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hi beth, dying for more aussie!reader pls pls pls!

Oh Anon, I don’t think you know what you’re asking ❤️ I’d love to write more aussie!reader, but it will take me a while to write something new for her. In the meantime, are you familiar with my first work Abducted that features the reader from Blowtorches, Boots & Bugspray? Her nickname is Glowworm (she’s became an OC to me), but you don’t find out why until chapter 14 of 47 on AO3. You can also read it on Wattpad

I’m going to drop the first chapter here for you now ☺️ Be warned if you go down this rabbit hole, it’s currently unfinished and rougher than my newer stuff in terms of grammar and details, but she is and will always be my baby (currently sitting at 330k words) - enjoy!

Abducted: The Mark of Cain

Pairing: Dean x Aussie!Reader

Summary: You knew you were screwed. Everything had been off since the moment you’d woken up in that hospital after your night out. But it wasn’t until you were accused of international fraud and taken to the local police station that it became clear, you were well and truly fucked. At least Agent Smith seemed to believe you and had an inkling as to what the wounds were on your body. You had been given fresh hope and the end was in sight. Or was it?

Chapter Word Count: 2.8k words

Tags/Warnings: ret-gone, slow burn, eventual SMUT, strangers to lovers, mystery, language, Aussie slang and references (to the point it becomes crack in some places), Dean bears the Mark of Cain

A/N: The slang Cadbury appears in this chapter and has scratched a few heads. Yes, it’s a chocolate brand, but our reader is the same age as Sam and knows it as someone who can’t handle their alcohol. Cadbury used to have the slogan, a glass and a half of full cream milk. So if you’re a Cadbury, you get drunk easy✌️

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December 2013

“Wait here. The feds will be with you soon,” Officer Tubby said.

Tubby wasn’t his name at all, but it suited him just fine in your eyes. His rotund shape reminded you of a Teletubby, it was just a shame he didn’t have the personality to match. While giving him the title didn’t make up for the rough treatment you’d endured by his hands, it gave you some satisfaction, even if you’d never say it out loud.

As he forced you down into the chair, your cuffed wrists followed you, thumping onto the scratched wooden surface of the Interrogation Room’s centre table. “Maybe you’ll give them a straight answer.”

“The feds?” Who were you expected to answer to now?

“The Bureau,” he said.

‘The Bureau?’ Right... Because that explained everything. You stared at him confused and he stared right back.

You had come to the realisation that this wasn’t a dream a couple of days ago, although waking up in a foreign country after a night out clubbing would suggest otherwise.

But dreams couldn’t hurt you. Dreams didn’t continue for as long as this situation had and there was no way your mind was capable of coming up with something so elaborate in the first place. At least you thought.

Your memories from that night were that you hadn’t been drunk. Tipsy maybe, but not intoxicated as everyone you met here so far had been suggesting. On the other hand, the condition of your body agreed with them. How else would you have wound up with these strange clusters of cuts in stranger still places, had you not been so?

There was one on your chest, your back, both arms, both legs, your left shoulder, your right, and the list went on. For every body part you could name, guaranteed there was at least one grouping of cuts, healed, or trying to heal like your wrists were. You couldn’t count how many times the handcuffs that covered them had reopened and aggravated them further.

The cuts were as individual in their placement as other imperfections that already plagued your skin from years of living. Just bigger, finer and made up of strokes as if they were letters from a foreign language you had no hope in hell of reading.

“The F. B. I...” Officer Tubby spoke again, more irritation in his voice. His hands moving in a motion that you recognised as an ‘ain’t it obvious’ kind of way. It wasn’t obvious to you.

You didn’t speak back this time, rather you continued to stare at him, a pleading look in your eyes. Surely this was just a sick joke. Surely your family would burst through the door at any minute and shout “April Fools” or something of the like. However, it wasn’t April. It was the middle of December and very, very cold.

Officer Tubby glared at you one last time, then left out the door, slamming it shut behind him. A thunderous bang pierced your ears, and the sound shook the tears you’d been holding. They’d been trying to escape the confines of your lashes for days.

You sat alone in that room for what felt like an hour, but it was really only a few minutes. The sound of the clock on the wall behind you, tick, tick, ticking away, and you, trying to hold back the sniffle that you had gained through your tears. That was until the door opened and closed again, and all upset switched off. There was no hiding your stained, sticky skin, but there was no way you’d let any of them see you cry.

The person who joined you was new, serious, and much younger than the other officers you’d met during your time at the police station. He was very tall and wore a black suit and tie. Hair, dark blonde. Eyes, piercing green, gazing at you, trying to read your expression as you did the same to him. In his hand was a clear zip-loc bag. The contents resembled the small purse you had been carrying that night.

