More may/will be added β feel free to ask or request β‘
β―β―β― end of the tape β―β―β―
this blog is for the ones who stayed behind, the ones who kept the light on. for everyone who wished they'd been given the ending they deserved. you're welcome here.
just toss your duffel in the trunk and ride with me a while. put on a mixtape, draw the curtains, and if you need to scream β there's room for that too.
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β€· It's fort night at the Winchester house, which means blankets become kingdoms and Dean and Ariel become the rulers of their own little world. As the night unfolds, unseen changes ripple beneath the surface, shifting the course of their lives forever.
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β€· Young!Dean Winchester x Young!Original Character
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β€· 6,181 (this one's a bit longer than the last, mb)
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β€· !! READERS BE ADVISED - POSSIBLE TRIGGER EVENT = VIOLENCE (HOUSE FIRE, MENTION OF CHARACTER DEATH, BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF HOW THEY DIED) PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK !! Dean is four (4), Ariel is two (2), Sam is six (6) months, major character death (Mary Winchester), house fire, childhood trauma, grief, loss, me destroying the happiness from episode one, tissues required, emotional devastation, canon typical tragedy, i'm sorry <3
Lawrence, Kansas β November, Fall of 1983
There's a particular magic that lives in the Winchester house after dark.
Something woven from the scent of candles burning low and the distant hum of the dishwasher finishing its cycle. It's the way shadows stretch long and lazy across hardwood floors, how lamplight pools golden in corners where family photographs smile back at you from their frames.
Tonight feels different somehow, charged with an energy that seems to make the air simmer with anticipation.
The living room has been transformed into a construction zone of ambitious proportions. Couch cushions lie scattered across the carpet like fallen dominos, dining room chairs have been drafted into architectural service, and what appears to be every blanket in the house has been conscripted for Dean's latest engineering marvel.
You're sprawled belly-down on the carpet, chin propped in your palms, watching Dean orchestrate what he's deemed "the most epic fort in all of history".
He's got that famous focused expression of hisβtongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he drapes the patchwork quilt over two dining room chairs.
"Hand me that pillow," he instructs without looking back, pointing vaguely in your direction. "The blue one. No, not that one- the squishy one from Dad's chair."
You scramble to follow orders, dragging the oversized cushion across the floor with both arms wrapped around it.
It's almost as big as you are, and you stumble lightly under its weight, making little huffing sounds as you wrestle it across the carpet, but Dean's already reaching for it with an approving nod before you've even made it halfway.
"Perfect. You're the best fort-building assistant." He takes the pillow and positions it with mathematical precision. "Wait, noβyou're way better. You're the boss, now."
The praise makes something warm bubble in your chest, has you bouncing on your toes.
From her spot on the sofa, Mary watches with barely contained amusement, Sam nestled against her chest in that boneless way babies sleep. His tiny fist is curled near his mouth, and every so often, he makes those tender little baby noises.
"Dean Winchester," she says, tone lilting with laughter, "if you knock over my good lamp building that fort, you're explaining it to your father when he gets home."
Dean pauses mid-drape, glancing over at the tall floor lamp that's currently serving as one corner of his masterpiece. The shade is tilted at a precarious angle, and the whole thing sways slightly with each adjustment he makes.
"It's fine, Mom. I'm being super careful. See?" He fixes the blanket with exaggerated delicacy, moving like he's defusing a bomb rather than arranging fabric. "I've got it totally under control. This is my best work ever!"
You giggle at his theatrics, because there's just something infectious about his enthusiasm, and the sound makes him grin wider.
The front door opens with its familiar groan, its very own greeting.
Your mom appears in the doorway, shaking raindrops from her jacket and unwinding the bright red scarf she always wears when it's cold. November in Kansas has turned sharp and bitter, with a cold that makes you grateful for warm houses and even warmer people.
"Sorry I'm late," Natalia calls, hanging her things on the coat rack by the door. "Traffic was murder coming back from the store, and then I got caught behind the slowest driver in the history of Kansβ" She stops short when she sees Dean's fortress dominating half the living room. "Well. This is... something."
"Fort Buster!" Dean announces proudly, hands on his hips like he's surveying a kingdom he's built from scratch. "It's super strong. Really really comfy, and..." He disappears inside for a moment, then pokes his head back out with a grin. "Perfect for telling ghost stories."
Your mom's gaze meets Mary's over the chaos of furniture and fabric, and they share a look. Part exasperation. Part fondness. All love.
It's the same look your mom gets when you insist on wearing your Halloween costume to the grocery store in December, or when you build elaborate tea party setups for your stuffed animals.
"Ghost stories?" Natalia raises an eyebrow as she hangs up her jacket, but you can see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Who said anything about ghost stories?"
"Me!" His reply echoes from inside the fort, his tone carrying that unique brand of four-year-old authority that brooks no argument. "Good forts need ghost stories. Everybody knows that. It's in the Official Fort Book."
Mary's fighting back a laugh. "There's a book?"
"Obviously. Chapter Three: Fort Rules! Ghost stories, secret passwords, and a really good hiding spot."
You're already crawling toward the entrance he's created between two chair legs, your stuffed rabbitβPatches, with her one drooping ear and faded pink noseβtucked securely under your elbow.
The space inside is dimly lit by one of the candles Mary had placed on the coffee table, the flame dancing behind a hurricane glass.
Dean has arranged an impressive collection of pillows in a rough circle, creating individual seating areas like some sort of miniature amphitheater. The good ones from the couch, the decorative ones from Mary and John's bedroom that you're usually not allowed to touch, and even a few throw pillows from the guest room.
The blankets muffle the sounds of the house around you, creating an intimate cocoon that feels separate from the rest of the world.
It's like being inside a secret, a place that exists outside of the normal rules and expectations.
"Scary in here?" you murmur, though you're not really afraid.
Not with Dean beside you, not in this house that smells like safety and feels like home.
"Nah," he shakes his head reassuringly, but his voice carries that hint of mischief that means he's already planning something. "Scary stuff can't get in here, baby. I put up invisible barriers and everything." He gestures seriously at the walls, as if he really has installed some sort of protection system, and you nod solemnly.
Dean never lies to you, especially not when it comes to important things like that.
Your mom comes into view at the fort entrance, having to duck considerably to fit through the opening Dean created. She eases herself cross-legged on the floor beside you with that quiet grunt adults make when getting comfortable, and immediately, you lean into her side.
She smells like her rose soap and the faint sweetness of the sugar cookies she must have bought at the store, the ones with the thick frosting that she only gets as a special treat.
"Cozy," she looks around, admiring Dean's handiwork. "Very well constructed, honey. I'm impressed."
Mary extricates herself from the couch more carefully, Sam still sleeping soundly in her embrace. She moves with that same grace that mothers develop, the ability to navigate obstacles while carrying precious cargo. She places him delicately in his bouncer nearby, tucking his blanket around his tiny body, before joining the rest of you in the fort.
With the four of you inside, the space feels wonderfully full.
Snug, rather than crowded.
Dean reaches for something behind one of the pillows and produces a flashlight with the flourish of a magician revealing his best trick. It's one of those heavy-duty ones that John keeps in the kitchen drawer for emergencies.
He flicks it on and positions it under his chin, the beam casting eerie shadows across his features.
"Welcome," he intones in his most dramatic manner, his register dropping to match the serious atmosphere he's trying to create, "to the Winchester Ghost Story...Society? First meeting!"
You clap your hands together in delight, your mom chuckles, and Mary shakes her head with that look she gets when Dean uses a word that's much too advanced for someone his age, like she's trying not to laugh but failing spectacularly.
"Alright, Mr. President," she says, relaxing back against a pile of cushions and crossing her legs. "What are the rules of this society? Do we need to take an oath? Sign something in blood?"
Dean draws himself up with ceremony, clearly taking his role very seriously. "Well, first, everyone has to tell a story. Second, no crying allowedβ"
"What if it's sad?" you interrupt.
Dean considers this with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. "Okay, crying is allowed, but no screaming. We don't wanna wake up Sammy or the scare the neighbors. And third..." He pauses, clearly making this up as he goes along. "Everyone has to use the special ghost story voice."
"What's the special ghost story voice?" Natalia asks, playing along with an expression of mock seriousness.
Dean demonstrates by dropping to a whisper, the flashlight beam wavering a little as he leans forward: "Like this. All mysterious and spooky."
You immediately attempt to copy him, but your version comes out more like an exaggerated stage whisper that makes everyone laugh. The sound fills the small space, bouncing off the blanket walls and creating its own kind of music.
Even Sam, in his sleeping state, seems to approve from his bouncer.
"Good!" Dean clicks off the flashlight and sets it aside for later use. "Who wants to go first?"
There's a moment of consideration, glances exchanged in the flickering candlelight, and then your mom raises her hand like she's volunteering in school.
