The Devil You Carry
Chapter 1 - It Shouldn’t Matter
Chapter summary:
A new case pulls you, Sam, and Dean back out on the road — strange behaviour,
unexplained deaths, all the usual signs of something darker beneath the surface.
But it’s not the case that’s getting to you.
It’s everything else.
The quiet moments. The things left unsaid.
And the growing realisation that whatever you feel for Dean… isn’t going away.
👥 Characters:
Dean Winchester
Sam Winchester
Reader Insert (Y/N)
🔞Rating:
Teen and up.
⚠️ Warnings:
Alcohol consumption, mild language, emotional angst, jealousy, canon-typical themes
A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/88308176
—————————————————
There are different kinds of quiet in the bunker.
There’s the good kind — the kind that comes after a hunt, when everyone’s back, alive, patched up enough to pretend it doesn’t hurt anymore. When the silence feels earned. Safe, in a way that’s rare for a life like this.
And then there’s this kind.
The kind that stretches a little too far, that lingers just long enough to make you aware of it. The kind that leaves you sitting with your own thoughts and nowhere to put them.
Which is never a good idea.
You’re sat at the table with your laptop open in front of you, the screen glowing softly in the dim light. You’ve stopped reading at some point — you don’t remember when — and now your fingers just hover over the trackpad like you might start again if you try hard enough.
You don’t.
Instead, your attention drifts.
Not to Sam — though he’s there, a few seats down, head also buried in his own laptop, focused and steady like always. Predictable in the best way. Easy to be around, because you know exactly what you’re getting.
No.
Your attention drifts further than that.
Across the room.
To him.
Dean’s by the counter, beer in hand, back half turned. He hasn’t noticed you looking — or if he has, he’s choosing to ignore it. That’s the thing about him. He notices everything, always has.
Just… not always the things you wish he would.
You should look away.
You know you should.
But you don’t.
Because moments like this — the quiet ones, the in-between ones where nothing’s happening — they’re the hardest to deal with. There’s no hunt to focus on, no danger to distract you, no reason to keep your thoughts in check.
Nothing to hide behind.
So instead, you sit there and watch him — the way he tips his head back slightly when he drinks, the way his shoulders loosen just a fraction when he thinks no one’s paying attention. Small things. Stupid things.
The kind that shouldn’t matter.
And yet they do.
You’ve tried to pinpoint when it started, when it shifted from nothing into… whatever this is.
You can’t.
There wasn’t a moment. No big, obvious realisation. No line you crossed where suddenly everything felt different.
It was quieter than that.
A slow build you didn’t notice until it was already there.
Late nights at this table. Long drives where conversation came easy, or didn’t come at all but still felt comfortable. The way he always steps in front of you without thinking when things get rough. The way your name sounds different when he says it — sharper when he’s annoyed, softer when he’s worried.
You didn’t mean to let it happen.
You just… didn’t stop it.
You drag your eyes away, a little too late.
“Tell me we’ve got something.”
Your heart does something stupid at the sound of his voice, and you hate that it does — hate that it’s that easy, that automatic.
You blink, forcing your attention back to the screen like you’ve been working the whole time.
“I’m working on it,” you say, and it almost sounds convincing.
Almost.
There’s a beat before he responds.
“Yeah?”
You don’t turn. You don’t need to.
You can feel him there.
Too close.
Close enough that you know he can see your screen, can see you haven’t moved in a while, can probably tell exactly what you’ve been doing instead.
“’Cause it kinda looks like you’ve been staring at the same page for a solid half hour.”
You exhale quietly, finally glancing over your shoulder.
“I have not,” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly. “I’ve been reading.”
He leans on the back of your chair, the wood shifting faintly under his weight. Close enough that your shoulders tense without your permission, like your body reacts before your brain can catch up.
“Uh-huh.”
“Research,” you add, like that somehow makes it better.
“Right,” he says, not sounding convinced in the slightest. “And how’s that going for you?”
You turn back to the screen, shrugging like it doesn’t matter.
