Banner picture from Kissthemgoodbye, a great resource for screenshots.
Summary: Dean is late for your first date.
A/N: This story takes place mostly between the last two episodes of Supernatural’s final season. Cas is gone, Jack is running Heaven, and Sam and Dean Winchester are falling into a routine of hunting monsters again. It's written in both third and first perspective, but Reader is basically an Original Female Character since I added so much background to her. The story is a part of The Jensen Ackles Chronicles Story Contest, hosted by @storytellers-contest-tjac and @storytellers-contest.
Beta reader: @mysticdeliciouskitty - You are the best 💕💕
Bestie readers: @maybefanficting and @specialagentmonkey. Luv you 💕💕
Dividers by: @easytiger-xo , my go-to source for awesome ones.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC, OMC
Relationships: Dean Winchester/OFC
Total word count: 15k
This chapter's word count: 500
Series warnings: Canon-level violence, blood, decapitation, reader is basically an OFC, cursing, fluff, angst, abusive ex, trauma from victim’s pov, mentions of miscarriages, depression, mentions of hysterectomy, slightly disabled reader, cane, Dean making bad jokes in serious situations, Sam's hair.
SERIOUS WARNING: You probably don't want to read this.
<< Read the previous chapter.
Epilogue
- You -
The dress you bought fits you perfectly, and the makeup tutorials you followed on YouTube weren’t half bad. You look at yourself in the bedroom mirror, and for the first time in years you actually like what you see.
Your new coworkers know nothing about what happened a week and a half ago and you will never tell them. It’s a secret you won’t even tell a therapist. Sam and you have been talking about it a lot, and you’ve even spoken to Eileen – who turned out to be just as wonderfully considerate as Sam. They are so adorably cute together, with Sam learning more and more sign language so they can communicate effectively.
Dean’s adorable too, when he wants to. He’s been texting you every day since you fell asleep on his shoulder in the bunker. You’ve seen so many pictures of Miracle, it feels like you already know the dog even though you’ve only met him once.
He picked the restaurant for tonight’s date: one of those fancy ones with menus that aren’t listed online. It even has a dress code, so Dean said he would wear the suit he had when you first met. He thought he was romantic, but you know it’s the only one he has.
You found a poster in the local car dealer’s window, looking for a mechanic. After you sent a picture of it to him, he’s been calling you every evening to tell you how his application letter is coming along. The man can recite complicated spells in Latin and face literal demons, but gets nervous when he needs to write official letters. That’s the adorable Dean, the soft one that you’re getting to know more and more.
The wall clock says 7:48 pm. He was supposed to pick you up at 7:30 and now you’re getting really anxious. The last text he sent was yesterday, explaining that he and Sam had to go solve a case up north. He isn’t answering any of your calls, and neither is Sam. Maybe his phone was broken?
At 10 pm, you wash your makeup off and slink into the hotdog PJs. By 11 pm, you’re halfway through a tub of ice cream when your doorbell rings. You’re not expecting anyone else, so he better have a damn good excuse!
You stomp over to the door and rip it open, fully ready to tear him a new one – but it’s not Dean.
It’s Sam.
And he looks wrecked. Baggy eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, blood-stained shoes.
No.
You look behind him, hoping you’re wrong. Sam’s alone. There’s no one else in the corridor.
Please, no.
Sam’s lower lip trembles uncontrollably as your eyes find his again, the silent question written all over your face. Your heart falls as he shakes his head once, new tears finding their way through old paths into his stubble.
The two of you hug and sob into each other’s arms, the smell of Dean’s pyre still lingering on Sam’s jacket.
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Banner picture from Kissthemgoodbye, a great resource for screenshots.
Summary: They arrive at the bunker, where she settles in for a few days. Bath and burgers are had, but then there's blood.
A/N: This story takes place mostly between the last two episodes of Supernatural’s final season. Cas is gone, Jack is running Heaven, and Sam and Dean Winchester are falling into a routine of hunting monsters again. It's written in both third and first perspective, but Reader is basically an Original Female Character since I added so much background to her. The story is a part of The Jensen Ackles Chronicles Story Contest, hosted by @storytellers-contest-tjac and @storytellers-contest.
Beta reader: @mysticdeliciouskitty - You are the best 💕💕
Bestie readers: @maybefanficting and @specialagentmonkey. Luv you 💕💕
Dividers by: @easytiger-xo , my go-to source for awesome ones.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC, OMC
Relationships: Dean Winchester/OFC
Total word count: 15k
This chapter's word count: 3647
Series warnings: Canon-level violence, blood, decapitation, reader is basically an OFC, cursing, fluff, angst, abusive ex, trauma from victim’s pov, slightly disabled reader, cane, Dean making bad jokes in serious situations, Sam's hair.
<< Read the previous chapter.
Part 3: Bath, burger and blood
- Dean -
Buffy…
Dean huffs and rubs his hand down his face. He still can’t believe he got compared to a teenage chick in some show. He didn’t get to watch it a lot while on the road with Dad, but he caught a few episodes here and there when Sam had fallen asleep or when he let some of the reruns play on the motel TVs after the kid left for college. Show wasn’t too bad, but it got a lot of the demon and vampire stuff all wrong.
As he pulls into the bunker’s garage, he glances back in the mirror at her. Took her a few hours to fall asleep, after asking tons questions and then challenging Dean to naming rock artists from the 70s and 80s. Turns out the woman works as damn music teacher! No wonder she could shut him up with a stare.
He and Sam suggested she should stay at the bunker for a few nights, until they could track Ron down. She was a bit hesitant at first, but once they assured her she would have her own room and it really wasn’t a big deal, she accepted. She wouldn’t get the keys for her apartment in Smith Center for a few days anyway, and this way she wouldn’t need to stay at a motel.
She also opened up a lot more after the first hour. Ron and her had lived together for almost a decade, and from the way she spoke it seemed like he had somehow convinced her that she wasn’t attractive? That was bullshit and Dean made sure to tell her that. She went silent and fell asleep not long after, but he could swear he saw her smile to herself when she thought he wasn’t looking. Good.
Dean parks Baby in her spot and turns around, almost regretting having to wake her up. She looks peaceful, in a clothes-caked-with-blood and bandaged neck kinda way.
“Alright, sleepyheads, we’re here. Home sweet home.” They both jerk awake, looking around.
“Are all these cars yours?” her voice is in awe as she spots one classic after the other, neatly parked in their spot.
Dean grins. “Sure are! Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”
While Sam clears out their gear from the car, Dean grabs her suitcase and offers to show her around – starting with the cars the Men of Letters left them. After all the silence in the bunker for the last couple of weeks, it’s nice to have someone else there that doesn’t remind him of all the people they lost.
“Let’s start with the most important parts first,” Dean grins at her as they make their way through the hallway, passing the war room and library. “You can check these rooms out later, I promise, but I think you might want to freshen up a bit, huh Toothless?”
She draws her eyes away from the giant map table to pin him with the same unimpressed stare he got at the bus terminal when he called Sam a nerd, and Dean almost starts apologizing as if he was a teenager scolded by Dad. Damn, it’s effective! Then her lips press together to suppress a smile, and he knows he’s not in trouble after all.
“Sure, Buffy,” she mocks him. Then she sighs and looks down at herself, her face immediately somber again. “Yeah, I guess I do need to clean all this off.”
Dean takes a step closer to her, his hand reaching for her elbow to get her attention. “Don’t worry, we know a thing or two about washing clothes covered in that. And if not, we can get you new ones.” And when she looks up at him through her lashes? Damn, he swears her breath catches and he’s sure his own does too.
Of course, Sam has to be the prince of bad timing and rush in at that exact moment! Oblivious to whatever was going on between Dean and her, he strides past them carrying his bag full of those damn apricot hair products.
“Dean show you the big bathroom yet?” he says as he reaches the end of the hallway and looks back. “It has a tub too.”
That gets her attention and she follows Sam through the halls, Dean trailing behind with her suitcase, quietly hoping his brother could just fuck off for a bit.
- You -
You were not prepared for their bunker to be this elaborate. When they told you about it, you imagined something out of those doom prepper shows, not what looks like a miniature boarding school for scientists. You’ll have to check out the telescope and library later, that bathtub sounds too good to miss out on right now.
The halls twist and turn enough to make you dizzy again, when the tall brother suddenly stops to open a door to a surprisingly well-kept bathroom: an old-fashioned tub encased in blue tiles in the middle of the room, a shower nearby, two sinks, bathrobes on a rack and fluffy towels already folded neatly on a little white table. You spot a collection of bath salts and oddly shaped bottles of shampoos, which makes you remember Ron referring to Sam as Mister Hair. A part of you wonders which one smells like apricots.
Dean apparently has the same thought and points them out. “I’m sure Mister Hair here is willing to share some of his more expensive range.” You have to bite your lower lip to not giggle as Sam shoots daggers at him. If looks could kill, you’d be witnessing a fratricide.
You decide to put an end to their bickering since Sam seems to gear up for a rebuttal that surely can’t end well with those two hotheads: “I have more than enough in my suitcase, guys. I’ll manage just fine.” Dean throws Sam a victorious look and places your suitcase on one of the larger, cleared tables. You thank him and usher the two men out of the bathroom, then lock the door.
An hour later you feel like a whole new woman. Well: not completely new, but at least a clean one. The quiet bathroom gave you time to think while you were soaking in strawberry-scented bubbles, with last night’s events replaying inside your mind until you finally decided to just hold your head underwater until your lungs ached. When you surfaced and took a much needed breath, you decided that living is better than not and at least you’re still around. Never mind the fact that vampires are now real, and Ron is one of them; You can deal with that later.
The bathrobes are more like what you imagine rich scholars would wear in the 60s, so you decide to dry up completely and change into the most relaxing thing you have: An old pair of pajama pants covered in cartoon hotdogs, that was on sale one time and just too soft to throw away. Ron had always ridiculed you for it, so you made sure to bring it with you when you left. Paired with your old Frank Zappa t-shirt, you do not feel like a top model – but at least you feel comfy and safe.
