Summary: Your life was simple. Ordinary. Lonely. Until everything changed. Until a monster, straight out of your favorite TV show, attacked you.
Turns out, the world you escaped to for comfort is very real. And so is Dean Winchester...
She wasn’t part of the plan. A stranger who somehow landed in the middle of the Winchesters’ world. But with a past she doesn’t fully understand and a kind of magic they’ve never seen before, she might be the key to more than just surviving the trials ahead. And for Dean, she might be the one thing he never saw coming.
SEQUELS TO ORDINARY
⠂⠂⠂A BREAK ⠂⠂⠂
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Rating: 18+, Mature
Word count: 38 k
Chapters: 10
⸻
Summary: You only wanted a break. Just one week of quiet mornings, crackling fires, and no hunts. Dean’s idea of Heaven.
But breaks don’t come easy for hunters. And not everything that looks like paradise is safe.
⸻
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Established Relationship, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Monster of the Week, Post-Trials, Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, Dean Winchester In Love, Possessive Dean Winchester, Smut, Sex, Tension, Trauma, Body Worship POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
⠂★ ⠂A WILD RIDE ⠂★ ⠂
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fiancée!Reader (plus-size, f)
Rating: 18+, Mature
Word count: 36 k
Chapters: 8
⸻
Summary: Dean never asked for more than pie, beer, and a quiet night in front of the TV with you. What he got instead was a surprise that pulled him straight into one of his oldest daydreams. For a guy who never figured he’d have much of a future, living out a fantasy with you is about as good as it gets.
⸻
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Established Relationship, Fluff, Smut, Monster of the Week, Post-Trials, Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, Dean Winchester In Love, Possessive Dean Winchester, Smut, Sex, Fun, Body Worship POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
CHAPTER 1: Surprise
CHAPTER 2: Outfit
CHAPTER 3: Sheriff
CHAPTER 4: Ride
CHAPTER 5: Game
CHAPTER 6: Need
CHAPTER 7: Outlaw
CHAPTER 8: Hunt
⠂୨୧ ⠂A PROMISE ⠂୨୧ ⠂
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fiancée!Reader (plus-size, f)
Rating: 18+, Mature
Word count: 170 k
Chapters: 21
⸻
Summary: After everything you’ve survived, you’d think planning a wedding would be easy. It’s not. Between blood magic, Vegas, and Dean Winchester’s version of a bachelor party, ordinary still isn’t in your vocabulary. But maybe this time, you can get close.
⸻
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Established Relationship, Fluff, Smut, Angst, Wedding prep, Bachelor party, Post-Trials, Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, Dean Winchester In Love, Possessive Dean Winchester, Sex, Drama, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
CHAPTER 1: Permission
CHAPTER 2: Decision
CHAPTER 3: Binding
CHAPTER 4: Sacrifice
CHAPTER 5: Vegas
CHAPTER 6: Rescue
CHAPTER 7: Reunion
CHAPTER 8: Gamble
CHAPTER 9: Truth
CHAPTER 10: Distance
CHAPTER 11: Effort
CHAPTER 12: Breakthrough
CHAPTER 13: Connection
CHAPTER 14: Heaven
CHAPTER 15: Anchor
CHAPTER 16: Aftermath
CHAPTER 17: Planning
CHAPTER 18: Preparation
CHAPTER 19: Vows
CHAPTER 20: Celebration
CHAPTER 21: Promise
-- IN YOUR SKIN --
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader (plus-size, f)
Rating: 18+, Mature
Word count: 44 k
Chapters: 6
⸻
Summary: A small blood spell was supposed to be harmless. By morning, you’re in Dean’s body, Dean is in yours, and the two of you are stuck navigating a magical disaster that is absurd, inconvenient, and way too personal.
⸻
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Body swap, Blood Magic, Smut, Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Dean Winchester In Love, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
°⛧. WHAT COMES OUT ⛧°。
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader (plus-size, f)
Rating: 18+, Mature
Word count: -
Chapters: -
⸻
Summary: Heaven finally calls in the favor it’s been holding over your head since the day you came back from the dead. To repay it, you, Dean, and Sam have to go through Purgatory and into Hell itself to retrieve the Lance of Michael. But Hell has been closed for a long time, and the things trapped inside have not forgotten who locked the door. Some promises survive the dark. Others come back changed...
⸻
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
CHAPTER 1: To Hell And Back Again
CHAPTER 2: The Descent
CHAPTER 3: There Will Be Blood
CHAPTER 4: Dead Man Walking
CHAPTER 5: What Lies Beneath
CHAPTER 6: Point Blank
CHAPTER 7: The Man Who Wasn’t There
ONESHOTS FROM ORDINARY UNIVERSE
Note: Can be read as a standalone, but beware of spoilers if you're reading Ordinary and haven’t finished it yet.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader
Rating: 18+, Mature
A KNIGHT'S TALE
Tags: smut, sexual tension, goofy, LARP, medieval cosplay, POV alternating, Dean x girlfriend!reader
FEELING ALIVE
Tags: smut, established relationship, threesome, a bit of angst, POV alternating, endverse!Dean x girlfriend!reader x Dean
TELL THE TRUTH
Tags: fluff, light angst, established relationship, trust issues, Sam is hiding something, POV alternating, Dean x fiancée!reader
A BREAK (smutty one-shot)
Tags: Plus-Size reader, Sex, Dean on top, possesive!Dean, self-esteem issues, body worship, established relationship, POV Dean Winchester, POV alternating
PIES AND STEAKS
Tags: Plus-Size reader, Oral Sex - female receiving, possesive!Dean, body worship, established relationship, POV Dean Winchester, POV alternating
TAKE CHARGE
Tags: Plus-Size reader, Oral Sex - male receiving, female masturbation, chains, blindfold, teasing, whimpering Dean, pathetic Dean, married!Dean, POV Dean Winchester, POV alternating, POV second person
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Summary: Three weeks after Dean leaves, you and Sam are exhausted, running on bad leads and the fear of what he is doing out there. When a fresh lead finally puts him close, you follow it, hoping this time you can get him back.
CHAPTER 6 MASTERLIST
Story tags: Demon!Dean, Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
A/N: I hope this one won’t be too boring for you.
It took you three weeks to find Dean.
Considering you were tracking Dean Winchester, especially the version of him that did not want to be found, that was almost impressive.
The first week gave you nothing. No trace, no credit cards, no sightings that matched. No motel clerks who remembered him, no bartenders who looked at the picture on your phone and nodded. It was like he had walked out of the bunker and disappeared from the planet completely.
Which made sense, really. Dean knew how hunters tracked people. He knew every method Sam would use, every database you could tap into, every place you would think to check first. He knew how to disappear better than anyone you had ever met, and whatever came back in his body had all that knowledge without any guilt holding him back.
Then the second week started, and the silence broke. The bodies started to show up.
A man beaten half to death behind a bar. A bartender who swore the guy responsible had black eyes and a smile that made her skin crawl. A gas station camera catching the side of Dean’s face for half a second before the feed cut out. A motel room trashed so badly the owner called the cops before he checked the register. Injured strangers. Broken cameras. Bodies left behind with the kind of cold violence that made your stomach turn every time Charlie sent another file.
You learned quickly what became of your husband when his humanity was gone.
You also learned he was enjoying himself.
That was the part you tried not to think about too long, because if you let your mind sit with it, you felt something inside you tear wider. Dean was out there, hurting people, drinking, fighting, moving from place to place with no remorse and no hurry, while you ran on panic and too little sleep, and with the gunshot still echoing in your hands.
Every lead came too late. Every dead end felt like him laughing at you from somewhere far away.
Then he made a mistake.
Or maybe arrogance finally got the better of him. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t be able to follow him that far. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t be stupid enough to go after him after what happened in the bunker. Or maybe he wanted you to find him, because he was bored. Because he wanted to prove, one more time, that you only got close when he let you.
He used his real name.
A low-end motel registration system, two states away from the last bloody mess he left behind. Charlie’s tripwire caught it within minutes.
And that was where you went. Because you were going to get your husband back. No matter what it took.
The car ride was almost completely silent. Sam drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road. You sat beside him with a flask of holy water in one pocket, demon cuffs tucked under your jacket, and your hands folded together in your lap because if you let them move, they started shaking.
Neither of you said much. There was nothing useful to say. This was the mission now. The only mission that mattered. You both knew that.
Your body had gone past fear and into something harder. Colder. This time, you wouldn’t hesitate.
That was what you kept telling yourself.
You would do what you had to do. You would get close enough, burn him if you had to. You would use holy water, cuffs, traps, your magic, anything that stopped him long enough to start the cure. You had done hard things before. You had bled for spells, tortured demons. You had died for Sam. You had shot your husband in the chest.
You could do this.
You had to.
The plan was straightforward. You would wait until Dean was in his room, then go in alone.
Sam hated that part, so much he argued with you for almost an hour in the car. You argued back, because your hands were still your best chance. Dean knew that too, which meant he would be careful, but your touch was still stronger than anything Sam had. And some naive, desperate part of you kept hoping he would be less willing to hurt you than he had been willing to hurt Sam.
You felt stupid for hoping it.
Sam would wait outside the entrance. If Dean bolted, he would be there. If you managed to get the cuffs on him, Sam would come in. If things went bad, he would hear it.
It was a terrible plan, you knew that. But it was the only one you had.
The clerk at the reception desk was more than happy to point you toward the right room for a decent amount of cash. His eyes lingered on you a little too long, probably because you looked like you hadn’t slept in days. You didn’t really care.
The corridor smelled like old carpet, stale smoke, and cheap cleaning products. Your pulse climbed higher with every step.
Room 14.
The number sat crooked on the door.
Your stomach dropped when you reached it. Because the door was open. Just slightly. A thin strip of light waited between the frame and the edge.
Your hand tightened around the flask in your pocket.
‘No need to knock,’ Dean’s voice came from inside. ‘Just come in.’
The entertainment in his voice sent a wave of cold shivers through you.
Arrogant. Relaxed.
Waiting for you.
You felt Sam stop behind you, far enough back to keep to the plan, but you knew every instinct in him was screaming to shove past you.
You didn’t look back at him. There was no point turning around now. You took one breath, pulled the flask free, and stepped inside.
Dean was right there.
He was sprawled in a chair near the small motel table, one boot hooked against the leg, a bottle of beer loose in one hand. His jacket hung over the back of the chair. His hair was a little longer than it had been when he walked out of the bunker. He looked rested. Clean. Alive in a way that made something inside you ache so badly you almost forgot what he was.
His eyes were green when they landed on you. The smirk that welcomed you was easy and cold.
‘Took you long enough,’ he said.
He put the bottle down and stood slowly.
You hated the way your body reacted to that before your mind could stop it. He was tall and broad and so painfully handsome that looking at him still took your breath away, even after everything. Even now. Even knowing what he had done.
You forced yourself to focus. This was not your husband waiting for you in a motel room. This was a predator wearing the face of the man you loved.
‘How did you-’
‘You kiddin’ me?’ Dean huffed a laugh. ‘You think you’d find me if I didn’t want you to, sweetheart?’
The name landed exactly where he wanted it to. You braced yourself and took one step closer.
‘Why?’
Dean shrugged. ‘Figured it was time to finish this game.’
He raised both hands in mock surrender, that smirk still sitting on his mouth.
‘So come on. Show me what you got.’
Then his eyes went black.
Your pulse kicked.
Dean’s grin widened.
‘Oh, unless…’ His gaze dropped deliberately to your hands. ‘You wanna give the gun another go.’
He tapped his chest a few times, right where you had shot him.
Your stomach turned hard.
Your hands remembered the recoil. Your ears remembered the shot. Your body remembered Dean staggering back with blood spreading across his shirt while he smiled like you just handed him a gift.
You knew what he was doing. He was trying to make you nervous.
You couldn’t let him.
You took the flask from your pocket and threw the holy water at him before he could say another word. It hit him across the chest and neck.
Dean snarled.
The sound was rough and furious, almost more animal than human, and steam rose from his skin where the water soaked through his shirt. His body jerked back, one hand slamming against the table hard enough to make the beer bottle tip and roll off the edge. It shattered on the floor.
You moved.
The cuffs were already in your hand as you rushed him. Dean shook off the first wave of pain fast, too fast, and turned on you with black eyes and a terrifying grin.
‘That’s what I’m talkin’ about!’
You didn’t answer.
You grabbed his wrist. His skin burned under your hand immediately, the smell of it cutting through the cheap motel room air. Dean’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t cry out this time. You slapped one cuff around his wrist and heard it click shut.
For half a second, hope punched through you so hard it almost hurt.
One cuff. You had one cuff on him. You just needed the other.
Dean’s free hand caught the chain before you could pull it around.
He stepped in. Too close.
Your back hit the wall beside the bed, and the impact stole the air from your lungs. You tried to pull the second cuff toward his free wrist, but Dean’s cuffed hand shot up fast, dragging the short chain with it.
You couldn’t let go of the other cuff. That was the only reason he didn’t simply tear away from you and run. The metal was still your one piece of control, the one stupid, fragile advantage you had managed to get on him. At least that was what you kept telling yourself.
So when his cuffed hand shot upward, you held on.
Your arm went with it.
The chain snapped tight, yanking your hand above your head hard enough to make your shoulder flare with pain. Your free hand slapped against the wall on instinct, palm flat on the smooth surface to keep yourself upright.
For one second, you were pinned there by your own refusal to let go.
Dean knew better than to touch your skin. But he didn’t need to touch you to trap you. He stepped in until there was almost nothing left between you. His body crowded yours, big and solid, blocking the room, blocking the door, blocking the plan you had barely managed to hold together in your head. He kept his cuffed hand raised while his other hand stayed just out of reach.
You could burn him.
You knew that.
Your free hand was right there, pressed to the wall beside you. You could move it. You could slap it against his throat, his face, his chest, anything. You could make him scream.
But he leaned over you slowly, close enough that your body betrayed you again. Heat rose under your skin, unwanted and humiliating, because your own body did not understand the difference fast enough. For one horrible second, underneath the fear and the adrenaline and the smell of holy water burning through his shirt, there was something else. Something you should not have been capable of feeling right now.
Dean noticed.
His mouth curved.
He dipped his head lower, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek, and took one slow breath in through his nose. He was taking you in.
Your stomach clenched, and not from fear alone. That realization hit hard enough to make you hate yourself for it.
His black eyes stayed on your face, watching every flicker, every little failure of control.
‘That all you brought?’ he asked, voice low. ‘Holy water and some hardware?’
Your grip tightened on the loose cuff until the edge bit into your palm.
You needed to move. Needed to burn him. Needed to throw your knee up, twist free, do anything except stand there with your arm pinned above your head while your husband’s demon leaned over you like that.
But then his gaze dropped.
Lower.
At first, you thought he was looking at your free hand. Then you realized your shirt had shifted during the struggle. The neckline had pulled aside just enough for the top of your scar to show.
The scar. The only one Heaven had left behind. The place where your own knife had gone in when you died in that church so Sam could live.
Dean’s eyes fixed on it and everything in you went still.
His expression changed. Not much. But you saw it because you knew that face better than any face in the world. His mouth loosened, the cruel curve faded. His brows pulled together just a little.
Your breath turned shallow.
The black in his eyes vanished. Green looked back at you.
Dean’s green.
Your whole body forgot the cuff in your hand.
His cuffed hand came down slowly. He didn’t touch you. His fingers hovered over the scar, close enough that you felt the heat of him without contact.
Your eyes burned.
There. There it was.
You felt it so strongly that your knees nearly gave.
This was Dean. Your Dean. Buried somewhere under all of it, trapped under black eyes and cruelty and whatever Hell had done when Ramiel killed him. He remembered. He saw the scar and he remembered the church. He remembered you dying. He remembered what it meant. He was still there.
You had reached him.
You could cure him.
You could bring him home.
His eyes lifted from the scar to your face.
Then he whispered your name. Softly. Just once.
It went straight through you.
For one second, you thought he was going to say something else.
Then the knife hit.
No warning. No draw of weapon you could track. No time to move back or bring your hands up. Just Dean’s arm moving fast and the blade slamming into the place where his eyes had been fixed a second before. Right into your heart.
The pain stole every bit of air from your lungs.
You looked down.
His hand was wrapped around the handle. The scar was gone under fresh blood.
Your fingers closed around his wrist on instinct. His skin burned under your palm, smoke curling between you, but he didn’t pull away. He only leaned closer, close enough that all you could see when your eyes lifted again were his.
Still green. Still Dean’s.
Then his mouth curved again.
And you woke up choking.
You sat up so fast the room spun around you. For one second, you had no idea where you were. Your hand flew to your chest, fingers digging into the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, searching for blood, for the knife, for the open spot where your scar had been split apart again.
There was nothing. No blood. No blade.
Just your bedroom.
The bunker vents hummed quietly overhead and the nightlamp on Dean’s side of the bed painted the room in low yellow light. You hadn’t been able to turn it off since he left. You tried once, lasted maybe ten minutes in the dark before your mind started filling the room with the gun going off, with Dean looking back at you from the top of the stairs, with the sound of the bunker door closing.
So the lamp stayed on. Every night.
Your breathing was loud and ragged in the quiet room. Your shirt clung to your back and chest with cold sweat, and your hands shook so badly that it took you a second to pull them away from the scar and check your palms. Still no blood. You were fine. Dean hadn’t killed you.
Dean wasn’t there…
You grabbed your phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up too bright, making your eyes ache.
6:24 a.m.
You sighed heavily and dropped your elbow to your thigh, forehead falling into your palm. Your hair stuck to the side of your face. Your throat hurt, probably from the way you had woken up choking on a scream that never fully came out.
You sat like that for a moment, forcing air in through your nose and out through your mouth. It didn’t help much, but it gave your body something to do besides shake.
Then you saw the missed call icon on the screen and your breath stopped.
For a second, you just stared at it.
Unknown number.
Your heart, already beating too fast, kicked hard enough to make your chest ache. You unlocked the phone with clumsy fingers and opened the call log.
One missed call. 3:17 a.m.
Of course. Of course it was at night. It was always at night.
Your thumb hovered over the number for half a second before you pressed call back.
The ringing sounded too loud in your ear. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then the line clicked.
Silence.
You sat up straighter, every muscle in your body going tight.
‘Hello?’
Nothing. You swallowed hard.
‘Who is this?’
Still nothing.
You could hear your own breathing now, close to the phone, too uneven. Maybe that was all it was. Maybe the faint sound on the other end was your own panic laughing back at you.
But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like someone listening.
Your fingers tightened around the phone.
‘What do you want?’
Silence.
Your skin prickled. You closed your eyes because you hated yourself for what you were about to say. Hated that hope still found ways to crawl up your throat even after everything. Hated that he knew exactly how easy it was to make you hurt.
‘Dean?’
Your voice broke on his name. You opened your eyes and stared at the empty side of the bed.
‘Dean, is that you?’
The line stayed quiet for two more seconds.
Then it disconnected.
You lowered the phone slowly. For a while, you couldn’t move.
It wasn’t the first call since he disappeared. It was the third. Always a missed call first, always at night, always a different number. You never heard a voice. Never got anything that Sam could trace cleanly or Charlie could lock down fast enough. Just silence, breathing that might not have been breathing, and then nothing.
You knew it was him. You simply knew.
He was messing with you. Tormenting you, letting you know he was still out there, still aware of you, enough to reach into your room through a phone line and pull you apart without saying a single word.
And it worked. Every time. And you despised him for it, so much. Because you missed him so badly you could barely stand it.
You put the phone down on the bed beside you and pressed both hands over your face.
Three weeks. Dean had been gone for three weeks.
You watched him die in Hell, held him while his blood poured through your fingers and his eyes went empty, and you hadn’t even had time to grieve him properly. Because now he was alive somewhere.
Alive, moving, drinking, fighting, hurting people. Doing God knew what with God knew who. You saw his face on security cameras. Read his name in police reports. Your husband was walking through the world without his humanity, while you sat in your bedroom unable to sleep through a full night.
You were exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. Your body felt like it had been running for weeks. Food tasted like cardboard most days. You ate because Sam put something in front of you and watched until you took at least a few bites. You slept because your body finally shut down, then woke up worse than before because the nightmares kept finding new ways to give you Dean back and rip him away again.
At first, you cried all the time.
In the shower, in your lab, in the hallway outside the kitchen because you saw one of Dean’s favorite mugs in the sink and couldn’t breathe. In your bed with face pressed into his pillow, which had stopped smelling like him a little more each day no matter how tightly you held it.
But the tears came less often now. Though that didn’t mean you were better. It only meant your body had started running out of ways to show the damage.
Most days, you felt like a ghost wearing your own clothes. Moving through the bunker, opening laptops, reading files, checking cameras, answering Charlie’s messages, listening to Sam’s updates, nodding when Castiel appeared with another theory or another apology in his eyes. You did the things because the things needed doing. Because stopping meant thinking. Because thinking meant Dean's body on the floor. Dean’s hand over yours. Dean’s smile after the gun went off. Dean at the top of the stairs.
Still, every morning, you got up and looked for him.
And there was one reason you could keep doing that.
Sam.
Sam was going through his own private hell, and you knew that. He had lost Dean too. He had watched his brother die, carried his body through Hell, and then woken up from being knocked unconscious by the person he was trying to save. You saw the toll it took every time you looked at him. The weight loss, the dark circles. The way he went too still whenever someone said Dean’s name.
But Sam kept moving. He kept searching. And somehow, through it all, he kept you upright too.
He checked if you ate, made sure you slept at least a few hours, sat with you when you couldn’t be alone in your room and didn’t make you talk. He never said everything would be okay unless you needed to hear it, and even then, he sounded like he was forcing himself to believe it too.
Eileen helped him the same way.
You were grateful for her in a way you didn’t know how to say out loud. She kept Sam from falling too far into himself. She watched him when he thought no one was looking. She touched his shoulder, his arm, the back of his neck, small practical touches that reminded him he was still breathing, still needed.
Seeing them together hurt sometimes. You hated that too. Because you loved them. You were glad Sam had her. But every time she leaned into Sam, every time his hand found hers without thought, every time they moved around each other with that quiet familiarity, the empty space beside you felt even worse.
You missed Dean’s hand on your back. You missed his knee knocking yours under the table. Missed the way he stood too close in the kitchen because he liked being annoying and touching you all the damn time.
You missed your husband so much it made you feel physically sick.
Castiel stopped by often. Sometimes with information, usually with worry he didn't even try to hide. He had no answers from Heaven, only theories that made your head hurt and your stomach turn. Heaven was still baffled by what happened to Dean. Cas believed it had been some uncanny combination of too many impossible things stacked on top of each other: Dean’s soul having been torn apart in Hell before, his part in breaking the first seal, Ramiel killing him with Michael’s Lance, and Dean dying directly in Hell.
Maybe that was true.
Maybe it wasn’t.
At some point, you stopped wondering. How it happened no longer mattered as much as getting him back. Finding him. And curing him.
That was the only thing that mattered now.
Charlie checked in constantly. She sent leads, camera stills, hacked motel databases, police reports, anything that might help. Benny called more than he ever did, his voice rough and strained over the phone, asking how you were holding up in a way that made you want to lie and cry at the same time.
Everyone was trying. Because everyone loved you. And you knew everyone meant well.
But every question about whether you were okay, every careful encouragement, every promise that you would find him, drained something out of you. Because you had to respond. You had to nod, had to say you knew, or thank you, or we’re close, or we’ll get him. You had to be a person, when most days you barely felt like one.
And you weren’t sure how much more you could take…
Your phone stayed dark on the bed beside you. You stared at it for another moment, then forced yourself to move.
Your morning routine was simple now. Cry if tears came. Wash your face. Brush your teeth. Change clothes. Pretend the shaking in your hands was from exhaustion, not from the nightmares. Leave the bedroom before the walls started feeling too close.
By the time you made it to the bathroom that morning, the tears had come again.
The quiet, annoying ones.
You washed them away with cold water, then stood there with both hands braced on the sink, staring down at the drain until your breathing steadied enough to pass for normal. When you looked up, the woman in the mirror looked pale and tired and older than she had three weeks ago.
You looked away quickly, then changed into clean clothes, pulled your hair back without caring how it looked, and headed toward the library.
You yawned twice on the way there, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand. The bunker was quiet in the early morning, the whole place too big without Dean in it.
Sam was already in the library. He sat behind his laptop with a huge jug of coffee within reach, shoulders hunched, hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. There were open files spread across the table, a map pushed to one side, and a list of towns written in his handwriting on a legal pad. His eyes moved across the screen quickly, scanning whatever database he had pulled up before most people were awake.
He looked up the second you came in.
It only took one look. His face softened, and that almost made you cry again.
‘Another nightmare?’
You stopped beside the table.
For a second, the motel room came back. Dean’s green eyes. His voice saying your name. His gaze dropping to the scar. The knife hitting before you had time to move.
Your hand twitched toward your chest, but you stopped it halfway and let it fall.
Then you nodded.
Sam’s jaw tightened.
You pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
‘And another call,’ you said, voice still rough from sleep and panic.
Sam went completely still. The laptop screen reflected pale light across his face.
‘When?’
You picked up the nearest file because your hands needed something to do.
‘Three seventeen.’
Sam’s forehead creased immediately. He looked down at his screen, pulled his laptop closer, and started typing. You leaned into the chair, eyes burning, chest still tight from the nightmare, and tried not to think about how badly you wanted the next call to come.
Even if it ruined you all over again.
‘Anything new?’ you asked, breaking the silence.
You flipped the file open before Sam could shake his head. It was one of the uglier ones from the last week. A bodyguard at a strip club, beaten nearly to death in front of half the room after trying to throw out a man who matched Dean’s description. According to the witness statements, the guy had put a hand on one of the dancers, the bodyguard stepped in, and Dean beat him down right there beside the stage. Then he apparently downed his drink and walked off.
You stared at the words for a second longer than you needed to.
The strip club part made your stomach twist, even though you were mad at yourself for caring about that right now. People were hurt, that was what mattered. That was what you were supposed to focus on.
But the sting was there anyway.
Because it was Dean.
Dean, who had always enjoyed certain things with his whole body. Music in the car, horror and western marathons, pie, good burgers, whiskey, beer… sex. He loved sex and was not subtle about it. With you, he had been hungry and shameless and playful and intense in ways that made you feel wanted to your core.
Now there was a version of him out there with no guilt, no restraint, no vows that meant what they should have meant, and you had no idea what he had done with that hunger once you were no longer there.
You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t really Dean. That whatever he did, whatever he wanted, whatever he took, he would never have done it if he hadn’t been turned into this.
It didn’t help as much as it should have.
You closed the file a little harder than necessary and pushed it away.
Sam glanced up, but didn’t say anything. You were grateful for that. You didn’t have the energy to explain the ugly, jealous part of your brain that kept making everything worse.
‘Have you eaten, yet? I can make something,’ you said after a moment, rubbing both hands down your face. ‘Toast or eggs or… I don’t know. Something.’
Sam’s eyes softened just a little. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘I know.’
You stood anyway. Cooking would give your hands and mind something normal to do. Maybe you could even force yourself to eat half a toast.
Your phone buzzed on the table.
You froze. Sam did too. For half a second, neither of you moved.
Then you grabbed it.
It was Charlie.
Your thumb almost slipped opening the message.
Sending you an email. It’s definitely him and he’s close.
Your heart kicked so hard nausea rolled through you.
‘Sam.’
‘I know,’ he said, already opening a new window. His voice changed instantly. Tired disappeared under focus. ‘She sent it to me too.’
You moved around the table and stood behind his chair as the email loaded. There was a short message from Charlie at the top, then an attached video file and a location. Sam clicked the file without speaking.
The footage opened in grainy black and white.
Gas-n-Sip security camera. Aisle view. Magazine rack. Counter in the corner.
A tall man in a cap stood near the magazines with his back partly turned to the camera. Your whole body locked before his face was visible. You knew his shoulders. You knew the slight bow of his legs, the lazy set of his stance, the way he stood with his weight mostly on one side, relaxed.
Dean.
He was browsing the magazine section like he had nothing better to do. Then the front door opened. A masked man came in with a gun.
You could not hear anything on the footage, but the body language was clear. The cashier raised both hands immediately. The masked man shouted something, waving the gun toward the register. Dean barely reacted at first. He only lowered the magazine a little, head turning in mild annoyance, like the whole thing had interrupted him.
Your stomach tightened.
He put the magazine back, then he walked over. Completely calm, almost bored. The masked man turned the gun toward him. Dean hit him, just once. The man dropped hard enough that your hand flew to your mouth.
Dean crouched, grabbed the gun, tossed it aside, then pulled a knife from somewhere under his jacket. The rest happened fast and terribly clear, even through the poor-quality footage. Too many movements with too much force. The cashier stumbled back against the wall and stayed there, frozen, hands still raised while Dean finished what he started.
Sam’s jaw went tight.
You couldn’t look away.
Dean stood after a few seconds, wiped the blade on the dead man’s jacket, and went back to the magazine rack. Like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just killed a man on the floor of a gas station.
He picked the magazine up again, glanced toward the counter, then finally looked up.
The camera finally caught his face and your breath stopped.
There he was. Your husband. Cap low, jaw rough with stubble, mouth curved in a lazy little smirk. And his eyes flashed black. Quickly, just a tiny burst of horror.
Then the video ended.
For a second, the library was completely quiet except for the low hum of Sam’s laptop.
‘Where is this?’ you asked. Your voice caught on the last word.
Sam was already checking the location Charlie included. His fingers moved fast over the keyboard.
‘About an hour’s drive.’
Your heart started beating faster.
‘When?’
Sam’s eyes flicked across the email. ‘Two hours ago. Police put out an APB immediately, so it hit the system fast.’
Two hours.
An hour away.
Dean hadn’t been this close since he walked out of the bunker.
You gripped the back of Sam’s chair hard enough for the wood to press into your palms. Your whole body felt suddenly awake in a way that was almost painful.
‘Are we going?’
Sam looked up at you.
There was fear in his face. Exhaustion too. And under both, the same hard determination that had kept him upright for three weeks.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Meet you in the garage in five.’
You were sitting in the Impala, and everything about it felt wrong.
It had felt wrong from the first second you climbed into it again. Sam and Eileen had been the ones to pick it up from the place where you left it before the reaper took you to Purgatory. You couldn’t do it then. You couldn’t sit in Dean’s car after watching him die, after seeing him come back with black eyes, after standing in the war room with his gun still warm in your hand while he walked out of the bunker and left you there.
So Sam brought it back.
And ever since then, every time you had to drive somewhere in it, your body noticed all the wrong things at once.
Sam was too tall behind the wheel. His hands sat differently on it. He adjusted the seat and mirrors to fit him, because this was an emergency and a car was a car, except it wasn’t. Not this car. Not to you. The Impala sounded the same, smelled the same, carried the same worn leather and old music and gun oil under everything else, but Dean wasn’t in it. He wasn’t humming along to his favorite albums, his hand wasn’t on your thigh, his fingers weren’t working the wheel with that casual confidence that always made it look easy.
You had no idea why Dean hadn’t come back for her. That bothered you more than you wanted to admit.
Maybe it meant nothing, maybe he knew you and Sam would watch for it. Maybe he was smart enough to leave behind the most obvious thing anyone could track.
But there was another thought underneath that, uglier and harder to ignore.
What if he just… didn’t care.
What if Baby meant as little to him now as the bunker did. As Sam did. As you did.
The ride was so quiet you were almost relieved when Sam finally parked in front of the Gas-n-Sip.
Patrol cars were still outside. Police tape stretched across the entrance, bright and ugly against the glass doors. A uniformed officer stood near the pumps, talking to another one with a clipboard, and you could see movement inside through the windows. Detectives, techs, people stepping around evidence markers on the floor.
Sam killed the engine, then he reached into his jacket and pulled out the fake badge.
You did the same.
The FBI pretext got you through the door quickly enough. Sam in a blue suit, you in a black pantsuit, both of you tired enough to pass for federal agents who had already seen too much before breakfast. You flashed your badge, said the names, kept your face steady, and stepped into the store.
Your eyes immediately went to the covered body on the floor and your stomach turned.
Not because you had never seen a dead body. You had seen things most people couldn’t even imagine since you came into this world. But this was different.
Because Dean had put that body there. Brutally.
And maybe the man under the sheet had walked in with a gun and threatened the cashier. Maybe he had been a dangerous scumbag. Maybe Dean had technically stopped something worse from happening. But that didn’t matter enough. The man had still been human. And that was the line your Dean had always tried hard not to cross.
Sam’s face tightened beside you, but he said nothing.
A detective met you near the magazine aisle. He looked tired, annoyed, and too wired on adrenaline, which made sense if he had spent the last few hours trying to make sense of a murder that looked insane on camera.
‘Agents,’ he said, giving your badges a quick glance. ‘You’re here about the video?’
‘That’s right,’ Sam said.
The detective led you toward the counter, where a laptop had already been set up with the footage paused. You had seen it in the bunker, but seeing it here, inside the store where it happened, made your skin feel too tight.
The detective hit play.
‘Okay, now, porn guy’s just minding his own business,’ he said, pointing at the screen.
Porn guy. For one stupid second, your brain stopped at that.
Why the hell would they-
Then you looked at the magazine section.
Right.
Of course.
Did you really think Dean Winchester would be reading People magazine in a gas station?
The detective kept talking. ‘And there’s the burglar right there. Now watch this. See how calm he is?’
Dean put the magazine down on the footage.
Your fingers curled at your sides.
‘And he just puts a grown man down with one small punch,’ the detective went on. ‘I don’t know what the hell this is. Problem is, we don’t know if this guy’s a hero or a psychopath.’
Neither, you thought.
He's a fucking demon.
You didn’t say it.
Sam leaned closer to the screen, jaw tight. ‘Can we speak to the witness?’
‘Cashier’s over there,’ the detective said, nodding toward the side of the store. ‘Poor kid’s been repeating himself for three hours.’
You looked over.
The cashier sat on a plastic chair near the far aisle, wrapped in a cheap emergency blanket even though the store wasn’t cold. He was young. His face was pale, eyes too wide, one leg bouncing fast enough to shake the edge of the blanket.
You felt bad for him.
Not only had he been held at gunpoint, he had watched a man stab another man to death a few feet away, and now he was still sitting in the same place under fluorescent lights, probably being asked the same questions over and over again by people who wanted details his brain had every right to forget.
And you were about to ask him the same things.
You and Sam crossed the store together.
‘Hi,’ you said, softening your voice as much as you could while still keeping the agent mask on. You showed the badge again. ‘Agents Currie and Jett. We just have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.’
The cashier blinked at you.
‘I already told them everything.’
‘I know,’ you said. ‘We just need to hear it from you one more time.’
He looked exhausted enough to cry. Then he nodded.
You tucked the badge away. ‘You were the only witness here?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can you describe the attack?’
The cashier let out a shaky laugh with no humor in it. ‘Well. Porn guy was an animal.’
Sam’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
The cashier pointed toward the magazine rack with one trembling hand. ‘Bro came in here like, 'get the fuck outta here,' and the other one was all like, 'fuck off, give me all your money'. And then porn guy just-’ He slapped one hand into the other. ‘Dropped him. Like, down. And then there was a lot of blood after that.’
You heard Sam take a careful breath beside you.
‘Right. Um… when the guy, uh-’ Sam’s mouth tightened. ‘When porn guy came in, did he say anything?’
The cashier shrugged. ‘W-where’s the porn.’
You closed your eyes for half a second.
‘That’s all he said?’ you asked, opening them again. ‘Did he buy anything? Did he use a credit card? Did he ask for directions, talk to anyone, mention where he was going?’
The cashier stared blankly.
You weren’t sure if he didn’t remember or if he had been too scared to notice anything beyond the knife and the blood. Either way, you couldn’t blame him.
Sam was less patient.
‘So some guy comes in, kills another guy in your store on your watch, and you just-’ He stopped himself, but not fast enough. ‘You what? Just keep on keepin’ on?’
The cashier looked at him like Sam had lost his mind.
‘You mean when porn guy was stabbing the other guy to death ten feet in front of me, and I was having a total code-brown moment in my favorite freakin’ pants because I thought I was next, did I conduct a field interview?’ He stared at Sam. ‘No.’
You and Sam exchanged a look.
Yeah.
Fair.
You were just about to ask if he had seen what car Dean came in, whether he left alone, anything small that might help, when the cashier shifted under the blanket.
‘But, uh… I did find a phone.’
Sam straightened. ‘A phone?’
‘Yeah. Wedged under the T.P.’ He nodded toward the techs near the counter. ‘I think it’s porn guy’s. I gave it to them.’
Your heartbeat jumped.
Sam looked at you once, then back at the cashier.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
You went to the techs next, asked to look at the phone, and pulled on rubber gloves before handling it because the whole room was watching and you needed to look like you belonged at the crime scene. The phone was cheap. Burner, of course.
You opened the call log.
One outgoing call. Your number.
Your breath caught so hard your chest hurt.
You knew it.
You frickin' knew it.
The missed calls, the silence, the timing. You had known it was him, but seeing your number there, on a phone he had left behind at a crime scene, still rattled you hard enough that for a second the store blurred around the edges.
Sam stepped closer.
You turned the screen toward him.
He looked at it. Said nothing. His face did enough.
You handed the phone back, thanked the tech, and got out of the store before the air inside could choke you.
Outside, the daylight felt too bright. You took one deep breath, then another, standing near the Impala while Sam looked back at the Gas-n-Sip with a hard, closed expression.
‘You think he left it for us?’ you said.
Sam’s jaw flexed. ‘Don't know.’
Neither of you had an answer you wanted, so you got back in the car.
Sam slid behind the wheel, and you sat in the passenger seat with your laptop already open across your knees before he even pulled out of the lot. The Impala rumbled under you and you forced yourself to focus on the screen instead of the space next to you where Dean should have been.
‘So, nearest motels?’ Sam asked.
‘Already looking.’
It was probably pointless. Dean had either moved on already or never stayed anywhere nearby in the first place. But maybe arrogance had really made him that sloppy.
You checked the closest places first.
Two motels.
No luck.
No Dean Winchester. No aliases you recognized. No one matching his description, according to the bored desk clerks Sam talked to while you stayed in the car and checked cameras, registration logs, anything you could reach from your laptop.
By the time you pulled out of the second parking lot, your eyes burned from the screen and your stomach felt hollow in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
Sam glanced at the gas gauge.
‘I need to stop for gas.’
You nodded without looking up, already pulling up the next motel on the map.
‘Okay.’
Sam turned the Impala back toward the main road.
You didn’t really pay attention when he pulled into the gas station. Your eyes stayed fixed on the laptop screen, on the list of places within a twenty-mile radius, on names and distances and reviews that meant absolutely nothing when the man you were looking for could already be gone.
The Impala stopped. Sam got out. The driver’s door closed.
A few seconds later, you heard the dull metallic sound of the gas cap, the pump handle lifting, the low click of it starting.
You kept staring at the screen.
Your mind wouldn’t settle. It kept circling the same useless points again and again until you wanted to slam the laptop shut just to stop seeing motel names. He had been close. He had been an hour away. Just a few hours ago. He had probably left a phone behind with your number on it on purpose because he wanted you to know. Because all of it was a game to him.
And you had no idea how to catch him.
Your fingers hovered over the trackpad, then stopped. The next motel was eleven minutes away. Bad reviews, cash only, no cameras in the parking lot, according to two angry comments from people whose cars had been broken into.
Could be something.
Probably not.
You added it to the list anyway.
The pump clicked outside. A few minutes later, you heard movement. Footsteps on concrete. The familiar creak of the Impala’s driver’s door opening.
You didn’t look up.
Your eyes stayed on the screen while your brain kept working through the search, already lining up the next places to check. Sam slid into the seat beside you. The car shifted slightly with his weight. The door closed.
The engine started.
‘Hey, sweetheart.’
Your whole body went cold.
Not Sam.
Not even close.
Your head shot up so fast pain snapped through your neck.
Dean was sitting behind the wheel.
For one second, you couldn't move. He was right there, close enough that your knee almost touched his, one hand resting on the wheel, the other near the gearshift. The cap was gone. His hair was a little longer than the last time you saw him. A rough scruff darkened his jaw, sharpening his face, making him look dangerous and so goddamn attractive that you barely resisted biting your bottom lip.
You hated yourself for it immediately.
Your hand twitched toward the door handle. Dean’s gaze dropped to the movement.
‘Don’t.’
Just one word. It stopped you anyway.
Your heart slammed hard against your ribs. Sam was outside. Sam had to be right outside. All you had to do was scream, move, throw yourself out of the car, burn Dean, anything.
Your body did none of it.
Because Dean reached over and closed the laptop with two fingers. Slowly. Barely any effort. He didn’t touch you, but his arm passed close enough for you to feel the heat of him, close enough for your body to react.
He looked at you with that easy, awful smirk.
‘How ’bout we go for a ride?’
His eyes stayed on yours.
‘Just you and me.’
A/N: We’re finally getting Demon Dean’s POV in the next chapter, so please wish me luck getting his voice right.
Summary: You face the impossible when Dean wakes up changed, and every attempt to stop him only makes things worse...
CHAPTER 5 MASTERLIST
Story tags: Demon!Dean, Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
A/N: I know you’re probably fed up with all the angst and drama by now, but the… things will be happening soon..
It took you too long to understand what you were looking at.
Your heart was beating so fast it hurt, slamming against your ribs hard enough that, for a second, you thought maybe your body had finally reached the limit of what it could take. Grief, loss, Hell, Purgatory, panic, exhaustion. Maybe this was what happened when a mind had to process too much and simply… gave up. Maybe this was the part where you finally lost your grip on reality completely, because Dean was gone.
You had learned that with his blood under your hands and his body heavy in Sam’s arms. When Castiel’s grace failed to pull him back, when his skin stayed cold under your fingers no matter how long you held on.
So his chest rising now couldn’t be real. His eyes opening couldn’t be real.
The black staring back at you could not be real.
It had to be your mind dragging Hell back into the room with you. Just a delayed nightmare. A hallucination built from every demon you had to burn.
The faint smell of burned skin reached you again. Your hand still felt too warm where you had touched him. You saw blistered marks on Dean’s skin.
You felt tears flood your eyes in a sudden, violent rush, and for one second you thought about getting up and finding water, or whiskey, or anything that might drag you back into sanity. Anything that might shut down the image in front of you before it finished destroying whatever was left of you.
Then Dean sat up.
He honestly, impossibly pushed himself upright on the mattress, shoulders rolling forward, body moving with his own strength again.
This time, you couldn’t hold the sound back.
‘Dean!’
It came out desperate, shocked, torn open. You moved before thought caught up, reaching for him because he was sitting up, because he was moving, because some broken part of you didn’t care what his eyes looked like as long as his body was warm and alive and there.
Your hands closed around his arm.
His skin hissed instantly.
Dean let out a loud, animal growl and jerked away from you so hard your hands slipped off him. His eyes were still black when his head snapped toward you. Still black when pain flashed across his face and twisted into fury.
You scrambled back fast enough that the chair tipped behind you and crashed against the floor. Your heel caught the edge of it and you stumbled hard into the dresser. Pain cracked through your spine, sharp enough to steal a breath, but you barely felt it.
Dean was staring at the burns on his arm.
The door burst open.
Sam rushed in first, Eileen right behind him. His eyes were still red from crying, face drawn and pale, but alarm cut through all of it the second he took in the room. The fallen chair. You against the dresser. Dean sitting up on the bed.
For one tiny, terrible second, relief hit Sam so hard his mouth went slack.
Then he saw Dean’s eyes.
And he stopped.
Completely.
You were still too stunned to move. One hand clutched the edge of the dresser because you were not sure your legs could hold you without it. Your lungs refused to work right, and your brain kept trying to force the image in front of you into anything that made sense.
Dean was moving.
His eyes were black when he looked down at himself.
His eyes were black when his fingers traced his throat, where Ramiel’s slash had been open only minutes ago.
His eyes were black when he checked the burns rising on his arm.
His eyes were black.
He flexed his hand once, slow, testing the feel of his own body. Then he looked at the angry, blistered marks your touch had left on his skin.
‘Huh, that’s new.’
His voice was deeper. Rougher. Still Dean’s voice, which made it worse. It came from his chest the same way, but there was no warmth in it. No softness.
He finally lifted his head. The black eyes landed on Sam first.
Then, slowly, turned to you.
You felt sick. Not only with fear. Fear would have been simple. This was confusion so deep it made your body feel out of sync with itself. Your husband had been dead. And now he was sitting up. And he had black eyes. Your husband’s skin had burned under your hand.
Dean’s mouth curved.
Your breath hitched, and before you fully registered the movement, you slid along the dresser and backed toward Sam.
Dean noticed you putting distance between you. His eyes followed you the whole way.
‘That right there?’ he said, dry amusement dragging through every word. ‘That’s new too.’
He held your gaze for one second longer, then squared his shoulders and rolled his neck, like he was working stiffness out of muscles that had no right working at all.
‘Damn Prince had one hell of a swing,’ he muttered.
The words landed wrong.
Because he remembered. He remembered Ramiel and the Lance. He remembered dying.
Your stomach dropped.
Then Dean stopped, like he had only just gotten around to noticing the three of you were there. His eyes moved from you to Sam, then to Eileen, then back to you again. His face did not soften. Did not do anything Dean’s face should have done if he woke up and saw the people he loved looking at him like this.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You all look like crap.’
He swung his legs off the bed.
Sam shifted beside you. He was the first one to find his voice, and even then, it barely held.
‘Dean?’
Dean looked at him.
‘Hey, Sammy.’
The nickname sounded wrong, without the usual feeling behind it. It was casual. Almost bored.
He stood up.
You felt Eileen move on your other side. Her hand went behind her belt, fast, and came back with a blade.
Dean saw it immediately. He took one deliberate step forward. Then another.
That was when something in you finally snapped into place.
Demon.
There was a demon inside your husband.
You didn’t know how. You didn’t know when. You didn’t know what had crawled into him between the Lance and Castiel’s failed healing. But it was there now, wearing Dean’s body, moving Dean’s hands, using Dean’s voice inside the bunker like it had any right to stand there.
You stepped in front of Sam and Eileen before either of them could move closer. Both hands came up, palms out, fingers shaking hard enough that you had to force them steady.
‘Get out of my husband, you sick son of a bitch.’
The thing wearing Dean stopped.
Then it smirked. Cold. Empty. Infuriating.
‘What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?’ he asked. ‘You don’t recognize me?’
You flinched at the word.
Sweetheart.
It came out of Dean’s mouth with your husband's voice, but there was no affection in it.
Then, with a blink, his eyes changed.
Green.
Dean’s green.
That almost hurt worse than the black.
‘You don’t recognize your own husband?’
The way he said husband made your blood turn hot. Taunting. Dragging the word through the room as if he knew exactly how much it meant to you and wanted to see what happened when he ruined it.
Anger rose fast through the shock.
Because how dare it.
How dare some filthy black-eyed thing take the man you loved. How dare it sit in Dean’s old room, in Dean’s body, with Dean’s mouth and Dean’s wedding ring still on his hand.
You wanted to step forward and burn it out of him. You wanted to grab his face with both hands and pour every bit of your bloodline magic into whatever was hiding inside until it screamed itself apart.
But it was Dean’s body. That was Dean’s skin.
He would need that body when Heaven found his soul and brought him back. You couldn’t destroy what was left of him because you were scared. You couldn’t let rage make that choice for you.
So you held your ground and forced your hands to stay raised.
‘I’m gonna give you one warning,’ you said, voice shaking despite everything you did to steady it. ‘Get. The fuck. Out.’
You expected mockery. A laugh. Something ugly and simple.
Dean only took another step closer.
‘And what’re you gonna do, huh?’ His eyes dropped to your hands, then back to your face. ‘You gonna fry me extra crispy?’
The words hit exactly where he aimed them.
Behind you, Sam moved to your side.
‘Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica-’
Dean laughed.
It was low and rough and amused, and the exorcism didn’t even make him blink. Not a twitch. Not a single flinch. Nothing.
Sam stopped.
Dean looked at him like that had been mildly entertaining.
‘You can Latin at me all damn night,’ he said. ‘Ain’t gonna do crap. 'Cause I'm not possessed.’
Your heart climbed into your throat.
Sam’s face had gone pale again.
‘Then what are you?’ he asked, voice low.
You already felt the panic rising before Dean answered.
Because it couldn’t be true.
It couldn’t.
Demons were souls twisted until there was no humanity left. You knew that much. Torture, pain, Hell stripping pieces away over centuries. Over millennia. That was what you had always understood. That was what made demons demons.
Dean had been dead for hours. Hours.
But Ramiel’s words crawled up from the back of your mind.
Ten years with the blade, after thirty on the rack… You learned faster than souls who had been down here since men still prayed to stones… What happens when Hell’s favorite little prodigy comes home and dies on the floor?
Your fingers curled slowly.
‘Sam,’ you gasped. ‘You think-’
‘Oh, it’s me, alright,’ Dean cut in.
Your mouth went dry.
Dean’s eyes were still green now, and somehow that made every word worse.
‘And I’m done with whatever the hell this is. So let me through.’
He took another step forward.
You took one back before you could stop yourself. Your legs shook a little. You steadied yourself fast, anger flashing hot through the fear because you hated that he saw it. You hated that he was watching you calculate and hesitate. But most of all, you hated that he knew exactly why you still hadn’t burned him.
Sam didn’t move.
‘Alright,’ he said carefully. His hands were raised, palms open, the way they were when he was trying to talk someone down. ‘Okay. Dean, listen to me.’
Dean stopped.
His face shifted into visible annoyance. That alone made your stomach twist, because it was so Dean. The narrowed eyes, the tightened jaw. The impatient little tilt of his head.
‘We can fix this,’ Sam said. ‘We know how to cure this. Remember?’
Dean stared at him.
Then rolled his eyes. ‘Good talk. Now move.’
The words were flat now. Still annoyed, but heavier. More dangerous.
‘I can’t, Dean,’ Sam said. ‘You know I can’t do that.’
Dean looked at him for a moment. Then shrugged.
‘Yeah, well.’
He moved too fast.
Sam reached for him at the same time, and Dean caught his wrist. For one split second, smoke curled between their skin. Sam’s protection worked. Weakly. Barely. Enough to make Dean’s jaw tighten.
He ignored it.
He twisted Sam’s arm hard and drove his other fist into Sam’s stomach. Sam cried out, pain cracking through the sound, and then Dean shoved him into the wall with a force that made the room shake.
‘Sam!’
Sam hit the floor hard.
He didn’t get back up.
Eileen lunged before Dean had even lowered his arm. The blade flashed in her hand, fast and practiced, but Dean turned into the movement and knocked her aside with brutal efficiency. He caught her forearm, shoved her off balance, and sent her into the desk hard enough to make the lamp crash to the floor. She went down with a pained sound, still conscious, already dragging herself toward Sam before she had even fully caught her breath.
You moved too.
You didn’t think. You just rushed to Sam and dropped beside him, one hand going to his face, the other to his chest. He was breathing. Out cold, but breathing. You checked because you had to. Because Dean had hurt him.
Your hands shook so badly you almost couldn’t feel the rise and fall of his chest.
Eileen was there too, teeth clenched, one arm wrapped around her ribs, fingers already searching Sam’s pulse with the same focused panic you felt tearing through you.
Dean stood over all three of you.
You looked up at him.
For a second, the room held completely still.
That was your husband.
That was Dean, standing in the bedroom where his own brother lay unconscious on the floor because he had put him there.
You should have attacked him. You knew that. You should have grabbed his ankle, burned him, brought him down, done anything. Your touch had hurt him. You knew it had. You could smell it still, faint and awful under the dust and dried blood on your clothes. You had the advantage, maybe the only one anyone in that room had.
But your body would not move.
Because it was Dean.
Because you had spent hours carrying his dead body out of Hell. Because you had just sat beside his bed and begged him to forgive you. Because he was alive again, his chest was moving, and every instinct you had was still screaming 'that's your husband'.
Dean looked from Sam to Eileen, then back to you.
‘What?’ he said. ‘He’ll wake up.’
A beat.
His mouth curved.
‘Maybe.’
The word cut through you. But it did something useful too. It made the shock flare into anger.
Your hand left Sam’s chest slowly. Dean’s eyes tracked the movement, interested now.
Eileen made another rough sound beside you, already reaching for the blade she had dropped. Dean saw it, and his eyes flicked black again for half a second.
‘Ah, ah, ah,’ he said.
