Found some courage from another user. Still learning how posting on here works. Please bear with me on this learning curve while I figure it all out.
Oh, profile pic is what Maria Winter looks like as an adult. Enjoy.
18+ I love to reblog things I enjoy here, so enjoy.
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4/6/26 update - I now have a Patreon. I'm just getting it up and running, so there's not much there as I add this little edit. I'm slowly getting my current stories over on there, but I will be adding bonus content that I don't have on here, eventually.
Writing Update: 4/12/26
I hope you guys enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them and rereading them. Most are a work in progress, and I'll post them when I can.
Most of my fics are Dean x Reader/You. Can't help it. I'm a total Dean girl. lol I'm sure I'll expand to Sam x Reader/You, the brothers x Reader/You, Cas x Reader/You, and perhaps even Benny x Reader/You. It'll all depend on the story and how it ends up writing itself. They'll all be labeled.
Whenever I write, I always picture Maria Winter as the character in the story, even if it is Y/N or the reader. She's been with me through many stories that I've written over the past 30 years. I love that I get to share her with all of you.
I'm one who enjoys the reader to be something different than human. Somehow, writing those always brings a lot of unexpected things to the story. I haven't yet written where the reader or OC is human. There's always something hidden below the surface.
I think if I do any AUs, I will try out having the reader be human but with something utterly unique to the AU that's like 1 in a billion.
Many thanks to all my readers. Your comments, reblogs, hearts, and follows are what keep me writing and sharing them here. I love hearing from all of you.
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One Shots Master List
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Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.
Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM
Word Count: 1923
Warnings: Show Level Violence, Grief, Angst, Doesn't follow the show timeline, Altering POV's.
A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.
Prologue ----- Chapter 2 - coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
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Chapter 1
Local PD handed it off to Wildlife Services after the second body. “Animal attack.” That’s what the report says. You’d read the files an hour ago, standing in the corner of the station like you belonged there.
Two victims. No obvious connection.
Both missing their hearts.
September air carries that edge—not cold yet, but cooling. The sky hangs low and heavy, clouds thick and bruised gray. The scent of rain sits just beneath everything else, metallic and waiting. You tilt your face slightly, drawing in a slow breath through your nose.
Please don’t.
Rain washes away more than blood.
A breeze slips across your skin, threading through your hair and lifting loose strands across your cheek. You don’t brush them away immediately. Your attention is on the woods beyond town limits. On the aerial photos you memorized. On the distances between body dumps.
The suit wasn’t your favorite attire, but it got people to talk to you. So did the fake IDs you kept in your car. Different departments with fake names, depending on who you had to pretend to be for the job.
You lean against the side of your car outside the station, hands shoved into the pockets of your suit pants. The fabric still feels wrong on you. Too stiff. Too restrictive. But badges and pressed jackets make people cooperative.
Predators don’t stray far from what they know.
I need a map.
With a quiet huff, you push off the car and slide into the driver’s seat, keys in the ignition. Your fingers only paused when you saw the sleek black car park in front of you. It was beautiful, bringing a soft smile to your lips before you turned the key.
He would have loved that.
You turned the key, the engine roared to life, and you pulled away, not looking back.
Papers are scattered across the bed, the cheap floral comforter barely visible beneath them. A county map sits at the center, two red marks pressed hard into the paper where the bodies were found. Two more circles mark where the victims were last seen alive.
You’ve changed into jeans and a soft shirt. The blue flannel hangs open over it, sleeves pushed to your forearms. More you. More comfortable.
Your finger taps slowly against your chin as you stare down at the map.
There’s a pattern here. There has to be.
You lean closer, pupils narrowing slightly as your eyes track distance and terrain. Rivers. Logging roads. A stretch of private land that borders both dump sites. Your hearing fades out—the hum of the motel AC, the distant traffic, even the muted television next door.
When you focus, you focus.
You don’t hear the engine pull into the lot outside.
You don’t hear the doors open. Or the heavy footfalls crossing gravel toward the office.
Your attention is fixed on the space between your markings.
If there were a third body, you’d have your center point. Most werewolves hunt within a comfortable radius. They dump strategically—somewhere visible enough to instill fear, but not so close to home that it draws suspicion.
Your nail presses into the paper at the edge of the woods near Miller’s Creek.
You feel it before you fully think it.
There.
A subtle prickle along your spine. Instinct settling low in your stomach. Not danger exactly.
Just proximity.
Dean drops the duffel onto the small table without looking at it. The room smells like industrial cleaner and something fried three hours ago. Sam locks the door out of habit before tossing the room key beside the TV remote.
Dean jerks his chin toward the window. “You see that Charger?”
Sam doesn’t have to ask which one. “Midnight blue. Two spaces down.”
“Yeah.” Dean exhales through his nose. “Clean. Not local.”
“Could be passing through.”
“Maybe.”
Dean doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Hunters notice other hunters. It’s instinct. The car didn’t scream civilian. It sat too deliberately. Like it belonged anywhere.
Sam flips open the case file and spreads the photos across the table. “Two victims. Both missing their hearts. No defensive wounds worth mentioning. That’s efficient.”
They don’t hear the neighboring door click shut.
They don’t hear the Charger’s engine turn over, smooth and steady, before it pulls out of the lot.
Dean steps closer, hands braced on the table. He studies the photos without flinching. “Claw marks are wrong for a bear. Bite radius fits werewolf.”
“Lunar cycle doesn’t,” Sam counters.
Dean’s jaw tightens slightly. “Full moon is still a week away. One attack happened two nights ago, and the one before that was almost a week before.”
“Which means either we’re looking at something that isn’t a werewolf…”
“Or one that doesn’t play by the rules.”
Dean straightens, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. His mind wants to drift—just for a second—to Maria. To the way she used to stand right there beside him, leaning over case photos with her hair falling forward. She always spotted the thing they missed. Something small. Something weird.
He swallows the thought down.
Five years is long enough to stop expecting someone to answer when you speak.
“Both victims were last seen near the treeline off Miller’s Creek,” Sam continues. “Different nights. Same general area.”
“Hunting ground,” Dean mutters.
“But if it’s a werewolf, why dump the bodies where they’ll be found?” Sam asks. “Most try to hide it.”
Dean’s eyes flick over the map Sam unfolds. “Unless it wants to be seen.”
Sam glances up. “That’s not comforting.”
Dean huffs faintly. “Neither is a wolf that doesn’t care about the moon.”
Silence stretches for a moment. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.
Sam gathers the photos back into a stack. “We should talk to the families. And the last people who saw them alive. Maybe they noticed someone hanging around.”
Dean nods once. “Yeah. Let’s move before the rain hits.”
He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair. The Fish & Game badge is already clipped in place. Easy cover. Small town. People trust uniforms.
As they step toward the door, Dean pauses just long enough to glance toward the window again. The midnight blue Charger isn’t there, and he wonders how he missed it leaving.
For a split second, something tightens low in his gut. Not quite suspicion.
Just awareness.
He shakes it off.
“Let’s go,” he says.
The door opens and closes behind them.
They’re already walking toward the Impala, minds locked onto claw marks and missing hearts.
Neither of them realizes they’re hunting something that doesn’t need the moon.
And neither of them knows someone else is tracking the same trail.
The town thins out quickly. Storefronts give way to open stretches of road and low tree lines that creep closer the farther you drive. The sky hangs heavier now, clouds sagging low enough that it feels like you could reach up and press your palm against them.
You’re not going to the families.
Grief makes people loud. Defensive. Messy. And you don’t need messy.
You need patterns.
There’s a bar three miles from the treeline. Not close enough to raise suspicion. Close enough that people could wander. Hunters drink. Loggers drink. Locals who think they’re tougher than the woods drink.
Prey gathers where it feels safe, even if they don’t know they’re prey.
You slow at a stop sign halfway there.
Your foot presses the brake, but your mind doesn’t.
The world in front of you blurs—not visually, but mentally. The road becomes the map from your motel room. Red marks. Circles. Terrain lines bending around water and private land. Miller’s Creek cutting through like a vein.
Two bodies found here and here.
Last seen here and here.
Your fingers curl lightly against the steering wheel. Your pupils narrow, unfocused on the present. You can almost feel the distance between the points. The way a predator might move through that terrain. The wind direction. The slope of the ground.
It’s not random.
It’s controlled.
Your claws press faintly at your fingertips again, a low hum of awareness under your skin.
There’s a center point. There has to be.
Your head tilts slightly as you picture the bar’s location relative to the creek. Not directly on the path. But near enough to serve as a feeder line. A place to watch. To choose.
The thought is just beginning to lock into place when—
A horn blares behind you.
Sharp. Sudden.
Your focus snaps back so fast it almost hurts. The world rushes in—the dull gray sky, the red octagon of the stop sign, the empty road stretching ahead.
“Damn it,” you mutter under your breath.
You don’t check the rearview mirror. Don’t care enough to. Your foot shifts to the gas, and you turn right onto the next road, tires rolling smoothly over the damp pavement.
Your heart rate steadies quickly. It always does.
But the interruption lingers.
You were close.
Close enough that the pattern had started to breathe.
Rain spits once against the windshield. Then again.
You don’t look back.
You’re already thinking three moves ahead.
Sam glances out the window, quiet. “Should be up here,” he murmurs.
Dean narrows his eyes at the stop sign ahead. And at the car sitting there. Midnight blue. Not moving. No one else in sight. Just… stopped.
Dean taps the horn once. Short. Sharp.
The car doesn’t budge.
Dean huffs, finger still on the horn. “Come on… Really? Just sitting there? Enjoying the view, huh? Scenic stop sign tour?” He rolls his eyes and taps it again. “Tourist in a hurry to do absolutely nothing… I swear.”
Sam’s lips twitch, just a fraction. “Maybe they’re… looking at something?”
Dean waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. Or they’re part of a roadside meditation program. Whatever. Move it.”
The Charger finally turns right, tires crunching over the edge of the asphalt. Dean exhales, muttering under his breath. “Figures.” He glances up at the stop sign. No other cars. No obstruction. Nothing. Just… patience, apparently not his strong suit today.
He pulls up to the stop sign, checks left and right, then lets the Impala roll forward, taking a left toward the victim’s family home.
Sam keeps his eyes on the GPS, making a note of the turn. “Road’s narrow,” he says.
Dean smirks faintly. “Perfect.”
Dean eases the Impala up the narrow gravel drive, eyes scanning the modest farmhouse tucked behind a thicket of trees. The front porch light casts a weak glow, barely illuminating the tidy yard. Sam flicks off the GPS and folds it into his bag, hands steady, expression unreadable.
Prologue ----- Chapter 2 - coming soon
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summary dean is with you always. especially when you can't sleep after a hunt !
content gn!reader, fluff, quiet comfort, unestablished relationship but dean and reader are very in love, dean is yearning badly, use of sweetheart and angel !
masterlist ♡ requested
wc 469
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Dean doesn't mean to wake you. He only wants to keep you warm, crouching low to the couch, admiring you in a way he hopes isn't creepy or unwanted. Eyes gentle, adjusting to the dark shroud of the room, he blinks and pulls a knit blanket over your body.
You're pretty in the dark. Pretty in the light.
He can barely see you. Soft puffs of your breath pillow the silence and turn it soothing. He could sleep on the floor. Stretch along the scratched, motel rug and ignore the dusty smell and ensure you're okay all night long.
"Dean," you murmur. He squints. You look dead asleep still.
"...How d'you know I'm here?"
You rustle, and tiny crescent gleams make up your eyes. His chest does something funny, patters light and sweet when you reach a hand out to his shoulder. Your thumb kisses his neck. He's glad the lights are out.
"You make noise," you whisper succinctly.
His lips tug and he smiles mild, fond, and brings your hand to slip down into his palm. He squeezes twice. Your voice snags on his ear, just subtly tense. Maybe he's imagining it, too attentive. But when has he ever let details fall to chance? He can handle being called annoying, overbearing. A small chip to take for worrying over you.
"Have you been sleeping at all?"
"...A little. My brain won't shut off."
He feels that like a velvet thud of knuckle to his heart. Familiar. You sit up and back against paled cushions, hand still caught in his.
"I'll listen, sweetheart. If you wanna talk."
You nod slow and look so far away. He'd like to bring you back but feels a little out of his depth. What can he offer that isn't among the secret, tender things he wants so badly with you?
I love you. You can come to my bed and stay there forever and sink deep into the mattress springs with me.
"Wanna take a drive?" he asks instead.
Your hands together are melding heat. He watches as you lean close and his lungs hiccup when your forehead plants lightly to his. He doesn't know if he's allowed to move. Frozen as a statue, he thinks you'd be one of those smooth, marble ones in museums.
"That would be nice," you say. "Please. Thank you."
He's the only one in the world who can hear you right now. Sweetness fills every inch of his chest, it overflows in a big rise to his face, and stains your nose where the tip of his nudges.
"Yeah, angel. Anytime, c'mon."
There's a tingling to his lashes, eyelids leathery. Doesn't matter. He pulls you from the couch and isn't sure which fingers are his or yours anymore. He will drive on and on and ache.
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 7✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: you meet dean's parents✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: i love a chapter that's just drama and smut and fluff✦
Dean had a whole plan.
He’d show up to the restaurant first. Alone, acting like everything was normal and ignoring Jess’ sharp glares. He’d hug Mom and Sammy, shake Dad’s hand, and act very normal and surprised when She showed up. He’d smirk and say it was nice to see Her again. Sammy would make some passing about Dean having a girlfriend now, and Dean would get to brag about how hot and cool she was, right to Her pretty, flushing face.
Sam would roll his eyes, and say—louder this time—that She had a boyfriend. Dean would tease Her about that too, grinning whenever she gave him that cute I’m going to strangle you, Winchester look. Dean would occupy the whole, long dinner with getting Her as antsy and bratty as he could. It would help him ignore Dad. Meant that, the moment the night was over, he’d be getting dragged back to the apartment to deal with Her.
He was worried he might’ve unleashed something on the world, by fucking Her. Maybe he’d gone too deep and hit some kind of magic girl button that turned them into sex monsters. He hadn’t been able to get out of bed until ten, yesterday, and that had only been because She had a class to go to.
“One more.” She’d whispered, sitting right on his chest. “Pleease-“
“Princess.” Dean had cut Her off with his best, sternest, I’m the boss look.
It didn’t have a very high success rate. He was getting worried it just made her more horny.
“You got class.” He’d squeezed Her hips, and she’d pouted at him like he was denying her water in the desert. “We’ve been goin’ all morning. You gotta eat, before I even think about round eight.”
She’d scoffed. “It would not be round eight-“
“Yeah. Would be.”
“You’re being dramatic-“
“Sweetheart.” Dean had given Her an amused look. “How many times have I made you cum?”
She’d flushed. She was a feral little succubus, but all Dean had to do was say cum or fuck or pussy and she’d turn back into an anxious, flustered puddle. Dean couldn’t tell if it was the hottest or cutest thing he’d ever seen.
“Give Little Dean thirty,” he’d murmured, pulling Her down for a slow, lazy kiss. “You’re gonna break him.”
Her nose had wrinkled, bumping against Dean’s. “They can’t break.”
“They can get squeezed out. Like an orange, baby. You’re milkin’ all my pulp-“
She’d whacked his chest, and Dean had laughed, rolling them over. He’d kissed Her into the mattress, and she’d gotten squirmy again. Looking up at Dean with fluttering lashes and parted lips, and goddamn him, better men had fallen to worse temptations.
At least this wasn’t a sin. She wasn’t a sin. Nothing that made Her look at Dean like that—like he was the sunrise and the sunset and the golden halos coming off streetlamps—could possibly be considered wrong. Dean was making his girl feel good. He rolled his cock through Her soft, tight heat, and She moaned, tossing her head back to expose her pretty, marked up neck.
Those were Dean’s bruises. His marks. She arched into his touch and clenched down on his dick and called his name as she came. She made the prettiest, high and breathy sounds, and only Dean pulled them out of her.
She smiled at him when they were done, and Dean could swear he had an angel below him. No one else could make such dirty things feel so pure.
“Last one.” He’d scolded Her after, and she giggled.
“Okay.”
Dean had raised his brows and chuckled. If he was putting money on it, they wouldn’t make it to the car before She was nosing around him again. Like an animal in heat.
He said as much to Her. She rolled Her eyes, and found a way to blame him.
“You’re too- You.” She’d sulked in the car.
“I’m too me? The hell does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“Baby, I swear I don’t got a clue.”
She’d made a sour face, and leaned against the window. Dean had sighed and reached over, slinging his arm around Her shoulders and tucking her back into his side.
“C’mon.” He’d kissed Her brow. “You know I’m not as smart as you, Princess. You gotta speak dummy for me-“
“You’re not dumb.” She’d slumped into his side, looking up at him with those impossible, bright eyes. “You’re just- You- You’re-“
“I’m?”
“Shut up-“
“Tell me what you mean-“
“I’m trying, but you keep- You keep being,” She’d whined, and Dean had blinked.
“I’m being?”
“Yeah.” She’d hidden Her face in his side. “It’s not fair.”
Dean had almost laughed. He still didn’t know what the hell that meant, but it had almost gotten them into round ten before he could park. She’d started giving him those eyes, and Dean had swallowed like a soldier being sent to the battlefield. At this rate, he was going to out of shooters by the end of the month.
He wasn’t sure if that was how it worked. He’d need to check, before he found out the bad way.
“When you get home, Princess.” He’d kissed Her furrowed brow, then her nose, then her angry little pout. “You can have whatever you want.”
She’d sighed dramatically, and Dean had smirked.
“It’s six hours, baby-“
“Too long.” She’d glared at him. Like it was his fault.
“Sorry.” He’d shrugged, a wide, dumb smile on his face. “I love you.”
“Hm.”
“C’mon.” Dean had kissed Her cheek. “Say it.”
She’d huffed, crawling closer to his side. Dean had smirked, and poked her sides. She’d jumped back with a shriek, but he’d caught her hand.
“Dean-“
“I love you.” He’d said again, squeezing her three times.
She’d sighed, giving him a pleading, hopeless, doe-like look. Dean had raised his brows.
“Baby, there’s no way you’re getting any cock until you behave-“
“I love you.” She’d grumbled, and Dean had smirked.
Maybe he was a little bit of a smug bastard about it. With the sight of Her, almost glowing in the sunlight, he didn’t think he could be blamed.
“Do you love me?’” She’d whispered.
Dean had snorted. “Jesus, woman.”
“I’m just- I’m asking-“
“I said it twice-“
“You didn’t say it back-“
“You didn’t say it back-“
“You won’t have sex with me!”
“In a public parking lot?” He’d given Her an incredulous look, and she’d scowled.
“No one’s around.”
Dean had laughed, and leaned over the seat. He’d kissed all over Her face, until she was nice and relaxed under him.
“Needy girl.” He’d teased, and God, she was hot when she glared at him. “I’m not gettin’ your pretty ass tossed in jail.”
“I’d live-“
“You’d hate it. They don’t let inmates have stuffed animals, and,” he’d kissed her lips, soft and swollen and all Dean’s. “You’re too sweet.”
“I am not sweet-“
“Yeah. You’re like pie, baby-“
“You think everything’s like pie-“
“I think all my favorite things are like pie.” Dean had corrected, brushing some hair from Her face.
He might’ve been a horrible man to leave Her like this. Panting and dazed, almost trembling under his hands. But if She missed her class, she’d get in a worse mood about that than Dean refusing to eat her out in the car.
“Am I your favorite?” She’d whispered, and Dean had smile.
“Course you are.” He’d kissed Her, and felt a million feet tall when she giggled. “My sweet, bossy girl.”
Somehow, he’d gotten Her out of the car after that. He’d waited until She vanished into the building—and maybe he’d been staring at Her ass, but no one could ever prove it—before pulling away. She still wasn’t confident, in what She wanted. But they were getting there. And Dean was having a hell of a time holding Her hand through it. He’d never understood boyfriends who just trailed after their girls like damn dogs. He still didn’t.
How the hell could they be acting like that, for anyone but Her?
She’d made him lunch. A pretty good sandwich, that Dean wolfed down between calls with his boss. He’d been doing some remote accounting work, just to prove he hadn’t ditched the job. He killed the afternoon driving around to some car shows and garages, looking for someone who might be willing to sell him something dirt-cheap. His pitch to his boss, to expand the business and justify him being out in California all the time. Her idea, and list of places, and specifically mapped routes for him to optimize his milage.
He followed Her guide to the T. She’d put effort into it, just for him. More effort than She put into some of her classes. More effort than She put into those papers she banged out in an hour, while Dean sat at Her feet and tried not to distract Her by staring.
She never got any less gorgeous. It didn’t matter if Her hair was a mess or her face was swollen with sleep. She was a goddess. The least Dean could do was worship.
Something he wouldn’t be allowed to do, around Sammy and Mom and Dad.
Dinner was going to suck.
Dean told Her the plan. She sighed, and dropped Her face into his shoulder.
“I can just not come,” She mumbled. “If it’s too much for you.”
“Nope. You’re coming, sweetheart.” He winked, kissing the back of Her hand. “At least twice, after we’re done.”
She shoved him, but smile. Dean felt a little lighter, than he had all day.
He knew they were going to love Her. Sammy already did, Mom had been obsessed with her for years—ever since Sam first came home talking about her, Mom had been ahead of Dean on understanding She was the best thing in the world—and Dad was going to go along with anything Mom told him to.
That’s what Dean was hanging onto. The thin, wired rope that was digging into his heart as it held it up. It was going to leave a red, angry mark, but at least everything wouldn’t drop into his stomach. Mom was going to love Her, so Dad would have to love Her. Dean didn’t matter, in this equation. He was just the asshole brother. Dad would give him shit, he’d take it, and none of it would even graze Her cheek.
But if Dad did try something, Dean would kill him.
She was too soft to deal with his tests. She had claws and teeth, She could take and deal swipes with a sneer, she could hold her ground with roots that Dad wouldn’t be able to tear up, but She was still so…
Her.
Kicking a kitten would get you bit, but you were still kicking a damn kitten. She shouldn’t have to be the strong, colder version of Her that Sam said existed in debate classes. The version that tipped Her chin off and looked like some untouchable, wrathful goddess. Dean thought that version Her was sexy. She didn’t need him to deal blows, when one sneer or glower would send a grown man to his knees.
But that just made Dean feel more important. When he’d get Her in his arms, and She’d turn into a bratty, giggling mess of nerves and smiles. He’d rip apart the Earth, to make sure She always felt safe enough to shed that exoskeleton at his side. Dean knew what Dad could say. What he could do. And it was one story for him to do it to Dean. Dean could deserve it sometimes.
She never deserved anything but love. Dean was on this planet to give it to Her. And as long as he was alive, it was all she was going to get.
“Is this good?” She poked Her head out of the bedroom, and Dean coughed, dropping his phone onto the carpet.
“Shit- Uh-“ Is this good. He almost laughed. “Jesus, Princess-“
“Is it too tight?” She frowned at the flared out skirt. “It’s too tight, isn’t it-“
“No- No.” Dean stretched out an arm. “’S not too tight. You look good.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just good?”
Dean snorted, beckoning his hand. “Just c’mere, smartass.”
She sighed, but shuffled between his legs. She was already flushing. Good.
“Son of a bitch.” Dean traced the curve of Her hips, her ass, her thighs. She shivered when his fingers brushed sensitive skin, and Dean chuckled.
“Deeaan…” She breathed out, and he hummed, dipping his fingers under Her dress.
“You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he muttered, and She shook her head.
“Just- I want to make a good impression-“
“Why?” Dean teased, resting his chin on Her stomach. “You plannin’ on sticking around?”
She gave him a flat look, but there was nothing really angry in Her eyes. There never was. Not at Dean.
“What did I say,” he said, softer this time.
She sighed. “I know, but-“
“Ah.” Dean squeezed Her ass. “What did I say.”
Her nose wrinkled. Dean smiled. He had all the time in the world.
“Come on, baby girl,” he cooed, rubbing the back of Her thighs “You remember. What did I tell you.”
“That- They’re going to like me.”
“Hm. Think I said somethin’ else.”
“Dean-“
He said Her name back, a little mocking in that way that always made Her putty. She sighed, looking at him like this was causing Her pain. Dean knew She didn’t like open praise. If they had more time, he’d fuck Her into taking it properly, because that seemed to be a failsafe way to get the fact that he loved Her—more than anything, more than the earth loved to chase the sun, more than the moon loved to chase the earth, more than dogs loved to run after cars and cat loved to make him sneeze—through Her loud, brilliant head.
“They’ll love me.” She finally said, and Dean grinned.
“Hell yeah, they will.” He tugged Her down for a slow, long kiss, speaking against her lips. “You’ve got this, Princess.”
She hummed, and stopped ripping out her hair trying to look perfect. Dean thought She already looked perfect. Apparently, he didn’t understand hair and makeup and shoes, and his opinion was no longer valid when she was getting dressed for anything.
“You say I look hot in everything.”
“You do look hot in everything-“
“No, I don’t-“
“You can’t see yourself, I can.” Dean grinned at Her, pulling her right against his chest. “You’d look hot in a trash bag.”
She rolled her eyes, lips pulled into an exasperated smile. Dean grabbed Her chin, forcing her gaze. It softens the moment their eyes met. Her eyes always seemed to shine. He was never going to stop being hypnotized by it.
“I love you,” he muttered. “Wait ten minutes, then follow me to the restaurant.”
She nodded, leaning up on Her toes. Her eyes dropped to his lips, and Dean chuckled. For someone who’d been dragging him back to bed this morning, She couldn’t even ask him for a damn kiss.
Dean gave it to Her. He’d give Her anything.
“I love you too.” She mumbled, and Dean smiled.
“I know.”
He had to rip himself away. The plan. They had to stick to the plan.
Stupid fucking plan, that fell apart the moment he pulled up in a rental, and Sam and Jess were already there.
“Where’s the Impala?” Sam frowned, and Dean grimaced.
Son of a bitch.
“Yeah, Dean?” Jess glared at him. “Weren’t you on a cross-country road trip?”
“I was.” He muttered, returning the scowl. “Baby’s feeling the heat from it. I got a rental so she could take a rest.”
Sam snorted. “You’re giving your car a rest?”
“Yep. You gotta cherish them, Sammy. Otherwise they slip outta your hands.”
“It’s a car-“
“I’m not talkin’ about the car.” Dean winked, Sam gave him a flat look, and Jess sighed.
“That’s gross, dude.”
“What? Loving a woman is gross?” He clicked his tongue, grinning at Jess. “You sure you wanna stay with him?”
Jess rolled her eyes, ignoring the question. Dean laughed, and dodged Sammy’s shove. The rental car was entirely forgotten, as they made their way into the restaurant. First crisis of the night, dealt with like he was playing Go Fish. Easy.
“Mom and Dad are running behind.” Sam told him as they sat down. “Said something about the hotel.”
“What, wrong room?”
“I dunno. Maybe one of those secret charges, you know Dad hates those.”
Dean chuckled. “Or they found something dirty and Mom’s trying to squeeze fifty bucks outta them.”
“She is good at that.” Sam sighed, giving Jess an apologetic look. “She’s going to ask you if you like thrifting, by the way. I think I forgot about that one.”
“No, you told me.” Jess smiled at him, and Sam ran a hand over his face.
“Yeah, but- There was something I forgot-“
“You tell her about the horses?”
“Yeah, and the sports shit-“
“What about shooting?”
“He told me everything.” Jess reached over the table, taking Sammy’s hand. “I’m fine, babe. Really. I’ve got this.”
Sam sighed, and Dean raised his brows.
“You can shoot?”
“God, no.” Her lip curled, and Sam sighed.
“Dad will be fine with it, though. You’re from California, he can’t expect-“
Jess cut Sam off with Her name, and Dean sat a little taller. Just hearing it was like hearing a whistle, telling him to stand at attention. He really was no better than a damn dog.
“She can’t shoot.” Dean said, and Sam gave him a strange look.
“How do you know.”
Shit. “Uh- I’m just- I’m guessing. You know, not the type.”
Jess snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Well, you’re right. She can’t.”
“So why’d you-“
“She can throw knives.” Jess shrugged. “Taught me how, a few years ago.”
Dean swallowed. Of course She could throw a knife. It was like She’d been designed by the freaking universe to be his dream woman.
“Where is she, anyway?” Jess drawled, her glare fixed on Dean.
He shrugged. “Why would I know? Sammy, you told her what time we were meeting?”
Sam nodding, looking down to his phone. Dean ignored Jess’ pointed glower. She wasn’t going to actually say anything. She’d promised Her, and that was the most sacred kind of oath you could make.
“I thought I did,” Sam muttered. “But- Maybe she got distracted again.”
“Again?” Dean smirked, and Sam sighed.
“She gets really into something and forgets to look at the time. I used to set alarms for her all the time, sometimes I’d just call her- I dunno. She’s been better about it lately, but… Shit happens.”
Dean hummed an agreement, grinning at his water glass. Jess was glaring hard enough he could feel it.
“Maybe she’s with her boyfriend,” she hissed, and Dean gave her an amused look.
“Boyfriend?”
“You know about her boyfriend, Dean.” Sam shot him a sharp look. “And you shouldn’t care anyway. You have a girlfriend.”
“I do.” Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “She’s fuckin’ awesome.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she is.” Sam kept tapping on his phone. Jess cleared her throat.
“Sam, maybe you should go call her. Make sure she’s still coming.”
“She’s coming, she’s just a little late-“
“Maybe that boyfriend’s distracting her.” Dean hummed, grinning at Jess.
Her glare was getting withering. If Dean didn’t know it came from a place of care—about Her and Sammy, definitely not him—he might’ve started cowering under the table.
“Samuel.” Jess’ words were short. Clipped and unwavering. “Go call her.”
Sam nodded, kissed Jess’ cheek, and wandered away from the table. Dean braced himself, shooting Jess a lazy grin. She couldn’t kill him. It would ruin the whole night.
“You were supposed to tell him-“
“Right now?” Dean snorted. “Are you freakin’ crazy?”
“He needs to know, Dean, it’s- I don’t like keeping secrets from him-“
“Yeah, which is exactly why she didn’t tell you-“
“No.” Jess raised a firm finger. “You don’t get to hide behind your girlfriend for this one.”
Dean scoffed. “I am not hiding behind my girlfriend-“
“Yes, you are-“
“I’m not.” He ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath. “Look. We’re gonna tell him, alright-“
“You said that three days ago-“
“Yeah, well, that was before I found out my freakin’ parents were coming to town.”
Jess scowled, but didn’t push back. Dean didn’t know what Sam had told her, about Mom and Dad. From the slightly guilty look on her face, it had to be enough.
“As soon as they’re gone.” Dean dropped his voice, leaning over the table. “We’ll tell him. Swear it. But if he finds out now, it’s gonna mess him up. Mom and Dad are gonna notice, and this,” he waved his hand around the table. “Is gonna turn into a shitshow. Alright?”
For a moment, Dean and Jess just glared at each other. Dean had to hand it Sammy. He didn’t pick a pushover.
“Fine.” Jess finally muttered. “But remember, if you don’t tell him the day after they leave-“
“You’re gonna tell him yourself.” Dean finished. “I’ve got this handled. Don’t worry about it.”
Jess huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t worry about it. How the fuck do I not worry about it, Dean, you’re fucking his best friend-“
“Dating. I’m dating his best friend.”
“And fucking her.”
Dean’s lips twitched. “She’s insatiable, Jess, ain’t my fault I give my girl what I want.”
Jess gagged, grabbing the table like she needed balance. She was fucking sitting down. Dean was about to mock her for it, when he heard a familiar, warm voice call his name. Jess’ eyes widened, fixed over his head. Dean took a deep breath.
Showtime.
He stood up slowly, throwing his shoulders back and putting a casual, easy smile on his face. He was barely on his feet before Mom was in his face, grabbing his cheeks and turning his around like he was eight and had been playing in the mud for too long again. He grunted, and behind him, Jess snorted.
“Oh, baby, you’re so big.” Mom beamed at him, pushing his head back to inspect his neck. “You haven’t shaved in a few days, do you have a razor? Do you need a razor? You can have your father’s, he’s not using it-“
“He ain’t gettin’ my razor, Mary.” Dad muttered, and Dean tensed.
He’d thought he’d been ready for it. Dad’s edged, cool gaze. The one Dean used to think he’d, one day, be able to read. That he’d look at it and realize that the whole time, there had always been a single ember of pride, that flickered whenever he looked at Dean.
If there was, he’d never learned to find it. And it certainly wasn’t there now.
“Son.” Dad grunted, and Dean nodded tightly.
“Sir.”
Dad hummed, scanning around the restaurant. Always scanning around everything. Looking for the flaw in where Sammy had brought them. The thing to complain about.
Dean was going to say this place was his idea. He didn’t care that it was Sammy’s, or that it was good. The second Dad asked why there were so many windows, Dean was taking the fall.
Mom hugged him tight. He hugged her back, and that was easier. The lady was crazy, but she was also Mom. The only thing Dean had never been able to forgive her for was loving Dad. Letting Dad be Dad. He’d never figured out how to hold that anger without it burning his hands.
Maybe he’d ask Her. His girl always knew how to do everything. She’d tell him what to be, and maybe it would be someone Dad was proud of. If Dad was going say he’d done good about anything, it was Her. She was the fucking best.
Dean sighed. “Ma, I’m the same size I was last time you saw me-“
“Hm.” She shook her head. “Are you sure?”
“He’s twenty-four, honey,” Dad drawled. “He can’t grow. Maybe he’s put on some weight.”
Mom titled her head, and Dean sighed. He might’ve put on a pound or two, but it was a lot of muscle from carrying Her around like the princess she was. If anything, he’d been doing nothing but cardio all week. He should’ve lost weight.
He couldn’t tell Mom that.
“Something’s different.” Mom muttered, crossing her arms.
Dean gave her a small grin. “You’re the one who said I’m not shaving.”
“You’re not.” Mom only looked more suspicious. “Why?”
Because She liked his stubble. She said She liked how pokey it was, because she was fucking bonkers, but Dean loved her more than breathing, so he was letting it grow a little. “I dunno. Wanted a change of pace.”
Mom didn’t look like she was buying it, but Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to be selling her. Aside from the beard, he really hadn’t changed anything. He was even wearing the same damn boots and jacket she’d seen him in last.
“Where’s Sam.” Dad asked, and Dean sighed.
“Out calling his friend-“
Mom jumped in with Her name. Dean stood taller again.
He needed to get a grip. She wasn’t even freaking here yet.
“Is she coming tonight? Do we finally get to meet her?”
“Yeah, uh- She’s just running a little behind.” Dean glanced back to Jess, who was watching them with a silent, unreadable expression.
He gave her a questioning look, and she grimaced, looking over to the bathroom hall Sam had vanished down. Ideally, Sammy would’ve been back in time to introduce his girlfriend. Dean had to do freaking everything.
“This is Jess, though,” he gestured behind him, and Mom’s gaze snapped to the table. “Sammy’s-“
“Girlfriend!” Mom almost shrieked, and Dean winced, looking apologetically at the tables next to them.
Dad sighed, and placed a hand on Mom’s back. “Mary. Don’t scare her.”
“I’m not scaring her, I’m just- It’s so lovely to meet you, dear.” Mom rushed around the table. Jess had gone a little pale.
“You- You too, ma’am-“
“Oh, Mary is fine. Stand up, let me look at you.”
Jess listened—smart chick—and Mom started to inspect her like a prize horse. Next to Dean, Dad sighed.
Dean tensed. He hadn’t realized Dad was there.
“Where the hell is your brother.” Dad grunted, and Dean shrugged.
“I dunno-“
“You should know, Dean. You’re the reason he’s alone in California.”
Dean swallowed, staring down at his shoes. “Dad…”
“Go find him.” Dad didn’t even look at him. “Before your mother sends his girl running.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad wandered over to Mom’s side, extending his hand to Jess. That was a good sign. When Dad didn’t like people, he wouldn’t even touch them. Dean jerked his head to the hallway, when Jess caught his eyes. She nodded, and mouthed come back fast. He’d try, but She and Sammy had been on the phone for a while. Maybe they were thinking of ditching him and Jess to fend for themselves.
“Sammy?” Dean called to the men’s bathroom. “You in here?”
“Dean?” Sam called back from a stall, and Dean frowned.
“Are you callin’ her on the toilet?”
Sam groaned. “Dude, no-“
“What the hell else am I supposed to think-“
“That I finished a few minutes ago and had to take a shit, Dean! Because that’s what happened!”
Dean rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever. Mom and Dad are here.”
Something clattered on the floor.
“Shit-“ A toilet flushed, and Sammy shoved the stall door open, still fumbling with his belt. “And you left Jess with them?”
“Dad told me to go find you, what, was I supposed to take her into the freakin’ bathroom-“
“You’re supposed to tell Dad no, Dean!”
Dean grunted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Easy for you to say.”
“Yeah, it is, because no is really easy to say-“
“Where is she?” Dean cut Sam off with Her name. He wasn’t in any mood for one of Sam’s morality lectures.
Sam sighed, running his hands up the water. “On her way. And I’m serious, man, you need to tell Dad no sometimes-“
“I do tell him no-“
“You really don’t-“
“You wanna argue with me, or go save your girl from Mom’s twenty questions game?”
