Safe and Sound

Ramblings of a girl too emotionally attached to fictional characters. Life is too short for regrets.

[moonandstars1989]

THE ROAD TRIP - Chapter 3: Night Stop

Max and Dean spend a rainy night in the Impala

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean x OC

Rating: T (will change in later chapters)

Words: 2k

Tags: slow burn, sleeping in the impala, rain soaked confessions, grumpy x grumpier, blanket sharing is basically a love language

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The road slips past in long, shadowed ribbons, headlights stretching into the dark like twin lighthouses in a sea of asphalt. The Impala purrs under them, engine low and comforting, the kind of sound that settles in your bones if you let it.

The stars are out—barely, just a faint scatter through the haze—and the moon hangs low and gold like it’s been dipped in whiskey. There’s a radio station crackling something old and bluesy, low volume, like it knows better than to intrude.

Max has her knees up, boots braced against the dash, one hand dangling out the open window, fingers slicing through cool wind.

Dean glances over, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casual across his thigh.

“You know,” he says, voice lazy like the night itself, “most people don’t sit like they’re ready to dropkick the sky.”

Max doesn’t even turn. “Most people don’t ride in cars that smell like motor oil and desperation.”

Dean snorts. “She smells like character. And maybe victory.”

“She smells like you haven’t cleaned the air vents since the Clinton administration.”

He makes a damaged noise, hand pressing to his chest. “You wound me. Right here. In my very soul.”

“Tragic,” she deadpans, shifting slightly. Her elbow hits the door. She doesn’t react.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full of the road and the wind and everything that doesn’t need saying. The kind they’ve perfected. The kind that says I’m fine even when they’re not.

Eventually, she leans her head against the window, cheek pressed to the cool glass.

Dean side-eyes her. “You can sleep, y’know. We’re still a couple hours out.”

She shakes her head, eyes still half-open. “I’m good.”

He raises an eyebrow. Says nothing.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s out cold.

Her lips parted slightly. Breathing slow. Arms folded across her chest like she’s holding something in. Dean doesn’t say anything—doesn’t tease, doesn’t glance over too much. But his gaze lingers more than it should.

She wakes later to something smacking her thigh.

“Ugh—what the hell?” she mumbles, blinking against the dark.

A granola bar is balanced against her leg.

Dean’s looking forward, parked on the side of the road now. One hand on the wheel, other resting out the window.

“You should eat,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s 3 p.m. instead of 3 a.m. in the middle of nowhere.

Max squints, sitting up slowly. “Why’d we stop?”

Dean gestures vaguely toward the blacktop. “Because I was about two seconds from driving us into a cornfield. And I don’t like cornfields. They’re…creepy.”

“You’re creepy,” she mutters.

He shrugs, unfazed. “I contain multitudes.”

She groans, rubbing her face. “I could drive.”

Dean barks out a laugh. “Yeah, no way in hell. You look like you’re ten seconds away from collapse.”

“I do not—”

“You absolutely do.”

Max narrows her eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. She tears open the granola bar. Takes a bite. Glares at him while chewing.

Dean just smirks, turning the engine off. The Impala ticks softly as it cools.

“Fine,” she says around a mouthful. “You win. But I’m claiming the backseat.”

Dean leans back with a mock sigh of relief. “Finally. Peace and quiet.”

She flips him off as she climbs over the seats, flopping onto the back bench with all the grace of a sleep-deprived cryptid. Her jacket’s still half on. She doesn’t bother fixing it.

Dean watches in the rearview, smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

“You better not snore,” he warns.

“You better not talk in your sleep,” she fires back, already pulling a spare blanket over herself. “Or sing. Or cry. Or… whatever weird thing you do when you dream.”

He exhales a laugh, soft and easy. “Night, Max.”

She hums something that might be you too or screw you or maybe just I’m here.

Dean settles in the front seat, adjusting the lever to lean back slightly, his eyes on the stars for a moment before he shuts them.

Outside, the wind rustles through the grass. Inside, the world is still.

The darkness presses in thick, close, the kind that clings to skin and thoughts and everything unsaid.

The Impala sits like a beast at rest—windows fogging, engine cooling, the world outside swallowed in shadow.

And then the sky opens up.

Rain pours down, sudden and violent, hammering against the roof like it’s got a grudge. Heavy sheets crash against the windshield, streaking water in rivulets that catch the faint shimmer of passing headlights in the distance.

Max groans low from the backseat.

“This rain is fucking relentless,” she murmurs into the dark, voice muffled by the half-assed nest of blankets she’s buried herself in.

From the front seat, Dean hums in agreement. A low, tired sound that vibrates more than it carries words.

“It’s like the sky’s trying to drown us,” she adds.

“It knows we’re in a Chevy and not a boat,” Dean mutters. “She’s water-resistant. Not waterproof.”

Max snorts. “Guess I’ll die.”

Dean shifts slightly, cracking one eye open. “Can’t believe this is how I lose my co-pilot. At least I’ll get some peace.”

“Shut up, man…”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that stretches warm under the weight of shared exhaustion and too many unspoken things.

The rain keeps drumming. Steady. So loud it fills the spaces between their breaths.

Max murmurs again. “Kinda nice, though.”

Dean grunts softly. “Yeah. Kinda is.”

