ANY ADS YOU SEE HERE ARE FORCED ON BY TUMBLR - NOT ENDORSED OR ADDED BY ME!! Welcome to my little library! My fan fic can be found here - chapter fics to one shots... and just so you know, most contain a little smut, so 18+ please! :) There are links to each chapter for the longer fics, so you can come here and read till you're sleepy, and come back and finish later, if you like. Make yourself at home! (Warm chocolate chip cookies, coffee and wine in the kitchen) You will also find fic recs here - I have many talented friends! Also, for those who don't know me - this is a Destiel-free and Wincest-free zone.
Many of these blogs and fics are NSFW-18+. Please honor any requests from a blog regarding no minors. I am not responsible for the content you choose to consume; heed the warnings for each fic.
~DCU~
Hypothetically ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: An offhand remark unites the unlikely team.
I Did Not Agree ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: Nothing is ever easy with Task Force X, you should have known better.
~Miscellaneous~
Headcanon: Hold me, Love me, Touch me ~ @teamackles96. Author's Summary: None (Multi-fandom for Jensen Ackles' characters)
~MCU~
Drive You Home ~ @navybrat817. Author's Summary: You're Bucky's favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You're kind. You talk to him like he's more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
Wet-nosed Houdini ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: Bucky has a secret that keeps escaping.
~Supernatural~
A Handful of Bad Decisions ~ @impala-dreamer. Author's Summary: Dean’s hot, OK? And sometimes, he gets all worked up over you… and you have to deal with it however and wherever you can. Even if it means, occasionally, getting arrested.
Birthday Wish ~ @mrswhozeewhatsis. Author's Summary: Jess makes a birthday wish and it comes true!
Cherished ~ @thatonewriter15. Author's Summary: Dean makes her feel cherished on her special day.
I Think We’re In Love, Actually - Master List ~ @impala-dreamer. Author's Summary: Dean and Y/N have a rough working relationship/friendship. They bicker constantly over the small things, bitch loudly at the big things, and literally shove each other out of the way when necessary. It’s not exactly what you’d call a romantic relationship. Still, there’s always been something underneath it all and it takes a little angelic fuckery to bring it out into the open…
Practical ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: Everyone gets a gift
Sweet Escape-Part 1 and Part 2~ @rizlowwritessortof. Author's Summary: What happens when a friend jokingly does a spell at your birthday party to bring your cardboard standup of Dean Winchester to life?
That's What Friends Are For ~ @rizlowwritessortof. Author's Summary: Kate is a friend, someone they hunt with sometimes (and sometimes a little more), and Dean’s had to deal with her getting a little crazy after a hunt more than once. But this time there’s more to it, and he’s just stubborn enough to make her talk to him.
~Top Gun: Maverick~
Beyond Repair ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: The decision has been made, and Jake is helpless to stop it.
I See You ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: Jake returns a box of your belongings.
Chaos in the Clouds ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: A joke-filled training session takes an unforeseen turn.
Points for Style ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: The danger has passed but emotions are still running high.
Crisis Before Coffee ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: Confidence begins to waver under the desire to please.
Search & Rescue ~ @princessmisery666. Author's Summary: Jake’s concern grows with each tick of the minute hand.
~Patreon~
Rebekah Jordan (Impala-Dreamer)
We'll Be Alright ~ Another case, another fight, another cut, another bruise, but together we’ll be alright.
We’re still here! And even better, our contestants have been hard at work crafting amazing stories that we are so excited to share.
And share we shall!
Submissions will be posted starting June 14 thru June 21 on individual blogs, and their works and master list will be reblogged on the SC:TJAC blog June 22-June 28.
Mark your calendars because you’re not gonna wanna miss this!!
Oh, did we mention you’re going to help pick two winners for a special prize?
Reader’s choice voting opens June 30th and closes July 30th, giving you plenty of time to read all of the amazing stories and vote for your favorites!
The authors have been hard at work and deserve lots of love and readers! So, stay tuned for the epicness to unfold!
Summary: Always hoping that your one-night stand is creative enough to earn a notch on your bedpost, the man you've chosen this time surprises you in more ways than one.
Warnings: A bit of foreplay; Implied sex
Word Count: 1,790
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Word of the Day: (June 3, 2026) - Notch
Author Notes: Thanks for the read-through @princessmisery666.
Graphics: Made by me.
Master List: Word Of The Day
Lips and tongues locked together in a delicate yet fiery dance of desire, you walk him backward into your bedroom while working his belt open. Jackets and shoes had been discarded in the foyer, his tie tossed over the stair railing, shirt abandoned on the first landing, your top and bra cast off in the hallway.
His surprised grunt when his back hits the solid wood breaks the kiss. Hands still snug on your hips, he spins and practically tosses you onto the bed. Eyes hungrily roam your body as he reaches to grip the bedposts and almost immediately drops his hands.
Raising an eyebrow, he leans over to inspect the detail he’d felt beneath those rough, warm, and wonderfully large hands. With a chuckle, he asks, “Are these what I think they are?”
“What,” slipping off the rest of your clothing as you shuffle up to the pillows, recaptures his attention, “do you think they are?”
The corner of his mouth curls as he removes his remaining garments.
Your eyes shift downward, hips rolling with the clench of your pussy. Pride triggers a wave of endorphins and heat pools in your core, certain in the knowledge that you chose well, and this one will earn the twist of your knife to mark his time here.
His smile is smug as he puts a knee on the mattress. “I think,” resting his weight on his forearms, he settles above you, “I’m going to be a notch on your bedpost.”
“Mmmm, well, that” he’s suckling the pulse in your neck, but not hard enough to leave a mark, “depends on how good you are.”
“Oh, yeah?” He kisses along your collarbone, fingers gently gliding down your side.
“Y-yeah.” You feel him smile against your skin when he hits a ticklish spot, and your body reacts. “Only the good ones earn a notch.”
“What if,” a tiny nip at the top of your breast, a quick flick of his tongue over a taut nipple, “I’m better than good?”
Your body instinctively arches, craving to have that perfect mouth latch onto you, teeth scraping your flesh. Instead, his fingers knead your thigh, holding you down as he places kisses across your stomach. “Then you get a place on the headboard. Or, if you’re really, really good, I'll let you carve it yourself …wherever you want.”
The answer distracts him from his descent. He pushes up enough to scan the unmarked panel behind you. Tilting his head, he searches the nightstands and the frame above. “Really?”
His shocked demeanor makes you chuckle, but there is also something akin to sadness in his expression. Like he’s displeased for you. Shaking your head, you sigh, “Sadly, no. I have very high standards.”
Lips pursed, he seems to mull that over for a moment. Lying on his stomach, he nudges a shoulder against your leg, urging you to rest it across his back as he wraps his arm around to hold it there. Face hovering over your mound, he lifts his gaze, and a lethal smirk slowly forms on plump, ruddy lips. “Challenge accepted,” he states, burying his gorgeous face in the wet heat between your legs.
You wake with a groan, muscles protesting as you stretch, but it’s a good ache. Memories of last night make you smile as you snuggle back into the pillow. Calloused fingers ghost over your shoulder and down your arm.
“Sleep well?”
“Mhmm,” Eyes still closed, not wanting to face reality quite yet, you ask, “You?”
“Best I have in a while.”
“Good,” you mumble, and pat his chest, feeling the laugh before you hear it.
You’re drifting off again when he clears his throat. “Uhm, so.”
“No.”
“No?”
Burrowing deeper into the covers, you whine, “Don't want to get up yet.”
“That’s not-“
“What?”
“Sorry. Never-”
Blinking your eyes open at the rustle of sheets and the shift in weight, you grip his arm before he can stand. “Wait. I’m sorry.” Shifting to a more upright position, you run a hand over your mouth to quickly check for drool and, thankfully, find none. “I’m not a cheery morning person.”
“No worries.” Turning to place a knee on the bed, he leaves the other foot planted on the floor, and you realize he’s already half-dressed. “I get it.” He smiles, his demeanor seems expectant.
You smile back, giving a weird little shrug, not sure what to say. Why is this so awkward?
Oh, right. They usually don’t stay.
Then it clicks. None of the others had noticed the marks. Or if they did, they didn’t bother to ask. He’s the first one you discussed it with. He woke you to see how he did. A laugh bubbles in your throat, but then he pats the bed.
“Well, I should probably go.”
“Wait.” The word is pushed out on a frantic exhale, louder than you intended. “Sorry. Just …hold on, I have something for you.”
He arches a brow, feigning surprise, but you can tell he knows what’s coming and expected this outcome. This time, you do laugh and tease, “Ass.”
A hand goes to his chest in mock offense, but the laugh he shares is genuine.
Reaching behind the wood frame next to your head, you pull the knife from its hidden sheath and hold it out to him.
“Wow.”
You’re not quite sure if he’s scared or impressed; maybe it’s both. “Safety first, right?” you unapologetically state.
“Uh, yeah. I’m a little frightened now, but that’s badass.”
He carefully grips the hilt, testing its weight before thoroughly inspecting it. “This is a good knife.”
“Thanks,” you say cheerfully, unsure why you’re elated by his approval. “Alright, I’m gonna,” sliding from the bed, you tilt your head toward the bathroom, “while you, uh, do your thing.”
“Headboard?” he calls out as you reach the doorway.
Peering over your shoulder, you match his cheeky grin. “Anywhere you’d like.”
You’ve never seen a more brilliant smile in your entire life.
Though expected, you’re disappointed to find him gone when you exit the bathroom. You’d taken a few minutes to make yourself more presentable just in case, or to give him a little extra time if he wanted to leave without further conversation.
His mark is easy to find, and your smile grows as you draw closer. He scarred the headboard, right above your pillow. Not with a simple notch, but two distinct letters—D.W.
Fingers tracing the freshly carved wood, you’re reminded that this is where you flattened your hand to protect your head and to give you leverage as he railed into you. Pressing your hand against the carving, you find that the letters fit perfectly within the space of your palm.
Impressed by his attention to detail, you check behind the headboard to find your knife safely back in its hiding place. Yep, you chose well. He’s going to be a hard act to follow. Too bad you couldn’t have more time with him.
Heading downstairs after getting dressed, you hear him before you see him. He turns, phone to his ear, as you hover in the doorway.
He holds up a finger and quickly finishes his conversation, “I gotta go. Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll see ya then.” Stuffing the phone back in his pocket, he gives you a sheepish grin. “Sorry. That was my brother. I was gonna make you some coffee before I left,” he gestures to the pot and bag of coffee grounds on the counter, “but then he called.”
“You were going to make me coffee?” Sexy and sweet.
Grimacing, he rubs the side of his neck. “That’s, uh …yeah, that’s not weird at all. OK, right,” he gives a clipped nod and points toward the door, “I’m gonna go.”
As he’s about to pass by you, you ask, “Would you like a cup?”
“What?”
Walking toward the coffee maker, you repeat, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Uh. Yeah, that …that would be awesome.”
“Great. Have a seat.” He offers to make it for you, but when you decline, he sits, fingers fidgeting with a dish towel you'd left on the countertop. Checking the carton in the fridge, you find the cream is only two days past expiration, but give it a sniff test to be sure and find it passable. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
Nodding, you pull two cups from the cupboard, and though it’s not done brewing, you fill one nearly to the brim, adding cream to the other as an escaped drop sizzles on the base plate.
"Thank you." Dragging his bottom lip between his teeth as you set the steaming mug in front of him, he states, “You don’t have to be polite. I’ll leave if you want me to go.”
“Huh?”He lifts his chin toward the machine behind you as another drip falls to bubble and burn away. “Oh. No.” You wave off his concern with a laugh as you replace the glass decanter. “I’m impatient. I always have at least one cup before it finishes.”
You’re also horrible at small talk, and wonder if he is too, or if he's sensing the same surreal tension as you. You can hear the soft rattle of the metal barstool as his leg bounces while you stand across from him, each silently drinking your coffee. Should you ask his name? Or would that make it even more awkward at this point? The faint clanking stops with the thud of his foot hitting the floor.
“So," you say simultaneously, then chuckle in unison.
With a lopsided grin, he raises a hand, indicating for you to go ahead.
"You have plans today?” It feels like a strange thing to ask, but it's the first thing that popped into your head that seemed appropriate to say aloud.
“Actually,” setting his cup down, he runs his hands over his thighs, “my brother and I just finished up a job, and he decided to go visit his girlfriend. So I have a couple of days free.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“It’s not?”
“Well, it’d be more fun if I had someone to spend it with.” Lips pursed, he waggles his eyebrows, nearly causing you to choke on the coffee you just slurped down. “What’dya think?”
“Are you actually asking, or testing the waters?”
Color tinges his cheeks, but then the confidence that drew you to him decides to shine. “I’m asking if you’d like to put a couple more notches on that bed, with me.”
Laughing, you set your cup aside and lean on the counter in front of him, giving him a nice view of your cleavage. “That’s not how that works, but I’d love to spend more time with you …”
Every month, all of you fantastic writers work your asses off to post some truly incredible stories. Our Angel Fish Awards are the way for all of us, as a community of writers and readers, to lift each other up and give praise to those who have captured our attention and deserve a few kind words. (Click here to learn more about how to nominate a fic for an award!)
Keep reading for some awesome fic recs!
Nominated by @autisticandroids
Plausible Deniability by timetravelingconman
Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Word count: 9k
Fic Type: Smut, PWP
Trigger warnings: This fic is a CNC scene. No actual rapes takes place, but there is rape kink, and it's pretty under-negotiated
Dean and Cas doing undernegotiated CNC because Dean needs to be forced due to his internalized homophobia is insane. I'm obsessed with Dean getting mad at Cas for not just "taking what he wants." This fic is cashing checks I've seen written in many other fics, which makes it all the more satisfying. (Not meant to diss other fics, they just don't typically explore this angle.) The Cas characterization, how nervous and confused he is, is also primo.
Nominated by @flanneledfae
The Red Means I Love You by @spnbabe67
Pairing: Sam x Reader x Ruby
Word Count: 5,1 K
Fic Type: fluff, smut, dark fic, PWP
Trigger Warnings: period sex, somnophilia, blood kink, praise, degradation, pet names
Spnbabe's ability to pull me and place me right in the middle of a scene is outstanding! She can make me feel and see things perfectly. And this fic is no exception. The closeness, the intimacy, the raw heat between these characters are very well written and believable. Plus, it's really freakin HOT!!
The hunt is over, but Sam’s hands are still shaking by @thefriendlypigeon
Pairing: Sam/Cas
Word Count: 775
Fic Type: fluff, hurt/comfort, mutual pining
Trigger Warnings: no
This drabble is so sweet, so cute, and the characterizations are 100% on point. I am so glad I stumbled upon this little gem; it put a smile on my face and warmed my heart. Plus, the art is amazing!!
Nominated by @kazsrm67
Dad Bod Conundrum by @supernotnatural2005
Pairing. Dean/reader
Word count: 7.8K
Fic Type: fluff, smut
Trigger Warnings: body image insecurity
First off, I am a sucker for a good dad Dean fic. This fic is just so sweet and it takes a look at a post baby body but from a different perspective than we usually get or think of. I just loved it.
Nominated by @leatafandom
Stairway To Demons by @walkingaline
Pairing: Gen, Crowley & Castiel
Word Count: 2036
Fic type: canon divergent, Crossover
Trigger Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Insert Creepy gentleman clap here. I flippin' loved this story and the dynamic between them is so well written here. This is one of my favourite Buffy episodes and it was handled so well in a crossover setting! It is just a delightful short story and crossover. The characterization for both the Gentleman and Cas and Crowely are so well done In can not recommend this story enough. It was such a fun treat to read.
Green Bracelets by @crowleysmistress
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Word Count: 5839
Fic Type: canon divergent, Case fic, weirdcest
Trigger Warnings: Incest
This is such a fun concept and idea for a case fic with a lovely opening. The brother's dymic is so well written and so much wonderful characterization between them and utilization of body language is just wonderful. I dont want to spoil the tail but really you just don't see enough monster sex clubs fics in this fandom. It has filled my monster loving heart with th need for more. Fantastic read highly recommend it if you love monsters and wincest.
Starstruck by @breakaway71
Pairing: Castiel/Gabriel
Word Count: 718
Fic Type: fluff, AU
Trigger Warnings: No
Oh, this was so emotional and moving. It just builds so well so quickly until it just all culminates into that big moment. Just a fantastic story and truly a gem!
Nominated by @mrswhozeewhatsis
That’s What Friends Are For by @rizlowwritessortof
Pairing: Dean x OFC
Word Count: 2409 words
Fic Type: fluff, angst
Trigger Warnings: No
As always, Riz delivers a Dean that is what we all want: kind, caring, protective, sweet, and absolutely swoon-worthy!! No matter how hard she fights him, he fights for her harder. Y'all gotta read this one, guys!
Nominated by @trevelies
The Abyss Gazes Back by @old-man-ghost
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 37,535
Fic Type: angst, canon divergent
Trigger Warnings: no
This is actually 100% an attempt at cyber-bullying: but I am obsessed with this story and have been trying to astral project my will directly into the brain of @old-man-ghost for years to finish this. A super incredible s14 canon divergence where Dean/Michael go into the Ma'lak box, only to accidentally be found and released by a team of deep sea researchers... angst, super punchy writing, OBSESSED with the time jump. Just plain obsessed.
So what, you’re saying the Easter Bunny did it? by @floralxcay
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 15578
Fic Type: canon compliant, case fic
Trigger Warnings: no
Seriously one of the most fun case fics I've read in a long time! It has EVERYTHING: fight scenes, humor, great pacing, great characterization - I seriously felt like I was watching an episode of the show. It's a crack fic until it's decidedly NOT a crack fic, and the tone shift is SO Supernatural and Cay did SERIOUSLY SUCH AN AMAZING JOB. There was one scene where I was laughing out loud alone in my house. So seriously good.
Nominated by @walkingaline
Time To Release The Hounds by @hectatess
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 5K
Fic Type: Canon compliant
Trigger Warnings: Grief/mourning, animal death
I love Hectatess' tales about Crowley and his hounds, a lot! She never fails to fill them with so much heart and fun.
