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@toocrazyunsexycool
Hello my darlings!
My original blog Crazyunsexycool was terminated and I have no idea why… while that account hopefully gets reinstated I created a new one! If I can’t get the original back I’ll repost the fics I have here. In the mean time I might just post new one shots I’m working on!
A love as Sweet As Honey
Chapter 4
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader
Word Count: 5.6k
Warnings: Badly written smut, some angst, lots of tears, and you know what we're here for... pregnancy
A/N: I've finally finished the next chapter in ALASAH!!! idk how I feel about the chapter but I'm so excited for the next one. I know it's been a long time since I've updated any of my series but I was in a very toxic work environment and I feel like that took away my inspiration. Fortunately I'm out of that hellhole and ready to start writing and posting again!!
Series Masterlist
Clumsy hands.
Passionate kisses.
Needy moans.
Steve touched you like he had done it a million times before. With expert movements he had you out of your dress and spread out on the bed for him. Now he was pulling your second orgasm of the night with just his mouth and fingers.
“Steve.” You moaned as you tugged on his hair.
“C’mon Honey, give me one more.”
His piercing blue eyes were glued to your face as he finally had you shattering for him. Steve helped you through your orgasm before he kissed his way up your body.
“You did so well for me, Honey.” Steve praised you and it sent a little thrill down your spine.
“More. Please, Stevie.”
Steve smirks. This moment was special to you both. He watched your blissed out expression for just a moment. You run your hands along his chest and down to his belt. Steve captures your lips with his. He grabs something from the pocket before he helps you get rid of his pants.
Steve cups your face with both hands and brings you closer so that he could capture your lips again. His tongue dances with yours. You move together so effortlessly. Like you were always meant to be. Your hands find the nape of Steve’s neck and you pull him down. Steve settles between your legs. His mouth travels down to your neck while his hands explore your body.
“You’re so beautiful, Honey.” He murmurs against your breast before he takes a nipple into his mouth. “So Perfect.”
“Steve, stop teasing.”
Steve gives you a smug smile as he pulls away from you. He shifts his weight before grabbing whatever it was he had taken from his pants pocket. It’s a condom and he doesn’t waste any more time before he rolls it on and is hovering over you again. This time you take matters into your own hand and grab his hardened length. You can’t say you’re surprised he’s big but you’re still impressed. Your hand moves up and down slowly, getting him all riled up.
“Who’s doing the teasing now?”
You smirk up at him, before lining him up with your aching center. Steve pushes in slowly. Your jaw goes slack as he bottoms out. He checks in with you, making sure he isn’t hurting you. You reassure him that you’re more than ok. In fact you urge him to move. You beg him to make you feel good. In between your pleas his mouth is on yours, his fingers are intertwined with yours and he shows so much vulnerability in the moment it makes you want to cry.
Steve’s eyes are on your face at all times, trying to memorize the look of pleasure. He loves seeing your blissed out expression and hearing the pretty little noises you make when he rolls his hips.
Your hands wander over his chest, shoulders and back. Like you’re trying to memorize every twitch of his muscles. When you ask for more, for harder, for faster Steve can’t help but give you what you want. With every kiss and every touch he pushes you closer to the edge.
“Look at that, Honey. You’re taking me so well. You feel so fucking good.” Steve murmurs.
“Steve, feels s’good.” You managed to reply in your fucked our state.
You wrap your legs around Steve’s waist, your nails dig into his back as he snakes hand between your bodies and circles your clit. Your eyes close and your head falls back as you moan.
Steve smirks when he feels you clenching around him. “You like that don’t you, Honey? I can feel the way you’re gripping me. So fucking greedy.”
“So close. Please, I wanna come.” You beg.
“I’ve got you.” Steve promises. “You can let go. Come on my cock, Honey. Make a mess for me.”
You shatter completely. Steve helps you through your high. He has a cocky smile when you finally look at him.
“Your turn.” You tell him before pulling him down for a kiss. “I want you to feel good.”
“I do, Honey.”
Steve pants as he ruts into you. His hips roll easily as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. Your hands roam over his back freely, your nails digging into it. He feels so good and you’re sure you’re about to experience another mind blowing orgasm just as he reaches his peak. Steve murmurs sweet nothings into your skin until you both catch your breaths.
Steve pulls out slowly and lays down beside you. The two of you have matching grins as you stare at the ceiling. Neither one of you says a word. It’s not needed. The quiet is comfortable between you.
****
Eventually Steve gets up and goes into your bathroom. You can hear the water running for a moment. He’s still tipsy when he gets back with a washcloth in hand.
“What’s that?” You mumble as you fight against sleep.
“Let me take care of you.”
Steve does just that. He removes your smudged make up and cleans the mess between your legs.
“Come sleep.” You say as you turn your back towards him.
You’re still naked, having refused the pajamas he’d clumsily searched for in your drawers. Steve doesn’t mind at all though. He just grabs his boxer briefs to put them on again before laying down and covering you with your blanket. You reach for Steve’s hand and pull him towards you. He gets the silent request to cuddle and he presses his chest to your back.
“So warm.” You sigh.
Steve smiles as you intertwine your fingers with his. He listens to your breathing and tries to memorize how you feel against him. You surprise him by pressing yourself into him further and turning your head to look at him. Your hand finds its way to the back of Steve’s head and you pull him close so that you could kiss him.
Steve’s grip on you tightens as you moan softly against his mouth.
“Honey-“
“Please, I just wanna feel you.” You say quietly.
Steve gives in quickly, making quick work of removing his boxers. But he’d do anything for you. Steve would kill for you if he had to but right now it was giving you more pleasure and he was more than happy to comply.
You gasp when you feel Steve push into your waiting core again. The room fills with both your soft moans and sweet words. Steve kisses your shoulder as he takes you apart one more time. You give him a hazy smile before kissing him. There’s no rush now. Just words left unsaid between you. Feelings pushed aside in order to savor the moment.
Steve holds you a little tighter. You say his name like your prayers have been answered. Your bodies fit together as if you’d been made for one another.
It’s a delicious post bliss haze as you fall asleep in Steve’s arms. You smile as he kisses your shoulder one more time. It doesn’t take long for Steve to fall asleep either. His arms wrapped around you to keep you close instinctively, hoping that he could continue to hold you like this once the morning came.
It wasn’t clear who stirred first. What you did know was that you were deliciously sore and incredibly warm. You groan as you try to stretch but realize there is a pair of arms holding you in place. The night before is a little hazy. You remember leaving Tony’s party and Steve helping you to your apartment. As you try to remember what happened afterwards the person behind you nuzzles their face into the crook of your neck, planting a lazy kiss on your shoulder.
You let out a sharp gasp as you move away and turn to look at none other than Steve. It all comes back to you in a headache inducing flash.
“Oh no.” You whisper as you grab the blanket you were covered with and get out of bed.
That was a bad idea though because now you have a super soldier completely naked on your bed. Steve sits up, a bit confused as to what is happening until he realizes he isn’t in his own room.
“What happened?” He asks, half asleep and half looking for a threat.
“You have to leave. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He looks over at you wrapped in your blanket looking everywhere but at him. Steve’s cheeks go red as he realizes he’s naked. With hurried and clumsy movements he puts on his pants.
“Y/N, we should talk.”
“No, no we shouldn’t. Oh my God. I can’t believe this happened.”
Steve wants to get closer to you. His memory of the night before is just a tiny bit clearer than yours.
“Steve! Get out!” You demand, not giving him a chance to say anything else.
Steve is honestly too flustered about the whole thing to think clearly so he does as you ask. He grabs his shirt, suit jacket, tie and belt and hurries out of your apartment. Unsure of what to do next Steve stands in the hallway for just a moment. He looks at his apartment door and back at yours. He's about to knock on your door but he stops himself.
Steve turns around, “fuck.” He says as he looks up the hallway to see Mags standing there, mouth agape while holding her medkit.
“Not a word to anyone about this.” He says sternly before heading into his own apartment and shutting the door.
Mags stands there unsure of what to do. She originally came over to check up on you knowing you’d have a massive hangover. The last thing she expected was to see Steve doing the walk of shame.
Mags knocks on his door first. Steve takes some time before finally opening it. She doesn’t wait for an invitation and just walks in.
“Did you and Y/N, you know…” she wiggles her eyebrows.
“Mags, can you please not make this a big deal.”
“Not a big deal? Steve, this is huge.”
“She kicked me out. I’m pretty sure she regrets it.” Steve sighs as he takes a seat on his couch and throws his head back dramatically.
“You have to talk to Y/N. Maybe she just freaked out because she doesn’t know how you really feel about her. Maybe she thinks it’s a one night stand with a friend and doesn’t know there’s a chance for more. What if she wants more with you?”
“You think so?”
Mags sits next to him and pats his arm reassuringly. “I can’t promise anything but you won’t know until you talk to her.”
“I will.” Steve promises.
“I’m gonna go check in on her. Why don’t you take a shower, Captain walk of shame.”
Steve groans as he covers his face while Mags laughs on the way to the door.
“Come over later. I don’t want you sulking.” She says over her shoulder before walking out.
****
You just stepped out of the shower and were looking at yourself in the mirror. The memories from last night had been coming back little by little. You asked him to stay and he did. It made you smile. He’d been sweet and gentle and given you everything you’d asked for. But you weren’t ready to face whatever this was yet. So when there was a knock at your door you panicked.
“Friday, who’s there?” You asked in a whisper.
“Agent Barnes.”
“Bucky?” You questioned, confused. “Why would he be here?”
“No, Mrs. Barnes is here.”
“That’s somehow worse.” You murmur as you grab your robe and make your way to the door.
“You look like shit.” She says with a cackle once you open the door.
You scowl in her direction before your eyes dart to the door behind her. Part of you wishes Steve would walk out here, the other part is glad he hasn’t.
“I’m hung over.”
“That’s why I’m here.” She holds up her medkit. “Brought over my hangover cure just for you. May I?”
You step to the side and let her in.
“What happened here?”
You take a moment to look at your living room for the first time. Your shoes, jewelry and dress lead straight to your bedroom. The coffee table was pushed out of place. Even though you didn’t really decorate and most of your belongings were still in boxes in your spare room, your living room was a mess.
Heat rose to your cheeks as you remembered the way you and Steve stumbled around. You giggled when he tripped on the coffee table and he shoved it to the side. He also sat down on the couch and pulled you down on his lap. His hands were everywhere. It took some convincing for him to not rip your dress.
“I was drunk.” You shrug one shoulder.
“Well at least you didn’t trip and hit your head or worse. Now come on, let me fix you up.”
“Why are you even up so early?”
“I have kids. They’re up at the crack of dawn. Except for Charlotte.” She replies simply.
“Sounds like a nightmare.”
“It’s a dream come true.” She smiles. “Have you ever thought about having kids?” She asked as she rummaged through her bag.
You stopped and thought about it. When you were young you thought you wanted to be a mom, like many little girls did. But life hadn’t been fair to you and you wouldn’t want to bring a kid into your family. You wouldn’t want to mess them up the way you were.
“When I was younger I thought I did. But now I don’t know, I don’t think I’d be a good mom.” You replied honestly.
Mags didn’t miss a beat. There was no judgement or some line about how wonderful motherhood is. She didn’t try to convince you that you would regret it later on. Instead she just nods along in understanding.
Mags changed the subject and explained about this so-called hangover shot. She tells you that she and Bruce came up with it a few years ago.
“I already checked and you don’t have any allergies so you should be fine. If anything, Friday will monitor your vitals for the next few hours and if anything should change I’ll know about it.” She explains while she cleans a section of your arm with an alcohol pad.
“Ok.”
Mags makes quick work of it and places a princess bandaid on the area. You roll your eyes at it but you still smile.
“Make sure you drink plenty of water and eat something.”
“I will.”
She gives you a pointed look.
“I promise.”
“Ok, you know where to find me if you need me.” Mags says as she packs up and heads out.
You sigh and lay down on your couch. All you need now is a nap while you wait for the shot to work its magic. You drift off quickly into dreamless sleep.
Steve plopped down on the Barnes’ couch with a sigh. He threw his head back and closed his eyes but the peace only lasted about two seconds.
“Steebie.” Lottie called out his name while playing with a doll on the living room floor. “Can you beliebs uncle Tony? He don’t wants me at his pawty.”
“She tried to have me make her invisible.” Henry adds from his place on the arm chair.
Steve smiles remembering the story Mags told him the night before. Lottie trying to sneak into the car in order to go to the engagement party.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t go sweetheart. Did you talk to him about it?”
“I don’t finds him anywhere. He’s hiding.” She says with a scowl on her face. “But I wills find him.”
Steve can’t help but chuckle. “Well let me know when you talk to him so that I can be there for support.”
“Kay.”
“Here you go.” Mags takes a seat next to Steve and hands him a glass of lemonade.
Bucky walks in with Peanut in his arms before he groans. Mags laugh, already knowing that Peanut needs another diaper change even though it was just changed a few minutes ago.
“What the hell are you eating, kid?” Bucky grumbles as he leaves again.
Steve smiles. This is what he wants. A home with kids running around and someone to be by his side. And after the night he spent with you he thinks that maybe he could be one step closer to it.
“Have you talked to her?” Mags interrupts his thoughts.
“Haven’t seen her all day. But I will.”
“What do you plan to say?”
Steve sighs. “I’m going to ask her out.”
Mags smiles brightly at him before shaking him lightly by his arm. “Finally. Just don’t mess it up.”
“Don’t mess what up?” Bucky asks as he walks back into the living room.
“Nothing.” Steve replies.
“He’s going to ask her out.”
“About time.” Bucky smirks. “Need some pointers?”
“From you? Ha! How long did it take you to ask me out?”
Henry and Lottie giggle while Bucky scowls in his wife’s direction.
“Don’t look at me like that. We had a kid before you asked me out.”
Steve chuckles and shakes his head as Bucky and Mags continue to tease each other. This is definitely what he wanted. And for the first time in a very long time he felt like it was within his reach.
You had run away to hide in your lab. There was no way you could face Steve. Had the night before been wonderful? Yes. It was so special to you but you knew it was a one time thing. There was no way that Steve would want anything more than sex and you were someone no one would want to be in a relationship with. You knew it from personal experience. This did mean that your friendship with Steve was most likely over.
“Hide me.” Tony rushed into your private lab and looked for somewhere to duck behind before you could even ask what was going on.
“Uncle Tony! I sees you come in he-uh.”
Charlotte had her hands on her hips, her eyes scanning your lab for any sign of the man she was hunting.
“Sorry Lottie, He’s not here.” You smile and point to the space behind your desk.
Lottie returns your smile and tiptoes all the way to the desk. “I founds you.”
You laugh as Tony gets out of his hiding spot. He sends a glare your way knowing you ratted him out. What you don’t realize is that Steve had quietly made his way to your lab as well. He’s watching you encouraging Lottie to tell Tony how she feels.
“An it mades me sad that you don’t invites me. I invites you to my tea pawties.”
“I’m sorry, pipsqueak. It was a late night party and you have a bedtime.”
“So? I be so happy fo you an Peppuh.”
Tony places a hand over his heart and pouts. “I’m sorry Pip. How about we have a tea party with Pepper to celebrate?”
“Weally?” Lottie’s eyes light up.
“Really.” Lottie launches herself at Tony and he picks her up effortlessly, accepting the bone crushing hug. “See you wait-uh, Duckie.”
“Only the kids can call me that, Tony.”
He just waves dismissively as he walks out with Lottie in his arms. You watch him leave and it’s when you first realize that Steve had been there the whole time.
“Hey.” He takes a small step in, letting the doors close behind him.
“Hey.”
“Could we talk?”
“Um,” you look down at your hands just to hide your face from him. “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”
“I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“Because we slept together?” You ask quietly.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to worry about anything. It was just a one night stand.”
“Is that what you want it to be?” Steve asked, clearly disappointed.
You didn't notice though because you were so nervous. “I think it’s for the best.”
“One date.”
Your eyes snap up to his. “What?”
“Go out with me. One date, that's all I ask.”
“You don’t have to ask me out because you think you have to.”
“I know I don't have to. I want to.”
“What’s the point?” You ask.
“The point is for me to take you out. Hopefully somewhere romantic.” Steve took another step closer to you. You still can’t see the adoring look in his eyes as he takes you in, sitting in one of your favorite places.
“Steve-“ you swallowed down the lump forming in your throat. “Last night shouldn’t have happened. I promise you don’t have to feel obligated to take me on a date because of it. It was a one time thing.”
“Is that how you really feel?”
“Ye-“ you stopped yourself and took a deep breath. Steve waited patiently until you could collect your thoughts, hoping you didn’t mean what you just said. “Yeah. It was one night. A mistake.”
“A mistake?”
You nodded.
“I don’t think it was a mistake.” Steve was so sure, you almost believed it. “There’s something here and I want to find out what it is.”
He walked up to where you were sitting and placed his hands on the table behind you, effectively caging you in. You have to tilt your head back to look at him and memories from the previous night flood your mind.
“Tell me right now that last night didn’t mean anything to you and I will never bring it up again.”
You opened your mouth to say something but the words die on your tongue. Steve gives you a small smile as he leans in. His lips brush yours, it makes your breath hitch.
“Steve-”
In a flash Steve is kissing you, his hands are on your waist and yours are around his shoulders. He pulls you up onto the table behind you. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. Steve kisses down your jaw to that sensitive spot that makes you shiver. But in the back of your mind you know this can’t happen again.
“Steve- wait. We shouldn’t.” Steve immediately pulls back.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No it’s not that. We just can’t do this.” You get off the table and put some distance between you. “It’s just better if we pretend like last night never happened.”
Steve felt like someone dumped a bucket of cold water. The night before you had pulled him close. It felt as if you didn’t want to let him go at all. But now it’s as if you’d rather be anywhere else.
Steve couldn’t take the feeling of his heart breaking so he quietly excused himself. He felt so stupid. How could someone so smart and beautiful and perfect want to be with someone like him?
He should’ve known better than to think something more could come from the night before. It was normal now for people to have one night stands and for it to not mean anything. But it meant something to him and now you wanted nothing to do with him. If only Steve had listened to Bucky or Sam or Mags or even Nat, he would’ve asked you out a long time ago. He’s lost the chance now. He did things wrong.
Now a punching bag is paying the price.
You worked on the big Avenger’s project then you’d work on your own. In between those times you snuck in and out of your apartment in the hopes of not running into him. Ever since the conversation about the one night stand, things had been awkward. More than that actually. Steve was the closest thing you had to a best friend and now things were ruined.
From what you’d heard Steve had been going on so many missions that the team had to step in every few days and force him to rest. You of course felt guilty about it. Moments like this made you think that your family was right, that you ruined everything you touched. And even though Mags would check in on you, you felt truly alone again.
The whole situation with Steve was messing up your focus so you pushed yourself harder too. Nothing you have done in the last few weeks has been successful. It’s making you go crazy not being able to give Tony and Bruce answers. You’ve pushed yourself so much your body is literally fighting against you. The last few days you’ve been sick and you really should rest but you need answers.
“Go fastuh.” You hear Lottie’s cries just outside the lab doors. “She needs help.”
The doors open and some of the nurses from the medbay are filing in after a very distraught Lottie. You turn your head toward the doors and stand up so fast you get dizzy.
“Oh shit.” You murmur as you lean against the desk before fully fainting.
****
You wake up to the steady sound of a beep. Without having to open your eyes you know you’re in the medbay. There’s someone singing a lullaby and a little hand holding yours.
“You makes me happy when skies are gway.” It was Lottie singing to you.
“Look Sweet Angel, I think Duckie is waking up.”
You heard Mags say as your eyes flutter open. Lottie is already pulling herself up to sit next to you. Big blue eyes full of concern are the first things you see.
“Duckie,” Lottie whispers in surprise. “You feels bettuh now?”
“Well I’m not sure what happened, Lottie.”
“I sees you in my future dweam that you falls down.” Lottie lays her head on your chest and tries her best to hug you. “I was so scared ‘cause I lobes you so much.”
“From what I heard Lottie rushed some nurses up to the lab and they got there just as you fainted.”
“I fainted?” You look up at Mags who nods as she bounces Peanut gently in her arms. “All I remember was Lottie running in and then nothing.”
“Well Helen is having some tests done and she’ll let you know.”
You hum in acknowledgment and sigh. Peanut starts to fuss in Mags’ arms so she has no choice but to excuse herself.
“I’ll come check on you later ok?” She says as she gets to the door.
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m going to come check on you later.”
“Ok.”
She smiles at you before soothing a crying Peanut and urging Lottie to go home. Lottie smiles at you, gives you one more hug, reminds you how much she ‘lobes’ you and hops off the bed. You smile at her as she waves and follows her mom out the door.
It’s not more than five minutes before Dr. Cho walks in. She smiles at you as she logs in to the computer and logs in.
“Ok Dr. Y/L/N-”
“Please call me Y/N.”
“Y/N,” Dr. Cho smiles at you gently. “I’ve just received the results of the tests I requested.”
“What’s wrong, why did I faint?”
“Everything is fine. The only thing that we found were high hCG levels.”
You stare at her in disbelief. “There’s no way.”
“I made sure to run the tests twice just in case.”
You sit up and move to stand. “Let me see.”
“Y/N, I think you should sit.”
“You’re telling me I’m pregnant. That’s not possible.”
“Ok, Y/N I need you to sit back and breathe. Can you do that for me?”
You do as she asks because you’re not really sure if you’re dreaming or if it’s real.
“How far along?”
“8 weeks.”
“8 weeks?” You ask.
Helen’s confirmation makes you start to hyperventilate. Having slept with Steve had fractured the friendship you had, if you now told him that you were pregnant you were sure that it would completely ruin the friendship that was left.
“That’s it. Nice deep breath.” Helen helps you calm down.
After a few minutes you manage to really calm down. Helen makes sure you’re ok before giving you some time alone. You take the opportunity to get dressed and leave the medbay. What you needed was some time away from all the noise to think about what you were going to do.
****
“Y/N? Are you ok?”
The sun was just about to set. At this point you don’t know how long you’d been sitting outside but you were shivering. Your head was killing you and you still felt incredibly nauseous.
“Y/N do you need anything?”
You turn your head to see who is talking to you. Eddie, Mag’s father is standing right by the bench you’re sitting on giving you the most concerned look you’ve ever seen when he sees your tear stained face. He shrugs off the light jacket he’d been wearing and drapes it over your shoulders.
“Why don’t we get you inside, darling?” His presence was comforting so you let him guide you along but away from the main compound building.
“Let’s bring her into the guest room.” Mag’s voice cuts through the fog in your mind.
You finally look at her, tears pooled in your eyes before noticing Bucky standing just a few feet away with Peanut in his arms. Mags said something but all you could do was stare at the baby. That would be you in a few short months and you weren’t sure you could deal with it.
With a stuttered breath you whisper, “Mags I-“ your eyes dart from the baby to Mags then back.
“C’mon you don’t have to say anything. Let’s just get you comfortable.”
Mags ushers you into a room and moves the pillows around so that you can sit up against the headboard comfortably. She then covers you with a blanket and leaves to get you a cup of water.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks as she hands you a cup of water. Mags sits at the edge of the bed and waits.
“I fucked up. I ruined everything.”
Mags pulls you in gently. She gives you the hug you so desperately needed. You sob into her shoulder as she murmurs soothing words. When you finally calm down you pull back and wipe away your tears.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. How far along are you?”
“A few weeks.” You hiccup. “How did you know?”
“I noticed the way you kept staring at Peanut.”
You blinked up at her, unsure of what to say.
“Listen, today has been very overwhelming for you. I can lend you a change of clothes and you can stay here tonight. Then tomorrow you can decide what you need to do next.” Mags gives you a small sympathetic smile.
“I can’t have this baby.” You say sadly. “I can’t do this alone.”
“Maybe you don’t have to. Talk to him first.”
“You know who it is?”
“Steve.” She nods knowingly. “Talk to him first before you make any final decisions on this.”
“How did you know it was him?” You looked at her wide eyed. “Did he say something?”
“No.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “He’s too much of a gentleman to say anything. I caught him doing his slutty little walk of shame into his apartment.”
You smile for the first time that day. It must have been a sight to run into Steve half dressed and trying to get into his apartment.
“He’ll think I’m trying to baby trap him.”
“Trust me, Steve would be thrilled if you told him you were pregnant. He adores you.”
You shake your head. “It will ruin his life. I can’t do this.”
“Hey it’s ok,” Mags takes your hands and squeezes gently. “No matter what happens I’ll be right here for you. Just take some time to calm down and decide if you want to tell him or not.”
You open your mouth to answer when there’s a small knock on the door. Mags looks at you for permission before she gets up and opens the door just enough to see who it is. She has to take a quick step back or run the risk of getting trampled by a very worried looking Steve, still in his training clothes.
“Are you ok? Bruce told me you fainted. I went to the medbay to see you and Helen told me you walked out.” Steve says as he rushes to your side.
It takes you by surprise how concerned he seemed considering you pushed him away. His eyes scan your face for any possible sign of what happened.
“I’ll give you a moment to talk.” Mags says quietly before walking out and closing the door.
“I’m ok now.”
“Good. Is there anything I can do for you?”
You frown as you look at him. Was Mags right? If you told him would he actually be happy about it?
“I need you to sit. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Steve does as you ask. The look of concern only grows as he waits for you to tell him whatever it is you need to say. You might as well do it now since you don’t think you can shed any more tears. It’s now or never.
“Steve, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault.”
“Getting sick isn’t your fault. You just need a few days of rest.” He smiles softly and reassuredly.
“Steve, I’m pregnant.”
Ch. 5
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New Journey Masterlist
Season 1
Summary: The beginning of the story. How did Y/n Henderson get herself into this mess? How did she deal with the loss of a dear friend and how will she survive the bullies and monsters?
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Season 2
Summary: Y/N Henderson joins her brother’s little adventure and makes a new friend on the way.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Season 3
Summary: After Y/N graduated Highschool and was ready for the next steps in life, she definetely wasn’t ready to be dragged into more messy situations.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Season 4
Summary: Back to Hawkins for spring break. Y/n believed it would just be a quiet time to cherish with her loved ones, but one day in and another mess had already began.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
One Shots
Not a date (after season 2)
A date like no other ( continuing of “Not a Date”)
~ Main Masterlist ~
Hello my darlings!
My original blog Crazyunsexycool was terminated and I have no idea why… while that account hopefully gets reinstated I created a new one! If I can’t get the original back I’ll repost the fics I have here. In the mean time I might just post new one shots I’m working on!
my original blog @crazyunsexycool is back! I’ll keep this one though to reblog my fics! Stay tune for upcoming updates on current series and someone oneshots!
Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 1
Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.
Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader
Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, tiny bit of angst, fluff, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜)
Word Count: 3.9k
Posted on Patreon April 2, 2025
A/N: I'm so excited to do a Dean series again! I missed him 😩💚 This one's super fluffy with a lot of screaming in the middle. I took the premise from the movie of the same name, but it changes drastically after the beginning. Happy reading, friends!
Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List
Chapter 1: Old Regrets
The blinking little line on an empty page screams at you. The more you stare at it, the more it morphs into a middle finger, giving the biggest ‘fuck you.’ How to start? What to write? What words to choose?
Shit, shit, shit…
Where is this character? What do you even want to write about? Do you even have a genre? A hint of an idea?
No, fuck, fuck, no…
You glare at the seven words on your screen, five of them curses – repetitive, too. God, you can’t even be creative with your maledictions. And is ‘no’ even a word that counts? It feels more like a cry for help.
You blow a raspberry and slump your shoulders with a sigh. Fuck, you’re screwed, aren’t you?
Your publisher will drop you if you can’t deliver a raging new bestseller in six months. Your first draft is due in four weeks – and that was after you’ve begged Rowena to extend your deadline. You’ll lose your job, you’ll lose your nice apartment in SoHo, and you’ll have to move back home to Kansas and live with your mom till you die there.
Great. Maybe you should write about that. You’re certainly feeling dramatic right now.
Softly, you bang your head against the keyboard, your word count exploding. With a frustrated groan, you rise and shut the laptop a little too harshly, sauntering into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and feed your cat, who announces his hunger with a loud meow as he hops onto the counter.
As you place the bowl in front of Hemingway and scratch his fluffy, orange head, your lips suddenly rise to a smile as a memory pops up.
“You know, sweetheart, if you ever get a cat, you should name him Hemingway.”
“Why? ‘Cause I love books?”
“Yeah! ‘Sides, I like Hemingway’s work. That cat should be happy to have a cool name like that.”
Wow. You haven’t thought about him in a long time. Your heart still does that little sting, albeit it’s been ten years since you’ve even seen him. Since you’ve talked to him.
Dean Winchester is one of the reasons you barely ever visit home. Maybe even the biggest one.
It’s hard not to think about him, considering the first three books, all bestsellers, were essentially all him. They stemmed from ideas that blossomed in the five years you’d spent together. But now you are all tapped out. You’ve said what you needed to get out, spun your fantasies in every which way, and rid yourself of the what-ifs.
But what if?
No, this is crazy. Thinking about your high school sweetheart you dated all through college? Maybe you don’t need the wine tonight, after all.
Your gaze falls to the big window and the sparkling city skyline that sprawls out behind it. You recognize the grandeur, the beating metropolitan pulse, and the colorful facets of the people that call it home.
And still, you feel nothing. There used to be excitement in your veins. You felt lucky to be here, to live your dream, to do everything you ever wanted.
And yet, you feel empty. There’s an ache in your heart that keeps telling you you’re missing something.
Aside from your failing career, you haven’t seen your mother in a while. Maybe it’s good to go back home for a visit, flee the noises of the city, and touch grass.
You need a fresh perspective. So after finishing three glasses of wine, you open your laptop back up and book a flight.
“Mom?”
Your voice echoes through your childhood home, swinging the front door shut with your foot as soon as you’ve shuffled your bags into the foyer.
“Honey, hi! Oh, I didn’t know you were coming,” she says with a bright smile, embracing you in a tight hug.
“What d’you mean? I called you and said I was coming,” you point out, chuckling uncomfortably. Your relationship with your mother is complicated. You love her, but she’s a ‘free spirit,’ which is code for your mother being a bit promiscuous.
The men she dates are never bad or have treated you with unkindness, but it was hard to go to school when your mother gave cunnilingus to half your teachers. Judging by the silky robe wrapped around her and her tits pressing against you, you assume she’s also having company today.
“Oh, I thought you were pranking me, honey.” She snorts a laugh and brushes a few strands of loose hair behind your ear.
“Y/N, hi! Good to see you, kid.”
You narrow your eyes at the half-naked man who appears behind your mother in the doorframe, only a flimsy bedsheet wrapped around his waist.
“Mr. Edlund?”
“Oh, honey, do you remember Chuck? He was your high school English teacher,” your mother reminds you as if your gasp and agape mouth didn’t already give that fact away.
“I know, Mom!”
“We’re very proud of you, kid,” Mr. Edlund says, smiling, and wraps an arm around your mother’s shoulders. He then slaps her ass, making her yelp and giggle. “You ready to get back in there, Connie?”
“Oh God…” You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head vigorously to get rid of the vivid image in your mind.
“Oh, honey, I didn’t raise you to be such a prude.” Your mother tuts and gently pats your cheeks. “Sex is a very natural thing.” She then begins to knead the knotted muscles in your shoulders. “Maybe that’s why you’re so stiff. Did you not read the article I sent you? When’s the last you had an orgasm, huh?”
“Oh my God, Mom!” Your cheeks are burning hot, your heart is hammering wildly, and no matter how sexually liberated someone claims to be, you can’t imagine they’d be normal about a conversation like this with a parent. “Okay, you know what? You guys just-… finish here–” Ew, ew, ew! “–and I’ll just-… Yeah, I’ll come back.”
You’re so fast out that front door again you can barely hear your mother’s “Thank you, honey!”
Strolling aimlessly around your old neighborhood, you walk till you reach the town center. On first glance, it seems like nothing much has changed in Lawrence. Sure, there’s new shops, a house façade here or there in a different paint color than it used to be, or fresh foliage and flowers blooming in the park, but the core of your hometown remains untouched.
It’s still the town you couldn’t wait to leave when you were younger. Only one person had almost made you stay a lifetime.
Your eyes then land on an all too familiar flickering neon sign – Rocky’s Bar & Grill. A smile creeps to your face as a string of memories floods your mind. God, you had more than one wild night in there – laughing with your friends, playing pool, drinking your own body weight, and even do some sexually liberated things in the public restroom your mother would certainly be proud of.
Curiosity and nostalgia drag your feet into the establishment, and you instantly feel the familiarity of this place rushing back to you. It seems like the bar has been frozen in time, not even the tacky decoration changed, which has already been outdated when you were a child.
“Y/N? Is that really you? Oh my God!”
Your head turns to the chipper voice behind the bar counter, your smile rising immediately as you recognize the redhead. Charlie hasn’t changed a bit, either.
“Yup, it’s me,” you say with an awkward little laugh and hug your friend.
Charlie and you used to be inseparable in school. Even after your move to New York, the two of you stayed in touch – until you got busier and busier and busier, eventually settling into your new life as you tried to forget about the old one.
“It’s really good to see you.” Charlie grins, and her welcoming warms your heart.
You swallow down the guilt bubbling in your throat. Are you actually an ass for ditching your friends? But that’s normal, right? People evolve and move on to different things. It’s just how life works. No need to feel guilty about anything.
“It’s good to see you, too.” You try to form a smile, but your heart only keeps beating faster. Maybe this is a bad idea. What are you even doing here? “I-, uh, thank you for all your newsletters, Charlie. Really. You know, I-, uh, I try to respond, but then my editor calls and, you know, book tours…”
God, you sound like an idiot.
“No, no, don’t worry about it. I get it. You’re a best-selling author. I’m sure you’re super busy. I can’t even imagine,” Charlie brushes your concerns away with her usual sunny smile, and you can tell she means it. It’s rare to find that in New York – people who still show honest kindness. “Just happy you’re reading them and haven’t forgotten about us.”
Well, you might have missed a few of them recently… You really are an ass, aren’t you?
“No, are you kidding? Of course I haven’t forgotten about you guys,” you lie with a forced laugh. Shit. “So, uh, how’s the gang?”
“Well, uh, as you know, Benny broke up with Andrea–“
“Uh-huh, yeah… How-, uh, how is he?” Needless to say, you had no clue they broke up.
“It was hard in the beginning, you know? I mean, after she cheated on him and everything…”
“Oh, yeah. So tough.” You nod your feigned agreement.
“Right? I mean, can you imagine? Anyways, he’s doing better now. He actually started seeing Donna,” Charlie tells you with a conspiratorial grin.
“No!” You gasp loudly, eyes wide. “Donna Hanscum? Sweet, little Donna is dating Benny Lafitte, high school quarterback?”
“Yup.”
“Hmm, you know what? They actually make a great couple,” you note musingly. You’ve never met two people with purer hearts.
“Right?! That’s what everyone’s been saying, too!” Charlie’s grin broadens, and you notice how easily you fall back into old habits once the initial awkwardness and shame subside. “Oh, uh, Cas and Meg are still going strong. Expecting their second kid.”
“Wow. That’s… surprising,” you joke, giggling.
“Yeah,” Charlie laughs her agreement, but then silence takes a hold. You know why. She doesn’t want to tell you about Dean, and you don’t exactly want to ask about him, either.
From Charlie’s newsletters, you always knew when Dean was out of town – every summer for the past ten years he had taken a road trip to California with his little brother. Considering it’s July, you feel relatively safe being here without the risk of running into your ex.
“So, uh, you work at Rocky’s now?” you ask to break the ice.
“No, uh, I’m still with Roman Tech,” Charlie says and holds up the tablet in her hand. “The bar’s just finally getting some Wi-Fi.”
“Oh, yeah, of course! About time Lawrence made it to the 21st century, right?”
“Yeah, I mean, that’s what I’ve been saying since school. The only internet we used to have was in the public library. Remember that virus we accidentally downloaded when we tried to get that pirated version of the new N*SYNC album?”
“God, yeah, we crashed the whole system. Mr. Metarson was so mad,” you recall, laughing. “Well, uh, I should probably let you get back to work.”
Charlie nods, smiling. “It was good to see you, Y/N. You should come home more often.”
With a deep sigh, you then order a whiskey from the bar and settle down in a quiet corner booth at the far end. God knows you don’t want to run into more blasts from the past. You should’ve never come here. What did you think it would accomplish?
You surely haven’t come up with an idea for a new book so far and have only been reminded of old regrets instead. This hasn’t been your home for the last ten years. You have no place here anymore.
Finishing your drink, you jot down ideas on a small napkin – all of them terrible. You huff a sigh and crumple the useless notes. Curling your lips, you pick up your empty tumbler. Maybe another one is fine? You’re sure it’s past noon somewhere, just as you’re sure your mom and her new lover are nowhere near done yet.
You glance up when the door of the bar swings open, hearing the first few notes of his voice. It’s deeper than you remember, but you recognize it all the same.
Fuck. He’s not supposed to be in town! What the fuck is he doing here?
Your eyes widen and take everything in before you. Ten years have done nothing to Dean Winchester. In fact, he looks even more handsome than the last time you’ve seen him. His jaw is more defined, there’s scruff on his cheeks and throat that make him look more rugged, and there are soft, kind crinkles around his green eyes.
Why does your ex have to look so downright fuckable?
Shit! You’ve just gotten off a plane this morning! You didn’t exactly have time to check a mirror when you fled your mother’s house.
What should you do?
As Dean greets Pamela at the counter, you decide to slide under the table and hide there. This is a nightmare. You cannot face your unfairly hot ex-boyfriend like this.
“Y/N?”
Fuck! Why the hell is he coming over to you? Doesn’t he know about the unspoken rule to avoid your ex at all costs when you see them in public?
“Dean! Oh my God, hey!” You shuffle back onto the bench with as much nonchalance as you can find.
“Were you just hiding under the table?”
“What? No, don’t be ridiculous.” You snort awkwardly, your cheeks heating in fluster. Your hand desperately forages for something on the sticky floor till it grabs the first thing it can find. “I was just looking for my–,” you glimpse at the semi-hard and semi-wet item between your fingers, “–gum.”
Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew! You’re holding someone’s used gum. God knows what diseases you’ll contract after this, feeling the germs already soak into your skin.
Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Were you gonna put it back into your mouth or–“
“No, no…“ You shake your head, swallowing thickly. Your hand fumbles for the crumpled napkin before you discard the gross gum in there. “I was just picking it up. I didn’t wanna leave it there, you know? I heard it’s, uhm, bad for the, uh, bar floor environment.”
God, he probably thinks you’re an idiot.
“Right, yeah.” Dean chuckles politely at your bad attempt at a joke, scratching the nape of his neck.
Is he nervous? You remember he used to do that whenever he was anxious. He also still seems to have a preference for wearing flannels, the material perfectly hugging his broad shoulders and barely hiding the muscles on his arms.
“So, uh, what are you doing here?” you ask with the friendliest smile, trying to push all the uncomfortableness and embarrassment down.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Dean replies and crosses his oh-so muscular arms over his aforementioned broad chest, the corners of his lips quirking with a curious smile. Is he flexing? “You barely ever come home. I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen you since… welp, the break-up, I guess. What’s it been? Ten years?”
“Really? Ten? Wow, crazy,” you say and ignore your thundering heart as best as possible. You either are close to throwing up or passing out. “Well, you know, I’m just here visiting my mom. I’m currently writing my fourth book. Just figured it’d be nice to get out of the city for a few days, clear my head…”
“Right, yeah, uhm, congratulations! New York Times bestselling author, huh? You really made it,” Dean says and smiles, but you can tell it’s forced, and you think you know why. “Proud of you,” he still adds.
“Yeah, uh, thanks.” You clear your throat and shake your head a little. Why is there such a weird feeling in your stomach? “But, uh, what about you? What have you been up to? Did you become a firefighter like you wanted to?”
“Uh, no, actually,” he replies, pursing his damn plush, kissable lips. “I-, uh, I stayed on with my dad. Family business. He’s not getting younger, you know? Kinda needs my help.”
“Yeah, no, totally get it. As long as you’re happy, it’s good, right?” Your heart hurts a little at the thought of Dean giving up his dreams to please his father. But you’re sadly not that surprised, either. He’s always been one of the most righteous, loyal, and dutiful people you know.
“Yeah, uh, I’m-… I’m happy. Business is going good, you know? And the old man actually lets me make decisions now,” Dean shares, chuckling.
“Wow, John Winchester letting go of control, huh? Thought I’d never see that,” you joke, earning you a warm laugh.
“Trust me, me neither, sweetheart,” Dean says with a chuckle but then notices how your brow raises at the old nickname. He scratches the back of his neck again, subtly clearing his throat. “I-, uh, I’m sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“Oh, uh, no worries. It’s fine,” you brush it off but can’t deny the way your heart is fluttering with butterflies you thought had perished ten years ago. He still seems like the same sweet guy, and you could just fall right back in love with him.
But that’s crazy, right? You can’t just start something up with an ex from ten years ago, can you? Besides, like the rest of your friends here, Dean’s probably already mated for life and has procreated by the multiple, succumbing to the charmed small-town destiny. Still, you can’t help your gaze from drifting to his massive hands and thick, long fingers, noticing there’s no ring there.
“Well, uh, anyways, we just opened our fifth location down in Wichita,” Dean tells you proudly.
“Wow, that’s great, Dean. I’m glad you’re doing well.” You send him a warm smile, nodding, and then recognize the strange silence sneaking back in. “Well, uh, it was good to see you. Take care, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, you too.” Dean turns halfway, licking his lips. He hasn’t even managed a full step yet before spinning back on his heel to you. “Hey, uh, I was gonna grab take-out, but do you want some company? C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink. You drink beer too or just whiskey before noon?”
You snort a laugh at the teasing grin on his face. How can he be so charming and easy to talk to? Just like in high school, you fall victim once again to Dean Winchester’s irresistibility.
“No, uh, I’ll take a beer, too,” you agree with a wide smile.
“Took two years to build, but I’m really happy how it turned out,” Dean tells you as he swipes through pictures on his phone, showing you his life.
“Wow, building your dream home on the plot next to your parents. You really double-downed on staying in Lawrence, huh?” you tease, although there’s pain in your heart you try to conceal.
Dean chuckles, nodding. “Yeah, well, someone has to take over, right? Sam decided to stay in California when he married Jess, so…”
“Wait, little Sammy got married?” You gape at Dean, involuntarily leaning closer. You playfully touch his forearm that rests on the counter, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he coolly nurses his beer.
