out everyone did. You know, I could've asked Doug, Mark, Susan, Genie, basically everyone I mean- was I the last one to know?”

“There was nothing for you to know.”

“Really?” he scoffed.

“Yes!” you snapped. “It was my feelings, you didn't need to know them!”

“Yes, I did! I needed to know!”

“Why?”

“Why? Because- because it's me!”

You groaned, frustration ripping through the tears you had cried that morning. “What does it matter, John? You don't love me!”

“Of course I love you!”

“Not in the way I love you, not like that!”

“Yes I do!” he all but screamed.

The room fell silent. You could hear the labour of his breath and the wheels and running outside the room. A trauma was called in yet nobody was rescuing you or John.

He stood there, exposed.

Yes I do!

It was the heat of the argument, you told yourself, as you shook the idea out of you. For a second you almost believed him.

John deflated, watching as you hugged yourself, as you didn't rush to him or smile at his confession. “Do you... do you think I don't love you?”

You levelled your gaze on him.

As if he could see the break of your heart through the windows to your soul he shattered.

“Oh my god. You think I don't love you?”

You lifted your shoulders in a tired shrug. “Was I supposed to believe you did? You fuck a different girl every night while I'm on the other side of the damn wall.” The words come out bitten and finally the penny dropped for John.

The sleepless nights, the times he knew you were tired, the way you hid around every corner, in every room. Slowly he fit all the pieces together and he didn't like what he was seeing.

“That wasn't- they were- they were nothing,” he stuttered.

It was your turn to scoff. “Yeah, it never sounded like nothing-”

“You have to believe me, okay, you- you have to-” he begged, rushing in front of you. His hands took yours without your offer and he held it close to him, over his chest where you could feel his racing heart by the palm of your hand. “- you can't- you have to-”

He clenched his jaw.

You waited for more. “Can't what?”

John screwed his eyes shut, uttering a curse before opening his eyes. They pleaded onto you. “You can't think they meant anything over you. You can't,” he said so definitely you almost believed him. Almost.

“You're not making sense.”

“I know- I- I know,” he said, moving closer to you. He rested his head on your shoulder and you didn't have the strength to move. There was no smell of any other girl, only your shampoo he used in his hair. You could feel the tremble of his body. “This isn't how I wanted this to go.”

You were still, like you were a bunny in the jaws of a lion.

John pulled back and you were shocked at the redness of his eyes, at the tears threatening to spill. “When I dreamt about this I dreamt roses and a better declaration,” he chuckled at himself.

“I'm glad you find this really amusing, John, but I-”

“I don't- I don't,” he said at once. But he still chuckled dryly. “I just think I've messed up my whole life and I- I don't know how to fix this.”

You weren't sure what he was saying because he couldn't be talking about whatever was going on between the two of you. Frankly, you weren't sure what was going on. There was confessions hanging in the air like dirty laundry and tears from him that you didn't know what to do with. None of it made sense.

Your brain went to the only sense it could make.

“You've ruined your life?” you asked, full of concern for him. “What? Is one of the girls pregnant?”

John swiped his hands over his face, roughly. “No. No, I've just realised I fucked everything up with you.”

You stared at him and laughed. “And that's your entire life ruined?”

Carter nodded earnestly.

He loved you? He was insisting he did. Looking at you like he did.

A fist grabbed your heart and squeezed. You counted every girl you'd met through him and tried to add it up to love. It only made your head hurt and you knew it had nothing to do with the cut.

“I can't- I can't do this right now,” you said. “I have patients. So do you.”

“Can we talk? Tonight. Can we- can we talk? Please. Back home,” he begged, voice quiet like you'd never heard him before. “Please don't leave me.”

You wanted to argue there was nothing to leave. That even if you were going to go you still had a room of things to pack and sort. “Okay, fine, tonight.”

For the rest of the day you and John avoided each other, only working side by side on traumas. It was the only clue anyone got about the two of you. Nobody had dared ask what was going on but as you threw yourself into work and John got back on the floor after a thorough self-pity party they were all smart enough to guess it didn't go well.

“So, you're talking?” asked Carol at the end of your shift as you finished passing off your charts.

“Tonight, yeah.”

“That's good, isn't it?”

You huffed, finding your bag. “He says he loves me, Carol.”

She didn't know whether to smile or not. “Yeah, I think he does.”

“So what were the girls?”

“Distractions? A bit of fun? Men don't always have to make sense. Even if they are in love,” she told you, knowing all too well the the ins and outs of men and stupid choices through Doug Ross and their famous on and off relationship. “But give him a chance, he might surprise you.”

A chance.

You were tired. The kind that came from a long shift and little sleep. The kind you'd become accustom to that it didn't shock you when you felt it knocking on your door.

Were you too tired for a chance?

A throat cleared behind you and Carol disappeared from your side.

John stood in front of you, sheepish, with a bouquet in hand. They were your favourite flowers. “For you.”

Ignoring the audience that was trying (and failing) at being subtle, you took them.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, shy, in a way you hadn't seen him be since the both of you first started in the ER.

Nobody knew what to say next.

“Can I, um, can I take you home now?”

You could have been petty and told him you'd catch the subway back. Or that you'd hail a cab but you were both going the same way and you'd end up in your living room, talking, one way or another.

The car ride was quiet with John trying to find a radio station that didn't grate on him and ended up in silence.

When he pulled up in front of your apartment building he rushed out the car like it was on fire. He pulled open your door before you got the chance and helped you with your bag and bouquet.

In the apartment it was just as un-touched as it had been in the morning.

You didn't realise until you saw it so that you'd been expecting a lingering guest.

But there was only signs of you and John.

He was watching you while he set both your things down. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, no thanks I think I should be sober for this,” you said. Amicable ground was trying to be found, keeping your voice neutral was the best you could do. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, no.”

The silence was invasive. An un-wanted guest.

You would start it, as you had with all your messed up feelings. You could finish it even if it hurt. “If you love me what were all the girls?”

John seemed to leap at the chance to defend himself. “Nothing. They were nothing, they were-” he paused, taking time to think about his next words. “They were just distractions. Meaningless. To get you out of my mind.”

“Cheap, John.” It was almost word for word what Carol said.

“Nothing I say can defend myself, I'm not trying to defend myself I'm trying to tell you the truth. I need you, and if I've ruined this I'm not letting you go without fighting.”

He approached you, giving you space and time to step back or flinch away. You didn't.

“I've loved you since I met you. Ever since you came up to me thinking I was a doctor and knew where labs were, I knew it. Love at first sight- if you think that's bullshit- I don't care because I knew it. But you made it clear, very clear you were here to be the best doctor you could be and I wanted that for you, I still do- I always will,” he said.

You remembered John years ago, tailored white coat and hopeful. You'd gone up to him because you were supposed to meet Doctor Greene in labs and had no idea where that was and he was the first person in a white coat and clipboard you'd seen.

You did twelve hours next to him that day, competing on stitches and sutures.

“You know, I had an apartment when I heard you were looking to move in with someone, cheap rent and that,” he said, laughing at himself. “I moved out of that apartment and got another one within the week with a spare room just so I could ask you to move in.”

The apartment you were stood in.

“What?”

John nodded like he knew it was ridiculous. “It worked.”

You knew the Carter family was rich beyond imagination. You'd always wondered why John insisted on a room mate when he could afford to live comfortably without one.

“When you told me you were thinking of moving in with Anna god I had a heart attack, practically begged her to back off.”

John had helped you pack your old place, had carried your stuff with care into his apartment. It had looked so much like him, so lived in you wouldn't even think to wonder how long he'd lived there. You'd never have guessed only a week till you invaded with your stuff.

“It was the closest I could have you without having you.”

“Why didn't you tell me then?” you asked.

His face screwed up like he regretted it. He did, you guessed. “Because we both get tired. We get irritable. I hate failing patients and you take on so many that you can't give yourself a minute to think during the day.”

You weren't sure if it was a compliment or not.

“We work together, we live together, take patients together I figured we'd crash and burn if I told you how I felt,” he admitted. “And- god, help me- if I had to live only being your friend it was better than living without you at all.”

But you and John had never argued. The both of you had figured out how to silently read each other. How to know when he needed space or a hug and a shoulder to cry on. He knew when you needed an extra pair of hands or to just put a stupid movie on to fall asleep too.

The nights you'd fallen asleep in his arms on the sofa and woke in your bed. The mornings where you were on and he wasn't but he was still up to get you a coffee. The days you worked close together and ignored everyone else. It all meant something else now.

“The girls were to forget,” said John. “It didn't work, hardly. All I could think about was you. And I know- I know it's wrong. I had to recite medical facts to myself just to get the thought of you out my head.”

“I thought you did that to make it last for them,” you admitted, realising now how silly it's all been.

He shook his head. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I'd rather cut off my own hands than make you cry. And I've made you cry and hurt you so just get a knife and-” he made a chopping motion, chocking on a laugh.

John wiped his tears with the back of his hand and he looked at you. “If you want to leave then leave but I can't let you go. I'll be around, I'll be really hard to get rid of.”

The both of your rooms stood behind you. Both dark. Both separate cages for the two of you.

“All I could think about when I saw you with those girls was how much they were never like me,” you spoke, quietly. “I thought you'd never... you know... think of me that way.”

John's hands were firm on your cheeks, gaining your attention. “It was always about you. You didn't deserve that, you didn't, I wish I could take it all back and tell you. But why didn't you tell me?”

Why? Because you were afraid. Knowing what you knew now it didn't seem a strong enough argument.

You laughed. “Are we stupid?”

John grinned through his own tears. He nodded, caressing your cheeks. “I think we are, I think so.”

Your foreheads leaned against each other as you laughed.

Slowly, it faded as he pressed his forehead into yours harder.

“I'm so sorry, baby.”

“I'm sorry,” you said, hands coming to hold his face, feeling the rough stubble in your palms.

“No, no, you have nothing to be sorry for, it's me, it's me,” he uttered, eyes closing. “If I've ruined this forever please tell me.”

You couldn't say he didn't have a point. Working long hours made you both difficult at times but never to each other. You couldn't say the girls wouldn't hurt you for some time more, that your insecurities weren't something you had to work on yourself.

Yet, you couldn't say you could manage without him.

“I don't think you have, no.”

John breathed out against you. “No?”

“No,” you shook your head against his. “I think if we love each other-”

“- we do, we do-”

“ -we should at least give it a try.”

“I'm not trying with you, I'm not trying- I'm doing,” John assured you, hands still moving along your cheeks, your hair, anything to hold you. “I'm not messing it up again, I'm not. I'd propose right now if you asked me to.”

You pulled back enough to stare at him seriously. “Don't.”

“Okay, okay, I won't,” he said. When he opened his eyes back at you he smirked, a twitch to his brows. “At least not today.”

There was laughter in place of tears and you knew that if you slept tonight there'd be no need to hurt. Maybe, instead, time to heal.

“Not for a long time,” you told him.

John nodded along, mockingly going along with you. “But eventually right?”

“Maybe you should kiss me before we get that far?”

The laughter died quietly. You were slowly brought into his arms as they wrapped around you, hands moving down your back without going further.

There was a gentle breeze of his warmth and the tips of his hair tickled you as he tilted his head, your own neck moving back to meet him.

It was soft and sweet. A small press of his lips like he was too scared to break you. It was your hands around his neck that brought him closer, it was his whimper that moved him on as his hands held your waist. You stayed pressing into each other, promising silent things as you did, until you both recognised the burn in your lungs for breath.

“I love you,” he said, slowly dragging his lips against yours again.

This time, you could admit to him without fear.

“I love you.”

[rosefiammotta]

i knew it, i knew you - john carter x cbf!reader

chapter six - I remembered, "I loved you" pairing: john carter x childhood best friend!psych intern!reader synopsis: You never thought you'd see John Carter again, that was the plan at least. Until your psych internship at County General makes you confront your childhood best friend again after years of never talking. But love has ways of bringing things back to life, and when you see him, you just know it, you know him, and you never stopped loving him even after all this time. Will seeing each other after all this time rekindle your flame, or will you just run away again? inspired by "I knew it, I knew you," by Taylor Swift. here it is on ao3 if you prefer This is the final chapter!

A couple of days. A couple of days left until your internship was ending. Till you packed your bags again and went away to the next thing that would occupy your mind and distract you from your desertion of John Carter. You’d gotten the call a week ago, the one that had said that a spot would be open for you at County if you’d want it at the end of the summer. But you hadn’t responded yet, unsure if you could stomach growing old without him. It was too much pressure, too much at stake. So you did what you knew best; run. 

You hadn’t told John yet, you didn’t have it in you to do it again. So you figured you’d just Irish goodbye your way out. Leave without a trace of evidence you were even there to begin with. 

The last day was slow, a couple of calls later and you were done, finished with your internship at County General Hospital. Just as you finished signing off on something in the ER you told everyone it was your last day, a simultaneous gasp from the people around you. You could only smile and wave goodbye as the lovely memories of these months flooded in your mind. It was time to let it all go, let it take rest in the attic of forgotten things. 

---

“Ugh, I’m gonna miss her,” said Maggie, shaking her head. Just as she said it, John appeared. “Miss her?” He placed a chart into its slot and looked at the board, “Miss who?”

Everyone paused, eyes going up to one another’s as if looking at who was going to say the unspoken truth first. 

“Girl-who’s-not-your-girlfriend, Carter,” Carol stated, picking up the chart he’d put down. His head tilted, brows furrowing as he placed his hands in his white coat.

It dawns on them; he didn’t know. 

“Guessing she didn’t say anything?” Doug said, patting Carter on his shoulder. 

“Say anything about what?” Frustration grew in Carter’s tone and expression, a knot growing in his stomach. 

“She’s gone, Carter. Last day.” Randi said, popping her gum. “Last day?” He walked behind the desk. “What are we talking about?” 

“She left, Carter. Said something about a job in California.” Dr. Greene mentioned. “Said she was leaving tonight.” Jerry piped in.

Carter’s head was on a swivel, going back and forth between the people giving him the devastating news. Time slowed in the moment, the realization dawning on him that given the chance, he may never actually see you again. No more midnight coffee runs, no sticky notes in each other's coats, no stolen glances from across the room. You’d be like a ghost he swore was there, but no evidence of you remained; only the lingering faint scent of you, the shadow of your frame haunting him from across the hall.

His face grew pale at the nightmare set before him; he couldn’t leave it like this.

You couldn’t leave him like this. 

His feet reacted before his words came out, stripping off his white coat and tossing it whilst sputtering out, “I have to go.”

John Carter ran like a man desperate for survival; every breath, every red light, every shadow in the street reminding him of his dying need to see you one last time.

It reminded him of the day he got your letter.

It had been lying on his bed when he came back from dinner with his family, his name written in cursive on the front with a maroon wax seal on the back, your initials sealing the paper. He opened it with a smile, sure of the fact that it was probably an invitation to sneak out or some elaborate ruse you two would pull off. Instead, there were words he struggled to understand, a promise that the string that drew them together could never be broken but needed distance. Enclosed in the letter was your masked broken heart, vague enough that he couldn’t read that it was due to your all-consuming love of him that you had to leave. With a “Love,” at the end and your initials. Sleep evaded him that night, lying on his bed with dread looming over him. It was a different kind of pain for him, knowing you were still out there but knowing he couldn’t easily see you. Maybe this was just part of growing up? He thought of every rational thought that could’ve led you to just up and leave without even saying goodbye. But none of them led to the conclusion that it was because you loved him you left him. John couldn’t let it end the same way it did all of those years ago; he couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye this time. 

John furiously punched in the numbers at your gate, speeding up your driveway and up to the guesthouse. He didn’t even turn off the car, leaving it running whilst hopping out and slamming the door behind him. Closed fist pounded against the heavy oak before finding the door unlocked. Without warning, John let himself in, in a frenzy to find you. There you were, standing in the bedroom, folding clothes into a suitcase. You breathed out his name, noticing his appearance. He was clearly disheveled; tie out of sorts, a couple of buttons of his blue-collared shirt undone whilst the sleeves were rolled up his forearms. 

Eyes lit up in shock, a quick gasp escaped your lungs.

“What’re you–” “You can’t go.”

Feet frozen in place, you clutched onto the shirt in your hands.

“John, I-” “You can’t leave without telling me why.”

Whilst you stood stuck in time, John heaved in heavy breaths of air, the only sound in the gaps of your words the echo of his chest rising and falling.

Deep brown locked into your own eyes, desperation in his gaze as he held on to every fallen word. It melted you, seeing him so small, so fragile. That the mere utterance of your words could silence him forever. But it’s because of that look, because of his fragility, you know you have to go. Knowing that it’s truly the utterance of his words that would bury you. 

“I have to,” is all you can say, looking down at your full suitcase and placing your folded shirt within it. 

John draws near, only an arm’s length away. Eyes glue themselves shut as you can’t stomach to look up at him; you don’t dare to look at his pleading eyes. Saying your name was a bullet to your heart, you could feel yourself bleeding out as every second passed by. 

“Don’t do this–” “Do what?” “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, John.” 

You wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt at self-comfort, eyes opening but looking down at the marble floors. John’s closer than before, feet practically touching as he draws beside you. Mint, caramel, leather; it’s everything you’ve ever known, everything you’ve ever wanted as your known and yet could never have. Yet, he’s standing in front of you, pleading for a reason.

“I can’t let you go again, not like this. Not when–” He pauses; it’s enough to let you fall for the temptation of looking up at him. “Not when I think–” It’s here you see it, every desire coming to completion in an instant. “No, I know, I'm in love with you.” 

Three words you'd waited your whole life for him to say, the fantasy becoming a reality in a millisecond.

His brows are furrowed, an awkward small smile on his lips as he hangs in anticipation of you. He breathes through his nose slowly, his gaze searching your own as if trying to puzzle the pieces of your mind together. 

But you breathe out a laugh, a grin finding its way to your lips as your eyes grow glossy at the prospect of tears falling down your flushed cheeks. 

“John Carter, I have loved you since we were seven years old and I have loved you every single day since.” 

A wilted corsage sat on a nightstand, letters addressed to you overflowing on a desk, polaroids of first days of school pinned to your childhood bedroom wall. All of them addressed to this moment. 

A deep sigh of relief escapes John as he places a hand on your cheek, thumb pushing away the salty mess pouring out of your eyes. He grins, that stupid youthful grin of his that makes you can’t help but grin along.

A symphony plays in your mind, replaying every laugh he’s ever had with you, the mixtapes you’d listen to in his room, the stream of water at the creek the two of you’d run away to.

Every moment, every memory leading up to John Carter leaning down and gently pressing his lips against yours. The flutter of his eyelashes against your face, the feel of his palm on your cheek, the sweet smell of him something you never want to wash away. His lips are plush and his kiss is gentle. Pressing on you like your mother’s favorite ornament; gentle and fragile.

When he pulls away, it’s all flushed cheeks and echoes of laughter. John draws closer, your hands resting on his rolled-up sleeves, the warmth of his arms underneath your fingertips. He tucks a stray hair behind your ear whilst placing the other on the small of your back, pulling you closer to him, wanting to melt into you. You don't hesitate, going up on your toes to reach him and kiss his tempting lips again, a hunger you've left unsatiated for years being fulfilled in a moment.

This kiss is a little less fragile, the feel of his mouth against yours giving you a high you hadn't felt since high school.

John Carter was warm; his body against yours, the feel of his calloused fingertips gripping your face, the hand on your back pulling you deeper into him. Tilting your head to melt into him more, you wanted every inch of him, anything and everything he'd give you. And he gave it willingly, his head moving in sync with yours and opening his mouth to invite you in. His hands move to embrace your back, palms on your shoulder blades as he pulls you deeper and deeper into him. Essentially wanting to melt into each other. He had enough grip of you to lift you up, your feet kicking up behind you before going back down. It left you smiling, small pecks replacing the once passionate embrace. Foreheads pressed against one another, you could see it all before you. Deep brown you'd seen as a child finally seeing you the way you'd seen him all those years. 

So young. 

So in love. 

All along. 

The curve of your smile is all he can focus on, a deep resolve in him to never let it fade as long as he’s alive. He sees his entire future before him; the screech of your mothers, the lily-lined chapel, the pony-themed birthday parties, the house you'd grow old in. All in an instant. 

You could see it too. The picture he's painting, and you gladly accept. Because you too see screeching mothers, a comfort on your ring finger, boy-scout troops, a house with wisteria growing all around, and two rocking chairs you'd sit and remember your lives in. 

All in an instant. 

The image of this particular John Carter smile is engraved in the crevices of your brain. It’s unlike any one you’d seen before; because for once, it was all yours. 

"So you'll stay?" He says, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. 

"Only if you'll have me, John Carter." 

No matter how much time passed, distance, timing, it was right there all along. The certainty of a love never forgotten, the kind that’s brought back to life, the kind that says;

I knew it, I knew you.

taglist: let me know if you want in or out @thesandbeneathmytoes @irissfoot @spider-starry

[rosefiammotta]

i knew it, i knew you - john carter x cbf!reader

chapter five - wondering if I'd made it up in my mind pairing:john carter x childhood best friend!psych intern!reader synopsis:You never thought you'd see John Carter again, that was the plan at least. Until your psych internship at County General makes you confront your childhood best friend again after years of never talking. But love has ways of bringing things back to life, and when you see him, you just know it, you know him, and you never stopped loving him even after all this time. Will seeing each other after all this time rekindle your flame, or will you just run away again? inspired by "I knew it, I knew you," by Taylor Swift. here it is on ao3 if you prefer

The days felt arduous, painstakingly slow. Going to the ER was no longer a joy, but a task you tried to avoid at all costs. When you inevitably see him and have to speak to him, it’s cordial, but never kind. You no longer have the strength to open your heart to him again. It hurts too much. 

He signs something you hand him half-heartedly, somehow without looking into his eyes, only muttering a “Thank you,” and walking away. John tries to stop you, saying your name and a “Hold on,” but you’re already gone. 

“Oooo, she’s mad,” Chuny states. “What’d you do to her Carter?” Lydia questions, smacking his arm in the process. 

John is standing in the hallway, just watching you walk off and feeling clueless. 

“I didn’t do anything—“ He begins, hands flailing in the air. The sudden alert of his pager alarms the room. John doesn’t even look at it, running a hand down his face and grabbing his jaw in the process. “Dammit,” he mutters. Everyone raises a brow at his reaction, recognizing the agonized John Carter was one they were unfamiliar with. 

“What is it?” Questions the peanut gallery, in this case, Jerry. 

“It’s just this girl I’m seeing—“ “Oh, you’re seeing two women Carter?” Haleh remarks, hand on her hip. “Pulling a Mark Green, I see.” Chuny retorts, silly smirk on her lips.

Carter’s brows furrow, deep creases in his forehead as he’s confused at the comparison made. His body reacts quicker than his words, shoulders tensing up and placing his hands in his coat pocket. 

“What? No, I’m not seeing two women—“ “Then who is this other chick?” Maggie pipes in, wiping a name off the board.

“Other chick? I’ve been seeing Emily for a while—“ “Emily?” Malik piped in.

“You’re telling me the girl who comes down here even when she doesn’t have a patient, gets you coffee, smacks your arm and laughs at all your jokes isn’t your girlfriend?” Carol states, hand on her pink scrubbed hip. 

“Girlfriend?” 

John had never imagined you and the world girlfriend together, like ever. 

Then he chuckles, thinking this is maybe some sick joke they’re playing on him. When everyone just stares he stops.

“Wait, are you serious?”

“So he really is that stupid,” Maggie stated, going back to the chart she’s paused from. Everyone takes a collective sigh and goes back to their assigned task; it’s Carter who tries to get the crowd back.

“We’re not—she’s just— we’ve never— has she said anything?” He’s desperate at his last words, as if the words are spinning around his head. Your silhouette, the words girlfriend, and a question mark all circling him like a merry-go-round. 

“You’ve got to figure this out on your own Carter.” Carol says, walking away and leaving him befuddled.

The splash of rain against the windows sounded like fireworks going off, wind rampant and violent. All you could hear in the ER of County General was the aggressive symphony of rain and the melodic beat of monitors. Jerry and Malik had started taking turns doing wheelies in a wheelchair. Weaver was too busy getting the disaster manual prepared to bother stopping them. You looked at your watch, seemingly timing the time you wanted to spend down at the ER. Not like you had riveting paperwork to get to, but you just wanted to make sure if John was there you could avoid him. Just as you got out of the elevator, a flash of lightning struck, the impact of it rumbling to your heels and shuddering your bones. You instinctively gasped, dropping the charts you held in your arms. Cursing under your breath, you tried picking up the scattered papers, now tattered and a bit damp from the water drawn in. Instinctively, a stranger came to help, a warm hand brushing yours as you both reached for the same papers. You didn’t need to look up to know you’d be met with brown eyes you’d known all too well, instantly recognizing the silver pinky ring on his hand. But you did. Lifting your head, you saw John. Looking miserable and hopeless under your gaze, as if you were stabbing him with the touch of your hand. Air trapped itself in your throat, lips parting slightly with all the words you wanted but could not say. 

It was John Carter. 

It would always be John Carter. 

No matter how much you fought for it not to be.

You’d always find your way back to be under his gaze. 

It reminded you of that last summer you spent together. Days propped against a strong oak, reading Shakespeare aloud. The ring of his laughter in the gentle breeze as you voiced the characters dramatically. A storm had begun unexpectedly, the two of you screaming as the downpour got you soaked trying to run back to the main house. The two of you found shelter in an old maintenance shed, the place long forgotten by humanity and fallen to the elements. Once hazel wood had turned ash with wisteria growing around it. But it was enough. Enough to keep you two from the pelting water from the sky. The two of you heaved in air as you relished the feeling of the cold seeping into your bones. Cloth stuck to your body, the shiver passing through you involuntarily. But John didn’t laugh, merely saying, “C’mere,” and placing an arm around you and pulling you into him from the side. If you looked up you could see all the freckles that littered his skin, the dimple in his cheek, his snaggle tooth. You swore he could hear how audible the rush of your blood to your heart was, how fast and loud it was beating against your chest. But he just smiled and brought you in closer, warm fingers pressed against your shoulder. He kept you safe, warm, he was there. 

It was John Carter. 

It would always be John Carter. 

It felt as if time stood still, hands still brushing against one another. In his desperation, John croaked out a “Hi.” Deep brown full of every apology he could emote, lips parted with a held-back breath, seeking reconciliation with you. John moved his hand, placing it over yours and squeezing softly, as if trying to keep you there. 

His touch was an olive branch. 

You loved him too much not to accept it. 

With lifted and furrowed brows, you respond. 

“Hi.” 

Your voice barely above a whisper, the smallest uptick in your lips of a compassionate smile. 

Something sparked in his gaze when you accepted, the breath trapped in his lungs finally escaping. 

In John’s mind, it felt as if he could finally breathe. Not realizing he’d been “holding his breath” all of this time that the two of you weren’t talking. It took him aback, recognizing the power you held over him. And it frightened him, how the smallest of words would either kill him or bring him back to life. 

“John, I–” 

Just as the words spilled out the lights had gone out, everyone around you groaning mixed with the deafening clap of thunder. 

“Okay people, we know what to do.” Voiced the woman of reason above all of the groaning. Flashlights flickered on, a spotlight hitting John and you as you both raised your hands above your eyes to avoid going blind. “Okay love birds, cut it out,” Jerry said, a stupid grin on his face. The two of you scoffed whilst you picked up the rest of your mess off the ground and placing them on Jerry’s workspace. 

“We know what to do in these cases of emergency, okay? No panicking. We’re running on the backup generator but it conserves enough power to not have the lights on so everybody grab a flashlight from the bucket and keep an eye on your patients.” Say what you want about Kerry Weaver, but you could never say she’s not prepared. There was a resounding agreement over Weaver’s words as staff began snatching up flashlights from a plastic tub on the work desk. 

“Carter, I need you to go to radiology and see if those X-Rays in exam 2 got printed out.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order. John simply nodded, looking back to you briefly and smiling. You looked away from his gaze, unsure of how to feel. 

“Actually, you two go together.” 

Your head swiveled to Weaver, feeling an ache in your muscles by how quick you did it. “I don’t think that’s necessary Dr. Weaver–” “While you’re down here, you’re my responsibility and I don’t want to lose track of anyone done here. This way you’re both accounted for. Besides, do you have anything better to do?” She said the last statement with a tilt of her glasses, leaning against her cane and oozing sass. 

You pursed your lips and muttered, “Okay, will do, Dr. Weaver.” But John couldn’t contain his happiness, shrugging his shoulders and smiling wide. “C’mon.”

The walk to radiology was quiet and quick; surely this would be an easy task to get done right? 

But just as enter the room, the memory hits you too late, remembering when given the tour of the ER that this room in particular had an electric lock. And John, being the gentleman he was, let you walk ahead. Making you scramble behind and shout, “Wait, don’t close the—“ But it was too late, the door had locked on its own. John slowly turned to you with a sheepish smile, “Oops.” 

You only rolled your eyes and accepted your fate; you were now locked in a room with John Carter. 

With your flashlight, you continued the task Weaver had sent you two to do, seeing that the images had been printed out and waiting to be picked up. Lighting the back up with your flashlight, you let John examine it. It doesn’t take long for him to deduce whatever the patient had been examined for was not in any immediate danger. You let out a sigh of relief and placed the prints down, going back to the door and jiggling the doorknob. The door was thick enough that it made it hard to hear the rattle of the doorknob, and with the blaring storm going on you highly doubted anyone would hear you. It left you with one option: sit and wait. 

When you turned around, John had already accepted his fate. Sitting against the wall and patting the spot beside him. A sigh escaped you, a slight shake of your head as you obeyed the motion and sat next to him. 

Leaning forward with your knees pressed against your chest, flashlight pointed upwards to illuminate the whole room, storm raging outside. And yet an overwhelming peace fell over you.

Even from a distance, you could feel John’s warmth, smell the cologne he’s worn since he was 19, feel his gaze glued onto you. 

It reminded you of family dinner parties when you were teens. How his mother would struggle to keep that one piece of his hair from getting out of line and how he would awkwardly smile at you when he saw you from across the foyer. It only took one look from you to know you two would meet in the attic in 15 minutes, after you’d ditched your parents and found a way for the staff to not notice you going missing. When you made it to the top floor of your home, you found the cord of the attic hidden away behind a heavy velvet curtain decorating the hallway. Yanking on it, the creak of the attic door sounded out, but the live piano downstairs drowned it out. “Boo!” John sprang up on you, making you drop the thin rope and gasp aloud. When you turned, you immediately smacked his arm, a sly smile on your face whilst he laughed loudly. “Such a scaredy cat,” he’d say, turning his shoulder to your small smacks. “Did you get the goods?” You questioned. John opened his coat pocket to reveal a whole bottle of champagne in it, being upheld by his free hand. He smirked mischievously and upturned his head, motioning for you to go up the stairs. Crawling up the small wooden steps, you sought the light switch on the wall, string lights coming to life when you flicked them on. It was a small space you’d find solace in, a bunch of cushions used as a makeshift couch against the far side of the space, the side walls lined with short bookshelves that contained books long forgotten by the outside world. Abandoned Christmas lights, your mother’s rejected glassware, your father's rejected furniture. 

It was a place of forgotten things; you knew no one would find you here. 

The two of you plopped on the cushions, getting comfortable and taking turns passing the bubbly alcoholic substance. The two of you giggled about how mad your parents would be if you’d ever gotten caught, the look in your mother’s eyes if she saw her precious daughter breaking the rules set before her. 

“I would love to see it,” John said whilst undoing his bowtie and unbuttoning his white-collared shirt. “Unzip me,” you said nonchalantly. The dresses your mother put you in were suffocating and stuffy; it wasn’t unusual for John to help you breathe in them every once in a while. But tonight was different, he hesitated. “You sure?” He said, putting the champagne bottle down. It made you pause. Feeling a little taken aback by his hesitation, wondering what could’ve caused it. Air escaped through your nose like a laugh and you tilted your head, “Yeah.” Turning your back to him, you waited patiently for him to do the thing he’d done since you were nine: help you. It wasn’t weird unless he made it weird. But tonight, was different. 

When his fingers brushed against your back to move your hair out of the way, they were abnormally warm and slow. You caught your breath when he began undoing the clasp at the top. He gently bunched the fabric in the back before cautiously sliding the zipper down, steady breaths rising and falling from your chest. It went all the way down until it reached the small of your back. Then you turned back, leaning against the wall again but actually being able to breathe now. When you turned, his ears and the tops of his cheeks had rushed maroon. Maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was you. “You alright?” 

John cleared his throat, taking another swig of the half empty bottle. “Yeah, m’fine.” 

The question lingered that night. 

Was it the champagne?

Or was it–

A clap of thunder drew you back to the present, seeing a no-longer-seventeen version of John Carter beside you. 

“You alright?” He questioned, slight concern in his gaze. A gentle smile graced your lips as the memory went back in its place; back to the attic of your mind. “Yeah, m’fine.” 

But tonight was different. 