You make sure to rinse your blood-soaked clothes in cold water to get most of it off, then you stuff them into a plastic bag that you carry with you through the hall. You’re about to start shouting for the guys, when you smell something delicious: Bacon. The wonderful scent leads you to the kitchen, where you find Dean humming out of tune to what sounds like “Ramble on” while he dances next to the stove, a kitchen island between the two of you. Just as he belts out the end of the chorus, he turns around and freezes, locking eyes with you.
Up until now you did not know men could look at you like that. Ron would’ve looked you up and down and frowned, saying something like “you’re too young to know about Frank Zappa” or poked fun of your choice of pants.
Dean, however, looks like a deer in headlights: Mouth agape, a wooden spatula in one hand and a plate with a perfectly assembled bacon burger in the other. His eyes land on your face first, then your shirt and finally your hotdog-covered legs, but there’s no sign of ridicule on him. It’s more like he’s in awe for a few moments. It’s not until his entire face splits into a grin and he steps out from behind the kitchen island, that you realize why: He’s wearing the exact same PJ pants!
“Oh my God!” you laugh, relief washing through you.
“We’re twins!” he continues and walks up to you, eyes sparkling. “I knew I liked you.”
Uhm, what? He likes you? Now YOU’RE the deer in the headlights. This hot as hell, strong, kind and music loving guy is so way above your league, you honestly can’t tell if he says it as a joke or if it’s something else. It can’t be anything else. It just can’t. Right?
You shake the thought away, filing it under wishful thinking and swallow whatever words your brain wanted to let loose next. Instead, you go for “That smells amazing.” Safe enough route, focuses on the food and not the uncomfortable truth of never being good enough for someone like him. Perfect distraction.
Dean proudly gives you the plate without batting an eye. “Figured you’d be hungry, so I made this for you. Kinda hoping you like burgers.” He mumbles the last part, and the way he suddenly looks unsure of himself as if his whole day will be ruined if you refuse this most precious of offerings, makes your heart melt. How he can go from being a badass vampire slayer to this adorably shy is mind-boggling, and makes you just want to hug him. But you won’t, because you’re basically still strangers.
“I am starving, this is exactly what I need!” You sit down on one of the barstools of the kitchen island and lift the top bun, revealing tomatoes, cheese, bacon and: “Please tell me that’s a homemade patty with lots of good stuff in it.” Your mouth is watering at the thought of tasting this magnificent creation.
Dean’s face lights up even more and he bounces over to the other end of the island, so he can show you better. “Yep. Made everything myself,” he announces proudly, placing his own patty and buns on another plate. “Onion, garlic, peppers and some bits of feta cheese. All hand mixed by yours truly.”
He continues building his own meal as you finally taste his masterpiece and it is easily the best one you’ve had in years. When the flavors explode in your mouth, you look up at his waiting face. “This burger is…” There are no words worthy, so you just groan happily, taking another bite for good measure.
Dean throws his hand out and nods eagerly. “Right!?”
- Dean -
He hoped she would appreciate his Dean Deluxe Burger, and hearing her groan like that is the best compliment he could have gotten. Never mind the fact that her making that sound is doing things to him he probably shouldn’t say out loud. To stop himself from crossing any boundaries, he finishes making his own burger and sets it next to her instead.
“Got an important question for you, Toothless.” Dean moves over to the fridge as she chews and swallows, ready to answer. “You a beer or soda person when it comes to burgers?”
“Beer. Definitely beer.”
His grin is back as he opens the fridge: “Awesome.” This lady is good looking, has impeccable taste in PJs, loves burgers and beers, and knows her music? Ron didn’t know what he had.
Just when Dean is getting comfortable next to her, clinking his beer to hers, about to say exactly that, the sound of his brother’s scoff ruins the moment.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! There are two of those pants?”
Sam, the master of bad timing is back. Dean’s about to tell him to go fuck off but her reply is faster.
“Three, if you play your cards right. I know where to get more,” she laughs, holding her hand in front of her mouth to not spill burger all over the place. “Dean’s made burgers. They are so good!”
“He knows they are. They don’t call me Meat Man for nothing!” Dean gloats, puffing his chest out.
Sam groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dude… Not the Meat Man thing, we talked about this.”
Toothless almost chokes on her bite and it takes a few seconds of her coughing until she’s able to speak again. “Meat Man? You call yourself Meat Man?”
“Sure do! I know how to handle the meat: Meat Man!”
At that, she bursts into laughter again – but this time her laughing doesn’t sound like she’s laughing with him, though. Dean’s grin quickly fades away.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” she then asks Sam, who’s also laughing like an idiot. What the hell?
The idiot shakes his head, like there’s this whole conspiracy everyone knows about except Dean. “I tried telling him.”
This is getting annoying. “Tell me what?”
To Dean’s horror, she finds her phone and types “Urban dictionary meatman” into Google, holding the result up for him to read. He feels the color drain from his face as the two of them burst into another fit of giggles. Yeah, okay. Not using that one again. Shit.
The rest of the lunch proves to be uneventful and, much to Dean’s satisfaction, Sam announces he’s heading out to Eileen to collect Miracle and won’t be back until tomorrow. Dean then has the privilege to tell her about his dog, to which she demands pictures and stories. With a look at Sam, the two brothers decide she’s not quite ready to hear how they got Miracle, but she accepts they found him as a stray while working.
After Sam leaves, the two of them walk around the bunker to help her orientate herself. After touring the Dean Cave, the bedrooms and leaving her stuff in the room Jack used to have, they sit in the lounge chairs of the library with more cold beer. She is really curious about all the monsters, and Dean finds himself trying to summarize the last decade of events. By the time he reaches how he met Castiel, she’s starting to lose focus.
She holds her hand up, stopping him mid-sentence as he describes Cas’ trench coat and how he never figured out how to put on a tie properly. “Wait, an angel? An actual angel in a trench coat? Like John Constantine?”
Dean nods, his mind going back to Cas’ confession just as he was taken into the Empty. “He was my best friend.” Something must show on his face, because she leans forward and puts her hand on his knee. It’s warm.
“Was?” Just that simple word, combined with how she’s looking at him almost brings him back to the cellar. His stupid eyes start to sting, and he realizes he hasn’t even talked to Sam about this yet. Not really.
“He… he died a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat to get rid of that damn lump, then looks around for something else to drink. “Me too.” He spots a whiskey bottle in one of the cabinets.
“I need something stronger, how are you with whiskey?” He indicates the cabinet and she retreats her hand, her face all sad and clearly wanting to know more.
To her credit, though, she doesn’t press about Cas. “I’m more into sugary cocktails, actually.”
- You -
Dean doesn’t mention the angel again, but from the way his face fell you could tell it was someone important. If angels actually exist, then what about God and the devil? And could angels really die? And that was his best friend? That’s a conversation you are SO not ready for at this point. Instead, you accept the Rum and Coke he made for you, and you start telling him about the music classes you teach.
By the second drink, you and Dean are looking through the old vinyl collection, and you get to tell him how Robert Johnson revolutionized blues while listening to his original version of “Sweet Home Chicago” from the 1930s.
You empty your glass and put it on one of the tables near the gramophone. “So, this song has been recorded by a lot of great artists throughout the next century after this album, and Johnson even inspired Eric Clapton, Keith Richards and Bob Dylan.” You tick off the names on your fingers, and could easily add a few more – but you don’t want to bore him.
“It’s in Blues Brothers too,” Dean adds. He’s been inching closer to you during the course of the last few songs and is now close enough that you can smell his breath. You’ve never been a fan over overly drunk people, but so far he’s holding up pretty well. Dean’s on what must be his fourth or fifth glass of whiskey, and you are surprised how little affected he is.
This close, you notice the slight hint of crow’s feet by his eyes and how long his lashes are – of all things. There are quite a few scars on his arms as well, a lot of them clean lines as if he’s been cutting himself. You decide that, too, is a tale for another day. Right now, you’re just happy to feel safe enough in this strange bunker and that this handsome man actually wants to spend time talking about music with you.
“You really know a lot about these things,” he says, almost admiringly at you. “You might be one of the few women I’ve met who could keep up with me about the old bands.”
Wait… He’s not… He can’t be flirting, right? Instant panic sets in as you realize his eyes are a bit glazed over, and the way his tongue darts over his lips… He must be more drunk than he seems, there’s no way he would ever act that way towards you in a sober state. Right?
“Alright, Buffy, I think we could use some air.” You take a small step back, giving him space to remember he should have better standards than this. He blinks at you, confused for a second, then he seems to realize what he was doing and straightens his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Air sounds nice.”
Phew.
He leads you up a winding staircase, letting you take your time with your cane, then opens up the big iron door to reveal even more stairs. Of course there’s another staircase… You almost start suggesting adding an elevator when Dean opens the last door and you finally feel the cool breeze hit your face.
It’s already starting to grow dark outside, and it makes you wonder how long you two were talking. You should probably have more food soon, too. The last set of stairs is concrete and then you are finally topside. From here, the bunker looks really inconspicuous – almost like a forgotten service facility for some kind of electrical stuff no one living remembers anymore. There’s a small forest around them, and a pathway that’s probably ideal for jogging.
“Wow.” You lean heavily on your cane, your hip and knee radiating pain, but taking it all in. “This place is really well hidden.”
Dean looks around, still holding the almost empty whiskey glass, his eyes instinctively clearing the area. It’s kinda impressive, if you’re honest with yourself. “Yeah, we would have never found it if it wasn’t for our grandpa.”
That’s interesting, he hasn’t mentioned the rest of his family yet. “Oh, so you inherited the place?”
“In a way, yes. Turned out dad’s side of the family has always been protecting people from monsters, in this old gentleman’s club called the Men of Letters.” Dean indicates the door. “It required a magic key to open it, of all things.”
“Magic? You’re not just saying that, right? An actual magical key?” What kind of reality have you stumbled into?? At this point, nothing should surprise you.
Dean laughs, probably realizing how much you still don’t know. “It’s a long story, Sweet Tooth.”
You shake your head in disbelief. “Oh, so I’m a Sweet Tooth now? What happened to Toothless?”
