#magic reader

[magicleftbehind]

ARC II — CHAPTER X

“Chosen”

✧ MASTERLIST | ✧ CHAPTER IX | ✧ CHAPTER X | ✧ CHAPTER XI

Y/N POV:

The car is already moving when Gotham begins to thin.

Constantine doesn’t rush.

No sharp turns, no aggressive lane changes, just steady hands on the wheel, the radio left off. The city passes by the windows in fragments, streetlights blurring into one another, buildings shrinking until they’re just shapes against the dark.

Y/N watches it happen without comment.

They don’t look back for long. Gotham has a way of making you feel watched when you do.

The road grows quieter the farther they go. Fewer lights. Fewer signs. The hum of the engine settles into something almost soothing, and for a while, that’s all there is—motion without pressure, silence without expectation.

Then Y/N’s phone buzzes.

They glance down, frowning when they see the name.

“Duke?”

Constantine flicks his eyes over for half a second, then back to the road. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once.

Y/N answers.

“Hey—”

“Is it true?”

Duke doesn’t bother with hello.

Y/N blinks, momentarily thrown. “What?”

“The note,” Duke says, voice tight. “I came home early and I found the note on your bed. Are you—are you gone?”

The words land heavier than they should.

“Oh,” Y/N murmurs. “Yeah. I… I wanted to tell you. Just— not like this.”

There’s a pause on the line.

“I didn’t want to call,” Y/N continues quietly. “You were having fun. You don’t get a lot of time like that, and I didn’t want to ruin it. And… you weren’t going to be back at the Manor before I left.”

Still silence.

Y/N shifts in their seat, thumb worrying the edge of their phone. “Duke? Hey.”

“I’m here,” Duke says quickly. “I’m still here. Just—” He exhales. “I’m just surprised.”

“Surprised?” Y/N echoes.

“Yeah,” Duke admits. “I guess I… forgot. That you weren’t placed with us permanently. I forgot there was still a chance you could be moved. Or leave.” A beat. “I didn’t think about it until now.”

Y/N doesn’t answer right away.

The road stretches on ahead, dark and open. Gotham is already starting to feel unreal, like something seen through glass.

After a moment, Duke asks, softer, “Can we… can we keep in contact?”

“Yes,” Y/N says immediately. No hesitation. “Of course. Anytime you want.”

Duke lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief. “Okay. Good. I’ll text you. I promise.”

“I know,” Y/N replies, even though they’re not sure that’s true. “I will too.”

They say goodbye the way people do when they don’t know what the next version of things will look like—too many words, not enough meaning. Then the line goes dead.

Y/N lowers the phone to their lap.

The car fills with silence again, but it’s different now. Heavier. Final.

Constantine doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask if Y/N is okay, doesn’t comment on the call. He just keeps driving, steady and unhurried, as Gotham finally disappears from the rear view mirror.

Ahead of them, the road opens up.

The car stopped in front of a small, brick apartment building somewhere on the outskirts of Chicago.

Constantine grabbed the keys from the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt. “Home sweet hell,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Y/N followed him inside, carrying their suitcase. The hallway smelled faintly of dust and cleaning solution. Nothing dramatic. Nothing magical. Just… a place.

The door closed behind them. Y/N paused, letting their eyes scan the small flat.

“Gonna love it,” they said, mockingly.

Constantine rolled his eyes. “Can’t ya feel it, kid?”

Y/N turned slowly, letting their gaze drift around the room. Something was off. Not bad, just… strange. A glint along the ceiling caught their attention. Subtle. Intricate. A charm spell.

They looked up at Constantine, who was already moving further into the flat.

He snapped his fingers.

The charm vanished.

The apartment was the same flat, but it felt larger. More open. The clutter hadn’t disappeared; it had multiplied in scope. Books with indecipherable symbols lined the shelves. Papers littered the floor, some inked with strange incantations, others illustrated with creatures Y/N had never seen.

Even the furniture seemed to occupy more space than possible. Chairs, desks, and cabinets were normal enough, but each carried a subtle aura, an unnatural hum that Y/N couldn’t place.

Y/N turned back to Constantine. He let out a soft huff of amusement at their expression.

“Follow me,” he said, nodding toward a hallway.

They walked down a narrow corridor and reached a door at the end. Constantine opened it.

“This is yours,” he said. The room was empty, save for a bed and a small dresser. “Not much, but you can decorate however you like.”

He set the suitcase down by the bed, insisting he carry it in. Y/N didn’t protest.

“Thanks,” they said quietly.

Constantine ruffled their hair. This time, Y/N didn’t pull back. They let themselves smile.

He gave a small nod and left, letting them unpack.

For the first time, Y/N was able to unpack everything from the suitcase. Clothes, notebooks, a few personal items—they spread them around the room with no rush, no fear of being moved again.

When it was done, Y/N stood in the center of the room, taking it all in. The flat, the space, the things that weren’t quite normal. They wondered if they could get permission to go gather some things to decorate.

Finally, Y/N lay down on the bed. Eyes closed. Quiet. Safe.

And for the first night in a long time, they slept without the weight of someone else deciding where they belonged.

Morning came slow. Y/N blinked awake, the unfamiliar ceiling above them pulling them fully out of sleep. For a moment, they weren’t sure if the previous day had been real. The move, the paperwork, Constantine’s place, they wondered if it had all been a dream, one of those vivid nights their mind conjured when reality was too heavy. But the light spilling through the blinds, the scattered items from their unpacked suitcase, the faint scent of old books and cleaning solution, it was all real. They were really here.

Y/N sat up on the bed, legs hanging over the side, fingers tracing the edge of the mattress. The flat was quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional scrape of metal from the kitchen. They let themselves breathe, slow and careful. This was new. Different. Not perfect, but better than anything they had known for a long time.

After a few moments, Y/N stood, gathering their necessities: toothbrush, washcloth, and a small bundle of things they wanted with them while freshening up. The bathroom was tiny but functional. Water ran over their hands and face, cold and grounding.

When they emerged, the kitchen was warm with the smell of something sizzling lightly on the stove. Constantine was there, flipping eggs and humming under his breath. A small coffee cup sat in front of him, dark and steaming. He glanced up and gave a half-smile.

“Morning,” he said. “Coffee?”

Y/N shook their head and let out a soft laugh. “No, thanks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I promise I haven’t spiked it yet,” he added, the barest hint of a joke in his voice while waving the small flask that he always had on him, no matter when or where. Y/N just huffed, amused, and moved to sit at the small table.

Constantine plated the eggs, sliding one plate toward Y/N. “Help yourself,” he said. Then he sat down across from them, coffee in hand. Silence stretched for a few seconds, not uncomfortable, just natural.

Finally, Y/N broke it. “This is… nice,” they said quietly, looking around. “I mean, your place. It feels normal.”

Constantine raised an eyebrow. “Normal?”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, shrugging slightly. “Not… empty. Not lonely. Not like the last place I stayed.”

He smirked. “Ah, so you approve.”

They both laughed lightly, and it hung in the room, filling the air with something neither had said out loud yet.

They ate slowly. Eggs, toast, coffee, or juice in Y/N’s case, and talked about nothing particularly important at first. The flat was small, but the space felt big. Time stretched differently here. No alarms, no rush, no one else dictating what they could do or where they could go. Y/N found themselves relaxing in a way they hadn’t in months.

“You gonna be okay with breakfast?” Constantine asked after a while, noticing Y/N barely touched their toast.

Y/N shrugged. “Yeah. I’m just… not used to actually eating around someone.”

He nodded. “Figured. Habit, I guess.” He smiled faintly, a small acknowledgment of their shared understanding.

The conversation drifted. Constantine asked about small things from their past lessons. Not heavy questions, not probing into anything personal. Just practical things, spells they had tried, exercises they enjoyed, little discoveries they had made with their magic. Y/N answered, quietly at first, then slowly with more confidence.

“And the one with the fire last week?” he asked. “You felt that spike, yeah?”

Y/N nodded. “I think I got it under control, mostly. It didn’t… do anything.”

He smirked. “Mostly is good for now. You’ll get better.”

There was a pause. A soft one. No need to fill it. Then Constantine leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over the table. “You know, kid, you’re not just doing magic. You’re… noticing things. Seeing the world differently. It’s subtle, but it’s there. That’s important.”

Y/N blinked, unsure how to respond. They weren’t used to compliments, especially not from someone like Constantine.

“I mean it,” he added, half-smiling. “You’ve got instincts, curiosity… and a patience most people lack. That’s why this thing, whatever it’s gonna be, works better with you than almost anyone else I’ve met.”

Y/N just nodded. “Thanks.”

He waved it off, then added quietly, “Anyway, you’re settling in. This place might not be perfect, but you’re making it yours. That matters more than perfection.”

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Y/N allowed themselves to relax fully. The edges of tension softened. They laughed a little at something small Constantine said, and he ruffled their hair. This time, Y/N didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. They let him do it and actually smiled.

Time passed. Breakfast plates cleared. Silence returned, but now it felt good. Easy. Comfortable. Y/N leaned back in their chair, letting the quiet sink in. Constantine reached across the table and lightly nudged their arm with his hand. Not pressing, not intrusive, just a reminder. A small acknowledgment that he was there. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

Then it happened. A sudden burst of smoke behind them, dense and sharp. Y/N and Constantine both turned, eyes wide, as the room filled with a strong scent of brimstone and candle wax.

When the smoke cleared, a woman was standing there.

She was tall, dark-haired, dressed in a sharp jacket over something that looked far too impractical for a normal morning. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her eyes were bright, intense, almost glowing with irritation. There was something about her presence that felt… heavy. Like the air itself had shifted around her.

She stood with her arms crossed, posture rigid, jaw tight.

“John,” she snapped immediately, turning toward Constantine. “I have been trying to call you for days. Days. Do you have any idea what’s happening right now? You keep not answering your phone, and the situation is getting worse by the hour.”

Constantine opened his mouth. “Zee—”

“And don’t interrupt me,” she continued, pacing a step forward. “This isn’t something we can just ignore. We need to act now. Raven is barely holding things together on her end, and if this keeps escalating—”

“Zatanna,” Constantine tried again.

She kept going. “—Because if this spills over, it’s not just going to be contained to one city, and I swear to—”

“ZATANNA.”

She spun on him. “WHAT?!”

That was when she finally noticed Y/N.

Her words cut off instantly. Her posture froze. The room went completely still as her eyes shifted, narrowing slightly as she took in the third person at the table. Y/N felt that same heavy presence settle on them now, sharp and assessing.

No one spoke for a few seconds.

Constantine cleared his throat. “Right. Uh. This is… my kid now.”

The woman just stared at Y/N, dumbfounded.

Y/N looked at Constantine, smirked, and said softly, “Your kid now, huh?”

He gave a small shrug. “Technically, yeah.”

The room stayed quiet for a moment. Y/N’s smile lingered. Zatanna was still frozen. Constantine looked slightly uncomfortable.

And that’s how the day began.

And now we come to the end of ARC II!! Next ARC we will have a new perspective

Also, it might take a while for next ARC to start since my next semester of university is starting next month and I have somethings stuff to get done before then

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and ARC!!