"I'll start us off," she says, positioning herself more comfortably against the pillows and letting her tone take on that storytelling quality. "But I need everyone to promise to keep an open mind, 'kay? This one requires a bit of imagination."
You nod eagerly, snuggling deeper into your spot, Patches clutched against your chest like a talisman.
"Once upon a time," she starts, "in a town very much like this one, with houses very much like the ones on this street, there lived a little girl who could see things that others couldn't..."
The tale she weaves is gentle but haunting.
About a child who befriends the spirit of an old woman who used to live in her house. The ghost isn't scary or malicious; she's lonely and forgotten, tending to a garden that no longer exists except in her memory. Together, the little girl and the spirit plant flowers that bloom in impossible colors: deep purples that shimmer like oil on water, blues so bright they hurt to look at, yellows that seem to glow from within.
The flowers are visible only to those who believe in beautiful impossibilities, and as the story progresses, more and more people begin to see them.
Children first, then artists, then dreamers, then finally even the most practical adults find themselves stopping to stare at blooms that shouldn't exist but somehow do.
You find yourself leaning forward, captivated by the gentle cadence of your mom's telling. Even Dean, who usually has trouble sitting still for long periods, is hanging on to every word, his usual restless energy subdued by the spell of the story.
When your mom finishes, there's a moment of appreciative silence.
"That was gorgeous, Nat," Mary says quietly, her tone suggesting that the story touched something deeper than just entertainment. "I can almost see those flowers."
Your mom smiles. "Maybe you can. Maybe they're growing right outside and we just haven't learned how to look properly yet."
Dean shifts beside you, clearly eager for his turn but polite enough to wait as his mom clears her throat.
"My turn?" she asks, and when everyone nods, she begins her own tale.
Her story is different. More wistful, tinged with a melancholy that feels oddly sophisticated for a ghost story told in a pillow fort. She tells you about a music box that plays on its own in an empty house, and how the song it plays changes depending on who's listening.
For children, it plays lullabies their mothers used to sing. Simply melodies that speak of safety and unconditional love.
For lovers, it plays the song from their first dance, with all the promise and hope that moment contained.
For the lonely, it plays melodies that sound like coming home after a long journey, like finding exactly what you didn't know you were looking for.
But for the truly lost, the music plays something else entirely: a song without words that somehow contains every goodbye that was never said, every hug that was needed but never given, every moment of connection that slipped away too quickly.
There was something in the way she tells it.
A quality to her words that makes you think she's not just making it up. Like maybe somewhere, she really believes in magic music boxes and songs that know your heart better than you do.
The story leaves a different kind of silence when she finishes.
Heavier, more thoughtful.
You find yourself wondering if such a music box might be hidden somewhere in this house, waiting to play the right song for the right person at exactly the right time.
When the quiet stretches long enough, all attention turns to Dean. He's been practically vibrating with excitement, waiting for his turn, and now that the spotlight is finally his, he seems almost overwhelmed by the possibilities.
"Okay," he rubs his hands together, like he's warming up for something athletic. "This one's really good. Are you ready? Because this is gonna be the best ghost story you've ever heard."
You nod earnestly, arranging yourself more comfortably against your cushions. Your mom and Mary share an amused glance, but their attention is focused entirely on Dean.
He clears his throat with histrionic importance and begins.
"There once was a ghost girl who lived in my closet. Well, not MY closet, but like... someone's closet. And she was really sad 'cause she got lost playing hide-and-seek and couldn't find anyone."
You bite your lip to keep from giggling prematurely, because you can already see where this is heading, and Dean's stories always end up exactly where you hope they will.
"So now she floats around looking for kids to play with. But she's invisible, so you can't see her, but sometimes you hear little giggles when nobody's there. And you know what she does when she finds kids who forgot how to laugh?"
Dean's getting into character now, making spooky finger movements, but his excitement keeps making him grin instead of looking scary.
"She tickles them! 'Cause that's her favorite game! And she can tell when someone's trying too hard to be all serious and grown-up..." his gaze lands on you with mock seriousness, "like a girl I know who is sitting way too still right now."
"Dee..." you warn, but you're already fighting back laughter, your shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to maintain your composure.
"And the ghost girl whispers," he continues, dropping his voice to what he probably thinks is spooky but just sounds like he's trying to be quiet, "she whispers... 'Time to play my favorite game!' And then..."
His hands dart out to tickle your sides, and you shriek with laughter, trying to squirm away but getting tangled in blankets and pillows. You end up in a giggling heap, Patches pressed to your chest while Dean announces proudly, "The ghost girl says you're fun enough now!"
Dean's whole face lights up watching you dissolve into giggles, clearly delighted that his story worked exactly as he planned. Mary's eyes are soft as she watches Dean's tenderness with you, how he's already so attuned to your happiness.
"Well," says Natalia, wiping tears of laughter from her own face, "that ghost girl certainly knows how to make friends."
"She's the best ghost ever," Dean replies matter-of-factly, grinning wider than he has all evening from his successful story. "She just wants everyone to have fun. That's way better than scary ghosts."
"I think she found the right helper," Mary reaches over to ruffle his hair, and he leans toward the touch like a cat seeking affection. "You tell very good ghost stories, sweetheart."
Dean ducks his head with a shy smile that makes his cheeks flush pink. "Thank you, mommy."
Outside, you can hear the wind picking up, marginally rattling the windows and making the house settle around you with small creaks and sighs.
Your eyelids are starting to feel heavy, and you unconsciously lean more heavily against your mom's side. The combination of warmth, laughter, and the gentle rhythm of conversation is making drowsiness creep up on you like a friendly cat.
"Getting sleepy, honey?" your mom asks, her arm coming around to draw you closer into her side.
You shake your head stubbornly, even though it's not entirely true.
You don't want this to end, you want it to stretch out as long as possible, this little bubble of stories with the people you love most all gathered together.
Dean senses your reluctance. "One more story?" he suggests, his tone indicating that he's not quite ready for bedtime either. "All of us together?"
"How we do that?" You were intrigued by the possibility.
"We take turns. I start, then you add the next part, then your mom, then my mom, and we keep going until the end." His smile indicating he believes he came up with a brilliant innovation in collaborative storytelling.
It is a wonderful idea, and soon the four of you are threading a tale that becomes something entirely unique.
Dean starts with a yellow-eyed dragon who isn't mean at all, just lonely and misunderstood, with scales that change color depending on his mood.
You add a brave princess who lives in a castle made of crystal and starlight.
Your mom contributes a magical kingdom where the seasons change whenever the inhabitants need them to: spring for new beginnings, summer for celebration, autumn for reflection, winter for rest and contemplation.
Mary adds the finishing touches with a resolution where the princess and the dragon become best friends and work together to make sure everyone in the kingdom feels welcome and valued.
The story grows and changes as it moves around the circle, becoming something none of you could have created individually. It's silly in places, touching in others, and by the time it reaches its happy conclusion, you're fighting to keep your eyes open.
"I think," Mary says quietly, glancing at your drooping posture, "it might be time for this little girl to head to bed. Even the most dedicated members of the Ghost Story Society need their sleep."
You want to protest, but a yawn escapes before you can form words.
Your mom chuckles and smooths your hair back from your forehead, the gesture automatic and soothing. "Come on, darling girl. Let's get you home and tucked in."
There's a flurry of movement as the fort is reluctantly abandoned.
Dean helps gather pillows while the adults fold blankets and restore furniture to its proper places. You grab Patches and try to help, but you're moving slowly now, the sleepiness making everything feel dreamlike and distant.
"Thank you for story," you tell Dean as your mom helps you into your jacket, the fabric cold on your skin.
"Thanks for being the best listener ever," he replies, and he means it. He takes your much smaller hand in both of his, holding it carefully like it's something precious.Β
"See you tomorrow?"
You nod eagerly, and he smiles before scooping you up in his little arms, lifting you clean off your feet in a bear hug. Your own wrap around his neck, Patches hanging over his shoulder, and you can feel how he holds youβsteady and secure, even though he's not much bigger than you are.
You breathe in the familiar scent that clings to his shirt: fabric softener and an essence so uniquely his you could recognize it anywhere.
Mary hugs you next, her embrace loving and maternal, lasting long enough to make you feel treasured, more than you already did. "Sweet dreams, little one. We'll do this again soon."
"Promise?" you ask, because promises are important to you, especially promises about fun.
"Promise."
Your mom lifts you into her grasp, and you rest your head on her shoulder as she carries you toward the door. The house radiates difference in the aftermath of your adventure.
More spacious, but also somehow emptier.
"I love Dee," you mumble into your moms neck, the words heavy with sleep but full of simple, honest affection. Then, with a sudden worried lift of your head, "I say bye Sammy?"
