Supernatural

“I know you’re not good at listening, sweetheart, but I didn’t call you one-“

“It was implied.”

Dean rolls his eyes, giving Sam a you see what I gotta deal with expression, like he’s not the one making the whole fucking issue.

“I’m not staying in the car.” You repeat, louder than before, and Dean chuckles dryly.

“Yeah. You are.”

“I’m not-“

“You are-“

“You lock me in here, I’ll start screaming-“

He gives you an unimpressed look. “I’ll gag you.”

You grin at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Kinky.”

Dean jaw clenches. You beam. Somewhere in the background, Sam sighs.

“Guys…”

“You’re staying here.” Dean snaps. “That’s that.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Winchester-“

“The hell I’m not-“

“You don’t offer me health insurance-“

“None of us get health insurance, sweetheart, that’s why I’m telling you to stay in the car-“

“Guys.” Sam sighs, looking between you with the same, exhausted expression as usual. “We only have until the sunrise, and it’s already 4am. Can you please do this after?”

You don’t look away from Dean. He doesn’t look away from you. You raise your brows mockingly.

“He’s talking to you, Dean. Can you do this after?”

Dean narrows his eyes, and he opens his mouth to bark something at you that you probably would’ve deflected now—using taunting words and matching his harsh tone—then cried about later. In the safety of your bedroom, where Dean can’t see you. The only place that you can go to let everything out. It’s safe in your room. Dean never even knocks on your door, always sending Sam in his stead. But you don’t go to his room either. It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve never had steady enough feet on the ground to bother breaking. You’re pretty sure that if Sam doesn’t kill you both over this, he’s going to strangle you later for making him a messenger pigeon.

But you need that solace. That quiet, where Dean can’t shake your world with sneers and glowers. It hits something raw in you, a wound that you’ve never bothered to stich up or cauterize because you love the bleeding too much. It pours all over your hands when you hug your stomach, out of your mouth like bile when you try to defend yourself—to make him stop just seeing you as some stupid, naive civilian girl he needs to heard around—and out of your eyes when you cry over all of it.

The things that do make you that naïve civilian girl. The things that make you barely any better than a teenager with a crush, wandering around after the boy you like and pulling at his sleeve for just an ounce of attention.

No one can blame you for falling for the hero who saved your life and swept you off your feet. Offered you a new life, taught you how to shoot a gun with his arms around your body—you can still feel him sometimes, when you rub your shoulders—and told you that he’ d always keep you safe.

Dean had been straight out of a romance book. You’d let yourself get starry eyed, you’d daydreamed that he lingered around you out of affection rather than obligation. You’d been an idiot, and you’d gotten comfortable, and when Sam said you had a knack for the lore and were more than welcome to stay, you’d said yes without a thought.

You’d thought Dean would’ve been happy.

But you’d told him, and he’d looked like he was going to put his fist through a wall.

Everything had shifted, like a picture into the negative. Dean stopped seeking you out for anything, stopped training you, almost stopped looking at you all together. In the first months, he’d walked out of a room the moment you entered. At one point, you’d overheard him having a very loud fight with Sam about letting you stick around. 

He hadn’t been speaking to Sam either. They’d gotten over it, because they always seemed to. Your second foolish fantasy was that Dean would get over whatever you’d done to him—you’re still not all that sure—and decide that he actually did like you. That he’d remember how good things had been at the start, and if you proved yourself to him, everything would go back to normal.

But it’s been a year.

And normal is this now.

Dean hates you. He must hate you. There’s no other reason he’d argue with Sam about bringing you on hunts, even when they need the extra hands or your research. And even when Sam wins the fight—which is always, you think he might have a cheat code that makes Dean always agree with him, and you’d very much like access to it please—Dean still acts like you don’t exist. Or worse, like you do, and it’s the bane of his entire life. For the whole fifteen hour drive, and you get handed snacks without eye contact and checked on like you’re a dog he’s making sure didn’t piss all over his precious car.

For the entire hunt, you’ve been able to feel his attention burning through you. Whenever you’d look over, he would’ve already looked away, but you could feel it. And you’re the one who tracked the nest and identified the mutation in these vamps that made them daywalkers, but when you’d looked to Dean with a hopeful smile for approval, he’d looked away again.

You might’ve sat in the bathtub with the water burning yours shoulders and useless tears sliding down your cheeks after. Clawing at your face like you could remove the pain, remove all the love you felt for him with all the brutal precision of a hungry animal. But if you did, it’s none of his fucking business.

And you might not want to join in on the actual hunt—that sounds gross, and bloody, and kind of scary—but Dean doesn’t get to win. You can handle it, and if you can’t he’s there.

It makes you feel safer than it should. Dean always makes you feel safer, and you hate him for it.

The thing about loving him is that it’s not so much a choice as something that slammed into you like a comet. Dean left a massive depression in something so vital you think it might be your soul, and now it blooms all the time. Alone and in the dark, finding sunshine in every piece of him that’s worthy of such a feral, unyielding devotion.

It’s most of him. He’s still that hero who saved you, and your body knows it better than your head sometimes. He opens doors for you even when he keeps his gaze fixed firmly over your head. He makes you coffee in the mornings before stalking out of the room like you make the whole place reek.

He’s going to keep you safe, even if he bitches about it and shouts at you the whole time.

And it’s so easy to love him for all of that. In the end, most of your desperation isn’t really to stop loving him.

It’s to scream loud enough that he stops pretending he can’t hear it. That he saves you again, even if it’s from yourself.

You win the argument about going into the house. For all his postering and deep, commanding grunts and threats, Dean’s not actually that good at telling you know. You’ve told Sam it’s because you have the numbers against him. Sam always gives you a strange look and says uh huh, like you’re supposed to know what that means.

“You stick with me.” Dean snaps, pulling out his dainty little baby gun and passing it into your hands. “You wanna speak, think five times, then don’t say it. These things are noise-sensitive, they hear you breathe, they rip you up.”

“I know.” You grumble. “I discovered them.”

Dean sighs heavily, just loud enough for you to know he heard you. “I don’t want you out of my sight.” He mutters, and you give him a flat look.

“So you’re planning to look at me today?”

He shoots you a glare, saying your name in a low warning, and you roll your eyes.

“Never mind.” You mutter under your breath, like a petulant child. “Guess it’s easier to look at ugly things when they’re in the dark.”

That makes him flinch back, like you punched him in the gut. He’s going to say something again, and you really don’t want to hear it.

You stalk over to Sam, leaving Dean gaping and rigid at Baby’s truck. Sam looks between you, but doesn’t bother to ask what you’re fighting about. He rarely does, and it’s always followed by an annoyed now, like it’s somehow your fault Dean thinks everything you do is a sin. What are you two doing now. Why are you mad at him now. Why is Dean being an idiot now.

He’s always an idiot. A handsome, insufferable idiot you want to sucker punch, then make out with until you can’t breathe. If you tried to hit him, maybe he’d catch your wrist and pin you to something. His massive body crowded over yours, his face inches away, lips brushing as he shouted at you, then gave up when you moaned—he’d be too close, his crotch pressing you down, you’d probably moan—and started touching and kissing you until your legs gave out and you were putty in his hands and he worshipped you with the same soft attention he used to offer-

“Stop flirting and fall in.” Dean snaps at you and Sam, standing in complete silence.

Sam rolls his eyes, and hisses something to Dean when they walk past each other that makes Dean look murderous. You flush—thankfully hidden in the dark—and grip your baby-gun tight as you follow.

“Stay with me-“

“I know.” You snap, not looking him in the eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or dismissal. You’re not sure which would be worse.

The moment you’re in the nest, you remember why you don’t usually do this. Why you actually prefer waiting at the motel for them to come back, or just staying in the car with an anxiously bouncing knee. You always ask to go with them because you hate the dread. Hate watching them—both of them, because you might not be in love with Sam but he’s sort of your only friend anymore—walk out the door for what always might be the last time. They never think it will be.

You do. Every time, Dean pulls out of the parking lot with your heart in his dumb, big hands, and you know it could stop beating any second. That you won’t even know until you get a phone call, and a part of you withers that’s never going to be reborn.

So you ask to go with them. To help. Do first aide, be extra hands, anything so you don’t just have to wonder if they’re okay.

But then you actually get here, and you hate it.

It’s scary. Scary and quiet and loud all at once. You have to physically yank yourself back from grabbing Dean’s forearm and clinging to him. He radiates heat, and this barn is so fucking cold, and you’d like to go back to the car now, thank you very much-

Everything happens so fast. It always does, on a hunt.

You find the vamps. Sam offs one, Dean gets another two, and your fingers tremble but you manage to kick a third back into Dean’s machete. He gives you an approving look, and you feel like you’ve grown wings.

Then another on comes out of nowhere. Slams into Dean and starts driving him backwards.

You scream, and shoot. It won’t kill them, but it’ll distract.

And it does.

The vamp stumbles when you hit his calf, dropping Dean to the floor. It turns on you with glinting eyes, and lunges.

You’re thrown to the ground with teeth gnashing near your throat. There’s a roar in the background, and you feel a rush of pain through your stomach as the vamp hits you. Heat burns over your neck, and your arms are starting to get weak, and-

 All the noise stops. The body over you slumps.

You open your eyes to find Dean standing over you, just like that first time he saved you.

Only now, he looks like he wants to cut off your head next.

He’s staring at you a strangely furious and pallid expression all at once. There’s something glinting in his eyes that you can’t place. His breath is heavy through his nose, and he’s not even blinking as he scans over you.

His eyes widen, when he sees the blood blooming through your shirt. He drops his machete, bends down, and scoops you up into his arms.

The rest of the night is a little hazy.

Dean carries you to the Impala. He smells good, like leather and pine trees and something a little spicy. He looks really good, too. Covered in blood and grease and so angry he’s almost feral. His hands are warm, and make you feel fuzzy when they brush over your stomach, checking the wound.

The whole thing feels like a dream. Especially after he coaxed some painkillers down your throat, and the world all becomes just color and Dean’s undivided attention, pressing over you.

He doesn’t speak to you the whole time. He’s humming something, fingers brushing over your bare skin, and the feel oddly light. Almost shaky.  

You breathe out his name. You don’t know why. Through the drugs, it’s sort of the only word you know.

His hands still for a heartbeat, then grab you a little tighter.

Before you pass out, your vision swimming and thoughts covered in a fog, you could swear you see him bow his head against your chest. He holds your hips tight, lips brushing against your exposed stomach.

Your weak fingers reach up, brushing through his hair. A deep sound rumbles from his chest, and it’s soothing.

The world goes peacefully dark, and Dean stays wrapped around you all the way into your dreams.

He hasn’t spoken to you.

It’s been three weeks, and Dean hasn’t said a single word.

It’s worse than before. Worse than it’s even been. Even those first months after you moved in permanently, he’d at least acknowledge your existence. It had been via avoiding you like the plague and snipping and glaring, but at least you’d known he could still see you. That he still thought of you.

Now, he’s treating you like a ghost.

The first week you’d expected. The drive back from the hunt had been tense, everyone dead silent. Rest stops happened when Dean decided they would. Sam never once asked him to turn down the music. You turned your face into the window and hid behind your jacket, hoping to hide the shame burning through you.

Dean had been right. You couldn’t handle that hunt.

But he hadn’t even rubbed it in your face. Hadn’t done an I told you so.

When you got back to the bunker, he’d shoved the door open and marched inside without looking back. Sam had rubbed a hand over his face, given you an apologetic look in the mirror, and you’d just shaken your head.

“He’ll get over it-“

“It’s fine, Sam.” You’d muttered. “I’m fine.”

You were not fine.

You hadn’t even been able to sit up without Sam’s help. He’d half carried you out of the car, a hiss of pain escaping your with every movement, and when you’d finally gotten on your feet you’d looked up to find Dean standing in the doorway.

His hands had been fisted at his sides. He’d been staring at you like he wanted to say something, jaw clenched so tight you could see a vein.

You hadn’t quipped. Hadn’t pushed. You’d just watched him, praying he’d do anything but just stand there. Part of you had wanted him to yell. To let out all the anger you could see simmering behind his gaze, so you could all move on.

But Dean had turned, and stalked back into the bunker.

The ignoring had begun. And you didn’t think you could last a day of it, let alone almost a month.

When you’re in the same room, he pretends you’re not even there. If you’re talking to Sam, he cuts you off like he didn’t hear. If you pass each other in the hall, he looks firmly ahead and bumps your shoulder. If you’re blocking him from getting something in the kitchen, he just reaches over you like you’re part of the room.

His chest presses against your back, and your breath hitches. You bow your head, fighting the instinct to moan and push back into him. He’s so warm, a secure and unwavering pillar of resolve that you want to worship at the feet of forever. He’s sturdy, he’s safe, his muscles flex around you and his breath is warm on your neck and he’s acting like you don’t even exist.

It’s cold when he pulls away.

You retreat to your room, and lie on the floor until you’re out of tears.

Part of you wonders if Dean even knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t. He thinks you hate him with all the fever and loathing he hates you. There’s no possible way for him to understand that every second he ignores you, something in you cowers and whines. That you’ve been passing the door to his room just to try and run into him, even though that breaks the unspoken rule of never invading such a sacred space. That this is killing you more than the injury did, because at least that was allowed to heal.

Dean fixed you, there.

Here, he’s just clawing you wider and wider, until there’s a gaping pit in the cavity of your chest, and you’re about to fall through.

He’d been going out drinking every night. He comes back reeking of liquor and perfume, but he comes back. Every single night, he’s back around 1am.

You know, because you stay up waiting.

Dean always walks past your room, when he gets home. His shadow lingers under your doorway, and sometimes you swear you hear a thud against your door. As if he’s knocking, or just leaning there.

Breaking the rule himself.

It’s the only way you still know you’re not a ghost. That he still knows you exist.

But that’s it.

Otherwise, you’re nothing to him at all.

You can’t take it anymore. Sam says you haven’t been eating as much, but you barely even noticed. You’re too tired, from losing sleep. And everything tastes like ash, anyway.

Sam also says that Dean’s being a dick, but he’ll get over it. They went on a hunt a few days ago—they’re talking again, although from what you’ve seen it’s clipped, and they’re both still pretty pissed—and Sam told you he’d try to talk some sense into Dean and his silent treatment. You have no faith it will work. Sometimes living in the bunker feels like a pissing contest of who can be the most stubborn, if every contestant had an infinite bladder and thought they’d die if they lost.

You’ve been checking your phone for updates every ten minutes. You’re getting itchy and restless, and you can hardly breathe. What if this is it, and foul voice reminds you. What if he dies, and he dies angry at you, and you can’t even remember the last thing he said to you because it was a month ago.

The seams in you are coming apart. Sam sends you a brief text, saying the hunt is over and they’ll be back tonight. You don’t bother to ask how the talk went. If Sam even went through with it, you already know the answer.

But you can’t. You can’t keep living like this. That voice is only going to get louder, and you’re only going to waste away, and Dean won’t even notice with how determined he is to make you nothing at all.

You’ve been crying too much. Your eyes are red when you look in the mirror, and your lips are swollen.

Maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe Dean’s right, and you never belonged here at all.

He once acted like you did. And you still don’t know what made him change his mind.

And you don’t want to leave. This is home. Dean is home, because despite everything you still think of him, and you feel safe.

You know that’s why it hurts so much. You’re not weak. You can stand to be ignored, and you’ve certainly had louder and more violent and cruel fights with people you’d actually been dating. But Dean being so mad feels like your heart is trying to eat itself. And you can’t take it.

It takes all night, but that’s the perfect amount of time. You go out to the grocery store and get everything you need, then haul up in the kitchen and bake like your life depends on it. A fairly big fraction of it does.

You think about writing I’m sorry or You were right on the pie with whipped cream. That feels like a little too much. Hopefully, that part will speak for itself.

When they get home, it’s with a slam of a door. There’s no shouting, but you have a feeling it’s because the fight already passed. You watch Sam give you a tight smile before slumping off to his room, and you know he tried. You appreciate it. But only you can fix this now.

“Dean.” You force your voice to be steady. It doesn’t work that well. “Dean.”

He looks up at you with a heavy, tired glare. He doesn’t speak, but he looks at you, and it makes you sit a little taller. You can do this.

“I’m sorry.” You push the pie forward, and he blinks.

“You’re sorry.” He echoes, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sorry?”

You nod, chewing your lip nervously. “Yeah. For- For the hunt. And anything else I did to you.”

“Anything else you did.”

“Um- mhm.”

Dean stares at you, and you push the pie again. Look down to it, then back to him, swallowing the nerves in your throat.

“I- I made you pie.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“Oh- Okay.”

The silence is suffocating. Your face is starting to burn, and you’ve never cried in front of him before, but the tears are insistent. The ache of loneliness, of just missing him, it’s insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold them back, and that usually works.

It’s useless now. The first tears burn on your cheeks, and you wipe them away with trembling, frantic hands.

Dean rasps your name, taking a lurching step forward. As if someone shoved him, his hand reaching out before he yanks it back.

You swallow, and find a painful, barbed lump in your throat. You shake your head, and look to the side.

Dean repeats your name, his voice thick and strained.

You realize this is the first time he’s said it in a month.

A damn breaks in your chest. Something snaps near your ribs, and a pathetic, choked sob rips from your throat. You can’t stay here.

“I- I’m sorry.” You shoot to your feet, pushing the pie roughly forward. “It’s- It’s cherry.”

“Sweetheart-“

“The pie.” You clarify, staring at Dean’s knees.

“Yeah, I know-“

He takes a step forward. You take a step back, and he freezes. 

When you look up, he’s watching you like you’d just smacked him in the face. You swallow, lip wobbling as you keep losing the battle against your own tears.

“I- I’m sorry.” You choke out, wrapping your arms around your stomach. 

Dean works his jaw, shaking his head. “You said that already-“

“I- I know. I’m sorry-“

“Stop saying sorry!”

He takes a larger, firmer step forward. His voice echoes off the walls, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.

Dean rubs his face, lowering back down to rough, low words as he says your name. “Just- Fuck- I don’t want a sorry.”

“I-“ You cut yourself off, shrinking further into your body.

He doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want you.

“I’ll go.” You whisper, looking down to his shoes.

Dean makes a choked sound. “You’ll- What-“

“I’m going to go.” You can’t be here right now. Can’t break down when you’re really not sure if he’ll pick you back up. “I- I’m-“

You swallow another apology, and duck past him. Dean shouts after you, so you walk faster. Almost running to the safety of your room, to the one place he won’t follow. Where you can fall apart alone, and wrap yourself in blankets you pretend are his arms, because you’re the exact, pathetic, stupid girl he thinks you are. You’re crying so hard you can’t breathe, and you hate him, and you hate yourself more for knowing you’ll still love him once the tears dry out.

There’s a knock on the door. The fight must have been that loud.

“Go away, Sam.” Your voice is muffled through the sheets.

Dean’s is muffled through the door. “Not Sam, sweetheart.”

You sit up, still holding your blanket to your face. As if he might somehow see you. There’s a long silence—he’s not supposed to be here, why is he here—and Dean coughs.

“It’s, uh- It’s Dean-“

“I know.”

“Oh. Okay.” He pauses, then, “Are you gonna open the door?”

You shake your head, then remember he can’t see you. “No.”

Dean grunts your name, and you raise your voice a little.

“Leave me alone-“

“No. We gotta- There’s stuff I have to- Fuck.” There’s a thump on the door. You think he’s leaning against it. “You’re crying, alright? Just let me in so I can fix it-“

“I’m fine.” You snip, and he laughs dryly.

“I can hear you. I know you’re still upset, and-“

“Why do you care?”

Dean goes silent, and you glare at where you think he’s standing.

“Why do you care, Dean. You never cared before-“

“That’s not true.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.

“Don’t lie-“

“I’m not lyin’, I just-“ He cuts himself off. “Just open the door, alright-“

“Not until you tell me why you give a shit-“

“I just do, alright?”

“No, you don’t-“

“Stop- Stop saying that.” He’s not shouting, but you can hear him fighting against the urge. “Stop telling me what I care about, you don’t get to decide that-“

“I’m not deciding.” You push the words out, even as they burn on your tongue. “You just don’t get to act like you care about me when you wish I didn’t exist.”

The silence falls again. It’s thicker than before. So heavy it pulls your heart down to your stomach. You’re so sure he’s going to walk away, just leave you there to finally, fully break. 

Instead, when he speaks, his voice is rough.

“Don’t say that.” He grunts. “I’ve never wished that. Not once.”

Your heart flutters. You want to smack it, remind it that it’s only hurting because of him. “Whatever.”

The door shakes again, as Dean’s shadow shifts.

Despite yourself, you lean closer.

“Open the door.” He says your name again, the tone a command.

You raise your chin. “No.”

“Come on, just open it-“

“Go away, Dean-“

“No.” It’s shockingly firm. You sit up in surprise. “No, I’m not- I’m not just gonna leave and let you go, no. That’s not fuckin’ happening, sweetheart, just- Open the door-“

His voice is getting louder, every word sounding more and more strangled. You shift to your knees, saying his name softly through your tears, but he doesn’t seem to hear.

“You can’t leave me, alright? You win, you fuckin’ win, I’m the idiot. You can stay and run me into shape, whatever the hell you want, just- just open the door, please-“

You’ve never heard him like this before. Rambling like a broken record. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.

“I’m sorry for being a dumbass.” He’s not pushing the door anymore, but his voice is muffled and loud all at once. He’s leaning against it. “Sorry for being a dick, sorry for- For whatever the hell you’re cursing my name with, I know I deserve it, I was a douchebag and if you wanna hate me you got every right, but-“ His voice breaks. “Don’t leave me. Fuck- Please don’t leave me, please-“

You slide off the bed, gliding across the room like you’re in a trance, and open the door.

Dean stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He’s only inches away, and you can read it all over his face. How much he means every strangled word.

His hair is disheveled, his eyes red as he scans over your open, sad features, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his teeth. His arm flexes over your head, hand fisting and unfisting at his side. There’s a stain of a tear on his cheek, gleaming in his stubble like he’d half wiped it away.

He watches you like he’s a dog, bracing to be kicked.

You hold his gaze, letting your voice stay small. You have a feeling he’d cling to every word if you only breathed it out.

“You’re sorry.”

He nods. You swallow.

“Why-“

“All of it.” Dean mutters. His eyes are locked onto yours. It’s almost too much, making you feel molten when you need to be unmovable.

You look down to your fingers. “What you said?”

“And did. And-“

“Being a douchebag.”

He chuckles, but it’s more of a rasp. “Yeah.”

“For how long?” You look at him under your lashes, and maybe it’s a bit of a test, but you need to be sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of how this—all of this—has hurt you.

“The whole year.” He says immediately. “From when Sammy told me you were staying to- Shit, five freakin’ seconds ago. I’m sorry.”

You hear it again, even if he doesn’t say it.

Don’t go.

“You didn’t want me to stay here.” You say lightly.

Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true-“

“You told Sam he never should’ve asked me.” With all the bravery in your body, you meet his gaze. “You said you wanted me far away from here.”

Shame almost pours from Dean’s expression. He bows his head, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I- Uh- I didn’t know you heard that-“

“You’re both very loud.”

“Ah.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. His handsome features twist into a tight frown. “But- That’s not what I said.”

“Yes, it is-“

“I said you should be far away from here.” He mutters. “Not that I wanted you there.”

“That’s the same thing-“

“No, it’s not.” Dean gives you a firm look, his voice dropping impossibly lower. “What I want and what’s right?” He chuckles dryly. “Ain’t ever really the same thing.”

For a long moment, you just watch each other. And he means it. Every inch of you knows that, right into your bones. But you’re still fragile from a year of him acting like you were nothing. And you want that to be enough, you want that so desperately. To just give Dean all of you to freely break, and trust that he won’t. But-

“What about me.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“Am I right?” You raise your chin, crossing your arms over your chest. Dean’s frown deepens.

“Are you-“

“You’re sorry. You said you don’t me to leave.”

“I don’t.”

“So I was right.” You challenge. “I was right to stay.”

Dean swallows. You don’t waver.

“Do you care, Dean. If you don’t want me to leave then you have to tell me why you’d even fucking care-“

“I care.” He grunts, pressing further over you. “I care more than you can imagine.”

You snort. “I don’t know about that-“

“I can’t imagine it, sweetheart.” Dean reaches down slowly, cupping your jaw. You freeze. “Sometimes I- I can’t even work it out in my head. Can’t measure it, can’t justify it, can barely even understand how it’s possible.” His thumb drags over your cheek. “How much I fuckin’ love you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Love is different than care.” You whisper, and Dean’s lips twitch.

“Yeah. But not by that much.”

You stare at him. He stares back, and when you don’t move away he drops his brow. Presses it against yours, his voice lowering gently.

“You don’t gotta forgive me. Just-“

“I love you, too.” You blurt, and Dean’s eyes shoot open. “And I’m not leaving.”

Dean swallows. Searches your gaze, like he’s trying to find the a tell that you’re lying. “You don’t have to-“

“Shut up.”

You grab his neck, and drag him down. You’re tired of talking. Of fighting and crying and being so far away. Even an inch feels like too much right now.

Dean must feel the same way.

When you pull him into a kiss, he’s rigid for a second. The brief, electric brush of your lips. Your noses bump, and your nails dig into his neck. He grunts, his hand on your doorway sliding down. You flush and try to pull away, but he’s not having it.

Dean melts over you so fast your brain can’t keep up.

He grabs your hip, blunt nails digging into your shirt, and tugs your head gently back as his lips work over yours. It’s so sudden you don’t immediately kiss him back, just grabbing the collar of his shirt for balance. Dean grunts, the hand on your hip sliding around your lower back. Grounding you against him as he almost bends you backwards, never once breaking the kiss.

His lips are softer than you dreamt of. Plush and a little chapped, but still so soft. He moves them slowly but insistently over yours, tasting and letting his tongue brush slightly. When you shiver and try to rise up a little higher, he meets you immediately. He kisses like he already somehow knows exactly how you like it. Easy but a little messy. Close, so close he’s almost eating your face while you try and claw closer. He tastes like salt from the tears, but under that is a little bit of cherry. 

