In every sense, really, but mostly when it comes to you. Sam reminds him daily, how much of an idiot he is for you. Dean’s been head over heels for you as long as he can remember—just pathetic for you, honestly. He’d do anything you asked, anything you wanted him to do. He’d walk on hot coals, believe anything you told him. That’s dangerous, especially in his line of work. It’s a liability, a weakness to have someone you care about close. It’s almost a death sentence. And Dean knew it.
Dean also knew something was wrong when you’d abruptly left the bar last night without so much as a look in his or Sam’s direction. The waitress was talking his goddamn ear off, and he knew you were getting bristled. For God’s sakes, he was, too. He tried to put his heart into the flirting with her, but it’s been so difficult to lately, especially in front of you.
With flirting, it’s mostly reflex for him. It’s easy. He’s been doing it as long as he can remember having a conscious thought—whether it was to get information, to get a bed for the night, or just for fun. It was one of the few things he was good at in life. Dean could flirt with anything, if he tried hard enough, but the past few weeks, months, hell, maybe even years, Dean’s head hasn’t been in the game when it comes to flirting someone’s pants off. Even if you’re not sitting next to him, he still feels like he shouldn’t be doing it.
He’s actually turned down people, which isn’t how the night’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to chat up the bartender, waitress, or whoever, ask them what time they get off, then kick Sam and sometimes you out of the motel for the night. But Dean hasn’t done that in a really long time. He just can’t do it anymore, not with the way he feels about you. He knows how he feels, but he won’t let himself have it. Have you. Yet everything else feels half-assed. Empty. It’s a vicous cycle of self destruction only Dean knows how to do.
Now, it’s finally come to bite him in the ass with this case.
He’d almost blew it when that stupid sheriff’s officer was talking to you. Dean took one look at him, trying to talk to you in a non-professional manner, and wanted to strangle him. Wanted to kill him, for even looking in your direction. He could do it, too, no problem. He’d do it quick, get you safe, obviously, just so he could have you all to himself. He’d gank that son of a bitch into next week for even having the audacity to fucking breathe in your direction. Was that normal? No. Couldn’t be. But Dean would’ve shot him without another thought, in that moment. Then his nose started bleeding before his hand went to the butt of his gun. And he knew.
He was in the bathroom while you and Sam were waiting for him, trying to stop the nosebleed—and somehow, Dean got it under control. He doesn’t know how. But he knew he couldn’t let this happen to him, not right now. There was a case to be solved—even if he was the next killer. Even if he ended up shooting off the head of the next person that looked in your direction. He fought the urge, plugged his nose, and sucked it up, the way he’s always had to do things. No time for his own personal feelings. He’d figure it out after you guys went to the shithole house that is quite literally your only lead.
So now, you know, thanks to the demon from the bar, that Dean’s ass-up in love with you. But what he wasn’t expecting in his entire lifetime was for you to feel the same.
See, Dean knew he’d always love you. He’s been prepared this entire time to love you in silence, to push it down deep, even though it hurts. You deserved someone better, anyhow. It wasn’t his place to keep you from getting away from him. Even though he’d sell his soul, again, if it meant spending one more day with you. You’re in his Heaven, and you make his life seem like it means something more than just hunting monsters. You make life seem not so bad, even though Dean has spent the past 3 decades of his life living and believing otherwise.
He knows he doesn’t show it, these so-called feelings he has. He never shows the people he loves that he does, in fact, love them. He’s gotten reamed out by Sam, Bobby, and sometimes even you yourself when he disrespected you. The first time Dean saw you cry because of him, he wanted to take a swan dive off the nearest surface. Because you were crying over him. He wasn’t worth that. You’ve cried multitudes of times since then over him, over something he said, something he did. He doesn’t necessarily see it, but your face is all puffy and cute the next morning. It softens something inside him and stabs at him all at once. He didn’t deserve you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any fucking lifetime. And yet, you felt the same way about him that he felt about you. All this time.
So that’s why he was shell-shocked, when that demon told you that she’d been trying to get to both of you, but didn’t prevail. He was even more surprised when he kissed you the second time—all he wanted was to make you feel better. He thinks he did a good job, judging by the way you melted into him the second time. You just looked so nervous, so uncomfortable, and he hated that. So he wanted to fix it, like he always does.
But you did instead.
There’s steam rising from where Envy fell to the ground, the demon-trapping bullet putting her down for the count. Dean stands there, more useless than a sack of potatoes as you finish the job with the demon knife, just… staring. You really are his dream girl: ganking the demon after kissing him senseless, looking hot as fuck. Jesus. And all he did was just sit there and watch.
You don’t look back at Dean right away, don’t let him see you—because now, he knows. He knows that your feelings for him are strong enough to take advantage of, knows that there is not a single thing that is platonic about the way you feel about him. You killed the demon, and now? You have to deal with your feelings.
You’d take the demon any day.
Somehow, you finally get the courage to look at Dean. You don’t know how, but you do it. But he doesn’t look upset. Or mad. He just looks really, reallysurprised. Like you haven’t been tripping and falling for him since as long as you can remember.
He takes a step towards you after you rise up from the ground. You take a step towards him, too. Dean swallows hard, looking down, then up at you again. It’s like you’re magnets—because soon enough, you’re inches apart again, and not because of a demon this time. You just… click together, like you always do. It’s like your bodies can’t bear to be far from one another for too long, always wanting to be as close as possible. It seems like for as long as you’ve known him, it’s been like that.
Dean can’t think. Can’t fucking speak, can’t do anything but look at you, into your beautiful eyes that are looking right back at him. He thinks you’ve put him under a spell, half the time. You’re lulling him to you, but he’s going willingly, anyway.
He gets lost in your eyes often, and he’s well aware that he does, but he can’t seem to care. You’re looking at him like you did that one night when he asked you to stay with him, when the nightmares were just too bad. You came to check on him, and you looked at him not with pity, but you looked almost tortured that you couldn’t do anything to help him. You looked at him like you cared, like you saw him for the man he could be, cracked open against his will by his ghosts that lurk in the shadows. You stayed that night, and he’d held you so close and tight that he thought you might pop in his hands. But you didn’t. You just held him too, looking at him with those eyes.
The same ones looking back at him now.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You look between Dean’s eyes, a million words to say, but none actually spoken aloud. You want to say how you’ve felt about him all this time, that ever since that night you stayed with him and even since before that, you want him. Even if he’s not perfect. It doesn’t matter to you. It feels like you’ve spent the entirety of you frindship with Dean trying to prove to him that maybe, just maybe, you like him for who he is.
Dean knows, too. Deep down, he knows that you’re the one for him, and some small, hopefull and goddamn childish part knows that you love him. He’s just been too scared to accept that. He’s been too terrified of the cost to admit it to himself—but now that it’s all out in the open, it’s all he wants to do. All he wants to say.
Sam’s muffled voice rings out before either of you are able to work up th courage to speak, calling you both back to the present. You don’t move right away, though. Neither does Dean. You stare at each other for what feels like houlrs, both unwilling to break apart, but eventually, you do.
You somehow silently agree on not telling Sam what happened. Just that the last demon of the Sins was killed. Sam is unusually quiet the entire ride back to the motel, too—and you’re too tired to ask why. Between running on a few hours of sleep and the emotional toll the case has taken on you, you’re dead on your feet as you slump in the Impala, but you can’t rest. Not really. Not with things left unsaid.
You’re still tossing and turning an hour after you said goodnight to Sam and Dean, then showered. It’s conflicting—because while every part of you screams to just go and talk to him, you know he’ll close up like a clam. It’s hopeless, and the other part of you knows that it is. A part of your brain believes that tomorrow, Dean won’t bring it up. Won’t look at you any differently, and just pretend like nothing happened. Like he’ll dissmiss his feelings for you simply because they’re too complicated to deal with—because you’re too complicated to deal with. So it’s easier to just bury it down, and to not even try to make the effort to love you.
That’s what sends you outside at 1:28am.
You’re sitting on the sorry excuse for a bench in the back of the motel—the mosaic of stones digging into the back of your thighs through your pajama pants. The entire charred-yellow lawn behind the building is filled with cigarette butts, strewn about among the weeds. The moon, however, is full and bright above you, high in the glittering starry sky—a dramatic contrast to the wasteland you’re sitting in. Your chest hurts, and it can’t seem to go away.
So you let yourself feel it. Just for tonight.
Dean can’t seem to sleep, either. He’s been listening to Sam’s quiet snoring for the past 45 minutes, unable to rest—but not because of the lawn mower-like noises coming from his brother. It’s because he’s thinking about you.
Not like that’s a new thing. He thinks about you all the time, especially when he can’t sleep and his mind wanders—but this is because of what happened earlier. How now, things can’t be the same between you two, no matter how much he pretends it hasn’t. And he can’t seem to get over it.
Usually, Dean’s been able to move on, for the sake of not only the person he cares about, but for him, too. He’s done it countless times, most of the time before the relationship even starts—yet it’s not coming as quickly this go around. You’re still in his mind, still making him debate if he wants this. Wants you. Dean Winchester doesn’t debate relationships. He doesn’t have them with anyone, period—but you’re changing his mind, somehow. You have captured him in a way no one else has been able to, and have been able to see him, understand him, love him in a way that he craves more than anything on this planet. It’s why he can’t move on or sweep it under the rug, he realizes—because you complete him.
That’s what sends him outside at 1:44am.
He stops in his tracks when he sees you sitting on the bench—and for a split second, he debates turning around and going back inside. Dean’s scared, terrified of what to say to you. What happens if it all goes wrong? What if you’re finally sick of him and his bullshit? It’s all he can think, but something inside him tells him to stay.
Dean makes his way to your side. You don’t notice him until he starts to sit down—and you look up at him, then look back down. You can’t face him, not like this. Not when your heart’s being ripped in half. He’s probably here to let you down easy. Probably here to say that what you heard ‘doesn’t matter, because he’s Dean Winchester, and he doesn’t do relationships, or love, or anything remotely’—
“Y’kinda remind me of the moon.”
Dean’s voice rings out, bringing you out of your thoughts, but somehow launching you back into them at the same time with his words.
“Huh?” You say intelligently, blinking up at him again.
“Y’heard me,” He mutters, leaning against the back of the bench as he sits next to you. “You remind me o’ her.”
“Her?” You echo, mostly in disbelief. Who knew Dean Winchester referred to the moon as a woman.