"He was fast asleep, honey," she murmurs, adjusting her hold on you as you settle back down. "But I'm sure he felt all that love in the room tonight."
She goes silent for a moment, a soft smirk adorning her lips as she thinks about you and the boys, about your futures and it's endless potentials.
"You three are going to be thick as thieves, aren't you?"
Sleep comes easily with Patches tucked under your arm and the taste of laughter still sweet on your tongue.
Your dreams are full of castles and dragons, of gentle ghosts, music boxes that know your heart, and flowers that bloom in impossible colors.
It's as if the stories from tonight have taken root in your sleeping mind, growing into richer and more vivid experiences than simple memory.
You don't know that miles away, in the house that you just left, Mary is making her way down a familiar hallway, woken up by the staticky noise of Sam crying from the baby monitor. That she's padding barefoot along the floor, her nightgown rustling softly as she reaches the entrance to the nursery room.
Or that there's already another presence in that room, standing over the crib, mistakenly looking like her husband. A presence that shouldn't exist, one that makes the lights flicker and time stop.
An entity with yellow eyes. Nothing like the friendly pair on the color-changing dragon from your shared story. This is infinitely more dangerous.
You don't know that in a few moments, Mary will be pinned to the ceiling, looking down at her baby boy with terror and sadness written on her features, her mouth opening in a scream that will change everything. That the scream that tears from her throat will wake the entire house, will bring John running up the stairs two at a time, will send Dean tumbling from his bed in confusion and fear.
Or that flames will follow, hungry and unnatural. Spread with impossible speed, turning the house into a nightmare.
All you know is the peaceful darkness of your own bedroom, the unchanging rhythm of your mom's breathing from down the hall, the comforting weight of your stuffed rabbit in your hold. That you'll see Dean again in a few hours.
You don't know that tomorrow, everything will be different.
That the Winchester house is already burning.
The noise that wakes you isn't thunder or wind or any of the usual nocturnal disturbances that sometimes pull you from sleep.
It's completely different.
A sharp, electronic shriek that cuts like a knife through silk.
The telephone.
You lie still for a moment, disoriented by the abrupt transition from dreams to wakefulness. Your room is dark, the kind of deep black that only comes in hours before dawn when even the streetlights seem dimmed by exhaustion.
Patches is still tangled in your arms, nose pressed under your chin, and your blankets are twisted around your legs from turning around in your sleep.
The phone rings again, and you hear your mom's footsteps, quick and urgent.
The sound is different from her usual movements. Less measured, more frantic. Adults don't usually answer phones in the middle of the night unless there's trouble, and the urgency in her step suggests that whatever this is, it's not good news.
There's the quick click of the receiver being lifted, then your mom's speech, sleep-rough and cautious. "Hello? Mary, is thatβ"
The words cut off unexpectedly, replaced by a silence that issues heaviness and wrongness. You sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake, every sense alert. There's tension in the air, a quality that makes your skin prickle. Like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks and all the animals go quiet.
Then you hear it.
The sound that will live in your memory forever, even when you're too old to sleep with stuffed animals and believe in ghost stories. Even when you're old enough to understand what it means and why it happened and how it changed everything.
Your mom screams.
It's not a scream of anger or frustration or even pain. It's primal, torn from the deepest part of her chest. It's the sound of a world breaking apart, of reality reshaping itself into an unrecognizable and terrible form.
It's the sound of a heart shattering in real time.
You scramble out of bed, Patches falling forgotten to the floor. Your bare feet are silent on the hardwood as you pad toward your bedroom door, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The hallway light is blazing, too bright, too hard for the middle of the night. It hurts your vision as you step out of your room, but you keep going anyway, curious about the disturbance.
The noises coming from the kitchen aren't words anymore. They're more primitive, more broken. Your mom's voice, high and shattered, saying words you can't make out through the sobbing.
You stop cold at the sight of her when you finally find her.
She's on the floorβnot sitting, but collapsed, as though her legs simply gave out under the weight of whatever news came through that telephone. The phone receiver dangles from its cord, swaying moderately and emitting a distant buzzing that says whoever was on the other end has either hung up or is waiting for her to return.
Her hands are pressed to her mouth, but you can still hear the sounds escaping. Raw, guttural responses that don't seem like they could come from your mom at all.
She's always been composed, controlled. Seeing her this way is like watching the sun forget how to rise.
"Mommy?"
Her head snaps up, and the look in her eyes terrifies you more than any ghost story ever could. Her face is streaked with tears, her mouth twisted in an expression you've never seen before.
It's wide and wild, filled with an emotion you don't know yet.
An emotion that resembles the end of the world.
"Ariβ" she gasps, her voice destroyed, barely recognizable. "Come here, honey. Come here."
You don't understand what's happening, but you go to her anyway, because she's your mom and she needs you. She catches you in her arms and pulls you in so tightly it almost hurts, her whole body trembling.
You can hear her heart beating too fast against your cheek, smell the salt of tears in her hair.
"What's wrong?" you ask along her shoulder.
She doesn't answer right away. Just holds you closer and trembles, and you feel a wetness on your cheek that you realize are from her tears. When she finally does speak, it's too high and too fast, like she's running out of time.
"We have to go," she says, pulling back just enough to look at you, to cup your cheeks with desperation. "We're going to the Winchesters. We're going. We're going, we have toβ"
The words hit you like ice water.
Dean. Sam.
The thought of them needing help, of them being hurt or scared, makes your stomach clench with fear.
"Why?"
But even as you ask, she's already moving, pulling you toward the front closet where your coats hang, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, hands shaking as she reaches for your jacket.
"Justβput this on," she says, wrapping the clothing item around you even though you're still in your pajamas. The zipper catches as she tries to tug it up with shaky fingers. "Hurry, honey. We have to hurry."
You let her dress you, too shocked by the fear in her voice to protest. She grabs her own but doesn't put it on properly, just throws it over her shoulders as a cape, the sleeves hanging empty and loose.
"Mommy, you scare me."
She stops for a moment, kneeling in front of you on the cold linoleum. Her still shaky hands smooth your hair back away from your face, and when she looks at you, hurt is the only thing you can see on her face.
"I know honey. I know I am. But we have to be brave, okay? Sammy, Mr. Winchester, Dee, they need us right nowβ"
"Are they okay..?"
Your mom sighs, eyes tracing over your features. "I don't know," she shrugs in defeat, swallowing down the knot forming in her throat. "I don't know, darling girl. That's why we have to go. That's why we have to hurry."
The drive to the Winchester house passes in a blur of streetlights and your mom's ragged breathing.
She grips the steering wheel, knuckles white over the dark cover. She drives faster than she's ever driven before, taking turns that make the tires squeal along the pavement and running stop signs that would normally make her lecture about traffic safety.
You're huddled in the backseat, still too small to observe much out the windows, but the air slips through the small window gap.
Then you see it.
At first, it's just a glow on the horizon. An orange light that could almost pass as the sunrise, if the sunrise came from the wrong direction at the wrong time.
But as you get closer, the light grows brighter, angrier.
You start to smell something that makes your nose wrinkle and your stomach turn over. It's acrid and bitter, nothing resembling the cozy scent of the vanilla candles from the fort.
This smoke tastes wrong. Poisonous.
"Mommy," your voice comes out smaller than you intended. "Is thatβ?"
"Don't look," she says quickly, but it's too late.
You already see the truth.
Fire.
The Winchester houseβthe house where you told ghost stories just hours ago, where you built pillow forts and laughed until your sides ached, where Mary promised there would be more adventuresβis burning.
Wild and hungry. Devouring.
Flames lick at the windows, and black smoke pours into the sky, blotting out the stars you were wishing on just hours before.
Your mom pulls the car to the side of the road, barely managing the brake and lurching to a stop. The chaos that surrounded you was like something out of a television show, except the heat is real and the smoke burns your throat and the sounds are too loud and too close.
Emergency vehicles line the street as some sort of bizarre parade: fire trucks with their red lights flashing, casting everyone in hellish strobes, ambulances waiting as patient as white beetles, police lights alternating colors, making everything appear surreal.
Men in heavy coats and helmets move with purpose along the lawn, dragging hoses and shouting instructions to each other.
"Stay close to me," your mom whispers, lifting you from the car. "Don't let go of my hand. No matter what you see, okay?"
But you're not listening anymore, because you've spotted them though the maze of vehicles and rushing firefighters.
John is sitting on the hood of his Impala, and even from a distance, you can see that his essence has fundamentally changed. The confident, laughing man who used to swing you up when he came home from work is gone, replaced by someone who's been broken and hastily put back together with pieces that don't quite fit anymore.
He cradles baby Sam to his chest, blanket wrapped tight around the infant. But John himself looked hollowed out from the inside, face pale, gaze unfocused.
And beside him, shoulders hunched and legs dangling over the hood, is Dean.
