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Chubs is having a hard time accepting herself for being an empath, but don't worry, big brother Sam is here to comfort her. (I'm not gonna lie to you, I'm lowkey projecting in this fic. If you relate to this, you are seen bebe, and I love you so much, I hope someone can hold you the way you wanted)
Sam frowned from the doorway of the bar as he looked out at the Impala sitting under the dim parking lot lights. The music inside thumped faintly behind him, laughter spilling out every time the door opened—but out there, it was quiet. Too quiet.
And she was still in the backseat.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes since she said she’d be right behind them.
Sam’s chest tightened.
He glanced back over his shoulder, catching sight of Dean leaning against the bar, grinning at something a waitress said, a beer already in his hand. Normal. Easy. Like the night had already moved on.
Sam didn’t.
He pushed the door open and stepped out, letting it swing shut behind him as the noise dulled again. The night air was cooler than he expected, brushing against his skin as he crossed the lot, eyes fixed on the car.
She hadn’t moved.
Still curled up in the backseat.
Still small.
“Hey,” he called softly as he approached, tapping lightly on the glass so he wouldn’t scare her.
No reaction.
He frowned deeper, then opened the door and slid into the seat beside her, the familiar smell of leather and old cologne wrapping around him.
“…You planning on living in here now, or—?” he tried lightly, nudging her knee with his.
She didn’t smile.
Didn’t even look at him right away.
That’s what did it.
Sam’s expression softened immediately, all the teasing gone in an instant as he turned toward her fully.
God.
He hated that look on her face.
“You know,” he said gently, glancing back toward the bar for a second before looking at her again, “fake IDs are kinda our thing. You can get a drink if you really want one.”
It’s stupid.
A small attempt.
But it’s all he’s got at first.
Chubs finally shifts, her eyes flicking up to him—but they’re glassy. Heavy. Like she’s been sitting in her own head for way too long.
“…I don’t want a drink,” she mutters.
Sam nods slowly.
“Okay.”
A beat.
“…Then what do you want, baby?”
She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers pick at the sleeve of her jacket instead, tugging at a loose thread like it might unravel something bigger.
Sam watches her quietly, and he waits. Because he knows better than to push too fast.
“…You don’t have to go in there,” he adds after a moment, softer now. “We can just sit here. Or we can leave. Up to you.”
Her jaw tightens slightly.
“…I don’t wanna ruin it for you guys.”
Sam lets out a quiet breath, shaking his head.
“Hey—no. None of that.”
“You guys finally get a break,” she continues, voice small. “You should enjoy it.”
“Chubs,” he says gently, reaching out and stilling her hand where it’s picking at her sleeve. “You’re not ruining anything.”
She laughs weakly.
“…Feels like I ruin a lot of things lately.”
That hits something in his chest. “…Where’s that coming from?” he asks carefully.
She shrugs, eyes dropping again.
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do.”
Sam is met with a thick, heavy silence again. Before his baby sister starts to open up
“…I’m tired, Sam.”
His grip on her hand tightens slightly.
“I know, baby. We all are.”
She shakes her head.
“No. Not like that.”
He stills, “…Then what?”
Her breath wavers, “…I’m tired of being me.”
Sam’s stomach drops.
“Hey—”
“I am,” she insists, her voice breaking just a little now. “I’m tired of being the one who gets overwhelmed. The one who cries over everything. The one who can’t just… handle things like you and Dean do.”
Sam’s chest tightens painfully.
“Chubs—”
“I hate that I feel everything so much,” she continues, words spilling out now like she’s been holding them in for too long. “Every hunt, every loss, every stupid little thing—it just sticks. And you guys just… move on.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” she cuts in, shaking her head. “You’re strong, Sam. Both of you are. You push through. You fight. You don’t sit in the backseat of a car because you’re too overwhelmed to walk into a bar.”
Her voice cracks.
“I’m just… too much. Too sensitive. A crybaby.”
Sam goes very still. Because that’s not how he sees her, not even close.
“…Hey,” he says softly, shifting closer to her. “Look at me.”
She hesitates. Then slowly lifts her gaze, and there are tears there now. Of course there are.
Sam hates that. Hates that she thinks this is something to be ashamed of.
“…You think I don’t feel things?” he asks quietly.
She swallows.
“…Not like this.”
He lets out a small breath, shaking his head.
“Yeah, I do.”
She frowns slightly.
“You don’t cry like I do.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t feel it,” he says gently. “I just… deal with it differently.”
She looks unconvinced.
“…Do you ever hate yourself?” she asks suddenly, voice small but steady.
The question catches him off guard.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Because it’s not a simple question.
“…Sometimes,” he admits finally.
She watches him closely.
“…Yeah?”
He nods.
“Sometimes,” he repeats. Then his expression softens, something warmer breaking through. “But not for long.”
She blinks.
“…Why?”
And that’s when he says it.
Soft.
Certain.
“Because I’m too busy loving you to hate myself.”
The words settle between them.
Heavy.
But not in a bad way.
Chubs’ breath catches sharply, like something in her chest just cracked open.
“…Sammy,” she whispers.
He shrugs slightly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“It’s kinda hard to sit there and tear myself apart when I’ve got you to worry about,” he says. “When I’ve got you to take care of. To love.”
Her eyes well up again. But this time, it’s different.
“…I don’t feel very lovable,” she admits quietly.
Sam’s expression softens even more.
“Yeah, well,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush a tear off her cheek with his thumb, “good thing that’s not up to you.”
A shaky breath leaves her.
“…You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy,” he says honestly. “But it’s real.”
She looks at him for a long moment.
“…What if I never get stronger?” she asks.
Sam tilts his head slightly.
“Who says you’re not already strong?”
She lets out a small, humorless laugh.
“Sam—”
“No, I’m serious,” he insists, his voice steady now. “You think strength is not crying? Not feeling things?”
“…Isn’t it?”
He shakes his head immediately.
“No. Strength is feeling all of that—and still showing up. Still caring. Still choosing to stay soft in a world that keeps trying to harden you.”
Her lips tremble.
“That doesn’t feel like strength.”
“Yeah,” he says gently. “It rarely does.”
Silence settles again.
But it’s softer now.
Less suffocating.
Sam squeezes her hand lightly.
“You’re not too much, Chubs,” he says quietly. “You’re just… a lot of heart in a life that doesn’t make room for it.”
That one breaks her.
She leans forward suddenly, burying her face into his shoulder as a quiet sob escapes her.
Sam doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around her immediately, holding her close, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head.
“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek lightly against her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.”
She clings to him, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like she might fall apart if she lets go.
“I’m sorry,” she hiccups.
“For what?”
“For being like this.”
Sam pulls back just enough to look at her, his hands still steady on her shoulders.
“Don’t apologize for feeling things,” he says firmly. “Don’t ever do that.”
She sniffles, wiping at her face.
“…Dean doesn’t—”
“Dean feels too,” Sam cuts in gently. “He just hides it better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it.”
That earns the smallest, weakest huff of a laugh.
“…He’s gonna tease me if he sees me like this.”
Sam smiles faintly.
“Yeah,” he admits. “He probably will.”
She groans softly.
“But,” Sam adds, nudging her lightly, “he’ll also sit next to you, shove a drink in your hand, and pretend he didn’t just spend ten minutes making sure you were okay.”
She glances at him.
“…He would?”
Sam huffs.
“Bubba, he was watching you from inside the bar for five minutes before I came out here.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“…He was?”
“Yeah,” Sam nods. “He just didn’t wanna spook you.”
“…You think I can go in there?” she asks quietly.
Sam studies her for a second, then smiles.
“Yeah,” he says. “But only if you want to.”
She takes a slow breath.
Then another.
“…Will you stay with me?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Always.”
She nods faintly.
“…Okay.”
Sam squeezes her hand, then nudges the door open.
“C’mon, baby.”
She hesitates for just a second, then takes his hand. She steps out with him. Not because she’s suddenly fixed. Not because everything’s okay. But because she’s not alone, she's sure her brothers will know how to hold her big heart. They will try their hardest to see things the way she does, to see the world from her point of view. Chubs believes that her brothers are her solace to be who she really is.
YESS YOU CAN BEBE!! Oh my god i feel so bad for leaving you all with no comfort T____T I'm sorry mi bebes here's my peace offering, part 2 of The Space He Left Behind. This is exactly the kind of healing we need after all that emotional violence. Hope you like it <3
The knock comes when neither of them expects it. It’s late, too late for anything good.
Dean’s halfway through cleaning a gun at the table, sleeves pushed up, jaw set in that quiet, focused way he gets when he’s trying not to think too much. Chubs is curled up on the couch, tucked under one of Dean’s old flannels, pretending to read while her mind drifts somewhere else entirely.
The knock echoes again.
Sharp.
Unfamiliar.
Dean’s head lifts instantly. Every instinct in him goes alert.
“Stay here,” he says automatically, already reaching for the knife on the table.
Chubs sits up, heart kicking a little faster. “Dean—”
“Stay,” he repeats, softer this time, but firm.
He moves toward the door carefully, every step quiet, controlled. One hand on the handle, the other tight around the knife. He yanks it open.
And freezes.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
“…Sam?”
Chubs’ head snaps up.
Her entire body goes still.
No.
No—no, she—
She must’ve heard wrong.
But then—
“…Hey, Dean.”
Sam’s voice. Right there. Not through a phone, not through static.
Real.
Chubs’ breath catches sharply.
She doesn’t move. She can’t.
—
Dean stares at him, like he’s not sure if he’s actually there.
Sam looks… the same and not. Cleaner. Different clothes. A different life sitting on his shoulders.
But his eyes—
They’re still Sam.
“…What are you doing here?” Dean asks finally, voice rougher than he means it to be.
Sam swallows.
“I… uh—I was in the area.”
Dean raises a brow immediately. “Stanford’s not exactly ‘in the area.’”
Sam huffs a quiet breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah. Okay. I—I came to see you guys.”
That lands. Heavy.
Dean glances back over his shoulder. Chubs is still on the couch. Completely still. Like if she moves, he’ll disappear.
“…She’s here,” Dean says quietly.
Sam nods.
“I figured.”
A pause.
“…Can I come in?”
Dean hesitates, just for a second. Then steps aside.
Sam walks in slowly, like he’s entering something fragile. Deep down he knows he doesn’t fully belong here anymore.
—
Chubs doesn’t look at him, not right away, at least. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket tight in her lap.
Sam stops a few feet away.
“…Hey,” he says softly.
Nothing. Not even a glance.
Dean shifts awkwardly by the door, watching the both of them like he’s not sure where to stand.
“…Chubs?” Sam tries again.
Her shoulders tense. But she still doesn’t look up. “…You’re here,” she says finally.
Her voice is quiet. Flat. Not angry and somehow that’s worse.
Sam’s chest tightens.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“…Why?”
The question is simple, but it lands harder than anything else.
Sam opens his mouth but closes it.
Then tries again.
“I wanted to see you,” he says honestly. “Both of you.”
Chubs nods once. Slow. Still not looking at him.
“…You’ve seen us.”
Dean exhales softly. “Hey,” he cuts in gently, stepping a little closer to her. “C’mon, bug…”
She shakes her head immediately.
No.
Dean softens, “Baby girl, just—look at him.”
“I am,” she whispers.
Dean frowns.
“You’re staring at the floor.”
Her voice cracks slightly, “I know.”
That hurts.
Sam takes a small step forward.
“…Can I—can I sit?”
She shrugs faintly, “Do whatever you want.”
The distance in her tone makes him flinch. But he nods anyway, sitting carefully on the edge of the chair across from her.
“…I’ve been calling,” he says.
“I know.”
“I’ve been leaving voicemails.”
“I know.”
Each answer is the same.
Short.
Detached.
Dean rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the tension building.
“Chubs…”
“I listened to them,” she adds quietly.
Sam’s breath catches, “…Yeah?”
She nods slightly, “Over and over.”
That hits hard.
“I meant what I said,” he says quickly. “Every single one.”
She finally looks up.
And God.
Her eyes. They’re not soft. They’re not hopeful. They’re… tired.
“I know,” she says.
A pause, “That’s why it hurt.”
Silence. Sam leans forward slightly.
“…I came because I didn’t want to just be a voice anymore,” he says. “I didn’t want you to have to—” he gestures vaguely, “—replay me.”
Her lips press together.
“…Then why didn’t you come sooner?”
He doesn’t have an answer. Not a good one.
“…I was scared,” he admits.
Dean glances at him, surprised.
“Of what?”
Sam lets out a weak breath.
“That I’d come back and realize I didn’t fit here anymore.”
Chubs’ expression flickers.
Just slightly.
“…And now?” she asks.
Sam looks at her. Really looks.
“I still don’t know,” he says quietly.
Honest. Raw. And it makes her chest ache.
—
Dean steps closer to her again, crouching slightly so he’s in her line of sight.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
She swallows hard.
“…I’m not.”
“You kinda are,” he says gently. “You’ve been holding all this in, listening to those messages like that’s enough.”
Her grip tightens on the blanket.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
Dean’s expression softens even more.
“I know, bug.”
“Let him try,” he adds quietly.
She looks at him. Really looks. “…You trust him?” she asks.
Dean exhales slowly, “…I want to,” he says.
That’s not a yes but it’s something.
—
Chubs looks back at Sam. He’s watching her carefully, not moving, not pushing.
Just… there. Waiting.
“…I don’t know how to do this,” she admits softly.
Sam nods immediately.
“Me neither.”
A weak, broken laugh escapes her.
“…That’s not reassuring.”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “I figured.”
“…Can you stay?” she asks.
Sam doesn’t hesitate, “Yeah.”
She glances at Dean.
“…You too.”
Dean snorts lightly. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
That earns the tiniest hint of a smile. Fragile. But real.
—
Slowly and carefully, shifts. Not toward Sam. Not yet.
She moves closer to Dean first, her shoulder brushing against his arm like she needs that anchor. Dean doesn’t comment. He just lets her. Lets her lean. Lets her take her time.
Sam watches, and it hurts. But he understands. So he stays where he is. Gives her space. Gives her control.
—
“…You look different,” she says after a moment.
Sam huffs quietly. “Yeah? Good different or—”
“Different,” she repeats.
A pause.
“…You sound the same, though.”
That catches him off guard.
“…Yeah?”
She nods slightly.
“In the voicemails.”
Dean glances between them, something soft easing into his expression.
“…Maybe that’s a start,” he mutters.
Chubs leans into him just a little more.
“…Maybe.”
—
Time stretches. Not perfect. Not fixed. But… softer.
Eventually, Sam shifts slightly.
“…Can I sit closer?”
Chubs tenses. Just a little.
Dean feels it. He glances down at her.
“…It’s okay,” he murmurs quietly. “I’m right here.”
She hesitates but finds herself giving him a small nod.
Sam moves slowly, carefully, like approaching something fragile. He sits on the other side of her. Not too close. Not touching.
Just… near.
—
Silence again but this time it’s not empty.
It’s… full.
Of things unsaid.
Of things trying.
—
After a while, Chubs exhales softly.
“…Okay,” she whispers.
Dean glances down. “Okay?”
She nods faintly, “…You can stay.”
Sam’s chest tightens.
“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “I will.”