Bad Habits by @additionaladdams
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 7K
Fic Type: canon divergent
Trigger Warnings: no
I love Jade's stories about Crowley. This time, putting together Crowley and Rowena for a common goal, I knew we'd be in for top tier shenanigans!
A Day With The Fitzgeralds - IATEMYTWININTHEWOMB (AO3)
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: >1K
Fic Type: fluff, crack, canon divergent
Trigger Warnings: No
It's just too fun to see Cas handling toddlers, and the fact that it's done to give Garth some time to shine... chef's kiss. Quick read that's guaranteed to leave you smiling!
Lost by @awakenthemusic
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 310
Fic type: canon compliant, Character Study
Trigger Warnings: No
It's a little, short gem that focuses on Benny. Fantastic read!
Nominated by @xpurdyglambertx
Down The Rabbit Hole by @samanddean76
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Word Count: 5.7k
Fic type: smut, AU, RPF
Trigger Warnings: No
The author, Sal, claimed my Mad Hatter Jared art in a reverse bang, and took the fic in an entirely original and surprising direction from what I would've ever thought of! And as usual, she knocked it out of the park. If you enjoy smutty J2, definitely give this fic some love!
Heaven And Hell Be Damned by @jld71
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Word Count: 27k
Fic type: angst, smut, canon divergent
Trigger Warnings: MCD
This is a beautiful omegaverse fix it fic by one of my friends, Jen! We get a cool twist on the boy's late season characters with Angel Dean, and more demon blood Sam. It's hard for me to put into words just how well written this one is! Definitely give it a read and some love!
Venomous Tongues by @entropic-saudade
Pairing: Gen, Implied John/Dean but not really
Word Count: 22k
Fic type: angst, dark fic, hurt no comfort, AU
Trigger Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence This beautifully dark, religious horror fic is a result of Saudade's and my collab over in the @spneldritchbang!
This was a reverse bang, so I made the art, and the lovely @entropic-saudade claimed it and breathed life into my art with their story! I really had no ideas for plot when I made this piece other than symbolic factors (i.e. the scorpion communion), but Saudade took the art and absolutely NAILED this story! Definitely give it a read, and show it some love! It has all the angst and religious symbolism you could ever want!
Midnight Cowboy by @entropic-saudade
Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Word Count: 40k
Fic type: AU
Trigger Warnings: No
This fic encapsulates MANY of my fan fic faves: stripper Dean, age gap, mafia Cas, some angst, bottom Dean, Dean being Sam's guardian... etc. It's just perfection, and Saudade's writing is always amazing!
(Divider by @glygriffe)
THANK YOU ALL, KEEP UP THE AMAZING WORK, AND AS ALWAYS, HAPPY WRITING!
I was tagged by the wonderful @rizlowwritessortof, in this post. Thanks, Riz. I always enjoy your fics, but I have to say that, You Can Leave Your Hat On, is one of my faves!
Fic authors self rec!
When you get this, create a post with your favorite five fics that you've written, and share why they're your favorites. Then tag five other writers <3
My favorites change over time but here are my current ones.
Why Don't You Stay and its companion, Let's Make It Last ~ A couple of my earliest fic posts (fair warning😅). This story signified a shift in my style, and I physically felt that change as I was writing it. I still had a lot to learn (always will), but these will unfailingly be on my list of favorites when asked.
Evermore ~ I have several angsty fics, but I think this is the angstiest I've written so far. I sobbed while typing it.
Rumors ~ A four-part series that just flowed. So much pain and regret between these two. My first fic to include a Narrator POV, and I loved how it turned out. I also really enjoyed writing in that comparative style to show their similarities.
The Girlfriend Who Remade Christmas (In Progress) ~ Fluffy, fluff! Writing characters who have an established relationship makes me happy. Their familiarity with each other creates opportunities to add fun, quirky details. The research to find new adventures and experiences for Nic to share with Dean has probably been the most fun I've had in the writing process. This series also has an interactive companion piece, which was so much fun to put together. I'm looking forward to getting back into this one.
I Can Explain ~ The most recent favorite. It's my first time writing Beau, so it's just a little ficlet, but I chuckled while writing the scene and picturing him in the middle of it.
Alright, so who are we going to (no pressure) tag ...
@thatonewriter15 @talltalesandbedtimestories @stusbunker @cleighwrites @justagirlinafandomworld
Oooohhhhh, Rumors is soooo good, made me cry!! And I Can Explain was so cute and funny! ❤️🥰 Now I'm gonna have to go hunt down those older fics that I haven't read! (My old fics have parts that make me cringe a little, but they also are some of my faves!)
Summary: When Dean comes back from Hell, you quickly realize that his subconscious remembers more than his waking mouth admits.
AN: Requested by Ashley Klann on Patreon! I’ve written a “back from Hell” piece before with an Omegaverse twist, called Make it Right. But here’s a more canon-rooted drabble. 💜
Request: After Dean comes back from hell, he has nightmares and a breakdown. The reader is there to comfort him and just holds him, and he ends up letting all pent-up feelings out.
Posted on Patreon: May 15, 2026
Word Count: 1.3K
Tags & Warnings: Set around mid-season 4 (when Sam was traipsing around with Ruby). Established relationship, angst, feels, hurt/comfort to the max
Dean might’ve been able to shrug off ghost sickness. He might’ve been able to look you and Sam in the eyes, with his third beer in hand, and claim he didn’t remember anything about his four months in Hell.
But what he just couldn’t do was make you believe it. Not a month ago, not last week, not tonight.
He climbed into the dingy motel bed, slow and groaning. You could see the exhaustion in the darkness under his eyes, and in the dull green of his irises. You saw the evidence of his lack of sleep pulling at his limbs, because he hadn’t truly rested since he got “topside.”
Since he showed up at your apartment with Bobby in tow, scaring the shit out of you with his half-cocked smile before he proved he wasn’t a shapeshifter or a demon.
The way Dean held you then had been so strong and fragile at the same time; you felt the shake in his arms, the tension embedded in his frame, even while he was burying his face in your hair. You’d blinked hot tears that clung to your lashes, cupped his face between your hands and kissed him just as hard and desperate.
He was alive, so you were alive. That was what that day felt like for you: coming back to life.
But this was a different kind of living.
When you slid into bed beside him, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t welcome you against his side or wrap his arm around you. He didn’t even pretend to meet your eyes, let alone kiss you goodnight. He just mumbled the empty word, like he already knew it wouldn’t be one.
Sam was still out by himself. He was doing that more often lately, ducking out and taking the car or walking into town by himself. His excuses were always valid on the surface, like getting breakfast at the diner early, or doing some research at a café, or getting an early morning run in before you or Dean rolled out of bed. Still, you had half a mind to call bullshit.
Dean had stopped trying, even though he’d noticed too, sometimes with lips pursing, jaw clenching.
Tonight, he didn’t seem to care about his brother’s nighttime habits or your soft frown as he turned onto his side, away from you.
“You okay?” you asked, despite knowing what it would get you.
“‘M fine,” he said. “Just tired.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. You wished he wouldn’t bury it all so deep. You wished he would let you help him. But Dean had always carried layers behind that stupid devil-may-care attitude, behind that cocky grin on just the right side of charming, and the old leather that draped his shoulders like a second skin of bravado.
You’d noticed that his father’s jacket was still folded up somewhere in the trunk of the Impala. Dean hadn’t been wearing it since he got back.
You couldn’t help but think that mattered, even as you laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss near his neck.
“’Kay, goodnight,” you said.
You felt slightly raised flesh under the thin fabric of his shirt, and you realized then that you were accidentally touching the handprint burned into his skin—the mark of Castiel, the angel who rescued him.
You quickly let your hand slip away, feeling the tension in Dean’s body.
Your heart clenched, and you had to blink the sting out of your eyes when you turned onto your side and tried to get comfortable.
The first jolt stirred the mattress, then tugged at your subconscious.
The second one, and his painful groan, made your lashes flutter. Your eyes slid open as you fought through the dregs of sleep, but his fingers clawing against your arm finally yanked you out of it.
You sucked in a confused, pained hiss, looking over at Dean. You realized that he hadn’t meant to hurt you. He had a desperate grip twisting in the sheets, his brows tightly knitted, jaw clenching so hard you could almost hear his teeth grinding. But the sounds that were escaping his barely parted lips were too heartbreaking, like a wounded animal unwilling to let their whimpers escape, afraid for something worse to follow.
“Dean,” you rasped, reaching for his shoulder cautiously. You were wary of him trying to knock your hand away, or worse, but he just flinched harder.
It did manage to wake him up though.
His eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, following by more labored ones as he struggled to take you in, to realize where he was.
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.
“Dean?” you prompted gently. You were slow in the way you slid closer, smoothing a comforting hand up his arm.
He looked over at you, tired of lying, but still unwilling to answer you.
But in that moment, you knew the truth. You knew what he was hiding, deep and dark behind his eyes when they met yours.
He couldn’t hold it for long though. His own self-loathing won out. Even just having you beside him with love and concern in your eyes was too much for him to handle.
He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, but that was where he hesitated. He either lacked the strength to get up and leave you, or he was just that shaken. His eyes closed and an uneasy sigh fell from his lips, making his shoulders sag.
You crawled over to his side of the bed and bent a knee underneath you as you sat just behind him, just barely keeping yourself from touching him. You didn’t want to smother him, but you wouldn’t leave him alone either.
“You do remember everything, don’t you,” you said. The heartbreak was in your throat, but you thought it might help him to say it out loud.
Dean shook his head slowly, but this time, it wasn’t a denial. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he still forced himself to speak, his voice thick and rasping.
“Not just…what happened to me,” he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. “What I did.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion. You didn’t understand, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to you—why he hadn’t been able to let you in. Why he couldn’t allow himself to touch you with his hands. Every time he looked at them, they were drenched in blood.
And when he tried to look at you, the words died in his throat. It felt selfish to try.
His lips trembled. His shoulders heaved. He covered his face as his eyes burned, and the first sob shuddered through him.
You didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Once the first tear drew down your cheek, you couldn’t let yourself do anything else but hold him from behind. Your lips pressed to his shoulder, and you held onto him as tightly as you dared.
He held you back, his hand clasping over your arm to keep you there. It gave you the encouragement you needed to slide closer, your hand cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his chin. His glassy eyes met yours.
“I love you,” you reminded him. “That doesn’t change.”
Again, Dean shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t know what I…”
“Right now, I don’t need to know,” you said.
Just then, he was desperate to believe you.
He bowed into your kiss, desperate for your warmth too.
One touch couldn’t make him forget. It wouldn’t heal him either.
All you could do was stay.
AN: My heart gets ripped out every time I watch that ep where he tells Sam about his experience in Hell. 🥲💔 But let me know what you thought of this hurt/comfort snack!
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Ohhhhhh, this HURT, Alex! 🥺 Comments under the cut!
He was alive, so you were alive. - I FELT this.
The part about John's jacket. 💔💔💔
“Not just…what happened to me,” he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. “What I did.” The depth of his pain and guilt - it KILLS me that he didn't have someone to hold him when he woke from a nightmare. That he didn't have someone to tell him they loved him no matter what. THIS is what he should have had, someone to unconditionally love him and help him as he white-knuckled his way through everything.
All you could do was stay. My. Heart.
This was gorgeous and achingly painful, Alex. And I'm with you, that episode shatters my heart every time I watch it. 🥺💔😭
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Fic authors self rec ! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to five other writers <3
Tagged by @zepskies - Thanks, Alex - this is like picking your favorite child, and I've done this before but it's been a while, so I'll try! (Also I blame you for the reminder that I haven't updated my masterlist in ages LOL so thanks a lot for making me work on that 🤣)
OK, so here goes:
To be perfectly honest, I think my favorite fic I've written hasn't been posted yet. (Or maybe it's just because it's the freshest? idk LOL) It's a Russell Shaw fic that I wrote for the Storyteller's Contest - TJAC and I'll be posting it on June 14th. But since it's not officially out there yet -
Waiting for the Real Thing - I never officially named this as a series, because it just kept growing until there were 4 fics about Russell Shaw and the O/C Andi. So I'll list the others, too: Swearing Is Caring , Cold Hard Truth , and The Real Thing for the rest of their story. (angst, smut)
Black Velvet - Demon!Dean x Reader series (angst, smut, dubcon)
If We Don't Make It - Dean x Reader fic (angst, hurt/comfort)
You Can Leave Your Hat On - Dean x Reader (flirting, smut)
Third Wheel - Beau Arlen x Reader (flirting, smut)
I'll tag @thatonewriter15 @supernotnatural2005 @impala-dreamer @deanwinchesterswitch @beakaleak32
Also - these may be my favorite fics today, tomorrow's choices might be different 😁🥰
Summary: A ridiculous pick-up line leads to something stunning.
Warnings: Nonlethal bodily injury; A tiny bit of swearing
Word Count: 410
Characters: Any Male x Reader
Word of the Day: (May 30, 2026) - Smile
Graphics: Made by me.
Author's Notes: Thanks for the read through and encouragement @princessmisery666
Master List: Word Of The Day
“Hey, don't frown, you'll never know who might be falling in love with your smile.”
Not a single drop of internal rage seeps into your polite demeanor as you deadpan, “Well, you see, my brain is in the middle of a fierce internal debate about the correlation between smiling and punching you in the balls.”
As you reach for your drink, the jackass spits, “Fucking, bitch.”
With a slow exhale, your fist slides off the table, arm smoothly swinging backward, and flawlessly finds your target. You inwardly smile when you hear his surprised grunt of pain. “Oops, I guess we know the answer.”
Brow arched and your biggest fake smile plastered on your lips, you glare at the pinched-faced man cradling his balls, daring him to say more.
Two men approach, but neither utters a single word. One offers a quick nod and pats his buddy on the back. Laughing, the other hooks an arm around the schmuck who’s now whining like a baby and leads him away.
Hoping that will dissuade any more potential idiots, you take a drink and scan the bar, catching the eye of the gorgeous man sitting across from you. One brow is arched, and he wears a lethal smirk as he salutes you with his drink. Giving him a nod of acknowledgment, you lift your glass in a return gesture, then down the remains. You’d seen him walk in, had hoped he would be the one to make a move when he sat at the table next to yours. You’re unsure if you're impressed or disappointed that he hasn’t.
So be it.
Sliding off the stool, you approach his table. “May I?”
“Please.”
Raising his hand to alert the waiter, he requests another round. A handful of drinks and a couple shots later, your cheeks hurt from laughing. With a heavy exhale to stop the latest round of giggles, you look up to find him staring at you with a slightly serious expression.
His fingers flex around the crystal tumbler, head tilting slightly. “At the risk of getting punched in the balls, can I say that you truly do have a beautiful smile?”
Choking back a laugh, you pick up your drink and take a slow sip, eyeing him over the rim. When he shifts in his seat, looking a little nervous, you reply, “I will accept that with the intention in which it was given. Thank you.”
🤭 Exactly the reaction I would have at the whole 'smile, you're much prettier when you smile' type of comment - especially when someone can see that you're focused, or angry, or deep in thought that doesn't involve the self-absorbed dick who says it.
Also the same reaction I would have to the genuine complement from that gorgeous man 😁
(Also giggling a little at 'nonlethal bodily injury' 🤭)
Series Summary: Despite the blood in your veins painting a glaring-red target on your back, John Winchester once left you alive and kept you hidden for a reason. But when his two grown sons drag their muddy boots onto your crime scene one day, the first meeting is anything but cute.
You have a regular job and a carefully constructed, somewhat normal life built on just enough lies to keep the supernatural at bay, cleaning up messes no one else wants to see. And you definitely never advertise the fact that your magic comes from a bloodline ancient enough to make demons jitter.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. He sees a witch and reaches for a weapon – no questions asked. You lie to survive. Dean judges to cope. The rules of this world dictate the two of you are supposed to hate each other for eternity, but somewhere along the road, something glitches in the cosmic machinery of fate.
That glitch is you.
Warnings: 18+ language, crime scene, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of death and emotional trauma, drinking
Word Count: 13.4k
A/N: Let's dive fully into this one, shall we? Dean might be already in over his head, though. Some deceit and shameless flirting going on in this one... 😝
The smoldering summer heat of noon beats down like a relentless spotlight, the spare parts and damaged vehicles littering Bobby’s junkyard shimmering in the haze. Soft gusts of wind, which feel more like the hottest setting of a blow dryer, carry the smells of rust, oil, and pines through the thick and suffocating air.
Dean wipes his dirtied face with a grease-caked palm, sweat trickling from his forehead down to his neck as he wields a wrench under the Impala, fleeing into the cooler shadows, although the black metal seems to attract the blistering sun even more. His jeans, shirt, and skin are stained with grime. His back is already sore from working for hours – days even – on Baby. But he wears his aches like a badge of honor. All that matters to him these days is restoring her to her former glory.
And maybe fixing her fixes him, too. At least, that is the hope.
Sam has left him alone for the most part after their last case a week ago, hauling himself up in the coolness of Bobby’s house with boxes of their dad’s stuff – John’s research, old burner phones, and even family photos. The only sore reminder of the brothers’ heated discussion last week is the smashed trunk of the Impala.
Dean winces when he thinks about it again. He’s been cursing himself for the past three days for taking out his frustrations with a crowbar. Baby deserves better.
“Dammit!” Dean huffs as the wrench slips from his hand and clatters to the gravel. “Son of a bitch…”
The heat of the pavement burns through his shirt, but he doesn’t care. All his mind is willing to focus on is the car. Whenever he stops, his thoughts wander, and he can’t let that happen, so he never stops.
It’s simple.
He doesn’t want to think about his father’s death, the weirdness of it all, the strange and hollow feeling in his gut like a black pit, Sam’s sudden drive for revenge, the mystery box full of family secrets, or the burden John’s laid on his shoulders with his dying breath.
Dean’s been doing the same dance for close to three weeks now, but it’s been working so far – although Sam would probably disagree with that assessment. Who’s asking him, though? God knows the kid’s head hasn’t been screwed on right either since their dad’s passing.