Word count: 2141

TAGLIST: @thatbitchanna27 @adorablepandasuniverse @fauna-the-bizzy-bee143 @fourth-wall-irl @kneelforloki @cyberraccoonn @omnivirgo @shirayukiuzukaze @kazudare @starseekingaheart @astras-nebula @cheshire-kitsune @p1nkh3artz @sunset-madeline @fanficlover2902 @fictionalwhor3 @jealouscupcake @ghostlyworld @watermellonslol @yukikohai09142010sjs @nisarelle @vampire-oc-lover @just-some-stars @diamondnightsky23 @dreaming-of-lilacs @eyes-ofhell @vanessa-boo @whatamoodhoney @alelapulema @cupid73 @ivorytits @ssonissum @mirabilis-polaris @stickyricewithmangosauce @shark01 @chaosandcandies @iamlowkeycrying @minaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @rakosula @passingthroughlegume @serapinaxx @kitkatkristal1020 @lunadi1una @cssammyyarts @stormnightingale @punksnotdeadbutiam @plsfckmedxddy @migalhadust @sweetprincesscomputer @fer0iniguez

[tmswritesfanfics]

Hello and good morning/afternoon or evening wherever you are. I hope this isn’t a bother but can we have a doctor strange! Reader having to take down interdimensional threats like angstrom and mark variants before the time stream collapses ( kinda like spiderman long way from home. I love your work!)

A wise woman once said, “For a genius, nothing is more precious than failure.” 

For a doctor, there is no such thing as perfection–that’s why they call it “practicing medicine,” because there is always more to learn and there will always be something to improve.

Sadly, you were no longer a surgeon. Magic is the source of miracles, but even it is bound by destiny, and destiny states that you were meant to serve the world outside the operating room. Outside the realm considered “normal.” 

Being Sorcerer Supreme wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Sure, you could turn bullets into butterflies at the flick of a wrist, and yes, it’s nice being able to go anywhere without having to wait for the bus or sit still in an airplane next to a crying baby.

You prevented evil wizards from taking over the spirit and mortal world, stopped the sun from becoming a black hole more times than you can count, and outsmarted an interdimensional Eldritch abomination–

Blah blah blah. 

You missed the good old days, when you were just a student at the bottom of the food chain, when there was more to study, more to explore, more to learn. 

Humans are privileged in not having enough time to learn everything all at once. You were an unfortunate exception. With your astral projection, sleep was no longer something you worried about; while your physical form recuperated, your soul would devour all the books and ancient scriptures available. But now? You knew everything. Time is the enemy for mortal scholars, but what happens when time becomes your slave? 

The time stone has long been lost, but during the brief moments you had it, you bore witness to every branch from the tree of fate. Every probability, every parallel universe blooming with every choice made by everything and everyone in existence.

In one of those blossoms, a man named Angstrom Levy saw but a tiny fraction of eternity, and thought that he alone had unlocked the secret of the universe.

“Little fool,” you said, voice cold. 

He struggled against your binding spell but the golden strings around his neck, waist and limbs tightened in response.

“Don’t waste brain power trying to escape.” The spell that kept him in place also cut off the source of his teleportation. 

When he finally realized that there was no flaw to exploit in your ropes, he breathed out an angry “Who are you?” 

“Wow, you really tried to take over the multiverse without even knowing who I am? Very well–” You flipped your cape. “You are one of the chosen few to meet me in person. I am the Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts.”

“I have never heard of you.”

You laughed at his cheap attempts to insult you. “That’s all right. I’ve been around for so long that monsters have forgotten to fear me. Soon, you will be joining them.”

“Me? You’re punishing me? What about him–what about them?” He didn’t have to say a name. You knew exactly who he meant. And that person’s alternate selves were likely already killing each other in that wasteland dimension.  

“What about them?”

Angstrom was taken aback by your words. “Mark Grayson is nothing but a pest, a-a-a darkness that ruins everything–”

“Mark Grayson is the sole existence that’s keeping this world and all the other worlds alive.”

He looked at you like you were insane.

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” 

“Know what?”

You placed your palm over his eyes, white light flashing as you force-fed memories into his head. 

Angstrom screamed in agony.

You pulled back. “Now you know the truth.”

“No… it can’t be.”

“You’re supposed to be a smarter man than this, Angstrom, do not deny what has been placed in front of you.”

“No!” He wriggled, the binds suffocated him with each movement. “It can’t be! This world, me and him, you’re telling me… you’re telling me that every bad thing that has happened to us, every single choice we made was meaningless?!”

You shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘meaningless.’ You and everyone else here was born for a single purpose–” You smiled and said: “Entertainment.”

Golden threads wrapped around his mouth, stopping him from shouting once again. 

“The gods are cruel, aren’t they?” You whispered. “But there’s not much we can do about that.” 

You waved your hand and he was gone. 

Time to clean up his mess.

You cracked your knuckles and opened the last world he accessed with his powers.

It wasn’t a dying Earth, but a dying universe. Even if they flew out of the Milky Way they won’t be finding anything. 

When you appeared, two of them tried to attack you but your protection spells were quicker. 

“Now gentlemen, there is no need to be rough. I’m here to send you home.”

The Mark draped in black and yellow kept his fist on your shield. “You expect me to believe that? You’re with Angstrom, aren’t you? Where is he? I'm going to kill him!”

You didn’t say anything, merely watched as he tried punching you again. 

Another Mark with a veil joined him.

Idiots.

You snapped your fingers and your shields combined to a giant dome that pushed them back. “I’m not that little red-haired playmate of yours, it’s going to take a lot more than a few hits from a Viltrumite to break down my force fields.”

You waved your arm and they started floating against their will. Even with their smart atoms, they couldn’t fly away. 

The others regarded you with anger and suspicion. 

“Who…what are you?” The Mark wearing Omni-Man’s colors demanded.

“I’m the Sorcerer Supreme.”

There was a beat before he replied, “Who?”

Your eyebrow twitched. “Look, I already dealt with Angstrom, I came here to help you get back to your respective timelines out of the goodness of my heart, mind you.”

“How about you take us to Angstrom and we don’t beat the living shit out of you?” The guy with the awful haircut said.

“I don’t think you want that.”

“I think we do,” said the bald one. 

The Invincible with his whole head covered up stepped forward. “We don’t want to fight, so just surrender.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mohawk snorted. 

“Give up,” Omni-Invincible pointed his finger at you. “You are outnumbered.”

“Oh?” Your cape fluttered behind you. “Well, you are outclassed.” 

To call what happened next a “fight” would be an insult to the word. They fell like flies in a matter of seconds. 

You sent them to their realities and once again, the multiverse was safe from destruction. With a yawn, you went back home and watched a movie. 

A/N: I've never watched the Tom Holland Spiderman films and my knowledge about Dr. Strange is limited, but I didn't want to reject these requests cause they gave me a chance to write an OP reader. Once again, liberties were taken when I made this fic. (Y/n is also lowkey inspired by the unrivaled Madam Herta.)

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[System notice: the ask box is open for discussion and questions and fangirling/fanboying, but it is now CLOSED FOR REQUESTS.]

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A potential hunt leads to meeting another hunter, Gordon.

Warnings: Cannon violence, description of mutilated corpses, gore, sorry if the Latin is wrong, flirting?, cursing

Word Count: 12.5k

Bloodlust

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

  “Whoo!” Dean hollers, nodding along to the blasting AC/DC song. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the guitar riff in “Back In Black,” the brightest of smiles on his face.

  “Listen to her purr!” he shouts over the loud music, practically beaming. “Have you ever heard anything so sweet?”

  “You know, if you two wanna get a room, just let us know, Dean,” Sam remarks, acting disgusted as if there isn’t a slight smile on his face.

  “Oh, don’t listen to him, Baby. He doesn’t understand us,” Dean says, rubbing his hand over the dashboard. I can’t blame him for his enthusiasm, it’s nice to be back in the Impala and he did a damn good job in fixing her up, you wouldn’t know she was ever broken. The car runs smoothly, isn’t crushed in, its metal outside is shining, and the inside was wiped down and taken care of delicately. And, this song is banging.

  Sam laughs. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Dean asks without missing a beat.

  “No reason,” Sam settles on, shaking his head.

  “It’s nice,” I add.

  “Got my car, got a case, things are looking up,” Dean explains.

  “Wow. Give you a couple of severed heads and a pile of dead cows, and you’re Mister Sunshine,” Sam remarks.

  “He’s a simple guy,” I join in, joking.

  “How far to Red Lodge?” Dean asks.

  “Uh, about another three hundred miles,” Sam answers, reading over the map.

  “Good,” Dean smirks, flooring it.

  The sheriff, with a thick mustache, leans back casually in his office chair, unamused by our presence. “The murder investigation is ongoing, and that’s all I can share with the press at this time,” he tells us. He’s definitely media trained, I conclude.

  “Sure, sure, we understand that,” Sam brushes off, fitting into the journalist role quite well (professional attire included). “But just for the record, you found the first head last week, correct?”   “Mm-hmm,” he hums.

  “Okay, and the other, a, uh…”

  “Christina Flanigan,” I fill in for him.

  “That was two days ago. Is there—” he cuts himself off as his office door creaks open, a young woman pointing at her watch. “Oh. Sorry boys, ma’am,” he nods at us, “Time’s up, we’re done here.”

  “What about the cattle?” Dean asks before the sheriff can get up.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, the cows found dead, split open, drained… over a dozen cases,” Dean clarifies.

  “What about them?” 

  “So you don’t think there’s a connection?” Sam pushes.

  “Connection…with…?”

  “The cattle mutilation and the two dead bodies,” I answer. “The perpetrator could have been using the cows as practice before he or she worked up the courage to actually kill. Or, it could be used as a way to fill the space between kills. It’s also, of course, a possibility that it's a part of their ritual, or is in itself a ritual.”

  “Like Satanic cult ritual stuff,” Dean adds to my rambling.

  He laughs, a full belly laugh, until he realizes we aren’t laughing with him. “You’re not kidding,” he realizes.

  “No,” Dean answers.

  “Those cows aren’t being mutilated. You wanna know how I know?” the sheriff asks.

  “How?” Sam muses.

  “Because there's no such thing as cattle mutilation. Cow drops, leave it in the sun, within forty-eight hours the bloat'll split it open so clean it's just about surgical,” he explains. “The bodily fluids fall down into the ground and get soaked up because that's what gravity does. But, hey, it could be Satan.”   “Sure, that’s a possibility, but it would be improper to rule it out so quickly,” I counter.

  “Are you tryna suggest that I don't know how to do my job?” he asks, leaning forward.

  “Sir, with all due respect, you’re being ignorant,” I answer, feeling the boy's eyes on me. His eyes widen, but I continue. “For one, cow mutilation, animal mutilation in general, is a real thing. There was a serial killer, Joseph Vatcher, back in the 1800s, who had mutilated animals, I believe it was sheep. It’s not uncommon for that sort of thing to happen. Secondly, we aren’t saying that Satan is real or has any part in this, but that doesn’t mean that the perpetrator doesn’t believe he is. I mean, seriously, sir, have you ever heard of religious psychosis or plain justification? Hell, the Son of Sam claimed the neighbor's dog was telling him to kill those people.”

  I watch his jaw clench, his lip twitching. I can practically hear his teeth grinding, and if this were a cartoon, there might be smoke coming from his ears. I struck about a couple hundred nerves with my rambling. Oops. 

