I LOVE taking requests!!! If you have a request for me, please tell me! You can either leave a comment on this post or you can DM me.
Add what you want the reader to look like (if you have an idea), which character, the fandom, and the plot of the story! Make sure that you tell me if you want it as a oneshot or as an actual story. Also, add if you want me to tag you in it or if you would like to stay anonymous.
Note: All of my Tumblr stories are linked to my Ao3 account. They share the same stories, but Ao3 is updated just before my Tumblr.
The door creaks open softly and Sam is the first person in, followed by you and then Dean. You all enter the lounge, when the clatter of a smashed lamp breaks the silence.
“Get out of my house!” A man yells. It’s Monica’s husband. .
Dean is quick to close in, yanking the bat from the man’s hands. He looks back at you and Sam, making sure none of the glass got either of you.
“Get out of my house!”
Dean is still grappling with the husband as Sam says, “Please, Mr. Holden. Please.”
Dean easily takes control, swinging the husband against the wall and holding the bat against his throat, keeping him in place. “Be quiet and listen,” he hisses through his teeth. We are trying to help you.”
Monica’s voice calls from upstairs, “Charlie? Is everything okay?”
Charlie presses his hands against the bat in a poor attempt to push the bat away and screams, “Monica, get the baby!”
At the same time, Sam yells, “Don’t go in the nursery!”
“You stay away from her!” Charlie struggles against Dean, who merely backhands him and knocks the poor man unconscious. Sam’s brother throws the husband over his shoulder effortlessly, and he hears you tut in disapproval.
But you’re the first to run up the stairs.
“Dammit, Y/N!” Sam roars, sprinting after you.
Sam enters just in time to see Monica rising against the wall, your body pressed tight against it. The demon is there, standing right next to Rosie’s crib. He freezes, staring at the demon’s glowing yellow eyes.
“Rosie!” Monica cries out.
Her voice knocks Sam back into the present. He raises the Colt, pulling the trigger.
The sound ricochets off the walls in the nursery, and the demon turns to dust as Rosie starts wailing. Monica, screaming, falls onto the floor.
You’re released from the wall and take a deep breath. “Where the hell did it go?” you whisper, looking around the nursery frantically.
“My baby!” She sobs, standing. She begins to move toward the crib, but Sam catches her around the waist. “My baby!”
“No, wait!”
She struggles against him, screaming louder. “My baby!”
You glance at Sam before moving toward the crib. “Take her and go.”
“Y/N -”
“Go, Sam!”
“Rosie!”
“Come on,” Sam murmurs, dragging Monica out of the nursery.
“My baby!”
He forces her out of the room, gritting out, “Y/N’s got her.”
He catches a mere glimpse of you quickly wrapping the blankets around the six-month-old and barely yanking Rosie out just before the crib bursts into flames.
Outside, the nursery window explodes outwards, flames shooting out. He stares at the smoking entryway, and only feels a bare amount of relief when Sam and Monica stumble out, coughing.
Charlie staggers up from where he was laying in the grass near Dean. “You get away from my family.”
“No, Charlie, don’t,” Monica wheezes, gasping for fresh air. “They saved us.”
Dean is damn close to running into the burning house when you sprint out, holding the swaddled baby close, face dirty with soot.
Monica begins sobbing, walking toward you. You’re nearing her. “I mean - they saved us.”
You’re gentle as you hand Rosie to Monica, and Charlie moves toward his family, putting his arm around Monica’s shoulder and leaning his head against hers. She looks at the three of you, you now standing between the boys. Dean is looking over you, making sure you’re not injured when Monica says, “Thank you.”
You nod with a smile.
It drops when Sam starts moving back toward the burning home. “It’s still in there!”
Dean looks up at the nursery window, seeing the demon’s silhouette in the busted window, standing within the flames. He rushes forward to grab his brother. “Sam, no!”
You help Dean hold Sam back, who is struggling against both of you. “Dean, let me go! It’s still in there.”
“Sam, it’s burning to the ground,” you snarl. “It’s suicide!”
“I don’t care!” Sam hollers.
“I do!” you and Dean retort in unison.
Sam finally relents, glaring at the silhouette. The flames rise again, and the silhouette is gone, quick as it appeared.
John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Either that, or she’s possessed by one. It doesn’t really matter either way.”
You speak for the first time in what feels like forever, your throat rough with the words. “What do we do?”
“I’m going to Lincoln.”
“What?” Dean spits, glaring at his father.
John merely shrugs and stands, pacing the room. “It doesn’t look like we have a choice. If I don’t go, a lot of people die. Our friends die.” John stares at you for a second before haphazardly motioning in your direction. “How long until Meg gets to her?”
Dean goes silent at that. Sam lets go of your hand and stands, inching closer to his father. “Dad, the demon is coming tonight. For Monica and her family. That gun is all we got, you can’t just hand it over.”
“Who said anything about handing it over?” John gets a smirk on his face and begins explaining. “Look, besides us and a couple of vampires, no one’s really seen the gun. No one knows what it looks like.”
“So, what,” Dean scoffs. “You’re just going to pick up a ringer at a pawn shop?”
“Antique store.”
“You’re going to hand Meg a fake gun and just… hope she doesn’t notice?” Dean is exasperated, defeated. He knows he’s not going to win this.
“Look,” John starts. “As long as it’s close, she shouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
You clear your that. “What happens if she does figure it out, John?”
“I just…” The man’s eyes drift away, staring at the wall. He understands that this could risk his life, but so will this job. Either way, his life is constantly at risk. “I just need to buy a few hours, that’s all.”
Sam crosses his arms, scowling. “You mean for us. You want us to stay here, and kill the demon by ourselves?”
“No, Sam,” John barks. “I want to stop losing people we love. I want you to go to school, I want Dean to have a home, I want Y/N to have her mother back. I want… I want Mary alive. It’s just… I want this to be over.”
Tears dance in your eyes at the mention of Mary and your mother, and John’s admission of his hatred for this job, despite bringing his sons into it, blinded by pure vengeance.
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
You’re all sat in the Impala, the Colt in the bench seat snuggled between Sam and Dean. Just a few hours prior, Dean had found the decoy at an antique store and handed it off to his father, and you stayed in the car while the boys had their possible last moment with their father.
John sped off almost the moment the Colt was in Dean’s hands, barely even saying goodbye.
Now you’re all staring out the windshield, glaring down Monica’s house, watching for any trace of… anything, really. There’s a curtain open in the dining room and you can see Monica and her husband finishing dinner.
“Maybe we could tell ‘em it was a gas leak. Might get ‘em out of the house for a few hours,” Sam suggests.
“Sammy,” you sigh. Your fingers grip the back of their bench seat, chin resting on top. “When has that ever worked?”
“Yeah…” He pauses. “We could always tell ‘em the truth.”
Dean and Sam share a look before you start out-loud laughing, head thrown back.
“Nah…” they say in unison, chuckling along with you.
When the laughter calms, Sam takes a deep breath. “I know, I know. I just…” He stares at the house sullenly, brows furrowed. “With what’s coming for these folks…”
Your hand falls to rest on Sam’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze while Dean says, “Sam, we only got one move and you know it, all right? We gotta wait for that demon to show itself and then we get it before it gets them.”
Both boys go quiet, staring at the house for just a few moments longer before Sam whispers, “I wonder how Dad’s doin’.”
“I’d feel a lot better if we were there backing him up,” Dean grumbles.
“I’d feel a lot better if he were here backing us up,” Sam confesses.
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
“This is weird.”
You blink awake, fighting to keep your eyelids up to look at Sam. “What?”
He chuckles a little bit, but there’s no humor to it. “After all these years, we’re finally here. It doesn’t seem real.”
“We just gotta keep our heads up and do our job. Like always.” Dean doesn’t look away from the house, and he has the soldier's voice on.
“Yeah, but this isn’t like always.”
“True.”
“Guys?” Sam whispers. “I… ah, I wanna thank you two.”
“For what?” you mumble sleepily. It’s easily almost one in the morning.
“For everything. You guys have always had my back, you know? Even when I couldn’t count on anyone, I could always count on one of you. And… ah, I don’t know. I just wanted to let you know.” His fingers thrum against the door of the Impala. “Just in case.”
Dean’s head snaps over to his little brother. “Woah, woah, woah, what? Are you kidding me?”
You suck in a deep breath, now quite a bit more awake. “Dean -”
“What?” Sam retorts.
“Sam -”
“Don’t say just in case something happens to you. I don’t want to hear that fucking speech, man. Nobody’s dyin’ tonight. Not us, not that family. Nobody. Except that demon.” He glares at Sam. “That evil son of a bitch ain’t getting any older than tonight, you understand me?”
“Boys!”
“What?!” They both snap, turning in their seats to face you.
You point at the radio. It’s chattering with static, flying through stations and volume levels. The wind picks up and the lights in the house start to flicker. “It’s here.”
Sam is sat at the table, his fingers rubbing at his temples. John and Dean sit at the foot of each bed in the motel room, and you’re sat at the chair across from Sam.
“Visions…” John flatly drones, brow cocked.
Sam speaks slowly. “Yes.” You can tell that even speaking makes his skull burn, but there’s nothing you can do about it, no matter how hard you try. The medicine only works so well. “I saw the demon burning a woman on the ceiling.”
John sighs a little. He’s finding it hard to believe his youngest. “And you think this is happening to the woman you met because…”
The idea enrages you. John hunts monsters, for Christ’s sake - he kills ghosts, and vampires, and everything else lurking where the sun don’t shine. But he finds it hard to believe that his son, who’s mother was killed by a demon, has visions? Seriously?
“Because these things happen exactly the way I see them,” Sam says.
“It started out as nightmares.” Dean’s voice brings John to swivel his head, staring at his eldest. “Then it started happening when he was awake.”