Granted, they both have said some regretful things over the last few weeks. But why does Sam have to be so goddamn pushy all the time?
Avoiding Sam is the best option for now. Luckily, his little brother has received the message, too.
However, Dean’s stomach is growling as he slowly pushes out from under the car. His green eyes narrow when the blinding sun hits them, already feeling more drops of sweat bead along his hairline as he wipes the oil on his hands into his worn jeans. His gaze then flickers to the empty cooler. He’s out of beer, too. His stomach roars once more.
Great.
Dean sighs. He supposes he has to face the music now, doesn’t he?
But approaching the house causes his stomach to twist with more than hunger. What surprise would await him in there on this beautiful, sunny day? Has Sam found even more fun souvenirs in their father’s pandora box?
As Dean finally drags his feet into the house, Sam is sitting by Bobby’s small dining table, still deeply lost in the contents of one of said boxes. Dean almost sighs out loud when he steals a glance at his little brother, strolling straight to the fridge to retrieve a beer and some ingredients for a sandwich.
Dean still doesn’t know how to ever repay Bobby for his kindness and hospitality over the last few weeks – feeding the boys, lending them working cars, and ensuring Dean’s alcohol level never drops entirely to zero. As soon as the Impala is fixed, Dean plans to finally get out of the old man’s hair. They’ve been staying long enough – some might even say overstaying their welcome – but Bobby never says a thing to them about it.
He doesn’t dare to glimpse at Sam while he’s fixing his meal on the counter, but he certainly can feel his little brother’s hazel eyes burning a hole into the back of his head.
“What?” Dean sighs exhaustively and finally spins around to face Sam, stuffing the first bite of his sandwich into his mouth. He has to occupy it with something before losing his temper again. He masks his discomfort with a sarcastic smile. “Found more burner phones?”
One would think Sam stopped his quest after the last one led the brothers to a killer clown – a rakshasa. But Dean doesn’t seem to be so lucky, judging by the twinkling determination in his little brother’s eyes.
“Uh, no.” Sam shakes his head, a gleam of confusion in his gaze. But it’s not geared toward Dean, a stack of papers in front of his scrunched nose. “Just going through some more of Dad’s research.”
The way Sam says it, Dean knows his little brother surely found something worth discussing. Dean also knows he can’t avoid it forever. Sam will push eventually, so he prefers to get ahead of the problem.
“Anything interesting?” Dean asks, washing the sour nature of the question down with a gulp of beer.
“Maybe,” Sam replies, but Dean knows there’s more. There always is. Sam’s just ramping up for the big guns. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week – how we can’t kill the demon without the Colt, even if we do find it.”
“So?” Dean gives a shrug of his shoulders and keeps nursing his beer. He’s going to need a second one soon if this conversation goes on any longer.
Sam exhales a small sigh of frustration. Dean’s careless attitude has been annoying him as much as Dean’s annoyed by Sam’s relentless agenda to find the demon who killed their entire family and one college girlfriend. What’s so hard to understand about that?
“So,” Sam parrots with strained patience and continues, “I’ve been looking through Dad’s stuff to see if there’s something else. He wouldn’t have given up the Colt if he didn’t have a plan B, right?”
“We don’t know if he gave up the Colt,” Dean mutters, even though he knows it’s all bullshit. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how the gun suddenly went missing after his miraculous recovery in the hospital. Not to mention, their father died practically five minutes later.
Sam quirks a brow. “Don’t we, though?”
Dean only shakes his head and takes a seat next to Sam. He doesn’t want to have this conversation all over again, so he relents. “Alright, what did you find, huh?” he entertains his little brother’s idea, hoping it’s enough to pacify any revenge plans for the moment.
It’s not like Dean doesn’t want the demon dead. It killed his mother. It killed Jess. And it killed his father and a bunch of other innocent people too. But what if it kills Sam next? What’s he supposed to do then? His dad and brother were the most important people in his life, the only family he had left, and now there’s only Sammy.
Dean’s not scared of a lot of things, but he’s scared of being alone in this world.
Lately, it feels like no matter what he does, the demon’s winning. If they go after it and it kills Sam, the thing wins. And if Dean does nothing and lets the bastard keep breathing, it’s still winning. Either way, Dean’s losing, and he doesn’t like those odds.
Sam doesn’t answer right away. It’s not the thoughtful kind of silence, however. It’s the kind that means Sam is deciding how much truth to unload at once. He gathers a few loose papers and straightens the stack like he needs the extra second to decide how hard he wants to push. That alone puts Dean on edge. He already regrets sitting down.
“Dad kept circling back to the same handful of things,” Sam says finally. “Symbols. Locations. Names.”
Dean takes another sip, eyes skimming briefly over the papers before looking away again. “Hunters write stuff down. Shocking.”
“I’m serious, Dean.” Sam slides one of the notebooks closer, flipping it open. Their dad’s handwriting fills the pages. Dean can recognize it in his sleep at this point – tight, angular, relentless. It still stings a little to see it, another reminder that he’s gone and not coming back this time. “There are patterns here. He wasn’t just cataloging. He was narrowing something down.”
Dean leans back in his chair, stretching his sore shoulders. “And this is where you tell me you’ve cracked the code and we ride off into the sunset together like Thelma and Louise?”
Sam ignores that skillfully. “Dad kept his research on the demon all together in the same box. He even demon-proofed the thing. It’s all in there. Weather patterns, crop failures…”
“Yeah, we already handed all that stuff over to Ash,” Dean points out.
“I know,” Sam grits, patience wearing thinner, and slides over a ripped and crumpled piece of yellowing paper. “But I found something else in there, too.”
“Looks like he ripped a page out of the journal.” Dean frowns as he takes the piece of flimsy paper into his hands and stares at the few words on the page.
Left key in Salem – MO. Not time. Contingency only.
“That’s it?” Dean looks up from the page and stares at Sam, brow raised. “This is what got you all worked up?”
There aren’t many notes, and that’s what bothers him. John Winchester never shut up on paper. When he wrote less, it meant their dad was being careful.
“You see that symbol in the margin?” Sam asks, moving his finger on the page to a small, angular letter in the right corner.
ᛒ
Dean squints his eyes at it. The symbol looks familiar, even though he has no idea what it means. It almost feels like he’s seen it before, a vague memory coming to mind of his father explaining it to him when he was just a kid. But Dean can’t remember for sure, which is odd. He usually never forgets the things his dad taught him, so maybe it’s just one of those false memories – his own personal Mandela effect. Most times, all those weird symbols he comes across this job blur together eventually and tend to look pretty much the same.
“It’s a rune,” Sam adds. “From the Elder Futhark.”
“Fu–what?”
“The Elder Futhark,” Sam repeats with a sigh. “It’s an old-school writing system.”
“What’s it mean?”
“I think it literally translates to ‘birch,’” Sam replies, crinkling his nose slightly.
Dean cocks a brow. “Like the tree?”
“Yeah, like the tree.” Sam nods, flipping through loose pages. “In older traditions, it’s tied to growth, birth, uh… lineage. Maternal stuff.”
Dean grimaces. “Maternal?”
Sam chuckles a little. “Yeah, but not soft, exactly. See, birch was seen as kind of protective. It’s the first tree to grow back after a fire,” he explains. “It’s about renewal, shelter, quiet protection.”
“Huh. Fire,” Dean breathes and then looks at Sam. “You think it’s got something to do with us?”
Sam considers this for a moment before answering. “Maybe. I think Dad thought so, or he wouldn’t have written it down and put it into that box.”
Dean peeks at his father’s notes again, a few words standing out that definitely (and unfortunately) sound like a plan B according to John Winchester.
Protective alignment. Asset. Not time. Contingency only.
“What does MO mean?” Dean asks then. “Missouri again? Should we call her?”
But Sam shakes his head, frowning at the page. “I don’t think so. Maybe he meant ‘modus operandi.’ There’s also a Salem in Missouri.”
“You think he put the key thingy there?” Dean looks at his brother and hates that he feels himself getting invested in this nonsense. Leave it to Sam to drag him into even more shit. “What d’you think it is? A weapon like the Colt?”
Sam stares blankly at the pages in front of him, clearly trying to make sense of his father’s research. “I don’t know.”
At that, Dean smiles a little to himself and rises from his seat, patting Sam on the back. “Well, you go have fun figuring it out. I’m going back to work on the car.”
Sam exhales a frustrated sigh but doesn’t bother arguing, returning to the stack of paperwork in front of him.
Crisis averted, Dean thinks, satisfied.
For now, at least.
It takes Sam less than two days to figure out part of the mystery before he plants himself in front of Dean and announces they’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, adding the usual “I’ll fill you in on the way,” which is Sam-code for you’re not backing out of this, so buckle up.
Luckily, that was just enough time for Dean to get the Impala running right again. God knows he wasn’t borrowing another soccer-mom minivan from Bobby. He still has nightmares about the damn cup holders.
And for a while then, the two of them just drive, and Dean’s happy about the silence, the only sounds coming from classic rock tunes through the stereo and Baby’s steady hum under his boots. Sam keeps his nose buried in a stack of papers while Dean keeps his eyes on the road. It gives him something to focus on – lines, distance, direction. But as they pass Chicago, Dean feels himself getting antsy, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a rhythm that doesn’t match the music anymore.
“Alright,” he caves finally, shooting a glance at Sam in the passenger seat. “What did you find? Enlighten me.”
Sam draws an amused smile and arches a brow, but he keeps his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly interested.”
“Just spit it out, alright? Least you can do after dragging me all the way out here,” Dean grumbles, although driving is still better than sitting still at Bobby’s, twiddling his thumbs.
“Alright,” Sam chuckles, but Dean doesn’t miss that little hint of triumph in his brother’s voice. “I started with Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. Small town. Nothing out of the ordinary. But there was a house fire in 1995.”
Dean cocks an eyebrow. “A fire?”
“It was ruled accidental, but there were three fatalities,” Sam says. “A grandmother, a mother, and an eleven-year-old girl.”
Dean scrunches his brow slightly. “Not exactly the usual play…”
The one and only case so far that they’ve tracked connected to the yellow-eyed demon started the same way their nightmare did – a baby in a crib, six months old, and a mother burning on the ceiling. All of it happened in 1983. That’s the pattern.
“I know,” Sam replies. “That’s actually what caught my attention.”
Dean throws him a sideways look. “You sure this isn’t just some random fire?”
“I don’t know,” Sam admits and flips a page. “But I’m pretty sure Dad was there because the responding officer on scene was a deputy called Mia Owens.”
“MO,” Dean repeats quietly.
“Yeah, and get this,” Sam continues, “Mia Owens moved to Salem a few days after the accident and adopted an eleven-year-old girl.”
Dean blinks at that. Alright, that certainly doesn’t sound like a coincidence anymore. He can admit as much.
“You think it’s the same girl that supposedly died in the fire?”
“Yeah.” Sam nods. “I don’t think she died, Dean. I think Dad was there, faked her death, and gave her to Mia Owens to hide. There’s a birth certificate for the girl she adopted, but it’s under a different name. But I couldn’t find any school transcripts, medical records, or anything before the age of eleven. Nothing.”
Dean thinks it through carefully. A house fire in 1995. An eleven-year-old girl that may or may not have survived. Shady adoption records and name changes. His father’s notes.
Asset.
Dean hates to admit that it does fit his father’s style. John wouldn’t go through the trouble of hiding a girl if he didn’t think she was important.
“You think Dad meant a little girl with the key?” Dean asks, raising a brow. “A key to what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I wanna find out,” Sam says pensively, his hazel eyes drifting out the window. “Maybe she’s like me.”
“You think so?” Dean questions skeptically, although he might be biased here. He just really doesn’t want to deal with more freak kids and Sam’s ESP. “I mean, if she was eleven in ’95, she’d be even a year younger than you. Did you have one of your premonition things about her?”
“No.” Sam shakes his head, and Dean feels the relief flooding his body almost immediately. “But maybe she wasn’t part of the original group.”
“You think there were more kids?”
Sam gives a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Dad did.”
“That’s a lot of maybes, Sam,” Dean mutters. “Please tell me we’re not about to harass that poor girl. We don’t even know if she’s the real deal. Maybe that deputy adopting and moving away after the fire was just a coincidence. I mean, seeing a dead kid probably does something to normal people.”
Sam shoots him a raised look at that. “Dean, there are no coincidences in our line of work. And if there were, this would be a pretty big one.”
“Alright, fine. We’ll talk to her,” Dean caves with a sigh. “But if this girl turns out to be completely normal, promise me you’re gonna leave her alone and not drag her into our mess.”
Sam purses his lips and shrugs. “Sure, promise.”
Dean hears the words, but he’s not entirely convinced Sam actually means them.
“I couldn’t find anything on the girl or where she is now, but Mia Owens works at Salem PD,” Sam says. “I figure we start there.”
Dean only gives him a nod at that and focuses his eyes back on the gray stretch of highway ahead.
Salem, Massachusetts
This town might be Dean’s worst nightmare. It’s when his everyday life of horror suddenly turns to an amusing tourist attraction. Witch-themed shop windows, plastic broomsticks, and neon pentagrams litter the cobblestone streets. There’s even someone selling “authentic cursed candles” next to a goddamn coffee shop.
It’s history turned into fucking merch. The town’s darkness is apparently just part of the decor.
“Oh, look, they’re offering ghost tours. Maybe we should take one,” Dean says with a wry grin and kills the engine a block away from the police station.
“Yeah, maybe another time.” Sam chuckles, shaking his head, and smooths out the wrinkles in his suit before grabbing his FBI badge from the glove compartment. Then he glances at Dean. “You coming?”
“Nah, you go ahead. I’ll wait here. Maybe take a nap,” Dean says casually, already leaning back in his seat. After all, he did just drive for close to twenty-four hours straight with barely a break between. He deserves some shuteye, considering Sam dragged him out of bed before sunrise.
Sam gives him a look but heads inside without arguing. Dean’s sleeping plans, however, don’t last for too long before his eyes catch on a flyer stuck to a lamppost, gently fluttering in the ocean breeze. It’s a missing person poster of a young woman, late twenties, last seen three months ago.
As Dean’s gaze then drifts further down the sidewalk, he spots another one on a bulletin board outside a convenience store. Different face but similar age. And then his eyes land on a third one, partially covered by an ad for a harbor cruise. This one’s also female, early thirties, and was last seen a year ago.
Three missing women are cause enough to step out of the car and take a closer look. The air smells like salt and rusted metal as tourists and shoppers pass him on the sidewalk. Dean then studies the nearest flyer – no signs of struggle, no suspects, and no vehicles found. As he looks at the other two then as well, he notices the same pattern there. All disappeared without a trace within one year. If he didn’t know any better, he would think all these women vanished into thin air.
But Dean does know better. His gut is already screaming that there’s more than just answers about lost family secrets in this town.
There’s a case here.
When Sam finally strolls out of the police station, Dean’s leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed. His little brother looks thoughtful, which Dean learned a long time ago means complicated.
“Well?” Dean asks as Sam reaches the car.
“Mia Owens checks out. Moved here eleven years ago with her daughter,” Sam informs him and then flashes a smile. “And get this – the daughter also works for Salem PD. Apparently, she’s a CSI.”
“CSI, huh?” Dean’s brows shoot up with interest. “She working today?”
“Yeah, but the detective inside said they’re at a crime scene right now.”
“You know where?”
“Yup.”
“Alright, let’s go,” Dean says and already opens the driver’s door before stopping. “Hey, uh, you noticed these?” He gestures with his chin toward the missing person posters.
Sam follows his gaze to the closest flyer. “Missing persons?”
“Yeah, plural,” Dean notes. “At least three within a year. All women. Similar age range.”
Sam frowns slightly. “It’s a tourist town, Dean. People pass through. Stuff happens.”
“Not like this.”
“I think you’re getting influenced by the merch here,” Sam retorts, laughing it off. “We’re not here for a case. We’re here to get answers.”
“Oh, and since when are we in the business of ignoring cases, huh? You just wanna let more women die?” Dean argues.
“You don’t know they’re dead,” Sam points out. “You barely even have a case here.”
“We barely ever do, man.”
“Alright,” Sam plays along, leveling with him, which honestly feels really patronizing. Dean knows he’s right about this. His gut is never wrong. It’s the one instinct he can always rely on. “And what do you think killed them, huh?”
Dean gives a defiant shrug. “I don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out.”
The house sits too far back from the road to feel even remotely welcoming. The white siding looks harmless enough from a distance, neat windows and trimmed hedges included. It’s one of those places that probably has matching towels in the bathroom as well. However, there’s a stillness to it that feels strange and anything but peaceful.
Dean slows the Impala as the gravel path turns to mud beneath the tires, the big oaks crowding in on either side like they’re trying to pass judgment. As he cuts the engine, all he hears is the ticking of metal cooling under Baby’s hood and the faint buzz of insects in the woods. For a moment, he just studies the place through the windshield and can’t help the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach of being watched.
“Found her,” Sam says from the passenger seat, snapping him from his stupor, and turns the laptop toward him. “She’s been with Salem PD for about a year now. She graduated early from Boston University with a master’s in biomedical forensic sciences.”
“So she’s smart?”
Dean doesn’t know why he asked that. Of course the girl must be smart if she graduated college early. He couldn’t even swing high school, so he imagines someone who can use the word “biomedical” correctly in a sentence must be genius-level smart. At least, they’d be definitely smarter than him, but even Sam seems to be impressed, and he’s smart, too.
Sam huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’d say.”
Dean sort of admires that. Maybe it’s even jealousy. Because if it’s the girl they’re looking for and not some random coincidence, then it means this girl lost everything, survived unimaginable and unbearable trauma, and still made something of herself. What happened to her didn’t define her, so that’s pretty admirable in Dean’s book.
“That her?” Dean squints at the personnel photo on the screen.
He halfway expects the usual washed-out ID photo – bad lighting, stiff posture, grainy DMV quality, maybe even mid-blink. But instead, the picture makes him pause, not just his breath but his heart, too.