  I sneak a glimpse at Dean, acutely aware of the silence filling the room. But he’s leaning back in his chair casually, legs spread, with a smug smile on his lips. Was he…proud? 

  “What newspaper did you say you work for?” The sheriff bites. 

  “World Weekly News”

  “Weekly World News,” the boys say in unison. Their heads snap to look at each other as they try again.

  “World—“ Dean tries again. I mentally sigh at the mess this is becoming.

  “Weekly World-“ 

  “Weekly…I’m new,” Dean smiles, exhaling a small laugh.  “Get out of my office,” he demands. 

********

  We’re onto the next office (if that office was a morgue). It was an easy switch, being able to throw lab coats over our suits and ties, or in my case, a white blouse and black slacks, but that’s neither here nor there. 

  The air is chilly and crisp, fluorescent lights reflecting dimly off the stainless steel tables. An intern with short black hair and a long face stares at us from over his desk. 

  “John,” Dean greets, guessing as he reads J. Manners off the guy's name tag.

  “Jeff,” he corrects, looking at us like a lost puppy. Essentially, he has that intern look to him, scared to do anything wrong. 

  “Jeff, I know that,” Dean lies, nodding. “Dr. Dworkin needs to see you in his office right away.”

  “But Dr. Dworkin’s on vacation,” he counters, somehow looking more lost.

  “Well, he’s back. And he’s pissed, and he’s screaming for you, man, so if I were you I would…” Dean whistles, shaking his head as he rocks on his heels. Jeff stands abruptly, his chair rolling back as he scrambles around the desk, running off with enough speed to make his lab coat all floaty in the back.

  “Hey, those satanists in Florida, they marked their victims, didn’t they?” Dean asks, moving on with ease.

  “Yeah, reversed pentacle on the forehead,” Sam answers.

  “So much fucked up crap happens in Florida,” Dean remarks, stating the obvious as he hands out pairs of latex gloves he stole from a little box kept on the wall.

  “It’s that Florida man mindset,” I add, slipping the gloves on. 

  Sam pulls open one of the many small doors on the far wall, wheeling out a corpse. A white sheet is placed over the body, except for the pale feet sticking out, a tag with the girl's name wrapped around her ankle. A brown box rests by the tips of her toes, where her head is no doubt being kept. 

  “Alright, open it,” Dean nudges his brother.

  “You open it,” Sam retorts, elbowing his brother back a bit harsher. 

  I roll my eyes, collecting the box myself. The box, and subsequently the head inside, isn’t very heavy, at the very least I know the average brain weighs about 3 pounds, I just don’t know how much the rest of it is. “You’re both scaredy cats,” I point out as I move the slightly heavy box onto a nearby table. 

  “I am not,” Dean defends, scuffing. 

  “Sure,” I stretch out. I lift the lid of the box, a pale, severed head staring back at me, well, not exactly staring because the brunette’s eyes are closed. “Mm, that’s so cool,” I mumble.

  “You have issues,” Sam answers, cringing as he peeks over my shoulder. 

  “Probably,” I shrug. 

  “Well, no pentagram,” Dean points out.

  “Nope, but look at that cut.” I run my finger along the cut, not exactly touching the jagged skin. “Not exactly perfect or surgical but pretty damn good. Definitely done in one movement.”

  I glance up, feeling their burning gazes. Sam’s jaw dropped, lip curled in disgust. “You’re kind of creepy,” he remarks.

  “Thanks,” I chirp.

  “Not a compliment,” he murmurs. “Ow!” he yelps as Dean slaps the back of his head. 

  “Maybe we should, uh, you know, look in her mouth, see if those wackos stuffed anything down her throat. You know, kind of like the moth in Silence of the Lambs,” Dean suggests.

  “I like the way you think, Precious,” I answer. “It was a pretty good book, though I think Red Dragon was a million times better.”

  “The movie was good, creepy as fuck,” he adds. “Put the lotion in the basket.”

  “Do you two need a moment?” Sam asks, looking between the two of us.

  My cheeks warm, and I shake my head, “Let us fangirl, Sammy,” I half-joke. But, at last, I go back to the task at hand, squeezing the dead girl's cheeks to open her jaw. I pry open her mouth further, mumbling a quick apology as I move two fingers into her mouth, pressing and searching around. 

  “Are you not disgusted?” Sam asks, “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  I shake my head, “‘M not disgusted at all, it’s very interesting.”

  “You’re really freaky,” he mumbles, taking a couple of steps away from the box and the prodding. 

  I tilt my head, leaning in closer as I lift her top lip up. “No moth or paper left in her mouth, but I think she’s got some sort of…mouth issue here. ‘Guess she saved a dentist trip.”

  “Wait, wait, is that a hole?” Dean asks.

  “Think so,” I mumble.

  “Press above it,” he directs.

  “Um, okay.” I press on the gum, a narrow, sharp tooth descending. “Huh.”

  “It’s a tooth,” Sam states.

  “Sam, that’s a fang. Retractable set of vampire fangs,” Dean clarifies. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  I freeze.

  “Well, this changes things,” Sam remarks.

  “Ya think?”

  I pull back quickly, tossing the lid back on and ripping off my gloves. I throw them out quickly, pushing back my hair as I pace. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

  “Woah, woah, woah,” Dean approaches with his hand raised as if trying to calm down an animal. “What’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “I have to leave. Those vamps didn’t just walk into a blade, okay? There’s another hunter here, and I should be, like, a hundred miles away from this. I’m so gonna die, oh my god, that’s gonna be my body on the table.”

  “Sweetheart, nothing is gonna happen,” he tries, and he looks sincere.

  “That’s what you think,” I point out. “But there’s another hunter in town, and he’s slashing down these…guys without batting an eye. You know, I could deal with meeting Bobby and Ellen, they actually turned out to be really cool even if the latter doesn’t know anything about me, but I don’t think this guy is gonna care for a meet and greet!”

  He steps closer, putting a hand on my shoulder, he tilts his head slightly to make sure that I’m looking in his eyes as he says, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’ll just be here for the vamps. No one’s going to kill you or come anywhere close to hurting you, you got that?”

  I swallow, I can still feel the buzzing in my veins that’s telling me to run. Maybe I should run. That’s the smart thing to do. It’s what I’ve been taught: stay away from hunters. The Winchesters have always been an exception, and that was only by a little. I’ve gotten too loose with the people I’ve been introduced to. I should run, but I don’t. For whatever stupid reason, maybe trust, or his firm voice, or the way his green eyes grew serious, I nod. 

  He shakes his head, “‘Wanna hear you say it.”

  “I…I got it, I understand.”

********

  As understanding as I am, I’ve been jittery the whole day, bleeding into night. I’m pretty sure I’m being overly paranoid as we walk into the bar in hopes of luring the vampires out. But there’s this gnawing in my stomach that I can’t seem to stop, regardless of the amount of tea I’ve drunk. It’s so bad that when we approach the bar top and Dean orders two beers and a soda, I cut him off, switching it to three beers and no soda. 

  “So, we're looking for some people,” Sam starts as the bartender places down the drinks. I snatch one up, taking a big sip that I instantly regret, wishing I could spit it back up.

  “Sure. Hard to be lonely,” he muses, leaning on the bartop.

  “Yeah. But, um, that’s not what I meant,” Sam makes a show of pulling out a $50 bill from his pocket, dropping it on the bar. The dark-haired bartender accepts it, sliding it towards himself. “Right. So these people, they would have moved here about six months ago, probably pretty rowdy, like to drink…”

  “Yeah, real night owls, you know?” Dean adds. I take another big sip of my beer. I don’t know why I’m drinking it when I hate the taste, and the smell is surfacing old memories. So, I’m glad when Dean quietly takes the bottle from my lips before I can take another disgusting sip. He keeps it on the other side of him, the action done casually as he continues talking. “Sleep all day, party all night.”

  “Barker farm got leased out a couple of months ago. Real winners. They’ve been in here a lot—drinkers. Noisy. I’ve had to 86 them once or twice,” he informs.

  “Thanks,” Dean nods, leading us out of the bar.

  “What does 86 mean?” I ask, despising the aftertaste on my tongue. 

  “‘Remove them,” Dean answers, his hand going to my lower back to urge me down the alley. It’s dark, and the asphalt is wet despite it not having rained in the last 24 hours. It’s only our footsteps between the two walls, but just beneath ours, there’s another. The fact is, we expected this and had planned for it. So, like we mapped out, we slip from view, using the shadows to vanish between a small gap in the buildings. The person’s steps continue, pattering forward, he pauses, scuffing and turning back around. The boys are on him quickly, shoving him against the paneled wall roughly, Dean holding a sharp knife against his throat. Our stalker is a dark skinned man in a flannel shirt; he has a buzz cut, and he looks just a little shorter than Dean. 

  “Smile,” Dean teases. 

  “What?” the man exhales, his eyes wide as he looks between the three of us. 

  “Show us those pearly whites,” Dean clarifies.

  “Oh, for the love of—“ he groans. “You want to stick that thing someplace else? I’m not a vampire. Yeah, I heard you guys in there.”

  “How much do you know about vampires?” I voice it quietly.

  “How to kill them,” he answers, and I fight the urge to take big steps away from him. “Now seriously, bro, that knife’s making me itch.” Sam pins him harder against the wall. “Woah, easy there, Chaci,” the man says.

  He brings his hand up to his mouth, pulling up his lip so that we can see his gums. “See? Fangless. Happy?” he proves. Not only is he not a vampire, but it looks like the dentist probably loves him. “Now,” he continues. “Who the hell are you?”

********

  The man, Gordon, shows off his arsenal, his car trunk popped open to put it all on display. He lifts a large silver hook, letting the street light reflect on it as he moves it this way and that.

  “You got a thing for I know what you did last Summer?” I ask, eyeing the tool. It’s an interesting weapon to choose, certainly not a conventional one. It seems harsh, it reminds me of the Hook Man hunt we had a while back. 

  “What?” 

  “Nothing, never mind,” I mumble. 

  “Sam and Dean Winchester,” he says, moving on quickly. It’s the second time he’s said their names as if testing the way they sounded. “I can’t believe it. You know, I met your old man once. Hell of a guy. Great hunter. I heard he passed. I’m sorry, it’s big shoes. But from what I hear, you guys fill ‘em. Great trackers, good in a tight spot—“

  “You seem to know a lot about our family,” Dean points out.

  “Word travels fast,” he answers, looking directly at me. “You know how hunters talk.”

  My heart stops, that fear curling around my gut and tugging it down. “No, we don’t, actually,” Dean replies. But Gordon is still looking at me. 

  “What was your name again?” he asks me, and I know by the way he repeated the Winchesters' name that he hadn’t actually forgotten mine. 

  “Y/N,” I answer.

  “And your last name?” he pushes.

  “Just Y/N,” I doubled down. Maybe he’s harmless, maybe I’m just very paranoid, but regardless, I don’t want him to know. And yet there’s a part of me, a large gnawing part of me, that’s telling me he already does. 

  “So, um, those two vampires, they were yours, huh?” Sam asks, diverting Gordon’s attention away from me. I want to throw confetti at him out of gratitude. 

  “Yup. Been here two weeks,” he answers.

  “Did you check out that Barker farm?” Dean asks.

  “It’s a bust. Just a bunch of hippie freaks. Though they could kill you with that patchouli smell alone,” he explains, and somehow that’s another red flag in my book, separate from him being a hunter. Hippies were not freaks, and to think of them as such is lame.