Is history repeating itself? Maybe this time, you could change the outcome, though.
“Yeah, uh, they’re actually expecting their first kid this fall,” Dean shares, and you can see the pride in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve almost forgotten their vibrancy over the years. They’ve always been one of your favorite features about him.
“No way! Wow, we’re getting old,” you say, giggling. You still remember meeting Jess when you and Dean drove down to California and visited Sam during his freshman year at Stanford. It had been one of your last road trips together before the two of you broke up.
“Yeah, I know.” Dean laughs and takes another gulp of beer. “So, when was the last time you actually came home, huh?”
“Hey, I come home almost every summer. And Christmas. Sometimes…” You begin to rethink under his scrutinizing look. “Well, maybe not the last few years. Guess it’s been a while.” You give a shrug of your shoulders, but Dean’s brow only raises higher. “What? New York is pretty irresistible around Christmas, okay?”
Dean chuckles triumphantly, shaking his head. “But you don’t have to live there, right? You could write anywhere,” he points out, and you know that particular topic is a sore point for him.
“Yeah, I guess now I could,” you admit and meet his forest-green eyes, seeing a million questions in them he doesn’t dare to ask. “But there’s nothing here for me anymore, you know? I mean, my mom, sure. But she visits me three times in New York every year. I don’t really have a reason to come back here.”
“Wow, really hard to see you from that high horse,” Dean wisecracks, chuckling.
“Wha-, c’mon!” You scoff a laugh. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Lawrence is great. I just have more opportunities in New York.”
Dean suddenly rises from the barstool, finishes his drink, and holds out a hand to you, nodding toward the door. “Alright, c’mon.”
“Where are we going?” you ask but still take his warm hand, your own feeling small in his, as he leads you back into the bright daylight.
And there, you see it – the classic, sleek black beauty he calls his Baby, parked meticulously by the curb of the sidewalk, untouched paint coat shining in the sun.
“Can’t believe you still got the Impala,” you breathe, an entranced gleam in your eyes.
Dean lifts a brow. “‘Scuse me? The day she leaves my side is the day I die.”
You press your lips into a tight line, but the teasing grin slips through. You still remember where to poke the bear. Turns out it’s like riding a bike – you never truly forget.
“Wow, so I guess the obsession with the car hasn’t changed, either.”
“What d’you mean?” Dean furrows his brow, close to offended, and you stifle the bubble of laughter that wants to erupt. “Look, aside from you, she’s my first love, okay?”
Bobbing your head, your brows hitch before you smirk at him.
Dean huffs a sigh, rolling his eyes. He rounds the front of the car to the driver’s side, opening the door. “Alright, get in and shut up.”
Giggling, you accept his invitation, your fingertips feeling the familiar, worn leather of the seat as a flood of memories crashes right back at you. God, you can’t even remember how many hours you’ve spent in this car with him, but they did feel like they were endless.
Until they ended.
“Can I pick the music?” you ask with a teasing grin, although you know the answer too damn well.
“Rules haven’t changed, either. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts their cakehole,” Dean says, chuckling, and starts the engine.
“So, where are we going?”
Dean smirks. “Down memory fucking lane, sweetheart.”
▶️ Chapter 2: Old Haunts
This series might start cute and fluffy, but don't let that fool you. I promise you you'll curse me soon enough 😂 Reader's mom also might be one of my favorite parents ever. She was based halfway on the mother in the movie and the mother from Friends With Benefits. Love me a good hippie mom 😜
Coming Up:
“Okay, stay here. Don’t you dare move.” Dean grins victoriously and rushes past you to the far end of the diner, and it suddenly dawns on you what his plan is.
On cue, the diner fills with music from Bobby’s old jukebox, playing a song Dean just picked. You recognize it immediately and send him a raised look, partially amused by his choice as Can’t Fight this Feeling starts.
“Really? REO?”
“C’mon, it’s our song,” Dean argues goofily and joins you again in a few strides.
“Yeah, and like I told you back then a million times, I refuse to accept that,” you retort, laughing.
“Welp, don’t care,” Dean quips. He then holds out his palm, smirking. “Will you do me the honor and accept this dance, Ms. Y/L/N?”
You chortle but hesitantly agree to his offer, placing your hand in his before he pulls you flush against his body in one suave motion. His other hand comes to rest on your lower back while yours lands on his shoulder, feeling the dips of his muscles under your pads.
“It’s the song that played the first time I asked you to dance during our junior prom. Remember that?” Dean’s eyes find yours as you get lost in his embrace.
Goddammit, you’ve missed those arms around you. They make you feel safe and loved. They always have, and now you’re sure they always will.
🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon
Tag List Pt. 1:
@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey
@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies
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@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei
@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted
@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303
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The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader
Description: Sam gets a vision that leads them to meeting someone just like him.
Warnings: Cannon violence, angst, insecurity, mentions of SA and castration.
Word Count: 11.5k
Simon Said
(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit)
The radio hums soothingly, a smooth, deep voice announcing: “Rockin’ Nebraska. Your source for the classics, all night long.”
The road is dark, only lit by the occasional streetlight and the light from the car's headlights.
“I don’t know, man, why don’t we just chill out, think about this?” Dean tries to reason.
Sam leans up, turning the radio off. “What’s there to think about?” he asks.
“Sleep,” I answer. “Seriously, I don’t know how you guys function with the amount of sleep you get.”
“Alright,” Sam considers. “Besides that.”
“I just don’t know if going to the Roadhouse is the smartest idea,” Dean reiterates.
“Dean, it’s another premonition. I know it. This is gonna happen, and Ash can tell us where,” Sam counters.
He told us he saw an older man go into a gun shop, and while he was checking out a gun, he loaded it, killing the cashier and then himself.
“Yeah, man, but…”
“Plus, it could have some connection with the demon. My visions always do,” Sam points out.
“That’s my point. There's gonna be hunters there,” Dean continues, “I don’t know if…if going in and announcing that you’re some supernatural freak, with a…a demonic connection is the best thing, okay?”
“Seriously, Dean?” I groan, eyebrow quirking.
“That’s not—you’re the exception,” he corrects, smiling sheepishly.
“You can’t just say I'm the exception every time you throw a blatant insult out,” I point out. And it’s complicated because on one hand, I understand he was raised with a specific mindset that’s hard to correct, but on the other hand, you’d think he would realize how he sounds. I don’t know if he doesn’t consider me in the same category as other supernatural beings or if he sometimes forgets, but it gets to a point.
“Well, if anyone in that Roadhouse finds out about either of you we’re gonna have a problem. It’s dangerous,” he points out, correcting his earlier statement. “And Sam, you’ve always been a freak.”
And, yeah, he’s right about the Roadhouse part, regardless of his insults. It is dangerous and I’m probably going to hate every second of it.
“Good save, ‘cause I specifically remember you saying I could hit you if you said anything like that,” I remind him with a smirk.
“You can hit me,” he shrugs, giving in a little too easily.
“Okay, well…I’m not gonna actually… hit you,” I answer weakly.
“Yeah, I know, sweetheart,” he nods like he expected that answer.
“Oh,” I hum quietly.
********
The moment we step through those bar doors, my heart jumps to my throat. This is an incredibly bad idea followed by an even worse idea.
And as if to rub salt in the wound, there’s a table of men cleaning their weapons. One of them, with a gruff beard and a scar on his forehead, makes eye contact with me as he rubs a white cloth down the blade of his machete. I smile nervously, breaking the eye contact he had set while stepping a little closer to Dean’s side.
I hadn’t expected so many people to be here. It’s pretty late, like past bedtime late.
This goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. It’s one thing to have met a lone hunter, but to be walking into their hangout spot? I might as well have a huge red arrow hanging above my head. I might as well just walk into their blades.
“So, is this a good time to say that you were totally right?” I ask, arms crossed to make myself smaller.
“It’s always a good time to say I’m right,” he muses, a cocky glint in his eyes.
“I’m being serious,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
“Just act cool,” he answers instead of rubbing it in further.
“I’m so totally cool,” I word vomit, my voice pitching slightly higher.
“You look scared,” he says bluntly, eyebrow quirked at me.
“‘Cause I am, dummy,” I murmur. I’ve never been around this many hunters ever. What would my parents say about this? Hell, what would my brother say about this? He’d give me an insane lecture, that’s what he'd say.
He scoffs beneath his breath, his hand pulling on mine, forcing me out of my defensive stance. My arms fall to my side, and he quickly takes claim of my hand, fingers interlacing with mine.
In a twisted way, it does make me feel better, if only a little. His hand and the warmth he envelopes me with act like a lifeline. But then we’re stuttering to a stop, nearly hitting a blonde-haired woman.
“Oh, hi, Jo!” I beam, waving at her. She’s a familiar, and relatively safe, face in this crowd.
Her eyes drop to my hand, to our hands. Her eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up while a smirk stretches on her lips. She looks at me with a little nod as if approving what she sees.
I didn’t know we were cool like that. I don’t mind being cool with her. It’s bittersweet, though, because if we are friendly, then it’s under the pretense of her not knowing what I am. If she knew that I’m a witch, would she still want to be friends?
“Well, look who’s back,” she muses.
“How you doin’, Jo?” Dean asks.
“Where’s Ash?” Sam cuts in, speaking so fast the words smush together.
“In his back room,” she answers slowly, pointing behind her.
“Great,” Sam exhales, brushing past her with his one-track mind.
“And I’m fine…” she mutters, a little mocking tone clipped to its edges.
“Sorry, he’s…we’re…kind of on a bit of a timetable,” Dean tries to explain, smiling nervously. He nods awkwardly, leading us away.
We follow after him, moving through the swinging doors into the back room where spare glasses are held in plastic container tubs.
Sam stands in front of the only door that isn’t marked as a bathroom; the wood is missing pieces, and there are flecks of paint missing. A little sign hangs on the center of the door, reading: “Dr Badass Is: In”
“Okay, who took a bite out of that door?” I ask, looking at a chunk of wood missing from the side of the door near the hinges.
“I’d say 'what' took a bite out of that door, but no, that does look human,” Dean mumbles, head tilted slightly as if doing so would make the answer clearer.
“‘Think it was Ash?” I ask quietly beneath Sam’s knocking and calling of the man in question.
His lips purse in consideration, mouth opening to answer. Then, he pauses, holding up a finger to say, “Give me a minute.”
His hand leaves mine, rising up to knock on the door. “Hey, Dr. Badass?” he calls.
A click comes from behind the door, and then it cracks open. Ash stands there, pasty skin fully on display. My eyes drop down, meeting the sight of more skin and…
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and, for good measure, cover them with my hands.
“Sam? Dean? Y/N? Sam and Dean and Y/N,” he answers, seemingly unfazed by having us see him naked as the day he was born.
“Hey, Ash, um, we need your help,” Sam explains.
“Well, hell then,” he remarks. “Guess I need my pants.”
********
Ash sits, now fully dressed, with his monstrosity of a laptop open, typing away something that must be related to the sketch of a bus logo Sam made.
“Well, I got a match,” Ash announces, leaning back in the wooden chair. “It’s the logo from the Blue Ridge bus lines in Guthrie, Oklahoma.”
“Okay. Do me a favor—check Guthrie for any demonic signs, or omens, or anything like that,” Sam lists out.
“You think the demon’s there?” Ash asks.
“Yeah, maybe,” he answers.
“Why would you think that?” he pushes further.
“Just check it, alright?” Dean bosses from where he leans against a post behind the computer whiz.
He looks over his shoulder at the older Winchester, then shakes his head as he gets back to click-clacking away.
“No, sir, nothing,” he announces. “No demon.”
“Alright, try something else for me. Search Guthrie for a house fire. It would be 1983, fire’s origin would be a baby’s nursery, the night of the kid’s six-month birthday,” Sam rattles out.
Ash’s eyes widened, glaring at Sam like he had grown another head. “Okay, now that is just weird, man. Why the hell would I be looking for that?”
“Just amuse us for a moment,” I answer. His eyes flicker to mine, and he blinks just once.
“Alright,” he half shrugs.
There’s a clink on the table, an open and sweating bottle of beer pushed next to the laptop. “There’s a PBR in it for ya,” Sam adds.
“I already said 'alright' to this beauty, but I won’t say no to a cold one. Give me fifteen minutes,” he declares, taking a quick sip of the beer before getting to work.
I look up, feeling a pair of eyes on me. Dean’s eyes. His jaw is a little tight, and there’s something written in those green eyes I can’t understand. I want to understand, but I don’t. I wish we could have another moment alone, maybe even like before, when we didn’t have to worry about the demon or the next monster. When it was just us.
He holds me in this gaze, everything else background noise, like it’s just our souls whispering to each other. Then his hand rises and with two fingers, he gestures me over to him. I rise from my seat as if in a trance, my feet taking me to him, my heart pulling me to his.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, a teasing smile curving on his face.
“Will you have one with me?” I counter, a smile of my own already breaking through.
“Now what kind of question is that, sweetheart?” he teases, taking a step back until he’s walking backwards.
I follow after him, shaking my head affectionately at his ridiculous antics. And I think, for just a moment, between background chatter, the clinks of glassware, the muffled noise of laughter, and an arcade game beeping, I can spend my entire life like this, following after him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him, and no one else. What an incredible thing to want when I’m not his and he is not mine.
********
He ordered a tall glass of amber liquid with a bit of foam at the top for himself and a Shirley Temple for me.
The minutes had passed on like seconds, both of us nursing our drinks and making stupid conversation. It’s incredible how just minutes ago I was terrified of being in this bar with all these hunters around, and now it’s like they aren’t even here at all. It’s just us in this bubble.
“Someone’s happy,” he mutters into his cup, taking a sip of whatever it is.
“And someone has a foam mustache, but you don’t see me complaining,” I quip right back. His face drops, cup hitting the counter hard as he quickly uses the back of his hand to wipe at his mouth.
I laugh hard, head tilted back, the stool beneath me wobbling. His hand reaches out quickly, grabbing hold of the side of my chair to stabilize me. My laugh bubbles out slowly, eyes tracing back to his and how close he is, leaning over to me.
My eyes fall to his lips, “You, um, missed a spot…” I mumble, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where just the smallest amount of foam is. My finger lingers on his warm skin, my heart both slowing down and speeding up all at once. “Got it,” I all but whisper.
“We have a match. We’ve gotta go,” Sam announces quickly, coming out of nowhere. I jump, fumbling to sit properly, hands around my cup like I wasn’t just centimeters from his lips.
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah,” I stammer, nodding quickly.
********
“And even as I wander, I’m keeping you in sight. You’re a candle in the window on a cold dark winter night, and I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might,” Dean sings unprompted from beside me with no radio to back him.
“You’re kidding, right?” Sam asks unamused, looking up from his pile of papers he has stacked in the backseat with him.
“I heard the song somewhere, I can’t get it out of my head, I don’t know, man,” Dean answers, shaking his head.
“It was playing at the Roadhouse,” I explain, “like moments before you came up to us, Sam. ‘Think I saw Jo lingering by the jukebox.”
I heard it play in the background, but I don’t think it fully registered for me, especially when I was entirely distracted by the man I now sit next to casually.
“There you go: earworm,” Dean nods, snapping his fingers. “Anyways, Waddya got?”
I watch Sam in the rearview mirror, his nose buried in a stack of papers. “Andrew Gallagher, born in ‘83, like me. ‘Lost his mother in a nursery fire exactly six months later, also like me,” he informs.
“You think the demon killed his mom?” Dean asks.
“Same M.O.” I point out. It’s exactly what happened to Sam; that’s no coincidence.
“How did you even know to look for this guy?” Dean asks.
“Every premonition I’ve had, if they’re not about the demon, they’re about the other kids the demon visited,” Sam explains. “Like Max Miller, remember him?”
“Yeah, but Max Miller was a pasty little psycho,” he remarks.
“He was only so crazy because of what was happening to him; his abilities just gave him the reassurance and confidence to do something,” I defend.
“I don’t see you murdering people,” he retorts, eyes leaving the road to glance at me. It feels like a jab as much as it feels like a small secret shared between us, though I’m sure Sam would have caught on if Dean hadn’t already told him.
“Trauma affects people in different ways,” I counter. “He was using the coping skills that he had learned from being in an abusive environment. That’s not to say that it was necessarily correct or just, but I think he deserves a little more peace than being called ‘crazy.’”
“The point is, he was killing people, regardless of why,” Sam cuts in. “And I was having the same type of visions about him. And now it could be happening all over again with this Gallagher guy.”
“I wonder if they have visions of you, or if it’s just one-sided for whatever reason,” I ponder out loud.
“They’d see enough to put them in a ward,” Dean murmurs. “How do we find him?”
“Don’t know. No current address, no current employment,” Sam answers. “He still owes money on all his bills—phone, credit, utilities…”
“Collection agency flags?” Dean asks.
“None in the system.”
“They just let him take a walk?” he questions further.
“Seems like it,” Sam answers. “There’s a work address from his last W-2, about a year ago. Let’s start there.”
The strong smell of roasted coffee beans wafts throughout the cafe, a full-faced blonde topping off the mugs at our table. This is, apparently, the last job Gallagher worked before he seemed to drop off the face of the planet.
“You won’t get anything out of Andy, guys. I’m sorry, but they never do,” Tracy, our waitress, says with an apologetic smile.
“They?” Sam echoes.
“You’re debt collectors, right?” she asks, looking between us and our formal attire; suits for the boys and a blouse with a pencil skirt for me. “Once in a while, they come by. I don’t know what Andy says to them, but they never come back.”
“Actually we’re…we’re lawyers representing his Great Aunt Leta. She passed, God rest her soul, and left Andy a sizable estate,” Dean explains smoothly.
“So did you know Andy well outside of being coworkers?” I ask.
“We used to be friends, yeah,” she answers. “I don’t see much of Andy anymore.”
“Andy?” someone echoes, coming up to join the little group. He has an apron around his waist and a coffee pot in his hand like Tracy, the soft lighting catching his blue eyes. “Andy kicks ass, man,” he adds.
“Is that right?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised slightly.
“Yeah. Andy can get you into anything. He even got me backstage at Aerosmith once, it was beautiful, bro,” the dirty-blonde man gushes.
A thoughtful expression crosses Dean's face, ears practically perked up at the mention of the band. But, I can’t lie, that does sound awesome. I mean, how many people can say they’ve been to an Aerosmith concert, let alone back-fucking-stage?
“How about bussing a table or two, Weber?” Tracy mocked.
“Yeah. You bet, boss,” Weber answers with a little mocking tone of his own before shuffling over to a table on the other side of the room
“Look, if you want to find him, try Orchard Street. Just look for a van with a barbarian queen painted on the side,” she suggests.
“Barbarian queen?” Dean echoes in disbelief.
“She’s riding a polar bear. It’s kind of hard to miss,” she explains, nose scrunching at her own description.
********
As much as I was really hoping Tracy was joking, she wasn’t. She got it down to a T.
The van across the street from the Impala is dark blue, and on the side, right over the back door, is a large sticker of two polar bears charging forward, a half-naked woman riding one of them, her sword pointed to the sky. I’ve never hated anything more.
“I’m sorry, I’m starting to like this dude. That van is sweet,” Dean remarks with a cheesy smile.
“Please tell me you’re joking, Dean,” I groan. “That van is the breeding ground for B.O. and getting no game.”
I glance in the rear-view mirror, trying to see if Sam would back me on this because if anyone will, it’d be him. But his lips are pursed, and his eyes look lost in focus. “Oh no, what’s wrong, Sam?” I ask, twisting sideways to face him in the backseat.
“Nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head.
I squint my eyes at him like it’d somehow make the truth evident. “That wasn’t very convincing,” I reply.
“Sam, you look like you’re sucking on a lemon. What’s going on?” Dean pushes, watching his brother through the rear-view mirror.
“This Andrew Gallagher, he’s the second guy like this we’ve found. ‘Demon came to them when they were kids, now they’re killing people,” he explains.
“We don’t know what Andrew Gallagher is, alright. He could be innocent,” Dean reasons.
“My visions haven’t been wrong yet,” he counters with a frown and a desperate look in his eyes as if he wants to be wrong.
“What’s your point?” Dean asks.
“My point is, I’m one of them,” he answers.
“As in abilities, yeah, but you’re not a murderer, Sam,” I reason. It’s almost like looking into an obscure mirror; insecurities and worries that I carry around each day now hang around his neck.
“Last time I checked, I kill all kinds of things,” he counters, voice a little harsh. He wants to be proven wrong as much as he wants to be proven right if only to have clarity.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“‘Cause you’re killing things that are hurting people. You’re saving lives,” I explain. “I mean, you didn’t even have it in you to kill those vampires that weren’t bothering anyone. Sam, you’re a good person, powers don’t change that.”
“But, the demon said he had plans for me and children like me. Maybe this is the plan, maybe we’re all a bunch of psychic freaks, maybe we’re all supposed to be kill—“
“It doesn’t matter what his plans are; it doesn’t mean you have to follow them or become something,” I cut him off, sternly. “I told you guys before, it’s about the coping skills and strategies that someone learns that dictate how they’ll react. Most people kill because they think that’s the best option.”
“But—“
“No, Sam, seriously. Your powers don’t define you, regardless of where they came from. You’re not a murderer,” I say, voice as clear as possible. ”And, I think to worry so much, to be so insistent like this, proves what you aren’t and are capable of.”
I can see a part of him still doesn’t want to believe it, because it’s easier said than done, and I can’t blame him when I’m in the same boat as him. Most days, I wonder if I’m just lying to myself, and I am as bad as the thing in my blood says I am. I go to bed thinking over every single thing I did that day, trying to examine if I’ve tipped over too far. Most days, I hate what I am as much as I can’t imagine or stand being anything else.
“Whatever happens with all of this, Dean and I are gonna be with you,” I reassure, softly, speaking for both of us.
He nods, that desperate, almost pleading, look pooling in his brown eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbles with a certain emphasis behind it that feels like he really means it.
“Always,” I nod, the word slipping from my lips with ease.
“Got him,” Dean mumbles, looking out his window, bringing our conversation to a close.
I follow his gaze to a shaggy-haired brunette swaggering away from a house further down the block in dark pajama pants and a long satin robe with red dragons all over it. He pauses halfway down the walkway, turning back and looking up at a window on the second story to a blonde with big messy hair and a pink robe that’s slipped off her shoulder, showing off the smooth expanse of tanned skin. She leans out the window, waving at the man below with a dreamy, lovesick look on her perfect features. He appears to blow her a kiss before smoothly turning around to continue his sauntering.
“Uh-uh, no,” I utter, picking my jaw up from off the floor. “That woman is far too hot to have had sex with that dude. She’s twenty times out of his league.” He’s all…and she’s all sultry brown eyes, and a perfect pout.
“Looks like he does have ‘game’,” Dean remarks, head swiveling towards me to show off his annoying smile.
Raggedy Andy strides down the block with his head held high and a beaming smile on his face like he’s got the whole world going for him. He pauses one last time, halfway down the block, to exchange pleasantries with an old black man in a suit. He takes the bigger man’s hand, shaking it with a smile and a nod of his head.
“That’s him,” Sam blurts out, leaning so far forward that his head is between me and Dean’s. “That older guy, that’s him, that’s the shooter.”
“Alright, you keep on him, we’ll stick with Andy,” Dean directs, taking action. “Go.”
Sam gets out of the car quickly, head ducked slightly as he follows after the old man. Meanwhile, Andy hops into his van, driving away like normal.
Baby follows after the very obvious van, keeping a safe distance behind it at every turn and every stop. Then, the dark blue van pulls over to the side of the road, and Andy gets out.
“Hand me the gun in the glovebox,” Dean mutters casually. The glovebox opens with a pop, his collection of cassette tapes clattering as I slip the handgun that lies amongst the tapes to him. He hums low in his chest, tucking the gun into his leather jacket.
“Hey,” Andy greets, ducking down so his head is right at Dean’s window. His eyes flicker to me in the passenger seat, first acknowledging me and then staying there, dragging down my frame.
“Hey, hey,” Dean answers, snapping Andy’s attention back to him.
“This is a cherry ride,” Andy smiles, tapping the roof of the car as he gives the outside a one-over.
“Yeah, thanks,” Dean smiles proudly.
“Man, the ‘67? ‘Impala’s best year of you ask me,” he continues, admiring Baby. “This is a serious classic.”
“Yeah. You know, I just rebuilt her, too,” Dean boasts.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, can’t let a car like this go,” he adds.
“Damn straight,” Andy nods, eyes flickering to me again. “I bet you like to ride in it, too, huh?”
“I—yes, I suppose so,” I stammer at his odd question.
“Hey. Can I have it?” He asks Dean.
“Sure, man,” Dean answers like it’s no problem at all. I look at him strangely, studying him to see if he’s joking or not. But then he’s opening the car door to get out.
I grab his arm, stopping him before he can do anything. “What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Giving him the car?” he answers, eyes wide like I’m the weird one. “Come on, Y/N, he asked for it.”
“What is going on with you?” I exclaim. There’s no way in hell that he would ever give up this car to anyone. Still, he gets out, gesturing for Andy to take his seat, even holding the door for him.
I lurch forward, snatching the keys from the ignition. I pull at the top of my shirt, shoving the ring of keys into my bra. “This is for your own good, ‘cause I don’t know what the hell is going on with you!” I shout. It’s entirely uncomfortable; cold and a little pokey, but it’s far better than letting Baby get hijacked.
I get out and round the car quickly, both men watching me. “What did you do to him?!” I accuse, shoving the shorter man away from Baby, and closing the door for good measure.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Andy answers calmly, but just behind it I can feel the worry in his tone.
“He’s not doing anything, sweetheart,” Dean defends.
“You,” I gesture to him, “Need to shut up, please.” I take a step towards Andy, “And you,” I point, “How are you doing that to…Oh my god. You’re using mind control or some sort of…suggestion thing!”
His eyes go wide, and he smiles nervously. “That’s crazy,” he laughs.
“Oh, I knew there was no way that girl would sleep with you,” I continue, stepping closer to him.
“Wait, what?” he exclaims. “Just—give me the keys.”
“Um…no…?” I answer, mildly confused. “Oh! You’re tryna do it to me!”
“Why isn’t it working?” he spews, fear swiping across his eyes like a ghost drifting in front of a mirror.
“‘No idea,” I shrug. “But that’s a mystery for another day. The real—“
“Stay away!” he shouts, trying to command Dean and me.
“Look, you can’t go around controlling people. You’re violating their privacy and right to their bodily autonomy, it’s wrong,” I try to reason. “And it’s even worse to use it to kill pe—“
“Kill?“
“Would you stop cutting me off? It’s really annoying,” I grumble.
“I haven’t killed anyone,” he shouts, running his hand through his hair.
“Well, not yet, technically,” I mutter. “‘Point is, you don’t have to. Whatever the issue is, it can be resolved without hurting anyone.”
“Stay away from me!” he shouts again, though I haven’t moved a muscle this entire time. “Just stay away! You’re crazy! I’m not hurting anyone!” He continues yelling, walking backwards to his van with each declaration. “I’m not going to hurt anyone! Just leave me alone, you crazy bitch!”
“Okay, well, name-calling was just not needed,” I shake my head, a little taken aback.
The tires screech loudly as he scurries off the block, taking a very quick turn. I turn back to Dean, eyeing him carefully as I approach him. “Are you…uh…okay now?” I ask.
“I almost let him take Baby,” he utters, looking down at his hands like he’s some kind of monster. He rushes to the car, running his hand over the sleek outside, “I won’t let him take you,” he tells the car.
“Okay…” I mumble, pulling my phone out of my back pocket and flicking it open to Sam’s contact. It barely gets to the second ring before he’s answering. “Hey, so, problem, and also funny story: Dean almost gave Andy the Impala…”
“What?!” Sam shouts into the phone.
“Yeah, I literally had to…actually speaking of which.” I fetch the keys out of my bra, the key ring dangling from my finger, “Here ‘ya go, sorry for all the…boobs it was exposed to,” I say, and I think that might be an original sentence.
He steps over with his eyebrows raised high and a slight smirk, grasping the keys from me. “You saved Baby,” he says, eyes running up my body. My heart bubbles with nerves in my chest. “‘S far as I know, that’s the safest place these could be,” he adds, twisting the key ring around his finger.
“‘Kinda the first thing I thought of…” I mumble.
“Hellooo!” Sam calls, “Could you guys stop flirting in my ear, please?”
“We’re not—shut up,” I mutter, my cheeks warm. I’ve never been more glad to have my phone pressed to my ear. “Andy’s using mind control,” I finally say, desperate to change the subject.
Dean leans in close, adding with a yell, “He fucking Obi-Wanned me!”
********
When we reconnect with Sam shortly after our phone call with him, he’s sitting on the curb with his head in his hands. Red and blue lights spin around; the ambulance is waiting with its doors open.
There’s a group of people on the caution-taped side lines, watching in horror and curiosity as the blood scraped against the asphalt is captured in a photo and the body lying crumbled in the road is collected in a black bag.
It was towards the end of our call that it happened; the old man who was going to die in the gun store, instead, walked in front of a bus.
Dean crouches behind his distraught brother, placing a hand on his back. It makes me realize all too well that letting Andy go meant I got this man killed. I shouldn’t have trusted that he would have taken my advice. I shouldn’t have let him leave.
“I kept him out of the gun store. I thought he was okay,” Sam shares. “I thought he was past it, at least…I should have stayed with him.”
“You did all you could,” I reason. “You couldn’t have known this would’ve happened instead.”
But I should have.
********
Immediately, Sam deflates in the passenger seat, still wearing his frown.
“It looks like Andy can’t work his mojo just by twitching his nose; he’s gotta use verbal commands,” Dean starts the conversation.
“The doctor had just gotten off his cell phone when he stepped in front of the bus. He must have called him or something,” Sam informs.
“You know, Andy was so sure that he wasn’t going to kill anyone,” I think out loud. “So, I wonder what set him off. What made him change his mind?”
“He could’ve been lying,” Sam answers. “Or he was making you believe him.”
“Oh no, his mind thingy wasn’t working on me,” I answer, brushing him off with a wave of my hand.
“I don’t know, maybe he hasn’t killed anyone,” Dean suggests.
“Beg your pardon?” Sam deadpans, head turning slowly to look at his brother.
“I just don’t know if he’s our guy, Sam,” he rephrases it,
“He did try to steal your car, you know, your prized possession?” I point out.
“Only possession,” Sam corrects beneath his breath.
“The point is I feel like that has to add some bad guy points, or at the very least, mean points,” I continue.
“‘Mean points’? Really?” Sam scoffs. “Dean, you had O.J. convicted before he got out his white Bronco, and you have doubts about this?”
“He just doesn’t seem like the stone-cold killer type, that’s all,” Dean reasons. “And O.J. was guilty.”
“Is guilty,” I correct. It’s the most cut-and-dry case ever. “But, okay, fine, maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt and consider this the proper way; innocent until proven guilty.”
“Either way, how are we going to track this guy down?” Sam asks.
“Not a problem,” Dean smirks.
********
Unsurprisingly, it’s not difficult to find a van with polar bears and a woman on it. In fact, I'm fairly sure no one else has that sticker.
The van is, once more, empty when we find it, which makes it even easier for me to unlock the back door with a simple touch, pulling it open.
The stale smell of weed fills my senses, the scent sticking to the soft interior of the van, including the fur rug. A small disco ball spins from the ceiling, the sun making it glitter along the tiger painted on the wall.
“Proving myself right about this van,” I comment, looking over the interior with something between disgust and mild disturbance.
“Oh. Oh, come on,” Dean mumbles. “This is…this is magnificent, that’s what this is.”
“No, it looks like an '80s orgy threw up in here,” I correct with a sneer. There’s no way he actually likes this tacky van.
“Well, it’s not exactly a serial killer's lair, though. There’s no…clown paintings on the walls, or scissors stuck in victims’ photos,” Dean defends, gesturing to the walls. “I like the tiger.”
I internally groan, rolling my eyes.
“Hegel, Kant, Wittgenstein?” Sam lists out, barely touching the thick stack of books by the door. “That’s some pretty heavy reading.”
“Yeah, and, uh, and Moby Dick’s bong,” Dean smirks, holding up the tall and winding bong proudly.
********
Unsurprisingly, it’s not difficult to find a van with polar bears and a woman on it. In fact, I'm fairly sure no one else has that sticker.
The van is, once more, empty when we find it, which makes it even easier for me to unlock the back door with a simple touch, pulling it open.
The stale smell of weed fills my senses, the scent sticking to the soft interior of the van, including the fur rug. A small disco ball spins from the ceiling, the sun making it glitter along the tiger painted on the wall.
“Proving myself right about this van,” I comment, looking over the interior with something between disgust and mild disturbance.
“Oh. Oh, come on,” Dean mumbles. “This is…this is magnificent, that’s what this is.”
“No, it looks like an '80s orgy threw up in here,” I correct with a sneer. There’s no way he actually likes this tacky van.
“Well, it’s not exactly a serial killer's lair, though. There’s no…clown paintings on the walls, or scissors stuck in victims’ photos,” Dean defends, gesturing to the walls. “I like the tiger.”
I internally groan, rolling my eyes.
“Hegel, Kant, Wittgenstein?” Sam lists out, barely touching the thick stack of books by the door. “That’s some pretty heavy reading.”
“Yeah, and, uh, and Moby Dick’s bong,” Dean smirks, holding up the tall and winding bong proudly.
********
The parking lot seems to go on for miles as we sit in the empty lot, the Impala smelling faintly like greasy food.
I sip on my slushie as I skim through a paper regarding Dr Jennings, the man who died, while Dean munches on taquitos, and Sam looks through his own stack of papers.
Dean groans, crushing the foil around his food a little more. “You know, one day I’d love to just sit down and eat something I didn’t have to microwave at a minimart,” he complains.
“Well, find me a proper kitchen, and I’ll cook for you,” I answer without looking up from my paper.
His crunching stops. “I might just have to marry you,” he claims, muffled with a mouth full of food.
I laugh through my nose, all airy and disbelieving his declaration. He might be the definition of “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” but he doesn’t mean it, not with me. Though that doesn’t stop my brain from conjuring up images of us married and cooking together, the kitchen soaked in warm lighting, and laughter. I want it. I crave it as much as he craves something that isn’t gas station food. But maybe neither of us can get what we want, not in this life.
“I don’t get the motive,” Sam states. “I mean, the doctor was squeaky clean. Why would Andy waste him?”
“‘No idea,” I answer, finally putting my paper down, which supported exactly what Sam said: Dr. Jennings was an innocent man. “You know, for someone so into philosophy, he sure has no problem breaking ethics.”
“If it is Andy,” Dean corrects.
“Dude, enough,” Sam groans, rolling his eyes.
“What?”
“The doctor was mind-controlled in front of a bus. Andy just happens to have the power of mind control. You do the math,” Sam reasons. And he’s kind of got a point; for now, Andy is our only suspect.
“I just don’t think the guy's got it in him, that’s all,” Dean defends.
“Well, how the hell would you know?” Sam spits. “I mean, why are you bending over backwards defending him?”
“‘Cause you’re not right about this,” he answers.
“About Andy?” Sam asks quickly.
Suddenly, there’s a thud behind me, and Andy leans his head into the open back window. “Hey!” he shouts. “You think I haven’t seen you three? Why are you following me?”
“Well, we’re lawyers,” Sam explains calmly. “See, a relative of yours has passed aw—“
“Tell the truth!” Andy shouts.
“That’s what I’m—“
“We hunt demons,” Dean blurts out.
Wide eyed I whip my head towards him, “Dean!” I exclaim. “He’s joking!” I lie, twisting around to tell Andy directly.
“Demons and spirits,” Dean continues anyway. “Things your worst nightmares—“ I twist back around and lean over to cover Dean's mouth with my hand.
“Please, stop speaking,” I whisper.
“I’m trying,” Dean answers, his voice muffled by my hand. “He’s psychic, kind of like you, Sam. Well, not really like you, but see, he thinks you’re a murderer, and he’s afraid that he’s going to become one himself, ‘cause you’re all a part of something that’s terrible,” he rushes out, unfazed by my attempts to quiet him. “And, I hope to hell that he’s wrong, but I’m starting to get a little scared that he might be right.”
“Okay, you know what?” Andy starts, his voice suddenly dropping down to something deep and distorted. “Just leave me alone.”
“Okay,” Dean exhales.
“Alright?” he repeats before he stands straight and walks away.
I let my hand fall from Dean's mouth, studying his face with careful eyes as his fingers press into his head.
“Are…are you okay?” I ask, my gaze jumping around his features with worry. “Frick, I—I really should’ve stopped him. I could’ve stopped him, I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head like that’s the last thing on his mind. “I’m alright, sweetheart. ‘Just freaky,” he answers, brushing my concern off. Then he nods behind me, towards where Sam is already trailing after Andy.
I nod, “Stay here or a safe distance away.” I get out of the car, following after the two.
“What are you doing? Look, I—I said leave me alone,” Andy presses, his voice once more dropping down into that almost demonic sound. “Alright? Get out of here, just start driving and never stop.”
“Doesn’t seem to work on us, Andy,” Sam says calmly.
“What?” Andy exclaims, though I’m not sure what there’s not to get.
“You can make people do things, can’t you? You can tell them what to think,” Sam continues.
I hear the sound of a car door closing, and I know immediately that Dean didn’t listen to my advice.
“Look, tha—“ Andy laughs, “That’s crazy.”
“You don’t have to lie to us,” I reason.
“It all started about a year ago, didn’t it?” Sam asks. “After you turned twenty-two. Little stuff at first, and then you got better at controlling it.”
“How do you know all this?” he asks, softer now.
“Because the same thing happened to me, Andy. My mom died in a fire, too. I have abilities too. You see, we’re connected, you and me.”
He shakes his head, momentarily squeezing his eyes shut. “You know what? Just—just—just—just get out of here, alright?!”
“Why did you kill the doctor? Why did you tell him to walk in front of a bus? What did he do to you?” I ask, rapidly
“What?” he exhales. “Why do you keep saying I killed someone?!”
Sam sucks in a sharp breath beside me, his head twitching and his eyes shutting. “Why did you kill him?” Sam asks too, but it seems like he’s a million miles away.
I put a hand on his arm, trying to steady him while whatever is happening to him happens.
“I didn’t!” Andy shouts.
Sam puts his hands on his head, cradling his head while he sways. Then, suddenly, he goes limp, leaning all his dead weight onto me. Dean appears at my side in a millisecond, catching Sam before he takes me down with him.
“Sam? What is it?” Dean asks, lowering him gently to the asphalt.
“Look, I didn’t do anything to him,” Andy defends, hands up in surrender.
“No one said you did!” I reply, kneeling next to Sam.
“A woman,” Sam answers, his eyes still closed. “A woman burning alive.”
“Where?” I ask softly.
“A gas station, a woman is gonna kill herself,” he answers, relaying his vision as best as he can.
“What does he mean, going to? What is he—what is—“
“Shut up!” Dean barks at Andy.
“She gets triggered by a call on her cell,” Sam adds, brown eyes fluttering open.
“When?” Dean asks.
“I don’t know,” he answers as he sits up, hand rubbing his head. Immediately, Dean is on it, helping him get back to his feet. “But as long as we keep our eyes on this son of a bitch he can’t hurt her.”
“I didn’t hurt anybody,” Andy mutters, eyes wide and frantic.
“Yeah, not yet,” Sam remarks.
Suddenly, a red truck soars past, sirens blaring sharply. “Go,” Sam orders his brother quickly. And without hesitation, Dean runs back to the Impala, quickly wiping it out of the parking lot to follow after the firetruck.
Andy steps forward, trying to brush past us, but Sam stops him before he can get far, putting his hand on his chest. “No, not you. You’re staying here with us.”
“Might even clear your name,” I mumble beneath my breath.
********
Dean arrived on scene quickly and shortly after that, called to inform us that Sam’s vision had already happened; no head start this time.
“It might be time to start making friends with him,” I remark, nodding towards the man in question.
Andy can’t be the killer when he was right in front of us the entire time. He wasn’t even on his phone.
“We did kind of accuse him of being a murderer,” Sam points out, glancing over at the curb where Andy sits.
“Does this mean I'm breaking the news that we were wrong?”
“Yes,” Sam answers quickly, smiling sheepishly.
“Great,” I mutter, dragging my feet a little as we saunter over to him. He looks up at us expectantly, which somehow makes this worse. “Okay…well, turns out you are in fact not the killer, so…yay,” I say awkwardly.
“I told you,” he answers bitterly.
“Yeah…” I nod, sucking air through my teeth while I rock on the balls of my feet. “Sorry about all that.”
He looks between us, contemplating my apology. “This whole thing is weird,” he replies, and it feels like a win.
Sam takes a seat next to him on the curb, shrugging, “Welcome to our life.”
“So…you get these premonitions of people about to die?” Andy asks him, earning a nod. “That’s impossible.”
Sam laughs, head tilted back slightly. “You should see what she can do,” he nods towards me.
“What? Are you like us?” he asks, a certain sparkle in his eye. He found someone who was like him. I wonder if I’d feel the same way if I met someone like me.
“No, uh, something else,” I answer, plopping down on the ground in front of them, hugging my knees to my chest. “But, you know, mind control seems like a pretty impossible thing too.”
“But…death visions,” he reiterates, looking at Sam.
“Yeah,” he exhales.
“Dude, that sucks. I mean, like, when I got my mind thing? It was like a gift, you know, it was…it was like I won the Lotto,” he gushes, his face brightening.
“But you still live in a van,” Sam clocks. “I don’t get it, I mean, you could have anything you ever wanted.”
“I mean I…I got everything I need,” he shrugs.
“So you’re really not a killer, huh?” Sam mutters.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Andy laughs.
“That’s good,” he smiles. “‘Means there’s hope for both of us.”
“Which, I told you,” I point out just as the familiar rumble of the Impala pulls near. The black car pulls up a couple of feet away, the three of us rising to our feet in near synchronization.
Dean gets out of the car, pocketing his keys and giving Sam and me a once-over. “‘Victims name was Holly Backett, forty-one, single,” he informs.
“Who is she?” Sam asks Andy.
“Never heard of her,” he answers.
“Called Ash on the way over here; he came up with a little something—“
“Did he also leave a message for Y/N?” Sam cuts his brother off with a smirk.