Just that. Enough threat in it to make the whole room tighten.
You pushed yourself to your feet. Your legs shook. Your spine still hurt from the dresser, and your whole body wanted to go back to Sam. To check again. To make sure he was still breathing, still alive.
But Dean turned and walked out of the room.
He was leaving.
Shock and grief pulled back just enough for adrenaline to hit hard. You shot one quick look at Sam and Eileen. She was still beside him, one hand pressed to his chest, eyes sharp and terrified when they met yours. You didn’t wait for her to tell you not to go.
You ran after Dean.
By the time you caught up to him, he was already in the war room.
He wasn’t rushing. That was the part that made your skin crawl. He moved through the bunker slowly, almost lazily, like he had all the time in the world. His shoulders were loose, his steps even, his head turning slightly as he looked around the room, almost bored.
He walked straight toward the library table, where someone had dumped the gear after you carried his body in. His jacket, his weapons, the backpack. The things you had dragged back from Hell.
Your heart jumped.
No.
You couldn’t let him get to those. You couldn't let him leave.
You moved faster, cutting around the other side of the map table and rushing into his path before he reached the library. Your boots slipped slightly on the polished floor, but you caught yourself and planted your body between him and the table.
Dean slowed. Just a little. His mouth curved, amused.
Of course he was amused.
You were shaking. You knew you were. Your hands, your knees, your breath, all of it. From fear, from anger, from grief still buried too close to the surface. He could see every bit of it, and the look on his face told you he liked that.
‘You gonna block my way now?’ he asked. ‘Bold move.’
You didn’t answer right away.
You were thinking too fast.
Your hands could stop him. Maybe. Your touch burned him now. If you lunged at him, if you grabbed him by the face or throat, you could hurt him. Badly. You could force him back. You could maybe hold him long enough for Eileen to wake Sam, for Castiel to come back. You could also kill him. Burn him until he's just a smoking pile on the ground.
And the thought of touching him like that made something inside you recoil.
Your hands were not supposed to hurt Dean.
Your hands knew him in every possible way that mattered. They had held his face when he kissed you, gripped his shirt when he made you laugh into his chest, pressed into his back when he slept too restlessly, traced scars he didn’t like talking about. They had steadied him through nightmares. They had pulled him closer when he was buried inside you.
Now your touch was a weapon against him. A lethal one, if you pushed hard enough.
You couldn’t do it.
Not yet…
Maybe that made you weak. Stupid, even. Maybe every hunter in the world would have called it a fatal mistake. But every hunter in the world had not spent the last few hours with Dean’s dead body in front of them, had not closed his eyes with shaking fingers, had not begged an angel to put his soul back where it should be.
You needed his body intact.
You needed him here.
If he left the bunker, he was gone. Dean knew how to disappear. If he walked out now, if he got past you, you might not see him ever again.
No.
You had to slow him down. You had to trap him somehow.
Your eyes flicked toward the table behind you. The cuffs were still in his backpack. The demon cuffs with the trap etched into them. If you could get him distracted, get him close enough, get one wrist locked-
Dean’s eyes followed yours.
Damnit.
You moved before he could read the rest of it.
Your hand closed around the gun on the table. Dean’s gun. The weight of it hit your palm with a familiar solidity. You had held it before. Practiced with it. Cleaned it a few times while Dean sat beside you pretending not to watch your technique. You told him once it was the most beautiful gun you'd ever seen.
You lifted it and pointed it at his chest.
‘Stop.’
Your voice shook, but the word landed.
Dean’s gaze dropped to the gun.
You clicked the safety off.
His smile widened. Devastating. Wrong. Still on his face.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s not gonna kill me.’
‘I know.’ Your voice surprised you with how fast it came. Thin, shaken, but immediate.
Dean’s eyes lifted back to yours. You forced yourself to keep the gun steady.
‘I don’t want to kill you. I want to help you.’
He blinked once, slow.
‘Do you now?’
‘Yeah.’ You swallowed. Your throat hurt. Everything hurt. ‘That’s why you’re not leaving this place.’
Dean stared at you for a second. Then he gave a short, humorless laugh.
‘Oh, but I am.’
‘Dean, please.’
His jaw tightened at the sound of his name. Maybe annoyance. Maybe something else. You couldn’t tell anymore, and that scared you more than you wanted it to.
‘We can still fix this,’ you said, and your voice cracked around the words because you needed them to be true. ‘Please. Just let me fix this.’
Dean’s face shifted into something almost cruel.
‘Please,’ he repeated, pitching the word higher, softer, mocking the break in your voice. ‘Just let me fix this.’
You flinched.
He saw that too. His expression darkened, disgust curling through the amusement.
‘You sound like my brother.’
The words hit hard because Sam was unconscious on the floor down the hall. Because Sam had carried Dean out of Hell. Because Sam had begged Castiel to bring him back. Because Sam would still try to save him after being thrown into a wall by him.
‘You’re sick,’ you said. ‘This isn’t you.’
Dean chuckled. Low. Horrible.
‘I’m more myself than I’ve been in years.’
That one struck deep.
You hated that it did.
Because it sounded too sure. Like a blade slipping between ribs. It made something cold open in your chest, because if that was true, if any part of him believed that, then what did that say about all that time before? About the quiet mornings, the bunker, the lodge, the wedding, the vows? Had humanity been the thing holding him close to you, or the thing keeping true parts of him buried?
No.
No, that was the demon talking.
It had to be.
Dean took another step toward you.
You raised the gun a fraction higher. ‘Don’t.’
He stopped only long enough to look down at your hands. Then at the space between you. Then at the gun.
‘Could’ve burned me,’ he said.
Your grip tightened.
He looked back at your face. ‘But you didn’t.’
You said nothing.
Your hands wanted to shake harder. You forced your finger to stay where it needed to be, forced your elbows not to drop, forced yourself to keep breathing even though Dean was close enough now that you could see the tiny scar on his chin, the dried line of blood you hadn’t fully cleaned from the corner of his jaw… the freckles you loved so much.
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching you work to hold yourself together.
‘That because you’re scared of hurtin’ me?’ he asked. ‘Or scared you’ll like it?’
Your teeth clenched so hard pain shot through your jaw.
He smiled.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
‘I saw you down there,’ he said, voice dropping lower. ‘Burnin’ those black-eyed sons of bitches to a crisp. You liked it.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Nah.’ He took another slow step, and you hated that your body reacted to the movement before your mind did. ‘You loved it.’
‘I said shut up.’
His gaze stayed locked on yours, no mercy in it. ‘All that power in your hands. All that fear. Bet that felt real good after bein’ scared outta your mind for days.’
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
Hell came back in flashes. Demons stepping away from you. The one in the corridor screaming under your hands. The smell. The silence afterward. The sick, awful satisfaction that had cut through the helplessness because for once, something was afraid of you.
Dean watched your face.
‘Bet you finally didn’t feel… what was it?’ His mouth curved. ‘Useless?’
‘Shut up!’
Your voice cracked through the war room. Loud enough to hurt.
Dean stepped closer.
You backed into the edge of the library table.
The gun stayed between you.
‘You wanna stop me?’ he said. ‘Stop me.’
‘You think I won’t?’
He took another step.
The barrel touched his chest.
You froze.
Dean looked down at it, then back at you, and there was something almost satisfied in his face now. Something dark. He wanted to see exactly how far he could push before you broke.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘I wanna see you do it.’
Your head gave the smallest shake. You didn’t mean to. It just happened.
His eyes caught it.
‘C’mon, sweetheart.’ His voice went softer, rougher, and somehow meaner for it. ‘Don’t get shy on me now.’
Your grip tightened. Your fingers trembled anyway.
Dean’s gaze dropped to your hands.
‘What’s wrong, baby?’ he asked. ‘Need me to tell you when?’
You swallowed hard.
His eyes lifted back to your face.
‘You always were better when I talked you through things.’
The words hit before you could brace for them.
Your breath caught, shame and fury twisting together so fast you almost lowered the gun just to swing at him instead. He had no right. No right to drag that into this room, into this moment. He had no right to know exactly which words would land because he knew you. Because he was Dean. Because it was Dean’s memory behind those eyes, Dean’s mouth letting the cruelty out with perfect aim.
‘Don’t,’ you said again.
This time it barely came out.
Dean leaned in close enough that you could feel his breath against your face.
‘Don’t what?’
You could smell him.
Under the blood, under the stale air of the bunker, under that faint wrong heat coming off his skin, he still smelled like Dean. That was so much worse than if he had smelled like sulfur or rot or anything else that would have made this easier.
‘Don’t make this easy for you?’ he asked.
The barrel pressed harder into his chest as he moved another inch forward.
You couldn’t step back. The table was behind you.
Dean’s eyes stayed on yours.
Your finger tensed. He noticed. His smile sharpened.
‘Don’t make you prove my wife’s got more bite than bark?’
The word wife almost took you apart. He said it like something he could still use because, demon or not, it was still true.
‘You’re not him,’ you whispered. 'You're not my husband.'
Dean’s face changed. Just a fraction. The smile didn’t leave, but something ugly settled beneath it.
‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘Keep tellin’ yourself that.’
Then his hand came up. For one second, you thought he was going to take the gun away.
He didn’t.
His fingers closed over yours. His palm pressed against the back of your hand, forcing your grip tighter around the handle, steadying the barrel against his own chest.
The contact burned instantly.
His skin hissed under yours. The smell of it cut through the room. Dean’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t pull away. His eyes went black all at once, and this close, with his hand burning over yours and his body pressed to the gun, they swallowed every trace of green.
You gasped.
‘Dean-’
‘What, need my help?’ His voice came out rougher now, edged with pain and something that sounded too much like pleasure. ‘Yeah? No? Maybe?’
His hand tightened over yours.
Your magic pushed under your skin on instinct, hot and defensive, reacting to the demon touching you, to the threat, to the wrongness of him. You tried to pull back, but he held you there. Held himself there. Let your touch burn him because it proved some point only he understood.
His face came closer.
‘Want me to pull the damn trigger for you?’
Your whole body shook.
He jerked your hand slightly, not enough to fire, just enough to make the gun shift against his chest. Just enough to make you feel how little control you really had while his burning hand covered yours.
Then he barked, sudden and loud enough to echo violently across the room.
‘Come on! Do it!’
The gun went off.
The sound tore through the library and punched straight through your chest.
For one second, there was nothing else.
No bunker. No air. No Dean. Just the blast, the recoil snapping through your arms, the sharp smell of gunpowder, your ears ringing so hard the world went thin around the edges.
Dean staggered back with a grunt.
The bullet hit him square in the chest. Blood spread across his shirt.
Your whole body stopped.
Demon. He was a demon. You knew that. You knew guns didn’t work on demons the way they worked on people. You knew the bullet wouldn’t kill him. You knew it before you pulled the trigger, knew it before he forced your hand against the gun, knew it while he stood there grinning and burning himself on your skin just to prove he could make you do it.
Your body did not care.
Your body saw Dean take a bullet to the chest from your hand.
For half a second, your brain forgot every bit of logic and saw only your husband. The man you loved more than anything you ever loved.
You had shot him.
The thought came in too clearly. Too sharply.
You had shot Dean.
Your fingers went numb around the grip. Your hands were still locked in place, both of them holding the gun, arms extended, barrel aimed at his chest. Smoke curled from the muzzle, faint and unreal in the low bunker light.
Dean looked down at the wound, at the red spreading through the fabric.
Then he lifted his head.
And smiled.
Slow.
Satisfied.
Almost proud.
That smile destroyed you. Because he didn’t look shocked. He didn’t look hurt. He didn’t even look angry.
He looked pleased.
You had finally given him exactly what he wanted.
‘That’s what I’m talkin’ about,’ he said, voice rough with amusement. ‘Knew you had it in you.’
You couldn’t breathe.
The wound started closing, right in front of you. The blood stopped spreading. The torn fabric still showed the hole, still dark and wet around the edges, but underneath it, the skin pulled itself back together, fast.
Dean rolled his shoulder once, testing it, then let out a small, pleased huff.
Your hands shook harder. The gun was suddenly too heavy.
You kept staring at the place where the bullet had gone in, even after there was nothing left to prove it had happened except the blood on his shirt and the ringing in your ears.
He made me.
The thought came fast. Desperate.
He made you. He pushed. He cornered you. He put his hand over yours. He burned himself on your skin and smiled through it. He yelled. He startled you. He forced the whole world down to one impossible second.
He made me.
Then another thought answered from somewhere much colder.
No. Your own finger moved on the trigger.
You nearly dropped the gun.
Your arm fell to your side, loose and useless. The barrel pointed toward the floor now, your finger safely off the trigger. Your grip stayed tight enough to hurt because letting go would mean the gun might clatter to the floor, and you couldn’t handle another loud sound.
Dean watched you for another second.
Then he reached past you.
You flinched hard.
His mouth twitched.
His arm brushed close to yours as he grabbed the backpack from the table behind you. The movement was casual, almost insulting in how little effort he put into it. He took his time as he slung it over one shoulder and took his jacket next.
He paused, only for a second, glanced down at you.
Then he turned away.
You couldn’t move.
Your body stayed rooted beside the table, heart beating too fast, ears still ringing from the shot. Dean walked through the war room without looking back, his boots steady against the floor, the bag over his shoulder, your whole life leaving the room one step at a time.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped.
You held your breath.
He looked back at you one last time.
There was blood all over his shirt. His hand was blistered where he had held yours. His eyes were green, and there was nothing gentle in them.
His gaze moved over you slowly.
The gun.
Your shaking hand.
Your face.
And then he left.
Your knees weakened, but you didn’t fall. You just stood there, holding Dean’s gun with numb fingers, staring at the empty doorway while the sound of him leaving stretched through the bunker.
Somewhere behind you, far down the hall, Eileen called your name.
You barely heard it.
A heavy sound rolled through the bunker. The front door closing. Final. Deafening.
After that, there was only silence.
You stood in the war room with Dean’s gun in your hand, the smell of gunpowder still in the air, and the man you loved gone.
Hey guys! Quick question: I already have the next chapter of What Comes Out written, it just still needs editing.
The thing is, I’ve already posted three chapters in the last week because I’m that excited about this story - and because I currently have too much time on my hands with my husband away for work.
I know this irregular posting schedule can be pretty annoying, so I thought I’d ask.
What do you think? Should I post the next chapter today, or should I give you a little breather and wait until next week?
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Summary: You carry Dean’s body out of Hell and through Purgatory, holding onto the hope that Heaven will bring him back. But what comes out with him is something none of you are ready for.
CHAPTER 4 MASTERLIST
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
A/N: I ignored all other responsibilities this weekend and finished another chapter. So here it is, because I really want us to finally get to the good stuff.
Also, disclaimer: I consulted my husband about Sam carrying Dean’s body like that. He’s a combat medic in airborne, and he said that with Sam’s size and strength, he should be able to manage it that way. So I’m choosing to trust him on this one.
I also tried to make her grief feel different from the grief Dean went through when she died. I’m not sure I pulled that off well enough, though, because Dean’s grief still feels more real to me. I don’t know. You tell me.
And I really try not to ask for this too often, but if you can, please share your thoughts with me. I’m still writing for myself, but I’m sharing it here for you too. And knowing people are reading it is always a really nice boost to my motivation.
You stayed folded over Dean’s body with your forehead pressed to his chest and your hands twisted in his soaked flannel.
You didn’t know how long.
Time had stopped making sense. There was only blood. Under your palms, under your nails, on your cheek where you had pressed your face into him. His shirt was wet against your skin. The warmth of it made your stomach twist because warmth meant life, and this… wasn’t life. This was what had spilled out of him before you could stop it.
You kept breathing into his chest.
Each breath came broken. Too hard going in, too painful coming out. Your throat hurt from the sound that had ripped through you when his eyes went empty. Your ribs hurt. Your arm hurt. But your body felt far away.
Dean was under you. Dean was still under you. You couldn’t move away from him.
If you moved, it would be real. If you sat back, if you looked at him properly, if you saw the wound again, you would have to understand it. And you couldn’t. Your mind kept repeating the truth and refusing to hear it.
A sound broke through the room.
Dean was dead.
Dean was dead.
Dean was dead.
The iron door opening. Footsteps. A voice, sharp and startled. You barely registered it. The demon from outside the door, maybe. The one who had sent you in. You heard the first word leave its mouth, then a scream came. Loud. Short.
Then silence.
Something heavy hit the stone beside you, close enough that the impact knocked into Dean’s body. He shifted half an inch in the pool of his own blood.
Your hands clamped down on his flannel.
‘Dean!’
Sam’s voice hit the room, frantic and raw.
‘Hey, no. No, no, no, hey.’
Only then did your brain understand the weight beside you was Sam dropping to his knees. He was right there now, breathing hard and sharp, so close you could feel the movement of him beside Dean.
‘DEAN!’
The sound of your husband’s name broke open with so much grief that it gutted you all over again.
You looked up at Sam through tears.
His face was white. His eyes were wide and glassy, locked on Dean’s throat, Dean’s face. There was black dust smeared across one side of his jacket. His hair was falling into his face, and he looked younger for one horrible second. Like a boy who never learned how to survive losing his big brother, no matter how many times he did.
‘Sam,’ you cried, the word tearing out of you. ‘He’s dead.’
Sam flinched.
‘He’s dead, he’s dead.’ The words spilled out fast, broken and useless. ‘I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t stop the bleeding, Sam. I tried, I did, I tried to use my magic and I couldn’t, I couldn’t-’
You threw yourself over Dean again.
Your body covered him, arms clutching him desperately, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other fisting in the soaked fabric at his chest. Another hopeless sob tore through you so hard it stole the next breath. You pressed your mouth against his shirt and tasted blood and salt and Hell.
‘I’m sorry,’ you choked against him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been faster. I should’ve broken free sooner. I'm sorry-’
Sam made a strangled sound beside you.
For a moment, he only breathed. Quick and ragged. Fighting for control and losing enough of it that you could hear the break in every inhale.
Then his hand landed between your shoulder blades. It stayed there for one second, trembling.
‘We have to get him out of here.’
You shook your head against Dean’s chest.
No.
No, absolutely not.
You couldn’t move him. You couldn’t let the room take him out of your arms. You couldn’t stand up and make Dean into something that had to be carried.
Sam’s hand pressed firmer against your back.
‘We have to move him. Now.’
You hated him for being right.
You hated yourself more because you couldn’t do it.
Slowly, you forced yourself to lift your head again.
Sam was looking at you now. His eyes were wet, but his face had gone blank in a way that scared you. Locked down. Controlled, too hard. A wall built in seconds because if he let it crack, neither of you would leave Hell alive.
You wiped your face with the back of your wrist. It only smeared blood and tears across your skin.
For the first time, you looked past Dean. Past Sam.
There was black ash near the door. More of it near the table. Ramiel was gone. Dead. Burned down to nothing. The Lance lay on the floor beside Sam, the blade still bright even in the low firelight.
Sam had done it.
He had killed a Prince of Hell.
And Dean was still dead.
His face had gone too still. His mouth was slightly open, blood drying at the corner. One hand had fallen at his side, palm loose.
And his eyes were still open.
That stopped you more than the blood did.
They were still green. Still his. Still the first thing you would have looked for in any room, in any life, in any version of the world. But they weren’t looking at you anymore. Dean’s eyes always found you. Across the bunker, across diners, over Sam’s shoulder in the Impala mirror. In bed, in the dark, when he thought you were asleep and didn’t have to hide how soft he looked at you.
Now they were open, and there was nothing reaching back.
A sound caught in your throat.
You reached for his face with shaking fingers, then froze half an inch from his skin because touching him there didn't feel right. Not like this.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered.
You brushed your thumb once under his eye, wiping away a tear that wasn’t his. Then, as gently as you could, you closed his eyelids.
The second you did, something inside you went quiet. You wanted to crawl back over him and stay there.
You wanted to die right there with him.
Sam shifted beside you.
The movement dragged you back so sharply it almost hurt.
Right.
Move.
You had to move.
Dean needed to get out. He was not staying here. Hell did not get to keep him on its floor.
You sat back on your heels, one hand still pressed to Dean’s stomach because taking both hands off him felt impossible.
Sam reached for him. The motion was careful at first, almost gentle. One hand under Dean’s shoulder. One gripping his jacket. Sam swallowed hard, then moved with the horrible efficiency of someone who had done this before. He shifted Dean’s arm, pulled him partly upright, turning him toward his own body.
‘Help me with his arm,’ Sam said, breathless. ‘I need- just-’
Dean’s head rolled wrong.
Your chest locked.
‘Wait,’ you gasped.
Sam froze.
You stared at Dean’s head, at the awful looseness of it, at the way his body gave no resistance at all.
Dean didn’t move like that. Your Dean never moved like that.
Dean was all muscles and strength. Dean did not need help holding himself up. Dean held you. Dean braced his body around you in bed. Dean caught you when you tripped. Dean pulled you behind him when danger came. Dean’s arms locked around you with enough certainty to make the world safer.
He did not need someone to place his arm where it belonged.
He did not need someone to support his head.
He did not hang limp in his brother’s grip.
Your breathing changed so fast you couldn’t stop it.
No.
No, no, no.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. The room sharpened and blurred at the same time. The fire was too bright. The stone was too dark. Dean’s blood was everywhere. The copper smell of it filled your lungs and suddenly there was no air.
‘I can’t,’ you said.
Sam looked at you.
You shook your head fast, eyes locked on Dean’s body as Sam tried to shift him higher.
‘I can’t. Sam, I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t-’
‘Hey.’
You barely heard him. Your fingers curled into your own bloody palms.
‘I let him come here. I let him come with me. I should’ve fought harder. Should’ve made him stay, Sam, I-’
‘Hey!’ Sam’s voice snapped louder.
You flinched.
He was staring at you now, Dean half against him, one arm wrapped around his brother’s back, the other trying to keep Dean’s shoulder from slipping.
‘Look at me.’
You couldn’t. You kept staring at Dean’s hand. Loose. Hanging.
His wedding ring caught the light.
‘Look at me!’ Sam said again, and his voice broke around the command.
Your eyes shot to his.
Sam’s face twisted for one second. Pain, grief, fear, all of it breaking through the blankness. Then he forced it back down.
‘I need you to focus, alright?’ he said, breathing hard. ‘I can’t do this without you.’
Your mouth trembled.
‘I can’t. Sam, I can't.’
‘You have to.’
You shook your head, tears spilling again.
Sam’s eyes shone. His grip tightened around Dean.
‘Please,’ he said, and that one word almost destroyed you. ‘Help me get my brother out.’
Brother.
That reached you.
Dean was Sam’s brother.
Dean was your husband.
And he was still in Hell.
You sucked in one broken breath. Then another.
You only had to get Dean out.
Because he was coming back. He was. He had to.
Heaven had brought you back. It could bring him back, too. Naomi could twist rules when she wanted something badly enough, and you had what she wanted now. The Lance was right there on the floor, and if Heaven thought it could take its precious weapon while Dean stayed dead, Heaven was about to learn exactly how little you cared about being reasonable.
You nodded once.
‘Okay,’ you whispered.
Sam’s breath shook.
‘Okay,’ he echoed.
You wiped at your eyes with the heel of your hand and moved, nearly slipping in the blood before catching yourself. Sam told you what he needed, and you obeyed because thinking would drag you back into that panic hole. You helped lift Dean’s arm, helped place it over Sam’s shoulder. Your fingers closed around Dean’s wrist, and for one insane second, you waited for his pulse under your thumb.
Nothing.
Your stomach lurched.
You swallowed hard and kept moving.
Sam shifted Dean higher, jaw clenched, face going pale from pain and effort. His injured chest had to be screaming. His wrist was hurt. His whole body was beaten down. Still, he pulled Dean’s weight up and across his shoulders with a rough grunt.
Dean’s torso folded over him.
His arm hung down Sam’s back. His head dipped forward.
You made a small broken noise and reached up immediately, fixing the angle, supporting him until Sam adjusted his grip. Your hands lingered at Dean’s hair, his jaw, the side of his neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Sam’s knees buckled once.
Your hands shot out, one to Dean’s shoulder, one to Sam’s arm.
‘Sam-’
‘I got him,’ Sam said through his teeth. He adjusted Dean’s weight, dragging in a sharp breath. His face was strained and wet, but his feet held. ‘I got him.’
You didn’t know if he said it to you or to himself.
Maybe to Dean.
For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then Sam looked toward the floor.
‘Lance.’ His voice had gone firm again.
You blinked at him.
Then turned, saw the weapon on the floor, and forced your legs to move toward it.
The second your hand closed around it, a strange cold weight moved through your arm. The weapon felt wrong. Too powerful for something you were holding with Dean’s blood still drying on your fingers.
‘Sam,’ you said, voice shaking. ‘How do we…? There’s still Hell out there.’
Sam glanced toward the black ash on the floor, then at the Lance in your hands.
‘That makes them burst into dust,’ he said. ‘And you have your hands. We can make it.’
Your fingers tightened around the weapon.
Hands. Lance.
Dean.
Get Dean out.
You nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’
Sam shifted once more under Dean’s weight and took a step toward the door. You tightened both hands around the Lance.
Then the two of you stepped out.
His brother was dead.
That thought hit Sam on repeat. It kept coming back no matter how many times his mind tried to shove it aside and focus on the next step, the next breath. Dean was dead. Again.
It wasn’t the first time Sam had to wrap his head around that fact.
He had watched Dean die a thousand ways in one insane Tuesday, courtesy of the Trickster. Well, Gabriel, really. He had watched his brother choke, fall, get shot, get crushed, bleed, burn, die over and over until Sam nearly lost his own mind. He had watched a hellhound tear Dean apart before it dragged him to Hell, and he had carried what was left of his brother out of that house with Dean’s blood on his hands, in his clothes. He could still feel the blood days later after the skin had been scrubbed raw.
He had watched Dean die on the floor of a church too, even if Dean’s heart was still beating then. Something had gone out of him that night. Sam had seen it. He had watched his brother hold her body and lose a part of himself in a way Sam still didn’t know how to talk about.
And he had seen Dean die in dreams. Too many times. Nobody had ever been around to shut Sam’s nightmares off the way she shut Dean’s down.
It never got easier.
That was the thing.
No matter how many times it happened, no matter how many impossible resurrections, no matter how many deals and loopholes and angel tricks and cosmic exceptions, it still tore through him the same way.
Because there was no world where Sam knew how to do this without his brother.
No world where he wanted to.
So he did the only thing he could.
He focused on getting him out. Because Dean was coming back. He had to. Sam grabbed onto that as hard as he could, because if he let himself believe anything else, he was done.
He adjusted his grip under Dean’s body and kept moving.
Dean’s weight was across his shoulders, heavy, solid, real in a way Sam hated with everything in him. His bad wrist screamed every time he had to tighten his hold. His chest burned under the bandage where the hellhound had clawed at him, and every step pulled at the wounds until his shirt stuck wet against his skin again.
He kept moving.
Dean’s arm hung down his back. His hand knocked lightly against Sam’s side with each step. Sam tried not to feel it. Tried not to think about how loose that hand was, how empty. He focused on the corridor instead. The route. The next turn. The need to keep his balance.
Don’t drop him.
That was the first rule.
Don’t drop him.
Beside him, his brother's wife walked close enough that her shoulder almost brushed his arm. She held the Lance in one hand, knuckles tight around the shaft, and kept her other hand curled around Dean’s limp arm.
Sam had never seen her like this.
He had seen her scared. He had seen panic in her before, real panic, back when they first found her after the campus attack. He had seen her shaken after her memories were lost, after she learned about monsters and magic. He had seen grief on her too, when she found out about her family. He had seen her cry.
He had never seen this.
Her face was covered in blood. Dean’s blood. It had dried in streaks where tears had cut through it. Her eyes were red and swollen, fixed ahead until they weren’t, until they snapped back to Dean. Every few steps, her fingers tightened around his wrist, and Sam knew she was checking for a pulse even though she knew. She knew. She had been the one with her hands on his throat. She had been the one who felt it stop.
That made Sam’s throat close so hard he almost missed a step.
Her sobs back in that room had split him open. The way she had said Dean was dead, the way she cried she couldn’t save him. Sam had wanted to tell her to stop, to take it back, to not make him hear it out loud.
Instead, he had told her they had to move. Because someone had to, right?
Because if Sam let himself think his brother was dead, really dead, he was going to stop walking. He was going to drop to the floor in the middle of Hell with Dean over his shoulders and never get back up.
So he focused.
Get Dean out. Get him topside. Get him to Cas. Keep her moving.
Don’t drop him.
Do not think about Ramiel’s voice.
What happens when Hell’s favorite little prodigy comes home and dies on the floor?
Sam’s jaw tightened.
No.
He wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking about what Ramiel meant.
He took another step.
Then another.
The corridor ahead stayed empty for now, and that felt almost worse than fighting. At least fighting gave him somewhere to put the rage. This silence only left him with Dean’s weight and the sound of her breathing beside him, uneven and shallow and too close to breaking again.
They reached the end of the hallway and Sam’s knees dipped. Just for a second. His body gave under the combined weight of Dean, the wounds, the blood loss, the hours of fighting. He caught himself against the wall with one shoulder and hissed through his teeth.
She stopped instantly.
‘Sam.’
Her hand came up, not knowing where to go first. Dean’s arm, Sam’s elbow, Dean’s back. She steadied both of them with shaking hands.
‘I got him,’ Sam said. It came out rough.
She looked up at him, and for a second, Sam wished she hadn’t.
Her face was wrecked. There was no other word for it. Blood, tears, shock, grief, all of it sitting there. She looked at him like she needed him to say something that would make this nightmare go away.
He couldn’t.
So he nodded once. Thanks. Keep going. Please don’t fall apart because if you do, I’m going with you.
She swallowed and nodded back.
They kept moving.
The next turn opened into a wider corridor with archways along both sides and rooms stretching off into dark. Sam saw them immediately. Demons. Gathering in the openings, standing on the edges. Watching from the shadows. More than before. Enough that Sam’s grip tightened around Dean’s leg and jacket until his knuckles burned.
They didn’t attack. At first, they just laughed. Quiet ugly little sounds. Some pointed, watching like Dean’s body across Sam’s shoulders was another show Hell had put together for them. One woman clapped slowly, mocking. Another one leaned against the wall and bared her teeth.
Sam felt something in him go even colder.
A demon stepped closer from one of the archways, black eyes bright, mouth twisting.
‘Would you look at that,’ it said. ‘Poor Dean. Finally put down like the dog he was.’
Sam almost set Dean down.
The thought came fast and violent. Put him down carefully, take the Lance, and turn the whole corridor into ash. Every last one of them.
He didn't get the chance. She moved first.
She was across the corridor in two seconds, and the demon barely had time to react before she grabbed it by the face.
Her fingers dug into its throat, and the demon screamed as smoke burst under her palms. She shoved it back into the wall and held on. The smell of burning flesh filled the corridor. The demon clawed at her wrists, but that only made it scream harder. Its body jerked, black eyes wide now, fear finally there.
She didn’t let go until it dropped.
When it hit the floor, she stood over it for one second, chest rising hard, blood on her face, the Lance still gripped in her other hand.
The corridor went quiet.
Sam looked up at the line of demons ahead, and made his voice carry.
‘You saw what she can do.’
Sam shifted his grip on Dean, forcing his knees to stay locked.
‘I just killed a Prince of Hell,' he said, clear and steady. 'Anyone else wants to end up on that pile, you can come through us.’
Silence settled heavy over the corridor.
For one moment, Sam thought they might try anyway. And honestly? Part of him wanted them to.
Then the first demon stepped back. Another followed. Then another.
The ones in the archways lowered their eyes or turned their faces away. The path opened ahead of them.
They believed him.
She came back to Sam’s side without looking at him. Her hand found Dean’s arm again, fingers closing around his wrist.
Sam adjusted Dean’s weight one more time and forced his feet forward.
Don’t drop him. Get him out. Get him to Cas.
He walked. And the demons let them through.
You moved through Hell the same way you had come in.
One foot in front of the other. Back through the wider corridors where demons had watched you and then stepped aside, through the rooms that had smelled of smoke, rot, and old blood. Back past the bodies you had left behind on the way in, burned and stabbed and crumpled against stone walls. Toward the cellars. Toward the passage. Toward Purgatory.
You tried not to think too much about that part.
Hell had gone quiet because the demons were scared. But monsters in Purgatory would not care that Sam had killed a Prince. They would not care about the Lance in your hand, or the blood on your skin, or the body Sam was carrying.
But you moved. Because you had to.
And all that time, you kept your hand on Dean.
That became the only thing that mattered.
When Sam walked, Dean’s arm hung down his back, and you kept your fingers wrapped around his wrist. When the corridor narrowed, you moved closer and steadied him by the shoulder. When Sam had to adjust his grip, you reached up automatically, helping keep Dean’s head from falling wrong.
At some point, the crying had stopped for a little while. Not because you felt better, but because you became too numb to feel… anything. Because your body had run out of ways to keep up with all of it.
Sam had to stop often.
Of course, your husband was heavy. And your brother-in-law was hurt. Every step pulled at Sam’s injuries, at whatever pain he was forcing down because stopping for too long meant staying in Hell. And every time he stopped, every time he had to lower Dean down, something inside you went cold.
Because those were the moments you saw Dean properly.
Still. Silent. His throat cut.
The first time Sam lowered him, you almost yelped. You swallowed it so hard your chest hurt. Sam leaned against the wall, breathing through his teeth, one arm folded tight across his bandaged chest. He reached for the water with shaking hands, and you dropped beside Dean immediately.
You set the Lance carefully against the stone, and dug bandages out of the bag with fingers that barely felt attached to you.
You opened the disinfectant, wet one strip of gauze, and started with his face.
There was so much blood there. At his jaw, smeared into the corner of his mouth, at the edge of his ear. Some of it was from your hands when you touched him. Some had dried there on its own. You wiped it away carefully, little by little, because you couldn't leave him like that. It would not fix anything, you knew that. But you simply could not leave him like that.
‘I know, I know. It’s okay, baby,’ you whispered, wiping at the corner of his mouth. ‘I'm just cleaning you up a little. Just hold on. Sam just needs a minute. Then we’ll keep moving.’
Sam’s breathing hitched somewhere above you.
You kept your eyes on Dean.
‘You’ll be home soon,’ you told him. ‘We’re almost there. Just a little longer, okay?’
You moved lower, to the wound, and your hand froze.
For one second, you couldn’t do it.
The cut looked worse now. The edges of it had darkened, thin black lines spreading into the skin around the slash, almost like a spreading infection. The tissue around it looked damaged in a way normal injury did not explain.
Of course. The Lance.
Your stomach turned hard. You swallowed down another sob.
Then you forced yourself to breathe and pressed the wet cloth near the edge, cleaning what you could without pulling too much at his skin. Your fingers shook, but you tried to be gentle. It mattered to some part of you that no longer cared whether it made sense.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered. ‘I’m sorry. I know this is cold. I’m sorry.’
Sam said your name once. Quietly.
You didn’t answer.
You kept wiping until the gauze was too red to help, then folded it into your fist and sat back when Sam pushed off the wall.
‘We gotta move,’ he said.
His voice sounded rougher every time.
You nodded and helped him lift Dean again.
The next stretch blurred.
Corridors. Stairs. Stone. Dead demons. Sam’s boots dragging once before he caught himself. Your hand on Dean’s arm. The Lance heavy in your other hand. The sound of your own breathing, too loud in your ears. Every few minutes Sam had to stop, and every stop did something ugly to you.
By the time you reached the torture chamber with the dead hellhounds, Sam was shaking. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. You saw it in his knees, in the way his jaw clenched. His breath came too shallow.
The tables were still there, bloodied, some overturned, tools scattered across the floor.
Sam lowered Dean onto one of the heavy tables with a grunt and then leaned both hands on the edge for a second, head dropped, chest heaving.
And it broke you.
Dean’s body touched the table, and all you could see was the room for what it was. The chains, the racks, the tools. Hell’s idea of fun. And now your husband was lying on one of those tables, limp and bloodied, his head turned slightly to the side.
A loud sob left you before you could stop it. You stepped in close, both hands going to his face.
‘No,’ you whispered, shaking your head. ‘No, no, no.’
You leaned down and kissed Dean’s forehead.
His skin felt too cool under your lips. The wrongness of that made you sob again, full and sudden, tearing right through the numbness.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered against his skin. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Your hands moved over his face, smoothing his hair back, thumb brushing the line of his cheekbone. He looked wrong here. He looked wrong everywhere now. There was no place in existence where Dean should have been this still.
‘This is my fault.’ Your voice broke. ‘You shouldn’t be here at all. I should never have let you come. I'm sorry-’
‘Stop saying that.’
Sam’s voice cut through the room.
You lifted your head, blinking through tears. ‘What?’
He was still bent forward, still breathing hard, face pale and tight. His eyes were wet, but there was anger there too.
‘That you’re sorry.’ His voice cracked on the last word. He swallowed hard and looked away for half a second. ‘Stop. Please.’
That hurt worse than if he had yelled. You understood he wasn't angry at you. But at the words. At the thing you were doing to yourself in front of him.
Your mouth trembled.
You wanted to tell him you couldn’t stop. That sorry was the only thing your body seemed able to make now because there were too many things you should have done differently and no way to fix any of them now.
But Sam was standing there with Dean’s blood on him too. Sam had carried his brother through Hell with a broken look in his eyes and a body held together by pain. Sam needed you to stop falling apart because he was already using everything he had just to stay upright.
So you nodded. Once.
Then you wiped your face with your hand and forced the sob back down until it hurt.
‘Okay,’ you whispered.
You looked back at Dean, touching his hair once more before stepping away enough for Sam to be able to lift him again.
‘We’re almost there,’ you said, quieter now. You weren’t sure if you were telling Dean, Sam, or yourself. 'The cellars are close.'
Sam nodded, jaw tight.
‘Cas will bring you back, Dean,’ you said.
You held onto that.
You had to.
Sam moved to Dean’s side, and you helped him get Dean up from the table. Dean’s body sagged into Sam’s hold in that same horrible way. You flinched when his head tipped and caught it quickly. Your hands stayed steady this time because Sam needed them to. Because Dean needed out. Because the cellars were close, and Purgatory was next, and Cas was waiting somewhere beyond that.
And Cas would bring him back.
He had to.
You reached the passage faster than you expected.
Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe it had taken an hour. Maybe three. Maybe time had stretched and folded in on itself somewhere between Ramiel’s room and the cellars. You didn’t know anymore. By the time you walked past the cells again, your mind had gone strangely quiet. Just… distant. Shut down in a way that made everything feel delayed.
You kept repeating the same thing to yourself until it hollowed everything else out.
Sam needed you steady. Dean needed you steady. Step. Breathe. Hold the Lance. Keep your hand on Dean. Watch the corridor.
You pushed every sob, every scream, every thought that did not help deeper and deeper until all that was left was movement.
The souls were screaming again.
You only realized it when Sam said your name and told you not to stop. You had slowed down in the middle of the cell corridor, staring at a hand reaching through iron bars without fully seeing it. Sam’s voice cut through the noise, rough and strained under Dean’s weight.
‘Keep moving.’
So you did.
You stepped out of the passage into Purgatory, and the first thing you saw was light.
It wasn’t bright. It was still Purgatory, still dim and gray, the air still heavy with rot, wet leaves, and old violence. But after Hell, after the cellars, after firelight and stone and blood-dark halls, the pale light hit your eyes hard enough to make you blink.
For one second, you almost couldn’t see.
Then your vision adjusted.
Different carnage waited in front of you.
Bodies covered the ground near the rocks. Monsters this time. Cut open, hacked apart, throats torn out. Crimson and black soaked into the gray leaves. Something twitched near the stream and then went still. In the middle of it all stood Benny, one hand closed around the neck of something that had stopped moving. He let the body drop under his hand and spat something dark onto the ground.
Then he turned.
For half a second, he grinned, vampire teeth bared, relief already breaking across his face.
Then Sam stepped out behind you with Dean over his shoulders.
Benny stopped dead.
The grin disappeared.
Everything on his face changed at once. His brows drew together, eyes dropping to Dean’s body, then to Sam’s face, then to you. His mouth pressed into a hard line. His chin trembled once before he caught it, and his shoulders sagged like something heavy had landed on him too.
‘No,’ he breathed.
The word punched through the blank place inside you so hard your chest almost caved in.
Sam’s knees gave before you could answer.
He dropped hard with a rough sound, one hand shooting out to catch himself while still trying to keep Dean from hitting the ground. You moved at the same time Benny did. Benny crossed the distance in two long strides, and together you helped Sam lower Dean off his shoulders and onto the ugly gray leaves.
Dean landed on his back.
You hated that immediately.
You hated the ground under him. The leaves sticking to his jacket. The blood on his shirt. The angle of his head. The way his body accepted being moved without giving anything back.
Benny crouched beside him.
For the first time, he saw Dean’s throat properly.
His face went still. Then he reached up and took off his cap. Slow, almost absent. He held it in both hands, staring down at Dean with his jaw tight and his eyes too wet.
‘Dean,’ he said, voice rough and wrecked. ‘No.’
You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at Dean for too long either, because if you did, you would drop right back to the ground and stay there.
So you turned to Sam.
‘Are you okay?’
It was a stupid question. He was on one knee, breathing hard, face gray with pain and exhaustion. Blood had completely soaked through the bandage across his chest, and his injured wrist shook where he braced it against his thigh.
Still, he nodded.
‘Yeah.’ His voice barely worked. ‘I’m good.’
You almost snapped at him for lying.
Then Benny’s hand landed on your shoulder. Gentle. Careful.
‘I’m so sorry, love,’ he said.
You knew he meant it. You knew he was grieving too. Dean had mattered to him. Dean had brought him into your lives, made him family in the strange, messy way Winchesters made family. Benny had the right to mourn him.
But Dean wasn’t really dead.
No.
You couldn’t let that sentence settle.
Dean was coming back. Heaven was going to bring him back. You had the Lance. Now Heaven would do what you told them to do, because there was no other acceptable outcome.
You sniffed once and kept your eyes on Sam.
‘Can you walk?’
Sam looked at Dean, then forced himself to look at you.
‘Yeah.’
He started to shift, already reaching for Dean again, already trying to make his body obey. You moved to help him, but Benny’s hand came up.
‘Let me take him, brother,’ Benny said quietly. ‘You’ll kill yourself carryin’ him like that.’
Sam froze.
You saw it happen. The refusal flashed through him, fast and painful. He didn’t want to let go. Of course he didn’t. Dean was his brother. Sam had carried him out of Hell, carried him through those corridors, held himself upright on pain and rage and the need to get Dean out.
Letting someone else take him felt like another loss.
But Sam looked at Benny. Then at Dean. Then at the path ahead.
He knew.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
‘Okay,’ he said.
The word sounded like it hurt.
Benny moved carefully, with none of his usual swagger. Sam helped him shift Dean’s body, and you couldn’t stop touching him. Your fingers lingered at his wrist again, even though you knew there was nothing there. Benny saw it and paused, giving you one second without saying anything.
You took it.
You brushed Dean’s hair back from his forehead, then stepped away before your knees could fail.
Benny lifted him with a steadiness Sam couldn’t have managed anymore. Vampire strength made the difference immediately. Dean’s weight settled over him, and Benny adjusted with a grimace that had nothing to do with effort. He looked down once, jaw tight, then started moving.
No jokes. No smirks. No easy comments in that warm Louisiana drawl.
Just silence.
You were suddenly so grateful for his strength that the feeling almost made you sick.
The four of you moved through Purgatory with Benny carrying Dean at the center, Sam on one side, you on the other. You still held the Lance. You hadn’t realized how tightly until your fingers started to ache around the shaft.
Sam pulled out his blade as soon as you started walking again.
Even drenched in sweat, bleeding, exhausted past what any human body should have handled, he locked back in. His shoulders squared. His eyes scanned the trees. His knife stayed ready.
Through the numbness, you looked at the Lance in your hand.
Then back at Sam.
He was a better hunter than you. Even hurt. Even half-dead on his feet. Especially now, when your mind kept sliding away from everything except Dean and Cas and the fact that Heaven was going to fix this.
You held the Lance out.
Sam looked at it, and for a moment, you thought he would argue.
He didn’t.
He took it with his good hand, and you took the knife from him instead. The exchange happened without a word.
A growl came from the trees five minutes later. Or maybe twenty. You couldn’t tell.
Sam stopped first. Benny shifted Dean’s weight and turned his body enough to shield him. You lifted the knife, but your grip felt wrong. Too loose. Too delayed. A creature came from the left, low and fast, with too many teeth and black blood already dripping from its mouth. Another came from behind it.
It wasn’t clean this time.
None of you moved the way you had on the way in. Sam was too hurt, and Benny had Dean’s body over his shoulders, and you kept losing half-seconds staring at Dean’s arm hanging down Benny’s back. Sam drove the Lance through the first creature, and the thing convulsed with a horrible sound before dropping. Benny kicked another back hard enough to send it into a tree, then twisted away to keep Dean from being struck. You caught the third too late, only when it was already close enough to swing.
The knife went into its neck.
Your hand burned from the impact. The creature screamed in your face. You shoved harder, teeth clenched, and Sam finished it from the side with the Lance.
Then it was over.
Messy. Fast. Awful.
You stood there breathing too hard, knife still raised, and realized you had barely felt fear.
That scared you more than the monster had.
‘Let's go,’ Sam said.
So you moved.
Nobody spoke after that.
You stumbled through the gray woods, past blood-dark leaves and twisted roots, past distant sounds you hoped stayed distant. Benny stayed steady. Dean’s body looked almost weightless on him, and you hated the relief that gave you. Sam walked with the Lance raised, slower now, limping more with every stretch of ground. You stayed close enough to Dean that your hand could find him whenever the path allowed it.
Then the blue light appeared between the trees.
For the first time since Ramiel’s blade cut Dean’s throat, your heart kicked with something other than panic.
The portal.
The way out.
Earth. Cas. Heaven. Resurrection.
Your fingers tightened around the knife.
‘There,’ you said, voice hoarse.
Sam looked at the light, and something in his face broke for half a second before he forced it back together.
Benny stopped near the rocks, Dean still over his shoulders.
‘Alright,’ he said, voice low. ‘How we doin’ this?’
You already knew. You had gotten him out before. You would get him out again.
‘I’ll do it,’ you said.
Benny's face tightened. Then he nodded.
Sam moved in to take Dean from him, and for one awful moment the whole world narrowed down to that transfer. Benny lowering Dean carefully. Sam bracing himself. Dean’s body shifting between them.
Sam made a sound through his teeth. But he held.
Benny watched Dean for one second longer, jaw tight, cap pushed low on his head.
Then he stepped toward you.
You pressed your bleeding forearm out, and Benny took it carefully. His fingers were cool around your skin.
‘See y’all on the other side,’ he said, voice rough.
Then his soul rushed into your arm.
The sensation hit fast, familiar and wrong, a pressure under your skin that made your breath catch. You staggered once, but stayed upright. Benny was in there now, tucked into your arm, another life held inside your body while Dean’s body hung limp over Sam’s shoulders.
You could not think about that too long.
Sam looked at you. ‘You good?’
No.
‘Yeah.’
You barely heard him over the pulse in your ears, over the distant sounds of Purgatory, over the one thought beating behind your ribs.
Please let Dean’s body pass through.
Please let him come with me.
Please.
The blue light flared.
Sam started climbing toward it with Dean’s body held tight.
You followed, clutching the Lance again, the rocks uneven under your boots.
Every step hurt. Every breath hurt.
You kept your eyes on Dean.
And you prayed the portal would let you bring him home.
Your boots hit solid ground again, and leaves crushed under them.
For one disorienting second, your body didn’t know what to do with the change. The air was cold and wet, sharp in your lungs after all the heat and rot. The trees around you were real, alive. There was color again, even in the dark. Brown soil, green pine, pale moonlight through branches. Earth. Actual Earth.
You were back.
You had made it.
The thought hit you with a strange, empty force, because it should have meant something. It should have brought relief, or exhaustion, or gratitude so strong your knees gave out. Instead, you spun around too fast, heart slamming once in terror, because none of it mattered unless Sam came through with Dean.
The portal flared behind you.
Sam stumbled out with Dean in his arms.
He made it only a few steps before his knees buckled under the weight. Eileen rushed forward with a sharp, terrified sound, catching Sam around the waist before he went down completely. Castiel moved in fast from the other side to help lower Dean carefully onto the leaves. Sam fought them for half a second, still trying to hold his brother even when his body had nothing left to give, and that small, stubborn resistance nearly tore another sob out of you.
Then Dean was on the ground.
You dropped beside him immediately.
Your hands went to him before your mind told them to. His hair, his shoulders, his arms, his chest. You touched him everywhere you could reach, frantic and useless, as if the portal might have changed something. As if getting him back to Earth might have put breath back into him during those few terrible seconds of light.
It hadn’t.
He was cold.
Benny’s soul pulsed in your forearm, warm and strange under your skin, but even that felt distant. Important, yes. Something you had to deal with. Just not before Dean. Nothing came before Dean.
Castiel was already on his knees beside him.
‘What's wrong?’ he asked, voice sharp with alarm as his eyes moved over Dean’s body. ‘What happened?’
You tried to answer. You really did. You opened your mouth, pulled in air that tasted like wet leaves and night, and the words simply would not come. Seeing Castiel broke through the numbness that helped carry you out. Castiel meant help. Castiel meant grace. Castiel meant the impossible part of your plan finally happening. This was why you had kept moving. This was why you had forced yourself through Hell and Purgatory.
Get Dean out.
Get Dean to Cas.
Get Dean back.
‘He-’ you started, and the word collapsed under a painful sob.
Sam answered for you from above, still leaning hard into Eileen while she held him upright with both arms around him.
‘Ramiel,’ he said, voice raw and almost gone. ‘It was a trap. Dean fought him, Cas. He fought like hell, but Ramiel was too strong.’ His throat worked hard around the next words. ‘He cut him with the Lance.’
The moment Sam said Lance, Castiel froze.
His eyes dropped to Dean’s throat, and the look that crossed his face was wrong. Too much fear, too much recognition, too much grief before he had even tried. Your stomach turned because you knew Castiel well enough by now to understand when he already knew something terrible.
No.
No, he didn’t get to know anything yet.
‘Cas,’ you breathed.
He didn’t look away from the wound.
‘Cas, bring him back.’
Your voice came out thin and shaky, barely holding together.
Castiel moved his hands over Dean, first above his chest, then over his throat. His fingers were trembling. White light gathered under his palms, familiar and bright, and your whole body leaned toward it with such violent hope that it hurt.
There.
Yes.
This was it.
This was where Dean’s chest would rise. This was where the wound would close. This was where he would gasp, where you would sob into his chest and yell at him for scaring you and never let him take one single step away from you again.
‘Please,’ you said, crawling closer on your knees. ‘Please, Cas. Bring him back now.’
Castiel lowered the light closer.
Nothing happened.
Dean’s throat stayed open. The blackened, ruined tissue around the cut did not change. His chest did not move.
Castiel’s brow creased, and the light under his hands grew stronger. His jaw tightened with effort. The air around his palms hummed, bright enough to cast Dean’s face in white for one awful second, and you held your breath because it had to work. It had to. There was no version of the world where it did not work.
Dean stayed still.
‘Cas,’ Sam said, and his voice broke on the name.
Castiel tried again.
You watched his face because you couldn’t keep looking at Dean’s body. Castiel’s eyes flicked rapidly over Dean. His hands shook harder. The white light sparked once, flared, then began to dim.
No.
Your fingers dug into Dean’s sleeve.
No, no, no.
Castiel pulled his hands back.
You stared at him.
He looked at you then, and the grief in his eyes made the world tilt under your knees.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
You shook your head before he finished.
‘I can’t.’
For a second, the woods went completely silent inside your head.
Then Sam’s voice cracked through it.
‘What?’
Castiel looked up at him.
‘What do you mean you can’t?’ Sam barked, lurching forward so fast Eileen had to tighten her hold on him. ‘Cas, what the hell does that mean?’
Castiel looked wrecked. His eyes went back to Dean, then to you, then to Sam, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its steadiness.
‘I can’t reach his soul.’
The words echoed in your mind, useless.
You understood every single one. You knew what a soul was. You knew what reaching meant. You knew what Castiel was saying. Still, some part of you rejected the sentence completely, because it did not make any sense.
‘I don’t know where it is,’ Castiel said. ‘I can’t find him. I can’t resurrect him if I can’t reach him.’