Dean rises, crossing to the counter, just behind Sam, to grab more coffee.
Sam winces, pressing his fingers deeper into his temples. “Yeah. It’s like the closer I get to anything to do with the demon the stronger the visions get.”
“Like Harry Potter and Voldemort.”
The motel room goes silent, and everybody stares at you. You clear your throat, lowering your head to stare at the table.
“All right…” John mutters, slowly trying to bring the conversation back up to speed. “When were you going to tell me about this?”
Both boys stop to look at John before Dean clears his throat and speaks. “We didn’t know what it meant.”
You knew what they wanted to say. They wanted to scream, yell, holler that he wasn’t there. There was nobody to tell, because nobody was there.
John huffs, obviously agitated, and says, “All right, something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me.”
You can feel your face heating in rage. Your lips part, ready to scold, when Dean dumps both the coffee jug and his cup back on the counter, stomping toward his father.
“Call you? Are you kidding me?” Dean is shaking with hurt, with rage. “Dad, I called you from Lawrence, all right? Sam called you when I was dying. I mean, getting you on the phone? I got a better chance at winning the damn lottery!”
There’s a visible itch in John to rage, to shove his son and scream. Instead, he nods, sighing. “You’re right. Although I’m not too crazy about this new tone of yours -” John notices you stiffen, and holds up a finger. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Your jaw drops.
John Winchester, apologizing? You thought you’d die before that ever happened. And he apologized to Dean!
A chipper thought pops into your brain. ‘Dude, I gotta go to the casino, or something. This is a lucky ass day.’
“Look, guys.” Everybody’s attention is brought back to Sam. He’s just barely paler than he was, and there’s a red rim around his eyes. “Visions or no visions, fact is, we know the demon is coming tonight. And this family’s gonna go through the same hell we went through.”
John’s chest puffs, and he shakes his head. “No, they’re not. No one is, ever again.”
Sam’s phone rings. He flips it open, quickly putting it on speaker. “Hello?”
“Sam?”
“Who is this?”
“Think real hard. It’ll come to you, I promise.”
You stiffen. Sam’s confusion drops, his annoyance visible only by the twitch in his brow. “Meg.”
Both John and Dean startle, staring at Sam with wide eyes. You gently lay your head on the table, listening.
You’re real fucking tired of this Meg bitch, that much is for sure.
“Last time I saw you, you fell out of a window,” Sam says, words grinding between his teeth.
“Yeah, no thanks to you. That really hurt my feelings by the way.”
“Just your feelings?” He scoffs. “That was a seven-storey drop.”
“Let me speak to your dad.”
Your head shoots up, staring. How the hell did she know John was here?
Sam glances at his father. “My dad… I don’t know where my dad is.”
“It’s time for the grownups to talk, Sam. Let me speak to him. Now.”
Though hesitant, he hands the phone to John.
“This is John.”
“Howdy, John. I’m Meg. I’m a friend of your boys. And your - girl? Doesn’t matter. I’m also the one who watched Jim Murphy choke on his own blood… Still there, John-boy?”
John’s nostrils flare. “I’m here.”
Sam’s hand slides across the table, squeezing onto yours. Your throat feels tight. You’re not saddened by the fact that Pastor Jim is dead anymore.
You’re pissed.
And Meg was the one to do it.
“Well, that was yesterday. Today, I’m in Lincoln, visiting another old friend of yours. He wants to say hi…”
There’s a rustling on her end, and a male voice comes through the phone.
“John, whatever you do, don’t give -”
The voice is cut off, followed by a soft shushing noise from Meg.
“Caleb?”
Sam’s hand tightens on yours and Dean’s entire body freezes. You, yourself, didn’t know Caleb that well, seeing as you were also closer with Jim, but you knew the boys were close with him.
John’s jaw tightens and he grits out, “You listen to me. He’s got nothin’ to do with anything. You let him go.”
“We know you have the Colt, John.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, okay. Well, listen to this.”
The call goes quiet for a second before the sound of gasping and gurgling comes through the speaker.
“Caleb?” John whispers. “Caleb!”
“You hear that?” Meg sneers. “That’s the sound of your friend dying. Now, let’s try this again. We know you have the gun, John, word travels fast. So, as far as we’re concerned, you just declared war. And this is what war looks like. It has… casualties.”
“I’m gonna kill you, you know that?”
“Oh, John, please, mind your blood pressure. So this is the thing. We’re going to keep doing what we’re doing. And your friends, anyone who has even helped you, gave you shelter, anyone you ever loved - they’ll all die unless you give us that gun.”
John goes quiet. He’s thinking, considering it. Dean is close to him, but Sam refuses to leave your side.
Meg’s sing-song voice calls, “I’m waiting, Johnny. Better answer before the buzzer.”
“Okay.”
You stare at John, fingers curled around Sam’s palm. Your nails are digging into his skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Sorry? I didn’t quite get that.”
“I said okay, I’ll bring you the Colt.”
It’s quiet for what seems like hours before Meg talks again. “There’s a warehouse in Lincoln, on the corner of Wabash and Lake. You’re gonna meet me there.”
John tuts. “It’s gonna take me about a days’ drive to get there.”
“Meet me there at midnight. Tonight.”
“That’s impossible.” His voice starts to raise, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “I can’t get there in time and I can’t just carry a gun on a plane.” “Oh.” She hums, then chuckles. “Well, I guess your friends die, don’t they? If you do decide to make it, come alone.”
They had given you the option of staying in the motel while they went around asking questions, but you shot it down before the words fully left their mouths.
You chose to go with Sam and the two of you are sitting in the filing room of the office. Sam’s in a suit and you’re wearing your pencil skirt and a white blouse, the sleeves rolled up on your arms. You’re still wearing your longhorn belt, and Sam realizes the only time you’re not wearing it is when you’re sleeping.
A nurse walks in, holding a box of files. You look up and smile at her as she sets the box down in front of Sam.
“Here you go, officer,” she coos, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Sam doesn’t even look up from his notebook. “Thank you.”
She clears her throat and mutters, “You’re welcome,” before rushing out of the room.
You reach into the box, grabbing a file, chuckling.
He glances up at you. “What?”
You’re writing in your own notebook, jotting down every birth certificate you find. “That was funny.”
“What was funny?”
“You just shot the poor girl down like you were duck hunting.” The idea throws you into a fit of laughter, having to put your pen down and throw your head back.
Sam’s just glad you’re laughing. You haven’t really spoken much since you heard about Jim, and your eyes are still puffy. But you’re laughing.
“I’m just doing my job!” He retorts, but he can’t help the smile spreading on his face.
“She was so embarrassed!” you howl, now slapping the table as you struggle to breath. “She had her - oh my God, Sam, she tried to show her cleavage through her scrubs!”
He starts laughing, too, now. “Who the hell says cleavage, Y/N?”
You finally calm, taking in a few deep breaths and wiping tears from your eyes. “Everybody, Samuel. I’m sorry, should I have said tits? Apologies, I have more decorum than your one-celled brother.”
It takes an hour for you both to finish the files. He’s glad you came with and was willing to split the work, because if you hadn’t it would’ve taken double the time.
You’re both walking out of the Salvation Medical Center when a splitting pain shoots through his head. His notebook, which he was previously flipping through, drops to the ground. He crouches, groaning, grabbing his skull.
You gasp, messenger bag falling from your shoulder as you rush to him. “Sam?” you yelp. “Sam, is it another vision?”
He can barely bring himself to nod. Suddenly, his vision turns black and images start flashing behind his eyes.
The Yellow-Eyed Demon is in a nursery, somewhere in someone’s home. It flips to a woman, a mother, staring out of the nursery window. The loud, screeching noise of a train horn echoes in his ears, and the image of the demon returns.
It’s gone as quick as it came. He blinks himself back into reality and feels the dull ache of a migraine.
“What?” you mutter, your hands cupping his face. “What happened?”
“There’s a house,” he says. His words are slurred but they’re slowly forming. “By train tracks. One of the babies lives there - that’s who he’s after.”
You process the information carefully, and then nod, reaching back for your messenger bag. You reach in to grab him your go-to migraine medicine, pouring two pills into his hand before giving him your drink.
You’ve carried extra-strength migraine medicine since Sam told you about the visions. They had started about six months before Jessica had died, but at the time they were only nightmares. They appeared to be mere nightmares. Then he started having them when he was awake, and had the worst headache for the next two days after they went away.
After Sam takes the medicine, you grab out a map, handing it to him. “Where’s it at, Sammy?” you whisper.
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
The house is across the street from a park, and looks cute and cozy. Just looking at it, Sam gets that urge to run away from hunting forever to settle down again. He’s quick to push it away when you nudge his shoulder.
“Is that her?” you ask, nodding toward a woman pushing a stroller while holding an umbrella.
He nods and stands from the park bench. You follow behind him, and he approaches the woman.
“Hi,” he says softly. “Here, let me hold that for you. You don’t look like you need that anymore.”
The woman seems shocked, but closes the umbrella and hands it to him. “Oh, thank you.”
You circle the stroller, looking inside. Almost immediately your face brightens, and Sam knows you’re not pretending. “She’s gorgeous.” You look at the woman, cheeks flushed. “Is she yours?”
You’ve always adored children. You had confessed to Sam years back that you were a very lonely child and, in your teen years, wanted nothing more than a loving husband and three kids. Two boys, one girl. The girl, of course, had to be the youngest.
“Yeah,” the woman says.
You bend, smiling and cooing at the baby. “Oh, wow, hi!” Then you look up at the mother, smiling sheepishly. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was so rude. I’m Y/N, and this is Sam, my husband. We just moved up the block.”
Sam’s face flushes a deep red and the idea of you with his ring on your finger makes his groin ache.
The woman softens a bit. “Hi, I’m Monica. This is Rosie.”