“Oh my god, could you guys stop with this?” I ask, throwing my hands up.
“Well, did you see how quick he was to do what you said?” Sam teases.
“Why are you being so annoying about this?” I grumble, recalling how Sam made a point about mimicking it and Dean's apparent bitchface, when we eventually got back to the car.
“What’s going on?” Andy asks, looking between the three of us.
“Nothing!” Dean and I say at the same time, his voice much deeper and sharper than mine.
“‘Tell you later,” Sam whispers.
“No. No, you will not be doing anything of the sort,” I lecture, arms crossing over my chest.
“He said,” Dean starts again, glaring at his brother with eyes sharp enough to kill him right then and there. “Holly Beckett, apparently, gave birth when she was eighteen years old, back in 1983. Same day you were born, Andy.”
“Andy, were you adopted?” Sam asks, focusing back on the situation at hand and not annoying Dean and I.
“Well, yeah,” he answers.
“You were? And you neglected to mention that?” Dean remarks.
“Never really came up,” he defends. “I mean I—I never knew my birth parents, and—and like you said, my adopted mom died when I was a baby—do you—do you think this Holly woman could actually be my m—“
“I don’t know. I tried to get a copy of the birth records, but they’re hard copy only, sealed in the county office,” Dean informs, voice all serious and straightforward.
“Whelp, that’s never stopped us before,” I shrug.
********
Light from the hall filters through the blinds, casting lines of shadows across the vinyl floor and rows of filing cabinets.
The metal table in front of me is covered in large brown boxes filled with vanilla folders, neatly written names captured in the tabs sticking out like a hand raised to the sky, saying, “pick me.” My finger trails over said names, eyes tracing the script for the one.
“Probably shouldn’t have left you kids in here,” the grey-haired security guard speaks up, lingering by the doorway.
“No, it’ll all be fine. Alright?” Andy answers calmly, putting his arm around the round man. “Just go get a cup of coffee,” he tells him.
The guard nods, eyes lidded and dazed as he trails down the hall to what I can only imagine is the break room.
“These aren’t the ‘droids you’re looking for,” Andy declares, quoting something that makes Dean grin ear to ear. Maybe I should make more film references.
“I got it,” Sam declares, nose buried in the folder.
“Yeah?” Dean asks, raising his hands back to stretch his shoulders.
“Yeah. Andy, it’s true,” he reveals, looking straight at him. “Holly Beckett was your mother.”
“Huh,” Andy exhales, hand absentmindedly searching behind him. “Does anyone have a Vicodin?” he asks, leaning back against the doorframe.
“Dr. Jennings was her doctor too, I mean, he oversaw the adoption,” Sam adds. “You have a solid connection to both of them.”
“Yeah, but I—I didn’t kill them,” he mutters, repeating himself for the upteenth time today.
“We know, it’s okay,” I answer softly.
“But, uh, who did?” Dean asks, scratching the side of his head.
“I think I got a pretty good guess,” Sam replies. “Holly Beckett gave birth to twins.”
********
For the last 15 minutes, Andy has, more or less, been in the same position, his elbows resting on his knees as he holds his head in both hands, staring right at the floor. “I have an evil twin,” he mumbles, eyes wide in shock.
“Holly put you and your brother up for adoption. And you went to the Gallagher family, obviously, and your brother went to the Weems family from upstate,” Sam informs, pacing with the folder in his hands.
“We’re the Weems bad people? Is he jealous of what you have?” I ask, thinking about each possibility out loud. “I mean sure he could be angry he was put up for adoption, but to be driven to murder? I don’t get it.”
“Andy, how you doin’?” Dean asks, arms crossed against his chest as he leans against a printer. “Still with us?”
“Um. What was my brother's name?” he asks, timidly, finally looking up from the floor.
“Ansen Weems,” Sam answers, reading from his folder. “And he’s got a local address.”
“He—he lives here?” he stammers, face a little pale.
“Let’s get a look at him,” Dean suggests, twirling around to a computer. “Got his picture coming off from the DMV…right now.”
The printer whorls, groaning and sputtering before it spits out a couple of papers. Dean pulls them out swiftly, eyebrows shooting all the way up. “Hate to kick you while you’re freaked,” he mutters. “Take a look at that.”
********
The Impala rolls down the dark road, Sam back in shotgun and Andy sharing the back seat with me. “Alright, Andy, tell us everything you know about this guy,” Sam directs.
“Well, I mean, not much I…Weber shows up one day, eight months ago?” he starts. “Acting like he’s my best friend in the world. Kinda weird, like, trying too hard, you know?”
“Must have known you guys were twins,” Dean figures. “Why did he change his name? Why not just tell you the truth?”
“Maybe he was scared to see how’d you react,” I guess.
“No idea,” he exhales.
Sam groans loudly, his palms pressed into his eyes.
“Sam?” Dean calls, stealing a glimpse of his brother.
Then he’s yelling, pulling on the doorhandle frantically.
“Sam? Sam! Sam!” Dean shouts, bringing the car to an immediate stop.
Sam shoves open his door, leaning out and taking great big gulps of air. I hop out of the car, my heart racing in my chest. Dean meets me by his brother in seconds, kneeling and grabbing his shoulders. “Hey. Hey!” he says, eyes wide and jumping along his face.
**********
“Dean, you should stay back,” Sam suggests as we stand over the trunk of the Impala. His vision had led us here: to the entrance of a bridge where Weber would kill Tracy.
“No argument here,” he puts his hands up in surrender. “Had my head screwed with enough for one day.”
“Are you actually gonna listen this time?” I question, taking a handgun from Sam. The weight is familiar in my hand though I doubt I’ll be using it.
“I will,” he nods, holding up his pinkie for me. A smile spreads across my face, he remembered. I lift my own hand up, happily interlocking my pinkie with his. “Just, uh, be safe” he adds softly,
“Always,” I whisper, my finger dropping from his.
Sam meets my eyes as I turn to meet him, nodding in silent confirmation as to say he was ready. I nod too, falling into step with him.
“Wait! I’m coming with you!” Andy shouts, stepping in front us.
“Andy, no,” Sam shakes his head.
“If it’s Tracy out there…then I’m coming,” he declares.
“Just stick by one of us,” I answer for both of us. He nods quickly, moving out of the way to let us continue walking.
It doesn’t take us long to spot the only car pulled off to the side of the bridge, our steps slowing just slightly.
Through the windshield I can see the crazed, sadistic, sparkle in Weber's eyes as he says something to the crying blonde beside him. Her body is shaking as tears stream down her face, her hands shaking as she slowly unbuttons her shirt. This son of a bitch.
Sam nods at me with a snarl that matches my own, our guns pointed on the piece of shit of a man ahead of us. We split as we stalk closer, Sam taking Weber's side as I creep towards the passenger side for Tracy, Andy right on my heels.
Bang.
The back windshield shatters, distracting Weber just enough for Sam to yank open the driver side door, his gun pointed right at his face. “Get out of the car! Now!” he shouts.
“You really don’t want to do this,” Weber says in a deep and distorted voice.
I put my gun down, tucking it into the back of my shorts just as Sam backhands Weber hard enough to make the corner of his eye bleed.
I pull open the car door, Andy nearly shoving me to the side as he frantically says, “Tracy! Come here, come here, come here. It’s okay.”
“Andy! I can’t! I couldn’t control myself,” Tracy sobs, hands paused on a button, her pale skin peaking out from beneath.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, nudging Andy out of the way. “I’m going to put my hand on your head, okay?” I tell her, not wanting to freak her out more.
“Okay,” she sniffles.
“What are you doing?” Andy asks.
“Shh,” I shush, carefully lowering my hand to the side of her head. “Go to Sam,” I direct him. He nods, lingering for a moment longer before he’s rounding the car to aid him in subduing Weber.
Energy flows from me, finding the whispered echoes bouncing around her mind. It’s dark and angry; a rough, gravely voice that commands the same thing over and over: a list of instructions for her to undress, have sex with Weber, and then kill herself by taking a dive off the bridge. I latch onto it, pulling it back onto myself.
I pull away from her mind with a gasp, stumbling backwards slightly as I blink repeatedly. But then she’s sobbing again, hand clenched to her mouth. I offer her my hand, and immediately she grips onto it like a lifeline. I nod, helping her from the car. She hunches over, hugging herself as sobs continue to rock her body. I help her lean against the car before I hold out both palms of my hands, making a folded, soft blanket materialize on top of them.
I unfold it quickly, purple sparkles still lingering in the air as I wrap it around her shoulders.
“No!” Sam suddenly shouts. “No, Andy, let me handle this, alright?”
“One second,” I whisper to the poor girl, leaving her side to see what the hell the boys were doing.
There, on the pavement, Weber lies on the floor with duct tape over his mouth, blood dripping from the corner of the sticky material.
“I’m gonna kill you!” Andy shouts while Sam holds him back.
“No! I’ll handle this. I’ll handle this!” Sam yells back.
“I will kill you!”
“Andy! Listen to me! Listen to me!”
I kneel down, grabbing Weber's jaw roughly. I yank his head the other way, forcing his gaze away from Tracy. “Eyes here, ‘you piece of shit,” I spit.
His eyebrows go up and then scrunch inwards like he can’t make out what to do.
Thump.
I stand quickly, looking towards the sound. Sam’s on the floor, Tracy standing over him with a plank of wood.
“Tracy, stop!” Andy yells. “I said STOP—“
“Both of you!” I shout, throwing my hand out. A wave of shimmery purple light slams into the two men, shoving them a couple of feet backwards. “This mind control thing is getting really annoying!”
Both boys pull themselves to their feet, Weber ripping off his duct tape. He rubs his cheek, rolling his jaw around.
“How did you do that?” Andy asks, pointing at me.
“None of your concern,” I answer, fed up.
“And how did you do that?” he asks, this time turning to his brother.
“Practice, bro. If you’d just practice, you would know. Sometimes you don’t need to use your words. If you have to,” Weber answers, tapping his forehead, “all you need is this. Sometimes the headaches are worth it.”
“You’re a twisted son of a bitch!” Andy spits, lunging towards his twin.
“Back off, Andy. Or Tracy’s gonna do a little flying,” he teases. Andy rips himself away from Weber, hands up in defense as he turns over his shoulder to find Tracy. His face drops.
“Aren’t you, Trace?” he continues to mock. “I’m stronger than you. I can do it.”
“Yeah, but maybe not stronger than me,” I declare, fists clenched at my side.
“What?” he utters, finally looking over.
Tracy isn’t by the ledge like she was directed. Instead, she’s exactly where she was standing before, over Sammy. Frozen.
“And you’ll find that you’re unable to move too,” I inform. He looks down at his feet, arms jerking as he wills himself to move. “Which is as generous of an offer as you’ll get from me today because after the stunt you pulled, I really feel like castrating you.”
He grunts as he turns his sharp gaze to me. “Oh, yeah, the whole mind thing doesn’t work on me. And, Andy, if you don’t play nice either I’ll freeze you too,” I warn.
“It’s—it’s all wrong!” Weber roars. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, it’s just…Tracy? She’s trying to come between us.”
“You’re insane,” Andy spits, circling his brother.
“She’s garbage! Man, they all are!” he rants. “We can—we can push them, we can make them do whatever we want!”
“You can’t play God,” I say.
“Are you really…are you really this stupid?” Andy exclaims. “Is it—?”
“Wha—“
“I mean, you—you learn you’ve got a twin, you call him up, you go out for a drink, you don’t start killing people!”
“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, bro. But he didn’t let me,” Weber reasons. “He said I had to wait until the time was..”
“Who?”
“The man with the yellow eyes,” Weber answers.
I groan. “This demon really needs to get a life,” I mumble.
“What are you two talking about?!” Andy exclaims, looking between us.
“Long story—“
“He came to me. In my dream,” Weber explains, eyes frantic. “He said I was special. He told me he’s got big plans for me. Wait ‘till you see what’s in store, Andy, for both of us! See, he’s the one who told me that I had a brother. A twin.”
Then, Weber’s head snaps to the side, eyes locking in on something. I follow his gaze into a wooded area, a figure crouched down.
“I see you,” he says. “Bye-bye.”
Dean. It’s Dean. He’s turning the rifle in his hands up, tucking the barrel under his chin.
“No!” I scream, moving before I can think.
Bang.
I collapse onto Dean, the gun thumping to the grass beside us. His arms wrap around my waist, holding me to his chest as he sits up, taking me with him.
I peer over my shoulder, looking through the shrubbery to see Weber face down on the dark bridge where I once stood. Andy stands behind his collapsed body, gun shaking in his hand.
Sirens whirl and whine; police cars and ambulances stagnant as they observe the scene. The yellow caution tape sections us off, placing us in our own bubble of blood soaked asphalt and a sun that still twinkles on the water below as if pain doesn’t exist on the bridge above. But the sun has always been more forgiving than any human being, always rising the next day like clockwork. So, maybe I can take a page from her book and stop glaring at Dean with a jaw that won’t unclench.
“You lied,” I mumble, gaining his sole attention. He puts his back to his brother, giving us our own temporary cautioned tape bubble. “You pinkie promised, and you broke it,” I add bitterly, unable to care if I sound childish because he made a promise in a way he knows matters most to me.
“I didn’t break it. I kept myself a safe distance away,” he reasons, head tilted towards me to close our bubble more.
“No, you didn’t!” I exclaim, pushing at his chest. “He still…” I glance over at the paramedic who’s taking care of Sam’s shoulder near us. “You almost died!” I mutter, finger pressed to his chest.
“You broke the promise,” I repeat, pushing at his chest again. And, he takes it, not even flinching at my outburst. Gently, he grabs my wrists in his hand, eyes soft like he might actually feel bad.
“And you were the one who threw herself in danger's way,” he answers, voice just a little harsh. “I wouldn’t normally mind you being on top of me, but I’d prefer if that didn’t come with a bullet in your stomach.”
“Well, you scared me!” I whisper-shout, cheeks warm. “He was going to…I thought you were going to—“
His fingers nudge my fist open, pressing my palm flat against his chest, over his heart. It thumps steadily beneath my hand, his chest rising and falling with each quiet breath. “Still here, baby,” he says.
“You’re still a jerk,” I mumble, meeting his eyes. “And mean. And an idiot.”
“Mhm,” he hums, chest vibrating. Then he’s pulling me in, arms encircling me, my head tucked into him. His lips press onto the top of my head and for a moment I think maybe I did die when I ripped through the fabric of time and space to put myself between Dean and the gun.
The gravel crunches beside us, feet dragging against the broken rock. “She won’t even look at me,” Andy suddenly voices. “Oh…doesn’t look like you’re having the same problem.”
I pull away from Dean despite my heart begging me to stay tucked into him. He doesn’t let me get far though, keeping his arm slung around my shoulder to tuck me into his side, my cheeks as warm as the sun.
“Yeah, she’s pretty shaken up,” Sam answers, mumbling a thank you to the paramedic before he walks away.
“No, it’s, this is different,” he reasons. “It’s, uh, I never—I never used my mind thing on her before last night. She’s scared of me now.”
I’d tell him it gets easier, but then I’d be lying to him. To see the way someone’s face changes when they find out what you are is like an ebbing darkness that swallows your heart, tearing at the muscle from the inside. It’s like a betrayal, except they aren’t really doing anything to you. Still, getting stabbed, or getting hit by a car, or having a broken vertebrae doesn’t hurt nearly as much as seeing someone you love suddenly despise you. It’s exactly why my friend group is so small, why it always has been.
“You said you guys were a thing before. If she still cares for you—loves you—I think she’ll come around,” I say with hope. It may not get easier but that doesn’t stop us from looking for another solution, which must exist as long as we continue to breathe.
“Hey, Andy, I hate to do this, but um, we have to get out of here,” Sam cuts in with a tight lipped smile. “I wrote down my cell. You don’t have to be alone in this, alright? If anything comes up, just call me up.”
“Wha—What am I supposed to do now?” Andy asks, looking down at the small piece of paper.
“You be good, Andy,” Dean answers. “Or we’ll be back.”
He stares after us as we walk away, that wonder that was in his eyes yesterday now just barely a twinkle.
“Look like I was right,” Sam declares.
“About what?” Dean asks.
“Andy. He’s a killer after all,” he decides.
“No, he’s a hero. He saved his girlfriend’s life, he kind of saved my life,” Dean defends.
“Bottom line, last night, he wasted somebody,” Sam reiterates.
“Yeah, but he’s not a foaming at the mouth psycho. He was just, he was pushed into that,” he reasons.
“Weber was pushed too, in his own way,” Sam adds.
“Was he?” I ask. “He was manipulated to an extent, sure, but he had no reason to kill—he gained nothing. He justified his kills because in his demented mind he thought others were out to get him by particularly getting between him and his brother when in reality no one was doing anything. It’s a delusion of persecution.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Dean nods. “All that. Exactly.”
“My point is under the right circumstances, everyone’s capable of murder. Everyone,” Sam elaborates. “You know, maybe that’s what the demon’s doing. Pushing us. Finding ways to break us.”
“Sam, we don’t know what the demon wants, okay?” Dean exclaims. “Quit worrying about it.”
“You know, I heard you before, Dean, when Andy made you tell the truth. You’re just as scared of this as I am,” Sam points out.
“That was mind control!” Dean shouts, arms thrown up. “I mean, it’s like—like—that’s like being roofied, man, that doesn’t count.”
“What?”
“I feel like being mind controlled to tell the truth makes it count 10 times more,” I reason, just as confused as Sam is.
“No. I’m calling do-over,” Dean declares, chin raised.
“What are you, seven?” the younger Winchester scoffs.
“Doesn’t matter,” he brushes off. “Look, we’ve just gotta keep doing what we’re doing, find that evil son of a bitch and kill it.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Sam mumbles.
********
The Roadhouse is barren in the daytime, like the hunters are vampires who only come out at night—how ironic. But, Ellen called and so we came. Though, it’s probably best that it’s just us in the bar based on the stern look the older woman is giving us.
“Jo?” Ellen starts.
“Hm?”
“Go pull up another case of beer,” she directs, clearly trying to remove her daughter from hearing our conversation.
“Mom…” she groans.
“Now. Please,” she says sternly. I get why Dean is kind of scared of her, she’s certainly a badass and not someone I ever want to mess with.
Once Jo is completely out of sight Ellen leans on the bartop, studying us further. “So, you want to tell me about this last hunt of yours?” she asks in a way that tells us she wasn’t actually asking but rather telling us.
“No. Not really,” Dean answers. “No offense, it’s just kind of a family thing.”
“Not anymore,” she announces, producing a tall stack of papers she got from beneath the bar. An audible thump coming from the paper landing. “I got this stuff from Ash. Andrew Gallagher’s house burnt down on his six month birthday, just like your house. You think it was the demon both times, don’t you? You think it went after Gallagher’s family?”
“Yeah, we think so,” Sam gives up.
“Sam…” Dean warns.
“Why?” Ellen challenges.
“None of your business,” Dean spits.
“You mind your tongue with me, boy,” she snaps, pointing at him. “This isn’t just your war. This is war. Now, something big and bad’s coming and it’s coming fast, and their side holds all the cards. Now, at best, all we got is us. Together. No secrets or half-truths here.”
“There are people out there, like Andy Gallagher, like me,” Sam spills easily, almost as if it was killing him to not say so sooner. “And um…we all have some kind of ability.”
“Ability?” she echoes.
There’s a buzzing in my ears. I know how this goes. We’ll have to run.
“Yeah. Psychic ability,” he clarifies, somehow still going. Is his heart not beating out of his chest? Can he not feel the target sign he’s painting on his forehead? “Me, I have, um, I have visions. Premonitions. I don’t know, it’s…it’s different for everybody. The demon said he had plans for people like us.”
“What kind of plans?”
“We don’t really know for sure,” he answers honestly. He’s being so honest.
“These people out there, these psychics—they dangerous?” she asks, looking at him carefully. There it is. Always ready to attack.
“No. Not all of them,” Dean answers.
“But some are,” Sam adds. “Some are very dangerous.”
“Okay, how many of them are we looking at?”
That’s it?
No disgust? No fear that paralyzes her? No torches being lit? No pitchforks being lifted? Does she not care? Why doesn’t she care? How is she so calm? Is she faking it? Is she making us feel secure before she gives the signal for the hunters surrounding the Roadhouse to shoot?
I don’t get it.
Why is it different now? How is he so different?
“We’ve been able to track a clear pattern so far,” Dean explains. “They’ve all had house fires on the night of the kid’s six month birthday.”
“That’s not true,” Sam corrects.
“What?”
“Weber? Or Ansen Weems, or whatever his name is—I looked at his files, and there was no house fire. There’s nothing out of the ordinary,” he explains.
“Which breaks pattern,” Ellen recognizes. “So if there’s any others like him, there’d be nothing in the system. No way to track ‘em all down.”
“And so who knows how many of ‘em are really out there?” Dean echoes.
“Jo honey?” Ellen calls out.
“Yeah?”
“You’d better break out the whiskey instead.”
(Next Chapter)
A/N: This is not my favorite chapter or episode tbh, sorry if that’s evident in the writing.
Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @toocrazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain
Chapter 34 - You Need Someone
Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist
Author's Note: Dean in his victorian man era (she's showing her shoulder and he's getting hard). Longer chapter today to make up for the week off. Enjoy!
Chapter Title from Ungodly Hour by Chloe x Halle
Word Count: 21k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: Words lead to changes, but some things stay the same. Usual Warnings.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut.
Chapter 33 - Chapter 35
Read on A03!
“Can you see me?”
“If you did the spell right, darling, yes.”
You glare at Rowena’s reflection in the water. “You could just say yes, I can see you-“
“I don’t think you need coddling.” She drawls, and you sigh.
“Well, how’s it going. Is Eileen there?”
“The Irishwoman is out drinking.”
“Rowena, you have to stop calling her that-“
“She has been signing something quite rude at me-“
“Is it the middle finger?” You give her a dry look, and Rowena scowls.
“Well, we are not here to talk about feelings or friendly insults, little tiger-“
“You’re calling her Irishwoman-“
“And she has called me a whore, all because I slept with one Turkish vampire-“
“No, I don’t need to know that- Vampire?” You lean forward, and Rowena gives you a smug smile.
“He was quite pointy.”
“Gross.” You mutter under your breath, and Rowena scoffs.
“Please, as if you’re not obsessed with that human manchild-“
“He’s not a manchild.” You snap, a little too fast. “Can we focus, please? They’re only out for a few more hours, and- I told Dean about the Bride thing but I don’t think he’d like,” you gesture between yourself and the bowl, and Rowena rolls her eyes.
“Hunters. Never understand just how our kind can help them, if they’re stop burning us at stakes.”
“Well, witches have tried to kill him a lot-“
“Oh, he’s been fine.” Rowena dismisses you with a wave of her hand. “And he’s in love with one, he’ll have to get over that foolish mindset eventually.”
“He is?” You stiffen, sitting a little taller and pulling Velma against your legs. Dean’s not in love with a witch. He hates witches. And he would’ve told you if he’d went and found someone else. Not because he’d have to justify it, but because you were still his friend. And being in love was the kind of thing you told a friend about-
“You, darling.” Rowena drawls, and you relax—he’s not in love with someone else, that’s good—and glare at the bowl.
“I- You’ve never even met him-“
“I listened to you whine about him for months,” she says your name in a bored tone, examining her nails. “Eileen has told me you were like this before, as well. Jesus, you’re quite a fool for that boy, it’s a shame-“
“Are we going to focus?” You raise your voice, glancing at the door to make sure Bobby hasn’t decided to come check on you, and Rowena lets out a dramatic, slow breath.
“Fine. Although one day I am a going to meet your boytoy, and if he isn’t just the prettiest little thing in the world, we’re going to have a conversation about standards-“
“Rowena.” You mutter, picking at your skin. Defending Dean—he is pretty, but he’s not your boytoy, or little—really won’t help this situation, so you swallow the words. “How’s it going.”
“Well, Eileen and I have managed not to strangle each other.” She hums, looking proud of herself, and you huff slightly. “Don’t give me that, little tiger, the woman is a hunter. Insufferably moral, and- Loves cars-“
Dean loves cars. Another point that’s not going to be helpful to make.
“-But we have reached an agreement.” Rowena continues. “And I will not be stabbing her in her sleep for at least five months.”
“Congratulations.” You mutter, and Rowena smiles.
“Sarcasm isn’t befitting of a lady-“
“Shut the fuck up.”
She laughs. “I wonder if your hunter likes that dirty mouth-“
“Rowena-“
“You have slept with him, correct?” The look on Her face is a twistedly maternal one, and you flush, looking down to your hands.
You haven’t. But half the time you’re awake is spent thinking about Dean. His face and mouth and tongue and legs and hands. Big, stupid hands that you can still feel lingering on your lower back. Rough but gentle when they touch you, so careful whenever he moves, always finding their way to brush against your arm or thigh or face.
He touches you all the time. In tiny ways—as he walks past, knuckles brushing when he hands you something, a bump of his shoulder and a secret, handsome grin—and bigger ones. He’d let you ride shotgun, back from the fairy case, and kept his fucking hand on your knee the whole time. When you’d gone to bed last night, his lips had brushed over the shell of your ear. When he’d left with Sam this morning—just a grocery run, he’d be back soon, but you were still wearing his shirt to keep his gold around you—he’d kissed the top of your head.
And he saw you naked.
You haven’t talked about that. There are too many other things to talk—and worry—about.
But you want to talk about it. Even if it makes things more complicated, even with God over your head and Purgatory—lingering in the shadows and making every word so carefully chosen—you still want him.
He deserves better. You’re still so sick, so wrong. You didn’t go out with him and Sam, because seeing Sam’s soul being blocked might make you cry again. The curtains of your window are drawn shut, and you won’t be opening them. There’s a gaping, hollow darkness still threatening to swallow you whole, your skin feels wrong on your body, and you’d only remembered to eat because Dean sat across from you on the floor and refused to let you move until you ate some yogurt.
“I’m not hungry.” You’d mumbled, twisting the skin on your finger, and he’d sighed.
“Liar.” Dean had pushed the bowl forward, holding your gaze. “Eat.”
“I-“
“Please.” He’d muttered, his fucking hand finding your calf and starting to rub slow circles. “You gotta eat, Princess. If you don’t want yogurt, I’ll grab something else-“
“No-“ You hadn’t wanted him to go, so you’d given in and pulled the bowl forward. “Yogurt is fine. Thank you.”
“No problem.” He’d squeezed once, and you’d covered his hand with your own and squeezed back three times.
You’d focused on the yogurt. Tried not to think about how you’d been straddling Dean’s lap barely a day ago, naked.
It hasn’t been working all that well.
Rowena says your name, something like horror in her tone. “Please tell me you’ve fucked that boy within an inch of his life-“
“I- I’m not-“ You can feel the heat on your cheeks, and an almost phantom sensation of Dean’s hands and lips, grabbing and kissing, and this isn’t the time. “That’s- No.”
“But-“
“Rowena.” You mutter, rubbing at your wrists. “I- Nothing can happen. He won’t like it.”
He won’t. God can say he won’t hurt Dean all he wants, but you don’t trust him. So you won’t give him any single, reason at all.
“What do you have?” Your voice is softer, and Rowena—finally—gives in.
“Nothing you’ll like, darling.” She sighs. “In the ruins, Eileen had found your name.” She says it in choppy Enochian, and the Silver flares.
“You did?” You shove it back down, digging your nails into your skin. “What- Where?”
“An old temple looking thing.” Rowena sighs. “It’s the temple of the Whore.”
“The-“
“An old legend. It’s in the bible, dearie-“
“I know that.” You snap. “I didn’t know the Whore of Babylon had temples.”
Rowena shrugs, rippling in the water. “There are cults to almost anything that can be worshipped. The Whore is the piper of monsters. The maker of abominations. Everything evil and good and ‘all the time’, the false god that brings the end.”
“And-“ Your mouth feels dry. “My name was there?”
Rowena nods, and you take a long, slow breath. You’re holding Velma a lot tighter than a second ago, but you also feel sort of like you’re drifting, and you need something to anchor you.
“Did you figure out why?”
“It seemed…” Rowena’s words are slow, and that’s not a good sign. “That you were on the alter. And the ceiling.”
“The-“
“There was a painting. With a… resemblance. Eileen took a photo with that brick she carries-“
“Her phone?”
“I don’t care.” Rowena face twists. “The painting looked like you. Lot of color on one side, many hideous creatures on the other.“
“Oh.” The Silver is rising again. You swallow it down like bile.
They—angels and demons alike—have called you a whore before. Mostly you’d thought they were just being dicks. But now your name is on another cult.
You want to scream until you can’t anymore. There’s a stinging feeling in your throat and behind your eyes, and shattering apart would be comfortable. If you’re scattered across the floor, maybe there won’t be anything left of you to be worshipped.
But you’re out of tears. Your voice is already hoarse. And you’re mostly just so fucking tired. It’s that same empty feeling, from before. Big. Too big, so all the pain and turmoil gets lost in the aching nothing.
You might not be the Whore, but you are something. And it always seems to be more and more, and doesn’t seem to be slowing down.
You don’t want to be anything anymore.
So you scratch your nails down your face, force your voice to be even, and try to focus on what’s in front of you. What you can see. The dresser. Dean’s underwear drawer is a little ajar. He’d lit a candle, before he left, and the light is flickering softly off the walls. Your knife is next to your feet. Dean’s shirt smells like cinnamon, and it’s warm, and the Book is open to the page the fairies had marked.
You’re yours. Your head hurts, your stomach feels like it’s eating itself, and your skin is sore, but you’re only you.
This is just another thing for you to learn. Just another case. If you think of it like that, it should make it easier.
“Rowena, the Whore cults- Have you ever seen any others?”
“No, but they are like the Magdalene cults.” Rowena makes an odd face. “Made up of witches, trying to chase great, natural powers. Covens that worship.”
“But-“ You frown. “What about the Bride cults?”
“We haven’t been able to find any-“
“No,” you shake your head. “My family was a Bride cult, and a Magdalene cult. I think. There must be other overlap, right? And- Whore cults-“
You cut yourself off, staring ahead at the air. You have an idea, slowly forming in the back of your head. It’s not smart, but it’s far from your worst idea, and it might be able to help you with another problem.
“Rowena.” You say carefully. “What do they worship?”
“Life, it seems. In all its forms.” She pauses. “One the alter, it spoke of her being-“
“Salvation.” You mutter. “Or damnation. If the Whore is connected to monsters, did it say anything about Purgatory?”
“Aye, but only that there are many there who call her name.”
“Oh.” Your hand moves to your throat.
That’s what you needed to hear. It’s still carving you right open. Sick. Wrong. Evil, rotten little thing that doesn’t know how to be, that’s going to hurt the world because monsters and witches worship you, and you’re just a fucking parasite, leech, beast with teeth that have to bite yourself-
Rowena says your name, voice firm. “You’re thinking of something. Go on. Share.”
“It’s just-“ You take a sharp, jagged breath. This—whatever God is trying to make you into, whatever new thing you’re supposed to be—can’t consume you. Not now. You’re thinking of too many things. You chose one. “I don’t know. There’s no Bride and Magdalene overlap, but my family was a cult of both. And if my name is in the temple, my Enochian name, as the Whore-“
“There may be more connection.” Rowena finishes, and you nod.
“Can you and Eileen keep looking for Bride cults? Please? I have to go soon, tell her I say thank you-“
“You do not need to thank us.” Rowena says, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay. Keep me updated-“
“We will.” Rowena gives you a small smirk. “Fuck the hunter, darling.”
You open your mouth, all the heat returning to your face, and Rowena vanishes from the bowl.
Shit.
Your name is a lot of places, apparently. One cult temple in Babylon doesn’t mean a lot. But this isn’t a situation where you can just let things slide right past, because they might be nothing. And another cult really isn’t that much to deal with overall. It really is just another lead, because all these people can’t have been worshipping something for thousands of years without knowing anything about it.
And it did give you an idea. You needed to make the call anyway.
“Cas.” You say to the air, and there’s a whoosh off to the side. “Can you see my soul?”
“Of course.” He’s tilting his head, when you look up, and you swallow.
“Can you see what it’s made of?”
“Not easily. I have told you,” he says your name slowly “You are bright. Even to me, it is blinding. But-“ He continues, before you can cut him off. “If you needed an answer, I would say you are made of everything.”
“Oh.” You rub your thumb over your palm, leaning your head back against the mattress. Why not be made of everything. “Thanks, Cas.”
“You are welcome.” He pauses. “I have heard Dean wants us to have a meeting.”
“Yeah.” You sigh. “He’s- It’s complicated. I’ll explain there-“
“You are trying to escape being the Bride.”
You blink. “Did he tell you?”
“No. I had put it together myself. Your distress when I found you. The refusal to go outside. The notes you’ve been taking, and the-“ He glances at the bowl. “Calls.”
“Have you been eavesdropping-“
“Not on purpose.”
“Cas-“
“I was hoping you would tell me yourself.” He murmurs, frowning down at you. “I can help. More than the others.”
You shake your head. “You’ve got the war-“
“That I am only going to win with your aid.” He counters. “And you are my friend. I believe friends help each other.”
“They- They do, but this is complicated-“
“It does not seem to be.” Cas sits down slowly, holding your gaze. “I understand that if Dean knows, he will be determined. To free you. But he will not be able to know everything, with our… situation.”
You let out a soft laugh. “You mean how we’re lying to him.”
“There has not been that much deception. Mostly omission.”
“We’re not going to be able to keep that up, Cas.” You give him a small, sad smile. “I know we’ve had shit lucky catching an Alpha, but I- I have an idea. And once the ball gets rolling-“
You cut yourself off, a lump forming in your throat. You don’t want to think about. What happens when looking for Purgatory becomes more than a few secret meetings with Cas. There’s a horrible, evil part of you that really wants Dean to just focus on the Bride thing, so you can be free, and so he’ll stop thinking about Crowley all together.
He won’t. That’s not how Dean works. He’s going to try and do everything, until it all becomes impossible and blows up in his face.
Your face.
If this is going to have a fall out on anyone, it’s going to be you. The liar. The damnation. The Whore.
Cas has tried to give you an out. You won’t take it.
This is keeping Dean safe.
You just have to remember that this is keeping Dean safe.
“We need to keep going.” You mutter, staring at Velma in your lap. “If we get a chance, with the Bride, we’ll take it. But if we to juggle too many balls, we’ll drop them all.”
Cas stares at you. “What is juggling.”
“I’ll send you a video later. My point is that our priority is Purgatory. And I have a lead for Crowley.”
Cas mutters your name, and you shake your head.
“Please.”
You’re not sure what you’re begging for. The chance to do something, anything, to help instead of making things worse. It’s all you do, lately. Make things harder for the people you love. And just one victory—with the Bride, with Sam, or with Purgatory—is all you need. A little bit of proof that they’re right to keep you around, instead of putting you down.
Cas scans over your features carefully, then gives you a tight nod. You smile at him—and it’s weak, and too sweet, and fake, but you’re too tired to try harder—and push on.
It’s a gamble. Probably nothing.
Which means that if you’re wrong, nothing happens.
And if you’re right, you’ll be closer to all of this being over. just nee
“I haven’t been able to find a spell for purgatory.” You tap the Book. “But there are cults. Like the ones that helped raise Lucifer. For me. And- There’s got to be one for Purgatory. So- Witches.” You take a long breath. “Magic can do a lot of things, Cas. And there’s- The Whore.”
He frowns at you. “Of Babylon?”
“Yeah. And there seems to be a monster connection, the bringer of monsters or whatever- Everything evil and good and- All the time? There’s- A lot.“ You let out a slow breath, closing your eyes, and Cas says your name slowly.
“How did you hear of the Whore?”
“It might be me.” You whisper, and Cas sighs.
“That is impossible. We met the Whore, while you were in Europe. Dean killed her. But- You said there is a cult?”
You nod, keeping your eyes closed. “I don’t know. Just tell Crowley to look into witches. Please.”
“I will. But- You are not everything evil.”
“I-“ Your eyes shoot open to meet his. “Cas, I don’t-“
“You are a good person,” he takes your hand, holding your gaze, and there it is.
The tears.
Sam’s right. All you ever do lately is cry, but it all hurts so fucking much. You’re exhausted. In pain. All of this had barely begun, but it feels as if you’ve been doing it your whole fucking life. The Darkness, even if it’s not detached from the Silver anymore, is starting to eat at you again. Eroding along your ribcage, and making every thought spin around itself, over and over and over.
Evil. Wrong. Liar and Whore. Damnation, and doomed, and grabbing everything you love by the neck to drag it down with you. You’re saving Dean, and you might be able to save Sam, but no matter what this is going to rip you apart. And Dean is going to keep being the hero, the knight, the beautiful man he’s always been. Helping you and making promises to stay that he doesn’t understand.
He might not stay, when this is done.
You could, lose him no matter what.
And you’d rather lose him because he cuts you open and leaves you bleeding on the ground, pleading for him to stay with no reason for him to listen. That way, only person that’s ruined from this is you. Dean will be able to find that pretty, easy woman you’ve always imagined him with. You’ll still be his, but you’ll never hurt him again.
You’re not a good person. Good people don’t infect the things they love with their own horror.
Cas says your name again—the world burring, the air hot—and you can only shake your head.
“I- I’m not-“
“You are.” He says softly. “I understand that you feel- A lot. You and Dean both, you have emotions that can be very… confusing. But you manage to survive it-“
“I’m not surviving it.” You whisper. “Cas- I- It’s not just this.” You gesture to the air, not entirely sure what you’re talking about. “I- I think he’s going to come for me. And I- I’m not, I can’t-“
You cut yourself off with a weak noise, and Cas just squeezes your hand.
“We will survive it.” He says, and you draw your knees up to your chest, leaning into his side. “We will get through this war, and if he comes for you and we cannot stop him, I will go with you.”
You shake your head—he can’t do that, you don’t deserve that—but Cas pushes on.
“You have done more for me in two years than my brothers and sister, over a millennium. And I-“ He sighs, and when you glance at him, he’s frowning at the air. “I have promised Dean. That I would ensure your safety. I am very lucky to call you my friend,” he mutters your name, meeting your eyes. “We will figure this out.”
You don’t want to speak again. Your voice will break.
And you’re too tired to keep fighting.
So you, for now, just give in. Nod, and resting your head on Cas’ shoulder as you silently cry, and he sits at your side. He’s right. You will get through this.
You always do.
Bobby grunts your name from across the table, an hour later. Cas left to pass on your message to Crowley—he had limited time, before Dean’s emergency meeting for people with souls or grace—and you’d sorted through your notes for the pitch you have to give to Dean before wandering downstairs.
“Hi.” You mumble, dropping the Book on the table before wandering to the fridge. “Do we have chicken nuggets?”
“We always got chicken nuggets, kiddo.” Bobby grunts. “Fridge ain’t been empty of ‘em since ’91.”
“Aw.” You grab the bag from the freezer, giving him a winning smile. If Bobby sees the empty, hollow darkness still festering along some vital organs, he doesn’t show it. “You fed me.”
“You were a gremlin.” He grumbles, glancing up from his own book to your mess. “You makin’ progress on Sam?”
“Maybe.”
It can’t be called progress. More of another gamble, this one even more volatile. If your witch theory doesn’t pay off for Crowley, you just go back to Alphas. If this doesn’t pay off, it might be…
Really bad.
But it’s the only thing you’ve been able to find. And if the fairies are really worshipping you—if they’re actually trying to help—then it should work, and everyone will win. Sammy comes back. You finally offer a solution, instead of another problem or burden for Dean to carry. Sam’s trust if you won’t be misplaced. And it will only have to be temporary, until you actually find a long-term solution, or you get out of being the Bride and you can use the Silver to heal him.
You’ve definitely had worse plans.
You kind of wish everyone would forget about those ones, and focus on all the times your plans have worked.
Bobby grunts your name, his tone already a little more stern. “The hell are you playin’ with?”
“I’m not playing with anything. I’ve got an idea.”
“Kiddo, I love you, but your ideas are shit-“
“That’s mean.” You mutter, hitting the buttons on the stove, and Bobby snorts.
“You think Dean’s gonna like it?”
You whip around. “Why does that matter?”
“‘Cause.” Bobby shrugs. “Should be no problem answerin’, if it don’t.”
The chicken nuggets beep, and it’s a good reason to turn away from Bobby and his smug Dad-face, as you answer.
“No. He won’t like it.”
Bobby snorts. “Y’know, sometimes I think you like givin’ that boy a heart attack.”
“No, I don’t-“
Almost on perfect cue, the door slams closed, and Dean shouts your name. “Get downstairs, it’s meeting time-“
“I’m in the kitchen, De!” You call back, looking up from your plate just in time to see him appear in the doorway.
He grins at you, and it always feels like you’re being struck by lightning. Every nerve in your body lights up, your gaze is trapped on his like he’s magnetic, and as he takes two long steps towards you, the Spiderweb sings.
You don’t deserve it, as his hand finds your lower back and he keeps smiling at you. But you couldn’t move away if you tried. His voice is so deep, it’s like a lullaby. Calming the tension wound through the Silver, making everything technicolor, making all the pain a numbed, distant feeling, as everything becomes Dean.
“Hey, Princess.” He says, and you feel kind of dizzy. “Chicken nuggets?”
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his grin widens.
“You thirsty?”
“I- I drank water.”
Dean raises his brows. “I don’t see it, sweetheart.”
“Because I drank it.” You sound like an idiot. But Dean’s looking at you. He’d seen you naked. Dean saw you naked, and now he’s looking at you with a teasing light behind his eyes. With undivided attention. His hand is rubbing small circle on your lower back. The heat radiating off his body seeming to settle just under your skin and make you feel warm. As if there’s a soft, buzzing sensation that’s traveling down into your core.
This isn’t fair. You haven’t seen him naked. You can’t look at him and make it feel like he’s being lit on fire.
But now you’re picturing Dean naked.
His thick legs around you, like in the shower. Working with strong arms to cage you to his bare chest. Muscled and soft. You could bury your face in it, just breathe him in, feel all this molten heat everywhere and get drunk on the smell of him. His fingers, tangled in your hair and teasing over your thighs, the V you’ve see in his hips traveling further down, and-
“I got you some of that cream shit you love.” He says, puffing out his chest, and your breath hitches in your throat.
“I- You-“ Your breathing is too heavy. “What-“
“Cream soda, kiddo.” Bobby grunts, and you start slightly. You’d forgotten he was there. “Dean, you called this, but if you’re just gonna stand in my kitchen and do that, I ain’t watchin’ it.”