“Thrilling,” you mumble. “Honestly. Living the dream.”
There’s a quiet huff of a laugh behind you — soft, barely there — and it lands somewhere in your chest in a way you wish it didn’t.
You don’t let yourself sit in that feeling for too long.
You’ve learned not to — because if you do, it tends to spiral into something you can’t quite control, something that lingers long after it should’ve passed. It’s easier to ignore it, to push it down and focus on literally anything else.
Luckily, Sam gives you that out.
“There’s been a few reports in Ohio,” he says, pulling your attention away before your thoughts can drift back to where they were. “Couple of unexplained deaths. Witnesses mentioned some… weird behaviour beforehand.”
Dean straightens slightly behind you, and even though you’re not looking at him, you feel it — that shift in him when something clicks into place.
“Weird how?”
Sam types as he talks, eyes scanning the screen. “Erratic. Sudden aggression. One of them apparently attacked his own family out of nowhere.”
Your hand stills on the trackpad.
You already know where this is going, and part of you wishes — briefly — that you were wrong.
Dean says it anyway.
“Demon.”
Sam nods once. “Yeah. That was my thought.”
A pause settles over the room then. Not heavy, not uncomfortable — just understood. The kind of silence that comes when all three of you land on the same conclusion without needing to say much else.
You close your laptop, the soft click sounding louder than it should.
“Then I guess we’ve got something.”
Dean’s already halfway to his room by the time you finish speaking, like he’s been waiting for that confirmation.
“Alright,” he calls over his shoulder, “ten minutes. FBI mode.”
You push your chair back, grabbing your bag as you stand.
“Try five,” you shoot back. “Some of us don’t take half an hour to do a tie.”
He pauses just enough to glance back at you, pointing slightly.
“Hey. Presentation matters.”
You snort.
“Yeah, I’m sure the demons are very intimidated by your Windsor knot.”
Sam huffs a quiet laugh as he disappears down the hall, and Dean just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he heads into his room.
⸻
By the time you step out again, the bunker feels different.
Sharper. Focused. Like everything has shifted into place now there’s a job to do.
Your trousers sit snug, flaring slightly at the bottom, your shirt tucked neatly in — a couple of buttons undone at the top because you refuse to suffocate yourself for the sake of appearances — jacket fitted just right.
Simple. Clean. Professional enough.
You adjust your sleeve as you step into the main room—
And stop.
Dean’s already there.
Of course he is.
Tie straight. Jacket on. Everything exactly how it should be.
And for a moment — just a second — it hits you a little harder than it should.
Because it’s not just the suit.
It’s him in it.
The way it fits across his shoulders, the way he carries himself like he belongs in it even though you know he hates every second of playing dress-up. There’s something about it — something annoyingly attractive — and you hate that your brain even registers it.
You look away quickly, busying yourself with your jacket like you weren’t just staring.
“Wow,” he says, glancing over at you. “You clean up alright.”
You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction.
“Careful, Dean. Sounded almost like a compliment.”
He smirks faintly.
“Don’t get used to it.”
Sam walks in then, already straightening his own jacket.
“Alright,” he says, glancing between you both. “We’ve got about a two-hour drive. If we leave now, we can hit the scene before it’s too late.”
Dean grabs his keys, spinning them once around his finger.
“Let’s roll.”
⸻
The drive is easy.
It always is.
There’s something about being in the Impala that makes everything feel… steady. Like no matter what you’re driving toward, this part — this in-between — is always the same.
Sam runs through the details, glancing down at his notes as he talks.
“Latest victim was yesterday. Male, mid-thirties. No history of violence, no known enemies.”
“Until he snaps,” Dean mutters, eyes fixed on the road.
You lean forward slightly from the backseat.
“Same pattern as the others?”
Sam nods. “Yeah. Sudden aggression, no warning. Witness said his eyes went—” he pauses briefly, glancing back at you, “—black.”
You sit back again, exhaling quietly.