“Miss?” he said, reaching into his suit jacket to pull out a small black wallet. His American accent was low and stern, but also kinder than Officer Tubby had been. “I’m Agent Smith. FBI. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

The black wallet in his hand flipped open, revealing the letters FBI in large navy blue writing. A small photograph matching his profile on the right of them. You’d only ever seen these in the movies and did not know what you were looking at. Were you supposed to do something? Take it? Look at it?

When you did nothing, Agent Smith cleared his throat and mouthed what appeared to be an ‘okay’ in a tone that you would normally take to mean as awkward. He tucked his ID back inside his jacket as he pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. “Is this yours?” he asked as he placed the zip-lock bag down and took out your purse.

All you could do was nod.

He unzipped the purse and pulled out the contents onto the table. You could see your phone. The battery had to be dead by now. A pair of earphones. Your driver’s licence and credit card and a couple of coloured Australian banknotes. Your favourite lip gloss and a small bottle of perfume you took on nights out. Plus your house keys and the ticket stub from the club you’d been to that night.

Agent Smith put his pointer finger on your driver’s licence and pushed it across the table towards you. “Is this yours?”

Once again, you nodded.

“Answer the question,” he snapped.

“Yes,” you said, finally finding your voice again. “That’s me. That’s my licence.”

“Okay… Well, the guys out there,” he pointed to the door behind him, “the officers, the detectives. They’re telling me it’s fake. This licence, the credit card you see there. All fake.”

“Well. Ah... They’re not American. But they’re not fake.”

Agent Smith pulled your licence back towards himself and collected your things. He placed them back in your purse and closed the zip-loc bag.

“The detective also told me he did a trace on you. Back to Australia. Called the Australian consulate in DC.” Agent Smith seemed to take his time. “You... You. Don’t. Exist... No one with your name, date of birth, or address according to what’s written on your cards exists in Australia. You wanna explain what’s up with that?”

Agent Smith waited for you to respond, but you couldn’t. You’d already told the detectives, the officers and the hospital staff everything, and no one had believed you. So why would he?

“The detective said you gave him your parent’s details, a phone number to call them back in Australia... But they didn’t know who you were. Never heard of you... So... Who. Are. You?” The three words you’d heard repeatedly these past few days left Agent Smith’s mouth.

How many times had you been asked that? How many times did you have to go over your story before someone believed you? You didn’t know how you’d found your way to ‘there’s no place like home, Toto’ Kansas. You couldn’t even point it out on a map, let alone name all the states of the US. And you would have remembered if you’d taken a vacation to the United States.

“What’s the point? I’ve been over it with all the others. Here, at the hospital. No one believes me.” You lowered your eyes down to your hands, your wrists still wearing the silver handcuffs. “Look. I just want to go home and put whatever this is behind me. If I could just call my family myself. They’ll confirm who I am, and I can get out of everyone’s hair and find my own way back to Sydney.”

Agent Smith’s expression changed, his green eyes softened, and a nod moved his head.

Did he believe you?

He pulled out his cell phone from somewhere inside his jacket and placed it on the table, the numbers on the screen already lit up waiting to be dialled.

“I assume you know the number you need to call? What is it?”

You recited your parent’s home number to him, remembering to include the international area code, +61, for Australia while Agent Smith entered the numbers as you spoke. He then pressed the speaker button on his phone and leaned back in his seat as the ringing sound of the phone filled the room.

A few short rings later and you heard the voice of your dad answering the phone. “Hello,” he said in that kind, familiar way you’d always known.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Who’s this?” The tone of his voice had changed with a hint of confusion added.

“Dad, it’s me. Your daughter…” Agent Smith was listening, but his face was unreadable. “I’m um, I need your help..”

“You people need to stop calling us!” your dad interrupted, before the line dropped dead.

You sat there in shock as the tears fell once again. “I... I don’t understand.”

Agent Smith leaned forward in his seat, his left hand rubbing over his mouth and then onto his chin as he continued to watch you. “Look. Let’s say I believe you. That this ID here,” he rested his hand on the zip-loc bag, “is real, and that’s your real name written there. How did you get here? Australia is a long way from the States. And I don’t see a passport.”

“That’s because it should be back home in my apartment, where I left it! No one carries their passport around with them all the time.”

“So how did you get here, then?” Agent Smith asked, kinder but still firm. “Tell me the last thing you remember before you woke up in the hospital... Humour me.”

Even though you knew his meaning perfectly well, through a hint of sarcasm and a sudden spike in confidence, you answered his question literally. “The last thing I remember was getting on the train at Central station IN Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. I can give you the address if you like?” The corner of Agent Smith’s lips upturned at your question. “And before you ask, I’d been out clubbing. With my friends…”

“Clubbing? So you’d been drinking?” he asked.

“Yes. But I wasn’t drunk,” you said. “I’d been dancing too. Tipsy maybe, but not drunk. I’m no Cadbury.”

Agent Smith didn’t hold back the smirk this time.

‘Arsehole.’ You had been trying to hold back the slang, especially because Officer Tubby had been mocking your accent since you’d arrived at his station.

