I'm Elena. Chicago. 30-something.... Writer. Artist. Graphic Designer. Marketing day job. I’m currently working on several fics... Heh It’s an obsession of mine, an escape, as all fanfic writers know very well. I also love making art with midjourney and photoshop. Gifs as well, but I’m rusty with those.
Some scammer going by the name Grayson Vale straight-up stole part of my fanfiction and tried to sell it as an ebook on Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, and Scribd/Everand.
Here’s the kicker: this idiot apparently didn’t realize it was fanfiction. You can’t legally profit off fanfic, yet he was charging anywhere from $3.99 to $5.99. 🙄
Because of this, I’ve removed Devils in the Windy City from fanfic platforms. I was already in the process of rewriting it into an original novel, so if you’ve read it before, just hang tight — you’ll get to see the new version later.
✨ Moral of the story: protect your work. Back it up, screenshot it, keep receipts. You never think someone’s going to swipe your fic until they do.
Okay. I gave in and quickly finished editing chapter 2 of my fic and posted it!
Chapter 3 will have to be posted sometime next week after my wedding.
Thank you to those who enjoyed reading chapter 1. If you're giving the story a chance for the first time, I appreciate it! If it's not your cup of tea, no worries!
Summary below:
There are worlds upon worlds, realities upon realities, each with its own heroes, struggles, and tales of love and loss. Some destinies are written in the stars, others forged through choices. This story bridges two Earths—not bound by fate but by the will to endure.
In one world, James Buchanan Barnes seeks redemption after lifetimes of war. Haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier, he navigates life after the Blip, pulled into battles—both political and personal—as he reclaims his identity. In another, Lyra Jor-El, Superwoman, a warrior born of strength and loss, falls through a rift and becomes a stranger on a new Earth, fighting to belong while holding onto who she is.
Together, they face not just external threats but their own haunted pasts and fragile hopes. Bucky and Lyra find themselves at the heart of a new team—born not of trust, but of necessity. Even as they face the Void, they must confront their own battles and a love that could bridge two worlds.
This is a story of warriors and worlds, of love forged in conflict, and of choosing purpose when good and evil blur. Watch closely, for it’s not the world you come from that defines you. It’s the world you choose to fight for.
I’m still editing it—almost done!!! But I’m getting married this weekend so there will be a slight delay!! 😬😬😬
I’m so grateful for the readers I’ve gotten just for chapter 1! Thank you so much for your reviews and kudoses!!
I have three more chapters lined up so far. I just end up doing multiple reviews before posting.
Read here on AO3
If you’re curious, here is the summary of this fic:
There are worlds upon worlds, realities upon realities, each with its own heroes, struggles, and tales of love and loss. Some destinies are written in the stars, others forged through choices. This story bridges two Earths—not bound by fate but by the will to endure.
In one world, James Buchanan Barnes seeks redemption after lifetimes of war. Haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier, he navigates life after the Blip, pulled into battles—both political and personal—as he reclaims his identity. In another, Lyra Jor-El, Superwoman, a warrior born of strength and loss, falls through a rift and becomes a stranger on a new Earth, fighting to belong while holding onto who she is.
Together, they face not just external threats but their own haunted pasts and fragile hopes. Bucky and Lyra find themselves at the heart of a new team—born not of trust, but of necessity. Even as they face the Void, they must confront their own battles and a love that could bridge two worlds.
This is a story of warriors and worlds, of love forged in conflict, and of choosing purpose when good and evil blur. Watch closely, for it’s not the world you come from that defines you. It’s the world you choose to fight for.
Sooo. New fic. Yep. My attention span is fickle... I guess that's because I'm a sagittarius. When I become obsessed with something... SIGH
I've been struck by the movie Thunderbolts like many. I love the MCU. I also love the DCEU. I've always had a character that was the female version of Superman stuck in my mind (many many years). However, Lyra is edgier. Less apple pie. Seeing Thunderbolts finally solidified my resolve to write her and pair her with Bucky. Though this is a crossover, it will be set in the MCU.
It's a slow burn romance because I do those best, and I want to honor the canon characters. Because I knew I couldn't just jump into Thunderbolts without establishing a backstory for Lyra, this story begins in the middle of Falcon and the Winter Soldier and will then slide into the Thunderbolts timeline.