“Yeah, ‘her’,” He mocks back, almost daring you to question him again. He glances over at you before looking back at the moon. “Y’know, pretty, beautiful... jus’ the brightest one of ‘em all. She’s gotta lotta craters, but she’s the best thing in the sky.”
You look at Dean, your heart soaring, but he’s still looking up at the sky—and you think he’s doing it so he doesn’t have to look at you. He doesn’t look at you again, so you look at the sky, too.
“Yeah, but she’s all by herself,” You remark, noting the double entendre.
“Yeah,” Dean lements. That backfired. “But don’t think for a second that you are.”
You close your eyes, already starting to shake your head. “Dean—”
“Jus’— Just lemme get this out, alright?” He asks, not looking away from the sky. “Then y’can say whatever. I just… really needa do this.”
You bite back the words in your throat, nodding—and you know Dean sees it in his peripheral when he takes a deep breath in.
“I uh, don’t really like… feelings. I mean, that’s a helluva understatement, but, uh, yeah. I just… I can’t do ‘em. Not good, I mean. Y’know, not in the way I should. Or the— or the normal way. But, uh— Jesus, this is harder than I thought.” He sighs, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Uhm. You make me… feel things. Yeah. Good things, obviously, but it kinda sorta scares the crap outta me. But, uh, I like it. I like bein’ around you. I like seein’ ya everyday. S’just… I dunno. It’s hard. S’like I’m bein’ pulled in two different directions. Part’a me wants to, y’know, feel those things, and the other part wants me to bail. Y’know, run for the hills. Am I makin’ sense?”
Dean finally turns to you—and his face is so vulnerable, so honest, it makes you want to kiss him. You’d been looking at him for a while now, watching him fidget with nothing. He looks smaller, in the moonlight. Reduced to just him, now that there’s no one to perform for. No one to galavant for.
You nod.
“Good. Uh. Well, y’know, I usually let the bailin’ thing win. Jeez, what the hell am I sayin’. S’not usually— ‘s all the time. Every time,” Dean chuckles coldly, the self-deprication dripping from his words. “I bail on everyone. ‘Cause I can’t let ‘em bail on me first. But you… y’stuck with us. With me. All this time. And I… I can’t ignore that.”
“Dean—”
“What I’m tryna say is, you make me feel things that scare the hell outta me,” he says again. “But I… wanna keep feelin’ ‘em. I like bein’ around you. Y’make it better, bein’ here. Make me better. So I wanna keep bein’ around you. I wanna… well, I dunno.” He shakes his head, scratching at his jaw before straightening, a newfound sense of confidence overtaking him. “No, yeah, I do know. I wanna be with you,” He nods to himself, then looks at you. “I wanna…”
Dean trails off when his eyes lay fully upon you, his gaze softening completely. You’re looking right back at him, no judgement in your face. No annoyance. No anger. You’re just listening to him.
And it is then Dean needs to say it.
“I love you.”
Your lips part open, his words crashing into you like a wave breaking on a rock. He said it. He said it, and he really means it, because he’s looking at you, searching your face a little frantically now as you stare at him.
You’re frozen, looking at Dean. You blink once, stuck in the same position you’d been looking at him in. You think you’re dreaming, because you haven’t heard those words ever leave Dean’s mouth in the entire time you’ve known him—and now, he just said them to you. After blinking again, you scoot closer to him on the bench, the warmth from his body soaking into your skin. He glances down at your lips when you lean in a little more.
“I love you, too.”
Now it’s Dean’s turn to blink at you, his mouth parting, too. He short-circuts much like you did, swallowing when he’s able to, then looks down between you before scooting closer to you, a dopey grin spreading on his face when his nose brushes yours.
“Awesome.”
Your own smile appears on your lips, your forehead pressing against his—and he sighs, melting a little into you at the contact. Dean’s hand finds yours when he looks at you again, his eyes glancing down to your lips.
“I, uhm.” He starts, and you take it upon yourself to scoot closer to him until your legs are touching. “Hey.”
“Hi,” you murmur back, your free hand finding his shirt—not pulling, just resting your hand on his chest.
“Hey,” He repeats again, getting a little more nervous once more. “You— uh.” He stutters, eyes flicking down to your mouth again.
“Can I have a kiss, Dean?” You ask, lifting your head off his just enough.
“Y— yeah,” he nods, leaning in fully now. “‘Course y’can.”
Dean’s lips are soft. Warm. And soft. Softer than you’d imagined them to be—and he kisses you gently, holding you against him. You expected him to be a little rougher, but this is much better. You like Dean kissing you like this. Gentle, but still possessive. Like you’re his.
Some part of you knew from upon first laying eyes on Dean tonight that you wouldn’t be so ending the rest of the night alone. You take him back to your room to stay with you, even though Sam’ll be asking all kinds of questions in a few hours when you all get up to pack and leave. But for tonight, you’ll stay with Dean beside you.
Hey guys! Sooo I’m really sorry for not writing because honestly I feel my writings don’t go anywhere. DONT WORRY! If I have the urge and idea to write something - I will! But…I wanna make mood boards! And like create characters because I love Pinterest and making mood boards! Soo any of my moots who want any and request any please! I’ll be more than happy too! 🩷
summary: dean's finally in a town for longer than weekend. you've lived here your whole life. a party the week before dean has to leave breaks your heart and makes you feel whole again at the same time
pairing: teen!dean x reader (gn) | genre: renegade teenage feels | word count: 2.7k
warnings: backyard party, stealing alcohol, underage drinking, referenced underage drug use (not reader or dean), tispy confessions and kisses, teenage romanctic tension, a smidge of angst, ambiguous ending, teenage naivety, reader is implied to not be a hunter but it could go either way
notes: requested !!! by a lovely anon ! so it should be known that i have never been to a party, nor will i ever. this is a guess lmao i dont know what people do so ignore the vague descriptions. also for some reason i feel like my fics are getting shorter ?? something to investigate i guess
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The front steps of the house are inconspicuous upon first glace. Just a conglomerate of concrete and loose stones that you can peel out with your fingernails, leaving behind nothing more than hollow imprints in the memory of a pebble much older than you. There are six steps from the road to the house, and then another two from there to the front door; these last two are tiled in a pale beige colour, a marble countertop reject that almost glows in an eerie way under the fading sunset and the streetlamp down the road.
The pebbled steps are home to several ants on a journey to their nest, and a strange species of bug that look like tiny splatters of pure red blood that crawl up the sides of the concrete. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the lonely blades of grass waving to you from the edges of the lawn, thin green stripes of life that look impossibly strong for something so small. They greet the wind greedily, sweeping back from its power as one might pray to a god, kneeling over and whispering rustled prayers from their roots; prayers for structure and safety, for water and food and all that gives life its substance. The gust is gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving the grasses to straighten and focus their attention back to you, watching you as intently as you watch them.
The top two steps are where you sit, the tile cold under you despite the summer evening heat and the denim layer of your jeans that separates you from the stone. The edges of the top step are chipped and cracked from years of boots tripping over it, worn from wind and rain lashing at it with no care for its purpose. The divots between the tiles lay horizontal under your thighs, soft canyons for your body to fill and give purpose, cement scratching lightly at your jeans like a cat pawing for attention. Somewhere to your left is the edge of the step that dips off into dirt from a garden still unplanted, forgotten and overrun by weeds that push up wherever they can, begging to prove they deserve life like the flowers that should inhabit the box. To your right is the expanse of the step, plenty of space for another body to fill and warm the stone, then the edge on the opposite side as if forming a little island.
A sanctuary on the step is what you’ve carved out for yourself. Behind you is the ghost of an empty house, all the inhabitants either away on other business or out in the backyard with the other kids from the block. It’s pretty in the yard, with the string lights turned on like little yellow-white beacons of happiness pointing to the yard, illuminating the rosy, drunken glows of several underaged teenagers. It shines on the couple in the corner with their cigarettes smelling strong of weed, it shines on the group that commandeers the stereo, changing out the tapes when it hits a song unfit for drunken dancing. It had shone on you too, glancing off your skin in the kind of way that made you feel too seen and too warm under the brightness, prickly in a way that you never do otherwise. And right now, it shines on Dean too, glaring off the blonde streaks of his spiky hair and matching the colour of his eyes to the trees around the property, lighting him up and making him look like something otherworldly.
A whoop of laughter goes up from the fenceline, followed by the cheers announcing someone’s taken what should be a final drink and knows it won’t be. There’s the unintelligible sound of bets being placed, Dean raucous voice cracking above everyone else as he laughs along to something you can’t see. When you’d left, there’d been a girl at his side, arm strung with his and her fingers curled along the crook of his elbow, smiling like she had every right to be there. After the gate closed behind you and your absence was made obvious to Dean, he excused himself from the girl and left to join his friends on the patio, downing shots of something bitter that exists solely to burn and inebriate.
You have half a mind to head back to the yard after a few more deep breaths of cool night air. Something in the back of your mind wants you to rejoin the party, to spin yourself back underneath the lights and let the girls with their blonde hair done up in curls drag you into the grass barefoot to dance to some song you don’t know the words to. A hum in your bones belongs to energy you don’t know where to put, that you’re convinced could be well-spent hovering close but never touching Dean, staring at him under the fading sunlight and pretending you’re not watching him when his eyes lock onto yours. Some deep corner of your heart seems drawn to him, begging you to pull back into the yard and let those same whispering blades of grass tickle your ankles and form a soft blanket under your soles, carrying you in the direction of the man you’ve been trying so hard to pretend you don’t love.
Cold stone under your thighs meets the last dregs of sunlight as the world succumbs to sleep. The last cries of a bird echo somewhere over the rows of cookie-cutter houses, lined up neatly as if their symmetry can keep the horrors out. It’s a fruitless venture you’re sure, but the people in their homes don’t need to know that; the mere illusion of peace is enough to tide most of them over for the rest of their lives. Your fingers drift to the steps, tracing slowly along the lines that mar the stone as if you can repair it with a glance, as if you can solve its problem in the way you can’t seem to solve your own. A deep breath in brings the crisp bite of the air into your lungs, stinging on the way down in that pleasant way that makes you remember where you are. The kind of pain that reminds you you’re alive, something more than what you hunt, something more than what Dean dragged you here in a bid to escape. Just one night of normalcy for a change, because nobody would notice if you left for a handful of hours with a bottle of Jack and something sweeter stolen from a store down the street.
“Thought you’d be here.”
