𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢
↳ She grew up in the backseat of the Impala—just like them. Then they disappeared and left her behind. Eight years later and they're back at her door, and the past is catching up fast.
𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜
↳ Ongoing
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐
↳ Dean Winchester x Original Character.
𝚃𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜
↳ Childhood Bestfriends to Slight Enemies to Rekindled Friendship to Eventual Lovers, Very Slow-Burn, First Love, He Fell First-She Fell Hard-They Fell Harder.
𝙰/𝙽
↳ I need to give my girl @dianawinchester03 a big mention!! She's the one who inspired me to make my own series rewrite of Supernatural after reading her own work: The Old Testament Series - it's personally one of my favorites, she's so talented and creative and such a sweetheart! Definitely go give it a read and a heart and all that good stuff <3
Disclaimer: this series will be mainly in the second pov with occasional third pov that will be noted at the start of the episode/chapter. My oc is mine as well as plots and dialogue that are not in Supernatural itself originally, otherwise everything else in the show rightfully belongs to the creators of it. Also, face claim is, yes, Holland Roden - one: I adore her, two: Loved her in Teen Wolf as Lydia so I just thought it'd be fun to do some sort of alternate universe where she's in Supernatural instead. If you're confused, don't worry, it'll all (hopefully) make sense if you decide to give my rewrite a chance!
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢
⤷ It's fort night at the Winchester house, which means blankets become kingdoms and Dean and Ariel become the rulers of their own little world. As the night unfolds, unseen changes ripple beneath the surface, shifting the course of their lives forever.
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐
⤷ Young!Dean Winchester x Young!Original Character
𝚆.𝙲
⤷ 6,181 (this one's a bit longer than the last, mb)
𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜
⤷ !! READERS BE ADVISED - POSSIBLE TRIGGER EVENT = VIOLENCE (HOUSE FIRE, MENTION OF CHARACTER DEATH, BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF HOW THEY DIED) PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK !! Dean is four (4), Ariel is two (2), Sam is six (6) months, major character death (Mary Winchester), house fire, childhood trauma, grief, loss, me destroying the happiness from episode one, tissues required, emotional devastation, canon typical tragedy, i'm sorry <3
Lawrence, Kansas — November, Fall of 1983
There's a particular magic that lives in the Winchester house after dark.
Something woven from the scent of candles burning low and the distant hum of the dishwasher finishing its cycle. It's the way shadows stretch long and lazy across hardwood floors, how lamplight pools golden in corners where family photographs smile back at you from their frames.
Tonight feels different somehow, charged with an energy that seems to make the air simmer with anticipation.
The living room has been transformed into a construction zone of ambitious proportions. Couch cushions lie scattered across the carpet like fallen dominos, dining room chairs have been drafted into architectural service, and what appears to be every blanket in the house has been conscripted for Dean's latest engineering marvel.
You're sprawled belly-down on the carpet, chin propped in your palms, watching Dean orchestrate what he's deemed "the most epic fort in all of history".
He's got that famous focused expression of his—tongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he drapes the patchwork quilt over two dining room chairs.
"Hand me that pillow," he instructs without looking back, pointing vaguely in your direction. "The blue one. No, not that one- the squishy one from Dad's chair."
You scramble to follow orders, dragging the oversized cushion across the floor with both arms wrapped around it.
It's almost as big as you are, and you stumble lightly under its weight, making little huffing sounds as you wrestle it across the carpet, but Dean's already reaching for it with an approving nod before you've even made it halfway.
"Perfect. You're the best fort-building assistant." He takes the pillow and positions it with mathematical precision. "Wait, no—you're way better. You're the boss, now."
The praise makes something warm bubble in your chest, has you bouncing on your toes.
From her spot on the sofa, Mary watches with barely contained amusement, Sam nestled against her chest in that boneless way babies sleep. His tiny fist is curled near his mouth, and every so often, he makes those tender little baby noises.
"Dean Winchester," she says, tone lilting with laughter, "if you knock over my good lamp building that fort, you're explaining it to your father when he gets home."
Dean pauses mid-drape, glancing over at the tall floor lamp that's currently serving as one corner of his masterpiece. The shade is tilted at a precarious angle, and the whole thing sways slightly with each adjustment he makes.