“You-“ You speak between kisses, dizzy from desire. “You ate the pie-“

“Tasted it.” He grunts, walking you back into your room. “Checkin’ it wasn’t poison.”

You lean back, glaring up at him. “I would not poison you-“

“I know.” He grins, kissing your pouted lips. “But I woulda deserved it if you did.”

You want to argue with that, too, but Dean’s faster. He kicks the door closed behind him, grabs your waist, and picks you up with barely a grunt. Your arms fly around his neck as you yelp in surprise, but the sound quickly falls into a loud, long moan when he pins you against the door.

His kisses are turning more frantic. Hungry and bruising, but still restrained. His hands stay politely on your clothing, his lips pressed over yours with only small grazes of his tongue.

You open your mouth in a long, shaky moan. Dean takes the permission, grabbing your jaw and tipping it a little further back. His tongue brushes over your teeth, and you wrap an arm around his neck. His chest is pressed right against yours, and it’s secure and sweet and hot. You’ve never been this hot just from a few kisses.

Passionate, messy kisses. With Dean. His broad fingers on your soft skin, and his solid body right against yours. You comb your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans. The noise vibrates through you, and you shudder with that burning, needy heat.

Dean notices. Of course he does. He’s Dean.

“Do you want-“

“Yes.” You moan against his lip, trying to spread your legs. “God, Dean- Fuck-“

He sucks on your lower lip before releasing it with a wet pop. Licks over the hurt before travelling down. Over your cheeks, then your jaw, repeating the same motion. Your arms wrap tight around him, your hips bucking mindlessly up.

“Oh- Dean-“ Your nails scratch his neck, and he hums. “You- You can’t just- Holy shit-“

He shoves his knee right between your thighs, the sudden pressure a curse and a relief. Your hips roll like they have a mind of their own, and head dropping against Dean’s shoulder as you cry his name. He moans, his hand on your waist tugging at your shirt.

You grab it and move it under the fabric, moaning at the feeling of his rough callouses, his warm palms, how possessive just a light touch can be. His fingers splay, the tips pressing into your skin, and you’re fully humping him now. He hisses when your knee bumps into his hard crotch, and you giggle, dragging a hand down his spine.

Dean pulls back, watching you ride his thigh with hooded eyes and a lazy grin. “Something funny, pretty girl?”

You giggle again, pressing purposefully against the bulge in his jeans. He groans, pressing his brow to the top of your chest.

“Shit- You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me-“

“Nuh uh.” You breathe out, not caring how convincing it is. You can feel the pressure building in your core, but it’s not quite enough. You need him to give you more. “De- Dean-“

You grab his wrist again, trying to pull it to your ass, but he resists. He yanks his hand from your grip, sliding it up your ribs slowly. His thumb brushes under your breast, and you bow into the touch with another loud moan.

“Jesus.” He mutters. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, sweetheart. Think putting you on my cock might turn me into a religious man.”

You grab his shirt, yanking desperately, and he clicks his tongue. His voice is deep and taunting, and he leans forward so his lips brush yours with every word.

“Easy, baby girl.” He coos, his thumb grazing over the curve of your breast. “Thought about this for so long. Wanna take my time with you, show you that I mean what I’m saying. Love these pretty tits,” he palms it as he speaks, grinning as you moan like a shameless whore. “And this smart fucking mouth.” He nips your lower lip. “And your whole, sexy fuckin’ body. Love it almost as much as that impossible, pretty head you got. And I’m not wasting my shot on making you mine.”

You shake your head, the wet heat becoming almost unbearable. “Al- Oh-“

Dean’s mouth attacks your neck and shoulders, and you have to take a deep breath to remember how to speak.

“Already yours, Dean, always been yours, always- Fuuuuck-“

He grabs you hips and moves them so your clit is always dragging against him, the friction from his jeans and your panties making your head spin.

“I know.” He mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You think I didn’t know, princess? That I didn’t see every time you’d give me those Bambi eyes and beat my cock in the shower that night, thinkin’ about what  you’d let me do to you?”

You moan as shock and surprise burns on your cheeks, but it also floods south. Right to your core, making you squirm in his arms. Dean chuckles, watching you with a dangerous smirk.

“Thought it was just a crush, at first. Thought you’d get over it, move onto someone better-“

“No- No one better.” You breathe out despite yourself, and Dean’s eyes flash. “No one better, Dean, just you, just you-”

He grabs your jaw, kissing you long and rough. You whimper, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He pushes you further back against the door, kissing you with teeth and spit. You give in immediately, just trying to chase anything, anything he can give you at all.

“De- Dean-“

“Always someone better for you.” He growls against your lips, grabbing under your knee. He squeezes it tight before hiking it up, offering even more friction.

You moan, dropping your head back against the door. He’s almost fucking you through your clothing, his bugle pressed right against your throbbing pussy. Dean’s mostly just letting you grind down onto him, but every few moments he gives a shallow thrust of his hips, grinning when the pleasure shakes through your whole body.

“Look at you.” He coos, reaching up to smear some of his spit on your cheek. “You deserve the fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Deserve a guy with his shit all in order, someone half as sweet as you are-“

“You- You’re sweet-“ You gasp when he shoves his hips up, slamming right against your clit. “Holy shit- Dean-“

“I’m sweet.” He mocks, and it shouldn’t make you feel as needy and light as it does. “I treated you like shit, baby. Thought it would help you get over it, but look at you. You like this. Like bein’ my pretty fuckin’ slut.”

You let out a guttural, strangled noise of desire, and Dean taps his thumb against your lips. When you open them, he slides his thumb inside. You suck obediently, watching him under dazed eyes. His throat bobs, eyes blown out with lust.

“Good girl.” He mutters, lips twitching when you hum happily around him. “Oh, you like that, too. My good girl.”

He leans forward, whispering into your ear, and your eyes flutter hopelessly.

“You’re such a fuckin’ brat, sweetheart. You’d sass me and I’d think about kissing you nice and stupid, then giving you the whole fuckin’ world.”

You whine, and Dean pulls his thumb out to let you speak.

“Don’t- Don’t want the world.” You gasp. “Just want you, Dean, please-“

He hauls you off the bed, and your legs wrap around his middle. This time when he kisses you, he’s holding you over his body like you’re something for him to worship. He’s slow and sweet, just like you know he is. He tosses you down onto your bed before pulling off his shirt and prowling over your body. He pulls your pants down, kissing back up your ankle, your knee, your hipbone. He sucks your clit lightly through the fabric of your ruined panties, pinning your pelvis to the bed when your hips slam up.

You fist a hand in the sheets. “De- Dean-“

He hums, pressing you down harder. His tongue flicking, and you pant, desperately trying to wiggle out of his grip, to chase release.

Dean stops suddenly, chuckling when you whine like a spited child. Two fingers hook around the center of your panties, and he yanks away the ruins fabric like it was made of paper.

“So wet.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips. “You’re like a fuckin’ dream, baby, son of a bitch.”

He slaps your clit once, grinning when the reaction shakes through your whole body. You can almost see him making the metal note, before moving on. Dean grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs it over your head, kissing your tummy, your sides, the valley of your breasts and a tiny mark he’d left on your neck.

His lips meet yours, lazy and gentle. He palms at your exposed breasts, slowly kneeing your legs apart.

When he settles between them, he slows down even more, his breathing ragged and voice low and almost desperate.

“Say it again.” He mutters, and you hum.

“I want you.”

Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And- The other thing.”

“I love you.” You say, easy as breathing. “Love you, Dean.”

He grunts, planting a kiss on your nose. “Thank you, my love.”

You smile, letting your hands wander over the broad planes of his back. You’re still so close to the edge, tingly and aching, and maybe he’s just going to fuck you stupid like he promised right now-

Dean pulls away.

He sits up on his knees, one hand pressing you into the mattress. His thumb lingers just above your clit, capable of reaching it if he reaches. But instead he just watches you, shuffling out of his own pants and tossing them off to a corner of the room.

You swallow, salivating at the sight. He’s thick. Long and thick in every way you’d imagined. Broad and angry at the top, leaking with pre-cum that he swipes with his thumb. You’ve only see cocks like that made of silicone with a vibrator built in. You bought one once, feeling pretty brave. You’d given up very fast.

“De- Dean-“

“Yeah, baby?”

He squeezes your thigh, and you look up to him with wide eyes.  “I- I can’t take that.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“No, I-“

“Shh.” He coos, thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder, grabbing his wrist.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna help, princess.” He says. “You’re gonna take it.”

He says it so certainly, you fucking believe him. He’s got a goddamn monster-porn cock, but his rich, deep tone has you convinced you can somehow fit it easy.

“Guess that’s why you’re so confident all the time, right?” You giggle nervously, and Dean raises his brows.

“Excuse me?”

“Just if- If I had- That-“

“You mean a big dick?” He drawls, and you flush.

“Um. Yeah.” You turn your face into the pillow, trying to hide. “Shut up.”

He laughs, guiding your face back up as he leans down. Dean kisses you slowly, and you hum dazedly into his lips. He starts to drag his thickness up and down your soaked cunt, and your mouth falls open in a loud moan.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” He mutters. “My girl.”

“Yours.” You echo, and he grins.

“Can we try something, baby? You trust me?”

“Mmmm,” you mumble, mostly thinking about the friction he’s giving, the pleasurable shock every time his dick bumps your clit. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, and Dean smirks.

“Good girl.”

Then he’s gone again. Your fluttering eyes shoot open, and you try to reach up but he slams you right back down. Pinning you to the mattress as he sits on his knees, watching you drink him in a slowly stroking his cock.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He drawls, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, then I’m gonna make you cum until you can’t even talk.”

 You gape at him. “Wha- What-“

“You’re so smart, princess.” He taps your clit, and your breath hitches. “Talk.”

“Dean, don’t tease-“

 “Not teasing. I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” He gives you a stern look. “You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t cum.”

You glare at him, and he just shrugs. He’s still pumping himself with thick, long strokes, and you’d kill him if you didn’t feel like a firework only he could set off.

“Touch me.” You grumble, and he gives you a flat, amused look.

 “How.”

“I- I don’t know- With your hands- Oh-“

Dean’s thumb starts to rub around your clit, and your let out a shaky breath. The gleam in his eyes tells you all you need to know. You listen, you get a reward.

“Touch me there.” You breathe, nervous and breathy. “Keep- Keep doing that, Dean- Ooh-“

He snorts as you hug yourself, pressing his thumb directly down and making you squeak.

“Fuck-“

“You’re bad at this.” He observes, and you reach up to whack his forearm.

“I’ve never done it before, dick-“

“So I’m givin’ you a new skill-“

“You’re making me insane.” You whine. “Just- Just fuck me, Dean, it shouldn’t be that hard!”

“Yeah?” He grins down at you, letting go of his dick to rub your thigh. “Big words from the girl who’s not gonna do any of the work.”

You stick out your tongue, and he laughs.

“I knew you liked being a little cockslut, dripping just thinkin’ about taking me, probably gonna call me daddy and beg-“

“Shut up-“ Face burning, you kick his chest, and Dean catches your ankle, kissing it before moving it back to the bed. 

“Well if it’s so easy, I should be guessing right-“

“I just want you to fuck me stupid, Dean!” You shout, the words desperately pouring out of you. “Just- Just take your hands and toss me around, use me and- and kiss me and touch me- Fuck-“

He’s rubbing your clit again, eyes almost black with desire. You push on, grabbing his arm to keep focus.

“Use- Use your fingers and make me cum on your hand.” You breathe out. “Then- Then flip me over and fuck me- Fuck me until I can’t talk, fuck me stupid, Dean, please-“

Your words fall off in a moan as Dean rubs faster, leaning down over your body.

“You want me to talk?” He rumbles, and you nod.

“Talk- Talk the whole time- Oh my god-“

“Tell you how good you’re doing for me?” He mutters, a finger teasing over your entrance. “How good your pussy feels, how crazy you make me, what a perfect fuckin’ girl you’re being when you take my cock-“

 “Yes.” You whine, pussy squeezing as he presses that finger slowly inside of you. “Yes, fuck, yes-“

“You want it rough?” He pumps slowly in and out, his thumb still working your clit. “Wanna feel me? Be fucked like you deserve?”

You nod, babbling agreements. He drags lightly against your g-spot and you let out a shuddering gasp, scratching at his shoulders. Dean groans, adding a second one, pushing them knuckle deep and scissoring the thick digits inside you.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ He’s kneading that gooey spot, and you’d already been wound so tight. “Dean, oh my god- Yes-“

“And where am I gonna cum, princess?” He coos in your ear, setting a shallow, deep pace with his fingers. They open you up and massage your pussy until it’s fluttering, until there’s a fuse burning your tummy that needs to be lit, that needs Dean to light it-

“Inside.” You breathe. You need more of him. All of him. “Want you to cum inside Dean, God, please-“

He moans—fully moans—and rubs your clit in furious, tight circles as he kisses you.

“Knew you could do it.” His thumb flicks as he presses your g-spot, and you whine. “Cum for me, baby girl, show me what you’ve got-“

Your release hits you with a scream of Dean’s name, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Dean groans, twisting his hand so his palm is flat against your clit, rubbing and pressing down until you’re trembling and trying to shove him away.

“Look at you.” He says under his breath, like he’s admiring some sort of art. “Look at you, so goddamn sexy, making such a mess on my hand. Bet you’re gonna look even better, getting wrecked on my dick.”

“De- Dean-“

“I know.” He mutters, pulling his fingers fully out. “Soon. I’ll fill you up nice and pretty, fuck you ‘till you can’t think. It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart. This tight fuckin’ pussy, strangling me while you beg.”

He lands a sharp hit on your pussy, and you barely get out a broken plea before he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. You squeal, scrambling for a grip on the sheets as Dean drags your ass into the air.

“Such a mess.” He hits your pussy again, and you press your cheek into the mattress, panting as heat floods your body. “Greedy little pussy, don’t even gotta do much to get you ready for me. No,” he pushes his fingers back inside of you, the angle letting his knuckles massage your g-spot. “Basically fuckin’ begging for it, trying to fuck yourself on my fingers. Dirty girl.”

You hadn’t even realized you were doing that. Fucking back onto Dean’s hand, ass wiggling in the air as his free hand soothes down your spine. You’re shaking, but already ready for more, the sensitivity from the first orgasm building you back up.

“Deeean-“ You whine, spreading your knees wider. “More, need more, please-“

“Ah. Just feel this.” He yanks his fingers out, spanking your clit three sharp times before shoving his fingers back in. “You asked me to touch you, I’m touchin’. Touching you real good.”

He starts to knead your g-spot again, kissing slowly up and down your spine.

“Want you to come for me again, baby girl.” He mutters, lips wandering over the curve of your ass, then your thighs. “You’re gonna cum until you can’t stay up, then I’m gonna fuck you. Alright.”

You nod, but there isn’t something he could ask you that you’d say no to right now. “Oh- Okay.”

“Awesome.” Dean sucks on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, pushing you higher in the air. “Hold onto something.”

Your hands fist in the sheets, right before his sinful mouth latches onto your clit.

You almost scream. Dean starts to make out with the bundle of nerves like it can kiss him back, shifting below you until you’re almost sitting on his face. His fingers keep grinding down onto your g-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth, your button sucked between his soft lips, and you push your hands into the sheets, almost unable to take the pleasure.

“Dean- Dean- I- I’m gonna- Fuck-“

A sharp spank lands on your ass before grabbing a handful of the fat and shoving you fully down. You cum with a scream of Dean’s name, the pleasure rolling through your body like a wave.

But he doesn’t stop.

Dean keeps you trapped against his face, working you so hard you see starts, then other universe. His stubble burns against you and it’s perfect, his tongue moving so relentlessly—in tight little kitten licks, working you into a blind frenzy—and the feeling to overwhelming you can’t even remember how to close your mouth. Dean drags you on his face when you try to pull away, chuckling against your pussy, and the vibration is too much.

This time when you cum, you’re shaking and boneless. You think you might be about to cry, but maybe that’s just how hot this is.

He still isn’t stopping, and you might be in heaven. Blissful and dumb from pleasure, just a fuck doll in Dean’s big, careful hands.

You’re about to cum again, and you didn’t know you could do twice, let alone four times.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “Can’t- Can’t do it again-“

Dean grunts, lifting you over his head. “Yes, you can.”

He yanks his fingers out, rubbing your clit quickly before flipping you back over. You blink up at him, the coil in your stomach burning to snap. You’re so cockdrunk and dazed you almost don’t feel it at first.

Dean’s cock, slowly pushing into you.

When it hits you, he’s already got the thick head inside. You mewl, trying to cover your chest as he presses in deeper, but Dean grabs your wrists and pins them next to your head.

“Let me see you.” He mutters, sounding just as wrecked as you are. “Wanna watch you. So pretty, fucking crying for me.” He leans down, kissing your cheek, and you sob with delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it. So- Shit-“ You clench around him, and he hisses. “So fuckin’ good.”

“Good.” You repeat, just trying to stay conscious as Dean drags through your oversensitive, abused pussy. “So, so good, Dean, so fucking- Ooooh-“

He bottoms out, and you could swear you feel him up your spine and in your mouth. You’ve never been so full before, never had someone hit so many sensitive spots inside of you, and it lights you up like a summer sky.

Your eyes cross, as the almost peaceful orgasm blooms from your womb to your lips. You smile up at Dean, twisting to tangle your fingers together, and he swallows.

 There’s a soft shine in his eyes. Pure, utter affection as he watches you come undone around him. It even moves into his voice, all the teasing and dominant command coated in devotion.

“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, bowing over you until there’s no telling where you stop, and he ends. “Feel that, baby?” He gives a long, lazy roll of his hips, and you gasp. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s you, takin’ my cock. Just like I said you could.” He kisses you, repeating the motion. “Good girl.”

You pant, grabbing his bicep as he fucks slowly into you. He mutters low praise in your ear, bullying your pussy open with every thrust. You’d asked for it rush, but this is better. You feel priceless. You feel like Dean’s.

“Breathe.” He reminds you, and you take a stuttered gasp. “Good job, princess. Don’t want you passing out on me. Need to see those pretty eyes when I cum inside of you,”

You moan, body moving in a mindless rhythm with his, and Dean grins.

“Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make this pussy mine, let it drip out, show everyone who fucks you so good.”

“You.” You whimper out. “You, Dean, ‘s you- Fuck-“

“Damn right it is.” He grunts, dropping his hips so he hits your g-spot even better. “You’re my girl, never gonna let you think anything else again.”

You nod, your breathing getting short and desperate. The room is filled with the wet sound of his dick sliding in and out of you. Your body is slick with heat and Dean’s kissing every inch of it he can reach. Grabbing and squeezing soft skin until you’re sure you’ll be covered in handprints and finger-shaped bruises in the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Not as his cock drives deep into your with every, precise thrust.

Dean kisses you, dragging his tongue over your upper lip, and your pussy flutters.

Oh. God. “Dean, I- I think-“

“I know.” He grunts, like he’s just attuned to that. “You can do it, baby girl.”

“No- No-“

“Yes.” Dean kisses the tears, streaming down your cheeks from overstimulation. “Do it for me, come on. Just feel it, let it happen. Bet it’s good, isn’t it. Nice and sweet, right here.”

He presses down on your pelvis, right over where the fire is building. You sob with pleasure, and Dean grins.

“That’s right, there it is, come on-“

You cum like you were struck by lighting. Every muscle in your body seizes, the pressure where Dean’s pressing breaking like a damn. You gush and squeeze around his cock, arching off the bed like you’re trying to take flight, and Dean drops over you with a shameless moan.  

“Fuck- Fuck yeah-“ He presses his face into your neck as you milk his dick. “Holy- Christ-“

 Thick spurts of Dean’s release fill you up. They’re hot, and you hug Dean’s head, whimpering in his ear as you take them. He’s kissing your shoulder, but it’s unmeasured and desperate, and you’re sure you’re having the same control issue right now.

The feeling is so consuming you can’t think of anything but Dean. You’re saying his name like a prayer, as he ruts into you, sloppy and desperate. Neither of you really come back to earth, as your orgasms fade. Dean just slumps over you, cradling your body in his arms, and you smile at the ceiling, completely fucked out.

“Shit.” Dean rasps, and you giggle.

“Yeah.”

“You know you could squirt?”

You shake your head, and he grins against your neck.

“Awesome.”

 His cock twitches inside of you, and you hit his shoulders.

“Dean, oh my god-“

“Not now.” He groans, rolling onto his back and hauling you with him. “But later, right?” He gives you a hopeful, almost boyish look.

Like you might reject him while he’s still fucking inside of you.

“Cause I meant it.” He adds quickly. “Everything before, uh- This. Meant every word, promise, and- You can hit me or something, if that makes you feel better-“

You lean down, taking his sweet, dumb face between your hands and kissing him. Dean hums in surprise, but kisses you back immediately. One hand slides through your hair, the other up your spine, but he lets you lead. Looks up at you with a drunken smile when you pull away, like you’re some kind of god.

“I don’t want to hit you.” You say, tracing his tattoo.

He nods quickly. “Good. I mean- for me-“

“But you have to ask me out for real.” You give him a firm look. “And take me on a nice date.”

“I can do that.” He grins. “And then… You’re my…”

He trails off. Lets you fill in the space.

You think he got it right, just like that.

“Yeah,” you smile. “But you’re mine, too.”

And there’s nothing on Dean’s face that tells you he’s going to argue with that.

⋆.ೃ࿔:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆

You weren't the brightest guppy in the sea, but you were certainly the kindest.

Your older sisters never let you forget it, either. They'd tease you endlessly, asking if pebbles rattled around in your head whenever you shook it, or if you were part fish and part fool. You laughed along most of the time, too good-natured to take offense, but their words still stung more than you let on.

For all their teasing, though, they loved you fiercely. They watched over you, rescued you from trouble, and protected you from the dangers your trusting heart never seemed to notice.

But even sisters had their limits.

Sometimes their frustration would outweigh their patience, and your endless questions, misplaced trust, or oblivious mistakes would earn you a sharp scolding. On those days, when their voices became too loud and your chest felt too tight, you would slip away before the tears could come.

You always went to the same place.

The hidden cove.

Tucked between towering cliffs and sheltered from the rest of the ocean, it felt like a world made just for you. The water was calmer there. The fish seemed friendlier. The sunlight danced across the waves like liquid gold.

It was the only place where everything made sense.

Sunlight spilled through the water in broken gold lines, fish drifted like thoughts you didn’t have to finish, and your sisters argued in the distance about something that probably didn’t matter.

You were brushing your hair on a flat stone when you heard it.

Footsteps.

Not waves.

Human steps.

You turned your head slowly. Allowing for your semi-dryed hair to fall behind your back.

Two men stood at the edge of the rocks.

One of them looked annoyed, like the ocean itself had personally offended him. 

The other one… softer. Observant. Careful?

You tilted your head.

“Oh,” you said brightly. “You’re humans.”

Dean Winchester lowered his gun slightly. “…Yeah, no kidding, Sherlock.”

Sam glanced between you and the water.“She’s not what I expected.” Especially since they were told to come here to find a vicious scary siren with teeth the size of claws and a hunger for blood that only Dracula could outbeat. 

Dean huffed. “Yeah, well. Don’t get distracted by her shiny pearls. She isn’t the killer.”

You smiled at them like they had hung stars. Humans. Real humans. Not the dead ones that sink to the bottom of the ocean floor, that don’t make a sound until their bones begin to shatter from the erosion. 

“Do you need help?” You asked eagerly. 

That made Dean pause.

“…Maybe,” he said slowly. “We’re looking for something, or rather someone.”

You kicked your tail lightly in the water. “I know lots of things. I am really smart, like super duper smart. I know people too. Loads of People.” 

Dean’s eyes flicked over you. 

“Yeah? Good. Maybe you’re useful after all, sweetheart.” He rolled his eyes, then whispered to Sam, “this balloon girl is a waste of time.”

Sam immediately shot him a look.

“Dean.”

“What?” Dean shrugged. “We need answers. People are getting murdered Sam, it's not like airhead Barbie is going to give them to us.” 

As the two humans bickered back and forth you nodded along to every word they said. You didn’t understand the references they were making. Barbie was a doll, no? Dolls are pretty. OMG they think you are pretty. 

“So you’ll stay?” you asked. Your long lashes fluttered in anticipation. 

Dean leaned back slightly. Sam let out a sigh before nodding. “For a bit.”

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

After that, they started coming back.

Not always together.

Sometimes just Sam.

Sometimes just Dean.

And every time, you got a little more excited.

You told them everything.

About the tides.

About the caves no one swam into anymore.

About the strange songs that echoed under the water when the moon was full.

About the people who disappeared near the northern cliffs.

Sam always listened like you were important.

He would sit on the rocks, notebook open, nodding gently.

“That’s really helpful,” he’d say. “You’re doing great.”

And something warm would bloom in your chest every time.

“You think so?” you’d ask. A blush tinting your skin. The water felt warmer whenever they came.

“Yeah,” Sam would smile. “You’re very smart.”

You would glow under his attention like sunlight through water.

Dean, on the other hand, was different.

He would sit a little further back, arms crossed, watching you like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he’d say, “try not to drift off into fairy land. Just tell me what you saw.”

“I am telling you,” you’d insist.

“Right, right,” he’d sigh. “Just… keep it simple. You don’t have to overthink everything.”

You’d pout.

“I don’t overthink.”

He’d smirk.

“Sure you don’t.”

It should have hurt. Your sisters say the same thing - the WHOLE kingdom says the same thing. 

But it didn’t hurt. Because he always came back.

And that felt like something.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

Your sisters noticed immediately.

“They are using you,” one of them said flatly one evening while yall were getting ready for bed. 

You shut your clam mirror shut. 

“No he isn’t Veronica.”

“He only comes when he wants something.” She looks through her vanity mirror towards you, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. 

“He comes because he likes talking to me.” You sit up from your seat. The rest of your sisters tsked in disagreement. You were the baby of the family, of course you fell for every trick in the book by hunters.