My chapters are long because I prefer to read long chapters in fics. So it'll take a few chapters to get to the Thunderbolts, but I promise it's worth it. This story will focus more on Bucky and Lyra. But Yelena and co. won't just be side characters. I love their little team.
So, if you're curious, give this story a chance! Thank you!
If you hate the concept, no problem. Just scroll on.
The poster took me hours in photoshop, and I am quite proud of it.
Summary and preview of chapter 1 below:
Summary: There are worlds upon worlds, realities upon realities, each with its own heroes, struggles, and tales of love and loss. Some destinies are written in the stars, others forged through choices. This story bridges two Earths—not bound by fate but by the will to endure.
In one world, James Buchanan Barnes seeks redemption after lifetimes of war. Haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier, he navigates life after the Blip, pulled into battles—both political and personal—as he reclaims his identity. In another, Lyra Jor-El, Superwoman, a warrior born of strength and loss, falls through a rift and becomes a stranger on a new Earth, fighting to belong while holding onto who she is.
Together, they face not just external threats but their own haunted pasts and fragile hopes. Bucky and Lyra find themselves at the heart of a new team—born not of trust, but of necessity. Even as they face the Void, they must confront their own battles and a love that could bridge two worlds.
This is a story of warriors and worlds, of love forged in conflict, and of choosing purpose when good and evil blur. Watch closely, for it’s not the world you come from that defines you. It’s the world you choose to fight for.
Preview:
I am the Watcher. I observe all that transpires across the multiverse, from the birth of worlds to their inevitable demise. My purpose is to witness, never to interfere. Yet, on occasion, the line between observation and intervention blurs, driven not by duty but by the pulse of fate itself.
This story begins with a rift—a tear in the fabric of realities. It did not form by chance, nor by mere happenstance. I opened it, there above the forest in Germany. On the other side was the warrior Lyra Jor-El—Superwoman to some, a fierce protector to all—slowly dying. Her strength was unparalleled, her resolve unbreakable, but even she could not withstand the poison coursing through her veins—kryptonite, a cruel weapon wielded by Alexandra Luthor.
Lyra had fought valiantly, even as her body betrayed her. The world around her blurred, each heartbeat fainter than the last. Had I done nothing, her story would have ended there, her light snuffed out by one who thrived on destruction. But fate whispered to me, a flicker of possibility threading through the cosmic weave. One life to save another. One Earth altered to preserve another.
I tore the veil between realities, guiding Lyra through the rift to a world where she would not merely survive but thrive. Where her path would intertwine with that of another lost soul, a soldier with a weary heart and a burden too heavy to bear. James Buchanan Barnes stood on the precipice of change, not yet knowing that fate would soon deliver a woman who would challenge his solitude and ignite something long thought buried within him.
I have seen countless stories unfold, but this one—this convergence of worlds, of souls—was meant to be. Not merely for the survival of one hero, but for the healing of two. I did not act lightly, nor without consequence. But I chose to believe that some battles are not fought with fists or power but with trust, love, and the courage to face the past.
This is their story. How worlds collided, and how, against the odds, they found something worth fighting for. I am the Watcher. And though I may not interfere, I will always remember the day I chose to change the course of destiny.
###
April, 2024
The sky split open at precisely 2:13 a.m.
Above the treeline outside of Berlin, reality itself seemed to fracture—a jagged tear in the air, like lightning with no storm to follow. It hung there, crackling and raw, a dark window into another sky. No thunderclap. No warning. Just silence. And then a whoosh sound of something breaking through. A body, hurled like a comet, crashing down through the darkness.
Then the rift sealed shut and left no trace that it had ever been there.
The locals would later swear they saw a woman fall from the night sky.
She hit the earth with a force that shook windows in nearby homes, setting off forgotten NATO motion sensors buried deep in the ground. Birds flew from the trees in frantic flocks, shrieking into the night. The ground itself seemed to shiver from the impact, and green shards of crystal scattered for miles around, glinting like emerald glass in the moonlight.
In the center of a smoking crater, sprawled amid broken soil and splintered roots, Lyra stirred, bleeding, half-conscious, and gasped for air. A faint, sickly green glow pulsed under the skin just above her ribs, where her black suit had been ripped open. The wound oozed red blood, human enough in color but far more precious.