You shook your head again.
‘No.’
Castiel said your name softly. That made it worse.
‘No, Castiel.’ Your voice rose, shaking apart around the edges. ‘No, you have to.’
His face twisted.
‘You have to,’ you repeated, louder now. ‘Do you hear me? He did his part. He went to Hell. He helped get the Lance. He paid for it in blood.’
Your hand pressed against Dean’s chest, fingers spreading over the stiff, blood-soaked fabric.
‘You have to bring him back!’
‘I’m trying,’ Castiel said, and now his voice was breaking too. ‘I tried. I can’t-’
‘I don’t care!’ you screamed.
The sound tore through the woods, ugly and raw.
‘I don’t care that you don’t know where his soul is. I don’t fucking care what that means. Make Heaven look for it. Make Naomi look for it. Tear the whole place apart if you have to.’
You grabbed the Lance from the ground beside you before you even realized you had moved. Your fingers closed around the shaft, tightening until your knuckles hurt.
Castiel flinched.
‘Because I swear to God, Cas, if Heaven thinks it can take this from us and leave him like this, I will shove this thing up every angelic ass I find until there isn’t a single one of you left.’
Eileen went very still.
Castiel looked at the Lance, then back at your face.
‘I don’t-’
‘Cas,’ Sam cut in.
His voice was quieter than yours, rougher, and somehow it hurt more.
He had pulled himself more upright, one hand pressed to his bandaged chest, the other gripping Eileen’s arm like he was only standing because she was there. His eyes were red and wet and fixed on Castiel with a desperation you had never wanted to see on Sam’s face.
‘Please,’ Sam said. ‘You have to get him back.’
Castiel looked at him, and whatever was left of his composure broke.
‘I will try,’ he said, voice low and strained. ‘Sam, I swear to you, I will try. I will go to Heaven. I will speak to Naomi. I will make them search if I have to.’
‘Do that,’ you said.
Castiel looked back at you.
Your hand tightened on the Lance.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Sam’s voice came again, harder now.
‘The Lance stays with us until Dean is back.’
Castiel nodded immediately. ‘Yes.’
No argument. No explanation about Heaven’s claim to it. Just yes. Maybe he understood that if he tried to take it, you would use it.
You dropped the Lance beside you and bent over Dean again, both hands going back to him. You couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop checking him even after Castiel had just told you he couldn’t fix it.
A sob broke out of you again, violent and rough. You folded down over Dean, holding his face in both hands.
‘Please,’ you cried against his forehead. ‘Please, Dean, please. Don’t do this.’
No one tried to pull you away.
You didn’t know how long passed before Sam said Benny’s name, and that was the thing that finally cut through.
Benny.
His soul was still inside your arm.
Right.
You had to let him out.
You looked toward the place nearby where Cas left Benny’s body, prepared for this exact reason, another horrible practical detail waiting at the edge of everything else.
You pulled the knife from your belt with numb fingers and cut into your forearm. The pain barely registered. Blood welled up fast, and you whispered the words you needed, voice shaking so badly some of them came out broken.
The warmth in your arm shifted.
Then tore free.
Benny’s soul left you in a rush that made your whole body sway. The air changed near his remains. A hard, wet inhale cut through the night.
You didn’t turn to watch.
A moment later, Benny’s voice came from behind you, rough and shocked and alive.
Good.
That was one thing done. One thing you had not failed.
Castiel healed you after that.
You barely registered the touch of his fingers. Light moved through your skin, closing wounds, easing pain your body had stopped noticing a long time ago. Then he went to Sam. Eileen held Sam still while Castiel healed what he could, her face pale and terrified all at once. Castiel’s eyes kept flicking toward Dean’s body every few seconds, and guilt carved itself deeper into him each time.
You stayed beside Dean with one hand on his arm.
People spoke above you.
Castiel said he would take you home first. He would get you to the bunker, then go straight to Heaven. He promised he would come back as soon as he could.
You didn’t answer.
You remembered the trip back only in pieces.
Dean being lifted, and your hands reaching for him because he was out of your arms too long.
The bunker lights, too bright after the woods.
The stairs.
The hall to Dean’s old room.
Old room.
Not yours.
You had chosen that on purpose. You couldn’t take him to your room. Your room was your bed, his clothes on the chair, his scent on the pillow, the stupid arguments about blankets and movies and his socks. Your room was where he was supposed to come back to you.
When he woke up, he would be glad you hadn’t put this memory there.
So they laid him in his old room. The same bed where Dean had laid you when you died. The thought passed through you without landing all the way.
You washed your face at some point.
Maybe Eileen helped you. Maybe you did it alone. You remembered the water turning red in the sink. You remembered staring at your own reflection and barely recognizing the woman looking back. Blood at your hairline. Red eyes. Pale mouth. Hands shaking against the porcelain.
Then more tears came, and you stopped trying to clean anything.
Dean was on the bed when you came back.
His old bed.
His body looked too large for it, and too still.
Sam sat with you for a while, Eileen pressed close to his side, one hand locked around his. He didn’t say much. Neither did you. He just sat there and stared at Dean until his breathing started going wrong, until he stood too fast and turned away with a hand over his mouth.
‘I can’t,’ he whispered.
You barely heard him.
Eileen went with him, one arm wrapped tight around his waist, holding him together as they left.
Then the room was quiet.
You stayed.
Of course you stayed.
Your grip on Dean’s hand had loosened at some point. You were no longer holding him hard enough to hurt your own fingers. Your thumb moved over his knuckles instead, slow and gentle, back and forth over skin that should have warmed under your touch.
You looked at his face.
His handsome, perfect face. The face you knew better than any other face in existence. The freckles. The line of his mouth. The lashes against his skin. The tiny scar near his eyebrow. The lips you had kissed that morning, back when he was alive and annoyed and scared and trying not to show it.
You had no loud sobs left in you. The tears just kept falling, silent.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered one more time.
Your thumb brushed over his knuckles.
Then the skin under your hand changed.
Warmth.
You froze.
For one second, you were sure you had imagined it. Your hand stayed wrapped around his, every part of you straining toward that impossible shift.
Then his hand warmed more.
Real.
Too fast.
Too hot.
You gasped and nearly fell forward.
‘Dean?’
A faint smell reached you.
Burning skin.
Your eyes dropped to where your fingers touched his. The skin on his hand blistered under yours.
You jerked back so hard your shoulder hit the nightstand.
For one stunned second, you could only stare at the angry marks rising on Dean’s skin where your hand had been.
Your touch had burned him.
Your breath stopped.
Dean’s body moved.
His chest rose with a sharp, sudden inhale.
Your whole body went cold.
‘Dean?’
Your husband's eyes opened.
And they were black.
A/N: There you go. All that logic- and lore- twisting just to feed my Demon Dean kink fantasy.
But honestly? Exploring Demon Dean as a married man is going to be fun. And also tricky, because I’ve got 15 seasons’ worth of Dean’s character to draw from to get him right, but only three episodes of his demon version. Then again… who doesn’t love a challenge?
Summary: You carry Dean’s body out of Hell and through Purgatory, holding onto the hope that Heaven will bring him back. But what comes out with him is something none of you are ready for.
CHAPTER 4 MASTERLIST
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
A/N: I ignored all other responsibilities this weekend and finished another chapter. So here it is, because I really want us to finally get to the good stuff.
Also, disclaimer: I consulted my husband about Sam carrying Dean’s body like that. He’s a combat medic in airborne, and he said that with Sam’s size and strength, he should be able to manage it that way. So I’m choosing to trust him on this one.
I also tried to make her grief feel different from the grief Dean went through when she died. I’m not sure I pulled that off well enough, though, because Dean’s grief still feels more real to me. I don’t know. You tell me.
And I really try not to ask for this too often, but if you can, please share your thoughts with me. I’m still writing for myself, but I’m sharing it here for you too. And knowing people are reading it is always a really nice boost to my motivation.
You stayed folded over Dean’s body with your forehead pressed to his chest and your hands twisted in his soaked flannel.
You didn’t know how long.
Time had stopped making sense. There was only blood. Under your palms, under your nails, on your cheek where you had pressed your face into him. His shirt was wet against your skin. The warmth of it made your stomach twist because warmth meant life, and this… wasn’t life. This was what had spilled out of him before you could stop it.
You kept breathing into his chest.
Each breath came broken. Too hard going in, too painful coming out. Your throat hurt from the sound that had ripped through you when his eyes went empty. Your ribs hurt. Your arm hurt. But your body felt far away.
Dean was under you. Dean was still under you. You couldn’t move away from him.
If you moved, it would be real. If you sat back, if you looked at him properly, if you saw the wound again, you would have to understand it. And you couldn’t. Your mind kept repeating the truth and refusing to hear it.
Dean was dead.
Dean was dead.
Dean was dead.
A sound broke through the room.
The iron door opening. Footsteps. A voice, sharp and startled. You barely registered it. The demon from outside the door, maybe. The one who had sent you in. You heard the first word leave its mouth, then a scream came. Loud. Short.
Then silence.
Something heavy hit the stone beside you, close enough that the impact knocked into Dean’s body. He shifted half an inch in the pool of his own blood.
Your hands clamped down on his flannel.
‘Dean!’
Sam’s voice hit the room, frantic and raw.
‘Hey, no. No, no, no, hey.’
Only then did your brain understand the weight beside you was Sam dropping to his knees. He was right there now, breathing hard and sharp, so close you could feel the movement of him beside Dean.
‘DEAN!’
The sound of your husband’s name broke open with so much grief that it gutted you all over again.
You looked up at Sam through tears.
His face was white. His eyes were wide and glassy, locked on Dean’s throat, Dean’s face. There was black dust smeared across one side of his jacket. His hair was falling into his face, and he looked younger for one horrible second. Like a boy who never learned how to survive losing his big brother, no matter how many times he did.
‘Sam,’ you cried, the word tearing out of you. ‘He’s dead.’
Sam flinched.
‘He’s dead, he’s dead.’ The words spilled out fast, broken and useless. ‘I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t stop the bleeding, Sam. I tried, I did, I tried to use my magic and I couldn’t, I couldn’t-’
You threw yourself over Dean again.
Your body covered him, arms clutching him desperately, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other fisting in the soaked fabric at his chest. Another hopeless sob tore through you so hard it stole the next breath. You pressed your mouth against his shirt and tasted blood and salt and Hell.
‘I’m sorry,’ you choked against him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been faster. I should’ve broken free sooner. I'm sorry-’
Sam made a strangled sound beside you.
For a moment, he only breathed. Quick and ragged. Fighting for control and losing enough of it that you could hear the break in every inhale.
Then his hand landed between your shoulder blades. It stayed there for one second, trembling.
‘We have to get him out of here.’
You shook your head against Dean’s chest.
No.
No, absolutely not.
You couldn’t move him. You couldn’t let the room take him out of your arms. You couldn’t stand up and make Dean into something that had to be carried.
Sam’s hand pressed firmer against your back.
‘We have to move him. Now.’
You hated him for being right.
You hated yourself more because you couldn’t do it.
Slowly, you forced yourself to lift your head again.
Sam was looking at you now. His eyes were wet, but his face had gone blank in a way that scared you. Locked down. Controlled, too hard. A wall built in seconds because if he let it crack, neither of you would leave Hell alive.
You wiped your face with the back of your wrist. It only smeared blood and tears across your skin.
For the first time, you looked past Dean. Past Sam.
There was black ash near the door. More of it near the table. Ramiel was gone. Dead. Burned down to nothing. The Lance lay on the floor beside Sam, the blade still bright even in the low firelight.
Sam had done it.
He had killed a Prince of Hell.
And Dean was still dead.
His face had gone too still. His mouth was slightly open, blood drying at the corner. One hand had fallen at his side, palm loose.
And his eyes were still open.
That stopped you more than the blood did.
They were still green. Still his. Still the first thing you would have looked for in any room, in any life, in any version of the world. But they weren’t looking at you anymore. Dean’s eyes always found you. Across the bunker, across diners, over Sam’s shoulder in the Impala mirror. In bed, in the dark, when he thought you were asleep and didn’t have to hide how soft he looked at you.
Now they were open, and there was nothing reaching back.
A sound caught in your throat.
You reached for his face with shaking fingers, then froze half an inch from his skin because touching him there didn't feel right. Not like this.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered.
You brushed your thumb once under his eye, wiping away a tear that wasn’t his. Then, as gently as you could, you closed his eyelids.
The second you did, something inside you went quiet. You wanted to crawl back over him and stay there.
You wanted to die right there with him.
Sam shifted beside you.
The movement dragged you back so sharply it almost hurt.
Right.
Move.
You had to move.
Dean needed to get out. He was not staying here. Hell did not get to keep him on its floor.
You sat back on your heels, one hand still pressed to Dean’s stomach because taking both hands off him felt impossible.
Sam reached for him. The motion was careful at first, almost gentle. One hand under Dean’s shoulder. One gripping his jacket. Sam swallowed hard, then moved with the horrible efficiency of someone who had done this before. He shifted Dean’s arm, pulled him partly upright, turning him toward his own body.
‘Help me with his arm,’ Sam said, breathless. ‘I need- just-’
Dean’s head rolled wrong.
Your chest locked.
‘Wait,’ you gasped.
Sam froze.
You stared at Dean’s head, at the awful looseness of it, at the way his body gave no resistance at all.
Dean didn’t move like that. Your Dean never moved like that.
Dean was all muscles and strength. Dean did not need help holding himself up. Dean held you. Dean braced his body around you in bed. Dean caught you when you tripped. Dean pulled you behind him when danger came. Dean’s arms locked around you with enough certainty to make the world safer.
He did not need someone to place his arm where it belonged.
He did not need someone to support his head.
He did not hang limp in his brother’s grip.
Your breathing changed so fast you couldn’t stop it.
No.
No, no, no.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. The room sharpened and blurred at the same time. The fire was too bright. The stone was too dark. Dean’s blood was everywhere. The copper smell of it filled your lungs and suddenly there was no air.
‘I can’t,’ you said.
Sam looked at you.
You shook your head fast, eyes locked on Dean’s body as Sam tried to shift him higher.
‘I can’t. Sam, I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t-’
‘Hey.’
You barely heard him. Your fingers curled into your own bloody palms.
‘I let him come here. I let him come with me. I should’ve fought harder. Should’ve made him stay, Sam, I-’
‘Hey!’ Sam’s voice snapped louder.
You flinched.
He was staring at you now, Dean half against him, one arm wrapped around his brother’s back, the other trying to keep Dean’s shoulder from slipping.
‘Look at me.’
You couldn’t. You kept staring at Dean’s hand. Loose. Hanging.
His wedding ring caught the light.
‘Look at me!’ Sam said again, and his voice broke around the command.
Your eyes shot to his.
Sam’s face twisted for one second. Pain, grief, fear, all of it breaking through the blankness. Then he forced it back down.
‘I need you to focus, alright?’ he said, breathing hard. ‘I can’t do this without you.’
Your mouth trembled.
‘I can’t. Sam, I can't.’
‘You have to.’
You shook your head, tears spilling again.
Sam’s eyes shone. His grip tightened around Dean.
‘Please,’ he said, and that one word almost destroyed you. ‘Help me get my brother out.’
Brother.
That reached you.
Dean was Sam’s brother.
Dean was your husband.
And he was still in Hell.
You sucked in one broken breath. Then another.
You only had to get Dean out.
Because he was coming back. He was. He had to.
Heaven had brought you back. It could bring him back, too. Naomi could twist rules when she wanted something badly enough, and you had what she wanted now. The Lance was right there on the floor, and if Heaven thought it could take its precious weapon while Dean stayed dead, Heaven was about to learn exactly how little you cared about being reasonable.
You nodded once.
‘Okay,’ you whispered.
Sam’s breath shook.
‘Okay,’ he echoed.
You wiped at your eyes with the heel of your hand and moved, nearly slipping in the blood before catching yourself. Sam told you what he needed, and you obeyed because thinking would drag you back into that panic hole. You helped lift Dean’s arm, helped place it over Sam’s shoulder. Your fingers closed around Dean’s wrist, and for one insane second, you waited for his pulse under your thumb.
Nothing.
Your stomach lurched.
You swallowed hard and kept moving.
Sam shifted Dean higher, jaw clenched, face going pale from pain and effort. His injured chest had to be screaming. His wrist was hurt. His whole body was beaten down. Still, he pulled Dean’s weight up and across his shoulders with a rough grunt.
Dean’s torso folded over him.
His arm hung down Sam’s back. His head dipped forward.
You made a small broken noise and reached up immediately, fixing the angle, supporting him until Sam adjusted his grip. Your hands lingered at Dean’s hair, his jaw, the side of his neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Sam’s knees buckled once.
Your hands shot out, one to Dean’s shoulder, one to Sam’s arm.
‘Sam-’
‘I got him,’ Sam said through his teeth. He adjusted Dean’s weight, dragging in a sharp breath. His face was strained and wet, but his feet held. ‘I got him.’
You didn’t know if he said it to you or to himself.
Maybe to Dean.
For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then Sam looked toward the floor.
‘Lance.’ His voice had gone firm again.
You blinked at him.
Then turned, saw the weapon on the floor, and forced your legs to move toward it.
The second your hand closed around it, a strange cold weight moved through your arm. The weapon felt wrong. Too powerful for something you were holding with Dean’s blood still drying on your fingers.
‘Sam,’ you said, voice shaking. ‘How do we…? There’s still Hell out there.’
Sam glanced toward the black ash on the floor, then at the Lance in your hands.
‘That makes them burst into dust,’ he said. ‘And you have your hands. We can make it.’
Your fingers tightened around the weapon.
Hands. Lance.
Dean.
Get Dean out.
You nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’
Sam shifted once more under Dean’s weight and took a step toward the door. You tightened both hands around the Lance.
Then the two of you stepped out.
His brother was dead.
That thought hit Sam on repeat. It kept coming back no matter how many times his mind tried to shove it aside and focus on the next step, the next breath. Dean was dead. Again.
It wasn’t the first time Sam had to wrap his head around that fact.
He had watched Dean die a thousand ways in one insane Tuesday, courtesy of the Trickster. Well, Gabriel, really. He had watched his brother choke, fall, get shot, get crushed, bleed, burn, die over and over until Sam nearly lost his own mind. He had watched a hellhound tear Dean apart before it dragged him to Hell, and he had carried what was left of his brother out of that house with Dean’s blood on his hands, in his clothes. He could still feel the blood days later after the skin had been scrubbed raw.
He had watched Dean die on the floor of a church too, even if Dean’s heart was still beating then. Something had gone out of him that night. Sam had seen it. He had watched his brother hold her body and lose a part of himself in a way Sam still didn’t know how to talk about.
And he had seen Dean die in dreams. Too many times. Nobody had ever been around to shut Sam’s nightmares off the way she shut Dean’s down.
It never got easier.
That was the thing.
No matter how many times it happened, no matter how many impossible resurrections, no matter how many deals and loopholes and angel tricks and cosmic exceptions, it still tore through him the same way.
Because there was no world where Sam knew how to do this without his brother.
No world where he wanted to.
So he did the only thing he could.
He focused on getting him out. Because Dean was coming back. He had to. Sam grabbed onto that as hard as he could, because if he let himself believe anything else, he was done.
He adjusted his grip under Dean’s body and kept moving.
Dean’s weight was across his shoulders, heavy, solid, real in a way Sam hated with everything in him. His bad wrist screamed every time he had to tighten his hold. His chest burned under the bandage where the hellhound had clawed at him, and every step pulled at the wounds until his shirt stuck wet against his skin again.
He kept moving.
Dean’s arm hung down his back. His hand knocked lightly against Sam’s side with each step. Sam tried not to feel it. Tried not to think about how loose that hand was, how empty. He focused on the corridor instead. The route. The next turn. The need to keep his balance.
Don’t drop him.
That was the first rule.
Don’t drop him.
Beside him, his brother's wife walked close enough that her shoulder almost brushed his arm. She held the Lance in one hand, knuckles tight around the shaft, and kept her other hand curled around Dean’s limp arm.
Sam had never seen her like this.
He had seen her scared. He had seen panic in her before, real panic, back when they first found her after the campus attack. He had seen her shaken after her memories were lost, after she learned about monsters and magic. He had seen grief on her too, when she found out about her family. He had seen her cry.
He had never seen this.
Her face was covered in blood. Dean’s blood. It had dried in streaks where tears had cut through it. Her eyes were red and swollen, fixed ahead until they weren’t, until they snapped back to Dean. Every few steps, her fingers tightened around his wrist, and Sam knew she was checking for a pulse even though she knew. She knew. She had been the one with her hands on his throat. She had been the one who felt it stop.
That made Sam’s throat close so hard he almost missed a step.
Her sobs back in that room had split him open. The way she had said Dean was dead, the way she cried she couldn’t save him. Sam had wanted to tell her to stop, to take it back, to not make him hear it out loud.
Instead, he had told her they had to move. Because someone had to, right?
Because if Sam let himself think his brother was dead, really dead, he was going to stop walking. He was going to drop to the floor in the middle of Hell with Dean over his shoulders and never get back up.
So he focused.
Get Dean out. Get him topside. Get him to Cas. Keep her moving.
Don’t drop him.
Do not think about Ramiel’s voice.
What happens when Hell’s favorite little prodigy comes home and dies on the floor?
Sam’s jaw tightened.
No.
He wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking about what Ramiel meant.
He took another step.
Then another.
The corridor ahead stayed empty for now, and that felt almost worse than fighting. At least fighting gave him somewhere to put the rage. This silence only left him with Dean’s weight and the sound of her breathing beside him, uneven and shallow and too close to breaking again.
They reached the end of the hallway and Sam’s knees dipped. Just for a second. His body gave under the combined weight of Dean, the wounds, the blood loss, the hours of fighting. He caught himself against the wall with one shoulder and hissed through his teeth.
She stopped instantly.
‘Sam.’
Her hand came up, not knowing where to go first. Dean’s arm, Sam’s elbow, Dean’s back. She steadied both of them with shaking hands.
‘I got him,’ Sam said. It came out rough.
She looked up at him, and for a second, Sam wished she hadn’t.
Her face was wrecked. There was no other word for it. Blood, tears, shock, grief, all of it sitting there. She looked at him like she needed him to say something that would make this nightmare go away.
He couldn’t.
So he nodded once. Thanks. Keep going. Please don’t fall apart because if you do, I’m going with you.
She swallowed and nodded back.
They kept moving.
The next turn opened into a wider corridor with archways along both sides and rooms stretching off into dark. Sam saw them immediately. Demons. Gathering in the openings, standing on the edges. Watching from the shadows. More than before. Enough that Sam’s grip tightened around Dean’s leg and jacket until his knuckles burned.
They didn’t attack. At first, they just laughed. Quiet ugly little sounds. Some pointed, watching like Dean’s body across Sam’s shoulders was another show Hell had put together for them. One woman clapped slowly, mocking. Another one leaned against the wall and bared her teeth.
Sam felt something in him go even colder.
A demon stepped closer from one of the archways, black eyes bright, mouth twisting.
‘Would you look at that,’ it said. ‘Poor Dean. Finally put down like the dog he was.’
Sam almost set Dean down.
The thought came fast and violent. Put him down carefully, take the Lance, and turn the whole corridor into ash. Every last one of them.
He didn't get the chance. She moved first.
She was across the corridor in two seconds, and the demon barely had time to react before she grabbed it by the face.
Her fingers dug into its throat, and the demon screamed as smoke burst under her palms. She shoved it back into the wall and held on. The smell of burning flesh filled the corridor. The demon clawed at her wrists, but that only made it scream harder. Its body jerked, black eyes wide now, fear finally there.
She didn’t let go until it dropped.
When it hit the floor, she stood over it for one second, chest rising hard, blood on her face, the Lance still gripped in her other hand.
The corridor went quiet.
Sam looked up at the line of demons ahead, and made his voice carry.
‘You saw what she can do.’
Sam shifted his grip on Dean, forcing his knees to stay locked.
‘I just killed a Prince of Hell,' he said, clear and steady. 'Anyone else wants to end up on that pile, you can come through us.’
Silence settled heavy over the corridor.
For one moment, Sam thought they might try anyway. And honestly? Part of him wanted them to.
Then the first demon stepped back. Another followed. Then another.
The ones in the archways lowered their eyes or turned their faces away. The path opened ahead of them.
They believed him.
She came back to Sam’s side without looking at him. Her hand found Dean’s arm again, fingers closing around his wrist.
Sam adjusted Dean’s weight one more time and forced his feet forward.
Don’t drop him. Get him out. Get him to Cas.
He walked. And the demons let them through.
You moved through Hell the same way you had come in.
One foot in front of the other. Back through the wider corridors where demons had watched you and then stepped aside, through the rooms that had smelled of smoke, rot, and old blood. Back past the bodies you had left behind on the way in, burned and stabbed and crumpled against stone walls. Toward the cellars. Toward the passage. Toward Purgatory.
You tried not to think too much about that part.
Hell had gone quiet because the demons were scared. But monsters in Purgatory would not care that Sam had killed a Prince. They would not care about the Lance in your hand, or the blood on your skin, or the body Sam was carrying.
But you moved. Because you had to.
And all that time, you kept your hand on Dean.
That became the only thing that mattered.
When Sam walked, Dean’s arm hung down his back, and you kept your fingers wrapped around his wrist. When the corridor narrowed, you moved closer and steadied him by the shoulder. When Sam had to adjust his grip, you reached up automatically, helping keep Dean’s head from falling wrong.
At some point, the crying had stopped for a little while. Not because you felt better, but because you became too numb to feel… anything. Because your body had run out of ways to keep up with all of it.
Sam had to stop often.
Of course, your husband was heavy. And your brother-in-law was hurt. Every step pulled at Sam’s injuries, at whatever pain he was forcing down because stopping for too long meant staying in Hell. And every time he stopped, every time he had to lower Dean down, something inside you went cold.
Because those were the moments you saw Dean properly.
Still. Silent. His throat cut.
The first time Sam lowered him, you almost yelped. You swallowed it so hard your chest hurt. Sam leaned against the wall, breathing through his teeth, one arm folded tight across his bandaged chest. He reached for the water with shaking hands, and you dropped beside Dean immediately.
You set the Lance carefully against the stone, and dug bandages out of the bag with fingers that barely felt attached to you.
You opened the disinfectant, wet one strip of gauze, and started with his face.
There was so much blood there. At his jaw, smeared into the corner of his mouth, at the edge of his ear. Some of it was from your hands when you touched him. Some had dried there on its own. You wiped it away carefully, little by little, because you couldn't leave him like that. It would not fix anything, you knew that. But you simply could not leave him like that.
‘I know, I know. It’s okay, baby,’ you whispered, wiping at the corner of his mouth. ‘I'm just cleaning you up a little. Just hold on. Sam just needs a minute. Then we’ll keep moving.’
Sam’s breathing hitched somewhere above you.
You kept your eyes on Dean.
‘You’ll be home soon,’ you told him. ‘We’re almost there. Just a little longer, okay?’
You moved lower, to the wound, and your hand froze.
For one second, you couldn’t do it.
The cut looked worse now. The edges of it had darkened, thin black lines spreading into the skin around the slash, almost like a spreading infection. The tissue around it looked damaged in a way normal injury did not explain.
Of course. The Lance.
Your stomach turned hard. You swallowed down another sob.
Then you forced yourself to breathe and pressed the wet cloth near the edge, cleaning what you could without pulling too much at his skin. Your fingers shook, but you tried to be gentle. It mattered to some part of you that no longer cared whether it made sense.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered. ‘I’m sorry. I know this is cold. I’m sorry.’
Sam said your name once. Quietly.
You didn’t answer.
You kept wiping until the gauze was too red to help, then folded it into your fist and sat back when Sam pushed off the wall.
‘We gotta move,’ he said.
His voice sounded rougher every time.
You nodded and helped him lift Dean again.
The next stretch blurred.
Corridors. Stairs. Stone. Dead demons. Sam’s boots dragging once before he caught himself. Your hand on Dean’s arm. The Lance heavy in your other hand. The sound of your own breathing, too loud in your ears. Every few minutes Sam had to stop, and every stop did something ugly to you.
By the time you reached the torture chamber with the dead hellhounds, Sam was shaking. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. You saw it in his knees, in the way his jaw clenched. His breath came too shallow.
The tables were still there, bloodied, some overturned, tools scattered across the floor.
Sam lowered Dean onto one of the heavy tables with a grunt and then leaned both hands on the edge for a second, head dropped, chest heaving.
And it broke you.
Dean’s body touched the table, and all you could see was the room for what it was. The chains, the racks, the tools. Hell’s idea of fun. And now your husband was lying on one of those tables, limp and bloodied, his head turned slightly to the side.
A loud sob left you before you could stop it. You stepped in close, both hands going to his face.
‘No,’ you whispered, shaking your head. ‘No, no, no.’
You leaned down and kissed Dean’s forehead.
His skin felt too cool under your lips. The wrongness of that made you sob again, full and sudden, tearing right through the numbness.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered against his skin. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Your hands moved over his face, smoothing his hair back, thumb brushing the line of his cheekbone. He looked wrong here. He looked wrong everywhere now. There was no place in existence where Dean should have been this still.
‘This is my fault.’ Your voice broke. ‘You shouldn’t be here at all. I should never have let you come. I'm sorry-’
‘Stop saying that.’
Sam’s voice cut through the room.
You lifted your head, blinking through tears. ‘What?’
He was still bent forward, still breathing hard, face pale and tight. His eyes were wet, but there was anger there too.
‘That you’re sorry.’ His voice cracked on the last word. He swallowed hard and looked away for half a second. ‘Stop. Please.’
That hurt worse than if he had yelled. You understood he wasn't angry at you. But at the words. At the thing you were doing to yourself in front of him.
Your mouth trembled.
You wanted to tell him you couldn’t stop. That sorry was the only thing your body seemed able to make now because there were too many things you should have done differently and no way to fix any of them.
But Sam was standing there with Dean’s blood on him too. Sam had carried his brother through Hell with a broken look in his eyes and a body held together by pain. Sam needed you to stop falling apart because he was already using everything he had just to stay upright.
So you nodded. Once.
Then you wiped your face with your hand and forced the sob back down until it hurt.
‘Okay,’ you whispered.
You looked back at Dean, touching his hair once more before stepping away enough for Sam to be able to lift him again.
‘We’re almost there,’ you said, quieter now. You weren’t sure if you were telling Dean, Sam, or yourself. 'The cellars are close.'
Sam nodded, jaw tight.
‘Cas will bring you back, Dean,’ you said.
You held onto that.
You had to.
Sam moved to Dean’s side, and you helped him get Dean up from the table. Dean’s body sagged into Sam’s hold in that same horrible way. You flinched when his head tipped and caught it quickly. Your hands stayed steady this time because Sam needed them to. Because Dean needed out. Because the cellars were close, and Purgatory was next, and Cas was waiting somewhere beyond that.
And Cas would bring him back.
He had to.
You reached the passage faster than you expected.
Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe it had taken an hour. Maybe three. Maybe time had stretched and folded in on itself somewhere between Ramiel’s room and the cellars. You didn’t know anymore. By the time you walked past the cells again, your mind had gone strangely quiet. Just… distant. Shut down in a way that made everything feel delayed.
You kept repeating the same thing to yourself until it hollowed everything else out.
Sam needed you steady. Dean needed you steady. Step. Breathe. Hold the Lance. Keep your hand on Dean. Watch the corridor.
You pushed every sob, every scream, every thought that did not help deeper and deeper until all that was left was movement.
The souls were screaming again.
You only realized it when Sam said your name and told you not to stop. You had slowed down in the middle of the cell corridor, staring at a hand reaching through iron bars without fully seeing it. Sam’s voice cut through the noise, rough and strained under Dean’s weight.
‘Keep moving.’
So you did.
You stepped out of the passage into Purgatory, and the first thing you saw was light.
It wasn’t bright. It was still Purgatory, still dim and gray, the air still heavy with rot, wet leaves, and old violence. But after Hell, after the cellars, after firelight and stone and blood-dark halls, the pale light hit your eyes hard enough to make you blink.
For one second, you almost couldn’t see.
Then your vision adjusted.
Different carnage waited in front of you.
Bodies covered the ground near the rocks. Monsters this time. Cut open, hacked apart, throats torn out. Crimson and black soaked into the gray leaves. Something twitched near the stream and then went still. In the middle of it all stood Benny, one hand closed around the neck of something that had stopped moving. He let the body drop under his hand and spat something dark onto the ground.
Then he turned.
For half a second, he grinned, vampire teeth bared, relief already breaking across his face.
Then Sam stepped out behind you with Dean over his shoulders.
Benny stopped dead.
The grin disappeared.
Everything on his face changed at once. His brows drew together, eyes dropping to Dean’s body, then to Sam’s face, then to you. His mouth pressed into a hard line. His chin trembled once before he caught it, and his shoulders sagged like something heavy had landed on him too.
‘No,’ he breathed.
The word punched through the blank place inside you so hard your chest almost caved in.
Sam’s knees gave before you could answer.
He dropped hard with a rough sound, one hand shooting out to catch himself while still trying to keep Dean from hitting the ground. You moved at the same time Benny did. Benny crossed the distance in two long strides, and together you helped Sam lower Dean off his shoulders and onto the ugly gray leaves.
Dean landed on his back.
You hated that immediately.
You hated the ground under him. The leaves sticking to his jacket. The blood on his shirt. The angle of his head. The way his body accepted being moved without giving anything back.
Benny crouched beside him.
For the first time, he saw Dean’s throat properly.
His face went still. Then he reached up and took off his cap. Slow, almost absent. He held it in both hands, staring down at Dean with his jaw tight and his eyes too wet.
‘Dean,’ he said, voice rough and wrecked. ‘No.’
You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at Dean for too long either, because if you did, you would drop right back to the ground and stay there.
So you turned to Sam.
‘Are you okay?’
It was a stupid question. He was on one knee, breathing hard, face gray with pain and exhaustion. Blood had completely soaked through the bandage across his chest, and his injured wrist shook where he braced it against his thigh.
Still, he nodded.
‘Yeah.’ His voice barely worked. ‘I’m good.’
You almost snapped at him for lying.
Then Benny’s hand landed on your shoulder. Gentle. Careful.
‘I’m so sorry, darlin',’ he said.
You knew he meant it. You knew he was grieving too. Dean had mattered to him. Dean had brought him into your lives, made him family in the strange, messy way Winchesters made family. Benny had the right to mourn him.
But Dean wasn’t really dead.
No.
You couldn’t let that sentence settle.
Dean was coming back. Heaven was going to bring him back. You had the Lance. Now Heaven would do what you told them to do, because there was no other acceptable outcome.
You sniffed once and kept your eyes on Sam.
‘Can you walk?’
Sam looked at Dean, then forced himself to look at you.
‘Yeah.’
He started to shift, already reaching for Dean again, already trying to make his body obey. You moved to help him, but Benny’s hand came up.
‘Let me take him, brother,’ Benny said quietly. ‘You’ll kill yourself carryin’ him like that.’
Sam froze.
You saw it happen. The refusal flashed through him, fast and painful. He didn’t want to let go. Of course he didn’t. Dean was his brother. Sam had carried him out of Hell, carried him through those corridors, held himself upright on pain and rage and the need to get Dean out.
Letting someone else take him felt like another loss.
But Sam looked at Benny. Then at Dean. Then at the path ahead.
He knew.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
‘Okay,’ he said.
The word sounded like it hurt.
Benny moved carefully, with none of his usual swagger. Sam helped him shift Dean’s body, and you couldn’t stop touching him. Your fingers lingered at his wrist again, even though you knew there was nothing there. Benny saw it and paused, giving you one second without saying anything.
You took it.
You brushed Dean’s hair back from his forehead, then stepped away before your knees could fail.
Benny lifted him with a steadiness Sam couldn’t have managed anymore. Vampire strength made the difference immediately. Dean’s weight settled over him, and Benny adjusted with a grimace that had nothing to do with effort. He looked down once, jaw tight, then started moving.
No jokes. No smirks. No easy comments in that warm Louisiana drawl.
Just silence.
You were suddenly so grateful for his strength that the feeling almost made you sick.
The four of you moved through Purgatory with Benny carrying Dean at the center, Sam on one side, you on the other. You still held the Lance. You hadn’t realized how tightly until your fingers started to ache around the shaft.
Sam pulled out his blade as soon as you started walking again.
Even drenched in sweat, bleeding, exhausted past what any human body should have handled, he locked back in. His shoulders squared. His eyes scanned the trees. His knife stayed ready.
Through the numbness, you looked at the Lance in your hand.
Then back at Sam.
He was a better hunter than you. Even hurt. Even half-dead on his feet. Especially now, when your mind kept sliding away from everything except Dean and Cas and the fact that Heaven was going to fix this.
You held the Lance out.
Sam looked at it, and for a moment, you thought he would argue.
He didn’t.
He took it with his good hand, and you took the knife from him instead. The exchange happened without a word.
A growl came from the trees five minutes later. Or maybe twenty. You couldn’t tell.
Sam stopped first. Benny shifted Dean’s weight and turned his body enough to shield him. You lifted the knife, but your grip felt wrong. Too loose. Too delayed. A creature came from the left, low and fast, with too many teeth and black blood already dripping from its mouth. Another came from behind it.
It wasn’t clean this time.
None of you moved the way you had on the way in. Sam was too hurt, and Benny had Dean’s body over his shoulders, and you kept losing half-seconds staring at Dean’s arm hanging down Benny’s back. Sam drove the Lance through the first creature, and the thing convulsed with a horrible sound before dropping. Benny kicked another back hard enough to send it into a tree, then twisted away to keep Dean from being struck. You caught the third too late, only when it was already close enough to swing.
The knife went into its neck.
Your hand burned from the impact. The creature screamed in your face. You shoved harder, teeth clenched, and Sam finished it from the side with the Lance.
Then it was over.
Messy. Fast. Awful.
You stood there breathing too hard, knife still raised, and realized you had barely felt fear.
That scared you more than the monster had.
‘Let's go,’ Sam said.
So you moved.
Nobody spoke after that.
You stumbled through the gray woods, past blood-dark leaves and twisted roots, past distant sounds you hoped stayed distant. Benny stayed steady. Dean’s body looked almost weightless on him, and you hated the relief that gave you. Sam walked with the Lance raised, slower now, limping more with every stretch of ground. You stayed close enough to Dean that your hand could find him whenever the path allowed it.
Then the blue light appeared between the trees.
For the first time since Ramiel’s blade cut Dean’s throat, your heart kicked with something other than panic.
The portal.
The way out.
Earth. Cas. Heaven. Resurrection.
Your fingers tightened around the knife.
‘There,’ you said, voice hoarse.
Sam looked at the light, and something in his face broke for half a second before he forced it back together.
Benny stopped near the rocks, Dean still over his shoulders.
‘Alright,’ he said, voice low. ‘How we doin’ this?’
You already knew. You had gotten him out before. You would get him out again.
‘I’ll do it,’ you said.
Benny's face tightened. Then he nodded.
Sam moved in to take Dean from him, and for one awful moment the whole world narrowed down to that transfer. Benny lowering Dean carefully. Sam bracing himself. Dean’s body shifting between them.
Sam made a sound through his teeth. But he held.
Benny watched Dean for one second longer, jaw tight, cap pushed low on his head.
Then he stepped toward you.
You pressed your bleeding forearm out, and Benny took it carefully. His fingers were cool around your skin.
‘See y’all on the other side,’ he said, voice rough.
Then his soul rushed into your arm.
The sensation hit fast, familiar and wrong, a pressure under your skin that made your breath catch. You staggered once, but stayed upright. Benny was in there now, tucked into your arm, another life held inside your body while Dean’s body hung limp over Sam’s shoulders.
You could not think about that too long.
Sam looked at you. ‘You good?’
No.
‘Yeah.’
You barely heard him over the pulse in your ears, over the distant sounds of Purgatory, over the one thought beating behind your ribs.
Please let Dean’s body pass through.
Please let him come with me.
Please.
The blue light flared.
Sam started climbing toward it with Dean’s body held tight.
You followed, clutching the Lance again, the rocks uneven under your boots.
Every step hurt. Every breath hurt.
You kept your eyes on Dean.
And you prayed the portal would let you bring him home.
Your boots hit solid ground again, and leaves crushed under them.
For one disorienting second, your body didn’t know what to do with the change. The air was cold and wet, sharp in your lungs after all the heat and rot. The trees around you were real, alive. There was color again, even in the dark. Brown soil, green pine, pale moonlight through branches. Earth. Actual Earth.
You were back.
You had made it.
The thought hit you with a strange, empty force, because it should have meant something. It should have brought relief, or exhaustion, or gratitude so strong your knees gave out. Instead, you spun around too fast, heart slamming once in terror, because none of it mattered unless Sam came through with Dean.
The portal flared behind you.
Sam stumbled out with Dean in his arms.
He made it only a few steps before his knees buckled under the weight. Eileen rushed forward with a sharp, terrified sound, catching Sam around the waist before he went down completely. Castiel moved in fast from the other side to help lower Dean carefully onto the leaves. Sam fought them for half a second, still trying to hold his brother even when his body had nothing left to give, and that small, stubborn resistance nearly tore another sob out of you.
Then Dean was on the ground.
You dropped beside him immediately.
Your hands went to him before your mind told them to. His hair, his shoulders, his arms, his chest. You touched him everywhere you could reach, frantic and useless, as if the portal might have changed something. As if getting him back to Earth might have put breath back into him during those few terrible seconds of light.
It hadn’t.
He was cold.
Benny’s soul pulsed in your forearm, warm and strange under your skin, but even that felt distant. Important, yes. Something you had to deal with. Just not before Dean. Nothing came before Dean.
Castiel was already on his knees beside him.
‘What's wrong?’ he asked, voice sharp with alarm as his eyes moved over Dean’s body. ‘What happened?’
You tried to answer. You really did. You opened your mouth, pulled in air that tasted like wet leaves and night, and the words simply would not come. Seeing Castiel broke through the numbness that helped carry you out. Castiel meant help. Castiel meant grace. Castiel meant the impossible part of your plan finally happening. This was why you had kept moving. This was why you had forced yourself through Hell and Purgatory.
Get Dean out.
Get Dean to Cas.
Get Dean back.
‘He-’ you started, and the word collapsed under a painful sob.
Sam answered for you from above, still leaning hard into Eileen while she held him upright with both arms around him.
‘Ramiel,’ he said, voice raw and almost gone. ‘It was a trap. Dean fought him, Cas. He fought like hell, but Ramiel was too strong.’ His throat worked hard around the next words. ‘He cut him with the Lance.’
The moment Sam said Lance, Castiel froze.
His eyes dropped to Dean’s throat, and the look that crossed his face was wrong. Too much fear, too much recognition, too much grief before he had even tried. Your stomach turned because you knew Castiel well enough by now to understand when he already knew something terrible.
No.
No, he didn’t get to know anything yet.
‘Cas,’ you breathed.
He didn’t look away from the wound.
‘Cas, bring him back.’
Your voice came out thin and shaky, barely holding together.
Castiel moved his hands over Dean, first above his chest, then over his throat. His fingers were trembling. White light gathered under his palms, familiar and bright, and your whole body leaned toward it with such violent hope that it hurt.
There.
Yes.
This was it.
This was where Dean’s chest would rise. This was where the wound would close. This was where he would gasp, where you would sob into his chest and yell at him for scaring you and never let him take one single step away from you again.
‘Please,’ you said, crawling closer on your knees. ‘Please, Cas. Bring him back now.’
Castiel lowered the light closer.
Nothing happened.
Dean’s throat stayed open. The blackened, ruined tissue around the cut did not change. His chest did not move.
Castiel’s brow creased, and the light under his hands grew stronger. His jaw tightened with effort. The air around his palms hummed, bright enough to cast Dean’s face in white for one awful second, and you held your breath because it had to work. It had to. There was no version of the world where it did not work.
Dean stayed still.
‘Cas,’ Sam said, and his voice broke on the name.
Castiel tried again.
You watched his face because you couldn’t keep looking at Dean’s body. Castiel’s eyes flicked rapidly over Dean. His hands shook harder. The white light sparked once, flared, then began to dim.
No.
Your fingers dug into Dean’s sleeve.
No, no, no.
Castiel pulled his hands back.
You stared at him.
He looked at you then, and the grief in his eyes made the world tilt under your knees.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
You shook your head before he finished.
‘I can’t.’
For a second, the woods went completely silent inside your head.
Then Sam’s voice cracked through it.
‘What?’
Castiel looked up at him.
‘What do you mean you can’t?’ Sam barked, lurching forward so fast Eileen had to tighten her hold on him. ‘Cas, what the hell does that mean?’
Castiel looked wrecked. His eyes went back to Dean, then to you, then to Sam, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its steadiness.
‘I can’t reach his soul.’
The words echoed in your mind, useless.
You understood every single one. You knew what a soul was. You knew what reaching meant. You knew what Castiel was saying. Still, some part of you rejected the sentence completely, because it did not make any sense.
‘I don’t know where it is,’ Castiel said. ‘I can’t find him. I can’t resurrect him if I can’t reach him.’
You shook your head again.
‘No.’
Castiel said your name softly. That made it worse.
‘No, Castiel.’ Your voice rose, shaking apart around the edges. ‘No, you have to.’
His face twisted.
‘You have to,’ you repeated, louder now. ‘Do you hear me? He did his part. He went to Hell. He helped get the Lance. He paid for it in blood.’
Your hand pressed against Dean’s chest, fingers spreading over the stiff, blood-soaked fabric.
‘You have to bring him back!’
‘I’m trying,’ Castiel said, and now his voice was breaking too. ‘I tried. I can’t-’
‘I don’t care!’ you screamed.
The sound tore through the woods, ugly and raw.
‘I don’t care that you don’t know where his soul is. I don’t fucking care what that means. Make Heaven look for it. Make Naomi look for it. Tear the whole place apart if you have to.’
You grabbed the Lance from the ground beside you before you even realized you had moved. Your fingers closed around the shaft, tightening until your knuckles hurt.
Castiel flinched.
‘Because I swear to God, Cas, if Heaven thinks it can take this from us and leave him like this, I will shove this thing up every angelic ass I find until there isn’t a single one of you left.’
Eileen went very still.
Castiel looked at the Lance, then back at your face.
‘I don’t-’
‘Cas,’ Sam cut in.
His voice was quieter than yours, rougher, and somehow it hurt more.
He had pulled himself more upright, one hand pressed to his bandaged chest, the other gripping Eileen’s arm like he was only standing because she was there. His eyes were red and wet and fixed on Castiel with a desperation you had never wanted to see on Sam’s face.
‘Please,’ Sam said. ‘You have to get him back.’
Castiel looked at him, and whatever was left of his composure broke.
‘I will try,’ he said, voice low and strained. ‘Sam, I swear to you, I will try. I will go to Heaven. I will speak to Naomi. I will make them search if I have to.’
‘Do that,’ you said.
Castiel looked back at you.
Your hand tightened on the Lance.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Sam’s voice came again, harder now.
‘The Lance stays with us until Dean is back.’
Castiel nodded immediately. ‘Yes.’
No argument. No explanation about Heaven’s claim to it. Just yes. Maybe he understood that if he tried to take it, you would use it.
You dropped the Lance beside you and bent over Dean again, both hands going back to him. You couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop checking him even after Castiel had just told you he couldn’t fix it.
A sob broke out of you again, violent and rough. You folded down over Dean, holding his face in both hands.
‘Please,’ you cried against his forehead. ‘Please, Dean, please. Don’t do this.’
No one tried to pull you away.
You didn’t know how long passed before Sam said Benny’s name, and that was the thing that finally cut through.
Benny.
His soul was still inside your arm.
Right.
You had to let him out.
You looked toward the place nearby where Cas left Benny’s body, prepared for this exact reason, another horrible practical detail waiting at the edge of everything else.
You pulled the knife from your belt with numb fingers and cut into your forearm. The pain barely registered. Blood welled up fast, and you whispered the words you needed, voice shaking so badly some of them came out broken.
The warmth in your arm shifted.
Then tore free.
Benny’s soul left you in a rush that made your whole body sway. The air changed near his remains. A hard, wet inhale cut through the night.
You didn’t turn to watch.
A moment later, Benny’s voice came from behind you, rough and shocked and alive.
Good.
That was one thing done. One thing you had not failed.
Castiel healed you after that.
You barely registered the touch of his fingers. Light moved through your skin, closing wounds, easing pain your body had stopped noticing a long time ago. Then he went to Sam. Eileen held Sam still while Castiel healed what he could, her face pale and terrified all at once. Castiel’s eyes kept flicking toward Dean’s body every few seconds, and guilt carved itself deeper into him each time.
You stayed beside Dean with one hand on his arm.
People spoke above you.
Castiel said he would take you home first. He would get you to the bunker, then go straight to Heaven. He promised he would come back as soon as he could.
You didn’t answer.
You remembered the trip back only in pieces.
Dean being lifted, and your hands reaching for him because he was out of your arms too long.
The bunker lights, too bright after the woods.
The stairs.
The hall to Dean’s old room.
Old room.
Not yours.
You had chosen that on purpose. You couldn’t take him to your room. Your room was your bed, his clothes on the chair, his scent on the pillow, the stupid arguments about blankets and movies and his socks. Your room was where he was supposed to come back to you.
When he woke up, he would be glad you hadn’t put this memory there.
So they laid him in his old room. The same bed where Dean had laid you when you died. The thought passed through you without landing all the way.
You washed your face at some point.
Maybe Eileen helped you. Maybe you did it alone. You remembered the water turning red in the sink. You remembered staring at your own reflection and barely recognizing the woman looking back. Blood at your hairline. Red eyes. Pale mouth. Hands shaking against the porcelain.
Then more tears came, and you stopped trying to clean anything.
Dean was on the bed when you came back.
His old bed.
His body looked too large for it, and too still.
Sam sat with you for a while, Eileen pressed close to his side, one hand locked around his. He didn’t say much. Neither did you. He just sat there and stared at Dean until his breathing started going wrong, until he stood too fast and turned away with a hand over his mouth.
‘I can’t,’ he whispered.
You barely heard him.
Eileen went with him, one arm wrapped tight around his waist, holding him together as they left.
Then the room was quiet.
You stayed.
Of course you stayed.
Your grip on Dean’s hand had loosened at some point. You were no longer holding him hard enough to hurt your own fingers. Your thumb moved over his knuckles instead, slow and gentle, back and forth over skin that should have warmed under your touch.
You looked at his face.
His handsome, perfect face. The face you knew better than any other face in existence. The freckles. The line of his mouth. The lashes against his skin. The tiny scar near his eyebrow. The lips you had kissed that morning, back when he was alive and annoyed and scared and trying not to show it.
You had no loud sobs left in you. The tears just kept falling, silent.
‘I’m sorry,’ you whispered one more time.
Your thumb brushed over his knuckles.
Then the skin under your hand changed.
Warmth.
You froze.
For one second, you were sure you had imagined it. Your hand stayed wrapped around his, every part of you straining toward that impossible shift.
Then his hand warmed more.
Real.
Too fast.
Too hot.
You gasped and nearly fell forward.
‘Dean?’
A faint smell reached you.
Burning skin.
Your eyes dropped to where your fingers touched his. The skin on his hand blistered under yours.
You jerked back so hard your shoulder hit the nightstand.
For one stunned second, you could only stare at the angry marks rising on Dean’s skin where your hand had been.
Your touch had burned him.
Your breath stopped.
Dean’s body moved.
His chest rose with a sharp, sudden inhale.
Your whole body went cold.
‘Dean?’
Your husband's eyes opened.
And they were black.
CHAPTER 6 here
A/N: There you go. All that logic- and lore- twisting just to feed my Demon Dean kink fantasy.
But honestly? Exploring Demon Dean as a married man is going to be fun. And also tricky, because I’ve got 15 seasons’ worth of Dean’s character to draw from to get him right, but only three episodes of his demon version. Then again… who doesn’t love a challenge?
Summary: You finally reach Ramiel, and the mission becomes more personal than any of you expected.
CHAPTER 3 MASTERLIST
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
A/N: I bet you didn’t expect me to post a new chapter so soon, right? I know, I’m full of surprises.
As soon as your blood came into play, the demon became much more motivated to talk.
It didn’t take long after that. A few more questions, a few more carefully placed threats, a few more drops of your blood to make him choke on the next lie before it could leave his mouth. By the time you were done, any trace of smugness had been burned out of him.