He’s about to say something, probably nothing good, when his whole posture changes and he stares behind you, face immediately changing from amused to fearful. A chill runs down your spine.
“Dean…” Sam’s weak voice is behind you, sounding like he’s struggling to speak.
You don’t dare move. Dean's glass is on the ground and he already has his gun out, aiming at where Sam’s voice came from and stepping to the side to avoid having you in the middle.
There’s another voice, but your brain can’t process it over the loud ringing in your ears. Your body reacts before you even realize who it is, trembling and tensing every muscle.
“Let him go, asshole.” Dean’s voice is distant, almost echoing.
No.
It can’t be.
Despite dreading what you will see, you slowly turn around and gasp.
Sam is slumped against a man, only held up by the arm around his neck. His face drained of all the color he had when you last saw him and his neck is littered with aggressive bite marks. His arms are gathered behind his back. There’s blood all over him, his face and his clothes, more than you’ve ever seen. Even more than you washed off in the tub.
As you make eye contact with his captor, you forget how to breathe.
Ron leers at you: “Hello, honey.”
Navigation:
Go back to the Masterlist.
Go to the next chapter.
Go to the previous chapter.
Go check out my other stories!
Banner picture from Kissthemgoodbye, a great resource for screenshots. (Sorry, @kazsrm67! I didn't use the awesome one you made but I really loved it!)
Summary: Sam and Dean clears out a nest of vampires and stumbles upon a woman in distress in a diner. She finds herself thrown into a world of monsters, but maybe there's hope there too?
A/N: This story takes place mostly between the last two episodes of Supernatural’s final season. Cas is gone, Jack is running Heaven, and Sam and Dean Winchester are falling into a routine of hunting monsters again. It's written in both third and first perspective, but Reader is basically an Original Female Character since I added so much background to her. The story is a part of The Jensen Ackles Chronicles Story Contest, hosted by @storytellers-contest-tjac and @storytellers-contest.
Beta reader: @mysticdeliciouskitty - You are the best 💕💕
Bestie readers: @maybefanficting and @specialagentmonkey. Luv you 💕💕
Dividers by: @easytiger-xo , my go-to source for awesome ones.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC, OMC
Relationships: Dean Winchester/OFC
Total word count: 15k
This chapter's word count: 3360
Series warnings: Canon-level violence, blood, decapitation, reader is basically an OFC, cursing, fluff, angst, abusive ex, trauma from victim’s pov, slightly disabled reader, cane, Dean making bad jokes in serious situations, Sam's hair.
Part 1: A nest and a diner
- Dean -
“DEAN! DOWN!”
Dean ducks just as something passes above his head. A rusted axe hits the beam behind him with a thud, dust swirling down on top of him. That was way too close for comfort! He uses his momentum to spin around and drive his hatchet into the knees of whoever almost cut off his head. As the blade buries into its mark, Dean realizes the knees belong to the pack leader of the nest they are clearing out. The vampire screams in pain as she collapses to the floor. Dean wastes no time and quickly decapitates her, effectively ending the hunt.
Adrenaline still pumping, Dean scans the rest of the dilapidated warehouse for more monsters to kill. He watches as his brother Sam downs the remaining vampire, who apparently lost his upper hand when he saw his leader fall. His head rolls uselessly away from his body.
“Was that everyone?” Dean wipes his weapon on the sleeve of his jacket as he makes his way towards his brother, stepping over body parts and heads.
“Yeah,” Sam answers, somewhat out of breath, while scanning the scene. “I think that was it.”
“Good. How many did we take down this time?”
“I dunno, man. Maybe twelve?”
“Meh, still not as many as that one time in Wyoming.” Dean reaches Sam and gives him a quick look-over, checking for wounds. “You good?” Sam has always had a knack for getting wounded and not noticing it until the fight ends.
“Yeah, I think so. You? That last vamp came out of nowhere.”
Dean rakes his fingers through his hair, still remembering how it moved when the axe barely missed him. “Yeah, thanks for the head’s up on that one.”
The two brothers survey the carnage in silence for a few moments before both of them start picking up bodies to clear the building in quiet agreement. They’ve done this dance too many times before, and soon enough, the beheaded vampires are covered in salt and accelerant, as Sam prepares his matchbook.
“Ten.”
“Huh?” Sam stops right before lighting the matches and frowns at Dean.
“Ten vamps, Sammy. I counted as we piled them. Wyoming had fifteen.”
“Oh, right.” Sam’s face is bathed in light as he scratches the matches and tosses the entire matchbook on the pyre. “Felt like more.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Dean laughs. “We’re getting old, Sam.”
“Old? You’re 41, dude.” Sam scoffs and pats his brother’s shoulder. “Dad was still hunting solo at fifty. He had even more grey hairs than you do!”
“Hey!” Dean evades his brother’s attempt to mess his hair up and shoves him in the shoulder instead, while the fire crackles to life. “I do not have grey hairs!”
“Oh yeah?” Sam easily wraps his arm around Dean’s neck, holding his head tight against his side, while knuckling his hair with his other hand. “You’re so old, you can’t even get yourself out of a choke hold!”
“Hnngh, stop… Stop it!” Dean tries to wiggle himself out of his brother’s grip, flailing his arms around and using his feet to shift their point of gravity, not really putting effort into it – both completely unaffected by the burning pile of remains not fifteen feet away from them. “Stop touching the hair!”
Sam laughs at his brother’s feeble attempt to break free, then releases him after making sure Dean’s hair is properly mussed up. “There you go, jerk: all better.”
Dean replies with his signature one-fingered salute: “Come on, let’s clean up and grab dinner, bitch.”
- You -
You haven’t noticed the two men in the booth in the corner. You haven’t seen how one of them keeps looking at you to make sure you are safe. You don’t notice when the one with shorter hair of the two slowly makes his way to your table, pretending to check out the menu.
Your attention is solely on the man across the table: your ex.
You had left Ron last week with your whole life packed in a suitcase. It wasn’t much: a few changes of clothes, your meds, your laptop, and a few other necessities. Everything else was left behind.
So how is he here? You had told no one where you went or why. Hell, even YOU didn’t know where you were headed until you found a bus going west and a job opening in that direction. Yet here he is: Eyes almost black with rage, snarling horrible words at you.
“Can’t believe I had to track you down through half the damn state.”
“You belong with me.”
“No one will ever love you. No one would ever want to even touch you.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, leaving me like that?”
“You listen to me, bitch. You’re coming home with me and that’s it.”
He leans over the table, and you see how wild his hair is. How sunken his eyes are and how tired he looks. How not-Ron he looks.
You can’t go back to him. He doesn’t love you. Not really. It’s not right, he’s not himself. As much as you want to do anything to make him stop, another part of your brain is begging you not to give in. “No,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to do anything else.
“What the hell did you just say to me…?” he growls menacingly, and you barely hear him from the rushing of adrenaline in your ears.
“No.” Your voice is clearer now, but you’re still terrified. Fear is such a strange thing. You should run away, you should scream, you should look around for help. But you can’t. You can’t move, can’t think. Can’t take your eyes off him.
“No? No!? Stop fucking around, we’re going home. Now.” Ron leans over to grab your arm when something slams into the table, making you jump back into your seat. A hand. Someone’s palm smacks the table so hard, it rattles everything. Ron must have been caught off guard as well, because he looks up at the man you didn’t see earlier, the one with the short hair.
“The lady said no,” the man says. His voice is a deep timbre of threat, then everything escalates faster than you can follow.
“Ain’t no lady here, man, just this fucking bi-” Ron starts, when suddenly his face plants itself into the table with the unmistakable sound of a nose breaking. The stranger holds Ron’s head pushed against the table as he glances over at you.
“You okay, Ma’am?”
You don’t have time to respond before Ron suddenly wrenches his way out of the man’s grip and takes a swing at him with surprising force, only to be thrown to the ground by another giant man – this one with longer hair. It reminds you of a coordinated stunt scene from a movie, as the second man practically sits on Ron’s back while fishing out some handcuffs from his back pocket.
“Stay still, Sir. FBI.”
The first man is holding up an open wallet to the rest of the diner, some of which are already on their feet. “FBI, folks,” he announces. “Carry on eating, show’s over.” He crouches down beside a struggling Ron. “Right, hotshot?”
Agents. Real FBI agents. Wow.
The agent on top of him tightens his grip, making Ron groan and finally give up by grunting an agreement into the floor, leaving drops of blood from his slightly off-center nose.
“Atta boy,” the first agent says, tapping Ron twice on his shoulder. “If my colleague here lets you go, will you be a man about it and leave, or do we have to put some shiny new bracelets on you and bring you in for some headshots?”
You can’t hear what Ron mumbles, but the agent asks the taller one sitting on his back to send him out the door. The second agent picks him up and roughly pushes him towards the exit where Ron, thankfully, runs off after looking back at you one last time. His eyes are wild, and they make you shudder.
“Ma’am?” The short-haired agent lightly touches your arm to get your attention. He must have asked you something.
“Hm? Sorry… I was… what?”
“I asked if you were okay, Ma’am.”
You nod, not trusting your own voice yet.
“I’m Dean.” He offers his hand out to you, and you take it, whispering your own name back.
You look at his partner, who clears his throat and nudges Dean with his elbow. “Shaw, Agent Dean Shaw,” he quickly corrects himself. “And this is Special Agent Young, FBI.”
Wait… why does that sound familiar? You frown at the two, then it hits you: “Like the guys in Styx?”
- Dean -
Shit.
Who the hell knows that these days? Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise to his brother, who mirrors him. Sam is the first to regain control of his face: “Yeah,” he laughs. “No relations, though.”
Her eyes dart between the two men, clearly not buying it. Dammit, he needs to make new cards soon. Dean adds that to his mental list of things to do once they are back in the bunker.
After what feels like seconds, but was probably just barely one, she smiles weakly at them both: “Thank you. Thank you for handling him.”
Dean gestures towards the seat opposite her, wordlessly asking if he can join. She nods and wraps her arms around herself, shuddering briefly.
“He doesn’t normally do that, you know.”