“Rosie?” Sam echoes. He goes to stand next to you, using the statement to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you closer. “Hi, Rosie.”
“We’re just trying to meet everybody in the neighborhood,” you explain, leaning close to Sam and resting your hand on his chest. Somehow, at some point, you had slid a fake ring on your finger.
It was a ring you kept on you, one your mother gave you. You’ve had to use the marriage ploy a few times with the boys, so it was easy to pull out and slide on.
“Oh!” Monica chirps. “Well, everybody here is really nice.”
“That’s fabulous.” You fake a sigh of relief, then move to rest your hand on your stomach. “It was Sammy’s idea to move. I was skeptical, being two months pregnant and all, but I’m glad this place is so nice. Everybody has been so welcoming.”
It takes everything in his power not to curl into himself. The thought - the dream of you holding his child makes him want to drag you into the Impala and just go -
“Two months!” Any doubt Monica had before, they’re gone. “Oh, have you thought of any names?”
“Not yet,” you admit. “We’re waiting to have a gender reveal to start talking about it.” You lean closer to her, as if admitting a secret. “I’m, personally, hoping for a boy.”
“Are you nervous about anything?” Monica asks. Take it up to cul-de-sac mothers to ask a million and one questions. Sam barely has to talk.
“Oh, everything.” You sigh. “I’ve never had to raise a baby before, you know? I’m scared that I won’t know how to make my baby stop crying, or when to feed it…”
Monica shakes her head, resting her hands on your shoulders. “You’re going to be a wonderful mother. It’ll come naturally. All mothers are scared of that stuff, it’s natural.” Sam sees real, honest tears spring into your eyes, but you shake them off. Monica lets go, motioning to Rosie. “She… she never cries. She just stares at everybody. Sometimes she looks at you and I swear it’s… it’s like she’s reading your mind.”
You share a glance with Sam. He finally takes the chance to speak. “And what about you, Monica? Have you lived here long?”
“My husband and I bought the place just before Rosie was born.”
“How old is she?”
“Six months today!” A proud look crosses Monica’s face and you smile. “She’s big, right? Growing like a weed.”
Sam sucks in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Monica?”
It’s like you can read his mind. You clear your throat, wrapping your arms around his elbow. “Just take care of yourself, okay? And Rosie, of course.”
Monica smiles kindly. “Yeah, of course. You, too. We’ll see you around.”
She turns and starts walking up to the house as you and Sam stroll back to the park. A station wagon turns into Monica’s driveway and you hear her voice, somewhat faint, gasp, “There’s Daddy!” to Rosie.
Another vision grips Sam’s eyesight. He gasps, fingers pressing against his temple.
Monica has the same fate as Jessica. And Rosie has the same as him.
He knows what they did was wrong. It’s a weight on his chest he fears will never leave.
He grasps at small bits of relief you give them; staying in their motel room, but refusing to be in the room when John was there; not getting angry when he sat next to you in a diner booth; letting his fingers brush against yours without trying to rip them off.
You’re all in Manning, Colorado, and for the first time in two weeks, you’re in the same room as their father.
The three of you are in John’s motel room, located just to the left of yours. The walls are covered in research and information on the yellow-eyed demon; weather charts, hieroglyphs, pictures, newspaper articles, written notes, a shelf of books, and a shit ton more.
John sits at a desk covered in papers, the Colt you nabbed from the nest in front of him. He’s been kinder to you since you returned it to him, but Dean doesn’t miss the loathing in his eyes when your back is turned. You don’t either.
Dean’s pacing around the room, Sam’s leaned up against the counter, and you’re sat at the foot of the bed, foot anxiously tapping against the floor while you gnaw on your fingernails.
“So this is it,” John says. His hands wave over the papers in front of him. “This is everything I know.”
You audibly suck in a breath. “The demon?” you whisper.
He nods, barely glancing your way. “Look, we’ve been searching for this demon, right? Not a trace. Just… nothing.” He spits the word out, glaring at the papers. Dean worries for a second if they’ll catch on fire. “Until about a year ago. For the first time, I picked up a trail.”
Dean nods, his pacing slowing, but not stopping. “And that’s when you took off.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” John looks at him, a glimmer of apology in his eyes. He’d left Dean alone, not knowing if he’d gather up Sam or die alone on a case. “The demon must’ve come out of hiding.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Or hibernation.”
“All right,” Dean says. He sits next to you, his hand coming to fall on your knee to stop the bouncing. You stiffen, and your fingers twitch like you’re about to smack the shit out of him, but you don’t. You let him be. “So what’s this trail you found?”
John moves his arm to point at the map on the far side of the table, finger trailing the written lines as he talks. “It starts in Arizona, then New Jersey, California… Houses burned down to the ground. It’s going after families, just like it went after us.”
“Families with infants?” Sam’s voice is rough, a dark edge to it as he speaks.
“Yeah. The night of the kid’s six-month birthday.”
His brother’s brows furrow. “I was six months old that night?”
John nods. “Six months exactly.”
“So, basically,” Sam starts, moving away from the counter. “This demon is going after kids for some reason. The same way it came for me? So Mom’s death… Jessica, it’s all because of me?”
Dean frowns, staring at his brother. “We don’t know that, Sam.”
“Oh, really?” he scoffs. He’s getting upset, but Dean knows he’s scared. Scared that these kids and families dying is resting on his shoulders. “Cause I’d say we’re pretty damn sure, Dean.”
“For the last time,” he snarls. “What happened to them was not your fault.”
Sam’s voice raises until he’s yelling. “Right. It’s not my fault but it’s my problem!”
“No, it’s not your problem, it’s our problem!”
“Stop!” you holler, standing. “Sam, get your head out of your ass. Not every little thing in the world is your fault. And Dean?” you swivel to turn to him. “Stop making yourself the savior, okay? You both need to calm the hell down so we can figure out how the fuck we can kill this thing!”
Seething, you sit back down.
Sam clears his throat, trying to empty the air of embarrassment. “So why’s he doing it? What does he want?”
“Look, I wish I had more answers, I really do. I’ve always been one step behind it. I’ve never gotten there in time to save…” John stops abruptly, hanging his head and closing his eyes in shame.
“All right, so how do we find it?” you ask. “Before it’s too late.”
You’ve never spoken to John this much. Ever. Dean wonders what changed, why you stopped acting the way you did around him. Was it because you weren’t scared anymore?
Or were you too angry to be scared?
“There’s signs,” John says. He raises his head and looks at you, in the eyes. It makes Dean’s brows furrow. “It took me a while to see the patterns but it’s there in the days before these fire signs crop up in an area. Cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms. And then I went back and I looked, and… and….”
Dean finishes his sentence for him. “These things happened in Lawrence.”
Now your hand rests on his knee, your fingers brushing over his jeans. Lawrence and what happened to his mother is a sore subject, but he’s able to talk about it. It’s so easy to talk about his mother and what he remembers.
John nods. “A week before your mother died. And is Palo Alto, before… Jessica. And these signs, they’re starting again.”
“Where?” Sam asks.
Their father turns to look at him. “Salvation, Iowa.”
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
The road is dim and misty, lightened by the morning light. John’s truck rumbles ahead of the Impala, and you’re laying in the back, sleeping. Your shoes are kicked off, set on the ground, and Sam had to close your book before you woke up and realized you lost your page.
They’d been driving all night, and Dean had only switched with Sam one time after he noticed he started dozing off. You’d only fallen asleep a few hours prior, wanting to stay up and watch the road like you always do when they drive.
Suddenly, John’s truck glides off the road, pulling to the shoulders. He barely turns his hazards on before he springs out of the door. Sam and Dean are right behind him, careful to quietly shut the doors before they walk up to their father.
“God damn it!” he hollers.
“What is it?” Dean asks, confused.
John’s pacing the road, hand pressed against his forehead. “Son of a bitch!”
“Dad, what is it?”
John stops, turning to face them. “I just got a call from Caleb.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” He sighs, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Jim Murphy is dead.”
Fuck.
A cold ball rises in Dean’s chest. He looks back at the Impala and just barely sees you sitting up, blinking blearily. Your hair is a mess and you smack your lips.
You were attached to Pastor Jim. He was like a father to you - a better father than your own. He treated you and your mother damn good, even helped your mother with the bills from time to time. Jim was the man to teach you about demon hunting.
“Pastor Jim?” Sam chokes out. “How?”
“His throat was slashed. He bled out. Caleb said they found traces of sulfur at Jim’s place.”
“Demon.” John nods at Dean, who asks, “The demon?”
“I don’t know. Could be he just got careless, he slipped up. Maybe the demon knows we’re getting close.”
“What do we do?”
John takes a step closer, pointing to the boys while he talks. Dean faintly hears the door to the Impala closing, and he feels his throat tighten. “Now we act like every second counts. There’s two hospitals and a health center in this county. We split up, cover more ground. I want records. I want a list of every infant that’s going to be six months old in the next week.”
“Dad, that could be dozens of kids,” Sam splutters. Your shuffled footsteps are slowly getting closer. “How do we know which one’s the right one?”
“We check them all, that’s how.” John gets that sergeant voice again. The boys subconsciously straighten. “You got any better ideas?”
Sam shakes his head. “No, sir.”
John glances behind the boys as you’re barely five feet away. “Damn it, she’s not gonna take this well. Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid on this case.”
Dean clears his throat and nods. “Yes, sir.”
“What’s goin’ on?” you mumble. You’re wearing a freakishly large hoodie you nabbed from Bobby last year, and for the first time in a long time Dean sees you wearing sweatpants.
Sam frowns. “Y/N, let’s go back in the car. We’ll tell you about it then.”
You’re quick to note the seriousness in his voice. “No,” you say. Your voice is strong and you straighten, frowning. “What happened?”
The boys are quiet for too long.
“I heard you guys talking. John seemed pissed.” Your brows furrow and you seem to stare into their souls. “Sam, what the hell happened?”