—
And for the first time since he left, they’re all in the same room again. Not the same as before. Not yet. But closer. Careful. Real.
And this time,
No one walks away.
—
Sam didn’t leave the next morning. That was the first difference.
Chubs noticed it before she even fully woke up. She blinked slowly, the motel ceiling coming into focus—and for a split second, she thought maybe she’d imagined it all. That he’d shown up, said all the right things, and then disappeared again like some cruel trick her brain played on her.
Then she heard voices.
Low. Familiar.
Dean and Sam.
Talking, not arguing. Just… talking.
Her chest tightened, and she sat up slowly, pushing the blanket off her. Through the thin motel wall, she could hear it clearer now.
“…I’m not here to mess things up,” Sam was saying quietly.
Dean huffed. “You already did.”
There was no real bite to it this time.
Just… truth.
A pause.
“I know,” Sam admitted.
Another pause.
“…Then don’t do it again,” Dean said.
Simple.
Clear.
Sam didn’t hesitate. “I won’t.”
When Chubs stepped out, both of them looked up at the same time. Like they always used to. That alone almost made her emotional again—but she held it in.
Dean was leaning against the car, arms crossed, coffee in hand. Sam stood a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets like he wasn’t sure where to put them.
“…Morning,” Dean said casually.
“Morning,” Sam echoed, softer.
Chubs nodded a little. “Morning.”
Awkward.
Still.
But not as sharp as before.
Dean straightened, tossing her a banana without looking. “Catch, baby.”
She caught it easily.
“Thanks.”
Sam watched that small interaction, something unreadable passing across his face—something like relief. Like he was seeing, in real time, that Dean had been taking care of her. Like he always would.
“…You hungry yet?” Dean asked her.
She nods her head.
“Cool. We’re grabbing breakfast.”
“We are?” Sam asked.
Dean shot him a look. “Yeah, we are.”
Sam raised his hands slightly. “Okay. Yeah. Sounds good.”
Chubs almost smiled at that. The redemption didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t some big, dramatic moment.
It was small. Consistent. Earned.
Sam stayed. He didn’t push. Didn’t try to slot himself back into a place he hadn’t earned yet.
Instead, he… showed up.
Over and over again.
—
When they grabbed food, he made sure to remember what she liked—hesitating slightly before ordering, like he was testing himself.
“Uh—cheeseburger, no pickles, right?” he asked carefully.
Chubs blinked, surprised.
“…Yeah.”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Okay.”
Dean smirked. “Look at that. Boy remembers something.”
Sam rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile there.
When they trained behind the motel later, Sam didn’t take over. Didn’t correct Dean. He just watched at first.
“Your stance is good,” he told Chubs gently. “But if you shift your weight a little more here—” he demonstrated slightly, careful not to crowd her—“you’ll have better balance.”
She hesitated. Glanced at Dean.
Dean nodded once. “He’s right.”
She adjusted. Tried again.
Better.
“…Oh,” she said softly.
Sam smiled—small, proud, but not overbearing. “Yeah. That’s it.”
And for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was choosing between them.
—
It was later that afternoon when it happened.
The shift.
They were back in the motel room, the TV playing something stupid and loud.
Dean was half-paying attention, stretched out on one bed. Chubs sat on the floor, leaning back against it, idly flipping a knife in her hand the way Dean had taught her.
Sam sat on the other bed, watching them both.
There was a pause in the show. A dumb joke.
And Sam—without thinking—murmured something under his breath.
“Wow. Even I could’ve written that better, and I used to think ‘dude’ was a personality.”
Chubs snorted.
laughed.
Not a small one.
Not a polite one.
A real laugh.
Bright.
Unfiltered.
The kind that hadn’t come out of her since before everything fell apart.
The room stilled.
Sam blinked, caught off guard.
Dean sat up immediately.
“…Oh, hell no.”
Chubs laughed again, covering her mouth slightly. “What?”
“You don’t laugh at his jokes,” Dean said, pointing accusingly at Sam.
Sam raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“That’s my thing,” Dean continued, offended. “I’m the funny one.”
Chubs shook her head, still smiling. “You’re both funny.”
“Wrong answer,” Dean said immediately.
Sam smirked. “Sounds like someone’s insecure.”
“I’m not insecure,” Dean shot back. “I’m correct.”
Chubs rolled her eyes. “Dean—”
“No, no,” he cut in, sitting forward now. “Say it. Who’s funnier.”
She blinked. “I’m not answering that.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is a trap.”
“It’s not a trap.”
“It’s definitely a trap.”
Sam chuckled under his breath. “Smart girl.”
Dean pointed at him again. “Stop encouraging her.”
Chubs laughed again—softer this time—but it lingered.
It stayed.
And Dean—
Dean went quiet for just a second. Because yeah, he was being dramatic.
But underneath it, there was something real.
He’d gotten used to being the one. The one who made her smile. The one who kept her okay.
And now—
Sam was back. And part of him didn’t know where that left him.
Chubs noticed. Of course she did. She always noticed. Her smile faded just slightly as she looked between them.
“…Hey,” she said softly.
Neither of them responded right away.
So she stood up. Stepped forward. And without overthinking it, she reached out and grabbed Dean’s hand. Then Sam’s sleeve. Holding both. Grounding both.
“Stop being weird,” she said gently.
Dean blinked. “I’m not being—”
“You are,” she cut in.
Sam didn’t argue.
She squeezed Dean’s hand lightly.
“You’re still my Dean,” she said.
Simple.
Certain.
Unshakable.
Something in his chest eased immediately.
Then she looked at Sam.
“And you’re still my Sam.”
Sam swallowed, nodding once.
Her grip tightened on both of them.
“I didn’t lose one of you to get the other back,” she said quietly. “I get both. That’s the deal.”
Neither of them spoke.
Because what do you even say to that?
She huffed softly. “And for the record—”
Both of them looked at her.
“…You’re both equally annoying.”
Dean scoffed. “Wow.”
Sam laughed. “That’s fair.”
“And equally overprotective.”
“Not possible,” Dean muttered.
“And equally important,” she finished, softer now.
That one—
that one landed.
Dean looked away briefly, jaw tightening just a little.
Sam exhaled slowly.
Chubs gave their hands one last squeeze before letting go.
“…So stop fighting over who’s funnier,” she added. “Because it’s me.”
Dean stared at her. “Absolutely not.”
Sam smirked. “I think she’s got a point.”
“Don’t start.”
But the tension—
the leftover weight—
it was gone.
Not completely.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Enough to breathe again.
Enough to laugh again.
And this time—
they weren’t broken pieces trying to fit back together.
Sam left for Stanford after a huge fight with John, leaving things tense and awkward for Chubs and Dean. Chubs had always been closest to Sam, they both wanted a normal life and were inseparable, so his leaving hit her hard. She stuck by Dean after that, and he got even more protective. She was basically a mini Dean. With John distant as ever, their relationship with him was complicated, and with Sam gone, it felt like it was just the two of them. This one might hurt a lot so be ready :3
The motel room felt too quiet.
It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it was the absence of him. Sam’s books weren’t stacked on the nightstand anymore, no half-finished notes scribbled in the margins, no low muttering when he read late into the night. Even the air felt different, like something essential had been pulled out and nothing had bothered to fill the space.
Chubs sat cross-legged on one of the beds, absently picking at a loose thread on the comforter. The TV was on, but muted, flickering light casting shadows across her face. She hadn’t really watched anything in days.
Dean leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her.
She’d been like this since Sam left. Quieter. Not in the peaceful way—but in the hollow way.
“…You’re gonna pull that whole thread out if you keep going, bug,” Dean said gently.
She didn’t look up. “Maybe I want to.”
Dean huffed softly, pushing himself off the wall and walking over. He dropped onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Yeah, well, motel guy’s probably gonna charge us extra if you unravel his ugly blanket.”
Still nothing.
Dean’s jaw tightened just slightly before he reached out, nudging her shoulder. “Hey. Baby.”
That got her.
Chubs blinked, like she’d been pulled back into her body, and finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired—too tired for someone her age.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically.
Dean gave her a look.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “And I’m a vegetarian.”
Her lips twitched, just barely.
He softened immediately, shifting so he was sitting closer, his arm brushing hers. “C’mon, babygirl… talk to me.”
The nickname broke something.
Her shoulders sagged, and she dropped the thread, rubbing at her face. “It’s just…” she started, then trailed off, voice catching.
Dean didn’t rush her. He never did.
“It’s weird,” she finished quietly. “He’s just… gone. Just like that.”
Dean swallowed, gaze dropping for a second. He knew that feeling all too well. “Yeah,” he said. “Kinda is.”
“I keep thinking he’s gonna walk back in,” she admitted, her voice small now. “Like he forgot something. Or he’s gonna make some stupid comment about the TV being too loud or…” She let out a shaky breath. “Or he’s gonna call me ‘Bambi’ and tell me to move my stuff off his bed.”
Dean smiled faintly at that, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah,” he murmured again.
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“He didn’t even say goodbye properly.”
Dean’s head snapped up.
Chubs was staring at the floor, her hands clenched in her lap. “I mean—he did, but… not really. It was all rushed and tense and Dad was yelling and—and I didn’t even get to—” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t even get to talk to him.”
Dean’s chest tightened painfully. He reached out immediately, pulling her into his side without hesitation. She went easily, like she’d been waiting for it, tucking her face into his shoulder.
“Hey… hey,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s okay, baby. He knows.”
“How?” she mumbled against him. “How would he know?”
Dean hesitated. Because the truth was, he didn’t know. But he wasn’t about to let her sit in that.
“Because it’s Sam,” he said firmly. “Dude’s a giant nerd, but he’s not stupid. He knows you. He knows you love him.”
She was quiet for a moment. “…He left us,” she whispered.
That one hit harder.
Dean’s grip tightened around her, his jaw clenching. “He didn’t leave you,” he said, a little sharper than he meant to.
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. “It feels like it.”
Dean exhaled slowly, forcing himself to soften. “I know,” he said, quieter now. “I know it does.”
He brushed some hair away from her face, his thumb lingering against her cheek.
“But he didn’t leave because of you, okay? He left because… he needed something different. Something we—” He stopped himself. “Something this life couldn’t give him.”
Chubs looked down again. “A normal life.”
Dean didn’t answer, because yeah that was exactly it.
“…I wanted that too,” she admitted softly.
Dean’s heart cracked clean down the middle. “I know you did, Bambi,” he said gently.
She laughed weakly. “Still do.”
He didn’t have a fix for that. No easy answer. No way to give her that life. So instead, he did the only thing he could. He pulled her closer.
“Hey,” he said, nudging her lightly. “You got me, alright?”
She looked up at him again. “Yeah, but—”
“No ‘but’,” he cut in, shaking his head. “You and me? We’re good. We’ve always been good.” He bumped his forehead lightly against hers. “Team Free Will 2.0.”
She snorted. “That’s a terrible name.”
“Hey, I’m workshopping it.”
A small smile finally broke through, and Dean felt something in his chest ease.
“Point is,” he continued, softer now, “you’re not alone. Not ever. I got you, baby. Always.”
Her expression wavered, and for a second he thought she might cry again—but instead, she leaned forward and hugged him tightly.
“I know,” she murmured.
Dean held her just as tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. Across the room, the door creaked open. Neither of them noticed at first.
John stepped inside, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in. His eyes flicked between them, his kids, clinging to each other like they were the only solid thing left.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t acknowledge the weight hanging in the air.
“Pack your stuff,” he said instead. “We’ve got a lead.”
Chubs stiffened slightly in Dean’s arms. Dean’s expression hardened immediately.
“Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “Give us a minute.”
John lingered for half a second—like he might say something more—but then he didn’t. He just turned and walked back out.
The door shut. Silence again. But this time, it felt heavier.
Chubs pulled back slowly, her face closing off just a little. Dean saw it happen—the way she tucked everything away, the way she made herself smaller.
He hated that.
“Hey,” he said quietly, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. “None of that.”
“I’m fine,” she said again.
Dean raised a brow.
She sighed. “Okay, I’m… not fine. But I’ll be fine.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” he said. “You will be.”
He reached over, grabbing her jacket and tossing it at her.
“C’mon, bug. Let’s hit the road.”
She caught it, rolling her eyes slightly. “You’re so bossy.”
“Damn right I am.”
She stood up, slipping the jacket on, and for the first time since Sam left—she didn’t look quite as lost.
Not whole. Not okay. But… steadier.
And as they walked out of the room together, side by side it didn’t feel quite as empty anymore.
—
The road stretched on endlessly, a thin gray line cutting through fields that all started to look the same after a while.
Dean drove. Of course he did.
One hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily near the gear shift, fingers tapping absentmindedly to the low hum of classic rock playing through the speakers. The Impala was steady beneath them, familiar and grounding in a way nothing else ever really was.
Chubs sat in the passenger seat, knees tucked slightly toward her chest, one of Dean’s old flannels practically swallowing her whole. The sleeves were too long—she kept pushing them up, only for them to fall back down again.
Dean noticed. He noticed everything.
“You gonna fight that sleeve all day, or you want me to roll it properly, babygirl?” he asked, glancing at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
She huffed, tugging at it again. “I am rolling it properly.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I am.”
“Looks real effective.”
She shot him a look.
Dean smirked, reaching over at a stoplight and catching her wrist gently before she could protest. His touch was careful—always careful—like she was something worth handling with precision.
“C’mere,” he muttered.
He folded the sleeve neatly, once, twice, snug around her forearm so it stayed. Then he did the same to the other side, quick and practiced.
“There,” he said, satisfied. “Functional.”
Chubs looked down at her arms, then back at him.
“…Okay, yeah. That’s better.”
“Obviously.”
She bumped her shoulder into his lightly. “Shut up.”
Dean just grinned.
For a moment, it felt normal. Not Stanford normal. Not the life she used to dream about. But… their version of it.
They pulled into a dingy motel sometime past sunset. Same as always, flickering neon sign, questionable carpet, a front desk guy who didn’t bother asking questions. Dean handled it while Chubs lingered nearby, hands tucked into her sleeves again, watching people come and go.
When they got the key, Dean nudged her with it.
“You’re on bag duty, bug.”
She groaned. “Why am I always on bag duty?”
“Because I’m the one who pays.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair.”
She rolled her eyes but grabbed the duffel anyway, dragging it dramatically behind her as they headed to the room.
Dean watched her go, shaking his head, but there was something softer in his expression now.
Something lighter.
Inside, it was the usual setup. Two beds. One table. One chair that looked like it might collapse if you sat on it wrong.
Chubs dropped the bag onto one of the beds and immediately flopped down beside it, staring up at the ceiling. Dean locked the door behind them, setting the keys down before shrugging off his jacket.
“Tired already?” he asked.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly. That’s exhausting.”
She snorted.
Silence settled in again but not the heavy kind from before. This one was… easier.
Dean glanced over at her, then walked to the mini fridge, pulling it open.
“Hey,” he said casually, “you eat yet?”
She turned her head slightly. “Not really.”
He nodded once, like he expected that.
“Alright. Sit tight.”
Her brows furrowed. “Where are you—”
“Food run,” he said, already grabbing his keys again. “Don’t open the door for anyone. Don’t answer if someone knocks. And if anything feels off—”
“I know, Dean.”