Dean scoots over to let Sam sit too. “I should damn well hope not. I’m guessing you two were a couple?”
The woman pulls her hands up on the table and starts wringing her hands, seemingly unaware of what she’s doing. “That was Ron, my… my ex. I left with him last week and haven’t seen him since. Well, until just now, I guess.”
Sam fishes out his reliable notebook: “Has he always been that… uhm… intense?”
She shakes her head, frowning, before picking up a napkin that she starts folding and unfolding to seemingly keep her hands busy. “No, not really. I haven’t seen him this angry before. At least not in public.”
“He’s a lot stronger than he looks,” Dean mutters, still remembering how the man managed to break free of his grip. “Guy must work out a lot. Didn’t look it, though.”
“I haven’t seen him go to the gym a single day in his life, to be honest.” She starts nervously picking at her napkin. “And I don’t know how he found me… I left the town we lived in a few days ago and I’m only here to rest and catch another bus north towards Smith Center up in Kansas.”
That catches Dean’s attention: Smith Center is only like 15 minutes west of Lebanon. Is she really headed their way? That has to be some sort of weird coincidence, right? He glances at Sam, who’s already silently asking him the same thing.
Again, his brother is the first to shake off the surprise: “Up in Smith County? That’s like at least a 10-hour drive, even without stopping. Got family up there?” He sounds genuinely interested, but Dean can tell he’s putting out feelers to see if this is really just dumb luck or not.
“No, nothing like that. Figured I needed a fresh start and took the first job opening I could find near the center of the map. I just wanted to get as far away from him as possible, somewhere no one knows who he is.”
“Wow, he must’ve been a real piece of work,” Dean huffs. Sam nods and glances out the windows, probably to check the asshole is still hanging around.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “He’s a piece of something, all right...”
The way she says it makes Dean snort, then he quickly catches himself as he realizes maybe he shouldn’t laugh at her. “Do we … uh… Do we need to put out a restraining order against him for you?”
She looks up from the now shredded napkin to smile at him. “That won’t be necessary, but thanks for the offer. He just…” She sighs and picks up another napkin instead.
“He just what?” Dean leans in on his elbows, the curiosity getting the better of him. Sam kicks him under the table, probably thinking he’s flirting again. He’s not wrong, though.
The woman shrugs and her new napkin is already nearing its demise.
“Listen,” Dean leans in closer and tilts his head to make sure she understands. “No details are too small. If he’s threatening you, we can make sure he stays out of your hair.”
Her eyes pop up to meet his. “No, nothing like that. He hasn’t threatened me…” She blinks. “Well, not until tonight,” she adds. “Maybe he’s been drinking? He wasn’t acting like himself.”
Dean nods, frowning. “Yeah, maybe.” He glances over at Sam, who’s wearing his thinking face.
His younger brother clears his throat. “So, when does your next bus leave?”
“In…” She checks her watch. “About an hour or so. I’m taking the one going to Oklahoma City, spending the night in some motel near the bus terminal, and then a final one north in the morning.”
Geez, two buses and a stayover to get there? Dean glances over at Sam, a bad idea already forming in his head. Sam, however, can clearly read Dean’s face like an open book and presses his lips together, subtly shaking his head at him. Dammit. Dean raises his eyebrows again to ask if he’s sure, only to get the bitch face in return: Nope, Sam is dead set not to ask if she wants to ride with them.
The two men are interrupted by a sound from across the table, and tear their eyes away from each other to look at her. “What?” Dean laughs.
She looks between the two of them: “Do you guys always do that?”
“Do what?” They both ask in unison.
“Talk to each other without words.”
“Uh…” Dean starts.
“We don’t…” Sam stutters. “We just…” He looks over at Dean, who is just as confused as he is.
The woman’s smile softens, her face radiating some kind of acceptance. “It’s okay, you know. I see more of that kind of communication between couples than work buddies.” Then she fucking winks at Sam. Not the flirting wink: The “I-see-you-and-accept-you” wink.
“Woah, hold up.” It’s the eldest Winchester’s time to stutter as he realizes the implication. “We’re not…” He gestures between Sam and him. “We’re partners.” None of that whatever-it-was-called that they found out people wrote fanfiction about from Chuck’s damn books!
She raises her eyebrows at him, and Dean groans, rubbing his hand down his face: “That came out wrong.”
“Work partners. We’re just work partners,” Sam finally clarifies.
Dean points at him. “Yeah, that! Not… you know.”
“Right.” She nods again, lips failing to hide a smile. “Anyway, I should get going to the bus terminal.” She starts clearing up the remnants of her now shredded napkins, placing everything on her plate, then pulls up the handle of her suitcase and a foldable cane, that was hidden under her jacket.
“We’ll join you,” Dean offers. “In case Ron is waiting for ya.”
It takes the three of them five minutes to make their way to the bus station a few blocks down the street; Sam, manning the suitcase and leading the way (like the chivalrous hero he always is), while Dean gets to walk beside her and chat. Despite using a cane, she can walk fairly fast.
“I mostly need it for my balance,” she admits to him. “But occasionally, something starts hurting and I use it for support.”
Dean frowns. “What kind of something?” Sure, growing older means stiffer knees and a back that argues if Dean sneezes wrong some days, but it’s not like people should need a cane for that. She can’t be a whole lot younger than him anyway…
“I’ll roll my ankle, my knee locks up or just random hip issues. I never know, really, until it just… happens,” she shrugs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to suddenly struggle to walk.
“Damn.”
“Yeah…” she agrees, offering him a rare smile before falling silent as they walk on.
- You -
“Here we are.” Agent Shaw, who isn’t related to the guy in Styx, breaks your train of thought as you finally reach the terminal. You hadn’t realized it, but your mind had wandered off on one of its tangents again – visiting all the times your ex had complained about you being too slow or difficult to plan for. He had wanted to go hiking, fishing, visit the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore… all those places you knew you had no chance of reaching in your state. Agent Shaw, however, hadn’t sighed or ridiculed you. He had just sympathized and let you set the pace, despite his coworker already being half a block ahead of you with his long steps.
“Oh, sorry. Got lost in my own head there…” you smile up at him. The agent isn’t half bad to look at, though. … Where did that thought come from? He’s definitely out of your league anyway, you conclude without even giving the idea any foothold in your brain.
The taller one, Agent Young, also not related to the other guy from Styx, has already read the timetable and looks apologetically back at you.
“Sorry, Ma’am. Looks like the next bus to Oklahoma is cancelled.”
Dammit. Now what? You start looking at the board, trying to figure out another route, mentally going through the severely incomplete map you have in your head. You should have paid more attention in geography class all those years ago.
“But there’s another one in three hours, though,” he adds after looking at the screen again. “You can take the Greyhound to Tulsa, then catch a bus northwest to Salina in the morning. Greyhounds don’t go to Smith Center, but I’m sure some local routes do over there.” You stare at him in awe.
He looks almost embarrassed as his coworker coughs a barely audible “nerd”. You frown at the latter, pinning him with your signature teacher-stare, which makes him look appropriately scolded, then turn your eyes to the first one. “Wow, that’s impressive, Agent Young.”
The tall man blushes and scratches his neck, all modest. You swear you see his ears and cheeks go a little red.
“Sounds like that’s my plan, then,” you smile at him and turn so you are facing both of them. “Thank you for escorting me, agents. I doubt Ron will try anything in a public spot like this, so I’ll just wait here for the bus.”
“We’ll leave you to it, Ma’am,” Agent Shaw says, then he plucks out a business card from his jacket and hands it to you. “Feel free to give us a call if he bothers you again.”
The business card says D. Shaw, special agent, and you’re surprised to see a handwritten cell phone number on the back of it. Silently, you hold it up while raising an eyebrow at him.
“Dean!” the other agent sighs, throwing his arms out in exasperation.
“Uh… yeah. In case the office number isn’t working, I put my private one there. So you can, you know, just call me… us… whenever. Uhm… Ma’am.”
You can’t help smiling as a blustering agent Shaw is being led away by his coworker, who looks back apologetically: “I am so sorry, Ma’am, Dea… Uh.. Agent Shaw can be a real asshat sometimes. Safe travels and sorry about your ex.”
As the two men reach the exit, you see the taller one smack the other in the back of his head before they start bickering their way down the road. You don’t have much experience with the FBI, but you haven’t seen agents behave like that on any of the TV shows you used to watch. Still, you look at the card and tuck it in your back pocket for safekeeping before finding your seat on the bench, already dreading the three-hour wait.
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Summary: Sam is in danger, everyone gets their second chances.
A/N: This story takes place mostly between the last two episodes of Supernatural’s final season. Cas is gone, Jack is running Heaven, and Sam and Dean Winchester are falling into a routine of hunting monsters again. It's written in both third and first perspective, but Reader is basically an Original Female Character since I added so much background to her. The story is a part of The Jensen Ackles Chronicles Story Contest, hosted by @storytellers-contest-tjac and @storytellers-contest.
Beta reader: @mysticdeliciouskitty - You are the best 💕💕
Bestie readers: @maybefanficting and @specialagentmonkey. Luv you 💕💕
Dividers by: @easytiger-xo , my go-to source for awesome ones.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC, OMC
Relationships: Dean Winchester/OFC
Total word count: 15k
This chapter's word count: 3675
Series warnings: Canon-level violence, blood, decapitation, reader is basically an OFC, cursing, fluff, angst, abusive ex, trauma from victim’s pov, slightly disabled reader, cane, Dean making bad jokes in serious situations, Sam's hair.
<< Read the previous chapter.
Part 4: Second chances
- Ron -
That fucking hunter and his damn silver bullets!
He can still feel how itchy his face was when it slowly healed while he was running back to the nest a few miles out of town. Stealing a car was out of the question, he didn’t want anything traced back to the others. The first thing his nose picked up after it had stitched itself back together was the burned flesh. Then he spotted white smoke above the trees.
His entire group was dead; Heads off and burned, like slaughtered livestock. Fuckers even seasoned them with salt for some reason. Psychos.