She yawns. “You ever notice how everything feels different when it rains? Like the world’s quieter. But louder at the same time.”

He doesn't answer for a moment.

Then: “Yeah. Like you’re inside your own head more.”

Max goes quiet. A comfortable quiet.

They settle into it. Or try to.

But the rain won’t let them forget where they are. And Max keeps shifting.

Once. Twice. Again.

Blanket rustling. Jacket creaking. Knee bumping the door. She sighs. Adjusts her position. Then adjusts again.

Dean finally speaks, voice dry, tired, and suspicious. “Max.”

“What?” she huffs, already defensive.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, exasperated.

But she keeps shifting.

Dean sighs into the dark. “Max.”

A pause. Then, deadpan and bitter:

“…I have to pee.”

Dean’s head hits the back of the seat.

“Unbelievable.”

“I tried to sleep through it!” she protests.

“Well now we’re both awake and it’s pissing down like we’re under a waterfall and there’s probably, I dunno, murder deer out there.”

Max groans. “Dean.”

“You couldn’t have said something before I turned off the car?”

“I was asleep!”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is how people die in horror movies.”

“I am the horror movie.”

“…Can confirm.”

She kicks the back of his seat. “Just unlock the damn door.”

He grumbles but leans forward, tapping the button with exaggerated martyrdom. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Max snorts as she pulls her jacket over her head and cracks the door open. Rain screams in through the gap.

She turns back. “If I get struck by lightning and turn into a ghost, I’m haunting only you.”

Dean shrugs. “What else is new?”

And then she’s gone—into the dark, into the storm, boots splashing in mud and thunder somewhere far too close.

Dean waits, tapping his fingers against the wheel, the rain keeping rhythm with the thud of his pulse.

When she climbs back in—soaked, scowling, dripping on the seats—he passes her the rest of the granola bar without a word.

Max takes it with a muttered, “Don’t.”

Dean doesn’t.

But his mouth twitches like he’s thinking about it.

They settle again, damp and grumpy and road-weary, the storm still raging outside.

Thunder growls low in the distance, rolling across the sky like it's stalking something.

Max is a damn disaster in the back seat.

She’s squirming again, soaked to the bone, jacket doing jack-shit against how wet her clothes are. The blanket sticks to her in soggy folds, and her boots squelch every time she shifts. A small puddle is forming on the leather seat beneath her.

Dean sighs. Long. Tired. Dramatic.

“You’re gonna short-circuit the damn upholstery,” he mutters, not turning around.

“I hate everything,” Max grumbles, knees drawn up to her chest, voice muffled under the edge of the blanket. “I hate you. I hate the rain. I hate cornfields. I’m gonna get pneumonia and die.”

Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling, exhales through his nose. Then, with a sigh that says I don’t get paid enough for this, he unzips his jacket and tosses it blindly over the seat.

It lands in a heap somewhere near her knees.

There’s a pause.

“…What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” she demands, peeking out from her soaked blanket cocoon.

Dean shrugs from the front. “I dunno. Improvise.”

Max lets out an exhausted breath. She sits up, holding the jacket like it’s a puzzle she’s too tired to solve. Her wet hair clings to her cheeks, dark and dripping.

“Don’t look,” she warns.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I’m literally facing forward.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get curious.”

“I’m always curious. But I like my eyeballs unstabbed, thanks.”

She huffs something between a laugh and a threat, and then he hears the unmistakable rustle of fabric being peeled off. Wet layers hit the footwell with damp thuds, heavy and miserable.

Dean stares straight ahead like a man praying for restraint. His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel, even though the car’s parked and off.

After a beat, the faint zzzzip of his jacket sliding closed breaks the silence.

Max exhales sharply. The sound of movement stops. And then, quiet and defeated:

“…Okay. Better. Sort of.”

Dean hums. Doesn’t look back.

The rain continues, steady and loud, wrapping the car in a cocoon of sound.

For a while, it’s almost peaceful again.

But then—

ch-ch-ch-chatter.

Dean’s ear twitches. He waits. Hears it again.

Max. Teeth. Chattering.

He closes his eyes, jaw ticking.

“You’re still freezing,” he says. Not a question.

“…No, I’m good,” Max lies through her chattering teeth.

“Bullshit.”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

“You sound like a typewriter from 1942.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“You’re being dramatic. You’re in my jacket, half-naked, soaked, and vibrating like a wind-up toy.”

She lets out a soft laugh, brittle around the edges. “What do you want me to do? Willpower myself dry?”

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

That she should’ve stayed dry. That she shouldn’t be shivering in the backseat of a car that isn’t big enough to carry all the worry he has coiled under his ribs.

Instead, he just mutters, “You’re gonna end up sick.”

Max scoffs softly, pulling the jacket tighter. “Been worse.”

That’s what kills him.

She has been worse.

So many times.

He leans forward, turning the keys just enough to roll down the windows a crack, let some of the humidity bleed out, then adjusts the blanket he’s using like he’s not considering crawling into the backseat just to make sure she doesn’t shake herself to death.

“Hey,” he says quietly, not looking.

From the back: “Yeah?”

“You need something… Just say it.”

There’s a pause.