Tonight, John was seeing you in a different light and it wasn’t due to the glow of the flashlight illuminating the room. Everything that had been spoken before was flashing in his mind now whilst you sat there beside him. Eyes transfixed on your softened expression; how your head was turned, chin resting against your propped knee, a kindness in your eyes with a gentle smile on your lips. Suddenly, his eyes didn’t want to move away from you, specifically from your lips. And how, nice, they looked. How your lips looked different, a good kind of different. Every other girl he’s ever touched is faceless now, the trace of your lips taking their place, the shape of your eyes, the crease in your smile. No one could compare; they never could, they never did. An ache punches Carter in his chest; that all along, he’s only ever wanted to see you smile at him with those lips. The ghosted pain of hurt he was in when you left him at the end of that fateful summer. Every moment and memory flashing back like a film reel in his mind, a specific one playing of his parents constantly teasing about them falling in love.

Love.

Oh?

“John?” One of the only people to call him by his first name, the sound of it never erased from his mind. But it’s enough to snap him out of his trance, revelation dawning on him. 

But the loud click of the heavy doorknob goes off, along with the sudden brightness of the overhead lights. You raise a hand to your eyes, trying to adjust back to what was once normal as you begin to get off the floor. The door springs open, a half-worried Kerry Weaver entering in and only looking slightly relieved that the two of you were there. 

“Good. You’re alive. Now what were the results of those X-rays, Dr. Carter?” She said nonchalantly. As if the storm still wasn’t raging outside of the walls, as if they hadn't just gone missing for however long that took. 

You saw it as the perfect opportunity to get away, “I should go back to my floor. Patients to see and all.” Weaver only nodded, more attuned to whatever next thing Carter would say. 

But John was stunned, unsure of how to respond, going back between watching you leave and feeling Weaver’s stare. It took a prod of Weaver’s cane to get John back to reality. 

“Carter? Hello? Earth to Carter? You alright?” 

He snapped back into place, eyes still wide but now growing focused. 

“Yeah, m’fine.”

Love?

Oh.

my first ever taglist! let me know if you want in or out @thesandbeneathmytoes @irissfoot

also i think there's only one chapter of this left...

[godmadeaterribleerror]

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

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

✦summary: you go in for the kill✦

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

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

Jan 5th – 2012

Princess,

It’s really freaking cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours,

DAW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean had snorted. That was Cas alright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m serious-“

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know how-“

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

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

“Princess, just- leave the towel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so- Oh-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think the plan will work?”

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

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

“Dean…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not magic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?!”

They all mumbled agreements, and she smiled wide.

“Okay!” 

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

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

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

We keep going, and then we move on.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not fuckin’ afraid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean…”

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

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

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

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

“Cas- Wait-“

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

“You almost got her killed-“

“And you would’ve protected her-“

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

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

“I am sorry, Dean-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Other shit too, but- Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

Dean sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cas?”

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

“You gotta make me a promise.”

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

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

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

Cas blinked. “Dean, I do not-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re holding it wrong.”

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

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

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

“Not enough, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gave him a doubtful look, and Dean chuckled.

“You don’t think I can do it?”

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

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

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

“I’ll stitch back your finger?”

“Cas’ll put it on ice for you-“

“Why can’t Cas stitch it together-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ain’t you able to see we’re busy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You free tonight, pretty girl?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean asked for too much, maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I- I’m okay-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, like- Uh- I before E?” 

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Princess, it ain’t that big a deal-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you go to elementary school?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean, you know how Dad was-“

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

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

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

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

“I think you have dyslexia, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, ‘cause it takes forever-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you-“

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

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

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

“Shit, Princess-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You stopped me-“

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

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

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

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

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

Dean snorted. “I didn’t drag you-“

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

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

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

“Ow-“

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

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

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

“Think my cheek hurts too, actually-“

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

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

“Yes, it is!”

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

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

“Pick you up and put you in bed?”

She gaped. Dean gave her a disbelieving stare.

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

“You wouldn’t wake me up?”

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

“Because you want to have sex with me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you come out of a second?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your bullet box?”

Dean blinked. “My- What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I just- I don’t wanna watch it,” he pled. “It’s not bad, I swear, but- I can’t. Tomorrow I’ll sit in another room, and you can- You know.”

He nodded to the box, and She shook her head. “We’re on the road tomorrow, but- I can do it in the motel-“

“No,” Dean rubbed his jaw. He’d rather jump off a damn bridge than sit in Sammy’s room while freaking Jo read over Her shoulder. “No. We- We’ll do it after. Just- Not now.” He squeezed Her hand. “Please?”

She still looked pretty confused, but She nodded. Dean laughed, shaky and a little broken, and leaned forward for a kiss. He pressed a small one to Her lips, then grabbed the back of her head and started kissing all over Her face.

“You’re gonna like it,” he murmured. “Promise.”

She hummed, twisting Her face to try and catch Dean’s lips again. He offered them freely, and She grabbed his flannel, pulling him closer. He grunted, turning in the seat to lean over Her, his knee and a hand on the bench so he could move Her down to her back. Dean took the box and set it on the dash, never letting the kiss break. She hugged him, dropping Her leg to offer him more space, and he chuckled, hooking his arm around Her waist.

“Hold on,” he whispered, and She tensed up.

“Dean- Dean-“

He tossed Her carefully onto the back bench and crawled after, shrugging off his flannel. She was shoving his chest before his feet even hit the ground, and he let Her with a grin. She needed to wind herself up, before She relaxed.

“You scared me,” She shouted, slapping his bicep. “And you- You didn’t even warn me-“

“I warned you.” Dean tossed his flannel to the side, and ducking down for a kiss. She squeaked and dropped flat against the bench, glaring up at him. Dean gave Her and incredulous look, and She scowled.

“If you kiss me, you’re going to make me forget I’m mad,” She grumbled, and Dean smirked.

“Yeah, Princess,” he grabbed Her ankle, rubbing up and down her calf. “That’s kinda the point.”

She narrowed Her eyes. “I could’ve hit my head-“

“I wasn’t gonna let that happen.” Dean pulled off one of her shoes, then the other. She watched him with shallow breaths. Dean was a little worried she was gonna hurt herself. “You want me to stop kissing you?” He asked, and She shook her head frantically, still not leaning up. Dean raised his brows. “But you wanna keep being a brat?”

She hesitated, but nodded. Dean gave Her a stern look, pulling the slightest bit back, and She tugged her leg back to her chest. Dean paused, scanning over Her for hesitation, and she—shyly, with Her arms around her stomach and shining, anxious eyes—spread Her legs wide. Dean’s grin slowly split his face, and She flushed, pretty and embarrassed and all his.

“Oh, baby girl,” he rubbed Her knee, slowly massaging his way up Her thigh. “You want it?” He hovered over Her, letting their lips just barely brush. “You want it real bad?”

She nodded, pulling on his shirt, and Dean hummed, watching Her with a soft smile.

“But you were all pissy, kickin’ and shoutin’ at me,” he cooed, dipping his hand under Her shirt. She shivered and arched into the touch, eyes fluttering slightly. Dean teased his fingers up Her sides, and she was already getting wiggly. He might’ve worked Her up too much. She looked like She was about to cum from just the light touch. “You sure you want it?” He squeezed under Her ribs. “Use your words.”

“Ye- Yes,” She breathed, holding Dean’s stern stare.

“You want what?” He prompted, and She sucked in a breath, voice small.

“You.”

 Dean smiled, leaning down just a little further. His thumb grazed Her breast, and his knee settled between Her thighs, not offering enough space for Her to move. He kissed up Her neck and over her jaw, one corner of her mouth, then the other. She grabbed his head but didn’t try to move him anywhere else, just seeming to hold on for Her life. 

“Dean,” She mumbled, and he hummed, sucking on Her upper lip. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“’M not teasing,” he said, and She made a noise like she was trying to scold him, but couldn’t really remember how. “I’m waiting for you to talk.”

“I did talk,” She protested. “I- I said what I want-“

“But you were kinda vague, sweetheart. Didn’t actually give me any directions, or ideas,” he cupped Her breast, brushing his thumb over a perked, soft nipple. “I mean, there’s just so many things that I could do with you. With your pretty fuckin’ body,” he attached his mouth to Her throat, sucking a dark mark before flicking his tongue over the hurt. He dragged his hand back down, between Her thighs, and cupped Her cunt. “With this pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he pressed his palm down hard, and kissed the sweet moan off her lips. “I just don’t know, Princess. You’re leavin’ me a little lost.”

“Dean,” She breathed, tears already starting to gather on Her lashes. “Please.”

Dean smiled, cupped Her cheek, and kissed her swollen, shaking lips. How the hell could he ever tell Her no?

It wasn’t hard, to make quick work of Her clothing. Even in the limited space Dean managed to move quickly, helping Her out of her clothing with soft words and softer kisses.

“Alright, arms up,” he coaxed, kissing over Her breasts as he peeled off Her shirt. “That’s it, baby, c’mon.”

He kissed down Her stomach, then over the waistband and line of Her panties before pulling them down. He paused at the sight of Her cunt, dripping wet and sweet. He licked his lips and dragged his thumb over her puffy little clit, laughing when Her hips bucked off the bench.

“Dean- Fuck-“ She grabbed Dean’s wrist, craning Her neck, then falling back with a whine. Dean had attached his lips to Her inner thigh, sucking softly and flicking his tongue, just inches from where he knew She needed him, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged, but that just made his kiss open mouthed and wet.

He took mercy when She’d started just wiggling and whimpering below him, pressing a single, featherlight kiss to Her clit and—because he was only a mortal man—burying his face in Her pussy for one, long breath. She was slick and hot against him, and Dean considered just taking what he wanted right there. Only thing that stopped him was the fact that She was a live wire, and he wanted to watch her snap. Above him and over him, hugging him like he wasn’t the same thing driving Her out of her mind.

Dean moved Her, naked and shaking, into his lap. He’d tossed off his own shirt and pulled down his pants, cradling Her in his lap and letting his cock rub against her slick thigh. She was panting and flushed, clinging to his neck and slumped over his body. Dean kissed the slope of Her shoulder, then right under her ear, keeping his voice smooth and deep.

“There ain’t enough time in the world, for me to do everything I wanna do to you,” he murmured, dragging his hand down Her side. “I mean, Jesus, sweetheart. If you told me you wanted to be tossed around and played with, I would’ve pinned your hands up and given you something to really whine about.”

She made a pathetic, gorgeous sound, and Dean chuckled.

“You love that, huh? Love the idea of turning into a pretty little fuck doll for me?” Dean kneaded Her ass, letting his fingers brush just against where she needed him. “You know what we’d call that, sweetheart? When you wanna just get nice and dumb on some big dick?”

She shook Her head, and Dean smirked, dropping his voice to a whisper.

“Cockslut, Princess. We all it bein’ a good little cockslut.”

Jesus, he’d never seen Her this reactive. She was always sensitive, but She’d started to grind down onto his thigh and moan something close to his name, and Dean was barely even touching Her. He leaned back to watch Her, and she pressed her brow against his, as if She couldn’t bear to be apart for a single second. 

“You like listening to me, huh,” he murmured, and She mewled. “Yeah, that’s right. You like hearin’ how much I worship you. How much I wanna love every inch of you, ‘till you can’t even stand. If we had forever… Baby, you’d never leave the bed.”

She panted, riding Dean’s thigh with unfocused eyes and slack lips. Dean knew She wasn’t going to get there herself, but son of a bitch, if it wasn’t a sight to watch her try.

“Think I’d just tie you down for a few days,” he rasped, watching Her every reaction. “Take my time kissing your pussy, making you cum in my mouth until you can’t even scream. Got the sweetest one I’ve ever seen, Princess, I swear to god. Wanna sit you on my face, make you ride me, maybe fucking put your hands behind your back so you can’t do anything but feel it, feel me, eating your wet little pussy-“

She cried out and smashed Her lips over Dean’s, kissing him like she really didn’t know what to do with herself. Dean kissed Her back, massaging her sides, still talking against her lips.

“Should be put down, with how I’ve been dreamin’ about you,” he grabbed the back of Her neck, keeping their mouths pressed together. “Used to jerk off just thinking about your tits, about markin’ them up until you couldn’t touch ‘em without thinking of me, about sucking on them while I got you folded over, fucking you full, filling up your pussy until it was drooling, fucked up with the cum you deserve-“

Dean groaned, his own cock getting demanding. He kept brushing against Her heat, and it was enough to drive him out of his goddamn mind.

“You got no- No fuckin’ idea,” Dean grunted, kissing Her between every word. “You bend over and I pop a boner, Princess, just thinkin’ about taking you on my knee and- Shit-“ She rolled her hips just right, and arousal got smeared all over Dean’s shaft.

“De- Dean-“ She clawed at his back, so quiet and breathy he almost missed it. “Dean-“

“I know. I know what you need, baby,” he grunted, hooking his arm around Her back. “Easy now, just lemme take care of it.”

Dean pulled Her up, lined himself against her cunt, and lowered Her down as slowly as he could.

It wasn’t easy. She clenched at the damn tip, and Dean had to grit his teeth to not lose it right there. He eased Her through it, still talking, all while holding Her hips like she’d float off to space if he even loosened his grip.

“Just like that,” he muttered, watching Her swallow up his dick. “Breathe, sweet girl, just gotta keep breathin’. Let your greedy pussy take what she needs, c’mon-“

Dean bottomed out with a hiss, and She clenched around him so hard his vision went white. Dean moaned, trying to choke out a warning, but then she squeezed harder. Her body writhed against him, her mouth agape and those beautiful, hypnotizing sounds fell from Her lips.

She was cumming. Dean had just put it in, and she’d fallen apart. She was almost thrashing, sobbing his name and grinding her hips with shallow thrusts, and Dean caught Her chin with a hand, squeezing Her cheeks and forcing her gaze.

Her eyes rolled back in Her head, and she let out the most sinful, broken sound he’d ever heard. Dean could barely think, staring at Her. Twitching and writhing on his cock, trying to watch him through the tears streaming down Her cheeks, covered in sweat and almost burning under his touch. Dean pulled Her down in a bruising kiss, and She grabbed his neck with shaking fingers. Dean spread his fingers over Her lower back, pinned Her down on him, and rolled his hips.

It was slow. Deliberate and testing.

She made a sound like he was railing Her into the mattress, and Dean grinned against Her lips.

“That’s right,” he grunted, setting a slow, torturous rhythm, helping Her grind onto his cock and thrusting up until Her mouth was hanging uselessly. “That’s right, Princess, you take it. Take it so fuckin’ well for me, take it ‘cause you love it.” He moaned, digging his fingers into Her soft hips. “Fuckin’ love it, baby, such a good little pussy, such a good girl for me- Fuuck-“

Words were starting to fail him. Dean pulled Her impossibly closer and thrust a little faster, letting their moans fill up the car, mixed with Dean’s grunts and Her little cries, all musical with the sound of Dean’s thick cock, slapping in and out of Her drooling pussy. She’d barely stopped cumming for five minutes before she was milking him again, and Dean had to suck and nip on Her neck to stay focused. He felt like he was about to fucking explode, with all the friction between them, with Her calling his name, breathless and ruined in his ear.

A third orgasm rolled over Her, making Her boneless in over Dean’s chest. He fucked Her in shallow thrusts, angling her hips so her clit dragged against him and he was bullying into that spot he knew would carry her over, just one more time.

“C- Can’t-“ She babbled, holding Dean so tight he almost couldn’t breathe. “De- I- I can’t-“

“Yeah, you can,” he grunted, snaking his hand between their bodies. “Be good, baby, gimme one- Shit-“

Dean cut himself off with a moan, unable to hold himself back when the lightest touch of Her clit had her cumming with a scream. Dean could swear he saw Her light up like a star, and flowers bloomed in her damn hair as she sobbed and flooded his dick, spasming and almost sucking his soul out of his damn body. His orgasm ripped through him, and it was all he could do to keep fucking Her through it in small, jagged thrusts.

He came down first, breathing raggedly and kissing over Her face.

“Good work, baby girl,” he rasped, rubbing Her back. “’S okay, you did so good.”

She cooed and pressed her face into his neck, body still trembling and soft. Dean chuckled, and dropped his head back with a groan. She’d be out before he could get Her clothing back on. He’d get Her home and tucked in bed, and tomorrow would be tomorrow, and they’d be right where they always were.

“I’ve got you,” Dean said, an oath to Her, for only a car who’d seen the whole time and a box that already knew to hear. “All the way down.”

Jo’s been snoring in the passenger’s seat for three hours. Meg kept trying to wake her up, so you kicked her over to Dean’s car took Cas instead. Cas sat silently, nodding his head to the music and filling up the backseat with a distracting amount of grace. It’s changed a little, since you healed him. He’s still electric and blue, but… Brighter. More prone to flickers and restless wings. To flashes like lightning, through his blue. You might ask him to sit down, so you can draw and study him later.

Cas volunteered to help Dean get the snacks, and you—for the first time all day—got Jo alone.

“Jo,” you hiss, squeezing her arm. “Jo-“

“Wha- Wha’s-“ Jo rolls her neck, eyes only half open. “Are we there-“

“No, we’re like an hour out- Jo-“ You smack her lightly, and she tries to roll away with a groan. “I need to talk to you-“

“Talk to me later-“

“He said it again.”

Jo wakes right up. The seat creaks with the force of it, and you press your lips in a thin line. She stares at you, holding your forearm, and you grab her hand and keep it there. She gives you a tight, doubtful look, and you shake your head. It wasn’t just another dream. He said it. You heard him say it. Aloud. The one way it’s never supposed to be said.

“Did he say it like- I love you,” Jo drawls your name in a poor mimicry of Dean’s voice, and you shake your head.

“No- No- Well,” you swallow. “It was like- I love you, but there was context around it-“

“What kinda context?”

You open your mouth, then close it, your face heating. “I- I don’t want to tell you.”

“C’mon, you gotta tell me-“

“No, you’re gonna make fun of me-“

“Yeah, but, like- Later. After we work out what the hell is Dean’s fuckin’ problem.”

You frown. “He doesn’t- He doesn’t have a problem-“

“He’s an idiot,” Jo says flatly. “That’s what- Three times?”

“Four,” you mumble. “The first time was in the Sandman. But- Maybe he doesn’t mean it- Ow-“

Jo whacks the back of your head, fixing you with a stern glare. “The hell he don’t mean it,” she scolds with a pointed finger. “I’m always tellin’ people I love them on accident, four times, when I’m dating them and we’ve been obsessed with each other for years.”

You scowl. When she puts it like that, you sound really stupid. “I wouldn’t say obsessed,” you muttered, rubbing the spot she hit, and Jo rolls her eyes.

“You still sleep with that stuffed cat he gave you?”

“No,” you stick out your tongue. “Indy took it. It’s hers now.”

“Uh huh,” Jo gives you an unimpressed look. “And who looked after Indy, while you were runnin’ around, dyin’ in heaven?”

“Petsitting isn’t love, Joanna-“

“It is when I asked Dean to feed my Tamogachi’s once, and he killed ‘em. And we weren’t even fightin’, he just-“

“He doesn’t like tamogachi’s,” you say defensively. “He doesn’t like anything they made after the 80s- He says it’s mindless consumerism-“

“Fuck off, you taught him what that means.” Jo leans forward, beaming wide. A little dangerous. “C’mon, how’d he say it this time. Was he tellin’ someone else, or- Did you ask him for food, or-“

You cover her mouth with a hand, narrowing your eyes. She’s going to make fun of you for this. You already know you’re going to tell her anyway, and with the gleam in her eyes, she knows too.

“We were in the car last night,” you whisper, because God might hear through the car door and decided to take him away. “And I- I was just making fun of him for not wanting to have sex with me while I was asleep- It made sense,” you add quickly, when Jo gives you a disbelieving look. “That’s not the point. I made fun of him, and he said of course I want to sleep with you, I love you.”

Jo’s jaw unhinges under your hand, and you nod frantically.

“I know-“

“Why ain’t you sayin’ it back?” She demands, whacking your hand away, and you shrug weakly.

Outside, God flashes. It’s not that bright or loud. Just enough to remind you that he’s out there waiting. Always waiting.

“I mean,” Jo rambles. “He’s basically droolin’ at your feet, and I know you love that big fuckin’ loser back, don’t even try to lie to me-“

“He’s not a loser,” you mumble, and Jo gives you a blunt, unimpressed stare. You sigh and pull your knees to your chest. “It- It’s complicated-“

“It’s really fuckin’ not-“

“God, he- He might take him away,” you say, frantic and quiet, and Jo stills. “If I say it, if- If he even hears it, he’s going to take Dean, and I- I don’t-“

You can’t even say it. The thing you might turn into, if God takes Dean. It’s easy to try and be good, when you have him pulling you back down to earth. When everything mostly becomes flowers and  grounded, golden morning light. But without Dean all that power you’ve built, all the Silver you’ve integrated into your bloodstream and learned how to control like a breath, it turns into something bigger than the sickness. You turn into something you don’t want to name.

And Jo understands. She always has, better than anyone else. She takes your hand, and you lean your head on her shoulder, neither of you able to think of anything clever to say.

“He gave me a box,” you finally mumble, and Jo frowns.

“Like- A magic box?”

“No, just a box,” you sigh. “But I’m not allowed to open it until tonight.”

Jo’s grip tightens. “That’s- You don’t think he’s-“

“It’s too big for that,” you dismiss, because you’d been staring at the box all morning trying to work out what the hell he put in there, and if it’s an engagement ring, you need to talk to Dean about surprises, because you’ve already shaken it an awful lot. “It doesn’t make a lot of sound, and- It’s pretty light.”

“Huh.” Jo pauses. “What if I open it?”

“No, this is- He was really stressed about it. His voice cracked, when he was talking about it.” You smile fondly, and Jo rolls her eyes, but you catch the twitch of her mouth. You know she’s happy for you, even when she complains. Just like you know that, even though Sam’s always saying he wishes you and Dean would go back to pretending you don’t care about each other, he’d lock you in the panic room the moment that happened.

There’s a tap on your window, and Sam waves nervously, his face pinched up and worried. You glance at Jo in confusion and roll down the window, frowning slightly.

“What’s wrong, is there- Did something happen?”

“Yeah, um- Yes and no?” Sam rubs the back of his neck, glancing behind him. “I’m just- Dean’s handling it, but I’ve been sent to tell you not to freak out, and- Maybe remind you not to shoot the messenger-“

“Sam,” you say in warning, and he swallows. “What happened.”

“So, I was in the car, and Dean was inside with Cas, and I remember that I had some water in the trunk already, so I went to get it. And I open the trunk, and- I’ve been telling Dean to fix the locks for years, so this can kind of be his fault, if we’re thinking about it and someone needs to be guilty-“ Sam says your name, as you pull away from Jo and reach for the door. “It’s not great, but- Worse things have happened-“

Sam stumbles out of the way as you shove your way outside, shoving his hands in his pockets and shooting an apologetic expression across the parking lot. You make it three steps before you freeze.

The Impala is parked right in front of the station. Cas is standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, holding an armful of snacks and drinks. Crowley must still be in the car, but Meg is leaning out the widow with a smirk. Dean has his hands on his hips and that tense posture he uses on pretty much everyone that isn’t you or Sam during hunts.

Claire is sitting on the curb, looking a little sheepish as Dean chews her out.

Your fingers flex. Sam says your name nervously, and Jo swears behind you. You chew your lower lip, shifting on your feet, and catch Cas’ eye. He gives you a tired look, and something in your jaw snaps.

Claire’s eyes fix on you, when you stomp across the parking lot. Dean catches it and turns around, sighing a little at the fury almost pouring off your body.

“Sweetheart, it’s alright-“

“Shut up,” you snap, stopping right above Claire. “What did I say to you, last time you pulled this.”

Claire swallows, glancing over to Dean, as if he’s going to save her. “I- Um- I don’t remember-“

“Then think harder.”

She takes a shallow breath, curling a little further down, and you lean to the side, raising your brows.

“Claire Ann Novak, if you don’t answer me right now-“

“You said I wouldn’t see another gun until I was sixteen,” she mumbles, and you nod.

“Yeah. I did say that. Did you think I was joking?”

Claire shakes her head, and Dean murmurs your name, resting a hand on your lower back.

“We’re kinda in a situation,” he says. “Jody got called off by Rufus. Claire was supposed to be stayin’ with Kevin, but- I’m worried she’ll be a bad influence-“

“I am not a bad influence!” Claire protests, and Dean gives her a tired, bored look.

“You ain’t helping yourself, kid.” He looks back to you. “Cas can drop her up in North Dakota, but- She’s still gonna be on a hunt.”

You’re crossing your arms tight enough to knot them like that. Dean keeps rubbing your back, and you glower down at Claire, who at least has the decency to look ashamed of her self. You get what she’s trying to do, you really do, because it’s the same shit you did at her age. But you were stupid and magic. Claire could fucking die, and if she dies, you’re going to kill her.

Jody and Rufus are good hunters, but they don’t have strong wards. Dean’s right, that if you send Claire to Kevin, she’s just going to talk him into following you, or worse, going on a hunt with no adult supervision.

Fuck.

“She’ll ride with me,” you mutter, and Claire perks up.

“Seriously? I don’t have to go home-“

“No, you’re going home the fucking second we’re done,” you point firmly, and she curls back. “And you’re not leaving home until you understand that this,” you wave a hand around the lot. “Is not okay. Go get in the car. Now.”

Claire nods sheepishly, and moves to her feet. Dean catches her shoulder and gives her a stern look. She sighs and meets your eyes with a sad, shameful expression.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and a little bit of the wrath in your chest flickers. Not enough to relax your steel posture or tone, but enough for the smoke to clear.

“Just- Get in the car,” you mutter, and Claire shuffles off with her head bowed. You turn on Dean, brows raised and face taut, and he sighs.

“I’ll start checkin’ the trunk before we drive,” he mutters, rubbing your arm. “But it’s alright. She’ll stay in the car- Hell, we can even stuff her back in the trunk, if she loves it in there so freakin’ much.”

You roll your eyes and drop our face into his chest. Dean cradles the back of your head, swaying you back and forth, and you wrap your arms around his torso.

“Are we meetin’ back here?” He mutters, and you nod against him.

“You go North, I take South-“

“We handle it, text that we’re goin’ back, and ditch,” Dean finishes, slowly pulling your face back. “I remember, Princess.”

You nod, biting your cheek, trying to push down the itching worry over your skin. Dean drags his thumb down your nose, holding your gaze.

“We’ve got this,” he mutters, low enough for only you to hear. “We’ve been to heaven and hell, baby. This is just another shitty Wednesday.”

You laugh weakly, and Dean kisses you. Slowly and carefully, his tongue tracing your lower lip and his fingers tangled in your hair. You sigh softly into his mouth, and he hums, dragging his thumb over your cheek. No one dares to interrupt or mock you, so Dean just kisses you until you’re breathless and almost unable to stand. He drops his brow to yours, when he pulls away, and drags his hand over the curve of your collarbone, the leather cord of his amulet around your neck.

When he looks back to you, his eyes are glassy and heavy. You want to smile and reassure him, but neither of you seem to have the words. You kiss him one more time, and he returns it with the force of a man who’s been told war is over.

You can still feel him on your lips, when you get back in the car.

Meg had to go back with you, but you gave a daggered warning about giving Claire any ideas or pissing Jo off.

“You want to work with us,” you’d hissed outside the car. “You play nice.”

Meg had smirked and looked you up and down, her voice close to a purr. “But I am playing nice. I’m playing so nice.”

She’d taken a small step forward, and you’d given her a bored smile.

“Prove it.”

She’d sighed like you were asking her to figure out quantum theory, but did seem to be trying. You kept the music down to eavesdrop, and she wasn’t telling Claire anything overtly dangerous. She was even mostly ignoring Jo, which might be the biggest victory so far. You’ve been worried they were going to kill each other.

“Do we know the boy’s plans,” Jo asks as you start to pull onto backroads, and you nod.

“Crowley’s gets them in, Cas clears the way, Sam stays in the car for getaway-“

Meg snorts. “You got Sammy to sit sidelines?”

“Well, he doesn’t know it yet,” you mutter. “But someone has to, and- He’s live bait, it’s not safe.”

Jo frowns. “And we… Ain’t live bait.”

“No,” you shrug. “You have me.”

There were advantages, to being… whatever you were. Magdalene, Whore, Bride, it didn’t matter right now. Eve could talk all the big game she wanted about killing you, but if Dean hadn’t insisted you go in with back up, you would’ve been more than comfortable running in and dealing with Eve yourself.

“You’re staying in the car, Claire,” you glare at her in the rearview mirror, and she huffs dramatically.

“But- I could be- It’s not like you’re fighting the Leviathans-“

“It doesn’t matter what we’re fighting. You’re staying in the car. And if you argue with me-“ You say firmly. “I’m handcuffing you to the seat.”

Claire’s mouth falls open. “You- You can’t do that- That’s child abuse-“

“No, child abuse would be throwing you into the monster nest with the thousand year old madwoman obsessed with killing God,” you snap, and Claire swallows. “You want to sneak out on a hunt like an adult, you get restrained like an adult.”

Claire huffs, sinking into the backseat. “You wouldn’t handcuff an adult in the car,” she grumbles under her breath, and you snap your head around.

“Excuse me?! You want to tell me what I would and wouldn’t do right now-“

Jo says your name urgently, grabbing the wheel, and you turn back around with a scowl.

“We’ll finish this later,” you mutter, digging your fingers into the wheel. Claire doesn’t answer.

“You’re lucky she’s just handcuffin’ you,” Meg says to Claire, quite enough you know you’re not supposed to hear. “I’ve heard stories about her crushing souls in her hands and turning angels into sock puppets.”

You make a sound between a laugh and a scoff, and Jo smirks at the road. The good thing about hunters talking is that you get a lot of street cred. The bad thing is that you end up sounding like a boogeyman in eyeliner and skincare products.

“Really?” Claire whispers back, and Meg shrugs.

“First time she met me, she hatched the first dragon in a thousand years. First time she met blondie, she took out a whole witch coven with her bare hands.”

“It wasn’t bare hands,” you cut in, before pausing. “And- How’d you know that?”

“I’ve been in Sammy and Bobby’s heads,” Meg winks. “I’ve seen everything, about all of you.”

She smirks between you and Jo, and you roll your eyes. She’d been in Bobby’s head like, two years ago. A lot of things have happened since then, and you weren’t even around when she was in Sam’s head. Jo sinks deeper into her seat, fiddling with the label of the soda Dean got her. You give her a questioning look, and she waves you off.

The rest of the ride is filled with Meg telling half-true stories about you, Sam, and Dean, and Claire hanging onto every word like she’s preaching gospel. 

“And of course,” Meg drawls. “There are the books.”

“The books?” Claire says excitedly, and Meg nods.

“Little Sammy and Deanie, they’ve got their own bestseller series-“

Jo snorts. “That shit wasn’t bestseller, you get it online for free.”

“Hm,” Meg grins at her. “Why were you looking for them online? Something you wanted to see?”

Jo flips her off, and Claire looks between them hopefully.

“Are they like- Books about you guys? I thought our lives were supposed to be secret- Dean is always saying they’re supposed to be secret-“

“They are secret,” you sigh. “But- There was a prophet who didn’t know he was a prophet, and he’d been writing about them for years.”

Claire nods, then pauses. “Them?”

“I wasn’t in them,” you say, and Claire’s mouth falls open.

“Why? You’re like- So much cooler-“

“And hotter,” Meg smirks, and Claire makes a face.

“No- Ew-“

“Hey,” you frown, and she cringes.

“Sorry, just- It’s like- I don’t wanna think about that- That’s so gross-“

“Don’t think about being in Dean’s car, then,” Meg hums, twirling her hair and giving you a knowing look. “I could smell the sex on the seats, made me so jealous of your little pretty boy-“

You jerk the car to the side, just hard enough to knock her head against the window. You check back to make sure Claire’s okay, and give Meg a warning look. It’s more than the playful or stern one you give Jo and Claire. You line it was thorned, bubbling power, and it singes the air like a threat. Meg backs off with raised hands, and you turn your attention to Claire.

“I wasn’t in the books because Chuck- the prophet- Didn’t think I fit in Sam and Dean’s story. But if you want to read them, I think Sam still has copies.”

You know Sam still has copies. He hid them from Dean, who threatens to burn them every time he sees them, and always feels the need to remind you he didn’t really sleep with any of those women. He always does it with a worried, pleading expression and a soft voice, and you don’t even get sick with jealously, because the idea seems to make him want to vomit. You have a feeling Claire won’t make it very far into the books for the same reason. If she doesn’t like Meg calling you hot, she’s going to hate Dean shooting fake sex scenes.

If Crowley’s been telling the truth—and that’s always a big if, but you think he understand that if he’s not, you’re stomping his soul under your heel and spitting on the pavement—Eve and Dick have made a base for themselves in the real, very dead Dick Roman’s old mansion. It’s a sprawling mansion in Michigan, complete with hunting grounds, a guest lodge, and two pools. Dick and the Leviathans are in the main house. Eve is through the wooded grounds and in the guest lodge. You park the car on the outskirts of the property, and this is going to be the hard part.