He paused, looking at her.
“…Yeah,” he said softer. “I know you do.”
But still, he lingered for a second longer.
Then, “I won’t be long, baby.”
And he left.
When he came back, it smelled like greasy takeout and cheap fries—but Chubs sat up immediately, eyes lighting up just a little.
“You got burgers?”
Dean kicked the door shut behind him. “What, you thought I’d come back with salad?”
“I don’t know, maybe you’re going through something.”
“Yeah, it’s called bad taste, apparently.”
She smiled—actually smiled—as she sat up properly, reaching for the bag.
Dean watched that, something warm settling in his chest. He handed her a drink, then dropped onto the other bed, unwrapping his own food.
For a while, they just ate. No pressure. No heavy conversations. Just the quiet comfort of being in the same room.
Later that night, the lights were off.
The TV cast a soft glow across the room, some late-night rerun playing low in the background. Dean sat on his bed, cleaning one of his guns with practiced ease, movements automatic. Chubs lay on her side, facing him from the other bed, watching.
“You’ve been staring at me for like five minutes,” Dean said without looking up.
“I’m not staring.”
“You are.”
“I’m observing.”
“Creepy.”
She huffed, rolling onto her back.
“…Can I ask you something?”
Dean’s hands slowed slightly, “Shoot.”
She hesitated.
“…Are you mad at him?”
Dean went still. For a moment, the only sound was the faint clink of metal in his hands. Then he exhaled, setting the gun down beside him.
“…Yeah,” he admitted.
Chubs turned her head to look at him, “Why?”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, staring down at the floor.
“Because he left,” he said simply. “Because he didn’t… stick it out.”
She frowned. “But you just told me—”
“I know what I told you,” he cut in, not harsh—just tired. “And it’s still true. He didn’t leave because of you. Or me.”
He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair.
“But that doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”
Chubs was quiet for a second. “…Do you think he’s coming back?”
Dean didn’t answer right away. When he finally looked at her, his expression was softer than before. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.”
She searched his face.
“…Why?”
Dean shrugged slightly. “Because it’s Sam,” he said. “He can run all he wants, but… this life?” He tapped his chest lightly. “It’s in him. Same as it is in us.”
She considered that.
“…And if he doesn’t?”
Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Then we keep going anyway.” Her throat tightened slightly. “You and me?” he added, softer now. “We’re enough, bug.” She looked at him for a long moment.
“Okay.”
Dean reached over, flicking the lamp off beside him.
“Get some sleep, babygirl.”
“…Night, Dean.”
“Night.”
—
Sometime in the middle of the night, when the TV had long gone to static and the world outside had quieted completely, Chubs slipped out of her bed. Barefoot, silent, she padded across the room and climbed into Dean’s bed without a word, curling into his side like she used to when she was smaller.
Dean stirred immediately. For half a second, instinct kicked in—alert, ready, then he registered her.
“Hey… hey,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “You okay, baby?”
She didn’t answer, just tucked closer, her hand gripping the front of his shirt.
That was enough of an answer, Dean’s expression softened instantly.
“Alright,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her in securely. “I got you.”
He pressed a sleepy kiss to her hair, his hand resting protectively against her back.
“Always got you, Bambi.”
And this time, when she fell asleep she didn’t feel quite so alone.
—
Morning came slow and golden through thin motel curtains, the kind of light that made everything look softer than it really was.
Dean woke first. He always did.
For a second, he didn’t move, just stared up at the ceiling, listening. Years of habit. Years of making sure nothing was off, no footsteps outside, no wrong kind of silence.
Then he felt it. A small weight tucked against his side. He glanced down. Chubs was curled into him, one arm thrown across his stomach, her face half-hidden in his shirt. Her breathing was even, soft like she is finally resting in a way he hadn’t seen in days.
Dean’s chest tightened just a little.
Careful—always careful—he adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, tucking it in so she wouldn’t get cold. His hand lingered for a second, brushing lightly over her hair.
“…You drool, you know that?” he murmured under his breath.
She didn’t wake.
Dean huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Disgusting.”
But he didn’t move her. Didn’t even try. By the time she woke up, the room smelled faintly like coffee and something fried. Chubs blinked slowly, disoriented for a second—then immediately stilled when she realized where she was.
Dean’s bed, Dean’s arm still loosely around her. He was sitting up now, back against the headboard, flipping through a worn-out newspaper with one hand while holding a coffee in the other.
He didn’t look down.
“You gonna pretend you didn’t sneak over here,” he said casually, “or you wanna own it, babygirl?”
Chubs froze.
“…I didn’t sneak.”
“Mm.”
“I walked.”
“Ah, my bad. Totally different.”
She pushed herself up slightly, squinting at him. “You didn’t have to let me stay.”
Dean finally looked at her, brow furrowing like that idea didn’t even make sense.
“…Yeah, I did.”
Something in her chest shifted at that.
She looked away quickly, trying to play it off. “Whatever.”
Dean smirked faintly, handing her the second coffee sitting on the nightstand.
“Drink. You look like a zombie.”
She took it, muttering, “Thanks.”
“And there’s food,” he added, nodding toward the small table where a paper bag sat. “Eat before I steal it.”
“You always steal it.”
“Only when you hesitate.”
She rolled her eyes but slid off the bed, grabbing the bag and peeking inside.
“…You got my order right?”
Dean scoffed. “Please. I’ve been feeding you your whole life.”
“Yeah, but you forget stuff.”
“I do not forget stuff.”
“You forgot my fries once.”
“That was one time.”
“It was traumatic.”
Dean snorted. “You’re dramatic.”
But he was watching her the whole time. And when she took her first bite, when her shoulders relaxed just a little, he looked away, satisfied.
Later that day, they ended up behind the motel, in that weird stretch of cracked pavement and overgrown grass that every cheap place seemed to have.
Dean had a duffel open on the hood of the Impala, weapons laid out in neat, familiar rows. Chubs leaned against the car, arms crossed.
“You’re gonna teach me,” she said.
Dean didn’t even look up. “Teach you what?”
She gestured vaguely. “All of it.”
That got his attention.
He glanced at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “You already know basics.”
“Not like you do.”
“You’re not supposed to know it like I do.”
She pushed off the car, stepping closer. “Why not?”
Dean exhaled slowly, setting a knife down with more care than necessary.
“Because,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “you’re supposed to have a choice, bug.”
Her expression hardened just a little.
“Sam had a choice,” she said quietly.
Dean’s jaw tightened.
“…Yeah,” he said.
“And he took it.”
“Yeah.”
She held his gaze. “So what about me?”
Dean didn’t answer right away.
Because there it was. The thing neither of them had really said out loud yet.
This life Her place in it.
“…You’re still a kid,” he said finally.
“I won’t always be.”
“Yeah, well, today you are.”
She scoffed softly. “You were younger than me when Dad started teaching you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Dean looked at her then, really looked at her. At the stubborn set of her shoulders. The quiet determination in her eyes.
The way she didn’t back down.
God.
She really was a mini him.
“…Because I didn’t have anyone to say no,” he admitted.
That made her falter. Just for a second.
Then, softer now—“You do.”
The words landed heavier than anything else he could’ve said. Chubs swallowed, her voice smaller when she spoke again.
“…I don’t want to be left behind, Dean.”
And there it was. Not about weapons. Not about hunting. About being left.
Dean’s expression broke a little.
“Hey,” he said, stepping closer. “Hey, no—no, that’s not happening.”
“But what if—”
“It’s not,” he cut in firmly.
She looked up at him, eyes searching. He reached out, resting his hands on her shoulders, steady, grounding.
“You’re with me,” he said. “Alright? Wherever I go, you go. That’s the deal.”
Her breath hitched slightly.
“…Promise?”
Dean didn’t even hesitate.
“Promise.”
She studied his face as if committing it to memory.
“…Okay.”
He gave her shoulders a small squeeze before stepping back.
“…But,” he added, picking up a knife again and flipping it once in his hand, “if I’m stuck with you, I’m not letting you be useless.”
Her eyes lit up just a little. “So you will teach me?”
He smirked, “Yeah,” he said. “I will.”
It started small. Always small. The way Dean did everything.
“Alright,” he said, holding the knife out—but not handing it over yet. “Rule one. Respect the blade.”
Chubs nodded immediately. “I know that.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He watched her for a second, then finally placed it in her hand. Her fingers curled around it carefully.
“Good,” he said. “Now—balance.”
He stepped behind her, reaching around to adjust her grip. His hands were firm but gentle, guiding without forcing.
“Not too tight,” he murmured. “You lock your wrist like that, you lose control.”
She focused, adjusting slightly. “Like this?”
“Yeah… yeah, that’s better.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was quiet. But not empty. Just… shared.
“You’re a fast learner,” Dean added after a beat.
She glanced back at him. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
That earned him a small, real smile.
“…Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I’m definitely getting used to it.”
He bumped her lightly with his shoulder, stepping back.
“Alright, Bambi. Show me what you got.”
She squared her stance, lifting the knife with a bit more confidence this time. And when she moved, it wasn’t perfect. Not even close.
But it was enough.
Dean’s grin spread slow and proud.
“Atta girl,” he said.
And something in her chest—something that had been aching since Sam left— finally, finally felt a little fuller.
—
That night, back in the motel, they sat on the same bed without even thinking about it. A movie played in the background, half-watched.
Chubs leaned into his side, absentmindedly stealing fries from his plate. Dean didn’t stop her. Didn’t even comment.
At some point, she rested her head on his shoulder. At some point, his arm came around her automatically. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Natural. Like it had always been this way. Like it always would be.
And for the first time since everything changed, they weren’t just coping. They were becoming something new. Not the same as before. Not whole. But stronger in a different way. Quieter, steadier, unbreakable in that “you and me against the world” kind of way.
And neither of them said it out loud, but they both felt it.
It was always going to be them now.
Dean and his baby. Chubs and her protector. Brother and sister, learning how to fill the empty space Sam left behind, together.
—
It happened a few days later. Not during a hunt. Not during one of their rare lighter moments.
Of course it didn’t. It happened in the middle of nothing.
The motel room was dim, late afternoon light bleeding weakly through the curtains. Dean was at the table, elbows braced as he cleaned his gun again, methodical, focused, the way he got when he didn’t want to think too much.
Chubs sat on the floor by the bed, flipping through one of the old magazines she’d found in the room. She wasn’t really reading it—just turning pages, over and over, like the motion itself was enough to keep her occupied.
The TV murmured low in the background.
It was… calm. Or at least pretending to be.
Then, the phone rang. Sharp. Sudden. Cutting straight through the room.
Both of them froze.
Dean’s head snapped up instantly, eyes narrowing toward the bedside table where the crappy motel phone sat vibrating against the wood.
Chubs didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Something about it felt wrong. Or maybe it felt right in the worst possible way.
Dean stood slowly, wiping his hands on a rag as he crossed the room. His movements were careful, cautious, not because he thought it was a threat. But because something in his gut had already decided what this was.
He picked up the receiver, “…Yeah?”
There was a pause. And then, Dean’s entire posture went rigid. Chubs’s fingers tightened around the magazine.
"…Alone?"
The name hit like a gunshot. Everything inside her went still.
Dean turned slightly away, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “Yeah—yeah, I’m here. Where are you? You okay?” A beat. His jaw clenched.
“…No, I didn’t expect you to call,” he said, voice flattening just a little. “Kinda thought you were too busy with your new life.”
Chubs flinched. She shouldn’t be listening. She knew she shouldn’t. But she couldn’t move.
“…Yeah,” Dean went on after a second, quieter now. “We’re fine.”
Another pause. His eyes flicked, just for a second, toward her.
“…Yeah. She’s here.”
Her chest tightened painfully.
Dean turned his back fully now, voice dropping just enough that she had to strain to hear.
“…She’s okay.”
A longer pause this time. Then, softer, “…You wanna talk to her?”
Chubs’s head snapped up. Her heart started pounding so hard it made her dizzy.
Dean turned slightly, holding the phone out toward her.
“…It’s Sam,” he said.
Her stomach dropped. For a second, she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
She hadn’t prepared for this.
“Chubs,” Dean said gently. “C’mon, baby.”
Her legs felt heavy as she pushed herself up. Every step toward him felt wrong. Too slow. Too loud. She reached for the phone, and hesitated.
Just for a second. Then took it.
“…Hello?” her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.
There was a pause on the other end.
“Hey, Bambi.”
She almost dropped the phone.
Her throat closed up instantly, eyes stinging as that familiar voice—his voice—filled the space like it had never left.
“…Hi,” she whispered.
Another pause. Longer this time. Awkward. Painful.
“I, uh…” Sam started, then stopped. “I wasn’t sure if you’d—if you’d wanna talk to me.”
She swallowed hard. “Why wouldn’t I?”
The question came out too fast. Too sharp. She winced immediately. “I mean—I do. I just—” She stopped, shaking her head even though he couldn’t see her. “I don’t know.”
Sam exhaled softly on the other end. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Silence. God, the silence was worse than anything.
“…How are you?” he tried.
She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You really asking me that?”
Another pause.
“…I guess that’s fair.”
Her grip tightened around the phone cord.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically.
“Chubs—”
“I said I’m fine.”
Her voice cracked anyway. Dean, standing a few feet away, closed his eyes briefly.
“…Okay,” Sam said softly. “Okay.”
More silence. It stretched too long. Too heavy. Like both of them were standing on opposite sides of something broken, not knowing how to cross it.
“…You left,” she said suddenly.
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
On the other end, Sam went completely quiet.
“I—yeah,” he said after a second.
“That’s it?” Her voice shook. “You just—you left and that’s it?”
“It’s not ‘that’s it,’” Sam said, a little more firmly now. “You know it’s not.”
“Then what is it?” she demanded. “Because it kinda feels like you just decided you didn’t want us anymore.”
Dean’s head snapped toward her.
“Hey—” he started, but stopped himself.
Sam inhaled sharply. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” she repeated, softer now—but somehow worse. “Because you didn’t even—” Her voice broke. “You didn’t even say goodbye properly.”
“I tried—”
“No, you didn’t,” she cut in. “You argued with Dad, you packed your stuff, and you left. That’s not a goodbye, Sam.”
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
“I didn’t know how to say goodbye,” Sam admitted quietly.
Her chest ached.
“…You could’ve tried,” she whispered.
“I know.”
Another pause.
“…I’m sorry.”
The words hung there. Too small. Too late.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“…I miss you,” she said, barely audible.
On the other end, Sam’s breath hitched.
“I miss you too, Bambi. Every day.”
That almost made it worse. Because if he missed her then why wasn’t he here?
“…Then come back,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Dean’s breath caught. There was a long, long silence. And in that silence, she already knew the answer.
“…I can’t,” Sam said finally.
Something inside her cracked.
“Oh,” she said softly.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it sounded like something breaking.
“…Chubs—”
“It’s okay,” she said quickly, even though it wasn’t. “It’s fine. I get it.”
“Do you?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’m trying to.”
Sam didn’t know what to say to that. Neither did she.
“…Is Dean taking care of you?” he asked after a moment, like he was grasping for something—anything.
She glanced over at Dean. He was already looking at her. Always.
“…Yeah,” she said quietly. “He is.”
“Good,” Sam murmured. “That’s… good.”