Sam scowled, but dried his hands on his jeans and stomped past Dean to the door. Dean rolled his eyes, and followed after. At least She’d be here soon. And Dean might not be able to kiss Her, but just looking at his girl was always relaxing enough.
Mom and Dad seemed mostly focused on Sammy and Jess. They were the stars of the night. The golden son, the happy couple, the future Winchester. Dean was just table decoration. He swallowed most of his jokes—Mom was the only one who’d laugh at them anyway—and stuffed his face with fries, watching Jess get strung through the ringer. He’d feel worse about it, if she hadn’t been up his ass all week about telling Sammy.
“What’re you studying, honey?” Mom asked, leaning so far over the table Dean was worried she’d fall into her soup. “Sam told us you met in a science class, are you pre-med as well?”
“In a way.” Jess smiled, sweet and calm. “I’m on track for Nursing school.”
“Hm,” Dad raised his brows. “Not a lotta money in that. You gonna rely on Sam for the bills?”
Jess shook her head. “Sam and I split everything evenly.”
“And I’m happy to support her, Dad.” Sam added quickly. “It’s what you did, with Mom.”
“Your mother could’ve lived without me.”
“Romantic, John.”
“It’s the truth.” Dad gave Mom one of those rare, small smiles. The ones he reserved purely for Mary Winchester. That people never believed he was capable of, until they saw it themselves. “You would’ve fared just fine if my sorry ass never found you.”
Mom laughed softly. “I might’ve fared better.”
“Yeah? You would’ve married rich? Been happier?”
“I never would’ve been happier.” Mom smiled at Dad, placing her hand over his, and Dean gagged at Sam.
Mom definitely could’ve been happier. Sometimes, Dean wondered if Dad had love potioned her or something. It was the only logical explanation.
Although people might also wonder the same thing, when they saw Her with Dean. Son of a bitch, Dean didn’t know how he’d landed Her most days. She looked like She belonged in room with crystal chandeliers, wearing all lace and silk, having everyone bow whenever she so much as walked past. Dean was some idiot from Kansas with a lucky jawline. He must’ve made a deal with a devil he forgot about.
It was a thought he didn’t like. That one day he’d be sitting at a table just like this, and his own son would be wondering how the hell Dean landed Her. Christ, he hoped that his kids would look at them and know that She loved Dean because he was—at least always trying to be—a good man.
He wanted to be a good man. A better man than Dad. He checked his phone again, not sure what he was looking for. Probably a text from Her. He missed Her. He felt like a kid abandoned at the freaking airport, and this was his family. He hated to think of how pathetic he was going to be when She left him alone at parties.
And like Dad could read Dean’s mind—always knowing the exact damn thing that he was worrying about, that was going to set him on edge—he said Her name.
“I’m startin’ to think she ain’t real, Sam,” he said, taking a long drink.
Sam sighed. “She’s real, Dad-“
“You sure? For a real girl, I sure can’t see her.”
“She’s running late-“
“Dean’s met her.” Jess cut in, and everyone looked at him.
Son of a bitch. Dean glared at Jess, and she smirked with the gleam in her eyes of someone who was playing a game they couldn’t lose.
“You did?” Mom frowned. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I- Uh-“ Dean tried to chew faster. “Y’know- Uh-“
Dad sighed. “He’s not gonna tell you everything, Mary-“
“But he promised me he’d tell me if he ever met her.”
Dean choked on his fry. He’d forgotten about that. He’d just sort of seen Her, had the whole world narrow down, and realized the only name he was ever going to need to know was Her’s.
“You promised what, Dean?” Sammy snapped, and great. Now everyone was pissed at him.
“Well, we thought you’d end up with her.” Mom shrugged, before going red and grabbing Jess’ hand. “Of course, I’m thrilled he’s with you, honey, it’s just- We spent almost two years hearing about her-“
“No, it’s fine.” Jess gave her a small smile. “She’s my friend too. She’s the best, isn’t she, Dean.”
Dean grunted, glaring at his fries. Of course She was. But he was only supposed to have met Her once, so he couldn’t agree without Sammy making it a whole thing.
“I’m still doubtin’ she’s real,” Dad muttered, and Dean couldn’t help his disgruntled sound.
“She’s real, Dad. Trust me.”
Dad scoffed. “Really? Then where the hell is she? It ain’t polite to be so late.”
Dean’s phone buzzed. He snapped his mouth shut, and read her message under the table. Good timing. He’d been seconds from snapping at Dad that she was polite to a fault. She said thank you to Siri. Dean had to hold the door open, because if she did they’d spend hours just letting people go past them. It had taken Dean months to make her stop apologizing to people that bumped into her.
Even Her text was polite.
De.
Dean.
Dean, I’m lost.
Sam didn’t send me the address.
Dean can you please help me.
Dean’s lips twitched. Maybe the spamming wasn’t polite, but he liked it. Just like he liked how mouthy She got with him. She wasn’t afraid of spooking him off, because he’d proved he could take it. He texted Her the address, then added you want me to stand outside?
Her response was immediate.
No, thank you.
I’ll see you soon.
I love you.
Dean grinned, so wide it hurt his face. Love you too, Princess.
Little bubbles formed, and disappeared, and formed and disappeared. He could imagine Her, fidgeting in the car and flushing.
For good measure, he added Get here fast. I miss you.
The bubbles vanished. Dean smirked, and tucked his phone back in his jeans. If he hadn’t told her to move, they would’ve been waiting another half hour while she tried to flirt back. She was horrible at it. Dean loved Her so much.
“What’re you smiling at, Dean,” Dad said, brow knit in suspicion, and Dean shrugged.
“Charlie. Sent me a funny cat meme.”
“Oh!” Mom sat up. “How is she? She always seemed so nice-“
“You fuckin’ her?”
“John-“
“I know him, Mary,” Dad muttered, still eyeing Dean. “He doesn’t grin like that unless he’s got some girl on the side.”
Dean sighed. At least they were doing this now. Before She showed up. “Charlie’s gay, Dad. And I don’t have anyone on the side.”
“Yeah, he says he’s an honest man now.” Sam smirked at him, and Dean’s jaw tightened.
“Sammy,” he pushed the words through his teeth. “Shut the hell up.”
“Why, you don’t want Mom and Dad to know about your secret girlfriend?” Sam raised his brows, and Dean was going to kick his Bigfoot ass.
“Sam-“
“Secret girlfriend?” Mom looked like a fucking hawk. Dean was doomed. “You have a secret girlfriend?”
“Not a fuckin’ secret now,” Dean grunted, and Sam shrugged.
“That’s probably who he was texting.”
“Yeah,” Jess muttered. “I bet it was.”
Dean shot her a warning look—this was bad enough as it was—and she gave him a fuck off look.
“Dean, honey, why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend-“
“’Cause she’s a secret.” Dad was glowering so hard, Dean thought it might burn through him. “What’s wrong with her?”
Dean’s hands fisted. “Nothing’s wrong with her.” She’s perfect. “We’re just- We haven’t been together that long, we’re still working it out-“
“They’re long distance.” Sam said loudly. “And they’ve been together a while. He shares his location with her.”
“She worries about me.” I worry about her. “It’s not a big fuckin’ deal-“
“Yeah, it is, you just don’t want Mom and Dad to know-“
“I didn’t want you to know, bitch-“
“Hey.” Mom pointed at Dean, and he slumped back. “No name calling at dinner, Dean Winchester.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
“Hm,” she gave him a strange look. “You can apologize by telling me about your girlfriend.”
Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “Ain’t tonight supposed to be about Sammy and Jess-“
“It can be about two things.”
“Ma-“
Sam shouted Her name, and for a second, Dean thought he was going to throw up. He’d figured it out, how the hell did he figure it out-
“Hi, Sam.”
Oh.
Her musical, elegant voice floated from behind him, and Dean’s whole body relaxed. She was just here. Finally. Thank God.
Dean twisted around, and he got lucky. Mom and Dad were too busy staring at Her to notice his grip going white on the back of the seat, his face going slack, his eyes damn near bulging out of his head like a cartoon. If he was in Bugs Bunny, he was sure his heart would be pounding out of his chest. She was perfect. So fucking perfect. She was wearing the dress they’d talked about, and Dean wanted to rip it off Her with his teeth. Even in the fancy place Sammy had found for them, She stood out like the Mona Lisa in a garbage dump.
Mom shot out of her chair, and Dean understood what people meant when they said he had her smile. That was exactly how he smiled, when he saw his girl. Like he was a peasant, and the Queen had just offered him a glimpse of Her glory.
She looked like a scared deer, as Mom charged at Her. Dean gripped his chair tighter, fighting the instinct to rush to her side. Her eyes darted to his, and She smiled. Dean grinned back, shooting her a wink. She flushed, and he bit down his laugh.
Mom grabbed Her face, and she went ridged. Shit.
Dean shot to his feet, half a second before Sam did.
“Ma, don’t scare her-“
“Mom, just-“
Sam and Dean both cut themselves off. Dean tensed, as Sam gave him a strange look. Dad cleared his throat, still sitting down.
“Mary.”
“Hm?”
“What’d we say.”
Mom sighed, and took a step back, still smiling at Her. She smoothed Her dress, still smiling so nervously. That little wrinkle in Her brow was back. Dean wanted to soothe it, kiss Her, and remind her that everything was fine. They were really going to love Her. It was all going to be fine.
“Look at you.” Mom breathed, and Dean drummed his fingers on the chair. “Sam never mentioned how gorgeous you were.”
She smiled shyly, and Sam sighed.
“Yeah. ‘Cause that would’ve been weird.”
“It’s not weird to notice beauty, Samuel,” Jess teased, patting his arm. “I would’ve told them, if they asked.”
“That’s ‘cause she’s prettier than Sammy.” Dean said, before he could stop himself.
Sam shot him another look, and Jess just snorted. Dean was lucky again. Mom and Dad were too entranced by Her to notice their conversation.
“Oh, sit, sit.” Mom pulled out the chair next to Dean—and maybe he’d been sure it was empty, but no one had to worry about that—and guided Her to the table. “This is John, Sam’s father, and- Dean tells me you’ve met already-“
“Once or twice.” Dean smirked up at Her. “Hey, Princess.”
“Hi- De. Dean.” She corrected Herself with another pretty flush. Dean was worried She might give herself a fever. “Hi, Dean.”
“Hey.” He echoed. “Nice dress.”
She looked like She was going to stab him. It was pretty hot.
“Somethin’ hold you up, kid?” Dad asked Her, and Dean’s shoulders squared. He was already leaning forward, trying to block Her from Dad’s view.
This was going to be a long night.
“Sam forgot to send me the address.” She smiled apologetically. “But Jess sent it after. I’m really sorry I’m late, I should’ve asked her sooner-“
“Oh, it’s fine.” Mom was still smiling at Her like she was made of gold. Dean was worried he might be about to have his girlfriend poached. “So, you’re an artist? Sam’s said you’re an artist.”
“I’m trying to be.” She smiled, unfolding her napkin in her lap. Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“Ain’t a lot of money in that, either-“
“Which is why I’m a double major.” She said smoothly. “Art and Zoology. There are some academic jobs in Zoology that actually pay really well. Over 100K.”
Mom looked more in love with her every second. “Oh, Zoology? What made you want to do that?”
“I like animals.”
Dean snorted. That was an understatement. Dad gave him a look.
“You got something to say, son?”
“Nope. Nothing.” Dean grinned at Her. “You like animals?”
She raised Her chin, holding his teasing gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“What’s your favorite animal, sweetheart.”
Her scowl was more dangerous than anyone else’s. Dean had never been less worried about it. He could almost hear Her in his head, hissing you know perfectly well what my favorite animals are, Winchester.
“Sweetheart?” Mom echoed, and now Dean was worried.
Shit. He shouldn’t have sat next to Her. The sheer urge to make Her giggle and roll her eyes at him was too powerful. He couldn’t be trusted with it.
“Dean calls everyone sweetheart,” Jess said easily, and if Sam didn’t marry her, Dean was going to curb stomp him. “Last time we went to a diner, the waitress convinced herself they were getting married.”
Mom seemed satisfied with that answer, murmuring something about how he’d always been a charmer. He hadn’t. He’d just always been a cocky ass, which was probably why Dad and Sam weren’t buying it.
“I don’t go around calling other women sweetheart, Dean.” Dad gave him a stern look. “Not since I met your mother.”
“Yeah, I know-“
“You got a woman waiting at home. You should respect her.”
“Dad’s right.” Sam said, before Dean could even freakin’ defend himself. “I don’t flirt with other girls, dude.”
Dean wondered, if he ran fast enough into traffic, someone would hit him with their car and put him out of this misery.
He couldn’t. That would be leaving Her, trying to act cool and bored, but picking Her fingers bloody under the table. Making sure Dad couldn’t see, Dean reached over and grabbed Her hand. She blinked at him in his periphery, but he didn’t let himself turn his head. Too dangerous. He’d get blinded and start drooling like a dumbass.
“You don’t flirt ‘cause you don’t know how.” Dean shot at Sam, who scowled.
“Well, at least I’m loyal-“
“I’m loyal-“
“Really? Because it looks like you-“
“I said one fuckin’ word, it’s not like I’m trying to-“
She squeezed Dean’s hand three times. Tight. Grounding. He took a deep breath, cutting himself off, and swallowed.
“I love my girl.” Dean muttered, glaring at Sam, rubbing the back of Her hand under the table. “So shut up.”
A heavy silence settled over the table, and Dean kicked his own gut up to his throat. He always did this. He said the wrong shit, and everyone got annoyed. She was probably annoyed. If Dean had just kept his mouth shut, nothing would’ve happened, and he wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch tonight-
“You have a girlfriend?” She asked softly, and Dean looked at Her.
Another instinct he couldn’t avoid. Another stupid choice. It knocked him straight in the gut, every single time he saw Her. It was like She got more beautiful, absorbing the candlelight and flower arrangements, casting it all around like on of those crystal things. Dean couldn’t remember what they were called. She’d told him before. He’d ask Her again later.
“Yeah. I do.”
She hummed, and Dad cleared his throat.
“Your girl got a name, Dean?”
Dean sighed. Son of a bitch. “Yeah. She does.”
“You gonna share?”
“No.”
Dad gave him a sharp look, and Dean held it. He could whatever the hell he wanted, just to Dean. She’d given him a talk about lying well, after the phone call incident. Less was more. Dad wasn’t getting Her name. Not even a fake one.
“She lives in LA.” Sam said, unhelpfully, and Mom gasped.
“Really? Oh, honey, we should go visit her after this-“
“Ma, no.”
“Why not? If you love her, you must want her to be a part of your life, our lives-“
“She is a part of my life.” Dean squeezed Her hand three times. “You still can’t meet her.”
Mom made a displeased noise, looking back to Sam. “What else do you know about her, Samuel?”
Sam sighed, real dramatically for someone who was avoiding the Mom and Dad treatment at his own damn dinner. “That’s it. He’s been a jerk about it.”
Dean flipped him off, and Sam stuck out his tongue.
And this wasn’t as bad as Dean had worried about. For a bit, Mom’s focused honed in on Sam, it was all questions about that. What they were doing after graduation, what Jess’ family was like, what kind of childhood she’d had. Mom and Dad asked all the questions they’d expected. Horses, sports, shooting. Jess answered them smoothly. Dean wished she’d stop pushing them about the whole telling Sam thing. He missed just being able to like her.
“I taught Dean to shoot when he was eight.” Dad muttered proudly, and Dean exchanged a look with Sam.
Dad didn’t care that Dean had been a natural shot. Not in the sense that Dean had done something. All that pride, the ruffle of Dean’s hair when it had happened and the misty look in Dad’s eyes when he told the story, it never amounted to much when it mattered.
“Taught Sammy when he was twelve.” Dad frowned. “He was always softer.”
Dean sighed, and Sam glared at his plate. Sam was far from soft. He’d been practicing with the gun behind Dad’s back for years. Dean had helped him, whenever Dad had a poker night. The kid hadn’t been a natural, but he could do shit that Dean never bothered to learn. Sam was the one who’d asked to go on the hunting trips. Dean had gone because he was supposed to. Neither of them had managed to kill anything. The animals always felt like they were looking right at him, and he couldn’t stomach it.
That had paid off, when She’d found out Dean had gone hunting. He’d told Her that he hated it, and she’d ran her fingers through his hair with a soft smile. She’d looked at Dean like he was some hero. Christ, he was pretty sure she’d help him bury a body if he needed Her to, but killing an animal? She’d never look at him again.
“My parents never even let me see a gun.” Jess shrugged. “But,” she said Her name, and She froze. “She taught me how to throw knives.”
Mom gave Her a curious look. “Knives? That’s an interesting skill.”
“Maybe she was in the circus.” Dad said, disinterested, and Mom waved him off.
“Don’t listen to him. Unless- Were you in the circus?”
Sam sighed. “Mom-“
“What? Those people, the acrobats? They’re beautiful!”
“You’re calling her a carny, Ma.” Dean said, low and careful. “Just say she’s pretty.”
“Well, she is pretty, but I’m not calling her that-“
“It’s okay.” She smiled, spinning Her fork between her fingers. “My dad was actually a hunter himself. Or- His family was. He works on cars now.”
That got Dad’s attention. “Cars, huh?”
“Yep.” She took a large bite of Her dinner, and Dad grunted.
“He work in a shop?”
“He runs a yard.”
“And he taught you how to throw knives?”
“I taught me how to throw knives.” She shrugged. “Because I hated guns.”
Dad narrowed his eyes, and She smiled, bored and amused. This was the version of her Dean rarely saw. The one that made everyone respect Her so much, that Sam said had made her almost unapproachable by everyone else.
Dean had always understood that. Hell, he’d almost been scared to approach Her that first day. She was so beautiful it terrified him. With that icy glare and regal expression, She seemed untouchable.
Sam cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension at the table. “Have you told your Dad about your boyfriend, yet?”
She gave Sam a truly poisonous glare, and he winced. She was a whole lot scarier than Dean. He was surprised Sammy didn’t try to make a break for it.
“Boyfriend?” Mom latched onto it. Dean didn’t know what the hell Sam had expected. “Sam didn’t tell us you have a boyfriend.”
She laughed softly. Not the tiny, sweet giggle Dean usually heard. The siren-like, thinly coated wrath that meant someone—Sam—was in trouble later.
“That’s because he’s not supposed to know either.”
“Oh, fantastic.” Dad snorted. “Another secret partner.”
She shot Dad a look, and Dean cleared his throat.
“Ain’t our faults Sammy sticks his nose in everything.”
“I don’t-“
“Babe.” Jess gave him a dry smile. “You do.”
Sam scowled, glaring at his pasta. “They deserve it.”
“I know. But you do.” She kissed his cheek. “I think it’s endearing.”
“Yeah, because you’re nosy too.” She said to Jess, who shrugged.
“It’s not my fault you’re horrible at hiding your relationship.”
She looked right at Dean, after she said it. His brow knit, and he glanced at Mom. She hadn’t caught it. Another stroke of luck.
“Your boyfriend, is he near you?”
She nodded. “He’s here.”
Jess rolled her eyes. Dean wished he could kick her under the table without risking hitting Sam.
“She’s obsessed with him.” Sam muttered, and maybe Dean should kick him. “He baked her cupcakes, and she never shuts up about him-“
“I shut up about him! You just never stop asking-“
“Yeah, because I want, like, his name,” Sam said Her name with a flat look. “Instead you tell me about how hot he is for twenty minutes.”
She flushed, and Dean’s grip on his fork tightened. There was a sour taste, in the back of his mouth. His hands were itching to grab Her.
“If this guy isn’t a genius, I’m never trusting you again.”
“He is a genius-“
“Yeah? What does he do?”
“He’s a businessman and an engineer.” She snapped, and Dean’s lip curled. “And he can bake and cook. You can’t bake or cook.”
“More to a man than baking and cooking.” Dad muttered, and She shot him a glare.
“Well, he’s also strong. He can carry me with one arm, and he’s sweet and funny and- And he always brings me things, and he listens, and-” She looked back to Sam. “He’s amazing. I get to talk about him.”
Dean glowered at his plate. That sour feeling was seeping down, right into his lungs and heartbeat. Stupid fake version of him, being so cool and good to Her. Dean made her laugh. He brought her gifts, and memorized every word out of Her holy mouth. He could cook. He could bake. This guy wasn’t freakin’ better than Dean was. Dean was real. He could pick her up, if She wanted to be picked up. He had picked Her up. Before they’d come to dinner, Dean had wrapped an arm around Her stomach when she tried to get away from him, and hauled Her pretty ass back to bed. She’d been thrilled, because She loved Dean, not this fake son of a bitch-
“You okay, honey?” Mom said, reaching around Dean to touch his fisted hand.
He coughed, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m great.”
Jess said Her name, looking smugly at Dean. “Her boyfriend sounds cool, doesn’t he.”
Dean scowled. “Yeah. He sounds great.”
He sounded bitter. He sounded pathetic. She was just making him sound that great to throw Mom and Sammy off the scent. That wasn’t really what She wanted. She wanted Dean. She loved Dean. She loved Dean-
“He is great.” She bumped their knees under the table, looking down at Her plate. “He’s perfect.”
Dean watched Her lips worry, and the spikes that had been flaring around his heart relaxed. “Perfect, huh?”
“Mhm.”
Mom clapped her hands. “Oh, you should let us meet him-“
“She’s not our kid, Mary-“
“She’s a like a sister to me, Dad.” Sam’s voice was measured, but firm. Dad gave him an almost amused look, and he chuckled, looking back to his salad.
He just dropped it. He only ever did that for Sam.
“I’d love to meet him.” Mom continued, like nothing had even happened. “I’m sure we’d love him. Right, Sam? Look at how happy he makes her, you’re going to love him.”
Sam sighed, deflating slightly. “Yeah. I will.”
Jess was staring at Dean again. He took a long sip of his water, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. Like it was the most interesting thing in the damn world.
“Dean, what did you say your girlfriend does?”
“She’s studyin’ right now.” Dean set down his glass. “Nannies on the side, but once she graduated- Oof-“
She’d stomped on his foot, under the table, and Dean’s fist slammed near his glass.
“Son of a- What-“
“Hm?” She gave him an innocent smile, and Dean scowled.
He wanted to kiss that look off Her face. There was some hair falling in front of Her eyes that he could brush away first, that always got her-
“You’re dating a student, Dean?” Dad said, and Dean grimaced.
Oh. Shit.
“And she’s my age.” Sam said, and he was back on the getting punched list.
“She’s a year older than you.” Was all Dean had to defend himself.
“So she’s Jess’ age.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t dating Jess-“
“Thank God.” Jess muttered, and Dean scowled.
“I’m happy without you too, blondie-“
“Dean, don’t be a dick-“
“It’s okay.” Jess put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I think it means he likes me, if he’s being an ass.”
Mom and Dad laughed at that, and Dean slumped into his seat.
She reached a hand under the table, rubbing his knee gently. Dean glanced up, and found Her smiling at him with those pretty, bright eyes. Always shining like stars. Always reminding him that he was home.
“I’m a delight to date.” He muttered, low enough that only She’d hear.
She giggled, and for the first time that night, Dean saw Her relax. “I know, De.”
The laughter died down, but while they were all occupied, Dean grabbed Her hand under the table. He held onto it, even as the conversation moved on. Mom was back to interrogating Jess anyway. No one cared what Dean was doing.
Mom talked Dad into dessert, and Dean was thankful. He’d taken Her here once, for a date. They had really good pie, and the fancy ice cream that She loved-
“Dean, honey,” Mom said, and Dean’s head snapped up. “I think I forgot my perfume in the car, can you come help me get it?”
Dean nodded, moving to his feet, and Dad sighed.
“Dinner’s almost over. You smell good, sweetheart-“
“I want to smell better,” Mom snipped, running her fingers through Dad’s hair. “Would you rather I walk out alone?”
Dad scowled, and shot Dean a very stern be fast look. Dean would try. He’d sworn he wouldn’t leave Her alone with Dad, and now he was, and he was horrible, shitty boyfriend, and-
“You want pie, Dean?” She smiled at him, and Dean’s lips twitched.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Dean turned, and Mom was looking between them with a strange expression. He gave her a questioning look, and she smiled, slipping back into her Mom face.
“California has such good weather.” She said as they walked outside, and Dean hummed, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“It’s nice. Always a beach day, you know?”
“You’ve gone to the beach up here?”
“Few times. Once with Sammy, then with my girl.”
Dean smiled at the air. Last time he’d taken Her, she’d made him walk for three hours so they could find cool rocks and hermit crabs. The sun had set, making the sky all kinds of pinks and purples and golds. She’d looked like a mermaid, come up from the deepest parts of the ocean to hold Dean’s hand and make him carry all Her seashells. It was one of the best nights of his life.
Next to him, Mom hummed Her name. “She’s something, isn’t she.”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah. She is.”
“When did Sam introduce you?”
“’Bout two years ago. Little less.”
“You talk often?”
Dean shrugged. They’d reached the car, but Mom wasn’t unlocking it. She was just watching Dean.
“I mean-“ He scratched the back of his neck. “I see her when I see her, Ma-“
“She knows you like pie.”
“Everyone knows I like pie, that’s like me knowin’ she likes animals-“
“So you know she likes animals.”
“It was one of the first things she ever told me, ‘course I know it, everyone knows it- You know it, and all you did was have dinner with her-“
“Dean Adam Winchester.” Mom raised her chin, and Dean swallow. “Where’s your girlfriend.”
Dean sighed. Not this again. “Look, I can still have friends who are girls when I got a girlfriend-“
“Where is your girlfriend.” Mom repeated, and Dean winced.
“She’s- Uh- She’s in LA-“
“Where in LA-“
“I dunno-“
“Sam said you share your locations.”
“Yeah, but- I’m not lookin’ at my phone-“
“So look at your phone.” Mom nodded to his pants.
Shit. “I, uh- I’m pretty sure she’s just at her apartment, actually-“
“You should check. In case she’s not.”
Dean could not check. It would give the whole thing up. “Ma, I- I’m not- I’m not worried about it-“
“I know you’re not.” Mom said, holding Dean’s gaze. “You know where she is, don’t you. I raised you to respect women, Dean-“’
“I do respect her- I- Christ, she wouldn’t have looked at me twice if I didn’t-“
Mom laughed. “Oh, I believe that. She is something.”
Oh.
No.
“Ma…” Dean muttered, and Mom just raised her brows.
“You know where she is, don’t you, Dean. Because I know too.”
“It’s- Just- Hold on-“
“She’s in there, sitting next to Jessica and your father.” Mom nodded to the restaurant, and Dean bowed his head.
They hadn’t even lasted one dinner.
“How’d you know.” He muttered, and Mom laughed.
“I know you, honey.” She rubbed Dean’s arm gently. “I’m honestly a bit more shocked your brother hasn’t seen it. Doesn’t he talk to her every day?”
Dean laughed, a bit out of breath. “Yeah, he does.”
“And he hasn’t gone blind, since moving out here?”
“No. I think-“ Dean swallowed. “Think he just- He told me not to ask her out,” he muttered. “Forbade me, actually. Like he was her freakin’ father or something, but- I didn’t just ignore him, Mom. I didn’t. She just…”
He bit back the words he couldn’t even find. They stung, and there was already a burn behind his eyes. Mom sighed, giving him a sad smile.
“You love her a lot, don’t you.”
Dean nodded, gritting his teeth, and Mom hummed.
“I like her.”
“Yeah?” He rasped, and she nodded.
“I always hoped you’d find someone who liked your heart, honey.”
“Mom-“
“She loves you.” Mom said, and Dean’s lips twitched.
“I think I wanna- I don’t-“ He cleared his throat. “You ever look at dad and wonder how you ever woke up without him?”
Mom laughed. “All the time.”
And Dean still didn’t understand that. Dad was Dad. Dean had only dodged the harder conversation because She and Jess were there, and Dad didn’t like to air out laundry. When they said goodnight, Dean narrowly avoided his dragging them aside to fight by offering to walk Her to the car. She agreed with a tiny smile. If Sam thought anything of it, he was too busy trying to stop Mom from asking Jess about if they were going to get married.
But Dad glared at them the whole way out. Dean fisted and unfisted his hand at his side. He opened the door for Her, and she smiled up at him. That same, adoring smile that made Dean feel like he’d made the whole world in Her name.
He wished he could. Wouldn’t that be something. Her name, engraved under the earth and onto the roots of trees. Being sung in the deepest parts of the ocean, and embedded into the gates of Heaven. It still wouldn’t be enough. Dean could put his love for Her into the core of every star, and he’d still have to open doors and kiss Her nose and bring her books. Worship wasn’t a one and done type deal. Mom went to Church every day. Dean had his own alter to tend to, and it was bigger than any galaxy in that infinite night sky above them.
Dean could feel Dad’s stare. He ignored it, and walked after Her.
“My Mom adored you,” he murmured, once they were shrouded in shadows. “Think she might love you more than me, now.”
She laughed, shaking Her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. She, uh-“ He coughed, glancing over his shoulder. “She kinda picked up on us.”
She froze, looking slowly up at Dean. He gave Her a winning grin. She didn’t balk.
“On us what,” She hissed, and Dean sighed.
“Uh… Us. Us-ing.”
“Us-ing?”
“Bein’, y’know.” Dean tried his smile again. “Basically freakin’ soulmates.”
She softened a little, but that might just have been the panic. “Oh- Oh god-“
“It’s okay, Princess-“
“No, it’s not!” She was working Herself up, brow furrowed and lips pouted. “Your Dad- He doesn’t like me-“
“He liked you, he’s just-“
“And Sam- She’s going to tell Sam-“
“She promised she wouldn’t-“
“How did she know, I- I was so careful-“
“I know you were, baby, but she liked you-“
“Not enough!” She shrieked. “I- I had a whole plan, we were going to tell Sam, then- Then you were going to reintroduce me, and they- They’d like me more-“
“Princess-“
“Fuck, I should’ve worn something different. I- I- Should’ve- My hair, and- God, I wore the sex perfume-“
Dean blinked. “Sex perfume?”
She ignored him. “I- I’m a whore, they’re going to think I’m a whore-“
“Alright.” Dean grunted. “That’s enough.”
Dean wrapped an arm around Her waist and clamped a hand over her mouth. She looked up at him with blown out, confused eyes, and he gave Her a stern look.
“You are not a whore.” He muttered, running his thumb down Her nose. Her eyes fluttered, going a little more glazed. “They liked you a lot, I love you,” he kissed the space between Her eyes, and she sighed into his hand. “So much that it doesn’t freakin’ matter anyway.”
She made a displeased noise, glaring up at him, and Dean chuckled.
“I know, Princess. But no one shit talks my girl. Not even you.”
That worked a wonder. She melted into him, pressing Her face into his chest, and Dean swayed them slowly back and forth.
“Maybe next time don’t sell me like I’m Jesus.” He murmured when She’d finally relaxed.
She leaned back with an adorably confused expression. “What?”
“I’m a genius?” Dean laughed. “C’mon, sweetheart-“
“You are a genius.”
“Yeah, alright-“
“You are.” She snapped, and Dean raised his brows.
He said Her name carefully, and she shoved his chest.
“You are a genius, Dean. I’m not a liar.” She sounded more pissed than anything else, Dean’s lips twitched.
“Yeah, baby? You sure I didn’t scramble your brains this morning?”
She rolled Her eyes, and Dean ducked down to kiss her neck. She wove Her fingers through his hair, holding on even as she grumbled in his ear.
“You are-“
“I know.” Dean smiled against Her skin. “Bossy girl.”
She hummed, and Dean nipped at Her throat. They’d have to move soon. He’d take off first—couldn’t let Dad see the rental—and She’d follow. Once they were alone, Dean would show Her was kinda genius he really was.
The one that made Her cum over and over and over, until She was too boneless and cockdrunk to remember to overthink.
She grabbed Dean’s face, pulling it back slowly. Dean smiled at Her, and she let out a slow, long breath.
“They’re gonna come out soon, baby-“
“Do you wanna meet my dad?”
Dean’s jaw fell open, and She flushed.
“I just- I met your parents. And your mom knows, and my dad is coming for graduation, and-“
Dean kissed Her. Long and hard. It was always the best way to shut her up.
“Yeah,” he said, pressing another, softer kiss. “I’d love to, baby.”
She smiled, pushing up to chase Dean’s mouth, and he laughed. They stumbled back until She was pressed to the car. Dean deepened the kiss, and Her leg hiked on his hip. Her dress was riding up. Dean pressed closer, blocking Her inner thigh from anyone else’s view.
“You gonna oversell me again, Princess?” He rasped, when they finally pulled away.
She shook Her head, playing with the collar of his shirt. “That’s not possible.”
Dean shook his head, but damn him, he believed Her. Nothing She was saying could ever be wrong.
And Dean was going to spend the rest of his life, making sure no one ever questioned Her. She’d never say this is my husband and have people wonder how. Dean would live on his knees, if that’s where she asked him to stay.
But they got home, and She threw herself into Dean’s arms.
So he’d stay on his feet and at Her side, always. And all the way down.
✦Part 9✦
✦End note: dean when wife ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 5812
Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Utter Chaos with the four of them.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Chapter 61 ------- Chapter 63 - coming soon
A/B/O Master List
Main Master List
Series Master List
Chapter 62
Dinner had always been part of how pack settled itself, and tonight, more than most, felt like something that needed feeding properly.
When you opened the refrigerator, cool air rolled over your face, carrying the scents of marinade, chilled vegetables, and the faint sharpness of onion from somewhere in the back. On the middle shelf sat the tray you’d prepped the day before, after Mary left—four steaks resting dark and glossy in their seasoning, herbs and garlic worked deep into the meat overnight.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
Behind you, Jess appeared as though summoned by the sound of a refrigerator door.
“What are we making?” she asked, already leaning around your shoulder to look.
You shifted aside enough for her to see. “Steaks.”
Her gasp was immediate and deeply theatrical, even though she’d asked for them. “For us?”
“For whoever behaves.”
“Well, then Sam’s out.”
From the living room came Sam’s tired voice. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to.” Jess retorted, straightening up, “Besides, she asked me what I wanted for dinner tonight.”
Your laugh followed you back to the counter as you carried the tray over. The warmer kitchen air woke the marinade immediately, garlic and pepper blooming richer the second it hit the room.
Jess leaned over the tray in open approval. “Oh, these are serious steaks.”
“I don’t play around.”
“No,” she said solemnly. “You really don’t.”
She reached for the sack of potatoes near the pantry and hauled it onto the counter with more determination than grace.
“I’ll help.”
“You sure?”
“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m enthusiastic.”
“That counts for something.”
“It should count for a lot.”
She started pulling potatoes free one by one, lining them along the counter like soldiers awaiting inspection. You handed her a scrub brush and pointed toward the sink.
“Wash first.”
Jess sighed as though deeply burdened. “Every dream has rules.”
While she worked, you preheated the oven and rubbed each potato down with oil and coarse salt as she passed them over. Water ran. Potatoes knocked softly against the steel basin. The kitchen lights cast a warm glow across polished woodgrain and countertops while evening deepened beyond the windows, blue shadows settling between the trees.
The cabin already smelled like home.
Then Dean opened the refrigerator again.
You glanced over your shoulder to find him bent halfway inside it, rummaging with the focus of a man on a sacred mission.
“What are you doing?”
“Surviving.”
He emerged with two beers in hand, triumph written plainly across his face. One stayed with him. The other he tossed toward the living room without warning.
Sam caught it one-handed from the couch. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jess didn’t even look up from the sink. “If you make a mess, you’re cleaning it up.”
Dean popped the cap against the counter edge and took a long drink, half the bottle gone before he lowered it. “I risked my life for this.”
You didn’t look up from the potatoes. “You walked six feet.”
“It was a perilous journey.”
He rolled one shoulder as if shrugging off the workday, then his eyes slid to the tray of steaks on the counter…and to you.
Something in his expression shifted. His mind had gone somewhere familiar.
You rolled your eyes, though warmth still crept up your neck remembering how the two of you had nearly turned into teenagers the night before while you guarded tonight’s dinner from him like treasure.
Through the bond, his wolf nudged smugly at yours—deeply pleased with both the food and the attention.
Sam wandered into the kitchen then, beer already open, one shoulder braced against one of the support columns. “Need help?”
Jess pointed a dripping scrub brush at him like a weapon. “Too late. We have assigned roles.”
“I was gone three minutes.”
“And leadership emerged.”
He looked at Dean. “You seeing this?”
Dean took another drink. “I learned last year not to interfere.”
Jess beamed. “Growth.”
You slid the potatoes onto a baking tray and carried them to the oven, heat brushing your face when you opened the door. The pan slid onto the center rack with a metallic scrape.
One thing was started. A few more still waited—the kind of meal that asked for timing more than effort.
Behind you, conversation kept tumbling over itself—Jess criticizing Sam’s driving playlists, Sam defending them like legal testimony, Dean insisting his music was objectively superior, Jess accusing all Winchester men of emotional dependence on cassette-era nonsense.
You stood at the counter seasoning the steaks one last time, listening to all of it.
The connection between all of you moved through the room as naturally as the voices did—Jess bright and quick, Sam steady beneath the complaints, Dean warm and restless with contentment. Nothing pulling apart. Nothing missing.
Dean came up behind you a moment later.
One hand slid around your waist and settled low across your stomach. His nose brushed into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’d missed the chance all day.