And you had what you needed. The way to the vaults, the path to Ramiel, and the information that he was not exactly trying to take over Hell like a king. From what the demon said, Ramiel had not gathered demons through speeches or orders. He had simply asked who wanted to help him entertain you.
Of course no one protested. You had trapped every black-eyed thing down here and locked the door behind them. They hated you for it. There was probably not a single demon in Hell who wouldn’t enjoy tearing all three of you apart if given the chance.
But they probably hadn’t expected all three of you to burn them.
Your heart still kicked a little harder every time you thought about it.
It worked.
You had actually succeeded in transferring some of your great-grandfather’s protection to them. Maybe not perfectly. Hellhounds were clearly an exception, and you doubted anything higher-ranking would go down that easily. Knights, Princes, whatever else Hell had left hidden in its rotting corners. You had no idea if they would react at all.
But regular demons did. That mattered.
You made a mental note to ask Castiel to pass the news to your great-grandfather in Heaven, if you made it out of this alive.
If…
The demon was finally dead now.
Dean finished him quickly once there was nothing left to get from him, angel blade straight through the chest. One hard thrust, one burst of orange light under skin, and then the body sagged uselessly against the stone.
You looked down at him.
Smoke still curled from several places where your blood had burned through his face and neck. The wound on his cheek was the worst, deep, ugly, hole carved into flesh with one tiny drop of your blood.
And standing there over him, you froze.
Because you realized how easy it had been.
Not physically, your hand still shook a little, your arm still throbbed, and your whole body hurt from how tired it was. But inside, in that part of you that made choices, it had been easy.
You had tortured him.
You remembered your first demon interrogation with uncomfortable clarity. Before the second trial, when you had needed to know how to get into Hell, when you had watched Dean work a demon over and felt sick from the brutality of it. You had been stunned back then. Nauseated. Scared, not of Dean exactly, but of what he was capable of when something had to be done.
Now you understood it better. That was the part that sat heavy in your stomach. You understood how a person got there, how fear and urgency could shut down the pieces that made you human, one by one.
You understood how far someone could go to protect the people they loved.
A warm hand landed on your hip.
You looked up and found Dean watching you.
He looked tired. There was blood on his face, a scratch at his jaw, sweat darkening his shirt under the straps of his gear. But his eyes were still focused. His thumb rubbed once against your hip, slow, and the movement pulled you back before your mind could keep spiraling.
‘Hey,’ he said, voice low.
His eyes moved over your face, down your shoulders, to the bandage around your arm, then back up again. He checked every inch of you, making sure you were still standing in one piece.
His hand slid from your hip to your side, then up your arm, slow enough that it almost made you shiver despite the heat and stink of Hell. His palm passed over your bare skin, careful around the bandage, fingers warm and rough where they closed lightly around your upper arm.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
You nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Dean’s eyes narrowed. His mouth tightened, but he didn’t argue. His hand kept moving, up your arm, over your shoulder, until his fingers settled at the back of your neck. His thumb brushed there, warm and grounding, and for one second you let your eyes close.
You were filthy. Hurt. With demon blood all over you and your own blood dry on your skin.
And still, his touch found a way through it.
When you opened your eyes again, Dean’s gaze had dropped to your mouth. His face changed.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he muttered.
You frowned. ‘What?’
His thumb moved before you could reach for it yourself, brushing carefully against the corner of your lips. It came away red.
You stared at the blood on his skin for a second before your brain caught up.
‘Oh,’ you said. ‘That’s probably from biting myself when that demon did that pain thing.’
Dean’s jaw tightened. For a second, he looked like he might go stab the dead demon again.
Instead, he wiped the blood from your mouth with his thumb, slower this time, gentler than the hallway deserved. His eyes stayed fixed on the spot, and your face warmed despite everything.
‘Dean.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he muttered. ‘Gimme a second.’
His hand slid down from your neck, over your collarbone, until his palm rested against the scar under it. The old scar. The one tied to too much pain, too much history. His fingers spread there, and for a moment he held his hand still, almost like he was checking for your heartbeat.
Maybe he was.
You let him.
His face had gone quiet in a way that made your chest ache. Not exactly soft, but there was something bare in the way he touched you. Tired, scared, and desperately careful.
You covered his hand with yours.
‘I’m here,’ you said quietly.
Dean’s eyes flicked back to yours.
He swallowed once.
Then his hand dropped to your waist and pulled you into him. Firm. Needing. His other hand came up to the side of your neck and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss wasn't frantic this time. No panic, no urgency in it. This was slow, warm, and just a little tense. His lips pressed against yours once, lingering just long enough for you to feel his breath shake a little against your mouth.
Then he kissed you once more. Shorter. A quick press of his lips, almost reluctant when he pulled back.
He didn’t go far. His forehead hovered close to yours, his hand still at your waist, thumb hooked against the fabric of your undershirt. His eyes dropped.
Of course they did.
You were wearing nothing over your undershirt now. Just the thin fabric, stained and damp and clinging in places because Hell was hot and disgusting.
Dean stared for half a second too long.
Then his mouth twitched.
‘Gotta say,’ he muttered, voice low enough that Sam probably couldn’t hear unless he was trying, ‘hell of a time to bring out the big guns.’
For one stupid second, you didn’t understand.
Then you followed his eyes and rolled yours so hard they almost stuck.
He lifted his brows. ‘I’m just sayin’. That tight little thing and you covered in blood? That’s a lot goin’ on.’
A tired, helpless chuckle escaped you before you could stop it.
You swatted his chest with the back of your hand. ‘Shut up.’
Dean’s smirk deepened, and for one second he looked so much like himself again it hurt.
He tapped your butt lightly, then forced himself to step back.
The air between you felt colder immediately.
Dean turned his head toward Sam. ‘You good, Sammy?’
Sam was standing a few feet away, politely looking anywhere except directly at the two of you. His knife still in one hand, the other pressing against the bandage under his torn shirt.
‘Yeah,’ Sam said, clearing his throat. ‘Yeah, I’m good. We can go.’
Dean gave him one quick once over, just to be sure, then looked back at you.
The softness was gone from his face now, tucked away because the job was still on. But his hand found yours before he moved, fingers squeezing once.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Let’s go meet Prince Charming.’
You tightened the strap of your bag and nodded.
Then the three of you moved deeper into Hell.
You followed the demon’s directions because it was the only lead you had.
That did not make you trust them. Hell did not exactly inspire confidence, and a tortured demon trying to buy itself a faster death was not your idea of a reliable guide. Still, every corridor matched what he had given you. Left past the broken cells. Down the stairs that looked half-collapsed but held under your boots. Through a narrow passage that smelled so strongly of old smoke and burned flesh that you had to press the back of your hand against your mouth and breathe shallowly until the worst of it passed.
Demons still came at you.
They rushed from side corridors and open rooms, furious, reckless, sometimes almost eager enough to forget what happened when they touched any of you. Their hatred made them stupid. Or maybe they knew exactly what would happen and did not care. Either way, they came in snarling, clawing, cursing your names, and the three of you cut through them faster than before.
Dean moved with more confidence now. So did Sam.
And that made something warm and proud rise in your chest. Because you had done that.
The protection you had fought so hard to give them, the magic that had gutted your life for a while and left Dean looking at you with so much grief you still sometimes saw it in your sleep, had worked. Sam could burn demons. Dean could burn demons.
You had done that.
You held onto that thought when another demon grabbed Dean and screamed the second its fingers closed around his jacket and skin. You held onto it when Sam shoved one back by the throat and drove the knife under its ribs. You held onto it when one lunged at you and you caught its face with both hands, burning through until it dropped.
The fights were still ugly. Still messy. Demons were still dangerous, especially the ones that did not need hands to hurt you. You ran into two more like that, and after the first one sent a sharp bolt of pain through Sam’s injured chest hard enough to make him stumble, Dean stopped wasting patience. He put it down fast, burned hand against the demon’s jaw, angel blade through the heart.
You had to cross several rooms too. More torture chambers. Empty spaces with drains in the floor and chains hanging from the ceiling. One large chamber that almost looked like sleeping quarters, if sleeping quarters could exist in a place of despair. Thin mats on the floor, bodies curled on them. You did not stop long enough to figure out what they were or what had been done to them.
It did not matter what the room had been built for. Every place down here was only another way to suffer.
At one point, you stopped long enough to check the darts.
You already knew before you opened the box. Hell was too hot, too wet. Too wrong. The box had done what it could, but your blood had already been through Purgatory, hours of movement, and now Hell itself.
The last usable darts were gone. The blood had darkened and thickened inside the casings. You stared at them for a second, then you swore so loudly that Dean actually looked impressed.
He crouched beside you and glanced into the box. His jaw tightened, but he did not say the first thing that crossed his face. You loved him a little more for that.
‘Hey,’ he said instead. ‘Those things still helped put Cujo down clean.’
‘Two darts,’ you sighed, disheartened. ‘That’s what we got in the end. Two. Four, if we count the ones I gave Benny.’
‘And those two saved our asses.’
You huffed, still staring at the ruined darts. Then closed the box because there was no point wasting time on a failed thing, and the three of you kept moving.
Nobody had much breath for talking after that.
You felt the anticipation building with every turn, every stair, every corridor that looked a little cleaner than the one before. Ramiel was ahead. If the demon had told the truth, and you were almost certain he had by the end, a Prince of Hell was waiting with one of Heaven’s most powerful weapons.
Burning ordinary demons was one thing. Something told you Ramiel would be different.
And then there was what the demon had said.
Waiting for Dean Winchester to come home.
The words had settled under your skin and made your stomach tighten every time your eyes landed on Dean’s back. He had already been too quiet since the interrogation. Moving, yes. Fighting. Checking on you with quick touches whenever the path narrowed or after every fight. But quiet in a way that told you those words had hit somewhere deep.
Home.
Hell had no right to that word.
Especially with him.
You lost track of how long you followed the route. Time did not behave normally down here, or maybe your body had simply stopped measuring it properly. Pain and heat and dread blurred together. You left a trail of dead demons behind you, bodies burned, stabbed, abandoned in corridors that would probably swallow them before long.
Then the air changed.
The corridors widened. The stone under your boots grew smoother. There was less blood on the walls here, less grime caked into the corners. The spaces opened up, ceilings higher, archways broader. It should have felt easier to breathe.
It only made you more nervous.
At first, you thought the demons had disappeared, because no one rushed you. No one came screaming out of the side rooms. Dean still moved with the angel blade raised, Sam with the knife ready, you with your hands slightly lifted, but nothing came at you.
Then you saw them.
A few at first. One leaning in a doorway. Another standing at the top of a short staircase. Two more half-hidden behind a stone column. Black eyes watching. Mouths curved. Bodies completely still.
They did not attack, just watched.
More appeared the farther you went. From open rooms, from corners, from the shadows under staircases. Some whispered. Some laughed quietly. One spat on the floor as you passed. Their eyes followed you, Sam, Dean, then back to you again.
You felt the hatred almost burn against your skin.
Soon-to-be meatsuits, one of them hissed from somewhere to your right.
The blood bitch and her lapdogs, another voice muttered.
You kept walking.
A demon stepped out too far, gaze fixed on your bare hands, then immediately stepped back when your fingers twitched. Another stared at the bloody bandage on your forearm with something close to fear.
And instead of feeling uneasy, it steadied you.
That realization came quietly.
After hours of pain, injuries, ruined plans, helplessness, and fear, watching demons recoil from you felt good. Useful. You could make them hide. Make them scared.
And you liked it.
Sam’s voice came low from behind you. ‘They’re letting us through.’
Dean glanced at the nearest doorway where two demons had gone still watching him. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I noticed.’
The demon watching from the staircase smiled wide and a voice drifted from the shadows.
'Winchester.'
Dean’s steps did not slow.
'Alastair’s boy.'
Your stomach clenched.
Dean’s jaw tightened, and that was the only sign he heard it.
Then another demon laughed softly. 'The Righteous Man who broke.'
You reached for him immediately. Your fingers brushed his wrist, and he let you have one second. One quick squeeze, hard enough to tell you he knew what you were doing, soft enough to tell you he could not afford to take it right now.
Then he let go and shifted the blade higher.
You understood. If he let himself feel it, he would lose the thread holding him together.
So you walked beside him and hated every demon that smiled.
Another voice came from a doorway to your left. ‘Back to finish your lessons, Dean?’
Dean stopped. Only for half a heartbeat.
The demon kept smiling. ‘Heard you had real talent.’
Something in you snapped hot and fast.
You stepped toward the doorway.
Dean’s hand moved to stop you, then paused when the demon saw you coming.
The thing flinched.
It stumbled back so fast its shoulder hit the doorframe, black eyes widening as they dropped to your hands. You took another step, and the demon scrambled into the room behind it, slamming the door hard enough to shake dust loose from the stone.
For one long second, you just stood there, staring at the closed door.
It had been afraid of you.
The satisfaction that moved through you was warm and immediate. You wanted to hold onto it. You wanted to let it fill the hollow place under your ribs that had been carved out by fear since the moment Naomi asked for the favor. You wanted to enjoy the fact that you felt powerful again.
You knew you were going to miss it when it was gone. When you were back up, where demons were no longer a threat.
Dean’s fingers brushed your elbow.
You looked back at him. His face was careful. But he did not ask.
You swallowed and stepped back into line without saying anything.
The demons grew quieter after that.
Closer to where Ramiel was supposed to be, they stopped whispering and started smiling more. That was worse. The hatred stayed, but now there was amusement too. Anticipation. Some stood aside with exaggerated politeness. One even dipped its head as you passed, mouth stretched into a grin that made your skin crawl.
They were welcoming you.
Dean moved closer to you on instinct. Sam did the same on your other side.
At the end of the corridor, one demon stood alone in front of a wide iron door. It did not attack. It did not smirk like the others. It stood with its hands folded in front of it, head tilted slightly, eyes black and bored.
‘He said to send you in,’ it said, lifting his chin toward the door
Nobody answered for a second.
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at you. You could see the same thought passing through all three of you.
Trap. Of course it was a trap. But the Lance was inside, and you had come too far to stop now.
Dean’s hand brushed yours before he adjusted his grip on the blade again.
‘Alright,’ you said, voice low. ‘Let’s not keep the Prince waiting.’
And then the three of you walked in.
They stepped through the iron door, and Dean’s first thought was that the room was wrong.
He had expected something… bigger.
The throne room, the chains, the bad lighting, the whole villain setup. Something Crowley would’ve loved. A court, or at least a grand room full of demons waiting for the show.
This wasn’t that.
Stone walls. Low fire. A heavy desk. A few shelves lined with old books, boxes, jars, weapons. Some of the weapons looked human. Some didn’t. A couple of chairs sat near the hearth, worn in a way that made the whole damn place feel almost cozy. The room felt closer to a cabin than a throne room.
And the guy waiting for them fit the room.
He leaned against the edge of the desk with his arms folded. Middle-aged, broad, graying hair, thick beard. Plain shirt. Fisherman vest. Calm face. He looked more like a guy Dean would’ve passed at a bait shop than a Prince of Hell.
Oh, and no Lance in sight. Dean noticed that immediately.
Ramiel’s eyes moved over them slowly.
‘You took your time,’ he said, smiling. 'Still, I gotta say, I’m impressed. You three handled yourselves real well. Little unfair, maybe, with the burning touch and all. But I do appreciate a good hand-to-hand fight.’
His voice was rough around the edges, no showmanship. That almost made Dean like him less.
He kept his grip on the angel blade. ‘Ramiel, right?’
The man gave a small nod. ‘Dean Winchester. Sam Winchester.’ His gaze settled on Dean’s wife. ‘And the demons' worst nightmare, I hear. Nice to meet you, sweetheart.’
Dean shifted half a step before he could stop himself.
Ramiel noticed. His mouth moved, barely enough to count as amusement.
Then his eyes changed.
Yellow.
Dean’s whole body locked.
For one split second, the room was gone.
Fire on the ceiling. Mom. Dad’s voice breaking around revenge for twenty-two years. Sammy in the nursery. Jess pinned above a bed. Yellow eyes smiling through every ruined piece of their lives.
Beside him, Sam went completely still. His voice came out low. ‘Where’s the Lance?’
Ramiel looked at him for a moment, then pushed away from the desk. Slow. Unhurried.
Dean’s shoulders tightened.
‘You know,’ Ramiel said, ‘there was a time I wouldn’t have known either of your names.’
Dean said nothing. He watched the guy's hands. They were loose, empty. That didn’t mean safe.
Ramiel glanced toward the fire. ‘I had a house. A lake. Peaceful mornings where I could just enjoy fishing.’ His jaw tightened slightly. ‘You ever sit by water long enough? I gotta tell you, you start to appreciate the quiet.’
Dean hated that he got that. Because he did, more than he wanted to admit.
‘Crowley came to me once,’ Ramiel went on. ‘Years ago. Frightened and… desperate. Said Hell needed a ruler and I was next in line. I told him I didn’t care. I just wanted to be left alone.’
‘Then the gates closed,’ Sam said.
Ramiel’s eyes stopped at him. And there it was. The first real anger, sitting under the surface.
‘Then the gates closed,’ Ramiel repeated. ‘And everything topside was dragged back into this… place.’
His wife’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. Dean caught the movement.
Ramiel did too.
‘That includes me,’ he said directly to her.
She held his gaze.
For one second, nobody spoke.
Ramiel looked back at Dean. ‘I didn’t care about you. I didn’t care about your brother. I didn’t care about the girl with burning blood. I didn’t care about Crowley, Heaven, Hell, gates, tablets, any of it. Then I was back here, in this mess, surrounded by panic and every stupid, nasty little coward trying to be king.’
He grimaced at the last word, letting out a short scoff.
Dean’s jaw flexed. ‘So you took over.’
‘I put them in line.’
‘Same damn thing.’
‘No.’ Ramiel’s voice stayed calm. ‘Taking over means wanting the chair. I wanted order. There’s a difference.’
Sam’s brow furrowed. ‘You organized the demons.’
‘I stopped them from tearing Hell apart.’ Ramiel looked at Dean’s wife again. ‘You trapped them. Did you expect them to behave?’
Dean didn’t like the way he looked at her. Calm, assessing, almost curious. He stepped a fraction closer, making the line between them clear.
Ramiel’s eyes flicked back to him.
‘When I came back, I had to learn things I never wanted to know. Who closed the gates. How. Why. The names demons spat when they were having meltdowns.’ He tilted his head. ‘Your name came up often, Dean.’
Dean forced himself to breathe evenly.
Ramiel kept going.
‘At first, I thought it was because of the gates. Then I learned that was your brother and your wife. So I asked why Hell remembered you. And, well, you're a legend. The guy who broke the first seal.'
Sam shifted beside him.
Dean stared at Ramiel.
‘Don’t,’ his wife said. Her voice was quiet. A warning.
Ramiel looked at her. ‘You know?’
‘Of course.’
‘No,’ Ramiel said, smirking. ‘I think you know what he told you. What he could stand to tell you. Master of the arts. Came down here and learned how to make souls scream. Heard that story enough times, a guy starts wondering how much of it’s true.’
Dean felt the words land under his ribs.
He didn’t look at Sam. Didn’t look at her. If he looked at her, he was done.
‘Alright, that's enough,’ Dean growled, voice tight.
Ramiel’s attention returned to him.
Sam stepped forward a fraction. ‘Give us the Lance. And we'll leave you alone.’
Ramiel watched him with the calm patience of someone that had nowhere else to be.
‘No.’
Simple. Calm. Final.
Dean’s grip shifted on the angel blade.
‘You see, I collect weapons,’ Ramiel said. ‘Powerful ones. Rare ones.’ His eyes moved toward one of the shelves, then back. ‘The Lance of Michael is just… one of a kind.’
His wife took one step forward. Dean’s heart kicked at the movement.
‘We're not leaving this place without it,’ she said.
Ramiel studied her for a moment.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I suppose you aren’t.’
The room went very still.
Ramiel’s yellow eyes flashed again, brief and bright as he lifted two fingers.
Dean moved.
Too late.
She hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her.
‘Hey!’ Sam shouted.
Dean turned on instinct, every part of him reaching for her, but she didn’t drop. Something pinned her there against the stone, arms trapped at her sides, feet just above the floor. Her face twisted with pain, then fury.
She gasped his name and the sound tore through him.
Dean took one step toward her but Ramiel spoke behind him.
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ he said with a smirk. ‘This needs to happen without your magic hands.’
Dean stopped.
Slowly, he turned back.
His whole body was shaking now. Rage burned through him, loud and hot.
Ramiel was still standing near the desk, calm as ever.
‘Now,’ Ramiel said, ‘I’d like to see what’s really in you.’
Dean lunged first.
Sam moved with him.
Ramiel stayed where he was for half a second longer, calm and steady near the desk, like two pissed-off Winchesters with blades didn’t mean a damn thing. Dean came in hard from the right, angel blade low, aiming for the ribs. Sam came from the other side, demon-killing knife ready, fast even with the bandage pulling at his chest.
Ramiel caught Dean’s wrist before the blade landed. Dean’s hand closed around his forearm on instinct.
Nothing.
No burn. No smoke. Not even a flinch.
Dean didn’t have time to hate that properly before Ramiel twisted, shoved Dean’s arm wide, and drove one fist into his stomach.
Air left Dean in a hard, ugly rush. He staggered back one step, boots scraping stone, but Sam was already there. His knife came down toward Ramiel’s shoulder. Ramiel shifted just enough for the blade to miss, caught Sam by the front of his jacket, and slammed him into the desk hard enough to crack the wood.
Dean swung again.
Ramiel ducked under the angel blade and drove his elbow into Dean’s jaw.
Pain burst white through Dean’s skull. His teeth clicked together. He tasted blood. He stumbled, caught himself on one knee for half a second, then pushed back up because screw that. Screw him.
His wife was still pinned to the wall.
He saw her in pieces between hits. Arms straining against nothing, fingers flexing, trying to force her magic out. Trying to reach him. Her feet kicked once, uselessly, and fury tore through Dean so hard it almost cleared the pain.
‘Let her go,’ he growled.
Ramiel smiled.
Dean came at him again. This time he didn’t aim fancy. He slammed into him with his whole body, shoulder first, driving him back a step. One step. Barely. Dean got a fist into his ribs, then another, his knuckles cracking against bone that didn’t give a damn. Ramiel took the hits and laughed under his breath.
Laughed.
Sam grabbed Ramiel from behind and hooked one arm around his throat. His other hand drove the knife toward Ramiel’s side.
The blade hit.
It didn’t sink deep. Ramiel looked down at it, almost bored.
Then he reached back, grabbed Sam by the hair, and threw him over his shoulder. Sam hit the floor hard, rolled, and came up coughing, one hand pressed to his chest. Blood was already spreading through the bandage again.
Dean moved before Ramiel could turn on him.
Angel blade up. Strike to the throat. Ramiel caught his wrist again. Dean drove his other fist into his face. His head turned with the punch, then slowly came back.
His lip was split.
He smiled wider.
Dean jerked against his grip, then drove his forehead into Ramiel’s face.
That one landed.
Ramiel grunted, grip loosening just enough for Dean to rip free. Sam came in again, knife flashing, and for a few seconds, they had him moving. Dean slashed. Sam ducked in low. Ramiel blocked Dean, shoved Sam away, turned into the next hit.
For a few moments, Dean let himself think they could do it.
Then Ramiel caught Sam’s wrist and snapped it sideways. Sam screamed, knife dropping from his hand.
Dean’s heart jumped.
Ramiel kicked Sam in the chest. He flew back and hit the wall next to his wife hard enough to make the whole room seem to shake. He dropped to the floor with a choked sound.
‘Sam!’ she screamed from above him.
Dean saw red.
He drove the angel blade straight for Ramiel’s heart.
Ramiel moved. The blade cut through his vest, through the shirt underneath, drawing a line of blood across his chest. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.
Ramiel looked down at the cut.
Then back at Dean.
For the first time, his face changed. He looked pleased.
Dean swung again, but Ramiel was faster. One hand caught Dean by the throat, the other slammed into his ribs. Once. Twice. Dean felt something give on the second hit. Pain tore through his side and almost took his legs out from under him.
He stayed up.
Barely.
Ramiel released his throat only to backhand him across the face. Dean hit the floor shoulder-first, rolled, and forced himself up on one hand. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the stone.
He heard her voice.
‘Dean!’
It cut through everything.
Her. His wife. Scared and furious and stuck on that wall because he couldn’t get to her.
Dean pushed himself up. His knees shook. He didn’t care.
Sam moved again, too. His brother dragged himself upright, face pale and tight with pain. He grabbed the demon-killing knife from the floor.
Dean wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
They rushed together.
Ramiel sighed. The sound was small, almost disappointed.
‘Enough.’
He lifted one hand.
Sam slammed back into the wall before he made it two steps. This time he stayed there, pinned. His boots kicked against the stone, knife still in hand, arm forced tight at his side.
Ramiel moved again. Dean barely saw him.
One second he was across the room. The next he was in front of Dean, fist driving into his face. Dean’s head snapped back. Another hit to the ribs. Another to the stomach. Dean staggered, tried to swing, missed. Ramiel caught his arm, twisted, and drove a knee into his chest.
Dean dropped to one knee.
He tried to get up, but Ramiel hit him again. Pain cracked through him. His vision blurred. The angel blade slipped from his hand and clattered across the floor.
‘Dean!’ she screamed again.
He lifted his head because she said his name. Because he would always look when she said his name like that.
She was still on the wall, fighting whatever held her, eyes wide, tears already there. She looked scared out of her mind.
For him.
Dean hated that more than the pain.
He tried to stand, but Ramiel’s hand pressed down on his shoulder and kept him there.
Dean swung at him anyway. The punch barely landed.
Ramiel looked almost sad about it. He crouched in front of him, close enough that Dean could see the yellow in his eyes flare again.
‘Dean Winchester,' Ramiel said. ‘Ten years carving souls, after thirty on the rack.’
Dean’s breath dragged rough through his chest.
Ramiel tilted his head, studying him.
‘It takes centuries to twist one's soul into a monster. But you? You learned the work faster than souls who had been down here since men still prayed to stones.’
Dean’s stomach turned.
Her voice came from the wall, shaking with rage.
Ramiel didn’t look at her.
‘What a waste,’ he said. His eyes flicked briefly to the angel blade on the floor. Then back to Dean. ‘All that potential…’
Ramiel straightened slowly.
Dean tried to rise with him, but his legs wouldn’t answer fast enough. He got one foot under himself, hand braced against the floor, blood dripping from his mouth.
Ramiel reached behind his back.
Black smoke gathered in his hand. It curled, thick and dark, twisting in on itself until wood and metal formed out of it. Long shaft. Sharp head. Ancient in a way that made the whole room feel colder.
The Lance.
Dean’s breath caught. His wife made a broken sound.
Ramiel held the weapon with a triumphant smirk.
‘So now I wonder,’ he said, looking down at Dean, ‘what happens when Hell’s favorite little prodigy comes home… and dies on the floor?’
Dean’s eyes moved to her.
He saw the exact second she understood. Saw her face change. Saw her body fight harder against the invisible hold, panic breaking through the fury.
‘No! Dean!’
He wanted to tell her it was okay.
It wasn’t.
He wanted to tell Sam to get her out.
Couldn’t.
He wanted one more second.
Ramiel moved. One quick, smooth slash.
For half a heartbeat, Dean felt nothing.
Then heat opened across his throat.
The room tipped. His hand flew up on instinct, fingers pressing against wet, sudden warmth. Too much. Way too much.
He tried to breathe.
But couldn’t.
The sound that came out of him was wrong.
And his wife's scream filled the room.
Your own scream tore through the room, but you barely registered the sound of it.
All you saw was blood.
Blood pouring down Dean’s front. Blood spilling hot and fast over his hand where he grabbed at his throat. Blood soaking into his shirt, running between his fingers, dripping onto the stone.
For half a second, your body did nothing.
Then Dean fell.
Something broke open inside you so violently the force holding you to the wall snapped.
You dropped hard, boots hitting the floor wrong, pain shooting up your legs. You barely felt it. Ramiel’s face turned toward you, and for one split second, you saw shock there. Like whatever he had wrapped around you had not been supposed to break.
You hit him with both hands.
Your palms slammed into his chest so hard your vision flashed white. Ramiel screamed. The sound was sharp, angry, real. Smoke burst under your hands and the smell of burning filled the room.
You wanted him to hurt.
You wanted to burn straight through him.
But Dean was on the ground.
Nothing mattered more than that.
Something moved past you. Sam. Free now. Furious. He hit Ramiel from the side with a sound that barely sounded human, and you didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Ramiel could have torn the room apart behind you and you still would not have turned away, because your husband was bleeding out on the floor.
You dropped to your knees beside him.
‘Dean.’
Your voice came out wrong. Too small. Too panicked. You rolled him onto his back with shaking hands, and the second you saw the wound properly, the whole room tilted.
His throat was open.
A horrible, deep slash across the front of his neck, blood rushing out, violent. Too much. Too fast. You knew anatomy. You knew vessels and airways and how fast a body could lose what it needed to stay alive.
Knowing made it worse.
You pressed both hands over the wound. Hard.
Dean’s body jerked under your touch.
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ you gasped. ‘I’m sorry, I know. Just hold still. Hold still for me.’
His eyes were on you.
Wide. Green. Full of pain and horror and something that made your chest split open because he knew. Some part of him already knew, and you could not let him. You couldn’t let him know that. You couldn’t let him leave you scared.
‘It’s alright,’ you said, voice breaking as blood kept pushing hot between your fingers. ‘It’s fine, my love. I’m here. I’m right here.’
Dean tried to breathe.
The sound came wet and broken.
You pressed harder.
‘Okay. Yeah. We can fix this.’ Your hands shook against his throat. ‘I can fix this. Just hold on. Hold on for me until we get out, okay? Cas will fix you right up. We just need to get you to Cas.’
Dean’s lips moved.
No sound came out. Only another horrible gurgle that made panic claw up your throat.
‘No, don’t talk. Don’t try to talk.’ You leaned closer, tears spilling so hard you could barely see him. ‘Save your breath. Just look at me. Dean, look at me.’
His eyes never left you.
Behind you, Sam screamed.
Ramiel screamed too.
There was movement, a crash, the sound of bodies hitting stone. You barely understood any of it. Then a sharp flash of light tore across the room, bright enough to burn through your tears, and Ramiel’s scream cut off in a way that should have mattered.
It didn’t.
Dean’s blood was still under your hands.
You needed to fix that.
You needed to save him.
You had saved people before. You had stopped bleeding before. You had stitched wounds. This was a wound. A body. Blood loss. Airway. Pressure. Heart rate. Breathing. You could work with that. You had to work with that.
You closed your eyes and reached for your magic.
Calm him down. Slow his pulse. Slow the bleeding. Keep him here. Keep his body from burning through what was left. Make him last long enough to get out, to get to Cas, to get home.
You reached inward, desperate and clumsy, searching for the warmth, for the anchor.
For Dean.
Always Dean.
But you couldn’t find it.
You couldn’t hold the thread.
Because your anchor was dying under your hands.
A sob tore out of you, harsh and ugly, and your eyes flew open.
‘No. No, no, no. Come on.’ You pressed harder, your palms slick, fingers slipping against his skin. ‘Dean, please. Please, stay with me.’
Something brushed your leg.
Weak. Barely there.
Dean’s hand.
His fingers twitched against your thigh, searching for you with the tiny bit of strength he had left.
The sound that came out of you barely felt like yours.
You grabbed his hand with one of yours for half a second, then forced it back to his throat because the blood was still coming. You couldn’t stop pressing. Couldn’t stop holding him together.
His eyes stayed on your face.
Green and bright and more important than anything in the universe.
For one second, they searched you. Moved over your face with a focus that made the rest of Hell disappear. The lines at the corners deepened just a little, and your whole heart twisted because even now, even like this, some part of him was trying to say he loved you. To say he was sorry.
‘Don’t,’ you begged. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You’re not saying goodbye. You hear me? You’re not.’
His fingers twitched against your leg again.
Then his eyes stilled.
The focus slipped.
The light went out of them quietly.
For one impossible second, your hands kept working. Pressure. Hold pressure. Stop the bleeding. Keep him here.
Then your body understood what your mind refused to.
A sob ripped out of you, loud and broken and painful enough to tear your throat raw. You folded over him, both hands still pressed to his neck, forehead dropping against his blood-soaked chest.
Summary: Hell is as bad as you expected, and it knows you’re coming. Dean and Sam are forced back into old wounds while your blood magic becomes more powerful than any of you thought.
CHAPTER 2 MASTERLIST
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
A/N: I know I keep circling back to their trauma in their inner thoughts, but I guess that’s kind of how trauma works. It doesn’t just let go of a person easily.
Anyway, this might not be my strongest chapter in terms of flow, but it’s a packed one. Don’t worry, though, there’ll be a lot less action in the rest of this fic.
Thank you for reading and engaging ❤️
It was a good thing Dean was holding your hand when you entered Hell, because otherwise you might have gone down.
Your knees didn’t give out completely, but for one ugly second, they threatened to. The passage dropped you into the familiar cellar, and before your brain could fully catch up with what was in front of you, the smell hit.
You were sure you remembered Hell with awful clarity. Something like that should have been impossible to forget. But the truth was, some part of you had forgotten just how bad it really was.
The stench, especially.
Your stomach heaved. You clamped your jaw shut and forced yourself to breathe through your nose, which was a terrible decision, because that only dragged the rot deeper into your lungs. Sulfur, old blood, burned meat, damp stone, something spoiled and horribly sweet under all of it. Calling it air felt generous. It was still the worst thing you had ever smelled. Nothing else even came close.
Your eyes watered. Your throat tightened. And the sound came next.
Screaming, sobbing, pleading from somewhere deeper in the dark. Souls in pain, over and over and over, layered over each other so heavily it stopped feeling like a sound and became pressure. It pressed against your skull, behind your eyes, inside your teeth. Within seconds, your head started to ache.
Something shifted beside you. Sam, probably, coming through the passage right after you. But you barely looked. Because another sensation stole all your focus.
Dean’s hand.
It tightened around yours slowly. Not in his usual deliberate way. Not the little squeeze that meant I’m here. Not the we got this one either. This felt different. Absent, uncontrolled. His fingers kept closing, pressure building until it started to feel painful.
You looked down at your joined hands, then quickly up at his face.
Dean was staring straight ahead. Face hard, jaw locked tight, eyes fixed on the dark cellar beyond the passage. You saw the little pulse jumping in the side of his neck, the slow movement of his throat when he swallowed.
His grip tightened again. This time, it hurt enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek.
You laid your other hand over his, pressing your fingers flat across his knuckles.
‘Dean?’ you said gently.
He didn’t respond. He just kept staring into the damp, heavy dark in front of you.
‘Baby,’ you tried again, firmer this time. ‘You’re crushing my hand. It hurts.’
That got through.
Dean jerked, blinked hard, and looked at you. Then his eyes dropped to your hands. His grip loosened immediately.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, frowning. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
It wasn’t really. Dean was strong as hell, your fingers throbbed. But it wasn’t what mattered.
‘Are you alright?’ you asked, even though the question was almost pointless.
Because of course he wasn’t.
How could he be?
Your husband had spent forty years in this place. His little brother had spent what must have felt like hundreds in the Cage. The fact that either of them could stand upright at all still shocked you. People talked about strength like it was something noble and elegant, but there was nothing elegant about surviving something like this. It left marks. It took pieces.
And now Dean was here again. Just stepped right back into it. No wonder it rattled him.
You watched him pull himself together by force. One breath. Then another. His eyes moved to yours, and the second they locked there, you saw him drag himself back into the present.
‘Yeah,’ he said. Too fast. Too firm. ‘Yeah, of course.’
You didn’t believe him.
Sam’s voice came from your side, low. ‘Let’s go.’
When you looked at him, he seemed a little paler than before. His face was calm, almost frighteningly so, but his eyes had gone sharp and distant in a way you hated. He had to be feeling it too.
Sam took the lead with the demon-killing knife in hand. Dean shifted behind you and nudged you gently forward, making sure you were between them. Sam in front. Dean behind. You in the middle, covered closely from both sides.
The three of you moved through the cellar in silence.
And even here, one ridiculous thought still managed to shove its way into your head. If someone had told you a few years ago that one day you would be sandwiched between the Winchester brothers, this was not what you would have pictured. Not even close.
You almost laughed at your own brain for that one.
The corridor ahead narrowed into stone and rusted metal, the walls dark with old blood and things you refused to identify. Chains hung from hooks in the ceiling. Some of them moved even though nothing touched them. Cells lined the path, iron bars thick and black, and the closer you got, the harder it became to keep your eyes forward.
You tried.
God, you tried.
But souls inside were impossible not to look at. Mangled, damaged, twisted in ways your mind would store forever. You tried, for a second, to tell yourself they must have done something terrible to end up here. To deserve this.
Then immediately hated yourself for it, because you knew better.
You knew innocent souls ended up here too. Tricked, sold, dragged down, trapped. Souls that belonged in Heaven.
Your stomach turned hard.
You were passing a particularly awful cell when something about it made your steps slow.
At first, it looked like the others. Hooks, chains, stained stone floor, meat hanging from the ceiling in strips.
But there was no soul inside.
Curiosity got under your skin and you stepped closer before common sense could stop you. And the details started lining up. The claw marks carved deep into the floor. The chunks of torn flesh scattered across the stone. Bones piled in one corner. Human bones. A heap of slick, foul-looking residue near the back wall, the stink from it so intense it made the back of your throat burn.
Your stomach dropped.
This wasn’t a cell.
It was a kennel.
Cold dread locked your whole body up.
You knew it was empty. If there had been a hellhound in there, it wouldn’t have stayed silent. Not with fresh prey walking past. But knowing that didn’t stop the memory from coming back. The second trial. The sound of one breathing too close. Crowley’s experiments. The teeth in your shoulder. The pain. The helplessness of being bitten by something you couldn’t see.
Your hand twitched.
The holy-fire-scorched glasses were still packed away in your bags.
You turned quickly to alert Dean, but the words died before you could get them out.
He had stopped one cell behind you, his head was turned toward the bars.
Through them, a fair-skinned hand was reaching toward him. Pale and delicate, fingers trembling with hope.
A young woman stood inside the cell, smiling at him with a look so hopeful it made your skin crawl. She kept repeating once sentence, over and over.
‘You came,’ she whispered. ‘I knew you would. I’ve been waiting for… forever.’
A chill went through you so hard it almost hurt.
You remembered her.
You had heard her the first time you were here with Sam, and she had stayed with you ever since in a way you never wanted to admit. Not because she was louder than the others. Because she sounded so certain. So… lively.
Dean’s chest rose and fell too fast.
You knew exactly what this was doing to him.
One thing was seeing souls suffer. That was horrible enough. But this? This one was looking right at him. Believing in him. Waiting for him to save her.
And that was Dean, wasn’t it?
Saving people. Trying to save everyone. Always.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Because once, he had been the one screaming for help. Once, he had been the one needing someone to come for him. To take him off the rack.
You closed your eyes and reached inward, past the smell, past the screams, past the pressure of Hell trying to crawl under your skin. You focused on Dean. But not here, not like this. You focused on him somewhere safe. Green eyes, warm and bright, the small lines at the corners when he smiled for real.
The warmth answered fast. Faster than you expected.
You pushed a little deeper.
Not into the magic exactly. Into your memories. And they came. Small flashes, clear and bright in your mind. Dean’s forehead pressed to yours after your first kiss. Dean holding you after you came back from dead. Dean’s hands shaking when he gave you the ring. Dean whispering he loved you on the pier after you said your vows.
The warmth spread through your chest, down your arms, into your palms in an unfamiliar tingling rush.
You focused on pushing it out.
To him.
The release came stronger than you were used to. Sudden, wide, and warm enough that your own breath caught.
‘How… how did you do that?’
It wasn’t Dean’s voice. That made your eyes open.
Sam was walking back toward you from farther down the corridor, expression stunned in a way you rarely saw on him.
‘What?’ you asked.
‘I saw you two stop, so I checked around the corner.’ Sam looked between you and Dean, still frowning. ‘Then I felt this… I don’t know. Warmth. It just washed over me. I felt calm. Relieved.’
You stared at him.
That didn’t make sense.
It wasn’t like you had never used your magic on Sam. You had done it plenty of times. Keeping him and Dean steady on hunts had become part of what you did. But you usually had to focus on them specifically. You had to know where the magic was going. You had never done it with your back to him and thirty feet away.
Your head snapped toward Dean.
He was staring at you too, eyebrows slightly raised.
The change in him was obvious now. His breathing had slowed. His hand wasn’t clenched anymore. His shoulders had dropped just enough.
But what really sent a cold little shiver down your spine was the woman in the cell.
She was silent now. Watching you.
And then you realized you couldn’t hear the other cells anymore either. No screams, no sobs. No begging.
For the first time since you entered Hell, the corridor was quiet.
‘Did I… do that?’ you asked carefully.
Dean looked around the corridor, jaw tight. ‘I think so. Yeah.’
There was something in his voice. Something he wasn’t saying.
Sam stopped beside you, eyes still fixed on your face. ‘What did you do?’
You ran a hand through your hair and regretted it immediately when your fingers caught in dirt, dried blood, and whatever else Purgatory had left there.
‘I, uh…’ You swallowed. ‘I focused on Dean.’
Dean’s eyes flicked to you.
Sam’s brow furrowed. ‘No, you must’ve done something different. Because that was big.’
‘Well,’ you started carefully. ‘I kind of-’
‘Memories,’ Dean muttered.
You turned toward him. He was scanning the corridor, but his face had gone serious in a different way now.
‘She thought of memories.’
Your mouth nearly fell open. ‘How do you know that?’
Dean finally looked at you again.
‘Lucky guess.’
You narrowed your eyes. ‘Dean.’
He shifted the gear on his shoulder, suddenly very interested in not looking directly at you. ‘I saw ’em.’
You just stared at him.
‘When that thing hit me. Your magic, I mean,’ he said. ‘Just flashes. Bits and pieces. Over before I really knew what was happenin’. But yeah. I saw ’em.’
You frowned so hard it made your forehead ache.
‘What… the hell?’ you said.
Dean gave you a look.
Sam’s expression shifted into curiosity. ‘You saw her memories?’
‘Yeah,’ Dean said quickly, then glanced at you like he needed to make sure you understood that.
Your face warmed despite the fact that you were standing in Hell.
‘This is crazy,’ you muttered.
It was absurd. Even talking about this, here, now, in the middle of blood and rot. But the guys were thrown by it, and so were you. Not just the intensity, although that alone was enough to scare you. Your magic had never calmed dead souls before. It had never spread through a corridor like that.
And Dean seeing what you'd been thinking when it happened?
That was new.
That was very new.
The benefits of having your husband blood-bound to you as your magical anchor apparently just kept getting stranger.
Both Sam and Dean were still looking at you, obviously expecting at least some sort of explanation.
You took a careful, deep breath and immediately gagged. You swallowed hard, and forced yourself to talk.
‘Okay. I think we should talk about it later. But bottom line? Remember how you got my memories back?’ You looked at Sam. ‘The ritual. You made Dean focus on the most important memory.’
Sam nodded slowly.
Dean shifted beside you, eyes fixed on the corridor again, but you knew he was listening.
‘I figured memories could help with my magic,’ you said. ‘Especially with Dean as my anchor. So I decided to try it. Just now. With, uh…’
You hated that you felt flustered. That was ridiculous. You were in Hell. There were body parts hanging from hooks ten feet away. This was not the time to be embarrassed over your own husband.
‘With memories of us,’ you finished.
Sam’s expression shifted at once. Fascinated, but also a little worried.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Did you just… tap your soul?’
The question made your stomach tighten.
You hadn’t thought of it like that.
Dean’s head snapped toward Sam.
Sam raised a hand slightly, already seeing the reaction coming. ‘I’m not saying that’s bad. I’m just saying it kinda sounds like you did. Which is cool-’
‘Yeah,’ Dean cut in, voice flat and sharp. ‘Frickin’ awesome.’
You looked at him.
He was frowning at you, jaw tight again. The discomfort was loud and clear on his face. Then he glanced down the corridor again.
'Now let's keep movin'.'
Sam gave you one last look, then nodded and snapped back into focus. 'Right. Yeah.'
He took the lead again, demon-killing knife raised.
You stepped closer to Dean before he could follow, your hand coming up to rest against his chest. He went still at once, eyes dropping to your face.
‘Sorry I freaked you out,’ you whispered.
‘I wasn’t freaked out.’
You just looked at him.
Dean held out for maybe two seconds, then gave up with a small shrug. ‘Okay, I was. A little. But it’s fine. I’m fine.’
You rubbed your thumb against his shirt, just once. ‘Are you sure?’
His hand covered yours immediately, holding it against his chest. ‘Yeah.’
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
The corridor around you stayed quiet. The woman in the cell kept watching, still silent, her hand resting through the bars.
Dean swallowed and looked away from her.
‘It’s just… weird,’ he said, voice lower. ‘Bein’ here again.’
‘I know.’
You wanted to say more. Wanted to say you were sorry, even though sorry was useless. Instead, you asked the thing sitting sharp and awful in your mind.
‘Were you…’ You stopped, not sure if you had the right to ask. Then you pushed through. ‘Were you here? In these cells?’
Dean’s expression changed. A shadow crossed his face so fast it would have been easy to miss if you didn’t know him as well as you did.
‘No,’ he said.
You barely heard it. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘No, I, uh… I got the deluxe treatment from the start. Hooks and chains and all that.’
Your chest pulled painfully tight.
You hated that.
You hated that there was a sentence like that in his life. Hated that he could say it in that rough, almost dismissive voice. And you hated, maybe even more, that he was standing here again now, right back in the place that had done it to him.
You took his hand in yours and squeezed.
‘Come on,’ you said quietly.
He let you tug him forward.
It was time to move. The sooner you found the Lance, the sooner you could get out of here.
But first, you were getting the hellhound glasses on. All three of you.
Dean had expected coming back to this fucking place to hit him.
Of course he had.
He wasn’t an idiot. Hell wasn’t exactly the kind of place a guy forgot because a few years went by and he got married and started doing normal crap like arguing over honeymoon plans and pretending he didn’t like having her toothbrush next to his.
But he hadn’t been ready for how hard it hit.
Maybe it was the walk through Purgatory first. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he’d already been cracked open before they stepped through the rocks, because he’d had to watch his wife disappear down a slope and listen to her scream from somewhere he couldn’t reach.
Maybe he was still carrying those two or three minutes in his chest, still seeing her covered in blood and dirt and standing over dead monsters with her knife in one of their eyes.
He still couldn’t wrap his head around that.
He knew what was in her. Course he did. He’d seen her do badass stuff plenty of times. But not like that. That was a stripped-down, furious survival. Purgatory probably helped with that. Seemed to pull that out of people whether they wanted it or not.
And now he had to see her scratched up, beaten, covered in blood and mud, and somehow, as usual, all he could see was his fault. Because it always was, wasn't it? He should’ve been faster, should’ve kept her closer. Should’ve grabbed her before the ground gave way. Should’ve done a whole damn list of things that didn’t matter now because she had still ended up down there alone.
So yeah.
Maybe stepping into Hell already carrying all that made him a little shakier.
Maybe that was all it was.
Right.
Dean walked close behind her, the dart gun heavy in his hands, eyes scanning the corridor they had just stepped into. The cells lined both sides, stretching farther than they should have, disappearing into wet dark and old metal. The souls that couldn’t shut up a minute ago had gone quiet after her magic hit, which should’ve been a relief.
It wasn’t.
The faces were still there. Watching through the bars. Some of them, anyway. Some didn’t have enough left of themselves to watch anything.
Dean tried not to look too long. Tried to keep his focus where it belonged. Movement outside the cells. Corners. Shadows. Any sign of black eyes, hellhounds, traps, anything waiting to jump out and make this day even more of a crap-storm than it already was.
It was harder than it should’ve been.
Because he was pissed.
Pissed and freaked the hell out.
And not because she’d accidentally shoved the highlight reel of their greatest hits into his head. After all the weird-ass magic crap they’d been through, that barely cracked the top five. Wasn’t as weird as her stargating his apocalypse ass into another reality, and it sure as hell wasn’t as weird as waking up in her body and having to deal with that whole mess.
He’d made his peace with them having some strange anchor thing between them. Mostly. And the binding ritual probably kicked it up a notch.
So no, the memory-flash thing wasn’t the real problem.
She had tapped her soul.
Her goddamn soul.
That was the part sitting under his skin, hot and ugly.
Dean still remembered her losing him. Losing all of them, but mostly him, because yeah, he was selfish enough to think about that first. Remembered standing in front of her after the magic overload. Seeing nothing in her eyes that recognized him as hers. Remembered the panic. The grief.
And now she was in Hell, after giving blood, after fighting her way through Purgatory, after using magic on herself and him and Sam God knew how many times in the last two days, and she had just accidentally reached deeper.
Into her soul.
Awesome.
Frickin’ fantastic.
If tapping her soul and throwing out a charge big enough to calm damned souls, settle them both, and push memories into Dean’s head wasn’t a perfect way to drain herself, then what the hell was?
It took everything in him not to stop right there and chew her out. Or grab her shoulders and tell her to never do that again in that tone that made her glare at him like she was two seconds from setting him on fire.
But she hadn’t known. That was the thing he kept forcing himself to remember.
She hadn’t done it on purpose. She’d been trying to help him. Trying to drag him out of whatever the hell had almost swallowed him in front of that cell. And yeah, it worked. He could breathe again. His head wasn’t splitting down the middle anymore.
Still didn’t mean he liked it.
And okay, maybe the flashes didn’t help either.
Having someone else’s thoughts pushed into his head had knocked right into all that old crap with Sam and the psychic visions. Totally different thing, Dean knew that. But even so… Not exactly the best memories for him.
Dean gripped the dart gun a little tighter.
She glanced back at him again. And he wished to God she would stop doing that.
He knew what she was doing. Checking on him. Trying to read his face, his breathing, the way he held himself. She knew him too damn well, which was usually one of his favorite things about being married to her. Right now it made him feel like he was one bad second away from cracking right down the middle.
Couldn’t have that. Not here.
Sam stopped up ahead. Dean almost ran into her when she stopped too. He caught himself in time, one hand landing at her waist out of habit before he lifted the gun again.
The corridor ended in a split. Two directions, opposite each other. The layout changed there too. Fewer cells, less blood smeared over the stone. No chains hanging close enough to brush their shoulders.
Sam looked left, then right, knife raised.
‘Does this seem a little too quiet to you?’ he asked, voice low.
Yeah.
Dean had been thinking the same thing for a while now.
He’d expected demons every five damn feet. Expected screaming, fighting, some kind of ugly chaos from a Hell stuffed full of sons of bitches who couldn’t get topside anymore. Sure, maybe demons didn’t hang out in the cellars unless they had work to do, but still.
This felt off.
‘Yeah,’ Dean said, turning his head to check both directions. ‘Something definitely ain’t right.’
‘The last time we were here,’ she said, and Dean heard how hard she was working to keep her voice steady, ‘there weren’t many demons in the cellar either.’
‘Yeah,’ Sam said, forehead creased. ‘But there were at least some.’
She didn’t answer. She only adjusted the glasses on her face, the ones scorched with holy fire, making sure they sat properly.
Dean’s brain, because it had apparently picked now to be a complete moron, noticed that she looked kinda cute in them.
Cute wasn’t the right word.
Hot, maybe.
Yeah. Like a sexy librarian. Or sexy scientist. Sexy-
‘Which way now?’ she asked.
Dean blinked once.
Right.
Hell.
Focus.
‘I don’t know,’ Sam admitted. ‘But there’s a door at the end of the hallway to the right. Left just keeps going straight into the dark.’
‘Then we try the door,’ Dean said.
He had no idea if that was smart. But if he had to keep walking down an endless hallway of cells and hands and pleading voices, he was gonna start chewing through the walls.
No one argued.
Sam shifted the knife higher and took point again. His wife drew in one controlled breath beside Dean. She didn’t have a weapon in her hand now. Her hands were the weapon. Her blood. Her skin.
Hopefully.
Dean didn’t love that. Not one damn bit.
He checked the dart loaded in the rifle again. One of the seven left.
Sam reached the metal door and paused with his hand on the handle. Dean braced the rifle against his shoulder, finger ready but not tight on the trigger. She stood close enough that he could feel her at his side, and he shifted half a step to keep himself between her and the widest angle of the hall.
