Characters: middle sister!Reader, Dean, Sam, a medical examiner, a waitress
Word Count: 3602
Summary: Requested by anonymous: Can you please do a oneshot where You and brother dean are constantly at each other’s throats till he/or you get caught by a djin and get saved by the others and like you and Dean hug for the first time in over a year?
Warnings: estranged sibling angst, Lawrence house fire angst, reader likes girls (which isn't really a warning), cliffhanger
A/N: I don’t think I’m supposed to say this, but this is my favorite request so far. Part one of two for this request.
You were always scared of the dark.
It’s why the why the soft flickering glow from the crack under your door, for the last few peaceful moments of your life, comforted you. There, in your bedroom – the one up the stairs, the first door on the left, right next to Sam’s, right across the hall from Dean’s – your small, two-year-old hands inched your blanket down so you could peek out from behind it.
When you caught a whiff of smoke, though, a tingle of fear settled into the pit of your stomach.
“Mommy!” you yell.
Laying still, sweat forming on your forehead, you waited for her to burst through the door, as she had so many times before when you’d had a nightmare or heard a strange noise. But she doesn’t come.
Instead, you heard a scream. You heard crashing, bounding footfalls. Then, the roaring and crackling of a fire. Your dad shouting.
You didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, until your door creaked open. Your eyes, trained on where your mom should be, instead darted down to where your big brother, Dean, waited with the baby Sam in his arms.
“Dad says we have to go, (Y/N),” he shouted over the fire. “Come on. We have to go.”
You slid out from under your covers and toddled over to where he stood. You left your room, standing back to memorize its place up the stairs, first door on the left, before following him down the steps and out the front door, but not before catching a terrifying glimpse of the fire swallowing Sam’s room.
Your thirty-three-year-old self stands in a blazer and a button-down, surrounded by chatter and indistinct police radio, when you spot the tall man in a suit across the wall of metal slabs, flashing a badge to the medical examiner. And, for some reason, that night – the night of the fire – consumes your mind.
His eyes flicker over your head, then snap back to you, questioning.
It can’t be him, you think. He’s too tall, too grown-up, his eyes have seen too much.
His lips form your name, though, as he crosses the buzzing room separating you. It’s not until you’ve pulled him down into your arms (you have to pull him down this time), not until the chatter, the corpses, everything has disappeared, that you allow yourself to believe it’s him.
“Sammy,” you whisper.
He embraces you tightly, so tightly you can feel his heartbeat against yours. It feels familiar but all kinds of different at the same time.
After not nearly long enough, you pull away. “Ah, let me look at you!”
His eyes are still wide with shock, but he lets you hold his hands out to the side and step back to examine him.
You push aside the sharp twinge in your chest and instead let relief flood your heart with the knowledge that he’s alive.
He glances down, a light blush rising to his cheeks.
“You grew out your hair,” you tease, twirling the strands in your fingers. “You look good, Sam.”
His face softens. “Thanks, (Y/N). You’re looking good, too. What’s it been – like, thirteen years?”
“Closer to fourteen, yeah,” you agree. “Not since–”
“Stanford.”
“You’re right. It’s been–” you clear your throat after your voice breaks– “it’s been a while.”
“I don’t really know where to start,” he admits. “We didn’t… we didn’t even know if you were alive.”
You nod, ducking your head in apology. “I guess a low profile’s one of the perks of, you know, not saving the world everyday.”
“You heard about that, huh?” he mutters.
“A lot of people have,” you say. “Makes it easier to keep tabs on you.”
“That right?”
The figure behind Sam creeps into focus. He makes the same confident strides he’s always made toward you before coming to an abrupt stop next to his brother.
“No, please, go on,” he remarks. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
“Dean,” Sam warns.
“Sammy, stay out of this one.”
You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Actually, Sam, don’t bother. You two obviously have things covered here. I’m moving on.”
“Deserting your family again,” Dean says. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Consider it an act of mercy. I'll even leave that pretty face of yours intact this time,” you add.
He clenches his jaw as you imagine he recalls your last encounter. In fact, you can't remember the last time the two of you were in the same room that didn't end in at least one of you with a broken bone.
As you turn to leave, Sam catches your arm. “(Y/N), wait. Dean…” he pleads.
The air between you and Dean chills, your glaring lines of sight freezing over. Before the two of you can disintegrate each other, Sam steps in front of you, blocking your sight.
He throws his arms out to the side and drops them. “Will you just… tell me what happened to you two?”
“This isn’t exactly a new thing,” you reply. “We’ve been at each other’s throats since before I can remember.”