Because even flattened by fluorescent lighting and a bland gray background, the girl on the photo shines and illuminates the whole scene without the need for good angles or straining effort. There’s a natural curve to her mouth that makes even the most neutral facial expression seem like a secret smile. It causes him to wonder what it looks like when she actually smiles.
Her eyes are somehow soft and sharp at the same time, a steadiness gleaming in them that challenges to hold contact for longer than necessary just to see who breaks it first. He gets the sense that, despite the way she looks – innocent, warm, pretty – this girl doesn’t spook easily.
“Huh.” Dean shuts the laptop slower than usual and licks his lips. He tells himself it’s just that she’s hot. That’s all. He’s allowed to notice when someone’s hot. But something about the photo persists in his head a heartbeat longer than it should, and he can’t help that now he kind of wants to see her in person – or the smile.
He wants to see the smile.
“What?” Sam’s already scowling like he knows what’s coming. He probably does.
“Well,” Dean says and pushes the car door open, stepping out onto the gravel as a smirk begins to form on his lips, “here’s hoping your theory’s wrong.”
Sam halts mid-exit before he slams the passenger door shut. “Excuse me?”
Dean closes his door and adjusts the lapel of his suit jacket. “‘Cause if this is just a paperwork mix-up and not demon-adjacent, I might actually get a decent night out of it.”
He smirks broad and full then, even though he can tell Sam wants to either smack or throttle him right now.
Sam stops in his tracks halfway of rounding the hood. “Dude. Are you serious right now?”
He shrugs his shoulders, grin widening. “What? Just saying. She’s cute.”
“Dean, she might be connected to a house fire tied to the same thing that killed Mom,” Sam points out all righteously.
Dean’s smirk softens, but it doesn’t disappear. “Yeah,” he says. “And if she’s not, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”
“Unbelievable.” Sam exhales sharply through his nose, already turning toward the house with a shake of his head.
Dean chuckles and follows, hands slipping into his pockets. The two of them then stroll past uniforms and patrol cars, ducking under yellow tape, badges already out as Dean approaches an officer stationed by the door.
“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”
The cop, however, doesn’t even get a chance to answer before an older woman steps up. She’s somewhere in her forties, maybe a little past it, and definitely looks like she doesn’t startle easily. There are crinkles around her eyes that aren’t from laughing but probably from squinting at bad situations way too often. Years of experience have settled into her posture, knowing exactly how much force to use without wasting it. She also probably knows when to talk and when to let silence do the work.
She gives seasoned cop energy, and Dean sighs internally. This won’t be easy as pie.
“Right here. Sergeant Owens.” She doesn’t extend a hand but already squares her shoulders instead.
“FBI, ma’am.” Dean swallows subtly and quickly flashes his badge before she can notice they’re super fucking fake. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”
Sergeant Owens cocks an eyebrow and places her hands challengingly on her hips. “And what exactly does the FBI want with me?”
God, Dean feels a slight buckle in his knees at the firm tone of her voice. It feels like she’s scolding him for something he hasn’t even thought about doing yet.
“We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction,” Sam jumps in, more fearless than Dean, but that’s probably because Sam’s still driven by his need for answers. Dean doesn’t really want answers. He just wants peace and maybe a burger. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.”
“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Dean gets straight to the point, not wasting another minute tiptoeing around the subject. He knows jumping into it will probably shake something loose, even if it’s just a defense mechanism. That would already tell him a lot, and that’s all he really needs.
“My adoptive daughter, yes,” the sergeant confirms and crosses her arms. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”
Apparently, Sergeant Owens likes getting straight to the point as well. Dean interprets this as a good sign because he’s certainly intimidated by her glare.
“We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire,” Sam says carefully. “You were the first responder on scene?”
“I was,” Owens confirms, but her eyes never loose their sternness. “It was ruled an accident.”
“Three dead. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Dean adds.
She nods once. “That’s right.”
Dean tilts his head slightly at that. “Except here’s the thing,” he continues calmly, wetting his lips. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”
Her gaze expectedly darkens. “What are you implying, agent?”
“I think you know,” is all Dean says, not backing down till Sam cuts in to dissolve the tension.
“We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”
But the sergeant steps forward, bristling. “Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”
“Mia, it’s okay,” a soft and sweet voice pipes up suddenly, and there’s movement behind Owens.
Dean notices because the air changes in an instant, like someone opened a window and let a gentle breeze in. And before he can blink, you step up beside the sergeant.
You’re different from the photo. Somehow, in a worse way, which really means better, and that automatically means worse for him. Because in person, there’s even more warmth. It’s almost heat, like the hottest day in July, causing him to sweat in his suit by just looking at you. There’s a barely detectable trace of something electric crackling underneath the surface, under your skin, that the dull picture didn’t capture. A stream of light seeps through the windows and catches in your eyes as if even the sun herself is seeking you out.
For a heartbeat, Dean forgets what he wanted to say till Sam elbows him in the ribs.
Right. Words. FBI. Fire. Focus.
“You don’t have to–” Sergeant Owens turns toward you instantly, protective instinct written all over her face, and Dean recognizes that one from his own father. Maybe even from himself when he looks in the mirror whenever Sam’s concerned. But if the story is true, Dean thinks he understands why their dad picked Mia Owens to keep a secret.
“It’s fine,” you assure her with a small nod, completely calm in a way that makes Dean nervous.
His eyes move before his brain catches up, tracing the line of your shoulders beneath the CSI jacket, the shape of your waist, and the quiet confidence in the way you stand. He can tell you’re not reckless or naïve. You know exactly what’s happening here. You’re not scared or confused. You’re measuring, careful, calculated.
His stomach tightens imperceptibly.
“You wanted to speak to me?” Your gaze drifts back and forth between him and Sam, assessing. A swallow gets stuck in Dean’s throat, lump thickening.
“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. Smooth, Winchester. Smooth. He then nods and pulls out his badge with a smidge more confidence. “Special Agent Hetfield. This is Special Agent Sambora.”
You step closer to look – really look – and Dean feels the sweat begin to gather in the back of his neck again, probably soon flushing like a waterfall down his spine. You examine his credentials with far more attention than most people ever do. There’s no rush as your eyes scan over the name, the seal, and even the goddamn laminate.
Please don’t be a Metallica fan. Please don’t be a Metallica fan…
In his periphery, he can see even Sam shift his weight, sees the tension creeping into his shoulders. Dean resists the urge to yank the ID back like a guilty teenager in a liquor store. He wonders if you’ve already figured it out. You’re smart, he reminds himself and watches your expression for recognition. For amusement. For the moment you call him out.
But instead, you smile. And shit, it’s so much more striking than the photo hinted at. It’s even warmer and brighter, like staring directly into the goddamn sun.
“Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”
Dean licks his lips, studying you for a moment longer, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s long enough that it causes you to straighten your posture just the slightest bit, bracing for whatever comes next. He can already tell you’re not expecting it to be good news.
“Are you the girl from the fire?” Dean asks you bluntly, but you don’t stump or jolt back like he expected you would. Like most people would.
Instead, your eyes flicker from him to Sam and then back to him again, seemingly weighing both danger and options. “Am I in trouble?”
It’s not a clear yes, but it’s definitely not a no either. An innocent person would never ask that question. A guilty one would. You are the eleven-year-old girl who survived a fire. Who lost her entire family and is now being forced to talk to two strangers about it. Dean suddenly feels incredibly repentant about that, enough to seek out a church. He won’t, but the urge is there. God, he should’ve never let Sam convince him to come here, poke around, and disrupt a life that’s not theirs to disturb.
“No,” Sam assures you quickly, shaking his head and giving you that soft smile he always reserves for calming victims. “You’re not in any trouble, I promise. We just want to ask you a few questions about that fire. What you remember…”
You grind your jaw, glancing at Dean again as if you know he’s the weak link here, suspicion clear as day in your eyes. “Why does the FBI care? It was ruled an accident.”
Dean lifts a brow at that, smiling cleverly. Gotcha. “Then why were you declared dead and adopted under a different name?”
You narrow your eyes to a little glare at him, which he finds more adorable than threatening. Then you exhale a sigh of defeat, and Dean almost wants to grin at that but bites it back.
“Fine,” you huff, your eyes darting around the house that’s currently bustling with cops before you lower your voice. “But not here,” you say. “Besides, I don’t have time right now. I’m still on the clock, and I have a ton of evidence to process. You can come by my lab later. My shift ends at six.”
You pull out a business card and hold it out to him. As Dean takes it, his fingers briefly brush yours, and he swears a jolt of electricity travels straight up his arm and slithers down his spine to places it shouldn’t go.
“We’ll be there,” Dean promises and can’t really control the slight upward twitch of his lips.
Without another word, you then turn back toward the rest of the crime scene, already slipping your gloves on, the conversation dismissed without being rude. Dean watches you walk away, gaze unapologetically following the curve of your hips down to your ass before dragging back up again.
When he whistles lowly, Sam kicks his leg pretty damn hard, forcing Dean’s eyes away from you.
“Dean.” Sam glowers and scolds him like a dog who peed on the new carpet. Sometimes, Dean wonders if his little brother ever wishes to bring a spray bottle of water to these things. “Can you not?”
Sure, Dean could try. But the unnameable restlessness that buzzes in his blood when he thinks about you probably won’t let him. There’s something about you that can’t be stuffed neatly into any labeled box he has, but for the sake of finding something to put you in, he chalks it off to simple attraction. Lust. Chemistry.
Yeah, that’s probably it. Nothing more to it.
As Dean swings the motel room door open, the smell of old carpet and bleach hits him instantly. The TV is on mute, some local news anchor gesturing dramatically about weekend tourism, but Sam’s attention is nowhere near it.
His little brother is hunched over the small table by the window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie abandoned, the yellow legal pad beside him filled edge to edge with tight handwriting. There’s also a stack of photocopies scattered in front of him, ranging from birth certificates and property records to archived newspaper clippings and police reports.
“You’re back early.” Sam doesn’t even look up when Dean enters, shutting the door behind him.
“Dude, I’ve been gone six hours. It’s almost five,” he notes. Good thing his own investigation didn’t get him kidnapped or shot this time. Otherwise, he’d probably be dead till Sam noticed he was even gone that long.
Sam lifts his head, brows pinched, and checks his watch like he just surfaced from underwater. “Huh.”
“So, you find anything?” Dean asks and tosses the keys onto the dresser.
Sam exhaustively leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. “Define anything.”
“Anything weird. Anything cult-y. Any reason a dead kid suddenly isn’t dead anymore.”
“Nope.” Sam exhales hard. “The adoption paperwork is messy but not illegal. Name change’s clean, too. I found the death certificates for her mother and grandmother but not for her.”
Dean’s brow furrows slightly. “So she’s… not officially dead.”
Sam shakes his head slowly with a frustrated look gleaming in his brown eyes. “No, uh, it’s not even in the official police report. I mean, hell, there’s not even a mention of her. Like she never existed. The only thing that mentions three deaths during the fire is a local newspaper, but that’s it.”
“That’s it?” Dean’s brow lifts.
“That’s it.”
“That’s… weird,” Dean says for lack of better words.
“Tell me about it,” Sam huffs.
“And Dad?”
“Well, if we assume Dad was involved that night, I think he probably is the ‘civilian’ who ‘assisted in the rescue.’ He disappeared before he could give a full account,” Sam states with a tight smile, reading off the report. “If there’s something supernatural in her background, it’s definitely not on paper.”
That’s not necessarily unusual, especially if their father was part of the coverup. The brothers learned early how to erase their tracks properly.
“I did look into the property records of the house, though,” Sam adds. “It’s got a lot of history. Been in her family for practically centuries. It’s still in her name – her real name. It’s never been sold to anyone else.”
Dean bobs his head, then smacks his lips. “Alright, so let’s say your theory is right and the fire wasn’t an accident and Dad was really there that night, the worst case scenario is that he saved a little girl and then hid her from the evil thing that was probably still after her to finish the job. Is that what you’re saying?”
Sam sighs. “Yes.”
“Huh.” Dean purses his lips, nodding. “So basically, you’ve got nothing.”
Sam lets out a breath through his nose, drawing his lips into a tight line. “Yup,” he admits somewhat bitterly. “But she’s still gotta be connected to the demon somehow. Why else would Dad have gone through all that trouble to hide a small piece of paper in a demon-proof lockbox?”
“Look, I hear ya, alright? But not everything the old man did always made a whole lotta sense,” Dean reasons.
Sam’s brow scrunches significantly at that. “Since when are you saying that? You worshipped the man.”
“Since now,” Dean replies without missing a beat, although he really wants to say since Dad idiotically sacrificed his soul for poor little me. “Maybe a demon was involved. Maybe there wasn’t. Hell, doesn’t even mean the fire ties back to the yellow-eyed demon. There’s other demons around, you know? You forgot Meg? Maybe Dad just tracked it out of habit, and it’s your fault for reading too much into three lines on an old note.”
Sam stares at him for a long moment then, hazel eyes completely stern, and Dean knows his little brother pretty much wants to strangle him right now – because he’s right. For once, Dean’s right and Sam’s wrong. Dean can almost feel the universe losing its balance over it.
He smirks annoyingly wide at that. “Guess that means the CSI hottie is fair game.”
“I think she already has enough trauma in her life without needing your help, Dean,” Sam mutters, amused.
“No better cure than Vitamin D for that.”
“Dude!”
Yeah, Dean almost wants to slap himself, but he’s too busy grinning shamelessly.
“Maybe wait till we’ve talked to her and make sure she’s not connected somehow before you hit on her again,” Sam scolds and then checks his watch once more. “Speaking of, we need to leave soon or we’re gonna be late.”
“Yeah, hang on. Got something, too,” Dean says, victory already curving his lips. “Drove around town and looked into the missing women cases. Dug a little deeper.”
A corner of Sam’s mouth lifts wryly. “Oh, good. This should be interesting.”
Dean shoots him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Sam shrugs lightly, then leans forward on the table. “Just curious what kind of deep investigative journalism you conducted today. Talk to any conspiracy bloggers? Interrogate a barista?”
Dean rolls his eyes and grabs the room’s only other chair, dragging it across the carpet so it faces Sam directly. “You’re hilarious. Really. You should take that on the road.”
“Dean–”
“Eight,” Dean cuts in.
His little brother’s brow furrows. “Eight what?”
“Eight missing women. Not three,” Dean states and watches Sam at least straighten at that. “Five more in the last twelve months. All married. All reported missing by their husbands. And all had domestic disturbance calls logged at some point before they disappeared. You know, neighbors calling in yelling, one shattered window, one ‘accidental fall’ down the porch steps that didn’t quite line up with the bruises. And then all of them just vanished without a trace.”
Sam frowns then, shoulders slumping. “Dean, they probably just left their husbands. Doesn’t mean there’s anything weird going on.”
“Sure.” Dean nods, feeling quite clever. “See, that’s what I thought too at first. But then I talked to a few of the husbands.”
Sam arches a brow. “And?”
“And,” Dean continues, “all of them had accidents after their wives’ disappearances.”
“What kinda accidents?”
Dean exhales slowly through his nose. Boy, that one’s a loaded question. He’s heard some weird shit over the years in this job. Seen worse. But this one surely took the cake. He’s never sat across a red-faced contractor in a living room before, who muttered something about a “freak bedroom thing.” The guy turned purple by the time Dean finally got him to say the words “fracture” and “penis” together in the same sentence.
That was new territory.
Salem – witch capital of America. He almost laughs at that. If there were ever a town for something old and vindictive to take root, it’d be this one. God, he hates witches. Of course some bitch hauled up here of all places and sprinkles hex bags around like it’s fucking confetti.
“You know, shower slips, stair falls, gym injuries,” Dean replies, coughing up the lump in his throat.
“That’s vague. Could still be unrelated.”
“Could be.” Dean bobs his head, lips pursed, then looks dryly at his brother. “They all broke their dick, Sam.”
“What?” Sam’s brows pinch together. Hard.
“Yeah, that got your attention, huh?” Dean slumps back in his chair and lets out a sigh.
Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times before finding the right words. “Did any of them die?”
“No, Sam, they all just had an itchy cast for a few weeks,” Dean deadpans. “I mean, one guy thinks he might have permanent damage, but that’s only ‘cause he was too freaked out and embarrassed to go to the ER.”
Dean doesn’t mention that the last victim’s husband was still wearing a cast, which he kept repeatedly scratching right in front of him. For an entirety of thirty minutes, Dean didn’t know where to look and kept staring at the ceiling fan.
Sam muses, head nodding. “So let me get this straight – the women are all probably alive and just left, and the husbands are alive too and got away with minor injuries.”
“Minor?”
“You know what I mean. We’ve seen a lot worse,” Sam clarifies, which Dean can hardly deny. This is basically bush league – no pun intended. “What are you thinking? Witch?”
Dean shrugs. “Probably. Fits the M.O.”
“Look, it still might be a coincidence,” Sam argues, which frustrates Dean greatly.
He knew Sam was going to call it a stretch, even with all the evidence laid out in front of him. He knew Sam would say correlation isn’t causation. And he knew Sam would point out that injured men don’t automatically equal hex bags and covens.
And Dean knows that, too. But he also knows eight women just don’t evaporate into thin air and husbands don’t shatter things like that by accident. At least not eight fucking times.
“Dude, c’mon,” Dean counters. “Eight guys having those kinds of injuries is not nothing. I mean, they’re dicks to their wives and then they get injured in the most ironic way possible? When’s the last time you’ve ever heard of something like that, especially in a town this size?”
Sam doesn’t respond, which Dean takes as admission.
“Exactly.”
Sam studies him for a long moment. “Alright, let’s say you’re right–”
“I am.”
“Even if it’s witchcraft,” Sam continues, “it sounds like a vigilante and not something purely evil.”
“So? What, you wanna give that bitch a free pass just ‘cause she’s got some weird moral compass?” Dean questions.
“So do we,” Sam points out.
“It’s different.”
“How so?”
“‘Cause it just is. ‘Cause I said so, alright?” Dean snaps. “Witches are evil. We kill evil things. End of story. I mean, hell, you love all those serial killer docs. You’ve never heard of escalation before? Whoever’s doing this maybe isn’t killing people right now, which is why we have to stop them before they do.”