“Sorry.” Dean starts to move you to the chairs, and you let him. You’re still trying to collect all your thoughts into a shape that isn’t just heat and Dean. “Sam’s distracted, got him looking into Purgatory at the library.” He grins down at you, and you just blink at him.
He doesn’t know. He can’t know. He wouldn’t be looking at you if he knew, or touching you, and he needs to touch you more-
“Twenty says he ends up sleeping with the librarian.” He mutters in your ear, and you give him a flat look.
“I’m not betting on that.”
“Fine, be like that.” Dean flicks your nose, and you have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from gasping. Bobby’s right across the table. “You guys seen Cas? Maybe he’ll take my action-“
“I do not take anything from you, Dean.” Cas appears, right over Dean’s shoulder, and you snort as the latter jumps.
“It’s a saying, Cas. About gambling.” Dean glares at you. “You think that’s funny, huh, sweetheart.”
You nod, smiling up at him—it’s a real smile, because only Dean seems to be able to pull those out of you lately—and he scowls.
“Traitor.” He grumbles, and you giggle. “One day he’s gonna get the jump on you, and-“
“I have never gotten the jump on her.” Cas says plainly, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“Yeah, Deano. He’s never gotten the jump on me-“
“Yeah, yeah.” He drops in the chair at your side, pinching your thigh, and you squeak. “What was that, Princess?”
You whack his chest, he laughs, and Bobby groans.
“I’m goin’ back to my study-“
“Hey,” Dean shakes his head, leaning forward. Keeping a hand on your thigh. “Slow down, old man, we’re focusing-“
“Who you callin’ old man, Dean?”
Dean goes pale, and you sigh.
“Dean,” you squeeze his hands, and he glances at you nervously. “Just talk about the meeting.”
“Right, uh-“ He clears his throat, still sitting a little too tall. “Are there any safeguards we’re gonna need, Princess? If we’re talking about him?”
You swallow. You don’t need to ask to he’s referring to. He’s flashing outside the window right now.
“Just close the curtains.” You mutter, and Cas nods, all the blinds slamming shut.
Dean frowns. “That’s it? No- I dunno, hocus pocus to make it so he can’t creep?”
“He says he doesn’t spy on me. And I don’t believe him.” You give Dean a pointed look, and his mouth closes. “But- He already knows. What I’m trying to do. And he says he won’t take me, until I- Consent.”
Dean’s hand tightens on your thigh, and Bobby clears his throat.
“Someone gonna clue me into what we’re talkin’ about-“
“God.” Cas grunts, sitting in the chair usually occupied by Sam, and Bobby’s jaw ticks, his gaze shooting to you.
“What’d you mean, take you.”
“I- I wasn’t-“ You take a deep breath, and Dean grabs your hand. Squeezes it three times, under the table.
It’s okay.
You don’t feel okay. But you have to talk about this. You’d promised Dean you would, when he gotten you out of the shower. Pinky promised him.
“He visited me.” You say, keeping your gaze fixed on the table. “God. After I got out of the cage. Found me, when I was still trying to figure everything out, and he- He told me I would be his. That it’s what I’m made for.” Your voice is getting weaker, your grip on Dean tighter. If it’s hurting him, he doesn’t say anything. “That’s why I didn’t come back. I was trying to find a way out of it.”
“Out of the bein’ the bride?” Bobby says, and you nod. “You coulda come back for that-“
“He doesn’t like it when I’m here.” You mumble. “I didn’t want to make him angry.”
Dean tenses at your side, and Cas clears his throat.
“Did he… Tell you this?”
You shake your head. “Not when he visited me. He’s just- He’s never liked it.”
Dean mutters your name. “You said he’s been watching you-“
“He’s been what.” Bobby’s voice is harsh, strained, and you swallow.
This is why you’ve never wanted to tell anyone. You’re still the insane little girl, who talks to bugs and birds, who thinks people are colors and that the Sky visits her at night-
Bobby says your name, and tears are starting to prick at your eyes. You’re insane. Sick and wrong and a lying, insane whore-
“How long has God been watchin’ you.”
“I- I don’t know.” Your voice is too soft. You sound pathetic. “I can’t remember it’s- He’s just always been there. I mean, he sort of vanished when I was like, fourteen, but then he came back when…”
Your words die off, and Dean says your name gently. “You gotta tell us, we need the picture-“
“When I found out you were going to die.” The words still hurt. There’s a heavy weight, that feels like it’s pressing on your chest, and making that infinite, hollow feeling rise up your throat. “And I started trying to stop it. He- Didn’t like that. He’s never liked when I’m here, he says that I- Don’t belong here. That it would be easier for everyone if I just went with him now.”
Dean’s grip on your thigh tightens. “He’s told you that?”
You nod. “When he visited me after I got out. And- Before.”
“Before-“
“The cage. Right before we made the plan to pull Michael and Lucifer out.”
Cas lean forward, something tight flashing across his face. “In a… corporeal form.”
You nod, Dean frowns, and you squeeze his hand.
“Visible,” you murmur, low enough that only he can really hear you. “I met him in person form.”
Dean grunts. “Like- His person version.”
“Yeah.” You give him a small smile. “He had a beard.”
Dean’s jaw twitches, as he shifts a little taller in his chair, and your smile grows.
“He was short. And his voice was high.”
“Good.” Dean mutters, his chest puffing out slightly, and Bobby clears his throat.
“Why is that good, Dean?”
Dean scowls. “Cause- He’s a douchebag.”
Bobby only raises his brows, you sigh. You don’t want to tell them about the letter, not when Dean’s already sitting so rigid you’re worried he’ll snap. He’d start scanning over every motel room and refusing to let you sit down until he’s sure God hasn’t left you anything else. You’d never be allowed to touch paper again, without Dean checking it.
He’s such a fucking idiot. Grumbling about how short dudes ain’t bad, but God shouldn’t be allowed to look you in the eyes, adorably red and squeezing your thigh, and you’d probably make the world spin in reverse for him.
Cas is watching you carefully, and says your name in a low, cautious tone. “Has he told you that he does not like it, when you speak to us.”
Dean’s suddenly lookin back to you, enough that you can feel it searing into your body, and you shake your head.
“He just- Gets bright. When I do something he doesn’t like. But I- I can feel it. All the time. And he’s told me that I’m his. That I will always be his- That it’s something I’ll get over.”
“Explicitly.” Cas clarifies, and you nod.
Dean raises his hand, waiting for you to look at him before he speaks. “It?”
Fuck.
Love. For Dean. What Michael and God had all told you was that you’d get over loving Dean. That it would fade, when it’s the only thing that you know, for certain, is that you love Dean.
You can’t tell them that. But they’re looking at you. And you have to say something.
“Being human,” you mumble, and they all fall silent.
You said it. And there’s a pause, but Dean’s still touching you. No one is calling you insane.
When Bobby says your name there’s something painful in it, but not angry. Just sad.
“Why’d you never tell us.”
“He didn’t want me to.” You mumble. “I told you, he hates it when I’m here, I shouldn’t have told you now-“
“No.” Dean grunts, and you don’t know when his knee pressed to yours, but you need it to stay there forever. “It’s good you told us, Princess. I told you, he’s not taking you.”
“Dean’s right.” You can’t see Bobby lean forward in your periphery. “This ain’t somethin’ you should be dealing with alone. God says he ain’t takin’ you until you consent or whatever-“
“Until I stop fighting him.” You look up, meeting Bobby’s gaze with an open expression you know is desperate. “The- Thing. The powers. I can’t use them, that’s what he wants me to do, and I- I can’t-“
You try and shove down your sob, the Silver pressing and scratching under your skin, and Dean grabs your head and angles you into to crook of his neck. It really is so easy to come down, when he’s holding you. And you know Bobby and Cas are right there, but it’s only Dean. He’s Golden. He’s not letting God take you.
It’s not up to him, but you know he thinks it is.
And that only makes you love him more.
“Cas.” Dean grunts. “I don’t know what kinda records Heaven keeps, but-“
“I will see what I can find.”
“Thanks, dude. C’mon.” He starts to pick you up and you shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Dean, wait-“ The soul. Sam’s soul. You can’t just break down and do nothing like always, when this is something they’re all risking for you. “I- I’m okay-“
“You need rest, Princess-“
“I rested all day, Dean.” You mumble against his neck, and the smartest thing to do would be letting go—he’d catch you before you hit the ground, and take care of you after—but you don’t want to. “I’m okay, I promise.”
He pulls back, just enough to give you a flat glare, his voice dropping. “You’re crying, baby. We’ll handle this for you, just- Go to bed.”
It’s like he’s pleading. The same, exhausted tone he’d been using to beg you to let him help. And you like to go to bed. To let Dean pin you under his broad body, to feel him all around you, maybe watching his Gold turn and shine in the dark. Knowing he’s real. That this isn’t a trick or a fantasy, just Dean, so close to you.
But you can’t.
Sam’s trusting you to fix this. If Dean’s going to let himself be close to you—risking his hand being bitten off, risking infection—you have to be useful.
You drop your face into his chest—you’re not brave enough to look at him, as you speak—and shake your head. “I- I have a lead. On Sam. Please.”|
Dean’s already cradling the back of your head as he takes a deep breath, swaying you back and forth in the middle of the kitchen, and it’s another one of those moments. Where Cas and Bobby are almost shrouded in a colorful fog, and it’s only you and Dean. The feeling—however fleeting—wraps around you, and you can see it. A world where you’re just dancing around the kitchen, and Dean’s muttering low jokes in your ear that make you giggle. You tell him a joke back, and he throws his head back with a loud laugh that makes you feel like you’re floating.
You feel like you’re floating now, with his arms around you. If you were allowed to look up and kiss him, you might fly out of your fucking body.
He’s cupping your face with one, warm hand, and you just watch him. He shouldn’t trust you. He’s going to anyway. And for once, it’s good, because it’s for Sam.
“Fine.” He sighs. “But we go to bed after.”
You smile. “Okay.”
Dean grunts, helping you back into your seat, and you sniff as you sort around through the notes. You’d practiced your pitch a few times in the mirror, before getting sidetracked by Rowena and Cas. You’ve forgotten most of it. Dean’s still touching you. Words in general are hard, because his hand is resting at the top of your thigh.
You manage
“There’s a spell.” You mutter, pulling the note with the primary outline. “And it’s not a long-term solution, but it’s tape. It will hold. And we’ll get, our Sam back.”
You pass the note to Cas, Dean cranes his neck to try and read it. It’s in Enochian. He can’t. And there’s a cute little frown on his face, the moment he realizes that. You love him so much it hurts.
“I know it’s risky.” You say, watching Cas read it. “But- There’s nothing else I can do right now, without using my powers. This is just witchcraft. Soul magic. I can do it.”
Dean glances back to you. “Soul magic?”
“Yeah.” You sigh. “It’s like- Magic magic.”
“Princess, I don’t know what the hell that means-“
Cas grunts your name, frowning at you over the paper. “This is not risky. It is unheard of.”
“I mean-“ You rub at your wrists, giving him a grimacing smile. “You’re hearing of it right now.”
Cas gives you a flat look, and Dean grabs the paper out of his hands, scanning over it with a scowl.
“It’s not that bad.” You say to Cas, and he doesn’t look convinced.
“You’d be doing surgery on a nuclear sun.”
“Kiddo, I told you, your best ideas are fuckin’ insanity.” Bobby braces his arms on the table, giving you another firm Dad look that makes you bow your head. “This don’t sound like tape, this sounds like bein’ stupid-“
“It’s not stupid.” You argue. “And it’s not surgery, it’s more of blood transfusion-“
“Fuckin’ angel language.” Dean mutters under his breath, glaring up at you, “The hell does it say?”
“It’s a soul tie spell.” You mumble, taking the note carefully from his hands. If you don’t, you’re almost certain he’ll crumple it. “It’s like a blood transfusion,” you shoot Cas a pointed look. “For souls.”
“A stable soul,” Cas mutters, still glaring at you. “Offering Sam’s energy. It would, hypothetically, sustain him enough to remove the blocker, and slowly allow him to recover.”
“So what.” Bobby leans back in his chair. “He just need a blood donor or something?”
“Sort of. But-“
“It would have to be a match.” Cas’ stares at you, eyes narrowing. “And Sam’s soul is…”
“Abnormal.” You finish, letting out a heavy breath. “But- I think-“
“I’d have to do it.” Dean grunts, and you blink at him. “My soul is the same as Sammy’s, right? I’m the only match in the freakin’ universe- Son of a bitch-“ He runs his hand over his face, and you shake your head.
“Dean-“
“What would I need to do.” He gives you a determined, firm look, and you swallow. “Don’t tell me I gotta go on a cleanse, Princess. I’ll do it, but I’ll be pissed-“
“You don’t have to cleanse, Dean.” You give his forearm a gentle squeeze, and his frown deepens.
“What, so you just latch me onto Sammy-“
“No.” You whisper. “It- It can’t be you, Dean.”
He stares at you for a beat. “It has to be me. You’re the one who said our souls are different from everyone else-“
“Not everyone else’s.”
Something odd flashes over his features. “What, you wanna call Adam-“
“No, he’s not-“ Your nails dig into his arm. You have to say it. For Sam. “Me, Dean. I have to do it.”
He stares at you, and the room falls dead quiet. When you glance off to the side Cas is staring at the wall like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, and Bobby is glaring at his beer bottle, turning it with a white-knuckle grip. Dean looks like he’s about to burst a vessel. His jaw is clenched hard enough you can see the line of it, there’s a distant look in his eyes as he stares at you, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break his own hand with his fist.
“The person attaching the soul has to do the spell.” You try to sound confident, but it’s falling flat. “And it’s not basic witchcraft, Dean, but I can do it. It- Witchcraft is in my blood, this is a spell that was designed for Magdalenes to do, and I won’t mess it up. But if we try to let you, it would be really easy for you to get it wrong, just because you’re not a witch, and I don’t think we should take the risk-“
“But you can take the risk.”
Dean’s words were pushed through his teeth, and you blink at him. “What?”
“You think it’s just fine for us to put you on the line again.” He hisses. “When we already lost you once.”
“We-“ You glance at Bobby and Cas, who don’t seem all that interested in helping you sell this. “We’ve lost you, as well-“
“I got raised up.” He snaps. “And I ain’t died since, sweetheart-“
“That’s not true-“
“And,” he pushes on, narrowing his eyes. “That’s not the damn point. You can’t have me do it, fine. Sam keeps the wall. But you’re not jumping in front of a bullet just to clean up our messes anymore.”
“It’s my mess, Dean.” You glare at him, squaring your shoulders and raising your chin. “I’m the one who tossed Sam out broken, it’s my spell blocking him, I am choosing to do this for my friend. I’m trying to save Sam. You’d do anything to save Sam-“
“No.” He grunts. “Not this.”
You gape at him. “Dean-“
“Cas.” He doesn’t break your gaze, and you can feel the world starting to blur. “What happens if the spell goes wrong.”
“Sam’s soul remains broken.” Cas murmurs, and he won’t even look at you as he says your name. Traitor. “Her soul shatters as well.”
Dean shoots you a firm glare, and you swallow, pushing the words out of your throat.
“De, I promised I’d fix him, this is me fixing him-“
“And breaking yourself.”
“I won’t break myself, I know how to do this, I’ll do it right-“
“And what the hell happens if you do it wrong.” His voices raises, and you can hear the strain in it. He’s trying so hard not to yell at you. It’s worse.
“Dean-“
“No,” he snaps your name, shooting to his feet. “You miss this, and I lose you and Sammy, again. We all lose you!”
“Dean.” Bobby grunts. “Watch it.”
“I am watching it! I’m watching that she doesn’t try to fucking kill herself, again, for us-“
“I’m not.” You sound weak. The air is starting to feel thin. “Dean, I can do it-“
“I don’t care.” He snaps. “You’re not fucking doing this, Princess. Ever. That’s the goddamn end of it.”
“Dean-“
He stomps away. Walks right out of the kitchen, leaving you curled into yourself in the chair. Cas still won’t look at you. Bobby keeps opening and closing his mouth, and you know he doesn’t love this either, but at least he’s not going to try and stop you. He won’t get pissed, won’t walk away, Dean’s mad at you and he walked away, you told him you’d be there if he got pissed but he walked away from you, and you can’t breathe, the Spiderweb is howling and your skin is itching and sore, but Dean isn’t here to make it better because you made him angry-
A warm hand grabs yours, and you feel too limp to fight it as you’re pulled to your feet. Pressed right against a broad chest, another hand gently tangling in your hair, and you can’t breathe or move or really even think—some part of you is convinced that if you try, you’ll do it wrong—but the Silver isn’t fighting to escape your body. You’re safe here, surrounded by Gold. By Dean.
He came right back. For you. And he shouldn’t have, he’s earned the right to be mad at you, but he did, and it’s just making you cry more-
“Dean, if you’re about try and keep fightin’ with her-“
“I’m not.” He mutters, and you sniff. “And don’t tell me you’re on her side with this, Bobby. It’s insanity.”
“I’m on her side.” Bobby mutters. “And if she’s still cryin’ in the morning, you get shot.”
Dean just grunts, and you can hear a few muttered words between him and Cas before the latter vanishes, but you can’t really understand them. It’s too loud, in your own head. Mostly just a painful, static kind of sound that’s making everything hurt, and Dean’s mad, he’s mad at you, and you’re going to lose him-
“C’mon, Princess.” He mutters in your ear. “You promised you’d go to sleep.”
You nod against him—the tears having slowly run out—and let him guide you up the stairs, and into your room. You don’t want to talk. If you talk, you know you’ll try to keep convincing him, and he won’t listen, and then you’ll keep fighting and Bobby will shoot him. You don’t want Bobby to shoot him. You don’t want to fight at all. You just want to do this for Sam, to do something that’s actually going to help them without a single lie or secret, that’s going to make everything better instead of worse. But you can’t stop making things worse. Dean’s angry, he’s not talking either, and when you crawl into bed, and finally look at him—heavy lines of exhaustion on his face, watching you like he thinks you’re going to vanish, hands flexing at his side—you realize he’s not getting into bed with you.
“I didn’t mean to shout.” He mutters. “Call me if you need anything.”
He takes a step back, and you almost start crying again. “Dean-“
“Yeah?” He turns back around in a heartbeat, but doesn’t move from across the room.
“Can you-“ You pat the bed. “Please?”
He stares at you for a second, and if he tells you no, you’re not allowed to be mad about that. You started the fight. You told him he’s allowed to be angry with you, and he is. So if he walks away, you’ll wait for him. Just as you always have. Because the sun rises and the moon follows it, and the sky watches you while the wind screams a song that sounds like your name, but the only thing you’re always certain of is that you love Dean. And you’re going to wait for him. All the way down.
But Dean doesn’t walk away. His voice is low, and he’s not walking to you, but he’s not walking away. “You want me to?”
You nod, not trusting your own voice, and that’s all it takes. Dean takes two long steps, takes your face between his hands, and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. You grab his wrists, trying to keep him against you, and he draws up with a slow exhale.
“I’m gonna go change.” He mutters, his thumb running down the bridge of your nose. “I’ll be back, Princess.”
You nod, and force yourself to let go of him. He’s fast. Comes back with his shirt gone and the same tired expression on his face, but still gives you a tiny smile, as he climbs into bed at your side.
He doesn’t touch you, though. He’s not touching you. You wish he’d just fucking touch you, because you’re not allowed to move first but your body can sense how close he is, and it’s making your body white-hot to try and fight falling into his gravity-
His hand rests over yours. If it’s all you’re being offered for now, you’ll take it. You flip your palm up, and let him tangle your fingers together.
He squeezes you, once. And you squeeze back three times, because this hurts, but it can’t be worse than if he walked away. You love him. So everything is, really, at the end of it, good.
And it seems to snap something in him. Dean’s moving before you can realize what’s happening, and you’re being pulled right over his chest. His hand cradles the back of your head, your face finds the crook of his neck, and he hasn’t shaved in a few days. The stubble is soft, and your free hand seems to move of its own accord, reaching up to trace along his jaw. Dean lets out a long, slow breath, arm resting over your back to keep you pressed to his chest.
He’s still here. He said he wouldn’t leave you, and he’s still here, and that enough almost makes you start crying again.
Instead you whisper, loud enough that—although there’s no one else in the room—only he could ever hear you. “Are we still fighting?”
“Don’t know.” He mutters, slowly petting your head, and it seems to be making your body relax. “You gonna keep trying to do the spell?”
There’s never any point in lying to him. “Yes.”
He sighs. “Then yeah, Princess. we’re still fighting.”
“Oh- Okay.” You stifle a yawn, letting your free hand glide down, until you’re tracing the muscles of his chest. “Do we have to fight now?”
“No.” His voice is a little tight, his fingers pressing a little firmer than usual into your back. “You need to sleep.”
You hum, looking up at him under weighted, fluttering eyes. He’s staring at you, his throat bobbing, and he’s so beautiful.
You could talk about it for a million years and never get tired of it. How Dean really is just the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. How here, in the dark, it’s like there’s a floodlight in his tired—but somehow still focused—eyes, and everything inside of him seems to be blooming and overrunning itself with life. His lips are pressed together, but they’re still full, and you want to taste them again. He hasn’t kissed you since you got home. If he doesn’t want to kiss you again, you might never be able to kiss anyone again. They wouldn’t be Golden and beautiful. Wouldn’t be strong enough to kiss you until all the pain in your body is only a distant haze.
And you wouldn’t love them.
You don’t think you could love anyone like you love Dean.
“Can we stop fighting?” You whisper, and his lips twitch slightly, his hand still running through your hair.
“No, sweetheart. Not if you’re gonna try to hurt yourself.”
“But-“
“I’m pissed with you.” He mutters, his voice deep enough it makes you melt further into him, even as the Spiderweb aches. “I need you, baby. I keep telling you that, and- You never fucking listen.”
“I listen.” You protest, and he lets out a slow, dry chuckle.
“Yeah, alright.”
“I do-“
You try to push up on his chest, but he just pulls your right back down.
“You leaving again?” He asks, right in your ear, and you shake your head. You’d never leave him. Not until he makes you. Not until he kills you with his bare hands. “Then go to bed, Princess. We’ll fight in the morning.”
You hum, and sleep comes fast.
But morning comes faster. Leaks through the curtains, waking you until with Dean still snoring under you, his arm wrapped so tight around your waist that you think he might be trying to move you into his body.
The fighting doesn’t begin the moment he’s awake. That’s all slow blinks and Dean’s eyes hooded on yours, making your core ache as his hand grazes the bare skin of your lower back—right under your shirt—and his knee somehow finds itself pressed between your legs.
You don’t do anything about it. You’re not allowed to. But when Dean finally moves—guiding you carefully off his body and kissing the top of your head before going to the bathroom—you’re stuck in a small daze until he returns.
He’s mad at you. He said he was pissed, and he’s still handling you like you’re a fragile bit of starlight, and he doesn’t trust that you won’t refract off his hands and vanish into the air. You’ve seen how Dean acts when he’s angry. He picks fights. He throws things, and shouts, and finds any reason to be more angry.
But this isn’t that. He’s still touching you, all the time, as you go downstairs for breakfast. Keeps his thigh pressed to yours as you eat, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you’re actually eating. He gets you a cream soda from the fridge without out asking, and leans his chin on your shoulder as you talk about pointless, quiet things, and just the feeling of him next to you is stopping your skin from trying to crawl off your body. That darkness is still spreading over your bones, weighing them down until moving feels like it’s something that might become a labor. But Dean’s here. So the Spiderweb is casting light, and you can see everything clear and vibrant.
“Where the hell did you two go last night?” Sam walks into the kitchen, and Dean tenses around you.
“Don’t worry about it.” He grunts, and you keep your gaze fixed on Dean’s hand, covering your thigh. He’s Golden. It will be okay if you have to look at Sam and see nothing, because Dean is Golden. “You got any leads on Purgatory?”
“No.”
“Sam-“
“Deep breath, Dean, I found a case.” Sam drops at the table, and you turn your face to press into Dean’s arm. “What’s wrong with her.”
“Nothing. What’s the case-“
“Bunch of weird deaths at a college in Pennsylvania. Cops calling it poison, but poison doesn’t make your heart explode.” Sam says your name, and you look at him before you can stop yourself.
Hollow. He’s still fucking hollow.
“What’s wrong with you.”
You swallow, and Dean’s glare looks like it could kill something. “Sam-“
“Whatever.” Sam rolls his eyes, giving you a vaguely disgusted look before he continues. “We should leave soon, Dean. You can bring your sad girlfriend, or not. I don’t care.”
He stands up and leaves, and the iron taste of blood tells you that you chewed right through your cheek. When you lean back to meet Dean’s gaze, there’s something heavy behind it, and he shakes his head.
“Don’t.” He mutters, and your breath stutters as he tucks some hair behind your ear. “We’ll figure it out when I get back.”
You blink at him. “When you- Dean, I’m going with you.”
He shakes his head. “The last two cases we went on ended with you losing it, sweetheart-“
“Dean Adam Winchester,” you sit up, narrowing your eyes. “If you try leave me here, I will stab you.”
He stares at you, and you’re a lot closer to him than you meant to be. His breath is warm across your lips. He’s watching you with the same, heavy expression as before, but something softer behind it. His hand is rest on your hip again, pulling your body a little closer to his. Or maybe it just did that. You’ve never really been able to know for sure.
“Bossy.” He mutters, scanning over your features. “You’ll be safer at home.”
“No. I won’t.” Not if you’re not there.
Dean’s said he needs you. He keeps saying it.
You don’t think he understands that you need him more. That he’s mad at you, and the world isn’t ending because he’s here, but every second that he’s mad at you is another that the walls feel like they’re closing in. You can’t will yourself to just push it, to just fight, and see how you both come about the other side. He doesn’t seem to want to, either.
So nothing’s exploding or caving in. Neither of you are leaving. Dean lets you have this one, and you’re going on the hunt with him and Sam.
But the fight starts to leak everywhere, like an oil spill, until it’s filling up your lungs and every other word. It’s making your brain muddled, because everything is fine—much worse things have happened to both of you—but it feels off. You can’t swim out of it.
The car ride is long, and awkward. You can’t stop thinking about how you can convince him to go for the spell. Dean keeps trying to act like nothing is wrong, even though he’s the one who said you’re still fighting. Every time you manage to pretend everything is normal, Sam cuts in with a cold remark and it all falls silent again. After about two hours, Dean cranks the music loud enough that you can feel it in your ribs, and it manage to drown out most of your thoughts. You pass out around Indiana. When you wake you, Dean’s been driving through the whole night, and Sam hasn’t volunteered to take over.
“De,” you mutter, leaning over the bench. “We should stop-“
“We’re an hour out.” He grunts. “I’m fine, Princess. Go back to sleep.”
“But-“
“Let him drive,” Sam snaps your name, and you feel your face heat. “He said he can do it. I thought you two just trusted each other.”
You swallow, nod, and lean back, trying to shove down your tears. All you fucking do is lie, and cry, and make things worse-
“Sam.” Dean grunts. “Apologize.”
“It’s okay.” You whisper, meeting Dean’s glare in the mirror. “He can’t help it.”
Dean’s eyes flash, and he doesn’t say another word. You shouldn’t have said that. You’re pushing it, pushing Dean, when all he’s trying to do is defend you. But you don’t deserve defending. Not when you look out the window, and God flashes above you. Calling for you. Reminding you he could come and take you from all of this.
You flip him off, and close your eyes.
When Dean parks at the motel, he sends you in first. You know it’s so he can yell at Sam without you there, and you’re too tired to argue with him. You just grab the bags and shuffle into the room, tossing Sam’s shit on one bed, and yours and Dean’s on the other.
When you go to the bathroom, there’s a little paper, folded on the sink. The same paper God had used. Another fucking letter.
You rip it in half, and flush it down the toilet. You won’t go with him. It doesn’t matter how hard this is, or how long this fight with Dean lasts, you won’t give in. If God is waiting for you to realize that being the Bride is what you’re made for, you’re waiting for him to understand that you’re don’t know how to be his. That even if he grabbed you and forced you to go with him, you’d spend the rest of forever, trying to find your way back to Dean. If he thinks you’ll get over it, he’s wrong.
Even when Dean’s being an over-protective, stubborn ass, you’re his. You’ll fix this. All of it. You’ll heal Sam, and defeat Raphael, and get out of being the Bride. And maybe, if you show Dean that even when you’re sick and evil and wrong, it’s all for him, he’ll keep touching you until you explode into something like stardust.
Or you won’t. And you’ll lose him, without him ever knowing that you can feel the whole universe, but it doesn’t matter if you can’t feel him. At least he’ll be safe.
Because if he’s not, if this goes wrong and you lose him before you’re ready, this might all fall apart.
——————
Dean was going to punch the wall.
It had been a long few days of trying really fucking hard not to break anything. To remind himself over and over that She deserved better than Dean shouting at Her, even if she was being fucking stupid. That shouting at Her was something Dad would have done. That Dean was barely clinging to being in Her presence at all. That She said she wouldn’t leave if he got pissed, but he wasn’t trying to see how far he could push that.
He was going to keep them together. If Crowley or Raphael tried to trick Her into leaving, Dean would cuff their wrists together until She got it into her head that things were never better without Her. If God tried to take Her, Dean would fucking deck him, God or not. If She started crying and shrinking into Herself, he’d hold Her.
He hadn’t even been able to properly storm off, after that mess of a meeting. He’d heard Her crying, it had seemed to make the shadows longer and the wind louder, and he’s felt sick until he’d turned right back around.
But son of a bitch, She kept trying to goddamn throw Herself in front of every train, he was going to lose his mind. He couldn’t let Her out of his sight—like an overbearing, possessive asshole—because She might run off and try to toss herself off a cliff.
And that was the justification he’d settled on, for why he was standing so close to Her. Dean needed to be able to reach out and catch Her, if she decided to do something insane.
It didn’t have anything to do with how that professor—in his stupid expensive looking, ugly suit, with thin glasses and beard and gelled hair—kept looking at Her, as he finished up his lecture.
Dean looked at Her too. He looked at Her all the time. He’d watched Her sleep like a creep, then stared at Her while she ate breakfast—eating eggs shouldn’t be hot, but Her lips would wrap around the fork, then the straw of Her milkshake, then She’d lick them and Dean would have to think about death and hell to be able to stand up again—and he’d held Her gaze for the entirety of their fight in the morning.
Sam had suggested they just wait for another person to die, and She’d tried to talk Dean into the spell again. It had managed to end without Her crying, but with Her refusing to speak to him for the rest of the morning.
He hated it. He wanted to grab Her face between his hands, and shout that he loved Her. That if he lost Her, this time, he wouldn’t be able to tread in the deep end again. He’d go right under with Her. That the longer they fought—another one in the car, when he found Her looking at her notes—the more he felt like he was going freaking mad. With worry, frustration, adoration that he was having to shove down—if he let it show too much, She’d lean against him, say Deano, and he might cave—and hunger.
It was getting harder and harder not to make everything more complicated, and make a move. To decided that it was worth it, that touching Her far outweighed whatever consequences the universe would throw at them. He didn’t care if it made God pissed, Dean had to touch Her.
He’d seen Her naked.
And in the moment, he’d managed not to think about it. The focus had been Her breaking down, and Dean trying to control the bitter fury in his body, at the thought of God trying to take Her away. She’d been fucking crying and breaking down and looking to Dean for comfort, and in the moment, he’d offered it. Pretty damn well, too.
She’d calmed down, and Her breathing had returned to a steady pace, and when Dean had kissed the top of Her head and carried Her out of the shower, She’d been too relaxed to start trying to cover Herself up.
And it had hit him, square in the gut.
Dean had tossed Her a blanket, and forced himself to only look Her in the eyes. Not a glance at Her boobs, or stomach, or slightly spread legs. At every soft part of Her, every place Dean knew he’d fit well, every place he’d fucking fantasized about for years.
He’d tried to forget it, after. She’d been vulnerable. Dean never would’ve even seen it, if She hadn’t been freaking out about God. It would be taking advantage of Her, to think about how Her thighs had looked perfect to die between, and Her nipples had been such a pretty color, and how Her bare spine might curve if he kissed up it, slamming himself between Her legs and holding Her up by her perfectly curved ass.
He really should forget out it.
But he’d seen Her fucking naked.
And Dean wasn’t a good man.
So it was haunting him.
It was impossible to properly fight with Her, because he kept having fantasies of picking Her up, ripping off Her clothing, and worshiping every inch of her body until she was too fucked out to try and argue with him. Last night he’d ended up sprawled over Her in bed, and spent half the night thinking about Her nipples, and the way Her body might arch if he took one in his mouth. After the fight this morning, he’d gone to the shower and beat his cock to every bit of it he could remember.
He wasn’t a good man. She was his best friend, and She was mad at him. She’d been goddamn breaking down in his arms, and all now he was a selfish douchebag, jerking off to the way the water had slid down her bare back. Just like his release might, if he had Her bent over, her pretty ass in the air and face pressed into the mattress as she whined-
Dean was a fucking asshole.
But he couldn’t stop seeing it, whenever he closed his eyes. And he knew She wanted him, as least casually. Dean could shove down the pain of not having Her in every way, as long as he got this final part of being Her shadow. As long as She kept looking at him with fluttering lashes, and parted lips, and a flushed face. Or just looking at him at all.
Because She should be looking at him, not this smug looking bitch. Dean could gel his hair. He could wear glasses. He could steal glances at Her in a crowded room. He’d been doing that last one for years, this asshole wasn’t special.
But they had to talk to him. Two of the four dead girls had been in his class.
“They’re all chicks?” Dean has said this morning, scanning over the papers Sam had spread out of the table.
“Yep. And get this,” Sam had turned another paper. “They all go to the same college.”
She’d frowned, leaning forward at Dean’s side. She’d smelled like apples and sugar and vanilla. Her leg was still pressed to Dean’s. He’d wanted to grab it, pin Her to the chair, and sink to his knees before Her. Kiss up Her thigh. Refuse to let up until She was a writhing, shaking mess, and She understood that Dean loved Her and needed her, so She shouldn’t do stupid things-
“Are they all in a club together?”
“Not sure. Haven’t checked. You two can go interrogate some people, and I’ll get everything from the cops.”
She’d hummed, and looked at Dean.
He’d opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t have anything to say to Her that wasn’t unbelievably pathetic, or wouldn’t lead to another fight.
She’d looked away. Dean had forced himself not to reach for Her, as she walked into the bathroom.
This sucked. They’d passed three separate cowboy boots on the highway, and one of them had been covered in glitter and blood. He’d wanted to point it out to Her, but he couldn’t because they were in the stupid fight. And he wouldn’t give in on this one. She could flutter Her lashes and pout her way into almost anything, but not this. Dean wouldn’t lose Her again.
But this still sucked.
“I’m going to cut the lecture a little short today, guys.” Professor Hair Gel said, glancing to Her and Dean in the corner of the room. “I know you’ve all heard about the tragic deaths this week, and since Maya and Kaylee were in our class, we’ve got a few agents here that want to ask some questions. Yes, Tyler?”
Professor Hair Gel nodded to a guy near the front, and he cleared his throat. “I- Uh, I got football practice-“
“You can put it on hold for murder, kid.” Dean snapped, his voice echoing a lot more than he thought it would, and all the eyes in the room slid to him.
“We can write you a note.” She recovered quickly, kicking Dean’s shin, and he grunted. “We’ll take you out to talk, one by one, and you can go after you answer our questions. Okay?”
There was some grumbling and nodding, but no more protests. She was good at that. Making people listen. Dean was pretty damn certain that if he had a hot FBI agent come into his class and demand to speak with him, he would’ve been game.
And Dean might just be a goner for Her no matter what, but it seemed to be a sentiment a lot of the college kids shared.
“Did you know the victims, outside of your classes?” She asks, spinning a pencil between Her fingers—She must miss her knives—and Football-Tyler smirked at Her.
“Hell yeah, I knew them.” He winked. “Could know you too-“
“So you fucked them,” Dean grunted through his teeth, and he might be about to break his own pencil. “What, cheating on one with the other?
“Hey, dude, I’ve fucked a lot of girls. Was always casual. I mean,” Football-Tyler gave Dean a look like they were friends. “C’mon. You get it, right?”
“No. I don’t.” Dean jerked his head, his hands started to feel like they were coated in poison. “You’re done.”
She glared at him, as Football-Tyler walked away. “I had more questions-“
“It’s not him, he’s just an idiot.” Dean grinned at Her, because he couldn’t fucking help it. “You want next pick, Princess?”
She stomped back to the door without a word, and Dean sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.
The interrogations themselves weren’t that bad. Overall, most of the kids seemed more interested in answering fast and leaving. A few more jocks tried to hit on Her, but Dean got really good at glaring hard enough that they stopped. There were a few girls that kept trying to touch Dean, but She started to stand in front of him. It was better, and worse. His skin stopped feeling that hot, sticking pain from someone else trying to touch him, stirring the sickening memories—seeming to follow him like a plague—that he’d touched other women.
“Can I ask you something?” A blonde with big eyes said, twirling her hair around a finger, and She nodded.
“Of course, what-“
“Not you.” The blonde grinned at Dean, and his throat went dry. “Do you, like, do stuff? When you’re not being a cop?”
“Uh-“ He coughed. Hiding behind Her would be a cowards move. But this blonde was looking at him like she wanted to eat him, and Dean felt sick again, because what if She said it was okay. What if She asked Dean later why he hadn’t flirted back, and he had to explain that he’d rather drink fucking gasoline than touch someone that wasn’t Her. “I- I’m not-“
“We’re not cops.” She cut over him, and Dean hadn’t heard Her voice that bored and cold in a while. “And he’s on the clock. Ask him after.”
The blonde rolled her eyes with a scoff, winked at Dean, and walked away with a lot more hip movement than seemed necessary.
Dean spent the next few interviews trying to pick apart what She’d meant. She might just be focused on the case. But it had sounded like She hadn’t wanted Dean to flirt with the girl. He wouldn’t have, but that wasn’t really important. What mattered was if She knew. If Dean could kiss Her, even while they were still fighting, and She’d kiss him back. If She was defending him, or just getting jealous.
It would be really hot, if She was jealous. It wouldn’t be selfish to touch Her then. Dean would be able to get away with walking Her back against the wall and kissing Her stupid. Showing Her that he was Her’s. That he didn’t want Her to do the stupid spell because he loved Her, not because he didn’t trust her or whatever. That his hands only stopped feeling cold and bloody when they were resting on Her body. That nothing would ever be better than Her, pinned against him—close enough that maybe he could connect their souls together—and coming apart under his touch. Maybe he could angle Her head back, and mark all over Her neck until God saw that She was Dean’s. That he’d wrecked Her, and that asshole couldn’t take Her because Dean was Her shadow, so they were a package fucking deal.
She didn’t seem to get that.
Neither did Professor Hair Gel.
“Maya and Kaylee were great students.” He said, adjusting his glass on his nose, and Dean wanted to knock them clean off his face.
The moment they’d walked back into the lecture room, Professor Hair Gel had been scanning over Her like she was a piece of meat. Dean hated it. She was beautiful, he couldn’t blame anyone for staring, but he could want to hit someone for acting like they could possibly earn Her, just with smooth words and a stupid, shiny watch that Professor Hair Gel had made a big point of using to check the time. There was a goddamn clock on the wall.
The whole walk to his office, Professor Hair Gel had been talking to Her about food and music, and a bunch of other things Dean already knew about Her. When he opened the door, he tried to touch Her lower back to guide her through it.
She had shrunk away from the contact, but let Dean press his knee to Her’s under the desk.
It was the only thing keeping him from strangling the asshole in front of them.
“I mean, their deaths are tragedies, but- I’m going to be honest, agents, I was told by the cops that this was a series of overdoses.”
“It likely was,” She said, giving Professor Hair Gel a sweet smile, and Dean felt sick. “But even then, we have to understand if this is just college recklessness, or a new type of narcotic for the government to be concerned with.”
Son of a bitch, She was smart. And pretty. And Dean could see a bit of Her bare leg, and-
“Fair enough, agent.” Professor Hair Gel chuckled, leaning over his desk, and Dean tensed. He was within punching range. “Do they usually put you on narcotics?”
“I go where I’m needed.” She said, Her eyes wandering the room, and she missed the way Professor Hair Gel licked his lips.
He caught Dean’s eye, and raised his brows with a smirk. Dean couldn’t punch him. He technically hadn’t done anything yet. And Dean didn’t have any right, even if he was the one She told secrets. Who was going to protect Her from God. Who loved Her enough to take all her wrath and determination and pain, and hold Her through the dark. So it didn’t matter if this asshole did manage to charm Her. If She spent the night in his bed. She’d come back to Dean.
This asshole was the exact type of guy Dean had always imagined, when he thought about how She’d live, once She escaped the mud.
But Her hands flew to Dean’s forearm, as She tensed. She leaned on him, because he was Her shadow.
He muttered Her name, squeezing Her hand once, and she squeezed it back three times, turned to look at Professor Hair Gel.
“That’s an interesting symbol.” She nodded to a glass, on the Professor’s bookshelf, and he chuckled.
“Thank you. I don’t think so, but I’ve also seen it my whole damn life. Guess it gets less interesting after that.”
She hummed. “Family crest?”
“Of a sort. I have another.” He gave Her a smooth grin, and Dean tasted bile. “Would you like to stick around for a few drinks, agent?”
He couldn’t stop Her if she said yes. And She was pissed at him. It wouldn’t make him bend his stance on the spell, but it would make him feel like shit, and maybe if he grabbed Her right damn now and kissed Her, he’d be able to stop it-
“We have a few more interviews.” She stood up, still looking at the glass, and Professor Hair Gel hummed.
“I’m here until five, you could come back after-“
“She doesn’t drink.” Dean grunted, before he could stop himself. Professor Hair Gel glared at him, but She gave him a small smile before walking out the door.
That was more than worth it. She was still walking next to Dean, telling him about the records Sam had gotten—nothing like this in the past, no actual drugs in the victim’s systems—without giving Professor Hair Gel a second thought. And Dean would do damn near anything to make Her smile at him again.
Especially as their stupid freaking fight continued.
“Good work, dude.” Dean scanned over the documents, spread out on the table, and Sam just rolled his eyes.
“It wasn’t hard, Dean. Our job is never hard. Your job wouldn’t be hard either, if you were willing to do what we needed."