“But you could always work together. I don’t understand what happened there.”
“I left, as I’m sure you’ve heard,” you say.
“She made her choice, Sam,” Dean sneers. “We came to work the case. Let’s work the case.”
He tugs on Sam’s shoulder, but Sam shrugs him off, tilting his head at him. Dean responds with a firm stare, but it withers and reduces to a conceding eye roll.
Sam turns to you again. “One case. Please.”
You glance at Dean, who avoids your eyes, before dragging your gaze to Sam again.
“You know, that thing–” you wag a finger around his face– “that wide-eyed puppy dog thing you’ve got going on?”
He chuckles and shrugs.
“It’s still not freaking fair,” you groan.
“Something we agree on,” Dean says. “Now do we have more feelings to feel, or can we get to the body?”
“All right,” you sigh, extending an arm in the direction of the lab-coated woman across the room. “Your lead.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
You glance between the two brothers, examining the way they move with each other, even during an argument. You don’t underestimate their bond, or the disadvantage it leaves you at as an outsider.
“Unless you want to spend more time discussing it,” you snap at him.
He raises a hand in surrender before continuing on to the doctor.
“Agents,” she greets. “What can I do for you?”
“Hey, doc. I’m Special Agent Clapton. These–” he gestures to you and Sam– “are Special Agents Baker and Bruce. We’re investigating the John Doe with the jelly insides.”
“Cream puff guy?” she says.
You stifle a laugh, but she notices and smirks in your direction.
“Sure thing, agents.” She leads you to the wall with the metal doors and pulls one open, sliding out the slab with a massive, swollen body laid atop it. “Appetizing, isn’t it?”
You mumble in agreement.
“We haven’t done the autopsy yet,” she explains. “The chief wants to run the corpse through some forensic radiological imaging before we perform any extractions.”
“People speak, doc,” you request.
She laughs. “Basically, we cut into him now – Vesuvius. We’re going to run some tests, take an x-ray, and then we’ll take a giant syringe and draw out the… jelly.”
“Now, what do you know so far?” Sam asks.
“They found the guy in the park, no ID and no one else around. I don’t have cause of death yet, but we did find something interesting.”
You tilt your head to watch as she lifts the shoulder of the body, revealing a large blue handprint. “We swabbed it, but nothing came up. It’s almost like it’s tattooed on there.”
“When do you think those lab results will be ready?” you ask.
“We’ll put a rush on it. Have it ready for you in a couple hours,” she answers.
You nod. “Thank you.”
She holds your gaze a little longer while she gathers some papers before crossing the room again to leave. “He’s all yours, agents.”
You turn away from the boys’ direction until you feel the blush in your cheeks cool.
Dean taps Sam’s arm. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That someone’s got the hots for (Y/N),” Sam teases.
“One of the perks of not actually being a fed,” you say. “There’s no one to tell you you can’t hook up with the cute M.E.’s.”
“You would know, wouldn’t you, Sammy?” Dean says.
Sam rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably.
You shoot him a proud beam. “Wow, remind me to ask about that one later. In the meantime, what is it you were thinking?”
“Djinn,” they respond at the same time.
“Djinn? Since when do djinn liquefy their victims?”
“There’s an offshoot,” Dean explains. “We caught one of these last year.”
“Now all that’s left is to find out where it’s staying and kill it,” Sam states.
You nod. “Easy enough, right? How many tattooed, blue-eyed, pasty-skinned freaks can be running around this town?”
They exchange a glance.
“They’re not tattooed, blue-eyed, and pasty-skinned, are they?” you frown.
“That’s the thing – they can pass as humans,” Sam notes.
“We’re going down to the station to check out the missing persons in town. Why don’t you stay here with your… girlfriend… and wait for those results?” Dean suggests.
“Or you could come up with a better excuse for getting me out of the way.”
He draws back from your comment, but then shrugs. “All right. How about the last one of these we worked, it turned out to be the coroner?”
You turn to Sam, who nods. Out the small window of the swinging doors, the doctor reaches across the counter to hand a file to the receptionist who greeted you earlier.
“You think it’s her?”
“I’m not thinking anything yet,” Dean says. “So, you good here?”
You nod.
As Dean leaves through the same swinging doors, Sam sucks in a breath, which he sighs out again. “Wow.”
“What?” you prod.
“Nothing, just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “If he thought I was so much as looking at someone we might have to kill, he’d never leave me alone with her.”
“Well, I always was the detached one. Maybe that’s part of why he hates me.”
“Or maybe it’s why he wants to hate you.”