Then her voice, small and honest and wrecked:

“…I’ll live.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

He just reaches into the glovebox for another spare blanket and, after a second’s hesitation, tosses that over the seat too.

It hits her with a soft fwump.

She doesn’t say thank you.

But he hears her shift.

And the chattering stops.

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Road on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65928445/chapters/169850812

[moonandstars1989]

THE ROAD TRIP - Chapter 1: Two Beds

Two friends, one car, just the road ahead and another shitty motel room...

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean x OC

Rating: T (will change in later chapters)

Words: 900

Tags: slow burn, soft tension, road trip vibes, found family, mutual pining, Dean being Dean, OC with bite, unspoken feelings, two beds (and all that implies)

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The Impala hums beneath them, steady and familiar, the highway stretching out ahead like a ribbon of sun-scorched possibility. The sky is that soft dusty blue that only happens in the middle of nowhere, and the air coming in through the open windows smells like wild grass and gasoline.

Dean has one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the edge of the door, tapping against it in time with the low thrum of Zeppelin. He’s wearing his aviators. His jaw’s tight from squinting into the sun.

Max is slouched in the passenger seat, boots on the dash, half a bag of sour cream chips in her lap. Her sunglasses are crooked. Her mouth is full.

She was on her third pair of sunglasses this month—hunts weren’t kind to plastic.

“You know this is the fourth state we’ve been in without stopping for actual food, right?” she asks, licking salt off her fingers.

Dean snorts. “Chips count. It’s got sour cream. That’s a dairy.”

She rolls her head to glare at him. “You have the nutritional logic of a raccoon.”

“And you have the road trip etiquette of a gremlin," he replied, scowling at her boots on the dash.

She tosses a chip at his head. It bounces off his temple and lands somewhere by the gearshift. He doesn’t even flinch.

“I’ve been driving for seven hours,” he says. “Your job is to entertain me.”

“I am entertaining you,” she shoots back. “This is peak co-pilot energy.”

He glances over at her, lips quirking. “Is that what you call it? Makin’ fun of my playlist and stealing all the snacks?”

She grins, eyes hidden behind her scratched-up shades. “Pretty sure that’s what I’m here for.” She’d lived out of her car once, and it still showed in the way she hoarded snacks.

Dean chuckles, and the sound settles into her chest in that stupid way it always does. Comfortable. Warm. A little dangerous if she lets herself think about it too long.

She turns her face back toward the window, letting the wind tangle in her hair. Somewhere behind her, the last town they passed is shrinking in the rearview. Somewhere ahead, a hunt is waiting. But here—right now—it’s just this.

Dean. Max. The road.

And all the space in between.

--

A few hours later, the sun’s kissing the horizon, and the Impala’s starting to feel a little too lived-in. They’re both quiet now—Dean’s chewing on a toothpick like it owes him money, and she’s digging through the glovebox for anything remotely resembling civilization.

“Jesus,” she mutters, pulling out a cassette labelled ‘Bad Company - Mix #3.’ “How many of these do you have?”

Dean shrugs, casual. “Enough to soundtrack our epic descent into hell.”

Max smirks. “So like, three.”

He glares. “I’ll have you know that mix slaps.”

She flips the cassette in her hand. “I feel like it slaps the way a rusty screen door slaps.”

Dean reaches over and yanks it from her hand. “That’s sacrilege.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. He grins.

And there it is again.

That thing.

That too-long pause. That flicker of something just behind his smirk. His gaze lingers a second too long on her face—like he’s trying to memorize it and doesn’t know why.

She looks away first, something fluttering in her chest she refuses to name.

Her voice is quieter when she says, “We stopping tonight or driving straight through?”

Dean shrugs. “Depends how much longer you can last without peeing.”

She narrows her eyes. “You are a menace to society.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

--

The motel sign flickers overhead in pink neon:

ROYAL ARMS MOTEL: TV, SHOWERS, AIR CONDITIONING!

Like it’s trying to sell itself harder than it needs to. Dean slides into the lot and parks, engine rumbling low before cutting off with a final shudder.

They both sit for a second.

Neither of them moves.

Then Dean mutters, “Two beds this time.”

She glances at him. “You say that like it’s a tragedy.”

He smirks without looking at her. “I’m just sayin’—you hog the sheets.”

She shoves his arm as she steps out of the car. “You snore.”

He follows her to the front office, boots scuffing the pavement, keys jangling. The air smells like motel soap and fried oil from somewhere across the street.

The lobby is empty.

The guy behind the counter is watching a soap opera on a tiny TV. He doesn’t even look up when Dean grabs the key and signs the ledger with a flourish.

Room 7.

Two beds.

No complaints.

By the time they’re both inside, shoes off, lights low, the exhaustion hits.

Dean flops onto the bed nearest the door with a groan, one arm slung over his face. “This is heaven.”

She collapses onto the other one, arms outstretched. “Nah. Heaven has room service.”

Dean chuckles. Then goes quiet.

The silence stretches.

It’s not heavy. But it’s full.

She rolls onto her side, head propped on her hand. “Hey, Dean?”

He turns his head to look at her. “Yeah?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it.

Then says, “Never mind.”

Dean’s gaze lingers on her for a second longer.

Then he nods.

“Okay.”

They both lie back.

The room buzzes softly with the sound of the air conditioner.