“Don’t be stupid,” you tell Claire, and she nods. It seems to be setting in, on her paler face. The gravity of the situation. “I’ll be back soon. The car is warded, so as long as you don’t open the door for anyone but me, you’ll be fine.”

Claire nods nervously. You sigh, kiss the top of her head, and pull her into a tight hug. She’ll be okay. The Leviathans can’t get in. She’ll be okay.

“Are we ready?” You asked Jo and Meg, and they nod tightly. “Remember-“

“Cover your back,” Jo says, cocking her gun. “Don’t die.”

You let out a slow breath, and look to the woods. It’s broad daylight, but the trees seem dark. The shadows looming, the light falling over the ground in a way that feels almost wrong. Ashy and gray, like a poorly done painting, or a disjointed dream.

“Okay,” you mutter, spinning the Blade in your hand. “Let’s do this.”

You take a single step into the woods, and the rush kicks in.

Eve isn’t a fool. She’s filled the woods with everything from vamps to wolves to demons to beasts that you really wish you could just take a picture of and study, but the defense only seems strong enough to deter a normal band of hunters. They’re not prepared for you, bigger than the forest, focused only on carving your way to Eve, and felling monster after monster without breaking a sweat. Some of them run in the other direction, when they see you. The demons get brave and dive at you with curled lips and sneers, and the Silver shoots into them like an arrow, driving apart their smoke and reducing them to nothing but the lingering stench of rancid eggs.

The Yeerks are back as well. Eve’s personal guards, getting more and more dense as you approach the lodge. Meg and Jo hold their own, but it’s close. You look back and a dark haired woman has her hand inches from Jo’s head. You whip around—letting the Silver drive out of you like a drill, right into the earth that doesn’t want to carry thing so vile, that feels them like fleas—you stomp your foot.

The ground swallows the woman whole.

Jo falters, and stares at you. You stare back, the rush faltering for only a moment.

“Cool trick,” Jo says, and you nod, staring at the spot where the woman vanished. “You know you could-“

You shake your head, and Jo cuts herself off with a sigh. Another Yeerk dives from over head. Jo blasts it with her shotgun, knocking it off course, and Meg grabs it out of the air, slamming its head into the tree. You take a step forward, looking between them, and Jo waves you off.

“We’ll block the door once you’re in,” she calls. “Fuckin’ go.”

You nod, take a few steps back, looking up to the trees. The canopy of leaves, filtering that sunlight, and filtering it wrong. The Silver howls, uncomfortable with the off-axis pull, and you can feel gray light on the leaves crying in return. Whatever Eve’s done to this place, whatever the Leviathans have done, it’s wrong.

But you look back over your shoulder, and there seems to be a jungle in your wake. A path, marking every step you’d take, where the wood are overgrown and lush. The moss creeps up the dead, white bark of the trees, and the light that hits the blooming flowers and green leaves is soft. Shimmering and threaded like the spiderweb pattern of a beam of sunshine through the water. You take a deep breath, your hand flat on the door of the lodge.

It opens for you, without a single push.

You expect to force your way through legions, but the halls are empty, dark, and quiet. A thick smell of old wood almost suffocates you, and hundreds of tapesties and painting on the wall have turned to faded paper and moth eaten string. You pause in front of one. Nothing more than a tattered weaving of a beach, white waves painted to crash onto the shore and the sun shining from somewhere behind the viewer. You touch a stray thread of blue, and a rushing breeze flies past your face. The wood smell is covered in salt and brine and something finer. Something thin and delicate and sweet. Water drips down from your fingers and onto the floor, and you can feel it.

Whatever this place was, however far away or old, you’re the peace of the water and sand, always surrounded by more of itself, content into knowing it could be swept away or change with the tide. It will get to see more. Be more. And compared to a life a cold, lonely stone, that doesn’t sound so bad at all.

“A pretty trick,” Eve says from behind you. “I wish you’d learn to do more with it.”

You whip around, flipping your Blade to drive for her throat, and Eve only watches you with a  smile.

“I knew you’d come for me-“

“Yeah, you’re a real genius for that,” you cut her off dryly, and her whole face twitches. A faltering of a mask. A predator playing prey, unable to hide their teeth.

“Be careful how you speak to me,” she says your name, and you roll your eyes.

“Why would I do that?” You take a step forward, and Eve takes a step back. “Because you understand me? You can teach me? You can show me paradise?”

Eve’s lip curls. “I can help you be free, you stupid girl. If you weren’t so attached to your little men, you’d be free-“

“And then what?”

Eve blinks at you, recoiling again when you take another step back. “It doesn’t- That is not your concern-“

“It feels like my concern,” you spit. “You wanted to kill me, you wanted to take Dean-“

“I want nothing but is what’s best for you,” Eve sneers. “Dean. That man, he does nothing but hold you back-“

“From what. From replacing God?”

“Yes!” Eve screams, and you blink. “I did not give everything, I did not lose everything, just for you to make the stupid mistake of believing a man could ever defy God, that any of them could possibly be strong enough to resist the pull of a power they do not deserve. But I deserve it, you deserve it- We are makers. I am the maker, and you will not,” she takes a step forward, eyes gleaming with fury. “Defy me.”

And this is the part where you used to be afraid. Where you’d lose control and kill her with a scream. But Death told you to stand tall. And you don’t move.

“You need me to open Old Heaven,” you mutter, scanning over Eve’s furious face. “And you needed Dean…”

“Oh I never needed Dean,” Eve says dismissively. “But having him is having you. My greatest creation,” she looks you up and down, and sighs heavily. “Refusing to be a god, just for a man.”

Your grip on your Blade tightens. “I am not your creation,” you hiss. “And I am not a god.”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we,” Eve smiles. “When you finally lose Dean.”

Your vision doesn’t blur. The Silver doesn’t burst, and you don’t lose control. You just lunge and drive the Blade, right into Eve’s gut. She laughs, cold and high like a phantom, and you twist it. gritting your teeth. You are not a god. And that isn’t about Dean, or Eve, or any bigger plan. You aren’t a god because of you, and you’re getting really fucking tired of people telling you what that’s supposed to mean.

It’s not the wound or the Silver that kills Eve. It’s just… You. You reach into her vessel and smother her in light. It makes things grow over all the old fissure and cracks. The ones that used to be her soul, that used to be softer. And that softness spreads out like an algae, and Eve is old and hungry and lonely, so she folds like the less that she was never allowed to be. Her body goes limp in your arms, and you don’t turn her into nothing. You pull her out, and she’s nothing more than a glowing ball in your hand.

You let her go, and she floats into the air, uncollecting like steam, before she’s scattered through the world. Everything and nothing at all. A sharp breath leaves your chest, and your head hurts.

Your head really hurts.

Your ribs press into each other like something is caving in, and your spine goes tense like it’s begging to crack. And something’s wrong. The old lodge creaks like a scram and the wind picks up like a warning, and something is wrong.

The door flies open under your hand, and you sprint out of the lodge with panic welling up your chest. It’s collecting over your skin like sweat, lodging in your throat like a bitter rock you can’t swallow. Jo and Meg both call for you, but you sprint past them. The wind picks up behind you, carrying you forward a little faster. Your back burns like a geyser about to burst, and your head feels like a grindstone for an axe. You don’t know what’s happening. The Spiderweb is alight and strong, the world is spinning, but… Slowing.

The ground shakes, and it’s an omen. A world that’s honored to serve your feet, trying to hold you both upright. Almost frantic, like it’s trying to save itself.

You reach the Firebird, and stumble, catching the open door with shaking hands.

Claire.

Claire is gone.

“Shit,” Jo comes up behind you, panting, and you barely even hear her over the wind. “That’s-“ She says your name, and you raise your hand for silence.  

There’s a trail of electric, thrashing blue that goes through the woods. It’s not the trail of a fighting animal, though, and you’re not good at holding this kind of concentration for too long. If she’d been fighting them, maybe, but Claire went with them voluntarily. She even left her jacket.

Where Dean sowed the tracker.

It’s quick, get through the grounds, carving through what’s left of Eve’s monsters. Jo and Meg help with silence and worried looks, and you tuck your Blade back into your jacket when you reach the edge of the forest, rubbing your hands to combat the cold. You will find her. You’re not afraid of that. You just don’t want to freak her out, when you rip the Leviathans limb from limb. If you find her dead you fix her. And if God tries to take her, you open Old Heaven and let the Leviathans take him.

There’s a space on the property where it’s quiet. You can see, over the horizon, a smoking section of the wood. You can smell that foul, rancid Leviathan goo, choking up the air and forcing your breath to be shallow. You could’ve casted a tracking spell with Claire’s jacket, but that would’ve taken time you don’t have. You follow the path that Cas, Sam, and Dean left, stepping over bodies smoking with borax and pits of tar. Jo and Meg will keep the exit clear. You walk in the manor with your hands empty and an undying fire in your chest.

You are everything, and there’s a clarity to it you’re not willing to fight. Hesitation makes you falter, and Claire needs you not to break. So you are all of it, from the unease of the house, knowing they’ve been filled up with poison and told it was honey, to the water running deep underground, afraid to breach the surface and find out what it has to be. You are everything except the Leviathans, and you want them out. If they’re a parasite, you were the wrong beast for them to attach themselves to. The stupid ones try to fight you, and you crush them under mountains of life. The cowardly ones retreat and split them into a million fractures of light. The loyal ones scramble to block you from the doors—massive and walnut and eroding with black venom—and you grab them by the jaw and narrow your eyes.

They’re all white teeth and death, and maybe you would’ve been afraid of them, if the didn’t force you to grow a bigger maw in return. But they devour, and you hang open and cradle. You feel something tugging you past that door, just to the right of your heart, and you will not be kept from it.  Your fingers dig into their skin, and it cracks like sandstone. They scream, and you crumble them between your fingers.

You shove the door open, and run out into a ballroom. It’s all high ceilings and rich, velvet curtains. There’s a chandelier one seems to catch light coming from somewhere behind you, despite the low lamps down by the ground. You’re up on a balcony, clutching the railing and leaning over, vines and honeysuckle growing from your fingers and down to the ground. To the chaos below.

Dick Roman has Claire, trapped against his chest. A Leviathan with Dean’s marred face—Edgar, you recognize in the point of his broken teeth—lays on the ground, and your Dean is circling Dick, the knife on the floor between them and Cas at his side. Crowley’s pressed against the wall and Sam’s blocking the exit on the floor. The wall just past you, flat and lined with windows, doesn’t lead to the outside.

It leads to something gray. Something horrible, that you recognize all too well.

The dead world.  

Sam’s eyes lock with yours. He shouts your name, and everyone’s eyes shoot to you. Dick’s face carves itself into a violent smile, and the growth under your fingers falters. He’s more dead than the rest of them. It’s like looking into a pit with no bottom, no start, no… anything.

“There you are,” he calls your name. “Just in time for the big show! Very clever, to try and keep the apple from us, but I’m afraid were ready for it. We’ve done almost everything, except found the key, and you just-“ He laughs. “Turn yourself in! It’s my lucky day.”

You swallow. You could tell him Eve was dead, but you don’t think it’s going to be a positive different. “Let them go, Dick-“

“No,” Dean shouts at you, eyes narrowed. “You’re stayin’ up there, Princess, we’re not doing this again.”

“I wouldn’t tell her what to do, Dean,” Dick purrs. “Your life, Claire’s life,” he squeezes her throat, her eyes screw shut, and your vision goes a little red. “It all depends on if your princess is willing to be strong. To take what is ours, what should have always been ours, to kill that monster that wants to take her away from you, Dean. Don’t you want her to be free? Don’t you want her to be happy?”

Dean works his jaw. He looks up at you, and you lean a little further. And you’ve never been able to do that thing he and Sam do, where you talk without speaking. But this is your Dean. And  your hand glides to your Blade, and your eyes dart to Dick, and his throat bobs.

He understands.

Dean glances at Cas and jerks his head. You wrap your hand around the Blade—the weapon God made just for you, that you found so long ago, still trying to hide yourself from Dean—and you take a deep breath.   

Dean looks back to Dick. His mouth curves into a small, mocking grin.

“I ain’t to worried about it, buddy,” he drawls. “I know my girl, and that- That ain’t gonna make her happy. But I know what will.”

Dick frowns, and you throw the Blade, right into his eye.

He roar. It echoes off the walls and makes the windows shake. He loses his footing and lets go of Claire. Your scream, shrill and desperate, echoes over Dick’s. Dean dives for Claire and drags her back, shoving her into Cas’ arms and charging back forward to grab the knife.

And you feel it, the second his hand touches the bone.

God, shining outside. An old power that won’t be ignored, that’s all too familiar, that reminds you of infinite pain and visions you can’t understand.

And that sense returns. An instinct deeper than your body, right down to your soul, blaring like a siren and flashing like a lighthouse.

Something is wrong.

Dean pushes to his feet, and you scream. You scream words you can’t here, for him to stop, for everything to stop, that something is so, so fucking wrong. Dean looks at you, leaning over the edge of the balcony and ready to dive for him, and roars for Cas.

Cas looks at Dean, then you, and his jaw locks. Dean moves for Dick, and you climb up on the balcony, ready to jump and stop him. Cas vanishes, right as Sam looks at the fear painted on your face and dives for Dean.

An arm locks around your stomach, and drags you backwards. Dean swings the knife in his hand and raises his arm. Sam reaches him, right as he drive the bone into Dick’s chest.

The world goes white. Pure, blinding white, like someone scooped away a part of the room. Cas and Claire shout and block their faces, but you stare into the light and try to look for color. Cold blasts you in the face like arctic wind, and you scream so loud you think it might be rattling the edges of the universe. You reach out to try and find them, but your fingers are clumsy and tired, and you swipe at nothing. You grab that thing to the right of your heart and pull it, tears streaming down your face that flood whatever ground remains under your feet.

You can’t find him. Dean’s somewhere, he has to be, but you can’t find him. You can’t find him, you can’t find him, he’s not in pain but you can’t find him, why can’t you fucking find him-

The light fades, and they’re gone.

Dick’s body. Sam. Dean. All just… gone.

Crowley vanishes from his corner of the room. Cas mutters your name, placing a light hand on your shoulder, but you don’t even look at him.

Dean’s gone.

The scream that leaves you isn’t human. It’s older than whatever was in the bone, older than the Leviathans, older than this world itself. It’s shifts the world under your feet and you fall to your knees, still screaming. The world screams back, because it understands what’s happened. It understands that fear doesn’t mean anything you care about, because Dean is gone. You scream loud enough that God vanishes from the sky, and when you stop screaming, he doesn’t come back.

You scream loud enough that wherever he is, he must hear you, and you scream louder because you swear you can hear him shouting back.

✦chapter 73

✦End note: first season finale ending in princess pov since s4 ! happy end of season 7. sam and dean might be in purgatory but consider this. i'm sorry. please trust me. Chapter Title from Ain't No Rest For the Wicked by Cage the Elephant

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!) - Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

[xthepittlingx]

The wind was like a grounding force against your face as you peered down at the busy New York street below. A sick, twisted part of you wondered how freeing it would feel letting your feet slip from the lip of the hospital rooftop until you inevitably collided with the concrete pavement.

"Doctor [last name]?"

Your heart skips a beat, head whipping back to catch sight of Doctor Carter standing a few steps behind you with a look of confusion etched across his features.

"What are you doing here?"

"Uh, well, getting some air. That okay?"

After a slight pause, you nod and lower your top half to the metal bars. You usually preferred your own company at times like this, but you didn't own the space and could barely tell him no when he was just as deserving of a breather as you were."

"They're looking for you down there."

"Then they can look harder."

"I won't tell them you're here, if you don't want me to."

You smile then as he came to settle at your left - back pressed to the rails and elbows resting on top of them as he let his head dip backwards to catch the breeze. He looked utterly exhausted, thoroughly done through from back to back patient care, but the beam he gave you in return was as radiant as ever.

"You and me against the world, doctor sunshine."

"God, don't start with that nickname, Carter. Doesn't suit me one bit."

"You say that, but I've never once seen you lose that smile of yours."

"... I have to keep smiling. If I don't, I'll break."

His smile drops quickly, brows furrowing until they met in the middle.

"Whenever you feel like you need to stop smiling, talk to me. I know I'm only a med student but... I like you, doc. A lot."

His elbow finds yours to gently nudge it and, in response, you tap him back with the same care he had given you.

"Right back at ya. Also, next time someone puts your results on the memo board to embarrass you, tell me, and I'll make sure they're thoroughly decked."

"Will do. No doubt about it."

[waynes-multiverse]

Glitch || Interlude I

Fastening myself to you with a stitch...🪡

Pairing: Dean Winchester x witch!reader

Interlude Summary: After eleven years, you finally return home.

Warnings: 18+ language, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, reader x OMC, angst, friendships, family mysteries, witchcraft

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: Get your first official house tour as we go back to Sugar Hill, where it all started a long time ago. And don't worry – the Winchester boys will visit this place soon as well (and give Dean a few things to think about lol). For now, enjoy this little deep-dive! 🤓

🔮 Chapter Title: Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) by Arcade Fire

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

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Interlude I: Purify the Colors, Purify My Mind

You’ve been driving for hours already, Salem disappearing in your rearview mirror a while ago as the country roads unwind under the tires of your Aveo, the crisp morning air drifting in through the cracked windows. Dawn has fully broken now, taking the strangeness and horror of last night with it and painting the sky in soft pinks and golds that stretch across the hills and farmland ahead. 

The landscape swells around you as Sugar Hill draws nearer. Rolling hills are draped in clover-green, ancient woods pressing close before opening into wide, untouched meadows that glow in the morning light, wildflowers dotting the fields in splashes of rainbow colors. Even the air feels different here – purer, more alive, vibrating with the same natural power that flows through your veins. You can feel it tingling in the tips of your fingers. 

Despite the beautiful landscape that feels almost sacred, however, the knot in your chest tightens with every familiar bend.  

Eleven years. 

You haven’t traveled these roads since the night everything you’d known and loved smashed to smithereens. The memories of that night still haunt your soul – waking to screams downstairs, the acrid stench of sulfur, your mother and grandmother’s voices raised in desperate spells, the roar of flames. 

John Winchester had saved you that night. Carried you out the back and bundled you up in the backseat of the Impala while the yellow-eyed demon hunted you through the smoke. He’d been a family friend, their ally against the demon that haunted his own family. Then he’d hidden you in Salem with Mia and told you to stay hidden and never come back. 

You grip the steering wheel tighter. Part of you still wants to turn around and run as far away into the other direction as possible. What if the house rejects you? What if going back opens doors that should stay closed? What if you’re not strong enough for whatever waits inside? 

Or worse, what if you are?

“You okay?” Cameron asks from the passenger seat, his large hand resting warm and steady on your thigh, his long legs stretched as much as your tiny car allows.

“Yeah, you kinda got that thousand-yard stare going on,” Paige chimes in, lounging in the backseat with her bare feet propped against the door.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking,” you reply. “Haven’t been back in so long, part of me keeps expecting the house to be gone – or worse, look exactly the same.”

Cameron squeezes your thigh gently. “It’s gonna be alright. Whatever we’ll find, you’re not alone in this.”

But maybe you should be. You know how dangerous it is to bring both Paige and Cameron with you, considering demons are apparently hot on your trail. You feel incredibly selfish, not being strong enough to do this on your own. What if something happens to them because of you?

You can’t let that happen.

Your thoughts thunder like storm clouds after eleven years of carefully built normalcy. Lab coats, glitter gel pens, nights out with Paige, and lazy Sundays with Cameron are all unraveling with every mile closer to Sugar Hill. Going back means facing the ritual and the full weight of your bloodline, and you’re honestly not sure you’re ready for any of it.

You then turn onto the dirt road that climbs the hill, overgrown grass scraping the underside of the car as your old childhood home comes into view. This entire place had always felt like another realm where witches would keep watch over hunters and innocents alike and where the veil between natural and supernatural was whisper-thin. You remember how the sunsets here felt like a sacred blessing – a dream woven from birch trees, wild grass, and centuries of protection.

This very land had been a sanctuary for generations of Berkano women, your Northern European ancestors who crossed with the first English settlers, survived the witch hunts by fleeing north, and built their hidden home on this very hill. So many mothers and daughters had lived and died here. Their graves even still lie in the small, hidden cemetery behind the pond at the edge of the property, marked only by birch trees and the family rune.

But now that same beauty feels elegiac, wilder, and sadder somehow. 

The house’s brightly blue siding has faded to a weary periwinkle over the years, wild grass surging tall and untamed around the foundation and vines climbing the columns, nature reclaiming what grief had abandoned. Wildflowers fight through thistles and brambles in the front yard, shattered windows reflecting the sunlight. The white wrap-around porch sags on one end while a section of the roof above the kitchen looks partially collapsed. 

But it’s still so heartbreakingly, achingly beautiful it hurts.

Your breath catches as you slow the car to a stop, your birthmark on your collarbone tingling warmly under your skin as if the land recognizes its last daughter returning. 

Cameron’s hand tightens on your thigh. “Stay behind me when we get out. Both of you,” he says, voice reassuring. “I’ll take point until we know it’s clear.”

“Always the hero,” you murmur, affection easing your anxiety a little. 

His Ranger instincts comfort you more than you can say. Some part of you wants to tease him for treating your family home like a potential hostile building, but another part – the part that watched a demon nearly kill Mia last night – feels nothing but grateful.

Paige leans curiously forward between the seats and stares out the windshield. “Wow, this entire place looks like a painting of heaven. I mean, right now, it looks like it’s been brooding in its trauma for a decade, but I can see the appeal.”

She doesn’t know how right she actually is. This place truly was heaven once. 

You sit there a moment longer, heart hammering against your ribs before you reach for the door handle and step out. The air smells like pine resin, damp earth, wildflowers, and lasting traces of old smoke that the breeze couldn’t quite carry away over the years. There are no neighbors or rooflines anywhere near, just the silence of nature enveloping you – birdsong, pattering water, and wind through the leaves. 

Your sneakers sink into the overgrown grass before you reach the porch steps, the old wood creaking loudly under your weight. The front door gives with a push, Cameron walking in first with one hand subtly resting on the gun he insisted on bringing while Paige links her arm through yours, uncharacteristically quiet for once as you cross the threshold together. 

As soon as you set foot inside the house, memories flood your senses like a tidal wave. Dust motes dance in the midday sunlight slanting through the broken windows, catching on thick cobwebs that decorate every corner and crevice of this place and drape from the big chandelier in the entrance like delicate lace. 

The living room, on the other hand, still bears deep, black scars in jagged circles where the worst of the fire had raged – where your mom and grandma made their last stand. And for a heartbeat, you feel eleven years old again, frozen on top of the stairs, helpless and scared. 

Cameron tries to flip a light switch unsuccessfully. “Power seems to be cut,” he muses and then glances at you. “Is the breaker box in the basement?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Alright.” He nods and already turns toward the basement door. “You guys stay here till I give the all-clear.”

Paige wraps herself tighter around your arm, resting her chin on your shoulder as you both watch Cam disappear downstairs. “He’s kind of hot when he’s all business,” she says. “Maybe I should start dating a soldier.”

You snort and shake your head at her. “Sorry to disappoint, but I think he’s the last of a dying breed.”

While Cam’s gone, you drift through the ground floor, your fingers tentatively brushing the dining table with three place settings covered in a thick layer of gray. Even your mom’s brittle herb bundles still hang in the kitchen where they always used to be like she never left in the first place and was coming back any second now to brew you your favorite tea.

Every creak of the floorboards and every familiar shape beneath the dust sheets twists the dagger deeper into your heart. 

The lights then suddenly flip on with a few coughing flickers before Cameron returns a minute later, dusty but satisfied. As he trudges back up the stairs, he raises a small and worn leather booklet in his hand. The Berkano rune is embossed on the front cover. 

“Found this next to the breaker box,” he says. “Looks like a manual for the house.”

“It is,” you reply with a small laugh. “Elsbeth was the first witch who claimed this land and built a home here. The first house was actually a lot smaller before they rebuilt it in 1886, but Elsbeth wrote down the first instructions and rules after her husband suggested selling the land at some point before the other generations kept adding to it.”

“Since this is still in your property, I’m guessing Elsbeth’s husband didn’t win that fight, huh?” Paige quips.

“Nope.” You smirk a little. “Rumor has it, he accidentally fell off a ladder shortly after.”

Cameron cocks a brow, amused. “Accidentally?”

You grin. “You better not disagree with me, Cooper.”

“Noted.” Cam laughs and hands you the manual. 

Your fingers tremble a little as you take it. The leather is soft and darkened with centuries of handling, the handwriting on the first pages elegant yet unfamiliar, although both your mom and grandma had added notes in the margins over the years. But the core spells that keep this place protected and running belonged to generations long before them.

“I remember this. They always kept it handy,” you say, carefully tracing the rune on the cover before leafing through the first few pages. You then look up at them and grin. “You guys ready for some magic to spruce up this place a little?”

Paige nods vividly with an excited smile. “If it’s half as efficient as your cleaning spell, I’m game. Otherwise, a spell that renews my tetanus shot would help.”

You stroll to the center of the scarred living room with a pounding heart and flip the manual open to a restoration spell. “By blood and bone and Berkano’s mark, awaken, renew, and heal the dark,” you speak the first lines. “From foundation deep to rooftop high, return this home beneath the sky.”

You can feel the magic flow through your blood like warm sunlight – golden, alive, and shimmering. 

The dust then rises in sparkling spirals and vanishes first. Charred and broken floorboards lighten and mend right in under your feet. Shattered glass lifts from the ground in front of your eyes, knitting itself back into the window frames. Peeling paint smooths and deepens into the purest colors. The sagging porch outside straightens with a groan while vines and overgrown brush retreat from the walls and foundation as if gently ushered away by invisible hands.

Even the kitchen herbs regain their vibrant color and rich fragrance. The dining table gleams with fresh polish, the three place settings shining like they’re waiting for a family to sit down to dinner. The sunlight outside brightens visibly, pouring through every window in rich, honeyed waves that chase away eleven years of shadow and sorrow.

When the final sparks fade, the entire Queen Anne has transformed back into its former glory, no trace of the tragedy left behind as though it never happened.

The only thing still missing is the presence of your mom and grandma. Sadly, no spell can bring them back. 

Paige spins slowly in the now-gleaming foyer, eyes wider than the full moon. “Okay, I’m officially speechless.”

“Rare occurrence,” Cam quips with a little grin. 

You, on the other hand, flip through the manual. “I need to renew the protection wards as well. They shield the whole property. Nothing evil should be able to cross the boundary once they’re active.” You glance toward the staircase. “But I’ll need a few ingredients first. If I remember correctly, my grandma kept them up in the attic.”

Cameron pulls you into his chest, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Alright, let’s get it done. Make this place a fortress again.”

You nod, drawing strength from him before leading them upstairs.

The first door on the right opens into the octagonal tower, where your childhood bedroom used to be. It’s situated on the southeast side of the house, letting sunlight stream through the tall windows every hour of the day. 

As you glance up at the midnight blue ceiling, you can still see the gold constellations your mother painted for you. The quilt your grandma made still lies folded at the foot of the twin bed. You remember lying here as a little girl, fingers tracing the Berkano birthmark near your collarbone while she told you stories of Eira and the natural magic that flowed through your veins like sap through ancient birch trees. You remember practicing your first spells at age seven and scribbling them into the notebook you still use to this day while your mom taught you how to make flowers bloom on the windowsill with pure delight.

You used to feel so safe here once – like the whole world outside couldn’t touch you as long as you stayed here. 

You wander farther down the hall till you land in your mother’s bedroom. Her bed is still neatly made, her herb journal resting on the nightstand beside a half-burned citrus candle. The room holds memories of late-night talks, hair braiding, and quiet lessons about your family’s purpose – guardians to hunters, protectors of the innocent.

At the end of the hall then lies your grandmother’s room. It carries a deeper and older weight. There are dried protective herb bundles hanging from the ceiling beams, her large oak desk cluttered with yellowed papers and ink pots. You remember sitting at her feet on the rug while she taught you how to write spells properly – how clear intention mattered more than perfect rhyme. She always smelled of old books and fresh pine.

Now, you stand in the hallway between the three rooms that once held your entire world. The restored house glows warmly around you, feeling like centuries of Berkano women are watching over their last daughter.

And for the first time in eleven years, it doesn’t feel like a tomb. It feels more like this place has been waiting for you to come home and remember who you truly are.

“Hey! There’s another staircase up here,” you suddenly hear Paige’s voice echoing from above, bright with excitement. “Cameron’s already trying the door!”

You exhale a breath you’ve been holding in for too long and glance back at the bedrooms one last time before heading toward the narrow attic stairs at the end of the hall. When you reach the top, Cameron is gripping the old brass doorknob, turning it with increasing force.

“It’s stuck,” he mutters, brows furrowed. “I think it might be locked. You got a key for this somewhere, babe?”

You don’t, but another memory creeps into your mind as you step closer to the door. “Let me try.”

The moment your fingertips brush the cool brass, a familiar warmth blooms beneath your skin. And then, all of a sudden, a soft little click echoes through the stairwell. The door creaks open a crack all on its own, releasing a breath of old paper, dried lavender, and centuries of quiet power.

“Okay…” Paige lets out a low whistle. “That was officially a little creepy. Is this place haunted by any chance?”

“Maybe,” you say absentmindedly, already stepping carefully inside. 

“I’m sorry… did you just say maybe?” Paige checks behind you, but you don’t answer her anymore, your focus taken fully by what waits for you inside. 

God, the attic looks like a living museum of your bloodline. 

The sunlight filters through the large stained-glass window at the far end – a magnificent birch tree with hazel bark and leaves in every shade of green. The colored light spills across the old oak floorboards in changing patterns of emerald, amber, and soft rose. Exposed wooden beams arch overhead, strung with bundles of dried herbs, copper charms, and strings of tiny crystals that chime as you pass.

Shelves line every single wall in the room, packed with curiosities: rows of glass jars containing shimmering powders, dried flowers, colorful liquids, and gemstones. Ancient maps of ley lines and demon hotspots are pinned beside yellowed sketches of creatures you don’t yet have names for. 

Other witchy trinkets fill every surface available as well – silver rune pendants, carved wooden wands, a small collection of ornate daggers, a cracked hand mirror you remember being able to reflect auras, and stacks of leather journals filled with handwritten lore. And then, in the center of the room, stands a heavily carved pedestal holding the ancient Berkano spellbook, its cover moulded with the same rune you bear on your skin.

Paige already curiously drifts toward the spellbook. The second her fingers graze the cover, however, an electric little zap cracks through the air. She yelps and yanks her hand back.

“Ow! What the–”

You can’t help drawing a small, amused smile. “Only bloodline can touch it,” you explain. “The book protects itself. Grams always said it would never let itself fall into the wrong hands.”

“Rude.” Paige shakes her hand dramatically, clearly still feeling the sting. You’re pretty sure if she were a demon, she would’ve gone up in flames, though. “But also admittedly kind of badass.”

You nod in agreement before moving to the shelves, your eyes scanning the labels written in your grandmother’s hand. For the ward renewal you need a very precise mix: coarse sea salt blessed under a full moon, fresh rosemary, strips of birch bark from the oldest tree on the property, a small moonstone, scraps of rowan wood, dried elder flowers, powdered shavings of stag antlers, and a vial of quartz dust gathered from the hill itself. Usually, all these things wouldn’t be easy to find, but your grandmother always liked to be prepared. 

You gather everything into a small cast-iron bowl and mix it together under the glowing stained-glass birch before you cast the protection spell, your voice as clear and strong as possible.

“By blood and bone and Berkano’s light, by earth and sky and ancient right, we call upon the natural vein to guard this home from every bane. No demon, spirit, dark, or fell may cross this threshold, break this spell. From hill to pond, from tree to stone, this sanctuary stands alone.”

The ingredients in the bowl flare brightly in green and gold before dissolving into shimmering dust that rises and shoots through the walls, floor, and ceiling, the entire property inhaling its protective magic. 

Cameron, standing by the stained-glass window, suddenly straightens. “Look, the fence.”

You join him and take a peek out the window. Down the slope, the old birch fence marking the property boundary glows with a soft, pulsing light before fading back to normal wood. The wards are active once more.

“It worked,” you breathe with a relieved smile.

Cameron studies the land stretching out below – the wild fields, the pond reflecting the sunlight, the distant tree line. “It’s beautiful here,” he says quietly. “Feels… different already. Safer.”

You stare at the boundary for a moment longer, a quiet question lingering. “I still don’t understand how they broke through last time. The wards should have held. They always held before…”

Strong arms then slide around your waist from behind. Cameron pulls you back against his chest, chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out over the newly protected land. His warmth chases away the last chill of uncertainty.

“You’re home,” he says against your hair. “Really home. And whatever comes next, we face it from here. Together. On your terms.”