“What do you mean?”
Sam shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Sam!” Dean calls, propping the door open. “You coming or what?”
Sam follows him out the door, sending a small wave in your direction.
The doctor – Doctor Elizabeth Finch, you learn – performs the autopsy and has the results to you before lunch. Pouring rain splatters the parking lot as you walk across, clutching the folder against your chest. You reach the diner and spot the boys in a corner booth.
“Hey,” you greet, sliding into the bench next to Sam.
“That it?” Dean nods to the folder you dump on the table.
“The autopsy report of one John Doe,” you confirm.
“Not anymore,” Sam states. “The guy’s name was Karl Sanders.”
“You ID’d him?”
“He’s an attorney from a town in the next state over,” Dean says.
You shake your head. “This is making less and less sense.”
“What do you mean?”
You flip open the folder and point tap a point on the first page. “The doctor found trace particles of wood and lividity marks from a paneled surface. She thinks it’s from finished wood from some kind of structure.”
Dean frowns. “So, what the hell is going on here?”
“Beats me.”
“What else did she get from the body?” Sam asks.
“It looks like he died of a fever. The creamy filling was essentially his melted internal organs.”
“Oh, perfect timing,” Sam says. He eyes the waitress who carries three plates of food over to your table.
“All right, we’ve got the double bacon cheeseburger…” she announces, “Cobb salad… and a BLT, extra bacon for the lady. Enjoy.”
Her words, the sight of the sandwich she places in front of you, hurl you back in time. Suddenly, being here with your brothers, sitting in the same greasy diner every town has, doesn’t feel foreign at all.
“Wow,” you breathe. “I haven’t had one of these in ages.”
Sam shifts in his seat. He must have remembered from all those years ago that it was the only thing you ever ordered. The thought warms your heart.
“I, uh, just kind of assumed,” he says. “We can get you something else if–”
“It’s perfect, Sam. Thank you.”
He offers you a shy smile, barely meeting your eyes before turning to his salad.
You clear your throat. “If we’re still liking the doctor for this, I’m on board.”
“Why’s that?”
“Apparently, she does a lot of travelling, works all over as a forensic pathology consultant,” you repeat what she told you. “And besides, no one that interesting becomes an M.E. for the hell of it.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “If you think she’s so sketchy, why trust her autopsy?”
“I got a couple other doctors’ opinions without her knowing. They all agree.”
“We checked her out, too. Red flags everywhere. No family, no permanent address.”
“The gig makes it easy to cover up her kills,” Sam adds, “and the liquefied organs lines up with what we know about this kind of djinn.”
“We should track her down, find out what her deal is,” Dean suggests.
You bite your lip. “Well–” you pull out a business card, a room number of the hotel where she’s staying scrawled on the back– “I’ve got that one covered.”
The crackle of static over the speaker alerts Dean to your presence down the hall.
“Radio check,” you test.
He turns the receiver over in his hand and holds the button. “10-2. Loud and clear, (Y/N).”
“What am I looking for?”
“We don’t know yet,” Sam responds from over Dean’s shoulder. “Just keep an eye out for any red flags.”
“10-4. I’m going in.”
“Be careful, (Y/N),” Sam says.
Dean watches the video feed from the camera attached to the button of your shirt as it moves with you on Sam’s computer screen.
“Why do you have to do that?” he grumbles, setting the receiver on the glass tabletop of the hotel room with a clatter.
Sam’s eyes dart around in confusion. “Do what?”
“With (Y/N).” Dean flings a hand toward the radio. “Treating her like…”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “Like she’s our sister?”
“She’s not,” Dean snaps, “all right? She walked out on us.”
“She walked out on you,” Sam retorts. “And so did I, but you came and got me at Stanford anyway, so don’t pretend that’s what this is about.”
Dean draws back in shock at his brother’s words. The two of you had issues since the night of the fire, and when Sam left for Stanford, you lost what little buffer he provided. That, Dean always thought, was when the tension gave out and you finally snapped. It was what made you leave, too.
He doesn’t respond to Sam as your three raps on the door sound through the speaker.
It opens with a click, revealing the doctor’s casual form.
“Agent Baker,” she greets, her voice sultrier than Dean remembers.
Your voice deepens to a low hum. “Doctor Finch.”
She chuckles. “You can call me Liz.”
“Well, in that case, you can call me–”
“Okay.” Sam reaches over and turns a knob on the radio, muting the voices. “That’s enough of that.”
The picture shakes as you make your way inside, the video scanning the room. Dean glances over the suite, complete with a king-size bed, kitchenette, and a sofa, its design similar to the room they rented for tonight.