Her black cape, charred at the edges and tattered, lay tangled beneath her like a fallen banner. Her right hand twitched, remembering the fight, and then went still.
Lyra Jor-El was dying, and behind her closed eyelids, the angry face of Alexandra Luthor—cold, calculating, wielding that gun loaded with kryptonite ammunition—burned in her mind. The memory stayed with her as consciousness slipped away and left nothing but darkness.
###
Country Road, Germany—2:45 a.m.
The night stretched out before them. Endless, quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in. The borrowed car rumbled steadily down the narrow, winding road, its headlights slicing through the dense darkness. Bucky kept his eyes ahead, his hands gripping the wheel, while Sam reclined in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone.
Suddenly, Sam’s phone buzzed with a phone call, and he quickly answered.
“You’re gonna want to see this,” came Torres’ voice, slightly crackling through the line. No pleasantries, just business.
Sam tapped the screen, and a grainy satellite image popped up—infrared, low-res, timestamped just half an hour ago. A faint glow pulsed on the screen like a heartbeat, painting a hazy red circle over a dark patch of forest.
“That’s nearby?” Sam asked, squinting.
“Outside of Berlin,” Torres confirmed. “And that energy signature? It doesn’t match anything we’ve seen before. I already asked Darcy Lewis to triple-check.” He hesitated, as if unsure whether to add the next part. “There’s… also some kind of radiation leak. Minor. But weird.”
Bucky, silent until now, glanced sideways without taking his hands off the wheel. “You think it’s Karli?”
Torres scoffed lightly. “Karli doesn’t fall out of the sky,” he replied. “Whatever this was… it wasn’t launched. There’s no propulsion trail. It just… showed up. Like someone dropped it through a hole in space.”
Sam exhaled as he tried to process that. “So, what? You think we’ve got another enhanced?”
Torres’ pause was telling.
“I… don’t know what the hell we’ve got,” he admitted. “But someone’s already cleaned the footage from two nearby CCTV cams. Which means someone’s watching this.”
That sent a ripple of unease through the car. Sam and Bucky exchanged a look. Both of them had seen too many cover-ups to ignore a detail like that.
“Bucky. We divert,” Sam decided, his tone firm.
Bucky gave a slight nod, already reaching for the GPS on his own phone, which was mounted on the dash. “Fine. Let’s check it out. Send the coordinates, Torres.”
“Already on it,” Torres replied. Then his tone grew more serious. “Heads up, though—NATO picked up the radiation spike too. Expect company.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. “Got it. Appreciate the warning.”
“Stay safe out there, guys,” Torres said before the line cut out.
Silence filled the car again, thicker than before. Bucky adjusted his grip on the wheel, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the low light.
Sam looked over and caught he way Bucky’s eyes stayed hard and focused on the road.
“Can’t wait to see what this is about,” Bucky muttered, his voice low and sardonic.
Sam huffed a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Yeah. Let’s just hope it’s not another goddamn alien invasion.”
Bucky didn’t respond, but his jaw worked a little tighter, a flicker of past battles flashing in his mind. He pressed down a little harder on the gas, and the engine growled in response as they sped through the dark, chasing whatever had just fallen from the sky.
###
Berlin, Rural Outskirts—3:41 a.m.
The woods were shrouded in darkness, which seemed to swallow sound. Bucky and Sam moved through the tangled brush with stealth, each of their steps muffled against the damp, frost-touched ground. The air was cold and wet, tinged with the metallic scent of ozone and the scorched tang of burnt soil. A crow cawed somewhere behind them, sharp and startled, then abruptly fell silent.
Bucky halted, one hand raised in a silent signal. Sam mirrored the motion, his eyes sweeping the terrain. They’d been moving cautiously for half a mile, dodging NATO patrols who were seting up a perimeter. Floodlights glared through the trees from the other side of the hill.
Sam adjusted the strap on his shoulder holster and craned his neck to peer through the underbrush. “You think they already took whatever fell?” he whispered.
Bucky shook his head, his eyes narrowed, his instincts sharp. “No. If they had, they wouldn’t still be here.”