“He’s literally writing everything down.”

“So he remembers me better.”

Silence.

Then a collective groan.

“You’re impossible.”

But you weren’t listening anymore.

Because they didn’t understand a human’s touch like you do.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

“Hey,” he called down from the rocks.

You perked up instantly.

“You came back!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved his hand. “Don’t get emotional.”

You ignored that and swam closer.

Sam wasn’t with him this time.

That made you a little sad.

“Where’s the nice one?” you asked.

Dean rolled his eyes.

“The nice one is busy.”

“Oh.”

Dean crouched slightly, pulling out his notebook.

“Alright, listen. We’ve got a problem. People are dying near the cliffs again. You said you heard singing?”

You nodded quickly.

“Yes. Very pretty singing.”

Dean exhaled.

“Okay. That’s what I needed.”

You tilted your head.

“Oh. So you’re leaving again?”

Dean paused for half a second. Then stood. “Yeah.”

Something in your chest tightened.

“Oh.”

He hesitated like he might say something else.

Instead he just nodded once.

“Stay safe, alright?”

You smiled anyway.

“Okay.”

And then he left.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

Sam came alone the next day.

You lit up when you saw him.

“Hi!”

Sam smiled warmly.

“Hey.”

You swam closer.

“Is the mean one busy again?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, sitting down on the rock. “He’s… thinking.”

“Oh.”

Sam opened his notebook, then glanced at you.

“You’re really helping us, you know that?”

Your eyes widened.

“I am?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “A lot more than you realize.”

You beamed.

“I’m good at helping.”

“You really are,” Sam said with a smile. 

And the way he said it made your whole chest feel light.

Like you mattered.

Like you were doing something important.

Like they needed you.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

What you didn’t see—

What you never noticed—

Was the way Sam’s kindness always ended in another question.

And the way Dean’s teasing always ended in silence while he wrote something down.

And the way both of them compared notes when they left.

“She trusts us,” Sam would say.

“Yeah,” Dean would answer. “Too much.”

“We’re close,” Sam added.

“Close enough,” Dean muttered.

Neither of them said the part they were thinking.

That you were lonely enough to tell them everything.

And sweet enough to never question why they kept coming back.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

Back in the cove, you sat on your rock again, humming softly.

Your sisters surfaced behind you.

“He’s going to get you hurt,” Ellie warned.

You didn’t turn around.

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s a hunter.”

You brushed it off. “That just means he hunts things. We have hunters too, you know.”

“No he hunts monsters.” Telly tried to explain but soon stopped after seeing your confused face. 

 “Monsters? Like sharks?” 

“No, Y/n,” Ellie faced, dropping to seriousness before reaching out for your hand. “Like you - he kills monsters like you.” 

You smiled faintly anyway.

“No, he wouldn’t. I’m not a monster. He said I’m helpful, and sometimes he calls me sweetheart.”

Your sisters went quiet.

Because that was the problem.

You didn’t realize the truth wasn’t in the praise.

Or the teasing.

Or the smiles.

It was in the questions.

And the way they always left with exactly what they needed.

While you stayed right where you were.

Waiting for them to come back again. 

And the feeling only got worse from there. 

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

The first time they really started coming closer to you, it didn’t feel like danger.

It felt like attention.

And attention was something you’d always craved.

Dean was the first to get too comfortable.

You were perched on your usual rock, brushing your hair, humming softly to yourself when he came down the slope too quickly.

“You’re slippery as hell,” he muttered.

Before you could react, he reached out and grabbed your tail—not gently, not carefully—just enough to steady himself as he nearly slipped on the wet stone beside you.

“Hey!” you yelped, splashing instinctively.

Dean didn’t even look embarrassed.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m not gonna drop you or whatever.”

You blinked at him.

“…You grabbed me.”

“You’re fine.”

You weren’t sure what “fine” meant, but you decided to believe it anyway.

Dean crouched closer, already pulling out his notebook.

“Now—about the singing near the cliffs—”

“You’re very handsy,” you interrupted.

Dean didn’t look up.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Now focus. You’re a smart girl, tell me what happened.”

You stared at him.

Then slowly smiled again.

“Oh. Okay.”

Because he was still there.

That was what mattered.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

Sam was different.

Sam always noticed things you didn’t think anyone cared about.

He came the next day with a small cloth bundle in his hands.

You tilted your head.

“What is that?”

Sam smiled.

“Something for you.”

He opened it carefully.

Inside were pearls.

Not perfect ones.

Small, uneven, glowing softly in the light.

Your eyes widened.

“Oh.”

Sam sat on the edge of the rock.

“I noticed you collect shiny things,” he said gently. “Thought you might like them.”

You reached out slowly.

“They’re beautiful…”

Sam watched as you lifted them into the water, letting them settle near your waist where your natural scales shimmered.

“They match you,” he said.

You froze.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Sam said softly. “Your scales catch the light really beautifully.”

Your cheeks warmed.

You looked away quickly so he wouldn’t notice.

“…Thank you.”

Sam smiled like that was the right answer.

From behind him, Dean walked up.

He saw the pearls immediately.

“What is this?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “Just something nice.”

Dean scoffed. “Right. Because we’re here for arts and crafts.”

You frowned slightly. “You don’t like them?”

Dean glanced at you, then at the pearls, then back at your face like he was recalculating something. “…No, they’re fine,” he said finally. “Just don’t get distracted.”

You brightened instantly.

“So you do like them.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

Sam covered a smile.

Dean sighed deeply.

“Okay, sweetheart. Focus. We need info on when’s the next attack.”

And that was always how it went.

Sam made you feel special.

Dean made you feel useful.

And between the two of them, you felt needed enough not to ask questions.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

Later that night, after Dean had left with another page full of notes and Sam had promised he’d return soon, you sat alone on your rock.

The pearls shimmered softly around you.

You touched them gently.

“You see?” you whispered to the sea. “They like me.”

The water didn’t answer.

Only the waves kept moving.

And far away on land, Dean Winchester flipped through his notes, Sam next to him, both of them silent for a moment longer than usual.

Because the information was good.

Too good.

And neither of them said out loud what they were starting to realize.

That you weren’t just helpful.

You were trusting.

regression to the mean: a statistical phenomenon where data samples will often produce extreme values, followed by lows; a confounding factor found in both placebo and placenta effect studies; in regard to the placenta effect specifically, it is considered the point in which the non-committed partners become inept in their compliance due to stress and anxiety, and also includes the initial low values

Months later, you’re a world away from that stretch of highway outside Omaha; sitting in the living room (read: industrial freezer) of one, Marjorie Humphries, a seventy-something-year-old who seems to prefer layering herself up with the oversized doilies she hasn’t used to decorate with. 

There’s plenty of room for you to straddle Dean’s lap in the Grafton home. No doubt about that. The shag carpets’d be nice and cozy next to that fireplace—if it was on. Dean would lie down and have you ride him, but there’s no way you’re getting your legs around his lap without removing that fine piece of skirt you’re wearing off your ass first. 

He’s wearing his fed suit, too. Even with his coat still on, he’s not exactly toasty. It bunches below him; pulls at his neck. The cushion below it is rather comfortable, but he sits half off his seat, elbows on his open knees, just to keep his balance and stop himself from sinking into the old springs that creak whenever he shifts. 

Any extra weight right now is out of the question, hence the pulling. The thick padding strains against his back because he’s already tried to fix it multiple times.  

And he thought old people complained about the cold. He’s not saying he’s old, just…getting closer to forty daily.

Yeah, North Dakota is a far-cry away from Omaha, alright. It’s a little too close to the Canadian border for Dean’s liking. He’s got blue balls again, since he got to this stinking town. His junk, lacking in blood thanks to the ice he put there himself. Skin is sticking to skin in all the wrong places, which only makes things worse when he shifts forward again.

But that’s not why he’s bitching.

“The coroner said your husband was undergoing chemo?” His tone’s much kinder on the surface, trying the less cynical approach for Marjorie’s sake. His usual touch of charm he often pulls on cases like this, is hard to draw upon. However—

“He has—had testicular cancer,” Marjorie says, and Dean’s jaw pulls tight at the struggle to reference his passing. It can’t be easy being married to someone for so many years only to have them battle a deadly disease and still turn up as vampire chow.

She doesn’t know that, of course. You both do. Dean in particular, having gone to the morgue himself.

You hadn’t.

Which is just another slight he’s trying to ignore. He’s certain even Sammy wouldn’t get this close to a deceased’s widow, even if her age matches the usual crowd he tends to draw in. You, though? 

You’ve known Marjorie for all of five minutes, fifteen technically, yet you sat next to her on the two-seater sofa, over taking up the armchair next to him. And there’s the real problem. It’s actually hard to swallow. Watching your palm come to her shoulders like the dutiful granddaughter you’re not when the cold Dean’s really facing is the cold from your icy heart and a rather harsh round of PMS. 

He clears his throat and nods to your tender fingers in warning. It’s not that it’s a huge deal, it’s that it’s not part of your job description to comfort her, whether your cycle has you more impartial to a stranger right now or not. 

You’re here on business, not shopping ‘round for adopt-a-grandmother programs. You should reel that palm back in and stick to the questions you’ve come here to ask, but you don’t. Your eyes just flick to him. A hundredth of a second of your attention thrown his way before you’re turning back to the sweet old lady who’s resumed playing with her false teeth. 

“Did he attend any appointments the day he went missing?” you ask, knowing full well he didn’t. No medical professional is leaving a catheter in the body once the occupant has passed, but Ronald showed up on the riverbank, tubing still attached to his wrist. 

There were a couple of fang marks at the base of his throat, too, but Marjorie doesn’t need to know that. Not when the coroner put them down to a bunch of trees in the river.

She shakes her head no and rubs her lips together, blissfully unaware, though that’s up to interpretation. “We see,” she says and corrects herself again with a further tremor in her jaw, “We saw Dr. Dolgado every second Tuesday. That was supposed to be tomorrow.”

“And there were no other appointments the week he went missing?” you say.

“No,” she softly hoots, dropping her head down. Her shoulders shake beneath your palm, that’s still resting there. Dean’s surprised you’re not attempting to draw your arm behind them, but he’s also surprised you turn to look at him, eyes now pleading.  

They turn downwards. Your own lower lip would wobble if your own jaw weren’t tight like his had been. 

Are you actually looking to him for some sort of advice, or do you want him to say something? ‘Cause he’s got nothing—but he tries. 

“We—” Dean also has to correct himself. The lump in his throat gives him enough pause to do so. “The coroner found a catheter in his hand,” he says, which, granted, is probably not what you were expecting from him. There’s not much more he can do, though.  

“There’s no way he’d have access to one outside of his appointments, is there? He wasn’t a doctor before he retired, or—?” Or what? Did he have a kink for medical supplies? Was he a kleptomaniac, pillaging the local hospitals and clinics? 

The sheriff’s report had him down as a retired PE teacher. His medical history had him down as attending the free clinic in town outside of his chemo and oncologist appointments. Unless he’s been inspired by Walter White, Dean can’t see how there’s any logical explanation for the catheter in his hand besides vamps becoming respectable now. Has to be the cutlery equivalent for drinking blood, he supposes.

Marjorie shakes her head again. The words don’t even form this time; meanwhile, you’re glaring at him harder. 

Dean can see this interview ending rather abruptly. Pretty much has. You know what you’re chasing, and aside from Mr. Humphries and his mysterious catheter, there are still others who haven’t been found yet. Ronald was just the unfortunate first to show up dead. 

“Well, I think we’ve got all we need for now,” Dean says, as mindful as he can be at the end of an interview. He checks his footing and uses the pressure of his arms still on his thighs to hoist himself up. Before you or Marjorie can say otherwise, he looks to you with a flick of his eyes toward the door. 

You’re still not the most pleased, but it seems you can’t argue with him. At least, not in front of her. 

Your fingers squeeze her arm over that doily shawl of hers, smiling quite warmly considering the tension in your own shoulders. “He’s right. We still need to interview the other families, but we really appreciate you talking to us today, even with your loss.”

And though her head still trembles and she doesn’t meet your gaze, Marjorie does give you her quiet thanks before you take your leave. Dean insists you can walk yourselves out.

He follows your lead to the front entrance. In view of the living room, anyway. He nods his head to her as he closes the door behind him and steps out onto the small covered porch at the front of the house.

Outside is a shock to his system. Like stepping out of a regular household refrigerator and into an industrial freezer, his junk turns from stuck to frozen solid in a fraction of a second. Two ice blocks and an icicle clunking together between his legs? He’s a walking clacker toy from the nineties, what with the way you’re looking at him. Still insistent on keeping his sack iced.

“What?” he says. It’s not like he voiced his Walter White thought, or said anything bad or obtuse for that matter. He knows you’re not a mind reader. If you were, you would’ve done more than glare at him while he was exploring the possibilities of the Humphries living room floor. 

No, you’re just back to silence because you can. Your back is doing the talking for you as you step over the grass towards Baby. No mention of what you’ve just discussed with Marjorie. No hunches about the case like you’d normally do once you leave the comfort of the apple pie lives you’ve been presented with. 

Dean blinks, stuck in place for a second. His legs, hesitant. They’re either concerned about the potential Darwinism they have the sole charge of preventing, or they’re scared of you and your irrational wrath. It’s not like what he did was that bad. Most of the time he was good.

Your situation was always good. The sex was fantastic. Sure. Ever since Omaha, it’d been roadside hookups and sneaky motel room romps for quite a few months, and not for any reason. Often, that’s just when he wanted you the most. A hunt gone bad, a clash of personalities, with you or any other person. 

Now, though, he spread you wide, like a piece of art made for him and his bed. You, as wrecked as he felt. Eyes, half-lidded and almost closed from all your previous exertions. 

Your chest heaved, lifting the girls higher. Your nipples, pebbled and peaked. Mouth parted, much like your legs were, hooked over his thighs keeping you open for him, wet and wanting. Him wanting so much more. 

He raised himself to lean over you, chin dropping as he angled his weeping head and swiped it through your folds, collecting the mess he’d helped create and spreading it further. Him, the master still at work, and you, giving into his whims however he wanted you.

He groaned as he pushed forward. His hand guided himself down and caught the crown on your entrance. Slipped inside with ease. 

Your pussy lips clung ‘round him like the thirsty thing you were. Desperate to milk him dry. Desperate to feel him deeper. “So wet f’me.” He dipped lower, pressing an inch more of himself into your heat. “You feel that?” ‘Cause he sure did. “Greedy cunt, tryna pull me in down here.”

His lip curved up on the side, feral at the sight of you. It was all he could do not to slam his hips, but after the day he’d had, he needed to take his time. Even if his body couldn’t take much more, there was something about being put under a love spell and losing his will to Sabrina’s kid sisters that day that just did it to a guy. 

Made him want to be in total control of himself and his body again. 

Made him want to be in control of you.

You might’ve teased him for his cosmic fate line, but you were kinda sorta perfect under him. 

Your arms stretched out in search of his shoulders. Not quite able to latch onto anything until he leant forward that bit more. He adjusted his knees beneath him and dropped to his hands and elbows, gliding all the way down your channel with a long drawn out hiss that turned part grunt on the end as your cry reached his ears. 

“Tell me you want it, baby.” He drew up just enough to find you staring at him. Still blissed out, but a little more amused than he was hoping for. No-one smiled like that during sex. 

“What?” he said, not as confident as he had been for a guy who was still balls deep. 

Your cunt squeezed him just right, tight and warm. Soft, slick walls parted open, surrounding him; had him trembling just to hold himself there and not try to bury his tip deeper. A sexy game of hide the sausage, only—yeah, nope. That wasn’t helping. 

But neither were you. 

“Baby’s new,” you said, looking much different now. You’d lost that edge to your cheeks. 

He swore he’d seen the warmth coming off them like the haze lifting off Baby’s hood on a hot summer’s day. Your eyes no longer closed but opened wider, raised with scrutiny. Your brain, no longer short circuiting, nor close to shutting down.

“No, it isn’t—” It wasn’t. “I’ve said it before.” He raised himself up, arms straight, weight denting into the memory foam. He risked swallowing you whole if he sank any farther into the spiral that threatened to take his very manhood away. 

“You really gonna keep tabs when I’m in the moment now?” He eased himself back. It pained him to do so. Your chuckle wasn’t helping.

“Dean.” His name’d sounded better before. The slight come hither you made when you split the sound in two was more dream-like. Pulled from his worst nightmares of women leaving him. Of those damn witches.

But you weren’t them. Your thighs, wrapping ‘round and drawing his length back to the hilt didn’t belong to them, either.  

“Easy,” he drawled, when you clenched, inside and out. Your arms, tugging on his shoulders, pulled the rest of him flush against you, taking his attention away from your face to your breasts, pliant and full beneath him.

“M’not keeping tabs. Just—making observations,” you hummed, insisting on talking more, even as Dean’s mouth moved to your collarbone. 

“Oh, yeah?” He nipped; your skin clinging to his lips, poignant on his tongue, and so deliciously tart, he’d be choosing you for his last meal, if he ever got the choice to choose it, because you sighed, fingers carding though his hair, keeping him in place. There was no other place he wanted to be.  

“What else got you observing?” he said, not actually expecting a coherent answer because when he tested the connection with a gentle thrust of his hips, he followed through with another, and another, swifter and firm. He ground his pelvis against you. Soon pushed you further into the bed, pushing himself further into you. Pushing you both further still with a sudden snap that became the set rhythm. 

Moans, and sweet sounds of skin slapping skin, only heightening the experience until the pull in his gut was pulling his leg muscles taut. 

His mouth took a nipple. Fingers sunk into your flesh, marking your skin, making his entire body tingle. And when you breathed out another expletive, he groaned around you, thrusts pushing harder; pounding—earth-shattering. 

He released your tit and tried drawing air into his lungs, but all he could manage were quick, short gulps that did little for his head and rhythm. 

He was faltering. “M’close,” he stuttered—cringed at how fast he’d come undone. “So fucking good. I’m gonna—” But the remaining words didn’t fall. They couldn’t. His next three thrusts took everything from him. 

With a heavy grunt, he slammed himself in as far as he could go. The resistance from your walls, futile, even though they tried to clamp in on him.

His dick pulsed. The familiar quickening as his balls tightened flooded his nerves before he felt the burst pump thick ropes of cum through him to you. 

“Fuck me.” His head dropped to your shoulder, breathing laboured. The rest of his body, limp aside from the aftershocks that left him jerking over you. “Haven’t nut that hard in a long time,” he chuckled.

It’s a little strange to go from a seventy-year-old man’s home to that of a seventeen-year-old girl’s. The case is like one big joke with the catheter alone, and even then, it’s not the biggest one. 

Dean has already likened the mystery to one of those old riddles where three different people walk into a bar. Except there’s no president or priest here. No rabbi or shaman. Edith Walsh isn’t drinking unless she’s doing it under the nose of her parents, which, possible, but she’s not doing it in a public place. 

There’s also five victims, not three. Well, four now that Mr. Humphries’ body’s been found, and that’s the weird part. That was three days ago, while victim number five, a middle-aged councilor, was reported missing yesterday on the drive here. She leads an entirely different life to the mother of three and the former bodybuilder who also went missing. 

Yes, the town is dropping like flies, as far as cases go in a town so small. It’s just lucky for you the sheriff has fallen into the old trap of small-town folk jumping ship for somewhere larger and more exciting. He did struggle to explain Mr. Humphries away, though. 

If it were true and they were skipping town, Dean wouldn’t blame them. The place has its small town charm, sure, if you ignore the temperature. Dean’s surprised more men aren’t doing said skipping because of it. 

As Sammy said, the place is surrounded by farmland. Like Lebanon, there can’t be many opportunities outside of farming for the young folks like Edith. The Red River Sam was also oh so interested in talking about isn’t even red. 

But as Dean turns onto Dogwood Avenue, leaning over Baby’s wheel in search of the house numbers, he’s met with that small town charm he was talking about. 

Like Lisa’s place in Cicero, only without a suspicious mini-me in Ben clouding his judgement, he’s met with yet another postcard example of the apple-pie life he once thought he wanted. The one he thought he wanted ‌again for a fleeting moment, only to remind himself that ship had sailed with Emma. 

Someone should put a warning on it below Dogwood’s Irish green-looking marker. Someone may as well have pulled the street itself off the little town model some guy has in his swanky city office and placed it, smack bang in the centre of Grafton.

Number fourteen-thirty-nine sits halfway down the street, shrouded by a couple of leafy trees, bordering the drive. Dean pulls over to the side next to one of them. The light filtering through the cracks in the fall foliage sprinkles the cab with a soft, spotty glow. 

You’re no exception. Even your winter coat picks up the sheen, and Dean has to shake his head before it goes anywhere he doesn’t want it to. 

“Nice digs,” he tries, but it’s pointless. He knows it. He’s just surprised you agree and say so.

“It’s exactly the same as the Humphries.” Your face scrunches up like he’s let one rip. 

He hasn’t. He dropped a doozy this morning on account of the cheeseburger he ate last night after first arriving. His stomach, ‌clear of knots—now, thanks to the booze he downed it with and the extra coffee—yours, he had with his own. Whatever they put in those sweeteners you like, it wasn’t fit for human consumption. 

Maybe that’s why you’re so much more indifferent than normal? This silent treatment you’re dishing? A mix of him being in your bad books and you being hangry on top of your period that’s pulling you through the ringer this cycle. 

All that extra blood. It makes sense. It’s just surprising he can’t hear your stomach over Baby’s purr.

“That was—nice.” He’s a little too defensive about something so insignificant. If he had cut one loose, he’d be guilty as fuck. The smirk he’s sporting isn’t evidence enough against him, though; he’s just smug from his winning you over. “Just didn’t comment on it,” he adds, “Not a lot of commenting going on today.”

Your brows raise; he cuts Baby’s ignition, leaning back in his seat, not letting your gaze that’s ‌on him go. It feels like days since you last looked at him, and he means really looked, even though it was just the other night. 

“You know, silent treatment is a form of emotional abuse, right?” He pouts, and damn straight, it’s on purpose. 

So is your initial hum in response, humouring him. Taunting him further. “Think it only counts if it’s intentional.” 

“And this ain’t?” Chuck knows he can’t take much more of whatever the hell it is you’re doing to him. You’ve been there for him through thick and thin these past few months. The least you could do is let him in after everything that’s happened between you because he knows you’re hurting. He knows he’s ‌to blame, which is why he’s trying to fix it. 

“I got nothing important to say to you. That’s all.” Your hand reaches for the door handle like the conversation is over before it’s even begun. 

All he can do is repeat your last line in question before you open it and walk out on him. 

“Yeah, Dean. That’s all,” you snap, and though your gaze turns into a glare, at least your fingers let go of the handle in favour of balling up into a fist. “I can’t do this now. Not when we have missing people to find. Our relationship problems aren’t—”

“Oh, so they’re relationship problems now?” His jaw draws back. “Last I checked, you rejected me.” 

“With good reason, apparently,” you scoff. “Who comes in and says they want to talk, but then brings up a case, which,” your head swipes towards the Walsh’s house, “we’re on, by the way.” 

“It was time sensitive.” He sits up and the vinyl under his ass squeaks. 

It’s not ideal. In any other circumstance, he’d ‌be laughing at the interruption. Here he is, trying to have just one serious moment with you here, has been since this morning, and his life, his car, his first love, wants to hinder him. “S’not like I planned on Sam finding a case. You didn’t wanna talk to me the night before, either.” 

“I needed a little space. A chance to think,” you say. And, okay? He could understand that. After the dreams and a little shuteye. Your head drops and your hands do the same in your lap. Your fingers now pull at themselves again, twisting, turning, pulling the skin against the bone.

You woulda had little sleep yourself the night before on top of the test, even if you were alert yesterday morning. 

Couldn’t blame you. If he had something potentially growing inside him, he’d have been a little freaked, too, and still dealing with it. It’s not the kind of thing that went away just by throwing it away and into the trash. This stuff, it—well, it was life changing. One second you’re you, the next you’re not only with added responsibility and an asshole that makes passes at you, but you have to consider what comes next. 

It’s kinda what he’s doing now. What he did after Emma—which, you’d think he’d have learnt something. Though, in his defence, you weren’t exactly a stranger, even if you weren’t his significant other. Further away than ever it seems, even though he wants to fix the distance.

Luckily, you don’t seem to be in a rush to say anything more or leave the cab for the Walsh’s house yet. He’s surprised you gave so much back to him just now, and all because he called you out. If only he’d done that sooner after taking the softer road and dealing with it. Chuck knows it wasn’t easy watching you with Marjorie. With the way things are going, the Walsh’s’ll be the same.

He looks over to the house, too. Picture perfect frontage, just like the Humphries’. Driveway. Nice, tidy lawn. Then his eyes flick to you. Still sitting there. Quiet. Lost in your own head.

Dean purses his lips, stretching his jaw. At least here, he has you cornered, so to speak. He can get the most important stuff out now before you go back to whatever you end up deciding on after you hear him out. 

“I just wanna know you’re okay… That you will be,” he says, and it’s gentle now. “S’not about me.” It’s not. It’s about you. This whole thing started with you. 

But you don’t give him much more than a subdued “Okay” and a nod before there’s silence again. 

It’s not awkward as such. Not much to make a headline of, though it’s as if he’s said nothing of importance to you in the last couple of minutes. 

It’s the kind of silence where your eye twitches and your tongue ‌plays with the back of your teeth. Unless you’re looking or know what to look for like he does, you can’t tell. 

All Dean can do now is wait for your next words to come, but they never do. Not in Baby’s cab, at least, because the next second, you’re reaching for the handle and you’re committing to it this time. 

You open the door and step out onto the curb, closing it again with him still inside. Starting your ascent up the Walsh’s drive, leaving Dean dumbfounded.

“Okay?” he says, but of course, you don’t hear him.