"It's fine, Mom. I'm being super careful. See?" He fixes the blanket with exaggerated delicacy, moving like he's defusing a bomb rather than arranging fabric. "I've got it totally under control. This is my best work ever!"
You giggle at his theatrics, because there's just something infectious about his enthusiasm, and the sound makes him grin wider.
The front door opens with its familiar groan, its very own greeting.
Your mom appears in the doorway, shaking raindrops from her jacket and unwinding the bright red scarf she always wears when it's cold. November in Kansas has turned sharp and bitter, with a cold that makes you grateful for warm houses and even warmer people.
"Sorry I'm late," Natalia calls, hanging her things on the coat rack by the door. "Traffic was murder coming back from the store, and then I got caught behind the slowest driver in the history of Kans—" She stops short when she sees Dean's fortress dominating half the living room. "Well. This is... something."
"Fort Buster!" Dean announces proudly, hands on his hips like he's surveying a kingdom he's built from scratch. "It's super strong. Really really comfy, and..." He disappears inside for a moment, then pokes his head back out with a grin. "Perfect for telling ghost stories."
Your mom's gaze meets Mary's over the chaos of furniture and fabric, and they share a look. Part exasperation. Part fondness. All love.
It's the same look your mom gets when you insist on wearing your Halloween costume to the grocery store in December, or when you build elaborate tea party setups for your stuffed animals.
"Ghost stories?" Natalia raises an eyebrow as she hangs up her jacket, but you can see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Who said anything about ghost stories?"
"Me!" His reply echoes from inside the fort, his tone carrying that unique brand of four-year-old authority that brooks no argument. "Good forts need ghost stories. Everybody knows that. It's in the Official Fort Book."
Mary's fighting back a laugh. "There's a book?"
"Obviously. Chapter Three: Fort Rules! Ghost stories, secret passwords, and a really good hiding spot."
You're already crawling toward the entrance he's created between two chair legs, your stuffed rabbit—Patches, with her one drooping ear and faded pink nose—tucked securely under your elbow.
The space inside is dimly lit by one of the candles Mary had placed on the coffee table, the flame dancing behind a hurricane glass.
Dean has arranged an impressive collection of pillows in a rough circle, creating individual seating areas like some sort of miniature amphitheater. The good ones from the couch, the decorative ones from Mary and John's bedroom that you're usually not allowed to touch, and even a few throw pillows from the guest room.
The blankets muffle the sounds of the house around you, creating an intimate cocoon that feels separate from the rest of the world.
It's like being inside a secret, a place that exists outside of the normal rules and expectations.
"Scary in here?" you murmur, though you're not really afraid.
Not with Dean beside you, not in this house that smells like safety and feels like home.
"Nah," he shakes his head reassuringly, but his voice carries that hint of mischief that means he's already planning something. "Scary stuff can't get in here, baby. I put up invisible barriers and everything." He gestures seriously at the walls, as if he really has installed some sort of protection system, and you nod solemnly.
Dean never lies to you, especially not when it comes to important things like that.
Your mom comes into view at the fort entrance, having to duck considerably to fit through the opening Dean created. She eases herself cross-legged on the floor beside you with that quiet grunt adults make when getting comfortable, and immediately, you lean into her side.
She smells like her rose soap and the faint sweetness of the sugar cookies she must have bought at the store, the ones with the thick frosting that she only gets as a special treat.
"Cozy," she looks around, admiring Dean's handiwork. "Very well constructed, honey. I'm impressed."
Mary extricates herself from the couch more carefully, Sam still sleeping soundly in her embrace. She moves with that same grace that mothers develop, the ability to navigate obstacles while carrying precious cargo. She places him delicately in his bouncer nearby, tucking his blanket around his tiny body, before joining the rest of you in the fort.
With the four of you inside, the space feels wonderfully full.
Snug, rather than crowded.
Dean reaches for something behind one of the pillows and produces a flashlight with the flourish of a magician revealing his best trick. It's one of those heavy-duty ones that John keeps in the kitchen drawer for emergencies.
He flicks it on and positions it under his chin, the beam casting eerie shadows across his features.
"Welcome," he intones in his most dramatic manner, his register dropping to match the serious atmosphere he's trying to create, "to the Winchester Ghost Story...Society? First meeting!"