“Y/N, it’s Pastor Jim…” Sam can’t seem to get the rest out of his mouth, but you already know what he’s going to say.
“No,” you whisper, stepping back. Your feet scuffle and you almost trip, but you right yourself immediately. “No.” You look at Dean, your eyes wide and teary. “Dean, no. Don’t tell me -”
“It was a demon, Y/N,” he says softly. “He’s gone. I’m so sorry.”
Your body seems to crumble. You break into hysteria, your knees slamming roughly against the blacktop road and your hands tugging at your hair. “No!” you scream. “No, no, no!”
“Y/N -”
“No!”
Your screams echo on the empty road and you’re choking on your sobs, damn near a panic attack. Both Sam and Dean rush toward you, dropping to their knees. Dean’s the first to tug you toward him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” His whispers make your sobs lighten, just barely, as his hands pet at your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
You sniffle, still breathing heavily, but you somehow force out, “How did it happen?”
Dean hesitates, but Sam’s the one to make up for it. “Caleb found him. His throat was slit.”
You gag, rolling away from Dean and crawling to the grass. You vomit what little is in your stomach and continue to dry-heave.
Dean’s chest hurts. It feels like there’s an axe in his heart, rusted and snapped. He doesn’t know what to do, how to comfort you.
Sam’s always been better at it. Dean’s good at patching up physical wounds, Sam’s good at the emotional ones.
His brother walks toward you, rubbing his hand along your spine until you stop heaving. “We need to go, Y/N.”
You choke on a sob and nod. “I know, I know.” You go to stand, but it’s like your legs are jelly and you crumble.
Dean takes a deep breath and rounds the Impala, opening the door. Sam hoists you up, one arm under your legs and another supporting your back. You rest your head on his shoulders, your cries reduced to near-silent.
He lays you carefully on the rear bench seat and you curl into yourself, wiping your snot and tears onto the hoodie. It’s a comfort item for you, Dean’s noticed.
Soon, the Impala is back on the road, but Dean can’t stop looking back in the rearview. It takes another hour for you to fall asleep, and you don’t wake up until they arrive at a motel.
John had spoken to cops. Dean read the journal, learning more about the vamps - they hunt in groups of eight to ten. Of course, Sam is already starting to argue with his dad, a never-ending cycle. The two had a full blow-out on the side of the road, damn near trying to kill each other.
Now, the three of them are hidden in the trees above the vampire’s lair. One of the vamps just walked inside.
“Son a bitch,” Dean mutters, his voice low. “So they’re really not afraid of the sun?”
“Direct sunlight burns them like a nasty sunburn,” John says. “The only way to kill ‘em is by beheading. And yeah, they sleep during the day, doesn’t mean they don’t wake up.”
Just his voice alone makes a ball of rage gather in his chest. He’s never really seen eye-to-eye with his father, but the way he treated you and the way he spoke about you just added fuel to the fire.
“I guess walking in isn’t our best option,” Dean whispers, bringing Sam back to the case.
“Actually.” A smile grows on his father’s face. “That’s the plan.”
Moments later, the boys are grabbing weapons from the trunk of the Impala and John is grabbing his own from a hidden compartment that slides from the back of his truck. John’s muttering a story about the colt Dean wants to know about so badly, but Sam is hardly listening.
They haven’t seen you since you stormed out last night. You didn’t return to the motel room, and you haven’t been answering his calls or texts.
They head towards the barn - the vamp’s lair, as Dean dubbed it. They’re barely ten yards from the door when it sounds like the whole fucking place is being torn down. Screaming and hollering, wood splintering, thunking inside.
By the time they get to the barn doors, it’s barely a minute, but the majority of the commotion has died down. John kicks the door open just as the last body crumbles onto the floor.
You’re feral. Blood covers so much on your skin that Sam can barely see it, your hair is ratty and knotted, clothes torn. You’re breathing heavily, teeth bared, with a machete in hand. Your eyes are aflame as you look at them, then grab the woman standing behind you. She’s pale and shivering, and you storm toward the doors, stepping on bodies rather than over on your way there.
You glare at them, wiping blood from your eyes as you shove the woman towards Dean and damn near throw the machete at John. “You’re late,” you snarl, storming toward the Camaro the vampire they’d seen was driving.
Sam is the first to snap out of his stupor. “Wait!” he yells, jogging after you. “Are you okay? Where have you been? What the hell just happened?”
You twist on your heels, your boots kicking gravel. Your fingers curl around the horns of your longhorn buckle and you whip out the silver blade, pressing it against his chest. “Don’t even, Samuel,” you hiss. “Don’t try. Don’t even try to talk to me. Not after you and your brother didn’t even bother to look for me, not when your father treats me like shit. I’m capable of murder, Sam. Look in the barn - it’s a fucking massacre. And I did it. Me. I want you to remember the gore, the blood, the bodies, when you look in my eyes. Remember what I can do, Sam, when you or your brother try to be touchy, or caring.”
His chest tightens. “Are you… are you leaving?”
“Leaving?” you eye Dean as he slowly moves forward. John stays where he is, arms crossed. Your machete lays at his feet. “No, Sam, I’m not leaving. Not yet. But I will never forget this. I will never forget these last twenty-four hours.”
“Tell me if you’re hurt.” Dean’s voice is soft, his brows furrowed.
You turn, arm straight with your knife facing him, waving it. You’re acting like a cornered animal. “Of course I am, Dean.” Your hand moves to press against your upper arm, and Sam notices blood redder than is on your skin. Your blood. “I just fought a whole fucking nest of vampires. I’m lucky the motherfuckers didn’t kill me and have me for lunch.”
“Why did you do it alone?”
Your attention is brought back to Sam, and your brows twitch. “I couldn’t very well ask you guys for help, could I? I caught their trail before you even knew there was a trail to catch. I couldn’t ask for your help when you’re following your father’s every will and wish.”
You shove them aside, stomping toward John. The woman you saved is standing a few steps away from him.
Sam can do nothing but watch as you backhand his father. When John straightens, there’s a fire in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. “You ever speak about my mother like that again, I’ll peel your fucking skin from your bones,” you threaten. Sam believes every word you say. “Just because you heard things doesn’t mean you know anything. You can say whatever you want to and about me, but if you even think of my mother that way again, I’ll make sure you don’t have a fucking tongue to talk with.”
“J.W.?” Sam frowns at the letter in Dean’s hand. The boys just got back from the Impala after rifling through Elkins’ post office box, finding only one letter.
“It’s gotta be John,” you say from the backseat. You have a flashlight in hand with John’s journal in your lap, seated in the middle with your legs crossed underneath you.
“I don’t know…” Dean whispers.
“Uh, Dean?”
“Think we should open it?”
“Dean?”
He turns to you. “What?”
You point the flashlight to his drivers’ side window with wide eyes just as a knock comes through.
Dean rears back, subconsciously raising an arm, ready to defend himself.
His resolve crumbles, his arm dropping. “Dad?”
The rear door opens and you scoot to the passenger side, wrapping your arms around the journal and raising your knees to your chest. Your back is pressed against the door.
You’ve always been… weird around his father. He can almost see the way your entire body clenches, and you become quiet, scared. He doesn’t understand why.
The boys both twist in the backseat. Sam notices your demeanor almost instantly, and rests a large hand on your knee. “Dad? What are you doing here? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” John says. He barely even notices you. You seem more comfortable that way. “I read the news about Daniel, I got here as fast as I could. I saw you all at his place.”
“Why didn’t you come in?” Sam asks softly. For a moment he sounds like Sammy again, like the little kid Dean had to watch when their father went on hunts, leaving them in random motel rooms.
“You know why.” John’s voice is rough, glaring at his youngest son. “Because I had to make sure you weren’t being followed, by anyone or anything. Nice job covering your tracks, by the way.”
Dean’s chest swells with pride. “Yeah, well, we learned from the best.”
“Wait,” Sam splutters, shaking his head. His fingers tremble on your knee. Dean can see it. “You came all this way for this Elkins guy?”
“Yeah. He was… he was a good man. He taught me a hell of a lot about hunting.” His head swivels to you, eyes narrowing. “Why the hell does she have my journal? I gave it to you, Dean, to learn from. Not to hand off to some tramp you find on the side of the road.”
You flinch violently, shaking Sam’s hand off your knee. You slam the journal down on the seat and throw the Impala door open, storming out. The door shuts with a bang.
“Jesus Christ, Dad,” Dean hisses. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’ve known Y/N since we were kids. What the hell was that about?” Sam asks.
“Please,” John scoffs. “The girl’s only stuck around to roll in the sheets with you boys. I’ve known that for years. Known since I met her mother.”
Sam and Dean fall silent. You never said anything about your mother, or your father for that matter. All they knew about your family was that you were an only child.
“You knew her mom?” Dean asks quietly.
John merely scoffs, not speaking anymore.
There’s a deep pit in Dean’s gut. He has a strong, uncontrollable urge to run after you, to find where you disappeared to and make sure you were okay. But his father was here. John was back.
Sam is the one to bring the subject back. “You never mentioned Elkins to us, Dad.”
“We had a… we had a kind of falling out. I hadn’t seen him in years.” He waves his hand at the envelope. “I should look at that.” He rips the envelope open with his thumb, unfolding the paper inside and reading the beginning out loud. “‘If you’re reading this, I’m dead.’ That son of a bitch.”
“What?” Dean asks, leaning over the bench seat. “What is it?”
“He had it the whole time.”
Sam sighs, impatient. “Dad, what? What did he have?”
John leans forward, an urgent glint in his eyes. “When you searched the place, did you see a gun? An old revolver, an antique, did you see it?”
Dean frowns. “Uh, there was an old case. But it was - it was empty.”
John opens the door to the Impala, starting to get out. “We gotta pick up the trail.”