Sam exhales a long breath at that, caving slightly. “You find any weird symbols? Hex bags?”
“Nope, not yet. But I’ll find something,” Dean assures his little brother. “I’m telling you, man. There’s something weird going on in this town.”
Your lab is a sanctuary of steel counters and fluorescent lights, humming with the quiet efficiency you’ve come to rely on. The evidence board glows behind you in blue, crime scene photos pinned in neat rows, your notes scrawled in the margin. The faint tang of chemicals keeps everything clinical and contained, and the chaos of magic stays locked away here – no tarot deck in sight, no spell books on the shelves, no runes scratched under the desk. It’s just science doing the heavy lifting while you sort fibers and catalog blood spatter.
A knock on the doorframe a few minutes past six then snaps you out of your peaceful routine, announcing Metallica and Bon Jovi right on schedule.
Metallica leans one broad shoulder against the frame with a smirk in place, suit jacket already unbuttoned, golden freckles and evergreen eyes sparkling under the bright lights. Bon Jovi stands a half-step behind, posture more careful but no less intense.
Their auras roll into the room ahead of their bodies, brushing against your senses like a breeze through leaves.
A while ago, you made your own science out of describing auras. Bland names like yellow usually don’t say a whole lot about a person, do they now? Has anyone ever looked at a color wheel properly? There’s more options than just six. Is it a warm yellow? Or does it have more of a blue-ish tint to it? Brighter? Darker? That already says a lot about someone. So, you grabbed a Pantone color catalog from the hardware store not too long ago and got more creative.
After all, who doesn’t like a little more sparkle and fun in their life?
Well, judging by Metallica’s aura, he might not. His aura is dense and close to his skin like armor. There’s a deep brick red at the core, steady and restrained. It’s the color of adrenaline held on a leash. Of survival mode that never quite switches off. But hunter green (ironic, yes) glimmers through the red. Big caretaker energy a guy like him probably even denies having. There’s also gunmetal gray that spiderwebs around the red and green, locking them up like chainmail. It speaks of grief he clearly hasn’t let himself feel yet. Maybe even survivor’s guilt chewing at the corners.
That one’s definitely your knight, but not in the sense that you’re the princess he needs to rescue. You’re the dragon he’s convinced himself to slay. He just doesn’t know it yet.
Bon Jovi’s aura, on the other hand, is larger, more diffuse, and a lot harder to pin down. His primary color is a bright buttercup yellow, which pulses unevenly. He’s intelligent, anxious, and probably has a mind that overthinks practically everything. A deep Moroccan blue pools heavily around his center, however, telling of grief, emotional depth, and moral restraint. But the most interesting part about this guy? It’s the flickers of mulberry purple striking through the others like lightning. Uninvited and unpredictable. It feels like something is watching back. Psychic potential, maybe? Or maybe it’s just good intuition.
Their colors aren’t what give you pause, though. It’s how their auras interact with each other, which is certainly a rarity. They’re symbiotic. Not many people have that.
Metallica’s red steadies Bon Jovi’s erratic yellow when their gazes meet. In turn, Bon Jovi’s blue cools the heat in Metallica’s red just enough to keep it from boiling over. Metallica’s gray also thins in the other’s presence, like shadows retreating from light, while the purple in Bon Jovi calms as if Metallica’s grounding him.
Which tells you one thing: they’re more than just hunting partners. Brothers is your best guess. Either that, or they’re super gay for each other with a soulmate-deep bond. You probably shouldn’t ask them to clarify. That never works out well for you.
What’s important for you, though, is that they’re clearly stronger together. Dangerous even. But they’re also more vulnerable when separated.
You strip off your gloves and rise from your swivel chair with a deceptively bright smile. “Agents, right on time. I was just finishing up. Come on in.”
They do. The door clicks shut behind them, which feels threatening enough, considering you’re pretty sure they want to kill you or do God knows what else with you. Did they already bring the matches and lighter fluid?
But even with the pressure on your shoulders, you gesture to the chairs across your workstation. “Have a seat. Thirsty? I’ve got some water I can offer you.”
You spin to the mini-fridge and pull out two chilled bottles of water – holy water, to be exact. Quietly blessed last week by the local Catholic priest. If they’re demons, it’ll sizzle on contact. If not, well, hydration is key.
“Thanks,” Bon Jovi says, accepting one bottle with a polite nod. He twists the cap, takes a sip.
Nothing.
Metallica does the same, gulping half of it down without so much as a blink. Still nothing.
Clean. Human. Hunters. Still dangerous. Still lethal. Especially to someone like you. But they’re not the obvious kind of monster that hides under beds and in closets.
Slightly more relieved, you settle back in your chair, folding your hands on the desk. Warm enough to disarm but cool enough to maintain distance. The goal is to seem professional, helpful, harmless, which is easy because you are.
“So, the fire. What do you want to know, agents?”
Bon Jovi leans forward first, the buttercup yellow flaring with that anxious intelligence. “We’re looking into some old cases that might connect to similar incidents. The Sugar Hill fire – was there anything unusual about it? Anything you remember that maybe didn’t make the official report?”
You let your expression soften just enough, playing the role of the cooperative survivor. You’ve rehearsed this story a thousand times by now – ever since Mia took you in. You’ve kept it simple, tragic, human.
“I was only eleven. I don’t remember a whole lot,” you start, swallowing, a hint of old pain creeping into your voice. It’s not an act for their benefit, though. The loss of that night still aches like a root pulled from soil. “I woke up to smoke and flames. My mom and grandma… They didn’t make it out.”
“How did you survive?” Metallica asks, but it doesn’t sound accusing. It sounds like he’s angling for something specific.
Are they curious about the demon? Is that why they’re here and sought you out?
“A man pulled me out of the house, carried me to safety, and handed me over to Mia. She adopted me a few days later,” you explain.
“Did–, uh, did this stranger say what his name was?” Bon Jovi asks.
You give them a shrug of your shoulders, then shake your head slightly, brow creased. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Maybe Jim? Jonathan? It was a long time ago. I’m sorry,” you say – or lie. “The cops ruled it an accident back then. Blamed it on faulty wiring.”
Metallica’s brick red holds steady as he watches you the whole time, juniper eyes calm but attentive. “This guy, uhm… did he say why he was there? Anything about your family? Why he was in the right place at the right time?”
You shake your head, offering a sad smile. “Not that I remember. He just… helped. Kind stranger, you know? I mean, I was a traumatized kid. Mia handled the paperwork. I had nothing to do with that. She just changed my name and moved with me here to give me a fresh start. Sugar Hill is a small community. She didn’t want me to live with this my whole life. That’s really all there is to it.”
Bon Jovi’s blue deepens significantly, disappointment glimmering through his yellow. He was hoping for more – something about patterns, maybe, or why your family might have been targeted. But you can’t give him anything to grab onto. Even if they’re here for the demon, trust is earned and not simply given. The cards warned you for a reason.
Metallica, on the other hand, visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop, and the red aura settles as if he internally exhaled. Then a sly, almost triumphant glint crosses his face. He’s clearly decided you’re normal, which brings you relief for the moment. The knight’s armor has been dismantled. Tragic backstory, smart girl who turned pain into a forensics career, no red flags, case closed, you can practically hear him think.
Your own expression stays neutral, but on the inside, you’re smirking wide. Gotcha. Now, you just have to get rid of them and hope they leave town soon without poking around too much. But another knock on the door foils your plans.
Shit, Paige, you realize as you look up, past the two fake FBI agents in your lab, and see your best friend strolling through the door with her usual cheerful smile.
As Paige pokes her head in, her curls bounce and her grin widens. “Yo, evidence queen, you better not still be buried in blood. Drinks wait for no woman. I will personally drag you out of here if I have to–”
She stops dead in her tracks when she spots the two men in suits in front of you, her brow knitting more and more with each second that passes by. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions.
“Shit.” Her eyes widen and her teeth clench before she grimaces fully. “Am I interrupting something?”
Before you can reply, Metallica already twists around with a smirk in place. The guy really goes for anything with boobs and two legs, huh? Makes a girl feel real special. Not that you blame him. Paige has always been pretty and bubbly enough to wrap guys around her little finger. But she’s also been your biggest confidante – the Willow to your Buffy, so to speak.
“No, not all,” Metallica says with a charm that could be easily mistaken for gentleness if you didn’t see the gun poking out under his suit jacket. “Me and my partner were just finishing up here.”
Paige frowns a little more at that and tilts her head. You already know what she’s thinking. “Partner? As in…”
Do not say gay, you warn her with a sharp look because you can already see Metallica latching onto the implication, shoulders tensing and drawing back, eyes crinkling in bewilderment, like his ego is a physical thing that just got wounded. He’s gotten that accusation before. You can tell and try your hardest not to laugh out loud.
“FBI,” you provide quickly, shooting her another look. You hope it’s enough to alleviate the sting in Metallica’s ego and keep him from proving his virility by overcompensating in the stupidest way possible as boys often tend to do. You then glance back at Paige. “I’m almost done, alright? Just wait at Clancy’s. I’ll be out in five.”
Paige nods slowly but tosses you a worried look as if she can feel the tension in your muscles. You don’t want her to get hurt. If hunters are poking around in your life and even remotely suspect you’re a witch, they will look at any woman close to you and automatically assume it’s a coven.
To clarify, it’s not.
Sure, you’ve taught her a spell or two, mostly for self-defense. Like a father teaching his daughter how to knee a douche in his crown jewels. Not that you have any first-hand experience with that since you don’t know your dad, but you imagine that’s probably a pretty similar reason. However, you’ve never ever sat around a cauldron before and cackled like a maniac.
God, you hate most witch movies. They really give your kind a bad rep. Melissa Joan Hart gets a pass, though. Whoever made Hocus Pocus, on the other hand, should be burned at the stake, especially the person responsible for casting Sarah Jessica Parker. Carrie was fucking annoying in Sex and the City, too.
“You know, me and my partner could use a drink,” Metallica suddenly chimes in, charismatic grin shaping into form. Fucking hell. He still needs to mend his ego and lick his wounds in front you, it seems. You steel your expression as you meet his expectant eyes. “Mind if we crash girls’ night? Tag along? Off duty, promise.”
Yes, I’d mind, dickhead, you think bitterly. Read the fucking room.
Even Bon Jovi shoots him a look of clear disapproval, blue cooling the flare in Metallica’s red. But his partner skillfully ignores it, undeterred, gaze locked on you. The interest is obvious now that he’s apparently decided you’re safe. You wonder how a guy with those instincts is still alive, considering tricking him only required a smile, a sad story, and a little cleavage from you. You guess Bon Jovi’s intelligence is mostly keeping him out of greater trouble.
You keep the smile trained on your face, but your frustration spikes. You want them fucking gone, out of this town, and not embedding themselves in your normal life. But refusing outright might ping suspicion.
Play along. Survive. Make sure no one else gets hurt.
“Sure,” you say and clear your throat slightly. “The more the merrier. The bar’s called Clancy’s. It’s on Church Street. Meet you there at seven?”
“Great.” Metallica gives you a nod, satisfied. In his head, the gears are shifting, already planning the night. “See you, ladies.”
You watch them go, exhaling slowly once the door shuts. Harmless? Hardly. But they’ve bought the act. For now, you’re just the normal girl with the sad story and the cute friend, and Metallica thinks he’s got a shot at taking you back to whatever roach-infested motel they’re crashing in.
You almost laugh out loud at the irony. Keep dreaming, hunter.
“Hey, what’s going on? Why was the FBI here?” Paige whisper-asks as she hurries over to you, even though the door is firmly shut again and the men in black are long gone.
“They’re not really FBI,” you explain. “I think they’re hunters.”
“Shit,” it slips out of her, brow scrunching. “Really? Do they know you’re, like, you know…”
“No, obviously not, or I would be dead by now,” you hiss and start to pace your desk to free yourself of some of the nervous energy buzzing in your veins.
“Why would you invite them to drinks, then?”
“Dude! What was I supposed to say? I didn’t wanna raise suspicion by trying too hard to get rid of them.”
“Right. Smart.” Paige nods, purses her lips, and then looks back at you. “So, what now? What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, feeling somewhat helpless. “Act normal? Hope they leave again? Get ‘em drunk enough to miss their aim?”
“Good plan.”
When the door suddenly swings back open, you already brace yourself for a bullet flying your way before recognizing Mia and exhaling another breath of relief. She shuts the door quickly and quietly and then instantly finds your eyes.
“Just saw those two agents leave the precinct. Are they hunters?” she asks, her voice sterner than usual, but you’ve learned over the years that just means she’s concerned.
You nod. “I think so, yeah. They asked about the fire. And they wanted to know about John Winchester.”
“Did you tell them anything?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“Good. Keep it that way,” she tells you, and you know it’s more than just a command. “Are they leaving town again?”
Another head shake from you. “No, they invited themselves to Clancy’s with me and Paige tonight.”
Mia takes that in with a pensive bob of her head, then lets out a sigh. “Alright, go, but be careful. Don’t say too much. We don’t need them poking their noses into our business,” she says. “I spoke to Amy at the hospital again. She says she already wants to leave tonight if possible. Try to get rid of them by then, yeah?”
You nod quickly and share another look with Paige. You’ve played normal all your life. You can do it again tonight.
As Dean slides behind Baby’s wheel, the familiar creak of the door and the distinct scent of old leather and gun oil instantly envelope him like a second skin. The engine rumbles to life with that low, satisfying growl he never gets damn tired of hearing as he lets his head tip back against the seat for half a second and grins like he just won a bet against Sam he never actually made out loud.
“See?” he says, throwing the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. “Hate to say I told you so. Normal girl. Sad story, smart as hell, works with gross stuff dead people leave behind for a living. No demon deals, no witchy vibes, no nothing. Just a hot CSI with a tragic backstory and killer legs.”
Sam slumps in the passenger seat and crosses his long arms, staring straight ahead with a sour look. “She gave us holy water, Dean.”
Dean snorts loudly at that, one hand drumming the steering wheel to the tail end of Zeppelin. “Dude, she gave us water. Cold water. From a fridge. In July. In a lab and a building full of cops. You’re reaching, Sammy.”
“She watched us drink it. Didn’t take her eyes off us once. That’s not casual hospitality. She was testing us,” Sam counters.
Dean rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out the window. “Or she’s polite and didn’t want us dying of dehydration while she answered our invasive questions about her dead family. Either way, you’re projecting. You want her to be part of Dad’s puzzle so bad you’re inventing clues.”
Sam’s jaw flexes. “I think she was playing us. Don’t you think she answered every question too perfectly? She was too calm. She gave us exactly what we wanted to hear and nothing more. No slip-ups, no emotions, nothing. People who’ve been through that kind of trauma usually crack a little when you bring it up. She didn’t.”
Dean’s grin fades a fraction, grip tightening imperceptibly on the wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, though, but the image of you flickers behind his lids. You’ve learned early to lock your pain down tightly, carrying it without letting it spill. Dean remembers being four. He remembers the smell of smoke, the heat, his mother’s scream cut off like someone snuffed a candle. Sam was only a baby. He got the blank slate version. Dean got the full-color replay that still shows up in nightmares, the taste of ash on his tongue when he wakes up gasping.
An eleven-year-old girl watching her whole world burn? Pulling herself out of that hell – or being pulled – only to have strangers poke at the scars years later?
Yeah, he gets why you’ve built walls. Hell, he respects it.
“She’s allowed to be guarded,” he mutters, quieter than the usual bravado he serves Sam in these instances. “Doesn’t make her a monster. Makes her smart. You’d do the same.”
Sam shoots him a sideways look, surprised. “You’re defending her now?”
“I’m saying she’s human, Sam,” Dean snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it. “And humans who’ve been through hell learn how to smile through the questions. Doesn’t mean she’s hiding a cauldron in her basement. Although, in this town, she just might. But probably only for Halloween decorations.”
He flicks the turn signal, changes lanes, and tries to shake the weird tug in his gut when he thinks about you standing there in that white lab coat, all competence and quiet steel. It felt familiar – like déjà vu he can’t place. Not in a creepy way, though. It’s more like recognizing a song one hasn’t heard since their childhood. But he shoves the feeling aside. After all, what’s the point in chasing something when the facts are clear?
You’re clean. Case closed. And maybe legs open?
Dean knows better than to say that last thought out loud, however. Sam would only smack him again. Nevertheless, there’s something really satisfying about the possibility of ending the night with company that isn’t his little brother or a poltergeist for once.
“You should go for the friend,” he suggests then, smirk molding back in place. “Paige. She’s got that bubbly energy. Balances out your brooding. You two could talk about feelings or whatever while I handle the grown-up stuff with the Crime Scene Siren. Maybe offer up my body for some scientific research.”
Dean wiggles his brows. Sam snorts, finally cracking a genuine smile.
“I’m not looking to ‘go for’ anything tonight,” Sam states as expected, however. “I’m going back to the motel. There’s still Dad’s notes, the rune, the adoption records. Something’s off, Dean. I can feel it.”
Dean sighs – internally at first, then out loud for effect. “Yeah, yeah, you and your feelings. Suit yourself. Means more drinks and girls for me. And hey, if things go well, maybe I won’t even come back tonight.”
The mental image already flashes shamelessly behind his eyes – you laughing at all his jokes across the table, maybe leaning in close enough that he catches whatever shampoo or perfume you use, maybe letting him walk you to your car, maybe–
He cuts the thought off before it gets too detailed (or his jeans become too tight).
But the grin creeps right back a second later. Sam can sulk in a motel room with yellowed journal pages all he wants. But Dean? He’s got plans. And for the first time since his father died, those plans don’t involve a shovel or a shotgun.
He turns up the volume of the stereo as Ramble On kicks in, letting the guitar fill the silence. Even if Sam’s right – and Dean’s pretty damn sure he isn’t – tonight’s not about answers for once. Tonight’s all about forgetting the damn questions for a couple of hours.