You clap your hands together in delight, your mom chuckles, and Mary shakes her head with that look she gets when Dean uses a word that's much too advanced for someone his age, like she's trying not to laugh but failing spectacularly.
"Alright, Mr. President," she says, relaxing back against a pile of cushions and crossing her legs. "What are the rules of this society? Do we need to take an oath? Sign something in blood?"
Dean draws himself up with ceremony, clearly taking his role very seriously. "Well, first, everyone has to tell a story. Second, no crying allowed—"
"What if it's sad?" you interrupt.
Dean considers this with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. "Okay, crying is allowed, but no screaming. We don't wanna wake up Sammy or the scare the neighbors. And third..." He pauses, clearly making this up as he goes along. "Everyone has to use the special ghost story voice."
"What's the special ghost story voice?" Natalia asks, playing along with an expression of mock seriousness.
Dean demonstrates by dropping to a whisper, the flashlight beam wavering a little as he leans forward: "Like this. All mysterious and spooky."
You immediately attempt to copy him, but your version comes out more like an exaggerated stage whisper that makes everyone laugh. The sound fills the small space, bouncing off the blanket walls and creating its own kind of music.
Even Sam, in his sleeping state, seems to approve from his bouncer.
"Good!" Dean clicks off the flashlight and sets it aside for later use. "Who wants to go first?"
There's a moment of consideration, glances exchanged in the flickering candlelight, and then your mom raises her hand like she's volunteering in school.
"I'll start us off," she says, positioning herself more comfortably against the pillows and letting her tone take on that storytelling quality. "But I need everyone to promise to keep an open mind, 'kay? This one requires a bit of imagination."
You nod eagerly, snuggling deeper into your spot, Patches clutched against your chest like a talisman.
"Once upon a time," she starts, "in a town very much like this one, with houses very much like the ones on this street, there lived a little girl who could see things that others couldn't..."
The tale she weaves is gentle but haunting.
About a child who befriends the spirit of an old woman who used to live in her house. The ghost isn't scary or malicious; she's lonely and forgotten, tending to a garden that no longer exists except in her memory. Together, the little girl and the spirit plant flowers that bloom in impossible colors: deep purples that shimmer like oil on water, blues so bright they hurt to look at, yellows that seem to glow from within.
The flowers are visible only to those who believe in beautiful impossibilities, and as the story progresses, more and more people begin to see them.
Children first, then artists, then dreamers, then finally even the most practical adults find themselves stopping to stare at blooms that shouldn't exist but somehow do.
You find yourself leaning forward, captivated by the gentle cadence of your mom's telling. Even Dean, who usually has trouble sitting still for long periods, is hanging on to every word, his usual restless energy subdued by the spell of the story.
When your mom finishes, there's a moment of appreciative silence.
"That was gorgeous, Nat," Mary says quietly, her tone suggesting that the story touched something deeper than just entertainment. "I can almost see those flowers."
Your mom smiles. "Maybe you can. Maybe they're growing right outside and we just haven't learned how to look properly yet."
Dean shifts beside you, clearly eager for his turn but polite enough to wait as his mom clears her throat.
"My turn?" she asks, and when everyone nods, she begins her own tale.
Her story is different. More wistful, tinged with a melancholy that feels oddly sophisticated for a ghost story told in a pillow fort. She tells you about a music box that plays on its own in an empty house, and how the song it plays changes depending on who's listening.
For children, it plays lullabies their mothers used to sing. Simply melodies that speak of safety and unconditional love.
For lovers, it plays the song from their first dance, with all the promise and hope that moment contained.
For the lonely, it plays melodies that sound like coming home after a long journey, like finding exactly what you didn't know you were looking for.
But for the truly lost, the music plays something else entirely: a song without words that somehow contains every goodbye that was never said, every hug that was needed but never given, every moment of connection that slipped away too quickly.
There was something in the way she tells it.
A quality to her words that makes you think she's not just making it up. Like maybe somewhere, she really believes in magic music boxes and songs that know your heart better than you do.
The story leaves a different kind of silence when she finishes.
Heavier, more thoughtful.
You find yourself wondering if such a music box might be hidden somewhere in this house, waiting to play the right song for the right person at exactly the right time.