Dean’d needed to stretch his legs, he’d told himself. At least he’d told Sam that as he’d left the kitchen that morning. And he did. He needed to stretch his arms and fists, too, because Chuck knew he needed a change from hanging around the bunker. He couldn’t keep waiting for Rowena to find Gabe or spending his days thinking about his mom and Jack, and you.

You were the worst of his problems. He hadn’t seen you since he’d left you standing on read in the bathroom last night—unless you counted his dreams. They were the only reason he knew he’d slept. 

He could still feel the vase Ben broke on Lisa between his fingers that he himself broke in one, thinking he’d caught you, only to open more and more stall doors and curtains of all things. 

Of all the bathrooms to be in during sleep, you’d think his subconscious would throw him in a truck stop stall with a guy named Phil over Lisa’s. But he also supposed he was lucky to not be thrown in with Shia LaBeouf or Karen Allen. He doubted he’d be able to run from Indy’s giant boulder on top of chasing after you. 

He wasn’t judging his subconscious. There had to be worse things in there, but what the actual fuck was with the bathrooms? Tiles upon tiles. Stalls upon stalls. Green grass, velvet cushions, and gold trimmings, even he didn’t wanna ask about, yet no matter the location, he came up empty every time. 

And that was the problem. Why? Weren’t you supposed to be chasing him? He’d left you there. He’d walked out on you because you hadn’t wanted to talk to him, so why the hell was he doing all the grovelling in his dreams? 

Why was he so hesitant to go to you now? 

Because there was no movement from your room when he’d hit the head or returned past it on his way to the kitchen, That’s why. No sign of you even waking yet. He could only assume you’d slept because there was no bowl in the sink from the cereal you ate religiously. It was the only thing that didn’t go off and was quick to fix, or so you always said. 

Your go-to coffee mug still sat in its usual spot next to the machine, which, great for you. Must be nice for some people to not need coffee to fuel or wake them up, like the bitter smell did for him most mornings. It’s why he was up. That and his shoulder. Couldn’t be his guilty conscience… 

Nope. 

Not at all.

It was all on his shoulder. It still ached. His very conscience, doing fine on account of the dreams, but that muscle in his shoulder? It tingled. Even after your tender loving care during the early hours of yesterday morning. 

Kinda funny how one minute he was comforting you, the next he was running from your poor pathetic excuse for some, only to go back to sniffing you out.

But you had a case. Fucking North Dakota. His throat was tight again just thinking ‘bout it. 

Last time he was there, he was Crowley’s demonic wingman in all aspects of the word. He wasn’t even sure he was allowed back in the state, yet here he was heading to your door to tell you Sam’d found a case there.

He couldn’t let Sam do it because then Sam would start asking questions, and Dean was still healing all wounds. Tail and shoulder. 

His fingers were tight, trying to circulate the blood that seemed to insist on sticking round the entry point of the bullet wound. He flexed them as he walked down the hall to your room. 

Ketch’d said nothing ‘bout after care for it. No, he just concentrated on telling Dean to go through the rift without him.

And suppose he hadn’t? He wouldn’t be in the mess he was in now, and—huh.

Maybe that’s why you were so concerned with his welfare in the kitchen the night before last. 

That’d been rather nice, actually. Meant you cared about him. And you cared about him, right? That’s what this whole thing was about. You didn’t wanna let him down. Didn’t wanna ruin the friendship. The—it’s not you, it’s me line, tongue tied on account of you not being able to express the sentiment at that moment?

Yeah, that was it. It had to be. Everyone sucked at relationship stuff sometimes. Even Dean. 

He rolled his shoulder as he neared your door, though. Gearing up to knock. He had to slow his steps, having no idea how he was going to do this. What was he supposed to say to you for starters? Because he couldn’t just jump straight in with Sam’s gotta case. Meeting in twenty, get your ass up. No. Despite other prior examples, he didn’t have a death wish. His ego couldn’t take anything more after last night.

He balled his fist and rapped below the brass aquarian star like he had no hesitation in the world, though. Purposeful, with a knock that expected reciprocation, not that he expected it. He just wanted you to know it was him. 

If you didn’t answer, he’d tell you through the door about the case. If you did, well, he’d do the same, but by then he also hoped he had a plan. 

And while you didn’t respond with the typical double knock that accompanied his playful one, he did get a, “Door’s open, Dean.” out of you, and hey, that was a win, right? Wasn’t exactly friendly, but you were open to communication.

He opened the door with that and poked his head in. “Hey,” he said, eyes searching for you through the stretch of darkness the hallway granted to your room, and you, sitting up in your bed, legs crossed. 

He didn’t know what to expect, but he hadn’t expected you like this. 

You. Your hair swept back, messy, as he was most familiar with of late. Told Dean you hadn’t been sleeping in the last thirty minutes and had done something to tame the bedhead at the very least. There was no indent from a pillow either. Quite the opposite, actually. Must’ve had just as much sleep as he had if your tone had been anything to go by, yet you hadn’t had breakfast. 

“You, ah, you eaten?” He placed the charm on thick. That boyish chuckle he often used to annoy Sam but get his way with the ladies he met on the road was a surefire hit. 

It didn’t blow your socks off, though. In his defence, you weren’t wearing any. You were in another t-shirt that looked suspiciously like his. 

Not hoarse, but not laced with gravel either, “What kind of question is that?” you said. 

“The kind where I don’t know what else to say.” He wasn’t ashamed to say it. Honest—the words spilled from his lips without thought as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, hands remaining on the handle. “I, ah—didn’t mean to run out on you like that.”

“You didn’t?” If you were wearing glasses, they’d have fallen off your nose and into your lap. Your forehead, shinier than a bowling ball thanks to the low light of the bunker’s early morning ambiance. Dean could see the frown lines when you scrunched your brow. “Never thought I’d see you run like that,” you scoffed. It was just as insulting as ever.

He ran all the time. Came with the hunting territory. What he’d done had been a dash at most. You’d given him nothing. Weren’t chasing after him yourself.

“Yeah, well, you were a barrelful of laughs.” He crossed his arms and lifted his head like he was showing off the bob in his throat or rearranging the extra layers in his neck. He brought it back down and glared back at you, less intimidating than you were, with a look that said he wasn’t backing down. “I think you said two words to me after I brought up us dating again.” 

He was proud of bringing it up. Until he remembered you’d said more, and “No,” he shook his head. “You said you were going to bed.” He would’ve pointed his finger, but he was a little too close to replaying the speech he’d given his mom months ago. That wasn’t happening. Even if you hadn’t had the pleasure of the original. Only the aftereffects. 

“Yeah.” For a short word, you made it extra sharp. Your chin flicked, just as. “You’re here in my room, remember? Last I checked, that was okay,” your body leaned forward a fraction, “Unless you want me to leave like you did?”

Dean was still by your door, arms still folded. “That’s not—” What wasn’t it? Fair? How it happened? His lashes were fluttering to take flight again. “You rejected me.” 

“And you asked me out in a bathroom. And I believe the exact words you used were, ‘So, you wanna date me?’ Oh, and, ‘that’s an easy fix,’ like you offering to be my boyfriend is some sort of consolation prize. You know women do this alone, right?” 

“You said we weren’t dating.” And you weren’t pregnant. He was smug, but it didn’t line up. 

“I said we’d been careless. Forgive me for not wanting to make two big decisions at the same time.” 

As far as he saw, there was only one, and another he had no control over that didn’t even hold weight now, though much for the best, he supposed. But as if the audacity were on him, you sighed and stood up. Dean, still by the door, arms still folded, held his ground. “I wasn’t expecting one. Just wanted to talk about it.”

“Well, you’re here now.” You shot him a look. “I’m listening.” But all he saw was you walking ‘round to your closet.

“Oh, you’re listening?” He leaned forward, stomach muscles folding. His knees bent in turn. A short tick that’d drop him to the ground if anyone were to come ‘round behind him and kick him there. “Really looks like it, too.”

“I’m getting dressed,” you said, back turned to him, sound muffled. Your muscles moved beneath the fabric. The little sleep shorts you’d been wearing last night, revealed whenever your shoulders raised, were still kissing your thighs. “It’s called multi-tasking.”

“Yeah, well…think you can pack, too?” He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. It wasn’t the way he wanted to bring it up, and it wasn’t what he wanted to talk about, because he did want to talk to you. He wanted to set things right before things escalated, and he pushed you away again. 

But you were too, by the looks. Cringing. Body still now. He brought his hand up to his still unshaven cheek and smoothed the hairs. He’d do it when you got to Grafton, if the northern air didn’t mess with his complexion. The red face beneath his stubble was less visible that way. 

“You’re here to tell me there’s a case?” you whispered, and it was soft. Nice change for being rather scornful, though he didn’t blame you, even if he wasn’t the most accommodating after how you’d shut him down last night. He could forgive it—really. His actions now, just the repercussions of his own ego getting torn down a notch.  

“Yeah, ah, Sam found one in North Dakota. Couple of people missing.” He moved into your room further. Boots landed on the rug beneath your bed. “Told him we’d leave in twenty.”

“Right,” you said, lifting your shirt over your head to reveal your bare back. Even under the shadow of the closet door, he could see which bra you were about to put on. Though it didn’t take a genius to know you’d choose one of the more comfortable ones. Your push-ups, reserved for cases, you’d once told him. After that lobotomy thing in Grand Junction. Guess he should feel lucky he could still go to strip clubs with you now.

Your hands reached round to do the clasps. He was inclined to step forward and help you, but you were reaching back into the closest and pulling a different, more fitting shirt back over your head. Your hair further ‘combed’ if you could call it such, even with the static. “What is it?” Your voice tremored.

“Ah. Vampires he thinks. Going by the lack of animal attacks being reported.” He swallowed. You were busying yourself with something at the base of your closet now. Sleep shorts still on, you crouched low, squatting as you reached for something new. 

He’d been in your room plenty of times, but he’d never paid attention to the layout of your closet. Your room was just another one in the bunker. Same furniture as his. Same general layout, aside from the bed being opposite the main door. 

“Guy was found in the river. Cancer patient. He ah,” he shook his head. This could all wait for the car. “We won’t have much of a chance to talk on the road, so maybe we can—”

“He’s the only one?” You stood again, still refusing to look at him. A pair of jeans hanging from your arms. 

“Yeah.”

You slipped your shorts off, kicking them back into the corner of the closet. “How many’s a couple?” Your foot stepping into the denim legs had your panties mooning him. And seriously? It’s like you were doing it all on purpose. Had to be. If he squinted hard enough, he was certain he’d see the marks he’d left on your ass yesterday morning, slipping out from under the elastic. 

You knew he’d been rather proud of that. Knew he’d confessed his feelings for you when you were laying with him after. But there you were, having not even given him the chance to answer the first question, still avoiding the others, and determined to get all the info it seemed. “Three? I dunno. I—”

“But it’s in North Dakota?”

“Yes,” he huffed. “Would you look at me? I’m trying to talk to you.”

“And I’m trying to get the details.” Your hands came to your hips, and only then did you turn around and face him. Pout clear on your face. “You said twenty minutes. Means I have to pack or am staying behind.” Your eyes narrowed on him. They’d be cat-like in the darkness if they glowed. There was that look, part alert, part ready to skitter off, never to be seen again if he didn’t say the right thing. 

“So which is it?” you said, and he considered you for way too long. At least if he insisted you did, he could find the time to talk to you—eventually.

The dishwasher gurgles next to Mr. Walsh, creating such comedic timing Dean struggles to keep a neutral face. The thing’s been humming most of the time you’ve been sitting at their kitchen table, but it’s the first instance Dean’s questioned if it’s a machine, or someone’s stomach. 

He’s heard it before. The Walsh’s argument that is. They’ve already spoken to the local authorities; you’re wasting your time. He’d be questioning Gary’s motives himself if Dean hadn’t ‌seen the fang marks on Mr. Humphries’ neck. 

Don’t dentists know a thing or two about general body stuff and anesthesia? You’re close to looking at all the medical facilities in the area as it is, but with a town like Grafton, and many people traveling to larger hubs, Mr. Humphries’ catheter isn’t a lot to go on when he’s only one person.

You need something more, anything, but Mrs. Walsh is apologising for her husband, and since the gurgle, all Gary’s done is uncrossed his arms, refolded them, and leant against the kitchen bench. 

Diane, Mrs. Walsh, shakes her head some more. She’s been doing that a lot. Like Marjorie, she’s beside herself over her daughter, and that makes sense. It’s just a wonder it hasn’t fallen off with all the extra tremors and the cross around her neck that’s on a rather short chain. 

Her palm comes up to trace it again, rolling the gold across her cream sweater. “Sorry. We’re just a little on edge,” she says.

A little? Dean shoots a look your way, but you’re still ignoring him. Your focus on Diane. You reach your arm across the table to lay a gentle hand on hers—and it’s like Marjorie all over again. Lending a comforting touch to someone when it’s not your place to do so. Mrs Walsh has a daughter, depending on how you look at it, but you’re way too old to replace her.

“It’s alright,” you say. “I know it doesn’t feel like looking at photos is going to do anything to help find Edith or the others, but we’re just trying to cross all our bases.”

As if she sees hope in your words, Diane sits up straighter. “But the sheriff doesn’t think there’s a connection?” 

“And there might not be one,” Dean points to Mr. Humphries, whose face is sitting amongst the pile of photographs, front and centre on the table. “All we know is he didn’t die where they found him.” He leaves out the part about the catheter. “And she’s got three kids of her own, another on the way. Neither of them had any reason to disappear, either, but they all have families waiting for them, just like your daughter.” 

Dean’s about to continue on the tirade and get his point across, because you’re wasting time going ‘round in circles. Marjorie was way more co-operative; you’re wasting time doing it. But his phone rings, and hale-fucking-lujah. Saved by the ringtone. 

He wastes no time fishing it from his pocket and looking at the flashing screen while you take over the table.  

“Excuse me,” he says, the politest he’s been while on the case. Even compared to Marjorie's. He scrapes his chair against the tiles as he gets up from the table, making his way to the front room, knowing full well Gary can still see him through the door. 

It’s wide enough. You could fit their two sofas through the doorway with room to spare in the kitchen once they made it. Dean stands behind the low back, looking down at the large cushions that won’t suck his ass in like the Humphries one did. He taps the screen to answer. 

“Hey,” he says to Sam on the other end, screwing up his nose. There’s a lot of space for a family of three, but he wonders if any of them have sat on it when there’s not a mark in sight. 

“So I just left Maria Russell’s office,” Sam says down the line. “Her secretary mentioned she’d had a few appointments at a local clinic.”

“Don’t tell me we’re dealing with cancer patients.” Dean turns his back to face the scene in the kitchen. Gary’s a tool, but asking or even suggesting his daughter might have a tumour on top of being missing isn’t something he feels like doing—ever.  

“Well—Mr. Humphries’ cancer has something to do with it.” 

“How?” 

“I, ah, think it’s a blood thing,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes. 

Of course, it’s a blood thing. How could it not be? Sam was at the morgue, too. He saw the catheter and the bite, but, “Maria had a pamphlet for an obstetrician’s office in her desk,” Sam says, and that’s…that’s way worse. 

“You think she’s knocked up?” Dean’s still watching Gary. Gary’s still watching him, and the cancer line of thinking is looking mighty fine right about now. How could it not?

The father of one has joined his wife at the table, sitting opposite you. That makes Dean’s stomach drop. 

His cheeseburger resurfaces, gurgling low in his stomach. Could’ve sworn he dumped it all, but something draws up into his throat, forming a lump he could’ve sworn he left back in the Bunker’s bathroom. 

“I need to make some calls. See if I can get into her medical records.” 

“Okay, but two pregnant women don’t connect a bodybuilder and a cancer patient,” Dean says. Unless Sam’s gonna tell him the bodybuilder conceived at age fifty-eight, too. Then the theory is a bust. Not to mention, why the hell would vamps be so selective about their food when blood is blood and humans are, well…humans. 

Sam doesn’t, though. He chuckles, and it’s not in a funny way. Dean can see the smug, unapologetic look on his face, and “Actually, it does,” he says through it.

“How?”

“Human Chorionic Gonadotropin.” 

Yeah, that mouth of Sam’s is smug, and now speaking in tongues because, of course, he says the big words matter-of-factly. 

It’s like he’s been practicing it for a test. Looking down upon Dean like that chick with the mound of hair from Harry Potter does to Harry and the red-head kid. Levee-oh-sar is not a part of anyone’s everyday vocabulary, including Sam’s, even if he were a witch. As it is, Dean can’t even repeat what he heard. Can’t even break it down besides the word human before getting stuck.

Chlorine? Chloroform? Sam repeating it doesn’t help.

“Human Chorionic Gonadotropin,” he chuckles again, “H.C.G.” Why couldn’t he have just said that? Dean can say the letters. He can remember those, even if he has no clue what they are or mean combined. 

All it takes is a pause on the line for Sam to spill the knowledge, of course. Dean doesn’t need to bother asking, because Sam’s know-it-all is jumping at the chance to tell him, further personifying the child-witch their Charlie loved so much.

“It’s a hormone that’s associated with pregnant women. I looked over the cold case again. One of the missing from four years ago was also pregnant,” Sam continues, “Y’know, home pregnancy tests?”

“Yeah.” Dean knows them alright.

“Well, they pick up the HCG in women’s urine. Turns out it’s also a marker for testicular cancer.” 

“And bodybuilders?” Dean hones in on that one. He’s listened to every word; he’s just not too fond of any of them. 

The world keeps getting stranger. The universe continues to mess with him, and it’s got nothing to do with Gary and his perfect princess. 

But if art imitates life, why is it his life is always the one that gets freakishly ironic?

“Sort of,” Sam says, missing the cogs grinding away in Dean’s ear. Even though his phone’s pushed up against it and there’s the perfect opportunity for the pathway to be heard, Sam can’t see the look on his face. Or the shade it’s turned to know he needs to. No, nothing’s amiss, according to Sammy. “It’s used in a treatment to stimulate testosterone,” he says. “Again, I need to look into the records, but chances are—” 

“Farley’s been using it,” Dean concludes, though he’s hating it. It sure gives you a motive, not that the vamps needed one. Not that you haven’t been wrong before, either. It’s still that factor that your lives seem to follow the cases you work, like Chuck himself is personally throwing things at you to teach some sick life lesson that’s sticking to him. 

Well, Dean doesn’t want a life lesson.

Still, Sam agrees. “Not something the sheriff would’ve thought to look into.” He’s right on the money about the sheriff, too. But why does it have to be this way? 

“Yeah. Doesn’t mean much if we don’t know where these people are,” Dean says. Anything to keep his focus on the case and nothing else, ‘cause he still hears you talking to the Walsh’s.

“No, it doesn’t, but you’ve still gotta talk to the Walsh’s right?”

“We’re here now.” His head tilts. eyes now watching you, too. Your back still to him. 

At least for Dean’s sake, Sam says something that he’d honestly much rather do over anything else at that given moment, and given the circumstances, and that’s saying something.  

“Any chance Edith has a boyfriend?” he says—the little chuckle isn’t appreciated.

Dean’s chest was as tight and constricting as the plastic was ‘round his fingers as he stepped back into the bunker that afternoon. It all came down to that moment. The test he’d bought for you in the bag, weighing on you both even before he’d collected you and guided you towards the main bathroom. 

The halls were, albeit silent, aside from your hurried footsteps. Sam, nowhere to be seen. Though with how loud and fast it was pumping, his heart threatened to change that. Dean, surprised you didn’t hear it. Or the tiles painted red with the pressure.

He locked the door behind you, heading straight for the row of sinks along the wall where he dumped the pharmacy packaging and held the ClearBlue box up to you. “This thing costs more than a Beauty,” he said like he was some kind of used-car guy, selling you the opposite of a lemon; making the mark-up work for him. “Makes sense when you think where else I coulda—” 

He stopped himself, shaking his head through the chuckle you weren’t pleased to see. You mightn’t have been all that impressed with him, but in his head, he had a valid point. 

Sure, he could’ve nutted in his favourite skin mag. Sure, the two of you wouldn’t be standing there if he had. Wouldn’t have been as pleasurable, either, though. And you couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy it when you often begged him for it. Pretty sure you’d said you’d needed him earlier that morning when he was balls deep. 

Your brows raised much like they had as he’d spilled into. Your hands came to your hips like you were already practising your poses for a future guided by a positive result. The look you’d given him alone, enough to make even him, as potential dad to this situation, shudder, and the toughest of employees change their tactics over it alone. 

As such, “It’s a digital one,” he added, ’cause that was the real selling point in his eyes. More accurately, for $19.99, the cost alone meant the thing had to work. When all the others were half the price.  

“Will tell us straight, too,” he took the test out and offered it to you, still in the foil, “Either you are or you aren’t. No messing about with lines.” 

‘Cause that’s what you wanted, right? Accuracy. Simple. At least, that’s what he wanted. He just had to shake it a little more in front of you before you took it off him. Your fingers, as apprehensive as he felt, minus the wisecracks, curling ‘round the end he’d held out for you, slow and cautious. 

“You’ve done this before,” you said. Neither a question nor a statement. The cogs behind your eyes, grinding to a halt, extended their weight to the plastic still held between you. It alone shifted the moment from casual to way too real.

“Yeah. Wasn’t planned or anything.” He clicked his tongue against his cheek. 

There was no way you wanted to hear about Lisa right now. There was no way he was going to say her name. He knew you’d have known who he was referring to, without even saying it. Wasn’t like Lydia had shown him proof Emma was his, aside from the teen coming after him as the lore had said. 

“You’ve never?” he asked—and really? He dug his hands into his pockets. What was that even supposed to mean? You were a hunter, sure. You had to be more cautious than most about getting knocked up, avoiding getting stuck with decisions he and so many males in the profession got to walk away from. 

He half expected you to say no, but, “Once. In college,” you supplied. All well before hunting had swallowed your life, and you’d met him. 

“Guess I should feel special, I also re-popped that?” He chuckled again. As if re-de-hymenating you wasn’t enough.

You weren’t laughing. “I’ll just—” You thumbed to the stalls behind you, leaving him with no choice but to sit back and wait while you closed the door and dropped your panties behind it. 

Wasn’t like he was there for anything else. Which…well…it wasn’t good.

The walls were thin. The space between them only grew thinner with the movement you made behind the crack. Skin, fabric. He’d have closed his eyes, but the tiles’ echos picked up the surrounding sounds better than the halls had with the clinks and shuffles of porcelain kissing thighs. 

It left him with little to no imagination—except, now he knew how Indiana Jones felt in all his movies. That giant boulder had Dean’s name on it, hurtling towards him with all that was imminent. 

Not that Indy ever worried about the consequences of his actions with the girl. 

No, he fucked off. Left Karen Allen behind, never knowing he had a kid until Shia LaBeouf showed up looking for those ridiculous skulls. At least Dean was here, and you could tell him you were late. At least he wasn’t feeling too inadequate—until he heard you sniff. 

Then he threw his head back to the ceiling, tracing the watermarks and anything else worthy of interest to respect your privacy. “What’s the holdup?” he said. Anything to block out his own thoughts, still waiting for a telltale tinkle because you were quiet, and he was impatient. There’s a reason he told you to drink a bottle of water before he left. 

“I thought you had to—”

“Give me a minute, will you?” you groused. “There’s a lot of pressure here.”

Performance pressure came to mind, but he didn’t know why he was insulted. It’s not like he had any issues with that. “You’ve taken a leak in front of me before.” He huffed.

“That was different.”

“How’s the road different? There’s a door here.” His hand pointed, though you probably didn’t see it.

It was a rather open one, too, but when you responded with his name, the distinct sound of a steady stream hitting the bowl soon followed it. All Dean could do was smirk to himself and continue his waiting for you to finish. 

It’d been a tough couple of hours. He could wait a little longer.

As it was, it took you most of the early hours of the night of you talking in the kitchen. Then in his bed that morning for you to come straight with him. He wasn’t sure why he was complaining. He didn’t know how it worked, besides knowing that morning’s nut wasn’t the nut, and he’d told you so. His arms, still looped around you as he had. 

Startled? Sure. More off guard because you’d said nothing in the kitchen. Though he now saw that’s what you meant when you said you weren’t fine.

That morning was a rare one for you. He still couldn’t get those eyes of yours out of his head when he’d looked down over you. His hands on your ass, gripped and spread you open. Was that why it felt so different? 

Dean ran his palm over his face like the combination would push the memories away, just in time for you to reappear with the most murderous of eyes.

His grin was sketchy. Yours wasn’t there. There was no way either of you were winning the socks off of anyone at that moment, screw picking up at a bar or fooling the Feds. 

He wiped his hands over his hips, ridding himself of his nerves as best he could, hoping for the best that the sweat didn’t stain his jeans. “You, ah,” Dean glanced down at your hands. He’d have yanked the test out of them if he could’ve, but in that moment, he couldn’t manage more than a simple, “You good?” 

You looked good. He’d say you were glowing, but the fluorescents overhead made even the mildew and the limescale in the bathroom shimmer. The affirmative flick you gave contradicted the way your body crossed beneath them. “Three minutes, right?” You said in a shaky whisper. All the confirmation Dean needed to swoop in. 

He hovered close, waiting for you to wash up and finish what you needed to. Overbearing? Probably. Did he care? Nope. He shut the faucet before you could reach for it yourself, having had enough of doing nothing but standing there playing trophy wife while he waited for you.

“You gonna dry them, too?” You shook your hands at him. 

“Smartass.” He drew you in by your wrists and a crooked smirk. Then he raised your palms to his shirt, doing as you’d dared him to, only at a loss on what to do next.

Like the front of the Walsh house, you’re out of the Impala ahead of him. Having shut the door before Dean’s even cut the engine this time. 

He sits there just a moment longer; watches you enter the room and shut the door behind you. At least you didn’t slam it, but he wonders if that’s for Sammy’s sake and not his own.

Of course, he knows it’s not for him. He’s not an idiot; he’ll keep reminding himself he’s not—because he’s not.

He told you what you were looking for when you entered Edith’s room, and you’ve been weird like he knew you would. That’s not dumb. That’s intuitive. 