A voice breaks the carefully constructed silence you’ve made for yourself, intruding just on the edge of your consciousness like it’s afraid to fully enter but too shy to ask for permission. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Dean, because his presence is impressive enough to fill a room, even one without walls. You know he’s standing there with his hair all messy from a hand run through it a dozen times, still wearing that too-thin t-shirt that doesn’t do nearly enough to hide the muscles he pretends he doesn’t have, still in the thrifted jeans that are an inch too short and ripped in the knees.
“You cold?”
You don’t answer. Partly because you can’t find the words to, partly because you know he’ll see you and figure out the answer himself. He’s spent enough time around you to understand which shivers come from the cold and which ones come from the mere fact of his existence. Some rustling behind you melds with another gust of wind that sets the grass dancing again, and his leather jacket comes off, big, warm hands settling it around your shoulders and squeezing once in a gentle acknowledgement of your silence.
A soft groan comes next, and Dean’s boots land on the step beside your own, his weight plunking heavy on the stone beside you. His knees are bent up, crossed hands resting in the gap between them like a statue you’ve been admiring for a long time, thinking about what it means to be loved. He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face and scratching at a patch on the hinge of his jaw in the process. You can smell whatever drugstore cologne he’s wearing this time, something you can only really call mature. There’s a bittersweet scent of cheap liquor on his breath that settles deep in your lungs against your will, but because it comes from Dean, you can’t be bothered to exhale it away.
“You wanna go home?”
This makes you turn your head. “Do you?”
He shrugs half-heartedly. “I could go.”
You pick at a spot on your jeans, a loose thread threaded in dirt. “Why are you here?”
“At the party?” Dean asks, frowning.
“No. Here. With me.”
“’Cause I wanna be.”
The sun’s been down half an hour at this point and yet, you’re still warm. The stone doesn’t feel so cold anymore, not when there’s the body heat of two people on it, much less one you’ve been dying to get alone for a while.
“Why me?” you ask, a little breathless. “Shouldn’t you be back with your friends?”
Dean snorts. “They’re not my friends, sweetheart.”
The nickname has no right to make your stomach flutter, but it does anyway.
“How drunk are you?” you ask.
“Maybe a little tipsy. So are you, I’ll point out.”
“Only because you told me to have a drink.”
“You could’ve said no. I would’ve forced you.”
You smile in spite of it, because really, he’s right. “You’re ignoring the question.”
Dean’s shoulders lift and fall in a sigh that floats out into the night air, a sigh that carries away the last of his inhibitions. Nobody knows you’re out here as far as you’re both aware, and anyone who’s seen you leave is likely too drunk to think it’s worth remembering. Dean looks small beside you, suddenly smaller than the world in a way that would be unsettling if it were anyone but him. On Dean, it looks normal, finally dropping the guard he keeps up to protect himself and forgets he can drop, the guard that only comes down on quiet nights where there’s nothing left between you but the sky and the stars.
Dean crushes his red plastic cup in his fist, tucking the flattened cup into his jeans pocket. His hands fidget pointlessly in his lap, restless in the quiet because Dean is a man who needs to be loud to feel human and being quiet means giving up everything. But he gives it up for you, because you live quiet by comparison, and Dean can’t bear to intrude on your space with all his noise and act surprised when it hurts your ears. You can see the moment his shell disappears, when his shoulders round out and his spine loses that military-like rigidity both him and his brother carry. His hand flips palm up on his jean-covered thigh, fingers twitching in a soft invitation for you to take it. You do, lacing your fingers with his and staring at the way your hands fit together, creases on your palms lining up like one finishes the story the other starts.
“I’m gonna tell you somethin’, and I want you to just listen,” Dean finally says.
“Dean-.”
“Just-. I’m not sayin’ it ‘cause I’m drunk ‘n lonely, okay? I’m just-. I’m just sayin’ it ‘cause I want you to know.”
You fall quiet in that kind of way that invites people in, the way that feels warm and soft like a blanket falling over the stairs. Your eyes find Dean’s, and you can see uncharacteristic worry swimming in the green depths made almost black by the lack of light. The sickly sodium-yellow of the streetlights make him look ghostly, but he’s warm and solid and real, and that’s all you need to know you’re safe. It softens all his sharp edges into something you can touch without cutting your skin, something that doesn’t bruise to look it; it makes him human.
He clears his throat, a harsh sound that he apologizes for under his breath before speaking.
“We leave town in a week.”
Your heart sinks.
“I thought I was gonna get more time, but I only got a week.”
Your hand not holding his drifts to his shoulder, resting without pressing.
“’Nd I guess I wanna tell you anyway, ‘cause if I drive away without sayin’ anything, I’m gonna regret it for the rest of my life.”
He swallows thickly, swiping at his cheeks.
“I don’t really do feeling. Or- or love. ‘S just not somethin’ I can do. But-.” He turns to watch your face for rejection. “I’d figure it out if it was you. I’d make somethin’ work.”
You blink, because that’s all you can do when he speaks like this.
“I don’t wanna make you wait f’me, and I’m not gonna make you do anythin’ you don’t wanna. ‘M just tellin’ you so you…know. I guess.”
He waits you out while you collect your words from somewhere under your tongue where they stay for safekeeping. Sifting through them, it’s hard to find the words you’re looking for. Some of them seem too harsh for the circumstances, some of them don’t make a dent in what you want to say, some of them aren’t even close to explaining yourself. You can see Dean already starting to pull away, rubbing an anxious hand on the back of his neck that you can tell is already flushed in embarrassment, that familiar red tinge burning hot even in the darkness, making his already dark freckles even darker.
“Dean?” you say quietly, finding your voice.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Don’t move.”
His brow furrows, confused, but he stays still. Lets you come to him on your own time, movements a little awkward from the stairs, but well intentioned anyways. You tip his head to the side, one hand sweetly cupping his jaw and cheek, thumb resting on the corner of his mouth. Lightly, like anything more would pain you to give, you press a soft, sweet kiss to the skin of his cheek, a gentle peck that makes his skin tingle where you touch. Another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and a third to his forehead once you’ve turned him to face you again.
“Thank you for telling me,” you murmur when you pull away.
“Y- I- Yeah. ‘Course.”
“I dunno what it’s going to look like when you leave,” you say.
“’M sorry.”
You smile soft. “Not your fault.”
“I know. ‘M still sorry.”
You nod, twisting your fingers with his. “But I still want to try. I’ve been watching you for a while.”
Dean grins. “I know. Been watching you too.”
Your face heats. “So…do you want to try? Maybe you’ll come back some time.”
Dean shifts his weight in that heavy way that says he’s got more to say that he can’t tell you or won’t tell you. “I dunno if I will, sweetheart. ‘S up to my dad.”
“That’s okay. You’ll grow up and get a car. Or I will. We’ll find each other.”
Dean kisses you for real then, the light push of his lips on yours making your stomach flutter and your heart sing something sweet in your ribcage. He doesn’t press, doesn’t let his hands roam over your body, but he lets you occupy the space you always do and lets it feel like home, even when he’s there. Your fingers lock around his jacket when you part, slinging it off your shoulders and handing it back to him as he helps you up from the step.
“Wanna go home?” Dean asks.
“Wanna come home with me?” you reply.
Dean grins. Your face gets impossibly hotter.
“Not like that,” you add, smacking his chest lightly as you both laugh.
Dean steals another quick kiss. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Let’s go home.”
You never meant to fall and stumble down ten stories high. You should’ve listened to yourself - don’t be clumsy and fall head first. But here you are, blood rushing through your body and your stomach spiraling with you as the ground got closer and closer. Well, that would’ve been the better case. But you did fall hard - not to your death - but into the realization that you’re in love with Dean Winchester.
It came to you gradually like everyday was a step up the spiraled stair case. Every little moment and every touch made your steps quicken until you were at the very top. It was beautiful but so suffocating. The clouds were pure white and looked like you could float right up to heaven on them. The sky was crystal blue like no storm would be in sight for days. Your hands gripped the railing of the open balcony, taking in the fresh air. It was so peaceful like nothing bad could happen, like no storm was on its way.
That’s when you fell hard. Head first, actually.
It was silent when you woke up. Like there’s a break to finally breathe. No headache, no cramps and no pain. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so refreshed in your life, not since you decided to join Sam and Dean. But you won’t have it any other way. You’re just happy there’s a break for once.
“Morning sleeping beauty.”
Your eyes darted lazily before landing on the figure next to you. You shifted upright, your back leaning against the bed frame. You couldn’t remember much, just darkness.
“What happened?”
Dean placed the cup of water on the side table and a bottle of aspirin. He shifted on his feet before sitting on the edge of the bed near your legs.
“Nothing big. Case went sideways but we’re okay.”
You nodded your head feeling a bit of relief. You didn’t know why you were relieved because it always felt wrong that something would come back and bite you. But today you let yourself ignore that.
“How are you feeling?”
You hesitated trying to notice if anything felt wrong. You felt great, like you were ten again and ready to go play tag on the playground.
“Good, actually.”
Deans eyes focused on your face like he was trying to see if you were lying or not. You liked the way he’d notice the little things - it’s like he knew you inside and out. His eyes would crinkle at the edges when he focused and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.
“I’m fine, Dean. Really I feel great.”
You didn’t understand why. You usually have a headache from the amount of time you bicker with Dean or feel sore from the amount of running you do on the job. But today you feel like you can fly, it’s a miracle.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“Dean since when have you ever cooked before?”
He just shrugged his shoulders before handing over you a plate of bacon and pancakes.
“Hey, I can be handy when I want to be.”
You just smiled before eating your breakfast. You found it odd that Dean suddenly had the idea to use the motel kitchen but that thought went away when you started eating.
“What the- Dean this is amazing.”
Dean placed down a coffee cup beside your plate before sitting down across from you at the table. He grinned before nodding his head towards your plate.
“Eat up you need it.”
You paused at Deans comment, fork halfway to your lips. What was that supposed to mean? The door suddenly opened to the motel room as Sam walked in.
“Dean, guess what? Turns out all the victims that were found were drained - physically.”
Dean and you both looked over at Sam, of course another case.
“Huh.”
Your brows furrowed together as you looked down at your perfectly golden yellow pancakes.
“A djinn..right?”
When you looked back up the brothers were both looking at you before nodding their heads.
“Mhm. According to the lore they drain the persons blood but while that’s happening they’re putting that person in like a dream reality.”
Deans gaze landed on you as your eyes were focused on Sam as he continued to go on and on about the lore. Dean loved how you would always get really focused without realizing. It was like you would just tune everything out and then you were in your own world, completely ignoring everything without meaning too.