He looks so tiny. Tinier than he's ever looked. His pajamas are rumpled and dirty, his hair messy from sleep, and his cheeks stained with tears he's not bothering to wipe away.
Your heart breaks at the sight of him.
"DEE!"
His name tears from your throat before you can stop it. Cuts through all the intertwined mayhem of loud and constant sounds, and he turns his head toward it like he's been struck.
When his eyes find yours, his expression shifts. Hope, maybe. Or relief. Or just the recognition that he's not completely alone in this.
He slides down from the car hood and runs.
Pure desperation propels his small legs as fast as they'll carry him. He runs to you like you're the only solid thing left in his world, like reaching you is the only thing that matters.
You break free from your mom's grip, completely ignoring her previous instruction, and meet him halfway, your feet flying over the uneven ground. When you crash together, it's with enough force to knock you both off balance, but somehow you both stay upright, clinging to each other like drowning people who've found something solid to grasp onto.
His arms wrap around you so tightly you can barely breathe, and you can feel him quavering. His face is buried in your shoulder, tears soaking through your pajama shirt.
"Where's your mommy?" you ask, because it's the only question that makes sense. Mary should be here, standing with John, holding her boys, telling Dean and everyone else that everything will be fine.
But when Dean crumbles, that's when you know.
You don't understand death yetβnot really. You're far too young for that cruelty, too innocent to grasp the finality of it. But you understand absence. You understand that Mary, who hugged you goodbye not long ago and promised you more adventure, is not here when she should be.
That the house where you felt such safety is gone. Reduced to smoke and ash.
And you understand that Dean is crying because his heart is broken, and that makes your heart break too.
So you do the only thing you can do.
You hug him. Hold him as tightly as he's holding you. As tightly as he needs you to.Β
You let him cry into your shoulder, there in the grass beside the road while the fire trucks spray water at what used to be his home, and you cry too, because Dean is in pain and you love him more than you have words for.
Behind you, your mom and John are talking in low, urgent tones. Adult words about insurance and relatives and where everyone will stay and what happens next. But those conversations are distant, less real than they weight of Dean's grip on you.
"It's okay," you whisper in his ear, even though you're not sure that's true. Even though everything around you screams that nothing will ever be okay again. "It's okay, Dee."
He just nods into the curve of your neck, his arms tightening around you like he's afraid that if he lets go, you might disappear too.
You stay there for a long time, encased in each other while the adult world transforms around you, familiar becoming strange and frightening.
The fire trucks eventually stop spraying water.
The flames die down to smoldering embers that glow as angry eyes in the night.
But the most important thing, the thing that will matter more than anything else in the days and weeks and years to come, is this: you don't let go of each other.
Even when the firefighters pack up their equipment and the ambulances drive away.Β
Even when John makes phone calls with the words such as "temporary" and "until we figure things out,". Even when your mom wraps her coat around both of you and guides you toward the car with gentle insistence, you and Dean staying connected.
Because sometimes you don't need words.
Sometimes it's all in how you embrace someone when their world is falling apart, in how you choose to stay when everything else is leaving, in how you refuse to let go even when you don't understand what you're grasping onto or why it matters so much.
Tonight, Mary died in a way that makes no sense. Consumed by flames that burned too hot and too fast and left too many questions that will probably never have satisfying answers.
Tonight, the house where you'd created so many memories became a pile of ash and twisted metal. Turned into a place that will always hurt to remember.
But tonight, you learned something too.
That when Dean hurts, so do you. And when he needs someone, you're there. And when everything stops making sense, you try to make sense of it together.
Even if what comes next is everything you've never imagined and nothing you ever wanted. Even if what comes later throws everything out of proportion.
You and Dean. Dean and You. That will never change. You belong to each other.
And tonight, in the midst of it all, the loss and the chaos and the heartbreak, that's enough.
It has to be.
ππππππ'π ππππ
β€· Me: writes adorable children being adorable. also me: BURN IT ALL DOWN. can't let anyone be happy for more than five minutes without someone catching fire (yes Mary I'm looking at you). she really thought "let me just check on the baby" and the universe said "AHAHβno bitch absolutely not."
anyway, next few episodes we'll be seeing how Ariel's family takes to this whole new reality. suffice to say... it's not pretty.
reblog if you need a hug after this | comments give me life
πππππππ’
β€· Before the fire, before the world taught them that love has teeth, there was this β something precious and fleeting, caught between heartbeats like light through stained glass. Everything feeling eternal when nothing actually is.
πΏππππππ
β€· Young!Dean Winchester x Young!Original Character
π.π²
β€· 3420
ππππππππ
β€· Dean is four (4), Ariel is two (2), Sam is five (5) months, intense fluff, childhood innocence, minor injury (scraped palm), hurt/comfort, found family dynamics, protective!dean as a warning cause he's an adorable little thing, Mary Winchester being alive and happy and not a terrible mother yet, me emotionally manipulating you with babies being cute, if i missed anything please lmk :) enjoy <3
Lawrence, Kansas β October, Fall of 1983
People say this is 'the season of the soul'.
People meaning your mom.
She tells you this every year, like clockwork. You know it's coming when the world outside your window turns into a giant painting of browns and golds, when the leaves carpet the ground, and the air is no longer sticky hot, but crisp and cool, tickling your cheeks just a little.
It's not the biting cold that winter brings, nothing like that.
This is the good kind. The kind that makes you want to breathe it all in, even if you're pulling your sweater tighter around you. The kind that carries the smell of woodsmoke from somewhere far off, mixed with the deep, sleepy scent of earth and forgotten leaves, and a hint of something sweet, like baked apples.
You don't really get what she means and... you don't really know what a 'soul' is either.
You're only two, after all, and most big words are just a jumble of sounds to you anyway. A grown-up secret code you haven't cracked yet.
But there's something you do know.
This feeling. It lives right there, behind your ribs, a sparkling warmth that makes your chest feel light. Pure, unadulterated joy. You get it whenever this time of year comes around. More importantly, you get it every time you're with your favorite person in your favorite place.
Dean Winchester and his backyard.
A place that always smells like forever summerβsunshine and freshly cut grassβeven when it's vanishing under a mountain range of leaves.
Right now, they are the kings of the lawn, a swirling, rustling kingdom piled so high they swallow your boots. They're a messy, beautiful kaleidoscope of colors: fiery orange, deep, wine-stained red, and even a few stubborn ones still clinging to a faded, hopeful green.
And Dean?
He is your co-conspirator, your bestest friend in the whole wide world. He's four, which feels ancient to you even though it's only a two-year gap, and all loud laughs and quick feet, a blur of motion as he barrels through the yard.
He's got his arms stretched wide like airplane wings, roaring about leaf monsters and danger zones, and you're trying so hard to keep up with your shorter legs, your own giggles tangling with the wind that's making your scarf flap behind you like a brave little cape.
Dean skids to a stop in front of the biggest pile, your joint masterpiece from earlier. He plants his feet like a true superhero. "You ready?" he asks, his breath puffing out in little clouds that disappear instantly. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, matching the shade decorating your own, and his honey-blonde hair is sticking up in five different directions.
You nod in excitement, standing right next to him.
He points at the colossal leaf pile like it's a challenge to be conquered. "Operation Jump Attack. On three." Again, you have no idea what an 'operation' is, but a 'jump attack'? Oh yeah, that you know how to do. You nod again, a small smile starting to tug at your lips.
"One..."
He starts counting, slow and important.
"Two..."
You bend your knees, just like he does, ready to spring into action.
"THREE!"
Dean launches himself forward with a battle cry only he can pull off without sounding ridiculous, soaring into the pile with a satisfying 'fwump!', sending a dazzling spray of colors flying through the air. A squeal escapes your lips as you tumble in after him, half into the soft leaves, half right into his shoulder.
A few fallen leaves are nestled in your dawn-kissed curls, nature creating its own autumnal crown right on your head, and Dean, with careful, gentle precision, reaches out to pluck the ones that are poking at you uncomfortably.
His fingers are so warm, so mindful, as they brush softly against your ear. Your big, round eyes blink up at him, your smile a perfect mirror to his own.
Somewhere in the distance behind you, the screen door creaks open, a familiar groan, then slaps shut with a quiet thud. Mary and your mom are there on the porch, both wrapped in sweaters so big they could swallow them whole, with steam curling from their coffee mugs. Their voices are a soft murmur, calm and low, folding into each other like pages of the same book.
"Look at him with her," Mary says, her voice carrying that warm, knowing smile mothers get when they watch their children being purely themselves. She's watching Dean's careful fingers as he brushes more leaves from your hair, the way he checks to make sure none are scratching at your face.