And why wouldn’t you? Be weird; that is. You’re the one who took the test. You’re the one who’s dealing with the aftereffects of it, and that includes him.  

Also, not him being weird. No, you’re just dealing with him. Tolerating. Making do. Putting up with, because you wouldn’t be here, literally. If it weren’t for him.

Which also makes him think. Why bother coming? It’s not like he forced you. Just told you ‘bout the case in case you wanted in. And like that moment in your room, and out the front of the Walsh’s, he still wishes you would just open up to him. Talk to him. Tell him what’s on your mind. 

He holds his breath as he walks into the room a few seconds later. Though why is he surprised you’re not sitting at the table with Sam?

Dean’s eyes scan the small room. “Hey,” he says to Sam. Your rollaway in the corner is empty. Your duffle, missing off the floor. In fact, the only evidence you were ever here in Grafton was your water bottle by the castors of the folded extra bed. 

Honestly, Dean could say the neatened sheets and that piece of plastic still ain’t solid evidence. But the door to the bathroom is closed. You sure seem to like your time there of late, which again makes sense. Period. Blood. Again, he doesn’t know how it all works, but jostling you around the way he did the morning before you took the test must’ve done it. Just…a delayed response?

And maybe you should’ve stayed behind? It’s safer than bringing the vamps their dinner when you end up locating the nest. Not that you could tell before you left.

Like their last phone call, Sam has that look on his face that Dean imagined. Smug and one-hundred percent Mr. Know-it-all, Sam looks at him, eyes wide and expectant. The question on his lips and palm against his thigh, thinking, what’s up with her? ‘Cause you didn’t give him anything, either it would seem. Your animosity is spreading ‘round.

Dean says nothing to it. Just pulls his coat off, and slumps down in a vacant chair. 

Like the Walsh’s he’s purposeful with his actions, though Sammy might not know it. He’s facing the door, dragging another chair with his boot. He raises his feet all casual-like. Then regrets he didn’t grab a beer.

“So I called Mrs. Humphries,” Sam says. As usual, straight into the case.

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes flick to him, then move back to the door. Shifting his ass in his seat. Flexing his wrist as he lets his sack de-ice again.

The temperature is getting ridiculous. The constant cold, warmth, and cold again. Your ass in that skirt. Your ass getting cold on him. He stares down that door you’re behind, waiting, observing, attempting to listen for any sign you’re coming out ‘cause you can’t stay there forever. No doubt Sammy’s got some news.  

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, also watching Dean as he glares at the chipped wood, like it has any chance of picking up the specks of colour that long stuck to the carpet. He gives Sam a longer, lingering side-eye to satisfy him, though. “Got the name of the oncologist he was seeing and his referring doctor at the clinic.” Sam leans back in his seat, face now beaming harder with that knowing pride. “Guess who else is a patient there?”

“Got the name of the oncologist he was seeing and his referring doctor at the clinic.” Sam leans back in his seat, face now beaming harder with that knowing pride. “Guess who else is a patient there?”

Dean shows even less interest as opposed to what little interest he’d had at the Humphries’ and the Walsh’s. Until he’s reminded of another smug face: Gary’s, and his brow raises high. Body twisting enough to give Sam his full attention. “Couldn’t be, miss, not-allowed-to-date, is it? ‘Cause there’s a boyfriend, alright. Just hid it from Mommy and Daddy.” 

“And Maria. I hacked the databases. Turns out she’s pregnant, too.” Sam says.

A/N: Still with me on those time jumps? It sure was fun to figure out.... I probably have two fics worth of scraps in my Google docs (plus the multiple backups lol). Next up, Dean is in for a rude awakening. ❤️

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Jessica Moore.

You recognized her from photographs. Not yours. Someone else’s, long ago, when you weren’t meant to see them. She glowed even from across the street. Hair like honey and sunrise. You hated what that meant.

The kill would come tonight.

You slipped inside the building through the stairwell door. No lock was strong enough to keep you out—not with claws sharp enough to split a bullet. You were already inside when the knock came.

Three short raps on the door. Familiar. Casual.

You didn’t breathe.

Through the half-open bedroom door, you could see her—bare feet padding toward the door, pajamas soft with sleep. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t ask who it was.

She smiled. “Brady?”

Your stomach knotted.

He was inside before she even stepped back. Not aggressive. Not suspicious. Just… invited.

That made it worse.

He smelled wrong. Like rotten sulfur and perfume. The kind of stink that clung to souls already claimed. You felt your lips pull back, silent, feral.

Jess led him toward the kitchen. “Sam’s out, but he should be back tonight.”

Brady smiled with teeth he didn’t earn.

You moved before he did.

One breath, and you were between them—an unnatural blur of black hoodie and retracted claws. You slammed him back against the kitchen island hard enough to splinter tile.

Jess screamed.

Brady hissed, eyes black now, mouth curling into a snarl. “What the hell—?”

Your fist drove into his gut, and the demon inside jolted. His host’s ribs cracked under the force.

He clawed at your hoodie, trying to get a look at your face. You twisted, avoiding contact, slamming him again, against the fridge this time—an uppercut to the jaw that dislocated it on impact. You didn’t need an exorcism. You needed him gone.

Jess backed into the far wall, shaking, barefoot, and frozen.

“Jess,” the demon rasped, laughing around broken teeth, “You should’ve burned. That was the plan, sweetheart.”

You bared your canines. “Plans change.”

Then your claws pierced his throat.

Black smoke burst from his mouth—screaming, writhing—and you dragged it down with your own lungs, holding it with a sick kind of weight, forcing it to stay until it thinned into nothing.

You never knew how you did that part. You just did. Bastet’s gifts had always been vague, and mercy wasn’t always clean.

Brady collapsed. Dead.

Jess stared.

Blood painted the kitchen floor. Her lip trembled. “Wh– Who—?”

You turned. Kept your face down, your hoodie shadowed.

And vanished out the back before she could see you.

She wouldn’t remember details. Not really. Her brain would protect her from what it couldn’t explain. A blur in black. A phantom with claws. A sound like thunder and something breaking loose in the air.

She’d tell Sam she was attacked, but not by who. Not clearly. She’d say someone saved her. A woman, maybe. Maybe not.

You didn’t wait for thanks.

You didn’t need it.

Because she wasn’t supposed to die.

And now… she wouldn’t.

-----------------------------------

Cold Oak, South Dakota – May 2007…

Cold Oak was a graveyard of silence.

Rotten boards creaked under your boots as you crossed the threshold into town. No breath of wind. No birdsong. Just stillness. Like the town itself was holding its breath. And the stench of sulfur and death in the air.

Someone was meant to die. Another catalyst for something you were supposed to stop.

The pull had started two nights ago. This time, it was sharp. Gnawing. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. The whispers of the earth beneath your bare feet told you to run faster. You did.

Then you saw them—blurs through the cracks of broken buildings. Children with demon blood. Not literal children. Just pieces of a twisted plan. You stayed out of sight, silent. Waiting for the moment fate would strike. You watched them for two days.

And then it did. Late that second night, when only two were left. The one you were meant to save and the one meant to kill him.

A scream cracked the quiet.

You ran.

By the time you rounded the chapel, he was already there—the soldier. Jake Talley. Taller than Sam. Stronger. Eyes empty as stone. He moved with brutal purpose, blade drawn, and Sam didn’t see him coming.

But you did.

You moved.

The world blurred.

Steel met bone as you slammed into Jake’s path—your chest catching the knife meant for Sam. It punched through muscle and rib, slid between organs, and stopped halfway through your spine. Pain burst across your vision like fire.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t have time.

Jake’s eyes widened. “What the f—?”

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand wrapped around his wrist and squeezed. Tendons popped. He shouted. The blade twisted in your chest, but you didn’t let go.

Behind you, Sam shouted something. Your knees buckled. Dean’s voice broke like a gunshot from the trees.

“Sam!”

The blade slid out with a wet scrape as Jake ripped his arm free. You staggered—but didn’t fall. Blood soaked through the front of your hoodie. You were already healing.

Jake backed away. “What are you?”

You said nothing.

You lunged.

One punch shattered his jaw. Another cracked his sternum. You slammed him into the church wall hard enough to crater the siding, then turned just as Dean and Bobby skidded into view.

Dean was already reaching for his gun.

“Get away from him!” he yelled.

You stood between Sam and the soldier’s body, hoodie torn, blood still dripping from your front—but your face was hidden in shadow, and your body stilled as the pain ebbed. Dean’s aim didn’t waver.

Sam coughed behind you. “I—I’m fine—she—she saved me.”

Dean blinked, gun still raised. “Who the hell—?”

But you were already gone.

By the time Bobby reached them, only silence remained where you'd stood. No tracks. No scent. Only a few drops of blood that evaporated before they could be touched.

Dean holstered his gun, chest heaving. “What the hell just happened?”

Sam, staring at the spot where you'd been, whispered, “I don’t know… but she took the knife for me.”

And Bobby, squinting at the empty space between them all, muttered, “Then whoever she is… she ain’t just human.”

------------------------------

Harvelle’s Roadhouse, Nebraska – May 2007…

It started with the lights flickering.

Ash barely looked up from his laptop. “Damn power grid again,” he muttered, fingers still flying. The thing was overheating—again. Too much data from too many hunters. But there was something in the pattern. A spike in demon signs over the last forty-eight hours. Someone was making a move.

He didn't hear the front door open.

Didn’t notice the chill that followed it.

But he felt the dread, low in his gut, just as the beer bottle on his table shattered.

Then the screaming started.

Ash shoved back from the table, heart hammering. Demons.

Not hunters. Not even regular monsters. Demons.

He ran for the bar, but flames were already licking through the east hallway—someone had torched the supply closet.

“Ellen!” he shouted, voice cracking. No answer. Completely forgetting she had gone out for more peanuts.

A scream tore through the smoke. He turned—and saw you.

You moved like shadow.

Black hoodie, jeans, boots—but nothing else about you said normal. You tore through one demon like paper, claws flashing in the firelight. Another lunged at you, knife raised—and you caught his arm midair and ripped it from the socket.

Blood sprayed.

Ash ducked behind the pool table. His hand trembled over the shotgun Ellen kept for emergencies. He couldn’t get a clear shot without hitting you.

Not that you needed the help.

Then one demon—taller, stronger—got a lucky blow in. A barstool cracked across your back. You dropped to one knee. Your hood slipped.

Ash froze.

The smoke lit your face like a spotlight. Not fully human. Not even close.

Your eyes were royal purple, but not soft or muted. They gleamed like polished amethyst. Slitted pupils—a cat’s gaze—pierced through the firelight, unblinking.

You locked eyes with Ash.

And then you were moving again—too fast to track. Three more demons fell before the fire reached the ceiling.

Ash stood slowly, mouth dry.

He didn’t know who you were. Didn’t know what you were.

But he knew you’d saved his life.

And you’d seen him see you.

The final demon lunged from the back room—bloodied, furious—and ran straight into your claws. You didn’t give him the chance to speak. Just drove a fist into his chest, through ribs, and yanked something black and steaming from his spine.

Then you turned.

The Roadhouse was burning. Sirens in the distance.

You looked at Ash once more.

He nodded—slow, stunned. “...I won’t tell.” But you knew he wouldn’t be able to keep this to himself forever.

You vanished through the flames before he could say anything else.

By the time Ellen returned, the fire was out. Ash was shaken but alive. He didn’t mention the girl in black.

But for days afterward, he kept sketching eyes he couldn’t forget.

------------------------------------

Greybull, Wyoming – March 2009…

The candle was starting to burn low.

Pamela sat motionless in the armchair by the wall, legs crossed, boots planted. She didn’t need light to watch over them. She’d worked with less.

Sam and Dean lay flat on their backs, separate beds, still as corpses. Their souls weren’t in their bodies. Not now. Not while they hunted the truth from the other side. Astral projection was always a gamble, but Pamela didn’t mind holding the line. She just wished the two idjits had come up with a better plan that hadn’t involved her.

A creak came from the far corner of the room.

Soft. Precise.

Too soft for most ears.

Pamela smiled.

“I know you’re there,” she said, voice low, calm. “You’re good. But not that good.”

No reply. Just stillness.

Pamela tilted her head, her sightless eyes locked on the dark corner. “You’re not human. And you’re not a demon, or I’d feel the static crawling under my skin.” A beat. “So what are you?”

Nothing. Not even a breath.

Then—

A whisper of air. Not spoken words, just presence. Something ancient. Something sharp-edged and graceful and humming with power. It didn’t scare her. But it didn’t comfort her, either.

Pamela’s smile faded. “You’re here for them?”

A flicker. Movement to her left. The air shifted.

“No,” you murmured. “Not for them. Because of what’s coming.”

She turned her head slightly, toward the bed.

“That demon—Alastair—he sent something. Didn’t he?”

A faint breeze drifted in through an open window, and with it, the scent of sulfur.

Pamela stood in one motion.

The candle’s flame danced just once before the demon moved into view, wearing a middle-aged man’s skin, all teeth and speed and snarling intent.

Pamela flinched back—

But you, the girl in black, were already there.

You moved like a shadow peeled loose from the wall, crashing into the demon with inhuman force. The fight was fast, brutal. A blur of limbs, claws, and slamming impacts. The demon tried to speak—but a clawed hand gripped his throat, crushing cartilage.

The candle blew out.

In the dark, Pamela heard a crack, a scream, and the soft thud of a body hitting the carpet.

Silence.

Then—

The flame returned with a flick of a match. Pamela turned toward it slowly.

You stood over the demon’s lifeless shell, breathing steady. Your hoodie was still up, face hidden—but the blood on your knuckles caught the candlelight like glass.

Pamela didn’t speak.

She felt you looking at her.

Finally, she said, “I won’t ask who you are. I don’t think I’d get the truth anyway.”

You didn’t move.

“But,” Pamela added, “I think we’re on the same side.”

A pause. Then—barely audible:

“Only because she isn’t on board with what’s supposed to be destined.”

Pamela’s brow furrowed. “She?”

No answer.

When she blinked, you were gone. Like you’d never been there.

But Pamela knew better.

She turned back to the bed, resting her hand gently on Dean’s chest. “You boys owe someone,” she muttered. “You just don’t know it yet.”

------------------------------------

Carthage, Missouri – November 2009…

The town was too quiet.

No wind. No animals. No sound but boots crunching dry grass as the four of them made their way down the empty main street. Sam, Dean, Ellen, and Jo—armed and wired, adrenaline thrumming.

“I don’t like this,” Jo muttered, eyes scanning windows. “Feels like a trap.”

“It is a trap,” Ellen said flatly.

Then came the voice.

Sultry. Sharp. Cruel.

“Hello boys…”

They turned.

Meg stood half a block down, black eyes gleaming, lips curled in mock sweetness.

Dean raised his gun.

“Oh, don’t bother,” she purred. “You brought bullets. I brought dogs.”

From the shadows behind her, the first growl rolled like thunder.

Jo stepped back. “Hellhounds.”

They all froze.

And then—

A whistle.

High. Piercing. Not human.

From the alley across the street, a figure stepped out.

All black. Hood up. Small. Still. No scent. No sound.

Dean blinked. “What the hell—?”

The hellhounds stopped mid-growl.

Meg turned. Her smirk faltered. “What—”

The hounds snapped to attention, ears twitching toward the figure in black, you.

Another whistle. Softer. Complicated. Like birdsong—no, like command.

The hounds spun, claws tearing through pavement, eyes locked on you.

You didn’t run.

You turned—slowly—and walked into the alley.

They followed.

All four.

Gone in seconds.

The silence afterward was worse than the growls.

Meg stared, visibly rattled. “That—what the hell just happened?”

Dean’s gun didn’t lower. “I don’t know. But you just lost your dogs.”

Meg vanished in a snarl of black smoke.

Dean and Sam bolted toward the alley, but Ellen’s hand shot out. “Wait.”

In the distance, the unmistakable sound of tearing. Of snarls turning into whimpers. And then—nothing.

Jo’s voice was quiet. “You think she… killed them?”

Dean swallowed. “She didn’t even draw a weapon.”

Ellen looked at the alley. “That wasn’t a hunter.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen that figure before.”

Dean nodded. “Me too. Cold Oak. Years ago.”

They moved to the alley’s edge, guns raised—but it was empty. Not a trace. Not a drop of blood. Just the smell of scorched air and something older. Something wild.

Dean muttered, “Who the hell is she?”

Sam shook his head. “Whoever she is… she saved us.”

Jo exhaled shakily. “Yeah. But for how long?”

-----------------------------------

Chicago Rooftop – October 2011…

The rooftop was cold, steel-gray, and lonely.

Bobby crouched beside the makeshift satellite dish, earpiece jammed in tight, trying to focus over the wind and static.

Inside the building, Leviathans talked like kings. Cocky bastards. Planning the future like the world was already theirs. Dick Roman's voice oozed through the wire—suave, smug, slicker than poison.

Bobby’s hand clenched tighter on his notebook. He couldn’t let this slip through. Not after everything.

That’s when he heard it.

Not over the wire.

Behind him.

A footstep.

Too heavy to be human. Too quiet to be friendly.

He stood slowly, turning.

The Leviathan smiled. “You really shouldn’t spy on things stronger than you.”

Bobby’s gun was already out, but they both knew it was useless.

“Come on, Singer,” the thing sneered, black ooze slick on its tongue. “The boss wants a word.”

Bobby didn’t flinch. “Tell Roman I don’t do interviews without a lawyer.”

The thing lunged.

And then—you moved.

A blur of black and muscle dropped from the HVAC unit above.

You hit the Leviathan mid-tackle, tackling it off-course and slamming it to the rooftop with inhuman force. Metal dented. The Leviathan roared, twisting, snapping.

You were faster.

Bobby had just enough time to see the glint of her claws in the afternoon sun as they sliced through the Leviathan’s throat. Clean through.

The Leviathan’s head hit the ground and bounced once.

It was still moving, but stunned. Dazed. Disoriented.

You crouched beside it, claws slipping from your fingers as if by instinct. Your hoodie fell back for just a second—just long enough for Bobby to see those eyes.

Purple. Feline. Glowing like violet embers in the wind.

“You…” he breathed.

You stood slowly. “You’re not done yet. They still need you. They all do.”

Then you were gone—vaulted over the ledge like gravity didn’t apply.

Bobby stared after you, heart hammering. Wind tugged at his coat.

The Leviathan’s body twitched behind him.

He didn’t waste time.

Gun out. Blade drawn. Head in a duffel.

Later, back at the cabin—

Ellen was pacing. “It was her again, wasn’t it?”

Bobby dropped the duffel. “Purple eyes. Fangs. She’s real.”

Sam nodded, jaw tight. “She saved Jo. Saved me.”

Dean leaned against the wall. “Yeah. But we still don’t know who the hell she is or why the hell she’s helping us.”

Ash, from the corner, sipped his beer. “Don’t think she wants you to.”

Bobby stared out the window. “Maybe not.” He still wasn’t ready to tell them what you’d said to him. Hell, it’d shaken him more than he cared to admit.

Then, softer—

“But I think she’s on our side.”

--------------------------------

Men of Letters Bunker – December 2013…

The Bunker wasn’t supposed to feel like a tomb.

But today… it did.

Sam was dying—again. Not visibly, not dramatically. But inside, the damage from the trials was killing him cell by cell. And Dean… Dean was out of options. He’d already let the angel in. Gadreel. Supposedly helping. Supposedly healing.

Kevin didn’t buy it.

He was in the war room when the doors slammed open. Which they weren’t supposed to do. No one was supposed to be able to get in without a key.

Dean skidded in, panic in his voice. “What was that?!”

The lights flickered.

And then… you stepped into the hallway.

All in black. Hood up. Eyes glowing like amethyst fire beneath the shadow.

Kevin’s blood ran cold.

Dean stopped mid-step. “You.”

You didn’t answer.

You moved.

Kevin followed, half-stumbling, half-shaking. “Dean, who is that?! What—”

“I don’t know,” Dean muttered. “But she’s real.”

They found Sam in the infirmary—sitting upright, Gadreel still inside him, eyes glazed over like stained glass.

You didn’t hesitate.

You walked right up to him, placed one clawed hand on his chest—and shoved.

Gadreel screamed.

Not Sam. The angel.

The air lit up like fire. Enochian symbols burst through the skin of his arms and throat. His mouth opened, and light exploded from it—like exorcism, but purer. Older. Divine.

Gadreel was forced out.

His grace burned as it exited, a serpent of gold and pain.

Sam collapsed.

Kevin ran to his side. “SAM?!”

You crouched. Clawed fingertip sliced Sam’s palm—just enough for blood to well.

Then you cut your own.

You curled your fingers into a fist over his wound—and let your blood drip into his.

It glowed as it touched him.

The wound closed instantly.

Color flushed back into his face. His breathing evened. His chest rose, stronger.

Dean whispered, “He’s okay…”

Kevin stared at her. “Who are you?”

You turned to him—slowly.

He flinched. Those eyes weren’t human. Cat’s eyes. Royal purple. Unblinking. Old.

“I’m the reason you’re still alive,” you said quietly.

Then turned and walked toward the door.

Dean followed. “Wait—stop. Just—just talk to me. Please.”

You paused.

“You remember me,” you said.

Dean nodded. “Cold Oak. The alley in Carthage. The rooftop.”

He stepped closer. “You saved my whole damn life.”

“Because it wasn’t your time, or theirs.”

“Is it now?”

You looked at him. Really looked. Then smiled softly.

“No,” you said. “But one day, it will be. One day, everyone’s time comes. Someone just believes that should be based on choice, not a bad script.”

Then she was gone.

No door opened. No sound. Just vanished.

Bobby appeared behind them, shotgun in hand. “...Was that her?”

Dean didn’t turn.

“Yeah.”

Kevin whispered, “What is she?”

No one answered.

But Sam—still dazed—murmured from the bed:

“Touched…”

--------------------------------------

May 2015 – The Red Lodge Motel, Missouri…

Charlie had almost cracked it.

The Book of the Damned was a tangle of curses, ancient languages, and spite. But she was close. Closer than she’d ever been. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, candlelight flickering across pages, her coffee long gone cold.

The motel room was quiet except for her typing.

Then—a creak.

Not the floor. Not her chair.

Outside.

Her hand froze over the trackpad.

She stood, quietly clicking her laptop shut. Reached for the blade Dean gave her.

Another sound. Softer this time. Fabric brushing the door. A breath.

Then—

Bang!

The door splintered inward. Charlie spun as two men surged through, one grabbing her wrist, the other swinging a blunt object that clipped her temple.

She hit the floor hard.

Everything blurred. Light. Noise. Blood.

“Where’s the book?” one growled, foot on her ribs.

Charlie coughed. “Go to hell.”

He raised the weapon again—

And that’s when the growl came.

Not human. Not dog. Not even wolf.

Something… else.

Both Steins turned.

A figure stood in the broken doorway.

All black. Hood up. Barefoot. Unarmed.

Except for her eyes.

Purple. Vertical-slit pupils. Burning.

Charlie gasped.

“What the hell is that?” one Stein muttered.

You didn’t speak.

You moved.

Faster than they could blink.

You swept the first attacker’s legs, claws flashing, and drove your knee into his sternum so hard it cracked.

The second tried to run—only to be caught mid-turn, slammed into the wall, then the floor, then through the rickety table.

The room shook with the violence of it.

Charlie blinked through the blood in her eye. “Y-you…”

You crouched beside her.

“You’re safe now,” you said softly.

“You’re the Touched,” Charlie whispered.

You looked away. “That’s not what I call myself.”

Charlie reached up, trembling. “You saved me.”

“You weren’t supposed to die.”

Sirens began to wail in the distance—someone must’ve heard the noise.

You stood.

“They’ll come for you again. Stop lying to Dean and hide the book in the bunker in a warded box.”

Charlie’s throat caught. “But it’s the key—”

You turned, half-shadow now.

“It’s going to be more trouble than you realize.”

Then you were gone—out the window, into the dark, leaving only blood and silence behind.

--------------------------------------

Highway Diner, Illinois – Early Spring 2017…

The diner was half-lit, half-dead.

Mary sat in the corner booth, shoulders tense, hands wrapped around lukewarm coffee. She wasn’t tired, but she looked it. Thoughts chewed holes in her quiet—memories of Mitch’s voice, his promise: “A world without monsters.”

It sounded like a lie that could be true. The kind she’d been raised to want.

She didn’t hear you sit down.

Just the shift of the air across the booth.

Mary’s hand moved instantly toward the small of her back—revolver instinct—but she froze when she saw the stranger across from her.

All black. Hoodie up. No sound. No scent. No threat.

You lifted both hands slowly. Palms bare. No aggression.

Mary narrowed her eyes. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

You didn’t flinch. You just lowered your hands… and pushed the hood back.

Mary stopped breathing.

Eyes—purple. Not contacts. Not a trick. Slit pupils. Feline and ancient.

Mary blinked. “What the hell are you?”

You didn’t smile. You didn’t move.

“I’m someone who’s trying to stop you from making a mistake.”

Mary leaned back slightly. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I’ve made plenty.”

“You’re considering a deal. With men who hide order behind cruelty.”

Mary’s jaw tightened. “They’re not perfect. But they’re organized. They have reach. They get results.”

You nodded once. “So did the Inquisition.”

That stopped Mary cold.

“You’re not stupid,” you said, voice low. Calm. “But you’re grieving. And tired. And they know how to twist both.”

Mary stared across the table. “How do you know me?”

“I know your sons.”

That landed. Hard.

Mary’s fingers tightened on her coffee cup.

“I’ve watched them die,” you continued. “More times than I care to count. Nightmares of things that never came to pass. I’ve also saved them.”

Mary’s breath hitched. “You—”

“I was there. When Azazel tried to kill Jess. When Jake tried to stab Sam. When Jo would’ve bled out in Carthage and, Ellen would have died by her side. When Bobby nearly had his skull cracked open.”

You leaned forward, just slightly. “You don’t remember me. But they do.”

Mary’s eyes flicked down to her hands. “Why now? Why talk to me?”

“Because you’re about to trade your instincts for orders. And that doesn’t end well. Not for you. Not for them.”