“So we’re not dealing with something subtle.”
“If it’s jumping bodies,” you continue, thinking it through as you speak, “we need to figure out how long it’s staying in each host.”
“And how many we’re dealing with,” Sam adds.
Dean glances at him briefly. “Yeah. Last thing we need is walking into a damn nest.”
You sigh, leaning your head back slightly.
“Love that for us.”
Dean smirks.
“Hey. You signed up for this.”
You lean forward just enough to nudge the back of his seat lightly with your knee.
“I do not remember signing anything, actually.”
“That’s because you didn’t read the fine print,” he shoots back.
Sam chuckles softly beside him.
And just like that—
It feels normal again.
———
The Impala rolls to a stop just short of the house, gravel crunching lightly under the tyres.
Dean cuts the engine, but for a second, no one moves.
He glances up at the rear-view mirror instead, his expression shifting — not drastically, but enough. That familiar change into something sharper, more focused. Professional, in the way he always is when it matters.
“Alright,” he says, voice steady. “Game faces.”
You lean forward slightly from the backseat, catching his gaze in the mirror.
“Remind me,” you say, tone light but pointed, “are we taking this one seriously, or are you gonna flirt your way through it again?”
Sam snorts quietly beside him.
Dean doesn’t even blink.
“I don’t flirt,” he says, already reaching for his badge.
You raise a brow, unimpressed.
He glances back at you, just briefly.
“Focus.”
There’s something about the way he says it — not harsh, not annoyed, just… direct — that makes you hold his gaze for a second longer than you probably should.
Then you lean back again, giving him a small, almost mocking nod.
“Agent.”
That earns you the smallest flicker of a smirk before he looks away again.
The house looks like every other one on the street.
Nothing out of place.
Which, if anything, makes it worse.
Dean knocks, firm and practiced, and you hear movement inside almost immediately — slow, hesitant, uneven. Like whoever’s on the other side isn’t entirely sure they want to open the door.
When it does finally open, the woman standing there looks exhausted. Not just tired — worn down in a way that suggests sleep hasn’t come easy for a while.
“Can I help you?”
Sam steps forward smoothly, flashing his badge with that calm, reassuring ease he always seems to fall into.
“Ma’am, we’re with the FBI. We’d just like to ask you a few questions about what happened yesterday.”
She hesitates.
Her eyes move between the three of you, taking you in, assessing, unsure.
You soften your expression slightly, letting your tone shift just enough to take the edge off.
“We won’t take up too much of your time,” you add gently.
That seems to do it.
She steps back, opening the door wider.
Inside, the air feels… off.
Not strong.
Not enough that anyone else would notice.
But you do.
And Dean does too.
You don’t look at him, but you feel it — that subtle shift, that unspoken confirmation that passes between you both without needing words.
Sulphur.
Faint, but there.
She sits across from you, hands wrapped tightly around a mug that’s long since gone cold, like she’s forgotten it’s even there.
Sam does most of the talking — he always does in situations like this — his voice calm, measured.
“Can you walk us through what happened?”
Her grip tightens slightly.
“He just…” she shakes her head, like she’s still trying to make sense of it. “He wasn’t himself.”
Dean leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her carefully.
“How long was he acting like that?”
“A few hours, maybe,” she says. “It started small. He was… distracted. Agitated.”
You nod slightly, keeping your tone even.
“Did he say anything? About how he was feeling?”
She frowns, thinking.
“Just that something didn’t feel right. That he felt… wrong.”
Dean’s eyes flick briefly toward you.
You catch it this time.
You’re not sure why that matters.
But it does.
“And then,” she continues, her voice dropping slightly, “he said he could smell something.”
Sam leans forward just a fraction.
“What kind of smell?”
She swallows.
“Rotten eggs.”
Dean exhales quietly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’ll do it.”
You shoot him a quick look, and he lifts a shoulder in response, like — what?
He’s not wrong.
A few minutes later, you’re moving through the house.
Dean gestures toward the hallway.