The two crept forward until they crested the hill. There, just beyond the line of trees, lay the blast site. The ground had been torn open and had a blast radius at least fifty meters wide. The surrounding trees had been bent backward like half-broken matchsticks, their trunks splintered. Some still smoldered, thin tendrils of smoke curling upward. At the heart of it: a crater. Deep, blackened, and steaming at the edges as if the ground itself had been cauterized.
“Jesus,” Sam muttered, as he took in the devastation. “Whatever hit this hard didn’t come from a drone strike.”
Bucky moved ahead, his boots crunching softly on charred twigs. He squatted at the crater’s edge and brushed two fingers against the blackened dirt. “No impact debris. No metallic fragments. No tech. Just... force.” He looked up at Sam, his expression tense. “Like someone dropped a wrecking ball from orbit.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the sky. “But there’s no satellite record. Torres would’ve picked it up.”
Bucky straightened, his jaw tight. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.
Sam shifted uneasily.
Then, suddenly—movement.
“Contact. Ten o’clock, edge of the crater,” Sam whispered.
Both men raised their weapons, their muscles coiled and ready, but they didn’t fire. Not yet. Shadows flickered along the rim, and a shape moved, low and cautious. It wasn’t NATO. They were still clustered at the opposite end, yelling in German and setting up equipment.
Bucky took a slow, deliberate step forward, signaling Sam to hold position. His gaze tracked the figure’s movements, watching how it swayed, unsteady, almost like a wounded animal.
Sam glanced at him. “Think it’s one of theirs?”
Bucky’s eyes stayed fixed on the shadow. “No. Too deliberate. Whoever that is, they’re trying not to be seen.”
The figure staggered again, silhouetted by the dim light of NATO’s floodlamps behind it. Bucky saw a flash of long dark hair, caught in the wind. Then the figure collapsed, half-hidden by a fallen tree.
Bucky lowered his weapon slightly and exchanged a look with Sam. “Stay here. Cover me,” he whispered.
Sam gave a tight nod and kept his stance ready, his eyes sweeping the area. Bucky moved with quiet precision and closed the distance in a low crouch. As he approached, he heard labored breathing—a rasping, uneven sound.
He rounded the fallen tree carefully and froze. A woman lay there, curled on her side, blood streaked across her torn clothing. Her skin was pale, almost luminescent under the moonlight, and a strange greenish glow pulsed faintly just below her rib cage. Her dark hair was tangled and matted with dirt.
Bucky glanced back at Sam, giving a quick hand signal: Found something.
Sam moved in, keeping his gun lowered but ready. “Who is she?” he whispered.
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He crouched closer and studied the woman’s face. He did not recognize her. Then he noticed the symbol on her torn suit—a diamond-shaped crest on her chest, partially obscured by mud. It had the letter S on it.
“Who the hell are you?” Bucky muttered under his breath.
The woman stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, her gaze was unfocused, then suddenly sharp. It was piercing blue and caught the moonlight. She opened her mouth, tried to speak, but only a faint, broken whisper came out:
“Don’t… let them take me…”
Bucky hesitated and glanced at Sam. “She’s not military. Not from here.”
Sam glanced back at the NATO patrols, who hadn’t yet noticed their position. “We gotta move. They’ll spot us any second.”
Bucky didn’t need convincing. He scooped the woman into his arms. She didn’t struggle. She barely weighed anything, despite her height. She was taller than average woman. And then he nodded toward the deeper woods. Sam led the way, keeping low, while Bucky followed, cradling the mysterious stranger close to his chest. They disappeared into the dark and left the crater and the NATO troops behind.
OR a crackship Dean/Elizabeth Olsen. Whichever you prefer. But I love OCs. This is a Dean/OC and Sam/OC story.
Summary below!
The first time was 1993. Lena Volkov was sixteen—lost, unmoored, with no memory of who she was or why she’d landed in the middle of the Winchesters’ lives. Dean was thirteen. Sam, not quite ten. Somehow, despite everything, John Winchester didn’t kick her out.
She stayed six months.
The second time was 2005. She was older, haunted by déjà vu and instincts etched deep into her bones. Missouri Moseley looked her in the eye and said, “Your lifeline splits again. Sooner than you’d like.”
And then, just like before, she vanished—six months to the day. Only this time, the loss gutted her.
Now it’s 2006. She’s back—for the third time, and maybe the last.