Two friends.

Two beds.

Too many things unsaid.

And just enough time to make everything complicated.

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First chapter of a Dean x OC fic that's all vibes, longing, and the kind of slow burn that aches. If you like banter, pining, dusty road motels, and characters who refuse to talk about their feelings? This one's for you.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65928445/chapters/169849597

[moonandstars1989]

Red As A Rose - Part 1

Living with the Winchesters was never going to be easy, especially for a three-hundred-and-something-year-old vampire. But immortality gets boring. Rosalie D'Angelo is looking for some fun. Two hunters, an angel and a blood-sucking monster equals a whole lot of mayhem. Let's hope not too many people get hurt - THREE PART SHORT STORY

5192 words

WARNINGS: Some violence, language.

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The moment I heard the bunker door shut I materialised in an instant in front of the hunter, grabbing the rucksack he'd already slung off his shoulder.

"Geez, don't do that!" he snapped at me. I could hear his racing heart thudding against his rib cage and I shot him a smirk, ripping open the ruck sack and pulling out a blood bag. I grimaced at the cold temperature, my tongue itching to taste something warmer. Preferably thirty-seven degrees... "I couldn't get as many as last time." There seemed to be an apologetic edge to his voice, but I let it roll over me as I ripped the corner of the bag open and started to sip on the glorious crimson substance I craved every waking hour.

"Well maybe next time I'll make the blood run," I suggested after swallowing down several mouthfuls. He rolled his eyes at me. I knew he'd never agree.

"You know how I feel about compulsion," he reminded me, referring to my neat ability to make someone do whatever I wanted. Sometimes I wished morals had a physical substance. That way I might've been able to surgically remove his.

"And you know how I feel about O-positive," I shot back, shaking the blood bag at him. "But we can't always get what we want, kiddo." His eyes narrowed at me. He was far from a kid, but compared to my old age, he was still brand new. Plus, I knew the belittling term would annoy him which always made my day moderately better. The hunter always made sure he stole that particular type of blood, the most common type, as if to redeem himself somewhat from stealing from a hospital. It didn't taste bad, but it was nothing like the B-negative I preferred.

"Just be glad I got it in the first place," the hunter said, frowning grimly at the way my eyes flooded red as I gorged myself on the blood. My supply had run out a day or two ago and I'd been climbing the walls, resisting the urge to ask Sam or his brother if I could tap a vein, knowing it would've ended badly. "Dean would've brought you road kill." I swallowed thickly, the thought causing bile to rise in my throat. I suddenly wasn't hungry any more.

"That's true," I said, tilting my head at him as I swung the bag onto one shoulder and pressed the empty blood bag to the hunter's chest. "Thanks, Sammy," I said with a sarcastic smile, watching as he fumbled with the empty blood bag, trying not to let any of the crimson liquid get on his shirt.

"It's Sam," he said, clearly already irritated by me and it was still early in the morning.

"Whatever," I replied flippantly, using my rapid speed to get to the kitchen and load the remaining bags of delicious goodness into the fridge.

My rocky friendship with Sam Winchester was certainly not one to be jealous of. I don't think I'd even call it a friendship. I'd never cared much for humans, seeing them merely as warm bodies waiting to have their necks ripped open, not to mention the fact that Sam was a hunter. That alone told me that I was highly stupid to even converse with him, let alone breathe the same air as the man twenty-four hours a day.

But there was something about him that I liked. No. That was too strong a word. There was something about him that I didn't hate. It was probably the fact that he felt like he owed me which made me feel like I could live in close quarters with him without worrying he'd stake me in my sleep. I had been the one to single handily save his ass from a nest of vampires. Of course, it'd been unintentional at first. I'd gone into that nest with the sole purpose of slaughtering everything inside, not realising there was a pair of hunters already there to complicate things. Needless to say, I'd chopped the heads off of every single pathetic vampire groupie in the place before one could chomp down on poor Sammy's neck.

The hunter had proceeded to stop his older brother from decapitating me after all was said and done. That had made me chuckle. There was no way Dean Winchester could've caused me any damage with the pathetic machete he'd wielded that night. I was far too old. It would take someone with supernatural strength to have enough power to lop my head off.

I liked to think of myself as part of the superior vampire species. I was descended from the Original Family, not some crappy alpha vampire claiming to be the king of all. The two species had been feuding for as long as anyone could remember, which for a vampire, was a long time. The hatred my species had for who we regarded as second class citizens mainly stemmed from their lack of power. They weren't pure vampires like we were. They were weaker, not as fast and most importantly, they didn't possess the useful little ability of compulsion. This meant they were sloppy when it came to feeding and drew attention to themselves, highlighting our existence like a sore thumb. They were reckless, conspicuous and slapdash when it came to disposing of their victims. I hated them.

The Winchesters, on the other hand, I hadn't been able to bring myself to kill when I'd discovered them in the old barn. Sam had been taken and his older brother, Dean, was busy untying him as I hacked off the last of the vampire's heads right in front of them. The younger Winchester was bleeding at the time and I hadn't been able to stop my fangs from sliding down as hunger surged through my veins.