Dean’s elbows lean casually on the scarred wood of a high-top table at a cozy little dive bar called Clancy’s, a beer bottle dangling loosely between his fingers while his grin is shamelessly wide as you lean close and hold his gaze in such an easy way that the whole damn room feels a size smaller.
The bar’s got that lived-in feel as classic rock fills the air in the mid-evening buzz, people chatting and clinking glasses. It’s got just enough grit to keep things lively. Your friend Paige went for a refill a while ago but never made her way back, which Dean doesn’t mind even a little. He’s got you right where he wants you – smiling, leaning in, batting your lashes, and some time ago, you even touched his forearm for several seconds, which is the universal signal for getting laid tonight. He’s three beers in already while you’re only on your second one, so he’s got to watch it a little.
“By the way, apologies for my partner earlier. Sambora's got that whole, you know, brooding-genius thing locked down. Thinks every loose end’s hiding a conspiracy,” Dean says, takes a sip of beer, and leans an inch closer. “Me? I’m the approachable one. The fun one. The guy who closes cases and still has time for a drink with a sharp forensics expert like you.”
You quirk a brow, lips curving in amusement. “Approachable, huh? Is that what we’re calling ‘the fed who shows up unannounced and asks personal questions’ these days?”
He chuckles, leaning forward a fraction more. “Guilty. But in my defense, it’s hard not to be curious when the CSI on scene is this smart. And easy on the eyes. And funny. Triple threat.”
Your laugh softly, teeth rolling over your bottom lip. “Careful with the flattery, or I might just think you’re after more than just case details here,” you quip and take a sip of beer without breaking eye contact. “So is that your pitch? You’re the cool agent who doesn't let the job eat him alive?”
“Something like that.” Dean shrugs casually, chuckling. “Gotta balance out the gloom. Life’s too short for all work, no play, right? Otherwise, it’s all stakeouts and bad coffee. Though I’d take bad coffee any day if it came with company like this.”
Your eyes narrow, but there’s a spark in them that sharpens your smile. “C’mon, Agent Hetfield–”
“Dean,” he offers.
“Dean,” you repeat, and he shivers a little when you do because it feels like your voice learned its own melody just to say his name. “What’s really on your mind, huh? I’m sure you didn’t tag along just to charm me out of my crime scene stories.”
He licks his lips, chuckling softly. “Uh, not entirely, no,” he admits and nurses his beer, knuckles lightly tapping the wooden table. “You know, uhm, actually, can I ask you about some other cases?”
You purse your lips, brow pinching slightly. “Uhm, sure.”
“You, uhm, ever seen the missing women posters outside the station?”
“Yeah, sure, I have,” you reply. “Hard to just walk by something like that.”
“Right, uhm, well, I looked into it a little and saw they had all domestic disturbance calls prior to their disappearances,” he says and watches you nod along. “You were the CSI on some of those scenes when things went south, right?”
“Yeah, it’s really sad what happened to them. I hope they’re okay,” you note sympathetically. “Are you suspecting any of the husbands? Because I didn’t find any relations or other things connecting each victim.”
“Uh, no,” he says at first but then quickly shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “When you were at those scenes, you ever notice anything off? You know, weird vibes, anything that screamed ‘not just a runaway’?”
You pause mid-sip and lower your beer again, brow furrowing slightly as it often does with people whenever he asks those kinds of questions. He may have just ruined his chances for sex, but a case always comes first. Well, most times it does.
“Vibes?” You arch a brow, amusement sneaking back into your smile. “Didn’t know the FBI was regarding crime scene vibes as cold, hard proof.”
Dean just smirks. “Humor me a little. You’ve seen any symbols? Felt anything off? You know, small things that don’t make the report but stick with you.”
“Off? Symbols? In Salem? Half the town’s built on weird vibes,” you quip, laughing.
“Right, yeah,” he chuckles. Stupid witch capital of America.
“Listen, those women mostly came from broken homes, you know? To be quite honest with you, I think they just finally snapped and left without a forwarding address,” you say. “There never was any blood or fingerprints that didn’t match. No ransom notes. If there’s a pattern, it’s probably human nature and not some X-Files twist. In my lab, it’s DNA and fibers only. Sorry to disappoint.”
Dean nods, taking it in. “Human nature, huh? Guess you’re probably right. Still, eight in a year. No trace. Makes a guy wonder.”
“Oh, wonder all you want, agent,” you say with a sly smile. “But if it was a monster under the bed, I’d have found the claw marks by now. Promise.”
Dean barks a laugh at that because he’d love to tell you how wrong you are, but he only ever steals people’s innocence and shatters their illusions about the real world when he absolutely has to – when their lives depend on it. But for a moment, the FBI mask and bravado still slip. His eyes study you for a beat – not just skimming the surface, but how you’ve constructed your life. You’ve got friends who drag you out, a job that keeps you grounded, and routines that surely don’t involve salt rounds or devil’s traps.
He envies it more than he wants to admit. Wonders what it would’ve felt like to grow up without the road and without the weight of revenge. If he hadn’t been dragged from one monster to the next. If he’d stayed in one place long enough to finish school, date someone normal – maybe even have a girl like you laugh at his dumb jokes over cheap beer on a Wednesday night without having to lie about his entire existence.
He understands your quiet armor. Admires it even. You’ve turned fire into focus, loss into logic. He carries his own version of it every day.
“Why?” you ask then, a hint of concern lacing your tone. “You think there’s something more to these cases?”
“Nah.” Dean shakes his head, gulping his beer. “Just covering bases. Town like this – tourists, history, all the ghost-tour crap. Can make someone wonder if the stories ever bleed into real life sometimes.”
“Only on the brochures,” you tease, grinning.
He smirks, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “To keeping it boring, then.”
You clink your bottle with his, the conversation then drifting to bar stories, bad cases, and the sort of small talk that feels bigger because neither of you is pretending to be someone else. Well, at least, not entirely.
Admittedly, Dean likes how you match him – quick, dry, and never flinching. He likes how you don’t shrink when he leans in or when the flirting edges closer to reality. It feels… natural.
“Paige is a force of nature. Keeps me from turning into a hermit,” you tell him after drink number three, while he switched the beer for a whiskey on the rocks. You’re a little warmer and looser now, but there’s still that silent steel underneath around your heart he clocked back at the lab. “Someone has to drag me out when I start talking to evidence bags like they’re people, you know?”
“I hear ya,” he says, nodding. “And hey, no judgement. I talk to my car.”
“Well, it’s a nice car,” you note and smirk, sharp eyes seeing right past the FBI suit and charm. “Although, you do strike me as the type who’d name it something ridiculous like… I don’t know – Betsy.”
“First of all, it’s a she,” he starts, only halfway serious. Well, seventy-five percent serious. “And her name’s Baby. She’s a ’67 Chevy Impala. Show some respect, alright?”
A laugh bubbles out of you at that, and Dean has to laugh, too. For a second, the tension between him and you sharpens and transforms into electricity. It’s the kind that makes him want to lean across the table and see how far that smile of yours goes. And fuck, he almost does. It’s so fucking easy how you fit – like you’ve done this before, even though Dean knows damn well you haven’t.
He takes another swig from his beer, lets the cold bite chase away the softer thought. He’s not here for feelings. He’s here for a night that doesn’t end with blood or sulfur or another stained motel ceiling staring back at him.
One night – that’s the deal he makes with himself every damn time.
Your phone then suddenly vibrates on the table. You glance at the screen for a second before your face shifts into professional calm. “Uh, sorry, it’s work. One sec,” you excuse yourself and turn toward a quieter corner of the bar.
Dean stays put, but as you move, your bag on the table falls open. He doesn’t mean to snoop. He really, really doesn’t. But it’s almost impossible to keep his eyes away from its contents.
He spies a small velvet pouch inside, a bundle of herbs that smell too sharply of sage, a notebook with that same angular B-rune on it, and a deck of tarot cards fanning out just enough for him to catch the intricate backs and one visible face – something with swords and a charging knight.
Dean’s gut twists.
Tarot. Herbs. A spell book. Holy water. The flawless deflections. Eight women vanishing clean after scenes you processed.
Goddammit. Was Sam fucking right? He’s never going to let Dean live that down.
But you’re a witch, aren’t you? And not just any witch – you’re the one he’s been hunting.
When you finish the call, you hurry back to the table and scoop up your bag without noticing his stare. You then spin to him with a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Lab emergency. Gotta run. Rain check?”
He forces the charm back into place. “Sure. No worries. Duty calls. Work never sleeps, right?”
“Yeah, something like that.” You flash a quick smile, nod, and sling the bag over your shoulder, heading for the door.
You’re gone a moment later, Dean’s eyes following you until the door swings shut behind you. Then the flirtatious warmth in his chest sours into hunter focus.
He downs the rest of his whiskey in one go, sets the glass down hard, tosses some cash on the table, and heads for the door as well.
Game on, witch.
▶️ Chapter 2: Every Bait and Switch – June 5
Oh my, we might've pushed Dean a little too far here lol. You guys think he's more salty that she's a witch or that she got one over on him? 😂 Don't be fooled by the feelings and flirting in this first one, though. That boy's gonna switch quite fast now 🙈
What did you think of this rather rough start? Leave your thoughts and theories below, friends!
🔮 Series Masterlist
Coming Up:
“Don’t move.” His deep voice carries across the courtyard like a blade, the barrel of his gun smoothly trained on your back.
The familiar click that follows is loud in the quiet night, clean and unmistakable. You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch, eyes going wide the second you see the weapon in his hands.
“It’s not what it looks like!”
Dean huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in a different situation and steps closer. “Yeah? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you found your next victim.”
“Dean–” Sam already hisses behind him, but Dean skillfully ignores the protest.
“I got it,” he mutters under his breath and doesn’t lower the gun even for a second, dark green eyes fixed on you. “Step away from them. Now.”
But instead of following his order, you do the opposite and step right in front of them, shielding both mother and son behind your back. The woman lets out a startled sound, pulling her son with her as they tuck tighter behind you. The boy whimpers once, muffled against his mother’s thigh as he clutches a stuffed fox to his body. His eyes are wide and fixed on Dean, but he’s not curious or confused. He’s scared.
Scared of him.
For a moment, that throws Dean off his game because that’s not usually how it goes. Usually, fear is pointed in the right direction. Usually, it tells him exactly who the monster is.
Oooooh, I'm loving this! Love the background, the digging deeper into the story we all know and love. And I just love that you show how smart Dean is at noticing and KNOWING when there's a case, even when there's not a lot to see at first glance. One of the things I love about Dean is how very smart he is and how razor-sharp his instincts are.
However - he was really looking forward to a hot night with the cute CSI, maybe enough to ignore those instincts for just a little while. Now that he knows, things are going to get interesting!!
Series Summary: Despite the blood in your veins painting a glaring-red target on your back, John Winchester once left you alive and kept you hidden for a reason. But when his two grown sons drag their muddy boots onto your crime scene one day, the first meeting is anything but cute.
You have a regular job and a carefully constructed, somewhat normal life built on just enough lies to keep the supernatural at bay, cleaning up messes no one else wants to see. And you definitely never advertise the fact that your magic comes from a bloodline ancient enough to make demons jitter.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. He sees a witch and reaches for a weapon – no questions asked. You lie to survive. Dean judges to cope. The rules of this world dictate the two of you are supposed to hate each other for eternity, but somewhere along the road, something glitches in the cosmic machinery of fate.
That glitch is you.
Warnings: 18+ language, crime scene, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, super slow burn, mystery, reader is also a CSI, tons of witchy vibes (tarot, auras, herbalism, spells...)
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: Welcome to another crazy brainchild of mine! This one's been in the making a long, long time. Anytime I'd watch the show, my mind would draw its own little path. Can't wait to mess up canon lol! 😈 I also can't wait to torture you with this for a long time. Take the enemies and slow burn to heart here. But if you wanna see Dean pining and yearning for 20+ chapters 'cause he's got his head so far up his own ass, this one's for you 😝🫶
All crime scenes are the same, no matter how much people insist otherwise.
Different houses, different victims, different motives, different evidence, different ways of violence leaving its fingerprints, sure, but the atmosphere always remains exactly the same.
When Carole King sings that she feels the Earth move under her feet, that’s what you feel when you set foot onto a crime scene. It’s hard to put into words, but there’s something in the air, in the earth, in the water. And that something always tells a story – one only meant for you. It’s like having a sixth sense. And no, luckily you don’t see dead people.
Well, usually, you don’t…
You mostly try to stay away from ghosts and ghouls and everything that goes bump in the night. What you do have is a natural gift, however, passed down by your ancestors for generations.
You call Salem your home.
Some might find that slightly ironic or odd or even reckless for a witch to settle here, considering the town’s well-documented and long, rich history of witch hunts. They do have a lot of museums and tourist attractions here to commemorate the joyous event…
Living here may get you hanged or burned at the stake, yes – or it may be the smartest cover of all time. Who, in their right mind, would ever expect a witch to choose this as her home and come looking for her here, after all?
Exactly.
You perfectly blend in with all the other pointed hats they sell at souvenir shops around here. Aside from that, the choice was never truly yours.
John Winchester had once picked this place for you many moons ago.
You exhale a sigh and glance up at the small family home in front of you, the white siding dulled by cloud coverage. It looks pleasantly innocent, but the earth underneath it knows what happened here. It’s restless beneath your feet, the roots threading through the moist soil pulled tight like they braced for an enormous impact.
The trees around the property crowd close and whisper, feelings caught in bark and giving their secrets away to the wind. The woods always remember everything, but they’re downright awful storytellers. It’s usually up to you to translate.
Anger. Fear. Pain.
You can feel it in the air all around you. Each emotion has a different aura and comes in different shades. But your grandmother once taught you how to read them before you’d even learned how to tie your shoes.
Sometimes, gathering evidence isn’t just about what you can see with your own eyes. It’s not just about fingerprints and blood spatter and bodily fluids lighting up under UV light. Emotions, especially strong ones, leave imprints behind, too.
Magic and a cosmic bond with the universe certainly doesn’t replace forensics, but it is its own kind of science. When people think of magic, they tend to assume it’s something supernatural that science can’t touch – an invisible, surreal force. But it’s very much tangible and real to you. Just because the average human can’t see it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Magic is part of this world like everything else – like gravity, space, time, motion, and light.
What? Because some fancy scientists at CERN haven’t found the atom for magic yet automatically means it doesn’t exist at all? Two millennia ago, humans also thought the Earth was flat until Aristotle proved them wrong.
You’re Aristotle in this scenario.
So, when you investigate a crime scene, you let the official science tell you the how, when, where, and, if you’re lucky, even the who. But magic provides the why.
Try telling that to the cops, though.
The house itself is tucked just far enough from the main road that the gravel path leading up to it disappears into mud after the last summer storm, surrounded by scrub brush and scattered oaks. Even the grass seems uneasy, slick and bent under the weight of water, each blade vibrating faintly in the unsettled air. Summers in Salem are sticky, heavy with heat and humidity as the wind carries a richness from the land and sea alike. But even on the sunniest day, this town doesn’t feel harmless.
Neither does this house.
You duck under the yellow tape, nodding at the uniform stationed by the front door. He gives you the usual look – half curiosity and half skepticism. Everyone at the station has a look they specifically reserve just for you.
The frown. The raised brow. An eye roll here or there. A challenging scoff. A glare.
You’ve learned to ignore them, though, and even started to collect them over the years like trading cards.
Inside the house, the place still tries its damn hardest to look normal. And normal is usually the fucking problem.
A few things are immediately obvious upon entry: the coffee table is pushed back an inch too far, a picture frame hangs crookedly on the wall – the glass not broken but spiderwebbed – and the couch cushions don’t line up like they should. The living room is already bustling with cops, techs, and a photographer trying to take pictures from an angle that will never tell the whole truth.
Then there are the things only you can see.
The threshold is smeared with the tiniest trace of something that doesn’t belong there – panic. It clings to the doorway like humidity, thick enough that you hesitate before stepping inside. Your aura brushes the frame, and the house responds like a startled animal.
Fear leaves residue. Pain sinks deep. Violence doesn’t vanish just because someone cleaned the floor.
You close your eyes for half a second and breathe it in. The ground exhales with you, relieved to be noticed. Then you pull gloves from your pocket and slip them on, mostly because it makes everyone else feel better, your mind already scanning and sorting.
Blood doesn’t shout, but it pulls at your attention like the tide, clinging to fibers and cracks and the places people forget to scrub. You crouch near the edge of the rug, your fingers hovering just above the fabric, and feel resistance there – the ghost of something wiped away but not erased.
“You gonna tell us what you’re seeing, kid?” a detective asks, his tone suggesting he already regrets the question. It’s Murphy, one of the older and more seasoned ones at the station.
The other cops at the precinct never take you seriously, no matter how many times you prove them wrong. You’re always too young. You’re always too weird. Brilliant, thorough, impossible to fluster – but weird.
You talk to yourself. You notice things no one else does. You correct people mid-sentence and don’t always apologize. The fact that you graduated early with a forensic science degree and solve cases faster than anyone else tends to buy you forgiveness, however.
Most times, at least.
You rise smoothly to your feet and humor the man with a smile. “There’s trace under the sink. He washed up there. And check the stair railing. Skin cells should be under the varnish.”
Another detective, this one younger and nameless to you, squints at you from across the room. “You get all that from vibes or what?”
“From paying attention,” you quip without bothering to turn around. “Highly recommend it.”
“She does this every time,” another one mutters under his breath. That’s Kaminski. He smokes a pack a day in the parking lot, which is why you recognize him by the rasp in his voice.
“And I’m right every time,” you retort. “It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.”
“Educated guess,” Murphy scoffs, skeptical as ever. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks, you suppose. Especially the Irish ones.
You ignore the comments and laughter that follow till the chatter suddenly dies down when Sergeant Mia Owens sets foot onto the crime scene. Years on the force have given her a presence that rearranges rooms without raising her voice. She’s been doing this too long to waste energy on theatrics.
“She’s not guessing,” Mia says, calm and firm all at once. “So if you’d like this wrapped up before next week, let her work, hm?”