“Bedroom’s down there.”
You nod.
“I’ll check it.”
Sam stays behind with the woman, asking a few more questions, and you head down the hall alone.
The door creaks slightly as you push it open.
Nothing immediately stands out.
Bed unmade. Clothes half folded. A life paused mid-motion.
Normal.
Too normal.
You step further in, scanning the room slowly, letting your eyes adjust—
Then pause.
There’s a mark on the wall near the doorframe.
Faint.
Barely noticeable unless you’re actually looking for something.
You crouch slightly, brushing your fingers just near it without quite touching.
The smell hits you stronger here.
Sulphur.
“Dean,” you call quietly.
Footsteps behind you almost immediately.
Close.
Always close.
“Yeah?”
You tilt your head slightly toward the mark.
“Here.”
He leans in beside you, closer than he needs to be, his shoulder just brushing yours as he looks.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That’s fresh.”
You straighten slowly.
“So it didn’t stay long.”
He nods.
“Which means it’s already moved on.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“Great.”
⸻
Back outside, the air feels easier to breathe.
You lean lightly against the Impala, arms folding loosely as Sam joins you, flipping through his notes.
“So,” he says, “pattern’s consistent. Possession, short-term control, then it jumps.”
Dean nods, glancing back at the house.
“Yeah. Question is—why here? Why these people?”
You shrug slightly.
“Could just be opportunity.”
Dean looks at you.
“Demons don’t usually do random.”
You tilt your head.
“Maybe this one’s bored.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
“Yeah. Lucky us.”
There’s a brief pause.
The three of you standing there, thinking it through, letting the pieces settle.
Then Dean claps his hands together once.
“Well. We’re not getting much more out of this tonight.”
You glance at him.
“So what, we call it?”
He shrugs.
“Regroup. Hit the next location in the morning.”
Sam nods.
“We can check the other victim’s place. Maybe hospital records.”
You push yourself off the car slightly, rolling your shoulders.
“And in the meantime?”
Dean looks at you.
There’s a small smirk there now — familiar, easy.
“Food. Drink. Preferably both.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there you don’t bother hiding.
“Of course.”
⸻
The bar is exactly what you expect.
Nothing special.
But not bad either.
Just… somewhere to sit, drink, and forget for a couple of hours.
Dean seems satisfied with it immediately, which probably says more than anything else.
A couple of drinks in, the tension from earlier starts to ease — not gone, but softer around the edges.
Manageable.
Dean leans back in his chair, bottle loose in his hand.
“So,” he says, glancing between you and Sam, “any bright ideas, or are we just winging it tomorrow?”
Sam exhales quietly.
“We’re not winging it.”
Dean raises a brow.
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
You tilt your head slightly, watching him.
“I thought your whole thing was winging it.”
He looks at you.
“That’s different.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “When I do it, it works.”
You snort, shaking your head.
“Right.”
Sam chuckles into his drink.
It’s easy.
That’s what gets you.
Sitting here like this, talking about nothing important, letting the noise of the bar fill the silence — it’s easy to forget everything else for a while.
Easy to pretend this is all it is.
Just this.
“Hey.”
Dean nudges your foot lightly under the table.
You look up.
He jerks his head toward the back.
Pool table.
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“Don’t.”
He smirks.
“Don’t what?”
“You already look too confident.”
“That’s because I am.”
You lean back in your chair.
“I could take you.”
Sam nearly chokes on his drink.
Dean goes still for half a second, then—
“Oh, you are definitely gonna regret saying that.”
You don’t.
At first.
Because your first shot goes in clean.
You straighten slightly, trying not to look too pleased with yourself.
“Alright,” you say casually. “Not bad.”
Dean just watches you.
Amused.
“Mm.”
“Don’t,” you warn, pointing slightly at him. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you act like you’ve already won.”
Dean takes the cue from your hand with an ease that’s almost irritating, rolling his shoulders once before he leans over the table.
“Sweetheart,” he says, lining up his shot, “I don’t act.”