Dean had lunged for his machete and I would've snapped his neck in an instant had it not been for the stench of vervain that filled my nostrils and burned my windpipe like acid. The damn vampires had been burning it for protection, knowing that it was toxic to my species. As I crumpled to my hands and knees, grasping at my throat, Sam had been the one to stop his brother. Although he wouldn't've been strong enough to take off my head, it wouldn't've taken long for the hunter to realise that a wooden stake would do the job.

"Stop!" Sam had yelled to his brother as he rounded on me. "Dean, wait. Don't kill her."

"She's a vampire, Sam!" No shit Sherlock I remembered thinking. I didn't say it though. My lungs were filled with a thick fog of vervain. All I could do was cough as I clawed at my neck.

"She helped us, Dean," Sam had insisted. "She killed the others." Dean had reluctantly stood down at Sam's request and after putting up an impressive fight, he'd finally agreed to bring me to the bunker to recover. That brought me to where I was today, Rosalie D'Angelo, a three hundred and something year old vampire stood in the kitchen of the Men of Letter's bunker roughly six weeks later. It wasn't out of choice that I had stayed this long. Dean had annoyingly slipped my daylight ring off my finger at one point or another, meaning that if I set foot outside the bunker during the day, I was toast. Literally. Of course, I could leave during the night, but daylight rings didn't grow on trees. I was lucky to get my hands on one in the first place. I'd met plenty of other vampires of my kind that confined themselves to the shadows when the sun was up. I couldn't leave the bunker without it. I'd be far too vulnerable on the outside. After finishing loading all of my new blood bags into the fridge, I made my way down the corridor towards the guest room I was staying in, passing the elder Winchester's room on the way. His door was ajar, but I knew he'd still be sleeping. I'd heard the sound of him sipping on a glass of whisky until the early hours of the morning. He'd be out for another hour or so.

A smirk pulled at my lips and I silently pushed his door open and wandered in. It was unlikely that he kept my daylight ring on him at all times, but I'd looked for it everywhere else I could think of.

The beam of light cutting into the room from the open door illuminated the man's features as he lay sprawled on his back, the covers covering half of his bare torso. I took a moment as my eyes roamed his broad chest, his muscles straining under his skin as he breathed in and out. Don't get me wrong, I despised Dean Winchester with every fibre of my being. He was moody, rude and categorically hated my guts. But that didn't mean I didn't enjoy looking at him.

As I silently approached, I found my gaze honing in on his chiselled jaw and perfect cheek bones. I could hear the steady thud of his heart, the sound of his blood rushing though his arteries making my mouth water, though his blood wasn't the only thing I craved. I may have been a vampire, but I was still a girl. The man was bloody beautiful, as was his younger brother. I wouldn't complain if I ever had the fortune of finding myself as the filling of a delicious Winchester sandwich.

I cursed myself for even thinking it. Who did I think I was? Katherine Pierce? No way. I grimaced at the thought of doing something that remotely imitated the psychotic bitch I'd had the misfortune of running into too many times. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts as I stepped closer to the bed. Where would he keep it? Perhaps in a pocket?

I carefully pulled back the sheets that covered him, my keen eyes focused on his grey sweatpants as I reached a finger inside his pocket. Within a moment, my back hit the floor, a warm body pinning me to the ground as something sharp was pressed against my chest. The elder Winchester's heart hammered in his rib cage, his teeth gritted together as he breathed heavily.

"Dean, if you wanted to be on top, all you had to do was ask," I told him with a wicked smirk, keeping an eye on the wooden stake that he was pressing into my skin. He grimaced at the mere suggestion that he could ever want me in that way.

"You shouldn't sneak up on a hunter," he warned and my smirk widened into a grin. I could do whatever the bloody hell I wanted. In less than a second I'd used my speed to push him off of me and had him pressed against his bedroom wall, the wooden stake discarded to the floor. My recent meal had left me buzzing and I was eager for some action. I needed to run. Staying in the bunker all day made me feel like a caged animal.

"You shouldn't think you're powerful enough to intimidate me," I replied calmly as if I hadn't just completely turned the tables on him. "I want my ring." "And I want you dead," he replied. I smirked at him, removing one of my hands from his chest to run my fingers through his hair. I hadn't yet decided whether he was blonde or brunette. Maybe somewhere in the middle. Either way, it felt soft on my cool fingers and I lost myself for a moment.

"You don't mean that," I said, my eyes locking with his as I tried to pull him under my spell. I knew it wouldn't work. He'd been taking vervain every day since I moved into the bunker, much to my annoyance. Dean Winchester under the influence of compulsion was something I was dying to see.

"And why is that?" he asked, pretending not to be intimidated by how much stronger I was than him. His heart gave him away. It was beating erratically. It made me want to sink my teeth into his jugular.

"Because you like me," I said with a smile that I knew would get under his skin. "It's not your fault, Dean," I whispered, backing him further against the wall. "You can't help it. Everything about me is designed to draw you in."

"I don't like you," he said, shoving a hand against my shoulder to push me away. I resisted at first, but when he did it harder I removed my hands from his chest, glaring as he pushed past me. "I tolerate you. For Sam's sake." He flicked the light on and I winced, my eyes stinging at the brightness. "The moment Sam realises you're no different from any of the other monsters we hunt, I'm sending you straight to purgatory."