“Alright, well when should we go?”
Dean knitted his brows, eyes still locked on yours. He didn’t want you to go not after what just happened. He doesn’t want to lose you, not ever.
“Sam and I are going, you stay here.”
Sam looked between you and Dean like he felt like a fight was going to happen. He knew his brother always wanted to protect you but you’re too stubborn to listen to him.
“Why? I can fight just fine Dean.”
Dean hesitated before locking eyes with Sam. Sam tilted his head to the side giving Dean the puppy dog, guilt expression. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair before getting up.
“Okay, let’s go then.”
You smiled before getting up and walking out the motel door with a pep in your step, Sam and Dean followed behind.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The abandoned warehouse was placed in the middle of no where, there were no cars on the road and the warehouse was covered in overgrown vines. Perfect - this is exactly where a djinn would hold their victims.
You all decided to split up because it’d be easier to find the ugly bastard. Dean didn’t want to but with much of your convincing and you not paying attention to Sam’s puppy eyed expression, they agreed. Someone would probably find the victims, one would find the djinn and the other would just hear the fighting and come to them. Easy.
You walked down the empty hallway with your knife in your hand. It was dark and somewhere was the sound of dripping water but it was oddly clean. Each step you took your heart pounded and your mind raced. What if the djinn got Dean and Sam? What if the djinn gets me?
A loud bang pulled you out of your thoughts. You snapped your head around before realizing the sound came from Dean’s hallway. You ran towards where you heard the sound last, the hallway starting to get more cluttered with old boxes and random equipment.
“Dean? Sam?”
Your breath quickened when you paved your way through the crowded hallway and pushed through the unlocked door to where Dean and Sam were. Sam was trying to wake up the victims and Dean was trying to stab the djinn. You had to distract it. Your eyes darted across the floor before picking up a wrench, your knife now in your other hand.
“Hey! Over here, ugly!”
You threw the wrench at the djinn but it didn’t even look your way. It still went after Dean. Poor Sam was still in the back trying to wake up the victims and trying to unplug them.
“Don’t come over, I got it!”
You huffed before switching your knife back to your other hand. Dean didn’t need to tell you that because you both knew you wouldn’t listen. You ran towards where the djinn was before stabbing it in the back. You twisted your knife into its back so it’d get more effect on the djinn. You paused mid fight when the knife had no effect on the djinn whatsoever.
“What the-“
The world went silent. You looked around and everything was frozen. You felt the hairs on your arms stand up. This isn’t right.
“Dean? Sam? Guys?!”
“This isn’t your fight.”
You quickly turned around before a woman in black stood in front of you. From behind you can hear the djinn get stabbed by Deans knife and Sam waking up the victims. You turned your head around and it seemed like everything was really happening but just not with you in it.
“I don’t-“
“I know.” The woman stated. She put a comforting hand on your shoulder to bring your attention back to her.
“This isn’t your fight.”
“How? I’m right here, am I? I stabbed the thing and I woke up-“
She shook her head as her eyebrows knitted together in a guilty expression.
“You never woke up.”
“Look lady- who are you? What are you doing here?”
She moved her hand off your shoulder before cupping her hands infront of her.
“You’re dead.”
Your breath came to a halt. Everything seemed to blur and you didn’t know what was real or not.
“You remember, don’t you?”
You swallowed hard as you tried to gain consciousness.
“No..I don’t.”
She grabbed both of your hands. Her hands were warm which made you feel the chill of your own hands. She closed her eyes and so you did too.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“I’ll take upstairs, you and Sammy can take those hallways.”
You scoffed and shoved past Dean.
“No, I’ll take upstairs. You can take downstairs with Sam.”
Dean shook his head and opened his mouth but before he could get anything out Sam blurted out.
“How about you both take upstairs and I’ll take the main floor.”
You let out a distinct “hm” before shoving past Dean and heading up the stairwell. You heard Dean let out an annoyed huff before following behind you.
A vengeful spirit. Sam did the research back at the motel while you and Dean tried to make a bet of who’d name the most movies in a minute. Neither of you got to finish the bet because Sam found out the abandoned hospital that had ten deaths in ten weeks was caused by a vengeful spirit.
“Okay but after this I can tell you I’m getting that twenty bucks.”
You rolled your eyes and shoved Deans arm.
“Uh no, I’m getting that twenty bucks because I’m the movie expert - all you know are cowboy movies.”
“Sure, we’ll see about that-“
A scream was heard from down the hallway. You and Dean quickly hurried down the hall to where you heard the screech. Her name was Jane Withers. She died from getting pushed down the flight of stairs from the love of her life or so she thought. Sam learned that her husband had been cheating on her and when she found out that’s when he pushed her down the many flights of stairs.
You and Dean stood near the staircase at the end of the hallway where Jane was. She threw you back against the wall so she could get to Dean. He fired his rock salt at her but when you thought she was gone she’d kept coming back to circle Dean. Sam should definitely hurry and find her bones.
Your vision was blurred from the impact but you slowly got up. You grabbed your salt gun and started firing her from a distance, so did Dean.
“Hurry up, Sam!”
You heard loud movement coming from the main floor which was Sam trying to find her remains or at least a piece of her. You and Dean kept firing Jane back to back and after a few seconds it seemed like it actually worked. It was silent as you both waited for her to reappear but she never did.
Sam finally burnt her remains.
You let out a huff of relief and stepped back from Dean, your back close to the railing.
“Finally that’s done.”
Dean nodded his head and grinned.
“Yeah, thanks Sammy just in time.”
You loosened your grip on your salt gun as you took a breather. You looked over at Dean and his eyes were already locked on yours.
“You okay from that fall? Not hurt?”
You shook your head with a soft smile on your lips.
“I’m good, Dean.”
You could use some aspirin for the headache and the pain you’re starting to gain in your back, but you’re not going to complain - not when you’re here alone with Dean. He shifted his weight on his feet before smiling back. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something but it never came out, instead he closed his mouth back up.
You loved moments like this where you could just stay in silence without it being awkward. There was never an awkward moment between you and Dean. You had a bond that you never had with anyone else before.
“Watch out!”
You didn’t realize Dean was screaming your name before your body was falling through the air. The ground kept rushing closer and closer before you hit the ground.
“Do you remember now?”
You watched as your body fell down the stairwell to the main floor. Sam was burning her remains outside. When he came back in, Dean was hovering over your body - cradling your body in his hands.
“It’s okay, you’re going to be alright. Come on, wake up. Wake up!”
Sam had rushed over to you and Dean but they both knew it was too late.
“Please wake up for me, please.”
Dean kissed your forehead as he whispered to you.
“Are you ready?”
You shifted on your feet as you peeled your gaze away from Dean and Sam. You didn’t want to leave them, you’d rather stay in that fake reality you somehow made up but it wasn’t good to hold on.
“I think so.”
The reaper smiled before holding out her arms, waiting for you to come in. You hesitated before taking one last glance at Sam and Dean. You knew this wouldn’t be the last time you’d see them. Sooner or later you all would cross paths again and share the new memories you made without each other. Later, you hoped.
Your vision blurred as you held back the tears pooling in your eyes. You turned your attention back to the reaper standing before you.
You took a step forward and went into her embrace, your eyes shutting tight. You weren’t ready for what was on the other side. Heaven? Hell? No one knew. All you knew was that it’d be better than wandering through old memories that you’d never relive - instead you have to make new ones wherever you go.
You were moving on into your own world with the memory of loving Dean Winchester, but he was left in his own world still loving you when you weren’t apart of it anymore.
Dean x Reader
Summary: Some moments can’t be relived, no matter how much Dean wishes they could. Between memory and reality, he faces the life and the love that slipped through his fingers.
Warnings: angst with hopeful ending, grief, character death
Word count: 4.7K
Which was strange, because he had been certain for most of his adult life that anyone who came too close to him was doomed to an early grave. It didn’t matter who they were or how careful he tried to be. Just standing within his orbit seemed to be enough.
---
Dean never thought it would end this way.
No one ever had the promise of a long life when he was around, like he himself was some twisted messenger of Death. As if the sound of his boots crossing someone’s threshold was an omen all on its own.
He had more than enough proof to back the theory up. Names, faces, ghosts that followed him whether he wanted them to or not. A lifetime of evidence stacked against him.
And still, somehow, he never truly believed it could apply to you.
Maybe it was because when he met you, he was still young, ignorant of how bad things were going to get. Before the world taught him exactly how much it enjoyed taking things away from him.
—
It was January 1st, the day he met you, like some kind of metaphor for a new beginning.
Or maybe it was a cruel joke on destiny’s part, planting the seed for everything that would come after.
You walked down the stairs and into the kitchen of your shared apartment, rubbing sleep from your eyes, drawn in by the smell of coffee and pancakes like a Pied Piper’s call.
“Smells so good,” you muttered as you crossed the threshold, only to freeze mid-step when you noticed him.
Dean stood at the stove, flipping a pancake with more confidence than he felt. When he turned and caught sight of you, he smiled. “Thanks.”
He turned his attention back to the pan, shoulders relaxing. “On the phone with her mom.”
You blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Where’s Cassie?”
You hummed in acknowledgement and took a seat at the table, still watching him from the corner of your eye. A beat passed before he glanced back over his shoulder.
“I’m Dean, by the way.”
“Yeah, I figured,” you replied, before offering your name. Then, with a small, amused smile: “Didn’t know you could cook. I’ll put in a good word for you if I can get a plate of those.”
His smile widened, and he gave you an exaggerated salute. “At your orders, my lady. First plate’s for you.”
“Nah.” You shook your head. “The first ones never turn out right. My good word deserves better than a failed experiment.”
He fake-gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know,” he said, “none of my pancakes are a failed experiment.”
“Really?” You raised an eyebrow. “Then that burning smell must be in my imagination.”
His head snapped back toward the stove, eyes widening in genuine alarm. “Oh—crap.”
He fumbled with the pan, producing a plate of half-burnt pancakes that he clearly tried and failed to hide from you.
You clicked your tongue. “Can’t believe that’s what you wanted to feed me. Not a great first impression, Dean.”
“Well,” you said, softer now, “that just makes the effort more impressive.” You nodded toward the stove. “Want a hand?”
When he turned back around, he looked oddly bashful, like he’d screwed up something far more important than breakfast. Like your words had landed harder than you’d meant them to. “I don’t really cook a lot,” he offered quietly, almost apologetic.