  “Where’s the nest, then?” Dean pushes.

  “I got this one covered,” Gordon replies, shutting it down. “Look, don’t get me wrong, it’s a real pleasure meetin’ you fellas. But I’ve been on this thing for over a year. I killed a fang back in Austin, tracked the nest all the way up here. I’ll finish it.” 

  “We could help,” Dean adds, and for once, I would love for his beautiful lips to stop moving. Gordon could have this case as much as he wants; I'm more than content with that outcome. 

  “Thanks, but uh, I’m kind of a go-it-alone type of guy,” he deflects. That was good news. He should leave. We should let him leave. Let him be alone. 

  “Come on, man, I’ve been itching for a hunt,” Dean pleads. 

  “Sorry,” he says, closing the trunk of his car. “But hey, I hear there’s a Chupacabra two states over. You go ahead and knock yourselves out.” He gets into his car, and I’ve suddenly never been more pleased by any other sight. “It was real good meeting you, though. I’ll buy you a drink on the flip side.”

  Staying back was perhaps the worst mistake of my life. I had been too paranoid. I had let the fear of running into Gordon get to me, deciding to hang back at the motel while they took care of a lead to some vampires. But, not knowing if they’re okay or alive is one hundred times worse than possibly getting killed by a hunter. I’d rather get tortured, stabbed a hundred times, and burned alive than let them go on a hunt without me, I know that now. So, when I got a call saying they were okay and would be heading to the bar to celebrate the success, I jumped at the opportunity. 

  I saw Dean first; he had stayed outside, knowing I was going to arrive separately from them. “Woah,” he chuckles as I jump into his arms, my own wrapping around his neck. He wraps his arms around me, his hands firm and secure on my back. I deflate against him, a weight I didn’t know was on my shoulders, easing in his embrace. 

  “If I ever say I’m gonna stay back on a hunt again, I’m lying or it isn’t me,” I declare.

  His hands slip lower down my back as he pulls away just enough to see my face. “I’m not going to force—” he pauses, eyes scanning my face with a precision only he seems to have. “Okay, baby, you can come with us, always,” he nods, giving in easily.

  “Good, thanks,” I exhale, another weight lifted from my shoulders, “Because that was a horrible time. I was really worried about you.”

  He smiles lopsidedly. He fricking smiles as if I hadn’t been pacing the motel floor enough to wear a hole into the carpet. “I’m alright, not a scratch on me. Sammy’s okay, too. It was just one vampire.”

  “You’re lucky it was just one!” I say, hitting his chest lightly. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even blink, he just wears that sure smile of his, his fingers twitching on my lower back. “Why are you smiling like that?” I ask, eyes squinting, a smile pulling on my lips.

  His eyes trace down my face, “Nothin’” he answers, shaking his head. “Come on,” he nods towards the bar entrance, and for a brief moment, I had forgotten that’s why we were here.

  I let him lead me in, frankly, I’d let him lead me anywhere, even if that was straight into danger. Coincidentally, that is exactly what he’s doing. I pause at the sight of Gordon occupying a table with Sam sitting across from him. “You didn’t say he was gonna be joining us,” I say, looking at him.

  I see the guilt wash over his face with the slight twitch of his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t have come,” he answers.

  “Yeah, that’s the whole point,” I shake my head.

  “Give him a chance,” he reasons. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” I know he means that, and I know he wouldn’t. Yet, there’s a part of me that’s screaming for me to be wary. This is different from a family friend of theirs; this is a stranger with no obligation to us. “You look pretty,” he tries.

  “You can’t compliment your way out of this,” I counter. Except he totally can, because whether he means it or not, my heart lurches, and little butterflies twirl in my stomach.

  “‘Wasn’t tryin’ to,” he shrugs, and I know I’m a goner. My throat fills with nervous, bubbly laughter that I have to force down. 

  “I…will give him a chance,” I declare, booping his nose before turning and making my way towards the table, so much for a compliment not saving him. I almost instantly regret my decision when I take a seat, my heart thrumming fast for an entirely different reason. But then Dean takes the seat beside me, and it eases something small in me, so maybe things will be okay. (That’s me lying to myself.)

  “Nice to see you again,” Gordon greets me, his eyes boring into mine. “Why weren’t you there for the take-down? Don’t like getting your hands dirty?”

  Shoot. “Oh, I was…” I fumble for a lie, my heart beating hard enough that I can feel it against my chest. 

  “Not feeling good,” Sam sweeps in, saving me, and I want to lean across Dean and place a big kiss on his cheek for that. 

  “But you feel well enough to come party?” he presses. 

  I broke the eye contact he had set, looking at the swirls of the wooden table. “‘Guess so,” I mumble, failing to come up with something witty. I’m really not helping myself.

  “‘Shame you missed it,” he remarks, leaning back casually in his seat. I look back up at him, nodding slowly and giving him an awkward, tight-lipped smile when a familiar, warm hand settles on my knee, halting its bouncing. I didn’t know I was doing that. He did, though, of course he did. 

  I watch the moment Gordon’s eyes briefly drop to Dean's hand on my knee as if taking note of it. I think Dean notices it too, but he doesn’t remove his hand or say anything about it, taking a sip of his beer and squeezing my leg softly instead. It makes the butterflies in my stomach get frantic. “‘She your girl?” Gordon asks him, nodding at me.

  “No,” Dean answers simply, a hint of a bite underlying it. What was that for? I thought he liked this guy. 

  Gordon quirks his eyebrow, shrugging as if contemplating it. But he seems to move on quickly. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks. “I’ll get another round.”

  Okay, that’s a pretty normal, if not sweet, question. “Sure, thank you, um, a Shirley Temple, please.”

  “No alcohol?” he asks, eyebrows raised slightly.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m not really a fan…” I answer, nodding a little awkwardly. Alcohol reminds me of my Dad—the sad man he was. So, I don’t enjoy it. I had to learn to like, or at the very least tolerate bars, back in college. Turns out the right music and a sugar high can be as much fun as alcohol.

  “Not even a shot?” he tries. “I don’t know how you handle hunting without it.”

  “I guess I handle it the normal way?” I answer, my voice going up in a question rather than a sure statement. “Maybe a good cry too.”   He chuckles lightly, taking a sip of whatever amber liquid is in his glass. Was that funny? I didn’t think it was. 

  He waves a waitress over, flashing his white teeth as he orders a handful of drinks. His words become a faint buzz in my ears as I study him. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I don’t want to assume that he has bad intentions, for all I know, I’m making a really bad assumption. But I don’t know, really, I have no clues to indicate anything other than that he’s a pretty good hunter whom we happened to run into. Maybe I am overreacting, anxiety be damned. 

  “How d’you two meet her?” he asks, and as harmless as he might be, I kind of don’t like the way he asks a question regarding me without me, like I can’t answer it myself.

  “Our parents knew each other,” Sam answered. 

  “Back to your parents, huh,” Gordon nods. “Your folks hunters too?” 

  “One of them was, yeah,” I reply, trying to be careful with what I share. It’s also why I hadn’t given him my last name; if he figures out who my Dad is, then he’ll know who my Mom is, which means he’ll know what I am. 

  “Married outside the life. That must be hard,” he remarks. 

  “You saying you have trouble with the ladies?” I tease. He laughs a dry laugh. I guess he didn’t like that joke too much. I clear my throat, moving on, “They loved each other, my parents, so…”

  “You one those “love always wins” kind of people?” he asks.

  “Um, I guess I am, yes.” I’m not sure if all of me knew that I believed that until now. But then the words left my mouth, and I know it’s true. “I mean, I think if you love someone a lot, you're bound to do anything for them, you know, regardless of the risks or consequences. I can’t imagine anything that could beat love because it sure as hell can break the constraints of death.”

  I have to resist the urge to look at Dean. I know I’m a hypocrite because, by my own words, I should tell him how I feel regardless of the consequences. But I can’t. I’ve known him practically my whole life. If I said something and he didn’t feel the same, then what would become of us? We couldn’t possibly be as close as we are; there’d always be the lingering awkwardness of an unwanted confession. And I wouldn’t be able to pretend that it didn’t kill me to hear him verbally say he didn’t feel the same. He’d probably be kind about it too, let me down gently while all the same ripping out my heart.

  I think it may be possible to love someone so much that you have no other choice but to do it silently. Is that foolish? Maybe. Probably. But I’ve almost lost him twice, and I still don’t have the courage to spill my guts, so I know all I am is foolish. Yet, his hand is on my leg, and it would be so easy to make that permanent, to turn to him and say the truth that’s always on the tip of my tongue. I want the chance to love him out loud. I want him to kiss me until my lungs start weeping and my heart begs for more. I wouldn’t care if it killed me. What a wonderful way to die. 

  I just want him. I want my heart to beat in sync with his. I want my skin to memorize his fingertips like a wildfire spreading. I want monuments to be carved out of our love, vines writing our tale in its intertwining fingers.

  I’m pulled out of my thoughts of old stone when the weight on my knee disappears, my eyes flicking to him. His hips lift slightly as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. 

  “No, no, I got it,” Gordon stops him. A waitress carefully lays down a couple of shot glasses, beer, and a red drink with my name on it. Condensation rolls down the glass onto the wooden table, possibly creating a mark that would prove that we had been here for years to come: something is comforting in that, I think.

  “Come on,” Dean reasons, his wallet in his hand. Is it possible to be jealous of a square piece of leather?   “I insist,” Gordon nods, holding a couple of bills pinched between his fingers at the waitress. My Dad used to say that anyone who buys you a drink is a friend, so maybe this is a good sign, though he was also an alcoholic, so maybe his advice doesn’t stand.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Gordon says to the waitress as she walks away, leaning far back to watch the sway of her hips. He grabs a shot glass, the clear liquid shifting as he raises it. “Another one bites the dust,” he toasts, getting Dean to raise a shot of his own.

  “That’s right,” he answers, the duo knocking back the drink with little to no grimacing. 

  Finally, I pull the red bubbling heaven to my lips. Whoever created this drink deserves endless love and all the wealth one could need. Seriously, I’d kiss whoever came up with it.

  “Dean,” Gordon laughs, “You gave that big ass fang one hell of a haircut, my friend.”

  “Thank you,” he answers.

  “That was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful,” Gordon reminisces, a satisfied, dreamy look on his face. “You should have seen the way he used the electric saw.” 

  There’s something childlike in the way he talks about it, like it was a cool scene in a comic rather than something that happened. I nod along, placing my glass down as I reply, “Like a slasher flick,” going along with how he gushes about the kill. Sometimes it’s easier to nod and smile, though Sam doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment with his unamused expression and distance from the conversation. 

  “You alright, Sammy?” Dean asks him.

  “I’m fine,” he answers a little harshly, or bitterly.

  “Well, lighten up a little, Sammy,” Gordon teases, mocking him.

  “Only they get to call me that,” he replies smoothly, nodding towards Dean and me, causing a sort of warm pride to pulse in my heart.

  “Okay, no offense meant,” he backs off, raising his hands in surrender. “Just celebrating a little. Job well done.”

  “Right. Well, decapitations aren’t my idea of a good time, I guess,” Sam remarks.

  “Oh, come on, man, it’s not like it was human,” Gordon argues. 