"You can't send me to purgatory, dumbass," I told him bitterly as he pulled a shirt over his head. I'd had my fun for the morning. He was far more entertaining when he was asleep. "I'm not descended from Eve."

"Right, I forgot," he deadpanned. "You're an entirely different type of freak." I rolled my eyes, finding his sarcastic comments utterly trivial. I had better things I could be doing with my time. If only I had that damn ring.

"Just give me my ring and I'll be out of your hair," I asked, trying to sound as pleasant and polite as possible.

"I think I'd much rather leave you out in the sun without it and watch you burn," Dean spat, bending down to pick the stake from the floor and gripping it in his fist threateningly. "God, you have no idea how much I want to use this."

"Well you have no idea how much I want to rip your vocal chords from your throat, you mother fu-!"

"Guys!" I didn't have to turn to see that Sam had materialised in the doorway, his hands stretched out as he jumped between us. His right hand met Dean's chest and he pushed him back. Luckily for him, he didn't do the same to me. I would've snapped it right off. "Seriously, do we have to go through this every morning?"

"Come on, Sam, she started it," Dean said accusingly, sending me a glare which I returned, only harder.

"I don't care," Sam replied sternly. "I don't care if you hate each other. But you can't kill each other."

"I can try," I mouthed at the man opposite. Sam caught it out of the corner of his eye and sent me an unimpressed look.

"Cut it out, Rose," he chastised and I rolled my eyes, pushing past him and out of the room. "Hey, I'm not done!" he called after me. I didn't care. I certainly was.

"Go to hell," I snapped back, the fact that they'd both actually been to hell giving my comment more weight. I sauntered down the corridor back to the kitchen, grabbing another blood bag from the fridge as a midmorning snack, uncaring that I'd soon run out.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The week that followed dragged miserably until Sam popped out to the hospital for a quick supply run. The batch of blood bags included one labelled A-positive. Not my favourite but definitely better than what he'd given me before. When I questioned him on it he'd said it was a treat for good behaviour which made me almost laugh. I'd refrained from tormenting Dean as much as possible since the incident a week ago. Apparently, in Sam's eyes, that warranted a reward.

This, however, left me mind-numbingly bored. I wasn't allowed to leave the bunker under strict instructions from both the boys. They'd made it clear from the start that if I so much as breathed the same air as another human they'd have to put me down. I'd promised I wouldn't, but they didn't seem to take my word for it. If I was honest, I didn't blame them. I craved blood straight from the vein more than anything.

Sam often asked me why I didn't have more control over my urges. I told him I did. I'd perfected the snatch, eat, erase method over two hundred years ago, but then something had gone wrong. A few decades back I'd decided to flick the humanity switch, ditching all emotions and gorging myself on as many humans as I could. When I finally flicked it back on, a deep hunger within me came back with all the other crappy human feelings I'd been void of for so many years. I told Sam it would just take a while before I'd build up my tolerance again, but that didn't satisfy the younger Winchester. He'd taken it upon himself to help me control my urges, and apparently, that meant no feasting on humans, even if I didn't kill anyone.

I found the kid in the bunker's firing range. My enhanced hearing made the shots seem like they were going off inside my head. On physical appearance, I was probably ten years younger than him, but in reality, I was far his superior.

"Hey Sam," I greeted, causing the man to jump as I appeared silently next to him, the breeze my speed created ruffling his shirt. He didn't tell me off for it this time, simply releasing a sigh as he resumed his target practice.

"What do you want?" he asked, and I pouted at him, slightly hurt that he'd think I'd only talk to him when I wanted something, though he was entirely correct. I played it off, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

"Nothing," I replied nonchalantly, watching as he fired twice at the paper figure across the firing range. My excellent vision told me he'd hit the target both times. "You're pretty good at that." He chuckled slightly under his breath.

"Thanks," he replied, lowering the weapon as he squinted at the target. He proceeded to remove the clip from the gun and I watched closely as his deft hands moved against the metal. Sam had tried fruitlessly to try and teach me all the different makes and brands of weapon he and his brother used. I tended to zone out whenever he got all nerdy about stuff. Pretending to be interested was exhausting.

"I'm bored," I said flatly, arching my back and bracing my hands against the metal bench in front of me. Sam hummed in response, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. It was getting rather long, but somehow it suited him. I almost liked it.

"You're always bored," he replied matter of factly, not turning towards me to reply. I listened to his heart beat closely like I always did. It was steady, unlike Dean's which was always erratic whenever I was around. But Sam wasn't stressed at all. He wasn't even remotely terrified by how close I was stood next to him. He may have been bigger, towering at least eight inches above me, but I was far stronger. He knew that, but yet he still didn't seem to fear me. I now had my new game: if I wasn't allowed to tantalize the elder Winchester, Sam would have to be my new target.

"We should do something," I suggested absentmindedly, shuffling a little closer to him as he reloaded his pistol. "Have you ever played murder in the dark?" I asked, locking eyes with the younger Winchester as I licked my smirking lips. "I'm really good at it." There it was. The oh so satisfying sound of his heart beat picking up. I grinned at him wickedly as I moved even closer.

"You know, you're kind of creepy," he commented, shooting me a weary look before stepping away from me. I watched him go, my grin deflating along with my mood as his heart returned to its steady speed.