“Dad, wait,” Dean rushes, jumping out of the car. “What about Y/N? We gotta find her.”
“If Elkins was telling the truth, we gotta find this gun.”
A cold feeling settles on Dean’s chest. His father didn’t care about finding you. He didn’t care about the fact that he left his sons on whatever heartfelt mission he’s got stuck in his head. He cared about the case.
And Dean knew, no matter how bad it hurt him, that he would do whatever John asked.
“The gun,” Sam says. He thinks the same way as Dean, he knows that. John is their father, their sergeant. “Why?”
John nearly spits the words out. “Because it’s important. That’s why.”
“Dad, we don’t even know what these things are yet.”
“They were what Daniel Elkins killed best.” Their father gives a dramatic pause. “Vampires.”
“Vampires?” Dean echoes. You’re pushed to the back of his mind, no matter how much the pain of it burns. “I thought there was no such thing.”
Sam adds, “You never mentioned them, Dad.”
“I thought they were extinct,” John explains. “I thought Elkins and the others had wiped them out. I was wrong.”
The boys make you all stay in the motel for an extra week for you to heal. Dean catches you up after you wake up in an empty motel the next morning, no messages, no boys.
He, unsurprisingly, did not listen to Sam, and went down into the sewers. Unlucky for him, though, the skinwalker was pretending to be Rebecca and was currently with Sam. Dean did find the right Rebecca tied up in those nasty ass sewers, and the boys were able to kill the skinwalker right after he shifted into Dean. So, now, the cops believe Dean Winchester killed Emily, Zach is free, and Dean Winchester is legally dead.
The boys also make sure you get your trip to the arch. You brought your handy-dandy Polaroid and now have more pictures to add to your photobook.
It’s been two months since the skinwalker place. You and the boys are now sitting in a cafe in Nebraska. Dean’s flipping through a newspaper, legs crossed, and Sam is scrolling on his laptop. You’re sat between them, Dean facing Sam and your back facing the diner bar, a warm tea in front of you and a book in your hands.
Dean sighs, folding the paper up and setting it on the table. “Not a decent lead in all of Nebraska. What have you got?”
His hand moves from the newspaper to rest on your thigh. You don’t look up from the book. Not when the toe of Sam’s shoe is rubbing against your knee.
“Well,” Sam starts. His foot pauses, and you finally look up. “I’ve been scanning Wyoming, Colorado, South Dakota. Here -” he points at the screen despite neither of you being able to see it - “A woman in Iowa fell ten thousand feet from an airplane and survived.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “That… sounds more like “That’s incredible!” than the “Twilight Zone”.”
“Yeah,” Sam sighs.
“You know, we could just keep headin’ east -” he gives your thigh one lasting squeeze before intertwining his fingers on the table - “New York, upstate. Could stop by and see Sarah again, huh?” Dean gets that teasing look in his eye, and that award-winning smirk on his face. “She’s a cool chick, man. Smokin’.” He whistles. “You two seemed pretty friendly. What do you say?”
You chuckle. Sarah was a woman from New York that you had all met while working a case. She was the daughter of an art gallery owner and helped you guys destroy a cursed painting, all while risking her own life. Her and Sam shared a strong attraction, but because of The Job, Sam had to leave. Dean refuses to let it go.
Sam has a soft, subtle smile, but it’s quick to disappear. His foot rubs against your leg again. “Yeah, I dunno. Maybe someday. In the meantime, we’ve got a lot of work to do, Dean. You know that.”
“Yeah, all right,” his brother relents.
You close your book, picking up your tea in both hands. “Anything else, Sammy?”
Your voice is soft as you speak. Despite knowing the boys for so long, ever since the shapeshifter case, you’ve all been a lot closer. Probably because you’ve never really gotten injured on a case. A gunshot here and there, a few cuts and scrapes, that’s to be expected. But a knife wound running from your hip to the bottom of your ribs is a little different.
They’ve become a lot touchier in the last two months. Subtle traces of it; Dean walking next to you with a hand on the small of your waist; Sam standing behind you while you’re researching, his hands massaging your shoulders or playing with your hair.
They’re less subtle with what they say now, especially Dean. He was quick to return your longhorn belt to you, telling you to put it on, then and there. You had frowned, confused, until he explained that he liked the way the buckle emphasized the tiny little inch of skin visible between your pants and the hem of your shirt.
Sam is always subtle. That’s just how Sam is. But he’s been doing more, like asking about your book and reading your favorite books.
They both make your head whirl.
“Uhhh,” Sam starts, scrolling on the mousepad. “A man in Colorado, a local man named Daniel Elkins was found mauled in his home.”
“Elkins…” Dean draws the word out. “I know that name.”
Sam shrugs. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Dean starts muttering the name, digging in his bag, grabbing out John’s journal.
“Sounds like the police don’t know what to think,” Sam says. “At first they said it was some sort of bear attack and now they’ve found some signs of robbery.”
Dean hums, then stops flipping through the pages to shove his finger onto one. “There, check it out.”
Both you and Sam lean closer to read the page of the journal.
Sammy is a year old. We spent his birthday in the mountains, because I had to meet a guy named Daniel Elkins. The hunter culture is weird about how it breaks in new blood. Everyone you meet says you should go meet someone else, and learn something else, and everytime you meet someone else they take you out to hunt their favorite kind of monster. This guy Elkins lives in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere in Colorado, and according to him, he’s the greatest vampire hunter alive.
Vampires.
“You think it’s the same Elkins?” Sam asks, pushing the journal back to his brother.
“It’s a Colorado area code.”
“Dean,” you whisper, pointing to the last word under John’s paragraph. “You think this has anything to do with Elkins’ death?”
He stares at the word vampires and frowns. “I don’t know. I don’t think Dad’s ever seen one, you know?”
Elkins’ cabin really was in the middle of nowhere. Finding it was damn near impossible in the dark, and poor you was sitting in the back with a flashlight, flipping through his father’s journal to read more about Elkins.
The door to the cabin creaks open and Sammy stands, shoving his lockpick in his pocket. Dean is standing behind him, lantern in hand. He looks around the room, eyeing the cabin. It looked like a tornado ran through it two times over. “Looks like the maid didn’t come today.”
He glances behind him to make sure you’re there, and sees you shoving the journal into your messenger bag. Your hair has grown a bit longer in the last two months, the black curls now brushing your shoulders. You’re wearing a black tank top and flare jeans, your trademark belt glinting in the light of the lantern.
Dean leads you in by the arm, slightly leading you to look through the cabin with him. He makes his way to the desk and starts flipping through a journal sat on the top.
“Hey, there’s salt over here,” Sam says, eyeing the ground near the door. “Right beside the door.”
“Protection against demon salt or ‘whoops, I spilled the popcorn’ salt?”
“It’s clearly a ring.”
You’re rifling through a dusty pile of books when you answer, not even straightening up to talk. “John says in the journal that Elkins taught him everything he knows about vampires. What kills them, what doesn’t kill them, and that he believes they’re extinct.” Finding nothing, you stand up and turn to them, hands on your hips. “Dude was a player.”
“How much of that damn journal did you read?” Dean scoffs.
You shrug. “‘How to Kill Vampires 101’ is page twenty-two.”
Sam comes up behind Dean, looking at the journal. “That looks a hell of a lot like Dad’s.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, tearing his eyes away from you and back at the book in front of him. “Except this dates back to the 60s.”
The boys move to another room and shine the lantern around the destruction. You follow, pointing at a hole in the roof. “Jesus Christ. I thought Santa Claus was supposed to use the chimney.”
The boys ignore the joke. “Whatever attacked him,” Sam begins, “it looks like there was more than one.”
“Looks like he put up a hell of a fight, too,” Dean says.
All of a sudden, you squat down onto the floor, rubbing your scarred finger against the scratched wood.
“You got something?” Sam asks.
“I dunno,” you mutter. “Scratches on the floor.”
“Death throes?”
You shrug, slinging your messenger bag off to rifle through for your notepad. You rip a page out and grab a pencil, placing the paper on the floor and rubbing the lead against the marks.
“It’s a message,” Dean says. He moves to squat next to you.
You turn the page to him for a second before turning it to Sam. “Look familiar, Harvard?”
“Three letters, six digits. The location and combination of a post office box.” Sam’s brows jump. “It’s a mail drop.”
You smile and stand, slapping him on the shoulder. “I knew we sent you to college for a reason.”
Dean lingers on the floor for a split second to catch a quick glimpse of your - uh, jeans - before standing up. “Just the way Dad does it.” He rests a hand on your arm, smiling. “Nice work.”
You give a breathtaking smile and throw your bag back on, putting the paper inside.
You all round Rebecca’s house and spot the Impala parked on the street a few hundred feet away. You can see the way Dean’s shoulders slump in relief, Your entire body almost drags, glad to see the car and a source of rest.
Your body is exhausted. The adrenaline has worn off and your side starts to emanate a burning, sharp pain into your ribs. You can feel your energy draining, sucked out of your body from the loss of blood. Dean’s makeshift bandage did wonders, but it’s definitely not stitches.
Dean starts walking toward the car, the usual pep in his step gone due to supporting most of your weight.
A dark, black car pulls up and parks next to the Impala. The only visible tell is the white strip across the side of the car, indicating what it is. “Shit,” Dean hisses, pushing you back. He turns around, only to see another police car parked a few yards away. “Fuck, this way, this way.”
He starts leading you - dragging you, really, at this point - toward a fence farther away from Rebecca’s home.
Sam kisses his teeth under his breath and stops. “You go. I’ll hold them off.”
You freeze, forcing Dean to stop. “What? No, Sam, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“Seriously,” Dean whispers, like the cops can hear him from yards away and through their doors and windows. “They’ll catch you, Sam.”