  My face scrunches in confusion, taken aback by that statement. “Well, that’s not necessarily true,” I point out, “They were turned, meaning they had to originate from a human.”

  “Key word: were,” Gordon replies. “They were human and now they’re blood sucking monsters.”

  “Well, sure. But that feels a little too black and white. I think it would be dumb to ignore that at least a handful of vampires hadn’t exactly volunteered to be turned, meaning that all they’re doing is surviving now.”

  “Are you trying to say they aren’t monsters?” Gordon presses, his face hardening. 

  “I mean, not necessarily. Yes, killing people is wrong—“

  “I’m glad we can agree on that,” he cuts me off, his lips pulled into a snarl. “Have you ever hunted a vampire?”

  I breathe a laugh. I’m not fond of being cut off during a debate or argument. “I have, but that’s not my point. I just mean to say that “monster” may be a strong word to use.”

  “What kind of hunter are you?” He scuffs, looking at Dean like he had chosen wrong. “How aren’t they monsters?” He presses, eyes locking onto me. “What else would you call them?” his voice rises. “Innocent? Friendly? Victims?”

  I flinch as his hand slams onto the table, the glasses rattling. My chair scrapes against the floor as I put distance between myself and the table, away from him. I look down at the swirls of the wooden table, tracing the loop with my eyes as I steal a sip from my drink in an attempt to pretend like I hadn’t reacted the way I did. I don’t say anything. I don’t try to argue more, saying that I meant that to use the word “monster” for every supernatural being rather than individually, as in depending on the case, is unfair. Which is not to say that there aren’t monsters out there, because there are. 

  “You both need to have a little more fun with your job,” Gordon adds, referring to Sam and me.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them, mostly him. You could learn a thing or two from this guy, Sammy,” Dean replies.  

  “Yeah, I bet I could,” Sam muses with a tight-lipped smile. “Look, I’m not gonna bring you guys down. I’m just gonna go back to the motel.”

  My ears perk up. That sounds like the perfect escape. 

  “You sure?” Dean asks.

  “Yeah,” he answers, standing. 

  “Sammy?” he reaches into his jacket, pulling out his keys, the metal jingling. “Remind me to beat that buzzkill out of you later, alright?”

  Sam catches the keys tossed at him with one hand, casually turning to leave. My fingers tap against the arms of the chair as I watch the back of his head. “Wait, Sam,” I call out. He stops, looks over his shoulder. “Can I come with you?” 

  “Yeah, of course,” he answers, and I wonder why I asked. I don’t need permission. 

  I stand, feeling Dean's eyes on me. His eyes are scrunched together, speaking the words we won’t say out loud because he’s asking if I’m okay and not just okay but genuinely, truly, okay. My hand falls to his shoulder, giving him a little squeeze as I lean down, head tilting slightly as I say a quiet, “Be safe.” I brush my hair from my face as I catch up to Sam, falling into step with him.

********

  I flop onto the nearest bed in the motel with a sigh as Sam drops the keys onto a hook. It's not my bed, it's not even my room, but I know neither boy will complain. “We should get a pizza,” I announce, tracing the dark water stain on the ceiling with my eyes. “A real greasy one that will definitely clog an artery or two.”

  “You sound like Dean,” he answers, scuffing and shaking his head as he tosses his jacket onto the other bed.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I reply, kicking off my shoes. I twist around, lying on my stomach with my head propped up in my hands. “‘Could be like a slumber party while those two get hammered, or whatever.”

  He frowns at the mention of them. “He gives you a bad vibe, right?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I muse.

  “You looked uncomfortable.”

  “That’s the exact opposite of what I was going for,” I mumble. “But, I’m probably biased, you know? He’ll probably kill me if he finds out what I am. But what’s your reasoning?”

  “I don’t know,” he answers softly, sitting at the edge of his bed. “The way he talks about hunting, and the way he handles it, I guess.”

  “That makes two of us, then. I guess Dean isn’t picking up on it. Or he’s ignoring it, rose colored glasses and all,” I consider. 

  “Do you think Ellen would know who he is?” he asks, looking over at me.

  “Probably. She said hunters pass through, maybe he’s one of ‘em, or she heard of him through others. She looks like the kind of person who knows everyone.”

  “‘Didn’t know you,” he points out, a small smile playing at his lips.

  “Guess I’m just that mysterious,” I joke, wiggling my fingers at him.

  “Sure,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna call her.” 

  “Put her on speaker,” I tell him as he pulls out and flicks open his phone.

  He nods, mumbling a “yeah, yeah,” his phone making small beeping noises with every button press. A steady ring buzzes from his phone, the line picking up after the third ring. 

  “Harvelle’s Roadhouse,” she greets, the distant sound of chatter filling the background.

  “Hey, Ellen, uh, Sam Winchester,” he answers.

  “And Y/N!” I add.

  “Sam, Y/N, it’s good to hear from you both. You're all okay, aren’t you?” she asks. She really is very sweet; it’s hard not to like her. 

  “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Got a question,” he answers.

  “Yeah, shoot.”

  “You ever run across a guy named Gordon Walker?”

  “Yeah, I know Gordon.”

  “And?” he presses.

  “Well, he’s a real good hunter. Why are you asking, sweetie?” 

  “Is he cool to be with? Safe?” I ask, shouting a little to make sure the phone picks me up.

  “We ran into him on a job and we’re kinda working with him, I guess,” Sam clarifies.

  “Don’t do that,” she answers, her voice suddenly serious rather than sweet and syrupy. 

  “I- I thought you said he was a good hunter,” he stammers, throwing me a worried look. I scramble to sit upright, worried about her change in voice and her short warning.

  “Yeah, and Hannibal Lecter’s a good psychiatrist,” she remarks. “Look, he is dangerous to everyone and everything around him. If he’s working on a job, you just let him handle it and you move on.”

  My heart plummets to my feet. I guess my fear was warranted this whole time. We should leave. 

  “Ellen—“ 

  “No, Sam,” She cuts him off sharply. “You just listen to what I’m telling you, okay?”

  “Right, okay,” he answers, giving in. It’s not that long after that he hangs up, and we sit in silence. I stare at the carpet, considering its little bumps and likely itchy material.

  “What do we do?” I ask, breaking the silence. 

  “We leave as soon as possible, I guess. ‘Tell Dean when he gets back.”

  “I feel like we should tell him now. Get him back now. After Ellen’s warning, I really don’t trust him,” I point out, picking at a loose thread in the blanket.

  “I don’t think he’s gonna come back, he’ll insist he stays out. I don’t think he’s gonna take the warning seriously either,” he counters.

  “If I call him, he’ll come, he always does,” I reason. Before I went on the road with him, that’s pretty much how we were. If he didn’t make a surprise visit, or a pre-planned one, then it was because I called. 

  He shakes his head, “Maybe that’ll work, but it might set something off with Gordon.”

  “The longer he stays with him, the less he’s gonna believe us,” I point out. 

  “He’ll always believe you,” he says with finality, and it hits me. He isn’t wrong, I guess I never thought of that. “But Dean, he’ll be okay for now. We should be more worried about you.”

  “Back to my hundred miles away freak out,” I mumble, falling back into bed.

  “Look, I’m gonna go get a drink from the vending machine outside, and when I get back we’ll think of something, okay?” he asks, staying level-headed. “Do you want anything?”

  “Could you get me a (soda)?” I answer, leaning up on my elbows.

  He nods, throwing his jacket back on. “I’ll be right back,” he announces one last time before the door clicks behind him.

  I drop from my propped arms, staring up at the ceiling again. Sam’s right, we have dealt with worse. For one, Gordon is human; he may be skilled, but he’s still got a handful of natural weaknesses (worst comes to worst). That should be comforting, and yet for some reason it isn’t. 

  I can convince myself that everything will be okay if I squeeze my eyes closed hard enough. I exhale slowly, trying to let all the negative energy escape me. I try not to be negative, but sometimes it creeps through like a shadow overtaking the sunlight. My body feels heavy with all the anxiety it’s harbored today, my bones like jello against a mattress that’s almost comfortable. 

  I don’t count the minutes Sam is gone, but after what feels like an eternity of staring at a boring ceiling, I check the alarm clock. It’s been about five minutes, and the red glow of the numbers is watching me from the nightstand. I don’t think the vending machine is far enough to warrant five minutes, then again, maybe he got sidetracked. It wouldn’t hurt to check; worst-case scenario, I bump into him and we brush off how I got worried for no reason.

  I roll over to the other side of the bed, shoving my feet back into my shoes and throwing a sweater on. I make sure I have my phone before softly shutting the door behind me. Immediately, it’s vacant. There’s no one lingering outside, not even someone smoking, and the nearest vending machine, some distance to the left, is unoccupied. Fear punches my heart, but I try to act calmly before jumping to conclusions, taking a lap around the exterior of the motel in search of him. 

  He’s nowhere to be seen. He’s gone, and the car is still here. I flip open my phone, pressing his contact, the line rings and rings and rings, never getting anywhere. I huff, quickly calling again as worry eats at my gut. And again, there’s no answer. I should call Dean. But if I call Dean, then he’ll probably bring Gordon, and that’s what we want to avoid; then again, this is his brother we’re talking about, he deserves to know. I’d be pissed if no one told me my brother was in danger and I know Dean will be if I keep it from him. But how do I say, “Hey, your brother was kidnapped by I don’t know who, and I know you’re really worried, but I actually need you to not bring that new friend you made. No, I probably shouldn’t explain why over the phone, but you just need to trust me, okay?” Like, I would probably hit whoever said that to me. 

  I need to focus. Sam’s life is more important than Dean being mad at me, though the mere thought makes me feel nauseous. I head back to the room, quickly taking the car keys before heading to the Impala. Who would kidnap Sam?

  The vampires. That’s the only thing that makes sense. It seems like they didn’t find the nest previously but rather a lone vampire, so maybe this is revenge. It would then make sense as to why they didn’t go after me, too; I wasn’t there, so they wouldn’t know me. 

  I hop into the Impala, hands on the leather of the steering wheel. I’ve only driven this car a handful of times, but never alone and never under conditions like this. I summon a small compact into my hand, a ghost of purple lingering around it as I open it and focus on the mirror. “Ostende mihi illum quem quaero,” I whisper to it, focusing on Sam as I ask to be shown the one I’m looking for. The mirror ripples, a purple cloud moving over it, obscuring my reflection. And when the fog clears up, it is not my reflection staring back at me but a sleeping figure with rope around its arms and legs, lying on the ridged black floor of a van. I guess the vampires decide to go the classic route. But he’s safe and alive, his chest rising and falling steadily. 

  I let out a sigh of relief, placing the opened compact on the dashboard and starting up the car. I force my sight on him to zoom outside of the van, waiting for a sign to expose their location. I wait in bated silence, my breath held as the occasional street light illuminates the vehicle. There. Right there. Oak Road. That’s a start. I can head that way and then keep following them. I make a small pamphlet appear in the palm of my hands, a booklet I saw of Red Lodge, Montana, in the check-in area of our motel. I yank open the map, my finger skimming over it until I find the road and, not too far from it, a bridge that leads out of town. I bet that’s where they're heading. I take a mental picture of it and throw it beside me, pressing down on the gas pedal. 