Not that he knew the group too well, he’d only been a vampire for a few days at this point, but he liked their leader. She was very convincing when she recruited him. The way she offered him that young woman, like he was some kind of gladiator to be awarded after a brutal fight? That’s what sold it. And he did feel like a gladiator: He had never been this strong and confident before.
But that random woman wasn’t enough. He wanted her. He wanted what was his. Not some screaming stranger.
That’s why he was in this part of the country anyway: He had traced her phone, but got “recruited” before he could find her and then he woke up better than he had ever imagined. It was exhilarating knowing he was unstoppable. Sure, the leader told him to watch out for hunters and their machetes – but it didn’t seem like she was too worried about it. Besides: what could mere humans do to him, anyway?
Apparently a lot, given the right tools.
The hunters’ stench still lingered around the warehouse. There was no mistaking that shampoo, but now he also knew about their car. Some kind of old model that smelled of oil, polish and old beef jerky. That mouthy comedian probably ate it; he reeked of that too.
Tracking her was easy: she still had her phone, the dumb bitch. Her signal was lost outside of Lebanon and he had to rely on his smell again. It wasn’t as good as before the cocky bastard cleared out his sinuses with his gun, but good enough to know where to hang around.
The lanky apricot guy put up a good fight, though – but once Ron started biting and draining him, he didn’t really stand a chance. It felt victorious to cuff the man behind his back with the same cuffs from yesterday, then drag him into the forest to snack on him while waiting for her. FBI agent, my ass!
Either way, it was all worth it to watch her walk out of that same door a few hours later. And this time, there’s only one hunter. The other one is practically dead already, desperate enough to bite Ron’s hand. Doesn’t matter, Ron heals quickly anyway.
“Let him go, asshole.” The dickhead with the silver bullets just doesn’t get it. Ron is winning. It’s over. He has the upper hand. She just has to turn around and see that, and she’ll come running back to him. This time, he knows she’ll see the truth: They belong together.
Hell, he can just make her into a gladiator too, and she won’t have to worry about that cane anymore. She’d be unstoppable. And she’d be his forever. Shame he didn’t think of that back in the last forest.
She finally turns around, all trembling with anticipation. Cute.
“Hello, honey.”
She stops breathing, he can hear it happening. Then her pulse skyrockets as she gasps and he can smell her fear: it is intoxicating. It smells a whole lot better than the guy Ron’s holding in front of himself. His fear is old, used, diluted, and waning as his life slips away. Her’s is fresh.
She’s so pale already. Good; it suits her. Makes her lips stand out more, kinda like that fairytale chick, Snow White. Yeah: she’s his princess.
“How was that burger, Princess? Hair-do over here tasted like he ate some kind of fake veggie thing, but you? You had the real deal. I can smell it from here.”
She doesn’t answer, but that soldier-boy wannabe next to her does: “You shut your face, Pinocchio!”
“Or what?”Ron could almost laugh at his audacity. “You going to put another bullet in me? Or are you afraid of hitting this sorry sack of bones?” He tightens his grip around the neck of his latest meal, and he can feel the pulse getting weaker. It’s an addictive feeling, being the one to hold someone between life and death. Being the one in charge.
“Let Sam go! Now, you piece of shit!” Ah, there it is. There’s the fear in his voice Ron was waiting for. Not so tough now that someone he knows is in trouble, huh?
Ron sniffs the air. Oh. Oh wow, he didn’t see that one coming. Interesting.
“Oh, this is your brother! And his name is… Sam?” Ron grabs the guy’s ear with his teeth, contemplating for a moment to go all Tyson vs Holyfield on him. All it takes is a small bite.
The hunter has reached her now, pulling her behind him like some goddamn savior. His eyes are wild, full of fear and anger. He probably tastes like victory. Fucker doesn’t even respond, he just clenches his teeth so hard, Ron can hear them grinding.
Apparently, the dipshit needs it spelled out: “Put your gun down or I start eating little Sammy here. Well…” he chuckles. “What’s left of him, anyway.” Agent Hairdo twitches, he must be all blue in the face by now and his brother seems to have a hard time understanding he’s about to be an only child at this rate.
A second passes. Then another. More twitching under his arms and there it is: The other hunter finally caves in, holding his palms up. “Alright, alright! Let him breathe, God dammit! I’m… I’m putting my gun down.”
True to his words, he drops the weapon with an exaggerated movement. Showoff.
“Kick it over here.” Ron wasn’t born yesterday; he’s seen enough movies to know what these guys will try if given a chance.
Hero-complex over there reluctantly complies, still making sure to keep her behind him.
“Atta boy,” Ron smiles, echoing the words he heard at the diner. He throws the brother on the ground and shoves him to the side with his foot like discarded leftovers. Doesn’t matter if the guy dies or not, she is the goal. It’s always been her.
The gun feels light in his hand, but Ron doesn’t care. He’s stronger and better than anyone. He’s a fucking gladiator. A gladiator that can’t die.
Damn, it feels good to point this thing at that hunter.
“Princess, honey? Come over here.”
She doesn’t move an inch, and Ron’s patience is running thin. She never fucking listens to him. Stupid bitch.
“NOW!!” he roars, firing a shot in the ground next to them to make it crystal clear that he is not kidding around. Not anymore.
- Sam -
Ron caught him by surprise and the blow to the back of his head made Sam see double for a few seconds. That was probably when the fight ended, Sam just didn’t want to let it, so he kept on punching and kicking wherever he could. Landed a couple of good ones too, until the vampire had him pinned down on his stomach and started biting and sucking the life out of him everywhere he could reach. It was like being in that cave in the other world all over again. He felt just as helpless as when there was a group of mutated freaks attacking him as he did with Ron on top of him.
When Ron started smashing Sam’s head against the ground, he blacked out a few times. He woke up with his hands cuffed behind his back, his shoulder already dislocated and the vampire sneering down at him, Sam’s own blood dripping from his mouth. He continued to fight with everything he had until he couldn’t even hold his head up. Ron’s biting had severed muscles and tendons all over him.
It felt like hours passed. Everything was cold and Sam was shivering.
Not from fear, no: from his body trying desperately to use the remaining blood to keep him alive. To keep his heart pumping and his brain operational. His neck, shoulder and back were burning with blinding pain from all the bites.
Sam knew it all too well.
He had felt this way before when he was bleeding out on a table, or in some dusty cellar to open a stupid safe, or in a forsaken church, or on the floor of a cave in a forgotten universe. There just wasn’t enough life left in him to keep going.
He hated it. He hated knowing there weren’t any angels around to heal him. He hated knowing this might actually be it. And the irony was that he would die sixty feet from the bunker and Dean didn’t even realize it.
This will break him.
He had to keep fighting, for Dean.
Suddenly, Ron had lifted him up, holding Sam in a chokehold in front of himself and covering Sam’s mouth. He was too weak to protest, until he saw them: Dean and her.
No.
No!
His brother was about to watch him die.
With the last remnants of thought, he realized he had only one weapon left to use: He bit down on Ron’s fingers, drawing blood. It tasted different than demon blood, almost thick and coagulated, and had a lot less sulfur.
Ron jerked his fingers away from the bite, which let him warn the only one that mattered:
“Dean…”
The pressure around his neck tightened.
Stars ran across his vision even when his eyes closed. He could feel that life was ebbing away, his body jerking desperately with its last strength.
Dean was watching him die.
No…
Not like this.
Dean.
…
“NOW!!”
A gun goes off, making Sam jolt into consciousness.
The sound is too loud, and nothing is as it used to be.
Sam can smell the grass, the dirt, the worms, the ants, and even the gunpowder. The blast is hurting his ears; everything is just so wrong!
He can feel his heart starting up again, stubbornly forcing itself to pump.
Air finally reaches his lungs, and it tastes like mildew or old rain or fear or … Ron. The air smells of blood and desperation. And it smells of Dean’s gun and one of his silver bullets. It smells like singed grass as if the ground has been shot.
He can hear Dean whisper “Don’t move, stay behind me.”
Sam stays as still as he can. He is supposed to be dead. He did die, right? He was so cold just moments earlier. He even remembers feeling his lungs give up and his heart stop.
How is he still here?
Sam opens his eyes and glances toward his brother, expecting him to be nearby – but Dean is twenty feet away. He wasn’t whispering to Sam, he was whispering to her.
…How?
A metallic taste lingers on his lips. Oh.
The blood.
- Dean -
No… Sam can’t be dead. Not like this. His body jerked one last time after Ron had kicked him to the side. Death convulsions: Dean had seen many of those. The body does a weird, spasmic thing when the brain goes offline.
He’s seen Sam die too many times already, but this time it’s supposed to be forever. And Dean can’t do a damn thing about it.
“NOW!!” The gunshot jolts him out of his trance and Dean’s eyes jerk towards the asshole. He can feel how terrified she is already, trembling behind him. Keep her safe.
“Don’t move, stay behind me,” he whispers to her, not taking his eyes off Ron. The asshole is red in the face and still pointing Dean’s own Colt at them.
“You killed Sam.”
The bastard has the audacity to laugh. “Yeah, and I’ll shoot a hole in your face this time, if you don’t shut the hell up. Last I checked, humans don’t bounce back from that.”
“You,” Dean takes a slow step closer. “Killed my brother.” His own voice is unrecognizable, and he can feel the anger radiating off himself like heat waves. Like he’s back to being a demon.
“Don’t you come any closer!”
Dean takes another step anyway: “You killed him.” He can hear sobbing and pleads to stop from behind him, but his only focus is getting closer to the murderer in front of him.
Ron pulls the trigger, and Dean can see every movement of it like he’s watching it in slow motion: The tension in his hand as he squeezes the metal and how the gun demands that extra resistance to ready the firing pin.
-Click-
Dean throws the clip he took out of his gun moments before at Ron’s face and launches himself at his brother’s killer like a feral beast. He topples over from the sudden impact and Dean pummels him with everything he has. Every time Sam has been in pain flashes before his eyes: the way Sam fell on his knees in that abandoned town, how he fell back on the bed after the two asshats shot him in that motel, the abandoned church, that time he broke his arm as a kid…
He doesn’t even notice that he’s screaming until large hands push Dean off, sending him to the ground a few feet away. Someone huge is over Ron now, with torn clothes and wild hair, swinging an axe like they’re chopping a stubborn piece of wood. Then the man turns and Dean can’t breathe…
“…Sam?”