This time, she remembers everything: who she is, what she’s lost, and what’s coming. She doesn’t know why she remembers. Only that in her world, the Winchesters are fictional. Just characters in a story.
But knowing the future doesn’t guarantee it will stay the same. In fact, it’s already changing.
And Lena might be the reason why. The divergence has begun.
This story picks up in Season 2, following a three-part prologue chronicling Lena’s first two mysterious arrivals in the Winchesters’ world. This is where the real story begins.
I make chapters very long because I personally prefer long chapters. This is an old-school Dean/OC and Sam/OC fic, as they are what I grew up on.
If you read, I hope you enjoy!
Read Summary below:
The first time was 1993. Lena Volkov was sixteen—lost, unmoored, with no memory of who she was or why she’d landed in the middle of the Winchesters’ lives. Dean was thirteen. Sam, not quite ten. Somehow, despite everything, John Winchester didn’t kick her out.
She stayed six months.
The second time was 2005. She was older, haunted by déjà vu and instincts etched deep into her bones. Missouri Moseley looked her in the eye and said, “Your lifeline splits again. Sooner than you’d like.”
And then, just like before, she vanished—six months to the day. Only this time, the loss gutted her.
Now it’s 2006. She’s back—for the third time, and maybe the last.
This time, she remembers everything: who she is, what she’s lost, and what’s coming. She doesn’t know why she remembers. Only that in her world, the Winchesters are fictional. Just characters in a story.
But knowing the future doesn’t guarantee it will stay the same. In fact, it’s already changing.
And Lena might be the reason why. The divergence has begun.
This story picks up in Season 2, following a three-part prologue chronicling Lena’s first two mysterious arrivals in the Winchesters’ world. This is where the real story begins.
Summary: The first time, it was 1993. She was sixteen—lost and adrift in a world and time that weren’t hers, with no memory of who she was or why she’d landed in the middle of the Winchesters' lives. Dean was thirteen. Sam, almost ten. Somehow, John Winchester didn’t kick her out.
She stayed for six months.
The second time, it was 2005. She was older, haunted by déjà vu and gut-deep instincts she couldn’t explain. Missouri Mosely told her: Your lifeline splits again. Sooner than you’d like.
Then she vanished. Again. After six months. And this time, it hurt more than she thought possible.
Now, it’s 2006. She’s back—for the third and, hopefully, final time.
This time, she remembers everything: who she is, what she’s lost, and what’s coming next. She knows that where she’s from, the lives of the Winchesters are just a story. But knowledge alone won’t be enough to rewrite fate.
Can she stop what’s coming? Can she finally find a way to stay? Or will destiny tighten its grip the harder she tries to break it?
*This story picks up in Season 2, following a three-part prologue that reimagines the first and second mysterious arrivals in the Winchesters’ world. This is where the story truly begins.
I had this story in my head for over 10 years. Finally making it happen. I am an OG SPN fan. Been there since 2005. Feels so long ago. 😭
If you’re an open-minded fan and don’t mind Dean/OC stories, have a read!
Preview from the end of the third prologue part is below, as the story picks up at season 2 (this is an AU story). No mature stuff in it, but the fic is rated M.
*(Picture created using MidJourney and Photoshop.)
-------
August, 2006
South Dakota
The cicadas screamed like static in the summer air–sharp, constant, like the world had a pulse and it was racing. The heat clung to her skin in a thick, invisible sheet. Lena blinked hard against the sun slicing through the tree canopy, dappled light dancing across her face.
She was on the ground.
For a second, she didn’t move. Just lay there, her heart pounding, her lungs tight. The sharp, earthy scent of pine needles and rusted metal filled her nose. She sat up slowly. Her body ached from the shift, the crossing. Muscles stiff. Knees bruised. She looked around–and felt it like a punch to the chest. She knew this place.
The edge of the trees opened into wreckage: rusted car husks stacked like forgotten corpses, shattered windshields catching the sun like glass teeth. Tires sagged in their steel frames. The world looked post-apocalyptic in a way that made her stomach twist with recognition.
Her fingers closed around the strap across her chest–her bag. Her messenger bag. Thick canvas, worn leather, scratched buckles. She didn’t know how it had come with her… but it had.