Your mom, Natalia, shifts baby Sam higher on her hipβhe's been fussing a little, making those soft baby sounds that aren't quite crying but aren't quite content either. "He treats her like a princess," she murmurs back, and there's something almost wistful in her voice. "I've never seen a four-year-old be so gentle with anyone."
Mary takes a sip of her coffee, steam warming her face. "And look at her. The way she looks at him... like he hung the moon and stars just for her."
"He's her whole word," Natalia agrees, bouncing Sam softly as he starts to settle. "And she's his."
You don't hear what they're saying because Dean is back on his feet, buzzing with energy.
"Let's make a bigger one!"
He starts dragging the rake across the yard, forming another mound like he's building a mountain. You helpβor try to. Mostly, you shuffle around in circles and kick the leaves into messy piles, but Dean sings your praises and that makes your chest feel fuzzy.
You take turns. Dean's pile, then yours.
When it's his turn to jump, he adds spins, sound effects, and dramatic flailing. When it's your turn, you charge like you've seen him do a hundred times: fast, excited, arms flapping like wings.
But you don't see the uneven patch of grass beneath you until your foot catches. One second you're upright, and the nextβ
You're down.
Not all the way into the pile. Not cushioned. Just down. Elbow-first into the cold dirt, your palm scraping across something sharp. You freeze. The stinging brings a tremble to your lip, your face twists, and the tears come out of nowhere, hot and sudden and too big to stop.
Dean is there in less than a second.
He drops to his knees beside you and scoops you up without hesitating, even though he's not really big enough to carry you yet. His hands brush through your hair, tucking every loose strand away from your face. "Hey, hey," he says softly. "Hey, it's okay."
You hold up your hand like it's broken. It's not, but the pink scrape across your palm hurts, and your whole body shakes with leftover shock. Dean looks at it carefully, blows on it, then kisses it once.
"See, baby?" he whispers. "All better now. You don't have to cry, I got you. Won't let you fall again."
And that's all it takes. Your tears just... stop.
Your fingers curl into his oversized hoodie as he helps you sit up straighter, dusting off your sleeves and legging-covered knees like it's the most important job. You lean against him for a second longer, and he lets you, his small arm a steady, comforting anchor.
From the porch, Mary and Natalia exchange a look. One that mothers share when they witness something that makes their hearts both full and a little broken at the same time.
He settles down, cross-legged, melting deeper into the leafy nest, and you instinctively wiggle closer, tucking yourself right against his side. It's a perfect fit, like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and crinkly. Your eyes widen.
Fruit snacks.
With a knowing look, he offers them to you, and the sticky, sweet taste bursts on your tongue, a tiny explosion of artificial berry that is, without a doubt, the greatest flavor in the universe.
Better than birthday cake. Better than anything.
You take turns again, but this time it's meticulously picking out your favorite shapes, and you always let Dean have the bright red ones because you know they're his absolute favorites, and somehow, his happiness tastes even sweeter than the snacks themselves.
As you chew, blissful in the quiet hum of the afternoon, you notice the sprinkle of freckles across Dean's nose, like sun-kissed fairy dust. You reach out a curious little finger, tracing the specks along the skin of the bridge, and he doesn't even flinch, just sighs in content and leans into your touch even more.
Dean taps your nose with a gloved finger. "Wanna try again?"
He's offering you a chance, but he's not going to be mad if you shake your head in refusal. He just doesn't want you to be afraid of trying again, of getting hurt again. Because he's always going to be there to catch you, to protect you, and he wants to show you that.
You nod, already wiping your cheeks on your sleeve with a newfound determination. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your corduroy dress. "You jump with me?"
"Okay," he replies instantly. So proud of you. "Always."
The afternoon stretches on like honey, golden and slow. Baby Sam has finally settled into a peaceful sleep in Mary's arms, and the moms decide it's the perfect time for an adventure. They come down from the porch with a piece of paper and matching grind that spell trouble in the best possible way.
"We have a mission for you two," Mary announces, and Dean immediately straightens up, all business. You mirror his posture because whatever makes Dean excited makes you excited, too.
Natalia unfolds the paper with dramatic flair. "It's a treasure hunt," she explains, and your eyes go wide. "You have to find everything on this list before the sun starts to set."
Dean takes the paper with the seriousness of someone entrusted with government secrets. You crowd close to his side, trying to make sense of the colorful drawings your moms have made since you can't read yet.
A pinecone.
A yellow leaf.
Something round and smooth.
A feather.
"We can do this," Dean tells you with absolute certainty, and you nod because if Dean says you can do something, then you can definitely do it.
And you do work as a team.
Dean holds the list and reads out each item (or interprets the pictures), while you're the official spotter. When you find the yellow leafβthe most perfect, golden one that looks like it's been dipped in sunshineβyou get so excited, you run straight to Dean before even thinking about checking it off the list.
"Dee! Dee!" you shout, waving it above your head like a victory flag. "Look!"
Dean's face lights up like Christmas morning. "That's the best leaf in the whole word," he agrees, taking it from you with reverent care and holding it up to the light. "Good job, baby! You're the best treasure hunter ever."
You practically glow under his praise.
The hunt continues.
Dean finds the pinecone, you spot the feather (stuck in a branch, which Dean has to help you reach), and together you discover the smooth stone, when Dean sees it.
Just a little further under the old oak tree, partially buried in the soft dirt. A rock, but not just any rock. This one is different. Special. It's small enough to fit in your palm, weathered smooth by time and rain, and shaped like...
A heart.
Dean glances over at you. You're completely absorbed in examining the smooth stone you just found, turning it over in your tiny hands like it holds all the secrets of the universe. You haven't noticed his discovery.
Something warm and fluttery happens in his chest, and without really thinking about why, Dean quickly scoops up the heart-shaped rock and slips it into his pocket.
He's not sure why he doesn't show it to you right away. Just... it feels important. Special in a way that makes him want to save it, like how he saves his favorite toy for when he really needs comfort, or how he hides the last piece of birthday cake so he can make it last longer.
"Did we get everything?" you ask, bouncing on your toes.
Dean checks the list one more time, even though he knows you have. "Yep. We're the best treasure hunting team ever."
You beam at him, and Dean thinks he'd hunt for a million treasures just to see you smile like that.
By the time you finish, the sky has started it's slow transformation from bright blue to something softer, painted with the faintest hints of pink and orange. Your moms have spread out an old quilt under the big oak treeβthe same one where Dean found his secretβand they're setting out sandwiches cut into fun shapes and juice boxes with bendy straws.
But dinner can wait a little longer, because Dean has discovered something even better than treasure hunting.
Cloud watching.
He flops down on his back on the quilt, and you immediately copy him, lying so close your shoulders are touching. Above you, the sky is like a slow-moving art gallery, white and gray shapes drifting lazily across the wide canvas.
"See that one?" Dean points upwards. "That's a dragon. A really big one."
"Where?"
"Right there. See the pointy part? That's his nose. And that fluffy bit is his tail."
You stare intently, and gradually the shape starts to make sense. "Oh! I see it!"
Dean grins, pleased with himself. "And that one over there... that's a giant cookie."
"A cookie?" you giggle.
"Yeah, chocolate chip. See the bumpy parts?"
And so it goes.
Dean points out cloud after cloud, inventing stories for each one. The Giant Cookie is being chased by the Cookie Monster Cloud. There's the Superhero Belt made of three clouds in a row. A Fluffy Bunny who's hopping across the sky to find his cloud carrot.
But here's the thing.
You're not really looking at the clouds.
Not anymore.
Your head is turned just slightly to the side, and you're watching Dean instead. Watching the way his eyes light up when he spots a new shape. The way his hands gesture excitedly as he spins his tales. The way his voice gets all storyteller-dramatic when he describes the Great Cloud Adventure happening right above your heads.
To you, Dean is infinitely more fascinating than any cloud could ever be. The way the golden afternoon light catches in his hair. How his freckles seem to dance when he smiles. The happiness in his voice when he makes you laugh.
He's pointing out a Cloud Castle now, complete with towers and flags, and you're nodding along, but you're just memorizing everything about this moment. The warmth of his shoulder against yours, and the way he makes the world feel like magic.
"And in that castle," Dean continues, his voice dropping to a whisper like he's sharing the most important secret, "lives a princess who has the most beautiful crown made of stars..."
You don't know it yet, but this momentβlying on a quilt under a tree while Dean Winchester tells you stories about cloud kingdomsβthis will be one of those memories that stays with you forever.
One of those moments that you'll carry with you through everything that comes after.
The light is getting softer now, the air cooler. Dean's stories are getting quieter, more dreamy, and you can hear your moms' voices drifting over from where they're setting up dinner.
Baby Sam makes a soft cooing sound from his carrier.
"Ariel! Dean!" Mary calls out. "Dinner time!"
But neither of you move right away. The spell of the afternoon is too perfect to break just yet.