Another pause.
“I should go,” she said suddenly.
“Wait—”
“I have to,” she insisted, because if she didn’t hang up now, she might start crying—and she refused to let him hear that.
“…Okay,” Sam said softly. “Okay. But—hey—”
She hesitated.
“…Yeah?”
“I love you.”
Her grip tightened on the phone. Her throat burned.
“…I love you too.”
And then she hung up. The room felt too quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was heavy.
Chubs stood there for a second, staring at the phone like it might ring again. Like maybe—maybe if she waited— He’d take it back. Say he was coming home.
But it didn’t. It stayed silent. Of course it did.
“…Hey,” Dean said gently.
She didn’t respond. Didn’t move. So he stepped closer.
“Hey, baby.”
Her shoulders shook once—just once—before she turned away quickly, pressing the heel of her hand against her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice breaking.
Dean didn’t argue this time. Didn’t call her out. He just pulled her in. Immediate. Solid. Safe. She went without resistance, burying her face in his chest, her fingers gripping his shirt like she might fall apart if she let go.
“I’m fine,” she repeated, weaker now.
“I know,” Dean murmured, even though they both knew it wasn’t true.
His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her gently into him.
“I got you,” he whispered.
Her breath hitched.
“He’s not coming back,” she said into his shirt.
Dean closed his eyes.
“…Not right now,” he said carefully.
“That’s not what it felt like.”
He didn’t have an answer for that. So instead, he just held her tighter. And when she finally broke—really broke— he didn’t let go.
No
Not even when his own chest felt like it was caving in too. Because that’s what they were now. Holding each other together, in the space Sam left behind.
—
Sam started calling more often. Not every day, not enough to feel like he was really there. Just enough to make it worse.
The first time the phone rang again, Chubs froze, but she didn’t move.
Dean glanced at her, already knowing, “…You gonna get that?” he asked carefully.
She shook her head, eyes fixed on the floor. “No.”
The phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Until it stopped.
A second later the soft mechanical click of voicemail picking up.
Neither of them spoke.
They just… listened.
“…Hey,” Sam’s voice came through, slightly distorted through the cheap speaker. “Uh—it’s me. Again.”
Chubs’s fingers curled into her sleeves.
“I just… wanted to check in,” he continued. “Make sure you’re okay. You don’t have to call back or anything, I just—” He exhaled softly. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
A pause.
“…I miss you, Bambi.”
The line clicked dead. Silence filled the room.
Dean swallowed, glancing over at her. She hadn’t moved.
“…You can call him back,” he said gently.
“No,” she replied immediately.
Too fast. Too firm. And that was that. But it didn’t stop.
—
Sam kept calling and Chubs never picked up. Not once.
What she did do—
Dean didn’t realize at first. Not until one night. It was late, past midnight. Dean had woken up for no real reason—just that hunter instinct, that subtle shift in the air that dragged him out of sleep.
The TV was off. The room was dark. But there was a faint glow coming from the other bed.
And a voice.
Soft.
Familiar.
“…Hey. Uh—it’s me. Again…”
Dean stilled. Carefully, quietly, he turned his head. Chubs was sitting on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, the motel phone in her hands.
Listening.
“…I saw this thing today—it reminded me of you,” Sam’s voice continued through the speaker. “You would’ve laughed at it. Or—made fun of me for thinking it was funny.”
A small, broken smile flickered across her face. Then disappeared just as quickly.
Dean’s chest tightened.
She hit a button. Rewind.
“…Hey. Uh—it’s me. Again…”
Dean’s stomach dropped.
She listened again, and again, and again. Like she was trying to memorize it. Like it was the only piece of him she had left.
Dean looked away, something heavy settling deep in his chest. That hurt more than anything she could’ve said out loud.
It became a routine. One she didn’t know he knew about. One he never interrupted. During the day, she was fine. Quiet, but functional. She joked with him. Trained with him. Ate with him.
But at night when she thought he was asleep, she listened.
To every voicemail. Over. And over. And over.
—
Dean lasted three nights. On the fourth, he couldn’t take it anymore.
The phone rang again that afternoon. Chubs didn’t move. Of course she didn’t.
Dean stared at it for a second longer than usual. Then, before he could overthink it, he grabbed it.
“Dean—” she started, startled.
He answered anyway.
“…Yeah.”
A pause.
“…Dean?” Sam’s voice came through, surprised.
“Yeah,” Dean said shortly. “It’s me.”
Chubs shook her head immediately, panic flashing across her face. “No—Dean, don’t—”
He held up a hand, stopping her.
“She’s here,” he said into the phone, eyes locked on her. “She’s been here the whole time.”
Sam exhaled shakily. “Is she okay?”
Dean let out a humorless huff.
“Define ‘okay.’”
“Dean—”
“She doesn’t pick up your calls, man,” Dean cut in, voice tightening. “But she listens to every damn voicemail you leave. Over and over like it’s the only thing keeping her together.”
Chubs’s breath hitched.
“Stop,” she whispered.
Dean didn’t.
“She misses you,” he went on, softer now—but somehow worse. “And you keep calling like that’s enough.”
“I don’t know what else to do!” Sam shot back, his voice breaking for the first time.
“Try harder,” Dean snapped.
Silence.
Heavy.
Charged.
“…Put her on,” Sam said finally, quieter now. “Please.”
Dean looked at Chubs.
Really looked at her.
Her eyes were wide, glassy, her hands clenched at her sides.
She shook her head.
Once.
Firm.
“No.”
Dean swallowed.
Then stepped closer anyway, holding the phone out.
“C’mon, baby,” he said softly. “Just… talk to him.”
“I can’t,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t!” she snapped, stepping back. “I can’t do this again, Dean, I can’t just—just pretend everything’s fine when it’s not!”
“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, gentler now. “Just tell him that.”
Her breathing picked up, chest rising and falling too fast.
On the other end, Sam’s voice came through—quiet, careful.
“Bambi?”
That did it.
Her head snapped toward the phone.
And something in her finally broke.
She grabbed it.
“Stop calling.”
Dean blinked.
Sam went silent.
“If you’re not gonna come back, then stop calling like this,” she continued, her voice shaking but loud now, spilling over. “Stop leaving messages like you’re still here, like nothing changed, because it did!”
“Chubs—”
“No!” she cut him off. “You don’t get to do this, Sam! You don’t get to leave and then just—check in whenever you feel like it!”
“I’m trying—”
“Trying what?” she demanded. “Because it feels like you’re just easing your guilt!”
That landed.
Hard.
“I don’t—” Sam stopped, breath uneven. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this!” she shot back. “You left! You made your choice! So stop acting like you’re still part of this like nothing happened!”
Silence.
Then, quieter—
“…You think I don’t care?”
“I think if you cared enough, you’d be here,” she said, tears spilling freely now.
Dean’s chest ached watching her.
On the other end, Sam’s voice broke.
“I do care,” he said. “I care so much it’s killing me, but I can’t—”
“Then stop calling!” she cried. “Because this—this is killing me too!”
The words echoed in the room.
Sharp.
Final.
Sam didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
Her breathing hitched, uneven and broken.
“…I can’t keep hearing your voice and pretending it’s enough,” she whispered.
That was the real truth.
The quiet one.
The one that hurt the most.
“…Okay,” Sam said finally.
Barely audible.
“If that’s what you need.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
She didn’t respond.
“…I love you, Bambi.”
Her grip on the phone tightened.
For a second—
it looked like she might take it back.
Like she might say it too.
But instead—
she hung up.
The silence afterward was deafening.
The kind that pressed in from all sides.
Chubs stood there, frozen, staring at the phone in her hand like she didn’t recognize it anymore.
Then—
it slipped from her fingers, clattering softly onto the bed.
Dean stepped forward immediately.
“Hey—hey,” he said gently.
That was all it took.
She broke.
Not quiet this time.
Not controlled.
She folded into him, sobs tearing out of her chest as she clung to his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
“I hate this,” she cried. “I hate this so much—”
“I know,” Dean murmured, holding her tight, one hand cradling her head, pressing her into his shoulder.
“I miss him,” she choked. “I miss him and he’s not even—he’s not even gone, he just—he’s just not here—”
Dean shut his eyes, his own throat tight.
“I know, baby,” he whispered. “I know.”
He held her through it. Through every sob. Every shaky breath. Every piece of heartbreak she couldn’t hold in anymore. And even though it broke him too he didn’t let go.
Not for a second. Because if Sam couldn’t be there, then Dean would be enough.
a fic where everyone thought chubs' first word would be dad and mom, but it's De for Dean and Mimi for Sammy. And the boys instantly fell in love with her all over again.
Everyone has an opinion about a baby’s first word.
Especially when that baby lives in a house technically owned by Bobby Singer and raised by two emotionally stunted hunters who still flinch at the word family.
“It’ll be ‘dad,’” Bobby says one morning, pouring coffee like he’s placing bets. “That’s what babies say.”
Dean nearly chokes. “She is not calling me that.”
Sam snorts from the couch. “Relax. It won’t be you. It’ll probably be Bobby. She sees you, like, twelve minutes a day.”
“Shut up.”
Chubs, ten months old and chubby as ever, is sitting on the rug surrounded by mismatched toys. She’s chewing on the ear of a stuffed rabbit and watching them like they’re a live TV show.
Bobby points at himself. “Say ‘Da-da.’ Go on.”
She blinks.
“Da-da,” Bobby repeats, slower.
She drools.
Sam leans forward, long hair falling into his eyes. “What about ‘Mama’? Babies say that early too.”
Dean gives him a look. “Which one of us you volunteering?”
Sam immediately retreats. “Never mind.”
The truth is, none of them know what they want her to say.
They just know it matters.
More than it should.
—
The first time it almost happens is on a Tuesday.
Dean is cleaning a gun at the kitchen table. Sam is reading lore. Bobby’s fixing something that definitely shouldn’t be fixed indoors.
Chubs is in her high chair, aggressively throwing cereal puffs at the floor.
“Hey,” Dean mutters, ducking one. “Food stays on the tray, menace.”
She grins at him. Wide. Mischievous.
“Say ‘Dad,’” Bobby calls casually.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Why are you pushing this?”
“Because it’ll be funny watchin’ you panic.”
Chubs bangs her spoon against the tray.
“D—”
All three men freeze.
“Duh—”
Dean slowly looks up.
Sam’s book lowers.
Bobby stops mid-sip.
“D—”
Chubs squints like she’s concentrating very hard.
“—De.”
Silence.
Dean blinks.
“…What?”
She slams her spoon again, delighted with herself.
“DE!”
The spoon goes flying.
Dean’s brain goes offline.
Sam looks between them. “Did she just—”
“De!” Chubs squeals, bouncing in her chair, hands reaching.
Toward Dean. Dean just stares at her.
“Uh,” he says intelligently.
She wiggles harder. “De! De! De!”
Sam bursts out laughing. “Oh my God.”
Bobby lowers his mug slowly. “Well I’ll be damned.”
Dean stands up automatically, like something inside him has been pulled by a string.
“You— you sayin’ me?”
Chubs lunges toward him, nearly tipping over the tray.
“DE!”
Dean picks her up on instinct.
The second she’s in his arms, she pats his face with sticky cereal fingers.
“De.”
Soft this time.
Certain. Like she knows exactly what she’s saying.
Dean feels his chest crack open. “That’s… that’s not— that’s not a word,” he mutters weakly.
“It is now,” Sam says quietly.
For the rest of the day, Dean pretends it’s no big deal. He definitely does not carry her more than usual. He definitely does not whisper “De” back to her when no one’s looking. He definitely does not feel like someone just rewrote his entire DNA.
—
Two days later, Sam is on the floor building a block tower while Chubs systematically destroys it.
“Okay, tiny Godzilla, we build first—”
She smacks the tower.
Blocks scatter.
Sam laughs helplessly. “You’re impossible.”
She crawls into his lap. Grabs his shirt. Studies his face carefully.
Sam smiles softly. “What? You plotting something?”
She pokes his nose.
“Mmm…”
He tilts his head. “You gonna say ‘Dad’ now? Give Bobby a heart attack?”
She frowns in deep baby concentration.
“Mee…”
Sam blinks.
“Mee-mee.”
He freezes.
Dean looks up from the sink.
“…What?”
Chubs pats Sam’s chest.
“Mimi.”
Sam’s entire body goes still.
Dean’s mouth drops open.
Bobby, from the other room: “WHAT’D SHE SAY?”
Sam stares at her like she just handed him the universe.
“Mimi?” he repeats softly.
She beams.
“MIMI!”
Dean starts laughing. Loud. Shocked. Emotional.
“Oh my God.”
Sam presses his lips together hard like he’s physically trying not to cry.
“She— she can’t say Sammy,” Dean chokes out.
“Mimi,” Sam whispers again.
She presses her forehead against his.
“Mimi.”
That does it. Sam breaks. Not sobbing. Not dramatic. Just quiet, overwhelmed tears slipping down his face as he pulls her into his chest.
Dean watches.
And something shifts permanently.
That night, Bobby mutters over dinner, “All that bettin’ on ‘Dad’ and she goes and makes up her own names.”
Dean grins down at her where she’s dozing against his shoulder.
“She picked.”
Sam nods, still looking a little wrecked in the best way.
“She chose.”
And that’s the thing. No one told her to say it. No one coached her. She just looked at them and decided.
Dean presses a kiss to her temple. “Hey, Chubs?”
She stirs sleepily. “De,” she murmurs.
Sam reaches over, brushing her tiny hand.
“Mimi,” she adds without even opening her eyes.
Dean and Sam look at each other. And it hits them all over again.
They weren’t ready for her. They didn’t plan for her. They were scared of her. But she looked at them and said, mine.
And that’s it.
They’re done for.
Dean exhales softly, resting his chin on her head.
“Yeah, kid,” he whispers. “We’re yours.”
And when she sighs contentedly between them, they fall in love with her all over again.
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This one is where Sam and Dean were still having a hard time accepting chubs, but on a hunt where it's dangerous for her to come, she stays at Bobby's, and the boys just can't stop thinking about her and want to finish the hunt faster because, for some reason, they needed to see her. Down bad much, boys?
They tell themselves it’s practical.
The hunt is messy. Nest of ghouls in a half-collapsed factory. Tight spaces. Rotting floors. Too many blind corners.
“She’s staying here,” Dean says firmly.
Chubs is sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table swinging her legs, crayon in hand.
“I can be quiet,” she argues.
“I know,” Sam says gently. “That’s not the point.”
She frowns. “Then what’s the point?”
Dean doesn’t answer right away. Because the point is: she’s six and small and breakable and he still doesn’t know what to do with that.
“The point,” Bobby cuts in gruffly, “is that you get to hang out with me and watch cartoons while these idjits go roll around with corpses.”
Chubs perks up slightly. “Cartoons?”
Dean points at her. “See? Winning.”
She narrows her eyes at him but nods reluctantly.
“Be good,” Sam says softly.
“I am good,” she insists.
Dean ruffles her hair without thinking. The touch lingers half a second too long before he pulls his hand back like he burned himself.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “You are.”
—
The drive is quiet. Too quiet. The backseat is empty.
No crayons scattered across the leather. No tiny voice asking if ghouls smell worse than vampires.