“Look, they can’t hold me. Just go, keep out of sight. Stitch her up in the motel room. Meet me at Rebecca’s.” Dean grumbles, but starts walking away. “Dean,” Sam says, stopping his brother in his tracks. “Stay out of the sewers. I mean it.”
Dean rolls his eyes and helps you brace yourself on the fence before he hops over. “I get it, Sammy.” He helps you over, careful to put you down on the other side.
You hear the distant yell of the cops and glance back to see Sam’s hands raised in the air.
It’s a quick walk to the motel room. Luckily Dean had it booked under one of his hundreds of aliases so the cops have yet to go searching for it. You’re sat in the old, faded red chair in the corner while he rifles through his back, trying to find the stitching kit.
You’re breathing heavily, head leaned back and eyes squeezed shut. “I got it,” he mutters, making his way over to you. “Okay,” he starts. His soft tone makes your eyes open. “I’m going to have to take off the bandage, and probably cut your shirt.”
“That’s fine,” you groan, peering down at him. “Just - give me your whiskey, Dean.”
He smiles a little and reaches back to the table, handing you the whole bottle. You take a long, burning swig and immediately cough, wiping the dribble from your lower lip. “Get to work, lumberjack.”
Dean simply nods, cutting the bloodstained sheet off with the knife he kept under his pillow. Your shirt is next, with him cutting it just at the edge of your bra and ripping the lower half off.
The stitching hurts, but not as much as the whiskey used to sterilize the wound. You actually cry when the brown liquid touches the cut, and your back curls. Dean had to hold your writhing body against the chair to make sure it was actually cleaned.
“I know,” he whispers as he pushes the suture needle through the first part of your skin. “I know, princess, I’m so sorry.”
You just lay your head back and sob, letting him finish what he’s doing.
It takes a total of twenty-five stitches and thirty minutes before he’s done. He actually has to pick you up and move you to the bed, and you barely even touch the sheets before you’re out cold. You feel a faint touch of lips pressed against your forehead before your vision goes totally black.
The room is dark and it reeks of dust and mildew. Dean is tied to a post, a sheet laid over him like a corpse. He shakes it off and blinks to adjust to the lack of light.
“Dean?”
“Y/N, please, God, tell me that’s you.”
“Dean…”
Dean immediately gets a strong sense of dread. “Y/N? Y/N, what the hell happened.”
“He caught me,” you whisper. A sob cracks through the air. “In the alley. Stabbed me in the side, then knocked me out with a - a brick, I think.”
“Stabbed?” he grunts, yanking at the knots. The shapeshifter was not in Boy Scouts, that’s for sure. The rope falls to the base of the beam easily. “Fuck, okay, I’m coming.”
He scrambles in the dark to make his way to you. He finds your hands tied above your head, trapping you against a beam and the pipe you’re tied to. Blood stains your white shirt and jeans, and your hair is a knotted mess on your head. A trickle of blood travels from your temple. It’s dry, dark red and crusted onto your skin.
“Jesus Christ.” He presses his hand against your side and you twist away, yelping. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Oddly enough,” you choke out. “Being shot feels a lot better than being stabbed.”
He chuckles before running back to grab the sheet that previously covered him, ripping at the threads to create a makeshift gauze.
“Damn it.”
The voice comes from farther back in the room. “Sam?” you call out. “Don’t tell me you’re that abomination.”
Dean’s busy with your bindings when Sam answers. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Well,” Dean grunts, ripping the last piece of the sheet before knotting it at your side. You wince again as he starts unbinding you. “He’s not entirely stupid. He picked the hot ones.”
He throws you a wink when you’re finally released, his hands rubbing at your shoulders to relieve the ache in your joints.
The two of you make your way to Sam just as he releases his own rope. “He looked like you, man,” he tells Dean. “And he didn’t just look like you. He was you. Or, at least, becoming you.”
“What?”
“He’s right,” you say, hand pressed against your side. “He looked like you when he got me. The only reason I knew it wasn’t was because, well, you stabbed me. Or - he stabbed me. It?”
“It’s like he was downloading your thoughts and memories,” Sam says.
“Like a weird fugly goop-leaving brain hacker,” you quip.
“He’s going to Rebecca’s. We’ve got to hurry, he’s probably already there.”
You find a window and Dean helps you climb out of it, grabbing you under the arm and lifting you out.
“Come on,” Sam says once you’re all out onto the street. “We gotta find a phone, call the police.”
“Woah, woah, woah.” Dean stops walking, staring at his brother. “You’re gonna put an APB on me.”
Sam merely shrugs. “Sorry.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. This way.”
He grabs your arm, tucking it underneath his to help you walk. You’re pale, skin glistening in sweat. They’ve got to hurry this case up - the scene of you limping, wincing every step and your blood-stained hand pushing against your wound makes his neck tight.
Walking past a TV store, you stop at the window. Dean has to stop with you, but Sam barely notices and keeps walking. “Sam,” you whisper. A reporter is on screen, speaking animatedly into a microphone.
“An anonymous tip led police to a home in Central West End, where a S.W.A.T team discovered a local woman bound and gagged. Her attacker, a white male, approximately twenty-four to thirty years of age, was discovered hiding in her home.”
A rough, grainy sketch of Dean appears on-screen. “Man!” he whines, stomping his foot childishly. “That’s not even a good picture.”
“Good enough.” Sam looks around the street, paranoid, and keeps walking. He gives you and Dean no choice but to follow. “They said attempted murder. At least we know that -”
“I - he didn’t kill her.”
Sam nods. “I’ll check in with Rebecca in the morning, see if she’s all right.”
“Fine by me,” Dean says. “But first, I wanna find that handsome devil and beat his ass.”
“We have no weapons, Dean,” you say. “No silver bullets. Nothing. The freak even took my belt.”
Dean loved that belt. The big ass longhorn buckle’s horns double as a silver knife. Plus, he liked watching the buckle sway as you walked.
But that’s neither here nor there.
“Listen, Y/N. The guy’s walking around with my face, okay? It’s a little personal. I’m attached to my face. I want to find this guy.”
“Where the hell do we look?” Sam asks.
“The sewers?” you suggest. Even the idea of it makes your nose curl in disgust. Dean doesn’t know how to feel about you joining along, especially with the way you’re looking. But he knows better than to say anything - injured or not, you’d whoop his ass for trying to tell you what to do.
“We still need weapons,” Sam says.
“I’m betting money he took the car,” Dean answers. “Drove it to Rebecca’s.”
“News says he fled on foot. It’s probably still parked there.”
Dean frowns. “The thought of him drivin’ my car,” he grumbles.
You sigh heavily and Sam rolls his eyes, mumbling, “All right, come on.”
You’re sulking toward the wall of the sewer, refusing to touch it and refusing to look at the greywater beneath you.
“I bet this runs to Zach’s place, too,” Sam says.
“Nasty freak is using this vile place to move around,” you complain, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“Look at this.” Dean bends down, staring at a mushy, gooey pile of a mix of skin at blood. Their faces curl, and Dean hears you audibly gag.
“Oh my God, I’m crawling out of the Arch window. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m quitting my job.”
While Dean chuckles, Sam ignores you. “Is this… from his victims?”
Dean shrugs, flicking out a pocket knife and squatting, using it to pick up a bit of the mush pile. You gag again, and he cringes.
“Put it down, Dean, oh, God.”
“What if…” Dean starts, frowning at the lump of skin on his knife. “What if this thing sheds its skin after shifting into someone.”
“Jesus, someone get me out of here.”
Dean sighs, shaking his head. He helps you out of the sewer, and you’re all soon standing at the trunk of the Impala. “One thing I learned from Dad?”
“Silver bullet to the heart, cool. Someone get me some fucking ginger ale and crackers, I’m gonna throw up.”
Sam’s phone rings, and he closes it as Dean closes the trunk. “This is Sam.”
It’s on speaker. Dean hears Rebecca through the phone, and watches as you lean closer to nosily hear better.
“Where are you?”
“We’re near Zach’s. We’re just… checkin’ some things out.”
“Well, look, Sam, just stop. I really don’t need your help anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told the lawyers that we went to the crime scene.”
Sam scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Why would you do that?”
“Well, I told them that we were with a police officer. And they checked it out, and they told me that there is no detective Dean Winchester.”
You visibly wince, giving Dean an awkward look.
Sam continues. “Bec -”
“No, Sam, I don’t understand why you would lie about something like that.”
“Bec, I’m sorry, but -”
“No. Goodbye, Sam.”
The call dips with a beep, and Sam sighs, disappointed.
“I hate to say it,” Dean starts. “But that’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about. You lie to your friends because if they knew the real you, they’d be freaked. They just - it’d be easier if -”
“If I was like you.”
“Hey, man,” Dean groans. His brother has a dejected look on his face, and he can see you gnawing on your lip, itching to end the conversation. “Like it or not, we are not like other people. But I’ll tell you one thing. This whole gig - it ain’t without perks.”
You clear your throat, handing a gun to Sam before he tucks it in the waist of his jeans.
“I think we’re close to its lair.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because there’s another puke-inducing pile next to your face.”
Sam turns to see the aforementioned pile goobing off a pipe and jumps back, holding a fist to his mouth. “Oh, God.”
You grumble, moving over to a pile of slightly-moist clothes in the corner. “Looks like the freak has lived here for a while.”
“Who knows how many murders he’s gotten away with?” Sam whispers.
He turns to Dean, eyes wide. “Dean!”
Dean twists, seeing the same man that got escorted in the police, a sick, twisted smile on his face. “Sam!”
Before Dean can react, the man’s fist collides with his face and Dean crumbles to the ground.
Sam is quick to push you behind him, pistol in hand. The shifter is sprinting down the sewer drain and Sam lets a few bullets fly, but never once does he hit.
“Get the son of the bitch!” Dean hollers.
Dean is the first out of the manhole, pistol raised and ready. When it’s clear, you follow, Sam behind you.