Neither of you needed words.
Home had settled around you in layers: dinner beginning to cook, voices filling the cabin, pack under one roof, and a whole night still waiting ahead.
He stayed there quietly.
The arm around you tightened by degrees—not possessive, just certain. His thumb moved once across your lower stomach in an absent stroke so unconscious he likely didn’t realize he’d done it.
But you felt it.
All of it.
The way the day had fallen off his shoulders. The way his wolf had gone still and satisfied the moment he stepped through the door and found everyone here. The way he kept touching you whenever he passed, as if some part of him needed the reassurance.
Your breath caught for the smallest moment beneath his hand before you steadied it.
You leaned back into him without thinking, not turning, not interrupting what he was doing. You simply fit there, your body recognizing the place it belonged before your thoughts could catch up.
His breath shifted against your neck, a quiet exhale that sounded suspiciously like relief.
Behind you, Jess’s voice cut through the kitchen again, sharper now that knives and potatoes were involved.
“I’m telling you, if you play that one song again, in this house—”
“My house too,” Sam reminded her flatly.
She deadpanned something back that you didn’t catch because Dean laughed under his breath, low and warm against your skin.
His hand stayed where it was.
You reached for the griddle, pulling yourself back into the rhythm of cooking while the room around you remained loud and alive. Burners clicked on. Flame caught blue beneath the cast iron. The surface heated quickly, seasoned enough that nothing would stick.
Familiar motions. Grounding ones.
Dean shifted behind you, chin brushing your shoulder for half a second like he was relishing this moment as much as you.
The bond tightened and loosened in the same breath—steady, warm, unspoken.
You could feel his thoughts drifting again, the way they had a habit of doing lately whenever he wasn’t actively holding them back.
“You should shower,” you murmured, laying the steaks onto the hot griddle.
The hiss was immediate.
“You still smell like a greasemonkey.”
He smirked against your skin. “You like it when I smell like this.”
“Only when dinner isn’t depending on me, and I get to shower with you.”
His grin turned openly wolfish. “You could always let Jess handle things.”
Your stomach flipped at the image his words painted, enough that your next breath came less steady than the last.
“Tease,” you muttered.
That only widened his grin.
“Shower.”
He pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of your neck before finally stepping away.
His socked feet hit the stairs a moment later, quick and light. The whole pack was together. The house was full. Hope rode him so openly now he didn’t seem interested in hiding it.
He took the steps two at a time.
Jess watched him go, head tilted, brow slowly drawing together.
Then she looked at you.
Really looked.
At the color still high in your cheeks. At the softened expression you hadn’t realized you were wearing. At the way your free hand had drifted, unconsciously, to rest just below your ribs while the other tended the slowly searing meat.
You hadn’t noticed any of it.
Jess, unfortunately, noticed everything. She set the scrub brush down with deliberate care, no longer caring if it was clean.
That alone had your attention shifting.
Usually, Jess moved through a room like weather—quick, bright, halfway into the next thought before the current one had fully landed. Deliberate movements from her meant something. Curiosity at minimum. Trouble, more often than not.
Water still ran from the faucet in a thin stream before she reached over and shut it off. The sudden quiet in that corner of the kitchen made the hiss of the steaks louder.
Sam glanced up from where he’d claimed a stool at the island, beer in hand. He took one look at Jess’s face and immediately pointed toward the hallway.
“Nope.”
She didn’t even turn. “No one asked you.”
“I know that look.”
“You know many looks.”
“I know that one means collateral damage.”
You bit back a smile and nudged one of the steaks with the tongs, checking the sear. “You’re dramatic.”
Sam gave you a wounded stare. “You encourage her.”
“Correct,” Jess said pleasantly.
Then she rounded the island and came to stand beside you, shoulder bumping yours as if this were casual. It was not casual. Jess did nothing casually when she wanted information.
She folded her arms and watched the steaks for a moment.
“You’re glowing.”
The tongs nearly slipped from your fingers.
“I am not.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m standing next to a griddle.”
“You were glowing before the griddle.”
Heat climbed your neck in a fresh wave. “Jess.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice even though Dean was upstairs and Sam was very much pretending not to listen.
“Why did Dean look like he wanted to howl at the moon on his way to the shower?”
Sam made a strangled sound into his beer. “Please stop phrasing things like that.”
Jess ignored him entirely.
You focused very hard on turning the steaks. Fat sizzled. Garlic and pepper rose with the steam. “Maybe because he’s happy you two are home.”
“He is happy we’re home,” she said easily. “That’s not what I asked.”
Your wolf stirred, pacing close beneath your skin.
Jess saw too much. Always had.
She rested both elbows on the counter and lowered her chin onto her hands, studying you openly now. “And you’re drinking water.”
“I enjoy hydration.”
“You hate water unless it has flavor in it.”
“It does not need flavor.”
“It has needed flavor since we were kids.”
Sam muttered, “This feels invasive.”
“You can leave.”
“I live here.”
“Then suffer quietly.”
You laughed despite yourself, but it came out thin. Jess caught that too.
Her expression softened first.
The teasing never fully left her face, but it gentled around the edges as she reached over and touched your wrist.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
Something in your chest tightened.
You looked down at the steaks, then at the pot of peas waiting for the oven timer, then finally at her.
“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to say something out loud before it’s real.”
Jess went still.
For once, completely still.
Behind you, upstairs, floorboards creaked as Dean crossed the bedroom. Water pipes groaned a second later when the shower came on.
Sam’s chair scraped quietly as he stood. “I’m gonna… check the porch.”
Neither of you called him on the obvious retreat.
The back door opened and shut.
Silence settled for a beat, warm and private.
Jess’s eyes searched your face, quick and sharp and full of things she understood faster than most people ever could.
“Oh,” she said softly.
That one word carried enough tenderness to nearly undo you.
You swallowed. “It’s too early. Mary said four weeks. So I’m not—I’m not saying anything. I’m not planning anything. I’m really trying not to get ahead of myself.”
Jess’s mouth twitched faintly. “You’re absolutely getting ahead of yourself.”
You huffed a laugh. “I know.”
She slid fully into your side then, arms wrapping around you in a sideways hug careful of the stove and hot pans and everything else in the way.
“You sweet idiot,” she murmured against your shoulder.
Your eyes stung unexpectedly.
“I just don’t want him hoping,” you admitted into the steam and warmth of the kitchen. “Not if it doesn’t happen.”
She pulled back enough to look at you.
“Y/N.” Her voice had gone steady now. Serious in that rare way she only used when it mattered. “That man already hopes. He hoped before the heat. He hoped during it. He hoped while walking through the front door ten minutes ago.”
You blinked hard.
Jess squeezed your arms once.
“You keeping quiet won’t protect him from hope,” she said gently. “It’ll just mean you’re carrying the nerves alone.”
The timer on the oven beeped sharply, saving you from having to answer.
You turned too quickly, grateful for the interruption, and opened the oven door. Heat rushed out around you.
Jess, mercifully, let the moment breathe.
Then, because she was still Jess, she leaned in near your ear and whispered:
“If you are pregnant, I’m buying the tiniest leather jacket imaginable.”
A startled laugh burst out of you.
From upstairs, Dean shouted, “Why are you laughing like that?”
Jess grinned like a menace.
“No reason!” she called back sweetly.
You could hear him mutter something suspicious through the pipes.
And just like that, the kitchen breathed again.
Dinner came together the way good things often did in this house—without announcement, without ceremony, simply by everyone drifting toward it until the moment existed.
The steaks rested beneath loose foil while the potatoes were split open and steaming, butter melting down into their centers in glossy rivers. Jess insisted on adding sour cream to everything. Sam claimed she had the palate of a child with access to seasoning. Dean stole a forkful off her plate while she’d looked at Sam, nearly losing a hand for the effort.
By the time everyone finally sat, the kitchen had softened into evening. The last of the daylight lingered blue beyond the windows, while inside the overhead light cast everything in warmth—wood grain glowing honey-gold, bottles catching amber reflections, shadows settling comfortably into corners.
As always, Dean and Sam took one side of the table.
As always, you and Jess took the other.
It had started long before the cabin. Since after Dean had claimed you. Since the bond had woven the four of you together in a way none of you questioned anymore. Somehow, the shape of it had stayed the same through every version of life that followed.
Pack recognized itself.
Dean stretched his legs beneath the table and nudged your ankle once with his bare foot. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for you to know he was there.
You nudged him back.
Across from you, Jess saw everything anyway.
Her mouth twitched around a bite of potato. “Disgusting.”
“You’re just jealous,” Dean said without missing a beat.
“I’m sitting across from Sam, who ate three bites before remembering to breathe. I have plenty going on.”
Sam looked up mid-chew, offended. “That is not true.”
Jess pointed with her fork. “You did it again.”
He slowed immediately, jaw working more deliberately now while Dean barked a laugh beside him.
“You inhale food like Dad,” Dean said.
“Yeah, well, some of us worked all day,” Sam muttered.
“Some of us drove all day,” Jess countered.
“You sat.”
“I navigated.”
“You screamed at construction signs.”
“They were misleading.”
You laughed softly into your water glass.
Dean’s eyes flicked there for half a second.
The glass.
Then to your face.
Then back to his plate.
He said nothing, but warmth moved across the bond anyway—awareness, curiosity, something hopeful and carefully leashed. His wolf lifted at the quiet confirmation that you were still choosing water. Still thinking ahead, the way he was.
You kept your expression neutral and reached for your steak knife.
No need to speak it yet.
The room already held enough.
Conversation rolled easily after that, overlapping and looping the way it always did when no one had to try. Jess recounted the road trip in dramatic installments, each retelling making Sam seem more joyless and her more heroic.
“I offered to drive,” she said.
“You threatened to merge with your eyes closed.”
“That was one time.”
“That was this morning.”
“It built trust.”
“It built ulcers.”
Dean laughed hard enough he had to set his beer down.
You watched him while everyone else talked for a moment too long.
The looseness in his shoulders.
The color back in his face.
The way being surrounded by his pack changed him faster than rest ever could.
He caught you staring and lifted a brow. A silent question, What?
You only smiled, with a silent response, Nothing.
His gaze softened, and beneath the table, his foot found yours again.
This time it stayed there.
The bond thrummed low and content around all four of you—Jess bright sparks of energy, Sam’s steady grounding calm beneath his complaints, Dean’s warm satisfaction threaded tight with restless hope and excitement, your own emotions braided through all of it until it was hard to tell where one ended and another began.
Full.
That was the word for it.
Not loud. Not chaotic.
Full.
At some point, Jess reached across and stole a piece of steak from your plate.
“Hey.”
“You hesitated,” she said. “That makes it communal.”
“That is not how ownership works,” Sam told her.
“It is in this house.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”
Jess pointed at him immediately. “See? Leadership recognizes leadership.”
Sam dragged a hand down his face. “I need another beer.”
“There’s one in the fridge,” you offered.
“I’m not getting up.”
Dean knocked his shoulder against Sam’s. “Soft.”
“I drove eight hours.”
“You sat.”
Jess nearly choked laughing.
You smiled around another sip of water, the cold clean against your tongue.
Dean noticed that too.
Again, he said nothing.
Again, his foot found yours beneath the table this time, rubbing slowly against it once—gentle, grounding, full of words neither of you were ready to use.
Outside, night deepened through the trees.
Inside, plates emptied, beer bottles sweated rings into the table, laughter rose and fell in waves, and the cabin held all of you easily, as though it had been built for this exact sound.
Maybe it had.
Cleanup started the way most things did in a full house—with nobody officially assigning jobs and everyone somehow ending up with one anyway.
The table was left in stages. Jess carried plates first because she’d finished talking long enough to remember she had hands. Sam followed with the empty steak tray and beer bottles gathered between his fingers by the necks. Dean stacked silverware in one palm, your water glass balanced in the other hand like it required special handling.
You caught that.
So did his wolf.
Warm satisfaction brushed through the bond when he set it beside the sink more carefully than anything else.
The kitchen filled quickly—not crowded, exactly, but alive. Bodies moving in practiced passes, shoulders turning sideways to let someone through, hands reaching around one another without collision. The sort of rhythm that only came when people knew each other’s habits well enough to predict them.
You ran hot water into the sink and added soap, watching bubbles rise in a soft cloud. Jess appeared at your elbow immediately, grabbing the dish towel.
“I’m drying,” she declared.
“You’re talking,” Sam corrected from where he was opening cabinets.
“I can do both.”
“No one can do both the way you do both.”
“That sounded like admiration.”
“It was a cry for help.”
Dean snorted beside you and passed over the first plate to rinse.
He had changed into sweats after his shower, hair still refusing to lie flat no matter how many times he pushed a hand through it. Clean now. Soap and skin and Dean layered over the steadier scent that was simply him. Familiar enough your body registered it before thought did every time he moved close.
Which was often.
Maybe unnecessarily often.
He bumped your hip reaching for another plate.
Then again when handing you a fork.
Then once more while reaching for the dish soap he absolutely did not need.
You glanced sideways. “You aware there’s a whole kitchen to stand in?”
He didn’t look remotely ashamed. “This is the best spot.”
Jess made a noise of disgust so dramatic it deserved applause. “You two are nauseating.”
Sam, still putting things away, nodded solemnly. “Seconded.”
“You’re jealous,” Dean said.
“No,” Sam replied. “I’m trapped.”
Jess brightened instantly. “You love being trapped with me.”
He paused, the griddle in his hands. Then sighed, but the slight tug of his lips didn’t go unnoticed. “Unfortunately.”
She beamed like she’d won something.
The bond warmed with it all—Jess sparkling mischief and delight, Sam’s quiet affection hidden beneath long-suffering commentary, Dean’s contentment rolling low and steady through both man and wolf. Yours answered in kind, smoothing into the weave of theirs until the room felt less like four separate people and more like one shared pulse moving through the house.
You handed Dean a platter slick with steak juices.
He took it, rinsing it under hot water before leaning closer, voice pitched for only you.
“You eat enough?”
The question was casual enough for anyone listening.
But beneath it lived everything else.
You okay?You need anything?You taking care of yourself?You taking care of maybe more than yourself?
You met his eyes only briefly. “Yeah.”
A beat.
Then quieter, “Did you?”
His mouth tipped at one corner. “Always do when you cook.”
His wolf pressed warm agreement through the bond, smug and devoted in equal measure.
You turned back to the sink before anyone could read your face too clearly.
Jess absolutely read it anyway.
She narrowed her eyes while drying a plate. “Interesting.”
Sam froze mid-cabinet. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You never need to.”
“I simply observed an atmosphere.”
Dean reached for another fork. “Keep observing and you’re on trash duty.”
“I’m a guest.”
“You live here.”
“I’m a cherished guest.”
“You’re a menace with towels.”
She snapped the towel at his arm.
Dean yelped, more from principle than pain, and snapped one of the damp dishcloths back at her. Chaos threatened for half a second before Sam stepped neatly between them with the calm of a man used to surviving siblings.
“No wars in the kitchen.”
Jess pointed at him. “Traitor.”
“I’m preserving civilization.”
You laughed hard enough to have to brace one wet hand on the counter.
Nothing had changed since the four of you moved in here. Not really. It had only deepened now that it was home. Not your cabin. Not Jess’s. Not even Dean’s or Sam’s. But something that held all four of you in a way none of the others had.
It held laughter layered into the walls, with pack bickering over dish towels, with footsteps crossing paths because there were too many people to keep distance.
Home had once been something you hoped for.
Now it was standing ankle-deep in soap suds while Dean stole rinsing duty just to stay close.
The last dish was set in the drainer. Counters wiped. Leftover crumbs swept away. The sink drained with a soft whirl and hollow gurgle.
No leftovers tonight.
Not a scrap.
Jess leaned against the island, satisfied. “That was excellent.”
Sam nodded. “Agreed.”
Dean came up behind you again, hands settling briefly at your hips before he reached around for the towel.
“Yeah,” he said, eyes on you. “It was.”
The words were for dinner.
Mostly.
No one announced a move there. It simply happened once the kitchen was restored and nobody felt like separating yet. Jess wandered in first with the last of her beer, talking before she’d even crossed the threshold. Sam followed with the weary patience of a man who knew resistance only prolonged things. Dean caught your hand as you passed him, tugging you lightly toward the couch as though there had ever been another option.
The lamps had been switched on sometime during cleanup, casting the room in low amber pools of light. Outside, the windows had gone black with night, turning the glass into mirrors that reflected your little pocket of warmth back at itself. The house no longer felt spacious in the lonely way it had that morning. It felt inhabited now. Settled. Full of breath and voices and movement.
Dean sat first and pulled you down with him.
You landed half against his chest with a soft laugh, one leg tucked beneath you as he stretched along the couch like he owned every inch of it. Maybe he did. One arm draped across the back cushions behind you. The other settled automatically around your waist, palm spanning warm and broad over your side before slipping lower to rest across your stomach as naturally as breathing.
He didn’t seem to think about it.
You did.
The touch stayed light. Familiar enough no one else would notice anything in it. But beneath your skin, your pulse answered all the same.
Sam dropped onto the far end of the couch with a quiet groan, long legs stretched out, ankles resting on the coffee table, beer balanced on his knee. Jess ignored the open chair entirely and perched on the coffee table facing all of you, cross-legged and animated, as if normal furniture had once offended her personally.
“You know,” she said, taking a drink, “I missed this.”
Sam glanced at her. “Being dramatic in confined spaces?”
“This,” she repeated, waving broadly at the room. “All of us. Together. Without a deadline hanging over it.”
That softened something in the room for a moment.
Even Dean’s hand tightened slightly where it rested over you.
Yeah.
That part mattered.
Sam tipped his bottle in quiet agreement. “Me too.”
Jess looked scandalized. “Was that sincerity?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“Too late. I’m framing the moment.”
Dean snorted. “Need help remembering it? I can write the date down.”
“You’d spell something wrong.”
“I’d spell shut up correctly.”
She gasped. “Violence.”
You laughed into your water glass.
Cold condensation dampened your fingers. You’d switched to a fresh one after dinner, and though no one commented on it, Dean noticed immediately. You felt the awareness move through the bond like a low ember catching air.
Hope.
Careful, contained hope.
His thumb shifted once across your stomach in a slow, absent stroke before going still again.
Sam’s eyes flicked there and then away just as fast. Observant as ever, but kind enough not to pry.
Jess, thankfully, was busy launching into a retelling of a dorm incident involving a burnt microwave meal, three girls crying in a hallway, and someone named Brianna who apparently should never be trusted with ramen.
By the time she got to the part where campus security got involved, Dean was openly laughing, head tipped back against the couch. The sound moved through his chest into your shoulder where you leaned against him.
God, you’d missed that, too.
Not just him laughing.
Him laughing like nothing weighed anything.
Sam tried to correct parts of the story twice.
Jess overruled him both times.
“You are revising history,” he said.
“I am improving it.”
“You started the fire.”
“I inspired resilience.”
Dean nearly choked on his beer.
You shook your head. “I believe Sam.”
“Betrayal,” Jess said instantly.
“You’re outnumbered,” Sam added.
Jess straightened on the coffee table, indignant and regal at once. “Then I stand alone.”
“No,” Dean said. “You sit weirdly.”
That broke whatever dignity she’d gathered. She threw a couch pillow at him. It hit you instead.
Dean grinned with zero remorse.
The bond around all four of you hummed rich and warm—Jess bright sparks skipping everywhere, Sam’s steady calm threaded with amusement, Dean’s deep contentment layered over restless anticipation, your own emotions woven through them all until it felt like being wrapped in something larger than yourself.
Pack.
Not the abstract idea of it.
This.
Shared drinks. Bad jokes. Feet on furniture. A pillow war narrowly avoided.
Dean’s chin lowered to rest briefly near your temple. His nose brushed once through your hair, subtle enough no one else would mark it for what it was.
Breathing you in.
Grounding.
Keeping close.
You tilted your head back just enough to glance at him. “Comfortable?”
“Very.”
“Greedy, too.”
“Only with what’s mine.”
The words were soft. Teasing on the surface.
Something deeper underneath.
Heat touched your cheeks before you could stop it.
Jess made a disgusted sound from the coffee table. “Again. Nauseating.”
Sam took another drink. “Thirded.”
“You don’t even know what that means,” Dean said.
“It means I need headphones.”
You smiled, settling more fully into Dean’s side as the laughter rolled on around you.
The hour stretched easy after that—stories traded, insults exchanged lovingly, bottles emptied, the room growing quieter by slow degrees as contentment replaced energy.
And through it all, Dean’s hand never strayed far from where it rested over your stomach.
Good nights happened slower than they used to.
No one simply stood up and disappeared anymore. There were pauses first. Final comments thrown from one room to another. Jess insisting she wasn’t tired while already yawning. Sam announcing he was going to bed ten full minutes before he actually moved. Dean staying where he was until everyone else started stirring, like he wanted to wring every last drop out of a full house before the night ended.
Eventually, the evening loosened its hold.
Jess rose from the coffee table with a stretch that looked theatrical enough to qualify as performance art. “I’m exhausted,” she declared.
“You’ve been sitting for an hour,” Sam said.
“I’ve been engaging socially. It’s draining.”
“It’s draining for everyone else.”
She ignored him, as was tradition, then crossed to you first.
Her arms came around you quickly, warm and firm. “I’m really glad we’re home,” she murmured near your ear, the mischief gone from her voice for once.
You hugged her back just as tightly.
“Me too.”
When she pulled away, her eyes were softer than her grin suggested. “Tomorrow I’m reorganizing at least one cabinet.”
“You touch my spice shelf and we fight.”
“Noted.”
Sam shook his head and came over next, quieter in the way he always was with the things that mattered most. He wrapped one arm around your shoulders, the other around Dean when he stepped close enough to be caught in it too.
“Night,” he said simply.
But the bond carried the rest.
Glad to be here.
Glad you’re okay.
Glad we’re all under one roof again.
Dean clapped him once on the back. “Night, bitch.”
Sam snorted. “Night, jerk.”
Jess pointed between them. “Still weirdly touching after all these years.”
“Go to bed, Jess.”
“Make me.”
Dean took one step toward her.
She shrieked and darted toward the stairs, laughing, Sam following at a far more dignified pace.
Their bedroom door shut a moment later, followed by muffled voices already bickering about whose bag was blocking what.
Then the cabin changed.
Not emptier.
Just softer.
The sounds of everyone settling in moved through the walls in small, familiar ways—floorboards creaking, drawers opening, running water in distant pipes, Jess laughing once more before it dissolved into something quieter. Proof of life tucked into the structure itself.
You stood in the living room for a moment, listening.
Dean came up behind you, hands sliding to your hips.
“Happy?” he asked, voice low near your ear.
You leaned back into him. “Yeah.”
The answer held more than one thing.
Happy they were home.Happy the house was full.Happy he was here behind you, warm and solid and yours.
He kissed the side of your head once. “Good.”
Upstairs, your room felt different too.
Not because anything in it had changed.
Because everything outside of it had.
The cabin no longer carried that stretched quiet it sometimes had when their room sat empty. There was weight to the place now. Presence. Other heartbeats somewhere across the house. Other scents woven through wood and fabric and air.
Home, layered deeper.
You changed into sleep clothes while Dean stripped down to boxers and tossed them toward the hamper with questionable aim. He missed.
“Nice shot.”
“Wasn’t trying.”
“Liar.”
“Sleepy slander.”
You smiled as you slipped into bed first, sheets cool against your legs. A second later the mattress dipped behind you, warmth following immediately as Dean stretched out and gathered you in with the easy certainty of habit.
One arm tucked beneath your pillow.
The other curved around your waist.
His body fit against your back like it had been built with that purpose in mind.
You exhaled long and slow, tension leaving places you hadn’t realized still held any.
“There she is,” he murmured when your body finally melted fully into his.
“Who?”
“My girl.”
The words were half-tease, half-truth. And spoken with that softness he reserved only for you.
Maybe more truth than either of you admitted aloud.
His nose nuzzled into your hair, dragging a slow breath through it. Once. Then again. Taking you in the way he always did when the day was over and no one else could see it.
His hand settled low over your stomach.
Not entirely absentminded this time.
Not entirely deliberate either.
Just there.
Resting with a quiet weight that said more than words could have managed.
You covered it with your own hand without thinking.
Neither of you spoke.
There was too much and not enough.
Hope still felt fragile when given language. Easier to hold in silence. Easier to tend privately in the dark where disappointment couldn’t hear it yet.
Across the cabin, Jess laughed once through the wall. Sam answered with something too muffled to make out.
The sound made the house feel even fuller.
Dean’s chest rose and fell steadily against your back. His wolf pressed warm and content through the bond, but beneath that contentment lived the same restless anticipation curled inside you.
Soon.
Not tonight.
But soon.
Your eyes drifted shut.
Held between his body, the hum of pack through the walls, and the quiet possibility neither of you were ready to name, sleep came softly.
And for the first time in a long time, the whole cabin slept full.
Chapter 61 ------- Chapter 63 - coming soon
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Summary: Drunk you spills all your dirty little secrets
Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader
contains: Mutual pining, drunk confessions, Dean Winchester being a softy, jealous reader, teasing, Sam being a menace, friends to lovers, fluff
WC: 2550
a/n: I'm sorry this took like way too long, I have like 5 half-written fics and my mind can't seem to finish any of them... Hope you enjoy!
You were stumbling back to the bunker with Sam. His arm around you, trying to keep you up, but secretly, he was just as drunk as you were.
The giggles and the laughter coming from you could probably be heard all through Main Street, but you two didn’t care.
You had been dancing and drinking with Sam, trying to get rid of the pit in your stomach that was called Dean Winchester. Your eyes had been on him all night, but you weren’t the only one who was looking at him.
As soon as the first woman moved towards the three of you, you had decided that this jealous feeling wasn’t worth your time tonight.
You had slammed your beer down your throat at once, grabbed Sam's hand, and pulled him towards the pool tables. Sam knew exactly what was going on with you. Had seen your jealous stares every time for months, but he hadn’t said anything, sure that if you wanted to talk about it, you would.
You hadn’t seen Dean leave, but the moment you noticed he was gone was the moment you thought shots would be a great idea. Sam hadn’t minded either, letting loose for once.
So there you were, drunk on your ass with Sam Winchester at your side. You were singing an old rock song and muttering something about Dean loving that song when Sam opened the entrance of the bunker. Sam, going down the stairs before you. While you are still mumbling about his brother.
“Where did he go anyway?”
You ask him. The sound was loud enough to echo across the bunker.
“Maybe he was angry.” Sam slurred, dropping himself on a chair in the library. You looked at him, baffled, before sitting down on the chair opposite of him.
“Why would he be angry?” You asked, brow raised in question as you let your feet dangle on the armrest.
“We left him alone, with that woman.”
“Oh no! We left Dean alone, with someone with whom he could do his favorite activity.”
“Jerk.” Sam laughed at you.
“We should be angry! I just want him to hang out with us for once! You know, let loose a little.” The words were coming out slower than you expected them to, emotion lacing thickly in your voice. Your feet are dangling on the armrest of the chair, arm towards Sam, and your bottom lip is sticking out slightly. Pouting at Sam like he has any control over your current predicament.
“You are just jealous.”
You are dumbstruck, eyes wide, looking at Sam like he just set your world on fire. There is sound coming out of your mouth, trying to deny the fact, but your mind can’t think of words that would make any sense. So you sigh, head falling on the chair.
“Of course I’m jealous.”
Sam shakes his head, laughing softly, finding your whole outburst as funny as it was ridiculous.
“Have you seen him! Your brother is hot, Sam.” You exclaim. Sam just starts laughing loudly.
“Don’t laugh at me, Winchester!” You say as you throw a pillow at his face, which misses by a long shot.
But Sam stops laughing anyway, frozen in his place.
Over your shoulder, standing in the doorway with a smirk plastered on his face, like he’d been there the whole time, was Dean.
And an idea flickered in his mind. Sam secretly loved sitting with you like this, gossiping about everything and everyone. But he loved poking fun at his brother even more.
It was his lucky day.
“Then do something about it!” Sam said before striking that pillow right back at you. Which struck true.
Dean chuckled, trying to keep quiet, but failing miserably. He couldn’t help but admit to himself that he loved it when you were like this. Carefree, not a worry in sight. He didn’t get to see you like that often.
“Because I’m not what he wants.” You said, and Dean hears the worry return, breaking his happiness like it’s made of glass.
“I don’t want Dean for one night.” You sigh.
Dean freezes completely.
The smirk on his face falters.
“I just want to be with him, sleep in the same bed with him, hold him, kiss him.”
Something in his chest caves in.
He swallows.
Hard.
His fingers tighten around the beer he is nursing, knuckles turning white.
Immediately, his mind goes into overdrive. You don’t mean this. You can’t. He would have noticed. You're drunk. You’re just…
“I thought that this was just some lust thing,” Sam says, having heard Dean's name in your earlier gossiping sessions one time too many.
And for Dean, that is the only logical explanation.
Lust.
That makes sense.
“It was...” You said quietly, “Like six months ago.”
Dean’s reality cracks beneath him. Exhaling through his nose sharply, looking at his brother for some support. But Sam isn’t looking at him. He is looking at you, wide-eyed, the same shock written all over his face.
Pure and utter shock.
“What!” Sam screamed. And if Dean didn’t have to be quiet, he probably would have done the same thing.
Six months.
And he missed it. He missed all the signs. Or worse, he had seen them but hadn’t let his heart believe it.
He was an inch away from pulling you from your chair and kissing you right then and there, but that probably wasn’t a good idea when you were drunk off your ass.
He wanted you to remember it.
He dragged a hand down his face in frustration.
Of course…
Of course, you would confess to this being completely wasted.
His eyes land on you again.
You are trying to explain to Sam why you, liking him, wasn’t that crazy. And he wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear every cliché thing you had to say about him.
But he wanted you to tell him.
His jaw tightens, resolve settling in.
Tomorrow
—
Dean is whisper-yelling at his brother in the kitchen the next morning. Quiet enough so he won’t wake you, but loud enough to get his emotions clear across.
He is angry.
Not at you, no.
Never at you.
It is his bitch of a brother who is getting the brunt of it. Sam had been leaning against the kitchen counter with a smug smile on his face. Mocking him. “Deano’s got a girlfriend.” Was the first thing that left his mouth.
And Dean had reacted to it too passionately, lighting the fire that is called Sam Winchester. Only making it worse. So there they were, arguing as only siblings can. Sam, with a huge smile on his face, and Dean with a frown that didn’t completely cover the way the corner of his lips tugged upwards.
Secretly, Dean didn’t mind this argument.
Because it was you he was arguing about.
He was arguing about the fact that you had let slip that you wanted him.
He was arguing about him telling you he felt the same way.
And he had never had an argument he enjoyed so much.
“Just man up and ask her out already,” Sam yelled at his brother. For him, it was clear as day. Dean liked you, you liked Dean. What was the problem?
But all Dean saw was something that he could lose.
“We don’t get this,” Dean yelled back. And the moment he said it, his stomach fell. And Sam stopped yelling.
“There are a lot of hunters with a partner.”
“There are also a lot of hunters with a dead partner.”
Sam sighed. “Look…” he started, secretly enjoying the fact that he and Dean were having this so-called ‘chick flick moment.’ “I know you’re scared of losing her, Dean. But don’t you think being with her might be worth that risk?”
Dean froze, looking away from his brother.
Sam was right.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
You were worth the risk
And that terrified him more than any monster ever could.
“Maybe.”
Sam's smirk only grew at Dean’s words, “So I repeat…” He started waiting a beat before adding. “Deano’s got a girlfriend.”
“Bitch.” Dean said as he smacked his brother on the back of his head.
“Jerk”
The moment you stepped into the kitchen, the brothers froze. And slowly, a menacing smirk grew on Sam's face. But you weren’t in the headspace to think about why that was. Your head was pounding, and the bunker light was too bright. But before you could even drag yourself towards the counter, Dean handed you a cup of coffee. Your fingers brush his just a moment, but your stomach flutters at the contact.
You looked tired, bags under your eyes, hair in a messy bun, those fuzzy slippers Dean got you for Christmas last year, on your feet. And Dean thought you looked cute as hell. The instinct to protect and take care of you is growing by the minute.
Your eyes reached his, and he smiled.
Not a cocky grin or a smirk.
No.
A warm smile.
A smile that set your world on fire, but one that you didn’t trust for a moment.
“What is going on?”
“Nothing.” Sam and Dean said in unison.
No… this wasn’t suspicious at all.
You took a sip of your coffee, eyes still locked with the older Winchester. Who had evaded your eyes and was leaning back against the counter, like he didn’t really know what he should be doing now. Sam looked between the two of you once.
Twice.
And you thought about last night. Your drunken confession to Sam. You are sure he wouldn’t tell Dean, but you also knew Sam Winchester was a meddling dickhead who couldn’t leave well enough alone.
And just like that, Sam broke the quiet tension in the kitchen, just to be replaced with even thicker tension.
“I’m going to head out for a few.” He said, with a knowing smile on his face.
You frowned. “Why?’ You asked, knowing exactly why Sam was leaving the bunker, and it had nothing to do with needing a little fresh air.
“Grocery shopping.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “We did that yesterday.”
Sam looked at him like a child who didn’t get something he wanted. “Well, I forgot something.” His tone told you he was done with this conversation.
“I’m going now, I could be gone a while!”
“Sam,” Dean growled. And the sound did more to you than you wanted to admit.
Sam ignored him completely. “Try not to emotionally constipate yourself while I’m gone.”
And with that, he was gone, out the door. The bunker door slammed closed. And all you could do was stand there utterly and completely confused.
You looked at Dean. Only to find his eyes already on you.
“Emotionally constipated?” You repeated
Dean dragged a hand down his face, sighing in defeat. “Ignore him.”
You snorted softly into your coffee.
And Dean’s heart skipped a beat.
You were going to wreck him.
You looked up at him suddenly, squinting your eyes.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
Dean's heart felt like it fell all the way to his toes.
You caught him red-handed.
And he had two options at the moment. He could confess. He could confess everything, tell you he heard you, tell you he feels the same, tell you everything. But a little voice was telling him to wait, to feel you out while you were not completely wasted anymore. And he wasn’t completely sure if that voice was his gut, telling him something was wrong…
Or fear.
“Like what?” He said instead, giving in to the nagging feeling in his stomach. And he regretted it the moment he asked.
“Like you know something I don’t.”
A smile tugged on the corner of his lips, and he looked at you again. That same emotion, now mixed with something you didn’t dare to place. “Maybe I do.”
You narrowed your eyes at him immediately, your mind going every which way, but nothing you could come up with made sense. He couldn’t know what you said to Sam last night. Sam would never say anything, right?
But when you looked at him, all you saw was that glimmer in his eyes, and it hadn’t been there yesterday.
“Dean...” You started, suspicion laced thickly in your voice. So thick that he raised an eyebrow. He called your name like he wanted to draw you out, like he wanted to antagonize you.
“Did Sam tell you something?”
A smirk tugged on his lips.
Suspicious.
Knowing.
“No.” He said, a little too fast for your liking.
“You don’t need to know what it is he could have said to answer that question?” You asked, staring at him like you wanted to read every emotion that crossed his face, because that was exactly what you were trying to do.
“Are you interrogating me, sweetheart?”
And there was something in the way he said that nickname.
He had called you that hundreds of times, maybe thousands, but not like this.
His voice had never sounded so warm, so soft.
Your heart skipped a beat.
“You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re avoiding whatever’s got you lookin’ this nervous.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “I am not nervous,” you said, pausing before the last word of your sentence, which made Dean’s case that much stronger.
You looked away first, focusing very hard on your coffee. “I just maybe regret talking to Sam while drunk.”
Dean’s expression softened immediately.
“Why?”
The question caught you off guard. “Because,” you mumbled, “I said a lot.”
Dean took a slow step closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you noticed.
“Sam’s not gonna judge you for any of it.”
“I know.” You sighed softly. “That’s not really the problem.”
Dean stayed quiet. As if he wanted you to continue, because he knew exactly where this was going, because he knew you.
You looked up at him reluctantly. “I just don’t usually…” You gestured vaguely, “talk about stuff like that.”
“Stuff like what?”
And you looked at him, a puzzle you were trying to solve. And something told you he knew exactly what you were talking about.
“You know.” He started, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I didn’t get to do my favorite activity yesterday.”
Your eyes widen. What did he just say!
“But I was too mad at my brother and best friend for ditching me with some lady.”
Your cheeks turned bright red, and your heart beat so loud you were afraid it was going to beat out of your chest.
His gaze stayed locked on yours.
Warm.
Certain.
“You talk too much when you drink,” he murmured.
Your eyes widened.
“You heard—”
Dean kissed you before you could finish the sentence.
And wow.
Okay.
Maybe you understand your own problem now.
His hand slid gently against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek while he kissed you slow enough to make your knees weak. Like he’d thought about this before. Like he knew exactly how he wanted to do it.
When he pulled back, you were both breathing a little unevenly.
Dean rested his forehead lightly against yours, smiling just a little.
“Told you,” he murmured, “I knew somethin’ you didn’t.”
I was hoping that, when I had this many ideas, I could, like, fill up my queue so I won't have to stress about writing, and I could take some time to make everything just right... Didn't really work out like that!
Let me know what you think would love to know your thoughts!
Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.
Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM
Word Count: 946
Warnings: Character Deaths, Show Level Violence, Grief, Doesn't follow the show timeline.
A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.
Chapter 1 - Coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Prologue
Everyone has a doppelganger.
You just never met yours.
You were twenty-five when the vampire took him from you. One minute you were arguing about wedding colors in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the windows. The next, there was blood on the cabinets, and his body crumpled at your feet.
You hadn’t known monsters were real until that night. Not really. Not in the way you do when one is standing in your home with its mouth red and smiling.
You killed it.
The blade felt too heavy in your hands at first, slick with your own shaking grip. But when it lunged again, when it stepped over him like he was already nothing, something inside you shifted. Instinct sharpened. Vision tunneled. Your claws slipped free without you even thinking about it.
You took its head off in a single, brutal swing.
It didn’t bring him back.
You sold the house. Sold the furniture. Sold everything except his Charger. That, you kept. Along with a handful of things that meant more than your own life—the leather jacket that still smelled like him, the watch he’d never taken off, and the photo from the day he proposed.
He’d been nervous. You could see it now in the picture—the way his green eyes had almost sparkled with unshed tears when you said yes. The way joy had carved itself into every line of his face. Sunlight had caught across his freckles, deeper from a summer tan, and you’d thought you had never seen anything so good.
The ring he’d slipped onto your finger now hung on a chain around your neck, hidden beneath your shirt. You hadn’t taken it off once. Not really.
The Charger’s trunk no longer held emergency flares and jumper cables. It held blades. Silver. Salt. Guns. Research printed and highlighted until the pages were soft at the folds. There were more monsters than you ever imagined. More things that hunted in the dark. But no matter how much you learned, there was nothing that described the things about you.
You were… different than those around you.
You’d always chalked it up to autism. ADHD. Being different. Too sensitive to light. Too aware of sound. Too quick to notice what others missed. But those words never explained the retractable claws.
The healing had always been strange. It didn’t work on everything. You still bruised. Still split your knuckles open. Small cuts lingered stubborn and red. But the bad ones—the ones that should have scarred you permanently—sealed themselves. Deep gashes knitted together. Broken bones fused. Organs repaired if the damage threatened to last.
It never made you invincible. Just harder to kill.
Five years passed.
You learned to fight properly. To move with your instincts instead of against them. Your claws grew sharper. Your steps steadier. You let the predatory patience settle into your bones. Learned to read the twitch of a jaw, the flick of a gaze. Lies sat differently on people if you knew how to look.
Hunting became muscle memory.
You told yourself you stayed in it so no one else would lose someone the way you had. So no one else would kneel in a kitchen soaked in blood with a future ripped out from under them.
It wasn’t the job at the gas station you’d walked away from. It wasn’t the friends who slowly stopped calling. It wasn’t girls’ nights or shared laughter or the house that had held too many memories.
You had a purpose now.
They had been trying to get to him. They always were.
Her deep blue eyes haunted his sleep. So did the ring tucked into the bottom of his duffel—the one he’d almost used. He wasn’t sure if he kept it to punish himself or to remember that, once, he’d been brave enough to want something normal.
He gave her a hunter’s funeral. Watched the flames take her with Sam on one side and Bobby on the other.
There was a picture of her in his wallet. It had lived there so long the edges had softened. He took it out on days he was afraid he might forget the exact curve of her smile.
Sleep didn’t come easy anymore.
Her absence lived in the quiet. In the third beer he still reached for before remembering. In the empty space on cases where she used to throw out something wild that somehow made sense. In the silence where she used to tease him about his music—even if she secretly loved it.
Five years had passed.
He still felt it.
Jodi called with a case: two bodies found without hearts in a small town. Official line said animal attack. Stay out of the woods.
It would give him something to focus on.
September air carried the first hint of fall. Leaves had already started turning—reds and golds bleeding through green. She would’ve loved it here. Would’ve made him jump into a pile of leaves like a couple of idiots.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the police station. They already had a room. Already had the Fish & Game badges tucked into their pockets.
Then he noticed the car parked ahead of them.
Sleek. Dark. Almost black, but when the light caught it, there was a hint of blue beneath the surface.
A woman in uniform stepped toward it, sliding into the driver’s seat. Her hair fell loose down her back. He couldn’t see her face.
Something in his stomach twisted.
It felt familiar.
Dean shook it off and killed the engine.
It was time to work the case.
Chapter 1 - Coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Images, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC
You can also find me on Patreon
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.
Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM
Word Count: 946
Warnings: Character Deaths, Show Level Violence, Grief, Doesn't follow the show timeline.
A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.
Chapter 1 - Coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Prologue
Everyone has a doppelganger.
You just never met yours.
You were twenty-five when the vampire took him from you. One minute you were arguing about wedding colors in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the windows. The next, there was blood on the cabinets, and his body crumpled at your feet.
You hadn’t known monsters were real until that night. Not really. Not in the way you do when one is standing in your home with its mouth red and smiling.
You killed it.
The blade felt too heavy in your hands at first, slick with your own shaking grip. But when it lunged again, when it stepped over him like he was already nothing, something inside you shifted. Instinct sharpened. Vision tunneled. Your claws slipped free without you even thinking about it.
You took its head off in a single, brutal swing.
It didn’t bring him back.
You sold the house. Sold the furniture. Sold everything except his Charger. That, you kept. Along with a handful of things that meant more than your own life—the leather jacket that still smelled like him, the watch he’d never taken off, and the photo from the day he proposed.
He’d been nervous. You could see it now in the picture—the way his green eyes had almost sparkled with unshed tears when you said yes. The way joy had carved itself into every line of his face. Sunlight had caught across his freckles, deeper from a summer tan, and you’d thought you had never seen anything so good.
The ring he’d slipped onto your finger now hung on a chain around your neck, hidden beneath your shirt. You hadn’t taken it off once. Not really.
The Charger’s trunk no longer held emergency flares and jumper cables. It held blades. Silver. Salt. Guns. Research printed and highlighted until the pages were soft at the folds. There were more monsters than you ever imagined. More things that hunted in the dark. But no matter how much you learned, there was nothing that described the things about you.
You were… different than those around you.
You’d always chalked it up to autism. ADHD. Being different. Too sensitive to light. Too aware of sound. Too quick to notice what others missed. But those words never explained the retractable claws.
The healing had always been strange. It didn’t work on everything. You still bruised. Still split your knuckles open. Small cuts lingered stubborn and red. But the bad ones—the ones that should have scarred you permanently—sealed themselves. Deep gashes knitted together. Broken bones fused. Organs repaired if the damage threatened to last.
It never made you invincible. Just harder to kill.
Five years passed.
You learned to fight properly. To move with your instincts instead of against them. Your claws grew sharper. Your steps steadier. You let the predatory patience settle into your bones. Learned to read the twitch of a jaw, the flick of a gaze. Lies sat differently on people if you knew how to look.
Hunting became muscle memory.
You told yourself you stayed in it so no one else would lose someone the way you had. So no one else would kneel in a kitchen soaked in blood with a future ripped out from under them.
It wasn’t the job at the gas station you’d walked away from. It wasn’t the friends who slowly stopped calling. It wasn’t girls’ nights or shared laughter or the house that had held too many memories.
You had a purpose now.
They had been trying to get to him. They always were.
Her deep blue eyes haunted his sleep. So did the ring tucked into the bottom of his duffel—the one he’d almost used. He wasn’t sure if he kept it to punish himself or to remember that, once, he’d been brave enough to want something normal.
He gave her a hunter’s funeral. Watched the flames take her with Sam on one side and Bobby on the other.
There was a picture of her in his wallet. It had lived there so long the edges had softened. He took it out on days he was afraid he might forget the exact curve of her smile.
Sleep didn’t come easy anymore.
Her absence lived in the quiet. In the third beer he still reached for before remembering. In the empty space on cases where she used to throw out something wild that somehow made sense. In the silence where she used to tease him about his music—even if she secretly loved it.
Five years had passed.
He still felt it.
Jodi called with a case: two bodies found without hearts in a small town. Official line said animal attack. Stay out of the woods.
It would give him something to focus on.
September air carried the first hint of fall. Leaves had already started turning—reds and golds bleeding through green. She would’ve loved it here. Would’ve made him jump into a pile of leaves like a couple of idiots.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the police station. They already had a room. Already had the Fish & Game badges tucked into their pockets.
Then he noticed the car parked ahead of them.
Sleek. Dark. Almost black, but when the light caught it, there was a hint of blue beneath the surface.
A woman in uniform stepped toward it, sliding into the driver’s seat. Her hair fell loose down her back. He couldn’t see her face.
Something in his stomach twisted.
It felt familiar.
Dean shook it off and killed the engine.
It was time to work the case.
Chapter 1 - Coming soon
Doppelganger Master List
Touched Master List
Main Master List
Images, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC
You can also find me on Patreon
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
let's pretend i didn't start writing this three months ago... i tried to make this extra long to make up for my hiatus :)
also, happy pride, everyone!
"am i reading this wrong?" said in a low tone, for only the other to hear
"i saw you looking at my lips," said teasingly, to gauge the other's reaction
the fraction of a second where their faces are just close: lips ghosting each other's, taking this moment in, almost waiting for one to give in first
in the middle of a heated conversation
an emotionally charged embrace, pulling away and realizing how close their faces are, and leaning in
one brushing hair out of the other's face, the featherlight touch (or any light touch tbh)
a simple "can i?"/"can i kiss you?" because consent is important!
"can we stop pretending?"
a barely audible, "come here"
one is concerned for the other (physical injury, emotional conflict, etc), and they respond with "you always make sure i'm okay," maybe a "why?" then the air changes
"show me what you want."
one leans in and pauses, to which the other responds with some grounding gesture (a touch/"please"/a slight nod/etc) to communicate their own desire
orrr they lean in, slightly panic, and move back, to which the other pulls them in (lightly) by their arm/coat/collar/cheek/belt loops/etc
"you talk a lot." while the other is mid ramble
"you have no idea how long i've wanted to do this"
the first kiss being messy and impassioned, then the second being softer and more familiar, as though their minds are catching up with reality
"you really can't see it, can you?"
the energy shifting right as one openly glances at the other's lips
(and maybe a laugh, "what?" as the other person does this)
submit to my "ask" box if there is anything you want to see OR anything you want to share! i'm trying to respond to more asks and post more than once every three months (oops)
hello everyone! originally, i was unable to post chapter thirty here to tumblr due to length restrictions on posts. however, not wanting my tumblr friends to miss out if they didn't have an ao3 account, i've gone through and made it available in two parts!
chapter thirty (bunny-bee) is an in-depth exploration of bunny and bobby's relationship, starting from when bunny was first left at bobby's doorstep. not to chap my own ass, but it's some of the best writing i've ever done.
if you haven't had the chance to read bunny-bee, find part one and part two here! i hope you enjoy!
want to be added to the taglist? fill out the form below!
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Series Summary: The boys stink. Something needs to be done about it.
The above summary was something I came up with when I thought this was going to be a fun little one-shot. (hah! stupid writer and her stupid assumptions. how dare she think she can make plans and have Sam and Dean adhere to them.) It still applies to the beginning (and this sniff, sniff theme may come up again), but I'm going to add that this story is a first-person reader insert (turned into) Original Female Character that weaves in and out of show canon, up to Season 10, with an alternate ending.
Rated Mature.
Tagged: Show Level Violence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Character Death, the slowest of slow burns, and (mild) sexy times at the end. See series parts for additional tags.
Series Word Count: 65,500
This has been done and posted on AO3 for a while but I thought I should make a post on tumblr as well.
Repeat. (Part 5 of Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Series) by Drasna
Story Summary: Round and round they go - El and Dean meet up once again. Will it all (FINALLY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD) come out in the wash?
Story Part Tags: Seaon 10, Comfort/Angst, Case Fic, Post-Demon Dean Winchester, Mild Smut
Word Count: 7,300
Rated Mature
Series Parts (Click to Jump To): Wash. Pre-Rinse. Rinse. Spin. Repeat.
Chapter 1
I don’t need Sam’s advice on this haunt. I don’t need backup. I don’t need any additional research.
What I need is info on Dean and how the hell he’s doing after having survived a demon exorcism. (Back it up there, now. Remember, not just any run o’ the mill demon, but a Knight of Hell. Oh, and apparently, Dean WAS a demon. Like he was the Uber driver AND the passenger. At the same time. I’m still trying to digest all that.)
It’s not like I can call Dean up and ask, “Hey, how’s it hanging?” after all he’s been through. It’s only been a couple months since all of that went down. What I do know about Dean: when things are this raw and fresh, his coping skills are found at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and he takes out his anger on any evil motherfucker who has the misfortune of crossing his path. So, yeah, he’s probably not ready to talk.
It’s not like we left things between us on bad terms. We didn’t leave them any kind of way, really. Well, there was that kiss and the mutual desire for something more.
Dean couldn’t promise me much. But he didn’t disappear. He kept in touch as semi-regularly as a Winchester could. When we talked, we’d try not to talk shop. We spent a lot of our conversations talking about Bobby and other things that made us laugh and reflect on happier times. He kept wanting to take a road trip my way and bring me back to Lebanon so I could hunker in the bunker for a week. “Or maybe forever,” he’d sweetly tease.
All that, though, was eclipsed by duty and prophesy. I kept reminding myself about the bigger picture, grand scheme of things, my little inconsequential existence in the world. Even if anything might have happened, it’s not like it would have meant anything. Turned into anything.
Sam and Dean have had monumental things to take care of over the past two years. Like saving the world. Twice.
Sam almost sacrificed himself in an attempt to close the gates of hell. Instead, the scribe of God, Metatron, expelled the angels from Heaven and a holy war broke out on earth to see who would reign supreme. And, Dean. Man, Dean. He went and made decisions to save Sam from the brink of death.
Gotta take care of Sammy.
Forget what Sam might want, though.
Round and round the Winchesters go. It’s like I’ve been watching an opera from the nosebleed seats for the past ten years. Sometimes, someone passes me one of those fancy binoculars on a stick so I can see all the action on stage up close. Those are the moments I hold onto. They’re never an Aria or Recitative or Deus ex machina. They’re the quiet moments. The space where the performers have a chance to breathe.
Deep down, I know Dean just wants Sam to have a chance to breathe.
I wish he wanted that for himself just as much.
The need to check in after all of the gossip through the hunter grapevine overwhelms me. I cave and send over the most nonchalant yet all business text in Sam’s direction.
Hey. If you don’t see this right away, no biggie. I’ve got a case close to home. Like almost in my backyard close to home. Thinking it might be a woman in white. Vaguely remember you guys dealt with one of those years back. Any info you can pass along? Hope you’re well.
That took ten minutes to compose. To my immediate relief and then subsequent panic, Sam replies in under 60 seconds.
Still don’t want to crack open a book, huh?
I smile at Sam’s easy comeback.
What can I say, you’ve spoiled me. Why risk a papercut when I’ve got the Master of Lore at my fingertips?
Flattery will get you nowhere.
How about begging?
That’s beneath you.
But I’m not above doing it.
A long pause after that comment makes me second guess having sent it. That might have come across as…
I would love to hear you beg.
I stare at the line, dumbfounded. I almost drop the phone when it rings and Sam’s name is on the screen. I answer after a deep breath, voice wavering. “Hello?”
“I’m so sorry. Dean grabbed my phone and, well, he can’t help himself.” He’s huffing. There’s shuffling.
“Hey!” Dean might be wrestling him for the phone. His voice is farther from the receiver but still pretty clear. “Tell El I can’t help myself around her.”
My body tingles at the way he emphasized “her.” It’s been too long since I’ve heard that gravelly timbre.
“Would you quit it!” Sam yells in my ear. “How old are you?”
I laugh at the banter. It reminds me of the first time I was privy to their sibling dynamic.
There’s grunting and swearing. I stare at my screen and count the seconds in wait. Finally, Sam emerges from the melee. “Just get in the car, Dean!”
“Blah, blah, blah. Who died and made you boss? Oh, wait. I did this time.” I hear the squeak, then slam, of one of the Impala’s doors.
“Well, does that satisfy why you really checked in?” Sam’s question is low and quiet.
“Huh?”
“Proof of life. Dean’s back. And he’s good. Well, whatever good is for Dean. He’s that.”
“Oh, that’s great. I mean that’s not why I called, but I’m glad to hear he’s doing fine.”
“Riiight.” Sam does not sound convinced. “So, you think you’ve got a woman in white?”
“Unfortunately. Some men have met an untimely demise around the bridge into town.”
“And that leads you to a woman in white, how?”
“Well, the accidents started happening a couple months after traffic cams recorded a woman jumping off the Mid-Delaware bridge. Search and rescue never found the body. But, she was identified as Roberta Grisogono. Her five year old daughter had drowned in a tub weeks prior to the dive.”
“Ah.” I don’t have to see Sam to know he’s nodding.
“Roberta’s targeting men for revenge?”
“More like punishment. Was Roberta married?”
“No. No mention of a husband in her obituary.”
“What’s your plan exactly?”
“Going to the bridge tonight, see if I can connect with Roberta. Maybe she can give me some clues as to where the police can find her remains.”
“Sure that’s a good idea?”
“Well, if you can help me figure out another way to stop a restless spirit from killing people, I’m all ears.”
Sam sighs. “Not really.”
“See, that’s why I called. To have your semi-enthusiastic approval of my ghost-removal modus operandi.”
“I’d approve if you had backup.”
“Well, I put an APB out to a few friends as soon as I got all the details this afternoon. But they either aren’t close enough or busy with a hunt of their own. It’s a reconnaissance mission. And, besides, I’m not her type.”
“You can’t wait another night?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. Check in when you find out something?”
“Yep.”
“Alright. Be careful.”
“Always.” It feels like the natural end to the conversation, but my brain is not ready to say goodbye. “How are you doing, Sam?” I remember his multiple calls to me from months back. Sam was desperate to find his brother. He thought I might be one of the lucky individuals Dean would contact after he’d been resurrected.
“I’m good.” It’s a quick answer. But not too quick. It feels genuine.
Because Dean’s back.
“He meant it.”
Sam’s non sequitur elicits the expected, “Huh?” from me.
“Dean. Earlier.” His voice is lower. “When he said he couldn’t help himself around you. He didn’t tell me everything about his time with Crowley. But, what I saw with him – experienced with the demon – any good notion or thread of humanity had been choked out of him. His self-imposed exile was probably the best thing for everyone, until we knew what we were dealing with.”
A shiver stands me upright at the thought. “But, it’s him… now?”
“Yeah, it is. Don’t worry about him. Or us. We’re fine.”
Sheesh, yeah. Right. Don’t worry about the Winchesters.
~~~~
I can’t draw too much suspicion and actually hang around on the bridge. We don’t have a ton of law enforcement presence in Matamoras. But, one of our three police cars can be spotted passing over or parking along the state line a few times every evening. Ever since Roberta.
The same, however, cannot be said for the New York “protect and serve” side of the bridge. That’s where I stake out the scene in my hatchback. The Church of the Living God parking lot is the closest spot to the river’s edge and the bridge.
Unfortunately, I’m only about twenty minutes into my vigil when a bright light blinds me through the front passenger window. I jump in my seat at the heavy taps on the glass. “Police. Need some help, Ma’am?” The voice is deep and throaty, like it belongs to someone who’s smoked two packs a day for decades.
Here’s to hoping I can sweet talk my way out of this inquisition. I weigh my options. A sobbing, unconsolable mess about the demise of a recent relationship? Usually the fastest route to politely being asked to move along by the empathetically challenged.
The window zips down at a button press. I yammer as the flashlight clicks off. “I’m sorry, Officer, I was…”
“Save it.” Dean’s disapproving countenance pops into the open window. “Sloppy, Princess. Could’ve been anyone pretending to be the cops. You’re lucky it was Prince Charming.”
“Dean!” I yell in delight.
A smile cracks the facade of displeasure.
“What are you doing here?”
“Sam said you’d need some backup for this woman in white.” The car door opens. He slips into the passenger seat. “I’m the backup.”
I shake my head, happy and bewildered at his proximity. He’s here. “Where were you guys when I called?”
“New Canaan, Connecticut. Trying to cash in on what we thought would be Bobby’s inheritance from this rich old woman. All we got was a shapeshifter case. Just our luck, right?” He pauses. “You've been doing okay?”
I nod, taking in what I can of him in the shadows. I inhale deeply out of habit to gauge his stink. All I can identify is fast food grease and some cheap cologne. I grin. He wanted to smell good for me. “You?”
He chuckles. “Whatever you’ve heard probably doesn’t begin to explain how I’m doing.” He taps the dash. “We can catch up later. Let’s take a walk along the bridge.”
“Don’t you think I’d be doing that right now if I could?”
“Someone might have called the Matamoras police station and reported a possible home robbery all the way across town five minutes ago.” He checks his watch. “That should give us a good twenty before anyone drives back.” In a flash, he exits the car.
I scramble, pulling the key out of the ignition, and sprint to catch up to his bounding frame. The Impala is nowhere in sight.
“Gimme a recap on what we’re dealing with again.” Dean enters the side walkway of the truss bridge first. He listens, head bobbing left, right, up, down while he checks the surroundings. “Gettin’ any vibes on our special friend?”
“Nope. Not even a tingle.”
“Hm.” His fingers wrap around the railing. “Man, Deja vu.”
I wait for him to explain.
“Our woman in white introduced herself by jumping off a bridge pretty similar to this one.”
“Chased Sam and you with your car, too.” I add, the rest of the tale coming back to me. “Didn’t you take a swan dive into a muddy river bank?”
His nose wrinkles. “Yep.” The overhead street lamp bathes his features in cool white. “How are we gonna get Roberta to come out and play?”
I shrug. “Not like I’ve got an unfaithful husband for her to pounce on.”
Oh no. That look. That Dean-thinking-he’s-got-a-great-idea look. “Well,” he draws out the one word. Leans his biceps into my shoulder. “You could admit your true feelings for me.” He stares into my eyes and smirks. “No need for words, Princess. That blush says it all.”
“You wish.” The weak comeback is all I can muster.
“I do,” he whispers, then sighs. “Cause then I’d be able to tell you the same.”
“Dean,” I rush out, “don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Just, don’t. You almost sound serious.”
His lids open wide. “What if I was?”
A jolt of electricity whites out my vision for a few seconds. Every hair follicle buzzes. Then, I’m cold. Submerged in an ice cold bath. Water weighs atop my body. Legs tangled in slimy ropes. My hands scrape along corrugated metal.
I gasp for air. I’m in Dean’s arms. On the ground. Concrete. His fingers thread through my hair. “Thank Christ.” His lips touch my forehead. “You dropped like a stone.”
“I-I think she’ll show me where she is. In the river.” I stare up at him. Dean looks terrified. For me. I squeeze his arm. “Wanna go play the ‘getting warmer’ game with a ghost?”
Chapter 2
This whole night has been a repeat of my greatest and not-so-greatest moments with Dean Winchester.
We eventually found Roberta’s body. Dean drove us in the Impala along the river bank. My antennae zoned in on the spirit’s signal at an overpass. We pulled off to the side, peered over the edge and investigated. Dean’s flashlight illuminated a storm drain opening. My breath halted at what appeared to be a body sticking out of the massive pipe.
Dean did the dirty work, got wet, and freed Roberta from the tangle of roots and trash. Once he’d dragged Roberta onto the bank, he called 911. We waited –watching from a far enough vantage– for the police to arrive and discover the remains.
“They’re gonna make sure she’s taken care of now, El.” Dean whispered in my ear. But I knew it was for Roberta’s benefit more than mine.
I closed my eyes. Roberta clinged to me. Two hands clenched at my intestines for dear unlife. I dropped to my knees. Dean wrapped his arms around me. I choked out my plea. “You’ve gotta move on to what’s next, Roberta. You may have been wronged. But, if you did something to-” Fingers pinched my windpipe. I wheezed and gasped, struggled to continue. “If you had any love for your baby girl, you have to atone for what you did. Maybe, maybe you can be together again someday.” Roberta let go and the pain subsided in an instant.
My body and mind was my own again.
I coughed and sputtered. Dean relaxed his hold but had not released me from his grip entirely.
“I got ya, Princess.” Dean rubbed my back, light pressure in clockwise circles.
Roberta was more than likely not at peace, but she’d passed through the veil to meet her fate.
Dean and I are a collective mess. Unfortunately, he has to drive the Impala in soaked clothes that squelch on top of the seat. He smells like rotten eggs.
Dean Winchester stinks.
“You’re gonna shower at my place,” I order.
“Was hoping you’d say that,” he murmurs in gratitude. His voice turns soft, almost pleading when he utters, “I’m sorry, Baby. I’ll get you clean as a whistle tomorrow. Promise.” A beat passes. “I treated her like shit.” His tone now is sullen and regretful.
“Huh?”
Dean strokes the dash. “When I was a demon. I was disrespectful. I didn’t take care of her like she deserved.”
I’m hurt and angry learning about Baby’s mistreatment at the hands of the person that cares about her most of all. I swallow that down for the time being. “She knows it wasn’t all your fault, Dean.”
He twists the radio knob and dispels some annoying static, chancing upon a rock ballad. “But she knows it was partly my fault. Like what you did there.”
I rub a worn spot of leather on the bench between us. “You’re lucky to have her.”
“Yeah. I’m lucky to have people that keep dealing with my bullshit and sticking around, too.”
I smile, not needing to ask who he means.
~~~~
This might be a terrible idea. It might backfire completely.
I’m tired of the almosts, the what ifs.
I’m scared out of my gourd that I could be misinterpreting everything. But I also know that Dean Winchester doesn’t think much of himself on a good day.
I want to take care of him like I know he deserves. Screw what he thinks.
For now, he’s cleaning himself up in my shower. He’d called out to me a minute after turning on the water that the coast was clear for me to enter. I ducked inside, grabbed the sopping pile of clothes barely contained in the tiny pedestal sink and placed them in a bucket. I recall the time Dean helped me with the skunk situation using a similar bucket.
The bathroom is muggy and humid. The water Dean’s under is hot enough to steam up the mirror. I can make out movement from his shadow behind the curtain.
“I’ll give these a quick rinse in the kitchen sink.” I call out to him. “Sorry, no washer.”
Dean’s hearty laugh fills the small room. “Good thing or else you might decide to wash ALL my clothes again.”
“Hah, hah,” I reply in a sarcastic tone.
I’m about to leave with the bucket, but halt when I notice Dean’s duffle bag atop the toilet seat.
That’s when I got what might be a terrible idea.
And now, I’m sitting on my sofa, scrolling on my phone as I wait.
It’s not long before the water turns off. The sound of the shower curtain being pulled to one side is next. It’s maybe another 30 seconds before Dean projects his voice loud enough for me to hear. “Hey, El?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah?”
“Are you fucking with me?”
I grin. “Huh?”
A dramatic sigh follows. “I apologize for the crack about washing my clothes.”
“Accepted.”
“Please tell me you didn’t wash them all again.”
“I didn’t.”
“Great, so where’s my bag?”
“Out here.”
There’s a pause. I begin to count in my head. It’s when I reach the number ten that I hear, “Okay then.”
The door swings open. I get a good, hard look at Dean in nothing but one of my fluffy baby blue towels wrapped around him like a kilt. He slips that well worn amulet over his head to rest around his neck.
It may be ten years since I was last graced with this show, but, damn, Dean Winchester has only improved with age.
He scans the room for his bag, intentionally not meeting my gaze. It’s difficult but I try to catalog all the bits I can in case things don’t go as planned. A cherry red tints his cheeks. He’s pale almost everywhere but his forearms.
I spot what I assume is the nefarious Mark of Cain branded on the inside flesh of one of those arms. If Bobby was around he would have kicked Dean seven ways to Sunday for pulling that stunt.
“If you wanted me naked all you had to do was ask.” Dean puffs out his chest but still doesn’t look at me. “Alright, I give up.” He rolls his eyes and gazes past me on purpose. “Where is it?”
I’ve one upped him and can’t help my enjoyment. “Where’s what?”
“My bag,” he huffs.
“Oh, on the floor. Between my bed and the dresser.”
His head tilts to the direction I gave and he sighs. He strolls, tall and proud, making sure to secure the towel with one hand.
It’s my first time getting a proper look at Dean’s feet. And his toes. And yeah, they are fucking adorable.
I send Bobby a silent prayer in thanks for letting my path cross with Dean Winchester’s all those years ago.
Dean bends slightly which gives me an even nicer view of the cotton clinging to his curvy backside. He lifts the bag and places it on my twin bed.
I hold my breath. He unzips the duffle with his back to me and pulls out his clothes, one by one.
Dean’s body stiffens.
I know he’s found it.
He clears his throat. “Are you going to want this back, or can I keep it?”
I grin. “Depends.”
“On?”
“If you’re feeling lucky.” I do a quick inhale and let the words trail out on my exhale. “And if you’d like to wear them for me.”
Dean chuckles, loud and unexpected. He spins on a heel so he can stare me down. He clutches my pink panties close to his chest. “You mind repeating that.”
I hold my own in the staredown. “I think you could pull it off.”
He grins. “Would it surprise you to know this wouldn’t be the first time a woman asked me to wear her panties?”
“You know, it actually wouldn’t.”
He twirls the panties around a finger. “What kind of lucky we talking about, sweetheart?”
I shrug. “All depends on you.”
He bungees the panties back into his grip. In an instant, the mirth is gone. “I hate this.”
His one-eighty silences me.
He deflates and sits at the foot of the bed. Bow legs splay wide. The towel threatens to reveal more of him with the stretch. “I can’t pretend things can be this easy with you, El. Neither one of us is footloose and fancy free here. You know too much. And I, I’ve done so much.” His hands ball into fists, one still holding my underwear.
I frown. “Since when did you become the overthinking Winchester brother?” I ask in a glib tone.
“I’m serious,” he shoots back.
“I know, that’s the problem.”
“It doesn’t make sense. I get it. If I saw you at a bar, and didn’t know you from Ad- if I didn’t know you, I’d be trying every single line I could to get you in my backseat…”
“Classy,” I sass.
He side-eyes me. “Baby’s nothing but classy.”
I’m trying to be as interruptive as possible. None of this is going according to plan.
“But,” he continues, “like this, with you knowing all you know, I got no game.”
“That makes me sound like a conquest.” I cross my arms. “If you’re trying to kill the mood, mission accomplished.”
“Okay, not the right word.” He starts, closes his mouth, thinks, then starts again. “I wish we’d kept hunting with you, all those years back.” He sighs after the non-sequitur.
“Can’t you ask that angel to time travel you back to the past? We could split off into a different timeline, have a do over.” I ask in an effort to add some levity. Deep down, though, a part of me isn’t joking.
“Cas doesn’t have the juice like he did a couple years ago to send me back.” Dean shakes his head, answering in serious contemplation. “And besides, you can’t actually change the outcome. Trust me, I’ve tried.” A manic chuckle bubbles out of Dean’s throat. “How many ways can I say I’m beyond fucked up? Time travel? Mark of Cain? Former Demon?”
“I’ve learned over the years that the Winchesters aren’t given the same rulebook and scorecard as everyone else. There are higher powers calling the play. That doesn’t make YOU fucked up.”
“You haven’t seen me this past year.” Dean drops my panties on the mattress and snatches up his black t-shirt. He tugs it over his head. “And, it’s not like I’m trying to go on the straight and narrow after whooping it up with the King of Hell. I’m on a friggin’ dating app. Woman in every port guy, right here.” He lifts his arms to point two thumbs at his chest. “The less time they spend around this, the better.”
“Newsflash, none of that surprises me.”
“Well, maybe it should scare you as far away from me as possible.”
“What scares me more is not knowing where you are or how you’re doing.” I get up from the couch and march to the bed, sitting beside him. He taps his fingers over the terry towel covering his thighs. I force myself to finally continue. “I’ve always wanted to ask you something.”
His toes curl and scrunch into the rug beneath his feet. “Ask,” he permits in a hushed tone.
I gulp. “Why Lisa? Why didn’t you try, with me? And don’t say because Sam told you to go to her.”
He shakes his head. “It’s like I said before. You and I, we know too much. I couldn’t start over with someone in the life. At least, not then. I couldn’t imagine hunting without Sam by my side. He was gone. I didn’t know how to be me. It was better to be someone else.”
“Dean Winchester.” I reach out, tilt his head to face me. My hand trails down his arm to find a home in the crook of his elbow. “What’s so wrong about knowing too much? Can’t you see you don’t have to hide with me? And if knowing too much is wrong in your estimation, well, then, we can be wrong together.”
His hand clamps over mine.
My words are released slowly and thoughtfully. “You wanted me to admit my true feelings for you earlier, on the bridge, hoping we’d get the woman in white to show up. I think she was hell bent on protecting women from caring so much that it made them vulnerable. And you and I have been doing the same damn thing for years.” I lean my cheek against his shoulder, adding, “All this trying to push away only seems to bring us right back here. And every time, it takes a little bit longer to find each other. I don’t want to lose any more time with you.”
His chin brushes my forehead. “I don’t either.” His arms snake around me. I’m pulled in closer to his warmth. “Will you come back with me? To Lebanon?”
I snuggle into the soft layer of cotton and the give of his chest. “You expect me to leave all this behind?” I lay the sarcasm on thick.
“If you stay, Bobby’d say you were being stubborn, you know. And Pamela would say you’re missing out on a sure thing.” He waits a beat. “Like, the surest of sure things.”
“Hm.” I hum, more to myself, close my eyes. He starts a slight rocking motion, swaying. My arms cling around his lower back.
“Huh.” He murmurs, an arm that was around me disappears. There’s a shuffle and clink at our left. “You still got it.”
I open my eyes to see the cat angel figurine cradled in his large palm.
“Yeah.” I reach out and stroke its pudgy belly with a finger. Eventually, my hand covers it. I serve as the blanket to Dean’s bed for the little guy. “It reminds me of you. Whether those reminders were good or bad depended on the day, I guess.”
Dean’s chest inflates slowly. His body goes rigid for a moment, preparing again. “Down there, all those years ago. When I made my choice… I couldn’t take my angels with me. I couldn’t have you watching me, reminding me of what could’ve been. There wasn’t space or place for it, for where I had to go deep inside. What I became. What I did. It was all wrong. I was wrong. And then, to make another choice to take the mark…”
I squeeze and press the little angel between our flesh. Pointy things dig into my skin. “If Bobby was here, he’d tell you to ‘quit your boo-hooin’ boy. We all gotta make tough choices and deal with the fallout. We can drown ‘em at the bottom of a bottle for a while, but they're always gonna resurface.’” I pause after my very poor imitation of the grumpy old man that I miss every day. I clear my throat and add, “There’s a lot of life ahead. You can choose how to spend it. Make amends. Ask for forgiveness. Not just from others, but from yourself.”
Dean nuzzles his chin against my forehead. “I’m sorry for pushing you away. I never thought you weren’t strong enough. I thought you’d be safer, is all.”
“Dean?”
“Hm?”
“This is the part where you kiss me.”
“Ah.” His lips place a warm peck on my eyebrow. “Like that?”
I sigh. “Sure.”
A little bubble of laughter releases from him. He nudges his nose down my cheek and it’s not long before he’s kissing me correct and bringing his A-game. His mouth opens, eager and slick. He leans back every so often, parts from my lips, in order to stare into my eyes. I melt at the attention. During one of those soul-searching gazes, he whispers, “We can go as slow as you want, Princess.”
The cat figurine thunks onto the rug from my lift and swipe of Dean’s hand. I cup his jaw and wipe my thumb over his cheek. “A little less conversation,” I grin.
He nods, quirks up one side of his mouth, “I little more action. Copy.”
~~~~
This bit of news can’t wait until I’m home. I gotta call Dean now.
“Why you callin’? What’s wrong?” his voice is gruff. He sounds like he might actually have been sleeping.
“You remember that casus interuptussis by Lake Wallenpaupack?”
Dean hums. “That sounds familiar.”
“The skunk?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s been years. Something fatal finally happen?”
“No. I was scrolling through the hunter’s app Charlie created…”
“That thing is great, right?!? I can tell Sam’s lowkey pissed and impressed at how awesome it is everytime I wave it in his face. He’s being such a baby, not beta testing it.”
”Anyway,” I huff.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“Would you believe I read an article from Lakeville Leaks that says some cops patrolling near Cove Haven pulled over a guy, speeding, dressed in an abominable snowman costume with white contacts?” I barely take a breath before I continue, realizing I’ve given Dean way too much runway with that question. “They’d gotten a radio call about another scare slash sighting only a couple minutes prior. The guy caved and spilled everything. Turned out to be some young kid who’d been paid by his rich land developing uncle. The uncle’s usual crony, that haunts and creeps around the area, had gotten arrested for a B&E. Dude’s been doing it for decades to keep people away or get them to move out so he can gobble up abandoned properties on the cheap.”
There’s a longer pause. “Like a real-life Scooby-Doo?”
I giggle. “Yeah.”
“Huh? Well, sounds like those meddling cops finally solved the case.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t anything supernatural. Always bugged me that I never went back to look into things.” I turn up the dirt road.
“We had our radar up. Nothing crazy happened to merit another looksee. We can’t hop in the Mystery Machine every time somebody spots a potential monster. We’re busy enough.” He offers. “But, I’m glad it was just some stupid, rich fuck, too, this time. Hopefully he gets what’s coming to him.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Got a shower in and then passed out. Trying to get a little beauty rest, yeah.”