********

  I wait a solid minute for them to drag him out of the van and into the rundown barn. It’s a horrible minute that leaves me on edge, but to get caught now is not an option. I put the car in park, some distance away from them. Silently, I get out, going to the trunk to pull out a machete, testing the weight of it in my hand. No time like the present. I close the trunk with as little noise as possible, stalking forward with the darkness cloaking me. 

  There are no vampires outside to play guard dog. It’s not exactly smart on their part, but it’s probably to avoid anyone looking over here, though I doubt anyone would with the overgrown grass and the boarded-up windows. But it’s good for me, so I creep closer to the two large barn doors. I doubt they know I’m coming, but with his life on the line, I don’t want to waste any more time sneaking around to take them out. I’ve taken down a nest by myself before; I can handle myself just fine. I stand in front of the doors, shooting a blast of energy at them with my hands outstretched. The wood shatters, paint chips, and shards of wood fly out.

  I just barely registered Sam, bound to a chair, with his hair messed up. Instead, I focus on the dark-haired vampire with his teeth flashing and a sack clenched in his hand. He’s looking my way, my flashy entrance causing quite the scene. I throw up a hand behind me, forcing the vampires that lingered near the door to be shoved up against the wall. I guess they kept their guard dogs on the inside. I’ll deal with them in a moment. 

  The vampire by Sam charges me, and somewhere between the punch that I dodge and the kick I deliver to his gut, a resemblance to the bartender who gave us information clicks. He staggers back, and I follow, machete raised.

  “Wait!” A girl yells out. I hold up a hand, keeping the bartender-vampire in place as I look towards the voice. A girl no older than me steps out from the shadows. She’s wearing a dark grey long-sleeved shirt with little buttons stopping mid chest, a white tank top peeking from the space the V-neck created, and an open black vest over it. She has straight brown hair that stops a little past her shoulders, and she looks only a little taller than I. “Don’t!”

  “Why?” I ask sternly. “You kidnapped my friend.”

  “Only because your friend killed one of us!” the vampire I hold in place spits.

  “Stop, Eli,” the girl warns. I guess she’s the leader.

  “We weren’t planning on hurting your friend here, okay? We just need to talk. My name’s Lenore,” she says softly, stepping closer slowly with her hands raised in surrender. 

  “Talk?” I echo. “Eli here looks like he wanted to do more than talk to Sam.”

  “He won’t hurt either of you. You have my word,” she swears, her voice never wavering.

  I null it over, tongue in cheek. I shouldn’t trust her. “Fine,” I give in. “We’ll talk. But one wrong move, if you try anything, I will have all your heads on the floor faster than you can say ‘please.’” The threat sounds foreign on my tongue, too ruthless, and yet I’m not fibbing. I let my hold on all of them drop, the sound of feet hitting the ground and sighs of relief filling the dingy barn.

  “Thank you,” Lenore exhales. Eli stammers off, going to her side. “Look, we’re not like the others. We don’t kill humans, and we don’t drink their blood. We haven’t for a long time,” she confesses.

  The machete in my hand suddenly feels heavy. They’re like me, then. 

  “What is this, some kind of joke?” Sam asks.

  “Notice you’re still alive,” she points out.

  “Okay, uh, correct me if I’m wrong here, but shouldn’t you be starving to death?” he counters. 

  “We’ve found other ways. Cattle blood,” she answers.

  “So you’re the ones killing the cows,” I say.

  “It’s not ideal, in fact, it’s disgusting. But…it allows us to get by,” she explains.

  “You guys are like that one character from that movie The Little Vampire,” I remark.

  “Isn’t that a kids' movie?” Sam asks.

  I look over my shoulder at him, “I was like 18 when that movie came out, leave me alone.” I look back at Lenore, “Anyways, what made you want to change?”

  “Survival,” she answers. “No deaths, no missing locals, no reason for people like you to come looking for people like us. We blend in. Our kind is practically extinct. Turns out we weren’t quite as high up the food chain as we imagined.”

  “Why are we explaining ourselves to these killers?” Eli spits.

 “Eli!” Lenore warns.

  “We choke on cow’s blood so that none of them suffer,” he continues anyway. “Tonight they murdered Conrad and they celebrated.”

  “Eli, that’s enough,” Lenore warns again, her voice sharper. 

  “Yeah, Eli, that’s enough,” Sam piles on. 

  “What’s done is done. We’re leaving this town tonight,” she adds.

  “Then why did you bring me here?” Sam asks. “Why are you even talking to us?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather not. But I know your kind. Once you have the scent, you’ll keep tracking us. It doesn’t matter where we go. Hunters will find us,” she explains.

  I feel sick. It’s like looking into an obscured mirror. We’re two sides of the same coin. I can faintly remember mom telling me how, before my brother and I were born, she and dad moved around a lot, worried about the hunters that would go after her. That’s why we moved to Kansas to begin with: I messed up the security they had created for all of us, and we needed to leave before a hunter caught wind. The room tilts on its axis. To think I threatened these people. I’m a hypocrite. 

  “So you’re asking us not to follow you,” Sam replies.

  “We have a right to live. We’re not hurting anyone,” she argues. 

  “Right, so you keep saying, but give us one good reason why we should—” 

  “Done,” I cut him off. 

  “What?” Sam exclaims. “You’re just gonna believe them?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “When we were looking into this case, there was no sign of any other unusual deaths, let alone one that resembled a death by a vampire. Gordon basically started this mess. He targeted them, not the other way around,” I explain.

  I meet Lenore’s eyes then, “I know what it’s like to want to try and be different from what people expect you to be. We won’t follow you, we’ll get out of your hair. But, I can’t say the same for Gordon, we’ll try and get him to look the other way, but I’m not sure how long that’ll last.”

  Her shoulders drop slightly, her face softening. “Thank you.”

********

  By the time we arrive at the motel, both our minds are swarming. Out of everything that could’ve been said and done, this was an outcome I couldn’t have foreseen. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why couldn’t more beings like me have no interest in being as evil as they’re dubbed?

  I wait by the Impala while Sam goes to fetch Dean from the room. We saw Gordon's car on the other side when we pulled in, which means he’s with Dean, and that’s exactly where I don’t want to be.

  It takes less than two minutes for Sam to come back with his brother right behind him. He exhales sharply as if preparing to drop the bomb on him. “Dean, maybe we’ve got to rethink this hunt,” he starts.

  “It’s not a maybe, we are,” I cut in. “The hunt's off, that’s it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dean asks, looking between us like we each grew another head. “Where were you?”

  “In the nest,” Sam answers bluntly.

  “You found it?” His eyes widened.

  “More like it found us. Or, actually, Sam,” I answer.

  “They kidnapped Sam, and you didn’t call me?” Dean asks, eyes locked onto me.

  “I handled it myself. And you were busy,” I defend, but the hurt in his voice is as clear as I had imagined.

  “I’m never too busy for yo—for either of you,” he answers, looking at both of us with almost wild eyes. “Well, how many’d you kill?” Dean asks rapidly, eyes scanning both of us for injuries. 

  “None,” Sam answers.

  “Well, they didn’t just let you go.”

  “Funny story…” I murmur.

  His face drops momentarily as if his brain is trying to compute it. “Alright, well, where is it?” Dean asks.

  “I was blindfolded, I don’t know,” he shrugs, looking at me. It’s only half true because he wasn’t blindfolded on the way back since he rode with me.

  “But you know,” Dean points out, looking at me.

  “Oh, would you look at that, I completely forgot where it was,” I answer, trying to put on my most convincing voice.

  He deadpans, one eyebrow quirked slightly. He doesn’t believe me, “Yeah, you do.”

  “Well….” I stretch the word out, “Maybe. But I’m not telling you or anyone, sorry.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Because we aren’t going after them. They aren’t killing people, they’re living off of cow blood instead,” I explain, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

  “And you believed them?” he presses. But then he’s shaking his head, running a hand through his hair as he mutters, “Of course you believed them, Ms. gullible over here.”

  “I am not gullible!” I defend.

  “Well…” Sam chimes in.

  “Hey!” I shove his arm. “Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side here?”

  “Right. Look at me, Dean. They let me go without a scratch. Hell, Y/N was throwing them around and threatened to kill them, and they didn’t touch her either,” Sam reasons, gesturing to himself and then at me. 

  “Wait, so you’re saying…No, no way. I don’t know why they let you go. I don’t really care,” he shakes his head. “We find ‘em, we waste ‘em.”

  “Why aren’t you listening?” I ask, almost pleading with him.

  “I am. But what part of ‘vampires’ don’t you understand? If it’s supernatural, we kill it, end of story. That’s our job,” he spits, and it feels like a stab to the heart. 

  “No, Dean, that is not our job. Our job is hunting evil. And if these things aren’t killing people, they’re not evil!” Sam defends.

  “Of course they’re killing people, that’s what they do. They’re all the same, Sam. They’re not human, okay? We have to exterminate every last one of them.”

  “Then kill me,” I shout, stepping closer to him.

  His face falters. He knows where he went wrong. “You’re different. I wouldn’t—“

  “How am I different?” I press, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat that he emits. My heart is hammering against my chest, my anger slowly being overtaken by something else, something that makes my voice waver. “By your logic, you should’ve killed me a long time ago.” I turn from him, stepping away, running my hands down my face.

  “I thought you got over this, Dean,” I say, looking back at him. It hurts. And it doesn’t help that his jaw is clenched and his eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes shining a certain sadness that reeks of regret. “You hang out with that guy for what? A couple of hours and suddenly your’re—you’re—“ I can’t get the word out. I’m not sure what I’m even trying to say. “Just…fuck you, Dean.” The words aren’t as sharp as I want them to be, not with a lip that won’t stop quivering and the ache in my throat, it’s filled with more hurt than anger.

  He looks down, and I’m almost glad I can make him feel ashamed. I thought he was different. I wanted him to be different. “Gordon’s been on those vamps for a year, he knows,” he continues as if I hadn’t said a word. 

  “Knows what?! That the only trail they’re leaving behind, are animals?” I question, rage eating at the edges of sorrow. “Has he shown you any evidence, or are you just blindly believing him?”

  “He’s taking his word for it,” Sam cuts him off before he can answer.

  “That’s right,” he nods. 

  “Ellen says he’s bad news,” Sam reveals.

  “You called Ellen?” Dean asks. Sam nods. “And I’m supposed to listen to her? We barely know her, Sam, no thanks, I’ll go with Gordon.”

  “Right, ‘cause Gordon’s such an old friend,” Sam mocks. “You don’t think I can see what this is?”

  “What are you talking about?” Dean exclaims.

  “He’s a substitute for Dad, isn’t he?” Sam guesses. “A poor one.” 

  “Shut up, Sam,” he warns. 

  “He’s not even close, Dean. Not on his best day,” he continues. 

  “You know what? I’m not even going to talk about this,” he throws up his hands.

  “You know, you slap on this big fake smile, but I can see right through it. Because I know how you feel, Dean,” Sam admits, arms opened wide. “Dad's dead. And he left a hole, and it hurts so bad you can’t take it, but you can’t just fill up that hole with whoever you want to. It’s an insult to his memory.”

  “Okay,” he nods, jaw clenched tight. He starts to turn away, only to swing back with a hard punch. Sam stumbles back, clutching his jaw.

  A gasp rips through my throat, and I move forward, pushing Dean away harshly. He stumbles back slightly, but there’s a small part of me that thinks he’s letting me move him. “What the hell has gotten into you?!” I exclaim, shoving him again. 