Mia meets your eyes, her expression sharp but warm, the way it’s always been ever since a hunter dropped you on her doorstep at eleven, feral with grief and too much truth in your blood. She never asked for explanations you weren’t ready to give. She just decided you were worth the trouble, opened her door for you, and told you to take your shoes off.
Somewhere along the way, she became your anchor – your advocate, your shield, and the person who showed you how to exist in places that didn’t quite want you. She taught you how to stand your ground in a world that doesn’t like things it can’t categorize.
She’s been defending you ever since.
Mia steps closer to you, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “Victim’s alive. Kid wasn’t hurt.”
“Good.”
“But his lawyer is already pushing an accident. Claims she fell,” she adds quietly and then studies you for a moment. “She doesn’t have anywhere to go. If this falls apart…”
She doesn’t need to finish. You understand without words.
“She still in the hospital?”
Mia nods.
“I’ll finish up here and then stop by to talk to her,” you say softly. “Can you make sure no one goes into the bedroom? I wanna do a reading.”
Mia doesn’t hesitate, putting two fingers into her mouth, whistling loud enough for the entire room to turn their heads in her direction. “Alright, gentlemen, how about we clear out and let forensics do their job before you’re dragging mud all over the evidence, huh?”
The room clears quickly after that as you hurry into the main bedroom of the house. The air is more chill here, no warmth or love left inside these four walls. You carefully close the door behind you and settle down on the bed, pulling a deck of tarot cards from your shoulder bag.
God, you can already imagine the raised eyebrows if one of those heathens outside could see you right now.
You then shuffle the cards once before cutting the deck. The first question you always ask is:
What happened here?
The Five of Wands is the first card you pull. It tells a story of conflict, chaos, and escalation. Violence was born out of anger here and not strategy. It wasn’t an accident. It was an argument that boiled over.
The King of Cups shows up next, but it’s reversed. It’s meant for the perpetrator – the husband. It’s the usual card that comes up for an abusive drunk. It’s emotional manipulation and rage behind closed doors. It’s a man who knows how to cry alligator tears on cue and tells everyone how much he loves his wife while his emotions rot under the surface and ferment there.
The Nine of Pentacles is reversed, too. It’s the wife. Her independence has been stripped away. She can’t leave easily. It’s a cage that disguises itself as a home, but this house isn’t safe anymore.
But what happens next? That’s the most important question and decides her fate.
Ten of Wands.
You swallow thickly. The card is a warning. Next time, it won’t be an ambulance. She’ll leave this house in a body bag.
You gather the cards together again, your fingers steady even when your heart feels hollow and aches with sympathy. One card, however, slips free and lands right in front of you.
Uh-oh.
You hate when they do that because you know this one’s solely meant for you. You flip it around and place it down on the mattress in front of you.
Knight of Swords.
Your whole body goes still, your brow furrowing. Ugh, not this guy…
Look at this dude, riding into battle on his high horse. It’s a man on a mission. He wants to succeed in his quest no matter what, blind to everything else around him. Once he charges forth, he can’t be stopped. It’s action before thought, justified by righteous certainty.
After all, the world is simple if you hit it hard enough, right?
But what does that mean for you?
Well, you suppose someone is coming, and they’re not riding gently into the night, either. On the contrary, they’re bringing an agenda with them. The knight won’t ask if he’s right because he has already decided that he is.
Your skin creeps with goosebumps all the way up your arms, your eyes flicking to the closed door, the murmurs of cops barely audible outside. Did someone out there finally discover you’re a witch and is coming to burn you at the stake?
Your gaze lands back on the deck of cards. Why are you coming for me?
You pick up another card and flip it around. Your heart stops. Shit, it’s a big one, which means this isn’t good.
The Judgment.
Oh, someone definitely caught your scent, seeing you for who you truly are. It doesn’t automatically mean death, though. It just announces a reckoning in some shape or form. There’s an outstanding score to be settled.
God, who did you piss off this time?
As you gather the cards carefully again, tucking them back into your bag, you hear the deep rumble of a car outside. It surely doesn’t sound like any cop car you’ve ever heard, and it can’t be the owners of this home, either.
Slowly, you rise from the bed and peek past the yellowed curtains out the window, spotting an old but classic, sleek-black Impala pulling up the muddy drive.
Your skin tingles. The blood prickles in your veins.
It’s not exactly a white horse, but you have a feeling your knight has just arrived. You curse the damn cards for warning you so late. Couldn’t they have already told you that last night when you still had time to pack a stupid bag?
A minute later, the car doors rattle open, two young men stepping out almost simultaneously like they practiced their exit. They don’t look like cops. They’re too clean for local law enforcement and too sharp for state boys. Their worn suits are ironed enough to pass but look more like costumes.
One of them is obnoxiously tall and broad-shouldered with a mop of hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in a while. The other is shorter with a solid build that suggests he knows exactly how to throw a punch. The tall one tilts his head and mumbles something, brows pinched tightly. The shorter one then smirks and says something that makes the other huff a breath in response.
Frustration.
You don’t need to read auras or tarot to understand that.
As they start their march toward the house, you peel away from the window and force yourself into motion. You hurry back into the living room, where Mia is speaking to some of the remaining techs. You grab your kit, crouch near the rug again, photograph fibers, bag samples, and jot down notes you won’t ever submit. You let your hands stay busy so your ears can do the real work.
“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”
It’s the short one. His voice is raspy and smooth like a bourbon, an undercurrent of authority lacing his tone.
Mia’s voice rings out immediately. “Right here. Sergeant Owens.”
She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, already irritated and suspicious enough to make the two young men shake in their boots.
“FBI, ma’am,” the shorter one says and flashes his badge quickly. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”
You frown a little at the names. Is it really a coincidence that one of them carries the same name as Metallica’s lead singer while the other shares one with a band member of Bon Jovi?
Your gut instinct says no. Again, you don’t even need magic to spot a liar.
“And what exactly does the FBI want with me?” Mia asks and raises an eyebrow, hands on her hips. It’s the same look and tone she’s used on you when you were a teen and tried to sneak out through the first-floor window of your bedroom.
And where exactly do you think you’re going, young lady?
There’s a brief pause before the taller one, Bon Jovi, speaks this time, his tone lower and more careful. “We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.”
“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Metallica asks more gruffly.
“My adoptive daughter, yes.” Mia crosses her arms, nodding. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”
Metallica’s mouth opens for a second, swallowing heavily before Bon Jovi steps in for the rescue. “We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. You were the first responder on scene?”
Your breath catches in your throat. So that’s what they’re here for. You haven’t expected that. It’s been a while since you thought about the worst night of your life.
“I was,” Mia replies sternly, not budging as her protective instincts take over. “It was ruled an accident.”
Metallica cocks his head slightly. “Except here’s the thing,” he says cleverly, a false sense of confidence oozing from every pore. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”
Mia’s glare could probably burn those boys to dust at this point. “What are you implying, agent?”
To your surprise, Metallica doesn’t budge. But he doesn’t know Mia as well as you do, which is why he doesn’t know that he really, really, really should back off when she’s got that look in her eyes. Again, you know that one all too well from your teenage years, and you definitely wouldn’t want to be in Metallica’s big boots right now.
“I think you know,” he says with a stern little crease in his brow, just right above his freckle-dusted nose.
You think those two are about to jump each other’s throats when Bon Jovi luckily steps in. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”
Unfortunately, they don’t know that placating doesn’t work with Mia either. That woman is an excellent hostage negotiator.
“Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”
“Mia, it’s okay,” you cut in gently and step up beside her. Someone has to save those boys, although you don’t know exactly why you’re the one who's volunteering for that particular job. The cards already warned you, so you’re pretty sure those two aren’t coming in peace and mean you harm.
“You don’t have to–” Mia starts, but you stop her with a wave of your hand.
“It’s fine,” you assure her.
Mia shoots you a look, searching your face for doubt or fear, but you give her a steady nod instead. She doesn’t like it, but she trusts you. She exhales slowly, retreating just enough to signal that this is your call now, though her sharp eyes never fully leave the men.
The shorter agent’s attention, meanwhile, has fully latched onto you. His posture loosens, shoulders rolling back like he’s settling into a role he enjoys way too much. His eyes, greener than the lush, wet moss in the woods outside, drag over your face, your stance, the CSI jacket, and the badge clipped to your belt.
“You wanted to speak to me?” you prompt, forcing Metallica to clear his throat and refocus.
“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” He nods and reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a badge and showing it to you. “Special Agent Hetfield,” he says and motions to his partner. “This is Special Agent Sambora.”
You step closer and glance at the ID for longer than necessary – so much so their auras grow nervous. But you don’t need to read them to know they’re lying. You already know they’re not FBI or any other kind of official law enforcement.
Hunters.
You exhale a breath and school your expression into something professional and harmless. If they’re really here for you, the worst thing you can do is panic.
You offer them a bright and easy smile, tilting your head just enough to look curious instead of threatened. “Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”
▶️ Chapter 1: Rough on the Surface – May 29
Well, well, the knight has arrived, it seems lol. I've had a lot of fun figuring out tarot cards for this series. Consider this a little taste-test. In Chapter 1, we're then gonna dive into the boys' side of things and find out how they even ended up there.
PS: As a teen I was obsessed with Charmed, Sabrina, and Practical Magic, so you may encounter a few of those elements in this series. I've developed my own witch lore and weekly monster cases covering local myths etc. for this one, and we'll also slowly uncover reader's whole family mystery in due time 😉🔮
Ready for the big one on Friday? Leave your first impressions and theories in the comments, my witches 💜
🔮 Series Masterlist
Coming Up:
“Well,” Dean says and pushes the car door open, stepping out onto the gravel as a smirk begins to form on his lips, “here’s hoping your theory’s wrong.”
Sam halts mid-exit before he slams the passenger door shut. “Excuse me?”
Dean closes his door and adjusts the lapel of his suit jacket. “‘Cause if this is just a paperwork mix-up and not demon-adjacent, I might actually get a decent night out of it.”
He smirks broad and full then, even though he can tell Sam wants to either smack or throttle him right now.
Sam stops in his tracks halfway of rounding the hood. “Dude. Are you serious right now?”
He shrugs his shoulders, grin widening. “What? Just saying. She’s cute.”
“Dean, she might be connected to a house fire tied to the same thing that killed Mom,” Sam points out all righteously.
Dean’s smirk softens, but it doesn’t disappear. “Yeah,” he says. “And if she’s not, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”
“Unbelievable.” Sam exhales sharply through his nose, already turning toward the house with a shake of his head.
Amazing start, I am completely hooked! Also a huge Charmed/Practical Magic fan (I have all 8 seasons of Charmed on DVD lol!) And I also love police/forensics dramas. AND, of course, Supernatural is my first love! So yeah - I'm totally hooked. If the prologue was this good, I can't wait for the first chapter!
Dean’s hot, OK? And sometimes, he gets all worked up over you… and you have to deal with it however and wherever you can. Even if it means, occasionally, getting arrested.
Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester, OMCs
2553 Words - NSFW, Public Sex, Oral, Fingering, Car Sex
Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon
His eyes were on you all day. Bright. Green. Eyes. Hungry eyes. Eyes that ate you alive, made your legs weak, and your skin flush. You could feel him staring all through the interview with the oblivious police chief, his eyes darting between the old man and your body. He would linger for a moment on your face before letting his gaze fall slowly down and settle on your tight navy skirt. More than once, you saw his eyes locked on your legs and you would snap two fingers to draw him back to reality.
He would look up, startled, and then clear his throat to reset as if the simple action would ease the strain in his trousers, but seconds later, you would feel him staring again.
It was an unconscious act, the way his tongue slid across his lips, but it spoke volumes. You tried to stay calm, to focus and get through the interrogation, but when Dean’s teeth scraped across his bottom lip, you were done for.
Sunlight hit your face as you pushed open the heavy doors of the police station. Quickly, you exited, high heels hitting the stone stairs, with Dean close behind.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” you asked in a growl that snapped Dean’s eyes to yours.
“What?” A defensive expression lit his freckled face.
With a huff, you threw your arms up and spun on the bottom step to look up at him. “You are completely distracted today, Dean! I was all alone in there!”
“You were not,” he said with a slight eye roll. “I was right there.”
You leaned forward and lowered your voice as you continued your scolding. “Your body was, but your mind was… elsewhere.”
He let out a tiny laugh and took two steps down until he was at eye level with you. “Sweetheart, it’s not my fault you wore that skirt today.”
“I-what? You…” You wagged a finger at him and then took it back and set it on your hip. An embarrassed but intrigued smile pulled at your lips. “First of all, don’t call me that. Secondly… I thought you liked this skirt.” Your pout was designed especially for him and he caught your true meaning.
“Oh, you know I do,” he said with a subtle wink.
Once more, his tongue made an appearance, and the sheen it left on his lip drove you wild. Without really thinking about it, you grabbed his arm and took off, quickly pulling him with you behind the big brick building.
The alley was narrow and empty, hidden from the sun and passing eyes. As soon as you turned the corner, you spun around and grabbed his tie, walking your hands up the blue silk while you spoke in a hushed whisper. “You’re gonna get us both in a lot of trouble, Agent Smith.”
He smirked as your fingers closed around the knot and tugged him forward. “That’s, Agent Waters,” he corrected.
You gave the tie a yank and pulled his lips down to yours. “Shut up.”
Dean’s hands fell to your sides as your tongue slipped through his perfect lips. His mouth was hot and wet; his hands were firm. Rough fingers found their way to your thigh and scratched upwards, taking your skirt with them and sending a chill down your spine.
“Dean…” His lips were on your neck, his palm between your legs. “Dean…”
“Yeah, baby?”
You slid a hand up from his shoulders to grab a meager fistful of hair, just enough to unlatch his lips from your throat. He pulled away with a glistening mouth and heavy eyes.
So taken by the lust in his eyes, you forgot the sexy lure you were about to drop on him and decided that actions spoke louder than words. You kissed him once more and then slowly fell to your knees, dragging your polished fingernails firmly down his body and making quick work of his zipper.
Nervously, he looked over both shoulders, up and down the alley to make sure the coast was clear. “You’re in a mood, huh?”
His hips jerked forward as you slid your hand inside his slacks and ran a finger down his shaft. He was growing under your touch and it made your mouth water.
“Your fault,” you said, strategically looking up into his eyes as you pulled his cock out. A soft kiss to the tip made him moan.
“Well, I ain’t gonna apologize if this one’s on me… Fuck!”
Your tongue swirled; your lips pulsed. His breath caught, halted as you pushed your wet mouth all the way down to the root of him. You could feel him throbbing and stiffening on your tongue. You moaned at the proud pleasure of it all and swallowed around him.
“Goddamn, Y/N/N…” Dean’s knees buckled a bit and he begged the brick wall for support. One hand held him steady while the other caressed the back of your head. “So fucking hot…”
A long stroke of your tongue made him moan so loud it echoed down to the corner and out to the street. You froze, pulled back, and looked around. All seemed well, so you gripped the base of his cock with your fist and took a deep breath. You were going for broke.
Before your lips could graze the leaking head of Dean’s beautiful cock, a voice startled you both. A quick glance revealed the outline of a uniformed officer standing at the entrance to the alleyway. Hands on his hips, he peered into the shadows and cleared his throat.
Immediately, you popped up and pretended to hold an earring. “Found it!”
For his part, Dean spun away from the cop and closed his pants with shaking fingers. “Oh, good!”
“Thank goodness!” you went on, pantomiming putting the earring in its place, “these were my grandmother's!”
The cop was suspicious, but let it go, shaking his head as he walked away, probably to tell his buddies what he’d just seen the two inquisitive feds doing outside.
Once alone, you spun and slapped Dean on the arm. Hard.
“Hey!” He rubbed the spot and frowned. “What the hell?”
“You’re gonna get us arrested!” you hissed in a whisper.
Green eyes went wide. “Me? You’re the one getting down on me, kiddo. This one’s on you.”
With a huff, you rolled your eyes and turned away. Your heels clicked as you attempted to walk out of the shadows and head to the car. It was parked a good way away, which would give you plenty of time to cool down.
Dean had other ideas.
His fingers wrapped tightly around your arm as he fit his chest against your back. It was a hard gesture, intimidating and arousing. He bent his lips to your ear.
“You gonna walk away after you got me all worked up like that?”
Your heart raced. His breath was a lust spell on your throat. “Thought it best we don’t get thrown in the clink today…” His lips closed on your neck with a supple kiss. Your blood warmed, rushed down to your clit. His big forearm slid across your chest, locking you to him. He kissed you harder, then licked at your ear. “Fuck it. Jail ain’t too bad.”
Spinning in his arms, you grabbed the nape of his neck and tugged him close. His tongue drove instantly between your lips and you breathed him in: cheap cologne and the last wisps of his morning smoke. His mouth tasted like mint and black coffee, strange but so very Dean.
“It’ll be worth it,” he breathed, pushing you up against the bricks. Again, his hand raced up your thigh and pressed hard against your panties. You could feel the fabric dampen and so could he. He whistled softly. “Damn, baby…”
“Keep going,” you teased, “it gets better.”
He hummed into your mouth and pulled your thin panties aside. When his finger slicked through your pussy lips, your entire body tensed up. When he slipped two inside, you moaned against his stubbled jaw.
“Fuck…”
He chuckled darkly and did just that- fucking you on his fingers while you trembled, stuck between him and the cool bricks. He kept his eyes on your face, watching in awed silence every twitch, every gasp, every moment of pleasure as he worked you up.
Clawing at his shoulders, your nails dug into the cheap fabric of his suit, nearly tearing the seams.
“Fuck, Dean!”
“You gonna cum, baby?” He crooked his fingers, thumbed your clit. “Right here out in the open like this? You gonna cum?”
The tightness inside was nearly unbearable, but it soon screeched to a halt as you heard a stern “Ahem” flow through the alley.
Slapping Dean’s chest to get his attention, you pushed him off and stumbled behind him. No good excuse came to your edged mind, but thankfully, Dean stepped up.