“You don’t need to get any prettier, Dean. Leave some for the rest of us.”
He chuckles.
I clear my throat, taking a sharp turn between an aisle of trees not traveled by many. “Oh, I may need you to take a look at my car again.”
A groan accompanies a long sigh. “Or, you can stop being so goddamn stubborn and start driving one of the other cars.”
I slow down and roll my beat-up hatchback to a stop over the hidden soil-covered pad. I count to five then continue into the dark tunnel scooped out of the rock face. Mechanical noises click and echo upon my approach to the rising garage door. “No way. I’m not gonna risk dinging any of those MOL beauties. Anxiety is bad enough when I have to drive Baby somewhere.”
“El, it’s been two years since you left Matamoras with that hunka junk. It’s time, sweetheart. If you won’t drive one, maybe Sam and I can find a way to sell one of ‘em. Get you something that you’re comfortable driving. And sensible.”
I ease into the garage and pull up alongside the Black Beauty that gleams due to Dean’s recent wash and wax. She’s such a show off sometimes. “Legacies allowed to sell Men of Letters stuff?”
“As long as there isn’t a curse attached I don’t see why not. Nothing in the handbook that says otherwise.”
“I still feel weird about it. You sure Sam would be alright with it?”
“He’s the one that keeps reminding me you need a dependable set of wheels when we’re away on a case. You gotta get to and from school. And work. For some reason,” he teases.
I kill the engine and don’t take the bait. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Okay.”
I stand in the middle of the garage for a minute, holding a take out bag filled with burgers and fries, and a Cobb salad for Sam. I wonder which car Dean might be willing to part with. My mind drifts to Bobby, like it does so often. He would’ve loved these cars, tinkering in this garage.
He’d be proud of the boys. Proud of me.
I stroll through the halls that keep the ghosts out. The few that had been kept inside these walls, stuck around for decades, had made themselves known to me right away. Together, Sam, Dean and I had made sure they crossed over. Since then, it’s been quiet and my first real sanctuary in forever.
I’ve had time to build a life with Dean, as unpredictable and chaotic as it can sometimes get. But we’re living it.
I pass the kitchen and drop the bag of food onto the table, then shuffle along in search of one or both of the brothers. I mentally scroll through the assignments list for my classes this semester. This psychology degree is a lot more work than I bargained for. But if I want to become a therapist and help other hunters in a professional capacity, I’ve got to stay focused.
No sign of anyone in the library, I continue on, ending up outside Dean’s bedroom a minute later. I knock. “Babe, you hungry?”
The door whips open. He’s all smiles, with that just showered hair, in that dead man robe. “Hm. How’d you know I was in the mood for some El?” He pulls me into his room by the strap of my messenger bag. The door clinks shut. He hugs me close, swoops down to give me a proper welcome home kiss.
I get an indulgent whiff of him. He used my cherry vanilla body wash again in the shower. I taste the orange soda he downs as a nightcap instead of whiskey.
I sigh when he breaks away. It’s been a dry spell without a case for over a month and I’m not complaining. Dean can sometimes be gone for days or a couple weeks with Sam. They still travel all over the continental United States when they get a call that has a fellow hunter positively stumped. But I can accept the time apart more easily now that the hunts have been milk runs (for the Winchesters, comparatively speaking) for about a year.
Not long after I’d moved into the bunker, Dean made another deal with Death to safeguard the world from him and the Mark of Cain. He’d been banished to an alternate universe.
Really, though, he should have known none of us were going to let that - him - go. We researched day and night until we found a spell that might work. It had taken weeks, but Sam, Cas, and I located the whereabouts of the necessary and rarest of ingredients: archangel grace. We weren’t gonna let the fact it was locked away in London at the British Men of Letters main headquarters stop us either. Rowena had been roped in to help, promised access to magical upgrades, for her portal opening spell casting.
The trip to Apocalypse World to bring back the now unmarked Dean Winchester? I’ll save that for another day.
When Dean returned, I sat all three of them down. Dean, Sam, and Cas. It was time for therapy. Individual and group. All this obsessive, entangled, enmeshed mess of an existence? If anyone had any chance of making it to retirement age, stuff needed to get picked apart, infected wounds unwrapped and cared for proper. As far as I was concerned Dean’s stone one had to start with him loving himself first.
Have there been setbacks? Of course. But has there also been progress? Absolutely. Instead of sacrificing their lives for each other they’re exposing their vulnerabilities to each other. And to me.
I’m proud of them all. And I’m important to Dean. Enough for him to stick to the mundane end of the supernatural pool (again, for what Winchesters classify as mundane). I’m important enough that he only drags me out on a case unless they really, really need me. He lets me have the little normal that I crave.
“What’s going on?” I grin and drop my chin to my chest. His fingers unzip my jacket.
“You asked. I’m hungry.” He smiles, then catches my lips with his again.
Lately, we spend evenings falling asleep by nine more than we roll around in the sheets. We’re still connected, but there’s more gasping over the unexpected touch of frozen toes than impending orgasms.
He rids me of one layer, then another. I stand, a little shiver dancing up my spine, in my bra. Before he can start on my jeans, I give his hand a little smack. “Hey, what about you, buddy? What’s under the robe?”
I haven’t seen Dean blush like this in forever. The apples of his cheeks turn dusty pink. “You know… we’re going on thirteen years since we first met.”
I blink at the realization. Dean’s sly smile transports me back in time. That cocky twenty something had so much to prove and nothing to apologize for. I lift up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I know,” I whisper. “I’m owed some skin for all that time served.”
He chuckles, unties the belt, and raises a brow. “You wanna do the honors?”
My nod is quick and eager. I step in close, slide my hands under the robe’s lapels and attempt to reveal his t-shirt. His hands and forearms, tight to his middle, create a tug of war with very little give. I know he’ll get a kick out of my struggle so I stifle the whine. I part the top layer the same way Clark Kent undresses, making his mad dash to any nearby telephone booth.
The eventual recognition that he’s wearing my ancient nightshirt makes me giggle. “It’s just a flesh wound,” I murmur. It still fits him tight and right everywhere, even with the little pudge of a stomach. Maybe even more so because of that. “You’d definitely win the who-wore-it-better contest.”
He smiles. “You remember the last time I had to wear this?”
I sigh. “Yes. I washed ALL your clothes.” I tap the tip of my finger into his chest for emphasis. “By accident.”
He snatches me around the waist and sandwiches me in his embrace like the bread in a panini press. “You wanted an excuse to see me naked. Admit it.” He pecks at my mouth over and over again.
“I was trying to do something nice,” I huff, feigning annoyance.
“Sure.” He licks his bottom lip, dripping with sarcasm. That mouth is sexy as hell. Not as pouty and puffy as when he was the epitome of a fuckboy. But, man, they still do some impressive acts in the bedroom. His hands skim up my bare back. Fingers rest on my bra hooks, but he doesn’t release them. “What if I told you this shirt isn’t the only thing of yours I’m wearing tonight?”
“What?” I frown. I love the guy but I don’t need him stretching out any more of my clothes.
His gaze drifts down to my bare tummy pressed against the soft cotton. The jeans I have on add another layer between us, but his arousal is warm and stiffening, hard to ignore. I slip a thigh into the space his bow legs naturally create. I wedge in and shimmy. I can’t tear my stare from the way his lids flutter and bat at my teasing. His lips part a fraction. “Have a look.”
I’m ready to step back and open his robe when I figure it out. I pause. “Really?”
He smirks and dammit if Fuckboy hasn’t reemerged in spades tonight. “When I found them again, years ago, I started tucking them into a pocket before going out on a hunt. I think you were right about them being lucky. ‘Cause something always seemed to go sideways when I’d forget them.” He leans down and caresses my ear with his words. “I always wondered how lucky I could get if I actually wore them again. You know, got rid of the guilt and shame and let myself have something pretty and fancy- just like you, Princess.”
I moan at the confession, and clench my lids shut. He’s lighting me up inside. I pull the robe free between us and feel the iron hot temperature of his skin. My fingers inch the shirt up. I snake my arms around his back and hang onto his handlebar shoulders.
He works the button and zipper of my jeans. They’re pushed past the curve of my ass. He peels everything down only to my mid-thigh. Enough so I can experience the touch of him, meld against him. The only way we could be pried apart right now is if we’re doused with a bucket of cold water.
He finds my mouth with his again. His kiss is slow and tender. It lets me luxuriate and hone in on the ache in my core and his pulsing erection covered in lace. I warm in anticipation of what’s to come. How much of a show he’ll give me. I plan to sit on the edge of his bed and have him strip off that robe and t-shirt in tantalizing slow motion. Not the panties though. Those are gonna stay on for a while. So I can run my hands over the trapped bulge. Trace the imprint of the constrictive lace forming into creamy freckled skin while I imprint the entire image in my mind for safekeeping. Including those goddamn kink-creating bow legs. He might have to spin around for me so I can appreciate how well the cotton candy pink hugs his ass.
I can’t wait to stare up at him as he towers above me, maybe with one or two of my fingers in that mouth. See how good he licks and sucks things. Get his cheeks to redden and his eyelids to flutter the way I adore.
I can’t wait for the way his mouth will feast on me while I tell him to get on his knees on the mattress between my legs. I want that pinky-lace covered ass popped up high in the air to admire. After all, I deserve something pretty and delicate, too.
But I’m lucky to have that already in Dean. Even if he doesn’t see it.
He leans up and away from my mouth. Green eyes sparkle down at me.
“You’re gonna have a lot of laundry to do after this, Suds.”
~~~The End~~~
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Spin. (Part 4 of Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Series) by Drasna
Story Summary: Dean's been dragged to hell. Elina's trying to put her life back together. Let's see how well that goes.
Story Part Tags: Demons, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Post-Purgatory Dean Winchester
Word Count: 12,500
Rated Mature
If you don't want to wait for the tumblr rollout, the complete series is on AO3.
Series Parts (Click to Jump To): Wash. Pre-Rinse. Rinse. Spin. Repeat.
Chapter 1
The thing about living this double life, one foot in and one foot out, is that the normal crap you keep wanting to be a part of… well, it doesn’t wait around for you to figure out your bullshit.
The sun keeps on rising and setting. The bills keep piling up and need to be paid. People expect you to slap on a happy face right quick. It’s too depressing for them to have to trudge through the muck of grief alongside you. If you can’t get with the program, you get left behind. Thrown out on your ass. Another faceless example, that no one wants to acknowledge, of what the world can do to someone it chews up, decides the flavor is not to its liking and spits out.
The ones who understood my pain were handling the grief in their own unhealthy ways. Bobby called me every day after the news of Dean to make sure I was alright. But I could tell my favorite grump was imbibing much more than usual. His words slurred. A drunk Bobby hardened up with each drink. No feelings were getting in or out anytime soon.
The facts, though? Bobby could spurt out details like a leaky faucet. He’d wanted to burn Dean’s body. Sam wasn’t having it. Sam buried Dean. “All’s he’d tell me is some’er in Pontiac, Illinois. He’s hell-bent on bringin’ him back from ‘ell, El.”
I reached out to Sam. I called. I’d left voicemails. Sent text after text. But he wasn’t responding to me. Bobby said Sam had stopped talking to him, too, while he was at the salvage yard. And, then, about a week later he’d left in the middle of the night.
We’d all let him down. We’d all let his brother down. Why would he stay or talk to any of us?
As helpful and sweet as Pamela and Garth had been, I couldn’t hold them hostage forever. No matter what Bobby threatened to do to them. So, I cut them loose and promised to be there for them like they’d been for me. Every hope I could muster was that I’d never have to; neither one of them deserved the nightmares that hid in wait behind closed lids.
It took a bit of convincing before they packed their bags and headed out. What could Lilith need with me anymore? I’d found out through some other drunken stumbles about a demon that had been working with the boys to find and defeat Lilith who’d been sent back to hell. And, yeah, okay, that was really fucking concerning after-the-fact information. But, I wasn’t fresh or enticing bait to dangle in front of anyone anymore. One Winchester brother was six feet under. The one still breathing wouldn’t have me on his priority list anytime soon, and for good reason.
He’d lost Dean. I can’t lose him, either. I’d stared at that last line in Sam’s note long enough for the swirls and loops to etch into my mind’s eye. Now, he would have to figure out what can’t means. Try to process and reconfigure a life without Dean. If he can. God, I hope he can.
Dean was an every second of everyday thing for Sam for so long. I have to convince myself that I can move on easier than Sam. For me, Dean was a tangled skein of yarn. What-ifs pulled on only to catch and snag on threads of doubt that didn’t want to free themselves. Maybe it was better we hadn’t found a way to unravel ourselves and roll all that string back into something new together. Maybe that year I missed out on with him was my saving grace? How could I ever move on if I had actually been given the opportunity to know exactly what I lost?
Those beautiful green eyes flecked with gold in the sunshine.
That rumble of bravado under the deep timbre in his voice.
Those lips that promised so much with one kiss.
That embrace I never wanted to escape.
No. It was better to have been denied loving him in all the ways I’d hoped.
I felt even more helpless and useless when it came to comforting Sam. If he needed space I wouldn’t suffocate him with daily calls and voicemails. Besides, I had my own shit to figure out.
Ryan Hoyt and Mitch Hagan were the sweetest of bosses. They offered me legal counsel and representation pro bono during the investigation and questions surrounding Gary. I knew they’d wait for as long as I needed until I felt well enough to return to work. But I’d already been out for three weeks. The impending doom and the possible reinstatement of the dreaded “Hoyt filing system” made my decision to get back to the office an easy one.
The one foot in and one foot out deal? Yeah, even superheroes battle keeping that secret identity shit straight and doubt themselves all the time. Look at Batman. Superman. Ironman was out in the open, but he also had a bazillion dollars to make things kinda sorta work for him. I still have to find ways to feed myself daily and manage to keep this studio apartment’s lights on.
I think it’s time I admit to myself that the “with great power comes great responsibility” motto should be left for everyone’s friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Not me, the not-so-friendly lately neighborhood Psychic.
But, Matamoras is kind of my responsibility now. It’s reeling from the murder of one of its own, Aunt Cheryl, at the hands of another one of its own, Gary. If the citizens are gonna get to move on with their normal, I’ve gotta take care of any of the abnormal that steps foot in it.
I’m here for the long haul.
So, it was back to the law firm and picking up shifts at Tony’s. There are lots of side-eyes and tentative smiles from my co-workers at the pizza parlor. Any conversation is stilted and awkward. But I’m resigned to push through. I’m getting some decent pity tips in the process.
It’s late Wednesday morning and I’m opening Tony’s solo as a favor for Linda who’s running late. I hurry and unlock the front entrance, tip the sign facing out onto the street to OPEN at 11:01 am. I scurry back into the kitchen, clock-in, tie my server apron tight about my waist, pull out some of the basics from the walk-in, and drop trays into the prep table. I hear the tinkle of the doorbell while I work. Of course it’s today that someone decides they absolutely need to eat at Tony’s as soon as it opens.
I clang and clatter for a few more minutes. I text Linda that I would very much appreciate it if she hurries her ass up. When I don’t hear anyone callout or another doorbell ring, I sigh and prepare to hold down the fort as best as I can. I enter the front of the house and spot a statuesque blonde, wearing a leather duster and smart slacks, sitting in a booth. She’s the only customer, thank goodness. It’s graduation day at the high school. We’re gonna be slammed by Tony standards in a couple hours. More than likely there’ll be some new faces stopping in to eat who’ve been celebrating. I figure this must be one of them.
I grab the fresh pitcher of water I’ve prepared along with a glass and stroll over to her booth. She meets my gaze and offers a pretty, plastered smile.
“Welcome to Tony’s. What can I getcha?” I doubt my good-natured expression is as bright as hers, but at least I’m trying.
She returns to study the laminated menu in her hand. “Hm. I’d kill for some fries.”
I nod and pour her a drink of water. “Sure. Want them alongside something else?”
“No. Those’ll be great, fresh out of the fryer. Extra salty.”
“I’ll get that order in for you straight away.” I don’t bother to tell her it’s only me for the next ten minutes or so.
Her smile tilts up into a funhouse sneer for a second.
A ringing zings through my ears. Something crawls under my skin. A wave of dread. A flicker of the violation, of when my body was no longer mine to control.
A faraway echo of the faintest whisper fills my head. “Let me out. Please.” I don’t recognize the voice.
PTSD has been an annoying passenger for a while. This, though, switches my panic dial to a different station.
I tap my pen on the order pad. I remind myself to inhale and exhale. “What brings you to Matamoras?”
“Meeting up with an old friend.” Her smile softens but it doesn’t meet her eyes. Eyes, cornflower blue, stripped of the sparkle I expect. She grabs the water glass and takes a sip.
I can’t help but hold my breath now as I wait.
She spits out the liquid. Steam sizzles out of her mouth. Eyes flip lacquer black for a fleeting second. She coughs, then clears her throat. “I didn’t realize holy water was being served. I would’ve asked for sparkling instead.”
I begin to recite the Latin I’ve committed to memory since that fateful night in the Delaware River.
She raises a hand, like a student in class. “How are you gonna explain me smoking out to anyone passing by this pretty picture window off Main Street?”
I pause the chant. “What do you want?”
“You, Elina.” She sighs. “But, you’ve gone and warded yourself.”
I wonder if the anti-possession tattoo lines me with a candy-coated shell of protection that demons can see.
The demon shoots me an exaggerated frown. “So, that’s off the table. I was kind of hoping to exchange this meat suit.”
I assess my options. I’ve got a hunter’s knife tucked in my boot. And I can douse her with the rest of the pitcher to give myself a head start. I hear another whisper-yell. “Help me.” My stomach twists at the fact there’s a woman imprisoned in her own body by this hellspawn.
“Where’s Sam Winchester?” the demon coos.
I gulp, forcing my breakfast down. “I-I don’t know. He’s in the wind.”
She squints. “In the wind, huh? You can understand how I’m thinking you might be lying?”
“Totally understandable. I mean, you are a demon. Do unto others, right?”
Her lips go tight. Her attention is enraptured by the menu again. “I tried to help them, you know? But when Dean’s deal came due, Lilith booted me out of my old vessel.” Her gaze flickers up at me. My mind whirls, piecing together that this could be the demon that had been with the boys during Dean’s final moments. But I remind myself that demons lie. She’s trying hard to be solemn and sincere with a pinched, forlorn expression. “From what I heard, Lilith made sure the hellhounds tore into his flesh and raked his soul over every available coal on its way to the underworld.”
I grind my teeth and close my eyes. It’s an image that’s haunted me with heart-crushing regret hundreds of times. “I can’t help you on both counts, my body or the brother.”
“Call him.” She nods to the lump that’s my cell phone in an apron pocket.
“No.” I straighten and decide to take my chances with someone seeing a demon smoke out of this woman’s body. Gossip around town is that strange things seem to occur in my vicinity. Might as well live up to that if I can save an innocent person. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…”
“Hey, Elina,” Linda’s sing-song voice calls out from the kitchen, “I’ll get the fryers on in a few! Thanks for covering!”
“I’d very much appreciate you getting that order in for me.” The demon smiles and her eyes flash black again. “My flight topside was a one-way ticket. I’m not allowed back into Hades until my business with Sam Winchester is complete.” She shrugs. “I get cast out of this, I’ve got the juice to pinball into the closest meat suit. Your friend back there will fit me just fine. Or anyone else in this town.” She clocks a little boy passing the parlor window with his mom and dog. I’m not sure about the kid’s name, but I remember him coming in and wanting the soft-serve vanilla with a dozen maraschino cherries. “Maybe that little guy. Out in the big bad world, saddled up and ridden like a pony.”
“You bitch,” I snarl under my breath.
“I also heard about the fun Helios had with you.” She leans an elbow on the tabletop and cradles her chin in her palm. Her fingers tap on her cheek in boredom. “You knew him as Gary. He wept for that blunder, stretched out on a rack. But he also wouldn’t shut up about how nice it felt to wear your skin for a short time. How easy you sank a knife into an innocent.”
“That wasn’t…”
“You? I’m sure it makes you feel better to believe that. But the saying ‘the mind is strong but the flesh is weak’? Yeah, they kind of got that backward. Some minds only need a tiny bit of permission for the body to follow the leader.” She rises from the booth, a lot taller than me in chunky-heeled boots. “We’re really more like viruses up here. We infect those without purpose, those who are lost, much, much easier. Do what I ask, and I’m out of this town. Or don’t, and see firsthand what kind of destruction I can wage here.”
“He-he won’t answer.”
The demon smiles. “Let’s give it a go anyway, for shits and giggles.” Her gaze darts over my shoulder. Her smile doubles.
“Elina?” Linda’s voice is closer. She’s in the room with us now. She’s probably behind the counter, but I don’t turn around.
“Can you get an order of fries in?” I call out.
“Sure. Have ‘em out in about five minutes, if that’s alright?” I know Linda’s question is directed at our customer.
“I’ve got all the time in the world.” The demon smiles at Linda. The kitchen door swooshes. She stares back at me, hard and determined. “Call him.”
I sigh and pull out my phone. Sam’s number is selected by muscle memory. I hold the phone to my ear and wait as it rings. Sam picks up on the fifth ring.
“‘Lo.” Sam murmurs deep.
“Sam?”
“Ellllll?”
He’s drunk. He’s so drunk. That’s the only reason he’s picked up.
“Sam, you have to,” my words rush out but I’m not quick enough before dust blows into my face. I inhale and cough as ancient syllables pour from the demon. I blink and my lids glue shut.
When I open my eyes seconds later I hear Linda calling from the counter. “Order up! Elina? You okay?”
I inhale and clutch my chest. The demon’s gone. My phone rests on the booth table atop a menu. “Yeah.”
“Customer in the bathroom?”
“Um, no. I haven’t unlocked the bathroom yet.” I swipe my phone up and stick it in my pocket. A deep breath readies me to turn to Linda. “She just left.”
“Huh?” Her soft features are on sudden alert when she takes me in. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod faster than I can control. “Yeah.” I shrug. “She ranted about having to leave. Some sort of emergency.”
“Oh.” She’s not convinced. “Ooohkay. Well, why don’t you unlock the bathroom and maybe take five?”
“Sure. Yeah.” My steps are quick to the door. I fumble with my keys at the lock. It takes a few tries before I’m successful and slip inside.
I cringe at my reflection. I’m sweaty and red-faced. I pull out my phone and check the time. Fuck me. I literally lost five minutes of consciousness. I didn’t faint. I remained upright. I navigate to the log screen.
My last call to Sam lasted just shy of a minute.
I dial his number again.
He picks up on the first ring. “Ruby, if you hurt her…” He sounds stone sober and mad as hell, hissing through his teeth.
Ruby?!? “Sam, it’s El.”
“Are you alright?” The tone shifts to worry.
“Yeah-yeah. I think so. It… Ruby, you know that thing?”
“It’s a long story, El. You don’t have to worry.” The fight leaves his voice. “She promised to leave town.”
“She’s coming after you, Sam. You…”
“Let her come.”
“Sam…”
“You’re doing the right thing. Don’t come looking for me. I’ll have to keep running instead of what I gotta do if you track me down.”
“Ever think Dean might have wanted me to keep you running so you don’t do something stupid?” I bite back adding like he did .
“I don’t care what Dean wanted. Look at where it got him.” He sighs. “You gotta trust me, El. I need. I need to know someone believes…” His voice hitches.
I hear it in his plea. He’s wrestling with himself. What he can do. What he’s capable of. The struggle hits home in an instant.
“Promise me, Sam. You call if you need me. And you keep in touch. Even if it’s just one word letting me know you’re alive and good. Please?”
“Promise.”
Unfortunately, Sam didn’t keep his promise.
But about four months after that close call with a demon, I made good on my promise to Pamela. Unfortunately.
Bobby’d sent me three lines of text.
Pamela at Wagner Memorial
ICU
Not lookin good
Bobby was calling for reinforcements and I was the first on deck. Pamela’s biological relatives had been out of the picture for a decade. Didn’t matter. The hunter network was more reliable and loyal, nine times out of ten.
Things had quieted down in my little town. I wasn’t the main subject of conversation anymore. I could tell because the whispers stopped when I passed the bridge playing ladies and lodge member gentlemen. The “family emergency” wasn’t met with any outward speculation by my bosses at the firm. Mitch Hagan told me to take all the time I needed. “When family calls, best you run faster than a ranch hand hearing the dinner bell.”
I didn’t think my watch would last more than a couple weeks.
But I wasn’t prepared for what I’d find in South Dakota.
Pamela was stable by the time I got to the hospital a couple days after Bobby’s text message. Post surgery, she was heavily sedated, her eyes bandaged.
Well, the sockets where her eyes had been were bandaged.
I whisper to Bobby outside her hospital room. “How’d it happen?”
“L. You better sit down.” Bobby sighs.
Oh man. “Why?”
He purses his lips and snorts air out his nose. “Sit.”
I shake my head and take one of the seats he points to in the hallway.
He settles beside me. “I’d gone to see Pamela with Sam and-”
“Sam’s back! Where’s he been?”
“L-”
“He went radio silent on me. Didn’t message me back after I-”
Bobby snatches one of my hands and holds it tight about the wrist. That quiets me long enough for him to finish. “Dean’s back.”
Maybe Bobby held on because he wasn’t sure if I would faint or flee.
But blinks are all I manage for some time. My heart races.
“What?” I finally squeak out. “He-he,” I stutter. “Did Sam-”
“No. We don’t know how. That’s why we went to see Pamela. Try and find some answers.” Bobby lets go of me, tugs off his cap, and runs a palm over the stragglers atop his melon. “Never gonna forgive myself for draggin’ her into this.”
Dean’s back. “Nobody drags Pamela into anything.” I clasp my hand onto Bobby’s now. Partly to ease his guilt and steady my nerves. If I don’t hold on to something, I might spin like a top. “What happened?”
“Dean-” Bobby stops, hitches in some breath. His eyes get glassy. I swallow, waiting to wake up from this dream. “He dragged himself out of his own pine box.”
“Where he was buried, in Pontiac?”
Bobby nods. “Something yanked him out of hell and dropped him back into his body. But, smelling sweet as the daisies he’d been pushin’ up. Not a mark on him, except for a brand that looks an awful lot like a handprint.” Bobby taps at his shoulder.
“You did all the tests?”
Now Bobby just looks offended I’m even asking that question.
I nod to brush off my scatterbrained and incoherent thoughts. “Of course you did all the tests.” I gnaw the inside of my cheek.
“They’ve been trying to figure out what got Dean topside. And if it’s a friend or foe.”
“That was the answer Pamela was supposed to help you all find?”
“Yep. Somethin’ that goes by the name of Castiel answered Pamela’s knockin’. And, when Pam pushed…”
The thing seared out our friend’s eyeballs. Anger floods through me.
“Why aren’t they here?” My voice rises in irritation. “Why are you here cleaning up their mess, again?” I point to Pamela’s hospital room door. “She’s in there because she was willing to help. And if we fail to live up to their expectations? They move on to someone else.”
I realize my unintentional confession too late, then bounce out of my seat. I stomp toward the end of the hall and lean against a wall. It’s past visiting hours in the hospital. I have a feeling Bobby’s pulled a few strings with the medical staff.
Bobby lumbers toward me. His presence hovers in that reliable, comforting way that I’ve grown to rely on and that not every hunter gets to experience. “I know this, all this, has been hard on you, L. I wish to God you hadn’t had to go through any of it.” He sighs. “The boys, both of ‘em, don’t want to see you hurt again.”
“But it’s alright for Pamela to get hurt.” I shake my head.
His hand grips my forearm from behind. “They feel awful about what happened today. They helped me get her to the hospital. Stayed until she was stable. When Pamela came to -few hours after the surgery- she started asking for you. That’s why you’re here. And Dean isn’t.”
~~~~
Pamela’s reaction to her future is anything but normal. She always believed the reliance of sight was way too easy. It made people lazy. Why would anyone even think about tapping into other planes of consciousness when a vibrant reality displays right in front of them? Now, with the crutch of vision gone, she had no choice but to exercise and strengthen every other sensory muscle.
Pamela’s blindness would help her see.
“At least my parting gift was seeing those Winchester men.” Pamela grips my fingers while regaling the tale. Bobby’s gone back to the salvage yard. It’s just her and me chatting away over a tray of hospital breakfast. I feed her yogurt with my free hand.
I want to ask how Dean looked. Not that Pamela would have anything to compare to the man that walked into her home.
Bobby said there were no visible scars; that Dean looked fresh off the factory belt.
But his time in hell must have left wounds, deep and destructive.
Pamela grins, soft and lazy. “Gotta say I was questioning how good your eyesight is, Elina.”
Leave it to her to already be tossing out off-color jokes. “What are you talking about?” I scrape the bottom of the yogurt cup for the last bit of mixed berry.
She shrugs. “Dean’s hot. But, that Sam. There’s so much of him to run your hands over.” Pamela fists a bed sheet. The pain meds have her loose and loopy.
My only response is to nudge the tip of the spoon against her bottom lip. She opens and swallows. Gulps in a loud and demonstrative way.
“I mean, Dean is totally your type. And mine, unfortunately.”
“I thought it was Sam you had your-” I snap my mouth shut.
“Eye on?” Pamela tosses her head back into the pillow and cackles. “Listening to people tiptoeing around me is gonna be amusing as hell.” She presses a hand against her bandage covered temple. Layers of gauze mummify her eyes, wrap around her head and form a skull cap. Her typically wild raven tresses are wrangled into a braid and rest over a shoulder. I imagine one of the nurses did that for her.
Pamela had bright and mesmerizing eyes the color of blue lapis.
I stifle a sob.
She cocks her head at the noise.
“Elina. Don’t.”
“It’s not fair.”
“No. It’s not. Not late breaking news for us, though. Life usually isn’t.” She sighs. “We lose things. We find a way to keep going. Or we lay down and die. I for one ain’t ready to pick out my burial gown.”
I wipe at my watering eyes.
“El, whatever brought Dean back… sweetie… it’s hella powerful. No one should mess with that.”
“Bobby…”
“Bobby’s Bobby. He’s gonna help those two no matter what anyone says. But you gotta listen to me. You gotta steer clear of Sam and Dean. Once and for all. They’ve made enemies in this life and the after life. You’re not sacrificing yourself for someone else’s stupid choice. You hear me?”
She feels for my hand.
“No man’s worth all that.”
~~~~
When I wake up, the corner chair in Pamela’s hospital room feels like concrete under my ass.
I remember the nightmares I’d waded through as I slept. Pamela’s screams. Dean’s screams. Flames licking at their faces.
Pamela wants me as far away from the boys as possible. She made a point of telling me Dean had flirted with her not even five minutes after they’d met. Seems I was the furthest from his mind. Again.
Bobby is noncommittal, stuck in the middle of his charges. He wants what’s best for all of us. But he doesn’t know what in the hell that is at the moment.
I pull out my phone, muted so as not to disturb Pamela, and scroll through my call list. Not a Winchester in sight.
Dean’s been topside for days. Not a text or call. Nothing from Sam, either.
Pamela’s out after another round of pain meds. My mentor. My friend. She stuck her neck out for them and this is the thanks she gets.
It won’t be that hard to move on from Dean.
~~~~
The world’s going to hell.
But I’m just trying to pay rent.
The insanity of the past few months isn’t tracked by the population of Matamoras in the same way as the hunter network. The weird apocalyptic anomalies are more curious than concerning for the everyman. The weather’s been a bit “off.” Autumn hasn’t quite figured out it’s clocked in for its shift and actually needs to get to work (maybe another caffeine hit from a pumpkin latte is in order). People’s fuses are shorter than usual. Pets have gone missing at an alarming rate or turned on their owners.
Tragic accidents or “survived by the skin of their teeth” stories headline the local paper (The Matamoras Herald) everyday. It used to be city council elections and harvest festivals making the news.
My phone calls with Bobby are short and to the point. He’s too busy studying and trying to track down what seal might get broken next. He’s curt, all business. There’s a lot at stake, after all. I’m not the only one that needs saving. As long as I’m breathing and not bleeding, he’s got work to do.
And it would be easier to move on from Dean if I didn’t hear tales about the Winchesters from every hunter I know (aside from Bobby, of course).
Turns out Dean got pulled out of hell by an angel. Yep, an angel. I mean, yeah, who hasn’t assumed their existence, what with needing light to balance the dark that is demons. They’ve just never been as out and about to our motley crew. Guess an impending apocalypse will bring all the boys to the yard.
Sam’s got a little more than telekinesis and clairvoyance in his superpower tool belt. It’s rumored that demon blood is the secret ingredient.
Dean almost died (again) from ghost sickness.
Sam and Dean have been teaming up with Ruby on a regular basis. Yep, the demon that paid me a visit at the pizzeria. Enemies close, I guess.
There’s something called angel radio.
Sam and Dean helped a human realize she was, in fact, a fallen angel. (That bit of news came directly from Pamela, who ended up helping them again – “do as I say, not as I do” much, Pamela? The woman has adjusted marvelously, by the way. My new nickname for her is Daredevil.)
I could try and tune out all the noise but the world is vibrating with a bubbling boil of energy. We’ve been dumped in a big frying pan of popcorn kernels, heating up. Whether aware or not, we’re all nervously anticipating explosions at a subatomic level.
Smokey Bear needs to take the matches away from Sam and Dean and remind them only they can prevent forest fires.
~~~~
Dean lit the world on fire. Now its expiration date was quickly approaching.
Giving in, giving up. He was the weakest link.
Righteous man. What a crock of shit.
How could he be considered a righteous man? A righteous man doesn’t get out of being tortured by torturing someone else.
Yet somehow, in the twisted logic of winged cherubs playing harps and former humans with onyx eyes, he’s the guy with a moral compass that broke the first seal in hell.
And now, all of heaven expects he’s gonna be able to put a stop to all this.
Dean wants a hit of whatever Castiel’s been smoking.
It might be stronger than whatever's dripping into him from the IV bag.
He’d rejected Cas’ offer to heal him. Didn’t matter if Sam had asked Cas to do that. He didn’t deserve an easy out. Not this time. Not ever.
He’s seized at least twice. Can’t be certain. His memory is fucked. He’s blacked out countless times since Alastair strangled and beat him bloody. When his medication doesn’t stay ahead of the pain, the numbness and tingling wriggle under his skin. Labored breathing wheezes out of his swollen throat, to say nothing of the fistful of razors he swallows with every gulp. In another day or two he’ll be a mottled splatter of purple and yellow bruises.
He deserves all of it and more.
When the pain startles him awake throughout the day or night - he can’t tell in the constant twilight that is his windowless hospital room - sometimes Sam is there. Sitting in a chair. Pacing at the foot of his bed. Standing in the doorway.
Sam doesn’t say anything. What could he say to make any of this right? Dean wants to be the strong one for Sam. But he’s only made things worse by his choices. Again and again. All for the misguided certainty that he was saving Sam.
But from what? How has defying fate and death saved Sam? How can he be any better off on a diet of Demon blood?
It’s the third day (maybe?) when the hallucinations start. He gasps out of nightmares filled with flames and the smell of his own charred flesh to figments of her. His double vision can’t focus on the transparent images. Sat in a chair. Leaning on the bed rail.
He hasn’t allowed his mind to pause a thought on her since he chose to get off the rack and start torturing.
She’d been one of the things he clung to, reminding him of what he needed to fight for, every time he refused Alistair’s offer. After another eternity of flaying, poking and tearing, he’d be given the ultimatum.
He’d think of Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and her, every time he’d said no.
He had to give them all up when he said yes.
He didn’t deserve any of them. Especially her.
Especially now, with what happened to Pamela.
So, why was he allowing her to stay put in his thoughts now.
At some point, when his eyes flitted open and his gaze landed on her, she spoke.
“Dean?”
That’s when he realized he wasn’t conjuring her up.
She was here.
Dean clamped his eyes shut. “No,” he croaked.
“Dean.” Her voice, low and coaxing, drifted into his ears. No imagining. She was real, flesh and blood.
Dean swallowed. “I’m sorry, El. I’m so sorry about what happened to Pamela.”
The legs of the chair dragged along the tile floor, interrupting him. “I was at the funeral when Bobby got news of you in the hospital.” Her voice closed in to the right of him. “He says you better stop trying to beat him to the grave. You’ve already done it once. Quit being a show off.”
Her words released on a tremble of air. She was close enough for him to feel her breath against his forehead. A soft pair of lips pressed into his temple.
“I didn’t want to believe in God. Then you had to go and get resurrected, Winchester.”
He froze. No part of her should be touching his vile skin. “You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled.
She sighed. “I agree. But when Bobby got the news he thought I might be helpful. So did Sam.”
His lids parted and opened with a concerted effort. It took many blinks but he eventually focused on her frame, now sitting in the chair. Dressed all in black, bags under her eyes, sallow complexion.
The heart monitor began to beep quicker; enough for her to squint in concern at the machine. “Do I need to get someone?”
Dean gulped and wheezed. “No. I-I just never thought I’d see you again.”
She frowned. “Neither did I. But you knew where I was when you… I guess I wasn’t allowed a vote on that matter.”
Dean marveled at how pretty she got when she was angry.
Her anger melted away as they stared each other down. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a scorned teenager. But, none of this is even remotely comprehensible. And that’s coming from someone who’s seen a lot of shit. Angels, Dean?”