You lean into him, letting the attic’s peaceful magic ground you. The ancient spellbook, the curiosities of generations, the light dancing through the birch tree window… it all feels like it’s been waiting.

For the first time in eleven years, the weight on your shoulders doesn’t feel like devastating grief anymore. It feels like purpose. Something new, something powerful, is only just beginning.

And you? You’re finally back home – back where you've always belonged. You can feel it in your heart.

▶️ Interlude II : Call Me, Beep Me – July 31

How did you like this first interlude? These are honestly just scenes that I could never quite fit into chapters theme-wise and were too short to stand as their own chapters, so I figured this was a good solution. If you ever have ideas for an interlude or something you want to see, let me know! 🤓

We have two smutty one-shots posting the next Fridays before we'll return to this series. Stay tuned, friends! 💜

Series Masterlist

Coming Up || Posting Schedule:

💦 Aquamarine (Part 3 of the Florida!!! series) – July 17

🩺 Midnight Rhythms (Russell Shaw x nurse!reader) – July 24

🔮 Interlude II: Call Me, Beep Me – July 31

🔮 Chapter 7: Loose Lips Sink Ships – August 7

🔮 Chapter 8: Salt Air – August 21

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Series Tag List Pt. 1:

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

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[waynes-multiverse]

Glitch 🌙 || Chapter 6

Fastening myself to you with a stitch...🪡

Pairing: Dean Winchester x witch!reader

Chapter Summary: A terrifying vision leads Sam and Dean back to Salem and back to you. But can they stop whoever's coming for you before it's too late?

Warnings: 18+ language and violence, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, major angst, family mysteries, demons, injuries and hospitals, hurt/comfort, jealousy (unless you're in denial like Dean), fluff if you squint hard, some spiciness (reader x OMC)

Word Count: 15.9k

A/N: Ready to meet the other guy, guys? 'Cause Dean surely isn't 😝 Be nice to Cam, friends. He's a fun plot device to torture Dean with, so enjoy him while he lasts till the end game starts 😉

🔮 Chapter Title: Evidence by Jimmy Eat World

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

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 6: East Atlantic Breeze

Dean just knows when he’s dreaming these days. Granted, it’s not right away, usually. There’s always that blurry stretch at first till he forgets himself enough to sink into it. But then, the recognition comes, familiar like an old scar aching in winter.

He also knows this house by now, too. 

He’s inside this time and slightly older, probably around fourteen. The bones of the old Queen Anne groan around him as gusts of wind brush against the siding outside, the sound somehow comforting beneath the murmur of low voices downstairs. 

Early autumn has already taken over the mountain, the cooler air drifting through cracked-open windows and carrying the scent of damp leaves and chimney smoke into the hallways. The trees outside have only just started turning, streaks of maroon, amber, and gold bleeding through the dark green forest surrounding the hill. 

The entire house smells like cedar, apple, and cinnamon from your mom’s baking tonight, and everything always glows softer and warmer here somehow. 

Safe.

Dean stands near the top of the staircase while he struggles into his jacket. The sleeves are slightly too short now, but Dad still hasn’t gotten him a new one. His father’s getting ready to leave again, and Sammy’s probably already waiting outside in the car. Dean knows he should be heading down soon as well before John starts barking orders again.

But instead, he pauses and leans against the hallway wall, his attention catching the conversation in the kitchen downstairs. He can hear silverware and dishes clinking beneath the voices drifting through the house.

Slowly, he steps closer to the staircase landing, careful not to let the old floorboards creak beneath his weight and give him away. His father’s deep voice cuts through first.

“…doesn’t sit right with me,” John says gruffly. “It’s the third set of tracks this month. This thing’s closing in.”

“John,” your mother says gently, patient like always whenever his father starts spiraling into hunter paranoia. She sounds like she’s had this exact argument at least ten times before.

“I’m serious, Freya,” his father says. “They’re getting bolder. They’re searching.”

“And I’m telling you the protections are intact.”

“That doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way forever.” 

Your grandmother lets out a sigh, long-suffering and unimpressed. “John, if a demon crossed the property line, you’d know. The wards are holding.”

Aine.

Dean remembers her as well, his stomach twisting strangely at her voice, firmer and older than your mother’s warm tone. She always wears long dark dresses around the house, silver rings adorned with gemstones glinting on her fingers whenever she touches his shoulder or pushes hair out of your face. She always looks at him like she can see every single thought rattling around in his skull before he even opens his mouth or can cause trouble.

He shuffles a little closer toward the staircase, fingers curling loosely around the banister rail. He probably shouldn’t listen. Last time he got caught eavesdropping, Aine glared at him for so long afterward he swore she could see the guilt physically crawling around inside his guts.

Still, he can’t really stop. 

He can picture all three of them perfectly without even seeing the kitchen – Dad pacing near the table, Freya standing by the stove with her arms crossed over her chest, trying to keep the peace like always, and Aine sitting perfectly still nearby, watching all of it unfold with that sharp-eyed look, thinking three steps ahead of everyone else.

“The demon’s getting desperate,” his father says then. “You said yourself it’s been searching for years.”

“We don’t know exactly what it’s searching for, though,” Freya replies.

“We know enough,” Aine says sternly. “It wants the boy.”

Dean’s brow furrows wildly at that. What the hell are they talking about? What boy? Do they mean him or Sammy?

“And it sees our bloodline as a threat,” your grandmother adds.

His dad lets out a deep breath through his nose. “We still don’t know what the demon wants with Sam.”

Sam. 

So they’re talking about his little brother and not Dean. The relief of that only lasts a few seconds, however. 

“No, we don’t,” Freya admits quietly. “We only know he’s important somehow.” 

“And we know what it wants with my granddaughter,” Aine adds with a huff.

“She’s not ready yet,” Freya notes softly. “Not for whatever’s coming.”

“She won’t be ready before her twenty-first birthday,” Aine agrees. “Until then, her abilities will remain limited.”

“And if the demon makes a move before then?” his father asks sternly. 

“We protect her,” Freya says simply. “All of them.” 

Aine hums in agreement. “Which may require difficult decisions.”

Dean frowns slightly. He doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that the children are attached to one another at this point,” Aine says. “That attachment creates vulnerability. As long as they’re together, one of them will always have a target on their back.”

“Mom,” Freya sighs tiredly. “They’re just kids.”

“And children grow.”

“You can’t expect them not to care about each other.”

“No,” Aine agrees calmly with her daughter. “But perhaps we can make it easier.”

Something about the way she says it makes the hair on Dean’s arms stand up.

“Separating them now would only hurt them, Mom,” Freya continues gently.

“Hurt them temporarily,” Aine corrects. “Protect them permanently.”

What the hell are they talking about? His jaw clenches before he even understands why, his heart thudding strangely against his ribs. 

“We don’t know that,” Freya argues.

“Like I said, we know enough, dear.”

There’s a moment of silence before his father speaks again. 

“What are you suggesting?”

Aine hums thoughtfully. “Only that there may still be ways to loosen certain attachments before matters escalate further.”

Dean doesn’t fully understand what any of that means, but he knows immediately he doesn’t like it. An ice-cold shiver crawls unpleasantly down his spine. 

Why are they talking about separating him, Sammy, and you? Does that mean they’re never coming back here? 

That doesn’t seem right. Dean won’t stand for that. 

A floorboard then creaks behind him suddenly, causing Dean to turn.

He finds you standing in the hallway in plaid pajama pants and fuzzy socks, clutching a mug almost too big for your hands. Steam curls upward from whatever Freya apparently made you before bed. Your hair’s still damp at the ends from your bath and woven into loose pigtails as you squint your eyes at him suspiciously. 

“You’re eavesdropping again,” you whisper accusingly.

Dean’s straightens in an instant, shrugging it off. “No, I’m not.”

“You are, too.”

“Am not.” Dean then quickly grabs your wrist and pulls you farther down the hallway before the adults downstairs can hear either of you. “Shh,” he hisses. “Would you keep it down? They’ll hear.”

“So you are eavesdropping.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, crossing his arms, “you and Sammy aren’t allowed to hear it. I can.”

Your brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because I’m older.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Exactly,” Dean scoffs loudly. “I know how to shoot a gun.”

But you only stare at him like that proves nothing at all.

He rolls his eyes back and sighs. “They talk about weird crap when they think we’re not around.”

You curiously lift a brow. “What kind of weird?”

Dean shrugs, pretending not to care all that much, although his chest still feels strange from whatever the hell Aine mentioned downstairs.

“The usual weird stuff,” he replies simply. 

“Demon weird stuff?”

“Yeah.”

You take another thoughtful sip from your mug. “Grandma says you shouldn’t call it weird.”

Dean snorts a chuckle. “Your grandma also thinks tea fixes everything.”

“It does help.”

“Yeah? Tell that to Dad’s cholesterol.”

You wrinkle your nose, clearly not understanding the joke at all. Dean still grins, though.

It’s stupid how easy it always feels around you here. Easier than anywhere else. Easier than with most people, honestly. There’s no carefulness. No trying. He can just be himself. 

He can’t lose that. 

You then glance toward the stairs again before your gaze drops to the duffel bag by his feet.

“Are you leaving again?”

Dean nods with a light swallow, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Dad’s got a hunt.”

Your shoulders slump. “Again?”

Dean winces internally, feeling the guilt trickle into his gut.

“Won’t be long,” he replies softly, although the words spoken downstairs ring through his head. 

What if he can’t really make such promises anymore? What if Dad’s never taking him and Sammy back here? What if he never sees you again? What if this is the last time?

“Can I come?” you ask suddenly, causing his brows to shoot up. 

Dean barks a laugh, shaking his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dangerous.”

“I can do dangerous things.”

“You’re nine.”

You straighten your spine indignantly to make yourself taller. “I know things.”

Dean frowns a little, pointing a finger at you. “That right there? That’s exactly why you can’t come.”

Your mouth falls open in protest. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“I could help.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“I know more than Sammy does.”

Dean groans, throwing his head back. “And there it is.”

“It’s true!” 

He exhales hard through his nose. God, you’re annoying when you get like this – tiny and yet determined and impossible to argue with because you always sound so damn sincere about everything.

“Yeah, well,” he sighs and scratches the back of his neck, “this stuff’s different, alright?”

You stare up at him stubbornly for another beat before your expression softens again, your lips pulling into a small pout. “When are you coming back?” 

Dean follows your gaze toward the front yard outside. Through the stained glass window above the stairs, he can see the Impala parked out front, Sammy already sitting in the backseat and waiting for him and his father.

But something feels wrong about the picture.

Ten-year-old Sam is curled awkwardly against the door, one hand pressed tightly against the side of his head. Even from here, Dean can see pain flashing across his face.

The realization that something isn’t right hits hard enough to send a strange feeling through the dream around him. The hallway suddenly feels too long, the wind outside howls louder, and the edges of his vision begin to blur.

Sammy didn’t get migraines at that age. 

“Dean?”

Upon your call, he looks back at you. You’re watching him carefully now, concern creeping into the creases of your brow.

“When are you coming back?” you repeat softly.

Dean swallows once against the strange panic climbing up his throat. Before he can think about it for too long, he reaches out without thinking and tucks a loose strand of hair out of your face.

“I don’t know yet,” he admits but then sends you a smile. “Promise I’ll come back, though.”

And he means it. Every damn inch of him means it.

Your face brightens, trust flowing warm and absolute into your smile as if his promise alone is enough to steady the entire world again. You look at him like his word means something permanent to you and nothing could ever possibly break it, and that little fact twists his heart painfully deep inside his ribcage. 

“Okay,” you say quietly.

But down in the yard, Sammy suddenly doubles over harder in the backseat, and the dream snaps violently apart.

Dean jerks awake so fast his right shoulder slams painfully into the motel wall beside the bed. Darkness crashes back around him all at once – the cheap wallpaper of a motel in bumfuck nowhere, the buzzing neon outside, and the stale smell of old cigarette smoke buried deep inside the mattress beneath him (and God knows what else).

But for a moment, he can still smell a trace of the woodsmoke and cedar from his dream before he notices Sam thrashing against the sheets with a strangled sound next to him.

Dean’s on his feet before even being fully awake.

“Sammy.” His deep voice comes out rougher than usual as he grabs Sam’s shoulder hard enough to shake him. “Sam.”

Sam jolts awake with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instantly to his forehead. His breathing comes uneven and shallow, pain still written all over his face.

Dean’s stomach drops, heart pounding. He already knows it’s not a nightmare but another vision. 

“You with me?” he checks sternly.

Sam nods quickly between ragged breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before forcing out a strained, “Yeah.”

“What happened? What’d you see?”

Dean then waits for an answer, stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Finally, Sam looks up at him, and Dean can see the fear sitting naked and clear behind his little brother’s hazel eyes, turning his blood ice-cold before your name bleeds from Sam’s lips.

Every muscle in Dean’s body locks up in an instant.

“A demon found her,” Sam says hoarsely, swallowing harshly. “She was at the lab. It had Mia and Paige, too. I saw blood, black eyes–…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “Dean, she was screaming.”

A shudder so cold it could freeze a volcano runs down Dean’s spine. He’s reaching for his jeans off the chair before Sam can even finish talking, adrenaline crashing at full speed into his bloodstream.

Sam’s visions usually don’t leave a lot of wiggle room, much less giving the brothers a head start most times. They can’t sit around for hours till they’ve come up with a plan. This isn’t just some random case. 

It’s you. And for some reason he can’t explain, that changes fucking everything.

Salem, Massachusetts

After your little headless adventure a week ago, there have been exactly three things keeping you emotionally functional.

One: caffeine.

Two: spite.

And three: Cameron finally coming home today after six months overseas.

Obviously, the third one’s carrying most of the weight.

A yawn escapes you under the fluorescent lights of the lab as you try to fish out bullet fragments from a bloody denim jacket with tweezers. The safety goggles sometimes make seeing not any easier. 

Meanwhile, the AC works with military-grade precision inside the depressing government-beige walls every police station in America apparently requires, while outside the tall windows, Salem bakes beneath late summer heat. 

Beside you, Paige sits cross-legged on top of one of the empty lab counters despite multiple signs explicitly telling civilians not to sit on literally any surface in here. Naturally, that only encouraged her. 

“You know,” Paige says thoughtfully from her spot, “normal people usually put little hearts in notebooks. Maybe doodle initials if they’re feeling really cray-cray.”

You don’t look up from the microscope. “Uh–huh… Your point?”

“You labeled a blood spatter diagram with the words Mrs. Cameron Cooper in pink glitter pen.”

You pause, then slowly glance down at the file in front of you.

Oh. Huh.

“Well,” you mutter and clear your throat. “That’s embarrassing.” 

In your defense, glitter gel pens shouldn’t be that accessible in a government building. That’s just asking for trouble, especially when you’re running on four hours of sleep and one iced coffee the size of Rhode Island.

Paige beams triumphantly. “You’re in love.”

“I’ve been in love for like two years now,” you point out. 

“Yeah, but now he’s coming home and suddenly you’ve become clinically insane about it.”

“That’s not true,” you retort, quickly scribbling over the doodles with a black marker.

Paige snorts into her iced coffee while you turn to carefully scrape another sample into a glass vial. Honestly, she should feel lucky you haven’t hexed her into temporary silence yet. 

She grins knowingly. “Cameron’s flight lands in, what, an hour?”

“Fifty-two minutes.”

“God, that’s disgusting,” she teases. “But granted, you do look happier than you did all summer.”

That part might actually be true. 

This whole week everything felt normal again. No demons. No destiny. No Winchester brothers showing up out of nowhere to emotionally clothesline your life into another dimension.

The lab door then swings open behind you.

“Good morning, ladies.”

Pete, one of your younger colleagues, wanders inside, balancing two coffees and a stack of files tucked beneath one arm. Usually, he comes to work like an overexcited Golden Retriever who learned forensic science instead of fetch. Today, however, something about him feels oddly muted.

Normally, he carries an unopened comic book with him and is already halfway into a rant about some obscure sci-fi reboot nobody asked for. Pete practically vibrates with nerd trivia at all times. Last month, he spent twenty minutes passionately explaining why practical effects peaked in the eighties while holding a human femur. Once, he compared fingerprint dusting techniques to Pokémon evolution charts.

Today, though, he just sets the coffees down silently and starts sorting files beside the evidence cabinet.

No movie references. No rambling. No Star Wars shirt, either. No asking if anybody watched Battlestar Galactica again.

Weird.

You glance over your shoulder briefly while sealing another sample tube. “You feeling okay?”

Pete looks up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You haven’t mentioned Star Wars once.”

He shrugs. “Figured I mention Star Wars too much.”

“What if I called Spock a Jedi? Does that do something for you?” you quip.

But he only gives a brief chuckle that doesn’t mirror in his eyes and reaches for a pair of gloves from the supply shelf.

The wrong shelf.

You snort. “Pete.”

“What?”

“The nitrile gloves are literally behind you.”

He pauses and looks at the shelf. 

“Oh, right,” he says lightly and turns around toward the correct one.

Your brows crease slightly. Pete normally knows this lab better than you do half the time. The man alphabetized the evidence freezer for fun once. You’re pretty sure he’d survive longer than everybody else during an apocalypse purely because his organizational skills border on supernatural already.

Still, grief does strange things to people, and you know his grandmother only died a few weeks ago. Dark circles shadow the skin beneath his eyes, and his shoulders seem tenser than usual under his wrinkled sweater vest. Maybe his brain’s just foggy today. It happens.

You hesitate only briefly before flicking the switch inside your head and letting color bloom beneath skin.

Paige glows bright firecracker orange beside you as usual – loud emotions, fierce loyalty, stubbornness, and some light homicidal tendencies, especially when someone cuts the line at Starbucks.

Pete’s aura, however, definitely leans darker than usual.

There are literal storm-gray clouds drifting around his dandelion-yellow aura, tangling sluggishly with thin, oily-black strands. 

Huh. That’s… new.

You’ve seen grief darken people before, clinging to them like cigarette smoke. Sadness, too. Depression leaves heavy marks sometimes and muddies auras. But still–

“You good?” Pete glances up from the evidence cabinet.

“Yeah,” you answer and look away quickly, dropping the aura reading. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

Before you can think any harder about it, the lab door opens again. This time, Mia strolls inside, carrying an evidence box beneath one arm and an iced coffee in the other hand. Her dark sunglasses rest on top of her head, and her gun belt clinks as she walks.

“You alive in here?” Mia asks dryly. 

Paige waves enthusiastically from the counter. “Hi, Mom.”

Mia snorts and points toward her without missing a beat. “Still not yours.”

Paige grins in return. “Emotionally, though.”

Mia laughs softly before placing the evidence box down on your workstation. Usually, you’d already be teasing her about paperwork or stealing her coffee or asking about whatever disaster patrol dealt with this morning.

Not this time, though.

Instead, you pull your gloves off carefully and avoid looking at her for too long. It’s awful, actually, because Mia notices immediately. Of course she does. She raised you.

“You still doing toxicology on the Harbor case?” she asks.

You give her a quick nod. “Mm-hm.”

“I left the supplemental reports in there, too.”

“Okay.”

The silence that follows is haunting and so awkward even Paige and Pete don’t know where to look to avoid it. Paige suddenly becomes very fascinated with the nutritional values of her coffee cup while Pete pretends to organize paperwork that’s already organized. 

Full disclosure: you’ve been sort of avoiding Mia to the best of your abilities since returning from Sleepy Hollow and going through her basement safe, finding a letter from your mother. 

You haven’t told her about the letter. You haven’t told her about the Winchesters, about the ritual, or about your other discoveries. You haven’t told her a single thing. Haven’t really asked any questions, either. And now, it feels like there’s this big secret sitting between the two of you – and Mia doesn’t even know what your distance is about. 

God, you hate everything about this. 

Mia then rests one hand lightly on the counter. “You working late tonight?”

“Probably not.”

“Cam gets in today, right?”

You finally glance at her for the shortest second. “Yup, in less than an hour.”

A small smile rises on her face. “Bet you’re excited.”

“Uh-huh.”

The next silence is even worse. She definitely knows something’s up with you now. You can practically feel the unasked questions sitting between you.

And sure, a part of you understands why Mia hid everything. Why she tried so desperately to give you a normal life after the fire – school dances and science fairs and college applications instead of prophecies and demons and whatever horrifying supernatural nonsense apparently stalked your family tree for generations.

But another part of you keeps remembering the letter, followed by the awful realization that everybody around you seems to know pieces of your life you were never allowed to have.

You know you have to tell her eventually. But there’s nothing wrong with a little procrastination, is there?

“Tell Cameron I said welcome home,” Mia says finally.

“I will.” You nod quickly and force a smile, although she can definitely tell it’s fake. You know she can hear the distance in your voice. 

You have to get out of here before you explode and spill everything in front of an audience. 

“Well, uhm, I gotta go. Don’t wanna be late,” you excuse yourself with a swallow and grab your bag from the chair, shoving your sunglasses onto your head before the guilt catches up to you.

“Drive safe,” Mia calls after you.

You pause for half a second but then force yourself not to turn around.

“Always do,” you answer lightly before disappearing out into the bright Salem heat.

The rain starts sometime during the second half of the movie flickering across your bedroom TV screen, pattering softly against the window, blurring the town into blobs of gray and gold. 

But as pretty as Salem looks in weather like this, your focus isn’t on the rain outside but on the man sprawled currently beneath you. Being this close to Cameron again feels too good to be true. 

He still smells the same. He still feels the same. And his laugh still sounds the same, too. 

God, you missed him. 

And not just because he’s your boyfriend, although that obviously falls into the equation as well. But it’s mostly because, aside from Paige, Cam just gets you – every little part of you. He understands you better than anyone else on this planet, and you’ve never met anyone like him before who does. 

You still remember when you spotted this tall, pretty boy staring into an old book in the library with a deeply wrinkled brow. And the book in his hands? It was about the Salem witch trials. 

Naturally, you got curious – friend or foe, right? And as you sat down and chatted him up, Cameron then told you that his history professor gave them an assignment to dig deeper into their family tree and write a paper about it. 

And sweet, handsome Cam? He just so happens to be a direct descendant of one of the Salem witches. He has zero magical powers, which makes him slightly more boring again (his ancestors were falsely accused), but he’s been a loyal defender of witchcraft ever since. 

In fact, the man didn’t even blink when you told him you were a witch and rescued the sad ficus in his dorm room. All he said was ‘cool,’ grinned, and kissed you harder. 

And you didn’t just miss him because he’s one of the few people who understands you. You didn’t miss him in a dramatic movie-monologue, Romeo-and-Juliet, Maria-and-Tony, ‘I’ll-poison-and-stab-and-kill-myself-without-you’ kind of way. You missed him in the quiet, awful ways that sneak up on you – hearing his keys in the lock, feeling his warmth next to you at night, smelling his body wash in the shower. 

Now, your head rests on his chest while he absently plays with the ends of your hair, the pizza box lying open near your feet, completely demolished after several hours of mutual starvation and no self-control. His deployment bag still sits half-unpacked near your dresser, tan-colored fabric spilling slightly out of the zipper. He’d barely made it through your apartment door before you’d practically tackled him into the nearest horizontal surface available. 

It’d been a very enthusiastic and acrobatic reunion to say the least. 

In your defense, though, six months is an unreasonable amount of time to go without kissing someone you love.

You snuggle deeper into his embrace and watch Brendan Fraser on screen, running away from at least fifteen angry mummies while Rachel Weisz yells at him in fake Ancient Egypt. 

“See? This is romance,” you quip teasingly.

Cameron scoffs a chuckle above your head. “This is grave robbing.”

“No, Cam, grave robbing is the backdrop,” you explain with a grin. “The romance is the unresolved sexual tension during life-threatening situations.”

“They’ve known each other for two days.”

“So what? Chemistry hits instantly,” you quip, wiggling your brows. 

He snorts and wraps his arms tighter around you, pecking the top of your head. 

A smile tugs at your lips as you settle more comfortably against him. His skin’s still warm from the shower you took together earlier, one of his hands resting lazily against your bare thigh beneath the oversized Army shirt you stole from him.

The past few hours almost feel normal enough to pretend the last weeks never happened – no demons, no hunters, no terrifying family revelations hidden inside dead moms’ letters.

Tonight, it’s just Cameron’s heartbeat beneath your cheek and stupid movies and rain outside.

But you honestly may be cursed, because right in the midst of that ordinary peacefulness, your phone buzzes loudly on your nightstand, shattering the illusion of normalcy when Sam Winchester’s name flashes across the screen. 

Damn. You know that boy is psychic, but that’s impressive even for him. 

Cameron shifts slightly under you as he sneaks a peek at your screen. “Who’s that?”

You grab the phone quickly and silence the call before it finishes ringing. “One of the hunters,” you reply, tossing the phone back onto the mattress. 

Cameron’s fingers still against your leg for the briefest second. “The ones you told me about earlier?”

“Mhm.”

After the first round of reunion activities, you finally managed to fill him in on everything that happened this past month, including almost getting shot and hunting a headless ghost on a horse. Cameron had listened through all of it while you talked yourself in circles, his fingers tracing comforting patterns along your spine while you tried explaining things you still barely understood yourself. 

You still don’t understand most of it even now. And when you were finished, it was the first time you actually watched his jaw go slack.

“The guy who pointed the gun at you?” Cam checks.

You snort softly, shaking your head. “No, the other one.”

“That honestly doesn’t make me feel better.”

Yeah, obviously, he wasn’t a big fan of that particular part of your story. There’s no smooth way of telling someone you almost got killed, but you admittedly find his concern for your life slightly adorable. 

You smile a little to yourself as you reach for another slice of pizza. The mattress dips slightly as Cameron props himself up against the headboard behind you, his expression quieter and more serious than before.

“You really think you should be involved with these people?”

There’s no accusation in his voice. All you hear is worry, which you suppose is fair. You’re not sure how you would feel if the roles were reversed. 

You stare at the television for a second longer before answering. “They’re not bad people.”

“You said one of them tried to shoot you.”

“He thought I was dangerous,” you argue lightly. 

Cam smirks. “You are dangerous.”

The smile fades a little from your face as you look back toward the TV again. You’ve spent most of the afternoon trying not to think too hard about any of this, but now the thoughts are creeping back in.

Sam’s intensity whenever the ritual came up. Dean stepping in every time the conversation started pushing too far.

Truthfully, tarot cards and auras aside, you still don’t know what to make of either of them.

“I think Sam means well,” you say slowly. “He just seems to want answers really badly.”

“And the other one?”

You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip as the rain taps softly against the window while the movie soundtrack swells dramatically in the background.

“He’s kind of a jerk,” you admit.

Cameron snorts a laugh. “Strong endorsement.”

“But… I don’t know.” You draw a small frown and shrug your shoulders. “He surprised me, I guess.”

And that’s probably the closest you can explain it right now. 

You weirdly trust Dean not to kill you again. After all, he had plenty of chances in Sleepy Hollow and never took a single one. In fact, it even seemed like he cared enough to keep you alive, although he hid that concern under several layers of armor. Still, whatever misguided notion he harbored about you in the beginning seemed to have passed enough to tolerate your presence. 

“I trust him to keep me alive,” you add quietly.

Cameron studies your face for a beat. “That’s a pretty big thing to trust somebody with.”

You swallow slightly and play with the napkin between your fingers. “Yeah, I guess.”

Silence falls between you for a second afterward before Cameron’s hand begins to move slowly along your thigh under the blanket again.

“So what are you gonna do?” he asks eventually. 

“I don’t know,” you sigh and avert your eyes thoughtfully to the pizza box.

Most days, you’ve felt like you were trapped in a tragic play by Shakespeare – to be a full-powered witch, or not to be, that truly is the question. 

“I don’t wanna wake up one day and realize my whole life stopped being mine. I liked things the way they were before all of this,” you explain quietly, a lump forming in your throat. “But I also can’t stop thinking about why my mom wanted me to know all this so badly. I mean, this is a part of me, right? The only thing I’ve really got left of my family. And if demons are actually looking for me… What if something happens to you? Or Mia? Or Paige because I stayed ignorant on purpose?”

You’ve spent eleven years carefully crafting a normal life in Salem – school, college, work, family, and friends. Tiny apartments and bad coffee and movie nights and futures that made sense. But now, all of a sudden, there’s this other thing standing beside it all – this enormous shadow of a life you were apparently supposed to have instead.

Your mother’s life. Your grandmother’s.

But what if you don’t want to be some kind of weapon?

The thought alone makes your stomach twist, but Cameron reaches over and gently stills your fidgeting hands before you can shred the napkin entirely into pieces.

“Don’t worry about us, okay?” he assures you. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

You finally look up at him and nod. “I know.”

The warm lamplight softly illuminates the scar near his left eyebrow, and your heart flutters as you watch the smile rise on his lips. Cam always feels safe. No matter where you are, he’s home to you. So instead of answering and spiraling further into family destinies, you lean over and catch his lips in a kiss.

Slowly at first. Then much less slowly.

Cameron’s hand wanders up your waist beneath the oversized shirt, pulling you halfway into his lap while the movie continues forgotten in the background.

But then your phone buzzes once more against the mattress beside you, disrupting the peace yet again. Neither of you moves for a second, but you don’t exactly break apart either.

“Ignore it,” Cam mutters against your mouth with a grin. 

A smile hitches on your lips. “Oh, gladly.”

He kisses you harder and deeper in response, causing a few moans to escape you. Your brain has barely managed to stop thinking altogether again when the phone vibrates a third time.

You groan loudly and drop your head against his shoulder. “What in the living hell–”

Cameron chuckles in amusement while you reach blindly toward your phone. But as you glance at the screen this time, it’s not a call, and it’s not from Sam either. 

Instead, a text message glows on the screen.

>>Pete (9:47 PM): hey sorry i know ur off but theres some kind of emergency at the lab. can you come in??

Your eyebrows draw together slightly. “Huh.”

Cameron cocks a brow at your reaction. “What?”

You reread the text once. Then again. Pete usually types like a nerdy suburban dad trapped inside a twenty-five-year-old forensic tech. Proper punctuation. Correct spelling. Entire text messages that sound almost robotic – like talking to C-3PO.

This one looks rushed, though. Messy. Wrong.

“Pete says there’s some emergency at the lab.”

“After nine at night?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.” 

You bite your lip thoughtfully. Outside, thunder rumbles near the harbor. You stare at the message another second before locking your phone and shaking off the weird feeling in your gut.

“Probably evidence contamination or some chain-of-custody disaster again. God knows Salem PD can turn literally anything into a crisis,” you mutter with a long sigh, already climbing reluctantly out of bed.

Cameron catches your wrist before you can fully stand, however. “You want me to come with you?”

You shake your head softly and lean down, kissing him once more. “No, stay here and get some rest,” you tell him with a smile. “You just got home.”

His fingers linger a heartbeat longer around your wrist before letting go. “Text me when you get there.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” You smirk and playfully salute him. 

Cam snorts, shaking his head at you. “That’s not even my rank.”

“It is in my heart.”

Cam chuckles as The Mummy continues descending into chaos while you reach for your jeans on the floor. But just as you do, another tarot card slips out of your bag on the dresser and lands right on the hardwood floor by your feet.

The Tower.

It depicts a jagged black tower split open by lightning, tiny figures tumbling from the burning windows while smoke billows into the painted sky. It stands for sudden destruction, catastrophe, and the truth arriving violently enough to rip your life apart at the foundation.

It’s change you can’t outrun anymore, and you certainly feel the unease that comes with a card like that prickling down your spine. You glance back at Cam one last time and swallow before shoving the card back into your bag and heading out into the storm.

There are truly only four times in your life when you felt like you were unwittingly part of a horror movie. 

Only one of those times happened before meeting the Winchesters – when you watched your old life go up in flames. The other three all happened within the span of a month after the brothers crashed your life. 

There was one creepy stroll through the dark woods of Sleepy Hollow, and another walk through a graveyard in the middle of the night while fog obscured any sight. And then, there’s this one right now – walking through the eerily dark and strangely quiet hallways of the forensic wing at Salem PD. 

Unless there’s an emergency, an ongoing manhunt, or a kidnapped child in danger, there’s truly no reason for anyone to be here at this hour, including you. Most evidence doesn’t grow legs overnight and can usually wait till daylight to be processed. 

Even the parking lot outside was half-empty, only a few windows on the building’s upper floor glowing dimly as the night shift tries to keep the city safe and a few overworked detectives don’t know when to quit and go home.  

Your rain-soaked boots squeak on the polished linoleum as you take your usual route to the main lab. Something still feels off, but not in a grand, noticeable way. It’s more of a tiny feeling in your gut that someone moved all the furniture in the room half an inch to the left, but you have no way of proving it yet. 

“Pete?” you call out as you push through the double doors with your bag hanging from your shoulder.

No answer.

Only half the overhead fluorescents are switched on as you enter. The stainless steel counters gleam cold beneath the pale blue light while computers and machines hum quietly in sleep mode around the room.