She opened it with shaky hands. Phone. No signal. Still frozen on 11:28PM. Battery at 52%. Her fingers. Rings still in place. Crystal bracelets cool against her wrist. Her necklaces–particularly a silver charm, a tiny quartz pendant–resting against her collarbone like proof. Her clothes: fitted navy t-shirt, dark jeans, leather boots scuffed but solid, red jacket dusted in pine needles and dirt.
The same outfit she’d fallen asleep in without meaning to while studying for a grad school class. But none of it mattered. Not really. Because this time–
She remembered.
Every moment. Every breath. The motel rooms. The hunts. The blood. Sam’s soft steadiness. Dean’s mouth on hers. The feeling of being held like she was rare. Like she was his. Like she was home . The phantom ache in her chest tightened.
She hadn’t remembered the first time. Not really. Not when she was sixteen and stranded in 1993 with no memory and two half-grown Winchesters looking at her like she might explode.
She hadn’t remembered the second time, either. There were gut instincts. Deja vu. The flicker of something beneath her skin she couldn’t name. Missouri had known. Told her: “ Your lifeline splits again. Sooner than you’d like .”
And then–like clockwork–she was gone. Again. Torn out of that world like a thread yanked from a sweater.
And this time, it had been four years.
Four years of not sleeping right. Of watching herself from a distance in a world that felt too clean, too fake. Of therapy sessions that left her hollow. Of Googling “parallel realities” at 2AM. Of clinging to anything that might explain how you could love two people who didn’t even exist. Of the night terrors. The blackouts. The quiet, crushing fear that she was just crazy .
Four years of wondering if he still remembered her name. And now–without warning–she was back. And she remembered. Everything.
Lena shoved the phone back into her bag. Her heart stuttered when her eyes landed on the laminated cover of the script she’d left on her bed back in Chicago:
Supernatural – Episode 2.02 – “Everyone Loves a Clown.”
Of course. Because the universe had a sense of humor. Or none at all.
She stood. Wobbled. Brushed dirt from her jeans and from her jacket sleeves. The sun blazed high and brutal now, and sweat trickled down her spine. Her boots crunched across gravel and old glass as she crested the hill.
There it was. The crooked, rusted sign bolted above the gate: Singer Auto Salvage.
Lena’s breath caught. Her eyes burned. She wasn’t dreaming. She was back.
And this time… She was going to fight like hell to stay.
Somewhere beyond the trees, speakers blared muffled rock–AC/DC, she was sure–distorted just enough to sound like a memory half-remembered. The metallic clink of tools echoed through the hot summer air. Something was being repaired. Or rebuilt. Or mourned.
The scent of motor oil hung thick–cut with dust, metal, old wood, and a storm that hadn’t broken yet. Beneath the Impala’s open hood, Dean was waist-deep in the engine, in a black t-shirt, his forearms smeared with grease. His movements were tense, mechanical, and focused, but only because it was easier than feeling. Since their father died, the world had felt like it was balancing on a knife’s edge, and Dean had been the one gripping the blade.
Sam sat on the porch steps, John’s journal open on his lap. But he wasn’t reading. His eyes stared somewhere far past the ink and the pages–out into a place where things made sense again. Both of them were raw. Worn thin. Holding themselves together in the ways they’d been taught: quietly. Unforgivingly.
And then–
Footsteps. Soft. Cautious. The crunch of boots on gravel, slow and steady, like the approach of a ghost.
Bobby looked up from where he sat nursing a beer near the porch, his brow furrowing beneath the brim of his cap. The cicadas fell quiet, as if even they knew something was about to change. The air thickened. The sun shifted.
“Well, I’ll be damned…”
Sam looked up. His body went still. Spine stiffening, his hands frozen on the journal. He saw her second.
A figure, half-lost in heat shimmer, emerged like something conjured from smoke and dust. The faded red leather jacket. Knee-high black boots strapped with buckles. A worn messenger bag slung across her shoulder. Her hair long, a little tangled, windblown, and still the same shade of sunlit chestnut. But her eyes–those hazel eyes held a gravity. Older. Sharper. Like she'd lived another lifetime in the time since she vanished.
“Dean,” Sam breathed. He had stood up so fast the journal hit the porch with a soft thud.
Dean slid out from under the car, rag in hand, squinting against the glare from the sun. His brows drew together when he saw Sam’s face, then he followed his gaze toward the drive.