“Nah,” he waved you off, straightening up. “I’m a quick learner. And I’m gonna deliver you a perfect plate of pancakes if it’s the last thing I do.”
You looked down at the plate, clearly impressed, then back up at him. When you smiled and told him he’d done good, something warm and unexpected settled in his chest.
Five minutes later, he set down an immaculate plate in front of you. They were golden and evenly cooked. He hovered there, eyebrows raised, waiting. “Huh? What d’you think?”
He didn’t know that day that his thoughts would circle back to you years later, every time a plate of pancakes was set in front of him. That it would pull a smile from him before he even realised it; a smile born from a simpler time, from an easy moment created and remembered with no effort.
—
“Can’t believe it,” Dean heard, and instinctively turned around.
You were standing there in the same aisle of a small market, a few years later, in a completely different city.
“If it isn’t the pancake man.”
He laughed quietly. Sam glanced between the two of you, then quickly dismissed you as some old conquest, one who looked far too pleased to see him.
“It’s Dean,” he said.
“Right. Dean.” You tilted your head, studying him for a second, eyes flicking over his jacket, the stubble he hadn’t bothered shaving. “You look… older.”
He snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”
“I didn’t say worse,” you said easily. “Just—older.”
Before you could say your name, he said it for you, like it had never left him. “I remember,” he added.
That earned him a nice smile, one that warmed all the right places in that cold winter month. Somewhere behind you, a small Christmas tree flickered softly, its lights reflecting dully off the glass doors, unnoticed by either of you.
“So,” you said, shifting your weight, gesturing vaguely between the shelves stacked with boxed mixes and canned goods, “cooking more these days?”
Dean shrugged. “Here and there.”
You smiled again, smaller this time. “Hope you finally stopped burning them.”
Before either of you could say anything more, your friend called out from a few steps away, impatience clear in her voice, reminding you how late you were.
“That’s my cue,” you said. “It was really good seeing you.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, meaning it more than he let on. “It was.”
You stepped away, boots scuffing softly against the tile, then turned back once more. “Take care, Dean. Happy New Year.”
“You too,” he said. Then, under his breath, "Happy New Year.”
Sam was watching him when he turned around, eyebrows raised. “Pancake man?”
“It’s an inside joke,” Dean said, waving it off and turning back toward the shelves, hands shoved in his pockets. “You wouldn’t get it.”
Sam probably could have gotten it just fine. Dean just didn’t want to explain it.
It felt right to keep it to himself. A small, warm thing, a moment that belonged only to the two of you.
—
The day he met you again was many years down the line, when he’d already been to Hell and back. Literally.
He was in the middle of sneaking out of a room, shoes clutched in one hand, moving quietly down the hallway toward the front door, when your voice stopped him cold.
“What—no pancakes this time around?”
Dean turned so fast he nearly tripped over himself.
His eyes widened, breath catching for just a second, as your name slipped past his lips without hesitation.
“I thought that was you.” You were standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in quiet amusement. “What is it with you and my roommates, man? We really gotta stop meeting like this.”
He laughed under his breath, and for a split second, he wasn’t standing in a hallway at all. He was back in that old kitchen, flipping pancakes like it mattered, trying his damnedest to impress you.
“Been a long time,” he said softly, genuinely glad to see you.
There hadn’t been much between you—one morning, a couple of conversations afterwards—but the familiarity hit him all the same, warm and unexpected.
“I’d offer you breakfast,” you said, eyes flicking pointedly to the shoes in his hands, “but it looks like you’re trying to make a getaway.”
Dean glanced down at his watch. “Uh—yeah. How about tomorrow?” He looked back up at you. “Diner down the street? I can't stop right now. My brother’s waiting outside.”
And just like that, you were back in his life.
“Sure,” you said easily, like it wasn’t strange at all. Like time hadn’t passed the way it had. “I’ll see you there.”
—
Dean didn’t know you all that well; there had never really been enough time for that. And yet, when you sat down across from him at the diner, it felt like the reunion of two old friends, like no explanations were required and no time had truly been lost.
The conversation flowed easily, shifting effortlessly from one topic to the next. He laughed more than he expected to, smiled more than he had in a long while. By the time you exchanged numbers and said goodbye, there was something light in his chest he hadn’t felt in years.
He hadn’t known unexpected meetings could be good.
He hadn’t known that not everything from his past came back to haunt him.
—
Some folksy love song was playing in the background when Dean walked back to the table and set your drink down in front of you, the glass clinking softly against the wood before he slid into the seat across from you.
Outside, it was pitch-dark, the street barely lit by a few tired lampposts doing their best without much success. Inside, the bar glowed warm and amber, the light catching on scuffed wooden tables and worn booth backs, making the whole place feel cozier, like the night couldn’t quite get in.
You talked over the music and the low hum of voices, trading stories and half-finished thoughts, both of you leaning forward across the table just to hear each other better.
Eventually—fed up with the effort, or maybe just looking for an excuse—Dean stood up and slid into the booth beside you instead.
The conversation came easier then, and so did the laughter. His knee brushed yours, his shoulder warm against your arm, and you hardly noticed how quickly the hours slipped past until the sound in the bar shifted.
The countdown had started.
The Times Square ball drop played on the small television mounted near the shelves behind the bar, numbers flashing bright and loud. You barely spared it a glance.
Not when Dean was already looking at you, mouth curved like he was holding back a thought. He bit his lower lip, just briefly.
Three seconds to midnight, he leaned in a little closer, eyebrows lifting in a silent question as his arm slid along the back of the booth behind your shoulders.
You didn’t hesitate. You closed the distance and kissed him, feeling his fingers come up to cup your cheek, gentle but sure as he pulled you closer.
The bar erupted around you with cheers and clinking glasses, the song swallowed by noise, but for a moment, it was just the two of you, tucked into the corner of the booth, right on time.
—
It was a January 1st, a couple of years later, that found him stumbling into your room behind you, arms slipping easily around your waist, lips pressed against yours. There was more alcohol than intention, however, and it carried you both down onto the bed in a clumsy sprawl of limbs and laughter.
You kissed lazily, unhurried, mouths brushing, words dissolving into half-formed murmurs that barely made sense. Plans were made and abandoned just as quickly until sleep won the battle and claimed you both without ceremony.
When morning came, the awkwardness lasted only a heartbeat, just long enough to register the situation, the closeness, before you both broke into laughter at the state you were in.
“Happy New Year, I guess," he mumbled, and you laughed again.
“You know what’d make this morning better?”
He turned as you rolled onto your side to face him completely. “What?”
“Something you haven’t done for me in a very long time.”
“What—pancakes?” he asked.
At your immediate, enthusiastic nod, he groaned and flopped back against the mattress, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I’m so hungover,” he muttered. “So hungover. I’m gonna need a minute.”
“Okay,” you conceded easily, already pushing yourself upright. “I’m gonna make you something then.”
His hand caught you before you could move, fingers curling around your wrist and tugging you back down. He pulled you close, tucking you against his chest, holding you there.
“Didn’t say I wouldn’t make ’em,” he said, voice still rough from sleep. “Just… in a minute.”
When you didn't move and settled there in his arms, he smiled to himself and let his eyes close again.
—
It was well past midday, and Dean stood at the stove, pouring batter into the pan. He tilted it slightly then, trying to coax the shape into something respectable.
“Haven’t done this since that day, y’know?” he said casually.
The pancakes began to sizzle softly, filling the room with warmth and the familiar smell that had already wrapped itself around you. You watched them in open anticipation, plates, forks, and the bottle of maple syrup already lined up in front of you.
“So you don’t do this for every girl you sleep with?”
He huffed out a laugh. “No, believe it or not.” He paused, then added, “And hey—making ’em twice for you and we haven’t even slept together.” He stopped and tilted his head, brow furrowing. “Though… I guess we did try last night.”
“True,” you said, shifting until your back rested against the counter. “You know, you kinda ruined pancakes for me for years? They really were amazing.”
Dean glanced over at you, a smile tugging at his mouth before he quickly looked back at the pan, clearly trying not to burn them this time. “Were they?” he said lightly. “Good to know, ’cause I’m pretty sure I got something wrong back then.”
“Did you?”
“Oh yeah. Totally,” he said, flipping them with a flick. “But don’t worry—I recreated the exact same recipe. Wouldn’t wanna taint your good memory of me.”
“Good,” you said, smiling. “As long as you don’t try to feed me the burnt ones again.”
Dean shot you an amused look, then slid an arm around you, pulling you in until you fit against him like you belonged there. Close enough to feel his warmth, close enough that it felt safe.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, my lady,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss into your hair.
—
“So,” you said, pushing the empty plate away as the clock clicked over to 1 p.m. “We’ve got two options.”
Dean hummed thoughtfully, dragging the sound out. “Please tell me one of these options says we can go back to bed.”
“What—are you still tired?”
He gave you a look. “How are you not tired after last night?”
You shrugged, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t know. I’m just really happy you’re here. We don’t really see each other all that much.”
Dean tried, truly tried, not to let that sink its hooks into him. And failed anyway.
“Y’know,” he said lightly, “if you keep talking to me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you’ve got some big crush on me and let it go to my head.”
“Well, I do hope you start thinking it,” you replied, standing up. “Not really sure what else I could do to make it clearer.”
“Good," he replied, smiling, “that’s what I hoped you’d say.” Then he moved fast; his hand closed around your wrist, pulling you back toward him before you could take another step. The plates stayed abandoned on the table, forgotten entirely, as you sat back down beside him. “So,” Dean said, leaning in, voice lower now. “What are the options? I’m real curious.”
You looked at him through your lashes, noticed the way his pupils were blown wide as he watched you. You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned in and kissed him.
Dean liked that option a lot.
He pulled you closer, hands firm at your waist, guiding you easily onto his lap as he kissed you back. “Like you so much," he murmured against your lips. “So damn much."
You pressed a hand to his chest, gently but firmly, breaking the kiss. “Can you promise me something?”
“Mmm, what?” he murmured, already leaning in again, chasing your mouth.
“I know there were other women,” you said softly. “And I know there will be other women.”
That stopped him.
He leaned back just enough to look at you properly, expression turning serious. “There won’t be anymore,” he said immediately. “Only you.”
You shook your head, a small smile curving your mouth. “That’s not what I’m saying. We hardly see each other. I don’t have unrealistic dreams about us.”
“That just means I’ll come visit more often,” he said quickly. “Call you more often.”