Dean turns his head to look at you and finds you already looking at him. "Did you have fun today?" he asks softly.
You nod, unable to find words big enough for the feeling in your chest.
"Good," he says, and there's something almost grown-up in the way he says it. Like it's the most important thing to him.
Dinner is sandwiches that taste like the best meal ever when you're eating them under the stars. Your moms brought out battery-powered lanterns that cast everything in a honey-colored glow. Sam is awake now, making those sweet baby sounds and reaching tiny fists toward the lights.
You and Dean sit close together, sharing a bag of chips and taking turns feeding each other grapes because you both dissolve into giggles.
Dean insists on checking your sandwich to make sure it has "the right amount of peanut butter" and you do the same for his because fairness is very important when you're two.
As the night settles in properly, with real stars starting to peek through the darkening sky, Natalia looks at her watch and sighs. "Someone's getting sleepy," she says, looking at you even though you're definitely not sleepy at all...no matter how much your eyelids want to prove her right.
"Can Ariel sleep over?" Dean asks immediately, because this is always the question at the end of your very best days. "Please?"
"If it's okay with Nat," Mary says, and your mom nods because she knows as well as anyone that you and Dean are inseparable.
"But bath time first," Mary adds, "for both of you little leaf monsters."
You look down at yourself and realize you are, in fact, covered in bits of nature. Leaf fragments in your hair, dirt on your dress, and what might be strawberry jelly on you cheek from the sandwich.
Dean's not much better.
Bath time at the Winchester house is always an adventure. Mary fills the big tub with bubbles that smell like lavender, and you and Dean take turns being sea monsters and mermaids.
Dean makes sure you get the good toys, the rubber duck that quacks and the boat that really floats, every time.
By the time you're both clean and dressed in pajamas (you in one of Dean's old t-shirts that comes down to your knees), the day has caught up with you. Your eyelids are heavy, and you're doing that thing where you lean against Dean without meaning to.
"Storytime," Mary announces, and that's how you end up curled in Dean's bedβthe big boy bed that's just right for sharingβwhile Mary reads you Goodnight Moon.
But you're not really listening to the story either. You're too comfortable, too sleepy, too tucked into Dean's side with his arm around you like you belong there. His breathing is slow and steady, and it's better than any lullaby.
Mary finishes the story and kisses both your foreheads. "Sweet dreams, babies," she whispers, turning off the main light and leaving just the little nightlight glowing in the corner.
You can hear the house settling around you, the distant sound of your moms' voices downstairs, the hum of the nightlight. Dean's heartbeat under your cheek.
Your breathing evens out first. The day has been so full, so perfect, and sleep comes easy when you're safe and warm and loved.
Dean listens until he's sure you're deeply asleep, your breathing is steady, and your fingers have relaxed their grip on his shirt. Then, moving as carefully as he can, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans on the floor beside the bed.
The heart-shaped rock is still there, warm from being close to him all evening.
He turns it over in his small fingers, feeling its smooth edges. In the dim light it looks almost magical. Like something from one of the fairy tales Mary reads to him.
Gently, so gently, he takes your handβthe one that got scraped earlier, that he kissed betterβand places the rock in your palm. Your fingers instinctively curl around it, holding it close even in sleep.
"So you remember today," he whispers, so quietly the words are barely more than a breath. "And have a piece of my heart."
He brushes a strand of hair away from your face with the same tenderness he showed with the leaves earlier. His fingers are gentle against your cheek as he leans down and presses the softest kiss to your forehead.
"Sweet dreams, Ariel," he murmurs. "I'll keep you safe. Always."
ππππππ'π ππππ
β€· Starting off the precursor season with pure childhood sweetness because we all know what's coming and I'm not ready either. dean has been protecting Ariel since before he could properly tie his own shoes and honestly? that's the brand. also yes I'm going to break all of our hearts but for now let's just live in this perfect October afternoon where the worst thing to happen is a scraped palm and the best thing is fruit snacks.
episode two drops soon and y'all... bring tissues.
Reblog if you're ready for the pain | comments give me life
I LOVE YOU SO MUCH OMGGG <333 thank you so much for your support and comments and everything ahhh I LOVE YOUR REACTIONS!!! β€οΈβ€οΈ it means so so so much to me you dont even knowwwwwwwwww XOXO
I am so so SO happy to finally say that the first Precursor episode of my Supernatural Series Rewrite is out!! it'd mean the world to me if you guys read it and hopefully like it, i'd love to know your thoughts on it too! gives me more motivation to keep it going too, so please enjoy and yeah, lmk :) x
πππππππ’
β€· Before the fire, before the world taught them that love has teeth, there was this β something precious and fleeting, caught between heartbeats like light through stained glass. Everything feeling eternal when nothing actually is.
πΏππππππ
β€· Young!Dean Winchester x Young!Original Character
π.π²
β€· 3420
ππππππππ
β€· Dean is four (4), Ariel is two (2), Sam is five (5) months, intense fluff, childhood innocence, minor injury (scraped palm), hurt/comfort, found family dynamics, protective!dean as a warning cause he's an adorable little thing, Mary Winchester being alive and happy and not a terrible mother yet, me emotionally manipulating you with babies being cute, if i missed anything please lmk :) enjoy <3
Lawrence, Kansas β October, Fall of 1983
People say this is 'the season of the soul'.
People meaning your mom.
She tells you this every year, like clockwork. You know it's coming when the world outside your window turns into a giant painting of browns and golds, when the leaves carpet the ground, and the air is no longer sticky hot, but crisp and cool, tickling your cheeks just a little.
It's not the biting cold that winter brings, nothing like that.
This is the good kind. The kind that makes you want to breathe it all in, even if you're pulling your sweater tighter around you. The kind that carries the smell of woodsmoke from somewhere far off, mixed with the deep, sleepy scent of earth and forgotten leaves, and a hint of something sweet, like baked apples.
You don't really get what she means and... you don't really know what a 'soul' is either.
You're only two, after all, and most big words are just a jumble of sounds to you anyway. A grown-up secret code you haven't cracked yet.
But there's something you do know.
This feeling. It lives right there, behind your ribs, a sparkling warmth that makes your chest feel light. Pure, unadulterated joy. You get it whenever this time of year comes around. More importantly, you get it every time you're with your favorite person in your favorite place.
Dean Winchester and his backyard.
A place that always smells like forever summerβsunshine and freshly cut grassβeven when it's vanishing under a mountain range of leaves.
Right now, they are the kings of the lawn, a swirling, rustling kingdom piled so high they swallow your boots. They're a messy, beautiful kaleidoscope of colors: fiery orange, deep, wine-stained red, and even a few stubborn ones still clinging to a faded, hopeful green.
And Dean?
He is your co-conspirator, your bestest friend in the whole wide world. He's four, which feels ancient to you even though it's only a two-year gap, and all loud laughs and quick feet, a blur of motion as he barrels through the yard.
He's got his arms stretched wide like airplane wings, roaring about leaf monsters and danger zones, and you're trying so hard to keep up with your shorter legs, your own giggles tangling with the wind that's making your scarf flap behind you like a brave little cape.
Dean skids to a stop in front of the biggest pile, your joint masterpiece from earlier. He plants his feet like a true superhero. "You ready?" he asks, his breath puffing out in little clouds that disappear instantly. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, matching the shade decorating your own, and his honey-blonde hair is sticking up in five different directions.
You nod in excitement, standing right next to him.
He points at the colossal leaf pile like it's a challenge to be conquered. "Operation Jump Attack. On three." Again, you have no idea what an 'operation' is, but a 'jump attack'? Oh yeah, that you know how to do. You nod again, a small smile starting to tug at your lips.
"One..."
He starts counting, slow and important.
"Two..."
You bend your knees, just like he does, ready to spring into action.
"THREE!"
Dean launches himself forward with a battle cry only he can pull off without sounding ridiculous, soaring into the pile with a satisfying 'fwump!', sending a dazzling spray of colors flying through the air. A squeal escapes your lips as you tumble in after him, half into the soft leaves, half right into his shoulder.
A few fallen leaves are nestled in your dawn-kissed curls, nature creating its own autumnal crown right on your head, and Dean, with careful, gentle precision, reaches out to pluck the ones that are poking at you uncomfortably.
His fingers are so warm, so mindful, as they brush softly against your ear. Your big, round eyes blink up at him, your smile a perfect mirror to his own.
Somewhere in the distance behind you, the screen door creaks open, a familiar groan, then slaps shut with a quiet thud. Mary and your mom are there on the porch, both wrapped in sweaters so big they could swallow them whole, with steam curling from their coffee mugs. Their voices are a soft murmur, calm and low, folding into each other like pages of the same book.
"Look at him with her," Mary says, her voice carrying that warm, knowing smile mothers get when they watch their children being purely themselves. She's watching Dean's careful fingers as he brushes more leaves from your hair, the way he checks to make sure none are scratching at your face.
