“C’mon, you know what I want,” came his strong voice altered slightly by the amount of whiskey in his system, which had become his new normal.

You look up at him, staring at his eyeliner smudged eyes and kiss-bitten lips and think ‘oh he’s perfect.’ His hair was choppy as if cut by someone with shakey hands and his stubble was short, like he had forgotten that it would grow back. There was a small tattoo at the corner of his left eye, a happy face with crosses for eyes, and he had what seemed like the tips of flames crawling up his neck from beneath his shirt. There was a strange necklace led on his chest, a face with horns, as far as you could tell. The leather jacket he was wearing added to his already impressive stature and the countless patches messily sewn onto it told a story of their own. He had a dangerous air about him; his body moved faster than his mind, his eyes cold and uncaring but if you looked long enough- you could see the pain, the burden, and the anger behind them. He held himself as if always ready for a fight, light on his toes, never getting too distracted by one thing.

His left hand moved from his side to your face, you saw his knuckles read 1983 before they stroked over your cheek before moving back into your hair and grasping tight, pulling your head back so he could look down and see all of your ‘pretty face’ as he so kindly called it earlier.

“Does baby not wanna suck my cock? Is that what’s happening here?” He asks sarcastically, not expecting or wanting an answer, “ ‘cos I can go and find someone else, and leave you here all alone.”

“No D please, I want to..” you respond, feeling his hand tighten in your hair, his other one moving to grasp your throat - not tight enough to hurt, yet.

He bends at the waist and moves his face close to yours, an uncaring look in his eyes, “Then get on with it,” he sneers, the movement of his words pulling on the scar that ran from the corner of his mouth up to the skin next to his ear. It was one of two large scars on his handsome face, the other running from his hairline down his forehead and between his brows, fading at the end.

“Yo Dean where you at?” Someone shouts, tripping through the door of the bar and falling into the men stood there. You eyes immediately moved from Dean’s face to the sudden noise in the otherwise quiet street. A man with a beer bottle in one hand grabbed the falling guy by his upper arm and jeered in his face, calling out to his friends to look at the ‘pretty boy’ who stood between them.

The boys’ shaggy hair covered most of his face, hiding his expression, but judging but his body language; he was either fairly happy with the situation or too out of it to really care about the potential danger. The latter seemed more likely.

“Ger’offa me. Dean!” He shouts again, his words slurred together, messily trying to push the man off of him.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mummers, his hand leaving your throat and reaching into his jacket and pulls out a Colt 1911 with a Pearl grip and a silencer attached and points it around the corner behind him at the group and calls, “Hey cunts, let him go,” he calls, his other hand still in you hair, keeping you on your knees.

“Yeah or what?,” one idiot responds, his hand moving to the back of the boys neck.

“This,” Dean replies, immediately clicking the safety off and pulling the trigger, the bullet flying with incredible accuracy and hitting the man in his bicep of the arm holding the boys neck.

“Anyone else?,” he asks, leaning his head back on the wall, not bothered by the pained screams of the man he had just shot.

“Holy shit,” you whispered; a little bit scared, a little bit turned on, a lotta bit amused, glad the scumbag had gotten what he deserved.

“Yeah assholes, anyone else?,” the boy laughs, not even fazed by the tiny splatters of blood on his face. He moved towards the alley you were still kneeling in, and as he got closer, the light from the window above made it easy to see his wide eyes and blown pupils, the pink blush on his cheeks just about covers his red nose, which had three piercings in and there was a small amount of white powder on the tip. He also had scar below his lip like it had been split one too many times, the bottom lip had a ring in it, as did his eyebrow. He also had tattoos at the corners of his eyes, one was an upside down cross and the other was just a letter, J, in a blocky font. The darkness of the area cast a shadow over his face, making him seem dangerous until he opened his mouth and spouted some slurred gibberish about a bible verse, pulling a rosary from his pocket.

“Sammy, you good?” Dean asks, only lowering his gun and looking at who you assumed was Sammy when he was certain the group had moved elsewhere. His left had was still curled in your hair.

“Yeah, I’m good. Why wouldn’t I be good? I’m fine brother, are you good?” His words came a mile a minute. He raised a shaking hand and ran a finger under his nose, sniffing as he did. His eyes dropped to yours and then moved back up, as if he wasn’t shocked by the sight of a girl on her knees in-front of his brother.