There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing, no need to line things up three times like you did. He just looks, decides, and takes the shot.
The crack of the balls is sharp enough to cut through the noise of the bar, and one of the striped balls drops neatly into the corner pocket.
You fold your arms, trying not to let how smug he looks get under your skin.
“Okay,” you say, watching him straighten. “That one doesn’t count.”
Dean glances at you, mouth already twitching.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I said so.”
He huffs out a laugh, low and amused, like he’s genuinely enjoying this more than he should.
“That,” he says, circling the table slowly, “is not how pool works.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty positive.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real heat in it. Not when Sam’s standing off to the side with that look on his face, halfway between entertained and fully expecting you to embarrass yourself.
You glance over at him.
“You could at least pretend to support me.”
Sam lifts his drink in one hand.
“I do support you.”
“That sounded fake.”
“It was a little fake,” he admits.
Dean grins.
“See? Even Sam knows when a game’s already over.”
You scoff.
“It’s not over.”
He meets your eyes as he leans down for another shot, the smirk still there, annoyingly steady.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped just low enough to make your stomach twist in a way you immediately resent, “it was over the second you challenged me.”
Then he sinks another ball.
Effortlessly.
You stare at the table for a second, then at him.
“I actually hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He says it without thinking, still focused on the next shot, and the words land a little too easily between you. Casual for him. Not casual for you.
You look away first.
That’s becoming a habit.
It only gets worse from there. Every time you think you’ve got an opening, Dean clears another shot. He barely even looks pleased with himself anymore, which is somehow more annoying than if he were openly gloating. Like he expects this. Like he knew from the second he picked up the cue exactly how this was going to end.
By the time you miss another shot badly enough that the cue ball kisses the side cushion and does absolutely nothing useful, even you can’t pretend this is going well.
Dean doesn’t bother hiding his reaction this time.
“Wow.”
You close your eyes for a second.
“Shut up.”
“That was rough.”
“Dean.”
“I’m just saying, if this hunting thing doesn’t work out, professional pool’s definitely off the table.”
You turn toward him, cue still in hand.
“Take your turn before I use this as a weapon.”
That only seems to amuse him more.
“There she is.”
You blink.
“What?”
“That attitude.” He steps closer, reaching for the cue. “Knew you had it in you.”
Your fingers loosen around the wood a second later than they should, and for the briefest moment his hand brushes yours as he takes it. It’s nothing. Barely anything.
Still, your pulse betrays you.
You hate that it does.
Sam, of course, notices everything.
“You two done?” he asks dryly from where he’s leaning against the wall. “Or should I come back later?”
Dean doesn’t even look at him.
“She started it.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, that is such crap.”
Sam raises his brows.
“So mature. Both of you.”
“Thank you,” Dean says.
“I wasn’t complimenting you.”
Dean sinks another ball.
You watch the easy line of his shoulders as he straightens, the casual confidence in the way he moves. There’s something unfair about how good he is at things like this. Like even when he’s relaxed, even when he’s messing around, there’s still that edge to him. That certainty. That quiet assurance that makes everything he does look easier than it probably is.
You try not to think too hard about why that gets to you.
It’s during his next turn that you notice her.
Not properly at first. Just someone near the bar, laughing at something one of the guys beside her says. Blonde, pretty, confident in the way women in bars always seem to be when they already know they’re being looked at. You wouldn’t have thought anything of it if Dean’s attention hadn’t shifted.
But it does.
Only slightly.
A glance, then another, just long enough to register interest.
And because you know him — because at this point you know the tiny shifts in him better than you probably should — you notice it immediately.
The way he straightens a little. The way his gaze lingers half a second longer when she looks back. The faint, almost unconscious change in his expression, like something in him has already decided there might be some fun to be had here.
It’s easy.
That’s the worst part.
He doesn’t have to try very hard. He never has.