Dean nodded through the pain.
Her warm hand rested over his. Her fingers ran back and forth over his wrist. “You’re a miracle.”
Dean huffed. “I’m the reason-”
“Look, there’s one thing you’ve gotta get through that concussed head of yours. You survived hell. I don’t care what bullshit story the higher ups and bottom feeders are trying to sell you. You’re the human in this equation that did an extraordinary thing for your brother. You sacrificed. You fought the good fight for as long as you could.” She squeezed his hand. “But you couldn’t hold out forever, Dean. Because you're human. You’re still just human at the end of the day.”
“You know what the prophecy says?”
She nodded. “Sam filled me in when I got here.”
Dean shook his head. “I can’t do it, El.”
She offered a tired smile. “Then, don’t.”
Dean couldn’t stop blinking. “What?”
“Don’t do it.” She leaned in closer. “Leave it all behind.” She gulped, swallowed loud enough for him to hear. “Come back to Matamoras with me. I’ll take care of you. You can heal up and use your second chance for something other than being a pawn in someone else’s revenge for a change.”
He’s wanted her for so long. “I can’t do that to you,” he murmured, turned and faced the opposite wall.
Her hand pulled away. “Dean. This is a one time offer.”
He replied with a curt nod. “Good. Then I won’t have to say no more than once.”
The chair legs squeaked as they were backed away from the bed. “No one can punish you any worse than you punish yourself.” Footsteps headed to the door. “But, I guess I’ve got something to pray to and someone to pray for now. Maybe you’ll come to your senses before it’s too late. Bye, Dean.”
Chapter 3
Note: Lines of italicized dialogue in the first section are from 4.21 "When the Levee Breaks" and 7.11 "Adventures in Babysitting"
Dean stared at the name in Bobby’s contact list.
It’d been years since he’d last talked to her.
This was not a call he’d ever imagined making.
He’d considered reaching out to her when Sam had called his bluff –after they both beat each other bloody– and walked out of the motel room; walked out on him.
You walk out that door, don't you ever come back.
He was going to call when they’d unleashed Lucifer. Bobby had checked on her instead.
Dean had scrolled to her phone number after he’d come back from the future.
After he’d almost died at 80 years old.
After channel hopping, literally.
Every time he got a replacement phone, her number was one of the first he’d put in his contact list from memory.
His thumb almost pressed CALL after he and Sam came back from the past.
It was after he’d come back from Choose-Your-Own-Heaven with Sam that he actually did dial her number.
It’d been disconnected.
Bobby fessed up he’d told her to get a new number. The harder for her to be found, even by Sam and Dean –hell, especially by Sam and Dean–, the safer she’d be as the Four Horsemen blazed a trail across the Earth.
Then, Sam had made the ultimate sacrifice. But not before he made Dean promise to go find Ben and Lisa when he was gone. Get himself a slice of apple pie life.
And Dean kept that promise.
But a part of him always wondered how things might’ve turned out if he’d said yes to her offer.
An apple pie life could be made with lots of different ingredients. The recipe didn’t have to include a house with a picket fence and a kid.
It could’ve been Elina and that studio apartment in Matamoras.
Not that Dean was a great baker. His apple pie life crumbled when Sam entered it again. He’d loved Lisa and Ben. He did. But the pull of his brother was stronger. Lisa was right. They had some major codependency issues.
The ingredients in that recipe, with Lisa and Ben, would have never worked with Sam and hunting.
But, Elina? As much as he knew she’d understand every aspect of his crazy (at least once all of the new crazy had been explained) it would make her vulnerable. She’d be preyed upon by every enemy the Winchesters had tallied up over the years.
It had already happened once. He didn’t want to put her in danger ever again.
Dean’s baking days were over.
Instead, he solved Sam’s soulless situation and took down Eve.
Now, they were cleaning up the mess that had been Cas unleashing Leviathans into the world.
Bobby had been the latest casualty.
Bobby.
Gone.
Three weeks since he died. No clue or lead on what those damn numbers he wrote on Sam’s hand meant before he passed.
The man they could always depend on was fucking gone.
Sam left Dean in Rufus’ cabin while he went on some inconsequential mission to track down some girl that had called Bobby’s phone. Sam, of course, had to call out the elephant in the room before he departed and have it sit in Dean’s fucking lap.
Dean, you know, um... I wonder if – if we... I mean, should we be telling people? I mean, people he knew.
How long ago did I give Frank these numbers? It's been a few weeks, right? What, is he nuts, or is he just being rude?
Probably both. Dean, I-I got to ask you a question.
Unless, of course, something happened to him. He can't get to the phone because a Leviathan ate his face.
Yeah, also a possibility.
We should go check on him.
Dean, do you want to call Bobby's people or not?
W-why is – why is that our job?
Because who else is gonna do it?
I'm not calling anybody. If you want to, you go right ahead.
I don't want to call anybody. You kidding me?
Sam was onto something. This shouldn’t be done over the phone.
Dean scrolled a few names down from Elina and hit CALL.
“Garth? Hey, it’s Dean Winchester. Yeah, yeah. I wasn’t expecting to have to call you so soon either after Delaware. Why am I calling from Bobby’s phone? Long story.” Dean cleared his throat, unwilling to release the well of feelings in his chest. “Listen, Garth. I gotta know if Elina is still in Matamoras.”
~~~~
I miss my VW Bug. Man, I can’t believe it’s been four years since it took a permanent bath in the lake with me and a Demon wearing Gary.
My body’s visceral recall of that night has me shaking and my teeth chattering.
I grip the steering wheel and ride through the feelings with deep inhales and exhales. At least I’m only a block away from my apartment. Small favors do show up every now and again.
I’ve spent so much time at Mufflers -N- More the past few months I should sleep in their garage. I was the last customer at closing time. Again. If only I had enough money saved to upgrade from this Ford “Asspire”.
My hatchback makes a literal coughing sound as I pull into my usual spot on the street. I swear it can read my spiteful and wantful thoughts,
“Take it easy. Don’t get your spark plugs in a bunch. We’re just going through a little rough patch is all. I’m not giving up on us yet.” I tap the dash. “Hopefully, we can figure it out before couple’s therapy is needed. Cause I definitely don’t have the extra cash for that.”
I kill the engine and the car whines. Long shadows criss-cross the sidewalk as night time approaches.
All I want is to zap my Lean Cuisine in the microwave and cocoon under the bed covers. I might be in time to catch “2 Broke Girls.”
I’m almost at my apartment stairwell when I spot an old Buick parked a few cars down from mine. There’s a driver in it, also cast in shadow. My radar extends in alarm and I scamper up the first set of steps. I pull the flask containing a cocktail of holy water and Borax out of my purse.
A heavy car door opens. It’s when I’ve reached the landing that I hear a voice call out my name.
His voice.
“Elina,” he repeats and punctuates it with a car door slam.
I turn.
Dean’s by the bottom step. His white knuckle grip on the handrail could snap it in two.
He begins the ascent, slow and careful. I mumble “Christo.” He doesn’t twitch. No black eyes. His head doesn’t spin like a top.
It’s when he gets closer and the floodlight washes over his face that I see the dread and exhaustion.
Dean Winchester hasn’t tried to contact me in years. I know a visit from him can’t be by choice. That expression solidifies it and makes me even more worried.
“What is it?”
“Listen, I know it’s been forever.” He halts on the last step before the landing. He meets my eye level. “But, can we go inside and talk?”
“Not unless you pass the usual tests.” I shake the flask I’m holding between our bodies. “I’d never hear the end of it from Bobby if I let you…”
Dean’s features pinch in discomfort. That’s when it hits me. It’s been weeks since I heard from the old man. Last text from him was, Got a lead on Dick Roman. Don’t eat at Biggerson’s.
“Where’s Bobby, Dean?”
Dean’s gaze skips around my frame, avoiding my eyes. “El.”
“Where is he?”
When he does manage to look at me, his lips purse together tight. There’s an ever so slight quiver to his mouth.
“No, Dean.”
~~~~
I don’t remember much. My brain and body disconnected right after that. I managed to get into the apartment. Dean followed. I sank onto the couch. He sat with me in silence. Eventually, a cup of tea was placed in my hands.
“How?” I finally ask.
Dean rubs his eyelids. “Dick Roman shot him.”
I want to rage at Dean, but I’m too numb to manage any kind of emotion. “He was helping you.”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“What?!?” The tepid tea splashes over my hand as I jerk. “You’ve waited three weeks to tell me Bobby’s dead!”
“El, I’m sorry. We had to drop off the grid. The Leviathans-”
A sob releases. “Did you do what he wanted? Did you burn his body? He-he,” I swallow back a cry. “He never wanted there to be a chance he could come back. He told me to make sure he could never come back.”
Dean grabs my wet hand. “We did what he wanted.”
I pull away, stand, and make my way to the kitchen sink. I pour out the tea and wash my hands. Any excuse to get away from the touch and the care I always craved from Dean, even now. I haven’t felt this kind of loss and this lost in forever. And the last time I did, Bobby was there to help me through it.
The man that filled the vacant part of my heart reserved for family is gone now, too.
“El.” Dean’s behind me. “Have you had any dreams about him?”
“No.” That question fires up my insides. Bobby didn’t reach out to me before he crossed over. Had I been rebuffed and forgotten all over again? “It must have been quick. Him going to the other side,” I reason out loud.
“Yeah.” Dean releases a soft chuckle. “If anyone deserves to get bumped to the front of the line to pass the pearly gates…”
“It’s Bobby.” I finish Dean’s sentence.
It’s some time before Dean speaks. “It didn’t feel right telling you over the phone, hundreds of miles away. But, I’ll get out of your hair.”
I nod at the sink instead of him. “Somewhere you gotta be?”
“Trying to figure out some intel Bobby left us with before he- Sam and I haven’t been able to make heads or tails of it. You know Frank Deveraux?”
I breathe in to steady myself and whip around to face Dean. I can muster enough irritation to fortify myself for all the things about this man that weaken my defenses.
He’s aging incredibly well and is somehow even more handsome than I remember. It was ridiculous to believe I could withstand the onslaught. I’m hating myself more than him with each passing second. “I know of him. I’ve heard stories.” I don’t need to add that all the tales came from Bobby.
Dean nods. “All true. I’m trekking back west to see what he’s come up with.”
“Because of course, Frank won’t dare give you any information over a possibly compromised phone line.” I side-step around Dean and head back to the couch. “You’ve done what you came to do.” I grab my poetry book and leaf through the pages, stroking each pressed rose petal I pass.
“I’m sure you’ve got someone you’ll wanna talk to about all this.”
“Everyone I’d want to talk to about this is dead, Dean.” I lie. There are two other people. One of them is standing in my apartment and the other one is his very tall brother.
Dean settles onto the couch beside me again. “You don’t have anyone here?”
I shake my head. “No one who knows about the life. I’ve been heeding your advice and kept people at a distance to keep them safe. Haven’t bothered with anything you could consider a relationship in years.” I level my gaze at him. “Guess you’re more of a do as I say, not as I do kind of guy.”
Dean’s softer in his reply, perhaps a reaction to the scolding. “It’s not like that, El. I had to try. I promised Sam.”
I nod. “From what Bobby told me, it sounded like you tried pretty damn hard. Enough to be out of the life for a while. A whole year? Long enough for Bobby to be happy for you, believing you got out before you got dead. Permanently.”
“It was a good year.”
I chew the inside of my lip.
“I didn’t think he’d tell you about any of it.”
“I’d ask him if there were updates on you every once in a while. After hearing about Sam, well, I wasn’t sure you’d get by without him.”
“Even if I didn’t reach out,” Dean continues, “I always wondered how you were doing. I wanted-I wanted to know you were alright.”
“I was. I had Bobby.” It all washes over me again.
Dean wrings his hands. “I know. I keep wanting to call him. He was-he was always there, when you needed him.” Dean sighs. “The shit Sam and I would give him, put him through. He always knew what to say to-to make things make sense in all of this fucked up shit. Even if it was only for a little while. He made things possible.”
“He home-schooled me with his library of lore. Those first six months at his house it was nothing but reading and lectures.” My lips curl up into a smile. “The man could tell a story.”
“That he could,” Dean agrees.
“Did you do the same for Lisa and Ben? Teach them about the things we hunt?”
He stiffens. “I did. But they won't need it anymore.”
“Why?”
“Cas helped.”
There’d been stories from Bobby about Castiel. But, I’d never had the pleasure (or maybe the luck) of having met the Angel of Thursday before he died.
“How?”
“Wiped their memories of me.”
My irritation flames in an instant. “Without their say? Like what happened to me when you made your deal? You saw how great that went.”
Dean sighs.
“You are the epitome of insanity, Winchester. Ever heard of doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Some of the best men I’ve ever met have very low opinions of themselves,” I continue to berate him. “The one fault they all seem to have in common, though, is that they think they know what’s best for everyone else.” Now all I can think about is that grumpy old man and I’m crying.
Dean doesn’t ask if he can wrap his arms around me. He suddenly is, though. I lay my head against his flannel and let the tears flow.
In between crying and reminiscing about Bobby, Dean and I catch up over the next hour. It’s awkward in parts, the way he edits his time with Lisa. I try not to overthink as to why he downplays it. We talk more about Sam. How he’s stitched together with the thinnest thread. Dean promises to get Sam to call me soon.
I can’t convince Dean to stay for a microwaved meal. He’s gotta make up for lost time. The hug goodbye envelopes me in his warmth and scent. “Bobby’d want you to check in on me.”
“I will.”
“No disappearing?”
“No, ma’am.”
Chapter 4
“What do you mean he disappeared?!?” I shut my apartment door after a messy and manic Sam Winchester rushes into the living room
This was not how my lazy Saturday morning was supposed to turn out.
“We had a plan.” Sam fists both hands in his hair and does laps around my couch.
Sam rambles. How they’d gotten into the corporate fortress of Richard Roman Enterprises. How he’d found the prophet. And then he found Dean and Cas, in mid-shanking of Dick Roman.
“This energy. It pulsed. It was like a seismic shift. Then, this light, and bang, and-and then they all just disappeared.” Sam stares down at me. He’s frantic. His bear paws for hands reach out and latch onto my biceps. “Can you try and find him? That vibrational energy thing might work, right?”
“Sam,” I whisper.
He shakes me. “You gotta wake up and do something, El! You’re not dead yet. Neither is Dean.” He stops, releases me, back pedals into the dinette chair that’s three sizes too small for him. “He can’t be dead.”
“Sam, it’s not that I don’t want to try.” I slide into the chair across from him. My heart races at saying the thing that’s broken it. “I’ve tried. For years. Since they dragged him to hell. Whatever connection we had. It’s gone. It’s been gone for a long time.”
~~~~
“You need backup, El.” Garth repeats in his pleasant but insistent drawl.
“I’m just doing some intel. It sounds ghosty, maybe a bit cryptid. Either way, whatever it is, it hasn’t hurt anyone…”
“That we know of…”
“Yet.” I interrupt Garth’s interruption. “If I can identify it, we’ll know if it’s some sort of threat. If it’s a spirit, I might be able to help it on its journey to the afterlife. Then, couples heading to Cove Haven won’t get their romantic rendezvous interrupted. Come on, Casanova, you can’t tell me that helping those looking for love isn’t a noble pursuit.”
“I would if it meant all this love searching was for your benefit. Last I checked Casper didn’t have a profile on booHarmony.”
I sigh. I’ve gotta give in on something or it’ll be another ten minutes of grilling me on what I’ve been doing with myself for the past couple months. Garth’s check in could not have come at a more inconvenient time. “Fine, see if there’s someone nearby that might be able to help me out.” I rifle through my duffle bag and make sure I’ve got enough underwear for a few days. “Lakeville’s about an hour from me. Hoping to get there in time to check in at 4pm.”
“What lake is the resort by?”
“Lake Wallenpaupack.”
“Hm, why’s that sound familiar?”
“Michael Scott treated the office to a booze cruise on that lake.”
“Who?”
I chuckle. “You obviously don’t know him.” A blatant try at changing the subject has me asking, “how’s your charge doing?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Still no word on the mom?”
“Not a syllable. You ever think we’d have to add ‘locate the King of Hell and track down prophet’s mom’ to our hunter duties?”
“Never.”
“The Winchesters always keep it interesting.”
I scrunch my eyelids shut. He went and did it. I did my best to avoid those two in this talk. Garth is baiting me.
“Speaking of…” he starts.
“I wasn’t.”
Garth tuts. “So much has happened since I saw ‘em in Missouri. Dean came by the houseboat to check on Kevin a couple weeks back and filled me in. He asked about you. Says he’ll pick up if you call him.”
I scoff while stewing internally at Dean’s jab. “How very generous of him.”
“Look, more often than not, Dean is as confused as a fart in a fan factory. He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. But you know deep down, he cares. Sam, too. They just don’t have much time to show it in between saving the world every other week. El, it’s not like Dean disappeared because he needed to clear his head or wanted some space. He got sucked into Purgatory.”
“I know, Garth. It’s just all this top shelf Heaven and Hell business. It’s above my pay grade, you know? Like you said, none of this was in the job description. This ‘is not limited to, but may include’ bullshit keeps piling on. That’s all. It’s nothing personal against Dean.”
“Darlin’, Dean is nothing but personal for you.”
“Okay, Dr. Phil. I’m afraid our time is up. I’ll send you the hotel address. Go do your job and find me a nearby hunting partner.”
~~~~
“I’m gonna kill that happy-go-lucky beanpole.” I announce to myself, fisting the steering wheel tighter as I spot Baby in the resort parking lot. “What the hell are they doing in PA?” I murmur, eventually coasting into a spot as far away from that black beauty as I can find.
It’s been well over a year since I’ve seen them both. And though I can guilt trip Sam for not reaching out during that time, Dean… Well, Dean did try to contact me soon after he returned from Purgatory. I, however, haven’t returned any of his calls or countless voicemails.
“Hell. Heaven. The cage. Purgatory.” My giggles sound more and more insane. “None of this is funny, you idiot. Get your shit together.” I whisper to myself. Groaning, I prepare for the Winchesters.
I do a horrible job at faking a nonchalant and oblivious stroll along the sidewalk, not peering in Baby’s direction in case one or both of them are sitting in her.
All of that effort is for naught, however. As soon as I open the door to the hotel lobby, my gaze lands on Dean sat in one of the cube-shaped chairs.
That charming half tilt of a grin grinds me to a standstill.
He rises and waltzes over, engulfing me in a hug. His warm breath tickles the inside of my ear. I get a whiff of coffee and greasy fast food with my nose buried in his flannel. “Anyone asks, we’re having ourselves a long overdue getaway, Mrs. Perry.” The weight of my duffle slips off my shoulder as he pulls away and slings it over his right one. His green eyes light up with mischief, staring me down in a way I haven’t seen in years. They are surrounded by a multitude of crow’s feet that I want to trace with my fingers.
His brows wiggle. “You gotta see the room.”
~~~~
Our walk to the room was quick and quiet, only taking seconds.
“Um…” It’s all I can offer Dean, staring up at the seven-foot tall pink champagne glass in the corner of the multilevel suite.
Dean points up at it, standing in the lounge area between the sofa and fireplace. “Whirlpool.” He’s smiling from ear to ear.
I chuckle and crane my neck to the right. There’s a wraparound staircase that leads up to the landing where one can actually bathe in some bubbly. “Classy.”
Dean shrugs and tosses my bag on the sofa. “Of course, the most expensive suite was the only one available.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Sam and I just wrapped up a case in Wilkes-Barre. There were Nazis necromancers. A giant Golem. We were getting ready to head back to the bunker when Garth called. Sam’s hunkering down at the motel until you and I are done.”
“What?” I shake my head. Nazis? Golem? Bunker?
He wags a finger. “Uh-uh. We got a couple hours until nightfall before you and I go traipsing through the woods for whatever thing is out there. You aren’t avoiding this.” He swings his finger back and forth between our bodies like the pendulum of a metronome. “Let it be stated, here and now, that I did not disappear on purpose.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“So, you have listened to the voicemails I left?”
I nod. “Every single apology.”
His posture slackens. Arms fall to his side. “Why didn’t you pick up? Call me back?”
The words spill out before I can filter them. “Because I can’t forgive myself. Knowing the torture you had to go through. Again. And I couldn’t help find you. What good are these gifts if I can’t do anything to save the people I care about? It’s all random souls and spirits knocking on my noggin’. The Good Samaritan shit is getting old.”
“Hey, hey.” He’s hugging me again, but this isn’t to put on a show for anyone. “Sam told me he went to see you after Roman. Begged you to find me. That you tried the entire day even after you told him it wouldn’t work. He saw how broken up you got when all that effort turned up bupkis. He felt awful for putting all that on you.”
My arms tangle around his back and I hold on. I’ve missed him.
“El, us not connecting anymore… I couldn’t let you back in when I gave in. In hell. I had to give up everything that meant something. I’m sure that’s what broke our bond. It has nothing to do with you not trying hard enough.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He strokes the top of my head. “It’s not your fault. And, honestly, Purgatory wasn’t half bad.” I try to pull back to look at him but he clutches my skull firmly. “We’ve got time. I want to answer whatever questions you’ve got, if it helps.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll do my best.”
I smile, pressing into his chest.
“Seriously, though. Garth is the new Bobby?”
I laugh at the mix of incredulity and gall in his question.
~~~~
We didn’t find a ghost or a Bigfoot in the woods that night.
I did, unfortunately, chance upon a skunk.
And got summarily sprayed.
I pinched my nose the entire hike back to the resort. Dean’s face contorted a hundred different ways beside me on the walk. I stomped in anger and irritation.
“For fuck’s sake.” My cussing doesn’t have the dramatic punch I want when I sound like SpongeBob SquarePants.
Dean concurs my assessment by chuckling.
I pout. “Shut up.”
“Tonight’s a wash. You aren’t creeping up on anything smelling like that.” He tramples through some brambles ahead of me. “No way we go through the hotel’s lobby. Good thing the most expensive suite has a back door from a patio.”
“I can’t go in the room with all this on. They won’t get the odor out of there for weeks. You’ll get charged up the wazoo for property damage.”
“Good thing Mr. Steve Perry isn’t worried about his credit score.” Dean stops to think. “But, yeah, that might not be the best call. You wanna wait out on the patio while I go to the store? ‘Cause, I mean, there’s no way you’re getting in Baby smelling like that. And, I wouldn’t wish that odor on your car’s upholstery, either.”
“You’ve gotta make a beer run now?” I flounce my arms in defeat.
“We’ve got a whirlpool that you can soak in. I just have to buy some stuff that should help with the stink.”
I sigh and nod about Dean’s hopefully great idea.
“I passed a market five miles down the road this afternoon. Gonna need baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, some dish soap and a bucket.”
I stare at him.
“Sam and I had a run in with a Pepe Le Pew ourselves when we were kids.” He opens the screen door to the patio, hurries in, and pulls out a key that unlocks the sliding glass door. “I’ll be right back.” The vertical blinds curtaining the glass fan about wildly as Dean pushes through.
I pace atop the wooden deck, unsure if I should sit atop the cushions on the rattan bench. I’m sick of smelling odious and it’s only been five minutes.
Dean returns with something draped over his forearm but it’s hard to make it out in the dark. “Was gonna turn the patio light on, but you may want some cover for this part.”
“Huh?”
“It’s one of those fancy hotel robes.” He places it on the bench. “When I leave, strip, put that on, and don’t get arrested for indecency in the process.”
Everything else may be cloaked in shadows, but Dean Winchester’s grin beams like the bat signal.
“I hate that you are getting so much enjoyment out of this.”
“It’s the little things.”
~~~~
I have a lot of time to sit with my stench on the screened-in patio. Most of the skunky smell is emanating from my discarded clothes heaped in a corner on the floor. I should just toss them onto a bonfire at this point. I’m in a fluffy white robe that Dean will definitely have to pay for. I stare out into the inky black in case I do manage some sort of sighting. Dean’s right, though. It’s doubtful now.
This all started because the Albertsons couldn’t stop talking to my boss, Ryan Hoyt, about this thing that floated past their window at Cove Haven last weekend. It peered at them, unblinking and with solid white eyes, into their bedroom. They checked out that same night.
My boredom had me do some research and I went down a rabbit hole of mysterious sightings near Lake Wallenpaupack over two decades. Nothing sinister or threatening. No one was injured or had gone missing.
But, it was something novel and exciting. I wanted to hunt something instead of the usual spirit tracking me down for help.
And, apparently, my reward for all my trouble is a pungent odor that might cling to my skin for a while if I can’t clean it off soon.
I shiver at the breeze blowing in through the window screen. Leaves rustle in soft accompaniment. There could be anything in those woods. Then I think of everything Dean told me he encountered in the woods of Purgatory.
My heart breaks at all the trauma Sam and Dean have had to suffer. They’re walking miracles. It’s a miracle they can still walk.
I rub my hands together to try and warm them up. I think back to the Dean I met all those years ago. In comparison to the man I wandered in the woods with earlier, young Dean was innocent and naive, unblemished and unsuspecting. I wish he’d been able to stay that way a lot longer.
I startle at the knock on the glass door. It whooshes open and Dean hops out. “Geez, Dean.”
“I got the whirlpool going. I’m gonna need some help measuring the ingredients for your skunky soak.” He directs me in with a tilt of his head.
About ten minutes later, we pour a slurry, sudsy mix out from the newly purchased bucket and into the swirling water. In no time bubbly foam peaks form in circles created by pulsing jet streams. The addition of some bubble bath was Dean’s idea.
Dean wipes his hands together. “I’ll give you some privacy. Gonna pass out on the couch but holler if you need something.”
“I hope this works.” I sigh.
“Well, it can’t make it worse,” Dean reasons. He backs up with a shy smile, then trots down the staircase. My face warms. My heart skips. I turn the mood lighting down. I don’t need to gander at my naked reflection in the mirrored walls surrounding the tub.
It might be different if I’d had some company. For some reason, Dean’s being a gentleman.
I settle into the warm and welcoming whirlpool. I scrub away at my skin as soft rock music escapes from hidden speakers and fills the room. Dean must be fiddling with the stereo. I sink my whole body below the surface. Massage my scalp and thread fingers through my hair.
I’m a good three rock ballads into my bath when I turn off the whirring jets. I float toward the side of the champagne flute looking over the living room. I peek past the edge and find Dean’s on the sofa. Not asleep, though. He’s resting on his back, one arm draped behind his head, staring up in my general direction. I’m expecting a naughty grin, but he’s still wearing that shy smile.
He calls up to me. “Smell any better?”
I nod, then rest my chin on the glass’ rim. “So, tell me more about this bunker.”
Dean’s eyes widen and the expression on his face fills with wonder and excitement. “It’s huge, El. Sam and I had our pick of bedrooms. We’ve got a kitchen. Showers with the most amazing water pressure. Sam is in heaven with the library’s collection of books. I think we’ve maybe only explored like a third of the place.” He smiles in pride. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”
“And you actually met your grandfather? Who was a member of this Men of Letters organization?”
He nods. “Somehow the time travel part is not the weirdest thing out of the whole story.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” I confess.
He sits up straight and tilts his face up to me, full attention.
I tear my gaze away from his inspection.
He speaks first. “I don’t know how I do it. I do know why. Because I have to. For Sam. For people I care about. Because I don’t know how to do anything else.” When I’m brave enough to stare at him again, he stammers. “But, I-I do wish the choices weren’t so great all the time.” He smiles. “I wish I had more time to watch pretty girls take baths in champagne glasses.”
~~~~
There hadn’t been time for much else after my bath. Dean needed to get back on the road. The prophet in Garth’s care, Kevin, was busy decoding some godly scripture that might help seal the gates of hell for good.
Yeah, there was no time for fun in a whirlpool with that stuff going on.
Even though I understood, it didn’t mean I had to like it.
So, once I was dried off and dressed, Dean insisted on bringing my packed duffle out to my car while I finished blow drying my hair.
I stroll down the sidewalk five minutes later to find him leaning on the trunk of my car. He smiles and passes me my keys. “Think this hunk of junk can make it to Kansas?”
I chuckle. “I’m not gonna risk it. You may have to drive me there sometime soon.”
He looks wistful and sad all of a sudden.
“I know, Dean. You’ve got work to do.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, El.” His hand reaches out to cup the side of my face. “There’ve been a lot of times I’ve wanted to.”
I step forward, press against his chest, and slot into the space between those bow legs. “You did say way, way back that all I had to do was give you a call. Anytime.”
Hot breath warms my mouth. His tongue peeks out and skirts between his lips. “That was a lifetime ago,” he whispers.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t try and cash in on it one day.”
“You know I’m a really bad idea, right?”
“I’ve made worse.” I lift up on tiptoes to kiss him. My initiation catches him off guard. He moans a little, exhales into my mouth. I clasp hands around the back of his neck and urge him forward and down so I can settle on my feet.
It’s not long before he returns my kiss with an urgency that takes my breath away. His arms tangle about me and he pulls me in even closer. He tastes and allows me to explore his mouth. We’re insistent in our hold of each other. Even if I know we have to let go eventually, I don’t let that deter me from luxuriating in the present moment.
Our kisses slow and ease. The tip of his nose brushes mine. “I won’t make any more promises.”
I nod in understanding and peck his top lip. “Not expecting you to.”
“But you better pick up the damn phone when I call.”
I giggle. “I will.”
He taps my ass and groans. “Get going, before I change my mind.”
~~~~
I drive east in the early morning still smelling faintly like skunk spray. Even though it’s cold out, I roll the window down to allow a cleansing breeze inside my car. The radio is my company on the hour-long ride.
My body tingles with the phantom memory of Dean’s touch. I feel lighter than I have in a long time. There’s a shred of guilt snaking through the haze of endorphins. I worry Dean will be sacrificing himself again soon for the greater good while I’m daydreaming about how his mouth would feel all over my body.
I get lost for moments, remembering that beautiful face, and the rumble strips slam me back into the present.
I should be exhausted when I get back to my apartment but the adrenaline of the night’s events won’t allow for sleep. I decide to snack on some chips and then unpack my duffle.
Something pink and lacy peeks out from the mound of clothing. I tug at the material and lift it out to inspect it.
My lucky underwear.
That I lost seven years ago.
On my first hunt with The Winchesters.
“Wha-?”
I scramble for my phone and dial Dean.
He picks up on the third ring. “You called. So, I’m gonna say that’s a good thing. At least you still want to talk to me.”
I sit on my bed. “You’ve had them. All this time?”
He sighs. “You said they were lucky. I figured I needed all the luck I could get. Newsflash - they aren’t lucky.”
“I’m gonna need a little more explanation than that. And, I’m not mad, I don’t think.” I chuckle.
“Fine. Do you remember when you washed ALL of my and Sam’s clothes while I was in the shower?”
“Uh-huh.” Do I remember how gorgeous a damp and half-naked Dean Winchester looked rummaging through my dirty laundry? That image pops into my mind at least once a day.
“And I decided to put one of your shirts on and wrap a towel around my bottom?”
“Yeah.” Again, once a day.
“Yeah, well, I may have been wearing something under the towel.”
I gasp. “No?!?”
“I thought it would be a funny gag. I was gonna give you a pink panty parade. But as I was standing there, talking to you later, I realized I didn’t want to piss you off. Scare you off. I didn’t want you to think I was a perv that steals ladies underwear.”
The mental image of Dean in my pink panties has stunned me into silence. I want to ask if he’s worn them since that night but I decide it would be better not to make him more embarrassed than I can tell he already is.
He adds, “I kept wanting to return them. I’m sorry it took so long.”
“I can’t believe you’ve kept them all this time.” I think of a question that’s less of a landmine for him. “Where’ve you stashed them?”
“In Baby. She’s good at keeping secrets.”
I smile and twirl the underwear around one finger in the air. “No wonder things have been so crappy all these years. You stole my good luck charm.”
That earns a hearty laugh on the other end. “Yeah, that must be it.” His tone changes, and he rumbles out, “Maybe you might finally get lucky soon.”
A/N: Thank you, everyone, for being here and loving my ramblings. This is to celebrate reaching 400 followers. There's no summary. Just something that came out of nowhere and took on a life of it's own. Sort of like what my stories turned into here, on this platform.
Without all of you, your encouraging words, hearing the things you have loved, cried over, and how late you stay up just to wait for and then read the next chapter when you should be sleeping, it all means the world to me.
So, I hope you enjoy this little thing as much as I did writing it.
No Pairing
Word Count: 5315
Warning: Cannon-level violence, many familiar faces, doesn't exactly follow the show's timeline.
-----------------------------------------
November 2, 2005
The pull had started three days ago.
At first, it was just pressure behind your sternum—subtle, like the warning scent of ozone before a storm. But by the second day, you couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. The streets of Palo Alto felt wrong under your boots, and you knew better than to ignore the thrumming ache in your bones.
Someone was meant to die.
You waited on the rooftop across from the apartment for hours. The hoodie hid your face. You hadn’t spoken to anyone since arriving in town. No need. No time. Only the pull. Only the weight.
And then—The lights came on in the third-story window.
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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I was watching season 2 episode 21 and thought of this story. Then, had to read it, lol. Can't believe I wrote this almost a year ago now. I'm still considering a part 2, just hasn't come to me yet.
Summary: When Dean comes back from Hell, you quickly realize that his subconscious remembers more than his waking mouth admits.
AN: Requested by Ashley Klann on Patreon! I’ve written a “back from Hell” piece before with an Omegaverse twist, called Make it Right. But here’s a more canon-rooted drabble. 💜
Request: After Dean comes back from hell, he has nightmares and a breakdown. The reader is there to comfort him and just holds him, and he ends up letting all pent-up feelings out.
Posted on Patreon: May 15, 2026
Word Count: 1.3K
Tags & Warnings: Set around mid-season 4 (when Sam was traipsing around with Ruby). Established relationship, angst, feels, hurt/comfort to the max
Dean might’ve been able to shrug off ghost sickness. He might’ve been able to look you and Sam in the eyes, with his third beer in hand, and claim he didn’t remember anything about his four months in Hell.
But what he just couldn’t do was make you believe it. Not a month ago, not last week, not tonight.
He climbed into the dingy motel bed, slow and groaning. You could see the exhaustion in the darkness under his eyes, and in the dull green of his irises. You saw the evidence of his lack of sleep pulling at his limbs, because he hadn’t truly rested since he got “topside.”
Since he showed up at your apartment with Bobby in tow, scaring the shit out of you with his half-cocked smile before he proved he wasn’t a shapeshifter or a demon.
The way Dean held you then had been so strong and fragile at the same time; you felt the shake in his arms, the tension embedded in his frame, even while he was burying his face in your hair. You’d blinked hot tears that clung to your lashes, cupped his face between your hands and kissed him just as hard and desperate.
He was alive, so you were alive. That was what that day felt like for you: coming back to life.
But this was a different kind of living.
When you slid into bed beside him, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t welcome you against his side or wrap his arm around you. He didn’t even pretend to meet your eyes, let alone kiss you goodnight. He just mumbled the empty word, like he already knew it wouldn’t be one.
Sam was still out by himself. He was doing that more often lately, ducking out and taking the car or walking into town by himself. His excuses were always valid on the surface, like getting breakfast at the diner early, or doing some research at a café, or getting an early morning run in before you or Dean rolled out of bed. Still, you had half a mind to call bullshit.
Dean had stopped trying, even though he’d noticed too, sometimes with lips pursing, jaw clenching.
Tonight, he didn’t seem to care about his brother’s nighttime habits or your soft frown as he turned onto his side, away from you.
“You okay?” you asked, despite knowing what it would get you.
“‘M fine,” he said. “Just tired.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. You wished he wouldn’t bury it all so deep. You wished he would let you help him. But Dean had always carried layers behind that stupid devil-may-care attitude, behind that cocky grin on just the right side of charming, and the old leather that draped his shoulders like a second skin of bravado.
You’d noticed that his father’s jacket was still folded up somewhere in the trunk of the Impala. Dean hadn’t been wearing it since he got back.
You couldn’t help but think that mattered, even as you laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss near his neck.
“’Kay, goodnight,” you said.
You felt slightly raised flesh under the thin fabric of his shirt, and you realized then that you were accidentally touching the handprint burned into his skin—the mark of Castiel, the angel who rescued him.
You quickly let your hand slip away, feeling the tension in Dean’s body.
Your heart clenched, and you had to blink the sting out of your eyes when you turned onto your side and tried to get comfortable.
The first jolt stirred the mattress, then tugged at your subconscious.
The second one, and his painful groan, made your lashes flutter. Your eyes slid open as you fought through the dregs of sleep, but his fingers clawing against your arm finally yanked you out of it.
You sucked in a confused, pained hiss, looking over at Dean. You realized that he hadn’t meant to hurt you. He had a desperate grip twisting in the sheets, his brows tightly knitted, jaw clenching so hard you could almost hear his teeth grinding. But the sounds that were escaping his barely parted lips were too heartbreaking, like a wounded animal unwilling to let their whimpers escape, afraid for something worse to follow.
“Dean,” you rasped, reaching for his shoulder cautiously. You were wary of him trying to knock your hand away, or worse, but he just flinched harder.
It did manage to wake him up though.
His eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, following by more labored ones as he struggled to take you in, to realize where he was.
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.