“Dean!” His living, breathing brother is over Ron’s unmoving shape, shoulders heaving up and down like he always does after a big fight.
Dean scrambles to his feet and crashes into the not-dead-after-all Sam, arms surrounding him then touching everywhere he can reach to check if it really is him: hair, neck, shoulders, arms… So many cuts and bites, his clothes are drenched in blood, and his right shoulder is hanging lower than it should. It’s a miracle that he’s even standing up.
“Dean…” Sam’s voice is worn, tired.
“I saw you d- … You died, Sam!” Tears spring from Dean’s eyes, blurring his vision. He doesn’t wait for a reply and embraces his brother again, who finally hugs him back with his good arm.
A few moments pass and Dean notices movement next to them: Her.
She’s standing with her eyes fixed on Ron’s severed and bloodied head, her quiet sobs filling the silence. As Dean and Sam break apart to watch her, neither of them knowing what to say, she bends over and slowly picks up the axe.
Then: “Fucking ASSHOLE!”
She slams the axe between her ex’s eyes and leaves it there. It starts tilting to the side, slow first then gaining momentum as gravity takes over, his face following its direction like some sick, wobbling kid’s toy, until the handle lands with a thud on the grass. The wind rustles her hair in front of her face and she brushes it away, then heads to the bunker without glancing back at the two men, declaring: “I need a drink.”
The eldest brother gawks after her, then starts patting his pockets.
Sam touches his brother’s shoulder: “Dean.”
“Where’s my damn lighter, I’m going to torch this motherfu-”
“Dean, please!”
He finally looks at Sam. Really looks: He’s a mess! Cuts and bites all over his face, neck and arms. “Oh, right. The cuffs! Sorry, man.” Dean sticks his finger into that tiny front pocket of his jeans, and fishes out the little silver key he always keeps there.
He grabs his brother’s outstretched arms. “Can’t believe you managed to pull these to your front, you’re one lucky son of a bitch your shoulder dislocated. Here you go, buddy.” The cuffs slide off and that’s when Dean sees it: Sam’s broken skin is weaving itself together.
He blinks, stunned. “What the-?”
“I had to, Dean,” Sam pleads. “I couldn’t let you watch me die again.” His cracking voice is barely a whisper.
Dean swallows and the hair on his neck stands up, a sinking feeling spreading through him like he’s falling into icy waters. It wasn’t an act. Sam really did-
“Please… Say something.”
The bites on Sam’s neck are almost closed already, his shoulder inching its way back into the socket and the bruising turning from blue to yellow to nothing before his eyes. He opens his mouth, letting Dean inspect him properly, wincing when his new teeth emerge.
“How?”
“I bit his fingers and drew blood. Was a longshot, I can’t believe it worked.”
“Jesus.” Dean is torn between admiring his brother or punching him for almost dying. Deciding to just be grateful for Sam being alive, Dean starts checking his brother like it’s a normal hunt: arms, neck, back. Everything Ron did to him is already healed or healing, not a scratch left. He is still Sam. He’s still himself.
“You’re good, little brother.” He brushes some grass and dirt off his clothes like he used to when Sam learned to ride his bike and had fallen off. “Now come on, we have a reversal potion to make. You are NOT going to enjoy drinking that, Twilight.” One final tap on the kid’s shoulder and Dean points to the whiskey glass, still lying where he dropped it.
Sam catches on immediately and fills it with some of the blood still oozing from Ron’s neck, then follows him back inside where’s she’s waiting for them, an empty glass next to her. Dean gives her a once-over too, and finds no new bruises or cuts.
- You -
Ron is dead. You are free. Sam is alive and back to his normal self. Dean is watching a cowboy movie.
You still can’t wrap your head around everything, but here you are, on your fourth or fifth beer, in a room the guys call Dean Cave: sitting in a leather couch next to a hunter, watching a giant TV with large speakers on each side. There’s a beer fridge, a dart board on the wall, and vinyl covers on small shelves. There’s even an old jukebox in the corner!
After you had gone inside, they had followed you and everyone filed into some sort of lab where Sam had mixed a weird brew. They called it a cure for vampires, but Dean insisted there wouldn’t be a point trying it on Ron, since he had already fed on Sam and was far away from whoever made him into one. You didn’t want to dwell too much on that and just nodded, lost for words.
Dean was childishly gleeful that his brother had to drink it, claiming it tasted worse than ass. Judging by Sam’s expression, he wasn’t wrong. There was also some sort of incantation involved, and you got to witness real magic firsthand.
It has been a strange 48 hours.
You shake your head in disbelief and take another sip of your bottle. Sam left to go to Eileen not too long ago, leaving you and Dean alone to watch Tombstone together.
Dean nudges your elbow, and pauses the movie. “You all right there, Toothless?”
You look at him, realizing how attentive and concerned this conundrum of a man is. “Yeah. Not sure how I’m going to be able to sleep tonight, though. You?”
He drains his own glass of amber liquid and smiles reassuringly. “It’s been a hell of a day, that’s for sure.”
You nod, agreeing. There’s not much to add to that, really.
Dean starts the movie again, casually placing his arm around your shoulders. At first, you tense up, not sure what to make of it. Then you feel his thumb doing small, calming circles on your shoulder and you let yourself relax into him.
You don’t know when it happened, but at some point you must have fallen asleep, because you wake up with a small jolt when quiet gunshots sound from the TV. You’re still on the couch, and Dean’s arm is still wrapped around you, but now there’s a blanket over you as well.
“Hey, Sleepyhead,” he whispers, almost afraid of waking you up more.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” you start, flustered at how much you are leaning on him.
“It’s all good, relax.” His thumb resumes its circles. “I don’t mind.”
You’re too exhausted to think of a reason not to, so you do as told and melt into him again.
“This is actually kinda nice,” Dean whispers, leaning his own head against the top of yours.
“It is,” you nod weakly.
“Hey, I have a question for you, Toothless.” His thumb stops moving and you look expectantly up at him. He’s so soft like this, with sleepy eyes and stubble that’s just long enough to catch some of the light from the TV. It might be the alcohol, it might be the exhaustion, but you find yourself wishing you were brave enough to just lean towards his lips and see if he’d do the same.
“Once you’ve settled into your place over at Smith Center,” he starts, wetting his lips.
You hum gently in reply, waiting for him to complete his thoughts.
“Do you think maybe you’d like to go out for dinner some time?”
You blink up at him, lost for words. Did he just ask you out on a date? You? Surely not…
Dean swallows, then focuses on the TV again. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Never mind. Forget it. Go back to sleep.”
Holy shit, he actually did!
You lean back on his shoulder again, smiling. “I’d love that, Dean.”
His breath hitches, you can even feel his whole torso relaxing before he tugs you closer and starts circling with his thumb on your shoulder again.
“Awesome.”
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Banner picture from Kissthemgoodbye, a great resource for screenshots.
Summary: Sam and Dean saves the woman from the diner from her ex again and discovers his true nature. Nicknames are made.
A/N: This story takes place mostly between the last two episodes of Supernatural’s final season. Cas is gone, Jack is running Heaven, and Sam and Dean Winchester are falling into a routine of hunting monsters again. It's written in both third and first perspective, but Reader is basically an Original Female Character since I added so much background to her. The story is a part of The Jensen Ackles Chronicles Story Contest, hosted by @storytellers-contest-tjac and @storytellers-contest.
Beta reader: @mysticdeliciouskitty - You are the best 💕💕
Bestie readers: @maybefanficting and @specialagentmonkey. Luv you 💕💕
Dividers by: @easytiger-xo , my go-to source for awesome ones.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC, OMC
Relationships: Dean Winchester/OFC
Total word count: 15k
This chapter's word count: 3988
Series warnings: Canon-level violence, blood, decapitation, reader is basically an OFC, cursing, fluff, angst, abusive ex, trauma from victim’s pov, slightly disabled reader, cane, Dean making bad jokes in serious situations, Sam's hair.
<< Read the previous chapter.
Part 2: Mister Hair, Toothless and Buffy
- Dean -
The fed suits are packed in the fancy suit bags Sam insisted on buying last month, the motel room has been emptied and most of the warding symbols and hex bags have been removed. Sam and Dean’s bags are in the back seat, next to the newly stocked cooler, Baby’s tank is full and Fleetwood Mac is flowing from the radio; the boys are ready to head home.
“I still can’t believe you gave that woman your real number, Dean,” Sam shakes his head as the car rumbles to life. “We are supposed to be FBI, and real feds don’t go around flirting with everyone they meet.”
Dean huffs as he checks the mirrors and pulls out of the gas station. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. It’s not like she’ll call me anyway. She was pretty hot, though.” For someone my age, he adds silently to himself.
He can practically hear his younger brother’s bitchface. “Wait, I thought your type was young, half-drunk blondes in bars…”
“I have matured, man. Haven’t picked up someone like that in like… months now.”
“Dean…”
“Alright, weeks.”
“Dean-”
“Fine, it was last week, and-”
“No, Dean! Look!” Sam points down the road. “Isn’t that her?”
Dean follows his direction and sure enough, the woman from earlier is being chased by someone who looks a lot like her ex. “Dammit, he found her.”
Baby’s engine roars as Dean steers towards them, screeching to a halt as they disappear behind a building. Sam is already out of the door before the engine is off. Both brothers have their guns out as they turn the corner, but there’s no sign of the couple anywhere and the forest behind the building is eerily quiet.
Dean curses and looks around with his flashlight. “They were right here! How the hell did they-?”
“Footprints,” Sam interrupts him quietly, signalling for them both to crouch. “They’re in the forest.”
As if on cue, they hear her shout in that direction and start running towards it. Some fifty feet in, they hear another blood-curdling scream close by that stops way too abruptly.
Shit. That is not good. The brothers share a look of worry.