Your pace slows instinctively as that horror-movie feeling begins to prickle in the back of your neck again. The cards did warn you.

“Pete?”

Not even a cough echoes back before your eyes spot something dark and liquid on the floor.

Drops – small, scarlet stains are scattered unevenly across the tile near the center workstations. At this point, you recognize the sight of blood even from a distance.

It’s luckily not enough for a murder scene. Not even enough to panic. It’s enough to assume one of your co-workers might have dropped a vial or accidentally spilled something or–

God, please let it be Pete having another nosebleed. 

Your heart is pounding viciously against your ribs as you move faster around the nearest counter and then stop dead in your tracks with a sharp intake of air. 

Paige and Mia sit tied to chairs near the back wall of the lab, and for one full, horrible minute, your brain refuses to process the image correctly.

It doesn’t make sense. Why are they here? Why are they–

Paige’s wrists are bound tightly behind her back with duct tape, her mascara streaking below two wide and terrified eyes while she makes desperate muffled sounds through the tape stretched across her mouth. Beside her, Mia’s chair has been tipped slightly sideways from struggling. Her hair’s escaping from its usual neat bun, fury burning behind her eyes so fiercely it almost hides the fear underneath.

Every nerve in your body goes ice cold.

“Oh my God–”

You lunge forward toward them without wasting another thought. You don’t think about who put them there or if that person might even still be around, although judging by both Mia’s and Paige’s vivid head shakes, you really should’ve. 

The lab door then crashes shut behind you with a force violent enough to rattle the glass cabinets, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot.

You spin around so fast your shoulder slams painfully into the edge of a metal workstation before you can make out Pete standing near the entrance in the dark. 

Or maybe it’s not Pete after all. 

His posture, his expression, his behavior – everything that subtly felt wrong about him today suddenly makes a ton of sense. The gray storm clouds, the oily strings in his aura – it never was grief. It was always a demon. 

Welp, good news is you’ve finally learned to spot demon aura. The bad news is that it might be slightly too late to be even remotely helpful knowledge right now. 

Whatever’s wearing Pete stands completely still with a lazy confidence sitting under its skin. He then lifts and tilts his head at you fully, a sneer spreading across his lips before his eyes turn pitch-black. 

“There she is.”

Paige lets out another muffled cry behind you while Mia immediately starts shaking her head sharply at you, eyes wide with warning.

You take one tentative step backward, your pulse hammering violently in your ears as your mind frantically sorts through every conversation you’ve had over the last month – salt, devil’s traps, holy water, exorcisms.

Dean made sure of that before leaving Sleepy Hollow, shoving a scribbled note into your hands with a few gruff instructions, as if he had already expected trouble to crawl out of the walls eventually.

You memorized the exorcism and also carry a bottle of holy water in your bag, but something in the demon’s cunning smile already tells you your hand won’t be stealthy enough to reach for it and your mouth won’t be fast enough to send that thing straight back to Hell before the demon probably cuts out your tongue. 

One may almost call this a hopeless situation. 

But then you remember the episode of Buffy in Season 2 when she used a pencil to stab a vampire. If there’s anything fighting evil on TV taught you, it’s that literally everything can be turned into a weapon if the protagonist feels desperate enough. 

And you? You feel pretty damn desperate right now.  

The demon takes a patient sweep around the room before looking back at you with a grin that stretches all wrong across Pete’s familiar face.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “this was easier than I expected.”

Your fingers twitch slightly toward your bag, but of course the demon notices that little movement instantly.

“Oh, relax.” He snorts an amused chuckle. “If I wanted you dead already, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

You swallow thickly and try to calm your wildly beating heart. “What do you want?”

The demon’s smile widens. “You really don’t recognize me?”

Your brow knits in confusion, lips pursing the slightest bit. 

The demon tilts his head, studying your face almost curiously. “Huh.” He laughs darkly. “Guess that makes sense. You were what? Eleven?”

For a moment, the world turns freezing cold and darker than a black hole around you. There’s nothing there anymore. Even your blood feels like it’s draining out of your body, leaving nothing for your heart to pump. 

The demon starts strolling slowly toward you. “I gotta admit, though – your family made my job real difficult after that. All those protection spells, wards, hex bags, birch barriers…” He rolls his eyes dramatically and lets out a sigh. “Whole damn bloodline was paranoid.”

Your breath halts in your lungs.

“But your grandma?” he continues. “Mean old thing. Nearly took my head off that night.”

The world tilts upside down under your feet. Your heartbeat stutters hard against your ribs.

That night. The fire.

The demon watches as realization begins to dawn on your face. Then he grins like he won a prize.

“There it is.”

Your mouth goes dry. “No…”

“Oh, yeah.” He sounds almost pleased now. “I remember that house real well.”

Paige whimpers behind you, Mia goes frighteningly still, but the demon unfortunately keeps talking.

“Your mother screamed a lot. Could barely hear myself think by the end of it.” The demon’s smile only widens at the horror blooming in your eyes. “She kept trying to get upstairs. To get to you.” His voice turns mockingly thoughtful. “Even after her dress caught fire. Real determined woman.”

“Stop,” you grit, but that only seems to encourage him more.

“And your grandma?” he continues almost fondly. “Now that was ugly. Think one of the others broke her leg before we finally got her down.” He sneers. “Still tried casting spells through it, too.”

Your vision starts blurring around the edges. The demon notices your shaking hands and laughs in dark amusement.

“Oh, come on. Don’t look so upset. Family reunions are supposed to be emotional.”

Rage then flashes hot through your panic. Your fingers close hard around the strap of your bag. The holy water still sits inside. If you can just distract him long enough–

“And don’t even think about it,” he tsks with a sharp look. 

Before you can respond, something invisible suddenly slams into your chest like a speeding car. Pain explodes through your spine as your body hits the wall hard enough to knock the oxygen from your lungs. Your feet leave the ground for half a second before an unseen force pins you there, crushing against your ribs and shoulders so tightly you can barely breathe.

You gasp sharply as you struggle against the invisible strings holding you upright, but nothing moves or even budges.

Paige screams behind the tape over her mouth while Mia starts fighting violently against her restraints again, chair scraping across the floor.

The demon doesn’t seem bothered by any of it, though, and then strolls casually past you toward Mia.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the big boss wanted you dead quick. But after eleven years of tracking your ass down?” He glances back at you over his shoulder, smirking broadly. “Figured I earned a little fun first.”

“Mia–” Your voice cracks around the pressure crushing your chest.

The demon ignores any failed protests and casually reaches down, grabbing the side of Mia’s chair and jerking it hard enough to slam her sideways onto the floor. She cries out through the gag.

“Don’t touch her!” The words tear out of you in a snarl.

Mia’s eyes flash toward yours. Furious. Protective. Terrified.

The demon crouches slowly down to her. “You know what’s funny?” he asks, one hand gripping Mia’s jaw hard enough to make her flinch. “She still tried protecting you, too.”

“No, please–… Don’t–” Your stomach drops as soon as you realize his intentions in the black pits of his eyes.

A smirk twitches on the demon’s lips. “Guess you’re about to lose your second mommy as well.”

“Dammit,” Sam huffs and snaps the phone shut in frustration when it rings out to voicemail yet again. “She’s not picking up.”

The Impala tears through the highway fast enough that the engine starts sounding strained under Dean’s feet, but he ignores it and presses down harder on the gas pedal. Rainwater streaks across the windshield, reflecting in passing headlights while mile after mile disappears beneath the tires. But Salem’s still too damn far away for Dean’s liking.

Sam immediately dials your number again for what has to be the twentieth time in the last hour.

Dean’s jaw tightens as he aggressively shifts gears. “What the hell is she doing?”

The question comes out rougher than intended, sharpened by the same ugly knot of anxiety that’s been marinating in his chest ever since Sam woke up in that motel room sweat-drenched, pale, and shaking from another vision. 

Dean keeps replaying the sight of his brother clutching his head in pain, disoriented and breathless while trying to explain what he saw. Sam’s visions have never exactly been wrong before, and that’s the part Dean can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard he tries to focus on the road ahead.

“Come on, come on…” Sam murmurs impatiently as he listens to another string of unanswered rings, bouncing one restless knee hard enough to cause the dashboard to vibrate.

Dean reaches over finally and shoves the phone downward. “Dude.”

“What?” Sam snaps.

“You calling every thirty seconds isn’t helping.”

Sam shoots him an irritated look. “And what? Doing nothing is?”

Dean opens his mouth, ready with some smartass response, but nothing actually comes out. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know what the hell they’re supposed to do either, besides drive faster and hope they’re not already too late.

Sam rubs tiredly at his forehead before staring back down at the phone in his hand. “She doesn’t know what she’s dealing with.”

Yup, that’s exactly the problem, Dean thinks in agreement. 

Right now, you only know enough to be truly dangerous to yourself if he’s being completely honest. You may be able to draw a devil’s trap, recite an exorcism, and carry holy water, but that only might buy you a little bit of time. 

By the time Salem then finally comes into view, the rain’s mostly stopped. The town glistens beneath streetlights and neon signs while Dean swings the Impala hard around another corner downtown.

The police station looks downright dead when they pull up.

There are no lights in most of the windows and no movement either. There’s just the sound of rainwater dripping off the building’s awning as Dean kills the engine in the parking lot – right next to your car. 

Considering Sam’s vision showed you being attacked in the lab, Dean doesn’t necessarily take that as a good sign, though. 

Again, a head start would’ve been nice. 

Sam jumps out of the Impala first, practically running toward the entrance while Dean grabs the shotgun from under the seat and follows closely behind.

Inside, the station feels wrong in the same way horror movies feel wrong in the beginning – it’s too damn quiet, and the stupid lights are flickering, too. 

Their footsteps echo through the empty hallways, the entire building feeling abandoned in an unsettling late-night way. Sam leads without hesitation, sneaking through the forensic wing like he already knows exactly where he’s going from his vision alone.

Dean keeps one hand tight around the shotgun as they round another corner. There’s still no sound, nothing to point them in the right direction, which can be either good or bad. His eyes can barely make out shapes in the dark before a loud crash explodes down the hallway. 

A scream follows immediately after – yours.

Both brothers break into a run at the exact same time. Dean nearly shoulder-checks Sam trying to get through the lab doors first, adrenaline rushing into his blood the second another crash rattles from inside. The sound of glass shattering follows before a distorted scream that surely doesn’t belong to anything human overpowers every other noise.

Dean shoves through the doors hard enough they slam against the wall behind him, but the sight in front of him makes him stop short for entirely different reasons than he expected.

Instead of finding you half-dead, bleeding out on the linoleum, you’re sitting breathlessly on the ground near the far wall, one hand braced shakily against the tile while your chest rises and falls like you’ve just crossed the finish line after a marathon. 

Several feet across from you, what seems to be a demon thrashes furiously inside a devil’s trap burned black into the linoleum floor. Smoke still curls from the charred lines while steam rises visibly from the meat suit’s skin, black eyes wild and crazed with unmatched anger as the thing screams loudly enough to shatter the glass cabinets.

For a full minute, Dean genuinely has no idea what he’s looking at. Even Sam stares with his mouth agape, tilting his head with that familiar knit in his brows that says he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, either. 

You look up at them, pale and visibly trembling but conscious, alive, and somehow still coherent enough to speak and joke around. “If this is you guys coming to save me, you suck at your job,” you gasp out between breaths. 

Dean’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “How–, uhm, how did you–”

You smile breathlessly. “Did you know the human body is made up of roughly sixty percent water? So, technically…”

Understanding flashes across Sam’s face first, immediate fascination overtaking the earlier panic. “You turned the water inside his body into holy water?”

“Yup, like Jesus – or something like that. Thought I give it a shot.” You nod, swallowing thickly as you still try to catch your breath. “And then I burned the devil’s trap into the floor before he could move again.”

Dean’s eyes drop toward the blackened symbol carved into the linoleum beneath the demon’s feet once more, the melted plastic edges still smoking from the intense heat.

“You gave it a shot?” he repeats in disbelief, raising a brow at you. 

You shrug your shoulders. “Sam told me to improvise.” Then a small grin spreads on your lips. “So did Buffy.”

He shoots you a dry look. “A TV show? That’s what you were going off on?”

Sam throws him a raised look at that, pretty much saying and how many times have you done that, huh? But that’s all beside the point. You’re still a rookie, an amateur, and you need to at least level up a little more before you can afford stunts like that. 

Still, good job overall, he supposes. You’re alive. Congratulations on not dying would probably be in order. 

And then the relief crashes fully through his system, leaving him almost dizzy for a moment. Because the entire drive here, some ugly part of his mind had already started preparing for the possibility of being too late – of walking into blood and bodies and another failure they’d have to live with afterward. Another pyre he’d have to light at the end of this. 

Instead, you trapped the damn thing yourself.

Before he fully thinks about it, Dean closes the remaining distance and holds a hand out to you. “You hurt?”

Your eyes flick briefly to his hand before you take it. Your fingers feel unbelievably warm against his calloused palm as Dean pulls you gently to your feet. Up close, he notices the bruising already darkening near your shoulder and the lingering panic and fear still written across your face no matter how hard you’re trying to keep yourself together on the outside.

“I’m fine. Just a little banged up,” you reply and then nod toward the two innocent hostages still tied up. “But Mia–… He got her pretty bad before I could trap him. We need to get her to a hospital.”

Dean turns and instantly sees the blood soaking through Mia’s side, dripping steadily from the chair onto the floor beneath her. Her breathing sounds shallow, strained through clenched teeth while Paige struggles frantically with the restraints around her wrists.

Dean moves immediately while Sam grabs a discarded towel from the counter and presses it hard against the wound. Mia hisses sharply in pain.

“We need to go,” Paige says as soon as Dean has carefully removed the tape from her mouth and wrists, her voice shaking badly.

You dig out your keys from your bag with trembling hands and toss them toward her. “Take my car,” you tell her quickly. “I’ll come after.”

Paige catches the keys awkwardly before Sam and her help Mia carefully to her feet. She nearly collapses immediately again with a sharp gasp, blood already soaking through the towel Sam pressed against her side.

Dean manages to catch her before she hits the floor. “Easy there, Sarge.”

“Someone better fill me in on what’s going on here,” Mia hisses through anger and pain. 

You bite down on your lips and nod. “Yup, later. Promise.”

The demon laughs in cruel amusement behind them, but Dean ignores it for now, helping steady Mia while Paige gets her arm around her properly. The second they disappear through the lab doors, the room falls into silence.

Dean then turns back toward the trap and watches the black eyes gleam through steam and smoke.

“Well, this is cozy,” the thing quips, snickering in delight. “So glad the Winchesters could join us tonight. I really wanted to thank you guys.”

Sam steps a little closer, brow furrowing. “For what?”

“My, Sammy, for finding her, of course,” the demon retorts with a wide smirk. “You boys truly did the hard part for us.”

The silence only thickens like molasses in the room as Dean meets your eyes briefly before you avert yours first, and he feels the sting of that between his ribs.

“Big boss spent years trying to track the little witch down again after your daddy hid her away,” the demon says mockingly. “Then you two idiots show up in Salem asking questions about Berkano witches and demons.” A sharp laugh escapes. “Might as well’ve mailed us her damn address.”

Dean’s stomach twists into more knots while Sam goes pale next to him.

The demon seems to notice and only grins wider. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. John Winchester covered his tracks real good after that fire. Got her out before the house came down, dumped her with the cop lady, and disappeared before we could pick the trail back up.” Its black eyes slide between the brothers. “Smart man. Shame his sons ain’t.”

Dean’s jaw locks tightly. You haven’t said a single word since the revelation hit, but he can still feel the suddenly freezing temperature in the room that has nothing to do with anything supernatural.

Sam steps closer toward the trap despite Dean grabbing unsuccessfully for his arm. “What does Yellow-Eyes want with her?”

The demon gives a careless shrug. “Her dead.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a threat.” He then glances down and around himself, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Starting to understand the hype. My mistake. She seemed more harmless when she was still a little girl, crying for her mommy.”

“Yeah, guess I grew up,” you retort bitterly. 

The demon smirks deviously. “Won’t happen again, sweetheart.”

“Damn right it won’t,” Dean growls. “‘Cause I’m sending you right back into the hole you crawled out of.”

The demon snorts. “Oh, please do. You think I’m the only one after her?” He lifts a brow in mock. “The entirety of Hell is looking for her. Got a high reward on her head. She made it to the top of the most wanted list, especially since you two woke the sleeper cell. What is she, your Plan B after you lost the Colt?” He smirks triumphantly. “She is, isn’t she?”

Sam’s eyes flick to you. “He was there that night?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug slightly, keeping your gaze trained on the demon. 

“I thought you said the demon’s eyes were yellow.”

“They were,” you grit through your teeth. 

“Oh, boss was there,” the demon offers. “Witches as powerful as her mommy and grams? Took a lot of us to take them down. And man, they fought.” He whistles lowly and shoots you a grin. “Got about ten of us before we’d finally torn them apart enough to make a difference. Does that make you feel better, sweetheart?”

You glare at the demon, jaw clenching. “Screw you.”

Sam’s expression darkens. “You said they got about ten of you… Got how? Did they send them back to Hell?”

The demon smirks, amused. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sam’s jaw tightens sharply. “What really happened that night?”

A smile slowly rises at the corners of the demon’s mouth. “Your daddy showed up right in the middle of it, grabbed the kid before boss could get to her, and then ditched outta there while the witches tried holding us off. Didn’t even try to save them.” He cackles and finds your eyes. “Obviously, that didn’t work out too great for them.”

Dean’s eyes drift to you. Your cheeks have lost all color, fists clenched tightly at your sides, your eyes overwhelmed and brimming with tears that you don’t let fall, not wanting the thing to win. 

“Oh, c’mon, sweetheart,” the demon croons. “You should’ve heard your mom screaming for you.”

“The ritual,” Sam cuts in thankfully before the thing could continue his taunts. “What does it do?”

“No clue.” The demon snorts a laugh. “Witch crap’s above my pay grade, Sammy. All I know is the old bastard wants the Berkano line wiped out before she comes into her full power.”

Dean’s nostrils flare as he takes a slow step forward.

The demon’s grin widens. “There he is.”

“You got about five seconds before I send your ass screaming back to Hell,” Dean threatens. 

“Oh, I’m terrified.”

“And I mean it.”

The demon laughs again, black eyes sliding toward you. “Sooner or later, one of us is gonna get outta a trap long enough to carve you open real slow and figure out exactly why even the boss is so scared of your bloodline. Maybe we’ll start with your hands first. Or your eyes. Or your tongue. Bet a witch can scream for a real long time before she dies–”

Dean steps right to the edge of the trap, fury flashing across his face. “You touch her again and I will personally drag your ass apart piece by piece.”

The demon smirks wider. “See? That’s cute. You actually care–”

That’s when Dean snaps and the exorcism starts tearing out of him at a furious pace before a hand on his arm halts him in his tracks – yours. He glances at your hand briefly before finding your eyes.

“Wait, what happens to Pete?” you ask. 

Dean’s brow furrows. “Pete?”

“My co-worker,” you clarify and nod toward the demon in the trap. “You can’t kill him.”

Sam steps in. “It’s not gonna kill him unless the vessel’s already hurt. If that’s the case, then there’s nothing we can do anyway. Keeping this thing inside of him would just be crueler.”

You look between both brothers for a moment before you give a subtle nod, and Sam continues the exorcism. 

The demon then begins to convulse violently inside the trap again, black and thick smoke starting to pour out from Pete’s mouth while the thing screams agonizingly and curses in several languages at once until the final Latin word leaves Sam’s mouth. The smoke then finally breaks free completely, slamming upward toward the ceiling before vanishing.

Pete, on the other hand, collapses unconsciously inside the trap before blinking groggily up at the three of you a few beats later. 

“Where am I?” He glances around the dark lab through squinted eyes. “Why am I at work? What happened?” His gaze then falls to the symbol burned into the floor underneath him. “What is that?”

“Uhm… shit,” you curse under your breath and look wide-eyed at the brothers. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

Sam and Dean share a brief glance, both their mouths opening without anything useful coming out because, yeah… that is a hard one to explain away. 

You huff an exhausted breath after receiving no answer from either of them and spin back toward Pete, crouching to his level and snatching a pen from a nearby counter. 

“Okay, Pete? Everything will be fine,” you assure him with a deceptively calm smile and hold up the pen. “Just look at this, alright?” 

Dean then watches you hurriedly rummage through your bag. You practically empty the whole thing onto the counter – an assortment of dried herbs wrapped carefully in twine, small polished gemstones, an owl feather, and a little cloth pouch filled with some kind of dust. You look frantically through it all till you stumble upon a small vial with silver powder inside and hold it up with a smile. 

“There it is.” You grin and empty the potion into your palm before moving back over to Pete. “Mind grows clouded, sight grows dim, leave no trace of what has been. Let the waking world unwind, erase the previous day from conscious mind.” 

The powder glimmers strangely in the dim light before you blow it directly into Pete’s face. And just like that, the guy coughs a few times before his entire body goes limp. 

Dean’s brows lift slightly as Pete slumps unconsciously against the floor, breathing deeply and evenly now, like he’s merely fallen asleep at work after an exhausting shift.

“Sam, help me move him,” you order his little brother as you grab one of Pete’s arms. 

Sam takes the other side, and together the two of you heave Pete onto a chair by a workstation, resting his head gently on a countertop in front of a keyboard – a perfectly staged crime scene. 

You then turn around and glance at the remaining mess, letting a tired sigh pass between your lips. 

“Okay,” you murmur quietly to yourself and chew on your lower lip as you take in the destroyed lab – glass littering the floor, cabinets hanging half-shattered from their hinges, and the blackened devil’s trap scaring the linoleum. “Turn back ash and shattered stone… make undone what hate has sewn. Leave no mark and leave no trace… return everything to its… proper place.”

For half a second, nothing happens, but the hairs on Dean’s arms still rise, so he knows magic can’t be too far away. 

And then, the damage starts reversing itself.

The black scorch marks across the linoleum slowly fade, the warped plastic smoothing itself back into place while shattered glass trembles across the floor before dissolving into dust that then vanishes entirely. Cabinet doors straighten with a few metallic creaks and cracked surfaces seal shut piece by piece until the entire lab looks almost untouched again. 

Sam lets out a quiet huff of fascinated amusement beside Dean, but Dean’s still too busy staring at the spotless floor where a demon had been screaming a minute ago. 

You sway slightly afterward, fatigue finally catching up with you as the adrenaline drains out of your body. Dean instinctively shuffles forward a little in case you fall, but you steady yourself against the counter before he is forced to make a move.

“What did you just do?” he asks then, brows tightly creased.

“Repair spell,” you answer simply, still sounding rather impressed with yourself. “Don’t wanna leave any evidence behind that gets me hanged in the town square.”

“No, I mean–” Dean shakes his head, swallowing lightly. “Before that… with Pete. What’d you do to him?”

“Oh.” You glance toward Pete’s snoozing form and casually shrug your shoulders. “It’s a memory spell. My grams taught me it for emergencies. Don’t worry. He’s not gonna remember anything from the last twenty-four hours.”

Your words don’t carry any malevolent meaning, but Dean freezes in his boots, his mind flashing back to last night’s dream.

The kitchen. Your grandmother. Difficult decisions. Severing attachments under the guise of protection.

Was that what they were talking about? Is that what actually happened?

“Memory spell?” Dean repeats carefully, looking at you. “Your grandma taught you that one?”

“Yeah.” You sling your bag over your shoulder after shoving everything back inside, still innocently oblivious to the fact that Dean suddenly looks like somebody punched straight through his ribcage. “Never used it before. Sure as hell is practical, though.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” he mutters, trying to rub the tension out of his jaw. “I bet it is…”

You either don’t notice the tone or choose not to comment on it. Instead, you glance once more toward unconscious Pete before rubbing at your bruised shoulder with an exhausted sigh.

“Okay,” you breathe and look at the brothers. “Let’s get outta here before he wakes up again. Can you guys drive me to the hospital?”

Dean’s only capable of giving you an automated nod before you and Sam head out of the lab, his gaze drifting back to your sleeping co-worker whose memory just got wiped – an entire day of his life just got erased like it never happened and the guy will be none the wiser afterward.

And suddenly, Dean can’t stop thinking about all the things he probably isn’t supposed to remember either.

Nobody talks during the entire ten-minute drive to the hospital, which makes time pass a lot slower than it actually does as Salem blurs past the windows in flashes of neon and wet pavement. 

Dean catches glimpses of you in the backseat every now and then through the rearview mirror despite trying not to stare. You’re curled into yourself right behind him, one arm wrapped across your middle while you look blankly out the rain-streaked window, but you haven’t looked at either of them once since leaving the lab.

And honestly? Dean can’t blame you.

His mind keeps jumping back and forth between anger, confusion, and guilt – between thinking about possibly being hexed with a memory spell that’s suspiciously got your grandmother’s handwriting on it and replaying the demon’s words over and over again, confirming his worst fears that him and Sam led all this crap to your doorstep. 

He should’ve had his head more in the game before coming to Salem the first time. He should’ve cared more, kept a closer eye on Sam, and slowed him down when he went too fucking far. Most of all, Dean can practically hear the old man’s disappointment. 

His father had been so careful – choosing his words wisely, encoding it all, sealing it shut, and then throwing away the key. He’d kept you safely hidden for eleven years till Sam and Dean opened the box with a bunch of firecrackers and stomped into your life, dragging dirt all over your polished floors. 

Even Sam seems to feel the guilt for once, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He throws a glance toward the backseat as well before looking away again just as quickly. He clearly feels it too – the realization that they walked thoughtlessly into your life and carried enough trouble to get everybody around you nearly killed in one night.

Dean swallows hard against the lump lodged in his throat.

Because before tonight, this had all still felt weirdly temporary somehow – like maybe you could still walk away from it if you wanted. In his mind, there was a chance that you could just go back to your job and your apartment and your normal little Salem life while Sam and Dean disappeared down another highway, chasing their own mess.

Welp, that illusion’s gone now.

Demons found your family, your home, your people. And Dean knows exactly what that means because he’s watched it happen to everyone else who ever got too close to this life.

You can’t walk away from this anymore, and it’s all his fault.

The hospital then finally appears through the windshield in a wash of white lights. Dean parks near the emergency entrance, but before he even fully kills the engine, you’re already out of the backseat and hurrying toward the building.

Dean exchanges one quick glance with Sam before both brothers follow.

The waiting room carries that familiar hospital smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Paige then notices you first as you storm through the doors, relief lighting up on her face as she jumps up from one of the plastic chairs lining the wall. But there’s a guy right next to her that rises immediately as well like he’s part of the group. 

Dean slows his steps and tilts his head.

The guy’s tall – really tall, actually. Dean can see the broad shoulders and solid built under the dark gray henley even from a distance. The dude certainly looks like he could throw a decent punch if he needed to. There’s visible exhaustion under his eyes, but the second he spots you, all of that vanishes and his entire face lights up. 

“There you are.”

The guy crosses the waiting room in a few strides, and before Dean fully registers it, the man’s already pulling you into him.

And you? You go willingly – completely willingly.

Dean watches your hands fist into the fabric at the back of the guy’s shirt while his arms wrap tightly around you, one hand settling against the small of your back like he’s done it a thousand times before. He kisses your temple the second you bury your face into his chest, holding you there a moment longer than necessary like he needed the physical proof that you’re still alive.

Dean uncomfortably averts his gaze, not sure where to look, but this whole thing feels too private and intimate for an audience. It doesn’t feel like it was meant to be witnessed by his eyes, a strange little sting knotting his stomach. 

The guy then pulls back just enough to look at your face properly, both hands carefully wandering to your arms as his eyes seem to inspect you for injuries. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “Are you hurt?”

And just like that, your entire expression softens in a way Dean hasn’t seen before. Not with Sam. Definitely not with him.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, though your voice still sounds frayed. “What about Mia? How is she? Have you guys heard anything?”

The guy exhales visibly in relief at hearing you speak and offers you a warm smile. “She’s okay, too,” he tells you. “Doctor said she lost a lot of blood, but they got the bleeding stopped. She also told me she’s apparently been through worse and started telling me that story about getting shot during a drug bust in 2001 again.”

A watery laugh escapes you at that, wiping a few stray tears from your cheeks. “Yeah, she loves telling that story.”

The guy smiles softly at that and pulls you closer again, your shoulders loosening significantly. And Dean suddenly realizes with growing irritation that the dude clearly knows you really well because he’s somehow managing to calm you down in under thirty seconds after the night you just had.

Then the guy finally notices the brothers standing behind you, and the warmth in his face cools almost immediately. It’s not exactly hostility but definitely wariness. Protective. Dean recognizes the look because hunters wear it all the time around strangers – sizing people up and assessing threats.

“I’m gonna grab coffee,” the guy says after a second, eyes flicking briefly toward the brothers again before they land back on. “You want anything?”

You shake your head tiredly before changing your mind halfway through. “Actually, yes. Sugar. I need sugar in medically concerning amounts.”

That earns you another smile from him. “I got you. Wanna come with? Mia’s still resting.”

You nod with a smile, and his hand brushes lightly against your lower back again as he steers you gently toward the vending machines, the two of you disappearing down the hallway. And Dean finds himself staring after you longer than he probably should, catching the way your fingers intertwine with the guy’s.

Weirdly domestic. Weirdly intimate. And Dean doesn’t like how much he notices that.

Pursing his lips, his gaze then drifts to Paige, who’s watching him with a slightly amused expression she tries to hide behind a styrofoam cup of bad coffee. 

Dean sways a few steps closer and then casually motions with his chin down the hallway. “So… who’s the guy?”

Paige doesn’t reply instantly. Instead, she bites harshly down on her lips like she’s swallowing down a few comments before regaining her composure and meeting his eyes. 

“Oh, that’s just Cameron,” she replies breezily and takes another sip, feigning innocence. “Her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend,” he repeats, wrinkling his nose slightly at the term. It hits oddly somehow and irritates him for some reason. 

Paige gives him a big nod, very clearly enjoying the show now, judging by the giant grin rising on her lips. “They met in college.”

Dean’s eyes flick briefly down the hallway again where the two of you disappeared. He shouldn’t be that surprised, right? You’re gorgeous and funny and weird in that oddly charming way where you carry glitter gel pens next to crime scene photos, somehow making it work. 

You have a normal life. Of course you’d have a boyfriend, too. Dean’s not stupid. This is the logical conclusion. It makes complete sense. 

Still, the realization catches him more off guard than it probably should, mostly because Dean’s never really pictured you belonging to somebody else before.

And leave it to Paige to notice the exact second that thought crosses his mind because her grin widens in an instant.

Dean scowls, narrowing his eyes to a glare at her. “Why’re you smiling like that?”

She gives a causal shrug of her shoulders. “Nothing. You’re cute.”

“Shut up,” he scoffs, shaking his head at her.

But she only snorts a laugh into her coffee cup while Dean mutters a curse under his breath and looks away as fast as he can. Whatever she’s thinking right now, she’s absolutely wrong about it. Dean’s at least sure of that if nothing else. 

An hour later, the waiting room’s grown even quieter, fully falling into nightly silence.

The doctor informed you ten minutes ago that Mia’s stable after surgery and just woke up, summoning you almost instantly. You looked rather reluctant to accept the command, and as Dean aimlessly wanders the endless hospital corridors and happens to stroll past Mia’s room, he begins to understand your initial hesitancy.

Judging by Mia’s raised voice, you’re apparently getting the lecture of a lifetime in there. Dean isn’t able to hear every word, but he catches enough to understand the gist – something about keeping secrets, getting everyone in danger, and running off with two guys who wanted to kill you. 

Dean assumes him and Sam are meant with that last one. 

He doesn’t expect you to leave the room so abruptly afterward before you suddenly stand right in front of him and close the door behind you with an exhaustive sigh. 

“Man, she’s mad,” you huff, shaking your head. “If I still lived at home, she’d probably ground me till I’m thirty.”

Dean offers you a comforting smile, scratching his throat as he saunters closer. “That bad, huh?”

You scoff a dry laugh. “Yup, but she’ll get over it,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. “Maybe if she’d shown me the letter sooner and told me the truth, I wouldn’t have gone snooping behind her back.”

“Cut her some slack,” Dean says gently, catching your attention. “This ain’t exactly easy to figure out. Nothing wrong with wanting to protect someone you love from all this crap.”

You lift your brow. “So lying to someone’s face is better?”

“Sometimes.” Dean shrugs, his gaze briefly flicking to Sam talking to Paige by the vending machines. He looks back at you then, clearing his throat rather awkwardly. “You–, uh, you got a minute to talk?”

You study him for a beat before nodding, a teasing smile flashing across your lips. “You wanna give me a lecture too now?”

Dean chuckles softly and shoves both hands into his jacket pockets, shaking his head. “No, uh, just figured we need a plan, y’know?”

“A plan for what?” 

He lets out a deep sigh, rubbing his jaw. “You know you can’t stay here anymore, right? In Salem. That demon wasn’t random, and now that they found you again…” He pauses, licking his lips. “There’ll be a lot more.”