Silence hung between the two of you.

Finally, Mary asked, “What are you?”

You held her gaze, something ancient flickering behind your stillness.

“Touched.”

Mary swallowed. “And you care what happens to me?”

“I care what happens to them. And losing their mother again would destroy them.”

Mary looked away. Toward the window. The reflection of the stranger was gone—even though you still sat there.

When she turned back…

…the booth was empty.

Only a faint scent lingered in the air. Not perfume. Not smoke.

Just something wild.

----------------------------------

South Carolina – May 2017…

The forest was too quiet.

Eileen ran anyway.

Branches slapped her arms. Her breath came in ragged pulls. She couldn’t hear the hound—couldn’t hear anything—but she felt it. The ground shivered with pursuit. The hairs on her arms bristled with the pressure of something massive chasing her down.

Hellhound.

Crowley’s gift. Ketch’s pet.

She risked a glance back—and tripped.

Her knee hit the dirt hard. Blood soaked through denim. The scent would carry. The thing would smell her.

She scrambled up just as the trees snapped behind her.

It was close. Too close.

She couldn’t outrun it.

She knew she was going to die.

And then—*

A blur. A whistle.

Sharp. Alien.

Even she could feel it reverberate down her spine.

The forest shifted.

You launched from the shadows—barefoot, fast, all black—crashing into something unseen. The hellhound screamed, snarl turning to yelp, teeth colliding with something faster than its senses.

Eileen hit the ground again, arms up, expecting blood, bone, pain—

But it never came.

Instead—silence.

The kind of silence that lives between heartbeats.

Eileen opened her eyes.

You crouched in front of her. Hoodie soaked. Hair wild. Purple eyes glowing in the dark like amethyst flame. Not human.

Eileen gasped.

You didn’t speak. Just signed—not perfect, but clear enough:

“Safe now.”

Eileen blinked. Her fingers moved, hesitant. “Who are you?”

You looked past her. Toward the trees.

“Come.”

Then you scooped Eileen into your arms like she weighed nothing.

Eileen tried to protest—but the strength in your arms, the scent of blood and ozone and crushed leaves—it was grounding. Safe. Familiar in a way she couldn’t explain.

She let herself be carried.

Through the trees.

Away from the battlefield.

Elsewhere in the forest

Ketch stood still.

The snarls had stopped.

The sounds of pursuit had… ended.

No yelps. No kill. No blood. Just—

Silence.

Then, a shape moved between trees. Small. Human-sized. Carrying something.

He reached for his radio.

Then hesitated.

For the first time in years… he felt afraid.

--------------------------------------

Jack’s Birth – Alternate Universe Rift, North Cove, Washington – May 2017…

The rift pulsed like a bleeding wound in the air.

Lightning tore the sky open again and again, the forest trembling beneath it. The cottage rattled under the weight of something wrong threading into the world.

Inside, Kelly Kline screamed.

Jack was coming.

And something else was, too.

Lucifer.

Dean was outside, yelling over the wind. Sam was bracing Cas by the warding. Mary stood guard at the edge of the porch, shotgun trembling in her grip.

Crowley had the blade in hand, the ritual already half-spoken.

He knew what it meant. He wasn’t smiling.

He knew he wouldn’t survive it.

And you? You watched from the shadows, already having seen too many ways this ended badly.

Then everything happened at once.

Lucifer appeared in a scream of white fire.

Mary turned to push Sam out of the way—only to be dragged toward the rift by invisible force.

In the cabin, Kelly’s eyes rolled back. Too much pain. She was dying.

Crowley raised the blade.

Cas turned.

Lucifer raised his hand to strike—

And time cracked.

A shrill whistle cut the wind.

Sharp. Commanding. Not of this world.

The air bent.

A figure appeared in black.

Hooded. Fast.

You moved like a predator unleashed.

First—

You caught Mary mid-air and pulled her back from the rift with one hand, claws biting into the earth for anchor. Mary gasped as the pull vanished.

Second—

You leapt into the cottage, pressed two fingers to Kelly’s abdomen—and the pain stopped. The baby crowned. Her blood slowed. Her heart steadied.

Kelly breathed.

Third—

Outside again. Crowley brought the blade to his gut—

You caught his wrist.

His eyes flared. “What—?”

You said nothing.

Just shook your head.

No.

Fourth—

Lucifer roared and lunged at Cas—

You appeared between them, claws drawn.

Lucifer’s hand slammed into your chest.

But instead of killing you, it bounced off like static meeting a grounded line.

Cas stared, stunned.

Lucifer’s smirk faltered.

You turned to him.

“You,” you said, voice quiet, ancient, lethal, “were only ever His pawn, and you never truly figured it out.”

Then you slammed both hands into his chest.

The rift behind him widened in an unholy shriek of light and wind.

You shoved him backward—

And he fell.

Screaming.

Into the rift.

It snapped shut behind him like the mouth of the universe closing.

Silence fell.

Crowley staggered. Cas dropped to his knees. Mary stared. Sam and Dean just stared, stunned.

You turned.

Blood soaked your chest.

Your hood was still up.

Dean took a step forward. “You…”

“I told you,” you said.

Dean swallowed. “It wasn’t our time.”

You looked back at the cabin. Your eyes softened.

“Take care of him. He’s important.”

Then you disappeared.

No sound.

No flash.

Just… gone.

But the world?

Still whole.

-------------------------------

That was only a week ago. You’d spent two days curled in on yourself in the back seat of your car. It hurt everywhere. It always hurt everywhere when you changed things. Bastet never said anything directly to you. Just the nightmares. Flashes of places you were needed to save those that were being manipulated by a force you weren’t ready to face.

You had called Lucifer a pawn. But in all truth, you felt like a pawn too. Her pawn. Watching all of them through the nightmares almost felt worse than if you had been there with them through the journey.

“My life sucks…” You mumbled, forcing your body to obey as you climbed into the front seat.

It was these in-between times when you felt like you had no direction. No clear path for what you were supposed to be doing. She seemed just as hyper-focused on them as He was, and you weren’t allowed to confront him about it.

Your gaze drifted to the forest beyond the windshield, still mostly dark from the night slowly fading. Fingers already on the keys in the ignition. “Where am I supposed to go next?” The words were whispered as you turned the key, and the engine roared to life. You weren’t sure where you were going or when you’d see them again, but you knew you couldn’t just sit here and wait. So, you drove, trying not to think about emerald-green eyes or the pull you always felt to be by his side.

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He has the notecards Sam gave him in one hand, a glass tumbler with a generous pour of whiskey in the other. He’s meant to address the entire company in twenty minutes, and he still hasn’t put on his suit jacket or picked out his tie. You laid two options over the arm of his desk chair: black and white pinstripe or burgundy with a tiny triangle pattern.

“Cohesion. Harmony. Camaraderie. All the things you want to inspire in your employees after another million-dollar deal that’s going to make their workloads triple over the next six months,” you say, heaving the binder onto Dean’s large desk. The rest, you mutter under your breath. “And something severely lacking between you and I.”

Dean looks up from the small print on the index card, aiming his furrowed brows your way.

“What’re you talking about?” he asks, drawing closer. He sets his glass with a heavy clink down on polished wood. He glances down at his still unbuttoned collar and starts closing buttons. “You and I are one of the most well-oiled machines in this place. By the way, which—”

You hold up the burgundy tie for his inspection. Dean’s lips twitch at a grin. It’s like you’re in his goddamn head.

“See? You already know what I want before I gotta ask,” he says. A small sigh escapes you, but you still start sliding the tie up around his neck and under his collar.

“That’s because I’ve apparently made a career out of babysitting a grown man. Move your hand,” you say, batting his digits away from doing the tie himself. You know how he likes it, done in a Pratt knot rather than an old-school Windsor.

He snorts. “I’ll tell you what, it’s your fault, okay? Before you waltzed your way in here—”

“Before you hired me?” you interject.

He smirks. “Fine, before I hired you, with barely a scrap of professional experience besides a little college internship and an eight-month stint in an office—at one of our competitors, I might add—”

He grunts when your hand “slips,” making the knot tight enough to choke him. Amused, but still giving you a censuring look, he slips a finger between the fabric and his neck, loosening it a little as he clears his throat.

“I was entirely capable of running my life without you. I made make-or-break decisions for this company every damn day,” he says. But slowly, his smile slips. The way the green of his eyes roam over your face, your familiar hands, your softly parted lips while you pretend to be concentrated on what you’re doing.

“Now, I don’t know,” Dean says. He swallows, his throat sticking. “I’m in a meeting, and I can’t get comfortable until I know you’re sitting right there to my left. You don’t even need to be taking notes or anything. All you need to do is sit there, and I’m good.”

You pause, finally meeting his eyes.

“I close on a deal, and I’m not satisfied,” he says. “Not ‘til I tell you about it. Because I know you’ve been busting your ass just as much to help make it happen in the first place.”

Your hands begin to release his tie, but he gently grips your arms, keeping you in place.

“Dean…”

“I would say it’s a crying shame that bastard knocked you up before you really got your shot over there at Ashland, but that would mean I wouldn’t have the benefits of your many talents,” he says.

You try to ignore the thing that’s creeping into his tone. The thing that makes your cheeks prickle, and warmth bloom between your legs. You sigh and smile up at him, half exasperated.

“That might just make you the most selfish man in the world,” you say.

He smirks, his thumbs beginning to brush back and forth against your arms. Even in this little number you got on, a plain white blouse tucked neatly in a long pencil skirt, he can’t help his imagination. He’s fantasized about helping you for a change, with that pointless collection of fabric and buttons on this very floor, and his mouth anywhere you want him.

Anywhere you let him taste you.

“Yeah, I wonder if Emma thinks so, seeing as I’m the one who got her mom a raise so she could go to that fancy private school,” he says, with an arch of his brow. “Looking forward to that little play they’re putting on. What was it again?”

“Matilda,” you supply.

Dean frowns. “What? Isn’t that the one where the asshole principal locks little kids in a closet and stuffs ‘em full of cake like she’s making pâté? Little heavy for Kindergarteners, huh?”

You laugh, showing off that smile he gets out of you more often than not.

“She’s kind of nervous about that, actually. But she did ask if you were coming,” you say. Your eyes lower, just like your hands smoothing down his collar, then lying flat against his chest. “God knows if her father’s going to show up.”

Dean releases his hold on you, just so he can take your chin between his fingers and raise your eyes to meet his.

“I’ll be there,” he says. Finality and promise—something a man’s never given you.

Dean knows enough to know what he’s doing, what he’s saying. His free hand molds to the curve of your waist, tightening with the edge of possessiveness.

“Dean,” you breathe a warning in his name. His lips hover near yours, one decision shy of getting his way. “We…we can’t do this again.”

“See, I get that, but I’ve been having a hard time remembering why,” he says. All the while, his fingers are toying with the zipper on the side of your skirt. He guides it down, and down, and his practiced hand slips behind the waistband, behind white lace underneath, skimming bare flesh and heat against the palm of his hand, until his fingers find the wet slit of your pussy. A shaky breath falls from your lips.

“You damn well know why.”

And yet, your hand slips across his cheek, caressing there briefly as your eyes lock with his. Then your fingers sink into his hair, and you’re pulling him into you, tangling your lips and tongue with his in a way that makes you both moan.

The hand that’s not buried between your legs has a stronghold on your hip. He guides you back against his desk, but you’re the one lowering your skirt further so he has more room to torture your clit. Rough finger pads strum you mercilessly, drawing slick arousal from your entrance.

“Oh, fuck. Dean,” you gasp against his mouth. Your fingers curl tighter in his hair. Your hips buck to the rhythm of his hand, begging for more. His lips claim wherever they burn their path, from your jawline to sucking hard against your neck. You’re not even quite on the edge of his desk, half leaning, half clinging to him for survival as his fingers plunder you deeper.

Until he withdraws his hand entirely. You’re heaving for breath, uncomprehending, but you don’t even really have time to ask him just what the hell he’s doing by stopping. Because he’s already sinking to his knees.

He grabs your thighs and pulls you in, burying his face right between your glistening folds. A gasp and a whimper choke out of you at the pleasurable invasion of his tongue. Your hand flies to his hair as you try to steady yourself on the desk.

“Dean! Jesus,” you whisper-shout. Suddenly you remember, worried, that you two haven’t bothered to lock the door this time. He’s supposed to address the entire staff body in exactly ten minutes, and he’s not even fully dressed yet. Now, neither are you.

The man doesn’t seem to give a fuck about anything sensible like that, other than devouring your pussy. Your panties are a torn scrap of fabric around your ankles, along with your skirt that you spent thirty minutes ironing this morning. But you can’t bring yourself to give much of a fuck either, not when his tongue licks up to your clit, and his lips suck around the swollen bud like it’s butterscotch candy.

His fingers join in, slipping into your hot, throbbing core. By then, it doesn’t take more than a few strokes against your sensitive walls to have you coming hard around his fingers. Black and white brittle stars burst behind your eyelids, your mouth falling open in a harsh cry.

You can’t even breathe, because he’s still fucking you with his long, talented fingers. It’s too much. It’s like pushing you off the edge of the volcano while you’re still falling, still erupting. Still want his cock too.

Your fingers tighten in his hair to stop him.

“Dean, Dean, Dean, please…”

Mercifully, he stops. His fingers slip out of you, though his tongue laps at you one more time, just to feel you squirm and shudder against him. But as he pants for breath, he presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh, reverent, an unspoken declaration.

You soften as you look down on him. Your eyes show your conflict and your fondness as you cup his face with both hands, caressing his wet, stubbly cheeks with your thumbs.

“God, baby, you’re a mess,” you laugh, grabbing a tissue off his desk to wipe at his glistening mouth, nose, and chin. He smirks in satisfaction beneath your hand.

“There you go, still takin’ care of me,” he teases, rubbing your thighs.

This is a far cry from the cocky asshole you met a year ago.

Dean Winchester, CEO of HunterCorp, who hadn’t thought he needed an assistant when you came in for your interview. He hadn’t even looked at your resume beforehand and didn’t think he was going to remember your name by the end.

Now, that man is on his knees, willingly covered in your arousal. It’s obscene, but it’s also pulling at your heartstrings. 

You guide him back up to your lips, where you can stake your claim on him. You don’t know yet if it’s going to stick, but he’s finally worn you down.

You’re willing to try.

AN: Some of my Patreon members suggested I write a Part 2 to this. What did you think of “part 1”?

And are you thirsty for more CEO!Dean? 😉

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precursory (pre-cur-sory), a, dictionaries define a precursory as something coming before something else; in regards to the placenta effect, this is often the event that triggers two individuals, often friends, into becoming non-committed partners

If you had said to Dean that the journey to point B was longer than the one back to point A, he would’ve agreed with you. There’s an excitement in the unknowing, no matter the path you take. 

It could be physical, it could be emotional, it could even be spiritual—or psychic, which it was in Dean’s case. At least, that’s how it all started. Dean, you, Jody, Missouri, and her deceased friend Dede’s quaint little store in Omaha. 

Though she shouldn’t have, “Come on,” Dean said to Missouri, once she’d thanked him, raising his hands to her and flapping them for one last hug before the three of you hit the road. 

Buckhead. It sounded more like you were hitting Texas in search of Beavis over somewhere in Georgia. But Missouri’s eyes hardened on him, and that thought went out the window, along with his pride. 

How could he even joke like that? Missouri was hurting. Dean knew how serious this was. She was family, and that made James and her granddaughter Patience his family, too, and top priority. He needed to protect them, as he’d set out to do when he left the bunker that morning.

So with the strings of Dede’s beaded curtain still casting their purple haze over his face, and the incense in the air, burning his lungs and eyes, Dean wrapped his arms ‘round Missouri, and drew her in tight until her bulky necklace dug a hole into his chest.

She squeezed him just as hard. Didn’t let him go when he pulled back to say his goodbyes. Her hands moved to his upper arms and gripped him that much harder. Those eyes of hers, more stubborn than his ever were, latched onto him in a death grip as she reached deep into his soul. 

“Dean Winchester.” The rise in the first two syllables of his name held a slight in her tone he couldn’t quite understand during the second rendition. 

He expected her to tell him to hurry. To floor it down the interstate. But those same eyes flicked over you, already out the door with Jody, waiting for him. They softened—she smiled like she’d watched over you her entire life.

It disappeared when they fell back on him again; however, “You’ve had some great losses. Don’t you lose her, too,” she said.

All Dean could do was protest. At least he tried to. Typically, Missouri knew it. 

He opened his mouth to tell her he wouldn’t, because of course, he wouldn’t. You were family, too. She shook her head and doubled down before his throat had even formed the words. 

“I mean it. She deserves a man who treats her right. Not one that leaves her out in the cold.”

He wasn’t planning on leaving you anywhere. As far as deserving a man who treated you right? Well, he wanted that for you too, he supposed. Wasn’t his business. He licked his lips and fluttered his lashes like he’d misunderstood her that time. “Lucky we’re just partners then.” You’d whip his ass if he tried to pull anything on or in you.  

Missouri frowned. “No.” She grabbed his right ear and tugged hard enough to make his head lower to her level. “You look out for her. Even when you feel she’s done you wrong, you don’t let her go.”

She patted his cheek like nothing had happened, glare turning into a warm smile when she tilted her chin. “You’re a good man, Dean Winchester. Remember that.”

And…well…that…

His grin reached the crowns of his cheeks, but he hid it by tilting his own chin downward. Arms, letting go of her, shoved his hands deep into his pockets before the moment turned any softer. “Missouri.” He practically bowed. “Always good to see you.” 

And with that, he slinked away, taking his leave towards you and Jody. Missouri’s words clinging to him like she’d poured milk in his coffee for the first time in years and he’d found the taste much sweeter than he remembered. 

It sure was new. The concept…interesting. Not that he’d thought about you like that, because he hadn’t. Not really. Well…only in the instances when his body dutifully reminded him you were indeed a woman, and had the parts that made his engine tick. 

But thanks to Missouri’s words, there were a few extra points on the journey home from Buckhead that stirred the melting pot. It came to a head when you arrived back at Dede’s shop two days later. Your every movement, word, and the aromas that surrounded you took every piece of his attention.

Jody was closing the door behind her as you slunk into the passenger seat from the back. “Thanks for the ride.” She leant on the open window, ducking her head down to see you better. 

“O’course.” Dean swiped his own to the side. He’d never leave Jody stranded back in Georgia. Not after Sam’d called her out here how he had. “You gonna stop over, or you need us to follow you outta town?” he asked, regretting it as soon as he had. Up close and next to him, whatever fruit-scented concoction you’d last used throughout the day was bleeding into his air again. 

He knew he didn’t have the patience of a saint, but if she said yes to his offer, he needed to find it, and quick, because you were confused and shooting him a narrow stare. 

Though it failed to compare to the longer exchanges of stifled grins you’d been giving him through the rearview, thankfully, Jody shook her head. “I think I’m going to drop in on Claire,” she said in that motherly way of hers. Even under their low coverage, the street lamps dusted her face with a warm glow. 

“Well, send her our love.” You patted her arm, and with one last wave, Dean pulled Baby out of the lot and onto the main drag outta Omaha. The bunker was only three hours away, give or take, and he was in a rush to get her somewhere.

His eyes flicked between you and the road a few times. He’d been a cocky son of a bitch that morning, but he’d been in his element then. Already under the sheets with you. 

“What about you? You good to keep going?” His right hand moved to the vinyl between you, waiting to see what you’d do. 

He could drive this path one handed if he had to. Eyes closed, or on you, didn’t matter. He knew that road like the scars on his hands, and right now he wanted to trace them over you.

If he thought the effects of Bevill’s blood purifying spell were catching up with him, since the motel, earlier that day in Memphis, his pipes were buckling under pressure. His balls, the bluest they’d ever been after any of his virginity losses, and nothing, nothing, felt innocent anymore when those exchanges in the rearview had also tested his jaw and the flexibility of his wrist.

While you slid that bit closer to him, brushing your thigh against his fingers, much to his disappointment, “I’m good,” you said. Though you did push his Zeppelin tape back into the deck.

“Woman after my heart,” he muttered.

“I like to please.” The same smile you’d been giving him all day flashed across your cheeks. 

Yeah…you liked to please, alright.

You both settled into a comfortable silence after that as he drove through the last of the city’s outer limits, not taking long for Baby to ease onto the highway once he got her there. Your lips were mouthing to Levee when Dean opened up her throttle. The roar of her engine suited him just fine, even though his two weeks continued rolling through the back of his mind.

It didn’t help that there was a pounding in his chest each time he felt you shift next to him that went against the grain and straight to his groin, either. He had to remind himself that it was nothing. That it wasn’t on purpose, because he was running out of ways to get his blood moving. There were only so many positions he could shift his foot on the gas— 

“You think Patience’ll stay out of it?” he asked to break his thoughts.

“Dunno.” You considered him longer than he expected you would. The way your finger and thumb ran across your mouth and puckered your lower lip had to be purposeful, ‘cause it sure backfired on his resolve. “Seems like a waste not to use her gift,” you said.

“Her dad doesn’t think so.” And Dean couldn’t believe he was siding with James on that, but he’d meant what he’d said to her. There was no joy in hunting monsters. She was better off in calculus and normal, even if Dean didn’t see that for himself anymore.

“And he didn’t pull out those gems when he was desperate?” You clicked your tongue. Dean supposed it was fitting for Missouri’s sake. 

Holding the family legacy. Helping people the way the Mosley matriarch had done. “Noticed Jody slipped her a card.”

“Yeah?”

“Seems everyone’s fishing for kids now.” He shook his head. Unlike his ‘woman after his heart’ comment, he didn’t mean for you to take it as seriously as you did. 

“You jealous?” And that’s when you chose to look at him? Because you looked at him like Missouri had done, reaching into his soul, trying to find meaning in something that wasn’t there. 

“No.” Just because Patience had people ‘round looking out for her didn’t mean he wanted to change his past. Though even he could recognise he was way too defensive with the word.

“You sure about that?” He nodded, but he wasn’t expecting the judgemental scoff that came next. “Because Jack needs our help, too y’know,” you said, and…wait…wait…

“What?” Lucifer’s spawn? Dean’s face screwed up, only for him to blink his way out of it, spluttering a reply he never thought he’d have to say to you of all people. “That kid needs to be locked in a box and dumped in the ocean.” At least until Dean could find a way to gank him.

“Sam thinks he’s innocent,” you whispered, and Dean pulled his right hand, still close to you on the bench and waiting for contact the entire time, away and up to the wheel, curling his fingers tight over the leather.

“He’s already killed three people.” 

“And one of them was his mom.” 

Your eyes fixed on him again, but Dean refused to look back at you. That just made it worse.

Even when your palm came down to his thigh and squeezed the taut muscle there like you’d done many times of late, he continued to focus on the road and the slow rhythm of Dazed and Confused’s baseline. 

Wanted a woman; never bargained for you. The lyrics never felt truer to him than they did now. But as Plant spoke to him through the music; you continued to speak to him in real time. Something about the year being a shit show and things looking up. Dean didn’t care.

He huffed and rolled his eyes at the sentiment. He didn’t appreciate the kind words no matter how hard you tried until your hand caught his attention by moving higher up his thigh. “Least, they were.” You squeezed him again.

If that weren’t an innuendo or an advance on his interest, he was better off a virgin—there was no way anyone could misconstrue that. Your hand was heading somewhere. Your fingers curved ‘round the shape of his leg. Dipped into his nether regions. Your fingertips slid up further into that junction his jeans made when he sat down and the fabric billowed.

“Woah.” He swallowed—chuckled even, because he’d been flirting with you all day. Now it was all too real. 

And when you said his name? The way it rolled off your tongue, sank straight into his gut, where his balls somehow connected, awakened, tingling and warm. 

“You asked me if I wanted to keep going.” You said it like he didn’t understand what you were doing. Not in that fake way a lot of his previous one-night-stands used on him. No, you played it like you were in control. The same woman he’d known for years, who hustled pool and knew how to wield a blade, coming onto him, all confident and comfortable in her skin. 

“Well—I wanna keep going.” Your hand moved over him. Fingers curled down and ‘round, thankfully not as firm as he’d been with the wheel just now. 

They stroked over the thick layer covering him in much the same way he’d be touching you if he weren’t hurtling Baby down the interstate. 

His eyes snapped to yours, flicking between you and the road for as long as it was safe to do so. “You sure about this?” Because his dick was betraying him, awakening with an obvious yes, you only had to look down and see. 

His head, however? The one up top that mattered was hesitant. Like you were confusing him with all that talk of Jack and Kelly Kline. 

Jamie. The Carmelita. Technically, like you with his morning wood, he’d come onto them first, but they weren’t friends in the sense that he knew you. That he considered you family and them, flashes from the scarce headlights of the scarcer lit highway. Maybe it was a good thing Jody had been there last night and all day? 

Though what the hell was going on with his inhibitions? He’d been wanting you alone, and here you were. You pressed your body against him. Your other hand, not stroking him, came to his neck with your sweet, sweet mouth. If his blood hadn’t already rushed south yet, it was sprinting down his veins to the finish line.

He felt himself twitch. He sure as hell felt your hand twitch in response, moving to cover more of him. To put pressure on and trace the outline of his hardening length. 

“So is that your gun?” you whispered into his ear. “Cause I think you told me you’d let me see it this time.”

And that did it. That was all it took. Dean’s resolve gone, his charming, slack-jaw ways replacing it with a sudden onslaught of a southern drawl he hadn’t quite meant to use. 

“S’happy to see you, darlin’,” he said. His own hand dropped to your thigh and tucked his fingers nice and close to where he wanted to be.

“Yeah?” You nibbled under his jaw with soft, but purposeful kisses as he searched for somewhere to pull off the second he was able. You were on him the next. 

Your jacket removed, your leg thrown over his lap to straddle him. He pulled your core flush against him, moaning as your lips came down on his for the first time. Plush and full of warmth and life; clear in their intentions. You were as receptive to him as any other partner he’d had in the past. 