When the quiet stretches long enough, all attention turns to Dean. He's been practically vibrating with excitement, waiting for his turn, and now that the spotlight is finally his, he seems almost overwhelmed by the possibilities.
"Okay," he rubs his hands together, like he's warming up for something athletic. "This one's really good. Are you ready? Because this is gonna be the best ghost story you've ever heard."
You nod earnestly, arranging yourself more comfortably against your cushions. Your mom and Mary share an amused glance, but their attention is focused entirely on Dean.
He clears his throat with histrionic importance and begins.
"There once was a ghost girl who lived in my closet. Well, not MY closet, but like... someone's closet. And she was really sad 'cause she got lost playing hide-and-seek and couldn't find anyone."
You bite your lip to keep from giggling prematurely, because you can already see where this is heading, and Dean's stories always end up exactly where you hope they will.
"So now she floats around looking for kids to play with. But she's invisible, so you can't see her, but sometimes you hear little giggles when nobody's there. And you know what she does when she finds kids who forgot how to laugh?"
Dean's getting into character now, making spooky finger movements, but his excitement keeps making him grin instead of looking scary.
"She tickles them! 'Cause that's her favorite game! And she can tell when someone's trying too hard to be all serious and grown-up..." his gaze lands on you with mock seriousness, "like a girl I know who is sitting way too still right now."
"Dee..." you warn, but you're already fighting back laughter, your shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to maintain your composure.
"And the ghost girl whispers," he continues, dropping his voice to what he probably thinks is spooky but just sounds like he's trying to be quiet, "she whispers... 'Time to play my favorite game!' And then..."
His hands dart out to tickle your sides, and you shriek with laughter, trying to squirm away but getting tangled in blankets and pillows. You end up in a giggling heap, Patches pressed to your chest while Dean announces proudly, "The ghost girl says you're fun enough now!"
Dean's whole face lights up watching you dissolve into giggles, clearly delighted that his story worked exactly as he planned. Mary's eyes are soft as she watches Dean's tenderness with you, how he's already so attuned to your happiness.
"Well," says Natalia, wiping tears of laughter from her own face, "that ghost girl certainly knows how to make friends."
"She's the best ghost ever," Dean replies matter-of-factly, grinning wider than he has all evening from his successful story. "She just wants everyone to have fun. That's way better than scary ghosts."
"I think she found the right helper," Mary reaches over to ruffle his hair, and he leans toward the touch like a cat seeking affection. "You tell very good ghost stories, sweetheart."
Dean ducks his head with a shy smile that makes his cheeks flush pink. "Thank you, mommy."
Outside, you can hear the wind picking up, marginally rattling the windows and making the house settle around you with small creaks and sighs.
Your eyelids are starting to feel heavy, and you unconsciously lean more heavily against your mom's side. The combination of warmth, laughter, and the gentle rhythm of conversation is making drowsiness creep up on you like a friendly cat.
"Getting sleepy, honey?" your mom asks, her arm coming around to draw you closer into her side.
You shake your head stubbornly, even though it's not entirely true.
You don't want this to end, you want it to stretch out as long as possible, this little bubble of stories with the people you love most all gathered together.
Dean senses your reluctance. "One more story?" he suggests, his tone indicating that he's not quite ready for bedtime either. "All of us together?"
"How we do that?" You were intrigued by the possibility.
"We take turns. I start, then you add the next part, then your mom, then my mom, and we keep going until the end." His smile indicating he believes he came up with a brilliant innovation in collaborative storytelling.
It is a wonderful idea, and soon the four of you are threading a tale that becomes something entirely unique.
Dean starts with a yellow-eyed dragon who isn't mean at all, just lonely and misunderstood, with scales that change color depending on his mood.
You add a brave princess who lives in a castle made of crystal and starlight.
Your mom contributes a magical kingdom where the seasons change whenever the inhabitants need them to: spring for new beginnings, summer for celebration, autumn for reflection, winter for rest and contemplation.
Mary adds the finishing touches with a resolution where the princess and the dragon become best friends and work together to make sure everyone in the kingdom feels welcome and valued.
The story grows and changes as it moves around the circle, becoming something none of you could have created individually. It's silly in places, touching in others, and by the time it reaches its happy conclusion, you're fighting to keep your eyes open.