And you know that. Of course you do. You’ve seen it before — in bars, in diners, in cheap motel hallways, in places where the job is over for the night and he lets himself slip into that version of Dean that’s all charm and smirks and low, easy confidence. It shouldn’t come as a surprise.
It doesn’t.
But that doesn’t stop something unpleasant from twisting low in your stomach anyway.
Not because he’s doing anything wrong. Not because he owes you anything. He doesn’t. You know that. You know all of that so well you could probably recite it to yourself in your sleep.
He’s Dean. This is what Dean does.
The problem isn’t him.
It’s you.
It’s the fact that no matter how many times you remind yourself this was never yours to feel possessive over, something in you still reacts anyway. Still goes tight and uncomfortable when his attention lands somewhere else. Still aches in that stupid, humiliating way you’d never admit out loud.
You look back at the table before you can dwell on it too long.
“Your shot,” Dean says, stepping aside.
You nod, moving forward.
“Try not to mess this one up,” he adds.
You glance at him sharply.
“Keep talking and see what happens.”
He grins, pleased with himself.
You line the shot up more carefully this time, mostly because you need something to focus on other than him. Other than the woman at the bar. Other than the fact you can already see the way this night’s probably going to go.
The ball goes in.
Finally.
Dean lets out a low whistle.
“Well, look at that.”
You straighten, trying not to look too satisfied.
“See? I’m improving.”
He tips his bottle toward you.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
You roll your eyes, but some of the sting has gone out of things now that you’ve got the shot. The game carries on, loose and easy and full of stupid comments you know you’ll remember later more clearly than you should.
By the time you all drift back toward the table, your cheeks are warm from drink and laughter and the slow buzz of the evening settling under your skin. Sam drops back into his seat first. Dean lingers at the bar for a second, waiting on another drink, and you tell yourself not to look.
You do anyway.
The woman’s there now, closer than before.
Talking to him.
Of course she is.
Of course he’s smiling.
It’s not even a particularly big smile, not one of the rare real ones that catches you off guard. Just that easy, practiced thing he wears when he wants to be liked. When he wants something. His head dips slightly so he can hear her better over the noise, and she laughs, touching his arm like she’s known him longer than five minutes.
You look away so quickly it almost makes your neck ache.
Sam notices.
You know he notices because Sam notices everything, especially where you’re concerned, and definitely when it comes to Dean. He doesn’t say anything straight away though. Just takes a sip of his drink and waits you out, which somehow makes it worse.
“You okay?” he asks after a minute, too casually.
You give a short laugh, though it doesn’t sound all that convincing even to your own ears.
“Why?”
“Maybe because you look like you’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m not.”
Sam gives you a look over the rim of his glass, one of those patient, unimpressed ones that says he’s not buying it for a second.
“You are.”
You pick at the label on your bottle, eyes fixed on your hands.
“It’s nothing.”
He doesn’t call you a liar. He doesn’t have to. The silence says enough on its own.
Across the room, Dean laughs again, and the sound carries more easily than it should.
You hate that you know the difference between that laugh and the others. Hate that some part of you hears it and immediately tries to figure out what kind of smile went with it.
“It’s stupid,” you say eventually, before you can stop yourself.
Sam stays quiet, letting you keep going if you want to.
You wish he wouldn’t.
Because now you’re halfway there.
“It’s just…” You exhale, jaw tightening briefly. “He can do whatever he wants. I know that. I’m not saying he can’t. It’s not like he owes me anything.”
“No one said he did.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
You take another sip of your drink even though you don’t really want it now, just to buy yourself a second.
“It just gets old,” you murmur.
Sam’s gaze softens a little.
“What does?”
You let out a quiet laugh that doesn’t feel much like one.
“Feeling like an idiot, mostly.”
Sam doesn’t answer straight away. He just watches you for a second, maybe deciding how much to push.
“You’re not an idiot.”
“It feels a lot like it.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
“Then maybe you should tell him.”
That gets your attention fast enough.
You look at him properly for the first time in a minute.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
You stare at him like the answer should be obvious.
“Because then I’d have to live with that.”