Dean turns the radio on. Turns it off again.
Sam notices.
“She’s fine,” Sam says.
Dean shrugs. “Didn’t say she wasn’t.”
But he grips the steering wheel tighter than usual.
—
The factory is worse than expected.
Dark.
Wet.
Echoing.
They move carefully. Dean almost steps through a weak patch of floor because he’s distracted.
“Watch it,” Sam snaps, grabbing his jacket.
“I got it,” Dean mutters.
But he didn’t. He didn’t because he was thinking about whether she’d remember to brush her teeth without being told.
He was thinking about whether she’d sleep okay in Bobby’s spare room.
He was thinking about the way she hesitated before they left.
They clear the first ghoul fast. The second takes longer. Dean swings harder than necessary. Breathes heavier than necessary.
“You good?” Sam asks after they salt and burn.
“Fine.”
But he’s not. Because there’s this buzzing under his skin.
Like something’s wrong. Like he left something behind.
They move deeper into the building. Another ghoul lunges from the dark. Dean takes it down, but it’s sloppy.
Angry.
“You’re distracted.” Sam stares at him after.
“No, I’m not.” Dean wipes blood from his cheek.
“You are.”
Dean exhales sharply. “Can we not do this right now?”
Sam hesitates.
Then quietly, “I keep thinking about her.”
Dean stills. The words hang there between them.
Sam swallows. “The way she looked when we left.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “She looked fine.”
“She looked like she was pretending to be fine.”
That hits. Because Dean saw it too. The way she straightened her shoulders. The way she said, “I’ll be brave.” Like it was something she owed them.
Dean scrubs a hand over his face.
“She’s safer at Bobby’s.”
“I know.”
Another beat.
“But I kinda need to see her,” Sam admits quietly.
Dean’s head snaps toward him.
Sam shrugs, embarrassed. “I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
It’s not stupid. Dean feels it too. That pull. That itch. That sense that the world is slightly tilted because she’s not in it.
“We finish this,” Dean says abruptly. “Now.”
Sam nods. They move faster. Cleaner. Focused.
Not because they don’t care. But because they care too much. They take down the last ghoul in under ten minutes. Dean doesn’t even bother celebrating. He’s already heading for the door.
—
The drive back feels longer. Dean checks his phone twice even though there are no missed calls.
“She’s fine,” Sam says again.
Dean nods. But he presses harder on the gas anyway.
—
When they pull up to Bobby’s, the porch light is on. Dean doesn’t wait. He’s out of the car before it’s fully stopped. He pushes the door open without knocking.
“Bobby?”
“In here!”
They round the corner into the living room. And there she is. Curled up on the couch. Asleep. Cartoon still playing quietly on the TV. Blanket half slipping off her shoulder.
Dean stops walking. Something in his chest settles instantly. Like a lock clicking into place.
Sam exhales beside him.
Bobby glances over.
“She wore herself out askin’ when you’d be back,” he mutters.
Dean steps closer to the couch.
Her hair is messy. There’s a faint crayon mark on her cheek. Her small hand is still clutching a stuffed bear Bobby must’ve dug out of somewhere.
Sam crouches first. Brushes hair off her forehead gently.
She stirs.
“… Sammy?”
“Hey,” he whispers. “We’re back.”
Her eyes blink open slowly. Then she sees Dean.
Her whole face lights up. “You’re okay!”
Dean feels that hit him square in the ribs. “Yeah,” he says softly. “We’re okay.”
She sits up suddenly and throws her arms around his neck.
He catches her automatically. Like he’s been doing it his whole life.
“I waited,” she says proudly. “I didn’t sleep ‘til the cartoon was over.”
Dean huffs a quiet laugh into her hair. “You didn’t have to wait.”
“I wanted to.”
That simple. Sam rubs her back gently. “You miss us?” he teases lightly.
She nods without hesitation. “Yeah.”
Dean swallows. “Why?” he asks before he can stop himself.
She frowns at him like it’s obvious. “‘Cause you’re my brothers.”
Like that explains everything. Maybe it does. Dean looks at Sam over her head. And this time there’s no hesitation in either of them. No uncertainty. No weight.
Just understanding.
They didn’t want this. Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t know how to handle it. But the moment she wasn’t with them, the world felt wrong.
Dean presses a kiss to the top of her head before he can overthink it.
“We’re not leaving you that long again,” he mutters.
Bobby snorts from his chair. “You were gone six hours.”
Dean ignores him.
Chubs smiles sleepily against his shoulder. “I knew you’d come back,” she murmurs.
Dean holds her a little tighter.
Yeah.
He always will.
—
It’s late.
Chubs is asleep in Bobby’s spare room, sprawled sideways across the bed like she fought gravity and won.
Dean stands in the doorway longer than necessary. Just watching.
Her breathing is steady. One hand curled near her face. Completely unaware that two grown men rearranged their entire day because they needed to see her breathing.
Sam leans against the hallway wall.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
Dean nods. Doesn’t move.
They head back into the kitchen where Bobby’s pouring coffee strong enough to strip paint.
“You boys look like you ran a marathon,” Bobby mutters.
Dean shrugs. “Hunt’s done.”
“Yeah, I figured. You tore outta here like the building was on fire.”
Dean doesn’t respond to that.
Bobby eyes him for a second, then goes back to his mug. Silence stretches.
Sam sits at the table. Dean stays standing.
“I thought I didn’t want this.” It comes out low. Not dramatic. Just honest.
Sam looks up.
Bobby pauses mid-sip.
Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “When she showed up,” he continues, staring at nothing in particular, “I kept thinkin’… this is gonna screw everything up.”
Sam doesn’t interrupt.
Dean lets out a quiet breath. “We already had a system. Just you and me. We move. We hunt. We leave. No… extra.”
He gestures vaguely toward the hallway.
“No extra what?” Sam asks gently.
Dean hesitates. “… Weight.” The word hangs heavy.
Bobby’s expression softens slightly, but he stays quiet.
Dean shakes his head once. “I kept tellin’ myself we didn’t need a kid. That we weren’t built for it.”
Sam studies him carefully. “And now?”
Dean laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Now I can’t focus on a damn hunt because I’m wonderin’ if she remembered to brush her teeth.”
Sam’s mouth twitches.
Dean continues, quieter now. “I thought I didn’t want this.”
A beat.
“But when she wasn’t in the car?” His voice tightens slightly. “It felt wrong.”
Sam exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he says.
Dean finally looks at him.
Sam leans back in his chair. “You know what I realized today?”
Dean raises an eyebrow.
“She’s already the center.”
Dean frowns slightly. “What?”
“Every decision we made on that hunt? It was about her.” Sam gestures loosely with his hand.
Dean doesn’t argue. Because it’s true.
They didn’t take certain risks. They moved faster. They didn’t split up at one point because if something went wrong, they didn’t want to explain it to a six-year-old who already waits by the door.
Sam continues softly.
“We don’t choose cases the same way anymore. We don’t drive the same way. Hell, you don’t even blast the music like you used to.”
Dean scoffs. “That’s because she complains.”
“She’s six,” Sam says mildly.
Dean crosses his arms.
Sam leans forward. “She’s already the reason we’re careful.”
The kitchen goes quiet.
Dean stares at the floor for a long moment. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he mutters.
“I know.”
“It just did.” Dean’s jaw shifts.
Sam nods. “Yeah.”
There’s no accusation in it. No pressure. Just truth.
Bobby finally clears his throat. “Took you idjits long enough.”
Dean rolls his eyes slightly, but there’s no heat behind it.
Sam smiles faintly.
Dean leans back against the counter. “She called us her brothers like it was obvious,” he says quietly.
“It is obvious,” Sam replies.
Dean thinks about that. About the way she ran into his arms like it was automatic. No doubt. No hesitation. Like she never questioned it.
He swallows. “I don’t wanna screw her up,” he admits.
Sam’s voice is steady. “You will.”
Dean shoots him a look.
Sam shrugs lightly.
“We’re us.”
Dean huffs a reluctant laugh.
“But,” Sam adds, softer now, “she’s already better off with us than without.”
That settles something.
Dean nods once.
Upstairs, there’s a faint thump — probably her rolling over.
Dean’s head lifts automatically.
Sam notices.
“See?” Sam says quietly.
Dean doesn’t deny it this time. He pushes off the counter and heads toward the hallway.
“Where you goin’?” Bobby asks.
“Just checking.”
“You checked ten minutes ago.”
Dean ignores him. He pauses at her doorway again. Watches her for a second. Then steps inside and gently adjusts the blanket that’s halfway off her shoulder.
She stirs slightly. “… Dean?”
He freezes. “Yeah, bug.”
She doesn’t open her eyes. “You came back.”
His chest tightens in that familiar, terrifying way.
“Yeah.”
A small pause.
“Good.”
She’s asleep again seconds later.
Dean stands there longer than necessary.
Then quietly, “So did you.” He doesn’t say it loud enough for anyone else to hear. But he means it.
When he walks back down the hallway, Sam is watching him with that knowing older-brother look he’s started to wear lately.
Hii mi bebe <3 yesss of course i can do that for you! older Chubs, something minor-but-scary, anesthesia fear, clingy brothers, Bobby fussing, and soft post-procedure caretaking. Hope you like this one my love <3
Chubs wasn’t scared of monsters.
She wasn’t scared of guns, or blood, or dark woods at midnight.
But the minute she stepped into the outpatient surgery center and caught sight of the IV cart rolling by, she went stiff as a board.
Dean noticed instantly.
“Hey,” he murmured, pressing a warm hand to her back. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Chubs didn’t look at him. Just stared at the cart like it was a demon in disguise. “That’s… that’s a needle.”
Sam leaned down, gentle, eyebrows drawing together. “It’s just for the anesthesia, baby. You’re not gonna feel a thing.”
“Except the needle part,” she whispered.
Dean glared at Sam. Really?
Sam winced. “Okay—yes, technically—but it’s tiny, and it’s fast, and—”
Chubs swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “I hate feeling out of control.”
Dean’s face cracked open with that older-brother softness he never admitted to having. He cupped her cheek.
“You’re not gonna be out of control,” he said quietly. “You’re gonna be asleep. With me and Sam right here the entire time. And the second you wake up, we’ll be holding your hands like the clingy bastards we are.”
Sam nodded. “No one’s leaving you. Not for a second.”
She breathed shakily.
The nurse called her name.
Dean felt her flinch.
Sam stepped forward immediately. “We’ll all go.”
The nurse smiled kindly. “Of course. As long as she wants that.”
Chubs nodded fast. “Yes. Please.”
Dean grabbed her hand, Sam grabbed the other, and they walked her back like she was being escorted by two enormous, nervous, overprotective guard dogs.
—
Chubs sat on the little hospital bed, legs swinging, eyes glued to the IV tray like it might grow teeth.
Dean sat beside her, a hand on her knee.
Sam crouched in front of her, trying to get her to look at him instead of the tray.
“You’ve been through worse,” Sam said softly.
Chubs whispered, “Not conscious.”
Dean snorted. “Fair point.”
The nurse came in with a sweet, practiced smile. “Alright, hun. I’m just going to get your IV started so we can give you something to relax.”
Chubs tensed. Hard.
Dean slid closer. “Eyes on me, baby girl.”
Sam took her hand again. “Squeeze as hard as you need.”
Chubs sucked in a breath. “I don’t— I’m not— I can’t—”
Dean’s voice dropped to the softest he ever got. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. You’re safe.”
Her breath hitched.
Sam rubbed her knuckles in slow circles. “We’ve got you.”
When the needle went in, she did exactly what Sam said, crushed his fingers like she was wringing out a towel.
Sam didn’t even flinch.
Dean kissed the top of her head.
“There you go,” he murmured. “All done. See? You’re still alive.”
Chubs exhaled, shaky and small.
The nurse patted her arm. “Perfect. We’ll give you something to calm your nerves, okay?”
“Does it knock me out?” she asked tightly.
“Just makes you floaty.”
Sam smirked. “You’re gonna be so funny.”
Dean grinned. “Bet she confesses all her secrets.”
Chubs narrowed her eyes. “I will bite both of you.”
But the meds were already kicking in, her voice going slow and warm.
Dean’s smile softened to something melty and fond. “There she goes…”
Sam chuckled. “She’s swaying, dude.”
“Let her sway,” Dean said. “She’s cute.”
—
They rolled her toward the OR, brothers flanking the bed like security detail.
Chubs reached sleep-heavy arms for them. “Wait—wher’re you going?”
Dean immediately grabbed her hand. “Nowhere.”
Sam took the other. “We’re walking with you to the doors.”
Her eyes got wet—drug-soft and honest. “You promise?”
Dean leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. “Cross my heart.”
She blinked at him like a sad puppy. “I don’t wanna go alone.”
“You aren’t,” Sam whispered.
And when the anesthesiologist asked her to start counting backward, her last conscious sight was her brothers’ faces bent over hers.
—
Chubs woke up to cotton-mouth, heavy limbs, and a warm, familiar low rumble.
Dean.
He was humming.
She blinked slowly, vision blurry, but there he was, sitting right beside her, thumb stroking her cheek.
“Hey, baby,” Dean whispered as soon as he saw her eyes flutter. “There you are.”
Sam leaned into her field of vision from the other side. “You okay?”
Chubs groaned. “Am I dead?”
“No,” Dean laughed. “You’re dramatic.”
Sam snorted. “She’s definitely awake.”
She blinked around. “Procedure’s done?”
“All done,” Sam said. “Everything went perfect. You were out for like an hour.”
Dean brushed hair from her face. “And I held your hand the whole damn time. Sam too. We fought over who got left or right.”
Chubs squinted. “Who won?”
Sam smirked. “We compromised.”
Dean huffed. “We shared.”
Chubs mumbled, “Love you both.”
Then promptly fell asleep again.
Dean melted so hard he almost slid out of his chair.
—
Back at Bobby's, Bobby grumbled the whole time, but he had blankets warming in the dryer and soup on the stove before she even got through the front door.
“Idjits,” he muttered, handing her a mug and pulling her into a gentle half-hug. “Bringin’ her home like a sack of potatoes.”
Dean wrapped an arm around her shoulders possessively. “She’s fragile.”
“I’m literally fine,” Chubs mumbled sleepily.
Sam set up pillows on the couch. “You’re high.”
Dean guided her to sit. “And adorable.”
She curled up immediately, woozy and clingy. “Can one of you sit with me?”
Dean was already lowering himself beside her. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Sam sat on her other side, tucking a blanket around all three of them. “How’s the pain?”
“Not bad,” she said, eyes drifting shut again. “Just tired.”
Dean stroked her hair gently. “Then sleep. We’ve got you.”
Chubs mumbled into his shirt, “You guys stayed the whole time.”
Sam kissed the top of her head. “Always.”
Dean rested his chin on her crown. “You don’t ever have to be scared alone.”
She breathed out, a long, soft, relieved sound, and let herself sink into them, completely safe.
—
It happened just after 3 a.m.
The bunker was quiet, lights dimmed, Sam and Dean sleeping in shifts on either side of the couch where Chubs lay bundled in blankets. She’d been okay most of the evening, groggy, clingy, sweet, but the meds had worn off sometime after midnight.
That’s when the pain hit.