"I think," Mary says quietly, glancing at your drooping posture, "it might be time for this little girl to head to bed. Even the most dedicated members of the Ghost Story Society need their sleep."
You want to protest, but a yawn escapes before you can form words.
Your mom chuckles and smooths your hair back from your forehead, the gesture automatic and soothing. "Come on, darling girl. Let's get you home and tucked in."
There's a flurry of movement as the fort is reluctantly abandoned.
Dean helps gather pillows while the adults fold blankets and restore furniture to its proper places. You grab Patches and try to help, but you're moving slowly now, the sleepiness making everything feel dreamlike and distant.
"Thank you for story," you tell Dean as your mom helps you into your jacket, the fabric cold on your skin.
"Thanks for being the best listener ever," he replies, and he means it. He takes your much smaller hand in both of his, holding it carefully like it's something precious.
"See you tomorrow?"
You nod eagerly, and he smiles before scooping you up in his little arms, lifting you clean off your feet in a bear hug. Your own wrap around his neck, Patches hanging over his shoulder, and you can feel how he holds you—steady and secure, even though he's not much bigger than you are.
You breathe in the familiar scent that clings to his shirt: fabric softener and an essence so uniquely his you could recognize it anywhere.
Mary hugs you next, her embrace loving and maternal, lasting long enough to make you feel treasured, more than you already did. "Sweet dreams, little one. We'll do this again soon."
"Promise?" you ask, because promises are important to you, especially promises about fun.
"Promise."
Your mom lifts you into her grasp, and you rest your head on her shoulder as she carries you toward the door. The house radiates difference in the aftermath of your adventure.
More spacious, but also somehow emptier.
"I love Dee," you mumble into your moms neck, the words heavy with sleep but full of simple, honest affection. Then, with a sudden worried lift of your head, "I say bye Sammy?"
"He was fast asleep, honey," she murmurs, adjusting her hold on you as you settle back down. "But I'm sure he felt all that love in the room tonight."
She goes silent for a moment, a soft smirk adorning her lips as she thinks about you and the boys, about your futures and it's endless potentials.
"You three are going to be thick as thieves, aren't you?"
Sleep comes easily with Patches tucked under your arm and the taste of laughter still sweet on your tongue.
Your dreams are full of castles and dragons, of gentle ghosts, music boxes that know your heart, and flowers that bloom in impossible colors.
It's as if the stories from tonight have taken root in your sleeping mind, growing into richer and more vivid experiences than simple memory.
You don't know that miles away, in the house that you just left, Mary is making her way down a familiar hallway, woken up by the staticky noise of Sam crying from the baby monitor. That she's padding barefoot along the floor, her nightgown rustling softly as she reaches the entrance to the nursery room.
Or that there's already another presence in that room, standing over the crib, mistakenly looking like her husband. A presence that shouldn't exist, one that makes the lights flicker and time stop.
An entity with yellow eyes. Nothing like the friendly pair on the color-changing dragon from your shared story. This is infinitely more dangerous.
You don't know that in a few moments, Mary will be pinned to the ceiling, looking down at her baby boy with terror and sadness written on her features, her mouth opening in a scream that will change everything. That the scream that tears from her throat will wake the entire house, will bring John running up the stairs two at a time, will send Dean tumbling from his bed in confusion and fear.
Or that flames will follow, hungry and unnatural. Spread with impossible speed, turning the house into a nightmare.
All you know is the peaceful darkness of your own bedroom, the unchanging rhythm of your mom's breathing from down the hall, the comforting weight of your stuffed rabbit in your hold. That you'll see Dean again in a few hours.
You don't know that tomorrow, everything will be different.
That the Winchester house is already burning.
The noise that wakes you isn't thunder or wind or any of the usual nocturnal disturbances that sometimes pull you from sleep.
It's completely different.
A sharp, electronic shriek that cuts like a knife through silk.
The telephone.
You lie still for a moment, disoriented by the abrupt transition from dreams to wakefulness. Your room is dark, the kind of deep black that only comes in hours before dawn when even the streetlights seem dimmed by exhaustion.
Patches is still tangled in your arms, nose pressed under your chin, and your blankets are twisted around your legs from turning around in your sleep.