Sensual, sexual, it felt way too damn good for someone he was supposed to care about, and maybe that’s why it did?  

But it didn’t stop there. Nope. Far from it. You became an outlet. He used you; you used him. Like Bob Seiger once said, neither one of you cared, because you didn’t seem to have as much to lose—back then.

A/N: It’s been a while since I posted something. Hopefully, this is a nice comeback as I'm rather proud of this work. Tomorrow's chapter get's us into the non-linear side of things at a little over 9k…. Prepare for more smut, and the start of the case this story centres around! Until then ❤️

Dean Taglist: @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @artemys-ackles @aylacavebear @bejeweledinterludes2 @deans-baby-momma @district447 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean

@fymyuji @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @idjit-central @kimxwinchester @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @jollyhunter  @kiddieclaws @kr804573

@krazykelly @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @linkilocks11 @livinginataydream @lori19 @lupinslibraries @lyarr24 @maddie0101 @middleearthlife

@mostlymarvelgirl @multiversefanfics @my-stories-vault  @redwinexsupernova @roseamie13 @roseblue373 @rosemicheal12 @sepho @soullessambs @stoneyggirl2

@supernotnatural2005 @thewinchesterwench @ultimatecin73 @waynes-multiverse @winchesterwild78 @youroldfashioned @yoursrosie @zepskies

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

@jollyhunter @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @roseblue373 @rizlowwritessortof

@wvffles @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @jensensswthrt

@winchestergirl2 @spnbabe67 @stoneyggirl2 @my-stories-vault @this-is-me19

@tofics @artemys-ackles @mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @flawlesslyspellbound

@k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

“You’re unbelievable” you snapped, slamming the motel bathroom door hard enough that Sam probably heard it from his own room. To be fair, the shitty walls were thin, but still. Meanwhile, Dean chuckled while plopping down onto the bed– low, smug, entirely too entertained for someone who’d just spent the last hour being yelled at for something he didn’t even remember. Something about him not taking your hunting knowledge seriously, was it? Never mind, it’s not like it was a huge deal– you were just more… opinionated than others.

“Gonna hold this grudge forever, sweetheart?” He drawls, lazy enough that you can almost feel the stupid little smirk that was definitely on his face.

“Yes”

Dean huffs with dismissive amusement, more than used to dealing with your temper. “Cute”

You yanked your jacket off your body with enough annoyance to nearly dislocate your shoulder. “You are the most annoying person I have ever met”

“And yet–” Dean drawled from the bed, “ –you keep me around?” He adds, adding a sarcastic tilt to his voice to fake innocent curiosity. Asshole.

Heat flared instantly up your neck. Half from frustration, half from that ridiculously attractive gravel in his voice. God, you hated when he did that. That stupid voice– that same stupid grin from before you could feel without even seeing it. You opened the bathroom door just enough to glare at him. The Winchester looked entirely too comfortable sprawled against the headboard, green eyes bright with amusement, one arm behind his head like he didn’t have a single care in the world despite his girlfriend currently berating him.

“You’re insufferable”

“Mhm” Dismissive. Smug. Amused.

“You’re cocky” You continue, listing off all the different reasons Dean had pissed you off tonight.

He tilts his head to the side, a teasing glint to his eyes– further testing your patience. “Usually means I’m right”

“As if” A scoff escapes your lips as you plop down onto the mattress beside him– craving his closeness even while technically arguing with him. You were stubbornly looking at the other side of the room, away from his preying gaze, so you didn’t see the slow smile pulling at his mouth when all of your attitude disappeared the second his hand slid over your waist. Because suddenly, the same girl who’d spent all evening mouthing off at him was melting against his chest over one touch. And Dean noticed. Of course he did.

“Oh” he murmured quietly. No matter how many times y’all did this little dance, the back and forth– he’d always act as if it was new to him, feigning surprise just to get a rise out of you.

Smug bastard.

“Shut up” You huff out, shifting away from him once more– though your voice lacked some of the earlier bite.

Dean’s hand tightened slightly against your waist before dragging you back against him with embarrassing ease. (Stupid Winchester genes and their ridiculously large men, built like fucking tanks made for hunting and surviving on the road)

“There she is” He murmured, nose nudging against the top of your head.

You rolled your eyes instantly, even as your body betrayed you by sinking into his warmth– your back melting into his broad chest. “Don’t start”

“Start what?” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dipping lower on purpose. “Pointin’ out how mouthy you always are until I touch you?”

Heat slowly creeped out your neck and towards your cheeks– not that you’d ever admit that, or let him see. “You’re so annoying”

“Mhm” Dean sounded entirely too pleased with himself. “Y’ve said that already, sweetheart” Before you could retort with  another protest, his hand slid under your shirt– rough, warm palm splaying against your stomach, making your breath catch in your throat before you could stop it. And that– that was exactly the problem– because Winchester’s always noticed everything. Especially smug Dean Winchesters, looking for another thing to tease their girlfriends about. He pressed the proud grin you’d been avoiding all night against your shoulder, letting out a quiet chuckle. “Wow”

“God” you groaned, already annoyed and flustered, shifting even more away from him– back still flush against his chest, only now your face was practically buried into the pillows.

“No, sweetheart, c’mon” His fingers spread slowly against your skin, almost innocent, but you knew him better than that. He never did anything out of pure innocence, not when it came to getting under your skin. “You were just yellin’ at me five seconds ago”

“Still am” Your voice is muffled into the fabric of the bed.

“Sure y’are” You hated how weak you’d sounded compared to earlier. Hated it even more when his hand drifted higher– teasing the space between your breast and making your thighs pressed together automatically.

Dean went quiet for half a second, absorbing his quiet victory.

“There it is” He coos– voice soft, low and gravely as he murmurs against your skin, his face burrowing into the crook of your neck. Your face burned even more, hating how smug he was inevitably about to get.

“Shut up” Your boyfriend just laughed quietly against your neck, the sound warm enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Nah” He murmured. “Think m’ finally startin’ to understand something”

You groaned into the pillow once more. “If you say one more smug thing, m’ leaving”

“That so?” His hand slid higher beneath your shirt, fingers spreading slowly over your breast– squeezing it between his long fingers– until your breath caught again. “Then why’re you still here?”

You opened your mouth with a comeback already prepared– something sharp, mean and satisfying– but it was forgotten the moment his teeth grazed the spot under your ear. The noise that escaped you was humiliatingly soft. Dean went still for exactly half a second before you felt him grin against your skin.

“Oh, sweetheart” He said, low and rough. “You are not helpin’ your case here”

“Dean” You warned– but it came out ridiculously weak compared to all the earlier words you had to throw at him..

There was no bite left in it– you knew it and Dean definitely knew it.

His hand tightened on your waist, dragging you fully into his lap with ease. “Where’d all that attitude go, huh?” He teased softly against your skin. “Thought you were gonna keep yellin’ at me”

“I can multitask”

That actually made him laugh. A real laugh this time– not the teasing chuckle– a sudden, fond sound that wrecked any chance you had at staying irritated. (Whatever once of annoyance was left inside of you)

“Cute” He mumbled, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your jaw.

“You’re still annoying”

“Mhm” His lips brushed the sensitive spot caught between your jaw and neck, stubble scratching your skin. “But now you’re whinin’ about it”

“Am not” You retorted– flushed and embarrassed by how easily he could always get you to shut up and melt into his arms. Dean only hummed, entirely too pleased with himself, before tilting your chin up just enough to make you look at him. God that was a mistake. Because Dean Winchester looking at you like that– lazy and heavy-lidded and smug underneath you– was enough to make every coherent thought in your head disappear.

“There’s my girl” He said under his breath, proud like he’d won something.

You hated how your body brayed your stubbornness– reacting to his gravelly tone. One look, one touch, one stupid soft spoken sentence from Dean and suddenly all that sharp attitude melted into something embarrassingly soft. His thumb brushed slowly along your jaw, eyes fixed on your face like he was watching your walls break down, brick by brick.

“Look at you…” He murmured quietly. “Can barely mouth off anymore”

“I can too” You argue weakly– was it childish? Totally. But you needed to grasp onto whatever ounce of dignity that remained inside of you.

“Yeah?” His eyebrows lifted slightly in a quiet challenge. “Then do it” The dare should’ve been easy– it usually was– you’d moth off at him all day, any day. Usually you’d have ten insults locked and ready before he even finished speaking. But his other hand slid down your back, gripping your ass hard enough into his lap to pull a breathy moan from your throat. A slow, proud grin spread across his face, leaning in close enough for his lips to brush yours when he spoke.

“That’s what I thought” Then he kissed you– that slow, lazy movement of his mouth he always did after getting what he wanted– working you up just by being his unbelievably asshole-ish self. Your hands instinctively pressed to his broad chest, hands tightening on the fabric there to anchor yourself to him.

Dean groaned quietly at the touch. “Jesus Christ” He murmured against your lips. “You get this needy from a little attention?” Heat surged straight through you, flooding at your core.

“Shut up–” Repetitive much?

The words broke apart into a gasp when his free hand joined the other one on your ass, kneading the flesh there while dragging you more firmly against him– making the hard bulge of him press into your core through the fabric of y’all’s pants. A broken, needy moan escapes your lips– shame gone the moment his cock strained through his jeans and into you. He actually smirked at that. As affected he was himself, he still needed to relish in your embarrassment a little more. “What?” Dean asked innocently, despite the way his hips thrusted up to meet yours. “Thought you were still mad at me” He batted his unfairly long eyelashes up at you.

“It’s complicated” You huff softly.

“Bet it is” He replies with faux sympathy– his mouth moving down your throat slowly, deliberately slowly over the spot that always made you lean further into his touch. Your head tipped back before you could stop it. Dean (of course) noticed how your body followed his touch, his hips now shamelessly grinding up against you. A quiet chuckle brushed against your hair when you buried your face into his shoulder, clearly trying to hide even while still meeting his thrusts halfway. “Oh c’mon” he teased softly. “Now you’re shy?” He asks, hands slowly pulling your shirt over your head.

“No” Defensive, sharp– but weak.

“That sounded real convincing, sweetheart” He hums dismissively, turning his attention towards your newly exposed breasts, large hands cupping and kneading the flesh while peppering soft kisses over your collarbone. You made a noise somewhere between a groan and a complaint, which only seemed to amuse him more. (Even if you were struggling not to moan pornographically at his touch) “There’s that attitude again–” Dean murmured approvingly, his breath brushing your neck. “Missed it for a hot second”

“You’re so full of yourself”

“Mhm” One of his hands slid down to the small of your up your back before flipping you down into the bed below him. “You’re about to be too” The proud little smirk on his face when saying that– he thought he was so slick.

The moment you’re under him, your whole face changes– morphing from that barely restrained frustration into a doe eyed mess, already breathing heavy for him. God that fed right into his ego. His sharp, mouthy, hunter girlfriend all soft and pliable beneath him. Out there? In the real world, on the field? You stood your own. Here? Beneath closed doors? Dean could make whatever the Hell he wanted out of you. His inner dialogue is cut by the feeling of your gentle hands trailing under his shirt, pulling it up– demanding without words. He huffs out a soft, quiet breath of amusement, sitting back on his heels before pulling the fabric over his head and tossing it somewhere onto the floor. “Better?” He hums knowingly, hovering over you, forearms braced on the bed and mouth latching onto your bare chest.

You make a barely there sound of agreement as you nod, hand cupping the back of his head as his lips seal around your nipple, fingers threading through his dirty blonde hair while your back arches off the bed and into his warmth.

“Bet you’re all nice and wet for me aren’t you sweetheart?” He murmurs against your skin, green eyes flicking up to meet your dazed expression. Instead of answering (you were too gone for words) you simply lift your hips off the bed, grinding up into the hardness of his jeans. “Take that as a yes” Dean hums to himself as he traces his hands down your sides, hooking his thumbs into the elastic of your sleeping pants (You’d changed into them while raging at him from inside the bathroom) and slowly peeling them off your legs, leaving you completely bare under him. “Such a smart girl all drippin’ for an asshole like me?” He continues talking to himself, smug admiration in his voice as he trails the kisses lower and lower until they reach the sensitive patch of skin under your navel.

“Shut up n’ fuck me” You protest, trying to sound firm despite the breathiness of your words.

“Yes ma’am” Dean hums against your skin, placing one more kiss for good measure before pulling back. He sits back on his heels, rough hands working fast to unbuckle his belt and push his jeans off– leaving him in his boxers, already stained with a patch of precome. Despite how cocky he was acting, he clearly had been getting affected himself. “Sure you’re ready for me, baby?” You hear him talk, but you’re too distracted by the feeling of his fingers suddenly stretching you out. His fingers are big– like pretty much everything about him– thick and impossibly deep inside your pussy. The movement is meant to check if you’re stretched out enough for his cock, but he also simply enjoys seeing how you squirm, pushing down into his fingers whenever he curls them just enough inside you.

It was supposed to be a quick check– a push of his fingers before pulling them out. Instead, he starts thrusting them into your pussy, deep, slow pushes that reach spots you could never touch by yourself. You try to protest, say something snappy about how he’s an asshole for teasing but all that comes out of your mouth is soft moans and pleas.

“I know, I know, sweetheart but you can take it” He coos, voice low and gravelly with need of his own, even when fully focused on taking care of you. “Wanna see you cum on my fingers first, then I’ll fuck you real good, ‘kay?” He says it with such softness that it almost makes you forget he’s currently pounding your walls, his fingertips relentlessly pressing into your g spot. Dean knows your body better than you do– he’s spent countless hours focused both on the outside and inside– he knows what buttons to press and how hard to press them to get you undone.

Just when you think it can get any more intense, his thumb joins into the movements, pressing sharp circles on your clit. A sharp cry of his name escapes your lips, hips arching up from the bed– though you’re not sure if it’s trying to escape or follow the feeling. “Mhm” He hums, smug with dismissal as he keeps working you closer and closer to the edge. “There she goes, come on sweetheart let go for me”

“Dean.” You nudged his arm with yours. “Leave him alone.”

Dean looked at you. “You're taking his side?”

“I'm taking the side of the guy who actually read a book once in his life.” Sam smirked. Dean shot you an affronted look.

“Wow.”

“I'm just saying.”

“You wound me.” You laughed as the three of you headed toward the house.

Sam unlocked the front door. Inside, the place felt abandoned. Too quiet.

You split up, checking the downstairs rooms while Dean and Sam moved further into the house.

The living room was empty.

Dining room too.

Then you heard something, a metallic rattling sound. You immediately headed toward it.

Someone sat on the floor beside the cabinets, handcuffed to one of the drawer handles. You crouched beside her.

“Hey, hey, it's okay.” Sam and Dean appeared a second later. “We're here to help.”

The girl looked relieved once she realized nobody was going to hurt her, the words started spilling out all at once.

Her stepmother had beaten her, locked her in the kitchen, handcuffed her to the drawers, and forced her to clean while the rest of the family went out.

Definitely Cinderella.

While Sam worked on the handcuffs, movement caught your attention.

A little girl appeared on the other side of the hallway, half of her body was visible. She didn't seem to have anything to do with it, but it made sense when you remembered one of the victims mentioned a little girl before.

“Dean,” you called. He was already moving, you watched them disappear through the hallway. Meanwhile, you called 911 while Sam freed the girl and made sure she was okay.

When the police arrived and the victim was being looked after by paramedics, the three of you regrouped outside.

Dean tossed something into the air and caught it. A shiny red apple.

“The kid left this.”

You exchanged a look with Sam. “Snow White,” he nodded.

“So what? We look for a…”

“A girl in a deep sleep,” you completed.

“Of course,” Dean said. You couldn't help smiling at his tone. May not be the easiest task but at least you knew what you were looking for.

“We should start with hospitals,” Sam said and the three of you headed back toward the Impala.

You had barely made it halfway across the street when a wave of dizziness hit without warning. The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet for a second, forcing you to slow down.

Dean noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

You blinked hard. “Yeah. Just... tired,” you admitted quietly. “Head hurts.” Dean’s brows pulled together.

“You should’ve said something.”

“It literally just started.” He still didn't look convinced, not even a little persuaded by your explanation. You reached the Impala and leaned against the door. “Would you mind dropping me at the motel first?”

He exchanged a look with Sam. “We're heading to the hospital anyway.”

“I think I just need sleep.” He hesitated. You could see him weighing the options in his head, so you reached out and touched his hand. “Dean,” you said softly. “Really. I'm okay.”

The second your fingers brushed his, his hand turned instinctively, fitting against yours perfectly like it had done a hundred times before.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You knew that tone. It wasn't agreement. It was Dean deciding to worry about it later.

His hand lingered around yours for a second longer before he finally let go.

“…Call me if anything feels weird.”

Sam snorts from the door.

“A little late for that warning, don't you think?” Dean shot him a look but didn't argue.

You squeezed his hand once. “I'll be here when you get back.”

Dean leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Better be.”

Then he and Sam were gone.

The motel felt strangely empty after that.

You tried distracting yourself for a while. Flipped through channels. Sat on the edge of the bed. Eventually, you stretched out on top of the covers, hoping sleep might take care of the headache.

It didn't.

The headache hadn't gotten any better. If anything, the longer you lay there, the worse it felt. Not painful enough to alarm you, just enough to keep you from relaxing.

You closed your eyes, hoping a few minutes of rest would help, when a faint sound drifted through the silence.

Your eyes snapped toward the door.

Nothing.

Just the television and the hum of the motel's air conditioner. You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it when the sound came again.

It wasn't loud enough to make out. Not a voice, not exactly. Still, something about it settled deep in your chest, tugging at you with quiet persistence.

Without really deciding to, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood.

The movement felt natural, automatic. One moment you were in bed, the next you were reaching for the door.

The cold night air greeted you outside, but it did little to clear your thoughts. Across the road, beyond a chain-link fence and a row of storage units, stood an old warehouse you'd barely noticed earlier that day.

Now it was impossible to look anywhere else.

You crossed the empty lot without hesitation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning whispered that this was a bad idea. That you should turn around. Call Dean. Go back to the motel.

Instead, you kept walking.

The warehouse door stood slightly open, swaying gently in the wind. You pushed it wider and stepped inside. Moonlight spilled through broken windows, illuminating dust-covered machinery and forgotten crates. At first, nothing seemed unusual.

Then you saw it.

A spinning wheel sat alone in the center of the room.

Your stomach dropped.

Every instinct screamed at you to leave. To run. To do anything except take another step forward, but you did.

“No...” you whispered.

The word sounded weak, swallowed by the darkness around you.

That was the worst part. You could still think. Still understand exactly what was happening. Somewhere between leaving the motel and walking through that door, you'd lost control of everything except your own awareness.

The spinning wheel waited silently beneath the moonlight.

Waiting for you.

Your hand lifted despite every effort to stop it. Your arm trembled as you fought against the movement, and for a brief second, you thought you might actually win.

Then your fingertip brushed the spindle.

A sharp sting shot through your hand and the room vanished.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Dean knew something was wrong before Sam even finished parking the Impala.

The hospital had given them answers, just not the ones they needed. They knew who was behind the attacks now. They knew why people were ending up trapped inside twisted fairy tales. What they didn't know was how to stop it.

None of that mattered the second your call went to voicemail.

“She’s not answering.” Dean was already trying again as he crossed the motel parking lot.

Straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened.

“She said she'd stay here. She's probably asleep.” Sam didn't answer right away. By the time he stepped into the room, Dean was already inside.

The television was still playing quietly in the corner. The blankets were tangled on the bed like you'd only gotten up a few minutes ago.

But you were gone. You wouldn't just leave. Not after the conversation they'd had before he left.

“The door was open, Sam.” His eyes swept across the room, searching for anything out of place. Your bag was still there. So was your jacket.

Enough to tell him you'd walked out in a hurry. Or hadn't had much choice.

Dean was moving out of the room before the thought had even finished forming.

Outside, his gaze traveled across the empty lot until it landed on the warehouse across the road.

The same warehouse they'd driven past earlier.

The same warehouse sitting there now like it had been waiting all along.

“Sam.” That was all he said. Sam followed his gaze and immediately understood.

They ran.

The metal door slammed against the wall when Dean shoved it open. For a second, everything seemed frozen.

Dust hung in the air, illuminated by moonlight spilling through the broken windows.

The spinning wheel standing in the center of the room, and you, lying motionless beside it.

Dean crossed the distance in seconds and dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey, come on.”

Nothing.

His hands shook as he reached for your pulse. The relief nearly knocked the breath out of him when he found it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Wake up.”

Behind him, Sam had gone completely silent. Dean looked over his shoulder, his brother was staring at the spinning wheel.

"What?" Sam swallowed but didn't answer. A knot immediately formed in Dean's stomach. “Sam?”

“Sleeping Beauty.” Dean frowned.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“In the original Grimm story, the princess pricks her finger on a spindle and falls asleep.” Dean glanced at you. Then looked back at Sam.

“How do we wake her?” Sam hesitated. Which was answer enough. “Sam.”

“We can’t. She’s sleeping for a hundred years.” The words seemed to echo through the warehouse. Dean just stared at him.

“A hundred years?”

“Dean, listen—”

“No.”

“Dean—”

“No.” His voice cracked. “Fix it.”

“We don't even know if—”

“FIX IT, SAM.” Silence settled between them. After a moment, Sam nodded.

"We need to get back to the hospital."Dean didn't answer. He simply slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully into his arms.

Like letting go wasn't an option.

Hours had passed.

Sam had gone to talk to the doctor after putting together a theory, leaving Dean alone with you.

The hospital room had grown darker as the afternoon slipped into evening. Nurses came and went, the muted television murmured from the corner, and at some point Dean had stopped paying attention to any of it.

You hadn’t moved once.

And Dean hated it.

Sitting beside your bed, he rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at you again, as if maybe this time something would be different.

It never was.

The worst part was how normal you looked.

No pain. No fear. No sign that anything was wrong.

Just asleep.

Dean's fingers tightened around yours.

“Y'know,” he muttered after a while, staring at the floor, “I'm starting to think fairy tales suck.”

The joke landed exactly as well as expected.

Silence.

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before fading again. His gaze drifted back to you. “I should've stayed.” Guilt sat ugly in his chest. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

Then Dean exhaled slowly and leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. Another against your hair. And finally, a lingering kiss against your lips.

Not magical. Just Dean.

When he pulled back, something shifted. A tiny movement. So small he almost thought he'd imagined it.

Dean froze.

“Sweetheart?” Your brows furrowed slightly before your eyes slowly opened.

Dean laughed out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to breaking. You blinked up at him slowly.

“...Dean?”

“Yeah.” He immediately leaned closer. “Yeah, sweetheart. I'm here.”

“What happened?” Dean let out a short laugh.

“You know what? Better if you don’t ask.” Before you could ask anything else, the door opened. Sam walked in carrying a folder under one arm. He took one look at you sitting awake in bed and stopped cold.

“Sammy,” Dean said proudly, pointing at you. “Awake.”

“I can see that.” He smiled.

You looked between them. “Now can you tell me what happened?” Sam pulled a chair closer.

“The doctor finally let his daughter go.” Your confusion must have shown immediately because he continued. “The girl who's been in a coma all these years? She was the one causing all of this. The fairy tales, the curses... everything.”

You slowly remembered pieces of the case.

“The doctor?” Sam nodded.

“He couldn't let her go. Not after everything that happened. But once he finally did...” He gestured toward you. “The curse ended.”

“That's rough,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed softly.

The silence lasted all of three seconds before Dean ruined it.

“So, Sleeping Beauty, huh?” He teased, you groaned immediately.

“Shut up. I would've preferred the Disney version.”

“The Disney version?” Dean asked.

“Way more romantic.” You explained.

“More romantic? I literally kissed you and you woke up.”

“You did?” He looked at you offended. You were unconscious back then, so you really had no clue.

“I did.”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, fighting a smile, “that's not actually why she woke up.” Dean pointed at him without even looking.

“Nobody asked.”

“In the story, the curse ends because enough time passes.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“Okay, and the hundred years are up?”

“Dean—”

“Looks like all that fairy tale knowledge finally failed you, Sammy.” Sam sighed. You laughed, and for the first time since he'd found you lying beside that spinning wheel, Dean felt the knot in his chest begin to loosen.

Without thinking, he reached for your hand again.

This time when your fingers curled around his, he didn't let go.

The next few days were... weird.

Not bad.

Just different.

Dean didn't let you out of his sight. At all.

At first, you thought he was being subtle about it. Then you woke up one morning to find him already awake, sitting in the chair across from the bed with a lore book open in his lap. He was supposedly reading, but his eyes kept drifting over the top of the pages.

"...Dean." He didn't even blink.

"What?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

"I'm not."

"You literally are." Dean shrugged.

"Could be dead asleep for a hundred years right now. Think I earned staring privileges." You just stared at him.

From the other bed, Sam snorted loudly into his coffee.

"Oh my God." Dean tossed a balled-up napkin at him without looking.

"Shut up."

But it kept happening.

Dean hovering. Constantly.

A hand at your back whenever you walked somewhere. Asking if you were tired. Checking if you felt dizzy. Reaching out to touch your arm for no reason at all, like he needed proof you were actually there.

A few days later, you were sitting at Bobby's kitchen table with a book in your hands when Dean came through the door carrying groceries.

The second he spotted you, something in his shoulders relaxed.

It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you did.

Dean caught you watching him and immediately frowned.

"...What?"

Your expression softened. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Checking if I'm alive." Dean scoffed.

"That's exactly how I’d say it."

From the couch, Sam spoke without even looking up from his book. "But it’s true."

Dean pointed at him.

"Nobody asked you." Sam grinned.

"You almost went full Disney prince in that hospital, man." Dean looked genuinely horrified.

"Do not call me that."

"You said it yourself. You kissed her and she woke up." A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Dean's head immediately turned toward you and there it was again.

That tiny shift in his expression.

Like hearing you laugh settled something inside him.

Sam noticed it too. Which meant Dean was completely doomed.

The teasing faded after that, leaving a comfortable silence behind. Dean set the groceries on the counter while Bobby disappeared somewhere deeper into the house, muttering about beer.