“Can’t see him,” Dean says.
Sam nods. “Let’s split up.”
You start walking away, unholstering the pistol on your hip and holding it with two hands. Dean hesitates, but starts walking down the alley opposite of yours. He doesn’t find anything in the alley, or on the street for that matter.
He finally runs back into Sam on one of the street corners. People give them odd glances, but they merely keep walking. “Anything?”
“No,” Sam sighs. “He’s gone.”
They head toward the Impala, but Dean pauses before opening the door. “Think he found another way underground?”
“Yeah, probably.” Sam tosses the Dean the keys, but freezes after. “Hey, where’s Y/N.”
Dean freezes, looking around frantically. He sees no sign of you; not your bobbed black hair or your trademark red lipstick. “Fuck, Sam.”
Sam eyes his brother suspiciously. “Hey, didn’t Dad face a shapeshifter in San Antonio?”
Dean scoffs. “What the hell does that have to do with where Y/N went?”
“There’s gotta be something in his journal, right?”
Pausing to think, Dean shakes his head. “Nah, man, that was Austin. It was a psychic projection though, remember? Turned out not to be a shapeshifter after all.”
Dean moves to the trunk, popping it open. Sam withdraws his gun, pointing it at his brother. “Don’t. Move.”
“Dude, chill,” he chuckles. “It’s me, alright?”
“No, I don’t think so. Where’s Y/N? Where’s my brother?”
The shapeshifter smirks, lips curling evilly before he swings the crowbar, and Sam’s vision goes black.
You’re all sitting around the coffee table in Rebecca’s living room, watching every little piece of the security tape.
“I’ll be home tomorrow night,” the man says in the tape. “I’ll make it up to you.”
He gives the woman a kiss before he gets in his car and drives away. Then, the tape shows Zach watching Emily go back into the house. His smile curls wickedly, and you barely catch the silver glint in his eyes before they return to normal.
“Here he comes,” Rebecca whispers, finger pointing at the screen.
The tape shows Zach entering the house, and Dean says, “22:04, That’s just after ten. You said time of death was about 10:30.”
“Our lawyers hired some kind of video expert. He says the tape’s authentic. It wasn’t tampered with.”
Sam notices something and clears his throat. “Hey, uh, Rebecca? Think we can get those beers now?”
She seems confused for a moment, but shrugs and stands. “Sure.”
“Hey,” he says before she makes it to the kitchen. “Maybe some sandwiches, too?”
Rebecca scoffs. “What do you think this is, Hooters?”
“I wish,” Dean mutters, lip pinched between his teeth.
You tut, smacking him in the chest before turning your attention to Sam. “What is it?”
“Check this out.” He rewinds the tape, showing the clip where Zach’s eyes flash silver. He pauses it, pointing to the eyes.
“Yeah, I saw that, too,” you mention.
“Maybe it’s just a flare.”
Sam looks at Dean like he’s stupid. “That’s not like any camera flare I’ve ever seen.”
You quip, “A lot of cultures actually think that a photograph can catch a glimpse of a soul. Maybe this creature can only be visible through film?”
“Remember that dog that was freakin’ out?” Sam asks. “Maybe he saw this thing. Maybe this is some kind of dark double of Zach’s, something that looks like him but isn’t him.”
“Like a doppelganger.” Dean rests his head on his hand, thinking.
“Yeah. That would explain how he was in two places at once.”
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
“What the hell are we doin’ here at 5:30 in the morning?” Dean grumbles.
You’re sitting in the backseat, eyes swollen with sleep and lips curled down in discontent. “Ditto.”
Sam’s staring at the back of Zach’s house, where Dean parked. “The tape,” he starts. “It shows the killer going in, but not going out.”
“So, he came out the back door?” Dean asks.
“Right,” Sam says. “So there must be a trail to follow. A trail police wouldn’t think to follow.”
“So, he came out the back door?”
The boys step out of the car, Dean immediately going to lean on the hood. You’re slow to exit, blinking sleepily and resting almost your entire body weight on Sam.
Dean glances at you, the corner of his lip quirking in a smirk. “You alright there, princess?”
“I’ll shoot you in your dick.”
“Forgot how much you hated mornings.”
“I have a gun on me as we speak, Dean.”
Sam looks around the outside of the home, eyeing every inch he can see in the slow beginnings of sunlight. “Blood.” You straighten, looking at the telephone pole he’s walking toward. “Somebody came this way.”
“The trail ends,” you say, staring down at the smear of blood. “I don’t see anything”
The wailing of an ambulance drives past, and you sigh. “Fuck. Let’s go.”
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
Dean’s talking to a woman outside of a house. You watch as a man is handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police car.
“What happened?”
The woman, a crazed, gossip-gluttoned look in her eyes, is quick to speak. “He tried to kill his wife. Tied her up and beat her.”
“Really?” Sam’s brows jump.
She nods. “I used to see him going to work in the mornings. He’d wave, say hello. He seemed like such a nice guy.”
You’re still watching the police car as they drive away before turning to the woman yourself. “I’m a journalist with the Riverfront Times,” you say, pulling a notepad from the messenger back slung over your shoulder. “Could you tell me anything else you heard, or saw?”
“Will you be using my name?”
“Only with your consent.”
“Well, where do I start?”
The woman doesn’t stop talking for almost another thirty minutes. You finally find a way to wave her off after you learn that she has nothing more important to talk about than the local gossip.
Sam’s moseying around the property, and moves from the side of the house to meet Dean at the front.
“Remember how I said this wasn’t our kind of problem?”
“Yeah.”
“Definitely our kind of problem.”
“What’d you find?” you ask.
Dean looks at both of you. “I just talked to the patrolman who was first on scene, heard this guy, Alex’s story. Apparently Mr. Killer was driving home from a business trip when his wife was attacked.”
“Two places at once,” Sam mutters.
“Exactly. Then, he sees himself in the house. Cops thinks he’s a nutjob.”
“Two dark doubles attacking loved ones in exactly the same way.”
“Could be the same thing doin’ it, too.”
You snap your fingers. “Shapeshifter!” you gasp. “It’s gotta be! Something that can make itself look like anyone, right?”
Dean sighs. “Every culture in the world has shapeshifter lore.”
Sam starts listing things off. “Skinwalkers, werewolves…”
“We’ve got two attacks within blocks of each other. Both are the exact same thing. I’m bettin’ money if we talk to Zach, he’ll say the same thing the killer here did.” You frown. “But… shapeshifters can’t fly, can they?”
“What?” they both say in unison.
“The trail of blood in both places,” you say, pointing to the trail Sam found earlier. Someone had run out of the building and went off in a different direction. “They both just end. Disappear. Where the hell is this thing going?”
The three of you follow the trail. “Well, there’s another way to go.” Dean looks down at the manhole. “Down.” You whine, chin falling to your chest. “I hate my job.”
“Yeah, of course,” Dean hums. He gets out of the Impala, opening the door for Rebecca. “I’m an officer of the law.”
You hold back a scoff and walk toward Zach’s home. Inside, the furniture and walls are smeared with blood. It reeks of death and decay, the smell of old blood pungent in your nostrils. Rebecca stays on the porch steps.
Sam stops just before the edge of the door, turning to her. “Bec, you wanna stay outside?”
She audibly gulps, but pushes through and says, “No, I wanna help.” Ducking under the police tape, she makes her way inside, unable to look at the overfill of blood.
Sam stops her just before fully entering the living room. “So, tell us what else the police said.”
She starts off her sentence tearfully. “Well, there’s no sign of a break-in. They say that Emily let her attacker in. The lawyers - they’re already talking about a plea bargain.” She pauses to look around the room, choking on her sobs. “Oh, God…”
You’re quick to step forward, bringing her head down onto your shoulder. She cries into you, her entire body shaking with grief.
“Look, Bec, if Zach didn’t do this, that means that someone else did,” Sam says. “Any idea who?”
Becky lifts her head off of your shoulder but stays close to your side, your hand rubbing up and down her back as she begins to remember something.
“Um, there was something, about a week before. Somebody broke in and stole some clothes - Zach’s clothes. The police - they don’t think it’s anything. I mean, we’re not that far from downtown. Sometimes people get robbed.”
Sam begins walking away, and Dean moves closer to the open door. He eyes the barking neighbor’s dog, and Rebecca moves away from you to head towards him.
“You know,” she says. “That used to be the sweetest dog.”
You and Dean exchanged a look before he asks, “What happened?”
“He just changed.”
You step forward, bringing her attention to you. “Do you remember when that happened? Did something attack him or the house?”
“I… I guess around the time of the murder.”
Dean glances at her before moving away. You stay with Rebecca, giving the boys the chance to explore the home.
Sam’s standing in the hallway when Dean walks in, staring at a picture of him with Zach and Rebecca.
“So, the neighbor’s dog went psycho right around the time Zack’s girlfriend was killed.”
Sam barely looks away when he says, “Animals can have a sharp sense of the paranormal.”
Dean risks a look down the hall at you and Rebecca. You’re standing in the doorway facing in, making sure she doesn’t look toward the bloodied living room. His heart aches for the both of you, for the pain Rebecca is in and for you being the go-to comforter in their cases. It can weigh on you, he knows that, but he knows you comforting the victim is better than either of the boys doing it.
“Yeah. Maybe Fido saw somethin’.”
Sam finally turns to him, arms crossed and brow cocked. “So, you finally think this is our kinda problem?”
“No,” Dean scoffs, but he knows Sam’s right. There’s something off about this. “Probably not. But we should look at the security tape, you know, just to make sure.”
Footsteps alert them to you walking Rebecca over to them.
“So, the security tape,” Dean says. “The footage - you think maybe your lawyers could get their hands on it? ‘Cause I just don’t have that kind of jurisdiction.”