“Dean?” you prompted gently. You were slow in the way you slid closer, smoothing a comforting hand up his arm.
He looked over at you, tired of lying, but still unwilling to answer you.
But in that moment, you knew the truth. You knew what he was hiding, deep and dark behind his eyes when they met yours.
He couldn’t hold it for long though. His own self-loathing won out. Even just having you beside him with love and concern in your eyes was too much for him to handle.
He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, but that was where he hesitated. He either lacked the strength to get up and leave you, or he was just that shaken. His eyes closed and an uneasy sigh fell from his lips, making his shoulders sag.
You crawled over to his side of the bed and bent a knee underneath you as you sat just behind him, just barely keeping yourself from touching him. You didn’t want to smother him, but you wouldn’t leave him alone either.
“You do remember everything, don’t you,” you said. The heartbreak was in your throat, but you thought it might help him to say it out loud.
Dean shook his head slowly, but this time, it wasn’t a denial. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he still forced himself to speak, his voice thick and rasping.
“Not just…what happened to me,” he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. “What I did.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion. You didn’t understand, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to you—why he hadn’t been able to let you in. Why he couldn’t allow himself to touch you with his hands. Every time he looked at them, they were drenched in blood.
And when he tried to look at you, the words died in his throat. It felt selfish to try.
His lips trembled. His shoulders heaved. He covered his face as his eyes burned, and the first sob shuddered through him.
You didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Once the first tear drew down your cheek, you couldn’t let yourself do anything else but hold him from behind. Your lips pressed to his shoulder, and you held onto him as tightly as you dared.
He held you back, his hand clasping over your arm to keep you there. It gave you the encouragement you needed to slide closer, your hand cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his chin. His glassy eyes met yours.
“I love you,” you reminded him. “That doesn’t change.”
Again, Dean shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t know what I…”
“Right now, I don’t need to know,” you said.
Just then, he was desperate to believe you.
He bowed into your kiss, desperate for your warmth too.
One touch couldn’t make him forget. It wouldn’t heal him either.
All you could do was stay.
AN: My heart gets ripped out every time I watch that ep where he tells Sam about his experience in Hell. 🥲💔 But let me know what you thought of this hurt/comfort snack!
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Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 6071
Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Everyone's finally home.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Chapter 60 ------- Chapter 62 - coming soon
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Chapter 61
The morning came in slowly.
Not abrupt. Not sharp. Just light easing its way through the edges of the curtains, turning the room from dark into something muted and soft around the corners.
Dean was already awake before he opened his eyes.
That was becoming a pattern lately.
Not because he slept poorly—but because something in him didn’t fully settle until he checked the space beside him. Even before thought caught up, his body was already aware of you: the weight of your sleep, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the warmth still tucked against his side where you’d curled in sometime during the night.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Just stayed there.
Listening.
Feeling.
His arm was still around you, heavy and loose where it had fallen into place hours ago. Your hand was tucked near his chest, fingers relaxed in that unconscious way that only happened when you were fully gone into sleep. The cabin was quiet except for the faint creak of wood adjusting to the morning temperature.
And beneath all of it—beneath breath and stillness and the slow waking of the world—there was the bond.
Warm.
Steady.
Close enough now that he didn’t have to reach for it. It was just there, like it had always been there, waiting for him to notice.
His wolf was already awake.
Not restless.
Just… present.
Tucked in close, like it had decided there was no reason to be anywhere else.
Dean finally shifted slightly, careful not to disturb you. His hand moved once, slow and absent, brushing over your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt where you wore it more than your own sleep clothes most nights. The motion was unconscious, more instinct than thought.
You didn’t stir.
Just exhaled softly and sank deeper into the mattress.
His eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.
There was something about mornings like this that made thinking feel different. Less sharp. Less immediate. Like his mind had to pass through something warmer before it could form fully.
And right now, everything it formed kept circling back to you.
Not just here.
But forward.
A shape that didn’t have words yet.
Just feeling.
His gaze dropped briefly—slow, unguarded—to where your hand rested against his chest. Then lower, where the blanket curved over your body, soft and still.
The image came uninvited.
Not dramatic.
Not rushed.
Just quiet.
You, sitting up like this one day with sleep still in your eyes—but different. Changed in ways that hadn’t fully arrived yet. His shirt stretched over a growing curve, your hand resting there without thinking about it the same way yours was resting on him now.
His throat tightened faintly.
Not fear.
Something closer to awe he didn’t have language for.
His wolf responded immediately—no hesitation, no question. Just recognition. As if it had already accepted that image as fact, not possibility. A low, steady certainty that settled into his bones and didn’t leave room for argument.
Dean exhaled through his nose slowly.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it.
Careful. Soft. Almost private.
He stayed like that for another moment, just watching you breathe, letting the thought exist without pushing it away or pulling it closer.
Then reality gently pressed back in.
Work. Responsibility. The things that didn’t care about how warm the bed felt or how right this moment was.
He shifted again, slower this time, easing his arm carefully out from under you. You made a small sound at the loss of warmth, but didn’t wake. Just turned slightly into the space he left behind, instinctively seeking what had moved.
That alone made his chest tighten. He stood after a moment, careful with every movement as he reached for his clothes.
The room behind him stayed warm.
Still.
Alive in a way that had nothing to do with sound.
When he was dressed, he paused at the edge of the bed.
Just stood there.
Watching you again.
Hair messy against the pillow. Face turned slightly toward where he had been. One arm curled loosely against your chest like you were still holding onto the idea of him even in sleep.
His wolf settled deeper at the sight, content in a way that made leaving feel heavier than it should have.
Dean reached out once more, fingers hovering near your shoulder. Didn’t wake you. Just brushed lightly there.
A quiet touch. A promise without words.
Then he stepped back and left the room slowly.
And even as he walked down the stairs, pulling himself back into the day, that image stayed with him—soft and steady behind his thoughts like something the world hadn’t managed to touch yet.
The house shifted with him gone.
Not suddenly. Not in any noticeable way at first. Just the subtle absence of weight in the hall, the quiet where his footsteps would have been, the bed still faintly warm on his side but cooling by degrees.
You slept through it.
Deep, unbothered sleep that didn’t rush or snag on anything. The kind that only came when your body had finally stopped waiting for something to go wrong or change.
When you did wake, it wasn’t because of sound.
It was light.
Morning had fully settled in by then, spilling through the curtains in softened gold, turning the cabin into something warm at the edges. The space beside you was empty, sheets rumpled where he’d been, pillow still carrying the faint imprint of him.
His scent lingered strongest there. You shifted into it without thinking, face pressing briefly into the pillow with a small, involuntary sound of protest.
Gone again.
Your wolf stirred, not distressed, just aware—stretching lazily through you like she was checking the room the same way you were.
“He went to work,” you murmured into the fabric.
No argument came back—only quiet agreement.
The bed felt too big for a moment after that, even though it wasn’t.
You lay there a little longer anyway, letting your mind come fully online in pieces. No urgency. No schedule. Nothing pulling you up except the soft awareness that the house was already too quiet to stay in bed forever.
Eventually, you rolled out from under the blankets and changed into one of his shirts without thinking about it, pairing it with soft shorts. The fabric hung loose and familiar, already warmed by your body by the time you moved downstairs.
Coffee came first.
Always.
The cabin responded to you in its own rhythm now—familiar motions, familiar sounds. The hum of the machine as it came to life. The smell of it filling the kitchen in slow waves. The way the light hit the wood floors differently at this time of day, softer than evening, less golden than sunset.
You leaned against the counter while it brewed, barefoot, quiet, letting your thoughts drift.
There was no cleaning to do.
No tasks waiting.
Everything had already been done, prepared for Jess and Sam arriving today, like the house itself was holding its breath in anticipation.
That left too much space.
And space, you were learning, had a way of getting filled whether you invited it or not.
Your phone buzzed.
Once.
Then again.
You picked it up before you’d even finished pouring your coffee.
Jess.
Of course.
The first message was a blurry photo of Sam at the wheel, one hand gripping the steering wheel too tightly, the other mid-gesture like he was mid-argument with the air itself.
“He says I’m not allowed to touch anything important. I asked what he considers important. He stopped answering.”
The second was another photo—Sam glancing sideways at the camera with a deeply offended expression.
“Send help.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. You typed back quickly, leaning against the counter.
“Nope. Let him suffer. It builds character.”
Almost immediately, the typing bubbles appeared.
“I feel like you are encouraging this.”
You smiled into your coffee.
“I am.”
Another pause.
Then:
“How’s the cabin?”
Your eyes drifted around the kitchen automatically. Clean. Warm. Familiar. A little too still without the noise of everyone else arriving yet.
“It’s quiet. Too quiet. Dean left early. I think the silence is judging me.”
“That sounds about right.”
You snorted softly.
“Drive safe. Both of you.”
“We are. Sam is aggressively safe about it.”
That made you laugh again, softer this time.
When the messages stopped, the house settled back into its rhythm around you.
Except now there was something else.
Restlessness.
Not uncomfortable. Just directionless.
You wandered the cabin after that without really deciding to—coffee in hand, moving from kitchen to living room to window and back again. Everything was already in place. Everything ready. Even the bed upstairs was still unmade only because you hadn’t touched it yet.
Eventually, you ended up at the table with your laptop.
Opened it.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Your fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment before you let out a small breath and leaned back. Nothing needed doing. That was the problem.
The thought came quietly, but it stuck.
Nothing needed doing.
So your mind did what it always did when there was no external task to latch onto. It started searching.
A quick look, you told yourself.
Just curiosity. Nothing serious. You typed before you could overthink it.
Pregnancy symptoms early stages.
The search results loaded almost instantly. And just like that, the cabin disappeared. Not physically. But in the way your focus narrowed.
Changes that could start earlier than expected or not at all, depending on timing.
Your stomach tightened faintly at some of them. At others, you found yourself pausing longer than you meant to.
This is normal, one article said.
This is variable, another insisted.
There is no single timeline, a third reminded you.
You leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table now, coffee forgotten beside your laptop.
Some of it was fine.
Some of it made your chest feel oddly tight in a way you didn’t want to name yet.
Because it wasn’t certainty.
It was possibility laid out in too many directions at once. And possibility, you were quickly realizing, was heavier than you expected.
You closed the laptop after a while without meaning to.
Just… paused.
Letting the quiet return again.
The cabin was still yours. Still warm. Still waiting. But now your thoughts had shape to them. And they didn’t feel quite as small as they had that morning.
The sound came first.
Not loud at first—just the shift of tires over gravel at the edge of the tree line, distant enough that it might have been mistaken for anything else if you hadn’t already been halfway between stillness and anticipation.
But something in you recognized it anyway. Before thought caught up, your body was already moving.
Coffee abandoned. Chair pushed back too fast. Bare feet already hitting the floor as you crossed the room.
Your wolf surged forward immediately, fully awake now, all stillness gone in a rush of recognition and joy that didn’t need explanation.
The cabin door opened on a rush of afternoon air, cooler outside than in, carrying the scent of pine and dust and road. You stepped onto the porch barefoot, the wood still warm beneath your feet from the morning sun, and looked out through the trees.
The vehicle appeared a moment later.
A familiar shape breaking through the line of forest.
Your breath caught without permission.
The car slowed as it curved into the drive, tires crunching over gravel that suddenly felt too loud in the quiet that followed you out of the house. You didn’t realize you were already stepping off the porch until your feet hit the ground and you were moving down the steps.
Not walking.
Moving faster than that.
Jess saw you first.
The passenger door flew open before the car had fully stopped. Sam’s protest died halfway out, realizing the two of you missed each other more than either had said.
She didn’t even wait.
Didn’t pause.
She was already out, already running, already closing the distance between you like nothing else mattered in that moment except getting there.
Your name left her in a breathless laugh as she ran.
And then she hit you.
Hard.
Warm.
Real.
The impact stole what was left of your breath as your arms came up around her just as fast, catching her without thinking, holding on like it was instinct more than choice. Her hands fisted in your shirt immediately, and you felt her shake once—just a small tremor she tried to hide by holding tighter.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Just held.
The kind of hold that didn’t need explanation. The kind that said you’re here, you’re here, you’re here over and over until it finally sank in. Wolves brushing against each other in much the same manner.
When you finally pulled back just enough to see her face, she was smiling already—but her eyes were glassy in a way she clearly wasn’t ready to admit to.
“You’re really here,” you said, quieter than you meant to.
Jess let out a broken laugh that turned into something softer halfway through. “Yeah,” she whispered. “We are.”
Behind her, the car door shut.
Not rushed.
More grounded.
Sam had gotten out slower, like he was giving the moment time to exist without interrupting it.
When you finally looked past Jess, he was standing there with one hand still on the door, watching the two of you with that expression he got when something mattered more than he expected it to. Warm, slightly overwhelmed, trying to pretend he wasn’t affected by it.
Then he moved.
Not fast like Jess.
But steady.
And when he reached you both, he didn’t hesitate either.
His arms came around the two of you at once, pulling you into a group embrace that shifted everything into place all at once—like something inside the cabin had finally clicked back into its intended shape.
Jess laughed against your shoulder. Sam exhaled something that sounded like relief disguised as exhaustion. And through it all, something in your chest loosened in a way you hadn’t realized had been tight.
The bond responded instantly.
Not sharper.
Not louder.
Just fuller.
Like a space that had been waiting quietly for its missing pieces had finally been filled again. It settled into you with a kind of steadiness that made your knees feel briefly less certain, even as your arms stayed wrapped around them both.
Home.
Not temporary.
Not visiting.
Home.
When Sam finally stepped back first, he looked between the two of you like he didn’t entirely trust his own emotions to behave properly in public.
“Okay,” he said slowly, clearing his throat. “This is… a lot before dinner.”
Jess immediately wiped at her face and sniffed dramatically. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” he muttered.
“You didn’t have to.”
You laughed, still holding onto Jess with one arm like letting go might undo the fact that she was here at all. Behind Sam, the car ticked as it cooled, the last traces of engine noise fading into the trees.
And just like that, the world started moving again.
Jess stepped back first this time, grabbing your hands instead and looking you up and down with immediate intensity.
“Okay,” she said, voice sharpening into something far more familiar. “We have so much to catch up on.”
Sam groaned softly behind her.
You could feel the shift already—the way the quiet, heavy emotion of the arrival began to tilt toward something louder. Something alive. Something that didn’t stay still for long.
Jess’s grin widened. “And I mean everything.”
Sam immediately pointed at her. “No.”
She ignored him completely. And just like that, the house didn’t feel quiet anymore.
The emotional weight of the reunion lasted exactly thirty seconds longer.
Then Jess clapped her hands once, looked past all of you toward the car, and declared, “We should probably unload before I start interrogating everyone.”
Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Interesting that you think those are separate events.”
“They are,” she said brightly. “One is chores. One is joy.”
You laughed, not letting your mind spiral with how you knew things were going to go. The reality of her being here still hadn’t fully settled in your chest. Sam too. Their scents already threaded through the air, familiar and grounding, weaving themselves back into the fabric of the cabin before their bags had even crossed the threshold.
Your wolf was nearly vibrating with contentment. Brushing against theirs through the bond that connected the four of you.
The three of you headed toward the car together. Afternoon sun filtered through the trees in broken strips of gold, warming the gravel drive and catching dust motes still drifting where the tires had disturbed them. The vehicle looked packed to the windows.
You stopped short. “Jess.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes?”
“Did you pack the entire dorm room?”
“No. Just the important stuff.”
Sam snorted. “She packed like we were fleeing the country.”
“I packed like a woman with foresight,” Jess shot back, already opening the trunk.
The trunk lifted to reveal an impressive wall of luggage, boxes, tote bags, hanging clothes, and several items that looked like they had been shoved in through sheer determination rather than spatial logic.
You stared.
Sam pointed into the trunk. “I’d like the record to show I had to slow down over every single pothole and bump because of this.”
“You’re dramatic,” Jess said.
“I had to drive by faith.”
That one made you laugh hard enough you had to brace a hand on the bumper.
Sam immediately reached for the heaviest boxes, because of course he did. Jess grabbed two tote bags, a pillow, and somehow a lamp tucked under one arm. You took a duffel and a stack of folded blankets, the smell of detergent and road trip air rising from them.
“Careful with that one,” Jess called over her shoulder.
You glanced down. “Why?”
“My hair products are in there.”
Sam muttered, “May they rest in peace.”
Jess gasped. “Samuel Winchester.”
“Not helping,” he added to you as you tried to stifle more laughter, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Trip after trip carried across the driveway and into the house.
The cabin transformed with each pass.
A suitcase near the stairs.
Shoes by the door.
A tote dropped in the hall.
A jacket flung over a chair because Jess had apparently decided coats no longer required hooks now that she was home.
The quiet order of the last few days gave way to lived-in motion, and somehow the place felt better for it.
By the second trip upstairs, you could hear Jess already narrating plans from the far side of the cabin.
“We need to reorganize our dresser.”
“You mean your dresser,” Sam called back.
“No, I mean our dresser. You’ve had one drawer for the last year because you fold like a serial killer.”
“I fold efficiently.”
“You wad shirts into emotional balls.”
You nearly missed the last step laughing.
Their side of the cabin opened into familiar rooms, and theirs suddenly looked smaller with all their things returning to it. Jess moved through it like she had never left, setting bags down, opening curtains, already reclaiming space through sheer personality. Sam followed behind with the heavier loads, pretending to be put upon while clearly pleased.
You set a duffel on the bed and looked around.
Their scent belonged here.
Their laughter belonged here.
The bond felt it too—no longer stretched between locations or visits or departures. It sat steady and whole now, the four of you anchored to one place in a way that settled deep.
Jess turned, catching you watching the room. Her expression softened. “We’re really back,” she said quietly.
You nodded, throat suddenly tight again. “Yeah,” you managed. “You are.”
Sam dropped the last box by the dresser and straightened with a groan.
“And now,” he announced, dusting off his hands, “I’d like everyone to appreciate that I carried ninety percent of this operation.”
Jess scoffed instantly. “You carried the heavy things. I carried the important things.”
“You brought a decorative basket.”
“It’s storage.”
“It’s wicker.”
“It has potential.”
You laughed as they bickered lovingly, leaning against the doorframe while sunlight stretched across the floorboards and landed over half-unpacked bags.
Downstairs, the cabin waited with dinner plans, more noise, and Dean still yet to come home to all of this.
But for now, with boxes everywhere and Jess arguing the value of wicker storage solutions while Sam looked ten seconds from surrender, the house felt exactly as it should.
Full.
And only getting louder.
You slipped downstairs, letting the two have their moment together, but paused at the bottom of the stairs. The cabin felt whole again, seeing their things scattered around in places they lived, or Jess left them.
A pair of Jess’s shoes sat abandoned near the stairs now. Sam’s duffel had been left half-zipped in the hallway like he’d intended to come back for it and immediately forgotten. A jacket hung off the back of the couch by one sleeve. Somewhere upstairs, a drawer had been opened and never closed.
You loved every bit of it.
The silence that had pressed against the walls all morning was gone, replaced now by footsteps overhead, voices filling the silence, doors opening and shutting, laughter appearing out of nowhere and refusing to leave.
You were in the kitchen pouring a glass of water when Jess swept in like weather.
“There you are,” she announced, as if you’d been hiding from her on purpose.
You handed her a beer automatically. “I was gone for maybe forty-five seconds.”
“Exactly. Suspicious.”
She took the beer, drank half of it in one pull, then narrowed her eyes at you over the rim.
Sam entered behind her, slower, carrying two more bags he’d apparently found in the car.
“I’d like it noted,” he said to no one in particular, “that I’m still unloading while she begins social warfare.”
Jess waved a dismissive hand. “You’re strong. You’ll recover.”
“I’m gonna need a chiropractor by thirty.”
“You’re already twenty-four going on eighty.”
You laughed, leaning back against the counter as Sam set the bags down with exaggerated suffering.
The bond hummed warmly around all of it. Full and settled, yes—but lively now too. Energy moving between all of you in familiar currents. Jess bright and effusive. Sam steady beneath the dramatics. You somewhere in the middle, feeling more centered than you had all morning.
And your wolves could barely contain their own excitement for this coming full moon. To finally be able to run together without leaving looming on the horizon.
Jess set her beer aside and turned to you fully. “Now,” she said.
You recognized that tone immediately.
It was the same one she used before gossip, before plotting, and before asking questions she had no intention of letting go unanswered.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Sam pointed toward the stairs. “I’m leaving.”
“You live here,” Jess said without looking at him.
“I’ll live outside.”
She ignored him entirely, eyes locked on you. “I want details.”
“About what?”
Her jaw dropped theatrically. “You know what.”
You reached for your glass to hide your smile. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
Jess planted both hands on the island and leaned in.
“You disappeared into a heat cycle with my brother-in-law figure slash grown pup slash giant menace, and I have been trapped in a car for days with only Sam’s playlists for company. So yes, I would now like compensation.”
Sam made a wounded sound. “My playlists are excellent.”
“They are seventy percent sad guitar.”
“They are nuanced.”
“They are depressing.”
“They tell a story.”
“They tell me to nap.”
You laughed hard enough to have to set your glass down.
Jess snapped her fingers once, reclaiming the room. “Focus.”
“I hate when you do that,” Sam muttered.
“You love when I do that.”
“I endure when you do that.”
She smiled sweetly, then turned back to you. “Well?”
Heat rose into your cheeks before you could stop it. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Jess stared.
Sam stared too, though his was more cautious—like he already regretted staying.
“There is absolutely something to tell,” Jess said. “You two have been alone in a cabin for nearly two weeks.”
“We were not alone the whole time.”
“That is not the part I’m interested in.”
Sam immediately held up both hands. “Nope.”
“You don’t get to nope,” Jess informed him.
“I deeply do.”
“You can go upstairs.”
“I can hear through floors!”
You laughed again, and even Jess cracked.
Then she softened, just slightly, and nudged your wrist. “I’m teasing,” she said more gently. “Mostly.”
“I know.”
Her expression warmed further. “But seriously… are you okay?”
The question landed beneath all the jokes exactly where it was meant to.
You met her eyes and nodded. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m okay.”
Better than okay, really.
You could feel it in yourself now that they were here. The steadiness. The ease. The way the house no longer felt like it was waiting for something.
Jess seemed to read some of that in your face, because her own expression eased too. “Good.”
Then, naturally, she ruined the tenderness within seconds. “So… scale of one to ten, how insufferably attentive was Dean?”
Sam groaned so loudly it echoed. “Why am I cursed?”
You laughed into your hands.
Jess grinned like a menace.
And somewhere deep in the bond, even your wolf seemed amused by the return of pack nonsense.
The laughter lingered long after the words did.
It moved through the kitchen in waves—Jess still smug over the chaos she’d caused, Sam looking personally betrayed by every turn the conversation had taken, you caught between them with your cheeks warm and your chest lighter than it had been all morning.
It felt good.
Simple.
Easy.
The kind of good that came from people knowing exactly how to needle each other without ever drawing blood.
Jess reached for the bag Sam had dropped by the island and peered inside. “Oh good, snacks survived.”
“Barely,” Sam said. “You packed them under a lamp.”
“It was padded.”
“With crackers.”
“They were protected by intention.”
He stared at her. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” she said brightly, pulling out a half-crushed box of granola bars, “beloved.”
You nearly choked laughing.
Sam looked at you for support.
You offered none.
“Traitor.”
“Correct,” Jess said for you.
She set the snacks aside and immediately began unpacking groceries and road-trip leftovers onto the counter like she’d been back for weeks instead of minutes. A bag of chips. Bottled water. Gum. A suspicious number of gas station candies—two bananas in questionable condition.
You eyed the spread. “Did you two eat like feral teenagers the whole drive?”
“We had sandwiches yesterday,” Sam said.
“From a gas station,” Jess added proudly.
“That does not help your case.”
“It had lettuce.”
“That lettuce saw things.”
Jess laughed and tossed the banana toward the trash. You caught it midair on instinct, stared at it, then slowly set it on the counter instead.
“We don’t waste food.”
Sam pointed. “See? She gets me.”
“I said food,” you replied.
Jess cackled.
“I can turn those into banana bread.”
The late afternoon slipped into that kind of happy disorder that only happened when people belonged somewhere enough not to be careful in it. Jess wandered in and out of the kitchen while talking nonstop, opening cabinets she already knew by memory, asking questions she barely waited to hear answered, then circling back later for the answer anyway.
Sam hauled the last forgotten things in from the car, then returned with the expression of a man who had finally accepted his fate.
“All right,” he said, dropping into a chair at the table. “Everything is inside. If there’s anything left in that car, it lives there now.”
“There’s a pillow in the back seat,” Jess said absently.
He closed his eyes. “I hate it here.”
“You love it here.”
He opened one eye. “Unfortunately.”
You smiled into the glass you were rinsing.
The bond around all of you had settled into something rich and steady now. No longer the bright spike of reunion, but the deeper warmth that followed it. Presence. Familiarity. The relief of missing pieces returned to their places.
You could feel Jess too—her happiness running fast beneath everything else. The excitement of being done with school for now. Of no more leaving every few months. Of being able to build routine instead of borrowing it in visits.
You suspected Sam felt the same, even if he wore it quieter.
“So,” Jess said, sliding onto the stool across from you. “What time does Dean get home?”
You checked the clock automatically. “Soon. Another half hour, maybe. If Bobby’s nice and let’s him leave early today.”
Her grin sharpened instantly. “Oh, excellent.”
Sam’s head lifted with caution. “Why do you say things like that?”
“Because I have plans.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She ignored him completely. “I’m greeting him dramatically.”
“You greeting anyone dramatically is just called greeting people.”
“I’m offended.”
“You should come with a warning label.”
Jess gasped. “That was rude.”
“You taught me.”
You laughed again, drying your hands on a towel. “What exactly are these plans?”
She leaned across the counter conspiratorially. “I haven’t decided yet. Tears? Screaming? Pretending I’m injured so he has to carry me?”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just got here and I’m already tired.”
“You’ve been tired since birth.”
“That is medically possible.”
The front windows had begun to shift with later light now, afternoon turning slowly toward evening. Shadows stretched longer through the trees outside. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once and fell silent.
Then all three of you heard it at the same time.
Faint at first.
An engine.
Familiar in a way that lived in your bones now. Your whole body reacted before thought did, head lifting toward the driveway.
Jess lit up like someone had struck a match inside her. “Oh,” she said, already hopping off the stool. “This is gonna be fun.”
Sam muttered, “We could still hide.”
But he was smiling when he said it.
And you, despite yourself, were already grinning too.
The sound of the engine grew louder as it came through the trees, steady and familiar, the kind of sound that had long since become part of the rhythm of your life. Gravel crackled beneath tires a moment later, followed by the low rumble of the engine idling in the drive.
Dean was home.
Your wolf lifted immediately, bright and eager, pressing close beneath your skin with the same instinctive recognition that ran through you. Warmth bloomed through the bond before the front door had even opened.
Jess, meanwhile, had become a tactical problem.
She spun once in the middle of the kitchen, eyes darting around like a general surveying a battlefield. “Positions,” she whispered dramatically.
Sam didn’t move from his chair. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No one has positions.”
“We absolutely have positions.”
She pointed at you first. “You—act natural.”
“I am natural.”
“More natural.”
Then she pointed at Sam. “You hide.”
“I live here.”
“Exactly. Hide with purpose.”
He stared at her for a long beat. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet compelling.”
She pointed at herself with both thumbs. “I’ll take the lead.”
You leaned against the counter, already laughing.
The Impala’s door outside opened, then shut with a solid thud. Boots hit gravel. A second later came the sound of the porch steps taking his weight one by one.
Your chest tightened with the simple familiarity of it.
Home.
The front door opened.
Dean stepped inside carrying the day with him—work boots, worn jeans, T-shirt clinging lightly across the shoulders, the scent of oil and metal and sun-warmed air following in behind him. His hair had been raked back at some point with grease-marked fingers and had mostly given up holding shape.
He got one step into the cabin before he paused.
Because the house no longer smelled like just you.
Sam.
Jess.
Road dust.
Shampoo.
Travel snacks.
And under all of it, pack.
His eyes lifted.
You watched the exact moment it hit him.
They’re here.
His whole face changed.
The tired edges of the day dropped clean away. Something bright and boyish broke through so fast it almost looked like surprise.
Then Jess launched herself at him from around the corner.
“DEAN!”
He barely had time to brace before she hit him full force, arms around his shoulders. Dean barked out a startled laugh, catching her automatically as momentum shoved him back half a step.
“Jesus—Jess!”
“We’re home!” she declared directly into his ear.
“I can tell!”
“You missed me.”
“You’re strangling me.”
“That’s not a denial.”
Dean laughed harder, one arm locked around her so she didn’t take them both down. Over her shoulder, his eyes found yours.
And softened instantly.
Even from across the room, the bond reached for you—warm, relieved, full in a way that made your own smile deepen without permission.
Sam rose from the table and crossed over slower, shaking his head. “This is why I wanted warning before entry.”
“You had warning,” Jess said, still attached to Dean. “I screamed his name.”
“That was not useful warning.”
Dean finally pried her loose enough to breathe and immediately got pulled into a one-armed hug from Sam, the kind men gave when affection needed disguising as roughness.
“Good drive?” Dean asked.
“No.”
“Liar,” Jess said.
Sam released him. “It was fine until hour seven.”
“It was fine until he became emotionally weak,” Jess corrected.
Dean snorted and set his keys in the bowl by the door.
Then he came to you.
No showmanship.
No teasing.
No words at first.
He just crossed the kitchen like gravity had made a decision, stopping close enough that your body already knew where to lean. His hands found your waist automatically, rough palms warm through the fabric of your shirt.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, smiling up at him. “Yeah. You?”
His gaze dipped over your face like he was checking for more than your answer. “Better now.”
Behind him, Jess made a dramatic choking sound. “Oh my God, disgusting.”
Sam immediately pointed at her. “You are not allowed to say that after tackling him at the door.”
“I was expressing familial love.”
Dean didn’t even look back. “You’re expressing a death wish.”
She grinned. “Missed you too.”
His thumb brushed once at your side before he finally stepped back, though reluctantly enough that both you and your wolf felt it.
The room buzzed now—voices overlapping, movement restarting, the cabin alive in every direction. Dean glanced around like he still couldn’t quite believe it.
All of them here.
All at once.
No one leaving in two days or a week. No countdown hanging over the room.
Just home.
His wolf swelled warm through the bond at the realization, pressing outward with deep, satisfied certainty.
The noise of everyone being home didn’t fade so much as spread out.
It moved through the cabin in layers now—Jess talking from two rooms away and somehow still sounding close, Sam answering only when necessary, Dean pulling off his flannel and draping it over the back of the couch, boots thudding across the floor before getting kicked off near the door.
For a brief moment, there was a pocket of quiet between movements—just long enough for it to register that no one was leaving it.
The kind of sound that made a place feel lived in.
Dean paused near the couch, just for a second longer than he needed to. Not quite looking at anything in particular—just taking it in. The overlapping voices, the heat of the kitchen, the fact that no one was packing up or heading out. His jaw flexed once, subtle, like something in him was adjusting to the weight of it.
Then he kept moving, but slower now. Easier.
You noticed it without meaning to.
That slight shift in him that didn’t come from exhaustion anymore.
It came from staying.
Chapter 60 ------- Chapter 62 - coming soon
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✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 6✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: jess confronts you and dean ✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: we're back again! i love them✦
Dean’s shirt doesn’t feel long enough anymore. You clench the fabric between your hands and turn it in your fingers, trying to pull it down and apart all at once. Maybe you can shrink into it like a turtle, and Jess’ sharp gaze won’t burn through you like a cigarette on a leaf.
She’s looking at Dean like she wants to kill him. He’s got one hand reaching behind him to steady you, and another curled at his side. You reach out to grab his shoulder, and his shoulders relax slightly. He remains planted in front of you, though. Protecting your modesty.
You try and pull the shirt down further, and step fully behind his back. You’re not afraid of Jess. You’re more worried Dean’s going to work himself up into passing out, and you’re going to have to catch him.
“Jess,” Dean starts, squeezing your wrist tighter. Like he’s trying to make sure you don’t slip away. “This- It isn’t what it looks like-“
“Really?” Jess snaps, and you drop your face into Dean’s shoulder with a sigh.
You love the man. He can be a bit of a dumbass sometimes.
“This isn’t what it looks like?” Jess waves between you and Dean. “Is that really what you’re going with, Winchester? That this is just some misunderstanding?”
“I- uh-“
“You were on the phone with Sam three hours ago. You told him you were in Louisiana, this is not Louisiana-“
“I know that-“
“You told him your girlfriend knew where you were-“
“Hey, she does-“
“Ha!” Jess points at him with an almost manic grin. “Because your girlfriend is right here!”
Her finger turns to you, and Dean tenses. He steps right in front of you, grip tightening, and narrows his eyes.
“Don’t point at her.”
Jess blinks, and you squeeze his shoulder lightly.
“De, I’m okay-“
“No. You’re pissed at me, fine. Be pissed. But she did nothing wrong.”
“Nothing-“ Jess scoffs, though there’s something in the sound that’s been dulled from before. “You both have been lying to Sam for months. To me for months. For- For years!” Her eyes widen. “Sam introduced you almost two years ago, you- You’ve been fucking the whole time-“
“No!” You jump in, leaning over Dean. “It’s not like that, it’s- We haven’t been dating the whole time- It’s only- Dean-“
“Seven months.” Dean mutters. “Two weeks, four days.”
“Exactly- That’s not-“ You cut yourself off, giving him an amused look. “You know the days?”
“Course I know the days.”
“It’s- Dean, I don’t know the days-“
“You’re bad at time, ‘s why I set all those alarms.”
“No, you set the alarms because you forget things-“
“I never touched that app until you, baby.” Dean smirks, and you roll your eyes.
“You touched the app, don’t be dramatic-“
“Nope.” He squeezes your waist. You’re not even sure when his hand got there, but it makes you melt all the same. “Cross my heart. Never even knew what a timer was.”
“You- You knew-“
“Ask Charlie, she’ll tell you ‘bout my perfect internal clock.” He ducks down, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “’m like a pigeon, Princess.”
It’s difficult not to giggle and melt for him. You hold it together. “Pigeons have homing instincts. Not clocks.”
“Hm- Fine. I’m like an owl.”
“That’s- Time isn’t an owl thing either. Owls are wise, they like- Read books.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “Owls read books?”
“No, it’s- That’s the thing you see, in a cartoon, the owl reading the book.”
“Oh- Like that dork with the glasses in PBS.”
You nod, beaming up at him. “Yeah. Just like that.”
Dean grins, reaching up to cup your chin. Your smile widens, your face all hot under his hands, and he leans down, and-
“If you kiss in front of me, I’m going to vomit.”
Right. Jess.
She’s still glaring between you, but it’s with less fury than before. Like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle without the box, and realized halfway through she might be using the wrong pieces. Dean tucks you under his arm, his fingers tracing small shapes on your shoulder. At least he’s not trying to barricade you anymore. You like this better anyway. He’s the prettiest, softest, smartest set of armor in the world. You think he has more of a heartbeat than you do, sometimes. You know yours follows whatever rhythm his says is safe to beat.
“Look, we’ll- We can explain. Just-“ Dean sighs, dropping his face into your hair and taking a long, deep breath.
You smile nervously at Jess. She looks even more confused.
“Don’t tell Sammy.” Dean looks up again, his fingers splaying on your stomach. “Please.”
Jess glares between you. She crosses her arms and tilts her head, scanning you up and down like the answers she wants will be written all over your skin.
You’re sure, in a way, that they are. Dean was bold, for his it’s not what it looks like claim. You’re wearing his shirt and nothing else. He’s wearing his lazy night boxers, that are for when he’s too tired for pants. You’ve offered to help him wear his pants, if he’s cold. He always kisses your brow and mutters something about that being dangerous. You say it’s not dangerous, they’re pants. He says anything that’s got you touching me is dangerous, Princess. You remind him you touch him all the time. He grins—because he’s won the game you always lose, but he never gets any less proud of it—and murmurs exactly before ducking down for a kiss.
His lazy night boxers have little ducks on them. You bought them for him, because he reminds you of a duck. He tried to be offended by that, but he wears them all the time.
And they’re inside out. Like he’d shoved them on, because he had. And his hair is mussed up, and you’re holding his arm around your waist because there’s a pleasant, dull ache between your legs and you’ve never had to walk with it before. Dean’s boots are next to yours at the door. His jacket is tossed over the couch.
There’s nothing else this could be.
If Jess snaps that she’s going to tell Sam now, you’ll understand. You should’ve told him sooner. It’s your own fault, for not wanting the tiny, sacred blossom you’ve been growing with Dean to be touched by anything outside. You’ve been so worried it wasn’t going survive being in a real garden. That weeds would grow over it or winter would freeze it or the soil wouldn’t be rich enough.
But those were phantoms. Loud voices in your head that Dean was good at silencing.
And you should’ve told Sam.
“Jess-“
“Fine.” She cuts you off, looking up at the ceiling with a shake of her head. “But I want to hear him talk.”
She points at Dean, and you swallow. He can do this. He just has to not talk about how you just had sex, focus on the timeline, and it’ll be fine.
Dean swallows, pulling you tighter to his chest.