You go very still at that. Dean can see how the reality visibly takes hold of you.

“But I can’t just leave. This is my home,” you argue just for the sake of bargaining it seems. 

“I know.” Dean nods quietly but doesn’t offer anything else. He knows you already know and decides to let you play through the options on your own. 

“What about my job? I’ve barely been on it for a year. I can’t just quit now. What am I supposed to do for the rest of my life?”

Dean just stares at you patiently, waiting for the truth to settle as you start to pace maniacally in front of him. “Look, this is just temporary. Just until the demon’s dead. Then you can slip right back into your old life. Pretend this never happened.”

“You really believe that?” You doubtfully arch a brow. “You said it yourself – that never happens. And what about Mia and Paige and–” You close your mouth before finishing. 

“Your boyfriend?” Dean supplies with a raised brow. God, again with that word. He hates how annoying it sounds in his head now. You then nod slightly, and he mirrors it with his own nod. “Our friend Bobby knows how to hide people properly – wards, devil’s trap, safe houses… The whole nine yards. Nothing’s gonna happen to them. I promise.”

Your brows shoot up in surprise. “You’d do that?”

“Yeah,” Dean assures you before the guilt punches him square in the chest all over again. “Look, I know this happened because of us. If me and Sam hadn’t shown up–”

“Dean–”

“No.” He shakes his head sharply, interrupting your well-meant protest, but he needs to get this out for good. “That thing was right. My dad kept you hidden for years and we waltzed into your life, dragging all our crap behind us.” He grinds his molars painfully before daring to look fully into your eyes. “I’m sorry, alright? We screwed up.”

The words feel strange coming out of his mouth because Dean doesn’t really apologize – not sincerely and not often at least. But this one matters.

Your expression softens slightly, and for some reason, that almost makes him feel worse.

“Bobby can hide you, too,” he adds after a beat.

“No.” You shake your head slowly, and Dean finds your eyes again, brow furrowing. “I think I’m gonna go to Sugar Hill,” you announce. “I wanna know what the ritual is. What my family was trying to protect. What that demon is so scared of. I think I’m done pretending this has nothing to do with me.”

Dean studies you for a long moment then.

A month ago, you wanted nothing to do with any of this. Now you’re standing in a hospital hallway talking about chasing down ancient family rituals because demons nearly murdered your adoptive mother tonight, just adding proof that this life changes people too damn fast.

“You sure?” he asks quietly.

You give him a resolute nod, and Dean already knows there’s no talking you out of it this time. His gaze then drifts toward the waiting room, landing on Cameron sitting beside Paige now.

“So…” he says casually then, smacking his lips. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Your mouth twitches for a second before you press your lips together. “Yep.”

“Never mentioned it before,” he mutters, biting the insides of his cheeks till he tastes a hint of copper on his tongue.

You toss him a slightly amused look at that, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t know we were that close. I mean, considering you tried to kill me and all that, excuse me for not being too keen on giving you a full list of my loved ones.”

Loved ones. 

Something sour rises in his throat at that, but he swallows it back down and subtly loosens his shoulders once, brushing the thought away. 

“Yeah, yeah…” He scoffs and rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance. “Whatever. Just didn’t know you were hiding a six-foot-three linebacker somewhere. That’s all.”

“He’s in the military.”

Dean hums nonchalantly, his eyes wandering back to the waiting room. He can see the dog tags under the henley now. “What branch?”

“Army. Rangers,” you reply with a trace of pride in your voice that strangely annoys Dean as well.

“Huh.” He starts biting his cheek anew. 

“He was deployed overseas for the last few months. Just got home yesterday.”

At that, Dean’s head slowly turns to you, shooting you a dry look. “Wait, yesterday… Is that why you didn’t pick up the phone when Sam called?”

You press your lips guiltily together, shrugging. “We were having dinner and watching a movie…” 

Oh, Dean knows what that translates to. There’s no way you did any of these things. God, he so doesn’t want to think about this – about you and–… Why the hell is he thinking about this? 

It shouldn’t bother him. It doesn’t. Not even a little. He feels perfectly neutral about this. Just–

“Sam and I thought you were dead, bleeding out on the fucking floor!” he snaps furiously, puffed chest rising and falling a little too fast. “Just pick up the damn phone next time!”

“Jesus, fine,” you scoff and cross your arms, rolling your eyes back. “Would you relax?”

“I am relaxed,” he huffs rather unconvincingly. 

You give him a raised look. “It’s truly fascinating you keep lying to me when you know damn well by now I can read your aura.”

“Well, stop doing that.”

“Stop lying.”

Dean exhales a long and deep sigh before nodding toward the waiting room. “He know about all this?”

“What, me being a witch who’s getting hunted by demons?” You catch his gaze, and he nods briefly. You laugh a little. “Yeah, obviously.”

Obviously.

That word almost makes Dean scoff out loud. Because obviously has never been part of his experience. It’s barely part of his vocabulary. Most people he’s met in his life run away screaming the second monsters become real. 

Hell, the only girl Dean ever seriously tried telling the truth to called him insane before walking out of his life entirely. Hunters don’t get steady relationships and soft hospital reunions and someone waiting for them under fluorescent lights afterward.

People like Dean usually get motel rooms and one-night stands and empty passenger seats.

So yeah, hearing you say obviously like trusting somebody with your entire horrifying supernatural life is the easiest thing in the world feels… deeply unnatural, grossly romanticized, and infuriatingly naive. Not to mention, it’s also delusionally simple. 

“Right, okay…” Dean clicks his tongue, squishing the bitterness around in his mouth like he’s tasting wine for the first time. “So how’d you get him anyways?”

Is self-destruction his new hobby these days? 

You blink, your head swirling toward him. “I’m sorry–…what?”

Dean shrugs slightly. “Just sayin’. Did you pour some kinda love potion into the poor guy’s drink one night or what?”

You snort a small laugh, biting down on your tongue. Judging by the little fiery twinkle in your eyes, you surely want to slap him right now. 

“Contrary to your deeply concerning beliefs about women, I don’t need magic to get a man,” you retort wryly. “I can do that very well on my own, thank you.”

Dean only gives you a skeptical hum in return. “Sure, sweetheart.”

“Have you forgotten that you hit on me a few weeks ago?” you shoot back. 

“You flirted back,” he grits, shaking his head with a scoff. “Certainly didn’t seem that attached when you pushed your boobs out at the bar.”

“How dare you–” You gasp before narrowing your eyes to a glare. “I flirted for survival.”

Dean snorts at that, not even hiding his amusement. 

Survival his ass. That felt real. You weren’t faking shit – not the smiles or the laughs at his jokes or the light touches of his arm… Right?

Dammit. Son of a–

“You know, you can be a real bitch sometimes,” he huffs. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and you’re an even bigger and significantly more annoying asshole after midnight.”

“Yet, you’re still here.” Dean smirks cockily down at you. 

To his surprise, though, your lips twitch a little as well and that shouldn’t feel as good as it does because it’s–

It’s delusionally simple. 

It’s almost morning, the dark night sky morphing into that lighter, washed-out blue-gray at the horizon right before dawn as they all pull into Mia’s driveway. 

Everything suddenly feels heavier now after the adrenaline has finally burnt out of everyone’s systems, and the entire neighborhood looks half-asleep beneath glowing streetlights and damp tree branches, peaceful and serene in the way New England towns like this one get around five in the morning.

The hospital released Mia an hour ago with strict instructions to rest, which she immediately argued with three separate nurses and you about before finally losing the fight once medication kicked in and you threatened her with knocking her out with a spell. 

But even now, stepping carefully out of the house with Sam hovering nearby, your adoptive mother still looks more annoyed than injured despite the bandages wrapped under her jacket as everybody helps her pack and grab the most necessary items from the house.

You, on the other hand, are leaning against Baby, oversized sweater sleeves covering most of your hands from the cooler morning air. The exhaustion still clings visibly to you, even in the dim porch light, and Dean catches himself checking whether you’re standing steady enough after the night you’ve had.

You are. Barely. But still.

Paige comes through the front door carrying another duffel bag over one shoulder. “Mia keeps trying to pack case files,” she huffs exhaustively. 

“Because I have active investigations,” Mia argues while Sam carefully helps her lower into the backseat. 

Every slight wince she tries hiding immediately tightens something in your expression. Dean notices the way your fingers curl harder into your sleeves whenever Mia shifts wrong or presses unconsciously against her side.

“You also got stabbed,” you remind her pointedly. 

“And?”

Paige throws both hands up dramatically before looking toward Dean and you.

Dean chuckles a little. “Yeah, Bobby’s gonna have fun with this one.”

“I’m sure this Bobby can survive the experience,” Mia says, unimpressed.

Sam shuts the trunk with a solid thunk before moving back toward the car. “We’ll get you someplace safe,” he assures her. “Bobby knows what he’s doing.”

Mia studies both brothers carefully for a second, and Dean can practically see the cop instincts working behind her eyes, even exhausted and drugged-up – assessing risk, weighing trust, deciding whether these two strangers are worth it.

Then she nods once. Dean glances toward you automatically afterward.

“They’ll be safe,” he assures you quietly. You look over at him. He jerks his chin toward the car. “Bobby’ll ward the hell outta wherever they’re staying. Devil’s traps, salt lines, iron. Nothing’s getting near them.”

Your shoulders loosen slightly at that. “Thanks,” you say softly.

Dean shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it is a little. Bobby’s probably already awake and cursing both Winchester boys out while throwing together emergency packages and booking cabins somewhere.

Still worth it.

As the front door then creaks open once more, Dean looks up when Cameron steps outside, carrying another bag in one hand. The guy heads down the porch stairs toward you, dark hoodie pulled over the gray shirt now, broad shoulders filling the damn thing annoyingly well. 

Dean notices the military posture more clearly this time – the controlled movements, the constant alertness in his eyes, the sort of stance people pick up after years of training whether they mean to or not.

Cameron then sets the bag down near the trunk before his eyes swerve fully toward Dean for the first time.

“So,” he says evenly and clicks his tongue, sizing the green-eyed hunter up from head to toe. “You’re the guy that pointed a gun at my girlfriend, huh?”

Dean almost swallows his damn tongue.

Meanwhile, Sam becomes oddly fascinated by reorganizing bags in the trunk again while you close your eyes briefly like you already know this conversation’s about to become painful.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Okay, look, in my defense–”

“You pointed a gun at her.”

Dean opens his mouth again, but truly nothing comes out. Because honestly? There really isn’t a defense for it now that he’s standing here at five in the morning while your boyfriend looks at him like he’s evaluating whether Dean deserves to keep all his teeth.

“It wasn’t–” Dean starts before stopping himself. “I thought she was–”

A witch. Dangerous. A threat.

The words sound worse out loud now somehow.

Dean exhales sharply through his nose instead, scratching the back of his neck guiltily. “Yeah, I got nothing.”

Cameron studies him for another long second before stepping slightly closer. “Do that again, and you’ll regret it,” he says calmly without an ounce of aggression, which is truly quite the achievement, considering the meaning of that sentence. 

But weirdest of all, Dean understands it in some way, because if some stranger had shown up aiming a gun at someone Dean cared about, Dean probably would’ve reacted a hell of a lot worse than this.

So after a second, he gives one accepting nod with a slight swallow. “Fair enough.”

The tension eases after that, and Cameron looks at you again, expression softening almost instantly.

“I’m coming with you to New Hampshire,” he says then.

Your head lifts, brows shooting up in bewilderment. “Cam–”

“I mean it.” His hand settles lightly against the small of your back when he steps closer to you again, thumb brushing the fabric of your sweater almost absentmindedly, familiar and comfortable. “You’re not doing this alone.”

There’s something strangely intimate about how easy the two of you are together. Not dramatic or over-the-top – like Cameron touches you constantly without even thinking about it and you naturally lean into him every single time.

It feels weirdly foreign to watch.

You glance up at your boyfriend then, softer than you’ve been all night. “You sure?”

“Yeah, pretty damn sure,” Cameron says, smiling.

You bite back a smile as well before your gaze drops to your boots. Dean catches the emotion flashing across your face – relief that somebody’s staying. He knows what that feels like. 

Paige then eagerly raises her hand. “And I’m coming too!”

You stare at her in disbelief. “Paige, no–”

“What? You think I’m letting you wander into haunted witch houses unsupervised?”

A tired laugh slips out of you. “There could be more demons,” you point out, though Dean notices you don’t actually sound resistant to the idea – more worried for them than anything else.

“And there could also be bears,” Paige argues. “And yet, we survived summer camp in ninth grade.”

“That’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“It is spiritually the same thing.”

Cameron snorts softly beside you while your head tips against his shoulder in exhausted amusement.

And Dean? Yeah, he immediately wishes he hadn’t noticed that.

“You guys don’t have to do this,” you add more quietly then. “Seriously.”

“Oh, we know,” Cameron says easily.

“That’s why we’re doing it anyway.” Paige grins.

Dean watches the exact second it hits you that they genuinely mean it – that neither of them is backing out despite everything that happened tonight. Your eyes go a little glassy afterward before you blink the tears away.

“Okay,” you say softly and nod.

Cameron presses a quick kiss against your temple, and Dean abruptly looks toward the street instead. Witnessing affection kind of feels like a personal attack now.

Sam closes the trunk then a second later before joining them. “We should probably get moving.”

You nod once before looking toward the brothers, and for a moment, nobody really knows how to say goodbye after a night like this.

Dean then breaks the silence first, clearing his throat. “We’ll call once Bobby got Mia somewhere safe.”

“Okay,” you reply with a small smile. “Just know that if Mia starts threatening people, don’t take it personally.”

“I can hear you,” Mia calls from the Impala’s backseat.

“I’ll try not to.” Dean chuckles lightly. “We’ll keep her safe. Don’t worry.”

“I know,” you say with a soft smile and look at Dean one last time. 

And Dean knows that look in your eyes all too well – resolve. Like tonight finally pushed you across some invisible line and there’s no going back now. Hunters wear that same look all the time. He kind of hates it on you, but there’s nothing he can do about it now, is there?

All he can do now is watch you and your friends squeeze into that tiny car of yours, hoping for the best as you disappear down the road. 

▶️ Interlude I: Purify the Colors, Purify My Mind – July 10

God, Dean needs some help. Truly all I can say at this point 😂 In other news, what do you think of that little memory spell theory and Dean's latest dream? Surely seemed... interesting. I think he's slowly catching on that it might be a little realer than he hoped for (but watch him keep all of that locked up tight for ages). That man's sitting on secrets like a dragon on gold 😆😝

Next Friday, we're approaching our first Interlude of this series, which are smaller, more one-shot/drabble-like parts between major chapters. Most of them are funny or take little deep dives, but they are still plot-relevant in some way, shape, or form. Afterwards, this series is on break for two weeks with some one-shots coming your way till we'll return with another Interlude and then Chapter 7 and so on...

I'm also so, so sorry for taking so long to respond to comments these days. I've already announced it on Patreon a few weeks ago, but I'm making it tumblr-official as well: I'm currently three months pregnant with Baby #2 🩵🩷 The first trimester fatigue and nausea have been a little rough, but it's slowly getting better, so I'll be back soon in full capacity 😅 Just know I appreciate everyone who's been commenting and reading this story so much! Y'all have put the biggest smiles on my face and I love every single one of you!! 🥹💜

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The landscape swells around you as Sugar Hill draws nearer. Rolling hills are draped in clover-green, ancient woods pressing close before opening into wide, untouched meadows that glow in the morning light, wildflowers dotting the fields in splashes of rainbow colors. Even the air feels different here – purer, more alive, vibrating with the same natural power that flows through your veins. You can feel it tingling in the tips of your fingers. 

Despite the beautiful landscape that feels almost sacred, however, the knot in your chest tightens with every familiar bend.  

Eleven years. 

You haven’t traveled these roads since the night everything you’d known and loved smashed to smithereens. The memories of that night still haunt your soul – waking to screams downstairs, the acrid stench of sulfur, your mother and grandmother’s voices raised in desperate spells, the roar of flames. 

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Series Tag List Pt. 1:

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[waynes-multiverse]

Glitch 🌙 || Chapter 5

Fastening myself to you with a stitch...🪡

Pairing: Dean Winchester x witch!reader

Chapter Summary: Dean is cursed, you psychoanalyze both Winchesters with tarot cards (while also stopping your deck from writing offensive fanfiction), and somewhere in the middle of a near-death experience, things between you and the green-eyed hunter start getting… weird.

Warnings: 18+ language, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, angst, humor, monster of the week (Sleepy Hollow version), family mysteries, Dean spiraling hard, lots of bickering, fluff if you grab a magnifying glass

Word Count: 17.7k

A/N: Well, well, well... looks like we're slowly sailing into frenemy territory 😉 Also, those tarot readings for the boys were a blast to figure out lol.

🔮 Chapter Title: The Black Dog by Taylor Swift

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Chapter 5: Old Habits Die Screaming

Sam has taken over the small table of your room at the B&B entirely, eight overstuffed binders spread out all around him. Pages stick out at odd angles, and the notes scribbled in the margins clearly only mean something to the museum owner and absolutely zero to anyone else in this world. 

Sam, admirably, has decided this is a challenge rather than a warning sign, though, and is already halfway buried in it, pen in hand, brow deeply wrinkled in concentration.

Judging by his progress so far, you honestly give him another ten more minutes before he starts reorganizing those binders alphabetically out of spite (and to scratch that slightly OCD itch in his brain. No judgement here – you certainly feel it too when looking at those eight monstrosities).

It’s been three hours of tranquility so far since Dean’s not back yet from his little trip to hide the cursed sword. 

Admittedly, it’s almost too quiet and peaceful now in this room without his annoying habits around to distract you. It’s weird what you can miss once it’s gone, but you’re sure the green-eyed hunter will return soon enough and make you regret those words again with his charmingly irritating presence.

You, on the other hand, have claimed the bed and excused yourself from tediously sifting through museum catalogues by pulling out your tarot deck and doing your own version of research. 

In this case, your focus doesn’t lie with the sword or even the victims but on the man himself – the mysterious headless horseman. If you can get some hints on his identity and fate, maybe you and Sam can figure out a way to break the curse.

The cards slide easily between your fingers as you shuffle, your brain latching onto the calming rhythm until the noise in your head quiets just enough. And then, you draw your first card.

Ten of Swords.

Well, that card ain’t exactly subtle, is it? It portrays a body lying face down with ten blades driven into his back, like Brutus himself got carried away with stabbing Caesar during the Ides of March. Whoever murdered this poor fella wanted to ensure he stayed down. Decapitating someone would probably do the trick. The card doesn’t mean just death – it stands for betrayal.

The next card that comes up then is Justice. 

And that? Franky, it almost makes you laugh at this point. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s freaking ironic in a way that feels borderline offensive. Justice upright is supposed to mean fairness, balance, and truth being upheld. All great things, right?

Except, historically, it usually just means someone decided they were right. Doesn’t mean they really were, though. It more likely describes a mob of people with their pitchforks raised high, reflecting your own hometown’s dark history. 

The last card is the Five of Swords, which causes you to tilt your head slightly, studying the smug little asshole on it who’s clutching his stolen victory. This dude’s seriously the worst. The card means he only won by being the most ruthless person in the room. There’s no honor or fairness, just cold outcome. 

You lean back against the headboard, eyes fixing on the pattern splayed out in front of you. 

Betrayed by his own. Judged publicly. And whoever did it walked away convinced they were justified.

The door opens before you can ruminate in it any longer.

Dean strolls in like he just ran a routine errand instead of relocating a cursed murder weapon, brushing his hands together as if that somehow closes the chapter. But you notice his shoulders are a little too stiff, his movements a little too controlled, and the petunia-purple rope is still wrapped around his neck, the noose tightening. 

“Alright,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Sword’s hidden. No more public decapitations for the day.”

Sam slowly looks up from the catalogue. “You feel anything yet? Hear anything?”

Dean casually shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Nope. No whispers, no ghost horses, no sudden urge to, I don’t know, lose my head. Maybe I got lucky.”

Man, you almost admire that confidence.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re still very much cursed,” you tell him with an amused smile.

He raises a brow and gestures at his neck. “Still got that purple rope thingy, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Great,” he sighs and rolls his eyes. 

Sam exhales a long breath as well, sliding one of the binders toward him. “Then we don’t have time to waste. Start flipping. We need to find out who that sword belonged to. Unless you wanna lose your head in the next few hours.”

Dean shoots him a boyish grin. “Could turn my melon into a pumpkin just in time for your favorite holiday, man.”

“Dean–” Sam doesn’t finish, just cuts the sentence off, and shoves the binder an inch closer. 

Dean gapes at it, clearly seeing it for the plight that it is. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Dean doesn’t respond to that and simply drags himself over to the couch with a resigned sigh, flopping down and opening the binder with all the enthusiasm of someone being punished for a crime they didn’t commit. The pages flip lazily, and it’s honestly more irritating noise than actual progress, while Sam seems as studious and dedicated as ever. 

They couldn’t be more different, could they? 

And you? Well, you still feel the weight of the cards in your hands and decide it’s the perfect opportunity to do a little bonus reading since both brothers are in the room, distracted, and somewhat sitting still. Auras and glimpses of their personalities aside, there’s still a lot you don’t know about them. It’s time to let the cards do their magic. 

You reshuffle and let your attention drift toward Sam. You quietly draw three cards, laying them out where only you can see, hiding them a little behind a bump in the covers – just in case. You’ve already noticed Dean discreetly sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye. 

Sam’s first card? The Magician. 

This little wizard is basically ambition incarnated. It’s raw capability, focus, and willpower. It’s precision and skill. Sam’s always ten steps ahead, already building something in his head while everyone else is still trying to understand the problem. It sounds impressive, but you honestly find it a little more terrifying. Because if intellect is paired with intent, it’s always a slightly concerning combination. 

It means Sam doesn’t just know things – he uses them. Plenty of people are smart, but fewer people are actually strategic about it. And even fewer are willing to push that strategy as far as it’ll go. It’s learned, sharpened, and probably comes at the expense of something softer.

You’re kind of worried now you might be that soft thing. 

You chew on your lip and glance at the next card, tilting your head a little because it’s suspiciously contrasting to the first one. 

The Ace of Cups.

God, that is almost wholesome. It stands for pure emotion. It’s empathy and compassion – the ability to care deeply and fucking mean it. 

You steal a glimpse at him and know it’s there – under the logic, under the research mode, and under the calm voice. You’ve seen it with your own eyes in the way he talks, the way he listens, and the way he looks at people like they’re worth understanding instead of just solving.

But at the last card, you don’t even try to hide your grimace this time. Jesus fucking Antichrist…

The Devil.

Welp, you almost feel reaffirmed in your initial read of him. Balance is restored. You’re back in familiar territory again. 

Because The Devil? Needless to say, this guy doesn’t do subtlety well either. Doesn’t even pretend to. Obsession and addiction spring to mind. It’s essentially being chained to something you know isn’t good for you, but you still can’t let it go. 

Yeah, that tracks…

So what’s got its claws in Sam? Is it purpose? Revenge? Control? Maybe it’s all of the above. 

The Magician builds. The Ace of Cups cares. The Devil clings. And that? That’s a dangerous fucking combination. 

Whatever he’s chasing, he’s not walking away from it. Not halfway. Not even when it starts costing him more than he can goddamn afford. 

Sam’s the kind of guy who would sacrifice himself, who would justify anything if it gets him where he needs to go. Or worse – he decides it’s worth sacrificing someone else. 

God, you hope that someone isn’t you, remembering Dean’s words of warning at the lab. 

Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.

He’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.

Oh, you definitely can’t trust Sam with your life, can you? He’d sell you to the highest bidder in a heartbeat if it gets him the prize he wants. 

Now, you’re honestly curious about Dean’s cards. If they’re as bad as his little brother’s, you’re surely bolting out of that gothic hellhole and slamming the door firmly shut behind you. 

You shuffle the cards again and pull your next set. And man, Dean’s first card? It actually makes you snort out loud, earning you a curious little glimpse from the hunter himself. 

God, it’s so painfully obvious. Could you be more on the nose?

The Emperor.

Sounds mighty, fearsome, maybe even a little ominous, right? But the translation? This guy’s all about authoritative control. 

Dean takes charge whether anyone asked him to or not. There’s a rigidity to him – a need to keep things contained, predictable, handled. Not because he necessarily enjoys control, but because he doesn’t trust anything else to actually hold. He’s the man who builds himself into a wall and then wonders why everything hurts when it inevitably cracks. 

It means he’s protective as well, but not particularly in a soft and gentle way. More like “stand behind me or get the hell out of the way.”

My way or the highway…

Dean’s solid, grounded in way that feels almost immovable. In other words, he’s the boulder Sisyphus tried to roll up a hill. He doesn’t bend; he holds (and probably breaks before ever admitting he’s wrong).

As you flip the next card, however, you stump a little. It’s a real wildcard. You certainly didn’t expect that one to show up for him.

King of Cups.

You almost snort again, because it essentially stands for emotional stability. And what you’ve seen so far from Dean? Yeah, he definitely ain’t stable. He honestly seems to have the emotional regulation of a lit match in a fireworks factory. 

To be fair, though, it’s a little about control as well, so you could possibly see that for him. It’s usually about people who feel everything but keep it all contained and locked up tight. It’s not about what’s visible on the outside. It’s about what’s underneath the surface. 

Dean may not talk about his feelings, but they still drive everything he does. He keeps it together so others don’t have to.

Basically, it’s the guy who hands you a burger instead of asking if you’re okay.

It means he doesn’t say much when it matters – deflects, jokes, gets sarcastic. But he acts. He protects. He notices things he pretends not to, like whether you’ve eaten, if you’re about to walk into something stupid, if–

…Oh.

Wait… Does he–

Does he actually care about you? Because for a guy who allegedly claims to hate you, he’s been annoyingly attentive today. 

Alright, so he’s not a complete lost cause after all. He’s not emotionally unavailable. He’s just… emotionally constipated. Gotcha.

You honestly still can’t tell if that’s worse or better, though. 

The third card is less funny, however. It’s the Five of Cups. And that one, well… it’s grief. Loss.

If you had to take a wild guess, Dean’s probably fixating on what’s gone instead of what’s still there. The hardest thing about this card?

You can relate to it. 

He’s been carrying all this pain around for so long he actually forgot it wasn’t supposed to be permanent. And it explains a lot about him – the edge, the temper, even the control issues. Dean’s viewpoint of the world is that it already took too much from him, and he’s just waiting to see what it steals next. 

And you can see it, too. There’s something about him that just feels incredibly… heavy. Even his aura sometimes feels suffocating to you. But instead of dealing with his losses, he just keeps moving, keeps going, keeps doing because stopping would mean he actually has to feel it.

That’s why he’s so restless and can’t exist in stillness. If he never has to slow down, he doesn’t have to sit with what’s missing. 

You glance down at the three cards once more, all laid out beside each other, and then spread them out a little more evenly on the mattress as if the spacing will help make them more sense.

The Emperor holds the line. The King of Cups buries the storm. The Five of Cups never forgets what it lost. 

The picture of him becomes sharper, but it doesn’t match the one you had in your head before. He’s more than the asshole you think he is, isn’t he? Still bossy, but also sad. It’s… layered bossy. 

His ribcage isn’t an empty husk full of spiderwebs. There’s feeling there. A lot of it, actually. He just keeps it on a leash so short it’s practically choking him. He turned his loss into rules, into walls, and into don’t touch that, don’t trust that, don’t get close to that.

Because last time? It cost him something he couldn’t get back.

So yeah, he’s controlling, he’s stubborn, and he’s got about five damn emotional defense mechanisms layered on top of each other. But it’s not because he doesn’t feel. It’s because he feels too goddamn much, and if he ever actually lets it slip, there’s a real chance it’ll wreck him.

Yeah, Dean not just simply being an asshole but actually being a super sad asshole honestly takes all the joy out of you. How are you supposed to tease him now, let alone hate him with an unmatched passion?

You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck. 

Well, that was an enlightening reading…

Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”

“Working,” you reply quickly. 

“Looks like scrapbooking.”

“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”

“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck. But then, another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress. 

Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore. 

You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply. 

The Lovers.

For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–

No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.

Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?

Really?!

The Lovers doesn’t implicate romance alone. It doesn’t foreshadow steamy one-night stands or casual hook-ups. It’s about choice. Connection. Alignment. It’s about a bond that actually matters – that means something. It’s the “this will ruin your life in a meaningful way” card. Emotional, physical, spiritual – take your pick because this one covers all bases. 

And honestly, all those things would be fine. Who doesn’t want to meet their soulmate? But in this particular case, it feels more like the damn card strolled into the room, pointed at the green-eyed hunter, and went that one. 

This is clearly a mistake. A glitch. It’s just statistically improbable nonsense. Either the cards are broken, or the universe (or whatever cosmic entity is apparently in charge of your tarot deck) has a dark sense of humor. 

Because, seriously, out of everyone in this room, it picked him?! The guy who’s been antagonizing you since day one. The guy who thought you were dangerous enough to kill not that long ago. The guy who still looks at you like you’re one wrong move away from proving him goddamn right about everything. And the deck goes, Yes, that one? 

You barely tolerate each other half the time, and Dean still flinches every time you do anything even remotely magical. 

This is crazy. It’s an anomaly. 

Just as you chalk it off to the universe playing a cruel prank on you and move to put the card quickly back into its deck, yet another one slips and fall right on top of the other, like it’s doubling down on the unfathomable audacity.

Ten of Cups.

Well, now this thing’s just being offensive. You honestly don’t know if you should laugh, scream, or cry. 

Because this card? It stands for happiness, fulfillment, stability, and belonging. It’s basically the happily ever after starter pack. The whole “ride off into the sunset and build a life that doesn’t implode every five minutes” fantasy. It’s not fleeting or surface-level. This one’s lasting. 

It’s the kind of apple-pie life people dream about but rarely ever get. The kind that looks steady, warm, and full. The kind that obviously doesn’t fit anywhere near your current situation.

You stare at both cards for a long time, your jaw feeling a little too loose, your mind chewing on their meaning. 

Connection leading to domestic bliss and long-term happiness. Love leading to a… home.

With him.

Yeah, nope, you’re not doing that. You’re not even entertaining this for a second longer. Dean hates you, and you’re for sure as hell not lining up to prove him wrong on that front either. The tarot is simply wrong. It happens. That’s it. 

You grimace as you quickly snatch the cards and shove them back into your deck before either brother can catch you, even though there’s no way they would even know what you were doing here. This whole thing is completely absurd. 

In your periphery, you catch Dean stealing glimpses again, still tracking your reactions. When you glance up and meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away this time, though. 

“What now?” Dean asks rather gruffly, brow woven into intense knits.

You quickly avert your eyes and shake your head, giving him a subtle shrug. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“It was nothing,” you brush off and scratch your collarbone where the strap of your tank top cuts slightly into the skin. 

God, it’s downright sweltering in here and almost resembling a tropical rainforest. The B&B’s old bones do nothing to keep the summer heat outside. 

But then, you catch another pair of eyes on you this time in your periphery and look over to find the younger Winchester staring at you. But his gaze isn’t fixed on your face.

Wait… Is he staring at your tits?

“Uhm, Sam…” You clear your throat subtly. “Why are you staring at my cleavage?”

Sam’s head snaps up in an instant, hazel eyes wide and full of flustered panic. “I–”

“Dude,” Dean cuts in scoldingly before his little brother even has a chance to find an excuse. You’re surprised at his reaction for all of five seconds before he opens his mouth again. “What are you doing? What’d I tell you when you turned fourteen, huh? Corner of your eye, man. Never directly. And no longer than three seconds max.”

You frown slightly at that response. “Well, that’s just problematic in a different way now.”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times, scrambling for words. “No, I–… I wasn’t–…”

Both you and Dean stare at him now, patiently waiting for an explanation. 

Sam takes a deep breath and starts anew. “I wasn’t looking at… you know,” he elaborates with a swallow. “I was just–… The birthmark on your collarbone. It’s your family rune, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” You flinch unnoticeably, your hand automatically covering the spot, feeling a little exposed, especially since Dean decided to peek as well now. “Yeah, it is. Everyone in my family had it.”

“Like the legend,” Sam mutters, more to himself than you, as if he just realized something. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. You kind of feel like evidence under a microscope with both their eyes fixed on you now. 

Luckily, a sharp look from Dean that unmistakably says drop it keeps his little brother from asking whatever questions wanted to spill out next. You’re sort of grateful for that. 

Sam then decides to let it go and switch lanes. “So, uh, you find anything useful yet?”

God, you latch onto that distraction in a damn heartbeat, shifting gears without a single drop of hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you say, swiftly storing the tarot deck back into your bag. “Our guy was betrayed. Accused, judged. Probably publicly.”

Sam’s interest sharpens slightly, musing. “Scapegoat.”

“Yup, would be my guess.”

“So we’re dealing with a vengeful spirit tied to an object,” he deduces. 