Not sharp, not dangerous, just heavy, throbbing soreness spreading through her back and stomach like a hot ache. Enough to wake her. Enough to make her eyes sting.
She shifted a little under the blanket and immediately regretted it.
“Ow…” she whispered, barely audible.
But Dean’s head snapped up like a guard dog on high alert.
“Hey. Hey, baby, what’s wrong?” His voice was soft, breathless, still thick with sleep.
She swallowed, blinking against the ache. “Hurts.”
Sam was awake instantly too, rubbing his eyes before scooting closer. “Where?”
“My back… and my… everything,” she muttered, embarrassed tears slipping out. “I didn’t wanna wake you…”
Dean cupped her cheek. “You didn’t wake us, sweetheart. Pain did.”
Sam brushed her hair back. “Level? One to ten?”
“Seven,” she whispered.
Dean’s hand tightened just slightly. Too high. Too much.
“Okay. C’mere.” He shifted closer, pulling her gently into his chest. She whimpered at the movement, and all three of them froze.
“Sorry, baby,” Dean murmured into her hair. “We’ll move slow.”
Sam grabbed the heating pad from the side table, plugging it in with shaking hands. He hated seeing her in pain. Hated it.
Dean kept one arm wrapped around her, the other rubbing slow circles on her shoulder. “You did so good today. This is just your body complaining. It’ll pass.”
She pressed her face into his shirt, breathing unevenly. “Feels worse at night…”
Sam nodded, settling on the other side of her with that big-brother steadiness she depended on. “Pain always feels bigger when you’re tired. Let the heating pad kick in.”
She shook slightly. Not from fear, just the combination of fatigue and discomfort.
Dean kissed the top of her head. “Breathe, Bambi. I’ve got you.”
Sam slipped the heating pad under her shirt, warm and gentle. “Better?”
A soft, shaky exhale. “Yeah… a little…”
Both brothers relaxed by maybe one percent. Maybe.
Chubs shifted again, sniffling. “Can you both… stay? Just for a bit?”
Dean laughed under his breath, incredulous. “You kidding? Try to get rid of us.”
Sam pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. “We’re not going anywhere.”
And so she lay in the middle, sandwiched between two giant, overprotective heaters, Dean humming quietly, Sam rubbing her hand with the softest touch imaginable.
Little by little, her breathing evened out.
And that’s when Bobby showed up.
Half asleep, hair wild, wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a mug in hand.
He took one look at the scene, three Winchesters in a cuddle pile on the couch, and snorted so hard he nearly choked on his coffee.
“Idjits.”
Dean looked up, scowling. “What? She’s hurting.”
Sam nodded defensively. “Midnight flare. Totally normal.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Normal for who? Y’all smother her like a mother hen with abandonment issues.”
Chubs, bleary but conscious enough to hear that, mumbled, “They’re good hens…”
Dean beamed. “See? Baby approves.”
Sam glared. “She’s half-asleep and sedated.”
Bobby huffed. “You know there’s a whole guest room and a heating pad and pain meds and bedside tables, right? Instead of all three of ya piling onto one couch like a pack of wet dogs.”
Dean tightened his grip around Chubs. “We’re comforting her.”
Sam added, “We’re monitoring her pain response.”
Chubs whispered, “They’re soft…”
Dean smirked proudly at Bobby. “See? Soft.”
Bobby threw a hand up. “Fine. Whatever. But if one of you knocks your damn back out sleepin’ like that, don’t come whinin’ to me.”
He turned to leave, muttering, “Whole damn house and all three of ‘em sleep on one damn couch… unbelievable…”
When he was gone, Sam leaned down and whispered into Chubs’s hair, “You okay now?”
Chubs nodded sleepily. “Hurts less… you guys help…”
Dean kissed her head again, slow, warm, protective. “Good. Go back to sleep, baby.”
“Stay with me,” she murmured.
Sam pulled the blanket tighter. “Always.”
Dean tucked her closer. “We’re not letting go.”
And with the heating pad warm against her back and both brothers wrapped around her like armor, Chubs finally slipped back into sleep, safe, loved, and never alone.
—
Chubs woke up to the smell of bacon.
Which was impressive, considering she’d slept wedged between two fully grown men on a couch that was definitely not designed for three Winchesters at once.
Dean was the first to notice she was blinking awake, because he’d been awake for a while, lying stiff as a board to keep from jostling her.
“Hey, baby girl,” he murmured softly. “How you feelin’?”
Chubs groaned. “Like… a bruise.”
Sam, who was sitting on the floor beside the couch with a book, immediately perked up. “Pain level?”
“Maybe… four?”
Sam nodded, satisfied.
Dean frowned. “Still too high.”
Chubs rolled her eyes weakly. “Dean, if I stubbed my toe you’d say it’s too high.”
Dean huffed. “Because my baby shouldn’t hurt at all. Ever. For any reason.”
Sam shot him a look. “That’s not how bodies work.”
Dean ignored him.
He pulled a blanket tighter around her shoulders. “We’re making you breakfast. Bobby’s cooking.”
Chubs blinked. “Bobby is cooking?”
Sam smirked. “He insisted. Said you needed ‘real food’ instead of Dean’s ‘greasy abominations.’”
Dean gasped. “My bacon is an art.”
Chubs reached up with a tiny sleepy hand and patted his face. “You’re good at everything, De.”
Dean melted.
Sam rolled his eyes again. “She’s still high from the meds.”
“I don’t care,” Dean said, dead serious. “I’ll take it.”
—
Chubs shuffled in between her brothers, one arm around Dean’s waist, the other hooked around Sam’s elbow. She looked like a little duckling herded by two giant, anxious shepherd dogs.
Bobby turned at the sound of them entering and immediately groaned.
“Good grief. Look at you three.”
Dean scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bobby pointed his spatula at them like a weapon. “She’s walking just fine. You don’t both gotta escort her like she’s a damn princess going down a flight of stairs.”
Chubs mumbled sleepily, “I am a princess…”
Dean beamed. “Yes you are.”
Bobby thumped the spatula onto the counter. “See? This right here. This is why I’m holdin’ a parenting seminar. Sit down.”
Sam frowned. “What?”
Dean blinked. “A what now?”
Bobby gestured to the kitchen table. “Sit. All three of ya.”
Chubs let Sam help her to a chair while Dean hovered behind her like she might spontaneously combust.
Bobby stood in front of them with the seriousness of a drill sergeant.
“Rule number one of takin’ care of a kid: give ‘em space to breathe.”
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “She literally couldn’t breathe last night, Bobby, she was in pain.”
“Uh-huh,” Bobby said. “And remind me—why were all three of y’all crammed on one couch when there’s perfectly good beds?”
Silence.
Sam cleared his throat. “Well, in our defense—”
“There is no defense,” Bobby barked. “You idiots are gonna ruin your backs and then I’ll have four invalids in my house instead of one.”
Dean crossed his arms. “She likes being near us.”
Chubs nodded earnestly. “I do.”
Bobby pointed at her. “And that’s fine. Comfort her. But don’t make me pull you two off her with a crowbar.”
Sam raised a hand. “Okay, but—to be fair—she was scared last night.”
Chubs ducked her head, cheeks warm. “I wasn’t scared, I was just… uncomfortable.”
Dean sat beside her immediately. “You don’t gotta minimize it, baby.”
Sam sat on her other side. “Yeah. Pain sucks.”
Chubs huffed. “…I was a little scared.”
Dean and Sam both leaned in protectively like she’d just confessed a crime.
Bobby sighed from the stove. “See?? This is what I mean. Smotherin’ her like a blanket made of idiots.”
Dean glared. “We’re supportive.”
Bobby turned with a plate of bacon. “You’re obsessive.”
Sam grinned. “We prefer the term ‘dedicated.’”
Chubs reached out and grabbed bacon off the plate with her fingers.
Bobby slapped her hand lightly. “Use a fork, ya heathen.”
She giggled, actually giggled, soft and a little high-pitched.
Dean froze. “Oh my god.”
Sam went soft instantly. “She giggled.”
Bobby muttered, “Lord save me,” and put the rest of breakfast on the table.
—
Chubs ate slow but steady, wincing occasionally. Every time she did, both boys froze like statues.
Dean: “Pain spike??
Want meds??
Want ice??
Want heat??
Want me to fight the doctor??”
Sam: “Do you need to lie down?
Change position?
Want water?
Protein?
Electrolytes?”
Chubs sighed. “I want… eggs.”
Dean immediately jumped up. “I’ll get you eggs.”
Sam stood. “I’ll get a glass of water—”
“Sit down!” Bobby snapped.
They sat instantly, like scolded toddlers.
Bobby stabbed a piece of sausage with his fork. “Lesson two: she ain’t glass. She’s a tough kid. Let her say what she needs.”
Dean frowned. “But we like anticipating her needs.”
Sam nodded. “It’s efficient.”
Chubs smiled sleepily. “It’s sweet.”
Bobby dragged a hand down his face. “Good grief, you’re encouragin’ them.”
Dean leaned close to her ear. “You okay, baby girl?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Just… tired.”
Sam shifted her chair gently so she leaned against his shoulder. “Then rest.”
Bobby let out another sigh, but this time, he sounded fond, not frustrated.
“Lesson three,” he muttered, “You two knuckleheads love her good. I’ll give ya that.”
Dean smirked triumphantly.
Sam beamed.
Chubs, half-asleep against Sam, mumbled, “Best big brothers in the world…”
Dean placed his hand on the back of her head, gentle as a whisper. “Damn right.”
Sam kissed her hair. “Always.”
Bobby shoved a plate of toast toward them and grumbled, “Fine. Keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Just… try not to suffocate her with love.”
Dean smirked. “No promises.”
Sam added seriously, “Absolutely zero promises.”
Chubs smiled, warm and drowsy, surrounded by three men who loved her more fiercely than the world would ever understand.
Hiii mi bebe!! i loveeeee the idea of teen Chubs, 14–15, scoliosis + brace insecurity, worried Sam & Dean, hurt/comfort, brotherly softness, Dean being Dean. Lets dive in shall we?
Chubs always hated the click of the brace.
It wasn’t loud, barely more than the sound of a plastic tab settling into place, but to her it felt deafening. Like it announced to the whole world: look at her. she’s different. she’s broken.
But she wore it anyway. Most days. Because she promised Sam. Because Dean would hover if she didn’t. Because she knew she needed to.
—
And then came the stupid hunt.
A simple salt-and-burn, supposedly. A spirit lingering around an abandoned strip mall on the edge of town. In and out. Easy.
Except that nothing was easy when you were fourteen, freckled, carrying a spine brace under your hoodie, and trying to keep up with two brothers who kept forgetting that they were giants.
Dean noticed her lagging.
Sam noticed her wincing.
Neither pushed — they were trying so hard nowadays not to smother her — and she loved them for that.
But she also hated that she looked weak.
So she kept quiet.
—
Until they ran into another group of teens hanging around near the abandoned building, filming TikToks or being idiots — who knew. But one girl’s eyes had zeroed in on Chubs the moment her hoodie rode up and the edge of her brace peeked out.
“Oh my god,” the girl whispered, not even subtle. “Is that, like, a… medical corset?”
Another guy chimed in, snickering. “Dude, she looks like Iron Man’s sad little cousin.”
And Chubs felt her chest squeeze — not from the brace, but from that sinking, sick feeling she never knew how to shake.
Sam had stepped closer immediately, jaw tight.
Dean’s nostrils flared like a bull who’d seen red.
But Chubs had already pulled her hoodie down and rushed past them, mumbling that she’d meet them inside.
They didn’t chase. They knew chasing would make it worse.
But later, after the salt-and-burn, after the drive home, after the way she stayed turned toward the window the whole ride, it started.
She stopped wearing it.
Not completely. But often enough that the boys noticed the pattern.
Morning training? “Forgot it.”
Long walk through town? “It’s drying; I cleaned it.”
Hunt prep? “It pinches today.”
—
Dean was the first to crack.
He cornered her in the bunker kitchen mid-afternoon, where she was trying to reach a mug on a high shelf and pretending she wasn’t in pain.
“Hey. Hey.” His hand caught her wrist gently as she overextended. “Stop. You’re stiff as a damn board.”
She shrugged. “I’m fine.”
“Sweetheart, you’re always fine until you’re not.” He crouched a little to meet her eyes. “Where’s your brace?”
She stiffened even more. “Laundry.”
“You know how I know that’s bullshit?” Dean asked softly. “Because I did laundry last night.”
Her cheeks burned. “Maybe I washed it this morning.”
He raised a brow. “And dried it? Without the dryer? In two hours?”
She looked away.
Dean’s voice gentled instantly. “Baby girl… talk to me.”
“No.” Her throat felt tight. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing about you is stupid.”
And god. That almost broke her.
But it wasn’t until Sam came in — quiet, worried, carrying her brace in his hands — that she froze completely.
“Chubs.” His voice was heartbreakingly soft. “This was under your bed.”
She wanted to disappear.
“It’s dumb,” she whispered. “I don’t want people looking at me like I’m… weird.”
Sam’s mouth parted in devastation.
Dean swore under his breath, practically a growl. “Those little shits at the mall…”
Chubs’s eyes filled instantly. Embarrassment. Anger. Shame. All of it tangled in her chest.
“You don’t get it,” she muttered, wiping her cheeks. “You’re both— you’re tall and normal and hot and— no one stares at you. I look like a science fair project.”
“Hey.” Sam moved first — gentle but solid, hands on her shoulders. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
She didn’t.
So Dean stepped closer, tipping her chin up the tiniest bit with two fingers. “Eyes on us, baby.”
She did.
And both brothers looked gutted.
Sam spoke first, voice low and careful. “Your back is growing fast. The brace isn’t punishment. It’s helping you not hurt in ten years.”
Dean nodded slowly. “And if anyone stares at you? If anyone says a damn thing? Sweetheart, that’s because they’re jealous, or bored, or mean, or stupid. It’s never because something’s wrong with you.”
She sniffed. “You have to say that.”
Dean cupped her cheek. “No. I say it because it’s the truth.”
Sam touched her hair. “You’re beautiful. And strong. And you’re ours. And we want you healthy.”
“And walking straight,” Dean added, “so when you’re twenty-five and kicking ass, you’re not blaming us for letting you skip the brace.”
That dragged a tiny laugh out of her.
Dean softened even more. “Baby… if you hate wearing it around people, tell us. We can help. We can adjust your clothes. We can teach you how to move more comfortably in it. Hell, I’ll decorate the damn thing with flames and make it cool.”
Sam gave him a look. “Dean, she doesn’t want to look like a NASCAR bumper.”
“I dunno,” Chubs whispered, wiping a tear. “Flames are kinda cool.”
Sam groaned.
Dean preened. “See? She has taste.”
Then Sam pulled her in — full body, tall, warm, crushing gently. “Wear it for us. Please. We want you safe. We want you okay.”
Dean wrapped around the other side, arms locking around both of them. “And if anyone looks at you wrong again…” He kissed her hair. “Point ’em out. Big brother privilege. I’ll handle it.”
She let herself sink into them.
Let herself breathe.
Let herself be held.
“…okay,” she whispered finally. “I’ll wear it more.”
Sam smiled into her hair, relieved. “Thank you.”
Dean pressed a kiss to her temple. “Good girl.”