“I- Uh- Are you sure you don’t want her to talk- She talks real pretty, and-“
“I listen to her talk all the time.” Jess tips her chin up, eyes locked on Dean. “Think of it as in-law bonding.”
“In-law bonding?” Dean stands a little taller. “Oh, that’s awesome, did you and Sammy- Oof-“
You elbow him right in the gut, and he doubles over with a groan. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you rub his forearm while smiling at Jess.
“No ring,” you hiss, low enough for only Dean to hear.
He grunts, kissing the top of your throat. “Thanks, baby.”
You hum, and give Jess another winning smile. She just raises her brows, an unimpressed expression painted on her face.
And you realize, as you all settle on the couch, that right now Dean isn’t just Sam’s brother. He’s also the secret boyfriend Jess has been grinding you down into showing her. The one she’s wanted to gnash at and rip up, to see if he’s made of something she deems worthy enough.
For a second, you’re glad you didn’t tell Sam. Doing this with both of them might’ve actually killed Dean.
“Seven months.” Jess starts slowly, glaring between you.
Dean’s still holding your hand. Your thighs are pressed together. You made the careful call not to sit on his lap or lean any closer than you needed to.
“Yep.” Dean gives her that boyish, charming smile. It’s the one he uses on you, to get what he wants.
He’s been spoiled, by how much you love him. How easily you fold. Jess doesn’t even blink.
“How.”
“How, uh-“ Dean frowns. “How’s it been seven months?”
“How did it start, dumbass.”
“Oh. I- Um- I flew out to visit her. And- We went to the zoo and kissed. But she kissed me.” He adds quickly. You’re worried he’s going to cramp his hand, with how tight he’s holding yours. “I wasn’t gonna make a move, but- We got caught in the rain, and that makes girls romantic-“
“That makes girls romantic-“’
“Me. It makes me romantic.” Dean sits taller. A terrified soldier at attention. “I got really romantic, and- I wooed her into kissin’ me. Would’ve have happened if I wasn’t throwing off signals. And- Hormones, like an ant-“
“Pheromones.” You whisper, and Dean nods frantically.
“But- The ant-“
“That was right.” You offer him a small smile. “But I think you’re talking about bird dancing. Ant pheromones are for communication.”
“Oh. Cool.” Dean grins at you, then at Jess. “You see why I took her to the zoo? Little freakin’ nerd.”
“I am not a nerd-“
“Yes, you are.” Dean grabs your chin, squeezing it gently. “No pouting, sweetheart. Makes you too cute.”
Your nose wrinkles, and your face twists into a mock sneer. Dean laughs, and leans down to kiss you.
Jess hits him with a pillow. He squawks like a bird, twisting his back to shield you from more fluffy projectiles, and you giggle.
“I thought I told you not to talk?” Jess snaps at you—though with far less venom than she’s been using on Dean—and you give her an apologetic smile.
“Do you want me to leave the-“
“No.” Dean—his face pressed into your breasts, his arms around your stomach—sits back up. “No, you- You stay. I’ll behave, I’ll even-“ He sits on his hands, giving Jess a hopeful look. “See? No touching.”
“Hm.” Jess lets out a long breath. “Fine. Keep going. Zoo.”
“Right. Zoo.” Dean rocks on his hands, face scrunched as he thinks. He looks like a scolded toddler, trying to think of a way to explain why they ate the last cookie.
You’re a little worried that the harder he thinks, the more he’s going to talk himself out of telling very simple, easy truths.
“Why were you at the zoo?” Jess prompts tightly.
Dean frowns. “Cause she wanted to go to the zoo?”
“No, I- How did you end up at the zoo here. Like- Physically?”
“Oh.” Dean shrugs. “I drove.”
“From Chicago?”
“Yeah. I usually drive. I’ll, uh-“ He glances at you. “I take the I-90, then stick south-west, lotta backroads depending-“
“Dean, I don’t care about your route-“
“I know, I’m just- I get here in like three days, drivin’ real fast. And safe.” He adds quickly. “I drive safe, Princess. I’m the most law abiding guy out there.”
You shake your head, turning to hide your smile. Jess leans forward, still frowning.
“You drive for three days.” She says slowly. “Just to get to California.”
“I mean- Yeah.”
“Where’s your car right now?”
“Back in Chicago.” Dean shrugs. “Flew in, just this one time. Emergency.”
“Emergency?” Jess frowns, looking to you. “What- Are you okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. I- I’m okay.”
“What happened, I- Why didn’t you tell us-“
“I was- Um- I wanted to-“
“But you didn’t, you called Dean-“
“It was- I needed him.” You give her a pleading look. “You- I know you would’ve helped. I- I needed Dean.”
Jess’ frown deepens. She looks Dean up and down, and he sits taller. You know she’s trying to imagine what he has, that she and Sam don’t.
That would make him worth lying about.
Because she’s mad Dean lied to his brother. To her boyfriend.
But you also lied to her. And you’re her friend.
“He dropped everything.” You say softly, and Jess looks at you suspiciously.
You know you’re not supposed to talk. You’re going to anyway.
“I called him, I told him not to come, but- He asked if I needed him- He made me tell him I needed him- And I did, and he came. And I needed him. I love you,” you give her a soft smile. “You don’t call me when you need Sam.”
Jess’ nose twitches. Something in the lines of her face softens. “Sam and I have been together for three years.”
“I know.”
“I’ve known you for three years-“
“I know-“
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jess whispers, her eyes tired and pained. “If you asked me not to, I wouldn’t have told him. I mean- I would’ve been pissed about it, but-“
“You would’ve hated it.” You lean forward, holding onto Dean’s knee. “You would’ve thought about telling Sam all the time, I didn’t want to do that to you.”
Jess’ throat bobs. She laughs softly, glancing at Dean, then back to you. “He’s going to be pissed.”
“Yeah.” You sigh. “I know.”
“God, he- He literally promised Sam he wouldn’t do this.” Jess gives Dean a stern look, and you frown.
“Do what, date me?”
“Chase after you.” Jess shrugs. “Sam was real worried you were just another hookup-“
“She’s not.” Dean grabs your hand on his knee. “I haven’t slept around since we started talking. Couldn’t even get it up anymore, after I met her. Swear on my car.”
Jess snorts. “So what, you were just celibate for a year-“
“Yeah. I was.”
Dean holds Jess’ untrusting look. She looks between you again, features pinched slightly, and lets out a long, sharp breath.
“Jesus, Sam is going to-“
“Kill us.” Dean smirks. “He can try. He might got a few inches on me now, I but I don’t go down easy, Jess. I’m scrappy.”
“Scrappy?” You echo, smiling up at him, and he shrugs.
“I fight dirty. He pretends to bite your nose, then kisses it. “You know that.”
He tickles you side, and you smack him almost in the face. Dean laughs, wrapping his arm fully around your stomach and pulling you into his chest. You fall back into the couch cushions, half in his lap, and give Jess a nervous smile. She’s staring at you both like she’s seen a ghost. You can’t really blame her.
“We’re going to tell Sam.” You tell her. “I promise.”
Dean holds you back like a seatbelt, as you try to sit up. You twist to glare at him, and he’s got that charming, boyish smile. He leans up to kiss your shoulder, and you don’t understand how Jess manages to be immune to him. This whole mess could’ve been avoided, if you didn’t fold like a towel under his attention. Letting him shape you into where he needs you to be, absorbing up everything he gives you, even trying to get tossed over his shoulder, because those big hands on the back of your thighs make you so dizzy and stupid you might as well be high.
He drags his thumb in small circles, staring up at you adoringly, and you give in. You always give in.
Jess still doesn’t look wholly convinced, when you collapsed back against Dean’s chest. You wrap your arms around your stomach, trying to breathe through your nose. This will be fine. This will be fine.
“You’re happy.” Jess murmurs, and you try to push back your smile.
It’s not a question. Dean doesn’t let it be a question. Either you’re already happy, or Dean comes and makes you happy.
“Is he respectful?” She asks you, and Dean tenses.
“I’m a freakin’ gentleman-“
“I didn’t ask you, Winchester.” Jess shots him a daggered glare, and he slumps back into the cushions. Jess says your name. “Is he respectful?”
“Very.” You say quickly. “He’s chivalrous.”
You lean your head back to smile at him. He’s beaming so proudly, you’re worried his head is going to pop.
“Hm.” Jess’ nose twitches. “How long did he wait after that visit to ask you out.”
“A year. And- I called him. If that helps.”
Jess pauses. “How the hell did you get his number?”
“He left it for me?”
Jess’ gaze snaps to Dean, and he winces. The way he’s adjusting you in his arms, you could swear he’s hiding behind you.
“Dean-“
“Hey, I wasn’t allowed to ask for her number, so- No rules broken-“
“That’s not the point, he didn’t- It wasn’t about semantics-“
“I don’t know what that word means-“
“Yes, you do.” You cover Dean’s mouth, frowning at Jess. “And- Why wasn’t Dean allowed to ask for my number?”
Jess pales. Like she’s just realizing what she’s been saying—what she’s been implying—and that you have fucking ears.
No rules broken. He promised Sam he wouldn’t do this. Chase after you.
“Did Sam tell him not to?” You ask softly, and Jess sighs.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Maybe-“
“He did. But- He knows his brother, alright? And Dean-“ She gives him a look. “You’d never been serious about a relationship before-“
“I’m serious about this.” He mutters, fingers curling against your stomach. “And I’m not- That ain’t something that’s gonna change.”
“He flew on a plane for me.” You say softly, and Jess sighs.
“Yeah. I got that. But- He swore to Sam he wasn’t gonna try anything, then- You lied to his face-“
“It was new, Jess.” Dean’s voice is heavier than before. Cautious, his body almost rooted into yours. Like he’s worried Jess is going to try and rip you away. “If I told him we were talking, he woulda made me promise not to date her. If I told him we were dating, he would’ve told her all kinds of horror stories ‘bout me in high school and shit. That ain’t fair.”
Jess winces. “He- He does want you to be happy-“
“But he thinks she’s too good for me.”
“He’d never-“
“Yes, he would.” Dean sighs, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “And he’s right. But we’re not the one who makes the call.”
He and Jess stare at each other, and you shrink a little further back into Dean’s chest. You’re not too good for him. He’s too good for you. He’s too good for everyone. He’s like a perfect man they made in a factory, warm and thick and sweeter than every other sugary thin you love so much. You worry sometimes, that you get too greedy for him, but there’s no end to it. To him, and his soft, firm hands.
Sam almost stopped you from having him.
You should be furious about that. But every time a little anger sparks, it’s stomped out by a downpour that’s heavier. That fills up your chest and almost pushes out of your eyes.
If you hadn’t lied to Sam, you wouldn’t have Dean.
Jess says your name, and you blink away the threatening tears.
“Is it worth it?” She asks softly.
You nod without a single thought. Jess sighs.
“There are- Like so many other men-“
“So?”
She gives you a flat look. “I have friends! I could’ve set you up, if you were this desperate-“
“Hey.” Dean frowns. “I’m the whole package, kid-“
“I’m sure you are, banana pants-“
“They’re ducks-“
“Dean.” You give him a stern look, and he goes silent. You look back to Jo. “Don’t be mean to him. He’s sensitive.”
Dean scowls, grumbling under his breath. “No, I’m not-“
“Yes, you are.” You run your fingers through his hair—it’s getting long, and he’s going to try and make you cut it but maybe you’ll just tell him no—and smile. Dean grunts, dropping his face into your shoulder. His lips graze the crook of your neck.
Jess looks like she’s being torn in half.
“I love him.” You say, soft and quiet. “I- I’ve never- I don’t want anyone else.”
Dean smiles against your skin. Jess groans like she’s being tortured.
“Seven months?” She mutters, and you nod.
“We were calling at lot before that, but- He was just hitting on me-“
“Were you hitting on him back?”
“I, um- I think I was trying-“
“She’s bad at it.” Dean chuckles, propping his chin on your shoulder. “It’s fuckin’ adorable. Like watchin’ a baby bird trying to fly. Couldn’t even get outta the nest.”
You sigh, leaning your head back against his. “You’re bad at metaphors.”
“I’m amazing at everything.” He teases, and you snort, shaking your head.
“Mhm.”
“I am. Makes me a good housewife, if you got an opening.”
You roll your eyes, still smiling stupidly, and look back to Jess.
“He does my laundry. And cleans, and brings me things, and-“
“I carry her around-“
“I don’t ask you to do that-“
“Yeah, but I love doin’ it.” He kisses your cheek. “You ass goes right next to my face-“
“Okay!” Jess shouts, slumping back into her chair. “I get it, you’re- This is… Something.”
It’s more than something. It’s the best thing you’ve ever had in your life. The only thing you’ve ever been certain of, because the Earth shifts and the ground under your feet slips and Dean’s more unmovable than a mountain. Now doesn’t feel like the best time to tell Jess that.
“I love him.” You say instead. “He cooks for me.”
Jess’ eyes widen. “He cooks for you?” She looks to Dean. “You can’t cook!”
Dean frowns. “Who says I can’t cook? Sam?”
“I- When you come out to visit, he always tells me we have to go to restaurants-“
“Yeah, ‘cause I like tryin’ new food. I can cook.”
“And bake.” You say quickly, and Jess starts, like she’s just putting things together.
“Oh my god, he made the cupcakes.”
“I told you that-“
“Yeah, but I didn’t- That’s-“ she gapes at Dean. “You’ve been leaving all those hickeys, and- The chocolates-“
Dean tenses. “You, uh- You didn’t read the card, did you-“
“It’s in my room.” You murmur, and he lets out a sharp breath.
Jess shakes her head, frowning between you. “God, Sam’s going to- I won’t tell him.” She points at you and Dean, eyes narrowed. “Because I love you,” she ignores Dean all together. “And I think Sam likes having not murdered anyone. But you,” her gaze snaps to Dean. “Are going to call him right now and say that after Benny’s you’re driving up to California.”
Dean swallows. “That’s, uh- Long drive-“
“You’re not actually making it, genius.” Jess rolls her eyes. “I’m giving you a week to figure out what the hell you’re going to tell him, and then I’m telling him myself.”
You look back to Dean. He grimaces, but shrugs. It’s the best deal you’re going to get. You can even figure out an escape plan, in case Sam does try to kill him. Dean knows how to throw a punch—and less scrapy than brutally strong—but you don’t think he’ll stand a chance against Sam. Mostly because Sam will lunge to rip out his throat, and Dean will refuse to lay a single hand on his baby brother.
“Deal.” Dean grins at Jess. Her lips don’t even twitch.
“Good. Call him.”
“Uh- Now?”
“Yep.”
“I dunno, it’s late-“
“He’s awake.”
You pause. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Yep. I told him you had a book I wanted, and I was going to pick it up.” She grimaces. “Got caught in traffic. Thank fuck.”
Her gaze darts to your bare thighs, pulled to your chest and resting between Dean’s legs. You flush. You’re also glad she got caught in traffic.
“My, uh- My phone is in your room.” Dean squeezes your knee. “Baby, can you…”
You nod, and roll off Dean’s lap. He lingers for a second, brushing a kiss over your brow before dragging himself away. You smile like a fool, hugging yourself tighter. If you don’t, your heart it going to spill like honey all over the floor in front of Jess.
She’s still watching you suspiciously, when Dean goes to grab his phone. You clear your throat, face burning, and she sighs.
“You really love him?”
You nod, and almost apologize for it—it’s not your fault, how are you supposed to not love Dean, but you feel bad anyway—before Jess laughs.
“I told him.”
You blink. “You told Dean I love him?”
“No,” she snorts. “I told Sam. That this was going to happen.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again, and shake your head. You didn’t know this was going to happen. Dean had just appeared and suddenly the universe had shifted into better colors than you’d even see before. You’d been blind for so long, it had been like a firework hitting you square in the chest.
There was no way for Jess to know it was going to do that.
“What?”
Jess rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “When Dean came down that first time, I told him not to introduce you.”
Your lips pull tight. “Why- Why would you do that-“
“Because Sam loves him, but- He loves you too. And Dean- You know what he was like. Before.”
You swallow, shrinking into yourself. You know too well. You try not to think about it, because it puts a sour taste in your mouth. Vile thoughts and pictures flash through your head like bullets, demanding that you remember Dean’s experience. That he’s always going to have some other girl waiting for him in the corner of a bar, and if he gets tired of you, he just has to drop you on the floor and wave her over.
He’d never do that. Not to you. If for some horrible, horrible reason Dean ever does get sick of you—and no matter how much he reassures you he won’t, there’s always that tiny voice, because you’re sick of you all the time—he’d never hurt you over it. But there’s always that phantom. The smiles of girls when you go to bars. The fact that sometimes when you kiss him, you know he’s so good at it because he had practice.
When you were under him, he knew what to do because he’d done it countless times. And you’d just lain there, looking up at him like he was a god. Useless. If he wanted something warm to fuck, he could get a fleshlight instead. It would cry less, and he wouldn’t need to care for it after, and-
“Hey.” Jess touches your hand, and you swallow.
Tears had been burning at your eyes. You sniff, wiping your nose, and Jess flinches, face tight with guilt.
“I’m not- I didn’t think Dean would just try to sleep with you,” she says softly. “Sam did. I told him not to introduce you two because I thought it would end like this,” she nods to where Dean had disappeared through the door. “And he said the worst that happens is Dean tries to sleep with her, and I kill him.”
“He didn’t.” You mumble, staring at Jess’ hand. “I had to make him sleep with me. He kept trying to make it special, it was taking so fucking long.”
Jess laughs, and your lips tug up. She moves to sit next to you on the couch, and your knees bump.
“He’s good to me.” You whisper, dropping your head on her shoulder.
She sighs. “Yeah. I knew he would be.”
You smile at nothing, and Jess wraps her arm around your shoulders.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Mhm.” You count on your fingers. “Charlie- His roommate. All his coworkers. Benny, obviously-“
“Obviously.”
“Um- My friend Jo, but just because she caught us. And now you.”
Jess hums, frowning at the air. “Jo, she’s the one from your hometown?”
“Yeah.”
“Does your dad know?”
You snort, shaking you head. “De’s more afraid of him that he is of Sam.”
“Really? Your dad was so nice-“
“To you and Sam.” You give her a pointed look. “You aren’t fucking me.”
Jess laughs, and you pause. That was what you’d wanted to ask her about.
You lower your voice, even though the only other person who could hear is Dean.
“He’s really good at sex.” You whisper, and Jess’ eyes widen. “Is it a genetic thing? Is Sam good at it too?”
Jess’ face goes red. She clears her throat, and you study her carefully.
“I- Um-“ She shakes her head. “I mean, yes, but- He’s your first,” she says gently. “I mean, you don’t have a benchmark-“
“Oh. Hm.” You tilt your head. “How many times does Sam make you cum?”
Jess’ sighs, slumping into your side. “Like- two, usually.”
You nod. “Oh.”
“Oh?” She narrows her eyes. “What, Dean can’t be that good-“
You beam at her, and she scoffs.
“Whatever. At least mine can read.”
“Dean can read! He’s just- He likes to play stupid-“
“Play?” Jess grins at you. “Sam told me he almost got held back in fourth grade-“
“Because he couldn’t sit still. He was hyper, he needed to run around to focus-“
“Dean told me he can’t do calculus.”
“He doesn’t need to do calculous.” You grumble. “He’s a genius.”
Jess shakes her head, still smiling. “Wow. He must be really good at sex.”
You shove her arm. “Dean says Sam used to cry when their mom moved the rocks in the garden.”
“He liked them in order.” Jess says defensively. “You do the same thing-“
“I’m very annoying.”
“Sam’s not annoying-“
“I didn’t say he was.” You shrug. “Interesting, that you thought of it though-“
Jess pushes you, and you laugh.
“Sam can’t eat anything but butter noodles.”
“He’s- He doesn’t care about food, okay? His brain goes to other things.” She glares at you. “Dean eats like a racoon.”
You giggle, leaning back into her shoulder. “He told me he and Sam used to eat grass.”
Jess sighs. “Yeah, I know. I think mine ate it more.”
“At least he didn’t eat dog food.”
“That- He actually did that?”
“Yep.” You shake your head. “He says it was a dare.”
“He knows he doesn’t have to do those, right?”
“Nope. I’m worried Charlie’s going to call me one day and say he’s lost in the woods because she dared him to be or something.”
“You should put a tracker on him.”
You snort. “He’d find it.”
“I’d find what?” Dean reappears in the doorway, glaring at Jess. “You took my seat.”
Jess sticks out her tongue. “I was here first.”
“No you weren’t- I-“ He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
You giggle, as he shuffles over to the chair. You stretch out your legs, resting then in his lap, and he rubs your ankle with a small grin.
“What am I gonna find?”
“Nothing-“
“A tracker.” You answer, and Jess glares at you.
“Why would you tell him-“
“Because he’d find it.” You shrug, and Dean puffs out his chest.
“Hell yeah, I would.” He pauses. “Why’re you talkin’ about trackers.”
“Jess wants me to put one on you.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “I’m not a freakin’ dog-“
“She’s worried you’re going to get lost in the woods.” Jess says, and Dean glares at you.
“I- I’m not gonna get lost in the woods-“
“You would if Charlie dared you to.” You nudge his thigh with your foot, and he sighs.
“I know how to get outta the woods, Princess.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I’m like a pigeon.” He grins. “I’d phone home. Back to you.”
He picks up your leg, kissing the inside of your ankle. You roll your eyes, your smile ditzy and gaze locked onto his. You’re glad Jess is next to you. Your shirt is riding enough up that Dean can see right between your legs, and you’re still not wearing underwear.
His gaze flashes with hunger when he sees it. A smirk pulls at his lips, and he rubs your calf in smooth, firm circles when he lowers your leg. You flush, trying not to squirm. It’s torture, knowing what he could do to you if he got you alone. It’s worse than when you were just imaging. You can picture those pretty, smug lips kissing up your inner thighs, over the sensitive skin around your core, before finding where you’re throbbing for him and-
“Call Sam.” Jess snaps, nodding to the phone in Dean’s hand. “Now.”
Dean sighs, slumping down in his chair. He taps on his phone, still rubbing your ankle, and you bite down a happy sigh.
The phone rings. You and Jess watch Dean carefully, but he doesn’t seem that nervous. He just rolls his neck, tipping his head back against the chair while he waits.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice cuts through the air. Dean’s grip tightens on your ankle.
“Hey, Sammy. You got some time?”
“Yeah, uh-“ Sam clears his throat. “It’s pretty late, but- Jess is out. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Jess is out?” Dean ignores the question. “Where’d she go?”
Jess glares at him, and he just smirks at the ceiling. You sigh, giving her an apologetic look. Dean, in all his glory and kindness, can still be a fucking butt.
Sam says your name. “Something about her having a book? I dunno, she seemed pissed about something.”
Jess cringes. You squeeze her hand.
“Huh.” Dean drawls, looking at you and Jess under his lashes. “Wonder what.”
You kick him, and he smirks, pinning your foot against his stomach.
“I don’t know, it was just- She was acting weird all evening. I’ll ask her when she gets home or something.” Sam sighs through the speaker. “Why are you calling me, Dean. It must be what, 1am there?”
“Yeah, uh- Just wanted to tell you the plan.”
“The plan? You don’t make plans.”
Dean frowns. “Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t. I call you and suddenly you’re on the road doing something-“
“Yeah, ‘cause I planned to be-“ Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Whatever, you wanna hear the plan or not?”
“Maybe. Does it involve me meeting your fake girl friend?”
“Yes, smartass. It does."
Sam goes silent for a moment. Dean picks up his head, frowning at you, and you give him a nervous look. He squeezes your foot three times, working his own jaw.
“Really?” Sam finally says, and Dean sighs.
“Yeah, really.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” Dean glares at the phone. “You’ve been up my ass for months about this, and I’m givin’ in and suddenly it’s why?”
“Yeah, Dean, because I’ve been- Well, I’m not saying up your ass-“
“You’ve been rooting around in there like she was just gonna fall out-“
“Don’t be gross, dude-“
“I’m just tellin’ the truth-“
“You’re being a jerk.” Sam snaps. “So that I won’t ask more questions.”
Dean sighs, and you hide your smile. He likes to pretend to hate it when people know him too well. He gets all fake grumpy, when you predict him.
You’re never going to tell him how adorably predictable he actually is. You pretend to give him restaurants to chose from, but you know what he’ll pick the moment you see it. He always holds your hand, and always gets all puppy-dog excited over pie, and when you say what should we watch you’re already looking for his answer before he says it.
Dean’s a good, smart, handsome man, and he’s simple in the way that math is simple. There’s only ever one answer, and if you know it well enough there’s not that much work to do. It can take time to know him well. But it’s time well spent.
And Sam’s the only person in the world who has Dean figured out as well as you do. You’re still a little shocked Jess is the one who figured it out from a phone call. You’ve been worried that Dean would slip up in the way only Dean could, and Sam would sink his teeth into it and cut the case wide open.
The way he’s very close to doing right now.
“Look, Sammy-“
“Don’t do that.” Sam snaps over Dean. “I’m not a kid, Dean. You’re being weird.”
“I’m not bein’ weird-“
“You’re calling me at one in the morning, about meeting your fake girlfriend-“
“She’s not-“ Dean groans, and it echoes in your chest a little. “She’s not fake, alright? And you’re not gonna be meeting her.”
“You just said-“
“I said it involves that. Not that it was gonna happen.”
“Dean, you can’t just- You have to tell me what the fuck you mean, you know I hate surprises-“
“Well,” Dean’s voice drops under his breath. “There’s no other good freakin’ way to do this.”
“What?”
“I said it ain’t a surprise, Sammy.” He raises his voice again, giving you and Jess a tired look. “I’m tellin’ you, right now. After Benny’s, I’m heading over to you, and we’ll- We’ll work something out, alright? I want you to know.”
“Hm.” Sam still sounds doubtful. “Why.”
“’Cause.” Dean snaps. Sam scoffs.
“That’s not a good reason, Dean-“
“Well, it’s the one you’re gonna get. You can go all CIA on my ass after, alright? I’m there in one week, whether you like it or not.”
Sam sighs. “Dude, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Dean frowns. “Why the hell not? I visit you all the time.”
Jess tenses, mouth falling open. She looks frantic all of a sudden, leaning forward.
“Mom and Dad are coming out.” Sam mutters, and Jess swears, slumping back down.
“I forgot.” She whispers to you, but you barely hear it.
You’re too busy looking at Dean.
He’s pale in the face and red in the ears. His jaw is tight, a vein in his brow ticking. You mouth his name, pressing your foot into his stomach gently. He squeezes you three times, but there’s a hollow gleam in his eyes.
You don’t have to. You mouth, but Dean shakes his head.
Something in his gaze steels. He clears his throat, and his voice is rougher than before.
“Good. Family reunion.”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I’m an adult. So is Dad. And-” He sighs, looking purely at you. “Was gonna have to introduce her eventually.”
“I know, but- Maybe not now-“
“Nope. Now. Next week. Lookin’ forward to it.”
“Dean-“
“”s late. Night, Sammy.”
Dean hangs up the phone, and you sigh. Jess doesn’t try to stop you, when you detangle yourself and make your way over to his side. You wrap your hands lightly around his neck, your fingers brushing on the hair at his nape. His eyes flutter closed. You give him a small smile.
“I forgot they were coming, Dean.” Jess mutters from behind you. “I would’ve told you to wait a week, I’m sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You answer for him, watching his brow knit tight. “We’ll figure it out.”
You will. You have to tell Sam eventually, and if you keep waiting, it puts Jess at risk of his anger too. It’s one thing for her to give you a week deadline before you tell him. It’s another for this to turn into a secret she has to keep too.
Jess leaves soon after, hugging you and mumbling another apology. You’re not as worried about it as she seems to be. It’s not going to be easy, but Dean’s stronger than people give him credit for. He lived under John’s roof for years. He’ll survive one dinner, and then he’ll come home, and he can tell you everything that happened and you can kiss all over his face and make him feel better.
He’s still in the chair, when you walk back into the living room. You smile softly, walking between his legs. He grabs your waist without opening his eyes, his voice low and under his breath.
“I’m alright, sweetheart-“
“I know.” You murmur, combing your fingers through his hair. “I didn’t think you weren’t.”
Dean looks at you under lidded eyes. You keep you smile even, and he lets out a long sigh.
“He wasn’t that bad.”
“Okay.”
“He wasn’t-“
“I said okay.”
Dean grunts, shifting to lean forwards. His face presses into your stomach, his hands dragging down to hug you around your ass. You keep petting his head, humming to yourself as you wait.
“I don’t want ‘im near you.” Dean mutters finally, and you sigh.
“I thought you said he wasn’t that bad?”
Dean pinches the back of your thigh, and you squeal.
“Dean-“
“You always gonna get this mouthy after I fuck you?”
His drawl is low. Deep. It rolls through your body like thunder and heats your cheeks, a burning ache pooling between your thighs. You narrow your eyes.
“Nice try.”
He sighs, and presses his face back into your stomach. “Wasn’t tryin’ anything.”
His thick fingers trail up the back of your thigh, leaving excited, lingering goosebumps in their wake. You swallow your little squeak, but can’t stop the tug of his hair.
“Dean.”
“Hm?” He kisses under your breast, and you let out a slow breath.
“You- You can’t just-“
“Yeah, I can.” He mouths higher, tongue flicking over your nipple through your shirt. You lean over him, nails scratching at his scalp.
“I- I wanna talk about it-“
“Nothin’ to talk about.”
“But-“
“They’re not meetin’ you.” Dean mutters, dark and low. “Maybe Mom, after Sammy. But- He’s not getting close.”
“I’ll have to meet him eventually-“
“Yeah. But not now.”
“De.” You tug him back, and he lets you. Even as he grabs a handful of your ass.
His eyes are hooded. Exhausted in the way only Dean can be, where you think he must be loading his shoulders with invisible bricks and still trying to carry you as well. You want to carry him.
“It’s okay if it was bad.” You say softly. He works his jaw, and you lean down, letting your noses bump. “I don’t care.”
That makes his lips twitch. “You don’t care?”
Your eyes widen. “No, I- I care, I just- It doesn’t- I don’t love you less-“
Dean grabs the back of your neck, and pulls you down into a long, deep kiss. You hum, melting over his chest. Suddenly you’re straddling his thigh and pushing him back down into the chair cushions. He holds you steady, running his fingers through your hair and smiling against your lips.
“I know, Princess.” He leans back, kissing you softly between every word. “You just get real cute when you freak out.”
You grunt, grabbing at the collar of his shirt. “You’re such a butt-“
“I’m your butt.” He smacks your ass lightly and you squeak, pushing further into his thigh. “And you’re mine.”
That ignites an almost feverish heat through your body. You have something teasing about you being his butt, but Dean squeezes your ass again and drags you down for another kiss, and you’re getting a little dizzy.
“Dean,” you breathe out, and he chuckles.
“Thought you wanted to talk about it, baby?”
“I- I do-“
“You do what?” He starts trailing open mouth kisses down your neck. Your hips are rolling weakly, seeking any kind of pressure and relief against his leg.
“I wanna talk-“
“We are talkin’-“
“No, I- I wanna-“
“You wanna help me.” Dean murmurs, kissing up to your ear. “I know, Princess. My sweet girl.”
He shoves his knee up, right as you grind down again. You whimper, pressing your face against the side of his head.
“You are helping. Just like this.” He turns, kissing your cheek, then your slack, panting mouth.
You try to shake your head. “You- You don’t- When I need help-“
“Everyone’s different.” Dean mutters. “This, you-“ He squeezes your waist. “All I need.”
And God, you believe him. Dean grabs your jaw and kisses you like a starved man. His tongue pushes its way between your lips, his grip tight enough that you could slip out of you tried, but it’s a silent order not to. This is where Dean wants you. Where he can feel you.
“You’re so soft, Princess.” He murmurs, and you hum against his lips. “So damn needy, too. If people saw this, they’d think I hadn’t touched you in months.”
You make a disgruntled noise, hips rolling mindlessly down onto his thigh. He didn’t touch you for months. You’re making up for lost time, if anything.
“No one else makes you feel like this, do they?” Dean’s voice drops to a growl, his fingers digging into your hips and ass. “No one else gets to see my baby, so fuckin’ desperate.”
You shake your head, grinding down faster and faster. Your thighs are starting to falter and ache. That new, hot pressure is building in your abdomen, and you scratch at Dean’s shoulders, trying to pull them to move faster. His bulge is pressing through his sweatpants, right against your inner thigh. When you roll your hips just right, the head of his cock hits your drooling pussy, and you see stain when you move away.
“Say it,” Dean mutters, and when your eyes flick up, he’s watching you like he’s never seen anything better in his life. “Say who’s makin’ you feel good, sweetheart. Who’s making my good girl so fuckin’ messy-“
“You.” You breathe out, looking at him with pleading eyes. “You, Dean- Deaaaan-“
Your words fall of in a moan, as you’re rewarded with a sharp, harsh kiss. Dean’s grip on you tightens, enough that if you weren’t left with handprints before, you’re certainly going to have them now. You pant out his name in short gasps, as he guides your hips against his crotch. He moans, low and rough in your year. It sparks more and more heat between your thighs.
His kisses are sloppy and harsh. His teeth scrape, as he sucks on your neck, leaving another mark you’re not going to want to hide the morning.
“That’s it, Princess,” he mutters between kisses, and your back arches, your eyes glazed and vision swimming with pleasure. “C’mon, gimme what I want.”
You whimper, pulling at his hair. He just moans louder, pinning you against his crotch as he ruts up against your pussy.
“So soft, baby, so fuckin’ good for me- Come on-“
“De- Dean-“ Your vision is going white. His hand dips under your shirt, thick fingers dragging up your sides, and it sends hot, perfect shivers through your already sensitive body. “Dean- I- I’m-“
“I know.” He growls, biting right under your jaw. “Easy fuckin’ girl, barely even did anything and you’re gonna cum all over me-“
“Dean-“ You gasp, face burning. You’re almost blubbering. You have no fucking idea how he does this to you, every time. “Please-“
“Now, baby, show me what I’m doin’ to you, show me how good it feels-“
You obey without even thinking about it. Even if you wanted to hold on longer, your body wouldn’t have let you. It follows Dean’s thick, demanding words, and shatters under his hands. You spasm, grinding weakly down against his twitching cock. Your head rolls, your mouth hanging open as you babble out his name, sudden tears of pleasure streaming down your cheeks.
Dean leans back, keeping his hold steady on you as he pulls his cock out of his sweats. You lick your lips at the sight of it, big and angry and so hard. Dean groans your name, dropping your brows together and pumping himself with rough, smacking strokes. Your fingers twitch to touch him. You might be drooling at the sight of him, chest heaving and gaze searing into you.
He moans your name, as he cums. It splatters a little over your shirt and hands, and you don’t expect it to be so hot.
Curiosity gets the better of you. Dean’s catching his breath, massaging your sides and watching you closely, and you take the quiet second to test a theory.
You like Dean’s cum off your fingers, and hum in surprise. It’s salty, and earthy, and you don’t hate it. You gather a little more on your thumb, and suck on that too.
Dean makes a deep, feral sound, and you jump in surprise as he smashes his mouth against yours.
“My girl,” he grunts, tugging on your hair to deepen the angle. “Jesus, you got no idea what you do to me.”
And you might have some insecurities, but you have an idea. If the fact that he’s kissing you like this isn’t enough, the way he carries you back to bed, helps you change, and tucks you into his chest is.
“I love you,” you whisper, watching him in the dark.
He smiles, and leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Love you too, Princess.”
You hum, and in the background your phone buzzes. You don’t bother to look at it right now. Dean’s right here, and warm, and yours. He holds you tight and kisses your nose before he knocks out, the rumble of his chest like white noise. You trace his features with your eyes for a while, before passing out yourself.
When you wake up, there’s golden sunlight coming through the curtains. It makes Dean look like he has a halo, and the crook of his nose makes him seem like a Greek god. You smile to yourself, just watching him for a while. When you roll over to check your phone, Dean grumbles and drags you back against his chest. You giggle, his lips grazing your neck. At least he doesn’t drool. Then he’d entirely just be a massive, slobbering dog.
You’d love him anyway.
There’s only one notification from last night. A text from Sam.
Hey, my family’s in town next week. You wanna come to dinner with us? My mom really wants to meet you.
Dean will be there. I promise he won’t be weird.
Please. It’ll help Jess.
Fuck.
Oh-
Fuck.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes, and you really can’t say no, and-
“Just tell ‘im yes.” Dean mutters in your ear, and you blink.
“You said you didn’t want me near your dad-“
“He won’t be near you.” Dean mutters. “Knew Sammy was gonna want you to meet ‘em. Not happenin’ when I ain’t there.”
You sigh. “De, are you-“
“’m sure.” He yawns, pressing his face back into your shoulder. “You and Jess, one night. Killin’ two bird with one stone, y’know.”
You frown. “What?”
Dean snores in response, and you sigh. He’s like a fucking bulldozer.
You text Sam that you’ll go. You don’t have much of a choice.
Meeting the parents. Not that big a deal, when they don’t even know you’re dating Dean. You’re just the third wheel friend. They’ll be paying more attention to Jess, and Dean will be there, and it’ll be fine.
Oh. You squeeze your eyes shut, because oh. You have another problem. On that will wait for morning, but still has to happen.
You need to tell your dad about Dean.
✦Part 8✦
✦End note: dean when wife ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