She frowned. “Sam, what did you do.”
“He didn’t do anything, Princess, he’s just being an ass-“
“No.” She raised Her hand, eyes narrowing at Sam. “What did you do.”
Sam shrugged, looking back to his laptop. “I got the documents. Stacy has connections to the morgue.”
Dean blinked. “Who the hell is Stacy-“
“Sorority girl.” She muttered. “In the class we interrogated.” She sighed at Dean’s blank expression. “The blonde, Dean. Sam, did you fucking sleep with her and make her steal from her job-“
“I didn’t sleep with her.” Sam scoffed. “She’s a virgin. Wanted me to take it, I told her I would if she got me the documents.”
She stared at him, mouth hanging open, and Dean was going to break his jaw. There wasn’t any point in telling Sam off, it wouldn’t do anything. He just stared at the beer bottle in his hands, and braced for the argument that was coming the moment Sam walked out the door.
“Dean-“
“I know.” He grunted, picking at the label, Her glare almost burning on his skin. “I got it.”
“He’s going to fuck us, you have to let me do this-“
“No.”
“Dean-“
“I’m not changing my mind,” he muttered Her name. “So you do it without me, or you don’t do it.”
This fight ended quieter. And Dean hated it more. It sucked, to climb into bed and act like he didn’t want to pull Her into his lap. To go get breakfast in the morning, and not have Her giggling in his ear. But he’d rather have Her pissed at him than not have Her at all. Once they got back to Bobby’s he’d prove that to Her. Maybe man up, and give Her the letters. Get Her another stuffed animal. Figure out something, because he needed Her not to run, and the anger seemed to be keeping Her out of that bigger darkness, but he also came back from the store last night—Sam wouldn’t talk him into the bar, but no beer made his head hurt—to find Her face stained with tears, Her arms wrapped around Velma.
He’d tucked Her hair behind her ear, and grinned as She let out a soft sound, leaning into his hand.
She was still here. So everything was, overall, not that bad.
The case was fucking crawling, though. Everything was making less and less sense. Three more girls vanished in as many days, with no more overlapping classes or clubs. No fucking leads.
“I like the, uh- Paintings.” Dean said, nodding to the walls of the gallery, and She gave him an amused look.
Dean didn’t care if She made fun of him. He must fucking needed Her to talk.
“What about them do you like, Deano?”
“Uh- they look nice.”
She hummed. “Which one’s your favorite?”
Dean sighed, scanning over the wall, and his attention fell on a taller, strange looking portrait. It was a chick lying in a bunch of flowers, hair around Her like a halo, little, firefly-like lights over her body as the earth seemed to grow around her.
Her.
The lady was a dead ringer for Her.
“That one.” Dean pointed, and She followed his gaze. Dean could see the moment She found it. She stood up a little taller, something strange flashed over Her face, and her eyes widened.
“Oh,” a sleek woman with a polished smile appeared in front of them, and She didn’t look away from the painting. “You’re looking at our painting of the unnamed mother goddess.”
“Mother goddess?” She whispered, and the woman nodded.
“We’re not sure of what religion. But we are certain that she was important.” The woman gave them a sweet smile. “How can I help, agents?”
Dean cleared his throat, and took over. She didn’t seem to be paying all that much attention—still staring at the painting—and all they needed from this lady was information about the latest vic. Kid who had worked at the gallery, no boyfriend, not many friends, but no enemies. Overall just not the target of a ghost or whatever monster seemed to hate college girls.
“Your ring.” She blurted at the woman, right before Dean was about to try and leave. “I- I like it. Is it a family crest?”
“Sort of, yes. Thank you.” The woman smiled at Her, raising the ring for Dean see.
And it had the same symbol as Professor Hair Gel’s glass.
“Princess,” Dean muttered, later that night, in the dim light of the bar. “We can go-“
“No.” She snapped, still scribbling on the napkin. “I’m fine, Dean. Go drink.”
He sighed. It had been a massive mistake, letting Sam talk him into going out. It didn’t matter where he was, Dean was going to be worrying about Her. He would have rather worried about Her without Sam sucking face at the bar and a bunch of random dudes trying to hit on her.
She didn’t look at them. She only looked at Dean. And right now, the fight really didn’t matter. She was spiraling about the symbol thing, drawing it over and over, and staring at it like it was going to attack her. On the walk to the bar—just down the street—She’d made them stick to the tree line and hidden behind Dean. She kept trailing Her fingers over his chest, and Dean was pretty sure She hadn’t slept the night before. She was wearing a short skirt. It flowed over Her thighs and showed some of her ass.
So most of Dean’s thoughts were torn between the memory of those same thighs, bare and wrapped around him, and overwhelming, sore worry.
“I’m not gonna leave you here alone.” He muttered Her name, and she shrugged.
“You can.”
He sighed. “I won’t. And you-“ He pulled the paper away from Her, and she whined, reaching for it.
“Dean-“
“You’re driving yourself crazy-“
“Because I’ve seen it before.” She snapped, trying to climb over Dean to take it back. “I don’t know where, but I’ve seen it- Dean-“
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He’d wrapped his arm around Her, hauling her back off his lap. Her hand had been about to press right over his dick. He didn’t want to have the you got this smell that always makes me hard conversation right now.
And now She was holding his bored gaze with a glare, and She was beautiful. It didn’t matter what was happening, She was always so fucking gorgeous. Bright eyes and parted lips and that little wrinkle on Her brow. Shiny hair falling over Her face, and a pretty flush when She tried to lunge forward and grab the paper, and Dean yanked Her back.
“Give it back-“
“In the morning.” He stuffed it in his back pocket. “You can try and take it, Princess, but I got an ass like Fort Knox.”
She wrinkled Her nose. “So like, once you shove something in your ass, it never comes out?”
“Nah.”
“What do you mean, nah-“
“I mean you’re not getting the paper, sweetheart. I’ll put it in my front pocket, if I gotta.”
Her eyes fell down to Dean’s jeans, and there was that flush again. “What if I say please?”
He grinned at Her. “You gonna give me a cherry?”
Jesus, it should be illegal to look like that. Eyes blown out, nails digging into Dean’s thigh, mouth hanging open enough that he could probably just slide his thumb between Her lips. Her bare knee was right against Dean’s thigh.
Then She leaned forward, close enough that Dean was high on just the smell of Her, and yawned.
They were supposed to still be fighting.
It was damn near impossible to stay mad at Her, when She was dropping Her brow on his shoulder and wrapping around his chest. Dean held the back of Her neck as she nuzzled into him, and She couldn’t be that mad at him for not letting Her do the spell. She was still trusting Dean, like it was the only thing for Her to do in the world.
“Tired, Princess?” He muttered in Her ear, and She hummed, nodding against him. “Alright. Let’s go.”
“No, I-“ She tried to push off of him, and Dean watched Her strain from the effort of pushing down Her yawn. “‘m okay, De, you can stay-“
“Sweetheart, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you walk home alone-“
“But you wanted to drink.” She whispered, eyes wide on his. “And- If we go back, we’ll keep fighting.”
His jaw clenched. “We don’t have to.”
“Can I do the spell?”
“No.”
She gave him a small smile, lips wobbling, and Dean sighed, moving the hair away from Her face.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning, okay?”
“You wanted to drink-“
“I got beer at the motel.” He muttered, slowly pulling Her to her feet. “And I want to hang out with you.”
She yawned again, but didn’t fight as Dean took Her hand. “Even when I’m being the worst?”
“You’re never the worst, Princess.” He muttered, kissing the top of Her head. “But yeah. I wanna hang out with you all the time.”
“Oh.” She smiled at him—wide and enchanting and full—for the first time in four days. “Good.”
———
Jan. 9 - 2011
Princess,
You’re not okay. I know you’re not. You’re not telling me anymore, because of the fight, but I know. And goddamnit, we need to wrap this stupid shit up soon, because I hate it when you’re pissed at me. You haven’t been in years and I forgot how it feels. It’s painful, baby. You’re still touching and lookin at me, but it took you being so tired you couldn’t walk straight to laugh at a joke.
You’re always cute, when you’re tired. It’s like you’re freaking drunk or something. You tried to pet a squirrel, when we were walking back from the bar. You tried to get in bed wearing your clothing. I had to help you change. Couldn’t get you into pants, but I promised I tried. Didn’t look at the goods. I wanted to. Shit, all I think about lately is how you looked like a fucking painting, when you were naked.
I love you, though. I’m waiting for when you’re ready. And son of a bitch, princess, I know you got a lot of options and you’re mad at me, but please give me a shot. I’d take care of you. No matter how pissed you are.
I get that you wanna help Sam. Hell, you know I’d do anything for the kid. But not this. I’m not trading you for him, and if Sam were here (real Sam) he’d agree with me. He wouldn’t want you to take a risk just for our sorry asses.
We’ll work it out, baby. Promise. But we’re not doing it like this.
Yours,
DAW
———
“Dean.”
He groaned, and something shoved his chest. He should probably reach for his gun. Something just the right of his heart was telling him not to.
“Dean.” A siren-like voice hissed in his ear. “Dean Winchester.”
He dragged his eyes open, and there She was. Taking up his whole vision, hanging above him in the dark, hair falling over his face and a hand planted on his bare chest.
His hand flew to Her hip and he yawned, rubbing his face as he spoke. “Wha’sup, Princess?”
She blinked at him, eyes fluttering. “I- Um, I got it.”
“Got-“
“The symbol. I think.” She sat back on Her knees, and Dean had to push up to keep looking at her. “Can I have my paper, please?”
“Sweetheart, you need to sleep-“
“I slept.” She leaned forward, and Dean’s hand had somehow ended up on Her bare thigh, and shit. “Please, Dean.”
Son of a bitch. “Fine.” He pulled the paper out of his jeans, and tried not to feel too smug about Her smile as he passed it to Her. “Y’know, you coulda just taken it.”
She didn’t respond—pretty flush, hitched breath—and unfolded the page, scanning over Her sketch before looking back to Dean with wide eyes.
Dean frowned at Her. “You know it?”
“Yeah.” She whispered. “Dean this is- We have to go-“
She tried to move away, and Dean barely managed to lunge forward and grab Her by the waist. He wrapped his arm around Her stomach, pressing Her to his chest, and she fucking whined, trying to squirm away.
“Princess,” he muttered in Her ear, tightening his grip. “Tell me what you’re thinkin’, before you run off in the middle of the freakin’ night-“
“I’m not running off-“
“Sure damn looked like it.”
She twisted to glare at him. “I can do things, Dean, I know what I’m doing, and you’re not my fucking boss-“
“Yeah, cause if I was, you’d be back at Bobby’s.”
Fuck.
He shouldn’t have said that.
She was staring at him, completely still, and he hadn’t meant it like that. He wouldn’t have been able to stand having Her at Bobby’s. He would’ve spent the whole hunt pissing Sam off by calling Her, but worrying about Her was making him sick, this case was getting to Her, and he couldn’t even fucking help. But now She was pushing out of his arms, and he couldn’t even bring himself to stop Her. He wasn’t supposed to hurt Her.
“Wait.” He muttered Her name. “That’s- I didn’t-“
“It’s fine.” She crossed the room, grabbing Her skirt off the floor and chucking a shoe at Sam’s sleeping form.
He sat up in a second, aiming a gun for Her head, and Dean could barely shoot to his feet before She was shooting him a glare that almost made him cower. She was mad. Really mad.
“It’s me.” She said, reaching Her hand out for her shoe. “Get dressed, we have to go.”
Sam raised his brows, but nodded, and Dean cleared his throat.
“You gonna tell us what the hell we’re doing?”
“It’s not a family crest, Dean.” She tossed him a folder. “It’s a bloodline symbol, and it’s branded on all the vics ribs. They’re lookin for a human sacrifice, and the hearts are exploding because they can’t find a vessel match.” She scowled at the air, spinning her blade as she spoke. “They’re trying to raise something powerful. Otherwise the vessel wouldn’t matter.”
“Alright,” Dean muttered, sitting up fully. Human sacrifice. Easy. “What the hell is a-“
“Bloodline symbols are used by powerful cultic families to track the primary line.” She muttered, pulling on her shoes. “Everyone gets one until the family head dies, then it’s revoked from members who aren’t worthy. Their descendants aren’t part of the line anymore.” Her nose wrinkled. “It keeps the line pure.”
Dean stared at Her, and he felt something boiling in his gut at Her expression. A little sunken, drawn tight, and hollow. The light in Her eyes was dimmed, She was breathing way to slow—as if She knew she couldn’t afford to breath faster—and Her free hand was fisted.
She was hurting Herself. Something was really wrong.
He said Her name slowly. “How’d you work that out?”
“I told you.” She said, voice flat. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Where-“
“My family liked to have parties.”
Dean tensed, pulling his shirt over his head. “Wait, these assholes aren’t-“
“Not mine. Probably another witch cult. Sam, we need to go to the sorority, now. And-“ She shot him a withering look, and Dean didn’t know how Sam managed not to flinch. “No trying to sleep with anyone.”
Sam rolled his eyes, muttered an agreement, and started out the door. Dean barely managed to sprint after them, slamming the door behind him and calling Her name. She turned with a glower, and he grabbed Her shoulder, because he needed to feel Her. He knew She was real.
He still had to check.
“Princess, we don’t know what the hell we’re going into-“
“I know.” She said, holding Dean’s gaze, but not shoving off his hand. “Because I’m good at my fucking job, Dean.”
“Yeah, I know. But-“
“Do you know? Or do you think this would be better if I was back at Bobby’s?”
Dean swallowed. “You know I didn’t mean it like that-“
“Do I?”
He took a slow breath. “Sweetheart, you spend every night fuckin’ crying and then act like it’s fine, you don’t go outside unless you gotta, and you’re trying to throw yourself off a goddamn cliff for no reason-“
“I’m trying to help!” Her voice was raising, and was twisting right into Dean’s gut. “You said you needed me, Dean, and I’m trying to be useful and fucking help you but then you want me to do nothing-“
“I don’t need you to- Son of a bitch, I just want you to be okay-“
“I am-“
“You’re not!” He roared, voice echoing around the parking lot. “Telling me what’s up with you doesn’t make you okay, running around without stopping doesn’t make you okay, trying to- I’m not fucking losing you again. So you can fuckin’ hate me, Princess, but there’s no goddamn way I’m letting you just fucking hurt yourself when you’re- When I-“ He took a sharp breath, shaking his head. Not the time. “I need you.”
She stared at him, and he was breathing heavier than he wanted to, but She needed to say something. Tell him that She was gone—that he’d crossed the line by being too angry, by showing too much of his hand—and now he was going to lose Her forever-
“You never lose me, Dean.” She said, Her voice too soft. “We have to go.”
And She just fucking walked away. Turned away and headed for the Impala, leaving Dean on the sidewalk. But She looked back. Glanced over Her shoulder, like she was checking that he’d follow.
He had to. He had the keys.
But he’d also follow Her if she was walking right off the edge of the world, and there was no promise they’d both land on their feet. As long as Dean was allowed to do it with Her, he’d do fucking anything.
It was another reason why he didn’t want Her to do the spell. It wasn’t something he could help Her carry. There was no way for him to shoulder half the burden. All he goddamn wanted to do was pick Her up and carry her everywhere like the princess he called Her, be the one asshole that had Her, no matter what. All the way down. He’d shield Her with his body. Shoot every bullet over Her head, if she even got too tired to pick up Her knives. Put himself in Her place, if God was into that.
Dean would do anything. And She still didn’t get that. She kept running back to him, before wiggling out of his arms the moment he got to carry Her.
He couldn’t figure out how to make Her understand. That carrying Her was a privilege, not a burden. He stayed in Her orbit because there wasn’t any other way to be. It didn’t matter if She was holding the world, Dean would still hold Her.
He loved Her.
But he always broke the things he loved.
And he could never say the right fucking thing.
“Do we just, uh-“ He leaned forward on the wheel, glance at Her in the rearview mirror. “Go in?”
Sam nodded, reaching for his gun. “Ready-“
“No.” She snapped, frowning out the back window. “No guns.”
“Come on,” Sam said Her name, giving her the puppy look, and it was sort of creepy, without the Sammy softness behind it.
She didn’t even bother to look. “No. Guns will make them nervous, Sam, and we need to talk to them, check that no one’s missing, and-“
Her words died, and Dean twisted to fully watch Her. Face drawn, eyes narrowed, that wrinkle deep on Her brow. He muttered Her name, reaching out to grab her hand, and She only looked at him before stepping out of the car, and sprinting into the woods.
“Fucking-“ Dean roared Her name, grabbing his gun and running after Her. She said She wouldn’t run. She fucking promised, and now she was literally running away from him. He didn’t bother to check if Sam was behind him. The ass could defend himself, Dean needed to catch Her, and son of a bitch, he’d never actually tried to physically catch Her, why the hell was she so fast-
“Dean!” She screamed, the sound echoing through the trees, and he skid to a stop. Whirled around at the identical, dark trees, shouting Her name back and raising his gun at every long shadow.
She wasn’t there. His hands felt like they were covered in blood, because he’d lost Her. God might have grabbed Her. Or it had been Her family, and they’d pulled Her away from him, knowing that he’d never be good enough. But She’d told Dean she never wanted to leave him. He wasn’t good enough, but She’d trusted him, and She could see his soul so She couldn’t be wrong about that. He’d pushed it too far, he’d fucked it up, he’d lost Her-
“Dean!”
He turned, and there She was. He hadn’t lost Her. She was stumbling towards him through the trees, Her hair tangled, blood on Her jacket, and a blonde girl hanging around Her.
It was the blonde chick from Professor Hair Gel’s class. Who’d hit on Dean, and maybe tried to fuck Sam. She wasn’t in good shape, barely conscious, making a weak sound as She pulled them both across the ground. Dean sprinted to Her, reaching out to take blondie, but the girl whined and flinched away.
“Princess, what the fuck-“
“She doesn’t want you to touch her.” She muttered, glancing at Dean. “They hurt her- Her soul, it’s- Is everywhere.” She looked back to the blonde. “Stacy, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Dean, we have to go-“
“Why are we standing in the forest.” Sam said, appearing out of the dark and frowning at Stacy. “What happened to her?”
“I’ll tell you in the car.” She snapped, scanning over the woods. “We have to go, right now-“
Sam frowned. “We haven’t killed the witches.”
“I killed one.”
Dean tensed. “What about the other.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter, we have to-“ Her eyes widened. “Dean-“
“Hello, boys.” A bored, British accent came from behind Dean, and he froze. “And girl. Two girls.” Crowley sighed. “Love, it’s not polite to steal another man’s human sacrifice. And you killed one of my witches. You owe me some life insurance.”
She swallowed, and Dean had never seen so little color in Her face. “Crowley-“
“Ah.” Crowley cut Her off, and Dean was still holding his gun. The shot wouldn’t kill Crowley, but it might slow him down. “I take life insurance in the form of your soul, or you finishing the job for them. I would also like my blonde back.”
“Leave the girl alone, Crowley.” Dean grunted, turning with the gun raised. “Walk away.”
Crowley mostly looked vaguely disappointed. “Dean. I expected better from- Oh, no. I didn’t.” Crowley spread his arms. “Take the shot. I’m sure it will tickle.”
Dean’s jaw twitched, his finger on the trigger, and She screamed so loud it ripped through the air.
Something slammed into the back of Dean’s head, and it wasn’t enough to knock him out, but son of a bitch, it hurt. His knees gave out with a groan, the gun feel from his hand, and disappeared from his view of the ground.
“Dean-“
“Don’t move,” Crowley drawled Her name, and Dean felt the barrel of the gun on his temple. “Or, well- You know the deal. Dean gets it. Miles, make him turn around.”
Something kicked Dean’s legs, and he grunted.
“I’m movin’, douchebag, no need to get handsy-“
“Shut up, Winchester.” A new voice spat, and Dean glanced up to see fucking Professor Hair Gel, glaring down at him before looking to Her. “Really? This, this pig-“ He kicked Dean in the gut, and Dean groaned. He needed to stop getting beat up in front of Her. It couldn’t be hot. “Is the one that the Magdalene is willing to-“
“Miles.” Crowley hummed, walking into Dean’s periphery. “I think that’s enough. We do need her to cooperate.”
Miles scoffed. “I could do it, I don’t need my sister-“
“You have failed five times in four days.” Crowley snapped. “I want this door open, not some idiot cunt who keeps drawing the attention of hunters. Not just hunters, the hunters. The self-righteous Lords of the Flies and Jane Austen’s wet dream heroine-“
“This is the vessel, my lord, I promise-“
“No, it’s not.” She cut Miles off, Her voice soft, but clear. “I saw his notes, Crowley. This doesn’t need a vessel.”
Miles scoffed. “The ritual calls for one-“
“The ritual is wrong.” She snapped, and Crowley raised his brows.
“And how would we do it right, love?”
She raised Her chin. “I’ll tell you, if you let Dean go.”
“Interesting offer.” Crowley hummed, giving Miles a small nod, and the safety of the gun clicked off. “My counter is that you tell me, and I don’t shoot your brute.”
“He’s not a brute.” She said quickly—that was nice, made Dean feel kinda gooey, even if he was about to be shot—and Sam shrugged.
“He did run into the woods with a gun.”
“Sam. Shut up-“
“Yes, Sam. Shut up. And you,” Crowley sneered at Her. “Tell me. Now.”
Dean shook his head, grunting Her name. “Don’t tell him- Fuck-“
Another kick. She stared talking.
“It’s looks like an alternation of a ritual, so it just doesn’t need a vessel. That’s it. And it’s been killing all the girls, because it’s overloading them. I- Please,” Her voice broke. “You just need the blood of a- Of the vessel, I- I promise- Don’t shoot him-“
“I’m not shooting him,” Crowley said Her name, still sounding bored. “Have you figured out what the spell is for yet?”
“Yes.” She swallowed, Her finger bouncing against Her blade. “If you do it right, it will open purgatory.”
Lie.
That was a fucking lie. And when Dean met Her gaze, there was something panicked behind it.
He blinked at Her, once.
She blinked back twice, but gave a tiny shake of Her head, and Crowley kept talking.
“Well then, that makes things simpler. Miles, shoot the girl.”
The gun started to move up, and Dean tensed—now would be the time to make the move—before Crowley cleared his throat.
“Actually, I’ll kill her myself. Don’t let him off the leash.”
Dean grunted at the barrel pressed back against his skull, and watched Crowley cross the clearing. To Her. And She wouldn’t go down without a fight, wouldn’t just let Stacy die, but Sam was just freakin’ standing there and they were fucked.
“Don’t.” She hissed, raising the Blade. “She’s just a kid, Crowley. Let her go.”
“Or what, love. You’ll stab me? When I have a gun pressed against your Dean’s head.”
That wrinkle on Her brow deepened, and Her eyes darted to Dean. He blinked three times. Over and over. Whatever She had to do, she should. Stacy was just a kid, Dean was always going to go out like this, and there wasn’t even any dread about it in his body about it. He’d been through death a few times. Never seemed to stick. And this is what he was supposed to do. Die for the people he loved.
She might be hurt, but She’d survived without Dean before. Christ, he hoped Cas didn’t let Her do the spell. Bobby couldn’t love it either. Either way, Dean wouldn’t be tainting Her anymore. And he’d never fuck everything up again.
Her looked back to Crowley, Her chin raised and back straight—save for the weight of Stacy—and there was the dread. She was about to do something insane.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
Crowley raised his brows. “A deal? I don’t expect that from you, love.“
“I try to keep it interesting.” She muttered, and Her voice was too even. She should be losing it. Dean loved Her, but she never did well under high pressure choices and attention. “Do you want to hear the deal or not.”
Crowley tipped his head. “Go on.”
“You let her go.” She nodded to Stacy. “Sam takes her to the hospital, no demons interfering. Just treatment. I’ll visit her and make sure she forgets.”
“I fail to see how this benefits me-“
“I’ll do your ritual.” She said, and Dean’s blood went cold. “Your trust fund babies were incompetent. And even with the proper ingredients, it’ll be easy to fuck up. You don’t want to fuck this kind of spell up, Crowley. I’d get it right. You know I would. But,” Her eyes narrowed. “You have to let Dean go.”
No. Dean didn’t know what fucking the spell up meant, but it didn’t sound safe. His life wasn’t worth the risk, not to Her. She could get herself, Stacy, and Sammy out just fine by leaving him behind. Miles wouldn’t get the jump on them after She took care of Crowley, and everything would be fine. She was extending Her hand, to make the deal. And the gun was still pressed to his head.
Dean damned it.
“Don’t,” he shouted Her name, and the only sign that she heard him was a stuttered breath. “God fuckin’ damnit it, don’t let him win-“
“Miles.” Crowley took Her hand, and Dean could hear the smug smirk in his voice. “Gag the dog. And you. I release Sam and the human, you preform the ritual, then you get Dean. Deal?”
“No-“ A rag was stuffed in Dean’s mouth, and She fucking shook Crowley’s hand.
“Deal. But,” She yanked Crowley forward, dropping Her voice low enough that Dean couldn’t hear it as she continued.
Whatever She said was enough to make Crowley look pale, when he drew back. Made him nod and retreat quickly, before snapping to Miles that Dean needed to be on his feet. And they moved quickly. Sam was sent off through the woods, —with very clear, loud threats about what would happen if they got back and Stacy wasn’t safely in medical care—and didn’t look back. They moved a little deeper through the forest, until they were in a small clearing. There a pit dug into the ground—the morning light making it pretty damn clear it was filled with blood—and a small alter.
She got to work, moving around a bunch of planets and bones and other shit around. Chanting in Latin as She mixed things together, cutting Her own hand over the alter. Every few moments She’d glance at Dean, and he’d blink. Twice. Over and over. She shouldn’t do this. There was no goddamn reason for Her to be risking whatever this was for him, Dean was just Dean, and this was-
Dean wasn’t sure what this was.
She started to blur Latin with a few other languages Dean didn’t know, bowing Her head and placing Her palm flat on the alter. The pit-blood—wolves blood, Crowley had said when She asked, and Dean didn’t want to know how the hell he got that—started to bubble, and the Earth shook. Kept shaking.
Then the pit-blood started to swirl. The grass around it started to wither. And She opened her eyes, looking directly at Crowley, and moved to her feet.
“Done.”
Crowley sighed, and waved his hand. “Miles, give her the mutt back.”
“My lord, I can just kill him-“
“Do not kill him.” Crowley hissed. “If you do, I will kill you.”
Dean didn’t understand that. Crowley was the type to let Dean go right into the blood pit. But the gun was gone from his head, he was kicked forward onto the grass, and he barely got to spit out the gag and push to his knees before She was grabbing him. Running a hand through his hair and over his chest, scanning over Dean’s face with a strained expression, and squeezing his shoulder twice.
He coughed, spitting out some of the grass that had ended up in his mouth, and grunted Her name. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind-“
Her hand planted over his mouth, and She glanced over his shoulder, to where Crowley and Miles were watching the blood pit. “We have to run.” She whispered. “Crowley found the wrong spell, he’s not opening purgatory, he- He thinks it’s a latch door, open and close, but it’s a-“ The ground shook again, and she grabbed Dean’s hand, Her breath growing shallow. “Fuck, we have to go-“
There was the panic. And Dean might be so furious he could feel it in his hands and teeth and standing on the ends of his hair, but he was still going to protect Her. So he squeezed Her hand three times, and made for the tree line.
It was easy to find their way back. And Dean didn’t need to look back to know that the ritual was still working. The trees were bending in the direction of the clearing. The ice and snow was thawing, like the earth was growing hot, but the air was still freezing cold. The earth shook again, as he got them to where they’d parked, and fucking Sam took the car.
“We’re walking, Princess.” Dean grunted, and She nodded, but She was shivering.
He tossed his jacket around Her shoulders, folded himself over Her—sharing heat, blocking Her from the view of the sky—and started them down the road.
The further they got from the forest, the more the world seemed normal. There weren’t any monsters or beasts, screeching through the night or right on their tails. The world didn’t end. God didn’t take Her away. But it had been something to freak Her out that much. And when Dean got them back to the motel—closing the shades and bolting the door, because Sam barely slept anyway—he sat Her down on the bed, went to grab the medkit, and dropped at Her side.
She barely moved, as he grabbed Her hand and started to stitch Her cut. And Dean should let this go for the morning. But She was hollow. And he’d rather fight than watch Her stare at nothing for a damn second longer.
“We need to go back in the morning?” He grunted, focusing on the feeling of Her hand in his. “Clean up?”
“No.” She whispered. “Crowley will be gone. And- The witch-“
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Dean muttered Her name. “You gonna tell me what we’re dealing with?”
“I- I don’t know.” Her voice was still soft. He could feel Her gaze. “The ritual called forth the mother of monsters, but- I’ve never heard of that.”
“Don’t sound like nothing good.” Dean muttered, and he forced himself to look up.
She was staring at him. Eyes no longer hollow, but glossy. Dean should leave it alone.
He couldn’t.
“Why the fuck did you do that.”
She stared at him. “Do-“
“Make that stupid fucking deal, sweetheart, trade me for the mother of monsters.”
“Because, I- He was going to hurt you, Dean-“
“And?” He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t risk that kind of spell for me, you get the hell out.”
“I- Are you fucking serious?” She gaped at him, voice raising slightly. “I saved you.”
He was going to break his jaw. “I don’t want you saving me if it’s a trade, Princess.”
She scoffed, pulling Her hand from his. “So you’re allowed to sacrifice yourself, but I’m not?”
“I always walk out the other side.” He grunted, and something pained flashed over Her face.
“No. No, Dean. You don’t.”
She was moving away from him. Shaking Her head and wrapping her arms around her stomach, leaning just out of Dean’s reach. He as pushing it too far. He couldn’t lose Her.
He couldn’t stop.
“Well, this isn’t about me.” Dean grunted Her name. “I fuckin’ told you, sweetheart, you keep trying to kill yourself, and I’m not letting you-“
“You don’t get to choose that, Dean!” She stood up, and his hand flexed, trying to reach for her. “And I’m not trying to kill myself, I- I’m helping- I’m fine.”
Dean snorted. “Don’t lie to me, Princess. We both know you’re not, and you said the ritual can go wrong-“
“And I said I wouldn’t get it wrong-“
“What would’ve happened if you did?!” He snapped, forcing his voice to stay down. He wouldn’t yell again. “I don’t know how witch-shit works, but I’m willing to bet that you would’ve died-“
“But I didn’t-“
“You could have! I might have goddamn lost you-“
“I might have lost you!” She screamed, and Dean froze. “They were going to kill you, Dean! They were going to shoot you in the fucking head, and I- I wouldn’t be fast enough to stop it- I’m never fast enough, and you were going to- And he would’ve- You-“ Her voice broke. “You were going to die. Right in front of me, just like- like-“ She shook Her head, wrapping Her arms around her gut. “You were going to die and I- I’m doing it all and- And I can’t- Dean, I can’t-“
The tears started to fall down Her pretty, flushed face, and Dean muttered her name, but She didn’t stop.
“I need you.” She whispered, soft enough for it to sound like a dream, and it was like being struck by lightning. “I need you, too.”
Dean stared at Her. She needed him. Dean. No one else. She came back for him. She hunted alone, except for Dean. She told him secrets and made him blanket forts and named Her car after him, and She needed him.
That was the truth.
And he didn’t know who moved first. It didn’t really matter.
All that mattered was that Dean reached for Her, and She was there. Falling forward into his arms. Digging Her nails into his shoulders, as he grabbed Her hips.
Kissing him. Kissing him like She was trying to brand him. Letting Dean kiss Her with every bit of some furious fervor that had been building in his chest, for maybe his whole life. And It was all for Her. Always for Her. Her apple and salt taste, as Dean pushed his tongue deeper and tasted her moan. Like fucking music.
He hauled Her up without breaking the kiss, and helped Her settle into his lap. Dean groaned as She ran Her fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck, and bit Her lower lip before flicking his tongue over the hurt. She moaned down his throat, rolled Her hips right over his crotch, and Dean felt a growl rip through his chest.
And they’d kissed before. Slow and rough and hungry and gentle and desperate. But this.
This was different.
Because She squirmed against him, and Dean’s hand had somehow ended up under Her shirt. He ran his fingers over her spine, and she arched into his touch. Pressed Her tits right to Dean’s chest, as he sucked on Her lip and squeezed Her waist, drawing out a soft sound of satisfaction. And She kept moving, gasping against Dean’s lips as he pressed the kiss further and further, and grabbing at his shirt like She was looking for an anchor.
He started to kiss along Her neck, trying to slow this down and give Her a second, but it only seemed to make it worse. She was full on grinding against his thigh, as he sucked a dark mark on Her throat. Dean let his tongue flick over what seemed to be a soft spot, and She shivered. Fucking shivered and whined, and it was a goddamn drug. He needed to know every sound She could make. Needed to drink it and worship it and pull it out of Her.
She was getting sloppy. Writhing against him with less friction than She probably needed. Making weak sounds that might be his name, and yanking on Dean’s shirt in a silent plea.
She was staring at him under fluttering lashes, when he pulled back to look at Her. And he could die right damn here.
She was always beautiful. Dean would never have enough words for it. But right now, trying to fuck his leg and looking at him like She’d been waiting her whole life—just to feel Dean—She looked extraterrestrial. More than human. More than the stars. Some space goddess that had wandered onto the wrong planet, and seemed sort of lost.
But She didn’t need to be lost.
Dean was going to take care of Her.
“Breathe, Princess.” He muttered, moving to grab Her hips, and She took a sharp breath, pressing Her face into his neck. “You need some help?”
“Yes,” She gasped, and Dean had never heard a more beautiful word. “Please.”
“Alright.” Dean squeezed his hold on Her, moving one hand to gently tug on Her hair, until Her brow was resting against his, and he could see every blown out, beautiful, desperate inch of Her gorgeous face. “Can you keep looking at me, pretty girl?”
Breath. Parted lips. Flush. And She nodded, dropping Her brow right against Dean’s as he grinned.
“Thank you, baby.” He muttered, pressing a soft kiss over Her lips. “I’ve got you.”
He started slow. Rubbed Her back and forth against his thigh, watching the way Her skirt rode up and Her body shook, and debating if he wanted to just take his hand and do it himself. Then She whined, starting to set a faster pace with Her mouth fallen upon and eyes blown out—so bright She really could just be a living star—and that could be for another night. Right now, Dean wanted the wet spot on his jeans. Wanted to make Her feel good, with nothing but his mouth on Her neck and his leg pressed to Her core.
And he fucking got it.
It took a second for Her to get going, but once She did, she was gone. Riding him, letting Dean move Her faster and faster until She was gasping and wrapping Her arms around his neck, almost choking him. He didn’t give a shit. He might just be lightheaded from how She felt, rolling along his thigh and writhing in his hands. Her tits were bouncing, nipples peaked up Her shirt, and Dean rubbed his hand over the curve of Her bare ass, groaning when she squeezed her thighs around him. He was so hard it was painful, and whenever She bumped his cock he’d groan, but then She’d shiver again. Her skin was soft against his lips. When he crashed back up to kiss Her fully, She moaned his name and melted into him.
“Dean-“ Her movements were shorter, Her body like a live wire under his hands. “Dean-“
“I know,” he ran his hand through Her hair, watching her because he’d have to be insane to look away. “Come on, baby, you got it. Let go for me.“
She made a high, breathless noise and seized up. Dean had to keep Her hips moving, to pull Her through the orgasm. And Her eyes were fluttering, hair stuck to Her brow from sweat and body pressed against Dean’s, Her tits right in his face and the memory of them bare slamming into his thoughts, right as Her knee pressed into his crotch and-
He grunted at his own release—white hot and so good he could fucking swear he was seeing stars, but that might just be Her—but managed to muffle the sound with another kiss.
Softer. Coming down, as She shook in his arms, holding him tight enough that She might be trying to leave a dent on him. Dean wouldn’t mind if She did. It would be proof that really happened.
“Good?” He muttered in Her ear, and she nodded.
“Mhm.”
“No words, huh-“
“Good.” She whispered, Her breath warm on his jaw. “So good.
“Awesome.” He sat a little taller, grinning to himself in the dark. “You tired, baby?”
“No-“ She yawned, and Dean chuckled, kissing the side of Her head.
“Alright. Bed.”
She grumbled as he moved them to their feet, but didn’t fight him. Dean let Her go first, to get changed. He hadn’t gotten Her shirt off. He should wait for that. For when he did the hand stuff.
And She’d left Her panties on the floor, when Dean took his turn. He wasn’t a good enough man not to stuff them in his jeans.
She’d kissed Dean, though. Fucked Herself on his leg. Begged him to help Her. And when he got Her back into bed, She rolled into his arms.
She squeezed his hand, once. He squeezed it back three times, and She smiled at him in the dark.
“You still pissed at me, Princess?”
“Yeah,” She pressed Her face into his chest. “But we’ll get through it.” She paused, Her voice getting a little softer. “Right?”
“Right.” He kissed the top of Her head. “All the way down.”
Dean held Her a little tighter, as She relaxed. And that silvery light was blooming in him again. All the colors, leaking through the curtains with the sunrise, seemed brighter.
Everything was complicated and hard, but She was still here. And She needed him.
So he couldn’t be all that bad.
End Note: I've never felt more like a supervillain than right now by the way. It's all coming together.
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Read Between the Lines
Pairing: Andy Barber x Fem!Reader x Ari Levinson Word Count: 2,699 Summary: Andy seeks a deeper connection with you, and you surprisingly find yourself responding in kind. Warnings: A/B/O AU. M/F/M dynamic. Explicit language. Sassy, untrusting, rough around the edges!Reader. A fictional verse that is not kind to omegas. Mentions of an omega in heat. Slight angst.
A/N: My babies 😭
POUND TOWN MASTERLIST
You had to roll your eyes at yourself as you made your way to the kitchen.
It was just about the time that Ari usually started to prepare dinner, and you hated how much you liked sitting at the kitchen island to watch him cook.
And sneak you tastes in between all his cheffing.
It was dumb, but…well, it kind of almost made you sort of happy.
You scowled at that realization, huffing a little as you crossed the living room, then the entryway, the kitchen now in sight.
But then you heard Andy mutter your name in this tone he had never used before–frustration–and it had you stopping in your tracks as your belly sank hard.
You should probably just turn around and go back to your room. It seemed like you were just on the precipice of finally witnessing the very thing you had been wary of all along–Andy and Ari’s true colors.
The way they would say it aloud, just between the two of them–how disappointed they were in you and selecting you as their omega.
Your stomach was roiling now, anxiety trickling throughout every inch of your body as your inner omega whined pitifully and you angrily blinked back tears.
No. If they were going to shit talk you and air the truth aloud while they thought they were alone, you were going to stay right here and listen to every single word that came out of their lying mouths.
Clenching your hands into tight fists at your sides, you hedged closer to the kitchen doorway, pressing yourself to the wall to remain hidden as your heart hammered in your chest as the alphas continued to talk.
“Why are you struggling with this so much?” Ari asked softly.
Struggling with what exactly? You? As their omega? And a bad one at that?
Andy heaved a long-suffering sigh. “It’s just…I see how much she enjoys being in the kitchen with you, and I love that for both of you, I really genuinely do, but I dunno, I guess I just want…”
As Andy trailed off, Ari finished his sentence for him, “Something special that you can share with her, just the two of you?”
Andy’s voice was the smallest you had ever heard it as he replied, “Yeah.” A beat, and then his concerned protector voice was speaking now. “Does that upset you?”
“Not at all, handsome,” Ari murmured. “I totally get it. I stumbled on the cooking thing with her by sheer dumb luck, thanks to my obsession with food and my desperation to connect with her, but I think you are overthinking this and driving yourself crazy with all this research and trying to come up with the absolute perfect idea. Andy, just be you.”
“You really need to stop being so perfect,” Andy laughed, but it was filled with emotion, and it made your own eyes sting for a different reason now.
“Sorry, you’re stuck with me and my utter, undeniable perfection,” Ari sniffed.
Your hands slowly unclenched at your sides as your heart rate started to regulate. Your anger and betrayal faded away too as you swallowed hard and edged closer to the doorway, peeking around the corner to see Andy and Ari hugging, Ari’s big hand gently soothing up and down Andy’s back as the other alpha buried his face against his love’s neck.
You couldn’t believe it. Andy was this upset because he wanted to connect with you and spend more time with you, one on one?
Something in your chest fluttered, and for some reason, a dumb smile split your lips. You pulled back immediately, grimacing at yourself as you pressed your fingers to your mouth to try to curb the way your stupid lips kept trying to curve upward.
What was wrong with you?
You like being wanted, your inner omega crowed.
Giving the empty entryway the stink eye, you resisted the urge to huff. Rolling your eyes at yourself, you took a moment to school your features into an unknowing, indifferent mask.
Then you turned the corner, stepped into the kitchen, and planted your hands on your hips as you asked, “Are we having dinner tonight, or what?”
And maybe your belly somersalted just a little when the alphas pulled away from each other, and Andy’s gaze found you and softened then warmed as a genuine smile tilted his lips.
“Absolutely, honey,” he replied, no trace of his former upset to be found on his handsome face. “We can all get started on it together.”
Your belly did another fluttery swoop as your inner omega urged you to look at how happy you make him and you ignored her, suppressing another smile as you moved toward the kitchen island and tried not to bounce in place as Ari began to gather ingredients for tonight’s meal.
Later that night, once the house was dark and quiet, you found yourself wide awake as you laid in bed, staring into the darkness.
You couldn’t stop thinking about what you had overheard earlier.
The way that Andy was so desperately seeking a way to connect with you.
And the way that Ari coveted his own connection with you that had formed.
They really were making it hard to hate them and hate this new life you found yourself now living.
More than that, there was a part of you that wanted to make Andy feel better.
You tried telling yourself it was because it was dumb that he was so worked up over some sort of stupid activity for the two of you.
But really, deep down, you couldn’t stop hearing how small and sad his voice had sounded when he spoke to Ari earlier.
Andy always tried so hard to make you happy and content. Would it really kill you to return like 5% of that energy? Just this once?
Groaning quietly, and knowing that you wouldn’t be able to sleep until you did this, you flung back your covers and slid from bed.
You made your way out of your bedroom and were relieved when you saw a soft light spilling from the living room, maybe a little excited too, even though you didn’t know why, as you peeked inside and saw Andy sitting on the sofa.
He had his laptop on his lap, his brow furrowed and his reading glasses perched on his nose as he stared at the screen, reading something intently.