“I’d like that,” you admitted. Then, quieter, “But that’s not what I’m asking. I just—can you promise me that you won’t cook breakfast for them like you do for me? That it’ll just be our thing?”
His hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, knuckles soft against your skin. He leaned in, lips grazing yours.
“You can ask for more than that,” he said. “I can do more than that.”
“But do you promise?”
He nodded, a smile breaking through. “Cross my heart. No one ever gets my pancakes but you.” A beat. “Even the burnt ones.”
—
You laughed, and Dean didn’t hesitate. He kissed you again, deeper this time, until everything else blurred out.
The sheets were tangled against your legs as he shifted closer, instinctively seeking your warmth, and let his arms wrap around you. You were already drifting, eyelids fluttering shut as sleep claimed you, and he finally allowed himself to relax beside you.
Afternoon light filtered in through the window, soft and golden, brushing over your face. He watched it for a moment longer than necessary, memorising the way it softened your features, the way you looked so peaceful it almost hurt to see. He pressed a quiet kiss to your shoulder, careful not to wake you, then sank fully into the pillow, letting himself be pulled under too, welcoming another stolen hour of rest with you safe in his arms.
Sleep came easily.
Dreams followed—of laughter shared over breakfast tables, of pancakes and coffee and easy mornings. Of limbs tangled together in warm light, of familiar touches and smiles too tender to fully hold onto.
Dreams that felt simple. Normal.
No nightmares found him that day.
Those stayed just out of reach, patiently waiting for their moment to come.
—
Dean awoke to cold and darkness, to his brother shouting his name.
He blinked tiredly at nothing, disoriented, wondering where you’d gone. He'd just gone to bed with you, he was pretty sure.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to hold onto it. To remember. Maybe even to fall back into whatever he’d been pulled from.
Sam didn’t let him.
Hands cupped his face, firm and grounding, Sam’s voice breaking through the fog as he told him to wake up. Dean opened his eyes just long enough to snap at him to leave him alone.
The humid warehouse came into focus instead.
Water dripped somewhere nearby as Sam pulled him to sit upright, back against the wall. A discarded blood bag lay near his feet. Dean frowned at it, his thoughts tangled, memories and dreams bleeding together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
It took a long moment for clarity to return, for the dream to loosen its grip just enough for him to breathe.
That's when he remembered.
The hunt. The djinn that would trap his victims in sweet memories.
His shoulders sagged as the truth settled in.
Dean shut his eyes tight, trying to claw back whatever fragments of you he could, to relive it again for just one moment.
When Sam returned with the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and crouched to haul him to his feet, Dean stayed slumped against the wall, hands covering his face as quiet, broken sobs tore out of him.
Sam stepped back and gave him space, a moment of silence. A moment to mourn you all over again.
Dean didn’t speak during the drive back. He didn’t speak much in the days that followed, either.
When he finally felt steady enough to drive on his own, he let himself pass by your old house. Let himself go inside what had once felt like home, during the months when he’d learned how to split his time between you and the job, when he’d made breakfast for you and only you so many times he’d lost count, and never once grown tired of it.
Dean sat on the floor with his back against your bed, staring down at the photographs you’d collected over time. Evidence of a life so real it still ached in his chest.
Maybe, in some twisted way, it had been a blessing to relive it all again. To feel it one more time instead of letting it fade into imagination.
Fireworks burst somewhere outside, their muffled echoes slipping through the closed windows.
Dean paid them no attention.
It was a new January 1st.
—-
A new year.
One that would begin and end without you.
He thought about it sometimes, about breaking the promise, about making pancakes for someone else. Not that he could. He couldn’t even order them at diners anymore.
Still, there was this dumb, hopeless hope inside him that if he did it, you might somehow come back to haunt him, orbit his life again, reinsert yourself into the little world he’d built around memories of you.
It was only a theory. One he’d never be brave enough to test.
So he clung to the only thing he could get: dreams.
A jar of African Dream Root sat under his bed, waiting for him each night. The only way to see you. The only way to feel your presence, fleeting and fabricated, stitched together from images that never carried the warmth of reality.
And every morning, he woke up more heartbroken than the day before. Yet he didn’t stop. He couldn’t bear for you to vanish completely from his life, like mist slipping through his fingers.
—
A familiar smell dragged him out of sleep, clinging to the edges of his dreams.
Dean blinked awake, disoriented, and before he could think better of it, his body was already moving. His feet carried him down the hallway of your house, drawn by instinct more than logic.
The kitchen light was on.
You stood at the stove with your back to him, flipping pancakes with an ease that stopped him cold.
Dean blinked at the unfamiliar scenario.
In the versions of this he’d dreamed up day after day, he was always the one at the stove. Always the one cooking for you, watching your face as you took the first bite. This wasn't quite right.
And yet, when you turned and smiled at him, his feet carried him to your side without hesitation.
“You know what I realized?” you said, accepting the warm kiss he brushed over your lips and returning it just as easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I never once returned the favor.”
He followed your gaze to the pan, to the neat stack of perfect pancakes waiting on a plate beside the stove, steam still curling faintly into the air. The bottle of maple syrup sat uncapped just inches away.
“I liked making them for you,” Dean murmured, almost too quiet to hear.
“I know,” you replied.
You turned in his arms, fingers lifting to trace the familiar roughness of his stubble. He kissed you again, and again, each kiss lingering, desperate and tender all at once.
“Baby,” you said gently, easing back just enough to look at him, though your fingers never left his skin. “I’m worried about you. Maybe you should let me go now.”
His body went still.
He stared at you, blinking like he hadn’t heard you right. “No,” he said immediately, the word sharp with panic. “I can’t do that. I don't want to.”
You sighed softly, and a little sad. Your hand drifted down to his chest, resting over his heart, feeling it race beneath your palm.
“Where are you right now, Dean?”
He frowned, unsettled by the question, by the way it didn’t fit the script his mind usually followed. “In my bed,” he said anyway. “Dreaming of you. Like every night.”
“In the bunker?” you asked. “With the dream root?”
He nodded.
Your fingers traced his skin again, slow and deliberate, like you’d missed him just as much as he’d missed you. You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. He smiled, leaned in—
“Baby,” you said softly, stopping him. “You haven’t gone home yet.”
“What d’you mean?”
“…You’re still at my place.”
His breath caught. He looked around the kitchen, the counters, the light, the space suddenly too solid, too real. “What are you—”
“Dean, it’s me,” you said quietly. “And I don’t think I have much time.”
The color drained from his face.
His throat closed, words breaking apart before they could form. “Wha—no—I—” He stopped, just stared at you, at your eyes, your mouth, the way you were looking at him like this was real. And maybe it was desperation, or hope, or something far worse, but tears welled up in his eyes, and a broken sound left him as he kissed you again, harder this time, like if he held on tightly enough he could keep you there with him.
He scooped you up without thinking, carried you down the hall as tears slipped down his face. You fell onto the bed, tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours, every touch pouring out everything he’d been holding back.
You kept his arms looped around your neck, fingers buried in his hair, until he finally broke, his forehead dropping into the crook of your neck as he cried. You held him, steady and gentle, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, soft pats and soothing touches until his breathing evened out.
When he lifted his head, he kissed you, soft and broken.
“I miss you,” he whispered. “So much. But—how are you here?”
“I wanted to say goodbye,” you said. “Your friend Bobby helped me.”
He blinked at your words, allowed them to settle in enough to imagine you and Bobby doing research together in Heaven. Somehow, it made sense.
“It took a few tries,” you continued. “The dream root makes it harder to connect through. That’s what Bobby said. He’s been teaching me some things.” A small, fond smile curved your mouth. “Mostly we just talk about you.”
A sad, broken smile pulled at his lips. He kissed you again, unable to stay away for long.
“That’s what you do with your time?” he murmured. “Talk about me?”
“What’s a girl to do when she can’t get you out of her mind?”
He huffed softly. “Looks like we’re in the same predicament.”
When you hummed, he kissed you again and again, and held you in his arms until time stopped meaning anything at all.
“Can you come back?” he whispered hours later on the edge of sleep, but fighting it. “Or is this a one-time thing?”
“I don’t know,” you murmured. “But I don't think I should do that to you.”
"Just—one more time. Can you try one more time?"
The desperation came out of him in waves so strong that you found yourself nodding. “I'll give it a try. I’ve got nothing but time, anyway.”
“You promise?”
“I do. I promise.”
Dean fell asleep with your body tucked close against his.
He woke up alone.
Your pictures were still scattered on the floor beside the bed.
Panic had him on his feet, searching every room, every surface, desperate for proof that it hadn’t all been his mind breaking in on itself.
He went through the entire house, heart pounding, hoping for anything, anything at all that meant you’d really been there.
It was only when he knelt to gather the photos that he noticed it, the handwriting on the back of one.
He turned it over fully with shaking hands.
Here’s your proof.
Knew you’d look for it.
Happy New Year, baby.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’ve been in a place like this. 80’s music playing in the background, kids everywhere, Pac-Man buzzing in the background somewhere. Oh, don’t forget the birthday party that’s happening just a few feet away from you.
You thought this case was silly. It seemed like a typical kidnapping. Kids disappearing in an arcade? Yeah - kidnapping material. You don’t believe anything supernatural was happening here but Dean had insisted. You think it’s just because he wants to play arcade games the whole time or flirt with some of the moms at the kids birthday party table. Which is what he’s doing right now.
Sam thought the same thing as you when Dean first brought up the case.
“I think she’s right, Dean. A kidnapping in an arcade? Maybe there isn’t something going on.”
Dean just shook his head before yanking the newspaper right out of his brother’s hand.
“Fine. Guess I’ll just figure this case out on my own.”
You glanced right back at Sam as Dean started to head out of the motel room with his duffle bag. You both knew Dean would be fine going alone - finding nothing but a predator kidnapping kids but..something in you was pulling you to follow Dean. You hesitated before shooting up from your seat, grabbing your own bag from the motel floor before swinging it over your shoulder.
“Great. Let’s go spend time with greasy fingered kids.”
Dean had been busy flirting with one of the moms at the birthday table. He hasn’t glanced over at you since he went over there - too busy ‘getting info’ as he always called it. You decided to do your own thing in the mean time, walking around the arcade living through memories of being a kid playing different games.
“Find anything yet?”
You whipped your head, caught off guard as Sam stood next to you. You huffed out a laugh before shaking your head.
“No, not yet. You?”
“I checked the bathroom, parking lot, storage rooms and nothing. I don’t think there’s a case here.”
