Elastic Heart @phoenixwritesspn - Tumblr Blog

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Story synopsis:

At thirteen, Victoria Evans's world was shattered when she was saved by John Winchester from a supernatural force that claimed the lives of her parents. Taught to be a hunter alongside his sons Sam and Dean, Victoria quickly discovered that she found something greater than the opportunity for vengeance, and she would do anything to protect the people she loves.

*Dean x OFC. Follows season 1 with my own spin*

Excerpt from the first chapter of Elastic Heart:

After spending most of the night at some random bar in Holbrook, Arizona, we stumbled back to our motel room—emphasis on the stumbled. I can't remember the last time I drank that much. I just needed a moment to let my mind slip, to forget about our troubles, if only for the night. We were setting off for Jericho, California, and I feared what we would find—or lack thereof—when we arrived. Our inebriated states didn't stop us from eagerly fumbling our clothes off as soon as our room door was shut. I'm not sure either of us locked it before falling onto the bed.

With no concept of time, I last remembered hearing birds begin to chip outside before I passed out on Dean's chest. Hours later, I awoke groggy and missing the warmth of his body underneath the covers.

Even though my head pounded, I pushed up on an elbow and searched the room with lagging eyes, finding him packing our stuff into a duffle bag atop the dresser. Dean glanced back over his shoulder, probably having heard me moving around. "Morning," he said, returning to his task.

I lazily bunched the thin white sheet under my arms and sat upright, leaning against the headboard. "What time is it?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.

"Nine," Dean replied.

Removing my hands from my eyes, I watched him sloppily fold a shirt and stuff it into the bag through a kaleidoscope of colors. "How long have you been up?" I wondered with a yawn. I couldn't imagine how he was already up and at 'em when I probably needed another few hours of sleep to recover from the last night's damage.

Dean shrugged, still facing away from me. "Couple hours."

"A couple hours?" I repeated, eyes widening at his back. "Aren't you tired? Or, I don't know, hungover?"

"Well, I didn't have as many shots as you," Dean teased, glancing at me with a lifted eyebrow.

"That's true," I chuckled, groaning instantly as the vibration reverberated through my already throbbing head. Grimacing, I massaged my temples, trying to calm the aching pulse.

With a bottle of rattling pills and a sloshing bottle of water, Dean made his way to the bed and sat beside me. I raised an eyebrow at the two bottles offered. "I figured you'd need it," he replied to the look I was giving with a simple shrug.

"My hero," I teased, gratefully taking the items. I poured out a couple of ibuprofen and knocked them back with the water, not realizing until I started drinking how thirsty I was and finished the entire thing. Dean's eyes widened slightly, and he took the empty bottle from me when I was done, crushing it and tossing it in the trash bin. I pushed a particularly annoying messy wave of hair that fell just below my collarbone back over my shoulder when a thought popped into my foggy mind. It very well could be the reason he was so full of energy. "Did you hear something from John?" I asked hopefully.

"No," Dean mumbled sadly. An unexpected flash of excitement in his eyes caught me off guard. "Come on, we gotta get going," he urged with a smile, playfully smacking my sheet-covered thigh as he stood.

"Whoa, wait," I shut my eyes briefly to still the spinning room. "Right now?"

"Yeah, right now," Dean said, leaning down to place a kiss on top of my head. "We have a detour to make."

"A detour–?" I paused, narrowing my eyes at the scheming look in his. "I don't like that look."

"What look?" Dean asked innocently, turning back to the dresser.

I sat up a bit straighter, ignoring the throbbing in my head. "What is it?" I pressed, stopping his stride.

"It's just a quick pitstop," he told me with a smile.

"For?"

Dean's grin grew. "Sam."

Shock froze me as his words registered. The idea of seeing Sam made my heart leap with excitement, but then the guilt hit and washed it away. How could we show up after all this time and with such terrible news? What good would that do anyone?

deanwinchesterscreencaps

i-am-roadrunner

Katheryn Winnick attends the Italian Global Series Festival 2025 on June 28, 2025 in Riccione, Italy [x]

i-am-roadrunner

katherynwinnick: Hair ✅ Make Up ✅ Italian Global Series Festival... Here we go!

editingsupernatural

"Ezekiel is dead. He died when the angels fell."

pooslie

Exasperated Bucky: Oh, God. There’s two of them. They don’t even have weapons….

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from this post: https://www.tumblr.com/cogentranting/173551186198/

thefandomfires

Bucky Barnes when his left arm gets ripped off for the 4th time

jae0515

I know i shouldn’t be laughing but that pic is so damn accurate 🤭🤣😂

i-am-roadrunner

Katheryn Winnick - BEHIND THE SCENES | Coffee Table Book | 20 Years of Progress | New York Moves [x]

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justjensenanddean

Jensen Ackles | SPN, S4, BTS

Elastic Heart, Chapter 27 - Devil's Trap

Hey everybody! Here's a snippet from the finale chapter of my fic!:

Miles away from town and the nearest neighbors sat an old, beat-up two-story house, isolated from prying eyes—and, well… everyone. Inside was an equally secluded, surly, and standoffish man. At least, that's how he was until you got to know him.

Hell, he was still like that. Just a little less so.

Before our contact had been severed, we'd grown close, though he'd never admit it, not even if you put a gun to his head. But he didn't have to. One look at him when he thought no one was watching told you everything.

A sense of calm washed over me as the Impala pulled onto the dirt path lined with junk cars scattered around the property. It still looked the same—cluttered with car parts and tires. This place was the closest thing to a physical home I'd had in years.