“Are you working this late at night?” you asked as you stepped into the room.
Andy’s head snapped up, his whole face lighting up at the sight of you. “Hi, honey!” That familiar concern of his flashed across his features next as he asked, “Are you okay? Did you have another nightmare?”
“No,” you huffed, crossing your arms as you stood there, staring at him. You swayed on your feet for a moment, not really sure what to say.
This was a stupid idea.
Andy swallowed, and he shook his head at himself, his grin wry as he closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table before sagging back against the sofa with a tired sigh.
“Can I be honest?”
You nodded, your eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“I’ve been trying to research something fun for the two of us to do together,” Andy confessed. “I’ve spent hours over the past few weeks pouring over local community sites and threads. I probably know more about the farmer markets and state fairs in a hundred mile radius than the people who organize them.”
Inside, you were all warm and gooey that Andy was admitting all of this to you, that he wasn’t keeping things from you and making you feel othered compared to Ari, which was what you worried about most in being a late addition to their pack.
Of course, on the outside, your smart mouth ran away with your reply before you could stop it, “Sounds like a waste of time.”
Andy’s smile dimmed, his gaze falling to his lap. “Yeah, I suppose it is. I’m sorry I’m not more fun like Ari.”
Once again, the words were out of your mouth before you could really process them let alone keep them to yourself, “You don’t need to be fun and showy, you’re soothing and make me feel safe, and that’s important, too.”
Slowly, Andy lifted his head to meet your gaze. His eyes glimmered as he swallowed hard, something so beautifully touched aimed your way as he watched you for a long moment, not quite sure how to respond.
When he finally did, his voice was rough–with emotion, you suspected–as he told you, “Thank you, honey. That means a lot to me, especially coming from you.”
You fought the urge to preen at his gratitude, and how genuinely happy he looked by your comment, feeling stupidly pleased with yourself as you shrugged and then huffed.
There was no real bite to your words as you said, “Stop making me be nice, it’s gross.”
You moved closer, rounding the coffee table and swiping up the throw blanket on the armchair before sinking onto the sofa a few feet away from Andy.
You situated the blanket around you, getting comfy before peeking over at him to find Andy watching you with this soft, glowing smile on his face.
“It may not be as exciting as a state fair–which, ew, sounds like a lot of people–but maybe you could read aloud to me like you did that one time? That wasn’t horrible.”
A bark of laughter erupted from Andy, and you nearly giggled in response because it was so unexpected and you liked that you had made him laugh. It lit up his whole face, and a tiny voice in the back of your mind observed that you had never seen him look more gorgeous than he did in that moment, happy and smiling, because of you.
Andy looked a little shy now as he played with the hem of his t-shirt, asking, “You liked when I read to you?”
“Don’t fish,” you glared at him, but it was half-hearted. You sank against the sofa arm, all comfy now as you looked at him and arched a brow. “Well? I’m waiting?”
“Okay!” Andy sounded excited now, by something so basic, but you found yourself amused as he launched himself from the sofa and moved toward the lined bookshelves a few feet away. “Are you in the mood for anything in particular? Fiction? Fantasy? Sci-fi? Horror? I’m sure we have some good thrillers, too.”
“You pick,” you told him, feeling a little overwhelmed by all of the options presented to you.
Andy must have realized that immediately, and was quick to say, “Sure,” before skimming the book spines and plucking one from the group.
He sank back into his seat, glancing over at you again with a soft smile. When he put his glasses back on and cracked the book open and started to read aloud, his cheeks were ruddy from joy.
And, you had an inkling, from your undivided and willing attention, too.
A few weeks later, Andy had barely been at work for a few hours before he arrived home and burst through the front door in a frenzy.
“Ari?” he called, his voice trembling with concern as he carelessly dropped his briefcase by the front door and yanked off his suit jacket, dropping that on the floor too before rushing further into the house.
“Here,” Ari’s voice was quiet and tinged with helplessness, his face stricken as he appeared at the mouth of the hallway that led to your bedroom.
“Where is she?” Andy asked, taking a moment to draw Ari to him, cradling his bearded cheek and giving it a soft caress.
It was a wordless sign of reassurance despite the way Andy looked as distressed as Ari.
“She’s in her room. She locked herself in there and won’t let me near her,” Ari fretted.
“I’m not surprised,” Andy murmured, looking past Ari to your closed bedroom door. His nostrils flared, and your scent–much muskier and more pungent than usual–filled his nose. “This is likely her first heat in years since they were kept on suppressants at the breeder facility.”
“I can hear her whimpering in pain,” Ari’s voice cracked. “What should we do? We don’t want to force our way in, right?”
“No,” Andy immediately shook his head. “No, she won’t like that. Come on, I want her to know I’m home in case…” he shrugged, grabbing Ari’s hand and leading him back down the hallway. “Just so she knows, in case it brings her comfort.”
Once they arrived outside of your bedroom door, they were nearly bowled over by the heavy scent permeating the air.
It smelled like heaven to their primal inner alphas, but to their logical minds, all they could focus on was the strand of immense distress that was coming off of you in waves.
Andy quietly spoke your name, his knuckles rapping on the door. “Honey, we know you’re in heat, and we’re here for whatever you need.”
“Go away!” your voice was ragged and stubborn with a note of hysteria. “Leave me alone! Don’t come near me!”
From inside your room, you groaned in agony, curled into the fetal position on your bed, covered in sweat as you clutched your stomach and openly wept at the pain.
It felt like your body was on fire from the inside out, your belly clenching every few moments in a way so agonizing, it stole your breath away and had you dizzy and on the verge of passing out.
But you couldn’t do that. You wouldn’t.
You were now truly at your most vulnerable, with two alphas just on the other side of your door, looming.
Waiting.
For you to give in to them, finally.
Their omega that they had waited so long for, at her ripest and most tempting.
You knew they were likely going feral. The thought of triggering their ruts, of having them show you just how primal and impatient they could be–what they could really do to you, especially when you were at your weakest–it made you sick.
It terrified you, too. In so many ways.
It would destroy all of the fragile trust and safety in them that had built up over the past few months.
So you didn’t want Andy and Ari anywhere near you.
And it wasn’t just because you didn’t trust they would be able to control themselves when you were in this state–part of you was concerned you wouldn’t be able to control yourself either.
From giving in to them.
From becoming the thing you tried so hard to avoid most of all–a weak and willing omega who only lived for her alphas’ knots.
A thing–not a person–for them to fuck and fill and breed.
You whined loudly as another surge of pain streaked through you, sobbing at the force of it as you sagged into your messy, unmade bed, weak and hinging on delirious from pain.
“Sweetheart,” Ari’s voice sounded as pained as your own body felt. “Please, let us take care of you.”
“We won’t touch you or knot you or anything you’re thinking,” Andy was quick to assure you. “We just want to set you up in a nest in our bedroom, so you can be soothed by our scents and as comfortable as possible.”
“And I can cook you anything you want, and we can give you some pain killers, and just…please, omega,” Ari sounded near tears, and you heard a soft thunk against the door, knowing it was his forehead meeting the wood in his helplessness. “Please let us help you.”
As usual, all of their words sounded so pretty and promising–perfect, and exactly what you needed–but now, more than ever, knowing you couldn’t control your body or your mind in your condition, you didn’t want to risk it.
You couldn’t.
You couldn’t give in to them.
You had to be strong, no matter how hard it was, or how much it fucking hurt.
Even if it killed you, you were determined to get through your heat alone.
Andy and Ari be damned.
HISSY OMEGA, LET THEM LOVE YOU!!! 😭
—
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Hissy omega please!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭 we need them!!
girl crush | aaron hotchner
pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first. content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something! word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible) a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽 dividers by @uzmacchiato
masterlist
The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen.
Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.
“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.
He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.
Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.
You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.
Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.
Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.
“Beth!”
Oh.
“Oh”
“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”
Oh (but harder).
“That’s… good?”
“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.
“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.
“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.
You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.
“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.
“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.
They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?
Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.
So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?
Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.
As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.
When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack.
And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.
You felt like an outsider.
The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie. You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut.
When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.
Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.
It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.
You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut.
When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.
Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.
One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.
Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.
When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.
You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.
You wanted her gone.
The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?
It was maddening. It had to stop.
It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.
When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.
Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.
You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.
Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.
But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.
So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.
It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.
You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.
“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.
Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.
“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.
“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.
Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.
“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”
You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.
Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.”
Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.
“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.
“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.
“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.
Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.
When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.
“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.
“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.
Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.
“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.
Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”
He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.
“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”
“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”
“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.
“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”
And that’s when it hit you: he knew.
“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.
“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.
“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.
“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.
“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”
You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”
“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.
“Stop.”
“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”
“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”
“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”
“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.
“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”
“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”
“And you don’t?”
You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”
“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”
“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”
“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”
“It’s hard.”
“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”
You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.
“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.
“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.
Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.
When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.
Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”
Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.
You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.
“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”
Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.
“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.
He blinks. And then chuckles.
When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.
“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.
“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.
“Your name?”
“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.
You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”
“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.
“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.
“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.
You try again “It’s not that hard.”
“I won’t.”
That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.
His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?”
“I… there’s a lot going on.” you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.
“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”
Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.
“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”
He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.
“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”
“Bullshit.” he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”
“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.”
He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”
“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?”
“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.
“I didn’t, you did.”
“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.
“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would never…”
“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.
“There's no he. It’s Beth.”
Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”
“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”
“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”
Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”
“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.
“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.
“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”
“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”
The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should.
When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.
You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.
A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”
“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”
“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”
Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.
“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”
Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him.
How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.
“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”
You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.
“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”
“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.
“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”
You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.
“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”
“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.
“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”
After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.
He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.
Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”
“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.
“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”
You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.
“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.
When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.
“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”
“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.
“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.
“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.
“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”
“Jack will see it.”
“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.
“That’s rude. And humiliating.”
“That’s what you get for stealing.”
Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”
“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.
“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.
“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”
You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”
Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.
taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna
Reblog if you’re grateful for your commenters <3
actually them post endgame bc i said so
please don’t ask me how i did this, i don’t know, anyway
This deserves more attention
Can This Feeling Haunt You Too?
Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist
Read on A03!
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends to lovers, humor, witch curses, smut (oral f!receiving, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, in v sex), light angst, love confessions
Summary/Warnings: When you and Dean are hit with a love spell that doesn't work, you have to confront some feelings.
Author's Note: This fic has been in the drafts since December 2024. Finished and revised it. Honestly maybe one of my favorites. Enjoy!
Word Count: 9.7k
This house is bigger than you’d thought it would be. This whole case is bigger than you’d thought it would be. Sam called it a salt and burn. Sam convinced you and Dean to do this because there would be rich, fancy food that you’d get to devour after you got the ghost, and you’d be out of town before the week was over.
Sam was a fucking idiot.
You’ve been here for two weeks. Two, long, exhausting weeks of the most mind-boggling hunt of your life. For one, it was not a salt and burn. Dean had figured that out on day two, stomping into the motel room with a scowl and pointing an accusing finger at Sam.
“You wanna know what the hell I just learned?” He’d half-shouted, not waiting for Sam’s response before he continued. “That house is brand new. Not built on any cemeteries or murder sites, or filled with any cursed furniture or paintings, it’s just a freakin’ house. Hell, the whole thing is younger than a freshly popped baby!”
You’d snorted, giving him an amused look. “A freshly popped baby?”
“Shut up,” he’d grumbled your name, still scowling at Sam. “This isn’t a salt and burn, Sammy, it’s something else. Something that we,” he’d gestured around the room with a dramatic wave on his hand. “Don’t got the fuckin’ time to figure out.”
Sam had sighed. “Calm down, Dean. Maybe it’s an antique they don’t know they have, or a dead family member-“
“No,” you’d cut him off with a shake of your head. “I talked to the daughter, she said these were the firsts deaths in her family during her lifetime.”
“Well, they’re rich, right? All rich people have enemies. Skeltons in their closets.” Sam had run a hand through his hair, giving you an almost pleading look to side with him and curb Dean’s wrath.
Sam should’ve known better by now.
“They were clean,” you’d shrugged. “I even called Jody to see if they had any records, and best she could find was a speeding ticket for the son.”
“The son is the one who-“
“Died second.” You’d nodded, Sam had paled slightly. “And it was just a ticket. No casualties, no one else in the car, everything published in all the local papers. No skeletons.”
“Shit.” Sam had muttered, and he’d been right.
This was shit.
There was a huge, rich family dropping like flies, and you’d had evidence of a ghost, but there were none to be found.
And you’d spent a whole week trying to figure out what the hell this thing was. No type of ghost, but also no type of monster. All the organs stayed in the body, all the victims stayed dead, and everyone was passing the silver and holy water test. Every death was the same, as well—sudden, self-inflicted, no note—and Dean had suggested just some psycho human, but there were no signs of a break-in, and Sam got his hands on security footage that proved it was just the victims, doing this to themselves. It wasn’t a crossroads demon come to collect, because the family’s rise to power had been slow and unremarkable, and everyone was dying without rhyme or reason.
It was infuriating.
“Maybe it’s angels?” You’d looked up at Dean—across the coffee table and on his fifth bottle of beer—rubbing your eyes in a desperate attempt to stay awake.
“Why would it be angels.” He’d grunted, and you’d shrugged.
“I dunno, I’m trying to create solutions, not problems.”
He’d snorted. “All you’re creating is a distraction. Read your stupid book.”
“You sound like Sam,” you’d mumbled, and he’d scoffed.
“Sam would tell you to leave if you’re not going to work. I’m happy keepin’ you here, as long as we can pretend,” Dean had slapped the back of his hand against his own book, and you’d flushed. “To do our homework.”
He was happy keeping you here. He was grinning at you, and looked a little golden in the low light of the hotel lamp, and the table was small enough that your knee was pressed against his. And you were a distraction, and you need to know why. It was probably just because you were talking, but maybe it was something more-
It wasn’t anything more. You needed to get a grip, because it was nothing more.
“I am doing my homework,” you’d glared at him, refusing to get lost in how handsome he was, how easy it would be to tackle him over the table and cause a real distraction. “I finished, Dean. Nothing.”
“Fuck,” he’d muttered, running a hand over his face. “That’s not good, cause I don’t got jack shit either.”
“Well, Sam’s finishing up with the wife again, so maybe-”
“The wife?”
“Yeah,” you’d frowned at Dean, who was staring at you like you were speaking a foreign language. “The wife. Tall blonde lady, long nails, young enough to be her husband’s granddaughter-“ You’d frowned into the air. “Maybe that’s why something’s after them. Cradle robbing.”
“That’s not his wife,” Dean had said your name slowly, shaking his head. “She’s the fiancé.”
“No, you said they were married-“
“I said they were gettin’ married.”
You gaped at him for a second, your brain turning and processing this new information, and Dean had jumped slightly when you’d shot up from your seat.
“Uh, are you-“
“Dean.” You’d started to pace, rubbing your temples as you spoke. “They’re not married?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said-“
“Is she rich?”
There had been silence, and when you’d whipped around Dean was staring at you with an open, dumb expression on his stupidly handsome face.
“Oh.” He’d mumbled. “Fuck.”
The answer had been a very obvious no. The fiancé was not rich. And, if what Sam found was right, she wouldn’t be first in line to the inheritance when her future husband kicked it. Another three days, and you knew exactly what you were looking at. A witch who manipulated emotions, sending each family into a sudden depression that ended in tragedy, and cleared her path to the money.
So now you and Sam were wandering through this pointlessly large mansion, trying to find an alter or evil lair or—even better—the witch herself.
“Anything from Dean?” You whisper, poking another door open with your gun, and Sam shakes his head.
“Nothing yet. You know, I would’ve been fine being the one to go alone. If you, uh, wanted to go with Dean-“
“Sam.” You spin on your heels, giving him a flat glare. “Not now.
Sam drops it, and you’re thankful for that. This isn’t the time for another Sam lecture about feelings. It’s never the time, but right now is particularly raw and pointless.
You love Dean. He doesn’t love you. And that’s fine, because you’re not going to pine over him like an idiot. Sam can try to play cupid all he wants, but it won’t change anything, and you’re fine being alone. Staying alone. Dying alone, because you’d made the huge mistake of falling irrevocably in love with an emotionally unavailable, inhumanely attractive, completely oblivious dumbass. A man who cared about you like no one had ever bothered to, and put up with all your bullshit because you put up with his. Who was really impossibly easy to love.
Dean seemed to think he was difficult to care about, and that made something in you whine. It was the only time you ever even considered sharing your feelings with him. When he look a little faraway, glassy-eyed look of lonely pain you knew all too well, or made a joke at his own expense. An edged snipe about how he was worthless, or a man slut or you’d all be fine without him. You only ever heard the underlying edge, that really made it not a joke at all.
If Dean died today, you and Sam would be better off.
But you wouldn’t be. You’d feel something empty in your chest for the rest of your life, something where you were supposed to keep Dean and had failed to.
And Sam knew that. It was why he always volunteered to do the solo parts of hunts, and left you and Dean alone at every opportunity. You don’t know why he does it, because Dean’s never shown any interest in you outside of a close friend. He’s only ever grinned and winked and teased at you with the charm he shows everyone, and never tried to offer you his bed.
And that’s fine. It’s really fine. You wake up in the middle of the night craving his touch and the deep sound of his voice, but it’s fine.
It’s fine.
But now you’re distracted.
You’re thinking about Dean, and worrying about why he’s not checking in with you and Sam, and wondering if he needs your help. And Sam would be fine on his own. He’d manage. Hell, he’d thrive. He could cover twice the distance if he didn’t have to accommodate for your shorter legs, and the way you keep stopping to look at your phone, just in case Dean texted and you didn’t see it.
He didn’t.
But you’re also in the middle of the woods. Reception isn’t good, and your phones are cheap blocks of shit. Dean could have dropped it. Or had it knocked out of his hand. Or-
“You want to go find him, don’t you.”
You shoot Sam a glare. “Shut up.”
“It’s okay if you do,” he shrugs. “I told you, I’d be fine.”
“I-“ you glance at the doorway, hoping the witch just appears so you can deal with this and leave. “I don’t want to leave you-“
“What if I told you to leave me?” Sam raises his brows, keeping his gun raised as his gaze flicks between you and the room. “Would that help?”
There’s a smugness to his voice. Like he’s solved a puzzle no one asked him to. A little, tense part of you—wound up from the long week—wants to make his stick with you just to prove a point.
But Dean.
“Yes.” You sigh. “It would.”
“Cool. Go.”
It really will make things easier. And you’re not going to find Dean because you’re feeling a little sick to the stomach that he might be alone with a hot witch who has huge tits, you’re going because Sam told you to. You’re walking downstairs because Sam said go, and it has absolutely nothing to do with how you really just want to see him. That there’s a part of your brain that had been scanning the empty hall to make sure he was there. How you’ve been apart from him for barely forty minutes, and you miss him like hell. Miss his dumb jokes and cocky grin and rugged walk and pretty face, how he says your name and laughs with you and shoots you secret looks that make you giggle-
You’re pathetic. You’re calling Dean because you’re pathetic, and miss him, and don’t really want to wander around this place alone.
He doesn’t pick up. Two rings, and he declines your call.
Dean doesn’t decline calls from you and Sam. Not on a case. Not when it could be something important, or dangerous, or worse.
You start running. Screaming his name down the halls, not caring if you wake up any of the remaining residents, silently praying Sam hears you and realizes something is wrong. Dean might be in danger. Dean might be in danger. You can’t stop running or shouting, because you need to find Dean, he might be in danger-
You skid to a stop as you hear your own name, echoing down the halls in a faint ghost of a deep voice you’d recognize in the vacuum of space.
“Dean!” You scream again, spinning around as you try to figure out where the hell his shout came from. “Dean!”
He shouts your name back, and he’s not far away. You take off again, ignoring the ache in your muscles as you sprint, the way your voice is starting to grow hoarse.
“Dean!” You kick down the door that had been muffling his last shout, your gun already raised, ready to fire at any second-
“Hey!” Dean’s hands are raised, palms up, and he’s looking at you like you’re crazy. “Just me! What the hell’s going on-“
“You’re,” you pause, scanning over him with a frown. “You’re not hurt.”
“I’m fine, you were the one who was screaming-“
“You screamed back!” You don’t lower your gun, still not trusting whatever’s happening. “And you didn’t pick up your phone-“
“I lost it.” He says, a little sheepishly, and you gape at him in disbelief, before shoving his chest. “Hey-“
“I knew you lost it, you fucking- You can’t just lose your phone, Dean, I was- Goddamnit-“
“Aw.” He catches your wrist when you try to shove him again, tugging you a little further forward. “You were worried about me.”“No, I wasn’t-“
“Yeah, you were, you thought I was dead and you were freakin’ out-“
“Dean.” You snap, yanking your arm away. He’s holding you too close. He smells like spices and leather. You’re going to do something stupid like try and shove your face into his chest. “Do you want to be a dead man?”
He shrugs, still half-smirking as he looks to his gun. “Only if you’re shooting the bullet, sweetheart.”
You scowl, and shove his arm again. “That’s not funny-“
“It’s kinda funny-“
“No, it’s not.”
“C’mon-“
“I don’t like jokes about you dying, Dean.” You snap, and his attention flicks up with wide eyes. “They’re- It’s- I really don’t think it’s funny.”
He stares at you for a moment, and you can’t read his expression. He wouldn’t be angry. He’s never angry when a joke doesn’t land, because most of them don’t. But you’re walking dangerous ground.”
Feelings. Caring about him. Something that’s always bene best reserved to getting him a beer before he asks, or ordering him the right food while he’s in the bathroom. Picking out the music he wants before he’s even in the car. Never arguing when he makes you take the bed further from the door, because you know he won’t sleep if he thinks you’re in danger.
But it’s never spoken aloud. He knows you’re his friends, if not the other thing that made you learn his habits and preferences like you were studying for a the most important test of your life. Impressing him. Making sure he’s never really mad at you—the way his furrowed brows and open mouth seem to show he is—and making him smiles as much as you can, because any pretty girl in a town can fall into his bed, but you make him smile.
He’s not smiling now.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck and clearing his throat. In the dim light of the hall, you can see that his ears are red. He’s not looking at you, either, his gaze firmly fixed right over your head.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, frowning at the air. “I didn’t, uh- It’s just- Never thought about. No more death jokes. Yes, ma’am.”
You sigh, taking a small step forward. “Dean-“
“You wanna hear how I dropped my phone?” He raises his voice slightly, and you frown.
“I-“
“Dropped it down a laundry chute. What kinda fuckin’ rich pricks have laundry chutes, right?”
You bite on your lower lip, and let out a slow breath.
He’s not going to talk about it.
Dangerous ground.
“I don’t know, Dean. We can head to the basement. Get it after we take care of the witch.”
“Smart,” Dean nods, starting down the hall. “You think it’s gonna be in a bunch of dead people clothing?”
You hum, scanning around as you follow. “Probably. But they weren’t wearing it when they died.”
“Son of a bitch, I hope not. We should burn that shit after, make sure we don’t have to come back and deal with a real salt and burn-“
“If we kill the witch, no one will be vengeful.”
“Yeah, but maybe they got other issues.” Dean’s fallen a pace back, keeping you in front of him. “I mean, you got this much money, you’re gonna stir something up-“
There’s a creak, from down another dark hallway—why the hell do they all have to be dark—and a soft, musical laugh echoes through the hall. Dean catches the crook of your elbow, and pulls you a little further back, planting himself to block you and raising his gun. You roll your eyes, and poke his shoulder.
“Move-“
He shushes you, not looking away from the hall. “You got the witch bullets?”
“I don’t know, Dean, you loaded my gun-“
“Hunters.” The same, chilling, sing-song voice floats through the air, and Dean tenses. “Meddling little fools, big and strong and, oh-“ She giggles. “Pretty.”
You grab Dean’s bicep, leaning around to see her, and swallow. There’s no difference from when you’d spoke to Her in the interviews. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect nails, twirling her hair as she smiles at you.
“So pretty. Hi!” She waves at you. “You!”
“Hey.” You raise your brows, stepping a little around Dean, and pretend you can’t see his glare. “Me?”
“You.” her voice is hushed and gleeful, like she’s telling you a horrible secret. “You sound like this one.”
She nods to Dean, and you blink at her. You do not sound like Dean. You can’t even get your voice that low. Dean looks just as confused as you are, looking between you and the witch with raised brows.
“I hate to break it to you lady, but you might need to get your ears checked-“
“Not my ears.” The witch snaps. “You screamed the same way. You longed the same way.” She smirks, and it makes your skin crawl. “You sound the same. And this,” she holds up Dean’s phone. “Calls for you.”
“Yeah.” Your voice is dry, your words flat. “That’s kind of how phones work in general.”
“No, no.” The witch shakes her head, taking a step forward, and Dean tugs you back. “The things of him call for the things of you. His clothing is stained in his hunger, pretty hunter. Even his gun wants to be in your hands.”
Your face feels like it’s on fire, and when you risk a glance back at Dean, he looks like he’s going to explode. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, every word pushed through his teeth.
“Listen, you crazy bitch, I’d stop talking when you’re two to one-“
“Am I?” The witch hums, looking between you with a curious, delighted expression. “Oh, it doesn’t really seem that way.”
Dean’s scowl deepens. “Well, open your freakin’ eyes-“
“My eyes are wide open.” The witch takes another step forward, and you squeak as Dean yanks you back behind him.
“Dean-“
“Listen to how she sings your name,” the witch’s smile widens. “Dean. You’ve been so blind, you’ve spent so long trying not to look, trying not to bite, keeping your hands in your pants like a good boy. Don’t you want to eat, Dean.” Her voice returns to the mocking version of yours, but it’s too similar. Uncanny, how she almost seems to be echoing your own voice back to you.
Almost perfect, in the way it bounces around the halls.
Just like Dean had called you.
Shit.
“Dean,” you tug his arm, and he grunts. “Dean, it’s a trap-“
“Oh, give the little trophy a hand!” The witch crows, and Dean steps to block you from her gaze. “She calls for you too, hunter. She looks at you like you’re the cure to all her sad little problems, almost glows when you just look at her. Don’t you want that little shove? Don’t you want to give her what she wants, hold her like the prize she is?”
Your mouth is so dry it makes the air hotter. Your fingers are curled on Dean’s muscle, which is so tensed you’d think you were tugging at stone. His breathing is heavy through his nose, his chest rising and falling, and his voice.
It’s so deep you can almost feel it vibrate under your palm.
He’s got the low drawl, that tells you he’s pissed. And you don’t blame him.
But there’s still a dull ache, at the idea that being with you would really be that bad.
“Shit trap, you evil bitch.” He growls, and you hear the click of his gun. “I’m gonna waste you worse than you wasted all those poor kids.”
“Hm.” The witch giggles again. “I don’t think you will. I think you’ll be too busy buried between your little trophy’s legs to do anything at all.”
Too many things happen at once. Dean fires the gun, but the witch vanishes.
Reappears behind you.
Places one hand on your brow with a burning touch, and the other on Dean’s neck. You try to raise your own gun, but it feels like you’re being paralyzed and lit on fire.
She chants something in Latin, and through the haze of the pain, you can only catch two words.
Amor.
Libido.
Fuck.
“Don’t make a mess.” She winks at you as she remains frozen, then vanishes back into the darkness.
You can’t remember how to move, for a second. Your head is spinning, the air a little too light, and the heat has settled, but mostly into a warm, buzzing feeling under your skin. It’s impossible to ignore the heat from Dean’s body behind you, when he takes a deep, heavy breath.
You feel his hand on your shoulder, and he slowly turns you around. His mouth hangs open, breathing ragged and eyes dark as he scans over your face, and he smells so good.
But it’s the same good as normal. The spell he’s always cast on you, by being this close. It’s nothing new. Nothing special.
The curse didn’t work.
At least not on you.
But Dean’s leaning down, running his tongue over his lips, and you’re falling into his gravity. He reaches up to cup your face, his staring at you, he’s going to kiss you-
Your first kiss with him can’t be because he’s under a spell.
His nose bumps yours, and it’s like a tiny electrical current, pushing you into action.
You lean back, and do the only thing you can think of.
Punch Dean, square in the face.
“Son of a-“ Dean staggers backward, holding a hand over his nose. “What the hell was that for?”
You stare at him for a second, and he’s groaning, glaring at you over his hand.
Not under a spell.
But-
“You were going to try and kiss me!” You hiss, picking your gun up from the floor. “You thought I was fucking cursed, Dean, that’s-“
“You were going to kiss me!” He protests. “And you thought I was cursed-“
You flush, even as you roll your eyes. “I would’ve stopped you.”
“And what, I wouldn’t’ve stopped you-“
“No, because you’re supposed to be cursed-“ You cut yourself off with a frown. “Why aren’t you cursed? Why aren’t we cursed?”
“I dunno, maybe the bitch fucked up the spell?” Dean shrugs, touching his nose with light fingers, and flinching at the contact. “Shit, I think you broke my nose-“
“You’ll live.” You mutter, but you still rip off a part of your dress, offering him the fabric to stop the bleeding. “Sorry, though.”
“No, you’re not.” He says, but his tone is teasing, and he’s grinning when he reaches out to take the material, so he’s already forgiven you. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna be the one who has to set it when we’re done.”
Little sparks of electricity rush through your blood when Dean’s fingers brush yours, turning to lighting when his touch lingers like a phantom on your skin, and you feel a little dizzy when you mumble, “Can’t you make Sam do that-“
“Could.” He winks at you, voice a little nasally as he holds the fabric to his face. “Won’t, though. You made this mess, baby, now you gotta clean it up.”
He can’t call you Baby right now. It always makes you flush and squeeze your thighs together, because he says it so naturally and affectionately, with a smirk and drawl that haunts your dreams and makes your heart flutter in your chest. It’s not productive, or helpful, or useful, and your heart isn’t supposed to flutter. You’re not a schoolgirl with a crush, you’re a woman with a job that’s she was damn good at before this asshole came along and screwed everything up. Made you into a giggling, flushing, bubbly mess with a heart that fucking flutters-
Dean clears his throat, his brow drawn as he says your name. “Are you good-“
“Yeah.” You wave him off, and you’re not convinced by your soft, uneven tone and too quick words. “We should, um, we should go find Sam.”
Dean hums an agreement, but doesn’t stop frowning at you as he walks at your side. He doesn’t stop looking at you for the rest of the night. Not when you track down Sam, or gank the witch—who seems shocked you and Dean aren’t fucking in the bathroom—or make your way past the many, many police officers, back to the Impala. Even on the drive back to the motel he’s still glancing at you in the rearview mirror, a wrinkle in his brow that only appears when he’s in deep thought. If the flash of the road lights you can see his grip on the wheel is white-knuckled, and he doesn’t seem to be paying attention a single word Sam is saying.
To be fair, you aren’t either. It’s all musings about the witch’s magic, and how it functions, and how fascinating it is because none of you have ever seen anything like it, and Bobby says that emotion spells require a lot of power to pull off, but are impossible to get wrong-
“What?” You blurt, tearing your gaze away from Dean’s hands—big and strong on the wheel, broad fingers you’d like inside you drumming alone to whatever song he’s playing—and leaning forward to frown at Sam. “It can’t be impossible to get a spell wrong, you’ve just got to, like, say the wrong word-“
“Nope.” Sam shrugs, angling his phone screen for you to see. “Bobby says- Oh, okay, yeah, just take it I guess-“
You flip him off, Sam’s phone now in your hand as you scan over Bobby’s message.
Found something about it, seems like these witches are using an old magic that eats at their soul. Spells ain’t hard, but most covens forbid them. Seems like they drive the users batshit crazy, which ain’t good for us, because there doesn’t seem to be a way to counter them. Even saw some things say that they’re impossible to fuck up.
You read it once, twice, and frown up at Sam. “That doesn’t explain anything, Sam, he just said it’s impossible-“
Sam sighs. “Scroll down, dude.”
They could start singing in Russian and as long as they’re using their soul, the spells works. Like a real annoying override.
“Oh,” you mumble. “Okay.”
You pass the phone back to Sam, and you can’t look at Dean. Not as Sam reads him the texts, not as he only grunts in response, not as you pull into the lot and push open the door before the engine’s even off. Because you know Dean’s thinking the same thing you are.
The spell can’t fail.
It didn’t work on you and Dean.
And you have no idea what the hell that means.
You don’t look back, as you almost run across the sidewalk to your room. Sam might be calling after you, but you don’t look back. It needs to be quiet. It’s getting too loud in your own head, so you can’t deal with Sam’s let’s talk about the mission, guys right now. The door slams behind you, and you toss your bag on the bed before heading straight to the bathroom. Your clothing is peeled off and tossed to the side, as you run a cold, cold shower. You need it off. The whole house, the feeling of where Dean had been touching your arms in the hall, the imprinted vision behind your eyes, where you’re really about to kiss him.
You’d punched him in the face. You didn’t get a chance to set his nose. And Sam can take care of it, easy, but you want to be the one who takes care of it. Who traces their hands over the panes of Dean’s face after and smiles at him, then he smiles back. In the fantasy, he leans up and presses a soft kiss over your lips. Then everything snaps, and you climb on top of him as he grabs your waist. Kisses your neck and breasts, lets you tug at his hair and grind onto his thigh. Takes his hand and shoves it into your pants, makes you shake and whine before tossing you back on the bed, and-
Give her what she wants.
Hold her like the prize she is.
You’re not a prize. Not Dean’s prize. You’re pretty or whatever, but if Dean wanted to win you, he’d only have to take your hand. And he never has. You’ve spent enough nights, using glossy, pouted lips and batted lashes to get someone’s attention and dance, all to test if Dean will be watching.
He never is. He leaves the bar with some other girl, and you either go home alone or decide you’re just drunk enough to pretend the hands holding you in the dark are rough and gentle all at once.
He’d cupped your face.
His thumb has traced over your cheekbone.
Don’t you want to eat.
Dean always eats. He racks up bills at diners and tabs at bars, then goes home with the same beautiful women that make you want to scream.
Because you’re fine. It’s fine, that Dean’s never once tried to sleep with you. That he smiles at you but doesn’t even kiss the top of your head. That all those women can get exactly you want, when he doesn’t know them at all, but he knows you. And maybe it’s the fact that he knows you that ruins it. That they’re just something in the way you speak or say his name that he doesn’t want to hear it calling him.
Dean. Listen to how she sings your name
The cold shower isn’t helping. Isn’t clearing your head.
So you turn it up until there’s steam in the room, and you let out a heavy breath, trying to think about anything else.
When you close your eyes, all you can see is Dean again. About to kiss you. Licking his lips, the phantom feeling of his hand on your face. When you think, every thought is about the spell. The sex spell, that has to work, but didn’t on you and Dean. He can’t find you that repulsive. There’s nothing else libido and amor could mean.
You give up on a shower all together. Shut off the water, and dry off before shuffling out and flopping down on the bed.
Dean won’t want to talk about it. Dangerous territory.
Talking about it with Sam will just end in with him trying to make you confess.
You have to talk about it with someone, or you’ll lose your mind.
A quick glance at the time on your phone, and he should still be up. You dress quickly, drop on the couch, and call Bobby’s number.
“Thought you’d be callin’.” He says, before you can even speak, and you frown.
“You did? Why?”
“Got a fuckin’ tingle in my balls or whatever-“
“Gross, Bobby-“
“It’s late, kid. You can be grossed out, or just ask the damn question.”
You swallow, tipping your head back to frown at the ceiling. “You- Um, you know the magic shit, that Sam was asking you about earlier?”
“Yep.” Bobby grunts, and you sigh.
“Is there any way that a spell wouldn’t succeed? Like, say this witch definitely did a spell on you, but it didn’t work. Is that like- A user error? Or is the spell always a kind of fifty-fifty shot?”
Bobby hums. “What kinda spell?”
“Um-“ Shit. “I don’t-“
“Cause I’m bettin’ that it’s the same stupid hunger spell Dean just called me freakin’ out about.”
You freeze, your voice cracking slightly. “Dean called you?”
“Yep.” Bobby drawls. “Started shoutin’ about a spell where two people just enchanted to eat each other. That boy never has been good at bein’ subtle.”
“I-“
“Listen,” Bobby mutters your name, his voice firm. “I got a guess what kinda hunger Dean was talkin’ about. I don’t need to say it, ‘cause the thought of- You and him- That’s something I rather never think, or hear, or fuckin’ speak about. You got it?”
You look down to your hands, cheeks heated. “Yeah. I do.”
“Good.” He grunts. “Now that we got that, I’m gonna tell you exactly what I told that idjit. Magic like that, it pulls on other’s souls and emotions. If the emotions are already kicked up, high gear, it ain’t gonna do shit. If someone’s real sad, a spell won’t make ‘em sadder. Two people hate each other’s guts, wanna rip ‘em apart, spell can’t make them kill each other. Two people hungry…”
Bobby trails off, and there’s a high ringing in your ears.
“You got it?” He grunts, and you nod, before remembering he can’t see you.
“Yeah.” You whisper. “I got it.”
“Good.” Bobby lets out a long, labored sighed. “Go deal with it, and let an old man sleep.”
The line goes dead, and you just keep staring at nothing. If two people are hungry.
Two people.
Not just you.
Dean.
And almost as if you’d summoned him, there’s a knock on your door.
Standing to answer it is like gliding through a mist. It’s all a little blurry, everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, and there’s a strange chill up your spine. You don’t want to answer it. You don’t want him to look you in the eyes and tells you there’s been a mistake, and that he doesn’t want you like that.
But the spell can’t get anything wrong.
So he has to want you like that.
And when you open the door and see him—rubbing his jaw and giving you an almost nervous smile, his nose still crooked and a hair mussed in the wind of the night—the chill runs through your whole body, and turns into heat.
“Hi.” You whisper, and his smile widens slightly.
“Hey.”
“Is- Your nose-“
“It’s fine. I, uh-“ He clears his throat. “I think we gotta talk about something.”
You press your lips together, and nod. “Yeah. We do.”
He glances past you, into the room. “Can I-“
“Oh, yeah-“ You step to the side. “Sorry-“
“It’s fine, sweetheart.” He reaches out to touch your shoulder as he passes you, but then yanks it back at the last second. “I- Uh- I’ll sit down?”
You nod, and trail after him, letting him decide where he wants this to happen.
Dangerous ground.
He choses the bed. Sits right on the edge and watches you, until you drop at his side.
Dangerous fucking ground.
Even if you both know, you can’t just say it. Not with Dean. You’re going to have to find a way to tell him without telling him, some word that means I love you without actually saying it, or he’ll try to change the conversation laundry again-
“I thought you could live without me.”
You blink at his, and everything comes into focus so fast. Dean’s on your bed. You have to talk about the spell. His voice is hoarse and low, and he’s not turning this into a joke.
But his words bounce around your head. And you can’t really understand them at all.
“What?”
“Son of a- This is hard.” He mutters, shaking his head and staring at his hands. “You’re gonna be so freakin’ pissed at me.”
“Dean-“
“I kinda knew. About- The thing. This.” He coughs, gesturing between you. “Us.”
Your heart moves to your throat, your voice raising a little too high. “What?”
“I see you stare, baby.” He runs a hand over his face, giving you a weak grin. “And the guys at the bars, begging me to knock their smug faces right off, while they- They fuckin’ touch you, and you let ‘em-“
“I-“
“I let the other girls touch me. Guess I can’t be too pissed.” He chuckles humorlessly. “But then I call your name the whole time. That’s gotten me kicked out on my ass, a lot. Always think about goin’ to you. Telling you. Taking- Advantage.”
Your mouth falls slightly open. “Advantage? Of me?”
He nods, and your fists curl at your sides.
“Dean, you fucking- If you knew-“
“Thought it was just a crush or something.” He mutters, staring at the floor, and you snort.
“So you wouldn’t let me have sex with you? Are you- What the fuck-“
“It’s not just a crush for me.” He snaps your name, and your words die in your throat,
When Dean looks back up at you, he looks almost broken. Tired and desperate and—between every crack in that bored, amused mask he wears—hopeful. A light in his eyes that’s barely daring to shine through, but it’s there.
This is still dangerous ground.
He’s trying to get both of you out it, and to the other side.
“I didn’t think you’d want more, baby. I- I really thought you’d live just fine without me.”
You sigh, folding one knee under to other so you can face him.
His hand shoots out, onto your thigh, and you lean forward. Until you’re just as close as before. Until one shift would be all it takes to feel him.
“I can.” You whisper, and his face falls slightly, but you ghost your lips over his, and he doesn’t pull away.
Dean breathes out your name, but you shake your head.
“But I really, really don’t want to.” You press your brow against his, taking his hand and guiding it to your face. “Ever.”
His throat bobs, and he’s going to try and talk you out of it. When you finally know. When you’re high on nothing at all, because you can have him.
He’s really lucky you love him. Otherwise, you’d punch him in the face.
“I’m a piece of work, baby-“
“I know.” You give him a small smile. “I love it.”
Dean stares at you, the light starting to shine brighter in his eyes, and his thumb traces slowly over your lower lip. “Tell me not to kiss you.”
“No.”
“Sweetheart, the things I’ve wanted to do-“ His jaw ticks. “If that spell had worked- We’d still be in that creepy house.”
“Good.” You hold his gaze, crawling at little forward into his lap. He’s warm.
He catches you around your waist, when your hands plant on his knees, and your noses bump again. And there it was. All that blown out fucking hunger.
You need it. Now.
“Show me.”
Dean grins, the split second before he’s pulling you forward and falling backwards, starting to kiss you like he’ll drown if he doesn’t. One hand in your hair and the other squeezing your ass, your legs straddled over his torso and your fingers digging into his chest.
You’re a moaning, desperate mess within a second. The need between your legs builds sudden and fast, coming on with a comfortable heat over your skin and a deep pleasure that’s starting to build in your lower stomach. Dean touches you like he’s been practicing, as if he’s been watching every single way you move to map you out before you were ever in his arms. His hands grab at every bit of skin he can find, rubbing and squeezing and tracing, as his mouth keeps an even time. Pulling your tongue between his teeth and groaning when it makes you roll your hips, lightly hitting your ass then chuckling when you squeak into his mouth.
“There you go, baby.” He mutters, angling his mouth to get the kiss a little deeper, smirking against your lips. “Feel good?”