Dean warily watches you for another beat, seemingly trying to catch whatever you just buried. But luckily, he huffs a breath a second later and focuses back on the binder in his lap. 

“Great,” he mutters dryly. “Love a revenge arc.”

You don’t respond, you don’t look at the cards again either, and you definitely pretend they don’t mean anything at all – zero, zip, zilch, nada. 

You wanted to get a new deck soon anyways. This one’s system is clearly breaking down. 

After hours of wading through those binders and staring at that eyesore of chicken-scratch handwriting, trying to decipher just a syllable of it, the three of you finally called it a night after Dean kept complaining about his eyes burning. Sam then figured it was safe enough for now, considering Dean still hadn’t heard any horses yet. 

He used to like horses. Now? Not so much.

His eyes closed easily that night, considering he was cursed and all, but he was beat after trying to hide a damn sword in the woods behind the museum. He even tried to salt and burn the thing, melt it down to a little clump of metal, but it wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t dent, wouldn’t even fucking scratch. 

But Dean already regrets taking those forty peaceful winks when he finds himself back in familiar territory. Or should he say unfamiliar because he certainly knows it never actually happened and he’s never been to that place before?

Yeah, he’s back in unfamiliar territory. However, the milky, coral filter is still the same. 

Coral, he scoffs and rolls his eyes at his own thoughts. Jesus Christ, you’re starting to rub off on him with that stupid color coding system of yours. Before you, the only color he knew was orange and the only thing he associated with something like coral were damn rocks in the ocean. 

Wait… are corals rocks? Sam would probably know that. 

This time, though, Dean’s not down by the pond anymore. Instead, he feels the tall grass brush his legs as he trudges back up the hill. Soon enough, the house comes into view, and for a while, he thinks about going inside and pretending today never happened. Pretending he didn’t say what he said. Pretending you didn’t look at him the way you did. 

That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?

But there’s a twinge in his ribcage that won’t let go. It’s squeezing something inside of him to a painful degree and keeps him tethered to the spot, forcing his eyes to drift around the endless field of greenery and look. 

Look for you. 

Even with everything that happened, with all the words he said that he shouldn’t have said, deep down, he knows you wouldn’t wander too far. You wouldn’t leave him. At least, not really.

Right?

But maybe he took it too far this time, said something he can’t erase or even fix, and the pang in his chest grows in intensity till he spots a small movement to his right, where the grass grows even taller and wilder, untamed by footsteps and paths. 

And there you are – off to the side, a little ways from the house, under the willow tree. 

The long branches hang lowly, swaying gently in the evening breeze, curtains of deep green that catch the sunlight and turn it molten at the edges. You’re sitting beneath it, half-hidden in the shade, knees drawn in and arms wrapped around them. You’ve folded into yourself like you’re trying to take up less space than you normally do.

The wind puffs, the branches flutter, and the warm and golden sunlight glistens through the leaves, but you don’t. You’re stillness personified. 

Too still. 

Dean doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like knowing, without even seeing your face, that you’re upset. Because of him. 

You’re upset because of him. 

He slows on instinct, almost bracing himself for whatever is waiting for him under that tree, but the annoying thing in his chest pulls tighter with every step he doesn’t take. 

So, the grass parts under his sneakers as he makes his way toward you. He’s careful and slow about it, though, some might almost call it tentative, but he doesn’t want to spook you. He doesn’t want you to run from him again before he has a chance to say something. 

The branches of the willow sway and brush against his shoulders as he ducks under the tree. The air is cooler in the shade, keeping the summer heat successfully locked out. He knows it’s one of your favorite spots around here. The first one, however, is the waterfall in the woods, but it’s past the fence line, and you’re not allowed to wander out there after dark, so you probably figured the willow would make a decent enough place to drown in your sorrow. 

You don’t react when he approaches. There’s not a blink or flinch in sight. You don’t even bother looking up to see who came to disturb your peace as if you already know it’s him and deemed his presence not worthy of your time. 

He purses his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets, not really knowing what else to do with them. His shoulders are damn tight like he’s got rocks under his skin, and his throat suddenly feels unnaturally dry like he swallowed several cotton balls dunked in desert sand. 

He clears the arid lump, but you still don’t even twitch a single muscle. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, not daring to speak at a louder volume than that, but now he’s almost afraid you didn’t hear it, the tree swallowing the sound before it even reached you. 

You still don’t glance up. You don’t answer either. All you do is stare at that patch of grass in front of you. Your whole posture is closed off. 

Dean’s never seen you like this before. It scares him. What if you can’t forgive him and go back to the way the two of you used to be before all of this? What if he doesn’t get his friend back?

Because, aside from Sammy, you’re the only friend he’s ever had, which makes you also the only one who truly counts. Sam loves him because his little brother really doesn’t have another choice. They’re family. It’s different. 

But you? You don’t love him because you have to. No one’s making you. It’s not some universal rule you have to follow. No, you love him because you choose to. Because you always just did. 

And Dean, well, he… cares about you, too. Although, he wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud.

He shuffles uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze flicking away for a second before fixing back on you with quite an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Hey,” he repeats, swallowing once more because the lump still won’t go anywhere. “I didn’t mean that.”

The words feel clumsy again the second they leave his mouth. He knows they’re not enough.

“You said it,” you say, voice clear but flat. The sweetness that usually laces it is gone. Now it sounds like it’s so tight and thin underneath that it could snap if you’re pushed the wrong way. 

Dean winces, rubbing the back of his neck before his hand drops to his side again. The guilt sinks deeper into his gut and becomes sharper, like tiny little daggers ready to cut him open from the inside out.

“Yeah, well…” he mutters, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt as he tentatively steps a little closer. “I was being an idiot, okay?”

He shilly-shallies for a second before sitting down. He’s not entirely sure anymore if he’s still allowed to, but before he can overthink it, he lowers himself on the ground beside you, the grass bending under his weight. He picks a spot not too close, but not too far either. It’s still close enough that his shoulder could almost touch yours. 

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly but doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes trained on the same patch of grass as you. 

You don’t glance at him right away, either. The silence lasts long enough to make him wonder if he should say something else, if he should try harder, if he already screwed this up beyond fixing.

“Then why are you acting like you do?”

The question hits deeply, but it’s not spoken harshly. There’s no accusation detectable in your tone. There’s only confusion, as if you’re trying to make sense of something that doesn’t add up.

Dean lets out a long breath, his gaze dropping to the grass between his hands. His fingers fiddle without thinking, brushing over the blades, bending them, letting them slip back into place.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually.

It might not be a satisfying answer, but it’s the truth. It’s the best he’s got, but it still doesn’t feel enough. Nothing he does is ever enough.

“It’s just… different now.” He shrugs his shoulders a little, hoping that at least explains something, but he knows it won’t truly fill in the gaps he can’t put into words.

He’s about to give up and leave you alone when you finally turn your head and look straight at him. 

And geez, it’s so much worse than when you were ignoring him. 

The weight of your gaze feels heavy, your eyes guarded and yet searching, careful and still a little hurt. That thing behind his ribs twinges again. He glances at you, then away, then back again because holding your gaze for too long might force him to say something he doesn’t know how to say.

At least not at twelve. 

“You just… freaked me out a little, okay?” he adds, the words certainly awkward but still honest. “I’m–… I’m sorry. But you’re still… you, you know? You’re still my friend.”

And that’s also the part he’s holding onto – the only part that makes any of this worth fixing it. You’re his friend because you’re so uniquely you and no one else.

You study him, even squinting your eyes slightly like the sunshine could warm him. You’re seemingly trying to decide if he truly means it – if it is sincere or just another thing he’ll take back later.

“Okay,” you say suddenly, the word barely reaching his ears because it sounds so small and careful. 

He wouldn’t exactly call it forgiveness, but it’s not downright rejection either, right? He might even call it a win because he’s winning you back – at least back enough to give him another shot towards full redemption. 

And that? Man, that finally eases that uncomfortable throb in his chest, and he can breathe better again. 

Dean nods to himself, remotely acknowledging something he doesn’t fully understand. Relief rushes through his veins, but he doesn’t quite trust the peace yet.

“So…” he starts with another clear of his throat that finally rids it of the nasty lump stuck in it. He shoots you a careful sideways glance. “What can you do now?”

The change in you is almost instant. You’re not quite fully back to your old self yet, but he can feel the familiar excitement vibrating in your blood again. Your shoulders lift, and your posture loosens. It feels like you’re cautiously unfurling again. 

“I can show you,” you say, but there’s still hesitation in your voice. “If you want to…”

He gives you a tiny but encouraging nod and watches the smile rise on your lips again. He missed that smile. He’s glad it’s back. 

You then straighten your spine a little and rest your hands in your lap, your eyes fluttering softly shut.

And Dean? He can’t take his eyes off you.

He takes in the way your lashes brush against your cheeks, the way the caramel-syrupy sunlight weaves through the willow branches and catches in your hair, and the way you go still like you’re listening to something he can’t hear.

For a moment, nothing happens.

All he hears is the wind through the breeze and the crickets in the grass and the sound of your calm breathing.

But then, slowly and bit by bit, something pushes through the weeds near your knee. A tiny blossom, lilac and soft, unfurls in front of his eyes. 

And it doesn’t stop there. 

The lonely blossom is soon joined by others, spreading over the field, a sea of flowers suddenly blooming around him and painting what once was a clover-green canvas with more colors than he’s ever seen before in his entire life. 

There are bright yellows, deep reds, mesmerizing blues, soft pinks, and about eight different shades of violet. There are too many to count them all. The earth came alive right in front of his eyes, and it feels natural and impossible all at once.

Dean leans forward, his eyes spellbound by everything they see, tracking the way the blossoms sway and the wind now carries a sweet floral scent.

“Okay,” he says after a heartbeat, aiming for casual but missing it by a mile. “That’s pretty… cool.”

You open your eyes, and there’s the smile again. Brighter than before, softer too, and it’s more beautiful than the plethora of flowers in front of him. Nothing could beat that smile. 

His gaze drops to the ground, catching on one of the flowers near his hand. It’s a daisy. 

Simple. Pretty. White petals, yellow center. He reaches for it, plucking it carefully, turning it between his fingers for a moment as his mind’s trying to figure something out.

Then he looks back at you, and you’re watching him now, a curious and yet uncertain gleam in your eyes. And then he just goes for it and leans in, tucking the daisy into your hair just above your ear.

You wrinkle your nose like it tickled, giggling a little. “Daisies are the most boring flowers.”

Dean scoffs a soft laugh. “No, they’re not.”

“Yeah, they are.”

He shakes his head, his gaze staying on you.

“No,” he says quietly. “They’re the prettiest…” He pauses and bites the inside of his cheek before the next words slip out. “You know… like you.”

You bite the smile on your lip and shyly avert your eyes, a blush creeping to your cheeks. 

And Dean feels it again – that warmth behind his ribs, spreading outward and turning the brightness up on the rest of the world. It feels steady and easy. 

It feels good.

For a long moment, everything feels like it’s supposed to again. Just you and him, sitting side by side in the honey-warm sunlight. 

But the peace is only ephemeral. There’s suddenly a sound that doesn’t belong to this place – to this dream world.

Hooves.

It sounds distant and hollow and ultimately wrong. 

Dean’s head cocks a little, brow furrowing as he looks out past the slope of the hill, toward the tree line where the light begins to thin.

“You hear that?” he asks without glancing at you, his gaze still trained on the invisible danger past the horizon.

But the second the words exit his mouth, the sound of them leave him bewildered. They come out too deeply and roughly. It’s not a child’s voice anymore.

It’s his – fully grown and perfectly raspy. 

Confused, his gaze drops down to his hands, and they’re larger, broader, and calloused now in ways they weren’t a second ago. His sneakers are replaced by boots, the grass stains on denim gone from his knees. 

Dean straightens abruptly and flexes his fingers a few times, as if that could possibly reset something. But it doesn’t work. The weight of himself feels older and heavier now.

“What the–”

His head then finally snaps to you. And you–

You’re not seven anymore, either.

You’re sitting exactly where you were, in the same patch of grass beneath the willow, but you’ve changed, too. Grown into yourself in an instant. Twenty-two. The softness is still there, but it’s shaped differently now. 

You’re wearing a bright yellow summer dress now instead of your short denim overalls, the fabric thin and airy and sun-washed, catching the breeze as it moves around you. Your hair falls longer now as well, loose and slightly tangled from the wind.

And for a heartbeat, Dean forgets everything else around him, including the strange noises.

His gaze fixes on the way the hem of your dress brushes the weeds, the way the sunlight illuminates your skin, and the way you look… older – not just in years, but in presence.

Shit.

Okay. Yeah, no. That’s new.

His brain scrambles for footing, trying to reorient, to file this under something that makes sense, but it doesn’t quite get there before his thoughts take a sharp, unhelpful left turn.

His eyes flicker to your lips, soft and plush and inviting. There’s suddenly a strange urge there to do something about it – like connecting his own to yours. He wants to know what they taste like, if they’re as sweet and warm as your voice. 

What the hell kind of dream is this…

The thought dies instantly, however, when the sound of hooves reverberates through the air again, coming closer and closer. 

The sunlight then morphs from amber and gold to blue and gray, the wind picks up on speed like a storm brewing, and the air feels a lot colder and more brittle now. 

The warmth is gone.

Dean’s posture changes instantly, every muscle in his body tensing with instinct. His gaze snaps toward the hill again, scanning and calculating, something old and ingrained rising to the surface before he can even think it through.

This isn’t right. This isn’t just a dream, is it?

You shift beside him, your brows meeting in the middle as you glance at him and then out toward the same direction. “Dean? What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer, though. His jaw locks, pulse thundering in his ears, adrenaline flooding his blood as the realization dawns on him with a terrifying clarity.

The hooves strike once more, and everything drops away around him in the blink of an eye.

Dean jolts awake on the couch, like he’s been yanked back into his body by God himself.

The change in the air feels violent.  

He feels slightly disoriented as he blinks his eyes awake, the golden dreamscape he found himself in a minute ago suddenly replaced by the dusty and gothic interior of a New England bed and breakfast. 

But the sound? Oh, that followed him all the way to reality. 

The hooves and something that sounds suspiciously like clattering metal are still there, and it’s definitely not in his head. It’s goddamn real. 

Dean’s breathing comes out harshly as he pushes himself upright on the couch, eyes darting to the window, already expecting to see a horse with a headless rider out there in the dark. His heart is racing a mile a minute, the adrenaline spiking.

“Sam?” he calls and runs a hand through his messy locks. “Hey–… Sam? Guys? Wake up.”

The sheets on both beds begin to rustle and move. 

Sam’s up first, already halfway out of bed before he’s even fully conscious, hearing the urgency (and slight panic) in his brother’s tone. “Dean? What? What’s wrong?”

You, on the other hand, are slower only by half a second, sitting up with the softest groan Dean’s ever heard someone utter. Your hair is a bit mussed, falling into your face as one of those oversized sleep shirts slips off one shoulder. 

It’s distracting enough to be inconvenient right now.

Because your hair falls over that same shoulder, so he can’t really tell if there’s a bra strap underneath it or not. The not is what concerns him the most, though. You certainly weren’t wearing one under that yellow sundress in his dream.

Man, his brain has excellent timing, doesn’t it?

Get it together.

He drags his focus back where it belongs, and his jaw clenches tightly upon the next wave of sounds. “You guys hear that?”

The room stills, as do you and Sam, trying to listen, eyes narrowing slightly. Dean hears it again, but he already sees how both you and his little brother begin to slowly shake your heads. 

“I don’t hear anything,” you confirm Dean’s worst suspicions that this thing’s only coming for him. 

Sam’s head bobs in recognition. “Guess that means it’s starting.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean scoffs and jumps on his feet, overtaken by a burst of restless energy he’s familiar with during hunts, his body entering into fight or flight mode. “Think he’s close, guys. Any ideas would be greatly appreciated now.”

You push yourself out of bed as well, the last traces of sleep burning off fast as your gaze lands on Dean. He feels like he’s going crazy because he could swear there’s even a trace of concern gleaming in your eyes. 

“Your aura’s tighter. Something’s pulling at it,” you note.

Dean scowls. “Thanks for the visual.”

“We need to find out who that sword belonged to as fast as possible before it takes Dean’s head,” Sam says and already grabs one of the binders again, hands flipping pages at record speed. 

“How?” you ask, your voice slightly rising as the panic rises with it. “Look at those things, Sam! There’s no way we’re gonna find the right page in time.”

“Love the enthusiasm,” Dean mutters, earning him a dry look from you. Then he purses his lips, however, and God, he already hates saying it. “But she’s right, Sammy. We don’t exactly have time for a full-on research montage right now.”

“I know that, Dean,” Sam huffs. “But what do you suggest, huh? The only way to end this is finding out who or what we’re dealing with. You already tried salting and burning the sword, and it didn’t work, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be something else. Think, man! C’mon, you’re the brains, and I’m the brawn. Just do what you do best!”

“Like, what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Guys!” You suddenly cut into their argument, forcing the brothers to focus on you instead. “I think I’ve got it!”

You don’t elaborate on what exactly you’ve got, though, which slightly tests Dean’s patience. He hates when Sam does that shit, too. Is it too much to ask for people to finish a damn thought around here?

Before he can question it, however, he watches you rush to your bag and hurriedly rummage through it till you pull out your little notebook. 

He arches an eyebrow at you, skeptical as ever. “What, you’re gonna write another spell?”

It’s honestly not the worst idea, but he can’t give you the satisfaction of knowing that. God knows one little spell only leads to more. 

“Actually, I don’t have to,” you say, hastily flipping pages back and forth as if you were looking for something specific. The notebook is an explosion of color, inked in different shades as glitter catches the dim light in the room. 

“You wrote something?” Sam asks.

“In college,” you reply with a quick nod, eyes scanning and skimming, fingers flipping even faster. “I used to hate digging through library archives, so I made a spell that pulls the exact information I’m looking for from a text. It’s kind of like a magical Ctrl+F.”

Why is Dean not even a little bit surprised? Of course you would do something like that.

Your fingers then stop their movements abruptly, eyes lighting up. “Found it.”

The ink is a brightly glistening sunny yellow. The color almost feels obnoxiously cheerful for a possible decapitation by a headless dude on a horse at three in the morning.

Dean’s brow raises as he nods to the page. “What’s yellow stand for?”

“Academic magic,” you mutter without glancing up.

Dean doesn’t say anything more to that. He just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, shifting his weight slightly as he watches you spread all eight binders evenly on the small table. That uncomfortable and familiar feeling creeps back into his veins at the thought of your magic, but he knows this might be the only thing keeping his head attached to his body right now. It still doesn’t sit right with him, though. 

You murmur the words under your breath, and the effect is practically immediate this time. The third binder on the left jerks open with a loud thud before pages start flipping on their own with the force of a hurricane blowing through them. Then it abruptly stops on a page, and a section of it begins to glow like yellow sunshine. 

Sam leans in over the open binder, checks the marked section, and a smile begins to rise. “That’s it. Elias Whittaker. Says here he was a Union soldier in the Civil War.”

“Great.” You exhale a relieved breath and smile as well. 

Dean’s jaw, though, tightens the slightest bit before he pushes it down. Why does every win of yours bother him so much? He should be glad they found what they were looking for. He should be glad they can save him now. But instead, what he feels almost comes close to dread. 

Sam rips the page out of the binder and grabs his jacket. “We should take this to the library. Cross-reference, get everything we can on him. Maybe we find his burial site.” 

Dean grimaces at the idea. “Yeah, you have fun with that.” He grabs his keys, heading for the door. “I’m getting the sword back. If that dude’s coming for me, it’s probably best if he isn’t fully armed. Maybe we can stall him that way.”

Sam gives him a quick nod. “Good idea.” Then his gaze shifts to you. “You go with him.”

Both yours and Dean’s heads snap toward his little brother with raised brows and wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean checks and sees you make a face in his periphery as well. 

You wrinkle your nose as you look at Sam. “Do I have to?”

Dean turns his head sharply at that, his skin prickling. “Wow. Good to know where I rank,” he scoffs.

You shoot him a look. “You’re being hunted by a headless ghost with a sword. Forgive me for not volunteering enthusiastically.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled you’re so concerned about me, Sabrina,” he fires back dryly. “Relax. It’s not a date.”  

“Could’ve fooled me with how happy you sound,” you mutter. 

Dean’s mouth is already opening with a comeback before Sam cuts in, stopping this little argument from spiraling any further. 

Sam looks at you with his best puppy eyes again. “Look, you’re the only one who might be able to slow this thing down if it shows up.” 

“With what?” you shoot back. “Strongly worded encouragement? It’s a ghost. I don’t exactly have a game plan or a spell lying around for that.”

Sam just offers you a shrug. “You’re smart. You’ll figure something out. Improvise.”

“Improvise?!” You gape at his little brother before your eyes snap to Dean. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah, he is. He does that sometimes,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck.

“Haven’t gotten you killed so far, though,” Sam quips.

“Last time, you almost let me get run over by a ghost truck on a hunch, man.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You let out a deep groan as you grab your jacket and bag. “I’d just like to officially put it on record that this is a terrible, terrible idea.”

“Yeah, most of ours are, actually. You’ll get used to it.” Dean grins, holding the door open for you. 

“Awesome. Good to know.”

The moon hangs lowly just above the horizon, where the night’s indigo blue is slowly bleeding into a dawning gray. Fog curls over the asphalt and catches in Baby’s headlights like a ghostly sheen as the road weaves through the quiet outskirts of town, bordered by dense foliage and ancient trees on each side. 

Dean’s grip on the wheel is steady, although he feels the tension underneath it in his forearms and shoulders. The familiar hum of the engine grounds him, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of hooves in the back of his skull entirely. 

Oh, this thing’s coming for him, alright. 

He exhales slowly through his nose and rolls one shoulder, even trying to physically shake the sound loose. It doesn’t help, though. 

Next to him, you’re folded slightly into your seat, your notebook open across your lap. The dim glow from the dashboard spills over the page, catching on streaks of glitter ink that shimmer every time your pen moves. You keep tapping it against the margin in an uneven rhythm, faster when you’re thinking harder and slower when you hit a wall. But the sound at least soothes him a little. 

Your hair is still carrying a hint of sleep in it, loose and a little unruly, falling around your face in soft waves. Your brow is furrowed, lips pressed together, gaze seemingly fixed on something only you can see. There’s something about the way you look right now – barefaced, focused, completely absorbed – that feels disarmingly normal.

Dean clears his throat, shooting you a sideways glance. “You planning my funeral over there, or…?”

You snort a quiet laugh but don’t answer him right away, still staring at the page like it might rearrange itself into something useful. “Thinking,” you say after a beat, voice still rough with leftover sleep. “About spells.”

That pulls a small huff out of him, though it lacks its usual edge. “Yeah? That supposed to make me feel better?”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes swerving to him. “Depends,” you say, tapping the pen once more. “How open are you to being a magical test subject? I’m trying to figure out if there’s something I can do to keep it away from you. I just don’t know how ghosts respond to most of what I can do, though.”

Dean lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking his head as he looks back at the road. “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and veto that,” he says. “No offense, but I’d rather not be your guinea pig for experimental witchcraft at five in the morning.”

He mostly means it as a joke, but there’s still that undercurrent, that instinctive recoil he can’t quite scrub out of himself. Years of training don’t just disappear because you’ve got a cute notebook and a nervous habit of tapping your pen.

“Fair enough,” you say and accept his answer with a nod. “Not sure I’d wanna be, either.”

Your gaze drops back to the page for a moment, your pen stilling. 

“It’s just–… I don’t know what to do against something like that,” you admit, dragging the pen absently along the margin. The frustration is clearer now in your voice. “Plants, sure. Spells, fine. But ghosts?” You shake your head, lips pressing together. “That’s not exactly in my wheelhouse. I don’t know what your brother was thinking.”

Dean glances over again, a little slower this time, really looking at you instead of just checking. He takes note of the tension in your shoulders and how your fingers curl a little tighter around the pen as if you’re trying to grip onto a solution that won’t quite stick. The thing that bugs him the most, however, is not that you don’t know what to do, but that you’re downright bothered by not knowing.

Because of him.

Three weeks ago, he had a gun aimed at your head because everything he’d been raised on told him that was the right call – witch, potential threat, end of story. And now you’re sitting next to him in the middle of the night, visibly frustrated that you can’t figure out how to keep him alive.

It’s almost absurd – your concern for him. You should be celebrating right now and not worrying. Most of all, he hates the feeling it causes in his gut. Guilt – real, actual guilt and not the one he’s usually good at shoving aside. You suck for that – for caring. 

He doesn’t say any of that aloud, obviously.

“Hey,” he says but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “It’s fine, alright? I got it.”

You turn your head toward him, brows knitting. “You’ve got it?”

He chuckles lightly at your doubt and jerks his chin toward the backseat. “Shotgun.”

That earns him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and mild concern for his sanity. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Wait…” Your brow creases a little more, probably trying to decide if this is another bit of his or a cry for help. “Do bullets actually hurt ghosts? Kinda defeats the purpose of being dead.”

He snorts and grins a little. “Regular bullets? No. Rock salt? Whole different story.”

You blink. “Rock salt?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you again. “Load it up, it’ll mess ‘em up. Not a permanent solution, but it buys time.”

You stare at him for a second longer, clearly recalibrating your entire understanding of how the world works. “That is… the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He scoffs a chuckle. “And yet, it works.”

An actual laugh slips out of you at that, lifting the tension in the car just a smidge. It’s also apparently enough for you to open a conversation instead of drifting back into silence. 

“So, uhm, Sam told me he went to Stanford until a year ago,” you note, your voice more cautious than before, as if you’re not sure small talk was allowed yet. 

“Yeah, he’s a big nerd. The kid practically lives in libraries,” Dean retorts, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“What about you? Did you go to college?”

He snorts, amused, and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why?”

Dean shoots you a quick glance, then shrugs. “Never was on my radar. Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Your dad didn’t want you to go?”

He barks a laugh at that. If you only knew his father as well as he did, you probably wouldn’t have even asked that question. “You kidding? The old man barely wanted Sammy to go.”

And even that is the understatement of the goddamn century. He still remembers that blow-up fight like it was yesterday.

Your head bobs in thought. “So you’ve always just done… this? Hunting?”

“Yup.”

“You never wanted to do anything else?” 

“Nope.” 

Alright, that might’ve been a lie. There are surely a few things Dean dreamt of doing when he was younger – fireman, mechanic, rock star. But real life got in the way and made that decision for him. Not like anyone ever asked him what he wanted, either. This whole thing was just shoved into his lap, but he never mulled too long over it. 

His gaze then absentmindedly drifts to your lap as you shift the notebook and then stops abruptly. He almost hits the brakes on accident as his eyes land on a small flower peeking out between the pages – white petals and a yellow center. 

A daisy.

His brain pretty much trips over itself like it missed a step. He blinks, looks back to the road, then back at the notebook again, and slowly comes to the realization that he hasn’t imagined it. 

It’s definitely still there and very real. 

And suddenly, his thoughts start stacking on top of each other, his stomach dropping slightly as his dream comes crashing back like a flood. 

There’s no need to panic, though, right? So, what? It’s a flower. People have flowers. Kids press flowers into books all the damn time. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s completely normal. Not to mention that daisies are pretty much the most common flowers out there. 

But what if it’s not just any flower. What if it’s the flower? What if it’s the one he picked for y–

No, stop it!

He cuts his thoughts off. There’s no way this is the flower from his dream because those dreams aren’t real. He never actually picked a daisy for you because he hadn’t even known you existed until three weeks ago. It’s not possible. He probably just saw that flower in your notebook once beforehand, at the B&B or wherever, and his brain latched onto it again for some reason he still can’t understand. 

Nevertheless, Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers as his eyes flick up almost involuntarily to your face and then a little higher to your hair.

To that exact spot just above your ear.

It’s empty, but of course it’s empty now. Why wouldn’t it be?

But then his brain, stupid thing that it is, overlays it with something else. There’s summer sunlight instead of the dashboard glow now, warm gold instead of cold blue, your hair reflecting it like it’s lit from the inside. He sees his own hand moving slowly and carefully in a way that doesn’t match him at all and tucking that same stupid flower into your hair again.

And the feeling that comes with it is worse than panic, fear, or confusion – it’s warmth. Feels like something clicking into place that he didn’t even know was missing.

Which is stupid, needless to say. It’s insane. He’s going crazy and not just due to the dumb horse noises in his head. 

Dean inhales sharply through his nose. Nope. He’s still not doing this. 

It’s still only a dream. That’s it. His brain’s just grabbing random crap and stitching it together into something weirdly sentimental. His mind just simply clocked it, stored it, recycled it. That’s all this is.

That has to be all this is, right? Because the alternative? 

Yeah, no. Hard pass.

He clears his throat, forcing his tone back into something casual as he gestures his chin toward your lap, even though he already hates himself for not resisting harder and prodding further. “What’s that?”

You follow his gaze, blinking once before you realize what he means. Your fingers brush lightly over the page, delicately tracing the stem of the dried flower. Your expression softens into something almost private, like you’re getting lost in your thoughts for a second and forgot he was even still there. 

“Oh, that?” you say and give a shrug, a secret smile beginning to bloom on your lips nonetheless. “It’s just some flower. It’s been there forever. I put it in there as a kid.” You pause for a beat, thumb tracing one of the petals now before you shake your head at yourself, a small huff of amusement leaving you. “I honestly don’t know why I kept it. Daisies aren’t even my favorite. But it’s from home, so…”

“Oh.” Dean nods slowly and swallows, throat so much tighter than it should be for such a simple explanation.

His gaze stays on it for another minute, then drifts back up to your face before he can stop it.

“It’s–, uhm, it’s pretty.”

The words slip out, and his eyes snap to the road, pretending to be oh-so causal about a crazy comment like that, even though he’s cursing himself for ever saying it. 

Why the hell did he, though? What on earth is going on here?

He knew daisies weren’t your favorite because the dream told him, but he couldn’t have known that, right? Is this a coincidence? Just a lucky guess his brain made?

Shit.

You wrinkle your nose slightly and arch a brow, surprised. “You think so?”

Dean shrugs quickly and clears his throat offensively loudly. “Sure, yeah.”

And just like that, the air changes in the car, and there’s a different kind of tension now. 

You shift slightly in your seat, and he adjusts his grip on the wheel, both of you suddenly aware of the other in a way that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Dean exhales more sharply this time and swiftly reaches for the radio. A second later, the car fills with the opening riff of Ramble On. It cuts straight through the awkward silence, through the tension, and through the weird, lingering pull in his ribcage that he refuses to examine too closely.

Ah, that’s better.

He nods once to himself, settling the issue, and fixes his eyes firmly on the road ahead as the music takes over.

Dean’s had worse mornings.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he trudges through damp underbrush at an hour no sane person should be conscious.

Why did he pick this job again? Oh, right. Like he told you, it picked him.  

The sky is still caught somewhere between night and dawn, the gray reaching higher and lighter at the horizon. The woods behind the museum stretch out endlessly through shadows and mist, all of it tinted in that deep, cold blue that makes everything look a little more spooky than it would be during daylight. 

Hell, when he was here during the day, these woods could’ve even been considered beautiful. Like that meadow where Bambi lives. Now it’s a horror movie come to life, though. 

The hooting owls and rustling branches don’t help either. 

Behind him, you carefully step over a large branch, your sneakers crunching on the forest floor. While you haven’t said anything since the car, Dean can still hear the reluctance in each of your steps and the occasional hitch of your breath.

You’re definitely jumpy, but he tries not to let his amusement show, even though it’s ridiculously adorable. 

He steals a glimpse over his shoulder and catches the way your eyes briefly swerve toward a darker stretch of trees to the left, surely expecting something to jump out of there. Your hands tug on the sleeves of your jacket repeatedly, probably trying to calm yourself in some way. 

Dean bites back a smirk. “Wow,” he mutters, pushing a low branch out of his way. “Didn’t peg you for the easily spooked type.”

“I’m not,” you shoot back a little too quickly for his taste.

As you gracefully step over a root, your foot snags on another one hidden beneath the leaves. You fall forward with a quiet “whoa–,” and Dean reacts instinctively and spins just in time to catch you by your arms before you can fully eat dirt. The impact brings you closer than either of you probably intended, your weight tipping into him for the tiniest second before you steady yourself and quickly pull back, but it’s not far enough.

You’re close. Real close. 

He can see the small crease between your brows, the way your lashes soak up what little light there is, and the soft flush in your cheeks. Your face looks… annoyingly good.

A clear of his throat breaks the awkward silence. “You were saying?”

You blink, then straighten quickly, brushing past him like nothing happened. And maybe it didn’t. 

“I said I’m not scared,” you repeat. “It’s just–” you gesture at the trees around you, “–this is not exactly my usual environment.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks and continues his march forward. “What is your usual environment? Labs and scented candles?”

You huff a soft laugh behind him. “For your information, the scariest thing I’ve dealt with before this was a ghost tour in Salem.”