He expected the door to be locked.
It wasn’t.
Sam pressed the handle down slowly, and the heavy thing opened with a long, low groan. Warm, flickering light spilled into the corridor.
Then the smell hit.
Dean thought he’d gotten used to the stink down here.
Nope.
This was worse.
His wife turned her face slightly, hand coming up to cover her mouth, disgust clear even through the dim light. Dean wanted to pull her back on instinct, but Sam kept moving, careful and silent, and Dean had no choice but to follow.
They stepped inside.
It was a huge chamber. A torture room.
Of course it was.
Full medieval nightmare. Flickering torches threw dirty light across stone walls blackened by grime and old blood. Tables sat in the middle of the floor, some flat, some tilted, all of them stained dark. Iron racks. Chains hanging low. Rusted pulleys overhead. Cages shoved against the walls. Knives and saws and tools Dean didn’t even want to name because he knew most of them.
The heat was worse in here, too. Wet and heavy.
Dean’s stomach turned.
He remembered rooms like this.
Some smaller. Some about this size. Didn’t matter.
He remembered being dragged in. Remembered the first time, and the second, and the thousandth, and how somewhere along the way surprise turned into a different kind of horror because his soul just… kept taking it. Kept breaking and coming back enough to break again.
He remembered Alastair asking the same question. Every damn day.
How long, Dean? How long are you going to do this?
And then he remembered standing on the other side of it.
Holding the blade. Making souls scream.
The dart gun shook once in his hands. Just once. Dean locked his grip down hard enough that his fingers hurt.
Not now.
He dragged his eyes away from the tables and forced himself to scan the room. Exits. Threats. Anything useful.
That was when he saw the barred doors. One on the left wall, one on the right. Heavy iron, low to the ground, reinforced with thick crossbars.
Dean’s jaw tightened.
Oh, that was bad.
Beside him, she took one slow step into the room, eyes moving over the walls, the tables, the hanging chains. Her face had gone pale. Her hand hovered near her stomach for half a second, as if she was trying to decide if she was going to be sick.
‘This is worse than I imagined,’ she said under her breath.
Then her eyes flicked to Dean, and something like regret crossed her face immediately. Like she’d remembered too late that this wasn’t something he had to imagine.
Dean opened his mouth, not even sure what he was gonna say, but Sam’s voice came from a few feet ahead, low and tight. ‘Dean.’
Dean looked up.
Sam was pointing with the knife toward the far side of the room. ‘Same kind of door on the other side. Could be the exit.’
Dean followed his line of sight. Saw it now, farther back, half-hidden in shadow.
Then he glanced back at the barred doors on either side. His grip shifted on the rifle. ‘Yeah. We gotta move.’
The door behind them slammed shut.
The crash tore through the room hard enough to rattle the chains.
All three of them spun.
The heavy metal door they’d come through was sealed. No handle on this side now. No visible lock. No easy way back. Dean’s chest tightened, but his body was already moving before panic got the chance to set in.
‘Move!’ he barked.
Sam surged forward. She moved with him, fast, staying low, one hand out, ready to burn whatever came close. Dean backed them up from the door, rifle raised, eyes cutting from one kennel to the next.
The barred door on the left groaned open.
Then the right.
Deep growls rolled into the room.
Dean’s blood went cold.
‘Son of a bitch.’
The first hellhound came out low and huge, shoulders scraping the sides of the kennel as it stepped into the torchlight. The scorched glasses made the outline visible. Wrong muscle. Thick neck. Teeth too big. Drool dripping in long strings from its jaws.
It was the biggest damn hellhound Dean had ever seen.
The second came from the other side slower, head lowered, claws carving lines into the stone.
They were trapped.
Someone had shut the door behind them. Someone had opened the kennels. Someone knew they were coming and decided to have a little fun with it.
Arena. That was what this was. A goddamn arena.
The first hellhound lunged.
She moved before Dean could stop her, stepping into its path with both hands raised.
‘No!’ Dean snapped.
Too late.
The beast hit the air in front of her and recoiled with a shriek when her palms slammed against its muzzle. Smoke ripped off its face. Burned fur and meat filled the room so fast Dean almost gagged. She dug in, teeth clenched, arms shaking with the force of holding the thing back.
Sam was already there, demon-killing knife ready.
Dean didn’t have time to watch them. The second hellhound charged straight at him.
He braced the rifle against his shoulder and fired.
The dart hit deep in the thing’s chest.
For one second, nothing happened.
Then the hound howled.
It clawed at the spot, thrashing sideways, slamming into one of the tables hard enough to flip it. Metal tools scattered across the floor. Smoke poured from the wound. Its front legs buckled, then kicked out again as it crashed into the wall, leaving a smear of black blood on stone.
But it didn’t die.
Dean’s stomach dropped.
Too big. The dose wasn’t enough.
‘Fuck!’
Behind him, the other hellhound howled. Dean whipped his head around.
She and Sam were fighting it together. Her hands kept burning it every time it got too close, but the thing was smart enough to jerk back after each hit. Sam came in from the side, blade flashing, but the hound twisted with a snarl and shoved him back. He hit one of the racks hard, grunted, and rolled before the jaws snapped where his arm had been.
She grabbed the beast’s face again.
Smoke exploded from under her fingers. The hound screamed, thrashed, and then its jaws snapped around her forearm.
Dean’s heart stopped.
Her scream cut straight through him.
The hellhound shook her once and threw her across the room. She hit the floor hard, skidding through old blood and broken metal.
‘Baby!’
Sam lunged at the hound with a snarl of his own, knife driving toward its neck. The thing reared back, mouth smoking, blood and saliva dripping from its teeth where it had bitten her.
Dean started toward her.
But the second hellhound got up.
Its front leg dragged, chest smoking around the dart wound, but it was up. Still alive. Still dangerous. Its head swung toward Dean, then toward where she lay on the floor.
Dean’s vision narrowed.
No.
Not happening.
He dropped to one knee, ripped the insulated box from his backpack, and fumbled it open with one hand. Seven darts. No. Six now. His fingers closed around another. He loaded fast, faster than he’d ever loaded anything, hands moving on pure muscle memory and panic.
Come on, come on.
The hound lunged.
Dean lifted the rifle and fired.
The dart sank straight into its head.
This time, the reaction was instant.
The hellhound yowled so loud the whole room seemed to shake. Smoke burst from its skull, then fire under the skin, burning outward from the inside. It slammed into the ground, claws scraping deep grooves into stone, body convulsing hard enough to knock a rack sideways.
Then it went still.
Dean was already moving toward her-
‘Dean!’ Sam shouted.
Dean turned.
The first hellhound had Sam pinned near the far table. Sam’s jacket was torn open across the chest and shoulder, three deep claw marks cutting through fabric and skin. Blood poured down his shirt.
The hound snapped again.
Sam barely got the knife up in time, holding its jaws back with the blade braced across its mouth.
She was on her feet.
Her left arm was bleeding hard from the bite, blood running down her sleeve and over her hand. Her face was tight with pain, but her eyes were locked on Sam.
She grabbed at Dean’s backpack as she passed him.
Dean barely had time to twist toward her before she yanked the angel blade free from the side pocket. Her bloody hand closed around the grip, and the blood from her arm ran down over the blade, coating the metal.
She rushed the hellhound from the side, blade high, blood dripping from her arm onto the floor. The hound turned toward her at the last second, jaws opening wide.
She drove the blood-covered blade straight up into its jaw.
The hellhound screamed.
Not just from the angel blade. From her blood.
Smoke poured from its mouth. It shook violently, trying to pull away, but she held on with both hands, face twisted with pain and fury, shoving the blade deeper while Sam rolled free and came up coughing.
Dean was already there.
He grabbed her from behind, one arm wrapping hard around her waist, and yanked her back the second the hound collapsed forward. The blade tore free with a wet sound, still in her hand, and the hellhound hit the floor right where she’d been standing.
And then it was quiet.
You stood there for one long second, breathing hard, Dean’s arm locked around your waist from behind, your hand still wrapped around the angel blade.
The room was quiet now.
The hellhound lay right in front of you, huge and dead, its jaws still open around smoke and burned blood. The other one was a few feet away, collapsed against the wall where Dean’s dart had taken it down. Both of them were visible through the scorched glasses. Both of them were dead.
Because of your blood.
Not the shared protection. Not whatever weaker version of your bloodline magic he and Dean were supposed to carry. Sam had touched the thing, fought it, been close enough to bleed under its claws. Nothing had burned it until you got your hands on it.
Your arm throbbed. Hard. The bite had torn through your jacket and flannel and skin, and now the pain was arriving properly. Blood slid down your forearm and gathered at your wrist, dripping onto the blade still clenched in your hand.
Dean’s grip tightened around your waist.
‘Sweetheart-’
Your eyes snapped to Sam.
He was pushing himself up from one knee, one hand pressed against his chest, face tight with pain. Blood was already seeping between his fingers.
‘Sam,’ you breathed. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ he said immediately, then winced as he straightened. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
He was not fine.
Three deep slashes cut through his jacket and shirt, running from his upper chest down toward his ribs. Not deep enough to drop him, but deep enough to be a problem. Your stomach turned and your fear came back as anger before you could stop it.
You yanked yourself out of Dean’s hold.
He let you go, probably because he was too startled to tighten his arms fast enough.
You crossed to your bag, dropped to your knees beside it, and started tearing through the supplies. Gauze. Disinfectant. Bandage. Tape. Painkillers. Anything you could reach quickly. Your hands were bloody, shaking, clumsy with adrenaline, and that only made you angrier.
You did the ritual. You had drawn the protective sigil on him. You had smeared your blood over his chest just to be sure.
And it wasn't enough.
‘I knew it,’ you snapped.
Sam looked at you. ‘What?’
You were already in front of him, pulling his torn jacket aside with more force than necessary. He hissed through his teeth.
‘Sorry,’ you said automatically, then immediately kept going, because stopping would make you feel too much. ‘I fucking knew it.’
Dean moved closer. ‘Babe…’
‘No.’ You pointed at him without looking away from Sam’s wounds. ‘Do not.’
Dean stopped.
You uncapped the disinfectant with your teeth and poured it over the claw marks. Sam sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed the edge of the nearest table.
‘This is exactly why I didn’t want you to come,’ you said, voice too loud, too sharp, bouncing off the stone walls. ‘Exactly this.’
You pressed gauze over the worst of the slashes and ignored the way your own arm screamed when you moved wrong.
Dean’s hand landed carefully on your shoulder. ‘Baby-’
You jerked away before you could think better of it.
‘I said don’t.’
His hand fell.
You hated the look that flashed across his face. You hated that you had put it there. But the fear had nowhere else to go, and if you stopped moving, you were going to shake apart right here in the middle of Hell.
‘I knew you’d get hurt,’ you said, pressing the gauze down harder against Sam’s chest. ‘You could’ve died. Either of you could’ve died. And we’re not even at the vault. We don’t even know where the vaults are. We don’t know who locked us in here, who opened those kennels, who knows we’re here.’
‘Sweetheart,’ Dean said, rough but careful. ‘You’re doin’ great down here. Seriously. Like, totally fucking awesome. But you know damn well you’d probably be dead already if you’d come alone.’
You snapped your head toward him.
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
Your voice came out too loud. Too sharp. The sound of it bounced back from the stone walls, and for one frozen second, all three of you went still.
Dean blinked.
You looked at Sam. At the blood on his chest. At the gauze under your hands. At the brother you had died to save.
Then back at Dean.
‘I died for him, Dean.’
Sam’s face changed immediately.
You saw it and hated yourself for saying it like that, but you couldn’t stop now.
‘And I risked my life for Benny. I almost didn’t come back from Purgatory because I couldn’t leave him there.’ Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out anyway. ‘And now they’re both here. You all are. And if something happens, if I lose any of you down here, then I-’
Your voice broke.
You stopped before the rest could get out.
Then what was it for?
That was the part you couldn’t say. Not with Sam looking at you like that. Not with Dean standing right there, jaw tight, eyes suddenly full of something painful.
You forced one breath in.
Then another.
‘I can’t do that,’ you finished, quieter now. ‘I can’t survive that.’
Dean and Sam exchanged a look over your head.
You saw it. Pretended you didn’t.
‘Hey… I’m fine,’ Sam said, very carefully. ‘Seriously. It’s not that deep. I'm okay.’
‘Shut up and hold this.’
He held the gauze without arguing.
You wrapped the bandage around his chest as best as you could in a torture chamber with dead hellhounds on the floor and blood all over your hands. It was not pretty. But it would hold. That was all you could ask for. You shoved a bottle of pills into his hand when you were done.
‘Take two.’
Sam sighed and shook the pills into his palm.
Only when he swallowed them did you finally look down at yourself.
Your jacket was ruined. Torn open at the sleeve, soaked with blood and hellhound saliva and whatever else had been in that thing’s mouth. You peeled it off with a grimace and dropped it to the floor. Your flannel underneath wasn’t much better. Ripped, wet, sticking to your skin. You tried to tug the sleeve up and the fabric pulled against the bite, sending a bright line of pain up your arm.
‘Damnit,’ you muttered.
Dean stepped in immediately. ‘Let me-’
‘I’ve got it.’
You grabbed the torn fabric and shoved it down off your shoulders, biting the inside of your cheek when it dragged over the wound. You were left in your undershirt, humid air and hot pain hitting your skin at the same time. At least your arms were free now and you could see the bite properly.
It looked bad.
Dean made a sound under his breath that told you he thought the same thing.
‘Don’t,’ you said, sitting back against one of the heavy tables and reaching for the disinfectant again. ‘I already know.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m gonna say it anyway. That looks like crap.’
Sam crouched beside you, already reaching for clean gauze. ‘Here. Let me.’
You almost argued. Then you looked at his patched chest, his pale face, the blood still under his fingernails, and something in you finally tired out.
You handed him the gauze.
Sam worked carefully, cleaning the bite with more gentleness than you had shown him. The disinfectant burned hard enough that your eyes watered, but you kept still.
For a moment, no one said anything.
Then Sam glanced at you, voice quiet. ‘Hey.’
You stared at the dead hellhound instead of him.
‘Look, I know why you’re upset,’ he said. ‘I get it. I do.’
Your throat tightened.
‘But you have to understand something. We love you. And we are never letting you go into danger alone. Ever.’
You closed your eyes. That hurt more than it should have.
Dean’s voice came from above you, rougher now. ‘We’ve always got each other’s backs. That’s the only option in our book. You know that.’
Your anger faltered. The heat of it burned down enough for exhaustion to get through. Enough for the fear underneath to come out.
You opened your eyes and wiped sweat off your forehead with the back of your clean hand.
‘I know,’ you said, and your voice sounded smaller than you wanted. ‘I know. It’s just… this was intense.’
‘Yeah,’ Dean said.
You looked up at him.
He was standing close, dart gun strapped across him, face tight with everything he was trying not to show. His eyes dropped to your arm, then to Sam, then back to your face.
‘But goddamn, baby,’ he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘You’re one hell of a fighter. Made my blood run south a couple times.’
Sam froze with the bandage half-wrapped around your forearm. He closed his eyes for a second like he was praying for patience.
You stared at Dean.
‘Dean.’
‘What?’
‘We are in Hell.’
‘Yeah, and I’m still just a man.’
You should not have laughed. It came out short and exhausted and a little broken, but it was there.
Dean saw it immediately. Of course he did. His mouth softened, just a little.
You shook your head. ‘You’re an idiot.’
He wiggled his eyebrows once. ‘You love it.’
You rolled your eyes, but the tightness in your chest loosened another inch.
Sam finished wrapping your forearm and secured the bandage with tape. ‘Try not to shove this one into anything’s mouth for at least ten minutes.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Dean crouched in front of you then, reaching for your wrist. You let him. He turned your arm carefully, checking the bandage, checking your fingers, making sure you could move them.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
‘You good?’
You took a mental check of yourself. Arm throbbing, ribs aching, hip still sore from the fall in Purgatory. Exhausted, dirty, scared, probably running mostly on adrenaline and spite.
But alive.
‘Good enough.’
Dean obviously didn’t love that answer, but he accepted it anyway because there wasn’t time for anything else.
All three of you drank some water. Sam took another careful breath and adjusted his jacket over the bandage as best as he could. You checked the bite once more, flexed your hand, and decided the pain was manageable if you didn’t think too hard about infection.
Dean reloaded the dart gun.
The sight of it made your stomach twist.
Five darts now.
Five darts, and you hadn’t even reached the vault.
Dean snapped the rifle closed and looked at both of you.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We ready?’
Sam lifted the demon-killing knife and nodded once. ‘Yeah.’
You stood, slower than you wanted, and picked up the angel blade again. Blood still stained the metal. You tightened your grip around it.
‘Yeah.’
Dean’s eyes held yours for one second longer.
‘They know we’re here,’ he said. ‘Be ready for anything.’
This time, Dean took the front.
He crossed the chamber first, stepped over the dead hellhound, and reached the sealed door. Whatever had locked it before was gone now, or released when the hounds died. It opened under his hand with a low metallic groan.
He looked back once, making sure you were close.
Sam moved behind you, knife ready, breathing a little more carefully now. His bandage was already darkening under the torn layers of his shirt, but he was upright and focused.
Dean pushed the door wider and stepped through.
Another corridor waited beyond it. Shorter than the last one, but much wider, with several archways lining both walls. No doors this time. Just dark openings leading God knew where.
You didn’t like that. At all.
You were just about to say it out loud when a figure walked out from the far archway at the end of the hall.
A man. Tall, broad. His eyes were black and his mouth pulled into a smug, angry smirk.
Dean lifted the rifle at once. But you knew he wouldn’t fire. Not unless he had to. He wouldn’t waste a dart on just anything now, not with only a handful left.
The demon’s eyes moved over Sam first. Then Dean. Then you.
His smirk widened.
‘The Winchesters and their annoying fat bitch,’ he snarled.
Something cold and familiar moved through your stomach. Not hurt, exactly. Not surprise either. You had heard worse. You had thought worse about yourself on bad days. Still, the words landed.
Dean went very still beside you, which usually meant somebody had just made a terrible mistake.
‘Would you look at that,’ he said, voice deep and steady in a way that made the hair at the back of your neck rise. ‘A fan.’
The demon’s smirk twitched into a grimace.
‘Believe me, I’m not a fan,’ he said. ‘None of us are.’
Before any of you could answer, movement exploded from both sides. Figures rushed from the archways. Men, women, bodies of different shapes and sizes, all black-eyed, all feral. Too many to count in the first second.
Dean slung the rifle across his body without taking his eyes off them.
You shoved the angel blade into his hand.
He took it immediately.
This was not the time for ranged combat.
And you had your hands.
The first demon hit Dean hard from the side. He met it with the blade, driving the angel blade up under its ribs and ripping it free before the body even had time to drop. Another one came at him right behind it, faster, one hand closing around Dean’s throat.
The demon screamed.
Not Dean. The demon.
For one split second, all three of you froze.
The demon yanked its hand away, stumbling back with a shocked, furious sound. Its palm was covered in blisters, skin cracked open and smoking where it had touched Dean’s neck.
Your breath caught.
It worked.
The protection had actually worked.
Not like yours. Not the violent, melting destruction your touch could do when a demon got too close. But it was enough. Enough to hurt, to make anything stupid enough to grab them regret it immediately.
Dean looked down at the demon’s smoking hand.
Then he grinned. Dangerous. Mean.
‘Well, how about that.’
The demon lunged again.
Dean moved into it with new energy, angel blade in one hand, the other curled into a fist, slamming into the demon's face hard. The thing hissed as smoke rose under Dean’s knuckles. He drove the blade into its chest and shoved the body aside before turning into the next one.
Sam saw it too.
He was in front of you at once, the knife flashing in one hand, his other hand catching the face of a demon that got too close. It screamed when his palm pressed against its cheek, not melting, but burning enough to make it recoil right into the knife.
Another rush of adrenaline cut through the exhaustion in your body.
The next demon came straight for you. You let it.
It grabbed for your shoulders, and you caught its face with both hands.
The reaction was instant.
Your palms burned through skin and flesh so fast the demon’s scream broke apart in its throat. Blisters rose and burst under your fingers. Smoke poured between your hands. You shoved harder, teeth clenched, and the smell of scorched hellflesh filled the corridor in a thick, disgusting wave.
Another demon came from your right. You turned, caught its throat, and drove it back into the wall. Its hands clawed at your wrists, but your skin burned every place it touched. It screamed into your face, and you shoved one hand up under its jaw, feeling the flesh give under your palm before Sam’s knife drove through its chest from the side.
The fight moved fast after that. The three of you cut through the corridor in a brutal line, leaving bodies behind you. Dean was ahead and to your left, burning demons with one hand and stabbing with the other, his face locked. Sam stayed close on your right, teeth gritted through the pain in his chest, still moving with frightening precision. You stayed between them, hands raised, letting the demons come close enough to learn exactly what your touch could do.
For a few moments, it all worked.
Then a sharp, violent pain tore through your body.
You screamed.
It hit all at once, ripping through every muscle, every nerve, every place you had already been hurt. Your knees buckled before you could catch yourself. The floor slammed into you hard, pain bursting through your hip and ribs where Purgatory had already messed you up.
Your hands scraped against the stone.
For one second, you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.
Something rushed toward you.
Sam stepped over you and took it down before it reached your face, his knife cutting through the demon with one hard, furious motion.
‘Dean!’ Sam shouted.
You heard Dean shout your name.
Then the pain spiked again.
Your vision went white around the edges. A broken sound tore out of your throat, and you curled in on yourself, fingers digging into the dirty stone.
You forced one eye open.
At the far end of the hallway, the first demon still stood. He was grinning now, one hand lifted, fingers curled tight, black eyes fixed on you with cruel satisfaction.
Dean saw him too.
He was already moving, tearing through the last of the demons in his way with nothing pretty about it.
Sam kept fighting off anything that tried to get close to you. There weren’t many left now. Two. Maybe three. You couldn’t count through the pain.
Dean crossed the corridor fast. The demon tried to twist away, tried to throw another pulse of pain into you, but Dean hit him before he could finish whatever the hell he was doing.
The pain stopped.
You sucked in air so hard it hurt.
For a second, you could only lie there, shaking and trying to catch your breath.
Then you looked up.
Dean had the demon by the throat, pinned up against the wall.
His hand was locked around its neck, and smoke poured from under his fingers. The demon clawed at him, trying to pry his hand away, but all that did was burn its own hands too. Its face twisted, blisters rising along its jaw, skin cracking where Dean’s grip pressed into his flesh.
Dean lifted the angel blade.
‘Dean!’ you shouted.
He stopped.
His head snapped toward you, eyes blazing, chest rising hard.
The demon choked under his hand.
You forced yourself to your feet. Your legs trembled, but they held. ‘Wait.’
Dean’s jaw worked like every part of him wanted to ignore that. Then he lowered the blade by one inch.
You moved.
A demon staggered into your path, half-burned and furious. You didn’t slow down. You caught it by the side of the head with one hand and shoved it into the wall. It screamed as your palm burned through its cheek.
You barely looked as it dropped.
You reached the demon in Dean's hand and yanked the handcuffs from your bag. Demonic handcuffs. Iron, etched with a trap.
Dean shoved the demon down hard enough that its knees hit the stone. You grabbed one wrist, then the other, ignoring the way the thing hissed when your fingers brushed its skin. The cuffs clicked shut.
The demon jerked, then stilled, breathing hard through burned lips.
Only then did Dean let go.
The demon collapsed onto its side, coughing and clawing uselessly at the cuffs. Blisters covered its neck and jaw where Dean had held it. Its hands were ruined too, smoking in patches from trying to fight him off.
You stood over it, breathing hard, sweat cooling against your skin, your arm throbbing, temples still pulsing with the echo of that pain. Sam came up behind you, one hand pressed against his bandaged chest, knife still ready.
You looked down at the demon. Then up at your husband.
His face was hard, furious, but he understood.
You wiped a streak of blood off your mouth with the back of your hand and tried to ignore the dull ache beating behind your eyes.
‘We’re gonna have a little chat.’
Dean was still riding the high of what had just happened.
Not the fight right in the middle of this nightmare.
The burn.
That was what kept looping through his head as he dragged the demon down the corridor by the back of its jacket, away from the pile of bodies and closer to the torture chamber door they had just come out of.
It worked.
Son of a bitch, it actually worked.
His hand had burned a demon. Sam’s too. Not enough to melt the bastards clean through the way she could, but enough to hurt, to make demons scream bloody murder. Enough for them to think twice before laying a hand on either of them.
She did that.
She had bound them to her, bled herself damn near dry for them. Risked her magic, her memory, all of it. And it worked.
Dean usually wasn’t the one doubting her. He knew better. He had seen her do too much impossible crap to start doubting now. But after the hellhounds, after Sam had been clawed open and her face had gone all wrong because the protection hadn’t done a damn thing against them, he understood why she had snapped. She thought she had failed.
She hadn’t.
Not even close.
Now there were dead demons all over the hall, burn marks on half their faces and throats, and one cuffed son of a bitch ready to talk.
Dean shoved the demon hard against the wall and forced him down until his back hit the stone.
His wife stood over him, breathing hard, thin undershirt streaked with blood and grime. Her injured arm was still bandaged, but blood had already started to spot through the gauze. She looked exhausted.
She also looked steady.
Sam took position behind them, knife still up, eyes scanning both ends of the corridor. Watching their backs.
Dean crouched in front of the demon and rested one forearm on his knee.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Let’s make this easy.’
The demon gave him a bloody grin. His cheek was blistered, jaw burned raw where Dean’s hand had held him. Still cocky. Still stupid.
‘Easy?’ it rasped. ‘You think anything down here will be easy for you?’
Dean smiled back.
‘Yeah, see, that’s the attitude that makes this take longer.’
The demon’s black eyes slid past Dean to her. ‘What, you think your little blood cow will scare me?’
Dean’s hand shot out and clamped around the demon’s throat.
The effect was instant.
Smoke curled up between Dean’s fingers. The demon’s grin broke apart into a choked scream, body thrashing against the wall, both cuffed hands jerking uselessly.
Dean leaned in closer.
‘You say one more word about my wife,’ he said, low and even, ‘and I’m gonna let her step in. And believe me, pal, you really don’t want that.’
The demon’s eyes flicked to her. He bared his teeth, but the sound that came out was closer to pain than defiance.
Dean let go.
The demon coughed and sagged back against the wall, neck smoking.
His wife didn’t say anything. She only watched with that frighteningly calm look she got when her patience was hanging by a thread.
‘So,’ Dean said, flexing his hand once because it still felt strange, still felt good in a way that made him a little uncomfortable. ‘The more you cooperate, the quicker and less painful your death’s gonna be.’
The demon spat blood onto the floor. ‘Go to hell.’
Dean snorted. ‘Buddy, look around.’
Sam’s eyes flicked toward them, but he didn’t interrupt.
His wife shifted her weight beside Dean. ‘How did you know we were coming?’
The demon laughed under his breath.
Dean sighed. ‘Wrong answer.’
He reached out again, just two fingers this time, and pressed them against the demon’s temple.
The demon screamed and tried to twist away. Dean held him there for two seconds. Three.
Then pulled back.
‘How'd you know?’ he repeated.
The demon breathed hard through his teeth. ‘Crowley.’
Dean’s jaw tightened. ‘Come again?’
‘You think Heaven is quiet about anything?’ the demon snapped, voice rough now. 'You think the little winged dicks are careful?’
His wife’s eyes narrowed. ‘The angels?’
‘Angels were talking to Crowley,’ the demon said. ‘And Crowley still had eyes on him.’
Sam frowned. ‘Crowley is human.’
‘Crowley was the King,’ the demon hissed. ‘And some old meatsuits stayed loyal. People topside still watching who crawls in and out of whatever hole you left him in.’
Dean felt his stomach turn cold.
Of course.
Because why would anything be easy? Why would Heaven’s brilliant plan not come with something to screw them over?
‘So some of Crowley’s old meat kept tabs on him,’ Dean said.
‘After you locked us down here?’ The demon’s smile returned, ugly and bitter. ‘Yeah. We kept tabs. We listened. Communication got harder, but not impossible. The former king starts talking to angels about a shiny little toy in a vault, and word gets around.’
His wife’s face tightened.
‘You know what we’re after,’ she said.
The demon didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction in his face. ‘Everybody knows what you’re after.’
Dean glanced up at her.
She stepped closer, all polite calm now, which Dean recognized immediately as dangerous.
‘In that case,’ she said, voice smooth in a way that made the demon flinch, ‘we would like the shortest directions to the vaults, if you please.’
Dean almost smiled.
The demon looked up at her and laughed. ‘That would be pointless.’
Dean’s eyes sharpened. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because the Lance isn’t there.’
Dean went still.
Sam shifted on his feet behind them.
‘You’re lying,' she said flatly.
The demon shrugged as much as the cuffs let him. ‘Go look. Waste your time. Get torn apart by whatever’s left guarding the place. Doesn’t matter to me.’
His wife looked down at him for a long moment.
Then she looked at Dean. He had been with his wife long enough to know that look.
‘What do you think, Dean?’ she asked casually, turning her blade in her hand and dragging the dull edge slowly across her palm. ‘Shall we start with the VIP spa treatment?’
Dean felt his mouth pull into a smirk. Something hot and sharp rolled through his chest.
‘I don’t know, babe,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the demon. ‘You think he can take it?’
The demon’s gaze dropped to her hand. The cockiness finally slipped.
Damn right.
‘Let’s find out,’ she said.
She didn’t cut deep. Barely more than a prick at the tip of her finger. A bead of blood welled up, red and bright in the dim light of Hell.
The demon went still. All smugness drained from his face now.
‘Wait.’
She held her hand over him.
‘Last chance,’ she said. ‘Where is the Lance?’
The demon swallowed. Dean watched him look at her blood. Watched him understand.
The drop fell.
It hit his cheek.
The reaction was violent.
The blood burned straight through flesh, cutting deep and fast, and the demon screamed so hard his whole body jerked against the cuffs. Smoke burst from the wound. The smell hit the corridor, sharp and ugly.
‘Ramiel!’ the demon choked. ‘Ramiel has it!’
She pulled her hand back.
Dean’s smirk faded.
‘Ramiel?’ he asked. ‘That your new big-shot king?’
The demon’s eyes snapped back to his. ‘Hell has no king. Hell needs no king.’
His wife gave a small, humorless huff.
‘Cute,’ she said, wiping the blood off her finger. ‘Sauron's gonna be pleased.’
Dean spared her half a glance.
The demon’s face twisted. ‘No. He’s a Prince.’
Sam went very still behind them.
Dean nodded slowly. ‘Well, that’s fantastic. Always wanted to catch Purple Rain live.’
His wife’s mouth twitched, but the worry in her eyes was already there.
The demon breathed hard, cheek still smoking, black eyes fixed on Dean now.
‘Joke all you want,’ it rasped. ‘He’s not someone to mess with.’
Dean leaned closer, angel blade resting against the demon's chest. ‘Yeah, well, neither am I.’
The demon’s burned mouth curled slowly. More amused than cocky.
‘That’s why he wants to meet you.’
Dean’s hand went still. His wife looked down at the demon, frowning now.
Sam’s voice came low from behind them. ‘What does that mean?’
The demon’s smile widened as much as the damage would allow.
‘It means the Lance isn’t waiting in some vault for you to steal.’ His black eyes locked on Dean. ‘Ramiel has it. And he’s been waiting for Dean Winchester to come home.’
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You know it’s a good day when I have to use Ordinary for fact-checking while writing the next What Comes Out chapter, just to make sure I’m not repeating myself. God, I miss those Ordinary days. It’s making me downright sentimental.
Anyway, I’ll try to have a new chapter ready for you soon. Maybe I’ll even post two this week… I’m feeling inspired.
Summary: Purgatory is familiar, brutal, and worse than you remember. And Hell is still waiting.
CHAPTER 1 MASTERLIST
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
A/N: This is a long one. I decided not to split Purgatory into two chapters and leave you hanging on a cliffhanger. I really want to get to the good stuff ASAP. Anyway… I still can’t write action very well. If it gets repetitive, that’s entirely the fault of my lack of action-scene creativity.
As always, would love to hear what you think ❤️
Dean watched his wife stare at the familiar figure coming toward them through the alley, the broad shoulders, the slight slouch, the fisherman’s cap too obvious to mistake.
For one second, nobody said anything. The only sound was the traffic somewhere beyond the alley and the faint shift of gear as Sam turned toward the footsteps.
Then her forehead creased.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, suspicion already in her voice.
Benny’s mouth curved into that easy little smirk. He stopped a few steps away, hands loose at his sides, and gave Dean a small nod before looking back at her.
‘Good to see you too, sunshine.’
And there it was.
Her eyes snapped to Dean so fast it almost made him wince. Her chest rose sharp with one breath.
‘No,’ she said.
Dean tightened his jaw and tried to keep his face straight.
Because yeah. He had gone behind her back. Called Benny without telling her. Made a plan without asking how she felt about it. And yeah, he was probably about thirty seconds from getting called insane, stubborn, overprotective, and every variation of ass she could think of.
But they needed backup. There was no damn way he was walking his wife and brother into Purgatory and Hell with less help than he could get. Not happening. Not after last time.
‘Dean,’ she said, voice rising. ‘What the hell did you do?’
He took one tired breath and turned fully toward her. ‘Listen, we-’
‘He didn’t do nothin’,’ Benny cut in, his drawl slow and easy. ‘When Dean called, I was already set on goin’. Made up my mind back at the lake, darlin’. You really think I was gonna let y’all have all the fun without me?’
Dean glanced at him.
That part was true. Mostly. After the wedding, after Naomi appeared on that pier and they laid it all out, Benny had pulled Dean aside and told him plain. If they were going through Purgatory, he was going with them.
Dean hadn’t liked it. But he wasn’t surprised, either.
Part of Benny missed that place. Dean knew it. The action, the clean rules of it. Kill or be killed. Hunt or get hunted. No bills, no crowds, no endless human crap. Just blood and instinct and staying alive one more day.
And hell, if Dean was being honest with himself, part of him understood that too damn well. Part of him had missed it once in a while himself. Not enough to go back, to trade what he had now. But the simplicity. The purity of it. He understood the look in Benny’s eyes when he talked about it.
He never said that out loud. Not to Sam. Not to her. Not to anybody. But he knew she’d understand if he ever did.
Still. This wasn’t about missing Purgatory. They were bringing Benny back. That had been the deal from the first second Dean made the call. Benny was not staying behind. Not for any reason.
‘Benny, please,’ she said, and Dean heard the shake in her voice now. Anger, yeah. But fear too. ‘I’m not letting another person risk their life for this. Please, just… stay out of it.’
Benny’s smile softened, but he shook his head. ‘Yeah, nah. Ain’t gonna happen, love.’
Her mouth tightened. She turned right back to Dean. ‘Dean, you can’t seriously let-’
‘I’m sorry, but I really do not have time for this.’
The reaper’s voice cut across the alley, impatient and a little irritated. She’d had about enough of all of them.
‘I don’t really care if he’s coming or not,’ she said, ‘but we need to proceed.’
‘She’s right,’ Cas said, looking at Dean. ‘We have to keep moving.’
Dean watched his wife rub her fingers against her forehead. Her eyes closed for a second, probably counting to ten, probably deciding not to rip him a new one in front of everybody. Then she opened them and gave him one last glare.
‘Okay,’ she said tightly. ‘Yeah. Fine.’
Dean reached for her on instinct and gave her hand a quick squeeze. She didn’t squeeze back.
Right. He deserved that.
He let his thumb brush once over her knuckles before he let go and stepped back. Then he pulled the machete from the sheath at his belt.
The second the blade came free, she flinched. Hard.
‘Oh, God.’ Her voice cracked a little. ‘I can’t watch this.’
She turned and buried her face in Sam’s shoulder. Sam immediately shifted closer, blocking her view with his body. Dean saw Sam’s jaw set, but his brother didn’t say a word. Didn’t try to stop it. Because he got it.
Benny rolled his shoulders and moved to stand in the open stretch of concrete. Then he lifted his chin a little and gave Dean that same crooked little smirk.
‘Don’t let your hand slip, brother.’
Dean let out a short breath that wasn’t even close to a laugh. His throat felt tight as hell. It wasn’t easy doing this to Benny. Didn’t matter how many times he told himself Benny was coming back. Didn’t matter that they had the body plan worked out, that Cas would take care of the remains and haul them to Maine. None of that changed what Dean was about to do.
Son of a bitch.
He tightened his grip on the handle, took one breath, and swung. Clean. Precise. One hard strike.
Benny’s head hit the ground first.
His body followed with a heavy thud.
For one second the alley went dead quiet.
Dean swallowed hard and stared at the blood on the blade. Then he wiped the machete on the side of his own jacket with a hard, angry scrape. The thing was gonna be covered in all kinds of crap before this was over anyway. Might as well add his friend’s blood to the list.
He still didn’t look at her. Couldn’t yet.
‘Cas,’ he said, voice rough. ‘You gonna take care of the body? Get it to Maine?’
Castiel nodded once. ‘Yes. As we agreed.’
Only then did Dean make himself look up.
She wasn’t hiding against Sam anymore, but she was still clutching his arm with both hands, staring at Benny’s body on the pavement. Her face had gone pale. She looked flat-out horrified.
Dean wanted to go to her. Wanted to pull her against him. Wanted to put his mouth against her hair, her temple, anything, and mutter something stupid in her ear just to make her feel better. But there wasn’t time. And hell, he didn’t even know what he’d say.
So he did the only thing he could. He shoved the machete back into its sheath and got his own face under control.
‘Alright,’ the reaper said, stepping into position. ‘Shall we?’
Nobody answered that. Nobody had anything worth saying.
She held out her hand. ‘Take my hand. One of you can hold my shoulder.’
Sam took one side. His wife took the other, fingers closing around the reaper’s hand with determination. Dean moved in behind her and placed one hand on the reaper’s shoulder.
With the other, he slid his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her back against him just enough to feel her there. She covered his hand with hers where it rested against her stomach.
Cas watched them with an unreadable expression.
‘Good luck,’ he said.
Dean looked at him.
For all the crap he’d said to him in the war room, for all the anger still sitting hot in his gut, he could see it now. Cas was worried. Genuinely worried. And Dean knew him well enough to know there was guilt under it, too. There was no way of knowing if any of them would make it back.
Dean gave him one short nod and pulled her tighter against him.
And then the alley disappeared.
It took you a second to steady yourself once your feet hit solid ground again. The white blur of the transition disappeared all at once, leaving your vision blinking against the dim gray around you. But your eyes adjusted fast.
And you almost wished they hadn’t.
The familiar dark forest stretched out in every direction, close and ugly and completely still. The ground was muddy, uneven, stained in places with old, dark scarlet. Remnants of hunts, of whatever had crawled, fought, bled, and died here. And the silence. God, the silence. That was the worst part. Heavy. Pressing. It made your ears ring.
It was exactly as you remembered it.
And you remembered it perfectly.
At least this time, there wasn’t a half-rotten corpse right under your feet to welcome you.
You tried to pull on your magic to steady yourself, just a little, but the second you took a deeper breath, the smell hit you. Damp earth, rot, death soaked into everything. Your lungs tightened around it.
‘Such a horrible place,’ the reaper said.
Her voice dragged you back into focus.
Only then did you realize Dean’s arm was still around you, his hand pressed firmly against your stomach. His chest was warm against your back, his body braced behind yours, and the relief that moved through you was immediate enough to make your knees feel weak.
No. This wasn’t exactly like last time.
Because last time, Dean hadn’t been here.
Last time, you had walked through this place with Sam and Bobby, exhausted and terrified and trying not to think too hard about the fact you may never see him again. Now he was behind you, solid and warm and breathing against your hair, and that alone settled something in you before your magic could.
You didn’t need to tap it. Not yet.
The reaper glanced around one last time before looking directly at you. ‘The rocks at the place where three trees meet as one,’ she said, repeating the description of the location you were looking for. ‘That is where you’re headed. You are on your own now.’
Her eyes moved to Sam, then to Dean, before coming back to you. She gave one short nod.
‘Best of luck. You’re going to need it.’
Then she was gone.
The silence dropped back over the forest at once.
You tried to ignore the sudden, irrational cold that crawled over your skin the second she left.
‘You okay?’ Dean asked.
His mouth brushed your temple. His voice was low enough that it barely moved past you. In any other place, that would have done something pleasant to your body. Here, it only made your throat tighten.
Because you weren’t okay.
And you were still pissed.
At him. At Heaven. At this whole situation. At the fact that Benny was here now because Dean had gone behind your back and decided one more person should walk into this nightmare with you. One more person you cared about. One more person who could get hurt because of a debt you never should have owed in the first place.
You knew why Dean had done it. Of course you did. He wanted backup, someone who understood Purgatory in a way none of you really could. He wanted a better chance of keeping you and Sam alive.
But all it gave you was another person to worry about. And you really needed to stay focused.
‘No,’ you said honestly.
You stepped away from him and turned to face him. The loss of his warmth hit harder than you wanted it to. It took a lot of effort not to lean right back into him.
‘Dean, I know you meant well, but what the hell were you thinking?’ You kept your voice low, because raising it in this place felt stupid. ‘What if he can’t find us here? What if we can’t get him back out? What if something happens before-’
‘Alright, that’s enough,’ Dean cut in.
And he had the nerve to roll his eyes at you.
You stared at him. For half a second, you forgot where you were and almost tore into him for that alone.
He must have seen it on your face, because his expression tightened, but he didn’t back down. ‘I’m not havin’ this conversation with you here. I know you’re pissed, and yeah, you can yell at me later. Hell, I’ll stand there and take it. But not right now.’
‘Dean-’
A low rustling sound came from somewhere behind you.
You didn’t even get to turn properly before Dean’s hand caught your waist and pushed you behind him in one smooth motion. Fast and firm, his body moving between you and the sound without hesitation.
Sam stepped closer immediately, machete already raised, his shoulders tense and eyes scanning the trees.
‘Yeah,’ Sam muttered, voice low. ‘I think you should save whatever this is for when we get back.’
Dean drew his own machete, his face hard now, all argument gone. He motioned with two fingers for you to stay close.
‘Let’s move.’
You pulled your own blade free and forced the rest of your frustration down. He was right. You hated that he was right, but he was. This was not the time, nor the place to fight about Benny.
This was the time to stay alive.
The three of you moved along the stream in silence. Dean took point, of course. Sam stayed just behind you, close enough that if you slowed even half a step you would’ve hit him.
Benny was still nowhere to be seen, but you didn’t really understand how that worked. How monsters appeared in Purgatory after they died. Where exactly Benny would land. Whether he would know how to find you right away or if this place would spit him out miles away and leave him fighting his way back.
But Benny knew where you were headed. You had to trust that he would find you.
So far, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Almost sickeningly quiet.
You should have been glad. You wanted to get through Purgatory without trouble. You wanted to reach Hell with all your strength, all your supplies, all your blood still inside your body where it belonged. But the longer the silence stretched, the harder it became to believe in it.
You were approaching a small clearing along the side of the stream when you remembered the darts.
‘Wait,’ you whispered.
Dean stopped immediately. Sam did too.
Dean looked over his shoulder. ‘What?’
‘The blood darts. I should check them before we get any farther.’
His face tightened. He didn’t like stopping, you could see that immediately. But after one second, he nodded and shifted the backpack off his shoulder.
‘Make it quick.’
You crouched near a fallen log, keeping your blade within reach as Dean set the backpack in front of you. Sam stood just behind you, facing the opposite direction, machete raised and ready. Dean stayed close enough that his leg brushed your shoulder when you took out the insulated box.
You had barely touched the latch when a snarl tore through the trees.
Everyone froze.
That was close. Too close. Low and wet and furious, followed almost immediately by a crash of movement somewhere beyond the clearing.
Dean grabbed the backpack and shoved it aside. ‘Up.’
You were already moving. Blade in hand, feet planted, breath stuck in your chest as another snarl followed the first. Then came the unmistakable sound of fighting. Bodies hitting trees. A harsh grunt. Claws scraping bark. Something heavy slammed into the ground, hard.
You stared into the trees, every nerve in your body screaming to run toward the noise because Benny was out there somewhere. Because that could be him.
Dean stepped in front of you again.
‘No,’ he said before you could move.
You glared at the back of his head. ‘I wasn’t going to run blindly into the woods.’
‘Good. Keep not doin’ that.’
Sam moved in on your side, blade raised higher, shoulders tense.
Another crash. Another snarl. Something screamed, high and animalistic, then cut off sharply. Silence followed so fast it made your stomach turn.
You gripped your blade tighter. Heart pounding, legs bent, breath shallow. Your pulse was loud in your ears, but your hands stayed steady. You weren’t standing there to be defended like a damsel in distress. If something came through those trees, you were going to fight it.
You waited.
One second. Two. Three.
Then branches moved at the edge of the clearing.
Benny stepped out with blood on his hands, across the front of his coat, and that same damn smile on his face.
‘Well,’ he drawled, wiping one hand against the front of his jacket. ‘Ain’t this a sight for sore eyes.’
The relief that hit you was so sharp it almost made you angry.
‘Benny,’ you breathed.
You moved before thinking and closed the distance, pulling him into a quick hug.
Sam stepped forward and clapped a hand against Benny’s shoulder. ‘Good to see you, man.’
Benny nodded at him. ‘Likewise, buddy.’
Dean looked him over, eyes catching on the blood, then lifted his brows.
‘Took you long enough.’
Benny snorted. ‘Yeah, sorry. I was busy gettin’ acquainted with the locals.’
You looked past him automatically, but the trees had already swallowed whatever he had killed. You didn’t even want to know what it looked like.
Benny’s smile faded after a second. He looked back toward the trees, his expression sharpening. ‘We oughta move. Fresh blood’s gonna bring company, and I made a mess back there.’
Dean nodded at once. No argument, no question.
‘Darts,’ you said, glancing down at the box.
Dean’s jaw flexed. He looked toward the trees, then back at you. ‘Can it wait?’
You quickly shoved the box back into the backpack. ‘I guess it has to.’
He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder again. His free hand found the small of your back, just for a second, pressing you forward with him.
‘Then move.’
So you moved.
Dean in front again. Benny sliding in to walk beside him. Sam behind you. You in the middle, where Dean clearly wanted you.
He and Benny didn’t need to talk much. On Earth, Benny was almost… warm, in his own guarded way. Charming, even. He could sit at your wedding, hold a drink, smile at Dean with that quiet loyalty that had always made your chest ache a little. He could be part of your strange little family without looking out of place.
Here, he belonged differently. And Dean changed with him.
It wasn’t obvious at first, not if someone didn’t know him. But you did. You knew the way Dean moved on a hunt, the way he carried himself in danger, how he joked to cut the tension or barked orders when things went bad. This was not that.
He was quieter. Sharper.
They moved through the trees with an understanding that didn’t need words. One glance. One nod. One small movement of the hand, and they were already in agreement. A twig snapped somewhere ahead, and both of them stopped at the same time, bodies going still in a way that made your own breath catch.
It was unsettling. Very impressive. Almost intimate in a way you didn’t have the name for, built out of violence and trust and one brutal year they spent out here.
And Sam noticed too, of course. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, his eyes followed them both for a moment before he looked away. Purgatory had left its marks on all of them, even the one who hadn’t been trapped here for a year.
The stream kept winding deeper through the woods, and before long the silence finally broke.
The attack came.
Three creatures burst out from the brush, all teeth and muscle, moving too fast for something that looked half-rotted. You barely had time to raise your blade before Dean and Benny were already moving.
Dean didn’t even waste his breath. He dropped low, blade flashing, and Benny came in from the other side without either of them needing to plan it out loud. One creature lunged at Dean and Benny caught it by the back of the neck, yanking it off balance just in time for Dean to drive the machete deep. Another came for Sam, and you moved before fear could lock your body up, catching its arm with your blade and twisting away from snapping jaws. Sam finished it with one brutal swing.
The third made it two steps toward you before Dean was there.
Furious. Efficient.
He took it down hard, pinning it long enough for Benny to finish the job. By the time it was over, your heartbeat was hammering in your throat and there was black-red blood across Dean’s sleeve.
No one said anything for a moment.
Dean looked at you first. You nodded before he could ask. His eyes lingered for one extra second, then he turned back to the trees.
You tried to steady your breathing.
You had seen Dean fight more times than you could count. You had seen him angry, dangerous, downright terrifying, when someone he loved was threatened. You knew exactly what his hands could do. You knew there was violence in him because his life had forced it there and demanded it over and over until it damaged him in ways he hated talking about.
But this was something else. This was Purgatory.
There was no mask here. No attempt to soften himself with sarcasm or a grin. No pretending he was just your husband who liked pie, old movies, your cooking, and keeping one hand on you whenever you were close enough to touch.
Here, he was a predator. He knew when to move, when to stop, when to lower his breathing. He looked dangerous in a way that felt stripped down to the bone.
You hated when people called him a killer. Hated every demon, every monster, every angel, every ugly voice in his head that had tried to make him believe that was all he was. But standing there, in this godforsaken place, you understood something you hadn’t fully understood before.
There was a part of Dean that this place let out.
A part that fit too easily into survival. Into blood and instinct and doing what had to be done before thinking could slow him down. Dean without restraint, without the need to soften the edges for anybody.
Some of it came from hunting, sure. Some of it came from trauma. You knew that.
But some of it was just… Dean.
Benny wiped his blade on the grass and looked toward the stream. ‘We keep followin’ this way, we oughta hit your trees before long.’
Dean nodded. ‘Good.’
His hand came back to you almost immediately, fingers brushing your waist, then settling there for half a second. Quick check. You leaned into it just enough for him to feel you were alright.
Then you kept walking.
The forest seemed to press closer the farther you went, the stream guiding you through broken roots and uneven ground. You tried not to think too much about the last time. Tried not to compare every patch of dirt and every fallen branch.
But then the trees opened slightly, and your steps slowed on their own.
You knew this place.
A fallen log half-sunk into the damp ground. Thick roots pushing up behind it. The stream curved close enough that you could still hear the water over the terrible quiet.
Your chest tightened.
You had sat there once with shaking hands and sore legs, pretending to check your pack while Sam talked quietly with Bobby a few feet away. You had found the folded paper tucked into your bag, recognized Dean’s handwriting, and hidden behind those roots so no one would see your face while you read it.
The letter.
The first time Dean had written the words he couldn’t say out loud yet.
You stopped so suddenly Dean noticed at once. ‘What is it?’
You stared at the fallen log, throat tight, the memory hitting so clearly it almost took the ground out from under you.
‘This is the place,’ you said quietly. ‘Where I read your letter.’
You turned to look at him. His face was set hard, focused and alert. But when he looked at you, he frowned, confused.
‘What’re you talkin’ about?’
The question stung more than it should have. Because the memory was so clear for you. So important. It felt almost impossible that he didn’t know exactly what you meant.
‘The letter you left in my backpack,’ you said. ‘The one where you wrote that you loved me.’
Dean’s face changed immediately. The hard lines eased, his eyes softened, and a faint flush crept up his ears. A small patch of color in all that dead grey around you.
‘Oh,’ he said. Then he glanced away and cleared his throat. ‘Right. That.’
There he was. Still your husband. Even here, standing in Purgatory with blood on his boots and a blade in his hand, he still looked ready to crawl out of his own skin because you brought up something too personal.
‘You, uh…’ He scratched the back of his neck. ‘You read that here?’
You let out a short breath and pointed. ‘Yeah. Right there. Behind that log.’
Dean followed your finger, jaw tightening again as he took in the place properly.
‘Hell of a spot for it,’ he muttered.
That pulled the first real smile out of you since you woke up that morning.
You wanted to reach out and touch him. Kiss him. Let this one tiny good memory exist here for a second longer. And then Sam, of course, had to ruin the moment.
‘You,’ he said from somewhere behind you, sounding stunned and way too entertained, ‘wrote a letter? You?’
Dean turned his head slowly. ‘Shut up.’
Sam’s eyebrows went up. ‘No, seriously. A letter? Like, actual words on paper?’
‘Sam.’
‘Confessing?’ he pushed, already smiling now.
Benny let out a low whistle, followed by a small chuckle, and rested his blade on his shoulder. ‘Ain’t he adorable? Our lil’ Shakespeare.’
Dean snapped a finger toward him without even turning all the way around. ‘You shut up too.’
You bit the inside of your lip to keep from laughing, because the two of them teasing Dean in the middle of Purgatory was so absurd it almost made the place feel less horrible for half a second.