“Well I was better before you came out here,” Dean replies, head tilting down towards you, while he was putting the gun back in his jacket.

“And that’s obviously not happening anymore, you wanna let me up Dean?” You found your voice, grabbing into his wrist and moving onto one knee, ready to stand.

“Sam, fuck off man,” Dean groaned at his little brother, his left hand slowly tightening on the back of your head, really not wanting to let go.

“Oh no, don’t feel the need to stop on my account,” Sam joked, his high hitting that mellowed out stage making him lean his back on the other wall, opposite where Dean stood.

“Uh yeah no.. .Dean?” You say, willing him to let go. He finally does after looking down at you with bummed out face, his shoulders dropping in defeat.

Your knees pop as you get back to your feet, hands grabbing onto Dean’s arm for balance. Finally standing up straight, the height of both the boys was even more noticeable than when you were on your knees.

“You wanna introduce me Dean?” Sam asks, his eyes moving over your body absentmindedly, as if he didn’t actually care what he saw.

“Sammy, this is...y/n?,” Dean says, unsure if he’d got the right name, his face becoming slightly apologetic as he looked at you for confirmation. When you don’t flip out or correct him he continued, “Y/n, this is my little brother Sam.”

“Little?” You repeat, looking over to see that Sam stood a good couple of inches taller than Dean.

“HA!” Sam laughed, the short shout echoed off the walls, “I like her,” he comments, a lopsided smile on his face as continued looking at you.

“What did you take man? You’re so out of it.” Dean asks, moving from your side to stand in-front of Sam his tattooed hands grabbing his little brothers face trying to look into his eyes.

Sam brought his hands up and pushed on Dean’s elbows, causing the older brothers arms to drop back to his sides. “Oh I dunno, but it wasn’t a lot, it was what ever the chick was offering. I didn’t have my big bro there to stop me so...” he trails off, his shoulder shrugging high enough to touch his ears, a careless look on his face. “Besides how much did you drink before coming out here? Guess we both gave in to our little addictions.” He adds.

“Well I couldn’t find my little brother to stop me so...” Dean responds, copying Sam’s words and moving back across the alley toward you. He slung his heavy arm over your shoulder and pulled you tight to his body, you stumbling a bit due to the unexpected movement.

“You guys realise how incredibly codependent you are, right?” You ask, realising now that the brothers need each other more than the normal amount.

“So?” They both answer at the same time, their heads turning towards you, the same ‘whatever’ tone of voice.

You meet Sam’s eye first, his childish face and cheeky grin made you smile back at him before you moved your head to be able to meet Dean’s eye. He had a blank expression but you could see the real question behind his eyes. ‘Is that a problem for you?’

“Weirdos.” You say, the light tone of your voice making it clear that you were joking. Dean’s eyes lit up slightly after hearing your remark, knowing you didn’t care that he leaned in his brother just as much as Sam leaned on him.

“Well this has been lovey, like really really great, but me and big brother here should probably be getting outta here before the dick he shot comes back with either more dicks or the cops.” Sam states, dishing himself up off of the wall, swaying on his feet before standing still.

“So dicks or more dicks sounds like our options there....Hey gorgeous, you got a life here?” Dean says, directing the question to you, his eyes falling back on you from his brothers direction.

“Uh.. not really, why?” You say truthfully. No family, no friends, no car, a crappy job mundane boring and an even crappier apartment was all you had in this life. Still it was supposedly better than risking your life every other day hunting monsters.

“Wanna come on a road trip?” He asks, baring his teeth in a somewhat too wide smile.

“What?” You reply, your tone flat.

“Me, Sammy and you. Road trip, whadda you say?”

“Are you kidding, we just met!” You say incredulously.

“So?” He repeats his earlier answer.

You look at him in disbelief. You look to Sam for back up but only find the look on his face saying ‘why not’.

“You want me, a girl you just met, to come on a road trip with the two of you. One apparent drug addict and his apparent alcoholic older brother, who - by the way - shot someone earlier.”

“Why not, I believe we have the same line of work.” Dean says, eyes flicking to your chest where was inked a very familiar symbol to the boys.