“Sorry about that, Officer.” He shoved his wet fingers into his pocket and stepped into the sunlight. “She was feeling faint, so I got her out of the sun for a bit.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed on Dean and then you. “She OK now?”
Skirt righted and legs a little stronger, you appeared at Dean’s side. “Yes,” you assured him, “thanks. Just very hot today.” A laugh seemed to calm the man down.
“Yeah. It’s Florida,” he said, mentally done with the entire situation. “It does that.”
Another laugh and a shrug sent the officer on his way, and you looked up at Dean. “Heat stroke?”
He met your annoyance. “Grandmother’s earring?”
“Well, what was I supposed to say?”
“Exactly.”
The Impala sat in the blazing sun, chrome shining like lasers, hood burning like a charcoal grill.
Inside was no better. The vinyl was basically on fire, and sitting in a skirt was no fun at all.
“Fuck, it’s hot.”
Dean agreed silently and turned the key. The old air conditioning kicked on and the plastic blocks stuck inside rattled a comforting melody.
“You OK over there?” he asked, peeking at you from the side.
Sweat was beading on your chest and you popped a few blouse buttons open to get some air. “I’m dying.”
Dean’s gaze trickled down like the sweat on your throat, landing on your exposed breasts. The white lace bra did little to deter his desire.
“That bra,” he sighed, turning in his seat, “and that skirt…” He scooted across the seat, a little bit closer. “You were askin’ for it today, huh?” He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and you melted from more than the temperature.
“Fuck, Dean…” You turned to him and grabbed his tie. “You need to fuck me.”
He grinned. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” In a swift move, you slid down on the seat and spread your legs. The skirt didn’t stand a chance and you heard the back seam split. “Like… now.”
The Impala is much bigger than it might seem, but not that big. It took a bit of maneuvering, but Dean was able to tug himself out of his pants and jacket, tossing the unnecessary costume into the backseat. While you waited, you finished ripping the skirt, casting it to the floor like an evil thing into hell, and peeled off your drenched panties.
Two pumps of his wrist later, his thick cock was dipping slowly into you, pushing in deeper by the second. You moaned loudly as he inched in, tugged on his tie, urging him on.
“Needed this so bad…” Green eyes glazed over as he began to thrust, hard and steady, winding you back up. “That fucking skirt…”
The seat creaked, the shocks bounced. You damn near lost your mind.
Right before that blessed moment, that golden second of sweet, blissful release, a knock sounded on the window.
You froze. Dean gasped.
“Oh fuck,” you whispered, “what do we do?”
He shook his head as terror blanched his face. “I don’t know!” he mouthed.
Knuckles hit the window again.
Still inside of you, though softening faster than melting ice cream on a boiling stovetop, Dean screwed on a cheeky grin and rolled down the passenger side window.
The police chief’s scowling face greeted you both.
Dean laughed nervously. “Chief Anderson, nice to see you again!”
The old man’s thin lips formed an even thinner line. “You two aren’t really FBI, are you?”
The prospect of federal indictment chilled your arousal to the core. “Well…” Pushing Dean aside, you sat up as best you could while attempting to cover your privates. “We uh… It’s been a long trip and-”
“Get out of the car, please.”
Dean cleared his throat and stuck his head through the window. “This is just a big misunderstanding, sir. If we could just-”
“Get out. Of the car,” Anderson repeated firmly. “Now.”
Evening light hit your face as you stepped through the heavy doors of the police station. Shame washed over you as you followed Sam from the building, your high heels hitting the stone stairs. An exhausted but cocky Dean exited close behind.
Halfway down the steps, Sam spun around. “Seriously, what is wrong with you two?” You could tell he wanted to scream but he was holding back, dropping his voice into a heavy whisper. There was no answer from you or Dean, so he tried again, a little louder. “Well?”
Since your partner was silent, you cleared your throat and searched the sky for an answer. Twilight offered no help. “It’s… um…”
Sam clenched his jaw. His cheeks were ruby red with frustration. In his defense, it had been a hell of a week already, and this little pitstop to rescue you and Dean from a holding cell was not helping. “Talk!”
“Sam,” you stammered, unsure of where you were going. “It’s like… Well, sometimes… It was… Just like… a handful of bad decisions.”
A step above you, Dean laughed under his breath. “It was a handful of something, alright.”
“Oh, come on!” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away. “Do you know what it took to get you two out of there?”
You shrugged.
Dean chewed his lip. “A bottle of scotch and some sunblock?”
Sam growled. “No. But let’s just say you two owe Bobby more than that!”
You felt bad all around. Sam didn’t need any more stress, poor old Andersen had gotten an eyeful of Dean’s ass, and you still hadn’t cum. It wasn’t a great day.
“Sam…” You followed him down the steps and reached for his arm. “It’s really… not our fault.”
He spun around, eyes wild. “Really! Then whose fault is it?”
Hoping down the last two stairs, Dean smirked. “Her skirt.”
Sam’s eyes rolled back further than was humanly possible. “You two are… the… fucking worst.”
You tried to hold your laughter, wanting to make amends with your rescuer, but the smug look on Dean’s face was too much.
When he winked, you were done for.
When his arm slung around your shoulders as you headed back to the Impala, you knew everything would be fine. Anderson would forget all about the agents fucking outside his station, Dean would finish you off as soon as you were back in the motel, and Sam… Sam would get over it. Eventually.
Summary: Sometimes there is no need for words.
Author's Notes: Light angst; Emotional comfort
Word Count: 270
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Word of the day (May 25, 2026) - Visit
Beta: @princessmisery666
Graphics: Made by me.
Master List: Word Of The Day
Shadowed, bloodshot eyes greet her as she opens the door. Rumpled clothing and stiff movements denote the miles he's traveled. He always seems to have come from so far away.
Tracing her fingers over the back of his collar, her hand gently lands on his shoulder.
A tiny flinch …then he settles.
Only slightly, though. It takes time.
Helping him remove the jacket, she strokes his arm and briefly squeezes his wrist.
His eyes close …fingers uncurl.
Flannel is next—so many layers. She's teased him about it, but it doesn't change. It's not important anyway. What matters is him.
A sharp inhale …his feet shift.
She smooths soft, worn cotton over his torso and flattens a palm against his chest.
A tight exhale …slowing pulse.
The soft pad of her thumb strokes along his jaw until it unclenches.
He breathes.
She waits.
When the rumble of the engine is the phone call she didn't receive, she knows. She won't be gifted a brilliant smile or cheeky grin. No darkened, hungry gaze, or bright, mischievous eyes. That will come later—when murky moss gives way to sparkling peridot.
Visits like this start quietly, slowly, with soft grounding touches, unspoken reassurance.
When his muscles finally sag, and a haunted, but grateful gaze lands on her, she blinks away a tear and snuggles against him. Holding him as tightly as she can, she splays her hands across his back. Strong, thick arms encircle her and squeeze as he rests his cheek against her head.
It's difficult to breathe, but it doesn't matter.
What matters is he's here. He's safe. He's with her.
This brought tears to my eyes. It felt like I was there. Being this anchor for him would be the absolute best, even though it would break your heart over and over again.
Kate is a friend, someone they hunt with sometimes (and sometimes a little more), and Dean's had to deal with her getting a little crazy after a hunt more than once. But this time there's more to it, and he's just stubborn enough to make her talk to him.
Pairing: Dean x Kate (OC)
Word Count: 2409
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Warnings: Nothing other than show-level violence, lots of swearing, no smut; Dean being the kind of friend I know he would be
Dean watched as Kate ordered another shot, glancing at Sam with a shake of his head. The hunt they had just wrapped up was a shit show – nothing had gone right. One of the college kids they were trying to save didn’t make it, and Kate seemed to be taking it even harder than usual.
They had hunted with her quite a few times over the last couple of years, and she was good, but she always got a little wild after a hunt. Dean had walked her drunk ass back to her motel room more than once. They had also spent a few post-hunt nights fucking the adrenaline out of each other’s systems. But this night was completely different than most.
Kate had been off the rails from the start. She had gotten a call when they were at a local diner having lunch, and had barely spoken a word afterwards. The vamp nest they had gone after wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before, but Kate was feral – over-the-top violent, straight-up Amazon warrior. She would have headed to the bar without even cleaning up if Sam hadn’t stopped her.
When they walked in, she had gone straight up to the bar, refusing to come and sit at the table with them, downing shot after shot. Dean kept a close eye on her, knowing an explosion would be coming before the night was over and damage control would be inevitable.
He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh as a cocky local in a denim jacket and too-tight jeans headed her direction. The clueless bastard walked up to her, one hand on the bar, the other landing on her shoulder. She shrugged it off, glaring up at him and telling him to fuck off. Dean kept an eye on the situation, but the persistent dumbass just kept pushing his luck. Dean finally stood up, walking towards them in time to hear him say, “Come on, you know a good hour in bed with me would improve your mood, darlin’.”
“I said, fuck off,” Kate snarled, her voice dangerously low and monotone, and Dean stepped up on her right side, gesturing to the bartender for a beer.
“Kitten, you just need somebody to cut those claws,” the idiot said, and then ducked his head to try and kiss her as he groped at her breast.
The smack of her fist against his jaw was loud, and he slid on his ass a couple of feet, shock on his stupid face. Kate was off the bar stool, fists raised, eyes spitting fire. “Mother-fucking cocksucker, touch me again!”
“Oh, bitch, I’ll touch you...” he threatened as he clumsily scrambled back to his feet, blood dripping down his chin, but as Kate went to dive towards him, Dean threw his arms around her from behind, holding her tight as she struggled, screaming at him in fury.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” She was fighting like a wildcat, her rage and the alcohol she had consumed completely in control. Sam was there in seconds, and Dean gestured with his head towards her target.
“Get that asshole out of here, Sam!” A loud smack echoed through the room and all eyes turned to the bartender, who was gripping a blackjack in his fist.
“All of you, get the fuck out. I don’t need this shit in my place.”
Dean nodded. “Yeah, yeah, we’re goin’. Sorry, man.” Sam had rushed Kate’s attacker out the back door, so Dean dragged Kate - still kicking, yelling, and swearing at him - to the front. He hauled her out into the cool evening air, shouting, “Calm the fuck down!” as he wrestled her over to the Impala.
As soon as he let go, she whirled, taking a swing that Dean easily evaded. “You son of a bitch! I can fucking take care of myself!”
“Yeah. That’s why we all just got our asses kicked out.” She took another swing, and Dean shoved her against the side of the Impala. “I said calm down!”
“Fuck you!” Kate spat back, jerking the back door open and jumping in. She slammed it hard behind her, sitting with her arms folded like a petulant child.
Sam came around the corner of the bar and approached the car as Dean swore softly. “Dean – you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. As long as she doesn’t come over the back seat at me on the way to the motel. Did that fucker take off?”
“He’s gone. Might have been bleeding a little more when he left.” Sam rubbed his knuckles, and Dean smirked.
“Good.”
They pulled into the motel parking lot, and Kate jumped out before Dean had even put the Impala in park. She entered her room, slamming the door behind her, and Dean blew out a frustrated breath. Sam glanced over at his brother, asking quietly, “You gonna go talk to her?”
“Yeah. I’ll go talk to her. Not that she’ll listen to me.”
“She listens to you more than you think.”
“If you say so, Sammy.”
Sam headed for their room, and Dean stood, head hung, in front of Kate’s door. With a deep breath, he knocked, waiting for what he knew was coming.
“Fuck off, Winchester!”
“Katie, open the door.”
“Fuck you!”
“Katie, open this goddamn door before I kick it in.”
A few silent seconds later, the lock clicked and the door flew open, Kate’s back to him as she tipped a bottle of whiskey back. He closed and locked the door, striding towards her, and she spluttered as he grabbed the bottle from her hands. “Son of a bitch, give it back!”
“No. You’ve fucking had enough.” He screwed the lid on and put the bottle firmly on the table as she glared at him.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I think I’m your friend. And you’re out of control.”
“Maybe I don’t need a friend. Maybe I just need you to leave me the fuck alone.”
“You wanted to end up in jail? Or the fucking hospital?”
“Maybe I wanted to kick somebody’s ass. Or maybe I wanted somebody to kick my ass. Maybe I deserve it!”
“Katie, come on.” He took a step towards her, and she shoved at his chest. He stood his ground, and she set her jaw and took a swing, but her wrist was caught in an iron grip. Dean’s temper snapped, and he walked her back until they hit the wall, pinning her with his body. “Are you gonna calm down?” Her free hand came up connected with a loud slap to his cheek, and he swore. “You really want somebody to kick your ass, damn it?” He now had both wrists in a firm grip, and she bucked against him, though the attempt was futile. He bent close, his voice a low growl. “Fucking calm down or I’ll cuff you to the goddamn bed.”
Kate raised her chin, looking defiantly into Dean’s angry face, the flicker of something desperate in her eyes that didn’t escape his notice. She suddenly leaned in, kissing him as she arched into his chest, and he backed away, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. “What the hell are you doing, Katie?”
“What? I know why you come to my room after a hunt. You like it when I’m all wound up, you like to fuck me when I get like this, admit it. We both know that’s what you really want.” She moved towards him, reaching for him, and he clenched his teeth as he grabbed her by the shoulders and tossed her towards the bed, watching her bounce as she hit the mattress.
“Not gonna fuck you, Katie.” He glared at her as she raised up, bracing herself up on her elbows to glare right back at him.
“Then get the hell out.”
He took off his leather jacket and threw it in frustration in the general direction of a chair. “Not going anywhere. You’re gonna talk to me.”
Kate stared up at him, her eyes smoldering. “Oh, yeah. Because you always are so willing to talk about shit. Give me a fucking break.”
“I’m not kidding, Katie. Something is really wrong with you. Just tell me what’s going on. What was that phone call about?” She stared back at him stubbornly. “The call you got at the diner? Who was it?”
She dropped her gaze, scooting herself up to lean against the headboard of the bed, her knees drawn up in front of her. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Okay, then let’s talk about the hunt.”
Dean could see her chest heaving as she fought her emotions. “I don’t wanna talk about that either.”
“Goddamn it, Kate! Tell me what’s wrong. Me and Sam, we can help, but you have to tell us what’s going on!”
“That kid died tonight because of me.” She hugged her arms around her knees, rocking slightly forward and back a couple of times before she threw her head back with a thud against the wall.
Dean let his head drop back, staring at the ceiling for a second before looking at her again. “A vamp killed that kid. That’s not on you.”
“Yeah, it is!” Kate shouted back, her eyes full of guilt as she met his gaze.
“We can’t save everybody, Katie, we all know that. We saved the rest of them, they went home tonight because we were there. We lost one, and it sucks, but it happens. That’s not your fault.”
There was silence for a moment, and when she spoke he could barely hear her.“That phone call was my dad.”
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Your – dad? I thought...”
“He was dead? No, it was just easier to tell people that because I didn’t want to explain that he fucking abandoned me after we watched a vamp tear my mom’s throat out. He took off and left me alone, and I was only twelve fucking years old. He dumped me and ran away, and I ended up in foster home after foster home – oh, and a fun stint in a psych ward. I finally ended up with some good people for the last few months before I aged out and I was on my own. But he never…” She stopped, sweeping her arm out to grab a pillow and hug it to her chest. “He never even tried to find me, make sure I was okay. He just left me alone to deal with my mom getting slaughtered in front of me.”
Dean walked over and sat on the edge of the bed next to her. “God, Katie, I’m sorry.”
“He found my last foster mom, got a phone number from her, because she actually cared enough about me to keep in touch.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I didn’t talk to him, let it go to voice mail.” She ducked her head again, a tear dropping from her lashes to disappear into the pillow. “All I wanted when we got to that nest was to kill vamps. I was pissed off and I wanted to take it out on those monsters.” She was sniffling a little now, her voice shaking as she went on.
“I saw him hiding in that corner. I told him to run with the rest of them, but he was too scared, he froze. I should have taken him out, made sure he was safe. But all I wanted was to fucking kill those things, cut them to pieces. All I could think about was my fucking rage. It’s my fault he’s dead, Dean.” She looked up at him, pain in her eyes, then shoved the pillow aside and dived into his chest, his arms closing around her as she broke into harsh sobs.
Dean ran his hand up and down her back, searching for words. “Not your fault, Katie. I could have gotten him out. Sam could have. But we all had our hands full. If you hadn’t been there, maybe one of us wouldn’t have made it out, maybe more of those kids would have died, there’s no way to know. Can’t change what happened, but you can’t take the blame. A vamp killed him, that’s what you blame.”
Kate gradually quieted down, finally taking a deep breath before pushing back to sit upright. Dean tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, watching as she slowly raised her eyes to his. “What do I do about my dad?”
Dean’s lips quirked in a rueful little smile. “I’m not much of an expert in family relations. But maybe you should call him back.”
“He doesn’t deserve it.”
“Maybe not. But maybe you don’t do it for him. Do it for you. Tell him how you feel instead of carrying it around with you all the time. Then you don’t ever have to talk to him again if you don’t want to.”
Kate sniffed and shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “Sometimes you’re actually a little smart.”
A soft snort of a laugh from Dean coaxed a vague smile from her. “Thanks,” he said sarcastically. She ran a hand over his forearm, the muscle there twitching at her touch.
“So, you wanna fuck me now?” she asked, and he rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
He leaned in to kiss her gently, and the soft look in his eyes when he pulled back made her chest ache a little. “No. Not tonight.”
“Will you stay with me?”
“Yeah. I’ll stay.”
They stripped down, Kate in her t-shirt and panties and Dean in his boxers, and climbed beneath the covers. He held out an arm, and she curled up into his side, her head on his shoulder and his arm holding her close, the other hand tucked under the pillow beneath his head. She sighed, then yawned, letting her hand rest against his warm chest, his heartbeat steady underneath her palm. “So, tomorrow will you fuck me?” she asked softly, smiling as his chest moved with a quiet laugh.
“Tomorrow you’re gonna have one hell of a hangover.”
“So tomorrow night, then.”
“Go to sleep, Katie.”
“Dean?”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah?”
“Thanks. For listening to me and putting up with my shit.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“And sometimes for fucking,” she muttered as Dean shook his head.