You stepped closer and lifted your hand to his cheek, turning his face back toward you. His expression softened the second you touched him.
‘It’s my most prized possession,’ you said quietly, keeping your voice low enough that the others couldn’t really hear. ‘And I don’t think I ever told you just how much I loved it.’
Dean’s throat moved. He didn’t say anything, but those beautiful lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. The ones that always showed when he was trying not to smile too much.
You stayed there for a moment, looking at him.
His hand slid to your waist. You leaned in a little without thinking. He did too.
Then Sam cleared his throat. Loudly.
Every damn time.
‘I, uh,’ he said, a little too innocent, ‘I think we should move.’
You let out a breath and dropped your hand.
‘Right,’ Dean muttered, shooting his brother a quick annoyed look.
He turned to go, and that was when your eyes caught on the backpack hanging off his shoulder.
‘Dean, stop.’
He did. So did Sam and Benny.
‘The darts,’ you said. ‘Let me check them.’
He didn’t argue. Just shrugged the bag off and set it down at your feet. You dropped into a crouch, pulled the insulated box out, and placed it on the damp ground.
Then you opened it.
And your stomach fell straight through the ground.
The inside of the box was smeared with blood.
For one stupid second your brain refused to understand what you were seeing. Then you grabbed the first dart, and the casing felt wrong under your fingers. Split. Sticky. The blood inside had leaked and thickened.
You turned it with shaking fingers, staring at the damaged shell.
‘No,’ you whispered.
You reached for another one. Then another.
‘No.’
Your pulse jumped so hard it made your hands shake. You started going through them faster, wiping blood across your palms, pulling the darts out one by one, your breathing getting shorter with each ruined one.
‘No, no, no, no, no-’
‘What’s wrong?’ Dean asked, but his voice sounded far away now.
You barely heard him.
The blood had gone dark in most of them. Clotted. Thick. Useless. Some casings had burst completely. Others looked intact until you held them up and saw the separation inside. Your mind was already racing ahead, trying to recalculate, trying to understand, trying to fix what was not fixable.
All that work. All that blood. All that time in the lab. The prep, the careful handling, the stupid hope pinned on a desperate idea.
And for what?
‘Are they all ruined?’ Sam asked, crouching down on your other side.
‘I don’t know,’ your voice cracked. You hated that. ‘I don’t know. I need to… just give me a second.’
You swallowed hard and forced yourself to look again, sorting the darts into one pile and then another, hands getting slicker the more panicked you felt.
Dean dropped down beside you and put his hand on your wrist. ‘Babe.’
You shook your head, still counting. ‘No, no, this doesn’t make sense. They were stable. The temperature was stable. The EDTA should have prevented clotting. The casings were sealed. I checked them. I checked them twice.’
Benny stood watch just beyond you, blade ready, eyes on the trees.
You grabbed another dart and almost cried when the blood inside moved properly. One. Good. You put it aside. Another one, maybe stable. Another, ruined. Another, cracked.
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
One. Two. Three.
Your hands shook harder.
Four. Five.
You had to wipe blood off your fingers onto your pants because you couldn’t grip properly.
Six. Seven.
Dean’s hand moved from your wrist to your forearm, thumb pressing slow circles into your skin. He didn’t say anything.
Eight.
Nine.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
‘Nine,’ you said, and it came out weak. ‘I think we still have nine. Maybe nine that could still work.’
Nine.
Out of thirty.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt.
‘My useless brain forgot to take a frickin’ magic portal into consideration,’ you heard yourself say, words spilling out faster and sharper. ‘Of course the transition between realms could damage them. Of course it could. The pressure, the energy shift, whatever the hell happens during transport, it must’ve compromised the casings and I did not even think about it.’
You dragged both bloody hands through your hair and then immediately regretted that too.
‘God, I’m so stupid.’
‘Hey,’ Dean said sharply. ‘Don’t do that.’
You barely registered it.
‘All that preparation,’ you went on, staring down at the ruined darts. ‘All that work, all that blood, and for what? Nine? We dragged this huge stupid fucking gun through Purgatory for nine darts?!’
Dean’s hand came back down over your wrist, stopping you before you could smear more blood over your face. ‘Calm down.’
‘I can’t calm down.’
‘Yeah, you can.’
Your breathing was too fast now. Your heartbeat was up in your throat. The trees around you felt too close. Everything was too much at once.
‘God, I’m so fucking useless,’ you said, the words tearing out before you could stop them. ‘Useless.’
Dean moved even closer. ‘Hey.’
‘Fuck,’ you breathed. Then louder, uglier, ‘Fuck!’
He was right there then.
Right in front of you, so you had no chance but to see him. Both of his hands were on you at once. Firm. Warm. One on the back of your neck, the other gripping your upper arm hard enough to ground you.
‘Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Stop.’
You sucked in a breath that did nothing.
‘Look at me.’
You shook your head once. ‘Dean-’
‘No. Look at me.’
Something in his voice cut through just enough that you finally did.
His face was close. Serious. Worried as hell. His thumb was moving against the side of your neck in short, steady strokes while his other hand rubbed up and down your arm.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘We still got nine. That’s nine more than you had the last time. We are not goin’ in empty-handed.’
Your mouth opened, but nothing useful came out.
‘You are not useless,’ he said, slower now, making sure every word landed. ‘And you’re sure as hell not stupid. You’re a goddamn genius and this was an awesome idea. Still is.’
You blinked at him, trying to get enough air into your lungs to answer.
‘Hey,’ he said again, softer this time. ‘You hear me?’
Your eyes burned. You nodded once, barely.
‘Babe, I need you to calm down.’ His hand left your arm to frame the side of your face. ‘Come on. Use your magic. On yourself. Yeah? Just a little.’
You shut your eyes.
‘Sweetheart? Do it for me.’
He was right. You couldn’t afford to panic right now.
You reached inward, shaky at first, and tugged carefully on that familiar warmth in your blood. Not much. Just enough to pull yourself back from the edge. One breath. Then another. Slowly, you felt the panic lose some of its grip.
Dean kept talking the whole time, low and close and for you only.
‘Yeah. That’s it. Just like that. Good. Good. C’mon.’
His thumb swept over the back of your neck again.
‘There you go. That’s it. Awesome.’
When you opened your eyes, he was still right there, still watching you with that same fierce, terrified focus.
‘Better?’ Sam asked quietly.
You swallowed and nodded. ‘A little.’
Dean let out a breath through his nose. ‘Attagirl.’
Something in your chest softened at that, even with everything else still sitting heavy there.
Benny crouched beside the box and picked up one of the intact darts between two fingers, careful not to crush it. ‘Nine ain’t nothin’, sunshine. Could still make a real bad day for somebody.’
You let out a weak huff of a laugh. It sounded miserable even to you, but it was something.
Dean nodded toward the box. ‘Now let’s pack what’s left and move while it’s still good.’
He started helping immediately, handing the usable darts to you one by one, checking each one with surprising care, wiping blood off his fingers on his jacket without even looking at the mess he was making of himself.
‘Your blood’s still gonna kick ass,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t worry.’
You looked at him and gave the smallest nod you could manage. ‘Okay. I guess you’re right.’
‘You bet your ass I’m right.’
The two of you got the surviving darts packed back into the cleanest corner of the box. Sam snapped the lid shut once you were done and stood first, offering you his hand. You took it and let him haul you to your feet.
Dean rose right after and took the box from you. He adjusted the strap of the dart gun again, shifted the backpack, then moved in close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
‘Stay with me,’ he said.
You glanced up at him. ‘I’m literally right here.’
‘Yeah, and I’d like to keep it that way.’
A second later, you set off again, the stream still your only guide. Dean stayed closer this time. Much closer. His arm brushed yours now and then. Once his hand landed briefly at your back to guide you around a slick patch of earth. Another time he caught your elbow without comment when your boot slid on wet stone. Little, constant things. Dean things. Overprotective domestic gestures that would’ve made you smile anywhere else.
Here, they only made your chest tight.
Because you knew exactly what they meant. He was scared.
And now, after the darts, so were you. All over again.
You kept walking.
The stream kept cutting through the trees, dull and dark and constant, and you followed it because that was the plan. The three trees with the rocks were somewhere ahead.
But your mind wouldn’t let go of the darts. Of the stupid, humiliating fact that you had missed something so basic.
You kept seeing the blood smeared inside of the container every time you blinked. The cracked casings, the dark clots. A reminder that no amount of preparation could save you from one detail you failed to predict.
You tried to repeat Dean’s logic. Nine wasn’t nothing. Nine could still help. Nine could still make a demon regret getting too close. But your brain kept circling back to the amount of wasted blood. Over and over.
You were so caught inside your own head that you almost didn’t register the movement until it was already too close.
A creature came out of the trees at your left, low and fast, all wet teeth and long limbs. Your body turned half a second too late.
Dean didn’t.
He was there before you could lift your blade properly, shoulder slamming into the thing hard enough to throw it off its line. Sam moved in from behind you, machete already swinging, and Benny caught the creature when it tried to twist away. The whole thing was over in seconds. One ugly burst of violence, three men moving around you with terrifying efficiency, and then the creature was on the ground, twitching once before it stopped.
Dean turned on you immediately.
‘Hey,’ he said, sharp. ‘You with us?’
Your pulse kicked hard in your throat. That had been close. Too close.
You looked at him, at the blood on his blade, at the tight anger in his face. Sam was watching you too, concern pulling his brows together. Benny kept his eyes on the trees, but even he glanced back once.
You swallowed.
‘Yeah,’ you said. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt. ‘I’m here.’
Dean didn’t look convinced. ‘Then focus, damnit.’
You nodded once.
Because he was right.
Again.
You had a job to do. You had people to protect. You weren’t even in Hell yet, and you had already let panic pull your attention away from what was right in front of you. That couldn’t happen again.
So you forced the darts into the back of your mind and kept moving.
The forest dragged on after that. Or maybe it only felt that way.
Nobody talked much. There wasn’t room for it, every sound mattered too much. Dean and Benny walked ahead again, Sam stayed close behind you, steady as always. You kept your blade in your hand and your breathing controlled.
The stream kept going, the trees kept closing in. Your legs burned from uneven ground, your shoulders ached from tension, and your hand cramped around the grip of your blade.
Then Benny slowed. Dean stopped a heartbeat later.
You looked past them. And there they were.
Three trees, grown close together near a bend in the stream, their trunks twisting upward from the same patch of ground. Between them, half-hidden by moss, roots, and jagged rock, was the place you remembered. The passage. The backdoor to Hell.
Your heart kicked hard.
Sam let out a quiet breath behind you. ‘That’s it.’
Your hand flexed around the machete. ‘Yeah.’
For one second, relief moved through the group, enough for all of you to start moving faster. The trees were right there. The way down was right there. Purgatory was almost behind you.
You were maybe twenty feet from the trees when the woods broke open.
You didn’t register how many came at you. More than five, probably, bodies rushing from both sides with snarls that tore through the quiet and turned everything into motion.
Dean shouted something, but you didn’t catch the words. Your blade came up on instinct as the first creature lunged for you.
You stepped into the strike instead of away from it, catching the creature across the forearm before it could grab you. It snarled in your face, hot breath and rot, and you twisted under its reach, driving your machete up under its jaw with everything you had. Hot wet blood sprayed across your hand.
Another one came immediately.
This one was leaner, faster. You ducked a little too late, but not badly enough. Claws caught your jacket instead of your throat, tearing fabric as you staggered back. Sam was there at once, slamming his machete down. It dropped, and he moved past you without stopping.
You turned and another monster was already there, rushing in from your left. You dropped to one knee on instinct and slashed across the soft place under its ribs. It screamed, stumbled, and you got up before it recovered, bringing the machete down hard across the back of its neck.
Dean was a few feet away, blood across one cheek, fighting with brutal focus.
‘That’s my girl!’ he barked through the chaos. ‘Nice shot, sweetheart!’
The praise hit you hard. You adjusted your grip and moved again.
Everything became flashes. Mud under your boots, black-red blood splattering everywhere. Sam’s hair whipping across his face as he swung. Benny’s blade catching dull light. Dean’s voice, low and sharp, cutting through the noise whenever he needed someone to move.
Then one of the creatures got behind Benny. You saw it a second before anyone else did.
‘Benny!’
He turned, but not fast enough. The creature hit him from the side and drove him into the ground. His blade flew out of his hand. Its jaws snapped down toward his throat.
Dean’s whole body shifted.
He was already moving, but Sam was faster from the other angle, slamming into the creature’s side hard enough to knock it off balance. Dean came in immediately after, machete raised, and for a few awful seconds you saw exactly what Purgatory had made of them. No hesitation, just pure, brutally efficient response. Sam dragged Benny back by the shoulder. Dean took the creature down with a violence that made your stomach clench. Benny coughed, rolling, hand clamped over his neck where blood was already spilling between his fingers.
For one cold second, you thought he was gone.
Then Benny shoved himself up on one elbow and spat blood onto the ground.
Relief hit you so hard your focus slipped. Just for a moment.
And that was all it took.
Your boot came down on loose, wet ground near the edge of the slope. The earth gave under you.
You sucked in a sharp breath and reached for anything. A root. A branch. Something. Nothing held. Your feet slid out from beneath you and the world tilted hard.
Then you were falling.
You hit the slope on your side, pain bursting through your ribs, then rolled. Mud, leaves, rocks. Your shoulder struck something hard. Your blade tore from your hand. You tried to stop yourself, tried to dig your fingers into the ground, but everything was wet and loose and moving too fast.
Above you, Dean shouted your name.
Then the slope dropped again, steeper this time, and you slid down hard enough that the breath punched out of your lungs. You stopped at the bottom with a jolt that sent pain through your hip and back.
For a second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
The forest spun around you, gray and black and wrong. Somewhere above, distant through the trees, you heard fighting. Dean’s voice. Sam’s. Benny swearing.
You forced air into your lungs.
Move.
You had to move.
Your fingers clawed at the ground, searching for your machete. It was gone. Lost somewhere on the way down.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, biting back a sound as pain sparked down your side.
That was when something grabbed your ankle.
Your body reacted before your mind caught up. You kicked hard, heel smashing into something solid. A low, wet snarl answered. Fingers, slick and strong, tightened around your boot and dragged you back across the mud.
You twisted onto your back and grabbed for your backup knife.
The thing hauling you wasn’t alone.
Shapes moved between the trees at the bottom of the slope. Tall. Pale. Their mouths split too wide. Their eyes stayed fixed on you with too much intelligence.
Your stomach dropped.
One of them smiled.
‘Well,’ it said, voice smooth and hungry, ‘look what rolled down the hill.’
You drove your knife into the wrist around your ankle.
It hissed and let go.
You scrambled backward, mud under your palms, boots slipping, heart hammering so hard it made your vision pulse. Above you, the fight sounded farther away now. Too far. The slope between you and the others was steep, slippery, tangled with roots.
Dean was up there.
You were down here.
Alone.
The creatures spread out slowly, cutting off the obvious path back. Three of them. Maybe four. You couldn’t tell. Your breath came too fast, but your hands steadied around the knife.
No Dean in front of you now. No Sam at your back.
Just you.
And the hungry things closing in.
Dean saw her disappear.
One second she was there, blade in her hand, eyes locked on Benny as the son of a bitch shoved himself up from the ground with blood pouring between his fingers. The next, her boot slipped, the earth broke under her, and she was gone.
His whole body went cold.
For half a second, everything inside him stopped. Then the world came back hard and loud.
‘No!’
He moved on instinct, already turning toward the slope, but the creature in front of him lunged again and forced him back. Teeth snapped too close to his face. Dean drove his elbow into its throat and shoved it off him, rage punching clean through the panic.
No.
No, no, no.
Not her.
Not here.
‘Dean!’ Sam shouted from somewhere to his right.
Dean barely heard him. He swung the machete hard, cutting through the thing’s neck, then kicked the body aside before it had finished twitching. Another came at him from the trees. Dean met it head-on. No patience left, no finesse in his movement. Just blade, boot, fist, whatever got it out of his way fastest.
He had to get to her.
Goddamnit, he had to get to his wife.
Everything narrowed to that.
Sam was fighting beside him now, moving fast, breathing hard. Benny staggered up with one hand still clamped to his neck, blood slick between his fingers, but the guy grabbed his blade anyway and caught another creature across the ribs before it got to Sam’s side.
‘Dean!’ Sam barked again. ‘On your left!’
Dean snarled and buried his machete in the last monster’s chest. It screamed in his face. He yanked the blade free and Sam took its head off with one clean swing.
Then… silence.
But Dean was already running.
He hit the edge of the slope where she had disappeared and dropped to one knee so fast the mud splattered over his jeans. He saw the broken ground. The long, ugly slide through leaves and wet dirt. Marks where she’d tried to catch herself. A snapped root. Dark smear on a rock.
His heart slammed into his ribs.
He shouted her name down the slope.
Nothing.
Panic came up so hard it made his vision pulse.
‘Baby!’
Still nothing.
Sam was beside him now, chest heaving, eyes already scanning the trail. Benny came up on the other side, jaw tight, hand still pressed to his neck.
Dean didn’t wait.
He started down the slope, half-sliding, half-running, one hand grabbing at roots and rocks to keep from pitching forward. The ground dropped sharper after ten feet, slick and steep enough that his boots skidded out from under him. He caught himself with one hand, swore, and kept going.
‘Dean, slow down!’ Sam called behind him.
He followed the drag marks until they broke apart near a steeper drop.
Then he saw it. Her machete. Lying in the mud, half-hidden under leaves.
Dean stopped so hard his knees almost buckled.
For one second, his vision went white at the edges.
‘No. No, goddamnit!’
Not this. Not her blade on the ground. Not Purgatory taking her while he was ten feet away and too damn slow to stop it.
His hand closed around her machete. The grip still slick from the fight.
He couldn’t breathe.
‘Fuck!’
He saw her dead before his brain could stop it. Saw blood. Saw teeth. Saw her body somewhere under the trees while he stood there holding the weapon she should still have in her hand.
‘Baby!’ he yelled again, louder this time. ‘Hey!’
‘Dean!’ Sam snapped.
Dean barely heard him over the blood roaring in his ears.
‘Dean, shut up and listen!’
That got through.
Dean froze. For one long second, all he could hear was his own breathing. Too loud, too fast. Then he forced it down. Locked his jaw. Listened.
There.
Down and to the left.
A snarl. Low. Ugly.
Then another.
Then her scream.
Dean’s body moved immediately.
‘Over there,’ Benny said, already pointing with his blade toward a narrow break in the trees along the side of the slope. ‘Trail runs down that way.’
Dean didn’t answer. He just ran.
Branches whipped at his face. Mud dragged at his boots. Sam was right behind him, breath harsh. Benny followed, slower but moving, boots pounding the ground.
All three of them shoved through the brush with enough noise to announce themselves to half the damn forest. Dean didn’t care. Let everything out there hear him coming. Let the whole fucking place know exactly what kind of mistake it had just made.
He couldn’t think past the sound of her scream.
She was down there. Alone. With monsters. No weapon. Probably hurt.
He pushed harder.
His lungs burned. His hand tightened around her machete until his knuckles ached. Every step felt too slow.
If they touched her, he’d rip them apart with his bare hands. If they hurt her, if they put one goddamn mark on her-
He broke through the last stretch of brush and stopped dead.
Sam nearly slammed into his back. Benny came up beside them, breathing hard.
For one second, none of them moved. Dean couldn’t process what he was seeing.
Two bodies were already on the ground.
Not monsters from earlier. Nastier looking bastards, lying twisted in the mud with black blood soaking the leaves around them. One had its throat opened. The other was still twitching, its face smashed to hell.
And she was on top of the third.
Covered in dirt. Hair loose around her face. Jacket torn. Blood on her cheek, her hands, her throat. Some of it hers. Too much of it hers. Her eyes were wild, teeth clenched, breath tearing out of her as she kicked the thing hard enough to knock it flat, then dropped onto it with her knees bracketing its ribs.
The creature reached for her.
She caught its wrist, drove her knife down through its hand, pinning it to the ground. Then she pulled the blade free, grabbed the thing by the hair, and shoved the knife straight into its eye with a furious, broken growl.
The body jerked once.
Then went still.
Dean stared. Couldn’t help it.
His wife stayed there, kneeling over the dead thing, chest rising fast, knife still buried deep in its skull. Mud streaked her face. Blood dripped from her fingers. Her whole body shook with adrenaline, but she was upright. Breathing.
Alive.
Benny let out a low stunned breath beside him. ‘Damn.’
That was what broke the moment.
Her head snapped up.
For one second, she looked right through them, still stuck wherever she had gone to survive. Then her eyes found Dean.
And everything in her face changed.
She yanked the knife free and pushed herself to her feet.
Dean was already moving.
She ran toward him, stumbling once in the mud, and he crossed the distance fast enough that everything around him blurred. He hit her so hard he nearly knocked both of them over. One hand buried itself in the back of her hair, gripping hard. The other wrapped around her waist and hauled her up against him with everything he had.
His mouth crashed into hers.
No softness in it. No patience, no thought. Just panic and relief and that ugly space where, for two or three minutes, he hadn’t known if she was alive.
She grabbed at him just as hard. One hand fisted in his jacket, the other hanging loose at her side, still closing around her knife.
And Dean kissed her deeper, rougher, holding her so tight he probably should’ve eased up. Her hair tangled around his fingers. His arm crushed her against him. He needed to feel her there. Needed her breathing against him, warm and solid and alive.
She was alive.
Son of a bitch, she was alive.
When he finally broke the kiss, it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was because both of them needed air.
Their foreheads stayed pressed together. Her breath shook against his mouth. His hand was still in her hair, refusing to let go.
‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ he rasped.
Her fingers tightened in his jacket. ‘It wasn’t exactly on purpose.’
‘Don’t care.’ His voice cracked rougher than he wanted. He pulled back just enough to look at her face, eyes dragging over every streak of blood, every cut, every bit of dirt. ‘You scared the crap outta me.’
She swallowed, still breathing hard. ‘I know.’
Dean’s jaw tightened. He wanted to pull her back in. Wanted to check every inch of her for damage and maybe kill something again just to have somewhere to put the rage still tearing around under his skin.
And yeah, beneath all that terror and anger, something else hit too.
Pride.
Because she had just been dragged off by a pack of monsters and left three corpses behind.
That was his wife.
His thumb brushed the side of her face, smearing blood and mud over her cheek.
‘You hurt?’
‘Not badly.’ She said it too fast.
His eyes narrowed.
‘Dean,’ she said, softer, still trying to catch her breath. ‘I’m fine. I’m standing.’
Behind them, Sam cleared his throat again, but this time there was no teasing in it. Only urgency.
‘Guys.’
Dean didn’t look away from her.
Benny stepped closer, blade up, eyes already scanning the trees.
‘Hate to interrupt what is honestly a real touchin’ moment,’ he drawled, wiping blood off his jaw with the back of his hand, ‘but I think we oughta get the hell outta here.’
Dean closed his eyes for half a second.
Right.
He was right.
They had to move.
He pressed one more quick, hard kiss to her forehead, then shoved her machete back into her hand.
‘Hold onto that this time.’
Her mouth twitched a little.
‘Yes, sir,’ she nodded, still breathing hard. Then she looked past him toward Sam and Benny. ‘Yeah. Let’s get out of here.’
Dean kept one hand at her back as they turned toward the trees. Didn’t care if the guys noticed. Didn’t care if the whole damn universe noticed. For the rest of Purgatory, she was staying within arm’s reach.
They moved fast.
Back up the narrow trail, around the worst of the slope, toward the stream and the three trees waiting ahead. Dean didn’t let his hand leave her for more than a few seconds at a time.
When they reached the rocks between the trees, the air shifted. Dean felt it before he saw anything. The opening wasn’t obvious unless a person knew where to look. He knew. So did Sam. So did she.
Benny stopped at Dean’s side, still pressing one hand to his neck.
‘Well,’ Benny said, voice a little rougher now, ‘guess that’s your door.’
He took one step forward. Then stopped.
Dean turned his head. ‘What?’
Benny’s jaw tightened. He stared at the rocks, eyes narrowing, then shook his head once.
‘Can’t,’ he said quietly.
Dean’s stomach dropped. ‘What do you mean, can’t?’
Benny lifted his free hand toward the gap between the rocks, then pulled it back before touching anything. His face twisted slightly.
‘I can feel it,’ he said. ‘That door ain’t for me, brother.’
Sam frowned, stepping closer. ‘Maybe... because you’re not a human soul?’
Benny glanced at him.
Sam’s eyes moved over the rocks, already thinking it through. ‘I mean, last time, Bobby could cross with us because he was human. But you’re…’
‘Monster soul,’ Dean finished, voice tight.
Benny gave him a humorless little smile. ‘Guess Hell’s got standards after all.’
Dean didn’t smile back. He dragged a hand through his hair. ‘Son of a bitch.’
‘Dean,’ his wife said softly.
He looked at her and knew they were thinking the same thing. Benny would have to stay in Purgatory. Alone. Wait long enough for them to come back and get him.
Benny straightened, forcing that usual steadiness back into his face. ‘Hey. This was always the deal. I get y’all to the door.’
‘You were supposed to come back with us,’ Dean said.
‘Still plannin’ on it, chief.’ Benny nodded toward the way they’d come. ‘I’ll keep breathin’ up here best I can. You come back through, I’ll be waitin’.’
Dean hated that. Hated every damn word of it. But there wasn’t anything to fix it right now.
He stepped closer and grabbed Benny’s shoulder, squeezing hard.
‘We’ll be back.’
Benny held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once. ‘I know.’
His wife moved before Dean could say anything else. She reached into his backpack, opened the box inside, and pulled out two of the surviving darts. Dean’s chest tightened at the sight of them in her hand. But he didn’t stop her.
She held them out to Benny.
‘It’s not much,’ she said, voice tight. ‘But it might help your neck. Maybe speed up the healing, or at least keep anything nasty from getting worse.’ She swallowed, eyes flicking to the blood still seeping between his fingers. ‘Just… be alive when we come back.’
Benny’s whole face softened.
For a second, the easy smirk was gone. He looked at her, then at the darts, and swallowed hard before taking them carefully.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Dean’s jaw tightened.
Then he grabbed his wife’s hand and turned toward the rocks before the feeling in his chest could get any worse.
Sam moved in close on her other side, blade still raised.
Dean squeezed her hand once.
Then they stepped toward the passage to Hell together.
Summary: Heaven finally calls in the favor it’s been holding over your head since the day you came back from the dead. To repay it, you, Dean, and Sam have to go through Purgatory and into Hell itself to retrieve the Lance of Michael. But Hell has been closed for a long time, and the things trapped inside have not forgotten who locked the door. Some promises survive the dark. Others come back changed...
MASTERLIST
Story tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
Warning: This one's going to be slightly darker. I will tag everything later, when it becomes relevant, but for now, I don't want to spoil anything.
A/N: It was my birthday yesterday, so I decided to give you a little present - the first chapter of the sequel I promised. We’re starting a little slow, but trust me, I’ve got a lot in store.
Feel free to tell me if you think you know where this is going… just don’t spoil it for everyone else, please. I may have made it a little too obvious...
For better or worse.
In sickness and in health.
Until death do us part.
The fine print of marriage. Pretty words people say because they believe love makes them capable of keeping promises that big.
Back at your wedding, you didn’t use those words. Not because you didn’t believe them. Not because you thought they were too much. No. You promised forever. Because you knew better.
You knew forever was possible. You knew that was what both of you had been given. Not just a single lifetime. Not until age or illness or death finally came to collect.
Forever.
And even if you had known, even if someone had stood in front of you that day and described every terrible, unspeakable thing waiting for you along the road… You still would have taken his hand.
You still would have said yes.
The only thing you didn’t know was what you were willing to become to save your forever.
Dean was pacing the war room hard enough that the hem of his gray bathrobe kept snapping around his calves.
He couldn’t sit down. Might never sit down again, honestly. Might never calm the hell down again either, not with her sitting right there at the map table, hands flat on the glowing surface, way too damn calm for a conversation like this.
Dean knew that calm. Knew it wasn’t natural.
She was using her mojo to hold herself together. Pulling on that protection in her blood, the one her great-grandfather had shoved into their lives from beyond the grave. And yeah, fine, right now Dean was grateful for it. Because if she wasn’t calm, if she cracked right now, Dean was pretty sure he’d start tearing the bunker apart brick by brick.
Still, watching her sit there all steady and controlled was tuning his own nerves up past safe. His body wanted to move. Hit something. Break something. Grab her and drag her back to their room and lock the damn door until Heaven forgot they existed.
Cas was talking, and every single sentence out of his mouth was worse than the one before.
Dean would’ve given anything for one hit of her magic himself. Just enough to take the edge off. Enough to stop his jaw from aching, his hands from flexing, his pulse from hammering in his throat.
But she needed it more. And he’d give her anything she needed.
Everything.
‘So you’re a hundred percent sure the Lance is down there?’ she asked, her voice even. Too even.
Cas nodded. ‘Yes. The last time it was seen, Crowley had it locked in one of Hell’s vaults.’
‘And who gave you this information?’ she asked again.
‘Crowley,’ Castiel said.
Dean stopped pacing. Turned his head slow toward Cas. From the corner of his eye, he saw his brother straighten beside her chair.
‘Crowley?’ Sam echoed, forehead creasing. ‘He’s alive?’
‘Yes,’ Cas said. ‘He is in a rather pitiful state. Humanity clearly doesn’t agree with him.’
Dean’s mouth twitched. Not even close to a smile.
Good.
‘But he was willing to talk,’ Cas went on. ‘And we made sure he wasn’t lying.’
‘Made sure?’ Sam asked. ‘You mean you tortured him?’
Castiel looked almost offended by the question. ‘No. There was no need. He was scared out of his mind.’
Nobody said anything to that.
Dean sure as hell wasn’t gonna waste sympathy on Crowley. Cured or not, human or not, the son of a bitch had earned every bad thing coming his way. Crowley had hurt people Dean loved. Hurt her. Hurt Sam. Hurt Kevin. Dean would never forgive that. As far as he was concerned, the bastard still got off easy.
The silence stretched. Cas took that as his cue to keep going.
‘Crowley said the last time he saw the Lance was when he retrieved the Angel tablet from the vault before your… transaction. Considering the Gates of Hell were closed only hours later, it is reasonable to assume the Lance remains locked inside.’
Dean started pacing again. Couldn’t keep still. Couldn’t look at her too long either, because every time he did, his chest got tight enough to hurt.
Then she spoke again, and there it was. A tiny shake under the calm.
‘Okay,’ she said, taking a breath. ‘How do we get there?’
Fair question.
The gates were shut. All of them. Locked up tight because of her and Sam. No demons topside anymore, no smoke-out black-eyed sons of bitches crawling around in meatsuits. No easy door down. Which left exactly one option. Purgatory.
Dean’s stomach turned.
But Ajay was dead. The rogue reaper who got her and Sam through before was gone. Crowley had seen to that a long time ago.
‘Heaven has several reapers working with us,’ Cas said. ‘There are a few willing to take you there.’
Dean’s jaw tightened hard. He hated this. Hated every piece of it.
Hated that they were standing here talking about that place again, talking about sending her there again, as if the last time hadn’t nearly broken him in half. As if it hadn’t almost killed both of them. And for what? Because Naomi had decided to cash in the debt she’d been holding over his wife’s head since the day she dragged her back from the dead.
‘You mean there and back, right?’ Sam asked.
Dean glanced up. Cas’s shoulders dipped, just a fraction.
Son of a bitch.
‘Unfortunately,’ Cas said, and his eyes flicked to Dean before dropping again, ‘there is no way of knowing when you will return. No reaper is willing to wait in Purgatory.’
She sat up straighter at that. ‘So we’re supposed to bet on the human portal Dean used with Benny? The same one Sam and I used?’
‘Yes,’ Castiel said.
‘And how do we even know the back door to Hell is still open?’ Sam asked. ‘We closed the gates. That was the whole point.’
‘You closed the Gates of Hell on Earth,’ Cas said. ‘That was always clear from the trials.’
Dean rolled his eyes before he could stop himself.
Yeah, sure. Always clear. Except for the part where nothing was ever clear until Kevin translated the tablet. Cas had obviously spent too much time upstairs. He was starting to sound like one of the smug angel dicks he used to hate.
‘And our intelligence confirms it is open,’ Cas continued. ‘The demons simply cannot get out. But you should be able to use it.’
‘You keep saying you, Cas,’ she said.
Dean stopped again. Her voice was still calm, but suspicion had cut through it now.
‘You’re not coming with us, are you?’
Another silence. Dean looked at Cas. For what it was worth, the guy looked miserable. Didn’t help much. Didn’t make the answer any less crap.
‘Sadly, no,’ Cas said quietly. ‘Believe me, I want to go with you. The task before you is dangerous. But my presence there would be a beacon. It could draw attention to you. Naomi says-’
‘Oh, you gotta be kidding me,’ Dean finally snapped.
All three of them looked at him. He didn’t look at his wife. Couldn’t. Already knew what look she was probably giving him.
Too damn bad. He was past caring.
‘Naomi says?!’ Dean barked. ‘Fuck Naomi!’
‘Dean,’ Sam warned.
‘No, Sam, screw that.’ Dean pointed at Cas. ‘What the hell happened to you, man?’
Cas said nothing. Dean stepped closer, robe shifting around his legs.
‘I mean, seriously. I know she gave you your powers back. Great. Awesome. But you used to have your own damn will, Cas. Now she says jump and you ask how high.’
Cas lowered his eyes to the table. That pissed Dean off even more.
‘You gotta see what she’s doing is wrong. She’s using you just as much as she’s using her.’
He finally looked at his wife. Expected anger. But he didn’t get it. No, her eyes were soft. That cut through him worse than any glare would’ve.
Because she was grateful he was saying all that.
Because she was scared.
Dean swallowed hard.
‘Dean-’ Cas started.
Dean shook his head. He wasn’t done. ‘No. Really, Cas. Since when are you back to bein’ Heaven’s bitch?’
The words landed ugly. Dean knew it the second they left his mouth. Cas didn’t flinch, didn’t snap back. He just looked at him with that serious, sad face that made Dean want to hit something.
The silence dragged.
Sam finally cleared his throat.
‘So let me get this straight,’ he said, voice controlled. ‘The only thing Heaven is helping with is getting us into Purgatory. After that, we’re on our own. No backup in Hell, no guaranteed way out for us.’
‘Wait, what?’ she cut in.
Dean closed his eyes for half a second.
Here we go.
‘Us?’ she asked, turning toward Sam. ‘What do you mean, us?’
Dean had expected this from her.
And he wasn’t surprised about his brother, either. Because Sam had already made up his mind. Hell, Sam had made up his mind about three seconds after they heard what Naomi wanted. There had been no real conversation. Sam had just looked at Dean and said he was going. Dean hadn’t argued. Any other time, he would’ve fought like hell to keep Sammy out of the line of fire. But this was too big. Too dangerous. And Dean needed his brother down there.
Needed him with her.
Sam was the second-best hunter in the world, after all.
‘Sam?’ she spoke again, sharper this time. Dean and Sam exchanged one look. ‘Sam, I’m talking to you. And I swear to God, if you tell me-’
‘I’m coming with,’ Sam interrupted, firm. ‘I’m not sitting this one out. Not a chance.’
Her face shifted. ‘Sam, please.’
He put a hand on her shoulder, gentle, but steady. ‘There’s nothing you can say to talk me out of it. I’m sorry.’
She turned to Dean then, eyes wide, glassy. Desperate.
‘Dean, back me up.’
Fuck.
There it was. The look he never could handle. The one that made him want to give her anything, promise anything, lie through his teeth if it made her breathe easier.
But not this time.
Dean forced himself to hold her gaze.
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I’m with Sam on this one. We need him down there.’
And there was the glare, the one he’d been expecting. Hurt. Scared.
‘No.’ She shook her head fast. ‘No, no, no. I’m not letting both of you do this.’
Dean saw it happen. Her breathing changed, fingers tightened against the edge of the map table. Her magic was slipping.
He crossed the distance fast and leaned over her, bracing one hand against the table near hers, caging her. Just enough to hold her attention, enough to keep her from spinning out.
‘Baby,’ he said, low and steady, ‘listen to me. We’re both going with you. Because that’s the only way all three of us are comin’ back alive.’
Her eyes flicked over his face, even glassier now.
Goddamnit.
It took everything in him not to fold. Not to drag her up out of that chair, tuck her against his chest, and swear he’d find another way.
But there wasn’t another way. So he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
‘And we are coming back,’ he said, rougher now. ‘I promise.’
Her eyes closed, just for a second. Then she opened them and looked at Sam. She shook her head once, but she didn’t argue again. Instead, she took a slow breath and reached for Dean’s hand where it was still planted on the table.
Her fingers closed around his, tight. Anchoring herself. Pulling on the magic in her blood.
He could feel it. Not the magic itself, but the effect of it. The way her breathing evened out. Her hand stopped trembling. She forced herself back into the woman who could stand in front of angels, demons, gods, and tell them exactly where to shove it.
His wife.
Dean curled his fingers around hers and squeezed once. After a moment, she lifted her chin and turned back to Cas.
‘Alright,’ she looked at Castiel, voice steady again. ‘Two days. Give me two days to get ready.’
You were going to Hell. Again.
A part of you had hoped the angels would take much longer to get their intel together and set a date. A larger part of you had hoped the day simply would not come at all. That Heaven would suddenly find a better option and leave the three of you out of it.
But there was another part too. The stubborn part, the one that kept trying to convince you that you had been through worse.
The trials, for example. Those were worse, objectively. You had survived the trials, survived closing the Gates of Hell. You had survived dying on a church floor. A walk through Purgatory and Hell was just part of that story, wasn’t it?
You had done it once. To an extent.
Because the last time you went to Hell, you never made it past the cells that held the souls. The few demons you encountered were burned and dealt with quickly. Almost easily, compared to the nightmare of Purgatory. And now you had to cross Purgatory again. A monster pit waiting between you and whatever Hell had become after the gates closed.
That was enough to make your stomach twist on its own.
But underneath your own fear, under the cold weight sitting under your ribs, there was something worse.
Dean.
You were worried about him. More than you would ever admit in front of him, because he already looked one bad word away from ripping the bunker apart. You didn’t know what Purgatory would do to him once he set foot there again. What old scars it would open, what memories it would shove back under his skin. That place had already damaged something between him and Sam that took time and too many ugly conversations to repair.
And then there was Hell.
You knew exactly what Hell had done to him after he was gripped tight and raised from perdition. The nightmares, the drinking, the memories... Thirty years on the rack. Ten years on the other side of it, holding the blade. And you knew very well which part still ate at him worse. It was not only what had been done to him. It was what he had done to survive it.
That had never really loosened its grip on him.
So yes, you were scared. Nervous, wound up, too close to spiraling, more than once. You couldn’t remember the last time you had tapped into your own calming magic this much. Mostly for yourself. Sometimes for Dean too, because he was obviously losing his mind. But you knew if he saw the full extent of your fear, it would only make his worse. So for once, you were forcing yourself to stay calm, focusing on your own breathing, your own pulse, your own head.
Still, you had to be careful.
Your magic had limits. You had learned that the hard way. And the last thing you needed was to push too far before you even got into Hell. Because nothing screamed success quite like sudden amnesia while elbow-deep in blood and demon guts.
No. You had to pace yourself.
Especially with everything you had spent the past two days doing.
It had been intense.
All three of you had snapped into focus. Sam and Dean prepared every weapon they could justify carrying. The demon-killing knife, Angel blades, holy water. Dean even insisted on bringing salt rounds, even though you both knew they would probably be useless down there. He did not care. If there was the slightest chance something might help, it was going in the bag.
Dean had gone full tactician, and it was almost unfair how hot that was. Which, admittedly, was something you thought about him far too often. But watching him plan, analyze, think three steps ahead with that tight focus in his eyes… you had caught yourself thinking, not for the first time, that competence looked ridiculously good on your husband.
You, on the other hand, focused on your blood.
Your burning touch and blood were still the best weapon against demons you had. So you prepared everything you needed for the blood darts you had decided to try after all.
You still didn’t know if injecting your blood into demons through darts would work the way you hoped, but it was worth trying.
You had prepped the darts, added EDTA, packed the insulated medical box that would keep the blood usable as long as possible. You could not make many, though. It was already too much equipment to carry, especially with the huge-ass dart gun. So, thirty darts, maybe. And that was already pushing it.
On top of that, you had decided to paint a protective sigil in your blood on both Sam and Dean. The same base symbols you had used during the ritual when you transferred the protection in your blood to them. It should help, in theory. Demons should not be able to touch them easily. Maybe they would even burn on contact. Maybe not. You couldn’t be sure. But smearing your blood across their chests was the least you could do.
They had both agreed to it, of course. Even Dean.
He didn’t even give you the look, not even an eye-roll. He only asked you not to give too much. Not to risk pushing your magic too hard before you even got there. On that point, you had agreed with him completely.
Which was why you were sitting in your lab now, empty dart shells lined up in neat rows, the EDTA already piped in. The phlebotomy kit sat open beside you, your blood slowly filling the collection bag. Drawing the blood this way was easier. A lot less stupid than stabbing yourself over and over just to fill individual vials.
You watched the dark red move through the tube, when the door opened.
‘Hey.’
Dean’s voice came from the doorway.
You looked up and found him standing there with a flask in one hand and three pairs of protective glasses in the other.
‘Can I steal some of your lab space?’
‘Sure,’ you said, and managed a small smile.
When he smiled back, your heart gave a stupid little jump. You had not seen him smile once in the last forty-eight hours.
He stepped inside and moved toward the counter, grabbing a metal tray. He poured a thin layer of clear liquid into it, flicked his Zippo open, and touched the flame to it. A small fire caught and held. Dean watched it for a second, then dragged the first pair of glasses through the flame. One lens, then the other. Then the next pair.
Of course.
Holy fire. So you could see hellhounds.
Your throat tightened so fast it almost hurt.
With everything else weighing on you, you had forgotten about them. Those terrifying, stinking things. The sound of claws on the ground. The copper rot of their blood in your mouth after the trial. The painful pressure of teeth in your shoulder…
‘That’s useful,’ you said, because that was the only thing you trusted your voice to do.
‘Mhm.’ Dean kept his attention on the flame.
After a second, he looked up. His eyes went straight to the blood bag in front of you, then to the tube coming out of your arm.
His whole face changed.
‘How much do you need to give?’ he asked.
‘Three hundred milliliters,’ you glanced at the bag. ‘Which is around ten ounces, I think. Little less than a regular donation.’
Dean said nothing. You watched his throat move as he swallowed.
So you kept talking, because silence was getting a little heavy.
‘That should give us thirty darts. Which is already a lot to carry with us.’ You fumbled one of the empty shells with your free hand and nodded toward the insulated box on the side. ‘They’ll have to stay in that as long as possible.’
‘I’ll get a backpack,’ Dean said. ‘Should fit.’
He put out the fire, closed the flask, and folded the glasses carefully beside the tray.
‘Does the dart gun have a magazine?’ you asked.
Dean shook his head. ‘Nope. Single-shot.’
‘Damnit.’ You closed your eyes for a second. ‘Okay. I can keep a few on hand once we’re down there. There won’t be enough time for them to spoil outside the box, I guess. But we’ll have to stop so I can take them out in batches.’
‘I’ll be carrying the gun,’ Dean said simply.
You frowned. ‘I thought I would be.’
‘No.’
You blinked at him. He didn’t even soften it. Just stood there, arms crossed, face set.
‘That thing’s big and heavy. Just carryin’ it would slow your ass down, and we can’t afford that.’
Okay. There were at least seven better ways to say that.
You narrowed your eyes. ‘But I’m the more precise shot.’
Dean’s eyebrow lifted. He didn’t argue, though. The sharpshooter trophy from Tombstone sitting in your room was yours, after all, and he knew it.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You are.’
The corner of his mouth twitched and you saw the lines around his eyes deepen, just a little.
‘But your best weapon is still your hands,’ he continued. ‘I need you free to use ’em if something gets close, not trying to juggle that huge frickin’ rifle while some demon tries to take a chunk out of you.’
Yeah, okay, that was fair. Still, that tone. That edge in his voice scraped at your nerves.
You pulled the needle out of your arm and dropped it onto the tray harder than necessary.
‘Right,’ you said.
Dean let out a slow breath beside you and dragged a hand over his face.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
You did not look up. You clamped the tube, taped the gauze down, and sat back a little while keeping the firm pressure at the needle site on your arm.
‘Sweetheart.’ His voice was rougher now. Lower. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just... I’m nervous as hell, okay? That’s why I’m bein’ a jerk.’
That softened you immediately, because of course it did. You understood too well that with Dean, fear usually came out as anger first.
‘That’s okay,’ you said, giving him a small smile. ‘I know you are. We all are.’
You looked at each other then, and for a second, neither of you said anything. You searched his face for reassurance. For hope, maybe. He seemed to be doing the exact same thing, and that scared you a little more.
You cleared your throat and glanced at the clock.
‘It’s late,’ you said. ‘You should try to get some rest.’
The look on his face made it obvious rest was not happening.
So you reached for him.
He stepped closer without hesitation. You wrapped your arm around his waist from where you sat and pressed your face into his stomach, breathing him in through the soft cotton of his shirt. You shut your eyes and let yourself have the comfort of that for one brief moment.
One of his hands settled at the back of your neck. The other moved over the side of your head, fingers gentle in your hair.
‘I’ll fill the darts, put them in the fridge, and I’ll be right there, okay?’
His thumb brushed the side of your neck. You tightened your arm around him.
‘Yeah,’ he said. His voice caught a little on the word.
Dean bent and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. It lingered for one second longer than usual. After that, he made himself step away and left the lab.
And you sat there for a second longer, staring at the door and trying not to think too hard about the fact that in a few hours, the two of you would be walking back into the worst places either of you had ever survived.
It was almost ten by the time you finally shut the lab door behind you.
Your back ached from sitting too long, your arm still felt tender where the needle had been, and your head was still running the same thoughts, same fears, same ugly possibilities waiting for you in a matter of hours.
You dragged your feet through the bunker halls, too tired to walk properly and too wired to feel anywhere close to sleep. You doubted you would manage more than a few restless minutes, but at least you could lie down, close your eyes for a while. At least you could rest against your husband and pretend, for a little bit, that tomorrow wasn’t right outside the door.
When you pushed open the bedroom door, he was already changed into his sleep shirt and boxers, standing at the end of the bed with the remote in one hand and a deep scowl on his face.
‘Goddamn piece of junk,’ he muttered, jabbing at the buttons. ‘I swear to God, one more time and I’m puttin’ a bullet in this thing.’
You stood in the doorway for a second, watching him. Then you let the door click shut behind you, crossed the room without a word, and wrapped both arms around him from behind.
Dean went still.
You pressed yourself flush against his back, cheek resting between his shoulder blades, and closed your eyes. He was warm and solid and so tense under your hands. You took one breath, then another, and reached carefully for your magic.
Not much. Just a small push, enough to smooth the sharpest edges off him.
You felt the change almost immediately. The smallest drop in his shoulders, the slight easing of the muscles under your cheek. His breathing didn’t calm completely, but it slowed enough for you to know it had worked.
Dean sighed through his nose.
‘You shouldn’t waste your magic like that.’
The rumble of his voice moved through his chest and into your cheek where it still rested between his shoulders. You tightened your hold on him.
‘It’s not a waste if it helps you.’
He gave a low scoff, but there was no bite in it. ‘Right.’
He covered one of your hands with his and held it there, pressed against his stomach. For a moment, neither of you moved. He just kept your hand trapped under his, thumb dragging over your knuckles in slow strokes.
Finally, you pulled back enough to step around him. He let you, but only because you kept your hands on him. You braced them against his biceps and made him look down.
‘Hey,’ you said softly. ‘Look at me.’
His eyes met yours for a moment, then flicked away almost immediately.
‘Dean.’
His jaw tightened.
You squeezed his arms. ‘It’s going to be okay.’ You tried to sound more certain than you felt. ‘We’re more prepared than we’ve ever been. We’ve got a plan, we’ve got weapons, we’ve got the blood darts. We’re gonna kick its ass.’
He gave you a look then, unimpressed. ‘That right?’
‘Yes.’ You slid your hands up his shoulders, over the back of his neck, and into his hair. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. His eyes closed when your nails scratched lightly at his scalp.
‘Trust me. We’ll be back home before you know it. With the Lance, my Heaven debt finally paid off. And then we can go right back to fighting over honeymoon plans.’
Dean’s eyes opened. His face softened in the worst possible way. In that quiet, sick understanding that both of you were trying not to say the obvious thing out loud.
Heaven would not simply let go because you did one favor.
But now wasn’t the time to focus on that. Instead, you let out a small breath and pulled him down into a kiss.
It was supposed to be gentle. Reassuring. Something simple enough to say what words couldn’t.
Dean let it stay that way for maybe three seconds.
Then his hands tightened on you. The kiss changed fast. His mouth pressed harder, his fingers dug into your hips, and suddenly he was pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The need, the desperation in it stole the air from your lungs. His mouth moved over yours with that familiar intensity that always made your head spin.
There was longing in it. Fear too. Something almost angry in the way he kissed you. Not at you, at the whole damn situation. At Heaven. At tomorrow. At anything that thought it had the right to take you from him.
You let him kiss you like that. And let yourself melt into it too, because the truth was, it calmed you down better than magic ever did. His mouth, his hands, his body against yours.
He walked you back without breaking the kiss. One slow step, then another, until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the bed.
That was when you broke the kiss, barely, your mouth still close to his.
‘Dean,’ you whispered.
His breathing was hard against your lips, hands still holding your hips. ‘What?’
‘I don’t…’ You swallowed, trying to get the words out without hurting him. ‘I don’t think I can tonight.’
Dean froze, forehead pressed to yours.
You looked down for a second, then forced yourself to look back at him. ‘I don’t want this to feel like goodbye sex.’
The words landed hard between you. He looked at you for a second, chest rising and falling against yours.
‘Can we just… cuddle tonight?’ you asked gently.
His grip on you softened, palms moving over your hips in a slow, soothing pass.
‘Yeah,’ he said. His voice came out rough. ‘Yeah, course.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t.’ He shook his head immediately. ‘Don’t apologize for that.’
Dean leaned in and kissed you again. This time it was softer, slower. One kiss, then another, while his hand slid up to the back of your neck. Then another kiss to your forehead, lingering there a second longer than necessary before he stepped back.
‘But first,’ he said, clearing his throat a little, obviously needing the shift in focus as much as you did. ‘Sit.’
You blinked. ‘What?’
He crossed to the little table and grabbed the bottle of water and the sandwich he had apparently prepared earlier. Of course he had.
He came back and held them out with that stubborn, bossy look on his face. ‘Drink. Eat.’
You stared at the sandwich. ‘Dean-’
‘Don’t Dean me. You need it after the blood thing.’ He nodded toward the bed. ‘Then I’m cuddlin’ the hell outta you.’
‘But I’m not hungry.’
‘Didn’t ask.’
You took the water first, mostly because you didn’t have the energy for arguing. But he was right, you needed to hydrate after giving blood.
Dean kept standing there until you opened it and took a few swallows. Then he nodded at the sandwich.
You sighed. ‘You’re going to stare at me until I eat it, aren’t you?’
‘Damn right,’ he said. ‘Now sit your ass down and do what you’re told for once.’
You gave him a tired look, but took the sandwich and sat down on the bed anyway. The first bite made you realize how empty your stomach actually was.
Dean’s shoulders dropped a little once you started eating. You watched him climb into bed while you ate, close enough for his thigh to press against yours. His hand settled on your knee, warm and heavy, thumb moving now and then.
Neither of you said much after that.
You finished half the sandwich before your stomach protested, and Dean let you get away with that after a long suspicious look and one muttered, ‘Better than nothin’.’ Then he took the plate, set it aside, and pulled the blanket back.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘C’mere.’
You went willingly, folding into him with your head on his chest, his arm tight around you, your legs tangled together. And the whole time, one thought kept circling in your head.
You were coming back.
All of you.
Whatever Hell threw at you, whatever waited in Purgatory, whatever Heaven thought it had planned, you would not let it take him from you. Would not let it take you from him. Not after everything. Not now.
No matter what it took.
Yeah… you believed that.
Lying there, wrapped in his warmth, with his wedding ring resting against your skin and your blood sealed inside it, you believed it completely.