“And that would be?” You ask, not getting what he’s saying.

“This,” Sam says from behind you, pulling down the collar of his shirt to show the same tattoo you wore. You blinked at the sight. Your eyes were drawn to the movement of Dean also pulling down his shirt collar, and there sat in between the flames that covered the top of his chest, the very same anti-possession symbol that was tattooed on you.

“You’re hunters?” You ask, wondering how you didn’t see it before; the scars, the cold eyes, quick reactions, the air of danger that surround them both.

“Uh huh honey, as are you apparently,” Dean states, head tilting down to catch you eyes.

“I was. Not anymore. I quit.” You say, more so trying to convince yourself than them.

“Really? You don’t miss it?,” Dean asks, not believing your words.

“No.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t.”

“Ok so that’s why you have a silver knife in your boot and a gun in your pocket, which I’m betting is full of sliver bullets.”

‘Shit he’s got me there’ you think.

“And you’re here, of all places, drinking at the very same bar that you know three women of your description have gone missing in the past month from.” Dean continues with a smug smile on his face. “Trying to be bait, not the smartest idea when your alone.”

“Plus we took care of the ‘wolfs yesterday so your too late, even if you wanted to help,” Sam states, his voice less slurred than earlier.

“So, I’ll ask again. Wanna come on a road trip and hunt monsters with my junkie little brother and my alcohol dependant self?” Dean says, his hand raising in between the two of you for a handshake (as if you weren’t about to give him a blowjob before his brother ruined the fun).

“Ah fuck it, why not?” You say while grabbing Dean’s hand , ‘what the worst that could happen?’ The voice in the back of your head adds.

The boys both let out short cheers and Dean moves and slings his arm over your shoulder again, his other hand grabbing his brothers jacket before dragging you both out of the alley, toward the end of the street, toward the new part of your lives together.

————

The lot was mainly empty, the late hour meaning everyone was either already screwing or sleeping. The neon light from the welcome sign cast a red haze over the area, creating an eerie glow through to the start of the woods to the left, the light playing tricks, seemingly creating figures between the trees.

Dean barged the drivers side door open and stomped his way to your shared room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Well that’s gonna be fun to deal with,” you groan, Sam having opened the back door and offered an arm to help you out of the back seat, closing it behind you.

“Yeah good luck,” he scoffs, wandering around to the drivers side, “I’m going to get food.

“Wait your leaving me alone with him? He’ll kill me Sammy, you know that.”

“Yeah..well, don’t do dumb shit next time” he responds as you walk to the path outside the doors and at the front of the car.

“Oh thanks Sam, I was only trying to close the case, you know, be helpful or whatever,” you retort throwing your hands up, immediately regretting the movement as it stretched the gash on your side.

“Whatever, just don’t stich yourself up, we both know your bad at it. Either wait for me or get Dean to do it.” He answers, getting in the car and peeling it out of the lot.

“Yeah, fat chance.” You mumble under your breath. The strings in your heart tightened as you turned towards the door, trying to prepare yourself for the lecture you were about to receive.

—

Once inside the room, you checked to see where Dean was, the sound of the shower running answering your question. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, you walk gingerly over to the fridge to grab a beer, the extent of your injuries only now being realised by the pain that shot through you with every step. You groaned while collapsing across the small couch, carefully pulling the ripped, red stained fabric away from the wound on your waist. Cursing softly under your breath, you lean towards the small table, pulling your pistol out of the back of your jeans and putting it next to the first aid kit. “Oh this is gonna hurt like a bitch,” you mumble, opening the kit and looking through it.

“Give it here,” Dean’s strong voice cuts through the apprehension in the room. He moves around the couch, hands pulling his clean grey t-shirt out of the top of his jeans, water drops still dripping down the side of his face. He sits on the corner of the table, grabbing the first aid kit, still not making eye contact.

Sighing, you lean back onto the arm of the couch and look at the discoloured ceiling, trying to figure out how to start the inevitable lecture coming your way “Dean, I...”