Rumsfeld, a large Rottweiler, lay on top of a truck, chained to a nearby post. He popped his head up as we got out of the car, throat rumbling with a warning growl telling us not to come any closer.

Part of me hoped he would remember us, but I suppose it was too much to ask with all the years that passed.

I smiled at him, keeping my voice light and airy. "Hey, Buddy."

The dog stared calculatingly for a moment before hopping off the car. I held a hand out for him to sniff, and he pressed his cold nose to my fingers. His tail started to wag cautiously, then grew in excitement, his whole body wiggling with it.

"Guess he remembers you," Dean remarked with a smile.

"I guess so." I patted Rumsfeld's head and followed the boys up the creaky steps to the even creakier front porch, where Dean knocked on the door and shifted nervously.

On the other side, multiple locks clicked open, and the door swung wide. The burly man stood there, his posture relaxing with relief. Behind his beard, his lips almost curled into a smile. "Hey, kids. Glad you got here safe." Bobby moved so we could enter. "Come on, get inside."

It seemed as though not a day had passed since we were here last. God, the house even smelled the same: musty books, a burning fire, and cheap whiskey. The floorboard by the door still had that scuff from the night I snuck out for a date, returned drunk, heels in hand, and fell on my ass, scratching up the wood.

I don't know how Bobby handled us, but he did. Always made us feel at home, too. Our time spent here was one of the few moments we got to be exactly what we were—kids.

"Thanks for this," I said.

"Anytime," Bobby replied, ensuring we were all inside before he stopped to take Sam in. "Been a long time since I've seen you."

Sam's lips tilted in a shy smile. "I guess it has."

Bobby wasn't an overly emotional man, but I could've sworn I saw his eyes wet with tears before he cleared his throat and instructed us to follow him into the library. Like always, stacks of books filled the room's corners, practically reaching the ceiling. A fire crackled in the fireplace, flickering orange and yellow across the rough hardwood floor and old red couch that the boys and I used to pile on for movie nights.

Despite all the chaos and uncertainty outside, the good memories allowed my lungs to expand fully for the first time in hours.

Bobby picked up two silver flasks from the corner of his desk and handed one to me. "Here you go."

I sloshed the liquid around. "Is this holy water?"

"That one is," Bobby pointed to the one I held before unscrewing the top on his, "this is whiskey." He drank, then passed it along to Dean, who took a long, grateful swig.

Dean wiped a few drops from his lips with the back of his hand and offered me the flask. "Want some?"

It couldn't hurt. My nerves were already shot.

I accepted, taking a much shorter sip than either of the men had. The familiar burn hit my tongue and lashed the back of my throat, only soothed by the warmth that followed.

"To tell you the truth, I wasn't sure we should come," Dean admitted.

"Nonsense," Bobby denied with a wave. "Your Daddy needs help."

"Well, yeah, but last time we saw you, you did threaten to blast him full of buckshot. Cocked the shotgun and everything."

"Yeah, well, what can I say? John just has that effect on people." Bobby's tone was gruff, but his eyes didn't leave Dean's. Under all that sarcasm, the worry was plain as day.

"Yeah." Dean cracked a grin. "I guess he does."

"None of that matters now. All that matters is that you get him back."

Surveying the room again, a glaring difference caught my eye. Etched into the ceiling was a large, intricately engraved circle with a five-point star and a scorpion in the center. "What is that?" I asked.

"That?" Bobby pointed to the symbol as if it were just another day on the job. And it was, for him, I guess. "Key of Solomon."

Dean followed my gaze and went slack-jawed. "What does it do?"

Bobby pulled a thick book from the desk, its spine cracking with age, and flipped it open with practiced fingers. "There," he said, handing it over.

The page was yellowed, the ink faded in places, but the symbol was unmistakable—drawn in gold, gleaming faintly against the paper. Below it, a block of dense text described it as a protective circle, designed to halt demonic movement and trap the entity inside. A line no demon could cross once the symbol was complete.

"I've never seen anything like this," Sam said, clutching the book between his fingers. "And these protective circles, they really work?"

"Hell, yeah," Bobby said with a nod. "You get a demon in—they're trapped. Powerless. It's like a Satanic roach motel."

Dean chuckled appreciatively. "Man knows his stuff."

I twisted the cap back onto the flask and put it down. "Seems too easy."

"Drawing it is the easy part." Bobby lazily folded his arms.

"What's the hard part?"

"Getting 'em in."

"Guess it's not easy as leaving a piece of cheese in a rat trap, huh?" Dean quipped.

"Not quite." Bobby grimaced and rested against the desk. What little amusement had been in his voice was gone now. I braced myself for the worst. "And I'll tell you something else, too. This is some serious crap you kids stepped in."

"Oh yeah?" Sam asked, steeling himself for the answer. "How's that?"

"Normal year, I hear of, say, three demonic possessions. Maybe four, tops. This year, I hear of twenty-seven so far."

A sharp breath shot from my lungs. Sam's shoulders tensed like he'd just taken a punch to the gut. Dean's jaw ticked as he tried to hold his composure under impossible odds.

"More and more demons are walking among us—a lot more," Bobby finished with a certainty that only he could carry.

"Well, that's comforting," I mumbled, shifting weight to my other foot.

Sam leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp but tired. "Do you know why?"

"No, but I know it's something big." Bobby wiped his hands on his jeans, almost like he was trying to rake away his words before he said them. "The storm's coming, and you kids, your Daddy—you are smack in the middle of it."