Your mom, Natalia, shifts baby Sam higher on her hipβhe's been fussing a little, making those soft baby sounds that aren't quite crying but aren't quite content either.Β
"He treats her like a princess," she murmurs back, and there's something almost wistful in her voice. "I've never seen a four-year-old be so gentle with anyone."
Mary takes a sip of her coffee, steam warming her face. "And look at her. The way she looks at him... like he hung the moon and stars just for her."
"He's her whole word," Natalia agrees, bouncing Sam softly as he starts to settle.Β
"And she's his."
You don't hear what they're saying because Dean is back on his feet, buzzing with energy.
"Let's make a bigger one!"
He starts dragging the rake across the yard, forming another mound like he's building a mountain. You helpβor try to. Mostly, you shuffle around in circles and kick the leaves into messy piles, but Dean sings your praises and that makes your chest feel fuzzy.
You take turns. Dean's pile, then yours.
When it's his turn to jump, he adds spins, sound effects, and dramatic flailing. When it's your turn, you charge like you've seen him do a hundred times: fast, excited, arms flapping like wings.
But you don't see the uneven patch of grass beneath you until your foot catches.Β
One second you're upright, and the nextβ
You're down.
Not all the way into the pile. Not cushioned. Just down. Elbow-first into the cold dirt, your palm scraping across something sharp. You freeze. The stinging brings a tremble to your lip, your face twists, and the tears come out of nowhere, hot and sudden and too big to stop.
Dean is there in less than a second.
He drops to his knees beside you and scoops you up without hesitating, even though he's not really big enough to carry you yet. His hands brush through your hair, tucking every loose strand away from your face. "Hey, hey," he says softly. "Hey, it's okay."
You hold up your hand like it's broken. It's not, but the pink scrape across your palm hurts, and your whole body shakes with leftover shock. Dean looks at it carefully, blows on it, then kisses it once.
"See, baby?" he whispers. "All better now. You don't have to cry, I got you. Won't let you fall again."
And that's all it takes. Your tears just... stop.
Your fingers curl into his oversized hoodie as he helps you sit up straighter, dusting off your sleeves and legging-covered knees like it's the most important job. You lean against him for a second longer, and he lets you, his small arm a steady, comforting anchor.
From the porch, Mary and Natalia exchange a look. One that mothers share when they witness something that makes their hearts both full and a little broken at the same time.
He settles down, cross-legged, melting deeper into the leafy nest, and you instinctively wiggle closer, tucking yourself right against his side. It's a perfect fit, like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and crinkly. Your eyes widen.
Fruit snacks.
With a knowing look, he offers them to you, and the sticky, sweet taste bursts on your tongue, a tiny explosion of artificial berry that is, without a doubt, the greatest flavor in the universe.
Better than birthday cake. Better than anything.
You take turns again, but this time it's meticulously picking out your favorite shapes, and you always let Dean have the bright red ones because you know they're his absolute favorites, and somehow, his happiness tastes even sweeter than the snacks themselves.
As you chew, blissful in the quiet hum of the afternoon, you notice the sprinkle of freckles across Dean's nose, like sun-kissed fairy dust. You reach out a curious little finger, tracing the specks along the skin of the bridge, and he doesn't even flinch, just sighs in content and leans into your touch even more.
Dean taps your nose with a gloved finger. "Wanna try again?"
He's offering you a chance, but he's not going to be mad if you shake your head in refusal. He just doesn't want you to be afraid of trying again, of getting hurt again. Because he's always going to be there to catch you, to protect you, and he wants to show you that.
You nod, already wiping your cheeks on your sleeve with a newfound determination. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your corduroy dress. "You jump with me?"
"Okay," he replies instantly. So proud of you. "Always."
The afternoon stretches on like honey, golden and slow. Baby Sam has finally settled into a peaceful sleep in Mary's arms, and the moms decide it's the perfect time for an adventure. They come down from the porch with a piece of paper and matching grind that spell trouble in the best possible way.
"We have a mission for you two," Mary announces, and Dean immediately straightens up, all business. You mirror his posture because whatever makes Dean excited makes you excited, too.
Natalia unfolds the paper with dramatic flair. "It's a treasure hunt," she explains, and your eyes go wide. "You have to find everything on this list before the sun starts to set."
Dean takes the paper with the seriousness of someone entrusted with government secrets. You crowd close to his side, trying to make sense of the colorful drawings your moms have made since you can't read yet.
A pinecone.
A yellow leaf.
Something round and smooth.
A feather.
"We can do this," Dean tells you with absolute certainty, and you nod because if Dean says you can do something, then you can definitely do it.
And you do work as a team.
Dean holds the list and reads out each item (or interprets the pictures), while you're the official spotter. When you find the yellow leafβthe most perfect, golden one that looks like it's been dipped in sunshineβyou get so excited, you run straight to Dean before even thinking about checking it off the list.
"Dee! Dee!" you shout, waving it above your head like a victory flag. "Look!"
Dean's face lights up like Christmas morning. "That's the best leaf in the whole world," he agrees, taking it from you with reverent care and holding it up to the light. "Good job, baby! You're the best treasure hunter ever."
You practically glow under his praise.
The hunt continues.
Dean finds the pinecone, you spot the feather (stuck in a branch, which Dean has to help you reach), and together you discover the smooth stone, when Dean sees it.
Just a little further under the old oak tree, partially buried in the soft dirt. A rock, but not just any rock. This one is different. Special. It's small enough to fit in your palm, weathered smooth by time and rain, and shaped like...
A heart.
Dean glances over at you. You're completely absorbed in examining the smooth stone you just found, turning it over in your tiny hands like it holds all the secrets of the universe. You haven't noticed his discovery.
Something warm and fluttery happens in his chest, and without really thinking about why, Dean quickly scoops up the heart-shaped rock and slips it into his pocket.
He's not sure why he doesn't show it to you right away. Just... it feels important. Special in a way that makes him want to save it, like how he saves his favorite toy for when he really needs comfort, or how he hides the last piece of birthday cake so he can make it last longer.
"Did we get everything?" you ask, bouncing on your toes.
Dean checks the list one more time, even though he knows you have. "Yep. We're the best treasure hunting team ever."
You beam at him, and Dean thinks he'd hunt for a million treasures just to see you smile like that.
By the time you finish, the sky has started its slow transformation from bright blue to something softer, painted with the faintest hints of pink and orange. Your moms have spread out an old quilt under the big oak treeβthe same one where Dean found his secretβand they're setting out sandwiches cut into fun shapes and juice boxes with bendy straws.
But dinner can wait a little longer, because Dean has discovered something even better than treasure hunting.
Cloud watching.
He flops down on his back on the quilt, and you immediately copy him, lying so close your shoulders are touching. Above you, the sky is like a slow-moving art gallery, white and gray shapes drifting lazily across the wide canvas.
"See that one?" Dean points upwards. "That's a dragon. A really big one."
"Where?"
"Right there. See the pointy part? That's his nose. And that fluffy bit is his tail."
You stare intently, and gradually the shape starts to make sense. "Oh! I see it!"
Dean grins, pleased with himself. "And that one over there... that's a giant cookie."
"A cookie?" you giggle.
"Yeah, chocolate chip. See the bumpy parts?"
And so it goes.
Dean points out cloud after cloud, inventing stories for each one. The Giant Cookie is being chased by the Cookie Monster Cloud. There's the Superhero Belt made of three clouds in a row. A Fluffy Bunny who's hopping across the sky to find his cloud carrot.
But here's the thing.
You're not really looking at the clouds.
Not anymore.
Your head is turned just slightly to the side, and you're watching Dean instead. Watching the way his eyes light up when he spots a new shape. The way his hands gesture excitedly as he spins his tales. The way his voice gets all storyteller-dramatic when he describes the Great Cloud Adventure happening right above your heads.
To you, Dean is infinitely more fascinating than any cloud could ever be. The way the golden afternoon light catches in his hair. How his freckles seem to dance when he smiles. The happiness in his voice when he makes you laugh.
He's pointing out a Cloud Castle now, complete with towers and flags, and you're nodding along, but you're just memorizing everything about this moment. The warmth of his shoulder against yours, and the way he makes the world feel like magic.
"And in that castle," Dean continues, his voice dropping to a whisper like he's sharing the most important secret, "lives a princess who has the most beautiful crown made of stars..."
You don't know it yet, but this momentβlying on a quilt under a tree while Dean Winchester tells you stories about cloud kingdomsβthis will be one of those memories that stays with you forever.
One of those moments that you'll carry with you through everything that comes after.
The light is getting softer now, the air cooler. Dean's stories are getting quieter, more dreamy, and you can hear your moms' voices drifting over from where they're setting up dinner.