  “You hit me all you want. It won’t change anything,” Sam croaks from somewhere behind me. 

  “I’m going to that nest,” he declares, grabbing my hands in one of his before I can push him again. “You don’t want to tell me where it is, fine. I’ll find it myself.”

  “Dean,” I say sharply, meeting his eyes, before he can let go of my wrists. “I swear to God, if you go after them, I will never forgive you.”

  His lip twitches, and his eyes seem to soften just slightly. I’m begging for him to agree with us, to not fall into whatever pit Gordon is dragging him towards. I know he’s better than that. I know he’s capable of seeing past the black and white aspect of hunting, being friends with me, and all the times he’s defended me are proof of that. I can’t be making that up. I can’t be.

  “Please,” I whisper, eyes glossy with tears that wish to form. 

  He swallows roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing. He releases my hands, turning away from me. I stare at his back, at the brown leather of his jacket, trying to bite back the tears. I was so worried that confessing would lead to losing him, but apparently I’m capable of doing so all on my own. No love needed.

  He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Fine,” he bites, turning back around. “Fine.” 

  My knees feel like they want to give up, collapse in on themselves in relief, but I force myself to stand. 

  “I’ll, uh… I’ll go try to talk Gordon down,” he says, running a hand over his jaw as he shakes his head. “Stay here or go to your room, I don’t want you around if he acts badly to the news, and he will.”

  A small smile pulls at the corner of my lips. “See? That’s the Dean I know,” I murmur softly. He swallows roughly, but doesn’t say anything more. He heads towards his motel room in silence, Sam trailing behind him. 

  I wait by the car. I’d like to see Gordon leave, to see his face and know for certain that he’s given up on this hunt. But it’s not Gordon that leaves the motel room a moment later, it’s the Winchesters. “He’s gone,” Sam confirms as they approach. 

  “You think he went after them?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Of course he did.

  “Probably,” Dean answers. 

  “Alright, come on, we need to stop him,” I say, heading towards the driver's side of the Impala.

  “Oh…you’re gonna drive?” Dean asks as I unlock the car.

  “Yeah, I mean, I know the way there,” I reply, looking over my shoulder at him. He looks surprised, lips drawn in a tight line.

  “Right. Right,” he murmurs, head tilted to the floor. 

********

  An empty truck with its bed left open sits near the farmhouse. It’s a white home with a porch and shuttered windows on the same property as the barn I broke into previously. No bodies or heads are lying around, so I guess we aren’t too late. But that truck, the box left on it, his car pulled off to the side. Gordon’s still here, and he’s definitely keeping company. 

  A dim, barely there light stretches out from beneath the farmhouse door. Someone’s groaning inside, sharp hisses and jagged grunts filling the air. We are too late. 

  “Sam, Dean, Y/N. Come on in,” Gordon says from inside. He must have heard our footsteps.

  Dean pushes the door in, the old wood creaking. “Hey, Gordon. What’s going on?” he greets carefully. 

  It’s Lenore. He has her tied to a chair, cuts of all different sizes sketched into her skin. And he’s just standing beside her, with a bloody knife in his hand, his eyes wild with a smug smile on his face. I failed her.

  “Just poisoning Lenore here with some dead man’s blood,” he answers casually, nodding towards the jar of blood on the table. “She’s going to tell us where all her little friends are, aren’t you? Wanna help?”

  “How about you shove that knife up your ass you sadistic fuck,” I spit. 

  “Woah, woah,” he says, eyes wide. “Calm down, now. How ‘bout we put our differences aside and finish the job.”

  “You’re torturing her!” I argue.

  “I know. I was just about to start on the fingers. Come on, Dean, help a friend out,” he smiles, shining those white teeth. He drags the knife across the pale skin of her arm, dark veins following the tip of the blade. 

  “Woah, woah, woah, hey, let’s all just chill out, huh?” Dean mediates, hands raised in surrender.

  “I’m completely chill,” he answers smoothly.

  “And entirely insane,” I add.

  “Gordon, put the knife down,” Sam orders sharply, trying to step towards Gordon. But Dean holds him back with a hand on his chest. 

  “Sounds like it’s these two that need to chill,” Gordon answers, pointing the tip of the blade at Sam and me. 

  “You’re right. I’m wasting my time here. This bitch will never talk. Might as well put her out of her misery,” he considers, replacing his knife with a machete that rested on the table. “I just sharpened it, so it’s completely humane.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” I ask. “Is that the kind of excuse you tell yourself to fall asleep you pathetic asshole?”

  “Not an excuse,” he acknowledges, turning towards Lenore.

  Sam steps in front of him, creating a barrier between Gordon and Lenore. “Gordon, I’m letting her go,” he tells him. 

  He points the knife at Sam’s chest, stopping him from moving. “You’re not doing a damn thing.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, Gordon, let’s talk about this,” Dean spews quickly.

  “What’s there to talk about? It’s like I said, Dean. No shades of gray,” he reiterates, the hold on his machete never faltering.

  I want to throw him across the room and rip his throat out. I want to hurt him so badly that I don’t care what it makes me. Yet, I can’t give away what I am; I have to play this safe for as long as I can. I just don’t know how much more I can hold back. 

  “Yeah. I hear ya. And I know how you feel,” Dean answers calmly.

  “Do you?”

  “That vampire that killed your sister deserved to die, but this one…”

  Gordon laughs, cutting him off. “Killed my sister? That filthy fang didn’t kill my sister. It turned her. It made her one of them. So I hunted her down, and I killed her myself.”

  “You did what?” Dean echoes, his voice quieter than before.   “It wasn’t my sister anymore; it wasn’t human. I didn’t blink. And neither would you,” he answers, his chest puffed out like he’s proud of what he did. 

  “So you knew all along, then? You knew about the vampires, you knew they weren’t killing anyone. You knew about the cattle. And you just didn’t care,” Sam concludes. 

  “Care about what? A nest of vampires suddenly acting nice?” he mocks. “Taking a little time out from sucking innocent people? And we’re supposed to buy that? Trust me. Doesn’t change what they are. And I can prove it.”

  He grabs Sam’s arm, machete raised, but before the shining metal can come down, my hands are raised, a large and bright blast of energy shooting from my palms. The wooden wall that he crashes into bends and breaks beneath him, the last bit of moonlight seeping through the cracks. The machete clanks to the ground, and Sam stumbles back. 

  All eyes are on me, two pairs filled with worry and a third filled with wonder. He scurries to sit up right, fear flashing in his dilated pupils. “Do you like it?” I ask, stalking forward. “Being afraid?”

  He looks past me with crazed eyes.“You two ‘been hiding her?! What are you!?”

  “Nothing that matters,” I answer, shards of wood crunching beneath my shoes as I go to Lenore. I kneel down beside her, helping Sam untie her. 

  “What happened to no black and white, Dean?” he laughs a single short laugh. “Why haven’t you killed her yet?! Is she your little bitch? Is that why?”

  A click registers against the walls, Dean standing in front of him with a gun in his hand, pointed at Gordon. “I’d really shut my mouth if I were you,” Dean warns through gritted teeth. He doesn’t bother to look back as he says, “Get her out of here, both of you.”

  Sam scoops Lenore up in his arms, carrying her out carefully. The wooden floor groans far behind me, and I watch Gordon lift himself from the floor just as I disappear out the door. Sam carries her to the bed of the truck, lying her down. Immediately, my hands are on her arm, pouring light into her skin to mend the cuts he had sliced into her. “Wipe off the dead man’s blood,” I direct Sam. He moves around me, going through a nearby box until he finds an old rag. Instantly, he’s cleaning off the blood, letting the cloth soak it up. 

  I try to ignore the commotion coming from the farmhouse as I finish up. But it’s difficult when I know Dean’s in there fighting someone who’s probably just as good as he is with no help. Of course, I know he’s capable, but that doesn’t mean I can suddenly stop worrying about him. 

  I focus back on the cold skin beneath my hands, the cuts webbing together seamlessly. I pull away, my hands freezing as if I had let them sit on a giant ice cube for an hour. Sam helps her off the bed of the truck, getting her into the driver's seat. I run my hand over the cold metal of the truck, whispering to it, “Et evanescet.” And for a fraction of a second, a wave of purple shimmers over the dark vehicle.

  I meet them by the driver's side. Sam is leaning against the closed door, making sure she’s okay to drive. “I bought you a day,” I tell her. “Regardless of how long we hold him back, I can guarantee you that for the next 24 hours, there’ll be no sign of you. He won’t be able to find you with traffic cameras or anything else. You won’t exist.”

  Her hands clench the steering wheel tightly, her jaw set in place as she watches us. “Thank you,” she says. Sam nods, tapping the door as he steps away. The engine rumbles, tires crunching over grass and gravel as she rolls away. I wish that there were more we could do for her. 

  He nudges my shoulder, bringing me back to myself. I follow his quick steps back up the house. When we enter, it’s Gordon that’s tied up, his eyes hard and his lips pulled into a snarl as he stares daggers into Dean, who leans against the table, watching him. They’re both battered and bruised. There’s a bruise blooming across Dean’s cheekbone, and what looks like a black eye.  

  “Did we miss anything?” Sam asks. 

  “Nah, not much,” Dean shrugs stiffly, grimacing slightly at the lift of his shoulder. “Lenore get out okay?”

  “Yeah,” he nods. 

  I step closer to Gordon, his eyes snapping to me as he pulls against the ropes that restrain him. I step behind his chair, hands rising to his temples. “What are you doing?” he demands. 

  “I’m going to make you forget that you ever saw what I could do. Don’t worry, you’ll remember getting thrown into the wall, the fear. You just won’t recall how it happened,” I answer, letting the energy spark from my fingertips. “Don’t need you following us around,” I add, mumbling, as I soak back the memory of purple light, erasing parts of myself from his hatred-filled mind. I step away from him, putting my hands behind my back.  

  “I guess our work here is done,” Dean declares. “How you doin’, Gordy? Gotta tinkle yet?” he mocks. “Alright. Well, get comfy. We’ll call someone in two or three days, have them come out, untie you.” He picks up a knife from the floor, jamming it into the table behind him.

  “Ready to go, Dean?” Sam asks.

  “Not yet,” he answers. “I guess this is goodbye. Well, it’s been real.” Suddenly, he lunges forward with a punch, knocking Gordon and the chair he’s stuck to onto the floor. “Okay. I’m good now. We can go,” he says, rolling his shoulders back. 

  I don’t try to hide the smile playing at the corner of my lips. In some odd way, that was incredibly attractive. There’s a little pep in my step as we walk down the porch stairs, the very beginning of daylight breaking across the horizon in a subtle yellow brushing against the blue. 

  “Sam?” Dean starts, gently wiping at his split lip. “Clock me one.”

  “What?”

  “Come on. I won’t even hit you back,” he urges, gesturing to himself. “Let’s go.”

  “No,” Sam argues.

  “Let’s go, you get a freebie. Hit me, come on,” he tries again. 

  “You look like you just went twelve rounds with a block of cement, Dean. I’ll take a rain check,” he counters.

  “I wish we never took this job. It’s jacked everything up,” Dean complains.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, kicking along a loose pebble. 