You nod, already a little lost to anything but the fact that Dean is kissing you. That it’s sloppy and desperate and hot, spit and tongue and teeth, his hands feeling possessive on your body and your breasts pressed against the muscles of his chest. You’re above him, but still caged against him. You’re grinding down onto him, but his grip on you is tight enough that it’s only as he allows. And when you start to kiss down his neck, he groans, and the sound vibrates in his chest. Down through your body and into your cunt, making you pick up the pace and start to grind over the bulge in his pants-
“Alright.” Dean grunts, and you yelp as he flips you over, the sound quickly swallowed into another hungry, dirty kiss. “Not gonna last if you do that, sweetheart, you’re- Fuck-“
Dean moans when you return your attention to his neck, and there’s a softer spot that makes him tense over you, his grip on your waist becoming tight and his hips dropping down over yours. You can feel where his erection is. Feel it pressing against your leg, and it feels big, and the fabric of you shorts isn’t offering enough friction anymore-
“Son of a bitch,” Dean grunts, grabbing your jaw and angling your face back into another kiss. You go limp below him, opening your mouth as wide as you can to maybe try and swallow him. He seems to be doing the same to you. Kissing you with such a fervor it’s like he’s trying to fuse your atoms together. Press you close enough to keep you there forever.
He already has you as long as he wants you. However he wants you. And you think he knows it, because when you feel his lips ghost over your ear, you gasp, and he shoves his knee right between your legs. Like a reward.
Dean doesn’t stop you, as you start to hump against him. He keeps his grip on your jaw tight and rises back up, watch you try to fuck his leg with that same awe from before.
You gape up at him, your breath already becoming shallow, your hands flying to grab his wrist in an attempt to stay grounded. He’s not helping. Just watching you like you’re made of stars, pushing his knee further so it’s pressed right over your clit, and giving you an approving hum when you start to whine his name.
“Dean.” You arch off the bed slightly, and there’s the heat about to snap in your core, but it’s not enough. “I- I need more-“
“I know.” He mutters your name, his thumb tracing back over your lips. “I’m gonna give you everything you want, baby, but I wanna- I gotta try somethin’, first.” He gives you a small grin, something heated glinting in his eyes. “Can I try something?”
You don’t know what the something is. You’re a little desperate to find out.
So you nod, trying to grab at his shirt to yank his mouth back over yours, and he obliges. Leans down to give you an almost mockingly chaste kiss, before leaving a trial of love bites and licks over your jaw to whisper in your ear.
“I told you, sweetheart.” He drawls, and just the deep roll of his voice through your body makes you move faster against him. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a damn long time. Look even prettier below me than I imagined, and I thought you’d look like freakin’ paradise. Wanna hear what I would’ve done to you, if that spell worked.”
“Yes.” You manage to whisper, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Dean, I- I need you-“
“You got me.” He grunts, lightly hitting your clit over your pants. “I thought about takin’ you everywhere, baby. In my car, back at the bunker, in a closet, in a goddamn alleyway, but goin’ against a wall was always my favorite. Kissing these pretty tits,” his hand slips under your shirt as he speaks, and you moan when he palms at your breast. “Then down to your pretty pussy, finding out just how good I can make you cum on my tongue. You wanna cum on my tongue, sweetheart?”
You nod weakly, your head already spinning from the pleasure. He can’t just talk like that, when all his weight is pressed over you and you can feel him everywhere. It’s going to make you fly right out of your body.
“I- I- More.” You tug at his short hair, and he makes out with a spot behind your ear, letting your hips keep moving over his knee. “Dean, a little more-“
“I think I would’ve made you cum ‘till you couldn’t stand.” He growls against you, and you’re so close. “Then I would’ve picked you up and fucked you against the wall under you couldn’t walk, until I needed to carry you back to the car, maybe lay you out on the backseats all pretty for me and have you cum on my cock again-“
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your orgasm shakes through your body, and Dean groans, crashing up to shove his tongue down your throat and kiss you heavily through the feeling.
You’re still floating down, when you realize that he’s kissing you a little softer. His hand is still under your shirt, softly rolling one nipple around with his thumb—sending tiny, pleasant shivers through your body—but when he leans up, his voice is a little gentler, a little more cautious.
“Keep going?” He asks, and you know if you say that was enough, he’ll roll over and not push it.
But you can still feel his boner against you. And you need to know what it’s like inside of you. How it feels for him to really do what he’s wanted.
You lean up, and press a light, sweet kiss over his lips. “Keep going.”
He grunts, chasing your kiss a little before he pulls away, and speaking against your lips. “Wanna fuck you, baby. Properly. But I don’t got- I didn’t think we’d be-“
“Are you clean?”
He nods, and you kiss the side of his mouth.
“I’m on the pill. And I-“ You swallow, leaning back and cupping his face with a hand. “I want to feel you. Give you- Whatever you want, Dean. I trust you.”
His throat bobs, and for a second you think he’s going to argue with you about it. But he doesn’t. He just kisses you again—more and more gentle every time—and leans back, pulling your hand with him to kiss your knuckles.
“Get naked, baby.” He gives you a small grin. “I’ve got you.”
You return his smile, and start to wiggle out of your clothing as fast as you can. It’s a short job, and more than worth it when you settle back into the pillows, and Dean’s staring at you with a blown out, starved expression, halfway between an animal and someone seeing a work of art. His hand is gently rubbing your calf as he takes you in, and you spread your legs with a shy smile, letting your fingers dip between your folds. You hold his gaze, as you slowly start to rub your own pussy, and his nostrils flare.
“Hey.” You press your palm flat against his chest, when he lurches forward. “Your turn, Winchester.”
He gives a short nod, clambering off the bed to make quick work of his own layers. Tossing his shirt and pants away, socks and underwear with them, giving you an adorably proud grin when your eyes dart between his legs.
“Liking what you see, sweetheart?”
“Yeah.” You breathe out, a little too needy to joke right now. “So much.”
Dean turns a little red, glancing down to where you’ve started to rub your clit a little faster. He mutters your name, climbing back onto the bed, and you reach for him with a whine.
“Dean, I- I want you- Wanna feel you-“
“You’re gonna, sweetheart.” He mutters, picking up your leg and slowly kissing up your calves, over your knees and thighs, then nipping at the soft skin right next to your pussy. “Need to get you ready.”
“I- I am ready-“
“Maybe.” He shrugs, slowly guiding the hand between your legs into his mouth, cleaning your fingers slowly with his tongue.
You moan, grabbing at his hair and humping the air, and Dean grins, moving to leave a quick, gentle kiss over your clit.
“Taste so good, baby.” He mutters, running two fingers through the mess of your cunt, and you keen below him. “Already so wet, don’t think I gotta do much.”
“So- So just- Fuck me, Dean-“
“I will.” He shrugs, flicking your clit then laughing at your squeak. “I also just really wanna fuckin’ do this.”
Without anymore warning, Dean yanks you forward, pulling your ass off the bed and hooking your legs over his shoulder, leaving your pussy on full display. He watches you with a light dancing behind his eyes, spitting on your clit and smirking when you try to wiggle out of his grip. You expect more teasing, more something.
Instead, all he does is dive between your legs, and eat you out the same way he kissed you. Like he’s been training for it.
His whole face is buried in your cunt, and it’s the most lewd, hot thing you’ve ever seen. There isn’t a place you can’t feel him. One of his hands as shot out to grope at your breasts, the other is holding a firm grip on your ass, and his tongue is plunging in and out of you. Twisting and licking before his lips and teeth find your clit, and it’s sucked on and teased into a frenzy. You grab the hand on your tit, squeezing it as you watch him, and it makes him groan against your pussy. Your whole body shakes with overwhelming pleasure, your arousal drips down your ass, and it feels like you’re being lit on fire.
“Dean-“ You whisper, your voice high and breathless. “Dean- Dean, I’m gonna cum, Dean-“
He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he just unhinges his jaw and starts to make out with your pussy fully, pinching your nipple as his hand on your ass rubs the flesh slowly.
You cum with a high noise, and this time, you don’t come down. You’re still floating and limp with pleasure as it rolls through you, and the feeling of Dean kissing your clit one last time, pulling away, and flipping you over onto your stomach all just makes it drag longer.
Then Dean kisses slowly up your spine, and you can only arch into the feeling of his lips. Suddenly so gentle, when your pussy is still sensitive and tingling from his work. He keeps your ass in the air, as he kiss back down your spine, and you spread your legs a little wider, because you’re throbbing for him.
“Shit,” he mutters, his palm rubbing over your cunt, and you whimper. “Are you sure you still wanna-“
“Yes.” You gasp, trying to turn and look at him. “I need it Dean, please, I-“
You moan as he pressed his fingers—the ones coated in your release—between your lips. You suck on them, your eyes rolling back in your head as he keeps rubbing your ass, and he groans.
“You’re so fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.” He draws back his fingers, wiping your chin of a little drool. “Deep breath. Gonna take start it slow.”
You’re about to protest—you want to feel him—but the words fall into nothing as he starts to push into you. It’s a burn. An impossibly good, aching burn igniting between your legs as Dean slowly presses his dick into your pussy, and he hisses as you flutter around him.
“Relax, baby.” His thumb finds your clit, starting to rub small, firm circles. “C’mon, you can take it.”
You can hear the strain in his voice, but you try. Somehow—probably with Dean’s low, sweet praise of how good you’re taking his cock, and how pretty you look, combined with that goddamn thumb—you manage to let him slip deeper and deeper, until he bottoms out with a grunt.
He folds himself fully over your body, his breathing heavy in your ear as he kisses your neck and throat.
“Dean.” You mumble, turning your head against the mattress to try and look at him. “Move.”
He hums, but doesn’t immediately listen. Instead he kisses you again, just a little deeper, and chuckles at your little whine.
“You’re so tight,” he mutters your name, the grunts when you squeeze around him. “Shit, you really fuckin’ like that, huh.”
“Like-“ You gasp, eyes fluttering when he drags his cock slowly out, then slams back in. “Like what-“
“Me tellin’ you how perfect you feel. How damn hot you look, getting wrecked by my cock.” He snaps his hips again, slamming against the needy spot, deep inside of you, and you gasp.
“Dean-“
“Fuck, yeah, you like that.” He repeats the motion, and you claw at the sheet, desperate for a little more. “Keep sayin’ it, baby, keep saying my name-“
“Dean.” You moan, and his speed starts to pick up, his skin slapping against yours. “God, Dean, feels so fucking- Oh-“
His hand wraps around your stomach, his fingers finding your clit again, and you squeak, clenching around him.
“Jesus.” He grunts, driving harder into your cunt. “Knew you’d feel like this- Jesus-“ He moans your name as you wiggle your ass against him, his head dropping into your shoulder. “Don’t fuckin’- Can’t do that, shit-“
You do it again, and get rewarded with another rutting slam of his cock into you, and a slap of your ass. Your mouth falls open in a loud, incoherent moan, and Dean chuckles.
“Told you not to do it, baby.” He mutters, sucking a dark spot on the base of your throat. “You gonna listen? Let me fuck this pretty pussy how it deserves?”
You nod stupidly, curling a little further into the mattress, and Dean presses his lips right against your ear.
“Good girl.” He mutters, and he must know what that does to you. How it makes your toes curl and your body feel molten.
He must know.
Because he says it again.
“Such a good, pretty girl.” He’s starting to properly fuck you, as he tugs at your ear with his teeth. Your already abused pussy is fluttering around him, and he moans against your neck, his own voice sounding fucking wrecked. “Love you so much, gonna- God-“
That’s what does it. Sends your third orgasm rushing through you, explodes fireworks over your ribs and makes you see stars. Dean’s drilling into you, his balls slapping over your clit and his hand moved up to play with your tits. His lips are attached to that sensitive spot on your throat, and his body is flexing and sweating over yours, but it’s his voice that sends you over the edge. Deep and earnest and real. Saying that he loves you.
And you cum with a heat flooding between your legs, over your thighs and Dean’s cock, making you shake and whine in his arms as he just keeps fucking you. Pulls out only for a split second, to flip you back over and slam back into you. It’s impossible to do anything but stare at him with a cockdrunk expression, as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. He’s beautiful. His brow furrowed but lips parted, chest heaving and eyes hooded with need. You’re still spasming and squirt on his cock, your mouth hanging open and barely able to return his kiss with he falls back over you, fucking into you like an animal.
He moans your name against your lips, and you only whine, scratching at his chest as it starts to get overwhelming. Dean leans back up on his knees, pulling out to stand over you, and grips your thigh as he fucks his cock into his hand, scanning over the wreck of you below him.
His release paints over your abdomen and stomach, coating your thighs and making an almost beautiful painting on your skin. Dean lowers himself back over you, when he’s done, and kisses the space between your eyes, the very tip of your nose, then your lips.
“Did so good, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you hum at the praise, pressing your palms against his chest. “Look real damn pretty, covered in me, but I gotta clean you up. C’mon.”
You whimper, as he tries to pull you up, so Dean settles on just carrying your into the bathroom. He sits you on the toilet while he runs the water, and only when it’s deemed acceptably warm does he guide you into the warm steam. You just stand there for a while. Clinging to him, while he makes a half-assed attempt to wash your hair, but mostly just sways you back and forth. Eventually he gives up, and just holds you back. Runs his finger through your hair and takes your chin, tipping it up to give you a full, deep, easy kiss.
“I was thinking.” He mutters, leaning back to meet your eyes. “About, uh- Doing something together that’s not just a hunt and fuck. I mean, I loved the fuck, baby, but- Uh-“
“You wanna go on a date with me, Dean Winchester?” You giggle, propping your chin against his chest. “You like me?”
He rolls his eyes and pretends to bite your nose, but there’s still a gentle amusement in his voice when he responds. “Yeah, I do. But you love me.”
“You love me.”
“Yeah.” He scans over your face carefully. “So are we gonna go on a date?”
You can’t fight your smile, and you give him a tiny, eager nod. “Yes, please.”
“Awesome.”
He grins at you, and it’s only for you.
Dean smiles, and it really is just for you.
But you’re only for him.
So it all seems to even out, in the end.
End Note: How many times do I have to write about this before it's my turn. What will it take.
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THE POWER FLICKERED THREE TIMES
IF WE LOSE POWER I’M QUITTING
JUST GIVE ME 20 FUCKIN MINUTES FOR MY CHICKEN NUGGETS TO COOK PLEASE
please
(vegan) I hope your power runs out
thats fuckin nice and all but the chicken is already in the nuggets. the power going out doesn’t save a chicken. it’s a nugget already. sorry
I love this post because they said (Vegan) like its a fallout skill check
hey just letting everyone know the power didnt go out
My turn!! 😂
I chose to do how they first met. How these alternate universe families meet and will become friends.
********
Natasha was supposed to be watching Abby, but she was on another phone call. Before leaving, she forbade Abby to leave the common area. Told her she couldn't even leave the couch!
A young boy & girl walk into the common area. Abby's eyes grow wide. She never sees kids her age at The Tower. "Hi, who's you?" Abby slides off the couch to go greet them.
The little girl smiles and walks right on over. "I's Lottie. This is my Bubba," indicating the older boy.
"I'm Abby. You wants to watch Moana and colors wit me?"
Lottie giggles and makes Abby smile, "Yah!"
Abby holds out her hand for her new friend to take & they both run back to the couch. The boy follows like a bodyguard to the little girl. Abby asked if Bubba wanted to color but he declined.
Abby breaks out her multiple baggies of snacks and the girls work on a good sugar high. Soon, coloring forgotten, they are dancing and singing from on top of the coffee table.
Director Fury walks in with a couple and Abby scampers off the table trying to single her new friend to get down. Not the least but afraid, Lottie stands her ground, so Abby runs over to distract Director Fury.
"Diwector!" She wraps her arms around his leg, "Hi!" He frowns down at her and then she notices the couple with him, "PAPA!! What doing?!" With her fist on her hips, she noticed her Papa Bear with his arm around the beautiful lady next to him, her new friends slowly standing beside them. Is Papa wearing a wig? Is he disguised for a mission? Are these bad people?? Angry and confused, "Get away from my Papa!" Stalking towards Sugar, the little boy quickly blocks her path, making Abby hop back.
At this point Natasha returns, scooping Abby up, "I called Bucky and your Mama & they're coming. It's ok, Abby."
"My Papa is wight dere!" Fighting and wiggling free of Natasha, she runs to Bucky who kneels down for her. "Where's Mama?" She touches his arm which always comforted her.
"Little one, I only look like your Daddy, but I'm sure he's on his way here right now."
What is he saying? With bottom lip quivering, "No. Yous my Papa." She snuggles into his shoulder but quickly pulls away, staring at the man in front of her. He's right! A stranger with her Papa's face. He smelled wrong. Not bad, but not her Papa. And he held her wrong.
You and Bucky run into the room, Bucky reaching Abby first & picking her up, holding her close, "Abby baby?" She touches his short hair and snuggles into his neck. Papa. This feels right. "Jesus Fury! Couldn't this have waited?!"
"I was giving them the tour. I didn't know Abigail would be here."
********
Introductions were made and Abby is so curious. Shyly she walks up to Sugar, "Hello. I'm Abigail Rose. I sowwy I yelled-ed at you. I's mad you wit my Papa, but him's not Papa."
Sugar kneels down & takes Abby hands in hers, "No, he's not but they look an awful lot alike don't they? If I was in your shoes, I'd be upset as well. It's ok, Abigail."
Wide-eyed nodding "I thought him in d'guise! Thems matching in the face part."
Turning to the boy hovering protectively around his mother, Sugar pulls him close, "Abigail, this is my son, Henry."
"Hi Henwy. I sowwy I yells at Ms Sugar. I not yells again. I pwomise." Henry is still wary but gives her a nod.
"And this here," pulling close the little girl & kissing her cheek, "is my sweet angel, Charlotte."
"Wottie & I's alweady fwens," giggling behind her hands.
"Yah! We dancin' & watchin' mobies. Can we go back?"
Sugar smiles at the 2 girls, "Go ahead my sweet angel."
You sent me this a few days ago and I'm finally able to post it. Idk what was going on with tumblr.
But I absolutely loved this!!!
Of course they would get all the snacks and start dancing on the table. Abby being angry at Sugar is lowkey funny. She has to defend her mama. :) I wonder what other shenanigans
@waywardhunter95 @rebeccapineapple @ordelixx @onceithough @thezombieprostitute @ilovetaquitosmmmm @julvrs @unax @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @winterslove1917 @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @mrsnikstan @hisredheadedgoddess28 @itsteambarnes @otterlycanadian @purplecolordeer @buckitostan @littleredwolf @mcucatlady @silas-aeiou @hzdhrtss @florie1 @thecubanator2 @enchantedbarnes @selella @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @cjand10 @pancake-05 @ozwriterchick @toocrazyunsexycool @baw1066 @jvanilly @idkyiamherebutiam
A sweet little mash up I did with @toocrazyunsexycool the creator of "My Little Love." It's hard if an alternate universe has your Papa is with another woman. 😤
"Diwector!" She wraps her arms around his leg, "Hi!" He frowns down at her and then she notices the couple with him, "PAPA!! What doing?!" With her fist on her hips, she noticed her Papa Bear with his arm around the beautiful lady next to him, her new friends slowly standing beside them. Is Papa wearing a wig? Is he disguised for a mission? Are these bad people?? Angry and confused, "Get away from my Papa!" Stalking towards Sugar, the little boy quickly blocks her path, making Abby hop back.
🤣 Abby trying to run interference for Lottie so she won’t get in trouble & then ready to fight Sugar & Bucky!
😂
Wide-eyed nodding "I thought him in d'guise! Thems matching in the face part."
🤷🏻♀️ Only matching in the face 😂
And we know Lottie doesn’t give a shit!! What is Fury gonna do? Fight her? Lmao
She’s just being goofy!
My turn!! 😂
I chose to do how they first met. How these alternate universe families meet and will become friends.
********
Natasha was supposed to be watching Abby, but she was on another phone call. Before leaving, she forbade Abby to leave the common area. Told her she couldn't even leave the couch!
A young boy & girl walk into the common area. Abby's eyes grow wide. She never sees kids her age at The Tower. "Hi, who's you?" Abby slides off the couch to go greet them.
The little girl smiles and walks right on over. "I's Lottie. This is my Bubba," indicating the older boy.
"I'm Abby. You wants to watch Moana and colors wit me?"
Lottie giggles and makes Abby smile, "Yah!"
Abby holds out her hand for her new friend to take & they both run back to the couch. The boy follows like a bodyguard to the little girl. Abby asked if Bubba wanted to color but he declined.
Abby breaks out her multiple baggies of snacks and the girls work on a good sugar high. Soon, coloring forgotten, they are dancing and singing from on top of the coffee table.
Director Fury walks in with a couple and Abby scampers off the table trying to single her new friend to get down. Not the least but afraid, Lottie stands her ground, so Abby runs over to distract Director Fury.
"Diwector!" She wraps her arms around his leg, "Hi!" He frowns down at her and then she notices the couple with him, "PAPA!! What doing?!" With her fist on her hips, she noticed her Papa Bear with his arm around the beautiful lady next to him, her new friends slowly standing beside them. Is Papa wearing a wig? Is he disguised for a mission? Are these bad people?? Angry and confused, "Get away from my Papa!" Stalking towards Sugar, the little boy quickly blocks her path, making Abby hop back.
At this point Natasha returns, scooping Abby up, "I called Bucky and your Mama & they're coming. It's ok, Abby."
"My Papa is wight dere!" Fighting and wiggling free of Natasha, she runs to Bucky who kneels down for her. "Where's Mama?" She touches his arm which always comforted her.
"Little one, I only look like your Daddy, but I'm sure he's on his way here right now."
What is he saying? With bottom lip quivering, "No. Yous my Papa." She snuggles into his shoulder but quickly pulls away, staring at the man in front of her. He's right! A stranger with her Papa's face. He smelled wrong. Not bad, but not her Papa. And he held her wrong.
You and Bucky run into the room, Bucky reaching Abby first & picking her up, holding her close, "Abby baby?" She touches his short hair and snuggles into his neck. Papa. This feels right. "Jesus Fury! Couldn't this have waited?!"
"I was giving them the tour. I didn't know Abigail would be here."
********
Introductions were made and Abby is so curious. Shyly she walks up to Sugar, "Hello. I'm Abigail Rose. I sowwy I yelled-ed at you. I's mad you wit my Papa, but him's not Papa."
Sugar kneels down & takes Abby hands in hers, "No, he's not but they look an awful lot alike don't they? If I was in your shoes, I'd be upset as well. It's ok, Abigail."
Wide-eyed nodding "I thought him in d'guise! Thems matching in the face part."
Turning to the boy hovering protectively around his mother, Sugar pulls him close, "Abigail, this is my son, Henry."
"Hi Henwy. I sowwy I yells at Ms Sugar. I not yells again. I pwomise." Henry is still wary but gives her a nod.
"And this here," pulling close the little girl & kissing her cheek, "is my sweet angel, Charlotte."
"Wottie & I's alweady fwens," giggling behind her hands.
"Yah! We dancin' & watchin' mobies. Can we go back?"
Sugar smiles at the 2 girls, "Go ahead my sweet angel."
You sent me this a few days ago and I'm finally able to post it. Idk what was going on with tumblr.
But I absolutely loved this!!!
Of course they would get all the snacks and start dancing on the table. Abby being angry at Sugar is lowkey funny. She has to defend her mama. :) I wonder what other shenanigans
The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader
Description: Visiting Mary’s grave breaks open another hunt, and regret.
Warnings: Cannon violence and gore, angst (but with some comfort), grief, death
Word Count: 12.8k
Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things
(Masterlist, Prev. Chapter, Outfit)
The Impala speeds down the empty road, nothing but flat lanes on either side of us and the relentless August sun that the black car soaks up.
“Come on, Sam, I’m begging you,” Dean groans. “This is stupid.”
I prop my arm on the door, my head resting in my hand, letting the wind whip at my face. The sun caresses my face as if it’s about to tell me a secret, maybe something about how she’s so gentle and harsh at the same time. Or, the answer to how Dean somehow complains more than I do. Regardless of what she may spill, I push up Dean's sunglasses further up my nose.
“Why?” Sam asks, scuffing.
“Going to visit Mom’s grave?” he answers. “She doesn’t even have a grave; there was no body left after the fire.”
“She has a headstone,” Sam retorts.
“Yeah, put up by her uncle, a man we’ve never even met,” Dean retorts. That explains why we’re going to Illinois instead of Kansas; maybe their mystery uncle lives there. “So you wanna go pay respects to a slab of granite put up by a stranger? Come on.”
“It’s more about honoring her and mourning than a headstone or a grave,” I add my two cents.
“It’s about her memory,” Sam adds.
“I think it’ll be good for both of you, to be honest,” I consider, earning a mumbled grumble from Dean. I bet he wishes I would agree with him instead of Sam.
“And after Dad it just…just feels like the right thing to do,” Sam includes carefully. It’s a very touchy subject.
“It’s irrational, is what it is,” Dean argues, scuffing.
“Look, man. No one asked you to come,” Sam defends.
“Why don’t we swing by the roadhouse instead?” Dean suggests. “I mean, we haven’t heard anything on the demon lately. We should be hunting that son of a bitch down.
“That’s a good idea, you should go. Just drop me off, I’ll hitch a ride, and I’ll meet you there tomorrow,” Sam answers.
“Right,” Dean laughs. “Stuck…stuck with those people, making awkward small talk and watching Ash try and flirt with Y/N again? No thanks.”
“Wait, what?” I exclaim. “When was Ash flirting with me?”
“He said you smelled good,” Dean answers, his voice somewhere between bored and unamused.
“I thought that was just a weirdly worded compliment,” I defend. I didn’t think Ash was interested in me at all.
“Yeah, that compliment was flirting,” he grumbles.
“Are you sure?” I ask, head tilting to catch the side of his face rather than the back of his head.
“Very,” he confirms, eyes stuck on the road ahead.
“Huh,” I hum, going back to looking out the window.
“Wh—What do you mean ‘huh’?” Dean asks, suddenly sitting up straighter as he looks at the rear view mirror.
“I just didn’t realize he was,” I answer, shrugging. I didn’t mean anything by my ‘huh’ like he’s making it seem.
“You…” he adjusts his hold on the steering wheel, wetting his lips. “‘You interested in him?”
I catch the smug smirk on Sam’s face and the pointed look he gives his brother before he goes back to looking out the window like he’s not there.
Finally, I meet his gaze in the rearview mirror. Was that…worry in his eyes? That doesn’t make sense. “Uh…not really,” I answer truthfully. Someone else has my mind and heart, I want to add.
He nods once, a thoughtful expression gracing his face as he returns his eyes to the road.
********
I stand off to the side with a makeshift bouquet of wildflowers I collected before we stepped into the cemetary.
Sam kneels before his mother's headstone: Mary Winchester, 1954-1983, carved into the granite. He’s silent as he uses his pocket knife to dig a little hole into the ground.
I look up momentarily, making sure Dean’s still around and okay. He’s wandered off, sticking nearby but not close enough to be actively a part of the memorial. I know he’s uncomfortable with expressing most emotions, feeling like it’s a weakness rather than a naturally occurring sensation. It’s okay, though, for now it is.
The clink of a chain brings my attention back to Sam, who’s holding up a set of dog tags. “I think, um…” he sighs. “I think Dad would have wanted you to have these.”
He drops the dog tags in the little hole he made, dragging the mound of dirt over it. He pats it flat, staring at the changed Earth for a moment before he raises his eyes to the gravestone. “I love you, Mom,” he says softly.
Slowly, he stands up, eyes never leaving the grave. I take a step forward, crouching down to rest the bouquet in front of the gravestone. I stand up beside him, joining him in staring at the grave while I put a comforting hand on his back, accepting the weight he leans into me.
********
Dean holds a sleek white card between his two fingers, a business card that some man in a suit gave him. I think it’s some sort of groundskeeper seeing as he talked to Dean right over the dead girls grave.
“Angela Mason,” he starts. “She was a student at the local college; the funeral was three days ago.”
“And?” Sam questions as he starts walking towards the car.
“And?” Dean echoes. “You saw her grave. Everything is dead around it, in a perfect circle? You don’t think that’s a little weird?”
“It’s kind of like a fairy ring,” I point out.
“You think it’s a fairy?” Sam deadpans.
“I want it to be,” I shrug. “Does that count?”
“Of course you want it to be,” Dean shakes his head.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, faking offense.
He looks at me like the answer should be clear. “Look at you. You’re all….” he points at me, gesturing up and down. “Nice, and you dress all…you.”
I bite back my smile as best as I can, which isn’t much at all. “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” I beam, bumping into his arm.
“Can you two focus?” Sam complains. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe the groundskeeper went a little agro with the pesticide.”
“No, I asked him. I asked him,” Dean clarifies. “No pesticide, no chemicals. Nobody can explain it.”
The circle of dead grass around the grave is far too large to be a simple gardening mistake, especially since it took out a whole tree. “So, do you have any theories of your own?” I ask.
“I dunno. Unholy ground, maybe?” he suggests, half shrugging.
“Un—“ Sam stutters, flabbergasted.
“What? If something evil happened there, it could easily poison the ground,” Dean argues. “Remember the farm outside of Cedar Rapids?”
“Yeah, b—“
“‘Could be the sign of a demonic presence. Or the…the Angela girl’s spirit, if it’s powerful enough,” he tries. Sam nods, but he’s clearly not amused as he looks away as if trying to avoid continuing the conversation. “Well, don’t get too excited, you might pull something,” Dean remarks.”
“It’s just…stumbling onto a hunt?” Here, of all places?”
“So?”
“So—are you sure this is about a hunt, and not about something else?” Sam asks.
“What else would it be about?” Dean counters.
Sam sighs heavily, shaking his head, “You know, just forget about it.”
“You believe what you want, Sam, but…I let you drag my ass out here, the least we could do is check this out,” Dean reasons, clearly grasping at straws.
I’m not exactly sure if there is a hunt here because as much as the dead grass in a perfect circle is odd, Sam has a point, it is quite the coincidence to find a hunt like this. But, maybe that’s the difference between Sam and me; I can see what something is, but still let it happen, and he can’t. I can’t say which is the better option. Though if I had a little more courage, I’d probably say leaving the delusion behind sooner rather than later is for the best.
Still, Sam gives in. “Yeah. Fine,” he grumbles, because sometimes you have to let someone see it for themselves. Sometimes you have to play into the delusion, too, make them feel sane just for a second, so that all the other noises can turn into buzzing. Dean nods, “Girl’s dad works in town. He’s a professor at the school.”
********
The hallway is densely populated with students going to their next class, the new semester in full swing. So when we enter Dr. Mason’s office, it’s like walking into another world. All the life that dances in the hallway dies before this entrance.
Dr. Mason sits behind a desk with a distant look in his eyes. He looks disheveled between the little hair he has left being all messed up and the sagging off his face like he hasn’t slept in days, but I can’t blame him, considering he just lost his daughter. I don’t know how he’s at work at all.
So it feels worse to claim we were friends of Angela’s just to get information. We’ve done it before: lied to someone grieving, but it never gets easier, nor does it feel right.
He has a photo album out, having Sam and me look through the photos of Angela, a sad smile on his face the entire time. She was a radiant girl, that’s clear by these photos, her perfect smile beams up at us, her eyes a little squinty with the intensity of it.
“She was beautiful,” Sam compliments.
“She had a really nice smile,” I add.
“Yes, she was and she did,” Dr. Mason answers solemnly.
“This is an unusual book,” Dean declares, interrupting the grave mood that had settled over us. I know it’s not that he doesn’t care, but instead it’s him wanting answers, standing by a bookshelf with an old book propped open in his arms. He holds the book up to show off the cover with a triangular symbol carved into it, as well as some other symbols.
“It’s ancient Greek,” Dr. Mason answers. “I teach a course.”
Dean nods, lips pursed as he puts the book back on the shelf. “So a car accident, that’s…that’s horrible,” he continues.
“Angie was only a mile from home when, uh…” he trails off, swallowing roughly.
I can’t imagine what it’s like to bury your child, to put them to rest in the dirt. A parent is not meant to outlive their child, to have to relive memories of them growing up and hitting every milestone, just to know that they’ll never get to see them complete another one again. I don’t know how he’s functioning in any aspect. He’s strong when he doesn’t have to be.
“It’s gotta be hard. Losing someone like that,” Dean adds. “Sometimes it’s like they’re still around. Almost like you can still sense their presence. ‘You ever feel’ anything like that?”
I look at him for a long time, the photobook and anything else forgotten about. This is probably the closest and the most I’ve heard Dean talk about what happened. He won’t let himself outwardly express it, let alone speak about it. And as much as I want to respect his silence, I wish he would just let it out. But, I guess now the dam has some breaks in it, and some things are bound to come loose.
“I do, as a matter of fact,” Dr. Mason answers.
“That’s perfectly normal, Dr. Mason. Especially with what you’re going through,” Sam swoops in.
“You know, I still phone her,” he reveals. “And the phone’s ringing before I remember that, uh…Family’s everything, you know? Angie was the most important thing in my life. And now I—I…I’m just lost without her.”
I frown, feeling the familiar ache of utter despair forming in the back of my throat. There are no words that can describe grief; you can try, but it just doesn’t work. It makes you feel utterly powerless. I didn't even know this girl, and yet I feel powerless.
“We’re very sorry,” Sam answers softly for all of us.
********
“I’m telling you, there’s something going on here,” Dean reiterates. “We just haven’t found it yet.”
He’s been adamant about this all day and even more so after our meeting with Dr. Mason. He won’t let it go. It’s not that I necessarily disagree with his theory of something going on, in fairness, I’m not really here nor there on this ongoing argument. But Sam is.
“Dean, so far you’ve got a patch of dead grass and nothing,” Sam points out.
“Well, something turned that grave into unholy ground,” he argues back.
“There’s no reason for it to be unholy ground. Angela Mason was a nice girl who died in a car crash. That’s not exactly vengeful spirit material. You heard her father,” Sam explains.
“I mean that’s not totally true,” I butt in. “She could still be vengeful because of the crash.”
Sam groans, “Tell me you aren’t on his side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” I say in defense, shrugging.
“Not being on a side is being on a side,” he argues, gesturing towards me with his arms fully extended.
“No, it’s called being neutral,” I correct, shaking my head.
“No, it’s called you’re too loyal to Dean and don’t have the heart to say that he’s wrong about this!” he counters.
“Oh, that is so not true,” I scuff, though it doesn’t sound as convincing as I’d like it to be.
“You know what? We never should have bothered that poor man. We shouldn’t even be here at all,” Sam continues.
“So what, Sam? What, we just bail without even figuring out what’s going on?” Dean questions.
“I think I know what’s going on here,” Sam claims. “It’s the only reason I went along with you this far.”
“What are you talking about?” Dean asks.
“This is about Mom’s grave,” he answers.
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Dean scuffs, rolling his eyes.
“You wouldn’t step within a hundred yards of it,” he reasons. “Look, maybe you’re imagining a hunt where there isn’t one, so you don’t have to think about Mom or Dad.”
Dean glares at him, his jaw set tightly. Sam looks up to the ceiling for a second, sighing, “You wanna take another swing? Go ahead, if it’ll make you feel better.”
“I don’t need this crap,” he spits, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of a chair and the keys off the table.
“Wait, where are you going?” I ask just as his hand touches the doorknob.
“I’m going to get a drink. Alone,” he answers bitterly, pulling open the door and slamming it behind him.
The door rattles on its hinges, and I’m quick to get up to follow him.
“He said he wanted to be alone,” Sam reminds me.
“Too bad, so sad,” I answer, throwing a quick wave back before I slip out the door.
I have to run after him, he’s already close to Baby. I skid in front of him before he can try to unlock the car. I smile at him, my hands behind my back on the car handle.
“Move,” he grumbles, “…please.” “No, sorry,” I answer.
“I really don’t wanna talk about it,” he says sternly, his shoulders tense, and his face frozen in annoyance. He already knows what I’m here for.
“Okay,” I say softly. “We don’t have to talk, just let me come with you.”
“You don’t like drinking,” he points out.
“I’ll drink with you,” I shrug, not really thinking about it.
His eyebrow quirks as he repeats himself, “But you don’t like to drink.”
“I drink sometimes…on occasion…a little bit,” I answer.
He sighs, clearly somewhat annoyed. “No, sweetheart, you don’t understand. I’m not gonna let you do something you don’t like just to make me happy.”
Oh. A smile pulls onto my lips, my brain melting a little. “Stop being sweet,” I lecture, using whatever is left of my brain function to stay on task. “I’m trying to be here for you. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I don’t care about being alone,” he shakes his head.
“Well, I can care enough for both of us,” I counter.
He looks at me for a long moment, hard eyes softening enough to let me know I’m in. He sighs, grumbling, “Fine. Get in.”
“Yay!” I beam, before wiping the smile off my face to give a very serious nod. I slip past him, rounding the car for the passenger side with a little pep in my step. I half expected him to tell me to leave him alone, which I would’ve accepted if he really wanted me gone.
I get in the car and buckle up, Dean doing the same with a grumpy look on his face. “I really don’t want to talk about it so don’t try that crap with me,” he warns again, putting the car into drive. But, already, there’s less bark and bite in him.
“Okay,” I say softly, nodding. “That’s okay.”
He’s silent as we pull out of the parking lot, jaw clenched like he’s trying to keep something locked behind his teeth. We only make it a block away when he sighs deeply.
“I know you didn’t like him,” he starts.
“You don’t like my father either,” I point out.
His head snaps towards me. “I have ‘good reason to,” he says sharply.
“So do I,” I whisper, twisting in my seat. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear everything.”
He frowns, eyes back on the road. His lips twitch like he’s holding back what he wants to say. This is hard for him, I know it is, which is why I never want to push him.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s perfectly okay, but if you do…..” I stretch out the word, “I’m here for you, always.”
He nods, just a single bob of his chin. There’s something unreadable in his green eyes, something I want to learn and unpack. He swallows roughly, running a hand down his face. “It’s my fault he’s dead,” he claims, his voice wavering just slightly.
The car slows to a stop on the side of the road, his palms pressing into his eyes, his throat bobbing. He doesn’t want me to see him cry. Like I care. I unbuckle myself, sitting on my knees as I scoot closer to him. “Don’t say that,” I answer softly, a hand going to his wrist.
“It’s true,” he continues, voice breaking. “Don’t tell me it isn’t when I know it is.” He removes his hands from his eyes by himself, his green eyes glossy, and his eyelashes wet. “I should be dead, not him.”
“No, no,” I mumble, shaking my head while it feels like someone lodged a dagger into my heart. “Don’t say that, baby, that’s not true.”
A flash of hurt passes over his features like he just got hit by something, and he nods. “It is. It is,” he repeats. “I made a full recovery; it was a miracle. And then five minutes later, my Dad's dead and the Colt is gone.”
I clench my hands tightly, nails biting my palm. He swallows roughly before he continues, “I know you’ve made that connection already. Sam had a point before, you don’t have the heart to tell me the truth about that kind of shit.”
He’s right. He’s right, and I wish he weren’t. Of course, I knew. I knew the moment John died. I know he died so that Dean could live, and as messed up as it is, I’m glad that he did.
“I was supposed to stay dead, there’s no other way around it,” he reiterates, shoving the dagger deeper into my heart.
“No,” I shake my head, moving through the break in my voice. “We would’ve found a way. I would’ve found a way, I was close.”
“Yeah, close to killing yourself,” he scuffs. “Sam told me what happened, you passed out.”
“I don’t care, I was—”
“I care!” He cuts me off. “It would’ve been the same thing, you dying so I could live. That’s not any better, ‘not a fair deal.”
Still, I shake my head. I can’t accept this. I can’t. I won’t. I swallow back my tears, trying to be strong for him. But tears are streaming down his face, and it makes it that much harder. I reach out, cupping his cheeks to brush them away. “I’m glad you’re alive even if you don’t feel that way. I’m sorry you do. I’m sorry that you’ve been put in an impossible situation.”
He grabs my wrists, hands wrapping around them, but not pulling me away. There are no words to make this right, or to make him feel better. I wish there were. I hate that he feels this way. It hurts. “Fuck survivors guilt,” I laugh through unshed tears. I swallow them down again, vision almost blurry, “I’m so glad you’re alive, sometimes I think it's a dream, like my brain is trying to make me feel better by convincing me that you’re still around, and…and if it is, I hope I never wake up. I don’t want to live in a world that you’re not in.”
His eyes close tightly, tears that had collected in his eyelashes falling, his thumbs pressing into the pulse of my wrists. “Don’t say that,” he mumbles, opening his eyes.
“Say what?” I retort, brushing away his tears without a second thought. “That you’re so important to me that I’d rather let the sun burn out than lose you.”
His lips part, breath stuttering. His eyes are wide, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. “C’mere,” he says softly. Then all at once, his hands fall from my wrists to my hips, lifting me onto his lap without a grumble, my knees on either side of him. His head falls to my collarbone, my hands moving to the back of his head and his back. His shoulders jerk forward, a choked noise mumbled into my skin.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, running my fingers through the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. His arms are wrapped around me entirely, like he’s trying to prevent me from going somewhere. But I’m not leaving him, I don’t care that my neck is wet or that his grip is firm. I don’t want to be anywhere else.
“It’s okay. I have you,” I continue whispering.
I know he thinks expressing emotions makes him weak. So, I wish that for just one moment, he could see himself through my eyes and see how incredible he is. I can’t think of a better word for it, though I think there isn’t one that can perfectly encapsulate him. He’s beyond any feeble word; he’s the rising sun, the growing evergreen, and the strong gusts of wind that keep the world moving. He keeps me moving.
“You know, life does this funny thing with you in it. I don’t know how or why but it gets all sunny, light brimming at the edges like a perfect frame—even when it’s stormin’ or it’s midnight,” I babble, voice breaking slightly.
I don’t know what I’m saying—that’s not true, I do.
I know what I’m saying but I don’t know why—that’s not true either.
But I might be spilling my guts, a confession sewn into each syllable like a patchwork blanket, hidden in trying to say anything to comfort him. It’s not anything, it’s the truth spewing from my lips like syrup spilling from a maple tree, and I can’t help myself.
“It’s okay,” I mumble over and over until I can convince myself, and, maybe, him too.
********
It took some time for him to stop crying, for the sobs to turn to a sniffle. Even then, it took a while longer for him to finally pull away, an embarrassed look on his face as he let me slip off his lap and into the passenger seat. He let me hold his hand as he drove, though “let me” is a strong word considering it was his hand reaching for mine.
Now, he’s checking his face in the side mirror before we head into—not the bar as he made it out to seem, but to Angela’s home, which was apparently his plan all along.