You nodded your head. At least you and Sam were on the same page. It was Dean that kept insisting something was here and kept getting defensive when you and Sam would lock eyes, silently judging Dean.
“We should tell Dean.”
“Oh- he’s kinda busy right now ‘getting info’”
You air quoted your fingers because you knew Dean had no intention of getting no lead when he was talking to any girl that could satisfy him for a night. Sam raised his eyebrows before looking at the direction where Dean was. He was talking to a tan, dark haired woman who had a kid clinging to her leg before she shooed him off to go play with the other kids. Sam knitted his brows when he gave your face a once over, silently reading your expression like a book.
“Just wait til he finds out she’s married - probably.”
You and Sam decided to both head out anyway. It was getting late and you both didn’t want to waste your time on a case with no lead. You were sure Dean would notice you both left and would come back to the motel - or at least he’d come back in the morning.
You had to stand corrected. Dean had showed up back at the motel an hour after you guys because the dark haired woman was married.
“He just showed up out of no where saying I was flirting with his wife. He backed off when I showed him my badge though.”
“The bikini inspector badge?”
He glanced your way before opening his mouth but closing it right back up when Sam interrupted. Sam decided he had enough and wanted to talk about the case that was being ignored.
“Okay- so I checked everything, Dean. There was nothing.”
“Well I guess you haven’t looked hard enough because I found something. The beauty I was talking to had a friend of a friend’s kid went missing in that arcade. Every kid that has been gone missing had played a game before. Theres a connection with every case.”
The room went silent. You and Sam locked eyes because what is he on about?
“Wow…at an arcade? Shocker.”
He sent a glare you and Sam’s way like he couldn’t believe you’d say something like that or look at each other like that, again.
“Don’t look at each other like I’m stupid. I’m serious! There has to be something wrong with one of the games..just I don’t know how.”
Sam quirked his brows together like he couldn’t believe what his brother is talking about. Dean was flabbergasted that both of you wouldn’t speak because what he was saying made no sense.
“Come on, guys! It makes sense. A haunted video game - could be sucking in kids.”
You tilted your head at that theory. It’s crazy - but all you guys do is crazy. But still how would something be kidnapping kids? A vengeful spirit in a video game? But that means that they’d have to be stuck in the game somehow. Sam pulled you out of your thoughts when you heard him sigh before opening his laptop, again. When you and Sam both headed back to the motel, before Dean, he started to research more about arcades like this. He didn’t find much but now with Dean’s haunted video game theory - he can stir up something.
“There you go, Sammy. I’m telling you guys you’re gonna regret thinking I was crazy when I’m gone.”
Great. Now he’s talking about dying, again. It’s been a few months since Dean had made the crossroad deal to save Sam. He’s been making sure to do every case he can before he dies. But you and Sam won’t let that happen. You’ve been researching none stop to find a cure, to keep him longer than one year. You couldn’t think of losing Dean in just a few months - maybe quicker if he keeps being reckless on every single case. You won’t let it happen - not now, not ever.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Cop sirens filled the lot. A frantic mother was talking to one of the cops and the father was yelling to go back into the arcade. Another missing child. You’re starting to think Dean is right and your theory is very possible. Sam even thought it was a vengeful spirit too but that has to mean the spirit is connected to one of the video games. Now you three are all dressed as FBI talking to the frantic mother, who is of course the woman Dean tried to pick up yesterday.
“Do you know what happened before he went missing? Talk to any strangers of some sort?”
The dark haired woman shook her head at Sam as he asked her the questions.
“No..I told him never to talk to strangers! I had my eyes on him the whole time and when I glance away for one second. One second! He’s gone!”
She was in tears and you couldn’t help but put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“It’s alright, ma’am. We’ll find your son and have him right back to you. I promise.”
You never knew how you’d be able to do that but it seemed to ease her a bit. You and Sam both headed back over to Dean who was trying to get a few glances inside the arcade.
“So, we have a case. But the mother doesn’t re-call seeing anything suspicious. Just that he disappeared.”
Dean furrowed his brows in thought. Now you’re all on the same page. It’s definitely a case. But what?
“Maybe we should check all the video games. You know, like after hours when all the cops are gone.”
Dean and Sam glanced over at you with furrowed brows like you were crazy.
“How’re we going to do that?”
Wow. Now they ask questions at the same time while looking at you like you’re crazy. You pursed your lips together before a light bulb went off.
“We dress up. Like as video game repairers or something. Say one of the games is down, needs repairing and the boss wants it done in an instant. Should work, right?”
Dean smirked and smacked your shoulder in way he’d probably do to Sam - but this time it’s you. Sam glanced between you and Dean before trying to read your expression. You hated when he did that.
“I like how you’re thinking. We’ll come back at night.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The arcade was quiet except for the stirring of the arcade games. The cops said the arcade would open back up tomorrow because they want to see if anyone suspicious walks in. So you all decided this had to be done tonight so no more kids disappear.
You all split up and walked down the aisles of arcade games. Sam had the EMF, Dean and you had nothing except your eyes and hands. You went down your assigned row and stopped at one of the games. Dean somehow ended up at the same one. Mortal Kombat.
“No way! I love this game.”
“Wanna play?”
You glanced away from the screen to Dean and who was already looking at you. You hesitated before smiling. You knew you couldn’t resist showing off your ass kicking skills.
“One game can’t hurt.”
You were absolutely beating his ass. One hit after another and he was KO’d for the third time. You laughed and pointed a finger at him.
“Suck it, Winchester. Can’t beat this if you wanted to.”
He rolled his eyes but grinned not when you weren’t looking.
“Yea- yea very funny. Bet I can beat you this time though.”
“Let’s see about that.”
You both shifted back to the game to play before a bright light coming from the game blurred both your eyes.
“Guys? Dean?”
Sam was done looking at his assigned rows of arcade games. He came to the conclusion that nothing was wrong and maybe you guys had a batter chance at finding something. But when he checked you both were gone. He thought he was getting ahead of himself. Maybe something had happen between you and Dean and he wasn’t sure if he wanted proof of it.
“Guys?!”
His EMF started beating rapidly when he rushed through the row of games before he stopped at the Mortal Kombat game.
“Oh god.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Your head pounded when you sat up. Everything was so bright and distorted.
“Dean?”
You heard a faint groan come from somewhere far away - it sounded like Dean. Good, he’s alive and probably in pain like you.
“Dean?! Can you hear me!?”
“What the hell is going on? Where’s Sammy?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
Just then a loud booming voice came.
“CHOOSE YOUR CHARACTER!”
Why does everything have to be so loud? You looked above from where the voice was coming from and there was a screen with all the characters faces, including the missing kids! But your name was called from the obnoxious voice. Everything started to change. You were being moved around to different positions, outfit changes and blurting out random sentences.
“You’re going down.”
“Guess you missed these fists.”
“Don’t underestimate this beauty.”
You cringed as these words flowed out of your mouth. You had to find a way to get those kids and make sure they are safe. Soon Deans name was called from the loud voice.
“Can’t stay away from this face, huh?”
“Let’s cut the foreplay.”
“Are we going to fight or dance around each other?”
Huh- that sounded pretty accurate to Dean. Soon the backdrop started to change, making your head spin more and more. The desert, a food market, a cliff, and a wrestling arena? The backdrop stayed on the wrestling arena. You were standing across from Dean.
“What is going on?”
“I dunno - but we’re in the game.”
“No shit, Dean! How do we save those kids and get out?”
“Sammy will find something - I’m sure.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“Why is this chick blabbering about? Just fight already!”
The boy was pressing the game console over and over with annoyance. Last night Sam had put up out of order tape all over the game but this kid didn’t listen.
“Hey! What’re you doing? You can’t play it’s out of order.”
The kid huffed before backing off the game.
“No shit! These characters are talking none sense.”
Sam watched him walk away before shaking his head and stepping infront of the game. You and Dean were on screen getting ready to fight but the lines you’re supposed to say are replaced by both of your typical blabbering. Some how you both still seemed to find a way to bicker even when your life was on the line.
“Hold on guys, I’ll get you out of this.”
Sam had checked the machine all last night but nothing, except when he opened the back of the game this morning he found a note in the inside tangled in wires. It was a note from the manufacturer of the game who had passed two weeks back. It was an old note but since it was one of his things he’s connected to the game for legacy reasons or something.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“Smells like someone’s losing.”
You kicked Dean in the jaw as he flew back, smoke coming from under him as he fell. You don’t mean to do any of this but your body is just moving like you’re possessed. You want to ask Dean if he’s alright and that you’re sorry but..
”ROUND TWO”
The screen blurred as both you and Dean got back into your normal possessions you started in.
“You can’t ruin this face if you tried, sweetheart.”
His hand collided with your face then a knee to your gut. You flew into the air before Dean punched you repeatedly until you fell. You could still feel his knee in your gut and the slap to your face.
“ROUND THREE”
“You punch like you talk. Lazy and stupid.”
You repeatedly kicked Dean in the gut which forced him to groan repeatedly before he grabbed you by your shirt collar and slammed you to the ground. You felt the air getting knocked out of you when you fall. Hopefully if you get out of this mess you won’t feel the pain you’re feeling now.
“Cat got your tongue or these looks giving you butterflies?”
You jumped back up before swinging your legs around Dean and flipping him onto his stomach on the hard floor. You whispered a quick sorry to him before standing back up. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something important but instead a joke spilled through his lips.
“Try not to fall in love with me when I let you win.”
You paused as you heard his words spill out of his mouth even if it was the game talking it had an effect on you. You quickly straightened up and the crowd roared.
“FINISH HIM.”
You jumped up in the air before swinging your leg down and KO’d Dean.
“Never underestimate leg day.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Sam had left the arcade to talk to the relatives of the game manufacturer. He wanted to find more background information of why the note was left. He also needed to salt and burn the note so hopefully everyone that got sucked in can come out. But of course kids will be kids and play with video games even when told not to. Two teenage boys surrounded the Mortal Kombat game as they realized the chick can totally kick ass.
“Told ya, punk. Now pay up.”
The other boy grumbled before handing the older boy a twenty before storming off. The boy shoved the twenty in his pocket before the game glowed.
“Ugh, my head hurts.”
Three kids and two adults from the video game appeared infront of the machine. He froze before squealing like a little girl and running away.
You and Dean both watched the kid run away before realizing you’re both out of the game. You looked down at yourself loving that you don’t feel like shit or look like disheveled. You took a peak over at Dean and he looked completely fine - like rolling out of bed fine.