Then Dean spoke again.

"You scared me." The words came out quieter than expected.

You looked up.

Dean wasn't joking this time.

"I mean it." His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. "When Sam said you'd be asleep forever..."

The sentence died there. You knew Dean well enough to hear the rest anyway.

The fear.

The helplessness.

The thought of losing someone and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Dean looked away for a second, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I hated that."

Something in your chest ached.

Dean usually hid behind jokes when things got too real. If he was saying this out loud, it meant he'd been carrying it around ever since.

You stood from the table and crossed the kitchen. Dean's eyes followed you automatically. They always did.

When you stopped in front of him, your hands slid into the front of his jacket, lightly gripping the fabric.

"You know," you said softly, "hovering isn't actually preventing supernatural attacks." Dean hummed. "Counterpoint: maybe it is." That earned a smile.

Then, more quietly, you added, "I'm okay."

Dean looked at you for a long moment. Like he was trying very hard to believe it.

Finally, his hand lifted and brushed gently along your cheek before settling at the back of your neck.

"I know." But even as he said it, he tugged you a little closer. Instinctively. And you let him.

Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead.

From the couch, Sam immediately made a disgusted noise. "Okay. That's enough."

Without taking his eyes off you, Dean flipped him off. You laughed against Dean's shoulder.

For a moment, Dean closed his eyes. Just a second, long enough to feel the warmth of you standing there.

The steady rise and fall of your breathing. The simple fact that you were alive.

Still here.

And for now, that was enough.

Dean had been unbearably clingy all day.

Not that you minded.

At some point, while Bobby and Sam were out getting supplies, Dean had somehow ended up stretched across the couch with you trapped between him and the cushions, one arm around your waist while he half-watched some old western on TV.

His fingers absentmindedly played with the ends of your hair. Every few minutes, he pressed a kiss somewhere random, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn't help himself.

You finally laughed softly after the fourth forehead kiss in ten minutes.

"What?" Dean looked down at you innocently.

"What what?"

"You're being weirdly affectionate today." Dean scoffed.

"Weirdly? Rude."

You smiled, shaking your head. "Sorry, sorry."

Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously before leaning down to steal another kiss anyway. You laughed against his lips this time.

"You know," you said once he finally pulled back a little, "Sam was right."

Dean groaned instantly. "Those are words nobody should ever say."

You ignored him completely.

"You kind of are my Prince Charming."

"Sweetheart, I'm way hotter than Prince Charming." You rolled your eyes. Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You seen me? C'mon."

You laughed, fingers idly playing with the collar of his flannel.

"Well... Prince Phillip was really handsome."

Dean froze.

"...Excuse me?" You nodded seriously.

"He was always my crush when I was little." Dean stared at you in disbelief.

"Cartoon prince?"

"He had the sword, Dean."

"I have guns."

"That's true."

"And a car."

"Also true."

"And better hair." You pretended to think about it. Dean immediately grabbed your jaw, turning your face toward him. "Wrong answer. Try again."

By now, you were grinning. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're hotter."

"Maybe?"

"Don't push it." Dean squinted at you before lightly biting your cheek in retaliation.

"Dean!"

"That's what you get." You were still laughing when he kissed you again, slower this time. His hand slid up your side, settling comfortably at your waist while his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your sweater.

When he pulled back, you were still smiling at him.

Dean tried very hard to look unaffected.

"...You liked that." He immediately looked away.

"Liked what?"

"The Prince Charming thing."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Nope." You watched him for another second, amused. Dean suddenly seemed very interested in whatever was happening on the television, which told you everything.

Your expression softened. "You know," you murmured quietly, "I don't actually care about the prince part."

That got his attention.

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.

"If I got to choose..." Your thumb traced softly over the little crease near his mouth. "I'd still pick you." His breath caught.

Tiny.

Barely noticeable.

But you saw it anyway. God, you always saw right through him.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Even over Prince Phillip."

"Good choice." His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. "I really like having you here."

The honesty in his voice almost hurt.

Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed three quick kisses against his lips. Dean smiled helplessly into the last one.

"See?" you whispered against his mouth. "Definitely my prince." He rolled his eyes, but the faint blush creeping into his ears ruined the effect.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The TV droned quietly in the background while Dean's arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against your side. Neither of you were really paying attention to the movie anymore.

"You went somewhere."

You blinked. "Hm?"

Dean tilted his head slightly, studying your face.

"That look." His thumb brushed lightly against your hip. You looked down at the fabric of his flannel between your fingers.

"...I just wish this could stay like this." The words were quiet, but Dean felt them anyway. Because he knew exactly what you meant.

Not the couch.

Not the teasing.

Not the kisses.

Him.

His hand stilled for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, thumb brushing gently against your side again.

"Hey..." You shook your head quickly.

"No, it's okay." But your voice already sounded thinner. "I just..." You exhaled shakily. "I hate that every good moment turns into me remembering..." You couldn't finish it.

You didn't need to.

Dean's chest tightened painfully.

Less than a year.

He hated that you had to carry that around now. Hated that every happy moment came with a countdown neither of you could ignore.

His hand slid up slowly, fingers curling gently beneath your chin until you looked at him. Your eyes were already glossy.

Dean swore it wrecked him every single time.

"Don't do this to yourself." You laughed softly, but it broke in the middle.

"How do I not?" Dean didn't have an answer. Because honestly, he didn't know either.

So instead, he brushed his thumb beneath your eye, careful and gentle, like touching something fragile. "I'm here right now," he said quietly.

You nodded. "I know."

But the sadness remained. Dean could still see it.

So he leaned down and kissed you softly. Not trying to distract you. Not trying to fix it. Just reminding you he was here.

You kissed him back immediately, almost desperately, your fingers tightening in his shirt as you pulled him closer.

Dean paused for a second when he realized what you were doing. Trying to stop thinking. Trying to drown it all out before it settled in your chest again. His heart ached at that, but he didn't call attention to it or make you explain.

He simply slid a hand into your hair and kissed you back slowly, carefully, giving you something else to hold onto for a little while.

When you finally pulled apart, you kept your forehead resting against his, eyes closed and breathing uneven.

"C'mere." Dean pressed one last kiss near the corner of your mouth before pulling you fully into his lap.

You went willingly, arms wrapping around his neck. He held you there for a moment, content just to have you close.

"You know what I think?" You hummed quietly. "I think we should go get dinner before Sammy eats everything." A tiny smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Dean noticed immediately and looked absurdly pleased about it.

"There she is." You shook your head.

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Change the subject when things get sad." Dean thought about it for a second.

"...Yeah."

You finally opened your eyes and looked at him properly again.

For once, there wasn't a joke ready on his tongue.

"I can't fix this one, sweetheart." The words were quiet. Honest. "I can't." You swallowed hard. Dean's hand settled against your cheek. "But I can get you pancakes at midnight." A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Dean smiled immediately. "And pie," he added. "Very important."

You leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time.

"I love you," you whispered against his lips. Dean's expression softened instantly.

"Love you too." Then, because he physically couldn't leave a serious moment alone for too long. "Now c'mon, princess. Your prince is starving."

You groaned. "You ruined it."

Dean grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stood and pulled you up with him.

"Yeah," he said, lacing his fingers through yours. "But you're still smiling."

And just like Bobby had thought, he’d been right about the whole damn thing.

The dead lady had been protecting her kids from her husband. The sorry asshole had been lucky Bobby didn’t beat him to death. Then they’d made sure the kids had somewhere to go to, and took off.

John back to his sons, staying with some nice lady down in Kentucky. Bobby back home.

Alone.

It was pouring. He half considered just pulling the car over and waiting it out, but he needed some beer and a whole week on the sofa, doing jack shit. If Rufus called, he’d chuck the phone across the room. If someone needed something, they could wait.

Knowing John he’d probably only get three days before Sam and Dean were dumped on his doorstep again. John was lucky Bobby like them more than he liked Winchester himself. The boys were smart, if not strange. All kids were strange. Always saying shit he didn’t understand and breaking shit.

Sam broke half the things he touched. Dean broke the other half. But they were good boys. Dean was too old for eleven—helpful around the house and quiet, enjoyed being in the yard and watching cartoons—and Sam was good as long as Bobby didn’t let him poke around in the darker books.

Bobby didn’t know how John was so fine leaving them all the time. He worried about them when they were in his damn sight, and the weren’t even his blood.

Karen had wanted kids. Kids that would’ve been Bobby’ s blood.

He hoped he would’ve cared for them more than John cared for his.

But he was never going to know. It was him and the old creaking house, Rufus when he could stand Bobby’s shit, and the wind. Nothing more, nothing less, probably for the rest his life.

The house was too big for him half the time. Rufus always said he should move, but he couldn’t. 

It felt like the opposite of a ghost. A body. All he had left of a normal life with Karen. More flesh than bone, holding Bobby down until he’d be buried under its foundation, and it could waste with him into nothing.

These days he wondered what would happen to it, if he never came back from a hunt. If he was with Rufus, the man would sell it. If he was with John, he probably wouldn’t think twice outside of who would watch the boys.

If it was just Bobby, he wasn’t sure anyone would notice he was gone until they came knocking. And no one ever came knocking.

Sometimes he daydreamed about just hanging up the gun and trying again. New wife. New kids. New life.

Then he looked at the walls. The flesh that rotted and peeled when he drank too much, which was always. He couldn’t drag anyone into that. He wouldn’t want to ruin some good life with his own whiny, grumpy crap. Better to just be alone, and hope that John dropped of the boys.

He needed to stop for gas, and maybe a coffee. It was coming down so heavy Bobby couldn’t see a foot in front of him, and if he nodded off on the wheel that would be the end of a too long and short, loud and painfully quiet life.

There was mud all over the gas station’s floor and half the shelves, low music playing over the speakers.  The man behind the counter barely looked at him, when he checked out his shitty paper-cup coffee and bag of chocolate. He kept frowning out the window, his lips in a thin, pale line. Bobby had to clear his throat loudly, before he noticed him and took his cash.

He followed his gaze, while he counted the change. Through the rain he could only see a hunched overshadow on the curb.

“Dog?” He asked, and the man shook his head.

“Thief.”

Bobby blinked. That shadow couldn’t be over four feet standing straight. “Thief?”

“Kid came in.” The man grunted. “Tracked mud all over the floor. Touched damn near everything, then grabbed a fuckin’ lighter and walked outside.”

Bobby thought the man might be speaking tongues. Only way that story would make sense.

“You see where his parents went?”

“’S a girl. And nope, she came in alone. Thought she was a damn racoon at first. I shouted at ‘er and she hid behind all the shelves. Figure it’s better to wait for someone to claim ‘er than get too close. Maybe she’s one of those wild rabies kids you see on the news.”

Bobby grunted. He doubted that. She would’ve been foaming at the mouth and going for food, not a lighter.

The man handed him his change, and Bobby shuffled out the door. He was still forty five minutes from home, closer to the side of an hour. If he kept going, he’d make it before midnight, and could take a nice, long shower. He put down his coffee, tossed his chocolate in shotgun, and  turned on the truck. It rumbled to life. His hands were already warmer than before.

But they wouldn’t move.

Wouldn’t drive.

He just kept thinking of that mud-kid and her lighter.

Alone, just like him.

He looked back at the parking lot. The shadow was gone, but that only made his gut twist. There hadn’t been another car or worried mom, shouting through the rain for her kid. And in this kinda storm, who knew how long it would take someone to find her. She’d looked so small, by the time they did she might be only a body in a ditch.

Bobby cursed under his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of that scared little girl in the basement. Of Karen, buried under the house, and how the last thing he’d seen of her was mud on her face.

Wasn’t his kid. Wasn’t his responsibility.

But son of a bitch, he couldn’t just leave the girl there to die.

Bobby clambered out of the truck, leaving it running. There was no one for miles, and if they wanted to steal that hunk of junk, they could have it. He went back to where the shadow had been, crouching down to look for any trace of where the girl had gone. For a long while there was nothing—everything washed together in grass and mud and water—but then, he saw it.

A little, hot pink lighter down the curb. Closer to the gutter.

Closer to the road.

There was no way the kid had run into the woods. And if she had, Bobby sure as shit wouldn’t be able to find her. He didn’t even have a name to call. He wandered down the road, scanning over the tree line and darker splotches of grass for any movement.

He almost missed her.

Bobby scanned right over the spot, and he only looked back because an owl’s screech ripped through the air. His head ripped back, and through the downpour there were two, golden eyes, looking right at him in the dark. Bobby wiped his face, almost sure he was seeing things. Then he looked down, and there it was.

A little black shadow, lit up only by a lightning strike. Thunder rolled, and the owl screeched again, taking off. If Bobby hadn’t been so sure it was there, he would’ve thought he was going crazy.

He ran over to the kid’s side as the white light faded, and kicked himself for almost driving away. She wasn’t in good shape. Barely bigger than a dog, shivering and ice-cold to touch. Hair plastered to her brow and neck, face scrunched tight with pain. Whoever she belonged to had put her in a tiny, ruffled dress that was stuck her like a thin, second skin. Her black tights were pulled down over her feet to replace the muddied, buckled shoes and tiny socks she’d moved over her hands like gloves.

She must’ve taken the lighter to keep warm, and dropped it when it didn’t work. The cold seemed to have caught her, and she’d hid in the bushes for shelter.

Bobby’s jaw clenched. He was going to have a talk with her parents, when he found them. No kid should ever be in this kind of spot, and any parent that put them there deserved a damn bullet to the head. 

Bobby took off the flannel under his jacket and swaddled her. He expected her to thrash or scream at a stranger’s touch, but she just went limp.

For a horrible, long second he was sure he was too late. That she was already dead.

Then tiny, shaking fingers curled on the makeshift blanket, trying to pull it closer. Bobby let out a shaking breath.

She was alive.

Not fine.

But alive.

Bobby got her back to the car easy. She had to be about Sam’s age, maybe a little younger with her size, but she weighed half as much. He’d bring her to a doctor, before he found her family. Feed her, too. Maybe put her by a fire, and give her some extra clothing that wasn’t made of paper.

She didn’t move for the drive home, remaining curled into Bobby’s side. He grabbed a spare jacket from the truck, bearing the cold arms so she could have an extra blanket and didn’t need to deal with extra water. The first thing he did when he got home was start a fire. He dropped her in front of it, keeping her wrapped in the blankets while he ran a warm bath.

And the more Bobby looked at her, the more worried he became.

She hadn’t said a damn word. Hadn’t screamed bloody murder at a strange man putting her in his car, or even asked for her mom and dad. When she woke up, she stared at Bobby with eyes that almost seemed to glow like that owl’s, her little brow wrinkled tight.

Bobby gave her his name, and a hand to shake. She just blinked, and still didn’t move.

“Alright, uh-“ He cleared his throat, putting his hand back away. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Another blink. Silence.

“We’re just gonna clean you up, make sure you didn’t get sick out there, and keep you safe until I find your family and send you-“

The sound that escaped the girl wasn’t a cry or word. It was the feral, afraid noise of an animal. She scrambled back, staring at Bobby with the kind of fear he saw in monsters and prey before the lights went out.  

It took him an hour to get her out from behind the couch. She seemed to like chocolate. He filed that away from later.

Then he realized he was thinking of a later, and paused.

This wasn’t his kid. He’d basically just fucking kidnapped her, and there wouldn’t be a later.

But he couldn’t just… send her back.

When he took of her clothing for the bath, she didn’t even fight. Bobby was some strange old ass, any kid in their right mind would’ve been scratching and biting—especially one that looked more animal than person—but she just let him. Went limp, the same way she had when he picked her up. And there were no burns or marks on her body, but her skin looked… clean.

Too clean.

Sam and Dean were covered in bumps and bruises just from being kids. Hell, last time they’d been here Bobby had to get extra band-aids because Sam kept running into damn table corners. But this girl had smooth, unblemished skin like a doll. It was horrible to look at. If Bobby wasn’t trying to keep it together for her sake, he might’ve been sick.

Then he washed the dirt out from under her nails, and found it.

The one mark.

A long, clean—almost surgical—cut down the kid’s palm. It was still red and scabbing, and she seemed to have been picking at it.

Bobby cleaned it, clenching his jaw when he dabbed the rubbing alcohol over the wound and the girl didn’t even flinch. This shit made Dean cry, and he was always trying to be tougher than he was tall.

“You think you can tell me who did this to you, kiddo?”  Bobby muttered softly, nodding to the cut.

The girl just blinked at him with big, bright eyes.

Bobby had a feeling that if he ever got her to speak, it wasn’t going to be tonight. Her eyes were drooping. She’d had a long day, or night, or life.

She’d fallen asleep against him, on the couch. Bobby decided she couldn’t be more than seven. He wasn’t about to try and time-date her like a tree, but all cleaned up she still had round cheeks from baby-fat, and long hair that made him think it had never been fully cut.

Bobby had no idea how to properly clean her hair. He’d washed it best he could, and dried it too. He’d get a book in the morning, after he called Rufus to get his ass down here and help him.

Rufus was going to call him crazy. Bobby felt crazy, watching this strange child sleep in his bed as he set up camp on the floor. She started whining in her sleep, tossing and turning and hiding under the covers. Bobby checked her temperature with the back of his hand, and she immediately relaxed.

And God help him, he wasn’t sending her back to whoever did this to her.

He didn’t know what he’d done to earn her trust. He wasn’t going to question it, long as he worked to earn it.

Bobby vowed to himself in the dead of night, that he’d earn it.

He’d take care of her to his last breath, and—if he could help it—a long while after, too.

✦End note: OUR girldad✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

“I just- I’m thinkin’ about how quickly brakes can get messed up, then you don’t know until it’s too late-“

“It’s not too late. My brakes are fine.”

“Until they’re not.”

“But they are. Right now.”

“Right, ‘cause I’m checkin’ them-“

“Dean Winchester.” You’d given him a stern look, and he’d bowed his head. You’d sidled fully up against him, ducking under his arm to put a barrier between him and your car. If you hadn’t, you think he would’ve been out there until the heat got to him, and you found him passed out with tanned skin and sunstroked eyes.

He’d looked a little like he was already there, when you’d been only inches away. Blown out eyes and sweat on his brow, ducked down to press against yours. The tip of his nose on the bridge of yours, his breath minty and warm over your cheeks, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline.

“Let’s go inside,” you’d murmured.

His tongue had flicked over his lips, and you’d seen the protest forming. He needed something to do, or he’d just pace and worry all damn day.

“We can go up to that car show in Sinoma.”

He’d let out a sharp, tired breath. “Sweetheart, you don’t gotta-“

“My dad isn’t going to be here until, like, seven. And the airport is up north anyway-“

“You don’t like car shows.”

You’d shrugged. “I like you.”

Dean had worked his jaw. You’d given him your sweetest smile, and leaned up to kiss his nose. He’d cupped your cheek, let out another heavy breath, and given in.

The car show had distracted him for most of the day. You’d—tragically—made him put on a clean shirt and greaseless pants, then let him drag you around, pointing out different models and makes and saying a bunch of words that sounded fake to you, but clearly made perfect sense to the dork on your arm.

“Look at this one.” He breathes, and sometimes the only way you’re sure he loves you is the way he looks at you the same way he looks at cars. “Jesus, that’s a beaute. Gear shift- Those were common in the year, but this one’s clean, it took a while to get ‘em clean- Safer like this, too, ‘cause if you’re drivin’ with someone who knows stick it means they give a shit, instead of just cruising at 80 without thinking about it-“

“You drive at 80.” You say, and Dean shrugs.

“Yeah. But I’m thinkin’ about it.”

You laugh, and Dean grins, ducking down to kiss your cheek.

“I’d never drive fast enough to hurt you, baby. You know that.”

“Hm.” You squint in mock doubt. “What if I asked you to?”

“Asked me to?”

“Mhm.” You bounce on your toes, beaming up at his adorably scrunched face. “What if I asked you to drive unsafely?”

“Why the hell would you ask me that-“

“For fun.”

“For fun.”

You nod, leaning your chin up against his chest, and Dean chuckles.

“I’d do it if you wore a helmet.”

Your nose wrinkles. “That would be ugly-“

“Then I guess I’m not doin’ it.”

“But I said please-“

“And I said wear a helmet.”

“It would mess up my hair-“

“You’d look pretty anyway.” He squeezes your side, and you try to roll your eyes, but it just comes out with another breathy giggle. “C’mon, speedy. They got ice cream.”

Dean grabs your hand, and you let him pull you to the crowded food truck. He steals quick glances at the cars—he’s already see all of them, but that doesn’t really matter—and you watch him with a soft, ditzy smile on your face. You know you look hopeless. It’s probably sickening to watch, but you don’t really care. It’s sweet on your tongue, sticky like honey and poured down your throat with ease. Dean’s the only thing in the world that doesn’t get rancid or sour from your exposure. You dig your nails into his palm and hang off his arm, and refuse to let go.

“Thanks.” He mumbles in your car, staring at his empty paper bowl. “For- Y’know.”

You smile around your spoon and don’t bother to say you’re welcome. It isn’t some favor you’re doing him, or treat that he’s earned for good behavior. You like seeing him happy. It makes you feel lighter. Filled up with helium, just to the right of your heart, forcing that dazed smile and all those giggles you’ve forgotten how to bite down.

“You think he’s gonna like me?” Dean mumbles, and you nod, your spoon still in your mouth. Dean sighs, giving you a pleading, puppy-like look.

You reach over the bench and run your fingers through his hair. He takes the spoon out of your mouth, raising his brows, and you pretend to bite at his hand. “I was eating that-“

“C’mon, Princess.” He taps your nose with the spoon. “Humor a guy. Tell me he’ll adore me or whatever.”

“He will adore you,” you shrug, and Dean chuckles.

“Convincing.”

“I’m being serious-“

“Sure you are-“

“I am.” You grab your end of the spoon, pulling down his hand. “He’s going to love you, De.”

Dean’s throat bobs, and you know he doesn’t really believe you. You’re not too worried about it. When you told Bobby that you wanted him to meet your boyfriend, he’d grunted and made a face you could hear through the speaker phone.

“Boyfriend, huh.”

“Yeah. He’s sweet, dad. You’ll like him.”

He’d sighed, heavy and tired through the phone. You hadn’t read too much into it. He was always sighing a lot. “How long you been together, that you’re askin’ me to meet him.”

“Seven months.”

“Kiddo-“

“But we’ve known each other for two years.” You’d added quickly. “And he’s a really good guy. He’s a mechanic, for cars- You can bond about that, and-“

“Mechanic?” Bobby had cut you off with short words. “He got a job?”

You’d hummed. “And he’s really good at it.”

Bobby had snorted. “How do you know he’s good, you don’t know nothin’ about cars-“

“I know enough. I paid attention-“

“No, you didn’t. You’d sit in the mud and talk to the birds ‘till I dragged you inside-“

“Well- It was boring-“

“I know. But that ain’t knowin’ enough, kiddo. This guy could be shit, and- I’ll meet him, but if he’s a bum-“

“He’s not a bum.” You’d said, gripping the phone tight in your hands.

Bobby had paused, and you’d chewed on the inside of your cheek. It would be fine, if they didn’t get along. Perfectly fine. You’d just have the two most important people in your life at odds, and holidays would be horrible, and Bobby would try to talk you out of marrying Dean—which simply wasn’t going to happen, because if you so much as picture an alter, Dean always materializes like a vision straight from heaven—but it would be fine, you’d get through it, you always get through it-

“He treat you well?” Bobby had asked, and you’d nodded quickly, so eager to agree that you forgot he couldn’t see you.

“Yes. It’s- He-“

You’d glanced at the bathroom door, where you could still hear the water running from Dean’s shower. You’d stumbled over the words, because there weren’t any that were good enough. That could possibly have the size and gravity to explain how Dean was like a symbiotic limb, a moss that had grown over your heart, a shell that you’d crawled into and hidden all your fears and loathing in the cavity of his chest. He’d taken it, and you’d taken his, and you didn’t know love could be like breathing until he put his hand on your throat and reminded you to try.

“Really well,” you’d settled on. “You’ll like him, daddy. Just- Please don’t scare him.”

Bobby had grunted, but you knew all this grunts. And that was the one that meant he was really willing to try. “He scare easy?”

And you’d told him no. Dean doesn’t scare easily. He’s the bravest person you know, with the small exception of planes. You’d twisted a ring on your finger and said with loud, sheer confidence that Dean was just going to want to make a good impression.

Which was, technically, true. Dean did just want to make a good impression.

He was just also terrified of making a bad one.

“How old’s your dad again?”

“I don’t know, fifty?”

Dean shoots you a disbelieving look. “You don’t know?”

You shrug weakly, and he chuckles.

“Jesus, sweetheart-“

“He’s old! That’s all I have to know, is that he’s old. He’s not sixty yet!”

“You sure?”

You nod, tracing over the lines of Dean’s palm in your lap. “We can’t use the senior discount at the diner downtown.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “That’s how you measure it, huh.”

“Yeah, because- Don’t make that face.” You whack his arm. “When we’re old you’re going to be so excited for that 15% off, Winchester.”

“When we’re old?”

Shit. “Well- It- It happens to everyone-“

“But we’re gonna do it together.”

“I- I mean, if you- I’d-  You-“

You’re babbling, flushed and wound up at the top of your chest. You do want to be old with Dean. You want to be fifty and still driving with him, just like this. You want to see his smile turn into crows feet, and count the gray hairs in his beard—you’re trying to make him grow a beard—and hold his hand all the way to the senior home, then the grave.

But that sounds insane. You’ve been together seven months, that’s hardly a fraction of a lifetime, but it’s also the clearest horizon you’ve ever seen. The only path that doesn’t lead to Dean is the one behind you, and it’s all a one-way road.

Dean kisses the back of your hand, smirking against your skin. “Breathe, Princess.”

You do, averting your gaze to collect yourself.  Dean’s fingers brush over the nape of your neck, a silent command to look back his way. You obey, and find him grinning at the road. He meets your pleading, wide eyes, and rumbles a deep, almost enchanting laugh from his chest.