And for the first time since the mall incident, the world didn’t feel so heavy.
Because her spine might be crooked.
But her brothers?
They’d always hold her straight.
—
Chubs didn’t expect Dean to take her brace.
She especially didn’t expect him to steal it off her bedroom chair at 2 a.m., muttering something like “operation bedazzle the baby” as he disappeared down the hall like a gremlin with a mission.
The next morning, she walked into the war room to find both brothers hunched over her brace like it was Excalibur.
Sam had blueprints.
Dean had paint pens.
“...what are you doing?”
Dean didn’t look up. “Saving your social life.”
Sam swatted his arm. “We’re making it more comfortable. And supportive.” Then, quieter, to her, “And yeah, maybe a little cooler.”
Chubs blinked. “You guys… stayed up all night?”
Dean snorted. “Honey, this is your spine. We’re invested.”
Sam held up a small foam pad. “I found a way to add cushioning without increasing bulk. Plus this should stop the pinching under your ribs.”
Dean pointed proudly at the back panel. “And I added art.”
Chubs stepped closer, and froze.
Dean had drawn flames.
But tastefully. Subtle, smoky orange-red shading that actually looked… good. Kinda punk. Kinda cool. Kinda her.
“You like it?” he asked, voice a little too casual, like he was bracing (ha) for her to hate it.
She touched the painted surface gently. “I love it.”
Dean’s grin could’ve powered the bunker for a week.
Sam softened. “Try it on? Just so we can check the pressure points?”
Chubs nodded and let them help her clip into it. For the first time in months, it didn’t feel tight or itchy. It wasn’t invisible, nothing ever made it invisible, but it felt like hers, not a punishment.
Sam crouched beside her, eye-level with the brace straps. “Does this part still dig into your hip?”
“No,” she said honestly.
Dean leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “That’s what I like to hear.”
—
On their first hunt back from all the shenanigans
They only let her come because she promised she’d wear the brace.
And she did.
And yeah… it felt different this time.
She wasn’t dragging. She wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t ashamed.
Sam nudged her shoulder gently as they walked toward the abandoned house’s front porch. “You’re standing straighter.”
“Looks badass,” Dean added from behind her. “Like armor.”
She bit back a smile. “I feel like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.”
“Oh my god,” Sam groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”
Dean lit up. “SHELL SHOCKED!”
Chubs cackled.
It was good. It was easy. Until—
Another teen hunter team showed up.
Three kids maybe her age. Newbies. Way too bold. Dressed like they bought their gear off TikTok.
One boy noticed the brace peek under her jacket and lit up—not with mockery, but interest.
“That’s custom?” he asked, stepping closer. “Sick. My cousin has scoliosis. He’d freak out over that paint job.”
Chubs blinked. “Oh. Um—yeah. My brother did it.”
“Looks pro,” the boy said earnestly. “Makes it look like armor. That’s actually dope.”
Dean, behind her, froze.
Sam, beside her, blinked like he was glitching.
Because someone had complimented her.
A boy had complimented her.
While she was wearing the brace.
Dean whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Sammy, I’m not ready for this—”
“Same,” Sam murmured. “Be cool. Act normal.”
Dean panicked. “Define normal.”
“Definitely not talking,” Sam hissed.
They both shut up.
The boy smiled at Chubs. “I’m Owen, by the way.”
Before Chubs could respond, Sam materialized behind her like a horror movie extra.
“She’s busy.”
Dean nodded, stepping in front of her like a refrigerator-sized guard dog. “Extremely busy.”
Owen blinked. “We’re literally all on the same hunt.”
“Busy,” Sam repeated.
Dean added, “Always busy.”
Chubs sighed, shoving them lightly. “Stop scaring civilians.”
“We’re not,” Sam said stiffly.
“We’re making sure his intentions are pure,” Dean corrected.
“He literally just complimented my brace,” Chubs muttered.
Dean huffed. “Exactly. Too pure.”
—
Back in the bunker after the hunt, Chubs sat on the couch, unstrapping her brace while Sam brought her water and Dean brought her pizza like they were competing for Best Brother Award.
“You wore it the whole time,” Sam said softly, impressed.
Dean nodded. “And you kicked ass.”
Chubs shrugged, cheeks warm. “Didn’t hurt as much today.”
Sam smiled. “Good.”
Dean leaned down, kissed her head. “Proud of you, baby.”
Chubs looked between them—these two giants who loved her so much it sometimes hurt—and felt the tightness lift from her chest completely.
“I think… I’m okay with wearing it more,” she said quietly. “Like… actually okay.”
Dean’s hand slid to her back, warm and steady. “We’ll help. Always.”
Sam pressed her forehead lightly to hers. “You never have to handle any of it alone.”
Chubs exhaled.
And for the first time since the diagnosis, wearing the brace didn’t feel like a burden.
Hiiii, not a request but I just wanted to say - your chubs universe is now one of my favourite - full on comfort fiction. And I appreciate how much time and effort you put into it and the love you clearly hold for it. So thank you. Thank you for writing such wholesome stories. Thank you for allowing me to see your creativity. And remember you are appreciated, and someone (me) will always love reading them. Xxx🥰.
oh wow… this genuinely made me tear up a little :((( thank you so much for taking the time to send this. knowing that the Chubs universe has become comfort fiction for you means more to me than i can properly put into words. that’s exactly what i hoped it could be for someone. thank you for seeing the love i put into it and for loving it back. i appreciate you just as much.
i got really excited to see a notification of your blog, im heading home rn from school and can wait to read it
AWWWWW i miss you too mi bebe and i miss being here :(( im doing good now, my love. how are you bebe? my dms are always open if you need a friend okie?
thank you for caring that much. i hope the story keeps you company after school and gives you something nice to unwind with <3
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hellooo, I recently started my own writing and I just wanted to tell you that I love your work. I love your oc and I can’t wait for you to post some more stories :)
hiiii oh my god this is so sweet, thank you so much 🥺💗 it genuinely means the world to me that you enjoy my stories and my OC. that’s such a huge compliment. and i’m SO proud of you for starting your own writing too!! that’s amazing. i’m cheering for you already!! can you maybe tag me when you post your story? i would loveeee to read it! :3
i apologize for the lack of stories i post because life has been waaaaay too serious for my liking (sigh) sooo hows everyone been?? are we missing chubs and her brothers? their siblingism?? because i ceritainly do!
ive got some spare time, so im going to use it to answer some of yall's questions, posting drafts, and of course, continue writing your requests.
thank you for always being very patient with me my starlights and mi bebes
Hiii there mi bebe! aaaahhh it always warms my heart knowing you loved the stories!! and oh my god i love love love the idea!! That hits every emotional button, competence, fear, separation anxiety, reunion comfort, and the brothers finally seeing just how capable she really is. Buckle up, this is going to be tense, emotional, and so sibling-soft once the fear breaks.
The woods were quiet in that wrong way— not peaceful, not calm.
Waiting.
Chubs tightened her grip on the machete, her breath a thin cloud in the cold night air. The flashlight in her other hand flickered once, then steadied. She forced her steps to stay slow, measured; Dean’s voice echoed in her head like a command:
“Don’t run. Running makes you loud.”
She wanted to run anyway.
She’d been chasing that thing’s tracks for nearly twenty minutes, her heart climbing up her throat the whole time, because Sam and Dean were somewhere ahead of her, somewhere deeper, dragged off into the dark like they were nothing.
The Wendigo had gotten the drop on them.
It wasn’t supposed to be able to sneak up on them.
Not her boys.
Her chest tightened. No panic. Not yet. Not until they were safe.
She crouched, lowering her light to the forest floor. Scrapes in the dirt, uneven pacing, drag marks, something heavy being pulled. She swallowed hard.
Dean. That was Dean’s boot tread. She’d know it anywhere.
She reached out and touched the print with shaking fingers.
"I'm coming. Just—hold on."
The wind moved, soft and hungry.
—
Back in the cavern
Sam blinked awake to the drip-drip of water somewhere above him, wrists bound, back aching. The cavern was deep, roots hanging from the ceiling in tangled curtains. Across from him, Dean was tied to a post, chest rising and falling too fast, conscious, but still foggy.
“Sam?” His voice was rough. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Sam tugged at the restraints. “Where’s—”
Dean’s eyes snapped wide, panic cutting through the daze instantly.
“Where’s Chubs?”
Sam exhaled slowly. “She didn’t get taken. She got away.”
Dean sagged in relief, but then stiffened, horror replacing it just as fast.
“Sam. She’s out there alone.”
“She’s smart.”
“She’s sixteen.”
Sam had no argument.
Dean pulled once, twice, three times, futile, desperate. “That thing comes back, and she’s hunting it solo—”
Sam cut him off, quiet but certain.
“She’ll find us.”
Dean’s jaw clenched. “Better hope so, because if that thing goes for her first—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
—
Back in the forest
Chubs pointed the flashlight ahead and followed the trail deeper. Thick trees swallowed sound. The air felt like it was listening.
Her lungs burned, but she kept moving. Every time she slowed, her brain tried to imagine Sam and Dean tied up somewhere, cold and hurt and waiting for her.
She whispered, voice cracking, “Please be okay.”
She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t.
She pushed through the underbrush, and her flashlight hit something.
A wall of rock. A narrow opening. Claw marks up the stone.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
A cave.
She swallowed, gripping the machete tighter. Dean’s voice again, steady and low in her memory.
“If you’re scared, it doesn’t matter. Move anyway.”
She ducked inside.
—
Inside the cavern
Dean jerked his head up at the faintest sound, pebbles shifting, a footstep, careful breathing.
Sam heard it too.
Dean whispered, “If that’s her—if she’s stupid enough to come in here—”
A beat.
“…we taught her too well.”
A silhouette appeared at the entrance. Small. Flashlight switched off. Blade drawn.
Sam exhaled in relief so sharp it hurt. “Chubs.”
Dean’s throat worked, emotion choking the name. “Baby—”
She held up a hand to silence them, focused, terrified, doing the job.
He'd never seen her look more like a hunter.
She crept across the cavern, eyes scanning every shadow until she reached them, and the moment their faces came into her flashlight beam her breath broke.
“Sam. Dean.”
Her voice cracked entirely. “Oh my God—”
Dean’s façade shattered first. “Sweetheart, we’re okay—hey, look at me. Come here.”
Her hands shook as she cut their ropes, fumbling through knots, breathing too fast.
Sam leaned forward, voice low and grounding. “You did everything right. We’re proud of you, okay?”
She didn’t answer. Just kept working.
When Dean’s wrist came free, he grabbed her forearm, stopping her.
“Chubs. Hey.”
His voice dropped, gentle and scared.
“Were you alone out there this whole time?”
She nodded, lip trembling. “I—I had to. You were gone. I couldn’t lose you—”
Dean pulled her into him with his free arm, holding her against his chest. She crumpled into him instantly, shaking so hard he felt it in his bones.
Sam leaned into her from the other side, hands still bound but close enough to press his forehead to hers.
“We’re here,” Sam murmured. “We’re alive because of you.”
“Damn right we are,” Dean whispered into her hair. “You saved our asses, Bambi.”
A sound echoed from deeper in the cavern—low, hungry, moving toward them.
Chubs straightened, wiping her face with her sleeve. Voice small but steady:
“Let’s finish this.”
Dean stared at her like she’d grown wings. “Atta girl.”
—
The Kill
It was fast, brutal, and coordinated, Chubs illuminated the cavern with magnesium flare like Sam taught her, Dean broke its charge with silver rounds, Sam drove the blade through its heart while Chubs pinned it down.
When it hit the floor, Chubs dropped to her knees, adrenaline crashing into terror all at once. She covered her face with shaking hands.
Dean was down beside her in seconds, pulling her into his chest, Sam wrapping around her from behind.
“I was so scared,” she choked. “I didn’t— I thought—”
Dean’s voice broke, just once. “Yeah. Me too, kid.”
Sam kissed the top of her head. “You did everything right. You saved us.”
She clung to both of them like she needed proof they were real.
—
Back at the bunker — hours later
Three bodies on one bed, tangled under blankets.
Chubs pressed between her brothers, head on Dean’s chest, Sam’s hand resting on her back, everyone still half-awake and unwilling to let go.
Dean whispered into her hair, voice cracked and raw:
“You ever disappear like that again and I’m handcuffing you to the Impala.”
Chubs sniffled. “Kinky.”
Sam groaned. “Oh my God.”
Dean tightened his arm around her. “Not what I meant and you know it.”
She looked up at them both, eyes soft.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”
Dean kissed her forehead. “No, baby.”
Sam threaded his fingers through hers. “We got each other.”
And for the first time since the woods went quiet, she let herself believe it.
—
The bunker gym was quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and the rhythmic sound of Dean wrapping his hands. Chubs sat cross-legged on the mat, watching him with a half-amused, half-nervous look.
He hadn’t said a word to her yet.
Not really.
Not since the “I thought I lost you” whispers last night.
Sam had gone to shower, leaving the two of them in the gym while Dean rummaged through old boxing tape like it personally offended him.
Finally, Dean let out a breath—sharp, loaded.
“On your feet.”
Chubs blinked. “Dean, we didn’t even warm up—”
“On your feet,” he repeated, softer this time.
Not an order.
A plea.
She stood.
Dean stepped onto the mat with her, barefoot, shoulders tense, like he was holding in seventy different emotions through sheer Winchester stubbornness.
He lifted his hands.
“Show me what you used in the cave.”
Chubs hesitated. “Dean, I don’t—”
“Sweetheart.”
His voice cracked right down the middle.
“Please.”
She swallowed and raised her hands.
They circled each other—slowly at first. Dean wasn’t looking at her stance, or her feet, or her angles.
He was looking at the slight tremor in her fingers.
He recognized it.
He’d lived it.
He stepped closer.
“Chubs… hey.” His voice softened. “I’m not mad at you.”
“You’re… definitely something.”
Dean huffed a tired laugh. “Yeah. Scared.”
She froze. Dean didn’t say things like that out loud unless he meant them.
He tapped her hands lightly.
“Show me. The block you used when it charged Sam.”
She nodded once, inhaled, then moved—quick, steady, but small. The second she did, Dean slid into her guard, correcting her wrist.
“No,” he murmured, voice warm against her temple. “Like this. Wrist straight. Elbow up. You’re small. Use it.”
He shifted her arm gently. Chubs exhaled shakily.
Dean felt it.
He stilled.
“C’mere.”
And just like that, she was pulled against his chest, his chin resting on her head, his arms wrapped around her like he was afraid she’d disappear again.
“You scared me so damn bad,” he whispered into her hair. “You went full Rambo and you’re— you’re sixteen, kid.”
Her voice muffled against his shirt. “I had to get you.”
“I know.” He kissed the top of her head, a rare, shaky gesture. “And you did. But if you’re gonna save our dumbasses again, you’re gonna do it right.”
He eased back, wiping her cheek with his thumb even though she wasn’t crying.
“Ready?”
She nodded, eyes shining.
Dean stepped back into stance, this time fully focused.
“Alright, Bambi. First lesson: when something is bigger than you—”
He feinted a grab.
“—you don’t fight its strength.”
Chubs blocked, quick and sharp.
Dean grinned. “You fight its balance.”