You felt giddy knowing this case was closed but also because you didn’t get to watch Dean get KO’d for the tenth time. The kids were in shock and had stories no one would believe except themselves. They rushed to their mothers who stayed at the arcade waiting for their kids to show up somewhere - thankfully they did.
“Can’t believe it’s over.”
Dean nodded his head in agreement before finally meeting your eyes. You both somehow managed to speak at the same time, words overlapping. You both paused again before laughing.
“Wait- you go first.”
You wanted to ask about what he said when you both were fighting, the stupid try not to fall in love with me liner. What he meant by it. If he knew that you have fallen for him all those months back.
“Were you really going soft on me back there or are you just that bad at kicking my ass?”
He grinned glancing away from you. Your stomach turned waiting for his answer. But Sam somehow appeared at that second and smiled when he saw you both. He just always had great timing.
“Sammy!”
“What happened, Sam? Was I right?”
“Turns out it was the spirit of Michael Gleason. He was the manufacturer of the game. He had left a note in the game so everyone knew who manufactured the game and wouldn’t take credit for his work. But before he died one of his closest friends, Jerry Whistlehouse, claimed he was the one that Manufactured it - not Michael.”
“Told you both it was a case.”
You and Sam both rolled your eyes before you three headed out of the arcade to the Impala.
“Never thought I’d be stuck in a video game kicking Deans ass.”
You laughed as you threw yourself in the backseat. Dean sat in the drivers seat and Sam in the passenger seat.
“You’re so welcome for giving your ego an extra boost.”
You grinned as Dean glanced at you through the rearview mirror as the Impala left the arcade lot. Sam just sighed, glancing up at the car roof wishing to disappear so he couldn’t hear the rest of both of your bickering.
Adriana grew up in a suburban town in New York. Her older sister, Jane, left Adriana and her younger brother, Thomas, to go live in Greece after college. She promised to visit and call when times got rough with mom and dad - but the visits were only postcards and the calls never came. She never knew why Jane really wanted to leave. Did she know something she didn’t?
Jane was a mother figure to Thomas and Adriana even if they never mentioned it. Jane would pick them up from school if she wasn’t working, help them with homework, let them cry to her when life was too hard to smile through. Adriana adored Jane with all her heart, especially her little brother. He was the baby, four years younger then Adriana and 14 years younger than Jane. He had so much curiosity and so much love to give. Adriana promised to always protect him and never leave him alone in the house when mom and dad were home.
Marianne and Mark were the kids parents. Adriana grew up watching her parents fall in love like it was so easy. She thought her mother was the luckiest woman in the world to have someone by her side no matter what. It wasn’t until she was 8 when Mark would leave for work at odd hours in the day and hearing the front door open at odd hours at night. Adriana had heard her mother confront him one late night - “it’s the job, honey. Just extra shifts so I can get you something pretty, alright?”
Weeks after Adriana started to realize the way her mother would drink through the days without a care in the world. She’d sit on the couch, wine glass in hand as she slurred curses under her breath about her husband. It wasn’t until Adriana was 13 she found out what her father would really do during the days he’d “go to work”. Jess was her name. Then there was Chrissy, Marissa, Kiera, and Michele. Adriana never looked at her father the same, never talked to him unless if necessary. She then understood why her mother had been drinking all those years later, why the fights would get louder when her father was home and why her mother would get angry at the littlest things.
When Adriana was 16, Thomas was 12 and Janes post cards had stopped months ago. She never understood why the stopped completely. She didn’t like the idea that Thomas and her were left behind. Instead, she liked to think Jane got married or maybe she got her dream job of becoming a fashion designer. She’d tell Thomas that instead of maybe Jane forgot about them. She told Thomas that Jane became famous and met a tall lawyer who is giving her the life she deserves. One of those nights when Adriana would make up stories to Thomas their mother finally blew up at their father. Plates were thrown, words were shared through endless screams, and doors were slammed. She quickly grabbed her brother’s hand and they ran out the front door together. “Let’s go somewhere far from here. I’ll find us some nice place where no one can find us - we’ll be happy.”
Adriana rented out a motel room for Thomas and her. She found a job at a local diner. She hated it because people can be really annoying and rude - but it gave pretty good money to keep her and her brother happy. No phone calls came from their mother or their father. She knew they’d never call even if she did want to believe it - she knew it was very unrealistic.
It was December 15th, 1999.
Adriana had picked up extra shifts at the diner because she wants to give her brother a real Christmas. No fighting, no drunk mom, no missing father. Just real family , real love. This particular day was freezing. Adriana made sure to keep the windows locked, heater on and put cartoons on for Thomas. “Remember if anyone knocks or says they’re a friend of mine - don’t answer.” Thomas nodded his head but his gaze was still on the cartoon playing on the tv. “Hey- I mean it ok? I’ll bring back some extra food from the diner for dinner, ok?” Adriana took one last final glance at her brother before giving him a quick hug goodbye. “See you later, little man.”
When she got back that night all she saw was blood. Her baby brother lying on his back on the motel carpet, everything everywhere. The door was locked, the room was still warm except for his body. She cried as she screamed for help - for someone to help her get out of this nightmare. This wasn’t normal - no human could physically do this to a child or any human being. As the motel owner came rushing in through the door, police sirens were heard in the background.
No one gave her a real explanation of what had happened to him. A break in? A murderer on the loose? Rabid animal? Cops would come and go re-asking the same questions over and over. “I told you I have no fucking clue! He’s gone and none of you are doing shit about it!” The cops had announced the case as unsolved a month later. Adriana didn’t like that answer so she did what no one else did. She went looking for the sons of bitches who did this. Countless days and nights were spent at local bars, parks, restaurants looking for someone who could look like a suspect. She started reading the newspaper, which she never thought she’d ever do. Until, one morning when she was reading the paper a small column had a “unsolved case” title. A young girl, 12 years old, found mutilated just like her younger brother. This had to be it.
She’d go to the local library every day reading about cases like these. Myths and legends about people dying like this showed up. “Vampires?” It sounded silly and really crazy - but maybe she was turning into a crazy lunatic because she started to research about vampires. Every single day she was at the library picking books about vampire legends, cases with people dying in un-human like ways, cold cases never solved. She even started to research about how to kill these things.
“Human blood? Check. Silver? Check. Money? Check. Bag filled with snacks, bandages and pepper spray? Check.” She had somehow found an abandoned warehouse near where all the unsolved cases happened - like her brothers. She knew she was going crazy because who thinks vampires are real? She did and she was about to risk her life to kill the bitches that killed her brother and all those innocent kids.
She parked her rented car a mile away from the abandoned warehouse before going in. She hurried in with the machete that she bought from a bear hunter. It took a lot of bribing because he didn’t believe someone like her would hunt a bear - well now she’s hunting a vampire. “Come out you ugly bitch!” It was quiet. Really quiet. Until she heard multiple footsteps run towards her..two, three vampires? Shit. She never realized she froze until they were three feet away from her - ready to attack. She quickly swung her machete around in the air slicing one’s hand, one’s ear, and one’s head when close enough. “Oh..my god.” They weren’t clean swings at all, they were ragged and would snag but it did the job. The other two vamps got really pissed because the one with the missing ear grabbed her from behind and thrusted her to the floor - her machete skidding across the floor. “Fuck!” She quickly reached into her jean pocket with shaking hands and grabbed a small knife before stabbing it into the vamps neck which made it stumble back. She ran to her machete with the adrenaline pumping through her blood before slicing its head off with a very jagged and unclean matter. The last one came up behind her with his arm around her neck ready to bite. She tried to fight back and move before there was a thud to the floor.
She turned around swiftly with her machete up and was met with an older man, beer belly and all. He was holding a knife covered in human blood, his own she was guessing. He looked at her with his eyebrows raised like he was amused. “You swing like you got nothing to lose, kid.”
“Who are you?!”
“A thank you would’ve been nice.”
She paused but her machete was still up, trying to stand her ground. “What’re you doing here?”
“I came to stop you from being vampire food, idjit.”
She put her machete down at her side, her grip still firm but shaky.
“Wait- so they are real. I’m not crazy?”
“Well if you came in here thinking you were killing innocent people yeah you’re crazy. But yes, they’re real.”
“Wait so are like other legends true too?”
“Look kid, I’m not gonna do a Q&A right now. I have things to do and more cases to solve.”
The old guy started to walk away but she hurried after him.
“Hey, so if these things are real - why can’t you just tell me everything so I can help you? I just killed too vamps by myself, do I have to be good right?”
He rolled his eyes and turned back to her before getting in his car. “Yeah, but no kid. I’m sure you have a whole life ahead of you and you do not want to waste it on hunting. Goodnight.”
She stopped him from shutting the door. “I don’t have a future old man. My brother died from these things and my family could care less about my guts. All I care about is saving more people from dying in these ways. I want to be the person saving millions of people without getting recognition. So, please. Please just let me learn a few this from you and I’ll be out of your hair. Like you never met me in your life. Please.”
She watched the old man look at her like maybe she is bat - shit crazy. But after a few seconds of awkward silence he huffed and nodded his head to the passenger seat.
“There’s a lot for you to learn, kid. Now get in before more of them come looking after us, idjit.”
This girl is the living form of unexpected. You’ll never know her next move or what’s going to spill out of her mouth like rapid fire. She loves to keep people guessing - loves to put people in their place when needed too. She’s like a wild fire - a lot to take in and hard to take out, but when she’s gone she knows she changed you forever.
Full name: Adriana Joan Holloway
Nicknames: Adrianies (her dad only called her that)
Age: 24
Height: 5’2
Gender: female
Birthday: January 30th, 1983
Relationship: single and likes to keep it that way.
Fav artists: Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Nicks, Kate Bush, The Cranberries, Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, Blondie, Joan Jett, Led Zepplin, The Rolling Stones.
Likes: Diet Coke, coffee, any kind of cheese burger, animals over people 100%, silver jewelry, antiques, vinyl, voluminous hair, reading.
Dislikes: People, being ignored, when people don’t smile back when she makes eye contact with someone, non girls - girls.
Secrets: Has Fleetwood Mac lyrics as a tramp stamp that she got when she was 18 - completely sober. Wanted to be an artist or a journalist, both maybe. Wanted a German Shepard since she was a baby. Lost her little brother , Thomas, to an aggressive vampire. Her middle name is Joan but she says it’s Jane because that’s her older sisters name.