“Don’t...just don’t,” he cuts you off, jaw clenching and teeth grinding, his hands moving to your side. He cleans the gash, pulls the needle out of the bag and threads it. He lights the zippo and holds the head of the needle over the flame, the lights reflecting in his steely eyes. He pushes the needle through the open skin on your side, a hint of a smirk on his face at the small gasp you let out.

When he finishes stitching up the wound, he doesn’t give his normal speech ‘oh that’s a gonna be a good story to tell, lucky son of a bitch to get their hands on you, you’re gonna be fine,’ he just throws you a bandage and walks off. He makes his way to the kitchen and grabs his own beer, jaw still clenching as he sits at the table, chugging his beer like a drowned man gasps for air. Beer bottle slamming down on the table, he asks deadly calm, “What the hell were you thinking?”

Ah, there it is. “Dean I know your mad bu...” you don’t even get to finish the sentence before he shouts,

“Mad!? Y/n you have no idea the amount of freaking anger I am feeling right now! Are you an idiot? Do you have death wish?” He shouts, his chair scraping against the floor as he stands.

“Dean I was just trying to help..”

“No Y/n. Setting yourself up as bait with out telling us is not helping, it stupid and dangerous. And don’t even get me started on diching me and Sam at that bar, stealing the car and not answering the goddam phone!” He yells, hands coming to grip the back of the couch. “What if we couldn’t find you? Huh? Did you even think about that? Or what if you were wrong, what if it was a pack of twenty instead of six? Do you have any idea what it would do to us if your dumbass got killed?,” his voice breaking a little on the last question.

Looking around at him, you could see his eyes were red and becoming wet. His chest was heaving because of the volume he decided to voice his thoughts and his hands still clamped on the back of the couch. Not moving your eyes from his, you get up and circle the couch, coming to stand to his side.

“Dean I’m ok,” you say, hand slowly resting on top of his own, trying to get him to release his death grip, “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you, but by the time I figured it out, there was no time. But Dean, I knew you and Sammy would save me. I mean you always have, that your thing. Saving people.” You add, hands moving from his to cup his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks, eyes moving between his own, “I’m ok.”

“Don’t ever do somthing like that again, you hear me?” He says, grabbing you (avoiding the freshly stitched wound) and pulling you to his chest, his arms squeezing tight.

“Yeah ok De, I won’t,” you whisper, arms coming together over his shoulder, his head resting on yours. You stay like that for a minute, whispering reassurances into his ear, convincing him you were ok.

“So,” you say after he pulls away, “ you really gonna make me wrap myself up?”

“Hell yeah I am, consider it reparations for giving me a freaking heart attack,” Dean responds, grabbing the covers of the bed and pulling them back, “plus you are so sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“WHAT? No Dean that’s so unfair,” you groan.

“Yeah.. well,” he responds, pulling off his jeans and getting in the bed, “go shower before you wrap up dumbass, you’re covered in blood.”

“Oh thanks I hadn’t noticed,” you mumble under your breath, grabbing a set of sleep clothes (Dean’s old Led Zep shirt and a pair of PJ shorts) and making your way to the bathroom.

“What was that?” Dean asks with a shit eating smile on his face.

“Nothing darling,” you respond mumbling a ‘prick’ under your breath.

“Yeah whatever princess,” he says, eyes trained on you until the door between you closes.

—

“Wow. You’re both still alive. Huh. Gotta be honest, didn’t see that coming,” Sam says after walking in the door to see Dean alseep in bed and you laid on the couch, eyes stuck in the door.

“Shhh he just went to sleep.” You reply, eyes moving from Sam to the bed where Dean slept, a peaceful look on his face.

“Ahh banished to the couch are we?,” he responds quieter but laced with sarcasm.

“Oh shut it Sammy, at least he didn’t break up with me.” You say, adjusting the flat cushion behind your head, trying to find comfort in it.

“Hey you want food or what?” He asks, chuckling when you stand and make grabby hands for the bag, “then don’t tell me to shut it.”

“God you Winchesters’ are a pain in my ass,” you state, groaning when Sam holds the bag a foot above your head.

“Yeah but you love us,” he says, pulling you into a noogie and messing up your still wet hair and finally giving you the food when he releases you.

“Yeah,” you sigh looking from the younger Winchester to the older, still alseep, a smile taking over your face as you look at him, “yeah I do.”

—