Sam points to the side of where they heard it, signalling he’s going to go around, while Dean should go straight on – a solid plan. A nod, and they’re off: Dean quickly checks his chamber, even though he knows he reloaded his gun with silver bullets not half an hour ago, before he spots them.
Ron is looking straight at Dean, holding her as a shield between them while covering her mouth. “Stop right there, agent,” he mocks, almost spitting the last word. “I could smell you a mile off. Or should I call you hunter?”
Fuck.
Good sense of smell, too strong, haughty appearance? He’s either werewolf or vampire, Dean quickly summarizes in his head as he steps out into the clearing, gun aimed at the guy’s head. Should’ve brought the machete.
“Let her go, hotshot.”
Ron’s grip tightens around her. “No, I don’t think I will.” He presses his lips close to her ear. “She’s mine. Right, honey?”
It’s dark in the woods, but Dean sees the glint of a tear rolling down her face when Ron plants a possessive kiss on her cheek. Oh, this asshole’s going down!
“And you can tell your friend to come out too, hunter. I can smell his shampoo.”
Oh, he’s a funny one, should be easy to distract.
“What friend? I just showered, dipshit. Can you tell which conditioner I used too?” Dean’s eyes are fixated on Ron, hoping Sam can stay hidden long enough to take him by surprise.
The woman whimpers quietly as the creep growls what could have passed for a laugh and pulls her closer to him. “Nice try. You use one of those cheap five-in-one body washes that reek for miles. I’m talking about Mr. Hair with his damn apricot stinkin-”
“Alright, I’m here!” Sam interrupts and steps out of the forest to the guy’s left. Ron backs up, making sure to keep his hostage between himself and the two of them.
“Dammit, Sam,” Dean groans, eyes still trained on Ron. “I was this close to finding out which conditioner you use… You couldn’t stay hidden for like ten more seconds?”
He can feel Sam’s eyes on him before the kid catches up on his plan. “Hey, screw you, Dean. He ain’t telling you shit.” Sam starts stepping away from Dean, his nickel-plated Taurus also aimed directly at the douchebag.
Ron’s eyes dart between the two of them. Perfect, he’s falling for it.
“I knew it! You’re hiding the good stuff. Keeping it all to yourself,” Dean takes a small step in the other direction, continuing his taunts. “I get the crappy motel bar of soap, and you have a whole collection of expensive, apricot conditioners? Not cool, man.”
Ron tightens his hold, making her whimper again. “What’s the matter with you two? Stop moving and shut up, both of you.”
Just a few feet more…
“And what’s with that loofah I found last week, Sam? Huh? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were going on dates or something.”
Almost there.
“Loofah? I haven’t had a loofah in … you know what? You SHOULD shut up, Dean.”
“Shut the fuck up, you damn lunatics!” Ron finally loses his temper and as his eyes focus on Mr. Hair (yeah, Sam’s not heard the last of THAT one), Dean lunges forward and places a well-aimed shot, right in the center of his face.
Both Ron and her fall over into the brush, and she finally screams as his grip loosens around her mouth. Sam is quick to help her up, pulling her away from her captor.
Dean, however, keeps moving towards the downed prick, already planning to plant a few rounds into his heart for good measure.
- You -
You cling to the taller agent, the gunshot still ringing in your ears. It was a lot louder than you imagined guns to be.
“You’re okay, Ma’am. I got you, I got you.” His voice is controlled and gentle, one arm holding you tight, shielding you from Ron.
Ron.
Oh my God.
Something warm is on the side of your face, something wet. You touch it before you have time to think, your fingers come out dark. What’s wet and dark…? Oh... Blood. Blood?
Ron.
“Is he dead?” Your voice breaks as you watch Agent Shaw approach Ron, who still hasn’t moved.
“Don’t look at him, focus on me. Are you hurt?” Sam? Agent Young? What’s-his-name is crouching slightly to look at you. “Did he hurt you?”
“I… I don’t … I don’t know.” Nothing makes sense. Ron did something, right? Your fingers find your slick neck, where he sucked on your skin earlier. There is something there: a couple of bumps?
More blood. Is it yours? Is it his?
“Hey, look at me. Are you hurt?” He shakes you slightly until your eyes focus on him. You hold up your now darkened fingers.
The other man’s voice cuts through the clearing. “Sam! Get her out of here. NOW!” The one holding you starts pulling you away immediately, but everything hurts too much.
“I… I can’t…”
He stops, looks back at you, then promptly lifts you effortlessly into his arms and starts running away from his partner. You manage to look back as the other agent aims his gun at Ron, who is standing up and roaring with a hole where his nose should be and a mouth full of… what the hell is that?
Time stops acting right and your head starts spinning.
Gunshots.
The one carrying you grunts as he jogs between endless trees, bringing you further away from the fight.
You hear someone shout “You son of a bitch, get back here!” in the distance.
More gunshots, further away now.
Huh, he really does smell like apricot. Apricots and sweat. What an odd thing to notice…
You’re back in the alley, next to one of those cool, old cars your dad used to point out on road trips.
Agent Sam opens the passenger door and tells you to sit down and wait, saying something about a first-aid kit.
The light from the streetlamp above you makes the blood even redder. Is it yours? Is it his?
Agent Shaw is back. Or was it Sam. Sam Young…? Styx? Agent Styx is back, kneeling in front of you with a small metal box of supplies, some water, and a cloth. Your head is swimming.
“Sit tight, just going to check you for bites.”
Bites? Is he talking about ticks? Why does his voice sound so far away?
Styx is wetting the cloth and wiping the blood off your arms, inspecting them. He wrings the cloth, dark liquid dripping on the ground, then wets it again.
“Ma’am? Look up, please?” His hand gently lifts your chin until you can see the grab handle. It’s worn. Wonder how old this car is…
You hiss through your teeth as his cloth hits a sensitive spot. The spot where Ron had his mouth earlier. His mouth full of… what was that?
He wipes it again and sighs quietly before adding more pressure. Then: “Alright, looks like you have a few puncture wounds here.”
Puncture? Like a tire? That can’t be right. There’s a kind of static effect around your vision now. Your lungs can’t seem to get enough air.
Sticks. His name was Sticks, right? Sticks’ voice sounds weird, like it’s underwater. You frown at him. There are two of him now. Does he have a twin? Who calls their twins Sticks?
The static engulfs your vision as a muffled and panicked “Hey, no no no! Stay awake, Ma’am. Stay with me!” blends into nothing and the world goes black.
- Dean -
“You son of a bitch, get back here!”
Dean’s scrambling through the trees, trying to catch up with the toothy dickhead. A damn vampire! Shoulda clocked that the moment he threw Dean off in the diner. Fucking idiot.
Branches break ahead of him and he crouches down, gun at the ready. How many bullets are left? Two? Four? Son of a bitch got knocked out at least, but not for long. Only thing good enough is a quick separation of head from spine. Why did Dean leave his damn machete in the trunk??
“You dight’a ‘topped be s-elling ya, hunte-, buh I ca- ‘till hear you beed, you out of sha-e bud bag!”
Out of what? Out of shape blood bag? Oh, come on! That’s just rude!
“What’s that? Couldn’t understand you there, Pinocchio. Cat got your nose?” At least he hit him right in the sniffer, that oughta hurt.
Leaves rustle.
Twelve feet ahead, a bit to the right: A red-nosed Ron (“nose” being generous), peeking out from behind a tree. Dean doesn’t hesitate: First shot hits Ron’s shoulder, second hits the bark, third skims the top of the guy’s head.
“Fuck!” Ron’s roar echoes through the forest and he makes another run for it, clutching his scalp.
Fourth shot clicks. Dammit. A new clip finds its way into Dean’s pistol within seconds, but it’s too late. The fucker got away.
“Should’a gone for the knees, Dean,” he mutters to himself. “Always go for the knees.”
Dean stays hidden until he’s positive Snoutless isn’t coming back, and by the time he’s back in the alley, Sam has already dressed her wounds and put her in the backseat.
“She got bit. Lost a lot of blood,” his brother explains as he closes the trunk. “Nearly fell headfirst into the asphalt.”
“Damn. She’ll live though, right? He didn’t, you know… feed her his blood?” Dean opens the trunk again, grabbing his machete this time.
“I’m not sure, her face was all covered in – wait. You’re not going to….?” Sam eyes the blade, already holding his hand up to stop him.
“No, I’m not going to kill her, Mister Hair.” Hah, Sam flinched at the nickname. Yep. He’s keeping that one. “Not now, anyway. I’m going to have this close from now on. Douchebag got away.”
- You -
The first thing you notice is the gentle hum surrounding you, vibrating against your whole body, combined with a steady rock beat. Then the smell of old leather hits you, along with some oil and something woodsy you can’t identify.
Deep, muffled voices you don’t recognize slowly become clearer: “I don’t get why you still have the machete out. No fever and no healing mean no fangs. She didn’t turn.”
“Yeah well, I’m not taking any chances, Sam. With all that blood, there’s no telling what he did.”
Blood. The agents. Ron. Fangs!
It all comes rushing back to you like being plunged into cold water and you open your eyes with a gasp, realizing you’re in the back of a moving car. The two agents are in the front seats, and the long-haired one, Agent Young, turns to look right at you.
“Hey, take it easy. You’re alright, Ma’am.”
Your hand flies to your neck, where Ron had been earlier. No, he couldn’t have bitten you, right? A bandage meets your fingers instead of your skin.
“Ron… He…” Even thinking about it seems just wrong, much less asking the agent about it.
The agent nods, apologetically, understand your question without you having to say it out loud. “He bit you, yes. I’m sorry.”
“How are you feeling back there?” The other man, Agent Shaw, frowns at you in the rearview mirror. “Any headache, loud sounds, strange smells?”
Agent Young smacks his coworker’s shoulder with the back of his hand: “Dean! She JUST woke up, give her a break.” Then he turns to you again. “Sorry about Dean, he can be a bit of a jerk sometimes.” The driver huffs in reply but keeps quiet and focuses back on the road again.
There are so many questions you want to ask, but you settle with the most pressing one – seeing as you’re now in a moving car with two strangers. FBI agents, nonetheless, but still strangers: “Where are we going?” A groan escapes as you sit up and try to get your bearings a bit more. You’re on a road, but it’s still dark outside and you can’t see anything apart from dark trees and hardly any lamp posts.