‘Remind me again why we have to drive there?’ she asked from the back. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if Cas just zapped us to the right location?’
Dean kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on his thigh. Sam sat beside him in the passenger seat, quiet, one elbow braced against the window. She was leaning forward from the backseat, one hand braced on the top of the bench between him and Sam.
Dean didn’t need to look at her. He could hear the nerves in every word. Could feel them, too, really. He kept his tone even anyway.
‘I already told you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to drive. Calms me down.’
That got him the faint sound of her breathing out through her nose. Pretty sure she rolled her eyes too. Any other day, he’d have called her on it. Would’ve shot back something smart. Maybe threatened to pull over. Today he let it slide.
‘Yeah, okay,’ she muttered.
Dean’s mouth twitched, but that was it.
Even after all that time, after the rings and the vows and the whole marriage deal, she still refused to sit in the front when Sam was in the car with them. Said it was out of the question. That she wasn’t going to mess with something sacred.
Dean was pretty sure part of her just liked having the whole damn back bench to herself.
Sam glanced at Dean, then back at the road, trying to stifle a big yawn.
They’d all been up before sunrise. Not that anyone had needed an alarm. Dean doubted any of them had slept more than an hour or two. He sure as hell hadn’t. She’d eventually gone quiet against him, but her sleep had been restless. Dean had stayed awake through most of it, counting every time she moved, every time she settled again.
Which was crap, because they needed to be sharp.
Still, they’d packed fast. Efficient. Sam handled the bags. Dean checked weapons one last time. She drew the sigils on their chests with her own blood, checked the darts, the cooling box, the little medical kit he wished they didn’t need.
So far, nothing had gone sideways.
Dean hated how much that made him nervous.
Cas and the reaper Heaven had assigned to get them through the portal were supposed to wait at the same place Ajay had used before. Closest door into Purgatory, apparently.
His wife settled back against the seat for a minute, then leaned forward again. Dean reached back without looking and held out his hand.
She took it immediately. Her fingers were cold. Of course they were.
He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles once, keeping his other hand steady on the wheel. ‘You good?’
‘No,’ she said honestly. Then, after a beat, ‘But I’m… functional.’
Dean huffed. ‘Yeah, that’s real comforting.’
Sam looked out the window, mouth tight. He didn’t say anything and Dean was grateful for that.
A few minutes later, the alley came into view. Narrow and dirty, trash pushed up against the walls, colorful graffiti all over the bricks. The kind of place normal people walked past fast and didn’t look into twice.
‘There,’ Sam said quietly, even though Dean had already seen it.
He pulled Baby to a stop near the curb and cut the engine.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Dean squeezed her hand and let go.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this done.’
All three doors opened at once with a loud creak.
They got out and went to the trunk. Sam started hauling things out, quiet and focused. Dean grabbed the dart gun and slung it over his shoulder with a grunt. The thing was big and looked ridiculous as hell next to the stuffed backpack already pulling at one side of him.
Still, he had to admit, the gun made him feel a little like Rambo. Too bad he couldn’t carry his wife’s blood in an ammo belt.
She came around the back of the car, eyes dropping to the backpack. ‘I can take that.’
Dean didn’t even let her touch the strap. ‘Nope.’
Her eyes lifted to his. ‘Dean, I can carry a bag.’
‘Good for you,’ he said, slamming the trunk shut. ‘I’m still carrying it.’
‘You’re already carrying the dart gun.’
‘And now I’m carryin’ the backpack.’
She opened her mouth to argue, took one look at his face, and let out a small irritated breath instead.
Dean shifted the backpack higher on his shoulder, then caught her by the waist and pulled her against him. Just to have her close for one second before everything went to hell. He pressed a quick kiss to her temple, his hand firm at her side.
‘Stay close.’
Her face softened just enough to make his chest hurt. ‘Of course.’
They stepped deeper into the alley, Sam just ahead of them. Cas was already there, standing near the far wall in his trench coat, stiff and solemn and looking about as happy as Dean felt. Beside him stood a small woman with black hair and a plain dark coat. For half a second, Dean’s throat locked up.
Tessa?
But no. Not Tessa. Not even close, once he got a better look. Just another reaper with a face that said she wasn’t exactly thrilled about today’s assignment either.
Awesome.
His fingers closed around his wife’s hand, tight. He didn’t let go.
‘Hello,’ Cas said when they got closer.
Dean felt her take a deep breath next to him. Caught the way her shoulders straightened, the way she pulled herself together. He squeezed her hand once in answer.
‘Hey, Cas,’ Sam said.
Dean gave a short nod. She managed a small, tight smile.
Cas looked at Sam, then at her, then back at Dean. His eyes dropped briefly to the dart gun, then to the backpack, then to the hand Dean had locked around hers.
‘Dean,’ Cas started, serious. ‘Where’s-’
‘Five minutes,’ Dean cut in, checking his phone.
Sam looked over. So did she. Her brows pinched together immediately, confused, already turning toward him with a question in her face.
The reaper stepped in before she could ask it.
‘Shall we go over the plan?’ Her voice was firm. Not unfriendly, but not warm either.
Cas nodded once, and the reaper looked straight at Dean’s wife.
‘I understand you are already familiar with this route, so this is only to confirm what was agreed. I will take you through the portal into Purgatory. Once you are there, I leave. I will not stay and wait for you. I will not return to collect you. You know the way out on your own.’
Dean’s jaw tightened.
Yeah. They knew.
That didn’t make it any less of a dick move. Angels really had found new and interesting ways to suck. Dumping them into monster land with no pickup and no backup had to be one of the douchiest things he’d seen in a long damn time.
They’d have to make it back through the portal opening out in Maine. Middle of the damn woods. At least Cas and Eileen had promised to wait there for them on the other end.
If they all got back in one piece.
No.
Stop.
Dean forced the thought down before it could get worse.
‘Yeah, okay,’ he muttered.
He felt her shift closer beside him. ‘The backdoor is the same?’ she asked. Her voice was steady, but her fingers tightened around his. ‘Three trees meeting at the stream?’
‘Yes,’ the reaper confirmed. ‘From there, the passage leads downward.’
Sam frowned. ‘And you’re sure the portal’s still stable?’
‘As sure as one can be about Purgatory,’ the reaper said.
Dean rolled his eyes. ‘Great…’
He shifted under the weight of the gear, uncomfortable. His hand finally slipped from hers only so he could move the rifle strap. The second he had it settled, his palm went right to the small of her back. He could feel how tight she was even through her jacket.
Sam opened his mouth, probably to ask another practical question, when the sound of boots echoed from the far end of the alley.
Dean went still.
He didn’t have to turn around. He knew that walk. And the second his wife turned, he braced himself for the ass-kicking.
Summary: You are almost back to normal, and the last days in Dean’s body teach you more than you expected. But just when things finally start feeling right again, reality catches up with you.
CHAPTER 5 MASTERLIST
Tags: body swap, blood magic, Plus-Size reader, Smut, Sex, Masturbation, Body worship, POV Dean Winchester, POV alternating, POV second person, married!Dean, No use of y/n
A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait, but here it is, the final chapter of this little body-swap thing. It’s a long one, though partly because some of it was originally meant to be in the previous chapter, and I just didn’t have the energy to write it then.
Anyway, I really hope you won’t be disappointed. I’m recovering well, but I’m still a little tired, so that might show.
Thank you all so much for reading ❤️
It had been five days since you woke up in a body that wasn’t yours.
Well. Technically, it was yours. On paper anyway. To have and to hold, for better or worse, and all that.
And for better or worse it had absolutely been.
Some of it had sucked, obviously. Some of it had still been weird and inconvenient in ways your brain occasionally refused to process. But some parts? Some parts had actually been... kind of great.
Because once you learned how to move without knocking into things, figured out how to deal with different anatomy without panicking, there had been moments when being in Dean’s body started feeling almost addictive.
The strength alone was ridiculous.
You had never thought of yourself as weak. You were quite capable, actually. Knew how to handle yourself, and life in this reality had done a great job of beating any lingering delicacy out of you. But Dean’s body was operating on a whole different scale.
The first time one of your folders slipped behind the heavy counter in the lab and you simply moved the whole thing without much effort, you just stood there for a second in stunned silence.
You looked down at your arms. Then you moved it again.
After that, you were hooked.
You started taking advantage of it every chance you got. Carrying books around in stacks that would have had you making three trips in your own body. Hauling heavy storage boxes around the bunker just because you could. Picking up random bunker junk to see what Dean’s muscles could do without strain. You even went into the gym one afternoon and tested Dean’s fists on the punching bag.
Yeah.
Your husband was strong.
Obviously you had always known that. You had seen him fight, too many times. Seen him throw grown men around, pin monsters to the ground, move with brutal kind of efficiency when things got ugly. But actually standing in his body and feeling how much raw force sat behind all those skills had been something else.
Maybe you were romanticizing him a little.
Actually, no. You definitely were.
But honestly, after everything, was that really such a crime? If anybody had earned the right to be regarded as some kind of action hero, it was probably Dean Winchester.
And naturally, you had to test one other thing too.
One afternoon, when he walked past you while you were sprawled in a chair in the war room, you just leaned over, grabbed him around the waist, and pulled your own body right into your lap. Because no, you still did not fully believe him when he acted like your weight was no issue whatsoever.
Turned out, he had been telling the truth.
You had felt the weight, sure, but nowhere near the way you expected. Mostly what you noticed was the warmth. The softness. The pleasant, comfortable pressure of your own body settling against Dean’s.
Dean, on the other hand, had not been nearly as delighted by the experiment.
‘Babe,’ he had said in your own flat, long-suffering voice, ‘what the hell?’
You had only grinned and adjusted him more firmly against your chest.
He was not thrilled with being manhandled like that. You, on the other hand, were maybe a little too smug about proving your point after all the eye-rolls he usually gave you whenever you protested sitting in his lap yourself.
Actually, if you were being honest, Dean had definitely struggled more with the body-swap situation than you had.
A lot more.
You had expected that, sort of. But even then, you had not anticipated quite how many things would irritate him on a daily basis. Your hair. Your boobs. Your bra. The complete lack of functional pockets in your clothes. Every single day he found some new fresh injustice to bitch about.
One morning he walked into your lab while you were halfway buried in old books, trying to narrow down the best reversal spells.
‘Babe, I gotta ask,’ he said, sounding so offended that you knew immediately this was going to be good. ‘What the fuck is goin’ on with the random stabbing down there?’
It took you a second.
You stared at the notes in front of you, then slowly lifted your head and looked at him.
‘What?’
‘Down here.’ Dean’s hand swept over your lower belly, then around toward the small of your back. ‘Just these... painful little jabs outta nowhere. No warning. Just bam.’
He looked genuinely aggrieved by it.
You blinked at him, still not getting it. He rubbed lower this time, more toward your front.
‘Goddamn annoying,’ he muttered.
And then it clicked. You had to bite back a smile.
‘Dean,’ you said, trying not to laugh, ‘that’s my uterus. And my ovaries.’
Now it was his turn to stare at you blankly.
‘What?’
You sat back in the chair and folded your hands over the book in front of you.
‘You know. Those tiny internal organs that usually come with the one part of me you are much more interested in.’
Dean looked unimpressed for about half a second. Then his frown came back stronger.
‘Yeah, okay. And why are they hurtin’? Are you alright?’
That softened you instantly.
Because there it was again, that immediate concern. Even while complaining, even while trapped in your body, his first instinct was still to worry about you.
You smiled and shook your head.
‘I’m fine, Dean. It’s just hormones and all kinds of fun reproductive system things.’
He narrowed your eyes at you, clearly not fully buying the casual delivery.
You smiled a little wider.
‘I could go into detail,’ you offered, ‘but I promise, it’s normal. Women are so used to that that half the time we barely consciously register it anymore.’
Dean’s expression landed somewhere between appalled and horrified.
‘That is so wrong.’
You let out a soft laugh. ‘I guess.’
‘No, seriously.’ He dragged a hand down your face. ‘How the hell do you live like this?’
You shrugged and flipped another page in the spellbook.
‘Just be glad you’re not dealing with a period,’ you said easily. ‘Now that’s a real pain in the ass.’
Dean froze. Then his eyes widened in horror.
He visibly swallowed, hard.
‘Nope,’ he muttered before pacing out of the room. ‘Nope, I’m good. I’m real good.’
You had grinned for a full minute after he left.
You did feel bad for him, though. A little. The poor guy really was trying.
And despite all the complaining, he had been handling life in a woman’s body much better than you would have guessed. Ignoring that one panicked drunken spiral at the beginning, he had treated your body with an amount of reverence and care that still caught you off guard every time you noticed it.
He admired it constantly. Protected it, asked permission for things he technically did not need permission for because he was literally living inside it. You almost could not wrap your head around how much tenderness he had for you once you were seeing it from this angle.
That said, it was not as if Dean’s body had been effortless for you either.
Your problems were just... different. A lot more ridiculous.
You had mostly adjusted to the random twitches by then. To the occasional surprise hard-on at the least convenient moments. To the fact that Dean’s body needed no excuse to react to the most random things.
Dean had enjoyed making fun of you for that, claiming that your presence inside his body had somehow sent his hormones straight back into puberty.
And the list of absurd situations had gotten embarrassingly long pretty fast.
Like that one time he caught you standing in front of the dresser in his boxers, cursing under your breath because his dick absolutely refused to sit right no matter what you did. Dean had just walked over without saying a word, shoved a hand down there, tucked everything into place with infuriating confidence, and walked away again.
Or the night he had found you in the kitchen at two in the morning, stuffing your face with leftover bacon because your husband’s body evidently had the caloric needs of a growing teenage linebacker.
And of course there was the fact that Dean, every single day, politely but very persistently kept insisting that you help him experience female orgasm again. He really could not get enough.
Yet even then, he still held firm on one line - no getting fucked by his own dick. You had eventually realized you might actually have been open to trying it. Which, God, what a sentence. But he had shut that idea down so fast and so firmly that you did not push.
For the most part, though, the two of you had spent the week doing what you usually would have done in your own bodies.
You stayed mostly in the lab, gathering everything you needed for the reversal spell, taking breaks to cook or sit with Dean in the garage, or help work lore when Sam and Eileen called in with questions about the case they were on.
Dean handled phones for them, tinkered with Baby, did the occasional bunker chore, and came to bother you in the lab whenever he got bored or needed a new thing to complain about.
And somehow, just like that, the days had gone by faster than they probably should have. As much as the two of you were slowly adjusting, both of you were very ready to be back where you belonged.
Which was why, when Dean startled you out of your concentration one afternoon with a very decisive: ‘Alright, that’s enough,’ you looked up from the stack of books and scrolls on the library table with immediate suspicion.
He was standing there in your body, one hand on his hip, the other trying to tame the piece of hair that kept dropping into his eyes.
‘We gotta get outta here,’ he said.
You blinked at him. ‘What?’
‘I need air.’ Dean tossed the strand away and straightened up. ‘I wanna take Baby for a drive. Hit a bar or somethin’.’
Your eyebrows went up so fast they practically disappeared into Dean’s hairline.
‘A bar,’ you repeated. ‘You want to go to a bar.’
Dean gave you a look.
‘Yeah, that’s what I just said.’
You sat back in your chair and stared at him for a second.
‘While you are still... me.’
Dean shrugged. ‘Could be fun, right? Besides, we have nothing else to do, Sammy’s already back at Eileen’s. So… what d’you say?’
Part of you honestly thought he had to be joking.
But he was not. No, your husband looked way too determined. And way too excited, actually, which should probably have worried you more than it did.
You stared at him for another moment.
Screw it.
‘I mean…’ you said slowly, ‘if you really think this is a good idea.’ Dean’s whole face lit up. You exhaled and shut the book in front of you. ‘Sure. Let’s go.’
Dean was tired.
Which felt stupid, considering he really had not done all that much the last few days besides complain, get schooled by his own wife, and learn way too much about the female body firsthand.
And still, he felt wrung out. Because it turned out being in a woman’s body was... a lot.
He had not slept worth a damn in five frickin’ days. For two very obvious reasons. Her boobs.
Dean, under normal circumstances, had two preferred sleeping positions. On his stomach, one arm around the pillow, face half buried and out cold. Or on his back with her sprawled over him, her head on his chest, his hand somewhere on her while he drifted off breathing her in.
Well. Both options were screwed now.
Every time he rolled onto his stomach, her boobs were there. In the way. Requiring a whole goddamn strategy, which was ridiculous. And on his back, with her in his body resting on his chest while he was in hers? That was weird. Just… not right. Didn’t scratch the same itch.
And yeah, part of him suspected her calming magic wasn’t doing jack for him right now.
If that stuff was tied to her blood, and her blood was currently in his veins, then maybe that explained it. Or maybe he was talking out of his ass. Hell if he knew. But he decided not to bring it up. She already had enough on her plate, and they only had two days left if all went well. He could survive two more days.
Probably.
But honestly? He couldn’t wait to get his own body back.
Dean really had no clue how she did it. How women in general did it. The random pains nobody warned him about. The weird little stabs. The fatigue that felt different from his regular tiredness. The way simple things sometimes took more effort, not because she was weak, no, that wasn’t it, but because this body needed leverage where his could brute-force its way through.
And the constant awareness of being... more breakable than he was used to. Easier to hurt.
Yeah. That one got under his skin.
Maybe that made him sound like a jackass, even in his own head. It was not that he thought women were weaker. Hell no. He knew better than that. Had met enough women who could kick his ass six ways from Sunday. But it felt easier to get worn down by crap that never even crossed his mind before. And that part was unnerving. Eye-opening too, if he was being honest.
Hell, he was not even sure the superior orgasms fully made up for the rest of it.
Which was exactly why he needed to get out of the bunker for a bit. Get some air. Get behind the wheel. Stop thinking so damn much.
Because that was the other problem.
He had been way too in his own head. Thinking about whether he was taking good enough care of his wife. Thinking about all the times he’d let her tag along on hunts. Letting her get slammed into walls by ghosts. Letting her be anywhere near danger at all.
Dean was about two back twinges away from banning her from hunts for life.
So yeah. He needed the drive. Needed the bar. Needed to stop thinking before he turned into one of those insane husbands who thought locking their wives up was romantic.
That's why he was damn glad she had agreed.
Dean grabbed the keys off the war room table and was halfway to the door when he heard his own voice behind him.
‘You wanna go out dressed like that?’
He looked down at himself. Then back up at her, frowning.
‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearin’?’
She was leaning against the table in his body, tilting her head, clearly entertained.
‘Dean,’ she said, ‘I look like a beat-up lumberjack.’
That almost offended him on principle.
He glanced down again. Alright, fair. She had a point. He had dressed her in the oldest flannel he could find and a pair of jeans that had seen things.
‘Yeah, o- wait.’ Dean narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You want me dressed pretty? To grab a drink?’ He pointed at her with the keys. ‘Sweetheart, do I need to remind you you’re married-’
‘Dean.’ She cut right in, deadpan. ‘You’re not wearing a bra.’
That stopped him.
Damnit. She was right.
He was, in fact, not wearing a bra today. Entirely on purpose. After giving the thing an honest shot, too. She had picked him the simplest one she owned. Soft fabric, wider straps. Supposedly the most comfortable one in the lineup.
Dean still hated it.
Hated how aware of it he was every second. The straps. The band. The feeling of being restrained. Pulling, digging, pressing against him all day long. She had made some good points about back support, sure. Great. Wonderful. Didn’t change the fact that the damn thing felt like low-level torture device straight from the pit. Designed by Satan himself.
Yeah, he’d always figured maybe bondage could be fun one day. Not like that.
The relief he felt every time he took it off at the end of the day was close to spiritual.
Now, her fancier panties, that was a different story. The satiny ones were kinda nice. He’d admit that. The lace, though? That crap scratched like a mother-
‘Dean?’
His own name in his own voice snapped him out of it.
She was staring at him with her arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised. Dean felt a little blush creep up.
‘Yeah,’ he muttered, rolling his eyes to cover it. ‘Right. Fine, I’m gonna go change.’
He turned toward the bedroom and threw over his shoulder, ‘You wanna help me pick the outfit?’
Behind him, he heard a scoff. Then her footsteps followed a second later.
‘Is this okay?’
Dean held up a plain dark green button-up between both hands. Nothing fancy. Just thinner than the usual flannels, cut closer through the waist and chest.
She was standing by the dresser, looking into the mirror, running a hand through his hair, trying to make it behave with that focused little frown.
When she glanced at the shirt, her face softened.
‘Yeah,’ she smiled. ‘That’s good.’
Dean nodded once. Then got to work.
He stripped off what he had on, and, muttering under his breath, reached for the bra. That damn thing again. He sighed like he was gearing up for battle and pulled it on, already irritated before the straps were even settled. Then the shirt. Then fresh jeans.
He was halfway through pulling them up when his attention snagged, as it always did, on her thighs.
And before he could stop himself, his hands did what they always wanted to do around her. He ran both palms over them slow, squeezed once on instinct, thumbs pressing into the soft, solid warmth there with obvious appreciation.
God. Yeah.
He loved her thighs. Under his hands. Around his waist. Over his shoulders. Against his face…
Mirror caught it. Of course it did.
He looked up and saw her watching through the reflection, and the second he realized she’d noticed, she let out this strained little groan.
His brows pulled together.
‘What?’
She sighed and looked down, suddenly blushing a little. Which was still trippy as hell to see in his own face.
‘I’m so sorry, Dean,’ she muttered.
Dean frowned harder, really confused now. ‘For what?’
She gave one tiny, frustrated motion toward her thighs.
‘For that,’ she said. ‘For them being... like that. For not having some elegant thigh gap or whatever.’
Dean just stared at her for one beat. Then shook his head.
‘Baby, the only thigh gap you need is from my head between them.’
He waited. Fully expecting more blush. Or at least a sheepish smile.
Instead, the expression on his own face changed in a way he had not expected at all. She pressed her lips together, then snorted.
‘Wow,’ she said, chuckling. ‘That sounded so wrong in my voice.’
Dean threw his head back a little.
‘Goddamnit,’ he huffed. ‘That was such a smooth line too.’ He pointed at her with one hand while yanking the jeans up with the other. ‘That would’ve had you blushin’ and squirming on a normal day.’
That only made her laugh harder.
Dean shook his head, still grumbling to himself, and buttoned the jeans.
She was still smiling when she stepped closer. Her hand came up and smoothed a few strands of her hair, then drifted down to the shirt. She fixed the collar and popped one more button open.
Dean glanced down on reflex and immediately caught a little more of her chest than he was prepared for.
Oh, hell no.
He reached down at once and buttoned it right back up.
‘Dean…’ she started.
‘What?’ he said, defensive. ‘That was not safe.’
Then another thought crossed his mind.
‘Please don’t make me wear makeup,’ he blurted out.
She looked at him, startled.
Dean grimaced. ‘I don’t wanna look like a painted whore.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Excuse me?’
Dean backed up immediately, palms half raised. ‘I mean... not that women who wear makeup are whores. Obviously. ‘I just-’ He pointed vaguely at his face. ‘I don’t wanna do all that. That’s all I’m sayin’.’
She stared at him another second. Then rolled her eyes and smiled.
‘Yeah, okay. Calm down,’ she said, turning back towards the mirror.
She gave his hair one last adjustment, then stepped toward the door.
‘Alright, let’s go.’
Watching Dean drive had always been one of your favorite things.
No. That was underselling it. Watching Dean drive was an incredible turn-on. There was just something about the way he looked behind Baby’s wheel. One hand loose on the steering wheel, the other shifting when he needed to. The focus in his face, the confidence.
Watching him do it in your body, though?
Yeah. Not nearly as fun.
You looked good, sure. Baby suited you surprisingly well, which probably had a lot more to do with Dean being inside you, all that instinct and ease bleeding through everything he did.
Still, that was not really the point.
The point was that your husband’s body had been made for an Impala’s driver seat. And your job in life had been to sit next to him and watch. Simple as that.
The two of you drove around for a while first, not in any hurry. Just let the road stretch out in front of you while the last traces of sunset bled out at the horizon and music filled the car. Dean looked relaxed in a way he had not in days. The drive was obviously doing what he wanted it to do.
You stopped for gas, then, eventually, Baby rolled into the lot outside your favorite dive bar.
Dean had already assured you he would only have a couple beers, but you hadn’t needed the reassurance.
The first day had scared the hell out of him enough to fix that particular problem. He knew better now. Knew what it felt like to wake up miserable because of his own dumb choices. Knew exactly what the difference between your bodies was.
And that difference hit you the second you stepped inside.
The place was not packed, but it was not empty either. Enough people for the room to feel warm and loud. Pool balls cracking in the back, music low over old speakers, glasses clinking, somebody laughing too hard near the bar.
And then the heads turned. Not all of them, but enough. Some only for a second. Most stayed longer than that.
On you.
You had never liked attention. That had been true for as long as you could remember. And you had never exactly been the kind of woman who turned heads when she walked into a room. Usually, if anyone noticed the two of you, they noticed Dean. Obviously. His size, his handsome face, the way he carried himself.
People usually gave him the first glance. And if they looked at you after that, it was often just long enough to quietly decide whether the two of you made sense standing next to each other.
But this time they were looking at you. Immediately.
Except they weren’t really looking at you, they were looking at Dean.
And it was so uncomfortable you nearly wished the floor would open up and put you out of your misery.
A hand touched your waist lightly.
You glanced over.
Dean, standing there in your body, gave you a small nod toward one of the empty tables between the bar and the pool area. You followed him, trying not to register the eyes that stayed on you as you walked. Trying even harder not to feel the difference between being looked at and being looked at like that.
Dean dropped into the chair opposite yours with a little grunt and spread his legs a little too far apart without thinking.
You rubbed your cheek to hide the smile threatening there. You had started doing that a lot lately. Dean’s stubble under your hand was weirdly soothing.
‘Could you maybe not sit like that?’ you murmured. ‘That whole big-dick-energy thing looks kind of weird on my body.’
Dean looked down at himself and immediately pulled your knees in closer, clearing his throat.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
Right then the waitress showed up. Young, bright smile, dive-bar T-shirt fitting just a little too well.
‘Hey there,’ she said cheerfully. ‘What can I get ya?’
You braced automatically for the usual. Then realized, with a weird little jolt, that the smile was pointed at you.
Not Dean in your body.
You.
She was waiting for you to answer. Looking right at you. Not even glancing his way at first. That felt so strange it actually knocked your brain off the rails for a second.
‘Two beers,’ Dean said from beside you in your own voice.
Only then did she flick her attention toward him long enough to nod.
‘And something salty, please,’ you added, finding your voice.
Her eyes came right back to you, and then she winked. Actually winked.
‘You got it, hon,’ she said, and bounced off toward the bar.
You just stared after her for a second.
Because, okay.
You knew Dean Winchester had that effect on people. You had always known it. Back in your own world, part of you had assumed it was just television exaggeration. A running gag. The show leaning into the fact that they had cast a man far too gorgeous to pass for average and then acting like every waitress in America could not help herself.
Turned out, no.
Dean really was that kind of charming. Weak-in-the-knees kind of charming.
And now, for the first time, you were getting the full force of it from the other side.
‘Somethin’ wrong?’
Dean’s voice pulled you back. You blinked and looked up.
‘Nothing. No, sorry.’ You gave him a quick smile. ‘I just got lost in my head for a second.’
He narrowed your own eyes at you, clearly not convinced, but didn’t push. Instead he leaned in a little and lowered his voice.
‘So. How’s the reversal spell comin’?’
You knew exactly what he was doing.
He saw you getting uncomfortable and immediately steered the conversation toward something he knew you could talk about without spiraling. Something that belonged to you.
God, you loved him so much.
You gave him a more genuine smile this time.
‘Well, I finally decided which version we’re going to use.’
A beer landed in front of you right then. You thanked the waitress without really looking up, clinked your bottle lightly against Dean’s, and took a sip.
‘And?’ Dean said, licking his lips after his own and nodding for you to keep going.
You set the bottle down.
‘And I think our best option is the one Patrick’s girlfriend gave you.’
Dean frowned. He had absolutely no idea what you were talking about. His face made that very clear.
So you sighed and helped him out.
‘You know, season five,’ you said. ‘The poker. The one where that man-witch hustles you out of your years and you turn into an old man.’
Dean’s face shifted with recognition.
‘Right,’ he muttered, taking another pull from his beer.
‘His partner gives you what she calls the most powerful reversal spell you’ve ever laid eyes on,’ you said. ‘So I thought I should check Bobby’s stuff, and of course he kept it.’
Dean’s expression softened at Bobby’s name. You smiled too.
‘So yeah,’ you said, lifting your beer again, ‘I checked it over. It really does look like powerful stuff. We’re going with that one. Just with the correct DNA this time.’ You grinned and took another sip.
Dean nodded slowly, approving.
‘Awesome.’ Then he let out a breath. ‘’Cause I’m tellin’ you, babe, I am so ready to switch back.’
You knew he was. You both were. Still, the urge to tease him came too easily to pass up.
‘Oh, really?’ you asked, widening your eyes in fake surprise. ‘I thought you were enjoying being inside a woman. And, you know, having fun with the...’
You lifted your hand and made a little wiggling motion with your fingers.
That got him laughing immediately.
‘Yeah, okay. Alright.’
He reached across the table, grabbed your hand, and laced your fingers through yours.
‘I am,’ he said, still smiling. Then he leaned in closer, voice dropping just enough that only you could hear. ‘But I’d much rather bone my wife with my own dick.’
That pulled a laugh out of you too. A real one. And it felt nice, just sitting there laughing together in a bar instead of the bunker, surrounded by dusty books and spell notes and all the weirdness you had both been living inside for the last five days.
Dean had been right. You both needed this.
So you ordered another round, picked at the pretzels, let yourselves relax into each other’s company for a little while.
Then loud laughter broke out over by the pool tables. A bunch of guys, talking smack, arguing over who was the better shot, who was hustling, who was about to lose money.
And then Dean’s eyes lit up. Your eyes, technically. He turned back to you already grinning.
‘How about I win us some pocket money?’ he asked, eyebrows wiggling.
You snorted. ‘Dean, we do not need pocket money. We have Charlie’s credit card.’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he shot back immediately.
He glanced toward the pool table again, then back at you. ‘I wanna show those guys how it’s done.’
Then he hit you with the full force of his puppy-dog expression plastered all over your own face.
‘Please?’
You leaned back in your chair and crossed Dean’s arms over his chest.
If you were being honest, a part of you wanted to see it. A larger part of you was kind of worried, because Dean in your body swaggering up to a group of dive-bar idiots and humiliating them at pool had the potential to get complicated fast.
Yeah. Well…
You smiled.
‘Sure. Go ahead. Show them what you’ve got.’
Dean was on his feet instantly. He took one last swig of beer, winked at you, and strutted toward the pool area with all his usual confidence.
Which, somehow, made your body look even more ridiculous than ever.
The guys let him join in without much protest. More amused than threatened, really. You caught the looks they exchanged, though. Of course they did. A woman stepping up to the table full of men, probably thinking she could hustle a few drinks out of them before embarrassing herself.
Idiots.
You also caught the way some of them looked your body over. Your own body. Appraising, disapproving, curious, it didn’t really matter. The whole thing still made your stomach twist.
Dean, meanwhile, was just standing there watching them play first, looking way too harmless and cute for his own good.
But you knew exactly what he was doing. He was clocking every shot, every mistake, every habit. Watching how they leaned, where they hesitated, who had actual skill and who just liked the sound of their own trash talk.
And the tiny twitch at the corner of your own mouth told you he already knew he was going to wipe those smug, overconfident looks clean off their faces.
‘I’m sorry-’
The voice came from too close.
You turned, startled enough that your pulse jumped. You had been watching Dean so hard you had not even registered someone approaching your table.
A woman stood there. Around your age, maybe, drink in one hand, the other toying with the little straw inside it. She was smiling at you, but there were nerves in it. A faint blush had climbed up into her cheeks, and her lashes were fluttering a little too much.
She glanced back over her shoulder.
You followed the look and saw a small group of women at the bar watching with barely contained giggles. All of them clearly invested in whatever this was.
‘I don’t usually do this,’ the woman said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, ‘but I had to come over and tell you... we all agreed you’re the most handsome guy in here tonight.’
For one second you just stared at her, processing.
Did that... really just happen? Was this a real thing? Did women really just walk up to guys in bars and say things like that out loud?
This was movie-level ridiculous.
‘Uh... thanks?’ you managed finally.
‘We were also wondering,’ she continued, while another round of giggles erupted behind her, ‘if you’d maybe wanna join us. You know. Have a little fun.’
You tried very hard not to let the revulsion show on your face.
It was not even just that she was flirting with your husband. It was the assumption underneath it. The immediate confident invitation, as if Dean’s body walking into a room automatically meant he was up for grabs.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ you said, maybe a little too sharply.
You lifted Dean’s left hand without even thinking, the wedding band catching the low bar light.
The woman’s eyes dropped to it. And then, instead of looking embarrassed, she scoffed. Her gaze flicked toward the pool table.
‘Is that your wife?’
And there it was. That tone. Petty and dismissive in exactly the way that drilled into your every insecurity.
Before you could answer, she leaned down and slid a folded napkin across the table toward you.
‘In case you change your mind,’ she said softly.
Then she smiled one last time and walked away before you could even tell her to shove the damn thing up her ass.
You stared at the napkin. At the neat line of numbers written there. And suddenly you felt sick.
Not just because she knew Dean was married and still gave him her number anyway. That was gross enough on its own.
It was more than that.
It was the way the whole thing hit you all at once. How casually his body got treated like public property. How normal it apparently was for strangers to look at him and immediately start imagining what they wanted from him.
And it dragged up everything else right behind it.
All the times it had happened on the show. Not just to Dean, Sam too. Random women flirting, touching them without asking, kissing them without permission. Saying whatever they wanted because the boys were handsome and supposed to grin through it. And Sam, God… Sam getting literally magic-roofied and waking up married against his will.
Because it was funny, right? Funny because they were men. Funny because they were big, broad-shouldered hunters who could handle themselves.
Except if any of that happened to a woman, nobody would laugh. Nobody normal, anyway.
You swallowed hard.
The ugly truth was, none of it had just been television nonsense. It had all really happened to them. Kept happening, too, obviously. And now you were sitting here in Dean’s body with a stranger’s phone number under your hand and a knot in your stomach, and for the first time the full weight of it actually landed.
And you were not exactly innocent either.
Because hadn’t you objectified him too?
Maybe not like this. But still. Hadn’t you spent years looking at him on a screen and getting distracted by his face, his body, his voice, his hands? Hadn’t you turned him into fantasy first, before this world ever gave you the chance to know him as a person?
Yeah. You had.
The realization sat heavy in your chest.
It didn’t make what just happened your fault, of course. But it did make you sit there with the napkin in front of you feeling strange and ashamed and unexpectedly sad.
And you didn’t really know what to do with that.
Dean had been enjoying himself at first.
The guys were already half in the bag, which just meant getting money out of them was gonna be even easier than he thought. They all had that same look too. That smug, lazy confidence of men who had clearly decided he was just some woman who didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into.
So yeah, he’d played into it. Acted a little naive, let them think whatever dumb crap they wanted to think. Because the look on their faces when he cleaned them out was gonna be worth it.
Still.
There were parts of it he hated almost immediately. Because he wasn’t blind. Of course he noticed the way some of them looked at him. Or rather, looked at her. His wife’s body.
And he couldn’t decide which looks pissed him off more. The ones sliding over her like she was something to eat. Or the ones eyeing her curves and fighting a laugh, as if she ought to be grateful they were bothering at all.
Didn’t really matter.
He wanted to punch every one of them in the throat for either.
Dean was no stranger to getting checked out. That had happened plenty in his life. But this was different. This was her. And they had no goddamn right.
He forced himself to breathe through it. Needed to win first.
He glanced back toward the table.
She was still there in his body, sitting alone, staring down at a napkin under her hand with this little frown on his face that immediately set something off in him. Something had happened in the few minutes he’d been over here.
He almost walked away from the pool table right then.
But then a rough voice cut in.
‘Hey, sweetheart!’
Dean turned his head. One of the guys was grinning at him, elbow hooked on the edge of the table, clearly way too entertained with himself.
‘Your turn. Or you scared?’
Dean rolled his eyes and swallowed the immediate urge to tell him to go fuck himself.
‘You wish,’ he said instead, stepping in closer to the table.
Then he stopped. Looked at the guy. ‘And did you just call me sweetheart?’
The guy chuckled and crossed his arms. ‘Think I did, yeah.’
Dean’s mouth flattened.
‘Don’t.’
He said it simply. But there was enough bite in it that the guy’s grin faltered for half a second.
And all at once Dean remembered that one time she’d told him it sounded kinda patronizing when he called her sweetheart. He hadn’t fully gotten it then.
He got it now.
Didn’t have time to sit with that, though.
He took a breath, leaned over the table, started lining up the cue… And immediately realized he had not thought this through nearly enough.
Her body wasn’t built for the same stance his was. Different height, shorter reach. Hips got in the way sooner. And her boobs, naturally, were now very present the second he bent over the felt.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered under his breath, shifting his feet, trying to find the angle again.
Then a hand landed on his waist.
Dean went cold. Then hot, real fast.
‘You gotta stand a little closer, sweetheart, if you wanna do it right.’
For one insane second his brain almost didn’t process it.
The guy was trying to ‘help’. As if that alone wasn’t insulting enough. But the fact that this asshole had just put his hand on his wife’s body, like that, like it was nothing?
Dean saw red.
He didn’t even turn all the way around.
‘Let go of me,’ he said, voice low and sharp enough to cut. ‘Right now.’
The hand disappeared instantly.
‘Sorry,’ the guy muttered, though it came out more surprised than sorry.
Dean turned his head then. Shot him the hardest stare he could manage with her face.
‘Touch me again and it’s the last thing that hand’s gonna do.’
A couple whistles broke out around the table. Then the little mocking chuckles started. Of course they did.
‘We got a feisty one, boys,’ one of them laughed.
Dean nearly gagged.
He hated this. Hated every damn second of it. The tone. The entitlement. The way they talked to him now, to her, just because she was a woman and not a guy they’d think twice about mouthing off to.
And that was the other part really getting under his skin.
Dean knew damn well his wife did not need to be in a man’s body to break somebody’s nose. But they looked at her and decided she was safe to diminish.
He bent over the table again before he did something premature and stupid.
Needed to finish this first. Wanted the money.
The anger helped. Helped a lot, actually. Once he adjusted the stance and stopped fighting his instincts, the focus came easier. One shot. Then another. Then another. Solids dropped clean. Bank off the rail. Cut to the corner. One sloppy miss from the loudmouth on stripes and Dean was basically home free.
By the time only the eight ball was left, the whole little crowd had gone quieter.
Then the jackass opened his mouth, snickering.
‘Whoa. You really know how to handle balls, sweetheart.’
A round of idiot laughter circled the table.
And that was it.
Dean sank the eight clean into the corner pocket. Stood up. Turned on his heel. And punched the guy square in the face.
It wasn’t nearly as hard as he wanted it to be. Not with her body, with her strength.
Still did the job.
The guy staggered backward with a shocked grunt, clutching his nose as red started threading through his fingers almost immediately.
The whole table went dead silent.
Dean stepped in once, blood still roaring hot.
‘That’s for puttin’ your hands where they don’t belong,’ he snapped. Then, jaw tight, voice lower and meaner. ‘And for runnin’ your mouth like a pathetic fuck.’
Nobody laughed this time.
Dean dropped the cue on the table, swept the pile of bills into his hand, and walked away before somebody tried something even dumber.
By the time he got back to their table, she was already on her feet, staring at him with his own face, eyes wide.
And yeah, half the damn bar had turned to look now. He didn’t care one bit.
‘Dean, what the-’
‘We’re done here,’ he said, slapping cash down onto the table. Blood was still pounding too hard under her skin. ‘Let’s go.’
She looked at him for one second longer, then nodded. Didn’t argue, thankfully. Just set her beer down and moved with him toward the door.
Dean felt her hand slide around his waist before they hit the entrance.
He looked up.
She was glancing over toward the bar with a cool, hard look on his face. A group of women over there had gone sour-faced watching them leave.
Dean didn’t know what exactly had happened while he’d been at the pool table. But judging by the way she held onto him on the way out, he was getting a pretty good idea it hadn’t been anything he was gonna enjoy hearing about.
‘Goddamnit, what a bunch of jerks.’
Dean was still going on about the asshats from the bar, her soft hands gripping the wheel a little too tight as Baby ate up the dark road.
‘You know what? That’s it. I’m never lettin’ you go to a bar alone.’ He shook his head, still fuming. ‘Matter of fact, I’m never lettin’ you go anywhere alone. Period.’
He meant it too.
Because yeah, he knew women got treated like crap all the time. He wasn’t exactly gonna sit there and pretend younger Dean had been some gold-standard in chivalry. But even at his dumbest, he never just put his hands on a woman because he felt like it. Never if she didn’t want him there. Unless somebody needed hauling out of danger, that was different.
‘Man, guys are pigs, I swear…’
His eyes stayed on the road, but her silence beside him started to feel off. He glanced over and, sure enough, she had that look on his face. The one that said she was down some mental spiral already.
‘Hey. You with me?’
She kept looking down at his hands in her lap.
Dean frowned.
‘Baby? What’s goin’-’
‘Dean, am I like Becky?’
She blurted it out so suddenly that for one second he just stared.
‘Like a what now?’
She let out a long exasperated sigh.
‘Becky. Superfan Ninety-Nine, as you called her. The girl who used a love potion to drug Sam. The one who knew everything about you because she was obsessed with the books.’
Dean blinked.
Okay. Yeah. He knew who Becky was now that she said it. He’d mostly filed her under annoying and then later under insane, once she’d gone full mental on his brother. But what the hell that had to do with his wife, he had no clue.
‘Yeah, I remember her,’ he said slowly. ‘Why are you bringin’ her up all of a sudden?’
He could see his own jaw working beside him. She was chewing on something ugly. Closed her eyes for a second, took a breath, then looked out the window again.
‘I know you thought she was creepy. You know, being a fan. The way she knew everything about you and your life. How obsessed she was with Sam. She literally married him, Dean.’ Her fingers tightened around each other. ‘Does that really not sound like someone you know?’
Dean opened his mouth to tell her he still had no damn idea what she was rambling about.
Then it hit him.
His eyes went wide as he looked at her. Had to drag his eyes right back to the road.
‘Wait. Hold on.’ He stared out through the windshield, stunned. ‘Are you sayin’ you’re like her?’
She didn’t answer. Just sat there with this guilty, miserable expression on his face that made Dean want to pull over and shake some sense into her.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ she shot back, voice edged with something desperate now. ‘I was a huge fan before I came here. I still am, obviously. I remember scenes and lines and details from specific episodes and seasons. I quote you to yourself all the time. Hell, I was objectifying you before I even knew you were real.’
And that did it. Dean finally lost it. He started laughing, out loud.
The timing of it was probably terrible, but he couldn’t help it. The whole thing was so wildly off-base that it blasted right through his bad mood.
‘Stop it,’ she muttered, and he could practically hear the eye roll in his own voice.
‘Babe,’ he said through the laughter, ‘you wanted nothing to do with me when we first met, remember?’
That got a groan out of her.
‘We both know that is not true. I thought you were kind of an ass at first, yes, but you also know perfectly well I was already hopelessly gone over you. I just knew you were so far out of my league I barely dared look at you.’
Dean laughed harder.
He really couldn’t help it now. It was too good. Too ridiculous. And it had the nice side effect of wiping those sleazy dicks from the bar right out of his head.
‘Yeah, okay,’ he said, finally dragging a hand over her face to get himself together. ‘First off, your grandpa’s magic kinda rigged the game. Far as I remember, you were supposed to know that stuff. Whole point was gettin’ you home.’
She was back to looking down. One hand drifted up and rubbed at his stubble absently.
‘Second,’ Dean went on, ‘I was objectifying you too when we met. Still do, sometimes. Pretty sure there’s nothin’ wrong with thinkin’ my wife is hot as hell.’
‘Dean-’
‘Lemme finish.’
He lifted a hand off the wheel for half a second, just enough to stop her jumping in.
‘And third, you are not like Becky. Not even a little.’ His voice went flatter then. More serious. ‘Yeah, the knowing stuff was creepy for about five minutes. Fine. Then I got over it because you never took advantage of it. Never crossed a line. And you sure as hell never drugged me.’
That made her flinch a little in his seat.
Good.
He wanted the point to land.
‘I fell for you because you’re you,’ he said. ‘Because you’re smart and funny and bossy and way too good for me. So I would really appreciate it if you stopped insulting both of us by comparing yourself to some boundary-stomping weirdo.’
He glanced over at her again. Her throat bobbed.
‘I’m serious,’ he added. ‘Don’t do that. Ever.’
She looked up then. Ears a little red in his face.
‘Okay,’ she said quietly.
The road went quiet for a minute after that. Dean figured that was the end of it. Then she spoke again, softer.
‘But I am sorry, Dean. For objectifying you. For anyone who ever made you feel like you were just a pretty face.’
Dean blinked at the road. Because he had not expected that. At all. He let the silence sit for a second, then shook his head lightly.
‘Alright,’ he said, glancing over at her again. ‘What the hell happened while I was playin’ pool?’
She sighed through his nose.
And then she told him. About the woman, the number on the napkin. The way she’d looked right at his ring and still kept going.
The tone she’d used when she asked if Dean, in her body, was really his wife.
Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles ache. He’d already wanted to go back and deck somebody. Now he wanted to burn the whole bar down.
He let her talk until she ran out. And by the time she finished, there was more in her voice than disgust. There was that weird sadness again. Because she turned some of what had been happening to him for decades on herself.
He reached over in the dark and found her hand on the seat between them.
‘Babe.’
She looked over.
‘You know the difference between you and every person who ever wanted a piece of this sweet ass?’ he asked. ‘You saw the ugly crap too, and you still stayed. That’s not objectifying in my book.’
He let that sit there. Then, because he needed out of the chick-flick territory, he added…
‘Also, for the record, I am a pretty face. So let’s not pretend that’s not part of the package.’
That got the smallest laugh out of her.
Dean smirked a little and squeezed her hand one last time before letting go.
‘We’re home in ten,’ he said. ‘Then we put on a movie, eat somethin’, and you can spend the rest of the night not comparing yourself to Becky freakin’ Rosen.’
This time her laugh came easier.
And just like that, the rest of the drive knew where it was going. Back to the bunker. Back to counting down the last two days before they could finally be themselves again.
‘You sure it’s gonna work?’
You were seated at the worktable in your lab, Bobby’s notes spread open in front of you, when Dean leaned in close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. You had your hand over the small bowl already, watching fresh blood gather at the heel of your palm and fall in slow drops into the bottom.
‘You can never be completely sure with magic,’ you said. ‘You know that.’
The second the words left your mouth, you felt Dean tense beside you.
Right. Bad choice.
You glanced up just long enough to catch the look on his face, then added quickly, ‘But I’m pretty confident. This is the best version we’ve got.’
Dean huffed through his nose.
‘Awesome,’ he muttered, sarcasm thick in his voice.
You almost snapped something back, but decided to bite it down. The last thing either of you needed was Dean spiraling right before the spell. So you just exhaled, reached for his left hand, and turned it palm-up.
The blade split his skin just enough to draw a small cut.
Dean didn’t even flinch.
Instead, while you gathered a few drops from him into the same bowl, he spoke again, voice lighter now.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘for what it’s worth... Sam was right.’
You looked down at the blood as it mixed in the bowl and raised one eyebrow.
‘About what?’
He shrugged one shoulder. ‘I do think this whole screwed-up situation brought us closer together.’
You looked up at him. There was amusement in his face. A little disbelief too. Your own face on him had looked many things over the last week. This one was gentler.
‘Which, honestly?’ he went on. ‘Didn’t think was possible.’
That got a smile out of you.
‘I know what you mean,’ you said quietly, drawing some of the blood up into the pipette. ‘I know what you mean.’
And you did.
Being in Dean’s body had taught you things you had only guessed at before. The tension lived in him all the time. His strength changed how he moved through the world. Even pleasure worked differently in him. How exhausting it was, when people looked at him, expected things from him.
And it had done something else too.
It had made you look at your own body differently. Understand it differently. You had seen it from Dean’s eyes, felt it from the outside. Seen exactly what he saw when he looked at you.
You were almost certain Dean had gone through some version of the same thing.
You picked up the paper with the incantation and scanned it one last time. Then you looked at him, at your own eyes staring back at you, hopefully for the last time anywhere but in a mirror.
‘Okay,’ you said. ‘You ready?’
Dean let out a breath through his nose. ‘So ready.’
You took his left hand in yours, both rings still on. Both little drops of preserved blood catching the light, one on each hand. Then you reached for the larger bowl, the one already layered with the ingredients you had prepared in the right order. You lit it and watched the fire catch.
Orange first. Then blue.
So far, so good.
Your pulse picked up.
You started the incantation out loud, voice steady because it had to be, and fed the rest of the ingredients into the flame one by one. The blue fire rose and shifted but stayed contained.
Dean was very still beside you.
You kept going.
Until finally you tipped in the last part, the mixed blood.
The flame surged, higher this time. Blue-white sparks kicked out of the bowl, making you instinctively narrow your eyes.
And then the pain hit.
It slammed into your head so fast and so hard it almost folded you over on the stool. Not even close to a normal headache. Something sharp and mean and splitting, right through the middle of your skull. Your stomach lurched with it. The room spun. The edges of everything blurred and smeared together until you could no longer tell if your eyes were open or shut.
For one terrible second you thought, this is too much.
Then everything stopped.
Just gone.
You blinked. The lab came back into focus in pieces. The bowls, the papers, the smell of burned ingredients, the chair under you.
You looked sideways. And Dean was right next to you.
Not in your body. In his.
You looked down at yourself so fast it almost made you dizzy again.
Your body. Your chest. Your hands. Your thighs. Every part where it belonged, sitting on you with this familiar, comforting rightness. And, weirdly enough, the parts that were no longer there? You almost missed those too.
You smiled.
It worked.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Dean said beside you.
And his voice finally sounded right. Hearing it like that sent another stupid wave of relief through you.
You turned toward him just in time to see him getting to his feet. He stretched first, shoulders back, neck rolling once. Then, with absolutely no shame whatsoever, his hand flew to his crotch and he adjusted himself with a satisfied little smirk.
‘Well,’ he muttered, looking down, ‘hello there, buddy.’ His mouth curved. ‘Missed you.’
That pulled a laugh out of you. Your own laugh. Your own voice.
God, that felt good.
The sound made Dean look up. His expression changed at once. The smugness dropped off and softened into something that hit you harder.
‘Hey,’ he said.
Then he stepped toward you.
You got up too, barely making it halfway before his arms were around your waist and pulling you in hard. He bent his head and took one deep breath. Then he rested his forehead against yours.
‘Finally,’ he muttered.
And then he kissed you. With his own mouth. His own pressure. His own familiar intensity. You melted into it so fast it almost made you dizzy.
His hands, strong and sure, slid over your side, then lower, dragging you closer.
And just as quickly, you felt it. That familiar little twist low in your belly. The first pull of heat gathering between your legs, answering him the way your body always had.
Yeah.
You were definitely back.
And from the look in Dean’s eyes when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, your husband was very clearly about to make excellent use of everything he had learned about your body over the last week.
Dean was almost embarrassed by how right it felt to be back in his own body.
Not just right. Good. So damn good it was almost stupid.
And having her back in her own body? Pressed up against him exactly where she was supposed to be?
Yeah. That part might’ve been even better.
They were sprawled across their bed now, tangled up in each other, because the second that spell worked, they had both silently agreed that the honeymoon phase was officially back on. The whole thing had gotten interrupted way too fast the first time around anyway. They had barely even gotten to the point of planning the actual honeymoon before magic had decided to screw with them for a week.
But the planning could wait.
Right now, Dean had much more important business to attend to.
Mostly finding out exactly how many orgasms his wife could take in a row before she passed out. Because she had been way too smug about the fact that women could apparently keep going one after another.
Which was why she was currently breathing through the tail end of her second one, face tucked against his chest, while Dean lay beside her with one arm under her and his other hand moving in slow, lazy circles over her bare back.
He missed this part too much.
The after.
The way she melted against him, all loose and breathing hard, trusting him with every inch of herself.
Dean smirked against the top of her head.
‘Y’know,’ he said, and hearing his own real voice rumble through his chest again felt goddamn right, ‘I keep thinkin’... I had a girl inside me for a whole week. That’s pretty naughty.’