  “Think about all the hunts we went on, our whole lives,” he continues. “What if we killed things that didn’t deserve killing? You know? I mean, the way Dad raised us, Sam…”

  “Dean, after what happened to Mom, Dad did the best he could,” Sam offers.

  “I know he did. But the man wasn’t perfect. And the way he raised us to hate those things? You remember when he tried to turn us against Y/N?”

  “Wait, what?” I stammer.

  “You were barely twelve, and he was trying to convince us you were evil. And, man, it worked,” he elaborated.

  “Oh, I knew it. I knew that’s why you were acting like that on my birthday,” I answer.

  “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t make any contact with you for months after that. Sam he made us hate them. And man, I hate ‘em. I do.” He stops suddenly, cutting himself off so that he can point at me and say, “Not you. I don’t mean you. You’re the exception.”

  “Thanks…I guess,” I answer. “But, I mean, that’s a decision you made on your own. It’s the exact opposite of what your Dad wanted.”

  He shakes his head like I’m not understanding. “When I killed that vampire at the mill, I didn’t even think about it; hell, I even enjoyed it.”

  “You didn’t kill Lenore,” Sam points out.

  “No, but every instinct told me to. I was gonna kill her. I was gonna kill ‘em all,” he tells us.

  “But you didn’t. You’re capable of seeing past the soldier mentality put onto you, whether you can see that or not,” I say, sincerely. “Tonight—actually I guess last night— was just more proof of that.” 

  “You’re still stubborn, though,” Sam adds with a smile.

  “Oh, 100% still stubborn,” I nod, agreeing without hesitation.

  “You’re both pains in my ass,” he grumbles.

  “Guess you have to keep us around to be a pains in the ass, then,” Sam answers with an amused smirk.

(Next Chapter)

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

[v3ng3anc3-qu33n]

Am I wrong for wanting solid revenge readers? Like they go full evil and psycho after being hurt? Like in a neglected reader story, they go revenge crazy and kill people? Or they got cheated on, so they snap? And like they stay evil, they don't easily go back to being nice and sweet like 'oh you apologised okie!' Instead, saying 'hmm, let me think about it... fuck. No.' or they don't just move on they are super petty and hit them where it hurts doing whatever it takes to make them feel how the reader felt? Maybe they become a full villain and join the villains after a hero hurt them and the villains become yandere along with the hero. Maybe they go off making their own way like Harley Quinn with the baddass speech and everything.

[supercap2319]

"How are you doing, Dick?" Y/N asked him, a smile on his lips. He put his headphones off his ears as Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel by the Tavares could be heard.

Dick had been patrolling the streets tonight and who did he spy on his apartment balcony, levitating in purple tones with white and violet sparkles of magic? It was Y/N Zatara. Dick tried to be sneaky, but Y/N caught him without even opening up his eyes, a teasing smile on his lips.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"I could hear your big feet coming a mile away, and you stink like the cologne I got you for your birthday one year."

Dick smiles and chuckles. "Guess I need more practice in being stealthy."

"Maybe." Y/N said. "Hey, I wanted to apologize for not helping you and the other Titans against Trigon, his son, and Mother Mayhem. I was up to my own little point hat in problems with this witch who likes the color Scarlet, and with a Lord of Chaos, who looks like a child, but she's not."

Dick nods his head. "Nah, it's cool. I understand. Did everything go okay?"

"Considering the earth is still spinning, I'd say so. So how are you and Kory doing?"

"Why are you asking?"

"No reason."

"We... Umm... We are... On a break. It's complicated."

"Ah, I see."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I might ask to try again with you. You and me together. Just like old times."

[descendantofthesparrow]

Trust - Harry Hook x Male!Reader - Oneshot request

Anon request

=

Harry dropped down from the small cliff, just off the main path of the forest-which led to the enchanted lake. But Harry wasn’t going to the enchanted lake, he was going to a hidden spot he and his boyfriend, (y/n), had found a few years back, soon after Harry had moved to Auradon.

They had been together for about four years now, and had met each other five years ago this very day. Harry smiled at the thought, remembering when he first saw his boyfriend, his eyes bright as they locked eyes for the first time. Harry remembered being dismissive at first, defensive was the correct word but-he hadn’t wanted much with Auradon and its brats.

That was until (y/n) was made his tutor, since Harry was all but hilariously failing math and their teacher volunteered (y/n) as Harry’s tutor. Harry had been….peeved, at first, but soon came to see (y/n) just wanted to help, he never made fun of Harry’s lack of understanding, or frustration, or any of his problems, he just helped him understand and push through it all.

Through that, the two became friends, hanging out practically every day until Harry realized-he really really liked (y/n), like-really liked (y/n). it took Harry nearly a month to confess, fumbling over his words and blushing like no other-only for (y/n) to smile, take Harry’s face, and kiss his cheek gently. “I’m available this Saturday at five, see you then?” Harry just babbled and nodded, his jaw dropping open as (y/n) laughed and walked off. Harry had hardly believed it, but he had a date with (y/n).

Then there was a 2nd date, then a third, then they had been dating a month, half a year, a year-and then they graduated together, moved in together, and now-they had known each other five years-five wonderful years Harry wouldn’t trade for anything in the war.

“wonder what he has planned,” Harry muttered to himself, (y/n) had been oddly secretive for the last month, nervous as well, as if he was scared for whatever was coming to pass. The only thing Harry could think of was their anniversary, and neither of them had been nervous or scared about it before, well, other than the first one.

Harry was thrown from his thoughts as he found the scenic opening in the trees he and (y/n) had made their spot all those years ago, beaming as he spotted his beloved standing in the middle, a picnic set up below him. (y/n) beamed at the sight of Harry, opening his arms with a cheer of his name. “Harry!”

Harry chuckled, running towards (y/n) and leaping into their arms, the two sharing a sweet kiss, Harry laughed as (y/n) ran his hands up Harry’s sides till he held Harry’s face, squishing his cheeks a bit. “so-other than a picnic-“ Harry started, glancing down at the blanket that they were standing on now, a basket of food set to the side. “-what did ye want? Ye said earlier ya had somethin’ ta show me?”

(y/n) smiled, one that made Harry’s stomach flood with nerves, good nerves, but damn the butterflies never stopped around his amazing boyfriend. “Well, I wanted to show you something, something I’ve never really shown anyone-not unless I knew I could trust them…do you trust me?” (y/n) asked, his voice becoming quiet and shy as he continued to speak, biting his lip nervously.

Harry nodded, taking (y/n)’s hand and kissing his palms. “With anything, my love.” (y/n) grinned, pecking Harry’s lips, chuckling as Harry leaned in to snatch another kiss, but (y/n) was already out of reach, stepping back until Harry was left to stand alone on the blanket. “(y/n)?” Harry asked, tilting his head, wondering what (y/n) was doing.

Harry’s jaw dropped as (y/n) rolled his wrist, his palm toward the sky-and the night sky seemed to appear in his hand; stars, comments, galaxies, planets-all in the palm of (y/n)’s hand. “Wow,” Harry breathed, stepping toward his boyfriend, reaching out to cup (y/n)’s hand in his, his eyes almost sparkling with wonder. “ye have, magic?”

(y/n) nodded, the nervousness evaporating from his body, his eyes softening. “Yeah, magic of the night, runs in my family. it can be dangerous if not used properly, but-it’s easier to use if you're not afraid of it, or those you are using it around. This is just some basic magic though, not very impressive.” Harry just nodded, tracing his fingers along (y/n)’s palm, chuckling as the night shifted and turned-revealing more of the galaxy (y/n) was showing him.

“What else can ye do?” Harry asked, his eyes wide with childlike wonder as he looked up at his boyfriend. (y/n) grinned, pecking Harry’s lips and closing his hand, dismissing the sky he had created in his palm.

“I’ll show you, after we eat,” (y/n) teased, laughing as Harry pouted, just wanting to see more of the pretty magic. “Harry,”

“Fine,” Harry groaned, dragging (y/n) back down to the blanket, throwing open the basket, and digging in. “yer showing me everthin’ got it?”

(y/n) laughed again, nodding, intertwining their hands on the blanket, taking a sandwich he had made earlier. “Got it,”

-end-

@queer-cosette @sephiralorange @lunanight2012

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[aerkame]

Im curious,, since the puppets are in the real world but what about home? Do home feel betrayed or sad that the puppets suddenly dissappear from him.

Or home know about this and let wally do his own thing or...? (Alive au)

At first, Home was heartbroken.

He knew Wally had figured out how to visit the other world, the world outside their own, the one they were made in. But the little fellow would always come back to the neighborhood after a short visit to see what was happening on the outside. He didn't come back this time.

And when Home woke up one day, he found all of the neighbors had left. Not a single soul was in the now empty neighborhood. It hurt, it hurt so much that he was alone. But the silence was the worst part of it all. There were no jokes, no laughter, no "Hello" or "Goodnight", just silence.

Home was growing weary, depressed. The days kept going and Home found it was best to just sleep and dream. There was nothing left here to see anyways.

It came suddenly and out of nowhere. Wally's voice called out for Home in his dreams.

Wally found a way to reach back into the neighborhood again. He admits, it's been difficult recently to get back in ever since they've gone through physical changes. But he needed to get Home out.

"Home! It's so good to finally see you again, I was starting to worry I might never be able to reach you." Wally looked up at Home, now being back to his usual short height as a puppet.

The eyes looked down, if they could cry, they would.

"Wally...it's been so long. Where have you and the others been? I've been so worried...so sad without you."

The puppet patted the side of the wall before sitting down. "I'm sorry about that Home. I tried getting back several times, but it's been difficult recently. We've started to change in the other place. We don't quite look like this." He gestured to his own body.

"And..."Wally paused, peering out to the neighborhood, the colors were fading and there was no longer a forest outside. "I think this world might be dying. Or, it might be moving somewhere else, somewhere in the real world."

Home wanted to question Wally's choice of words, but chose to stay quiet and let him finish.

"But I know how to take you with us now." The windows widened in shock.

"It'll leave me drained for a bit, I might end up sleeping for a long time even, but I know someone who will be of great help. They're the one who has been letting us stay in their house. And, I think our host is the one who brought us to life there." Wally was now pacing back and forth in the house thinking. "I need you to trust them, please. I know they aren't a neighbor, but they have a heart of gold and the magic touch to help you get out of here."

The floors creaked as Home thought long and hard. He never really trusted people. Especially knowing that it was people, humans, who made them. Humans who made this world that they lived in. Humans...who trapped them in a bubble of a world. But, Wally was never one to bluff or exaggerate. Wally was also not as naive as the others so he knew a bad human when he saw one.

"Alright." The windows narrowed as Home closed his eyes. "I trust you Darling."

Am I implying that the Neighborhood is coming to the real world and the reader really does have magic? Maybe. :)

[troublesometrollhunters]

You stare at Jim longingly as he talks with Claire about something. Your mentor a Redeemed Angor rolls his eye as he carves something.

Redeemed Angor: ... Tell him.

You choke in response as Angor continues carving.

Magic Reader: I can't.

Redeemed Angor: Humans confuse me.

Magic Reader: Look Claire and him are kind of courting if I get in the way of that I'll ruin everything and they'll hate me.

Angor goes silent as he looks at you. Humming he shrugs.

Redeemed Angor: Kill her.

You: A n g o r!

Redeemed Angor chuckles as you smack his arm ignoring how the other Trollhunter children look at him confused.