Dean is the first to answer: “North.” How helpful. You stare at the back of his head, waiting for more information, but the other one elaborates.
“I hope you don’t mind, Ma’am. We went back to the station to get your things while you were out cold and started driving north towards Oklahoma.”
You look around and sure enough: your suitcase, purse and cane are all neatly stacked in the footwell behind the driver. “Oh. Thank you, that’s… I don’t know what to say.”
Agent Young offers a small smile. “No problem at all, we figured we’d drive you, so you don’t have to worry about your ex following you on the bus tonight.”
Ron.
“What happened to Ron?” The image of him, with a hole in his face, snarling at Agent Shaw flashes in front of your eyes. “You… you shot him. In the face. Is he dead?”
“No,” says Agent Young just as Shaw replies with “Kinda.”
The long-haired one sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s complicated, Ma’am.”
“Complicated? He had a hole in his face and was standing up. How could he stand up when his nose was shot clean off? How the hell was Ron able to walk away from that?!” You’re shouting the last words as the car lurches to the right, onto a small area of gravel where it stops in a cloud of dust.
“Look, lady.” Dean has turned around now. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to tell it to you straight.”
“Dean…” the other agent warns.
But his partner just continues without stopping: “Your old pal Ron is kinda dead because he’s a vampire now. Not quite alive, not quite dead. But the Ron you knew is gone, and what’s left is what you saw tonight.”
You shake your head in disbelief: “A … a vampire? Those aren’t real.” The logic side of your brain wants to argue how you are correct and this crazy agent is lying to you, but the part of you that remember Ron’s mouth… “Right, Agent Young?”
“Please just call me Sam, and he’s not wrong. They are very real.”
You look from one to the other, both looking at you like YOU are the crazy one. Vampires! That’s absurd. “This is… no… I- I need air.” You open the door and step into the darkness, putting distance between the car and you. It doesn’t take long until Sam is by your side again.
“It’s all right, Ma’am. It can be a lot to take in.”
“Vampires,” you repeat, hugging yourself, trying to make sense of it all. “Like Dracula, Tom Cruise in that movie and that Australian Shadows series? All that is real?”
“Well,” Sam steps closer, making sure to stand next to you but still giving you space. His breath makes a little cloud as he speaks. “They don’t look like the classic ones from the movies. The real ones have more teeth – that retract into their gums. And they can go out into the sun too, it just burns them like a bad sunburn.”
“This is insane.”
“Yeah.”
The two of you stand together in silence for a few moments, then: “Check her teeth!” Dean half-shouts the command from across the little resting stop. You look back and see him leaning on the car, holding something long and flat that glimmers in the moonlight.
“Check my what?” You frown at the tall agent next to you.
Sam sighs. “I’m sorry, he can be very persistent. He wants me to check your teeth.”
“What, you think…” The realization dawns on you. Ron. Ron bit you. That’s how vampires turn people! Your fingers find your bandaged neck again. “He bit me. He bit me! Does that mean that I- that I’m a-”
Sam is quick to hold up his hands towards you, interrupting your spiralling thoughts. “No, not necessarily.” He hovers his hands next to your upper arms, wordlessly asking for permission to touch by lifting his eyebrows. You nod, take a deep breath as he places his large hands on you, bending his knees so he can look you in the eyes. “You have to drink the vampire’s blood for them to turn you. And if you did, you normally turn within an hour or so. You were out cold for at least two hours, so it should have happened by now.”
“So, I’m not… You’re sure?”
“There are tests we can do. One of them is checking your teeth, like Dean suggests.” Sam jerks his head towards his partner. “Or we can check how you react to silver.”
That makes you frown. “Silver?”
The agent nods and removes his right hand from your arm, revealing a silver dollar in his palm. “Yep. Like this one. Your skin didn’t burn when it touched you.”
You’re not quite convinced yet, as clips from all the movies and shows you’ve seen fly across your mind. “But what about my teeth, you’re sure I’m not a … a monster?”
“I’m sure, but here:” Sam holds up a flashlight and shines it at your face. “Open wide.”
Without hesitation, you open your mouth and let Sam look inside. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds before he smiles calmly at you. “No teeth.”
“So, I’m not…”
“You’re perfectly human,” he confirms.
You sigh in relief and run your hand down your face. “This is insane. I can’t believe FBI agents are hunting vampires.”
Sam removes his hands from your shoulders and offers you his coin. “Oh, yeah… About that.”
Not even ten minutes later, your whole view of the world has shifted: Vampires, witches, werewolves, demons, ghosts… Everything you read in those Goosebumps books as a kid is real. According to Sam, the best things to keep around are silver, salt, iron and holy water. You hold the silver dollar in your hand as you try to wrap your head around everything. Then you remember how the two men acted with each other earlier.
“So, Dean and you? Are you just work partners or something else?” The fact that both men seemed so flustered about her assuming them to be the other kind of partners, got your hopes up. Neither of them is hard on the eye, if you are completely honest with yourself. Not that it matters, you aren’t exactly up to whatever standards they probably have.
Sam laughs and looks back at Dean, who is now playing some kind of game on his phone to entertain himself, silently cursing at it and obviously losing. “We’re brothers. He practically raised me himself.”
“Oh! Well, that explains a lot!” You laugh with him. No wonder they are so close. “So, the whole Shaw and Young from Styx thing?”
He sighs, holding out his fake ID for you to inspect more closely. “Dean has this obsession with old rock bands. He thinks it’s funny to use their names when he makes these cards.”
You chuckle, looking at the IDs Sam keeps fishing out of his pocket: Page and Plant, Hetfield and Hammett, Young and Johnson, Gibbons and Beards – all iconic names from iconic groups. You even spot a Ford and Hamill. Dean’s apparently a Star Wars fan too. Interesting.
As you return to the car, the fake IDs already back in Sam’s pocket, Dean tucks away his phone and you see what he was holding earlier: a machete. It sends shivers down your back.
Dean looks from you to Sam: “So, any extra teeth?”
“No extra teeth,” Sam confirms, opening the back door for you.
“I can even touch this without sizzling.” You grin, throwing the silver dollar towards Dean.
He catches it, inspecting it with a smile. “Awesome.”
All three of you settle yourselves back in the car, then he looks back at you with a mischievous grin you’ve seen on countless boys during your teaching career. “Well, Toothless: I’m guessing you’re all caught up on the whole monsters are real thing now?”
You’re about to answer that you think you have the gist of it, when your brain catches on to your new nickname. “Toothless?”
“Yeah. No teeth. Toothless.” He says it as if it’s the most obvious nickname in the world.
You glance over at Sam, who simply presses his lips together in a smile that lets you know Dean probably does that all the time. Well: two can play that game.
“Alright, if I’m Toothless then you’re Hiccup.”
That makes Sam laugh out loud while Dean, who has just pulled out onto the road, almost swerves the car to look back at you and raise his finger. “I am NOT Hiccup! I’m not some scrawny kid, I kill vampires!”
You throw your hands up in mock defeat. “Alright, alright, tough guy. You’re not Hiccup.”
“Thank you!”
“You’re a vampire killer, so... You’re Buffy!”
“Buff- I am NOT Buffy. Tell her I’m not Buffy, Sam!” Dean points at his brother as the two of you start laughing louder.
Sam shakes his head, shoulders still moving as he tries to contain his amusement. “Dunno what to tell you, man: She has a point.”
Dean looks at his brother, then at you in the rearview mirror. You meet his stare, raising your eyebrow in a silent challenge. “Shut up,” he grumbles as his ears turn a light shade of red, then cranks the volume up to let Neil Young’s voice fill the car instead.
You share an amused look with Sam. These two are fun.
Navigation:
Go back to the Masterlist.
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Go to the previous chapter.
Go check out my other stories!
This is my entry to The Jensen Ackles Chronicles (TJAC) writing competition, which was launched last year and is for writers aged 30 and above writing about Jensen or his characters - also 30+ years old.
It was a really good concept and I signed up immediately, thinking this was definitely something I should participate in! Then life hit me hard: I broke up a 15 year long relationship and moved by myself - all while juggling life with chronic illness, our twelve year old daughter, part time work, playing trumpet in a bigband and a trying to heal a thoroughly broken heart.
I truly had every intention to complete this story in time, but I wasn't able to finish within the set deadline of June 13th.
I know this disqualifies me from any prizes and I've talked with the ones running the contest, so I don't have any hard feelings or writing this to try and convince anyone. I just want to be honest and transparent, and I'll still post the story throughout this week because I'm still proud of what I've made.
Thank you to @storytellers-contest-tjac and @storytellers-contest for this awesome project and opportunity to write something by and for us who are old enough to throw our backs out by sneezing wrong. 💕
Banner picture from Kissthemgoodbye, a great resource for screenshots. (Sorry, @kazsrm67! I didn't use the awesome one you made but I really loved it!)
Summary: Sam and Dean clears out a nest of vampires and stumbles upon a woman in distress in a diner. She finds herself thrown into a world of monsters, but maybe there's hope there too?
A/N: This story takes place mostly between the last two episodes of Supernatural’s final season. Cas is gone, Jack is running Heaven, and Sam and Dean Winchester are falling into a routine of hunting monsters again. It's written in both third and first perspective, but Reader is basically an Original Female Character since I added so much background to her. The story is a part of The Jensen Ackles Chronicles Story Contest, hosted by @storytellers-contest-tjac and @storytellers-contest.
Beta reader: @mysticdeliciouskitty - You are the best 💕💕
Bestie readers: @maybefanficting and @specialagentmonkey. Luv you 💕💕
Dividers by: @easytiger-xo , my go-to source for awesome ones.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC, OMC
Relationships: Dean Winchester/OFC
Total word count: 15k
Warnings: Canon-level violence, blood, decapitation, reader is basically an OFC, cursing, fluff, angst, abusive ex, trauma from victim’s pov, slightly disabled reader, cane, Dean making bad jokes in serious situations, Sam's hair.