You sit on the couch and the camera stills, following the doctor – Liz – as she stands with her back to you at the minibar. She makes her way toward you, a glass of something clear in each hand, one of which she holds out to you.
She joins you on the couch, close enough to reach out and touch you. She crosses one leg over the other, pushing the fabric of her skirt up her thigh, and when you turn, Dean can see her arm slink across the back of the sofa.
Sam mutters something about him staring, but Dean only waves him off.
You set your drink on the coffee table and make your way across the room toward a bathroom.
Sam turns the radio up again. “(Y/N), tell me you didn’t touch that drink.”
“Of course not,” you whisper.
When your reflection in the mirror comes into view, Dean can see the fading blush in your cheeks.
“What do you see?” Dean asks.
You open a cabinet in the corner of the bathroom, which holds only a few white towels on the shelves. At the vanity, you run the faucet before shuffling through the drawers. You pull back the shower curtain to find an empty, pristine white tub and a shower caddy with hotel soaps.
“Nothing but normal human people stuff,” you conclude. “But if I were a djinn, I wouldn’t be draining people’s blood in my company-sponsored four-star hotel room either.”
“See if you can get anything out of her,” Sam says.
“All right, stand by.” You turn off the water and make your way outside again.
The screen travels from the empty couch to the bed, where Liz perches. The picture shakes as your breath hitches in your chest before you shuffle across the room to meet her.
“You know, the people I work for always set me up in these big hotel rooms with these huge beds,” Liz drawls. “They really are cozier with two people.”
You chuckle, and even Dean can barely pick up on the shocked quiver in your laugh. “I’ll bet they are.”
She extends her arms to you and you accept with your own. When she pulls your chest against hers, she covers the camera and the screen goes dark. Dean hears static again as your mic brushes against fabric.
“You don’t want to get to know me better?” you murmur.
“Not particularly,” she teases. “Do you?”
“I think I know enough,” you say. “You’re not what I thought you were.”
Dean looks to Sam for confirmation of what he already knows: your last comment was meant for them. She’s not the djinn.
Before he can curse, the sound of your lips smacking against hers cuts through the disappointment and fills the room. This time, Dean’s hand shoots out to turn down the volume knob.
“Well, now what?” he huffs.
“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I guess we– Wait.”
On the screen, Liz looks directly at them – or, rather, at the camera. Dean can’t hear her, but the rage and disgust in her eyes leave little to the imagination as her lips move at you.
The video follows you all the way down the hall until you burst through the door of their own room, eyes wide. You lean your back against the door, your chest rising and falling.
After a few silent moments, Dean opens his mouth to speak.
“Nope,” you interject, “we’re not talking about it.”
Later in the night, you pore over a map splayed out on the table while Sam traces his eyes across his computer screen and Dean rifles through the pages of an ancient book. Your head bobs back and forth as you struggle against your leaden eyelids.
“That’s it. I’m getting coffee,” you declare. “And some food. Any requests?”
The boys glance at each other before turning to you again.
“That’s not a good idea, (Y/N),” Sam says, “not with a djinn running around.”
You raise a tired eyebrow at him, daring him to try a better reason.
“Besides, that lady probably called the cops on you. They could catch you,” he argues.
“I’d like to see them try,” you remark.
He looks to Dean with pleading eyes, but Dean doesn’t meet them.
“The diner’s, like, three blocks away. I’ll be twenty, thirty minutes tops, all right?” you say.
Your voice is firm, but you still wait for his sigh of reluctant agreement before you head out the door.
Gloom and mugginess hangs in the air from the earlier rain, and you track mud into the lobby of the hotel when you make your way back, a carrier of coffee in one hand and a plastic bag of Styrofoam plates in the other.
Sam clears a space so you can drop them on the table, looking more content than earlier. As you survey the room, you guess why.
“Where’s Dean?”
“Look, don’t be mad,” he says. “He went to follow you.”
You narrow your eyes at him, still too tired to process his words. When you finally do, the thought of Dean going after you tugs the corners of your lips up.
Your hope sinks as quickly as it rose.
“We’ve got to go,” you say, collecting a silver knife and the small pot of lamb’s blood from the table.
“(Y/N), wait. It’s okay,” Sam insists. “He’ll be back in a few minutes.”
You pocket the knife and check the magazine of your gun. “I know he’s good, but so am I. Sam, I would’ve known if someone’d been tailing me the past half hour.”
The realization seems to strike more quickly with him before he springs into action, echoing your movements before following you out the door.
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