He hooked her ankle lightly with his foot, demonstrating how to knock a bigger creature off center.
She tried it.
He went down.
Hard.
Chubs gasped. “Oh my god—DEAN—”
Dean lay on the mat staring at the ceiling.
Then began laughing—full belly, tears-in-his-eyes laughing.
“Sam! SAMMY!” he yelled toward the hallway. “She just took me out like a goddamn Jedi!”
Chubs covered her face in mortification. “Dean…”
He sat up, grabbed her shoulders, and beamed at her like she hung the moon.
“That’s my girl.”
Sam entered mid-eye roll, towel draped around his neck. “What did you do now?”
Dean pointed at Chubs dramatically. “Your sister just put me on the ground—clean. I’m raising a menace.”
Sam smiled, proud and warm. “Yeah. That’s our kid.”
Hii mi bebe!! OOOOOO to me you sound like you had the best time of your life hihi :3 I like the idea of teen chubs being drunk for the first time hehe so here comes your "teen Chubs gets home from her first party a lil drunk and the boys lose it" fic, complete with protective chaos, soft caretaking, and way too much sibling banter.
It was nearly midnight when the bunker door creaked open. Sam looked up from his laptop, brow furrowing. Dean, sprawled on the couch with a beer, perked up like a guard dog who’d just heard a twig snap.
“Tell me that’s not her curfew breaking,” Dean muttered, voice tight.
Sam didn’t even answer. Footsteps, uneven ones, thudded down the hallway, followed by a soft giggle.
“...oh no,” Dean said. “That’s a drunk giggle.”
Chubs appeared in the doorway a moment later, hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed pink, wearing one of her oversized hoodies. She was grinning so wide her eyes almost disappeared.
“Hi, my favorite people in the world!” she announced, spreading her arms dramatically. “Guess who didn’t die tonight!”
Dean blinked. “I’m gonna need a lot more context, Bambi.”
Sam stood, already moving toward her. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay? You sound… uh—”
“Happy!” she said proudly, leaning forward and poking his chest. “Sammich, you’re so tall. Like, stupid tall. Like a—like a—tree with a PhD!”
Dean choked on his beer. Sam shot him a look that said do not laugh right now, which Dean ignored.
Chubs blinked up at them, still swaying slightly. “You guys have two heads. That’s new. Do I have two heads? Because that’d be so cool.”
Dean was off the couch now, hand already hovering near her elbow. “Okay, Bambi, let’s—uh—maybe we sit down before gravity wins this round.”
“I beat gravity every day!” she protested, taking an overly confident step, then immediately tripping over her own shoes. Dean caught her with a soft curse and scooped her upright.
Sam sighed. “You smell like trouble.”
Chubs gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “You can smell it? Oh no, Sammy, am I in trouble? Please don’t send me to—” she whispered theatrically, “—the dungeon.”
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s drunk. She’s definitely drunk.”
“I’m not!” she declared, her words a little too round. “I only had… umm…” she started counting on her fingers, then squinted at her hands. “Wait, how many fingers do people have?”
Dean couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. “Oh, you are so plastered.”
Sam tried for gentle interrogation. “You didn’t drive, right, bug?”
She gasped in mock offense. “Nooo, I got a ride! Jess dropped me! She said ‘text your brothers’ but my phone was like, ‘no service in the abyss,’ so I didn’t.” She leaned into Dean’s chest mid-ramble, resting her cheek against his flannel. “You’re so warm, Deany.”
Dean froze, his tough-guy act melting instantly. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta be. C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you to bed.”
“But I wanna tell you guys about the music! There was a band, and they played this song—oh my God, Dean, it had guitars like yours—like angry bees but sexy.”
Sam made a strangled noise of amusement. “Angry bees but sexy?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Exactly that! You get me, Sammy.”
Dean shot Sam a helpless look as he guided her toward her room. “Remind me to kill whoever thought giving minors alcohol was a good idea.”
“Dean, she probably had, like, half a drink,” Sam said, following them down the hall.
Chubs gasped again, like that was the greatest secret of the night. “It was sparkly! It tasted like apples and bad decisions!”
“Yup. That’s alcohol,” Dean muttered.
Once inside her room, Dean sat her on the bed. She immediately flopped backward with a giggle. “The ceiling’s doing that spinny thing,” she murmured dreamily. “Do you guys ever just look at the ceiling and think, ‘wow, that’s such a ceiling?’”
Sam tried—tried—to keep a straight face. “No, can’t say I have.”
Dean knelt beside the bed, gently pulling off her shoes. “You know better than to get that close to stupid, kid,” he said softly, voice a mix of gruffness and worry.
Her eyes fluttered, and she smiled hazily. “You’re mad at me?”
Dean paused mid-motion. “No, baby. Not mad. Just don’t like seeing you like this, yeah?”
She frowned sleepily. “I just wanted to try it once… everyone else was laughing and dancing and I thought maybe I could be fun, too.”
That hit him right in the gut. Dean smoothed her hair back, thumb tracing her cheek gently. “You are fun, Bambi. You don’t need that crap for anyone to see it.”
“Promise?” she whispered, eyes glassy and small.
“Promise,” he said, quiet as a prayer.
She reached out suddenly, fumbling until her hand caught his shirt collar and tugged him down. “You smell like car and soap and… brother,” she mumbled. “Love you, Dee.”
Dean froze again, throat tight. “…Yeah, love you too, baby.”
Sam, standing in the doorway with a small, fond smile, added softly, “Love you too, bug. Sleep it off, okay?”
Chubs’ answer was an incoherent mumble that sounded suspiciously like “my brothers are so sparkly,” before she passed out cold.
Dean sighed, tugging a blanket over her and making sure she was comfortable. Sam watched him fuss, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“What?” Dean grumbled.
“Nothing,” Sam said, grinning. “Just… you’re kinda cute when you’re in overprotective brother mode.”
“Shut up,” Dean muttered, tucking the blanket tighter. “Next time she’s grounded till she’s thirty.”
“Sure she is,” Sam teased. “You gonna tell her that or wait till she gives you puppy eyes?”
Dean shot him a glare. “Don’t ruin this moment.”
Sam chuckled. “You already ruined it when you called her Bambi.”
Dean looked back at the sleeping girl, her freckles soft in the lamplight. “Nah,” he said quietly, fondness spilling into every word. “She’ll always be my Bambi.”
—
The first thing Chubs felt when she woke up was regret.
Not emotional regret — though that was coming — but physical, thudding, why is my head trying to explode regret.
She groaned, rolling over and pulling the blanket over her face. The dim light leaking through the curtains was somehow too loud.
“Ugh,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Why does my mouth taste like sadness?”
From somewhere nearby, a voice answered, far too cheerful.
“Because, Bambi,” Dean drawled, “you decided to go full rockstar last night.”
Chubs froze. Then peeked out from under the blanket, eyes squinting. Dean sat on the edge of her bed, coffee in one hand, smug older brother expression firmly in place.
Sam was standing in the doorway with a bottle of water and a faint grin. “Morning, sunshine.”
Her stomach dropped. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh noooo.”
Dean grinned wider. “Oh yes.”
Sam walked over and handed her the water and some aspirin. “Drink this. Slowly. You’ll thank me later.”
She sat up gingerly, groaning. “Did I… say anything dumb?”
Dean snorted. “Define ‘dumb.’”
Sam, bless his heart, tried to be kind. “You were just… really affectionate.”
Dean, unhelpfully, added, “Told me I smell like ‘car and soap and brother,’ whatever that means.”
Chubs buried her face in her hands, muffled groaning intensifying. “Please tell me I didn’t cry.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look.
“Oh my God, I did cry,” she said in horror.
“No, you didn’t cry,” Sam said quickly.
Dean added, “But you did tell us you could beat gravity, then tripped over your own shoes, so…”
Her only response was a whimper. “Kill me now.”
Dean chuckled and reached out, rubbing her shoulder. “Nah. We already thought about it, but then we remembered you’re the cute one.”
She glared at him weakly, but couldn’t stop a shy laugh.
“Still,” Sam said, voice softening as he crouched beside the bed, “You scared us, bug. You can’t just come home like that without telling us what happened.”
Her expression dropped immediately — guilt flashing in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to. It was just… everyone was having fun. I wanted to fit in. I thought if I said no, they’d think I was—”
“Hey,” Dean interrupted gently, squeezing her knee. “You don’t owe anyone that. Ever.”
Sam nodded firmly. “If you wanna try something, or you’re curious, you come to us. We’ll talk about it. We’re not gonna flip out.”
Dean snorted. “Well, I might flip out. But I’ll still be cool about it.”
That earned a tiny smile from her. “You’d probably interrogate my drink like it’s a demon.”
“Damn right I would,” Dean said. “But at least then I know you’re safe.” He paused, eyes softening. “That’s the deal, okay, kid? If you ever feel like doing that again — you do it with us. Not out there with a bunch of idiots who don’t give a damn if you make it home.”
Chubs blinked at him, cheeks pink and eyes watery. “You’d… let me drink? With you guys?”
Sam smiled. “If it’s safe, controlled, and you’re older, sure. I mean, we’re not monsters.”
Dean grumbled. “Speak for yourself.”
“Dean.”
“What? I’m just saying she’s sixteen, Sammy. Sixteen.”
“Almost seventeen,” Chubs mumbled.
Dean shot her a look. “Don’t you ‘almost’ me.”
Sam tried not to laugh. “He just means he doesn’t wanna see you get hurt, sweetheart. Neither of us do.”
That quiet sincerity got to her more than any lecture ever could. She reached out and tugged at the sleeve of Dean’s flannel. “I’m sorry.”
Dean sighed, ruffling her hair. “Yeah, well. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I told you you smell like brother.”
Sam snorted. “Oh, she remembers that one.”
Dean gave her his most offended look. “Hey, that was heartfelt.”
Chubs giggled, then winced and pressed a hand to her temple. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“That’s called karma, Bambi,” Dean teased, then handed her a piece of toast. “Eat. Hydrate. Sleep some more. And for the record? You’re grounded from sparkly angry bee concerts until further notice.”
She groaned but smiled. “Fine.”
Sam leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “We love you, bug.”
Dean followed with a quick squeeze to her shoulder. “Even when you come home acting like a Disney princess on moonshine.”
Chubs laughed softly, curling back under the blanket. “Love you too, idiots.”
Dean rolled his eyes as they headed for the door. “That’s Mr. Idiot to you.”
Sam shot back, “No, you’re Doctor Idiot.”
Chubs’ muffled voice came from under the covers. “You’re both idiots.”
Dean smirked over his shoulder. “She’s learning.”
And as they left her to sleep it off, both brothers shared the same tiny, relieved smile — because she was safe, she was home, and that was all that really mattered.
This piece is not a request, but it is a small gift for @miyuuuukiisyyy. Happy birthday bebe, i hope it feels like a warm hug and brings you even a moment of comfort today. you deserve to be celebrated.
Dean doesn’t mean to snap.
It just… happens.
Chubs finds him sitting on the edge of the motel bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing like the weight of the world is personally beefing with him.
She approaches quietly, like she always does when he looks like this.
“Hey,” she says softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to carry it alone, okay?”
Something in him breaks the wrong way.
“Oh my God, can you not?” Dean barks, jerking away. “I don’t need you hovering, alright?”
The room goes dead silent.
Chubs freezes.
Her hand drops slowly.
“…I was just trying to help,” she says, voice small but steady.
“Well don’t,” Dean snaps. “Not everything’s about you fixing things.”
The words hang there, ugly, sharp, irreversible.
Sam’s head snaps up from the table. “Dean—”
But Chubs is already backing away.
“Okay,” she whispers. “I won’t.”
She doesn’t cry.
That’s the worst part.
She just nods.
And walks out.
—
The silent treatment is brutal.
Chubs stops asking Dean if he wants coffee. Stops curling up beside him on the bed. Stops calling him when she gets scared at night.
She’s polite. Distant. Smiles at Sam. Laughs with Cas.
But Dean?
Nothing.
Dean pretends it doesn’t eat him alive.
Sam sees right through it.
On the third day, Sam walks into the room holding his phone, face pale.
“Dean,” he says quietly. “You know Chubs’ birthday is tomorrow, right?”
Dean’s stomach drops straight through the floor.
“…what?”
Sam stares at him. “You forgot?”
“No—I—” Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I just—shit.”
Sam exhales sharply. “She thinks you don’t care. And after what you said?”
Dean stands abruptly. “That’s not true.”
“Then fix it,” Sam snaps. “Because I’m fixing the birthday. You fix you.”
—
Dean doesn’t know about the planning.
About Sam calling Jody.
Charlie texting Claire.
Rowena insisting on “proper ambiance.”
Crowley offering to bankroll the whole thing with a smug grin.
Bobby grumbling but secretly cooking.
Cas quietly making sure Chubs never feels alone.
Chubs thinks it’s just another day.
Until she walks into the bunker war room.
“Surprise!”
The room explodes with sound.
Streamers. Balloons. A cake way too big. People everywhere.
Chubs gasps, hands flying to her mouth. “What—what is this?”
Charlie tackles her in a hug. “Your birthday, genius!”
Claire smirks. “Took you long enough to walk in.”
Jody pulls her into a warm embrace. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
Rowena kisses her cheek. “Darling, you are loved.”
Crowley raises a glass. “To our favorite Bambi.”
Cas smiles softly. “We wanted you to feel… celebrated.”
Chubs’ eyes fill immediately.
“This is too much,” she whispers.
Bobby grunts. “Ain’t such thing.”
Then—
Dean steps forward.
The room goes quiet.
Chubs stiffens.
Crowley immediately narrows his eyes. “Oh no. Not him.”
“Dean Winchester,” Rowena says sweetly, “say one wrong thing and I will hex you.”
Dean swallows hard.
“I messed up,” he says hoarsely. “Bad.”
Claire crosses her arms. “You think?”
Dean ignores everyone else. Looks only at her.
“I snapped because I was hurting,” he admits. “And instead of dealing with it, I hurt you.”
Chubs’ voice trembles. “You didn’t just snap. You pushed me away.”
“I know,” he whispers. “And I hated myself for it every damn second.”
Crowley scoffs. “Took you long enough.”
Cas steps closer to Dean, eyes intense. “You wounded her.”
Dean nods. “I know.”
Bobby points a finger. “You don’t get to be stupid with her heart.”
Charlie adds, “She’s literally the glue.”
Jody sighs. “Dean…”
Dean steps closer to Chubs. “I’m sorry, baby. I should’ve said it sooner. I was wrong. I’m always gonna be wrong when it comes to you, but I’ll never stop choosing you.”
Chubs stares at him for a long moment.
Then—
smack.
She hits his arm. Hard.
“You’re an idiot,” she says, voice shaking. “You don’t get to scare me like that.”
Dean exhales like he’s been forgiven by God himself. “I deserve that.”
She pulls him into a hug.
Hard.
“I just wanted my brother back,” she murmurs.
Dean wraps her up immediately, forehead pressed to hers. “I’m right here. Happy birthday, baby girl.”
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random question, do you have any siblings yourself??
yess! im the youngest of 3, i have 2 older sisters! though our bond is nothing like the Winchesters'. (lets be real no one is touching their level of siblingsism lol)