The phone rings again, and you hear your mom's footsteps, quick and urgent.
The sound is different from her usual movements. Less measured, more frantic. Adults don't usually answer phones in the middle of the night unless there's trouble, and the urgency in her step suggests that whatever this is, it's not good news.
There's the quick click of the receiver being lifted, then your mom's speech, sleep-rough and cautious. "Hello? Mary, is that—"
The words cut off unexpectedly, replaced by a silence that issues heaviness and wrongness. You sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake, every sense alert. There's tension in the air, a quality that makes your skin prickle. Like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks and all the animals go quiet.
Then you hear it.
The sound that will live in your memory forever, even when you're too old to sleep with stuffed animals and believe in ghost stories. Even when you're old enough to understand what it means and why it happened and how it changed everything.
Your mom screams.
It's not a scream of anger or frustration or even pain. It's primal, torn from the deepest part of her chest. It's the sound of a world breaking apart, of reality reshaping itself into an unrecognizable and terrible form.
It's the sound of a heart shattering in real time.
You scramble out of bed, Patches falling forgotten to the floor. Your bare feet are silent on the hardwood as you pad toward your bedroom door, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The hallway light is blazing, too bright, too hard for the middle of the night. It hurts your vision as you step out of your room, but you keep going anyway, curious about the disturbance.
The noises coming from the kitchen aren't words anymore. They're more primitive, more broken. Your mom's voice, high and shattered, saying words you can't make out through the sobbing.
You stop cold at the sight of her when you finally find her.
She's on the floor—not sitting, but collapsed, as though her legs simply gave out under the weight of whatever news came through that telephone. The phone receiver dangles from its cord, swaying moderately and emitting a distant buzzing that says whoever was on the other end has either hung up or is waiting for her to return.
Her hands are pressed to her mouth, but you can still hear the sounds escaping. Raw, guttural responses that don't seem like they could come from your mom at all.
She's always been composed, controlled. Seeing her this way is like watching the sun forget how to rise.
"Mommy?"
Her head snaps up, and the look in her eyes terrifies you more than any ghost story ever could. Her face is streaked with tears, her mouth twisted in an expression you've never seen before.
It's wide and wild, filled with an emotion you don't know yet.
An emotion that resembles the end of the world.
"Ari—" she gasps, her voice destroyed, barely recognizable. "Come here, honey. Come here."
You don't understand what's happening, but you go to her anyway, because she's your mom and she needs you. She catches you in her arms and pulls you in so tightly it almost hurts, her whole body trembling.
You can hear her heart beating too fast against your cheek, smell the salt of tears in her hair.
"What's wrong?" you ask along her shoulder.
She doesn't answer right away. Just holds you closer and trembles, and you feel a wetness on your cheek that you realize are from her tears. When she finally does speak, it's too high and too fast, like she's running out of time.
"We have to go," she says, pulling back just enough to look at you, to cup your cheeks with desperation. "We're going to the Winchesters. We're going. We're going, we have to—"
The words hit you like ice water.
Dean. Sam.
The thought of them needing help, of them being hurt or scared, makes your stomach clench with fear.
"Why?"
But even as you ask, she's already moving, pulling you toward the front closet where your coats hang, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, hands shaking as she reaches for your jacket.
"Just—put this on," she says, wrapping the clothing item around you even though you're still in your pajamas. The zipper catches as she tries to tug it up with shaky fingers. "Hurry, honey. We have to hurry."
You let her dress you, too shocked by the fear in her voice to protest. She grabs her own but doesn't put it on properly, just throws it over her shoulders as a cape, the sleeves hanging empty and loose.
"Mommy, you scare me."
She stops for a moment, kneeling in front of you on the cold linoleum. Her still shaky hands smooth your hair back away from your face, and when she looks at you, hurt is the only thing you can see on her face.
"I know honey. I know I am. But we have to be brave, okay? Sammy, Mr. Winchester, Dee, they need us right now—"
"Are they okay..?"
Your mom sighs, eyes tracing over your features. "I don't know," she shrugs in defeat, swallowing down the knot forming in her throat. "I don't know, darling girl. That's why we have to go. That's why we have to hurry."