“I’ve already got it,” she says. “I didn’t wanna say something in front of a cop.” Dean laughs, the familiar role of deceit comforting to him. “I stole it off the lawyer’s desk. I just had to see it for myself.”
The door opens to show a woman Dean is most definitely gonna try to sleep with. She’s got straight, blonde hair and light brown eyes.
She also has a vagina, so that aids him.
“Sam!” she gasps. “Oh my God!”
“Well, if it isn’t little Becky.”
The way he says her name makes your brow jump, but you don’t say anything.
“You know what you can do with that little Becky crap.” She smiles, wide and white, and she hugs Sam around the shoulders.
“I got your email,” Sam says when Becky backs up a little bit.
She shakes her head, saying, “I didn’t think you would come here.”
Dean takes a step toward her, extending his hand with his award-winning womanizing smile. “Dean, older brother.”
Becky doesn’t let him see, but all women can tell when another woman is interested in a man. She shakes his hand, looking at him through her lashes. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he coos.
You click your tongue, not-so-subtly shoving him aside. “I’m Y/N. Sam told me about you and Zach on the way here. We’re here to help and do whatever we can.”
“Oh, Sam told me about you!” she gasps. “You’re the one that convinced him to go through with Harvard!”
You wince - it’s still a touchy subject between you and Dean. All those years ago, Sam came to you to vent, to ask your input on what his father said. You had told him what you so desperately wanted to hear all those years ago: “Do what makes you happy, Sam. Don’t go based on what your father, or Dean, wants. Your life belongs to you, nobody else.”
“Yeah,” you cringe. “That’s… me.”
“Come in, come in!” She doesn’t let go of your hand as she drags you in, Sam and Dean following.
“Nice place,” Dean mutters, neck craning to view the home as he shuts the door behind him.
“It’s my parents’,” Becky says. She leads you to sit down in the living room, but the others remain standing. “I was just crashing here for the long weekend when everything happened. I decided to take the semester off, and I’m staying until Zach’s free.”
Sam moves to stand at the arm of the couch you’re sitting on. “Where are the folks?”
It is a nice ass house, let’s be honest here. Some rich motherfuckers own this place.
“They live in Paris for half the year, so they’re on their way home now for the trial.”
There it is.
She starts walking to the kitchen, and you stand to follow. “Hey, do you guys want a beer?” she asks.
Dean immediately perks up, smiling ear to ear. “Hey -”
“No, thanks,” both you and Sam interrupt.
“Tell us what happened,” Sam says.
Rebecca sighs, her shoulders drooping. “Well, um, Zach came home, and he found Emily tied to a chair. And she was beaten up and bloody, and she wasn’t breathing.” Slow, quiet tears roll down her face, her crying only apparent by the slight trembles in her voice. “So, he called 911, and the police - they showed up, and they arrested him. But, the thing is, the only way that Zach could’ve killed Emily is if he was in two places at the same time. The police - they have a video. It’s from the security tape across the street. And it shows Zach coming home at 10:30. Now, Emily was killed just after that, but I swear, he was here with me, having a few beers until at least after midnight.”
“You know, maybe we could see the crime scene,” Sam starts. You can see the lies slipping into place already, like a shitty puzzle. “Zack’s house.”
“Why?” Becky frowns. “I mean, what could you do?”
“Well, me, not much. But Dean’s a cop.”
Dean laughs. You’ve seen this move before, his facade falling onto his face like a glove on a hand. “Detective, actually.”
Cocky dickwad.
“Really? Where?”
“Bisbee, Arizona. But I’m off-duty right now.”
Becky’s head swivels to look at you. “And what do you do?”
“Oh,” you hum. “I’m a journalist. But I’m not here for that. I had vacation time saved up for the road trip and, well, here we are.”
She smiles. “You guys, it’s so nice to offer, but I just - I don’t know.”
“Bec, look.” Sam steps closer, his hand on her arm in an effort of comfort. “I know Zach didn’t do this. Now, we have to find a way to prove he’s innocent.”
It’s visible in her face when she finally relents. Her chin stops wobbling and she sniffles just once. “Okay. I’m gonna go get the keys.”
She walks away and Dean scoffs, looking at Sam from the corner of his eyes. You’re standing between them. “Oh, yeah, man, you’re a real straight shot with your friends.”
“Look, Zach and Becky need our help.”
“I just don’t think this is our kind of problem,” Dean pushes, turning fully to face his brother.
“Two places at once, Dean?”
“We’ve looked into less,” you chirp, laying a hand on Dean’s bicep. “Come on, Dean, let’s just get this over with. And if it isn’t our kind of problem, we can call it a… vacation. I think.”
You’ve been with the boys for… a while.
You were with Dean when he tracked down Sam in Harvard; mainly because you couldn’t say no when he appeared on your doorstep, face drunkenly red, blubbering about how his father is gone.
You were there when Sam lost Jessica, comforting him when Dean didn’t know how to.
You were there every time they thought they were getting closer to finding John, only to be hundreds of miles farther. You were there when they felt abandoned.
You’ve been there since the beginning. Since Dean was in high school, jumping from cheerleader to geek. He even tried with you one time, only to be shot down with a loud, thundering laugh to his face.
So, yeah, you’ve been stuck with these two lumberjacks for a long, long time.
You just had no idea how much could change in so little time. Along with a hatred for John Winchester, soft touchings from the boys, and a shit ton of trauma, you learn really quick that you're stuck in their life, whether you like it or not.
You were with Dean when he tracked down Sam in Harvard; mainly because you couldn’t say no when he appeared on your doorstep, face drunkenly red, blubbering about how his father is gone.
You were there when Sam lost Jessica, comforting him when Dean didn’t know how to.
You were there every time they thought they were getting closer to finding John, only to be hundreds of miles farther. You were there when they felt abandoned.
You’ve been there since the beginning. Since Dean was in high school, jumping from cheerleader to geek. He even tried with you one time, only to be shot down with a loud, thundering laugh to his face.
So, yeah, you’ve been stuck with these two lumberjacks for a long, long time.
You’re sat in the backseat of the Impala, back against the door and your legs stretched out in front of you (shoes off, of course. Dean would lose his shit otherwise). With a book comfortably on your lap, you’re sipping on your milkshake Sam bought for you while the boys chat about the case up front.
You’re all stopped at a gas station to fill up while they talk.
“Alright,” Dean starts, staring at the unfolded map in his hands. “I figure we’d hit Tucumcari by lunch, then head south, hit Bisbee by midnight.” He looks over to see Sam staring at his PalmPilot, brows furrowed. Dean throws a playful glance at you through the rearview mirror. “Sam wears women’s underwear.”
A smile curls your lip as Sam responds. “I’ve been listenin’, I’m just busy.”
“Busy doin’ what?” Dean scoffs, peering at the screen before he steps out of the Impala and begins filling up the tank.
You adjust, placing your bookmark and closing the book. Your chin rests on the back of the front bench sit as you listen.
“Reading emails.”
“Emails?” you echo. “From who?”
“Friends at Harvard,” he mumbles back.
Dean scoffs. “You’re kidding. You still keep in touch with your college buddies.”
You shrug. “I still keep in touch with some people from high school.”
“Johnny still want to get in them pants of yours?”
“Yes, Dean, Johnny is still the same asshole.”
“See?” Sam says, thumb jutting out in your direction. “Why wouldn’t I keep in touch with my friends from college?”
“Well…” Dean slides back into the drivers’ seat, closing the door with a grunt. “What exactly do you tell ‘em, Sammy? You know, where you’ve been, what you’ve been doin’?”
Sam shrugs. “I tell them I’m on a roadtrip with my big brother and family friend. Say that I needed some time after Jess.”
The atmosphere in the car dips, but Dean keeps going. “Oh, so you lie to ‘em.”
“No. I just don’t tell them everything.”
“That’s lyin’, Sammy,” you chirp, leaning back into your seat. Your milkshake lays empty in your hand, but you don’t dare rest it on the ground or, god forbid, the seat. “I get it, though. Lying is better than telling the truth. I can’t tell you the last time I told a normie anything close to the truth.”
That’s what you’ve always called them - normies. The people that don’t know the truth that lays lurking in the shadows. The people that have a peace of mind, can go to bed at night without nightmares of waking up with a blade to your throat or a gun to your head.
The car goes silent for a second. You tap Dean’s shoulder with the cup to motion him to throw it away for you. He’s back in the car when Sam starts muttering.
“What?” Dean queries, leaning closer to the passenger side despite Sam leaning farther and farther away.
“There’s an email from a girl, Rebecca Warren, from college.”
“Is she hot?”
You smack Dean upside the head with your hardcover book. He yelps, ducking, when you ask, “What did she say?”
“Her brother, Zack, who went to school with us, was charged with murder. He was arrested for killing his girlfriend. Rebecca says he didn’t do it, but it sounds like the cops have a pretty good case.”
“Dude,” Dean chortles. “What kind of people are you hangin’ out with?”
“No, man,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “I know Zach. He’s no killer.”
“Sammy,” you start. “Maybe you don’t know Zach that well. It has been a while since you’ve seen him.”
He ignores you. “They’re in St. Louis. We’re goin’.”
Dean chuckles. “Look, man, I’m sorry about your friend and all, but this doesn’t sound like our kind of problem.”
“No, Dean, it is. They’re my friends.” Sam gets that look on his face, the one that says the stubborn bastard isn’t going to back down.
“Sam, St. Louis is four hundred miles behind us.”
They exchange a look before Dean sighs and starts the ignition, rolling out of the gas station.
“If we’re going to St. Louis,” you start. “I’m going in the arch. Sam is going with me, because I am not getting fondled in that elevator alone.”
“Why the hell would I get fondled?”
“Old ladies like tall men. Tall, young men, Sammy. Just imagine it; their wrinkly old lady hands, sliding up your shirt -”