"Some would say sociopathic," I replied as I glared at the back of his head, my tone flat and icy. He murmured a response that I didn't bother to listen to. I was too angry. Too riled up. We'd been playing house for too long. Now I needed some answers, but most of all, some entertainment.

I shot up beside him just as he turned around, though I was careful not to touch him this time. I wasn't playing games anymore. "Why do you keep me here, Sam?" I asked seriously, my eyes narrowing at the young hunter. I wasn't somebody's pet they could train.

"What do you mean?" he asked. I thought he was faking misunderstanding, but his eyes seemed genuinely confused.

"Is it information you're looking for? More knowledge about my species?" I guessed, watching his eyes carefully. He didn't give anything away. If anything, he only grew more confused. "We're barely friends," I said quietly, shaking my head. "I irritate you, we don't trust each other. Your brother detests me." And I hated him right back. Other than his divinely chiselled features, the only redeeming quality Dean Winchester possessed was his car. The '67 impala was definitely something to be envious of. If I ended up killing both of them in the near future, I'd definitely be nabbing the keys.

"Maybe I wanna help you," Sam said in an equally soft voice, only his lacked the hardness that mine always had. "Like you helped me."

"You don't owe me anything," I told him, shaking my head.

"I know," he said, his eyes so alarmingly kind that I almost had to look away.

"But I know what it's like to crave blood. I've been through it." He paused, swallowing thickly. "I understand." I scoffed.

"You don't understand," I snapped at him, quickly losing my temper, though I wasn't sure I ever had a handle on it anyway. "You were hooked on demon blood for what, a year? I've been hunting humans for over three hundred." He looked alarmed by my admission and took a step back. I was happy he did, but I didn't let my usual smirk pull at my lips. "You can't detox me. You can't make me better." I spat the words at him, watching as he gritted his teeth together. "There's no cure for what I am."

"You don't have to hurt people. Just let me help you," he said, almost pleadingly. I snapped.

"I don't want your help!" I yelled, stepping closer to intimidate him. "I'm not an addict, Sam. I'm a vampire." He needed to get it out of his head that I was a person who could be fixed. This wasn't a phase. This is who I was. "I'm a cold, heartless killer. I don't care about anyone or anything." I enunciated each word carefully, stepping closer with every syllable until I was close enough to practically see his carotid artery pulsating in his neck. He was nervous now. I could feel it.

"You saved my life," he said, his face stubborn as he refused to be intimidated, though I knew he already was. "You didn't kill me."

"I wanted to," I told him, my features schooled as I stared at him "I want to right now." His heart was hammering in his chest just like I'd wanted. He was afraid of me. That was how it should be.

"You won't."

"Why not?" I questioned. "It would be easy. I could snap your neck in a second." He took deep breaths as if to try and calm himself down. I didn't breathe at all. If I took even one breath and inhaled his scent when I was this close to him, it was lights out for Sammy.

"You won't kill me," he repeated. "You would've done it already weeks ago."

"The only thing stopping me is that ring your brother has," I told him bitterly. "If it weren't for that, I'd drain you dry in an instant. I wouldn't even bat an eyelid." Sam supressed a grimace as he shook his head. I knew I was getting to him and I couldn't help the sense of satisfaction that rolled over me at the sight of his distress.

"I don't buy it," he said, trying to sound convincing. "You give off this tough exterior to make people afraid of you, but underneath all that, there's just a lonely Italian girl." I stepped away from him, taken aback by what he'd said. I hadn't told him much of my past. I'd told him nothing of my human years.

"You don't know me, Sam," I told him, trying not to falter as I shook my head. "You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I will do."

"You can change," the younger Winchester insisted. His eyes stared into mine and I couldn't look away. It was as if he was the one with the power of compulsion. "I know you want to. You wouldn't've stuck around this long if there wasn't a part of you that wants to be different. That wants to be good."

"I'm the devil," I whispered, my jaw tight. Sam shook his head.

"I've met the devil," he reminded me. "You don't even come close." He was so near to me now that I could feel his breath. It felt so warm on my cold skin that I wanted him ever closer. I'd never craved him so much until that moment. He raised his hand and for a moment, I thought he was going to stroke his thumb along my cheek. He changed his mind at the last minute, perhaps remembering who I was. What I was.

"I'm no good, Sam," I said quietly before stepping away. I turned, taking maybe three steps before I heard the sound of a knife being unsheathed. The noise of the blade scrapping against the leather rang in my ears, intensified by my heightened senses. "What are you doing?" I asked the boy before me as he held the blade against his palm. "Sam…" It was too late. A small stream of blood had formed where the knife cut into his skin, the crimson substance bubbling at the open wound. I made the fatal mistake of breathing in, the intoxicating scent filling my nostrils and driving me crazy.

"It's okay," he said, taking a step forward. Fear flared in my gut and I rushed backwards, my back colliding with the wall.

"Don't come any closer," I panted as he made his way towards me. He didn't seem afraid at all. I wished I could've said the same about myself. There was literally nothing stopping me from killing him right then and there. I tried to search for a way out but all my mind could process was the blood dripping from Sam Winchester's hand. "Stop," I told him weakly. "Stop!" He wouldn't. He came closer until he was a foot away, standing over me as I cowered on the floor, trying to push myself into the wall and disappear.