Sam tips his head slightly.
“Or something good could happen.”
You shake your head straight away.
“Yeah. Or I could make it weird and ruin everything.”
Before he can answer, Dean returns, sliding back into his seat like nothing’s happened, drink in hand and that same easy energy still hanging off him. If he notices the abrupt silence at the table, he doesn’t say.
“What’d I miss?” he asks.
You’re the one who answers first, because you have to, because if Sam does there’s no telling what he’ll say.
“Nothing,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.
Dean glances between you and Sam.
“Uh-huh.”
Sam hides his mouth behind his drink.
Traitor.
A little while later, Dean disappears.
You don’t see the exact moment he leaves. Maybe that’s deliberate. Maybe you were trying not to watch too closely and missed it. Either way, one minute he’s there, leaning back in his chair with that loose, relaxed posture that only ever shows up when he’s off the clock, and the next—
he’s gone.
You don’t ask.
You already know.
And that knowledge settles heavier than it should.
By the time Sam nudges his empty glass away and looks at you, the room has taken on that softer blur that comes with drinking just enough to quiet your thoughts without actually getting rid of them.
“You ready to go?” he asks.
You nod, pushing yourself upright.
“Yeah.”
The floor shifts more than you expect when you stand.
Sam catches your elbow automatically.
“Easy.”
“I’m fine,” you mumble.
He gives you a look.
“Yeah. You always say that.”
The walk back to the motel is slower than it should be, mostly because you’re just unsteady enough to lean into Sam more than you mean to. He doesn’t comment on it, which you’re grateful for. He just adjusts, making sure you don’t trip over your own feet while the cold air helps clear some of the haze from your head.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
Then Sam glances down at you and says, quieter this time, “I meant it, you know.”
You frown.
“What?”
“About telling him.”
You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half groan.
“Sam.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Absolutely not.”
He smiles a little at that, but it doesn’t last.
“You can’t just sit on this forever.”
“I can try.”
“That sounds healthy.”
You bump lightly into his shoulder.
“Shut up.”
He laughs under his breath, and for a second it feels easier. Simpler. Until the motel sign comes into view and the night catches up with you again.
Back in the room, you sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the carpet like it might give you something better to think about.
It doesn’t.
But it’s easier than letting your mind circle back to Dean. To where he is. To what he’s probably doing.
Sam sets a bottle of water down beside you, nudging it into your line of sight.
“Drink.”
You glance at it, then up at him.
“I’m not dying.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
You huff quietly, but you take it anyway. The water’s warm and unpleasant enough that you grimace the second it hits your tongue.
“Ugh.”
Sam snorts.
“Yeah. Real five-star service.”
You set it back down, fingers lingering against the plastic for a second.
The room settles into a quieter kind of silence. Not uncomfortable. Just tired.
You can feel Sam watching you without making it obvious.
“You good?” he asks after a moment.
You nod automatically.
“Yeah.”
The word comes too quickly to mean much of anything, and you know from the look he gives you that he hears it too.
Of course he does.
Sam’s always been better at this than Dean — better at reading what people don’t say, better at noticing when something’s off. Dean notices too, sometimes. Just not in the same way.
You tug your other shoe off and let it drop to the floor.
You lean back on your hands and tip your head up toward the ceiling. It’s easier than looking at him. Easier than explaining something you barely want to admit to yourself, never mind out loud.
“I’m fine,” you say again, quieter this time.
Sam doesn’t push. Doesn’t call you out. But the silence that follows makes it obvious he doesn’t believe you, and the worst part is you don’t blame him.
Because even you know that isn’t really true.
———
You don’t remember lying down properly.
At some point you must have, because when you wake, light is creeping around the edges of the curtains and your head feels heavy in that dull, cotton-wool sort of way that makes everything take half a second longer to process.
Not awful.
Just slow.
You blink a couple of times and turn onto your side. Sam’s already up, sat at the small table with his laptop open and a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Morning,” he says without looking up.