Dean snorts loudly and raises a brow at you over his shoulder. “A ghost tour?”

“Yup. It was at night, alright?” you defend. “And the guide had a lantern and everything. There were sound effects.”

“Wow. Terrifying.”

“There was a reenactment of the witch trials. Very much scary for someone like me,” you add as if that helps your case.

It doesn’t. 

Dean gives a shake of his head, but his lips are twitching around a smile. “Yeah, alright. Remind me to never question your bravery again.”

Another owl then calls somewhere deeper in the woods, and you go just a little too still for a second before forcing yourself to keep walking. Dean notices that too, but something else spreads under the amusement. He knows you’re out of your depth here. This isn’t your world – the dark, the hunt, and all the things that move where and when they shouldn’t.

And yet, you still came along for the ride in an attempt to save his life. He’s at least willing to give you credit for that.

“You’re good,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter than before. “Just… watch your step.”

You meet his eyes, slightly surprised, but then nod once. “Yeah, okay.”

The two of you then fall into a rhythm after that, the banter easing into something more comfortable and less forced. The shed behind the museum where he hid the sword then comes into view through the fog a minute later. It’s pretty rundown and honestly only one strong breeze away from collapsing entirely, but he’d figured that was probably an advantage, meaning no one would snoop around here and accidentally find the cursed blade again. 

Dean stops and scans the area automatically. “This is it.”

“Charming,” you murmur.

He circles around the back, boots sinking slightly into the softer and moss-covered ground, until he spots an old wooden trunk, half-hidden behind tall weeds and debris. He figured the sword would probably be safest in there. But as he crouches and flips the lid open, he stills abruptly. 

Empty.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He probably should’ve expected a wooden box like that wouldn’t keep a ghost out, but he figured at least all the salt he poured into the trunk would’ve helped. 

“What?” you check, stepping closer.

“It’s gone.”

The words barely leave his mouth before a very distinct sound hits him – and it’s not the owls this time. 

Hooves.

Dean’s head snaps up, the noise so much closer now than it was back at the room or even the car, his whole body flying into high alert in an instant. The noise of clinking metal, which surely comes from the missing blade, almost rings like a warning bell.

“Did you hear–”

But Dean doesn’t even get to finish that sentence. He sees your eyes widen to the size of little moons, and the next thing he knows, you’re slamming into him at full speed, hard enough to knock the oxygen right out of his lungs as you tackle him to the ground. The impact of the cold forest floor tears through his bones as your weight lands on top of him before something whooshes through the empty air above where his head used to be only a second ago. 

As his eyes snap upwards, a mighty black stallion rears above the two of you and neighs loudly. Its breath steams in the suddenly freezing air, while its rider is clearly headless. 

Dean doesn’t have too much time, though, to take a longer peek before his gaze flicks to the horseman’s hand and the sharp sword in it. 

“Move!” he barks, adrenaline rushing into his blood as the blade comes down again.

He rolls both of you hard to the side, flipping positions so he’s on top just as the sword buries itself into the dirt only a mere inch away from your shoulder, the ground trembling with the sheer force of the assault.

“Up! Go!” he yells, scrambling to his feet and quickly hauling you up with him as the rider yanks the blade free again.

And then? Well, there’s really only running left. His shotgun flew out of reach and landed somewhere in the bushes when you tackled him, so he really doesn’t see any other immediate options for now.

He grabs hold of your wrist and drags you with him through the woods, branches whipping past the two of you as you both navigate a sea of overgrown roots without stumbling. But Dean doesn’t need to look back to know this thing’s still gaining speed and catching up fast.

“Do something!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do!”

“Then think of something!”

The horse neighs too closely behind him, and Dean turns around just in time to see the rider swing again. He ducks quickly, the blade slicing through the air above him before slamming into a tree trunk with a loud crack. The noise reverberates through the silence as wood splinters and bark goes flying in all directions.

“Ha! Missed!” Dean smirks tauntingly at the rider. He’s not sure the poor fella can even see him, considering the guy’s missing his whole head. “Ain’t that easy to kill me. Gotta have to try harder.”

“Why are you provoking it?!” you rebuke him. 

Dean opens his mouth to retort but stops when the horseman rips the sword free like the damn tree meant nothing.

“Okay, less talking, more magic!” he shouts, retreating until his back hits another tree, nowhere left to go as the rider closes in again.

The sword lifts.

“Right about now would be awesome!” he snaps.

And then, the ground suddenly answers for you.

It starts as a slight tremor beneath his boots, subtle at first but rising fast as the soil cracks open like a fault line during an earthquake. Thick, gnarled, and ancient roots then tear through the earth, snapping upward with violent force.

They lash around the rider’s arm and curl tightly just as the blade begins its descent, jerking it back mid-swing. More roots shoot out of the ground after and wrap around the horse’s legs, locking it in place as it thrashes and screams wildly against its restraints.

And Dean? He kind of just stares for a second in stunned bewilderment, his brow twitching, chest heaving with leftover adrenaline. “Huh.”

You seem just as startled by your own work next to him, blinking down at your hands. “Huh,” you echo breathlessly. “Never done that before. Guess I can improvise.”

Before Dean can answer, however, the horseman and his loyal stallion roar furiously, the roots already starting to crack around their limbs. 

“Yup, great breakthrough,” he quips, already tugging at your sleeve. “We should probably go before this thing tears itself free again.”

“Good idea. He does seem rather angry, although it’s hard to tell without a face,” you say and tilt your head at the rider like you’re trying to analyze him – or maybe read his aura. 

Dean’s not entirely sure, but he doesn’t wait for you to finish your philosophical pondering and grabs your wrist once more, bolting back to the Impala with you in tow. 

Neither of you looks back as the sound of splintering roots echoes through the forest behind you.

When you push through the library doors, you still feel a little winded from all that running and Dean’s rather erratic driving, your hands still trembling from leftover adrenaline or shock. Maybe both. 

And speaking of the green-eyed hunter, he’s right behind you, feeling his labored breaths and the residual warmth of him at your back, which is a little distracting but less than the drumming against the steering wheel and the loud singing in the car. He’s still restless, his aura green but threaded with streaks of red from his survival instincts, pacing like a caged animal that hasn’t realized it’s safe yet. 

Sam looks up from his pile of books and notes the second you approach, seemingly waiting on a spring, judging by how fast he jumps out of his seat. His eyes quickly assess you and his brother from head to toe as if he’s checking for injuries and counting limbs.

“You guys okay?” he asks.

“Define okay,” you reply with a huff, exhaustively dropping into the chair across from him. “Because if the scale includes ‘not currently being hunted by a headless horseman,’ then yeah, we’re doing great.”

Dean exhales a long breath next to you, dragging a hand down his face before dropping into the chair beside you. “Sword’s gone. And the guy attached to it? Very stabby.”

You nod, rubbing your hands together, still feeling the dirt and adrenaline prickling under your skin. “Yeah, he’s fast. And persistent. And apparently not a fan of improvisation via landscaping.”

Sam’s brows crease. “What?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I’ll explain later.”

There’s a flash in Dean’s aura when you say that, the green fringed with something warmer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost claim he seems impressed, but it disappears as fast as it came when Sam braces his elbows on the table, already switching fully into research mode.

“Okay,” he says, flipping his laptop around toward you. “I think I found our guy.”

He taps the screen, and you lean in, eyes scanning the old photograph and text.

“Name’s Elias Whitaker,” Sam continues. “He was a Union soldier and stationed just outside what used to be the original town in 1863. From what I can piece together, he was accused of being a Confederate sympathizer – passing information, sabotaging movements, the whole deal.”

You tilt your head skeptically, thinking back to the cards you drew. “Was he?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope, doesn’t look like it. Records are messy, but there’s a consistent thread. His commanding officer, Captain Harlan Pike, had a pretty good motive. See, Whitaker was engaged, and apparently, Pike had a thing for the fiancée.”

You groan. “‘Course he did.”

“The guy’s name was Harlan? Talk about a villain name,” Dean quips.

“Yup,” Sam agrees. “So get this – he frames Whitaker, stirs up suspicion, and turns the whole town against him. Pike had rank and influence. I mean, back then, that’s basically all it took. No trial, no proof. All he needed was fear and a mob. They dragged Whitaker out to the woods. And according to one account, he swore that he’d come back and kill every man who judged him without cause.”

Dean scoffs under his breath. “Guess he kept his word.”

“They executed him with his own sword and left the blade and the head at the site,” Sam adds. “The body was buried later in the town cemetery because his fiancée insisted on it.”

You lean back in your chair, processing. “So the sword stayed buried with the head?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sam replies. “But a few weeks ago, a local survey crew apparently uncovered the sword in the woods. It got turned over, cleaned up, and was donated to the museum.”

“So that’s when the curse kicked in,” Dean surmises.

Sam nods and then continues, “But there’s something else.”

You look at him. “You found out how the victims are connected?”

“Yup, I think so,” Sam says, his lips twitching slightly, seemingly amused by his findings. “I went back over the victims. Not just cause of death, but who they were. After you guys talked to that witness at the crime scene, I figured it probably had to do with their personalities, tying back to Whitaker somehow.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly, scratching the nape of his neck. “What d’you find?”

“Well, something they all seemed to have in common was being judgmental,” Sam says and gives his brother a tight smile, clearly waiting for Dean to catch on. “The first victim, a guy named Daniel Hodge, got fired last year for repeatedly harassing a coworker. I’m talking HR complaints, sexist remarks, the works. He claimed he was justified.”

You grimace. “Charming.”

“The second victim then was Reverend Collins,” Sam continues. “He ran a small church outside town and preached a lot about purity, damnation… He had a habit of publicly calling people out for ‘sinning.’”

“Yikes.”

“And the third victim was a local business owner, who refused service to… certain customers.”

You purse your lips. “So he was a racist.”

“Yup.”

You let out a long breath. “So the victims are all people who judged others, like Whitaker was judged.”

“Seems that way, yes,” Sam confirms. 

Your eyes flick to Dean, shooting him a raised look. “Well, guess we know why you got cursed now.”

Dean scoffs immediately. “Oh, come on–”

You turn more fully toward him, brows lifting. “There’s a reason I called you a Puritan, you know. You were one pitchfork away from burning me at the stake.”

Sam’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin.

Dean tries to laugh it off, but you can tell by the flares in his aura that he clearly feels uncomfortable in his skin now. “C’mon, I wasn’t actually trying to shoot you.”

“Weren’t you, though?” you fire back, cocking your head. “Because from where I was standing, it felt pretty historically authentic. You pointed a gun to my head.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it, alright?” 

You shrug your shoulders. “Doesn’t seem to matter to the ghost. Just saying, you might wanna reflect on your choices a little.”

He opens his mouth to argue again but falters halfway. He clicks his tongue and turns to Sam instead. “So, how do we stop this thing from publicly executing me now? Please tell me you found something.”

Sam clears his throat a little, steering things back as he pulls up a site on his laptop. “There’s a ritual. It’s not super common, but it lines up with vengeance hauntings and cursed objects. Since salting and burning didn’t work, maybe laying the spirit to rest will. Basically, we reunite the remains, body and head, and cleanse the weapon that anchored the spirit. That should break the cycle.”

“Sounds simple when you say it like that, but I’m guessing it’s not,” you say, already fearing where this is going.

“Unfortunately, no,” Sam replies. “We need the sword. And we need to find the head.” He taps the map on his screen. “Body’s in the cemetery. That part’s easy. The head, though – records say he was executed in the woods just outside town. Same general area where the sword was found.”

“So probably still out there,” you murmur.

“Probably,” Sam agrees. Then his gaze drifts fully to you, a little more careful now. “And the ritual… it needs someone who can actually perform it. Someone with… your kind of skillset.”

You blink at him. “My ‘kind of skillset’ is mostly keeping houseplants alive and occasionally finding lost earrings.”

“You did more than that out there,” Dean mutters under his breath, surprising you slightly. 

Out of the two of them, you honestly believed he wouldn’t vote for that, considering he’s been doubting every single move you made so far. 

You glance at him, then back at Sam, slightly overwhelmed. “I–I mean, I can try. I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t even really use structured rituals. I kind of just… make things up and hope they work.”

Sam nods, not discouraged in the slightest. “That’s okay. You understand the mechanics. You can adapt it.”

You let out a nervous breath. “Adapt it. Right, no pressure.”

Dean leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “So what’s the play here?”

“Split up, I think,” Sam suggests. “You guys go to the site where they found the sword. I figured we could use another spell to find the head faster. Once you got it, you can bring it to the cemetery. I’ll dig up the grave. Since Whitaker is after Dean, we can draw him out that way and get the sword back.”

You furrow your brow wildly. “Wait, hold on… Draw him out? You wanna use Dean as ghost bait?”

“Ain’t the first time. Kinda my thing,” the green-eyed hunter mutters next to you and shoots you a cocky grin.

“That should so not be your thing,” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head. “You guys are being way too casual about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam tries to assure you. “We’ll be ready. As soon as we have the sword, you can start the ritual while we keep the spirit occupied.”

“Occupied?” you parrot, arching an eyebrow at them.

Dean just gives you a casual shrug, offering you a crooked smirk. “We’re pretty good at that.”

After another quick location spell to find a human skull (a first for you), you and Dean meet up with Sam at Sleepy Hollow’s cemetery, which unsurprisingly leans pretty heavily into its haunted aesthetic. It’s frankly even creepier than the rest of this town, and that’s truly saying something.

It’s already dusk when you arrive, the sky fading from clear blue into a bruised violet as the last sunlight clings to the horizon. Most of the headstones are crooked and tilt at odd angles, moss and ivy crawling up their sides. The stubborn fog doesn’t help the overall vibe, either. You honestly half-expect something to crawl out of the ground even without supernatural interference. 

Dean, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed by the graveyard environment, strolling almost cheerfully ahead. He casually carries the skull, sometimes playing with it like a ball and juggling it from one hand into the other, treating it like a damn prop. You already told him to stop doing that, but he obviously ignored you. 

It seems like you have officially upgraded from “girl who writes spells with glitter gel pens” to “girl who retrieves decapitated heads before dinner.”

By the time the two of you reach Whitaker’s grave, Sam is already halfway done digging, standing in a shallow pit with his sleeves rolled up and dirt smudged across his arms and face. Clearly, he’s been at it for a while.

“Hey, Sammy! Heads up!” Dean calls with a bright grin, and before your brain can even process what he’s about to do, he tosses the skull in a short arc toward his little brother.

“Dean!” you snap at the exact same time Sam goes, “Dude, seriously?” and fumbles the catch, barely managing to grab the skull before it hits the ground.

Sam glares, you glare, and Dean lifts both hands in surrender, entirely unrepentant.

“What?” Dean shrugs his shoulders as if his actions are even remotely defensible. “He caught it.”

“You threw a human head,” you scold his cemetery behavior, which he apparently deemed entirely appropriate. 

These boys clearly spend too much time in places like this to be this freaking comfortable around human remains. 

“Former human,” Dean corrects under his breath.

And you? Yeah, you don’t even dignify that with a response and only roll your eyes.

Sam exhales sharply as he climbs out of the grave, setting the skull down with a lot more care than it was afforded by his brother, then gestures at the shovel. “Here. Switch.”

Dean looks down into the hole, then back at Sam. “Oh, now it’s my turn? C’mon, I’m practically on my deathbed, man.”

But Sam only offers him a deadpan look and holds the shovel out to his brother. Dean grabs it with a resigned sigh before you suddenly stop him with a hand on his arm.  

“Wait.”

Both of them look at you expectantly. 

“I think I can make this faster.” 

Dean’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t argue for once, probably relieved about skipping all that digging, whereas Sam just watches you full of curiosity.

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer to the grave. You then close your eyes, tethering yourself to the earth beneath your feet as you always do. Soil should be a lot easier than roots, but you can’t exactly say you’ve done this before either. 

Then again, you never needed to dig up a grave in your life beforehand. 

The dirt loosens and shifts, beginning to part like the Red Sea, trickling away in soft waves till the coffin peeks out through the soil. Clumps slide down the sides of the grave, pebbles clicking against the wood until the whole coffin is fully revealed without another shovel needing to hit the ground.

When you open your eyes again with a satisfied smile, you find both brothers staring at you, mouths agape. 

“Okay…” Dean surprisingly even lets out a low whistle. “That’s admittedly kinda awesome.”

“Thank you.” You bite back a grin, trying not to look too pleased with yourself at his praise, but it honestly feels a little like getting a compliment from your school bully. 

Sam, however, downright looks like he’s regretting ever touching a shovel in his life. 

Dean then hops down into the grave and crouches by the coffin, brushing some remaining dirt off the lid before prying it open with a crowbar. But something in him changes suddenly, head lifting, forest green eyes fixing on something in the distance beyond the trees. His aura sharpens as well, colors morphing into high alert.

You don’t need to see his face to know something’s wrong, and a second later, you can hear it, too.

Hooves. 

“He’s coming back,” Dean says and jumps out of the hole, finding your eyes. “Got everything we need?”

You nod frantically and reach into your jacket pocket for the folded piece of paper with the modified spell on it. 

“Good. Showtime,” he says with a smirk, and you almost think he’s enjoying getting nearly decapitated a little too much. Who on Earth is that insane?

Sam then moves fast, grabbing the skull and placing it into the coffin with the body, adjusting it with surprising care for someone working under a ticking clock.

You’re scrambling as well, pulling four white candles from your bag and placing them at the corners of the coffin. Your fingers are only steady out of sheer necessity before you magically light all wicks at the same time. The flames flicker weakly at first and then stretch taller as the wind begins to pick up.

The Latin script on the paper in your hands stares at you, unfamiliar in shape but not in intention. You don’t usually do spells like this – structured, inherited, borrowed. Luckily, you had enough Latin in school to push through and understand at least half of it. 

God, you hope that counts for something. 

The moment the rider breaks through the trees, Dean doesn’t wait and starts to sprint. He only dodges the first swing by a margin that is entirely uncomfortable to witness. You’re trying not to watch as you pull out a small cast-iron bowl from your bag (you refuse to call it a cauldron) and an assortment of herbs. At least, Dean’s faster than he looks when he seems to be motivated by imminent decapitation, which is somewhat reassuring. 

He ducks again, twists out of the way as the blade cuts through the air where his head was a second ago, boots skidding in the dirt as he regains his footing. The sword then comes into play in a blur of motion – Dean lunges forward, gracefully ducks another swing, grabs the hilt, and yanks it free with a grunt, stumbling back just far enough to avoid immediate retaliation.

And then, that maniac actually throws the sharp blade right at his little brother. You flinch, heart stopping and breath halting, only exhaling when Sam manages to catch it without breaking a sweat. 

Jesus Christ, those boys will be the death of your low heart rate. 

Who the hell just throws a sword at someone?

Sam places it into the coffin and then looks at you. “Go!”

Right. Spell. 

You glance at the ingredients in the bowl, a mix of herbs you remember from your mother’s teachings: crushed sage for cleansing, rosemary for remembrance, lavender for peace, and a pinch of salt to anchor it all. You incinerate it and let the herbs smolder for a second till trails of smoke billow and fuse with the cool evening air. 

As you mutter the words on the page, your voice sounds strange around the Latin, as if your tongue is borrowing someone else’s shape, but it seems to work as the wind begins to pick up, threading through the trees and rustling leaves. The smoke thickens and spills over the bowl, the candle flames dancing harder and faster as if they’re trying to keep up with your voice. 

You grab the bowl and then pour it into the grave, letting the ash and embers fall into the coffin, dusting the sword and bones alike. Just as you place it down on the ground again, something crashes hard into a headstone behind you, but you try not to look back to check which brother got tossed and concentrate on finishing the spell. 

The final lines come quicker than you expect, the wind howling louder before it all breaks.

The wind drops. The candle flames steady. The horse halts. 

You spin just in time to see the horse rear back, hooves striking the air where Dean had been a heartbeat ago. He stumbles back, barely avoiding getting trampled, and then the rider stills as well.

For a moment, everything goes quiet before a head fades into place where none was before. 

The rider then turns toward you and inclines his newly attached head, his eyes gleaming with gratitude as they find yours. Then the edges of him begin to soften, dissolving into a warm, golden light. The horse follows, form fading into the same glow. Together they then seem to turn toward something you can’t quite see and ride off into it.

The light fades a minute later, and they’re gone. Just like that.

You rise to your feet, dusting off your jeans as you stare at spot where the light used to be. “Aw, he looked happy,” you note, the adrenaline in your blood slowly waning. “Is it always this peaceful?”

Dean’s eyes find you, hands on his knees as he’s trying hard to catch his breath. “Nope.”

Sam shakes his head, equally thrown, judging by the same crease in his brow. “Not even a little.”

You nod, lips pursing. “Good to know.”

Dean’s seen a lot of weird endings to hunts, and usually, it’s messier than this. But there’s no blood, no ambulance lights, or even a half-burned corpse today. 

He leans back against the Impala a few feet away, arms crossed as he tells himself he’s just keeping an eye on things without making it too obvious. He watches as you stuff your bag into the back of your beat-up and blue Aveo, calmly packing up like this was simply some strange weekend getaway and not technically a grave robbery, ghost exorcism, and almost getting trampled by a cursed horseman before breakfast combined.

You’ve traded in the grass-stained jeans and t-shirt for something softer, an oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, your boots still dusted with graveyard dirt from the woods. Your hair’s a little messy, probably from the wind earlier, a few strands catching in the porch light outside the B&B. 

Sam stands a little closer to you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture more relaxed than before after things finally wound down. “So…” He clears his throat lightly. “First hunt. What’s the verdict?” 

Dean watches your face instead of Sam’s, because your answer matters more than the question. 

You close the trunk with a soft thud, brushing your hands together like you’re still shaking off dirt. “Honestly? It was… interesting,” you admit, tucking your hair behind your ears. “In a ‘wow, I almost died’ kind of way.” A crooked smile rises on your lips. “But not exactly something I’d want to make a habit out of.” 

Dean huffs under his breath at that, gaze dropping to the gravel by his boots. 

Good. Smart answer.

Sam gives you a smile, but it’s got a certain shade to it now, and Dean recognizes it as his little brother’s but what if smile. He knows exactly where this is going before Sam even opens his mouth again.

“You handled yourself really well,” Sam says. “The spell, the ritual… you picked it up fast.”

“Yeah, you weren’t half bad,” Dean adds, but there’s a slight tease to his smile. 

Admittedly, you handled yourself well out there – better than most rookies would. Better than some hunters, if he’s being totally honest. Obviously, he won’t say that out loud in a million years. 

“Seriously, thanks,” Sam says. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Think we would’ve made due.”

You don’t seem to take offense to that comment, though, lips twitching in amusement. “You’re welcome for saving that coconut of yours.”

“So, uh…” Sam scratches the back of his neck, eyes finding yours. “Your mom’s letter, the ritual… have you thought more about it? Really could use your help, you know.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, watching as your shoulders draw in the tiniest bit, hesitation flashing across your face. You’re clearly unsure how to answer that one without disappointing someone – well, mostly Sam because Dean would be just fine with you saying no and telling his little brother to go screw himself. 

“Sam,” Dean cuts in, choosing not to let this play out. 

Sam meets his stare. “What?”

“She already gave you an answer.” Dean finally pushes off the car. “Take it.”

Sam’s brows draw into a small frown. “I’m just asking–”

“Yeah, and I’m just saying drop it,” Dean barks, his voice a little sharper now. “She heard you the first time. She doesn’t need a sales pitch.”

The tension is almost tangible in the air now, but as his gaze drifts back to you, there’s a newfound softness in your expression. He would almost call it gratitude, but it evokes a weird flutter in his chest, so he rejects that thought on principle and breaks eye contact first. 

You clear your throat softly. “Look, I meant what I said, alright?” you tell Sam gently, but there’s a firmness underneath. “I’ll think about it, but that’s all I can promise right now.”

Sam studies you for a moment, probably weighing whether to push again or not, but Dean really hopes he doesn’t. Otherwise, he’ll have to clock Sam with the back of his gun and drive back to South Dakota with his little brother in Baby’s trunk. 

“Okay, fair enough.” Sam nods after a beat and accepts your answer, although he’s obviously not done with the idea.

Dean is, though.

“Call if you need anything, alright?” Sam adds and steps back.

You nod, even manage a smile, and give a small wave of your hand that’s slightly awkward. 

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t stick around for a grand goodbye. He gives you a tight nod and then turns on his heel, heading back toward the Impala, the only true safe zone he’s ever known. 

But halfway there, his hand brushes against his jacket pocket, and he feels the folded paper sitting there.

Right. That.

He’d written it earlier at the B&B, while Sam was buried in books and you were flipping through that glitter-covered notebook of yours, muttering about herbs and Latin. Dean had sat at the table, pretending not to listen, and suddenly found himself scribbling down the standard exorcism. He might’ve then thrown in the Devil’s Trap, too. 

He didn’t really plan on giving it to you. It was more supposed to be a just-in-case, emergencies-only thing. But there’s this gnawing, annoying little thought in the back of his skull that refuses to disappear. 

You’re in it now, aren’t you? Whether you like it or not, or even whether he likes it or not. No thanks to his little brother and him, you’ve got a target on your back now. Dean knows better than anyone that this shit lingers, follows, and finds you again when you least expect it. And well, leaving you with nothing to defend yourself feels simply… wrong. 

“Son of a–” Dean mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply. 

And then, he turns around.

You’re halfway to your car, keys in hand, and for a second, he almost lets you go. Walking away would be so much easier and cleaner, wouldn’t it?

But he didn’t let you go in the dream either, did he? And even though, that never happened, there’s a strange pang in his chest that keeps his eyes locked on you and his feet rooted to the ground. 

“Hey, wait–”

You stop, spinning back with a small frown on your face, clearly not expecting that. Dean quickly walks back to you, wanting to get this part over with as soon as possible. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the folded piece of motel stationary, holding it out to you without ceremony.

“Here.”

You blink but take it reluctantly, brows knitting as you unfold it carefully. Your eyes skim over the Latin and the symbol sketched beneath it. “What’s this?”

“Insurance,” he replies, shrugging one shoulder to avoid making a big deal out of this. “Basic exorcism. Latin. That symbol’s a Devil’s Trap,” he explains, clearing his throat subtly. God, what’s with the air in this town? Why is it so damn dry here? “Paint it under that small rug you got by your front door. If something comes in, it’s stuck there. Then you read the words, send it back where it came from.”

Your eyes glance over the page, then back up at him, brow raising slightly like you’re still trying to make sense of his words.

He shifts his weight, swallowing. “Also, uhm, put a salt line along your windowsills. Doors if you wanna be extra. Keeps most crap out. You got that?”

There’s a small pause before you nod slowly, but you’re looking at him in that weird way of yours again – like you’re seeing past his words. Dream-child you did that shit as well. And before he knows it, there’s a tiny smirk hitching on your lips. 

“King of Cups…” you mutter under your breath, barely audible. 

Dean scowls. “What?”

“Nothing.” You shrug casually, but that stupid smile doesn’t disappear. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him like evidence under a microscope. “Wouldn’t simply apologizing be easier?”

“Apologize for what?” Dean scoffs, averting his gaze. It’s the default setting. Armor. 

“Never mind,” you sigh like you expected that response, ready to give up on him. “And to think, I almost started to like you…”

He rolls his eyes, but his jaw tightens visibly. Technically, he knows what he has to do. The dream already told him. But it still seems a lot harder in practice than it does in theory.

“Fine,” he caves at last with a reluctant breath out. “I’m… sorry for, uhm–” he motions roughly at you, already hating it, “–almost… shooting you, alright?” He smacks his lips. “There. Happy now?”

You don’t even try to hide the unimpressed look, but he swears there’s almost some amusement underneath it.

“Wow,” you say wryly. “How sweet of you. That must’ve cost you a lot.”

Dean purses his lips, head bobbing, the irritation hopefully covering anything else. “Alright, we’re done here. Try not to die.”

He spins around before you can answer, heading straight for the Impala without stopping this time. But behind him, he can hear Sam mutter, “Just think about it, okay?” 

Dean yanks open the driver’s door and pauses just long enough to glance back. He sees you nodding, but it’s rather noncommittal and seems frankly very uncomfortable. 

“Sam,” Dean calls gruffly, jerking his head toward the car.

Sam sighs but obeys, jogging back over.

Dean then slides into the driver’s seat, hands settling on the wheel as his gaze lands on the rearview mirror, watching you climb into your car. The interior light switches on, illuminating you in soft gold before the door shuts and the engine turns over. His eyes remain fixed on the mirror till your taillights disappear down the road. 

As Sam gets into the car, he shuts the passenger door harder than necessary. “What did you say to her?”

Dean doesn’t even bother to look at his little brother and plainly turns the key in the ignition. “Nothing.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Sam shoots back, frustrated. “You were being a dick to her on purpose, so she wouldn’t want to stick around. You were trying to scare her off.”

Dean snorts, pulling onto the road. “Yeah, ‘cause telling someone to salt their windows is real intimidating.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sam says. “You don’t want her involved.”

Dean grips the wheel a little tighter. “No, I don’t.”

“You probably talked her out of the ritual, too,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Big bad dream crusher.”

“Dean–”

“I didn’t say anything she wasn’t already thinking, alright?” he snaps. 

“She said she’d think about it.”

“Yeah,” Dean fires back, “and if you can stop hovering over her like a damn guidance counselor, maybe she actually will.”

Sam exhales a deep sigh. “She’s strong. You saw what she did tonight. She could help people, Dean.”

Dean almost wants to scoff. He certainly saw what you did tonight – during this entire case, actually. Sammy doesn’t even know about the thing you did with the roots in the woods, and Dean’s not volunteering to tell him either. Sam’s head would probably explode with ideas if he knew how powerful you truly were. 

“Yeah,” Dean huffs instead, shaking his head. “Or get herself killed.”

“She can handle it.”

“Barely.”

“She’ll learn.”

“And what happens when she runs into something she can’t learn her way out of, huh?” Dean counters. “What then?”

“That’s not your call to make,” Sam mutters.  

“No, but it is my problem,” Dean snaps. “Man, you told her about all of this. About demons, hunts, everything… You think that just goes away? You think nothing’s ever gonna come looking? It’s not if something happens to her, Sam. It’s when.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “So what, you just cut her loose and hope for the best? That’s your solution?”

“No, my solution is not dragging her deeper into this mess. I gave her what she needs to not be completely defenseless,” Dean says. “That’s more than most people get. She’s got a life, Sammy. A normal one.”

“I know that,” Sam says. “But life doesn’t always work that way.”

Dean scoffs a humorless laugh. “So, what? She’s just supposed to give it all up because she’s got powers?”

“I’m saying she has a choice, Dean,” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah, and you’re not exactly making it easy for her to say no,” Dean shoots back. “Guilt-tripping her with her family? Low hanging fruit, Sam.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam defends. “I was just trying to prepare her.”

“No, you know what’s not fair? You thinking this is gonna end well,” Dean snaps. “‘Cause it doesn’t. It never does. You of all people should know that. At least, I’m trying to keep her alive.”

Sam goes suspiciously quiet after that, leaning back as he studies Dean. “You didn’t seem too concerned about that when you invited her along.”

“Oh, don’t even–” Dean’s jaw ticks. “You told her first, man. You put her on the board. Not me. I just made sure she didn’t get blindsided. You wanna chase this demon? Fine. You wanna burn everything down to get it? Fine. But don’t drag her into it like she’s just another tool in the box.”

Sam grits his teeth. “That’s not what this is.”

“Really?” Dean shoots him a scrutinizing look. “’Cause it sounds a lot like you’re willing to risk whatever it takes to win. This is our mess. She’s not part of this, Sammy. Not if I can help it.”

Sam doesn’t answer this time, and that’s honestly answer enough.

He slumps back in his seat, crosses his arms, and scoffs quietly. “This isn’t over.”

Dean nearly snorts a laugh. “Wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

Before Sam can find his next argument, Dean reaches forward and cranks up the stereo, letting the sound of classic rock flood the Impala and drown out the rest. 

The road stretches ahead, dark and endless, and everything’s supposed to go back to normal again. But his mind keeps drifting back to you – standing under that streetlight in the middle of the night, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, looking at him like you knew exactly what that note meant. 

He hopes you stay out of this. Hopes that piece of paper he gave you can keep the world away from you. Hopes it’s enough. He really does, even though he knows it’s not – but it’s the best he’s got.

However, there’s a stubborn, quiet part of him that already knows he’s going to see you again. And honestly? He’s not sure if that’s something to dread, or something to look forward to.

▶️ Chapter 6: East Atlantic Breeze

We have our first case under the belt and a reluctant friendship was born 😂🫶

How did you enjoy Dean's latest dream? Is anyone aside from him still convinced those aren't actually real memories resurfacing? (And how long will he keep them to himself? lol) What did you think of reader's tarot reading and do you agree with the boys' cards? And what about the two that slipped out – are they really a glitch in the system? 👀

Another puzzle piece is coming next Friday, where we might get an unwanted visitor... 😬

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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.”

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