My fangs descended, the whites of my eyes flooding red. I was hungry. Too hungry. I wanted it more than anything. I imagined the coppery taste of it as it slipped over my tongue and the rush I would feel from draining the life out of him.

"You're not gonna hurt me," Sam repeated, crouching down beside me. I flailed on the ground, trying to get away.

"There are smarter ways to prove a point," I spat, panic rising inside of me. And that's exactly what he'd done. He knew I'd never hurt him. He wasn't trying to prove it to himself. He was trying to prove it to me. It was all part of his plan to make me realise I wasn't just a heartless killer.

"I knew you wouldn't," he told me. I stopped breathing and forced myself to look away from his hand. This time, Sam did grab my cheek, using his unwounded hand to pull my face back towards him. My teeth were gritted together and I felt my fangs pierce my bottom lip, my mouth filling with the bitter taste of my own blood. The worst part was that I knew he wasn't on vervain. He wore the herb around his wrist to protect him from compulsion, but that wouldn't help him now.

"It's okay," he whispered. I held my breath, my eyes squeezing shut as I tried to block him out. The sound of his heart hammering against his ribcage was deafening. I felt his palm against my face. His touch was scorching on my cold skin. I was frozen still, my jaw clamped shut over my deadly fangs. "You're not gonna hurt me."

"You might not get so lucky next time," I forced out between my lips before pushing him away and sprinting from the firing range. I ran close to my full speed and I didn't stop until I was in my room, the door slammed shut with my back against the dark wood.

My breathing was rapid as I tried to focus on anything other than the younger Winchester's blood. What Sam had done was reckless and stupid, but I'd managed to resist the urge to rip into his skin and drain him dry. For now, Sam was safe. For now.

These Winchesters were going to be the death of me.

[skywaelker]

[moonandstars1989]

“No paradise. No hell. Just more of the same."

- Castiel

[lemondropsonice]

The “my little random moments of pleasure” series: Down cast look is my favorite look: 13x02

[moonandstars1989]

Love this ^^^

[fluffycastiel]

Jensen Ackles - VanCon 2015

Photography by me.

[pippyhunk]

[moonandstars1989]

When you haven’t seen Derek since season 4 and then he come back in the finale <3

[moonandstars1989]

RIP Stiles’ toe

[lyresandlasers]

list of favorite things as a fanfic author:

When someone is really freaking mad at me for inducing an emotional response from them

when readers give me a background of how/when they read my writing

when readers give me a background of why they shouldn’t have been reading my writing (usually while at work)

when readers quote my work back to me in comments

the frickin’ real heroes here, the ones who comment on every chapter of an ongoing multi-chapter fic

[thejabberwock-blog1]

So, who’s gonna start the petition to have Dean to wear this all the time?

[green-circles]

[moonandstars1989]

I love Dean when he’s all cute and serious <3

[boy-so-pale]

[moonandstars1989]

“This boy was going to make this world turn and stars would fall like rain.”

- Twist and Shout

[moonandstars1989]

Anyone else imagine black smoke coming out of their mouth whenever they do a massive yawn?

[celestialsonata7]

[moonandstars1989]

This scene tho :’(

I feel like Bobby in that 5th one represents the entire fandom at that point. Distraught, sad, angry and completely lost for words, though still full of love for our favourite elder Winchester.

No, Dean. You couldn’t let poor Sammy die. We love you forever <3

[demondetoxmanual]

[moonandstars1989]

This is one of the best things I’ve ever seen.

[tearinmyeye]

[moonandstars1989]

Pillow talk

It was rare that Dean ever got a chance to talk to her during the day. The two of them were always busy. Always moving. Always hunting. But when night fell, and he finally had a moment to relax, that was when the magic happened. He’d tell her everything. Everything. He’d tell her the details that he might not even tell Sam. She’d listen like it was the most important thing in the world, which to her, it was. He’d do the same, his fingers absentmindedly interlacing with hers as she spoke, her voice calm and smooth.

But sometimes, very occasionally, they wouldn’t speak at all. They’d agree that they both needed sleep, and she would let her eyes fall shut until the morning. Dean wouldn’t go to sleep straight away though. He’d gaze at her closed eyelids, wishing he could see her crystal blue irises just one more time. He’d stare at her hair, enchanted by the way it fell delicately over the side of her face, caressing her cheek bones.

He’d memorise the contours of her lips through the darkness and sigh, thinking of the last time they’d kissed. He’d watch the rise and fall of her chest and wondered what he’d done to deserve her. God, she was beautiful.

That was the point when Dean usually fell asleep, but not tonight. Tonight, Dean couldn’t. He was too mesmerised by her. He selfishly wanted to wake her up just so he could hear her voice again. But he knew he couldn’t.

So Dean himself up on his elbows and used his finger tips to tilt her chin up a little, his touch softer than feathers. He leaned over, his lips brushing against hers in a ghost of a kiss as she slept. He lingered there a moment, his thumb softly stroking her rosy skin.

Dean rolled onto his back and let his eyes fall shut, missing the small smile that pulled at the corners of her lips as she wondered what she’d done to deserve somebody like him.

[fotokopicibierkek]

[moonandstars1989]

“A single man tear slips down his face...”