You groan and drag a hand over your face.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Sam huffs a laugh.
“Rough night?”
You push yourself upright slowly.
“Shut up.”
“That bad, huh?”
You squint at him.
“I’m serious.”
He lifts one hand in surrender.
“Alright, alright.”
A knock sounds at the door a minute later. Short. Familiar.
Sam glances up.
“That’ll be him.”
Something in your chest tightens before you can stop it.
You hate that you still react like that.
Sam gets up and opens the door, and Dean walks in like he owns the place — which, honestly, he kind of does. He brings a different kind of energy with him, one that changes the room the second he steps inside.
He looks scruffier than usual.
Shirt wrinkled. Hair more of a mess than it normally is. Tie nowhere to be seen. There’s a faint smugness to him too, something satisfied sitting just beneath the surface like he hasn’t bothered to hide it.
Sam leans against the doorframe.
“Morning.”
Dean shrugs his jacket off and tosses it over the chair.
“Morning.”
Sam watches him for a second.
“Have fun?”
Dean pauses just long enough for the answer to be obvious before he even says it.
“Yeah,” he replies easily. “Yeah, I did.”
You look away before you can think too much about that. At the floor. At your hands. Anywhere but him.
Sam folds his arms.
“Oh yeah?”
Dean shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like it’s just another night.
“Barmaid was…” He considers it for a second, then smirks. “Enthusiastic.”
Sam snorts.
“That’s…great Dean”
Dean only smirks wider.
“Yeah.”
It shouldn’t matter.
That’s the thought that hits first, immediate and familiar, the one you always reach for when this happens. It shouldn’t matter, because this is Dean and this is what Dean does, and none of it has anything to do with you.
But that doesn’t stop the quiet sinking feeling in your stomach anyway. Doesn’t stop the stupid, unwanted images your brain tries to supply the second he says it. Doesn’t stop the sharp little sting of knowing he can say something like that so casually while you’re sitting right there trying not to let it show on your face.
Dean moves around the room like nothing’s changed, pulling a clean shirt from his bag, and maybe that’s what makes it worse.
How normal it is.
How easy.
You stand a little too quickly.
“Bathroom’s free?” you ask, not really looking at either of them.
Sam nods at once.
“Yeah.”
You grab your clothes and move before either of them can say anything else, brushing past Dean without meeting his eyes. You’re aware of him as you pass — the closeness of him, the smell of stale beer and aftershave and something that is just him — and you hate that even now your body notices.
The bathroom door closes behind you a little faster than necessary.
The mirror is unforgiving.
You stand there for a moment longer than you mean to, looking at yourself properly, like maybe if you stare long enough you’ll find some version of yourself that looks less affected by all of this.
You don’t.
You just look tired. Slightly worn around the edges. Annoyingly normal.
You turn the tap on and let the water run, more for the noise than anything else. Something to fill the silence before your thoughts get too loud.
Because they’re already heading there.
You lean your hands against the sink and stare down at it instead.
It shouldn’t matter.
That’s the thing you keep circling back to.
It shouldn’t matter what Dean does, or who he leaves with, or how naturally he slips into that version of himself like it’s second nature. You’ve seen it before — probably more times than you could count if you really tried. Different faces, same outcome.
You let out a slow breath, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the sink.
It’s not like he’s done anything wrong.
He hasn’t promised you anything. Hasn’t looked at you in a way that gives you the right to feel any of this. If anything, he’s been exactly the same as he’s always been.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because you’re the one who changed.
Somewhere between hunts and late nights and long drives and all those small moments that felt harmless at the time, you let yourself start wanting something you were never going to get. Something that only ever existed because you let it. Because you kept feeding it every time he smiled at you, every time he said your name in that low, rough voice, every time he looked at you for half a second too long and you decided it meant more than it probably did.
Now you’re stuck with it.
And stuck with yourself for being stupid enough to let it happen in the first place.
You shake your head once, like it might dislodge the thought.
It doesn’t.
It never does.
———————————————