He felt her laugh against him. Just a little huff of it. Warm on his skin.
‘Big words,’ she murmured, ‘for someone who didn’t actually let me put his own-’
‘Alright, okay,’ Dean cut in immediately, groaning. ‘So I didn’t wanna get fucked by myself. Will you just let that one go already?’
She chuckled softly and rested her hand flat on his stomach.
‘I will,’ she said. ‘But I do want you to know I was kind of looking forward to doing it by the end.’
Dean shook his head into the pillow, smirking despite himself.
‘You’re such a freak.’
The second the words landed, he felt her go still.
Crap.
Dean’s smile dropped right off.
‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
And there it was. That little dip in her voice. That awful moment where she took the joke the wrong way.
Dean moved before he even thought about it. Pulled her tighter against him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, mouth pressing into her hair.
‘Hey. No. Don’t do that.’
She stayed quiet. Dean tipped her chin up gently until she looked at him.
‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘That’s one of the things I love about you.’
That got her moving again, some of the tension easing out of her eyes.
Dean brushed his thumb once over her cheek.
‘You’re weird as hell,’ he added, softer now. ‘You’re also, like, my favorite person ever, so... Both things can be true.’
That got him the smallest smile.
Dean kissed her forehead and let her settle back down against him.
For a minute, neither of them said anything. They just lay there, skin warm against skin, letting the room go quiet around them.
For one perfect second, it really did feel like everything was finally back where it should be.
So Dean let himself enjoy it. The simple fact that they had made it through another round of complete supernatural bullcrap and somehow came out of it closer.
He was just opening his mouth to ask if she thought she had a third one in her when a hard, loud knock cracked through the room.
Both of them froze.
Dean frowned immediately.
She lifted her head off his chest and looked toward the bedroom door.
Another knock.
Dean was already moving. He slid out from under her, grabbed his sweats, shoved them on fast, then dragged a shirt over his head on the way to the door.
Something in his gut had gone cold.
He opened the door just enough. Sam stood there in the hallway.
Dean blinked once
‘Sam. Hey.’ He greeted his brother. ‘Didn’t know you’d be back today.’
But the second he said it, he knew something was off.
Sam looked all wrong. Too stiff and restless. Shoulders pulled tight, eyes moving everywhere but Dean.
Dean’s stomach dropped.
‘What’s wrong?’
Sam scratched the back of his neck and finally looked at him, forehead furrowed with worry.
‘It’s Cas, Dean.’
That was all it took. Dean felt the blood drain out of his face before Sam even kept going.
Because he knew. Knew exactly what was coming the second Sam mentioned Cas.
Sam’s voice got quieter. He glanced once past Dean, toward the room. Toward her. Then back.
‘He’s here.’
Dean just stared at him.
And Sam said the thing anyway.
‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘He says it’s time... for her to go to Hell.’
A/N: When I tell you I couldn’t wait to finish this because I’m so excited to start the next sequel with that little outrageous idea I had… I spent a good chunk of my hospital stay writing down notes and ideas for it, and now I may have hyped myself up way too much.
Summary: You are almost back to normal, and the last days in Dean’s body teach you more than you expected. But just when things finally start feeling right again, reality catches up with you.
CHAPTER 5 MASTERLIST
Tags: body swap, blood magic, Plus-Size reader, Smut, Sex, Masturbation, Body worship, POV Dean Winchester, POV alternating, POV second person, married!Dean, No use of y/n
A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait, but here it is, the final chapter of this little body-swap thing. It’s a long one, though partly because some of it was originally meant to be in the previous chapter, and I just didn’t have the energy to write it then.
Anyway, I really hope you won’t be disappointed. I’m recovering well, but I’m still a little tired, so that might show.
Thank you all so much for reading ❤️
It had been five days since you woke up in a body that wasn’t yours.
Well. Technically, it was yours. On paper anyway. To have and to hold, for better or worse, and all that.
And for better or worse it had absolutely been.
Some of it had sucked, obviously. Some of it had still been weird and inconvenient in ways your brain occasionally refused to process. But some parts? Some parts had actually been... kind of great.
Because once you learned how to move without knocking into things, figured out how to deal with different anatomy without panicking, there had been moments when being in Dean’s body started feeling almost addictive.
The strength alone was ridiculous.
You had never thought of yourself as weak. You were quite capable, actually. Knew how to handle yourself, and life in this reality had done a great job of beating any lingering delicacy out of you. But Dean’s body was operating on a whole different scale.
The first time one of your folders slipped behind the heavy counter in the lab and you simply moved the whole thing without much effort, you just stood there for a second in stunned silence.
You looked down at your arms. Then you moved it again.
After that, you were hooked.
You started taking advantage of it every chance you got. Carrying books around in stacks that would have had you making three trips in your own body. Hauling heavy storage boxes around the bunker just because you could. Picking up random bunker junk to see what Dean’s muscles could do without strain. You even went into the gym one afternoon and tested Dean’s fists on the punching bag.
Yeah.
Your husband was strong.
Obviously you had always known that. You had seen him fight, too many times. Seen him throw grown men around, pin monsters to the ground, move with brutal kind of efficiency when things got ugly. But actually standing in his body and feeling how much raw force sat behind all those skills had been something else.
Maybe you were romanticizing him a little.
Actually, no. You definitely were.
But honestly, after everything, was that really such a crime? If anybody had earned the right to be regarded as some kind of action hero, it was probably Dean Winchester.
And naturally, you had to test one other thing too.
One afternoon, when he walked past you while you were sprawled in a chair in the war room, you just leaned over, grabbed him around the waist, and pulled your own body right into your lap. Because no, you still did not fully believe him when he acted like your weight was no issue whatsoever.
Turned out, he had been telling the truth.
You had felt the weight, sure, but nowhere near the way you expected. Mostly what you noticed was the warmth. The softness. The pleasant, comfortable pressure of your own body settling against Dean’s.
Dean, on the other hand, had not been nearly as delighted by the experiment.
‘Babe,’ he had said in your own flat, long-suffering voice, ‘what the hell?’
You had only grinned and adjusted him more firmly against your chest.
He was not thrilled with being manhandled like that. You, on the other hand, were maybe a little too smug about proving your point after all the eye-rolls he usually gave you whenever you protested sitting in his lap yourself.
Actually, if you were being honest, Dean had definitely struggled more with the body-swap situation than you had.
A lot more.
You had expected that, sort of. But even then, you had not anticipated quite how many things would irritate him on a daily basis. Your hair. Your boobs. Your bra. The complete lack of functional pockets in your clothes. Every single day he found some new fresh injustice to bitch about.
One morning he walked into your lab while you were halfway buried in old books, trying to narrow down the best reversal spells.
‘Babe, I gotta ask,’ he said, sounding so offended that you knew immediately this was going to be good. ‘What the fuck is goin’ on with the random stabbing down there?’
It took you a second.
You stared at the notes in front of you, then slowly lifted your head and looked at him.
‘What?’
‘Down here.’ Dean’s hand swept over your lower belly, then around toward the small of your back. ‘Just these... painful little jabs outta nowhere. No warning. Just bam.’
He looked genuinely aggrieved by it.
You blinked at him, still not getting it. He rubbed lower this time, more toward your front.
‘Goddamn annoying,’ he muttered.
And then it clicked. You had to bite back a smile.
‘Dean,’ you said, trying not to laugh, ‘that’s my uterus. And my ovaries.’
Now it was his turn to stare at you blankly.
‘What?’
You sat back in the chair and folded your hands over the book in front of you.
‘You know. Those tiny internal organs that usually come with the one part of me you are much more interested in.’
Dean looked unimpressed for about half a second. Then his frown came back stronger.
‘Yeah, okay. And why are they hurtin’? Are you alright?’
That softened you instantly.
Because there it was again, that immediate concern. Even while complaining, even while trapped in your body, his first instinct was still to worry about you.
You smiled and shook your head.
‘I’m fine, Dean. It’s just hormones and all kinds of fun reproductive system things.’
He narrowed your eyes at you, clearly not fully buying the casual delivery.
You smiled a little wider.
‘I could go into detail,’ you offered, ‘but I promise, it’s normal. Women are so used to that that half the time we barely consciously register it anymore.’
Dean’s expression landed somewhere between appalled and horrified.
‘That is so wrong.’
You let out a soft laugh. ‘I guess.’
‘No, seriously.’ He dragged a hand down your face. ‘How the hell do you live like this?’
You shrugged and flipped another page in the spellbook.
‘Just be glad you’re not dealing with a period,’ you said easily. ‘Now that’s a real pain in the ass.’
Dean froze. Then his eyes widened in horror.
He visibly swallowed, hard.
‘Nope,’ he muttered before pacing out of the room. ‘Nope, I’m good. I’m real good.’
You had grinned for a full minute after he left.
You did feel bad for him, though. A little. The poor guy really was trying.
And despite all the complaining, he had been handling life in a woman’s body much better than you would have guessed. Ignoring that one panicked drunken spiral at the beginning, he had treated your body with an amount of reverence and care that still caught you off guard every time you noticed it.
He admired it constantly. Protected it, asked permission for things he technically did not need permission for because he was literally living inside it. You almost could not wrap your head around how much tenderness he had for you once you were seeing it from this angle.
That said, it was not as if Dean’s body had been effortless for you either.
Your problems were just... different. A lot more ridiculous.
You had mostly adjusted to the random twitches by then. To the occasional surprise hard-on at the least convenient moments. To the fact that Dean’s body needed no excuse to react to the most random things.
Dean had enjoyed making fun of you for that, claiming that your presence inside his body had somehow sent his hormones straight back into puberty.
And the list of absurd situations had gotten embarrassingly long pretty fast.
Like that one time he caught you standing in front of the dresser in his boxers, cursing under your breath because his dick absolutely refused to sit right no matter what you did. Dean had just walked over without saying a word, shoved a hand down there, tucked everything into place with infuriating confidence, and walked away again.
Or the night he had found you in the kitchen at two in the morning, stuffing your face with leftover bacon because your husband’s body evidently had the caloric needs of a growing teenage linebacker.
And of course there was the fact that Dean, every single day, politely but very persistently kept insisting that you help him experience female orgasm again. He really could not get enough.
Yet even then, he still held firm on one line - no getting fucked by his own dick. You had eventually realized you might actually have been open to trying it. Which, God, what a sentence. But he had shut that idea down so fast and so firmly that you did not push.
For the most part, though, the two of you had spent the week doing what you usually would have done in your own bodies.
You stayed mostly in the lab, gathering everything you needed for the reversal spell, taking breaks to cook or sit with Dean in the garage, or help work lore when Sam and Eileen called in with questions about the case they were on.
Dean handled phones for them, tinkered with Baby, did the occasional bunker chore, and came to bother you in the lab whenever he got bored or needed a new thing to complain about.
And somehow, just like that, the days had gone by faster than they probably should have. As much as the two of you were slowly adjusting, both of you were very ready to be back where you belonged.
Which was why, when Dean startled you out of your concentration one afternoon with a very decisive: ‘Alright, that’s enough,’ you looked up from the stack of books and scrolls on the library table with immediate suspicion.
He was standing there in your body, one hand on his hip, the other trying to tame the piece of hair that kept dropping into his eyes.
‘We gotta get outta here,’ he said.
You blinked at him. ‘What?’
‘I need air.’ Dean tossed the strand away and straightened up. ‘I wanna take Baby for a drive. Hit a bar or somethin’.’
Your eyebrows went up so fast they practically disappeared into Dean’s hairline.
‘A bar,’ you repeated. ‘You want to go to a bar.’
Dean gave you a look.
‘Yeah, that’s what I just said.’
You sat back in your chair and stared at him for a second.
‘While you are still... me.’
Dean shrugged. ‘Could be fun, right? Besides, we have nothing else to do, Sammy’s already back at Eileen’s. So… what d’you say?’
Part of you honestly thought he had to be joking.
But he was not. No, your husband looked way too determined. And way too excited, actually, which should probably have worried you more than it did.
You stared at him for another moment.
Screw it.
‘I mean…’ you said slowly, ‘if you really think this is a good idea.’ Dean’s whole face lit up. You exhaled and shut the book in front of you. ‘Sure. Let’s go.’
Dean was tired.
Which felt stupid, considering he really had not done all that much the last few days besides complain, get schooled by his own wife, and learn way too much about the female body firsthand.
And still, he felt wrung out. Because it turned out being in a woman’s body was... a lot.
He had not slept worth a damn in five frickin’ days. For two very obvious reasons. Her boobs.
Dean, under normal circumstances, had two preferred sleeping positions. On his stomach, one arm around the pillow, face half buried and out cold. Or on his back with her sprawled over him, her head on his chest, his hand somewhere on her while he drifted off breathing her in.
Well. Both options were screwed now.
Every time he rolled onto his stomach, her boobs were there. In the way. Requiring a whole goddamn strategy, which was ridiculous. And on his back, with her in his body resting on his chest while he was in hers? That was weird. Just… not right. Didn’t scratch the same itch.
And yeah, part of him suspected her calming magic wasn’t doing jack for him right now.
If that stuff was tied to her blood, and her blood was currently in his veins, then maybe that explained it. Or maybe he was talking out of his ass. Hell if he knew. But he decided not to bring it up. She already had enough on her plate, and they only had two days left if all went well. He could survive two more days.
Probably.
But honestly? He couldn’t wait to get his own body back.
Dean really had no clue how she did it. How women in general did it. The random pains nobody warned him about. The weird little stabs. The fatigue that felt different from his regular tiredness. The way simple things sometimes took more effort, not because she was weak, no, that wasn’t it, but because this body needed leverage where his could brute-force its way through.
And the constant awareness of being... more breakable than he was used to. Easier to hurt.
Yeah. That one got under his skin.
Maybe that made him sound like a jackass, even in his own head. It was not that he thought women were weaker. Hell no. He knew better than that. Had met enough women who could kick his ass six ways from Sunday. But it felt easier to get worn down by crap that never even crossed his mind before. And that part was unnerving. Eye-opening too, if he was being honest.
Hell, he was not even sure the superior orgasms fully made up for the rest of it.
Which was exactly why he needed to get out of the bunker for a bit. Get some air. Get behind the wheel. Stop thinking so damn much.
Because that was the other problem.
He had been way too in his own head. Thinking about whether he was taking good enough care of his wife. Thinking about all the times he’d let her tag along on hunts. Letting her get slammed into walls by ghosts. Letting her be anywhere near danger at all.
Dean was about two back twinges away from banning her from hunts for life.
So yeah. He needed the drive. Needed the bar. Needed to stop thinking before he turned into one of those insane husbands who thought locking their wives up was romantic.
That's why he was damn glad she had agreed.
Dean grabbed the keys off the war room table and was halfway to the door when he heard his own voice behind him.
‘You wanna go out dressed like that?’
He looked down at himself. Then back up at her, frowning.
‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearin’?’
She was leaning against the table in his body, tilting her head, clearly entertained.
‘Dean,’ she said, ‘I look like a beat-up lumberjack.’
That almost offended him on principle.
He glanced down again. Alright, fair. She had a point. He had dressed her in the oldest flannel he could find and a pair of jeans that had seen things.
‘Yeah, o- wait.’ Dean narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You want me dressed pretty? To grab a drink?’ He pointed at her with the keys. ‘Sweetheart, do I need to remind you you’re married-’
‘Dean.’ She cut right in, deadpan. ‘You’re not wearing a bra.’
That stopped him.
Damnit. She was right.
He was, in fact, not wearing a bra today. Entirely on purpose. After giving the thing an honest shot, too. She had picked him the simplest one she owned. Soft fabric, wider straps. Supposedly the most comfortable one in the lineup.
Dean still hated it.
Hated how aware of it he was every second. The straps. The band. The feeling of being restrained. Pulling, digging, pressing against him all day long. She had made some good points about back support, sure. Great. Wonderful. Didn’t change the fact that the damn thing felt like low-level torture device straight from the pit. Designed by Satan himself.
Yeah, he’d always figured maybe bondage could be fun one day. Not like that.
The relief he felt every time he took it off at the end of the day was close to spiritual.
Now, her fancier panties, that was a different story. The satiny ones were kinda nice. He’d admit that. The lace, though? That crap scratched like a mother-
‘Dean?’
His own name in his own voice snapped him out of it.
She was staring at him with her arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised. Dean felt a little blush creep up.
‘Yeah,’ he muttered, rolling his eyes to cover it. ‘Right. Fine, I’m gonna go change.’
He turned toward the bedroom and threw over his shoulder, ‘You wanna help me pick the outfit?’
Behind him, he heard a scoff. Then her footsteps followed a second later.
‘Is this okay?’
Dean held up a plain dark green button-up between both hands. Nothing fancy. Just thinner than the usual flannels, cut closer through the waist and chest.
She was standing by the dresser, looking into the mirror, running a hand through his hair, trying to make it behave with that focused little frown.
When she glanced at the shirt, her face softened.
‘Yeah,’ she smiled. ‘That’s good.’
Dean nodded once. Then got to work.
He stripped off what he had on, and, muttering under his breath, reached for the bra. That damn thing again. He sighed like he was gearing up for battle and pulled it on, already irritated before the straps were even settled. Then the shirt. Then fresh jeans.
He was halfway through pulling them up when his attention snagged, as it always did, on her thighs.
And before he could stop himself, his hands did what they always wanted to do around her. He ran both palms over them slow, squeezed once on instinct, thumbs pressing into the soft, solid warmth there with obvious appreciation.
God. Yeah.
He loved her thighs. Under his hands. Around his waist. Over his shoulders. Against his face…
Mirror caught it. Of course it did.
He looked up and saw her watching through the reflection, and the second he realized she’d noticed, she let out this strained little groan.
His brows pulled together.
‘What?’
She sighed and looked down, suddenly blushing a little. Which was still trippy as hell to see in his own face.
‘I’m so sorry, Dean,’ she muttered.
Dean frowned harder, really confused now. ‘For what?’
She gave one tiny, frustrated motion toward her thighs.
‘For that,’ she said. ‘For them being... like that. For not having some elegant thigh gap or whatever.’
Dean just stared at her for one beat. Then shook his head.
‘Baby, the only thigh gap you need is from my head between them.’
He waited. Fully expecting more blush. Or at least a sheepish smile.
Instead, the expression on his own face changed in a way he had not expected at all. She pressed her lips together, then snorted.
‘Wow,’ she said, chuckling. ‘That sounded so wrong in my voice.’
Dean threw his head back a little.
‘Goddamnit,’ he huffed. ‘That was such a smooth line too.’ He pointed at her with one hand while yanking the jeans up with the other. ‘That would’ve had you blushin’ and squirming on a normal day.’
That only made her laugh harder.
Dean shook his head, still grumbling to himself, and buttoned the jeans.
She was still smiling when she stepped closer. Her hand came up and smoothed a few strands of her hair, then drifted down to the shirt. She fixed the collar and popped one more button open.
Dean glanced down on reflex and immediately caught a little more of her chest than he was prepared for.
Oh, hell no.
He reached down at once and buttoned it right back up.
‘Dean…’ she started.
‘What?’ he said, defensive. ‘That was not safe.’
Then another thought crossed his mind.
‘Please don’t make me wear makeup,’ he blurted out.
She looked at him, startled.
Dean grimaced. ‘I don’t wanna look like a painted whore.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Excuse me?’
Dean backed up immediately, palms half raised. ‘I mean... not that women who wear makeup are whores. Obviously. ‘I just-’ He pointed vaguely at his face. ‘I don’t wanna do all that. That’s all I’m sayin’.’
She stared at him another second. Then rolled her eyes and smiled.
‘Yeah, okay. Calm down,’ she said, turning back towards the mirror.
She gave his hair one last adjustment, then stepped toward the door.
‘Alright, let’s go.’
Watching Dean drive had always been one of your favorite things.
No. That was underselling it. Watching Dean drive was an incredible turn-on. There was just something about the way he looked behind Baby’s wheel. One hand loose on the steering wheel, the other shifting when he needed to. The focus in his face, the confidence.
Watching him do it in your body, though?
Yeah. Not nearly as fun.
You looked good, sure. Baby suited you surprisingly well, which probably had a lot more to do with Dean being inside you, all that instinct and ease bleeding through everything he did.
Still, that was not really the point.
The point was that your husband’s body had been made for an Impala’s driver seat. And your job in life had been to sit next to him and watch. Simple as that.
The two of you drove around for a while first, not in any hurry. Just let the road stretch out in front of you while the last traces of sunset bled out at the horizon and music filled the car. Dean looked relaxed in a way he had not in days. The drive was obviously doing what he wanted it to do.
You stopped for gas, then, eventually, Baby rolled into the lot outside your favorite dive bar.
Dean had already assured you he would only have a couple beers, but you hadn’t needed the reassurance.
The first day had scared the hell out of him enough to fix that particular problem. He knew better now. Knew what it felt like to wake up miserable because of his own dumb choices. Knew exactly what the difference between your bodies was.
And that difference hit you the second you stepped inside.
The place was not packed, but it was not empty either. Enough people for the room to feel warm and loud. Pool balls cracking in the back, music low over old speakers, glasses clinking, somebody laughing too hard near the bar.
And then the heads turned. Not all of them, but enough. Some only for a second. Most stayed longer than that.
On you.
You had never liked attention. That had been true for as long as you could remember. And you had never exactly been the kind of woman who turned heads when she walked into a room. Usually, if anyone noticed the two of you, they noticed Dean. Obviously. His size, his handsome face, the way he carried himself.
People usually gave him the first glance. And if they looked at you after that, it was often just long enough to quietly decide whether the two of you made sense standing next to each other.
But this time they were looking at you. Immediately.
Except they weren’t really looking at you, they were looking at Dean.
And it was so uncomfortable you nearly wished the floor would open up and put you out of your misery.
A hand touched your waist lightly.
You glanced over.
Dean, standing there in your body, gave you a small nod toward one of the empty tables between the bar and the pool area. You followed him, trying not to register the eyes that stayed on you as you walked. Trying even harder not to feel the difference between being looked at and being looked at like that.
Dean dropped into the chair opposite yours with a little grunt and spread his legs a little too far apart without thinking.
You rubbed your cheek to hide the smile threatening there. You had started doing that a lot lately. Dean’s stubble under your hand was weirdly soothing.
‘Could you maybe not sit like that?’ you murmured. ‘That whole big-dick-energy thing looks kind of weird on my body.’
Dean looked down at himself and immediately pulled your knees in closer, clearing his throat.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
Right then the waitress showed up. Young, bright smile, dive-bar T-shirt fitting just a little too well.
‘Hey there,’ she said cheerfully. ‘What can I get ya?’
You braced automatically for the usual. Then realized, with a weird little jolt, that the smile was pointed at you.
Not Dean in your body.
You.
She was waiting for you to answer. Looking right at you. Not even glancing his way at first. That felt so strange it actually knocked your brain off the rails for a second.
‘Two beers,’ Dean said from beside you in your own voice.
Only then did she flick her attention toward him long enough to nod.
‘And something salty, please,’ you added, finding your voice.
Her eyes came right back to you, and then she winked. Actually winked.
‘You got it, hon,’ she said, and bounced off toward the bar.
You just stared after her for a second.
Because, okay.
You knew Dean Winchester had that effect on people. You had always known it. Back in your own world, part of you had assumed it was just television exaggeration. A running gag. The show leaning into the fact that they had cast a man far too gorgeous to pass for average and then acting like every waitress in America could not help herself.
Turned out, no.
Dean really was that kind of charming. Weak-in-the-knees kind of charming.
And now, for the first time, you were getting the full force of it from the other side.
‘Somethin’ wrong?’
Dean’s voice pulled you back. You blinked and looked up.
‘Nothing. No, sorry.’ You gave him a quick smile. ‘I just got lost in my head for a second.’
He narrowed your own eyes at you, clearly not convinced, but didn’t push. Instead he leaned in a little and lowered his voice.
‘So. How’s the reversal spell comin’?’
You knew exactly what he was doing.
He saw you getting uncomfortable and immediately steered the conversation toward something he knew you could talk about without spiraling. Something that belonged to you.
God, you loved him so much.
You gave him a more genuine smile this time.
‘Well, I finally decided which version we’re going to use.’
A beer landed in front of you right then. You thanked the waitress without really looking up, clinked your bottle lightly against Dean’s, and took a sip.
‘And?’ Dean said, licking his lips after his own and nodding for you to keep going.
You set the bottle down.
‘And I think our best option is the one Patrick’s girlfriend gave you.’
Dean frowned. He had absolutely no idea what you were talking about. His face made that very clear.
So you sighed and helped him out.
‘You know, season five,’ you said. ‘The poker. The one where that man-witch hustles you out of your years and you turn into an old man.’
Dean’s face shifted with recognition.
‘Right,’ he muttered, taking another pull from his beer.
‘His partner gives you what she calls the most powerful reversal spell you’ve ever laid eyes on,’ you said. ‘So I thought I should check Bobby’s stuff, and of course he kept it.’
Dean’s expression softened at Bobby’s name. You smiled too.
‘So yeah,’ you said, lifting your beer again, ‘I checked it over. It really does look like powerful stuff. We’re going with that one. Just with the correct DNA this time.’ You grinned and took another sip.
Dean nodded slowly, approving.
‘Awesome.’ Then he let out a breath. ‘’Cause I’m tellin’ you, babe, I am so ready to switch back.’
You knew he was. You both were. Still, the urge to tease him came too easily to pass up.
‘Oh, really?’ you asked, widening your eyes in fake surprise. ‘I thought you were enjoying being inside a woman. And, you know, having fun with the...’
You lifted your hand and made a little wiggling motion with your fingers.
That got him laughing immediately.
‘Yeah, okay. Alright.’
He reached across the table, grabbed your hand, and laced your fingers through yours.
‘I am,’ he said, still smiling. Then he leaned in closer, voice dropping just enough that only you could hear. ‘But I’d much rather bone my wife with my own dick.’
That pulled a laugh out of you too. A real one. And it felt nice, just sitting there laughing together in a bar instead of the bunker, surrounded by dusty books and spell notes and all the weirdness you had both been living inside for the last five days.
Dean had been right. You both needed this.
So you ordered another round, picked at the pretzels, let yourselves relax into each other’s company for a little while.
Then loud laughter broke out over by the pool tables. A bunch of guys, talking smack, arguing over who was the better shot, who was hustling, who was about to lose money.
And then Dean’s eyes lit up. Your eyes, technically. He turned back to you already grinning.
‘How about I win us some pocket money?’ he asked, eyebrows wiggling.
You snorted. ‘Dean, we do not need pocket money. We have Charlie’s credit card.’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he shot back immediately.
He glanced toward the pool table again, then back at you. ‘I wanna show those guys how it’s done.’
Then he hit you with the full force of his puppy-dog expression plastered all over your own face.
‘Please?’
You leaned back in your chair and crossed Dean’s arms over his chest.
If you were being honest, a part of you wanted to see it. A larger part of you was kind of worried, because Dean in your body swaggering up to a group of dive-bar idiots and humiliating them at pool had the potential to get complicated fast.
Yeah. Well…
You smiled.
‘Sure. Go ahead. Show them what you’ve got.’
Dean was on his feet instantly. He took one last swig of beer, winked at you, and strutted toward the pool area with all his usual confidence.
Which, somehow, made your body look even more ridiculous than ever.
The guys let him join in without much protest. More amused than threatened, really. You caught the looks they exchanged, though. Of course they did. A woman stepping up to the table full of men, probably thinking she could hustle a few drinks out of them before embarrassing herself.
Idiots.
You also caught the way some of them looked your body over. Your own body. Appraising, disapproving, curious, it didn’t really matter. The whole thing still made your stomach twist.
Dean, meanwhile, was just standing there watching them play first, looking way too harmless and cute for his own good.
But you knew exactly what he was doing. He was clocking every shot, every mistake, every habit. Watching how they leaned, where they hesitated, who had actual skill and who just liked the sound of their own trash talk.
And the tiny twitch at the corner of your own mouth told you he already knew he was going to wipe those smug, overconfident looks clean off their faces.
‘I’m sorry-’
The voice came from too close.
You turned, startled enough that your pulse jumped. You had been watching Dean so hard you had not even registered someone approaching your table.
A woman stood there. Around your age, maybe, drink in one hand, the other toying with the little straw inside it. She was smiling at you, but there were nerves in it. A faint blush had climbed up into her cheeks, and her lashes were fluttering a little too much.
She glanced back over her shoulder.
You followed the look and saw a small group of women at the bar watching with barely contained giggles. All of them clearly invested in whatever this was.
‘I don’t usually do this,’ the woman said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, ‘but I had to come over and tell you... we all agreed you’re the most handsome guy in here tonight.’
For one second you just stared at her, processing.
Did that... really just happen? Was this a real thing? Did women really just walk up to guys in bars and say things like that out loud?
This was movie-level ridiculous.
‘Uh... thanks?’ you managed finally.
‘We were also wondering,’ she continued, while another round of giggles erupted behind her, ‘if you’d maybe wanna join us. You know. Have a little fun.’
You tried very hard not to let the revulsion show on your face.
It was not even just that she was flirting with your husband. It was the assumption underneath it. The immediate confident invitation, as if Dean’s body walking into a room automatically meant he was up for grabs.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ you said, maybe a little too sharply.
You lifted Dean’s left hand without even thinking, the wedding band catching the low bar light.
The woman’s eyes dropped to it. And then, instead of looking embarrassed, she scoffed. Her gaze flicked toward the pool table.
‘Is that your wife?’
And there it was. That tone. Petty and dismissive in exactly the way that drilled into your every insecurity.
Before you could answer, she leaned down and slid a folded napkin across the table toward you.
‘In case you change your mind,’ she said softly.
Then she smiled one last time and walked away before you could even tell her to shove the damn thing up her ass.
You stared at the napkin. At the neat line of numbers written there. And suddenly you felt sick.
Not just because she knew Dean was married and still gave him her number anyway. That was gross enough on its own.
It was more than that.
It was the way the whole thing hit you all at once. How casually his body got treated like public property. How normal it apparently was for strangers to look at him and immediately start imagining what they wanted from him.
And it dragged up everything else right behind it.
All the times it had happened on the show. Not just to Dean, Sam too. Random women flirting, touching them without asking, kissing them without permission. Saying whatever they wanted because the boys were handsome and supposed to grin through it. And Sam, God… Sam getting literally magic-roofied and waking up married against his will.
Because it was funny, right? Funny because they were men. Funny because they were big, broad-shouldered hunters who could handle themselves.
Except if any of that happened to a woman, nobody would laugh. Nobody normal, anyway.
You swallowed hard.
The ugly truth was, none of it had just been television nonsense. It had all really happened to them. Kept happening, too, obviously. And now you were sitting here in Dean’s body with a stranger’s phone number under your hand and a knot in your stomach, and for the first time the full weight of it actually landed.
And you were not exactly innocent either.
Because hadn’t you objectified him too?
Maybe not like this. But still. Hadn’t you spent years looking at him on a screen and getting distracted by his face, his body, his voice, his hands? Hadn’t you turned him into fantasy first, before this world ever gave you the chance to know him as a person?
Yeah. You had.
The realization sat heavy in your chest.
It didn’t make what just happened your fault, of course. But it did make you sit there with the napkin in front of you feeling strange and ashamed and unexpectedly sad.
And you didn’t really know what to do with that.
Dean had been enjoying himself at first.
The guys were already half in the bag, which just meant getting money out of them was gonna be even easier than he thought. They all had that same look too. That smug, lazy confidence of men who had clearly decided he was just some woman who didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into.
So yeah, he’d played into it. Acted a little naive, let them think whatever dumb crap they wanted to think. Because the look on their faces when he cleaned them out was gonna be worth it.
Still.
There were parts of it he hated almost immediately. Because he wasn’t blind. Of course he noticed the way some of them looked at him. Or rather, looked at her. His wife’s body.
And he couldn’t decide which looks pissed him off more. The ones sliding over her like she was something to eat. Or the ones eyeing her curves and fighting a laugh, as if she ought to be grateful they were bothering at all.
Didn’t really matter.
He wanted to punch every one of them in the throat for either.
Dean was no stranger to getting checked out. That had happened plenty in his life. But this was different. This was her. And they had no goddamn right.
He forced himself to breathe through it. Needed to win first.
He glanced back toward the table.
She was still there in his body, sitting alone, staring down at a napkin under her hand with this little frown on his face that immediately set something off in him. Something had happened in the few minutes he’d been over here.
He almost walked away from the pool table right then.
But then a rough voice cut in.
‘Hey, sweetheart!’
Dean turned his head. One of the guys was grinning at him, elbow hooked on the edge of the table, clearly way too entertained with himself.
‘Your turn. Or you scared?’
Dean rolled his eyes and swallowed the immediate urge to tell him to go fuck himself.
‘You wish,’ he said instead, stepping in closer to the table.
Then he stopped. Looked at the guy. ‘And did you just call me sweetheart?’
The guy chuckled and crossed his arms. ‘Think I did, yeah.’
Dean’s mouth flattened.
‘Don’t.’
He said it simply. But there was enough bite in it that the guy’s grin faltered for half a second.
And all at once Dean remembered that one time she’d told him it sounded kinda patronizing when he called her sweetheart. He hadn’t fully gotten it then.
He got it now.
Didn’t have time to sit with that, though.
He took a breath, leaned over the table, started lining up the cue… And immediately realized he had not thought this through nearly enough.
Her body wasn’t built for the same stance his was. Different height, shorter reach. Hips got in the way sooner. And her boobs, naturally, were now very present the second he bent over the felt.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered under his breath, shifting his feet, trying to find the angle again.
Then a hand landed on his waist.
Dean went cold. Then hot, real fast.
‘You gotta stand a little closer, sweetheart, if you wanna do it right.’
For one insane second his brain almost didn’t process it.
The guy was trying to ‘help’. As if that alone wasn’t insulting enough. But the fact that this asshole had just put his hand on his wife’s body, like that, like it was nothing?
Dean saw red.
He didn’t even turn all the way around.
‘Let go of me,’ he said, voice low and sharp enough to cut. ‘Right now.’
The hand disappeared instantly.
‘Sorry,’ the guy muttered, though it came out more surprised than sorry.
Dean turned his head then. Shot him the hardest stare he could manage with her face.
‘Touch me again and it’s the last thing that hand’s gonna do.’
A couple whistles broke out around the table. Then the little mocking chuckles started. Of course they did.
‘We got a feisty one, boys,’ one of them laughed.
Dean nearly gagged.
He hated this. Hated every damn second of it. The tone. The entitlement. The way they talked to him now, to her, just because she was a woman and not a guy they’d think twice about mouthing off to.
And that was the other part really getting under his skin.
Dean knew damn well his wife did not need to be in a man’s body to break somebody’s nose. But they looked at her and decided she was safe to diminish.
He bent over the table again before he did something premature and stupid.
Needed to finish this first. Wanted the money.
The anger helped. Helped a lot, actually. Once he adjusted the stance and stopped fighting his instincts, the focus came easier. One shot. Then another. Then another. Solids dropped clean. Bank off the rail. Cut to the corner. One sloppy miss from the loudmouth on stripes and Dean was basically home free.
By the time only the eight ball was left, the whole little crowd had gone quieter.
Then the jackass opened his mouth, snickering.
‘Whoa. You really know how to handle balls, sweetheart.’
A round of idiot laughter circled the table.
And that was it.
Dean sank the eight clean into the corner pocket. Stood up. Turned on his heel. And punched the guy square in the face.
It wasn’t nearly as hard as he wanted it to be. Not with her body, with her strength.
Still did the job.
The guy staggered backward with a shocked grunt, clutching his nose as red started threading through his fingers almost immediately.
The whole table went dead silent.
Dean stepped in once, blood still roaring hot.
‘That’s for puttin’ your hands where they don’t belong,’ he snapped. Then, jaw tight, voice lower and meaner. ‘And for runnin’ your mouth like a pathetic fuck.’
Nobody laughed this time.
Dean dropped the cue on the table, swept the pile of bills into his hand, and walked away before somebody tried something even dumber.
By the time he got back to their table, she was already on her feet, staring at him with his own face, eyes wide.
And yeah, half the damn bar had turned to look now. He didn’t care one bit.
‘Dean, what the-’
‘We’re done here,’ he said, slapping cash down onto the table. Blood was still pounding too hard under her skin. ‘Let’s go.’
She looked at him for one second longer, then nodded. Didn’t argue, thankfully. Just set her beer down and moved with him toward the door.
Dean felt her hand slide around his waist before they hit the entrance.
He looked up.
She was glancing over toward the bar with a cool, hard look on his face. A group of women over there had gone sour-faced watching them leave.
Dean didn’t know what exactly had happened while he’d been at the pool table. But judging by the way she held onto him on the way out, he was getting a pretty good idea it hadn’t been anything he was gonna enjoy hearing about.
‘Goddamnit, what a bunch of jerks.’
Dean was still going on about the asshats from the bar, her soft hands gripping the wheel a little too tight as Baby ate up the dark road.
‘You know what? That’s it. I’m never lettin’ you go to a bar alone.’ He shook his head, still fuming. ‘Matter of fact, I’m never lettin’ you go anywhere alone. Period.’
He meant it too.
Because yeah, he knew women got treated like crap all the time. He wasn’t exactly gonna sit there and pretend younger Dean had been some gold-standard in chivalry. But even at his dumbest, he never just put his hands on a woman because he felt like it. Never if she didn’t want him there. Unless somebody needed hauling out of danger, that was different.
‘Man, guys are pigs, I swear…’
His eyes stayed on the road, but her silence beside him started to feel off. He glanced over and, sure enough, she had that look on his face. The one that said she was down some mental spiral already.
‘Hey. You with me?’
She kept looking down at his hands in her lap.
Dean frowned.
‘Baby? What’s goin’-’
‘Dean, am I like Becky?’
She blurted it out so suddenly that for one second he just stared.
‘Like a what now?’
She let out a long exasperated sigh.
‘Becky. Superfan Ninety-Nine, as you called her. The girl who used a love potion to drug Sam. The one who knew everything about you because she was obsessed with the books.’
Dean blinked.
Okay. Yeah. He knew who Becky was now that she said it. He’d mostly filed her under annoying and then later under insane, once she’d gone full mental on his brother. But what the hell that had to do with his wife, he had no clue.
‘Yeah, I remember her,’ he said slowly. ‘Why are you bringin’ her up all of a sudden?’
He could see his own jaw working beside him. She was chewing on something ugly. Closed her eyes for a second, took a breath, then looked out the window again.
‘I know you thought she was creepy. You know, being a fan. The way she knew everything about you and your life. How obsessed she was with Sam. She literally married him, Dean.’ Her fingers tightened around each other. ‘Does that really not sound like someone you know?’
Dean opened his mouth to tell her he still had no damn idea what she was rambling about.
Then it hit him.
His eyes went wide as he looked at her. Had to drag his eyes right back to the road.
‘Wait. Hold on.’ He stared out through the windshield, stunned. ‘Are you sayin’ you’re like her?’
She didn’t answer. Just sat there with this guilty, miserable expression on his face that made Dean want to pull over and shake some sense into her.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ she shot back, voice edged with something desperate now. ‘I was a huge fan before I came here. I still am, obviously. I remember scenes and lines and details from specific episodes and seasons. I quote you to yourself all the time. Hell, I was objectifying you before I even knew you were real.’
And that did it. Dean finally lost it. He started laughing, out loud.
The timing of it was probably terrible, but he couldn’t help it. The whole thing was so wildly off-base that it blasted right through his bad mood.
‘Stop it,’ she muttered, and he could practically hear the eye roll in his own voice.
‘Babe,’ he said through the laughter, ‘you wanted nothing to do with me when we first met, remember?’
That got a groan out of her.
‘We both know that is not true. I thought you were kind of an ass at first, yes, but you also know perfectly well I was already hopelessly gone over you. I just knew you were so far out of my league I barely dared look at you.’
Dean laughed harder.
He really couldn’t help it now. It was too good. Too ridiculous. And it had the nice side effect of wiping those sleazy dicks from the bar right out of his head.
‘Yeah, okay,’ he said, finally dragging a hand over her face to get himself together. ‘First off, your grandpa’s magic kinda rigged the game. Far as I remember, you were supposed to know that stuff. Whole point was gettin’ you home.’
She was back to looking down. One hand drifted up and rubbed at his stubble absently.
‘Second,’ Dean went on, ‘I was objectifying you too when we met. Still do, sometimes. Pretty sure there’s nothin’ wrong with thinkin’ my wife is hot as hell.’
‘Dean-’
‘Lemme finish.’
He lifted a hand off the wheel for half a second, just enough to stop her jumping in.
‘And third, you are not like Becky. Not even a little.’ His voice went flatter then. More serious. ‘Yeah, the knowing stuff was creepy for about five minutes. Fine. Then I got over it because you never took advantage of it. Never crossed a line. And you sure as hell never drugged me.’
That made her flinch a little in his seat.
Good.
He wanted the point to land.
‘I fell for you because you’re you,’ he said. ‘Because you’re smart and funny and bossy and way too good for me. So I would really appreciate it if you stopped insulting both of us by comparing yourself to some boundary-stomping weirdo.’
He glanced over at her again. Her throat bobbed.
‘I’m serious,’ he added. ‘Don’t do that. Ever.’
She looked up then. Ears a little red in his face.
‘Okay,’ she said quietly.
The road went quiet for a minute after that. Dean figured that was the end of it. Then she spoke again, softer.
‘But I am sorry, Dean. For objectifying you. For anyone who ever made you feel like you were just a pretty face.’
Dean blinked at the road. Because he had not expected that. At all. He let the silence sit for a second, then shook his head lightly.
‘Alright,’ he said, glancing over at her again. ‘What the hell happened while I was playin’ pool?’
She sighed through his nose.
And then she told him. About the woman, the number on the napkin. The way she’d looked right at his ring and still kept going.
The tone she’d used when she asked if Dean, in her body, was really his wife.
Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles ache. He’d already wanted to go back and deck somebody. Now he wanted to burn the whole bar down.
He let her talk until she ran out. And by the time she finished, there was more in her voice than disgust. There was that weird sadness again. Because she turned some of what had been happening to him for decades on herself.
He reached over in the dark and found her hand on the seat between them.
‘Babe.’
She looked over.
‘You know the difference between you and every person who ever wanted a piece of this sweet ass?’ he asked. ‘You saw the ugly crap too, and you still stayed. That’s not objectifying in my book.’
He let that sit there. Then, because he needed out of the chick-flick territory, he added…
‘Also, for the record, I am a pretty face. So let’s not pretend that’s not part of the package.’
That got the smallest laugh out of her.
Dean smirked a little and squeezed her hand one last time before letting go.
‘We’re home in ten,’ he said. ‘Then we put on a movie, eat somethin’, and you can spend the rest of the night not comparing yourself to Becky freakin’ Rosen.’
This time her laugh came easier.
And just like that, the rest of the drive knew where it was going. Back to the bunker. Back to counting down the last two days before they could finally be themselves again.
‘You sure it’s gonna work?’
You were seated at the worktable in your lab, Bobby’s notes spread open in front of you, when Dean leaned in close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. You had your hand over the small bowl already, watching fresh blood gather at the heel of your palm and fall in slow drops into the bottom.
‘You can never be completely sure with magic,’ you said. ‘You know that.’
The second the words left your mouth, you felt Dean tense beside you.
Right. Bad choice.
You glanced up just long enough to catch the look on his face, then added quickly, ‘But I’m pretty confident. This is the best version we’ve got.’
Dean huffed through his nose.
‘Awesome,’ he muttered, sarcasm thick in his voice.
You almost snapped something back, but decided to bite it down. The last thing either of you needed was Dean spiraling right before the spell. So you just exhaled, reached for his left hand, and turned it palm-up.
The blade split his skin just enough to draw a small cut.
Dean didn’t even flinch.
Instead, while you gathered a few drops from him into the same bowl, he spoke again, voice lighter now.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘for what it’s worth... Sam was right.’
You looked down at the blood as it mixed in the bowl and raised one eyebrow.
‘About what?’
He shrugged one shoulder. ‘I do think this whole screwed-up situation brought us closer together.’
You looked up at him. There was amusement in his face. A little disbelief too. Your own face on him had looked many things over the last week. This one was gentler.
‘Which, honestly?’ he went on. ‘Didn’t think was possible.’
That got a smile out of you.
‘I know what you mean,’ you said quietly, drawing some of the blood up into the pipette. ‘I know what you mean.’
And you did.
Being in Dean’s body had taught you things you had only guessed at before. The tension lived in him all the time. His strength changed how he moved through the world. Even pleasure worked differently in him. How exhausting it was, when people looked at him, expected things from him.
And it had done something else too.
It had made you look at your own body differently. Understand it differently. You had seen it from Dean’s eyes, felt it from the outside. Seen exactly what he saw when he looked at you.
You were almost certain Dean had gone through some version of the same thing.
You picked up the paper with the incantation and scanned it one last time. Then you looked at him, at your own eyes staring back at you, hopefully for the last time anywhere but in a mirror.
‘Okay,’ you said. ‘You ready?’
Dean let out a breath through his nose. ‘So ready.’
You took his left hand in yours, both rings still on. Both little drops of preserved blood catching the light, one on each hand. Then you reached for the larger bowl, the one already layered with the ingredients you had prepared in the right order. You lit it and watched the fire catch.
Orange first. Then blue.
So far, so good.
Your pulse picked up.
You started the incantation out loud, voice steady because it had to be, and fed the rest of the ingredients into the flame one by one. The blue fire rose and shifted but stayed contained.
Dean was very still beside you.
You kept going.
Until finally you tipped in the last part, the mixed blood.
The flame surged, higher this time. Blue-white sparks kicked out of the bowl, making you instinctively narrow your eyes.
And then the pain hit.
It slammed into your head so fast and so hard it almost folded you over on the stool. Not even close to a normal headache. Something sharp and mean and splitting, right through the middle of your skull. Your stomach lurched with it. The room spun. The edges of everything blurred and smeared together until you could no longer tell if your eyes were open or shut.
For one terrible second you thought, this is too much.
Then everything stopped.
Just gone.
You blinked. The lab came back into focus in pieces. The bowls, the papers, the smell of burned ingredients, the chair under you.
You looked sideways. And Dean was right next to you.
Not in your body. In his.
You looked down at yourself so fast it almost made you dizzy again.
Your body. Your chest. Your hands. Your thighs. Every part where it belonged, sitting on you with this familiar, comforting rightness. And, weirdly enough, the parts that were no longer there? You almost missed those too.
You smiled.
It worked.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Dean said beside you.
And his voice finally sounded right. Hearing it like that sent another stupid wave of relief through you.
You turned toward him just in time to see him getting to his feet. He stretched first, shoulders back, neck rolling once. Then, with absolutely no shame whatsoever, his hand flew to his crotch and he adjusted himself with a satisfied little smirk.
‘Well,’ he muttered, looking down, ‘hello there, buddy.’ His mouth curved. ‘Missed you.’
That pulled a laugh out of you. Your own laugh. Your own voice.
God, that felt good.
The sound made Dean look up. His expression changed at once. The smugness dropped off and softened into something that hit you harder.
‘Hey,’ he said.
Then he stepped toward you.
You got up too, barely making it halfway before his arms were around your waist and pulling you in hard. He bent his head and took one deep breath. Then he rested his forehead against yours.
‘Finally,’ he muttered.
And then he kissed you. With his own mouth. His own pressure. His own familiar intensity. You melted into it so fast it almost made you dizzy.
His hands, strong and sure, slid over your side, then lower, dragging you closer.
And just as quickly, you felt it. That familiar little twist low in your belly. The first pull of heat gathering between your legs, answering him the way your body always had.
Yeah.
You were definitely back.
And from the look in Dean’s eyes when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, your husband was very clearly about to make excellent use of everything he had learned about your body over the last week.
Dean was almost embarrassed by how right it felt to be back in his own body.
Not just right. Good. So damn good it was almost stupid.
And having her back in her own body? Pressed up against him exactly where she was supposed to be?
Yeah. That part might’ve been even better.
They were sprawled across their bed now, tangled up in each other, because the second that spell worked, they had both silently agreed that the honeymoon phase was officially back on. The whole thing had gotten interrupted way too fast the first time around anyway. They had barely even gotten to the point of planning the actual honeymoon before magic had decided to screw with them for a week.
But the planning could wait.
Right now, Dean had much more important business to attend to.
Mostly finding out exactly how many orgasms his wife could take in a row before she passed out. Because she had been way too smug about the fact that women could apparently keep going one after another.
Which was why she was currently breathing through the tail end of her second one, face tucked against his chest, while Dean lay beside her with one arm under her and his other hand moving in slow, lazy circles over her bare back.
He missed this part too much.
The after.
The way she melted against him, all loose and breathing hard, trusting him with every inch of herself.
Dean smirked against the top of her head.
‘Y’know,’ he said, and hearing his own real voice rumble through his chest again felt goddamn right, ‘I keep thinkin’... I had a girl inside me for a whole week. That’s pretty naughty.’
He felt her laugh against him. Just a little huff of it. Warm on his skin.
‘Big words,’ she murmured, ‘for someone who didn’t actually let me put his own-’
‘Alright, okay,’ Dean cut in immediately, groaning. ‘So I didn’t wanna get fucked by myself. Will you just let that one go already?’
She chuckled softly and rested her hand flat on his stomach.
‘I will,’ she said. ‘But I do want you to know I was kind of looking forward to doing it by the end.’
Dean shook his head into the pillow, smirking despite himself.
‘You’re such a freak.’
The second the words landed, he felt her go still.
Crap.
Dean’s smile dropped right off.
‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
And there it was. That little dip in her voice. That awful moment where she took the joke the wrong way.
Dean moved before he even thought about it. Pulled her tighter against him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, mouth pressing into her hair.
‘Hey. No. Don’t do that.’
She stayed quiet. Dean tipped her chin up gently until she looked at him.
‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘That’s one of the things I love about you.’
That got her moving again, some of the tension easing out of her eyes.
Dean brushed his thumb once over her cheek.
‘You’re weird as hell,’ he added, softer now. ‘You’re also, like, my favorite person ever, so... Both things can be true.’
That got him the smallest smile.
Dean kissed her forehead and let her settle back down against him.
For a minute, neither of them said anything. They just lay there, skin warm against skin, letting the room go quiet around them.
For one perfect second, it really did feel like everything was finally back where it should be.
So Dean let himself enjoy it. The simple fact that they had made it through another round of complete supernatural bullcrap and somehow came out of it closer.
He was just opening his mouth to ask if she thought she had a third one in her when a hard, loud knock cracked through the room.
Both of them froze.
Dean frowned immediately.
She lifted her head off his chest and looked toward the bedroom door.
Another knock.
Dean was already moving. He slid out from under her, grabbed his sweats, shoved them on fast, then dragged a shirt over his head on the way to the door.
Something in his gut had gone cold.
He opened the door just enough. Sam stood there in the hallway.
Dean blinked once
‘Sam. Hey.’ He greeted his brother. ‘Didn’t know you’d be back today.’
But the second he said it, he knew something was off.
Sam looked all wrong. Too stiff and restless. Shoulders pulled tight, eyes moving everywhere but Dean.
Dean’s stomach dropped.
‘What’s wrong?’
Sam scratched the back of his neck and finally looked at him, forehead furrowed with worry.
‘It’s Cas, Dean.’
That was all it took. Dean felt the blood drain out of his face before Sam even kept going.
Because he knew. Knew exactly what was coming the second Sam mentioned Cas.
Sam’s voice got quieter. He glanced once past Dean, toward the room. Toward her. Then back.
‘He’s here.’
Dean just stared at him.
And Sam said the thing anyway.
‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘He says it’s time... for her to go to Hell.’
A/N: When I tell you I couldn’t wait to finish this because I’m so excited to start the next sequel with that little outrageous idea I had… I spent a good chunk of my hospital stay writing down notes and ideas for it, and now I may have hyped myself up way too much.
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Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Rating: 18+, Mature
All fics and sequels masterlist
Tags: Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues, Season/Series 08, Trials, Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n
A/N: This is a 53-chapter fic filled with slow burn, smut, angst, and plenty of plot twists.
What’s your AO3? Also your masterlist for In Your Skin only lists chapter 1 and not the others.
Yes, yes, I know the masterlist needs updating.
Tumblr doesn’t allow more than 100 links in a single post, so I need to rework it a bit and split it into two masterlists. I just haven’t really had the time to deal with that lately.