The drive to the Winchester house passes in a blur of streetlights and your mom's ragged breathing.
She grips the steering wheel, knuckles white over the dark cover. She drives faster than she's ever driven before, taking turns that make the tires squeal along the pavement and running stop signs that would normally make her lecture about traffic safety.
You're huddled in the backseat, still too small to observe much out the windows, but the air slips through the small window gap.
Then you see it.
At first, it's just a glow on the horizon. An orange light that could almost pass as the sunrise, if the sunrise came from the wrong direction at the wrong time.
But as you get closer, the light grows brighter, angrier.
You start to smell something that makes your nose wrinkle and your stomach turn over. It's acrid and bitter, nothing resembling the cozy scent of the vanilla candles from the fort.
This smoke tastes wrong. Poisonous.
"Mommy," your voice comes out smaller than you intended. "Is that—?"
"Don't look," she says quickly, but it's too late.
You already see the truth.
Fire.
The Winchester house—the house where you told ghost stories just hours ago, where you built pillow forts and laughed until your sides ached, where Mary promised there would be more adventures—is burning.
Wild and hungry. Devouring.
Flames lick at the windows, and black smoke pours into the sky, blotting out the stars you were wishing on just hours before.
Your mom pulls the car to the side of the road, barely managing the brake and lurching to a stop. The chaos that surrounded you was like something out of a television show, except the heat is real and the smoke burns your throat and the sounds are too loud and too close.
Emergency vehicles line the street as some sort of bizarre parade: fire trucks with their red lights flashing, casting everyone in hellish strobes, ambulances waiting as patient as white beetles, police lights alternating colors, making everything appear surreal.
Men in heavy coats and helmets move with purpose along the lawn, dragging hoses and shouting instructions to each other.
"Stay close to me," your mom whispers, lifting you from the car. "Don't let go of my hand. No matter what you see, okay?"
But you're not listening anymore, because you've spotted them though the maze of vehicles and rushing firefighters.
John is sitting on the hood of his Impala, and even from a distance, you can see that his essence has fundamentally changed. The confident, laughing man who used to swing you up when he came home from work is gone, replaced by someone who's been broken and hastily put back together with pieces that don't quite fit anymore.
He cradles baby Sam to his chest, blanket wrapped tight around the infant. But John himself looked hollowed out from the inside, face pale, gaze unfocused.
And beside him, shoulders hunched and legs dangling over the hood, is Dean.
He looks so tiny. Tinier than he's ever looked. His pajamas are rumpled and dirty, his hair messy from sleep, and his cheeks stained with tears he's not bothering to wipe away.
Your heart breaks at the sight of him.
"DEE!"
His name tears from your throat before you can stop it. Cuts through all the intertwined mayhem of loud and constant sounds, and he turns his head toward it like he's been struck.
When his eyes find yours, his expression shifts. Hope, maybe. Or relief. Or just the recognition that he's not completely alone in this.
He slides down from the car hood and runs.
Pure desperation propels his small legs as fast as they'll carry him. He runs to you like you're the only solid thing left in his world, like reaching you is the only thing that matters.
You break free from your mom's grip, completely ignoring her previous instruction, and meet him halfway, your feet flying over the uneven ground. When you crash together, it's with enough force to knock you both off balance, but somehow you both stay upright, clinging to each other like drowning people who've found something solid to grasp onto.
His arms wrap around you so tightly you can barely breathe, and you can feel him quavering. His face is buried in your shoulder, tears soaking through your pajama shirt.
"Where's your mommy?" you ask, because it's the only question that makes sense. Mary should be here, standing with John, holding her boys, telling Dean and everyone else that everything will be fine.
But when Dean crumbles, that's when you know.
You don't understand death yet—not really. You're far too young for that cruelty, too innocent to grasp the finality of it. But you understand absence. You understand that Mary, who hugged you goodbye not long ago and promised you more adventure, is not here when she should be.
That the house where you felt such safety is gone. Reduced to smoke and ash.
And you understand that Dean is crying because his heart is broken, and that makes your heart break too.
So you do the only thing you can do.
You hug him. Hold him as tightly as he's holding you. As tightly as he needs you to.
You let him cry into your shoulder, there in the grass beside the road while the fire trucks spray water at what used to be his home, and you cry too, because Dean is in pain and you love him more than you have words for.