Then–
He saw her. Time didn’t just stop. It fractured. The rag slipped from his hand and hit the ground. A breeze picked up, rustling the trees. The speakers still played, but the music felt distant, like it belonged to another world.
“Lena?” he said, her name catching on his breath.
She froze mid-step, her eyes wide, lashes clumped with the tears she was trying to hold back. Her mouth parted, trembling. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice cracking like glass under pressure. “It’s me.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Her limbs felt like they were made of air and stone all at once. She hadn’t meant to cry. But the sight of him–Dean, real and alive and somehow still wearing the obsidian bead bracelet she’d given him for Christmas–undid her.
Dean didn’t move. Didn’t blink. At first. His chest rose and fell like he’d just been hit. Like he couldn’t decide if she was real or another cruel trick of grief and the heat.
It had been four months for them. Four months of wondering, of searching, of falling silent every time they passed a motel bathroom door. Of not saying her name out loud. Of hurting quietly.
But for Lena, it had been longer. And Dean could see it. She looked the same. Mostly. But he knew her too well to miss the changes. Her face had lost a bit of the softness of youth. Her cheekbones were more defined, her chin set firmer. Her shoulders held a kind of weariness that came from carrying a weight no one else could see. Her eyes–still that fierce, golden-hazel he loved–had gone quieter. Haunted.
She looked like someone who’d lived too much. Like someone who’d clawed her way back through hell to stand here. And she had.
Dean took one step forward. Then another. But he didn’t say anything. Because everything he wanted to say was too much. And not enough. So they just stood there. Two people who had loved each other in motel rooms and graveyards, in borrowed time and unspoken words, now staring across a yard that suddenly felt too wide.
Until Dean reached her. His hand ghosted over her arm, hesitant. Like touching her might destroy something. Then—he pulled her in.
No hesitation. No words. Just arms around her, tight and trembling, like he might fall apart if he let go. She folded into him with a breathless sound, something between a sob and a laugh. Her fingers clutched the back of his shirt, holding on like it would anchor her to this world again.
Dean buried his face in her hair and just… breathed. His hands slid over her shoulders, her back, memorizing everything, like she might vanish again if he didn’t.
“You’re real,” he finally murmured, the words cracked and fragile. “You’re really here.”
Lena nodded into his chest. “I didn’t mean to go,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I tried to come back.”
“I know.”
He didn’t ask where she’d been. Not yet. Didn’t ask how. Didn’t ask why. He just held her. And didn’t let go.
I've been a fan of Supernatural since it first aired in 2005—before it blew up. The first five seasons are still my favorite. This story has been living in my head since I visited the Writer’s Guild Library in LA over a decade ago and read some of the original scripts (which, heartbreakingly, couldn’t be checked out).
Whenever something sticks with me that long, I have to write it. My Russian heritage often slips into my work, and this is no exception. Lena Volkov’s face claim is Elizabeth Olsen—partly because I love having a visual, partly because I adore Wanda and think Lizzie’s a brilliant actress.
This is an AU, especially after the three-part prologue, but keeping canon characters in-character is really important to me. The plot loosely follows Season 2’s storyline (Azazel, the psychic kids, etc.), with the prologue establishing how and why Lena fits in. I don’t expect you to love an OC without good reason—I’m here to earn it.
If you're not into OCs or Dean/female OC and Sam/female OC stories, this might not be your thing—and that’s totally okay!
But if you’re into slow burns, long chapters, layered character work, and alternate takes on canon, I’d love for you to read. Comments and kudos mean the world—they’re fuel, not ego.
Thank you for being here. 💛
My Originals fanfic Devil in the Windy City is still being continued!
Summary below:
The first time, it was 1993. She was sixteen—lost and adrift in a world and time that weren’t hers, with no memory of who she was or why she’d landed in the middle of the Winchesters' lives. Dean was thirteen. Sam, almost ten. Somehow, John Winchester didn’t kick her out.
She stayed for six months.
The second time, it was 2005. She was older, haunted by déjà vu and gut-deep instincts she couldn’t explain. Missouri Mosely told her: Your lifeline splits again. Sooner than you’d like.
Then she vanished. Again. After six months. And this time, it hurt more than she thought possible.