His eyes are a little puffy, but considering we’re breaking in, it should be the least of his worries. No one would see him anyway, so there’s nothing for him to worry about. No one will know that this macho man is human.
I pull on his hand, “Come on, you look perfect. Very hardcore and cool like always.”
There’s a smug little smirk on his face as he straightens and lets me pull him onto the sidewalk, his body hitting mine. “You’re right, I am cool,” he declares.
“Yeah, you are, you dork,” I smile softly, trying not to laugh.
Then his eyes drop to my neck, his thumb coming up to brush my collarbone lightly. My heart erupts in my chest, getting stuck in my throat. “I messed up your shirt,” he states, finger moving over my shoulder.
“Just a shirt,” I shrug.
His eyes jump to mine, a crease forming between his brows. “‘You feeling okay?” he asks, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead.
I laugh, taking a step back until he’s pulling me forward again with the hand he’s still holding. “I’m perfectly well, why?” I ask.
“A shirt has never been “'just a shirt” to you,” he answers, eyebrow quirked.
“Well, look who's been paying attention,” I tease, unable to stop myself from smiling. It’s a small thing for him to notice, and yet I want to giggle and kick my feet back and forth like I’m at a slumber party talking about my top secret crush.
“I always pay attention,” he replies defensively.
“Mhm, sure you do,” I muse, leading him towards Angela’s apartment building before we get distracted in our bickering (not that I’d exactly mind that.)
Quickly, he falls in step beside me.“I pay attention enough. When it matters,” he defends.
“So never?” I joke, tilting my head in mock thought.
He snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t push your luck, sweetheart,” he warns without malice.
It’s late, and we're walking up to an apartment building we’ll be breaking into, and yet nothing has felt so right or natural. It’s not the crime aspect that feels that way; it’s his hand in mine as we walk side by side, having a stupid and quite meaningless conversation. Sometimes you’re with someone, and somehow you know nothing could ever truly be wrong or bad as long as they’re right there. I wonder if he’s feeling that now, too, or if his mind is elsewhere, still convincing himself that he shouldn’t be around. I hope it isn’t. I hope that even for just three insignificant minutes, he can be himself again, before he had to carry the extra weight of his father's death.
He drags his hand down the bell panel of the apartment building, hitting each one in hopes someone buzzes us in.
“That’s not gonna work,” I point out, “the chances of someone expecting someone to be coming home this late are—”
Bzzzz.
He pushes the door open with a cocky smirk. “You were saying?” he remarks, guiding me inside.
“Okay, that was pure luck,” I argue, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Ain’t nothin’ I do ‘s pure luck. That’s pure skill, baby,” he boasts, head leaning towards me to rub it in.
“Your ego is far too big,” I reply, almost surprised by his audacity.
His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, “Not the only thing of mine that’s “far too big.””
I laugh nervously before I can stop myself, my face warm and my chest tight in the way it gets when I forget to breathe. My thoughts come to a stuttering halt. He starts laughing, full-on chuckling, his head thrown back.
I shove him away, which only serves to make him laugh harder. “You…you are not allowed to speak ever again,” I stammer, quickening my steps to avoid him, and his face, and the thoughts that attack my brain.
I don’t need to know that if he’s being serious. In fact it shouldn’t matter if he’s being serious. Why is this hallway so goddamn hot?
I take a deep breath, trying to cool my warm face as I speed down the hallway to the last door, stopping in front of what was Angela’s apartment.
“It was just a joke,” he teases, leaning against the wall beside the door. His eyebrows raise in contemplation, “Well…not really.”
I hold a hand up, not looking his way. “No speaking. Ever,” I mutter.
He wipes the bright smile off his face, hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say, darling,” he shrugs.
I shake my head, sighing. I ignore him, turning the doorknob, letting the lock quickly come undone. I enter slowly, hesitant to invade someone’s home even if she’s now dead. Dean closes the door softly behind us, following me into the living room.
“Who the hell are you?!” someone screeches.
I jump, turning around quickly to watch a girl with straight black hair and pink pajamas shut herself into a room, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, hold on!” Dean spews, going after her.
“I’m calling 911!” she yells from behind the door.
We’re so screwed.
“I’m Angela’s cousin!” Dean shouts, thinking quickly.
“What?” she exhales.
“Yeah, her dad sent me over to, uh, pick up her stuff, my name’s Alan? Alan Stanwick?” he continues. “I brought my girlfriend, Madeline with me to, you know, help with the, uh, the grief.”
The door creaks open, her dark eyes peeking through the crack. “Her dad didn’t say that you were coming.”
“Well, I mean,” he answers, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “How else would I get the key to your place?”
********
Lindsey, the girl who threatened to call the cops on us, was Angela’s roommate. She’s hunched over on the dark red couch, face in her hands as she cries, she’s been doing this for the last five minutes—she pretty much immediately started balling.
Dean shifts beside me, throwing me a “please do something” look. I’m not exactly the fixer-upper he thinks I am, and yet I still get up to sit beside her, taking a couple tissues from the box on the table to hand to her.
She wipes her eyes carefully, mumbling a “sorry.”
“Oh don’t apologize,” I shake my head. “You’re allowed to cry as much as you want to.”
“Yeah…” Dean agrees half hardly, looking at me sideways. “So…I’m sure you got a view of Angela that none of the family got to see,” he continues, jumping to the point. “What was she like? I mean, what was she really like?”
“She was great,” Lindsey answers through sniffles.
“Mhm,” I hum, waiting for her to continue.
“Just great. I mean, she was so…so…”
“Great,” Dean finishes for her, unamused.
“Yeah. Yeah,” she sobs into the tissues. She’s really broken up about this, which is expected considering the death and grief we’re talking about.
“You two must have been really close, huh?” Dean remarks.
“We were,” she answers. “But it’s not just her, it’s Matt.”
“Who?” he asks.
“The boyfriend,” I answer, mostly guessing.
“Yeah, Angela’s,” Lindsey clarifies.
“Right. Right, that Matt,” Dean nods, flashing me a confused and surprised look. “What about him?”
“He killed himself last night,” she answers, voice breaking. “He cut his own throat. Who does that?”
“He was grieving,” I reply calmly. “Maybe it was too much for him. And men tend to choose brutal or messier suicides than women.”
“Yeah, he was taking Angela’s death pretty hard, and I guess…I mean, he’d been messed up about it for days. He was losing it,” she adds.
“Messed up how?” Dean asks.
“He kept saying that he saw her everywhere,” she answers, wiping the tears from her face.
“Well, I’m…I’m sure that that’s normal, I mean with everything he was going through,” Dean reasons.
“No, he said that he saw her. As in, an acid trip or something,” she clarifies.
Well, I guess that supposed suicide is no longer a suicide but a murder. While it could still be a grief induced hallucination, in our line of work it never is. So why would she want to kill her boyfriend?
“Did they get into a fight or something before she passed?” I ask, trying to think of any other reason she would go after her boyfriend.
“What? No, of course not, why do you ask?” she answers a little taken-a-back.
“Oh, you know…. guilt-induced hallucinations," I babble, coming up with anything. “Mhm, yep,” Dean tags on awkwardly, nodding intensely. “So, where did Matt live?”
********
I take another sip of my caffeinated drink, trying to keep my brain awake while leaning into Dean's side.
“If you keep your arm around me like this ‘m gonna fall asleep,” I tell him and yet make no effort to remove myself.
He slung his arm around my shoulder the moment we got out of the car, and I’m taking advantage of it even if it’s just while we walk the short distance from the parking lot to the motel room. He’s comfortable even like this and he smells like he always does, something woodsy and a little like coffee now that’s been nursing it.
“Fall asleep like you did in the car?” he teases with a lopsided smile.
“It has been a long couple of hours!” I defend, halfheartedly, knowing he was the one who woke me up just before we pulled into the motel parking lot with one of my favorite drinks on the ready.
“Mhm,” he hums deep in his chest. “Baby needs her beauty sleep.”
“You’re mean,” I laugh, scoffing, moving from his side to prove a point.
But then he’s pulling me right back in with a laugh of his own, “Yeah?”
He isn’t. Not even a little bit. “Totally,” I smile, giving myself away.
He rolls his eyes playfully, keys jingling as he tries to unlock the motel room with one hand. It gives way, the door pushing open slowly.
Sam moves quickly, fumbles with the remote tossing it sideways onto the bed he sits on the edge of. He looks at us with wide eyes, a nervous line pulled onto his face. “Hey,” he exhales.
Dean leads us inside, a needed feat as I would’ve stood frozen at the doorway looking between Sam and the TV. I still do that even as Dean removes his arm from around my shoulder, kicking the door closed behind us with raised eyebrows.
“What?” Sam questions, looking between us.
“Awkward,” Dean mumbles, scratching his head.
It’s all the confirmation my brain needs to make the connection on what Sam was watching and why he was fumbling with the remote.
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere near these beds ever again,” I declare, keeping myself as small as possible by the door.
“Well, where the hell have you two been?” Sam asks, forcing us to move on.
“Working my imaginary case,” Dean answers matter-of-factly, placing his coffee on the nightstand before he flops on his bed. He sits against the headboard, hands behind his head and boots crossed.
“Yeah? And?” Sam scoffs.
“Well, you were right, I didn’t find much,” he shrugs, gaining a sympathetic nod from his brother. “Except Angela’s boyfriend died last night. Slit his own throat, but, you know, that’s normal. And, uh, let’s see, what else am I missing Y/N?”
“He was seeing Angela everywhere before he died,” I answer, hopping on the edge of the kitchen table, letting him bask in the glory of being right and rubbing it in.
He snaps, pointing at me, “Right, that was it. But you know, I’m sure that’s just me transferring my own feelings.”
“Okay, I get it. I’m sorry,” he admits, “maybe there is something going on here.”
“Maybe?” Dean echoes. “Sam, I know how to do my job, despite what you might think.”
“We should check out the guy’s apartment,” Sam suggests.
“We just came from there. Pile of dead plants just like the cemetery. Hell, dead goldfish too,” he answers.
“Poor goldfish,” I frown, repeating the same reaction I had when I saw the golden fish. “And poor plants. She’s really giving a whole new meaning to “killing everything around you.”
“So it is unholy ground?” Sam asks
“Maybe. I’m still not getting that powerful, angry spirit vibe from Angela,” he answers. He sits up, reaching into his jacket to pull out a little pink book. “I have been reading this, though.”
“You stole the girl's diary?”
“Yes he did even though I told him to put it back!” I exclaim. “But nooooo, just have to invade the girls' privacy more.”
“It’s a good insight,” he defends himself. “And if anything, the girl’s a little too nice.”
“Being 'too nice' is not a thing,” I argue. “Plus it’s her diary, why would she be “fake nice” to something that’s for her eyes only?”
“That’s true,” Sam agrees. “And you say Y/N’s 'too nice' all the time and she’s not murderous.”
“Okay, well…” Dean stammers, cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “I do not say that all the time.”
“I know I’m like the only girl you two know but I don’t have to be used as a point of comparison,” I remark, putting my hands up in surrender.
“You are not the only girl we know,” Sam defends, crossing his arms.
“Dude, you were just about to watch a porno, which you had to buy, by the way, so at this point I might as well be considered the only girl you know. Or, interact with,” I argue, gesturing between him and the black TV screen.
His face turns red, mouth opening to release some kind of snarky defense that never comes.
I hop off the little table with a smirk, “Alright then, while you two act like total guys and read through a girl's diary, I’m gonna go shower and change into new clothes. Have fun…I guess.”
We wear our best smiles, or at least our most convincing ones, to speak to Neil, a good friend of Angela.
“I didn’t realize the college employed grief counselors,” Neil remarks with a cautious smile, keeping us on his doorstep. He looks friendly, average if anything with short dark hair and a large forehead.
“Oh yeah, you talk, we listen,” Dean nods. “Or maybe throw in a little therapeutic collage, whatever jump-starts the healing.”
I roll my eyes internally. Sometimes I wish Dean would let someone else do the talking.
“What my coworker means to say is: the school takes grief very seriously, especially since it’s one of our own. So, we wanted to reach out to any close friends of Angela’s to make sure they’re doing well in the wake of her loss,” I reply, hopefully fixing Dean's casualness.
“Well, I think I’m okay. Thanks,” he shrugs, looking between the three of us.
“Well, you heard what happened to Matt Harrison, right?” Sam starts.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Well, we just wanted to make sure you were okay. Grief can make people do crazy things,” he elaborates, pressing him.
“Look, I’m sorry about what happened to him. I am,” he answers a little defensively, his pitch rising just slightly. “But if Matt killed himself, it wasn’t ’cause of grief.”
“No? Then why?” Dean asks.
“It was guilt. Angie’s death was Matt’s fault, and he knew it,” he replies, words sharper.
I throw a side glance at Dean, catching him already looking at me. Did I hit this right on the nail? “Why do you think that?” I ask.
“Well, she really loved that guy. But the night of the accident, she walked in on him with another girl. She was really torn up, that’s why she crashed the car,” he reveals, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “Look, I gotta get ready for work, so…thanks for the concern, but…seriously, I’ll be okay.”
He gives us a tight-lipped smile as he slowly shuts the door, disappearing somewhere into his house. “Well, that vengeful spirit theory’s starting to make a little more sense,” Dean remarks as we create distance between us and Neil. “I mean, hell hath no fury.”
“So if Angela got her revenge on Matt, you think it’s over?” Sam asks.
“I wouldn’t think so. I mean, wouldn’t she also go after the girl he cheated on her with?” I point out.
“It does take two to have, you know, hardcore sex,” Dean adds, looking over at me.
“I bet I know who he cheated with!” I announce, hitting Dean's arm lightly. “Lindsey.”
“The roommate?” Sam asks, eyebrow quirked.
“Uh yeah,” I answer. “Look, it’s textbook. And even if we don’t go based on that, for supposedly being her roommate and like close friend, she really didn’t have much to say about her other than “good.”
“Great,” Dean interjects, correcting me.
I throw him a sideways look, “Right,” I nod. “‘Point is, if my best friend died, I would be going on a whole five-hour rant about her, not simmering it down to one word.”
“She did seem broken up about Matt,” Dean adds, pulling open the car door.
“Yeah, and I feel like I’ve heard enough gossip in my life to have a good enough feeling on this,” I add, getting into the backseat. “And I’ve heard some crazy things.”
“Well, there’s one way to make sure she can’t go after someone else,” Dean points out.
“Yeah? What’s that?” Sam muses.
“Burn the bones,” he answers like it’s obvious.
“Burn the bones?” Sam scoffs. “Are you high? Angela died last week!”
“So?”
“So, there’s not gonna be bones. There’s gonna be a ripe, rotting body in the coffin,” Sam clarifies.
“Oh, it’s gonna smell so bad,” I say aloud to no one in particular. “‘Putrefied corpse to make your day that much better.”
“Since when are you afraid to get dirty? Huh?” Dean muses, smirking.
********
Sweat drips down my spine, my chest heaving with the exertion of shoveling about six feet of dirt. No one tells you how hard it is to dig up a grave, even with three people working on it, and there’s only so much watching a hot guy can do.
That’s not true.
I can watch this all day: his forearms flexing, eyebrows furrowed in focus, his grey button-up tightening against his back, his black shirt sticking to his chest, and his grunts and groans.
It’s only very mildly distracting. I think someone should turn this into a show, close ups and all, the viewership would be through the roof.
I don’t know if I can say the same for me, my skin is slick with sweat, my hair lazily tossed into some updo just to get it off my neck, and my white shirt is sticking to my skin—I somehow always choose the worst tops for days we dig graves, though there’s not exactly much of a notice on these types of things.
“We should really invest in those big yellow grabby-digger things,” I propose through pants and tossing dirt out of the hole we’ve created.
Sam pauses beside me, shovel stuck into the dirt, hands crossed over the handle. “An excavator?” he asks.
“Sure,” I shrug. “If that’s what it’s called.”
He goes back to digging, shaking his head at my suggestion. And then Dean stops, head tilted back slightly as he sucks in a sharp breath of cool air, “And where would we keep it, sweetheart?” he asks.
“I don’t know, ‘shrink it down and put it in our pocket?” I answer, pausing my digging to wipe the sweat off the side of my face with a huff.
“‘Now you’re askin’ for two impossible things,” he replies, going back to digging.
“Well, I like to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” I declare with a knowing smile. And as if answering the silent pray that’s on all our minds, Sam’s shovel hits something with a clunk. Quickly, and without anymore side comments, we shuffle the rest of the dirt to the side, a crisp oak casket staring up at us.
Dean helps me out of the grave the moment he hops out himself, hand wrapping around mine while the other encircles me. He turns me around in his hold, chest nearly against my back. “Ladies first, Sammy,” he calls out from over my shoulder, looking down at the hole Sam still stands in.
Sam glares at us, lips pursed in a bitch face. “Hold that,” he grumbles, tossing up his flashlight. I catch it with both hands before it hits the ground, shinning the beam of light onto him.
In the corner of my eye I can see the sharp edge of Dean’s jaw, every rise of his chest brushing my back, his exhales blowing on me. If he were anyone else I’d push him away, the body heat too much when I’m already sweating and sticky. But, he isn’t someone else so I let him stay where he is, one arm slung low around my hips, his forearm and watch on display with the way his sleeve is pushed up. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make my mind all silly and my stomach all warm.
I quickly shoot my hand up, plugging my nose as Sam leans down with tense shoulders, pulling open the casket.
Empty. It’s empty. My hand falls to my side, freeing my nose up to inhale the smell of dirt and grass. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I deadpan, looking at the clean white bedding of the casket. “All that work for nothing?”
“They buried the body four days ago,” Dean adds, stepping away from me to get a closer look into the grave. “I don’t get it,” Sam shakes his head, gesturing for his flashlight.
“Well she definitely didn’t decompose into nothingness,” I answer, handing the beaming light back to him. He crouches down, tracing the inside of the coffin with his light. “And she definitely didn’t just walk out of here,” I add.
“Look,” Sam announces, flashlight pointed over the inside roof of the coffin, the white covering shredded, letters in a different language carved into the wood below with a triangle symbol in the middle, a line going through it while another one curves at the triangles left corner.
“What is that?” Dean asks, hoping back into the grave to get an even closer look.
“Oh, she might’ve actually just walked out of here,” I mumble, head tilted to the side to see the symbols better.
“I’ve seen these kinds of symbols before,” Dean reveals, looking up at me.
Dean’s practically running ahead with one long stride after the other. Dr. Mason wasn’t at the school so instead we’ve pulled up to his house and Dean’s been fuming the whole time; jaw set tightly in a mix of determination and agitation. He leaps up the two steps to the front door, fist raised to pound on the wooden door.
“Dean. Take it easy, okay?” Sam warns.
The door pulls open wide, Dr. Mason standing there with confusion. “You’re Angie’s friends, right?” he asks, looking between the three of us.
“Dr. Mason…” Sam begins softly.
“We need to talk,” Dean finishes for him, harshly.
“Well, then, come in,” he answers kindly despite the attitude he’s been thrown. He steps aside, gesturing for us to come in.
He leads us into the house straight into his home office. It’s not that much different from his office at school, there’s still a large oak desk, books around, and shelves with little antiques like vases or small statues.
“You teach Ancient Greek. Tell me–” Dean starts, pulling a folded piece of paper from the inside of his jacket. He unfolds the paper, pressing it down onto the desk for Dr. Mason to see. “What are these?”
He looks down at the symbols Dean copied from the grave with a crease forming between his brows. It’s a great illustration, practitcally an exact copy of the carvings we saw last night. “I don’t understand. You said this had to do with Angela,” he answers, looking at us for some sort of clue.
“It does,” Dean insists. “Please, just humor me.”
“They’re part of an ancient Greek divination ritual,” he finally answers. It’s quite impressive that he knows that from the top of his head, even though I know he is a college professor.
“Used for necromancy, right?” Dean presses.
“That’s right,” Dr. Mason confirms. But he still looks confused like he doesn’t understand where this is all going.
“See, before we came over here we stopped by the library and did a little homework ourselves,” Dean reveals. “Apparently they used rituals like this one for communicating with the dead. Even bringing corpses back to life. Full-on zombie action.”
“Yes. I mean, according to the legends,” Dr. Mason answers. “Now, what’s all this about?”
“I think you know,” Dean counters.
“Dean,” Sam warns.
“Look, I get it. Okay?” he counties anyways. “There are people that I would give anything to see again. But what gives you the right?”
“Dean,” Sam tries again.
“What are you talking about?” Dr. Mason asks, taken a back.
“What’s dead should stay dead!” He yells.
“What?!”
“Stop it!”
“He doesn’t know anything, come on let’s leave,” I plead through the erupting madness. It’s all very quick; and yet I know through all of it that the moment Dean and I had the other night could not fix nor ease the consuming part of his brain that’s been telling him he shouldn’t be alive.
“What you brought back isn’t even your daughter anymore. These things are vicious, they’re violent, they’re so nasty they rot the ground around them,” he continues. “I mean, come on, haven’t you seen Pet Sementary?”
“You’re insane,” Dr. Mason utters, face struck in fear with his eyes wide.
“He is,” I agree just to end this whole thing, “And I’m very sorry for all of this. We’ll be leaving now.” Sam nods in agreement, helping me in trying to push Dean out of the room.
“Where is she?” he asks, dogging is head around us to look at the strucken man.
“Get out of my house,” Dr. Mason says sternly.
“Gladly!” I chirp over my shoulder, crowding Dean into the doorway.
Suddenly he rips away, pushing Sam aside roughly, and side stepping me. He storms over to the Doctor, knocking the phone out of the old mans hand. “I know you’re hiding her somewhere. Where is she?!” he roars.
“Dean! Stop, that’s enough! Dean, look!” Sam yells, grabbing fistfulls of his brothers jacket, ripping him away from the man. He points to the window where a row of small green plants are lined up. “Beautiful, living plants.”
He shoves Dean out into the hallway, and I follow after him to make sure he’s actually leaving. He’s fuming, fists clenched tightly at his sides all the while I hear Sam apologizing profusely, and still Dr. Mason shouts down the hall, “I’m calling the cops!” “Dean what the hell was that? You can’t just talk to someone like that,” I lecture the moment we step out of the house, quickening my steps to keep pace with him.
“Don’t,” he bites.
But how can I? I knew the conversation we had the other day wasn’t going to change anything, that’s not how it works, and I knew that—I know that and yet, there was a part of me that wanted so badly to believe that I could help in some way. That I was—am—capable of saving and comforting the person who always saves me—the person who actually gives a damn. But I couldn’t. I can’t.
It’s more about him then it is about what he said to Dr. Mason, even if it was incredibly rude. It’ll always be about him.
“Don’t ’don’t’ me. We need to talk about this, please,” I continue, stopping in front of him in the middle of the sidewalk. He looks at me, jaw so tense I’m worried he might crack a tooth, his green eyes are hard like stone. But I see through that stone, I can see the thing that’s clawing him apart, hidden behind his pupils.
“You can’t keep going on like this Dean, it’s—it’s tearing you apart, and something has to give. You need to talk to us—keep talking to me, or—“
“What the hell is the matter with you, Dean?” Sam shouts, coming right up to us.
“Back off,” Dean snaps, glaring at him as he moves around me to keep storming off. If I was making progress, or getting through the storm, it's gone. The walls are up again, if not higher.
I don’t know what to say to make this better because those words don’t exist. It feels like every time I get a little closer I’m pushed back a hundred miles.
“That man is innocent! He didn’t deserve that!” Sam continues to shout.
“Okay, so she’s not here, maybe he’s keeping her somewhere else,” Dean answers, always with his one track mind.
“Stop it! That’s enough, okay? Enough!” he shouts, forcing his brother to stop walking.
“Sam, I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t. At all. Dean, I don’t scare easy, but man, you’re scaring the crap out of me,” Sam reveals.
I’m scared too. I’m worried I’ll wake up, or look away for too long, and he’ll be gone. Just gone. Maybe he’ll be off on the road, leaving me behind, or he’ll be dead—just gone. I don’t want to lose him, but I feel it somewhere deep in my bones.
“Don’t be overdramatic, Sam,” Dean scoffs.
“If it’s overdramatic to care about you, Dean, then yeah we are really fucking dramatic,” I answer, annoyed. For some reason I’m almost angry with him. And it’s not fair, I know that. I also know that I’m not really angry at him but rather the fact that he doesn’t believe he should be alive. And that’s not so fair either.
“You’re lucky this turned out to be a real case because if it wasn’t you would have just found something else to kill,” Sam argues.
“What—“
“You’re on edge, you’re erratic—except for when you’re hunting, because then you’re downright scary,” Sam lists. “You’re tailspinning, man. And you refuse to talk about it, and you won’t let me help you.”
“I can take care of myself, thanks,” he answers bitterly.
“No, you can’t. And you know what? You’re the only one who thinks you should have to,” Sam continues. “You don’t have to handle this on your own, Dean, no one can—”
“Sam, if you bring up Dad’s death one more time I swear—“
“Stop. Please, Dean, it’s killing you. Please. We’ve already lost Dad. We’ve lost Mom. I’ve lost Jessica. And now I’m going to lose you too?”
There’s no clarity or even hurt that passes across his face. I wish there were, but he’s stone cold. I know that somewhere deep inside he cares, I know it. I want to know it. But if he does, he doesn’t show it. It’s all the same to him because it makes sense for him to care for someone else but none at all if someone cares for him.
“We better get out of here before the cops come,” he answers. Sam frowns at him, head tilted in disappointment. And I kind of want to cry. I want to scream and cry, pleading until my throat starts bleeding because maybe then he’ll understand.
“I hear you. Okay? Yeah, I’m being an ass. And I’m sorry. But right now we’ve got a fuckin’ zombie running around, and we need to figure out how to kill it.”
Sam laughs, a brief chuckle passing his lips. “Our lives are weird, man,” he states.
“You’re telling me? Come on.”
***********
I keep my head propped up on my hand, looking down at one of the many books I borrowed from the library regarding Zombies. We’ve been at this for hours, researching and combing through every legend and tale for something real, Sam sitting with John’s journal for an answer.
“We can’t just waste it with a head shot?” Dean asks, pacing the motel room.
“Dude. You’ve been watching way too many Romero flicks,” Sam remarks.
“You’re telling me there’s no lore on how to smoke ‘em?” Dean replies, plopping himself down on the chair across from me at the table I have covered in books.
“No, Dean, I’m telling you there’s too much. I mean, there’s a hundred different legends on the walking dead, but they all have different methods for killing them,” Sam explains.
“There doesn’t seem to be a definite answer on where they originated either,” I add. “Though it seems it might have come from Haitian mythology under the practice of voodoo. The word “zombi” even originates from African languages. And in Haitian mythology you can feed the zombie salt to cure them or even bottle their spirit. But that’s still only one myth.”
“You know some say to set them on fire,” Sam adds on, getting up from his bed. He brings a book from his night stand, flipping through it. “One said, where is it?” He takes the last seat at the table, pressing the opened book down, "Right here. Feeding their hearts to wild dogs. That’s my personal favorite. I mean, who knows what’s real and what’s myth?”
“Is there anything they all have in common?” Dean asks, never one to really do any research himself.
“No. But a few said silver might work,” Sam answers.
“Silvers a start,” Dean nods.
“Well, where do you think Angela is then?” I ask, thumbing through some of the pages in my book. “Probably with whoever brought her back,” Dean answers.
“Any ideas?” Sam replies.
“I think if it’s not her Dad it might be that guy Neil,” he suggests.
“Big forehead Neil?” I ask, looking up from the novel.
Both boys seem to pause for a moment, blinking at me twice. “Yeah, that Neil,” Dean answers, lip twitching. He gets up from our little meeting table, plucking the pink diary from off the TV stand.
“You’ve got your journals—your research, I’ve got mine,” he muses, giving the book a little shake. He flips it open, finger guiding down the page as he reads with a higher pitched—horrible girl—voice. “Neil’s a real shoulder to cry on, he so understands what I’m going through with Matt.”
He clears his throat, dropping back to his normal, much deeper voice, “There’s more in here where that came from. It’s for untreated Duckie love written all over it
“Firstly, please never do that girl voice again,” I say firstly, holding a finger up. “Secondly, you really think Neil had a thing for Angela?”
“A guy doesn’t really comfort a girl about her relationship like that unless he’s into her,” Dean reasons. I’m not entirely sure if that’s true but he is a man so he’d probably know more than me.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he brought her back from the dead,” Sam points out.
“Hmm. Did I mention he’s Professor Mason’s TA? ‘Has access to all the same books.”
*******
We creep into the house, right through the front door, into darkness. All lights are out like even the house is asleep at this time of night.
“Hello? Neil?!” Dean calls out. “It’s your grief counselors, we’ve come to hug.” He reaches into the back waistband of his jeans, pulling out a hand gun.
“Silver bullets?” Sam asks, looking at the gun.
“Yeah, enough to make her rattle like a change purse,” Dean remarks strangely before taking the lead down the hallway.
There's been no response, not even a light turning on like he’s coming to see who broke in. “Maybe he’s asleep,” I whisper.
Dean gives me a pointed look over his shoulder, nodding towards the nearest window. There’s a small pot of a spider plant on the window sill, long leaves, turned a yellowish brown, shrunken and drooping.
“Alright, maybe he’s doing more than sleeping,” I remark. She’s here, or was here. I'm hoping he’s still alive.
Dean pauses in front of the only closed door of the house, nodding at it. “Unless it’s where he keeps his porn…” he trails off, letting the rest be said for itself: it’s the last place either Angela or Neil could be if they’re here at all.
I cringe, rolling my eyes at his stupid comment even though he’s technically right. Sam and I stand on either side of the door, he swings the door open swiftly, letting Dean go down the stairs with his gun leading the way. I file in after him with Sam behind me; entering like we’re some sort of SWAT team.
It’s a decently normal basement with a washing machine and dryer, and pipes on the walls. But right on the floor is a mattress, a blanket crumbled up in its center.
“Sure looks like a zombie pen to me,” Dean says.
“Yeah, an empty one,” Sam answers, having to keep his head ducked with the short ceiling, or at least short for his ridiculous height. “You think Angela’s going after somebody?”
Dean moves a loose grate to the side, the metal hanging on by one nail in the corner, revealing some sort of exit to the outside. “Nah, I think she went out to rent Beaches.”
“Okay, smartass. She might kill someone. We gotta find her,” Sam points out.
“Well, if I'm right about Lindsey being the one Matt was cheating with, then she’s probably next,” I consider.
********
The apartment door is slightly ajar when we move down the hallway, the distinct sound of a struggle coming from within. Our steps quicken, Dean taking the lead with his silver bullet-filled gun. The moment he slides up to the front door he fires multiple times in a row, too many and too quick to count, into the front of the black haired zombie. Lindsey is held within her grasp, her pale hand pulling her hair back while she rises a gleaming pair of scissors towards her chest.
But the stab never comes, Angela’s body convulsing and jerking with each shot, scissors clattering to the floor. Then, one more shot rings out, hitting her dead and center in the chest. She screams, and blood still seeps from the wound, staining the middle of her white dress, and yet it doesn’t seem to kill her or prevent her from bolting out the window.
Dean follows right after her, going right out the window and in a split second decision I decide to join in. I hop out the window, landing on the grass with a thud, and immediately I take off running. Angela’s way ahead, running ridiculously fast for someone who was shot, she’s just a blur of white in the darkness, and Deans some distance behind her, way too far to catch up or get another shot in.
The occasional trees and the grass blur together as I force myself to run quicker, the wind whipping at my face. I surpass Dean, my legs beginning to burn slightly with each footfall, my ragged breaths and the thump of my feet hitting the ground the only thing I hear in my ears. Still, she’s some distance away, heading into some sort of wooded area ahead.
I squint my eyes, focusing on the space behind her, which is hard to lock in on when we’re both constantly moving forward, still I force myself to fold the space between us. In a blink I’m pressed forward, still running, now just two feet away. I launch myself forward with my arms outstretched, grabbing hold of the zombie girl as I tumble to the ground.
The grass itches and pokes at my skin, lushes green turning brown and dry beneath her body a foot away from mine. I bring myself to my feet at the same time that she does, “Come on, Angela you know what you’re doing is wrong, no one else has to get hurt,” I say through my attempt to catch my breath.
The skin around where she was shot has turned an odd purplish color; she looks more like a corpse than ever. And this murderous, vengeful, girl in front of me looks nothing like the happy girl in Dr. Mason’s book, but I guess death will do that to you.
“I won’t go back!” She shouts, lunging at me. I dodge her attack, which was more just her body flung at mine then anything. I back-hand slap her across the face, my knuckles coming into contact with ice cold skin. She pauses, hand clenched to her cheek, glaring at me. She punches quickly, landing a hit against my chest. I stumble back, nearly keeling over as I clutch my right breast.
“What the hell!” I groan, sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth. I look up from the dead grass, forcing myself to stand straight despite the throbbing of pain. But she’s gone. I spin around, pain forgotten about, trying to spot her through the trees. Gone. I groan again, this time out of annoyance rather than pain.
“Damn, that dead chick can run,” Dean remarks, huffing. I twist around, his hands are on his hips as his chest rises and falls quickly. “Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“You okay?” he asks quickly.
“Yeah, she just got my boob,” I answer.
“Wh—what?” he stammers.
“Well she’s gone, and the only hit she got on me was to my boob,” I clarify, though it’s not exactly a sentence I thought I’d ever be saying out loud.
His eyes drop to my chest very obviously and then immediately flicker up to my eyes, his eyebrows rise and fall, furrow and unfurrow, eyes a little wide and lips twitching like he’s unsure of what to say. He scratches the side of his cheek, “Does that, uh…hurt?”
“Well, yeah!” I exclaim. “She wouldn’t have gotten away if it didn’t.”
It hurt more than the average punch, and more than the average hit to the boob. There were a couple of myths that suggested that zombies could have some sort of super strength so that aspect must be true for Angela.
“‘Wasn’t doubting your skills, sweetheart,” he answers, hands up in surrender. “I mean, I didn’t know you could run that fast.”
“I think you forgot I used to hunt even before I went on this road trip with you, not nearly as much as I do now but still,” I reason, walking closer to him. “But, no more of that, we need to focus on finding Angela.”
“Then, I say we go have a little chat with Neil.”
********
The Impala cruises down the dark highway, luckily the pain from the hit Angela landed on me has disappeared thanks to my abilities. Still, we aren’t any closer to finishing this hunt.
“So the silver bullets, they did something, right?” Sam asks using a flashlight to read his Dads journal.
“Something, but not enough,” Dean confirms. “What else ‘you got?”
“Um, okay, besides silver we have…nailing the undead back into their grave beds. It’s mentioned a few times. It’s probably where the whole vampire staking lore came from,” Sam answers.
“That’s genuinely the most obscene thing you could’ve said,” I remark.
“How the hell are we going to get Angela back to the cemetery?” Dean asks.
********
Knowing he isn’t at home we check the only other place we can think of: his office at the school. We find him sitting behind his desk in the dark, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead, his fingers fidgeting together where they’re folded on the desk.
“What are you guys doing here?” he asks, wide eyed and looking between us. He looks guilty.
“You know, I’ve heard of people doing some pretty desperate things to get laid but you—“ Dean muses, pointing at him with a finger-gun. “You take the cake.”
“Okay. Who are you guys?” Neil asks, somehow able to ignore Dean's comment. His office isn’t so different from Dr. Masons except for the fact it lacks the same sort of artifacts that he had, though it’s still not short of books and plants. Dead ones.
“You might wanna ask Angela that question,” Dean answers.
“What?”
“We know what you did. The ritual? Everything,” Sam declares.
“You’re crazy,” Neil scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“Your girlfriend’s past her expiration date and we’re crazy? When someone’s gone they should stay gone. You don’t mess with that kind of stuff,” Dean answers.
He’s right, naturally so, and yet it was so easy to make him the exception. So, in that aspect, I can’t exactly blame Neil, I would do the same—I tried to do the same.
“You found a loophole, good for you, I’d do the same but she’s killing people. And, I’m sure you didn’t mean for that to happen but it is. We need to stop her,” I reason.
“She killed Matt and she tried to kill Lindsey,” Sam adds for clarification.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he claims, shaking his head.
Dean stomps towards him, moving past the desk and grabbing Neil’s collar in a single fist. He hauls him up, forcing him out of his chair, with ease. “Hey!” he barks. “No more crap, Neil. His blood is on your hands.”
I bite my lip, watching the exchange from not so far away. It’s kind of incredibly hot.
“Now. Me and them,” he nods towards us, “can make this right, but you’ve gotta tell us where she is.” Still he doesn’t answer, just stares wide eyed at Dean. “Tell us!” he yells.
“My house,” he spews quickly. “She’s at my house.”
Dean lets him go, the man sinking down into his office chair, nails digging into the arm rests.
“Okay then,” I nod. “But you should really clean up those plants, you’re gonna get a lot of flies.”
Dean hums, following my gaze to the window where a small pot of fern and a spider plant are dried up and brown. He looks back at Neil who’s now looking everywhere but us, eyes flicking around the room rapidly. Dean's lips purse slightly, looking past Neil to a closed door.
“Listen,” he starts, voice raised slightly. “It doesn’t really matter where she is. There’s only one way to stop her. We’ve got to perform another ritual over her grave, to reverse the one that you did. We’re going to need some black root, some…some scar weed, some candles…”
My eyebrows furrow, face scrunched in confusion. He’s naming really random things. Sure, black root does have some connection to banishing, among other things, but scar weed? I have no idea what that is.
“It’s very complicated, but it’ll get the job done,” he continues. “She’ll be dead again in a couple hours. I think you should come with us. I’m serious, Neil. Leave with us. Right now.”
“No. No,” Neil stammers, shaking his head.
Dean leans in, head ducked, voice low, “Listen to me. Get out of here as soon as you can. But most of all, be cool. No sudden movements. Don’t make her mad.”
He straightens up, walking back over to Sam and I, “Lets go.”
********
Short, thick, candles surround Angela’s open grave. I snap once with both hands, the wicks catching flames, orange and yellow wiggling back and forth before it settles down. While it gives us some light, it’s mostly to keep up the act.
“You really think this is going to work?” Sam asks.
“No, not really,” Dean answers bluntly. “But it was the only thing I could come up with.”
“‘Least you’re honest,” I mumble.
Then, suddenly, a twig about twenty feet away snaps, an audible crack echoing towards us. We look at each other, nodding. Sam pulls out the gun tucked beneath the back of his pants, stalking towards the direction of the sound. Meanwhile, Dean and I get into position. There’s not many places to hide in a cemetary with it being so open and all, but we set ourselves up a short distance away from the grave, while still directed right at it’s end.
Then the first shot rings out and Sam’s coming back into view, running full speed towards the grave. Angela’s right behind him, a blur of white tackling him to the ground. He lands on his face with a loud thud, she straddles him, twisting his hand behind his back. From beside me Dean fires at her forcing her to jump up. I throw my hands out, blasting energy straight from my palms, she falls backwards, crashing into the open grave. Quickly, Dean tucks his gun back into his pants, grabbing the long metal sword he had set up over here against a headstone. He takes off running, sliding the last length on his knees, sword raised above his head.
He disappears into the grave and barely ten seconds later theres a loud squelch followed by Angela screaming, “Wait, don’t!”
But there’s a grunt and another squelch. No more pleads come from the grave.
********
It takes us the rest of the night into the very early morning to finish burying Angela. I can’t say which is better, filling a grave or digging one, when both suck, though I suppose shuffling dirt is easier than digging it out. Regardless, I’m sweating an uncomfortable amount and all I want is to shower and sleep for about twelve hours.
We pat the last of the dirt down, all of us huffing and panting from the workout.
“Rest easy,” I tell her.
Sam nods, adding, “Rest in peace.”
“Yeah. For good this time, okay?” Dean comments last.
I hold the shovel at my side as we start walking back to the car, Sam grunting as he lifts his own over one soulder.
“You know, that whole fake ritual thing, luring Angela into the cemetery? Pretty sharp,” Sam compliments.
“Thanks,” Dean answers, a smug smirk pulling at his lips.
“But did we have to use me as bait?” Sam asks, shoulders slumping.
“I figured you were more her type. You know, she had pretty crappy taste in guys,” Dean muses, his smug smirk now a shit eating grin.
“I think she broke my hand,” he frowns, cradling his wrist.
Dean laughs, “You’re just too fragile. We’ll get it looked at later.”
“Or, I can heal it,” I offer.
“That too,” Dean nods, popping open the trunk. He pauses, looking over his shoulder to where his Mom’s grave is.
“You want to stay for a while?” Sam asks, noticing his hesitation.
“No,” he answers, dumping his shovel into the trunk and walking over to the drivers side. Sam looks at me with a slight frown. I shrug with a tight lipped frown of my own, putting both our shovels away. I close the trunk, making my way to my designated seat in the back while Sam makes his way to the passenger side.
We pull away from the cemetery, getting right onto the highway. The Impala cruises along, already on its way to knocking me out when I feel eyes on me. I tear my gaze from the window to see Sam looking at me in the rear view mirror, eyebrows raised to get my attention. He gestures to Dean with his eyes. I follow his gaze to the scowling man, his jaw is set tightly, his knuckles turned white against the steering wheel. Oh.
Then, he’s pulling the car across the next lane and into the shoulder. He puts the car in park, but doesn’t bother turning the car off when he quickly gets out, going to lean against the hood. Sam follows quickly, without thought. I get out quickly, but linger slightly behind. I know what this is, and as much as I want to comfort Dean, I know this is more for Sam.
“Dean, what is it?” Sam asks, concern wrapped around his voice. You can almost see it, something floating above them, something that lives between the pause, something that was always bound to happen.
“I’m sorry,” Dean says.
“You–For what?” Sam stammers.
“The way I’ve been acting,” he answers. Sam moves then, sitting beside him on the hood of the car. “And for Dad. I mean, he was your Dad too. And it’s my fault that he’s gone.”
There it is.
They talk like that for a couple of minutes. It’s all very similar to what he had said to me the other night, including how he breaks a little. Sam doesn’t say anything that I didn’t already say or think. We both know it’s not his fault. He just doesn’t believe us.
There’s nothing we can say to make this right. There’s no answer for how you can convince someone to live.
Nothing can fix this and that hurts worst of all.
(Next Chapter)
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A/N: I do very much believe Dean can pick you up regardless of ur weight. Fight with the wall. 😊