Behind you, your mom and John are talking in low, urgent tones. Adult words about insurance and relatives and where everyone will stay and what happens next. But those conversations are distant, less real than they weight of Dean's grip on you.
"It's okay," you whisper in his ear, even though you're not sure that's true. Even though everything around you screams that nothing will ever be okay again. "It's okay, Dee."
He just nods into the curve of your neck, his arms tightening around you like he's afraid that if he lets go, you might disappear too.
You stay there for a long time, encased in each other while the adult world transforms around you, familiar becoming strange and frightening.
The fire trucks eventually stop spraying water.
The flames die down to smoldering embers that glow as angry eyes in the night.
But the most important thing, the thing that will matter more than anything else in the days and weeks and years to come, is this: you don't let go of each other.
Even when the firefighters pack up their equipment and the ambulances drive away.
Even when John makes phone calls with the words such as "temporary" and "until we figure things out,". Even when your mom wraps her coat around both of you and guides you toward the car with gentle insistence, you and Dean staying connected.
Because sometimes you don't need words.
Sometimes it's all in how you embrace someone when their world is falling apart, in how you choose to stay when everything else is leaving, in how you refuse to let go even when you don't understand what you're grasping onto or why it matters so much.
Tonight, Mary died in a way that makes no sense. Consumed by flames that burned too hot and too fast and left too many questions that will probably never have satisfying answers.
Tonight, the house where you'd created so many memories became a pile of ash and twisted metal. Turned into a place that will always hurt to remember.
But tonight, you learned something too.
That when Dean hurts, so do you. And when he needs someone, you're there. And when everything stops making sense, you try to make sense of it together.
Even if what comes next is everything you've never imagined and nothing you ever wanted. Even if what comes later throws everything out of proportion.
You and Dean. Dean and You. That will never change. You belong to each other.
And tonight, in the midst of it all, the loss and the chaos and the heartbreak, that's enough.
It has to be.
𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎
⤷ Me: writes adorable children being adorable. also me: BURN IT ALL DOWN. can't let anyone be happy for more than five minutes without someone catching fire (yes Mary I'm looking at you). she really thought "let me just check on the baby" and the universe said "AHAH–no bitch absolutely not."
anyway, next few episodes we'll be seeing how Ariel's family takes to this whole new reality. suffice to say... it's not pretty.
reblog if you need a hug after this | comments give me life
I am so so SO happy to finally say that the first Precursor episode of my Supernatural Series Rewrite is out!! it'd mean the world to me if you guys read it and hopefully like it, i'd love to know your thoughts on it too! gives me more motivation to keep it going too, so please enjoy and yeah, lmk :) x
Mary Winchester and Natalia Martin were inseparable from the moment they blabbered out their first words. Their friendship continued, blossoming throughout their childhood, to their teen years, and finally adulthood.
Just 2 years after Dean was born, came Ariel, then baby Sammy. Like their mothers, Dean and Ariel were tethered to each other by some invisible force– a string if you will; you never saw one without the other following closely behind.
Everything changed the night of the fire. Sam and Dean lost their mother, John lost his wife, Natalia lost her best friend, and Ariel? She lost her family: her parents filed for divorce a few months later – her mother resorting to endless bottles of alcohol to numb the pain and her father walking out the door claiming he 'just can't do it anymore'.
Already loving her as if she was his own daughter and knowing she won't be taken care of with her mother being in the state she was, John takes matters into his own hands and raises her alongside his boys.
Meaning years worth of long roadtrips, cheap motel rooms, and a somewhat absent father figure. Ariel doesn't mind though. At least she's got her boys by her side to keep her company.
That is until one day, school was over, the boys were nowhere to be found, the impala never came to pick her up, and she found a note in her locker with the words 'I'm sorry' messily scribbled onto it. . .
More may/will be added — feel free to ask or request ♡
⎯⎯⎯ end of the tape ⎯⎯⎯
this blog is for the ones who stayed behind, the ones who kept the light on. for everyone who wished they'd been given the ending they deserved. you're welcome here.
just toss your duffel in the trunk and ride with me a while. put on a mixtape, draw the curtains, and if you need to scream — there's room for that too.