Baby Sam makes a soft cooing sound from his carrier.
"Ariel! Dean!" Mary calls out. "Dinner time!"
But neither of you move right away. The spell of the afternoon is too perfect to break just yet.
Dean turns his head to look at you and finds you already looking at him. "Did you have fun today?" he asks softly.
You nod, unable to find words big enough for the feeling in your chest.
"Good," he says, and there's something almost grown-up in the way he says it. Like it's the most important thing to him.
Dinner is sandwiches that taste like the best meal ever when you're eating them under the stars. Your moms brought out battery-powered lanterns that cast everything in a honey-colored glow. Sam is awake now, making those sweet baby sounds and reaching tiny fists toward the lights.
You and Dean sit close together, sharing a bag of chips and taking turns feeding each other grapes because you both dissolve into giggles.
Dean insists on checking your sandwich to make sure it has "the right amount of peanut butter" and you do the same for his because fairness is very important when you're two.
As the night settles in properly, with real stars starting to peek through the darkening sky, Natalia looks at her watch and sighs. "Someone's getting sleepy," she says, looking at you even though you're definitely not sleepy at all...no matter how much your eyelids want to prove her right.
"Can Ariel sleep over?" Dean asks immediately, because this is always the question at the end of your very best days. "Please?"
"If it's okay with Nat," Mary says, and your mom nods because she knows as well as anyone that you and Dean are inseparable.
"But bath time first," Mary adds, "for both of you little leaf monsters."
You look down at yourself and realize you are, in fact, covered in bits of nature. Leaf fragments in your hair, dirt on your dress, and what might be strawberry jelly on you cheek from the sandwich.
Dean's not much better.
Bath time at the Winchester house is always an adventure. Mary fills the big tub with bubbles that smell like lavender, and you and Dean take turns being sea monsters and mermaids.
Dean makes sure you get the good toys, the rubber duck that quacks and the boat that really floats, every time.
By the time you're both clean and dressed in pajamas (you in one of Dean's old t-shirts that comes down to your knees), the day has caught up with you. Your eyelids are heavy, and you're doing that thing where you lean against Dean without meaning to.
"Storytime," Mary announces, and that's how you end up curled in Dean's bedβthe big boy bed that's just right for sharingβwhile Mary reads you Goodnight Moon.
But you're not really listening to the story either. You're too comfortable, too sleepy, too tucked into Dean's side with his arm around you like you belong there. His breathing is slow and steady, and it's better than any lullaby.
Mary finishes the story and kisses both your foreheads. "Sweet dreams, babies," she whispers, turning off the main light and leaving just the little nightlight glowing in the corner.
You can hear the house settling around you, the distant sound of your moms' voices downstairs, the hum of the nightlight. Dean's heartbeat under your cheek.
Your breathing evens out first. The day has been so full, so perfect, and sleep comes easy when you're safe and warm and loved.
Dean listens until he's sure you're deeply asleep, your breathing is steady, and your fingers have relaxed their grip on his shirt. Then, moving as carefully as he can, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans on the floor beside the bed.
The heart-shaped rock is still there, warm from being close to him all evening.
He turns it over in his small fingers, feeling its smooth edges. In the dim light it looks almost magical. Like something from one of the fairy tales Mary reads to him.
Gently, so gently, he takes your handβthe one that got scraped earlier, that he kissed betterβand places the rock in your palm. Your fingers instinctively curl around it, holding it close even in sleep.
"So you remember today," he whispers, so quietly the words are barely more than a breath. "And have a piece of my heart."
He brushes a strand of hair away from your face with the same tenderness he showed with the leaves earlier. His fingers are gentle against your cheek as he leans down and presses the softest kiss to your forehead.
"Sweet dreams, Ariel," he murmurs. "I'll keep you safe. Always."
ππππππ'π ππππ
β€· Starting off the precursor season with pure childhood sweetness because we all know what's coming and I'm not ready either. dean has been protecting Ariel since before he could properly tie his own shoes and honestly? that's the brand. also yes I'm going to break all of our hearts but for now let's just live in this perfect October afternoon where the worst thing to happen is a scraped palm and the best thing is fruit snacks.
episode two drops soon and y'all... bring tissues.
Reblog if you're ready for the pain | comments give me life
Mary Winchester and Natalia Martin were inseparable from the moment they blabbered out their first words. Their friendship continued, blossoming throughout their childhood, to their teen years, and finally adulthood.
Just 2 years after Dean was born, came Ariel, then baby Sammy. Like their mothers, Dean and Ariel were tethered to each other by some invisible forceβ a string if you will; you never saw one without the other following closely behind.
Everything changed the night of the fire. Sam and Dean lost their mother, John lost his wife, Natalia lost her best friend, and Ariel? She lost her family: her parents filed for divorce a few months later β her mother resorting to endless bottles of alcohol to numb the pain and her father walking out the door claiming he 'just can't do it anymore'.
Already loving her as if she was his own daughter and knowing she won't be taken care of with her mother being in the state she was, John takes matters into his own hands and raises her alongside his boys.
Meaning years worth of long roadtrips, cheap motel rooms, and a somewhat absent father figure. Ariel doesn't mind though. At least she's got her boys by her side to keep her company.
That is until one day, school was over, the boys were nowhere to be found, the impala never came to pick her up, and she found a note in her locker with the words 'I'm sorry' messily scribbled onto it. . .
Never Nothing, Never Something, Always Almost | Masterlist
-> Summary: She grew up in the backseat of the Impalaβjust like them. Then they disappeared and left her behind. Eight years later and they're back at her door, and the past is catching up fast.
a/n: I need to give my girl @dianawinchester03 a big mention!! She's the one who inspired me to make my own series rewrite of Supernatural after reading her own work: The Old Testament Series - it's personally one of my favorites, she's so talented and creative and such a sweetheart! Definitely go give it a read and a heart and all that good stuff <3
Disclaimer: this series will be mainly in the second pov with occasional third pov that will be noted at the start of the episode/chapter. My oc is mine as well as plots and dialogue that are not in Supernatural itself originally, otherwise everything else in the show rightfully belongs to the creators of it. Also, face claim is, yes, Holland Roden - one: I adore her, two: Loved her in Teen Wolf as Lydia so I just thought it'd be fun to do some sort of alternate universe where she's in Supernatural instead. If you're confused, don't worry, it'll all (hopefully) make sense if you decide to give my rewrite a chance!
Faithfully yours,
| remember I love you |
Precursor β Life Before It All. (Currently in the works.)
Volume I β Hidden Inside. (Currently in the works.)
OH MY GOD IM CRYING HOLY SHIT. Girl I was literally in line to pay my light bill when I clicked on this. I was having a shitty ass day cuz our electricity got cut even after I paid it, more shit was happening (long story)
My point is, THIS brought so much more light to my life than the company couldβve brought me. AHHHHHH, literally so close to crying in publicππβ€οΈβ€οΈ
Girl those electrical companies are so full of shit istgπ BUT AWWE C'MERE WE'LL CRY TOGETHERπ₯Ήπ YOU'RE MAKING ME CRY NOW XX
I can't wait for you to read it my love, ahhh the pressure's on nowπ΅βπ« and ohhhh yes, get your popcorn, your go-to snack, your favourite drink and PREPARE YOURSELFπβΊοΈ APPRECIATE YOU BESTIE π«ΆπΌπ«ΆπΌ
(yes this is a re-reblog because my dumbass originally did this in one of my other blogsπ€¦π»ββοΈ muah xx)
πππππππ’
β³ She grew up in the backseat of the Impalaβjust like them. Then they disappeared and left her behind. Eight years later and they're back at her door, and the past is catching up fast.
ππππππ
β³ Ongoing
πΏππππππ
β³ Dean Winchester x Original Character.
ππππππ
β³ Childhood Bestfriends to Slight Enemies to Rekindled Friendship to Eventual Lovers, Very Slow-Burn, First Love, He Fell First-She Fell Hard-They Fell Harder.
π°/π½
β³ I need to give my girl @dianawinchester03 a big mention!! She's the one who inspired me to make my own series rewrite of Supernatural after reading her own work: The Old Testament Series - it's personally one of my favorites, she's so talented and creative and such a sweetheart! Definitely go give it a read and a heart and all that good stuff <3
Disclaimer: this series will be mainly in the second pov with occasional third pov that will be noted at the start of the episode/chapter. My oc is mine as well as plots and dialogue that are not in Supernatural itself originally, otherwise everything else in the show rightfully belongs to the creators of it. Also, face claim is, yes, Holland Roden - one: I adore her, two: Loved her in Teen Wolf as Lydia so I just thought it'd be fun to do some sort of alternate universe where she's in Supernatural instead. If you're confused, don't worry, it'll all (hopefully) make sense if you decide to give my rewrite a chance!