“I left my friends around six and went back to Central to take the first train home,” you explained. “I put my headphones in and zoned out like usual... I mean, sometimes, I fall asleep on the train. So maybe that’s what happened... But the next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital, my whole body hurt like hell, and I’m being told they found me on the side of some random US highway, unconscious.”

Agent Smith looked down at your hands still in the cuffs. Your right sleeve had ridden up, exposing the injuries on your wrists. “Those cuts under your sleeve there. The hospital notes said that they’re all over your body?”

“Yeah…” So far only the hospital staff had been interested in your wounds. Officer Tubby and the other officers, they hadn’t cared, but Agent Smith did. Why?

“Do you mind if I take a look at it?” He gestured towards your hands and you moved them towards him, giving him your permission.

He took a small flask from the inside of his jacket and popped the lid open, squirting a small amount of clear liquid onto his hands before rubbing them together. “Hand sanitiser,” he muttered before taking your hand in his.

His fingers were still wet when he touched you, but the coolness of the drying liquid offered little relief to your inflamed skin.

Oddly, he sighed, relieved at something, but you didn’t know what. “And they’re all the same as this?” he asked, as his calloused fingers brushed over the strange cuts.

“No. I mean, they’re similar I guess, but they’re all different. The ones I can see anyway.” You watched him as he continued to study your wrist in silence. “Do you know what they are? They kind of look a bit like letters don’t you think?”

“They are,” he said. “They look Enochian. A very old language.”

‘Enochian? What the fuck is that?’ You wanted answers and by the sounds of it, he at least knew what the cuts were on your skin, or what they looked like anyway. But why were they there? Who cut you? How did you get here? Maybe he knew how you got here and he’d just been playing dumb. You were. Stupidly, you felt hopeful for the first time since arriving in the States.

“Soooo. These cuts, do they mean something?” you asked.

“Maybe.” He looked away from your wrist and back up to your face. “But I can’t do anything for you here. I’m going to need you to come with me.”

“You mean, I don’t have to go back in that cell?”

“Well, not if I can help it,” he stated as he stood up from his seat. “I’m going to help you, but I’m going to need you to trust me.” And with that, Agent Smith picked up the zip-loc bag holding your purse in one hand and strolled over to where you were sitting.

He placed a hand on your upper arm and helped you to stand up and away from the table. Gripping tighter, he then escorted you towards the door. As you both reached it, he leaned in close to your ear and whispered, “Just play along.”

‘Just play along?’

As Agent Smith pulled the door of the interrogation room open, you had to squint your eyes as the bright lights of the outside hallway invaded your sight. A stark contrast to the small room you’d spent the last hour in talking to him.

As soon as you had entered the hall, Officer Tubby, who presumably had been watching your entire conversation with Agent Smith through the one-way mirror, approached you. “Where do you think you’re taking her?” he demanded, visible anger written all over his face. “She’s staying here until Homeland Security arrives tomorrow.”

“Sorry.” Agent Smith stated. “I’ve got strict orders to bring her back to my superiors. She’s assisting us with investigations into a recent case. Homeland Security will just have to wait.”

First the local police, then the FBI, and now Homeland Security, whatever the fuck that was. Why were they treating you like some kind of criminal?

Still holding your arm only tighter now, Agent Smith guided you once more and hurried towards the exit. Officer Tubby and his colleagues following close behind you. “Who’s the name of your supervisor?!” Officer Tubby screeched.

Definitely not a Teletubby…

“I need to call them before you leave here with her...” But you didn’t hear the rest of what he said as you and Agent Smith hurried out the front door and down the street.

“Keep walking,” Agent Smith said as he released the grip of your arm, moving his hand to the middle of your upper back to guide you down the street, away from the police station.

The light of the sun, which you hadn’t seen in days, made your eyes struggle to adjust, and your body still ached from the ordeal you had been put through. But you were relieved to be away from those officers who’d been holding you captive all this time and in the presence of Agent Smith who at least held some form of promise that you might get back home. To your family.

The two of you rounded a corner into an alleyway, used as a one-way street with just enough room to park a vehicle without hindering traffic. You knew this because you saw a sleek, black old-fashioned car parked about fifty meters away. The silver cursive logo of Chevrolet was written just below its hood.

Agent Smith led you to the passenger side, opened the door and encouraged you to take a seat on the black leather bench. He then darted around to the driver’s side and in a matter of seconds started the engine. The car roared as it came to life before settling into a rhythmic purr as Agent Smith manoeuvred it out of the alley, into the busy street and past the police station you’d been in minutes before.

As the car picked up speed, you looked towards Agent Smith and saw him removing his tie. When he returned your gaze and smirked at you, the realisation hit. “You’re not really an agent... are you?”

“Nope. I’m Dean... Dean Winchester… I believe this belongs to you.” And with that, he handed you the zip-loc bag containing your purse and other processions.

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