Now, it’s 2006. She’s back—for the third and, hopefully, final time.This time, she remembers everything: who she is, what she’s lost, and what’s coming next. She knows that where she’s from, the lives of the Winchesters are just a story. But knowledge alone won’t be enough to rewrite fate.
Can she stop what’s coming? Can she finally find a way to stay? Or will destiny tighten its grip the harder she tries to break it?
*This story picks up in Season 2, following a three-part prologue that reimagines the first and second mysterious arrivals in the Winchesters’ world. This is where the story truly begins.
Val Kilmer, you were the greatest. Our Batman Forever. A Real Genius. The Ice Man. A Saint. Simmering Heat. You will always be our huckleberry. Rest in peace.
Rest in Peace, L.J. Smith - Thank you so much for these entertaining and amazing characters and the universe you worked hard on to share to the world. Your legacy will live on. Thank you for everything, truly.
⎯⎯You burrow further into the blankets, voice muffled. “A new body?”
warnings: period, blood
You wake up to a dull, twisting pain in your abdomen, the kind that announces its presence before you’re even fully conscious. With a groan, you curl in on yourself, clutching at your stomach as if that will somehow ease the relentless ache.
Klaus stirs beside you, immediately alert despite the early morning haze. “Love?” His voice is still thick with sleep, but the concern is instant, written in the furrow of his brow as he props himself up on one elbow. “What’s wrong?”
You press your face into the pillow, muffling another groan. “Cramps.”
Klaus exhales, brushing a hand over your hair, down your back, his touch featherlight. “Ah.” Understanding dawns in his voice. “The dreaded time of the month, then?”
You huff a quiet laugh, but it turns into a wince as another wave of pain hits. Klaus, ever attuned to even the smallest shifts in your expression, sits up fully, as if ready to wage war against your uterus itself. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”
You burrow further into the blankets, voice muffled. “A new body?”
Klaus chuckles, though there’s still a trace of worry in his eyes. “While I can’t offer that, I can get you something warm, hmm? Tea? A heating pad?”
You peek up at him. “Snuggles?”
His smile softens, and in the next second, he’s already shifting you carefully against him, pulling you onto his chest like you weigh nothing. His hands rub soothing circles against your lower back, his warmth instantly easing the tension.
“You should’ve told me sooner, love,” he murmurs against your temple. “I’d have woken up prepared for battle.”
You hum sleepily, melting into him. “It’s just cramps, Klaus.”
“It’s pain,” he counters, voice low, protective. “And if I could take it from you, I would.”
His sincerity makes your throat tighten. You nuzzle into his neck, letting out a quiet sigh as his fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns over your skin.
A while later, when you finally summon the energy to crawl out of bed, disaster strikes. You pause mid-step, a sinking feeling settling in your stomach.
“Klaus…”
His head snaps up instantly, eyes scanning you for signs of distress. “What is it?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling through your nose. “I… bled through.”
Klaus blinks. “Alright?”
You give him a mortified look. “I bled through the sheets. Your sheets.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“Darling, I’ve spilled more blood on these sheets than you ever will.”
Your groan is immediate, shoving at his shoulder. “That is NOT the same, Klaus!”
He grins, utterly unbothered, before gently nudging you toward the bathroom. “Go on, love, clean up. I’ll take care of the rest.”
You hesitate. “But—”
Klaus silences you with a look, the one that makes even the bravest men cower. “Go.”
You huff, but obey, retreating to the bathroom. By the time you return, dressed in fresh clothes, Klaus has already stripped the bed and replaced the sheets with impossible efficiency. A steaming cup of tea waits for you on the nightstand, alongside your favorite snack.
You blink at him, a little overwhelmed. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
Klaus merely quirks a brow. “You’re suffering, love. The least I can do is make it bearable.”
Your heart clenches. You step closer, wrapping your arms around his middle, pressing your face into his chest. “You’re the best.”
He chuckles, pressing a lingering kiss to your hair. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
You roll your eyes but hold him tighter. “Thank you, Klaus.”
“Always, sweetheart.”
And as he tucks you back into bed, slipping in beside you, warm and solid and comforting, you think there’s truly no better place to be.
Thank you to everyone who sent in a request about period comfort from Klaus! <3 hope you enjoy it <3
